Kyra has had enough.
She plants herself in General Koon's path in the narrow corridor and stands braced, fur bristling at her ruff, ears pinned back.
Her tail is the only thing that gives lie to the aggressive posture, the displeased rumbling in her throat. It lies limp, near despondent. It's been hard, it was still hard, and the uncertainty was wearing on her Other. Her too, and if he wouldn't do anything about it, she would.
Still, she doesn't respond to Wolffe's hissed protest, doesn't move when General Plo comes to a slow stop before her, sleek Gisla peering out from behind her Other's leg, ears pricked forward curiously.
"Commander," Plo rumbles cautiously, not even addressing her, and that's it!
"Why don't you trust us?!" Kyra demands directly, bristling harder, hurt subsumed under aggression. Wolffe is waving his hand in negation, but she's done listening to him either! He hasn't dealt with this yet, and it's past time. "You barely look at me, you won't talk to me! You say you care about us, but you obviously don't!"
It's hard to read Plo's expression, but Gisla's ears flare in alarm, her eyes going wide and her fur bristling all along her spine.
Kyra ducks her head a little, nervous that she scared the smaller mammal, but not willing to back down from this. If their General doesn't trust them, then… They will live. But they need to know why. Maybe they can fix whatever they did. Or maybe they can stop hoping, stop believing the honey-sweet reassurances that he actually cares about their lives. It hurts too much, to try to reconcile his refusal to acknowledge her, with those words of belonging.
Plo's hand drops, and Gisla raises up on her haunches to press her head against his claw-tipped hand.
There is a long moment of silence, Wolffe braced defensively, obviously irritated but not willing to counter Kyra's words.
Plo's head swings to the side to look at Wolffe, away from her, and Kyra's head sinks further in defeat, a near inaudible whine escaping her.
He's still not going to acknowledge her.
It's true then. He doesn't really see them as people.
"Kyra," comes the General's deep voice, a gentle curl around her name, never before heard in that deeply resonant voice. Her head comes up, ears pricked forward at the sound of her name, almost falling back on her haunches in surprise when he folds to his knees in front of her, his hands resting on his thighs, and leaning forward to look her directly in the face.
"If I have ever" he begins, with the same gravity he once used to tell them that he cared about them, valued their lives as individuals over the success of the mission. It makes her breath catch. "Given you or Wolffe reason to believe you have less than my utmost respect, trust, and affection, I owe you my deepest apologies."
"Then why won't you talk to me? Why do you barely look at me? Why won't you touch me?" She almost wails, abandoning her and Wolffe's dignity and image here in this empty corridor with only their General as witness, ducking her head an inch closer, but keeping on her side of the line of distance he always has. She won't impose on him where he has made it clear she is not welcome. "Why does Gisla shy away from Wolffe like he's a long-neck? We would never hurt either of you!"
Plo rocks back like he doesn't from physical attacks, a startled sound deep in his throat. Gisla takes a step forward in the same instant, crowding close to Kyra's side. Kyra almost wants to flinch away from her, startled instinct that she'd never had for anyone but the long-necks, and the trainer's daemons.
She can't.
She trusts even if it's a little battered, even if it's not reciprocated, no matter Plo's words.
Gisla's touch is not Plo's, not the benediction they seek, but it's better than nothing.
No. That is a disservice, and a horrid one.
Gisla's touch is wonderful, a thing sought and treasured of it's own right whenever it's been granted: sitting quietly beside each other when the planning runs late into the night and their fur brushing as they breathe, the other tucked into the fur of Kyra's belly when Kyra pinned her down on the battlefield, protecting her from falling debris with her bigger body.
Kyra braces her weight to take part of the other daemons,' supporting her when she rears up, placing mobile little paws on either side of Kyra's muzzle. Soothing warmth radiates from that contact, and Kyra doesn't understand, but she'll take it.
"We don't understand," Gisla tells her, voice quiet and high, but not grating, more like the warm melody of a bes'bev celebrating life after battle. Kyra could happily sit for hours and listen to her and her Other talk, their voices forming a melody. Now it's pitched with urgency, discordant, distressed, and Kyra wants to howl. She hadn't wanted to hurt them, just to understand, just to be acknowledged. "Kyra, we do trust you, you and Wolffe. We care about you, so much. Why would we violate you in such a way?"
"Violate?" Wolffe asks, startled, stepping forward next to Kyra, digging a hand into her ruff, fingers curling deep and holding on, but carefully staying away from where Gisla is standing. "Sir… what? Why would that — I trust you, Sir, you have to know that! I trust you more than I've ever trusted any being in the Galaxy. I know not all of my brothers trust their Jedi completely, but not all of the Jedi are like you, sir. You've long had my complete trust. I just… don't know what more I can do to win yours, what else I can do to prove it."
Kyra didn't like the defeat in Wolffe's voice, and she snarled at him, turning to nip at the armor on his hip, dislodging Gisla as she did. No. They did not give up. They never gave up.
"Commander," Plo started, then shook his head, still looking up at him from where he kneeled before them. "Wolffe..Kyra. We do trust you. If you can believe nothing else, you can believe that." He looked at them, practically radiating sincerity from every inch of him, and Wolffe slowly nodded. "I also have no doubts in your trust in me, Wolffe," he continued, once he had that acknowledgment.
Wolffe started to look stubborn, so Plo held up his hand, requesting patience, and the Commander subsided.
"I believe," he explained slowly, weighing every word as he said them, mentally reviewing months of interaction with his Commander, bits of interaction witnessed between his men and their Others, "that we may have encountered one of the differences between the culture you and your brothers have, and the culture I am familiar with. To most of the galaxy, to touch another's daemon outside an absolute emergency without the explicit consent of all parties involved is tantamount to rape."
Wolffe jerked backward with a defensive snarl, Kyra mirroring him, two sets of teeth bared in reaction to that thought, Kyra's vicious growl echoing in the corridor, primal and fierce.
"We would never!" Wolffe bites the words out, hands clenched tight, one still in her ruff and pulling so hard pain zinged through them both, a feedback loop, but it only kicked their outrage up higher, cutting them off from words entirely, their only outlet Kyra's continued outraged growling, the fierce wild sound that sometimes shattered even brother's nerves in the face of their fury.
Plo doesn't flinch from either of them, not in the least. Gisla actually inches further forward towards them, looking concerned. Plo's hands come up, but it's not a defensive motion.
Supplicating, instead, willing Wolffe to listen.
"I know, Wolffe," Plo's voice is even, calm, reasonable. Wolffe doesn't want to be soothed right now. Not when Plo just said, just implied —
"We are not like the long-necks, General," He snarled. "Poking and prodding, and tearing Others away from each other. Or the trainers, to punish one Other for the mistakes of their partner. We would never use that connection to hurt one another, and I would put down myself whatever mad dog tried!"
Plo stops everything.
It looks to Wolffe like he even stops breathing.
Gisla's fur fluffs out all at once, ears pinning flat against her skull, tail straight up in the air and twice as big as normal.
The corridor is cold.
Kyra feels like her breath should be coming out in clouds around her, and presses into Wolffe's side. Wolffe's hands go loose at his side, looking at his General, eyes wide as frozen, space-deep fury billows from him.
"Commander Wolffe," General Koon says, and despite still being on his knees before his Commander, it is General Koon speaking again. Wolffe straightens in response, falling into parade rest, Kyra straightening at his side.
Plo takes a very deep breath, the intake whistling faintly in his rebreather.
Gisla looks like she is preparing to rend into something with her needle sharp teeth.
Wolffe doesn't know exactly what he has done to displease his General, but he will not back down. They are not like that. When he runs his hands along Jinx's crest in greeting he is not violating Cody, when Frasi collapses purring on his chest he is not violating Sinker. When Rex buries his hands into Kyra's ruff and shakes her head playfully, pressing his forehead to hers, Wolffe does not feel violated.
Another breath.
The cold feeling does not subside, but curves around them, frosting the walls around them but leaving them untouched. "It sounds like you and I need to have a very in depth conversation about some of the training methods employed on Kamino, Commander. It appears we have some things to clear up, and to discuss with the Kaminoans."
That was an order no matter how neatly phrased, and Wolffe's response cannot be anything but "Yes, Sir!"
A couple more breaths, and the cold feeling passes like a storm, leaving the air feeling crisp and smelling faintly of ozone. "For now," Plo says, and his voice is gentle again. "Why don't we go to my quarters, and you tell me a little more about how you and your brothers interact with your Others. I'm afraid I've been making a host of assumptions you are about to prove unfounded."
Wolffe looked down at Kyra, and then back to Plo. "I think, Sir, that would be a good idea. It sounds like we've both been operating without a complete briefing. I would… like to fix that."
He held his hand out to help Plo up from the floor, knowing the other did not need it the assistance. When the Jedi accepted it anyway, letting him haul him to his feet, Wolffe couldn't help the small smile that tweaked at his lips.
"As would I, Wolffe," Plo affirmed, not stepping away from where Kyra was nearly touching the fabric covering his leg. Gisla's happy rumble washed the memory of Kyra's wounded snarling out of the air of the corridor, as they all turned to walk towards Plo's quarters, closer than they had ever been before, the first steps towards better understanding.