.x.

I once read that in centuries past, some ancient cultures believed there was a healing power in the purity of tears. Standing where I was, weeping in eerie silence, I wished fervently that it was true, that the hot droplets that slid from my eyes to stain my cheeks could heal, could ease pain, could erase everything that ever hurt or caused sorrow. But it wasn't to be. Beneath my watery gaze Scar's elicited a rasping growl that echoed in the stillness, reminding me, pulling me slowly towards him. What was I to do? The blue gel in the med-kit lay where Scale had deserted it, but I had no idea whether applying it would do any good. Scar's body stiffened in the grip of an agony I could only imagine, head falling back hard against the wall and lower mandibles flaring. Resolution—timid, hesitant, and tenuous—prompted me to rush the few steps it took to be before him.

His head had moved minutely, pinched, narrowed eyes following my movement. As I knelt before the abandoned med-kit and scooped up some of the gel into the curved, spoon-like utensil with trembling fingers he snarled at me, the sound ragged and harsh. It would have been threatening if perhaps it hadn't lacked its regular strength. I regarded him a long moment, tears drying, before inching closer and tentatively reaching the hand with the gel towards the still leaking wounds in his abdomen. My attempt was met with retaliation and though it was a weak blow, he swatted at my arm and succeeded in upending the gel from my grasp. It splattered on the ground, and I cried out in frustration, "Don't!"

A short bark, faint but undeniably one of ire, was my only response. Abruptly his head jerked back, his eyes swiftly closed, and his arms fell away from his chest before he became still. For a moment I feared he was dead. When I saw the slight rise and fall of his chest I felt relief, unwanted yet so welcome, flood through me. Securing the utensil again I returned for more of the gel, and my hands were shaking so bad it took me several tries to attain it. This time, as I leaned in close to the limp, unmoving form of the hunter, I glanced apprehensively at his face with its slack mandibles to see if he would suddenly awaken. He didn't, and so I took a deep breath to steel myself before I smeared the healing substance over the first of the bullet holes that had been punched through his chest.

The reaction was instantaneous. I should have known, should have remembered how much the gel hurt when added to an open wound. Scar's eyes snapped open as a thundering bellow burst forth from his mouth. He thrashed about and one arm caught me across the face in an unintentional backhand. Incapacitated as he was, Scar was still many times stronger than I was, and I was knocked away to land hard on my back against the roughness of the floor. It took me a few blinks to get my vision in focus, and when I swallowed past the knot of pain in my throat I tasted blood. Coughing, I sat up slowly and wiped my mouth with my hand, feeling the warm, moist blood from the blow trail across my skin.

Scar was watching me, breathing hard and fast, hands knotted into tight fists at his side. Uncertain whether he was sorry for hitting me or still irritated, it was with great trepidation that I drew near once more. He made no move to stop me, so I grabbe the utensil from where it had landed after flying from my grip and scooped some more gel into it. Aware of his scrutiny, I very slowly and very carefully crawled forwards on my knees in order to reach the other bullet hole, which was located near the other. I applied the gel quickly, fearing another outburst. His body stiffened and a low hiss escaped him, but that was all. I hazarded another glance up at him as I returned for more gel. His eyes were again closed, but I knew he was still conscious. This time it was the large slash marring most his torso that I was focused on and as the blue stuff touched the injury Scar didn't hold back his roar. As I smeared the last of the gel down the length of the slice I drew back quickly, fearing another repercussion.

His hand shot out then, clamping down on the wrist not occupied with applying the substance. Startled, I looked up to meet his eyes, so fierce in their regard. His upper mandibles flared slightly, and that familiar purr, lacking its usual strength, poured forth. The sound calmed me somewhat, and when he raised his other, slightly shaking arm to point at the med-kit I paid close attention. He crooked his longest finger in a beckoning gesture. He wanted me to bring the kit closer, and so I complied, setting the utensil down.

Placing the med-kit beside him, I sat back on my heels as he fumbled within it for something, removing the bowl that held the gel and somewhat unsteadily handing it to me. The only sound in the tunnel now was his rapid, shallow breathing and it altered only slightly as he uttered a satisfied grumble, having found what it was he wanted. It was a syringe of some sort, the needle being larger and thicker than anything I'd ever seen in human medical supplies, and the liquid housed with was a vivid orange. Surrounding the black plunger were four outthrust metal tines. It looked like a medical instrument out of some horror movie. Abruptly it fell from his grasp, clattering to the ground. I hastily leaned in to retrieve it and hand it back, but he shook his head and gestured with two fingers to his chest, dead center, and then to me.

He wanted me to administer the needle. I hesitated, which earned me an unpleasant, rattling chitter. Frowning in uncertainty, I got as close to him as I could without actually climbing onto him and raised the syringe, lining the needle tip up with the area he still indicated with a large fingertip. I risked a look up at his face. His eyes narrowed and his head bobbed once, and sucking in a breath I thrust the needle home. His cry was choked, garbled, and awash with sympathy and unease I pressed down hard on the plunger. The tines raised into an upright position as the orange fluid entered his body, and when the last of it had vanished I swiftly removed the needle from his flesh. After returning it to the med-kit, I turned again to study him, to gauge his condition. His breathing was still fast, and though I wasn't entirely certain what color his skin had been to begin with it seemed to have an almost indiscernible pallor to it. It wasn't heartening. It seemed as though nothing I'd done had made any difference.

He extended one hand then, palm up, and for a moment I could only stare at it, bemused. When the fingers curled and then lengthened again I understood. Almost unconsciously I took his hand in mine, forgetting in that instant my misgivings, my fears, my reluctant worries, and simply concentrating on the fact that his touch was comforting. Beneath my skin his own was cool, clammy whereas before it had felt as warm as my own. Was he in shock? Could his species fall into such a state? The texture of his flesh was slightly pebbly, sandpapery, and when I realized my fingers were running again and again over his own I jerked back, flushing. He refused to release me, and instead used his grip as leverage to pull me closer. Off balance, I braced myself with the other palm against the upper right part of his chest and become suddenly very aware of our proximity to each other, of the thunder of his heartbeat I could feel beneath my hand where it lay.

It was a tense moment, poignant with things better left unexamined and when he let me go I almost toppled over backwards. Struggling furiously to regain my composure, I ducked my head and avoided his gaze for a few seconds. Raising it again I found that he had leaned his head back and let his eyes close—was he unconscious again? Biting my lip I ran through a myriad of things in my mind, foremost of those the suspicion that perhaps he was in shock. First aid was something I knew well—I had to, for my career fairly demanded it. Body heat was vital in severe situations, and recalling the coolness of his flesh I found myself warring with what I should do, and what I dare not do …

"Screw it," I whispered then, for was there really any other option? I crept closer, watching him all the while with eyes wide with a nervousness I hadn't had the dubious honor of experiencing for quite some time. In a furious rush I settled myself beside him, tucking in close to his body but maintaining enough space that I wasn't clinging. My face felt red, and I knew it must be somewhere close to glowing – affection was much easier to handle within one's own species. He didn't move at my touch, which worried me. Was he now comatose, lost to the world? I inched my hand towards his arm and gasped when that particular limb suddenly moved. Around my shoulders it went, and when all was said and done I was being held close against his side.

Nothing further happened. I craned my neck back to look upon his face. As before his eyes were closed. It took me long minutes to relax, to allow my body to soften and to realize that in all actuality, being this close to Scar wasn't all that bad. It was long after that I noticed his body was in fact rather cold. Perhaps his sole reason in drawing me near had been to attain heat from my form to try and warm his own. It doesn't really matter, does it? I asked myself, because you're here, and you're with him, touching him … And there was the stark, brutal truth. Terrified as I was by whatever I felt for Scar, horrified by the implications and utterly confounded as to why this had befallen me, the fact of the matter was that I had, on some level, accepted what I felt.

And now here I was, almost embracing it.

It was only proper that the tears began to flow again—reality, refusing to be ignored any longer, tore them from me. And so once again I wept, tucked close against the side of the hunter I wanted to loathe, wanted to fear, but instead was worried for. When Scar's breathing evened somewhat, when his flesh against my own wasn't near as cold, my tears gave way to a weariness brought upon by emotions that drained energy, drained contentment from me. Lulled by breath not my own, lulled by soft, intermittent rumbles, I followed my companion into the welcoming depths of sleep which promised a sanctity I knew I wouldn't find in the waking world.

.x.