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“Sit still, Agent Shan.” One strong hand gripped his shoulder while the other continued over his back with a kolto wipe.
“I can do this myself,” Theron insisted. “You don’t have to —”
“All right.” The wipe was thrust at his face. “Go on.”
Theron hesitated, reached out for it, and eyed the Sith warily. He stood there looking annoyed (which was better than murderous, Theron supposed) and stared back. Theron took the wipe and waited for the Wrath to leave.
He crossed his arms and didn’t move, all implacable strength and slender intensity. “You said you could do it yourself, so show me.”
“What, seeing me wounded gets you off?” Theron retorted, ignoring his wandering thoughts.
“Seeing you wounded makes me concerned for our chances here,” the Wrath shot back. “I’m not leaving until those wounds are adequately cared for by one of us. You can do it yourself, or take your chances with Lana or Jakarro if you don’t want me helping.”
Great, Shan, piss off one of your only allies. The Emperor’s kriffing Wrath. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Smoldering isn’t that sexy! Theron sighed, took as deep a breath as he could, deflated, and handed the kolto wipe back.
“Thank you.” The Wrath walked around him and went back to tending him. His hands were surprisingly gentle and deft, and Theron drifted for a bit in silence between his pains and the soothing ministrations before the Wrath said distractedly, not pausing his work, “You really should be in a tank.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Theron said, shaking his head to banish the near-trance he’d fallen into. He spread his arms. “If we—” One hand came back, gripping an arm and moving it back to his side pointedly. Theron sighed and grumbled, dropping the other one. “I’m sitting still, I’m sitting still.”
“I know. That’s why you’re not. But if you start feeling dizzy or nauseous, you’ll have to let us know. It’s not about your pride,” the Wrath said, cutting through a protest Theron had only half formed, “it’s about knowing our capabilities as a group. We can’t support you or compensate for you if we don’t know how badly off you are.”
Theron reluctantly admitted he had a point. “Okay, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.”
Theron snorted. “That’s twice just now. And again after Manaan. You’ve thanked me more than any Sith I’ve ever met.”
When the Wrath answered, his damnably smooth voice (smooth and calm as his hands) was decidedly amused. “How many Sith have you met that weren’t trying to kill you or vice versa?”
“That’d be two, now,” Theron admitted. “Though the jury’s out on Lana today.” He might feel a little more charitable toward her once his bruises had faded. Maybe.
“She had her reasons.” The Wrath sighed. “I would have preferred she at least discussed them first, and that we’d found a different way, but I understand why she did it.”
Theron snarled. “I understand why. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“No,” the Wrath agreed, “you don’t. You don’t have to like it, or forgive her, or not be angry with her. You only have to work together.”
“Is that the Sith version of ‘suck it up and get the job done’?” Theron asked, amused despite himself.
“No, the Sith version of ‘suck it up and get the job done’ is ‘suck it up and get the job done’,” the Wrath answered with a brief laugh. “You’re going to need a few patches back here, at least. Then you should sleep while you can. There’s kolto mist and a mask in the medkit; a few hours of that should have you as healed as we have time for.”
“Thanks.” Theron watched the Wrath’s hands as he reached for the kolto patches. “Anyone ever tell you you’d make a great nurse?”
“My friend Vette says I would make a terrible one,” he answered. “Although that may be because she’s worse at sitting still than you are.”
“Huh.” Theron blinked. “Gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting that answer.”
“You thought nobody would ever say a Sith warrior was a bad nurse?” the Wrath asked, sounding bemused.
Theron debated answering for a moment, then gave in. “Never thought you’d talk about your friends with an SIS agent.”
“If you ever try to harm Vette, I’ll slice you into as many pieces as are physically possible,” the Wrath answered dismissively. “But you don’t strike me as the type to harm civilians if you can avoid it.”
“Absolutely not,” Theron said firmly. “I don’t care if you think it’s a weakness or not, that’s not what I want and not what the Republic should be about.”
A kolto patch was smoothed over the puncture wound below one shoulder, and Theron nearly collapsed in relief when it numbed.
“I don’t think it’s a weakness,” the Wrath said. “It could be exploited, but that just means you have to be stronger because of it.”
That had Theron blinking. “You don’t think compassion is a weakness?” That was something he’d never expected from any Sith, particularly not from the Emperor’s executioner.
“Compassion is a form of passion,” the Wrath said. He smoothed one last patch over Theron’s shoulder and stepped in front of him. “We are taught to embrace our passions.” (And didn’t that bring up fun images?) He held out a hand to Theron. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
Theron looked up at him, half mesmerized by his bright eyes, and gripped his hand. Then he blinked, trying to shake off the fuzziness in his brain as his eyes drooped. “What are you — are you using some Force trick on me?”
A slight frown formed between those eyes, then the Wrath shook his head. “No Force tricks. Just the mild sedative in the patches, and I imagine you’re heading for one hell of an adrenaline crash.”
Right. That was a thing. His implants should be cushioning that, but they were overtaxed, too.
The Wrath tugged at Theron’s hand, and Theron felt himself lifted by what had to be the Force more than muscle. “Bed, and kolto mist. I’ll check your work on your front half, then leave you to it.”
Theron let himself be led over to the bed in the corner and gently guided into it. Still a good nurse, he thought. Cute one, too. A brief spike of alarm made it through to him, chasing some of the wool from his thoughts. Do not even go there, Shan! Even if, a traitorous part of his mind insisted, it was true.
He watched as the Wrath moved around the room, setting the medkit to rights and preparing the mask. He was lithe and strong, a slender vibroknife built for precision strikes. Aaaand there went his brain again. He was going to seriously have to check his implants for imbalances when he woke up.
But right now the Wrath was close, brushing Theron’s hair from his face, situating the mask over his nose and mouth, and Theron was occupied with not leaning into those hands as they trailed over his forehead and cheeks. “Comfortable?” Theron took a breath and nodded slightly. “Good.” The Wrath smiled at him. “Sleep now. I’ll wake you if anything happens, but we should have a little time.”
Theron let his eyes fall closed, but opened them just enough to watch the other man through his lashes. Was it his imagination that the Wrath’s hands lingered just a little on his face, or that they brushed his chest more than strictly necessary to check the patches Theron had applied earlier?
The Wrath’s lips quirked. “I can feel you watching, Theron. Go to sleep, or I will use the Force. You need rest.”
Theron huffed and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he could swear he felt a hand stroking his hip. A fading, half-awake thought came: This can’t end well.
And then, faint and wicked just before he fell asleep, Who cares?