[oopfsb / darkest timeline] Curtis

[stilljustandrew]

It's not that he hasn't been eating. It's that he hasn't been able to muster the energy to do much more than unwrap a granola bar or a stick of beef jerky or open a packet of chips, once or twice a day. And even at that rate, he's run out.

He made himself take a shower yesterday, which means his clothes have only been slept in once, so he can probably make it through the bar without attracting too much attention. There's a baseball cap to hide his bedhead, and obscure his face a little. If he's lucky, maybe he won't run into anyone he knows.

Down the stairs, one step at a time, and towards Bar.

Comments

[2goodarms]

No friends or acquaintances seem to be forthcoming.

At the bar, though, a folded piece of paper materializes once Andrew approaches. The handwriting is neat, blocky, but unfamiliar.

Hope you're doing better, it reads. You need anything, I'm here for the duration. Room 1001.
--Curtis

[stilljustandrew]

It takes him a moment to remember the name Curtis. When he does, his first impulse is to push it away; the last thing he needs right now is to go trotting after another stranger who was nice to him. He's just going to load up his backpack and go back like he planned.

But he passes Room 1001 on the way back to his own room, and hesitates.

And slowly, hesitantly, reaches out to knock.

[2goodarms]

Several beats pass. The delay stretches long enough that, at first, it seems like he may not be home.

Then a latch clicks, and Curtis pulls open the door no wider than it takes to peer out. His expression lightens a fraction when he sees who's standing there.

"Hey," he says.

Like before, he's wearing more layers than the climate ought to allow. He even has a knit cap set snugly against his head.

[stilljustandrew]

"Hey," he echoes.

(He doesn't look sick, the way he did last time ... but he looks, if anything, more miserable.)

"I got your note. I ... just wanted to say thanks."

[2goodarms]

"No problem." He studies Andrew. "You're looking a little better."

Or not like he's going to collapse from exhaustion, anyway. Misery's another matter.

[stilljustandrew]

"Yeah, I ... one of the magic-workers here, um, Nynaeve Sedai? She Healed me. So."

He manages a crooked splinter of a smile. "Not dying."

[2goodarms]

Told you so, he doesn't say; instead, he mirrors Andrew's smile for a brief instant.

"Fucking place has everything," he says instead. Curtis tips his head to indicate the room behind him. "Wanna come in?"

There's no expectation to the invitation. Frankly, he thinks it pretty likely Andrew will decline.

[stilljustandrew]

He probably shouldn't. He's not even sure if he wants to.

But saying no feels like too much work to contemplate.

"Yeah, okay," he mumbles. "Thanks."

[2goodarms]

He nods, and steps back to pull the door the rest of the way open.

The room...isn't a standard Milliways room. To Curtis, it's more space than he's had in almost twenty years; to anyone else, it'd be downright cramped, barely bigger than a prison cell. And it's dim. No windows, no more light than one would need to comfortably go about their business.

There's not even a bed. Instead, a hammock dangles in the far corner. But there is a small desk with an equally small stool, if Andrew would prefer to sit somewhere other than the floor.

It may take a little extra time to notice that the walls of Curtis' room are pretty thin, too. You can hear the indistinct babble of the bar below, and the murmurs of guests on either side: a constant wash of sound, inescapable.

[stilljustandrew]

He blinks at the room, and glances uncertainly up at Curtis.

[2goodarms]

Curtis doesn't seem too bothered by the accommodations, or Andrew's uncertainty. He gestures to the stool with his remaining arm.

"I've got water, if you want some." Another twitch of a smile. "No sandwiches. Sorry."

[stilljustandrew]

"No, it's okay," he says, and moves cautiously toward the stool.

"Is, uh ... is this the room they gave you?"

[2goodarms]

"Yeah," says Curtis. He rubs the back of his head, scratching underneath the cap. "I couldn't sleep in the first one. Too quiet."

Too comfortable.

[stilljustandrew]

A beat, as he looks (really looks) at Curtis's clothes for the first time.

"So this is, um ... more like what you're used to?" Hesitant.

[2goodarms]

No condescension. No pity, or disgust. Curtis wonders when he'll get used to this part, too.

He nods as he eases himself to the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the desk. "It's still a fucking palace," he admits. "But yeah. Spent eighteen years on a train before I got here."

[stilljustandrew]

His eyes widen.

"... eighteen years on a train?"

[2goodarms]

Another nod.

"It was pretty much the only place we could go," he says. Punctuating his words with a shrug, "Either that or freeze to death."

Which, in the end, may have been preferable. But nobody knew that going in. All anyone could think about was survival.

[stilljustandrew]

"Oh," he whispers.

Another dystopia. Not one he recognizes; there wasn't any train in Fallen Angels, and there wouldn't have been fuel for it in any case....

[2goodarms]

"Anyway." Curtis rubs at his neck again. "Figure this is better than taking more than I need."

There's less chance of damage that way.

"I don't even know what the hell I'd do with a bigger room."

[stilljustandrew]

"I guess," hesitant still, "as long as you're comfortable with this one."

[2goodarms]

"You have to get used to anything like this when you first got here?"

Mentally, Curtis doesn't classify Andrew as from the front, but he doesn't come across like somebody from the tail, either. He's got a feeling Andrew's adjustment period wasn't as bad as his own.

But there's also people from goddamn Mars running around here, so, you know.

[stilljustandrew]

He shakes his head.

"Not really. I mean, there was stuff I had to get used to, but not ..."

Almost unconsciously, a tiny crooked smile starts at one corner of his mouth.

[2goodarms]

"Yeah?"

Unconscious or no, the smile's pretty encouraging.

[stilljustandrew]

"It was a little ... weirder than that. In a different way."

Beat.

"First day I was here, I was recognizing people here from stories. Books, movies, TV shows ... stuff that's fiction in my world."

[2goodarms]

"...No shit." Curtis is smiling a little now, too. "So what, like Mickey Mouse walking around here?"

He remembers Mickey Mouse. Barely, but that's more than pretty much any other cultural touchstone.