swtor shenanigans

Mornings are something that Zanya is still adjusting to, especially when he has to share them with someone else.

He's never really bothered to in the past. Primarily because he prefers to keep his own schedule and not have to bend to the whims of another. Understandably selfish, for someone that had such a rigid set of habits that were part of his routine. He didn't want anyone else to be disturbing it, as one of the few things he felt he was allowed to decide for himself between everything else he was already dealing with.

But also, he had never been able to be that vulnerable with another person before save for a select few times that had never lasted beyond a single tryst that he would barely remember the fleeting feeling of. To shed all of his armor, everything that clothed and protected him, to be that close to another and accept whatever may have come of that was almost too hefty an ask. It was an impossible thought to even put into practice for most of his years.

Truthfully he may have just been too scared of the consequences of such a decision. It makes him feel uncharacteristically weak to even think to admit it, because if someone got that close, it meant feeling as if he'd bared his soul completely and utterly. Everything about him would be on full display, and it would no longer be his choice on whether or not the person before him preferred what they saw compared to the intricately crafted persona that he wore. Every single scar, bruise, misaligned joint and the secrets that only a bare body could show, he would not be able to decide what the other person would see and take away from that.

That certainly couldn't stand, he refused to be known on such a level because the power that person would have over him felt insurmountable. It demanded a level of tenderness that he felt he just didn't possess. Would never be able to possess.

He supposes that was then, and this was now.

So, perhaps he feels a little bit gummy in the middle when he's still blinking awake to lidded hazel eyes that pin him down on the mattress beneath him. Still full of sleep with the early morning light spilling into the small commander's quarters tucked away on the far side of the base, but full of affection too when they crinkle at the corners as their owner smiles. They roam over his form, trailing from where a stray hand rests on his hip, up the dips and valleys of his chest, before landing square on his face with a softness he doesn't deserve. It makes him feel seen in a way that should make him nauseous, and yet all it does is have him mirror the expression of fondness clumsily.

On the contrary to many of the concerns he harbored when he was much younger, he relishes in being the center of Theron's attention this morning. He wants to be seen by him, fully and completely. The fear he once had of such a thing recedes away along with gentleness that he he experiences at his hands and his heart. The man was threatening to make an honest woman out of him if he let his mind wander away into the clouds. If he let himself be taken away by fantasy, this newfound reality would be one he wouldn't want to leave.

His eyes flutter back shut a moment later when Theron dips his head to kiss Zanya again, and against his refined control, a soft groan escapes him in contentment. His third this morning, each one lasting longer than the last somehow.

Not that he's exactly complaining.

Starting with one to tell him a wordless good morning, having still been wrapped up in each other. A sweet gesture, even if Zanya had been attempting to escape unseen to pursue his usual opening to the day. At that, he hadn't been able to leave, as Theron had just threaded his arms around him with an affectionate, tired look in his eyes and forced him into another fifteen minutes of dozing back off because Zanya was incapable of saying no to such a request.

He'd gotten another kiss when Zanya had indulged his own want for just one more before he got up for the day. An already unusual occurrence, considering he would've just lulled him back off to sleep before leaving so he wouldn't disturb him, but the light chuckle that had sounded from deep in his chest made an impossible warmth spread through his very being. Laughter wasn't exactly something in short supply between the two of them, but the kind they shared, when they were able to hide away from the galaxy for a little while, it was special. Special enough to make him weak in the knees and actually consider not moving one more time. To stay, and pull Theron into him to rest his eyes for a few minutes more.

So he hadn't left. Against all of his better judgement, he had stayed. And if his internal clock was correct, it was a full twenty minutes later and five before he usually began his typical trail route. Zanya should have been halfway out of the base by now in his training wear, stretching all the while. He is still in his — their bed though, tangled underneath sheets and the body weight of Theron Shan.

Though he should certainly playfully push him away and actually start his morning, considering he's late by quite a while, he sighs into this kiss all the same, like he's a parched man drowning. Lets himself tangle his fingers in his partner's unstyled, messy auburn hair to tug him impossibly closer as they sink into each other. It's sweet, slow, with no expectations behind it except a want to bask in the moment. Zanya absolutely relishes in it, feeling as if he's finally allowed to have this. This, being the peace afforded to him that allows him to trust. Allows him to trust that Theron isn't going anywhere, allows him to trust that he can take from him and be supported regardless, and allows him to trust that he will be there, no matter what.

It's terrible. He's compromising him, and Zanya just allows it.

Though he supposes, after everything's been through, he's allowed one weakness in the galaxy. And if that is the the messy haired man who seems far too devoted to him, then so be it.

This yearning is ill-fitting for him, a sort of passion he's never fully experienced before, but it is invigorating. Confusingly, he aches, but it feels like a good ache that only his presence completely settles. It's the only other way he manages to convince himself it isn't a terrible idea.

They break apart for a brief moment, just for air, until connecting again with shared smiles gracing their expressions. The fourth time, and he's no longer counting the minutes. Perhaps his usual morning run can wait for a little while longer, and the council would understand moving the brief further into the afternoon.

A terrible thought, but one that he can't quite shake. He doesn't want to leave right now. An utterly selfish addendum that he is uncaring to rectify. The world outside his quarters demands his attention all of time — it wouldn't hurt to claw back some of it for a relaxing start to the day.

Zanya is, officially, completely and utterly vulnerable to this habit of Theron's. Waking with him, that is. The way that he's taken to his quarters in the weeks after his discharge from the medbay has been nothing if not comforting and all-encompassing in a way he didn't expect when he transferred the access codes to him. An invitation to stay with him and the consequences of that decision were ones that he was still adapting to.

His things litter his place in ways that would drive a younger version of himself up a wall. The admittedly minimal and curious amount of products that have been added to the fresher room's counterspace, the slicing tools next to the holoterminal, the jacket slung over the back of the small couch in the corner — they're all so visibly Theron melding with his own things until he can't begin to complain. He's surprised that he wanted this.

Not disappointed by the results though.

His space feels lived in.

How odd.

Nor, is he disappointed by the fact he now gets to fall asleep with him and start the day with him. He would have thought he'd be more annoyed by it, having to deal with all of his tiny quirks and habits that were incongruent with his own. Would've thought that frustration would've boiled over by now with his in-the-moment decision that he hadn't given too much thought to before offering. Some still did make his eyebrow twitch, admittedly his sleep schedule was the worst of it, but there were other things he was learning to overlook, at least.

"Theron—"

He's momentarily snapped out of his thoughts when his fifth kiss turns into multiple, trailing down his neck to land in a particularly sensitive spot, right at the crook of his neck. It makes all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, goosebumps running up along his arms.

Theron raises an eyebrow, all too innocent for what Zanya knows is a cover for a very intentional distraction, "Yes?"

"You have already used your allotted extra fifteen … no, thirty now, minutes this morning," Zanya lets his nails drag along Theron's scalp, a content sigh on his lips when he does. With all the conviction of someone who absolutely knows what his partner is doing, he smirks, "What are you doing?"

His gaze flickers from Zanya to some unseen point beyond him, then back again with a mischeveous smile on his expression, "Five more minutes?"

"It is already late. Both of us have errands to run this morning."

"I know, I know. But we're always going to have errands and missions and all sorts of other tasks to finish," Punctuated with yet another kiss, the sixth, this time to his collarbones. Through his lashes, something conspiratorally flashes through his eyes, "Think we can afford one day where we let a few fall to the others."

Zanya carefully trails his hand down from his head to his chin, tipping it upwards to look at him. He fears he may be unable to turn away from the tender look he wears, as if he's putting a particular effort into convincing him otherwise. He can't say it's very ineffective. He's torn between hating the fact that means that Theron has managed to breach all of his defenses, and also being quite touched that he now has a tell related to him.

"You speak of luxuries that we cannot begin to afford right now," He reminds him, "There is someone in our midst looking to undermine us. If any time is meant for us to stay vigilant, it is now."

Theron grimaces at that, and for a moment Zanya does feel bad for bringing the matter at hand up. He'd been doing it to a lesser degree than Lana, but Theron had been running himself ragged the past few days on surveillance. Unfortunately it'd put them both on edge, more than usual, and eaten into the precious time that they had with each other. A necessary evil to insuring the security of the Alliance, but one neither of them had exactly been happy to take on. To slump in to bed together was a small mercy during such a dire time.

Something else lurks behind that forlorn expression that causes him to frown, something that Zanya can't exactly read. It draws his brows together momentarily, as if he wants to say something, but thinks against it when he clamps his mouth shut. Part of him wants to read into his signature further, almost a habit that he would use on others, but he refrains. He would not pry where he wasn't wanted, and wouldn't breach that boundary without permission.

Instead, he slowly drops further down his body, pressing a seventh kiss directly to where the dark, spiralling force scar spills out between his breasts. Without fail it always makes Zanya tense whenever anyone touched it, much less Theron, but he does wait until he's collected his thoughts enough to respond.

"We've both been under enough stress lately with all this traitor business and we've done all we can for right now. No reason to make it worse with not taking a break here and there," His voice quiets, a bit strained on the edges but clearly meant to comfort above all else. His tone shifts a moment later, a pointed look in his gaze, "Plus, you could use the rest. You're still technically under medwatch by Oggurobb's orders, you know."

"Watch, yes. I have followed most of his requirements to his specifications. I have yet to properly overexert myself," He catches himself, then remembering the fight with the half dozen droids that had taken him across Iokath. He awkwardly smiles at that thought, a necessary breach of protocol to keep the galaxy from collapsing in on itself, "Again, at least."

That seems to return some of the amusement to Theron's expression, though some of the stress lingers where he surely thinks Zanya can't see it. The disbelief in his voice distracts him more than anything, "Really?"

"Paced runs through my usual trails is not overexertion."

"Right, right, of course," He doesn't believe him, much to Zanya's annoyance, but its a battle he's learned he won't ever really win with Theron. For someone who got into as many scrapes as he did, he's discovering the man is an oddly protective person to him. Which included assuming quite a lot about his physical condition. Another, newer trait that he'd managed to tease out from him. Annoyance that he would even begin to try to determine what he needed without consulting him, but also feeling a bit known that he can semi-confidently guess where his limits are. It makes him feel cared for, which is still a confusing emotion that he doesn't quite know what to do with. The scoff Zanya lets out only makes Theron knowingly snort, "Still. I have some better ideas on how we could spend the morning."

"Oh?"

"Might still be some overexertion involved but," He returns back up to kiss him proper, this one the eighth time, and it's a bit more charged than the rest when he thumbs the scar on his breastbone, then trails his hand towards the inside of his thigh on the edges of his sleep shorts, making Zanya shudder beneath him, "I think we can keep this one between us."

Another one of his habits that he finds he isn't opposed to either.

"I think what you have in mind may violate some of those rules," His amusement gets the better of him, the earlier thoughts of concern disappearing as he lets his hands wander over his partner's form. If he's blatantly ogling him, well that's between the stars and him when he tracks a hand down his chest, entirely aware of what he's doing. Warmth pools just beneath his torso when Theron shivers, his breath catching for a moment the further he goes, landing directly on the edge of his hip bone, "I will take responsibility for it, should it get out of hand."

"Seems like we've got a deal then. You don't tell Oggurobb you glossed over a few of the rules in your treatment plan," Theron swallows thickly, then sits back enough to take both of Zanya's wrists and plant them above his head, securing them with one of his hands. He's halfway to protesting this turn of events, quite annoyed by being stopped in the act, until he hooks the thumb of his free hand into the waistband of his sleep shorts, tugging them down with a telling glance. So that was how his morning was going, "And you let me take care of you. Sound fair?"

He wants to say otherwise, that he would prefer to look after him. And tease him. And perhaps push him over the edge a few times, a fair reaction to having his morning completely upended. It also isn't often that Theron takes the lead away from him, which does admittedly unsettle him, but something in him won't let him say no immediately. Zanya would be remiss to say that it had nothing to do with the fact that he's already halfway to helping him shimmy off the only clothing he still has on, and that he is not fool enough to believe that Theron has anything fair in mind for him.

Really he feels more manipulated than anything. The entire morning being this slow and warm, he's realizing he's exactly where Theron wanted him. Not the first time he'd done this.

If it excites him a bit as he shakes off the last of the sleep still clinging to his form though, he didn't have to share that right away either.

He blinks, his voice far more syrupy than he intended, "And why is that? Why not let me look after you, if you are the one that demanded so much more time from me?"

There's that uncertain look again, the one that makes Zanya uneasy even considering the circumstances. The hold on his wrists shifts, but its gone as soon as it'd appeared. Still, the confidence wavering makes him worry even as his voice softens, "Maybe I just want to be able to appreciate the time I have with you, by ourselves, away from everyone else. That's all."

"You act as if it is in shorter supply than it is."

"Who knows when we'll have time like this again?"

Zanya shakes his head, as much as he can from where he lays, "Somehow, I have the feeling this will not be the last escapade you manage to convince me to take part in."

Theron's off by a beat, either caught off guard or lost in his own thoughts. Hazel eyes drink him in, with the echo of a soft sadness behind them, "I just — I think we'll be pretty busy the next few weeks. Should take advantage of the chances that we have."

Zanya can only lightly smile at that, furrowing his brows, "That is quite ominous. What have you and the others put on my schedule when I have not been looking?"

"Nothing, nothing," He pauses, sounding far away all the while until he squeezes his eyes shut, then continues with a renewed, if not also sly, smile, "Do you want me to ask to pencil it in somewhere? A request from your spy boyfriend to let him love you for a little while before everything inevitably goes sideways?"

Anything else Zanya intended to say, whether to argue, respond to that word that always makes his heart skip over a beat or two, or to attempt to convince him otherwise, dries in his mouth when after a moment where he asks more questions with his eyes. A request to stay still, he tentatively releases his wrists to slip further down his body and press his ninth kiss of the morning square to just below his navel without another word. He watches him all the while, then presses the tenth to just above where his skewed waistband sits. The eleventh comes after Zanya's given up completely on any other outcome and helped Theron to pull off his shorts, and the twelfth has him thinking that, perhaps, he could clear his schedule for the rest of the morning because he doesn't think he's letting Theron go anywhere else.

The thirteenth convinces him completely, when it's open mouthed, needy and makes his back arch off the mattress — completely betraying his earlier agreement when his hands shoot down to fist into Theron's hair.

It’s a simply, four words. Five, if he wanted to be asinine about the contraction. But enough is said in a whisper to see the edges of his expression crack under the weight of the previous few weeks. The simmering gold of his irises shines slightly in the low light of the Fury’s overheads, a heavy contrast to the way his brows draw together in fury at the very notion.

“You. Do not know what I need.”

“Nor do you, I fear.”

His nails aren’t as sharp as they once were, he realizes when the grip on his jaw falters. They’re chipped in fact, he noticed when they first departed for the mission earlier today. Among the other oddities of his appearance, of course, its telling, metaphorically, to the way he’s shaved down his once-near-claws into something less predator-like. As if he wasn’t expecting to need them any time soon.

He’s softer around the edges. Or he had been, when he’d encountered him on Iokath. Malavai can still perceive these edges, except for where he’s intentionally put the plate armor back on. Where he’s hiding the most vulnerable parts of himself, notably over his chest and torso.

His nails still hurt, blunt or otherwise, when they dig into his skin, but the pain is dull in comparison to the anguish that roils under the facade he wears.

“I will not have the likes of you,” The forced emphasis makes him flinch, but his gaze does not waver. Unfortunately, it tells him everything. Tells him, that even with the conviction Zanya has right now, it isn’t fully honest. It isn’t what he really means, “Tell me what I want or what I should have. I am fine.”

This is usually where there would be an addendum. That he was Sith. That he was the Wrath. That he was the Empire personified. Or at least, that was how he remembered it. He can almost hear in the back of his mind how the cadence of his voice would flow like lava in righteous fury over a perceived slight at his person.

It doesn’t come.

He still feels slighted, clearly, but he doesn’t reach for his titles right away anymore. And Malavai is still off-balance in the new world order that revolves around a changed Zanya Ariidek. He moves to take his wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to move his hand and release his face. He struggles for a moment, but eventually Zanya tears his hand out of his grasp. Rough, uncoordinated, unsteady.

“You are hurt,” He continues, the way one would notice a gash torn across skin or a bruise under a chestplate. The words feel like sandpaper in his mouth — to be attempting to talk Zanya of all people down is near disturbing, he’s never been in a position where he’s needed to do so and feels so wildly unsure of himself when he’s this volatile already. Any wrong move and this goes south faster than he can rectify it, “And you are lashing out.”

“I am not lashing out. I am well within control of my mental faculties, Quinn,” There’s a tightness in his throat that he can hear, when it sounds like he’s choking out sentences rather than speaking them fully. It’s distressing, when he notices that Zanya’s hand is shaking at his side. He can’t take another step closer, and the taut line of his lips dares to twitch, “I do not have regrets. You know this.”

“I know as well as you do that you are not yourself, and that perhaps, you should allow yourself the space to grieve rather than working until dawn,” Malavai breathes for what feels like the first time in hours when Zanya steps away from him, watching as he tenses under his armor set. The words feel wrong, and though he isn’t sensitive to the force, he can only imagine the storm that lingers just beyond his perception, “I would believe that anyone in your place, in your shoes, would understand that.”

“I am not going to grieve a man who has dug his own grave. He has made his decision,” Zanya won’t turn to face him when he rests his hands on the nearby table, and he’s left to only assume from his tone that while he doesn’t like what Malavai has said, that he may be right. It’s not hard to see from the way his shoulders creep upwards that the stress is drawing a deep crack down his psyche that’s threatening to snap completely, “He has made his decision and I will live with that because I am not weak enough to allow it to upend my life. I cannot afford such a thing.”

“I would say that no one on your inner council would blame you if you were to take some time away. To process it all. A betrayal like this, it’s —“ He finds it ironic that he’s the one saying this, squeezing his eyes shut while he settles the thought in his mind. Was there someone who said the same thing to him all those years ago, when he had done the same to Zanya? It curls like a barbed briar branch around his throat, “It isn’t your fault.”

“It is and I am tired of the half dozen people on base telling me it is not!” The common room furniture shudders under the weight of the outburst, not enough to break but enough to rattle just about everything nearby. A breath caught in his throat that sounds more like an uncharacteristic sob, “I failed. As the commander, I had a responsibility to the galaxy to bring peace. Stability. A future better than the one I had almost lead to ruin. That was my responsibility and through a thousand tiny cuts, my own blind spots and the fact I was unaware of such disapproval brewing beneath my own nose, I failed the galaxy. I failed the people closest to me and now the Alliance is paying for it.”

Another breath, “I may lose everything I built because of my own self-assurity. I will not be told there is nothing I could do when I should have done so much differently.”

It’s not his place. Really this is a conversation that Zanya should be having with Vette. Or Lana. Or perhaps even his siblings. Someone else who would understand that perspective. Someone closer to him that would be able to offer a perspective that would absolve him of the undue stress that he didn’t seem to deserve. Anyone else other than Malavai, who was part of the reason they were even here. What good his perspective would do would fall on deaf ears surely.

He stills his hand. Stays where he is, a few paces behind him. He could absolutely leave, as the others already have. Really, he should. But in some deep part of him that’s slowly been unearthed in past few weeks, he remembers that he hates to see Zanya crumple. As if the entire weight of the galaxy sat heavy on his shoulders, and he refused to let anyone else take it on. Of course he was still the same man he met on Balmorra and supported his campaign through to the end as the Wrath. The world had just changed, and Zanya had been forced to adapt.

Forced in a way that doesn’t truly feel fair to him.

“That isn’t fair.”

“It is. When I took the throne, I made a promise. That I would be better and rectify my mistakes where I made them. And I am unable to even do that, in the here and the now.”

The idea irks him, even if he doesn’t know where the annoyance comes from, “Self-flagellation rarely fits on anyone, much less you. The Alliance is what you created, not the Empire or the Republic. You cannot control what they do, nor what they don’t do.”

“Yet I—“

“You cannot blame yourself for the actions of an idealistic man unfairly scorned, regardless of whether you cared for him personally or not,” Malavai can only grit his teeth at that. Why does he feel a level of offended that is entirely undeserving for his station? He barely knew their traitor beyond a few weeks of interactions, “Agent Shan’s choices were his. You can only make your own, and deal with the consequences in the interim.”

Zanya’s grip on the table warps the edge of it when he says that, making Malavai flinch and think that he’s perhaps going to be shouted at for insubordination, maybe flung against a wall if he’d really done it this time, but all he can hear is the quiet sound of air cycling about the ship. The murmur of sentences he doesn’t catch on Zanya’s lips and the way that he sounds like he needs his respirator again. He’d used to carry an inhaler for him, but years spent apart had removed the habit from his routine.

He steps closer, to tell him as much, until he realizes he’s shaking, using the table for support with the way his weight is bowed forward. And there’s the quiet sound of water plinking onto the durasteel.

Tears.

The discomfort immediately crawls up his throat.

Malavai has never seen Zanya cry. The very thought is entirely incongruent with the person that he is. Not that he ever saw many emotions from him to begin with, but this was one that had never been on his expression when he served him before. He never would’ve allowed such a thing in his presence, the perceived weakness of the action would drive him directly up a wall. Zanya refused to be seen broken then, and considering just how tightly he’d clung to the routine of completing missions with ruthless efficiency as of lately, this was the result of desiring to still hold all those pieces to his chest.

So much had changed. And yet so much had stayed the same as well. He’s so far out of his depth that he no longer knows the man in front of him, but at the same moment, he recognizes him as still the same person he’d followed — cared for, for so long.

He rests a tentative hand on his shoulder, and though Zanya recoils at the touch, he settles a moment later. Leans every so slightly into it, if Malavai is particularly perceptive. His head is turned at an angle that Malavai cannot see his face, a curtain of hair shielding Zanya from having to look at him. He figures, even now, especially now, he is not privy to the things that he keeps closest to his heart.

“I will not let something this juvenile this destroy me.”

“I know you will not,” Malavai responds, “Each and every time you have returned stronger. This too will change you, but it will not break you. I am sure of it.”

A beat of silence passes, “I am undeserving of that confidence.”

“Perhaps. But you do deserve to know that you are not the sum of your consequences, rather your intentions. You have done all you can, and the galaxy will respond in kind,” Malavai continues, “The sooner you acknowledge that where your responsibility ends and others’ decisions begin are further than you realize, the more content you will be.”

“Quinn, that is a ridiculous notion.”

“Try as you may, I fear even you cannot pull the entire galaxy into a peaceful coexistence. It likely will not happen in our lifetime. It’s an ideal many of us cannot afford to have,” He’s more likely to believe that he’ll watch it implode upon itself, but figures this wasn’t the time to be that honest with Zanya, “I am meaning to say, allow yourself to be hurt by this. It does not demean you. And acknowledge that regardless of how many fault trees you torture yourself with, that you could not have seen this coming.”

A whisper, “I should have been able to. It is not the first time a lover has blindsided me in such a manner. I should know better.”

Malavai sucks in a breath. He can’t think of what to say for a moment at that. To think of the blaster scar that he still wears on his shoulder that belonged to the same protocol gun he used to carry, and the fact that wound still existed on his worldview as well pains him. And yet …

“His actions are not a reflection of you, or what you put into the relationship you shared,” He pauses, letting his thumb glide against his shoulder plate, “If I am not to overstep, he seemed to care a great deal for you. You knew better. And unfortunately it was taken advantage of.”

Zanya shudders, “And how easy it was to use that advantage on me.”

“If —“ He swallows thickly. Words he had never thought to say, in all of these years having thought that Zanya was gone spill out of what feels like a part of his soul, “If he felt, in anyway, the way I felt for you all of those years ago, then I can only imagine how excruciating it was to take that shot. To walk away from you. To turn his back on you. None of this absolves you of deserving to expect better from the things you put your heart into.”

Whether he believes him or not, or even if he likes that answer or not, Zanya can only make a noise of acknowledgement. His grip loosens on the table as he stands straighter, still ducking his head enough to remain almost entirely unseen. If Malavai looks just right, he can see the still watering eyeline of gold irises just beyond his auburn bangs. He certainly won’t look to him, but lingers his hand on Malavai’s forearm when he moves to remove it. He seems as if he wants to say something more, but decides against it at the last moment.

“Leave me. Be prepared to leave at 08:00 tomorrow.”

Malavai nods. Whether anything he’s said has mattered, he doesn’t know, but he takes it as a better sign that he isn’t be dismissed indefinitely, “As you wish.”

He’s halfway to the blastdoor when he hears the rough tone of Zanya’s voice come from behind him, “Thank you.”

He isn’t there when he turns over his shoulder, but the quiet footsteps padding away are enough to denote his presence. Malavai is still trying to determine the kind of man that Zanya is today, in comparison to the man he was so many years ago, but he figures this is the closest he’s going to get to understanding.