Kourt Crowe rubbed the bridge of his nose, pressed his fingertips into his eyes, slid his palms back up over his forehead. He rested his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He hated this -- hated all of it. He was not a particularly compassionate man; nor, despite rumors to the contrary, was he especially impatient. He had a Jedi's empathy, of course, and a Jedi's love for efficiency, but he also had a Jedi's sense of balance. His arrogance, too -- which was (let's face it) considerable, knowing as he did that he was one of the best of the very few who did what he did at all well -- was temperate. He was proud, but not boastful, and in fact there were more facets of his life in which he felt deficient than there were in which he felt he excelled.

And he struggled to haul all these feelings toward the center at times like this, times which were all too frequent -- it helped not at all to be careering all over the emotional dial when his lover lay only intermittently conscious, drifting in and out of awareness and pain.

He lifted his head and looked at Vanni, watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, listened to the measured ping of the vital-signs monitor. Briefly, Kourt reminded his protector's instinct that Vanni was, relatively speaking, unhurt. He hadn't been shot, burned, beaten, or in fact abused in any way. The fragile skin around the blue eyes was smooth and unscarred; the flaxen hair lay soft and sleek on his pillow. The bones were whole; the internal organs were sound. That steady rise and fall he'd noticed -- Vanni's lungs were operating all on their own. Kourt bit his thumbs.

Vanni's eyes opened and blinked twice. "Kourt," he whispered, smiling, swallowing.

"Right here, babe," Kourt said, taking Vanni's hand in his.

"You're so silly," Vanni said.

"I know." Kourt smiled his own smile and -- dammit, dammit, dammit -- brushed a tear out of the corner of his eye with the knuckles of his free hand.

"Should get some rest," Vanni said, yawning.

Kourt knew Vanni wasn't talking about himself. "I will," he promised.

"I'll be out of here tomorrow," Vanni went on, shifting his weight slightly. "Only on the --" yawn -- "painkillers for a couple more days." He squeezed Kourt's hand. "You big dummy."

"I know," Kourt said again. And he did. He knew it was really very little more than an instinct, a conditioned response, and any sight of Vanni looking weakened or vulnerable would reduce him to the same bundle of nerves. If he couldn't see it, he could make himself believe there was nothing to worry about and act accordingly, but as long as it was in front of him, he would fret until Vanni was well again.

"Big dummy," Vanni repeated, the next dose of painkillers kicking in. His speech slurred. "Y'know s'the shapeshifting thing ... you never had, hmm, y'know, any minor surgery." Huge yawn. Kourt had heard people pop their jaws with yawns like that, and wondered how under the skies it didn't hurt Vanni like hell.

*Those must be some fabulous painkillers,* he thought, making a mental note to find out what they were and how he could get some to keep in his pocket.

Vanni was still mumbling. "Silly Kourt. ... Wisdom teeth. ... S'nothing." Kourt felt his lover's grip on his hand ease. "S'y'na few hours, hmm," Vanni said. "Wheniwakeup. Hmm."

"I'll be here," Kourt whispered, kissing Vanni's hand and laying it back at his side. He folded his hands, pressed his fingertips to his lips, leaned his elbows on his knees, and settled down to watch Vanni sleep.

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