He's a little better protected than her, but not by a hell of a lot. He had a jacket but it was barely a windbreaker, and it was significantly colder up here in the mountains than it had been on base. Poe was just hoping that it would also keep anyone else from coming up here after them.
He'd been slipping into his own thoughts as they walked, the adrenaline of the evening wearing off into exhaustion, his footsteps heavy. He should have been paying more attention to her - should have known that there was no way she was going to be able to keep going long with that wound in her shoulder. He was just to distracted, too stupid--
"Hey--!" He grabbed for her automatically when she slumped, but she slipped out of his fingers. "Hey, hey come on now, we're almost there. You don't get to give up on me now," He whispered to her, his breath harsh and tight as if he was trying to conceal it from the eerily quiet snow. He got his arms under her and hefted her up against him with a grunt. He'd carry her all the way to the cabin, if he had to.
She can barely hear him anymore, just hanging onto the last threads consciousness and drifting by the moment. Her eyelashes only flutter at the sound of his voice, snowflakes clinging to them as her struggling breaths fog in front of her face. She's a dead weight when he hefts her up, unable to help him or unaware enough of what's happening to even try. Nothing but willpower had been powering her up until now, and her body was running on fumes now.
If she could realize how pathetic she looks right then, she'd probably be annoyed with herself. It wasn't often that she found herself in such dire straits — not since she was much younger, and much less experienced. The Scythian of history were known as fierce warriors, and she'd earned the moniker with blood. She was the one you called in with there weren't any other options. When you couldn't afford to fail. When the stakes were too high to trust someone else.
And here she was now, an inch from blacking out, relying on some pilot she barely knew to get her ass somewhere relatively safe. Weakly, she clung to him, some reflex causing her fingers to tighten slightly in his jacket.
He felt his heart restart when her fingers gripped him. Still alive. She was still alive.
Somehow, he managed to half drag half carry her to the cabin, putting her down in a snow-dusted chair on the porch, while he tried to find a way in. The place had obviously been closed up for the winter but with a prodigious use of his elbow and the shattering properties of glass, he managed to find a way inside. He hefted her back up, dragging her in and laying her down on the thankfully queen sized mattress. It wasn’t made, but there were blankets and he piled them on her before quickly throwing some wood into the fireplace. It took almost twenty minutes to get the fire started and to get the broken window sealed up before he could return to her. She looked deathly pale, her breathing shallow.
His own clothes were soaked, now, the snow melted through, and he stripped off quickly before scrambling under the blankets with her. Fuck, she was cold.
“Come on,” he whispered, drawing her up against his chest and wrapping his arms around her, careful to miss the wound as he rubbed her down, generating heat with friction.
He might have been better off to just leave her there in the snow. If she'd been in fighting form, she would have been useful — an asset, at a time like this. But as it is, with her injured and weak, she's just slowing him down. She's a liability when he can't afford any. But he gets her to the cabin anyway — gets her into the bed and holds her close to his bare chest, offering her the heat of his body as she shivers, her own body making its stubborn but feeble attempts to warm up.
She can hear him willing her to survive. Come on, he keeps saying. Come on.
Fuck. She's lived through too much to die like this. She's dodged death a thousand times. This can't be the end. She won't let it. She —
She coughs roughly, curling towards him, her face buried against his throat. It's a strained mutter when she manages finally:
Honestly, her whole body hurts — the tingling pain of feeling returning to her limbs as she warms up, along with the same throbbing ache of her shoulder that's been plaguing her since she escaped the hospital. But it's nothing unbearable. Her heart is still beating in her chest. With her face pressed against his chest, she can hear his heart doing the same. So there's that, at least. They're both still alive, and that's something, isn't it?
"Is that what this is?" She's feeling well enough to mock him a little, even with her voice still rough and her body still shaking. Probably a good sign. "Medical attention?"
But she's not complaining. Not really. She knows she needs the heat. Won't be any use to anybody if her trigger finger falls off.
"Sure is what I'm calling it," he replied wryly, the quip coming easily, though her words cut the single-minded haze he'd been in. Oh. Right. Basically nude and groping someone. Yeah, he can see how that would come off.
"I'm a pilot, not a doctor," He adds after a few seconds. He pulls her closer and hisses a little bit. "Fuck, you're cold."
She mumbles the apology against his throat, using the word in a gruff way that suggests she probably doesn't apologize much — not that she can help how cold she is. Her body is trying — still shivering, through less violently than before — but she'd been half-conscious in the snow with little between her and the elements except a thin hospital gown and her underwear, so. Maybe she should just be grateful she's alive to feel cold at all.
"Did the supplies make it?" She tucks herself more against him, her legs brushing against his as she tries to get more skin on skin, seeking out that warmth. "You'll have to help me redress my damn shoulder."
This is what happens when I check my email before sneep
Her skin was like ice, and he wrapped his legs around hers when she went looking for them, one thigh pressing between her legs.
“We can dress it once you’re warmer. I don’t want you getting hypothermia.”
He could feel her warming up at least - thanks to him, the blankets, and the crackling fire.
He was struck suddenly by how intimate this was, but he couldn’t bring himself to disengage. He shouldn’t. She needed the warmth. It wasn’t anything untoward...
“I’m just glad you made it,” he admitted in a whisper. “I mean - not only because I wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without you, but...”
He trailed off. He didn’t know how many of his friends were even alive right now.
She doesn't think of it as intimate. Out there, on covert missions in hostile territory, she's slept with her team so tightly packed together that there was hardly room to breathe. They would go for months without talking to other people — sleeping, eating, bathing, and shitting together in some hovel. She'd had wounds all over her body tended to more often by her men than by actual doctors. Sometimes, all the things she's been through make her feel so detached from her physical form that it's a relief to feel anything at all.
The sentiment he whispers to her — that's more intimate than anything.
They're practically strangers. But he's glad, he says. Glad she made it. And not just because she's handy with a gun either.
"Don't be glad yet," her voice is a low rumble, muffled as she slips her good arm around him, just to help her press a little closer to his warmth. "For all you fucking know, I'll kick your ass and take your shit the second I can move."
“No, you won’t.” He says it with complete confidence. Sure, he might not know her, but...
“There was no one on air traffic control,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “It wasn’t just the base. I don’t know... I don’t even know how many of us there are, within a hundred miles. I don’t know how fast that shit is spreading.”
He was still rubbing her back, even though his muscles were getting tired.
That's a vulnerable thing to admit. At least, it seems that way to her. She isn't in the habit of making that kind of confession — something that might appear like sentiment or weakness. Maybe doing the military's dirty work all these years has hardened something in her. Or maybe it's just the burden of leadership. Not that any of it really matters now. The world feels like it's falling apart. And even if she thought she could front with him right now, he's still holding her shivering, aching body against his — taking care of her in the most vulnerable state she's been in for as long as she can properly remember.
"You're not alone," she finally mutters in response.
Carefully, she pulls away a little, just enough to look at him.
"Hate to admit it, but you probably saved my life. So I owe you. At least for now."
"Pretty sure that's mutual," he said, wryly. "If you owed me anything, you already paid it back."
Well. Except one thing.
"I know I'm breaking protocol with this," he murmured, arms still around her, even though he could actually see her face, now, etched in the warm fire light. "But I am pretty sure protocol is right out the window, so."
He wet his lips.
"I'm Poe. Dameron. You can call me whatever you want, but... at least this way if something horrible happens you'll be able to scrawl my name on a cheap make-shift grave marker."
She doesn't want to know his name. Not really. Because the second you start trading names and getting to know each other — then feelings get involved. Inevitably. Because that's what humans instinctively do. But sentiment is the last thing they need. Sentiment won't keep them alive. So she doesn't reciprocate. And she doesn't call him Poe.
"If something horrible happens, I won't have time for that shit," she mutters in response, "So try not to fucking die. At least not until my shoulder heals a little more."
It's a deflection, maybe. Something harsh she says just to keep the distance between them. As if that matters when they could be the last two fucking humans for a hundred miles and he's already holding her half-naked body against his. She seems aware of it, and after a few moments, she starts trying to pull away — even though her lips are still a little blue, her skin still cool to the touch.
It stings. Of course it does. But he's not actually surprised. Black Ops... they're not exactly known for their camaraderie. It would probably go against every regulation she knows, to tell him her name.
But pretty sure all this would break regulation, too.
"I solemnly swear I will try not to die until your shoulder heals a little more," He says dryly.
But when she pulls away, he shuffles closer after her.
"Come on. You gotta warm up. We can't risk you getting hypothermia."
Fine probably isn't accurate, not yet. But she's not so cold anymore that all she can do is lay there and uselessly shiver, at least. So she insists, pulling away from him again even as her Good Samaritan tries to make up the distance. It takes her a second at the edge of the bed, her legs still a little unsteady, but she tests her weight and goes for it, swaying only slightly and gritting her teeth against the uncomfortable tingling in her legs as all the movement brings circulation back to her limbs.
She manages to get over to the fire, bracing herself on the mantle with one hand for a moment. The flames cast flickering shadows over her body, the warmth washing over her. It's nice. Gives her the little something she needs to keep herself moving so that she can briskly strip off her filthy hospital gown and her underwear — both soaked with blood that's run down from her shoulder.
He doesn’t stop her. Her curls the blankets tightly around himself for a second, watching her.
He watches the firelight dance over her skin as she strips, and he feels his heart thump, a strange longing coming over him. Wordlessly, he slips out of the bed. He doesn’t move to embrace her again, just pulls his clothes back on and grabs a bucket, before heading back outside. A moment later, he returns, pretending his teeth aren’t chattering as he brings the bucket back to the fire - now full of snow - and sets it close to the flames to melt and boil.
Then he goes to fetch the bag with the medical supplies and drags it over.
She glances over at him as he returns with the bucket of snow, her dark eyes lingering on him for a long moment. Like she still isn't sure what to make of him. A few hours ago, he was someone she could barely remember — a codename from one mission, what might as well have been a lifetime ago. Now they're together in this, somehow. This apocalypse, or whatever the fuck it is. Now he's the only person she has left, as far as she can tell.
Her eyes drift away. She sits down by the fire, letting it warm her as she starts to peel the old bandages off — heavy with her old blood by now, almost completely dark with it. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses that shit into the fire to let it burn. There's a faint stench, for a minute, but soon there's nothing left but ash.
The wound in her shoulder is a clean hole. A bullet wound. The skin around it is irritated and swollen — but not infected. Small blessings. He's right though, they'll have to clean it and keep it clean, if she wants it to stay uninfected. It's not an exaggeration to say that with the shortage of supplies and medicine, an infection could mean losing the arm entirely.
"Help me," she murmurs lowly. She can't see her own back, that part of her shoulder where the bullet exited.
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sekkritaus2019-10-13 03:51 pm
no subject
He'd been slipping into his own thoughts as they walked, the adrenaline of the evening wearing off into exhaustion, his footsteps heavy. He should have been paying more attention to her - should have known that there was no way she was going to be able to keep going long with that wound in her shoulder. He was just to distracted, too stupid--
"Hey--!" He grabbed for her automatically when she slumped, but she slipped out of his fingers. "Hey, hey come on now, we're almost there. You don't get to give up on me now," He whispered to her, his breath harsh and tight as if he was trying to conceal it from the eerily quiet snow. He got his arms under her and hefted her up against him with a grunt. He'd carry her all the way to the cabin, if he had to.
no subject
If she could realize how pathetic she looks right then, she'd probably be annoyed with herself. It wasn't often that she found herself in such dire straits — not since she was much younger, and much less experienced. The Scythian of history were known as fierce warriors, and she'd earned the moniker with blood. She was the one you called in with there weren't any other options. When you couldn't afford to fail. When the stakes were too high to trust someone else.
And here she was now, an inch from blacking out, relying on some pilot she barely knew to get her ass somewhere relatively safe. Weakly, she clung to him, some reflex causing her fingers to tighten slightly in his jacket.
no subject
Somehow, he managed to half drag half carry her to the cabin, putting her down in a snow-dusted chair on the porch, while he tried to find a way in. The place had obviously been closed up for the winter but with a prodigious use of his elbow and the shattering properties of glass, he managed to find a way inside. He hefted her back up, dragging her in and laying her down on the thankfully queen sized mattress. It wasn’t made, but there were blankets and he piled them on her before quickly throwing some wood into the fireplace. It took almost twenty minutes to get the fire started and to get the broken window sealed up before he could return to her. She looked deathly pale, her breathing shallow.
His own clothes were soaked, now, the snow melted through, and he stripped off quickly before scrambling under the blankets with her. Fuck, she was cold.
“Come on,” he whispered, drawing her up against his chest and wrapping his arms around her, careful to miss the wound as he rubbed her down, generating heat with friction.
“Come on, you made it this far—“
no subject
She can hear him willing her to survive. Come on, he keeps saying. Come on.
Fuck. She's lived through too much to die like this. She's dodged death a thousand times. This can't be the end. She won't let it. She —
She coughs roughly, curling towards him, her face buried against his throat. It's a strained mutter when she manages finally:
"...I'm not dead yet."
no subject
"Could have had me fooled for a minute there," He breathes lowly. "Anything hurt?"
... Stupid question.
"Anything new hurt? I don't want you getting frostbite."
no subject
"Is that what this is?" She's feeling well enough to mock him a little, even with her voice still rough and her body still shaking. Probably a good sign. "Medical attention?"
But she's not complaining. Not really. She knows she needs the heat. Won't be any use to anybody if her trigger finger falls off.
no subject
"I'm a pilot, not a doctor," He adds after a few seconds. He pulls her closer and hisses a little bit. "Fuck, you're cold."
no subject
She mumbles the apology against his throat, using the word in a gruff way that suggests she probably doesn't apologize much — not that she can help how cold she is. Her body is trying — still shivering, through less violently than before — but she'd been half-conscious in the snow with little between her and the elements except a thin hospital gown and her underwear, so. Maybe she should just be grateful she's alive to feel cold at all.
"Did the supplies make it?" She tucks herself more against him, her legs brushing against his as she tries to get more skin on skin, seeking out that warmth. "You'll have to help me redress my damn shoulder."
This is what happens when I check my email before sneep
Her skin was like ice, and he wrapped his legs around hers when she went looking for them, one thigh pressing between her legs.
“We can dress it once you’re warmer. I don’t want you getting hypothermia.”
He could feel her warming up at least - thanks to him, the blankets, and the crackling fire.
He was struck suddenly by how intimate this was, but he couldn’t bring himself to disengage. He shouldn’t. She needed the warmth. It wasn’t anything untoward...
“I’m just glad you made it,” he admitted in a whisper. “I mean - not only because I wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without you, but...”
He trailed off. He didn’t know how many of his friends were even alive right now.
Or how many had turned into those things.
SUPLEXES U
The sentiment he whispers to her — that's more intimate than anything.
They're practically strangers. But he's glad, he says. Glad she made it. And not just because she's handy with a gun either.
"Don't be glad yet," her voice is a low rumble, muffled as she slips her good arm around him, just to help her press a little closer to his warmth. "For all you fucking know, I'll kick your ass and take your shit the second I can move."
ohhh senpai
“There was no one on air traffic control,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “It wasn’t just the base. I don’t know... I don’t even know how many of us there are, within a hundred miles. I don’t know how fast that shit is spreading.”
He was still rubbing her back, even though his muscles were getting tired.
“I sure as hell don’t want to be alone.”
no subject
"You're not alone," she finally mutters in response.
Carefully, she pulls away a little, just enough to look at him.
"Hate to admit it, but you probably saved my life. So I owe you. At least for now."
no subject
Well. Except one thing.
"I know I'm breaking protocol with this," he murmured, arms still around her, even though he could actually see her face, now, etched in the warm fire light. "But I am pretty sure protocol is right out the window, so."
He wet his lips.
"I'm Poe. Dameron. You can call me whatever you want, but... at least this way if something horrible happens you'll be able to scrawl my name on a cheap make-shift grave marker."
no subject
"If something horrible happens, I won't have time for that shit," she mutters in response, "So try not to fucking die. At least not until my shoulder heals a little more."
It's a deflection, maybe. Something harsh she says just to keep the distance between them. As if that matters when they could be the last two fucking humans for a hundred miles and he's already holding her half-naked body against his. She seems aware of it, and after a few moments, she starts trying to pull away — even though her lips are still a little blue, her skin still cool to the touch.
no subject
But pretty sure all this would break regulation, too.
"I solemnly swear I will try not to die until your shoulder heals a little more," He says dryly.
But when she pulls away, he shuffles closer after her.
"Come on. You gotta warm up. We can't risk you getting hypothermia."
no subject
Fine probably isn't accurate, not yet. But she's not so cold anymore that all she can do is lay there and uselessly shiver, at least. So she insists, pulling away from him again even as her Good Samaritan tries to make up the distance. It takes her a second at the edge of the bed, her legs still a little unsteady, but she tests her weight and goes for it, swaying only slightly and gritting her teeth against the uncomfortable tingling in her legs as all the movement brings circulation back to her limbs.
She manages to get over to the fire, bracing herself on the mantle with one hand for a moment. The flames cast flickering shadows over her body, the warmth washing over her. It's nice. Gives her the little something she needs to keep herself moving so that she can briskly strip off her filthy hospital gown and her underwear — both soaked with blood that's run down from her shoulder.
no subject
He watches the firelight dance over her skin as she strips, and he feels his heart thump, a strange longing coming over him. Wordlessly, he slips out of the bed. He doesn’t move to embrace her again, just pulls his clothes back on and grabs a bucket, before heading back outside. A moment later, he returns, pretending his teeth aren’t chattering as he brings the bucket back to the fire - now full of snow - and sets it close to the flames to melt and boil.
Then he goes to fetch the bag with the medical supplies and drags it over.
“We need to clean it first.”
no subject
Her eyes drift away. She sits down by the fire, letting it warm her as she starts to peel the old bandages off — heavy with her old blood by now, almost completely dark with it. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses that shit into the fire to let it burn. There's a faint stench, for a minute, but soon there's nothing left but ash.
The wound in her shoulder is a clean hole. A bullet wound. The skin around it is irritated and swollen — but not infected. Small blessings. He's right though, they'll have to clean it and keep it clean, if she wants it to stay uninfected. It's not an exaggeration to say that with the shortage of supplies and medicine, an infection could mean losing the arm entirely.
"Help me," she murmurs lowly. She can't see her own back, that part of her shoulder where the bullet exited.