A/N: I don't even know where the idea for this came from but here it is anyway. Truth be told, I had wanted to squeeze it into my fic 'Your Fate is Not Your Own' but I couldn't make it work so it's a oneshot (though, knowing me, it may be longer) for now. Again, not really sure about the timeline. Maybe sometime before/during Maul and Savage's duel with Palpatine?

"Shh… it's okay. It's okay. Nothing's happening."

Everything was happening. Shots fired all around them, the ground shook and yet here she was, trying to tell him that everything would be all right.

The silence then — it was tangible, physical, and it was surrounding her, imprisoning her. Not that she would let it take over her. No. She was there, and Savage was there, and he needed her. She needed him, too. She knew that. And yet she had the feeling that he needed her more, that Maul's grip had becoming suffocating, controlling. But it wouldn't become inescapable.

"Look – look at me." Not even thinking, she placed a hand to each side of his head, fingers hooking on his horns. She wondered if it would feel like – if it would be easier — wrestling a gundark. But no. Savage relaxed, relented, tilted his head ever so slightly, so that she could look him in the eye, so that she could read him – and he could read her. So that he could see that she wasn't a threat.

She'd heard of the Nightsisters. But they were little more than a myth, and they had all been wiped out, hadn't they? If any had been left, if any had been spared Dooku's wrath, they would be fragmented, disbanded, alone, powerless. Wouldn't they? A shudder wracked through her then, and goosepimples sprung up on her bare arms. But she didn't care about that at the moment. No. Savage.

He would be okay.

She would fix this.

Wouldn't she?

Furiously, she shook her head, sighed, returned her gaze – desperate – to him. His eyes may as well have been glazed over – he could not see through the smoke, the thick, green, poisonous haze of the Nightsisters. And it hurt.

He was strong, so very strong, pure sinew and muscle and power. Sheer power. She had noted that when she had first met – if 'met'was the right word, and it probably wasn't – him. But they had been standing in the Royal Saloon of Sundari so very long ago, back when nothing really mattered, back when everything had been simple and solvable.

But she wasn't going to let go. And she kept her grip on him, holding his head as firmly, as gently, as she could, making him – forcing – him to look at her.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she said, grating those words out between her teeth. They stung. "I won't hurt you, Savage."

Then he fought back, wrenched himself with so much ease out of her hold. And she could do nothing but stare after him.

Well, she could talk to him.

"Savage." She wasn't being gentle now. "You must look at me. Don't turn away. Look at me."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. And when he spoke, it was a low grumble, a sound that made the ship shake. But it didn't make her afraid. "No. I can't."

She knew she was small, knew that he could have snapped her like a twig, like she was nothing, like he had been sent on a mission by Maul. And Maul's missions never included mercy. Mercy was a weakness. At least, that was what Maul had taught him.

"Yes," she countered softly, still not daring to come to stand behind him because the ship's bulkheads were hard, metal, and she rather liked her bones where they were.

"And I won't make you. But please, let me take a look at your horns. One of them looks a little bit swollen, jagged."

The Zabrak was tall, broad, hulking, and he could barely stand up in the ship without hitting his head on the ceiling. But he could still feel pain – the Nightsisters hadn't chosen to make him impervious to that. And he swallowed, turned around, sat down again.

She let that little smile cross her lips as she held the bone-mender. "I don't know if this will work on Zabrak horns."

He grunted, didn't object.

"Okay," she muttered, blowing air through her lips, as she raised the bone-mender, switched it on, waved it over Savage's jagged horn. "I don't think – I don't think I can do anything about this one, though."

He knew which one she was talking about – the one on the left, at the front, its point eroded into a stump. It had happened years ago, and it hadn't bothered him, until now, until he realised that she had noticed.

She sighed, put the bone-mender down. Or was about to… when she felt a hand curl around her wrist. His long fingers held her slim arm with no difficulty, and she had no choice but to stay still. The bone-mender fell out of her hand, and she looked up at him.

"Savage?"

But his eyes were not burning and his mouth was not curled into a sneer. No.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she breathed. "I didn't know, well, that you had feeling in your horns."

"It did not hurt," he grunted out. "But – what you were doing before—"

For the slightest of moments, she had no idea what he was talking about. And then she smiled like she hadn't done in a long time. He unfurled his fingers, let her wrist go free, and she felt no ache. But she could see that he could, and she touched her thumb and forefinger to his broken horn, to the one that she hadn't managed to heal, to the one that had gone unseen to for so long, and he bowed his head, leant into her touch.

A low, rumbling noise. She started but didn't draw her hand away. Then she realised what the sound was. He was purring — very, very softly, almost imperceptibly. But he was purring, contented and soft, like a loth-cat, and she wanted nothing more than that moment, as she stroked that broken, jagged horn, and they sat there, together.