LEGEND.

lara’s hand slips ( it feels like a conscious effort but is truthfully no more discernible than an accidental drop ) and his is quick to catch it. the realisation comes thick and heavy that its landing spot had been her destination all along, his lip trembling until he bites it back, gnaws the skin raw with dilemma. her hold is frail, as light as a newborn’s, and he closes his palm around fingers that suddenly feel tinier, those of a child’s rather than herself. ryland makes a decision in the gentle hold of her clasped fingers, gives them a squeeze so light it might not be there at all, as ginger as if he were holding eggshells in his grasp.

❛ okay. ❜ it is as much a response to her unspoken, perhaps even unintentional plea, as it is a bolstering for what he needs to do, a kiss pressed to her forehead that speaks of apology for how this will feel. he won’t fare much better, almost wishes he had a blanket he could roll her onto and drag the whole way, but he won’t leave her. not for a minute, not for a second, not without knowing what he’ll find when he comes back : anything but that lifeless form replacing her again, anything but pushing into her chest to will air to cycle once more. asking if she can walk is a useless exercise when even her head struggles to remain upright, so instead he crouches down with his back to her, drapes her arms over his shoulders, crosses them over his chest, grasps her wrists and lifts with his legs. the noise that wants to slip is stifled into her arm, a tense breath sheeting out against her skin as he adjusts the weight.

he is askew, favouring one leg and using his free arm to plant firmly into the wall and stay steady. once again what would typically be a minimal distance, one he takes for granted, is colossal as he shambles down the corridor. a rhythm is found : a couple steps then a pause, never allowing himself more than a few seconds rest lest his legs give into temptation and buckle underneath him. his fingers stay curled around hers, squeezing periodically, hoping for answer back. talking is a resource too valuable, all his energy spent on that hobbling limp and keeping her stable at his spine, an unorthodox backpack. ❛ nearly there . . . ❜ he finally rasps into the yawning doorway of the medbay, curses the cot for not being closer, curses the robotic arms for not having the sense to take her off his hands and curses himself for not having done enough, not getting there fast enough.

when he places her down with a straining roll it is with as much care as he can muster but still a dull thud resounds, his muscles wailing with a need for the pressure to be rid. ❛ sorry, sorry . . . ❜ he winces : oxygen is the next step, their reason for being here, but he can’t resist another check of her breathing, her pulse, her forehead clammy and movements minimal. armando finally assists him and he is grateful for the guidance at least, doesn’t trust his own shaky hands to turn on the right setting, his cloudy mind to not make a mistake. he does however take over the mask itself, snatches it from otherwise artificial claws and eases it over her face with a more measured approach. her hair is tucked out of the way, the strap of it adjusted so he hopes it’s not too tight, the hollow cup of the mask snug but not digging in. ❛ is that okay ? i hope it’s okay. ❜

suddenly my hands are twitching with the need for something else to do, looking around for something, anything, and instead opting for the removal of my own suit, crumpling the softer undergarment into a heap and tucking it under her head. i don’t know what else to do. i don’t know what else i can do but keep prompting her, asking her, begging her to keep going.

there's a tenderness that wraps her cold, futile fingers. a heat that makes them twitch in ryland's grasp her lashes flutter tiredly like beaten wings of a butterfly taking shelter from a storm, trying to flick away the beads of rain that are akin to drowning, and she's drowning still in heavy, ineffectual exhales; rasping, insufficient inhales. the wings would tire. she's running out of time. but his touches are a lifeline, he pulls her closer with every ministration, as his lips pass her forehead and his voice swathes at the flux of fog in head.

the groan of protest is an unexpected intrusion to the noisy breaths that scrape at her throat, when she feels her body shift and her chest press into ryland's back. her head falls heavy on his shoulder, the weary breeze of her breaths tickles past her lips into his neck as her brows twitch into a specter of a scowl, and it deepens when it's his strain that breaks through the dither, when she feels the ache pressed into her arm and her fingers twitch helplessly, a huff lands behind his ear as she tries to keep her lids upheld a little longer to see anything of him. but her fatigue is overpowering, and the little energy she has left can't go into anything besides breathing. keep breathing, keep breathing.

her toes barely drag into the floor and it's only because of his awkward tilt, her weight feels like it would slip off his shoulders any second now. each step is a rattle, her frame jostles and her lids flutter wide before falling slow over her eyes again, a sheet whipping in the growing windstorm. she tries to listen for him, to him, at least. his grip on her wrist is so tight it can't be ignored, and she realises the faint smell of him makes her already churning stomach turn a little but at least it's not falling on blunted senses. all this movement is helping. she almost lets out a discernable oh ! when ryland sets her down, the thud pushes a little more than her own effort of air from her lungs and she blinks furiously ahead at the blurring beams that stick out of every corner and surface and hard line, visibly her face twists and her eyes close as the mechanical arms hover too close for comfort. she tries to look for ryland again.

she wants to pull away from the grinding clacks as they make her skin crawl, the discomfort surprising in how clear it is to latch onto and yet everything else lingers a struggle. a pinch at her wrist, a press to her index finger. it's when she feels the straps move around her head that's when she panics, tries to wrench herself away when her breaths hit a hard surface and suddenly feel trapped inside her mouth. it's only when she manages to focus she realises it's ryland, hovering over her, his fingers delicately moving her hair away. oxygen. yes, she needed that, and he held the all too big and suffocating mask in his hands and she has to trust that this is what she needs. so she buries the panic, keeps still as her eyes squeeze shut and lets him press it snug around her mouth. the suffocating feeling is actually a much needed heaviness, gentle and warm air pushing past her slack lips and forcing its way into her airway that she has no choice but to breathe in with the push, breathe out with the reprieve.

her breathing stops becoming a nascent effort, and becomes a compliance to the mask, to ryland's voice. there's no other choice but to breathe, nothing else to do but to breathe. so she does, over and over, her lashes flutter to his touch as her fingers once again lay limp between his but try to tighten with each deep breath she allows into her lungs. her lids remain shyly fallen over hollow hazels, don't see his eyes as they try to find her in the rubble and bring her back to him. every passing touch is a beckon, against her forehead, her neck, her helplessly pretzeled legs as he straightens them out of a surely uncomfortable position, if she could even feel it.

it feels like years pass. lara doesn't like the state of suspension she finds herself hanging in, unsure of the time, of her mind, of her hands — her hands, she can try to focus on first. one of them is occupied, tangled in the intimate netting of ryland's fingers. so she feels for herself, the shape and out line of each of her own fingers as proper circulation returns to them, her body's state of alarm finally receding. her fingers do more than twitch, they curl, settle into the valleys between his as the pads of fingers press into his knuckles. it's still an airy hold but it's a hold, she's holding onto his hand. one hand down.

the other's laid on the slab, half fallen off and already feels heavy as the blood pools to the tips of her fingers that become cherry red bright. she pulls on her arm first, a hidden twitch of her lips behind the mask as she heaves her forearm to will her elbow to bend and she feels the rubber edges of the mask as they press welts into her face. her face that's clammy still but no longer cold, warmth pinches at her cheeks and spread to every feature. lara's fingers curl over the cup of the mask and cradles it for a moment as her mind wakes up to her current situation. the fog thins with each breath that washes out her lungs and fills them anew with clean air. the ache of her chest is not gone, her head still pounds like the inside of woodworker's shop, the dull aches become sharper and brighter and it's easy to focus on them to remember where the rest of her body is.

lara is suddenly too aware of an ache in her side and tries to angle herself, a heel dragged back against the hard surface to roll herself over to her other side, her knee curls higher to eke out a little relief at another ache that demands her attention at her hip. she remembers the fall now, remembers pin-balling onto rocky platforms before landing on her oxygen tank. she remembers the glaring alarms. she remembers running out of air. she doesn't remember much else after that.

so she focuses on what she knows. she's holding ryland's hand, an oxygen mask is strapped to her face. which means she's in the medbay. she's back on the ship. she feels like shit. lara's brows tug into a more vigorous frown as she tries to will her eyes to open and this time they do. it's not a half concerted effort, they flutter wildly and eventually she registers the medbay around her. her head is a little propped onto something as it tilts up a little, her hold on the mask falters when she looks up. follows the path of their linked hands and finds his face. she smiles, or she thinks she smiles, behind the mask as her hand hold his tighter. she spends a moment longer to look at him, and even though she smiles, she also frowns. he looks like shit too.

lara's free hand rises off the slab somehow to land inside the crook of ryland's elbow, grasp as tight as the hand intertwined with his. he's wearing his eva suit. her mind is still playing catch up but she would know how that material feels with her eyes closed. underneath her bruised ribs and inside the simmer of her chest, she feels her heart beat louder and stronger against its ivory cage.

❝ you came for me. ❞

her voice is hoarse and muffled behind the mask. and it's alien to her, but it doesn't deter the fact she's put together, it doesn't balm the burn of tears as they pool at the corners of her eyes. her thumb moves inside the crook of his elbow as she tries to turn her head to look at him. really look at him. god, she's exhausted. but she's daring and she dares to lift her hand from his forearm to touch his cheek. the pads of her palms land heavy and the effort to keep her arm held up is herculean but her lip trembles behind the mask. he left the safety of the ship and brought her back. and he looks worse for wear for it, but he did it.

of course he did.

her breaths come easier now, so much that she feels irritated at the push of air that demands her deference to it. she wants it off, at least for now. but she can't deny that each deep breath pries a faint memory to the surface, even as they play like wet painting smudged over in the haste of their happening. lara manages a hum that drawls on exhausted and she blinks slowly and her fingers tighten again on ryland's fingers, his cheek. she braces for impact, but the effort, she finally realises, manageable now. she can manage a few short sentences as she tries to piece together everything.

On anon or not

' and God, i tried. but i think it's about time i put up a fight. '

— an independent, private writing blog for project hail mary's eva stratt. loved by k.