2goodarms | Milliways infirmary, with Dejah

Milliways infirmary, with Dejah

He counts the doors they pass through en route to the infirmary: only three, all of them unlocked. The first one leads to a room more like the party at the front of the train than the crowding at the tail -- but even that's not the right comparison, he thinks. It's crowded, yes, and noisy, but all Curtis can think is there's so much room.

People can stretch out their arms. When he and Dejah cross the floor, they can move without bumping into anyone.

The second door leads to an empty hallway, quiet but for the hum of the overhead lights. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, and with each step, thinks of anything but Wilford's voice in his ear. Take as much time as you need.

The third leads to a place so clean and white as to look alien, like the view from the Snowpiercer's windows. By then, he's leaning far more of his weight on Dejah than when they started.

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"And yet, you were the only person -- to have walked the entire length of it." She sounded incredulous. What kind of engineer created such a thing and did not inspect his own creation?

"If you were -- undesirable -- how did you make it to front?"

"Wouldn't do to get his shoes dirty," mutters Curtis, darkly.

For a beat, he busies himself with the buttons on the front of the shirt. Doing it one-handed requires enough concentration, and effort, to give him a little more time to think.

"We rebelled. We figured out a way to get out of the tail and kept pushing forward. By the end it -- " The words catch. "It was just me and two other people. Nobody ever made it that far before."

She clasps her hands before her, lacing her fingers together to keep her from helping again without an explicit request for assistance.

"And this is how -- you were wounded." How you died.

She swallows, hard. Bites her lip.

"Some of it," he says, without looking up.

Curtis can feel his eyes starting to burn again. He blinks, hard, to drive the tears back.

This time when she steps in to assist him, it's as much to lay her hand over his as it is to do up the buttons on his shirt.

"Enough for tonight."

She lays his hand on the back of hers so he can feel the motions of her fingers as they do up the buttons. Being this close, she can smell the smoke and sweat on his skin. It makes the details of his story all the more real.

"You can tell me more later. In the morning. Or next week, I don't care."

He nods, silent, and puts all his attention on the movement of Dejah's hands.

When the last button hooks into place: "Guess I've got all the time in the world if I'm dead," he mumbles.

She exhales, trying to still her own mind so she can help instead of overwhelm him. With his chin down, she rests her cheek against his temple, letting him feel her steady breathing, her warmth. He's not alone. It's important he knows that.

"Focus on getting through the next few hours. I'd like you to eat something. Drink something. Maybe take a shower, if you're up for it. And then, get some rest."

She's less mother hen, and more mother goose: fiercely protective of him right now. And trying not to let that get away from her.

He wishes it didn't feel like such a relief, to have another person so close to him. Eighteen years with no personal space; shouldn't he be craving the open fields out back, or the possibility of a real bed all to himself?

Maybe he would, if he'd died before he reached the front.

Curtis sighs out a breath, and nods. "What kind of food is there?" he asks.

She takes his hand between hers, not stepping away just yet. Maybe it's because he's letting her, or maybe it's because she can feel that her presence is calming him.

"If I told you that you could order any kind of food you wanted, you might think me exaggerating, but I am not. This place has an extremely advanced kitchen, and the means to reproduce any meal you so desire. And don't worry about how to pay for it. I will take care of all of that."

"Where does the food come from?"

Try as he might, Curtis' voice carries shades of his earlier question: what's the catch? He's not quite expecting protein bars, or worse. He doesn't know what to expect; that's part of the problem.

"Near as I can tell, all over the galaxy." Universe. Whatever. "Some is grown here. And some -- manifests -- from sources I have yet identify. But they seem to be commercial shipments."

She leans back to catch his face between her palms. "Regardless of the source, you need to eat. Now come on."

Explaining that he's gone for much longer without food wouldn't do Curtis any good. For multiple reasons.

(For one, it might lead to explaining why it's so important that he knows the source of his food.)

He's lost so much of the fight that carried him to the front of the train, though -- enough that acquiescing to Dejah's request seems preferable to resisting. His shoulders sag, minutely.

"Okay."

She holds his gaze a bit longer, gives him the softest of smiles. And finally steps to his side, and slips beneath his good arm, helping him off the table.

She lets him balance, checking if he can stand on his own, or if he still wants her help walking.

He does seem steadier now; not wholly, as his legs shift to try and compensate for movement that isn't there, but the chance to sit and rest has done a bit of good. Curtis takes a careful step, then another. By the third, it's clear he intends to walk the rest of the way with as little support as possible.

Equal to the relief of having Dejah so close: leaving that goddamn too-bright infirmary for the darker, noisier atmosphere of the main bar.

She respected his ability to walk without support, and instead of letting go, she slips her arm through his. That way she can feel him if he starts to lose his balance, and yet it appears that he is escorting her.

"I prefer to sit in the corner booth. Easier to watch the patrons come and go, and still be able to hear yourself think."

"Sounds good," he murmurs.

Fortunately for them, said corner booth has been recently vacated. There are a few dirty cups the waitrats have yet to clear away, but Curtis doesn't appear to mind; he slides into one side of the booth with a quiet sigh.

...Jesus. Are all the seats in here this soft?

Dejah does hesitate at the uncleared table, but only for a moment. She slides in beside him and sits back. The rats are on it, sweeping in to bus the table.

"It's all right, they're the wait staff here. Very professional." She might sound a little defensive. You only insult a rat once around here.

"I'm sure they are," says Curtis. It carries a similar resignation to his reaction when Dejah said she was from Mars -- but, tellingly, no disgust. He's actually eyeing the rats with mild fascination.

"Haven't seen one of those in a while," he adds after a moment.

"They had sentient rats on your Earth?" She sounds incredulous, but in the way of all relatively new patrons, begrudgingly open to the idea that yes, such things were not beyond the realm of possibility.

"Not that," he's quick to correct. Dejah's question even gets a small, brief smile out of him. "Just rats in general. They've been extinct a while."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She sounds vaguely embarrassed. She smiles at the rat as she's handed a menu, and mutters a quiet thank you.

"Extinct. On the train? Or in the entire ecosphere?"

When the rat turns to offer a menu to Curtis, he just blinks at it. The rat blinks back, pushing the menu closer to make it clear he's supposed to take it; automatically, he closes his fingers around it, still unsure what he's supposed to be doing.

"Definitely on the train," he says. "I'd assume the ecosphere, too, but...I don't know."

She watches him, and waits to catch his eye.

"It's a list of all the possible food and drink on offer here, though it's my understanding, it's not comprehensive. If you'd rather just request something, I'm sure the kitchen can get you what you want."

She's not his doctor. She can't tell him to stick to a simple broth, and possible some bread, even though she suspects by his pallor and his gaunt features, he's malnourished and anything richer than that will come back to haunt him.

Not comprehensive. And the list already goes on for pages, describing a variety that makes Curtis' head spin.

Sushi and steak, he can't help but notice, are among the offerings; his stomach churns with nothing like hunger.

"Just some soup," he says. "I don't need anything else."

She nods, and her shoulders relax. Her hand alights on his forearm, just a quiet gesture of reassurance.

"That sounds wonderful." She turns back to the wait rat and makes the same order for both of them, a simple vegetable broth with a loaf of fresh bread. And a pitcher of water.

The water appears almost instantly, delivered by another wait rat already ahead of the game, and she pours for both of them. "So eighteen years on a train." Her gaze moves back to look at him. "I would venture that's -- more than half your life."

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