dejah_thoris | Prodigal

Entry tags:

Prodigal

After a long day in the forge, and a long night of pacing the corridors of the bar looking for Curtis, Dejah had come back to her rooms and tried to work on the prostheses. She'd made significant progress, building the initial layer of isolates and imprinting the neurological signature she'd recorded the very first day onto the layer itself. It took an incredible amount of focus and when she was done, she lay her tools on her work bench. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, she made her way to the bed.

She didn't wake for many hours. Not even the recurring image of Curtis's shy smile melting into the leering grin of Matai Chang could manage to stir her from sleep. It was late in the day when she rolled over and peered at the window. The sun was going down. Or was it coming up? She couldn't tell.

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He shakes his head -- in wonder, not argument -- and rubs his thumb over the metal wrist, where the pulse point would have been on his old arm.

"Did I tell you about the junk deliveries we'd get sometimes?"

(He's going somewhere with this, he swears.)

The offer to share his history is unexpected, but welcome, always welcome. Her demeanor shifts, softens.

"No?"

"They'd happen every...four years maybe? Five? Not that often."

His hand trails up to the elbow of the prosthesis.

"It's how we got most of our stuff besides food and water. They'd pile up all the crap the Front didn't want anymore and send it back. None of the good stuff -- I mean shit like tin cans and busted toys. And," his mouth takes on the bitter twist she's seen before, "they always handed it over like it was this gigantic gift from Wilford the Divine."

(The worst part: after having next to nothing for so long, those scraps were a gift.)

"Anyway, that's how we made fake arms and legs for people. Gilliam had an umbrella hook and a...I don't know, I think it was a chair leg."

Her eyes close as he talks and she tries to picture it, how to make an arm or leg for someone from someone else's refuse pile. His world draws up a sea of emotion for her, and she tries to set them all aside and just listen.

One hand rests on his knee, and she gives him her full attention.

"You keep talking about how much work you've still gotta do, but this is already better than anything I've seen. Ever."

He looks up.

"Even before the train, I think."

She meets his gaze, her brow knitted but the smile around her eyes still there. He speaks as if 'better' is some nebulous concept of the things everyone else gets to have and he doesn't deserve.

"You deserve better."

And if she can make it for him, she will. The idea of doing anything less never even occurred to her.

Edited 2015-06-19 20:46 (UTC)

I don't deserve shit.

He can't say that out loud. Dejah will just press more, trying to convince him otherwise. Instead, Curtis shifts the prosthesis back to his knees.

Once it's there -- once his hand's free -- he cups Dejah's cheek and leans in for a slow, soft kiss.

She recognizes the deflection for what it is, but it works nonetheless. She returns his kiss, savors it for the gift it is. If words can't convince him, maybe there's another way. Maybe he'll believe her hands, her breath, her touch. She closes her eyes and just as she listened before, she gave herself wholly to the moment. To him.

She's already fallen, she knows. She doesn't know when it happened, but she's here and there's no going back. She doesn't know how to do anything but trust her instincts and every sense she has says this is the right thing to do.

And this. His kiss. She doesn't want to question something that feels like this.

Edited 2015-06-21 04:40 (UTC)

Once the kiss breaks, Curtis rests forehead to forehead with her, eyes still closed. The quiet returns, like the relief of crawling into bed after a long day. It's...he doesn't want to say peaceful. Peace went extinct decades ago.

But it's close.

"Thank you for doing this," he whispers.

Edited 2015-06-21 16:18 (UTC)

Her hand finds its home on his cheek, strokes over his beard to come to rest on his shoulder.

When she speaks, her voice is equally quiet, almost reverent. "You're welcome. Thank you for letting me help."

He smiles as he finally opens his eyes. Pressing another brief kiss to her lips, he pulls back so he can retrieve the metal arm from his lap.

(Curtis is making a conscious effort not to think about moving the prosthesis. He imagines his left arm hanging limp, as still as if he'd dislocated his shoulder; he doesn't want a repeat of that moment when it twitched and jerked so far from his stump.)

Silently, he offers it back to her.

She takes it from him, deftly touching a series of points on the arm that make it go dark again. "Let me put this away. Don't go anywhere." Her tone was playful, not at all commanding.

She levers herself up off the couch, still favoring her right hand a touch. She returns the prosthesis to its stand and then comes back to sit beside him again.

Curtis, meanwhile, unhooks the pendant from around his neck. He presses it into Dejah's hand once she returns, curling his fingers around hers.

He seems content to stay that way a little longer, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the quiet of the moment.

She covers the hand covering hers, and leans into him, resting her brow against his temple. She takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment.

"You keep this. Keep it safe. Don't let anyone know you have it, please."

There's a weight to her words he didn't expect. Curtis frowns, just a little, but murmurs, "Okay. I won't."

The letter; the book she gifted him in the forge; now the pendant. He's never needed a place to store things, because he never owned enough to require it. Maybe he should get a box from Bar. Something to stash under his hammock.

(Then again, considering Edgar grabbed the letter three seconds after Curtis left their room, maybe he should just keep the pendant in his coat.)

"If something happens to you again, I can use this to find you. And if you like, I can teach you to use yours to find me. It has other functions, too. This is mine."

She taps the silver cuff bracelet on her right arm. The one he's never seen her without.

"Oh." Soft, and a little wondering.

No wonder she wants him to protect it.

He looks down at the pendant. "Yeah, I'd like to learn that."

She watches him, content to lean against his side and just have a moment of quiet. Until a thought occurs to her. The corner of her mouth twitches up.

"Have you thought about what you're going to tell Edgar?"

Curtis mirrors her tiny quirk of a smile.

"Shut up and mind his damn business?" he says. Then, more seriously: "Nah, I already told him this might turn into a thing. I don't think he's gonna be surprised."

He nudges Dejah, just a bit.

"He thinks you're all right."

Her smirk becomes a proper smile, and she nudges him back. "Really," she drawls. "What changed his mind, I wonder."

"Because he's seen you." A little quieter, but no less warm. "How much you care about shit. About people like us."

Dejah's gaze drops but the smile doesn't fade. She catches his hand again, laces her fingers through his. "I think perhaps he sees how much I care about you."

Curtis shrugs, awkward again.

And then lets out a tiny snort of laughter. "So now that we've both had our friends threaten to kill us if we fuck this up..."

She chuckles, low and quiet. Her hands find the chain of the pendant and she gingerly places it around his neck again. Her arms settle around his shoulders and she bends her head to nuzzle his cheek,

"I promise, I'll do my best not to fuck this up. Or let my friends fuck this up." Playful as her words are, there's also a solemnity there. "I just want us to be able to talk to one another. Even when we're -- not at our best."

He nods. Dipping his head, Curtis kisses the underside of her jaw, then her neck.

"I don't want to fuck this up either," he whispers, breath warm against her skin. "I'm not good at talking. I'll try."

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