.x.

There is a state, when hovering on that fine line between the oblivion sleep offers and the awareness of awakening, where one can exist almost in limbo. The fetters and constraints of life have no substance, no consequence, and it is a place where one can simply disregard what makes them a whole and simply be. I clung to that state desperately, frantically, even as the aching of my bones pricked relentlessly at my consciousness, even as a deep chill settled over my body in entirety, pulling me slowly and inexorably closer to awareness, to the thankless existence that awaited me. I knew that to open my eyes and concentrate on all those things would lead me only to unhappiness and like the quicksilver tendrils of a wonderful dream the state of merciful ignorance slipped from my grasp. It was with a heavy heart and heavier trepidation that I opened my eyes to confront reality.

I'd forgotten, for those few blissful moments, where exactly I was and what had been done. As I blinked my surroundings into focus, as I recalled in one vivid rush the events that had so recently transpired, a mixture of icy dread and utter dismay settled deep within my core.

Would that this had all been a nightmare …

The weight across my shoulders served only to drive the point home; as I shifted carefully I flicked my eyes upward to find that Scar was conscious, and a rush of blood suffused my face as I met—only for a second—the steady amber of his gaze. I crawled out from beneath his arm as quickly as I could, awkwardly turning once I was free and kneeling before him a small distance away. He hadn't moved as I'd left his side, but his eyes had tracked my movement. Made uneasy by his stare I studied instead his injuries, noting that the bleeding for the most part had been halted and that the blue gel had faded and dried. His chest rose and fell with greater ease than it had earlier, which was somewhat comforting, and the only sound that broke the stillness between us was that of my own heartbeat thundering erratically in my ears.

Damn you, I told him silently. Damn the effect you have on me, damn what you've done …

"Why can't I hate you?" I whispered beseechingly. "Why can't you hate me?"

From the depths of his throat came his rumbling trill. I watched unmoving as he lifted one hand to probe at the wounds decorating his chest. Freed suddenly from the intensity of his regard I felt momentary relief. An abrupt, low hiss left him as he ran a finger along the edge of the large slash I'd doctored earlier, startling me so that I jumped. As his hand fell away he leaned his head back once more, lower mandibles moving only slightly in a manner that indicated to me that even that slight movement had been tiring. I avoided his gaze for a long, tense moment, staring fervently at the cracked stone I knelt upon and wondering wildly what he was waiting for. Inevitably my eyes were drawn once again to his own.

He made no further sound and simply watched me through slitted eyes, and I in turn remained where I was, on some level aware that my current position was very much like that of some frightened, wary animal preparing for flight. What do we do now? I found myself questioning silently, absurdly. I tried tearing my eyes from his and failed. They held me captive more by my whim than by his. And that, I suddenly realized, was exactly the reason he waited now.

He was waiting for me to choose.

Things had changed undeniably, unalterably, when I'd huddled next to him hours previous. I'd admitted not by word but by deed that I was drawn to him, ever the moth to the flame, and that I'd managed, however slightly, to accept that fact. It was I who had moved to his side, and it had been my decision not to leave when he'd drawn me close with his arm. Every step taken forward in this … relationship … of sorts had been my step, my progress. He'd made his own affection known and had left it at that, giving me the option to do what I would, to make the next choice …

Much like the choice I was faced with now.

I was stared at him then in dawning comprehension, replaying events, analyzing them, and trying to piece together some semblance of a clue, of a hint, of what I was to do next. Stupid girl, my mind said with no small amount of sarcasm, you know what you have to do next. It's really quite simple …

I let out my breath in a long, grimly resigned sigh. Yes, it was quite simple, but that didn't make it any easier. Swallowing thickly, I tried to slow my heart from its racing, tried to make my breathing even and deep; finally I made the choice I was so afraid of making, and crawled the short distance it took to be once again beside Scar. Once there I rocked back on my heels and risked another glance up at the hunter. His eyes had shifted to track my progress, but he made no effort to touch me. That, I knew, was the other half of my choice, and with bated breath I reached out to complete it.

I took his hand where it lay flat upon the stone floor at his side and lifted it, turned it so that the palm was facing up. Cradling it with one hand of my own, I splayed my fingers of the other out across his palm, noting again the grainy, pebbly texture and the sheer size of his digits next to my own. His fingers were half again the length of my own, ending in nails that weren't quite claws but were longer, harder, and sharper than that of any human. I studied the contrast of my skin against his, of the yellowish, mottled cast of his flesh in comparison to the duskier hue of mine. I noted the way the veins were prominent across the back of my hand—perhaps a sign of my stress—and the way it seemed so fragile, so insubstantial next to his. And when he gave a soft chitter, and when his fingers closed over mine, I didn't struggle to pull away. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to the part of me that wanted this contact, that wanted this affirmation, and forced everything else aside.

The only thing that mattered was what I desired most.

Thus we remained for minute upon long minute, hands clasped, the only sound intruding between the conflicting rhythms of our breathing was the occasional soothing rumble he would emit. When I opened my eyes again, I found that his were closed, and so I released his hand in order to return to the spot I had previously held close against his side. Bereft of my touch he turned his head, eyes reopening, with a quiet growl. He caught me by the shoulder as I drew nearer and repositioned me to his liking—still at his side, but half facing him, and with a hand at the back of my neck he rested my head against the upper half of his naked chest that had escaped wounding. My body was tense, muscles rigid, but his hand fell only to the small of my back, and he became still after that. And so I remained, listening to the roar of his heart beneath my ear, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my marked cheek, and found myself wondering how much within me had changed so that this would feel so right.

The answer eluded me because I wanted it to; I had no wish to dwell on the major revolutions that my inner self had undergone so recently, to reflect on how much I'd forsaken, to ponder the morality—if that's what it could be called any longer—that was posing such a threat to my sanity. When Scar's breathing deepened and alerted me he was again asleep—if his kind knew sleep as humans did—I let the tenuous hold I had over my own weariness overwhelm me, and gladly I succumbed.

.x.

The next time I was awakened was by Scar's insistence—one hand tugged gently on a length of my hair that had, like most the rest, escaped its bond. I lifted my head from where it lay against his chest, simultaneously blushing and smiling at his method of rousing me, and it was an instant later I realized that of all the things I was currently feeling—embarrassment, shyness, apprehension, fear—there was no guilt to be found, no remorse. And somewhere within me, buried but slowly showing itself, was a sense of accomplishment, of something being finally made right. Brushing futilely at the wayward wisps of my hair and feeling dryness in my parched throat that only water could ease, I mulled over these new revelations only to be pulled from them by Scar's inquisitive rumbling.

Hating the way my cheeks reddened, I looked up at him, wishing I knew what he thought while at the same time being glad I didn't know. With the hand closest to me—the hand that had held me to him, my brain helpfully pointed out in order to incite more blushing—he reached out to do what he hadn't done in quite some time: one finger traced the shape of the scar adorning my cheek. When he was done I caught his hand in my own. He left it lie there a second before retracting it in a long, soft brush of fingers across my palm. Chittering, he set about examining his wounds, and I leaned in closer for a look. To my astonishment, his skin had partially mended itself together, closing the long slash. Moving my eyes to the bullet holes I found that they were almost healed in the same manner. Was this that purpose of the blue gel? Or perhaps this was a reaction from the combination of the gel and the needle? Or maybe the predators simply healed faster than humans did? Whichever it was, it proved—as I'd earlier suspected—that their medical technology surpassed our own by leaps and bounds.

While I was finishing the inspection of his wounds, Scar had retrieved his mask from where it lay beside my spear. As I straightened he attached the two hoses that came over his shoulder from where they originated at his back to the upper corner of his faceplate with a pressurized hiss. I watched as he shook his head slightly, as though to bring his vision through the visor into focus. His upper body was now devoid of the armor that had previously encased it—damaged beyond repair in his struggle with the predalien?—and of his spear and shoulder cannon there was no sign. From there I had to wonder somewhat nervously what would happen next, and I gave voice to my concerns.

"What now?" I asked. Scar was now examining his gauntleted wrist—the same gauntlet, I noted, that held the blades. My first question having been effectively ignored, I prompted once more, "What do we do now?"

In answer, the curved knives exploded forth from his wrist gauntlet with enough force to make me jump. Almost immediately I heard the trill of his laughter. Apparently, I mused dryly, he was feeling better, and with a smile of my own I reached out and pulled hard on a strand of his beringed hair that had fallen over one shoulder. I managed to scuttle back before he could catch me and crouching, I let my own laughter rise above his. He shook his head once, still trilling, before climbing carefully and slowly to his feet. I rose as he did, observing the way his movements were more reserved, more tentative than they had been and knowing that he was testing the extent of the damage to his body and the healing that followed.

He stepped past me then, striding in a stiff manner that bespoke of some residual pain across the length of the tunnel to where the predalien corpse still lay in a depression carved by the acidity of its own blood. I followed him after retrieving my spear and came to a halt at his side. As he stared down at it I knew it had been his kill, his triumph, and I wondered if he would take from it trophies. He surprised me when instead he turned to me and placed one hand on my shoulder, growling, while the other occupied itself by touching my mark. I was never more aware than in that poignant instant of the differences between the hunter and I. He towered over me, could have overwhelmed me and by all rights should have. When he released me with a short bark and turned in the direction Tank and Scale had gone I choked back the doubts and fears that threatened to return and instead focused on the resolve I knew I would need.

And so we left, Scar in the lead, slowed somewhat by his injuries and I trailing close behind in a state that was almost one of numbness. You'll be forever haunted by what you've done, said the malicious part of me as we entered again the narrower confines of the rock tunnel, refusing to be silenced.

You would have been forever haunted by what you hadn't done, said another part of me. I sighed, and it wasn't a happy smile. Both voices spoke the truth.

.x.