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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She's quiet for a long moment, several of her own thoughts clicking through like the beads on a counting frame. First, that he has no idea what a formal suit for her hand means; second, that he does not begin to realize the faith she's put in him; third, she finds she doesn't care, as long as he keeps putting one foot in front of the other. She must have faith in her own heart.

When she speaks, her voice is quieter, more solemn. "If you want to come to Helium, then yes. You will need to take the Voice of Barsoom."

Curtis nods. He studies the box of food; then, still moving with great care, turns to look at Dejah.

It's like picking up that cookie, the noise of the bar flowing around him, Dejah pressed close beside him. Two directions: forward, or back. And he sure as hell doesn't want to go back.

"You still got that dose Bar gave you?"

She meets his gaze, her own expression soft, searching. She catches his hand in hers, lacing her fingers through his.

"I do. But only if you're sure."

He shrugs, mustering up a smile. "I have to do it sometime, right?"

And no time like the present. Or something.

She peers at him, not moving to retrieve it yet.

"You're worried about something. Tell me?"

Curtis starts to shake his head, then pauses for a long beat.

"You said it's...like telepathy," he starts. "How much like it?"

He has to tell her. He will, someday. But god, no matter how tight a leash he puts on that memory, he can never tell when it'll slip loose to bite him. Dejah can't find out that way.

Edited 2015-09-20 19:58 (UTC)

The tension goes out of her shoulders and she leans against him. She pulls his hand up and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. Her voice is gentle and she tries to explain without sounding patronizing.

"It is a very mild form of telepathy. Those who have it can sense the intention, the true meaning of a person's words. And only the very surface of your thoughts, if you so desire. Your deeper unconscious mind, no, that is not on display for the whole world to see."

Edited 2015-09-20 21:12 (UTC)

His shoulders sag in unconscious counterpoint. Curtis frees his hand from hers so he can drape his arm around her.

"So..." Slowly, as he works to fit the new information into a context he understands. "More like you can read my emotions, not my thoughts. Sort of."

That's...he can work with that. Yeah.

"Yes, though only the top notes." She can't help herself; she turns into him, her nose finding that soft spot just under his jaw. She nuzzles, gentle, breathing him in.

"Over time, the connection -- it deepens between lovers."

Curtis closes his eyes, humming low in his throat at the touch.

"Yeah? How long does that take?" he murmurs.

Her hand steals around his neck, urges his head down to hers. Another moment stolen, another breath, another sweet kiss against the delicate skin of at the side of his throat.

"That depends on the lovers."

His breath catches; "Fuck, Dejah," he whispers before he can stop himself, and he turns to capture her mouth in a proper kiss, hand curling into her hair.

The worries fade, the conversation forgotten for this brief instant. No tension any more; just the feel of his blood thrumming hot under his skin, the sense of being very much alive.

A breathless whimper catches in her throat, and she sinks into him, letting him feel the heat and hunger he raises in her. She's thrumming with energy, feeling like a bow being drawn across the horizon, and she wonders just what this will feel like after he takes the Voice of Barsoom.

He has to know how she feels already, doesn't he? Has she held too much of herself back? Is he blind to what he does to her?

She deepens the kiss, needing to make it clear before he drinks and she lays her heart on the table between them.

He takes what she gives, eagerly, meeting her breath for breath, feeling her heart race alongside his as he presses closer. His fingers tangle tighter in her hair, a near-involuntary clutch as the heat builds between them.

He knows. He couldn't miss it.

When his lungs start to burn, he pulls back in a quick shiver of movement as he works to catch his breath.

She rests her brow against his, nose to nose, eyes closed. Trembling. Trying to remember how to breathe at all.

"Let me.. Just.. It's in my desk." The flask, she means. A dry little laugh bubbles up. "It's going to make you a little light-headed. A little flushed."

She still isn't moving to retrieve it.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Okay. Sounds, uh, sounds good."

Funny: he's not making any overtures toward letting her go, either.

She is such a fool, she thinks. But sweet holy mother, he is worth it.

"I have to..." She pulls back just a little. "There will be more of this." She closes her eyes and tips her head back into his hand, just for a moment. And then she's shifting away.

"Be right back."

"Okay." Half-laughing, Curtis lets her go -- not without marked reluctance -- and tries to straighten himself up a little as she heads to her desk.

(Such. A. Fucking. Teenager.)

He folds the takeout boxes closed, stacking them atop one another for later. Neither of them is empty yet. Maybe they'll end up having pancakes for lunch, too.

She moves across to her desk with the same sensual gait he saw on the mats. Fluid and feral slowly transmutes into her usual regal bearing by the time she reaches the desk. She finds the flask (and maybe takes a moment to straighten her hair) and returns to him.

Before he can object, she kneels at his feet and offers it to him with both hands. "For you."

For us.

He scrubs his hand over his head, like he's trying to comb his hair (what little there is to comb). Curtis eyes the tiny flask and visibly steels himself.

"Okay," he says under his breath. He accepts the flask. Flips open the top. With that familiar, crooked smile, he lifts it in a toast -- "Bottoms up," he says, a touch ironic -- and downs the contents in one go.

...Holy shit, that tastes terrible. Milliways has gotta be making him soft, if he thinks water that's kind of got the mustiness of old well-water tastes this --

Everything lurches sideways, nearly taking Curtis with it. Eyes wide, already going glassy, he shoots out a hand to catch himself, palm hitting the floor hard enough to make an audible smack.

Edited 2015-09-21 02:43 (UTC)

For as long ago as it was, Dejah remembers taking the Voice of Barsoom. She remembers the rush, the way the whole universe seemed to shiver and resettle. She remembers the way it felt like the top of her head had been cracked open and filled with warmth and wonder as the world she called home was poured over her.

He's here, though, and the only part of Barsoom he can feel is her.

She catches him as he slips sideways, one hand gentle on his cheek. "You're all right. You're okay. I've got you, love."

Even in those first few moments, she knows he can sense the truth of her words. What he does with that knowledge, well... that remains to be seen.

Her words echo around his skull, resonating like a bell struck. Dejah's face swims in and out of focus. Curtis blinks, hard, trying to will the blur away, but that only makes it worse.

And yet.

He's safe. He knows, utterly, as those words sink into him and send a warm wash of calm over his body. The muscles along his back unknot; it's getting harder to support himself, but it's okay. Dejah's got him. She'll keep him safe.

He actually feels safe for the first time in eighteen years.

"Oh." Awed; barely a breath.

She can feel the haze parting, and with it, she feels his acceptance. For the first time since she picked him up out of the mud at the lakeside, she can feel his thoughts, rich and graveled as his voice. She smiles, blinks rapidly, tries to focus.

"You should come lie down. Unless you want to stay here?"

He struggles to find more words. It's like reaching from a great distance, whole train lengths, track lengths, wading through a quiet joy that ripples over him in Dejah's voice.

"Yeah." He feels too lightheaded to move, like he'll float away if he stands up, but he has a vague sense that he shouldn't stay on the floor. (He's still on the floor, right?) "Yeah, no, um. Somewhere else. Not here."

He trusts she'll get him somewhere better.

He'll find he doesn't need many words at all. At least, not with her. Her gaze travels over his face and she gives a little nod.

"Let's take your shoes off first. And then your coat. And then maybe you and I," she begins undoing his boot laces with deft fingers, "can curl up together and have a little nap."

And without saying it directly, he knows she's going to bring him to her bed and lie down with him.

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