...Because I can't get over this ship and stupid blurbs have been hanging around in those word docs forever like a bunch of assholes just mocking me. :| FINE. I'm posting things.
Title was inspired by a song of the same name, by SoKo.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by and using characters and elements from Star Wars: The Old Republic, creative property of BioWare.
I
|| Conversations ||
There is simply something about her he can't place. She's too well-mannered. She's too considerate. She's too tame.
And she's a Sith.
There is almost nothing he can think of to say. To pass the time. He hates silence when there's no reason to be. He hates the awkwardness that comes from it when there are two people and not a single word exchanged across the marginal distance between them. (They are literally only ever steps away from each other.)
It seems that there are few things of interest that they have in common. What he finds is entertaining, she considers to be uninspiring. The things that she considers are engaging, he finds to be utterly exhaustive—maybe tedious, at best. In fact, he finds her to be all-around a bit boring.
But surprisingly, she is a rather pleasant conversationalist. When the rare occasion calls for it. She is by no means an extrovert, and neither is he, but she listens and responds and opines. In fact, there are even some things he finds he does agree with her on.
In those rare occasions, they talk about the weather, the climate—how unbearable the humidity is. How irritating the temperamental skies and seas have shown to be on Rishi. That while the locals appear to be quite accustomed to it, neither of them have been able to adjust over the past few weeks in the least.
They talk about their travels. To what corners of the galaxy they've been. Which other backwaters like this they'd passed through before. He particularly dislikes Tatooine, the world of insufferable heat and peoples even far more so. For her, this world is Hoth, where even the mere memory of the unmerciful cold still chills her to the very core. For both, Rishi is not a distant second, but it is still a second, nonetheless.
They even talk about their mutual dislike of the silence. How stupid it'd seemed then. Those weeks they'd spent in the uncomfortable, unwelcome and utter quiet in the hollows of their refuge. Both having thought to be respectful in accommodation of the other in the stillness. Both reluctant to speak a word in excess for fear of exasperating the other. (Though of the two, it'd been he who'd seemed to be perpetually annoyed by Deefour's incessant and wearying chatter during those dreaded visits paid by Jakarro and his droid from abroad.)
It'd only been upon the occasion—the first of its kind—when he'd returned to their hideout from his errands to the static hums of a peculiar hyperwave station in the air.
Music.
It'd been an uncommon kind he neither regularly heard nor sought to listen to. It'd been an old and brassy sound. The kind one might hear in the lounge of a formal hotel, the kind a full-bodied ensemble might play for the evening guests of a grand, celebrated occasion.
And so it would begin with the simple question—'what kind of music do you like?'
Something so small. So stupid. Many conversations, after all, begin with a question. Of course, neither of them would think to even ask until then.
So the time passes, and there is less silence. There is less unpleasant awkwardness between two people who no longer haven't a reason to speak. And even he begins to think that perhaps, she is not so boring after all.
And simply because two people may have few things in common, it does not make them incompatible. It does not make them enemies.
But that is precisely what they are. They may not be in any private manner, but by virtue and by all principles they are both bound by, they indeed are.
He finds that he must remind himself of this from time to time—on such occasions when he doesn't remember right away that it is an Imperial, a Sith, he is talking to. Rather, he only inherently remembers that it is another human with whom he shares such conversations. A mere human woman.
Because that is precisely what she is. And this, he finds he must constantly remind himself not to forget.
And she is the only woman with whom he shares these long weeks. The only woman in his presence, the only woman he speaks to. It is not by choice, but by necessity—a thing he has also grown somewhat resentful of, in spite of all his efforts not to be. There is no time to be resentful. Because for all he knows, they might be dead by tomorrow.
Days upon days become weeks in the passing time, and little changes. They are still there. They are still fugitives. They are still enemies. And she is still a mere human woman.
And he is but a mere human man. He is not that kind of man. But the thoughts—yes, he has thought about it.
At first, it is only a puerile musing, one he dismissively laughs off in comical irony. But he does like her enough, and then it suddenly doesn't seem like such a tawdry thing. Then every other time he looks at her again, he catches himself thinking just how pretty she really is. Quite lovely, actually. And it stops being just a passing fancy anymore.
The very thought seems so asinine, he thinks. But they are both adults, and they are both human, he tells himself. What's the worst to come of it?
She'll reject—
But he has been rejected before.
She'll take offense—
It isn't as though they aren't already wary of one another.
I'll lose her respect—
Ah, something that gives him reservations.
For some days, it lingers at the back of his mind. So many instances when he thinks to ask her, only for his entire resolve to wither the moment she turns to look at him. All because of his own self-conscious misgivings. Even though he is aware and has told himself that he would never know, never have his answer until he simply asks.
It's just a question. Just the one.
All it ever begins with is just a question.
"...I'm just saying," Theron says to her one day, as casually as he can possibly make himself sound, "anything can happen, you know? It's possible. We might. Maybe at some point further down the line. Maybe at the very end of all this. Maybe even tomorrow."
It's a macabre thought he doesn't ever like to dwell on, but it's enough of a reason. At least for him, it passes for one.
"So, I'm just...you know. Putting it out there," he shrugs. "And...don't feel weird about it either way. We're adults," he turns to mention over his shoulder just briefly. "Or whatever."
It's only an excuse for a glimpse. Just a clue to her reaction. Because he can't seem to look at her straight in the eye when he asks this. Even before knowing, he already begins to feel he's gone about this the completely wrong way.
But there in the briefest exchange of glances, he catches the merest hint of contemplation in her. As she turns and locks her gaze, he can see, even though she is hiding it well, that there is the same curious fascination behind them his own have known. Something that hasn't just suddenly come upon even her most conscious thoughts. (To his relief. And of course, he hides this as well.)
He is quick to look away, quick to mind himself—his eyes, his fingers, his thoughts—with the nearest thing his hands can reach for. So he takes the datapad sitting on the console and begins to tap away at its screen, at nothing in particular. The silence, however brief, is unbearable, and he feels the compulsive urge to fill it in any way possible. Now, he thinks, even though he has meant her no offense, he is almost certain to have roused it by his bold invitation.
Yet to his surprise, the response she gives is unexpectedly quite tame. There is no thorough rebuff. There is no insult or indignity given or received. No. In fact, she responds quite openly and pragmatically. He could not expect any less of Lana Beniko.
"Ever so cautious with your words, aren't you?" he hears her voice hum on a clear breath.
He then listens as her steps bring her closer to where he stands before the computer console.
'Is she being sarcastic...?' he thinks to himself, as he can never tell with her at times, and it quite truly annoys him. But then he realizes that he does it all the time to her—but at least he's obvious about it. He finds he is unable to dash the vexing thoughts that still wonder—maybe it was a bad idea to mention this at all. So he continues to occupy himself with his datapad.
Until it is her hand that stops him, deliberately placed flat over the screen of the device to draw his attention. He pauses and finally really looks at her. It suddenly then dawns on him now that it would have been easier to be upfront to actually be upfront.
He sees the still, polite smile on her face. The same one she always offers. Though he hasn't gotten much better at reading her expressions, he knows, at least, that they are not insincere.
"It's...flattering. And thank you for saying something," she tells him almost haltingly.
In her values, honesty is always deserving of recognition. In fact, she is thankful that he had been the one to take the initiative, sparing her from the admittedly daunting task she knows she is not delicate enough, or possibly even daring enough, to address. How thankful she truly is, for once, for Theron's seeming guilelessness.
While the surface of her expression doesn't appear to shift in the least, he can discern all the movements taking course beneath as she considers.
"I don't think it's the most...sensible thing to bring into this alliance..."
She is somewhat hesitant as she finds she must search for the most genuine way to give an answer that she must convince even herself is the right one to give.
It is, however, enough for him.
He presses his lips together, bearing a cursory smile and a simple nod.
"Yeah. Okay."
And that is enough to settle matters for her. (For now, at least.)
She lifts her hand from his datapad screen to let him return to his work. And in consideration of him (and herself as well, she supposes), she leaves to give him a private moment of peace. Yet with every step that takes her farther away, she begins to question more and more if she had given him the right answer.
The words he's said resound over and over in her mind.
It's possible. We might. Maybe at some point further down the line. Maybe at the very end of all this. Maybe even tomorrow...
No, she convinces herself once again, it was right.
But then it becomes clearer, too, that it was not the answer she wanted to give. Because for just that brief moment, without even meaning to, he has her convinced that they might actually die.
Author's Notes:
Yeah, I know, I'm bad. Why in seven hells am I posting random stuff like this when there are other bigger projects to be working on? :|
'Cause...IMPULSE WRITING! D:
Argh. There's a Mt. Crapmore of random notes and junk I've compiled for this damn ship, and I think it's just gotten to the point of excess where I can't not do something with at least SOME of it. So, I dunno. I don't know what I'm doing with this one, lol. I think it's mostly going to be blurb-esque, in the stylings of mah usual borderline-obsessive insights and whathaveyous into this cursed ship that is Theron/Lana. Updates might be sporadic, at best? #plotlessbutnotreally #whatevercomestomind #dunnowhatimdoing #dammitwritingimpulses #etcetera
And just to be fun—writing prompts are welcome? Lol. No, but seriously, feel free to pop any suggestions in a review. :) I dunno...gives me stuff to play with between forreal projects and...I get bored with my own ideas sometimes...? Or they just end up in dead ends, I don't knowwww. :P
...IMPULSE WRITING! \o/
(As always, reviews are kindly appreciated! ^_^)