Summary: Sequel to Hearts Bound In Gold. "And here he'd thought that there's no greater humiliation than not being allowed full access to the Archives." The Temple Guard may seem like lifeless statues to the main body of the Jedi Order, but they are much more than that behind the scenes. One-shot.
A/N: Rakesh Brem is the name I have given the Grand Inquisitor, the main character of this series. Further notes on him and the appearing Guard and/or Inquisitorius members will be listed at the end of the AO3 version.
Behind The Scenes
When Cin Drallig first gave him the option to join the Temple Guard, Rakesh Brem had sworn to uphold that air of detachedness that the outside Jedi see in their Guardians. Then he actually joined the Guard and stumbled into something completely different than what is seen in the Temple's halls.
He has tried to maintain that sturdy, distant atmosphere within himself, but it just doesn't work when you're thrown into a group of people like Vori, Loktof, Tindri, Brakan, and Linaleh. Not only does Jurr encourage friendly interaction, but Drallig himself does.
Rakesh has been part of their unit for five years, and he is still getting used to it.
He never has been close to anyone before, not truly- well, other than Vori, who had refused to leave his side during their youngling years. Even his own master hadn't gone out of his way to get to know him, not for the decade that they were side by side traveling here and there around the galaxy. He hasn't even seen the man since his own knighting ceremony, nearly another decade ago. If he showed up now, Rakesh would likely give him a cold shoulder and pretend they'd never met. It's the least he deserves.
To be in a group of such…interdependent individuals is something that he hasn't completely adjusted to, something he doubts he will completely adjust to. Twenty-something years of emotional solitude is hard to shake.
But they welcomed him with open arms upon his arrival, and he's not yet lost his sanity, so he has to admit that things are going well. And, while he'll never confess it to the others, he has found that he enjoys it- being part of a group. He'd never expected it himself, at the beginning, but he's come to learn time and time again that one rarely receives what he expects. His youth made sure he learnt it, and yet…It really is ironic that he keeps getting surprised.
Surprises, he reminds himself, lazily lounging in a chestnut armchair in the unit common area, aren't always a bad thing.
They'd finished an extra-long shift perhaps an hour prior, in which Jurr had graciously allowed them to skip training for the day, promising not to tell Cin before heading over to the Battlemaster's office himself.
Loktof had promptly crashed in his bunkroom after they'd stopped by the refectory to catch a bite- he snores so loudly that it can't be missed- and Rakesh had claimed this armchair as his for the evening. He's already quite drowsy himself, but he's still alert enough to know that the others are talking amongst each other in one of the empty bunks, their voices muffled through the walls. The Force around them hums contentedly.
It's the evenings like this that he likes the most; the ones where things are peaceful amongst the team, where the air isn't vibrating with hidden tensions or high energy; the ones where they can forget about the war, forget about the conflict between the Republic's clone army and the Separatist forces; the ones he can almost forget about the multiplying traces of ignorance and corruption in the Jedi Order. The war hadn't even begun a year ago, and it's already done irreparable damage to the entire galaxy.
Rakesh's eyes slip closed for the umpteenth time since he'd first sat down. He roughly shakes his head to regain some awareness and tears them back open. He has made a silent vow not to fall asleep anywhere but his own bunk. This night will not be the one that it happens.
One of his arms slides over the rounded edge of the armrest and into his lap. He stares at it for a moment, grimacing at his slow comprehension. He allows his fingers to tap against his thigh as he mulls over the pros and cons of following Loktof's example of calling an early evening. He'd had a late night the day before, and they'd started earlier than usual this morning. He certainly could use the rest.
All the same, he isn't fond of being one of the first to turn in. It leaves him vulnerable- he may trust the others with his life, but he doesn't trust them not to do something to him while he's getting some well-deserved sleep. Perhaps he could swipe his lightsaber pike from beside his own bunk and get in some extra practice at going through the motions of the different forms of combat, make up for the lack of the day's usual sparring sessions. It would be more than the others have done, he's certain of that.
The sound of a door sliding open cuts him off from his musings, and he blinks. Conversation in the overfilled bunkroom has ceased, and he can sense someone watching him from just outside his peripheral, peeking their head out into the common area. He leans into their presence and tilts his head curiously as he recognizes it as Vori's.
"Rak?" Her voice is quiet, as if she believes him to be asleep.
He's not- understandably less so now- and he raises a ridge as he turns to look at her. "What?"
Someone in the bunkroom tries to shush her, to keep her from asking whatever it is that she's about to ask of him, and he immediately knows that the others are up to something. As good as they are at keeping secrets, they're no good at masking a mischievous plot against one of their own.
He just manages to withhold a groan and keep a straight face, hoping it's Loktof they're after rather than himself. "Vori, what are they doing?"
Her grin is sheepish, even as she evades his question. "Do they keep paint on the storage level?"
"What could you possibly need paint for?" Rakesh fires back, frowning, not quite liking where their conversation is going. Something tells him that he isn't going to like what this results in coming out to either.
But, not unexpectedly, she declines a proper response to that as well. Instead, she merely stands there, silently pleading, the look on her face an expression that Linaleh wouldn't even think about denying anything. He hates to confess to it himself, but even he can't refuse her the answer to her concerning inquiry.
Rakesh sighs, lips curling unhappily in his defeat. "If there is paint within the Temple, it will be there."
How none of the others know something like that is beyond him. They all have access to that information, had it even before they joined the Guard. Do they really think that all the private contractors that have painted the Temple and the ships within each of the hangars brought in the paint themselves? He simply can't imagine how they'd missed it.
With the setback aside, Vori's face lights up anew and she practically leaps toward a mask that had been cast aside and left on one of the sofas resting between bunkrooms. She snatches it up and slides it on top down, vanishing through the door in a blur of white, beige, and gold. The door's mechanisms hiss in her wake.
Oh, Force. He blinks and slowly shakes his head. What have I gotten myself into this time?
The back of his neck itches under the scrutiny of another pair of eyes, and he can sense that they're waiting for him to speak, to voice his disapproval of whatever it is that the rest of the crew is up to.
"It will be a while before she returns, you know. It's quite the maze down there." He turns back to the bunkroom then, his eyes meeting those of Linaleh. He pauses, contemplates whether he should ask or not, and finds that his curiosity indeed outweighs his reservations. "...Do I even want to know what it's for?"
Tucked within the room behind the eldest woman, Tindri laughs. "Oh, he'll love this."
"I don't think-" Brakan's distant voice begins.
"He'll find out anyway. Besides, he and Lok are mortal enemies...Just tell him."
Mortal enemies. Rakesh nearly scoffs. It's certainly a bit of an understatement. They've had their qualms with one another, yes, but their only real conflict had been the training session he'd nearly been crushed against the wall in.
Linaleh is silent for a long moment, then she sighs. He finds that she's actually quite reasonable with her reluctance when the words finally come out. "We're going to paint Loktof pink."
"What?" He blurts, feeling how his eyeridges raise to their highest point. Her words repeat in his head as he processes them, several different remarks flying past as he gropes for something to say. That's a horrible idea. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that will look? You do know he'll kill you, yes?
What he manages is far less lethal a comment than originally desired. "Have you seen how dark his fur is? Will it show?"
She shoots him a funny expression. "It's paint, Rakesh, not hair dye."
As if that makes it any better, he grunts to himself, lips pursing in attempt to mask the grimace spreading across his face. "...Will it even come out?"
Linaleh's responding smirk is answer enough. The paint will not be easy for Loktof to wash out of his coat.
Rakesh can already hear the snarls, the accusations that the Shistavanen will throw at them. He quickly decides that be does not want to be involved in their suicide-plot- at least, not as a contributor to such madness. There will be hell to pay, and he really would rather steer clear of suffering the wrath of their most vicious team member. His ribs ache just thinking about the last time he'd been on the receiving end of Loktof's rage.
Tindri's lighter, blue-gemmed face appears beneath Linaleh's, nearly startling him. Her next confession is painfully casual. "We considered doing it to you, but Vori and Brak wouldn't let us."
Thank the Force for the two of them. The textured stripes in his skin would have meant weeks of paint flaking off of his body. And here he'd thought that there's no greater humiliation than not being allowed full access to the Archives. Still. Loktof's fur is going to be horribly clumped if they see this stunt of theirs through. "He's going to kill you."
"He'll be too ashamed to show his face around us." Linaleh points out, Tindri giving a half-shrug of agreement as the other vanishes back into the room behind her.
Loktof probably will live with his mask on until he's washed all of the paint from his coat.
Then he'll retaliate. Rakesh isn't sure if he'd rather watch him return the favor or stay as far from the dark warrior as he possibly can. Either way, he decides not to tell them that they won't get away unscathed. It would ruin the surprise.
"You two are dangerous together." He deadpans instead, shaking his head once more. Truly, he doesn't understand the effort that they put into their antics at times. They must have some sort of death wish hidden from him. "All four of you are."
Tindri gives a laugh, well aware and thoroughly entertained by the fact, her roguish smile spreading up to her eyes. "And you aren't?"
"Oh, I am." He says, with a gesture of affirmation. There's no way he could possibly deny it, if he ever wished to. He could've killed most of them countless times during training. "Just more toward others than myself."
Her expression softens to one of a sad sort of knowing, and she shakes her head this time. All mirth is gone from her voice, and he can't quite make out the odd tone of it. "That's not what Vori says."
Something overtakes him then, something not entirely himself, and he finds himself fighting back a sudden snarl with his next words. "If Vori has any concerns about my wellbeing, she can report it to me."
The room falls quiet in the immediate aftermath of the outburst, and Rakesh tilts his head away from Tindri, his razor-sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip as he comes to understand that Vori's concern over him may not entirely be misplaced after all. His master had built him up, but at what cost? He had joined the Guard, but what has he gained?
No.
Sleep.
He needs sleep.
He exhales slowly, releasing his lip from its compromising position beneath his top incisors, letting his shoulders relax from their tense posture. He's sleep-deprived and overworked- of his own doing- he should be getting a bit snappy right about now.
Vori has every right to confide in Tindri about her concern for him if she feels she must.
His master hadn't given him much, had perhaps even taken more than he had given, but the Guard has given him family. He has gained much from them, and he has been with them only half as long as he was with his master. They are not the ones who deserve to be on the wrong end of his temper.
Rakesh takes one more steadying breath and then turns back toward a surveying Tindri. "Let us continue this another time."
She returns the suggestion with an easy nod, visibly unshaken by the sharp turn that their conversation had taken. She's seen worse- from him and others. "Tired?" She asks.
"When am I not?" He tonelessly fires back, gripping the armrests of his chair to pull himself up to his feet.
The fatigue is returning, crushing him from the outside in, stronger than before. He's had his fill of both the others and the overall day, it would do him well to turn in before he really loses himself. As entertaining as they can be, the others still can be too much for him. Speaking of which-
He really hopes that Loktof doesn't find some way to blame him for their actions when he wakes up with a bright pink coat of fur instead of a black one. Waking up covered in tattoos himself- because Loktof would go that far- would send him into a rage. Being barred from the Order over murder is not a plan of his.
"And what will you do when he wakes up in the middle of it?" He asks as he passes by the bunkroom that the others are cooped up in.
"He won't." Linaleh says, not worried in the least.
"We convinced Brak to steal a hypo." Tindri elaborates, her voice accompanied by the sound of her hand clapping down on the Zabrak's shoulder.
Rakesh is too tired to be impressed by the act of forethought. He merely gives a thoughtful hum in response before he ducks into the empty bunkroom that Brakan would normally already be inside of. From there, he sets himself down on his bunk, strips the extra effects from his uniform, and stretches out across the mattress with a deep sigh.
He gets up only to shut the door, and then he's turning down the dials of his ear coverings, deafening himself to the happenings around him. He'll awake when he's needed, and hopefully without having been touched by the mischief of the others- of the family he'd never dared to hope for.
Even with the proper chemicals, it takes Loktof a whole week to completely wash the paint from his fur.
Rakesh almost feels bad.
Almost.