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The Hands that Heal You

"Cooking was its own ritual—not unlike a Sith spell or alchemy of the old gods—but he'd been deeply pleased by the rewards for his efforts so far." In which Scourge learns that sometimes the most unexpected path to healing is through food and the people who share it.

Pairing: Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge ( pre-relationship/established relationship)

Word Count: 4.3k

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66175534

The dark, silence-drenched heart of the Fury-class interceptor was more coffin than home, a vessel shrouded in perpetual half-light where no warmth ever lingered. The faint hum of engines and the measured thrum of hyperspace currents passed through its hull, but none of these things touched Lord Scourge, whose consciousness stirred long before his eyes snapped open. His master's signal had reached out to him, and all in its wake stood still, save for a vague call to action that sang like an echo within him—a soul-deep command he could never ignore.

Scourge sat up in his bunk, the sheets beneath him both undisturbed and unwrinkled. Sleeping, he'd learned in his past, served no purpose. It was something lesser beings felt compelled to do despite its practical deficiencies. While Scourge admitted it had once been beneficial, that time was lost to memory, its utility now obsolete. Better to keep oneself occupied with something of consequence—like his present hunt, the next mark upon whom his master demanded bloodletting. He preferred hunting anyhow; the kill made infinite sense in an empirical context, one that brooked no debate.

The ship was immaculate, every surface stripped of sentiment or clutter, devoid of any sign a life was lived here. Even the small medbay—spartan and metallic—reflected only the minimum necessities. In a locked compartment, an array of nutrient ampoules stood ready. He selected one without thought, thumb flicking over the seal to expose a sliver of metal. He pressed it to his forearm, released the trigger until the cartridge was spent. Chemical sustenance delivered, nutrition maintained. The process was as routine as breathing: an endless cycle not worth contemplating. He lived and he killed, and thus he was. Satisfaction came only in the certainty of goals accomplished.

Returning to the cockpit, Scourge activated the terminal with a practiced twist of his wrist. The dimmed interface flickered awake, casting cold light over his features as he sank into the pilot's chair—habit made from a thousand missions before this one. There were two matters at hand: the hunt and the end.

Sunlight filtered through leaves dappled green and gold, weaving patterns of gentle warmth on the grass beneath Rhiasen’s feet. Tython breathed around her, a world alive in the Force, humming gently with a calmness she had sorely missed amid the turmoil that consumed the galaxy beyond. But even here, in this cradle of serenity, she carried a quiet ache—one she was only now beginning to acknowledge.

The loss of her Master, fresh enough to sting yet distant enough to feel surreal, had finally settled within her heart, demanding recognition. Grief had crept close, held patiently at bay by duty until it found space in this quiet, verdant sanctuary. It had been months but there had been no reprieve, no moment that had been her own amidst the darkness, the void, the rush of escape.

A trickle of shame crept from a deeper part of her, slithering cold and slick up her spine. Shame that she had survived, shame that she hadn’t fought harder to save her Master when she could have been there with him. Why hadn't the Force provided some vision? A glimpse, just one moment to know his fate, a reason beyond her survival alone to hold onto that would make sense of the gulf that yawned in her soul.

“You alright?” Kira’s voice broke her reverie gently. She stood beside Rhiasen, arms crossed loosely, concern softening her features.

Rhiasen exhaled a slow breath, nodding once. “Just remembering,” she murmured, eyes distant. “I wish we'd had more time with Orgus."

Kira laid a comforting hand on her back. "Me too."

They lingered in silence for a time, letting the peace of Tython wrap around them. In the quiet, Rhiasen found herself sifting through memories, each one edged with longing. Her Master’s laugh. His patient teachings. The way he’d sometimes softened, just a little, after long days. The undeniable respect he'd given her, despite given heritages and past grievances.

“He ever tell you about those cookies?” Kira asked suddenly, her voice almost conspiratorial. “The ones he’d talk about, from Coruscant?”

Rhiasen blinked, surprise cutting through her melancholy. “The honey-spice ones?"

Kira nodded. “He always said they were the only thing he missed from the Temple kitchens. Claimed he had the recipe, but I never saw him actually make them.”

"'Next time, girls. When there’s time, I’ll show you.’" Rhiasen mocked the words fondly, "There was never time."

Kira's lips twisted in a grin. "Guess I got a first and you got a second."

Rhiasen returned the smile, grateful that the aching weight upon her heart felt somewhat lighter. Her Master might be lost, but there were others that still had his memories. Orgus would always live on. And tonight that was in the form of cookies.

The two Jedi lost themselves to memories, to warmth and to friendship in the aftermath of so much grief. When the cookies came out of the oven, Kira pronounced them a perfect first attempt despite a slightly underdone center. As the Jedi snacked and made conversation the late afternoon slipped by them to a mellow sunset, turning the air golden, washing it with cool breezes that brought with it the eventual chill darkness of night.

Kira left Rhiasen then, excusing herself to check in with Kiwiiks and some old acquaintances while afforded the rare opportunity to simply be for a day. Rhiasen bid her goodnight, then wandered back to the ship carrying a small bundle of leftovers, finding comfort in the familiar scent of recycled air and the feel of metal beneath her boots. She'd found refuge in a place many would call unwelcoming, but this was home in a way that held different meanings from a single planet. No matter what happened or what planet she landed upon, her ship would be her shelter, her port in a storm.

She made her way towards her quarters when recalling the bundle in her hands. She paused, considering the small, cloth-wrapped bundle still warm in her hands. Her fingers tightened around it, a quiet impulse nudging at her heart. It seemed strange and foolish to offer comfort to someone who neither sought nor needed it, especially one whose presence still felt enigmatic and threatening. But Scourge was part of their crew now, whether he welcomed it or not, and perhaps the simple gesture could bridge a distance she didn’t yet understand. She knew she had always yearned for a welcoming hand in the dark, so... maybe he did too?

Rhiasen moved down through the ship, the corridors dimmed, their silence punctuated only by the muted hum of systems on standby. Descending into the cargo bay, shadows stretched to greet her, pooling in corners as if wary of intrusions. At the center stood Scourge, his broad shoulders faced away from her, his posture stiff and formal, as though he was ever awaiting a command.

“You spend a lot of time down here,” she observed quietly, her voice breaking through the gloom.

Scourge did not turn immediately, the silence stretching between them long enough that Rhiasen wondered if he would acknowledge her presence at all. When he finally shifted, it was slow, eyes fixed upon her in detached assessment.

“There is quiet here,” he answered simply, “It suits my purposes.”

She took a step forward and saw a momentary tension grip Scourge's shoulders, as if bracing for violence, though she would hardly begin a fight here. Rhiasen tucked away the observation, a subtle concern stitched in her chest. Another barrier to climb, perhaps. She could be patient.

“I made cookies earlier. A recipe my Master mentioned. I thought you might...” She faltered briefly, searching for words that might bridge the gap, "want to try one?"

Scourge’s gaze moved slowly to the offered food, brows drawing slightly, a subtle gesture of curiosity mingled with confusion. “I do not require food, Jedi."

“I know,” Rhiasen replied easily, trying to keep the moment from deepening into discomfort. “But sometimes food isn’t just about necessity. It's about connection, or maybe memory. I don't know... that's what my Master would've said.”

Scourge remained still, his eyes briefly narrowing as if puzzling through a complex riddle. Finally, he spoke, voice flat and toneless as ever. “Then perhaps you should offer them to someone who can appreciate such gestures—Sergeant Rusk, or your doctor. I imagine they would find the cookies more suited to their tastes.”

Rhiasen shrugged, unoffended by the dismissal. She unwrapped two cookies from the bundle and sat them on a clean cloth nearby, “There’s plenty. Everyone else had theirs. This is just extra.” She paused briefly, “They’re pretty good, you know. You might surprise yourself.”

His expression did not shift, “I assure you, Jedi, surprise is among the many sensations I have long lost.”

Rhiasen appreciated the blunt honesty. “Fair enough.” She turned to leave, glancing back only once as she ascended the stairs. “Offer stands if you change your mind.”

He waited until she had vanished from view before slowly turning his attention to the bundle, regarding it with clinical detachment. He felt nothing, needed nothing, desired nothing. Yet as he stood alone, bathed in the ship’s stark silence, he considered, briefly, what it must be like to taste, to remember, or to care about such simple things. And, deciding quickly that such thoughts served no purpose, he turned away again, leaving the cookies untouched in the gloom. The end to the Emperor was his purpose. He needed nothing else.

The galaxy had grown smaller since Scourge joined the Jedi's crew. He knew every corridor of the ship, every hum and vibration, every face and voice that made up this curious, menagerie of fools. He knew the patterns too: Rusk’s occasional drills in the cargo bay, Doc’s endless self-congratulation in the medbay, T7's beeped heroic stories to anyone willing to listen. Kira’s laughter alongside his Jedi echoed through the ship in the odd moments when the world seemed just a little less bleak. The air felt stifling at times but today there was a feel of something warmer.

Today was such a day.

A smell of something spicy and warm had been creeping through the vents of the ship since they set down on the grasslands of Taris. Every hallway held a hint of baking that was decidedly non-military or regulation. He caught the end notes of laughter and conversation coming from the common area, where the crew had gathered to share the spoils of the local harvest festival, baskets filled with fresh fruits, jars of preserves, loaves of bread made from grain grown by stubborn, hopeful settlers. The air hummed with the quiet joy of a celebration shared, but Scourge remained separate, lingering at the edge of shadows, uncertain how or if to join.

They had won, after all—this crew of hopeful, naive beings who had managed to accomplish what he'd spent centuries waiting on the precipice for. The Emperor was defeated. Yet Scourge found himself curiously unchanged. No mortality had returned, no taste, no feeling, no sensation had emerged from the empty spaces within him. He had expected something, a release, perhaps a final end yet remained bound to this eternal limbo, neither fully alive nor able to die. A disappointment, he'd decided, was the best description of his state. The feeling itself was hollow and distant, but unmistakable all the same.

He moved quietly down the corridor, pausing as he reached the common area's threshold. The room was illuminated by soft lights, scattered plates holding crumbs and pastries arranged haphazardly across the table. Kira lounged comfortably, smiling and recounting some exaggerated version of childhood antics on the run on Nar Shaddaa, Doc interrupting occasionally with his own colorful details from his time on various planets. Rusk sat stiffly at the edge, nodding along dutifully, while T7 was just happy to be a part of the festivities, little hat and all.

At the center was Rhiasen, her presence calm, quiet, mostly steady. She wore a loose smile, eyes gentle but equally just as enraptured by her friends' stories. She had become a constant, more so than the mission or the endless, starless void through which they traveled. Scourge found himself respecting that steadiness, though he did not fully understand why.

"Tall dark and scary!" Kira called suddenly, noticing him lingering in the doorway. "Grab a chair. We won't bite. Probably. Unless you're really rude about dessert."

"She'll stab you," Rusk murmured blandly, reaching out and taking a treat from one of the open baskets on the table.

Doc shifted in his chair, crossing his arms and propping his feet on an empty seat beside him. "There's one over here if you've suddenly had a revelation and decide you actually wanna sit with us normal people."

Scourge hesitated only briefly, his silence thickening momentarily into quiet tension before he stepped forward. Doc lifted his boots off the seat, gesturing theatrically to the vacant chair.

"See? It wasn't so hard," Doc said cheerfully, offering a lazy grin. "Even Sith Lords need a little downtime."

Scourge regarded him evenly. "I assure you, relaxation is not among my needs."

"Maybe not," Rhiasen murmured, her voice teasing as she pushed a plate toward him, piled with honey-spiced cookies and other treats. "But company can be good."

He glanced down at the offered plate. Months ago, he would have dismissed it instantly as sentimental foolishness, mere empty ritual. Yet now, as he lifted a cookie Scourge recognized this gesture as more than just food. It was acceptance, offered without expectation, a quiet insistence from the crew that, despite his many efforts at isolation, he belonged here in some form or another.

He took a bite. The cookie was crisp with an appealing texture he could appreciate even if taste was denied him. He lowered it, silently admitting to himself that he had begun performing this act often, less from conscious choice, more from some subconscious desire to align himself closer with those who lived, felt, and experienced life.

Kira leaned forward eagerly, chin propped on her hand, eyebrows raised dramatically. "Well? Any chance of finally getting a review better than 'acceptable' from the galaxy’s grumpiest Sith?"

Scourge considered, finishing the bite carefully. "It is... well made," he replied finally, voice flat but quietly earnest. "Your technique has improved, Jedi."

"Is this implying you tried the other ones?" She asked but he remained silent. This only tickled her more but she respected the silence, expression softening into something warmer, quietly grateful. "I had good advice from locals. The farmers here still know the old recipes."

Doc threw his hands up in exaggerated frustration. "Come on, that’s practically a glowing endorsement from Mr. Sunshine here. Mark this day, folks."

T7 beeped enthusiastically, swiveling his dome toward Scourge. "Scourge = officially likes cookies! Friendship = achieved!"

Scourge’s gaze narrowed fractionally at the droid. "Your assumptions remain overly optimistic."

Kira laughed brightly. "Don’t worry, Scourge. We won’t tell anyone you’ve got a sweet tooth."

Rusk cleared his throat. "I believe Lord Scourge prefers ‘tolerates.’"

The room filled again with gentle laughter, warmth threading through the crew's easy banter. Scourge did not laugh or smile; his expression never softened beyond a faint easing of tension at the corners of his eyes. But something within him shifted slightly as he took another measured bite, accepting this subtle change in himself without resistance.

Rhiasen caught his gaze once more, offering a nod, acknowledgment shared between them. It was not friendship, exactly—certainly not by Scourge’s understanding—but it was something he had begun to quietly value. For tonight, he allowed himself to remain, silent amidst their laughter, cautiously comfortable within this strange, stubborn circle of fools who had become his crew.

The wilds of Odessen were lush and brimming with life, the sort that hummed beneath the skin and filled the lungs with sweet, wild air. The fortress nestled in its valley along high clifftops felt almost like a myth built by outcasts, made real by shared hope and hard-won survival. Here, among rebels and legends, Lord Scourge… well, just Scourge now, walked in a world reborn. No longer the aether the Emperor had cursed, now merely himself, his own will and choices his alone, the past and future entirely in his own hands. A momentary privilege, but one he intended to make lasting for a very, very long time.

If only the concept of hunger were less disagreeable. He still maintained the regular need for nutrients, water, and rest, his physical limitations somewhat mitigated by the longevity and enhanced healing that were his burden to bear. Still, eating was necessary but not wholly unpleasant as he had found himself a surprising lover of cuisine since he'd regained sensation. Everything had seemed alien at first, sensation and emotion and a new appreciation for life's richness. He'd fallen behind in a flurry of culinary expeditions that made use of credits he had little use for in the past. But there was a certain pleasure he found in home-cooked meals, ones carefully selected and prepared at home rather than prepackaged field ration. He took time to enjoy these comforts as much as he savored the novel experience of taste.

He would not say it aloud, but food had become his language for living. He found himself mentally cataloging flavors, pondering what made a stew memorable or why a simple fruit—chilled, sliced, eaten at midnight—could linger on his tongue long after. These small obsessions anchored him in the present, tethered him to the ordinary miracle of being alive. But even as the world grew richer, a hunger of a different sort gnawed at the edges of his mind—a longing as insistent as it was inarticulate. It coiled beneath his newfound pleasures and revealed itself in stolen glances, in the way his thoughts always circled back to his Jedi.

She was never far from him, though neither spoke of the thing quietly blooming between them. Her laughter still lifted the heaviness from a room. Her presence reminded him of something he’d nearly forgotten: that life was not simply endured, but shared. More than once he’d watched her prepare a meal for friends, hands deft, expression quietly content, and wondered how much of her heart she poured into such simple rituals.

Tonight was one such evening. The kitchen was a mess, the window thrown open to let in the clean Odessen air. Rhiasen was at the counter, humming low under her breath to some song that played from her datapad, hands dusted with flour as she worked dough into patient shapes. He watched her, lingering in the doorway longer than necessary.

“You have flour on your face,” he remarked, voice as neutral as he could manage.

She glanced up at him, “It’s part of my process,” Rhiasen replied, brushing her wrist across her cheek and leaving an even bigger streak of flour behind. “You want to help, or are you just going to stand there criticizing me?”

Scourge stepped into the light, crossing the kitchen with deliberate calm. “Criticism requires expertise,” he said, the ghost of dry humor in his voice. “I am only beginning to form opinions on matters of dough.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened as she slid a second bowl toward him. “Then consider this your advanced training. Here, mix, but don’t overwork it."

He obeyed, careful and precise, mimicking her motions with far more focus than was strictly necessary for baking. For a while, the only sounds were the soft rhythm of spoons against ceramic and the low murmur of music from her datapad.

“Smells different tonight,” he said after a moment, half to himself. “You’ve changed the recipe.”

She tilted her head, eyeing him briefly, surprise and quiet delight mixing freely in her expression. "You noticed."

"It’s difficult not to," he replied, voice low as he worked the dough, "The honey is deeper, richer."

She nodded, pushing hair out of her eyes with a flour-dusted hand. "The locals said it comes from a wildflower that grows only on Odessen's cliffs. It was supposed to be a surprise."

He paused, glancing sideways at her, "Then consider me suitably surprised."

Rhiasen huffed a soft laugh, nudging him gently with her shoulder as she reached past him for the spice jar. Her proximity filled him with subtle warmth, a quiet contentment he found increasingly familiar. They continued to move in sync, comfortable silence punctuated by the faint scrape of utensils and the hum of music that he’d grown to associate solely with evenings like this.

She sprinkled spice into the mixture with careful fingers, scattering flecks of cinnamon and nutmeg like quiet offerings. "It’s strange," she murmured thoughtfully, gaze distant for a heartbeat, "how something as simple as honey can make memories feel real again."

Scourge regarded her quietly, hands stilling over the bowl. "Your memories of your Master?"

She hesitated for an instant, but nodded, slowly. Her lips bent into a curve he would call sad if he didn't know her as he did.

"Perhaps." The word seemed to stick at the back of his mouth for an instant and he pushed them forth carefully. "But... perhaps it would serve you more if we make new ones. Together."

Her shoulders eased visibly, as did her features, relief softening into gentle affection. Rhiasen reached over, smoothed a line of flour from his cheek with her thumb, gaze steady. She knew him, "I think I'd like that."

The galaxy beyond their windows was a haze of indigo sky and early morning gold. On this unremarkable, nameless world, far from battlefields and the ghosts of old wars, peace was measured in heartbeats, laughter, and the gentle hush of rain against the roof. For Scourge, peace now meant a quiet kitchen, a borrowed apron, and a determined frown as he surveyed the line of ingredients before him.

"Dawnberries," he murmured thoughtfully to himself. "Perhaps a dusting of honey spice and fresh ground oat."

The recipe called for far more labor than he'd realized, but he was a fast learner and not terribly inept at anything that involved logic, which baking did. Mostly. It was not his forte, by any stretch of the imagination, but Scourge could acknowledge the artistry in it all the same. Cooking was its own ritual—not unlike a Sith spell or alchemy of the old gods—but he'd been deeply pleased by the rewards for his efforts so far. He enjoyed learning these secret codes that connected things and people and memory. And, secretly, he knew his Jedi had always been partial to his creations, whether intentional or not. The thought left him feeling inexplicably warm.

The early morning fog hung heavy, dimming the edges of the sun as he continued his work, measuring carefully and testing the consistency of each ingredient. Time blurred as he concentrated, and before long, the sun rose fully overhead. He was halfway through whisking the honey into the oats when he heard quiet footsteps behind him—a slow, gentle shuffle that he now knew intimately.

Rhiasen leaned against the doorway, hand resting softly against the rounded swell of her belly, a quiet smile brightening her face as she watched him.

"You've been at it for hours," she remarked gently, lingering sleep still lacing through her voice. "If you're not careful, the entire house will smell permanently of dawnberries."

He paused to measure the thickness of his batter against his fingers. "They were one of your favorites, were they not?"

She answered, smile tugging at her lips as she made her way slowly around the counter, moving with the awkward grace of a body now too large for her accustomed ease of movement. "Still are," she added, coming to stand beside him.

His movements faltered slightly as he glanced sideways at her. Her shift in stance was subtle, barely a thing at all, yet she looked suddenly brighter somehow. Infinitely precious, he realized suddenly as his gaze moved from her hands across the swelling curve of her belly. His breath caught for a single moment and he could no longer name this feeling which bound him—something deeper, heavier than joy or longing, a tangled emotion that nearly broke his concentration.

It took him a moment to find words again. "Perhaps the twins will grow to have a similar appreciation for them, with sufficient education," he replied, the edges of his words aching.

“If they take after you, they’ll want everything just so. If they take after me, they’ll eat half the dough before it ever makes it to the oven.”

He allowed a faint smile as he returned to stirring. “I have witnessed your methods. I will endeavor to protect a fair share of the dough for baking.”

She nudged his elbow gently, “No promises. I make no claims for the innocence of our offspring, either. There’s already a conspiracy between them and my appetite.”

He glanced at her sidelong, mock severity glinting in his eyes, “A Sith expects nothing less than cunning. I am prepared for subterfuge.”

Rhiasen grinned, stealing a fingerful of dough as if to prove her point. She hummed in approval, then set her head on his shoulder for a quiet moment, letting the nearness settle between them. The rain tapped softly on the windows, their world shrunken to the scent of honey and dawnberries, the gentle cadence of their breath, the weight of years now carried so lightly.

“You’re getting good at this,” she murmured, peering at the bowl. “I remember when you thought mixing was an act of war.”

He huffed, a sound dangerously close to a laugh, “Experience is the best instructor. And you are…a persistent mentor.”

She bumped him, her cheek pressed to his arm, “You were worth the trouble.”

#star wars the old republic #lord scourge x jedi knight #swtor fanfiction #fanfiction #domestic fluff #food as a love language #oneshot

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