#post-nathema

Just a snippet offering (obviously main ship isn't everyone's cup of tea BUT side characters take the day) because I was looking over SPAG on another bit and it made me laugh:

“Are you telling me you went to sleep with Barsen’thor, woke up to a Dark Councillor impersonation and didn’t notice the difference?”

Theron raised his eyebrow under the implants and gave her half a smile.

“First of all, I cannot say I have ever woken up next to a Dark Council member, so, maybe I am not as familiar as some as to what that looks like,” he pointed out, amused, and Lana—well, she couldn’t help herself.

“Interesting thing to say for a man who felt comfortable enough to strut in his underwear around Darth Karrid.”

“I was disabling the capital ship!” He whined, with a small blush. “I wasn’t—really! It was a matter of stealth.”

“I never knew clothes were a deterrent to disabling dreadnoughts,” Lana replied, with mocking superiority. “I shall have to defer to your—intimate knowledge of such movements.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Funny—I just asked you the same thing, since you seem to have not noticed the woman you literally slept next to seems to suddenly be at one bad answer away from joining the Sith school of staff management.”

“I think I would have noticed that — but the fact she didn’t snap my neck upon waking up disproves your dramatics.”

Funny story; the fanfic came 100% out of (re) watching the cutscene for "Meeting Jekiah Ordo" and noticing JC sounds A LOT more pissed/less patient than most other Commanders, even if you consistently go with 1. Athena Kahanis just made her sound SO DONE that it sparked the madness inside me because I just CAN'T see Lana rolling with seeing a Jedi suddenly sound like that without veering into paranoia.

(Theron is not a disaster... Or he is but you know, an endearing one)

Theron’s head was held high as he slowly and carefully made his way through the mess, but it was an active effort. He was doing his best to not limp or show any sign of physical distress, but larger steps pulled uncomfortably at his midsection. Combined with having to balance the tray full of food, a seemingly simple task he used to take for granted was akin to an arduous quest. 

Recovery from his wounds on Nathema was slow. Agonizingly so for someone used to taking everything at a breakneck pace. Sometimes the physical limitations of his extended recovery made him want to scream. But he didn’t. Many people on base still avoided meeting his eye already, still wary and unsure of his true motives — and he certainly didn’t need to give them more reason to treat him like a social pariah.

There was an empty set of tables at the far end of the mess where he could eat in solitude. It really wasn’t that far, but right now the distance seemed to stretch off into the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of metal, and for a moment paused as a lifetime of instincts made him brace for blaster fire. Then he felt a little sheepish as he realized that it was the prosthetic arm of Odessen’s local reformed reformed emperor, motioning for the spy to join him for a meal.

With one last glance at the promise of solitude, and the distance he’d have to cross to reach it, Theron resigned himself to having company for lunch. He shuffled over and tried to disguise the awkward, stilted way he had to sit down. Tray on the table first so he could concentrate his coordination on bending in such a way that put the least amount of pressure on both his abdomen and back. Force, he was going to be damned sure to never get stabbed again. This sucked.

As he finally managed to reach a sitting position he looked over to measure his dining companion’s mood. Arcann glanced up from his own tray, apparently not having paid attention to Theron’s grandstanding show of being able to sit down like a normal person. He caught a few heads around him quickly returning to their own tables and decided that he preferred the practiced nonchalance. A subtle kindness to help preserve his wounded dignity.

“Arcann,” he said by way of greeting.

The other man nodded back. “Theron.”

He paused, wondering exactly what he was supposed to say back. This was the first time he’d spoken to Arcann since he’d returned from Nathema, although to be fair, Theron hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to strike up conversation with everyone yet. Just getting from Point A to Point B without getting himself banished back to the infirmary by an overprotective fiancee was taking up most of his effort. And well, having to navigate exactly where he stood with each person on base, and how much they believed his ruse or the story of his return was just… an exhausting task he wasn’t quite ready to take on yet.

Oh, well. He was here now, no point in beating around the bush. “I’m a little surprised you wanted to talk.”

“Let us just say that I understand the feeling of not knowing where to sit.” Arcann gave an small wave of the fingers on his biological hand, subtly indicating the curious onlookers that were very studiously not looking in their direction, and then gave a half-shrug. “So I thought I would clear it up.”

Theron caught the implied meaning and gave the former emperor a grateful half-smile. “Much appreciated.”

With a nod of acceptance, Arcann returned to his tray. And both men ate their meals in companionable silence.

As backstory, I headcanon that when Theron lived on Manaan as a teenager, he tried to learn to play the quetarra to impress someone on whom he had a Devastating Teenage Crush(tm) (spoiler: it didn’t work out). Anyway, fast forward to his first real paychecks from SIS and dammit, he was going to get a nice quetarra and actually learn, because he could. Sanna found out that he played in this fic here and he’ll go out to the Defender when he needs to think or play.

With as much effort as Theron probably went to in order to retrieve Sanna’s ship before joining the Alliance on Odessen, she doesn’t use it all that much unless she’s going on a recruitment mission or she needs space for more than 2-3 people. It’s filled with too many ghosts for her taste (and Vitiate didn’t help with that impression, either).

Set after Nathema but before Ossus.

Sanna slipped through the Defender’s hatch on silent feet and paused on the first step, reaching out into the Force for signs of Theron’s presence. Yes, his warm glow was here, but it was muted, dimmed. When she’d woken alone this morning, she should have known to check here first; this place became his refuge a long time ago, a hideaway known by few.

The familiar metallic ringing sound of his quetarra echoed down the stairwell. As she climbed the stairs, she caught snippets of Theron’s voice, his melody weaving into the bright harmonies of the instrument. A small smile flickered across her lips when she recognized the song: he used to sing or hum it to her after one of her nightmares had ripped them both out of sleep, after she'd come back to herself and could breathe again.

The darkness inside you can make you feel so small...

Vassanna reached the door frame to the captain’s suite and closed her eyes, listening. Stars, she’d missed him so.

Show me a smile then, don't be unhappy. Can't remember when I last saw you laughing

He missed a chord change and his voice wavered, breaking on the last word.

This world makes you crazy and you've taken all you can bear, just–

A shuddering gasp cut off the rest of the lyrics and Sanna’s eyes flew open. Rushing into the bedroom, she found Theron hunched over, the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. He laid the quetarra on the bed and sniffled, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

With a murmured “Oh, my sweet,” she knelt before him, one hand on his knee, the other reaching up to cradle his cheek. He flinched and recoiled from her touch, his hand curling into a fist by reflex.

Theron whispered her name, eyes wide, and he slid off the bed to his knees, melting into her: He buried his face in her shoulder, his arms wrapped crushingly tight around her ribs, and strong fingers dug into her skin. His ragged breathing and silent sobs tore her heart asunder, his tears dampening her shirt. Vassanna murmured soft assurances as she folded him into her embrace, cradling his head to her, running her fingers through his hair.

“I hurt you.” His whisper was so quiet that she almost missed it.

“It’s all right. We’re okay –”

“No, last night. In my dream,” he said brokenly, his words muffled by her tear-soaked shirt. “You died. I watched... died in my arms.”

His grief knocked the breath out of her lungs. “Oh, darling,” she said, and pressed a kiss to his temple, resting her cheek on the side of his head.

“Went for a run,” he mumbled. “Didn't help. Beat the shit out of a punching bag, didn't help either. I keep seeing you... my fault. All my fault.”

Horror and sorrow and regret hummed along their bond and it broke her heart. Sanna had no idea how to help him feel better; had he felt this helpless while Vitiate had twisted her dreams?

She knew she didn’t have a fantastic voice – she’d never be a famous singer by any stretch – but she could carry a tune, at least. “Just call me up 'cause I will always be there,” she sang softly, shifting the key to better suit her. “And I see your true colors shining through.”

Theron let out a small chuckle that morphed into another silent sob. His shoulders shook and she rubbed her hand along his back in slow, calming circles, humming and rocking gently until his breathing evened out.

“I love you,” he said softly, kissing the small hollow of her throat.

“Love you too, Theron.”

Theron: Okay, so I made a few small mistakes with the Order of Zildrog.

Lana: You got the Eternal Fleet blown up.

Commander: Facilitated Zakuul’s abandonment of the Alliance.

Aric: Removed the deterrent keeping the Empire/Republic truce.

Commander: And I don’t think Koth has recovered from the loss of the Gravestone.

Theron: Okay, Commander Perfect, medium sized mistakes.

Senya: I say he stays strapped on a medical bed for a few weeks.

Commander: *monotone* No, don’t do that. We’re in a relationship, and that means we trust each other so we would never put the other through that sort of hell. It would be cruel. Oh. Wait.

Theron: I said I was sorry!

Jonas Balkar: Is he though?

Xaja fondly smiled down at Theron before craning her neck to look at the clock on his nightstand. 05:26 in the morning -- she wrinkled her nose at the realization that she was up at a ridiculous hour, before Theron had so much as stirred. But Rishi’s storms were loud, and intense, and strangely beautiful on the oceanfront. She carefully squirmed out of bed, taking care to not wake Theron up, and tugged a spare blanket around her to ward off the chill of the rainstorm as she made her way to the balcony door.

The rain was heavy enough that she could barely see the ocean, no matter how close it was to her cliffside apartment. Lightning -- natural lightning in shades of white and yellow, and not the dangerous purple-tinged electricity of a Sith’s attack -- arced through the sky, briefly illuminating the mountains and jungles within range of the balcony. The wind pushed against the screen door, bringing with it the refreshing smell of rain mingled with seawater and the ever-present lingering scent of the jungle nearby. As a child raised on Coruscant, Xaja had once been afraid of thunderstorms, given that the weather-regulated capital of the Republic rarely experienced such things. Now, she leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, feeling the cool air and misty raindrops on her skin. After what she had gone through, she felt that nothing could scare her anymore.

Not entirely true, she reminded herself. The idea of losing Daenril or Theron made her feel sick with cold dread, especially when she remembered those painful days of waiting beside Theron’s kolto tank after the horror of Nathema. The fear of losing her father or brothers, or any of the close friends she had made within the Alliance, lingered under the surface too. And she suspected she would never be rid of her fear of carbonite... or spiders.

But other than that, nothing could terrify her any more. Of that she was reasonably sure. And right now, she had no cause to fear losing anyone she loved. Theron had miraculously recovered from his terrible wound and was with her now; Daenril was safe and sound on Odessen with her father; and at least for now, the remnants of the Alliance had been granted a reprieve from war. Everyone she knew and loved was safe.

She pushed the door open a bit, and smiled as she felt the storm lashing against her face. For years, she had been compared to a fire for being beautiful, yet deadly and unbreakable. Now she wondered if she wasn’t closer to a storm instead. Even with the chill air making her shiver, she loved the wild beauty of the storm, and the way it seemed to clear away stains. Rishi’s storms were chaotic and unpredictable, but the fresh, clean look of the planet after the storm had passed made it worthwhile.

Thunder rolled again, distant now as the storm moved on. Xaja still lingered in the doorway for a few minutes longer, watching the rain cascade down, until she felt a flicker in the Force from her and Theron’s bedroom. She had been missed, even if Theron was still too half-asleep to fully register her absence. She quietly tugged the screen door closed again, then padded back through the apartment, still hearing the sound of rain beating on the walls and rocky roof.

Theron was still in bed when she returned, owlishly blinking as he caught sight of her in the shadows. A groggy smile tugged at his lips as Xaja returned to the bed, shrugging off her blanket-robe. “You were gone?” he sleepily mumbled.

“Just watching the storm,” Xaja murmured as she slipped back under the covers, promptly scooting over to Theron’s warm body and earning a shiver from him as her cool skin brushed against him. “Not far, love.”

“Mmmm. ‘kay.” Theron wrapped his arm over Xaja’s slim frame and pulled her tightly against him, his other arm slipping under her neck to hold her closer. She tangled her legs in with his as he nuzzled his face into her neck, already falling back asleep. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” Xaja whispered, her fingers slowly brushing through the cropped hair on the back of Theron’s head. She felt a flicker of a smile in the crook of her neck before his breathing settled back out, slow and deep, as his Force-signature faded back into the relaxed currents of sleep. Xaja could feel happiness and love mingling in the Force around him, a wave so deep that she could have contentedly drowned within it. No matter how many times Theron told her he loved her, she still lost her breath every time she felt the depth of his affections for her.

Prompt: “Take what you need.” Fanfiction Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic / SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/Jedi Knight Warnings: none

Theron bolted upright with a start, the spike of fear and adrenaline from the dream drowning everything out for a moment, before the pain blossomed in his abdomen like a fire being stoked. It hit him so fast he couldn’t choke down the small cry, and began to curl in on himself instinctively.

“Shh, I’ve got you.”

Her arms circled around him, gently guiding him to a position that was more comfortable for his injury. It didn’t ease the pain roiling through his abdomen and radiating out his back, but it didn’t aggravate it either. She urged him to relax against her, let her take on her weight, and in the dark and privacy of their room, he let her.

(like first Real Conversation™ once Theron recovers, mb)

Oof! You don’t pull any punches, Nonny, do you? Just kidding, I love the angst – bring it on!

It was awkward and stilted, full of half-spoken thoughts and lots of tears, but blunt honesty. (It mostly followed the script until the proposal, except it was far more awkward, but more personal. And Theron eventually proposes later. Like, for real. And it’s adorably awkward, I love it!)

Theron was a little surprised that she wasn’t angry and shouting at him, but most of the anger she’d carried dissolved as she watched him floating in a kolto tank. (That’s not to say it was completely gone, mind you. She just had it in check enough to not scream at him.) And to be honest? Neither of them were completely sure that she’d forgive him and give him a second chance when they started talking.

writer's choice of ship

It was a soft, subtle thumping, a rhythmic pulse just barely audible through his breastbone. As she lay sprawled half atop him, exhaustion plucking at her mind, she fought against the siren call of sleep, focusing instead upon the gentle flutter of his heartbeat.

"You need to sleep."

"I can't." Her voice was soft, a whisper that barely stirred the soft, fine hairs that covered his chest. "I daren't."

A hand stroked her hair. "He's fine. I promise you, he's fine."

His heartbeat continued to drum in her ear, steady and solid and unfaltering. The skin against her cheek fluttered with every beat. "I shouldn't," she slurred, eyelids bruised by exhaustion already sinking down to hide the lurid scarlet of her eyes.

"Sleep, Cip'rys," Risha crooned, stroking her sister's hair even as the Chiss's limbs went lax and she fell into slumber still sprawled across Theron's bruised and battered chest. "Sleep."

She did, lulled away from the waking world by the gentle touch of her sister's hand and the beat of her lover's heart, constant and unceasing, against her ear.

Prompts for Sharing a Bed