Stealing a Moment
This fic is rated: PG-13 for implied violence and sex
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Goran Beviin/Medrit Vasur (+ Dinua Jeban and extras)
Timeline: during the Yuzzun Vong invasion of Mandalore
Summary: a moment between battles
For <15pairings> set 3 prompt 4: "Practice Makes Perfect"
Warnings: aftermath of a bloody battle, dying omc, it's pretty obvious what they'll be doing in the tunnel
Word Count: 405
Feedback: yes, please! Concrit welcomed.
Distribution: archiving, linking or remixing ok, just credit me and drop me a line!
Cross-Posted were_lemur, skywalker_days, 15pairings, oya_manda
My FanFic Masterlist
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. I own a 22-year-old pickup truck. I hope that Mr. Lucas will accept this story as the tribute to his genius it is, and not sue me for what little I have. No infringement is intended, no profit is being made. Mando'a was invented by Karen Traviss and is also property of Lucasfilm.
Finally, the attack is over. Goran Beviin lets himself sag, exhausted. They've beaten back the Vongese. For the moment.
Medrit claps him on his shoulders, and they touch helmets. It's enough to get him up. Everyone here is a veteran; they don't need his order to stagger back through the tunnels, some limping, the rest dragging wounded or equipment.
And they are the lucky ones. The ones who get to go home.
Everyone has lost friends, family. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dinua dragging a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. He'd help, except he's loaded down with the too-silent burden on his own shoulders.
Finally, they reach the relative safety of the hidden fort. Someone pulls the wounded man from his shoulders, and the medic pulls off his buy'ce. Whatever he sees makes him shake his head; he moves on to someone he might be able to save. Beviin watches, feeling oddly detached, as a woman with a long braid trailing over her smoke-stained armor runs over to the dying man, pulls him close. Holds him so that she'll be the last thing he sees.
His brain feeds him their names, like data from his heads-up display, but they mean nothing to him. Someone jostles his shoulder and he forces himself back into motion, field-stripping and cleaning his weapons with the mechanical precision of long practice.
When the world comes back into focus, he's sitting in a side passageway. His maintenance is done and he feels every muscle in his body and all of them hurt.
The man he carried died hours ago.
He unseals his bucket and clips it to his belt; he never knows when he might need it again. Not soon, he hopes; for now, he's too tired even to lie down.
Motion draws his attention; Medrit slides down beside him. Exhausted as he is, he manages to shift against his husband, to lean his cheek against his pauldron. Medrit leans over, grazes his mouth with a kiss.
His exhaustion doesn't go away, but it's willing to stand down for a little while -- long enough for them to find their bedrolls, deeper in the caves. And if they don't dare do more than open their armor, they've gotten good at working within those limitations.
Moments are all they have, now; brief interludes between battles. But like all Mando'ade, he and Medrit have learned to make the most of them.
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Goran Beviin/Medrit Vasur (+ Dinua Jeban and extras)
Timeline: during the Yuzzun Vong invasion of Mandalore
Summary: a moment between battles
For <15pairings> set 3 prompt 4: "Practice Makes Perfect"
Warnings: aftermath of a bloody battle, dying omc, it's pretty obvious what they'll be doing in the tunnel
Word Count: 405
Feedback: yes, please! Concrit welcomed.
Distribution: archiving, linking or remixing ok, just credit me and drop me a line!
Cross-Posted were_lemur, skywalker_days, 15pairings, oya_manda
My FanFic Masterlist
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. I own a 22-year-old pickup truck. I hope that Mr. Lucas will accept this story as the tribute to his genius it is, and not sue me for what little I have. No infringement is intended, no profit is being made. Mando'a was invented by Karen Traviss and is also property of Lucasfilm.
Finally, the attack is over. Goran Beviin lets himself sag, exhausted. They've beaten back the Vongese. For the moment.
Medrit claps him on his shoulders, and they touch helmets. It's enough to get him up. Everyone here is a veteran; they don't need his order to stagger back through the tunnels, some limping, the rest dragging wounded or equipment.
And they are the lucky ones. The ones who get to go home.
Everyone has lost friends, family. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dinua dragging a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. He'd help, except he's loaded down with the too-silent burden on his own shoulders.
Finally, they reach the relative safety of the hidden fort. Someone pulls the wounded man from his shoulders, and the medic pulls off his buy'ce. Whatever he sees makes him shake his head; he moves on to someone he might be able to save. Beviin watches, feeling oddly detached, as a woman with a long braid trailing over her smoke-stained armor runs over to the dying man, pulls him close. Holds him so that she'll be the last thing he sees.
His brain feeds him their names, like data from his heads-up display, but they mean nothing to him. Someone jostles his shoulder and he forces himself back into motion, field-stripping and cleaning his weapons with the mechanical precision of long practice.
When the world comes back into focus, he's sitting in a side passageway. His maintenance is done and he feels every muscle in his body and all of them hurt.
The man he carried died hours ago.
He unseals his bucket and clips it to his belt; he never knows when he might need it again. Not soon, he hopes; for now, he's too tired even to lie down.
Motion draws his attention; Medrit slides down beside him. Exhausted as he is, he manages to shift against his husband, to lean his cheek against his pauldron. Medrit leans over, grazes his mouth with a kiss.
His exhaustion doesn't go away, but it's willing to stand down for a little while -- long enough for them to find their bedrolls, deeper in the caves. And if they don't dare do more than open their armor, they've gotten good at working within those limitations.
Moments are all they have, now; brief interludes between battles. But like all Mando'ade, he and Medrit have learned to make the most of them.