Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 He’s getting better.

Quicker than she’d thought he would, quicker than any outworlder unfamiliar with their fighting techniques ought to. Chani has to admit it impresses her, how fast of a learner he is. And, in a weird way, annoys her.

“One more?” She’s pushed him extra hard today – she can’t help it, she has to see what the limits of this strange, water-spoiled boy are. “Unless you’re done for the day?”

Their last round has left him breathing hard, brushing sweat from his eyes, but his knife is already drawn at his side when she asks. He nods silently, feet shifting position in the sand.  

Before the adrenaline can leave her she lunges – and is blocked, his forearm meeting hers. Their cloth-wrapped blades cross, the pressure buying her time to hook her foot behind his knee. He stumbles, but keeps his balance, his knife slipping as he fumbles for her wrist.

 She darts away, feints to the left only to twist his other arm under her shoulder. This time she catches his leg with success and sends him sprawling. His breath leaves him in a huff as lands on his back.

Her knife is at his throat the second he goes down. One of her knees pins him, his hands lifting in surrender. “That was fast.”

Their faces are inches from each other, his eyes flickering from her face to the knife and back. “Yeah,” he says in between heavy breaths, “now I’m done.”

Chani stands in a fluid movement, offering her hand to haul him up. When he staggers to his feet he’s still panting. He’s never gone down that quickly before.

“Remember to drink,” she reminds him, detaching her own catchtube. He nods, already digging out his. For a minute they sip water and stretch, not talking. Chani searches for signs of distaste from him upon drinking the filtered water, but finds none. If its unfamiliarity still bothers him, he’s good at not showing it.

Paul runs a hand through his hair. “That last move. Did I teach you that?”

 “Yeah.” She doesn’t meet his eye.  “I wanted to see what you’d do if I used it against you.”

Despite focusing on stretching her shoulder against the rock wall, she can tell by the sound of his breath that he’s smiling.

It’s been like this for a week and a half. Her, taking him out to train early most mornings. He’s a good fighter – whatever sort of highborn training he’d received had clearly been more than adequate – but the Fremen style is distinct enough from what he’s used to that he’ll need to get a good handle on it if he’s going to fight with them. If he was serious about that. Which, so far, he seems to be.

(In all honestly, a part of her had been stuck with the others’ opinions; that he’ll go back on his word once he sees what they’re really up against. That he’s just another outworlder who doesn’t keep his promises. That it’s all too good to be true.

And another part of her still wonders why she wants it  so badly to be true in the first place.)

Turns out it’s not only the fighting he’s good at – he’s a good listener. Which is even more surprising than his skill with a blade. He’s...respectful. Genuine. And clever in the ways he uses what she teaches him.

After a few sessions, he’d started offering knowledge of his own skills. The Atreides style. The Imperial style. Whatever it’s called. Always humbly, quietly, never demanding. She has to grudgingly admit they’re impressive, the ways these people have learned to work around the use of shields in battle and still be deadly fighters.

Steadily it’s become a kind of exchange: her knowledge for his. Chani’s found she doesn’t mind it.

Even after a few minutes’ rest he still looks exhausted, usually steady hands fumbling with his gloves as he peels them off, stretching his fingers. She can’t go feeling guilty. It’s necessary to train even past the point of discomfort; real battles, real enemies, won’t be forgiving. He knows that.

In turn, she knows he won’t rest if she suggests it outright. Instead she sits down and, predictably, he copies her.

She nudges him with her elbow. “We’re on windtrap duty. Want to prove you remember what I taught you?”

“Only if you promise to keep an eye on me while I set it up – wouldn’t want to ruin it the second you turn your back.”

(The truth is, he’s gotten a lot better at it since she first showed him. Surprisingly so, given that he didn’t seem like he was listening one bit at the time.)

((He was sleep deprived. That’s what she chalks it up to. They’d spent the whole night awake avoiding night insects, her teasingly threatening to leave him behind in the dunes, and he’d been lost in his own thoughts. Nothing else.))

“Windtrap duty. And then...”

Chani shrugs. “Planning. Resting, I guess.” She shoots him a look. A sudden spike of alarm flashes under her skin – his face is paler even than normal, the circles under his eyes more bruised-like under the harsh sun. She hadn’t noticed before. “You’ve earned it.”

He nods vaguely, takes another long sip from his catchtube. “I’ve got more ideas. On strategy. If you want to hear them.”

That’s another thing he shares – his own methods of battle strategizing. His and their own compliment each other, in ways Chani’s pleasantly surprised to see. “Maybe later. Let’s get back inside first – food before anything else.”

So far, any weariness their way of life has inflicted upon him has been carefully concealed. He’s thrown himself into it all – and not just in the way someone thirsting for revenge would. The way someone would who genuinely wants to help. Who cares.

But everyone has their limits. And even now, clearly exhausted, he isn’t complaining.

Chani pokes him with the toe of her boot. “Want to take tomorrow morning off? You’re no use if you’re all worn out. We can skip a day here and there.”

“I can’t,” he says shortly. “There’s no way of knowing when another battle will hit us. I want to be ready.”

He glances up at her, frown disappearing. “Unless you need a break,” he adds quickly. “From teaching me, I mean. I appreciate it, I really appreciate it, but if you’re sick of getting up at dawn I get it – I can practice on my own – “

His voice falters at her raised eyebrow. “I’m okay,” he mutters. “I can keep going as long as you can.”

“You sure?”

“Only if you’re sure.”

She hates it when he gets so...like this. So careful with her and her feelings, as if she’s easily breakable. She’s a soldier. She can handle rising a little earlier than usual. She can handle more than he could ever imagine.

Never mind that it does something painful to her heart, to be thought of that way. She isn’t breakable. She isn’t weak.

But maybe, sometimes, for a few seconds at a time...he’s able to make her feel like if she had to be, being so around him wouldn’t be so bad.

She hates it.

“I’m sure,” she says.

He’s quieter, through much of the day. Quieter than she likes. While they set up the windtrap (which he does do almost flawlessly, she’s forced to admit) he focuses only on the dials and switches, a couple stolen glances in her direction when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Three scouts sent to check out another potential mining site are back, giving their reports on how best to disrupt the Harkonnens when they come. Paul offers his own advice, quietly, always quietly. He’s listened to, of course. The Mahdi will lead the way, or whatever. Never mind that it is good advice.

They do have an early night, in the end. Nothing else is required of either of them, a nice rarity. Chani tinkers with things; a sand compacter, parts of her stillsuit she’s been neglecting. Paul just sleeps, curled up in the shadows of his bed.

As the evening stretches out she can’t help glancing over to him once in a while. It’s dark in the yali now, his lamp – that he insisted she borrow when he found out hers was broken – the only source of light. Usually he wouldn’t be in bed this early, but he didn’t protest when she poked him about the circles under his eyes.

Her catchtube is bent in a weird way; she struggles with it until it straightens out. What’s made him so tired, just today?

Things catch up to people, she thinks again, fitting the tube back into place. Paul mumbles in his sleep, something Chani’s gotten used to. It’s not full-blown sleep talking. Quiet murmurs here and there that are almost words. She hasn’t told him about it, tempting though it is to tease him.

Other than that he lies very still, on his side usually. Once or twice she’s stolen a glance in his direction late at night and been surprised at how peaceful he looks. When awake she can nearly always feel a shadow of something hovering around him, just under his skin.

Shishakli’s face pops into her head unprompted, her cheeks growing warm with embarrassment at what her friend would say if she knew Chani was thinking this much about the sleeping habits of the outworlder. Her reaction to the whole room sharing thing had been bad enough.

Which is a temporary situation, of course. One that started the night his mother went into that cave, and came out something more than human.

For the one night prior to that day, he’d roomed along with her. But as Reverend Mother she’d been granted a private yali – a whole private sector of the seitch, more like. And he’d wanted nothing to do with that.

Chani had found him that very night near the narrow canyon entrance, sitting with his legs crossed, facing the sunset. He could easily have been in his mother’s new fancy quarters, could have gone straight there as soon as it started getting dark. Instead he’d stayed with them, eaten his evening meal with them (though without saying much), and now he was here.

Maybe she shouldn’t have disturbed him. But she did anyway. “Careful,” she said, “if Stilgar sees you out here after dark you’ll get some kind of lecture – not sure which kind, but you won’t like it.”

He’d turned slowly, a smile dancing to his mouth and then flickering away just as fast. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

His tone clearly said he wanted to be alone, but something pushed her to keep talking. “You can stay out a bit longer if you have to. I’ll keep watch from inside – “

“It’s fine, Chani,” he said shortly. “I won’t be long.”

Clear enough. Blindingly, aggressively clear. Why she’d been stupid enough not to leave then was beyond her.

Even more beyond her was that somehow, it had ended up being the right choice.

She’d crept slowly over to him, keeping a wary eye on the knife strapped to his waist. Jamis’ knife. He was still a stranger after all, one whose reactions she’s still not sure of yet. “Hey. I just wanted to say...” what did she want to say? Not talk about his mother, that’s for sure. Even for her that would be going too far.

The haunted look on his face was a new one, one that made something twist under her ribs. She cleared her throat. “If you need somewhere to stay tonight, I’ve got room. My yali has another bed.”

(Sometimes Shishakli crashes there, or other friends, but they could figure out other arrangements for a little while. Just until he’s got a place sorted out.)

To her surprise, he hadn’t look annoyed, only slightly confused. “I – I hadn’t thought about it. Are you sure? I was going to just...”

“What, sleep in the hallway?”

His mouth opened, closed again. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not. I’m not using it. The bed.”

A look came over his face that made her want to turn away – surprised and touched and mildly embarrassed. “Only if you’re sure.”  A slight flush crept into his cheeks, and it was him who glanced away first. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Okay.” What was he all embarrassed for? It wasn’t like she’d been inviting him into her bed, only her room. “Move in whenever you’re ready. I’ll show you how to get there.”

She’d left after that. Gone slower than normal. And heard his footsteps following, not a few seconds behind.

So that’s their arrangement now. Her in her usual shelf-like bed on one side of the room, him in the other, opposite. Being a newcomer, his things take up far less space than hers. And he keeps everything neatly stacked in another shelf, or on the floor by his bed; unlike her stuff, which is scattered throughout the yali with abandon. She has a method, even if she never explains it.

The first night was – she hates admitting it to herself – awkward. A little. For one, changing from a stillsuit to seitch clothes is something she’s more than used to doing in front of whoever happens to be around. For him, the same is clearly not the case.

Even changed (he’d looked at the opposite wall hard enough to burn a hole through it until long after she was done), the situation had felt weirder than it should. They’re just sharing a room. In separate beds. With separate packs. Separate lives.

Still.

Like usual, she’s awake for a while after lying down, brain humming like an insect. There’s a small whine from outside – an animal of some kind, maybe – but the world is otherwise quiet.

Tomorrow she’ll have to ask Paul to show her some more techniques of his own. She’s gotten a handle on most of them already. There’s one thing, some kind of arm lock he did out of instinct once and apologized profusely for when she yelped in pain, that she needs to insist on learning. He’s refused to demonstrate it on her, but she’d rather get him back with it than have him sit around feeling guilty for no reason.

(And yeah, the thought of snapping a Harkonnen’s arm appeals to her.)

It’s after a few minutes that she realizes the sounds she hears are no animal – they’re coming from his bed. Soft shuffling, whimpers – she never imagined he could whimper if he wasn’t the only other person in the room. 

It snaps her back into herself,  heartbeats uncomfortably high in her chest. Does he know she’s awake?

He gives a small, sharp cry, as if he’s in pain. That makes her sit up. “Paul?” she whispers, “are you okay?”

As expected, he doesn’t answer. Dark as it is, she can’t quite see him apart from his silhouette; only the faint shadows of movement she can only assume are him tossing and turning.

She lies back down. Makes a bargain with herself that if it continues long enough, she’ll go over there. She’s known plenty of warriors to wake in terror during the night, disturbed by dreams of the things they’d witnessed. Most want to pretend such a thing isn’t noticed.

Paul might not be a warrior, but she knows he’s seen things. What things, Chani knows only fragments of.

Waking him though, seems too much, somehow.

That night she stays put, fighting to block out the quiet, frightened sounds from across the room and failing. Something eats at her that might just be guilt.

If the memory of whatever dreams were troubling him is still doing so the following day, he doesn’t show it.

They train at dawn, like usual. For once Paul is awake before she is, adjusting the final straps and tubes of his stillsuit with the precision of someone who’s done it for years.  

She keeps an eye out during their session, and later into the day. For anything unusual. He might be a little pale still, a little slower. Distracted in a quiet way. Which, of course, distracts her, and that isn’t helpful to either of them.

But he still throws himself into it, until he’s sweating and stumbling over his feet. Chani can sense the frustration blooming under his skin, one he’s too tired to fully let take hold of him. Nor, she quickly realizes, is it directed at her.

“You’re staring at the outworlder again,” Shishakli teases her with a nudge of her elbow when they gather for their evening meal. “Don’t tell me you’ve started to go southern on us.”

Chani rolls her eyes, but to her own frustration can’t help glancing over in Paul’s direction at her friend’s words. He’s sitting alone tonight. As if none of the past two weeks have mattered one bit – doesn’t he know he’s welcome with her yet? “Just wondering why he’s all by himself is all.”

“Well, don’t look too long.” She lowers her voice, waving her fingers jokingly in Chani’s face. “He’ll use his mind powers on you.”

Chani swats her hand away. Her eyes flit unhelpfully back to him where he sits hunched over his bowl of food. An uncomfortable heat crawls across her shoulders that she’s sure is just from the dry seitch air.

It wakes her up again that night. Little distressed noises from the bed across from hers. Once again she keeps still, listening and wishing more than anything that she didn’t have to. Bracing herself for each time his muffled cries send a jolt through her heart, as if she’s the one hurting.

Finally, she can’t stand it any longer. She throws away her bedcover and creeps silently across the room, ignoring the repeated insistence of this is stupid, this is stupid, running through her head.

He’s tangled up in the bedcover, rolled on his side. Brows drawn tight together, creased and crumpled as if in pain. His hands twitch in his sleep, breathing uneven.

If he’s having a nightmare, snapping him out of it makes sense. It’s practical, it’s kind.

But something makes her hesitate. The truth is, he’s still mostly a stranger. Interfering will either embarrass him or just piss him off. Both of which she can handle well enough – that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t rather not have to deal with them in the middle of the night.

Another sharp intake of breath shoots through his teeth, making her jump. Fuck embarrassment, from either of them. She gives his shoulder a shake. “Paul. Hey.”

A low moan escapes him, eyes still shut. Chani shakes him a little more roughly. He’s warm with sleep, muscles tight under her hand. “You’re dreaming. You’re okay. Wake up, come on.”

This time his shoulder jerks, eyes flying open. She quickly steps back as he bolts up, so quick it’s startling, looks around wildly. When his eyes land on her he jumps, one arm flailing. As if a knife is still there.

Chani finds her own hands are outstretched, that she’s taken several more steps back. Fuck, this was a bad idea, wasn’t it? “It’s okay,” she says in the same hushed tone. “It’s just me.”

A moment passes, and then his eyes clear. He’s still breathing heavily, gripping the surface of the bed as if to steady himself. “Chani,” he says. He raises a shaky hand to his eyes, lets out something almost like a dry sob. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t...”

“It’s okay,” she says again. “I shouldn’t have woken you up – ”

“No – no, I’m glad you did.” His head lifts, avoiding her eyes still. “Did I hurt you?”

She remembers how fast he’d moved, lashing out as if at an enemy. Some people try to hide when they panic, others’ instinct is to fight back. Somehow she wouldn’t have expected him to be the latter. “Not at all.”

“Good.”

For a few minutes he sits hunched in the corner of his bed, slowly catching his breath. Chani takes the time to creep back to his side. What happens now?

He finally meets her eyes. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“No,” she lies.

“Has it – “ he swallows, eyes trailing past her to the wall, the floor, “has it happened before?”

This time she can’t bring herself not to tell the truth. “Just last night. I didn’t really...know what to do.”

In the dark his face is unreadable. She’s bracing herself for anger – but he just sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over them once again. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you before I started sleeping in here. I just didn’t think...” he breaks off, shaking his head. “It hasn’t happened in a while. Been exhausting myself enough, I guess. But since my mom...”

Right. The ritual. The Water of Life. He’s never talked about it, not yet. Not to her. Which, she quickly realizes, means probably not to anybody.

Something cold pools in her stomach. Which was it that did this to him – almost losing his mother, or what she became after surviving? The fact that she did it in the first place? “Have you always...”

Paul gives her a quick glance. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve always had weird dreams – you know the ones that feel so real when you wake up, you can’t tell what was real and what wasn’t?”

She shrugs. Not really, is the true answer. Unless she’s been taking pure spice – and she doesn’t have time for that much these days. “Sometimes.”

 “I got a lot of nightmares,” he continues, his voice quiet. “Back home. I’m sorry you had to...I’m sorry.”

He will know the ways of past and future from his dreams. Another prophecy, another supposedly simple thing that means more than it should. Chani shudders at what the others would say if they knew heard him talk like that.

But now, in the quiet and dark of her room at night, his words aren’t those of a prophet. Just of a tired boy trying to make sense of what doesn’t.

“You should drink some water,” she says, interrupting her own thoughts before they can go somewhere dangerous.

He nods in a vague, distracted way. “Only if it can be spared.”

She snorts a laugh, offering him her hand. It takes him a second to realize she wants him to grab it. “Don’t worry about that,” she insists, “I’ve watched you – you’re more careful with water discipline than some people who have lived here for years.”

This earns the hint of a smile from him, which for some reason makes Chani unable to look his way.

She fills a beaker for him from the doorseal, stands back as he slowly drinks, his eyes on some distance farther than the sandstone wall. Sweat stands out around his collarbones, his hand trembling around the drinking tube.

Maybe it’s that it’s the middle of the night, that they’re likely the only ones awake at least amongst these adjoining apartments – but there’s something vulnerable and oddly intimate about standing there, watching him. In the quiet his breaths sound louder, everything about him closer and more real.

After he’s done he stands hunched by the door, still breathing heavily. He glances up at Chani, giving her a thin smile. “Sorry. I might need a minute.”

She shrugs. “I’ve got a minute.”  

And then she’s biting her tongue, realizing he probably meant he wants time alone. But her moment is gone, so she hovers awkwardly across from him without looking him in the eye.

Why is she so weird around him?

All she can think to do that won’t make things stranger than they are already is sit down on the floor.  To her surprise, he follows suit .

Something clatters out in the hall, not too loudly but it makes him jump all the same. He scrubs at his eyes, almost aggressive. “I really am sorry, Chani. I never meant for you to see me like this. These past couple days...I know I’ve been...”

There’s a level of weariness in his voice she’s never heard before. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Tell the whole seitch their Mahdi gets nightmares sometimes?”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, and whatever tight thing has been curled up in her chest this whole time loosens a little. It’s a nice sound, his laugh. She doesn’t hear it often enough.

Why the fuck are you thinking that? Don’t think that. She has to shake herself, there in the dark. Because here, in the privacy of their yali (how long has she been thinking of it as theirs?) with him a few feet away and no one else, tired and shaken and – possibly – in need of company, thoughts like that are all too easy to think.

They’ll get her nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. She’ll keep reminding herself that, again and again, for as long as she needs to. There’s nothing practical about focusing on the shape of his fingers where they rest lightly on the water beaker, or the gentle motion of his shirt as his chest rises and falls. A loose curl of hair falls in front of his eye and it’s shameful, how hard she has to fight not to reach out and brush it away.

“You don’t want to...talk about it, do you?”

Judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t at all, and it was a bad question to begin with. She needs to start learning what she can and can’t say around him; what kind of questions are reasonable in a practical Fremen way but startling to outsiders.

He doesn’t bother her about it, though. Just leans his head back against the wall, shuts his eyes in a slight frown. “It’s...a lot of the same, most nights. Violence, wars...it doesn’t always make sense. But it’s never good.” His throat bobs as he swallows, looking away. “Most of the time it’s my fault.”

The last part is spoken softly, as if he’s ashamed. It should chill her to the bone, that thoughts like that are in his head, even in dreams. War and violence could come very easy to him, if he wanted them to.

But it doesn’t, because he doesn’t. He’s not the Mahdi. He doesn’t have that power.

“If it’s any help,” she says, “you seem pretty harmless to me. When you’re not fighting, that is.” And even then, skilled as he is during their training sessions it’s not like he’s trying to hurt her.

The only time she’s seen him really fight for his life was against Jamis, who he hadn’t wanted to kill at all.

He gives a wry smile, taking another sip from the beaker.

Chani nudges him with her foot. “I’ve heard rumours about your home planet. That it’s so full of water there are places where you can’t see the edge of it.”

His smile widens a little, grows more genuine. “It’s true. I know I haven’t talked about it much – wouldn’t want to make anyone jealous.”

“You should.” Her foot nudges him again, just behind the knee. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, there are three main continents – landmasses – “

She swats him lightly. “I know what a continent is. I’m not completely ignorant.”

“Right. Sorry. I just thought...” he shakes his head. “They’re divided up by oceans. Imagine as much water as you can, and then more. Most places it’s is so deep you can’t walk through it to get from one place to another; you either fly across or you have to boat.”

“Boat?”

“They’re like...like overland shuttles, but they float across the surface of the water.”

Right. So much for not looking ignorant.

She has to prod him a couple more times, but once he gets going his distressed demeanour slides away completely and he talks about his home with as much love and enthusiasm as Chani would talk about hers.

“There are birds that never fly,” he tells her. “Some of them are as tall as you or me, they have wings, but they don’t use them. They walk instead.”

“Birds that don’t fly.”

“I’m serious. Most of them are pretty shy, though – I’ve never been all that close to any of them. Some of the smaller species are a bit more friendly.”

There are other birds he tells her about; birds that live only in the coldest oceans and use their wings to fly through the water itself, birds that mimic the human voice, birds in colours she can’t even picture.

She really doesn’t believe him when he tells her about snow.

“It’s like rain,” he explains, “it comes from the sky in the same way, but when the air is cold enough it freezes – solidifies. So it comes down in particles of frozen water.”

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

He laughs softly. “Not at all. Unless there’s a lot of them falling at once in a strong wind – then it can sting just like a sandstorm does. But no, they’re...gentle. Small.”

He hesitates, reaches out to her and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. She gives him her hand, uncertain.

One long finger touches a freckle by her wrist, very softly. “About that size,” he says. “They melt when they land on your skin after a few seconds, into water droplets. But when they fall to the ground and enough of them collect, it builds up in piles. Sometimes it’s high enough you have to wade through it to get anywhere, if the roads haven’t been cleared away. It’s...like sand, I guess. Like the dunes. Only cold.”

His voice drops lower, his finger still absent mindedly tracing the edge of her palm. That overblown gentleness is back, him cradling her hand in his as though it’s a baby bird.  “They’re perfect. Each snowflake is completely unique. You see it, when they fall on you, how different each one is.”

Just as Chani’s debating with herself what to do with the hand he’s still holding, he realizes what he’s doing and drops it like something that’s burned him. “Anyway,” he says, sounding oddly breathless, “they...they have special heating systems in the mountain settlements. To melt it when it gets too bad on the streets.”

“Right.”

A glance at the hand he’d let go, then he gives his head a shake, carries on. Chani’s still thinking of snow, of water so cold it forms patterns on her skin. Of the warmth of his hand, and how quickly frozen water would melt against it.

She’s quickly caught back up in his words, as he talks about coral reefs and kelp forests, islands and all the things that live there –creatures that could kill a man with hooves and horns and tusks, creatures like sandtrout but that never grow into worms and live in the water.

And...the longer he goes on, the more it’s him she finds she’s paying attention to. Again. Not his descriptions of birds and trees and mountains, but the way his eyes brighten when he remembers something to add on, how he keeps his voice quiet but still manages to let it carry. The little gestures he makes.

He wears a ring on his left hand – one she’s seen him take on and off, treat with care. She’s never asked about it.

 “I dreamed about you.”

Her head snaps up. “What, tonight?”

He’s suddenly awkward. “No. I mean...before I met you. I would dream about you sometimes. Many times. It was the strangest thing, finally meeting you for real.”

Something in her chest flutters like a trapped bird. Nobody should meet who and what comes to them in their dreams. No outworlder, at least. Maybe if he’d been exposed to spice all his life, it wouldn’t be so out of the ordinary.

But he hadn’t been. And either way, the thought of her face appearing in the dreams of a boy on another planet, one where water falls from the sky and freezes, makes her skin prickle. “You’re sure it was me?”

He glances up, only briefly, but his gaze seems to shoot right through her. The hint of an embarrassed smile plays at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Curiosity fights with the unsettled feeling in her lungs. And wins. “What did I...do?”

He frowns, thinking. “Depended on the dream. Usually you were...taking me somewhere. Teaching me things. Showing me things. About your planet, the people.”

All of a sudden it makes her angry. That she should exist in his brain, doing whatever he imagined her doing – she exists, exists here and now in flesh and blood and water. She’s more than a vague appearance in a dream of the Lisan-al-Gaib.

 “I like this you better,” he adds quickly. Maybe he’s not what they say he is, but it’s true there are moments when Chani wonders secretly if he can read minds, and this is one of them.  “You’re...real. They were just dreams.” A very slight teasing look lightens his eyes. “And if I’m honest, I was a bit scared of that other version of you.”

“And this version?”

A bit of playfulness creeps back into his dry voice. “Only sometimes.”

 Despite herself, Chani feels a smile of her own tugging at her lips. It’s not normal. And he could always use it, use that other her as some sort of proof of what he might be. What, for now, he insists he isn’t.

He’s not like that. Shishakli’s voice in her head screams that she barely knows him, she can’t know what he’s like. But still something tells her he’s not the type to use girls he’s dreamed about – or done anything else with in his waking hours – as some kind of boast. Any kind.

It’s still weird. Still not right. Nevertheless, the look in his eyes is far from self satisfied. Just watchful, and a little shy.

And she knows he hasn’t told her for the sake of proving anything – but as a confession.

It’s him who looks tired first, swaying slightly where he sits. “I think I’m all right  now,” he says, a bit awkwardly. “To go back to sleep, I mean.”

“Right.” Chani can never let him know how much she enjoyed hearing him talk. How annoyingly conflicted hearing about his dreams has made her. “Good. You should rest. I’ll even let you sleep in tomorrow.”

He staggers a little when he stands up – he really is exhausted. A shiver ripples across his shoulders as he makes his way back across the room. “Thanks. Might need it.”

Her heart should not be beating as fast as it is, as she ducks back into her own bed. It was just a conversation. Nothing more than that. It didn’t change anything.

I dreamed of you. Dammit. Fuck. She won’t be getting those words out of her head any time soon, will she?

 “Hey, Chani?”

She peers back out, sees the pale circle of Paul’s face sticking out from the shadows. “Yeah?”

The shadows darken for a second – his head going down, thinking. He’d dreamed of her. How the fuck had he dreamed of her? “I just – thanks. Thanks for...”

“Oh. It’s nothing.”

For a moment his head stays there, like he wants to say something more, but then he’s gone, disappeared back into the dark.

She keeps her word, and doesn’t wake him in the morning. His form is a crumpled shadow in the corner of his bed, unmoving except for the very slight motion of his breath.

Unnervingly tempting though it is to creep over just to see him – to see what he looks like when asleep and at peace all at once – Chani resists.

For a brief moment only, she allows herself to wonder if it’s her he’s dreaming about. 

He doesn’t show up to mealtimes. Not surprising, given the few rough nights in a row he’s had. Still, she can’t help feeling a slight pang of nerves every time she glances to the entryway and doesn’t see his now familiar lanky form slipping in unnoticed.

Barely a week, and she’s already used to him.

It’s after midday when she returns to the yali, hoping to reconfigure her pack before going out to check their windtrap. If he’s up for it, she’ll drag Paul into it too when he’s ready.  Try to pretend last night never happened.

(Even though the fact that it did happen has already settled like a hot coal in her chest, the opposite of unpleasant.)

She’d assumed he would’ve left to grab some food by now. Instead he’s sitting hunched at the edge of his bed rubbing his forehead, his face in shadow.

Even when she goes to her own bed and starts dragging extra stuff out of her pack, none too quietly, he doesn’t look up. Which bothers her. “Hey,” she says carefully, turning. “Did you eat something?”

He shakes his head slowly without lifting it. “Just got up.”

There’s a rasp to his voice that’s not normally there,  even first thing in the morning. Chani lets the pack flop back to her bed. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then – “I don’t know.”

Those words shouldn’t concern her half as much as they do, prompting her to cross the room in barely two steps to reach him. He’s just worked himself too hard. He’s an outworlder. She doesn’t even know him, not really.

But yeah, okay, she’s concerned.  

In his eyes is a plea for help, even if there’s none in his words. Chani gets close, peers into his face. There’s a grey tinge to his skin that screams of someone pushed to the limits of exhaustion; lips pale, eyelids bruised-looking. His usually steady gaze flickers, unfocused. “You don’t look well, that’s for sure.”

He makes a small sound in his throat, lifting his hand to run it back through his hair. “Yeah. Sitting up is...interesting. Feel pretty lightheaded.” He winces, rubbing his eyes.

“Can I?” He shrugs at her proffered hand, letting her rest it against his forehead. Her heart sinks and she swears under her breath – he’s burning up.

“Fever?”

“Unless outworlders usually feel hot enough to fry bread on, then yes.”

He sighs, and it’s half a groan. “Yeah, I thought so. Knew something wasn’t right when I felt cold for once.”

A weak attempt at humour – maybe for her sake – is far from enough to make her miss how tired and uncomfortable he is. Chani slides her fingers under his jaw. Lymph nodes swollen, hot; she presses down gently, feeling him flinch beneath her fingers. “Does that hurt?”

“Yeah. A bit.” His voice wavers. “It’s – it’s my throat. Feels like it’s on fire.”

She takes a step back. He’s really a mess. “You should lie down. Get some rest – “

“I can’t.” The words come out sharp in spite of the rasp in his throat, eyes desperate. He scrubs at them, outworlder-dark pits in his pale face. “I don’t want anyone finding out.”

“Fremen aren’t immune to getting sick,” she says drily. “It’s not like anyone will think worse of you for it.”

“I can’t be sick,” he insists, panic creeping into his voice. “I shouldn’t be. There isn’t time for – for all that.”

It would be easy to make fun of him, how seriously he takes things. Touching as his enthusiasm can be, a part of him still clearly thinks he’s more important than he is. “Paul. You’re a good fighter, but we’ll survive a few days without your help.”

“I just don’t want to be a liability,” he mutters. “And...the last thing I want is someone...turning it into something.”

Turning it into something. What must it be like, to live your life knowing your every move, your every word, could be reconfigured into the result of some prophecy? Even shit you can’t control?

“Hey.” She rests a hand on his shoulder. It’s a testament to how rough he’s feeling that he doesn’t react. “I won’t say anything about you not feeling well. If you want I can tell them all you’re...busy seeing the future or something.”

A weak laugh leaves him. One hand rakes through his sweaty hair again, then gives up and braces his forehead, elbows on his knees. “Tell them...whatever,” he mutters to his lap. “You don’t have to lie, I just...don’t want to call attention to it.”

She gently thumbs his shoulder, very aware of the worrying heat glowing through his shirt. “Don’t think about that. I’ll deal with that. You just try to get yourself better, okay?” She pauses. “And hey, I’m here. I’ll help get you get there too.”

The look on his face when he raises it from the cradle of his hands makes something squeeze around her heart. He really needs to stop doing that thing with his eyebrows. “You’d really help out with...”

“Sure.” She’s closer than she was last night, one hand still steadying him, the other hovering, prepared. They get close when they train of course, knife-clutching hands near faces and elbows locked under shoulders, stillsuit-to-stillsuit, but this is different. Chani can’t work out how it’s different, but it is.

She certainly isn’t used to touching him gently.

“You’re not a liability,” she says. “Not so far, anyway. If I thought you’d be useless you wouldn’t be sharing my room.”

“I believe that.”

He’s still trembling, with either chills or the sheer effort of keeping himself upright. Maybe both. “Lie down,” she says, giving his shoulder a nudge. “I’ll get you some water.”

She fills another beaker, leaves it on the floor by his bed. Where– thankfully –  he’s lain back down, one arm draped over his closed eyes. “I can find a medic at some point today if you want, see if they’ve got any medicine you could use.” They probably won’t be able to get him the really potent stuff – that’s reserved for the battlefield – but someone is bound to have herbs at least.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Paul mumbles from under his arm. “Really, I owe you – “

“Hey. Look at me.”

He shifts his arm back, watching her through bleary eyes.

Chani cups his cheek in her hand. His pulse beats just under her fingers, surprisingly steady. “You told us you’d fight for us. With us. Are you going back on that any time soon?”

He blinks hard. “No?”

 “Then you don’t owe me a thing. You want to risk your life for my people – what more could you give?”

Because that’s how it works, isn’t it? He’s put his life, and body and his water, on the line for them. Helping a sick person out is nothing compared to that.

So long as he follows through with it.

His gaze flickers over her face, expression unreadable. If she had to guess, she’d say he looks almost guilty. Which makes no sense whatsoever.

It comes to her out of nowhere that he could be faking it. Which is a stupid thought, and one very quickly overridden by the clammy heat under her fingers, the overall air of sick-person exhaustion. Then again...his mother had powers Chani doesn’t understand even before she took the poison. And she trained him.

He doesn’t have any powers, she tells herself sternly, untangling the blanket on his bed and tossing it over him as an excuse to break eye contact. He’s a fast learner and good at noticing details and gets weird dreams sometimes. That doesn’t mean anything.

“Sleep, okay?” What would be the point of him pretending anyway, if he’s going to be so adamant about not telling anyone? Stupid thought. “You’ll get your strength back in no time.”

“I hope,” he mutters, eyes still following her.

“What do I tell the medics? I need symptoms.”

“Oh.” He rubs at the spot between his eyebrows. “Um. My throat’s the worst of it, I guess. Bit of a headache. Just...sick.” A small smile tugs at his mouth in contrast to the pained tension written all over his face. “Nothing deadly. I’ll be fine. Just need some sleep.”

“We’ll see.”

“Chani?” He’s propped himself up on one elbow, blinking hard at her as if through a haze. “You don’t have to do anything. For me, I mean. I’m grateful about the medicine, but after that...don’t worry, okay? I’m good. I can...”

She pushes him back down, gently but forcefully. “I said we’ll see.”

The stunned look on his face gives way to weariness. “Okay,” he says, eyes falling shut. “Whatever...whatever you think is best.”

Yeah, there’s no way he’s faking it. He’d have to be very, very good at pretending if that was the case.

And as far as Chani’s seen, he isn’t.

Sanya, a medic she’s known almost as long as Shishakli, is instantly suspicious when Chani approaches her. “Are you sick?”

“A friend,” she says vaguely. “Not too badly, they’re just uncomfortable.”

She raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t question further. Medics know how to be discreet when needed. “I’ll give you an herb mixture. Strong ones?”

“Please.”

While Sanya digs around on the shelf where she stores her self-made remedies, Chani chews on the thumb of her glove, one knee jiggling relentlessly. It’s pathetic how on edge she feels leaving Paul behind, even for a little while.

He’ll live, she tells herself sternly. He’s not that delicate. Get over yourself.

Still. Illness can turn bad quickly – especially amongst those whose immune systems aren’t accustomed to seitch life. Or to desert life at all for that matter. She keeps envisioning a scene where she returns only to find him worse – or worse than worse.

Stop worrying.

Sanya returns with a small satchel, three vials packed in. Dried herbs soaked in just enough water to cover them. It’s precious, this kind of remedy. “Thanks a lot. I’ll repay you when I can.”

She waves her off. “I know you will. Might send you out gathering next time I need a restock.” A knee injury a year or so back has left climbing tricky for her, meaning she’s rarely on the battlefield anymore – sticks to the seitch and mixes up remedies for when the fighters return. Or for situations like this.

Chani trusts her. She’s had enough of her own scares to know what she does is close to magic.

Her eyes narrow, one hand still clutching the satchel. “This is strong stuff. You’re sure this friend of yours doesn’t need to spend any time in the infirmary?”

“No. Not yet.”

“And is that your call, or his outworlder stubbornness?”

“Mine,” Chani says without thinking. Sanya’s eyebrows shoot up toward her hair, and it clicks. “Shit. Listen, can you do me a favour and just keep it quiet? He’s...being weird about it.”

“Weird how?”

“He doesn’t want people knowing. I think he’s afraid it’ll end up being a big deal, one way or another. Doesn’t want to call attention to himself.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Sanya says drily.

Chani shrugs, though she’s half right.

“You’re sure you can handle it yourself?”

“There’s not much to handle. He’s fine. He will be.”

Her friend sighs, loosens her hold on the herb bundle. “Chani. Make sure you take care of yourself, too.”

There’s a warning behind her words. But taking care of herself has always been the easy part. And a part of her thinks Paul must be the same; someone you’re able to leave alone in whatever state and can trust they’ll keep themselves alive and well with no help whatsoever.

Still. Still.

It’s a while before she returns, having checked both their windtrap and an older one that needed some adjustments in the meantime. Part of her knows she’s delaying on purpose, giving herself time to get over the little spikes of worry that keep jabbing her.

He’s dozing when she gets back, curled on his side with the fingers of one hand poking out from his blanket, most of his face burrowed under it. Definitely still alive.

Little though Chani wants to wake him, the feverish heat rolling off of him is enough to make her flinch, even just from hovering her knuckles an inch from his forehead. She shakes his shoulder gently. “Hey. I got you some medicine. Can you sit up for me?”

Right away his eyes flicker open, head emerging with a tired mumble. “What’s the matter?” he croaks, frowning in confusion.

She shows him the jar. “Medicine.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Give me a second.”

 It takes him a few unsuccessful tries to prop himself up. Eventually she takes pity on him and eases her arm behind his shoulders until he’s upright. Then he sits there dull-eyed, catching his breath. “Okay. What do you have?”

He still sounds half asleep, words a blurry struggle. “You doing okay? Any better?”

“Ah.” He rubs his neck, wincing. “Not – not much. Tired.”

Tired is certainly one word for it. He looks like he fell out of an ornithopter and directly into a fifty foot deep canyon. And probably feels about the same.

Chani gives him a brief checking over, testing his forehead again (still too hot), the swollen glands in his neck (still swollen). She wheedles it out of him that he’s got an earache now too, and after a bit more prodding he admits it’s been bad enough he can only lie on one side comfortably because of the pressure. Great.

She sits at the end of his bed, tucking her legs up under her. Opens the jar of herbs Sanya gave her.  “This’ll help with the fever and pain, probably take some of the swelling down in your throat.”

“That’s – that’s perfect. Thank you.”

She digs out the capsule that came with the herbs, opens it over the mixture. Paul’s voice startles her, tinged with alarm. “What’s that?”

“Spice. You mix that in, too.”

“Oh.” All of a sudden he looks uncertain. “I just don’t...I get weird reactions to it sometimes. Do – do you have to add it?”

Typical outworlder, trying to avoid the spice on Arrakis. “I guess you don’t have to, but it really defeats the purpose...everyone uses it in medicine. Speeds up the healing process.” He’s staring at the small capsule in her hand as if it’s about to bite. “You really don’t like it, do you?”

“I’m just not...” He scrubs at his eyes. “It messes with my head.”

“You’ll get used to it. Foreigners always have trouble with it at first.” She holds out the vial. “Trust me. It’s only a little bit. I promise you’ll feel better after you’ve taken it.”

Still wary, he takes the vial from her with a shaky hand. Sips, winces slightly. “All at once, right?”

“If you want to feel any better by tonight, yeah.”

He takes a deep breath as though steeling himself. Raises the tube with a tired smile and says something in a clipped, unfamiliar tongue that Chani guesses is some ironic toast before downing it.

The effect is immediate. He coughs, shakes his head – and then goes very still. Lowers the vial in a slow, deliberate motion, swaying slightly, eyes focused somewhere far off.

Chani nudges his foot under the cover. “You okay?”

He nods slowly before letting out a small noise of discomfort, squeezing his eyes shut. One hand grips the edge of his bed so tightly the knuckles whiten. “Lie down,” she says. “You might feel a bit weird for the first few minutes.”

His eyes stay firmly closed as she eases him back, darting under his lids like someone already in a dream. Sweat beads at his hairline. Chani lays a hand carefully on his chest where it rises and falls unsteadily, way too fast. “Breathe,” she says. “Do you...feel anything?”

It’s a long moment before he answers. She can feel him fighting to slow his breathing, his skin warm and trembling. “I’m okay.” The words are oddly distant, as though he’s not even talking to her. “Just – just dizzy.”

“You sure?”

A faint crease appears between his eyebrows. “I hear...something. A voice. Not you. Is that – ?”

“Just you, I think.” If Shishakli was here, she’d be laughing her head off at an outworlder so easily affected by the same stuff they’ve been breathing in and eating and drinking since birth.

It’s a little pathetic. Just a little. But she can’t bring herself to make fun of him, miserable as he’s been. “I’m right here. Just hang onto that.” She pats his hand where it lies limp on the bedcover. “Right here. Whatever else you see.”

His eyes flicker back open, unfocused, pupils wide and dark. He’s breathing a little easier though, calming, the initial shock of the drug to his system wearing off. “I’m okay,” he says again, sounding marginally more present. “Still getting used to it.”

Chani lets him be for a minute, watching him gradually relax. “You’re right,” he mutters. “It helps a bit – feels like things are...” his hand gestures vaguely to his ear, “clearing. A little.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to work. Hopefully it’ll ease things up enough that you’ll be able to sleep.”

“Hmm.”

She smooths the blanket over his legs, unsure what else to do. It’s not like he’ll be all ready to go once the medicine kicks in, but it’ll make him more comfortable. So she should at least stay until then, right?

“I might know what you’ve caught, you know,” she says. It’s a few seconds before Paul makes a small sound in his throat in response. “We call it cactus fever, sometimes. It’s more common with kids, but I guess you wouldn’t have been exposed to it where you come from.”

His breathing is steady enough she thinks he must have fallen asleep at first. “Why a cactus?” he mumbles eventually.

“Usually ‘cause it feels like you swallowed one.”

A faint huff that might be a weak laugh. “Hmm. Sounds about right.”

“The rest of the symptoms line up. High fever, headache, sometimes an ear infection comes with it if you’re really lucky.”

“Think I might’ve gotten lucky on that front.”

“The good news is it’s not deadly or anything.” Most of the time. If you weren’t too old, or too young, or already weakened in some other way. “Usually it takes a few days to get better all the way, but most people pull through fine.”

One heavy-lidded eye cracks open, focuses on her with difficulty. “How long’s a few?”

She shrugs. “Depends. Sometimes about a week, maybe?” It’s not like she’s had it any time recently, not for ages. Most do before the age of twelve. “If I’m right, you’ll be fine. You’ll feel like shit, but you’ll be fine. And you can only get it once. Apparently it’s worse the older you are though, so brace yourself.”

He doesn’t smile. “Hey,” she says, scooching closer. “I’ll be around. If you need anything tell me, I’ll do what I can.”

For a long moment he lies still, quiet. “Thank you. For being here.”  

An unexpected warmth creeps into her chest. She shrugs, ignoring it. “Well. If your skill in battle is as good as you’ve shown, we’re gonna need you. Can’t have you bedridden for too long.”

It’s far from the only reason, and she can tell he knows it.

“I tried to make myself get better,” he says quietly. “I...there’s a thing my mother can do...they’re able to control...things. Themselves. She never got sick. I guess that’s why.”

Chani pieces through these almost-sentences. Of course, it had to come back to his mother. “Never?”

Paul shakes his head. “Don’t think so. She could...stop it. I thought I could too.”

Automatic revulsion at the thought of  his abilities mingles with sympathy. He’s no reverend mother. Trained by one or not, there’s no way he could possibly be frustrated with himself for not manually forcing a virus out of his system with his mind properly.

“You’ve been tired,” is all she says. “Your body’s overwhelmed. It’s easier to get sick when you’re like that.” She hesitates. “And maybe I’ve been pushing you a bit too much. With our sparring and everything.”

“No, you...” he winces a little, angling his head so he can look at her with his eyes only half open. “You’re not...thank you for teaching me. Really. I’m happy to learn. From you.”

She has to pull away from his half-lidded gaze, her neck oddly warm. “In that case, I’ll keep going with it once you’re better. Until you can beat me.”

He doesn’t answer, eyes falling shut again. Maybe there’s no harm in staying in the yali until nightfall, there’s not much else she had scheduled and it’s approaching evening anyway. There are plenty of things she can get done around here. She’ll grab something to eat, and then come back.

It’s not for him, she thinks, taking a glance at Paul’s tired face. I’ve got my own reasons.

“You tell me if you need anything, okay?” she says quietly, nudging his foot again. “I mean it.”

The foot moves under the blanket, a half asleep mumble following.

Chani adjust his covers again, tucking the blanket in over his shoulders. He’ll be fine.

So she stays. Organizes some of her things (which takes longer than she’d hoped), grabs food, comes back as it starts to get dark. Changes out of her stillsuit and wraps up in an extra robe over her clothes – a chill wind has picked up underground that only deepens with the night. The shine of both moons comes down through the sky window, one by one.

She’s used to this, prefers the late hours actually – the time when nobody is around to distract her from her own peace, or whatever needs to get done. Just her and the whispering sand and the hum of insects.

Paul stays up too. Though seemingly not on purpose.

They don’t talk. She starts fixing her broken lantern – with any luck she finally won’t have to borrow Shishakli’s anymore and suffer her friend’s glares and groans. She finishes stitching a patch along the hem of her pants.

Paul stays in bed, sleeping for the most part, but after a few hours her ears prick up at every shuffle or small cough that comes from his direction. As the night goes on, she can swear she hears his teeth chattering.

A few times she glances over her shoulder, hoping she’s being subtle about it. The shape of him tosses and turns on and off, occasionally emitting sharp, unhappy huffs of breath.

If he’s having trouble sleeping that’s his business. It’s to be expected. Besides, she doesn’t want him thinking he’s disturbing her when he’s clearly not doing it on purpose.

But when it passes midnight and she’s about ready to fall asleep over her work, she can’t help but get up and go check on him. And doesn’t it make sense? To let him know she’s going to bed soon? That’s not too much, right?

Not wanting to blind him, she sets her half-repaired lamp on the floor by his bed, its one working setting giving just enough light to see him properly. His eyes squint open and her heart sinks – he’s still wide awake, but the grey heaviness to his eyelids tells her it’s the last state he wants to be in. Worse, he’s shivering, arms clenched tight around his chest. Clearly the medicine has long worn off. “I was about to go to sleep. I hope I wasn’t keeping you up.”

He shakes his head, blinking hard. “Not your fault,” he says tiredly.  “Brain won’t turn off. I’m just...restless, I guess.”

He shivers again, whimpering softly as he clutches his blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “Cold?”

“Yeah. Makes everything hurt.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

He swallows. The harsh lantern light makes him look even paler,  more drawn out. “I don’t – don’t want to ask for anything.”

Of course he doesn’t. She adjusts the blanket where it’s fallen off his shoulder. “Don’t miss your chance – I really am about to go to bed.”

His eyes close briefly, defeated. “Okay. Okay – you don’t have a...a coat or something I could borrow? Don’t worry about it...if you can’t spare anything...”

Chani hesitates only for a moment before pulling her own blanket from her bed and draping it over him, shushing him when he starts to protest. “You need it more than I do. I’ve slept through worse.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” It’ll be a cold one, but her extra layers will have to do the job well enough.

He still looks miserable, huddled there under both covers with his knees drawn up to his chest. Though her own tired brain is begging her to go to sleep, it feels cruel to leave him here like this, even if there isn’t exactly much more she can do. The night has got her shivering too – arms tucked around herself, bare feet uncomfortably chilly – she can’t imagine how he feels. “Do you want me to stay up with you for a little while?”

“It’s fine,” he mutters. “Go sleep. I’ll get warm.” He coughs, lets out a weak groan. “I know it’s just the fever. I just...it’s really cold.”

There’s a hint of panic in his voice. He’s right – he’s not in danger, not of freezing to death anyway. Still, it’s bound to be damned uncomfortable.

“You should take another dose of those herbs, it might help – “

“No,” he says shortly. “I – not yet. Shouldn’t waste them. I can...I can figure it out.”

“How’s the throat?”

He swallows. Grimaces. “Bad.”

Another shudder wracks through him, worry darting through her at the same time. Should she go find a medic?

He’s just cold and in pain, she tells herself sternly. Normal stuff. He can talk and move and isn’t in danger of immediately dying. Discomfort is far from the end of the world.

Still.

An idea comes to her. One she’ll definitely back out of the second she thinks about it too hard, so act right away it is. “Move over a little.”

Paul frowns, confused, but shuffles slightly toward the wall, wincing. Chani shuts off the lantern, lifts the blankets and crawls in next to him.

It takes him a second for it to click. Then he startles, his frown deepening in the dark. “Wait – you don’t have to...”

“Hush.” She adjusts the blankets around them both, tosses her robe around his shoulders. Shivering though he is, his body is a ball of heat. “Nights can get cold here. We’ll both be better off this way.”

From the shadows the pallour of his face stands out, struggle in his eyes. “You – you’re sure you’ve had this already? I don’t want to breathe on you or anything.”

“I’m sure. You’re fine.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Fuck, it really is almost sweet, how bewildered he is. Chani takes a chance and drapes her arm around his trembling shoulders, rubbing a gentle circle between his shoulder blades. “Relax. You’ll warm up, I promise.”

He shudders under her hand, limbs coiling up tighter. It’s very hard to beat back the impulse to run her fingers through his hair, sweaty and tangled though it is. “You’ve never had a girl in your bed before, have you?” she teases, unable to help herself.

A dull flush she’s pretty sure has nothing to do with a rising temperature paints his cheeks. “Uh. No.”

Why does that catch her off guard? She should’ve assumed, based on...well, practically everything about him. If your brain is being stupid enough that that gets you flustered, don’t ask those kinds of questions in the first place, she tells herself sternly.

“You can come a little closer,” she says, immediately cringing at how it sounds now. “If you’re still cold, I mean. I won’t bite you. Feel free to roll away if you get too hot.”

He inches closer, tentatively at first and then fully curling up against her. The lean muscles under her hand are still tense, trembling. Overly warm, but hey, it is a cold night – sleeping next to a human oven can’t hurt. Her knee bumps into his under the blankets and he doesn’t jump away.

Slowly, gradually, she feels him relax.

“I’m a bit warmer,” he mumbles after a few minutes. The rattle of his teeth has lessened, his breathing less high and panicked. His eyes have fallen shut, head tucked into the hollow her arm makes on the cushion. “I think...I think I can sleep.”

“Do you want me to go?”

He’s quiet. “Not – not if you don’t want...”

“I’ll stay.”

He breathes out a small sigh of relief, his face calming. A small smile rises to her face and she bites it back, even if he can’t see it.

Don’t get all smug, she thinks, as Paul’s head tucks down further, closer to her. He’s sick and cold and this has nothing to do with you.

In a few days they’ll forget about this. Or laugh at the memory of it. Remember when you caught a virus only kids get and were so miserable I had to crawl into bed with you? A memory, something all over and done with that meant nothing.

Far worse things will happen. They’re battle companions – when you fight alongside people for years, it’s a lot harder for things to feel as intimate as they would to others.

Chani doesn’t miss the fact that she’s already thinking of them as companions, in battle or not, when they haven’t really fought together once yet.

She shakes those thoughts out of her head, embarrassed at herself. He’s just the outworlder. He’ll get his own room soon, and then she’ll be at peace.

All that doesn’t make her heart squeeze any less when he nestles closer so that they’re barely an inch apart, warm forehead resting against her hand where it lies loosely curled on the pillow. His chest is right there, the birdlike beating of his heart inches away.

“Go to sleep,” she says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Pretty soon, he does, his breath steadying and slowing. Very gently, not wanting to wake him, Chani extends one hand and brushes away the limp strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. His eyes don’t open, dark lashes lying softly against his skin. The sharp lines of his face have already been eased and quieted wih sleep.

Something clenches deep in her chest, something she can’t name and any other time would be aggressively trying to ignore. But now, in the dark, she has to face it.

The truth is, despite the circumstances, she likes being close to him. She has to face it, or it’ll eat her up inside.

Chani pulls the nearest blanket up around her ears, and does the same for him. Her hand lingers a second too long by his cheek.

Eventually, she sleeps too.