Theron’s head was held high as he slowly and carefully made his way through the mess, but it was an active effort. He was doing his best to not limp or show any sign of physical distress, but larger steps pulled uncomfortably at his midsection. Combined with having to balance the tray full of food, a seemingly simple task he used to take for granted was akin to an arduous quest.
Recovery from his wounds on Nathema was slow. Agonizingly so for someone used to taking everything at a breakneck pace. Sometimes the physical limitations of his extended recovery made him want to scream. But he didn’t. Many people on base still avoided meeting his eye already, still wary and unsure of his true motives — and he certainly didn’t need to give them more reason to treat him like a social pariah.
There was an empty set of tables at the far end of the mess where he could eat in solitude. It really wasn’t that far, but right now the distance seemed to stretch off into the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of metal, and for a moment paused as a lifetime of instincts made him brace for blaster fire. Then he felt a little sheepish as he realized that it was the prosthetic arm of Odessen’s local reformed reformed emperor, motioning for the spy to join him for a meal.
With one last glance at the promise of solitude, and the distance he’d have to cross to reach it, Theron resigned himself to having company for lunch. He shuffled over and tried to disguise the awkward, stilted way he had to sit down. Tray on the table first so he could concentrate his coordination on bending in such a way that put the least amount of pressure on both his abdomen and back. Force, he was going to be damned sure to never get stabbed again. This sucked.
As he finally managed to reach a sitting position he looked over to measure his dining companion’s mood. Arcann glanced up from his own tray, apparently not having paid attention to Theron’s grandstanding show of being able to sit down like a normal person. He caught a few heads around him quickly returning to their own tables and decided that he preferred the practiced nonchalance. A subtle kindness to help preserve his wounded dignity.
“Arcann,” he said by way of greeting.
The other man nodded back. “Theron.”
He paused, wondering exactly what he was supposed to say back. This was the first time he’d spoken to Arcann since he’d returned from Nathema, although to be fair, Theron hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to strike up conversation with everyone yet. Just getting from Point A to Point B without getting himself banished back to the infirmary by an overprotective fiancee was taking up most of his effort. And well, having to navigate exactly where he stood with each person on base, and how much they believed his ruse or the story of his return was just… an exhausting task he wasn’t quite ready to take on yet.
Oh, well. He was here now, no point in beating around the bush. “I’m a little surprised you wanted to talk.”
“Let us just say that I understand the feeling of not knowing where to sit.” Arcann gave an small wave of the fingers on his biological hand, subtly indicating the curious onlookers that were very studiously not looking in their direction, and then gave a half-shrug. “So I thought I would clear it up.”
Theron caught the implied meaning and gave the former emperor a grateful half-smile. “Much appreciated.”
With a nod of acceptance, Arcann returned to his tray. And both men ate their meals in companionable silence.
