Author's Note: I do not own Riddick, more's the pity, however I do promise to return him. Eventually. I did not create Slam, merely this interpretation of it. I did not have any hand in the creation of Pitch Black. I did however create Spook, and the othercharacters not seen in Pitch Black.

The darkness was close and oppressive, even with the shine. Beside him, he could see the creamy glow of the girl, a damp cloth, stained red, clenched in her hand. His skin felt clammy and too small. His chest ached with every breath. He didn't try to move more than his head, and that was only to peer around him at the close metal walls. He stared up the tall ventilation duct, to where it ended at a grate and a slowly turning fan. The air flowed gently around them, but the blanket cut it away from his flesh. It moved down, around, through a duct near his feet.

He shifted to look better, pain searing through his body when he moved. He swore softly, barely more than a heavy breath. He glanced back at the still form of Spook, leaning against the wall, her head leaning back against the wall, slightly to the side. She didn't move. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, feeling the muscles scream against him, the pain course through him. His chest tightened painfully.

His own skin, was in a dark state of bruising, only the barest touch around the edges of the angry near black patches turning to the odd purpled green of fading. He raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes, wincing. Pain thrashed through his arm as the corded muscles protested the move. He narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth, bringing fresh pain from his jaw.

They must have really done a number on him. He could remember only the beginning... With a sigh that felt like a shiv in his chest, he closed his eyes.

Spook, held tightly in the arms of that guard, her face covered in the red marks of blows, bruises of old s trikes. She had tried to warn him away with her cries. She had fought the stronger man, trying to reach him. Then blows, the pain, the fury, the redness that had taken him, the bloodlust that had swallowed him, fueled by his own hurt. Then everything disappeared into the pain and press of bodies, the smell of sweat and blood.

...And Khyron. Khyron was out there somewhere. He'll be brooding over the fact that he hasn't succeeded in killing me... And no doubt he'll be looking for me.

His head tilted back onto the pile of rags she had placed there as a pillow. Not pleasant thoughts. Here he was, laying wounded, weakened, with only a girl to help him, while Khyron had somehow managed, from the little he remembered seeing between the shocksticks and the beating, managed to gain the help and support of the guards.

But dwelling on it won't change what happened. Just got to be aware that the little fuck has the backing of the only people in here who can actually make things rough on me.

The shoulders twitched, the outward sign of the huge man shaking the cobwebs out of his mind, turning his honed senses outward, where the demons of hell awaited his attention. The shaved head turned. The air rushed into him as he sniffed, testing the air.

There was the smell of antiseptic strong in the tight space. Something in the water bucket between them. She must have added something to it for cleaning him while he slept. Sweat also stung his nose. His and hers, stale. Soap. She must have bathed herself since he had fallen. The soft, gentle, musky scent of her skin. The metallic tang of blood. The itchy scent of the harsh wool against his skin. The ever so faint scent of dust from outside the shaft. The cool scent of machine oil, from the fan slowly turning above them. Detergent. He glanced to see a slightly mussed but clean new shirt folded beside him. He stretched his senses further.

He heard the dull echo of his own heartbeat. Then the soft tread of people. They were walking past the grate. Had she been forced to go to ground in a populated area because of his injuries? Or were they looking, searching the bowels of Slam in hopes of finishing him off? The steps weren't slow, so either the owners weren't searching or the area had been swept before.

Her breathing, steady, gentle, almost sighing.

He looked back at her.

The bruises on her face were fading to a greenish blot, mottled with some purples. He could see more bruised flesh where her shirt parted at her throat, before the buttons were fastened. The bruising must cover a good portion of her flesh - there were edges of it on her shoulder, visible through a ripped seam and on her wrists after the ragged cuffs. The rest of her pale flesh seemed pink, like she had been seared by something and the skin was inflamed, healing.

How much did they hurt you, little rabbit?

He reached one hand towards her, wincing slightly, wanting to see how bad the damage was to her pale flesh.

"Nice to see you awake, Riddick." She didn't move. Her eyes remained closed, but she smiled after her words.

"How long have you been awake?" His voice was more harsh than usual, the sound cracked, bruised like his flesh. She just opened her silvered eyes, shrugging. Those deep eyes, a bottomless pool frozen over in midwinter, fixed his with their steely gaze. Was that how his eyes looked to her?

"The food is still warm, if you're hungry." She made a vague gesture towards a bowl he now noticed by the bucket. Her head tilted back, her hair spilling over her shoulder when she shifted a little, off one hip and onto the other, as she leaned against the wall, curling her legs beneath her. The deep, dark, brooding eyes closed again.

"Food. You left me here?"

"You weren't going anywhere, with the fever and being unconscious. And no one was about to find you." Her voice sounded different. It matched her eyes, sullen, cold. She was staring at him again. "You need to eat, anyway. Keep up your strength so that the wounds and fever don't kill you." Then her face softened, a warmth entering it that didn't touch her eyes. "I was worried, Richard B Riddick. I thought I was going to lose you. Now eat." She had the bowl in her hands, holding the worn metal out towards him until he nodded once, taking it into his own large hands. Her fingertips brushed his as she handed it off.

Her storm-grey eyes gleamed in the dark as she stared intently into his face until he brought the first bite of the lukewarm gruel to his lips.

And to think I thought this crap was bad when it was hot...

"Khyron was behind it all." She nodded at his statement. "He'll be looking for me." To that she shook her head. "No?"

"No. Do you really think that he let me walk out of there with you? Or that I could have fought a number of men that brought the mighty Riddick to his knees and almost ended his infamous life?" She gave him a soft smile again. "No, we're still alive because Talbot was a fool. He brought grenades."

Blinding light, searing through her eyelids. The howls of terror, the stench of burning flesh, the searing scent of the unearthly flames. The shrieking, the agonized keening of men who were already dead. She sheltered the fallen form of her massive protector, her own small body shielding him from the heat.

She felt her skin tighten over her flesh. The light, the heat, accosted her tender body. She tightened her arms around the bleeding man, pressing her face into his raw flesh, murmuring quietly.

"don't you dare leave me. i'm not leaving you, don't you dare leave me. you hear me, Riddick? you come back to me."

Only a few men, coated in the white burning, stumbled from the room, swatting and rubbing at the fire in futile attempts to rid themselves of the burning. Their screeches only ripping their voices into shreds as the burning claimed them.

She only screwed her eyes shut, clinging to the broad body beneath her, tears leaking from between her lids, feeling his faint pulse against her cheek until she felt some pale shade of strength return to her shaking body.

She pushed herself to the side, resting for a moment on her knees, blinking, owlish, in the fading light in the corridor. Something was still glowing.

She glanced around, seeing first several still forms whose sizzling, charring odor identified as having been people, although whether guard or inmate was impossible to know anymore. And then she spotted the boots.

Riddick's boots.

The soles, the lower sections, were searing beneath a thin coating of the white, glowing, burning substance. A soft swear, then a word of thanks to whatever gods happened to listen to the forsaken prayers of condemned souls that the hell-sent flames hadn't covered any place she needed to touch in order to get the boots off.

And the boots were sent skittering down the hall, leavinf a fading trail of glowing white in their wake.

The fading glow of the phosphorous illuminated the form of a young girl stooping to lift the body of a man much larger than her. She was bent nearly double beneath his weight, but she half carried, half dragged him away from the flames.

"I thought I'd lost you." He looked up into the earnest face. "You've been laying there, in and out of fever dreams for almost a week, near as I can tell."

Riddick snorted. "Explains why I'm so hungry, huh." He cast the empty bowl aside, then let out a startled curse.

Spook had moved in close, her long fingers lightly trailing over the lines of neat stitches, then reaching for the antiseptic water, the wet cloth cold in the wake of her warm hand.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He snatched her wrist, his hand closing around it easily, pulling her up, her face inches from his, his eyes blazing. "That stings! I'm healing. I looked at them earlier. No need to be wiping that shit all over me again."

But she was chewing on her lower lip.

The rag was letting the liquid go in a cool trickle over his fingers, down both of their arms. It dripped off her elbow, the droplets making a little cold point on his thigh, making the skin tingle.

"Do you really need to be wiping that all over me? The fever is broken, little rabbit." His eyes met hers. "I'm not in danger of dying anymore. Besides, didn't you hear?" His face broke into a grin. "Ain't no trickeration in this whole damn place that can ex me out!"

She reached out her other hand to touch his face lightly, her fingers trailing over his jaw. "I must have missed that memo."