[flashback] in the bleak midwinter long ago

[2goodarms]

The materials started coming in from the Front last week, a few days after the protein blocks: boards, risers, gym mats, army blankets, rolls of fabric that might have been curtains or carpeting. They've been putting together bunks, stacks of them, under the direction of the armed guards.

By unspoken common consensus, the very end of the last car gets curtained off for Gilliam and the others recovering from their voluntary amputation, and the first makeshift pallets are carried back to them.

The work shift is over for the day, and protein blocks are being distributed. Under a guard's watchful eye, one person -- a different one each day -- is tapped to bring food to those who can't walk out to get it for themselves.

Today it's Curtis.

The cloth pulled tight around his right arm used to be a bandana. The wound beneath it split open again last night; he hasn't been able to stop picking at it. Before, a cut like this might've meant stitches. Now it just means pain biting his arm as he cradles the protein blocks to his chest.

Curtis doesn't look up. Nobody looks at him. They part like the Red Sea when he moves, like the train cleaving through the ice. Even in this small space, they find room to get out of the way.

They still wonder if he's got a knife.

He stops in front of the curtains, exchanging an uneasy glance with the guard.

Comments

[snowpiercer_npcs]

"That's good," he murmurs. "Will there be enough?"

[2goodarms]

Curtis shrugs, awkwardly.

It doesn't look like it so far, but it's hard to judge how many bunks they'll be able to cram into the space. Maybe they could always turn some of the sheets into hammocks.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

"Well." He looks up at the curtain, as though looking through it, trying to gauge the space beyond. "We'll see if they bring us more supplies. And how well we can use what we have."

[2goodarms]

"I was thinking it might be easier to do hammocks."

Still kneading his arm; still not meeting Gilliam's eyes.

"Wouldn't need as much space or supplies."

[snowpiercer_npcs]

Gilliam pauses with another blob of protein pinched between two fingers halfway to his mouth, and gives him an appraising look.

"That might well work. If there's a sufficient amount of fabric sturdy enough to hold people's weight ..."

[2goodarms]

"Dunno about that." Again, the awkward hitch to one shoulder. "We could ask."

Now that there are people back here they can actually ask for stuff. Whether they'll listen? Who the fuck knows.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

He nods. And chews, carefully, thoroughly.

[2goodarms]

He should probably go. There's no point to staying now that he's dropped off the protein blocks.

But where the hell can he go? Back out into the main part of the car, with so many people milling around with nothing to do? Where he's got no chance of hiding?

Not like back here. Not where it's quiet, and -- for all intents and purposes -- it's just him and Gilliam.

So all Curtis does is shift, getting his feet under himself and sitting on his heels to give his ass a break from the cold metal.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

Gilliam glances at him as he shifts, and something warms in his face.

"It's good of you to stay and keep an old man company," he murmurs.

[2goodarms]

One corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying to smile and not getting anywhere close.

"Not like I can go anywhere else," he says, no louder.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

His smile is crooked and sad, but at least slightly more deserving of the name. "That makes two of us."

[2goodarms]

Again, the burn in his throat, the clutch at his arm before he can stop himself.

He can't remember if he even said thank you. Those words are too weak; too small to encompass the enormity of what Gilliam did.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

Without a word, Gilliam leans forward again and reaches out to tug at the sleeve of Curtis's left arm, as though to pull that hand away from his injured arm.

There's barely any strength behind the pull; just enough that he'll feel it.

[2goodarms]

It's enough to make him go still again. Enough to make his shoulders sag.

The burn migrates up to just behind his eyes; silent, furious at himself, he squeezes them shut.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

"It's all right, Curtis." Very soft. "It's all right."

[2goodarms]

Easy for you to say, he wants to fire back.

"No," is all he can grit out instead. "It's not."

[snowpiercer_npcs]

He lets out a quiet breath, and lowers his head.

His hand is still on Curtis's arm, and after a moment he pats it; gently, absently, as though thinking of something else.

[2goodarms]

"I couldn't even -- "

Good thing his voice is hoarse already. It means there's no noticeable change, even with the heat pressing against his eyes.

So little effort to shove the blade into that woman, into so many others, all the way to its hilt. Why couldn't it have been that easy when he turned the knife on himself?

[snowpiercer_npcs]

"I know." Very soft.

Slow and gentle, he pats Curtis's arm again; trying to soothe, in a way that words can't.

(He knows perfectly well that there aren't any words that will.)

[2goodarms]

He lapses back into silence. An ungrateful part of him wants to wrench away from the touch; the rest of him soaks it up like the sunlight he hasn't seen in months.

Curtis can't bear to contemplate how much he misses his parents. It's too childish; it won't be any help; it's as greedy as picking up a knife.

Anyway, it's probably a good thing they're (likely) dead by now, so they didn't have to witness what he did.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

The silence settles, spreads out like ripples in an unfrozen pool.

Gilliam gives Curtis's arm one more pat, leans back against the wall, and pulls free another bite of protein bar.

[2goodarms]

He shifts again, sitting flat on the ground, drawing his knees in to his chest.

So quiet it's nearly inaudible over the train's rumbling: "Do you think they're all dead yet?"

[snowpiercer_npcs]

A pause.

Only slightly louder: "The ones outside, you mean?"

[2goodarms]

Curtis nods, finally forcing himself to look up at Gilliam.

[snowpiercer_npcs]

"I don't know," the old man half-whispers. "They may be."

He's not looking at Curtis; his gaze is fixed on the far wall of the train behind him, as though trying to see through it and dreading what he might see.