2goodarms | (no subject)

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.

"Well, if it comes to that, the surface temperature of your arm should be the same as your skin. You see, it was my intent that while it not look like a flesh and blood arm, there were some key details -- like surface temperature -- that would lessen your comfort."

And maybe she'd been thinking about holding hands with him, even then.

Possibly.

Edgar's at a table not far from the bar.

At the first sight of the two of them, he pushes back his chair, wraps a napkin around his half-eaten turkey sandwich, and makes for the stairs without a second glance.

Curtis opens his mouth to respond, only to stop when he catches a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Instantly, he turns toward it, arms already tensing up as if preparing to punch whoever might try to --

Oh.

Well.

Never mind, then.

Some of the warmth drains from Curtis's thoughts, sinking into a quiet resignation. He lets out a tired sigh and tries to shake off the flight-or-fight response tightening his shoulders.

Dejah moves with him, responding to the unseen threat without thought. When she's who it is, she falters.

Her hand slips down to grasp Curtis's. A tendril of warmth wraps around him, pulling him close.

"It's all right. Let's -- get going."

That is not a problem she can fix today. Soon, perhaps. But not today.

Curtis nods, short and sharp. His fingers curl around hers and hold fast.

This is going to be a good day, damn it.

He pushes open the back door, making a face as they're both slapped with the outside chill.

Dejah gasps, fumbling to bring the scarf around her head one more time. She'll wait a few minutes to put her gloves on. His hand feels too good in hers.

"So, I was warned. If we pick a spot too deep into the forest, we run the risk of -- well -- of it not being there when we go back again. So something isolated but close is probably best."

Aside from a quick shiver, Curtis barely reacts to the cold. He draws Dejah a little closer to his side.

(No one can say he didn't try to prepare her.)

And then he blinks, brow furrowing. "What, does it eat houses?"

She gratefully slips in close to him. Her cheeks flush and her breath fogs in the air.

"No? Apparently, the geography is -- unstable. The farther you go from the bar, at least. I would suppose it's another quantum anomaly, but people insist on using the word 'magic' instead."

Slowly, "So...more like how the bar shifts around. Okay."

He can work with that.

"There's gotta be a clear spot near the lake. Or the mountains." Deadpan, "You got any Barsoomian homing technology we can stick on the door?"