dejah_thoris | [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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He sighs. This really would be easier with two arms, he thinks distantly, and settles for closing his fingers around Dejah's hand.

"The only thing I wanted for eighteen years," he says, "was to kill Wilford. I don't...I haven't thought about what else I want now that that's over. With anything. Or anyone."

Not beyond what everyone else here sees as painfully basic: a shower, a good night's sleep, a decent meal.

"I mean, if you're talking relationship shit, I never had anything like that on the train. Just quick fucks sometimes. You know?"

And that is definitely not going to be enough for...whatever this is.

Her head tilts to one side and the corner of her mouth quirks up. No, she really, really doesn't know.

"Would you like to try? I mean, we're building this arm together. Would you..." She laces her fingers through his, bites her lip. "It's a lot to ask. I know that. But I -- I want this. I want a chance."

He wets his lips. Looks up from their hands to study Dejah.

"Can I think about it?"

It's such a shitty answer. Curtis knows it as soon as it's out of his mouth. But...right now, it's the best he's got.

She meets his gaze. Goddess, his eyes are so beautiful. She swallows and nods again.

"Of course."

That was not a 'no'. It was a chance at a chance. And she'll take it. This feels like something rare and precious, and such things do not come without work. Without patience and perserverance.

"Of course." She squeezes his hand, tight.

Curtis exhales a breath that goes on much longer than he expects, and takes away more tension than he realized he was carrying. Good. All right. He has space to think, time to breathe. He can work with that.

The best solutions come when he can take a step back and watch, like counting doors on the train, and not fall into the necessary evils of snap decisions.

"Okay," he whispers, and chances another smile as he returns the squeeze. "Thank you."

In some ways, he is nothing at all like John. This the hunter's mind she's seeing. The mind of the tactician. She holds a great deal of respect for such a man.

And that smile hits her blood like a hit of strong drink, sends a flush of heat through her cheeks.

Goddess, she is in deep.

She dips her chin, and smooths her hands over his one last time.

"So, I hope to begin prototyping tomorrow. I'll be working in the forge, most of the day."

"Yeah?" The smile grows a fraction. "Want me to drop by?"

She looks up, the blue of her eyes deepening in intensity for a fraction of a second.

"If you like."

No pressure.

Deadpan: "I should be able to come to say hi between all the sleeping and the eating."

And, of course, answering the constant pepper of questions from Edgar. (Even if his answer is just shut up, Edgar.)

"It's a pretty packed schedule. But I think I can pull it off."

Her laugh, quiet as it is, is rich and low. And genuine.

"Well, I wouldn't want to put you out, but if you can, I would like that very much."

"All right. Then..."

A quick glance to the tea, long since cooled, and back up to Dejah.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

Dejah stands, smoothing her skirts, resting a hand on a sleeping Woola's broad brow. She can do this. It's just one foot in front of the other. Just like always.

She offers a hand to Curtis.

"Yes. I'm looking forward to it."

Curtis takes her hand, using it to heft himself up to standing. Once he's there, he doesn't let go right away.

"Me, too," he says.

And then...fuck it. Why not. Finally dropping her hand, he touches her upper arm and leans in to kiss her again.

She watches as he leans in, confused for a moment before her eyes go wide. And then his lips meet hers and she exhales, a soft, wanton little breath. Her eyes close and she kisses him back. As if there was something important he needed to know and this was the only way to tell him. The only moment she had to plead her case.

Her hands catch in his sweater, curl into the soft fabric, drift down to his waist.

Goddammit, it's difficult to remember why he said let me think about it when she's kissing him like that.

(Maybe he's already made up his mind; he just isn't ready to admit it yet.)

If he stays any longer, though, this is going to turn into a hell of a lot more, in exactly the way she doesn't want. Curtis breaks off the kiss with a reluctant sigh, resting temple to temple with Dejah to regain his bearings.

That... did not feel like an ending. That felt like the exact opposite of saying goodbye.

She leans against him now, resting against him, stealing every last bit of warmth from his body before he leaves. She feels her breath match with his own.

She has to tear herself away from him, and she's sure the smile on her face is more than a little giddy.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Yeah."

Man, it feels weird smiling this much. Not a bad kind of weird, though. Curtis lifts his hand like he's going to wave good-bye, reconsiders, rubs the back of his neck as that smile turns more sheepish.

"See you then."

And he heads for the door.

She stands pat, biting her lower lip, still grinning. The moment the door closes behind him, she lets slip a huge sigh.

Woola is awake and at her side in an instant, leaning his massive bulk against her thigh. She looks down at him, into those strangely intense, intelligent eyes.

"I like him, too," she whispers to the calot.

Woola closes his eyes and grumbles a purr at the radiant heat of his mistress's contentment.

[oom] A Pot of Tea

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject