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A whine escapes Veklin's lips, the sound far unlike anything Leela had heard the soldier make before. She is barely conscious, blood leaking sluggishly from the cracks in her armour onto the muddy ground.
The air is damp, Leela's breaths heavy in her chest. If they were both to make it back to the TARDIS, Leela would have to carry her. And if she were to carry her, the armour would have to come off.
Leela locates the straps of Veklin's armour with ease, and sets about undoing them. They are, after all, wearing the same clunky standard issue armour that Leela despises, but was forced to be closely familiar with nonetheless. It constricts her, imprisons her in a way that may be unnoticeable to Time Lords, who are used to their long stifling robes, but she is acutely aware of with every movement of her muscles. She could not run as swiftly, nor wield a knife as fluidly.
The sweet metal tang of Time Lord blood in the air grows stronger as Leela finishes removing Veklin's armour. Her movements held none of the tenderness that the Time Lords refused to believe she was capable of but she held inside her regardless. That tenderness was reserved for the ones who had proven themselves. Ones who she was separated from. Ones who she stayed strong for. Veklin certainly was not deserving of it.
Leela discards the armour to the side. She would have to leave it here. She regards Veklin, shivering in the mud and blood like a dog, with just a small amount of enjoyment, before scooping her up in her arms.
Veklin moans again, her eyes flying open. She attempts a furious expression for a split second before her face twists in agony and her eyes flutter shut.
"Wha—Leela—?" Veklin's words trail off into quiet, shuddering whimpers.
Leela starts in the direction of the TARDIS, then pauses, her eye catching sight of something under Veklin's loose shirt collar, revealed as she was adjusting the position of her arms around the soldier's small body. Rough red streaks, devoid of the hot anger of a brand new wound, and underneath them, the same marks, older, whiter. Leela recognises them instantly. She has seen them on her own neck, after Freme, and felt the hot buzzing pain that caused them, and the lingering sensation of that pain for days after.
So, even loyalty to the cardinal could not spare the commander from punishment.
Veklin is shaking now, and icy cold. Her sweat and tears are mixing with the drops of blood splattered over her face. Her body is limp, and she curls into Leela, one hand grasping at her sleeve, nails scraping the armour, clinging onto it, seemingly unconsciously.
Leela stays silent as she carries Veklin back to the TARDIS. But there is no one around to see how her grip softens just a little, or how she takes care to choose a way through the trees that avoids the rough ground.
Veklin will refuse to look at Leela for days after. Even when Ollistra's orders chain them together again. But Leela cannot help but notice how Veklin's shirt collar is buttoned tighter now, and she thinks of her president, far away and nowhere at all and with Rassilon's knife pressed to her throat. And she eyes Veklin, hunched in the corner, hands adeptly cleaning her staser, and thinks carefully, there is no space for kindness here. I must not forget that.