dejah_thoris | [milliways] Through The Looking Glass

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[milliways] Through The Looking Glass

[After this.]

Dejah wakes and eats her breakfast on the terrace, looking out over the city. When she's done, she finds herself pacing the floor, waiting for the door to Milliways to show up again.

The moment the sun hits the far wall, it reappears in a shimmer of dust motes. Dejah smiles with relief. She grabs up the copper-clad box with the data crystals, and a few of her notebooks. She starts over the threshold, and at the last moment, she whirls around and grabs Curtis's hat off her pillow.

The whole place is bustling, so she looks for him in his usual place at the bar.

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"S'okay," he says. A flash of deep concern, and a need to reassure, cross through the newly-opened link -- responding both to what she's saying and what he can feel simmering underneath. "It's okay. I'll be fine."

He tightens his hold on her shoulders in an awkward attempt at a hug.

"I mean the last time I had anything to get wasted with was trying kronole fifteen years ago, it's not like..." He loses the thread. "You know. It's fine."

Still worried, she guides him up the two steps to the platform where her bed is, using one hand to draw back the silks so he can sit on the edge of the mattress. When he's settled, she rests her hands on the lapels of his coat.

"Kronole? Is that a drink?"

Gentle hands urge his coat off, and he can feel the longing in her fingers. The quiet ache she lives with from having been touch-starved for so long.

Longing for somebody to touch you the same way Curtis used to long for Wilford's death -- it's as alien as Dejah's lifespan, or her talk of technology far beyond Earth's reckoning. He can fathom it a little better since coming to Milliways, but he isn't prepared to feel the way it's sunk so deeply into her skin, clinging to her like the dirt she scrubbed from his face his first night in the bar.

His throat aches in unexpected sympathy. He can't pull himself out of the stream of emotions right away.

"'S a drug," he manages when he finally comes back to himself. Curtis lets her ease the coat away; as soon as her hands are free, he fumbles to grasp hers, trying to ease some of the ache. "Um. Really popular up front. Some of it got back to us. It -- really fucks you up, though, I only did it the once."

A shudder of vague dread, and no small amount of nausea, clings to his words.

She catches his hand between hers, responding to his concern with her own, asking for a breath of patience. She starts working on the second layer, the threadbare sweater he brought from the train, that same care in her touch.

"Ahh. Doesn't sound like it's much fun at all." She tugs gently at the offending garment until it comes off over his head. She wants him to rest comfortably here, and she knows how warm he gets in her rooms.

She's not thinking about him in her bed so loudly, it's almost impossible to hear anything else.

"Yeah, no."

Hallucinating the walls are bleeding and getting felled by a three-day migraine when you finally come out of it: the exact opposite of fun.

He does his best to help the sweater along, clumsily, reaching for Dejah again as soon as it's off. He's trying to suppress a smile with absolutely no luck. "This is way better."

She chuckles, her voice and her thoughts rich and warm. "Well, at least you won't have a hangover from this. A good night's sleep and you should be fine."

Her hands smooth down his undershirt, her gaze not meeting his, her smile secretive.

"How are you feeling?"

"Room's still kind of spinning," he admits. "Feels like I'm gonna float out of here."

The smile doesn't go anywhere, though, his own thoughts warm and secure and deeply, fondly content.

"But I'm good." Curtis settles his hand over one of hers, readjusts when he realizes he's a couple inches off the mark. "This is good."

She's got him.

"Well, why don't you lie back." She kicks off her shoes, and she kneels up on the bed, sinking down to one hip beside him.

"Get comfortable."

He chuckles. "Yeah, okay."

Horizontal's gotta be easier than vertical, anyway. The mattress seems to move an awful lot as he eases himself down, but he can't tell if that's normal bed behavior or 'mildly tripping on some bacterial strain from Mars' bed behavior. It's very...squishy. Curtis resists the urge to poke at it; his bemusement sings loud and clear.

Oh well.

After a little more squirming around, he figures he's as comfortable as he's gonna get and holds out his hand to Dejah.

She's still grinning at his reaction to a proper mattress as she settles down beside him. She has to pull her hair around to one side. It makes it easier to rest against her cheek his shoulder.

Her hand settles on his chest and she exhales. Just a breath, and still, he can hear her bone deep contentment as she relaxes against him.

It radiates outward, joining Curtis' own contentment, and settles over them like a warm blanket. He wraps his arm around her and draws her close with a long sigh. His eyes drift closed.

And then open again as he tries to focus on the ceiling.

"...Okay, the painting up there is moving, right?" he says. "It's not just me?"

"Hmm? Oh yes. Lady Bar put that in for me," she says. She's still touched by the gesture. "It mirrors the night sky over Helium. It moves, but very slowly."

She nestles down beside him, her hand pulling him closer still. Like she has to hold onto him or he'll turn into mist.

Okay. So -- some of that movement's definitely on him, then; the stars move above them way more rapidly than Dejah implies, like they're following the path of his spinning head. But every third blink or so, they steady themselves, returning to the same slow plod as Earth's stars.

Completely different constellations, though. That's Mars, he thinks. A tiny piece of it; a tiny preview.

"Wow," he breathes, and hugs Dejah tighter.

She nuzzles under his beard, breathing in his scent, fixing this moment in her memory.

"Have I ever told you about my roof garden?"

She knows she hasn't. Talking about her home, the palace, her things, hasn't really been possible until very recently. He can feel the quiet thrill in her voice, the rush of taking the risk of opening up to him about such details.

"No." Quiet sureprise, as he (carefully) rolls his head to look at her. "You have a garden?"

That little frisson of excitement lights her up as bright as sunlight through a broad window; as bright as her enthusiasm whenever she falls to talking about some new science project. Maybe it's just because he can feel it now, too, like a sense-memory of touch racing along his skin. But god, it's a beautiful sight.

He cups the back of her head, kissing her brow.

She hums, closing her eyes and leaning into that kiss. Every moment they share like this reminds her just how little they know about one another.

"Yes. I know it's an indulgence, but when I started my botanicum -- my survey of all the plants in and around Helium -- I found that sketches just weren't enough. So I began to take specimens. I wanted a place where I could watch them through their whole life cycle. And well, it's been many years now, but it's a proper botanical garden. I even have students who tend to it as part of their research rotation. So I suppose it's not that superfluous."

And here's where it feels like an indulgence to her. It's a little thing just for her, and she feels selfish for enjoying it so much. "I like to go up on the roof at night and read. Maybe fall asleep under the stars."

The dizziness isn't as bad when he closes his eyes anymore. Curtis lets his eyes slip shut, curling his arm around her shoulders again.

He's thinking of the greenhouse car, and the aquarium car: those bursts of life in all the gray, that twist of awe and envy and deep, abiding disgust at the extravagances of the Front. The envy and disgust flicker like the shadow of moth-wings in a bright light; the quiet awe blots them out as he imagines Dejah sitting in a thick garden under an unfamiliar sky.

(The Front would never feel selfish for spending time in a garden. They'd see it as their due.)

"It sounds beautiful," he whispers. "You think I could see it when we're there?"

"Yes," she breathes, basking in the awe running beneath his words. "Yes, I would love to show it to you."

She twines her legs with his, as he did when they were lying on the mats together. The sole of her foot smoothes down the back of his calf, idly caressing him.

"What did you do -- on the train -- when you needed to be alone?"

He draws in a slow breath at the touch, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"I, um." A brief stab of -- something. Fear? It's so quick, like a skipped heartbeat. "I wasn't ever alone. The bunks had curtains, you could pull those shut, but that wasn't really...not like that."

Not like a whole garden.

"Did you ever go away in your mind?"

"No."

His mind holds too many dangers. If Curtis stepped off the path for too long, he'd be swallowed whole, and be of no use to anyone.

Her hand slips up to stroke the beard along his jawline.

"So, you were always with someone. Every hour of every day. Even when..." So many moments she can't imagine having to endure with only a scrap of cloth between her and someone else.

His fingers curl in the smooth fabric of her clothes.

"I got used to it." He opens his eyes -- has to blink a couple times as the room gives another grumbling lurch -- and smiles, crookedly. "I don't like being alone anymore. Completely alone, I mean."

No people. No sound. Just Curtis and his own thoughts.

She meets his gaze, getting lost in the blue of his eyes for a long, quiet moment.

"You don't have to be. Ever again."

The words ripple with a baroque tapestry of emotion: diminishing rage at his past, a solemn promise, and hope like a bright silver thread, weaving them all together.

A lump rises in Curtis' throat as her emotions wash over him. Eyes bright, he nods, just a little.

He wondered before how Dejah could stand to feel so much. Years spent trying to stifle his own emotions -- keep the anger burning low, smash everything else for his own protection -- and now it's like he can feel everything. It overwhelms him. He almost doesn't know what to do.

"Yeah," is all he says, just above a breath, before he kisses her gently.

[milliways] Through The Looking Glass

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