Fic: "Wolffe and the Wulver's Rock" (G) Star Wars: The Clone Wars
Title: Wolffe and the Wulver's Rock
Author: Tiamat’s Child
Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars
Word Count: 984
Rating: G
Characters/Pairing: CC 3636 | Wolffe & Plo Koon
Summary: As a child, Wolffe forgets his local folkloric landscape, and does not find the solitude he went seeking.
Warnings: None.
Notes: For ploappreciationweek @ tumblr - Day One: Hogwarts AU. …I am not always very good at Hogwarts AUs, and this turned into just as much of a European Folklore Influenced Fantasy!AU with a few Harry Potter/Hogwarts elements. *wince* But I did try, and it's too late to try over again. (There's also a lot of worldbuilding that did not make it into this story because it refused to fit.) (Might need to come back to this.)
Wolffe and the Wulver's Rock
The table rock in the lake made a good place to be private. It was out of earshot of the shore, far enough out so that it was even hard to gather more than a vague sense of a figure from a shore. Expressions were lost. Small movements. Everything but the fact of a person.
It also wasn't easy to get to. Wolffe had made a few hops along the chain of smaller rocks and boulders heading out to this one that probably would have been impossible for a normal human twelve year old.
Wolffe wasn't normal. Even so, he'd gotten wet. He didn't care. It was worth soaked shoes, a wet hem, barked shins,and bruised hands to have made it out here. He hadn't had to be rescued by the giant squid, but if he had it would have been worth that too. This far out he could finally cry.
Wolffe never cried where anyone could find him.
“This is a fine spot for fly fishing,” a low, steady voice said from behind him, “but not a very good one for tickling anything.”
Wolffe jolted. The voice was a really nice voice, warm and resonant with kindness, but a deep, cold wave crashed over him anyway. He came to his feet without any conscious thought, unfolding from his huddle on the rock and turning.
“Oh,” said the person. Wolffe drug his sleeve over his face, scrubbing at the tears obscuring his vision, and blinked. “Not fishing. I apologize.”
The person was tall and furry, a warm red brown like good natural clay. His head was wolflike, with upright ears that looked impossibly soft, and bright, predator's eyes. His hand that he held out to Wolffe almost placatingly was somewhere between a human's hand and a canine paw, with claws instead of nails.
Of course. This was the Wulver's Rock. If he'd been paying attention to his surroundings and thinking things through, instead of just feeling mad and hurt and scared and too small to hold all his thoughts, Wolffe would have remembered that.
“It's your spot,” Wolffe said. “I don't think you've got anything to be sorry about.” His voice was thick and too high pitched and he hated it.
“I intruded on your privacy.”
“I don't care,” Wolffe said, sharply and untruthfully. “Just don't tell my brothers.” He took a deep breath. “You're Ahsoka's friend, aren't you? You're Plo.”
It was strange to see a smile that was all in a person's body and ears, nowhere near their mouth. “Yes,” Plo said, as if being the friend of an excessively coltish adolescent centaur was the world's greatest possible honor. Wolffe had to swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden thought that he wanted Plo to be his friend, too. That he wanted Plo to be just as proud of being Wolff'es friend as he was of being Ahsoka's.
That was stupid.
“I'm Wolffe,” Wolffe said. “Pleased to meet you.” Which was also stupid, and probably not very believable, because he was still grizzling. He'd never managed to stop crying completely.
“Hello, Wolffe,” Plo said, and sat down, folding himself up tailor fashion. “May I ask you a question?”
Wolffe cautiously sat down too, the same way Plo did, just where he'd been standing up, no where else. “Yes,” he said.
“Why was it your brothers you asked me not to tell?”
Wolffe flinched. “It. I want to protect them.”
Plo cocked his head, deliberately. “Would your tears prevent you from protecting them?” Plo asked, and if one of their teachers had asked it, Wolffe would have been sure they thought they knew the answer, that they expected Wolffe to agree with them, just because they were doing the asking. That Wolffe should know their answer, and say it, so they didn't have to tell him he was wrong.
But he didn't think it was that way with Plo. Wolffe was certain Plo had his own idea of the answer, had his own ideas about everything, but he wanted Wolffe's ideas. Wolffe's honest answer.
So Wolffe thought it through.
“It frightens them when I cry,” Wolffe said, finally. “Everyone gets scared and upset. I can tell, because they're the same as me.” His tears had tapered off unnoticed at some point. They came back now as he said, in a voice trying to squeeze itself shut, “Scaring them isn't protecting them.”
Plo didn't say anything for a long, long moment. Wolffe thought perhaps he would ask him another question, or make some sort of observation, but he didn't, and as he didn't, slowly, the anxiety of having spoken ebbed away. A lot of the time Wolffe felt trapped when people watched him. He didn't feel trapped by Plo. Wolffe felt safe in Plo's silence. It was like sitting shoulder to shoulder. Like holding hands.
After a while, he found he no longer needed to cry.
He went to scrub at his face with his sleeve again, but Plo held out a handkerchief to him instead. That worked, and was much nicer - cotton instead of wool - but he didn't know what to do with it, after. It was Plo's. It was also wet with tears and mucus. He went still with indecision.
“You are welcome to keep that,” Plo told him. “And you are welcome to this place whenever you wish. I would be glad to see you, happy or sad.”
“I'm angry sometimes, too,” Wolffe said.
“I would be very surprised if you never were,” Plo said. “Or angry. I would be glad to see you.”
“I'd like that,” Wolffe said, crumpling the handkerchief up and stuffing it in his pocket. “I don't want this to be the last time I see you, either.”
“Good,” Plo said, and smiled that strange smile. This time, it was for Wolffe, and Wolffe carefully, deliberately, smiled a small, shy, quirk of a smile back.
This entry was originally posted at http://tiamatschild.dreamwidth.org/135019.html. Please feel free to comment there using OpenID. Or here! It'll be read either way, is what I'm saying.
Author: Tiamat’s Child
Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars
Word Count: 984
Rating: G
Characters/Pairing: CC 3636 | Wolffe & Plo Koon
Summary: As a child, Wolffe forgets his local folkloric landscape, and does not find the solitude he went seeking.
Warnings: None.
Notes: For ploappreciationweek @ tumblr - Day One: Hogwarts AU. …I am not always very good at Hogwarts AUs, and this turned into just as much of a European Folklore Influenced Fantasy!AU with a few Harry Potter/Hogwarts elements. *wince* But I did try, and it's too late to try over again. (There's also a lot of worldbuilding that did not make it into this story because it refused to fit.) (Might need to come back to this.)
Wolffe and the Wulver's Rock
The table rock in the lake made a good place to be private. It was out of earshot of the shore, far enough out so that it was even hard to gather more than a vague sense of a figure from a shore. Expressions were lost. Small movements. Everything but the fact of a person.
It also wasn't easy to get to. Wolffe had made a few hops along the chain of smaller rocks and boulders heading out to this one that probably would have been impossible for a normal human twelve year old.
Wolffe wasn't normal. Even so, he'd gotten wet. He didn't care. It was worth soaked shoes, a wet hem, barked shins,and bruised hands to have made it out here. He hadn't had to be rescued by the giant squid, but if he had it would have been worth that too. This far out he could finally cry.
Wolffe never cried where anyone could find him.
“This is a fine spot for fly fishing,” a low, steady voice said from behind him, “but not a very good one for tickling anything.”
Wolffe jolted. The voice was a really nice voice, warm and resonant with kindness, but a deep, cold wave crashed over him anyway. He came to his feet without any conscious thought, unfolding from his huddle on the rock and turning.
“Oh,” said the person. Wolffe drug his sleeve over his face, scrubbing at the tears obscuring his vision, and blinked. “Not fishing. I apologize.”
The person was tall and furry, a warm red brown like good natural clay. His head was wolflike, with upright ears that looked impossibly soft, and bright, predator's eyes. His hand that he held out to Wolffe almost placatingly was somewhere between a human's hand and a canine paw, with claws instead of nails.
Of course. This was the Wulver's Rock. If he'd been paying attention to his surroundings and thinking things through, instead of just feeling mad and hurt and scared and too small to hold all his thoughts, Wolffe would have remembered that.
“It's your spot,” Wolffe said. “I don't think you've got anything to be sorry about.” His voice was thick and too high pitched and he hated it.
“I intruded on your privacy.”
“I don't care,” Wolffe said, sharply and untruthfully. “Just don't tell my brothers.” He took a deep breath. “You're Ahsoka's friend, aren't you? You're Plo.”
It was strange to see a smile that was all in a person's body and ears, nowhere near their mouth. “Yes,” Plo said, as if being the friend of an excessively coltish adolescent centaur was the world's greatest possible honor. Wolffe had to swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden thought that he wanted Plo to be his friend, too. That he wanted Plo to be just as proud of being Wolff'es friend as he was of being Ahsoka's.
That was stupid.
“I'm Wolffe,” Wolffe said. “Pleased to meet you.” Which was also stupid, and probably not very believable, because he was still grizzling. He'd never managed to stop crying completely.
“Hello, Wolffe,” Plo said, and sat down, folding himself up tailor fashion. “May I ask you a question?”
Wolffe cautiously sat down too, the same way Plo did, just where he'd been standing up, no where else. “Yes,” he said.
“Why was it your brothers you asked me not to tell?”
Wolffe flinched. “It. I want to protect them.”
Plo cocked his head, deliberately. “Would your tears prevent you from protecting them?” Plo asked, and if one of their teachers had asked it, Wolffe would have been sure they thought they knew the answer, that they expected Wolffe to agree with them, just because they were doing the asking. That Wolffe should know their answer, and say it, so they didn't have to tell him he was wrong.
But he didn't think it was that way with Plo. Wolffe was certain Plo had his own idea of the answer, had his own ideas about everything, but he wanted Wolffe's ideas. Wolffe's honest answer.
So Wolffe thought it through.
“It frightens them when I cry,” Wolffe said, finally. “Everyone gets scared and upset. I can tell, because they're the same as me.” His tears had tapered off unnoticed at some point. They came back now as he said, in a voice trying to squeeze itself shut, “Scaring them isn't protecting them.”
Plo didn't say anything for a long, long moment. Wolffe thought perhaps he would ask him another question, or make some sort of observation, but he didn't, and as he didn't, slowly, the anxiety of having spoken ebbed away. A lot of the time Wolffe felt trapped when people watched him. He didn't feel trapped by Plo. Wolffe felt safe in Plo's silence. It was like sitting shoulder to shoulder. Like holding hands.
After a while, he found he no longer needed to cry.
He went to scrub at his face with his sleeve again, but Plo held out a handkerchief to him instead. That worked, and was much nicer - cotton instead of wool - but he didn't know what to do with it, after. It was Plo's. It was also wet with tears and mucus. He went still with indecision.
“You are welcome to keep that,” Plo told him. “And you are welcome to this place whenever you wish. I would be glad to see you, happy or sad.”
“I'm angry sometimes, too,” Wolffe said.
“I would be very surprised if you never were,” Plo said. “Or angry. I would be glad to see you.”
“I'd like that,” Wolffe said, crumpling the handkerchief up and stuffing it in his pocket. “I don't want this to be the last time I see you, either.”
“Good,” Plo said, and smiled that strange smile. This time, it was for Wolffe, and Wolffe carefully, deliberately, smiled a small, shy, quirk of a smile back.
This entry was originally posted at http://tiamatschild.dreamwidth.org/135019.html. Please feel free to comment there using OpenID. Or here! It'll be read either way, is what I'm saying.