dejah_thoris | [oom] A Pot of Tea

Entry tags:

curtis everett,
oom

[oom] A Pot of Tea

This is the part of the project she enjoys the most. The design phase, where ideas start to take form and the project takes on a certain life of its own. She has compiled all the research she needs. She's relatively certain she's aware of all the issues that must be addressed in the final design. Now it's time to synthesize these ideas and put her pens to paper. As form follows function, and evolution has handled refining the design, all she needs to do is adapt the technology to the original biological schematics. Layers upon layers, she builds up the image, from structure to power, sensors to servos. She can't help but put her own aesthetic into the work, and in sketching, she decides that she'll have to fabricate several of the parts by hand.

Woola found his way back and was snoozing in front of the fire. She'd been up since the wee hours of the morning. The rats had brought her morning meal without her even having to ask. Now, she sat at her drawing board, her long hair pinned back from her face, speared through with a quill. At her elbow, a growing stack of dirty tea cups that would have to be addressed sooner or later.

But not right now. She wanted to get the last few pieces of the external forearm onto the vellum, just as she'd imagined it.

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Come find me when you want that tea, she said.

She's probably got everything she needs to make a pot of tea in her room. When Curtis reached the elevator, though, he hesitated before smacking the down button instead. A short, awkward conversation with Bar gave him a bag with an electric kettle, two mismatched mugs, and a canister of that Earl Grey stuff.

(She said she liked it, too. Why not.)

Now, just outside her door, he hesitates again -- longer this time -- before wedging the bag between his stump and his side so he can knock.

Thump-thump-thump.

Woola's head comes up and a moment later, he's standing in front of the door, making a noise that sounds like gravel over granite.

Dejah frowns, wondering who could possibly be visiting her. Could it be? "No, not in a million years." Still, she slides down from her work bench and heads to the door. "Woola, back up please. Thank you."

She opens the door and blinks. Woola sniffs the air, trying to identify the newcomer. Dejah blinks again, concern lining her face.

"Curtis? Is everything all right?"

"Hey." He shifts the back back into his grasp. "Yeah, everything's fine, I, um..."

The sentence loses steam, and trails off entirely, when he spots the hulking what-the-fuck-is-that behind Dejah. The thing's stock-still, eying him and Dejah by turns like a dog trying to suss out threat or friend.

Is he supposed to be making eye contact with it? Shit, is this one of those animals that thinks eye contact is a challenge? (That was something animals used to think, right?)

The tension flows out of Dejah and a bright smile emerges in its place. And then she sees his terror.

"Curtis. This is Woola. Woola? This is Curtis." She looks back to Curtis, her gaze warm. She dips her chin and raises her eyebrows, her smile turning hopeful. "Curtis is a friend."

The moment she says the words, Woola's demeanor shifts and he gives Curtis a huge calot grin. It's like a doggy grin, but with two extra set of jaws and a lolling tongue. Woola sits and looks at Curtis. Maybe Curtis has food?

At the same time, the wariness in Curtis' face scales back -- not gone entirely, but not ready to launch into a full-on flight or fight response.

Because seriously, that is still a hell of a lot of teeth.

"Uh. Hey, Woola." Cautious. Back to Dejah, voice lower, "Anything I need to know so I don't piss that off?"

At the mention of his name, Woola's jaws snap shut and he tilts his head, still grinning at Curtis. Dejah says he's a friend. Dejah is pleased that Curtis is here. This pleases Woola. Welcome, Curtis.

"Well," Dejah says, stepping back into the room and beckoning Curtis in, "so long as you do not raise your hand to me, you're safer here in his presence than anywhere else in this bar. What's in the bag?"

One thing Curtis will learn about Dejah, her curiousity trumps all else. She's beaming at him now, like he's brought her a bag of kittens.

His expression brightens, as if reflecting the illumination of Dejah's grin. He steps inside.

"Tea stuff," he says, lifting the bag higher to indicate. "I grabbed it from Bar. -- If you're busy I can come back later," he's quick to add.

"No no. Nonono. No, I'm -- tea sounds lovely! Here. Please, come in!"

She's backing up through the flat, and she grabs what might be a robe from the back of the couch, tossing it idly in the direction of a side table. (That might have been a full tea set underneath? It was too quick to tell.)

"We can set it here, on the floor." She kicks a pair of shoes under the chair, grabs an armload of books off the other chair and spins in place, trying to find somewhere to set them down. She ends up choosing the top of a stack on her desk that looks like it's already tempting fate.

Woola rolls his eyes at his mistress and slowly, almost lethargically, makes his way back to his pile of skins beside the fire. He flumps down, and wiggles in to make himself more comfortable.

"Is Edgar coming?"

He watches her bustle around the room, struggling to hide his amusement. It's...nice, to see clutter in a space this big.

(Even if it emphasizes just how much stuff Dejah owns.)

"Nah. Just us." The last thing either of them need is Edgar shooting overprotective glares Dejah's way while they're trying to talk. "I think the kettle's gotta plug in somewhere, is that gonna work?"

She doesn't hide her relief, or her joy that it will just be the two of them.

He mentions the kettle and Dejah blinks, her mind racing. They still use plugs here, don't they? "Yes! I believe the television works on electricity. We should be able to plug it in there."

That means excavating the television, unfortunately. It's behind a tripod that holds a large sketchpad, and the little work bench beside it with her paints and brushes. It takes her a moment to shift it all to one side and find where the wall outlet is. "Here it is!"

She returns to him, still grinning to beat the band, her cheeks flushed. "I am so sorry it's a mess in here. If I'd have known you were coming, I would have made an effort to tidy up."

When royalty is left to their own devices without a staff to clean up after them, they tend to be a bit of a slob.

Curtis chuckles, giving in to the humor. "It's fine."

Adding I've seen worse would be pointless. Dejah knows very well that Curtis has seen worse.

"I'll warn you next time." Stooping down, he sets the bag on the floor and starts to rummage through it. The tea canister's extracted first, followed by the mugs -- one's bright yellow and printed with tiny wrenches and hammers, the other black with a phrase Curtis probably should've read before he stuffed it in the bag -- and at last (as Curtis lets out a muted hah!), the kettle. "I'll go fill it up...?"

Dejah settles on the rugs in front of the fire, within scritching distance of Woola, and carefully takes the cannister and cups from him, examining each one. The one with the words makes her laugh out loud, even as she tries to cover her mouth with one hand. "Oh yes! By all means. There's a tap in the bathroom."

Once he steps away, she quickly retrieves the tea pot and a tea strainer, with the little dish that goes underneath so she won't make a mess.

Oh, good, at least she's entertained by it!

"Be back in a minute," he says with a quick grin, and heads where Dejah indicates.

As it turns out, filling the kettle takes considerably longer than a minute. First, there's the moment where Curtis simply stares around the room -- bigger than his own living quarters and bathroom combined -- taking in the ridiculous opulence of the place. A shower and a tub, the latter big enough to fit half a dozen people. Towels everywhere. Fuzzy shoes and a robe. It even smells like the greenhouse car, not like a latrine.

Then there's the moment where he finally makes his way over to the sink, tries to locate the taps, and startles back when they switch on automatically. "Jesus," he mutters under his breath, shoving the kettle into the stream. The front's even got machines that turn on the water for you? Really?

Not the time, Curtis. Later.

When he finally emerges, he hasn't tamped down on all the surprise (or weariness, for that matter). Still, gamely, he holds up the kettle -- done -- and heads over to plug it in.

Edited 2015-05-10 02:24 (UTC)

He returns and she grins up at him, the new accoutrements all laid out on a tea tray, because -- well, tea belongs on a tray. It just makes things easier.

She can't seem to stop smiling at him, and she knows it must look ridiculous, but...

"You came back. You actually came back."

The weariness dissipates. "Hey, you said come find you when I wanted tea. I wanted some tea," he says.

(Curtis isn't used to laughter, or teasing; he can only hope it comes across on the last bit.)

"And..." He lowers himself to the floor, casting a quick look at Woola before returning his attention to Dejah. "I read your note."

Her smile dims somewhat, but it doesn't fade. Simply becomes a bit more subdued. Dejah opens the cannister of Earl Grey and takes a big whiff, closing her eyes in enjoyment of the strong, almost eyewatering scent. She takes the lid off the teapot and carefully spoons in the proper amount. The cups he brought are arranged, very precisely.

"I'm very glad you're here." Finally, finally she lifts her gaze to study his face. "I suppose some of it may have come as a revelation?"

"Yeah."

Quietly, as he rubs the back of his neck. Several seconds pass before Curtis goes on.

"Wilford never left the front. If he wanted something to get done, he'd send somebody else to do it. That's always how it was."

That's always how Curtis assumed it to be: if you were front, you didn't dirty yourself with the tail.

"Wilford, the tyrant," she says, and maybe he can hear the vitriol in her words. "He is the reason Edgar looks at me as if I am," how would John have put it? "The Devil himself."

Wilford the Merciful; Wilford the Divine. How refreshing it is, to hear someone name that asshole as he truly was.

"Some of it," he hedges. "He's..." Curtis pauses, feeling his way through the words. "I don't remember a lot before the train. But he doesn't remember anything. He sees somebody like you and -- that's all he knows, the front hurts the tail and takes everything from us."

Her gaze falls to the tea setting, elegant hands arranging and aligning cup and strainer. She draws a deep breath.

"How? How did it come to that, Curtis? Can you tell me that much?" Her question is quiet, a plaintive query she knows there will be no good answer to.

He shakes his head, following her gaze to the tea tray.

"It's just how it was," he says, no louder. "There was..."

Distant at first, a new memory flickers, brightening to sting like a passing electrical current.

"A lottery." (He sounds dimly surprised, as if discovering the fact in a textbook rather than unearthing it from his own mind.) "To get in the tail. You could pay to get a guaranteed seat at the front, or hope you got one of the couple thousand free tickets."

She looks up as he talks, giving him her full attention. What about the others? Were there no shelters? Humans have survived multiple ice ages. Why was this so different? Surely the train only held a few of the survivors. There were five billion souls.

Her expression says this is no answer, but she wants to hear his story from the beginning.

"And your family was one of the lucky ones?"

"Not my family."

His throat bobs.

"Just me."

Again, there is a flash of rage behind her eyes. It sharpens everything about her, her lips, her jaw, everything. It is a rage she is familiar with, one that fuels her, has fueled her for decades now. There are sacred responsibilities attached to being in a position of power. The idea that someone would subvert those, it makes her blood boil.

She's quiet for a long moment.

"And you said -- you don't remember much before the train."

Curtis isn't looking at her, but it's impossible not to sense her anger boiling the air. It comforts as much as kind words. Maybe more.

"No. I get these -- " He mimes a burst with his hand. "Flashes, kind of. I didn't used to before I came here, but being around all this shit again..."

He trails off for a moment, then resumes the track.

"I tried to forget as much as I could."

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