I have been reworking this story for a few weeks now, as I have been replaying TSL. The whole point of this story is to get a better feel for the interplay between the characters that I felt was lacking. I have also made some changes, which will become more apparent later.
Please, please critique. I crave feedback like it is my job.
The murmurs, the disjointed and frail exclamations of pain. These were the things that hurt him most. He would rather her be still and silent than feverish. She cringed in her comatose state, her face contorted with horror, and he looked away. It was only when he could no longer hear the rustle of the sheets, the creak of the old mattress beneath her, that he turned his hazel gaze back.
With care he adjusted the sheets. In her struggle she had managed to let them slip down, revealing her threadbare underclothes. His hand reached out, and then he paused. She would be displeased for someone to see her in such raggedy apparel. He smiled, thinking of the way she would argue with Kreia about the importance of appearance.
Kreia. If only he had strangled her when he had the chance.
"Atton?"
Hastily, he dropped the sheet in place, and looked behind him. There stood Mira, her head bandaged and her arm in a sling.
"I think - I think you should go have something to eat. Visas helped the Disciple make some soup. You've been here for hours. Your watch is more than over."
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Though I don't know how good the soup is going to be with Visas being blind and the Disciple being a dolt."
Mira allowed a wan smile, and put her hand on his shoulder. He could no longer hide inside the cargo hold. They would not let him. He rose, habitually dusting off his thighs, and walked out. He forced himself to only glance back once.