"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
"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.