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#we need a ship name that will not give us rise of the frozen or whatever it’s called thanks
scarlettsoldier · 1 year
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blackkatmagic · 3 years
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Prompt! Mace is stuck in a time loop of evening he fought Palpatine. He’s a little surprised at first at how willing the CG commanders are to help him commit murder, but he appreciates it
Mace is scorched, bleeding heavily, and missing a hand, still out of breath from his last fall before the section of looped time reset, when he staggers in the Coruscant Guard’s main office, then locks the door behind him.
Halfway out of his chair, Fox freezes, eyes widening. “General Windu!” he says sharply, and reaches for his comm. “Thire, go get Medical—”
“Only a Guard medic,” Mace says, and Fox goes still, Thire frozen halfway to his feet on the other side of the room. Mace meets Fox’s narrowing eyes, feeling the wash of suspicion rising, and can't even manage to hide the exhaustion in his voice when he says, “I don’t trust anyone else.”
He’s failed to kill Palpatine four times now. Four betrayals, four falls out the wide window, four times surviving just to watch the Jedi Order fall right alongside the Republic. Exhaustion is the very lightest word for what Mace feels right now.
Fox glances from Mace to the door to the other commanders, then deliberately reaches over, switches off the comm, and engages the privacy lock on the office. “We have an hour before the shift change,” he says.
Stone rises, pushing past Thire, to approach with quick steps. “I've got bacta,” he offers.
The best possible outcome. Mace tries not to stagger as he heads across the office, but he must look bad enough that Thire meets him halfway, grabbing Mace's arm and supporting him right to the empty chair across his desk. It’s a familiar seat, and Mace collapses into it with a sound that might be a groan, tipping his head back. thinks, a little grimly, of how he’s going to get Fox to agree to what he needs help with, but—Fox is the best shot in the Guard, the most fearless man Mace has ever met. If he can't do it, no one can. And all of his commanders are intensely loyal and well-trained and brave. They’re necessary, too.
All Mace needs is to not sound like he’s gone mad for the next hour.
“No caf this time?” he asks, then sets his teeth against a gasp as Fox pulls his robe away from the long, jagged slash that’s sheeting blood down his side. The third fall, Mace thinks. He wasn’t able to stop all of the glass as it fell after him.
There's a pause, careful, and then Fox snorts quietly. “You didn’t even call ahead this time,” he says, and from the tone of his voice Mace might almost believe it’s one of their weekly meetings, nominally to discuss security but more often to drink caf and complain about the idiocy of senators. “Not a Jedi. Don’t expect me to read your mind.” With a quick, ruthless jerk, Fox pulls a shard of glass free, then catches Mace's shoulder before he can do more than cry out and slaps a bacta patch over the spot, sealing the edges.
When the world stops lurching like one of Anakin's crashing ships, Mace opens his eyes, and finds himself pressed face-first to hard plastoid, as red as blood.
“My apologies, Commander,” he manages, though picking up his head feels like rather too much effort right now. “I would have called if I could have.”
Above him, there’s a quiet breath, and Stone sets a hand on his shoulder. “Sir,” he says quietly. “What happened to you?”
Fox’s hand curls around the back of his skull, holding him carefully in place, and—after three years of war, trooper armor feels like safety. Even seeing what the 501st was forced to do, all Mace can feel right now is a deep, desperate sense of shelter, like finally finding a light in a storm.
“We’ll murder them for you,” Thire says on Mace's other side, conversational and easy, like it’s the predetermined outcome, without question and entirely within their ability. “Just give us the name, General.”
Mace opens his eyes, staring at red and white plastoid, and takes a breath. “The Sith Lord,” he says. “I found him.”
Fox’s indrawn breath is a vicious hiss. “Thire,” he says without hesitation. “Those slugthrowers we seized the other day, in the lockup, and the ammunition—”
“On it,” Thire says grimly, and then he’s gone, across the office and into another room. Fox himself doesn’t move, and Stone’s hand curls more tightly around Mace's shoulder, holding him steady.
“General Windu,” Fox says, quiet. “Just give us the name and we’ll take care of it.”
They will, Mace thinks, and it’s almost astonishing. Within ten seconds, Fox had a plan, and that’s—well. Precisely why this is where Mace came when he’d run through all other options and was on the verge of collapse.
“I need to come,” he says, though when he goes to lever himself to his feet, Stone gently pushes him back down. “You may hesitate, and I need to guard you if you do. He’s powerful—”
“Hesitate,” Fox repeats, frowning. He glances up as Thire returns, carrying two locked boxes. “Why the kriff would we hesitate? He’s a Sith Lord. He did this to you. He’s the one behind this whole karking war.”
Right. The difficult part. Mace takes a breath, carefully pushing himself upright, and says, “His identity. You might think I'm lying.”
There's a pause, and then Thire snorts, thumping the boxes down on top of Fox’s desk. “With all due respect, sir,” he says. “I can't even pictureyou lying to a clone.”
Stone makes a sound of quiet amusement. “What he said.”
Mace glances up, meets Fox’s eyes. “I'm going to ask you to help me murder someone very important and highly-placed,” he say quietly. “With no proof but my word.”
“And your injuries,” Fox says ruthlessly, though his hand is careful on Mace's throat. Mace should likely be thinking of troopers in the Temple, executing children, but all he can picture is Ponds on his left, Razor on his right, Stak asleep against his knees in front of the fire. It makes him close his eyes again for just a second, leaning into Fox’s touch.
“It’s Chancellor Palpatine,” he says clearly, as steadily as he’s able to. “Chancellor Palpatine is the Sith Lord. I need your help to kill him.”
There's one beat of stunned, frozen silence. Then, careful, Thire clears his throat. “You want us to kill the Supreme Chancellor?” he asks.
“Yes,” Mace says, and when he sits back, all three commanders are staring at him. Something in his chest sinks, grim and resigned. “I can't—”
“Thire, get those damn boxes open,” Fox orders. “Stone, we need some kind of distraction. Grab some detonators.”
“Sir yes sir,” Stone says, and scrambles to obey as Thire lunges for the lock boxes. “That rotary blaster—”
“No blasters, just slugs,” Fox says firmly. “General Windu, if he sees you—”
“He won't remember my attempt to kill him,” Mace says automatically, though he can't quite get his brain to click over and accept that he can see in front of him. “I—Commanders—”
“No backing out!” Thire says over his shoulder. “It came from a Jedi, it’s an order, just let us do it this one time—”
“No take-backs,” Stone agrees, dumping a bandolier full of grenades over his head and settling it quickly. He also grabs for a very large vibrosword that’s leaning against the wall. “Even if you’re wrong, sir, we’d better just check, right?”
Fox snorts, and as soon as Thire gets the box open, he reaches for one of the slugthrowers. “Call it a birthday present,” he agrees, and glances at Mace, considering. “Sir, if you stay here—”
“I'm not staying,” Mace says firmly, and pushes to his feet, just managing to catch himself as he sways. “Use me as a distraction. Put me in cuffs and tell Palpatine that you found me trying to sabotage the power grid.”
That, of all things, makes Fox hesitate, but after a moment he nods. “After that, we’re taking you somewhere secure and dumping you into the softest bed I can find,” he promises. “Sir.”
Mace won't object. He might even drag the three of them down with him, just for that little bit of extra safety. If they manage to kill Sidious, they’ll all deserve every bit of rest and safety they can get.
[On AO3]
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emperor-palpaminty · 3 years
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can we have some badass tech
Why yes, yes you may, that is my fav tech
I also got carried away so tech has a lightsaber (badass) and he's also an a+ bf (also badass)
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You stood in the middle of the dark woods, saber bright against the depths of the endless evening. You exhaled, reaching out with the force. You felt no one- no other living, breathing being.
Your heart dropped, remembering what you had told your men. You must stay, I must go alone. The battle is mine.
You had recalled the moments alone, before fleeing the Havoc. You had been cleaning your saber, folding your robe softly, and a soft voice sounded from behind you. 
“General,” Tech had said, voice constricted. “You have a low chance of surviving. This target-”
“-Is none of your concern, Tech.” You finished the sentence for him, as calmly as you could. Your voice, it was... cold. There is no attachment, you reminded yourself, only the Force.
Your Jedi vows crumbled when he gloved hand had lightly pressed into yours. “General,” His tone dropped lower. “We cannot let you do it alone. I- I cannot.” His jaw tightened in resolve. By the universe and its stars, his heart was beating, rapidly, revealing every confession it had been eager to hide. Yet, only fear brought it out.
Smiling sadly, you had turned to him. “I’m aware of that, Tech.” You hesitated. “I’ll call you if I need anything.” You pressed your robe into his hand that had briefly been in yours. You hesitated, then pressed the cylinder of your shorter saber into his fingers, the metal cool through his glove.
“My weapon is my life.” You said, your fingers brushing on his. “I’ll return for that.” You started out but, like a puppy, he began to follow, open mouthed, hand still offering the weapon. You turned, eyed stinging for a moment. “Good soldiers follow orders, Tech."
The clone's brows creased, filling in hurt, but he nodded. "Yes, General." He said softly. Tech looked down at the lightsaber, squeezing it softly, glancing up to respond, say something, beg her to reconsider going solo.
But you had already been gone, and you were alone on the treacherous plains of Korriban. The planet had marinated in the dark side since the Sith Wars, and you could still feel remnants of evil and pain. You moved on the rocky terrain, hood pulled up to offer some solace from the wind.
Sith acolytes were the bane of the Jedi's exsistance. They would run out, strike at a jedi, and run away. The Dark Side, you recalled from your early lessons, were a doorway to fear and pain. And passions and attachments lead to that.
Your heavy heart tried to release your men, your attachment and unique love for each of them. Tech's hurt had wounded you especially. You could have told him, embraced him, told him you would survive on love and come back to the ship for him.
But instead, you sat down, and crossed your legs, and waited.
___
A disturbance in the force tugged you out of your meditation. You stood, reaching for both your sabers, but then recalled you had given your short one to Tech.
My weapon is my life.
The irony was not lost on you. Your life, in the hands of a man you wouldn't see again, and yet you were pacified, knowing that, perhaps. He would understand your cryptic Jedi way of saying you had a deep attachment to him.
You placed your hand on your saber and held it out to your side, tugging the hood of your shirt off your head and standing.
Ahead of you, the wind picked up, and sand from rocks kicked up in an angry storm. In it, you knew, was the acolyte, and you stood your ground. If this was your death you would die as a Jedi. There was no passion, only peace.
The acolyte emerged from the dust, saber already ignited. "Jedi," He snarled through the wind. The twi'lek's skin had pallored yellow, the color of illness. "You have come to grant me the rank of Sith Apprentice."
"And I have come to see if the Light can call to you." You exhaled, smoothing your thumb over the hilt of your blade.
The twi'lek's irridescent eyes narrowed, sharp teeth bared. "Then you shall die."
You flicked on your blade, widening your stance, ready for death as it charged you head-on.
___
Tech ran.
He had scouted from the cliffs of Korriban, scouting for the General, Hunter leading him. Hunter had frozen, head turning. "The Force," he had said softly. "It's here."
Tech was thankful yet again for Hunter's tracking abilities. His higher senses could hear the hum of the force, perhaps hear the clash of sabers. "Thank you, Sargent. The temple cannot be far."
Hunter nodded, hesitating. "You sure you're good on your own?"
"I am." Tech nodded, tugging his visor down, the click of latches filled in determination. "You take the others and destroy the old sith temple. I can't leave her on her own."
Hunter smiled softly, gently tapping Tech's bicep armor with his hand. "Go get a sith."
He intended to.
Tech yanked out his blaster, just one of the pistols, and aimed carefully. He didn't want to shoot unless the general needed help- you could handle yourself, but just in case, he had to be here, waiting, to make sure you were safe.
___
You retreated from the acolyte, calling on the force to give you a second wind. The acolyte was starting to wear down, but he was channeling his hanger into every swing. It was hard to remember how to fight with one saber, especially since you were so used to having dual sabers.
You felt a disturbance.
Fear. It thickened the air, swam in it, sabotaged your senses. The acolyte only radiated anger, which could only mean-
You whipped around. The trooper, Tech, stationed at a distance, but his gun steady.
Tech.
Your gaze flicked back to the acolyte, whose gaze had followed yours. The twi'lek smirked, golden eyes pallor in ideas, ideas you didn't like. "You fear for him. It smells delicious."
You ran after the acolyte, who was making a sprint for Tech. "Run! Tech!" You yelled, powering your energy into your legs. Your muscles screamed for mercy, knees buckling under the effort after the long time fighting, but you pushed on. The sticky scent of fear embalmed you, to your very core.
Tech stood, blaster still steady, and braced for impact.
You only saw the acolyte jump, a predator, and land on Tech. One hand reached up and grasped his, keeping the saber away.
The Force failed to reach you. You had called as much as you could into your body for second, third, fifth winds of energy. You crumpled, body aflame. "Tech," you wheeze, throwing out an arm to try and weild the force.
When you glanced back up, Tech was still pushing, but with the one hand. His arm was shaking with effort, and his face under his helmet was contortions.
I have failed him.
Your body shook, coursing against your every begging and demanding thiught to move, do something, anything. Your leg cramped and you groaned, eyes staying on the two men wrestling.
A beam ignited and peirced through the acolyte's back. He froze, body rising, and freezing, then a hiss escaped him and the acolyte crumbled.
Tech disarmed the short saber and dropped it, body relaxing, splaying against the rough surface of the planet.
You jumped to your feet and staggered over, his name forming on your lips, praying. "Tech, are you okay?" You dropped down again, knees shattering under the impact, and you tugged at his helmet.
Tech reached up and removed the helmet, face beaded with sweat, breathing finally slowing. "I'm glad you're alright, general."
You reached down and picked up the short saber resting by him. "Why?" Your voice was hoarse.
Tech cracked a half smile, his gloved hand reaching up to slowly cover yours. "My weapon is my life." He murmured gently, scooting up to sit. "And I wanted to ensure-"
You moved forward, fingers on the saber interlocking with his, and your other hand supporting his head as you pressed your lips to his. Tech, being Tech, mumbled a few more words before fully realizing the kiss was real and he squeezed your fingers, his other hand supporting him leaning off the ground.
In that moment, the storm quelled. There was peace. But your heart burned and your body ached for him, the forbidden touch of his hands. Passiom coincided, danced with and flirted with, the ever present quiescence in your spirit.
He sighed tenderly, breaking the embrace to inhale. He released the lightsaber, head rolling back to fully look at you. "Your weapon saved me today."
"I think you mean you saved me today." You chuckled, hand smoothing over his plasyoid pectoral plate. "You came for me."
Tech shook his head, smiling softly, short curls soft as you ran your fingers in his hair gently. "I'll always come for you. And I suppose I'm not a good soldier."
You laughed and moved to stand, tucking your short saber onto your belt. "Because you kissed your general?"
He smiled sheepishly, reaching up to accept your offered hand of help. "And I didn't follow orders. Which are indirectly to not kiss you as well, so... double whammy, as Wrecker would say."
You laughed, shaking your head softly, looking down as he slid both his gloved hands into yours. The cool body glove slid over your calluses, memorized your wrinkles and scrapes, each one holding a reflex of wielding your lightsaber. "My weapon is not my life, General. When the war is gone and done, I will not have my blasters." He paused, eyes admiring your fingers, dwelling together in joy.
You tugged his hand up, softly kissing where the gloved knuckle met armor. "And I will put up my jedi code. My weapon is not my life, Tech, you are."
He grinned, eyes skimming your grimy and exhausted face in wonder, joy, bewilderment- emotions he did not often display. "I was going to say the same abiut you, General. You are my life, and when the war is done, you will be my all."
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daevastanner · 3 years
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Elucien: 20 lashes pt I
Elain finds herself more drawn to Lucien, so when she finds out about his past with Tamlin… unexpected consequences occur
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There are negotiations to be made in the Spring Court with Tamlin. He needs aid in rebuilding his Court.
Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, Nesta, and Azriel are about to depart when Elain hears the High Lord say: Lucien will meet us there.
Elain doesn’t know why, but she speaks up, makes her presence known, and asks to tag along.
Nesta is a bit apprehensive to allow Elain anywhere near the unruly High Lord of Spring, but Feyre agrees before anyone can protest.
Elain wants to come (and Feyre ships Elucien) and that’s good enough for Feyre.
Rhysand respects her choice to join and is happy to allow her a chance to not be “coddled.”
It’s settled. She’s joining them. If only to get away from home for a bit. To get some air and see more of Prythian.
And if she’s being honest… to see Lucien.
She doesn’t know why she suddenly is feeling this pull to be near him but she is.
They arrive in the Spring Court, Tamlin’s manor is in shambles but there’s clearly been some effort to clean up. Likely to show that he is serious about turning things around.
As they approach the manor, Elain sees Lucien standing just outside the door, leaning lazily against the side of the house.
Her heart thunders and she can feel him. She can hear him. Hear them.
His eyes scan over the approaching Night Court and finally land on Elain. He stiffens and Elain feels something taut between them. A phantom thread.
But there’s a strange pinching in her chest and she could swear that there’s a glimmer of something like hope in his eyes.
Pleasantries are exchanged and everyone heads inside.
Tamlin, Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian and Azriel retreat into the study to meet. Nesta makes herself busy in Tamlin’s tarnished library leaving Lucien and Elain in the corridor.
Elain can’t tell if Nesta has done this on purpose, noting her sister’s recent interest in Lucien.
Lucien is examining his nails, again leaning against the wall. Elain can still feel that phantom thread between them, loose but still there.
She speaks first. “He has a garden, does he not?”
Lucien doesn’t meet her eyes, his tone is casual but the edge of his lip tilts up. “I think the word ‘garden’ is generous. Unless you consider weeds and brambles to be greenery.”
The small smile she wears is involuntary. It’s another moment before she speaks again.
“Would you show me?”
Lucien is silent, still not looking at her. For a moment she thinks that he’s ignoring her, but then he says: “Certainly.”
Elain follows Lucien and for the first time she finds herself observing him closely. His confidence and the sort of lazy grace with which he holds himself.
Lucien leads her outside and into an area that is spilling with weeds, overgrown shrubs, untamed bushes. It’s a mess.
“It’s beautiful,” Elain murmurs, her fingers brushing the emerald leaves of a misshaped hedge. “In a wild sort of way.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is actually ‘hopeless,’” Lucien snorts.
But Elain shakes her head. “No. No, nothing is really hopeless. There’s always… potential.”
That thread between them goes taut again, and this time Elain can see that he feels it too. He finally looks at her, brows furrowed but eyes soft.
The silence is thick, but not in a bad way.
Lucien clears his throat. “I’d always assumed you were an optimist.”
“Oh?”
Lucien nods and Elain is… flattered.
Lucien had seen her at her lowest. Lower than her lowest… and had still assumed the best of her.
She swallows the lump in her throat. “And what of you? Are you an optimist?”
Lucien laughs and Elain thinks to herself that he sounds like sunshine. She didn’t know males could sound like that. Could sound so warm and full of light.
“No,” he says, interrupting her thoughts. “I am a realist.” His eyes grow distant. “I suppose I once was an optimist, but… certain events transpired and my… perspective naturally changed.”
Elain fights off a frown. Lucien does not want her pity. She knows that.
He continues, “I admire that about you, if I may be so bold. You… you don’t seem to have lost your way. After everything.”
Her chest pinches again and that thickness in her throat returns.
Because no one has ever recognized that about her. No one has recognized that in spite of everything she’s been through and everything she became after the confrontation with Hybern, she’s emerged intact.
She has remained kind and optimistic. She’s even trying to better herself. To speak up. To not lie down and accept everyone’s sheltering.
And Lucien acknowledges that. Sees it.
Even though they hardly know one another.
“Well,” Elain says, trying to keep her voice even, “I’ve not been through half as much as you.”
“I’ve got quite a few years on you,” Lucien says mildly. But then he grins at her, “You’ve got plenty of time to catch up and become just pessimistic as me.”
Elain laughs, a quiet sound. “I thought you were a realist.”
“Semantics.”
And she laughs again.
The conversation continues in an easy manner. Lucien asks her to distinguish what is a plant and what is a weed and she explains how she might improve Tamlin’s garden were it hers.
“What’s that?” he says, pointing to a set of tall green leaves, a brown cylinder capping each one.
Elain peers at it curiously. “It’s a lake plant actually. Cat of nine tails.”
And Lucien flinches.
The thread goes taut, but in a bad way. A nervous way.
The word spills out of her before she can stop herself: “What?”
Lucien shakes his head. “Nothing.” He gestures to the distance. “There is a lake nearby. Could that be why it grows here?”
But Elain remembers Feyre’s story from Under the Mountain.
Lucien had helped Feyre.
And had received twenty lashes for it.
Elain’s hand raises and brushes Lucien’s arm.
He goes still, only turning his head to look at her.
Elain tries not to appear too sympathetic and only says, “I’m sorry.” Then let’s her hand fall.
Lucien glances at the spot where her fingers had touched him, then meets her eyes.
“You needn’t be,” he says with a wry smile. “It’s in the past. I long ago healed and have long since forgiven Tamlin.”
Elain blinks. “Forgiven Tamlin?”
Lucien inclines his head, lowering his voice, “Tamlin convinced Amarantha to spare my life, but instead he had to bestow me with twenty lashes.”
Elain’s eyes widen in surprise. Tamlin had whipped him?
Noting her expression, Lucien shakes his head, “It’s in the past.”
Elain feels a surge of anger—no, fury, wash over her.
Tamlin had whipped him.
He had whipped Lucien.
And she cared.
She more than cared.
Because Tamlin had whipped him.
Her mate.
Her hands ball into fist, nails biting into her flesh and creating smalls crescents in her palms.
Lucien studies her expression and there’s a look on his face she can’t quite define.
It’s surprise and fear and perhaps a bit of… gratitude?
But that’s secondary, what he feels.
Because Elain is mad.
“Excuse me.”
She turns on her heel, marching for the manor.
Lucien calls her name, but all she hears is the blood roaring in her ears.
Tamlin had whipped Lucien. Had harmed him. Had harmed her mate.
She didn’t care if it had saved his life. She didn’t care if Lucien had forgiven Tamlin.
He had still harmed her mate.
And in all her life, Elain has never been so furious.
She heads to the study, distantly aware of Lucien on her heels, but unwilling to answer his calls or protests that she come back.
Elain arrives at the study doors and flings them both open, storming into the room.
All conversation quiets, the doors bang against the walls.
Standing behind Rhys and Feyre, Azriel and Cassian become alert.
“Elain, what’s wrong?” asks the High Lady.
Elain can see Rhysand’s face out of the corner of her eye… can see his lips twitch just barely.
But she’s got her sights set on Tamlin who sits behind a worn desk in a weathered arm chair.
He gives her an imperious look, taking in her pink cheeks, the flat line of her lips, the way her fists are balled up, her flaring nostrils.
Tamlin’s eyes flick from her to Lucien who is frozen in the doorway, then back to her.
He angles his head. “You’re interrupting.”
“he had to bestow me with twenty lashes.”
The words echo in her ears and her whole body shakes.
That thread between her and Lucien is thick and electrified.
Tamlin exhales heavily as she glowers at him. “What?”
Elain has no idea what she’s doing, but she rears back her fist and hits Tamlin in his jaw.
Gasps and murmurs echo, she can hear Feyre say her name.
Tamlin rubs his jaw, looking at her incredulously.
Elain’s knuckles sing. She has never thrown a punch and she probably did it wrong, but damn did it feel good.
“Elain…” Lucien says, his tone both bewildered and concerned.
The High Lord of Spring rises from his chair and behind her Elain can here both Cassian and Lucien shuffle.
But she looks up at Tamlin unafraid, unwavering and says, “I owe you nineteen more.”
He opens his mouth to speak and then Elain does something very “un-Elain.”
She spits at his feet.
And then she shoves Tamlin’s chest.
The male staggers back just barely, his expression nonplussed.
But he looks at Lucien again and he seems to connect the dots.
Lucien starts, “I didn’t—“
Tamlin only lifts a dismissive hand, then slumps back into his chair. “Where were we?”
The complete disregard for her ire infuriates Elain further and despite the pain in her fingers…
Elain punches him again, this time in the shoulder.
He growls at her.
But Elain only says, “Eighteen.”
Then she turns away from him, walks past the slack jawed Cassian and Azriel, and exits the study, not bothering to shut the doors behind her.
She doesn’t look back but hears them close and Lucien murmur an apology.
Then he’s at her side again. “That… that wasn’t necessary, my lady.”
Elain halts in her tracks and fixes him with an unfaltering look. “It was.” Her brown eyes are fervent. “You deserve better.”
And she finds that she means it. She truly does.
Lucien’s expression is awestruck, but before he can say anything else she takes her leave.
The sunlight streaming in through the windows, catching on the pearl earrings she wears.
Link to part II here
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sonoftatooine · 3 years
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Whumpay 2021
DAY 19: HOPE / DESPAIR
Finally, this one took ages
Characters: Padmé Amidala, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker
Warnings: Brainwashing
Summary: Winter Soldier AU - Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker disappeared from the face of the Galaxy the day Palpatine executed Order 66. Padmé Amidala, however, managed to escape from Coruscant when the Empire was formed and became a founding member of the Rebellion. Several years later, when Obi-Wan Kenobi manages to capture the Emperor’s infamous Sith apprentice, Darth Vader, Padmé is left to deal with the horrifying discovery of what happened to her husband at the fall of the Republic.
***
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Padmé Amidala, former Senator of Naboo and member of the High Council of the Rebel Alliance, frowned down at the screen displaying the flickering vid feed of her lost husband in the room adjacent to the high security—or as high security as their current base could afford them—cell in which he was being held.  She had been stood there for at least ten minutes, hovering, waiting, and in all of that time, Anakin had not so much as twitched—so much so that she might have been fooled into thinking that she was looking at a still image if not for the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink. It was so unlike him—her restless husband, always on the move, but who had always come back to her until the day that he didn't—that it made her eyes burn with the effort to hold back tears. This was wrong, so wrong—
“Yes, Obi-Wan, I'm sure” she said once she was sure she could bite back the sharp reply that was on the tip of her tongue that the man beside her didn't at all deserve. Of course she was sure. How could she not be sure, when this was her husband—the man she loved with all the force of a thousand stars—at stake? She had to.
“You don't have to, Padmé.” Stood beside her, arms folded over his chest, and tired blue eyes fixed as unrelentingly on Anakin's frozen figure as her own, Obi-Wan Kenobi sighed, his mouth curved downwards in an unhappy line. Grief had aged him badly since the horrors of Order 66 and the beginnings of Palpatine's Empire. There were new lines around his eyes, and his auburn hair was fast turning white, but the change over those years was not nearly as stark as that which had been wrought upon him over the past few days. He looked raw and worn down, no matter how he tried to disguise it with his regular stoicism, as if he was on the verge of being swallowed by despair. Ever since the Empire had come for him on his last mission. Ever since they had managed to capture the Emperor's enforcer, Darth Vader.
Vader. Lord Vader. The name sent a shiver of horror through her, but not for the reasons that it once had. Before, she had known him simply as the latest in what seemed to be Darth Sidious' ever replenishing supply of Sith apprentices, and one of the most troubling additions to the Empire's ranks. Robed and masked entirely in black, without even the slightest indication to what lay beneath his impenetrable disguise, he had been a complete unknown to all but Palpatine himself—Empire and Rebellion alike—save for the brutal efficiency with which he carried out his duties. They had watched the Emperor's transmission introducing him to the Galaxy—her and Obi-Wan and Bail, while Luke and Leia slept soundly in their cribs watched over by Threepio and Artoo—from their bunker about a year after the Empire was formed. Padmé remembered seeing him, standing tall and motionless, three steps behind his master, and had felt a frisson of fear and misery run through her that she hadn't quite understood at the time.
She understood now. Oh Force, she thought as the image of Anakin, swamped in black robes and strapped, unconscious, to a gurney, and Obi-Wan's anguished look as he gasped out “he doesn't remember us; he doesn't even remember who he is”, swam through her mind. Oh Force, she understood now.
“Yes, I do,” she said, with a nod that looked far more decisive than she felt. She clutched the pile of warm cloaks and blankets that she had brought with her tight to her chest. Anakin had always hated the cold, and she couldn't bear the thought of him all alone in that cell without at least making sure he was as comfortable as possible. “He's my husband. I want to see him.”
She wanted to see him ever since they had brought him off the ship, ever since she had been dragged away from Coruscant by a harried Obi-Wan and Bail, crying and begging for them to take her back, that they needed to find Anakin, they couldn't leave him there. Anakin who she had last seen standing to the right of the Chancellor during the meeting of the Delegation of the 2000, hands bundled into the voluminous sleeves of his Jedi robes and not quite able to meet her eyes. Who had been sent by the Council to report to Palpatine the day of Order 66, and had never been seen since.
Until now.
“Padmé, he tried to attack me when I went to talk to him,” Obi-Wan reminded her grimly. “Ahsoka too. He doesn't remember any of us. All he knows is what Sidious has made him believe. What if he hurts you?”
Padmé shook his head.
“He won't hurt me” she whispered. He wouldn't hurt her. Anakin would never— But she didn't think he could ever have tried to hurt Obi-Wan either. Or Ahsoka. But he didn't remember any of them, because Sidious had taken him and forced him to forget everything, turned him into his weapon— She was shaking, full of rage and grief, but she pushed them both down. It was alright now. It would have to be alright. He was with the Rebellion now and they would heal him of whatever vile Sith had done to him and then he could meet their two precious children and everything would be alright—
“Padmé.” She thought, faintly, that Obi-Wan had managed to hone saying her name in a tone of utmost exasperation and frustration to a fine art. No doubt Anakin had given him a great deal of practice in the past. “He's not the Anakin we know. Not anymore.”
This time, it took a great deal more effort for her to swallow her harsh retort. Obi-Wan had given up hope a long time ago—the night of Order 66 when his bond to Anakin had snapped. He had thought him dead, and blamed himself for it—the Council had pushed him into spying on Palpatine, he had said, and he was sure that Anakin had discovered the man's secret and been killed for it. She remembered how he had looked, blurred through her tears as they rushed through hyperspace away from Coruscant—dishevelled and worn, the telltale signs of his battle with Grievous burnt into his Jedi robes, and a haunted look in his eyes, misted up with tears that he refused to let fall. He had come back from his last visit to Anakin's cell much the same, convinced that his old padawan had died with whatever it was that Palpatine had put him through, that what was left was nothing but a shell of the man he had loved as a brother.
(It still hadn't stopped him from abruptly ending a call with Yoda when the old Jedi Grandmaster had suggested “lost to the Dark, young Skywalker is; let him go, you should”.)
“I don't believe that,” she said. She had never believed Anakin to be dead. Refused to believe it, told Luke and Leia all sorts of stories about their brave and dashing father that she saw so much of in each of them, hoping beyond hope that one day he would be there to share his own stories with them. She wasn't about to give up now, when he was here—finally here, in front of her, no matter how changed, and no matter what Jedi platitudes about letting go she heard. “We can save him. I know we can.”
She turned her pleading gaze to Obi-Wan, but he refused to meet her eyes. He was still staring at the screen, and though his expression was blank, she could see the longing in his gaze—longing and fear. Fear that he would get his hopes up when nothing could be done. Fear that she would get hurt trying. Padmé sighed sadly. Obi-Wan may have given up hope, but she wasn't about to let him fall into despair.
“Obi-Wan, you'll be here the whole time,” she said, softly, soothingly. “I have faith that you'll protect me, if need be.”
Obi-Wan scowled, finally turning to look at her, but there was a hint of something gentle and fond beneath it.
“The pair of you will be the death of me” he sighed. It was barely a ghost of how he had been before, when they had all been together and happy and none of them had been brainwashed into becoming a Sith, but it was familiar enough that Padmé couldn't help but send him a watery smile.
“Please, Obi-Wan, I'm ready.”
Reluctantly, Obi-Wan nodded.
“I'll be just on the other side of the door.”
Despite her words, Padmé's heart felt like it might burst out of her chest as she stepped into Anakin's cell, the pneumatic hiss of the door closing behind her reverberating in her ears like a threat. She was not afraid. At least, she was not afraid of the figure sitting, head bowed, on the little cot in front of her—he had not attacked any of his visitors since the two Jedi; indeed, had barely acknowledged them, enough so that the High Council had deemed it as safe as it would ever be for her to see him—but she was afraid of what would happen next. Of what she would learn from this meeting. Of looking into her husband's eyes and finding him unrecognisable. But Padmé was never one to shy away from things that made her afraid, and so she took a deep breath, and murmured:—
“Anakin.”
No response.
“I brought these.” She gestured to the robes and blankets in her arms. “I thought you might be cold.”
That got a reaction from him. Slowly, jerkily, as if his head were being lifted up by a string, he turned his face towards her. The sight of him made her want to scream—scream and cry and hold him in her arms and never let go. He looked sick and gaunt, and the change from golden tan to waxy white looked even more stark under the bright lights of the cell, the circles under his eyes dark like bruises. And his eyes, oh his eyes. The sparkling blue that she remembered—had loved and missed so much for all that she saw it every day in the face of their son—had been replaced with the same horrible yellow that she had seen deep set in the sunken face of Emperor Palpatine, gleaming cruelly under the shadow of his hood, during Empire Day transmissions. But that wasn't even the worst of it. Anakin's eyes had always been so expressive, brimming with love and joy and fear and anger and grief, as if he felt too much and too deeply to keep it all inside. It was one of the things that she loved about him. Now, however, he turned those sickly eyes to her and she saw nothing in them but blankness. For the first time in his life, Anakin Skywalker looked upon her and he felt nothing.
Padmé swallowed, fighting back the urge to cry. She wanted to run to him, bury her fingers in his hair and press her lips to his as she used to do each time he came home to her from the war, but, with what felt like a monumental effort, she pushed the desire away. That wasn't what Anakin needed right now, no matter how much she wanted it. Instead, she waited for him to reply, waited for some sort of acknowledgement—anything to indicate what she should do, what she should say.
None came.
She sighed. Stepping forward, she leaned down and placed the pile of clothes next to him on the bed, trying to keep her heart from shattering into a thousand pieces at the tiny flinch he gave as she approached him. Carefully, so as not to startle him, she pulled back, coming to a stop once she was far enough away for him to relax minutely. Hot tears burnt at her eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked, wishing that her voice did not sound so shaky, so thick with emotion. Anakin had always had a way of bringing out absolute honesty in her—even when she didn't even know she was trying to hide something—and now, confronted with her husband whom she hadn't seen in years, and who had spent every day of those long years suffering under the man who had enslaved the entire Galaxy to his will, all her politician's training, all her masks and airs had fled her. Even if she had wanted to, she couldn't have done a thing to hide her feelings from him.
Anakin frowned.
“You are Padmé Amidala,” he answered tonelessly. His voice was as dead and as flat as the look in his eyes. He sounded hoarse and tired, like he used to after waking up from a particularly bad nightmare. Like he had when he had when he had dreamt of her death in childbirth, only a week before he had disappeared, before she had run and left him— “One of the founders of the Rebellion.”
“That's right,” she said, with a nod that she wasn't sure was meant to encourage him or herself. “Do you— Is there anything else you remember about me?”
She knew it would be no. She knew he remembered nothing. But she wanted so badly for him to remember at least something of her. Wanted to know that Sidious hadn't taken everything from him. No matter what she wanted, though, she knew what his answer would be. Knew it and feared it.
“I understand that it's more usual for an interrogator to ask their prisoner for information,” Anakin replied. He tilted his head to the side, the expression on his face somewhere between confused and wary. “Not questions about themselves.”
He didn't sound like Anakin. Or rather, he sounded like Anakin—his voice sounded like Anakin, but the words, said in that flat, dull tone— It was wrong, all wrong. Oh my love, Padmé thought. My love, what has that monster done to you?
“I'm not interrogating you, Anakin” she said. She fought keep her voice steady and calm, even as she wanted nothing more than to burst into tears. Anakin's frown deepened, a look of suspicion flitting across his face.
“Why does everyone keep calling me that?” he asked, and for the first time, there seemed to be a hint of something else in his flat tone, a hint of uncertainty, of apprehension. His hands twitched, like he wanted to twist his fingers together like he used to do beneath the sleeves of his Jedi robes when he was nervous. Instead, he balled them tight into fists.
Padmé sent him a watery smile.
“It's your name, Ani.”
My Ani, she thought, watching him twitch oddly at the contraction of his name, turning sharply away. Her Ani who didn't even remember his own name. Oh, what was she going to do. How could she help him when he remembered nothing—nothing about his friends, nothing about her, nothing about himself—and they didn't even know what it was that Palpatine had done to him to cause this? She felt despair rushing in on her like a shark that had scented blood in the water, but she pushed back against it. She couldn't given in now. For Anakin's sake, she couldn't give up hope.
“How much has Obi-Wan told you?” she asked carefully. It was a risk mentioning Obi-Wan—a Jedi, a man he had ostensibly been sent to kill before the Rebellion had captured him—but she needed to know how much he had actually taken in.
Yellow eyes flicked back to her, the wariness and suspicion turning his expression even more closed off and guarded than it had been before.
“He told me I was once his Jedi apprentice,” he replied. “But I suppose you'll claim that I was your closest friend in the Senate. Or have you had the chance to corroborate your stories since Kenobi's last visit?”
The harshness of his words—as much as their content—made it all the harder to hold back her tears. Anakin had hardly ever spoken to her like that, was hardly ever sharp with her. Around her, perhaps, when he was particularly upset or frustrated, but rarely with her. It was yet another reminder of what had been done to him—the changes Sidious had forced upon him, as if he were nothing but a droid to be reprogrammed according to an owner's desire. Well, she would fix it, she would help him, and she would never let that vile man near him again. But to do that, she would have to get him to believe her, and for him to believe her, she—
“I'm not lying to you,” she insisted. “I promise you. It's Palpatine—Sidious—who has lied to you. You were a Jedi—have been since you were nine years old. Near the end of the war, the Council was concerned about the powers Palpatine had gathered for himself and sent you to report on him. But you— They sent you to his office the day he ordered the Jedi killed and then you disappeared. The Jedi thought you were dead, but he took you and he did something to you and you don't remember it because—”
“No.”
The sharp growl silenced her rambling mid-sentence. Her mouth clicked shut and her eyes widened as Anakin stood abruptly from the bed, his expression as hard as durasteel. Padmé swallowed, a flicker of nervousness fluttering in her stomach that she ruthlessly pushed down. She wondered if Obi-Wan was getting ready to dash into the cell from the other side of the door, afraid that he was about to attack her. But she refused to share that fear. She had never been afraid of Anakin, and she never would.
“No,” Anakin repeated, more softly this time. Instead of starting towards her, he prowled away to the far corner of the cell, back not quite turned to her—just enough to keep her in his line of sight—and hunched in on himself, arms crossed defensively across his chest. It was such a familiar gesture that, despite herself, Padmé couldn't help but feel a sliver of relief at the sight of it. Whatever Sidious had done to him, he hadn't managed to chase every last part of him from his mind. “My master warned me about this,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “He told me that you would try to deceive me, turn me against him—”
“He's the one deceiving you!,” she cried, trying to ignore worm of uneasiness in her stomach at the thought of the Emperor warning her husband against the Jedi and the Rebellion—or perhaps her specifically. If she could just get him to see, just get him to believe— “I don't know what he's done to you but please, Anakin, all we want is to help you. All I want is to help you. But to help you, I need you to believe me—”
She approached him, slowly, cautiously, as one might a wounded animal. His gaze fixed on her the whole way, wary, unrelenting, but he did not move, frozen to the spot. She itched to reach out to him, to pull him in and hold him close, but she wrestled the urge down to the depths of her heart.
“Please, Ani,” she begged, barely a whisper. “Please.”
Anakin stared down at her, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of blue in those yellow eyes.
“You haven't told me who you are,” he said, after a long moment of silence. His tone was guarded, cautious, just as quiet as her own. “Who you were to me. If what you say is true, what did I mean to you?”
Everything, Padmé thought. You meant everything to me. You mean everything to me. You and Luke and Leia. And one day, I'll be able to have them meet their father and you'll mean everything to them too. Her heart, too full of love and fear and hope and despair, ached in her chest, snatching up all her words before they could reach her mouth. How could she say all of this to him? How could she say any of this to him, when he barely believed she was telling him the truth about his name?
“You're—”
She faltered, unsure what to do. Would it be too much for him, finding out that he was married to a woman he didn't even remember? But what could she say? She couldn't lie to him—wouldn't lie to him. She wanted him to trust her again, like he used to before everything had gone so wrong, and how could they ever help him if they too deceived him?
“I'm...I...I'm your wife.”
Anakin froze stock still.
“...What?” he whispered hoarsely.
“It's true.” Padmé could no longer stop herself. She reached out slowly with both hands, making to smooth down his hair—it had always calmed him down after a nightmare; maybe if he accepted the truth, it might soothe him a little now? He gave an odd little jerk at the contact, his tongue darting out nervously to wet his lips, but he didn't pull away, still frozen to the spot, staring down at her with wide eyes. “Please believe me. It's true. I'm your wife—”
“No,” Anakin cut across her again. This time, however, his eyes had not hardened, and he could see the uncertainty creeping into them. His voice shook. “No, you're a liar.”
His hand—the one of durasteel that she had held at their wedding after he lost it to Count Dooku—darted up to snatch her wrist. But instead of shoving her right away, he held her in place, her hand hovering between them, arm extended towards him, as if he could not decide whether to push her aside or pull her closer. Padmé stared into his eyes, vaguely aware that Obi-Wan was probably panicking by now on the other side of the door. She could feel the strength in his grip, well acquainted with what his mechno hand could do. He had been horribly embarrassed when he had managed to crush several of her cups after their wedding, still unused to the amount of force his prosthetic required compared to his flesh hand. If he wanted to, he could tighten his grip now and crush her just as he had those cups, shatter every bone in her wrist. But he did not press down. He didn't even so much as grip hard enough to bruise.
“I'm not,” she cried—really cried, the tears she had been holding back starting to trickle down her cheeks. “I swear to you—”
“You didn't corroborate your stories after all,” Anakin retorted. “I could hardly have been a Jedi and a husband.”
Padmé shook her head, blinking heavily to keep the tears from blurring her vision. It would be alright, she told herself. She could persuade him. His voice was not nearly so certain as his words, and if she could just explain properly—
“You broke the Code to marry me,” she said. “We kept it secret, so you could stay as a Jedi and I could keep serving in the Senate until the war was over—”
“How convenient” Anakin returned, perhaps not as derisively as he had intended. He still hadn't let go of her wrist.
Padmé shook her head again, more insistently this time. She reached once more with her free hand to cradle his cheek in his palm.
“Please, Anakin, please. I love you. I love—”
“No!” With a cry, Anakin jerked backwards. The durasteel fingers wrapped about her wrist pulled away. “No! You—”
But words seemed to be beyond him. He staggered back, hand shooting out to steady himself against the wall, but it wasn't enough. His legs failed him, and he sank down to the floor, forehead pressed to his knees, trembling violently.
“This isn't—,” he hissed. “You can't— It's a trick. It's a trick—”
His hands fisted in his hair, so tight that Padmé thought he might tear clumps of it out. She rushed to his side, wiping her tears away furiously with her sleeve. She had pushed him too far. It was too much for him—too much at once.
“Padmé.”
Anakin's head shot up just as Padmé turned around to see Obi-Wan standing in the doorway, trying to remain impassive and failing miserably. She caught a flurry of movement in the corner of her eyes—Anakin had forced himself to stand back up, pressed up against the wall. He looked like a cornered loth-wolf, hunched in on himself, ready to spring, his yellow eyes wide and feral.
“It's alright,” Obi-Wan soothed, holding up the palms of his hands to show him he wasn't armed. Despite the calmness of his tone, Padmé could hear the agony beneath his words. “I won't hurt you. We will leave you to rest now.”
He turned a significant glance towards her, and Padmé could do nothing but nod, for all that she wanted to stay. She didn't want to overwhelm Anakin any more than she had already. Swallowing thickly, she forced down her tears, turning to meet her husband's unnatural yellow eyes with her own glistening brown.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry.”
She made it to the other side of the door before she broke down in tears.
(Later, when she came to check on him to find him curled up in the warm robe she'd brought him, she cried for very different reasons).
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vickyvicarious · 4 years
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do u have any atla fic recs? all time faves? can be shippy or not
Fun fact, I am incapable of holding back on reclists. In other words: brace yourself, anon. There’s a reason I put most of this behind a cut.
First off, these are almost all Zuko-centric, because I shamelessly play favorites. I’ll sort them by author rec, gen, shippy, and then by other characters because honestly the numbers break down well that way. Within those categories it’ll be more just as I think of it, so no special meaning to the order. I’m not always good about bookmarking even my faves, so some excellent stuff will no doubt be missing, especially since I haven’t read a lot of the more recent stuff yet/forgot some really old stuff, but this will definitely still give you plenty of fic to enjoy.
There’s a good number of FFN links on here so apologies to people who dislike it, but a lot of great stuff is still on there so give it a chance.
Author recs
Everything by @awesomeavocadolove​​  Such hits as Another Brother (Zuko adopted by Hakoda pre-S1), and currently has a Zukka soulmate fic I’ve been meaning to start reading, as well as Unchained Melody, one of my favorite Zukka fics ever. Always quality, you can’t go wrong.
Everything by KimberlyT.  I do not kid. She’s written a variety of ATLA fic ranging from Zutara/other romance to gen, seriously emotional to cracky cabbagebending. I think my favorite is probably Mismatched (S1 Zuko adopts a baby) but honestly just go read it all.
Everything by @emletish-fish​​. She has a very fun writing style and honestly her end-of-chapter notes on why she’s made the choices she has are fun minimetas worthwhile in their own right. Some of her top fics are the Stalking Zuko series (S3 suspicious Katara to Zutara) and The Worst Prisoner (the Gaang kidnaps Zuko in S1 and can’t get rid of him). I think there’s still a good amount of her fic that can only be found on FFN so check there too.
Everything by @botherkupo​​. Especially her Undying Fire series (healer!Zuko) but also just literally everything she writes, it is all so great. Tends toward Zutara but strong gen fics as well sometimes and a lot of fun. Check it all out!
Everything by @muffinlance​​. Loves to toy with her readers’ emotions in the best of ways. Tons of fantastic gen Zuko-centric AUs, I have adored every single fic I’ve ever read by her, can’t praise them enough. Very productive as well, her tumblr is a hub for the ATLA renaissance and her fics inspire lots of others. Has also organized a fanmade ATLA coloring book for charity so get that once it’s out. In the meantime read everything she’s written.
Everything by Haicrescendo. My favorite is What We’re Given (the series where Zuko finds more air bisons and raises them), but there’s a lot of good Zukka fic too. I tend to steer away from explicit works in this fandom unless it’s a smaller part of a much longer plot-centric fic, so there are a number I haven’t read, but I really like the Pokemon!AU Zukka.
Everything by @gaycinema. I really love the EK fight club series (Zuko fights in Rumbles/etc.) but all of it is a good read. Some Jetko, mostly a lot of introspective or emotional oneshots. Which isn’t really a great depiction of how good they tend to be, you’ll just have to read them and find out. You won’t regret it, trust me.
Everything by @captainkirkk. So far eight stellar fics, starting with kind Fire Lord Zuko and ranging to Floating Tea Shop!Zuko who doesn’t want to hunt the Avatar. I love her style and have laughed out loud at multiple of these. 
Gen Zuko fic
Bringing Out the Blue by maguena1. [unfinished, long] Definitely worth the read. The first ATLA fic I ever got really sucked into. The Blue Spirit never gets knocked out so Aang doesn’t know his true identity; he joins the Gaang on a recurring basis, while Zuko attempts to tell himself this is only for information on how to catch them, they definitely aren’t his friends.
It’s Impossible by Sandra Phillips. [abandoned, long] One of the earliest Avatar!Zuko fics (sort of) and a really interesting take on some spirit stuff.
Embers by Vathara. [complete, long] A landmark fic in the fandom, and for good reason. I didn’t love everything about this fic, but it is very well-written and an absorbing read certainly worth the praise. 
the art of description by incandescens. [oneshot, short] Five descriptions of Zuko and Toph’s field trip from various perspectives. Short, sweet, and funny.
Breaking Point by Kryal. [oneshot, short] Zuko isn’t banished but instead sent to serve in the Home Guard. I love Zuko loving his people, and alternate canon explorations, and this is exactly that.
The Alternative by Lunatique. [oneshot, short] The reason Zuko is so determined is because he fears what will happen if he isn’t the next Fire Lord. An idea I support in canon, to a degree, written well.
Hands and Knees by gigerisgod. [oneshot, short] Zuko reflects on the choices he’s made, and experiences he’s had, when joining the Gaang. A nice introspective fic.
Relative Misery by peroxidepest17. [oneshot, short] Toph complains about her family and Zuko takes her on a field trip. Not a fic I take too seriously, but funny in a sad way.
Second Nature by lazyartisan. [possibly abandoned, long] An AU stemming from Zuko’s capture at the North Pole. Well-written and characterized, an old favorite that I actually find needing to reread to give you more detail, but I can promise it’s good.
Year One by peroxidepest17. [oneshot, short] Lessons Zuko learns in his first year being Fire Lord. I really like explorations of Zuko’s journey as Fire Lord and this is a lovely little window into that.
Soft by PenPistola. [oneshot, short] Zuko and Toph bonding after the Ember Island Players. Short and sweet.
The New Phoenix King by JoeMerl. [oneshot, short] Fire Lord Zuko is overthrown, and no one but him is bothered at all. In fact they help. Hilarious crack.
First Name Basis by JoeMerl. [oneshot, short] There’s some popular posts going around Tumblr lately about Zuko not knowing the Gaang’s names, but this fic did it first back in 2008. As amusing as you’d expect.
Male Bonding by glamaphonic. [oneshot, short] The original ‘Zuko and Sokka bond and are also dumb idiot boys’ fic. Katara is permanently rolling her eyes.
it’s not the waking, it’s the rising by isamagicdragon, thegracious [ongoing, series, medium] Azulon tells Ozai to kill Azula instead of Zuko, which leads to heartwrenching fire sibs adventure. I haven’t caught up on the last chapter yet but god is it fantastic and also just a really interesting and new perspective on what could have happened.
Doe-Eyed by Anonymous. [complete, medium] Zuko is a baby, Azula is a loving big sister. More fire sibs and a great exploration on Azula’s POV of turning against Ozai.
kintsugi by discordiansamba. [ongoing, series, long] Zuko doesn’t have Iroh after being banished, and winds up hired as a guard to protect the frail Beifong daughter. Fantastic preseries Zuko+Toph found family fic.
Legacies by WildInkling. [ongoing, medium] Far in the future, a historian studies the journal of Fire Lord Zuko. Also, he was secretly a famous author but no one knows. A funny and poignant outsider POV.
#UndercoverZuko series by naggeluide. [complete, series, short] A completely cracky concept written straight enough to be actually quite touching in parts, but also just really funny. Zuko goes Undercover Boss on his ship pre-series.
Avatar Ficlets by JaggedCliffs. [series, oneshots, short] An ongoing series of disconnected oneshots, mostly post-canon and mostly Zuko-centric. Some a pretty fun, one is a great view on Zuko and lightningbending, all worth the read (and follow for when more come out).
The Blind Leading the Blue by BrusselsSprout. [ongoing, medium] An epic Zuko and Toph field trip set in S2. I love them and this.
half in the shadows, half burned in flames by r_astra. [oneshot, short] Iroh dies, Zuko gets caught on the Day of Black Sun, everything ends up all right but damn does it hurt getting there.
A Tale of Earth and Fire by chiiyo86. [complete, medium] Zuko and Toph are married for Politics in a FN Wins AU, and follows them slowly bonding as friends to beginning a revolution. They’re married but it’s not romantic, just some good friendship.
Eight Principles of Yong by psocoptera. [oneshot, short] An exploration of immediate post-show FN politics (sort of), calligraphy, and Zuko. Also has some lovely non-fighting firebending; I always love when people explore other uses of bending.
Healing Properties of Cinder Sage by Dawen. [oneshot, short] Zuko gets very sick in the Western Air Temple. Some good interaction when he’s new to the Gaang, and Toph+Zuko friendship.
We Ourselves Must Walk The Path by WinterSky101. [complete, medium] The Gaang agrees to make Zuko their prisoner in the WAT. Speaking of new-to-the-Gaang, tension, this fic has plenty of it, and also features some good Toph and Zuko.
Frozen by Aris Merquoni. [oneshot, medium] Zuko is captured in the NWT. Some politics, lots of angst, and eventually, healing. Also actually makes me somewhat like Hahn? Incredibly enough.
Reluctant Hero by PAW_07. [ongoing, long] Avatar!Zuko fic. I got to beta it way back when for a little while before I got too busy, and have always been a huge fan of this fic. Great concept, one of the best executions of it I’ve seen, and also one of the first. Definitely read this.
Morality Chain by Pureauthor. [abandoned, long] Azula and Zuko were always on each other’s side; how this changes canon. I love this concept and would happily read a lot more fics with it (please guys, I need more fire sibs).
A viper-lizard’s tales series by Yumi_Take. [ongoing, long] The world needs more of Zuko adopting pets and small children, and those are just facts. This only has one of the two, but it’s a EK baby! Jet plays a big role in this fic as well, a weird kind of uncle-ish to the baby/friend/murderer Zuko needs to watch closely and hold back kind of thing.
(life happens) wherever you are by howlikeagod. [ongoing, long] Katara doesn’t find Zuko and Iroh in the teashop, and canon takes a sharp left turn. Excellent Gaang fic.
The Best Path series by EudociaCovert. [series, ongoing, long] Zuko meets Jet in ‘Zuko Alone’ and winds up getting claimed as theirs by the remaining Freedom Fighters. Really really well-written, I got quite emotional over some scenes.
Shippy Zuko fic
Balm by Thyme In Her Eyes. [Maiko, oneshot, short] A sweet little fic about Mai’s thoughts on Zuko’s lightning scar.
The Black Games by Mrs. Pettyfer. [Zutara, complete, long] Hunger Games-esque AU. It’s the first in a series, and I lost interest after this one but I remember enjoying the fic and it was more personal preference rather than a drop in quality that had me leaving.
Lie To Me by Inkcharm. [Toko, oneshot, short] I’m not actually a fan of this pairing romatically (at least until years down the line), but this little fic of Toph and Zuko bonding through lying to one another is sweet. I choose to ignore the more shippy parts and enjoyed it.
Zutara? What the heck is that? by Ryxl. [Zutara, oneshot, short] Complete crack, have a good sense of humor and I think you will enjoy. Just the mental image of the Gaang finding a Zutara propaganda flyer had me chuckling.
The Three Chores series (1, 2, 3) by Fandomme. [Zutara, threeshot, short] Zuko and Katara slowly bond as he helps with chores. I will admit it’s been years and I barely remember this, but what I do recall is lovely and I always appreciate people lightening Katara’s load.
read the inscription by suzukiblu. [Zuko/Song, complete, series, medium] When Zuko is banished, he is left alone in the Earth Kingdom to fend for himself. Very touching, and I love Song in this.
Hooked by TGP. [Jetko, complete, long] A classic ‘Jet didn’t see Iroh warming his tea’ fic. They’re almost all this premise but so many well-written and very long ones. 
Something To Hold Onto by Wildgoosery. [Jetko, complete, long] The EK fell and Li stayed to fight with the Freedom Fighters to protect the city during its foreign rule. Jet didn’t see the tea fic that goes very AU from canon.
Foxfire by Rahar_Moonfire. [Jetko, ongoing, long] Zuko loses his memories Jetko fic, but with heavy spirit influence and lovable EK OCs, both of which I adore and should be in far more fics.
Once Upon A Teashop by anaer. [Zukka, Jetko, ongoing, long] Cracky Ba Sing Se AU that gets gradually more and more serious. Jet hits on Zuko a lot and Sokka gets a job in the teashop to keep an eye on both of them. Endgame Zukka but heavy Jetko, and both pairings are handled pretty well, not a love triangle that makes me too mad, although as always bear in mind Jet’s messed up. 
Names by TGP. [Jetko, complete, long] I feel like I’m forgetting some more excellent Amnesia!Zuko fics, but this is one I do know of. To be honest I don’t remember it super well because it may be mixed up with other Jetko/amnesia fics in my mind, but I think it was really good. I’ll have to reread myself.
Epistles by Lady_of_the_Flowers. [Zukka, ongoing, long] I love epistolary fic and I love Zuko and Sokka bonding earlier in canon. I will be honest I haven’t read this in a long time and been updating all the while, but the premise alone (Zuko and Sokka become messenger-hawk-pals in S1 and then fall in love) is fantastic. 
Ozymandias, King of Kings by Think_of_a_Wonderful_Thought. [Zukka, ongoing, long] Zuko rebels earlier and actually is sent to the mines, until he is ‘rescued’ by the Water Tribe. Dark but getting lighter over time, and more reluctant-to-rule Zuko which always wrenches my heartstrings. I prefer super loyal and dutiful to his people Zuko but this trope always makes me feel things.
Crossovers
Fallen Drops of Fire by Chasmfiend. [Fullmetal Alchemist, ongoing] Young Azula and Zuko somehow appear in Amestris, and encounter Roy Mustang. I adore the fire sibs, and their relationship in this strange situation is the star of this fic for me, but it’s also fun seeing the FMA perspective of these two.
The Dragon-King’s Temple by Kryal. [Stargate SG-1, long, complete] The best crossover fic out there. Zuko and Toph get stranded on the other side of a Stargate. I don’t know anything about SG-1 but it didn’t matter, the fic was fantastic, they were badasses, it explored language and culture from an outside perspective, and it was just a ton of fun. Must-read.
Other character fic
Loyalty by Julia451. [oneshot, short] The ship captain didn’t misspeak when he called Iroh and Zuko “prisoners” in the start of S2. A lovely look at a nameless character, giving depth to a small moment and humanity to a FN soldier which I always love.
The Only One by HarlowR. [oneshot, short] An excellent exploration of Azula’s mindset regarding Zuko, her desperate need to be loved and jealousy of him matching his own. I think Azula was one of the greatest tragedies of the show, and this fic makes me feel it.
Blood by theAsh0. [oneshot, short] Katara-centric thinkpiece on bloodbending and healing. Dark but really interesting.
Touch and Go by Cadence. [oneshot, short] After Iroh’s struck by lightning, Toph doesn’t let Zuko drive them all away. A momentary alliance and the seeds of friendship. More Toph-focused but still heavy on the whole Gaang.
Shortcomings by Menamebephil. [oneshot, short] Iroh thoughts during his imprisonment, on the theme of mistakes. I love this man and don’t understand why I am so drawn to fic about him that makes me sad.
Watch And Review, Please by Becca Stareyes. [oneshot, short] The Ember Island Players receive some constructive criticism... sort of. Funny and quick.
Azula Redemption Trilogy (1, 2, 3) by Mistress of Sarcasm. [threeshot, short] Second person and deeply introspective, three short little fics delving into Azula’s head and bringing her closer to redemption.
Echoing Refrains by catie_writes_things. [oneshot, short] I really like nuanced explorations of the whole FN royal family. It’s perfectly fine to write Ozai as pure evil bastard, but exploring  what might have been or how he got there, or even as in this fic his talent for music being inherited by Zuko is really interesting too. Iroh-centric.
our curse by ohmygodwhy, and the last dragon by thesometimeswarrior. [twoshot, complete, short] Stay away if you don’t like to cry. In the first Zuko learns Ozai is executing Iroh, and isn’t able to stop it; the second is even worse because it’s Iroh’s POV. I put this in the other characters section because honestly I adore the second fic even more than the first, but they are both fantastically written and will hurt you a very great deal.
Finally, I’m not quite bold enough to put my own fic on a reclist, but just shameless enough to mention I’ve written a few Avatar fics I quite like if anyone feels the desire to check them out on my AO3. ;) But seriously give love to all the rest of these, they deserve it. (And as I said, there’s lots more excellent stuff, this fandom is so prolific and well-written!)
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mocacheezy · 3 years
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Things that made watching Transformers (2007) easier and even enjoyable:
[note: B'verse gets the treatment that it gets by fandom for good reasons. There are tons of posts that dissect the bullshit of these movies far better than my second-language-english-non-american self could ever tackle, so I am not doing that, or plan on doing that. But if I decide that I'll get through every continuity of the franchise I will find a way to make it fun for myself. And so, this is my search for golden nuggets in these movies, because they did bring in new fans to the franchise and that's why we have other continuities that we might not have otherwise. Credit where it's due, and some positivity for those that did find B'verse at least amusing if nothing else. ]
🍴🥄🔪🍴🥄🔪🍴🥄🔪🍴🥄🔪🥄🔪🍴🥄🔪
Frenzy
Anytime Frenzy was on screen made me smile because his movements and personality were hilarious, he is just so expressive despite looking like someone super glued a bunch of knifes together. I wouldn't know it was Frenzy if I didn't go to the Wiki, but no matter that, he was funny and that's what matters.
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The original Cybertronian robot modes
We don't see them for long, but the glimpses were glorious. Just look at Optimus
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Gorgeous. What I wouldn't give to see the details up close. Maybe I'll go looking eventually, but this is just so nice.
We also get a "sexily rises from the pool" scene with Ironhide (probably unintentional and I am biased due to being a robofucker. In any case, very very nice and Cybertronians look so good as aliens)
"Excuse me, are you the Tooth Fairy?"
You see this kid?
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This little girl was the only human I cared about in the movie until I saw just how badass Mikaela is, and how cool the military dude is. I don't like kids, but I would lay down my life for this girl.
This one scene just makes me think of what would happen if her parents showed up way earlier. Ironhide would be her guardian and it would be both adorable and hilarious because "Honey, you have to drive in a sentient alien that looks just like our car because the goverment men said so or there will be consequences and potential alien threats."
There are so many joke potentials there; the cultural barrier, the "I am the ine that is supposed to keep her safe" glaring contests, there is just so much shenanigans that could happen.
Also, tea party with the kid. Tea party with the kid.
Sam Witwicky actually reacts like an average human would when faced with the situations he finds himself in
Do I like Sam Witwicky? No, he is the kind of character that I would want to punch irl because of his personality and actions. He is disgusting. But watching him scamper and scream and stutter when faced with giant metal robot aliens that can squish him like a bug? Good, that was a beliavable reaction and I enjoyed it a great deal.
Megatron. Just, ✨Megatron✨
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(the best screenshot of the few I could take while watching, no, I am not going back for a better one, he looks perfect like this)
I also laughted at how they kept him frozen like a popsicle. And not even well, like, they COULD'VE made an actual freezer and pop him in instead of using those couple of tubes just so he was displayed for all personell to gawk at. HE CRASHED IN THE ANTARCTIC!
The design looks so good, because it looks ALIEN and POINTY and AGH!!! The colors? There are no colors that would make him stand out, he looks like someone opened a cutlery drawer, mixed up what's inside, threw in some extra knifes for a good measure and then shook the whole thing until this guy materialized from the pile. It is both incredibly annoying and satisfying.
🔪
Mr. Welker did an amazing job with his voice, I don't know what the directions were, but oh man it sure sent shivers down my spine. That is the kind of voice that spells "You are going to die" and I already have my coffin picked out.
EDIT: SO APPARENTLY! IT WAS NOT WELKER THAT VOICED MEGATRON.
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It was Hugo Weaving, and yes the man did am amazing job, but I apologize a million times, I was CERTAIN that THE OG VA OF MEGATRON WOULD ALSO HAVE VOICED MEGATRON. LIKE, OKAY BAY, OKAY!
🔪
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LOOK AT THE AMOUNT OF ICE! With how quick he came back fully online once Frenzy turned off the freeze liquid tubes, I bet he was half awake through the whole thing. Systems just below idling or something, in any case, AGENTS YOU ARE SO DUMB! WHO WAS GIVING SUBPAR FUNDING TO THEM, THEY BETTER BE FIRED!
I also was glad that Sam refused to call him by the name the sector asigned to him, despite Megatron being in stasis. And that he insisted they use the correct name. Good job Sam, acknowledge the threat by the actual name and show respect to a fellow sentient lifeform. Even though said lifeform is hellbent on destruction of the universe and your world.
ALSO, AND I CANNOT STRESS THE LAUGHTER AND AMUSEMENT HERE; the sheer DISRESPECT! They don't disassemble Megatron's corpse. No, these idiots, these absolute morons decide to dump him into the ocean, letting him sink to the lowest possible point (not sure if they did say it was the M' Trench or not), where there are proper freezing temperatures - good! You're learning, good job!! - just... In full. Full corpse. What's left of him. Just blup! Down with the fishies he goes!
I understand that they probably didn't know how to approach Optimus about it, but... At least behead the guy. He came back ONCE, who is to say he won't come back again?! Safety precautions my dears.
They also completely disregard what a giant extraterrestrial metal alien rusting away on the bottom of the ocean could do to the ecosystem at large. Like, I find this incredibly amusing, because this ISN'T something most folks think about when watching a movie but we have giant squids down there. We have so much weird things down there, the ocean isn't even fully explored AND YOU WANT TO CHUCK AN ALIEN CORPSE DOWN THERE?!
Now the real question: is he a looker? *looks at the pictures* hmmmm, depends on if you like knifes. Like, really like knifes. Like really, really REALLY want to get it on with a fine assembly of kitchen knifes that were exposed to the elements but somehow haven't rusted away completely.
I think he's neat.
Needs a good long powerwash though. Preferrably with something to help the whole "I was frozen for more than 50 years and sprang back to action as soon as I woke up" thing that happened.
My man needs to take a moment and get his bearings, like dude. Please. You can conquer the world after some energon and slow system boot-up period. The strain on the systems my dude, you ain't young.
Also love that this "death" was probably reused in TFP because lord golly, do we love our faves ending up under the sea. (Though Megan took a much bigger fall, Bayverse WAS PLOPPED INTO THE WATER LIKE A NEWLY ACQUIRED FISH I CAN'T YOU GUYS I CAN'T!)
In short: I love the comedy of american military giving such disrespect to an Alien Warlord. These guys are really sealing their fate.
I loved the way they got the Witwicky family to be important to the plot
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The whole "selling my great great grandpa's glasses on e-bay" thing gives us a very good self insert/OC/rewrite/movie AU potential. Don't like Sam and his disgustingness? Find a way to write a cousin or some far off relative or hell, even just someone who buys the glasses off e-bay and go wild with it!
Archibald was also clearly an inspiration for Isaac Sumdac as far as I can tell, what with both of them using Megatron as a means of helping technology advance.
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Only difference being one of them lived and actually talked to Megatron after he came back online and the other got driven to madness and death due to the amount of information beamed into his brain. Isaac also acquired a space baby daughter, so the guy is absolutely luckier of the two.
Mikaela being fucking competent and badass throughout the movie, and not being just fanservice eyecandy
I could do without the fanservice, but her personality? I loved it. I loved that she wasn't crawling to Sam and wasn't being "hard to get". Which is also why I was very displeased at the very sudden "oh yeah, romance! She returns his feelings after he took her for a ride and let her vent her frustrations!". The movie is 2 hours long and they could throw in some moments where these two connect?
Welp, it is an action movie, boy gets girl no matter what, can't complain about the staple in the genre.
However, Mikaela x Optimus? Now THAT is something I considered as soon as the two locked eyes and interacted. Like, even taking my shipping goggles off, these two could have a very interesting dynamic and Mikaela could be a very good protagonist. I wonder what the movie would be like with her as the lead and Sam being the fucking moron she has to drag along with her.
BUT ALSO! Can we talk about the horrible, excruciating fact that her and Bumblebee drove around with Bee's damaged legs dragging over asphalt all the time he was shooting at 'Cons? There were sparks flying! SHE WAS DRIVING BACKWARDS! She took command of the situation and did what she could because Bee still wanted TO FIGHT!
Also, they way she beat up Frenzy? Gorgeous, I want to slap Sam's non-existent balls off for not atleast saying "thanks". The dude would be sliced thinner than cabbage if she wasn't there.
The millitary man we are supposed to care about because his wife gave birth while he was on duty and we see his baby three times in the whole movie, actually being a pretty awesome and well-written character
Look, personally, I was a little confused at the reason why we were seeing his wife and baby interacting/the scene where she thinks her husband is dead. Mostly because I don't like kids, so scenes like that, when I don't even know who the character is, have no impact at all. Him having a baby isn't going to make me like the guy more, unless I know his character. Him being absent because he's on duty doesn't mean he'll be a good dad (though he looks like the kind of man that will try his best, and I like that in a man). So seeing his wife and kid at the start of the movie seemed pointless to me.
BUT! FOCUSING ON THE POSITIVES HERE!
Lennox is a good character and whenever he was on screen I was invested in what is going to happen to him. He's the kind of action movie lead that would have me invested, despite my meh interest in mainly gun fight oriented action movies.
Essentially, loved the guy, would love to see more of him while also being able to tell what's happening on screen. Also the comedy scenes he was in were usually funny.
~
Okay so these are the things I like about the first movie! It was very long, had to watch it on 2,5x speed because it simultainously dragged while ALSO giving me too much information, but the moments like these and the way my imagination latched onto characters I liked made it watchable. It isn't a movie I'd use to introduce someone to the TF franchise, but it provided me with lots of material for my imagination to run wild.
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delimeful · 4 years
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the shapes in the silence (11)
new chapter at the behest of one of my patrons! hope you enjoy! >:)
warnings: terrible coping mechanisms, antagonistic but not "evil" deceit, semi-vivid panic attack, suicidal implications/thoughts, arguing, an antagonistic and also genuinely evil cliffhanger, take care for realsies
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After a few days of solitude, Logan emerged from his room with a triumphant gleam in his eyes.
He dropped a comically large stack of paper onto the lounge table, interrupting their bi-monthly binge of Parks and Rec. Patton obligingly paused the television, smiling at the sight of the other Side.
Roman probably would have complained, except Virgil-- as Puff-- had been dozing on top of his head for the past twenty minutes, and one of his wings was draped over Roman’s face like a makeshift blindfold. So, he hadn’t really been watching anyways.  
“I’ve figured it out,” Logan said, gesturing to the meticulous lines of not-so-meticulous handwriting. “The shrinking.”
Everyone seemed to perk up in interest, and Virgil dropped onto Roman’s shoulder, kneading his claws lightly into the sash.
“You know why?” Patton prompted after another moment of Logan preening.
“Yeah, Specs, don’t leave us in suspense!” Roman demanded, valiantly restraining his gesturing for the sake of not accidentally unbalancing Virgil. The two of them had only had to learn that lesson once.
Logan nodded, adjusting his glasses briefly. “My current hypothesis is that our reduced states are the result of a sort of… mental lock. We shrink when the locking mechanism is triggered, and it takes a figurative key to restore our previous, normal stature.”
“A key?” Patton asked. “You figured out how to undo it?”
“Not for everyone. Think of it as customized locks. There’s a different key for each of us, and I’ve only discovered my own.”
Virgil tilted his head curiously at Logan’s words. The first bit was about what he’d figured, but a ‘key’ to change back? He used to think he only changed back in his room, but there had been a couple of occasions where he’d shifted forms unexpectedly. None of the others had had to be in their rooms to change back, either.
Roman was frowning in thought. “Wait, how in the name of Disney did you figure out your key?”
Logan looked delighted at the question. He moved to sit in his usual armchair, and then closed his eyes for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly and his mouth dropping into a frown.
In the next moment, he was doll-sized. “Extensive and rigorous experimentation,” he said, carefully getting to his feet on the plush chair fabric.
Roman and Patton immediately burst into excited chattering, each theorizing or commenting on Logan’s tiny stature, and Virgil quickly abandoned ship before Roman really did gesture him right into the air. He trotted along the back of the couch and kicked off of it, landing on the arm of Logan’s chair.
Logan looked up at him for a moment, before referring to a pile of tinier-than-normal flashcards pulled from his pocket. “Puff. I hope there’s no ‘hard feelings’ about my former hypothesis. It was nothing personal, I can assure you.”
It wasn’t like the theory had been too far fetched. Virgil hopped down to the seat of the chair and brushed against Logan’s side like a large, scaly cat. It seemed to do the job of convincing Logan that they were cool.
Logan looked back over at the other two. “Time to continue the lecture, I believe.”
With that, he clapped his hands together in a familiar pattern, one that had been used in countless classrooms in Thomas’s life. Two normal claps, and then three rapid ones.
Almost immediately, Patton and Roman clapped the returning pattern, paused as though registering what they’d done, and then turned to face Logan.
“Was… Did you just teacher-clap at us?” Roman asked, astounded.
Logan looked incredibly smug at his gambit working so perfectly, and Virgil barely had time to claw his way back up onto the armrest before the logical Side was back to normal.
“My key,” he said, “is being listened to.”
Then, as though he couldn’t resist, he added, “Who’s falling behind now, Roman?”  
Roman spluttered with exaggerated indignance, and Virgil was absolutely certain that Princey was going to spend the next several days rising to the challenge. He shook his wings out, the dragon equivalent of rolling his eyes.
Patton, on the other hand, clapped enthusiastically as though Logan had performed a magic trick. “Wow, way to grow!”
Logan sighed deeply. Patton grinned, and then paused.
“See, the only thing I’m wondering now is, why is this happening to us all of the sudden? It’s certainly not something we’ve had to deal with before.”
There was a terse silence.  
“I’m still working on theories in that regard,” Logan finally responded, mouth pinched slightly. “There have been many periods in the past where certain upheavals in Thomas’s life have led to our surroundings or our very selves changing. It’s entirely possible that this… ‘shrinking’ effect is a similar case. That brings me to my next point: we need to speak with Thomas.”
Virgil noticed Roman grimace for a moment. “Does he really need to know about all… this?”
“We certainly can’t keep it from him!” Patton replied as he walked closer to the rest of them and held out his arm. Virgil scaled it with ease, clambering up to perch on Pat’s shoulder like a parrot. For once, he agreed with Roman. He wasn’t sure this would end well, but... it wasn’t his job to bring up doubts right now. “He’s going to have to learn about it eventually, whether now or whenever he calls us up to talk about whatever is bothering him.”
“Precisely,” Logan agreed. “The more information we gather on this matter, the better.”
“I guess…,” Roman crossed his arms, but conceded. Patton gave him an encouraging hug.
“Plus,” he added as he pulled away, “if we go now, we can have Thomathy meet Puff!”
A beat late, Virgil realized just what that meant, and a flood of panic washed out the peaceful haze in his mind. They couldn’t take him to see Thomas! What if his host recognized him?
… What if he didn’t?
“It’s fine with me,” Logan added. “He does seem to be a rather permanent fixture in the Mindscape, though I’m not sure what that says about Thomas.”
“It says that he’s simply the coolest,” Roman shot back, his spirits seemingly lifted by the idea. He reached over and lifted Virgil off Patton’s shoulders, holding him in the air and spinning in a dizzying circle. “You’ll love Thomas, Puff, just you wait.”  
“Why wait?” Patton chimed in with an excited smile. “I’ll go let the kiddo know we’re coming!”
He sank out, and Logan spent a short moment making sure his tie was properly aligned before following. Roman tilted his head slightly as though listening to an invisible sound before smiling widely. “There’s our cue!”
Before Virgil could do more than feel a sense of impending doom, the world was blurring and shifting around them, and he was dragged up along with Roman.
The dizziness as he entered the real world was so heady that he nearly blacked out, his head spinning. When his vision cleared, he realized he was being held up like an infant Simba.
Right in front of his host’s face. He froze like a deer in the headlights, mind screaming wordlessly.
“Ta-da!” Roman announced. “The newest, cutest denizen of your mind! Aside from me, of course.”  
Thomas leaned in slightly, no trace of disgust or fear on his face. It made him look younger. “Woah. Hey there, little guy. Puff, right?”
He held his hand out carefully, and almost magnetically, Virgil placed a tiny, clawed hand on it. An encouraging smile was all it took, and then he was abandoning all caution and climbing right into the arms of the one who was supposed to fear him the most.
Thomas just shifted obligingly to create a better platform, and ran a thumb over his spine scales. Virgil craned his head up to look, and saw only quiet astonishment and awe on his host’s face.
There was no question. He didn’t recognize him.
Virgil had no idea what the emotion in the pit of his stomach was-- an amalgam of relief, disappointment, terror, sadness, so dense it was physically painful-- but after a moment, he let himself go lax. He could deal with it later. He could deal with everything later.
For now, his host was holding him close like he was something treasured, something precious. It was more than he’d ever hoped for and all he could ever need.
Whenever Thomas spoke, he could feel the words vibrating in his host’s chest. It was almost like a hug. He stayed there, content to listen only vaguely as the others explained what was going on and tried to work out the reason why.
After a while of circular discussion, Thomas went a little tense, catching Virgil’s attention. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.
“We’re trying to figure out what’s going wrong to cause this… inner turmoil, right? Why don’t we get Anxiety in on this? If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s coming up with worst-case scenarios.”
Virgil went still and frozen, and Roman’s gaze darted down to him for a moment before his expression firmed into a frown. “Absolutely not. That villain won’t have anything helpful to contribute.”
“On the contrary, I believe Thomas has a point. Anxiety could have a side to this story that we haven’t heard yet, but if we were just to ask him,” Logan countered, “he may share.”
“Kind of strange that he hasn’t popped up already,” Patton added with a concerned frown. “The kiddo doesn’t generally like it when people talk about him without him there.”
“Let’s at least give it a shot,” Thomas decided, lifting a hand. “Anxiety!”
No, no no no. This wasn’t how he wanted it to go. Virgil braced for the irresistible tug on his core, the breaking apart of his fragile peace--
It didn’t come.
There was no pull. Why wasn’t he feeling the pull? He couldn’t detect even the slightest call, which was impossible, unless--
Perfectly on cue, a dark figure appeared from thin air on the staircase, jumpscaring Thomas and offering a mocking smirk.
“You called?”
It… was him. It was Anxiety, dark hoodie and darker eyeliner, sneer and all. Virgil felt the strangest disconnect from his own identity for a moment before things snapped back into place. No summons, his own desire for secrecy, a perfect doppelganger.
Deceit.
A low, rumbling growl started up in his chest, and his hackles rose instantly at the sight of that liar daring to wear his face.
Thomas’s hands jerked away in surprise, and Patton reached over to soothe him. “Easy, Puff. He won’t do anything to you, promise.”
“That’s right,” Roman agreed in a completely different tone, stepping forwards to put himself between the fake Anxiety and the others, as though Virgil was pathetic enough to be worried about himself and not whatever bullshit Deceit-As-Anxiety was about to feed the others. His growl lowered in volume, but refused to taper off.
“Like I care about your newest pet project,” Fake-Anxiety said, rolling his eyes in disdain. “I’m just here to do what I do best: tell you how you messed up.”
Logan frowned at him. “You believe our current situation is the result of Thomas erring in some way?”
“Not just some way. All the ways. It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Fake-Anxiety said, gesturing widely to Thomas with one hand. “Something’s wrong with you. You’re broken.”
“That’s not true,” Patton said firmly, frowning in disapproval. “Anxiety, I expected better from you.”
Virgil felt his throat close up, even though he wasn’t really the one Patton was speaking to. It wasn’t like Patton knew that. How was he ever going to look anyone in the eye after this?
“Wait, what? How am I broken?” Thomas asked, not as indignantly as Virgil would have preferred. He gently butted his head against Thomas’s arm for morale-boosting purposes.
“I mean, think about it,” Fake-Anxiety said, spreading his palms open in a faux innocent gesture. “How many times have you screwed up in the past couple of weeks? Speaking with family, hanging out with friends, even just basic customer service interactions. Those were all your fault, and you know it.”
Thomas’s hands shook slightly. “I…”
“Falsehood,” Logan cut in sharply, his expression severe. “A person cannot be ‘broken’, particularly not for simple mistakes. In any case, there is no meaningful connection to be drawn between your baseless accusation and our current conundrum.”
Before Fake-Anxiety could respond, Patton’s hands flew to his mouth. “Wait. Kiddo, you don’t really think that about yourself, do you?”
All eyes turned to Thomas, who hesitated just a beat too long. “No… I mean, not entirely. Not all the time.”
“Thomas…” Roman looked stricken. “There’s no reason to feel bad about yourself!”
“Emotions… are often without reason,” Logan said, sharing a look with Patton. “This is important information, though. It’s entirely possible that a negative sense of self could affect us, as aspects of yourself. This could be the cause.”
“Then… How do I fix it?” Thomas asked, voice strained.
“You can’t,” Fake-Anxiety said, inspecting his nail polish as though bored. “You’re going to be stuck like this forever.”
“The first step,” Logan said, with a complicated glance towards the figure on the stairs, “is not letting negative thoughts control you. I was hoping Anxiety would be able to shed a light on our discussion, but it’s become clear that he’s… not in a helping mood.”
Fake-Anxiety clicked his tongue. “I’m helping. Helping you not make an even bigger embarrassment out of yourself.”
“Don’t listen to that villain,” Roman told Thomas, glancing down at ‘Puff’. “You have the power to send him away, Thomas.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve said my piece, and you know I’m right.” Fake-Anxiety gave a mocking salute before sinking out, making brief eye contact with Virgil as he did.
“He’s not right… right?” Thomas asked, his face a little pale. “I mean, it’s Anxiety.”
In his arms, Virgil tucked his limbs in tighter against himself.
“You are not broken,” Logan reiterated calmly. “Take a few deep breaths.”
“You do feel bad, though,” Patton said, a hand pressed over his heart in sympathy. “Kiddo... why don’t you take today for yourself?”
“That’s right!” Roman gripped Thomas’s shoulder comfortingly. “Do something that you’ll enjoy, and you can worry about everything else tomorrow, okay? We’ll sort things out on our end.”  
They spoke for a little longer, making new plans and cancelling old ones, and Virgil felt as though his mind was full of static. Eventually, finally, he was back on Roman’s shoulder, ready to sink out.
“Nice meeting you, Puff,” Thomas waved, and something in Virgil’s chest twisted painfully at it all. He chirp-crooned back, and it felt like a goodbye.
-
Luckily for him, the others were all preoccupied with their own thoughts and plans. It took almost no effort to slip away, and before he knew it he was back in his own room, in the form that everyone hated.
His summon was nonverbal and insistent, and before long, Deceit appeared before him, this time in his own skin. Virgil wanted to yell, to rage and vent the emotions inside of him.
“How could you?” Instead, his voice came out quiet. Cold. Betrayed.
Deceit shifted, a flash of discomfort crossing his face before he composed himself. “They needed a villain. Last I checked, it was you who cast yourself in that role.”
A villain. He felt himself shaking, distantly. “You used me. Like an object.”
“To help Thomas--”
“To frighten him into doing what you wanted!” Virgil said, voice finally rising. “To guide the others like puppets on strings and to make me take the fall for your plan!”
“This is for you, too!” Deceit finally snapped back, before taking a deep breath. “This isn’t a framing, Virgil. It’s an opportunity. They won’t look for you, and that gives me enough time to fix things. Come home.”
Virgil laughed, once, harsh like broken glass. “No.”
Deceit held up a hand, sweeping it downwards and shifting himself into Fake-Anxiety again. It was like looking in a mirror, but the reflection was… different, this time. It wasn’t the one that had sat on the stairs before.
“Look at yourself, Virgil. Look at what you’ve been doing to yourself.”
The bags under his eyes were dark and sallow. He was shaking and sweating, his breath coming in stuttering gasps. His body looked like it’d been having consecutive panic attacks for days on end, and there were plenty more coming.
“You don’t have to do this anymore. We both know that you’d have an easier time if Thomas wasn’t always fighting against you.”
He tore his eyes away from the reflection. If he thought about it for too long, he’d spiral, and then all of it-- every comment, every look, everything he’d been tucking away for the past weeks-- would come rushing up to meet him. Like hitting water from a hundred feet up and finding it felt like concrete. Like drowning.
“Virgil?”
He was tired of this. “Get out.”
Deceit said something else, but it was his room, and it followed his will. The other Side was evicted, shoved out, gone. He took a breath, but it felt too shallow and caught in his lungs.
He wasn’t going to get anything done in this form. He wasn’t of any damn use in this form. Nobody wanted him like this. Why not ease his grip, let go?
He wouldn’t have to be Anxiety and everything that came with it. It would be selfish, but-- but Puff was better for everyone, not just him. It made sense.
He sighed in relief as the transformation washed away the vice grip around his lungs and the dizzying pounding of his head. The feelings were muffled, as though he’d put on thick, good quality headphones. It was nice.
It was also harder to focus in this form, unfortunately, but the idea-- the solution remained helpfully stuck in his head. He easily found his way into Roman’s room to collect what he needed, but Roman himself was absent.
He padded down to the commons, and found all three of them were there. Their discussion came to a halt as he carefully jumped up on the couch, dropping his prize into Roman’s lap.
“Oh, Puff…” Roman seemed sad, so he kneaded the creative Side’s leg with the dull edge of his claws.
“What is that?” Patton asked curiously.
Roman shifted, as though anticipating a scolding. “It’s a charmed bracelet. I designed it to keep Anxiety away from Puff. And you know what? I was right to make it! You saw how he acted today!”
Patton bit his lip but remained quiet. Something about the silence hurt, but that was okay. It wouldn’t hurt for long. He nudged the bracelet slightly, impatient.
“Why hasn’t he been wearing it, then?” Logan asked, a curious bend to his eyebrows.
“He… Well, he didn’t want it at first. Put it on yours truly instead,” Roman replied, carefully brushing a hand over Virgil’s head. “I suppose he changed his mind.”
“Did Anxiety really scare him that badly?” Patton asked, voice heartbroken.
Roman frowned determinedly and finally started undoing the clasp. “Whatever that scoundrel did, he won’t be able to bother Puff anymore. This will make sure of it.”
He carefully wound the bracelet around Virgil’s neck, gently adjusted it until it fit right, and reconnected the ends. The last thing Virgil saw before the world went hazy was the three of them, the best parts of Thomas, looking back at him without any fear or hatred.
Then, there was only Puff.
541 notes · View notes
starlightrows · 3 years
Text
Something of Your Own
Pairing: Din Djarin x reader
Words: 1.8k
Tags: Hurt Comfort, angst, happy ending 
Summary:  Din takes you in after your village is destroyed
AN: Originally posted on AO3 in November 2020 
Sitting against the wall in the hull of the ship, you rolled the small silver ball over towards the kid. He catches it and gets distracted looking at his tiny reflection again. He chirped happily, probably overjoyed to have a playmate on this lonely ship, and tries to roll it back.
You had only been traveling with the Mandalorian and his foundling son for a few months. So far it wasn’t so bad. You had been taking care of children almost your whole life, and this child was surprisingly easy to care for. Entertain him for most of the day, feed him often, hold him while he falls asleep, and he’s a perfect angel. Your new traveling companion had made him sound like a little terror. You supposed that was because he couldn’t afford to give all of his attention to him. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it. Well, that and having nowhere else to go.
The Mandalorian had come to your village asking if anyone had heard of a people called The Jedi. No one in the village had. You had never seen a Mandalorian before either. He had asked if there were other villages nearby he could ask. You offered him a place to stay for the night, and set out for the neighboring villages in the morning. He was reluctant, but the child seemed so attached to you. Continually trying to climb your skits and touch your face. So he agreed.
He regretted that decision. The nights on your planet were long, and dark. And his that darkness a massive ship flew overhead, landing on the outskirts of the village. Armored soldiers poured out of ship, and began breaking into homes. Demanding to know where to find the Mandalorian and his charge.
The Mandalorian awoke to screams and sound of blaster fire coming from somewhere else in the village. His helmet went on and he leaped from the bed, plucking the sleeping child from the pram, and yanking open the door to the bedroom. Only to find you at the door about to knock.
“Help us!” You shouted. He thrust the child into your arms, and went back to put on the few pieces of armor he had removed to sleep.
Coming back out of the room, he grabbed your shoulders roughly “Take the child back to my ship, lock yourself in there and do not let anyone in” You were frozen in terror, clutching the baby to your chest. “Go!” He shouted
So you did. Out the back door, and behind the row of homes and businesses you had lived in your whole life. Blindly you ran for the ship. The sound of your friends and neighbors screams pounded in your head, how the baby was sleeping through this you could not fathom.
Finally reaching the ship you climbed in, and sealed the door. You sunk to the floor, exactly where you sat now, and you waited. Tears streaming down your face. You had no idea how long you sat there, if you fell asleep at any point. The ship’s hull was pitch black and soundless, save for the soft breathing of the baby and your muffled crying.
The sound of the being opened from the outside scared you. Jumping to your feet, and retreating further into the darkness hoping you wouldn’t run into anything. Dull orange light streamed into the hull, and you heard your name being called out. It was the Mandalorian.
You emerged from the darkness, tired puffy eyes looking at him expectantly. Suddenly you were more terrified than you had been the entire night. Your village. Your home. Your whole life. What had happened? What was left?
You advanced towards him. But he stopped you with a gentle hand. “I’m sorry” that was the only thing he could say. An apology. Fresh tears sprang to your eyes. You pressed the child into his arms, and ran passed him.
You didn’t know what you would find when you got there. All you knew was you had to see it. You didn’t stop running until you saw the smoke rising from the ashes... your entire life had been reduced to rubble. You sobbed, like never before.
Eventually the Mandalorian had followed you back into the ruins of your village. He asked if there was somewhere you wanted to go, if you had friends or family. This was it. This was your whole life. You had nowhere to go. He offered to take you with him.
“Come with us. You can leave whenever you’d like. And I can pay you for your help with the kid,”
It was the only option you had, so here you were. Rocketing through the stars, on your way to an uncertain future, with a baby and a man who’s name you didn’t know and face you will never see.
You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of Mando’s footsteps descending the ladder from the cockpit. The baby toddled over to the landing, having lost all interest in the silver ball rolling back towards you. Mando bent down and picked up the child, he approached you as you stood up.
“We’ll be landing soon,” he told you “There’s someone I need to talk to on this planet. And they have a market where we can resupply”
You nod quietly. After these last few months, you were still mourning the loss of your village. Going into towns and markets on other planets was exciting but it made you long for home. You had never left your home world, visiting other planets exposed you to things you never would have imagined in your wildest dreams.
Planets covered in dense forests, others with endless expanses of water, not to long ago you had been to a planet that had man made structures covering every surface area... You had come from a farming planet, that sold crops and livestock to intergalactic traders. You knew there were other worlds in the universe, other species, but it was so much more vast than you could have imagined.
The planet you were visiting today was beautiful. Enormous mountains jutted from the ground, fields of tall grass and wildflowers, and clear springs. The village was busy, full of travelers stopping for more fuel, supplies, a place to stay for the night, or just somewhere to stretch their legs and breathe fresh air.
Mando watched as you step off of the ship, holding his son.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” You asked the child softly. He replied in his garbled little chirps.
Mando felt his chest tighten. The guilt of being the reason you had nowhere to go weighed heavily on him. But bringing you to beautiful places like this, that you may have otherwise never experienced made him feel a little bit better. He didn’t want to admit he was taking you to some of the more interesting places he had visited in his travels, and tried to find nice places for you to stay and take care of the baby when he had to catch a bounty.
“Ready?” He asked. You smiled and nodded, following him towards the town.
Every time they stopped a new planet, Mando knew there was a chance you would not continue with him. But if truth be told, he didn’t want that to happen. He had grown fond of you these last few months. Having a second set of hands around to do things on the ship and someone to make sure the kid was always looked after, were more than welcome. But it was more than that, it was you. You were kind, and gentle. Respectful of his culture, and eager to learn and see everything. He didn’t want you to find a new place to settle. But that wasn’t his choice to make.
He thought about this as you walked together through the market. You held the child against your chest, letting him look out at all of the people and shops. You pointed out various things to him, and spoke with such care.
He left you with some credits, and instructions on where to meet back up with him when you were done shopping and he was finished with his meeting. He had been trying to give you more credits than you needed recently. A couple weeks back, he had snapped at you in a hurry to leave the planet he had left you and kid on for a few days...
“Get your things, we’re leaving”
You stood up, with the child in your arms and walked out of the small inn. He didn’t miss your words under your breath as you passed him.
“I don’t have any things,”
You were right, all you had was the clothes on your back. And the credits he gave you after returning from cashing in on bounties. It was his fault, and he knew it.
You walked around the market, trying to make sure you had enough of a variety of foods to take with you onto the ship. You picked up some strips of bandage cloth, and bacta pads as well. Your companion made more use of those than you would like to admit.
You passed by a clothing stall, and stopped short. Looking down at the kid in his tan robes. It wouldn’t hurt to get him a second set, he did get dirty a lot when you stayed on a planet for a few days. You stepped into the stall, and began looking to find children’s clothing.
The fabric the clothing is made of on this planet is so vastly different from the clothes your own people wore. You ran your fingers over a pair of dark brown trousers.
“What do you think little friend?” You asked the child “maybe we both need something new”
Mando approached the massive shade tree, seeing you and the baby leaning against the trunk and sharing a piece of fruit. He saw that you had several packages of supplies for the ship sitting next to you, and a leather pack. He also noticed the child wore new, grey robes. And you. You wore new well fitting trousers, tunic, boots and coat. He couldn’t help but notice how attractive you looked. The child scampered towards him, and raised his little arms. He shouldered the child, and offered you a hand to stand up.
“You look nice,” he said, somewhat dumbly.
“Thank you,” you replied, taking his hand. You gathered the packages and supplies. “I figured I would need some better clothes if I’m gonna keep up with the little womp rat” You scritched behind the child’s floppy ears. The baby cooed at your touch.
Mando felt comforted walking back to the ship. If you were willing to spend money on things to better help you take care of the kid, maybe you would stay longer.
Din Djarin Tag List: @spideysimpossiblegirl
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zet-sway · 3 years
Text
Spiritual Shrios Summer Fill: Godless
This is a prompt fill for @rosenkow's Spiritual Shrios Summer! Prompts | release | oasis | moan | delirium | pray | sweat | whisper | afterlife | contaminated | skin | worship | incense | godless | petals | taste | nectar | caress | mirage | ripe | sundown | hallucinate | salt | intoxicated | soul | embrace | hunger | wet | adrenaline | breathe |
PROMPT WORD: GODLESS | WORDS: ~1800
Rated: "G" - General Audiences AO3 Link: "The Frozen Sea" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: The ocean licks at her knees - not to claim her, but to mark her. 'One foot in the grave,' as the human adage goes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Shepard looks forward to being the first one up and awake.
Her cabin is suffocating. There are nights when she appreciates the privacy, but the silence of her isolated quarters makes her insides itch in an uncomfortable way. Just before the common area lighting begins to grow from the dim cadence of the night cycle, she leaves her room and greets the morning, intangible as only time on a starship can be. First she checks on the night crew, then starts coffee for Gardener. Finally, she makes her way down to the shuttle bay for PT. Alone.
It's unexpected when she has a visitor one quiet morning.
"Sere Krios," she says, rising from a deep stretch on the mat.
He smiles warmly, equally as surprised to see another soul at this hour. "Commander, good morning. And please, just Thane if you wouldn't mind."
Thane is the newest member of her crew and they've only spoken twice before. Maybe it shouldn't come as a surprise that he has his daily rituals as well, given his condition. He's dressed simply. Black pants, a sleeveless shirt, his defined, green chest exposed for all the world. Drell and humans share some attractive qualities. He's easy on the eyes.
She's staring, she realizes, and looks away. Thane takes his place on the mat and begins his own warm-up.
Day after day, he joins her, and they build a routine. Together, they begin with stiff, groggy stretches; then there's cardio, sweat, and strength training. Their conversations are light and technical. He respects her silence. She respects his discipline. On leg day, they limp back into the elevator in tandem. If she's lucky, she has time to join him and the crew for breakfast after her shower.
When she's alone, she quietly recalls how the light bends around the contours of his body.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
He's there as usual when she steps off the elevator and into the shuttle bay. Fully armored, helmet under one arm, weapons holstered, but ready.
"Shepard. No training today?" He rises from his place on the mat where he's been exploring the human practice of yoga, per her suggestion. It suits him. Yoga is all about breathing.
"I was beginning to think you tired of my company."
She gives him a weary smile and shakes her head.
There's a new, abnormal tension between them and by his gaze she knows he feels it too. She likes Thane. She knows hardly a damn thing about him, but he's a comfortable presence, follows orders... doesn't ask intrusive questions. However, she's breaking their routine unexpectedly, and in the moment, his gaze is almost painful.
"Is there something I should know about Alchera?"
Okay, maybe he does ask intrusive questions.
His voice is a hot knife through her muddy thoughts. The detour to Alchera hadn't been on their flight plan, but somehow, he knows. Times like this, his eidetic memory puts her on edge. She asks herself how many other kernels of obscure knowledge are locked away in his mind.
Stepping up to prep the shuttle, she weighs the consequences of lying to his face. Only six people on the ship know where she's going and why, and she doesn't want to talk about it with any of them. The words are too hard to say out loud. This is where I died.
"Alliance HR," she says finally. A partial truth.
His brows rise and his posture straightens just a bit. "Human remains." Fuck if he isn't perceptive, but if he has questions, he keeps them to himself.
She nods once, happy to have stopped this conversation in its tracks. Then she changes the subject.
"PT tomorrow," she offers with a smile. "I can't be lifting without my spotter."
"Of course, Shepard. The pleasure is mine," he responds with an acknowledging nod. She feels bad for interrupting his training as he leaves on the elevator, but she doesn't want to face her team until her task is done.
Let's just get this over with.
Alone with her thoughts, she exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding and starts her pre-flight checklist.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It's well past dinner when she comes to him. The doors at his back swish open and she stands quietly inside the threshold. A fistful of clinking metal dangles from her hand and he knows she's come to have the conversation she avoided earlier.
"Did I catch you at a good time?"
"You did," he says smoothly. "Was there something you wanted to discuss?"
She sits across from him and the metal spills from her fist. Dog tags. Twenty of them. Her gaze is fixed on them and she appears shrouded in a fog of thoughts.
"Did you know them?" The question is gentle, he's almost afraid to know the answer.
Shepard takes a deep breath and blinks slowly. "Yeah. They were my crew."
Thane can feel a chill, as though the icy surface of the planet is still clinging to her long after she's left it. "Your ship went down on Alchera?"
She nods.
"...and you were among them."
"Yes."
He realizes now why she brushed off his words earlier. It strikes him as odd that she would bring this to him instead of Garrus, Tali, Joker, or Chakwas. All of them served on that ship with her, although he isn't sure if they were on board during the attack. She chose him for this, maybe because he'd asked, unknowingly, down in the shuttle bay. Regardless, she's here now and he struggles to understand her needs.
Thane refocuses. There's a pile of dog tags before him and each one represents a human life, now in the arms of Kalahira.
"May I read them?"
She glances up at him then, surprised. "Won't you remember them forever?"
"I'd like to."
Her lips twitch just slightly in the most cautious of smiles, and she nods. "Knock yourself out," a quietly uttered and somehow charming human expression.
Thane picks up each tag one by one and passes his eyes over them. Every name, a life extinguished. Stories unfinished. Loved ones mourning for years without closure or a body to bury. Memories percolate in his mind and he pushes them back because now is not the time. For each name, he offers a silent prayer to the goddess for their eternal peace. When he finishes, the tags are a neat horizontal stack before them.
Hands folded, he looks at her. "I don't see your name."
It's less of a question and more of an observation, but she dips one hand into her shirt collar and produces a pair of clinking metal tags. They dangle from a new chain but the metal scorched and scuffed almost to a state of illegibility. One from the Alliance, the other from the Spectres. Her name is heavily embossed into each one.
SHEPARD DECEMBER HUMAN SYSTEMS ALLIANCE
His expression lifts and he smiles, hopeful. "You survived."
Shepard shakes her head. "I was spaced."
"But you must have-"
"No, Thane." Her tone is firm, unwavering. "I was spaced."
Her intense green eyes pierce through him. There's a twinge in her voice that makes his insides clench. "I read the data on Project Lazarus. I died."
It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Thane tries to control his features but her assertion shakes the very foundations of his faith. Many had said she died, but he'd always understood it as a metaphor - a near death experience.
He reaches into himself for calm and a memory rises, unbidden. "Jesus and Lazarus, from the Christian bible. '...I am the resurrection and the life.'"
"Kalahira..." he breathes. "Shepard, I didn't know."
She grunts out an ugly, short laugh and tears her eyes from his. "I can't believe you read the bible."
Her words fly past him without acknowledgement. He sees her as though through fogged glass, thoughts spinning. "Kalahira released you from the sea." When the words leave his mouth, they sound like irrefutable truth.
There's silence while she fidgets across from him, and then she asks, "Do humans go to the sea too?"
"We believe all life does."
He has a thought, then. "What do you believe, Shepard?
Her expression is mildly uncomfortable. "Before or after I died?" But then she shakes her head, reconsidering. "The universe is grand enough that maybe it is god's design. But I don't think god gives a damn about us. Agnostic, I guess." Shepard pauses and looks at him, but her eyes are distant. "Maybe I'd like to believe in your sea. Right now it feels easier to accept."
"To bring comfort in dark places is the purpose of spirituality. It does not matter what you believe as long as it brings you peace."
"Some humans would disagree with you."
Aware of the myriad of human religions and their conflicts, he brushes off her statement. "This is my truth. Their opinions don't concern me."
Shepard's gaze is searching, revealing the cracks in her armor, slivers of well-hidden vulnerability. "So I went to the sea. And now I'm back."
"If I am to accept what you say, I can offer no other conclusion." He doesn't ask what she remembers, he knows he might not like the answer.
"Then what am I now? Besides a soggy, undead cyborg?"
Her voice is laced with sarcasm but Thane thinks over her question carefully, aware he will be turning it over in his mind for days to come. Kalahira, Irikah, Siha, the gods and their angels, his lover and confidant, memories and oaths... regrets and comforts.
A heavy veil of epiphany descends on him, awestruck, painfully aware of his mortality, and prickling with a primal, deeply buried fear. Once human and now something in between, she is Commander Shepard, avatar of the Sea, chosen of Kalahira. The ocean licks at her knees not to claim her, but to mark her. 'One foot in the grave,' as the human adage goes.
The fist of tension in his gut calls to mind the image of Irikah's eyes in his scope all those years ago. I thought she was the goddess Arashu. But it's not Arashu who sits before him now, but Kalahira. Her icy breath howls across the inhospitable surface of Alchera, her unfathomable currents gathering those courageous enough to follow her into the abyss. How appropriate that she appeared just as he sought his demise in the Dantius Towers. She will be the one to ferry him into the unknown when they finally breach the relay. He prays she will be merciful.
Placing one hand over hers, Thane squeezes reassuringly. He doesn't linger, the gesture is as much for him as it is for her; he wants to know that she is real, as he finally answers her question.
'Then what am I now?'
"A woman with a purpose so great, the goddess herself answered the galaxy's cry for your return."
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tessiete · 3 years
Text
This was for the prompt from @treescape who asked what would happen if Obi-Wan had taken Korkie back with him from Mandalore after Satine's death. I said, "Well, at the very least it would force him and Anakin to talk to each other, and maybe stop the whole Fall of the Republic from happening."
And she said, "They won't talk."
And I said, "I'LL SHOW YOU!"
But then, she was right.
I tried. THE PUNISHMENT OF SILENCE
She throws him on a ship, and says “This one’s yours,” and they’re already away by the time he comprehends she meant the pilot on board with him. 
He’s pale to the point of imagination, and trembling - a reflection of how Obi-Wan imagines he himself must look, bloodless and haunted. His eyes seem hollowed out from the shadows between stars, his hair lank and lifeless, his mouth a jagged streak of blood cut straight across his face as though his jaw has been neatly bisected, his tongue cut out, and silence fills the space between them.
But he steps away from the controls at Obi-Wan’s approach.
He says nothing to the boy as he staggers to the pilot’s seat, and straps himself in. He hears the sounds of violent retching being pulled, and pulled, and then replaced with shattered breathing, and he spares him a glance to shout, “Do you know how to man the cannons on this ship?”
The boy lifts his head. His hair has tumbled out of its militant lines to hang over his eyes like some wild thing hunted. 
“The cannons,” Obi-Wan repeats. “Can you use them?”
The boy nods.
“Then do so,” Obi-Wan says.
He turns his attention back to the front. They are approaching the edge of the atmosphere, but are still trailing the most dedicated of their enemy’s pilots behind them. He feints left, then swings back to the right, trying to shake their aim as his companion slides into the gunner’s seat, and places his hands on the controls.
A strange look falls over his face then - something cool, and placid - and Obi-Wan too feels himself steady. He ceases to think of the sweat trickling down his brow, or the ache between his shoulders, or the pounding of his heart. Instead, he is flying. They are buoyed by the wind, then freed of atmospheric friction, and at last, with a contemptuous spit of the cannons, loosed from their pursuers and the strangling grip of Mandalore.
Without thought, Obi-Wan primes the hyperdrive, sets a course for Coruscant, and presses them into the stars. The ship resists for a moment, unwilling to let go of the planet, but soon gives in, and they are thrown into the cosmic whirlpool of hyperspace where time and place fall silent. 
And Obi-Wan can think.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“It’s Korkie. I’m Korkie,” the boy gasps, his hands falling away from the console and his calm with it. “Kiorkicek Kryze. My mother - my aunt…”
He shakes his head, his mouth still open but his voice has broken into absence.
“Your mother?” Obi-Wan says. “Bo-Katan? She wanted you off the planet -”
But Korkie shakes his head harder. He swallows. He swallows again, still gaping. 
“My mother - she died. I saw - I tried to save her. I tried to help - she said you’d help her.”
He feels a creeping numbness spreading from his joints, like muscles stiffening in the wake of a blaster’s stun.
“Satine,” he says, knowing and yet unsure. “Satine is your mother.”
“Yes,” Korkie says. “We were going to leave together. She said - we’d leave together when you came.”
“Your father -?”
“No.” It falls from him like a single tear, stifled before the onslaught of grief.
This one’s yours, she’d said.
“No,” whispers Obi-Wan in kind.
And then Korkie is crying, desperate, greedy torrents of grief that stutter out between his teeth like laughter. He presses a hand to his mouth, and wraps an arm about his middle to barricade the doors, but they are flung open, and the vacuum of his heart is filled by loud, rushing sobs. 
Obi-Wan barely hears him, caught instead listening to the voices of the past. Bo-Katan’s. Satine’s. Qui-Gon’s. He unbuckles the straps from his waist, and his shoulders, and slips from his seat to stand. 
“I...I need to change,” he says. “You should get some rest. We’ll hit planetfall in about six hours.”
This ship is unfamiliar, but equally unimaginative in its design, and so he stumbles to the fresher without effort. The room is warm, but there is no comfort in sonics the way there is in a shower. There is no rhythm of water beating out its rage upon your skin, at first soothing, then numb, then painful in its insistence. There is no cleansing fall of rain, no slick of wet across your skin, no satisfying whirlpool of dirt and grit spinning out of sight down the drain. Instead, the detritus of battle falls from your body, settling like the dust of memory upon the floor.
He steps out of the fresher, and feels no different.
The cockpit is abandoned when he returns, and the galley too, and he thinks perhaps, somehow, he is alone again in space.
He presses his hand against the door to the officer’s quarters, and it slides open with a gust of wind. Inside, curled atop the coarse coverlet of an unforgiving bunk, Korkie Kryze lies asleep. His hands are tucked beneath his arms, and his knees drawn up as if he’s cold, but he does not shiver. He barely breathes. In his stillness, Obi-Wan studies him.
There is familiarity in his expression, his brow furrowed, plagued by worry even in dreams, his hair swept across his forehead. The slope of his nose. The bow of his lips, though the bottom one is red and raw as though he habitually frets at it. There is a deep, purple bloom around the orbit of his left eye, and the cracked seal of broken skin like the stain of a fist upon his cheek. Obi-Wan touches his own cheek, as though the blow might be reflected there as well, but it is smooth. His own injuries lie elsewhere.
For a moment, he debates waking the boy, debates ordering him to wash and dress, but he can’t think of seeing her again, or himself, or whichever ghost might be looking back at him from behind those eyes. So instead, he unfolds the spare blanket at the end of the bed, provided to compensate for the chill of deep space, and lays it gently atop the sleeping form.
He spends the rest of the trip in the cockpit staring out at the stars, and thinking of absolutely nothing at all.
They land on Coruscant in the middle of a beautiful day, and Anakin is there to meet him. 
“Another Council sanctioned secret?” he spits, as Obi-Wan stumbles down the ramp. “Another noble cause? What have you done with my ship?”
“I’m sorry,” says Obi-Wan, as Ahsoka shoulders her master aside to wrap Obi-Wan in a fierce embrace.
“We were worried,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
She pulls away, or he does, and her eyes catch on movement behind him.
“Korkie?” Her voice rises with surprise.
The boy still wears the grey uniform of his insurgency, though it is bloodied and torn, and he hangs over himself with his arms clasped around his middle as though to keep from spilling across the docks. He looks up at Ahsoka’s call, and blinks in the light of the day.
She leaves Obi-Wan, and he falters as she goes, moving to catch Korkie as he falls apart in her arms.
“You went to Mandalore?” Anakin asks, his voice threaded with outrage at this hypocrisy.
“I had to,” Obi-Wan says. “I had to.”
“Where’s Satine?” demands Ahsoka, from a distance. “Where’s his aunt?”
“Dead.”
Ahsoka is the first to recover.
“We should take him to the Halls, master,” she says, appealing to an Anakin still frozen in scrutinizing his own master. “I think his arm is broken, and his eye -” 
“Yeah,” he agrees, and Obi-Wan feels the focus levelled upon him strain and snap like an elastroband. “Let’s do that.”
They move slowly, up the steps, through the hangar, and past the minor customs and hazard authorities, and through the grand hallways of the Temple. Ahoska keeps her arm around Korkie’s waist, and lets him lean upon her, limping with exhaustion. Beside him, Obi-Wan can feel Anakin hovering close, but not touching, as though one or both of them might shatter with contact. He doesn’t reach out, and he is unaware of anything else until they come to the Halls of Healing and are ushered inside.
Then it is all confusion.
Korkie is pulled away from Ahsoka with a small cry as his arm is jostled, and probing fingers are pressed to his cheek. He grips Ahsoka’s hand in his own, and holds on as she tells the healers the little bit she has managed to glean since their arrival. The healers, unsatisfied, ask question after question about Mandalore, about his injuries, about the time since their occurence. They ask what hurts, and where, and how they happened. They ask if this was a fist, or a stick, or the back of a blade. They ask if he fell, or was pushed. They ask if there’s anything else, anything more, anything he’s hiding from them.
And Bant is there, too.
He can tell by the faint scent of deep sea salt, and the coolness of her hands upon his skin as she turns his face from the chaos of Korkie’s arrival to focus on her, and her alone.
“What about you?” she asks. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt,” he mutters, the words habitual though no sound comes to fill them with weight.
She shines a light in his eyes, and he winces, turning away.
“A concussion,” she says. “At least. And what else?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine. What about -?”
“He’s being taken care of,” she replies. “Now, let us do the same for you.”
The little light goes back in her pocket, and she takes him by the hand like a child. He goes with her, willingly, casting only one look back to find Anakin, watching him as always, as he is led away.
__
The room she takes him to is small, and white, and the door shuts behind her keeping back the world with it. She guides him to sit upon a little bed that reminds him of the one he once had in Qui-Gon’s quarters, but when she puts her hands on his shoulders to lay him flat, he gasps, and resists.
“No,” he says. “No, I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice calm. “That’s okay, you don’t have to lie down. Just look at me, okay? And we’re going to figure this out. Yes?”
He nods. He trusts Bant. “Yes.”
“Now, we know about the concussion. Can you tell me if you were hit, or struck by anything?”
“I fell out of a ship,” he says, and to her credit, Bant doesn’t even pause between this question and the next.
“Were you alone?”
“No. I was with Satine. We were shot down. The ship fell, and we had to evacuate.”
The way he says it, the way he looks in this moment...Bant remembers how it was when he first came home from Mandalore, and she pulls a stool close to sit as near him as possible.
“Where is Satine now?”
He inhales sharply, the breath catching on his teeth, and tears still trapped deep in his chest.
“Do you know, I think I’m rather tired? I’d like to return to my quarters, now.”
“Obi-Wan -”
“I’d like to return to my room.”
“I know,” says Bant, taking his hand in hers. “I’m just going to give you a quick check over to make sure you’re not bleeding out anywhere, right? We know that’s very much a possibility with you, don’t we?” She smiles, trying to nudge him into something safe and familiar.
Very briefly, he smiles back, and relents. “Alright.”
“So,” she continues, pulling a holochart from a nearby drawer. “When you fell out of the ship, how did you land?”
“Badly.”
“Like how?”
“I hit my shoulder. I rolled. I tried to protect -”
But Bant cuts him off before he is strangled by memory.
“Okay, your shoulder, your ribs. How do your hips feel?”
“Fine,” he says. “I could walk after. I could run.”
“Your arms?”
“I don’t know.”
She sets her chart and stylus aside. “Can I see?” she asks.
He shrugs, but makes no objection when she reaches for the thick layer of a Mandalorian flight shirt that shrouds his torso. She lifts from the hem, and pulls the fabric upwards. His arms ache as they are drawn above his shoulders, and the high neck of the collar squeezes some colour back into his cheeks. He flinches in the chill of the room, and Bant apologises, pulling a pale green blanket across his back.
She frowns as she examines the markings upon his skin.
“Obi-Wan, that must’ve been some fall.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She doesn’t acknowledge this as she prods at him with impossibly soft, webbed fingers, frowning and tutting at each wince and grimace she elicits from him. 
“You’ve got some broken ribs,” she announces. “Some deep bruising. Let me see your hands.”
He gives her his left, and then his right when the first passes inspection. The second is not so lucky.
“This your saber hand?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve two broken fingers here,” she says. “Do you remember that happening?”
“No.”
“And bruising. Like a boot. Did someone step on your hand?”
“I don’t know.”
She taps the end of each, and he tries not to cry out, suddenly aware of the pain flaring there.
“The good news is, you’ve not lost any feeling,” she says. “The bad news is, you’re going to need a dip. I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan.”
“I don’t want bacta.”
“I know, but that concussion alone needs more sustained treatment if you don’t want to end up with some significant issues. And your hand…”
“I’m fine,” he says, pulling his hand away to hide it in the folds of the blanket. “You said I could go back to my rooms.”
“You know I didn’t,” she says. She knows him. She knows this dance, even if the steps are heavier and more fatigued than normal. She does not rise to his bait. She waits him out.
At last, his shoulders heave and droop, and he gives in. 
“Where’s Anakin?” he asks.
“Probably outside, half hysterical with worry by now,” she says.
“He hates me.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Where’s Korkie?”
“Who’s that?”
“The boy who came with me. He’s Satine’s - he’s Satine’s…”
She hesitates, not wanting to guess, but by his struggle she thinks the answer can only be one thing.
“Her son?”
He nods, a wordless gasp of distress breaking free of him. She wants to lean forward, to embrace him, but he’s still so distant that she knows he would not let her. So instead, Bant puts her hand upon his head, and strokes his hair over and over again from his crown to the nape of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t know she’d found someone else.”
But that’s not it. He shakes his head vehemently, as he clutches the blanket closer, and grits out a reply which Bant could not have anticipated no matter how many years of friendship lay between them.
“She didn’t,” he says. “He’s mine.”
And with that confession tumbling free, so too, comes grief, like huge rolling waves pulling him under, and spinning him upwards until he is disoriented and gasping for air. She doesn’t wait, now, instead reaching out to gather him in her arms, giving him something to hold onto, as the tides of anguish rise and rise, and eventually fall, and him with them, into a deep, exhausted sleep.
She eases him back onto the pallet, pulling the cover high, and dims the lights. 
In Admittance, she inputs her data into the medcomp, and makes a recommendation for immediate bacta immersion. Her face is somber, and stoic, showing nothing of what she feels or thinks of this turn of events. She doesn’t quite know, herself, in any case.
Anakin is waiting, his elbows braced upon his knees, one leg bouncing, standing out like a bruise against the ceramplast white of the hall.
“Where’s Obi-Wan?” he demands, rising to meet her as soon as she steps away from the monitor.
“Asleep,” she says. “We’re waiting on a dip. Where’s Korkie?”
“Ahsoka’s with him,” he says. “Did he tell you about the Duchess?”
“He did.”
Anakin nods. She watches as his jaw clenches, and the muscles there leap as he chews up the marrow of his thoughts.
“Kriffing idiot,” he spits. “I would have gone with him, if he’d asked.”
“Does he know that?”
“He should,” Anakin insists. “But he doesn’t trust me.”
“He doesn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, great job,” Anakin says, a bark of laughter punctuating his words. It rings through the vaulted ceilings of the hall, a clarion of upset. “Now he’s hurt, and his girlfriend is dead.”
“Anakin!”
But Anakin’s outrage is mounting, and gathering like an Alderaanian storm falling off the mountains.
“Oh, don’t defend him,” he says. “Don’t pretend this isn’t on him, because it is. Just like the Hardeen thing. It was his choice to go alone. It was his choice to turn his back on us. It was his choice to leave me behind. I don’t feel sorry for him, Master Eerin. I don’t. He’s done this himself.”
Bant stares at him. She says nothing. She only waits until the impact of his words rebound from the blank slate of her response and fall back on him. She waits for him to hear himself, and she knows he does when his mechanical hand forms a fist, and his shoulders turn him acutely away from her gaze. Anakin sighs, his voice turning soft, his words clipped short.
“Just comm me when he’s out of bacta,” he says. He stalks out of the Halls without a backward glance.
Bant sighs, her guard dropping just in time for her to hear the soft click of another door closing from behind her. She turns with an admonition on her lips. If Obi-Wan has roused himself to chase after his padawan, he’ll have no help from her.
But instead, it is Anakin’s padawan she meets.
“Master Eerin?” she calls, slipping out of the room behind her. “Did Anakin talk to you about Obi-Wan?”
Bant frowns, then turns a rueful eye on Ahsoka, a smile twisting at her lips.
“In a manner of speaking,” she says.
“Oh,” says Ahsoka. “He’s still mad about the Rako Hardeen incident.”
“So I gathered,” says Bant. She flicks through pages of data on her holochart, idly reminding herself of the litany of abuse Obi-Wan had come to her with following that particular debacle so recently ago. 
Ahsoka watches her intently, her head cocked. She runs her hands nervously over a lekku before she speaks again. “Aren’t you still mad?” she asks.
“No,” says Bant, looking at her again, and seeing only youth where the Republic sees a Commander. 
“Why not?”
“A healer learns only to be grateful when someone comes back from death,” she says. “It doesn’t happen often enough to grow bitter for it.”
Ahsoka nods, and frowns again. It is clear that there is more she’d say, and more she’s considered in the weeks following Obi-Wan’s undercover mission. Things that she cannot say to her master, who is still angry, or to Obi-Wan who is still too lost to guide anyone with authority. So Bant sets her chart aside, and sits against the wall, gesturing for Ahsoka to join her.
“I wish they’d talk,” she says, as she drops into the seat next to Bant. “I mean, they do talk. We had that whole mission to Onderon, and everything was fine. I mean, mostly. But then...why wouldn’t Master Obi-Wan have come to us?”
“I don’t know, Ahsoka,” says Bant. “But I do know it was never meant as a slight against you. Whatever is between Obi-Wan and your master has nothing to do with how Obi-Wan feels about you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve known Obi-Wan since the creche, and I can tell you: he’s always been like this.”
Ahsoka is silent for a moment, considering this, but before her contemplation can slide into brooding, Bant intervenes, tapping her forearm with the stylus to draw her back to the present.
“What about that young man you carried in here? Korkie, was it?”
“Yeah,” she says. “He’s the Duchess’ nephew. We worked together the last time I was on Mandalore. The Prime Minister was establishing a black market, and he helped catch him.”
“By yourselves?” she asks, caught somewhere between surprise and a familiar chagrin.
“Well, with friends,” she says. “And his Aunt.”
“Sounds like a good kid,” says Bant, then laughs at Ahsoka’s grimace of distaste. “Tell me about him.”
“Oh, I don’t know him that well,” she replies. “He was really interested in the Jedi when we met, though. Kept asking about the Temple, and lightsabers, and Jedi philosophy. He’d mentioned something about Master Seva once, but I don’t remember enough about the Old Age philosophers to know what he meant.”
“I suppose philosophy and literature classes have somewhat fallen by the wayside in the past couple years,” Bant says. 
“I guess,” says Ahsoka. “But I don’t think I’d have time to write essays while in the middle of a dogfight, you know?”
“Tell me,” she says, pushing just a little further than is probably wise. “Did Korkie ever mention anything about his father?”
“No,” says Ahsoka. “Just that the Duchess was like a mother to him. That she raised him, and he grew up mostly in the palace. I assume he’s an orphan. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Or maybe it’s too painful to talk about. I didn’t ask.”
“No, no,” Bant assures her, patting her hand fondly. “Of course not. Do you think he’d mind if I went in to visit him?”
“Korkie? He was asleep when I left.”
“That’s for the best. I just want to give him a quick check up. Make sure nothing was missed. You’d better go after your master - make sure he doesn’t blow up something we can’t replace.”
Ahsoka smiles at that, and springs to her feet eager to be directed towards some useful task.
“You mean himself,” she says. “Anything else he could probably fix.”
“Or improve.”
“Or that!” Ahsoka agrees, laughing now. She gives Bant a quick bow, then exits the hall with a quick, and sturdy step while Bant slips silently into the room at her back.
It’s quiet inside, the air is warm, and it may as well be the same room she’d vacated earlier for all the similarity of the figure on the bed. He looks like Obi-Wan - the way she remembers him. He looks like he did in those in-between years of childhood and adolescence. His hair follows the same line, his brow furrows the same way, and in the soft light she takes a small sample of his blood and confirms that which she already knew for sure.
__
Anakin is waiting for him when he wakes. He sits at his bedside, and watches as he rises up through the fathoms of sleep, buoyed to the surface by piercing shafts of light, like a diver on Mon Cala. Anakin can feel his muscles twitch as consciousness returns in the dry warmth of the palm pressed flush against his own.
“What time is it?” Obi-Wan asks, blinking him into focus.
“It’s late,” he replies.
Obi-Wan relaxes, his head rolling back to settle against his pillow. “You should go to bed,” he says, and Anakin huffs with laughter.
“We’re way beyond that, old man.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, and that’s just so typical that Anakin smirks.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Good.”
“Are you?”
The pleasant warmth of drowsiness is stripped away in his next breath, and Anakin can feel the  air turn so cold that it raises gooseflesh across his arms, and freezes against Obi-Wan’s lips. His fingers flex against the sheets, and Anakin’s hand tightens in response, keeping him there when he’d rather turn away.
“Don’t -” he warns, but Anakin doesn’t listen. He never does.
“You were in bacta for three days,” he says. “You could have died. All because you couldn’t bear to come to me first. To ask me. To trust me.”
“I do trust you, Anakin.”
“Don’t lie to me, too,” he says. 
“It’s the truth,” he swears. “I couldn’t - The Council -”
“I don’t care what the Council said,” Anakin protests. “I would have come for you, master.”
Obi-Wan blinks rapidly up at the lights overhead. Anakin can feel as he grasps clumsily at the insubstantial wisps of the Force, cloudy and distant with sedation, and grips his hand more firmly still. He, at least, is solid.
“What of Korkie?” Obi-Wan asks, at last.
Anakin slides his hand free.
“The kid? He’s fine. A little beat up, but nothing a couple of bacta patches and some bone knitters couldn’t fix. Ahsoka’s with him now.”
“Good,” says Obi-Wan, his breaths coming more and more easily. “That’s good.”
Anakin licks his lips, and sits forward, accepting of but not resigned to the fact that he will never get an admission from Obi-Wan that isn’t first willingly proposed. He knows this. It’s fine. They can talk about the kid.
“Why’d you bring him?” he asks. “What happened on Mandalore?”
“There was a coup,” says Obi-Wan in a tone like the salt flats of the Jundland Wastes. “Satine fell, and her government was usurped.”
“By who?”
“Maul.”
Anakin spits a curse like acid, but Obi-Wan scarcely seems to note it. Instead, he keeps talking as though Maul is the least of his story.
“But he wasn’t alone,” he says. “He had his brother. And Death Watch turned the people. The city was lost. I only meant to get her out.”
“And Korkie.”
“I took him because his aunt told me to.”
“Satine did?”
“She’s not his aunt,” his master says, the admission coming like a weary sigh. “She’s his mother, and I...he’s my son.”
There are many things that Anakin feels in this moment. There is a nasty, vindictive kind of ache that licks at his throat like flames when he hears that Maul had brought his own brother, when Obi-Wan had not. There is sorrow for the Duchess, and righteous indignation on her behalf at the perfidy of her people. There is a whipping cyclone of confusion and disbelief as Obi-Wan refers to a second woman whom Anakin doesn’t know, and then a son he’s already met, but who should be impossible. And an anger as this settles in, and he realises the depth of his master’s betrayal.
“Your son,” he repeats, and Obi-Wan only nods. He rises, having nothing more and far too much to say, and palms open the door. He spares Obi-Wan only a single moment from the threshold. “You should have told me,” he says.
And Obi-Wan, still gazing at the ceiling, still gripping the pleats of bedsheets in his hand, just shakes his head. “I didn’t know.”
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Text
July 1845: Aurora Borealis
After some twenty years in the Navy, Henry has not been surprised by anything he's seen at sea for about a decade, until a fateful Middle Watch, early on the expedition.
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After some twenty years in the Navy, Henry had stopped being surprised by what he saw about a decade ago. Not that he didn’t enjoy new sights, far from it; he was always delighted to discover parts of the world, but after three crossings of the Atlantic and then some, he was able to keep his breath and remain grounded upon seeing something that had other sailors frozen in wonder.
A decade, until now. They had just passed the tip of Greenland and Henry, while on a very unfortunate Middle Watch on the main deck, witnessed something that did steal his breath.
The ink of the sky suddenly came alive with what looked like clouds, though much longer, less opaque, and almost like they were dragged up, leaving a trail of light—and the colour! They were mostly green, but Henry could see some purple and blue mixed in as well, shifting and changing with their slow movements in the dark. He could not take his eyes away.
The name of this phenomenon was on the tip of his tongue. He had read about it, he was sure. Some Arctic explorer’s memoir, read in preparation for this trip, but he could not recall. Oh, how easy it would have been to simply turn to John and ask him. It was strange, to be so far apart yet so close, just a mile or so of water between them—impossible to cross without a good reason for it, for non-commissioned officers like himself, at least.
Maybe that was his ticket across. Sir John Franklin invited Captain Crozier to dinner on Erebus so often that they had to come up with a flag signal instead of constantly sending some boys, who always ended up completely drenched, to and from each ship to carry invitations and replies. But they still needed rowers for the Captain and Lieutenants. If he could volunteer to take Captain Crozier across, he’d get to spend the evening on Erebus. Maybe he’d be able to catch John between two courses. He didn’t need to talk to him for very long—they couldn’t, of course, but just enough to ask him about what he had seen in the sky. Yes. That was his plan. Henry tilted his head back and kept staring at the swirls of colour, a small smile on his lips, until they disappeared in the rising light of the early morning—the end of his watch.
What are the lights called? What are they called? John would know.
~~~
Much like the Erebus bearers of invitations, Henry ended up drenched and burning-armed. Though neither of these things was able to put a damper on his enthusiasm at the possibility of talking to John—no matter how busy he could be during dinner. Henry found a seat in the mess hall which allowed him to keep an eye on the great cabin. When he saw John emerge from it, empty-handed, meaning the officers had been served and would be eating for some time, Henry excused himself from his table.
Henry was surprised again to experience something that hadn’t occurred in a long time, not unlike his wonder at his sighting of the green dancing lights—he felt a kind of worry, a nervousness, while approaching John. It would be the first time they saw each other since their departure from Greenhithe last May—not the longest time they’d been apart, but Henry put his nervousness on account of having to make sure to keep their interactions inconspicuous while they served together on the expedition. The last time that happened was some nine years ago, on Beagle, and even then, that was before becoming more than simply friends. But Henry took a breath, and kept going forward.
“John!” he called.
John, who currently had his eyes closed and his back against the wall next to the great cabin door, immediately perked up at the sound of Henry’s voice. The smile he gave him was enough to melt all nerves away. John took the few remaining steps between them, though kept a reasonable distance.
“Henry, what a wonderful surprise to see you aboard,” John greeted. “I must ask, how did you manage such a feat?”
Henry shrugged, but his smile quickly turned to a grin. “Captain Crozier and his officers have dinner with Sir John often enough, I figured one of the usual rowers wouldn’t mind getting a break. I just had to volunteer.”
“Rowing! How are your arms?” John gently set a gloved hand on Henry’s bicep.
“Not too bad.” Henry rolled his shoulders a few times. “Better than when I started working up in the rigging. D’you remember that?”
John let out a low laugh. “Quite. Had I known you less at the time, I would have thought you were trying to get out of your writing lessons the way you complained about sore arms and not being able to hold a pen.”
Henry almost reached forward to sink his head on John’s shoulder and join in with his laughter, but held back. He let his smile widen instead, relishing in the simple contact of John’s hand on his arm. John scanned the area around him to make sure he was not needed right this moment.
“Though I doubt you came all this way to reminisce about the past,” John said, tilting his head to the side inquisitively.
“Other than for the pleasure of your company?” Henry noticed the blush spreading on John’s cheeks, and felt the way the hand on his arm tightened just a bit. “There was something I wanted to ask you, in fact.”
“Oh?”
“I was on Middle Watch—”
“Middle Watch? Christ, that’s dreadful.”
Henry snorted. “Yes, it tends to be quite awful, but I saw something in the sky—I was very much transfixed, but couldn’t remember how what I witnessed was called. I figured I’d come and ask you.”
In the low light of the deck, John’s eyes sparkled as he widened them. Henry knew that as a steward, John did not have much opportunity to go on the main deck, especially not between midnight and four in the morning. “What did you see?”
Henry pressed his left hand over his heart, and fiddled with the buttons of his sleeve with his right.
“Lights! Trails of lights all over the sky—green, blue, and purple. They didn’t look like clouds, they were translucent, almost. And they moved in such a fascinating manner! Does it sound like anything you know?”
“I believe it was an aurora borealis,” John replied, his smile warm. “It seems we’re up north enough for us to be able to see them.”
Aurora borealis. Henry sounded out the two words in his head, then visualized printing each letter down on paper. He’d have to make sure to take note of it in his diary. The hand he had placed on his chest moved to the side just a bit—to briefly touch the fabric of the glove John was wearing.
“You really know everything.” Henry looped his fingers around John’s index. “Th—”
“Bridgens!” Hoar exited the great cabin, having stayed behind while John was out to keep the officers’ glasses full. John and Henry instinctively broke apart at the sound of his voice. “We’re about to start on the next course, better get in here.”
“Of course, Mr. Hoar.”
John gave Henry an apologetic smile before turning away from him and following Hoar down the mess hall to the kitchen. Henry watched him, before returning to his previous seat, where John Hartnell, his brother Tom, and William Orren were discussing with passion whether or not their tinned food was any good. Henry joined in—At least we have tins; when I was on the Marquis Camden in ’28, we were lucky to have anything other than ship’s biscuits!
~~~
Just as they were set to depart, dinner wrapping up in the great cabin, John passed by Henry’s table and set a book down next to him. Henry looked at it, at John’s hand, still gloved, then up to John’s face.
“Oh—I wouldn’t want to risk damaging it, John.”
“Hush, you,” John reassured. “Books are meant to be read and worn down. And they’re mine; I do with them as I please. Will you take it?”
With a great smile—which John returned—, Henry nodded enthusiastically. John patted his shoulder and walked down the mess hall, leaving the first volume of Herodotus’ Histories on the table. Already, Henry could tell John had left him a note in-between the pages.
When he was dressing to get back on the small ship, he tucked the book in his breeches, under his guernsey, waistcoat, coat and slops to give it the best protection he could. Rowing back to Terror, the sun having set some hours ago, the sky was alight with auroras. A book pressed against his stomach, a breathtaking sight above him, and the memory of John’s hand on his arm, of having seen John at all—Henry could hardly complain.
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