MCA #4, Saturday Evening
Mar. 28th, 2015 08:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
suitably_heroicYou know, for months he'd been wondering why he was still sticking around here, keeping his own apartment and teaching on this island. Atton had a perfectly fine place on Coruscant, which didn't contain nearly as many teenagers, and from where he could do his job with a minimum of fussing from anybody about anything.
But now he remembered. Caring about people was exhausting, and usually trouble. Sometimes you just needed a place to crawl back to all on your own to be alone. To deal with (or in some cases, ignore) your own problems, instead of driving yourself nuts worrying about a teenage boy, or going chasing after a damaged Miraluka all over the galaxy, or following an exile into the heart of death itself.
He'd been building up a list since last summer, hadn't he? 'Terrible adventures in caring about people'. Stupidest life choice he'd ever made; it was always safer in an empty apartment than a full one. Kind of like his dad had always said about pets: you bring one into your home, death follows right along with them.
He collapsed on his bed with a sigh. Quiet. Blessed quiet. That was the thing about being a Force user: he could contain galaxies. If he wanted to. Right now, he wanted the opposite.
He didn't need anyone around right now, damn it, even if he did feel... emptier, in the wake of Gaunt's influence starting to fade, like the slow tuning-down of the echo made him miss something. Need something. Whatever.
He shut his eyes.
A warmth passed over him. A familiar warmth, albeit less restrained than he had known it to be in life. Close, no longer out of his reach, but a shadow of itself. He recognized it instantly; he'd felt it before, and it made him want to curl up into a ball, weep maybe, but he was tired, and...
Oh.
There were familiar features in the shadows, though yellows had made way for blues. The real deal. He could see them, if only for a second. That second was all he needed, though. He passed out like a light, hitting the dark hard, a happy space without nightmares or dreams or anything stupid. His arm curled around the warm place the presence had left, up against his chest.
Need? Needful Things? Atton Rand didn't need anything or anyone, except for one, and no bauble could contain her in death, as no one had contained her in life.
But the sleep was nice.
[[ establishy. ]]
But now he remembered. Caring about people was exhausting, and usually trouble. Sometimes you just needed a place to crawl back to all on your own to be alone. To deal with (or in some cases, ignore) your own problems, instead of driving yourself nuts worrying about a teenage boy, or going chasing after a damaged Miraluka all over the galaxy, or following an exile into the heart of death itself.
He'd been building up a list since last summer, hadn't he? 'Terrible adventures in caring about people'. Stupidest life choice he'd ever made; it was always safer in an empty apartment than a full one. Kind of like his dad had always said about pets: you bring one into your home, death follows right along with them.
He collapsed on his bed with a sigh. Quiet. Blessed quiet. That was the thing about being a Force user: he could contain galaxies. If he wanted to. Right now, he wanted the opposite.
He didn't need anyone around right now, damn it, even if he did feel... emptier, in the wake of Gaunt's influence starting to fade, like the slow tuning-down of the echo made him miss something. Need something. Whatever.
He shut his eyes.
A warmth passed over him. A familiar warmth, albeit less restrained than he had known it to be in life. Close, no longer out of his reach, but a shadow of itself. He recognized it instantly; he'd felt it before, and it made him want to curl up into a ball, weep maybe, but he was tired, and...
Oh.
There were familiar features in the shadows, though yellows had made way for blues. The real deal. He could see them, if only for a second. That second was all he needed, though. He passed out like a light, hitting the dark hard, a happy space without nightmares or dreams or anything stupid. His arm curled around the warm place the presence had left, up against his chest.
Need? Needful Things? Atton Rand didn't need anything or anyone, except for one, and no bauble could contain her in death, as no one had contained her in life.
But the sleep was nice.
[[ establishy. ]]
