Which is precisely the damn problem.
Some people look totally different when they sleep. I figure it’s because their masks drop and you get to see the real them in a way they never let you see when they’re awake. But it’s not like that with Kali. Oh, she had a mask that first day on the Caelestis—I recognized it the second I laid eyes on her. But since then? On the Starlight? It’s been slipping more and more. At first I thought it was because she thought we didn’t care enough—that she saves her princess persona for people that matter—but the more I’ve gotten to know her, the more I realize this is just who she is.
She’s not wearing her mask because she doesn’t have to with us. I don’t know what that says—about her or about the rest of us.
She shivers in her sleep—I hate that we didn’t even get that damn jumpsuit off her—but I don’t have the heart to wake her now that she’s sleeping so well. So I set my empty plate aside and grab an extra blanket from the supply cabinet to drape over her before dimming the lights.
Then I settle down in the rigid chair and close my eyes as I stretch my legs out in front of me. I’m not sure what it says about my life that this isn’t even close to being the most uncomfortable place I’ve ever slept.
A noise gets my attention a few hours later, and I spring up, hand on my gun even before I blink the sleep out of my eyes. It takes a second to register where the noise is coming from, but once I realize it’s Kali, I relax.
“I’m sorry,” she tells me from where she’s sitting upright on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I shrug. “What are you doing awake?”
“My leg hurts. I woke up, and then I realized—” She breaks off, ducking her head.
“You’ve got to pee?” I guess, moving closer to the bed.
“Yeah, but my leg isn’t exactly cooperating.”
“We’ll figure out what to do about mobility aids in the morning,” I tell her. “For now, I’ll get you there.”
But when I lean down to pick her up, she swats at me. “You are not carrying me to the bathroom!”
“I carried you onto the ship. How is this any different?” I ask, brows raised.
“It just is.” But when she tries to push off the bed, she cries out in pain and ends up right back on her butt. Which, I’m now realizing, is exactly what woke me up.
A more gentlemanly guy would probably offer to help her over there with an arm around her waist or something. But I sense that Kali needs to do this for herself, so I’m willing to stand aside to let her get there on her own.
But it turns out I underestimated her stubbornness—and overestimated my ability to watch her hurt herself. She tries two more times to get off the bed and fails each time, and on the third try, my patience fails along with her.
“Okay, Princess, I know the Imperial bladder is probably not supposed to be acknowledged, let alone spoken of so specifically, but you’re going to be there all day if someone doesn’t step in.” So I do, scooping her into my arms and striding across the sick bay to the bathroom. The fact that she doesn’t even argue this time tells me she’s hurting—and running out of steam.
I deposit her in the bathroom and let her kick me out, though I keep an ear out for her falling as I wipe down the plastic on the bed she was laying on—there were a few spots of blood from earlier—and put a blanket down to make it more comfortable for her.
The toilet flushes, and then I hear water running, but when a couple more minutes pass and the door doesn’t open, I can’t resist calling out, “You okay in there?”
“Fine!” she answers. But she doesn’t sound fine. She sounds frustrated as hell.
“I’m coming in,” I say, and the fact that she doesn’t argue with me tells me everything I need to know.
I cross the room in a couple of strides, and when I open the door, she’s slumped against the sink in frustration, what’s left of her jumpsuit around her ankles. She’s not naked—she’s got on a thin tank-top thingy and a pair of panties—but that doesn’t keep me from noticing a whole lot of things I feel like a creep for noticing, considering she’s hurt and obviously in pain.
“I can’t pull it up,” she says, sounding defeated. “It’s still damp and it’s clinging and—”
“I’ve got you,” I answer as I squat down and, instead of pulling it up, gently finish peeling the jumpsuit over her feet.
She sighs. “I still need that.” But, again, the fact that she isn’t arguing tells me just how tired she is—and how much she’s hurting.
“I brought you a shirt. Sorry I didn’t think about giving it to you when you came in here.” Then, ignoring all the pretty parts of her I refuse to be thinking about right now, I give her a look that asks permission. Once she nods, I sweep her back up into my arms and carry her to bed.
After getting her settled on the bed again, I grab the shirt and help her into it before tucking her back under the blanket.
“I’m sorry,” she says, voice loaded with frustration and—I think—tears. Which…shit. I can handle four guys coming at me with blasters without blinking an eye, but women who cry? I can practically feel my hands shaking already. I’ve told her before. I don’t do crying women.
“Why are you crying? Are you hurting? I’ll get you more pain meds. Just don’t cry.” I practically leap for the medication cabinet.
“I’m sorry I’m so useless,” she says, and there are more tears—in her voice, on her cheeks.
“You were shot,” I tell her. “That’s not the same as useless.”
“It kind of feels the same.”
I shove another painkiller into her hands, along with the glass of juice I brought for her earlier. “Trust me, I’ve seen useless. This isn’t it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“So don’t believe me.” I shrug. “No skin off my ass. But take your damn pain meds so you can feel better.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but she’s not crying anymore and she’s taking her meds, so mission fucking accomplished. “You should eat, too,” I tell her.
“You should be careful, Ian, or someone’s going to think you actually like me.”
“Yeah, well, I think my rep can take it.” I grab the tray of food and bring it over to her.
“You brought me dinner?” She makes grabby hands at the tray. “I’ll love you forever.”
A weird little shiver goes through me at her words. I ignore it—she was only fooling around—but what I can’t ignore is the wide smile she gives me as she forks up a bite of the not-very-good mash I brought her. It’s a good look on her, and as she continues eating, I can’t help realizing that I’ve never seen a genuine smile from her before.
I’ve seen princess smiles, polite smiles—even don’t-mess-with-me smiles. But the smile she just gave me… Maybe it’s time for that I don’t do relationships conversation again. With myself, this time.
“This is delicious!” she says, holding a forkful out to me. “Do you want some?”