five times healed: ( five times the receiver nursed the sender back to health, or tended to their wounds )
It seemed like a pattern. Maul gets hurt and doesn’t tell anyone. Braig finds out. He does his best to help. It repeats.
Braig worries. He can’t help it. He doesn’t just worry about the physical damage, though that can often be bad. He worries about why Maul keeps it a secret for so long. What that must mean for him. He has two main theories: One, Maul thinks he deserves the pain, or two, Maul was afraid of asking for help. … Actually, those might go hand in hand.
Not for the first time, Braig feels like he’s in over his head. But he can’t back out now. It doesn’t seem like Maul has anybody else, and it would be cruel to leave him alone. He needed someone. Especially now, with that burn on his hand.
“Here.” Braig sets down the small pile of objects he’s been carrying, then holds up his now-empty hands. “I know, I know.” He says before Maul can finish baring his teeth. “I’m not getting any closer.” He takes a moment to arrange his offerings properly. He can feel Maul’s eyes on him, and he senses a sort of cautious curiosity tinged with a not-insignificant amount of suspicion that fills the Force around them. Braig makes an effort to sit back as he works and not obstruct Maul’s vision. Two bowls of water (one with ice, one without), one clean towel, one small jar, one small bacta patch still in its sterile wrapper.
“Start with this one.” He says, pointing to the first bowl. “This is room temperature, so it’ll cool the burn at a safer rate. Once it’s cooled, and only once it’s cooled, put it in the ice water, but not for too long. If you don’t cool it first, you’ll shock the cells, and they won’t heal properly.” It’s something he’s heard hundreds of times, both directed at him (learning to use sabers - even on training settings - would sometimes leave little singes) and through his own studies in medicine, but he has a feeling nobody’s ever bothered warning Maul. (He gets that feeling a lot.)
“Once that’s done, pat it dry on the towel. Don’t rub it dry, that’ll irritate the skin. Then the bacta in the pot, and if that doesn’t clear it up, cover the burn with the patch for the day.”
He stands up, steps back, and dusts off his hands. There’s no reason for him to linger - Maul likes his space and his privacy. So, Braig exits, pausing in the door just long enough to offer one last,
“If you need me, I’ll be at the controls.”
Of course, that’s not the last time Maul needed assistance. The scars he carried were carved deep - and they weren’t always physical. That made sense. After everything he’d been through…
It also made sense that some of those scars would revolve around lightsabers. Things had happened to him that Braig would never understand. But he’d heard stories. And he’d seen the evidence, too.
Maul shied away when Braig had offered to train together. If that had been it, Braig would have dropped the issue. It wasn’t his choice to make. But there was just something in the Force in that moment. The guilt, the self-loathing… Those were common with Maul, but they felt so much MORE when the door had closed. A sort of lingering regret. Of longing. So, of course, Braig had to give him the chance. It’s all about doing it properly.
So, he started his own training. It was just simple forms, at first, in one of the areas where he had enough space. After a while (the good thing about traveling such a long distance was that they had time), Maul’s presence would creep closer to the room. Then, a few casual, easy, deliberate mistakes. ‘Ugh, that footwork felt off’, or ‘that transition could’ve been better’, any little comment like that. It worked like a charm.
“Of course it felt wrong.” Maul’s voice precedes him as he walks into Braig’s training room. “You need to-” He scoffed and shook his head. “I will show you.”
“Oh, alright.” Braig blinked innocently. And if Maul seemed too focused on the forms he was ‘correcting’, that just meant he missed the padawan’s satisfied smile.
He’s just amazed that it was that easy.
“You’re up early.” Maul’s voice comes from somewhere behind him. For once, Braig doesn’t tense. It’s not really a surprise anymore. He’s also much more assured of the idea that, if Maul wanted him dead, he would be. It had certainly been long enough for Maul to have had the opportunity, and he hadn’t taken it. That was good enough for Braig.
“It’s not that early, is it?” Braig glanced up from his work, one brow arched curiously. Then he shrugs. “I thought it was a good time for breakfast.” This wasn’t exactly the Temple kitchens. It’s just a small galley. But, for the two of them, it’s enough. The pot simmers and he returns his attention to it. It’s nearly finished. Again, nothing fancy, but enough.
“Here.” He says, ladling the finished oatmeal into a bowl. A bit of cinnamon, a bit of sugar. A diced up ground-apple. Just little touches, but enough to flavour it. (He wonders, idly, if Maul has ever had ANY of these things. Probably not. … He wonders how many other things Maul has never had, before deciding that’s a bit too sad a train of thought for this early in the morning.) “I hope you like it.”
Maul accepts the dish and stares at it. Braig stares at him. Maul keeps staring at the dish. Braig blinks. There’s a strange feeling in the Force - fluttering, specks of warmth, the sound of rattling metal on a worn-down speeder.
“Are you okay?” He asks. Immediately, the Force clamps down, silent and unyielding, and Maul’s grip on the bowl tightens visibly.
“I am FINE, child.” A snarl entered Maul’s voice. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Braig watches him go, then sighs and shakes his head.
“I’m… Sorry I asked.” He helped himself to the rest of the oatmeal and headed back to the cockpit to check on their route. He ate in relative silence, watching stars flit by and distant galaxies come into and out of view.
By the time he came back to the kitchen, the dishes had been cleaned and neatly stacked away.
Braig decided to take that as a ‘compliments to the chef’.
They’d left Dathomir not long ago. It was a planet in ruin. The Separatists had left it utterly devastated. Bodies and broken droids littered the ground, speckled with charred entry wounds and vicious gouges. Dooku’s armies had left nothing untouched.
It made Braig feel sick to his stomach.
He’d had to take his mind off of things. Not through meditation - not while they were still so close to the planet. The Force was too out of balance. Too… Clouded by the dark side. So, instead, he trains. He finds a space in the ship, picks a form, and lets that be what he focuses on, instead. It’s comforting and familiar to lose himself in the motions, until–
“You improve quickly.” Maul says. Braig jumps and whirls around.
“Ah.” He straightens his posture and brushes his hair out of his face, folding his hands behind his back. Caught red-handed. “Maybe you’re just a good teacher.” Maul snorts and shakes his head, though Braig is pleased to catch the barest trace of amusement on his face.
“Don’t patronize me.” Maul steps into the room, and Braig grins.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He says. Maul stoops in front of him and holds out one of his hands.
“Would you mind?” He nods in indication. Braig looks down curiously. Oh. There’s a small gash running across Maul’s palm.
“Of course.” Braig reaches for his hand, then hesitates. Maul has never been okay with physical touch before. But, he’d offered. Still, Braig is careful, keeps his movements slow and deliberate as he covers the injury with his own hand. A careful manipulation of the Force, a gentle tugging of the universe, and the gash was gone. “There.” He lets his arms fall back to his side as Maul inspects his hand. He nods and crosses his arms again, then looks Braig up and down with a slight furrow in his brow.
“That form you were doing - do it again. I am going to watch.”
“Alright.” Braig shrugs. A weird way to say ‘thank you’, perhaps - but who was he to judge?
It’s been so long since those early days. So many years. So much had changed. It had felt, for a time, like the world had ended - and, in a way, it had. Everything Braig had known was gone.
Now, just as back then, Maul refused to die. Braig was grateful for his tenacity. He wasn’t so grateful for how willing Maul was to put it to the test. Braig sighed heavily, plopping himself down beside his companion’s slumped form. There’s an ache in the Force, a dull throbbing along Maul’s spine. They both know he pushed himself too hard this time. Maul glances at him, but says nothing. Braig breaks the silence for both of them.
“I really wish you’d stop doing that.” He said.
“They were hardly a challenge.” Maul finally sits up straight, letting his spine crack as he does. Braig frowns. “Were it not for sheer numbers, the Empire would crumble easily.”
“You know that’s not the point.” Braig says, sitting forward and propping his elbows on his knees. “There’s been so much loss in the galaxy - I don’t want to lose you, too.” He looks up to meet Maul’s gaze again, then rolls his eyes. He can predict what’s coming. “I know.”
“I know!” Braig says again, pushing his hand through his hair. “But I’m a doctor, I’m allowed to be. Hippocratic oath, and all.” He waves a dismissive hand through the air even as Maul groans.
“You’re also a nuisance.” He says with the growl Braig has long since learned was little more than posturing. He just laughs and moves to sit behind Maul.
“And yet you still keep me around. Alright, old man - let’s see about fixing your back.”
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