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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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."

She looks down at him, her shoulder obscuring her face. "Tycho...I..."

She can't promise him this. "I won't go seek her out."

It's the closest he's going to get, and he knows it. Kriffing hates it, but he knows it.

"Alright."

She shifts slightly, heaving a sigh. "Alright."

The silence is awkward, still a little tense, and it stretches, both of them just lying there, before he finally snaps it.

"I have the greatest confidence in you and your abilities, but," he raises his eyes to hers and his face is tight, "I don't want her to know your name, who you are, anything about you."

"She's Ysanne Isard, Tycho. I'm sure by now she knows every little thing about me." Winter sighs, exasperated. She strokes his cheek. "She'll know who I am. And who you are to me."

He feels a hell of a lot better when he pretends Isard doesn't, couldn't possibly know, but Winter is right. She always is, but she's especially right, now. He stills her hand, taking it in his and brushing her knuckles wordlessly against his lips.

"She'll use it against us." She murmurs. "Don't let her." Her voice turns harsh, a woman used to having her orders followed. "Don't let her get to you anymore."

He could say, "She's not getting to me," because it's true, she doesn't, hasn't for a long time, never really did. What she did or did not do (and that's the problem with that catatonic state; he doesn't know) to him, that's more of a problem than Ysanne Isard herself. No, Tycho went on with his life after he returned from the Lusankya and Akrit'tar, and maybe he wasn't quite the same as he was before, but he was stronger for it. She's not getting to him.

Not in the past, anyway. That's why he doesn't say it. Her presence now, it's getting to him. Because she's an enemy, because she's dangerous and he doesn't know what she knows or what she plans to do, and that makes him (understandably, he thinks) wary.

He could say, "How the Sith am I supposed to do that?" because Winter was there afterward, was there all through the bruises fading and his hair growing back and his voice returning and the New Republic suspicion and the nightmares. She was at his side through the trial, through the wrongful imprisonment, through his name getting dragged through the mud.

But she wasn't there. She has no idea what it was like--the interrogation and the torture and the beatings and that coldly amused female voice--other than what little she's heard from him, and he's grateful for that.

But she can only understand so much, and it's not as easy as saying 'Don't let her get to you anymore.'

In the end, Tycho sets her hand down and he says nothing.

She knows the words are a moot point to him. They were more for her benefit than his, desperate to keep herself in control of something.

She stares down at her hands, both in her lap now, curled and shaking slightly. She scoots away from him, just a little and slides down in the bed, till she's laying down again, pulling the sheet up to her nose.

Sometimes she wishes she could hide away from it all. "I want to talk to her. I won't...I won't go looking for her." She murmurs into the sheet. "But if she finds me, I'm not going to run away."

A short glance in her direction, and then he's staring up at the ceiling. "Nothing good is going to come of talking to Ysanne Isard." It's not a warning, not a reprimand; just tired. Resigned. And maybe he wants to say, 'Please don't,' but he knows it won't help.

"Don't let this come between us." She peers over the sheets at him.

She wants to know that if she does talk to her...that he'll still be around. Won't hate her for it. The reappearance of those who are supposed to be dead and gone has shaken her faith in the world. The remaining little of it she had.

He looks at her a moment, and he finds her warm hand again, pressing it with his. "Nothing is coming between us, love. Not if I have anything to say about it."