Beloved Sandworm Of The Desert

Your vision's obscured by blood, dripping steadily from your hairline and coating your lashes. A quick swipe of your hand doesn't make a dent in the mess, smearing more of it across your forehead, mixing it in with blood that isn't your own.

Armitage stumbles, footsteps erratic. He'd kept up well enough as you made your escape, but he's growing weaker, quickly. You need to hide.

Slamming your shoulder against the nearest door, you a sigh of relief when it gives under your weight, welcoming you both into the private darkness and shielding you from the pounding rain.

“In here,” your voice is ragged, throat ripped to shreds after all the screaming you’d done into Drestel’s meaty palm. The sounds had poured from you even after you’d accepted that no one would hear it, stoppered by his unshakeable hand. You had never known a body could hold that much fear.

Armitage feels for the control panel, snapping on the lights. There’s red-stained fingerprints smeared across the wall when you look back, and echoes of it stay in your line of sight as your eyes adjust to the brightness.

Rows of gleaming durasteel counters stretch across the space—much bigger than you’d anticipated—occasionally broken by tub-like sinks, the spotless white tile beneath your feet turning dark as a mixture of rain and blood drip from your uniforms.

“The kitchens.”

Armitage sounds sure of it; you wouldn’t know any better. Cadets aren’t allowed in here.

“We should probably stay awhile, just in case."

In case Drestel was alive. In case the ones who had ran came looking for you—both of you.

Had he survived? You didn't get a very good look before you'd made your escape, but the memory of what you had seen turns your stomach—the blackened blood pouring from his mouth, his nose, the gaping black hole where his eye had been.

Armitage must have the same concerns, because he nods in assent, walking deeper into the space.

Your first target is the sink; the cold water stings over the breaks in your knuckles, but it’s heaven clearing the crusting flakes of blood from your lashes, pouring handful after handful of clean water over your skin and watching the rivulets of red grow paler with each pass.

Your uniform is next—you strip the soaked top off your shoulders, wringing it out over the drain and leaving it to dry. There's not much you can do about the sleeveless top you wear beneath it, or the trousers. At least it's warm in here.

Armitage has done the same; arms folded across the damp material of his own undershirt, his long, deceptively thin arms wired with muscle. The material clings to his skin, damp in some places and see-through. Your eyes wander without your permission, taking in the purpling skin that stretches across his ribs, or the seeping red just above the line of his belt.

“You’re hurt.”

Your stomach rolls as you catalogue each and every break in his skin, each place Drestel left his mark. You had known about the blade—felt the sting of it at the edge of your scalp, parting through your skin and the delicate vessels beneath with the gentleness of a lover's kiss. Drestel used the same on Armitage, and he hadn't bothered to take his time. His death would have been much faster.

He must see your distress, because he shrugs off the injuries, although not without a slight flinch.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

At least there's that. If they were as bad as they looked, he'd be dead.

“We should clean them, at least,” you tell him, and the prospect of feeling useful immediately releases some of the tension in your shoulders.

He concedes with a nod, and you begin your search, flipping through cupboards and shuffling through drawers, acutely aware of his position in relation to yours each time your back is turned.

The supplies are meager, but it’s enough to clean him up—some dry rags, and a mild-smelling antiseptic you found in the back of a cupboard. You couldn't find any bacta patches; hopefully the bleeding is minor.

The antiseptic is cool as it seeps into the cloth, and his hand shakes when you take it in your own, even if you're careful to avoid the bruises.

You just barely manage to brush the cloth against his knuckles before there’s a ringing in your ears, drowning out the soft sound he makes at the sting.

The words reach you as if spoken through cotton—are you alright?—and your vision swims, the red-blue-black of his bruises growing fainter and fainter, the whole world turning to darkness around him.

His other hand is at your side, pressing tight against your skin, and the pain in your ribs brings you back.

"You're going to fall over," he says. Concern isn't an emotion that's at home on his face. It mars his features, creasing his brow and filling his eyes with shadow.

"I'm fine."

You recite the words as usual, letting their familiar shape fill your lips. It’s an attitude that’s been required of you since childhood, a complete renunciation of the self. I’m fine. I’m fine. If you thought it enough, defended it enough, or demanded it enough, maybe you’d actually come to believe it.

His frown stays in place. “Sit down, at least.”

It takes some effort some effort to hop onto the table—and a little help; he keeps his hand at your side until you he’s certain you won’t keel over. You miss the contact once it’s gone.

You hate to admit it, but this is better. The room no longer swims, filled with an echoey, wet silence as you dab the blood away from his knuckles and the taught skin of his abdomen. He doesn’t make a sound, staring quietly off into the distance, but there’s enough blood left in his body for a pink blush to dust his cheeks.

You move onto his hair, and the blood dried in the golden-red strands. It’s not his, as far as you can tell—probably from Drestel’s broken nose—but you dab at it anyway to give yourself something to do. He’s situated in the space between your thighs, which you’ve stretched wider than necessary to make sure there’s no accidental contact. His pale and slender fingers grip tightly at the edge of the table, and you can’t help but wonder if not touching each other is as difficult for him as it is for you.

“Why’d you do it?” you ask, finally letting go of the question that’s been weighing on you, “they would have killed me.”

Without warning, his eyes meet your own. You can’t help but be reminded of the ocean during those ever-present storms—the way the water turns almost black, how easily you’d lose yourself under the surface the moment you let yourself be pulled beneath the waves.

He purses his lips, chewing all the fat from his answer before spiting it out. “I know.”

“You could have let them.”

“I could have.” His eyes are still on yours.

“Why didn’t you?” Armitage doesn’t say anything. You press further, the rag crushed in your fist. “Why didn’t you?”

His gaze shifts to your forehead. “You’re bleeding.”

You snort. You've been bleeding this whole time from the cut Drestel gave you, dripping limpid, red tears down the side of your face.

"I'm not worried about that. Armitage—"

He's reaching for the cut until you stop him, gripping his wrist in your hand.

Fuck, he's beautiful.

You've known him for most of your childhood, and all the time that was left over in the wreckage of it—seen his face every day for most of your fucking life. But right now, with his fingers inches away from your skin and his trembling, rosy lips, he looks brand new.

"Please," he says, "you're bleeding."

The sting echoes through your forehead as he brushes the pad of his thumb over the petaled break in your skin, his other fingers just grazing your hair. It'd be too easy for him to end your life right now, all the vulnerable parts of you wide open.

His thumb re-enters your field of vision, glistening with red. Armitage eyes it curiously, and you're about to speak before he pops it between his lips, laving the skin with his tongue.

"Armitage," you take his wrist again, shooting him a curious look, "don't . . ."

"Please," there's desperation on his every word, "please, let me taste you."

You don't have the chance to exhale before his lips meet yours—searing hot, tinged with the acrid taste of your blood.

His hands are on you like a memory, like you can feel in his palms all the times he's imagined this, all the ways he's thought about touching you. He kisses you, open-mouthed, tongue slow and searching, and your body shakes, hands wrapping around the back of his neck to keep him just like this.

He keeps pressing in, closer and closer, until you can't support his weight, letting your shoulder blades hit the durasteel. His chest is solid, his lips searching for more of what he's always wanted, and your whole body aches but you're not about to stop now because there’s so much fucking pain in the world, but this is a pain you can choose.

He pins your wrists deftly between his fingers, his other hand sliding higher over your fractured ribs.

"No one's going to hurt you any more," he promises between each nip of his teeth, "no one is going to hurt you ever again."