2goodarms | [Dejah's room]

He doesn't speak, but she can feel him boiling under his skin, as he did in the first days they were together. He wears a hunted look around his eyes, like an animal caught in a trap.

"I'm not asking for a marriage proposal, Curtis. I just want to know that whatever this is -- it's serious. It's something worth fighting for. Worth waiting for."

The longing still runs through her words, clear and bright, even as her fear surrounds it like storm clouds.

He finally manages to draw breath, his lungs burning.

"Dejah." Curtis cups her face in both hands. They're not trembling; he's grateful for that. "Look. If this was gonna be something quick it would've stopped months ago. I'm serious about it. You're -- "

Again, that pause as he tries to find the right words.

"You're incredible. You're somebody I want to spend time with. I swear to god I'm not just trying to get into your pants. I wanna share that with you sometime because I'm serious. Okay?"

She looks into those amazing blue eyes, feels the truth of his words wash over her. His voice soothes her, clears away the darkest of her fears. They can do this. Together.

For a moment, all she can do is nod, closing her eyes to lean into his touch. His hands holding her face, sweet holy mother, she had no idea what that would feel like.

But he still doesn't understand what's at stake and she needs to find the words to explain. She opens her eyes and licks her lips. He deserves nothing less than the whole truth.

"If we share this, it will deepen the Bond between us. If I give this to you, I would be giving you a path to the very heart of Helium. You will be in my mind, and I will be in yours. We will share each other's dreams. Making love, Curtis, it opens a door between us. It's so much more than just getting to know one another. It's a sacred gift of trust."

...Oh.

When she said the bond would deepen, Curtis thought it still wouldn't go beyond some kind of emotional telepathy. Maybe reading surface thoughts. Not -- not that.

His anxiety flutters anew. Quickly, he forces it down, but it shimmers around his words as he says, "Okay." A second's pause. "Maybe...maybe after I see Helium."

The shadow, never far away, coils in the air between them, a formless, quiet dread. He's going to have to tell her. Not at some theoretical future point; he has a deadline now. Before Helium.

Fuck.

She covers his hands with hers, a quiet sigh on her lips. He understands now, and any temptation he might have had to go through that door has evaporated with the knowledge. It's impossible not to feel the weight of the darkness between them.

After Helium. Maybe. It feels like something cracks in her chest, a dull ache that turns sharp.

She wants to tell him she loves him, already. Now. Without the Bond. She wants to share with him pleasure like he has never experienced before. She wants him, regardless of the consequences.

It's like falling through the air, the twist in the pit of her stomach. Like plummeting towards the earth all over again, only there is no one to save her this time. A Jeddak does not get to want.

A Jeddak also never begs, but she is not a Jeddak in this moment. She is just a woman trying to hold onto someone very, very precious to her.

"Curtis. Stay with me. Talk to me."

The resignation and sorrow billowing from her makes his stomach clench. I didn't mean it like that, he wants to say. No.

So much for the Voice of Barsoom improving his damn communication skills.

"Can we -- " His brain catches up to his mouth and recoils, horrified by what he's about to say. "Tomorrow. Can we go for a walk? I'll tell you everything then."

Oh, god. The nausea churns harder. He can't do this; he has to do this.

She looks puzzled for a moment but nods in quiet acceptance. She closes the distance between them and rests her brow against his, touching her nose to his.

"All right. Yes, if that is what you need, then yes."

He's not surrendering the field. He stays to fight. He just needs time. The strategic mind she adores so much.

That bright thread of hope shines through all of it. Hope and the same warmth she always holds for him when she speaks.

Far from banishing the shadow between them, the dread swells as Curtis whispers, "Okay."

But that fluttery, frightened anxiety isn't there anymore. His emotions sink into a heavy tread, like a man about to face a war he has no chance of winning. It must be done. It's going to be awful, it might ruin everything, but if he doesn't do this, it'll definitely destroy everything they've made.

He has no idea how he's going to sleep tonight. Or if he's going to be able to keep Edgar off his back once the kid picks up on his nerves -- assuming he goes back to their room later.

Curtis holds on to her, to the thread of hope and warmth that curls around them both, and adds a barely audible, "Thank you."

She wants to tell him that, whatever it is, it won't change how she feels about him. She can't say that out loud, though, because she knows it's not true. She's lived long enough, been through enough to know, people are not always what they seem.

It is the truth that she will still love him. Whether or not she can look at him, though. That's another story entirely.

She steals another soft kiss from his lips, her hands cradling his head. For now, she has these moments and no one is going to steal them away from her.

"You feel good," she whispers, trying to keep him from slipping into darkness just yet.

He cracks the tiniest of smiles, almost unwilling. "Yeah, you too."

I'm glad you're here. That I'm here.

Curtis' new fingers find her shoulder again, returning to their familiar route along her tattoos. He keeps his other arm fast around her, drawing what comfort he can find from the moment.

As he follows the patterns: "I never asked what all these mean."

Edited 2015-10-02 00:28 (UTC)

She draws a breath, lets it out in a shivering sigh. When she answers, her voice is quiet, her words measured.

"My clan marks," she says, her own fingers finding the hollow of his throat, tracking along his collarbone to the peak of his left shoulder. "They tell my story. My victories in battle. My degrees awarded at the Academy. Every ord, another chapter gets added. My people do not age as humans do, so I suppose it's a visual reference for how many years we've been alive."

Edited 2015-10-02 00:53 (UTC)

Curtis may not be a particularly poetic guy, but even he can't miss the symbolism: reading her life with his fingertips, cradling that life in his palms. Or the symbolism of his softly awed, "They're beautiful," as he finds each new branch of the intricate design.

He stays quiet for a while. The shadow flattens, disappears into a background static barely detectable over their emotional link; he relaxes into her touch, a little at a time.

"There was someone in the Tail who..."

He stops there.

His words generate a pulse of warmth, of that same longing, that hunger he draws up in her. But she exhales slowly and lets it settle again.

Her hand continues exploring, marking the scar tissue above where the isolates melt into his body. Assured that there's no irritation, no pain, her hand drifts back along the top of his shoulder. She's memorizing every freckle, every tiny scar all the way to the side of his neck, trailing up into his hairline. Peace. Contentment. Safety.

Nothing exists but the two of them, here and now.

"Someone who?" she prompts, gently.

Edited 2015-10-02 02:18 (UTC)

"Grey." He leans his chin on her shoulder, his left arm joining his right one around her waist. Curtis closes his eyes. "Kid a couple years older than Edgar, I think. He didn't talk. Ever. Everything was still there, we checked once, but he just...didn't want to."

And as far as reactions to trauma go, better to go mute than -- well.

"And there was another guy, Painter -- we all just called him that 'cause he was an artist. He'd grab paper during the junk deliveries and make his own charcoal. Sketched stuff all the time. He's how we ended up documenting half the shit that went on back there.

"Anyway, he figured out how to make tattoo ink and asked Grey if he wanted to put words on his skin. And he did."

"So Painter... tattooed Grey's story for him?" She rests her cheek against his temple, eyes closed, her free hand now idly caressing through the short scruff of his hair.

Any story ever written... An idea bubbles to the surface of her thoughts.

"Yeah." Softly. "So he could say whatever he wanted by pointing to a different spot on himself. By the time we broke out his whole body was covered in 'em. He's the only other person I knew with that many tattoos."

A beat, just to enjoy the feel of Dejah's hand in his hair.

"That feels nice."

She hums, a contented sound deep in her chest. She likes petting him. Like he's some great banth, not quite tame, but deigning to sit and be caressed. Her fingers and thumb gently dig into the muscle at the base of his skull, massaging a little.

"You would look beautiful with your own clan markings."

He makes a small, contented sound in the back of his throat, shifting a little to give Dejah better access to the spot.

Peaceably -- even as the shadow reemerges at the edge of his words: "Nah. I don't like spending too much time in the past."

She shifts with him, working on the old knots, the old tensions. They feel like stones under his skin. It's all right, she has strong hands.

"They would be beautiful," she insists. "Your stories are painful, horrific even. But they are yours and they are beautiful. Without them, you would never have found your way -- to me." Her words are barely more than a breath, shimmering with that same bright thread of hope.

Curtis lapses back into silence; his hold on her tightens the smallest amount.

"The scar's enough," he says at last. "My arm's enough. Maybe I would've gotten here anyway, I don't know."

Her hand at the nape of his neck melts and she hugs him, the grip unambiguous. She presses her cheek against the top of his head. Her heart feels like it's caught in the back of her throat. They're not over. They're not done. It's just another battle to fight. And she knew that was going to be the case when she took this path.

"Forgive me. I can't help but imagine what you would look like if you decided you loved Barsoom and wanted to embrace our ways. You are beautiful to my eyes, scars and all, regardless of whether or not you ever set foot there."

He wouldn't even need the Voice of Barsoom to hear the sorrow and grim determination warring in her voice. That silver thread is so tiny, but she refuses to let go of it.

It's enough to twist his heart an extra inch.

"Hey." Curtis turns his head just enough to drop a light kiss on her throat. "It's okay."

He's still going to visit -- assuming she's still willing, after he tells her everything. Maybe he'll want to stay. Maybe, given enough time, he'll be able to make that final leap, and fulfill the other desire twining through Dejah's voice.

And even if he doesn't...

He can't let himself put it to words yet, but she can hear it, and feel it. The deep fondness reflected back at her. The growing devotion.

She can feel it now; it's not just her imagination. It's palpable in his voice and it gives her hope. A part of her knows she's being a damned fool. She's lived five centuries and managed to only get romantically entangled once before. She's always had her work; the Academy, Helium, the war, all of it consumed everything she had to give. And John.

Is that what this is? Has having Curtis so close opened old wounds? Spilling memories of happier times like so much fresh blue blood? No. No, certainly it echoes those times, but it is different. New. Precious and rare.

She shakes her head, her grip not lessening a bit. "It's not okay, but that's all right. It will be. I promised you, I want us to be happy, and we may not always be. But I will always work to bring us back there. You have my word on that, Curtis Everett."

Another complex storm of emotion washes over him, and amid the darker emotions, hope and love shine through like the moons of Barsoom. Full and bright, shedding holy light on the shadow, driving it back. There is no war she has fought that she has not won. No love that she has declared that has gone unrequited. She is Dejah Thoris, and she will not bow her head in defeat.

And like the first time he saw sunlight in eighteen years, a part of Curtis wants to rear back and shield himself: I don't deserve this.

It's not a question of deserving or not-deserving, though, or whether some tail-section hick has a right to something from the Front. He's off the train. He wants this. He can have it; she's offering it freely. Her ferocity and determination warm him just as much as the love and hope.

If Dejah bringing him back to happiness has any kind of catch...he'll willingly take it upon himself.

What they're building is worth it.

He pulls back enough to settle both hands on her hair, gazing into her eyes, feeling the truth of her words -- and then he kisses her, full and warm.

That shared gaze communicates more than any soliloquy ever could. She returns that kiss, gentle and sure. She remembers not the first time they kissed, but the second. Where he kissed her and it felt like the first time he was opening to the possibilities. If he truly wants this, if he can find it in him to trust her, then she knows whatever the darkness holds, they will face it together.

She sinks into the lush softness of his kiss, telling him in this quiet way how good he feels, how much better her life is with him in it. She will never get tired of telling him that, and it shows, in her breath and in her hands. In the way her body molds to his.

Tomorrow they will walk into the desert together. They will face whatever comes, together.

[Dejah's room]

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