ways_infirmary | Curtis and Edgar, initial treatment and visiting hours

He's out of it enough to have some trouble differentiating between what's spoken aloud and what's passing through their link: "Love you too," he mumbles, and tries again to give her hand a squeeze.

Not your fault. I'm " -- still here. It's okay."

She studies his face, his eyes. A memory strikes her, hard and fast, makes her eyes water before she has a chance to bite it back. (John, on his death bed, telling her it was all okay when the last thing it the world it was was okay.) She has to turn away for a moment.

She rests his hand back on the soft blankets and lays her head down on his shoulder. The wrist cuff still shimmers blue every once in awhile, and he can feel the sensations in his prosthesis dulling down to nothing while it repairs itself.

Promise me you won't do something like that again. Promise me. Please.

"Promise."

Barely a breath. He lets his head list to the side until it's resting atop Dejah's. I promise.

A brief rush of thoughts courses underneath -- I couldn't leave him out there it was Edgar I had to find him I couldn't let him die I had to it's Edgar -- and trickles into silence, as exhausted as the rest of him.

I'm sorry.

Edited 2016-03-22 02:04 (UTC)

I know he's your family he's your blood he's yours and by extension mine, and I will always come for you, I promise I will always come for you both.

She leans into his touch, her breath hitching in her throat. He's alive. He's alive and he's going to be okay. She draws in a shaky breath, and another, and another, until the ache in her chest fades.

"You're here," she says, and beneath that thought, the wonder of his words, the deeper sense of him entangled with her. He's here in her heart, as he should be, as she's always wanted him to be.

"Yeah."

A memory flickers, dreamlike: a cold arm around his waist, a person shivering next to him. His forehead creases.

"...You warm enough?"

Some of the guilt reforms, running side by side with a fresh rush of worry.

She nods, turns her face back to his so she can look into his eyes again. Her hand drifts up to touch his face. She shares a memory of some kind of warming blanket and a thermos of soup that someone made her drink. She doesn't feel warm as she'd like, but then, she never does when she's among humans. She's grown used to always being a little cold.

"How is your arm feeling?"

Her hand curls along his jaw, barely touching him.

Curtis nods, exhaling a small sigh of relief. (I shouldn't've made you go out there, whispers another thought, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.)

"Better. I think." He tries flexing his metal fingers; they give way a bit easier this time. "Sorry I kinda fucked it up too."

It's all right, my beloved.

"It's all right." And it is. Limit testing was to be expected.

Well, with the arm, not with him.

Another nod, smaller, just the barest tilt of his head. He closes his eyes again.

He's so tired. Curtis keeps trying to grapple onto Dejah's emotions -- and thoughts -- to stay awake. He doesn't want to slip away again; he wants to be here, with her.

A timid squeak rises from the floor. So does the smell of coffee.

She feels his awkward fumbling, and leans into the connection. It's new and fragile, and she's not quite ready to ask how. She needs it too much to question it.

Dejah looks down and mutters, less exasperated 'thank you'. She bends and retrieves a steaming mug.

"Put the carafe on the table, please." To Curtis. "Can you sit up?"

"I, um..." Uncertainty shuffles between his words. "Lemme try."

With effort, Curtis gets his arms steadied against the bed; when he tries to push, though, he winces hard and sinks back to the pillows. "Shit. Can you help?"

(The uncertainty starts to burn away as frustration wells up, like paper smoldering against a lit match.)

She's moving before he even finishes asking. The mug is set on the odd rolling table beside the bed. "Here, I think the bed lifts."

She has to reach across him to find the controls. She shows him where the Up button is and puts it under his hand. When he's got it and starts the slow process of elevating the head of the bed, she offers herself as anchor.

"Hold onto me if you need to scoot up."

Curtis nods. He can put enough pressure on his right fingers to control the button, even if he has to grit his teeth after a couple seconds. With his left hand, he grips Dejah's arm to begin the arduous process of scooting back.

Christ. It's like when he first got off the train. Worse, even.

But he's upright soon enough, leaning into Dejah with a quiet sigh.

The memory is the same for her. She remembers the grime ground into the creases of his face, the filth that clung to every gather of his clothing. She remembers the smell of burnt flesh from whatever cauterized his wound. She remembers the gash on the back of his hand and the way she had to move so slowly and carefully, so he wouldn't cringe away from her. She remembers holding him as he wept, though to this day she does not know if it was from grief or some sense of respite.

She steadies him, lifts him as best she can, trying to be mindful of his tender skin. When he relaxes back, she lingers for a moment, and only pulls back when she has to.

"Here. Coffee will help." She sits on the edge of the bed so she can hold the mug for him to drink.

They've come so far, the two of them. Silently, she mutters a prayer of thanks to the Goddess for his safe return.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

The response time on his prosthesis definitely seems to be getting better: there's a second or two where all he can do is get the fingers to twitch, but once it passes, he can lift his hand to cradle one of Dejah's against the mug. (Getting his right hand anywhere near a hot surface seems like a really, really bad idea right now.)

One careful swallow. Two. The heat spreads through his chest, buoying up some of the warmth the blankets provided.

"...how long was I out?"

"I don't know. Twelve hours perhaps?"

She tries a sip of the black coffee and pulls a face, but goes back for a second sip. It seems to put some color back in her face. Her eyes skim over the lump of blankets in the other bed.

She glances back to Curtis, opens her mouth to say something and changes her mind. He'll eat when he's hungry. Instead, she gives him a shy smile, and looks down at the prostheses.

"It's taking awhile, but the self-repair seems to be going well. Is there any pain? Do you want to take it off and rest for awhile?"

Curtis frowns as he catches a wisp of her thoughts, but lets it pass, and shakes his head.

"Doesn't hurt," he says. "It's just kinda tough to move. I think it'll be okay."

He tries for another sip of coffee. The extra warmth's doing good things for him -- the bits of his mind that brush against Dejah's seem more present, less like they're clinging for dear life.

She steadies the mug for him again, catching his gaze when he looks up. The blue of her irises brightens when he does.

You're still here. I think?

There's no chance of mixing up speech and thought this time. He's looking right at her.

Curtis's eyes widen.

...Yeah. Tentatively, his mind edges closer, as if trying to confirm his suspicions. I am. I think. What -- ?

She can't help it, she beams at him. Even as tired as she is, a wash of radiance floods the link. He reaches for her and she opens, willingly, leaning into the connection.

You are.

For once, she's not groping for a reasonable, rational explanation. She just wants to accept it, just as it is.

He cracks a smile. It hurts, with his cheeks and lips as raw as they are from the cold; he smiles anyway, exhaling a disbelieving breath of laughter.

"What the fuck." Wondering.

Curtis puts his focus back into moving his prosthesis. Reaches up to brush his fingertips over her cheek, following the lines of her tattoo like he's done so many times before.

His exclamation draws a quiet giggle from her, and then he's touching her face again. Goddess, he has to know what that does to her. It's as if he can reach out and caress the parts of her that belong only to him. She closes her eyes and leans into it.

Does it bother you?

I don't know. No. Not that much?

It's -- weird, is the overwhelming sense Dejah can get from him. Different. Not bad, but a lot like when he first drank the Voice of Barsoom: something new to take in stride.

Months ago, he'd be panicking at having so much of himself exposed to Dejah. Now, it's just the smallest twinge of worry in the back of his mind.

She says nothing for a long moment, merely looks into his eyes. That sense of worry is balanced by her own thread of concern. That this is temporary, fleeting and ephemeral. That she's risking so much just to be here with him.

But there is no place in the multiverse she'd rather be than right here, right now. There is no disputing that fact.

Her hand covers his at her cheek and she sighs, a measure of tension going out of her.

I spoke with Edgar, in the night.

His eyebrows lift.

Nothing so clear as words passes through the bond this time; just curiosity, and concern, and an uptick in that little fizz of worry.

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