#wolvan

@skywalker-is-a-nerd-pass-it-on is the best and gifted me this amazing Wolvan for Christmas!

Wolffe doesn’t know what Revan did to be the one who trains him; the former Sith is not a favourite of the Jedi Council, and initially they had all been under the assumption it would be Plo who trained him.

Revan is shirtless, corded muscles and lightning scars on full display; contrary to popular belief, his chest is not covered in those pale jagged lines, just his right arm. He tosses down a meditation mat with an intricate patterned woven into it, followed by a second in plain grey and white.

“Sit,” Revan says, and sits with folded legs on the woven mat. “You’ve been doing your mental exercises with Master Plo and Master Ti?”

Wolffe nods, it’s a lot of breathing and thinking and opening his mind, whatever that means. He thought learning to use the force would be more...lightsabers and throwing things around with his mind.

“Good,” Revan smiles, and Wolffe sits on the second mat, surprised that it feels so...soft. “While accelerated, you went through what younglings go through before they become initiates at the temple.”

“Like flash training,” Wolffe says.

Revan nods, and unclips his lightsaber from his belt and splays his fingers flat as it floats above his palm and begins to disassemble, the casing sliding open and the shard of purple kyber exposed; glowing brilliant and bright in the calm hall.

“Today marks your first official day of training in the force,” he says. “By opening yourself up to it the last few weeks, your ability to access its power has increased, hopefully enough to be able to control it.”

He splays his fingers, sending the pieces of the saber forward to float around Wolffe’s head and reassemble before his eyes.

He catches it when Revan drops it, fingers curling around the familiar beskar hilt.

“You want me to lift this?” Wolffe asks.

“Beskar is...notoriously difficult to manipulate with the Force,” Revan admits. “I’ll admit even the most experienced Jedi Masters might have trouble with it, given its...spotted past.”

He takes the saber back, setting it aside instead of clipping it to his belt, and produces a small bag and empties its contents on the floor between them. Small round balls of varying materials roll out, stone, metal, wood, glass and clay, Revan picks up the wooden one, holds it in the flat of his palm, and it levitates briefly before floating over to tap Wolffe on the nose.

Wolffe frowns at his lover, and plucks the ball from the air.

“I want you to lift that,” he says. “That wood is from Dantooine, a force charged planet home to ancient Jedi and the Academy, an ancient sanctuary for the Order. The wood itself is tuned to the force, and should give you some assistance in learning this basic exercise.”

It looks like a basic wooden ball, but Revan isn’t one to lie. Bend the truth? Yes. But lie? Rarely.

Unless it’s to the Council on why he and Wolffe disappeared for an impromptu vacation.

Wolffe holds the ball in the flat of his hand, like Revan did, closes his eyes and breathes, like Plo told him to.

“Open your mind,” Revan says, gentle. “Reach out, feel the Force around you. Focus it, focus on the ball. Do you feel it?”

Wolffe...feels. The Force is a strange thing, bright and dark, clear and cloudy. It burns, bright as a star, around Revan. He sees the tether that binds them, the tethers that float torn and ripped out from Revan’s golden core bleeding pain and-

“Focus, Wolffe,” Revan says, firm. “It’s not me your attention should be on.”

“Sorry,” he replies.

He feels it, the ball in his hand, feels its warm life that clings to the cut and carved wood. He grips it, mentally, grasping tight to not lose it and then-

“Open your eyes,” Revan says. “Don’t lose your focus, that’s it, good.”

Wolffe’s eyes open a fraction, and they widen at the sight of the ball floating just a centimetre or two above his palm. It drops almost the moment pride swells in his chest, but he saw it. It was floating.

Revan looks small without his armour.

He’s perched on a wheeled stool, stripped down to a plain red shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark pants and black boots. His hair, now grown to just on his shoulders, is pulled back in a messy tail, and his wire frame eyeglasses perched on his nose.

Distracted, he slides them back up his nose, and goes back to tinkering on whatever project has caught his scattered mind.

In the force, he feels muted. Hidden.

But beneath it all, he’s broiling.

But he doesn’t startle when Wolffe slides his arms around Revan’s rib cage, and leans back into the embrace when Wolffe presses his lips to the back of Revan’s neck.

He smells like metal and ozone and plasma smoke.

“Ratch is worried about you,” Wolffe says. “You know he’d be here if you were on the Negotiator.”

“I know,” Revan replies, quiet.

It’s been three days.

Wolffe presses his forehead to the back of Revan’s neck, just existing in his presence. “I love you,” he says, because he can. Because he needs Revan to know.

Revan tightens a screw, then puts down his project. He inhales deeply, holds, then exhales. “I love you too,” he says. “No matter...how I might feel about them. How I might...act.”

“I know,” Wolffe says, and kisses his neck again.

“I don’t know what to say to them,” Revan admits.

“‘Hi’?”

It gets the desired effect; Revan laughs, chest shaking under Wolffe’s hold and vibrating through them. It’s the best sound Wolffe’s heard since...

Since this all happened.

“Do you want to sleep?” Wolffe asks.

“Yes,” Revan says immediately. “Share a sonic with me?”

“Always.”

Tomorrow, Revan would deal with reality.

An arm slides around Wolffe’s waist and familiar lips press a kiss to the sensitive area behind his ear. Revan presses against him, back to chest, and Wolffe relaxes into his embrace as the Lord sways them to the music.

“You look handsome, commander,” Revan says.

Wolffe stops himself from glancing down at his formal outfit; a black tunic and white trousers with a grey jacket and polished black boots, all of it slim fitting and tailored almost as well as his blacks.

“The countess insisted,” he replies.

“I’ll send her my thanks,” Revan says. “You look stunning.”

Wolffe blushes. “You weat these things better than I do,” he replies, truthful. Revan arrived to the ball in a deep grey tunic and black trousers, black boots with gold stitching on the calves and a deep red coat with gold accents, his ebony hair perfectly falling over his forehead and a touch of gold lining his already beautiful eyes, making the red and green pop in the glow of the candles lining the hall.

Revan smiles, a flash of white teeth, and as a new song begins to play he holds out his hand. “Care to dance?” He asks.

Wolffe blinks. “We’re supposed to be protecting the Countess,” he says.

Revan nods to where the Countess is being spun around the dance floor by a half dozen vying suitors.

“But...” Wolffe swallows. “I don’t know how.”

“And I do,” Revan smiles. “I’ll teach you, come on.”

He grabs Wolffe’s hand, tugs him out onto the dance floor and settles into starting position. “One hand on my shoulder,” Revan says, resting one hand on Wolffe’s hip. “I’ll take the lead this time.”

“Isn’t that what you said last night?” Wolffe smirks, and earns a pinch above the hip for his trouble.

“Hush,” Revan smiles. “Okay, take a step back and-“

Dancing is surprisingly easy, rhythmic and repetitive, and the waltz Revan is leading them in is uncomplicated and soothing. After a moment they’re gliding across the dance floor in sync, and a moment after that Revan stops mouthing one-two-three in Wolffe’s ear.

“See?” Revan smiles at their second circuit around the room. “Not so hard, right? You’re a natural.”

Wolffe blushes at the praise. “You’re a good teacher,” he says.

They move past the countess, who’s being spun between two of her suitors as the waltz reaches its peak.

“Time for the spin,” Revan murmurs.

“What?” Wolffe exclaims. “I’m not-“

“Just move with it when I lift my arm,” Revan tells him, a glint in his eye, and spins Wolffe out before he can protest.

He returns to Revan’s arms, sliding back into the dance hold. He catches Cody’s eye where he’s standing with Rex on the sidelines and sees his brothers grin at him.

The song finishes and they return to the crowd on the edge of the dance floor. Revan keeps an arm around his waist, and as one of the courtiers approach, a fan fluttering in front of her face, he tightens his grip.

“Oh you simply must take me next, Serah,” she coos, laying a hand on Revan’s arm. “I’ve never seen common folk dance so well!”

“I’ve done exciting,” Revan says. “I’ve had a childhood romance and wartime love. I’ve had forbidden passion born of a suicide mission and restless marriage, only for both to end in tragedy.”

He takes a breath. “I’d like to try boring, this time, yeah?” His eyes are bright and Wolffe leans into his touch, heart racing under his armour. “How about you and me, in some quiet, boring little cantina, some boring drinks and we see where that leads?”

My friend @skywalker-is-a-nerd-pass-it-on made these for me a little while ago!! They’re very talented!!

The Malevolence gone meant a lot for what remained of the 104th, not in the least Wolffe, who watched four Jedi (and a little Jedi Shiny) avenge his fallen brothers. He was grateful, in awe of them.

And then he learned about Amidala, how she had been on the blasted ship and that was why Skywalker and Kenobi had run headlong into the fray.

They hadn’t been thinking of avenging thousands of his brothers. They had been rescuing the pretty Natborn Senator from the idyllic Naboo.

It hurt. Badly.

He was sitting in the quarters he’d been assigned on the Resolute, not avoiding everyone no matter what Sinker and Boost might think. No, he was finishing signing requisition forms for...for new men. New soldiers to wear the 104th red on their armour and never replace the men they had lost so senselessly.

He’s locked away so he can repaint the armour Cody had delivered with a paint set.

He’s barely even looked at it. Every time he tries he remembers seeing dead brothers floating in the cold empty ruins of their fleet, 104th red marking them as brothers Wolffe knew. Brothers he tries to remember. Brothers he never got the chance to meet.

There’s a knock, and before he can tell whoever it is to fuck off, the door opens and the imposing form of Lord Revan steps in carrying a tray of food that isn’t from the Clone Mess.

“Boost said you’ve been missing meals,” Revan says. Wolffe never really understood the strange Jedi who occasionally showed up to work with the 104th and other battalions in the GAR. But Rex likes him, and Cody respects him, so he can’t really dislike the armoured Jedi.

And ever since they were rescued by Revan and Tano, ever since Revan used his Force abilities to heal Wolffe of a bruise easily treated with Bacta and time, ever since he fussed over the three of them personally, he’s had a hard time even being annoyed with how very Odd the Jedi is.

“Why’d he tell you, sir?” Wolffe asks, and Revan sets the tray of actual food down on the desk and leans against the wall, arms folded over his burnished beskar chestplate.

Revan knocks his knuckles lightly against the face plate of his helmet as he says “statistically I was the least likely you’d injure if you threw something at me” and Wolffe snorts despite himself.

He eyes the food, stomach growling, and can’t remember the last time he ate.

Oh right, he thinks. Before the attack.

“How are you?” Revan asks. “You must be happy that monstrous ship is gone.”

Wolffe shrugs, picking up a fork and digging into the roasted veggies in one of the compartments. “Only got blown up because Amidala was on it,” he says, bitter.

“I rigged the engine to explode,” Revan tells him, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in shock. “Skywalker was too busy making out with the Senator to do much else other than get the hell off. Someone needed to avenge your brothers, Commander.”

Wolffe swallows what’s in his mouth before he chokes on it. “Thank you,” he manages, and Revan shrugs.

He wants to know what expression is on the Jedi’s face, to know if he’s angry or sad or genuine. He wants to know if he really cares.

“Is this your new armour?” Revan asks, moving towards the case resting on Wolffe’s bunk. With a wave of his hand it clicks open, and the pieces assemble neatly on the bed. It’s the closest Wolffe’s ever been to what he’s sure General Plo would call “frivolous” use of the Force, but Wolffe thinks it’s quite amazing how easily Revan uses it

“No paint?” Revan asks.

Wolffe swallows. “I uh,” he says. “I see them. Every time I see that colour.”

Revan is still for a moment, and then his head tilts slightly. “Have you ever heard of Mand’alor the Preserver?” He asks.

Wolffe nods. “He ruled Mandalore after the Jedi-Sith Civil War,” he says. “Immediate successor to Mand’alor the Ultimate.”

“He wore grey armour instead of the customary gold of the Mand’alors before him,” Revan tells him. “Because he mourned his fallen brothers in the Mandalorian Wars, killed senselessly because both sides were manipulated by a Sith Emperor.”

Wolffe’s breath catches. “I didn’t know,” he says. “Fett only ever talked about the Conquering Jedi.”

“Of course he did,” Revan sighs and shakes his head, as though disappointed but resigned. “Regardless, Preserver wore grey armour to show the galaxy he mourned those no one else would. Perhaps you could follow his example, Commander?”

“I...I think so,” Wolffe says, and grabs the paints.

The paint set Cody had dropped off contained both black and white paint along side the primary colours, and before long there was a pot of metal-grey paint that was being applied to his armour.

“Sir?” Wolffe asks, and Revan’s helmet tilts, acknowledging Wolffe’s words from where he’s sitting stock still on the floor by the bunk.

He hands Revan his gauntlets, unpainted but with his lines marked out in graphite. “Could you...” his voice catches. “I’d appreciate it if you would help.”

Revan takes the gauntlets, and Wolffe wants to rip off his helmet and know, in this moment, what his expression is.