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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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."

Curtis nods, silent at first.

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Okay."

She hasn't hurt him yet; there are rules about violence (even if they seem like they might do fuck-all); he's pretty sure that if she ever started asking for more than his company, he could fight back. It's...something, at least.

That tiny twitch at one corner of his mouth returns: that tiny stab at humor. "Can't promise I won't be shitty company, though."

His acceptance is all she needs right now. She can't help but return that ghost of a smile, and he can see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepening.

Her gaze drops to her soup but the smile remains. "I've had worse."

John Carter could be a sullen bastard sometimes. Her late husband had arrived on Barsoom already in a foul mood. He'd been a million miles from his home (one he had never been comfortable in, even before the war), surrounded by an entirely alien world, and he'd felt out of synch with everyone and everything. Yes, she's had worse company than Curtis. She's probably the best company he could wish for at this point.

"You, um." He stifles a cough against the side of his hand. "You said they've got rooms upstairs, right?"

Curtis isn't thinking individual rooms, like a hotel; he's thinking more rooms like the bar, the infirmary, the halls and doors connecting each. A communal space.

"They do. After you eat, we can ask the bar to find one for you. Or if you are uncomfortable being by yourself in a strange place, you can stay in my room."

Dejah took a sip of her soup, hoping that by showing him it was all right, he'd know it was safe.

"Your room?" he says, before he can stop himself.

She's royalty. Of course she'd have a huge amount of space to herself. But -- a whole room, Jesus.

"Yes, my room? It is my understanding that anyone can have a room to themselves here. Some are simple, just a bed and a bathroom. And this thing called a television, which I rarely ever turn on. Mine changed when I stayed for more than a week, and now resembles something I'm more familiar with."

Curtis shakes his head, and scrubs his hand over his face. Leaves it there as he works to marshal his thoughts.

"Maybe I should just take the food up there," he mumbles.

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