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Bruno stares hard at the screen, hands curled to tightened fists at his sides. He can’t look away from the fight. Doesn’t even blink, his breaths carefully steady and even because if he doesn’t focus on keeping tight control of himself, he’ll –

The biggest of Leone’s opponents – a scragx from three planets over – swings its clublike arm into his side with an audible crunch, and Bruno flinches. Terrible heat rising in his chest, veins flaring blue all over his body because Leone can’t get away. Can’t even dodge right. Not with that spike from the xinkrak embedded in his leg, this creature pinning him in place for the others to use as a punching bag.

Oh – they didn’t have to mic the arena so well –

There’s the awful sound of tearing flesh as Leone brings up his freed knee to slam into the face of the xinkrak. Just about the only spot that he can hit without impaling himself. It gets him free of that opponent, if not the others.

Now he’s grappling with the scragx. Shoving at its heavy arms with both scraped-raw hands, trying to unbalance it, which would be a wonderful plan but he can’t watch his own back as he does –

Bruno takes an aborted step forward, a cry dying on his tongue. It won’t do any good from this distance.

One of the commentators gleefully exclaims how much it must hurt when Leone’s third opponent grabs his ankle with two hands and yanks him rough to the ground, feet swept out from under him, breath knocked out of him when he hits the arena floor chest-first. Hard.

Leone lands right on ribs that have to be broken, after that hit from the scragx – and now he’s blocking what he can as the tankrien drags him along the ground, beating at him with its other four hands – spiky exoskeleton of the xinkrak winding too-close, too-fast – scragx stomping nearer so that – so that Leone can be swung into it, battered against its rock-hard skin.

The crowd roars louder. Bruno is trembling where he stands, biting hard on the tip of his tongue. Short tail curled down.

Leone squirms free of his opponents’ grasp. Of course he does. He stumbles to standing on wobbly legs, one of them gushing blood around the xinkrak’s spike stabbed vertically through it. The other boasting a torn pantleg and more blood –

It’s as if Bruno can smell it from here, Leone’s blood. His antennae twitch toward the lit up screen, and when Leone’s expression twists in ferocious determination, fingers closing around the plume of feathers atop one opponent’s head as he brilliantly tries to sandwich it between the bulk of another and the spines of that xinkrak – Bruno can’t take it, anymore. Can’t stay aboard this ship.

Promises made to Leone be damned – Bruno cannot continue to watch from here.

He darts away from the screen, eyes glued to it for as long as they can. Catches Leone taking a nasty swipe to the face just before he turns fully and runs for the stairs. Climbs to the upper level and hurries to his ship’s door.

Pulse pounding, his blood is surging through his veins. Louder than the crowd, which he can hear all the clearer as soon as he’s rushing through the docking bay – speeding through the hangar at a run. Jumping the turnstiles and dodging the weapons-detectors that are unmanned anyway, now, with every last bit of security and attention focused on that damnable fight.

Why did he let Leone talk him into this?

Bruno’s heart lodges in his tightening throat as he breaches the nearest spectator entrance. Bypasses the rows of seating and makes right for the balcony railing, gripping it tight, suctioning his fingers to it as he stares down into the arena.

‘Just this one last fight,’ Leone said.

‘Watch from the ship,’ Leone said.

Bruno was an idiot for letting this happen. Should have dug in his heels and steered them far, far away from this horrible place. The prize money – no matter how grand – isn’t worth –

Watching as Leone is gripped by the hair, held aloft like that with blood running down his face. He kicks hard at the bulky scragx with the whiplike xinkrak wrapped to its shoulders. A duo no less lethal than the tankrien that’s holding him. One hand in long white hair. Another wrenching one of Leone’s arms behind his back – pulling tighter. The joint creaks.

It’s all Bruno can do to keep from throwing himself over this barrier. Down into that arena to pull Leone out. That could get them both killed. Would definitely result in Leone’s death. This only. Might kill him.

Leone’s heel catches the scragx in its taunting mouth, that great head wrenched aside as it overbalances and stumbles, Leone’s one free hand reaching to yank at the tankrein’s plumage. It shrieks, but –

Pulls on his arm until there’s a sickening pop, Leone screaming between clenched teeth.

When he’s dropped, that arm swings useless at his side. His broad shoulders are heaving, he’s breathing so hard, white hair hanging bloodied in his face. Form-fitting battle-wear is torn in too many places to count and he’s got maybe just two useable limbs, now, but still Leone fights.

Antennae stretching forward, Bruno can feel him. Determination burns like a fire while silent pleas run rampant through Bruno’s head. He can’t intervene, he can’t he can’t he can’t. It will be fine. Leone will be fine.

He’s survived so much already. This was supposed to be another simple tournament.

They weren’t all supposed to come at him at once –

Clinging at the balcony’s wall, Bruno just barely stops himself from perching atop it. He’s leaned far enough over the edge as it is, gaze fixed on the struggling shape of Leone. So much power thrums through him, still, and he’s lashing out strong. Drives his heel into the xinkrak’s mottled face, wrenches a spike free from the writhing insectoid and whirls around with it. Shoves his makeshift weapon into the tankrien’s eye.

The crowd erupts in cheers. Eating up the spectacle that Leone provides. Just like always.

Their organs don’t get all tangled in their chests, at the blood spraying from his mouth when he’s struck by a flailing tankrien fist, this being struggling as it goes down scraped by so many xinkrak spines. Bruno finds himself muttering, “Come on, please, please,” and clamps his teeth shut to keep his voice at bay.

Leone is almost there. Almost has the win, with one opponent bleeding out blinded, another writhing with its central nervous system crushed beyond use. That scragx is the last real obstacle in his way.

He’s doing all he can. Throws himself at it and swings his legs up around its thick-solid neck, trying to wrangle it over atop one of the others or choke it out even as his thigh tears and bleeds from the spike in it and his dislocated arm dangles precarious and Bruno cannot breathe, watching him. The jeering of the crowd blurs together with the excited rambling of the commentators – and –

An alarm blares, intrusive and sudden. Almost like a fanfare, and Bruno is jarred back to himself from that Leone-tunnel-vision. Senses on high alert, he glances up and down the aisles of the audience seating, but there’s nothing. Security doesn’t so much as twitch. But the crowd itself goes ballistic. Shrieking in excitement. Cheering loud.

Not an alarm, then. No.

An announcement.

“Bring out the draetic!” The referee announces in a booming voice with undisguised glee –

It’s a chant the audience takes up immediately, calling for the draetic. Drums pound as that fanfare reaches a pitch, and Bruno’s insides plummet through the floor. Cold dread creeps up his spine.

Leone doesn’t know what’s coming. He can’t know – the draetic wasn’t anywhere in Bruno’s database. They’re so rare, he never thought to prepare Leone for an encounter with one. Only three are said to exist in the entire galaxy, they were supposed to be a myth, not something that gate at the edge of the battleground should be rising to admit.

A long mass of dirtied white fur. Claws like curved swords. Dual heads with growling mouths, jaws drooling venom so lethal it burns through the floor as the draetic looses an almighty roar that rumbles the entire stadium.

Unless that’s the eager stomping of so many spectators crying out for blood and violence and death –

Leone – where’s Leone? Still struggling with the scragx –

Widened gold eyes are fixed on the draetic as it gallops in closer by the heartbeat, and the scragx drives one heavy fist into the spike impaled through Leone’s thigh – he cries out – goes back to scrabbling with it all the while doom circles him and his opponents alike.

And Bruno turns on his heel, running like hell back into the guts of the arena. Sprinting for any stairs that will take him down, throwing himself through any doors that will lead him behind the scenes, mind whirring all the while.

He toured this facility with Leone not three Earth hours ago, and even if his memory isn’t as impressive as his love’s, he can still find his way around. And he made it a point to map getaways, even, because while he wholeheartedly believes that Leone can win – well. He expected something like foul play. In the back of his mind.

Didn’t like the look of all those cages, or the surly opponents in the battle prep area. Leone, though, had been so optimistic –

Muscles burning, Bruno leaps the last of the stairs, landing on all fours. Some security personnel shouts after him but he pays them no mind. Darting up along the walls, running fast as he can through the empty holding block in the basement. Weapons storage and areas for cleaning up, waste disposal units. The hideous bloodstained underbelly of the flashiest arena in this particular galaxy – fuck, they never should’ve come here.

Too late for that, now. Bruno gallops harder, sticking his way along the wall and up toward the convex ceiling here, in the underground training room. Directly below the arena itself.

The crowd and the announcers are muffled, down here. Security is converging fast beneath Bruno, only a handful of guards that he’ll worry about later, their blaster aim is so bad. One stings his side but he ignores it. Feels along the ceiling. The whole of it is trembling with every heavy footfall of that draetic.

Leone is somewhere near. Only a floors’ width above Bruno, so he quiets his mind as best he can. Forcing himself to move slower. Antennae scuffing the ceiling as he searches it by feeling alone, crawling steady across it. Concentrating…

Here! Spiking adrenaline, humanoid determination meeting dread. Tang of Leone’s sweat. His fear.

Reaching into the holster around his thigh, Bruno pries his phaser free. Presses it to the section of thick metal sheeting that feels strongest of Leone, and activates it without a second thought.

A hole opens up, and Bruno clings at the edges of it – darting out a hand to catch the fast-falling shape of Leone that plunges downward, accompanied by a screeching scragx, then half of the xinkrak as the phased hole closes on automatic above –

Bruno’s arm wrenches with Leone’s weight, but he doesn’t let go. Neither of them falls.

“Bruno,” Leone gasps, breathless and wheezing, squirming in the arm wrapped around him. One bloodied hand scrabbling at Bruno’s shoulder.

The scragx keeps falling. Lands square and heavy atop most of the security guards, and Bruno is already grabbing his phaser in his teeth, crawling backward along the ceiling, heading for the sloped wall. He fights off a wave of nausea because Leone’s flesh moves over broken bones and he’s grunting out in pain. The thick, metallic tang of blood permeates Bruno’s senses. He moves as fast as he dares.

“Bruno,” Leone says again. “We’ll –”

“Sh!” Bruno hisses through the phaser clenched in his jaws. Won’t argue right now. They’re getting out of here. Leone is getting out of here. Alive.

Feet hitting the floor, Bruno grabs his phaser and re-fastens it to its holster while keeping one arm around Leone, who’s swaying unsteady. Too close by, the guards are untangling themselves from xinkrak remains, pushing prying their way free of the furious injured scragx, unscathed security already running this way –

Bruno cups a bruised cheek, lamenting the terrible gash across Leone’s nose. That unfocused glaze of his eyes that clears slow. “Can you run?” Bruno asks. An unfair, painful question that’s not answered right away. Bruno squeezes the elbow of Leone’s intact arm. Even this one is smeared with red. Leone’s, from a long, jagged scrape. “Leone.”

“Yes,” Leone grunts. “I – yes.”

Despite the fact that he knows Leone will stay on his feet even when he can’t, Bruno takes the confirmation he needs. Grips Leone’s wrist and makes a beeline for the nearest exit.

The walls shake with an enraged bellow from the draetic run rampant deprived of its prey, and the disappointed booing of the crowd. They’ll have to make do without this final bit of gore – Leone stumbles unsteady behind Bruno but keeps pace as they flee. Laser blasts glancing off walls and an enraged scragx batting aside security officers. Crashing into the narrow walls of this hall.

Pouring on speed that Leone doesn’t (can’t) match, Bruno hurries for the maintenance elevator. They’ll never make the stairs. Not with Leone’s leg like that. Oozing blood, spine shoved through muscle, the ends of it scraping his skin anew with each movement –

“Just a little further,” Bruno murmurs. Every step Leone takes weighs heavy. “Just to the hangar…”

Around a tight corner – Leone choking on a pained noise as countless injuries are jostled – Bruno mumbles breathless apologies – spurring them on – the elevator is right at the end of this hall.

A loud roar from the scragx, the ground trembling as it lumbers after them, swinging its arms, swearing in its gurgling language. It’s cracked and bleeding, too, silvery liquid running in rivulets down craggy flesh – but at least it’s blocking the hall. Taking up space with the guards scrabbling and yelling behind it.

Bruno tugs his phaser free. Keeps his eyes ahead. Squeezes tight to Leone’s wrist, fingers suctioning to blemished skin.

No time to wait for the heavy elevator door to open, Bruno slams his phaser to it. Pries open a hole just barely big enough for himself and Leone and hauls them inside – thank everything the elevator was docked down here. They spill inside and Bruno drags his phaser behind himself, pushing Leone in deeper as the door reforms behind them.

The scragx slams into heavy metal. Dents it, pounding with its fists, screaming out its frustration, but Bruno stabs hard at the ground floor button, and the elevator creaks, groans, rumbles upward. Slow and steady.

It’ll give them a minute of privacy, at most. Scant seconds to gear up for the final dash.

Something that Bruno should be more concerned with, maybe, but all he’s got the headspace for right now in this tiny window of safety is Leone. That trembling steadfast body smearing blood along the walls, where he’s wedged himself into a corner to stay standing. Bruno is on him immediately.

Makeup-darkened brows are quivering, Leone’s eyes fallen shut. He’s breathing heavy through his nose, and this, at least, sounds unobstructed. Hopefully that means cracked ribs remain clear of his lungs.

Bruno cups exertion-warm cheeks in both palms. Tries not to lean on Leone even though all he wants is to melt into him, run hands over every inch of him to ensure that he’s okay – but there’s no time for that, right now. All Bruno can do is trust in the heat Leone’s body radiates, that iron will thrumming beneath the surface. It’ll keep him alive. It has before. Has to, now…

“Are you with me, Leone?” he asks, because those eyes still haven’t opened. No matter how Bruno rubs at bruised, scraped cheeks with his thumbs. There’s a gash on Leone’s hairline, blood dripping out to join the rest.

Leone’s head dips on a nod. His lips press into a tight line, and his eyes squeeze shut tighter, but he nods again. Firmer, this time. A sound like, “Mhm,” coughs out of his throat.

Keeping his eyes on Leone’s pain-pinched face is impossible, no matter how Bruno fights to keep his gaze from sweeping downward. Assessing the damage here and now won’t do any good, yet here he goes, looking anyway. Counting the countless tears in tight black fabric, soaked darker with red. Tracking the tremors that tick through Leone’s impaled thigh, spike quivering along with him where it’s wedged through torn muscle. It rattles-taps against the metal elevator wall; Leone isn’t holding any weight on this leg, these toes barely brushing the floor.

His other leg has that busted open knee, but it stays steady. Keeps Leone upright and leaned into his corner, one useable hand pressing reddish smudges into the brushed metal finish of the elevator’s interior. The other dangles, knuckles swollen, shoulder joint visibly mangled even through the fabric of Leone’s bodysuit. Both of his palms are brushed raw, skin scraped roughly open.

Bruno bites his tongue on a million and one different things. Assurances and comments and I-told-you-so’s that won’t do a lick of good now. All Bruno wants to spare time for is to brush his thumbs gentle at Leone’s cheeks. Hold his sore head away from all that unforgiving metal. Give him something comfortable.

“We’re going to have to run again,” Bruno says, keeping his voice low. His antennae are twitching, picking up distress-pain-conviction. It floods his own veins visible and he won’t let Leone die. “It’s only a matter of time before –”

The lights in the elevator wash red, and a shrill blaring alarm fills the silence.

Only a matter of time before that happens.

Bruno’s heart lurches. He runs a hand through Leone’s tangled hair, careful of its wrenched roots even as Leone’s eyes flutter open. They blink dazed at the ceiling before focusing to squint at the red lights, white swirling alarm in one corner of the elevator. Reflected all around.

It’s enough to give Bruno a headache. Never mind his poor, concussed Leone.

“B’fore someone raises the alarm,” Leone mutters, his eyes closing, head resting heavy in Bruno’s hold. “‘Course…”

That string of words from him is so reassuring, that it leaves Bruno fighting the urge to lean forward and kiss him. Not the best idea, until he figures out where the blood dribbling out over Leone’s bottom lip is coming from. It bubbles, when Leone sighs. Clears his throat and stands straighter on his sturdier leg. Readying himself to bolt, as Bruno should be.

Parting from Leone is impossible. They still have a few precious seconds left, before the elevator reaches its destination.

“We just have to make it to the docking bay,” Bruno repeats, as much for his own assurance as Leone’s. “I’ll help you.” By which Bruno means he’ll support as much of Leone’s weight as he can, and do his best not to aggravate injuries – which might well be impossible – “I’ll make it as straight of a shot as I can.”

“Mh.”

“Just running. No fighting.” Because Leone has done enough fighting, and if they pause for any reason, they’ll likely be overrun. Even more outnumbered than Leone was in the arena itself.

Another grunt from Leone. His purple-gold eyes crack open to fix on Bruno, much clearer than they have been. “And if someone gets in our way?” he says, words partially muttered, strained by pain. But at least they aren’t slurred.

“We force our way past.” Bruno will shove anyone aside, to get Leone out of here. Will phase through living beings, if he has to, even if that is a messy, questionable business. “Just keep running.”

Leone’s bleeding mouth falls open as if to talk back – but they’re out of time.

The elevator rumbles to a stop, and Leone leans free from his corner, his expression going stony. Bruno’s palms slip from that determined face. He shifts out of Leone’s path, gets between him and the door as it creaks its way open. Painfully slow, and the second there’s a big enough gap, blasters fire into it, laser-burning the back wall –

Bruno rushes the guns, shocks them into ceasing fire for a moment as he barrels into the crush of security personnel – some kind of cloned or autogenerated every-man system, an easy to disrupt hivemind – and forces his way through. Leone hurrying along behind, throwing his weight into anyone that gets close.

Thank goodness these lasers aren’t the lethal sort. The most they do is sting. Hopefully Bruno can get himself and Leone out of here before the guards have time to raid their armory.

This in mind, he pours on the speed – only to skid to a halt, at the sound of Leone swearing and stumbling – Bruno backtracks, props himself beneath Leone’s arm to help support his bad leg, forgetting that this is the side with the dislocated shoulder –

Leone lets out a sharp groan, slumping against Bruno. His feet stutter, he almost falls, but Bruno hauls him up. Murmuring apologies for too many pained whimpers as he clutches the limp arm over his shoulders. Wraps his own arm around cracked ribs and hefts Leone higher – gets a yelp out of him – but they can’t stop for anything. Not now. No matter how Bruno’s heart beats sore. Leone bleeding and gasping.

They run and run and run, alarms blurring everything red, creating a horrible cacophony as Bruno rushes Leone onward. Down the back maintenance hall. Only barely outpacing guards that are in much better shape – fuck – Bruno phases them through a wall, hopes it’s the right one –

Yes – they wind up in a parallel hall. This one clear of pursuers but not for long so Bruno keeps moving.

Leone is a drooping, slippery shape at his side, bent partially over him. Running as best he can on his injuries, breath coming in ragged gasps.

A left turn, they’re in the clear. Another span of hallway and then Bruno is throwing himself at the nearest emergency exit, the one that leads to the landing pad – it sets off another alarm, overlaying the first, and now there’s no way the guards won’t know where they are. They’re converging from all sides. Some of them hurrying to their spacecraft, just in case Bruno makes it out –

And he will make it out. Will worry over flight pursuit later. Once they’ve left the atmosphere of this place far, far behind and Leone is safely bundled aboard their own ship – shit, what if Bruno can’t get away, even then?

The path to their sliver of boarding deck is thoroughly clogged with security, four bigger models of the standard guardsman, but even before them, there’s a cluster of normal-sized ones, bearing blasters much more deadly than the stinging pistols from before. Two have stun batons sparking to life.

Bruno swears with a violent click, tail flicking. He hauls his fading Leone behind a stack of shipping crates that hopefully don’t house anything volatile – plasma blasts jar the thick synthetic material of the boxes. A barrier that won’t hold for long.

“Looks like…” Leone bares his teeth on a snarl, working hard to stand on his own. Bruno keeps tight hold of him. There’s blood still leaking from his mouth. Staining his teeth. “We’re fighting after all.”

A deep breath. Bruno tugs his phaser from its holster. Kicks himself for not thinking of bringing any actual weaponry. “You wait here,” he says, trying for calm even as the crates at their back rattle and crack apart. He pushes Leone against them in an unsuccessful pin that’s far too light because he doesn’t want to aggravate broken ribs or oozing cuts or tens of hundreds of bruises. “I’ll phase a path for us.”

Stubborn as ever, Leone shakes his head. He’s pushing against Bruno with the one hand that works, prying just enough space between them so that he could be standing on his own, if it weren’t for the boxes at his back, propping him up.

“Phaser’s too slow,” he grunts.

“So I’ll shove some over the edge.” There’s plenty of a drop, here. Thin, fragile railings. They certainly aren’t strong enough to hold the big guys, if only Bruno can make it past the smaller ones with their powered-up blasters and vicious batons.

“You’ll get shot,” Leone spits, leaning free of the containers in his greatest show of defiant strength yet. “I’ll help.”

Oh, that starts panic rising in Bruno’s throat like nothing else. “How, Leone?”

Bleeding mouth set in a grim line, Leone reaches down – and Bruno realizes what he’s doing in an instant, calls out, “Don’t!” – but is still too slow to stop him from gripping that xinkrak spike in his leg and yanking it free in one smooth, squelching move that sends blood rushing to the surface – pooling to gush down his leg – he gasps aloud – flinches hard –

Bruno grabs at his shoulders to steady him, but Leone holds fast. Stands there sweating, shaking, but gripping the spine in his one good hand. Swinging it some as if to flick the blood off of it. Impossible, with how much there is.

Yet again Bruno is chewing on his tongue as it slithers frustrated between his teeth. Leone will be the death of him, in one way or another. He has to argue this but there’s no damn time.

Not with Leone pushing at him, urging him out from their rapidly crumbling hiding place – and, well, if they’re doing this, they might as well do it before this stubborn, beautiful man collapses from blood loss – or something worse – they just have to get out of here, for now. Past that cluster of guards.

One step at a time.

Step one is Bruno powering up his phaser and charging out ahead of Leone, who comes out swinging with his stolen spike.

Bruno surges low, leaping forward on all fours. Fast as he can beneath laser fire; opponents tend to assume he’ll come bolting at them on two legs, makes it easier to dart in quick, press his phaser to the midsection of the nearest baton-wielding guard while Leone knocks aside a gun barrel and slices a throat in one fluid movement – only he’s slow – he won’t be able to dodge –

So Bruno kicks out with a foot before this guard is dissolved. Upsets the balance of the next one over so that their shot goes wide, slams into the hull of a ship, alerts Leone who throws his spike – impales two guards then rushes them to topple them over the railing while Bruno yanks another to the ground. Slams their head off the railing. Phases their feet off.

He dodges the firing of another laser and grips the hot barrel of that gun, yanking downward while Leone swings a heavy punch. Wrenches this guard’s head to sever its control center with a crack.

Just like that, the six average-sized guards are gone. Giant models lumbering forward in their wake and Leone’s lost his weapon, Bruno’s phaser only has about one and a half good shots left in it, heart tightening in his chest, Leone stumbling hurt. He can’t even hold and fire a rifle, with his injured arm.

Less than a second to worry. Bruno’s thoughts race unchecked in the background as he throws himself at the nearest of the big guards. Sinks his teeth into its neck. Tastes oil-blood while the hybrid being slams fists into his back, tries to pry him off – but he’s already shoving his phaser to its chest, activating it to open a gaping hole.

When it topples, he falls with it. Is immediately set upon by another towering figure in its place. Alarms blaring lights flashing he’s not strong enough for hand-to-hand fights with these things for long, and Leone as he is can barely manage it for a second.

Kicking out with both feet, Bruno knocks the plasma canon away from this guard before it can charge fully, and it clangs to the ground. Rolls away so he dives after it – white-hot pain lances down his spine, through his limbs – electricity sparking through – searing him from toe to antennae – he can’t move can’t think can’t breathe –

Then it stops, and his taut muscles slump. He’s a trembling pile on the ground. Leone forcing his assailant over the edge with a pained shout. Must’ve taken all his effort. Bruno needs to get up.

“Bruno!”

Leone’s voice is hoarse, cracking. Bruno shakes out his dizzy head. Pushes himself off the ground just in time to spot a heavy hand slam into Leone’s chest – knock him aside, he falls easy, with his leg torn open, his shoulder dislocated – he can’t catch himself and goes down hard.

The security guard’s leg swings back, aiming a kick – and Bruno barely rolls out of the way of his own guard, who’s trying to stomp on his head – he hears Leone cry out, the sickening thud of a heavy boot against flesh again –

Heart pounding, Bruno slips under the railing, latches to the bottom of the pathway and scrambles across it. Ignoring the vast drop beneath himself, fingers and toes clutching smooth metal as he hurries to the other side where Leone is crumpled, bleeding, broken. Bruno hurls himself up over the side and aims his phaser right at the head of Leone’s attacker, slamming it home and activating it.

It takes the rest of its charge, but he erases enough circuitry and gray matter to topple the guard.

Bruno lands in a heavy crouch, holsters his phaser and rushes for Leone, who’s coughing up more blood, curled around his stomach as much as he can. Eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched against the pain.

“Leone, my love.” Insides scrambling frantic, hands brushing through tangled dirtied white hair, Bruno just barely manages to keep from asking whether Leone is alright. He’s very obviously not. That final big guard is still around somewhere. Wasn’t defeated, Bruno doesn’t think – hopefully it doesn’t go for the canon.

Pain explodes along Bruno’s shoulder blades, and he yelps, yanks his hands from Leone, and reaches in vain for that stun baton that’s slammed into him again, knocking him away from Leone, who the guard has a laser rifle aimed at –

There’s a loud, vicious clang! and the oversized guard drops both weapons.

Bruno blinks up at their attacker, just in time to watch the heavy barrel of that plasma canon slam into the guard’s head. It makes the same noise it did the first time. A hollow ringing, sharp against the wailing alarms, and then the guard tips sideways. Collapsed on the dock, completely still. Head caved in.

Its absence reveals an unfamiliar creature. Orange with great black leathery wings folded around himself. At least four scrawny arms struggling to keep hold of his pilfered weapon, skinny form hauled this way and that with a, “Woah-!” Speckles of red are splashed over him and he’s got a shock of dark hair on his head. Mouth stretched in a fang-lined grimace as he finally drops the canon with a thud. Steps gingerly over it and offers Bruno a hand.

It’s…such a bizarre thing that Bruno very nearly takes it. Instead he ignores the stranger, and hurries on hand-and-knee toward Leone.

Purple-gold eyes are foggy from pain, air wheezing out between Leone’s bloodied teeth. He’s still lying half-curled on his side, and Bruno presses a palm to his cheek. Brushes aside strands of white hair stuck down by blood and sweat. “My love,” he murmurs, mouth pressed to a bloodstained temple, antennae twitching against sore skin. “Are you still with me?”

A trembling nod from Leone, who’s leaning up into Bruno’s kiss. Pressing his good hand to the floor and shifting vaguely upright – so Bruno helps him, gripping careful. Too bad Leone is bruised everywhere. Not an inch of him unscathed.

Shit. Bruno’s heart squirms sick in his chest, his antennae drooping constantly toward Leone.

They need to get out of here. Fast.

“Um – hello!” Comes a bright, sunny voice. It matches well to that bright, sunny complexion as their rescuer gets in close, flashing another awkward smile. “I don’t know if you remember me, or anything, but I’m Narancia. We met on –”

“I’m sorry.” And Bruno means it, he really does. He digs his toes into the ground and pulls hard on Leone, who growls out a pained noise. “But we really have to leave.” Before Leone bleeds out or succumbs to any number of internal injuries. Shit. Who knows what’s going on under the surface? “And you should get out of here, too, before they send more guards.”

Because if Narancia was foolish enough to help Bruno and Leone escape, they’ll be after him, too. Something that Bruno will be feel awful about later, but right now he can only spare the energy to drag a heavy, wincing Leone to unsteady feet. Blood spills warm across Bruno’s skin and he bites back tears.

“We – we met on Zobozuno, after your fight there, remember?” Narancia yammers on, following Bruno’s meager progress, halfway tripping over Leone’s deadweight. “I was the –”

“Th’ mop,” Leone mutters out, and for a second Bruno worries that he really is badly concussed.

Then, though, it comes back. Just as Narancia is grinning wider and cheering out a, “Yeah!”, Bruno recalls the excitable youngster on Zobozuno. Working with the cleanup crew. He’d transformed from a mop with wings and started chattering Leone’s ear off, after his victory. Something about being a fan. He’d adopted a more humanlike look, back then, which he seems to have since traded for extra arms and vibrant orange skin.

Bruno would remember traits like those. The wings are familiar, at least. Freckles and smile and dark eyes, too.

Leone is squinting at Narancia, even as he stumbles half atop Bruno. Their ship is so close. The thinnest stretch of walkway between them and it, and Bruno’s reaching for the remote to open the hatch. Casting an eye around for incoming security.

All the while Narancia follows them.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Leone grumbles. Picked a fine time to get protective – shit Bruno is a mess – terrified and infatuated all at once, can barely process Narancia’s presence, has to keep watch –

Has to save Leone –

A sheepish sort of laugh from Narancia, and he rubs at the back of his head with one hand. “Well, see, turns out if you screw up the cleaning enough times, they’ll sell you to a bigger, nastier arena…” He trails off, and oh, Bruno really shouldn’t look, knows what’ll happen if he does, but Leone is sagging heavier against him, and Narancia’s tone is forlorn and oh to hell with it.

There are raw, bloodied scrapes around Narancia’s wrists. Shackle marks on his ankles, too. Raw tears along the edges of those leathery wings that have to have come from restraints.

And his ribs stand out. He’s such a gaunt, scrawny scrap of a thing. Dirt-smudged like the kids on Bruno’s home planet –

“B-but I escaped when you did!” Narancia brightens just like that. “I managed to shift smaller, and slipped away while everyone was distracted – that was amazing, by the way. What did you use? I thought for sure you were done for, until –”

“Narancia.” Bruno’s tone is clipped. Leone sags more and more in his hold.

Mouth snapped shut, Narancia turns wide eyes on Bruno.

“We need to go,” Bruno says, because it’s true. There’s no time. It’s a miracle they’ve made it as far as they have. They need to flee this planet, this system, the entire galaxy – they never should have come, need to get somewhere safe – he has to tend to Leone and there is no time to worry over anyone else. “Find a spare ship in this confusion and get yourself home, now that you’re free.”

Leone’s heavy feet drag and stumble, but he does his best to walk along with Bruno for this last little stretch. Their ship’s boarding door glides down slow to meet them, and Bruno puts on a burst of speed, dragging his Leone toward escape.

“Wait!” Narancia rushes after them, overtaking them and pulling up in front of them, wings fanned out. “I can help you! I’m a pilot!”

“Then use those skills to get back home.”

Narancia droops. “I don’t – I mean, I ain’t got…” His eyes glide downward, and his wings sink low, and Bruno tries like hell not to get impatient but Leone’s breath rasps more by the moment. “I want to go with you. Please.”

Now is not the time for strange additions to their household. Bruno won’t trust just anyone saying anything desperate. Leone is his top priority. No matter how his antennae twitch, pulled by Narancia. Something genuine to his words. Maybe. A risk that Bruno refuses to take, husband fading at his side alarms blaring all around and entire planet on their tails and money all but dried up and one final tank of fuel and lots of first aid supplies but will they be enough?

“I fly our ship. We don’t need a pilot.” Bruno sidesteps Narancia, dragging Leone with him. Long pale fingers curl against his skin and he nearly buckles, pressing onward.

“But I can help you!” Narancia cries. He doesn’t have to work hard to keep pace. “I know this area and I know ships – yours is a Zipper, right? Final series? Sixty years old but the sturdiest there is, with deep fuel wells and a wonky accelerator drive.” His eyes travel the outside of Bruno’s ship. “Fresh paint.” Narancia peeks indoors. “Interior upgrades.”

Interior upgrades to accommodate Leone. Who’s gripping at Bruno with his one good hand, leaning in and muttering, “Bruno. We need to – go.” He’s looking up, out, across the hangar –

Bruno hisses out a vicious click. Snarls low in his throat, pupils contracting.

There are countless ships revving up. No security rushing the walkways but plenty of it taking to the skies. Civilians who feel cheated out of a spectacle boarding their own cruisers to join the chase. Lasers going hot. One or two rushing toward this loading bay – it’s a matter of seconds.

“I can get us away,” Narancia repeats, eyes shining. “Please! You can dump me out the airlock if I fail!”

Biting hard at his tongue, Bruno hefts Leone. Glances over Narancia. Turns and hurries up the walkway while calling out, “Get onboard!” over his shoulder.

That’s all the permission Narancia needs.

-

The second they’re all safely inside and the ship’s hatch is closed behind them, Leone crumples. His legs give out, and Bruno lurches sideways with his weight, lowering him as he sags to the floor, slumped against the wall.

“Leone –”

“M’alright,” Leone mutters, bloodied lips barely parting. “Just need a minute.” He needs a whole lot more than that – is heartbeats away from passing out – it’s a miracle he’s still anything resembling awake.

Bruno squeezes Leone’s more intact shoulder, tucks hair behind Leone’s ear. He’s even bleeding here. So much red makes Bruno’s stomach sink. “I’ll start the ship, get Narancia going, and then I’ll be right back for you, alright? Wait here and don’t move.”

A wet sort of scoff from Leone, as if this isn’t the exact type of order he’s ignored before, even while injured.

“You don’t have to show me, I know where the cockpit is,” Narancia says. He’s still bright-eyed and eager, only ever wavers when he glances at the bloody mess of Leone. More than understandable. “All I need is your startup code – unless you’ve got extra security – and I can have us in the air and off-world in a flash.” He gestures over a shoulder with two thumbs, already walking. “I know exactly where to go to lose these guys, so –”

“I can’t trust a stranger with our startup code,” Bruno says, hurrying after him, because he’s not going to chance their security even in a moment as dire as this –

A loud blast, and the entire ship jars, rocking violent in place. Someone’s firing at them already, and Bruno stumbles against a wall, Narancia wavering unbalanced, all four arms and two wings thrown out to steady himself. Leone grunts in discomfort, starts up a hacking cough.

There’s blood – more blood, dribbling out of his mouth as he coughs, leaned over on a wobbling arm. He spits a mouthful of red out on the floor and Bruno is back at his side instantly. Kneeling to prop him up, Leone’s fingers curling tight around his forearm as the fit subsides into wheezing. Bruno trills soft and steady, a soothing sort of noise, with Leone leaning into his chest, now.

The ship jolts again, taking another blast – and, oh, damn it all. Security won’t matter, if they don’t make it out of here. If Leone doesn’t –

“It’s 250380,” Bruno snaps, scrabbling to get his feet beneath himself, toes suctioned to the floor as he fights to heft Leone upright. “Now hurry!”

To Narancia’s credit, he does. Scampers off through the ship surprisingly fast, his wings flexing behind him, bumping the walls as he runs and climbs toward the cockpit, and for better or worse their fate is in his hands, now.

Bruno’s concern boils down to Leone and only Leone. Holding most of his weight, half-carrying him to their microscopic medbay. It’s nothing more than a converted closet off the main living area, because this ship didn’t come with a medbay – Bruno put one in for his father’s comfort, initially, but when that didn’t pan out it became dedicated to Leone’s endless avoidable injuries.

Their ship hums to life right when Bruno gets Leone to the threshold of that room, Narancia announcing, “We’re taking off!” via the intercom milliseconds before it happens.

Still catches Bruno off-guard, especially paired with the surge of laser-fire that makes their takeoff pitch and sway and he stumbles against Leone, pressing him to the doorframe. He hisses in pain, and Bruno murmurs out countless apologies. Hates that he can’t handle Leone with more care than this.

Propping him with arms wound around broken ribs, Bruno gets Leone to the bed at last. Helps heave him up onto it, settling him as gently as possible.

Leone grinds his teeth through it. Groaning when he lies back, Bruno picking up his legs for him. One at a time, until Leone’s lying more-or-less straight. He’s trembling, there, on the exam bed – the swooping flight pattern Narancia’s taken up to dodge their pursuers can’t help, but Bruno isn’t in any position to complain.

He interfered. He brought this on.

He should be grateful that Narancia is here at all, because caring for Leone while flying would be impossible, and there’s no autopiloting their way out of danger just yet. Not until they’re safely away.

For now, Bruno hurries around the tight space surrounding the bed, toward Leone’s head. He grips the zipper at Leone’s throat, undoing the front of his torn battle suit. A lot of good the tough-woven fabric did him, in the end, against three violently strong opponents all at once; Bruno is as careful as he can, working the fabric off of Leone’s good arm, first. Even this shoulder is bruised…

With one arm freed, Leone tries to help with the rest. Weakened fingers push at the suit where it clings to his dislocated shoulder, but Bruno guides them away with a careful touch. His antennae twitch low and sad, the more damage is revealed.

Sharp bone protrudes where it shouldn’t, Leone’s shoulder stretched uncomfortably flat beneath skin. Swollen-hot and excruciating, if the way Leone whimpers behind clenched teeth is any indication. He’s radiating fragile hurt. Squeezing his eyes shut and lying prone on the bed, his other hand curling into a tight fist against his chest, while Bruno works this sleeve down bloodstained skin.

There’s a gash here, on this arm. Just across the bicep, it oozes a fresh helping of blood, when Bruno finagles fabric past it. Quick yet gentle as the ship swerves around them. Supplies rattling.

Narancia is flying like a maniac – but at least they haven’t been hit again –

At last Bruno gets this sleeve off, too, tugging it free of torn knuckles. Leone’s torso is bare, now – covered in ugly, mottled bruises and twitching on hitched, uneven breaths – but Bruno keeps working. Pulling black fabric down over Leone’s hips. He doesn’t lift them to help, but it’s fine.

It’s no problem, to reach around beneath Leone and get the jumpsuit past the curve of his butt and down toward his thighs. The mangled thigh is bared first. Garish bleeding holes and swollen purpling flesh. Bruno bites his tongue all the while, Leone groaning, biting down on his own wrist. Then it’s over, and Bruno reaches for the other side, gets the pantleg past that scraped-up knee.

Here, Bruno pauses to remove Leone’s shoes. Heavy battle boots thud to the floor when he tosses them away one at a time, and then he tugs the suit from Leone’s calves. Over his ankles – one of them is swollen horribly. Where he was grabbed and swung around. Bruno’s pretty sure.

Shit –

Clothing flung away, Bruno hurries to a nearby cupboard for some towels. With Leone nude except for his underwear, the damage he’s taken is all too clear, and all that blood leaking from him just won’t stop.

Not unless Bruno stops it himself. Hopes against hope that Leone hasn’t lost too much blood already, because they don’t have much more of it saved up to transfuse. They were between draws, and this was supposed to be simple. Quick, easy money. Any of those opponents, Leone could have defeated handily if they came at him one at a time. In proper tournament format. Even the underground fighting rings have their rules.

It won’t do any good worrying over that shit now. Bruno partially unfolds one of the towels and aims for the leaking holes on Leone’s thigh. Where he foolishly removed the impaled xinkrak spike too soon and left this wound to bleed and bleed –

When Bruno presses down on the entry and exit wounds, Leone grunts loud, entire body flinching.

“I’ve got you,” Bruno manages. He has to swallow hard, antennae twitching toward the twisted expression on Leone’s face. The scents of adrenaline and iron flood Bruno’s senses. He puts more pressure on the wounds, encompasses that resulting scrape beneath them, too. Trying and failing to count out seconds in his head. He has to focus on one hurt at a time. Can’t let his gaze wander to every other bleeding spot on Leone’s body.

There are too many. They make Bruno’s eyes go hot and start a distressed rumbling deep in his throat. His veins flare up deep blue, a color that pulses along his skin in time with his frantic heartbeat.

He needs Leone to be safe.

Light fingertips graze along the back of Bruno’s hand, and he lets out a shaky sigh. The tiniest bit of tension leaks from him, his grip easing on the towel while maintaining pressure. Leone’s touch glides along Bruno’s skin, up his wrist, tracing the thrum of blue veins – and Bruno bends to kiss at the dirtied backs of those fingers.

He presses his mouth to them on repeat, greedily soaking up any comfort they provide. It should be the other way around…

It takes some doing, to trill out a more pleasant noise. Comes out all weak and wrong, but hopefully Bruno’s voice will be better when he speaks a different language. “This…” He has to clear his throat and try again. Kisses blood-smeared knuckles in the meanwhile. “This is the worst of it,” he tells Leone’s barely-open eyes. “This and your shoulder – maybe your ribs.” Oh, he hopes Leone’s ribs haven’t punctured anything. They were jostled so much between the arena and here –

Distress bleeds into the air again, and Bruno clicks irritably at himself three times, tail twitching. He kisses Leone’s hand once more, then throws his focus toward the towel. Lifting it away slow. Holding out hope.

He only starts breathing again when he sees that the bleeding has significantly slowed. Almost to a stop, which is an entire miracle, considering how it gushed before – splattered the table, the floors, the walls – everything Leone stumbled past – pooled wherever he paused.

Towel clutched in his fists, Bruno hurries for Leone’s other side. The hand resting on his forearm slips free, and he snatches up a rag. Stuffs it into those now-empty fingers and says, “Hold this to your head, my love.” Because that wound is still trickling out blood. It drips into Leone’s hair, with him lying down like this. Flow that’s staunched when Leone does as told and presses the dry rag to his wound with a heavy hand.

“Just like that,” Bruno mumbles. Mostly to himself. Leone is still watching him from between drooping eyelids. Miraculously present, thank the heavens above.

Refolding this towel to expose a clean spot proves impossible, it’s so blood-soaked, so Bruno throws it aside to take up another one. Ends up biting at the seam of it with pointed teeth, starting a tear. Like this, he can rip it clean in half. Clasp one to the thick, seeping cut on Leone’s bicep, and the other to his bloodied knee.

There’s a strangled sort of huffing noise from Leone. Almost like a laugh. His mouth curves a bit, and everything. “Could’ve grabbed another…” he says, voice quiet and rough at the edges.

No matter how weak they are, Leone’s words still send a rush of relief through Bruno. That his Leone remains coherent is – fuck, it’s enough to make Bruno want to tremble apart. But he has to stay sturdy. To stand tall here, and return that tiny smile with a watery one of his own. He’s afraid it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Antennae still lowered and swaying toward Leone who continues to bleed.

“This was faster,” Bruno winds up quipping. Can’t help the thickness in his throat.

The ship angles sharply, and Bruno stumbles. Trips backward into the cabinets, hands scrambling to keep hold of Leone who gasps loud. He’s gripping white-knuckled at the edge of his bed as the floor-ceiling-walls vibrate around them, ship bumping through heavy turbulence. Barely settling into a steady racket.

That their flight shows no sign of smoothing out is worrying, but not as much as Leone is, all of him clenched hard against the pain. No good for his injuries, especially that shoulder.

So Bruno clicks his tongue and leans in toward Leone. Checks the progress of these bleeding wounds again, including the ones on Leone’s face. These have also trickled to a stop. Only now does Bruno feel safe sparing a moment to rush toward the nearest window.

Tapping it clears the opaque covering to reveal their surroundings, and oh. Maybe it would’ve been better if he hadn’t looked.

It isn’t very reassuring, watching the blur of glowing electrons whiz past at high speeds, accompanied by plasma that whirls angry. Currents spark along the outside of their ship. Their ride is once again buffeted by turbulence, shaking everything, and there are asteroids zipping around out there in the storm –

Bruno can’t render the window covered again fast enough.

“What is it?”

Forcing himself to breathe deep, Bruno turns and hurries back to Leone’s side. Urges him gently back to the bed from where he was straining himself, trying to peek out the window.

“It’s a hurricane,” Bruno explains, and then clarifies. “The space kind.” Because just the usual lower atmosphere ones would be bad enough to get caught in, but this – this might as well be suicide – not to mention how it makes Leone go paler every time they hit a bump.

Bruno’s on his way to the intercom to chew Narancia out for this stupidity when it crackles to life, transmission fuzzy thanks to the raging storm outside.

“About the hurricane,” Narancia says – and, yes, Bruno would very much like to know about the hurricane – “It’s the best chance we have at getting away clean, I swear! Our ship can withstand all this better than it can laser fire.” That, Bruno is not so sure of, as an asteroid thunks off the hull and they pitch wildly to one side, Leone groaning at the movement, Bruno reaching to steady him. Narancia’s voice crackles back to life once they’re corrected. “This storm’s always up here, been going for years – I’ll keep us to the edges of it and we’ll be out of here as soon as the coast is clear. Hang tight until then!”           

Leone is swearing under his breath and Bruno’s heart is back to being lodged in his throat – but what Narancia says makes some sense, at least, and it’s not as if they have a choice, right now. Once Leone is taken care of, Bruno can worry about Narancia’s questionable piloting. Can even throw him out the airlock if need be.

But right now –

Right now, Leone is trembling in pain, curled limp on the bed and breathing heavy. But at least he’s not actively bleeding, anymore. One step at a time. One worry at a time.

Leone’s shoulder should be taken care of next. He has important nerves there, if Bruno is remembering right from his extensive study of human anatomy, and so popping that shoulder back into place should be done with care. He’s done this sort of thing before, for his own species, but their systems are much more flexible.

This is Leone. Dearest to Bruno’s heart, and to see him so damaged is…it aches.

Steeling himself, Bruno hovers over that wrenched shoulder, hardly daring to touch it. Though the nerve system and musculature is different, the joint itself is similar. Less range of motion, but close enough that Bruno can put it back where it goes. He hopes.

There’s no proper x-ray equipment onboard – but he did pick up a portable scanner after Leone took that horrible blow to the head months back, and Bruno hurries to find it, now. There was no sign of a crack in Leone’s skull back then. Hopefully the durability of his bones holds out here, too, otherwise Bruno doesn’t know what he’ll do. They’ll have to find an underground doctor, somewhere – this seems like the sort of break that shouldn’t be amateurishly set – not like Leone’s nose – Bruno did that alright, though it’s got that handsome, crooked ridge to it now –

Where did he put that damn x-scanner? Ah – there! In the last upper cabinet, figures. Bruno drops back to the floor from where he’d climbed up the wall in his search, and is already flicking the scanner on by the time he’s up next to Leone.

He presses his fingers to sore skin as gently as he can, but Leone’s breath still hitches at the touch. Bruno manages a low noise that he hopes is comforting. It’s all he’s got, right now, feeling along the shoulder while flicking the scanner to life.

It doesn’t offer the most reliable view, and only picks up more obvious breaks in bone – but it’s far and away better than nothing, right now. Bruno stares hard at the screen on this device, gripping it tighter as their ship rattles around them. Not at all making it easy to focus. Near as Bruno can tell, all bones look intact, which is a small comfort. All things considered.

He’ll take it, though. Resists the urge to move right on to Leone’s ribs, and instead sets the x-scanner aside.

There’s cold sweat on Leone’s forehead. Bruno runs his fingertips across it, mindful of that cut. Leone meets his gaze with exhausted eyes, his expression pinched in pain, breathing all uneven and entire body starting to quiver taut.

“Relax for me,” Bruno murmurs low – it has to rank among the most hypocritical things he’s ever said, considering how tense he himself is at the moment. Blood roaring through him, antennae straining forward. “I need to put this back into place.” Here, his hands land on Leone’s bicep, avoiding the scrape.

Leone gives a stilted nod. Tension does indeed leak out of his body. Helped along by Bruno’s fingers rubbing at strained muscle. Something that’s got Leone grimacing, showing off bloodstained teeth even as he holds dutifully lax elsewhere. Deepening his breaths as best he can around cracked ribs and loosing a shaky sigh.

Careful as Bruno’s ever done anything, he lifts Leone’s arm, bending it at the elbow and positioning it just right – Leone’s free hand grips white-knuckled at the edge of his bed, again –

It takes every ounce of tight control Bruno has, to move slowly with this. Twisting and pushing steadily, watching the uneven bulge of Leone’s shoulder, feeling the grind of bone and muscle and everything else that should never have been disturbed to this extent – and then there’s a pop, like the one during Leone’s fight, and he lets out a choked noise to go with it.

A sound that’s followed by a heavy gasp, Leone flexing his fingers. Some of the tautness eases from his expression with every breath he sucks in, until he looks almost relieved, blinking heavy at Bruno.

“S’better,” he says. Probably because Bruno is obsessively touching the repaired joint.

“You can move it?”

Grunting out confirmation, Leone lifts his arm then lets it fall. Flexes his fingers yet again, wiggling them to show Bruno properly. “Doesn’t hurt,” is what he claims. Words that have to be a lie – it might feel better, but there’s no way it doesn’t hurt at all.

Bruno presses a hand atop this forearm, easing Leone’s arm back to the bed. He’ll get a sling, later. Right now he wants to check those ribs that he’s left alone for far too long. Can’t relax until he discovers the source of all that ghastly blood in Leone’s mouth. Could be innocuous or could be from something that’s been punctured inside.

Again, Bruno has to rely on the x-scanner for answers. Touching Leone’s ribs will only cause pain and guilt, and won’t do any good besides, so he picks up the scanner from where he abandoned it –

Then sidetracks for a second, just to doublecheck Leone’s shoulder. Make sure that joint really is intact. Looks to be…

Downward from there, Bruno examines his way across Leone’s chest. It’s still hitching on too-shallow breaths that tremble free of his nose, or hiss between his teeth. A sure sign that he’s very much sore – as if the mottled purple bruising wasn’t enough. Makes Bruno’s own chest ache just looking at it, the darkening splotch where Leone took that hit from the scragx. The horrible crunch it made is a sound Bruno will never forget.

He has to focus. Blinks his transparent eyelids to clear his misted eyes and zeroes in on the screen. The bruising can wait. Has to, while Bruno scrutinizes the scanner’s findings for any sign of a break in bone. Forces his hands to move slow (and not tremble) no matter how he wants to hurry it up.

Bruno counts four cracks, along Leone’s left side. Four broken ribs, but miraculously, not a single one has slipped out of place. Each one is fractured neatly – no shattering, no shifting, and the tight balloon of fear that Bruno’s insides have become deflates that much more. Breathing comes that much easier because these should heal just fine, if left alone, if Leone takes it easy.

He’ll have to breathe deeper than he is, though, and –

Breath hitching especially rough, Leone’s chest jolts, shudders, and then he’s heaving up onto his side, coughing into his fist. Expression pinched all the while, flinching with each cough.

Setting aside the x-scanner, Bruno reaches for Leone on automatic. Presses a hand to that newly-restored shoulder – can still feel the heat in it, from inflammation – and coos out a comforting noise. He can practically hear the grinding of bone when Leone sucks in a deep breath, coughs subsiding.

“Fuck,” Leone grunts. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor, another red stain among too many.

When he settles onto his back, he does it slowly, Bruno’s hands never once leaving him. Easing Leone down to relieve what pressure he can on cracked ribs, torn flesh. Bruno is leaned so close over his husband that his antennae brush through cold sweat and catch on white hair. The thick-metallic scent of Leone’s blood overshadows everything else about him.

That blood in his mouth is coming from somewhere. Not in his chest, though. Hopefully not his stomach or throat, but Bruno has to know for sure. Brings his hands to the clammy skin of Leone’s cheeks and gently pries that gasping mouth wider so he can see.

Bloodstained teeth part for him, purple-gold eyes fixed more-or-less on him as if in question, but Leone doesn’t shift away. His head is probably pounding – that gash on his forehead is bruised at the edges, and the cut over his nose twists when his expression twitches, leaking fresh blood –

One thing at a time.

Bruno concentrates on Leone’s mouth. Peers inside to find a long oozing gash on the side of Leone’s tongue, toward the back. Bitten, looks like. Thank fuck…

Only now does Bruno start to experience genuine relief –

Which is thoroughly upended by a bout of turbulence and the scrape of some kind of space junk along the hull of their ship. He snatches his hands back to avoid steadying himself via Leone, who lets out a low whine, eyes clenched shut and entire body trembling tense. Holding his breath against the pain only to cough it out. He swallows blood.

“Kid’s crazy,” Leone mutters, voice low and hoarse. He’s still remarkably coherent, but his breathing is still too shallow, hisses in a way that Bruno hates.

(He has a point about Narancia being crazy, too. Something best described when they’re out of danger.)

As if to highlight Leone’s words, the lights flicker, electrons messing with the ship’s wiring and they better not play the role of EMP or Bruno really will have more than a few choice words for their impromptu getaway pilot.

Leone’s eyes flutter open, squinting up at the overhead lighting until it settles. Stays on just as they stay flying. Another miracle.

“He’s no crazier than you,” Bruno says, belatedly. Fond. The most lighthearted thing he can manage, trying to fill the nerve-wracking gaps between the storm raging outside and Leone’s too-shallow breathing. Can’t stand to listen to either one for very long – but Leone’s breathing is necessary to listen to, no matter how it tugs at Bruno’s heart. “You need to breathe deeper, my love,” he murmurs. Hand on the unblemished side of that sweaty forehead.

“Can’t,” comes the choked response. Leone blinks heavy, his mouth tugging into a dour frown. “It hurts.”

All of it combined is enough to send cold squirming through Bruno’s gut anew. “I know,” he says, because there’s no way it doesn’t hurt with all those fractures, all that bruising. “But you have to try.” Otherwise, he’ll get sick – another human factoid that Bruno remembers because it lines up with other anatomies he’s aware of. Lungs need to expand.

A grunt and grimace from Leone, and his stomach does indeed rise that much more on his next inhale, even as his head slumps back, neck lax. He’s staring at the ceiling almost in concentration. Again Bruno can hear the grind of shifting bone –

Hell, what if he’s wrong and it is something more serious? What if the x-scanner missed something?

Gently as he can, Bruno lowers his head to Leone’s chest. On the least-bruised portion of the more injured side, right near the top of this pectoral. He’s rested here many times before, laid atop Leone more often than he can count, slept comfortably against him night after night and so.

He knows what this breath ought to sound like. Stays sharp and listens for any oddities in the stuttering sort of gasps that Leone sucks in as deep as he can – and blessedly Bruno doesn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

The temptation to stay here is astronomically strong. To just relax with Leone and ignore countless anxieties now that a few have been soothed.

But he can’t.

There’s too much – Leone is so injured – keeps prying his eyes open – doing his best to breathe deep –

Resting his hand on Bruno’s head, fingers stroking downward, cradling the back of his neck with a weighted, reassuring touch. His palm is too warm. Scraped raw with busted knuckles. Bruno knows. All too aware of the way that hand sticks and catches on the texture of fine scales. He presses a kiss to the pale skin closest to his mouth, then lifts off. Carefully relocating Leone’s hand, grateful that at least he used the less-injured arm for this.

“I’ll get you something for the pain,” Bruno says, level as he can. Loath as he is to leave Leone’s side for anything, this is necessary. Should help him breathe. Will go a long way in keeping him alert and helping him rest and Bruno probably should’ve started with this but it’s better now than never. Unlocking the medicine cabinet and rifling through.

Something liquid and fast-acting and strong – Bruno’s fingers close around an altered opioid, safe for Leone’s mixed physiology, and he wastes no time in pouring out the proper dose. An action that he wishes didn’t feel so familiar.

Then it’s back to Leone, whose eyes are lidded low, watching Bruno as he flits in close. He slips his free hand careful beneath Leone’s head, cradling the back of it to help him lift up just enough that he won’t choke on the medicine. The last thing he needs is another coughing fit, all that blood leaking from his tongue has caused enough trouble – but at least that’s all it was – and, shit, this chill to Bruno’s insides…

It just won’t subside. Not until Leone is healed.

He swallows the painkiller dutifully, grimacing as it goes down. Probably stings his tongue, and he grouches out, “Tastes like shit.”

A complaint that’s a comfort, no matter how rough it sounds. Bruno lowers Leone’s head back to the bed with care, tracking the weighted flutter of mascara-coated lashes, eyelids brushed dark with smudged makeup.

Bruno wants to kiss them, those eyes. All along Leone’s face, careful over bruises and scrapes. That cut across the bridge of his nose and part of his cheek. The gash on his forehead. Everything that should be cleaned, first, and so Bruno fetches the saline. Big containers of wound cleanser that they’ll hopefully have enough of, considering Leone’s biological opponents and all the running they did through the dirty underbelly of that arena.

Leone will make it. Bruno won’t chance any infection setting in. Especially seeing as Leone was lucky enough to avoid any brushes with draetic venom.

The worst will be his thigh, with its elongated hole. It’s the most gruesome stab wound he’s ever gotten by far, spike shoved vertical, tip of it scraping along his calf – the only consolation is that it’s decently close to the surface, but. That’s barely comforting. Considering Bruno could look through the opening wound and out the exit if he wanted – which he very much does not –

 “This needs to be flushed out,” he says, bottle of wound wash set on the bed beside Leone. Bruno’s got a washcloth in hand, too. Because Leone is a mess. Smeared with blood. His leg swollen and reddened along the length of that wound. Bruising from the strain of running on it. Maybe.

Antennae twisting and twitching toward Leone, Bruno considers. Backtracks to the nearby cupboards, extracting two smaller bottles of saline that have continual spray nozzles. The pressure might be a better idea. Than just letting it flow through. For this.

So Bruno sets the bigger jug on the floor, and takes a stabilizing breath. One of his hands curls careful beneath the bend of Leone’s knee as he watches Leone’s face for any sort of reaction. A faint twitching at the corners of purple-gold eyes, and his complexion drains paler, chest hitching on a purposefully deep inhale. His jaw is working like he’s grinding his teeth, too.

“I might have to angle your leg, some.” Hell, Bruno doesn’t know for sure. He’s never…Leone’s never been hurt like this – but the saline has to drain somehow.

Teeth still clenched shut, Leone gives a stiff nod. Even that is enough to fog his eyes over, and glad as Bruno is that Leone’s remained awake, part of him would feel better about all of this if he were unconscious through the worst. That opioid probably hasn’t kicked in fully yet but cleaning can’t wait, so here Bruno goes.

He lifts Leone’s leg with the hand tucked below that knee, bending it the tiniest bit. Air rushes quick out Leone’s nose, sucked back in through that clenched jaw as torn, throbbing muscles are forced to move.

Just a little. Bruno won’t dare for more. Not after how strained every injury already is.

All he’ll do is get to work with this saline, spraying it through the exit wound while biting down on his squirming tongue, ignoring the thrum of his own veins in anguished sympathy. Leone is grunting, pink saltwater dribbling out the hole higher up his thigh. Soaking the hip of his underwear. Bruno will change those once he’s got Leone properly cleaned up. A gentle shower after everything, maybe.

If they make it through this damnable storm – their ship is rocking violently again, at the mercy of the hurricane and a pilot who only claims to know what he’s doing –

Bruno holds as steady as he can, trilling out low noises on repeat. Trying to ease his own thudding heart along with Leone’s pained whimpers as he’s jostled. Again, and again. No rest for him even now, after fighting and running and surviving and oh, Bruno’s eyes are hot, body prickling with increased blood flow as he works himself up despite any efforts to calm.

It’s just not fair. It’s not. Maybe he should give Leone a sedative. Though that painkiller should make him sleepy, like it has before, and, fuck everything, why does Bruno have to know so much about this from more than one experience?

The bottle of saline kicks empty in his hand, and he tosses it aside. Grabs up the second one, because who knows what that xinkrak was rolling in before it was manipulated into the arena.

“Sorry,” Leone grunts out on this next bump their ship hits. Saline nozzle nudging at sore skin. He’s breathing shallow, again –

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Bruno counters, adjusting his grip on Leone, on the saline.

A shake of the head from Leone morphs into a full-bodied shudder that has him gasping, some. It hurts. “I convinced you to…” he trails off, words fading here and there, but Bruno gets the gist of it, and this is not at all a conversation he wants to be having. Not something they need to discuss, right now.

Bruno clicks loud. Tightens his hand around the wound wash but is careful to keep the stream steady. “I let you enter.” It’s true. Leone should never have gone near that tournament. Bruno wasn’t careful enough. Had gotten too comfortable with their lack of trouble and forgot to keep his guard up, didn’t even consider the absolute worst-case scenario because Leone’s confidence was contagious, encouraging, charming –

There’s a harrumphing sort of noise from Leone. Could be thanks to the saline emptying at last, or a response to the implication that Bruno could’ve stopped him. His head lolls to the side, eyes dodging contact.

Not ideal. It makes Bruno’s insides ache, some. Short tail curling tense around his hip. He drops this can of saline, too, and mops up whatever wet, bloodied mess he can with the washrag. Dabbing careful at the openings of this elongated hole. Sealant won’t be good, here. He wonders if he should pack it, or leave it be. Just wrapping it ought to be enough. Tight, maybe – later, once Leone’s clean.

“W’s doin’ fine until that snake dog thing showed up…”

Oh, hell, that soft-hoarse voice threatens to sap all the energy from Bruno. His shoulders sag of their own accord, antennae drooping as he hefts the bigger bottle of saline. Twists the cap off and pops the seal. He doesn’t have it in him to point out that Leone would’ve probably collapsed after that fight. At the very least. Even without the draetic.

All he can do is shake his head. Pour saline with as much precision and care as he can muster over the scrapes dug into Leone’s calf courtesy of the xinkrak spike. “You should never have been up against so many opponents at once in the first place.” And it burns Bruno’s heart with sorrow and fury just to think about.

He wipes at the edges of this wound, moving on to the next. That busted-open knee, around Leone’s other side.

“Those tournament organizers were trying to get you killed, Leone. They wanted you dead.”

And Bruno will never forgive himself if that’s what happens – would never have forgiven himself if that’s what happened – he’s not about to let it. Refuses to lose Leone just because he’s cost shady underground arenas tons of money in bets gone awry, fixed fights usurped, dark horse wins that should never have been. No surprise that they hate him for those things, but Bruno adores him for it.

Even through consequences like this. Leone so beaten and bloody and hurting that all Bruno wants is to curl around him and protect. Feel the beat of his heart and the expansion of his lungs. Just…have him. Hold him…

Later. When everything’s taken care of. When they’re far enough away, because even if they lose the immediate pursuit in this storm, they’ll still be hunted. Bigger targets than they were already, since Bruno stole away the officials’ revenge.

One more thing to be on the run from. The urge to hold tight to Leone gets that much stronger.

“I’m –” Leone winces on a short grunt as saline runs over the cut on his bicep, Bruno bracing a careful hand on that swollen shoulder. “– Hard to kill.”

Bruno can’t help himself. Bends to press his mouth to Leone’s unblemished temple, antennae brushing long white hair, irritated clicking in his tight throat. “Not impossible,” he laments against clammy skin. Hates how his stomach cinches when Leone chokes out a scoffing laugh at that.

With the rest of Leone’s wounds rinsed out – wound wash dribbled over scraped raw palms, torn knuckles, countless other cuts – Bruno moves on. Drops the empty bottle to fall where it will, and pursues things like sealant and salve and bandages. Alcohol wipes, even though they’ll sting, for Leone’s face. Bruno hesitates, hand hovering, but ultimately doesn’t have the heart to douse Leone’s sensitive eyes in saltwater, or crust his already-dirty hair with it. So alcohol it is.

Before he gets to that, though, there’s Leone’s bruises to deal with. They cover more area than broken skin, even. Swollen, darkening and undoubtedly sore, an ache that goes muscle deep in places. The painkiller will reach them eventually, but there’s no reason Bruno can’t give them a boost.

Leone’s ankle. His ribs. Splotching at his jaw, cheekbone, elbow, forearms, legs – everywhere. More area than this ointment can cover, though Bruno will do his best to prioritize and stretch it far as he can.

His fingers are gentle, as they dip into the container of salve, spreading it over mottled skin. He wonders if maybe he should scan this ankle, considering how swollen it is. Feels subtly for any oddities in bone and finds nothing. A sprain, probably. That Leone ran on.

They have a brace for it, somewhere. Probably with the sling for his shoulder.

It’s…not really relaxing, the repetitive motions of rubbing a thin layer of ointment into so many bruises. Especially with the space hurricane roaring past the window, debris scraping the hull of their ship, lights flickering, ground swooping beneath them – but. It is soothing, in a sense. Leone’s skin is warm, beneath Bruno’s fingertips, and he’s breathing steadier by the second.

He’s here. Coming down from the height of the pain, though he’ll be sore for weeks.

Bruno chews on his tongue, trying to keep quiet as he reaches Leone’s ribs. Horrible splotchy purple darkening over his side, up his chest. Vaguely outlining broken bone.

Here, Bruno has to help him roll over – only partially, so that he can reach the portion of bruises on Leone’s back…oh, there’s so much more on his back – Bruno lets out a startled trill, fingers shoved into the pot of salve for a generous portion. Slathered to Leone like that thick sunscreen he needs on planets close to stars.

All the while Leone’s breath stutters; he’s struggling to keep that position, brows furrowed in and mouth a taut line. His fingers curl white-knuckled against the bed. His entire body is trembling hot-cold.

“Just a little more,” Bruno assures. Tries not to fall to pieces over the fact that even just lying here aggravates Leone’s injuries – there isn’t a position he could try that wouldn’t put pressure on something painful – yet he still settles grateful, when Bruno eases him down onto his back. Leone relaxes with a deep breath stuttered out slow.

His eyelids are drooping heavier by the second. Exhaustion seeping in to fill adrenaline’s place.

Bruno knows how he feels. Rubs ointment into that bruised jaw, and murmurs, “You should rest.”

Blinking slow, Leone’s head twitches in a way that’s almost a shake. He lets out a small, “Nn,” sound, too. Barely more than a grunt. “Not ‘til we’re safe,” he says, and Bruno is flooded with affection and exasperation all at once. Leone has been through enough.

“I’ll see us safe.” A declaration and a promise all at once. There’s a determined fire thrumming beneath Bruno’s worry – it hasn’t dimmed all day. Been there since Leone first entered the ring. “Rest.”

Leone – stubborn, beautiful Leone – doesn’t close his eyes, no matter how he’s sagging. Not all tense with pain anymore. The opioid’s kicked in, then. He’s reaching for Bruno’s hand, curling his own brush-burned palm around it and just. Holding it, there. In weakened fingers that squeeze tight for a heartbeat.

“Y’might need help throwing Narancia out the airlock,” Leone mumbles. A joke, because Bruno very much doubts Leone’s soft center would let him throw Narancia out the airlock, even if the overeager pilot did crash this ship intentionally.

(No, that would be left to Bruno – if he could stomach it –)

Still. Bruno’s antennae perk up at the lighthearted offer, swaying with the motion of the room. “I don’t think we’ll have to,” Bruno says, even as the ship pitches rough to one side, tilting dramatically –

He stumbles against the side of the bed, and Leone’s expression flinches toward a grimace, grip tightening around Bruno’s hand.

The intercom crackles to life half a second after their flight’s been corrected. “Sorry!” Narancia chirps.

Leone gives some approximation of a snort, his eyes rolling beneath lowered eyelids, and Bruno’s mouth tries for a wry smile. Doesn’t quite make it. There’s still sealant to apply to Leone’s open wounds, his face to clean up and care for, and Bruno is very much sure he won’t be able to resist kissing, licking, nuzzling when he gets there.

Ah.

That’s a concept that sounds amazing, actually – so Bruno is as quick as he can be, with the sealant, without also being negligent or rough. Treats each break in the skin with utmost care, bypassing the stab wound for now. That one will need regular, fabric bandages, rather than the liquid skin kind.

The cuts on Leone’s face haven’t been cleaned, yet, so after setting aside the tube of sealant – final jagged gash on Leone’s arm plastered over – Bruno takes up an alcohol wipe at last.

Cupping the unbruised side of Leone’s jaw in one hand, Bruno brings the other to that cut on Leone’s forehead. Bites his tongue on warning Leone of the sting, because he knows that, already, and it’ll hardly be worse than anything else he’s felt so far today –

Bruno lets out a comforting hum, when Leone gives the barest wince at the touch of alcohol. The more blood Bruno cleans away, the less frantic he feels. More anxieties fading but never leaving entirely.

When this wound is clean, he reaches for the sealant to cover it. Gets a fresh alcohol swab as his antennae skitter across Leone’s face, the two of them drawn impossibly close, Bruno’s pupils allowing for a perfect view of his husband even as purple-gold eyes go a bit crossed. Human eyes are inefficient, by comparison. The thought makes Bruno want to press a kiss to the tip of Leone’s nose.

Poor thing was broken just a few months ago, and now it’s all banged up again. Its handsome ridge cleared of drying blood. Any remaining dirt from the floor swiped out of that cut, the extension of it across Leone’s cheek…

Then this one is sealed, and Bruno’s work is done, for the time being – so he can press his mouth to Leone’s. Tastes blood and bitter medicine. Hint of lipstick, when those lips press back.

“My Leone,” Bruno murmurs, nibbling at the very corner of Leone’s mouth, nuzzling into his cheek. Both antennae twine into white hair as Bruno tucks strands of it behind this ear – and – reveals the scent of fresh blood –

Pulling back from Leone’s face, Bruno zeroes in on the source. Leone’s ear –

A quiet trill of distress leaks out of Bruno’s throat, and he’s licking at this wound before he can help it. A tear in Leone’s earlobe where an earring should be. The mark of their ninth marriage ripped out at some point in the fight, leaving behind a swollen split that’s dripping blood. Staining Leone’s hair, his neck.

“S’alright,” Leone says, shivering at the touch as Bruno licks more blood from his ear. His smooth fingertips rub along Bruno’s forearm. Comforting. “The earring’s in one of my pockets…”

He must’ve picked it up during one of the many times he was knocked to the ground – and, oh, the earring itself isn’t even the point – it’s the least of Bruno’s worries. He’s blindly reaching for another alcohol wipe, tearing it open while pressing his closed mouth to the unblemished shell of this ear. Kissing it before pulling back to clean the torn lobe with care.

It’s – it shouldn’t be this. That pushes Bruno over the edge. Not after everything else. But his vision is blurring, as he works. Wonders if sealant would bond the wound enough, or if old-fashioned stitches would do the job better.

Shit. His hands are shaking. Veins flaring beneath his skin and head swimming.

Sealant is faster and closer and hurts less, and ultimately it’s what he goes for. While Leone is murmuring something impossibly sweet about getting the piercing redone as soon as it’s healed.

Bruno kisses him again.

Keeps from falling apart at the seams because he has to.

Leone is alive, and to keep him that way…well. It’ll take a few weeks of creative maneuvering. Lots of time spent laying low and healing. Figuring out what to do with Narancia while searching for work, somewhere, seeing as this payday fell through spectacularly, and they’re going to need a serious restock of medical supplies.

In the meanwhile – right now – Bruno nuzzles into Leone’s cheek, cradling him close as best he can without aggravating anything. Breathes in and tastes Leone on his tongue. Wants to steal a few short moments to bask, while he can, in Leone’s solid shape, his stubborn existence.

“Thanks,” Leone mumbles. Still quiet and hoarse. Lips shifting against Bruno’s skin. “For getting me out.”

Heartbeat kicking up a notch, Bruno lifts just enough to look Leone in the eye while maintaining proximity. Wants to climb onto this bed with him. Would, if it wouldn’t aggravate so many wounds. “I’ll always look after you.”

There’s a shimmering in Leone’s eyes that implies he knows that, trusts in it, might not have even entered the arena today if he didn’t wholeheartedly believe in it – and, oh, that settles things.

When they are all the way out of this, Bruno will propose their fifteenth wedding.

-

Barely a handful of minutes later (when Bruno has been tending to that cut along Leone’s tongue in the best way he knows how), Narancia’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker yet again. Interrupts their contact, Bruno extracting his tongue from Leone’s mouth to listen. Angles his head to avoid the temptation of reengaging contact.

“We’re free of the hurricane, and have shaken off all pursuers!” comes the cheerful announcement.

A pause, during which Bruno notes that, yes, the ship has indeed stopped roiling around. Is no longer being pelted with electrons and plasma and debris. Thank everything that’s good.

“…Only, we’ve, uh, taken some damage,” Narancia finishes. Precisely what Bruno was afraid of. “But don’t worry! I know a great mechanic on a moon nearby.”

Of course he does. Bruno can’t help but wonder if Narancia’s done reckless things like this before.

(If that’s the case, he’ll fit right in…)

A puff of air akin to a laugh leaves Leone’s nose, and Bruno kisses the tip of it again. Loses the battle of keeping his head tilted away from Leone, too caught up in their survival. The relief of not having to toss Narancia out the airlock – which Leone is whispering another joke about right now –

Hell, Bruno cannot afford to get caught up in euphoria and lower his guard too much, but. Narancia’s gotten them this far. Doesn’t radiate a hint of anything like animosity, and hasn’t in the few short hours Bruno’s known him – and, more than that. Leone trusts him. Cares about him. Some extra, fond warmth bled through.

So Bruno reaches for the nearby intercom button and calls, “Set a course.”

“Yes, sir!”