The Drifteris Fan Club

  “I got some stew heatin’ up in the kitchen,” He said, watching her pale face carefully. “Probably help a ton if you ate even a little. Want me to bring you some?” 

  “I can walk to the kitchen myself,” she rasped. 

  “Just ‘cause you can don't mean you should.” He argued, brows pinching. “You could hurt yourself,”

  “I am fine!” She exclaimed with as much force as she could–which, admittedly, wasn't much.

  The Drifter stared her down, one brow arched.

  “Fine,” He sighed when she didn't look away. “Prove it.”

  Eris pushed his hands aside, gripping the edge of the bed and inching herself forward. Pain shot through her bad arm, sharp and unforgiving, but she swallowed a breath and forced her feet to the floor. With stubborn resolve, she pushed herself up–

  And immediately buckled.

  Her legs gave out beneath her, strength vanishing like mist. She was falling–until strong arms caught her, wrapping firm and careful around her waist.

  “I told you,” The Drifter murmured in her ear–not mocking, just concerned–as he guided her back onto the edge of the bed, one hand steady at her back, the other on her elbow. “I ain't lettin’ you walk to the kitchen on your own. But I'll help you there, or you can stay here and I'll bring you something to eat.”

  Eris inhaled slowly, waiting for her vision to settle.

  The realization of how bad her condition was weighed heavily in her mind. 

  She couldn't even walk yet without needing help.

  “I would prefer the kitchen,” She admitted quietly. 

  “Alright, c'mon,” 

  He helped her stand, one arm firm around her waist, the other curling carefully around her shoulder–keenly aware of how much she still needed him just to move.

  They walked–slow and steady–the Drifter guiding her into the kitchen and easing her down into a chair he had clearly prepared: the seat and back layered with towels for softness. Eris didn't mind in the least.

 A moment later, a bowl of stew slid in front of her, thick with beans and lentils as steam wafted from it.

  She stared down at it, then reached out, curling her fingers around the dented metal spoon and dipping it into the broth. Behind her, the Drifter approached–a blanket in hand.

  “You gotta stay warm,” He said, wrapping it gently around her shoulders before sitting beside her at the table.

  Eris could feel his eyes on her, hoping–pleading–for some small sign she was going to be okay. She sighed, raised the spoon to her lips and took a tiny sip. 

  He was still watching. So she forced down a chunk of beans, chewing slowly despite the nausea twisting her stomach.

  She forced down another spoonful, barely able to keep it down, then pushed the bowl away.

  “That is enough,” She rasped, her arm falling over her stomach where the nausea continued to swell. 

  The Drifter didn't let his lips form a frown, but Eris could see it– the light in his eyes dimmed, just slightly.

  “Okay,” He said, reaching out to take her hand again. “You wanna head back to bed?” 

  “No… my mind spins still, and queasiness burdens my body.” 

  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Strands of her hair, still clotted with blood and moon dust, tickled uncomfortably at her neck.

  The Drifter stood, his chair scraping against the floor as he walked away. For a few minutes, the only sound was the low whirring of the Derelict.

  When he finally returned, he held a bowl, a towel, a washcloth, and two small bottles in his arms.

  Eris cracked an eye open, watching him set the stuff down on the table.

  “What is that?” She murmured.

  “Your hair’s a mess,” he smiled softly, picking up the towel. “Figured while we're here, I might as well clean it up, if you'll let me.”

  “I suppose.” She consented reluctantly. 

  Her hair was truly annoying her at that moment.

  He stepped behind her chair, draping the towel around her neck, over the blanket already wrapped around her shoulders.

  He dipped the washcloth into the basin of warm water, squeezed out a bit of shampoo, and began to gently massage it into her scalp. The lather turned pink where it soaked through crusted blood.

  He worked slowly, carefully–rinsing, squeezing, repeating until the foam ran clear.

  Eris exhaled softly, eyes closed. The worst of her nausea fading as his fingers slid through her tangled hair, untangling the mess as gently as he could.

  Once the shampoo had been washed out, he reached for the second bottle, smoothing the conditioner through the damp strands.

  Eris let herself sink into the warmth of his hands, eyes fluttering half closed as the conditioner worked its way through her hair.

  “Thank you,” she rasped softly.

  And then–without thinking–she tilted her head back, until it rested softly against his stomach.

  A beat passed. Then another.

  “You don't owe me thanks,” he finally murmured. “Just… keep letting’ me take care of you how I can.”

  He slid his wet knuckles over her cheek, his smile warm as he looked down at her. 

  When Eris eventually pulled away, he finished cleaning out the conditioner from her hair and grabbed the towel from around her shoulders. He brought it up and wrapped it over the top of her head, before moving in gentle, rhythmic motions to soak in the remaining water.

  “There we are,” He set the towel on the table, leaving her hair mostly dry, then kneeled at her feet and looked up into her eyes. “Good as new. How you feelin’?” 

  “The nausea has faded.” She rasped. “But I fear the wound upon my thigh begins to throb.” 

  “Mm,” his brow furrowed. “That'll have to be looked at… can I?” 

  “Of course,” She replied, shifting her weight slightly and bringing her leg up to rest on his upper thigh.

  He went still. 

  Then he looked down.

  And finally, he smiled–cheeks blushing, the tips of his ears going pink.

  “Alright, let's get a look at this,” He muttered mostly to himself, slowly beginning to unwind the gauze. His Ghost appeared beside him with fresh new wrappings at the ready. 

  The wound underneath was angry and red, the skin around it flushed and irritated–but healing. He grabbed the damp washcloth and dabbed at the edges.

  “You may come closer,” Eris offered hoarsely. “I do not mind.”

  “Oh–yeah, of course,” the Drifter laughed quietly. “That'd be easier, huh?” 

  He inched forward to get better leverage, and in doing so–without thinking–he braced his arm across her other thigh.

  He went rigid–finally registering what he had just done–as well as the fact that she didn't utter any complaint.

  “Uh–sorry,” He sputtered, not daring to look up. “I didn't mean to–I wasn't thinkin’–”

  “You are quite warm,” She interrupted calmly.

  He blushed furiously, eyes fixed on the gauze, as her weight shifted before he could lean back. And now, both of her legs were flanking him.

  He swallowed hard, finally chancing a glance at her face, and finding only soft amusement.

  He cursed under his breath, cheeks hot, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as his arm sank a little deeper into the muscle of her thigh. He was painfully aware of how delicate this situation had become–of the way she had invited him closer, allowing the contact without hesitation.

  He inhaled slowly, attempting to regain his cool as he dabbed at the wound again, cleaning off bits of blood and easing the swelling with the cool fabric.

  Eris hissed at the sting, and he felt her leg tense beneath his arm.

  “Almost done,” He murmured, giving the flushed skin a few more dabs before setting the washcloth aside. 

  The Ghost hovered closer, beeping lightly into the Drifter's ear as he snatched the gauze out of its lasso of light. 

  “Shut up,” he growled, cheeks flushing a little more as his eyes darted to where his forearm was pressing against her. “And stop watchin’ me work, okay? Don't you have somethin’ better to do?” 

  The Ghost beeped low, its shell rotating in an almost teasing spin, before it floated off to another room.

  “You are overwhelmed?” Eris asked.

  The Drifter huffed. “Overwhelmed? Nah, I'm fine. But, uh… I gotta lift up your leg.” 

  He motioned to the gauze, then to her leg, attempting to explain without words. Eris offered a small smile, watching as he finally removed his forearm from where it had been pressing on her leg, and gently grabbed her ankle and lifted it–slowly, carefully–to his shoulder, giving him enough room to work around the wound.

  He began to roll the gauze over her thigh–around and around, careful to avoid pulling it too tight, until it was thick and secure. He tied it off with a firm knot, and eased her leg gently back down onto his thigh. 

  Eris stared down at that spot–where her heel pressed into the dip at his hip–where he had intentionally rested her foot. She smiled.

  “Alright, so…” he cleared his throat, cheeks still furiously red. “How are you feelin’ now?”

  “Fine,” she rasped. Then she leaned forward, ignoring the minor throb that remained under the gauze.

  Without thinking, the Drifter found himself leaning toward her–drawn in. One hand braced on the chair beside her bandaged leg, the other planted firmly on her thigh, anchoring him to the moment.

  She didn't pull away–didn’t push his hand off of her.

  Their faces hovered, breath mingling. Eyes fluttering closed. 

  One inch more, and–

  Eris winced.

  A soft exhale escaped her lips as her hand came up to her ribs. 

  “What?” The Drifter froze. He leaned back slightly, eyes wide. “What's wrong?”

  “It is nothing. Merely a pain in my ribs.” She confessed, not meeting his gaze.

  He cursed under his breath and stood quickly, guilt flashing behind his eyes.

  “You should be restin’,” he muttered, offering a hand. “C'mon, you need to lay down.” 

  Eris didn't argue. 

  He helped ease her upright–one arm steady at her back, before alowly, carefully, guiding her across the kitchen, through the halls, and into the bedroom. 

  Once there, he helped her settle, gently guiding her down the bed until she was laying flat. He adjusted the blanket and tucked it around her frame, noticing the way she shivered beneath the covers.

  “You gotta stay hydrated,” the Drifter murmured as he reached out to grab a nearby canteen. “Here. Drink this–and don't worry, it's clean.”

  He perched beside her, sliding a hand beneath her neck to lift her head. Then he gently pressed the canteen to her lips, tilting it just enough so she could sip.

  When she had finished, he exhaled quietly and set the canteen aside. 

  He watched as the green of her eyes already began to dim beneath fluttering eyelids, the rhythm of her chest evening out as sleep caught up to her at last.

  He sighed and pushed himself off the bed, moving to pace quietly across the metal floor. 

  “Why didn't I see it?” He muttered under his breath, careful not to wake her. “Too busy lookin’ at her lips to realize she was in pain–that I shoulda got her to bed sooner.” 

  He cursed again and rubbed his aching eyes.

  How many hours of sleep had he gotten the night before? 

  He wasn't even sure. But he recalled clearly how long and restless it had felt, full of worry and stress as he watched her pale face in the darkness.

  “I'm a damn fool, huh?” He muttered, louder than intended, to no one in particular.

  A murmur answered him from the bed.

  He walked back, kneeling at her side, his face lined up with the three eyes he found staring back at him.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn't mean to wake you.” 

  “I was barely asleep,” 

  A pause. Her gaze didn't waver.

  “Drifter, you realize I had wanted to kiss you too. Do you not?” she breathed out.

  His brows pulled together, confusion flickering behind the soft grey of his eyes.

  “What do you mean?” 

  “You were not a fool to be distracted. I was as well,” she reached out her hurt arm–slowly, wincing–and her fingers traced the line of his jaw. “Come here,”

  His heart thrummed beneath his ribs, eyes wide as he leaned in. Her own fluttered half-shut as her hand slipped behind his head, fingers tangling in his hair with a strength he hadn't realized she still had.

  “Eris, I don't–”

  Her lips stole the words from his mouth.

  They pressed against his–soft, quiet, like a breath passed between them.

  He shut his eyes tight, but still, the tears came–pricking at his lashes as she tilted her head and deepened the kiss.

  Then, against his mouth, a whisper:

  “I may be hurt, Germaine… but I am not weak, and we both know that I have survived through worse.”

  She closed her eyes, returning her hand to her side as her breath evened out and she gave way to sleep. 

  The Drifter inhaled shakily, lowering himself fully to the floor to sit beside the bed. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers.

  And soon enough, he was asleep too.

  *  *  *

  The room was dim. Cool and quiet as time passed them by–the stars spinning well past dusk.

  The Drifter stirred first, his eyes blinking open to the warm, damp press of rough skin against his forehead.

  His eyes locked on Eris, still asleep on the bed, a thin layer of sweat lining her face, arms, and clinging to the shirt he had given her. 

  He eased back, careful not to wake her, then stood–quietly crossing the room to fish a clean shirt and another washcloth from a cluttered tabletop.

  He left her asleep in bed as he stepped into the nearby bathroom, shuffling as quietly as he could through a box of ointments and salves–most of which were too old for use. 

  He found a small, white bottle, which he tucked safely into his pocket before turning to the sink and putting the washcloth under the tap. He squeezed out the excess water, and walked back into the bedroom. 

  He paused in the doorway.

  She was still there, where he left her. Lips parted in uneven sleep, brows drawn in slightly, as if bracing for pain.

  He exhaled through his nose. Then moved to her side, cloth in hand.

  “Ghost,” he murmured into the quiet, the Ghost floating into view a moment later, casting its soft red light across the Drifter's features. “Go warm up the stew. She'll need some when she wakes up.” 

  With a soft chime of acknowledgement, the red-eyed Ghost whirred out of the room.

  The Drifter turned back to Eris, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. She shifted, a faint whisper escaping her lips, too soft to catch.

  He folded the damp washcloth and reached out, pressing it to her forehead, careful to avoid the third eye. 

  “Eris?” He whispered.

  Her face creased, eyes squeezing shut. Then slowly, she blinked awake.

  She grumbled under her breath, eyes opening fully as she began to take in her surroundings.

  “What is it?” her voice was rough, as dry as dust.

  “Hey,” he said with a small smile. “Looks like we slept through half the day. My Ghost’s heatin’ up the stew. Figured I'd clean you up a bit while we wait–you're runnin’ warm.” 

  “And what is that?” She asked drowsily, nodding to the white bottle he pulled out of his coat. 

  “This here's some salve I figured would do some good on that nasty bruise you got yesterday.” 

  He lifted up the soft cotton shirt in his other hand. 

  “Also grabbed you a clean shirt. Smells like whiskey for some reason. Don't ask.” 

  That earned him a quiet smile from Eris as she pushed herself upright–then winced sharply.

  “Hey–hey, hey, easy now, Eris,” the Drifter said, instantly at her side. One hand on her side and another on her arm. “Don't wanna hurt yourself more.” 

  He helped her ease into a seated position. Once she settled he adjusted the washcloth, straightening it out and gently brushing damp strands of hair back from her brow.

  “You wish to tend to the bruise now?” She asked, voice thick with sleep.

  “Only if you're up for it.” He replied. “It's your call.”

 She nodded, reaching for the hem of her shirt and pulling upward. She winced–the motion sharp in her ribs.

  Without a word, the Drifter leaned in to help, gently sliding the fabric over her shoulder and off her arms, careful not to shift the blood stained undershirt she still wore beneath.

  He tossed the shirt behind him, already reaching for the bottle he had set on the table. With a quiet scrape, he twisted the cap off and dipped two fingers into the salve.

  “Looks worse than it did yesterday,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the angry bruise that was blooming across her upper sternum.

  His fingers moved, slow and deliberate, gently spreading the salve across the bruised skin. He watched as it glistened briefly before sinking in.

  When he finished, he wiped his fingers absently against his pant leg and picked up the whiskey and linen scented shirt. He eased it over her head, guiding her arms through the holes.

  “Better?” He asked softly.

  She blinked at him, then nodded.

  “Yes. A little.” 

  He offered a small smile.

  “Good. Gonna get you that stew now, before my Ghost burns it into paste.” 

  His fingers brushed hers as he stood, offering a quiet smile before slipping out of the room. The low hum of the ship's engines lingered in his absence.

  Eris sighed into the pillow that held her upright, fingers absently tracing along the gauze wrapped around her thigh, remembering the flustered moment in the kitchen, wondering if the Drifter was thinking of it as well.

  She huffed, pushing herself up a little higher, wincing as a sharp pain stabbed her ribs and shoulder. She slumped back, closing her eyes and sighing into the quiet.

  She recalled the moment they had reunited in her Throne World–after everyone had believed her dead. She remembered that aching confusion and love she could see so clearly in his eyes as she approached him with an explanation many would tremble at. But not him. He trusted her.

  And even with a Throne World of her own, the Drifter–if it was within his power–would never let her suffer.

 Her eyes cracked open as the soft thud of footsteps met her ears.

  The Drifter approached her, a steaming bowl of stew in his hands and a small smile on his face. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “You good enough to hold the bowl? Or you want me to do it?” 

  “There poses less risk of spillage if it is you who does it,” Eris rasped, nodding to the empty spot beside her. “Sit.”

  She pulled the blanket back with a subtle motion, a silent invitation. He hesitated–just for a breath–then climbed into the bed beside her.

  He watched as she leaned closer than necessary to throw the blanket over his lap, stealing her chance to scoot closer, their legs and shoulders touching. 

  The Drifter smiled to himself, holding the bowl in both hands as Eris reached for the spoon with her good hand, their fingers brushing.

  She took one bite, chewing the beans and lentils slowly before taking another. 

  “It is good,” she murmured. Quiet but sincere. 

  “Glad you like it.” 

  He stole a glance at her–the way her hair fell softly against her face and curled at her cheeks. She was both powerful and beautiful in the Drifter's eyes, even while she was still recovering.

  She took bite after bite, slow and steady, until the bowl was half empty. She nudged his hand aside, eyelids heavy.

  “Don't want any more?” The Drifter asked, setting the bowl aside on the nightstand when she nodded.

  He leaned back to where he had been positioned before, and realized immediately how much closer Eris was now. Her head found the curve of his shoulder, her fingers stilling just above his belt.

  “Well, hey, there,” the Drifter murmured, curling his arm around her shoulders, careful not to press against the bandage as he pulled her a fraction closer.

  She nudged in, humming faintly against the side of his neck as her hand slipped under his coat, fingers settling over his hip.

  “I am cold,” she whispered.

  “You're cold?” He murmured, gently pulling her half onto his chest. 

  “Yes.” She admitted, shivering. “Particularly my feet and hands.” 

  “Well,” he said, voice low and laced with affection. “I got a fix for that.” 

  He reached down, loosening his belt enough to untuck his shirt, then guided her hand beneath the warm fabric, right over his stomach. 

  Next, he shifted his legs, nudging the pants legs up over his shins.

  “Go on,” he said softly. “Slip your feet under mine.”

  She did as he suggested, slow and grateful, hooking one of her legs over his thigh, her cold foot slipping beneath his calf where body heat was trapped beneath the sheets. 

  “Thank you,” she breathed, voice thick with sleep, as she slipped her hand a little deeper beneath his shirt and pressed her face into the side of his neck, where his skin radiated warmth.

  With a hiss of pain, she shifted into the space between his legs, settling fully into the warmth of his body. Her feet remained beneath his calves, one knee pressing into the cradle of his thigh, hands climbing higher to cling to his heat.

  He glanced down, eyes wide–then softer. A smile tugged at his lips before he pressed a kiss into her hair. He slipped his hands around her, holding her tight and gentle.

  “Y'know,” the Drifter whispered into the quiet. “I ain't never had someone snuggle into me like this. But I like it…”

  She smiled softly against his chest. He closed his eyes and nuzzled into her, letting the silence wrap around them.

  He couldn't lose her. Not again.

  A breath.

  Then another.

  Soft–barely there. 

  But still holding on.

  “Hang on, Moonlight,” the Drifter whispered, tugging the headband off his head. “I've got you.”

  He bit down on the headband, ripping it into one long strip of fabric with a sharp pull.

  He wrapped it tight around the wound on her thigh, tying a firm knot to slow the bleeding.

  Then he heard it- a murmur.

  Quiet. 

  Faint.

  But still there.

  “Eris?” he breathed, scrambling closer. Her eyes fluttered open, blood trickling down her cheekbone.

  “C'mon, Moonlight,” he whispered. “Stay with me, okay?” 

  He slipped his arms under her, careful to dodge the wounds on her leg and shoulder as he lifted her and pulled her to his chest. 

  She was so heavy in his arms. So limp as her hand fell to the side, her head landing softly against his shoulder. 

  His fingers trembled beneath her as he shifted his hold and sucked in a deep breath.

  He got to his feet, whispering softly in her ear, begging her to hold on as he stepped into the light and transmatted away.

  *  *  *

  His palms slipped across blood as he pressed down hard on the wound- trembling, muttering panicked words between clenched teeth.

  “Ghost- bandages!” He barked, not taking his eyes off the wound, even as red seeped between his fingers.

  The red eyed Ghost appeared beside him, multiple rolls of gauze hovering between it and the Drifter. 

  He grabbed one of the rolls with blood slick fingers, tore it open with his teeth, and pressed the gauze hard against her thigh.

  The gauze was warm before it even settled- soaking through as fast as he could wrap it.

  Eris hissed, flinching, a gasp torn from her throat as he pulled the gauze out from under her leg, rolling back over, then under, repeating the motion and tightening the gauze with each cycle.

  He couldn't lose her.

  Not again.

  Even with the recent discovery of her Throne World, he couldn't take any risks. He had to do whatever he could to patch her up. 

  To keep her alive.

  “C'mon, Moonlight, stay with me- just stay,” He whispered, the knot in the gauze slipping once under his shaking hands before he snatched it back and yanked it into a tight knot.

  He didn't move. Just stared as red began to seep through the white bandage, his whole body trembling.

  Then his eyes found her face. Blood dried to her cheek alongside the eternal hive tears flowing down. Her lips parted, as if so close to speaking, but unable. Her eyes half lidded and unfocused. 

  And then his gaze slipped down to her shoulder–blood trailing over unseen skin and soaking the fabric of her sleeve. 

  He moved–quick and urgent, more gauze in hand, sitting on the old battered crate beside her. He peered down into the open wound, wincing. 

  “Damn it…” he muttered.

  It wasn't just blood–it was grit and dust, and a few sharp glints of moon rock in the wound. 

  “Ghost!” He barked again. “Get me my canteen, some tweezers, a towel, and some more bandages!” 

  The red eyed Ghost let out a low tone and darted off into the shadows.

  The Drifter turned back to Eris, softly brushing her unscathed cheek. Her breath caught and her eyes fluttered at his touch, before she leaned into it.

  “You're gonna be okay…” his thumb brushed just below her eye. “You're gonna get outta this. Hand to my heart.”

  She tilted her head towards him, slow and careful, her eyes barely open. 

  “Drifter…” she murmured, her voice cracked- barely there.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” the Drifter cooed. “Don't talk, okay? Not yet.” 

  The Ghost zoomed back, holding out each item the Drifter had requested through a lasso of red light. 

  His fingers shook as he looped the towel beneath her arm, careful not to jostle the wound. Next he grabbed the canteen and undid the lid.

  “Gotta flush this out… gonna sting like hell, okay? Just stay with me.”

  He hesitated another second, giving her as much time as he could to prepare.

  “Do it.” She rasped, her voice hoarse as she shut her eyes.

  He inhaled a shaky breath before tipping the canteen and pouring the water out in slow, short bursts over the wound.

  Eris flinched, her hand reaching out for something to hold through the pain–gripping the fabric of his pants, just over his knee. 

  His heart stopped.

  He reached down, giving her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before focusing back on her shoulder. 

  The water had flushed out most of the dust–all that remained was a few shards of moon rock.

  “Tweezers,” the Drifter called out, reaching for them from his Ghost’s lasso of light.

  He held the metal tool in hand, his focus on the open wound before him–but before he even began, he had to let her know-

  “This… this is gonna suck.” He swallowed hard. Voice low. Jaw clenched. “I'm sorry, Moonlight.”

  He slid one hand out, across the chestplate, until he was just below her collarbone. His touch was neither negligent, nor was it demanding. It was simply gentle, supportive, ready to brace her if she needed it. 

  “Do it.” She rasped, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the wall.

  The Drifter hesitated one last second, gritting his teeth, before sticking the tweezer in–slow, careful.

  He inhaled deeply, trying to stop the tremble in his hand–trying not to think about the way her shoulder tensed when he pinched down on one of the shards–before yanking it free in one clean, merciless pull.

  She choked on air–gripping his pant leg tight, and gripping the hand on her chestplate with her other hand as she jerked forward.

  “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” the Drifter breathed out, aware of how hard she was gripping his wrist. “Just a few more, Eris.” 

  He eased her back against the wall, one by one, pulling out each shard–his movements deft and precise.

 When the final sharp slid free, he grabbed the bandages, pressing them into the wound with shaking fingers as Eris leaned back against the wall, her chest rising in slow, ragged breaths.

  The Drifter pulled back. 

  The wound was bandaged now, covered in a thick layer of gauze.

  It started with a breath–too deep, too broken.

  Then another, shallower this time.

  And then it broke loose.

  His head ducked down, his shoulders hunched, no words left as he trembled violently–dry sobs scratching at his throat.

  And then they came–tears spilling hot from his eyes, his blood-slick fingers smearing red on his face as he tried to swipe them away.

  Eris's hand shifted–a brush along his thigh, light and lingering.

  Like she was anchoring him now, the way he did for her.

  It was soft–vulnerable in a way that sent a shiver through him. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned forward and let his forehead fall gently against the side of her armor. He closed his eyes, the tears slipping down his nose and dripping onto her chestplate.

  She hissed softly, pain threading her breath as she shifted her hand, slipping it up into his hair.

  “It is alright, Germaine.” She murmured, voice soft and hoarse. “I will survive this.”

   He didn't speak–just drew in a sharp breath, blinking fast to hold back the tears still threatening to spill. And then he felt her hand weaken in his hair, as if it was about to slip off of him.

  He pulled back and looked up at her.

  “You okay, Eris?” His voice was thick and laced with concern as he looked into her eyes.

  “I will be. I am merely tired.” She replied, voice still cracking.

  The Drifter slipped off of the metal crate and stood.

  “You need to rest.” He told her, his voice steadier now. His panic bottled away–for her. “C'mon, I know where you can sleep.” 

  He gingerly reached out, his touch soft but strong as he slipped one arm around her waist, and the other to hold up her injured arm instead of having her wrap it around his shoulders and risking further bleeding.

  They moved in slow, easy steps across the ship’s corridors, their footsteps echoing quietly throughout each vast space, until they had reached a small cramped room, where a cot lay against the far wall. 

  “Okay, sit here for a minute…” the Drifter eased her down onto the cot’s edge, then leaned back and met her glowing green eyes. He swallowed hard.

  “Eris, are you comfortable with me takin’ off your armor?”

  “I trust you,” She said–nothing more and nothing less as she returned his stare with the same level of intensity.

  “Alright,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Let's get this thing off…”

  Carefully, he reached for the first clasp at her shoulder–his fingers hesitating for a breath before pressing the release. The mechanism gave a soft click, loosening a sliver of tension from the armor’s line. Eris did not pull away, but her breath hitched. 

  He glanced up. “You good?”

  She gave a faint nod–nothing more.

  He set to work on the next buckle, just below her ribs, giving Eris every opportunity to push him away before he gently pressed down on the release. The chestplate shifted beneath his hands, loose now. He eased it away from her body, slowly, carefully, before setting the heavy and scarred armor beside the cot.

  Then he looked back at her. And without her armor, she looked… smaller. Not weaker, just somehow farther from the fury they all knew her for.

  She shifted now, reaching up to remove her cloak with her good hand–her movements slow, but precise. She dragged the fabric over her head, then tossed it down onto the cot, letting it fall in a dark heap. Her fingers slid downward, brushing the clasp of her robes, before undoing it.

  The Drifter stayed silent, watching as she grabbed one edge and attempted to ease her way free–but the sleeve caught at her wounded arm, her breath hitching at the effort.

  The Drifter leaned closer.

  “Let me help, yeah?” He offered, his voice low, careful. One hand outstretched- not touching, just waiting.

  She let hers drop to the cot. No words spoken. But her permission given.

  He reached out, gently grabbing the fabric at her good side first, pulling it away. Then, slower, he worked the fabric loose from her injured arm. He pulled away the blood stained fabric, gathering her cloak as well, before handing it off to his Ghost to be cleaned. 

  She sat now, in a dark undershirt, her skin sleek with sweat and blood, some of it already beginning to harden and crust along her arm and against the side of her undershirt.

  She looked at the Drifter, trust in her eyes, letting him see scars that she had never shown anyone else, as his gaze moved slowly, tracing the scars across her collarbone, her shoulders, her forearms.

  They suited her. Not because of the pain. Because of the way she wore them–like proof she never stopped surviving.

  “C'mon,” the Drifter murmured, easing her down onto the mattress, her short, dirty hair fanning across the pillow. “I'll clean up the blood in a second.”

  He lingered a moment, still looking down at her, watching. Her eyes had already began to flicker closed, trembling with the ache of rest long overdue.

  When her breathing had settled- slow even- he let out a breath of his own. Then he stood, turning towards the cluttered nightstand and grabbing a dented tin cup, and a scrap of old rags. 

  This would have to do. 

  He sat back down at the edge of the cot and leaned over her, dipping the rag in the water he had warmed with his solar ability.

  “Alright, let's get you cleaned up.” 

  He started first with her face, wiping away the sweat on her good side, before moving on to gingerly cleaning away the grime and blood that remained on the other side.

  Then, he pressed the warm, damp cloth against the base of her neck, where grime clung to sweat. 

  Slowly, rhythmically, he wiped away the sweat and dust from her neck and throat, his touch soft and gentle, careful not to disturb her.

  He dipped the rag back in the cup, squeezing out the grime.

  Then he moved to her collarbone, wiping slowly along the ridge, grime clinging to the shallow scrapes and scratches.

  He paused at the upper edge of her sternum. A bruise was already blooming there, a shade too black for his liking. He gently dabbed at it with the damp cloth- slow and gentle.

  And that's when he saw it.

  A scar- long, jagged, carved down the line of her sternum.

  He ran his fingers alongside it- not over, not pressing. Just tracing near its edge.

  “Don’t know how you keep gettin’ up after all this...” He whispered.

  Without thinking, he leaned down and brushed the softest kiss to her skin. 

  “But I'm glad you do.”

  He saw it–the faintest upward twitch of her lips. 

  He smiled, huffing out a chuckle before dipping the cloth back into the water and running it over her good shoulder. Then down the forearm, cleaning off as much sweat as he could. 

  He dodged her hand, saving that for last, and set to work cleaning off the hard and flaky blood from her injured and bandaged shoulder.

  He moved– slow, careful– wiping along her bicep where dried blood had streaked down in maroon lines, pooling darkly at the crook of her elbow.

  As the cloth passed over blood and dust, he couldn't help but notice how strong her arm felt beneath his hand. Muscular. Honed.

  Gently, he eased her arm a little farther from her side, just enough to reach the blood that had snuck into the hollow beneath.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled as he reached under her arm. “Know this ain't the comfiest place to have me cleanin’.”

  The skin there was warm– slick with sweat that kept the blood tacky, sticky instead of flaking away.

  His hands stilled. There, beneath the warmth and sweat, he felt it–her heartbeat.

  He let the cloth rest a moment longer than he had to. Just long enough to feel it again.

  His fingers trembled–barely–as the weight of her trust sank in.

  She let him in.

  Let him care for her. 

  Let him be the one to patch her up.

  He exhaled, then smiled–small, quiet– as he dipped the cloth back into the cup and ran it along the soft skin of her inner arm.

  Then came her hand–her beautiful, bruised hand. 

  He reached for it–slow and reverent, taking it in his own. He swept the wet cloth down her palm and between each grime coated finger, careful not to press too hard.

  Her hand was strong. Powerful. Incredible in a way that no one else would have noticed–except him.

  He finished cleaning up the hand attached to her injured shoulder, then returned to her good side, swiping away the last traces of blood and dust from her other hand.

  When he was done, her arms lay still. Clean, mostly.

  He stood, wiped his hands, and glanced around the room. She'd need something better to wear when she woke. Something soft. Something that might bring comfort.

  His gaze landed on a faded blue-grey shirt, crumpled in a dark corner. It smelled faintly of metal, engine grease, old coffee… and whiskey. It smelled like him.

  There was a softly strange kind of reverence in the way he slipped it over her head, guiding each arm through the sleeves–careful not to tug too hard at the bad shoulder, gentler still as he pulled the hem down over her ribs.

  Once he had finished, he didn't pull away. He stayed on the edge of the bed, watching her chest rise and fall beneath his shirt. 

  Then he reached out, gently placing his hand over hers. 

  She stirred. Her eyes blinked open, slow and heavy lidded, as she looked up at his face, recognition sinking in. 

  “Drifter…” she rasped. “You stayed.” 

  He smiled–small, tired, certain.

  “Nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

  He leaned down, aiming for her cheekbone–but before he could make contact, she tilted her head and met him halfway.

  Their lips touched.

  She sighed against him and let her eyes fall closed again.

  He stared, wide-eyed and surprised, because of course–even bruised, bandaged, and half asleep–she still had enough spunk to catch him off guard.

  He smiled and returned the kiss–soft, unhurried–before pulling away.

  “You should get some more rest, Moonlight.” 

  Her voice rasped, low and rough with sleep. “Will you sit beside me?” 

  “You want me to?” He asked, surprised.

  “Of course.” 

  The Drifter hesitated only a second longer before setting into motion. He helped her scoot over, careful of her bandaged wounds, then squished himself into the narrow space beside her. 

  He leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, arms loose at his sides.

  Eris curled close without a word, resting her head into the soft hollow above his hip.

  And there, in the quiet, with nothing but the sound of soft breathing as her warmth soaked into his side–he finally let himself breathe.

The Drifter sprawled across his bed, arms reaching high and legs lazily spread apart.

  Eris watched him curiously from her spot in the doorway, the soft light from nearby motes landing against her face and glinting along her armor. 

  The Drifter looked over, smiling gently as he patted the edge of the bed.

  “Plenty of room!” He called. 

  “I am fine.” She replied tensely.

  “Aw, c'mon Moondust… it ain't all that bad- hand to my heart.” He grinned.

  Eris sighed, eyes darting between his eager frame and the edge of the bed. Finally, she walked across the room and sat beside him, and somehow that one action turned this cool room suddenly quiet warm. The bed was hard beneath them, the blankets askew.

  “You typically lay in bed like this?” Eris asked, looking him over.

  “What do you mean?” The Drifter replied.

  She motioned to his body. “You have not taken off a thing.”

  “What, you sayin’ you want me to take off this shirt?” He asked, jutting an eyebrow as he pulled on his shirt for emphasis. 

  He laughed, loud and hard, at Eris's expression. Her face contorted as she jerked away. Still, her eyes darted to his chest. 

  The Drifter sat up. He grabbed her wrist and leaned in close.

  “Hey, Eris… I know I kid a lot,” he inhaled sharply, voice growing softer as his hand slid down to cradle her own. “But, uh… it wasn't a total joke… what I offered a second ago.” 

  “An offer?” Eris asked, her fingers twitching against his palm.

  “Yeah… if you want.” 

  Silence. 

  The room felt electric. Heavy. The friction thickening as the seconds crawled by.

  It felt like an eternity, though it surely only lasted a few seconds. 

  But then-

  “Yes.” It was soft. Gentle. Affirmative.

  And it was all the answer Drifter needed to grab the hem of his shirt, pulling up, heart thrumming in his chest, cheeks already beginning to redden.

  And finally, it was done. He sat before her atop his bed, shirt tossed aside, bare chest shown in that private space. 

  Eris said nothing. She didn't need to. Her eyes, locked onto him, spoke all the answers needed.

  Her gaze drank in every detail, storing everything in her memory, top to bottom. And then her hand came up, resting against his pectoral muscle. He exhaled sharply as she urged him back into a laying down position.

  She searched his eyes, finding only ease- only quiet, steady contentment resting in those gentle blue depths. So she went back to looking over his bare skin, so lost in her own thoughts as she took him in, that she hadn't realized his hand had moved until she felt it- a squeeze. Gentle, hesitant, right along her inner thigh.

  She inhaled sharply, eyes darting down at his hand and then up to his eyes. He smiled, so soft, so innocent, as if not currently curling his palm around such a vulnerable and tender space, where his warmth tangled with hers. Or maybe that was why he smiled. A silent declaration- of his intentions, of his respect, of his unshakable admiration. 

  And now she found herself smiling as her eyes sunk and she bent lower, lower- her lips parted, eyelids sinking, hand making contact on the soft skin of his torso, anchoring her to the moment. His grip on her thigh tightened, causing her breath to hitch as her lips made gentle contact to his warm sternum.

  The second she touched him, his brain short-circuited- he couldn't think, he'd forgotten how to breathe- but his hand had instinctively tightened against her thigh, as if clutching something that would keep him grounded in the moment.

 She pressed closer, tracing along the soft roughness of him, memorizing the feeling beneath her lips.

  He shivered and tensed momentarily as her lips slid a little lower down his sternum, his hand jerking a little higher up her leg.

  “You alright, Moonlight?” The Drifter breathed out, his fingers prepared to draw back at the first sign of discomfort.

  But instead, she relaxed- her breath steadying, her shoulders relaxing as she pulled back just enough to speak, her breath tickling against his skin.

  “Yes. I am fine.” She replied, her fingers ghosting along the contours of his body.

  The Drifter chuckled, heat blooming across his cheeks as his thumb traced slow circles against her thigh, overjoyed when she scooted a little further onto the bed to be closer to him. 

  She pressed another gentle kiss against his chest, her fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against his skin feeling every rise and fall of his breath beneath her touch. She could hear him hum beneath her, and feel the vibrations against her lips as he spoke. 

  “Didn't realize you liked touchin’ me this much,” 

  “Hush,” Eris commanded him, lips tickling his chest as she spoke. 

  The Drifter laughed, reaching out with his free hand to scoop up her chin and force her to look at him.

  “Make me.” 

  Eris scoffed, a smile threatening her lips as she leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss that was entirely comfortable and fully theirs.

  The Drifter gasped softly, then exhaled- a slow breath as his eyes fluttered shut and he kissed her back with a passion.

  And that's when he noticed- this all felt so natural. So… right. 

  His hand against her thigh, soaking in the warmth through the fabric of her pants. The way they were kissing, not afraid of the passion or intensity blooming between them. The way her hand was pressing into the soft, vulnerable skin of his torso. 

  So he squeezed her a little tighter and kissed a little harder. And that's when he felt it- faint, steady, undeniable beneath his fingers. Her pulse. His heart kicked up into his throat, the weight of the moment pressing into him.

  He felt her breath hitch as he inched his hand higher, digging his fingers deeper, her pulse growing faster and stronger beneath his touch. He felt the way her legs had stiffened, and then relaxed as she exhaled through her nose, the air landing against his face.

  His shirt lay forgotten, insignificant beside the warmth that spread through his palm, between their lips- like home.