Heart of the Lion: Chapter 2
Fandom: Knights of the Old Republic, Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: CRACK. |:
Characters: LSM Revan, Squall Leonheart
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Massive KOTOR spoilers.
Bright light, comfy bed, and a much clearer head. And no kriffing chair that felt like a chunk of duracrete as a blanket. Yeah, this was better. Now he could sleep instead of just blacking out...
...whoa whoa hold it no. There was no time for sleep. Revan shoved himself upright, ignoring the horrible cramps in his useable arm and his stupid bitchy ribs. "Hey!" he tried to shout, but it came out as a croak... water, yeah, that would be good. For his throat and the sudden dizziness, kriffing bloodloss.
"Lie down," said the medic, marching over and all but shoving him back onto the bed. Dammit. If he could just reach into the Force he'd be healed up in ten seconds and talking to that commander. He nodded patiently as the doctor listed his many, many injuries. Broken ribs, yeah, he knew that. A nice big rip in his leg, broken too, so was his left arm. And his innards were kind of bashed up.
"Okay, okay. Thanks for patching me up, doc. Now where's the commander?"
"...Commander?" Obviously she hadn't been expecting that question.
"Yeah." He cut himself off from details, realizing that it would probably be suspicious that he knew who their commander was. But he remembered well enough, despite having been in... really incredible pain at the time. Black, belts, some more black, scar. And the beautiful grey eyes... Revan almost winced, and then almost laughed at the scrap of memory from just before he'd passed out.
He'd hit on him, hadn't he? Damn. Well, they could probably both just pretend it never happened. Revan had been in severe pain and suffering from bloodloss... that was an acceptable excuse.
There were footsteps, but Revan sensed the guy before he heard them. "Is he awake," said the familiar voice.
"Hey," Revan called out in a strong a voice as he could manage, pushing himself upright again and ignoring the doctor's glare. The commander evidently didn't have a problem with it, so she wasn't going to force him to heal for now... Revan had been guessing that. He grinned as the commander walked over... also guessing that the stick up the kid's ass would be enough that they could both get away with not mentioning the fact that Revan had hit on him.
Revan was pretty good at reading people.
"Who sent you."
"I did," said Revan. "The name's Arved. Can you tell me what planet I'm on?"
Planet.
Right.
...It took a moment for Squall to give him that information. So, the man wasn't from this world, apparently. The strange spacecraft seemed to support that somewhat, but... "Doctor, does he have any head injuries?"
"No, none."
Surprising. So either he was telling the truth or he was just a loon. A loon with a spaceship... right.
"...Oh..." said Arved, correctly interpreting the--lack of expression on Squall's face. "You... don't have interstellar travel here, do you."
"...No." The Ragnarok could get to space stations and to the moon and back, but spacefaring was still purely a matter for ridiculous books and movies. At least he's not a PuPu... Who is this guy? Where the hell is he from? Who shot him down? If Galbadia is shooting down unknown aircraft... no, that's too far away. So is Esthar, and they're not belligerent... not with the president they've got. Squall was rigidly keeping his mind away from the fact that the man had also made a pass at him.
"Well, that figures. Got any idea who shot me down?"
Only theories, still half-formed and nothing he was willing to share. He shook his head in a clipped motion. "Where are you from?"
"A galaxy far, far away. I'm fairly sure. I ran into some sort of stellar... thing, and the next thing I know I'm plunging into atmosphere. So... there's not a big chance of getting my ship repaired and me on my way anytime soon."
Squall crossed his arms and said nothing. His facial expression spoke quite clearly however: no. Even if it was, Arved wasn't going anywhere soon anyhow, with those injuries. That was if he could get out of Garden without anyone noticing, which was doubtful.
"So... this is Garden, huh. And you're the commander." It was a statement, not a question, Squall noted, as Arved looked him directly in the eye. Greyeyes... shut up, he ordered himself sternly. Arved had been half-delerious with pain when he'd said that. It was stupid to dwell on it.
I'm pretty sure I've never made a pass at anyone no matter how much pain I've been in--
Shut. Up. Focus. Dammit. "Yes," he said, curt. "You don't work for any government."
"I'm a scout-cartographer for the Navigational Regulatory Agency of the Galactic Republic," Arved said. Well. That was plausible, or as plausible as anything seemed to be today. It would account for his traveling alone and ending up here, if he was really from another planet.
"We found some strange devices and equipment that survived the crash," said Squall. He reached to the back of one of his belts and unhooked the odd metal tube that Arved had been wearing on his own belt when they'd carried him out of there on the stretcher. Something about it... just seemed odd to Squall. From the look of it there was no telling what its function was. He displayed it, though keeping it out of Arved's reach.
A very odd flicker passed over Arved's face... something that was like relief, anxiety, hunger, and recognition all at once. But it was gone in a split second as the man carelessly shrugged and then winced, presumably from the pain. "That thing? It's just a handwarmer. My man back home gave it to me before I left... sentimental, you know."
No, he didn't know. But he didn't going into a complicated thought process about that, because it was obvious from that flash of warring emotions in Arved that this was not some lover's token. Squall turned it over in his hands, half his focus on the object and half his focus on Arved, checking his reaction. Ah, there was a button here...
Arved reached out his hand in an odd gesture. "--Now hold on there--"
Squall looked up and raised an eyebrow.
"It might've been damaged in the crash. I don't want any more explosions around me for a while, if you don't mind." The excuse was completely smooth, but Squall didn't believe him for a moment.
"It's a weapon."
"It's mine," Arved snapped, holding out his hand, his casual demenor evaporating in a flash.
"What is it."
"It's my lightsaber." There was just the barest emphasis on the word my. Squall almost--almost--felt a little bad for him. He wouldn't have been happy seeing Lionheart in someone else's hands and then being interrogated about it. But he ignored that useless thought.
"How does it work."
"You push the button, it turns on, and you chop things up with it. Don't turn it on yourself!" he hissed, although Squall had not made any move to do so... figuring that doing so would be about as smart a move as checking if a gun was loaded by pointing at your face and looking down the barrel. "If you try to use it you'll probably cut your own head off. Give it to me."
There was a trace of pleading in Arved's voice, and Squall again ignored that twinge of guilt as he hooked it back onto his belt. This was much more than just a weapon to Arved. But giving it back to him wasn't an option. Not until he knew more about him and what he was doing here.
Revan could only watch helplessly as Squall hooked the weapon back to his belt. No... no, that was his! That was his lightsaber. He'd built it himself on Dantooine... set the crystals himself, knew its feel, its weight, the exact shade of sun-bright yellow that would jet out when he activated it. Dammit... dammit, no, he needed it! No Force, no ship... no lightsaber. No.
It had been automatic, to try and call it back to his hand. If he had just hidden his emotions better it might be back in his hand now, but Squall was a commander. He'd seen quite easily the look on his face at the mere sight of the thing. And there it was, still on one of his belts. Damn it.
That weapon... the weapon of a Jedi... it was more than any blaster or vibroblade or wrist launcher. It was part of his identity.
He couldn't help the lewd comment from the back of his mind about having a part of his identity hanging off of Squall's belt, but it fell back into nothingness. His lightsaber wasn't just gone... somebody else had it. A stranger had it. In plain sight, and he couldn't get it back.
He needed that thing, damn it all. At the same time, he had to admire the kid's deducction. Smart of him not to give it back, too. Perceptive, competent little bastard. "Fine," said Revan, a little dispiritedly. "I'm not responsible if you turn it on and put your own eye out, though. Shall we keep interrogating each other now?"
Genre: CRACK. |:
Characters: LSM Revan, Squall Leonheart
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Massive KOTOR spoilers.
Bright light, comfy bed, and a much clearer head. And no kriffing chair that felt like a chunk of duracrete as a blanket. Yeah, this was better. Now he could sleep instead of just blacking out...
...whoa whoa hold it no. There was no time for sleep. Revan shoved himself upright, ignoring the horrible cramps in his useable arm and his stupid bitchy ribs. "Hey!" he tried to shout, but it came out as a croak... water, yeah, that would be good. For his throat and the sudden dizziness, kriffing bloodloss.
"Lie down," said the medic, marching over and all but shoving him back onto the bed. Dammit. If he could just reach into the Force he'd be healed up in ten seconds and talking to that commander. He nodded patiently as the doctor listed his many, many injuries. Broken ribs, yeah, he knew that. A nice big rip in his leg, broken too, so was his left arm. And his innards were kind of bashed up.
"Okay, okay. Thanks for patching me up, doc. Now where's the commander?"
"...Commander?" Obviously she hadn't been expecting that question.
"Yeah." He cut himself off from details, realizing that it would probably be suspicious that he knew who their commander was. But he remembered well enough, despite having been in... really incredible pain at the time. Black, belts, some more black, scar. And the beautiful grey eyes... Revan almost winced, and then almost laughed at the scrap of memory from just before he'd passed out.
He'd hit on him, hadn't he? Damn. Well, they could probably both just pretend it never happened. Revan had been in severe pain and suffering from bloodloss... that was an acceptable excuse.
There were footsteps, but Revan sensed the guy before he heard them. "Is he awake," said the familiar voice.
"Hey," Revan called out in a strong a voice as he could manage, pushing himself upright again and ignoring the doctor's glare. The commander evidently didn't have a problem with it, so she wasn't going to force him to heal for now... Revan had been guessing that. He grinned as the commander walked over... also guessing that the stick up the kid's ass would be enough that they could both get away with not mentioning the fact that Revan had hit on him.
Revan was pretty good at reading people.
"Who sent you."
"I did," said Revan. "The name's Arved. Can you tell me what planet I'm on?"
Planet.
Right.
...It took a moment for Squall to give him that information. So, the man wasn't from this world, apparently. The strange spacecraft seemed to support that somewhat, but... "Doctor, does he have any head injuries?"
"No, none."
Surprising. So either he was telling the truth or he was just a loon. A loon with a spaceship... right.
"...Oh..." said Arved, correctly interpreting the--lack of expression on Squall's face. "You... don't have interstellar travel here, do you."
"...No." The Ragnarok could get to space stations and to the moon and back, but spacefaring was still purely a matter for ridiculous books and movies. At least he's not a PuPu... Who is this guy? Where the hell is he from? Who shot him down? If Galbadia is shooting down unknown aircraft... no, that's too far away. So is Esthar, and they're not belligerent... not with the president they've got. Squall was rigidly keeping his mind away from the fact that the man had also made a pass at him.
"Well, that figures. Got any idea who shot me down?"
Only theories, still half-formed and nothing he was willing to share. He shook his head in a clipped motion. "Where are you from?"
"A galaxy far, far away. I'm fairly sure. I ran into some sort of stellar... thing, and the next thing I know I'm plunging into atmosphere. So... there's not a big chance of getting my ship repaired and me on my way anytime soon."
Squall crossed his arms and said nothing. His facial expression spoke quite clearly however: no. Even if it was, Arved wasn't going anywhere soon anyhow, with those injuries. That was if he could get out of Garden without anyone noticing, which was doubtful.
"So... this is Garden, huh. And you're the commander." It was a statement, not a question, Squall noted, as Arved looked him directly in the eye. Greyeyes... shut up, he ordered himself sternly. Arved had been half-delerious with pain when he'd said that. It was stupid to dwell on it.
I'm pretty sure I've never made a pass at anyone no matter how much pain I've been in--
Shut. Up. Focus. Dammit. "Yes," he said, curt. "You don't work for any government."
"I'm a scout-cartographer for the Navigational Regulatory Agency of the Galactic Republic," Arved said. Well. That was plausible, or as plausible as anything seemed to be today. It would account for his traveling alone and ending up here, if he was really from another planet.
"We found some strange devices and equipment that survived the crash," said Squall. He reached to the back of one of his belts and unhooked the odd metal tube that Arved had been wearing on his own belt when they'd carried him out of there on the stretcher. Something about it... just seemed odd to Squall. From the look of it there was no telling what its function was. He displayed it, though keeping it out of Arved's reach.
A very odd flicker passed over Arved's face... something that was like relief, anxiety, hunger, and recognition all at once. But it was gone in a split second as the man carelessly shrugged and then winced, presumably from the pain. "That thing? It's just a handwarmer. My man back home gave it to me before I left... sentimental, you know."
No, he didn't know. But he didn't going into a complicated thought process about that, because it was obvious from that flash of warring emotions in Arved that this was not some lover's token. Squall turned it over in his hands, half his focus on the object and half his focus on Arved, checking his reaction. Ah, there was a button here...
Arved reached out his hand in an odd gesture. "--Now hold on there--"
Squall looked up and raised an eyebrow.
"It might've been damaged in the crash. I don't want any more explosions around me for a while, if you don't mind." The excuse was completely smooth, but Squall didn't believe him for a moment.
"It's a weapon."
"It's mine," Arved snapped, holding out his hand, his casual demenor evaporating in a flash.
"What is it."
"It's my lightsaber." There was just the barest emphasis on the word my. Squall almost--almost--felt a little bad for him. He wouldn't have been happy seeing Lionheart in someone else's hands and then being interrogated about it. But he ignored that useless thought.
"How does it work."
"You push the button, it turns on, and you chop things up with it. Don't turn it on yourself!" he hissed, although Squall had not made any move to do so... figuring that doing so would be about as smart a move as checking if a gun was loaded by pointing at your face and looking down the barrel. "If you try to use it you'll probably cut your own head off. Give it to me."
There was a trace of pleading in Arved's voice, and Squall again ignored that twinge of guilt as he hooked it back onto his belt. This was much more than just a weapon to Arved. But giving it back to him wasn't an option. Not until he knew more about him and what he was doing here.
Revan could only watch helplessly as Squall hooked the weapon back to his belt. No... no, that was his! That was his lightsaber. He'd built it himself on Dantooine... set the crystals himself, knew its feel, its weight, the exact shade of sun-bright yellow that would jet out when he activated it. Dammit... dammit, no, he needed it! No Force, no ship... no lightsaber. No.
It had been automatic, to try and call it back to his hand. If he had just hidden his emotions better it might be back in his hand now, but Squall was a commander. He'd seen quite easily the look on his face at the mere sight of the thing. And there it was, still on one of his belts. Damn it.
That weapon... the weapon of a Jedi... it was more than any blaster or vibroblade or wrist launcher. It was part of his identity.
He couldn't help the lewd comment from the back of his mind about having a part of his identity hanging off of Squall's belt, but it fell back into nothingness. His lightsaber wasn't just gone... somebody else had it. A stranger had it. In plain sight, and he couldn't get it back.
He needed that thing, damn it all. At the same time, he had to admire the kid's deducction. Smart of him not to give it back, too. Perceptive, competent little bastard. "Fine," said Revan, a little dispiritedly. "I'm not responsible if you turn it on and put your own eye out, though. Shall we keep interrogating each other now?"