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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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.

Curtis closes his eyes, but abruptly reconsiders when the dizziness redoubles. He shifts his hand against the floor to find better purchase, breathing out as the image of he and Dejah curling up together drifts across his mind.

A tiny smile emerges. "I like that idea," he mumbles.

Calm. Peace. This is really fucking weird, but he's fine with it.

She takes off one boot and then the other, with infinite care. When that is done, she slowly urges him to his feet. He feels lighter somehow, as if the weight he bears all the time is lifted, if only for a few moments.

"Here. Put your arm around my shoulders. That way if you stumble, I can catch you."

There's another surge of warmth in her voice, of promise and quiet devotion.

He laughs, unsteadily, a little giddy. "Yeah," he agrees, fumbling his arm onto her shoulders. "Shit. I haven't felt this wasted in a while."

It'd be embarrassing, if he wasn't half-drowned in the warmth pulsing from her. If he wasn't so happy, or relieved, practically weak-kneed with knowing he's finally found a place to rest.

He didn't realize how much of himself he still held in reserve, unable to believe Dejah really cared this much, still tangled in Front and Tail and all the decades of mistrust the train beat into him. But she means it. This is real. She's never going to hurt him.

One wobbly step at a time, he lets Dejah guide him toward her bed.

Edited 2015-09-21 21:18 (UTC)

She wraps an arm around his waist and takes part of his weight. "It must have hit you stronger than most," she says, and there's a thread of worry there. It's multi-faceted, one part worry for his health, another quieter but deeper part worried that she'll fail him somehow. That what she wants -- what she needs from him is too much to ask.

"Maybe I should have waited until after we'd finished our pancakes, hmm?"

"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."

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