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He shares the meal with you, two stormtroopers standing outside the cell with their backs to the both of you to form the illusion of privacy. He sits across from you at a pristine white table, two identical dishes of something steaming hot that makes your mouth water despite the turning of your stomach.

The food is good; better than the rations you’re used to. You suspect this is not the quality of treatment that most of the Empire’s prisoners receives. You use the side of your fork to cut your meal into small pieces, taking slow bites. Jar Jar does not bother with silverware.

You get about halfway through your food before the sick feeling in your stomach has you setting your fork down and pushing your plate aside.

“Why am I here?” You tuck your hands in your lap, your fingers clench and unclench with nervous energy. “What do you want with me?”

You flinch when Jar Jar’s hand reaches across the table for your chin, cold fingers instantly leeching the heat from you. He tries to gently tilt your head to face him and, when you do not allow him to move you his hold tightens. Your lips and cheeks are squeezed together and his thumb pushes painfully into your jaw and you can feel an ache that reaches to your bones as he effortlessly moves your head until you’re looking Jar Jar directly in the eyes.

“Yousa smart,” he says, and you can feel his breath on your neck, hot and damp and uncomfortable. The firm grip on your chin loosens, touch drifting down your neck then back to the side of your head to move a few arrant strands of hair behind your ear. He maintains eye contact the whole time. “Yousa tell me.”

You avert your eyes, body tense and blood running cold in your veins.

If you don’t say it, if you don’t acknowledge it, if you feign ignorance, maybe it will simply cease to be.

His hand lingers behind your ear; maybe to scare you, maybe because he wants to, maybe just because he can.