https://www.redbubble.com/people/taevynastra I sporadically post fanart and drabbles and rant about stuff Iām obsessed with. Mainly Star Wars, SWTOR, and Marvel
Close Enough to Feel It, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 12: Desperate Measures (Balmorra)
āI, uh⦠got you a little something.ā
That stops her in her tracks.
She takes the small package heās holding out, managing only a confused, faintly flustered, āOh?ā
Her hands falter as she opens the box. Because this⦠this feels like it might be awfully close to crossing that line that sheād dutifully convinced herself neither of them would ever actually dare cross.
(Aka moments in between the Trooper missions on Balmorra and the time Aric gave the femTrooper a necklace)
Read on A03:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 11: Diplomacy Under Fire
(Alderaan)
Read on AO3:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Alderaan is startlingly beautiful, but the beauty is marred by too much political drama and spoiled, wealthy families squabbling over every scrap of power they can grab. In short: a major headache, and far too many people that the Republicāand by extension Havoc Squadācanāt risk offending.
Their mission was supposed to be simple. Emphasis on supposed. Reality proved otherwise almost immediately. Before theyād even left the spaceport, sheād already received half a dozen emergency messages about a rival house bombing the city, and before she knows it, sheās wrapped up helping Duke Charle Organa maneuver for the Alderanian throne.
Sometimes, she really misses simple.
The first full day planetside is spent juggling meetings with politicians, dignitaries, and diplomats, each with conflicting opinions on how the Republic should assist. The most infuriating part is trying to gauge exactly how far the Republic can step in without making it look like meddling. She was told early and often that interference is a major āno-noā when it comes to earning Alderaanian favor. Itās a balancing act theyāve performed on other worlds, but here, the stakes feel higher, like the entire planet could ignite into full-scale civil war with a single wrong move. Their options feel painfully limited, leaving them fighting with one arm tied behind their backs. By the end of the day, her mind spins and her nerves ache for action. Anything beyond more drawn-out political nonsense.
Aric handles these slower days far better than she doesāa skill she attributes to his time with the Deadeyes. His calm, steady presence is a grounding force at her side. From experience, she knows he hates this kind of work almost as much as she does, but he hides it well; his patience never falters. More than once, itās the only thing keeping her from storming out of a room or snapping at some dithering politician. As yet another official drones on, she catches herself wondering when exactly he started having that effect on herāreplacing irritation with a curious sort of⦠tethered calm, instead of the urge to prod him until he snapped.
āāāāāāāā
Once they escape the political doldrums of the capital, the pace of their missions ramps up and up and up until it feels like theyāre at a dead run.
Still, this breakneck pace suits her far better than doing nothing.
āHere, thought you might be hungry.ā Aric approaches, carrying some sort of instant food packet in each hand. It feels like the first break theyāve had in days other than to catch a few fitful hours of sleep at night. āDoesnt look great, but itās food. Or so Iām told.ā
āDonāt you know how to make a girl feel special.ā She quips, taking the proffered container. Itās one of those types of comments that once upon a time wouldāve earned her a lecture, or at a minimum, his sour mood for the rest of the day.
Or maybe it was just comments like that directed at Balker. She never really did figure that out.
Whatever the case, it certainly isnāt anything like that now.
āWell, if Iād known it was that easyā¦ā Thereās this glint in his eye, this mischievous quirk to his brow that sends a shiver dancing across her skin.
Thisāwhatever this has becomeāis happening far too easily. The way their conversations slip into something familiar and warm without either of them meaning to, as natural as covering each other in a firefight.
Nothing will ever come of it, she reminds herself. It canāt. Aric Jorgan is discipline incarnate, nothing if not a model soldier, and neither of them are stupid, even if this flirting probably is.
She shakes the thought away and peels back the wrapper on the instant meal. She wrinkles her nose at the steaming brown mush in the container. āWhat even is this?ā
āHonestly? I have no idea. Probably better off not thinking about it.ā
āAt least itās warm.ā
There is a stream gurgling quietly nearby, its clear water cutting a ribbon through the terrain. For now, they have just a few spare minutes while a thranta is being readied to carry them to the next outpost. Naābria wishes there was time to kick off her boots and roll up her pants, letting the cold water lap against her ankles for a bit.
Thereās never enough time.
āSo,ā she says, after sheās managed to choke down a few bites. If thereās one benefit to having been raised on military rations, itās that sheās learned to make do with just about anything that even resembles food. āOn a scale from minor headache to full blown Alderaanian civil war, what do you wanna bet the situation on this planet will be by the time weāre done here?ā
āI suppose itās probably too optimistic to hope that civil war is not something weāll have to deal with, right?ā
She snorts, and they finish the rest of the meal in companionable silence.
āWell,ā Aric says, washing down his last bite with a swig from his canteen. āLooks like our ride is ready.ā
The camp theyāre at now is a good distance out from the capital, and transport out here is slim. Naābria eyes the solitary thranta hitched near the command tent, and the small saddle tied down to its back, both of their gear strapped to its belly. Seems theyāll be sharing a ride to the next outpost.
The thranta shifts its weight as Naābria steps up onto the mounting block, drifting slightly in the cool breeze.
Naābria swings into the saddle first, settling in and adjusting the harness. He climbs up after her, the saddle creaking slightly under the added weight. He fits in close, but there isnāt really another option. He tightens the straps around his waist, and his knee brushes the back of her thigh. Itās brief. Incidental. Her skin reacts anyway, a sharp, unwelcome awareness sparking where they touch.
Then the Thranta suddenly lurches into the air. Aricās grip on the saddle tightens reflexively, his forearm grazing her side as he steadies them both, and the way her stomach flips, she fears, has nothing to do with the ground quickly dropping away beneath them.
Damn flirting.
āāāāāāāā
The Killiks unnerve him more than he likes to admit.
It isnāt just the giant chitin carapaces, or the way they move in unsettling, seamless unison. Itās what they do to people. Pheromones rewiring brain chemistry. Individual thought dissolving into the collective hum they call the Song of the Universe. The idea of losing yourself and not even knowing itās happening sits wrong in his gut in a way blaster fire never has. At least blaster fire is straightforward and honest.
When a mission brings Havoc into contact with a group of Republic scientists working on a way to reverse Killik joining, Aric finds himself watching Naābria more than the bugs. As the scientists explain their findings in clinical terms, all he can think about is Taris. About her stepping forward without hesitation to let a rackghoul tear into her because it was the fastest way to get answers, and he finds himself with the sinking worry that Naābria will volunteer to become a killik joiner.
His fears there, thank the stars, prove unfounded, and he dares to hope that maybe sheās finally gained a healthy respect for brains over bravado in their time together since Taris.
The illusion is short lived.
Not two days later, she goes and without hesitation offers herself up as a sacrificial lamb for Wolf Baron Thul in exchange for the release of a bunch of pompous Organa noblemen that had been taken prisoner instead.
Sometimes heād really like to knock some damn sense into her thick skull.
Probably would too, if it werenāt for the fact that her qualities that infuriate him so werenāt also what made him respect her more than any other commander heās served under.
āāāāāāāā
Aric doesnāt pace.
Not usually.
Patience is a discipline, one heād drilled into himself long before Havoc. Heās spent days lying prone behind a rifle, breath slow, pulse steady, waiting for a single clean shot.
But now heās wearing a path into the stone floor of the command room.
Back and forth. Boot heel. Turn. Three strides. Turn again.
It takes almost 24 hours for the Organas to decide on a rescue plan, and he paces the entire time.
āāāāāāāā
Aric closes the distance before the cell barrier has even fully lowered.
āWhat the hell were you thinking, Alarai?ā he all but growls, anger and relief at the sight of her standing and still in one piece tangling so tightly in his chest that he doesnāt bother softening the edge.
Despite the circumstances she manages to have the audacity to look annoyed. āJorgan Iām fine. It was one life against many, what other call could I make?ā
Not just one life. Your life, he wants to protest as the rest of the rescue team files in around them, but he stamps the selfish thought and its damned implications down before it slips out. He wonāt make this about something it canāt afford to be.
āBesides,ā she says, with her signature smirk, that familiar stance with a hand on her hip. Thereās exhaustion in the set of her shoulders and a bruise blooming along her jaw, but her spark never dims. āKnew youād come after me.ā
āāāāāāāā
The romance of a warriorās end, the idea that thereās glory in dying on a battlefield is a young manās delusionāborn from stories told by those who survived and polished by those who never saw the bodies up close.
Naābria has never quite believed in it. Her parentsā deaths tore through that illusion when she was still young enough to want to believe in something noble about sacrifice. She enlisted anyway, years laterānot for glory, but for purpose. Something that meant the losses counted for more than a line in a report.
Gearbox dies hard.
Not gloriously. Not with any last words worth remembering. Just stubborn to the bitter end, blaster fire ricocheting off metal and shattered stone as Havoc presses in from three sides. The fight is tight and loud and over too fast to feel satisfying.
Theyād tracked him across half the planet. Through noble estates and burned-out villages, through Killik-infested wilds and House skirmishes that werenāt theirs to fight but somehow always became their problem anyway.
Now he lies still.
The hunt for the traitors doesnāt feel the same anymore. The sharp, personal edge of vengeance has dulled under the weight of everything else pressing in on the galaxy. And somehow, standing over another fallen name on the list, she feels less like theyāve struck a decisive blow and more like theyāve stamped out a single ember while the horizon continues to glow with larger fires.
There are bigger stakes now than one manās betrayal.
Aric steps up beside her, rifle settling against his back. He studies the body for a long moment.
āStubborn bastard,ā he says at last, which under different circumstances she mightāve found ironic coming from him. āHe didnāt hesitate. Even when he knew it was over.ā
āNo,ā she replies quietly. āHe didnāt.ā
A beat passes.
āThink he believed it?ā she asks. āThat it was worth it?ā
Aric exhales slowly through his nose. āDoesnāt matter what he believed. Still ended up here.ā
She glances over at him to see heās already looking at her, something unreadable in his gaze. Like he wants to say something else - or something more, she canāt tell - but what she can tell is that sheās been holding his gaze too long and she wants him to say something more and that just wonāt do.
Sheās almost relieved when Dorne, already on the holocom with someone back at the Organa castle reporting their success and calling in a cleanup crew. One the definite perks of being the republicās top squad - they rarely had to deal with their battleās aftermath.
Aric clears his throat, finally tearing his gaze away. āLetās head out.ā
āāāāāāāā
As theyāre preparing to leave Alderaan, the shipās hyperdrive goes up in smoke. Theyāre left scrounging the local markets for parts, split up to cover more ground and hopefully find what they need quickly. Aricās eyes drift over the booths, scanning the jumble of trinkets, tools, and scraps, when something catches the afternoon sunāa small, shiny blue stone. Heās not quite sure why he immediately thinks of her when he sees it, but then it hits him: Itās the exact shade of her eyes, heās sure. A ridiculous thing to know, but apparently thatās where his mind has wandered these days.
The troidarin booth owner catches him looking and flutters over.
āPretty stone for a pretty lady, eh?ā He says, lifting the gem and holding it out towards him.
It would look nice on her.
For a brief, entirely self-indulgent moment, he considers buying it. Butt itās a completely impractical gift, with too many completely impractical implications.
When the hyperdrive ends up taking the whole following day to prepare, he goes back to the market for additional parts. The stone is still there. Heād like to say heās buying it on impulseābut after seeing that specific shade of blue every time he closed his eyes last night, thatās clearly a lie.
Besides, itās just a small trinket. Doesnāt have to mean anything. Doesnāt have to end up in her hands at all.
And yetā¦
On the way back to the ship, he passes a jeweler. Silver chains gleam in the sunlightāchains that would perfectly suit the stone. He stops for a moment, turning the idea over in his mind. No, he tells himself. Bad idea. And there is no doubt that it is a bad idea, practically speaking.
But maybe it isnāt about meaning. Maybe itās just⦠doing something nice. That canāt be wrong, especially after everything theyāve been through lately.
And somehow, he knows heās already decided. He can go back to convincing himself afterward that itās meaningless.
They've fallen into a comfortable routine on their days aboard the Thunderclap.
The shipās lounge isnāt muchāone narrow couch, a small holo-table, and a caf dispenser that sounds like itās screaming every time someone uses itābut somehow itās become the heart of the ship.
The squad has come a long way since he and Naābria ā Alarai, he tries correct, wondering at when he became so comfortable thinking of her by her fist name in his head at least if not out loud ā left Ord Mantell as very reluctant allies.
Dorne has taken some getting used to. She knows the Republic Military Code better than the ones who wrote it, and she quotes addendums heās only ever skimmed. But for all her competence, he still feels that faint, instinctive hitch of caution whenever she speaks, some part of his brain wired on survival instinct registering it as the voice of the enemy.
And then thereās M1-4X. The droid is patriotic enough to make everyone else in the entire Republic army look underzealous by comparison as he speaks at maximum volume about justice, freedom, and āefficient termination of all enemies of the glorious Republic.ā
They make an interesting group, but somehow⦠it works.
Aric stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the⦠crew - their crew - settle into an activity that still feels foreign on a military vessel: a board game.
The air shimmers with the soft glow of the gameās holographic projection, a miniature star system floating above the table, ships darting between planets, laser beams arching in midair. The display changes with each move, rotating and expanding as the players manipulate their pieces with flicks of their hands.
Dorne sits perfectly upright at the table, eyes sharp, fingers tapping a datapad sheās clearly using to calculate odds and memorize every rule. Across from her, M1-4X leans forward, metallic hands hovering over the board, whirring softly.
āINITIATING STRATEGIC DOMINATION. ALL ENEMIES WILL BE NEUTRALIZED WITH EFFICIENCY AND PRECISION.ā
Dorne sighs, not looking up. āM1-4X, the objective here is points, not extermination. Please stick to the rules.ā
āACKNOWLEDGED, SERGEANT DORNE. MAXIMIZING POINT ACQUISITION.ā The droidās metallic appendages are too large to easily work the holotable, but he manages to send a fleet of tiny warships into an overly aggressive attack trajectory. Lasers streak the projection and a planet blinks out of existence.
Naābria (Alarai, your CO, he corrects himself again) is perched sideways on the couch with one leg tucked under her, studying the holographic battlefield. She isnāt playing yetājust observingābut sheās paying attention to everything: the droidās aggressive maneuvers, Dorneās precise formations, the subtle gaps in their virtual defenses. When she finally leans forward to place a piece of her own, itās deliberate, precise and calculated.
Heās not sure why, but when they first met heād initially pegged her as sloppy, careless maybe. Something in her attitude, her posture, the loose casual way she carried herself. It didnāt take long, though, to realize the inaccuracy of that assumption.
He may be quick to judge but at least heās not above reevaluating his opinion.
She puts an incredible ammount of attention to detail in her work, whether is caring for the ship, writing a mission report, or just playing a silly game.
Lately, heās caught himself memorizing the most ridiculous tiny details about her, like a puzzle he's trying to piece together in his mind - the way she chews in her lower lip while working through particularly tedious paperwork, which blaster is her favorite, how she likes her caf in the mornings. And by the stars, none of those things matter, Jorgan - but it's becoming a habit he can't seem to shake.
And here he is, doing it again.
The crew laughs at something Four-ex saysāsomething about āgloriously vaporizing all threatsāāand she glances over at Aric, eyebrow lifting in silent amusement.
He looks away before she can read anything in his expression.
_______________
Naābria has always prided herself on knowing the rules of engagementāspoken and unspoken. She knows how to needle, how to provoke just enough to keep control of a conversation. With Aric Jorgan, especially, that rhythm had been set right from the get go: jab, parry, retreat behind sarcasm. This banter has become routine, predictable.
Instinct, really, almost in the same way flirting with Balker had been, but this is subtler than that, and somehow far more insidious.
Thereās just something in the way she anticipates his glances before they happen, the way she finds herself adjusting her tone, timing her words just so when heās around. Thereās something in the little moments, when she notices him looking at her, and the corner of his mouth flickers with something she canāt name.
What used to feel like control now feels like balance, and balance can tip far more easily than dominance ever could.
Which is why itās only as she makes a weird remark to his completely normal question about weapon inspections that she begins to realize something has shifted.
āLooking for an excuse to look through my personal effects, are we?ā The words tumble out, sharp and teasing in her usual fashionābut now thereās a different undertone. Her stomach knots instantly.
She knows exactly how that sounds.
She knows exactly how it will land.
She has no idea why she said it.
Maybe itās muscle memory, leftover habits from when needling him had been a way to throw him off balance, to reclaim ground. Back when their banter had been a defensive maneuver, not⦠whatever this is.
But, unlike before, he looks the complete opposite of thrown off. He doesnāt falter.
Instead, one eyebrow rises in a precise, calculated way that does something unsettling to her equilibrium, tilting it just a few dangerous degrees off center.
āWhy?ā he asks calmly. āSomething you donāt want me to find?ā
His tone is smooth, deliberate. Thereās an undercurrent there, a faint thread of challenge woven through his voice that sends a shiver skating down her spine before she can stop it. She didnāt know he even could be smooth, didnāt know he could wield charm like this, and the laugh that bubbles up comes out far more breathless than sheād like. Her mind scrambles for footing, for the old familiar script. Sarcasm has always been a reliable shield.
āIf I didnāt know better, Jorgan,ā she says, arching a brow, āIād say you were flirting.ā
But he doesnāt deny it.
He leans back just enoughācasual, unhurriedāand that small movement somehow shifts the entire dynamic of the space. Itās subtle, but she feels it, the way one feels pressure change before a storm.
āItās possible, sir,ā he replies easily. āJust donāt tell Dorne.ā
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Chapter 9
The Cost of Second Chances (Tat
just let my warmth soothe you || aric jorgan/fem!trooper!reader
Good lord I haven't posted an actual fic here in so long. I barely remember how I usually format these posts lol
Anyway, here's the fluffy piece I've been working on for a while. I'm very fond of this gruffy man šš Enjoy!
Pairing: Aric Jorgan/fem!trooper!Reader
Warnings: none, this is literally just pure married couple fluff
Word count: 1.7k
Summary: After successfully securing leave for your team, you're happy to spend the night comfortably wrapped up in your husband's arms. If only he stopped being such a stubborn ass and actually came to bed.
ao3 link
Coruscant never really slept. Be it night or day, taxi speeders were carrying people from one place to another. The bright, neon lights of advertisements were forever shining, bathing all the surrounding buildings with their achingly bright glow. The labyrinth of the capitalās streets hid many secrets ā and plenty of people willing to kill for them. Luckily for you, you werenāt out there, in the hustle and bustle of the planetās night life. Instead, you were in bed; buried beneath a blanket, enjoying your first day of shore leave. It took you a while to convince the brass to give Havoc a break, but fighting this war taught you a very important lesson ā you were capable of accomplishing pretty much anything if you approached it with enough persistence and audacity. So, naturally, your squad ended up getting that leave. Eventually.
Lost in all the fighting ā both on and off the battlefield ā youād managed to forget just how much you missed sleeping in a real bed. Not on a cot, squeezed into your tiny room on the Thunderclap or in a sleeping bag in the middle of nowhere; maybe covered by a tent, maybe not. Sleeping in a real, proper bed, with a thick comforter, freshly washed sheets, and a nice mattress. Soft enough to sink into, but just hard enough to still be comfortable for someone as used to roughing it most nights as Aric and you. Even the neon signs right outside your bedroom window didnāt bother you as much as they normally would. It was almost perfect.
Almost, because your stubborn ass of a husband still hadnāt come to bed.
Your first attempt at convincing Aric to join you was met with āIn a moment, I just have this one report to finishā, so you decided to play nice and wait for him under the covers. A part of you was tempted to surprise him by wearing nothing but the covers, but the sheer physical exhaustion you felt successfully stopped you from doing that. You ended up putting on your comfiest, loosest pyjamas instead, ready for a night of cuddles and your husbandās soft, gentle purring. In the end, after nearly and hour of waiting, you fell asleep alone, in an empty bed. When you woke back up around two hours later ā because of course you checked how long itād been ā you quickly noticed that he still wasnāt in bed.
With a quiet grumble, you crawled out from underneath the covers and shuddered at the gust of chill that hit your bare calves. Your body was still warm and soft from sleep, but the cold air quickly shocked you out of your comfortable daze. Without thinking, you reached for the blanket laid out on the nearby chair. Its weight around your shoulders shielded you from the surrounding chill; the welcome warmth dampened your frustration.
The door to your bedroom wasnāt closed all the way. Soft blue light creeped in through the gap. It was probably coming from Aricās datapad. The man liked his screens bright and shiny ā it was a wonder his eyesight was still as good as it was. You sighed through your nose. Hopefully youād be able to convince him to come to bed this time; but if diplomacy failed, you weren't above just throwing him over your shoulder and dragging him away from work by force. Your fingers gently touched the door controls.
Aricās head snapped to the door. He was visibly alarmed at first, but the second he realized it was just you, not some sudden deadly threat, his face softened into firm worry.
āWhy arenāt you asleep?ā
āFunny you say that,ā your bare feet padded across the cold floor, āI was about to ask you the same thing.ā
āI just need a minute longer, I haveāā
āā¦one more report to finish?ā you cut him off and sat down on the couch with a huff. The two of you were close enough for your thighs to be touching. A part of you regretted bringing the blanket; maybe if you hadnāt, your bare skin could be touching his fur instead of fabric. āYou said that two hours ago, love.ā
āNo, itās onlyā¦ā One proper glance at the clock shut him up. āHm.ā
āāHmā indeed.ā You brought your legs up onto the couch to curl up properly and pulled the blanket tighter. āAnd to answer your question ā turns out I canāt sleep that well without you. Not well enough not to wake up, anyway.ā
āReally?ā He put the datapad down; there was a hint of amusement in his voice. āI couldāve sworn you manage just fine when weāre out on the field.ā
With the screen off, darkness fell over your living room like a warm cloak. All the furniture became little more than shadowy shapes outlined by the few rays of artificial light that managed to slip in through the blinds. You blinked a few times, willing your eyes to get used to the dark faster. With your sight dampened, you were forced to rely on other senses. Everything seemed just a little bit louder in the darkness of the room, every creak and groan of the building amplified. Even Aricās breathing, a sound so faint you could barely catch it before, was more pronounced among the shadows.
āItās different on the field.ā When his arm came up to cradle your shoulder, you instinctively leaned into his touch. He smelled faintly of soap. You caught yourself taking a deeper breath as you nuzzled into his neck. āWhen weāre on duty, Iāve got other things to worry about. Your safety, the teams safety, the mission, protecting civviesā¦ā
Aric leaned back against the couch with a soft grunt. āI know what you mean. Thereās not enough to keep us busy in here.ā
āThat why youāre still up?ā
āPart of it, yeah.ā He sighed. His nose came to rest against the top of your head.
āOh? Just āpartā?ā
āWell, I really do have a whole bunch of reports to finish. Someone has to, sir, before the brass start making it an issue.ā His tone was gruff, but you knew he wouldnāt be doing your reports for you if he didnāt want to. Good luck to anyone trying to force that man to do anything he set his mind on not doing.
You wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him closer. āAh, sorry about that. You know how I am with paperwork.ā
āOh, I do. Very well, actually.ā His body gently sagged against yours despite his words. āI mightāve left this particular batch for Dorne if you hadnāt dumped all other forms on her already.ā
āI promise Iāll get them done as soon as weāre back on duty.ā
Aric full-on chuckled at that. You felt the rumble of it in his chest. āOh, believe me, sir, Iād pay to see that.ā
āOh har, har, very funny.ā You half-heartedly slapped his chest. āIāll do them, just you wait.ā
He had the nerve to chuckle again ā the adorable bastard. Still, you came here to get him away from work and into bed, not to bicker. As entertaining as it could be, you had to stay focused.
āThe point Iām trying to make is,ā you lifted your head to look him in the eyes, āweāre on leave. The first one in ages! And Quite possibly the last one for a while.ā
āTrue,ā he hummed quietly and leaned closer.
āAnd, since we have the rare opportunity of sleeping in an actual bed for a change,ā your voice lowered to a quiet rasp, āIād like to use it to spend the night shamelessly wrapped around my husband, please and thank you.ā
āāShamelesslyā? Oh, I like the sound of that.ā A low growl escaped his throat as he leaned down to kiss you.
It was electric ā as always. The softness of his fur against your face did fascinating things to your heart rate. Just like the gentle scratch of his claws on your waist and the texture of his tongue on your lips. Still, you were a woman on a mission. A very tired, very overworked woman on an incredibly important mission. Your heart rate would have to wait. You indulged him for a few moments longer before pulling away. You tried not to grin when he chased you.
āAs lovely as that sounds ā and I really do mean that ā Iām afraid thatāll have to wait ātill morning.ā You leaned your forehead against his. āIām dead tired. Could you just⦠hold me?ā
Aricās face softened at your words, his usual gruffness all but melting away. āOf course, sir,ā he said. The words sounded almost vulnerable without his trademark bite beneath them.
He shifted against you and slid one of his arms behind your back; the other one hooked underneath your knees.
You gasped in delight when he cradled you to his chest and stood up. āSo you do know how to treat a woman right after all!ā
āWhen the woman in question is my wife? Always.ā
The door to the bedroom slid closed behind you with a low hiss. Aric adjusted his grip and left a quick, soft kiss on the top of your head. āCome on, letās tuck in.ā
He set you down on the bed. Your blanket quickly ended up back on the chair (although neither of you bothered to re-fold it properly) and you wasted no time burying yourself under the covers again. A happy sigh escaped you when Aric settled himself on your chest and pressed his ear over your heart. Warmth bloomed behind your ribs when his low purr rumbled against you. You gently scratched your nails against the back of his head and neck and grinned to yourself when the purring grew lauder. With his warm weight pressing you into the mattress you had no means of escape, and you wouldnāt have had it any other way.
āOh, thatās exactly what I needed.ā Your finger slowly traced the shape of his ear; his arms tightened around you. āThank you, love.ā
āAnytime, sir,ā he said, voice already growing heavy. āā¦I love you,ā he added, his words more of a quiet mumble than a whisper.
You closed your eyes, and a tiny, content smile slowly grew on your face. āI love you too, Aric,ā you said. And you let sleep take you.
I just banged out a 1.4k COMPLETE oneshot for the first time in literal months. Apparently all I needed was to get obsessed with Aric Jorgan again lmao
Thereās something fascinating about watching her work. Something so completely competent that it draws him in, almost against his will. There's a rhythm to her, a clarity of purpose that cuts through the chaos like a vibroblade.
Their arrival on Tatooine quickly went sideways. Theyād barely met with the governor before explosions had shattered the fragile calm of Mos Ila, sending civilians scrambling, smoke and dust clouding the horizon. He doesnāt know why he had expected anything else. Chaos has been their constant companion since Ord Mantell. The Republic is stretched thin, and here, far from reinforcements, the burden to contain it falls squarely on them.
Naābria doesnāt hesitate. Sheās everywhere at once, delegating Dorne to triage the most critical civilians while she moves through the crowd herself, assessing, directing, prioritizing. Her eyes flick from one person to another, reading wounds, calculating what can wait and what cannot.
What impresses him most is that she still caresātruly caresāabout each person she tries to help. Heās seen too many soldiers harden themselves, shut down their empathy to survive the brutality of war. Most would call it necessary, practical even. Garza had tried to drill that into her right from the get go, but clearly that lesson didnāt stick. In this case, he thinks her stubborn refusal to bend does her credit. She doesnāt allow herself that ease. She bears the weight of everyone she touches, and carries on. Itās brave in a way that he canāt help but admire.
Aric finds himself thinking back to Ord Mantell, to the woman he first met, all swagger and bravado, who laughed in the face of danger. Thatās still there, of course, but watching her now he can see that beneath all that is a proud and honorable soldier who refuses to be broken by circumstance.
_______________
Tatooine is a veritable nightmare on her pure white skin.
She makes a sound of frustration as she adjusts the scarf around her head for what feels like the millionth time. It doesnāt seem to matter how she arranges it - Tatooineās unrelenting twin suns are determined to burn any exposed skin to a crisp.
āYou alright, sir?ā Aric asks from his position perched on a stone mesa beside her, rifle scope glinting in the brutal light as he scans the vast sea of desert below and the abandoned town the Geonosians have claimed.
āIāll live,ā she sighs, wishing for the millionth time this planet had even an ounce of shade. Sheād even take a bush or small shrub at this point. A cloud seems like too much to realistically hope for.
It doesnāt help her frustration that their only lead at the moment comes from the word of a traitor, even if Fuze does seem for the most part contrite. It hardly seems enough to go on (let alone trustworthy) but itās all theyāve got.
āGood to know,ā Jorgan retorts, dryly as always, but she thinks sheās starting to read him now, starting to pick up on the faint inflections that separate grumpy from grumpier. And this one? This one is meant to be funny.
With Nar Shaddaa behind them and Jonas Balker in the distance, things between them seem to have settled back to normal⦠or whatever normal is for them lately, but at least it feels a lot less hostile than before. Like the ground between them has settled again.
Just hearing his voice without that edge of frustration or whatever it was that she wasnāt supposed to notice lets her shoulders drop an inch. She hadnāt realized how tense sheād been until she wasnāt anymore.
āSix guards outside,ā he reports, tone shifting into business. āThree to the north at the main entrance, one each at the south, east, and west. Shouldnāt be hard to take care of.ā His finger hovers over the trigger.
āYou know, we can move closer.ā
āNo need.ā He fires three shots in rapid successionācrisp, precise cracks that echo off the rocks. Below, the three guards at the north entrance crumple like puppets with their strings cut.
āShow off,ā she mutters, and he smirks but doesnāt bother denying it. He shifts slightly, angling the rifle. The smooth confidence in the motion draws her attention for a moment longer than she intends. Heās annoyingly good at thisācalm, steady, focused. He lines up another shot, but pauses. āSouth guard keeps pacing. Wait⦠now.ā Another clean crack rings out, and the distant figure drops.
Naābria lets out a low whistle. āāAlright, hotshot, you planning on doing all the work?ā
āOnly the fun parts.ā He doesnāt look at her, but she catches the slight raise of his brow.
āWell, donāt have too much fun. Iād hate to have to put on the mission report that you soloed the entire mission while your commanding officer hid under a scarf and whined about the sun.ā
He glances up from the scope, amusement unmistakable. He pretends to think about it, tapping a claw lightly against the rifleās casing. āI suppose I could let you handle the enemies inside. Wouldnāt want to deprive you of all the heroism on the mission report.ā
She snorts. āHow generous.ā
Two more shots ring out. Aric lowers the rifle, satisfied. āPerimeterās clear.ā He rises from his crouch, slinging the rifle across his back with a smooth, practiced motion. āBesides, close-quarters is more your style. More dramatic.ā
She opens her mouth to argue, and then catches the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Heās teasing her. On purpose.
And stars help her, she likes it.
_______________
After three weeks on Tatooine, Aric thinks his clothes, body, and armor will never be completely sand free again.
Sand gets into everything.
Aric already knew this, in the broad, abstract senseāheād been deployed on desert worlds before, had spent enough miserable hours brushing grit out of rifle chambers to last a lifetime.
But Tatooine? Tatooine feels like punishment. The sand here seeps under armor plating. It infiltrates sealed compartments. It burrows into his skin like itās trying to take up permanent residence there.
He leans his shoulder against the battered wall of the safe house theyāre hunkered down in, glaring out the narrow window slit. The sandstorm outside is thick enough to turn the world into a boiling blur of beige. It slams against the duracrete with a sound like gravel poured from orbit.
He can taste the sand every time he breathes, even though the place is sealed tight.
The storm trapped them indoors hours ago. Which means theyāve been sitting here. Waiting.
āLieutenant,ā Dorneās prim voice calls from around the corner, āI should note that the cooling unit is operating at only twenty-six percent efficiency. It wonāt hold this temperature for long.ā
āItās not holding it now,ā Aric mutters.
Dorne pretends she doesnāt hear him. Sheās knelt beside a wounded civilian the locals brought in before the storm hit, running a quiet diagnostic with her medscanner. Her hair is pinned up in regulation perfection despite the heat.
Near her, M1-4X stands sentinel, chest lights pulsing a soft amber. The droid occasionally cycles through an encouraging āMORALE BOLSTERING SPEECH" about heat resilience or the honor of protecting innocent civilians from Imperial tyrannyāalways at full volume.
Naābria finally threatens to disconnect his voice modulators if he doesnāt lower it two notches.
Four-ex, somehow looking wounded, obeys.
Aric would thank her if he werenāt too busy glaring at the sandstorm.
āAny updates?ā Naābria asks from behind him.
Her voice pulls him from his thoughts. He glances back. Sheās sitting cross-legged on the floor, datapad in hand, hair damp with sweat from either the heat or stress. Likely both. Sheās stripped out of her heavy outer layers and pushed the sleeves of her undershirt up past her elbows to catch what little airflow exists.
She looks exhausted. So does he, probably.
āNo,ā Aric huffs. āStorms not supposed to clear for at least another day. Maybe longer.ā
Naābria lets her datapad fall to her lap. āPerfect. Just what we need.ā
Aric snorts. āWe donāt even have a real lead.ā
āWe do have a lead.ā
āYes,ā he snaps, āfrom Fuze.ā
Her mouth tightens. āā¦Fair.ā
Fuze, the traitor. Heās a stain on Havocās history Aric canāt scrub away. Aricās ears flatten with irritation.
āI donāt get,ā he mutters, pacing, āhow weāre supposed to trust intel from a man who abandoned everything the Republic stands for.ā
āWeāre supposed to be tracking a bomber and taking Fuze into custody. Civilians are dying. But instead?ā He gestures sharply. āThe SIS calls and says, āActually, we need you to put a pin in that and investigate some half-classified corporate research on the side.āā
āIt would help if we even knew what Czerka and the SIS are looking for. Probably something illegal.ā
āEverything the SIS does is illegal,ā he grumbles, and she laughs lightly. It cuts through the heavy air like a welcome breeze. He canāt help glancing at her, lingering a moment too long on the curve of her smile before he catches himself and looks away.
āThe SIS always gets in our way,ā Aric mutters. āThey dangle some cryptic intel, demand priority, then disappear when things hit the fan. Meanwhile weāre stuck picking up the pieces.ā
Naābria leans back on her hands, stretching her legs out. Itās no surprise that she easily picks up on whatās really bothering him, at least where the SIS is concerned. āAny word on the Deadeyes?ā
āNot yet,ā he says tightly. āTheyāre out there. Buried in some Imperial black site while the SIS keeps us chasing shadows.ā
āWeāll get them back,ā she says firmly.
He meets her gaze. Those clear, steady eyes donāt flinch, donāt mock, donāt pity. Just hold him.
āI know what they meant to you,ā she continues. āWhat they still mean.ā
He swallows hard. āItās probably for the best that we havenāt heard anything. It doesnāt look like weāre getting out of here any time soon.
āStars,ā she sighs, rubbing the back of her neck, āthis place is awful.ā
He huffs a laugh. āNow thatās something we can agree on wholeheartedly.ā
Naābriaās jaw sets. āThe SIS can shove the Czerka file for now. Fuze and the Deadeyes come first.ā
He nods. āAgreed.ā
Outside, the storm howls louder, battering the safehouse so hard the walls vibrate.
M1-4X booms, āHOLD STRONG, HEROES OF THE REPUBLIC! NO STORM CAN QUELL THE RIGHTEOUSāā
The droid immediately reduces volume. āApologies, Lieutenant. Reducing intensity of encouragement now.ā
Aric exhales, almost a laugh, despite everything.
_______________
Tatoooineās sand truly does get everywhere.
Even inside the Thunderclap, with the blast doors sealed and three layers of durasteel and an entire spaceport between it and the desert wastes, Naābria can still feel a thin film of sand over everything.
She sits alone on the ramp steps, fingertips idly brushing patterns in the dust. The ship is dim, lights dulled to conserve power while they get ready for takeoff. Behind her, the faint sounds of activity echo through the cargo bay: Elara moving methodically through medical supplies, checking and re-checking them; M1-4X pacing his self-assigned patrol track with slow, whirring precision.
She hasnāt been able to stop replaying that momentāGorik slipping away into the chaos with the bomb schematics tucked safely under his arm. Escaping because she let him. Because she chose Fuze.
Fuze, whose gentle nature always seemed at odds with his affinity for explosives.
Fuze, who defected. Who built a bomb that murdered civilians. Who looked at her with the same warm eyes she remembered and asked her to leave him to die.
Her justification feels thinner every time she rethinks it. Heās still a Republic citizen. Heās still one of ours. He deserves a trial. He deserves a chance to come back.
Or maybe she was just too much of a coward not to pull the trigger on someone she once called a friend.
A shadow falls over her, light blocked by a tall silhouette. She doesnāt need to look up to know who it is. She wonders how long heās been watching her. Wonders, too, why it matter, why it alters things. She can't remember the last time she allowed someone to have that impact on her, isn't even sure anyoneās had that effect before.
āYou donāt seem happy with how things went,ā Aric says. It isnāt an accusation. Itās just⦠true.
āThat obvious, huh?,ā she mutters, āWhat gave it away? The thousand-yard stare?ā
āOr the fact that youāve been sitting in the same spot for an hour, and you hate sitting still,ā he deadpans, and sits on the step beside her. Not too close, not far enough to feel like heās keeping space. He rests his elbows on his knees just like she is, mirroring without meaning to.
He doesn't say anything immediately. She appreciates that, how he never forces her to talk, how he waits like the words are something she can hand to him instead of something he demands.
So she hands them to him.
āI thought Havoc Squad was going to be about doing good. About saving lives and stopping the Empire and being part of something heroic. Maybe that was naive.ā Her fingers pick a pebble out of a crack in the ramp, roll it between them. āI didnāt⦠I didnāt think it would mean hunting down the people I used to eat breakfast with. People I joked with. People who used to trust me.ā
She tosses the pebble down the ramp, and Aricās voice is low when he finally speaks. āI know.ā
She lifts her head. Heās looking forward, not at her, gaze fixed on the metal floor like itās easier to talk to than another person.
āI donāt think youāre supposed to feel good about it, but you donāt need to beat yourself up about killing former Republic soldiers, either. They made the choice, not you. Once Tavus and the others made the decision to leave, there really wasnāt any other choice left for the rest of us. You did what you had to, sir,ā he pauses for a moment. āAnd⦠for what itās worth, I think you made the right call here. Sparing Fuze, I mean. The Republic should take care of its own. Itās not doing that that got us into this mess in the first place.ā
She blinks. āā¦Really?ā
āReally.ā He glances at her now, green eyes steady. āYou made a call because you believed someone you cared about deserved a second chance. That doesnāt make you weak. It makes you decent.ā
A beat.
āAnd decent people are in short supply in this galaxy.ā
Despite herself and the conversation at hand, she chokes out a laugh. āIs that approval I hear? Who are you and what have you done with Aric Jorgan?ā
He rolls his eyes and smiles at her then, just briefly. A flash and itās gone, but itās not just his usual dry, cynical smirk. Itās a real, genuine smile, all bright sharp teeth, an expression thatās so unexpectedly warm and inviting that she thinks sheāll have to try and get him to smile like that more often.
āA compliment and a smile?ā She canāt help but tease, because itās better than focusing on the way that damn fluttery feeling is back now. She hoped that had been left behind with the Blaker unpleasantness on Tatooine, but no matter how hard she tries to stamp it down it seems stubbornly here to stay. āI shouldāve gotten this on a holo recording.ā
āOh forget it, see if I ever say anything nice again,ā he grumbles, but thereās still a hint of a smile on his face and in his eyes, and a warmth in his voice that definitely wasnāt there a few months ago, and she leaves Tatooine feeling lighter than she has since Ord Mantell.
Next Chapter:
š¬ 0Ā Ā š 0Ā Ā ā¤ļø 0Ā Ā·Ā Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 10: Coming Together
(Thunderclap)
AO3:
https://archiveofo
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š¬ 0Ā Ā š 0Ā Ā ā¤ļø 2Ā Ā·Ā Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall - Chapter 8 - drowningintherain - Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (
Close Enough to Feel it Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 8: No Honor Among Traitors
(Tavusā Ship)
Read on A03:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
As soon as Garza informed the squad of the opportunity to catch Tavus aboard his ship, every instinct in her had screamed that the lead was too clean, too obvious, too convenient.
Still, hope is a hard thing to kill and as the Thunderclap drifts closer to the rendezvous coordinates, matching vector with the massive Harrower-class dreadnought ahead of them, she lets herself fantasize for a brief self indulgent moment that perhaps this could be it. That theyād catch Tavus, put this blasted defection business far far behind them, and finally start shaping Havoc Squad into what it shouldāve been all along.
She allows her gaze to wander over her team as they stand in the airlock, performing one last sweep of their gear. The mood is tense but disciplined.
Dorne is methodically rechecking the seals on her gauntlets, her expression all precision and professionalism. For her, Tavus is a name on a dossier, a significant threat categorized and filed but nothing personal.
Forex hums quietly, weapon systems readying in a low buzz, ever eager to charge into another glorious engagement. Forex takes every slight against the Republic too personally, but still Tavusās betrayal doesnāt strike the droid the way it does the organic members of the squad.
But Jorgan⦠Jorgan has as much of a stake in this as she does. Maybe more, in some ways. He lost his place in the chain of command because of Tavus. Lost his credibility. The man may hide behind gruff pragmatism and craggy discipline, but she sees it beneath the surfaceāthe same drive she feels, the same need to settle this once and for all.
As her gaze lingers on him, a disquieting thought creeps in.
Once their business with Tavus is doneāonce the dust settles and the Republic decides what to do with the shattered remains of Havoc Squadāwhat reason would he have to stay?
She forces her eyes away at that. The thought is a sharper pain than it has any right to be. Maybe itās the vulnerability of the moment. Maybe itās exhaustion. Maybe itās that sheās been leaning on him more than she meant to. But the truth hovers there, heavy and uncomfortably fragile: She doesnāt want him to leave.
_______________
It doesnāt matter anyway. It is a trap, of course. A minefield of laser fields and suicide drones and collapsing bulkheads. They all leave with an impressive array of burns, scrapes, and thoroughly soured moods. Alive, but bruised in every sense of the word.
She expected a trap going into this but somehow it feels like a slap to the face that Tavus hadnāt even bothered to face her himself. No confrontation. No reckoning. There was just a hollow flickering image on her holocom with the audacity to accuse her of murdering heroes.
She likes a fair fight, respects one, even when she loses. Thereās dignity in it. After everything Tavus has put her through, she thought she at least deserved that much. A face-to-face. A chance to demand why. Thereās no honor in luring your enemy into a trap, but thatās what you get from a traitor, she supposes. He took the cowardās way out on Ord Mantell too, traded all honor for a different uniform and this fancy dreadnought.
āLieutenant! Report - were you able to neutralize tavus?ā Garzaā a voice crackles over the shipās holotable speakers.
āIt was all just a setup. No tavus - just the shadow fist.ā The words taste like acid. Itās telling that even Garzaāever stoic, ever sparing with praiseāglosses over her usual criticisms. It would seem that even she felt that catching Tavus here was a long shot.
āOn the plus side, you managed to wipe out the entire Shadow Fist,ā she says, sounding almost pleased. āAmbushed by the Empireās best and still standing. Thatās no small feat.ā Naābria tries to take some consolation in that, summon some satisfaction, maybe even pride in that accomplishment. āOnly option is to proceed as planned,ā Garza continues. āOur technicians have determined your final two target locations: Tatooine, and Alderaan.ā
_______________
Theyāre just setting Coordinates for Tatooine when Aric gets the call, and the news about his former squad sits like a stone in his gut. The lieutenant is still pacing the bridge like sheās trying to outrun the last vestiges of Tavusās taunting holo and he hates to bring this up now but it just isnāt something he can ignore.
āMore bad news, sir.ā He calls out, stealing himself before crossing the bridge toward her. She turns instantly. Even tired, even frustrated, even with everything sheās already got on her shoulders, she listens attentively. He doesnāt know when that started to matter to him, but it does. āI just received a dispatch from command. Itās my old sniper squad, the deadeyes - theyāve been captured.ā
Naābriaās jaw tightens and her eyes softenānot exactly with pity or sympathy, but something sturdier. Something that lands deeper.
āI trained those men, sir. I need to know what happened to them.ā He says. He expects hesitation. Maybe even the reminder that theyāre on an active pursuit of Tavus. That Garza will skin them both alive if they deviate again. That Havocās mission has to come first.
But she doesnāt hesitate at all.
āWhere should we start?ā
We. Something in the way she says that - fierce, like it isnāt even a question - sends a tendril of warmth curling in his chest.
āMissions on Nar Shaddaa are usually green-lit but the SIS. With your permission, Iād like to meet with them. See what they know.ā
āWell, we do know someone in the SISā¦āā
_______________
When that lead brings them to Nar Shaddaa with nothing more than Balkerās assurance that āsomething might be there,ā she doesnāt blink. Not once. She's resolute by his side, breaking into an Imperial black-site prison without clearance from the SIS, without orders from the Republic Military, and with only the thinnest thread of intelligence to justify it. Just steady, unflinching readiness. For him. For his squad. For men sheās never even met.
They could have been court-martialed. Still might be.
He doesnāt know how to explain that her loyalty feels like a weight in his chest, warm and heavy in a way he isnāt used to. What he does know with undeniable certainty is that regardless of how he felt about it in the beginning, heās lucky sheās the one heās serving under now.
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Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 7: Undercover
(Nar Shaddaa)
The Trooper/Aric interactions on Nar Shaddaa are some of my absolute favorites in the game, so this includes a lot of their thoughts involving Balker. Also includes my version of their mission to the Club Vertica Casino, which definitely shouldāve been an elaborate undercover operation with fancy clothes and dancing forā¦. Reasons.
Read on A03:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Theyāve been on Nar Shaddaa for all of two days, and already Aricās not sure who he feels like strangling more: his commanding officer or their new contact Balker. Just when he thinks they might finally be starting to get along, she does something, finds some new way to just grind his nerves to no end. Sometimes he thinks maybe it's just her personality. Sometimes he swears she does it on purpose.
This time, he thinks, after she shoots him a weird look when heās interrupted yet another round of their completely inappropriate flirty banter, - yes flirty - itās definitely the latter.
Definitely.
Theyāre supposed to be tracking down a rogue experimental republic war droid, not speed dating.
Heās not sure why he cares. Hell, even a month ago he wouldāve confidently said he didnāt even like her. He tries to muster those feelings again, but it just didnāt feel as true as before. Somewhere between Havocās defection and trudging through the overgrown ruins of Taris heād gone from begrudging tolerance to begrudging respect to something to something almost like camaraderie. He thinks of her then, facing down the rackghouls, no armor, all selfless idealism and bravery almost bordering on idiocy, and now thereās just this nagging thought that she could do better than someone like Balker, better than someone whoās nothing but smooth words in a sleazy cantina.
Deserves better.
And maybe if it wasnāt mid mission and he wasn't stuck listening to them it wouldnāt matter, but it is mid mission and itās damned unprofessional to boot. Besides. She's the commander of Havoc Squad. The position alone should deserve some respect, even if she doesnāt want to act like it.
_______________
Everything on Nar Shaddaa is loud and bright and too close. Too many eyes. Too many unknowns.
Neon signs flicker and pulse from every direction, advertising services she doesnāt want and places sheād rather not imagine. The air smells like oil and spice and too many bodies packed into too little space. It feels like an assault on every one of her senses every time she steps outside.
If Coruscant is a city that learned to behave, Nar Shaddaa is one that learned absolutely nothing at all.
Jorgan must agree. āThis place is starting to hurt my eyes,ā she hears him mutter, somewhere slightly behind her and off to her left.
Naābria grips her blaster tighter as she and Aric weave through the cluttered lower-market walkway. Theyāve been searching for this rogue war droid for over a week now, and it feels like they arenāt even one step closer to finding it than they were when they first landed.
She hates this mission. She hates this moon. And today, she hates the way her thoughts keep circling back to Jorgan snapping at her a few days ago.
She steps around a vendor trying to push used blaster parts into her hands and shoots Jorgan a sideways look. Heās striding along behind her, jaw tight, eyes forward. Sheās learned to read him enough to know when heās annoyed (which is pretty much always) but right now heās practically radiating it.
It could just be the mission.
Tracking down a stolen war droid on this planet-wide den of criminals is maddening enough to sour anyoneās mood. But she knows better. She saw the exact moment the tension hit - right after she laughed off Balkarās āTrust me, thereās a reason Iām trying to get all this boring save the Republic business out of the way quicklyā.
That little exchange still sits wrong in her chest. Balkar had been flirting, sure, but thatās just how he is. It bounces off of her without leaving a single mark. She flirted back because it was fun, and harmless, and because she almost never gets time for anything fun.
First Aric went stiff, then he snapped something curt about āBalker getting his priorities straight,ā and thenāJorgan being Jorganā pretended the conversation never happened. Shut down, like he did after Ord Mantell.
She canāt decide if it irritated her, or if it shouldnāt have irritated her but did anyway.
What Aric Jorgan thinks about her flirting is none of her business. Or rather, none of his business. And itās certainly not something she should waste thought on while theyāre hunting a stolen droid capable of cleaving a building in half.
But the thought loops anyway.
It's his unparalleled ability to make her feel like she's done something wrong that never ceases to bother her. Sheād thought, maybe, theyād gotten past that somewhere in the jungles of Taris, but apparently theyāre back to square one. Sheās surprised, and then annoyed, at how much that stings.
She lets out a slow, irritated breath as they pass under another towering hologramāthis one of a Twiālek dancer ten stories tall, shimmering in pink and gold light. The glow reflects off Aricās armor, catching on the hardened lines of his shoulders. He doesnāt blend in here, doesnāt soften into the noise or the chaos. He stands out, rigid and rule-bound in a place that thrives on bending every law ever written.
Naābria ends up beside him, close enough to catch the way his jaw flexes as he scans the street. He doesnāt even glance at her, but she can tell heās still thinking, still grinding something between his teeth. She canāt tell if itās her⦠or the job⦠or both tangled so tightly even he hasnāt sorted it out.
She folds her arms and tries to push down the frustration bubbling beneath her ribs. Nar Shaddaa is too loud, too bright, too filthy for anything resembling clear thought.
āYouād think a droid capable of leveling a city block would be a little harder to misplace,ā she mutters.
Aric grunts. āThey covered their tracks well. And this moonās full of people whoāll hide anything for enough credits.ā
āGreat,ā Naābria sighs. āSo we get to keep wandering through this glowing trash heap until one of us goes blind from the neon.ā
He gives her a look - half exasperated, half something else she canāt quite place.
āStay focused, sir,ā he says, but the words lack the bark they had earlier.
She rolls her eyes. She should keep quiet, not keep poking at the wound, but thatās a lesson she's never learned well and heās really striking at that obstinate chord in her again today, so curiosity gets the better of her.
āWell,ā she mutters, āmaybe Balkarās had better luck tracking it down. Iām sure heāā
His shoulders tense. Itās subtle, but immediate.
There it is again. That reaction.
Why should he care? Why should she care if he cares?
This is stupid.
Her fingers twitch, itching for action, anything to take her mind off this. She half hopes theyāll be ambushed by some gang, or better yet, Imperials. Someone she actually can punch.
_______________
āThe alarm signal from the arms factory led to a surprising place - a penthouse at the Club vertica Casino.ā Balker informs them like heās delivering good news, and Aric can already tell heās going to hate whatever comes next. He can feel the beginnings of a headache building just behind his brow.
Balker flicks a holo-map to life above the table, the casino tower glittering in luminous blue. āClub vertica is an extremely public place,ā Balker continues. āWe have to get you through the casino and up to the penthouse without causing a scene or any bloodshed.ā
The Lieutenant raises an eyebrow. āMeaning?ā
āMeaning,ā Balker explains, āyouāre going to have to take a page out of the SISās playbook for this one, and go in undercover.ā
Aric resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Undercover. Brilliant. Exactly what they were not trained for.
Alarai considers it with a skepticism Aric appreciates more than heād ever admit. āIām not sure we're the best bet for the job then. You donāt have a couple of spare SIS agents to cover this part?ā
Balker, to his credit, sheds all of his playfulness at that. āNot unless you want to give me the full story here, Lieutenant." His gaze sharpens. āIām not sending my agents in half-blind, missing facts.ā
Aric watches carefully to see what sheāll do. For all her worry about navigating this foreign field of politics and half truths, itās a role she plays well. This time is no exception. āThen what do we need?ā
Balker looks the two of them up and down critically. āI donāt suppose youāre wearing a dress or suit anywhere under that armor.ā Oh yeah. He definitely doesnāt like where this is going.
āIs that really necessary?ā Aric tries to keep the growl out of his voice, but heās not really sure he succeeds.
āWell, we canāt exactly waltz into a club in full durasteel armor and go unnoticed.ā Alarai says, which is a point he unfortunately canāt argue. Aric scowls. Figures this is what happens when you let SIS muck around in military business. Espionage, disguises, nightlifeā nothing that resembles actual soldiering.
āExactly,ā Balker replies, far too cheerfully. āTry not to look so thrilled, Jorgan. The nightlife of Nar Shaddaa awaits.ā
_______________
Back at the ship, one cursory glance at his wardrobe is enough to reveal that it is decidedly lacking in club wear. Its contents are bare bones and utilitarian, so heāll have to make do with the few pieces of clothing he owns that arenāt army regulation. He manages to find a green jacket that doesnāt scream infantry, a plain grey shirt, and dark pants that at least arenāt full of cargo pockets and donāt have reinforced knees. Itāll have to suffice.
He wonders, absently, if the Lieutenant is having any more luck with her wardrobe than him. Heās never seen her in anything besides armor or fatigues, usually with a rifle slung over one shoulder like itās an extension of her. He canāt picture her in sequins or ruffles. Honestly, the idea is almost comical.
He half suspects Balker planned this entire situation for his own entertainment.
Heās tugging the jacket into place when the door to the captainās quarters slides open and Naābria emerges.
The dress is long, black, and deceptively simple. Halter neck, high slits up both sides. Her hair, normally slightly wild from a day in the field, is pulled into a sleek high bun that makes her neck look impossibly long. Silver hoops glint at her ears when she turns.
Heād never taken her for the type to own jewelry. Or dresses. Or⦠whatever this is. But for some reason the jewelry is the easiest part of her ensemble to focus on, especially when she walks past him toward the ramp and the back of her dress comes into viewāif it can even be called a āback.ā It dips low. Very low. All the way down to the small of her spine. The entire stretch from shoulder to waist is completely bare. Her skin is pale in contrast to the dark fabric, and the low lighting of the shipās interior casts faint shadows along the defined lines of muscleālean, sharp, unmistakably shaped by years of hauling heavy weaponry and armor across battlefields.
Itās⦠a lot.
An interesting combination, some distant, uncooperative part of his brain notes. Elegant dress, lean muscled lines. No softness. Not like the women who usually frequent the place Balker is sending them.
He realizes too late that heās staring.
She pauses at the bottom of the ramp and looks back at him, one brow raised. āIs something wrong, Sergeant?ā
He snaps his jaw shut so fast he feels it click. āNo,ā he says too quickly. āNo, sir. Just⦠evaluating the mission parameters.ā
Her lips twitch, just barely. āRight.ā
_______________
Strobing blue lights sweep across Club Verticaās main floor as Aric steps in behind the lieutenant, doing his best to look like he belongs. The bass hums through the soles of his bootsāwell, shoes, technically. Their undercover attire is far from regulation, and heās still not sure which part bothers him more: the music, the crowd⦠or how naturally his CO seems to fit into the scene.
She moves with easy confidence, chin high, eyes scanning the club for threats and opportunities alike. Aric swears half the room glances at her as she passes. Not helpful. Not convenient. Not what they need on this mission.
He forces his focus forward. Professional. Focused.
She leans closeātoo close for his comfort, close enough that he can smell her perfume as she speaks over the music.
āWe need to blend in. We wonāt know where Balker is until he makes contact. Care for a drink?ā she suggests as her gaze sweeps the crowded room, and he thinks that just might be one of the best ideas heās heard all day.
āCopy that, sir,ā Aric says automatically.
She shoots him a sideways look, sharp and unimpressed.
āAric,ā she sighs, āRelax. Tonight itās Naābria.ā
Right. Covers. Roles. He nods stiffly. āRight. Naābria.ā The name feels strange leaving his mouth, foreign, like something heās not allowed to say. It belongs to a version of her heās not sure how to interact with. As they weave through the throng of dancers, the shifting lights play across her skin, turning the white to an otherworldly violet.
Thereās a lot of skin on display to catch the light.
He pointedly looks away, focusing on the bar ahead. Most patrons are nursing elaborate, glowing cocktails that look like they cost more than his boots. He half expects her to order something equally ostentatious. Something that fits the dress, the lights, the atmosphere.
Instead, she lifts a hand to the bartender and orders something amber-colored and decidedly ordinary.
āHuh,ā Aric says before he can stop himself. āWhat, no girly cocktails?ā
She arches a brow at him, faintly amused. āNah. I like it straight and simple.ā
A strange thing to learn about her. Small. Personal. Not mission-related in the slightest. But it settles into his mind with surprising ease, and he decides he likes that about her.
He lifts his own glass. āI can appreciate that.ā They stand shoulder to shoulder, pretending to relax, pretending theyāre just another pair of people out for a good time. Except Aric is terrible at pretending. His posture is too rigid, and his jaw is too tight.
Naābria notices immediately.
āYou look like youāre waiting for someone to detonate an explosive,ā she mutters, sipping her drink without turning her head.
āWell considering a regiment of Imperials is operating out of this club, you never know,ā Aric says.
She snorts. āSure.ā
He tries again, forcing himself to roll his shoulders back, take a slow breath, do something to look less suspicious. But the more he tries to relax, the more aware he becomes of her. Her perfume. The effortless command in her posture. The way the lights kiss the graceful curve of her neck as she looks over her shoulder.
When he catches himself staring (again) he snaps his gaze away, focusing anywhere else. The bar. The dancers. The glowing bottles lining the wall.
But inevitably, traitorously, his attention drifts back.
Settles on the sharp V her dark hair makes at the base of her skull, the fine, delicate hairs that fan against her skin just there, soft in a way the rest of her never seems to be.
Itās⦠weirdly captivating.
Heās not quite sure why he keeps looking at her. Probably because this version of her - elegant, relaxed, glittering beneath neon light - feels jarringly different from the armored, headstrong officer heās begun to understand in pieces. Pieces he didnāt even realize heād been collecting until tonight.
Trying to reconcile those two realities in his mind is throwing off his equilibrium.
Whatever the case, itās strangely distracting, and that just wonāt do.
He scans the dance floor, the crowd shifting in waves of neon light and glittering fabric. People are laughing, flirting, leaning close in ways that make them practically invisible to anyone not looking for them.
A thought strikes him thatās unpleasant, inconvenient, but tactically correct. āWe should dance,ā Aric mutters.
Naābria tilts her head, surprised and more than a little amused. āYou want to dance?ā
āItāll help us blend in,ā he says gruffly. āWe can easily get eyes on the crowd, and scan for Balker.ā
Her smile is slow and sly. āWell, look at you suggesting something fun.ā
āThis isnāt fun,ā Aric insists. āThis is an operationalāā
āSure, sure,ā she says, already setting her drink down. āOperational necessity. Come on.ā
She grabs his handāfirmly, no hesitationāand leads him onto the dance floor. Aric tells himself this is fine. This is normal. He can do this.
He can absolutely not do this, and it takes all of two seconds to come to the conclusion that this is quite possibly one of the worst ideas heās ever had.
Naābria steps close, sliding one hand lightly to his shoulder. Itās nothing inappropriate, just enough to sell the act. But Aricās brain short-circuits anyway, because sheās warm, and close, and every instinct tells him this is a terrible idea. He puts his hands at her waist carefully, respectfully, exactly where they should be. Too aware. Far too aware, because now heās faced with the uncomfortable reminder of just how open the back of her dress is cut. The fabric - or lack thereof - dips just low enough that his fingers are left resting on completely bare skin. He swallows. Tries to relax his hands on her hips in what he hopes is a casual enough manner, tries to ignore how distractingly warm and soft her skin is under his fingertips, the way the club lights glint off of the dark fridge of her eyelashes.
Get a grip, Jorgan.
None of that should matter anyways because she is his CO and heās danced with plenty of women before without putting this much thought into it. All the same, he hopes she canāt tell how awkward his hands feel at her waist or the way his heart is beating just a bit faster than it should. At least all of his sniper training keeps his breathing even.
They move together, awkward at first, then smoother as the rhythm pulls them in. Naābriaās confidence guides them, her steps sure and fluid. Aric follows, finding the beat, matching her movements.
Itās not like he hasnāt noticed that sheās pretty before, but itās never been something that he focused on. An observation, and that's that. Completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. As his CO, it shouldnāt matter one lick whether she's pretty or not. But now ever since Balker had started flirting with her and sheād made the ridiculous quip about him being jealous, he canāt seem to stop noticing. Itās ridiculous, unprofessional, and currently definitely contributing to his irritable attitude.
The bass of the music rumbles through the floor in a slow steady rhythm, her hips swaying smoothly in time with it. He tries to ignore the way sheās close enough to smell the scent of her shampoo, the way her breath tickles his neck, and focus on the mission. Then Naābria leans closer, voice barely a whisper against his ear, shattering his concerns all over again. āContact at eleven.ā
Aricās attention snaps up. Jonas Balker strolls into the club with that insufferable swagger, scanning the crowd. The moment he spots Naābria, his grin widens.
Her hand slides lightly down his arm as she turns them with the beat closer to the edge of the dance floor. Balker slides into their orbit with a bright, infuriating grin.
āDonāt stop on my account,ā he says. āYou two look cozy.ā
āWe were blending in,ā Aric growls.
Balker gives him a knowing wink. āRight. Blending. Well, well,ā Jonas says, giving Naābria a slow, appreciative once-over. āIf this is the cover you two came up with, I almost wish I was the one going undercover with you, Leutennant.ā
Aric takes a step forwardāsubtle, professional⦠territorial entirely by accident.
āFocus, Balker,ā he says flatly.
āOh, I am focused,ā Balker says with a grin, ājust not on the mission yet.ā
Naābria, still in Aricās arms for the sake of cover, lifts a brow, but only says. āYouāre late, fill us in.ā
Jonas places a hand dramatically over his heart. āYou wound me, Lieutenant. I got here as fast as the speeder would carry me. Canāt rush class.ā
Aric resists the urge to point out that Jonas wears class like a borrowed jacket: visible, but not convincing, and far more suited to the sleazy cantinas he usually frequents.
Naābria steps back from Aric just enough to maintain cover without⦠whatever this is. Jonas eyes the distance between them with obvious amusement, and flashes Naābria a grin thatās trying entirely too hard to be charming. Still, he slips closer, voice dropping into the professional tone he uses only when absolutely necessary.
āAlright. Hereās the layout.ā He gestures subtly toward the far wall where a set of sleek elevator doors sit guarded by a bouncer built like a speeder engine. āPenthouse elevator. Private access only. Now, thanks to your work with Niall, youāre on the safe list. Your key card should call the elevator without raising any alarms. Still, best not let anyone get a clear look at you. Club staff knows every VIP, everyone on the guest list, every crumb that matters. Anyone taking that elevator who looks official, alert, or sober raises flags.
Naābria arches a brow. āSo what should we look like?ā
Balker gives her a look so smug Aric feels his fist twitch. āLike a couple sneaking off to find a quiet corner. A private room. An elevator ride to anywhere that isnāt full of loud music and prying eyes.ā
Aric clears his throat, stiff. āThatās ridiculous.ā
āActually, that's believable,ā Naābria corrects, giving Aric a pointed look.
Balker sighs dramatically. āSee? If only I couldāve taken this mission with you, lieutenant.ā
Aric bristles. āWeāre wasting time.ā
Balker continues, āJust get in the elevator acting overly interested in each other, hit the top floor button, and look like you donāt care who sees you. Staff shouldnāt question it.ā
āOnce weāre up there?ā Naābria asks.
Balker shifts to a brisk, professional tone. Finally. āThe elevator opens into a private foyer. Door to the penthouse is on the right. Target should be inside with a pared-down entourage.ā
Naābria nods. āUnderstood.ā
Balker glances between them, clearly enjoying himself far too much. āRight. So. From here? You two start walking like youāre looking for someplace dark. The rest will be a piece of cake!ā
Naābria bumps her shoulder lightly against his, a move thatās playful and practiced for cover. āRelax,ā she murmurs. āItāll sell better if you stop glaring.ā
āIām not glaring.ā He knows he is.
Balker claps Aric on the back. āJust put your hand on her waist. Look like you want to get her alone, Sergeant.ā Balker gives her another lingering once-over. āShouldnāt be too hard to imagine.ā
Aricās ears twitch, and he hates that Jonas sees it, but he places a careful hand at Naābriaās waist. She slides closer, seamlessly fitting the part (and his side).
āLike this,ā she murmurs.
Jonas gives a low whistle. āPerfect. Almost convincing. Try not to look like youāre in pain, though, Jorgan.ā
Aric grits his teeth. āWeāre done here.ā
Naābria nods once. āSignal us if the guards shift position.ā
āYou got it.ā Balker steps back into the crowd. āHave fun up there.ā
Aric doesnāt dignify that with a response.
Naābria turns to him, her hand resting lightly on his chest for their cover. āReady?ā
Aric straightens, though he doesnāt step back. Canāt, not for the act. āLetās get this done.ā
Together, they start toward the elevator, Naābria leaning into him with practiced ease, Aric doing his best to look like a man distracted by the woman on his arm⦠which honestly, with how tonightās been going, isnāt too far from the truth. The crowd barely glances at them.
Exactly the point.
The elevator gleams like polished obsidian, reflecting ribbons of neon as they approach. The music grows muffled the closer they getāthe pulse of the club fading beneath a quieter, more tense rhythm: Aricās heartbeat.
Naābria stays close to him, his arm still looped around her waist, her head tilted toward his shoulder like sheās whispering something enticing. Itās calculated, practiced⦠and annoyingly effective.
The bouncer stationed near the elevator glances their way, assessing, but only barely and only for a moment. His expression flickers into bored recognition.
Two people sneaking off. Nothing to see here.
Exactly what they want.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. They step inside, and the moment the doors close, the quiet hits himāno crowd, no flashing lights, just the muted hum of machinery and the faint scent of Naābriaās perfume.
She reaches past him to press the penthouse button, brushing close enough that he feels the warmth of her, and then shifts instantly into command mode. Aric mirrors her stance with immense relief. Finally. Something he understands.
āThis is where we stop pretending,ā she whispers.
āGood,ā he mutters, grounding himself in the familiar. āPretending wasāā
āNot your strong suit?ā she offers without missing a beat.
āIt was fine,ā Aric insists, even though they both know it wasnāt.
āMm-hm.ā
She hikes up the slit of her dressāhigher than he expectsāand whips out a compact blaster that has apparently been strapped to her inner thigh the entire time. He blinks, momentarily stunned.
āHold this.ā She presses the blaster into his hands before he can react. The metal is warmāher warmth, seeped into its surfaceāand for one deeply unprofessional second, itās all he can focus on.
Before he recovers, sheās already bracing a hand on his shoulder for balance, stripping off her strappy heels one at a time. The dress rides up with the motion, revealing a flash of toned muscle, but sheās focused on efficiency, not aesthetics. Barefoot, she takes the weapon back from him and performs a quick, practiced safety check. And this⦠this is the version of her he knows. The soldier. The officer who moves like a well-honed blade. Just barefoot in a cocktail dress instead of armor, but somehow she still manages to make it look intimidating.
Unfortunately for his sanity, itās one of the most strangely attractive sights heās ever seen. And that is a secret heāll take to his grave.
He clears his throat sharply, trying to shake off the heat prickling up his neck. āIām thinking maybe you should consider a career with the SIS, sir,ā he says, leveling his own blaster at the elevator doors and shifting into a defensive stance. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her settle into readinessābalanced, quiet, coiled.
She rolls her eyes. āPlease. This is a little fun, sure, but I do not have the patience for long-term subterfuge.ā
He almost snorts at the accuracy of that statement. āThatās true. You do not.ā
She gives him an amused look, and it strikes unexpectedly like a moment of camaraderie. A shared breath before the action begins.
The elevator slows. The floor lights blink. The soft ding announces their arrival.
Naābria shifts her grip on her blaster. āReady?ā she asks, eyes sharp, voice steady.
Aric steadies himself. āAlways, sir.ā
_______________
Heās almost relieved when, as soon as they get back to the thunderclap, she changes back into uniform immediately, weapons secured, boots laced, hair back in its usual no-nonsense half ponytail.
Good. Good. This is familiar. This he can work with. The quiet hum of the shipās systems feels like a return to sanity. The sharp edges of military precision, the predictable rhythm of dutyāeverything he understands and embodies.
He shoves the image of her taking on half a dozen imperials in a backless dress and no shoes into a mental lockbox in the far far back of his mind, seals it shut with all the discipline drilled into him over a decade of service. Barricades it behind protocol, carefully compartmentalizes it away like a good solder. Better yet, forget it entirely, and the sooner the better.
He exhales slowly.
Much better.
Mostly.
_______________
Naābria chooses a table tucked against the wide viewport in the spaceport lounge, the noise around her a steady hum of starship engines cycling down, travelers bartering with vendors, glasses clinking. Itās easy enough to ignore. The datapad in front of her demands all of her attention anyways. The mission report refuses to write itself, and her brain keeps replaying flashes of the fiasco that's been their mission here.
At least thereās one unambiguous part of this operation: they have the droid. Heās safe. Heās loyal. And heās eager (maybe overly eager) to join Havoc Squad. She should be proud. She should feel the satisfaction of a job well done.
It should feel like a win.
Instead, it feels like someone split the victory clean down the middle.
A half-success.
A coin flipped and landed exactly on its edge.
Still, she wishes - deep down, where she doesnāt acknowledge these kinds of thoughts often - that this one hadnāt slipped through her fingers quite so easily. That she couldāve come away with a clean win instead of this uneasy, hollow in-between.
Half a success sits like a stone in her gut.
She's never been a fan of halves.
She digs her thumb against a stress knot in the back of her neck, frowning at her datapad. Everything happened so fast. One moment they were rerouting the war droid before it could tear through the prison complex, the next she was standing in the Republic embassy, watching Balker piece together the truth she was ordered to bury.
Havoc Squad defected to the Empire.
She wasnāt supposed to let that get out. Command had been explicitācontain the narrative until they could craft an official version. No unnecessary leaks. No loose ends.
But Balker is SIS. He sees everything. Notices everything. And she could tell the exact moment the final piece clicked into place behind his smug grin. For once he didnāt even seem pleased with himself, just understanding. Too understanding.
Somehow that had felt worse.
Sheād tried to sidestep it, redirect him, give him just enough information to keep him useful without handing over the whole mess. But his skills werenāt the problem.
Her timing was.
Her skill was.
Or maybe she just underestimated him.
Heās a spy. Itās his damned job to uncover secrets. It still feels like a failure on her part none the less. She crosses her arms, jaw tightening. She can already imagine the fallout: the debriefings, the questions, the subtle reprimands disguised as āclarifications.ā Command wonāt yell. They never do. Theyāll simply look disappointed in that quiet, suffocating way that makes her feel like sheās back at the academy, being told she shouldāve known better.
And the worst part? She did know better.
If sheād been faster. Sharper. If she hadnāt let herself be distracted by everything else swirling around this miserable moonāthe chaos, the politics, Jorganās ridiculous reactions to Balkerāit mightāve gone differently.
Jorgan.
She presses her eyes shut for a moment. Sheās not sure whatās going on there, not sure why heās getting under her skin in ways she doesnāt have time to unpack. Not with yet another mission already looming and almost an entire squad of traitors still on the loose.
One thing at a time.
Even if none of those things feel simple.
Sheās halfway through a sip of something strong and citrusy when his shadow falls across the table.
Of course itās him.
He doesnāt crowd, doesnāt hover - just stands there with that stiff posture that means heās working up to something. For a moment neither of them speaks.
Then he clears his throat. āM1-4X is settling into the transport.ā A beat. āHeās⦠enthusiastic.ā
Naābria snorts quietly. āThatās one way to put it.ā
āProud to serve the Republic,ā Aric says with an exaggerated crispness, clearly quoting the droid. āIām pretty sure he saluted a maintenance crate on our way to the transport.ā
She huffs a soft laugh. Sheās grateful for the attempt. Itās light, simple, something easy to grab onto instead of the knot twisting in her chest.
Aric shifts his weight. He glances at her, tone softening just barely. āNext assignment should be more straightforward.ā
She knows what heās really sayingāor trying to. Itās the closest he ever gets to comfort.
Still, her jaw tightens. āIt doesnāt feel like a win.ā
āAlaraiāā
āI know,ā she cuts in. āWe got the droid. That part went fine.ā She stares at the dizzying spiderweb of speeders weaving through the lower traffic lanes. āBut Balker wasnāt supposed to find out about the old squad. Command trusted me with that, and I still screwed it up.ā
āYou didnāt screw anything up,ā Aric replies immediately, firm, almost sharp. āIt wouldāve come out eventually.ā
She looks at him, surprised at the certainty in his voice. His ears twitch once - heās annoyed, though not at her, it would seem for once. It sits coiled under his voice like heās irritated on her behalf, which is⦠new.
But then he clears his throat lightly, resetting himself. āSo whereās Balker?ā he asks, hitting the line like itās part of the daily script.
She shakes her head, tryingāreally tryingānot to show the lingering irritation curling in her chest. āHeās not my type. I was just messing with him.ā
Itās one of those things that's out of her mouth before she's thought it through: defensive, unnecessary, and worse, honest. And now that she is thinking it through, she canāt come up with a single good reason for him to know that information. Itās none of his damn business who she flirts with or what she does on her own time.
But Aric doesnāt respond with one of his usual lectures or little reprimands. He just says: āGood to know, sir.ā Cut and dry as ever. But thereās this slight quirk to his lips and she holds his gaze just a bit too long and that annoying little flurry in her stomach is back.
Before she can figure out what the hell to do with that feeling or crush it into dust where it belongs, Aric breaks eye contact. No commentary. No jab. No lecture about professionalism.
He just nods once, a simple acknowledgment, and turns toward the direction of the Thunderclap.
āSee you onboard,ā he says over his shoulder, as if he hadnāt just knocked her completely off balance with four words and a half-smile.
Naābria stares at her datapad. Her mission report is now nothing but black text that swims uselessly across the screen.
She slams the rest of her drink down in one gulp.
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š¬ 0Ā Ā š 1Ā Ā ā¤ļø 4Ā Ā·Ā Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 6
The Weight of War
(Taris)
The sheer scale of destructio
Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 6
The Weight of War
(Taris)
Read on A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75546881/chapters/197542316
The sheer scale of destruction on Taris is overwhelming, its presence weighty on her shoulders everywhere she goes.Ā
Itās the heavy hopelessness of the placeāhow it seems to cling to the people, the ground, the very air like a blanket of cold fog. Everything around them is in some stage of decay. The reclamation crews do what they can, but everywhere she looks the vines keeps gaining ground, slow and patient, indifferent to their efforts. Itās a stark contrast to the shining towers of Coruscant, still fresh in her memory. Whenever she thinks about how Taris used to be a thriving civilization just as grandāand how war has reduced it to worse than rubbleāthereās a hollow ache in her chest thatās impossible to shake.
Itās not like she ever had illusions about the brutality of war. Sheās seen devastation beforeāon battlefields, in villages where the fighting passed too closeābut not like this. Not across an entire planet. The sight is a sobering reminder of what the Republic is up against, and what its enemies are willing to destroy without hesitation. It casts a film over everything, a question she keeps trying to ignore: Are we actually doing the right thing? Or are we just a different kind of calamity, guns pointed in the opposite direction?
She shoves the thought away before it can take root.
And then they meet Sergeant Elara Dorne.
The woman stands straight-backed behind a small command console, crisp and immaculate in a way that seems impossible on Taris. She greets them with perfect posture, perfect diction, perfect readiness, like she hasnāt been breathing the same defeated air as everyone else. Naābria watches her move, the sharp efficiency of her hands, the bright alertness in her eyes, and something in her chest lifts just a little. Elara Dorne looks like the Republic should look: competent, steadfast, still fighting even when the place around her seems long past saving.
In fact, shes such the model of a perfect republic soldier and so much more helpful than their assigned contact Colonel Gaff that at first, Naābria a doesnāt even register the accent; itās the least interesting thing about her.
Apparently no one else shares that perspective, a fact that only worsens her already sour mood.
As they leave the small makeshift command building, Jorgan reviewing a datapad beside her, Naābriaās jaw tightens. She glances back through the doorway where Dorne is already back at work, another officer brushing past her like she isnāt even there.
Sheās wasted in there, doing practically everything by herself and looking the only one in that entire post who hasnāt given up. She knows all to well what itās like to be underestimated. To be written off before you even start
As the round the corner, Jorgan exhales through his nose, ears flicking in mild irritation. āThat was... interesting,ā he says and that superior judgmental tone that she could never stand on Ord Mantell is back.
She whips him an angry glare. āWhat, Dorne?ā She stops walking, boots planting hard in the dirt, forcing him to stop too.
Jorgan lowers the datapad slightly, tilting his head. āIāve had drill instructors more relaxed than that woman.ā
The utter irony of himāhimācomplaining about someone being too rigid makes her want to scream until every reclamation worker and rackghoul on Taris hears it. But she canāt do that, not with him looking so composed, like heās already picked apart the situation and filed it neatly into whatever mental folder all his unhelpful judgments go.
āAw, looks like little Jorgan has finally met his dream girl.ā She snaps instead.
It comes out sharp and acidic, far meaner than she intended.
Jorganās flinches, his jaw tightening just a fraction, but he says nothing. He just looks at her, eyes narrowing with a controlled, almost wounded look.
He adjusts the datapad against his chest. āDonāt be ridiculous, Lieutenant,ā he says, voice restrained and clipped, āForget I said anything.ā
Then he steps past her without waiting for a response.
Naābria stands there a beat too long, the Taris wind tugging at her hair, the ruins jutting up around her like broken reminders of every mistake ever made in this galaxy.
_______________
Thereās a fine line between bravery and stupidity and itās one she walks every day. But this? This just might take the cake.
Aric stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching as the medical staff hover over her like sheās some kind of prized specimen. He sees the doctors and droids taking readings, measuring her breathing, her heart rate, the density of her bones. One of the droids is drawing blood to run diagnostics against every possible medical standard they have. All the while, Naābria stands there, apparently unfazed, as if she hadnāt just volunteered to do something that could get her killed in the most ridiculous way imaginable.
āThese people need help, Jorgan. Isnāt that what we signed on to do?ā She insists with an almost infuriating degree of idealism when he questions her on the sanity of this course of action. Agreeing to be bitten by a rackghoul Itās absurdly risky. And also, he has to admit, absurdly brave and absurdly selfless.Ā
The thought sticks in his throat.
No, I signed on to fight imperials, is what he wants to say. But her ideals sound a lot more noble than his, when put that way, and he canāt quite bring himself to say it. Canāt figure out a good way to talk her out of this.. this experiment, really.
āBesides, if Needles has managed to weaponize the rackghoul plague, we need a treatment now more than ever.ā
He knows better than to follow blindly into every reckless stunt someone pulls just because it sounds heroic. But when she says it like that, when she speaks with such certainty, such conviction, it makes it harder to argue with her. She makes it sound noble. She makes it sound like the right thing to do.
Heās watched her take on every impossible situation since Ord Mantell and somehow come out on top. Itās like sheās untouchable in her sheer stubbornness, and it makes no logical sense. Sheās reckless, unpredictable, and often overconfident to the point of arrogance, but damn it if she doesnāt have a knack for making it work.
And so, with something bordering on begrudging respect, he follows her as she goes to find the nearest pack of rackghouls. Sans amor, of course, because, āHow else am I supposed to make sure the infection actually gets into my bloodstream?ā Which is a sentence he hopes he never has to hear anyone say ever again.
It doesnāt take long to find a pack of three of the vermin. The whole planet is crawling with the blasted things.Ā
āJust donāt kill them all before one bites me,ā she says, easily. Casually, almost.
āRight, sir.ā He wants to argue, but that hasnāt gotten him anywhere before with her so instead he just gives her a quiet, irritated shake of his head, gritting his teeth.
He canāt help feeling this whole ridiculously contrived plan is going to end in disaster.
_______________
āIf I end up as a rackghoul, I want a statue. A non-rackghoul statue.ā
Jorgan gives a semi-amused snort. āIāll see what I can do, sir.ā
After several days of mandatory rest in the med tent, sheās willing to admit that perhaps this time sheād taken things too far.
āI hope the force is with you, because the science here is stretched to the limit.ā A medic had said on day one after the first round of scans and bloodwork. If that wasnāt just one of the least encouraging things she's ever heard a medic say.Ā
Now on day three, Naābria presses her hands together to keep them from fidgeting, but it doesnāt quite work. Sheās still here. Still herself, for now, at least. Her legs twitch on the surface of her bed, wanting something to do, anything to do, but the tubes and monitors attached to her make every movement feel like a laborious effort. And the damn bed feels too soft, too still, and too confining. The medical team had told her specifically their conditions for the observation period of the experiment (four days medical observation, then three more days resting on base returning for checkup and bloodwork each day) but she hadnāt thought much about it when sheād agreed. Now she almost wishes sheād reconsidered.
She glares at the med tent walls, her eyes tracing the seams along up and along the ceiling and, focusing on the drab lights overhead. Her muscles are stiff from being stuck in this room for so long. The incessant beeping of the monitors keeps time in her head, too rhythmic, too slow, like sheās stuck in a holding pattern, waiting for something, anything, to change.
She canāt quite suppress the flicker of unease at the thought. Sheās still feeling the effects of the infection: how sluggish her limbs feel, how the air in the room seems a little too heavy. Itās not a pleasant thought, the idea that she could be teetering on the edge of something that could take her from alive to dead, from herself to something else entirely, in the blink of an eye.
Today only one med droid is here to poke and prod at her, noting all her symptoms and ending its examination with a question about unusual hunger for sentient flesh.
āI could go for a nerf burger. That doesnāt count, right?ā She tries for humor, but as she sits up the room spins in sickening circles, and nausea churns low in her stomach again.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jorgan stiffen. Itās an automatic flicker of concern crossing his face before he masks it.
They hadnāt discussed it, but heās been here every day. Every hour, basically. By some unspoken agreement, heās waiting this out with her, sitting in the corner of the tent like a sentinel.
Sheās half grateful. Half irritated.
Itās nice having someone to talk to, but also maddening knowing someone is watching her like sheās a bomb that might detonate at any second.
āJorgan, Iām fine. Seriously. Just a bite, some blood loss, a bit of a headache.ā She tries to wave off the concern, but the movement makes the wound on her side ache. She winces, irritated more by the fact that itās making her argument less confusing than she is by the pain itself. āIāll be back on my feet before you know it.ā
āYou canāt rush recovery, Lieutenant.ā His voice is more patient than she feels, and Naābria bristles at the soft authority in it.
āAre you sure?ā she snaps. āBecause Iām pretty sure if I stare at these walls another five minutes, Iām going to lose my mind.ā
Jorgan raises a brow. āYou said that an hour ago. Still mentally intact, best I can tell.ā
āBarely.ā
He snorts. āTry not to prove me wrong.ā
She rolls her eyes dramatically, then mutters, āThis is torture.ā
āYou volunteered.ā He says, and by some small grace doesnt bother reminder her of how he tried to talk her out of it.
āDonāt remind me.ā
He shifts in his chair, leaning back just slightlyārelaxed, but still watching her. Not the unsettling kind of watching, either. More like heās making sure she doesnāt suddenly try to sneak out and sprint into the nearest swamp, any place other than here.
ā¦Which, to be fair, she has absolutely considered.
The silence stretches for a moment. Comfortable, in a way she wouldnāt have expected back on Ord Mantell.
Then Jorgan speaks, tone dry: āYou know⦠if you do turn into a rackghoul, Iāll try to put something nice on your statue plaque.ā
āOh?ā She narrows her eyes. āLike what? āHere lies Naābria Alarai, too stubborn to die properlyā?ā
āWell,ā he allows, lips twitching, āthat was one option.ā
She scoffs. āIād haunt you.ā
āIām counting on it, sir.ā
_______________
The hunt for Neeldes takes them farther and farther into the overgrown ruins. Vines drape over the towers like heavy curtains, turning everything into a maze of stone and jungle. Naābria steps through the ruins with her rifle raised, every sense sharpened. Jorganās moss-softened footsteps follow at her back.Ā
āCoordinates are this way,ā Jorgan murmurs as he checks his datapad. āNeedles isnāt far.ā
Letās hope, sheās about to say when a subtle snap in the forest catches her attention. She raises a hand, signaling for silence.
Jorgan freezes. Listens. Hears it too: the click of metal, the shuffle of feet.
Figures. They canāt catch a single break on this planet. If itās not the rackghouls, the flora and fauna, or toxic waste pools, itās the damn pirates.
āAmbush,ā he whispers, and a split-second later, blaster fire bursts from the vines overhead - brilliant red bolts hissing past where theyād been standing.
Naābria swears and fires upward, catching a glint of metal and a shout of pain. Jorganās already moved, laying precise suppressing shots that keep the attackers pinned. They work together without thinking, instincts syncing perfectly.Ā Ā
A metallic clink hits the stone beside them.
Jorganās head snaps toward the sound. His eyes widen.
āGrenade!ā
He doesnāt hesitate. One moment Naābria is rising to fire again, the next sheās slammed to the ground beneath him, his body covering hers as the explosion rips the air apart and shrapnel screams past. Naābriaās ears ring, vision swimming.
She coughs and blinks up at him. āJorgan - ā
His jaw is clenched tight, breath harsh. āYou alright, sir?ā
The concern in his voice throws her off more than the blast did.
āIām fine,ā she says automatically. āYouāā She immediately spots the trail of blood streaking down the side of his armor. Dark. Spreading.
Her stomach drops.
āShit Jorgan, youāre bleeding!ā Shrapnel mustāve caught him perfectly in the gap in his armor just under his arm.Ā
Blaster fire starts up again, closer now.
Naābria grabs him by the arm. āThereās too many of them. Weāre moving. Come on.ā
He doesnāt argue, which is a bad sign. Together, they lurch through the broken streets, slipping into the twisted remains of an old transit station half-consumed by vines and moss but defensible. The shadows swallow them, and they hold their breath until the sounds of the pirates fade.
Only then does Jorgan stumble.
Naābria catches him, lowering him to sit against a cracked pillar. Her hands hover uselessly for a second as she takes in the jagged tear through his skin.
āThatās⦠not good,ā she says, throat tight, digging into her field kit, hands moving on instinct until she locates the first aid supplies.Ā
He snorts faintly. āFigured that out on your own, did you?ā
āDonāt start with me. I need to see it.ā
His brow lifts. āSo look.ā
āI canāt see the wound through all this,ā she says, tapping his armor and indicating the shredded shirt beneath. āNeeds to come off.ā
He hesitates only a beat before unclasping his armor and tugging the ruined fabric over his head, wincing as it peels away from the wound.
She tries to focus solely on the injury, on the embedded shrapnel and the angry red edges of torn skin. The taut lines of muscle shift each time he breathes, rippling beneath fingers as she steadies his side. Heās all sharp angles and hard planes.
Annoyingly, embarrassingly, she feels her face warm.
She swallows. Focus, Alarai.Ā
āYouāre lucky that grenade didnāt gut you,ā she mutters, voice crisp, clinical.
He huffs a quiet laugh. āYeah, well. You were in the blast radius. Wasnāt much of a choice.
āYou know, if you hadnāt jumped in front of it youād probably be rid of me,ā She teases.
āOh, is that all I had to do?ā He sucks in a sharp breath as Na'bria cleans the wound carefully.
āHold still, you big baby.ā This is not her area of expertise, never had any interest in becoming a medic, barely passed the mandatory first aid unit required for field work. Her hands are much more suited to tearing flesh than patching it back together.
āSorry.ā When she begins stitching, his breath hitches again, but he doesnāt pull away. He sets his teeth against the thread tugging through the raw edge of the wound. She does her best to ignore how her fingers keep brushing heat and muscle with every precise movement.
Naābria ties off the final suture and sits back, putting more solace between them. āThere. I think youāll live.ā
He shifts to examine the jagged line of stitches running down his side with a critical frown.Ā
āYour stitching skills could use some work, sir.ā
āHey, Iām no medic. But at least you wonāt bleed out on me.ā
Jorgan gives a slow exhale. āThank you, sir.ā
She doesnāt look at his face, only his bandaged side.
āHey, after taking a hit from a grenade for me, itās the last I could do. Try not to tear it open though. I donāt have enough thread to fix you twice.ā
He huffs a laugh, quiet, but real. āIāll manage.ā
For a long moment, they sit together in the dim, tangled ruin, the sounds of distant jungle echoing around them.
Naābria lets out a slow breath. āWhen youāre steady enough to move, weāll pick up Needlesā trail again.ā
He nods. āReady when you are sir, Iāll watch our backs.ā
_______________
āDo you ever have the sinking suspicion that maybe weāre whatās wrong with the galaxy?ā She asks later that night, while the moonlight filters through the haunting skeletal remains of what was once a great sky scraper above them. Thatās where theyāve made a meager camp for the night. Just sleeping bags, bland field rations, and a portable energy shield that will hopefully last long enough to keep the rackghouls out until dawn. āNot you and me as individuals. War in general I mean. On both sides. I canāt help but wonder that if no one was so quick to line up to fight, that maybe the trillions of people that lived here would still be alive.ā
āIs this some kind of attempt at small talk, sir, or a psych eval?ā
āHumor me.ā
The fire crackling between them is a warm, comfortable sound amid the eerie groans of the empty, decaying city, and the flickering flames cast convoluted patterns of light and shadow across his face. Heās silent for a while before answering, still picking away at the remnants of his dinner.Ā
āI think thatās just the way of the universe. Thereās always going to be someone looking to pick a fight, prey on the weak. Itās our job to protect them as best we can.ā
She nods slowly, chewing over the thought. Itās not comforting, exactly, but thereās honesty in it. Itās an uncomfortable thing, she thinks, to question the justness of your own cause.Ā Ā
She continues to gaze at the wreckage above them, and wonders at what it takes for someone to sit in a command chair and make decisions that could wipe out thousands, maybe millions, with the rationalization that itās for a greater good. Where ordering death and destruction on the almost unfathomable scale around them could fall within the parameters of acceptable losses.Ā Every war is just different sides of the same story, each side having faith enough in their own cause to stake thousands of lives on it. Whoever was responsible for this had to have believed in some way they were doing the necessary thing, at least, if not the right thing.Ā
In the end, though, war doesnāt determine whoās right. It just determines who remains.Ā
_______________
The thought of Needles still gnaws at her, a sharp, bitter edge in the back of her mind. She let herself think much about what sheād do when they caught up to Needles. Purposely avoid it. Sheās never hesitated in front of an enemy before, but itās completely different when the target is someone she once mightāve called a friend.Ā
In the end, sheās glad Needles makes the choice for her. He attacked first. There was no thought, only reaction, nothing for her to feel guilty about after itās done.Ā
She does feel guilty, though. Itās another weight on her shoulders, subtle but there. Havoc is a heavy burden to carry. She never planned to have to carry the weight of the execution of her former squad mates as well, but she shoulders it anyways. Moves on, one step at a time, tries not to dwell on it. Tries not to dwell on the sinking wrong feeling in her gut as she packs up Needleās research to bring back to the Republic.Ā
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Chapter 5
Room for Sentiment
(Thund
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Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 5
Room for Sentiment
(Thunderclap)
After their successful mission on Coruscant and confined locations for four of the Havoc traitors scattered across the galaxy, theyāre given their own ship. Itās a sturdy no-nonsense transport with just enough space to feel liberated without tipping into luxury. The Thunderclap comes with its own quirksānarrow corridors, and the joys of sharing confined living quarters ābut itās theirs. That means freedom, mobility, and the rare ability to operate without someone looking over their shoulder every step of the way.
Aric has his reservations about being cooped up with his new CO for days on end, confined to the hum of the engines and the artificial gravity. He doesnāt do small talk well, and he isnāt sure she does either.
One thing, though, that he comes to appreciate fairly quickly in their time aboard the ship is that while sheās perfectly capable of holding a good conversation, she isnāt a chatter box. Thereās a purpose to most things she says, every question she asks, and her comments rarely stray into meaningless filler.
Well, except for occasional sarcastic remark or snide comment here and there, but at this point heāll count his blessings.
The first few hours aboard are spent checking the ship, running diagnostics, and familiarizing themselves with the layout. Aric finds a rhythm in the routine. Each item he organizes and each crate he secures feels like a tangible accomplishment. The lieutenant drifts between tasks with the same kind of focused energy, never hovering unnecessarily, but never absent when her help is needed. Thereās a comfort in the simplicity of it: just two soldiers, operating efficiently together, without the pretense of performance orr rank.
_______________
Shortly after theyāve settled in and set course for Taris, Naābria finds him near the weapons locker, methodically inspecting the arsenal theyāve stocked. The familiar scent of oiled metal and the subtle clink of blasters being checked is oddly soothing to her, grounding in its normalcy.
āDo you agree with what Garza said earlier?ā She leans against the wall, crossing her arms. āAbout being heartless so the people of the republic donāt have to be?ā She watches him for a moment, noticing the way his hands move with practiced precision, the tension in his jaw, the faint furrow in his brow that relaxes only slightly when heās focused on something concrete
He looks up briefly. āIf you want to save room for sentiment, you picked the wrong line of work,ā he says, as matter of fact as ever (not that she expected anything else). He adjusts the last blaster on the rack and moves on to an ammunition canister. āBut,ā he adds, a little quieter, āif weāre completely heartless weāre no better than the empire.ā
Naābria lets that sink in. Itās not much, but itās enough. That small acknowledgment of shared values, buried beneath his gruff exterior, feels like the first real piece of common ground theyāve staked out.
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Chapter 4
Boots on the Ground
(Co
Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 4
Boots on the Ground
(Coruscant)
Summary: After surviving the chaos of Ord Mantell, Naābria Alarai and Aric Jorgan must work together to navigate high-stakes missions while confronting the overwhelming politics of Coruscant.
Naābria feels like sheās running on the momentum of survival.
The events on Ord Mantell cling to her like gritācaught in her gear, in her skin, in the back of her throat. The separatist bombings, the smoke, the civilians crying for help, the jagged moment Havoc Squad turned their backs on everything theyād sworn to protect⦠Sheās replayed it so many times sheās lost track of which memories are real and which are her mind stitching the gaps together.
She hasnāt processed any of it. How could she? Processing implies stillness, and the moment she stops moving, stops pushing forward, she knows all the unresolved pieces will crash down on top of her.
So she keeps going.
At least sheās not alone in it.
āWow,ā Jorgan whistles as they step inside the senate tower, the sound echoing faintly in the massive space. She has the vague and uncomfortable sense of being swallowed whole by some giant creatureāa massive, glittering thing with marble teeth and vaulted ribcage ceilings. āThis place is even more impressive than the holovids,ā he mutters, eyes sweeping the endless rows of pillars. āHard to believe weāll be reporting here from now on.ā
He seems like heās loosened up - if only slightly - on the way from the fleet ship to Coruscant, but sheāll count her blessings. She feels better too, on her feet, moving towards a goal instead of sitting idly in transit. Itās the closest thing theyāve had to solid ground since Ord Mantell exploded out from under them.
Their surroundings now do seem completely unbelievable. The sheer colossal scale of the senate building makes her feel small and insignificant, and completely out of her depth. Even the marble floors look much too shiny under her boots, Ord Mantelās mud still caked in the tread.Ā
Sheās never been one for politics, and she canāt help but feel sheās in far over her head. She knows war, she knows weapons, she knows action. She knows field tents and garrisons.Ā Not marble floors and gilded pillars, not this blatant display of opulence and luxury. Here on Coruscant, in the beating heart of the republic, war and defection feels a million miles away.Ā
She knows all too well that war is full of grey areas. Itās never as simple as good and bad, right and wrong. But thereās a simplicity to the battlefield thatās always appealed to her. On the battlefield, things are black and white. You live or die. Succeed or fail. This game of placating senators with empty words and carefully worded half truths is a foreign role, and one she feels sheās particularly ill-suited for.Ā
It doesnāt help that most of the time, she can feel him watching her, his gaze unnervingly intense. It feels like heās analyzing her every move, just waiting for an inevitable mistake.Ā
Rookie. Donāt embarrass Havoc. Donāt give me another reason to be right about you.
She keeps her chin up. Sheās never been one to shrink under the scrutiny and sheāll be damned if she starts now.Ā
They reach the next ornate archway when she finally risks a sidelong glance at him.
Heās not glaring. Not exactly.
But heās observing. Calculating. As if trying to determine whether sheāll crack under the marble weight of the Senate.
She straightens her shoulders.
Let him watch.
Sheās not breaking today.
āāāāāāāā
When command dropped her into Havoc, heād braced for a disaster. A wide-eyed academy prodigy who thought talent alone would carry her. A walking liability with a famous last name and no sense of her own limitations.Ā
But sheās not that.
Not entirely.
Still, the wariness sits heavy in his chest as they navigate their first few missions together on Coruscant.Ā Skill is only half of what keeps a soldier alive. The other half is discipline, judgment, restraint. And those⦠heās not convinced about yet.Ā
All too often heās seen good men fall because of poor leadership. How she handled things on Ord Mantell, that showed guts, not leadership.
Out in the field, the old rhythms come back easier than he expects. The chain of command has always been clean, straight, and unambiguous. You receive the order. You carry it out. You keep moving. Even with her, itās like slipping into muscle memory. It feels good to be on the move, feel the weight of a weapon in his hands, each step and piece of information taking them closer to Tavus.
Tavusās betrayal still twists like a knife in his gut, the wound raw and ragged. Heād thought himself decent at figuring out what makes people tick, but evidently heād been way off there and even though it might not be fair, he canāt help drawing comparisons between Tavus and his new CO.Ā
Where Tavus had been smooth, polished, almost too perfect, she is all raw edges and unfiltered instinct. Where Tavus spoke with practiced conviction, sheās blunt and messy and occasionally infuriating. Tavus led through certainty; she leads by hurling herself at the problem and trusting everyone else to keep up.
She doesnāt calculate her expressions or soften her tone or present herself as anything other than what she is.
Thereās no mask with her.
No pretense.
He finds himself trusting that more than he expected.
_______________
āWeāre heartless so the people of the republic donāt have to be.ā Garza says, and something about it just doesnāt sit right with her, twists in her gut as she ends the call with more force on the button than necessary.Ā
When she first read her transfer orders to Havoc Squad, she picturedāfoolishly, naivelyāthe legends. The heroic missions whispered through academy halls. The elite soldiers who changed the tide of wars. Sheād pictured clandestine operations behind enemy lines, and nowhere in her wildest imaginings did she ever envision sheād be tracking down their own in the heart of the damned Republic and certainly not gunning down innocent civilians unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire.Ā
āI am not murdering civilians.ā She shoves her holocom into her belt, holsters her blaster with a resolute force. She doesnāt know why she expects Jorgan to object. Itās not like she thinks heās completely heartless. But he seems to have this innate need to disagree with her every thought and decision so why should this one be any different? But on this he surprises her and says, āWhatever weāre going to do, letās do it quickly.ā
When she lets the civilians go, he doesnāt argue, doesnāt threaten to turn her in.Ā
Itās oddly reassuring.
_______________
Aric sits stiff-backed in the Senate hearing chamber, a the senatorsā voices drone onāpointed questions dressed up as polite inquiry, each one circling the same accusation.
āDo you believe that anyone serving on Ord Mantell should have seen this situation coming?ā
His jaw tightens, and inside, something twists. He should have seen it. Heād worked with the old Havoc Squad more closely than about anybody. Heād trusted Tavus, respected him. And all the while, Tavus had been preparing to betray everything Aric thought Havoc Squad stood for. Rot at the core, and Aric hadnāt noticed a damn thing.
A part of him thinks he deserves every question and implied failure.
āNo one couldāve seen this coming,ā the lieutenant says, calm and unshaken. āBlaming anyone here wonāt change what happened. What matters is that we stop them before they do more harm.ā
Her confidence is startling, steadfast truth delivered with unnerving clarity.
Aric glances at her. For the first time in days, something in his chest eases. Just a fraction.
_______________
Overall, Coruscant feels like more of a success that she could ever have dared hoped for. In just a few weeks, they managed to cut off Havocās supply shipments from both the Back Suns and the Migrant Merchant's Guild. With Jek Karden and his mercenary group defeated, they now have locations for four of the traitors and finally a clear plan of action.
It feels good.
Even Jorgan seems to be in a better mood than normal. The two of them make a far more effective team than she wouldāve thought possible after their rocky start.Ā
On the taxi ride back to the Senate tower, he comments on some of the buildings they pass, rattling off small historical points and practical facts while she listens from the corner of her eye. He knows a surprising amount about the area. She wonders absently if heās lived here before.
They pass a towering casino, all neon lines and ostentatious glow, and he lets out a low whistle.
āBig place. Not really my style though. Corner cantinas with a good pack of regulars are more my speed.ā
āYou know,ā She comments, a hint of amusement lifting an eyebrow and curling the corners of her lips, āYouāre chattier than I thought youād be.ā
The change in his demeanor is immediate. His posture tightens, arms folding defensively, the easy manner gone as if sheād flipped a switch. Such a predictable reaction that she canāt help the grin that follows.
āI didnāt say it was a bad thing.ā Her tone is light, colored with a small laugh. āJust an observation.ā
He relaxes just a bit, and she thinks she thinks she can see something beyond the usual annoyance in the furrow of his brow, but she doesnāt know him well enough to tell what it might be. Despite their personal differences, heās a model soldier and she is grateful to have his help. Even if something about him does seem to bring out the absolute worst in her personality.Ā
She does feel a slightly guilty for ruining the conversation this time though.Ā
She clears her throat softly. āSorry,ā she says, quieter this time. āDidnāt mean to shut you down. I just meant itāsāā she shrugs, gaze drifting to the cityscape below āānicer than I thought. Working together, I mean.ā
Jorgan glances at her sidelong. āNice?ā
Thereās just enough humor in it that she rolls her eyes instead of snapping back. āDonāt make it weird,ā she mutters, but her smile undercuts the words. The taxi hums around them, traffic streaming in organized chaos outside the transparisteel windows. She watches the senate tower draw closer through the window, imposing in a way that makes it seem like itās designed to make people feel out of their depth.
Some of her satisfaction with their recent accomplishments fizzles as she thinks about having to stand in front of the senate again. Thereās a whole universe out there, a whole world that isnāt defined by military regulations and survival instinct. Her military upbringing had always given her an edge in the Academy, but now she feels its limitations, the missing perspective on how the rest of the galaxy and everything that canāt be sorted by military protocol works.
āI've no idea what Iām doing.ā She says quietly, and it somehow feels like an admitted defeat. āAbout navigating blasted politics. Keeping senators satisfied with just empty words and half truths. All this maneuvering, all these expectations⦠I donāt have the right connections, or the upbringing, or the perspective. Half the time I feel like Iām guessing.ā
The silence settles again, a little softer now. For a moment, she wonders if sheās said too much, if sheās revealed a crack she shouldāve kept hidden. Then Jorgan clears his throat.
āI get where Garzaās coming from,ā he says, voice firm but quieter than before. āTrying to keep this under wraps. And Iāll follow orders. But I donāt agree with it. The people of the Republic deserve to know the truth.ā
āYeah?ā she asks.
He nods decisively. āI donāt agree with Tavus, but his reason for defecting was real enough.ā His jaw tightens; the words sound almost like a confession. āSweeping things under the rug doesnāt fix the issue. It wonāt prevent this from happening again.ā
āWeāll get him. Tavus.ā She doesnāt know why she hears herself trying to reassure himāthis role is as unfamiliar as everything else since Ord Mantell. āThen everyone can know the truth.ā
āYou bet we will.ā
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Chapter 3
Breaking the Ice
(Republi
Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 3
Breaking the Ice
(Republic Fleet)
Summary: During transport to Coruscant, Lieutenant Naābria Alarai reflects on her new assignment and attempts to engage a very unwilling Aric Jorgan in conversation.
The transport that's been arranged for them to get from Ord Mantell to Coruscant is supposed to take three days. As Naābria glances over at her one and only squad-mate, she canāt help thinking that itās going to be a painfully long trip.
She fiddles with the Havoc patch on her uniform that still feels a little out of place. She has never been one driven to worry about rank advancement or seek a command of her own. Wherever the action is and wherever she can actually make a difference is where sheās always wanted to be, rank be damned. Now that command has essentially been plopped in her lap, though, she canāt deny the fact that it is just a little bit satisfying to be the one calling the shots for a change. And especially satisfying is that itās Jorgan in particular who has to follow her lead now, even if the circumstances of their shift in rank do still leave a sour taste in her mouth.
The Republic military had to find someone for to blame for the sudden defection of their most decorated special forces squad, and Jorgan was just unfortunately close enough to be caught in the crossfire. A convenient scapegoat.
Jorgan doesnāt talk much on the transit shuttle from Ord Mantell to the Republic fleet. At first glance his posture seems relaxed enough, leaned back in his seat, head against the window of the shuttle, legs stretched loosely in the isle, but she can see the tension in the way his arms are crossed too tightly across his chest, in the way the deep furrow of his brow only hints at the fuming thatās going on behind his eyes.
She canāt blame him. His whole demotion situation was beyond unfair, and sheās tempted to say something to him along those lines, but the word rookie still hangs in the air between them, tense and accusatory. Sheās got a flawless record and nothing to prove, but something in his gaze makes her feel like she does. Like heās just waiting for her to make a mistake, like somehow sheāll never measure up.
So she doesnāt say anything either, and for now the break in her snide comments is the closest thing to an āIām sorryā as heās going to get. Sheās is grateful to have his help, even if something about him does seem to bring out the absolute worst in her personality. Thereās just something about the way she can get under his skin that makes it so satisfying. Something about his tough exterior and gruff manner, something that makes her want to push him until he cracks.
If she's being honest.
Besides, he makes it too damn easy.
When the shuttle docks at the fleet, sheās the first to break the silence by suggesting they get something to eat, and he offers a curt agreement, but other than that says nothing at all.
āāāāāāāā
āWeāve been working together for, what,ā she racks her brain, trying to think of how long itās been since she first landed on Ord Mantell as she sets her food tray on the cantina table and slides into the booth. Somewhat to her surprise, he sets his tray down across from her. Sheād half pictured him picking a separate table on the opposite side of the room, but she supposes he had made it plenty clear that he's a professional who'll follow orders, personal differences between damned. Even if they come from her, it would seem.
āA few weeks?ā She continues. That canāt be right. But when she thinks about it, it has to be. Somehow it feels like both a lifetime and a day with all thatās happened since. She stabs a piece of mystery meat from her tray, waves it vaguely in his direction. āAnd I donāt think weāve had a single actual conversation.ā
āThis isnāt a conversation now, sir?ā He says, the sir sounding like it took actual physical effort for him to get out and looking completely bothered by the fact that sheās talking to him at all.
She rolls her eyes. If he wants to be petulant, she can be plenty petulant back. āItās just the two of us for now, and for who knows how much longer. Weāre going to have to figure out how to talk at some point.ā When he doesnāt respond she presses, āWhat was your post before Ord Mantell?ā
For a beat she doesnāt think heāll even answer, looking far more interested in the contents of his plate than the contents of the conversation. But then he says, āStationed with the Deadeyes. Elite sniper unit. Maybe Iāll tell you about it sometime,ā but his tone is one that makes her think heād rather anything but, and also makes it clear that the conversation is over.
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Chapter 2
A Test of Merit
(Ord Mantell)
Sum
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Chapter 4
Boots on the Ground
(Co
Ok after much much searching I think Iāve finally come up with an outfit for Aric that pretty close to what he wears on Ord Mantell before you recruit him. Now if only it was an outfit that could be unlocked in collections š
Also, why oh why arenāt outfit slots for companions a thing after all these years? I like to change my companions out of their armor for travel days and convos on the ship, because, you know, it canāt be comfy wearing armor all the time but it takes up sooo much space in my inventory carrying all their outfits around.
Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 2
A Test of Merit
(Ord Mantell)
Summary: A bonus scene that takes place shortly after the Trooper arrives on Ord Mantell, before Havocās defection, in which Aric spots Havocās new recruit in the gym and gets roped into sparring with her.
The gym on base smells faintly of chalk, rubber, and the metallic hint of sweatāthe usual perfume of the evening training hour. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzz softly while a few soldiers wrap up their workouts, which isnāt unusual, but what catches his attention is the decent sized crowd gathered around the sparring mat at the far corner. He thinks he spots Alarai on the mats, trading blows with one of the sergeants under Vorneās command.
Heās not surprised. Itās not uncommon for rookies to get roped into these sort of sparring competitions between soldiers, a hands on and eye witness test of their strength and merit.
He almost ignores it, almost turns his back to head for the shooting range, which was his intended destination, but curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself picking a spot on the edge of the crowd to watch.
Sheās not wearing much, just a cropped tank and sweatpants, hair pulled back in a short messy ponytail. Thereās not much soft about her. Part of it mightāve been due to the Catharās genetic predisposition towards lean muscle, but itās also clearly honed by years spent sporting durasteel armor and carrying heavy weapons. Sheās quick, light in her feet, dancing around her opponent with a practiced ease.
āNot exactly fair fight,ā he finds himself saying a short time later when sheās easily pinned the lieutenant to the sparring mat, spurred on by some ridiculous need to wipe the triumphant look off of her face. āSheās cathar. Better balance. Faster reflexes.ā
āWell come on then,ā someone in the crowd of onlookers says, and he supposes he kind of was asking for it, āShow us a fair fight!ā
āBy all means,ā she gestures to the sparing mat with a dramatic sweep of her arms. Itās a foolish idea, and he definitely has better things to do with his time, but thereās no sense denying heās got a bit of a competitive streak too. And he is curious.
The practice mats are still warm as he steps onto them. Alarai tightens the band around her hair.
āYou sure you want to do this, Jorgan?ā she asks, stretching her legs out with lazy confidence. āIād hate to bruise your ego in front of all your subordinates.ā
Aric finishes strapping his gloves, smirk sharp enough to cut steel. āIāve got nothing to prove. You do.ā
He steps closer, circling her, and she narrows her gaze, measuring him up.
They close in, their shadows overlapping on the mat. She moves first, a quick jab to test distance. Aric blocks, fluid and controlled. The sound of gloves snapping against forearms echoes through the gym. She pivots, and he mirrors. Their feet squeak on the polished mat in tight, fast patterns. A few soldiers cheer from the sidelines.
Aric goes for her midline, but she twists, catching his wrist and using his momentum to spin him around. He lands on one knee, not quite down, but enough for her to grin.
Aric surges upward, catching her off guard just enough to hook an arm around her waist. She gasps - more in surprise than alarm - before twisting out of his grip and sweeping at his ankle.
He jumps back, barely avoiding it, and she smirks. Sheās trying to bait him, but it wonāt work.
He attacks again, controlled and precise, and she blocks with equal accuracy. Theyāre close now, breathing each otherās air as strikes land faster and faster, turning into something more like choreography.
Then she steps in, shoulder brushing his chest as she grabs his forearm, spins, and sends him down onto the mat with a thud.
Aric blinks up at her from the floor, her forearm pinned across his throat. She leans over him, triumphant. āLooks like I win.ā
So maybe it isnāt entirely dumb luck, he concedes to himself, but the proud smirk she wears does absolutely nothing to change his opinion on her overconfidence and arrogance.
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Chapter 3
Breaking the Ice
(Republi
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š¬ 0Ā Ā š 0Ā Ā ā¤ļø 0Ā Ā·Ā Well guys itās been 10 years since I first started playing SWTOR and in that time my love for the game and Aric Jorgan has
Well guys itās been 10 years since I first started playing SWTOR and in that time my love for the game and Aric Jorgan has not diminished in the slightest. Iāve written some dribbles off and on for the game, but I figured Iām going to start organizing what I have for my trooper and Aric into a mostly chronological fic. Itāll be mostly some in between scenes and delving into the thoughts/feelings of the characters because Aric is seriously one of the best romanced BioWare has ever written.
Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 1
First Impressions
(Ord Mantell)
Aric leans against the edge of the command centerās holotable, arms crossed, eyes scanning the incoming mission briefings as if they could reveal some hidden truth about the new recruit before she even arrives.
Heās read her file twice, maybe three times, trying to make sense of it. Havoc Squadās roster is growing for the first time in months. Naābria Alarai: Parents both decorated soldiers (KIA) glowing remarks from the academy, ranked first in forward assault, search and destroy, and advance recon. A few years in the field, recommendations from a few COās.
He isnāt impressed. Not yet.
Experience, not pedigree. Thatās what counts out here. Heās seen āperfectā recruits wash out in the first week, and he has no reason to think sheāll be any different. Experience has taught him to trust instinct over rankings. And something about her record makes his gut tighten with skepticism. Maybe itās the brass giving her a pass because of her parentsā names. Heās seen it before. Too many times
Heās quick to judge, but he shoves his reservations aside until he can evaluate her character in person.
Thatās what really sets his opinion.
Itās something in her overly confident posture, the way she pulls off her first few missions on Ord Mantell with such a ridiculous sort of reckless flair that he canāt tell whether her success is due to any actual skill, or - and it seems just as likely - dumb luck. Heās never let confidence fool him before in his eleven years of military service, and heāll be damned if he starts now.
āāāāāāāā
The day the news breaks about Havoc Squadās defection, Aric doesnāt believe it at first. He refuses to. He stands there in the command center, listening to the report with a growing, ice-cold sickness in his gut. Names heās fought beside, trusted, bled withāheroes, legendsāturning their backs on the Republic and joining the Empire like it was nothing more than switching uniforms.
A betrayal with the force of a punch to the ribs.
For a long moment he canāt move. He can barely think. Just watches the holo-feed flicker with mission footage, casualty assessments, the kind of aftermath Havoc was trained to preventānow caused by them.
And worst of all? Naābria Alarai is the only one left. And not because of some outstanding heroics, not some display of loyalty, but because she wasnāt even there yet. She walked into the wake of destruction and got handed the keys to the squad like it was some prize.
Lazy, arrogant, brat. Used to getting what she wants, and hereās Havoc Squad, plopped right into her lap like a present all wrapped up with him as her new subordinate for the bow while heās left demoted and dealing with the backlash.
Just his blasted luck.
He watches her as Generall Vorne delivers the news to herāshoulders square, chin lifted, Havoc patch bright on her armorāand he feels something boiling under his sternum. Something sharp, unpleasant, almost childish in its rawness.
Jealousy isnāt the right word. Neither is resentment.
Itās betrayal wearing a different uniform.
She must catch something in his expression. "Is that going to be a problem, Sergeant?" Her tone is snappy, and he doesn't miss the way she emphasizes that last word. It's hard not to flinch. Salt on a fresh wound.
"No," he snaps, and immediately regrets how immature it sounds. Get a grip, Jorgan.
āGuess youāre stuck with me then,ā she drawls, looking entirely too satisfied with the whole situation.
"Donāt get used to it." He growls. Donāt get used to it, sir, he reminds himself, but some stubborn part of his brain that's nursing a good deal of injured pride won't let the words out of his mouth.
Notes: Iāll eventually be moving this to Ao3 but several years ago in a moment of self doubt about my writing skills I deleted my account and now apparently you have to wait for an invite to be sent out to create a new one and that will take several weeks š Why do I do this to myself
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š¬ 0Ā Ā š 0Ā Ā ā¤ļø 0Ā Ā·Ā Post by @kaylerinartsĀ Ā·Ā Close Enough to Feel it, Never Close Enough to Fall
Chapter 2
A Test of Merit
(Ord Mantell)
Sum
I love how Aric Jorgan clearly thinks the Fem!Trooper is just an arrogant and cocky brat until he realizes itās not just all talk and that she actually could totally kick his ass and then after that heās smitten.