[ It was easier to keep going in the heat of the moment, because Sam's used to running on pure adrenaline and pushing everything else out of the way to process later. Doing always came more easily to him than thinking.
Which means that after they've managed some brief, tense negotiations with Kun-Kun and company to talk further later, and after they've extracted everyone from what's left of the Regal Street Gaming Parlor, once they're back at the Bearings and out of things to do, Sam's at something of a loss.
It's still weird, the pain still lingering from Anakin's death. Sam never even talked to him, but the feeling of hurt, of something missing, is as clear as day. Somehow it hurts more than when he found the Watcher dead in his citadel - the death of someone he'd never properly met is sharper than the death of one of the first people who believed in him and one of the only people he could honestly, with no hesitation, call his friend.
That's uncomfortable as hell, if he's blunt about it. (And Sam usually is.) This hivemind stuff? Still a long way from being a thing he's used to.
And busy as he is with turning things over in his head - the discomfort, and the tragedy of what just happened, and the memory of another explosion and another tragedy that he can't help but compare it to - he hasn't really been doing much of anything else. He's claimed one end of a couch in the common room and is curled up with his knees pulled in to his chest, leaning against the armrest and looking tired as hell. He hasn't bothered to change, and he hasn't actually paid much attention to whether the blood on the leg of his pants is his or not.
He hasn't been adding much to the conversations, mental or spoken aloud. The longer the discussion continues, the farther down his head drops against the side of the couch.
He knows this is important stuff, but he's tired, okay? ]
iv
Which means that after they've managed some brief, tense negotiations with Kun-Kun and company to talk further later, and after they've extracted everyone from what's left of the Regal Street Gaming Parlor, once they're back at the Bearings and out of things to do, Sam's at something of a loss.
It's still weird, the pain still lingering from Anakin's death. Sam never even talked to him, but the feeling of hurt, of something missing, is as clear as day. Somehow it hurts more than when he found the Watcher dead in his citadel - the death of someone he'd never properly met is sharper than the death of one of the first people who believed in him and one of the only people he could honestly, with no hesitation, call his friend.
That's uncomfortable as hell, if he's blunt about it. (And Sam usually is.) This hivemind stuff? Still a long way from being a thing he's used to.
And busy as he is with turning things over in his head - the discomfort, and the tragedy of what just happened, and the memory of another explosion and another tragedy that he can't help but compare it to - he hasn't really been doing much of anything else. He's claimed one end of a couch in the common room and is curled up with his knees pulled in to his chest, leaning against the armrest and looking tired as hell. He hasn't bothered to change, and he hasn't actually paid much attention to whether the blood on the leg of his pants is his or not.
He hasn't been adding much to the conversations, mental or spoken aloud. The longer the discussion continues, the farther down his head drops against the side of the couch.
He knows this is important stuff, but he's tired, okay? ]