Hello hello, everyone! This is my second fanfic (after a long hiatus) in nearly as many days, and, yep, it's another Starfighter: Eclipse foray! Actually, this has its seeds in a very vivid dream I had the other night: pretty much everything in here was there, from Selene's point of view. Needless to say, I was a little rattled, but knew I had to write it down.

I feel as if I'm taking some liberties with HamletMachine's universe (and probably characters), and I honestly couldn't give you a rational explanation for why some Navigators would choose to be trained in emergency first aid—medical care in the field, as it were—but there we go, the story needed it. I also began to wonder about Selene's past, his backstory; again, I don't know if what happened to him is feasible in the Starfighter universe, but... there it is as well.

Also, as noted in the summary, this contains spoilers for the "secret" ending (or real ending) you get in SF:E if you've, uhm, slept with everyone you can possibly sleep with. So if you haven't gotten there and don't want it ruined, you've been warned.

Finally, the title comes from the lyrics to a song called "Thistle & Weeds," by Mumford & Sons; truthfully the lyrics aren't necessarily tied to this fic, but I needed a title, and that line jumped out at me.

Please review if you enjoy this! It would do my writer's heart good!

The screens in their VR capsule flashed, the images splattered across the simulation screens—stars and ships and silent explosive bursts—replaced by warning-lights and Keeler's anxious, holographic face. Helios heard his Navigator's labored breathing catch across the headset.

"Any Navigators with training in emergency first aid, you are required to report to the MO immediately. Fighters—to the briefing room. This is not a drill—you have five minutes, men."

Five minutes—but Helios lingered for a moment, listening to the sound of Selene extricating himself from the restraints, hands lithely ghosting across the readout screens as if he still wanted to finish their maneuver to the end. But then the capsule's roof clicked open, and Helios dropped the weapons-throttle, if reluctantly, willing his body to come down from the adrenaline.

Damn. The score that we had going—

Selene's grey eyes were dark as they met his when he dropped easily from the capsule, though his lips twitched at the look Helios hardly knew he wore. "We'll come back to it."

Helios grunted, falling into step with the smaller man as they began their journey to the lifts. "We'll need it, if the reports are true."

"We're losing to the 'Terons. There is no 'if.'" But the Navigator reached out to touch his hand, a subtle thing, before they parted ways. "Helios, I'll catch up to you afterwards—"

"What's even happening?" Regret at leaving the VR sim unfinished was quickly fading to the glare of adrenal dread as Keeler's words sank in. "This—we're not under attack—the sirens aren't—"

"I don't know—" Selene shook his head, strands of ombre hair sticking to his sweaty face; Helios reached out unconsciously to brush them back, and the touch left a flush against those olive cheeks. "Later, Afon," came the whisper, and Helios was surprised to find himself the first to turn away, to take the lift up to the briefing room while Selene descended down to Med.

The MO's face was grave. A smile usually tempered his good-natured concern for the Fighters and Navigators—the multitude of victims: accidents, exhaustion, brawls and overwork—but today there was no comfort in the cerulean eyes; the wrinkles in his forehead waxed deep, waxed dark; his shoulders slumped—he was an older man than Selene had ever realized.

The gathered Navigators there were few: he and Ethos, plus three more he didn't know by name. Ethos' flyaway hair shadowed a round and strangely passive face, as if something in him kept his fears in check; never had he looked so somber, so collected; when he'd realized the truth of the dual languages from the Derelict's data, he'd been professional and still a veritably anxious time-bomb. Still—they were all here because they'd been trained in emergency first-aid—an optional specialization—they'd seen their share of injuries—their responses, theoretically, should be as second-nature as the navigation of a ship.

But that was training. (And I've seen—) This is different. I can tell—it's bad—

"One of our colonial transport ships has been attacked within the hour. This craft carried Navigators en route to an Alliance base as well as settlers. There were entire families on board."

Were?

Ethos' mouth tightened into a line; Selene slowly exhaled, hardly realizing that he'd held his breath. His gut turned against itself, foreboding prickling his palms.

"There were survivors, and the ship—incredibly—is still operational. But only just. It's coming to rendezvous with the Kepler; its life support won't hold out long enough for it to reach an Alliance base with proper medical facilities. There are some very sick people coming to us, boys, and in greater numbers than my staff and I can handle on our own. We don't even have enough beds . . ."

The MO paused a moment. "I called you here because I need your help. I need you to offer support to my staff; in teams of two you'll tackle triage. Remember your training—work together and do your jobs, you understand? This isn't training, though, this is real life, and their lives are in your hands."

Through the doors behind him came a stream of five medical support staff, the whole of the Kepler's crew, bearing blankets, boxes of syringes, serums, bandages. Around the Medical Bay they began to set up stations—Selene watched them for a moment, wondering how many they'd prepare, and how many more they'd really need—

"When will they arrive, sir?" His throat was dry. Something that he'd thought long buried was threatening to rear its head. It had been so long ago—but no, what he was being told was too achingly familiar—

"Fifteen minutes, last report. We waited so long to call for you because we didn't need the extra people here—crowded as it is. To your left there you'll find a room with sinks and scrubs—get yourself cleaned up. Keeler's been organizing the other Navigators to retrieve the wounded from their ship since we first received their distress call—we'll meet them in the hangar bay."

"Are you okay?" Ethos whispered, nudging Selene as they ducked to the left and began to peel scrubs from crinkling, snapping plastic. There were sinks but not running water; their hands were sterilized in a quick series of chemical soaks. When Selene went to pull on a pair of gloves, he found his hands were beginning to tremble.

No one else around them spoke. Perhaps others carried the same scarred memories as he. Or perhaps they'd all seen nothing more than the animals or donated cadavers on which they'd learned, and were trying to grasp what it would mean to see real screaming flesh.

Selene closed his eyes, words in a half-forgotten tongue running through his mind, the only prayer he could remember. "I'll be fine," he answered finally. "Come on, Ethos—let's just go."

Helios paced the briefing room, slipping through the crowd of Fighters, detesting their bantering, incessant chatter, laughter—all ways, he knew, of pushing away the great and terrifying unknown which faced them. Of pretending that they weren't afraid. Encke stood near the front of the room, jaw set, shoulders back, feet squared—looking as if he longed to reassure them but didn't have the words, or leave to do so from Commander Hayden.

They're telling the Navigators something. The ones in Med Bay, anyway . . .

(Selene?)

Finally—

"Your Navigators," Encke began in a measured tone, a deep, rumbling basso, "are currently engaged in a rescue mission. All of them. Several of our away ships have become medical carriers. One of the colonial transports has been attacked; their systems are failing and we're their closest option."

"Option for what?"

Cain. Of course. Who else wouldn't put two-and-two together? Who else would find his feathers ruffled at the fact that his little ship was possibly being used to save the lives of the injured? Or to at least give the dying ones a gentler death—a hand to hold, a serum to kiss them into sleep? (Whether or not Abel had the stomach for that, Helios wasn't sure—and suddenly he began to worry for Selene—)

"What I need you all to do," Encke was continuing as if he hadn't heard Cain's brusque remark, "is to prepare yourselves to look after your Navigators. For those who are acting as pilots, their work will be over in a matter of hours. Needless to say, what they see . . . they might need help processing. Obviously the Alliance has psychologists on staff, but—we all know, or should know, that we're our Navigators' first line of defense against a breakdown. And we're in a war. Let's not dance around it, hm?"

I don't like this— Helios clenched his teeth, swallowing sharply at the sudden bite of acid on his tongue. I don't like this at all.

"Who attacked the ship?" someone else demanded before Encke could draw breath. "Was it the 'Terons?"

And instantly a chorus rose—a cacophonous sea of rage-filled cries for destruction, for death, for carnage worse than whatever had been brought down on that transport and its largely civilian cargo. "Let's light 'em up!" from Cain—and Helios had to forcibly stop himself from weaving through the crowd and punching him in the face—because whether or not the 'Terons were responsible for this, they weren't really the issue here. At all.

But the influx, as Encke had said, of the wounded, the dying, the dead—and God, all the soft-edged ones like Ethos and soft-hearted like Selene, there to help them—

"Shut up! Right now!"

The roar of Encke's voice crashed silence down upon the room.

"We don't know who attacked the ship," he murmured, so quietly that Helios could scarcely catch the words. And ah—what Hayden had confided in him, what he shouldn't have said aloud—but there it was—

"Is it like the Swift, sir? Heading to Europa?"

Praxis, then, his one eye dark.

A moment's pause while Encke swept his gaze around them all—a mingling sea of black fabric, flashing eyes, and restless bodies. And then, "Praxis, Helios, Janus, Odin, Wer—you all stay here. The rest of you report back to your quarters and wait for your Navigators to return."

Slowly, too slowly for Helios' taste, the room began to empty until it was just the six of them. Encke, much to his surprise, allowed himself to seep into a chair, the lines of his body loose, his lips moving in half-hearted words as the answer spilled out, almost against his choice:

"It is like the Swift. You're all familiar with it?"

Helios thought back—yes, he was, if vaguely. The Swift had also been a transport ship, carrying rookie Fighters, Navigators and colonists alike to an Alliance outpost on Europa. Some unknown triad of warships tangled with them, attacking for reasons no one understood, not even now: the transport had no hope of fighting back. It took vicious fire—most of the passengers were dead—and, then as now, the ship had but one choice: to rendezvous with an Alliance vessel which was somewhat within its range. The attack, as Helios recalled, had been too damn stealthily executed, too savage and too brief, for the transport to have radioed for help until after the fact—

And whoever had opened fire on it—well—they vanished: not even the mercenaries the Alliance stooped so low as to employ could come up with anything.

There'd been rumors among the Fighters that it was the Colterons, but that didn't seem too likely. No one aboard the transport who'd survived had any hopes of identifying the assailants. The fear remained that someday they'd strike again: that if they were humans, they weren't worthy of the human race, and if they were something else—then, perhaps, an enemy just as awful as the 'Terons.

"That was . . . almost ten years ago." Praxis frowned.

"To the day," Encke added grimly.

"Do you think—?"

"I don't know." He rubbed his eyes. "Listen, all of you. Your Navigators, as I'm sure you've guessed, are all certified in emergency first aid. They're in the Med Bay now—they'll be helping the MO and his staff to stabilize what patients can be saved. We don't know how many survivors there are, but it's more than we're equipped to handle."

Helios shifted his weight from foot to foot. "When will they—"

"The MO won't keep them any longer than he has to, Helios, but I don't know."

To his surprise, Praxis reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, his expression somehow soft, as if he read between the words of what was otherwise a selfish plea. "Selene'll be okay."

Helios remembered something that Selene once said, about how open he was, how easy to read—and, as usual, Selene proved right. But the comfort was a shallow thing; the same worry lay thick over the lot of them, even Encke, though whether or not it was for their Navigators or the injured or over the attack, he couldn't know.

Just let Praxis be right.

Med Bay was a mess of blinding lights and sterile white and blood and char and vomit; it echoed with terse orders, machines whining of a flatline, screaming. Running on adrenaline, Selene gently held the head of a quivering man whom he knew wouldn't make it: he and one of the med-techs had tried to cauterize his wounds, to free him of the clothing fused to his still-crackling skin, but there was nothing doing about it—the burns, alarmingly, almost seemed like those from a radioactive burst—

The man was screaming, too, as were so many, but his voice was almost gone and the cries were almost like an infant's.

Selene reached for some gauze, wiping at the matter running down his dying charge's face. The man saw nothing now—those were not tears. Whatever had burned him so badly in an instant had eaten at his eyes, his lungs, his tongue—so that he couldn't speak—so that Selene had no name to offer him in comfort.

"I wish that we could let you go," he whispered finally. "I wish . . . I had some serum I could give you . . . so you could go to sleep . . ."

But that was the decision of the MO, and he was stretched too thin already.

There was a wisp of hair still clinging to his head—such a common color for the lot of them, if Selene was the exception. Had he been a Navigator, too?

Someone touched his shoulder, barking for him to follow because they needed him elsewhere—but Selene, teeth clenched, eyes dry, stayed just where he was. Perhaps it was wrong, perhaps the ghost of the other patient would haunt him afterwards, but he couldn't leave this man alone—he'd done that before.

The night-cycle of the Kepler still, surprisingly, fell across the ship. Helios paced their room for hours; he'd done pushups for the sake of motion, of something, until his arms ached and he lay there against the cold, cold floor, gasping.

A final meal had been brought to him by someone he didn't know. He set it on Selene's half of their desk. He wasn't hungry.

Finally, though, he found himself trotting to the communal bathroom, hoping to be back to his room within a few minutes, hoping—finally—to see Selene—

He pushed open the door and was greeted with the sounds of someone being violently ill. At first he thought of leaving, but whoever it was hadn't bothered or been able to close the door of the stall behind themselves—and they seemed in such duress that to leave would have been—he couldn't—

"Hey," he called in warning. "Hey, are you okay?"

". . . H-Hel . . . hn . . . Afon . . ."

His real name was forced along a raw throat, tied up in a strangled sob.

"Oh—God—Selene—"

To ask if his Navigator even wanted him there wasn't on his radar; slipping on the water that the shower-drains hadn't swallowed down their greedy maws, he crossed over to the stall in three quick strides, heart pounding. What do I do? kept circling his mind. What's he seen? What do I do? What can I do?

Selene looked pitiful, half-crouched, half-kneeling on the floor, back against the stall's side wall, face a sweaty, tear-streaked mess. He seemed incredibly small, wrapped up in the Navigator's garb. His stomach had nothing left and now he simply sobbed.

"Fuck—okay—hang on, I'm here, I—"

Helios looked desperately for a cloth, a clean cloth, anything to run under the faucet—nothing—of all the times, now the bathroom was empty and there was nothing. Sure that he'd one day find the gall to laugh, he tugged fitfully at his shirt, pulling it over his head, running it under cool water. It wasn't the cleanest, but what choice did he have? He couldn't leave Selene like this—he'd never leave Selene—

Awkwardly he squeezed into the stall, dropping to a crouch, reaching out to let the cool water run over his Navigator's face, his swollen eyes, his trembling lips. Tenderly he wiped away the strands of saliva, of bile; he slicked the hair back, too, resting the cloth against Selene's forehead for a moment.

Desperately the Navigator reached for him, clinging to his arm, trying to curl more tightly in upon himself, to lay his head against the Fighter's naked chest. His harsh sobbing had subsided, but Helios had never seen him shake that way—

"Selene. Selene, let's get back to our bunk, okay? Are you okay? You can walk? Okay—come on—"

Selene, to Helios' shock, drew a breath and, still carrying his Fighter's sodden shirt, managed to stand and move on his own. His face was beginning to regain its color; his lips were still; there was a resoluteness to him now, a resiliency, that Helios found both alarming and impressive.

"Thank you," the Navigator whispered, hands still knotted in black cloth. "I'm so sorry . . . I just . . ."

"Don't. Come on." Helios took the smaller man's thin shoulder, guiding him as gently as he could back down the hall. "Not here. We'll talk if—if you want to talk—but—"

The room was cold; there were no lights now, except the runners by the walls—the Kepler didn't allow that kind of luxury in the middle of its simulated night. But still, but still, Helios found himself grateful for the semi-darkness. Selene sat slowly down on Helios' bunk, drawing great, deep breaths; Helios picked up his abandoned ration tray and joined him.

"I'm sure you're not hungry, but I saved this in case—"

A small, sad smile quirked around the corners of Selene's mouth. "Weirdly, I am."

"Survival instinct," Helios muttered. "You're a Fighter after all."

Something passed across the Navigator's face that he couldn't place; Helios could almost hear the expletives Selene didn't dare to use. ". . . Shut up."

They picked at the tray in silence, Helios' stomach grumbling that he'd neglected it because his head and heart were too worried for Selene. Finally, though, when the tray lay empty on the floor, he felt a fine-boned hand find his. The grip was strong.

"You know about the Swift."

"Yeah. People are wondering if this was the same thing. Same people, maybe? Terrorists, I guess."

An impatient hiss escaped Selene. "I don't give a damn what they're saying about it. Let them guess, it doesn't change the truth of it . . . what happened now. Or then."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

Selene sighed, a hard, sad sound that made the Fighter blink, a sudden stinging in his eyes—because whatever was to come—

". . . Ten years ago . . . I just turned fourteen. Heading to Europa because my mothers wanted me to be close to the nearest Alliance base. So I could . . . try to get a foot in edgewise, hm? So I could learn from the colonists and maybe pick up some things that might help me get recruited as a Navigator. Europa's basically just an Alliance stronghold, anyhow—everything there's connected to it, somehow.

"We were . . . I don't remember most of it. Just that suddenly the warning sirens blared, but there was no way to get to the escape pods. There was light—and heat—and the sound of weapons-fire. It was dark . . . the lights went out . . . the systems failing. Everything. It was cold, so damn cold all of a sudden. It was hard—it hurt to breath. There weren't really quarters—not where I was—we were all just crammed in the belly of the ship together—and . . . all around me, people were dying or dead or so desperate to get out, to get anywhere . . .

"Do you understand? They weren't . . . human anymore. I saw . . ."

Selene bit at the words; Helios felt him tensing up, felt the breath beginning to whistle from his lungs. Gingerly, his own gut clenched, he reached out to stroke that brilliant head, to rub his back, to remind him that he wasn't alone. Even if Helios hadn't been there, even if he didn't understand—just to tell it—just to speak it—

He realized then that Selene hadn't told this to anyone. Commander Hayden knew, of course, and maybe Keeler—but that was from the Alliance's data—just cold, hard facts—

"I take that back," Selene whispered finally. "They were human. Just . . . No. Not just. They were."

Shudderingly he drew a breath. "I was trying to help this woman, pinned underneath a chunk of metal that was . . . melting. God. It glowed, it was so hot . . . she wasn't screaming, though; she just grabbed my leg and begged, 'Don't leave me. Don't leave.'

"Then . . . the intercom still worked, somehow—the damn intercom but not the fire suppression!—and someone was just screaming that the pilot of the ship was dead.

"And . . . that was it, for most of them. For those of us who were alive, it felt like that was it. We'd die. No one would find us before the ship broke apart or life support gave out. I couldn't help that woman. The metal was so hot . . . it burned. Even now I remember it being so hot it was cold . . . and I was just a kid, I wasn't strong, I'm not. I couldn't help her. But."

Selene cleared his throat. His hand, smooth and scarless now, was tight around the Fighter's; he leaned against the solid form, settling his weight, letting Helios be the one to hold him because he just couldn't do it anymore.

"But I knew how to navigate—to fly a ship."

"Fucking hell, Selene. You—?"

A subtle nod. "I made it up to the bridge somehow. I don't . . . remember how . . . and I saw from the radar that there was an Alliance ship close by. Relatively. I could get us there. Someone had had the sense to send out a distress call . . ."

Wanly he smiled—Helios felt the gesture in the shifting of skin against his shoulder. "Well, they met us halfway, anyway, and they'd seen the ships that got us. Never caught them, though—they were too good, whoever the hell they were, even for the best teams they sent out there to get them."

"Had you even—had you flown anything before?"

"I was studying to be a Navigator before training ever started. It's all I ever wanted. I'd had some practice in a VR sim when I was younger . . ." Thin shoulders shrugged. "I don't know. It just happened."

"You're fucking brilliant." Helios pressed his lips against the top of Selene's head, staring into the darkness, struggling to come to terms with what he'd been told. His Selene—delicate, brilliant Selene—had seen that. Had done that . . . Not that Helios' life on the streets in a colony on Mars was easy, but—

"The Alliance recruited me immediately, as soon as my hands were healed. It takes longer to train Navigators . . . Anyway. They saw what I'd done and tested me and that was that, I guess."

A pause: "Then I met you."

"Hm."

There was such a silence then that Helios wondered if Selene had drifted into sleep. But then—

"That's why I elected to be certified for emergency first aid. Part of it, anyway. To know that I could maybe, actually, help someone who's injured . . . There were so many that we couldn't save today."

"Shh. Selene, it's . . ."

"Don't you fucking dare say that it's okay."

"It's not. I swear, I wasn't . . . I've seen my share of shit, Selene. I know it's not ever okay." Helios began to run his fingertips over Selene's knuckle-bones, the valleys in-between, the swollen veins. "But whatever you did today, it's enough. You understand?"

"But it's not. The ships who attacked . . . got away this time. Just like before." Selene drove his free hand into the thin, thin mattress, the resounding, residual crack of the impact, of bone and metal, sharply dancing 'round the room. When he spoke again his voice was something Helios could hardly recognize.

"The VR sims. The room's still open."

"Always open—yeah, I think. But God, it's late, you need to sleep—"

"Come on. Come with me."

Without another word they dressed in their gear, hands sure and swift on familiar latches and bits of fabric that seemed almost like a second-skin. No one met them in the hallway as they felt their way along the Kepler's belly; no one stopped them at the lifts when they rose up, up a floor, and then another; no one barred their entrance to the training room which was—despite the cycle—ever-bright.

"Seems odd to finish that sim we started . . . Selene, we can do that tomorrow . . ."

"Get in. That's not what we're doing."

Helios dropped into the Fighter's seat, hands instinctively at the controls—one around the weapons-throttle, the other at the console-screen, studying the simulated glassy-starry-sky before his eyes. Selene was settled, too; the headsets embedded in their flightsuits crackled with the harsh cadence of his breath.

"There was a sim developed several years ago, designed to be the ultimate test of a Fighter/Navigator team. No one beat it, and—it kind of . . . it messed some of us up enough that the Alliance had it pulled. It's still in the databanks, though, under some encryption . . ."

The chattering of the computer's systems reached him as the capsule began to load the simulation. His heart began to pound. No.

"Fuck—it wasn't based on—" Helios fought to keep the trepidation from his voice. Goddamn it, Selene, I'm supposed to help you through this—somehow—but what am I supposed to do if you're throwing this shit at me? "No. Absolutely not. We're not—"

"Today I saw the same thing happen to all those people. Helios." Selene sounded on the verge of tears again—not panic—not fear—not hysteria—just raw, vicious rage. "And there's nothing I could do except watch people die. So you want to help me, Helios? Just like the MO said our Fighters should? Then do this with me. Just this once. Just this once, I swear, and we will never talk about it again."

There was something else to his tone which jarred the Fighter—there was a logic there—a trace of his Selene buried underneath what was otherwise a Fighter's lust for blood, for cathartic vengeance.

And that he understood. Hadn't he, not too long ago, praised Selene as such?

. . . Fuck.

The screen was dark, was cold; there were stars and, in the distance, a ship in agony. He could see the flames, the smoke, the silence of its slow, slow death because the vacuum of space tore out its tongue. Behind him, he knew, would lie the Alliance vessel; they were one of the unsuccessful ships sent after the triad.

In fact, the only one, according to the sim: no allies registered around him.

But there, just out of the corner of his eye, a blip upon the radar—

He gasped as the simulated ship surged forward, the stars strewn into streaks of raw light; as Selene sent them hurtling in chase.

"Just one," Selene was panting, "just one of them, Helios, you just take one—that's all the sim was ever meant to be—"

The three ships swam into sudden view, dancing on the screen, small and damned nimble: hitting them would be like trying to stab a gnat with a needle. Helios' hands were steady at the throttle; his eyes flicked back and forth between the ships and the radar screens; if he breathed he didn't know it.

"Could they—"

But the question wasn't finished: the capsule lurched again and a warning siren blared. They'd taken damage—but it couldn't be too bad—they weren't obliterated, anyway—Selene must have dodged—but whatever weapons they were using—

Desperately—but without a wasted motion—Selene drew them on the path of the ship which seemed to be the leader of the three: Helios couldn't believe how well the Navigator kept on him—the Colterons were skilled but this—he'd never seen a ship like this—and here was this brilliant, tortured man, able to catch them, to keep up—when no one else had done it—

His console screen flared crimson-bright; Selene had him within weapons' range, was holding there—somehow; again and again they spun and ducked and turned in what would once have been a nauseating whorl, all to keep up with that one damn ship—

"Helios, you fucking end them—"

(Please . . .)

And Helios' Fighter's heart snarled at his Navigator's words—his hands danced across the throttle, a spray of light before them, a silent scream, a sparks-soaked death, their answer—and their victory—and for Selene, God, he just hoped some peace.

Selene was silent while they walked back to their bunk, had been silent since the capsule screens grew dark and the controls locked up and they stumbled from its maw. Helios' limbs were lead; all he wanted was to sleep. He'd never, not once in all his training, ever been this tired. Or, in a strange way, satisfied, though he wondered and worried at what was running through the Navigator's mind—the man whose pulse ran deep and sure through the hand tightly laced within his own.

Wordlessly they began to peel their flightsuits off, the thin fabric sticky and clinging to their skin. Selene was quick; while Helios was still tugging at his pants he felt the Navigator wrap his arms around his waist, felt the smaller body pressed against his back, shuddered at the warmth of the other man's breath against his skin.

They stood like that for a moment, swaying slightly, feeling each other, needing each other, saying nothing because Helios couldn't blaspheme and break this silence that Selene had wrought.

Selene pulled them backwards, towards Helios' bunk—which wasn't really his bunk anymore—all the while circling the Fighter until they stood chest to chest, until he could push Helios back and help tug him free of pants which looked, at present, incredibly uncomfortable. He studied him a moment, running slender hands up his calves, along his thighs, marveling at the ropes of muscle underneath the skin—Helios always, always seemed so delicate, somehow, seeing him like this—whenever they made love, Selene treated him like glass—

"I said I'd help you find closure about Valentina."

Helios' eyes snapped wide; he'd been ready to lose himself with the Navigator and then, God, just sleep—

"And then she showed up again."

Why now, Selene? Truthfully, Valentina's sudden reappearance and equally abrupt exit had left him perhaps more rattled than the thought of simply losing her. Ever since she'd aligned herself with the Anglers—whoever the fuck they were—she'd seemed almost a stranger—an imposter cloaked in his beloved sister's skin—

But now—not her—not her—just this, Selene, just us—

"You still helped me, Selene. I promise. You keep all your promises to me . . ." Helios reached up, pulling the Navigator against him, kissing his collarbone and neck, trying to tease him into following the rocking of his hips, impatient now because words just couldn't encapsulate this—one of the most raw affirmations of life there was. Fighters, by their natures, tended to have two reactions to a day like this: one was violence, which they'd accomplished well enough in the VR sims. The other—

"Selene—just get the damn—"

"Afon—" Selene's voice was low, a hum, as he tilted the Fighter's face up so that it was captured in the half-light, all broad angles and eyes heavy-lidded with love and lust, effectively stilling whatever mewling want had been pulling at his tongue. But the significance of Selene using his real name wasn't lost.

The Navigator's fine hands shook, betraying his own desperation, as he fumbled for their bedside cabinet drawer. "Afon, tonight . . . you did the same for me."

"Keeler. Look at this."

"You should be asleep."

"And you. Come here."

Keeler wearily raised his head from his desk, where he'd been poring over tablets and scrolling text since the Kepler entered night. Encke lay on the bottom bunk, equally immersed in data, brow furrowed, eyes deep-set in the data's sharp-edged holographic light.

"Someone's been in the training room. Look at this score . . ."

Keeper peered over his Fighter's shoulder, lips parted soundlessly for several moments. "What? That sim's classified—no one should have access to it—"

"The one based on the Swift. Catching the assailants . . ."

"It's dangerous, Encke! Some of the Navigators—"

"Shit. Selene."

"—were survivors . . ."

"Well. Huh. Just look who beat it, Keeler."

Selene still treated Helios like glass.

Even in the end, when the Fighter ground out through clenched teeth that he wouldn't break, damn it, the Navigator never really lost himself the way Helios had hoped. After everything that had happened, he'd hoped Selene might be less-than-gentle with him, might actually cry out—

But, really, he shouldn't have been surprised: Selene was too soft-hearted to really be like him. There was a streak of Fighter's blood but it wasn't who he was—

Helios' shout was enough for their neighbors to have heard, Selene realized guiltily, taking care to muffle himself against the Fighter's shoulder when he felt the former clench around him, when his hips stammered in the steady rhythm and his hand reached out for Helios'—as it always did—and when "Ah!—Afon—" broke against his lips.

And yet as Helios wrapped him oh-so-gently in arms that could easily crush his ribs, as he stroked his hair, brushing long strands back from a weary, sweaty face, as he whispered sweet and sleepy nothings, Selene found that it didn't seem to matter so much . . . not when it was them, when they were like this, when he could understand why the Fighters tended to define their lives in brawls or who they'd bedded.

Today, in a sense, he'd tasted both—but differently, in that it was with his Afon at his side—and his Fighter alone was all the consolation in the world.