Archive: Anyone who wants and JAOA
Archive Date: September 21, 2000
Author's Webpage: http://digitalmidnight.simplenet.com/garden/jaoa.html
Category: Drama, Angst
Disclaimer: Lucas is GOD almighty and I'm just playing around in a universe
far far FAR away.
Feedback: YES! Please please. =) This is another one of those plot hijinks
where I'd love to know your reaction.
Notes: Many thanks to Lilith for the encouragement! Thanks, hon!
*hugs*
And many thanks to everyone who's been so patient with my long hiatus from
this series! I promise... the next one will not take months!! O.o
Pairing: Q/O, An/Am
Rating: PG
Series: JAOA
Summary: A morning encounter ends in disaster
Han yawned, muffling it against the back of one wrist as he reached to dish out a bowl of hot cereal from the warming pot. It was late in the mid-morning, the main dining hall nearly empty and the selection of food being phased out to leave only such things as were available inbetween the primary meals, but Han didn't care in the slightest. The cereal was slightly overcooked, cooling and sticky, but the lukewarm tea that he had poured a large cup of was the familiar soft tan brew he had drunk all his life - and both, regardless, were a distinct improvement over either his own cooking or that of his Master.
Anakin had let them both sleep late, a luxury Han thought he could very easily become accustomed to if allowed the chance. He ached in places he hadn't even imagined, far more than he ever had from initiate saber classes, and rising from the comfort of his sleeping couch had involved a great many curses and quite a bit of wincing as a different set of muscles registered a complaint of abuse with every bend or stretch he did. Skywalker had taken pity on him and set him to his own devices for the remainder of the morning, declaring he had Sheveral things of his own to see to. Han had wasted no time in removing himself from their quarters before the Knight changed his mind. Habit had sent him down to the dining hall and the rumblings of his stomach had made up his mind for him.
He hissed as he reached for a sweet fruit cake, his shoulders reminding him vividly of the connection of joint and muscles that he hadn't paid a great deal of attention to in biology classes. Han wanted to feel properly sorry for himself, but Skywalker was making it very difficult. The Knight had been an amiable companion in their leisure time the afternoon before, letting Han take the controls of the tiny transport shuttle when they left the Temple and making sure the boy had a handful of credits to spend, with no stipulation on how or what he used them on.
Han had habitually hoarded them, spending only enough to get something to eat as he trailed along behind the Knight while Skywalker shopped. Most of it had consisted of small trinkets, children's toys which the older man indulged in with the lavish hand of a doting parent. One stop at a sweet vendor had surprised him, when the Knight, after picking out a variety of tidbits, had turned and handed the purchase to him with the remark that it was a blatant bribe for his continued patience. Skywalker had eventually eaten quite a few of the sweets himself, but Han had been rather unwillingly touched by the gesture.
All told, it made it difficult to remember how miserable he should be, even with the ache in his muscles.
Taking up his tray, Han turned to find a seat and hesitated. The initiate tables were empty, the usual diurnal occupants already in classes, the nocturnal set long since gone to sleep. A double handful of Padawans, inbetween their own classes or just off from missions, were clustered at the communal tables, a respectful distance from the few Masters and Knights who lingered over cups of tea. Habit had turned Han towards the initiate tables, but he had no desire to sit there by himself, feeling conspicuous. It wasn't, in any case, where he should sit any longer. Instead, he turned to the communal area and carried his tray to an empty table near the Padawans.
A few glanced up as he sat down, dismissing him and turning back to their own conversations. One of them, a tall, dark skinned boy a few years older then Han, frowned. "You're late for class," he called out, eliciting a spate of laughter from his companions.
Han paused in mid-bite, automatically going over his schedule for the day in his mind, making sure he hadn't, by any chance, forgotten anything. "I don't have any classes," he answered back, shrugging.
The boy laughed, a sharply derisive bark. "Of course you don't. Come on, baby, try another one. Whose class did you sneak out of?"
Han bristled at the derogative. He had heard it plenty of times as an initiate - they all had - but it rankled to hear it now. "My Master," he ground out, giving the word emphasis, "gave me the morning free."
"Sure," the boy drawled. "And my Master's a Hut." That drew more laughter from the other Padawans, most of whom were now watching the proceedings.
"Careful, Shev," one of them mockingly warned. "Don't let her hear you say that!"
The boy ignored that, turning to a new tactic with Han. "So who made the mistake of choosing you?" he asked bluntly. His gaze raked over the younger boy, obviously finding fault. "And how did someone that incompetent make Knight? Can't they even get you outfitted right?"
Han dropped his spoon, letting it clatter against the tray. He should, he told himself later, have expected the harassment. Initiates were no gentler to those fresh from the creche - it was a rite of passage that the instructors turned a blind eye towards, a bit of verbal sparring before the newcomer was accepted into the ranks. But he had never heard anyone, initiate or padawan, speak so disrespectfully of a Master, even when an entire class was complaining of their work load.
And they weren't, he decided abruptly, going to start with his Master.
It wasn't a conscious decision. He was on his feet before he could decide anything, the words springing hot and ready to his lips. "Anakin Skywalker is not incompetent! And if you say that again, I'll shove it down your throat!"
The boy appeared taken aback, momentarily at a loss for a reply. One of the girls, a thin faced Ebrakian, stepped in to fill his place. "Oh," she drawled, "the baby doesn't like that."
Han ignored her, locking eyes with the boy. "Take it back," he demanded levelly.
Shev rallied to his own defense, rising from his seat. He was hands taller then Han, wiry with a growth spurt but starting to show the flush of what would be a solid build. "Take what back?" he sneered. "That Skywalker's incompetent? Everybody knows that, baby. The Council's had him up on charges a dozen times. He's a rogue. The only reason he's still here is because he's Kenobi's charity case."
Seething, Han clenched his fists, taking a half step forward. He could distantly hear the rush of his own pulse against his eardrums, pounding a counterpoint to the abrupt ringing clatter as his abandoned tray skittered across the table top and flung itself at Shev's head, throwing the dishes wide and scattering the Padawans before it.
Too angry to care, Han launched himself forward just as Shev ducked the tray. It was suddenly so ridiculously easy, as though the world had slowed around him and he alone moved. Momentum as his boot hit the ground gave speed to his pivot, turning it into a tight spin as his arm came up, and the older boy still hadn't moved, seemed almost frozen... he felt the blow as a dull shock up through his shoulder as his elbow caught the other Padawan full across the jaw, whipping the boy's head around and sending him to the ground.
Come out of the spin, braced across the balls of his feet, hands up and ready - he could almost hear the combat instructor's voice, drilling them mercilessly through the fumbled forms. He had hated every moment of it, awkward and horribly aware of it, but there was no fumbling now. The sharpness of the room around him was almost painfully clear, bright and shining, and his body went through the motions without thought or care to aching muscles that no longer dared to ache or stumbling limbs that had always seemed too long.
He heard the shout a moment before a hand caught the back of his tunic, bodily jerking him up and swinging him around. It was like the popping of a bubble - the world rushed back in around him with a roar, the entire room suddenly a blur of activity and voices and yells. He stumbled and would have fallen except for the hand which now had a bruising grasp on his upper arm.
Gasping air into lungs that suddenly hurt, Han tried to draw away, only to find the hand tightened its grasp and added a firm shake that made his teeth ache into the bargain. A firm voice was barking orders to the assembled Padawan's, telling them to help Shev up, and only after a moment did Han connect the voice to the hand that had hold of him. And only after an even longer moment, his mind seemingly loathe to function all of a sudden, did he connect the hand to the Master it belonged to.
Oh Sith.
Master Koth spared him a sidelong glance from narrowed dark eyes. Han had never seen the mild tempered Council member display even as much anger as that, much less the tightened lines around the man's thin pressed lips. It was a relief when the Master looked away, but a short lived one.
One thin, dark finger stabbed out, singling out one of the gawking Padawan's who were clustered about watching. "You." Was it Han's imagination, or did the Ebrakian's voice have something of a growl to it? "You will fetch Master Edrian. And you," to another Padawan, "Knight Skywalker. Bring them here immediately."
Skywalker. Han bit his lip, hard enough to taste blood. Oh Sith. Brawling between students wasn't unheard of... but in the middle of the main dining hall, in full sight of the Knights and Masters... He'd lost his mind. It was the only explanation.
Koth finally released him, pushing him towards a chair. "Sit," he ordered, and Han numbly obeyed, feeling what little he had eaten turn to stone in the pit of his stomach. "You as well," Koth added to Shev. The older boy dropped gingerly into a chair, hand cupping the dark bruise that was flowering across his jawline. Koth snorted softly, glaring at them both. "Padawan's fighting in the middle of the dining hall," he growled, almost disbelieving. "You will both stay there," he told them firmly. "Your Masters shall deal with you."
Which was precisely what Han was dreading.
He had been in and out of trouble, it seemed, for most of the years he had been at the Temple. Being told just what a disgrace he was and set to punishments for it was hardly new. It was a thin thought to console himself with but he drew what he could from it, determinedly drawing back his shoulders and setting his chin. Skywalker could hardly put anything into his lecture that Han hadn't already heard. Unless...
No, he wouldn't think it. He was going to be lectured. He was going to be in disgrace again. He was probably going to be set enough lessons for any five Padawans to make up for it. He certainly wasn't going to be treated to any more days like the last one for quite some time, and none of that was anything new. The sinking nausea in his stomach meant nothing, and the lump in the back of his throat that his breathing kept catching around was ridiculous. It was absolutely nothing new, he had been through the routine more times then he could remember, and all he had to do was school his expression into a look of proper remorse and nod his head and agree at all the proper points. It wasn't new. It was...
Skywalker, sweeping through the door of the dining hall a full body length ahead of the Padawan who was scrambling to keep up with the man's long strides, the Knight's face wiped of all trace of his familiar teasing smile, that mobile mouth set in a firm line, eyes passing over his Padawan as though Han didn't exist.
Han clenched his fists against the seat of the chair, grinding his teeth together to keep the quiver from his jaw as he watched his Master brush past him and stop at Master Koth's side, the taller Knight stooping slightly to exchange quiet words with the Council member. Anakin hadn't even looked at him, and that somehow made it all infinitely worse.
Another Master had entered the dining hall, her cloak trailing out behind her as she hurried to Shev's side, making small disgruntled noises as she bent to look at his jaw. Shev himself was rather pale, a color Han was sure his own face was turning as well. Straightening, his master folded her arms and puffed out her cheeks, an expression that would have been comical if she hadn't been so obviously irate. "What a fine thing... well? Is anyone going to explain this?"
"Master Edrian." Koth beckoned, drawing her away slightly. Skywalker stepped away from them both, turning to the two seated boys, and Han found himself abandoning all pretense and sinking lower in his seat to try in vain to avoid the Knight's cold look.
Blue eyes flickered past him once more and Skywalker turned towards Shev. The older Padawan shrank back slightly as the Knight bent, one tanned hand reaching out to gently turn the boy's face so that he might view the darkened bruise better. Skywalker straightened, expressionless, then turned at last to look at Han.
"Stand up."
The man's voice was as expressionless as his face, flat and chill and utterly unlike the warm half teasing tone which Han had grown accustomed to over the last handful of days. Han bit the inside of his cheek, fumbling as he slowly rose to his feet, forcing himself to stand before the Knight. It was worse then he had thought, worse then any other lecture he had ever received and Skywalker had yet to say anything at all.
"You struck him?" It was said almost mildly, as though he were only moderately curious, merely re-affirming the facts of the matter. Han swallowed dryly, forcing the unwilling muscles in his neck to nod.
It happened too fast for him to see, a blur of motion as Skywalker's hand rose and fell, the force of the heavy blow against his cheek cracking his head around and drawing a yelp that was half pain, half surprise. Stunned, Han stumbled, hand raising automatically to the warmth of his jaw. Jedi did not strike their students. He had never, in all his years, heard so much as a rumor of such a thing. Behind Skywalker the other two Masters were staring, equally aghast, but the Knight never changed expression, his gaze focused on Han.
"You struck him," Skywalker said in that same flat, oddly mild voice. "I struck you. What is the difference?"
Open mouthed, Han could only stare. He could feel his hands trembling and the aftereffect of the ache in his cheek, but somehow it all seemed incredibly unreal. "I... I don't..."
"You struck him," Skywalker repeated patiently. "And I struck you. What is the difference between the two?"
There was a growing sense of desperation in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that gnawed and twisted through his insides. He was dimly glad he hadn't eaten any more, as he was sure he was going to be ill when all of this was over. "I... I shouldn't have..."
"Wrong. That wasn't the question." Han found himself wishing that Anakin would raise his voice, yell or swear or anything at all except that flat tone. "What is the difference?
He was blinking back tears, unsure if they were from sheer embarrassment or from the sickening tightness of his stomach. His lips felt numb and the words didn't want to come, breathed only in a whisper. "I was wrong... yours... punishment..."
The second blow came backhanded, catching him across the opposite cheek, with a force hard enough to send him tumbling back across the chair to the ground. Through the ringing in his ears he heard Master Koth's voice, raised to a level he had never thought to hear from the Council member. "Skywalker!"
Han forced his eyes open, automatically struggling to push himself back up. Skywalker was above him, the Knight crouched down beside him, his low voice carrying just between the two of them, his eyes unreadable. "What is the difference?"
"I don't know!" Han cried, his voice cracking sharply. The tears were escaping his control, he could feel them damp across his cheeks, his vision blurred with them, and he was too shaken to do anything about them. "Sith, I don't know!"
Skywalker said nothing. Han caught his breath, holding it, but after another moment the Knight rose to his feet. "Then think about it," he said coolly. "When you can find an answer befitting a Padawan, I will hear it. Until then, you will return to my quarters and stay there." And with that he turned away and Han could hear the steps of his boots across the floor as he walked back to the other Masters, the silence in the dining hall broken primarily by what he recognized as his own choked breaths.
Gathering what he could of himself even as the first sob tightened an iron band around his chest, Han scrambled to his feet and ran.