resident evelle

But you wouldn't care if it took ten days to get to Exegol. Shit, you wouldn't care if you never got to Exegol. Because during the seventy-two hours you spend with Kylo on the way, you get a taste of what it would be like if he weren't the Supreme Leader and you weren't Hux's prisoner. And that taste is enough to get you hooked.

Watching Kylo do normal, everyday things around the Command Shuttle has simultaneously activated two of your personas - fascinated field researcher and sex-obsessed animal. The net result of this leads to some peculiar internal monologues that are half nature documentary narrative, half perverted cavewoman.

Here are some examples:

Kylo brushing his teeth: It would appear that, like the rest of his species, this powerful young male participates in the ritual of cleaning his teeth. Strangely enough, he puts the cleaning paste on before running the device under the water, which is incorrect but no one would dare tell him so. Nevertheless, he displays proper technique - using a circular motion as opposed to up-down or side-to-side. Notice as he does this the way the tendons in his forearms and hands ripple and flex. His hands... Strong hands. On body. Now.

Kylo walking around casually without a shirt: Observe the male making his coffee without a covering on his thoracic region as per the social protocols of his species. This is because we are getting a rare glimpse of him in his natural habitat, where he feels comfortable doing so. And make no mistake about it: He is a fine specimen. Pay particular attention to the way his well-honed external obliques rotate seamlessly as he twists and stretches. Abs. Must. Lick. Abs.

Kylo doing pushups: To keep up his excellent form, the alpha male must strengthen his muscle units by performing a series of callisthenic exercises. Here we have the privilege of witnessing this in action. Interestingly, he does this again without covering his torso with clothing. It begs the question: Is this how he always exercises? Or does he do this to impress the female who has entered into his territory? If so, it's working. Not only has the female has taken notice, but she now appears impatient to mate with him. Shoulders! And biceps! And pecs! Oh myyyy!

Kylo urinating (listen, you're not proud of this one, but it is what it is): All animals must excrete waste to survive, including our young male. Here, he displays his comfortability with his female companion by doing so with the door slightly ajar. It has piqued her curiosity. Notice how when she pretends to stretch, she positions herself in clear view of him. She perceives that, similarly to many of his sex, he micturates while standing. While you may think that such a non-provocative act as excretion couldn't possibly arouse the female, you'd be underestimating the potency of his partially exposed backside. His lower back dimples lead to… butt! Must. Grab. Butt.

Kylo taking a shower: The sound of the cleansing apparatus has engaged the female. Watch as she rapidly sheds her outer layers, intent on yet again mating with the male. If she's not careful, she may exhaust him. Fortunately, he appears to match her eagerness and accepts her advances with equal enthusiasm. Kylo. Wet. Soapy. Slippery. *banal gargling/drooling sound*(This last one may or may not have temporarily broken your brain.)

Sex aside, there is just… copious amounts of touching, putting you into tactile induced dopamine and serotonin soaked high.

While you're reading, Kylo puts your head on his lap and strokes your hair.

You are hidden from view on the other side when he sits in on a meeting via holotable. But while he talks to the board in his serious Supreme Leader voice, saying things like, "We'll need to be discrete until we can narrow down who the rebel spy in our midst is." he holds and rubs your foot under the table.

When you walk past him with your tea, he pulls you onto his lap and brushes your shoulders with his lips while you drink it, sending shivers up and down your back.

He leans over and kisses your cheek when you're deciding what move you should make in the game of dejarik the two of you are playing. Citing, "You're cute when you concentrate," as his reason.

Then there's the piece de resistance: the stop to refuel on Rugosa.

Rugosa, a moon in the outer rim territories, is home to one of the galaxy's most unique and biologically baffling ecosystems. Its terrestrial terrain is primarily dominated by caverns and towering coral forests.

That's right. Several megafauna species of coral have adapted to non-aquatic environments. This alone would be fascinating, but the ecosystem developed around these coral forests is just as extraordinary. If only for this reason, Rugosa would be any biologist's wet dream, but because of Rugosa's inaccessibility, the moon has become the holy grail of biological science.

Rugosa is in a sector of the galaxy commonly referred to as "Hutt Space," meaning it's under the unofficial rule of the Hutt clan. But ever since the death of the infamous crime lord Jabba, years before you were even born, the whole territory has been embroiled in a vicious war between different factions of organized crime.

Due to the increased hostility and overall unsafe conditions, only the bravest of biologists dare to venture into Rugosa - and even then, they are rarely heard from again.

"Are you sure it's safe?" You ask as you approach the jade and rose swirled planet.

"Hutt Space is a wild card. They don't align themselves with the First Order or the Rebels, but they also don't want to draw the wrath of the First Order, so they won't touch me or anyone with me." Even with his assurance, your excitement is kept in check by wariness as the craft touches down.

Upon landing, a Toydarian who introduces himself by the name of Urrod greets you. He's been expecting Kylo's Shuttle and hovers, waiting for you both at the bottom of the gangway.

Immediately after exiting the ship, Urrod gives a signal, and his crew gets to work refueling and supplying the Shuttle. The Toydarian's over-the-top hospitality directed toward Kylo diminishes your fear. It's a well-orchestrated dance that has obviously been done many times before.

Strangely, as this realization occurs, your primary emotion is jealousy.

For all his merits (and there are many), Kylo Ren couldn't give two shits about the complex, unique, awe-inspiring ecosystem of this moon. He's barely even glanced at the majestic multicolored corals towering over the both of you that take your breath away. And yet he's allowed to be here, unharmed, without fear of being taken hostage or murdered.

Must be nice.

You watch Kylo hand over a sizable satchel to Urrod, who subtly weighs it in his palm and then grins even more warmly at the Supreme Leader. Demonstrating that it's not just fear that'll get you places. It's money.

Money is power, not just with Toydarians (a harmful stereotype) but anywhere in the galaxy. If you have the currency required, you'll have access to what you want. A concept that makes you bitter.

Of course, as a high-ranking political figure, Kylo would have access to amounts of money that a research biologist, such as yourself, would never dream of seeing.

Historically, resources have been unequally divided between destruction and preservation. The amount of funds given to destruction (i.e., wars) far outweighs the funds allocated to preserve and expand biological knowledge.

Urrod leads you both into the coral forest on a narrow path. The plan is to rest at a café to pass the time.

In an attempt to drag out the time to take in your surroundings, you move as slowly as possible. Your head swivels back and forth, and up and down, you take particular note of any small invertebrates you see. Some are hovering near expansive lime-colored flowers, others crawling up neon-purple vines.

You long for some specimen tubes or even just a notebook. Because trying to cement all of this into your memory is an overwhelming task. A task you're so enmeshed in that you barely register Kylo reaching for your hand and pulling you to a stop next to him.

"Do you want to stop and look around for a bit?" He asks in a low, humming voice next to your ear.

Ripping your eyes from the forest, you focus on him to see that he has an adoring smile on his face. Clearly, while you've been watching the forest, Kylo has been watching you.

"Really!? There's time for me to look around?" The excitement at the prospect leaves you feeling a bit light-headed.

With a flex of his wrist, he tugs you forward and kisses you on the forehead, "If you want, we'll make time."

A soft, fuzzy feeling travels throughout your body. It rushes all the way down to the tips of your fingers and toes.

Because you know that Kylo doesn't care about what characteristics the arthropods on this planet have adapted or the complex ecological relationships between species here. You know he hadn't meant to linger long here, but once he saw how much you care, he adjusted to accommodate you. Because he cares about you.

Not only does he care about you, but he knows you well enough that you don't even have to confirm - which is good since you're more or less speechless. He merely glances at you and knows that you desperately want to "stop and look around."

When he calls ahead to Urrod, telling him to wait, you direct your attention to the towering coral adjacent to you. Kylo releases your hand and gently pushes your lower back, urging you to step off the path and to get a closer look.

Initially, you're timid, a little scared, almost reverent. But then you see some movement at the base of the Rugosian king coral fanning out above your heads, and you hurry over to get a better look.

It's a deep maroon juvenile dwarf neebray or "flying manta." You watch as it scrapes its teeth along the surface of the limestone, then dips its tongue into the calicles of the coral.

Is it eating the coral polyps? You get onto your hands and knees and crawl over as silently as possible to get a better look.

Behind you, you hear Urrod ask Kylo, "Your woman, is she a scientist?"

You're not sure how you feel about being referred to as Kylo's "woman." You're sure you're his something, just as he's yours, but it feels so reductive and… gross to be referred to as his "woman."

"She's an entomologist." The pride you detect in Kylo's voice is a salve to the needling of your ego. Alright then, you suppose you'll allow it. You'll go ahead and be "his woman."

"You know, we don't allow many outside scientists here on Rugosa…," Urrod says, and you freeze.

Fuck…

You recruit as many of your auditory nerves to hear how he'll convince Kylo to pull you away from the coral.

You're in the process of wrangling your expectations. Reminding yourself to be grateful for even being allowed to see this, when Urrod floors you by saying, "This must be exciting for her. Do you think she would like to have a tour led by one of our most renowned biologists?"

Slack-jawed and shocked as hell, you swing around to look at the pair - scaring the shit out of the poor little neebray in the process. The creature gives a little shriek and flies away.

Kylo purses his lips to contain his grin, and once he composes himself, he addresses Urrod in a deep, authoritative voice, "If you could arrange that, I think she'd like that very much."

You nod vigorously in agreement.

YES! Yes, I would like that very much!

"Anything for the Supreme Leader's woman." Urrod does a slight bow toward you.

From behind the Toydarian, Kylo's eyes are sparkling with silent laughter as he mouths, "Anything for my woman." knowing how much this probably annoys you.

She's a wisp of a girl with thin, mousey blonde hair, huge blue eyes in a thin heart-shaped face, and buck teeth. The poor thing looks terrified. Probably because she's been roped into hanging out with Hux.

My heart goes out to her.

"Doctor." Hux greets you as you raise yourself into a sitting position on the bench you were laying on, "This is your new protégé, Jex."

Protégé? You narrow your eyes at him.

"It seems The Supreme Leader has had a change of heart about our little menagerie and is feeling... philanthropic."

You're too busy being annoyed at the way he refers to his exotic animal prison as "our"s (as if you are a willing participant in the atrocity) that you overlook the hefty dose of suspicion the General is blasting in your direction.

"As such, Ren has so... kindly agreed to allow you to accompany him on his next excursion to procure some more specimens for our little collection. Since you'll be gone for several days, you'll need-,"

But you don't hear a single syllable he utters after this. Because your brain is glitching. It's stuck in a cycle that is screaming:

Several days? Several days?! Could I still be daydreaming? Several days off the Star Destroyer? With Kylo!?!

You'd swoon if you were the swooning type. Plus, god forbid Hux witness you do anything so weak. For this reason, you carefully arrange your face into what you hope looks like boredom and shrug, "Okay."

After a twitch of his nose, as if something is irritating it and he doesn't want to touch it, Hux explains to you that you have twenty-four hours to be ready before Kylo lands onto the Star Destroyer to refuel and retrieve you. And the moment the General leaves, you practically skip back to your quarters.

I wonder where Kylo is taking me? Oh! I've always wanted to go to Dandoran. I hear it's sweltering and rural there, so we wouldn't need to wear many clothes…

Or! What about Maldo Kreis? It's freezing there, so we'd probably need to use each other's body heat for warmth…

What should I pack? What should I wear?

You gaze at your "wardrobe," which is made up of exclusively First Order issued leggings and tunics in the exciting colors of white, black, and grey. This is the moment of levity you needed to reign in your expectations on this trip.

Right as you're snorting at your own ridiculousness, the meek sound of a throat being cleared has you jumping out of your skin.

It's your "protégé," whom you've entirely forgotten about.

"Shit!" You clutch your chest, heart pounding, "You're still here? What are you doing here?"

"Uhm. Hux said, you're supposed to train me to take care of the animals while you're gone? Remember?"

Sure don't.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!"

The girl looks so upset about your outburst that you start to feel bad about blaming her for the ordeal. It was you who forgot about her after all. But, in your defense, how could you be expected to remember this dull little mouse girl’s existence when you'd just been instructed to prepare for a mysterious and sexy trip out of this hell hole with Kylo?!

"S-s-sorry," she mumbles. Her bottom lip starts wavering, and her eyes begin to swell with tears.

Oi vey!

You take a deep breath and reign in your salt. It would not do to piss off Hux and risk getting your trip taken away. You grab her by the shoulders. "Jess."

"Jex." She corrects.

You raise an eyebrow at her, "That's what I said. Anyway, I will tell you the same thing my aunt Karen told me years ago: stop being precious. No one likes it. It's boring."

"O-okaaay?"

You whack her on the back in a way you hope comes across as a supportive get-back-in-there kind of way instead of just physical abuse. "We'll work on it. Animals can sense weakness - so you'll need to toughen up."

. . . .

Be cool.

This is your mantra as you board Kylo's command shuttle. The loading dock is such a chaotic place that you never know who might be watching you.

Thus, with the patience of a saint, you manage to wait until the door is closed before you charge him. He's ready for you and catches you effortlessly as you wrap your legs around his waist and shower his whole absurdly beautiful face with kisses.

When he laughs, your stomach drops.

I missed you.

"Not as much as I missed you." He hums while setting you down and giving you one long kiss on the mouth with a luxurious tease of the tongue, leaving you panting and hungry for more.

Doing anything that requires not touching each other, such as not bothering Kylo while he's taking off, proves to be a difficult task for you.

It can't be healthy to be this obsessed with someone. You literally have to sit on your hands to keep them to yourself. And although you try, you can't stop gawking at his elegant profile as he deftly maneuvers the craft out.

Kylo's face, when he's concentrating, is mesmerizing. His lower lip juts out a bit in a tiny pout. You think about how much you want to nibble on it.

"Can you not?" Kylo groans.

"What?" You ask innocently.

"Can you not think about stuff like that while I'm trying to focus?"

"Okay. What about this, though?" You smirk as you play one of your more lurid daydreams where you're both naked (duh), and you're sitting on top of him, and you're both all dewy with sweat and-

"KYLO!" You sit rigidly in your seat, scream, and point out the window because he's veering into an area where another ship is patrolling.

With those crazy midichlorian-powered reflexes of his, he barrel-rolls the shuttle out of the way. This makes your stomach drop again, but this time it's not so fun.

By the time the ship has leveled out, your chest is heaving. You stare out the windshield with wide, terrified eyes. You gag twice but, by some miracle, manage to keep the contents of your stomach firmly in place.

"No. Not that either.” He dryly intones. Adding an unnecessary, “It'd probably be best if you try to avoid any thoughts of... us for the next few minutes?"

Thoroughly humbled, you simply swallow and nod.

Half an hour later, you're in deep space, and Kylo turns on the auto-pilot.

You haven't quite recovered from your shock of how close your pervy thoughts had gotten you to being space rubble. So he has to come and unbuckle and pry you from the chair.

Scooping you into his arms in a tight embrace, he presses your cheek to his chest.

You surrender. Closing your eyes and breathing the moment in.

I hate flying, and people, and being in space. But I love you.

Tilting your head back, pressing your chin to his sternum, you look up at him. As he returns your gaze, you notice that the deep purple circles under his eyes are back for the first time. You reach up and brush his temple with your fingertips, "What's wrong?"

When he smiles, you welcome the relief. Because it's a genuine smile, dimple and all.

After he bends down and kisses the top of your head, he murmurs, "Nothing is wrong anymore. You're here. Safe. With me. And I think I've found a way to make it so we can be together and Hux won't be able to hurt you."

His eyes focus on the wall behind your back and whatever he's thinking makes him chuckle. You wish you could see inside his mind the way he can see inside yours. "He wouldn't dare."

A feeling of hope begins to swell inside your chest with such rapid speed, you don't have time to temper it with reason. "Really? How?"

Kylo focuses back down on you, "You'll see when we get there."

"Get where?"

Buuut if you were to tell the you from a few months ago that you'd be waking up naked in Kylo Ren's bed after an afternoon of the best sex of your life… you'd probably say, "That sounds awesome! Good for us! Also, who's Kylo Ren? And how did you get here? And why are we talking about sex when you've just time-traveled!?"

Okaaay. Your scientific pragmatism is making it difficult for me to narrate this story.

The point is you wake up from a deep sleep naked next to Kylo Ren, who is also naked. This is because the second you both started coming down from your respective orgasms, the toll of being awake for twenty-four hours began to manifest in your bodies, and you promptly passed out.

You discover as you gently slip into consciousness that it's nice waking up in bed with Kylo.

More than nice.

It's delicious.

Not only is he all stretchy and yawny and sleepy and warm and adorable, but when he gets up to use the refresher, you get to ogle his perfect naked glutes as he walks away.

An overwhelming fluttery feeling completely overtakes your chest, and once he's gone, you do something you've never done before: you squeal. You roll onto your stomach, press your face into the pillow and squeal with delight. Not only do you squeal, but you also do this weird spastic flutter kick thing with your legs.

It's obscene.

Thankfully, you manage to get a grip on yourself before he comes back to witness any of this. When you feel the mattress dip down from his weight, you turn your head from the pillow to look at him. He smiles a goofy lopsided smile at you as he slides in under the sheet next to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep your own grin under control.

"Morning." His voice is a deep, dozy bass that makes you salivate. He tilts his head forward to place a kiss on your shoulder. Kylo's bedhead is epic. You can't wait to get your hands into it, but you don't get the opportunity to immediately since he doesn't stop with the kiss on the shoulder.

No, he begins to move systemically down your body with his mouth. Kissing at the delicate skin at each of your intercostal spaces. You close your eyes and absorb the slight zinging sensations this elicits from your cutaneous nerves.

When he gets to the ticklish spot at your waist, you inhale sharply and instinctively spin away. This doesn’t deter him. He merely chuckles and wraps his strong arm around your middle, keeping you close and continues his descent.

Reaching the iliac crest, the top of your hip, he kisses you once and pauses to walk his fingers up your spine.

"You never told me...," Evidently, Kylo Ren thinks this is an excellent time to start up a conversation. The man gets you all hot and bothered and then decides to have some dialogue?

You roll your eyes.

He is a sadist.

"Who's Stephen?"

"What are you talking about?" You half-twist at the waist to look back over your shoulder at him. He's resting his chin on his hand, which is lying right above the curve of your ass.

"Yesterday you clearly thought: 'I'm Stephen.'"

Ooooh….

When you remember how you'd been drawing a parallel between yourself and an arthropod the night before, you flush and bury your head in the pillow.

After some threats of being tortured by tickling ("I know where you're ticklish now!"), you relent and tell him all about your ill-fated phantom ant drone Stephen and his queen.

"So, if you're Stephen, does that make me the queen?" He asks as he traces figure eights with his fingertips on your lower back. The dopamine and serotonin cocktail of his touch is so relaxing it feels like you've melted into the sheets.

You hum a laugh, "I suppose. Kylo Ren, Supreme Queen of the First Order. That's got a nice ring to it." Then you lift your head off the pillow to glance back at him again, "You don't have a harem, do you?"

"Nope."

"Good. And just to make sure: you're not planning on eating me, right?"

A mischievous grin unfurls across his face, and while keeping his eyes locked on yours, he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth right into your glute. This is when, for the second time in your adult life - you squeal.

Apparently, Kylo Ren has turned you into a squealer.

God damn him.

. . . .

You know it's not possible, but you swear the laws of physics bend when you're with Kylo.

Time goes by faster when you're with him. One second you're breathing the most salacious, indecent words you've ever spoken into his ear, and the next, you're rushing to get back to the menagerie before Hux wakes up and remembers he isn't sick.

Though you miss your animal friends (fellow inmates), going back after a full day in bed with Kylo makes this dome feel more like a prison than it ever has before.

How are you going to manage this? Going back and forth between the passionate, polychromatic (not literally, as mentioned before, everything in Kylo's quarters is white and black), blissful moments to the bleak, anemic animal penitentiary. The contrast between the two is so severe, it's discordant.

Male-Lola climbs on your shoulders as you clean his habitat, flicking his tongue into your ear.

"Don't be gross." Although, you didn't say the same thing to Kylo when he did something similar to you just hours before.

You finish up the colossal terrarium for Georgia's babies when they hatch. The pressure of preserving a species you previously thought of as extinct weighs on you, and you worry that they'll eat each other if there's more than one per terrarium. Yet, as Hux has explained to you, there's not enough resources or space for you to make hundreds of terrariums. So one huge one, and a lot of anxious finger-crossing, will have to make do.

While you clean Spike's cage, you let him tap into the tiny veins in your palm to keep him from trying to escape. He's too small to do any real damage anyway.

Right when you're finishing up, Kylo swoops in. Yes. Swoops.

It's been a while since you've seen him in his full get-up. Compared to what he was wearing when you saw him last (nothing), it seems... excessive. You look him up and down and raise an eyebrow. At least he's holding his helmet under his arm so you can enjoy his face.

Two guards are posted nearby, so discretion is necessary. In an overly formal voice, you greet him, "Supreme Leader."

Supreme Leader? More like Supreme… Lover. *mental wink and nudge*

Kylo bites his lip to keep from laughing. "Doctor," he nods as soon as he gains composure.

For the first time in your life, you understand what everyone was going on about at university. Flirting is fun. It makes you feel like your blood is carbonated.

Well, actually, that would probably feel horrendous. So, never mind. It makes you feel weightless and fluffy.

"What can I help you with?"

"I'm just here to let you know that I'm not going to be on board for the next couple of days."

"Oh…," Your weightless feeling plummets, you begin to deflate, "Okay."

Stepping forward, he lowers his voice, "If I could arrange for you to come with me and not make Hux suspicious, I promise I would."

He slides a leather-clad finger down your forearm but halts when he gets to Spike. "What is that thing doing to you?" He sounds alarmed and dangerous.

You pull your hand back before Kylo can do anything to hurt the little vampire rat.

As you detach Spike and put him back in his enclosure, you explain, "Relax. It just makes it easier to clean his cage if I let him have a little snack while I do."

Kylo grabs your hand and examines it, running a finger over the two minuscule punctures. With a roll of your eyes, you remind him in a whisper, "You left a bigger mark on me with your teeth."

At your accusation, his outraged expression shifts to one that's sheepish and repentant, "I did? I'm sorry about that. I didn't realize…,"

You snort. "Kylo. I was just trying to make a point. I'm fine. Really. I liked it."

But his brow remains furrowed. You stop yourself from reaching up to smooth it out with your fingers. "I'm going to make this trip as quick as possible."

You nod and look over his shoulder. You want to kiss him goodbye.

Fuck that. You want to climb the Supreme Leader and wrap yourself around him like a crazed koala, leaving marks on him with your mouth to remember you by. (Le sigh. Romance. AmIright?)

Unfortunately, the guards seem to be a little too interested in what sort of conversation between the General's prisoner and the Supreme Leader would require such close proximity.

"Well, I don't know why you think I'd give a shit that you're leaving." You say in a louder voice while you think: I'll miss you so hard.

He gives you a sly smirk before putting on his helmet and walking away.

"I hope you don't come back!" You shout after him.

If you don't come back, I'll escape and come find you and murder you dead for leaving me with Hux.

He turns and says, "Careful, Doctor. Or I'll be sure to tie you up in solitary when I come back."

"I hope you do!"

And by "solitary," you mean bed, right?

You take the snort-turned-coughing sound coming from under his helmet as confirmation.

All at once, panic seizes you when he turns to walk out the doors. There's something unsaid.

There's something you urgently need to tell him, something that you've never felt the need to say to anyone. You're scared to say it - terrified. But you're even more afraid to let him leave with it unsaid.

You take a deep breath and shout, "Hey, asshole!"

He glances back over his shoulder at you.

I love you.

The cognitive dissonance and mental gymnastics you have to accomplish to justify your continued visits to the monarch in The Dreaming is exhausting (which is kind of perfect because you can get to sleep earlier to see him). To illustrate this, here's an example of the mind-bending conversations you've been having to yourself as of late:

Logical question: If you claim to believe Morpheus is an over-activation of your thalamus from the serum, shouldn't it concern you that you haven't stopped seeing him? Isn't it, at the very least, your scientific duty to report this to either Ryan or Sadie?

Illogical answer: Listen, I'll tell Ryan and Sadie once I get a better idea of what exactly is going on.

Logical follow-up part one: Won't you have a better idea of what's going on if you get their help? And what precisely are you doing to 'get a better idea of what exactly is going on'?

Illogical answer: Obviously, I'm trying to trick my subconscious into telling me what's going on by visiting it regularly and asking it nondescript, open-ended questions. I'll have you know that in my observations, I've noticed patterns. From these patterns, I have developed a hypothesis: if I can show that Dream consistently uses my word root of the day when I visit him - it'll suggest he is indeed a figment of my imagination.

Logical (and now worried) follow-up part two: Haven't you claimed that he exists in your mind from the beginning? Are you questioning that?

Illogical (and shifty) answer: No! I mean… *cough* no. I am not questioning that. That would be… *laughs* crazy, right? So. No. I'm just saying it would be nice to have the data before I bring this to Sadie and Ryan.

Logical follow-up part three: Okaaaay… just one last question: if this is because of the serum, why keep the token under the pillow?

Illogical non-answer: Oh my god! Would you look at the time? It's been lovely chatting with you, but you really need to be going. *shoos rational side of thought away into a hidden corner of your brain and slams the door on it*

With this… unstable foundation as your rationale: "testing your hypothesis," you eagerly visit Morpheus in The Dreaming.

Tuesday's word is a softball:

Fascin (Latin). Charm, bewitch

Fascinate. Fascinator.

You're in a grandiose library, a Beauty and the Beast style library, sitting on the steps of a resplendent burgundy-carpeted staircase. While cautiously thumbing through an original copy of the King James Bible, Morpheus comes and sits next to you, a smug smirk on his face.

"You know, I am responsible for nearly all the stories in here." In response to the skeptical eyebrow you raise at him, he asks, "Do you recall the brothers you passed in the cabin on your way here?"

You chew your bottom lip as you think back, nodding when you remember them bickering before they saw you.

"Cain and Abel. My creations."

When your jaw drops, he chuckles. Making him laugh has your insides feeling all wobbly and melty, which sounds like it feels miserable - but is actually quite delightful.

Taking advantage of his braggadocious mood, you inquire, "How many famous tales and mythologies are you behind?"

He shrugs, "All fiction. My specialty is fairytales."

"Any I would know? Andersen?"

He nods.

"The Grimm brothers?"

He grins.

"Shakespeare?"

"Some." He smooths his robe with his long fingers, feigning modesty.

"Austen? Alcott?"

This takes him off guard. He pauses to peer down at you, dark brows knit together in confusion, "Are you referring to Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott?"

It's you who nods this time.

"But they did not write fairytales, eratos."

"I would argue they wrote the most damaging fairytales of all." When you see you've piqued his interest, you feel obscenely proud of yourself and sit a bit taller.

"Explain," he mimics your demand from the night before.

Gladly. You mentally sit up straight and crack your neck like a boxer about to enter a ring.

"Fairytales with mermaids and princesses and talking wolves, all of those tales are clearly make-believe. Call me unimaginative, but I never honestly thought I would sprout a fishtail and gills. But the magical worlds created by Alcott and Austen are so insidious because they feel so… possible. Reading their stories, I became convinced that there were men in existence who would love women not despite their wit and ambition - but because of it." It becomes necessary for you to stop here and try to swallow the lump that's grown in your throat.

You've never before admitted to yourself your bitterness about your trail of failed relationships. Ever since your first boyfriend in middle school, your "love life" has been an endless string of the same tired narrative.

Different faces, same basic story: Boy meets girl. Boy thinks girl is funny. Boy falls in love with girl. Boy likes that girl is outspoken and ambitious - he uses her as proof that he's "progressive" and "feminist." Boy gets tired of not being girl's first priority. Boy worries that girl's career will overshadow his. Boy becomes resentful of girl. Boy falls out of love with girl.

In this way, the quick-witted, determined, motivated female is reduced to being a novelty in the eyes of her male counterpart. She becomes nothing more than a roadside attraction. A stop before the destination. A story to tell his future well-behaved, manageable partner.

"This has not been your experience?" Morpheus rests a cautious hand on your knee, pulling you out of your reverie. When he sees you're disoriented by his question, he gently reminds you, "You have not encountered men who admire you for your wit and ambition?"

You snort at yourself. To Morpheus, you must sound like the stereotypical scorned woman to him. Maybe that's who you've become.

Fuck it. If I can't be honest with my own subconscious, then who can I be honest with?

"No." You grin sardonically out into the empty expansive library, out to the walls made up of continuous stripes of muted forest green, maroon, and brown book spines. "That has not been my experience. Mr. Darcy, Colonel Brandon, Laurie, they might as well be unicorns. Austen and Alcott knew this when they wrote them. Neither ever married, you know - not that marriage is a measure of love, but it's still telling of their personal experiences."

"Your thought process, eratos, it fascinates me. And there is very little in this world that fascinates me anymore."

Fascinate. Check.

Wednesday's word is a little trickier:

Rubr, -i (Latin). Red, reddish

Rubor. Ruby.

Rubor, in medicine, is the flush that accompanies inflammation and vasodilation. And you're confident, with such a specific word, he won't use 'rubor' unless he truly is a creation of your own mind.

Though you're not sure what you want to happen at this point, you don't know which will be more painful.

If Morpheus is confirmed to be a spectral representation of your thalamus during REM, it will feel like losing a friend. But if he exists… if The Dreaming is real, it will effectively dismantle everything you thought you knew about the human brain. All of your understanding of the brain in sleep and your research will all be brought into question.

This is why, when Morpheus uses the word, you feel both relief and disappointment simultaneously.

He utters it after you ask him, "You've seen me naked, haven't you?" while you are gazing at the tapestries in the throne room, which feature abundant nudity.

The tiny naked bodies stitched into the cloth in every color of flesh you can think of brings to mind poor Julia in the high school classroom. This, in turn, makes you remember all the dreams you've had in your life where you were also caught unexpectedly in your birthday suit.

"Even if I have not, doctor," a playful lilt to his voice, "I would tell you I have to see the rubor on your cheeks."

Rubor. Check.

Sigh...

Inept (Latin). Absurd, foolish

This is what you wake up to on Thursday morning, moments after Dream's rubor comment.

Though you don't typically subscribe to the idea of the "universe" sending you signs, you take this word as one. In your modern understanding of the word, you've always thought of being "inept" as more amateur than absurd or foolish. However, you can use all three terms to describe how you've been managing whatever it is that's been going on in your head while you sleep.

Foolish. Absurd. Inept. Handling yourself like an amateur.

It has to stop.

You're determined to put a stop to it. At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

During your lunch break at work, you send Sadie a text asking if she can meet up after your shift to discuss the "strange side effects" you seem to be having since the sleep study. Within seconds she replies, informing you that she's at a conference and won't be home until late, but that she can meet you tomorrow.

Though you can't be sure it will be your last night having the bizarre and wonderful dreaming experience with your imaginary man-friend, you walk through the gates of Dream's citadel that night with a sense of bittersweet finality.

You meander through the meadow, gathering handfuls of snowdrops, and bury your face in them. Then wrinkle your nose when you remember that you're not particularly fond of floral smells - they remind you of nursing homes.

You say a mental goodbye to the obnoxious raven, Matthew. And jump and wave a farewell to the unicorn in the distance - who doesn't even bother looking up.

Whatever, unicorn. You're not even as cool as a narwhal, and those things actually exist.

But when you see Morpheus, your Dreaming goodbye tour takes a turn, becoming more bitter than sweet.

Though by this time, you've grown accustomed to his unsettling black eyes, you find yourself avoiding them again. Because when you glance at him, an acute stabbing pain radiates from underneath your sternum.

After several moments of you saying mental goodbyes to the throne room, like a fucked up version of the children's book Goodnight Moon (Goodbye pillars, goodbye throne, goodbye naked bodies on the tapestries, goodbye creepy helmet...) Dream finally speaks.

"Where are all your questions tonight, eratos?"

You shrug, set on keeping your eyes glued to the soft merlot velvet of his throne. But he grabs your chin and turns your face to his, overpowering your resolve. While he searches your face, you hold your breath, terrified that any movement you make will break the spell.

"You are melancholy." He declares with a frown, sliding the pad of his thumb across your lower lip, causing you to shiver.

All at once, his face lights up. He straightens as a mischievous smile spreads across his handsome face and exclaims, "I know what will lift your spirits!"

When Morpheus grabs your arm, his citadel falls away. The smooth marble under your feet is replaced with ancient, uneven cobblestone, and you see that he has transported you both to some sort of narrow back alley in…

Where are we?

The buildings surrounding you are of the medieval half-timbered variety. The kind that resembles gingerbread. Like from a fairytale. Outside of the alley, you hear the distinct sounds of a crowd and… an accordion?

You narrow your eyes up at him, "Have you taken me to…Disneyland?"

The look Morpheus gives you is as if you've just asked him if he likes the smell of vomit, "No. I have not brought you to Disneyland, doctor. This," he gestures his hand up toward the buildings, "is The Dreaming's version of Dornstetten, a town in the Northern Black Forest of Deutschland."

"Germany?" You gape at your surroundings.

"Many are dreaming of this village tonight. It is the final day of Oktoberfest. Thus, I reasoned we could visit and remain relatively unnoticed." At this, he frowns down at your pajamas - though "pajamas" might be a generous word for an oversized moth-eaten t-shirt paired with simple cotton underwear - and shakes his head, "This won't do."

In a flash, you are enrobed in a traditional dirndl. You hold the dusky gray apron out to examine the delicate embroidery. Besides the white cotton blouse underneath, the rest of the dress is made with fine onyx material, and the bodice is laced up with a cream-colored ribbon that shimmers like nacre.

The dirndl that Dream has curated for you is a far cry from the gaudy costumes often worn for Halloween. The material is luxurious, intricate embroidered patterns of stars and crescent moons, and the skirt ending just above the knee. Although, the dress still exposes an ample amount of your cleavage.

Instinctively, you press your palm over your chest to cover yourself as you turn to inspect your companion - who is dressed simply in jeans, a t-shirt, and a black jacket. Though you have to admit, pretend-mortal-Morpheus is… mouthwatering, you roll your eyes at him.

"How come you don't have to wear the traditional garb?"

"Lederhosen is not a flattering look for me. Additionally, I had a suspicion you would be divine in this," as Dream's eyes roam across your flesh, they leave searing paths in their wake. He holds his arm out to you, and when you take it, he leans into your ear to mumble, "And I was right."

To draw attention away from the way you instinctively press your thighs together in response to his words, you point down to the shoes you're wearing and shake your head, "I'm not doing heels in cobblestones."

Though he sniffs with amusement, they are replaced with a comfortable pair of boots.

Since you're not much of a 'woo-hoo-party!' type, attending an authentic Oktoberfest has never really been at the top of your bucket list. As such, your expectations are on the stereotypical end of the spectrum.

Some elements in Dornstetten meet those expectations. Polka music, gigantic steins of beer, and of course, the traditional attire worn by many attendees. Yet, many things surprise you. The general atmosphere is less loud, offensive, frat party and more friendly and welcoming.

In the center of the obnoxiously-idealistic-looking town square is a large white canopy over a "Biergarten" with dozens of tables and chairs set up. Vendors lining the square's periphery sell everything from currywurst and gingerbread to hand-carved cuckoo clocks and lace.

Initially, you are excitable, dashing from one vendor to the next. You want to experience the festival with all five senses. You taste the salt on the pretzels, smell the spices in the gingerbread, hear the accordion player do a duet with the woman on the zither, see the intricate details carved into the clocks, and feel the gauzy threads of the lace under your fingertips.

But all at once, your excitement becomes sensory overload, and you begin to deflate.

Sensing this, your guide leads you to sit at a table right at the moment when the twinkling fairy lights under the canopy turn on. As the sun dips behind the horizon, the sweet, innocent cotton-candy-colored clouds mature into richer tones of amethyst, sapphire, and rhodolite, transforming the happy-go-lucky atmosphere into one that is keenly romantic.

It's all so… dreamy. You think without a single ounce of irony.

"I am not the only one with stars in my eyes tonight, eratos." Morpheus takes a sip of his beer and beams graciously at the busty barmaid, who sets a platter of sausages, potatoes, and sauerkraut in the middle of the table.

Then, Dream eagerly digs in, skewering a sausage with his fork and taking a bite. You watch, mesmerized at the way his jaw muscles work. Startling when you realize why this particular moment feels… off.

You've never before observed Morpheus doing mortal things such as eating and drinking.

"Wait. So you eat?"

"Of course I eat." He gestures to the food as evidence. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"It's just… you're not, strictly speaking, human? I mean, I don't know the rules."

Dream nods, speaking around a mouthful of roasted potatoes, "I do not require sustenance for existence. However, it is my responsibility to understand mortal existence."

"So… do you like, feel hunger?"

"What kind of a dream maker would I be if I did not know hunger?"

This revelation exposes a whole new side to Morpheus you hadn't considered before. "Do you feel fear?"

"Yes."

"Sadness?"

Smirking at you from over the brim of his stein, he says, "There she is. My Pandora with her insatiable curiosity."

"Affection?" You ignore him.

He reaches across the table, brushing the corner of your mouth with the back of his knuckles in answer. This causes your face to flood with heat and your lips to tingle. But you don't let this deter you from asking your next question.

In a breathless and terrified whisper, you purr, "Lust?"

As if on cue, his eyes fall to your chest. While he slowly moves his gaze back to your face, his lips part, and your stomach twists.

The festival dissolves. The table between the two of you, the chairs you were sitting on, the music, the laughter - it's gone. The twinkling lights of the canopy have become the stars in a luscious night sky stretching out infinitely above your head.

Morpheus towers in front of you, his chest inches from yours, familiar and very primal darkness in his eyes. Swept along in a tide of uncharacteristic boldness, you reach up and rake your fingers through his tangle of black hair, pushing it off of his forehead.

"Careful, Pandora...," his voice is a low, animalistic warning. And when he runs the tip of his index finger along the black lace trim of your bodice, every cutaneous nerve ending at the tops of your breast lights up.

You shift into the ridiculous embodiment of a wanton woman. You tremble. You whimper. Your eyes flutter closed when he leans forward, pressing his cool cheek to your blazing one, breathing into your ear, "You may accidentally open up something that has been locked away for years. Something that has been hidden away for the sake of humanity."

Considering this, it should be no surprise that in your mind, you've compiled all your subjective sexual experiences and laid them out into an informal bell curve, as shown.

The bottom quartile is labeled 'that was horrible,' the top 'holy fucking shit that was amazing.' Per the definition of a bell curve, most experiences fall within the middle range in the 'meh' to 'great job! high five!' range.

If you are using this metric to grade your sexual experience with Kylo (which might seem weird or even problematic, but you're a biologist for fuckssake, so you definitely are), you have to admit, it's off to a good start - somewhere in the 'WOW!' range.

Maybe this is due to the weeks of sexual tension and emotional foreplay. Or perhaps, by some mysterious mechanism, something in your genetic material calls out to Kylo's and formulates an instinctual, explosive sexual chemistry to encourage copulation. Maybe you just have Stockholm Syndrome.

Whatever it is, you cannot keep your hands and lips and tongues off of each other. In a paradoxical turn of events, this means it's challenging to get undressed at an efficient pace.

In your urgency, you've both become clumsy. While raking his teeth across your bottom lip, Kylo jerks the hem of your shirt up, but when the back of his hand brushes the curve of your breast, he gets distracted. On a moan, he abandons his task to fill his palm with you. Every brush and flex of his fingers only excites you more, your nipples pinching with anticipation.

You want to give him more access, to shed your shirt and your bra. Yet, illogically, the thought of him not touching you is intolerable, even if it is for just a second.

Eventually, between breaths, you've managed to shed your top layers. And once you are down to your underwear, with your lips still connected to Ren's, you press your palm to his chest and move him back so you can sit up.

While he dips to skate his lips across the line of your jaw, you reach back to unhook your bra. When he takes your earlobe between his teeth, you shiver, slipping your arms out of the straps and letting the piece of clothing fall to the side.

Kylo leans back and gazes at you. His eyes darken as they fall upon your freshly exposed chest. His lips part, and his eyebrows raise ever so slightly.

He moves in with his hands. Starting slow, cupping, then brushing a teasing thumb over your nipples - causing the ache in your lower belly to twist.

Meanwhile, you try to pull off Kylo's shirt, your fingers eager to resume the work you'd started in the menagerie. But in your position, it's tricky to do alone. Luckily, after a moment of trying, Kylo leans back and takes it off for you, allowing you to ogle the way his abdominal muscles stretch as his arms move up over his head.

Once he's done, you're left feeling a little dazed. Scanning the slopes of his pectoral muscles, you instantly have the sensation of your lips dehydrating, and you lick them to remedy this.

Kylo groans as if this hurts him, "Fuck. You're so beautiful." Then, like he can't stand to wait for another second, he grasps you to him while simultaneously pushing you back down to the bed with his body.

The pressure and heat of his skin on yours increase your need for him with every passing breath. You arch and fidget against him. And by the time you're both completely undressed, your whole body feels like it's on fire.

You can't remember a time in your life you've wanted anyone or anything more.

Not even donuts.

Not even donuts being brought to you by Kylo Ren.

He pulls his lips from you, holding his body just aloft over you, his forearms supporting his weight. While he shifts his weight to one side so he can sweep his hand back and forth on the insides of your thighs, his eyes search your face. They're heated and starved, and you flex your fingers into the muscle of his back with encouragement.

Although you know it's biologically impossible, it feels as if every single nerve ending on your body is being triggered concurrently. This quiet moment is potent and riddled with tense anticipation. The calm before the storm. Your chests connect and rub against each other with every inhale and become hyper-aware of the muscles in the lower half of your body pulsing with expectation, preparing you for Kylo.

Oddly enough, it's this quiet, mindful moment that pushes this encounter into at least the 98th percentile on the sexual experience bell curve - and he's not even inside of you yet. But he's right there. You can feel him there.

Is he waiting? If so, what for? Is he hesitating? If so, why? Is he teasing? If so, it's working!

The pang for him between your legs is making you feel frenzied. Yet when you try to shimmy your hips up to his, he shifts out of the way. When you wrap your legs around his hips and try to force him down, he resists, all while bending to line your throat with soft, shiver-inducing kisses.

"Kyloooowah," you whimper in frustration, "what the fuck?"

He pulls back and looks down at you, a slightly smug grin on his mouth.

"What are you doing?" You growl.

You can't decide if his response is the most romantic, most vain, or most ludicrous thing you've ever heard. But after he leans forward to give you yet another delicious, melty kiss, he pulls back, brushes the hair back from your face, and discloses, "I'm waiting until you want me as bad as I want you."

You splutter out a humorless laugh and groan, "When will that be?"

"Truthfully, probably never."

Rolling your eyes, you exclaim, "Your ego is making you a sadist!"

"Maybe." He bends to circle your nipple with his tongue. You seize fistfuls of his hair and push yourself against him. He looks up at you from under heavy-lidded eyes, "Or maybe I've been one all along."

Probably.

"Kylo…," you exhale as you watch him torture you by blowing on your sensitive skin that he just wet with his tongue, making an 'O' with his lips.

"I've never wanted anything as bad as I want you inside of me right now." The annoyance is gone from your voice, replaced with desperation. You sound pitiful and frayed, and you do something you've never done in bed with a man. You beg. "Please."

This time, when he looks at you, Kylo isn't smiling anymore. In fact, his expression is focused, his jaw tense with determination. Hooking his hand behind your knee, he hikes your thigh up over his hip, and his lips part slightly on a long, slow exhale as he pushes inside of you.

At this point, Kylo is done with his powerplay. He's wholly submitted to you, giving himself over entirely to your direction. He matches your rhythm and pacing, somehow knowing exactly what your body craves. Almost as if he can read your mind.

Oh yeah...

Very rapidly, this sex reaches the upper quartile of the bell curve. It's officially in the 'holy fucking shit, this is amazing' category. But then, something happens that pushes the experience entirely off the bell curve. Making it an outlier, or perhaps even creating a whole new metric in which you measure sex.

This happens when you're feeling the tell-tale tightening in your lower belly when every sensation starts to amplify to the point it's nearly overwhelming. But you know from experience to trust the process. You've done this enough to recognize that these are the signs your body sends you when you're approaching bliss. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, retreating into the rhythm.

Kylo runs his hand down your neck and, in a low voice, orders you to, "Look at me."

You obey, and when you do, you are overcome with such a strong feeling of… what?

What is it?

Could it just be the web of attachment that you share? Never before have you felt such a dichotomy of absolute vulnerability and security.

It causes palpitations. It makes your eyes sting.

What the hell? I'm not the person who cries during sex. That person is weird. No one likes that person. The person who cries during sex is also the person who describes sex as 'making love.' *shudder*

Wait…

In your mind, "making love" was a term used by one of two people: those who viewed sex in an over-romanticized unrealistic way or people over the age of fifty to deliver maximum cringe.

But it's not. It's real. Not only is it real, but it's what you're doing with Kylo.

There was a reason the whole affair has veered off from your standard curve - it's not the same thing. Well, mechanically speaking, it is. But, with Kylo, there are so many feelings involved now.

It's not just fucking. It's not simply sex.

It's layered and complex, and you'd think that the emotions would just gum up the works - that it would somehow lessen the physical experience of it. You'd think that, but you'd be so fucking wrong.

Interpreting your silence, your mother groans and says, “Baby, you’ll never get yourself a man if you’re always dressin’ like one of those girls I see at the mall. The ones who are always lookin’ like they’re dressed for Halloween.”

You roll your eyes.

Your mother is a southern belle through and through, from a wealthy Georgia family. She met and fell in love with your father, a Smallville wheat-farmer when she was just nineteen years old and cannot comprehend how a woman can exist without being on a constant mission to, ‘Get herself a man.’ It’s made for some awkward and borderline volatile conversations over the years, especially when your cousin Sheila came to Thanksgiving with her girlfriend.

On the day you graduated medical school your mother lamented, “I just don’t understand how you could go four whole years in there and come out the otherside without a doctor husband.” You’d tried to point out to her that having a ‘doctor husband’ wouldn’t be quite so impressive now that you were a doctor yourself, but she didn’t take the hint.

“And don’t you go rollin’ those eyes at me, missy.”

Pulling the phone from your ear, you double check the camera isn’t on. It’s not. What the hell?

“All I’m sayin’ is the colorful flowers attract more honey bees.”

There’s a fraction of a second where you debate telling her that the honey bees that collect nectar from flowers are all female, but ultimately decide against it. “Mama, it’s nothing like that. Black just goes with everything. It’s more practical.”

“You think men want practical women? You think Bruce Wayne wants a practical woman?”

“Mama!”

You shouldn’t be shocked that she somehow found out that the richest bachelor in Gotham would be at the Charity Ball tonight. The woman is like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out any ‘eligible bachelors.’ She has no boundaries, no restraint, and is prone to making herself, and by proxy you, ridiculous.

“What?” The faux innocence in her voice enrages you. “Ada from down the road did a little snoopin’ on that Facebook and found the guest list. There’s no crime in that. Plus, what do you expect me to do?” She’s now worked herself into being defensive. Next up: guilt trip. “My baby girl moves all the way out to Gotham and I don’t have any idea what she gets up to or who she sees. You don’t have children so you don’t understand what that does to a mama’s heart.”

This time when you roll your eyes she doesn’t call you out on it.

You love your mother, you really do. She’s supported you in every extra-curricular you’ve ever done, snuggled into bed with you whenever you woke up with a nightmare, wiped away your tears, and bandaged your scraped knees. But the woman drives you up a wall and has an uncanny ability to press every single one of your buttons. Although you’d never tell her this, she’s one of the main reasons you took a job over one thousand miles away from your hometown. From this distance, you have a little bit more control on the relationship and when you’re reached your limit - as you have now - you can make an excuse to get off the phone.

“Hey mama, I’ve got to run. I don’t want to be late for the party.”

“Alright, love you, baby. Remember, men like Mr. Wayne don’t like practical women.”

You snort, thinking of the tabloid magazine covers you’ve passed by in lines at the grocery store over the years. You can picture the billionaire walking out of clubs with women in sky high platforms and sparkling dresses.

“That, I think, is something we can finally agree on, mama. Mr. Wayne does not like practical women.”

. . .

Gotham Opera House is a stunning neoclassical building located in the Upper West Side of the city, a thirty minute ride on the subway from your apartment.

By the time you are walking into the baroque ballroom inside the Opera House, you’re regretting your decision to wear heels. They’re strappy, uncomfortable things, an impulse purchase that you’ve only worn once before. It was a last minute decision to put them on, along with the dramatic deep-plum, nearly-black lipstick - a passive middle finger to your mother. Knowing that, if she could see you, she’d be clutching her pearls at your interpretation of her suggestion to be less practical.

There are two things you are trying to avoid upon walking into the Charity Ball: Gawking at the ornate gold embellishments in the vast, luxurious room like an uncultured bumpkin. And appearing as if you’re seeking out conversation with a stranger.

This leaves you unsure of where to put your eyes, or in which direction to walk and you are relieved when you hear the familiar bellowing laugh of Ron. You follow the sound of his voice across the dancefloor to one of the tables. Once you see who he’s talking to, you regret your decision to home in on him and pivot to go the opposite direction.

Sadly, you’re too late. He’s seen you.

“Smallville? Is that you?”

You force a cordial smile on your face before you turn back to your boss and the man he is speaking to - Connor McFaden, the Gotham city coroner.

A coroner and a medical examiner are not the same thing. A fact that, you’re ashamed to admit, you didn’t know until you were in medical school. A coroner is an elected official who has the power to deem a death worthy of further investigation. They work within the sheriff's department and are not required to have any formal medical education… or any formal education outside of a high school diploma and a two week training course after being elected.

When you found this out during one of your forensic pathology lectures, you were shocked. You couldn’t believe that such an obviously problematic system could be allowed to exist. You’d asked the professor, ‘If there’s someone working in the police department who has the power to determine which bodies merit further investigation, can’t that facilitate police corruption?’ In short, the answer you received was: yes. In corrupt police departments a coroner is often instrumental in making sure certain bodies don’t make it to the medical examiners. And although you are from a small town, you’re not naive enough to think GCPD is anything but corrupt.

Gotham’s coroner, Connor McFaden, is a small, fierce, bald man with a textbook Napoleon complex. He has a persistent, burnt orange five o’clock shadow and lashes and brows so pale, they give his eyes the illusion of being beadier than they truly are.

“Christ, Smallville, I barely recognized you!” Much to your displeasure, Connor has adopted Ron’s nickname for you. The way he smiles at you, showing you all of his teeth, in his black and white tux - he reminds you of a badger.

“You do clean up nice.” Ron nods in approval. Your skin is crawling under their gaze and once again you are regretting your impractical decisions.

Ron’s wife Caroline comes to your rescue, whacking her husband upside the head in the endearing way that only couples who’ve been together for decades seem to be able to pull off.

“Don’t leer at her like a creepy old man, Ronnie!” Caroline hisses at him and then beckons you over to the empty seat beside her, “Come here, darling. Sit with us. Let’s order you a drink.” Though you don’t want to be trapped at a table with Connor McFadden, you don’t really know anyone else at the ball.

The table fits eight and with your presence, it’s full. There’s Dr. Amin, one of ME’s from work and his partner, plus another couple who are introduced to you as Commissioner Jim Gordon and his wife Barbra. It makes you uneasy that you and Connor are the only two unpaired at the table and because of this, it’s difficult for you to settle in until you take several large sips of the whiskey sour you ordered.

“Doctor,” Connor addresses you his weasley, too-loud voice from across the table, “Ron here was just telling me that you’ve been considerin’ a career change. Whaddya think, Gordon? Would the girl make for a good detective?”

Your spine stiffens and you look toward your boss, a sensation of agitation and betrayal making your skin prickle and your fingers tingle. You reach out and grab your drink to give them something to do.

So much for ‘settling in.’

Commissioner Gordon, simply shoots McFaden a withering look over his glasses. Gordon clearly wants nothing to do with whatever the coroner is saying and you’re happy at least one other person at the table finds the man ridiculous. Perhaps he got trapped here like you. Why else would a police commissioner be sitting at a table full of medical examiners and the coroner?

With the smooth burn of the whiskey still warming the back of your throat, you summon the courage to retort, “You have to forgive me, Connor. I was under the impression that it was part of a medical examiner’s job to address concerning... patterns that they notice. But what would I know? I’ve only had nine years of education to prepare me for this. Remind me: where did you go to college again, McFaden?”

In the following silence, he narrows his eyes at you, but instead of warning you off, it just fires you up.

Understanding that the US education system is an institution that has been set up to cater to privilege, you usually consciously avoid lording it over people. However, you decide to make an exception for Connor.

“Oh right…,” You smile at him, “You dropped out of college after… remind me, did you make it a full semester?”

Ron chokes on his drink, coughing into his napkin until his face is as red as a cherry. The whole time, you keep your eyes fixed on the angry little badger in front of you. You refuse to be the first one to look away. This moment is critical in establishing yourself as someone who won’t be walked on by the coroner. Which is why you are so annoyed when Ron distracts you by leaning over and urgently whispering in your ear, “Here he comes. Smile pretty, Smallville, we need to make a good first impression.”

When you see who he means, it feels like you’ve been punched in the gut. The young billionaire is weaving his way through the tables, looking like… well, a billion bucks in his tuxedo.

Smile pretty, Smallville.

Is it possible that Ron knew exactly what he was saying when he told you that you needed to ‘charm Bruce Wayne’s pants off’? Did Ron hire you because of your skills as a medical examiner or did he want a fresh young face to present to potential donors?

Mr. Wayne approaches the table, patting Commissioner Gordon on the back and leaning down to say something into his ear. Then he flashes a cocky grin at the rest of the table.

The man has the pretty face of a rich boy raised with all the benefits of perfect nutrition, a lifetime in club sports, and the best healthcare and dentistry money could buy. His mouth is made up of graceful but definite swooping lines, his cheekbones are lofty, his skin is flawless and smooth, and his teeth white and straight.

You can’t stop looking at him, but you don’t see him. Not really. You’re thinking about the conversation you had with your mom, about Ron breaking your trust and talking to McFaden about the deaths you’d been concerned about.

You’re wondering if anyone has ever taken you seriously, you’re wondering if it mattered what you wore or how you talked or how much education you had. It’s a difficult pill to swallow, the realization that as long as you were in this body, no one would listen, no one would take you seriously, you’d have no authority.

The table has gone quiet and you register that all eight pairs of eyes are resting expectantly on you. You’re up. Smile pretty, Smallville. You don’t know what your face looks like, but you know you couldn’t smile pretty even if you’d wanted to.

When you meet Bruce Wayne’s gaze, his forehead creases in… what? Concern? Disgust? From what little you know of him, you assume it is the latter.

“If you’ll excuse me…,” Rising from your seat with ungraceful desperation, your thighs hit the table and jostle it. As you walk away, you hear the murmurs from your table, but you don’t turn around.

Exiting the ballroom, you turn right then proceed through a maze of red carpeted hallways and corridors. Your decisions on which direction to head are arbitrary and you don’t stop until you reach a narrow, darkened staircase.

You climb halfway up, and once you feel hidden away enough, you sit down and finally release the knot that has been growing in your throat. Like anything growing that is forced down, the sob rips out violently initially, in an effort to rapidly reduce the pressure in your chest. When the first whining noises that come out of you echo back to your ears, you imagine your father’s voice asking you if it is ‘that time of the month?’ and almost laugh. Anytime a female had an emotion around your father, this would be his go-to response. Over the years, it’s become a sort of joke, but the message is clear: Women are weak, women lack control.

Crying alone in an Opera House stairwell, you decide something: you’re going to look for a different job. You aren’t happy at OCME Gotham, you are met with resistance anytime you try to do your job. Other than your elderly neighbor, you haven’t had much time to make any friends here in Gotham, but you have friends from residency with jobs up and down the East Coast.

You are resolved: You’re going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and tomorrow you are going to find yourself a new job. As if marking the momentous occasion, a short series of pops and bangs rings out from up the stairs.

With nothing better to do, you decide to investigate. The stairs lead to a metal door that opens to a small utility balcony surrounding the dome of the Opera House. It’s some early fireworks being set off from the surrounding buildings.

The industrial diamond plate flooring and the skinny, non-decorative railings tell you this balcony isn’t meant for the public. But it provides a breathtaking view of a city you’ve just decided to leave, so you’re determined to have this moment. In spite of the bitter cold biting at your bare arms, neck, and chest, you lean against the railing and gaze out at the vibrant city lights.

“You found my hiding spot.”

“Jehosaphat!”

You start so hard that you teeter precariously in your heels and Bruce Wayne moves from the cream-painted sandstone he was leaning against to steady you. He grips both your forearms and you can’t help but notice how warm they are against your goose pimpled flesh.

“You’re freezing.” He observes, his eyes roving around the swathes of your exposed skin. “Let’s get you inside.”

All you can do is shake your head since you’re still trying to settle the racing of your heart and your chattering teeth. He furrows his brow and scratches the back of his head, looking down at you like you are a problem he needs to solve.

You didn’t realize until now how tall Bruce Wayne is. As illogical as it is, his pretty-boy features have distracted you from his size. But at close range, you are forced to appreciate the way he towers over you.

In this same vein, you discern that his face isn’t quite as ‘pretty’ as you’d thought. From here you can make out that the bridge of his nose has a subtle bend to it, characteristic of one too many breaks. The angle of his jaw is severe, his chin is strong, his brows thick, and his deep indigo eyes are razor-sharp.

“Fine.” He sighs and then shrugs off his coat, “But put this on.”

The last thing you want to do, with your already wounded ego, is accept the coat of this man like some feeble damsel in distress. But when he throws it over your shoulders and you feel the warmth from his body that still permeates the fibers, you snuggle into it.

It smells like him. You’d thought a man like Wayne would smell like an obnoxious, exorbitant, imported cologne, something heady, unfamiliar, and pretentiously herbaceous. But he doesn’t. His scent is subtle and intriguing and clean. Not fresh linen clean or soap clean, but like the air smells right after a rainstorm and like dewy grass and salt and earth.

“You’re one of the medical examiners, right?” He leans on the railing, putting his forearms against the top bar, surveying the plaza below as if he were watching for anyone up to no good.

You mirror his movement and, finally in control of your voice, answer, “I am.”

“You’re not from Gotham, are you?”

Even though he’s not looking at you, he must sense the way you prickle at his question. Because before you can answer, he twists his head to you, a shit-eating grin on his face, “‘Jehosaphat’?”

“Oh no!” You groan, hiding your face in your palms. At least the flush of shame will warm you. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did.” His chuckle is what gets you laughing at yourself at last.

How seriously you’ve been taking yourself tonight. It’s always good to step back and see that everything is ridiculous. The shoes your wearing are ridiculous, your mother is ridiculous, Ron is ridiculous, Connor McFaden is ridiculous, this whole Charity Ball is ridiculous. Better to laugh at a situation than to cry.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks after a moment.

“Feeling sorry for myself.” There’s no reason for you not to tell the truth, after tonight you don’t anticipate seeing Bruce Wayne ever again. You glance down at his watch and see that it’s about five minutes to midnight, “What about you, Mr. Wayne? Shouldn’t you be spending the New Year dancing the night away with a beautiful woman, sipping glasses of Dom?”

When his face falls, you worry you’ve hit a nerve. You’d meant to keep up the teasing back-and-forth dynamic he’d started but perhaps you’d taken it too far?

“I’m just like anyone else, doctor. I enjoy a good self-indulgent sulk from time to time. Plus, it’s the best seat in the house to watch the fireworks.”

“That’s fair.”

“Besides,” he turns and walks back over to where he was leaning against the dome before, bending to pick something up, “Why should I sip Dom out of glasses when I could drink from the bottle?”

He holds up the green glass bottle triumphantly as he strides back over to the railing with you and you cover your mouth with your hand to hide your smile.

“What do you say, Quince? Want to drown your sorrows in a $200 bottle of champagne with me?”

“Quince?” You wrinkle your nose as you watch him peel off the foil and pop the cork gracefully in his palm, as if he opened bottles of Dom Perignon every night.

“You know? Quincy M.E.? The TV show from the 70’s, 80’s about the medical examiner?”

You shake your head as he takes a long drink from the bottle, “Never heard of it.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and hands you the bottle. You grasp it carefully, one hand on the neck and another supporting the base, as if it were dynamite.

“I’ve also never tasted $200 champagne.” You admit and then take a delicate sip.

“What do you think?”

“Hmm…,” It bubbles delightfully on your tongue. But then again, so does all champagne. You’re aware of his eyes on you and you pretend to think, then bring the mouth of the bottle to your nose and inhale, “I’m detecting floral notes as well as… are those undertones of stone fruit?”

He gives you a sideways glance and you sniff with amusement, “I’m joking. It just tastes like regular champagne to me.” You hand the bottle back to him, “Sorry. It’s probably wasted on me.”

The corners of his mouth tighten and you can tell from the way his eyes shine that he’s holding back a laugh. It makes your insides feel as bubbly as the Dom on your tongue. Perhaps it’s this feeling that drives you to tell him, “Did you know not one, but two people tried to pimp me out to you tonight, Mr. Wayne?”

“Is that so?”

When he passes the bottle back to you, you take a hearty sip this time, widening your eyes and nodding at him as you do. “Oh yes,” you cough from the fizzing in your sinuses and your eyes water, “My mom seems to think you’ll make me a wonderful husband and I’m pretty sure my boss thinks that I can convince you, with my feminine wiles, to give the OCME a large donation.”

“Your mother will be sad to know that I won’t make anyone a good husband. And as for your boss, I didn’t realize that solicitation was one of the responsibilities of a medical examiner.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

You pass the bottle back and forth a few more times in the following silence. It’s not an awkward silence. Just a shared moment of reprieve between two people hidden away on top of the world. When the countdown begins you hear it shouted in the plaza below.

Ten!

Your phone vibrates in the pocket of your dress (never buy a dress without pockets).

Nine!

It’s a text from one of the graveyard mortuary techs, Mari.

Eight!

She says there’s a body.

Seven!

It’s a young woman, late twenties.

Six!

First responders suspect sudden cardiac death.

Five!

There is no reported history of previous heart conditions.

Four!

There are no visible signs of trauma.

Three!

No one can get a hold of McFaden, so they brought the body straight to the OCME just in case.

Two!

Bruce Wayne grips your chin and turns your face to his. There’s a question in his eyes.

One!

The decedent is a woman. She’s young, only a year older than you, and she was found dead in her bed by her cellmate in an Arkham holding cell. Other than a puckered pink scar on the skin behind her chin and the freckles that dust her nose and shoulders, her skin is blemish free and smooth as porcelain. There’s no sign of track marks, no bruising around her neck, she doesn’t even have bumps on her knees or elbows that are commonly acquired in childhood from falling off bikes or scooters. You can’t see or feel any swelling in her abdomen and note no hepatomegaly or splenomegaly - swelling of liver or spleen.

For a moment you gaze at the round cherubic face of the woman on your table. The inside border of her small, heart-shaped lips have the blue hypoxic hue that all decedents do. What would she tell you if she could talk?

What is your story, Dr. Jones?

“I’m ready with the scalpel when you are, doctor.” Your tech today is Jed, a young pre-med student. Jed’s appearance and personality is generic and unmemorable, a stock photo of a person, but he is an efficient and thorough worker.

“Pictures taken?”

When he nods, you put on your face shield and reach across the table to take the scalpel from him. Jed has drawn on the Y for you with faint dotted lines. The two arms extending out right beneath Dr. Jones’ breasts and up to her shoulder joints.

You’re not sure if he does this with the other medical examiners in the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of the City of Gotham (or OCME Gotham for short), but you decide not to take offense. First, because you still like the lines. They give you something to focus on. When you’re following lines you can pretend you’re just connecting the dots to make a picture instead of opening a body. Second, because you are the newest and most inexperienced ME in the office and you, truthfully, probably still need the lines.

“Saw?” he asks.

“Saw.” You concur. While handing him the scalpel you crook your neck awkwardly to scratch an itch on your ear with the shoulder of the light blue polyethylene disposable gown you wear over your scrubs. Scratching an itch with soiled gloves is a mistake you only need to make once.

After five years of training plus eight months on the job, the weight of the bone saw in your palm is as familiar as the hand of a loved one. You don’t even need to look at it to turn it on and feel it come to life in your grip. It’s been years since you’ve shivered at the way the vibrations travel through your arm when meeting the resistance of the bone or recoiled at the crack of the breastplate being forced open.

As soon as you get a look inside of Dr. Jones’ thoracic cavity, you are pretty sure you know what her cause of death is. Black-maroon, semi-congealed blood surrounds her healthy pink, deflated lungs in clumps, like a gelatinous packing peanuts.

Before you hold your hand out for the scalpel, you take a step back and allow Jed to take a picture. This is one of the reasons why you like working with Jed, some techs get annoyed by your by-the-book methods of doing an autopsy, but he seems to be as naturally thorough as you.

“Do you think it’s another one?” He asks as you slice the soft tissue between the cartilaginous rings on the left primary bronchi, detaching the lung.

“It sure looks like it from here, doesn’t it?”

He takes the lung from you, keeping his eyes fixated on the sac that holds the heart until he turns away to weigh the organ.

“What are the odds?” he huffs over his shoulder.

“I don’t know. Pretty low.”

The temperature of a dead body used to be deeply unsettling to you. Now, you barely noticed as you slide some cold, gooey blood off of the fibrous tissue that makes up the outside of the pericardium with your gloved fingers.

The heart is like a present wrapped in three layers of tissue and you systematically cut and fold back each layer one at a time, working slowly to make sure you don’t lacerate the actual heart with your scalpel in the process.

“Gross inspection of pericardium. All three layers appear healthy with minimal to no inflammation,” you press your chin down and mumble into the small recorder attached to the front of your gown.

You remember the first time you saw a human heart on a field trip in middle school. It’d shocked you how small it was. How could something so vital for survival be no larger than your two fists put together? How could a muscle of this size generate enough force to supply your whole body with blood?

It takes more swiping and clearing of congealed blood before you locate the rupture. “Type A aortic dissection, right near the root of the ascending aorta.”

Hearing your words, Jed abandons the lung on the aluminum dissecting tray and walks over to the body, leaning over and peering down at the hole that has torn through the largest artery in the body.

“Another sudden cardiac death?” He asks.

You nod, stepping back to look at the body opened on your table.

“Did you see anything about previous heart problems in her file?”

“No, but I just skimmed it.” Jed is taking pictures of Sadie Jones’ heart with the official autopsy camera.

“Me too.” You admit.

The OCME Gotham receives an average of nine thousand bodies a year. That’s seven hundred and fifty bodies a month, or twenty five bodies a day. Because of recent budget cuts, you’re severely understaffed for a city this size, with only twenty two medical examiners and fifty mortuary technicians. This means everyone is either feeling overworked, underappreciated, and bitter, or they’ve given up and do the bare minimum.

A wave of exhaustion and frustration crashes over you and you ball your hands into fists to resist an urge to slide them down your face. Assuming that you’re able to rule out all other causes, Dr. Jones will be the third woman in less than two months on your table who will have SCD (sudden cardiac death) by aortic dissection listed as her cause of death. And if her case is anything like the others, she’ll have no signs of any pre-existing heart condition, no congenital abnormalities, no elastic tissue defects, and no external chest trauma.

The rest of the autopsy passes without a hitch. Her liver and kidneys are beautiful specimens. They don’t even show the usual wear and tear common of a woman her age from the occasional overindulgence of alcohol or over-the-counter pain medications. Her lungs are clear and pristine, and her blood vessels damage free. Preliminary toxicology comes back clean and from the state of her organs you’d be shocked if the more in-depth reports would come back with anything suspicious.

For a moment, you gaze at the crown of her head. Then you snap off your gloves, pull off your gown and shield, and head straight to Ron’s office.

. . .

Dr. Ronald Major has the kind of face that a caricature artist would love. The way the end of his bulbous nose peeks out over the top of his big salt and pepper moustache and the bushy eyebrows that dominate his heavy brow brings to mind a Yosemite Sam or maybe a Captain Hook.

When Ron (as he prefers his staff to call him) looks up from his paperwork to see you walking in, his already weary face slumps. It’s not that the chief medical examiner is unfriendly, he’s simply under a lot of pressure. The man puts the CME in the OCME Gotham and as such bears the responsibility for the aforementioned nine thousand bodies a year. To say he’s bone-tired would be an understatement.

“Make it quick, Smallville. The charity ball is tonight and I’ve got more work to do than a sex worker on dime night.” He says by way of greeting.

Even though he can be a grouchy bastard, and his manner of speaking can be… well, offensive to say the least, his constant use of inappropriate and sometimes confusing idioms reminds you of your family back home.

The top of his desk is hidden by a small mountain range of paperwork and you place your laptop on the peak of one of the stacks. You turn the computer at an angle and lean over so you can both see the file you have pulled up.

After several seconds of scrolling through what you’ve assembled on Sadie Jones, he grumbles, “What am I looking at here? It seems to me like an open and shut case.”

“A perfectly healthy young woman with no reported history of heart issues, no physical evidence of heart issues, dies of a freak aortic dissection two days before she’s supposed to testify against the Falcone family? This is what you’d call an ‘open and shut’ case?”

“Did you find anything else on the body? Any marks to suggest foul play?”

The question is rhetorical. He read the summary of your findings and knows as well as you do that you didn’t, but you answer anyway, “No. But this is the third body on my table like this in less than two months, Ron. Aortic dissection without any previous indication is... extremely rare.” You want to say ‘unheard of’ but know better than that. One of the first lessons you learned in medical school is nothing is ‘unheard of.’

“In a city as big as Gotham, the ‘extremely rare’ can seem disproportionately represented, Smallville.” Perhaps he calls you by the name of your hometown to remind you of your humble beginnings in cases such as these, but he’s also used it in an endearing context, so you try not to let it get under your skin. Yet you can feel yourself flush, your confidence starting to waver.

“Still. Are we just supposed to ignore the fact that she drops dead right before a hearing?”

“That isn’t our job. We’re not detectives.”

“Aren’t we though? Isn’t it our job to investigate the cause of death?”

Ron groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. You feel guilty and can hear your mother’s voice telling you to ‘stop being a pain in the ass,’ but then you remember the way Sadie’s strawberry blonde curls gleamed under the fluorescent lights like expensive rose gold. You think back to the full lips and rich chestnut skin of the woman a few weeks back and the perfectly manicured nails, with tiny daisies painted on the thumbs, of the one before her. These women deserve an explanation.

“Do you know what Dr. Jones did?”

When you don’t respond he continues, “Sadie Jones assisted a convicted murderer’s escape from Arkham, she helped him kidnap and torture her colleague and friend. In addition, she’s been implicated in unethical research, and extortion.”

You tilt your chin up stubbornly, “Does it matter? It’s not my job to pass judgement. It’s my job to figure out how they died. If there’s a disease or something more… nefarious out there that’s making people drop dead, it’s our responsibility to alert the public, isn’t it?”

“We already have enough on our table. The last thing we need is a starry-eyed medical examiner straight out of residency who thinks she can change the world unnecessarily complicating uncomplicated deaths.”

The flinch at Ron’s words is reflexive, and unfortunately, he sees it. His face softens and you hate that you made yourself look so fragile.

Not only are you one of only six female medical examiners working in the OCME, but you’re the youngest by almost a decade. To be taken seriously you actively hide your accent, have stopped smiling as much, and have thrown out any colorful clothing. Even after all that, you’re still here, being looked at with those sympathetic ‘oh honey’ eyes.

It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to scream that it makes you want to cry.

“Listen, Smallville, I know you mean well. I do. But you’re playing in the big leagues now and the quicker you learn to not draw conclusions where there aren’t any, the better. To the rest of the world Gotham looks like a city of villains where every other death is a homicide, but that’s not the case.”

You have more to say, but you don’t trust yourself not to cry, so you firm your jaw and nod.

“Atta girl.” Ron pats your hand, making you feel tiny and like a child.

Before you can leave his office he reminds you about the NYE Charity Ball for GCPD tonight. “Bruce Wayne is supposed to be there, and we need all hands on deck to charm his pants off. We need that money of his.”

Kylo has a bowl of fruit and a platter of pastries sent up to his quarters, and a droid sets them up at the small table in his bedroom. After the droid leaves, you begin your interrogation between crisp bites of Gungan swamp apples and sips of tea.

"What did you do back there to Hux? Was it a Jedi mind-trick? Is it possible to do that if you're not a Jedi? You're not a Jedi, right? Also, if you can do that, why can't you just make Hux forget about how he owns me and let me be free?"

You're not going easy on Kylo, but he just stretches his back, cracks his neck, and dives right in, answering your questions in the same order you asked them. "What happened back there was what is commonly referred to as a 'Jedi mind trick.’ Not only Jedi's can do them though. As you have correctly observed, I am not a Jedi. But I was training to be one when I was younger."

He stops here to take a swig of his coffee. You assumed he took it black. You assumed wrong. In fact, you've never seen anyone put so much sugar into a drink.

Kylo Ren has a sweet tooth. A tidbit of information that brings you more joy than it probably should.

"To answer your other questions, you have to understand midichlorians. Do you know much about how midichlorians work in terms of biology?"

"Not really." You admit, "I never really needed to know about them since most of my research has been on insects and arthropods. There's not really any literature on those particular organisms and midichlorians…," You make a mental note to look up if there's ever been any research done on midichlorians and arthropods. "But I have been looking into them more recently. From what I've gathered, they function similarly to the functional units of muscle cells in that they require energy and can become stronger with training. But they are also similar to neurons in the sense that they can't regenerate or be created. If you have them, you get the amount you were born with, and that's all. Right?"

He nods, takes a deep breath, and announces, "Not many people know this, but my mother was a Skywalker."

There's a few beats of silence in which it becomes clear that he's expecting you to have some sort of reaction.

You stare blankly at him over your tea and shake your head once. His eyebrows shoot up, "Seriously? Luke? Leia? Anakin?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I was homeschooled by my aunts for the most part. I grew up learning about botany and physics. Not Star Wars."

Kylo's mouth twists to the side in an affectionate half-smile, "Okaaaay… What about Darth Vader?"

"Oh!" You clap your hands, excited to finally understand something, "Well yeah! Everyone's heard of him!"

"Darth Vader is Anakin Skywalker. He's my grandfather."

While taking a bite of a danish, you think back to the pictures of Darth Vader in books you saw in the history class your university required. Black cape, black mask. "Ah. I can see the resemblance." You snort at your own joke.

"As I was saying," Mr. Moody narrows his eyes at you, "The Skywalkers have the highest levels of midichlorians ever recorded."

"So you're telling me you inherited a shit ton of midichlorians from your mom?"

He smirks, "Basically. But it doesn't really matter how many midichlorians you have if you aren't trained in using them properly. There will be a variety of things that determine your skill in manipulating The Force. The number of midichlorians you have, your training, and your natural abilities. Some people are better at using The Force in combat than others, some have been known to be skilled at electrical conductance, and others are better at manipulating what others think - or as you called it, doing 'Jedi mind tricks.' Those are not my niche, and because of that, it takes me more energy to do them. I can only do very simple persuasion and short-term memory erasures, and even those drain me quickly."

"So what you're saying is, you wouldn't be able to make Hux forget something as monumental as me being his prisoner."

He looks down at his coffee and shakes his head, "Trust me, if I could, I would have done that weeks ago."

You frown, but a question you're dying to ask keeps you from being upset for too long. "What is your niche?"

This perks him up a bit. He leans forward in a conspiratorial fashion, an adorable, mischievous half-smile on his lips, "Reading minds."

Oooooh yeah!

"You were going to tell me about that!"

This kicks off phase two of your interrogation: "You said that you can read mine, 'sometimes.' What did you mean by that? Can you read everyone's mind? If so, is it loud? Do you love it? Does it make you crazy? Is it obnoxious?"

"You mean more obnoxious than your never-ending questions?" He teases.

You're about to kick him playfully under the table, but he catches your foot and brings it up into his lap. Then he proceeds to give you a foot rub as if it's the most natural thing in the world. You swallow hard.

Be cool. Don't startle him.

"I can see and hear well-defined, explicit thoughts and feelings without much, or any, effort. But if someone has defenses up or if someone is like you - with an overactive, complex, and somewhat disorganized thought process, it gets muddy, and it takes some extra effort on my part to get in."

You're not exactly sure how to take being told your thoughts are disorganized. (What about all of my lists?) But you have more pressing questions to ask, "When you say it takes you 'effort to get in,' what exactly does that entail? Can you show me?"

His hands stop moving on your foot and he chews the insides of his cheeks, "Are you sure? It's not exactly pleasant to feel someone in your mind."

Your responding nod is probably too enthusiastic for someone about to have their mind read by a man who's starred in more than his fair share of your dirty daydreams. But you aren't thinking about that. You're just interested in finding out all you can about how this all works. How the force works. How it fits into the biological world. How Kylo Ren works. You want to know it all.

Kylo instructs you to lay down on the bed and close your eyes. You do.

"Relax." His voice is deep and close to your ear. A shiver runs down your spine, and you squirm.

Was that him? Is that what it feels like? It's nice...

"No." He replies to your unasked question, "I believe that was just your body’s reaction to my voice."

Oh. You blush.

"The easiest way to get in is to create an entry point." He explains, then asks, "You sure you still want to do this? You don't have to."

You bite your lip but nod once in affirmation.

"Okay. Think of your childhood home."

You go into your memories and pull up a picture of the house your aunts raised you in. It's built into the side of some black cliffs, with a black sand beach stretching out in front of you and a field of deep green grass behind you. The ocean waves crashing onto the beach are the same ash color as the sky, and the atmosphere is thick with mist. Above your head, there's a pearly, ethereal streak from an asteroid belt that circles the planet.

It's a sanctuary, it's peaceful, it's safe, but it's also lonely.

You feel him then, entering your mind. It's not painful per se, more exposing than anything. Like someone has walked in on you naked, and you can't find anything to cover up with.

"You grew up on Lah'mu?" He asks, but the sensation of him mentally reaching further in prevents you from answering.

You feel him shuffling through your stack of memories of your childhood on Lah'mu.

Most of them are memories of you reading. Kylo watches you grow up with your head buried in books. He sees you reading about the shells of marine invertebrates you'd find on the beach, reading at the mouth of a crater about the pros and cons between the iron-containing hemoglobin versus the copper-containing hemocyanin, reading in your bed late into the night about how to construct the most productive beehive according to science.

He watches your aunts teach you lesson after lesson on evolution, water cycles, carbon cycles, genetics, biochemistry, physics.

Then he observes you submit for and win a research scholarship when you're sixteen. Then he sees you beg your aunts to let you go to Coruscant for University. He bears witness to your heartbreak and disappointment when they deny your request. And finally, he sees you run away - taking one last look at the dark house in the cliff with tears running down your cheeks, carrying in your backpack five textbooks, one change of clothes, a few credits, and your scholarship award.

This is when your head begins to throb. Kylo senses it too and retreats. When you open your eyes, you see that he's very close to you. He's laying on his side, gazing at you, and the corners of his mouth are dipped down in worry.

After a moment, he asks a question in a voice that is careful, "Why were you in hiding?"

Rolling onto your side to face him, you prop your head up on one of your hands and place the other on his chest, finding his heartbeat, "What do you mean? I wasn't in hiding."

Kylo hesitates. His eyes search yours. "People don't live on Lah'mu unless they want to be hidden."

You can't help but laugh at his description of your home planet.

Sure, Lah'mu is rural and quiet, and it does seem like a nice place to go if you want everyone to leave you alone. But your story isn't so important.

Your parents were field marine ecologists hired by the New Republic to research water columns and pollution in Pelagon. Officially, their deaths are listed as accidents in a 'freak hurricane.' However, once you were old enough, your aunts explained to you that your parents had known their lives were in danger after they chose to publish the data they'd discovered - data that went against the political agenda of the New Republic leaders.

"My aunts were given the Lah'mu property to raise me on, and my parent's will - updated days before their deaths - requested that they give me a scientific education. You see, both my aunts were scientists. Georgia a botanist, Karen an astrophysicist."

A deep furrow has formed between Kylo's brow.

"My parents were passionate about science. They were curious and loved, above all else, figuring out the mysteries of the galaxy. They dreamed of a world for me where I could experience science in its purest form, away from the corruption of politics, away from agendas of power-seekers. They must've thought Lah'mu would be the best place to do that."

"From what I saw and what I see in you now, your aunts did a good job. They were very protective of you. They kept you safe," He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to him, "And I promise that I'll do the same. I'll keep you safe. I'll protect you."

You're about to protest, to tell him you don't need his protection - thank you very much!

You mean to tell him that you don't appreciate being treated as if you are feeble. You plan to remind him that in the vast majority of extant species, the females are considered the most ferocious of the two sexes.

Like many eusocial invertebrates, phantom ants have a queen. The queen is distinguishable because she's bigger than the others, her exoskeleton is all black instead of white, and she has red eyes instead of blue.

Phantom queens keep a harem. They'll always have between 7-12 drones around them in what you'd so scientifically dubbed "the throne room" at any given time. Once the drones come of age, the finest are selected by workers and are taken to the queen.

There, in the throne room, the drones hang out with her for weeks at a time. While there, they don't eat, they mate with her on multiple occasions, and at some point, for some arbitrary reason, she eats them.

It's not unusual in insects for the female to eat the male after mating, so when you first learned of phantom queens in your undergraduate classes, you brushed this off. You remember thinking: They're insects. They have no idea what's going on. They probably don't even feel fear. But then you read the mind-blowing research that suggested, through several conditioning experiments, that the drones probably did know what was happening.

This was when you became obsessed. You became determined to discover what exactly made the drones stay. At the start of your field research, you tagged one of your young drones and called him Stephen. . First, you took Stephen out of his queen's harem and put him elsewhere in the colony. Within two hours, he'd made his way back to the throne room. You did this ten times. And it yielded the same result every time.

Next, you moved Stephen entirely out of the colony, placing him near it but with everything he could need to survive: food, water, shelter. In less than twelve hours, the crazy bastard was back in the harem.

Then you tried moving him to a whole different colony. After no sign of him for two days, you were sure he'd found a new calling servicing a new queen.

But alas, on the third day, there he was. By this time, you'd developed a kinship with your little ant drone (on that note, don't name your research subjects) and found yourself groaning, "Dammit, Stephen! You'll die if you stay here! She'll eat you!"

Last, you took him to a field five kilometers away from the colony. It was selfish and not very objective of you, but you couldn't bear the thought of him dying just like all the others had.

You tagged new drones in the colony to repeat the experiment (this time, you didn't name them) and carried on. Two weeks went by, and one morning when you looked into the throne room, who did you see there happy as a clam?

That's right.

Stephen.

At this point, all you could do was laugh. And laugh, you did. You'd laughed and laughed at the idiocy of poor, stupid Stephen and went as far as to joke with your colleagues, "I'm so glad I'm not such a slave to my biology."

Oh, but you have to eat your words now.

Because it's you. You're Stephen now.

As the cargo ship docks back onto the Star Destroyer, you swallow, remembering the day Stephen - as you both knew he would be - was eaten by his queen.

Was he happy? Did he love her so much that he achieved his life wish of being nourishment for her? Am I just a female human version of Stephen, giving up my chances to live my life to fulfill some all-powerful biological or emotional drive?

You're escorted out by the captain and handed to a stormtrooper, "Apparently, we had a stowaway."

When the stormtrooper looks at you, you put on your best goofy smile, sway a bit, and slur, "Oopsie! I think I maybe had too much of the whiskies?"

"Sorry about that," the stormtrooper sounds embarrassed and pulls you off the gangway and onto the dock behind him.

"It's okay. It's bound to happen once in a while. Did I ever tell you about the-," you don't hear what story the captain has in store for the 'trooper because you take the opportunity to slip away.

You can't think of a time you've ever been so sure-footed or graceful as you sprint through the corridors toward Kylo's quarters. When it becomes difficult to draw breath, you remember the feel of Kylo's lips, and your excitement increases your cardiac output, and you move even faster.

Did Stephen move this quickly to get back to his death? Was he this desperate?

Turning a corner, you run right past Phasma.

"Oi! Animal girl!" She calls after you, "What are you still doing here? Aren't you supposed to be gone?"

Between large gulps of air, you explain, "Turns... out I'm... just ...a slave... to my... biology… after all."

Phasma cocks her head to the side, "What?"

"Nevermind." you wave a frantic hand and use just one word to explain, "Kylo."

"I'm on my way to sneak him out of your place now."

You nod and spin on your heel, heading the opposite direction - toward your place. "Erm, I guess, tell him to call if he needs me still?" Phasma shouts after you in a voice with a definite what-the-fuck-just-happened? tone to it.

You shoot her a thumbs up over your shoulder.

. . . .

When you catapult through your door as gracefully as a dewback (not gracefully at all), Kylo lifts his head from his hands and stares at you in patent disbelief.

Your lungs are on fire. And you hold up a finger in the just-a-minute gesture to him and double over, putting your hands on your knees, to catch your breath.

You're sweaty, you're wheezing, your face is on fire. This is not exactly how you wanted to present yourself while carrying out the one and only grand romantic gesture of your life thus far.

"What are you doing here?!" You can hear that he's moved from the chair he was sitting in and is closer to you, "What happened?" He grabs your shoulders and stands you up, searching your face with apparent worry.

Is this how Stephen felt? Is this how he felt when he made it back to his queen? Like he was where he belonged. Like, even though he knew it wouldn't end well, it didn't matter because all that mattered was being there with her?

Kylo's brow furrows even deeper with worry, "Who's Stephen? What's going on? Talk to me! Tell me why you're not lightyears away on that cargo ship like you're supposed to be right now?"

Instead of answering with words, you step forward, so your chest connects with his, push yourself up on your tiptoes and wrap your hands around his neck, bringing his face down to yours.

If you thought your first kiss with Kylo was perfect, you have no idea what to call this one.

It starts slow as he processes the fact that you're there. You don't mind, you're happy to wait for him. To sit patiently and enjoy the shape of his mouth. To feel the solidness of his body and appreciate the span of his hands on your hips. To let your whole body exhale a collective breath of relief that you've made it back to him.

Then, he grabs the back of your neck and angles your head back while opening your mouth with the movement of his. The tiniest of moans escapes your throat into his mouth, and you don't know if it's this moment or the one before that pushes you both off the ledge- all you know is one second it's sweet and controlled and calm, and the next it's starved and bruising.

Both of you begin to act as if you're kids that have been let loose in a candy store. Frantically trying to touch, taste, bite, suck, and lick everything as fast as you can before someone more responsible realizes what's going on and demands you stop.

His hands are everywhere. They can't seem to make up their minds. He's running them up and down your sides, sliding up your shirt, grabbing your breasts, moving around to slide them down your back, and dipping them into the back of your pants, seizing handfuls of your ass.

Meanwhile, you beeline to the shoulders, pecs, and biceps that have been headlining your daydreams for weeks. You grip and knead them feeling the smooth, unrelenting curves of them under your fingers.

Your mouths are becoming acquainted by participating in a team-building exercise of sorts called Now You Try. Kylo circles his tongue around yours, then you try it on his. You tug gently at his bottom lip with your teeth, and then he does it to yours. He traces the bow of your upper lip with the tip of his tongue, then you do the same.

The relief at his touch has been overtaken by your lust. An ache that originated in your lower belly has migrated between your legs and now has its own hammering pulse.

Kylo clutches the back of your thighs and picks you up, setting you down on the countertop of your kitchenette. Once situated, you seize fistfuls of his shirt and tug upward. When he grabs your wrists and pulls them away, a feral growl escapes your throat as he leans away.

Shirt. Off. Now.

He chuckles, and if it weren't for your sexual determination keeping you on-task, you would melt at his feet over his dimples.

"Why are you stopping?" you breathe.

"Why'd you come back?"

You blow out a testy huff, "Seriously?"

Although he says your name in a stern, chastising voice, he softens the blow by leaning forward to lay the tenderest of kisses on the tip of your nose. "Why did you come back?" He repeats.

You try your go-to coping mechanism: sarcasm. "It's been a long time since I've had sex, and you seemed willing earlier. Was I wrong in my assumption?"

Kylo doesn't return your smirk, though. His eyes search yours. They're soft and rich and vast. Your heart skips a beat.

Even though he's towering over you, even though he's fully clothed, even though he lifted you up and carried you to this countertop like you weighed as much as Spike. Even though he is the leader of the First Order, he is so astonishingly… vulnerable at this moment that a crack starts to form in your emotional defenses.

"Come on, Kylo...," you relent, with a pleading whisper, "You know why I came back."

"I need to hear you say it. Say it... Please."

This moment is so intense, it becomes necessary for you to look away from him, down at your hands. They're intertwined with his, resting on your lap.

"I couldn't leave you. I'm… I don't know. I'm attached, I guess."

I'm Stephen. I'm Spike. I'm risking everything I've ever known for you. Because something in my very biology has compelled me to stay here with you. Isn't that enough for tonight? Haven't I done enough? I'm here. Don't make me surrender every single part of myself. Not yet, at least.

He puts two knuckles under your chin and tips it up - so you're looking at him again. When his lips come back to yours, you can feel his reply on them. Wordlessly, they say, 'That's enough. You're enough.'

Although your movements aren't as overwrought as they were before, they're no less passionate. Both of you progress with purpose now. Every touch is deep, firm, and focused - like a good massage.

You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him to you while sliding your tongue languorously against his. When you swivel your hips against him, you feel him through his leggings. And this is about the time when your frontal lobe bows out and lets your temporal lobe take the stage to do what it does best - get some!

(Sex. It's sex. Your temporal lobe controls sexual desire - just in case anyone needs clarification.)

While you watch him lean back just far enough to pull his shirt off over his head, you wet your lips. He remains in this position for a moment, allowing you to run your hands up, his pecs, around his shoulders, and back down with a sort of awestruck reverence - like you're a pilgrim who's come to worship at the altar of Kylo Ren's chest.

(Kylo Ren Patron Saint of Broad Chests, Good Hair, and Angst - I'd light a candle to that.)

You follow the path of your fingers with your eyes, observing how they catch on his nipples, how they slip down the swells of his solid muscle. A thrill travels through you when he responds to your touch, the subtle way he shifts, encouraging your exploration. It's strange because it's not like you've never touched him here before - but tonight, it's different.

Tonight he's mine.

This thought is uncharacteristic for you for several reasons. Most notably because you abhor the barbaric idea of staking a claim on an individual. People are not things. They are not objects.

Yet, tonight, for the first time, you see another side of this coin. Kylo is yours tonight, not because you've taken him, but because he's giving himself to you. You can read it in his movements and feel it in his touch.

Tonight he's mine. And tonight, I'm his.

This shatters your reverence and catapults you headfirst into full-blown greed. Forceful, disgraceful, fierce, dirty, greed.

While leaning back against the cupboards, you pull him with you. He braces himself with one hand on the countertop with the other pinned against the cabinet door at the side of your head.

You don't know if he does this because he wants to be in control and touching you makes him feel out of control, or if it's because he's letting you take control. Either way, it makes you feel powerful. It encourages you to proceed.

As you slip your hand lower and lower, Kylo sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, and you feel his abdominal muscles bunch. It's when you have all four of your fingers down the front of his waistband and are about to add the thumb that you hear the voices and freeze.

Kylo hears them too. He pulls back from you, turning his head to listen.

The first voice you can distinguish is that of Phasma's. You can't make out what she's saying, but her tone is fervent, and you make out several "sir"s and "wait"s to whoever she's speaking to.

"I still don't understand why you are even here, Captain." Hux's voice, clear and close, is like a bucket of cold water. Kylo whips his head around and stares at you, eyes wide.

"Shiiiitballs!" You mouth and slide down the counter.

Since you know the last thing Kylo wants is for Hux to come in and see him sans shirt, feeling you up - you smooth your rumpled clothes and hair as best as you can and rush to greet him before that can happen.

But before you open the door, you hold out a finger to Kylo and think as loud as you can (and yes, you feel more than a little crazy while you do): Hold that thought.

Although Kylo is frowning, he nods, and with that, you sprint out the front door, nearly slamming right into the General himself.

"General!" You gush, "I thought I heard you out here. What a surprise! What a treat!"

What. The. Hell. Am I doing?! I've never sounded this excited to see anyone - let alone Sir Sideburns. Stop being suspicious.

The look on Hux's face sends your stomach plummeting. The man is doing little to combat red-head stereotypes as he is the very picture of a hothead. His cheeks are hot-pink, hands balled into fists at his side, and you wouldn't be surprised if steam started to shoot out of his ears.

You glance behind him at Phasma. She's holding her helmet under her arm, and she does a wary, apologetic shrug of her shoulders.

"Would you like to know what I was doing this morning while on my journey back to the Star Destroyer?" Hux starts in with a low, spitting grumble.

Not really. In fact, I've never wanted to know anything less, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway.

You are correct. The General tells you anyway, "I had a bit of extra time on my hands, so I thought I would look into what sort of animals you've been researching to add to my collection - as per our agreement."

Oh…

"So I pulled your database history to look at."

Fuck…

"How do you think I felt when I realized that the only things you've been 'researching' for over a week are midichlorians and the blasted Force?!"

Your brain is struggling to determine what you should do at this juncture. You are no longer in the pit of survival mode, and, as such, you have an impulse to stand up for yourself. Yet, at the moment, your body is aching to get back to the shirtless Supreme Leader in your quarters. You just wish you knew the magic words to make Hux leave.

"I asked you a question, Doctor!" Hux leans in close as he snarls this through his teeth, splattering your face with his saliva. There's a squiggly vein on his forehead that looks to be at risk for rupturing, "How. Do. You. Think. I. FELT?!"

You're musing on the degree of anatomical… insufficiencies that Armitage Hux must be compensating for to overreact in such a way and have to look down to keep him from seeing your smirk. This is when you notice it. The General has engaged his blaster, and his hand hovers at the ready.

He wouldn't kill me. He wouldn't dare... Right?

The fun, sexy animal instincts that you were indulging in seconds before morph into basic fear.

Physiologically speaking, the two really aren't so different. Your heart continues to race, your breathing rate is still elevated, and your hands are slightly unsteady. But instead of being caused by the thought of getting into the sexy Supreme Leader's pants, it's from the drive to survive the rodent General's wrath.

"I'll tell you how I felt. I felt like an imbecile." Though he's not spitting anymore, his voice is quiet and volatile.

Phasma approaches the two of you, and in a low warning voice, she says, "General. I wouldn't -,"

But he cuts her off. Speaking directly to you, as if she hadn't said anything, his voice growing louder with every word, "I thought you recognized your place here. I thought you understood." He raps your temple with his middle and index fingers hard enough that it makes an audible thunk. You flinch and cower. "Whether you like it or not, you belong to me. I own you, just like I own the animals here. I brought you here, and I can get rid of you, Doct-,"

The strangled way the word cuts off makes you jerk your head up in surprise. Hux is clutching at his neck. His mouth and eyes are wide open, and his tongue lolls out. Both he and Phasma are focused on something over your shoulder.

The events of the past twelve hours have been discombobulating and taxing on your mental faculties, slowing your processing speed. This is why you understand what's happening only a fraction of a second before Kylo wraps a protective arm around your waist and sets you behind him. His right hand is flexed midair as if he's trying to crush some invisible ball.

He's since put his shirt back on, and a small part of you is disappointed. A true testament to the glory of his upper body that you'd even register such a thing now.

Then you see his face, and you recoil. It is drawn and feral, his teeth bared. He looks like he's on the verge of decapitating someone.

Wait. Is Kylo on the verge of decapitating Hux?

All it takes is one glimpse at Phasma's horrified expression to know you need to try and intervene. You long to see revenge exacted on your behalf by a sexy, scary sorcerer. (Who wouldn't?!) But you've learned enough about the delicate balance of power on this ship to know that it would not be good news to have the Supreme Leader murdering his insubordinate.

"Kylo!" You grab his arm and use all your strength to lower it. But even when you've resorted to lifting your feet and literally hanging from him, he doesn't budge. It's like his fury has turned him to stone.

The corners of Hux's lips are starting to turn purple. You change your strategy and position yourself between the two men, grabbing Kylo's face between your hands and begging him to look at you, "Kylo! Stop! You have to stop! Please!"

At length, his eyes shift to you and seem to come back from whatever darkness they'd been consumed in. You hear the thud of Hux's body behind you and sigh with relief when it's followed by some pronounced wheezing and coughing sounds.

"I know Hux is a tool, but you can't just… kill him for no reason."

Kylo gives you a pained look, "I had a reason."

You hear the sounds of a scuffle behind you, followed by Phasma's quiet reprimand, "Where do you think you're going?"

But you keep your eyes centered on Kylo's, not wanting to lose him again, "What was your reason? Because he said I'm his prisoner? And because of that, I have to do what he says?" You shake your head, "Kylo, all of that is true. Unless you order him to free me, he views me as his property."

The corners of his mouth turn down, and he clenches his hands into fists at his side, "I can't do that. Not yet. Not until I can make sure you're protected."

"Kylo…," You want to tell him that you don't want to be protected, you don't want to be coddled, that all you want is to be with him and to be free from Hux - but before you can iterate any of this, he pushes past you toward Hux.

Even though you shouldn't, you relish in the way the General cowers.

"You will forget everything that happened this morning." Kylo's voice takes on an eerie and hypnotic quality. He waves a hand in front of Hux's face.

Your jaw drops when Hux's eyes glaze over, and he repeats in a daze, "I will forget everything that happened this morning."

"You're feeling sick. You will go back to your quarters and spend the rest of the day in bed."

Hux stands up and puts a hand on his belly, frowning, "You know. I'm not feeling too well suddenly. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go have a lie-down."

"I'll take you, sir," Phasma offers after giving Kylo a long look and then putting her helmet on.

You watch them leave in stunned disbelief.

What did I just watch? Was that a…?

Questions flood your mind, threatening to give you a headache. Kylo grabs your hand and pulls you out of the menagerie.

You remember reading something about "Jedi mind tricks" while doing your research. While you're sure Hux is feeble-minded, thus a susceptible victim, Kylo isn't a Jedi…

At least you're pretty sure Kylo isn't a Jedi.

While he drags you down the corridors and in and out of lifts, he doesn't look at you. He doesn't speak to you. But he keeps your hand firmly ensconced in his. It's still early, so there's little foot traffic about, but the few people you do see give you both a wide berth and shoot Kylo curious sideways glances. You suppose it must be strange to see the terrifying menace running around without his usual garb.

When you get into his quarters, he pulls you up the stairs to his bedroom and sits you on the edge of his bed. Your eyes follow him as he paces, runs his fingers through his hair, and makes a series of aggravated growling sounds.

"Can we just go back? Is there a way to get back to where we were? On the counter? That was fun. Remember?"

Kylo stops pacing and shoots you a half-smile. It's more sardonic than genuine, but you'll take it. Then he kneels down on the floor in front of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your lap.

"Why didn't you leave?"

You rake your fingers through his hair and roll your eyes. "Are we really going to do this again?"

He raises his head, "You don't belong here, on a warship. This isn't where you want to be."

A bittersweet sensation radiates through your chest.

He's right.

Was it his use of the word abnormal? You've never displayed any evidence of sleep disorders (by the way: loving sleep is not a sleep disorder, you've looked into it). No narcolepsy, apnea, somnambulism (sleepwalking), or restless leg syndrome. Until you'd glimpsed your EEG from the day before, you had no reason to believe your sleep was any different than any other person's, and you are still convinced that it all has something to do with the serum.

In fact, you are so sure Dream's and The Dreaming's existence is simply an overactivation of your thalamus during REM - a holdover from the effects of the serum - that you are astonished when you find yourself in his gardens yet again that very night.

Surprised but not displeased.

Alternatively, Morpheus appears anything but shocked to see you there.

But why would he? He's a figment of my imagination.

"You are a curious mortal, doctor." He observes, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Why do you say that?"

"I have never known a mortal as determined to resist a fantastical explanation as you."

You wrinkle your nose at him, but he continues undeterred.

"Take the unicorn," Morpheus gestures out beyond the field of frosty white snowdrops (which you're pleased to see he's changed from the poppies, per your suggestion) to where a pearly unicorn is grazing, "Do you know the mythical beast's origin?"

"I don't."

"When the Vikings occupied Greenland in the 10th thru 15th centuries, they frequently traded with the Inuit to the north. One of the goods provided by the Inuit was the spiral-horned tooth of the narwhal. To increase their gains when selling these horns to the European nobility, the Vikings invented the unicorn. This always struck me as a peculiar narrative because a whale with a horn is infinitely more wondrous than a horse with a horn. Yet, you mortals have a compulsion for making up stories and believing those who make them up."

You watch the unicorn while he speaks.

A whale with a horn is more fantastical than a horse with one. Logically, since deer and rhinos and elk exist - a horse with a horn wouldn't be too far of a leap. But a whale with a horn? That's fucking crazy. Yet, one exists, and the other doesn't. One is a symbol for all that is magical and mystical, and the other is just a blurb in a zoology textbook - all because of the random value assigned to a lie told hundreds of years ago.

"So, you see, I find you intriguing, eratos," Dream runs a finger down your arm. When you turn in his direction, you see he's looking down at you with a mildly amused expression on his face. "I have informed you many times now: I am not your subconscious, I am not your imagination. I have explained to you who I am, where you are, how you've gotten here. Yet because it's all too fantastical to you, because you don't understand it - you refuse to accept my words as truth. It is… abnormal for a mortal."

There's that word again. Abnormal.

"You must not meet many scientists up here," you deadpan.

Morpheus frowns, considering your little joke in earnest, "That is an incorrect assumption. Scientists are typically avid dreamers. As such, I have met my fair share. I have even created dreams to inspire them."

This tidbit piques your curiosity. "You make dreams?"

He shrugs, "It is more of a mutualistic relationship between myself and you mortals."

"Explain," you demand.

On a resigned sigh, he holds out an arm to you, "It will be easier for me to show you."

You grab his arm and watch the world in front of you, the gardens in the dreaming, dissolve as a new set begins to take shape.

Morpheus has taken you to what appears to be the quad of a high school.

The banisters are decked with strings of tiny, fluttering silver and red flags. Above your head is a banner that reads, 'Go, Gladiators!' adjacent to a simple clipart rendering of a fanned-out gladiator helmet.

The high school appears empty, but Morpheus leads you down a hallway to peer into a classroom. Inside, a dozen students are sitting at desks. One of them is significantly older than the others - middle-aged. She has a sharp black bob with blunt bangs, and she's staring up at her teacher, a horrified expression on her face.

The woman nervously explains to the man at the head of the classroom, "I'm sorry, Señor Álvarez, but I didn't know there'd be an exam today. I… I haven't studied my Spanish in... years!"

Morpheus leans toward you to explain in a whisper, "That woman is Julia Chan, and we're in her dream. In a moment, she's going to look down and realize she's naked."

"But she's not nake-," your words drop off because when you look again toward the classroom, you see that the woman is now naked. Julia Chan's drooping, middle-aged breasts graze the tops of the desk. She appears to comprehend this at the same time you do, proceeding to shriek and attempt to cover herself while the rest of her youthful cohort gape and laugh at her.

"Oof!" you cringe, "I hate this dream. I've had ones just like it. Poor Julia."

"Indeed," Dream chuckles, "This seems to have been popular amongst mortals for the past century."

Feeling empathetic and defensive for naked-dreamers everywhere, you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at the man, "Did you make this dream?"

His unruly hair sways when he shakes his head, "Alas, no. The majority of dreams, for better or for worse, are made by your own minds. I can manipulate and create components of The Dreaming and therefore objects in the dream. Observe."

When you look back into the window, you see that the classmates and teacher have disappeared and in their place is a shirtless Michael Jordan circa 1996 looking down at the bare Julia like she's a snack. In proper REM form, Julia's neurons keep up a rapid pace to fill in any gaps in the narrative. She doesn't seem astonished at all to see her presumed lover and licks her lips while beckoning him over seductively.

"In this way, my relationship with the mortals is a cyclic one. I gain inspiration for my creations and my manipulations through what you mortals put into The Dreaming, and in turn, I can send inspiration, euphoria, fear, motivation, etcetera. However, I rarely intercede. As you know, doctor, dreaming has a purpose in the human mind, and it is best to leave it to its own devices."

Because you do know dreaming has a purpose - which evidence suggests is to facilitate long-term learning and work out challenging problems - you nod. Then ask, "Why does The Dreaming need you then?" Wondering far too late if it might be an insulting question to ask.

Fortunately, Morpheus doesn't seem offended, and he answers with a matter-of-fact tone, "My primary role is the protection of The Dreaming. There will perpetually be those who seek to use dreams for their own devices, and I cannot allow this to happen."

Movement from inside the classroom has you forgetting what follow-up question you have for him. As Michael Jordan crawls over Julia and she wraps her legs around his waist, you become a voyeur - pressing your face against the glass window of the classroom. Morpheus pulls you away.

"Hey!" you protest, looking longingly back toward the direction of the classroom, "That was just getting good!" But the high school has been replaced by an extensive solitary causeway jutting out into the center of a vast lake. It's dusk, and the clouds above you are gray and navy blue. Vibrant streaks of orange from the setting sun slice almost violently through the pockets between the clouds.

"Those are called crepuscular rays." Dream informs you.

Crepuscl (Latin). Twilight

Your word root of the day. You stare up at him in shock, but he's looking up at the sky - captivated, oblivious. The cold undertones of his pale skin are warmed by the filtered light.

The electroencephalogram, or EEG, is a tool for tracking brainwaves. A neurologist (such as yourself) can translate this into a measure of an individual's sleep cycle.

There are five distinct brainwaves on any polysomnograph:

Beta waves are fast, low amplitude waves that dominate when you are awake.

Alpha waves are similar to beta, but they're slightly slower and less frequent. Alpha waves are what is present in stage one sleep. The name of this stage is deceiving because you aren't technically asleep yet. This is the stage in which you are drifting to sleep. Alpha waves are also dominant in what is termed 'flow state,' - a state of serenity.

Theta waves are lower in amplitude, higher in frequency but interspersed with distinctive sections of taller waves called K-complexes and sleep spindles. These waves are seen frequently in stage two sleep.

Delta waves are tall and slow. They are indicative of deep sleep in stages three and four.

The fifth wave-type doesn't have a name. They are seen during REM sleep when dreaming occurs. The waves aren't quite beta, nor are they theta. They exist there between the beta and theta waves - between waking and sleeping - there is dreaming.

The sleep cycle occurs multiple times a night, every ninety minutes or so. Since you were asleep for six hours in the sleep lab, this means you should have had approximately four REM cycles. This isn't the case.

Your brainwaves on the EEG are… unusual, to say the least. As you examine your waves in the laboratory with Ryan, the first thing you notice is that instead of occurring in cycles, your brainwaves appear to have been consolidated into one long cycle.

Stranger still, during the last fourth of your REM cycle, the waves appear to change. It's subtle, but you've looked at enough EEGs to spot it. The waves shift, increasing in frequency, shortening in stature. Even though you were still technically asleep, your brain exhibited beta waves for the last quarter of your REM cycle. The brainwaves were behaving as if you were completely alert.

"And you didn't have the dream?" Ryan double-checks as you puzzle over your EEG, twisting your bottom lip between your thumb and index finger.

"No…," This specific serum designed by Ryan and Sadie was supposed to lock in sequence onto receptors of the thalamus to convey a particular image. It was supposed to be of a mouse eating a piece of cheese. "No mouse. No cheese. There was a bear, a unicorn, a desert, a raven, and a… man… of sorts," you hesitate here. You'd never before had a dream that felt so real. You can still feel his touch on your chin and remember the exact constellations in his eyes. And you wonder if this is the cause of the beta waves at the end of your REM cycle.

You're sure there's a scientific explanation for this, and like most scientific explanations, it's probably more straightforward than you think. You'll just need time to think it over, maybe do some digging in the university's database.

Ryan itches his beard and adjusts his glasses. Your co-worker is the very picture of an academic, complete with elbow patches on his sweater. You have a hard time picturing him sitting across from the criminals at Arkham, asking them, "And how do you feel about that?" in his soft-spoken way.

"Would you be willing to come in some time in the next few weeks for us to establish your baseline? We haven't seen these results on an EEG before, and I'm wondering if the cycle grouping is from the serum."

With a yawn and stretch, you nod in response.

After you set up a time two weeks out to get your baseline polysomnography done, you get up to leave. You're itching to go home, get out of these two-day scrubs, take a long shower, and fall down an 'irregular sleep cycle' rabbit-hole on UpToDate over a cup of coffee.

But before you can get out the door, Ryan clears his throat. "Mindy has been asking me to set my little brother up with someone. He's about your age. What do you say?"

Mindy is Ryan's wife, and though you've only met her once, you got the impression she's the stereotypical busybody suburban housewife. (Not that there's anything wrong with that!)

"Oh…," You occupy your hands by throwing your hair up into a bun. Wracking your brain on how to decline as politely as possible.

Lucky for you, as a psychiatrist, Ryan is good at reading between the lines, and he smiles sheepishly at you, "No need. Sorry, I brought it up. Just so you know, I don't care, either way. It's just she's been on my case about it. You know how it is."

You nod sympathetically and wave his apology away because you do know how it is. God forbid any adult between the ages of thirty and sixty be single in this world. Your mom is constantly trying to set you up with someone - even from halfway across the country, she's somehow got a never-ending list of contacts here in Gotham that she's constantly trying to get you to see.

"Oh! One last thing," you turn to face him again, one foot out the door. Ryan's holding something out to you in his palm, "Did you want this? It was under the pillow."

No. Throw it away. Why would I want it?

Even though that's what you think, you shrug and say, "Yeah. Why not." Reclaiming the 'token' from your colleague and shoving it back into your pocket.

In this way, you're lucky it's Ryan here instead of Sadie. Sadie would bug you and ask you questions (What is it? Why do you want it?). Questions that you're not sure you know the answer to. On the other hand, Ryan has firm boundaries regarding professional privacy and doesn't seem to care.

. . . .

You're not antisocial per se.

Indeed, you tend to hover around the introverted side of the social spectrum. But some of this can be attributed to an occupational hazard. The career you've been pursuing the entirety of your adult life doesn't allow for excessive socialization.

Before your residency brought you to Gotham, you had developed a group of close friends from medical school and even (to your mom's delight) a long-term boyfriend. The inevitable severance and distancing of those ties that came with graduation and residency matching proved to be so acutely painful for you.

And it's for this reason, since moving to Gotham, you've shied away from putting in energy establishing new friendships just to relive the whole painful experience when you were done with this phase of your education.

All of this is to explain why you are currently watching The Exorcist, your first of October tradition, with only Fezzik to keep you company. As the movie draws to a close, you pat the behemoth of a canine, who is sprawled over ninety-five percent of the couch, on the flank and announce, "You see Fez? Jaundice, portosystemic shunting of systemic arteries visible on the abdomen, poor wound healing, confusion, aggression, bilious vomiting… this poor girl has been misdiagnosed. She doesn't have a demon. She has hepatitis."

Fezzik makes a grumbling sound in his throat that you imagine means: Biiiitch, you woke me up for that? And lays back down.

"You don't get it." You mumble under your breath as you turn off the TV.

A wave of loneliness comes crashing over you, along with the abrupt darkening of the room. This is the second year in a row you've watched the movie by yourself. Last year it'd felt empowering, refreshing. There were no passive-aggressive jabs from your ex-boyfriend Alex about your "stupid tradition" keeping him from whatever he had planned.

Yet this year, watching the film alone has lost its novelty. You miss your medical school friends who appreciated the tradition and your medical cracks. You miss having someone, anyone, to laugh with, to riff with, to cuddle, to touch.

Perhaps it's this acute bout of loneliness that prompts you to do something… strange? Irrational? Crazy?

After you get ready for bed, you fish your scrub top out from the top of the laundry bin and pull the crumpled-up paper out from the front pocket. Then you sprint to your bed, rapidly shoving it under your pillow as you climb in. You do this as if you're trying to be sneaky, but the only person around is you.

Maybe you're trying to hide the illogical action from the logical side of your mind?

Either way, as you fall asleep, you tell yourself you're ridiculous. Yet, you don't take the paper out from under the pillow.

. . . .

This time on your journey into The Dreaming, you don't waste time traveling to the gates.

As soon as you arrive at the staircase of stars, you shake your head and say, "No. I'm not doing this. Take me to the gates."

And by the magic of dreams (which is similar to the magic of television), your wish is granted. The sky falls away and is replaced by the gate. Which is opened without any preamble by the raven called Matthew.

When you open the doors to the cathedral, you find Morpheus gazing at a tapestry. One arm across his middle supporting the elbow of another so he can hold his long, graceful chin pensively.

"Doctor," he greets you without turning to look in your direction, "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company on this fine evening?"

Because you don't know what else to say, you shrug and offer, "Have you ever seen The Exorcist?"

This has him turning to look at you with one eyebrow raised.

Suddenly, you feel the need to look away. While you hadn't forgotten the character of Dream's night-sky eyes, you'd forgotten how unnerving it is to look into them.

"It's a horror movie." You explain, watching your feet shuffle nervously on the cool marble floor.

"I am aware." You detect a hint of amusement on the edges of his overly formal dialect, "I have not watched the film. However, I do know all stories. One of my many monikers is, The King of Stories."

Well then...

There's a moment of silence, not only because you have no idea how to respond to this, but because you're asking yourself what the hell you're doing here again.

Though the serum didn't show you the specific dream as Ryan and Sadie were planning, perhaps it unlocked a temporary (or, less likely, permanent) ability to lucid dream. To test this hypothesis, you close your eyes and tell yourself to fly. Your reasoning is that if this were a lucid dream - you would have complete control of the narrative. Only, you remain rooted to the floor of the throne room.

"Why do you ask?" The nearness of Morpheous' voice surprises you, and you jerk your head up to see that while your eyes have been closed, he's moved to occupy the space right in front of you.

He peers down at you - an alluring imprint of a smirk across his lips. His proximity elicits an explosion of butterflies in your gut, pushing your confusion over your non-lucid-dreaming-experience to the recesses of your mind.

After a breath, you recall that he'd asked you a question, 'Why do you ask?'

"I watch it every year on the first of October, and this year was the second time I watched it alone. No one was there to hear my jokes."

"Jokes?"

"Yeah...," you shuffle your bare feet back and forth on the cobblestone, "Like how the demon seems like a good time. I mean, if you're going to get possessed, this is like the best-case scenario. Right? The demon is hilarious and would be fun to have at parties."

Sadly, Morpheus doesn't laugh at your joke. Instead, he appears to mull over your words for a moment. Then announces, "What a curious observation for a mortal. Though they can be trouble, I have known some demons who are, certainly, as you would say, 'a good time.'"

"But… demons aren't real?"

At this, Dream frowns down at you, "Of course demons are real."

He says this as if you'd said gravity isn't real. As if it is absurd to question the existence of demons. And you're not about to pick a fight with the supposed King of Dreams, so you merely shrug.

"Why were you alone this time?" he asks as he gestures for you to walk with him. Like the night before, you turn to see that the palace has fallen away. In its place is a white sand beach upon which the tides of the night sky roll onto.

"Because I like being alone." You lie.

"That is a lie." Morpheus doesn't miss a thing, "Mortals rarely enjoy being alone. They may enjoy freedom from perceived judgement or an expectation to perform. Yet, this is not the same as genuinely desiring solitude. Is that why you have sought out my company tonight, eratos? Are you lonely?"

There's a vein of seduction running through his rich voice, and you ignore the tightening in your lower stomach while you admit, "Probably."

With a sigh, you lay down on the sand to gaze up at the navy and purple sky above. Morpheus sits down next to you, resting his forearms casually on his knees. You roll onto your side and watch him.

"Since you are a manifestation of my subconscious, I'm wondering if I can ask you some questions? Maybe you know some answers that I don't."

He tilts his head to the side, "Why do you think I am a manifestation of your subconscious?"

"Because you're in my dream."

"You came to me, doctor."

Ignoring him, you sit up and point out, "Plus, you look exactly like who my subconscious would manufacture to be the 'King of Dreams.' All dark and tall and anemic looking and shit. My subconscious was all, 'We get it! You like your men to look like they're dying of tuberculosis or are about to start a new wave band while at the same time are fit enough to pick you up.' and bam! Here you are." You gesture to him.

Morpheus is biting on the inside of his bottom lip to keep from grinning. When he composes himself enough to continue, he answers, "I can assure you, your subconscious did not construct my form."

You blink slowly. "It didn't?"

"While it is true, I can take many different forms, this is the form I take when consorting with most mortals."

"So, you don't look like this just for me?"

When he shakes his head, a lock of hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back.

You shake your head.

I don't believe it. This man has totally been designed by my subconscious. Just look at him! Do you see that forearm definition? Those delicious clavicles peeking out from beneath his robe? The divot above his sternum? Clearly, my subconscious wants to keep the illusion of being sneaky. Fine. I'll play its game.

"Okaaay..., Mr. King of Dreams, can I ask you a few questions then?"

"Is that not what you have been doing, doctor?"

See? Cheeky banter? Only my subconscious would know my weaknesses so intimately.

You narrow your eyes at him and begin your interrogation, "Can you explain how I got here, with you, two nights in a row?"

"You already know the answer to that, else you would not have put the token under your pillow again."

Chewing the insides of your cheeks, you consider this. It makes more sense scientifically that the serum would be the reason for this strange bout of dreaming than a magical token. Although you did put the paper under the pillow.

"Say that's true -," you start only to be cut off by Morpheus saying, "It is."

Holding a hand out, you continue, "If the token is the ticket here. Who was the woman who gave it to me and why?"

"The woman is called Mad Hettie, and I sent her to give you the token. A few centuries ago, I assisted her in hiding her heart from my sister, so she does favors for me from time to time."

"I'm sorry but...," try as you might, you can't keep your tone serious, "You're telling me that you sent a woman who has been alive for hundreds of years to give me a token so I could have a conference with you?"

"Yes." If he senses your disbelief, he doesn't let on.

"But, why?"

"I received word about the research that you and your colleagues were undertaking, and I needed it to stop."

With every question he answers, a new one tumbles out of your mouth. Morpheus answers each of them with the patience a doting kindergarten teacher would possess for their favorite pupil.

"Why didn't you just come down from The Dreaming and tell us to stop?"

"Not too long ago, I was held captive by some mortals - kept away from my kingdom for seventy years. Ever since my return, I have strayed from my domain as little as possible. Even now, decades later, The Dreaming is still recovering from the years of chaos it endured without me here."

This response is intriguing as hell, but his voice has a note of finality to it, and you don't want to push your luck. So you refrain from asking about his time in captivity. Instead, you ask, "Why me? Why not Sadie or Ryan?"

At this, Morpheus turns his head toward you, an affectionate half-smile on his soft mouth, "Can you not guess?"

You love spending time with him. In fact, it might be the only thing that brings you feelings of joy on the ship.

But you wish he wasn't always playing these psychological games with you. Since he has all the power and you none, they are ruthless, insensitive games for him to play. They torment you, and at long last, they'd broken you down.

Still, you miss him already and believe you won't be able to stay mad for long. Likely, you will be crawling back into his bed by tomorrow.

At three in the morning, there's a knock on your door, and you peek out to see that it's a stormtrooper.

That's got to be a bad sign, right? A late-night stormtrooper.

"Can I help you?"

"Let me in." You recognize the voice at once.

"Kylo?"

He makes an impatient noise in his throat, and the door is opened with a wave of his hand, and you back into your living area as he strides in. Once the door is closed, he takes off the helmet and shakes out his hair a bit.

"What the hell, Kylo? Why are you dressed as a stormtrooper?" You cross your arms over your chest, still unwilling to let yourself be vulnerable in front of him.

There's a frantic look in his eyes as he steps closer to you, "I don't have much time to explain, but they can't know it was me."

"What do you mean they can't know it was you? What are you talking ab-," you break off when the realization hits you, and your eyes grow wide as you reel backward, "Oh no. No, no, no. You're going to murder me, aren't you? Shit. Fuck! I knew my mouth would get me killed. My aunt Karen used to always tell me my mouth was going to get me-,"

"No!" Kylo frowns and extends his arms out to you, "No. You have it all wrong. I'm not here to... kill you. How could you think that?"

You arch an eyebrow at his outstretched hand, "Um, you don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to controlling your temper."

On a sigh, he takes back his hand, raking it with frustration through his hair.

"No. I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to help you escape."

. . . .

Human minds work best with compartmentalization.

It's the best way we know how to understand complex concepts: good/bad, right/wrong, love/hate, sweet/salty, introvert/extrovert, etc. For example, we group animals into phyla, then work from these groups we've shoehorned them in to help us understand evolution.

However, as any biologist will tell you, compartmentalization is not the best system. Some animals could fit into multiple groups but aren't different enough to warrant their own. Most living things don't fit into boxes. They exist in a continuum, somewhere along a sliding scale.

(There's a point to this, hang in there.)

This anti-dichotomy spectrum isn't just limited to the concept of evolution. It also applies to emotions, personality traits, sex, gender, and many other images of humanity - including stress responses.

We like to group these responses into the categories fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. People will say things such as, "I'm a fighter," or "I freeze," but the truth is, an individual's response can be variable with the situation.

Case and point: When Crait was under attack, you exhibited a fight response primarily. You've demonstrated a fawn response on more than one occasion with Hux. But as Kylo is telling you, he's going to help you escape - you freeze.

You're in a daze as he explains to you how he's paid off a merchant to put you in a box on a shipping vessel scheduled to leave in less than two hours. The ship will deliver you to a trading outpost where you can take a shuttle back to Crait, contact the GSF, tell them where you are and what's been happening, or go back home.

Where even is home anymore?

You're listless while he shows you what's in the bag he brought for you. He's packed a satchel of credits, some nutrition bars, and several bottles of water. It's when he shows you the last two things - a flashlight and two latest editions of the Galactic Journal of Entomology - that your breathing becomes shallow, and your eyes fill with tears.

Like a mute, obedient dog, you follow his directions. Once you've put on the black leggings and shirt he's provided, Kylo takes off the exterior components of the stormtrooper armor and puts them on you - tightening and adjusting as needed to fit onto your smaller frame.

As he does this, he details the path to the loading dock, making you restate the plan back to him with every step to be sure you understand it. There's an urgent, authoritative quality to the way he's speaking to you, and for the first time, you see firsthand what a great leader he's capable of being.

When you go to your closet to pull out your things, something tumbles off the shelf. You bend down and pick it up, feeling its weight in your palm.

It's the piece of the glass flyer hive you salvaged from Crait. The only remnant of your research you were able to recover. A relic from another life.

"You need to get going. Are you ready?"

Kylo fills the doorway to your bedroom, just as he had all those weeks ago on the first night he'd asked to sleep in your bed with you. The first time you’d seen his face. It's difficult for you to meet his eyes. You can make it as far as his chin.

Is this it? Are these the last moments I'll ever spend with Kylo Ren?

You refuse to believe this. Someone as majestic as Kylo doesn't just walk into your life, make a huge impact and then just leave. It's not possible. It can't be.

Right?

"Why the secrecy? Aren't you the Supreme Leader? Can't you just like… order my release or something?"

He shakes his head once, a lock of raven hair falls into his eyes. "There's no time to explain. I wish it were that simple." He shoots an anxious sideways glance at the clock.

According to the timetable, you'll need to leave ASAP if you're going to make it.

More time, I wish we had more time. I wish I could tell you I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you I didn't mean those things I said to you. I wish I had more time to understand the feelings I have for you.

Kylo steps forward and places a palm on your cheek, "I know, me too. But we don't have time. You need to leave now."

"Here." Your chin wobbles as you press the piece of the crystal hive into his hand, "I want you to have it."

He steps back and tips his chin down to gaze at it. Meanwhile, you sling the bag over your shoulder and take one last look at your tiny home.

No. Not home. Prison.

This place, this ship, this menagerie it’s your prison. You remind yourself firmly of this fact, set your jaw, and steel your resolve.

"Kylo?"

When he looks up, you see his eyes are brimming with tears.

A lump begins to form in your throat, and you swallow it back, forcing yourself to be strong.

I'm a prisoner here.

"Thank you for this, Kylo."

Then, moving quickly, so you don't change your mind, you turn around and reach out to grab the helmet on the table by the door. But Kylo stops you, putting his hand over yours while turning you to face him with the other on your hip.

Before you can comprehend what's happening, Kylo's hands have relocated to frame your face, and he's stooping down to put his lips on yours.

. . . .

The cargo crate isn't spacious, but you've been able to maneuver enough to shed the outer armor of your stormtrooper disguise and get the things from your bag if needed.

In the darkness, you close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Repeating the instructions Kylo had given you.

'Once you land at the outpost, someone will knock five times on the front of the crate. After that, count to one hundred and then use the tools in the crate to open it. You'll be in the basement of a cantina, so go up the stairs to….'

Soft but burning, tender yet despairing.

Usually, an internal monologue interruption as over-the-top as this would have you chastising yourself for senselessness. However, these are hardly usual circumstances.

So, instead, a shiver runs up your spine. You press the tips of your fingers to your lips and remember.

You've had your fair share of first kisses, but this one… this one puts them all to shame.

Some of your previous kisses indeed made you wish for the existence of a time machine, but in those cases, you'd wanted to go back and change something. To go back and stop them from happening, or to make part of it better or different.

But this time, if you could go back in time, it would merely be to experience the kiss again, and again, and again exactly as it was.

His lips would move the same way against yours, with an identical amount of pressure. And when he skated his tongue across your bottom lip, you'd still open your mouth to him while you twined your fingers into his hair (finally!).

He'd still make that guttural sound, like a wounded animal, as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close to him. You'd still feel the tremble on his mouth from the effort it takes him to drag himself away from you. And his eyes would still travel over every square inch of your face. As if he were trying to sear your features into his memory before putting the helmet over your head.

But would I still leave? This is the real question.

It's not too late. A masochistic voice croons in your head.

The cargo is still being loaded around you. You're still on the Star Destroyer. You're still in the same space as Kylo. You can still feel him on your lips.

Here is a list of reasons why it would be insane for you to get out of this crate (if you don't realize this already - you love lists of things):

This is a warship. You HATE war. You hate guns. You hate fire. You hate violent death. You study life, for fuckssake!

You are passionate about your research. You want to get back to it - or what's left of it.

It's insulting and degrading to have to be a zookeeper of the saddest zoo known to man at the behest of a spoiled-brat animal collector. As previously stated, it goes against everything you stand for.

For the umpteenth time: You're a prisoner here. Why the hell would you not escape?

A brief mind-blowing mini-make-out session with some brooding-baby-war-lord doesn't justify staying here… does it?

It absolutely DOES NOT. You know more than anyone that there will always be another person who you'll want to bone. It's biology. And you're a biologist…. REMEMBER?!

Yes. There will be another Kylo Ren. Just because you can't recall ever feeling this way about anyone before doesn't mean you should stay.

Repeat after me: You. Are. A. Scientist. And. Scientists. Do. Not. Make. Decisions. Based. On. FEELINGS.

And just like that, the choice is taken from you because you feel the cargo ship taking off of the Star Destroyer.

Good. This is what I want.

It is.

...

Chandrilan rice buns have the best characteristics of comfort food: they are quick, cheap, and simple. They can be made to be sweet or savory. They're fried and are made with ingredients that would make any self-respecting nutritionist blush.

During your undergrad days, your roommate Tiva was from Hanna City, the capital city of Chandrila, and she taught you how to make them.

You cook up the small white grains of Chandrilan rice, putting in the chopped dried fruit and hallmark spices, and while that cooks, you make a simple dough. Then you form the cooked rice mixture into small balls and wrap them up in the dough like the little gifts of deliciousness they are. You throw them in a pan to fry until they are a sexy, mouthwatering, golden brown color. Last, once they're done frying, you throw them in a paper bag with some more spices and shake them up.

"Viola!" You hold the bag out, proudly displaying the treat to Kylo, who is sitting at his dining room table.

It's been three days since his run-in with the Jedi on Kef Bir, and physically he's doing much better - suspiciously better. Does having midichlorians make you heal faster? You make a mental note to look it up.

Despite his rapidly improving physical health, his mental health seems to be on the decline.

Every night you are brought to his quarters while the rest of the ship is quiet. Upon arrival, you immediately strip down to your underwear and camisole and crawl into his arms for some therapeutic snuggling. In this time, he clings to you. If you wake up to get a drink or use the refresher, he immediately wakes up and asks where you're going, as if your skin is a drug to him.

In theory, it could feel degrading and oppressive. However, you'd be lying if you said you aren't getting just as much out of the arrangement. Instead of worrying and fretting about Kylo and feeling out of control, you get to spend the night listening to his heart, feeling his body heat, and counting his respirations.

Sometimes, in the morning, before you're snuck back to the menagerie, you catch him staring blankly at the ceiling - a profoundly sad tilt to his mouth. He's quiet. Stressed out. Moody.

This is why, on this morning when you've been allowed to stay (apparently Hux is off-ship all day on an errand), you make him comfort food.

Kylo grants you a wan smile and takes the bag from you. You slide into the seat across the table from him and anxiously watch him open the bag and pull out one of the buns.

If someone gave you a million guesses about how Kylo Ren, the Supreme Leader of the First Order, would react to eating a rice bun, you would have never guessed what actually does happen.

Initially, when he puts his forehead down on the table, you think he hates them, that he's trying to shield you from witnessing him spitting it out. Then, when you hear the strangled sound emanating from him and see how his shoulders are shaking, you think he is choking.

As you run over to him, knocking over your chair on the way, you're in a panic trying to remember the proper technique for giving the Heimlich.

Do I put my hands below the ribcage or below the diaphragm? Is the diaphragm right below the ribcage? Are they the same thing? Why the fuck didn't I take human anatomy? How am I going to lift him? Why haven't I been doing pushups? Or even just like… a single pushup. Nonplural.

But he isn't choking.

As soon as you get to his side, he lifts his head and pulls you onto his lap. This is when you see that Kylo Ren is crying.

Not just crying, the man is straight-up sobbing over a bit of rice bun.

Because you're socially broken, your gut reaction whenever something surprises you is laughter. You could be about to die in a bantha stampede, and you'd be chuckling while trying to run away from the shock.

So you giggle out an apprehensive, "What... the... fuck?" as he buries his head into your neck and continues to wail.

Although you're entirely disconcerted, you pat and rub his back instinctually.

What am I supposed to say here? What is happening?

After a minute, he pulls away and wipes his face on his sleeve. You observe him, keeping your hands on his shoulders as a token of your support while he recomposes himself.

"Sorry about that," he sniffs, "I don't know what came over me. I just… I haven't had one of these since I was little. What are they called again?"

"Chandrilan rice buns?"

He nods, and once he controls the wavering of his bottom lip, he explains, "My dad, he used to take me out and get them at the street vendors when we'd go to the park. It's like eating this unlocked a door of memories I didn't even know I still had."

"That makes sense. There's a direct connection from your taste and smell receptors to your hippocampus, the place where you keep your memories. Did you grow up in Hanna City?" Your curiosity is through the roof. You want to know everything about Kylo's childhood. But you strive to play it cool - you don't want to spook him.

Kylo looks past you, and you can tell he's somewhere else, "I lived there until I was ten. With my mother and my... father."

His voice falters on the last word, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Yes, he does! Make him tell you! Now isn't the time to play coy!

Lucky for you, he continues without any encouragement, "My dad wasn't force-sensitive, like my mom and I were, and he was always going on about how he wanted me to have a 'normal life' a 'normal childhood.' He would constantly pull me away from my studies to watch Moray and Faz or to go get snacks like these," he gestures behind you towards the bag abandoned on the table.

When he proceeds, there's a hypnotic ghost of a smile on his lips. "His best friend was a Wookie - I called him Uncle Chewie - they taught me how to fly when I was seven. They were so proud of me, but when we got home, I told my mom. She was livid. I thought for sure she'd kill us all."

"Hold on. Hold on!" You hold up a hand, "You're telling me that your dad and his best friend, who also happened to be a… a Wookie taught you how to pilot when you were seven?!" you balk.

When he laughs and nods, your heart gallops. You admit, "I didn't learn to pilot until I was seventeen - as per, I don't know, the law! And even then, I'm still horrible at it."

Kylo brushes a hand up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake, "Maybe you just never had a good teacher. I'll teach you if you want."

Though it's a tempting offer, you know the execution of it would be far less appealing than the idea. You have a hard time cooperating when you're being told what to do by a man, even if you're dying to get in said man's pants. It's either some strange reflex instilled in you by your aunts while growing up or a novel case of male-specific oppositional defiant disorder.

"No thanks, but I want to hear more about this bizarro childhood you had. Tell me, how does one go from adorable child savant to Knight of Doom?"

Here's how you think your comment will play out:

Kylo will chortle at your tongue-in-cheek wit, enjoying your little jest at his expense, and then he’ll finish telling you about growing up in Hanna City and how he got to where he is. You imagine him describing his mother and talking about how she would just love you. Maybe he'll even tell you his father's favorite liquor, and you will file that information away and use it to impress him when you meet him one day.

How foolish you are. How naive you are to think that Kylo Ren will react to anything in any way that would be remotely normal. How stupid of you to believe this is in any way a real relationship in which you share bits and pieces of yourselves with each other.

Because here's how your comment does play out:

Kylo doesn't laugh.

In fact, Kylo's whole face shuts down - it goes completely cold, almost scary. He stands up abruptly, leaving you to tumble to the floor, and then he stalks out of the room.

But before he disappears down the stairs, he snarls over his shoulder, "Don't ever ask me about my family again."

What. The. Fuck.

Sitting on the floor, you stare around at the empty room. The hollow hard whiteness of it all is frosty and frigid - like ice. You shiver and rub your arms, clenching your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering.

The spread of your emotions is vast.

First, you feel hurt, dejected, and vulnerable. Next, utterly humiliated, used, and objectified. Lastly, the anger moves in. Not just anger - wrath. You're so angry that your eyes start to water, and your throat aches, constricting around a shriek.

It's this rage that has you jumping to your feet. By the time you've traveled down the stairs to the central hexagon and back up the steps to Kylo's bedroom, you're essentially frothing at the mouth.

You're about to pull a Kylo Ren. You're about to have an irrational, childish, full-grown-adult tantrum. Good thing you don't have a lavasword, or the Supreme Leader probably wouldn't have his pretty head anymore.

"Listen, asshole, I'm sick of this shit! I'm sick of being on this fucking ship! I'm sick of having to pander to a bunch of egotistical men who think they own everyone and can do whatever they want and treat people however they want! I'm sick of Hux! And I'm sick of you!"

The hurt that flashes in his eyes does nothing but feed the fire-breathing dragon unleashed inside of you.

Good! Do you feel that? That's a taste of your own medicine!

"The only reason I'm even here is that you've ordered it. Every person on this ship knows you must bow down to the mighty Kylo Ren unless you want him to choke you out with his magical powers. You come to my bed and beg me to let you in like I have a choice. You send Phasma to fetch me every night like I'm nothing more than a disposable security blanket made of flesh. Newsflash, douchebag, I'm your prisoner! If I had it my way, I'd be lightyears away from this ship, this neverending dumpster fire of a war, and you!"

Before you turn to leave, you twist around and hiss, "I want to leave now. Of course, only if I have your permission, Supreme Leader?"

Kylo looks desolate. He looks horrified. He looks drained.

You look between the two, your eyes as wide as saucers. You’d been preparing yourself for a whole, ‘keep-me-company’ scenario, in which the obviously damaged Ren requests you act as an emotional band aid. You’d been expecting something easy to brush off. But this… there’s an undertone of gravity in the way Phasma speaks.

The troopers salute their superior and step aside to let her in. Since you're still trying to puzzle out the cryptic exchange, and you've never been good at multitasking, your feet stay unintentionally anchored to the spot. This means Phasma has to double back to pull you into the room.

Not unlike the man himself, Kylo's quarters look nothing like you expect them to be. While the space has the same functional sterility as the rest of the ship, it's completely white.

Honestly, it's no wonder the guy has high anxiety and finds solace in your touch. Because there is not a single thing about this place that suggests natural life of any kind. Nothing in his space is organic or soothing, or human. It's a habitat fit for a droid - and you're pretty sure Kylo Ren isn't a droid.

Upon entering, you're guided down a narrow flight of stairs into a sort of central hexagonal room off of which branches three additional flights of stairs. The architectural design is irregular and non-intuitive. The only things that aren't sterile, unsettling, white are a window looking out into the void of space and a black shrine built for an odd melted mask.

This space, Kylo's space, raises the hair on the back of your neck. It triggers your animal response, putting you on edge, making you skittish. You're torn between your desire to flee and your curiosity to see what nonsense the Supreme Leader will be requesting of you now.

Abruptly a medical doctor emerges from one of the stairwells. She appears worn out, and the red smudges of blood that splatter her white uniform are disconcerting.

Her presence is ominous, and the tentacles of worry start to creep into your thoracic cavity.

"How's he doing?" At the alarming waver in Phasma's voice, the tentacles start to wind around your heart and lungs. They reach up to make the nerves sensitive along your jawline and fine-tune your auditory receptors so you won't miss a word.

"With the help of the… resources provided by his connection on Exegol, I was able to get everything under control. I have him on some concentrated iron supplements. He's young. He should heal fast. Still, with that much blood loss… it's not a pretty sight." With every syllable the doctor utters, another vertebra in your spine stiffens, so by the time she's done, you're standing at full attention.

Why did she say 'resources' like that? Like it was something illegal? What is 'Exegol'? And why does it sound familiar? Blood loss? Lots of blood loss? What. Is. Happening?!

The doctor slides her weary gaze on you, "Is this her?"

"Yes. It's me." Your impatience has you acting manic. You speak fast and short and impatient. "You're not supposed to tell anyone I'm here, yadda, yadda, yadda. Now, can you please tell me what the fuck is going on here? What happened to Kylo?"

"There was an… incident." She uses her professional, compassionate physician voice.

"No shit." You roll your eyes. You're agitated, and when you're agitated, you react like any mature, well-adjusted, grown-ass woman would: you become petulant and sarcastic.

It's not her fault that she was trained to break horrible news to people slowly - but you need to know what level of freakout you should be at, and you need to know ASAP.

Phasma, in all her efficient goodness, is the one who finally explains, "The Supreme Leader was going to confront a Jedi on Kef Bir. She'd found something he needed. He told me to stay back, that he didn't want to spook her. He'd said he didn't want there to be any violence if possible."

"A Jedi? But I thought I read… I guess I just thought there weren't many… or any Jedi's left."

"The bitch is a Jedi, alright. And she stabbed the Supreme Leader right in the stomach with her lightsaber." At this, your eyes get (somehow) even wider - they may be at risk for popping entirely out of your head soon. Phasma continues. "When I saw it happen, I ran out of hiding. She was crouched over him. Talking to him." Her voice is dripping with disdain. It's terrifying.

Remind me to never get on Phasma's bad side.

"But when she saw me, she fled. I was going to go after her but thought it would be better to get The Supreme Leader back to the Star Destroyer."

"I thought -," you have to stop and clear your throat, it's becoming difficult to speak, "I mean, how is he bleeding so much? I thought that lightsabers cauterize the wounds they inflict?"

The doctor raises an eyebrow at you, "You know a lot about lightsabers for an entomologist."

"I've been reading up on them...," you trail off as you register the last part of her statement, "How do you know I'm an entomologist?"

"In general, you're correct about lightsabers. However, it becomes more challenging to cauterize a vessel in some internal organs, like the spleen and liver, with perfuse vasculature." The doctor answers your first question.

"Oh."

"And I know your profession because the only thing the Supreme Leader has spoken of since he's been in my care on board tonight is you. He's been asking to see you."

Your mind feels disorganized with unanswered questions and powerful but confusing emotions. But you've never been keen on hysterics. Sure, you've been prone to bouts of depression and wallowing about your circumstance, but wild emotions have always seemed senseless to you.

What use is falling apart going to do now? You pause to collect yourself and consider the objective information you've been given and integrate it with the subjective.

So, he's been hurt, but he'll survive. That warrants, what, like a level three freakout? Am I still allowed to be mad at him? I mean, she said he's gonna make it. But… he is asking for me, which, I must admit, is very sweet.

You're on the fence about how you're going to play it until Phasma takes you up the staircase that leads to his bedroom. She taps a code onto the door to open it.

And then you see him.

So much for not being "keen on hysterics."

So much for trying to rationalize away "wild emotions."

You clap your hands over your mouth to stifle the gasp.

If Kylo was pale before, he's positively hypoxic now, titanium white with a greenish-blue hue. The edges of his mouth are cyanotic, and he's covered in a fine mist of sweat. Though his eyes are closed, his brows are knit together in pain. He is hooked up to several machines, and a large bandage is wrapped tightly across his abdomen.

You don't remember how you get to his side, but you're there with your fingers flitting restlessly above him. You long to touch him, but you're scared you'll hurt him. Kylo solves your dilemma by catching your hand in his and bringing it to his cheek.

His eyes are barely open, "You came."

Of course, I fucking came. Don't you know? I'm attached to you. I'm addicted to you. I tried not to be, but here I am.

But you don't say these words out loud. Instead, you laugh through your tears - oh yeah, you're crying (when did that happen?) - and croak, "I didn't have a choice, did I? The Supreme Leader ordered it."

You regret the words instantly. They were meant as a joke, but from the troubled downward twitch of Kylo's beautiful mouth, you know they bother him, "You always have a choice with me."

You bring his hand up to your cheek and hold it there. He brushes away your tears there with his thumb.

From the way his breathing rate has increased, you can tell he's already exhausted himself. When he speaks, it sounds strained, "I want you to be here, but you don't have to be if you don't want to be. Do you want to be here?"

A tremendous, terrifying emotion swells in your chest, constricting your larynx, making it impossible for you to speak. So in answer to his question, you very carefully rest your cheek on his chest - wanting to listen to his heartbeat, needing to hear the proof he's alive.

There's nowhere else I want to be. I can't leave now, I'd have to cut the web of attachment, and somehow it's more significant than it was before. And I'm afraid if I do that, it'll hurt more than I can bear.

I'm so fucked.

. . . .

After twelve taxing hours by Kylo's side (minus thirty minutes to tend to your animals), he finally wakes up.

You've spent the time fretting over, dozing next to, and worrying about him. And though he doesn't look healthy, he seems a million times better than he did before.

You're sitting next to his bed, trying and failing to read a section on kaadu mating in your text while gnawing on your thumbnail (gnawing is not just a vulptex stress response). When a large hand with long, graceful fingers lays across the top of your foot, which you've propped up on the mattress, you startle and look up to see Kylo watching you, a worried expression on his face.

The sight of him being concerned about you is hilarious. You're not the one who's been prancing around ocean moons, getting stabbed with lavaswords.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" He rasps, his vocal cords weakened from disuse.

Before you answer him, you set your book aside and move to sit on the edge of the bed. When you put your hand on his forehead and smooth out the anxious creases, he closes his eyes and sighs. The pressure in your chest begins to build again. And for some reason, you feel like you're seconds away from crying.

"I've slept." It's technically not a lie. You think you might've dozed off here and there.

He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair out of your face, "Liar."

You smirk.

"Come sleep." He tries to tug you down to him, but he's either still incredibly weakened from his injury, or he's only half-trying because you resist easily.

"I'll sleep if you tell me exactly how you got yourself into this predicament." You cock your head to indicate the bandages on his stomach.

He frowns and shakes his head.

You're not surprised, but you still tsk, "Well then, no deal."

There are several measures of loaded eye contact between the two of you. And when I say loaded, I mean looooaaaded.

This eye contact has got you waxing poetic about the intricate details of his irises (warm hazel with flecks of green and gold) and holding your breath. It's only when his stomach makes a loud rumbling noise that the spell is broken.

Glancing in the direction of his abdomen, you ask, "Hungry?"

He does a little guilty shrug before remembering he's gotten himself skewered like a shish kabob and winces.

"Yeah... I imagine it's going to be painful to move for the next few days." You state the obvious. And then an idea lights up your whole face, "Can we make Hux come in here to cook for us? You are technically his boss, right?"

You're half-joking, but Kylo doesn't even crack a baby smile. "Hux can't know about… this." He gestures with his hand to the space between the two of you.

Two thoughts come into your head simultaneously:

So something is going on between us, and it's not one-sided! EEEEEEE!!

Wait. Why the fuck can't Hux know about us? Is Kylo ashamed of me?

"No, no, no." He grits through his teeth as he sits up and grabs your hands, "It's nothing like that. I'm not ashamed of you. Not at all." Pausing here, he brushes some hair back from your face. And when his eyes rest on your lips, you feel your cheeks warm.

With a resigned sigh, he looks back to your eyes and continues, "Hux hates me, and if he sees anything he can use against me - he will. Including you."

"Hold on!" In your sleep-deprived state, it's taken you longer than usual to catch it. But once you do, you narrow your eyes at him, "Can you…," you hesitate because you're about to ask him a crazy question, a question that's been hovering in your subconscious for quite some time, "Can you read my mind?"

"Sometimes." He waves this away as if it's not the most ambiguous answer to one of the most weighty questions you've ever asked someone.

Then leans in. His face is no-nonsense but so close, you suck in a shaky breath, "Listen to me." He speaks in a low, earnest tone, "I need to make sure you understand. He can't know."

Although you really want to go back to how he said he can "sometimes" read your mind and make him elaborate since it goes against everything you thought you knew about biological processes, you nod.

You do this because the look of fear mixed with the grimace of pain on his face is so heart-wrenching. You just need him to relax.

Later. You think, I'll make him tell me later.

Having a crush on The Dark Prince of the First Order is a bad idea for so many reasons.

For one, the man is clearly unstable. One minute you'll be having a perfectly normal and lovely conversation about the ethics of breeding fathiers. Then you'll say something about how your uncle lost his life savings betting on fathier races, and the next thing you know, Kylo clams up and leaves.

Another reason you resent having a crush on Kylo is that, in general, crushes suck.

They're plain inconvenient! They make it difficult to focus on regular, everyday tasks. When you have a crush, everything reminds you of that person - the color of your coffee, the color of your sheets, the bristles on your toothbrush (because Kylo is bristly... duh).

You have trouble sleeping because you're thinking about him too much. And when you do sleep, dream about him… naked… underneath you, or on top of you. It's a nightmare! Well, not literally. The dreams are really quite pleasant.

Another reason crushes suck is that they make for lousy storytelling. Everything is so repetitive: flushing/blushing/warming, gazing/eye-contact/prolonged stares, stomach flutters/flips/drops/butterflies (but definitely no stomach cramps. Those are gross and not cute).

It's like: we get it, body. You want to bone Kylo Ren.

You wish you could sit your body down and have a long talking-to. It would sound something like this: Listen, body, I understand that for whatever reason you feel you must sequester this man's genetic material, but you need to listen to reason. You need to CHILL the fuck out!

What isn't helping with your current... emotional state is that he's been in your bed almost every night for the past week.

He comes late, usually when you're already all tucked in. Without much, or any, preamble, he takes off his shoes and shirt, climbs in next to you, and pulls you to him.

You're nearly positive, by the way he makes sure that every square inch of his skin is touching yours, that he's essentially using you as a sedative. Half of you wants to tell him to fuck off. But the other half - the half that wins out - never wants him to stop.

On Monday, in the middle of the night, he slips his hand under your shirt in his sleep. Pressing his palm onto your abdomen, spreading his fingers wide. The skin underneath his hand gets all zingy, and you despise how badly you want him to move it up… or how you want him to move it down even more.

On Wednesday, he whispers something to the back of your neck. The words are incoherent in his slumber, but his lips moving on your neck elicits all sorts of nerve-ending chaos.

On Thursday, you become… sneaky? Naughty? Pathetic? All three?

As soon as you hear his breathing deepen, you watch the clock for five minutes to make sure he's genuinely asleep. Then moving at the pace of a sloth, you turn in his arms to face him.

In an instant, you become addicted to this moment, being so close to him, being able to watch him without restraint. And like any addict will tell you, it takes more and more to make you feel the same high every time.

The first night you do this, you merely look. You marvel at the arch of his cheekbones and note the uniform blue-black of his lashes, brows, and hair. You count ten freckles and moles on his face and neck, but they don't take away from his appeal. Instead, they enhance his features, like a beauty mark.

The second night you do this, Friday, you press your hand against his chest and count his heartbeats (60 bpm, very healthy). Then you trace his mouth, starting with the edge of his full bottom lip then circling up to the dip of his cupid's bow with your fingertips. When he twitches and wiggles his nose in his sleep, you hold your breath and try to stop thinking about how much you want to trace that same circuit around his mouth with the tip of your tongue.

Saturday night, you do something positively creepy. You shimmy in close and press a kiss to his jaw, feeling his scratchy man skin under your lips. Then you trace the line of his scar, first with your finger, followed by your mouth.

How'd he get this? You muse with a frown, conscious of the protective feeling blooming in your chest.

As your eyes sweep his features again, you start when you realize Kylo is watching you from half-lidded eyes. A sleepy half-smile tips the corner of his mouth up.

Guilty as fuck, you start to back away - but he flexes his previously relaxed arms and holds you close to him. And if that doesn't wreak some havoc on your infatuation-induced stomach flutters, what happens next certainly does.

Securing his hold on you with one arm, he releases the other to smooth the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip and mumbles in a thick, drowsy voice, "Why are you sad?"

The unfocused haze over his gaze makes you wonder if he's awake or not. But before you can reply, he cups the back of your head on a sigh and brings your face to his chest. He whispers, "I never want you to be sad," into your hair while nuzzling the top of your head.

Kylo Ren, the sentimental sweetheart? Oh… he's definitely sleeping.

Still, this does something to you. It feels like a line has been crossed, and you can't go back now - or something equally melodramatic that you can't quite put your finger on.

. . . .

Who knows what you would've escalated to on Sunday night to get your Supreme Leader fix. Probably pour chocolate syrup on him and lick it off. Or maybe pour chocolate syrup on you and ask him to lick it off?

You never find out, though, because he doesn't show up. After a whole week of occupying your bed with you, the lovely, infuriating Supreme Leader neglects to show up, leaving your bed feeling empty and cold.

You toss and turn all night, barely getting any sleep, and when you wake up, you're infuriated. With your frontal lobe asleep on the job, nothing holds back your impulse to storm out and grab the stormtrooper stationed at the menagerie door by the arm.

"Go tell Kylo Ren I need to see him. Now." You snarl in a low and dangerous voice.

The trooper hesitates for a moment before informing you, "The Supreme Leader isn't aboard the Star Destroyer at the moment."

Your stomach plummets.

"Was... was there an emergency?"

"Uhm. Well, no...," the trooper is being careful, you wonder if it's the same one you'd snapped at before, "I don't know much about it, but I know it wasn't an... emergency per se."

The anxiety you'd felt over the possibility he is in danger makes way for your humiliated rage.

You have got to be fucking with me. This emo prick thinks he can share my bed for a week and make me feel all these obnoxious feelings for him and then just skip town without telling you? AGAIN?! No, no, no, no NO!

"Are you okay, ma'am…?" the trooper rests a hand on your shoulder, and you jerk it forcefully out of his grasp. Startled by the violence of your reaction, he stumbles back a step.

"I'm fine!" You turn to rampage through the menagerie, bellowing behind your shoulder, "And don't ever call me ma'am again!"

. . . .

So obviously, you're not "fine."

And you can't stand it.

You've always been proud of your ability to control your emotions. Sure, it's earned you some unflattering nicknames over the years: Ice Queen, Robo-tits, Cold-Hearted-Bitch, the more straightforward Bitch, but it's better than suffering the emotional drama that comes with authentic attachment.

Being attached to a person takes too much time. You spend time thinking about them, spend time with them, and spend so much time being disappointed in them when they don't meet your expectations.

It becomes evident to you now that the nights you spent wrapped up in Kylo's arms, a web of attachment was being woven, connecting you to him by some imaginary demonic love-spider.

Well, you are cutting that web! Metaphorically, of course. You weren't completely crazy… yet.

Additionally, you're determined that the next time you see Kylo Ren, you'll tell him he can go ahead and find someone else to cuddle because you don't have time for his bullshit mind games.

If you're ever going to get off this blasted ship, you can't have something, or someone, tethering you to it.

. . . .

The first three days are hard.

You're in full-blown Kylo withdrawal. You can't sleep, have no appetite, and hate everything and everyone more than usual. Even Spike can sense your pissy mood and avoids you, scampering away into the corners of his enclosure whenever you reach in to feed him.

On the third night, you finally get a good night's sleep, and you wake up feeling… if not better, at least average. Rational. Let's just say you don't feel like burning the place to the ground. It's an improvement.

On the fifth day of Kylo's absence, you manage to do some reading. This is when you come across a section on midichlorians in the animal physiology text Hux had gotten you. It's pretty brief, just a jargon-loaded picture depicting the little blobs floating around in a cellular model and a couple of graphs showing a positive correlation between an ability to manipulate matter through "The Force" and the concentration of midichlorians found in their cells.

For two whole minutes, you stare like a dumbfounded mouth-breather at the picture. Does this mean there is a scientific basis to the ridiculous concept of 'The Force'? You follow the citation to the bibliography and see a paper co-authored by your own hero Attenye.

This is precisely what you need to get you out of your funk - a bottomless scientific rabbit hole. Who knows? With a rabbit hole as messy and dense as the highly-politicized concept of The Force, maybe you won't find your way out. Perhaps you'd get trapped down there and more or less forget all about Kylo Ren and his stupid sexy hair and his idiot broad shoulders and his adorable smile and... the span of his hands.

With a bit of well-timed flattery, you're able to convince Hux to give you access to the database. Also, you may or may not have promised him you'd only use it to research potential new additions to the menagerie. However, once he grants you read-only access, you immediately delve into peer-reviewed publications on midichlorians and The Force.

For five whole days, you gape at your holotable any chance you get, immersing yourself in the fascinating world. You read two full historical texts and twelve research studies published in cell biology, biochemistry, medicine, and psychology journals.

Of course, you've heard of Jedi's and Sith, but you'd always thought they were two groups of near-extinct religious fanatics who had a penchant for starting wars. You had absolutely no idea how deep the concept of The Force went.

You learn about kyber crystals, lavaswords lightsabers, Jedi mind tricks. You read about The Jedi Code, The Sith Code, The Grey Code and the whole planets, whole ecosystems that have been shaped by these codes, and the beings who enforce them.

You'd been right about the potency of this particular rabbit hole. You'd all but forgotten the moody knight. Until you're pulled away by a banging on your door late one night.

It's deja vu.

You've been here before, and as you pull a sweater over your head, you're ready to tell Kylo Ren he can fuck right off.

But there is no broody man at your door. Instead, you come face-to-face with the infamous chrome trooper.

You've only seen her from a distance before. But you've heard tales of her all-around badassery and resurrection from a pit of fire.

"Doctor?" She is the very essence of efficiency, and when you don't reply immediately, she orders you, "Follow me."