#ch: dylan | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shadowglens · 1 year

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irelius prime

star wars, ione x dylan, ~6k words, canon typical violence

The streaking blue of hyperspace reflects off the command console as Dylan fights to put the incoming call through. His comms officer, Vann, swears across from him as the transmission flickers and sputters, until it eventually spits out the image of General Kenobi.

He’s kneeling, mid firefight, lightsaber ignited and distorted over the comm. There’s a streak of soot across his cheek, a strand of normally-immaculate hair falling in his eyes. Something explodes close enough for Dylan to feel it in his hands where he’s gripping the console.

“Quite a predicament you’ve found yourself in, Kenobi,” General Diem says as she appears beside Dylan, arms crossed and grinning despite another explosion rattling through the transmission. Vann’s fingers are still flying over the controls, an astromec plugging into the console at his hip and whirring unhappily.

“Yes, well,” Kenobi stops, ducks, shouts off to his left, “our dear General Grievous has apparently taken quite a liking to me.”

“Better you than me.”

The general rolls his eyes, dodges a blaster bolt. “If only we were all so lucky. I take it you got our request for aid, then?”

“Well, I didn’t call just to listen to you complain.”

A groan that sounds suspiciously like Cody’s echoes from Kenobi’s right. “At least tell me you’re close?”

“A few clicks, if that. Make sure you’re still in one piece when we arrive.”

Diem’s padawan, Gungi, rushes up behind her, lightsaber already gripped in one hand. Dylan nods at the kid, who smiles back with too many large, sharp teeth. His belt is hanging lopsided on his hips; when Gungi follows Dylan’s gaze, he grumbles and tugs it tighter.

General Kenobi smiles tightly, mouth forming around a reply, when the transmission is abruptly cut.

“Sorry, General,” Vann says after a moment of frantic typing, eyes still on the console. “Looks like they’re being jammed.”

“It’s okay. I’m surprised we got through at all.” Diem sighs, pushing off the console to face Dylan. His eyes catch on the creases at her brow, the downturned edge of her lips, the blue reflection of hyperspace in her teal eyes, before darting to a vacant spot over her shoulder as she lifts her gaze to his.

“Dylan, I want every fighter and gunship ready to launch as soon as we arrive. Brief the men on the storm we’re about to fly into.”

The salute feels stiff, too quick, as he snaps it out. “Yes, ma’am.��

“Gungi, I’ll meet you in the hangar. Make sure our fighter is prepped.”

The kid’s salute is comical at best, mocking at worst. Diem only chuckles under her breath and ruffles the young Wookiee’s hair, before lightly shoving him to follow Dylan off the bridge. Admiral Barov is already walking over and rattling off the latest report to Diem by the time she’s turned back around to the comm.

Dylan can hear the kid’s footfalls echoing through the corridor behind him as he rushes to catch up. Even as a Wookiee, Gungi only just barely scrapes Dylan’s shoulder (still so young). The kid growls, large clawed hands waving in front of him. Thankfully, his lightsaber has made it back safely onto his belt.

“Sorry, kid, I’m not taking that bet if the General’s flying.”

An indignant roar. Another hand wave. The lift jolts around them as they rocket down to the hangar. When the doors slide open, the two of them emerge into barely-controlled chaos.

Gungi stays planted in the elevator, hands on his hips.

Dylan takes one look at him, rolls his eyes, and relents. “Fine, fine. But don’t come crying to me when Coil puts you on scrubbing duty.”

Gungi smiles, and all-but skips off to the General’s fighter where it’s sitting pride of place across the hangar.

Kids.

“Ok, boys, wheels up in five. Let’s go! Let’s go!”

The general wasn’t kidding about flying into a storm.

The sky above Irelius Prime is a total kriffing mess.

What’s left of General Kenobi’s fleet is boxed in by Separatist cruisers, ship debris scattered across the field and flaming wrecks careening into the humming purple planet below. The Negotiator still looks flight worthy, at least, although Dylan can’t say the same for the other two Venator’s that are in various stages of burning. The combined tactical skill of Cody, General Kenobi and Admiral Block seems to have saved the fleet from total annihilation at least.

Small victories.

General Diem’s voice sounds over the comm, her voice tinny as it ricochets through the bridge. If he squints, Dylan can spy her fighter in the swarm that’s leaving their ships. “Okay, Blue Squadron, Fang Squadron, form up. Focus fire on the main dreadnought’s weapons. Let’s blow these droids sky high.”

A chorus of cheers and calls echo in after her.

“Stay safe, General,” he’s blurting out over their private channel before he can stop himself.

“Don’t worry, Dylan,” she says, and he can hear the laugh in it. “We’ll leave a few for you to shoot.”

His cheeks ache from the effort of keeping them from twitching into a smile. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Gungi roars a reply from the gunner’s seat, and Dylan hopes his badly-concealed chuckle is masked by his bucket. If Admiral Barov notices where she’s standing behind him, she doesn’t say.

“Two on my six! I can’t shake them!”

“Hold it together, Nines.”

“I can’t, I’m overheat - “

“Gungi, now!”

Dylan snaps his eyes to the hull of the Separatist dreadnought just as the two droid fighters explode in a spray of orange.

“Great shot,” Diem shouts, voice eerily calm despite the chaos erupting around her.

Nines sounds like he doesn’t have enough breath in his lungs. “Thanks for the save General.”

“Just doing our job. Keep focused on that main cannon.”

Their fighters disappear behind the hull of the dreadnought, and so Dylan focuses back on the star map before him. Red and blue dots flicker and scatter across the map. Kenobi’s smallest Venator finally succumbs to the Separatist onslaught; only a few fighters are caught in the blaster as it blows in a spray of purple-orange-red.

Admiral Barov is snapping something down the line across from him, ordering a squad of bombers away from the main cannon and to the transport that’s currently stuck in a tractor beam across the field. The comm rattles and shouts between them, the bridge alight with activity behind him. Across the field, he watches two escape pods from the now-destroyed Venator explode in a hail of blaster fire.

Dylan has got far too good at blocking out the dying screams of his brothers.

“Kenobi, you still alive in there?” the general’s voice rings out above the chaos. She sounds tight, focused. Dylan can picture the set of her jaw.

Static engulfs the bridge for just long enough that Dylan shares a look with the Admiral, before eventually, “Barely, but yes.”

He’s cut off by the electric screech of two lightsabers colliding.

“Although I wouldn’t -,” another screech, the shifting of fabric, “- be opposed to some assistance.”

“Growing tired, Kenobi?”

The voice sounds far away, distorted by space and debris, but Dylan would know Grievous’ rattle anywhere. The line dissipates not long after in a collision of kyber and blaster fire.

“Commander, prepare a boarding party. Meet me in the main hangar of The Negotiator,” Diem snaps, and Dylan had almost forgotten she was on the line still. “Admiral, keep them distracted for us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He’s already running from the bridge as he hears Barov start redirecting squadrons behind him.

He keeps his private line with the General open on his wrist comm as he barks orders at his brothers down in the hangar. Gungi pipes up over the comm occasionally, relishing in a well-timed shot or complaining of his stomach as Diem makes a particularly reckless manoeuvre. The hum of their conversation follows him into the gunship, calming the churning in his gut. He switches the comm off as his men pile in and pretends not to notice the raised eyebrow Coil shoots him before his face is swallowed by his bucket.

His second’s at his side then as they rocket into the firefight, one hand gripping the rail above him, the other fiddling with his blaster. “Cody owes us all a round at 79s for this one.”

“Good luck with that.” Dylan indulges himself in a small smile, hidden in the safety of his bucket, as Coil and the others chuckle. “I’m still waiting for the round he promised after Zhikut.”

“Hah! I bet - ”

“Commander!” the pilot, Ratchet, shouts down from the cockpit. “The General’s hit!”

Dylan’s men are instantly ram-rod straight around him. He forces himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth as discreetly as he can manage, forces the reflecting teal of her eyes out of his mind. His teeth grind painfully together as he lifts his wrist comm and asks, “General, come in. What’s your status?”

Coil shifts on his feet, both hands now white-knuckled around his blaster.

Someone swears softly at the back of the gunship.

“Engine’s been taken out,” the General finally manages, and Dylan has to lock his knees and suppress a shudder as she bites out a curse. “Looks like we’re going to beat you to the hangar.”

His voice is calmer than he feels. “Who said it was a race?”

Gungi whines over the comm.

“You know me, Commander, always one to make things interesting.” An alarm is blaring down the comm. “Gungi, eject the fuel canisters.”

Before he has to say anything, Coil has a holomap projecting through the cabin. The gunship shudders around them, his bucket blocking the worst of the whine as a squad of droid fighters zip by far too close for comfort. The blinking blue dot of the General’s ship hurtles towards Kenobi’s Venator.

“They’re coming in too hot.”

Dylan twists towards the cockpit. “Get us down there, Ratchet.”

“They’re gonna blow the whole damn hangar.”

“Quiet!” he snaps, and the few shinies he’d dragged along snap to attention. Coil just keeps his eyes on the holomap, the tiny blue dot. The flaming Venator waiting for them. “Weapons ready and hot. Push forward as soon as we touch down.”

“Yessir!”

In the end, Dylan and the boarding party make it to the hangar mere seconds after the General’s fighter.

They’d lost two gunships on the trip, and the hangar is teeming with enough droids that he’d almost think he was on a Separatist cruiser and not the flagship of the 212th. Dylan has barely set a foot down when he’s diving to avoid a blaster bolt to the forehead, the remaining gunships only stopping to a crawl before rocketing back into the fight once their loads are dropped. His bucket is alive with noise and static, his pulse loud in his ear.

Across the hangar, the General’s fighter is a flaming wreck.

“Coil, Lance, flank to the right. Meet at the General’s position.” He doesn’t have to look to know his men are already moving.

He dives behind a downed fighter, before twisting to take out a cluster of battle droids with a grenade. A shiny goes down at his side, bucket blown clear from his head. Warnings blare through the hangar. Stones grind in his throat when he can’t remember their name.

Twist, fire, duck, fire.

“Move forward! Put the pressure on!”

Twist, fire, duck, fire.

Rinse and repeat, until he’s close enough to watch the hatch of Diem’s fighter get flung open.

The smell of ozone and petroleum filters into his bucket. She’s soot stained, her white tendrils near-glowing against the fiery backdrop as she springs free. A flick of her wrist, and Gungi’s hatch is thrown to the side as well. The Wookiee padawan is beside her, lightsaber drawn, in the time it takes for Dylan to shoot out three more droids.

She ignites her lightsabers, bathing herself in purple.

Dylan bodily shakes himself. Checks his blaster. Orders another push forward.

There’s a streak of blood on her forehead.

“General!” he says when she’s close enough he can see the flecks of purple in her eyes.

Her lightsabers effortlessly twirl to block a barrage of blaster fire as she covers his approach. “Status, Commander?”

“All but two gunships made it to the hangar. Last check in from General Kenobi places him near the bridge duelling Grievous.” A beat, a breath, another four droids shot down. “Commander Cody’s facing the worst of the clankers on level fifty two.”

“Good. Secure the area and get that kriffing hangar door closed, then move to support Cody and his men.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gungi growls at her side, enquiring, as the rest of their men manage to flank around to them. Dylan’s knowledge of Jedi forms is limited to the reading he’s managed in the little spare time he can find and what he’s learned through osmosis from his general, but he knows enough to know Gungi is good. His form may be a two steps to the left and an overall less impressive version of his master’s, but still. He’s deflecting blaster bolts faster than Dylan can track them.

“Stay with Dylan, Gungi,” the general says, and Dylan can almost see the protest physically crawling up Gungi’s throat before she continues, “and assist the men in taking back The Negotiator. We promised Kenobi we were here to help, but I can’t save his skin and save his ship.”

If they weren’t in the middle of a firefight, Dylan would find the kid’s half-hearted agreement laughable.

Diem puts a slender hand on Gungi’s hairy shoulder for good measure. “Give the clankers hell for me, okay?”

And then she’s moving again, lightsabers held absentmindedly in each hand as she launches across the hangar and higher, higher, higher, to one of the upper maintenance corridors, as if the air in the hangar had solidified into stairs beneath her feet.

Show off.

Coil is shouting in Dylan’s ear, having kept the assault moving while they debriefed. The kid stands at his side, still deflated around the edges - but he’s got his lightsaber up and his shoulders set in a display that screams of the general enough that Dylan almost does a double take.

Dylan, despite himself, lets the kid settle for a few aching moments. Tries not to think about Diem, alone and racing through a droid-infested ship. Tries not to pay too much attention to the white-knuckled grip Gungi has around his wooden lightsaber hilt, now that Diem is out of sight.

Then, “Come on, kid. I thought we’d made a bet?”

That gets the barest, fractured hints of a smile.

It was a hard push from the hangar through the bowels of The Negotiator. They’re down a handful of men and it’s going to take Cody and the 212th days to clear the corridors, but at least they’re now full of scraps of metal and not a whole kriffing battalion of droids.

Gungi was invaluable, not that Dylan expected any less. He is Diem’s padawan, after all. While the general fights like she’s made of air or dancing through it, Gungi’s style is a more blunt-force kind of grace. Maybe it’s the Wookiee in him. Coil had cheered when Gungi managed to tear a super battle droid clean in two with the force.

Dylan’s comm crackles and breaks at his wrist, and from what garbled reports he’s getting from Barov, the Separatist forces running are scrambling to retreat. Coil also cheers at that.

Good riddance. He just hopes the Generals have had such good luck with Grievous.

“Thanks for the assist,” Cody says as he appears around a corner flanked by a small retinue of his men. The armour at his right shoulder is scorched black.

Dylan claps him gently on his left. “Good to see you in one piece. How are things looking on your side?”

“Better, now that we’re not a drifting bullseye,” the Marshal Commander grinds out. Even through his bucket, Dylan can hear the grimace on his face. “I’ve lost two squads, and our hyperdrive has been disabled. If you can spare the men, we could use some assistance down in maintenance to stop any more unwelcome visitors.”

Gungi appears at their side, his lightsaber still palmed in one hand. Dylan translates his growl for, “Consider it done.”

“What’s the situation airside?” Cody asks as Gungi finishes comming Lance back in the hangar.

Dylan adjusts the chamber on his blaster. “Admiral Barov reports two of the dreadnoughts making a move to jump. Fighters are scrambling. Our bombers are doing what they can to stop their retreat.”

“Good. The rest of you, with me,” Cody says to the small crowd that’s congregated around them, yellow and teal armour mingled together. “The last report I got from General Kenobi put them -”

“Dylan!”

The sound of General Diem’s scream tears through them, the shrill tone of her voice vibrating through the armour at Dylan’s wrist. A roar is halfway up Gungi’s throat where he’s turned to face behind them, lightsaber held aloft, when the General continues, static-laced, “Grievous is incoming! Do not let him leave this ship.”

Cody is immediately barking orders, his men spreading like water to either side of the corridor. The hum of weapons being armed echoes between them. Dylan moves to shout at Gungi, but the kid’s lightsaber is ignited now, eyes still trained on the way they’d come, and through the pounding of his heartbeat Dylan can hear it now too.

The thundering of metal on metal.

General Grievous slides around the corner at the far end of the corridor not five seconds later.

“Open fire!”

There’s at least twenty of them, maybe twenty five. They have all been bred for warfare, are genetically designed to follow orders and follow them well. Dylan can’t count the number of droids he’s put down over the last few years. Between him and Cody alone, it would number in the hundreds, if not thousands.

There’s at least twenty of them, maybe twenty five, and Grievous slices through them like butter.

The first five clones are cleaved in two by Grievous’ lightsabers, another two smashed against the ceiling so fast that Dylan hears their necks break. A few of Cody’s men are shot through the chest with reflected blaster bolts. Dylan manages a few lucky shots through the droid General’s armour. His blaster may as well be firing training rounds, for the little damage they do.

Two clones, one teal one yellow, manage to snag Grievous with grappling hooks as he rushes past. The droid hacks out a cough as one skewers him in the throat. Cody and Dylan rush the General as the hooks make impact, Dylan throwing aside his overheating blaster in exchange for the knife hidden at his hip. Cody shouts, swears, as he all-but launches himself onto Grievous’ back. Dylan aims his knife for an exposed circuit board between the armour plates. For one hopeful, blistering moment, they have him, they have him, they have him.

Grievous coughs, roars, and all four of them are flung off like gnats.

Dylan, for seconds he can’t afford to lose, sees nothing but stars.

His vision clears to the sight of Gungi standing in the corridor, alone, both hands gripping his lightsaber white-knuckled, shadowed by the droid general.

“How pathetic,” Grievous laughs. “Is this what the mighty Jedi have resorted to, sending children to best me?”

Gungi roars shakily. Squares his shoulder like Diem taught him. Dylan fights to get his feet under him as a seeping wetness trickles down the side of his neck and into his undersuit.

“Let me teach you a lesson, you ignorant child.”

Grievous’ two arms become four. His two lightsabers split in half. Gungi barely manages to hold his saber aloft in time to block the four streams of searing kyber that come crashing down upon him.

Dylan shouts, grabs for his knife, makes to lunge for them as the kid’s forced further away down the corridor.

Gungi’s arms are trembling now under the power of Grievous’ strikes. The droid is cackling as he slams down on the young padawan again, again, again, having entirely given up on any shred of grace he may have had and resorting to pure, brutal strength. Gungi cries out as one of the blades burns along his upper arm, hair scorched away in favour of a long line of burning amber. Even as Dylan flings his knife at the back of Grievous’ metal head, he knows it won’t land.

In the end, it doesn’t need to.

Grievous spins just in time to block General Diem as she comes flying down the corridor. The droid manages to hold back one of her purple blades but misses the other. He loses an arm for it, mechanical fluid bursting in a spray of green against the charred corridor walls. Diem is already striking again as Grievous screeches.

“Going somewhere, General?” Diem spits as she lands protectively in front of Gungi, lightsabers crossed and searing before her. The sour twist of her face makes her look cruel in the warning-blare glow of The Negotiator. Dylan doesn’t miss the quiet whine of pain from Gungi.

Grievous has barely stopped though, is already turning to retreat back the way he came. “Get out of my way!”

He’s met with a wall of solid force energy as General Kenobi materialises from around the corner.

“Box him in!” Kenobi shouts, his blue lightsaber illuminating his face. “We cannot let him escape.”

A few things happen at once.

Grievous, giving up any pretence of being bipedal, slips to all four, now three, arms and skitters onto the ceiling. Kenobi reaches to force grab him but is thrown to the ground as an explosion rocks the corridor. A chain reaction ruptures through the level; Cody dives to shove Dylan clear of a chunk of steel wall that would have crushed his skull, bucket and all, as Kenobi manages to get one force-coated hand up to hold the rest of the suddenly-collapsing corridor at bay.

Gungi shouts, somewhere far away. Dylan turns in time to watch the padawan get flung down a nearby corridor, lightsaber left behind to clatter uselessly to the ground. Grievous rushes through the newly created open corridor with General Diem hot on his heels. The last Dylan sees of her is a blur of purple-teal-white.

The hot blood pooling in the neck of his undersuit doesn’t matter. He’s on his feet and sprinting after her anyway.

“Commander!” Cody shouts behind him.

Insubordination be damned. “He’s heading to the loading dock!”

It feels like the ship is falling apart around him. Logically he knows it’s not, knows that the Venator can withstand more than its fair share of punishment, knows that the Separatist fleet is theoretically in full retreat and wouldn’t risk a few pot shots, even if it is General Kenobi’s flagship cruiser.

Still. Something must have kriffing happened.

The gravity drops out just as he rounds a corner, sending him floating into the ceiling, only for emergency stabilisers to kick in not five parsecs later. His shoulder screams in protest as he scrambles back to his feet; ahead of him, Grievous and Diem are both at full sprint, lightsabers still glowing through the explosions and gloom.

The comm at his wrist blinks. “Commander? Commander, come in?”

“What is it, Lance?” His voice tears up his throat.

“Barov just called, said there’s a light cruiser coming into dock - ”

“On the starboard side, level forty eight? I know. Get every fighter we have on it, now. Blow it out of the sky before it connects.” Diem shouts ahead of him, and he watches her fling herself at Grievous, only for the droid to spin, block, and shove her far enough back to keep retreating. The ship rocks around him again. “What the kriff is exploding?”

“Secondary hangar was destroyed. Maintenance levels eighty two through sixty have been wiped out on the port side.”

Boots thunder up behind Dylan, and when he turns to meet General Kenobi’s eye, the lines on his forehead are as deep as gorges. The jedi shouts down to Dylan’s wrist, “The damage is contained for now, Lieutenant. Send all available men to support the injured.”

“Yes, General Kenobi!”

The familiar sound of lightsabers colliding shrieks from around the corner. Dylan and Kenobi are met by the sight of Diem duelling Grievous in the loading dock as the draw bridge extends through the port window beyond them. Dylan immediately moves to shoot out the controls while Kenobi launches himself into the fray, lightsaber almost slicing Grievous’ head clean from his shoulders until the droid ducks the blow.

“Commander,” Admiral Barov sounds at his wrist, and Dylan hardly catches it over the wail of Grievous as he fends off the dual jedi assault, “bombers in-bound on the Separatist light cruiser. Detonation in ten parsecs.”

Across the room, the seal around the loading bay door squeals.

Dylan looks through the tiny, circular porthole to the ship beyond, and the drawbridge that now connects the two.

“No, abort!” he shouts at Barov as the door seals begin to slide open, as the droids begin to thunder up the ramp. “Abort! Cruiser is attached! Repeat, cruiser is attached, abort!"

The cruiser explodes.

The detonation sends him stumbling back against the doorway. By the time he’s glanced back up to the porthole, it’s engulfed with fire.

“Clear the room!” he shouts, to Kenobi where he’s preparing another attack, to Cody who’s just skidded around the corner, to General Diem where her lightsabers are locked with Grievous’. Her eyes flick to his, teal reflecting the red of the emergency lighting, and Dylan feels his gut twist and churn and shrivel as she spins, kicks Grievous clear in the chest, and jumps for Dylan’s outstretched hand as the loading bay door bursts in a ball of fire behind her.

The fire makes it barely a few metres into the room before being swallowed by the vacuum of space.

Grievous, metal bodied as he is, lets himself be sucked out alongside a few unprepared clones, lightsabers and oozing durasteel arm disappearing in the smoke and flames and to the likely safety of a passing droid fighter.

Dylan watches, jaw wrenched into a shout, as Diem is sucked out along with him.

“No!” A scream, and for a moment Dylan thinks it’s his own until he realises Diem has frozen mid-air, body dangling in the fiery remains of the drawbridge, open space curling at her ankles and tendrils whipping madly behind her. He twists to see Kenobi with one hand outstretched in her direction, veins bulging on his forehead with the effort of fighting Irelius Prime’s atmosphere, as his other hand clings to a wall panel for dear life.

Dylan fumbles to keep his grip steady on the door as the vacuum roars around them, eyes locked on Diem’s. The edge of her mouth is downturned, eyebrows drawn in resignation. She’s staring right at him. He wants to kriffing kill something. “Grappling hook, now!”

Cody may as well share Dylan’s mind as well as body, because he’s already sent one shooting at Kenobi, the Marshal Commander twisting to put his back flat against the doorway for leverage. The cord is immediately taut, snaking once, twice, three times around the meat of Kenobi’s bicep, the fingers of his other hand still locked in a trembling, outstretched claw.

Dylan can taste bile on his tongue as the General lets go of the wall. His body swings immediately towards the gnarled hole in The Negotiator’s hull, his free arm white-knuckled on the cord, the blue of his eyes also locked on Diem’s suspended form.

The chord holds. It kriffing holds.

Reeling him in is slow, painful. Dylan can feel his pulse in his throat, in his ears, can feel his heart almost jumping free from beneath his ribcage. Once Kenobi’s close enough, Cody bodily hauls him up and half behind the doorframe, wrapping an arm vice-like around Kenobi’s midsection.

Kenobi wastes no time, now extending both hands towards Diem across the room. His voice is strained with effort as he says, “Ready on the door.”

Dylan watches the jedi close his eyes, breath, and yank on whatever invisible tether he’s made to Diem.

Her form comes rocketing towards them. Dylan feels the socket in his shoulder almost dislocate as he stretches. Hands suddenly grip his other arm where it clings to the door, and he doesn’t need to look to know Coil is there braced beside him. She’s close enough that he can see the flecks of purple in her eyes, can see the faint glow of colour at her cheekbones and temples. He stretches again, closer, closer, until the tips of her fingers ghost against his.

One final yank from Kenobi, and her hand is gripped in his.

“I’ve got you,” he says, grunting with effort as he hauls her up and through the doorway. “I’ve got you.”

Someone, probably Cody, hits the door control and it shutters closed between them. Immediately they all sag against the door, air rushing to a standstill as they all fall to the floor in a heap of armour and jedi robes. Diem falls on top of him, her body a warm weight even through his armour.

Dylan, indulgent, closes his eyes and grips the back of her neck. She doesn’t shy away from the touch, simply breathes into the crook of his armour for a moment longer than necessary, limp above him. Her skin is clammy and space-frosted at the edges; he can’t find it in his heart to mind.

“Well, karking hells.” A laugh bursts from someone to their right, and Dylan jerks his hand back from her skin like he’s been burnt. “Let’s never do that again.”

“Is everyone okay?” General Kenobi asks where he’s kneeling, flexing his right hand. His face is twisted into a severe frown.

They all offer various groans and grunts of affirmation.

Diem - Ione - kriff, General Diem gingerly pushes herself to her feet. Dylan keeps his eyes focused on the fraying edge of her tunic; he can feel another trickle of blood run through his eyebrow and down along the outside of his cheekbone.

“We were so close,” Diem mutters, and it’s only the years he’s spent at her side that makes Dylan notice the near-invisible tremor in her clenched fist. “So kriffing close.”

Cody has his head bent towards the comm at his wrist, before sighing and saying, “Sorry, Generals. Admiral Block just reported Grievous jumping to hyperspace in a commandeered transport.”

Kenobi’s sigh reverberates through his entire body. “Well, at least we’re all in one piece. Cody, see if you can get a damage report from the Admiral. It would be good to know if any more unexpected explosions are about to tear us apart.”

“On it, sir.” Cody glances at Dylan where he’s still shoving himself to his feet, Coil with a hesitant hand hovering by his arm, before disappearing down the corridor in a light jog.

Diem suddenly turns to face the opposite corridor. Parsecs later, heavy footfalls come clattering around the corner heralding Gungi’s panicked arrival. The kid is wrecked, eyes wide and arm still smoking. He rushes Diem and for a moment looks like he’s going to throw his arms around her, but seems to remember General Kenobi’s presence and settles for bowing his head and whining instead.

Diem rests one hand on the crown of Gungi’s head and pulls him into a hug anyway.

“Are you okay?” she mutters once they’ve parted, hand ghosting along his burn.

Gungi growls softly, clutching at his elbow. His lightsaber is back at his hip.

“You did well, young padawan,” Kenobi says, stepping forward to offer the duo a tight smile, “to stand your ground against an opponent like Grievous.”

Another quiet growl, although the corner of his mouth has twitched up. Thank you, Master.

Diem turns then to stare directly at Dylan. He can tell before she says anything that she knows. “Coil, get him to the medbay,” she sighs, and Dylan stutters a step forward to protest, more for the sake of it than anything, but she’s already continuing, “Have Lance and Hatch round up the rest of the men and report in to Commander Cody to find out where he needs assistance. I also want a report from Admiral Barov about the situation with the fleet.”

“General, I’m fine.”

She tilts her head at him. “Don’t make me ask you to take your helmet off.”

Coil is at his side again, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Commander, but the General’s right, and I already got a dressing down from Stitch after the last mission.”

Kriffing bastard.

They stay in orbit above Irelius Prime for three cycles.

Kenobi’s fleet gets a patch job before beginning its limping journey back to Coruscant for repairs. Cody claps Dylan on the back before they part, begrudgingly promising yet another free round at 79s that he won’t have the time to commit to, and Dylan agrees as if he’s expecting to set foot on the capital world anytime soon.

The General’s sit locked away in a Jedi Council meeting for eight hours on their last day in orbit, and both emerge looking worse than they did after their duel with Grievous. Dylan catches Gungi bowing formally to Kenobi as he leaves, not missing the small smile the General tries (and fails) to offer the kid in return. Dylan doesn’t bring the meeting up when he finds himself alone in the officers lounge with General Diem that night, their departure for other, distant battles imminent.

When he turns to ask Diem about their course, he catches her staring at the still-healing scar above his left eyebrow. “Everything okay, ma’am?”

“Ione,” she says, dropping her gaze to his as she slumps back in her chair. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you call me Ione.” He stares at her blankly for just long enough that she smiles tiredly up at him, offering instead, “Only if you’re comfortable.”

His tongue feels too large for his mouth. “Only in private. It wouldn’t be proper in front of the men.”

“Of course not.” The streaking of hyperspace makes the white of her tendrils glow blue as she smiles.

“So, Cyphar. Recent reports say the Separatists are attempting to establish a base of operations on the southern continent. From what Vann recovered, it doesn't sound like the locals are too happy about it.”

“Would you be, if your homeworld was being overrun by overly talkative, destructive droids?”

Dylan lets himself lean against the console between them, shoulders heavy. There’s been a krick in his neck since he was thrown against the ceiling of The Negotiator that he can’t shake. “We should send scouts, see how far reaching their patrols are.”

“Dylan.” When he glances up, she’s raising an eyebrow at him. “It can wait until morning. We’re still at least a cycle, maybe two away. Get some rest.”

Now that’s hypocrisy if he’s ever heard it. He was the one who found her here, buried in a datapad. “I could say the same for you,” he stops, swallows a planet-sized rock, “Ione.”

Her name feels foreign, musical on his tongue. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud. He runs a hand through his ashy brown hair to give his hand something to do.

“Maybe we’re both being workaholic fools, then.”

Keeping eye contact is the bravest thing he’s ever done. “Probably.”

A chuckle slips out of her, her posture still far too composed. “Was that so hard?”

“Saying your name, or agreeing with you?”

The chuckle turns into laughter, the kind that crinkles at the corners of her eyes and sends her tendrils swaying around her face. This close, he can see the faint pattern decorating the ends of them. He takes that thought, that image, and tucks it away for later.

“Go to bed, Dylan,” she eventually says, soft in the quiet. “The galaxy will still be here when you wake up.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Let me walk you to your chambers?”

She stares at him for long enough that he feels himself backpedalling, his mouth already forming around an apology, when she sweeps to her feet. She’d forgone her formal Jedi robes after the meeting earlier; he’s seen her in the simple tunic and form-fitting trousers she now wears before, but she suddenly feels very small and war-weary beside him, layers and station shed to show the woman underneath.

“If it will make you go to bed yourself, then I don’t see why not.”

When he sees her snag the datapad from the conference table and tuck it under her arm as they leave, he pretends not to notice.

She, in turn, doesn’t mention when he guides them the long way back to her quarters.

It’s the first good night's sleep he’s had in a week.

#writing tag #ch: ione diem #ch: dylan #ione x dylan #anyway this is Long and i didn't know how else to post it #so maybe open it in another tab lol #i haven't written this much in years adjfgahdsfg it feels so weird #but this idea had me by the throat

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