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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Dejah's lips thinned for a moment, and her gaze flicked back to the front door, her gaze distant. The idea that the dead could walk through the door at any moment weighed heavily on her mind somedays.

"I'm not sure I have, honestly. It's exhausting, wandering around in a perpetual state of dismay. I still don't believe the 'magic' explanation, but the evidence for it seems overwhelming. Every day I spend here brings something new and strange."

Don't ask her how she feels about the many gods who frequent this place.

Curtis raises his head, his surprise plain. "Dismay?"

When the bar could give you anything you want, apparently without asking anything in return? She's not from the tail, yeah, but even so -- what the fuck could cause dismay here?

(He's not thinking about his own reaction. Not being able to grasp what's happened, and the implications of so many changes in so short a span, is wholly different.)

She looked back to him, one sculpted eyebrow cocked. "Yes, dismay. Especially when faced with the very real prospect that someone who has been dead for a century might appear here at any time. Not to mention all the rest."

...Right. She did say something about her husband, didn't she.

Curtis drops his gaze again. "Sorry," he mutters.

He hears her exhale, all the fire going out of her again. "It's all right, really. It's all a bit overwhelming, especially when you first arrive. I won't say you'll ever get used to it, but you learn how to navigate."

She wants to put a hand on his again, wants to make a connection somehow. To show him that he's among the living, and with a friend.

But she holds back, for some reason. It feels greedy to ask for that connection in return.

He nods, studying his palm as if it'd help him figure out just how the fuck he could begin navigating all of this.

"I thought it'd be easier if you were..." He shakes his head in mild frustration, trying to translate the term before giving up altogether. "From the front. You got a lot of this already."

"Oh you mean -- all this." She glances around the room, and sighs again. "I am more than 'from the Front', Curtis. Where I am from, I am considered royalty. I am Jeddak of the City of Helium, and head of the council of Jeddaks from the other city-states of my world. I live quite comfortably, in a palace, with a full contingent of guards. When I'm not teaching at the Academy of Science, where I'm surrounded by another contingent of researchers and students."

She swallows, licks her lips.

"But I am not from your Front. I am responsible for more than a million souls, from every level of society. I am responsible for bringing them clean water and plentiful supplies, I am responsible for keeping them safe from the warring tribes, and protecting them from those who would like to return to the thousand years of civil war we only just left behind us a mere century ago."

"That life never prepared me to meet people like you -- people beyond the reach of my power. People who suffer needlessly at the hands of tyrants I have no hope to overthrow."

Her voice breaks at the end, her own frustration clear in the set of her jaw, and the way her hands have curled into fists.

Royalty. A fucking queen, like from all the old stories they'd tell the kids, helping him for no reason.

Fuck.

And she's not like Wilford, he can tell that much, but Curtis feels his hackles go up anyway at her talk of responsibility, and power, and comfort. It's taken so much mental effort just to sit in this building; for an instant, Curtis isn't sure if he can spare any energy to put his thoughts back on track. She's not him. She's not as bad as them. She helped without asking for anything in return.

(But who's to say she won't ask later down the line?)

Then her last words emerge and give his thoughts that final, necessary shove. Curtis draws in a short breath.

"Hey," he murmurs; it's his turn to reach out and settle his hand on her arm.

She goes still at his touch, her eyes closing for a long moment. She takes a deep breath, schooling her anger into something more productive. When she looks up again, she meets his gaze. Her hand covers his, holding him there.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice quiet but clear. Her problems are petty compared to his.

Edited (wc) 2014-08-18 17:46 (UTC)

"S'okay," he says. "Don't worry about it."

A crooked smile.

"Look, I'm not gonna pretend I understand the shit you've got to deal with, but it's still shit. You know?"

She gave a dry little laugh, shook her head.

"Yes, well. It's not important here. Getting you settled, that's what's important right now. But I would -- I would ask one thing."

His brow wrinkles. With her hand covering his, it's likely Dejah will feel Curtis tense.

Here it comes.

"What?"

She does feel it, and she doesn't react. Her smile gentles, and when she speaks, her tone is quiet. Respectful.

"Would you allow me -- to design and build a prosthetic for you?"

That throws him. Visibly. Hard enough that before he can bite back the word, it springs loose: "Why?"

Shit.

He shuts his eyes. "Sorry. I didn't -- "

She squeezes his hand again, and she understands. So many things come with a price, and in his world, the cost was steep.

"Because it is the least I can do for you. I can't give you back what you've lost. But I can try to help."

"It wasn't a loss," he mumbles, and looks up. "But...yeah. If you want. Thank you."

Curtis gave up his arm, but that doesn't mean he has to go without a replacement. Even Gilliam (and the pain returns at that thought, striking low and dull against his stomach) fashioned new limbs for himself after his sacrifice.

She didn't understand, but she didn't have to, did she? She watched the pain move over his face again, and knew it wasn't from the physical wounds he'd sustained. She had no idea why, but whatever anguish played across his face, it made her own losses sing, as if the wounds were bright and fresh. She saw the memory of her research vessel's crew, their bodies being pulled from the wreckage and stacked like so much kindling. To be burned so the predators wouldn't come. And only a list of names in her head to bring back to their families in Helium.

So many dead.

Her voice is quiet, and tinged with sorrow when she answers. "It would be an honor, Curtis. I fully believe, when the day is done, all we have is each other."

He can understand that sentiment. It's just as jarring coming from someone like Dejah as everything else, but you couldn't survive the tail without relying on others. Those who tried to go it alone didn't last long.

Especially once Gilliam stepped forward, and someone (he still can't remember who) took a wailing Edgar from Curtis' arms.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I guess so."

And there's no uncertainty to his voice.

Their dinner arrives, and she sits back as the rats put a bowl of vegetable soup in front of them, and a plate with a covered loaf of bread, still steaming from the ovens. She watches him, unfolding her napkin and taking the silver in hand, her open concern showing in her odd blue eyes.

"You're not used to trusting someone -- who looks like me. I understand that. You have no reason to trust me, none at all. Just a collection of moments since you appeared on that lawn."

He tips his head, eyebrows quirking up: you said it, not me. Curtis doesn't reach for the silverware, or the bread; he just studies it, as uncertain of its arrival as he was of Dejah's.

"Well, you haven't shot, stabbed, or threatened me yet," he points out dryly.

Yet being the operative word, try as he might.

She hears it as clearly as if he'd said the words out loud; she's not unaccustomed to violence. Barsoom is steeped in violence. Perpetual war and a planet that would just as soon kill you as look at you, one comes to terms with violence, one way or another. The corner of her mouth lifts and she meets his gaze.

"True, very true." She doesn't start eating yet, an air of calm settling around her. "I won't tell you that this place is all sweetness and light. There are those patrons who will be more than willing to meet your worst expectations."

"However," she gestures lightly with one hand, "there are three simple rules. One, no violence in the bar. Apparently on the lawn is fine, as long as no unwilling participants are involved. No sex in the bar, but in the privacy of the rooms upstairs," she waves a hand in lieu of spelling it out.

"And finally, no business in the bar. I'm given to understand that means keep your world's business on your world. If my sworn blood enemy appears here, I am obliged to treat him as any other patron. And he is obliged to treat me the same. Violation of these rules, near as I can tell, results in incarceration in the cells, usually for a few days to a few weeks." The dry tone to her words lets him know precisely how much of a deterrent she thinks that is.

"The bar is not a safe place. But there are ways to stay safe. One of those ways is knowing who you can and can't rely on." She knows which category she falls into, even if he doesn't yet. He strikes her as someone with a quick mind; she's pretty sure he didn't make it this far by luck alone.

Curtis absorbs this in silence. Briefly, his throat works; in theory, if he's dead, that means anybody from the train could show up here, too. Just because he took it down doesn't mean they're gone for good.

A few days to a few weeks in a prison car. Would that be worth trying to kill Wilford again?

(Fuck yes it would be. He doesn't even have to ask.)

He fists his hand loosely in front of his mouth as he keeps studying the soup. "Okay," is all he says at last.

Dejah hesitates for a moment, and her demeanor softens. "Curtis, I know it's ridiculous of me to say, 'you can't trust everyone here, but you can trust me.' I realize that. I just -- I want to help."

She sighs and pokes at her soup with her spoon, licking her lips. "I should just be quiet and let you eat."

"I'm not sure I -- "

He breaks off there, the rest of his sentence curling into a sigh. He should eat. The soup and bread smell heavenly, better than anything he's smelled in his life. He's just not sure if he can.

Instead, quieter: "I know you just want to help."

She hears the weariness in his voice, the resignation. She takes in a deep breath and lets it out. When she speaks again, her voice is even quieter than his.

"It is not in my nature. To walk away from someone in need. I do not wish anything in return except perhaps your company. And only then, if you're willing. I do not wish to force myself on you."

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