Summary: Sequel to A Hand In Refuge. "He pointedly raises a ridge in warning, and, Force, it feels good to be condescending." A prank leads to an overdue apology. 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 this fic on AO3.
Here's a layout I created for the way I perceive the Guard Halls: blog/view/oh-three/690464525287358464?source=share
And here's a further look into the personalities of the Guard crew based on incorrect quotes: blog/view/oh-three/691176073585721344?source=share
Our Unspoken Vows
It's a morning perhaps a week or so after Trohr joins their ranks that Rakesh Brem enters the unit common area and is faced with a multitude of different expressions from the four occupants of the room, ranging from barely contained laughter to secondhand embarrassment. Even the usually-stoic Loktof is unable to maintain his neutral appearance.
Rakesh sighs.
"...What is it?" He asks after about thirty seconds of those present just staring at him.
Brakan averts his gaze as Vori snorts back a laugh. And he doesn't need Linaleh's additional grimace to understand that it's bad.
He's scowling even before they finally tell him that someone's painted his ear covers pink with the leftover paint from when they'd done the same to Loktof's fur. Their expressions are still surprised enough to tell him that they weren't involved, and it doesn't take much to understand exactly who had done it.
Her name is on his lips even before he takes off. "Tindri!"
There's a murmured "uh-oh" behind him back on the couch, but Rakesh pays it no mind. He's almost surprised that the women's bunkroom isn't locked when he gets to it and palms the access panel open.
And Tindri's in there alright, mid-conversation with Trohr.
His entrance puts a halt to their talk, however, and he's swift to speak before either of them can, glowering down at the trickster in question. "What's the matter with you?"
She doesn't bother trying to hide her smirk when she offers a noncommittal shrug in response to his rightful umbrage, jerking a shameless finger at her companion with hardly a moment of hesitation. "It was his idea."
His eyes shift to Trohr, who chances a small smile of his own. He catches a hint of mischief twinkling in the boy's irises. Curious. And he scoffs at himself, then, as his own lips begin to quirk upward. Because, he can't quite bring himself to blame the boy, not in the same way he would blame Tindri had she acted alone. Ashla, the youth are too easy to forgive.
Rakesh draws his arms up to fold across his chest as he studies the rookie Guard. Properly. And he finds that he can't quite see anything distasteful in him.
"You are definitely one of us." He concedes, bowing his head to offer his approval.
Trohr blinks at that, as if surprised, and returns the gesture with gratitude. "Thank you."
He merely nods before he takes a pace back, ready to leave them and finally begin his morning processes. But he glances back at Tindri. As if he'd let her off the hook; she definitely had something to do with the ridiculous stunt- because, when doesn't she?
"And you are going to go grab some white paint from storage." He tells her, raising a hand as she tries to protest. "Unless you want Jurr to find out."
Assuming he doesn't already know, he thinks, until he sees the momentary horror that flits across her face at the threat. He pointedly raises a ridge in warning, and, Force, it feels good to be condescending.
"You'd better get moving."
And move she does.
The unit space is quiet after their shift, the others either lounging in silence or participating in some sort of game with a couple of the other units in the larger Guard Hall. Rakesh thinks he might even be the only one in Arrel's private rooms; his ear covers aren't in place, and he can't hear quite as much through the walls as he does most days without them. It's nice. It helps his focus.
Because, off his left, a freshly painted ear covering hovers in the air, the Force radiating around it in gentle waves. Between that and the one his white-tipped brush laps over, he needs the focus.
He's not fond of using the Force for such mundane tasks- it's an abuse of power, he's learned, and his old master isn't the only Jedi who disapproves of such a thing- but he'd rather do it than wait a longer period of time for the blasted things to dry. He's quite tired of the looks that the others keep exchanging when they think he's not looking.
The silencer in his hand will need another coat of paint atop the one he's touching up on now, but, luckily for him, Rakesh has always been a fairly decent multitasker. He has little doubt that he'll have finished by the time the door opens, and-
Whoosh!
He flinches back before he's realized it, a hiss passing through suddenly-clenched teeth.
His head has snapped to the left before the moment's past, and Rakesh blinks at the loose ear covering miraculously still afloat. And when he glances up after a long beat, it's to the sight of a wide-eyed Trohr staring at him.
He watches the realization hit; the boy starts to back up as soon as he's recognized what he's done, stumbling over his words like Brakan. "Sorry, Master Brem, I- It's not important, I'll come back later-"
Trohr is halfway out the door by the time Rakesh recovers from the unexpected formality of being called master. He gives his head a rough shake to clear it, and words finally come back to him.
"You're welcome to stay, if you'd like to." His voice is loud to his own ears. "No point in leaving, now."
The boy stops in his retreat, voice hesitant, hopeful. "...Are you sure?"
Rakesh huffs. While he appreciates that the youth has bothered to ask, being asked after he's already answered the question is more than a little irritating. And his mood has already been soured enough by being caught unawares without the silencers in place.
"Yes." He replies, perhaps a bit too forcefully. "Now sit down. I need to finish these."
His teeth dig into his bottom lip as the door slides back shut, and he licks the first droplets of blood that seep from it as Trohr sits himself upon Brakan's empty bunk. His mouth tastes of copper, but he doesn't acknowledge it, the brush resuming its work of spreading paint across the round surface in his hold.
It's quiet until he has to wet the brush again, Trohr's voice tentatively cutting through the silence. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"People have refused to apologize for worse." Rakesh offers in return, pushing aside the image of his master's face as it leaps to the forefront of his mind. "Consider it forgotten."
The boy's nod is solemn, far too much so. Because he understands. Not quite in the same way, of course, but he does. War is brutal, and Trohr has spent much of it on the front lines among the troops. He's seen things- seen people do things- that none of those in the Guard have had the misfortune of witnessing. Rakesh doesn't envy him. Not everything he had seen on other planets had been too pleasant either.
But such is the way of things. Of the Force. Of life. It's cruel to those who don't deserve it, makes them work to get by, to have any semblance of peace of mind. He knows this. Trohr knows it. They all know it. They wouldn't be here, hiding away in the Temple's quiet calm, otherwise. They are all running from something.
And that prompts Rakesh to speak, the atmosphere of the room drawing forth words he doesn't think he'd ever say to anyone else.
"I owe you an apology for the other night. Sometimes, I'm far more blunt than I intend to be- not that such an excuse removes me from fault." He frowns at a dot of paint on his hand. "I hope you understand that I meant you no harm."
"I know." Trohr says, and a small smile pulls at his lips as he looks up. A hint of his earlier confidence, the shadow of what he had likely been before the war. "I've already forgiven you."
Rakesh hums, satisfied, and rests the brush on a paint tray. He'll have to wait until the silencer dries to tell if it'll need another coat or not. The other looks both dry and perfect in color, so he draws it towards him and pushes the newly-completed one out to hover in its place. Trohr watches, and there's some sort of admiration in the boy's eyes.
"How do you stay so focused?" The young Guard asks.
"Practice and discipline." He counsels. "But perhaps you should try reciting the Jedi Code. It works when nothing else does."
"The Code?" Trohr questions, and begins to quote it at Rakesh's confirming nod. "There is no emotion; there is-
"In your head." He corrects, fighting back a smirk.
Brown eyes widen in response. "Right."
And this time, there's a camaraderie in the silence that reaches out between them. Rakesh thinks he's finally starting to get used to the feeling.