dejah_thoris | [milliways] Through The Looking Glass

A few creases form along Curtis' forehead, but he answers, amiably enough, "Sure."

Kissing Dejah's temple, he goes to retrieve the pancake boxes. It's probably just because of all that earlier talk about outwitting the sensors, he reasons; a security issue, like telling Painter not to draw the inside of the food vats. No -- more like trusting Nam to get them to the front without warning the guards they were coming.

(Nam wasn't the one they had to worry about there.)

He lowers himself to the floor near the fire, carefully doling out the silverware.

Dejah makes a circuit of the room, closing the door and pressing her palm against it. There's a near silent click as the door locks. She shakes her bracelet down closer to her hand and turns it so the pinkish grey gemstone set on the silver metal is facing up, and she puts her thumb over it. And then she methodically walks around the entire room.

She doesn't join him in front of the fire until she's certain that they're alone and that the room is secure.

"I know, you must think I'm being paranoid, but I cannot put Barsoom at risk by assuming I am alone and unobserved here in the Bar." She lets out a breath, and settles beside him. "We haven't seen sign of the Thern on Barsoom for some thirty years, but to assume they have forgotten us would be folly at best, and at worst, a devastating mistake with consequences for every living thing on the planet."

Takeout pancakes don't exactly need a lot of prep. Soon, Curtis abandons his idle fiddling in favor of watching Dejah circle the room, a faint edge of concern still lingering in his expression. When she finally settles next to him, he pries off the lid of one pancake box and pushes it her way.

"No, it's cool," he says, quiet. "I get it."

Or, like the concept of metal: he gets enough to understand the importance.

His trust calms something in her, and he can see her shoulders relax. She gives him a soft smile and settles next to him, taking the takeaway box with a careful hand. She sits close enough to rest her shoulder against his, slipping her shoes off and folding her feet beneath her like the first time they talked.

"So tell me about pancakes."

His smile eases back.

"They're pretty typical breakfast food. You dump spoonfuls of batter in a pan and fry them so they look like that." Curtis gestures to the box. "Sometimes they've got fruit on top, or you put berries in the batter so it cooks up with the pancake. And then you put butter and syrup on top."

Beat.

"Or just eat 'em plain."

He talks about cooking them and her brow furrows, but her smile never fades. John used to talk about making his food, too. It's something she has absolutely no point of reference for, but there's a wonderful sort of care in the ritual she can respect. You do nice things for the people you care about.

"I think -- I'll start with plain. And then add other ingredients one at a time."

"Yeah." He nudges her shoulder. "I think you'll like them plain."

Curtis doesn't bother with the knife and fork; it's too much hassle to do it one-handed. Instead, he tears off part of the topmost pancake -- then hesitates, and starts tearing it into smaller pieces without eating any of them.

"Or just with butter." A memory bubbles up: "I think I had chocolate chip pancakes once."

She leans back into that nudge until she's resting against him.

"That sounds intriguing." She mimics his gestures precisely, tearing the pancake up into bite sized pieces. "Do you still put syrup on those? To make it even sweeter?"

"Yeah. I think. Oh, um -- " Realizing what she's doing, Curtis stops picking at his food. "You can use a knife and fork, I was just..."

He trails off, rueful.

She waves a hand and shakes her head. "This is fine. Utensils still feel odd to me. In Helium we mostly use an eating dagger, and perhaps a spoon if the stew requires it, but only at festival. Usually you can drink it directly from the bowl."

"Oh." A touch surprised. "Okay."

It's kind of like Dejah talking about her close relationship with her people: silverware's a Front thing, and it's just weird to think of someone like her eating with her fingers.

Curtis can't quite get his hand to move that short, final distance from the box to his mouth. He starts rolling one of the pancake fragments between his fingers, squishing it into a tiny sausage of dough.

Dejah sees him fretting and she chews her lower lip, thinking. A moment later, she moves.

"Here," she says, her voice quiet. She takes a tiny piece, perhaps the size of her thumb tip between two fingers. She offers it to him, making eye contact and silently asking, not insisting.

Curtis presses his lips together, eyes shifting from the food to her face and back.

Gingerly, he reaches to curl his hand around the back of hers, unsure if she wants him to take the food from her fingers or...what.

One bite. It's just one bite. It's Dejah; it's as safe here as he'll ever get.

She gives him the gentlest little nod, holding it up to his lips so he can take it from her fingertips. She knows it's a momentous step, but she's trying to maintain that same air of lightness, of playfulness.

She parts her lips as if to demonstrate, the smile lines deepening around her eyes.

"Just the one bite."

His shoulders rise and fall with the size of his breath. He swallows, trying to banish the dry ache in his throat.

One bite, offered as a gift.

Curtis closes his eyes. Always, it seems to come back to that one last inch of movement: he leans in, opens his mouth just enough to take the pancake piece from her fingers, stays close as he chews the tiny bite of food. He can taste it this time, he realizes. Not very strongly, but it isn't like the mouthful of grit the Thin Mint became.

Her fingertips light on his jaw, and as soon as he's done chewing, she leans in to kiss his cheek, light as air. Such a huge step for them, it makes her own heart pound in her chest.

She feels the words catch behind her teeth, almost taking her by surprise. No. Not yet. Not now, at least.

She pulls back to look into his eyes, and check where he's at.

"Better?"

"Yeah, a little."

He doesn't look up right away, but the tiny, crooked smile eases out of hiding. It grows when he finally opens his eyes and meets Dejah's gaze.

"You're so good to me."

Curtis sounds like he doesn't quite believe it, still.

Her brow furrows and her lips thin. She blinks a few times and swallows. All the while, her hand keeps stroking his beard.

"I try."

She sounds like it's not nearly enough to undo all the hurt, all the trauma. Then again, maybe there's no such thing as enough in this regard.

That's all they've done so far, as they've figured out this shared space together. Try. And each time they've tried, a little more has started to work.

He presses another kiss to her forehead, rests there for another beat, enjoying the quiet hum around them.

"Tell me about the project?" he whispers.

She pulls back a little, returning from that little place of peace.

"Which project? Oh you mean -- yes, right. Well, it doesn't seem like your bioelectrical signature is unique." She nibbles a bit of pancake as she talks, taking minute bites no bigger than the one she fed him. "It seems you don't have a bioelectrical signature at all. I took baseline readings of the room when you weren't here, so I could isolate your -- life signs isn't really appropriate, is it? But when I looked at the data, there was nothing there."

Her eyes open wide as if she's both startled and amused by this information.

If he has something else to distract him, eating feels so much less insurmountable. Curtis keeps tearing at his own pancakes, reducing each piece to shapes barely the size of his thumbnail, but -- swift, darting, like a bird pecking at its food -- he starts to shuttle them one at a time to his mouth once he's done. Each time, he has to turn his head away for a brief instant.

But he's eating. With another person watching him from less than a foot away. It's a damn sight better than that disaster with the cookies and coffee.

"But I've got a heartbeat," he says, bemused. "And I'm breathing. I've got body heat -- none of that shows up?"

"You would think, wouldn't you? If it does register, it's indistinguishable from background noise." She's trying not to watch, not to make it such a big deal. Just keep talking, she thinks. She tears off another piece of pancake and opens the little dish of butter, dabbing at it.

"Perhaps when we get to Helium, I will check again, but it works in our favor. Without your signature to interfere, the sensors will only read the artifact. And as long as you are within a predefined radius of me, you will not set off any alarms."

His eyebrows winch up his forehead. "Oh," he says -- still puzzled (seriously, no vital signs?), but undeniably pleased. "How big a radius?"

Not like it's a good idea for him to go off and explore Helium on his own anyway, but certain practicalities mean they're probably not gonna be hip-to-hip the whole time. Judging just by the size of her room, she's used to having space; they're not facing crowding like the train.

Curtis pries off the lid of his syrup dish. He tears away a slightly bigger piece of pancake this time and dunks it in.

"I was thinking ten metres, should be plenty. If you're only coming for the day. And instead of having to pass as a newcomer, you will be completely," she taps her piece of pancake against his piece, like clinking champagne glasses, "and utterly invisible."

"Wait, like -- " He squints at Dejah. "Invisible, invisible? 'Don't even have to use the pendant or the cloaking thing in my arm' invisible?"

That can't be right.

...It sounds kind of amazing, but yeah, that can't be right.

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