2goodarms | (no subject)

"Mm, probably under it. If you don't think the earflaps'll be enough." He's grinning. "They look good on you."

Good mostly meaning hilarious and adorable in this case.

She smirks, casting a dubious glance at him. She can feel his amusement and it's delicious.

"It's bad enough I have to wear pants here. But these?" She scoffs, plucking the long johns out of the pile and holding them up by two fingers as if they're going to bite her.

"Yeah. More layers means more trapped body heat," he explains, patiently, even as a fresh wisp of amusement curls through his words. "Remember how cold it got outside the inlet when we left the party? And how it got better after you had my jacket?"

"I know how a coat works, Curtis. When we journey out of Helium into the Warhoon and spend the night beneath the sky, you will know how cold it gets on Barsoom. But we wear cloaks that radiate the day's heat back into the body. It's a sister to the light flyer technology. This? This just seems like a chance to make me look utterly ridiculous. Which -- hey -- if that's what fires your engines, far be it from me to judge!"

She holds up her hands in mock retreat.

Thoughtful, "I dunno, it'd build up a lot of anticipation when you take 'em all off later..."

He's doing his best not to laugh, but the Voice sparks with the feel of every snicker he's trying to hold back.

She laughs and the subtle shimmer beneath is unmistakable. "You are insufferable." There is no doubt she approves. "All right, fine. These are a base layer, I presume?"

She's asking about the long johns in her hands. She presumes the buttons go in the front.

Curtis nods. "You might be able to get away with not wearing those, but I'd do it just in case. Unless..."

He rummages through the pile. Unearthing another pair of pants, he rubs the fabric between thumb and forefinger, testing its thickness. "Yeah, these might be okay on their own. The wind's not too bad, it's not gonna cut through the fabric."

"Oh no. What's the saying? In for a penny, in for a pound."

She gathers up the motley collection and moves over to her dressing area, dropping them on one of the chairs.

"These boots are enormous."

"That's what the socks are for," he says, back to the cheerful innocence of before. "You can put on two or three pairs if they still don't fit right."

He hefts himself up onto the couch, propping one elbow on the nearest pillow as he watches her move.

Idly, she slips out of her sleeveless gown and sets it aside. "You realize," she drawls, holding up the long johns and trying to figure out which side is which, "this opens you up to being dressed in Helium's traditional summer garb."

There's something more than the Voice there, just for a brief moment. An image of a man in what looks like a gladiator's costume. It's just a flash, but it's definitely her imagining Curtis in a short leather skirt with bare thighs and chest.

Seeing Dejah strip down so unselfconsciously, and without rushing to toss on more clothes immediately after, is still a little...odd. (Not that Curtis minds. There's a reason he got a good seat and made himself comfortable.)

Sadly, his enjoyment gets cut off in a strangled cough as that image skims over his mind. "Um," he manages. "Do I have to?"

He's going to freeze to death in an outfit like that, Dejah.

She's determined that the long johns have a bottom part and a top part. It takes a bit of doing, but she slips into them and wiggles them up over her hips. The top part is easier.

"You'd be surprised. It can get quite warm in the summer months. You might actually prefer it."

Curtis wrinkles his nose, unconvinced. "That's what an undershirt and sweatpants are for."

Much like his concept of "not that bad," his concept of "quite warm" is a little off. Even in Dejah's room -- hell, even in the sauna car -- he didn't need to drop that many layers. Right?

Her eyebrow twitches and she gives him a little shrug.

"Well, you can't blame a girl for trying, can you?"

Long pants are next. And then the sweaters. Already, she's starting to look a little flushed.

One corner of his mouth rises. He hefts himself up from the couch, the better to move closer and lower his voice to a murmur.

"Tell you what." Fresh promise wraps around the words like a heat shimmer. "If it's just you and me in the room sometime, I'll wear it for you."

Her eyes flutter closed and her movements drift to a standstill. For a moment, she basks in that heat, her chin rising and a look of bliss drifting over her features.

"Mmm. Curtis Everett, we have places to be and things to do," she singsongs, and he can feel her own longing rising up to mingle with his, like sparks from a fire.

He grins, unrepentant, and drops a light kiss on the tip of her nose.

"Just wanted to make sure you were warm enough," he says. "Ready to go?"

She beams up at him and, as elegantly as possible, adjusts her earmuffs.

"Let me grab my notebook and we can get going."

She steals a soft kiss as she passes, lingering only as long as it takes to gather her things.

For his part, Curtis adjusts his hat, draws the scarf more snugly around his neck -- despite owning so many layers, he's never actually worn a scarf before -- and stoops to grab a spare pair of gloves out of the clothing pile.

As they head down the hall toward the elevator, he holds up his left hand. "So, hey, how cold-resistant is this, anyway?"

It takes her a moment to realize he's asking about the prosthesis.

"It's adaptive, so it should be fairly cold resistant. If it starts giving you any discomfort, simply instruct it to warm up to your body temperature. And if there are any problems, well -- better to find out now than before we start the work, yes?"

"Yeah, true."

Okay. Well, in that case: Curtis tugs one of the gloves over his right hand, and stuffs the left-handed glove in his coat pocket. If nothing else? It's not like his arm'll freeze solid. Or even get a little frostbitten.

Straight-faced, "Probably shouldn't lick it when it's cold just in case though."

She tucks her own mittens into her pockets, leaving them until they're outside. That done, she tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and leans in close.

"You are a very strange man, my love. Why would you want to lick your hand?"

Even an endearment like that makes another flicker of warmth pass over him. (Being in love. What can you do?)

"There's, uh, this thing that happens when metal gets cold enough," he says. "You get any water on it and it'll freeze like -- " A snap of his fingers. "So there's this dumb prank little kids'll play where they dare each other to lick a light pole or something. You do it, and your tongue sticks so hard you can't pull it off."

"Ugh," she says, pulling a face. "What a horrible thing. You would lose a layer of your tongue! That's -- ugh!"

She's laughing even as she protests, and he can feel the answering lick of warmth in her voice. Still just as hopelessly smitten as she was the first day she kissed him. Possibly even more, if that's possible.

"Exactly," he says, starting to laugh as well. "See? That's why I don't want to do it!"

They emerge into the light and bustle of the main bar, turning to make a beeline for the back door.