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[Conversations with Dead People]
In all his dreams, he still has two arms.
His left one isn't the metal arm Dejah gave him; it's the flesh-and-blood arm he had for thirty-five years, as healthy as ever, smooth and unscarred. Sometimes it feels too heavy, or falls limp at his side when his subconscious remembers it shouldn't exist anymore. Now, though, Curtis carries an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights in his perfectly working fingers, turning it over between both hands as he settles into a chair on the Milliways grounds.
The night has that glittering, icy clarity of the deepest part of winter, but Curtis doesn't feel cold. Above him, one star gleams a little brighter, a little redder than the others. He keeps his eyes on it as he thumbs open the cigarette pack.
In the distance, he can hear the jingling of metal against leather and the soft, steady footfall of a horse. A rider appears from the west, strolling up the hill to where the picnic tables are. It's a man in a long leather duster. He has a shaggy head of hair and an untrimmed beard. Both horse and man are covered in a fine layer of dust.
The man dismounts and walks the last few feet, looking around like he's a little lost. It's clear he's got a gun belt on under his coat. Finally, his gaze settles on Curtis and a soft look of recognition lights his eyes.
"Mind if I join you?" His voice is rough with disuse, but amiable enough.
Curtis’ gaze does a quick sweep over the -- stranger? The guy almost looks like he came out of those old, tattered Westerns that ended up in a junk shipment to the tail once upon a time. Curtis sizes up the weapon, the horse, the look on the man's face, and ends it all with a shrug. "Go ahead," he says, and holds out the cigarettes. "You smoke?"
"Hell, yes," the man says. He takes the package and peers at it for a moment, turning it over until he figures out how to open it. In the way of dreams, there's a low banked fire now where there wasn't one before. It cuts the chill. The man squats on his heels beside it, easy as Curtis sat in the chair. "I haven't had a smoke in ages. Much obliged." He fishes out a single cigarette, placing it between his lips, and offers the pack back to Curtis.
"No problem." Curtis quirks a half-smile, accepting the pack. In the firelight, the knuckles of his left hand shine silver for a moment. He pulls out a cigarette of his own before pocketing the rest; he rolls it between his fingers, contemplative. "I was too young to get any of these before they went extinct. Maybe I snuck a smoke once. I don't know. Thought they kinda tasted like shit when I did try one."
But when someone tosses the world's last cigarette at your feet right before you go face the man who destroyed your life, well. As the saying goes: smoke 'em if you got 'em.
"I used to roll my own, back in the day." The man fishes a stick out of the fire and uses the burning end to light his smoke. He cups one hand around the flame and takes a long drag. And coughs, the rough voice turning into a laugh. "Yep. Still tastes like shit."
He passes the firebrand to Curtis. "Hear you had a bad run of it. Something about a train?"
Curtis takes the stick, but his eyes stay on the other man the whole time. Of course he knows, say his thoughts, quite reasonably, and that's all it takes for his wariness to disappear. "Yeah," he says as he holds the firebrand to his own cigarette. The flame shifts from the stick to the cigarette like liquid flowing from one vessel to another: as soon as the cigarette catches, the firebrand goes out. He can't smell any smoke. When he inhales, it tastes like nothing -- just cold, and clear, like glacial meltwater. "I was back in the Tail. Did Dejah tell you?"
The man stares into the fire and after a moment, a subtle smile emerges. Everything about him softens. A moment later, the man across the fire from Curtis changes. His square jaw is now clean shaven, and his hair is still long but tied back with a scrap of leather. He's not in a duster anymore, just a set of leather breeches. The gunbelt is gone and replaced with a sword, harnessed across his back.
"Yeah, she might have mentioned it, in passing."
And Curtis knows.
Like the appearance of the fire, like the skin he feels when he rubs his thumb across the back of his left hand, the knowledge comes as quietly and matter-of-fact as everything else about the dream. He cracks another smile -- smaller now, a touch uncertain -- as he meets John Carter's eyes.
"Not surprised," he says, very softly.
John's gaze is open, his smile is crooked, but genuine. "She does tend to go on a bit, but I don't mind. It's when she gets quiet that you have to worry."
Curtis nods. He's so rarely seen Dejah quiet. Maybe that's a good thing: he hasn't had to truly worry yet. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. "You two still talk a lot?" he asks.
John's gaze shifts back to the fire, his expression not gone cold precisely, but shuttered nonetheless. "She talks. I listen." The muscles in his jaw shift and maybe he blinks a bit more for a moment.
Curtis nearly opens his mouth to apologize. He reconsiders; looks away, unsure, to give John a scrap of privacy.
John glances back to Curtis, the crooked grin back as quick as it'd gone. "You know she's in love with you."
Unintentionally, Curtis offers up a hesitant cousin of John’s smile. "I know,” he says; I don’t get it, is what he means.
"I know how you feel." John's voice is quiet; sad, but not mournful. He cracks his knuckles, one hand at a time, and holds his palms or to the fire. "After the war..."
He swallows, frowns, and begins again. "After I lost Sarah and Rebecca, my first wife and my daughter, I think... I don't know. I didn't want anything to do with anyone. I left Virginia. I took to prospecting. Looking for gold all by my lonesome in the Superstitions. It was the harshest place I could get to. I think if there was an edge of the world, I would have walked right off it."
"No home for years," Curtis murmurs, echoing what Dejah told him so early on -- one of the few times she'd discussed John's past alone, rather than the life she and John had built together. Here, and now, it’s so much easier to remember anything he wants. "No idea what home meant anymore."
John goes quiet again, a wry smile returning. "Then I found my cave of gold, and it spit me out on Barsoom."
Curtis scoots his chair closer to the fire. "And then she was there," he says.
John nods, looking down at the back of his hands. "Well, not quite." His grin brightens at the memory. "Then Tars Tarkas was there. Twelve foot tall. With four arms. And all he could figure out to call me was Virginia. No, that's not it. He called me Wor-Gee-Nya."
Curtis snorts out a laugh, easier and louder than he'd ever do in the waking world. It sends a few wisps of cigarette smoke curling from his nostrils. "That bastard." While not what anyone would call affectionate, the word does have a bit of warmth to it. "He slam you against a wall, too?"
John laughs outright at Curtis's response. "No. No, he shot me right in the ass! Strapped me to the back of a thoat, and then chained me to a wall with a bunch of," the unsmoked cigarette smolders between his fingers as he mimes something the size of the ball, "baby Thark. If you can imagine the humiliation."
Curtis's answering laugh's much louder this time, quickly stifled against the side of his hand to no avail. "Shit," he manages, "that's when you got shot?"
(Tars, you asshole. At least some things apparently never change.)
John's shoulders shake with quiet laughter, his gaze going back to the flickering flames. "And then she appeared. Literally fell out of the sky. Her research vessel was being chased by a warship. Ships that flew. She escaped and fell. Had to jump to catch her. Now, I thought I was rescuing her. Then she turned around, caught a sword mid-air, and saved me."
He touches his chest. "She. Saved me. I was smitten."
The laughter fades, shading to a warm, fond smile. The fire swirls higher, burning as clean as the cigarette. "She's kinda got a habit of doing that, huh." Falling from the sky. (Or so it felt at the time, when Curtis was so disoriented in the wake of the bomb blast.) Saving people. Her heart so goddamn big she won't stop until she saves an entire planet.
John looks over at Curtis, an understanding look in his eyes. "It doesn't make sense. But I know this for a fact: she saved my life."
Curtis nods. He switches his cigarette from one hand to the other, then back, as if reminding himself he has two limbs again. As he does, John's expression shifts through a subtle range of emotion. Understanding and joy tempered with loss and grief. When he speaks, his voice is rough, but his voice is pitched low, gentle.
"She needs you, Curtis."
It's tough to look at John's face, despite his gentleness, despite his joy. Curtis looks down at the scruff of grass under their feet; he traces the line where it fades into dirt a foot or two away from the fire.
"I'll take care of her." Not much louder than John. "I know there's a lot of shit she can take care of herself, but the stuff she can't -- I'm gonna do my best. I promise." She misses you so much, he wants to say. I don't know how the fuck I'll ever live up to you. But John has to know both of those things already.
John nods. Curtis gets the sense that he knows a lot more than he can let on. The view from where the man from the past sits is expansive.
"You'll figure it out, I have no doubt. All I can tell you is be patient. And love her with all your heart." His meaning is clear: fear and doubt have no place at the side of Dejah Thoris.
"I will," he whispers. Curtis finally raises his eyes back to John. It's fucking terrifying. The idea of opening his heart that much, everything exposed like a gaping wound. Leaning so much weight on something that still feels so fragile.
But it's like he told Tars all those months back: I care about her, so that's how it's gonna be.
John holds his gaze for a long, solemn moment. He gives just the tiniest nod and a quiet smile. He flicks the unsmoked cigarette into the flames and pushes himself to standing. He offers a hand to Curtis. "I knew there was a reason she liked you so much."
Curtis huffs out another quiet laugh. His own cigarette's nearly gone; stubbing out the remainder next to the fire, he slaps his left hand into John's to pull himself up. "Can see why she loved you too, man."
John holds onto Curtis's wrist, a firm, friendly grip. He looks at down at their hands clasped, his own hand growing transparent while Curtis's remains solid. "Huh," he breathes out.
A lump sticks in Curtis' throat, wholly unexpected. He tries to squeeze his hand tighter, but it feels like squeezing a half-frozen cloth -- there's too much give all of a sudden. His eyes flick up to John's face, searching it with a twinge of desperation. "You gonna come back here again sometime?"
John looks perplexed for a moment, and then -- he relaxes. His face takes on a serene expression, and he smiles at Curtis. "Don't know. Maybe. You take care of her for me, 'right?" His free hand rests on Curtis's shoulder, light as air.
Curtis swallows, trying to dislodge the lump, and only partially succeeds. "Of course, man."
John's grin goes crooked and he turns to look back at his mount. In the way of dreams, the horse is now a thoat. It lows at him, and he nods. "Yeah, all right." He nods to Curtis and turns away. The animal drops to one knee and John uses the crook of its leg to mount up. He shifts the reins and turns the animal's head back the way they came.
"It was good to meet you, Curtis Everett. Cluros and Thuria watch over you both." His voice sounds as if it's coming from a great distance. He raises a hand to wave goodbye and before Curtis's eyes, slowly dissolves back into the mist.
Curtis can feel a hollowness under his ribs, like when they stepped into the water supply car and shut the door behind them -- shut the door on all the people they lost over Yekaterina Bridge -- with a solid bang. He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the fire's gone out, and the cold absent from the dream for so long finally arrives.
She was right, he thinks. They would've liked each other.
His left one isn't the metal arm Dejah gave him; it's the flesh-and-blood arm he had for thirty-five years, as healthy as ever, smooth and unscarred. Sometimes it feels too heavy, or falls limp at his side when his subconscious remembers it shouldn't exist anymore. Now, though, Curtis carries an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights in his perfectly working fingers, turning it over between both hands as he settles into a chair on the Milliways grounds.
The night has that glittering, icy clarity of the deepest part of winter, but Curtis doesn't feel cold. Above him, one star gleams a little brighter, a little redder than the others. He keeps his eyes on it as he thumbs open the cigarette pack.
In the distance, he can hear the jingling of metal against leather and the soft, steady footfall of a horse. A rider appears from the west, strolling up the hill to where the picnic tables are. It's a man in a long leather duster. He has a shaggy head of hair and an untrimmed beard. Both horse and man are covered in a fine layer of dust.
The man dismounts and walks the last few feet, looking around like he's a little lost. It's clear he's got a gun belt on under his coat. Finally, his gaze settles on Curtis and a soft look of recognition lights his eyes.
"Mind if I join you?" His voice is rough with disuse, but amiable enough.
Curtis’ gaze does a quick sweep over the -- stranger? The guy almost looks like he came out of those old, tattered Westerns that ended up in a junk shipment to the tail once upon a time. Curtis sizes up the weapon, the horse, the look on the man's face, and ends it all with a shrug. "Go ahead," he says, and holds out the cigarettes. "You smoke?"
"Hell, yes," the man says. He takes the package and peers at it for a moment, turning it over until he figures out how to open it. In the way of dreams, there's a low banked fire now where there wasn't one before. It cuts the chill. The man squats on his heels beside it, easy as Curtis sat in the chair. "I haven't had a smoke in ages. Much obliged." He fishes out a single cigarette, placing it between his lips, and offers the pack back to Curtis.
"No problem." Curtis quirks a half-smile, accepting the pack. In the firelight, the knuckles of his left hand shine silver for a moment. He pulls out a cigarette of his own before pocketing the rest; he rolls it between his fingers, contemplative. "I was too young to get any of these before they went extinct. Maybe I snuck a smoke once. I don't know. Thought they kinda tasted like shit when I did try one."
But when someone tosses the world's last cigarette at your feet right before you go face the man who destroyed your life, well. As the saying goes: smoke 'em if you got 'em.
"I used to roll my own, back in the day." The man fishes a stick out of the fire and uses the burning end to light his smoke. He cups one hand around the flame and takes a long drag. And coughs, the rough voice turning into a laugh. "Yep. Still tastes like shit."
He passes the firebrand to Curtis. "Hear you had a bad run of it. Something about a train?"
Curtis takes the stick, but his eyes stay on the other man the whole time. Of course he knows, say his thoughts, quite reasonably, and that's all it takes for his wariness to disappear. "Yeah," he says as he holds the firebrand to his own cigarette. The flame shifts from the stick to the cigarette like liquid flowing from one vessel to another: as soon as the cigarette catches, the firebrand goes out. He can't smell any smoke. When he inhales, it tastes like nothing -- just cold, and clear, like glacial meltwater. "I was back in the Tail. Did Dejah tell you?"
The man stares into the fire and after a moment, a subtle smile emerges. Everything about him softens. A moment later, the man across the fire from Curtis changes. His square jaw is now clean shaven, and his hair is still long but tied back with a scrap of leather. He's not in a duster anymore, just a set of leather breeches. The gunbelt is gone and replaced with a sword, harnessed across his back.
"Yeah, she might have mentioned it, in passing."
And Curtis knows.
Like the appearance of the fire, like the skin he feels when he rubs his thumb across the back of his left hand, the knowledge comes as quietly and matter-of-fact as everything else about the dream. He cracks another smile -- smaller now, a touch uncertain -- as he meets John Carter's eyes.
"Not surprised," he says, very softly.
John's gaze is open, his smile is crooked, but genuine. "She does tend to go on a bit, but I don't mind. It's when she gets quiet that you have to worry."
Curtis nods. He's so rarely seen Dejah quiet. Maybe that's a good thing: he hasn't had to truly worry yet. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. "You two still talk a lot?" he asks.
John's gaze shifts back to the fire, his expression not gone cold precisely, but shuttered nonetheless. "She talks. I listen." The muscles in his jaw shift and maybe he blinks a bit more for a moment.
Curtis nearly opens his mouth to apologize. He reconsiders; looks away, unsure, to give John a scrap of privacy.
John glances back to Curtis, the crooked grin back as quick as it'd gone. "You know she's in love with you."
Unintentionally, Curtis offers up a hesitant cousin of John’s smile. "I know,” he says; I don’t get it, is what he means.
"I know how you feel." John's voice is quiet; sad, but not mournful. He cracks his knuckles, one hand at a time, and holds his palms or to the fire. "After the war..."
He swallows, frowns, and begins again. "After I lost Sarah and Rebecca, my first wife and my daughter, I think... I don't know. I didn't want anything to do with anyone. I left Virginia. I took to prospecting. Looking for gold all by my lonesome in the Superstitions. It was the harshest place I could get to. I think if there was an edge of the world, I would have walked right off it."
"No home for years," Curtis murmurs, echoing what Dejah told him so early on -- one of the few times she'd discussed John's past alone, rather than the life she and John had built together. Here, and now, it’s so much easier to remember anything he wants. "No idea what home meant anymore."
John goes quiet again, a wry smile returning. "Then I found my cave of gold, and it spit me out on Barsoom."
Curtis scoots his chair closer to the fire. "And then she was there," he says.
John nods, looking down at the back of his hands. "Well, not quite." His grin brightens at the memory. "Then Tars Tarkas was there. Twelve foot tall. With four arms. And all he could figure out to call me was Virginia. No, that's not it. He called me Wor-Gee-Nya."
Curtis snorts out a laugh, easier and louder than he'd ever do in the waking world. It sends a few wisps of cigarette smoke curling from his nostrils. "That bastard." While not what anyone would call affectionate, the word does have a bit of warmth to it. "He slam you against a wall, too?"
John laughs outright at Curtis's response. "No. No, he shot me right in the ass! Strapped me to the back of a thoat, and then chained me to a wall with a bunch of," the unsmoked cigarette smolders between his fingers as he mimes something the size of the ball, "baby Thark. If you can imagine the humiliation."
Curtis's answering laugh's much louder this time, quickly stifled against the side of his hand to no avail. "Shit," he manages, "that's when you got shot?"
(Tars, you asshole. At least some things apparently never change.)
John's shoulders shake with quiet laughter, his gaze going back to the flickering flames. "And then she appeared. Literally fell out of the sky. Her research vessel was being chased by a warship. Ships that flew. She escaped and fell. Had to jump to catch her. Now, I thought I was rescuing her. Then she turned around, caught a sword mid-air, and saved me."
He touches his chest. "She. Saved me. I was smitten."
The laughter fades, shading to a warm, fond smile. The fire swirls higher, burning as clean as the cigarette. "She's kinda got a habit of doing that, huh." Falling from the sky. (Or so it felt at the time, when Curtis was so disoriented in the wake of the bomb blast.) Saving people. Her heart so goddamn big she won't stop until she saves an entire planet.
John looks over at Curtis, an understanding look in his eyes. "It doesn't make sense. But I know this for a fact: she saved my life."
Curtis nods. He switches his cigarette from one hand to the other, then back, as if reminding himself he has two limbs again. As he does, John's expression shifts through a subtle range of emotion. Understanding and joy tempered with loss and grief. When he speaks, his voice is rough, but his voice is pitched low, gentle.
"She needs you, Curtis."
It's tough to look at John's face, despite his gentleness, despite his joy. Curtis looks down at the scruff of grass under their feet; he traces the line where it fades into dirt a foot or two away from the fire.
"I'll take care of her." Not much louder than John. "I know there's a lot of shit she can take care of herself, but the stuff she can't -- I'm gonna do my best. I promise." She misses you so much, he wants to say. I don't know how the fuck I'll ever live up to you. But John has to know both of those things already.
John nods. Curtis gets the sense that he knows a lot more than he can let on. The view from where the man from the past sits is expansive.
"You'll figure it out, I have no doubt. All I can tell you is be patient. And love her with all your heart." His meaning is clear: fear and doubt have no place at the side of Dejah Thoris.
"I will," he whispers. Curtis finally raises his eyes back to John. It's fucking terrifying. The idea of opening his heart that much, everything exposed like a gaping wound. Leaning so much weight on something that still feels so fragile.
But it's like he told Tars all those months back: I care about her, so that's how it's gonna be.
John holds his gaze for a long, solemn moment. He gives just the tiniest nod and a quiet smile. He flicks the unsmoked cigarette into the flames and pushes himself to standing. He offers a hand to Curtis. "I knew there was a reason she liked you so much."
Curtis huffs out another quiet laugh. His own cigarette's nearly gone; stubbing out the remainder next to the fire, he slaps his left hand into John's to pull himself up. "Can see why she loved you too, man."
John holds onto Curtis's wrist, a firm, friendly grip. He looks at down at their hands clasped, his own hand growing transparent while Curtis's remains solid. "Huh," he breathes out.
A lump sticks in Curtis' throat, wholly unexpected. He tries to squeeze his hand tighter, but it feels like squeezing a half-frozen cloth -- there's too much give all of a sudden. His eyes flick up to John's face, searching it with a twinge of desperation. "You gonna come back here again sometime?"
John looks perplexed for a moment, and then -- he relaxes. His face takes on a serene expression, and he smiles at Curtis. "Don't know. Maybe. You take care of her for me, 'right?" His free hand rests on Curtis's shoulder, light as air.
Curtis swallows, trying to dislodge the lump, and only partially succeeds. "Of course, man."
John's grin goes crooked and he turns to look back at his mount. In the way of dreams, the horse is now a thoat. It lows at him, and he nods. "Yeah, all right." He nods to Curtis and turns away. The animal drops to one knee and John uses the crook of its leg to mount up. He shifts the reins and turns the animal's head back the way they came.
"It was good to meet you, Curtis Everett. Cluros and Thuria watch over you both." His voice sounds as if it's coming from a great distance. He raises a hand to wave goodbye and before Curtis's eyes, slowly dissolves back into the mist.
Curtis can feel a hollowness under his ribs, like when they stepped into the water supply car and shut the door behind them -- shut the door on all the people they lost over Yekaterina Bridge -- with a solid bang. He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the fire's gone out, and the cold absent from the dream for so long finally arrives.
She was right, he thinks. They would've liked each other.