#corellia’s still a very fresh scar

[inyri]

Not sure if the prompt list you reblogged was a request for prompts but if yes, consider "❛ let’s just stay here. grow old. ❜ for someone else but Nine and Theorn and/or ❛ i didn’t ask to get made. ❜ for a character of your choice.

(As requested, this is not Nine and Theron.

SWTOR. Nine and Hunter, at the end of it all. TW: violence and its aftermath.)

“That’s probably going to scar.” Hunter looks up at her, shakes her- her, even half-dead there was always one more way to fuck with her, wasn’t there?- head with a crooked half-smile. “They’ll take it away, though, won’t they? They always do.”

Blood streams down her cheek and pools at the corner of her mouth. It’d been a lucky shot, Hunter’s knife swinging wide when she’d blocked a strike that might otherwise have hit a gap between armor plates; it’d been even luckier that it missed her eye. That would have figured. The others always noticed, before, when the cuts reached her face. “I might keep it. I’m tired of having things taken from me.”

“You and me both, Cipher Nine.” She can hear the wheeze buried in Hunter’s laugh. That last hit got her lung after all, then. Good. “You and me both.”

She licks her lips, then spits onto the floor. Their blood’s all over the room already- what’s a little more? 

(Hunter had dreamed about it, she’d said, dreamed about tearing each other apart.   

She’d dreamed of it too: every shot, every slash, every fistfall a box ticked off a list that went all the way back to Nar Shaddaa, to Taris and Hoth and Quesh, every pull at her leash and every notch her collar tightened and every time, every time, every time-

Let it go, the Minister had said. Let it go, Cipher. You’re free now.

She still dreams of Hunter. Perhaps she always will.)

“We could just stay here, you know. You and me. Patch each other up. Keep the codex.” Hunter’s leaning forward now, braced on her hands, lips blueing with every word. “Grow old. They took everything from us. We deserve to win just once, don’t we?”

There’s a kolto syringe in her belt pouch. She could-

Nine’s hand spasms, fingers splayed wide and disobedient as her nerves misfire, and she thinks of Corellia, of the burns and the breaks and the shocks and her screams and of Hunter’s voice in her ear, and she lets her arm drop to her side and does not answer.

“Tell me one thing, then.” Her eyes are the same as she remembers. “Your name. The name your parents called you, the name they took from you- oh, come on-” another cough, this one bloody, veins cording in her neck. “Who’m I going to tell? I just- I just want to know.” 

She sheathes her blade, rubs at her cheek with the back of her hand. Her arm’s bleeding too, and her lower back and her right thigh, but that will keep until they get back to the ship. “My name is Cipher Nine. What’s taken is gone. That girl no longer exists.”

“Me, too,” Hunter whispers. “Me, too. You and me, Cipher. We played the game right.”

“Don’t ever-” with the pistol barrel pressed against her forehead the shot barely echoes, and Hunter’s last gasping breath goes out of her as Nine whispers back- “compare yourself to me.”

[stillsolo]

SENSES & OTHER SPECIFIC HEADCANONS.

MUSE: han ‘jonash e.’ solo although i normally like to separate my headcanons by verses (modern/sw), i think i’ll just go with sw for consistency this time.

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE?

more often than not, the smell of burnt exhaust fumes and the distinct, somewhat pungent aroma of engine oil clings to han like a second skin.  if he’s been elbows-deep in some serious repairs or upgrades for the ’falcon, there’s the lingering tang of sweat mingling in.  han is a very practical man, loads more rugged than he is refined, so he isn’t big on fancy or fragrant scents.  when he’s scrubbed clean and free of grease and sweat, he smells of fresh linen or the no-nonsense scent of utilitarian detergent.  if his clothes have gone through the sonic, he’s devoid of any scent altogether. on the rare occasion han bothers with any fragrance, it’s likely a simple cologne—nothing too overpowering or difficult to come by.  i can easily see him stumbling upon a cologne in his late teens and sticking with that same scent over the years.  something subtle, like sweet corellian / kashyyykian sandalwood, sounds about right.

WHAT DO YOUR MUSE’S HANDS FEEL LIKE?

han’s hands are rough and weathered, thickened by layers of calluses and scar tissue.  his nails are dense, mostly blunted by frequent clipping, though sometimes sharpened by chipped corners and, depending on if he’s been working on repairs, darkened by engine grease stains. 

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY EAT IN A DAY?

han spends the majority of his time traveling through space.  because the ’falcon isn’t a luxury starship—though i’m sure han would fight me on that—food comes in only so many options.  han is the type of guy to enjoy hearty meals, mainly traditional corellian cuisine, the sort of stuff dewlanna would make for him before she died.  however, the space-fairing life doesn’t provide such a thing, not unless you have some kinda ultra-expensive, fancy food synth / replicator—which he doesn’t lol.  he hates the taste of artificial crap, so he keeps ample stock of your standard pre-packaged and dehydrated food rations onboard the ’falcon.  it’s nothing fancy, just portioned rations designed to provide the necessary nutrients for a human and wookiee to survive, as well as some extras for emergencies.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE A GOOD SINGING VOICE?

he isn’t terrible, nor is he a natural-born singer.  han probably never sings unless encouraged while drunk as hell, or it’s for his children.  since this is a boring answer imo, i’ll briefly mention the au in which he grew up with two sisters instead, because it features a snippet about singing i wrote in 2016 that still stands: as a child, han grew up in an incredibly traditional corellian household and learned to play the drums.  during family gatherings, they would sing old corellian legends.  han was ushered up to sing often.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY BAD HABITS OR NERVOUS TICS?  

i’ve had to elaborate on han’s past pretty much every time i’ve plotted with someone new this year, so i’m just gonna skim over his background real quick.  don’t worry, it’s relevant to the question!

born on corellia, han solo’s early years were marked by abandonment, hardship, and virtually no recollection of how he survived.  garrus shrike, a pirate and certified shitty bastard, scooped han up off the streets and raised him to be a pickpocket, skilled con artist, and professional swoop racer etc.  throughout his childhood and well into his teens, han was emotionally manipulated, physically / emotionally abused, and nearly beaten to death by shrike on multiple occasions. in such dire circumstances, solo had to master social engineering very early on, not only to aid in shrike’s shitty schemes to scam people of credits, but also as a means to survive.  he learned how to talk sweet and take hits on the chin without flinching.  doesn’t mean he’s tolerant of when it happens, but it goes to show he’s a better sport than you would think.  to be frank, if not rather depressing, han’s ability to control himself and his emotions, including his ‘nervous tics’, hinges on both his age and the era in which you encounter him, as these factors shape the extent of his trauma. TLDR ANSWER: while not explicitly labeled as nervous tics, han’s repertoire of behaviors in tense situations falls within a distinct pattern: the flippant wave of a dismissive hand, a frantic scrubbing at his face to evade eye contact, a sudden urge to get up and pace the room, or strained laughter that punctuates an awkward silence.  rare is the accidental stammer, but it’s a good sign he’s really slipped into a dither.  the abrupt shift to dark looks, marked by crooked grins, could be a fight-or-flight response. eventually, it devolves: his jaw clenches, his chin juts forward in defiance; his fingers twitch near the grip of his blaster, and he resorts to issuing unexpected ultimatums to steer the situation back in his favor—or to circumvent it altogether.

this might seem strange, but with han, nervous tics often twine with anger.  at least, that’s the impression many might get at first glance. given his entire upbringing and the years he spent under the tyrannical thumb of an emotionally and physically abusive parental figure, han has a serious problem with authority and control. for him, the boundary between nervousness and anger is razor-thin. losing control is akin to pulling the rug out from under him.  whether triggered by positive or negative stimuli, han doesn’t handle that well, not even as an adult, as losing control equates to vulnerability, and in the harsh world han has come to know, that’s what gets you killed.  love and violence are instinctive reactions to vulnerability, and for han, violence often wins out. that is until someone lovely comes by to soften his heart, of course. p:

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY LOOK LIKE/WEAR?

decked out in your usual spacer’s gear, but with han’s personal touch! han prefers at least two layers crafted from thin yet durable materials, ensuring versatility in varying weather conditions while remaining lightweight and flexible, should he ever need to book a hasty retreat ( trial and error, trial and error ).  although han didn’t exactly enjoy his time as an imperial lieutenant, he is deeply prideful of his achievements and corellian heritage, which is why you won’t ever see him running with trousers that don’t feature a corellian blood-stripe running up the sides.  a gunbelt is also a necessity; he never sets foot off the ’falcon without one strapped to his waist, blaster and all.  and last but certainly not least, a sturdy pair of boots!

IS YOUR MUSE AFFECTIONATE? HOW MUCH? HOW SO?

bit of a broad question, ain’t it? don’t even know where to begin.  han is a multifaceted person.  he has layers—like an onion.  distinguishing between platonic and romantic affection is a task in itself, and han isn’t one to readily display any form of affection. generally speaking, han is a prickly thing.  he’s got a huge soft side, and he’s actually quite compassionate and understanding, but showing that side of himself must be done on his own terms, or he’d sooner eat his whole hand than allow others to see that.  yes, he’s quite the self-sabotaging little gremlin.  he is your definition of awkwardly affectionate until he’s learned to lower his guard, which has its own set of hurdles…

WHAT POSITION DOES YOUR MUSE SLEEP IN?

bold of you to assume han sleeps at all. han is a man of perpetual motion, his thoughts racing ahead to the next task even as he tackles the present one.  whether it’s contemplating the aftermath of his current endeavor, anticipating chewie’s return with a vital component, or planning out his next ship upgrade, han’s life as a smuggler has kept him on the go.  in a galaxy like star wars, danger lurks around every corner, especially in his chosen profession.   old habits die hard. when he sleeps, it’s anywhere and with one eye open.  he might say it casually, but it’s an ingrained rule he lives by: sleep with one eye open.  one eye open, ’n a loaded blaster at your side.

COULD YOU HEAR YOUR MUSE IN THE HALLWAY FROM ANOTHER ROOM?

omg lmao have you met this man? han’s great at hollerin’ from the top of his lungs, lemme tell ya.  when han’s got something to say, he’ll make sure every man, woman, enby / alien in the building hears him loud and clear lmao but in all seriousness, it depends.  is there an imperative need for him to keep his volume under control? is he engaged in a contentious exchange? or does someone else want him to keep his voice down? y’know, he might just start yelling if it’s the latter. 

tagged by: @kingofthewebxxx thank you for thinking of me!! xo

tagging: @techniiciian, @sgterso @misfittcd ( luke! ), @alootus, @debelltio, @tapalslegacy @vibraea @devoutgun @duelfated (luke!), and you if you wanna do this! thanks for reading this hot mess!!

[queen-scribbles]

Occupational Hazard

Here we go, the Ody/Chance fic that started as an angst fill before it ran away with me big time. ~3k, immediately post-Agent story. ---

It was easier to infiltrate Coruscant than she'd anticipated.

A simple slice of the customs terminal and the infamous Cipher Nine was walking out of the spaceport long before her shuttle's engines cooled. She wasn't sure if that was a credit to her skill or a demerit against Coruscant security. That ease, however, was balanced out by the difficulty tracking down who she sought.

Despite the difficulty--and multiple databases she had to crack--she did eventually find herself in the correct wing of the correct hospital, rapping lightly on the doorframe of a dimly-lit room. "Hello, Chance."

It took a moment for him to react, clearly not expecting a visitor at this point in the day. "Legate." He frowned, cocking his head. "What happened to you?"

"A lot," she said reflexively, perhaps a touch bitter before it sank in what precisely he meant. "But this was Corellia." She raised a hand to trace the fresh scars around her left eye, half-shaded by her hair. "Tortured for information by a secret society I was working to topple."

"Did you?" he asked after a beat.

"I did, yes." But she didn't want to talk about Hunter now, that wasn't her purpose here. She shifted. "May I come in?"

He started, then nodded, wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck. "They borrowed my chair for someone with visitors and I haven't gotten it back yet..."

"It's alright," she assured him, crossing to sit on the edge of the bed Up close she could see the haggard traces remaining on his face, though those wounds had healed. "I don't mind. How are you doing?"

He shrugged stiffly. "Better, but nowhere near ready to leave yet. At least there's less oversight here in long-term rehab, so I'm not getting poked every couple of hours. They mostly leave us alone except for meals or if we need something." He fiddled with the bio-monitor cuff on his wrist. "Legate, I-"

"Odessa," she interrupted. "My name. Odessa Isric. We should start off honest this time, hm?"

His ears were pink as he nodded. "I'd like that." He met her eye. "Sollen Rieves."

She'd learned that from tracking him down, but didn't point it out, simply smiled. "Nice to meet you, and I have to admit... that both fits what I expected and doesn't." A sheepish laugh. "If that makes sense."

"It's a good spy name, but I'm not a very good spy?" Chance--Sollen--said wryly.

His tone made her think it was a sentiment he'd heard--or overheard--but Odessa shook her head. "I'm not saying that." She studied him a moment. "And I can't imagine you had much time as an agent for someone to make that assessment."

"You aren't wrong," he muttered, wincing as he attempted shifting to a more comfortable position in the bed.

She gave him a moment to settle, musing on her own thoughts. Briefly as they'd worked together, she'd noted both his openness and kindness as things that wouldn't last long in the espionage business. Either they'd burn out or he would. But Taris had made that a moot point, by all evidence.

"Sorry," he mumbled, finally finding something that worked.

"No need to apologize," Odessa said with a small shake of her head. "You're still recovering."

"Which is going slower than some would like," Sollen said. "But a lot of the damage was internal, so there was only so much kolto could do. They're just antsy to see if they can send me back into the field or need to stick me somewhere else." He shook his head and cleared his throat. "But, anyway, what're you doing here, and" --he glanced out to the hallway, lowered his voice--"why don't you sound Imperial?"

She chuckled. "It can be called for, in this line of work, to carry or drop any number of accents at a moment's need. Including my native one." A small smile. "I can do a Mantellian farmer's twang, if you want an example...?"

Sollen laughed. "No, I believe you."

"I thought it best to not sound Kaasian on the Republic homeworld. As to the first part of your query... I didn't want to wait until you're out for that drink." Odessa started to reach into her jacket pocket, then paused, glancing at the bio-monitor screen embedded the wall nearby. "So long as you're not taking anything that would make that a bad idea?"

"Nothing that strong," he promised with a shake of his head. "Not anymore. Even if I was... it was the company I was looking forward to more than the drink."

"As was I," she said with a smile, slipping out the flask of Alderaanian honey brandy. "But this is very good."

He reached for the water cup on the bedside table, drank the little that remained, and held it out. "So we don't have to keep passing back and forth."

"Smart." She pour a little of the honey-shaded liquor into the cup. "To fruitful conversation, and a speedy recovery for you."

Sollen exhaled a wry laugh. "The second part'll take some kind of miracle, but thanks." He tapped the cup against her flask and they took a drink.

There was enough alcohol bite to make them both clear their throats, but the honeyed aftertaste came in quickly to soothe the tingling burn.

"That is very good." He looked down into the cup, then at her. "Expensive good. I didn't realize Intelligence paid their operatives that well."

"They don't," Odessa said with a small laugh. She swirled the brandy still in the flask as she debated how much detail to go into. "It was a gift. From an Alderaanian baron. His house was point of contact for a mission I had there, not long before being assigned to Kothe's team, actually. In the course of my mission, I... handled some things for the house that made him feel parting gifts were appropriate."

She didn't mention those things had involved unmasking his wife as funding terrorism or preventing a killik hive from absorbing the estate. Or that she hadn't reported the gifts to Imperial Intelligence.

"Ah, so they're bonuses," Sollen chuckled, taking another sip.

"You could call them that," she nodded with a smile as she followed his example. "I've done my best to savor them, but this seemed a worthy occasion."

"I'm honored." His smile faded and he looked down again, scratching at the rim of the cup. "About your assignment with us... Le- Odessa, I wanted to apologize-"

She knew where this was going, and was shaking her head before he finished.

"-for Taris. I should have..." The words trailed off as he looked up and caught her.

"There's no need," Odessa said softly, her own gaze drifting to the window.

"Yes, there is!" He frowned, tone rife with disbelief and indignance on her behalf. "It doesn't matter how scared I was, or how badly I didn't want to die, I shouldn't have done it. I should have trusted-"

"-that an alleged enemy defector you'd worked with for a few days would have your best interest at heart?" she finished dryly.

"You patched me up without needing the keyword, saved my life, so clearly it would have been the right call," he countered.

"But you didn't know that." Trusting people that much in spycraft would get you killed. "I'm not saying it was pleasant, but I understand."

"It's not really about what you would or wouldn't have done without the keyword," he said with a sigh. "It was wrong, and I knew it, and I did it anyway because I was scared. I'm..." He met her gaze, held it. "I'm very sorry, Odessa."

She had to admit, it made something in her chest warm beyond what brandy could accomplish to hear an apology, no matter how unnecessary. More so that he'd attached her name. Enough she had to look away for a moment. "I appreciate and accept that, and you're forgiven."

"Just like that?" He still seemed uneasy.

"Mm. Chance," she very deliberately didn't correct using his code name, "were I in Ardun's position; defector dropped in my lap right when I needed on, foolproof way to make sure this wasn't a trap or otherwise too good to be true, I can't say I would've chosen any differently than he did."

Sollen's grip tightened around the cup. "Really? Even knowing...?"

Odessa took a deep breath and nodded. "It's an occupational hazard for spies," she said softly. "We have to make hard calls, do unpleasant things, to accomplish goals for the greater good, and hope it's worth it."

Sometimes the greater good decides to stab you in the back for doing your job too well.

"I see where you're coming from," he said slowly, "but I don't know if I agree. Once you stop caring about the cost to individual people, or your cause starts demanding you stop caring, I think it stops being the greater good."

She chuckled and tapped the flask against the side of his cup. "Maybe you are too soft hearted for this business," she teased, taking another sip of brandy. "Maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe..." she sucked her teeth. "...maybe I wish I was more like that. More like you."

The rueful smile and eyeroll at her teasing devolved into a blush and a rather bashful expression by the end. "Maybe it's not too late for you. And... maybe it's irrelevant for me."

Odessa frowned, nails tapping lightly against the metal flask. That was the second allusion like that he'd made. "Irrelevant? Were your injuries that extensive?" He had lost a lot of blood by the time she patched him up in the half-wrecked hospital hall. But he'd gotten to a medevac under his own power and she'd thought...

Sollen nodded, setting down the cup. "I can show you...?" He waited for her faint nod of confirmation before tugging up the hem of his shirt. "This is after two surgeries, three times in a kolto bath, and my first month of rehab."

Medseal wrapped from his hip to just over halfway up his chest, and pocked scars showed higher up, healed as kolto could get them. For it to still be this significant after a year... She winced.

"Granted, the actual injuries only come about here" --he tapped a finger just shy of his navel-- "but it was awkward to keep just that covered, synthskin kept peeling, so they opted to fully wrap. Goes halfway down to my knee, too," he said, letting the shirt fall. "They had to take part of a couple ribs, thanks to how they broke, fix a bunch of internal damage, and they thought they'd have to take the leg, at first. Obviously they didn't, but..." He sighed. "Safe to say my future as a field agent still looks real fuzzy right now."

Odessa nodded sympathetically. "Mm. And... how do you feel about that?"

"Ask me again after another month of rehab," he said with a sheepish chuckle. "Once I know if walking is something I can mange on my own. That'll definitely clear things up. Not sure right now." He picked the cup up and took another drink.

"If you're not... enthusiastic about returning to field work, maybe it's not a bad idea to take other options under consideration," she said.

Sollen nodded absently. "The possibility of a desk job's been tossed around. Analyst or handler." He wrinkled his nose. "Not sure how I feel about that, either. Getting to know someone, multiple someones, and having to not just send them into but watch them deal with dangerous and stressful situations... don't know if I could do it. That might be worse than doing it myself." He gestured to the scarring that ran down the left side of her face. "How'd your handler feel about that?"

"Regretful, but what we were doing was important," Odessa said with a shrug. "And it's part of the job."

"Part of the job..." he muttered. "Well, I have a few months of medical leave to work our if it's a part I want to--or have to--deal with anymore."

"Best of luck with that." She rested a hand on his shin and gave a light, supportive squeeze.

"Thanks," he said wryly, finishing off the brandy. She held up the flask to offer more and he shook his head. "That's enough about me, though. What have you been up to? Aside from toppling secret societies, I guess."

"First of all, I came looking to talk about you," Odessa corrected. "To find out how you were doing, I was worried after Taris. Second, given how entrenched and widespread it was, toppling the secret society has been a bit all-consuming..."

She ran through the story, with most of the details, all the way from Isen Four and Belsavis through the Cabal's ship and her final confrontation with Hunter.

And accepting Ardun's offer to be a double agent. For real this time.

"So... you're working for us?" Sollen asked when she was done, voice pitched low as if to keep secret, but hopeful nonetheless.

"Mm-hm." Odessa picked at the side of her thumb. "I don't know how close to the chest Ardun plays his cards for... sources like me, so it may be that only he, you, and I know my new allegiance."

"Lips sealed, I promise. I know how it works." He smiled. "Thank you for trusting me. If I can ask... what made you accept?"

"I followed orders I didn't entirely agree with, did... things to protect the Empire that were those hard calls I mentioned, almost got myself killed to keep it safe." She sighed. "And my reward for doing my job so well was having my will shackled. Bound to obey whatever they said, because I dared defy a Sith, even one bent on destroying the Empire he was supposed to help lead. I gave everything and was still no more than a tool to them, to rewire as they saw fit." She winced at his expression. Had that much of her hurt bled through? "Sorry."

"It's alright." He studied her face, searching for something. "So what made the Republic seem any better? Kothe and I used the keyword and took advantage of the brainwashing, wouldn't that make us just as bad?"

He would make a good analyst. Examining information for method, not just the end result. "You aren't the ones who did it to me, put an override chip in my brain. You only used it because you were seriously injured and scared" --she reached toward his injured side, stopping before she made contact-- "which makes people do things they normally wouldn't, and Ardun..." She bit her lip. "Ardun was protecting his people. The Sith who ordered it done were protecting their power."

Once she'd started really thinking about that, it never failed to bring a thin smile to her lips. The all-powerful, fearsome Sith so afraid of a single Cipher agent that they shattered her loyalty with the very action meant to guarantee it. It was almost poetic.

"That makes it better?" Sollen asked skeptically.

She shrugged. "Between people and power, I'm far more on board with protecting the former."

"Then maybe you aren't as jaded as you think you are," he said, lightly nudging her hip with his knee.

"That would be nice." Odessa tipped up the flask to empty the last dregs. I have too many ghosts for it to be true, but it would be nice...

He frowned. "If the Empire thinks you're loyal, won't it raise suspicion that you're on Coruscant?"

"Perhaps." She tucked the empty flask back in her pocket. "Imperial Intelligence was dissolved, so I'm not officially an agent. And they think I have the Black Codex from the Star Cabal, thanks to a few... strategically phrased half-truths. No telling where leads from that might take me."

"But if it puts you under scrutiny..." There was worry in his eyes, for her, and it made her heart clench.

"I work well under scrutiny," she promised. "Part of what made me a good fit for Intelligence in the first place was my natural charisma and working well under pressure. My assignment with your team, for example. Even under such scrutiny Ardun used my keyword--and he wasn't wrong to do that, Sollen, Intelligence sent me to stop him--I could have taken down nearly the entire team. Left you to die on Taris, killed Saber, Wheel, Ardun himself, and brought his plan crashing down around his corpse. I was supposed to, that was my assignment, and the only reason I didn't is I didn't want to." A sharp, brittle laugh. "Call it my first act of rebellion after getting free of the... mental restraints."

He stared at her a moment, then chuckled. "You're a little bit terrifying, 'Dessa, and I'm glad your on our side now, even if you weren't then."

"Well, thank you." She hummed a wry laugh, smiling at Dessa. She didn't think he realized he'd done that. She liked it. "I've never liked to kill anyway, unless I have to, and in that case it seemed a good way to start pushing back. Besides," Odessa caught his eye and gave a meaningful smile, "I liked you, most of you. Some more than others."

That blush was back, climbing his neck and ears. "Thanks. We liked you, too... Some more than others."

He was starting to look tired, and she'd pushed this visit longer than was likely prudent regardless, but she wasn't going to pass up an opening like that. "Maybe we should do something about that some more than others?"

Sollen's brows arched, a smile starting to curve his lips before shifting to mild concern. "Do you think it's a good idea? Could get complicated."

"Oh, it will undoubtedly get complicated," Odessa said wryly. Just logistically speaking, with you stuck here... "And I have no idea if it's a good idea, but I want to do it anyway, so long as you do."

He let the smile bloom. "Oh, I do. I'd like to see where this goes." He reached out to tentatively brush his fingers against the side of her hand. "Whatever that means, far as making it work."

"I suspect a lot of me visiting you when I can," she said with a smile, catching his hand before he withdrew and giving a squeeze. "Since it seems your ability to travel will be inhibited for... a while."

He snorted. "Considering I can barely manage to hobble a lap of the room right now, I think 'a while' is being generous. Or politely vague." He squeezed her hand back. "It'll give me something to look forward to."

Odessa nodded, heart pounding. "For now, though, I should probably go. Let you rest and not push my luck."

"Can't deny I need it," Sollen let go of her hand with a reluctant sigh, then smiled. "Thanks for the drink."

She chuckled, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "You're welcome."

"Next time I'm buying," he said as she headed for the door.

"I'll hold you to that," she said warmly, and slipped from the room, out of the hospital, back to her shuttle. It wasn't until she was strapped in and running preflight that Odessa's smile fully bloomed.

The promise of there being a next time was something she would look forward to as well.

[capricornus-rex]

Part 2 of the Cal Kestis one-shot fic/imagine

Read Part 1 here

Masterlist

This is the 2nd and last half of the story now. Thank you for stopping to read it and liking it! I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this 2nd one as you did in the 1st. :)

Hours have passed, the storm has calmed—the Imperials have been overrun by the partisans and the freed Wookiees. Everyone celebrated the fresh victory, including you and Cal. You two retreat to the landing pad where the Mantis is docked, Cal eagerly grabs you by the hand and brings you into the ship.

You look around and this is your first time seeing a ship with indoor plants—makes you feel cozy. Now that both of you have kept your promises to come back to each other in one piece after the fighting is over, you two settle in the sofa and began catching up.

“So…” Cal awkwardly begins.

You say in unison, “Where have you been all this time?” and then you both chuckle. Cal was the first to answer.

“Well, I was in Bracca. I worked as a scrapper there for a while now, until the Inquisitors arrived, killed a friend of mine in Bracca, and then Cere and Greez saved me from the Second Sister, an Inquisitor.”

There was a pause, he reflected on everything that has happened ever since then; he looks at you tenderly and lets out a dry chuckle.

He added, “So what have you been up to these days? Where were you after the Purge?”

“Nothing exciting really. I ended up in Corellia with nowhere and nobody and then now with rebel fighters in Kashyyyk. Master died in the crossfire during the Purge, she told me to keep running, never look back… and I did.”

You spared him the tragedy of taking up odd jobs until you found your way into a partisan’s freighter and somehow convinced them to take you in. Your only selling point was the fact you knew how to fight, however, you were forced to hide your lightsaber.

“Do you still have it?”

You pulled up the flap of your poncho, exposing your left pant leg—clipped to your belt loop is your lightsaber. The shine on the hilt suggests that it has been seldom used, you were ashamed of yourself for not finishing your training ever since you escaped.

You’re afraid that you’ve forgotten what your master taught you. Ever since the Purge, you’ve become inactive with the ways of the Force. You thought before that there is no need for it, except pickpocketing and petty thieving to survive your first few days in Corellia: pulling small fruit towards you when no one else is looking and Jedi mind-tricking innkeepers to let you stay for free a night or two. You weren’t proud of that lifestyle. Being a bay mechanic seemed more dignified.

“I guess you and I both had it rough.”

“Yeah, we sure did.”

After that short yet awkward silence, Cal remembered something—something from way back when. You saw his eyes light up and a small smile formed on his lips. 

“I know what’ll cheer you up,” he says so assuredly with a playful smile.

A smile with a contagious warmth like the red of his hair. One that you’ve missed very dearly.

He went up to the galley, taking a bowl and filling it with small food like berries and already-chopped fruits. He sits back down on the sofa and sets down the bowl between you.

“Remember this game?”

You gasped sharply and you felt your chest constrict, but in a good way.

“Our game!”

You two invented this little game that only you know how to play, it was another way of practicing how to wield the Force when you were just in the most basic of basics. It wasn’t really recommended by your masters but you two had fun anyway.

The way to play it was very simple: whoever was “it” has to close to their eyes, lift a fruit from the bowl and bring it to the other player’s mouth—the other player should stay still and do not follow where the berry is going, the wielder will have to worry about the precision. The other player can choose to speak to indicate if the berry is far or near.

As a child, you only thought that it was a way of doing what you learned. Now that you’ve grown, the whole point of it was trusting the Force even in your own darkness and carving a path out of it with the Force.

You were it. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and raised your hand in mid-air, trying to find a sliver of the Force in you. A single berry rose from the bowl, it flew to the level of your chest, your fingers curl as if you were puppeteering the fruit; now you try to push it toward Cal.

“No peeking,” he playfully mutters.

“I’m not,” you smile but struggle to keep your focus.

Your first two fingers gently stretched out, propelling the berry to what you think is Cal’s mouth, but it was actually just the tip of his nose.

“Awww, so close.”

“One more try! It’s three tries for each one, remember?”

You repeat the entire process, hoping… no, trusting for a better aim. For some reason, you feel strange. It was not serious, but with every minute, it felt like something was closing in on you. You wanted to open your eyes, but don’t want to.

Cal’s fingers run through your cheek, you shudder and you kept your eyes shut. He brushes your hair to the back of your ear, your throat suddenly felt dry. You never felt him shuffle through the sofa—that was one sign that says you were concentrating well enough. 

You couldn’t help it. You opened your eyes, and for once in your entire life, Cal has never been so close to you. His eyes wander from your eyes, they follow the contour of your cheeks and jaw, and then fixates on your lips. Your spine ran a downward chill.

“You peeked. You lose this round.” Cal muttered under his breath, jade eyes gazing back at you.

“What does the winner get then?”

He tenderly cupped your face with his hands and for the very first time, you two kissed. His thumb caressed your cheek as he slips his tongue into your mouth. While Cal continued to softly peck on your lips, you let your hand run through his fiery red locks and then wrapped your arms around his neck.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed you,” he sighed when he pulled away.

“Well, ditto. I thought of you everyday, you know.”

“I won’t ever lose you again, will I?”

You shake your head while your fingers trace his jaw and felt the slight emboss of his scar. You press your thumb on his lip and he tenderly kisses your fingertips. He released a great sigh, as if his fear of your absence escaped his soul, he rests his head on your shoulder; fine, silken red strands tickle your neck as you softly glide your fingers on his skin.

Both of you are finally home.