He could not send any transmissions. No contact with Alliance command in any way. He was on Coruscant, de facto capitol of the Empire. He was deep undercover and empowered—tasked—cursed to make his own decisions as they arose. Definitely not allowed to message Draven and shout and swear and demand, Am I really doing this? Pfasskarkriffing advise!!
It was bad enough when, while undercover, he identified someone who would be ripe for recruitment, having their doubts about the Empire, and having to leave them behind. Or, worse, browbeat them back into Imperial loyalty. There was little he hated more in the universe.
But this…
There was really no way out. Not without blowing his cover, sacrificing the mission, and (least important, to him) probably getting executed. Joreth Sward was a rank-climber. This was something he'd not only not refuse but would leap at. It was a mark of how much Grendreef had come to trust and approve and rely on him.
But her? What about her?
He had to settle, at last, on the knowledge that Joreth Sward was not a legal identity. So any oaths he took in and under that name were inherently void. Once he was extracted—disappeared without a word—it would collapse under itself and she would be free.
But it also meant, no more time to himself, to let the mask slide and to breathe. He would have to keep up the illusion all day and… (oh skies) …all night. He would have to create explanations for things that never came up with the Grendreefs—only the scars on his face had been surgically removed, and how much action was Sward supposed to have seen that would be plausible…?
All that before he'd actually seen her.
Once he did…
Something had passed through him as he stared at Jyn Erso. He very nearly turned to Grendreef (would have turned to Draven) and said, No. Not her. Don't put me with her.
Not because he disliked the look of her. Perilously the opposite.
He saw something in her that he recognized. Something… he wanted.
He'd never chosen anyone or anything over the mission in his life.
He felt suddenly terrified that that was about to be tested.
He did it. He wore a dress uniform, covered in rank signifiers that were all lies. He said the words. Put a ring on her hand. Gave her his hand for her to do the same.
What a karking farce… I was never supposed to have this… now I'm getting it but all wrong… Force, I knew you were sadistic, but did you have to do this?…
Gave her his arm for them to face the assemblage—Aune Grendreef as stony-faced as himself, at the loss of her toy—and then walk through them, to the now bigger, nicer accommodations he'd been moved to, to share with… his "wife".
And to walk inside with her and close the door. And stay turned away from her for a long, long moment; only the sounds of their thudding hearts and tense breathing; hyperaware of the archway to the bedroom.
Skies… Alliance… Force… am I really doing this? What happens if I don't?
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-06-08 08:24 pm (UTC)It was bad enough when, while undercover, he identified someone who would be ripe for recruitment, having their doubts about the Empire, and having to leave them behind. Or, worse, browbeat them back into Imperial loyalty. There was little he hated more in the universe.
But this…
There was really no way out. Not without blowing his cover, sacrificing the mission, and (least important, to him) probably getting executed. Joreth Sward was a rank-climber. This was something he'd not only not refuse but would leap at. It was a mark of how much Grendreef had come to trust and approve and rely on him.
But her? What about her?
He had to settle, at last, on the knowledge that Joreth Sward was not a legal identity. So any oaths he took in and under that name were inherently void. Once he was extracted—disappeared without a word—it would collapse under itself and she would be free.
But it also meant, no more time to himself, to let the mask slide and to breathe. He would have to keep up the illusion all day and… (oh skies) …all night. He would have to create explanations for things that never came up with the Grendreefs—only the scars on his face had been surgically removed, and how much action was Sward supposed to have seen that would be plausible…?
All that before he'd actually seen her.
Once he did…
Something had passed through him as he stared at Jyn Erso. He very nearly turned to Grendreef (would have turned to Draven) and said, No. Not her. Don't put me with her.
Not because he disliked the look of her. Perilously the opposite.
He saw something in her that he recognized. Something… he wanted.
He'd never chosen anyone or anything over the mission in his life.
He felt suddenly terrified that that was about to be tested.
He did it. He wore a dress uniform, covered in rank signifiers that were all lies. He said the words. Put a ring on her hand. Gave her his hand for her to do the same.
What a karking farce… I was never supposed to have this… now I'm getting it but all wrong… Force, I knew you were sadistic, but did you have to do this?…
Gave her his arm for them to face the assemblage—Aune Grendreef as stony-faced as himself, at the loss of her toy—and then walk through them, to the now bigger, nicer accommodations he'd been moved to, to share with… his "wife".
And to walk inside with her and close the door. And stay turned away from her for a long, long moment; only the sounds of their thudding hearts and tense breathing; hyperaware of the archway to the bedroom.
Skies… Alliance… Force… am I really doing this? What happens if I don't?