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.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

She rolls her eyes and tries not to sigh. Tries and fails. Her gaze fixes on a point in the distance.

"Yes. Constantly. I am my father's only child, after all."

She understands his concerns, but she has her own opinions. Her own 'children' to bring to adulthood, in the Work. It's an old argument, one that won't ever really die until one of them does.

Curtis snorts. He lets go of her hand so he can settle his whole arm around her shoulders, drawing her even closer.

Low, and conspiratorial, "You ever get sick of telling 'em to fuck off, just say the word and I'll punch them."

She chuckles, wrapping her arm around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.

"As much as I would enjoy that, I doubt punching my father would help the situation much. And anyway, if anyone's going to do any punching, it's going to be me!"

A laugh. "That's why I'm only gonna volunteer if you get sick of it. The rest of the time I'll just..." He waves his free hand, absently. "Sit in the back with a bucket of popcorn or something."

(As the kids on the internet say: kick his ass, babe, Curtis's got your flower.)

"But yeah, I guess I wanna make a good impression on your dad. Punching probably won't help that."

There's a questioning shimmer at the idea of popcorn, but the sentiment of him watching the scene while being amused comes through loud and clear.

"Let us be perfectly clear, my love. It doesn't matter what impression you make on my father. I would prefer it if he liked you, yes, because it would make your life easier in the long run. But you are my choice. And he knows -- or rather, he should know -- he get's no say in the matter."

There's still a lick of white hot rage there, woven deep in the memory, but it's an old rage. A familiar rage.

Edited 2016-01-23 00:01 (UTC)

Curtis blinks as her anger prickles his skin, stirring up a burst of confusion in response. He looks down at Dejah, nestled against his side.

"...Can I ask what happened?" Hesitant.

Because that anger seems to go a lot deeper than a parent disapproving of his daughter's love life.

"That's right, you never heard the whole story, did you?" She deflates a little, a little embarrassed.

"Before, when he was still Jeddak, we were facing annihilation by Zodanga. He gave me to their Jeddak, Sab Than, as a last ditch attempt at a peace deal. Only Sab Than was a pawn of the Thern, and they tried to have me murdered at our wedding ceremony. Needless to say, that didn't happen. He is and always will be my father, and I love him. But that was the last time he got any say in my future and my family."

"Wait -- "

He stops in his tracks, turning to face Dejah, staring.

"You're serious. He did that to you?"

Yeah, now his words are beginning to heat up, too, like a mirror throwing back some of Dejah's rage.

Her own emotions are surprisingly raw beneath her cool demeanor. Only because he has taken the Voice can he tell the truth. It may have happened more than a hundred years before, but she remembers it like it was yesterday.

"Well, he tried to, but I ran. I took the body of my research and my guard, my researchers -- they put me in the garb of a foot soldier and snuck me out of Helium. Only Sab Than's crew chased us down and shot us out of the air. If it had not been for John Carter, I would have perished that day."

She relays it so calmly, even as the Voice makes every syllable crackle and spit. And for an instant, in a brief flash, it's more than that: Curtis can feel the broken aircraft careening underfoot, smell the rusty air of Helium tinged with smoke, see someone hurtling toward him as he, as Dejah, falls --

He catches his breath. Shakes his head once, sharply, in an effort to clear it.

"I'm sorry." Low, and flat. "That never should've happened to you."

She hears him suck in a breath and her hand comes up to touch his cheek, mitten and all. She presses her brow to his, trying to breathe, to let the moment settle.

"It's all right. We'd been fighting for so long, at that point. Something had to break. He was just trying to ensure peace for our people. He just went about it all wrong. And he is no longer Jeddak."

There's a weight and finality to her words. "I am."

"Good."

His breath steams in the cold air. He nods, eyes falling shut for a beat.

Then the corner of his mouth quirks up again. "Okay, I'm a lot less worried about impressing him now."