Bastila/Canderous, please crit!
I wrote this in August, and just found it again. I'd like to get it up to KFM... but I don't think it's at the level where I'd want it published. Canderous seems too... sappy and non-Canderous-like, and Bastila isn't as fiery as I normally like her to be. So... crit please? Anything makes it better!
Every time he spoke to her, he called her Princess. Even when he didn’t say it outright, she could feel the damnable nickname in every glance and every movement - even the simple act of handing her a datapad carried an unspoken hint. When he did use the title, with the faintly mocking tone that colored most of his conversations with people he chose not to respect, she wanted to dig her nails into the base of her palms and scream. The moniker infuriated her, and like any good tactician, he exploited her weakness fully and mercilessly.
In one corner of her mind, she supposed she deserved it. She had been too controlling in the beginning, too sure of her abilities and overconfident in her leadership, and it had come back to bite her. The crew had turned elsewhere for orders, and Revan - no, Seraya - had stepped up to the challenge, forcing Bastila to recall increasingly uncomfortable memories of her storied time as Commander of the Republic Forces.
No one looked to her for advice. She was unreachable, untouchable, too caught up in secrecy and half-truths to band together and make things work. It was no wonder that Canderous had started calling her ‘Princess’. Princess, Princess, Princess.
Every time he talked about her, he called her Bastila. She first heard him say it one night on the Ebon Hawk as she finished her meditations in the cargo hold. He was with Carth and two bottles of firewhiskey in the main cabin, laughing raucously at something the Republic pilot said.
“Seraya, beautiful? That girl’s as flat as a board!”
Curiosity won over decorum, and Bastila peeked in, careful to disguise her presence from the two men. Carth flushed and mumbled something into his drink. Canderous laughed again.
“If you want a real woman,” he took a hefty swig of alcohol and coughed as it burned down his throat, “go for Bastila. She has the hips of a Mandalorian woman. Not bad for a Jedi brat.”
Carth objected with some drink-induced comment about Revan’s - no, Seraya’s - posterior, and Bastila fled to the women’s cabin, face burning.
After that, the instances were less scandalous. He’d say her name when talking to Jolee about tactics, or when he gave Mission in-depth critiques of their sparring sessions in the hold.
“Bastila,” he’d say, almost out of her hearing, “executed a perfect midsection block.” Then he’d smirk in her direction and tell her she was babied at the Academy, and spoiled through and through. Princess, Bastila, Princess.
Every time he looked at her, it was with a stranger’s eyes. She was used to his default expression of carefully dangerous boredom, but this was something different. It was as if only she was privy to some secret, locked away behind his steely gaze and the haze of smoke from his cigarras.
She didn’t often catch him looking, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up when he was near, her senses telling her what her eye’s couldn’t catch. If it were ever possible, he was more gruff when she was in the room, replying to Seraya - no, wait, yes, Seraya - in terse monosyllabic sentences. It was almost as if he wanted to be gone.
Jolee picked up on it too.
“Why are you still here, Canderous?” she heard Jolee ask one night as she returned from the refresher. The old Jedi was patching of the Mandalorian’s latest injuries, his voice a careful, practiced neutral. Canderous took a long pause before answering.
“Battle, of course. Mandalorians live for battle.”
“Don’t play with my patience, sonny. What do you stay for?” Jolee countered. Canderous snorted and fell silent, choosing not to answer. Bastila chose to take the long way back to the cockpit.
Another time, before the Leviathan changed everything, she encountered him in a bar on Tatooine. Her inquiries into her mother’s current whereabouts had proved fruitless, and she had run into him as she attempted to retrace her steps. He raised an eyebrow and gestured for her to join him. Bastila rarely drank, but she was exhausted and upset, and the drink he was pouring for her looked increasingly tempting. Soon she found herself matching the Mandalorian shot for shot as the planet’s dual suns passed each other in the wide-open sky.
“Why are you still here?” she slurred unevenly as the two of them staggered back to the Hawk arm in arm.
Canderous looked over with the unreadable expression that he always used with her. “Seraya is a worthy leader. A warrior. I don’t expect you to understancd.”
“Why, because I’m a fracking sheltered Jedi Princess who’s supposed to be ignorant as well as naïve? You’ve used that reasoning before.” Bastila spat out bitterly, drawing herself up to her full height. She let go of the comforting solidness of Canderous’ forearm and wobbled three full steps before collapsing into a heap by the hanger. Canderous pulled her up, a frown on his face.
“No need to fly at me, Bastila.”
“You called me Bastila,” Bastila looked up at him in wonder, eyes bright from alcohol and excitement, “you’ve never done that.’
“Well, you’ve grown.” Canderous replied in a manner that was entirely too sober to be proportional to the alcohol he had consumed. “It is an honor to fight by your side. Now let’s get you cleaned up. Princess.” He added the nickname almost as an afterthought, a touch too late. Bastila grinned.
They entered the Hawk, and she remembered the quiet respect in his regard for days afterwards. Princess, Bastila, Bastila.
Every time he touched her, when all was said and done, it was with a careful reverence that completely contradicted his normal behavior. Every caress was at odds with everything she knew about the Mandalorian, and it always seemed that his hands were more at ease holding his repeater than running down her hips and waist. Every kiss placed on the soft skin on the nape of her neck seemed to be an apology - for not protecting her as well as he should have, for saying nothing when words meant everything.
Even now, months after she came back to the light, there was guilt. It was the shadow in his eyes when he traced the faint remains of the Sith tattoos that had been inked onto her body, and in the light grey of eyes that had once been blue. It was in the endearments that he whispered in the dark, when the long nights stretched between wakefulness and nightmares.
With the destruction of the Star Forge, and the redemption of Seraya, - no, Revan - things were slowly normalizing once again, but the guilt remained. Canderous was rebuilding his clans one brick at a time, and Bastila had left the Order to follow her own path. The others had moved on as well. The dreams were fading - the cold sweat that accompanied her nightmares was soothed away by the promise of the future.
One night, as they lay tangled in the sheets, she turned to him, one cheek resting on his broad chest.
“Why do you call me Princess, Canderous?”
Canderous’ large hands palmed the curve of her back. “I have my reasons.”
Bastila shifted. “Please?”
Canderous turned to look at her fully, and in his gaze she saw only her. He smiled, the first real smile she had ever seen from him. He looked kingly.
“I am Clan Ordo, Bastila,” he said finally, gesturing at the tattoos that adorned his arms “and Clan Ordo needs a princess.”
Bastila smiled and closed her eyes. Bastila, Bastila, Bastila.
Every time he spoke to her, he called her Princess. Even when he didn’t say it outright, she could feel the damnable nickname in every glance and every movement - even the simple act of handing her a datapad carried an unspoken hint. When he did use the title, with the faintly mocking tone that colored most of his conversations with people he chose not to respect, she wanted to dig her nails into the base of her palms and scream. The moniker infuriated her, and like any good tactician, he exploited her weakness fully and mercilessly.
In one corner of her mind, she supposed she deserved it. She had been too controlling in the beginning, too sure of her abilities and overconfident in her leadership, and it had come back to bite her. The crew had turned elsewhere for orders, and Revan - no, Seraya - had stepped up to the challenge, forcing Bastila to recall increasingly uncomfortable memories of her storied time as Commander of the Republic Forces.
No one looked to her for advice. She was unreachable, untouchable, too caught up in secrecy and half-truths to band together and make things work. It was no wonder that Canderous had started calling her ‘Princess’. Princess, Princess, Princess.
Every time he talked about her, he called her Bastila. She first heard him say it one night on the Ebon Hawk as she finished her meditations in the cargo hold. He was with Carth and two bottles of firewhiskey in the main cabin, laughing raucously at something the Republic pilot said.
“Seraya, beautiful? That girl’s as flat as a board!”
Curiosity won over decorum, and Bastila peeked in, careful to disguise her presence from the two men. Carth flushed and mumbled something into his drink. Canderous laughed again.
“If you want a real woman,” he took a hefty swig of alcohol and coughed as it burned down his throat, “go for Bastila. She has the hips of a Mandalorian woman. Not bad for a Jedi brat.”
Carth objected with some drink-induced comment about Revan’s - no, Seraya’s - posterior, and Bastila fled to the women’s cabin, face burning.
After that, the instances were less scandalous. He’d say her name when talking to Jolee about tactics, or when he gave Mission in-depth critiques of their sparring sessions in the hold.
“Bastila,” he’d say, almost out of her hearing, “executed a perfect midsection block.” Then he’d smirk in her direction and tell her she was babied at the Academy, and spoiled through and through. Princess, Bastila, Princess.
Every time he looked at her, it was with a stranger’s eyes. She was used to his default expression of carefully dangerous boredom, but this was something different. It was as if only she was privy to some secret, locked away behind his steely gaze and the haze of smoke from his cigarras.
She didn’t often catch him looking, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up when he was near, her senses telling her what her eye’s couldn’t catch. If it were ever possible, he was more gruff when she was in the room, replying to Seraya - no, wait, yes, Seraya - in terse monosyllabic sentences. It was almost as if he wanted to be gone.
Jolee picked up on it too.
“Why are you still here, Canderous?” she heard Jolee ask one night as she returned from the refresher. The old Jedi was patching of the Mandalorian’s latest injuries, his voice a careful, practiced neutral. Canderous took a long pause before answering.
“Battle, of course. Mandalorians live for battle.”
“Don’t play with my patience, sonny. What do you stay for?” Jolee countered. Canderous snorted and fell silent, choosing not to answer. Bastila chose to take the long way back to the cockpit.
Another time, before the Leviathan changed everything, she encountered him in a bar on Tatooine. Her inquiries into her mother’s current whereabouts had proved fruitless, and she had run into him as she attempted to retrace her steps. He raised an eyebrow and gestured for her to join him. Bastila rarely drank, but she was exhausted and upset, and the drink he was pouring for her looked increasingly tempting. Soon she found herself matching the Mandalorian shot for shot as the planet’s dual suns passed each other in the wide-open sky.
“Why are you still here?” she slurred unevenly as the two of them staggered back to the Hawk arm in arm.
Canderous looked over with the unreadable expression that he always used with her. “Seraya is a worthy leader. A warrior. I don’t expect you to understancd.”
“Why, because I’m a fracking sheltered Jedi Princess who’s supposed to be ignorant as well as naïve? You’ve used that reasoning before.” Bastila spat out bitterly, drawing herself up to her full height. She let go of the comforting solidness of Canderous’ forearm and wobbled three full steps before collapsing into a heap by the hanger. Canderous pulled her up, a frown on his face.
“No need to fly at me, Bastila.”
“You called me Bastila,” Bastila looked up at him in wonder, eyes bright from alcohol and excitement, “you’ve never done that.’
“Well, you’ve grown.” Canderous replied in a manner that was entirely too sober to be proportional to the alcohol he had consumed. “It is an honor to fight by your side. Now let’s get you cleaned up. Princess.” He added the nickname almost as an afterthought, a touch too late. Bastila grinned.
They entered the Hawk, and she remembered the quiet respect in his regard for days afterwards. Princess, Bastila, Bastila.
Every time he touched her, when all was said and done, it was with a careful reverence that completely contradicted his normal behavior. Every caress was at odds with everything she knew about the Mandalorian, and it always seemed that his hands were more at ease holding his repeater than running down her hips and waist. Every kiss placed on the soft skin on the nape of her neck seemed to be an apology - for not protecting her as well as he should have, for saying nothing when words meant everything.
Even now, months after she came back to the light, there was guilt. It was the shadow in his eyes when he traced the faint remains of the Sith tattoos that had been inked onto her body, and in the light grey of eyes that had once been blue. It was in the endearments that he whispered in the dark, when the long nights stretched between wakefulness and nightmares.
With the destruction of the Star Forge, and the redemption of Seraya, - no, Revan - things were slowly normalizing once again, but the guilt remained. Canderous was rebuilding his clans one brick at a time, and Bastila had left the Order to follow her own path. The others had moved on as well. The dreams were fading - the cold sweat that accompanied her nightmares was soothed away by the promise of the future.
One night, as they lay tangled in the sheets, she turned to him, one cheek resting on his broad chest.
“Why do you call me Princess, Canderous?”
Canderous’ large hands palmed the curve of her back. “I have my reasons.”
Bastila shifted. “Please?”
Canderous turned to look at her fully, and in his gaze she saw only her. He smiled, the first real smile she had ever seen from him. He looked kingly.
“I am Clan Ordo, Bastila,” he said finally, gesturing at the tattoos that adorned his arms “and Clan Ordo needs a princess.”
Bastila smiled and closed her eyes. Bastila, Bastila, Bastila.