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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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."

"You have nothing to worry about, my love." She leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"If you care for me, and if you're not afraid to let that be known, you and he will do just fine. Of this I have no doubt."

Curtis chuckles. "Easy enough," he says.

Kissing her forehead, he drapes his arm back around her shoulders as they resume walking. Solemn, "And as long as I don't punch him in the face, either."

"Well," she drawls, falling into step with him, "while I understand the impulse, remember -- you're ten times as strong on my world. You might literally take his head clean off."

She cocks an eyebrow at him. It might be sufficient incentive to resist the urge.

Well, shit, says Curtis's expression.

"Good point." A bit weakly.

A brief jolt swirls up between his words: the old fear of going too far, the instinctual urge to rein himself in as tightly as possible. How the fuck is he going to manage that? One slip, one second where he forgets he's not on Earth, and he could kill someone.

She hums, carefully sending a tendril of warmth in after him.

"Hey," she whispers, her words measured and serene. "I don't think you have anything to worry about. But if you feel like you do, you look to me, all right?"

Gently, the warmth brushes his worry aside. His crooked smile eases back into place as he glances at Dejah.

"All right," he murmurs. "Thank you."

"Always, my love. Always. Now come on." She wrinkles her nose at him and picks up the pace. "We've a long way to go and only a few hours of daylight. And I don't know about you, but I don't fancy being caught out here after dark without a roaring fire and a banth skin to curl up in."

They walk in companionable silence for a time. The wind buffets them in quick bursts, only to subside into stillness a minute later. Curtis vaguely remembers the way to the meadow, but it's a little harder to navigate with snow dusted over all the landmarks.

(Jesus, to think things outside would look weird with snow on them.)

But eventually, he feels the ground start to slope upward. The tall plants have flattened and frozen, weighted against the ground; every so often he spots one that remains defiantly upright against the winter. It's...good to see.