2goodarms | (no subject)

(no subject)

"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 looks on as he wraps her up, a little surprised. He pulls it up over her nose and she grins at him, her eyes sparkling above the scarf.

Her answer is only a little muffled. "Yes, I think so. Bar mentioned something to me about a drink called a Hot Toddy? It sounded delicious."

He chuckles. "If it's anything like hot chocolate -- " and here, he wraps his arm around her again, pulling her close as they start back down the path, "-- I'm in."

She leans against him, content and serene.

They walk arm in arm, in companionable silence until they get to the lake path again. Dejah takes a breath and almost says something.

He can hear the whisper of curiosity and concern in her unspoken thought.

It catches his attention like a tiny shard of ice flicked against his skin. Curtis glances her way.

"Hm?"

She sighs and shakes her head. "Nothing."

A moment later.

"It's just --"

The image of Edgar is clear in her mind. Edgar's hasty retreat from the bar when they showed up. It's a stone in her shoe. It hurts and she'd like to do something about it. But she's not quite sure what, or if it's even her place to do anything at all.

"Nevermind."

What's clear in her mind passes to Curtis's in a brief, blurred smudge. Eighteen years around a certain face, though, and you can recognize it no matter what.

He grows quiet, his own thoughts and emotions drawing to the stillness of a frozen lake. "Okay," is all he says, softly.

There's nothing they could talk about there. There's nothing they can do, besides letting Edgar's anger run its course. Even if that course lasts the rest of their afterlives.

"Curtis..." She turns to glance at him, squeezes his arm tight.

His name in her mouth becomes a ribbon of warmth. Of love, pure and unambiguous. She doesn't understand, but that's all right. She doesn't have to.

"I love you."

It ripples over his thoughts, thawing the ice, coaxing warmth back into the darker corners of his mind. Curtis finds himself smiling again -- he still doesn't expect it, most times, when she says something and he feels a smile forming. Another small gift.

"I love you, too."

Thank you.

Always. She adjusts her bright purple earmuffs and takes him by the hand.

It's a long walk back to the bar, but walking with him, hand in hand, she doesn't mind. The cold can't touch her. She has earmuffs.

And him.

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