Angel

Summary:
As the end nears, Atton reflects on love, life and darkness. (oneshot. Spoilers for KOTORII. DSF Exile/Dark Atton. angst. Why? Because it's fun.)

Rating:
PG-13. Because have you ever read a dark sort-of-romance that's rated lower than PG-13? Especially when Atton's involved? Mild language, mild sexual references, and lots of angst.

A/N:
Yeah, I'm all for the Atton/Exile pairings, whether they're both light or they're both dark or one's an angelic little sweetie and the other's all "DIE DIE DIE YOU STUPID JEDIIII! insert random battle cry here" …Uh, yeah. I figured it'd be interesting to try out a dark pairing. Not entirely sure how right I got it, but I don't think it turned out too badly. Read it and tell me what you think!

Disclaimer:
I do not, unfortunately, own Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords. But I bet you totally would've believed me if I said I did.

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He thought about her often.

He didn't want to, but when you wake up shaking from a cold-sweat nightmare it's not always easy to forget it. And the nightmares came often. He soon discovered that they were less frequent after a good round of Corellian Ale, and he infinitely preferred the next-day headaches to the dreams, so he quickly acquired the habit of getting drunk every night.

He'd killed her because he loved her.

During the rare moments that he was sober, he was able to think about this, and it confused him to no end. He didn't understand how it could have happened, how he could have fallen in love with a Jedi. Lust, he could comprehend—but he'd been with women before. This had been different. He'd found himself wanting more, even after he'd had his way with her.

He'd loved her. And for that, he would never cease to hate her.

He had killed her because he had panicked. There had been no other way to be rid of her, and he'd already made up his mind to be very, very rid of her. He tortured her first, though, because she was driving him to insanity and he couldn't deal with that. He made her suffer, in every way he knew how. She infuriated him; her stubborn, elitist self-righteousness grated on his every nerve. He despised her, he took great satisfaction in her pain, and he was not sorry for any of it.

Except when the nightmares came.

He didn't remember her face, even in his dreams. He thought he had known her name once, but he may as well have never heard it. He couldn't recall her voice or her scent or the way her body had felt under his.

But her eyes haunted him wherever he went.

They had always intrigued him, from the very beginning. They were nothing special in themselves (true, their color was unusually bright, but he'd seen brighter.) Still, there was a light behind those emerald depths, a life he'd never seen before. It was so deep-seated that no tortures had ever removed it. He'd tried.

Gods, how he'd tried.

It was new to him, that light that lay somewhere beyond the reaches of pain. And it was magnified whenever those green eyes turned to him. He couldn't understand it, because how was it possible to love the source of your suffering? And it was love; even he could not overlook that. Perhaps it had only been that pitying sort of love, the condescending compassion that all Jedi seemed to show toward all other beings. It was still more than he'd ever known, and it still confused the hell out of him.

But it didn't matter anymore.

She was dead.

His life—if it could really be called that—consisted mostly of drinking, gambling, and sex, all things that he liked and was good at. He wasn't picky about lovers, really. He'd go for twi'ileks or humans, curvy or willowy, experienced or naive. (None of them had green eyes… that, however, was simply a coincidence that he was more than happy not to notice.)

He made enough money to get by. Whether by gambling or stealing (or a little of both), he was able to survive. And that's all he'd ever wanted, really. To survive.

But it would have been a load of gizka fodder to say that he wasn't perfectly miserable.

And then one fateful day, an angel walked into his pathetic existence.

She was short and sort of pretty, in a dangerous kind of way, though at first glance he thought she looked like the kind of girl he could pick up and snap in half if he really wanted to. (How very wrong he was.) She wore nothing but a Republic-issue jumpsuit, and she came very close to leaving him on that gods-forsaken mining facility after he had the idiocy to make a crack about the two of them getting together.

She was an angel.

Not the most benevolent angel, it was true. She was bitter and caustic and she lost no time in informing him of just how pathetic his existence really was. She could easily out-yell him and did so at every possibly opportunity. If she spoke at all when she wasn't angry—which was rare in itself—it was usually to ask him why the hell he was bothering her, instead of doing something useful for once.

Still, there were times when she was compassionate, in her own way. Or perhaps it wasn't exactly compassion—"acceptance" was a little more accurate. It was a strange, unfeeling sort of acceptance, but acceptance of any kind was new to him and he had no complaints. She was honest with him, often brutally so, and she never pretended to care about him beyond his usefulness to her… but it wasn't so bad, really. He could handle the truth. And the truth was that she would keep him around as long as he could help her, so he poured his entire being into doing just that.

He wasn't sure how they became attached the way they did. She was a cold, merciless ex-Jedi with an arrogant streak a parsec wide. And he—well, he was nothing more than a rash, loudmouthed, sarcastic fool whose only talents were gambling and killing Jedi. How they even put up with each other was beyond him; she certainly made it clear that it was a difficult task on her part.

But somewhere beneath the glaring and the bickering and the constant death threats, the two of them shared an understanding that none of their companions would have been able to comprehend.

Because when you came right down to it, they were both outcasts.

Before she turned up, he had been entirely content to drink the rest of his life away. Drinking gave him a chance to forget his worthlessness, to forget that he should probably be dead for all that he'd done.

But when she appeared, she didn't want his pathetic attempts at atonement. She didn't want his excuses, and she didn't want his promises to change. She wanted him.

He was a murderer.

She didn't care.

How do you know I won't betray you, he said.

You try it and I'll kill you, she replied.

And that was that.

It was blessedly simple. He followed her orders; she took the credit and the blame. He fought who she fought, respected who she respected, threatened who she threatened, killed who she killed, and as long as he was blindly following commands there was no guilt, no twinge of conscience.

Dark, some called her. Fallen, manipulative, and dark.

But he had seen light before. He had seen its arrogance, its near-sightedness, its stubborn, elitist self-righteousness. And he had no desire to be a part of that deceit.

If she was dark, he thought, then dark could not be all bad.

He lay awake often, listening to her steady breathing as she lay beside him and pondering this. True, she killed, but so did Jedi. She gave in to her lusts, but they did not control her. He was not much at pondering, really, but he thought that perhaps the side of the Force that she chose to harness was only dark because nobody could understand it.

Like her.

He didn't understand her. He didn't understand her thoughts or her plans or her feelings.

But he understood that she had saved him.

So dark could not be all bad.

With that in mind, he waits.

He waits on a rusty ship, on a planet that died years ago. He is alone; there were others before, but their bodies now lay strewn about the ship, each of them the victim of a betrayal and a quick, easy 'saber in the back. In one corner of the garage sit two piles of metal that were once droids.

He waits, leaning casually against a wall, wondering vaguely just how long it would take a woman like her to kill a hag like Kreia, or Traya, or whatever it was she calling herself now.

Not long, he decides, after a moment. She won't be long. He'd just have to wait—he couldn't expect her to jump in, fight the witch, and leave, all within a single time part. There would, of course, be the customary chatter before the fighting began. Kreia would probably fling some insults disguised as wisdom, and his angel would fling them right back.

His angel.

He likes the sound of that. Though, of course, it wouldn't do to say anything along those lines to her—she would most likely skewer him with her lightsaber right then and there.

He waits.

Perhaps, he thinks, she will take the name of Darth Traya for herself. It would be fitting, after all, seeing how she trained under the hag like an apprentice. I'm her apprentice now, he realizes. Not like that changes anything. In all reality, he's been her apprentice for a very long time.

He waits.

And waits.

And at last he hears the boarding ramp begin to lower, and then she's standing before him, sweaty and tired and glorious. There are shadows beneath her eyes, and the tattoos etched over her pale body give her a menacing sort of elegance.

She is magnificent.

She nods approvingly as she looks around at the dead bodies. "Good," she purrs, approaching him slowly, almost carefully.

And that's when he sees it.

Somewhere under the darkness in those green eyes, something shines, something he hoped he'd never see again—but he wasn't fool enough not to recognize it the first time, and he hasn't gotten any dumber.

She loves him.

And that's it.

Suddenly everything isn't quite so simple anymore.

Because he's seen that look before. That confusion, that denial. That first, awful, brutal hint of uncertainty.

It scares him.

Because he's seen it all. All of it. The confusion is dangerous, yes, and the denial is a little unsafe—but it's mostly that damned, blasted uncertainty. He's seen it in the mirror, and he knows that when a person first feels that awful, awful doubt, there's no telling what they'll do to get rid of it. He's seen that, too. Hell, he's done that.

So he feels no surprise when her crimson lightsaber springs to life.

The lack of reaction seems to throw her off momentarily. He can feel her uncertainty growing, and as it grows, so does her deadliness. "You saw it coming," she says, and he replies "Yeah."

Her blade lowers—only a few inches, but it's there and he sees it. "I have to do this."

"Yeah."

"There's no other choice."

She sounds more like she's trying to convince herself than him. Why would she bother trying to convince him, after all, if she's only going to kill him? So he only says "Sure," because she probably isn't listening to him anyway. And that's all right, he thinks, because he's not really listening to her anymore, either. Instead he's wondering how soon she'll forget him, and whether his eyes will haunt her for the rest of her life.

Unlikely, he decides after a moment. His eyes are nothing special.

But then, neither were hers.

"You can't stop me." Her voice is much firmer now.

"I know."

He wants to tell her that she's wrong. Because there's always another choice. There is a choice, and he's pretty sure he made the wrong one all those years ago and if she doesn't stop now then she'll never be free of the nightmares and the pain and the eyes, oh, the eyes—

But she's never reacted well to being told she's wrong.

So he bites his tongue and ignites his lightsaber and he thinks that maybe—just maybe—he can make her listen to him if he can beat her first. He'll tell her everything, he decides, even about the Jedi woman with the green eyes, and all he needs is for her to calm down and stay still long enough for him to tell her. And then, if he's lucky, she'll save herself before it's too late.

Because she's dark, but she's not all bad.

And he doesn't want her to suffer the hell he's suffered, because he loves her too much for that.

And then, with the crackle of blade on blade, it begins.

He's improved in the months they've spent together, but so has she. And he can close his mind to her, stop her from anticipating his next move—but so can she. So they battle for a long time, pushing each other to the limit, both of them skilled and both of them desperate.

It ends just as quickly as it began.

He blocks a thrust, blocks a swing, dodges a stab, and takes the offensive, catching her off guard. She falters. Only for an instant, but it's a long enough instant for his blade to slice neatly through her hilt—and she's at his mercy now, thank gods. He has a lightsaber and she doesn't, and she expects him to kill her but he won't. He just wants to explain, to make her know that dark and bad are not the same, because somewhere along the line she seems to have forgotten that. Or perhaps she never knew, and only needs someone to tell her. So he presses the button on the hilt of his lightsaber and the blade snaps neatly back.

"Listen to me," he begins, ignoring the surprise in her eyes. "Just listen for a minute—" He coughs.

There is a moment of silence.

And now he can't breathe.

"Didn't I teach you not to let your guard down?" she sneers, one arm stretched toward him. "But you always were a fool, weren't you?"

A small sound escapes his lips. He wants to tell her to stop, to let him say what he has to say before she tries to kill him, but it comes out as a sort of miserable croak.

So she continues. "You did well," she says, gesturing to the dead bodies with her free hand, the one that isn't choking the life from his body. "They would all have been threats eventually."

His world is beginning to fade to gray. All except her eyes, which stay bright and green and lovely as she continues. "You would have been a threat too. No hard feelings, I hope?" But despite the coldness in her tone, her eyes betray her. They always have.

There is pain there, and love.

Why is it, he wonders blearily, that the two never seem far apart?

Her hand constricts around empty air. At the same time, his throat is crushed even more, and no amount of struggling can free him. He sinks to the floor, everything blurring and fading in and out of focus.

Except the eyes, menacing and beautiful and green.

He wonders again how long it will take for her to forget his voice and the nights they spent together.

Not long, he thinks.

Because that's how these things work.

And then the blessed darkness takes over, drowning out everything, even the nightmarish eyes. And the pressure on his throat is a little bit less, but maybe that's just because he can't feel anything anymore. He sinks willingly into the inky blackness, into a place where there are no nightmares. There are no nightmares, because there is no love, because if love is light then death is darkness and they cannot both exist at once.

He killed her because he loved her. And that was difficult but understandable, but the question that's always had him stumped was how could she love him back when he was the one killing her?

And now, at last, it makes sense.

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A/N: Uhhh… Yeah. Not great, it's a little choppy, but it's my first attempt at an entire dark fic. And I need to make sure I can get the dark stuff right before I begin the longer story I'm working on. (Yes, with chapters!) So, if anyone's got any suggestions, I'd be really happy to hear them.

Force persuade You really should review, you know. You should go to that little button in the bottom left corner that says "submit review" and you should leave me a nice little note telling me what you thought. /persuade