2goodarms | (no subject)

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"Okay." Curtis upends the bag of winter clothes on the floor of Dejah's room, spreading them out so she can get a better look. "This oughta be enough. It's not that bad out today."

Since Curtis's definition of not that bad out is a tad skewed, there's still quite a bit of clothing in the pile. A jacket, two sweaters (one thinner than the other), long pants, long johns, a scarf, mittens, boots, plush socks, a pair of bright purple earmuffs...

And, of course, a hat.

With pompoms and earflaps.

(Bar, you are the best.)

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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?"

He can more feel her frown than see it, bundled as she is under her scarf.

"I suppose I could. But I'd rather find some place that's not going to rearrange itself without asking first." She leans against his arm, her words shimmering with warmth. "I think I might have an idea of where we can start. Remember the meadow?"

"...Yeah." His expression lightens, a smile beginning to come out of hiding. "You think?"

God, that'd be great. All that life when the flowers start blooming; all that sunlight. Shit, to think he's gotten so used to sunlight, to crave it so badly nowadays.

Goddess, that smile still pierces her heart. She craves these little moments as much as he craves the very sunlight his smile reminds her of.

"Well, I don't want to alter the landscape too drastically. As long as the structure is small, perhaps partially below ground?"

Curtis makes a noncommittal noise, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "I'd rather go small than half underground," he says.

It doesn't feel right to have a cabin with a basement. Or, even worse, a cabin that's more like a bunker.

She catches his reluctance and sends a tendril of reassurance.

"It won't be a windowless, airless space, I promise you."

He breathes in, relaxing as the reassurance chivvies his doubts aside.

"Good." Soft, as he squeezes her hand. "I kind of like having windows now."

Her face splits in a huge grin. "Well, me too."

She likes him liking windows, especially. There's a quiet little puff of awed disbelief, at the idea that they've made it this far. That there was so much more to come.

"Talk to me about what you want on the inside of the cabin."

A chuckle. "God, I don't know," he admits. "Warm things. Lots of blankets and a big couch. Maybe a fireplace."

There's a picture in his mind, a little hazy, but strong: a single room done up in warm shades of red and brown, wood paneling on the walls, the crackle of a fireplace, warm drinks in hand. Like something out of a movie.

"A hearth is an absolute must. I get far too chilled without it, and a chilled Dejah is not a happy Dejah."

She pores over the images, the sensations he's sharing of warmth and comfort. "Mmm, yes, a nest," she answers, her tone taking on a touch of odd sadness. A hope that would never be realized, but still, had never quite eroded away entirely.

His brow furrows a touch; he glances over, feeling the wisp of sadness like a puff of cold air down his neck.

Gently: "What is it?"

She turns to meet his gaze, her smile still warm, still happy in a way she hasn't been in many years.

"Nothing. Just -- I've no interest in having children. Never have, probably never will. But -- one can't help but wonder sometimes. You know?"

Oh. She meant -- like a literal nest, kind of.

"Yeah," he agrees, quiet. "I know."

Maybe he'd've been more open to kids if things had gone differently. If he'd been Front, or, hell, if he's really dreaming big, if the freeze hadn't happened at all.

Another memory brushes against the back of his mind: something out of a story, with princes and kings and queens. "Anybody give you shit about that?"