Transit
(aka "maybe the real marshmallows were the Sith we met along the way")
A/N: A long-neglected followup to "Cavalry."
o.O.o
"You're welcome to come with us, Theron."
He's—what? Theron stares at him, trying to work out how he's supposed to explain that to his superiors and his—the Grandmaster. No big deal, just hitching a ride to Yavin IV with the Emperor's Wrath while recovering from being drugged and tortured and interrogated by Revan, sure, not even a little suspicious, nothing to worry about here—
But. But. The thought of spending the next few days on a ship full of people who—who want things from him . . .
"Okay," he says. And he follows Evren and Vette out of the safehouse.
o.O.o
White and gold lights mean Republic ships and safety; red means either an emergency or enemy territory. But right now, he's just glad that it's dim and soft. It doesn't make him want to rip out his own eyes. He can breathe.
"There's a cabin just over here," Evren says quietly, leading the way to the port-side corridor and gesturing into a small, utilitarian room. Theron shambles after him, accidentally bumping his shoulder on the way into the cabin—Evren steadies him, his touch light and quickly retracted once Theron isn't falling over.
"Thanks," Theron croaks.
"Get some rest," Evren says. "We'll be around."
Theron stumbles over to the bed. He hits the pillow and he's gone, black-red oblivion enveloping him like the sea.
o.O.o
He wakes up a few hours later, stiff and aching but otherwise functional. There's a 'fresher attached to the cabin; Theron drags himself into the shower and makes an undignified whimpering noise as the hot water hits his sore muscles. He scrubs quickly, but can't make himself leave for a few minutes more. He turns his face towards the spray and closes his eyes, implant catching and redirecting water along the curve of his skull.
The last time he showered was the morning he and Lana went scouting. After escaping the Revanites there just hasn't been time.
The welts and scrapes and cuts and needle marks sting until even that sensation washes away.
Theron shuts off the water, dries with a surprisingly soft towel, and pulls on his old clothes, grimacing. Might have to ask about laundry, later—as much as he loves his jacket, it's kind of disgusting right now.
It takes him a full minute to talk himself into opening the cabin door. Another to step out into the hallway. It's safe. This isn't an infiltration mission. There are no Imperial troops lurking around corners, there are no Sith Lords waiting to fry his brain.
Footsteps. Theron twitches, then relaxes—Vette, carrying a datapad in one hand and a dangerously full cup of caf in the other. She glances up from the datapad and startles a little when she sees him standing awkwardly in front of the door—her caf sloshes but doesn't quite spill. "Oh, hey! You're up, great—Ev's in the galley, I'm gonna be across the hall." She gestures at the blast door behind her using the datapad. "Gotta touch base with some contacts after that whole clusterfuck. See if they can come help out, now that we know what Revan's after."
"Uh. Right," Theron says.
Vette hovers for a second, then sighs. "I'm glad you're okay," she says. "You're kind of my favorite enemy agent, so, y'know. Yeah."
Theron pulls on his best charmingly roguish smirk and holds it in place with sheer force of will. "'Enemy agent,' huh?"
"Favorite enemy agent," Vette says, poking him in the chest with the edge of the datapad. "You're also an asshole, so don't push it." She turns and opens the conference room door, then raises her cup as a jaunty farewell toast. The last thing Theron sees before the door hisses shut behind her is caf slopping over the edge, and Vette swearing loudly.
Theron chuckles, shakes his head. Might as well go see what his host is up to, then.
As he makes his way towards the galley and his almost-good mood fades into a general jitteriness, he tells himself that he has no reason not to be nervous. And that is never a bad thing, around Sith. Even—especially—Sith who seem trustworthy. Trust is dangerous. He needs to keep his guard up. He should know that by now.
Evren's heating something in a saucepan, back to the door. "Afternoon," he says, twisting around right as Theron enters, as if he knew Theron was coming. He probably did.
"Already?" says Theron.
It's not that funny, but Evren laughs anyway. "You were out for hours. Care for a drink?"
"What are you making?"
"Er, hot chocolate." Evren glances back at the saucepan and stirs it a bit more, sighing. "Eventually. The milk takes a bloody geological epoch to heat. If you want something more substantial, I can—"
"No, don't worry about it," Theron says. A little emboldened, he sits across the central counter, hooks his feet through the legs of the chair, and says, "So, uh, there enough for two in there?"
"Of course."
Theron can hear the milk starting to simmer. Not quite a full epoch, unless . . . Did Evren sense him waking up? Start early?
Does it matter?
Evren's pouring in the chocolate. "So, er, how are you feeling?"
"Better. I can walk in a straightish line again, anyway."
"Good," says Evren, sounding—honestly relieved. Theron's not sure how he feels about it. He probably should feel uneasy. Whatever he is feeling, though, it's not that. Evren continues, "If you're still experiencing any side effects or odd reactions from yesterday, the medbay's equipped to handle nearly anything."
"What, the droid's got the full post-interrogation treatment package?" Theron says.
"As a matter of fact, yes."
And the mid-interrogation package? Theron doesn't ask. Doesn't want to know whether Evren will admit to torture with the same horrifying nonchalance as he admitted to cannibalism, or deny it, expressionless, concealing either offense at the implication or amusement at Theron's gullibility.
He shouldn't be here. He should never have let himself want to trust a Sith. Either of them.
Evren adds . . . something. Theron doesn't get a good look at the label on the container. For a fraction of a second he thinks—
"What did you just put in there?" he says sharply.
Evren goes very still. Slowly, he turns around. "Adastan pepper. Here." Evren slides the jar of rust-colored powder across the countertop. He leaves his hands on the surface, where Theron can see them. "It's a popular seasoning on Ziost and Dromund Kaas."
Theron reserves judgement. Cautiously, he waves a hand above the jar to waft the scent towards him without having to stick his nose down into it. His implant does register the presence of airborne irritants—but not in dangerous concentrations, and, well, it's pepper.
It's just pepper.
Theron sets the jar back down and exhales. "Okay."
Evren gives a little nod and continues. Now, though, he starts narrating as he adds ingredients to the saucepan. "Vanilla, to complement the chocolate, sort of round it out a bit—cinnamon, can't go wrong with cinnamon—I mean, you can, and I have, and it was embarrassing, but still—and finally a pinch of salt to bring out all the other flavors." He stirs for a minute, then glances up at Theron, a smile tugging at the unscarred side of his mouth. "Whipped cream?"
"Uh. Sure." Whipped cream. Not something he usually associates with Sith Lords.
This one, however, continues to be annoying and charming and completely fucking baffling. Evren pours a generous serving of hot chocolate into a deep blue ceramic mug, then adds a mountain of cream and lightly dusts it with more pepper. He scoots it towards Theron. "Enjoy, Agent Shan."
Theron picks up the mug. The handle's still cool but the body of the mug is slowly warming between its contents and his hand. He raises it to his lips.
It doesn't remind him of anything. It doesn't make his body hurt any less. But it's sweet and hot and there's a low steady burn from the pepper and the cream is cool and frothy and it gets on his nose, and Theron has to put the mug down and just . . . breathe, for a second.
The Emperor's Wrath made him hot chocolate.
"Thanks," Theron rasps. "It's—it's good. It's great. Thank you."
Evren smiles. Take away the too-bright eyes and the scars and the tattoos and the armor, and it'd read as shy delight. "You are most welcome."
"So . . . this is a thing with you," Theron says. "Making food for people."
"Only the people I like." Smooth, almost playful—and then Evren glances away as if he's embarrassed. "Sorry. If that was too forward."
"What? No, no, I just—kinda trying to wrap my head around the whole . . ." Theron gestures between them, vaguely, and takes another sip, and sighs. Fuck it. "If you're doing this to flip me, congratulations, it's working."
For a moment, Evren looks hurt. The flicker of expression quickly vanishes behind another, less sincere smile. "That was fairly low on my list of objectives."
Theron drops his gaze to his mug. Then why? he doesn't ask, because if he does, Evren will answer, and Theron doesn't know whether he wants the Sith to lie—to say something witty and vaguely ominous and safe—or to put words around everything they haven't quite said.
"Theron—" Evren stops, runs his tongue over his lips. "I will never ask you to compromise your loyalty to the Republic. But for now, however long the truce may hold, I would be honored to call you a friend."
Fuck him sideways. There goes the whole "don't talk about it" plan. Theron takes a huge gulp of stupidly comforting hot chocolate to buy himself time. Friends. What would that even mean, for them?
But he already knows, because it's already happening. Oro omelets. A rescue he thought wasn't coming. A ride to Yavin IV. Hot chocolate with Adastan pepper and whipped cream. And it's too damn late to avoid anything but the admission, because Theron chose to be here. He could have said no. He could have done the smart thing and flown with the Republic fleet. But here he is, barely a meter away from one of the most dangerous Sith in the galaxy, drinking hot chocolate, because he was tired and everything ached and he just wanted to rest—
"Okay," Theron says. "Let's give it a shot."
o.O.o
end