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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.)
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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"...Actually, I haven't."
He eyes her.
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"Jesus fucking Christ, I missed that there are werewolves around here?"
How the hell did he miss that? (Okay, he knows how -- if he can barely keep track of night and day, no way can he keep track of a full moon, either -- but still.)
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"So, how would you feel about adding a second storey?"
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Too much, he thinks, in a quick blast, too big -- and then the thoughts subside into stillness, with practiced ease, an instant later.
Cautious, "I dunno, do we really need it?"
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"Well, we're just picking out a site today. I still want to do some research. You've seen the book of sketches I made before I even began working on your arm. Can you imagine how thick the book of my designs for a whole building will be?" She gestures to indicate a book that's twice as big in page area and still thicker than her other sketchbooks.
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"Someday I'm gonna wake up and every single wall's gonna be packed with sketches," he says. "I can see 'em already."
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"Only the good ones," she singsongs, playfully defensive. "But single story with a fence, two storey with a wall, two storeys with a roof garden? And then we start talking about the actual style of the thing."
Curtis, she's a maker. You knew this early days.
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"What I can contribute," he says, solemnly, "is a kindergarten drawing of a house with a couple stick figures in front."
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Maybe they'll balance each other, he thinks. He can rein her in, but she can pull him along, like she's been slowly nudging him along from the moment they met. Testing each little boundary -- a window, a quiet room, an open sky -- and showing Curtis he can move forward in a wholly different way.
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"I haven't forgotten," she murmurs, grinning. "We're building it together. For us."
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(That's a little more wry.)
"You can say so."
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"You? Being a stubborn ass about something? No, this would never happen."
She may be pulling his tail. Just a little.
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Which lasts for about three seconds before he starts snickering anew.
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"All right, I'm beginning to see the appeal of having a beard."
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"Told you." He sneaks another kiss. "I'll freeze if I shave it off."
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(Like any gift, he's still not sure what to make of her compliments, so freely given.)
"So do you wanna put anything down to mark the spot here?"
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"I'll take readings of the terrain, and mark it in relation to the lake. You want to find us a piece of wood or something large we can leave?"
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In one of the denser patches of grass, the snow dips and rises into an oddly smooth curve. Squatting down, Curtis brushes the snow aside to reveal a fallen branch as big as his arm, the bark peeling off in a few spots, the rest of it solid and intact. He gives it a thump just to be sure, but nothing crumbles with rot.
Perfect.
He hefts it up, dusts off more snow, and trudges back toward Dejah.
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