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Galen was too late.
It wasn"t a position in which he particularly enjoyed finding himself. A specific and too-familiar agony, to see the glint of the scope, sense the motion of the bolt—to cry out to Gideon, and know even as he did that it wouldn"t be enough.
He had no way to get there faster. He would have done it if he could have; but all the spells that might have helped him do it required something he didn"t have: preparation in advance, time for his tech to traverse the necessary distance. He had equations for teleportation, for shielding and deflection. But teleportation was instantaneous in the moment only when the necessary arrangements had already been made. And even the most determined cloud of nanite adjuncts arranged in a dispersive pattern couldn"t reach Gideon faster than the sniper"s bolt.
He cast them anyway. They would at least arrive before he did, which counted for something. Everything seemed to be moving at once, then: Galen"s perception of the nanites, and Gideon as he fell, and his crew as they saw him do it, as each of them in turn cried out, or reached for him, or turned, reflexively looking for the shooter.
And then Gideon was down. Chambers had caught him by the shoulders, was already moving as if to attempt to cover the gaping hole in his chest—but the nanites had gotten there first, had filled the wound and were coating themselves tightly over every exposed surface, down to the tiniest torn capillary. There was still blood everywhere; Galen could perceive already, could have perceived even without the direct feed the nanites delivered to him, that Gideon"s heart was not beating.
He came to his knees at Gideon"s side. He concentrated. He forced himself to visualize each of the necessary equations in turn with exquisite clarity, each instruction to his tech as perfectly formed as his skill allowed. The last thing he could afford right now was to muddle his spellcasting.
He was distantly aware that someone was speaking. Multiple someones, and quite possibly to him. He didn"t listen. He couldn"t. An intercession was made: Dureena. He was, in a vague dim place that felt very far from himself, grateful as always for her perspicacity.
Gideon"s heart had stopped, yes. But his brain was still active, his body still warm, his blood only just beginning to slow. It was the shock, the damage—the bolt, Galen understood, had not torn directly through the heart muscle, but rather just below and to one side of it. Had ripped it open, in passing; but Galen need only force the formation of a temporary adjunct to replace the flesh that had left it gaping, to reform its chambers, and it could be made to beat again.
It must. It must. He bent all his will, all his capability, to the task of forcing it to.
And then, at last, it did.
Galen closed his eyes, and sat back on his heels, and caught his breath. Not enough, not nearly. But it would keep Gideon alive for the moment, and that was what mattered.
He blinked, and cleared his throat, and made himself look up. "Forgive me. I have no aptitude for healing; even as little as I have managed to do required my full attention."
"As little," Chambers muttered, hand still pressed over the hole in Gideon"s chest. There was no longer any risk that he would bleed out, but old habits were hard to break.
And—ah, of course. She must have felt Gideon"s heart stop. And then she must have felt it start again.
"You mean he"s not dead," Matheson said.
"Straight to the point," Galen murmured. "I"ve always liked that about you."
"I wish I could say the same," Matheson said, not unkindly.
Galen smiled—and that alone, interestingly, made the set of Matheson"s shoulders ease, even before Galen had said a word. "Matthew is not dead. I can"t guarantee that will remain the case, but the worst danger has been staved off for the moment. He"s unconscious and in shock, and he"s lost a great deal of blood. But I am monitoring his brain activity, and I should be able to keep his heart beating until I have time to begin a more permanent reconstruction."
"No aptitude for healing, huh," Dureena said, after a moment.
"You must understand, I"ve created merely the clumsiest possible stopgap. The great healers of my order would weep—but they"re not here, and I am, and what I"ve done will suffice to keep Matthew alive." Galen paused, and called in his mind to his ship, which answered with reassuring alacrity.
"Okay, wait, just hold on a second, here," Eilerson said, hands out. "I don"t understand. Gideon said you weren"t going to be here."
"Gideon didn"t think any of us were going to be here," Chambers said. "He wasn"t exactly batting a thousand today."
"An understandable but ultimately incorrect assumption on Matthew"s part," Galen informed Eilerson mildly. "He told me to leave. I didn"t." He glanced up, for the sheer self-indulgent comfort of perceiving the shape of his flyer as it descended. "I need to get him onto my ship—"
"He told you to leave?" Matheson said, sharp. "Why?"
Galen looked at him. "I imagine you"ll become aware of his reasons soon enough. For the moment, however, they are irrelevant."
Matheson"s expression suggested he didn"t agree.
"The spells that are currently holding together Matthew"s internal organs are delicate ones. I need to be in proximity to him to maintain them. Considering what just happened, I"m prepared to argue that turning him over to the tender care of this world"s planetary security is inadvisable, to say the least."
"Whoever it is who just tried to kill him," Dureena said, "they"re a lot less likely to be able to find him and try again if he"s on Galen"s flyer than if he"s in a hospital down here."
Matheson conceded the point, after a moment, with the barest tilt of his head.
"I definitely can"t do more for him on the Excalibur than Galen already has," Chambers said reluctantly. "And if you say these—spells—of yours are delicate, then I"m also not particularly interested in getting in the way."
Matheson looked at her, and then at Galen.
"I"m only trying to save his life," Galen said quietly.
And whatever it was that Matheson had been searching for in Galen"s face, it seemed he found it. He reached out and touched the back of Galen"s wrist, and said, "Don"t let him stop you."
Because he knew Gideon as well as Galen did, and he understood enough to realize Gideon wouldn"t be pleased.
Galen offered him a smile: a smaller one, quieter, wryer. More truthful. "I won"t."
"All right," Matheson said, and then reached for his earpiece and opened a general channel to issue a security alert.
It was undeniably strange to have Gideon on his ship.
Stranger still, of course, to be lifting him into it with a hover-spell, while he lay still and silent, unknowing.
The ship had already courteously extruded a surface, flat but with distinct give, upon which Gideon could be laid out comfortably. Galen hadn"t asked it to—not deliberately, at least. It did have a habit of discerning his subconscious intent now and then, especially when he was focused on a single objective with particular clarity.
There was a great deal of work ahead of him, he knew. And yet for a moment, he was caught there, looking down at Gideon"s pale, slack face. Looking down at the terrible gaping hole in him, the slick bloody wound of it, the adjunct that was keeping him alive too deep within it to be visible to anything less than the closest inspection.
Gideon had almost died before. Galen had saved him before. And yet this time, the grip that had closed itself upon Galen"s heart refused to ease, even now that he had spirited Gideon away, even now that Gideon would surely live.
Galen had been too late. Too late to stop it, though not too late to act. It had been so close. Gideon had told him to leave, and if he had done it—
But he hadn"t, he reminded himself. He hadn"t, and he wouldn"t.
No matter how angry Gideon was with him for it.
Gideon drifted in the dark.
It was quiet. It was still. It was calm, and nothing hurt.
Nice change of pace.
It occurred to him after a little while, dimly, that he didn"t know where he was. It didn"t bother him, exactly, not here in this soothing silent place. But he didn"t know where he was, and he didn"t know why he didn"t know.
It was strange, that was all.
Why was it strange?
Well, the last thing he remembered was—was—
He tensed, involuntary, and that was all it took to bring his body back to him: to make him aware of it again, to make him understand that it was there and he was inside of it, and he was awake.
He was prone. He ached, a little, but not as much as he was starting to think he should have. His chest didn"t hurt, but it felt wrong, dull and cotton-balled, as though it wasn"t attached correctly to the rest of him.
He made himself breathe, and it worked. He was alive.
He risked the barest shuttered glance between his eyelashes. The dark hadn"t all been in his head: everything he could see around him was black, depthless, almost unreal.
And there was someone here.
The moment he understood that, he understood everything, and he lay there and let his eyes close again.
Galen.
Gideon felt the tangled scorching knot of it draw tight all over again, as if it had just happened. He wasn"t angry, not quite, not anymore. That had burned out, too quickly, and he was left with the ashes: the sick frustrated resignation, the hollowness, the grating agony of having been cut to the bone and having no one to blame for it but himself.
Because he should have known better. That was what it came down to. He should have known better. He"d let himself believe that Galen was his friend, even though he"d had no reason to, even though Galen had hardly ever condescended to give him a straight answer. Even after the Well of Forever, after Galen had broken that half-formed trust once—Gideon had stood there and listened to him when he"d promised not to do it again. Promised, as if that meant anything, when Gideon should already have understood he couldn"t take Galen"s word at face value. As if—
As if proving himself to Gideon, keeping a vow to Gideon, could possibly have mattered to him as much as laying Isabelle to rest.
Gideon had wanted to think that it did. He"d felt—idiotically, in retrospect—pleased by the thought that it might. Gratified, in a raw, startling, indefinable way he"d stopped short of examining too closely.
He shouldn"t have let that feeling fool him. He shouldn"t have let himself think for even a moment—
"I know you"re awake, Matthew."
Gideon didn"t move, didn"t open his eyes. "I"ve got nothing to say to you." He paused for a beat, let it stretch, and then allowed his mouth to twist. "If I did, though, I"d be asking what the hell you thought you were doing back there. I told you to leave, goddammit."
"Indeed you did," Galen agreed, in that placid fucking tone he liked so much, and Gideon wrestled briefly with the urge to lunge up and punch him in the nose. "And I would apologize for my refusal to heed you, except that would be disingenuous of me when I don"t regret it."
"You will," Gideon bit out.
"Forgive me, Matthew, but I doubt it," Galen said quietly. "I ignored you, and I stayed, and because I had, I was able to save your life. That is a fact for which I will never be anything but grateful."
Gideon squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and swallowed down a bitter laugh. God, the sheer nerve.
"I do realize you aren"t in a position to appreciate it," Galen added after a moment, lighter, contemplative. "You are, no doubt, still upset—"
"Upset," Gideon ground out, and the rush of fresh fury propelled him with sudden strength: he pushed himself upright, glaring, jaw tight, all pretense that he could hold himself at a distance from this irretrievably lost. "Upset. Is that what you think?"
"Matthew," Galen said.
"Because I"m not sure you understand where I"m coming from, here," Gideon said, as cool and level as he could make it, coming up off the surface he"d been lying on, rising with deliberate force to his feet. "You called us your friends. You called us your family. Remember the last time I had to remind you of that? You made a promise. I thought I could trust that. You were using me, all along, to lead you to that base—to help you fulfill your goddamn assignment. You were using me, when I"d been stupid enough to think—"
He stopped. His throat had closed up tight, and distantly, somewhere beyond the stinging surging pain that had made it so necessary to lash out, he found he was grateful for it. He had a sense of having caught himself, of having narrowly avoided a mistake that couldn"t be unmade. He couldn"t have named it; he didn"t even know what it was he had been about to say, nor what words he would have used to say it.
Galen didn"t understand, that was all. Galen didn"t understand, and it was hopelessly, undeniably infuriating that he didn"t—that his betrayal had managed to cut so deeply, so terribly close to the heart, and that he should have failed to realize that it would.
Which was an ironic way to put it, Gideon thought, glancing down at himself, given the scope and visibility of the wound that was currently baring his heart much more literally than usual.
So his hazy memory was right: he had been shot.
He couldn"t actually look through the hole. Not from this angle. It might not even be going all the way through him anymore. But it was disorienting anyway. He could—he could almost see whatever the hell it was Galen was using to fix him, little sparks and flashes, over the places where his own living, moving flesh was knitting itself back together.
He blinked, and swallowed, and swayed just a little on his feet. "That is one of the most disgusting things I"ve ever seen," he said.
"Perhaps you should sit down, Matthew," Galen suggested mildly.
And the last thing Gideon wanted was to listen, was to do what Galen told him—but he didn"t particularly want to pass out on the deck of Galen"s ship, either.
He looked away, and bit the inside of his cheek, and sat.
The silence stretched.
"You may be right," Galen said at last, more softly than Gideon had been expecting. "Perhaps I don"t understand. I had anticipated your displeasure, Matthew; I knew you"d be angry with me. The deepest secrets of my order are secrets for a reason. If you"d asked me for them, I wouldn"t have been able to surrender them to you. But I realize a lie of omission is less easily forgiven than a refusal. And yet—" He paused, and looked at Gideon searchingly with those piercing eyes. "And yet, you seem troubled most not by the content of your revelation, nor by its implications, nor by our failure to anticipate and prevent the tragedy that haunts you even now."
Gideon swallowed, and looked away.
The shape of the thing he"d managed not to say was still there, lodged deep in him. He reached out and felt his way along it, and the understanding was simultaneous with the words as they escaped. "You were using me," he repeated, low, "when I"d been stupid enough to think—when I"d been stupid enough to think you found me interesting. Not the Cerberus," he added, "not the Drakh plague. Just me."
"I did," Galen said.
Gideon closed his eyes. "I thought you—liked being around us. Liked spending time with us." He stopped, tried to stop, but it was no use. "With me," he heard himself say.
"I do," Galen said.
"I thought," Gideon said, and then bit at his mouth. He became aware that his hands had clenched themselves into fists, that his half-patched broken-open heart was pounding with sudden intensity. "I—sometimes I let myself think—"
"What?" Galen said.
And there, at last: the inescapable conclusion. He"d shone a light on it, and the inevitable result was that he could see it for what it was. He understood, now, for all the good it did him. He"d never articulated it to himself before because he"d never had to, he"d never been made to. It had been possible to let it lie there inside him untouched, unprovoked.
He knew the words that came next, and he knew what they meant.
And he should have wanted to hide from them. But abruptly, a certain fatalistic viciousness took hold of him instead. He wanted to say them. He wanted to spit them out in Galen"s face, unignorable, the final nail in the coffin.
"I let myself think you wanted me," he said.
It came out calm, level, unflinching. Good, he decided.
"Ah," Galen said.
He fell silent. Absorbing this disclosure, Gideon thought with vague bitterness, with his usual unwavering concentration.
Gideon shouldn"t have given in. He should have lain here with his eyes shut until Galen left him alone.
"And I suppose," Galen murmured into the quiet, "that you"ll assume I"m telling you what you want to hear, in a desperate bid to mend the rift between us, if I say that you were entirely correct?"
Gideon blinked, and looked up.
Galen was watching him—curiously, of course, waiting to see what he would do next, which Gideon could have guessed. But there was also something strange, soft, a little wry, about the line of his mouth. Self-deprecating, almost. And his eyes: his eyes had that warm, focused look that Gideon had always found disconcerting.
Disconcerting, but not unpleasant.
Gideon wet his lips, and swallowed, and didn"t look away. "Was I," he said, and he made it sharp, grudging.
Galen didn"t flinch. "You were," he agreed, and reached out—caught Gideon"s chin with the side of one knuckle, and tilted Gideon"s face up with it, and kissed him.
Gideon let his eyes fall shut, and didn"t move. He allowed it; he let himself feel it. There was a certain vindictive pleasure in—in allowing Galen, Galen and all his powers, all his mysteries, to entreat him like this; in forcing Galen, in however small a part, to endeavor to prove himself to Gideon"s satisfaction.
He"d been warmed by Galen"s attention, Galen"s closeness, Galen"s persistence. It had pleased him all along, the way Galen followed where he led. And now that he"d named that warmth, that pleasure, for what they had been, he could see that he"d wanted Galen to want him—he"d wanted Galen, banked and buried coals that had burned nevertheless.
But he"d never gotten to the point of imagining Galen"s mouth on his.
If he had, though, he began to think he wouldn"t have been disappointed by the reality.
It remained closemouthed, but that didn"t matter. Technomages weren"t hampered by such things. It was sweet, which was a fascinating thing to think about anything that was being done by Galen; sweet, and lingering, and there was an odd and tender diffidence in it, as though Galen were already sure he would never have the chance to do it again.
It wasn"t just that Galen wanted him, Gideon thought hazily. It was that Galen—Galen longed for him, and that understanding struck more deeply than Gideon had expected it to. That understanding made the place that had gone numb in him the moment he"d told Galen to leave come shuddering uncertainly back to life.
At last, Galen released him. His mouth, at least. Galen"s hand lingered, thumb following the line of Gideon"s jaw, and Gideon decided dimly to cut himself a break and didn"t make himself move out from underneath it.
"I don"t expect you to forgive me," Galen said. "You feel deceived. You should. I was hiding a great deal from you, and I knew it, and you have every right to be unhappy with me."
Gideon looked up at him, silent, and didn"t move. Galen dared to skim his thumb a little further, and Gideon"s eyes flashed with something that was, if Galen was lucky, not too far removed from amusement.
"But there is one thing that was true the moment we met, and remains true now. I will always be here when you need me, Matthew. You don"t have to absolve me; you don"t have to want me; you don"t have to love me. But you cannot send me away. The one thing I will not do, not even for you, is leave you."
It was a truth that should not have been welcome; and yet, to judge by the sudden naked look of desperate relief on Gideon"s face, it was. Gideon"s breath caught in his throat—not audibly, but of course Galen didn"t need to rely on such mundanities in order to perceive it. And perhaps he shouldn"t have been surprised.
Gideon had been left alone too many times already. Galen had always come for him, when it happened—but Gideon was not possessed of trust to spare today.
Gideon looked away, and bit absently at the corner of his mouth, and then raised his gaze to meet Galen"s again.
"Do you believe me?" Galen said.
"I might," Gideon allowed after a moment, and his voice was possessed of a satisfyingly hoarse undertone. He seemed to have heard it, too, and cleared his throat. "I—I can understand why you didn"t tell me everything. I"m not happy about it. I wish you had." He stopped, and squeezed his eyes shut. "You knew what it had done to me, what happened to the Cerberus. You knew, and you still didn"t say anything."
Galen didn"t attempt to argue. He couldn"t.
Gideon reached up and closed a hand around Galen"s, and his grip was tight, unsteady, but not punishing.
"I don"t know how I feel about that. I don"t know what to think."
Galen didn"t allow himself to sigh. "I understand," he said aloud, gently.
He"d warned Gideon. He wouldn"t leave. But he would accede to any other terms upon which Gideon chose to insist. Perhaps he wouldn"t be permitted aboard the Excalibur any longer; perhaps he would be forced to settle for trailing along in Gideon"s wake, for absorbing Gideon"s face and voice and presence as best he could through the pitiably inadequate medium of a scrying sphere. He didn"t need Gideon to tell him anything—he had the means to be aware of all that Gideon said and did, to follow silently in Gideon"s footsteps. To be there, even when Gideon didn"t want him to be.
But he had appreciated the gift that was Gideon choosing to share of himself. He would miss it.
Still: he had saved Gideon"s life, in defiance of probability, physics, biology, and Gideon"s own wishes. It was only appropriate that there should be a price levied in exchange, and he was hardly unwilling to pay it.
"But," Gideon added, more quietly, "I don"t think I want to let go of this."
Galen went still.
"I can"t promise you anything. I"m not—I don"t know whether I can—" Gideon stopped, visibly frustrated with himself, and blew out a breath; Galen couldn"t help but smile, and Gideon saw him do it and aimed a delightfully insincere glare at him.
And then he sobered, and his face turned so strained and grave that Galen reflexively reached out to make sure his nerves hadn"t reawakened, and were still failing to transmit the sensation of his wound.
"I don"t know how much of me there is left to give anymore," Gideon said, very low. "But whatever that adds up to, it"s—if it"s anyone"s, it"s yours."
He stopped again. He wore a familiar expression, the determined look he took on when he had decided what he was going to do next and all that remained was to do it.
And yet somehow it still took Galen by surprise, when Gideon lurched up and caught him by the nape of the neck.
"Matthew," he said, cautious.
"This is not a get-out-of-jail-free card," Gideon said. "You"re sleeping on the couch, metaphorically speaking, for a year. Maybe two."
And then he touched Galen"s face, caught the corner of Galen"s mouth with his thumb, and, startlingly, miraculously, kissed him.
Galen had felt very daring simply in making the gesture—had been relieved and grateful to be allowed to do it, though Gideon hadn"t kissed him back. That hadn"t troubled Galen; it was more than he"d expected. It had been enough to be permitted to make the confession Gideon deserved from him in its entirety.
This? This was another matter.
Gideon was tentative, at the outset. Uncertain. Galen thought perhaps the first hasty brush of lips would be the sum of it: a rough and admittedly unusual form of assurance that Gideon didn"t intend to hold Galen"s kiss against him, that his grievances with Galen lay elsewhere. But then Gideon steadied himself, and pressed his cause with greater surety—greater surety, and even a brief flicker of genuine heat.
And then he broke away, but not far: tilted his head to rest his temple to Galen"s, that was all, so that their faces touched.
"I told you I had nothing left to lose," Gideon said, hardly more than a whisper. "And you said I was wrong. You meant the base we found, Earthforce, what they"ve been doing. But you should have—you should have been talking about yourself. I"ll find a way through the rest of it. I"ll do what I have to do. But not without you. That was the part I couldn"t bear."
Galen closed his eyes.
"You"ll never need to," he allowed himself to say, and Gideon clung to him more tightly still, and didn"t let go.