And waited.
And waited.
He opened his mouth to ask again, bracing a hand on the cold metal floor to lean over the hatch, when a head of messy brown hair popped up in front of him, safety goggles shoved haphazardly atop the bony brow.
“I mucked up my hand on the rusted wire stripper. Gotta stop the bleeding so I can get back to repairs.”
Orin winced, twisting his face into a comically irritated expression as he gave a sharp exhale before folding his shoulders inward and wedging his bulk out of the hatch one shoulder at a time.
He punctuated his slow progress with dark muttering in a language Ari was grateful he’d never studied, suppressing a sharp pain at the knowledge that Theo would have gleefully interpreted if he’d been present.
Ari’s distraction fled as Orin managed to free his elbows and pull himself onto the floor, his left hand leaving smears of blood across the polished steel surface, leaking fast and thick enough to catch and pool around the riveted depressions holding the floor together.
“You’re injured!” Ari blurted, reaching out a hand to the pilot who unexpectedly flinched backward before rising to his feet.
“Barely. Just fetch the med kit, would ya, honey?”
Holding his left wrist tightly with the opposite hand, Orin raised it above his head before stomping off toward the galley, scant inches of clearance between his bloody fingertips and the polished ceiling panels.
Ari scrambled to retrieve the med kit he kept stored in his laboratory, still pristine and sealed in plastic wrap from the ship supply.
He found Orin seated at the minuscule dining table, hand still held aloft over a thunderous expression.
Blood dripped down the length of his arm, prompting Ari to drop the med kit to the tabletop, watching Orin expectantly.
Honey-brown eyes caught him in a flat stare for long moments before Orin sighed, lowering his right hand to scrabble against the shrink wrap ineffectually.
Ari grabbed the med kit, stumbling out an apology as he tore the wrapping open and undid the metal latches holding the case of medical supplies closed.
Once he managed to remove the lid, he studied the contents blankly before turning back to Orin.
Orin was examining his injured hand, poking at the deep gash with fingers darkened with machine oil in a most unsanitary manner. Ari grabbed cleansing wipes and seized Orin’s hands, dabbing them gently and thoroughly, blood continuing to well up from the wound and drip onto the table.
Orin kept tonguing the side of his mouth thoughtfully; the gesture sending unexplained heat to Ari’s cheeks.
“Gonna need stitches, seems like.”
Holding his bleeding hand away from the open kit, Orin picked a few items from the assortment, moving bandages and tubes of ointment out of the way to gather the correct supplies.
He held out a sealed needle and packet of surgical thread to Ari, who froze in horror. Orin sighed, waving the packets in Ari’s direction.
“Don’t worry, sunshine, I can do it myself. I just need you to thread the needle for me.”
Nodding, Ari donned the stretchy blue gloves from the dispenser slot at the side of the kit, readied the needle, and handed it back before hesitating.
“Are you certain you wish to stitch up your own hand? Do you have prior experience in suturing a wound?”
Orin rolled his eyes in exasperation, wiggling the hand he had extended to accept the needle impatiently.
“Sure. Been patching myself up long as I can remember. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll hold.” He chuckled darkly. “Not like these big ol’ mitts can get much uglier anyway.”
Ari frowned, reaching into the kit for a tube of analgesic, adding a dab carefully around the wound. With a deep breath, he leaned in and cradled the injured hand carefully in his much smaller grasp, using his free hand to begin neat, meticulous stitches, tying each off individually before moving on to the next.
“I think your hands are beautiful,” Ari muttered, voice trailing off as he realized he’d spoken aloud.
To his horror, the prickling burn of a deep flush immediately covered every visible inch of his skin. He ducked his head, focusing on the wound, painfully aware his skin was burning right under Orin’s patrician nose. The curse of his complexion.
As he tied the final suture, Ari braced himself before looking up again, expecting a broad, mocking smirk and surprised to find the pilot smiling softly.
Orin dipped his chin gently at their still-joined hands.
“Thank you, professor.”
He moved to pull away, but Ari tightened his grip, careful of the fresh stitches.
“Wait. Allow me to apply regeneration fluid first.”
Orin’s brows climbed up his forehead.
“Nah. No need to waste good regen on me; stuff’s expensive.”
Ari had already located the correct tube and dispensed a small amount of the fluid onto the wound, carefully ensuring even application.
“I will reapply every six hours until the wound has healed sufficiently.”
He hesitated at the stunned expression on Orin’s face.
“That is, unless you’d prefer reapplying it yourself?”
Orin shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving Ari’s red face.
“No, that’s— You can do it. I’ll just come to you.”
Ari nodded, curling his fingers against the sudden chill as Orin removed his injured hand and snapped a stretched-thin glove over it before standing from the table.
“Best get back to it. Ship’s not gonna fix herself.”
*
Their evening repast was a quiet affair. Orin ate quickly, hunched over his plate with elbows out.
Ari sat across from him, cutting his food into small bites he could chew discreetly, attempting not to stare at his companion and doing a poor job of it.
Each time Orin lifted his head, Ari lowered his attention to his plate, knowing his skin was as scarlet as his hair.
Orin drew breath to speak, and Ari tensed, waiting to be teased for his inappropriate compliment.
“Where’d you learn a thing like that?”
Ari watched him cautiously, raising his napkin to dab at the corner of his mouth.
“Pardon?”
Orin placed his left hand palm up on the table, displaying the neat row of stitches. The edges of the wound were already beginning to close, aided by the cellular acceleration of the regeneration fluid. Orin gestured at his hand with a jut of his chin.
“Had much experience stitching up a man?”
Ari gave a small smile, shaking his head. “Not men, Mr. Stone. I participated in a series of experiments on mice during my undergraduate studies which required mastery of several surgical techniques.”
Orin’s mouth kicked up in surprise, amusement coloring his voice. “Mice, huh? I’m glad for it. Mighty nice of you to bother. If I’d have tried it on my own, it would’ve been a real mess, like this one here.”
He pulled his open collar to the side, revealing a jagged scar splitting the smooth bronze skin from collarbone to bulging deltoid on his left side.
Ari’s mouth unaccountably went dry before filling with such an excess of saliva it forced him to swallow. Audibly.
The softness faded from Orin’s eyes as he kept them trained on Ari’s crimson face. He slipped both arms through his leather braces in a practiced motion before reaching behind his neck to grab his shirt with his good hand.