#standard procedures

I wrote this to bridge what I thought was a missing and disjointed part of the story at the end of Act II and beginning of Act III. My trooper insisted that I do this because she wanted to get through this and get it on with Jorgan already. She can be kinda bossy.

Words of warning: a few of you encouraged me to post this, so you have only yourselves to blame. As I stated earlier, it’s derivative. It’s clunky. There is zero character development and almost no dialogue. It’s pretty much an internal soliloquy. I didn’t pay close attention to canon, nor do I have any understanding of military procedures, so I’m winging it. I also have a bad problem with tenses and transitions. Bleh.

However, it’s been done for a few days and I don’t hate it. Plus, I am now free to read all your trooper fics (I’d been ignoring all trooper fic until I played the story, but now I‘ve been plowing through them).

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Standard Procedures

Grys found it difficult to concentrate, but the debriefing was routine and didn’t demand much of her attention. It was standard procedure post-op, and as Jorgan had led the team on this mission — his first since he returned to duty — she was relieved to let him handle the report while she sat silent, interjecting only when directly addressed.

Her thoughts were an incoherent jumble. In the elevator on the way to the debriefing, Jorgan had uncharacteristically leaned in close, his hand briefly encircling the bare skin above her elbow, and quietly stated that he was glad to be back under her command and he would do his best to never let her down again.

It was the first time he had directly referenced how close he’d come to death on The Gauntlet. She shivered at the unexpected contact and involuntarily closed her eyes. His scent, a mixture of soap and musk, hit her hard, and her pulse pounded a staccato in her ears. For a moment, she was unable to breathe, then training took over. She opened her eyes and said in an even voice “See that you don’t, Jorgan.”

The doors opened, and they had proceeded to the debriefing.

Now here she sat, feigning interest in the proceedings, overanalyzing each moment of that brief exchange. What had just happened? She might know how to quickly respond to dangerous situations, but in the dance of social customs, she had to admit that she was underskilled. Grys wasn’t without practice, but she preferred facts to theories. Theories didn’t get results. Straightforward was always the best approach for her.

She turned to her right and studied Jorgan as he rumbled on with the report, at times almost growling when he felt particularly intense about a matter. There had never been any question that she found the Cathar attractive, if a tad intense, but she’d known him so long that she couldn’t think of him objectively. Living in close quarters, it was impossible not to run into some embarrassing situations, but neither of them had acted inappropriately, although their banter sometimes dipped into teasing and innuendo. It wasn’t like she had never considered starting something — she had on occasion wondered if they could work — but propriety always reined her in. In truth, she never paid much attention to any crew banter. Although the squad had only been together a few years, life had been a hectic pace of one planet after another, one more mission to complete. Tensions needed an outlet, and joking around with crewmates was to be expected. If the occasional interaction sometimes made her feel lonely, well, that was the life of a commanding officer. At least, that’s what she used to tell herself. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

She listened as Jorgan made a thinly veiled sarcastic remark and her lips quirked into a slight smile. She knew him well. He might hide behind a semi-permanent scowl, but in the time they’d worked together, she’d learned to rely on his facial expressions as much as others relied on hers. That was to say, she didn’t. No, Jorgan kept his emotions fairly constrained. His intimidating look was part of how he maintained his distance and perspective. They all had their own mechanisms for that. When one adjusted to his brusque manner, though, he was easy to read, especially when he spoke. His voice would give him away every time.

In fact, she could hear his pride now as he praised their crew for completing the mission without complications, and she felt the same swell of pride. Havoc Squad might appear odd to outsiders: one human, one droid, and four aliens — some more alien than others — made up the mobile unit, but they were a solid, exemplary team. Her rocky start with Havoc could have gone in so many terrible directions, and she silently thanked whatever lucky stars had aligned to bring them all together. Grys had always felt somewhat isolated by her obvious alien status. Being Chiss in the alien-friendly Republic still had its unpleasant moments, and that was why she always paid particular attention to other alien species and cultural mores, cataloguing preferences, customs, observations. It was also why her crew endlessly fascinated her. Dorne sometimes commented that their CO might be in the wrong line of work and after particularly troubling operations, Grys would inwardly agree with Dorne’s assessment.

Once she had adjusted to the shock that led to her promotion to CO of Havoc Squad, she was determined to make sure she understood each member of her crew, starting with Jorgan. Curiosity, boredom, and lack of other crew members had first led to her bombarding Jorgan with questions about his childhood, siblings, the Cathar community, officer training on Coruscant, and just about anything else. He’d been reluctant to discuss personal matters at first, not to mention with a female CO who had once been under his command, but she was relentless. Naturally, he’d lobbed questions of his own at her, and their friendship gradually deepened. Now he was her closest friend and confidant, even though she was his superior. They’d bonded through difficult times together, and despite their dangerous professions, she’d taken it for granted that he’d always be there. She had never paused to consider what she would do if he was no longer around.

That was something she was unlikely to stop contemplating now. Her mood darkened and her hands began to twitch. Blasted anxieties. She thought she had learned to control them, but unless they were holding weapons, her hands always betrayed her emotions.

The period following the events of The Gauntlet had been a difficult time for Grys, but also one of personal revelation. When they reached Coruscant and rushed the gravely wounded Jorgan to the medical facility to stabilize him, she’d found the nearest refresher and vomited until there was nothing left to her. Then it was back to duty, debriefings, reports. Standard procedures, business as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary except for the gaping, empty feeling within her.

Only later, when she was sequestered in her quarters, did she allow the sorrow and fear she’d repressed to overwhelm her. As she lay in the dim light, strained and exhausted, she tentatively prodded at the emptiness, and with a bit of wonder admitted to herself that Jorgan meant far more to her than she’d realized.

And so it was that in his absence Grys stopped pretending she was indifferent.

During those first, unsettled days back on Coruscant, she often found herself standing in front of Jorgan’s kolto tank, discussing his treatment with the doctors. He remained in critical condition, and when the doctors moved on to other patients, she would rest her forehead and hands against the cool glass, wanting to touch him, to selfishly comfort herself. She kept Jorgan company for hours, for days, her hands often clasped tightly to control their flexing. She watched his body suspended in the liquid, as tiny bubbles winked in and out of existence on his fur, and vowed that she would never take him for granted again. If — not if, when — he recovered, she would tell him how she felt, and damn all rules, proper conduct, and even Dorne’s disapproval.

Too soon, her crew was called back to duty. On her way back to the Thunderclap, Grys had made one last trip to the medical facility. She stood, inhaling the antiseptic air and contemplated the unconscious Cathar, etching his dark features into her memory before she spoke. “Come back to me, Aric. That’s an order.” She turned to leave, then paused and partially turned back towards the tank. Her voice low with emotion, she added “I need you.”

Grys had thrown herself back into work, but that had not stopped her from keenly feeling Jorgan’s absence. It was Jorgan who had been at her side since Ord Mantell. Jorgan who wouldn’t pull any punches if she asked for opinions, and who would follow her lead even when he disagreed with her orders. Jorgan, who was an expert at diffusing her anger when operations didn’t bring the results she expected. She counted on him completely, had never doubted his advice. He always remained fiercely loyal and dedicated to the Republic, to Havoc Squad, to her.

If she noticed Dorne’s quizzical looks as she asked repeatedly for status updates on Jorgan, she didn’t care. A CO understandably would be concerned about the status of one of her crew, wouldn’t she? When the report had come in that Jorgan was out of critical care, that he would be able to return to duty — that he’d insisted he return to duty — after treatment and rehab, she was elated. She excused herself, went to her quarters, palmed the door shut, and wept with relief.

Yet, despite her new awareness of the depths of her feelings, Grys continued to keep her own counsel. She constantly made excuses for her reluctance. At first, the timing was never right, they were never alone, she didn’t want to cause him stress while he healed. Later, it was because he might laugh at her, or worse, report her breach of conduct to Dorne. She couldn’t accept that outcome, if he rejected her. She needed to work with him, after all. So after Jorgan officially reported back for duty, Grys found herself pulling away while she struggled somewhere between hope, apprehension, and resignation.

As the debriefing went on, Grys’ thoughts returned to how disappointed she was with herself. Hesitation was not in her nature, but this situation had too many variables to consider, and that made it impossible for her to move in any direction. She knew her behavior was frustrating and unacceptable. It distracted her from her duties and if she continued this way, she would put her team in danger. But even now, she could almost see herself methodically explaining away any positive interpretations to Jorgan’s earlier words.

She felt herself spark with anger and looked down at her lap. Her hands were on her thighs, below the conference table. Unconsciously, she had begun to scrape her fingernails up and down her uniform seams. She cursed under her breath and willed her hands to lay still.

“Is there something you wish to add, Major?” Jorgan had turned towards her.

Startled, her eyes returned forward, and she hastily corroborated Jorgan’s report. Embarrassed at having been caught ruminating in front of their superiors, her hands again began to twist in her lap as she answered the follow-up questions. So it was a shock, barely concealed, when she felt Jorgan slide his hand over hers to steady them, his thumb gently stroking the back of her right hand.

His touch was warm, deliberately improper, and made her dark skin flush with heat. Thankfully, they were summarily dismissed, and Jorgan released her hands almost reluctantly when they stood to leave.

As they waited for the elevator, she struggled to say something to break the tense silence, not daring to look up at first when Jorgan turned to face her. Cautiously, she met his green eyes with her red, feeling the blush spread across her cheeks. His eyes briefly studied the silver chain she wore around her neck before returning to her face, and he reiterated his earlier declaration. “I meant what I said. I came back to you, and I won’t be going anywhere if I can help it. Besides,” a rare smile spread across his face, slightly exposing his canines, “I have it on good authority that you need me.”

In one instant, theories became facts.