twostandingby | (no subject)

(no subject)

When Tycho awakes, it's immediate. There's no half-asleep mumbling of nightmares, no signal, no sharp intake of breath, no bolting upright in bed. Just his eyes snapping open and then flicking about, taking in his surroundings in one sharp glance. The furnishings are reduced to shadows in the dark, but he recognizes it; room 181, Milliways. Winter fast asleep beside him, her shoulder tucked against his and her face tipped away from him on the pillow, pale skin and hair easy to see even in the little light coming from under the door.

He forces himself to breathe evenly, and he slowly reaches up to scrub his face. No sudden moves; he doesn't want to wake her, and he knows how easy it is to do.

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His smile vanishes like it never existed; his hand stills.

He wraps his arm more securely around her.

"It's what I do." She mutters. Her living, it kills people. Even innocent ones. He should understand that at the very least.

"But it won't be what I do for long." She rolls over to look at him. "I'm going to retire. Soon."

She strokes at his cheek with a long finger. "What's wrong? Why can't you sleep?"

Mistress of the Subject Change is she.

Oh, Tycho understands. His living kills people. He kills for a living. It's what he does, what he wants to do; what he's good at.

"Mmm." A slight quirk of his mouth at her. "What'll you do with all that free time?" Besides just spend even more of it with the Solos.

"Not kill people. Probably want to kill people, especially if I aide at the Senate." She sighs.

Then frowns deeply at him. "Don't avoid the question, though."

"I'm not trying to," he says evenly, running his hand through his own hair in a feeble attempt to flatten it.

She scrunches up till she's sitting against the pillows, looking down at him now. "Tycho."

She knows him. His even excuses won't work.

He looks up at her steadily.

But she does know him too well, does know when something's bothering him, and he gives up quickly. He presses a kiss to her upper arm, just above her elbow, and then lets his forehead rest there.

"They're falling apart," he says quietly into her elbow.

"Your pilots." She strokes his hair. "Isard's here...that scumrat Thyne is here. They won't be doing great right now, Tycho."

Understatement of the age. "No, they aren't." But it's somehow managing to be worse than it ought to be, than he would even expect it to be, and, "It's getting out of hand." Out of his hand.

"Well...Wes can't do anymore damage...Inyri's gone." She shakes her head, shutting her eyes. "Corran...we can only keep an eye on. Make sure he doesn't do something Wes-like. Irrational. The last thing we need is for someone to shoot Ysanne Isard."

Winter pushes hair out of her face again. "Then things would get just that much worse."

Tycho needs to find Corran, he knows. Needs to talk to him. He's been distracted by other issues, these past few days. They do seem to keep coming up. "I wish there was a way to make the establishment understand who they're dealing with here. I don't like giving the orders to leave Isard and Thyne alone; I'd much rather just have them killed again and have it all kriffing over with." Hypocritical of him, yes, in that he wants to do it, but he isn't actually going to.

"Me too." Winter says blandly. If this place were run by Intel, they'd have been shot already.

And the Bar would be a less welcoming place if run by Intel.

She strokes his hair absently still. "I hate her, Tycho. For what she did to you. I'd blast her myself if I could."

He remembers very little of Lusankya and he's grateful for the catatonia that made those memories, for the most part, impossible. But he remembers that voice.

" 'Captain Celchu, Tycho. Rogue Squadron. Serial number 68970024. Trained at Carida.' My, my, my. What have we here, Captain?"

Tycho shrugs faintly. "I think anyone in their right mind, who knows who she is, would."

Her eyes drift closed for a moment. "Imperials, I suspect, would rather not shoot her. Special cases excluded of course."

"I said anyone in their right mind," he says, and his voice is mild but distracted.

"Don't--" She starts, then frowns, shifting. "Don't let her get to you here. She can't...she can't take this from us."

The sanctuary they built. Their home where they're actually both there.

But she can. She can, just by being there; by making him carry a blaster at all times, by making him jump at every sharp movement, by making his heart leap into his throat every time he sees a dark-haired woman in the bar, by forming a hard knot in his stomach that never leaves him.

If Winter weren't here, and away back in their galaxy; if his pilots weren't in a state of uproar -- he would not be here.

He doesn't raise his forehead from her arm.

"Tycho." It's soft, yet harsh through her clenched teeth. Her hand is fisted in the sheets, and she squeezes her eyes shut. She won't lose control like this. Not right now.

"Don't stay." She says, voice a whisper. "We'll leave. For a few days...just to get your mind back."

He does raise his head at that, and fast, too.

"My mind," he says, "is fine."

"Mine isn't." She mutters, not looking at him now. Maybe she'll just leave.

Fuck.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and the rigid tension bleeds away from him.

He's tired.

He reaches for her. "Stang. I'm sorry, Winter. I don't mean to snap."

She waves him off, running a hand through her hair. "I know. It's okay. We're tired. Stressed."

She gives in, and leans towards him as he reaches for her.

He slips an arm around her waist and is silent a long moment, resting his chin against her shoulder.

"Promise me something."

"Anything." She breathes, resting her head against his.

"That you'll stay away from Isard," he tells her seriously. "Please."