Milliways infirmary, with Dejah

[2goodarms]

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.

Comments

[2goodarms]

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_thoris]

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."

[2goodarms]

"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."

[dejah_thoris]

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."

[2goodarms]

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."

[dejah_thoris]

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.

[2goodarms]

"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.

[dejah_thoris]

"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.

[2goodarms]

"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.

[dejah_thoris]

"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."

[2goodarms]

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.

[dejah_thoris]

Her head tilts to the side a fraction and she gives him a soft smile.

"Yes, all right." She gestures to the wait rat, asks for the soup and bread to be boxed. "How's the arm? Is it hurting?"

[2goodarms]

He shrugs, lopsided. "Can't really tell."

It's like all the pain's still removed, at a distance, waiting for its cue to enter and really start fucking him up. He can feel faint twinges and shadows of it, but nothing serious yet.

"Thanks," he thinks to add -- both to her and the waitrat -- as the soup and bread are whisked away. And solely to Dejah: "You think I could get my own room? Something small. All I need's a bed."

(Even asking for that little feels like asking too much.)

[dejah_thoris]

"Yes, absolutely. Come with me." She rises slowly, waiting for him to get to his feet, watching to make sure he's stable. And then she leads him up to the bar itself.

"This gets a little strange, but -- well, just -- here. Bar?"

A napkin appeared from thin air. With a room key. There were words handwritten on the napkin. Already done. Welcome, Mr. Everett. Anything else I can do for you, please feel free to ask.

[2goodarms]

Curtis stares.

Objectively, it's not any different from the exploding stars, or that he's standing next to royalty from Mars, or...you know, every goddamn thing that's happened to him in the last half an hour. But seeing something materialize out of nothing? That's way too much like a hallucination for his comfort.

The napkin addressing him by name doesn't help a lot, either. He can see Mason again, eyes darting behind her enormous glasses, hinting at knowledge she -- and Wilford -- had no right to have.

The key feels smooth, and cold, and very real as he picks it up. 1001, reads the number tag.

"Sure," he says, blankly. "Uh. Thanks."

[dejah_thoris]

"Thank you, Bar." For what it's worth, Dejah doesn't look all that comfortable with the idea of something magically appearing, either, but she gives him a crooked grin, regardless.

"The bar is sentient, and you'll be dealing with her quite a lot, once you've settled in. And she's very much a her, so do not make the mistake of addressing her as an 'it'. Or you'll get red napkins with messages in all capital letters." She may have made that mistake once or twice. "Treat her with respect and she can answer all your questions."

She eyes the key he was given. "Would you like me to help you find your room?"

[2goodarms]

He hesitates, glancing toward the stairs. "'S probably a good idea," he admits.

So far, this place is big enough that he's not sure where he's going. On a train, after all, there are only two real directions: forward, or backward.

At his feet, there's a squeak! as the waitrat returns with a small paper bag.

[dejah_thoris]

"Oh! Yes, thank you! On my tab, if you please." Dejah leans down and takes the paper bag with a smile. "And a generous tip for you and your team, of course."

She stands again and catches Curtis's eye. "This way is the easiest I find. I would surmise by the room number that you're on the tenth floor."

[2goodarms]

His eyebrows rise, but he follows without hesitating. "Didn't look like there were ten floors outside."

By this point, it's all resignation and the barest touch of dry humor. Maybe they'll run into a unicorn as Dejah takes him upstairs, just to top it all off. Who the fuck knows.

[dejah_thoris]

Dejah turns and throws him a look. "I have my theories, but the physics of this place tend to follow their own rules, so..." They step into the lift and he can see the panel of numbers. There are hundreds of floors apparently.

She punches the button and the doors close. Slowly the lift begins to move. "I am on the fourteenth floor, room thirteen. If you need to contact me, just ask a rat and they'll get me a message."

[2goodarms]

Curtis nods. Shoves his hand in his pocket, watching the numbers above the door tick higher. The vertical movement makes him feel a little dizzy, like someone's pressing a hand on his head and slowly squashing him down; the jolt as they arrive on the tenth floor isn't much better.

Right before the doors slide open, he catches a glimpse of his reflection.

It's a damn good thing the doors open when they do, because otherwise, he would've stayed frozen and staring.

[dejah_thoris]

She hears what might have been a quiet intake of breath and she feels the tension in the small room ratchet up a notch.

She casts a glance at him from the side of her eye, and takes a half step forward.

"It shouldn't be far." She slows, waiting to see if he'll follow her.

[2goodarms]

"Good," he says, quietly, and follows with as little complaint as when she led him to the elevator.

The hall seems to stretch on forever, a new door placed every ten feet. He finds himself counting them without thinking: one, two, three --

Curtis only makes it to seven before the number 1001 catches his eye, and he stops.

[dejah_thoris]

"This is you," she says, her voice quiet. She offers the paper bag with his dinner to him.

"You need to eat something, Curtis. Please."

[2goodarms]

He sighs.

"I will," he says, and untucks his hand long enough to accept the bag. "Promise."

It's just -- it's one more thing, on top of a hell of a lot. Fresh food. Like the lovingly-crafted plate of sushi near the front that he couldn't bear to touch.