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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She's a spy. She's been train to hear anything, feel the slightest movement, even if asleep.

Yet, in Milliways, and at home, this seems to leave her. Otherwise, she'd never be able to sleep with Tycho's snores. So his scrubbing of his face doesn't bother her, too much.

She does roll closer though. And yawns softly. She'll be waking up soon.

It's early, to be waking up. Or possibly late (at night, that is), depending on your point on view.

Tycho's awake, though, and while he so does not snore, he does give a small, quiet smile and watch her, knowing better than to touch her.

He can only be awake so long without her knowing it however, so she'll wake up eventually.

(And he so does snore.)

Eventually happens pretty quickly as, for once, she starts awake, hand jerking out to grab the sheet. She rolls her eyes at herself and looks up at Tycho after a moment. "Hi."

Mission is still fresh on her mind. Sometimes she dreams in explosions.

"It's early," he says, voice rough with sleep. But she's awake and he rests his head in his hand, reaches over and brushes white hair out of her eyes with light fingers that linger.

"Bad dream." She murmurs softly, stifling a yawn. "What's your excuse?"

"Don't know." He has murky ideas, ones that are vague and undefined at best, and he's leaving them alone. He smooths one last stubborn strand of hair. "I'm just awake."

She yawns again, but looks quite awake. "I see explosions when I close my eyes." She curls up next to him, closer. "I'll keep you company."

A small chuckle and he runs a hand up and down her arm. "Is that a bad thing?"

"It's the screams that bother me." She mumbles into the crook of his arm. She shivers at his touch.

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.