dejah_thoris | Midnight in the Jeddak's Garden

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Midnight in the Jeddak's Garden

[cont'd from here]

She holds him through the worst of it. Holds him and rocks him gently, her mind racing to come up with some kind of solution, any solution. There isn't one, she knows. She can feel his agony as if it were her own, and in a way, it is now, isn't it? She feels the tears on her cheeks and lets them fall. Grief is the strongest enemy she's ever vanquished.

But she's done it before, and she knows she can do it again.

She doesn't know how long they've been sitting there when she notices a telltale ripple in the air. It's just inches above the wood of her door. It takes a moment to resolve, and before it does, she recognizes the portal and knows where it opens to. She can smell the pimalias and the blessed cool of the moss trees beyond. The night sky above Helium is crystal clear.

Gingerly she urges his gaze up. Her voice is gentle and warm. "Hey. Can you smell that?"

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He snorts a faint laugh. "I'll brace myself for the big 'what are your intentions toward my daughter' lecture."

Though considering he's gonna have to make a formal suit for her hand eventually, what's one more what are your intentions lecture on top of the other thousand he's likely to get?

Dejah laughs, low and rich, shaking her head. "No, my father will more likely warn you off me. Claims I'm too -- overbearing for most men. He still thinks it's unseemly for a woman to be Jeddak, so... My grandmother would have his ears on a cord to hear him say such things, if she was still with us."

"Unseemly? Seriously?"

What the fuck. When was this guy born?

...probably something like eight or nine hundred years ago, actually, considering Dejah's age, but that's no excuse.

Dejah's laugh melts to a chuckle. "He worries, that's all. And yes, he's a traditionalist. Believe me, we've gone round and round on the issue. I cherish his counsel, but yes, what's the saying? I take it with a grain of salt."

After that whole surrender and get married thing? Yeah, Tardos Mors can sit down and keep his mouth shut. Dejah loves her father, but she is very much her own woman.

His smile warms. "Can't say I'm surprised," he says, with all due fondness. "So how many fights a week do I gotta be prepared for?"

"Oh between him and I? Once or twice a month seems to suffice." Her cheeks color a little. "Between you and I? I suppose we'll have to wait and see, won't we?"

There's a shimmer of warmth under her words; an open desire. Best part of fighting is the making up, she seems to think.

Oh, really, says the knowing look he slants her way.

Curtis leans to whisper in her ear: "You know we don't always have to fight to get to the part after."

Her eyes flutter closed and she curls one hand under his chin, catching the back of his neck with her palm.

"You don't say..."

"Mm-hm."

He draws in a slow lungful of air as her fingers find the back of his neck, then catches her mouth in an equally slow kiss. When it breaks, he adds, barely a breath across her lips, "Crazy idea, I know."

She doesn't open her eyes, just stays still, close to him, breathing him in. Her fingers return to scribing gentle circles in the short scruff of his hair.

"But what if I like the fighting part, too?"

"Well..."

He draws out the word, lets it fade, and leans his forehead against hers as he closes his eyes.

Serene, "I guess we could arrange for a couple good fights then."

Or more than a couple.

"Just for appearances, of course." She brushes her nose against his, nuzzling just a little. It feels indulgent, but she doesn't care.

She needs this right now. She needs him.

His smile grows. "Oh, yeah. Can't have anybody thinking you're going soft."

Curtis winds his fingers in her hair, pressing a kiss to her jaw.

She tips her head to the side, lifting her chin ever so slightly. His fingertips in her hair elicits the softest moan.

"Can't... have that." Words. Failing.

Quiet as it may be, the sound pushes a shiver down his spine. God, he loves making her do that.

It's just the two of them up here, as far as he knows. She wouldn't have brought him here with so little warning otherwise. Curtis restrains himself anyway, moving back to her mouth, gently running his hand along her hair as he keeps kissing her. It's not a fire; it's more like candlelight, a soft glow kindled to keep back the darkness.

He's being so gentle with her, so perfectly, excruciatingly gentle with her. He kisses her and she can't help but let a little of her hunger slip. She deepens the kiss, unable to contain throaty sighs. She twists in his arms until she can wrap both arms around his neck, her hands curling around his head so she can drink deep and long from his sweet mouth.

They're all alone up here. And she is weak.

His breath's considerably sharper, more swift this time. Curtis tightens his hold on Dejah, unable to keep from responding to her urgency.

And normally he'd welcome it, but abruptly, it's like sandpaper on an open wound -- too much to handle after being so overloaded by what happened with Edgar. He breaks away, tries to catch his breath, wraps his arms around her as he rests his head on her shoulder.

It's harder some days than others, reconnecting with the pieces of himself he tried to discard. The ones that still worry and say too much, too much, because the last time something was too much and Curtis couldn't pull himself back, it ended in blood and death.

She curls around him, her own breath quick and shallow. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head, just a little. "Don't be," he whispers. "It's okay."

He'll be okay in a minute.

"I never want you to feel -- Curtis..."

Dejah clenches her eyes shut and holds him tight.

Beholden. She never wants him to feel like an object. Or like he owes her something. She feels as if her desire for him is pure. Something holy, almost. And she never, not for a single moment, wants him to feel anything less for her.

"I love you. You know that, don't you?" Again, that small voice emerges. The one he rarely hears from her. The one that betrays how vulnerable she really is.

Edited 2015-11-03 06:52 (UTC)

"Yeah, of course."

He sounds faintly bewildered that she's even asking. Curtis raises his head so he can look her in the eye; one hand finds her cheek, cradling it with the same gentleness.

"I don't..." He swallows as he picks his way through the words. "I don't want you to have to hold back what you're feeling. Sometimes I gotta stop, but that doesn't mean -- "

He doesn't want her to stop burning for his sake.

She nods, still holding his gaze. She could lose days staring into his gorgeous eyes. "It's all right."

She takes a deep, shaky breath. The past few days have been utterly exhausting, and her will power has suffered. Her hand covers his at her cheek and she nuzzles against his palm.

"Our timing," she says, her lips slanting in a sad smile. "It needs work, doesn't it?"

He chokes on a small laugh. "A little bit."

Curtis draws his thumb across her cheek in a slow caress. "We'll get better at it."

Looking into her eyes, he feels the pulse of warmth his touch elicits. Her eyes drift shut and she nods again.

After a long moment, she looks up at the stars and sighs. "You need to get some rest, my love." The unspoken question hangs between her words. Sleep here or in the bar?

It's his turn to nod. He catches her hands between both of his, squeezing lightly.

Another long, bad day buoyed up a little at the very end. Curtis doesn't feel as painfully adrift as when Dejah found him: he can look forward to something new, something good they'll be building together. And Edgar --

He'll just have to not think about Edgar for a little while. That's all.

"Let's go back?" he whispers.

It's a shorter walk to Milliways, and a familiar bed -- their bed, now? -- waits at the end of it.

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