I wonder if he can taste the sadness (Ahsoka Tano & Anakin Skywalker & Rex)
Summary: Ahsoka motions for the younglings to stay behind what little cover she was able to provide as the door wheezes open. She pokes her head out just enough to see and— “Master!” she cries, leaping up. Anakin is at the door, his lightsaber in his hand but unlit. He looks mildly surprised to see her, but takes her hug without hesitation. “Thank the Force,” she breathes out. “We heard blasters and then Master Nu told us to hide. What’s happening?” In her embrace, Anakin is unmoved. She frowns, looking up at him. “Master?”
Warnings: major character death, lightsaber wounds, lots of children die but only one is shown, canon genocide, canon divergence but only to make it sadder Word Count: 1,826
Prompt:Angstpril Day 4 - Betrayal
Author’s Note: WOWWW why do I do this to myself lmfao. I was like ‘oh hey what if Ahsoka was in the Temple during Order 66 would that suck or what’ and then I. Wrote it. For some reason. I’m sick and twisted. Also, not to make you sadder or anything, but can you imagine Obi-Wan finding her body? Shit dude. Anyway, you might think Anakin wouldn’t go to the dark side if the whole Ahsoka thing hadn’t happened, but, like…he already murdered a village of Tuskens before the Clone Wars. I do not doubt that it would’ve happened somehow. I know this is super late but I wanna get all my Angstpril stuff written down no matter how late it is or else I’m gonna feel terrible about it. Title is from My Mother, My Mother by Luther Hughes. (Also, Jinnel, the Kiffar, and her future Master are my ocs. Zett is a canon character but he has barely any appearances so, uh, dibs.)
“Master Nu! I was just looking for you in the archives.”
Ahsoka bears a wide smile as the old Master of the archives turns to her. The young Padawan, though not so young now she thinks, bears a couple of datapads, old ones she’d borrowed before her last assignment.
“Ah, Padawan Tano. Apologies, but I’m a bit occupied at the moment.”
She gestures behind her, where a youngling Clan chatters excitedly. At the sight of Ahsoka, one Nautolan girl lights up and turns to her friend, whispering furiously.
Ahsoka smiles and waves a little, getting a few waves back. “Sorry, Master, I didn’t realise. I can come back later,” she offers.
“That’s quite alright.” Master Nu waves her off. “Just leave it on my desk, and I—”
She stops. Her gaze drifts to the far end of the hallway, but when Ahsoka follows it, she finds nothing there. She’s about to ask what’s wrong, but then she feels it, too: a roil of darkness and fear.
“What is that?” she whispers, unmoving.
The younglings finally notice, a long moment after their seniors, and begin speaking frantically.
“Is the Temple under attack?”
“What do we do, Master Nu?”
“What’s happening?”
“I have to go find my Master!”
With a raised hand, Master Nu silences them all. “Quiet.” Quickly glancing around, she spots a meditation room with an open door. “Quickly, into the meditation room. Padawan Tano, watch our backs.”
“Yes, Master.”
The younglings file into the room obediently, still whispering to one another. One girl, a young Kiffar, bursts into tears, so Ahsoka pulls her aside immediately.
“My Master left to go to the Senate Building,” the Initiate blubbers. “She doesn’t know we’re in danger! I have to find her!”
(She’s too young to have a Master, Ahsoka realises, and doesn’t have a Padawan braid. The Master must’ve found her on a Search and bonded with her.)
“See if you can contact her on your comm, but you need to stay here until we know what’s going on, okay?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t leave her!”
“I understand. My Master is out there somewhere, too,” Ahsoka tries to reassure. “But I can’t let you leave alone, either. As soon as it’s safe, we’ll go find her together.”
The Initiate wipes at her eyes and nods, following the rest of her clan into the meditation room. Ahsoka looks back to Master Nu, who is glancing down the hall with wide, horrified eyes. Something has pulled in the Force.
Someone skids to a stop around the corner.
It’s a young human boy, a Padawan that Ahsoka has seen trailing behind Master Drallig for the last few weeks. On his sleeve, a scorch mark has burned through the fabric to his skin: a blaster wound.
At the sight of Master Nu and Ahsoka, his face twists in relief and he runs toward them.
“Zett,” Master Nu breathes out, taking his arm as soon as he’s close. “What’s going on?”
Through panting breaths, he speaks the impossible. “The clones—the clones are killing us!” he cries. “They got Master Drallig and I can’t find the Council—”
“What?” Ahsoka questions fiercely. “What are you talking about?”
“I know you won’t believe me, but I really saw it! It’s the 501st, they have their armour and everything and they’re killing everybody—!”
Master Nu squeezes his uninjured shoulder. “Breathe, Padawan. I believe you.”
“What!?” Ahsoka turns on her. “They would never—!”
“It may be someone else in that armour, but you know he’s telling the truth, Ahsoka. You can feel it,” she says warningly. “Don’t let emotion cloud your instincts.”
She backs down, but her chest tightens. “Yes, Master,” she says quickly.
“How many of them are there?”
“All of them. Master Drallig—” Zett chokes on his name. “—he told me to go to the landing pad, to get out and find help.”
“I’ll go with you!”
Ahsoka jumps when the young Kiffar reappears, running up to Zett.
“I’m a good tracker,” she says quickly, “and I know where my Master’s going! We can find her!”
Zett looks to Master Nu at the same time she does, uncertainty in his bright eyes. The old archivist casts her gaze to the end of the hall, where the chaos is starting to get louder. With a deep breath, she kneels before the younglings, a hand on each of their shoulders.
“Do not stop, especially for anyone in clone armour. Don’t trust anyone you don’t recognise and whatever you do, do not return to the Temple until you are given the all-clear, do you understand?” When they both nod, she reaches for their hands and presses them together, letting Zett take the girl’s. Master Nu gives him a firm look. “Hold onto each other. Do not let go. This is not a game.”
“Yes, Master,” they say at the same time, equally shaky.
She stands. “Go.”
The pair run off, Zett tugging the Kiffar girl closer to him as they dash down the hall. Ahsoka watches them go, waiting until they’re around the corner to turn her attention back to Master Nu, who has apparently done the same. Before she can speak, the archivist puts a hand on her shoulder as well.
“Stay with the younglings. Lock the door behind you and defend them with your life,” she instructs.
The girl’s eyes widen. “What? You’re leaving?”
“If the Temple is being attacked, there are things I have to do,” is her grim reply. “No one can get their hands on the archives, Padawan, no one. I’ll come find you when I get the chance.”
If I get the chance. The thought is there, though unspoken.
Steeling herself, Ahsoka swallows roughly but nods. “Yes, Master.”
With a glance over the Padawan’s shoulder, Master Nu lowers her voice. “Above all, make sure they make it out.”
“May the Force be with you,” she says quietly, a hope more than a comfort.
Master Nu smiles, a little sad, a little proud. “It is always with us, Ahsoka. It is always with you. Be brave.”
Her words echo in the young Togruta’s mind even as she departs. When she finally pulls herself together, she rushes into the meditation room, counting heads and closing the door behind her. She enters a code to lock it down completely before turning back to her charges.
“I need you all to listen carefully and do exactly as I say, okay?”
There are scattered nods and ‘yes, Padawan Tano’s, so she gives out instructions.
They build barricades throughout the room, providing cover for themselves. Initiates with lightsabers pair up with those without and the latter group gets a few weapons from Ahsoka. Her clone troopers—the ones killing Jedi—gave her quite a few vibroblades and pocket blasters over the years and she’s kept them all. It’s more than a little useful right now, she thinks as she hands them to the younglings.
“Keep your heads down and trust in the Force,” Ahsoka orders, ducking behind a gathering of meditation chairs and tables with three Initiates. She places a hand on the shoulder of the youngest, a small Mirialan with teary eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”
Footsteps thunder from the hallway outside. The younglings fall silent in an instant, poised for battle.
Something catches in Ahsoka’s chest. They’re ready for this. They’re children and terrified but they’re ready for a fight. Is this what her Master used to feel when he looked at her, 14 standard and standing on the front lines? Like something was desperately wrong with this picture?
“The scanners indicate life forms in this room, sir.”
Ahsoka freezes.
Itsounds like a clone, though she can’t place who. Could Zett have been right? Are the clones—the 501st, of all battalions—turning against them? What in the Force would make them do that? Something here is horribly, horribly wrong.
There’s some beeping on the other side of the wall and someone out there must have the codes, because the door starts to slide open.
Ahsoka motions for the younglings to stay behind what little cover she was able to provide as the door wheezes open. She pokes her head out just enough to see and—
“Master!” she cries, leaping up.
Anakin is at the door, his lightsaber in his hand but unlit. He looks mildly surprised to see her, but takes her hug without hesitation.
“Thank the Force,” she breathes out. “We heard blasters and then Master Nu told us to hide. What’s happening?”
In her embrace, Anakin is unmoved.
She frowns, looking up at him. “Master?”
Light washes over her, the stark blue of his lightsaber being lit. She glances down to get a look at where he’s pointing it, what he could possibly be defending her from in a room of younglings. But then pain strikes her abdomen, squeezing her lungs. A choked gasp drags itself from her lips and she finally sees it.
The saber in her chest. Anakin’s saber in her chest.
A youngling screams and blaster fire echoes throughout the room, but Ahsoka can’t see what happens. She can’t even cry out for the Initiates she was meant to protect. All she can do is look back up at him.
His expression is blank, untouched by her apparent agony. He stares down at her with those yellow eyes—
Yellow eyes?
Her mouth falls open a little, her legs wobbling. She loses her balance, falling into him. And he catches her. There isn’t any sort of purpose to the movement, but he catches her.
He has yellow eyes.
Ahsoka thinks of Dooku, of his last moments spent glaring at her and her Master, those burning yellow eyes. She thinks of his red lightsaber fitting perfectly into Anakin’s hand and how nauseous she’d become at the sight.
“Anakin?”
It’s weak, hardly there. She doesn’t even know if he hears it.
And then she’s falling, falling to the floor. He drops her, lets her crumble underneath him, unable to hold herself up.
He walks away.
Breathing raggedly, Ahsoka wants to reach out, wants to grab the bottom of his robe before he can leave her. But her hands won’t cooperate, her entire body screaming at the scorched wound she bears.
The meditation room has fallen silent, leaving the troopers to follow after Anakin. They start to leave, but one notices she’s still breathing, still trying to move.
He lifts his blaster and she finally sees him.
“Rex,” she breathes out.
The jaig eyes on his helmet, carefully painted, give him away instantly. He lifts his pistols and she wants to cry. She doesn’t have the strength for even that. But she doesn’t need any strength to see that his hands are shaking. Ahsoka will never know what’s going on in his head, what’s driving him to lift his blasters in her direction. All she knows is that his hands are shaking.
“It’s okay, Rex,” she says, sounding far from it. “It’s okay.”
Summary:Ponds is wandering the halls of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, on his way to a meeting with his general, when he finds a crying youngling. He’s clutching his hands close to himself and Ponds abruptly remembers a mission with General Vos, who had an eerily similar reaction to a set of manacles. Ponds can’t help but kneel in front of the kid and offer him his pair of brand new gloves.
Translations:ad’ika - little one/little child (term of endearment), Jetii - Jedi (singular) Tags:Ponds & Cal Kestis, Mace Windu/Ponds, mentioned Obi-Wan Kenobi/Quinlan Vos, Cal Kestis, Ponds, Mace Windu, Youngling Cal Kestis Word Count: 1,247
Author’s Note: I’m not saying Cal becomes Mace’s Padawan in this AU but I did have Thoughts about it ajldksfj. Imagine babey!Cal being with Ponds when the bounty hunter shit happens and Boba has Emotions and between him and Cal somehow Ponds survives…god, it’s too tempting. Also!! Baby Caleb and Cal being friends because they’re family now??? And Depa being the best big sister??? God, I can’t think about it too much or else I’ll want to write more. Anyway, enjoy! I love Padawan & Clone Commander dynamics, they’re so soft. The title is from To A Rosebud by Eva A. Jessye.
*
The Temple is quiet. It shouldn’t be a surprise to Ponds now, with the number of visits to it he has under his belt.
Not many vode can say they frequent the Jedi Temple, though admittedly almost every single one can claim to have been to the crèche at least once, but he is one of the few. In fact, ever since he and Mace cleared up their feelings—long story—he practically lives there instead of the barracks. Mace spends every moment of his time on Coruscant that he can spare at home and, as always, where he goes, Ponds goes.
What is a surprise is the little sniffling noise he can hear from around the corner.
He stops, frowning as he listens. It sounds…like an upset tooka. Or a crying youngling, which would make a lot more sense.
(He has plenty of experience with vode breaking down, but younglings? Not so much. He has a bit, though, given that Mace tricked the whole of Lightning Squadron into getting kidnapped by a youngling clan on their last leave.)
Despite his lack of talent dealing with younglings, at least in his opinion, he knows that a crying kid shouldn’t be by themselves, so he turns the corner.
The kid is tiny. Ponds didn’t know much about how natborns age until Rex’s kid came along, but he can wager a guess that this one isn’t much older than 10 standard. He’s leaned up against the wall, clutching his shaking hands close to his chest as he sobs, body heaving with the effort. But what really catches the clone’s eye is that he’s being extremely careful not to touch anything, flinching when his fingers even get close to his robes.
Abruptly, Ponds is reminded of a recent mission with General Vos. He’d never seen a general break down like that, not until he got his hands on a battered pair of manacles and picked up the suffering of every person ever bound with them.
Ponds approaches the kid, unsurprised that he doesn’t even notice his footsteps or his presence until he’s kneeling in front of him.
The youngling jumps, a gasp slipping past his lips. “No—”
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, ad’ika,” Ponds murmurs, sitting criss-cross to look less threatening. “Can you hear me?”
His lip quivers as he nods. “Can’t see,” he sobs.
Without question, he goes to tug off his gloves, a brand new pair after a trek through a jungle ruined his last ones. “Psychometry, right?” he gets a hesitant nod again. “You have a comfort item?”
(Vos had one of Kenobi’s old robes. Cute. Cuter in that it won Ponds that betting pool.)
He shakes his head. “Left it. Stupid—”
“Not stupid, just forgetful,” Ponds says instantly.
He holds out his gloves, letting them skim his hands so he can feel it, seeing as his vision is overwhelmed right now. Vos always gets more feelings than visions, apparently, but Ponds did some research into the ability before working with him and found out that it isn’t uncommon. He grimaces. This kid must be going through hell right now.
“Here, they’re brand new. Only memory you might get is me smacking one of my sergeants over the head.”
The youngling laughs a little and Ponds smiles. Success, he thinks, like it’s some kind of mission to get him to smile. Well. It certainly wouldn’t hurt.
He helps him slip on the gloves, careful not to touch him. “Better?”
“Mhm,” he manages, shutting his eyes tightly and opening them again. “Sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. What’s your name, buddy?”
He rubs at his eyes and runs a hand through his fiery red hair, sniffling a little. “Cal, um, Initiate Cal Kestis.”
“I’m Ponds,” he introduces, holding out his hand for him to shake.
“Mast-Master Windu’s commander?” he asks, eyes wide.
He snorts. “One and only.” He sobers immediately. “I thought the quartermaster gave gloves to all Jedi with psychometry.”
“They do, but, um, I keep…losing mine,” he admits sheepishly. “I didn’t wanna ask for another pair ‘cause I’ve already had three in two months and—well. I don’t want them to be mad.”
Ponds tilts his head. “I get that. People are scary when they’re mad, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tell you what, have you ever heard of the ‘CO Loophole’?” he asks. When Cal scrunches his face up, he snickers. “It’s something my shinies named. When you can’t find something for hours and you go to tell your commanding officer about it, they find it in less than a minute.”
Cal smiles a little and Ponds counts it as another win. “The crèchemasters do that, too!”
“Everybody who looks after somebody else can do it, I think,” he declares. “How about we see if you and I can’t find those gloves. If we can’t, I’ll take you to the quartermaster myself.”
The kid brightens almost instantly, but his face falls a second after. “You-you’re not busy?”
“Eh, General Windu fell asleep at our last briefing, so I think he can live with me being late,” Ponds says with a shrug.
(He’s not late to a briefing with ‘General Windu.’ He’s late to a lunch date with Mace, but oh well. Mace really won’t mind, especially when he meets this kid. Ponds knows he’s a sucker for kids—though not so much the ones that can’t talk yet—and he’s used it to his advantage.)
“Really?” he asks, gawking.
“Really. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Ponds holds out a hand—a bare hand, now, but he can’t find it in him to notice. Cal takes it without hesitation, his red-rimmed eyes brighter than before. Something tightens in the clone commander’s chest, realising that the kid has no problem trusting him. He wonders offhandedly what might’ve happened if he hadn’t been here at this very moment.
“You’ll have to show me the way,” Ponds admits to the boy as he helps him up. “I’ve only been once.”
Cal nods, dusting himself off without letting go of his hand. “To see Hawkbat Clan, right?”
“Yeah,” he remarks, somewhat amused. He leads the way down the hall, slow and steady so that the little one can keep up. “How’d you know?”
“They still brag about it,” he huffs. “We got to see the Wolfpack, but they’ve visited, like, everybody. They’re the only ones who got to see your battalion, though, so…”
Ponds hums. He didn’t realise younglings were aware of how much he and the vode have visited. In fact, he wasn’t aware that visiting was such a big deal. He’s always known that it was good for the vode, what with how strikingly relaxingit is to hang out with younglings, but maybe it’s good for the Initiates, too.
“Why don’t we take a detour?” he finds himself suggesting. “I know a squadron that wouldn’t mind some time off.”
He can message Mace on the way, he decides.
Cal lights up like a sun. “Really?” he asks again.
Ohno. He’s adorable. Holy kark, this kid could make the Separatists surrender with his grin alone. Ponds is smiling like an idiot, too. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to adopt someone so much, even when picking out shinies for Lightning Squadron.
“Really,” he laughs. “But if Commander Wolffe ever comes back to your clan, you have to tell him we’re your favourites.”
“Deal!” the boy chimes immediately, swinging their intertwined hands a little.
Wolffe can find another shiny Jetii. This one is his.
Meanwhile, a couple of years ago maybe, in some run-down disreputable cantina near Mapuso, a young smuggler named Han Solo gave the woman across from him a wry look and said, “No dice.”
In her defence, she was doing a pretty good job. She was earnest, and persuasive, and if he’d been more naive, he might’ve bought it.
She also clearly didn’t belong in the fringe. She’d dressed the part, and she wasn’t overly furtive the way he’d seen other outsiders act, but she had too much idealism in her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because,” he said easily, “I ain’t stupid. I’m not getting involved in some crazy rescue op right under the Empire’s nose.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re a smuggler.”
“I don’t smuggle people.” His voice hardened as he said it, from habit as much as anything. Usually, smuggling people had a different meaning when people suggested it to him, and while he might be a criminal, he drew the line at slavery. But even this… so some people were being hunted by the Empire. It was the Empire. Mapuso itself was proof enough that it was better to stay as far away from Imperial operations as possible.
She was studying him, and he recognised the look in her eyes. Judgment, disappointment, and that fierce idealism that never failed to annoy him. She thought everyone should be “doing their part”, to stand up to injustice. Well, Han had grown up with injustice, and he’d learned that the only person he could rely on to look out for him was himself. It wasn’t his job to fight for anyone else. Sure, they were offering money, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Besides, he knew that this wouldn’t just be hauling cargo, sentient or otherwise. Sooner or later, the Imperials would tumble to the whole thing, and he’d get caught in the crossfire. And when it came right down to it, he knew, no one would worry overmuch about him. He was just the pilot.
“And I ain’t gonna get myself killed over some idealistic nonsense,” he went on. “You go right ahead. Maybe you’ll find someone else around here who’s dumb enough.”
Her gaze hardened, the idealism banked. It should have been a relief. It wasn’t. “Fine,” she said, and got to her feet. “Enjoy your drink.”
He lifted said drink in a sarcastic toast as she turned away.
He watched her approach someone else, sliding into the booth across from the guy, and had to admit that she had guts. Most people didn’t just join random fringe guys at their tables.
Then again, maybe she was just that stupid.
He shook his head in disgust as she launched into her spield. By the time he’d finished his drink, the guy across from her was actually listening, and to Han’s mild surprise, he looked… intrigued.
His stomach twisted, and he fought back the tiny tendril of guilt. It was a bad idea to get involved with do-gooder folks like that. It didn’t matter if someone else was doing it. He wasn’t going to put his life on the line for some strangers, even if they didneed help.
Across the cantina, the woman and the man shook hands, she looking relieved, he resolved.
Rolling his eyes, Han got to his feet, and walked away.
You stirred at a sound of rustling. It was a strange way of waking. For after so long, you were used to being stirred by wandering hands and the dimness of the light’s morning setting, that bathed your quarters in a soft yellow glow. It was a colder way of waking that left you wanting.
And at the sight of Obi Wan is shrugging on his first robes, it’s chill grew. Your chest grew heavy and tension gathered in your shoulders. Every weight you felt, that of the world, the galaxy, this situation, shifted with you as laid on your side to watch your lover leave.
“Is it time already?” Your words came out horse, riddled with the leftovers of sleep and haunted by the blissed-out ghost of your voice from the night before. Obi Wan already slipped his arms through the sleeves as you asked. When he pivoted his stance to face you, you caught a glimmer in his blue eyes.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Pity,” you murmured, turning to rest on your back and face the cold, lonely ceiling. “Felt like there were things we could continue.”
“For both our sakes, I don’t think we should.”
“Careful,” you warned, flicking your gaze back over to Obi Wan. “You’re starting to sound more and more like the collective Council.”
“There are rules, Y/N.”
You nodded bitterly and returned your eyes to the ceiling. The moment you did, you heard Obi Wan’s boot clomp against the floor of your room. It took your every ounce of willpower to keep from watching him as he walked out your door. You simply stayed still, listening for the hiss that would come with the opening entrance and his dulled footfalls.
When the sound of the door never sounded, you turned your head and saw him. Obi Wan stood at your bedside, paces away from the exit, paces away from leaving. He was yours, for a few seconds longer. You reached out a lazy hand in the hopes he would take, prove that he was truly yours. That he would stay.
“There are feelings too, Obi,” you countered softly. “Unless there isn’t?”
“No, there are,” he whispered. Obi Wan took your extended hand and a trembling breath slipped past your lips.
Almost as if he heard the shaking in your throat, he moved to sit on the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, incidentally letting you fall closer into his warmth. His bright blue eyes drank in your features and you were thrust back into similar mornings. Mornings of pillow talk and careful caresses before someone’s comm chimed, tore down the peace you built in the peaceful hours of dawn.
“Then we continue.”
“Then we continue,” he replied, but his lips faltered down into a frown. “But you must know that my allegiances to-”
“The Republic,” you interrupted, giving his hand a soft squeeze. You and Obi Wan had talked so many times about this before, what would happen if what you had fell apart. “As are mine, as are all the Jedi.”
“Yes, but my allegiances to you will endure, whether we continue or not. Know that.”
As he spoke, Obi Wan leaned in closer, until his face was tantalizing few inches from your own. His warmth both put you at ease and stole your breath away. When you felt it soak into the sheets of your bed and to your exposed skin beneath, you also became suddenly aware of how vulnerable you were. But as Obi Wan’s free hand moved to cup your face, you knew he would not exploit that fact; he would protect you, always.
“I know now,” you replied once you found your breath again.
A soft silence settled between you then. Obi Wan’s hands remained on you: his left gave yours a gentle squeeze while the right traced your jawline. He drew you in and pressed the lightest of kisses to the corner of your mouth. You smiled when Obi Wan pulled away before you tugged his lips back to yours. He relented, kissed you harder than the last time.
His beard tickled your chin and coaxed your smile to widen. You felt his own mouth mirror your expression. At the sensation, you titled your head back and studied Obi Wan’s expression. How rare it was to see him smile. You leaned back and savored the sight.
“I’ll see you at today’s meeting?” Obi Wan asked, his tone low in a whisper. You merely nodded in response and he leaned forwards once more, pressed yet another kiss to your forehead.
He stood up then, gave your hand a last squeeze, and headed towards the door of your chambers. Watching Obi Wan leave was never easy. Even in those slow mornings of wandering hands, you always felt a pang of loss when he walked away. But then, that morning, with the tingling feeling of his lips on your yours and your skin lingering, it was lessened.
Though, as always, Obi Wan left with a part of your heart in his.
An exploration of Rey’s unseen grief over Ben’s death at the end of TROS.
(feat. Force Ghost Ben and a happy ending.)
preview:
The moment he is gone she forgets how to grieve.
The first and only thing she feels is pain, sharp and unyielding, like she has been run through by a lightsaber right in the soft spot at the base of her neck.
The pain fades quickly and is replaced instead by a hollowness that spreads from the centre of her chest outwards; an implacable coldness that consumes her quickly. She feels her face ease from its tormented grimace into something that might have almost been considered serene if it didn’t feel so much like a brumal death from within. She exhales softly, a light breath released from lips that have gone numb.
Her hands dazedly pat the soft material of his tunic, still warm from his body, as though she has somehow just missed him. As though she’ll still make contact with a solid form underneath and within.
Instead, all she encounters is the scrabbled ground beneath the fabric. There is no warm, breathing, living man within. It is now just an overlay for the hard unyielding rock below.
Had it truly been just moments before that she had held him in her arms, legs spread across his, their chests touching?
Was it really only seconds prior where their lips had met, held and captured, his mouth moving against her own? The feel of his fevered breath expelling from his nose and hitting her cheek as they desperately, awkwardly tasted each other for the first time? His arms hefting her, holding her, crushing her to him?
Had it even really happened?
For a moment she wonders if maybe she is dead again.
Maybe she is still dead.
Maybe she was always dead?
The feeling is the same, after all. The feeling of being trapped in that horrid liminal space where she had screamed and screamed in isolated terror, her voice singular amongst the endless stars; that inky blackness symbolizing a blank eternity.
Her throat feels raw, raw like she is still screaming although her face does not move aside from the slow descent of her eyelids, blink after painful blink.
Her breath comes out in short bursts as she scrambles up on shaky legs. At the last second she reaches down and grasps the shirt still on the ground, crumpling it up and sticking it under her arm. Her feet feel like leaden weights, knees wobbling, the coldness in her chest beginning to feel like an icy burn.
I’ve had this idea in my head for a good long while, and now I’m finally getting the chance to write a one-shot for one of my favorite ladies, Rook Kast. Part Two
You were cleaning your blasters when the alarm rang. Cleaning your blasters was something that was ingrained into your morning routine. And if you weren’t cleaning them, you were shooting at targets at the range. Blasters were a central part of your life, and not just because you were a Mandalorian. They brought you a sense of joy you couldn’t describe. A lot of the soldiers in your unit, and even outside of your unit, come to you when there’s issues with their blasters, and you can find the root cause every time. You know every blaster model name, their maker, their parts and how they work. Your knowledge is endless, and you love looking into all of the new blasters being manufactured every year.
However, your life cannot revolve around blasters, and shooting them or working on fixing them. Sometimes, you need to do other things. Like eat. Or train. Or make it to role on time. Which now, looking at that alarm, made you realize you were going to be late.
Shitshitshityour thoughts race as you hurriedly put your armor together, holstering the blasters you were just cleaning, and rushing out the door. You jammed your helmet on your head as you ran through the palace’s halls to the third training room, where you were due to report for your Commander’s instructions.
You were only three minutes late, thank the Ka'ra. And even more luckily, Commander Kast only gives you a quick glance while giving today’s orders.
Haran, she’s beautiful. It was so easy for you to get lost in her eyes, blue as a clear morning day. As powerful as a raging river. You wished there was a way to get her attention, to notice you in a way that wasn’t just being late to role again, or how you still definitely need more work on hand-to-hand combat, but you would never admit it because it’s embarrassing and you know you should be better, and she probably despises you for being so bad at it–
“Private L/N,” Commander Kast called your name sharply, “please stay behind, I would like to have a wordwith you.”
Your back straightened, the automatic “yes, commander” slipping out. Your anxious thoughts made you zone out, like usual, and you missed what her instructions for the unit were. Haar'chak.
As your fellow soldiers left the room, overwhelming panic ambushed your mind, filling it with what ifs and reminders of how terrible of a soldier you were, how she must hate you and that you were a horrible Mandalorian and that you weren’t worthy to even be a part of the Supercommandos.
Before Commander Kast could condemn you, words began falling out of your mouth as you took off your helmet, “Commander, I am so so sorry for being late today, I got distracted cleaning my blasters and I didn’t realize the time. I promise I’ll get better with keeping track of time, it’s still something I’ve been working on since I was a youngling, and–”
“Slow down Y/n,” Commander Kast touched your shoulder, “That’s not what I was going to talk about. I was going to ask why I haven’t seen you in the combat training room during the hours I assigned your squad there.”
Your breath hitched slightly, and you chuckled, rubbing your neck. “I… well, I was at the shooting range practicing with my new SHEVLA-22. It’s such a good rifle, the name fits really well. It could definitely be used for stealth missions if Lord Maul has CC mass produce them for The Collective…”
You stopped. You closed your eyes, cringing at how fast a sentence can turn into a ramble. Commander Kast doesn’t care about your affinity for blasters, you were blatantly caught not following orders. Opening your eyes again, you catch a small smirk on her definitely soft lips. Today, they were sunset colored, that’s the best way you could describe them. It looked like the color of the sky during a Mandalorian sunset. Stunning and regal, just like her.
“You know, you’re pretty cute when you ramble like that, sen'ika.”
If your face didn’t feel hot before, it was steaming now. You had to resist the urge to drop your helmet on the floor and cover your face with your hands. She called you cute, oh Ka'ra she called you cute. It’s over. You could get shot through your beskar and die right now and you would die happy. And sen'ika? Little Bird? You were right about to explode in this strange feeling of excitement, anxiety, and embarrassment.
“T-thank you, Commander,” you hardly managed to stutter out. You looked away from her, trying to regain any sense of control on your wildly beating heart.
But before your body could even relax, a gloved hand captured your chin. Commander Kast was still wearing that smirk on her lips, and you had to convince yourself that wasn’t a hint of lust in her stunning eyes. There was no way…
“You look at me when I speak to you. Is that understood, sen'ika?”
Your breath hitched, “Yes, Commander.”
She grinned at you, “Good girl, now put down your helmet and get on your knees for me.”
Your eyes widened and your body shivered. And without question, you followed her orders to the T.
“Good girl,” she repeated once you were kneeling at her feet. You shivered again. Those words slipping from her lips was your salvation. Commander Kast placed her helmet down next to yours. There was no doubt that there was lust sparkling in those icy eyes, and your heart was ready to burst out of your chest. This is real.She sees you.She wants you like how you want her.
“I wonder,” she thought aloud, cupping your face in her gloved hand, the rough bantha-leather caressing your cheeks grounding you to reality. “Why it is that you listen to me so eagerly now, sen'ika?”
Your face heats in embarrassment as she continues. “Is it because we’re alone, hm? Just the two of us in this grand room, no one to interrupt your longing?” she gives you a fond smile, “Oh, I see how you look at me Y/n, even with that helmet on your head, I see you.”
“I-I’m sorry Commander–” you could hardly get out any kind of coherent apology before a leather thumb slid into your mouth, silencing you.
“Hush,” she chides you as your eyes widen, “No apologizing. You are safe with me, sen’ika.”
You melt into her touch, “Thank you, Commander,” you whisper against her thumb.
“Good girl,” she removes her thumb from your mouth, “Unfortunately, I have a meeting with Lord Maul in fifteen minutes. Stand up.”
You rose to your feet. She turned away from you to grab her helmet, “Go to the training room and meet up with your unit, is that understood Y/n?”
“Yes Commander,” you stood straighter, your face set in your soldier gaze. Stern. Emotionless.
Which quickly broke when a set of lips met with yours. Your eyes were wide then closed and embraced the kiss. They were soft, just like you imagined they were.
“Come to my quarters at oh-four hundred, understood?” she ordered in a low rumble that made you feel hot in all the right places.
“Yes Commander,” you replied, breathless.
She smiled, cupping your face briefly before putting on her helmet once again and turned to leave the room. She halted right at the door, turning back around, “You can call me Rook, when it’s just the two of us, Y/n.”
You smiled, “Okay, Rook. Have a good day and see you later.”
You imagined she was smiling under her helmet as she nodded silently and exited the room, leaving you in a blissful stun. After a moment or two of just standing there like a decommissioned droid, your brain finally rebooted, and you grabbed your helmet and sprinted towards the training gym. Hopefully you won’t get too caught up in daydreaming. Oh-four hundred can’t come fast enough.
Cad Bane will do anything for a price—including going undercover at a high society party. Easy credits, and everything is going well, until an alien with eerily similar colouring begins relentlessly poking holes into his cover.
That’s it folks! We’ve done it! @spicedrobot and I have combined forces to bring the best two blue men in Star Wars history together!! I wrote the first chapter, which is gen, and En is taking the wheel for the second chapter taking us to smutland!!
My friends, this is peak Rarepair. We’re literally opening the tag for them. There will be fanart. There will be obnoxious art nerd Thrawn and flustered undercover Cad Bane. There will be blue on blue action! Come and get some!!!
