Chapter Text
With the knowledge that their time together is going to end soon, Maul spends extra time with her. He can tell it doesn't make her less sad, but she does appreciate it. She's curled up against his side, her head on his shoulder, her right hand on his chest.
He takes that hand and turns it gently so he can see the slave mark on the back of it. She doesn't move, but he can feel her coming to attention.
"We could remove it," he offers. It's been on his mind, the additional danger of sending her out into the world with a slave mark for all to see.
She lifts her head, startled.
"If I cauterise it with my lightsaber, and we immediately apply high grade bacta, the skin should heal smoothly."
He lets go of her hand without comment when she pulls it away and reflexively tucks it between their bodies, out of his reach.
"That sounds horrible."
"It is," he agrees. "But over quickly."
He drops the subject, not wanting her to feel pressured.
She brings it up the next day.
"Do we have more of that injectable bacta?"
"Ah few injectors."
"I think if you—if I was high enough not to be afraid…"
"I'll still need to hold you down." He can't imagine anybody would not reflexively yank away their hand when the lightsaber came on.
She considers it for a moment.
"I think you—that's okay."
They do it later that day, before she has time to get too nervous about it.
She's upright on the bed, pleasantly hazy with the bacta injection. Maul gives her a gentle force push in the chest, and she flops onto her back. He's been trying to learn that, restrained Force use. It takes a lot of focus; all Sidious ever cared about was how to use his force abilities as a blunt object. It's much easier to shove her across a room than it is to give her a gentle push and then hold her down without hurting her or choking her.
Do the Jedi get lessons in this kind of thing, in tempering their powers, in being subtle? He's almost jealous of that.
He sits down by Dunèth's side, legs alongside her head, and after some thought, puts his near thigh on top of her upper arm so her forearm comes up between his knees. Even if she does struggle she's fairly well pinned like this with her hand accessible.
She looks up at him, all wide eyed and trusting. She's not afraid, even though Maul feels like she should be. He wants to.. Maul bends forward to press a kiss to the palm of her hand, and she jolts, her fingers twitching. He smiles a little. He uses the force to hold her hand completely immobile the way he'll need to, and traces his fingers along her palm, her wrist, to test it. She's ticklish for these kind of touches, but she can't budge his grip, only squirm.
It'll do.
Actually doing it is worse than he could have anticipated. The procedure itself is simple enough, though he loathes the idea of causing her pain, even something like this she's agreed to. What makes it so much worse is that the bacta injection makes her all pliant and trusting. She gives him her hand with a hazy smile, and Maul hates this, hates it, that feeling like he's about to betray her.
He can't look at her face. Best to get it over with quickly.
He has the topical bacta ready on his other side, pins her hand and arm firmly, and ignites one side of his lightsaber with his right hand.
Then he can't bring himself to bring the two together. He begins to move his right hand and then freezes. Clenches his fingers around the hilt. What in the witch hells is wrong with him? Apart from in the course of revenge, Maul has never taken particular joy in hurting somebody, but he's also never hesitated. Not since he was very small, and had been taught the repercussions of refusing.
He grits his teeth, secures his grip on her limp hand, and—
The lightsaber is off. He doesn't remember turning it off, but he must have.
Duneth's eyes drift to his face. She's out of it, but not so much that she doesn't understand he is failing. Perhaps that's the issue, how she's just watching him, waiting for the pain.
"Sleep," he snaps, reaching out to turn her face away with a heavy force compulsion in his touch. She's gone instantly, and further than he intended, but he'll deal with that later.
He reignites his saber, steadies her hand, and ignores the queasy roil in his stomach. The thought of her waking up with her hand still the same, of having to explain he failed, would actually be worse than this. Probably. He's going to get it over with.
It feels like a very long time later when he finally manages it. He's soaked in cold sweat, tunics clinging to him uncomfortably. The actual burning is finished in seconds, just grazing the scarred skin. Despite the bacta injection and the heavy force sleep, her body twitches at his side. Maul is unspeakably glad that she's not awake.
The stench of scorched flesh makes his chest ache. His hearts feel out of sync somehow, and his ears are ringing. Maul shuts off the saber, tosses it away with more force than necessary, and immediately puts a pad soaked in bacta on top of the fresh burn.
He secures the bacta pad with a quick twist of gauze and then makes it to the fresher just in time to empty his stomach.
When he's rinsed his mouth and washed away the cold sweat with shaky hands, he turns up the ventilation as high as it can go. The supplies go off the bed and onto the nightstand, and then he gets on the bed with Duneth.
She's still deeply asleep. He's not sure if she can surface on her own. Maul figures it's better that she sleeps until the wound is at least well underway to being healed, so he leaves her.
He doesn't want her to see him in this state.
His hands feel numb. Everything feels far away. He's not sure why he's so exhausted, because the day is only half over.
He puts fresh bacta on the wound and then slowly, inexorably, feels himself sink to the mattress, as if his body is too heavy to keep upright any longer. It's a struggle to arrange his legs so he won't wake up with his spine screaming, and then he draws Duneth into the crook of his arm, her right hand on his chest, and feels exhaustion drag him down. He presses his face into the soft fuzz of her hair and lets it.
It feels twisted, to seek comfort in her nearness when he's the one who inflicted the pain. He doesn't understand it, but she's not awake to call him on it, so he allows himself for the moment.
He can feel it when she wakes, his own mind instantly snapping into alertness.
"Oh," she says softly, a far too knowing look in her eyes. Maul does not squirm, but he feels tempted to slip out of the bed and avoid that gaze. "I'm sorry."
He makes a rough, inquiring noise, and she leans up enough to press a gentle kiss to his lips, her fingertips tracing his facial markings.
"You seem so strong all the time, I forget that you have your own hurts."
He has no idea what to say to that. He wants her to stop talking.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, "I should have thought—"
He kisses her hard, not as careful as he usually is. Wants to flood her senses and make her forget.
Tries to make himself forget, too.