facta, non verba

By the time Nine stops crying, her sobs quieting into soft whines like a wounded animal and then, finally, into the slow steady breaths of sleep, it's been over an hour and she's added another half-dozen items to the list of Things For Which Theron Is Going To Have To Apologize.

She tries to get up after a few minutes. Her legs are numb, her stomach aching where Nine's head is pressed against it (it was only a stun bolt, just like they'd agreed, but that didn't make it hurt any less and his aim was too good by half. The shot took the breath right out of her). But when she shifts Nine opens her eyes.

"Theron?" Nine reaches out, half-slurring. She's got enough painkillers in her system to stun a bantha. How is she still awake? "Theron, I dreamed-"

Damn him. Damn him to the Void and back.

"It's only me," she says quietly. "He can't- he isn't here. Do you remember what happened?"

"Lana?" Nine turns her head, just enough to look up and see her- the movement sets the bruises off again but she breathes through the pain; she'll see to herself later- and then blinks, slowly, eyes bloodshot and bruise-rimmed. "It's not real, is it? It's not- he didn't-"

"I'm sorry." She doesn't know what else to say.

Nine starts to cry again, then.

They should have known that this would happen. They'd assumed too much, assumed that because she'd endured the worst of the struggles against Arcann and Vaylin, the worst of the Emperor's constant assaults on her mind without complaint that she could get through this. It would be hard, they knew- harder still because it had to be Theron to go.

(No, he says over her protests as they sit, heads together, in her quarters. It's too far over your head. If this goes even a fraction as deep as I think it does-

I can manage it. It'd make more sense if it was me, wouldn't it?

Theron shakes his head. Not any more. Not after Iokath.

He's right, of course. But she keeps pushing until finally he raises a hand, snappish, to silence her.

Lana, no. You aren't cut out for this. There's no room for mistakes with people like them- one slip and you're dead, and you're going to have to do whatever it takes. Whatever they want. No second thoughts.

I-

No, he says again. It's got to be me. But I'm going to need your help.)

Nine couldn't be allowed to follow him, not right away. She'd have scented him out like a hunting hound and all their planning would be for nothing- the circle of conspirators would close in around all of them and it would be the end of everything, all their work, all their plans, all Nine's sacrifice and suffering and all the new scars she bore for naught-

But this is monstrous.

They'd assumed she could endure it.

They'd assumed. They were wrong.

So instead she strokes Nine's hair, newly shorn, brittle pieces coming free between her fingers- she'd gone through her quarters and taken everything she could lay her hands on that might have been dangerous (which, knowing Nine as she did, was practically everything including the bedsheets and spare changes of clothing but she had to leave something for her to wear), but she hadn't thought about the medical bay; at least it'd only been her hair Nine had cut- murmuring comfort as best she can. "I'm afraid it's real. But we're going to find him. I promise."

(Three true things in a row. Almost a record, today.)

"Why?" It's barely audible, more wail than word, and with so many tears her nose is running, making a mess of her tunic and tabards as Nine curls and clings, childlike, to her legs. A small price to pay after what they've done to her. "Why?"

"I wish I knew."

(A lie.

So much for new records.)

Theron will have so much to make up for when he comes back. But Force help them all, he's got to live through this first.