Dejah Thoris (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dejah_thoris) wrote2015-09-14 07:09 pm
dejah_thoris) wrote2015-09-14 07:09 pm
Entry tags:
[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.
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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"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.
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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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How a man who has been through such horrors brings her such joy, she will never understand. Perhaps in helping him fight through the darkness, she's finding a way to remind herself what it means to walk in the light.
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Little by little, the lightheadedness of the Voice of Barsoom shifts to the vague, drifting feeling one feels just before sleep, with barely a gap between the two. Getting your head reconfigured to sense something you've never sensed before is hard fucking work; he woke up maybe three hours ago, tops, and he's already exhausted again.
It's okay, though.
It's safe here.
His breathing evens out to the rhythm of deep sleep, and still the smile lingers.
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Beneath the mask of sorrow and rage, he looks so young. He was barely eighteen when his world changed; barely more than thirty five now. He's been alive fewer years than she and John were married.
She rests her arm across his chest and closes her eyes, listening to the sound of his breath, steady and even. Of all the things she's imagined doing with him in this bed, this was not one of them. And yet, she can't imagine a more perfect moment than this. Here. Now. It isn't long before her eyes are drifting shut and her breathing matches with his, quiet wonder and joy still blanketing her thoughts.
[Cont'd here]