milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The front door opens, and in stumbles Edgar, looking exhausted and covered with red dust from the knees down. At his side ambles a baby thoat, which looks around at the noisy crowd and immediately tries to hide behind Edgar's legs.

"Oh thank Christ," Edgar breathes, as Tars Tarkas steps into the room behind him.

[Edgar is taggable! Tars is heading home pretty immediately.]

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"Yeah," he says. "Right. Thanks."

To Nitwit, he adds: "I'll be back with something nice to eat. You stay here, all right? Stay?"

Nitwit gives another whuffling sigh and rests her chin on the straw, looking up at Edgar with wide trusting eyes.

"Good girl."

Curtis has to swallow again, watching Edgar interact with the baby thoat.

Without a word, he glances to Dejah, tips his head toward the door, and starts to lead them all back to the bar.

Dejah falls in beside Curtis, catching his hand again and taking a moment to rest her head on Curtis's shoulder.

"So Edgar. I see she's listening to you, quite well. Did you take the Voice of Barsoom while you were there?"

"I did, yeah -- wait, that works with thoats too? I thought it was just so I could understand their language."

"The -- "

Never mind. He's not going to...he's just not.

(The tension's coming back, Curtis' expression starting to darken again.)

Dejah feels it, and leans into him, gripping his hand tight. She has his back, always. She's there, warm and solid, and she's not going anywhere.

"The Voice of Barsoom is a drink. There's a long, boring explanation for why it works, but suffice it to say, it allows us to all speak the same language. It's a form of mild telepathy. So, to answer your question Edgar, yes, it works with thoats, too. She can understand your -- emotions, not your words. But she knows what you mean when you tell her something."

"It also makes you feel like your fuckin head's gonna unscrew itself and float away," Edgar adds to Curtis. "For a little while. Just, you know, so you know what to expect when you go."

Great. Fucking great. Edgar's got a telepathic connection to everything on Mars, he got some giant fucking dinner from Tars, he got to -- and the whole time, Curtis was running around thinking --

Curtis can't stand how miserably, childishly petty he's being. It makes him want to rip his own eyes out. But he can't make himself stop, he's got no idea why, and that just makes the whole cycle even worse.

He's silent, jaw still tight, eyes straight ahead.

Dejah lowers her head and whispers. "If the bar can get the healing salve, will you help me put it on? I still want to spar with you this evening."

"Yeah, of course."

Low.

By this time they're at the back door, and conversation falls to a lull as they make their way through the crowd to the bar.

Edgar steps up to it, and glances at Dejah. "Does this stuff have any special name, or ...?"

"I would ask for the Thark healing salve? I've seen it called dozens of names. We just always called it the 'foul green paste'."

She doesn't let go of Curtis, her hand still fiercely gripping his.

"Okay then," he says, and turns to Bar, "uh -- could I have a pot of Thark healing salve, please? Um, make that two?"

A half-beat, and two little red clay pots materialize on the wooden surface.

If he wants to pick up the salve, he has to let go of Dejah. Deliberately, Curtis frees his hand so he can retrieve one of the pots.

He holds it up, head tilting: where do you want to do this?

"We can take it with us. Oh and Lady Bar," she's speaking to the Bar but looking at Curtis, "would it be possible to get a single dose of the Voice of Barsoom? Enough for a human male?"

A tiny clay jar appears on the bar top, stoppered with a material that's not unlike cork, sealed with a dark wax. She takes it and slips it into the pocket of her robe before he has time to object. "For later. If you want."

Edited 2015-08-12 14:19 (UTC)

"And could I get, uh, a big bag of Barsoom moss? The kind that thoats eat? Thanks very much," he adds with sincere gratitude, as the bag appears. "I figure I'll get the brick thing tomorrow."

A beat, as he glances at Curtis. "Listen, uh ..."

...And now he feels like a kid who threw a temper tantrum until he got the ball. It's not a great feeling when you're well into your thirties.

Damn.

Rucking his hat back a few inches as he rubs his head, as if he could physically wipe away the shame that's starting to rise up, Curtis finally looks over at Edgar. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna try and come back to the room tonight, but if I don't, it's 'cause I had to stay with Nitwit, okay? I don't wanna leave her alone if she panics. And, you know." It's his turn to glance away, embarrassed. "I don't want to worry you."

Dejah gives Edgar a gentle touch on the arm. And then she steps back, giving Curtis a gentle Go on, tell him it's okay gesture.

Curtis shuts his eyes, sagging the tiniest bit. He tugs his hat back into place.

"Okay." Low, and tired. "Thanks."

It's okay. It is. Even if Curtis himself really isn't okay right now.

He shoulders the bag, looking back at Curtis with a touch of worry.

"I'll see you later," he says, glances at Dejah to include her in the farewell, and turns to make his way back to the rear door.

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