#duna writes

He watches, later as they sup with only each other for company, Jean eating his meal in small bites. Each chew twitches his cheeks and rustles the white beard that half covers them. Javert’s eyes flick down to his plate, but are invariably drawn back upwards. He cannot stop himself. There is something gratifying about it, a feeling of satisfaction that twists Javert’s normally impassive face into a half-smirk, an expression that only Jean, foolish man that he is, can find endearing. 

Finally, at the end of the day, when they both once more crowd the living room before they retire for the night, Javert appreciates the way candlelight curves against his cheek. He is also enamoured with the way the flames light his eyes and the satisfied smile lights his features. It is in these moments he finds it hardest to resist their temptation. 

How they beg to be caressed! How the trimmed edges of Jean’s beard, nothing like the untamed mane that Javert’s descend into, beg to have fingers run through them. The single mole right under his eyes that asks to be kissed. Javert has horrid thoughts. Not even Valjean could find them acceptable. 

And so he simply watches as he has always done. Always watching, never doing anything. Jean will bid him goodnight, perhaps tease him a bit about whatever book he’s chosen from the man’s library to dig into, and will then round the corner and disappear to his room. Inevitably, Javert will take his chosen book, head to his room, spend 15 short minutes reading, before giving up and thinking of Valjean instead. 

Jean’s eyes, a pale blue that reflects whatever light settles around him. His gait, still uneven from his time in Toulon. His body, stocky and muscled, though softened with age and the care of his daughter. Above all else, Javert thinks of his face. His cheek twisted up in a smile, lined with laughter, resting against the palm of his hand as he writes. He has even, on particularly loathsome nights when he is at his weakest, imagined resting his lips there for a moment. Surely such a touch would energise him. 

He imagines it vividly. The smooth, shaved plane of Jean’s face, the wiry white hairs, and the soft wrinkles that reveal his age. He imagines, too, his own lips. Though they, like the rest of himself, are hard and unfriendly, they might be tempted to migrate from that cheek. They might slide, he imagines, over the corners of Jean’s trimmed mustache. Perhaps even over the laugh lines that have only deepened with time. Finally, his weak and tempted lips might move onto Jean’s own lips, small and pink.

Or perhaps, he thinks with a shiver, he might descend down. Past the angle of his jaw, through the tempting hollow of his throat, and into the private area of his neck that is always carefully hidden by the man’s starched collar and cravat. Once there, he might be allowed to untie that cravat. Jean might let his clumsy fingers loosen and tug down the collar, and he might consent to letting Javert’s lips suck gentle kisses onto the surely pale skin. A prelude, perhaps, to some further unravelling and-

And that is when Javert cuts off his thoughts and either goes back into reading,  or extinguishes his own candle and crawls into bed.

The problem is that Jean has learned to be discerning. He knows how to observe and knows how to notice discrepancies, even when he is at home. This is especially true when it comes to Javert, who he has spent decades on the watch for. It follows then, that one evening while they sup on some leftover stew, as Javert is bringing a morsel of bread to his lips, Jean asks, “why do you watch me so carefully, Javert?”

The bread goes down the wrong way, and Javert resorts to embarrassingly coughing into his fist. “Oh, oh dear, forgive me…” Jean hurries to his side, hands up and ready to help him with coughing up the hunk of bread. 

Javert waves the help away, cheeks colouring with embarrassment. “No- no need, Valjean,” he takes a moment to wipe his lips with his servillette, “I am alright now. Please, seat yourself.” Jean takes a careful seat, questioning gaze resting on Javert. 

“I…apologise if the question was…inapropriate, I-”

Javert waves a dismissive hand, “it is of no concern, Valjean.” He swallows uncomfortably, “I was simply…surprised.”

“That I noticed, or that I mentioned it?” Jean’s fingers hover over his spoon, soft gaze still on Javert.

“Both,” Javert responds quickly before he can think of what he is revealing. “You do not tend to confront these issues directly. In any case, I am under no illusions regarding my discretion in these matters.”

Valjean grants him some reprieve, finally spooning stew to his mouth. “And what would these matters be?” Javert just looks at him, unable to fit his answer into something half-decent. “Are they personal in nature?”

That, he can answer. “...yes.” Jean’s eyebrows raise marginally, surprised that he would relinquish an answer so quickly. He should know by now that Javert is, finally, ever loyal to Jean. Should he ask, Javert will gladly follow, relinquish, and obey. Of course, Jean is too good to do that, but it is true nonetheless.

“Do you watch me to see…what poor choices I might make under your watch?” Javert exclaims an affronted no. “To watch for my health?” Javert doesn’t respond, but his eyes flick downwards to the table. “No? You watch because you…want to.” He doesn’t ask it, but Javert still bows his head in agreement. 

The silence stretches out until Javert can work up the courage to look back in Valjean’s eyes. They are the same as they were before. Impassive, but open. Jean asked him a question. He must answer. “Your cheek, monsieur. I want to…” he cannot hold Valjean’s gaze longer, and returns to looking at his hand that is fisting at the tablecloth in anxiety. “I would only wish to hold it, monsieur.”

“Valjean,” the man corrects absently. “You need not call me so formally, Javert.” It is second nature at this point, for Javert to call Jean ‘monsieur’ and Jean to gently correct him.

“As you wish it, Valjean,” Javert replies shakily, sneaking his gaze up to watch as understanding suddenly floods Jean’s face. Any time now, his face will turn apologetic and he’ll reject Javert. Jean is not the type to throw him out for this sin, but that does not mean he would be understanding.

Jean’s face twists into curiosity. “You think I would not allow it?” Jean has abandoned his meal now, instead focusing his discerning gaze on Javert. As is often the case, Javert can only hold it for so long before he is forced to turn his gaze away. He contemplates a few sentences while his fingers fiddle with the bread on his plate. 

“Well, you should refuse, as a good monsieur would.”

The man’s lips twitch, his moustache hides the lifting at the corner, but Javert has been around him enough to recognise that amused glint in his eyes. “We both know I fall short in these…estimations of yours, good inspector.”

At that, Javert takes offense, his uncomfortable mien shifting suddenly with a frown. “I do not know what you mean. You are as upstanding a citizen as any other. More so, under my estimation.” Any embarrassment flees at hearing Jean talk about himself so dismissively, This will not do.

Jean huffs, but then shoots him an indescribable look. “Then, perhaps instead of my bearing as a person, it indicates the action being no worse than any other?” He waves a hand though, as though dismissing the words from the air. He stands abruptly, abandoning his own meal. “Have you finished your meal, Javert?”

“Yes.” He cannot stand the thought of eating more. Jean will throw him out soon surely, or reject him and send him to his room. His stomach can not settle. 

“Then you might stand. Come.” He gestures to his side. Javert does not quite clamber up to get to his side, but it is a close thing. Jean tips him an amused glance, beckoning him near. “Well? Feel free. Indulge your…curiosity.”

“I…should not-”

“Come now, must I repeat myself, good man?” A devilish glint rises in his eyes then, and he slowly reaches up to his neck. They reach for the fabric that hides away the pale expanse of flesh there. 

Javert’s thoughts ground to a halt and his voice rises up in a strangled cry. “No, sir, I-”

“I only wish to aid you, my good man.” But, mercifully, his hands stop as they are untying his cravat. “Come, give me your hand then.” Javert, who could hardly ever find it in him to refuse this man, lets his right hand rest in Valjean’s waiting palm. “Good,” he whispers almost absently. Javert shivers. 

His palm is warm. It is roughened by the labour he’d undergone in Toulon, but that was years ago. Even the gardening that would have left callouses on his fingers was years ago by now. Stocky, definitely labourer’s hands, but still soft. Javert’s own hands are almost smooth, interrupted by callouses where his quill rests. Thick fingers gently pry open his hand and lay the back of it flat against Jean's palm. “Here.” He looks up from Javert’s palm to smile reassuringly at Javert.

Then he raises it and lays Javert’s palm against his own cheek. Almost without thought, Javert’s fingers twist into the other man’s whiskers. He can hardly breathe. Jean’s own eyes are closed, and he tilts his head into Javert’s palm slightly, a smile curling his lips and a look of joy on his face. Javert can not breathe. 

He lets his hand rise from Jean’s cheek, watching in rapturous stupidity as Jean seems to try and follow his hand. His fingers curl, and he could run the backs of them over Jean’s cheek, eyes focused on the path they take. His thumb trails from under his eye, to the small spot on his cheekbone, and down to the corner of his lip. He can feel the gentle puffs of air from Jean’s breaths. He wants to bottle them up, capture them so he might always be sustained on them. He feels the sudden need to only breathe in whatever air Jean deigns to give him. 

“Is it as you thought?” How curious. He can feel Jean’s mouth shaping the words before he releases them. 

“No, only…your cheek is softer than I thought.” A fit of self-consciousness wrests over him and he tugs his hand away, back to the safe confines of his own person. He can feel his fingers trembling at the sudden loss of contact. “Forgive me, I-”

“None of that now, Javert.” Jean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. Javert’s eyes follow it before blinking back up at Jean’s eyes. “Don’t run from me now. That tends to be my role…” He reaches once more, this time for both of Javert’s hands. They are relinquished into his grasp easily. Jean’s hands skim up over his arms to his shoulders, where they tug him towards Jean. Javert goes without complaint, falling into the embrace easily. 

He feels the wiry hair from Jean’s cheek pressed into his own, and then Jean’s lips, soft and warm, pressed against his own cheek. Oh. They linger there for a moment before Jean draws back. 

“Do you now understand?” Javert does.

Javert hesitantly, but of his own volition, brings up his hand to trace the curve of Jean’s cheek again. “I believe I do.” And then he is leaning forwards that scant distance to replace his fingertips with his own lips. He follows the trails his fingers took moments earlier. Over the curve of his cheekbone, into the smooth plane beside his lips, ending at the angle of his jaw. He can feel Jean trembling ever so slightly against his body. Or perhaps that is his own trembling? He can not tell. They are pressed so closely together. Where does he end and Jean begin? He decides that it does not matter. 

Javert feels the poking fabric of Jean’s starched collar against his jaw, so he reaches his hands to Jean's collar. The knot is familiar, and easy enough to unravel. The fabric parts easily, too, and Jean’s throat is freed. Hesitant hands reach up for Javert's own collar, but Javert ignores it and lets his mouth delve into the curve of Jean’s throat, inhaling the musky scent there. 

“May I?” Jean’s voice trembles. “I wish to-”

“Yes. Anything.” He leans back in, suckling kisses into the soft skin. He feels Jean’s hands at his collar, untying the cravat, and shifting his collar. Jean’s breath flutters his throat as he sighs. The hands keep parting the fabric. Unbuttoning his shirt to the edge of his waistcoat before they disappear into his shirt to stroke his clavicles and shoulders. He lets out a groan into the secret haven of Jean’s neck, pressing himself against Jean when it registers once more who he is touching and who is touching him. 

“Javert, oh…” Those hands tug him away and force him to lock gazes with Jean. “I must…” And Jean is leaning forwards, tugging at the parted edges of his collar to bring him forwards before pressing their lips together. The other man sighs into the kiss, and Javert can do little else but simply respond as Jean consumes him. 

He can feel, in the back of his mind, the need to breathe. That need is nowhere near the need to allow Jean to kiss him as long as he might wish. His hands flutter at Jean’s shoulders before settling there and squeezing the strong muscle there. Jean groans into the kiss before pulling away, recuperating his breath for a moment before he presses back. 

There is less urgency this time. Jean instead, uses the parted edges of his shirt to tilt him this way and that way, pressing short, fluttering kisses to every corner of his lips. 

Eventually Jean pulls away, hands moving to cup Javert’s face. For a moment, he just stares warmly with a smile. His cheek is rounded by the smile and Javert cannot stop himself from leaning forwards to kiss that cheek once more. Jean’s grin widens and he lets out a short laugh. “Shall we retire, Javert, to the living room? We might sit and continue?”

“On the chaise? By the fire?”

Still, it would have made things a lot easier and a lot less painful. He rolls over, head aching and stomach pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He feels both warm and chilled at the same time. A weak groan escapes him and he digs his fists into the soil, squeezing as the pain mounts and crests before it lessens ever so slightly. 

The time between waves is getting shorter. He’s going to die soon. He curls further in on himself, preserving what heat he can and pretending not to be worried about his inevitable fate. His eyes shut of their own accord. 

There is a rustle then, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. If it was one of the mutated beasts that regularly roamed the land he would at least have a quick death, if not painless. He heaved a breath, once more trying to at least face his death with a little dignity, but he can’t. Something sharp presses into his chin, but still he can’t open his eyes. Exhaustion tugs at his bones despite the warning to run or hide, and…and then nothing.

::::

He blinked, quite suddenly, into consciousness. He still felt exhausted, but perhaps marginally less so. The light of the open sky, a dull grey like all days, blinds him for a few moments. With the return of consciousness comes the return of the dull aching pain. He lets out a low moan as his stomach revolts, threatening to push up bile and nothing more. After all, there’s nothing for it to heave up. Still, he retches and feels marginally more miserable than before. Closing his eyes in exhaustion he finally stares up at the unbroken patch of sky. 

Wait.

“What?” There’s another man. His age maybe, or slightly older. His hair is shorn shorter than Charles’ and he has a handkerchief wrapped around his neck, no doubt meant to lift up to cover his mouth when needed. “If you’re going to kill me, make it quick.” He says, pausing to heave breaths between the words. Except he doesn’t speak half the words, and thinks the rest right into the other man’s head. 

The man, Erik, he quickly learns, stiffens instinctively and thrusts his knife out trapping Charles’ chin with the blade once more. “How…” Slowly, he loosens and the blade falls away. “You’re one of us.” It isn’t a question. “And you’re dying.” Again, another not-question. 

Still, Charles nods. “So, like I said: if you’re going to kill me, make it quick. Please.” He turns his gaze up towards the bleak sky, expecting either a quick strike or something of a similar vein to cut his life short. 

Instead, the man hmphs, “I wasn’t the one who ever said anything about killing other people. That was all you.” The knife clatters completely to the floor. “I, for one, wouldn’t want to see those beautiful eyes of yours go to waste.” Charles gawks. He reaches back into a bag hefted to the side. “Here, you definitely look like you need this.” And then he hoists up the medical syringe as though it isn’t one of the most sought-after remnants from Before. As though even those who dwell in walled cities with plenty of rad-masks and weapons don’t fight each other like animals for it. 

Charles stares, “but-”

“I don’t need it yet. And anyways…you can always join me to pay off the debt.” Charles just blinks. He’d be an idiot to not reach for it, and yet he hesitates. 

The man lifts a brow, “Either you take it, it’s poison and you die, or you don’t take it, and the illness takes you regardless. Or you take it, it’s the medicine and you don’t die.”

“I’ll just be…indebted.” Still, it could be worse, he toys with the thought before flopping his arm limply in Erik’s general direction. “Do it. Please.”

“Good.” Surprisingly tender, though Charles really shouldn’t be surprised given how his mind seems to regularly be superimposing Erik’s face, with that of his memories from Before, Erik lifts his arm from the ground and into his lap. 

Charles hesitates one last moment. Even with the medicine, recovery is ugly and it takes time and resources, things that are of little supply nowadays. “Will you…” look after me, watch over me, feed me, water me… He doesn’t say any of that, obviously, but Erik seems to hear it nonetheless and takes the time to smooth out the wrinkle of his brow, tracing the bone beneath his eye. 

    Charles stands by a window with a drink in hand. She seems a little…lonely. She also really looks like the way the bitches who bullied Erik in high school look. From the sleek done-up hair and the heavy makeup that manages to look light to the shiny black leather Mary Janes, the woman seems to have crawled out from that high school and into the present. 

    By contrast, Erik’s long hair looks less sleek and more of a bird's nest, and her face holds none of the softness people like Charles have. Her clothes, a somewhat ratty-looking sleeveless shirt and an old pair of grey pants look nothing like Charles’ rather formal and feminine attire. 

    Despite the stereotypically feminine dress, she’s beautiful in a kind of soft and cute way. Her face is rather round, and her eyes are almost comically large. She’s also, the more base level of Erik thinks, very curvy, and Erik’s quite interested. 

    “New here?” She asks as she sidles up next to the woman. 

    Charles jumps and turns, a rather becoming flush adorning her features. “Oh, yes. Just moved in actually.” She’s got a posh accent, because of course she does. “The other building though, not this one. I’m Charles Xavier. Well, Charlotte officially, but call me Charles.” It’s not exactly a smile considering how strained it seems, but Charles sticks out her hand in greeting. 

    “Erik Lehnsherr.” Erik reaches out to grasp her hand. Soft hands, likely an academic, which are rather quickly removed from Erik’s grasp. Well, ok then. Charles seems uncomfortable, eyes darting this way and that. Her hands fiddle with her drink. Silence lapses.

    Eventually, she coughs a bit and speaks again. “Ummm, how long have you lived here?”

    “Three years.” Erik takes a sip of her beer. “I study physics, you see, in the Genosha Uni.” She notes how Charles’ smile slowly falls into a somewhat neutral frown. 

    “I, umm, I’m also going to Genosha Uni. Changed universities.” She goes back to looking an odd mix of uncomfortable and tired. Charles scans the room around her. “Ah, I’m going to get something to eat.” She points to the food stand and hurries towards it. Erik shrugs and turns away. Absently, she wonders what kind of problem Charles has with her, but ultimately decides she doesn’t really care. There are a lot of girls at this party, and the chocolate cookies are to die for. 

    No matter how cute she looks, Erik decides that she's a little bit of a bitch. Appearances can be deceiving and all that. 

    She doesn’t see Charles for a few weeks after the party. Then, all of a sudden she seems to see Charles everywhere. The woman lives across the street, and Erik constantly spots her as she exits or enters the apartment. They seem to frequent the same café and Erik even sees Charles chatting amicably with some guy at the bar on a Saturday night. 

    They don’t talk though. In fact, Charles doesn’t seem to notice Erik exists at all until they’re running into each other, quite literally, on a cloudy grey morning. 

    Erik’s just finished her morning run and is walking back to her home. She turns the corner and runs smack into a figure rushing in the opposite direction. Papers, from the other woman, go flying, as does Erik’s phone. The papers fall in various places and her phone thuds to the ground. Fuck.

    “Oh my god, I’m sorry.” Charles’ posh accent is only a bit apologetic. Erik’s fallen on her ass, and her muscles protest as she begins to stand up. Charles seems to have fallen on her knees. She’s rushing to pick up the papers, cursing softly. She carefully counts the papers, making sure she has them all. Erik checks her phone which is, thankfully, unharmed. Her attention turns from her phone to Charles who is slumped in relief, but still on the floor. Charles slowly gets to her feet, brushing her skirt smooth and carefully observing the scrapes on her knees. “Sorry,” she offers again. 

    Erik just rolls her eyes, “just watch where you’re going.”

    “I know, but…” she shakes her head before a panicked look returns and she’s saying a quick goodbye. In a few seconds, she’s turned the corner and is out of sight. 

    Erik knows she didn’t mean to hit her. It was completely an accident. Still, she could’ve at least cared a bit more about the person she’d hit instead of her papers. Whatever. She’s as snooty as she looks.

    They don’t run into each other, literally or otherwise for a while. Erik is grateful, but also strangely sad. She’d been a bit harsh, perhaps, but it wasn’t like Charles was much better. Still, as Mama likes to say, Erik can be a bit quick to judge. 

    It's a rainy Thursday afternoon in the café around the corner when they meet again. Erik likes to study there. Usually, it’s pretty quiet, and the lack of distractions means she can process data and type up reports quickly. Today, though, it’s raining, and many people have sat down in the café to escape the water. It results in a slightly higher amount of chatter and noise. 

    Erik isn’t easily irritated. People always seem to think she is because she has ‘harsh’ features and she ‘doesn’t smile enough’. Even so, the rapidly approaching deadline mixed with the louder cafe has Erik gritting her jaw as she types. 

    Her headphones are on and turned up so the chatter is mostly just background noise. Mama would say she’s acting anti-socially, but she truly does have to concentrate right now. 

    Suddenly, there’s a tap on her shoulder. “Hmm?” Erik grunts as she takes off the headphones and looks up at…Charles?

    “Umm, hello, Erik.” She’s carrying quite a few books and a laptop. Somehow she managed to juggle that all into one hand to tap at Erik’s shoulder. “I was just wondering if I could sit across from you, please? I’m just studying a bit, you see. I won’t even bother you.” She smiles as though she didn’t have a problem with Erik a few weeks back. 

    Still, she looks quite tired, and those books seem heavy. “Whatever,” Erik says while nodding at the other end, “just don’t be loud.” 

    “Thank you so much, Erik.” She starts saying something else, but Erik’s already putting his headphones in again. From the corner of her vision, Erik sees Charles’ face fall before she’s looking away and herding her attention back to her report. 

    Charles is, at the very least, a quiet studier. She gets up three times for tea and a slice of strawberry cream cake which she even offers to Erik, but other than that spends her time intently studying her books. She does take up a lot of space, though, with her books and papers. It’s a little annoying, but Erik puts up with it. Even if only for the view of Charles chewing her lower lip in concentration.

    She’s studying biology, or something related to it. It’s interesting because Erik would have thought that Charles was some literature or history student or something similar. Perhaps it’s the cardigans, skirts, and Mary Janes combined with a somewhat demure personality and a British accent which make her seem a bit like a professor or author. Not many women go into science fields, Erik knows, so she grudgingly feels some respect for the woman for the bold choice.

    Erik manages to turn just enough attention to her report to make going to the café a worthwhile study endeavour. She does notice just how much her attention wavers from the graphs of data to the concentrating frown opposite from her. She’s got the first draft done when the café begins closing. Charles startles when she taps her on the arm. “Café’s closing. We should go.” It's not that she means to sound gruff, but it's just how it comes out.

    “Oh, of course.” Charles efficiently manages to heave all her books and items into her arms in a complicated game of Tetris. Erik puts her laptop into her bag but instead of leaving swiftly, she finds herself waiting for Charles. And even opening the door for her. It’s just common courtesy, she tells herself. 

    Outside, Charles fiddles with her scarf for a moment before turning to Erik with a smile. “Are you going to your house? We could walk together?”

    Erik almost says no, but Charles’ face, upturned and strangely hopeful, means that she sighs and says, “fine.”

    Charles chatters practically nonstop. Completely contrasting the quiet studious girl from the café she was earlier, she talks about this and that. She’s got a sister, an aspiring singer with an odd name, and a stepbrother who she doesn’t talk much of. She had a cat before, a small grey one, and wants another sometime. She loves to garden, embroider, and knit. Erik doesn’t talk, but Charles does enough for the two of them. 

    They’re in their own world until someone bursts the bubble from outside with a sharp whistle. “Hey, pretty girl. Nice rack.” Erik knows the man can’t be talking to her because she has almost no boobs. She keeps walking. So does Charles. “Hey! Hey, you! You oughta listen to a man when he talks to you, bitch.” Charles stops walking. She turns with a harsh glare fixated on the man.

    “Say that again.” The man doesn’t exactly cower, but it’s a close thing. “Come on, say it to my face.” 

    “Just complimenting ya. No harm done,” the man says with a slimy grin. His eyes shift from Charles to Erik, specifically to her pride bag. The narrow. “You’re one of those fucking fags?” Indignation begins to boil in her blood and she's just about to turn away and drag Charles with her when the other woman surprises her. 

    “Oh for fucks sake,” Charles murmurs and swiftly manages to sock him in the face. She's got perfect form. He goes down and doesn’t get up. Erik just stands there, a little frozen by shock. Charles shakes her hand out, hissing slightly. She turns to Erik and tugs gently on Erik's arm. “Come on, Erik, I want to go home.” When Erik fails to follow, she ends up walking briskly and dragging Erik along with her. 

    Erik’s, well, a bit shell-shocked. Charles was still there in her Mary Janes and skirt, cardigan stretching over her chest. Her hair is still carefully done up and her face is still painted with red blush and lips. And she also has perfect form for punching idiots. Erik misread her, it seems, again. 

    In time she gets her limbs working and switches from having Charles tugging her along to gently holding Charles’ shoulder. “Hey, you alright?” Her hand tightens and slows Charles down to a stop. “Come on. Let’s go to my flat. I have a first aid kit and I can check your hand.” 

    Charles’ lips press together in a slight frown, but she relents. “Alright.” 

    It takes very little time to arrive at her house. Erik guides Charles through the door to sit on the plushest chair she has. “Let’s see the damage,” Erik murmurs and lifts the bruised knuckles to eye level. It hasn’t split thankfully. It's just bruised lightly. “I’ll go get some ice, ok?”

    “Please.” It takes little time to get the ice and wet a small cloth. Charles has taken out her phone and is texting someone with one hand, but she smiles quite sweetly when Erik returns. “Sorry, just texting my sister.” She tucks the phone away and turns her attention fully to Erik once more. “And, well, sorry for you know… I’m sure you can defend yourself, but, well…” she trails off as Erik kneels, pressing ice against the knuckles. “I couldn’t tolerate that language.”

    Erik just continues dabbing at Charles’ knuckles, even though she’s certain that this level of attention is unnecessary. “Don’t apologise.” She turns an inquisitive look up at Charles’ face. It’s still the same, round and a little chubby. She’s still the same. “To be honest, I didn’t peg you for the punching type.”

    Charles laughs gently, “I must admit, I’m not a punching person often, but when the occasion calls, I won’t turn away.” One of her painted nails tap against the arm of the chair as she turns a somewhat coy gaze to Erik. “Now you’ve piqued my interest. What type did you peg me for?”

    Erik doesn’t blush often at all, but the thought of trying to explain that Charles just seems so posh and snobbish manages to paint her cheeks pink. Still, the quickest way is straight through, she’s found, so she only hesitates for a second before speaking. “I thought you were, ah, a bit of a snob. Maybe a bit rude too?”

    “Really? Me?” She doesn’t seem that offended. In fact, she’s got a bit of a grin creeping onto her face, so Erik continues. 

    “I’m not sure why, to be honest. You just, ah, tried to escape from talking to me?” Erik laughs awkwardly, unsure where she was going.

    Charles is still not offended, “Don’t worry, Erik, I’ve been thinking and I meant to apologise to you.” Erik frowns in confusion. “When we first met at that party, I must admit my behaviour was rather horrible. I was suffering from jetlag and a little bit of sickness, but it was no excuse for how rude I must have seemed to you. And when we ran into each other, I was preoccupied with a rather pressing deadline. I really do apologise.” 

    Erik’s somehow still stunned, but she supposes that she should get used to that feeling when she’s around Charles. It takes a few seconds as she processes the information and slots it into her own thoughts before she’s shaking her head, “no need to apologise. I feel I’ve also been quite an idiot. I, well, I assumed you were a different kind of person than you are and assumed the worst.”

    “Well, we’re at an impasse,” Charles chuckles. “I should introduce myself once more. I’m Charlotte Xavier, call me Charles. And I’m truly pleased to meet you. I study genetics at Genosha Uni. I love cats and a good cup of tea. Oh, and punching homophobes in the face.” She sticks her hand out. 

    Somehow, it feels a bit like a dream. The woman Erik’s been crushing on a little bit begrudgingly has turned out to have quite a nice personality. She grasps the soft hand between hers. “I’m Erika Lehnsherr, but call me Erik. I study physics at Genosha Uni, and I love a good chocolate cake. I like running in the hills of Krakoa, and I’m very pleased to meet you.” Charles smiles as they shake hands. 

    “I do believe this is the start of something truly wonderful,” Charles murmurs and Erik can’t help but be struck silly by her smile once more.

***

I’m so sorry this is super late slouph. I have some more ideas still that are kind of in a half written stage which I’ll post later. Real life is still kicking me hard :’)

Except Charles knows that this is all in his head. As panic abates, he feels the familiar haziness of a dreaming mind. Even more striking is that it is not his mind that burns in fear and misplaced shame. Charles sighs in a sort of fond sadness. 

Erik.

He blinks awake into the dark, letting out a light moan as the light of the full moon shines in the room. It’s not that he isn’t a morning person, but waking up at midnight is bound to suck the life out of anyone. He takes a moment to blink and adjust to wakefulness before he’s searching for Erik’s familiar mind. Next to him, he feels the troubled mind agitating even more. Even so, it is invisible to his eyes. Indeed if he could not sense the pain and fear lingering in the air, Charles would find it hard-pressed to see the distress on Erik’s face. 

It is too familiar, the motion of reaching across and tracing Erik’s noble brow. “Erik?” He whispers, at loathe to interrupt the quiet night, “love?” Ever so gently he reaches out with his powers and fades the nightmare away. “Darling?”

Recognition sparks in Erik’s mind as the sudden loss of his nightmare causes him to wake. It’s a shame since Erik has difficulty falling asleep on most days. However, a restless and nightmare-filled sleep does him more harm than good. “Mmm?” Erik idles on the edge of wakefulness before he’s sitting up suddenly. “Charles?” He calls, blindly reaching for him in the dark. His mind is a beacon of distress, still caught in the feel of the dream even if he knows that he isn’t there anymore.

“I’m here, Erik. I’m here and we’re safe.” He reaches for Erik’s hand, grasping it firmly and bringing it to his chest where his heart still beats. “There we are,” he murmurs encouragingly as Erik’s mind begins to calm. 

Sufficiently reassured for the time being, Erik tugs his shaking hand from Charles’ chest only to wrap it around Charles’ shoulders as he brings himself closer. His head rests against Charles' shoulder, limp with relief at waking from his dreams. Charles turns to more comfortably rest Erik against his body, tactfully not saying anything about the dampness he feels on his shoulder. 

It is seldom that Erik cries from nightmares. He’s more likely to simply shake and tremble in both relief and fear. Charles’ response has always been to bundle him up close and run hands slowly down his back in stroking motions while whispering endearments softly. 

As always it takes Erik a moment to collect himself before his trembling stills and the shuddering of his soft cries stops. He remains against Charles’ shoulder, limp and exhausted. “I dreamt you were gone. And the world was falling.” He finally murmurs against Charles’ neck. “It happened again to us this time. To the children.” He cuts himself off then, breathing harshly.

Charles knows what Erik refers to. He knows Erik’s fears almost as well as his own. They share quite a large number of them, in fact. “I’m alright, and so are the children.” He leans his head down, bussing a kiss against Erik’s temple. “That future has not yet arrived.”

“But it might…” Erik is too tired to argue any further as he would typically do and he simply leaves the prophetic words on the table. 

“Not if we stop it first.” Erik hums his agreement, but they both know that they disagree on what the definition of stop is. They ignore it, for now at least. Charles pulls away, always keeping his hand against Erik. He reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table. “Drink some water, love. Then we should sleep again.” Erik obediently takes the glass and drains half of it, thanking Charles as he hands it back. 

Charles manages to drag them both back into lying in bed, Erik tucked firmly against his chest. “I’m sorry,” Erik mutters against his shirt, “for waking you up again.” His morose and troubled thoughts wax and wane with every breath.

“You know I don’t mind in the slightest.” He hears Erik’s for now, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he delights himself in pressing soft kisses against Erik’s forehead, cheeks, and eyelids. Anywhere he can reach. 

Erik receives a few with good humour before he’s chuckling and moving his face into Charles’ chest, making sure his face is out of reach of Charles’ lips. His thoughts lighten as he hides his face from Charles’ lips. “I know what you’re doing…”

“Do you want me to stop?” Charles murmurs back, now contenting himself with tracing the somewhat ticklish shell of Erik’s ear with his finger. Predictably, Erik doesn’t object. “It is working, is it not?”

“Yes…” Erik relents, and Charles feels the grin that presses into his chest. The nightmare still darkens his mind, but it now sits on the edge of Erik’s mind. It never goes away, not really, but its hold diminishes enough for Erik to want to rest again. “Will you…” Erik trails off, but this, too, is part of their ritual. 

“Yes, yes, I know.” Sighing, he gives up and turns to the navigation screen. The closest planet is, of course, Tatooine of all places. Dustbowl supreme, sandy hell, Tatooine. Just his luck. Banging his head against the headrest lightly, Cassian lets himself sulk for a moment before he’s gripping the controls and navigating to the planet. 

He’s lucky the ship is small enough to not warrant going to a landing port, and instead, he can simply dip into the atmosphere and land in the shadowed sandy dunes with just a flash of his ship codes. He wasn’t worried really when the ship had first told him he’d burned the thrusters too high, but he still relaxes into his chair when the screen reads that the cooling protocol has activated. 

He’s been to many planets, even many desert planets, so Tatooine isn’t exactly novel, but the eerie silence of the night once the ship quiets is strangely calming. He’s used to loudness. To the hustle and bustle of busy spaceports and harried rebel outposts. It doesn’t mean he finds the quiet concerning. Instead, he feels silent along with it. Enough so that he ventures out onto the sand itself. 

The ship he’s on doesn’t have an optimal amount of windows. Just enough to fly comfortably, but no more. While it does mean the ship has a better armour rating, the visibility drags most of the positives down. It means most of the stars are not visible when he’s landed. Outside, the night sky stretches far and wide, stars breaking through the dark sky.

Stars twinkle above and out of reach. Cassian’s flown amongst stars and navigated through their gravitational pull, but they’ve been most impressive like this. On a planet, the feel of ground beneath his feet, head tilted up into the night sky with a slight breeze on his face. Unfortunately, even in cooldown mode, the ship pulls off quite a bit of light pollution, and Cassian finds himself going through the motions of another larger excursion away from the ship. If Spen saw him, he’d shoot him for choosing frivolity instead of practicality. 

Still, Cassian tugs on a poncho and finds a pair of goggles, nabbing the ship tracker to make sure he can find his way back. He locks the ship, shoulders his small pack with some water and a ration bar, and walks out amongst the dune. 

The desert air is cool on his skin. A calming balm that blocks the stress from the past few months, years, lifetime? He doesn’t even know the last time he simply breathed and let himself be. It’s liberating to do so now. Out here, he’s far enough away to look up and see the expanse of stars in their multitude. The moons are on the thinner side, and stars of all sizes glimmer in the night. It’s beautiful, but Cassian’s restless, so he continues walking. 

There’s almost no sound in the desert beyond the swish of his feet in sand, his own breathing, and the occasional rumble of a faraway animal. It means that Cassian is even more surprised when he accidentally stumbles (falls) in the middle of somebody else's camp. 

“Oh dear.” A proper-sounding voice says, and hands gently try to lift him up, brushing sand away as well. Cassian himself hurriedly brushes sand from his face, spitting out quite a bit with disgust. “Here, have some water.” And even though the stranger was kind enough to help him up, they live in dangerous times and it would be better to refuse politely. 

“I have my own,” he manages, feeling the gritty particles in his mouth crunch and move. He reaches into his sack, drinking a small mouthful and spitting it out. He takes another cautious sip, rubs at any remaining sand, and opens his eyes to regard the stranger. 

“Hello there,” the old man says with a wry smile. He’s got mostly white hair shot with some grey strands and the barest amount of auburn hairs. In his younger days he would no doubt have been handsome, and some might still consider him so, but he’s definitely on the older spectrum of human life. Wrinkles carve smile and frown lines. Between his eyebrows is a tangle of wrinkles. Still, he seems harmless, or at the very least calm. “Not many venture into the dunes at night.”

Cassian sits up more comfortably, noting the small fire crackling. The dunes tower around, hiding the fire from any wanderers, and the man’s animal companion is seemingly asleep. He turns back to the man, “you’re out here now?” 

The man chuckles, “indeed I am.” He sits back down somewhat heavily on his little seat by the fire. The light makes his white hair orange and smoothes the wrinkles on his face. For a moment, Cassian can glimpse what he must’ve been like in his youth. He pokes at the fire a bit and turns back to Cassian, breaking the illusion. “I’m following a herd of banthas. It’s birthing season and I’ve taken to helping a few if needed.”

“Aren’t you too far to help?” Cassian shoots back, still suspicious. It’s better to be cautious in times like these. Everyone could be an enemy, even helpless old men who look like they couldn’t afford a short-range-commlink anytime soon. 

The man chuckles again, but it’s softer this time. “I’ll know if a birth begins,” he says enigmatically. He takes his own canteen and takes a sip. “Please, sit. I was about to make some tea.”

Cassian debates it. He could go now. Return to his ship and spend the rest of the time cooped up on board, or he could sit here by the fire. He’s not trusting by nature, but for some reason, he sits on the small cushioned tarp the man pulls up. “How do you get tea on this dustbowl?” He asks as the man begins to pour water into a pot.

“If you know who to go to, you’ll find it for a reasonable price. I typically get mine from Eeda.” He places the pot in the midst of the fire and sparks fly up into the dark. He busies himself with preparing cups, glancing up at him. “Do you take your tea with anything? It’s sapir.”

“I take it plain, thank you.” Cassian shuffles slightly closer to the fire, warming up. He flexes his fingers twice before tucking them under his legs to keep them warm. “You…don’t sound like you’re from here. Too much inner rim. Coruscanti.” He knows the rise of the empire meant people from all over got shuffled everywhere else. It’s strange, but not something overly suspicious. 

The man hums, measuring out tea leaves. “Yes. I grew up on Coruscant, you’re right. I moved here.”

Cassian snorts, “why here of all places?”

There’s a pause. “Family.” He finishes spooning out tea leaves and gently seals the bag. “Much of my…family was adopted. I moved to be closer.” His face is shadowed now in the flickering light, lips turned down. He inhales heavily and looks up, “I’m Ben by the way.”

“Keef.” The kettle begins to whistle and Ben gently takes it out and pours two cups. “If you moved for family, why are you alone?” It’s only after he’s said it does he realise how invasive it sounds. “Sorry-”

Ben waves it away, “don’t worry, young man.” He picks up Cassian’s cup and stands, carrying it over. 

“Thanks.” Ben takes his time sitting down once more. “But to answer your question, my brother’s family did not want me too close.” He inhales the steam from his tea, fixing him with a curious look. “And yourself? What brings you out here at night?”

Cassian breathes in the scent of tea. It’s pretty high quality, he notes with surprise. “Stargazing, if you would believe.” He chuckles, “I suppose that’s why I stumbled on your camp. Too much attention up instead of down.”

“Indeed. Many seem to have the opposite around here. Too much focus on their immediate surroundings and none elsewhere.” He takes a small sip of his tea. They lapse into silence that is not uncomfortable. Cassian notes Ben’s robes, strangely familiar, and the also oddly familiar face. “What is it you do?”

“Piloting mostly. Cargo transport.” Money transport he doesn’t say,  information and reconnaissance. 

Ben’s eyes light up. “So you travel a lot?”

Cassian takes another sip of the truly quite amazing tea. “I suppose, but I don’t get out of the ship much.”

Ben tuts, clicking his tongue, “shame.” 

“It is, but such is life.” He hides his face behind the cup. “What must be done, we must do. And you? Beyond birthing bantha what else do you do?”

“Ah, well, I’m old, so nothing quite so interesting.” A grin pulls up the corner of his lips and a sparkle gleams in his eyes as though he wants to laugh. “I have a place with a vaporator. I usually search for stones and other scrap in the desert. It has a way of revealing things in time. But my life is no longer so interesting.”

“But it was?”

The gleam returns alongside a wry smile and Ben takes another sip of tea, “yes. I daresay it was.” He lowers the tea cup and suddenly Cassian sees. His robes seem familiar because he’s seen them in some scattered rebel bases. Tabards and robes from an age long gone. An age that seems so far removed even though it only just ended. Ben’s are tattered and scruffy, but clearly mended and well-loved. And his face. Cassian has seen it on the rare posters and holos from before the Empire. Younger, sterner, and with, as Cassian thought, much more auburn hair. Jedi General Kenobi.

“Kenobi?” Ben’s smile strains and he gently puts his cup down beside him. “You’re him. The Jedi General.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He folds his hands into his sleeves and his face schools itself into confusion. “I’m just Ben.”

“No no no, I see it.” Be-Kenobi’s eyes narrow and he tenses ever so slightly. Despite his age, he would not be easy to beat. “Wait! Wait, I'm not with the Empire!” Kenobi stares at him impassively, unchanging. “I…I’m with the rebels.” Now Cassian’s also tense. 

“And who leads you?” 

Cassian looks up and glimpses a flash of his silver lightsaber retrieved from some hidden pocket. It’s a concession. He’s willing to believe him if Cassian will prove himself. “Organa…Bail Organa.”

“Do you have proof beyond that?” Kenobi relaxes minutely, but he’s still suspicious. 

Cassian sighs and looks up at Kenobi before he’s looking for his comm. “A message from Organa. Delivery to Luthen Rael. Messages addressed to me from both.” He opens it and shows Kenobi who nods and picks up his tea. 

“Well. How opportune we met tonight. The Force provides.” He reaches a hand out, “here I’ll pour more tea. An apology, if you will.” Cassian passes it, stunned to be speaking to, well, a legend. Presumed dead after so many years missing. 

“General-”

Kenobi begins pouring, “just Obi-Wan will do. Or Ben. Whichever you like. I’m not a general anymore, not by any real standards.” He finishes pouring and hands the cup back. “Apologies for doubting you, Keef.”

“I… it’s Cassian.”

“Apologies to you, Cassian, then.” Obi-Wan hands over the cup and reaches for his own once more. There’s another moment of silence where Obi-Wan drinks his tea and Cassian looks up at the stars. “How is the rebellion?”

“Surviving,” Cassian says. He muses for a moment before speaking up again. “It grows bigger and bigger. When I joined, it was small. A pocket or two scattered across planets and systems. Too small to do more than ruffle feathers and annoy the imps. Now…we are a real threat for the Empire.”

“That is heartening to hear. My last memory of the rebellion was indeed closer to its inception than not.”

Cassian takes another sip of tea. “There are Jedi too. Working with the rebellion, that is.” Obi-Wan looks up with interest, a smile genuinely brightening his face. “I’m not that involved with them because they’re out of my sector, but they help. Damn good warriors if I hear correctly.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And you,” Cassian asks, shuffling a bit closer to the fire and looking right into Obi-Wan’s eyes, “why aren’t you fighting with us? Why stay on Tatooine?”

A sardonic smile alights on Obi-Wan’s features, a pained grimace. “That fight is not mine anymore, I’m afraid.”

“Bullshit. It’s yours as much as mine.” Cassian puts down his cup. “We, you, have lost too much to this Empire. Shouldn’t we focus on stopping them so no one else loses more?”

Obi-Wan sighs, not at Cassian, but more at a general weariness and the aches of his body. He might not be an old man, but he is still not as young as he used to be. “I was unclear. I am in the fight, but my role is much changed to what you do.”

“…In what way?” 

“Well,” Obi-Wan shifts and hesitates, “can you keep a secret?” 

Cassian snorts, “I already carry secrets I’ll take to the grave. My life is a game of trading secrets.”

“Hmm, I suppose it would be so.” Still, he looks uncertain, fingers tapping an odd rhythm against the cup in his hands. “You know,” he begins hesitantly, “of the power in charge of the Empire. The two who command it?” His eyes are shadowed. Cassian nods. The cloaked man and his accomplice, the nightmare that parents whisper to keep their children in line. Spectres of the Empire appearing quickly to destroy before disappearing even quicker. “There is one on this planet who will take them down. The Force has told me my duty is to remain here. To take care of them. Your fight is brave. A valiant and necessary battle against the Empire’s considerable forces, but even you know that we must best the heads of the Empire to strike it down.” His words are soft, almost like a prayer. Belief is woven through every word he says. “The Empire is nothing without its Emperor and I have hope that they will be struck down..”

His eyes look up at the sky, tracing the constellations of Tatooine with his gaze. “If you have ever held any respect for the Jedi masters of old, for the famed Negotiator,” his gaze turns back down to sardonically glance at Cassian, “believe that I am doing as the Force wills.”

“And you trust the Force’s will?” Maybe it’s rude to ask, but he has heard and known so little of the Jedi and their Force. 

To the question, Obi-Wan smiles and suddenly he looks much younger than before, the wrinkles by his eyes smoothing from their perpetual worry into sentimentality. “Above all else. It strives for balance, and the Empire is a force of imbalance that will be dealt with in the proper time.” He sighs and there’s finality to it. “But it is difficult for one without the Force to understand such things. But understand this, I guard for one who will, in the future, overcome the twin heads of the Empire.”

“So they will save the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan nods. “That is what the Force wills. One day the Empire will crumble and we will finally be able to breathe properly, to rest, and to be free.”

“I only hope we will be able to see it.”

Something cryptic settles in Obi-Wan’s eyes, and his smile is enigmatic. “We will feel peace before the end, worry not.” Cassian feels something settle in his bones. Perhaps it is the Jedi’s force lending weight to the man’s words, or perhaps it is simply imagination borne out of such an odd occurrence. 

Obi-wan sets his cup down and stands, going to his bags. “In fact, I have a gift for you.” He rustles through the bag, humming placidly. It would be hard now to reconcile the aged man with the legend that he used to be. “Aha,” he says as he reaches for something, pulling out a hand-carved wooden knife, “here.” He ambles over and, from a safe distance, extends the small blade hilt first. 

“Why?” Cassian asks as he reaches and plucks the small knife. It’s easily concealable and won’t be picked up by many sensors. He tests the point, frowning in surprise at how sharp the point is.

Obi-Wan grunts as he sits once more, “I have a feeling you’ll need it before the end. It is easy to hide in any case. May it keep you safe.” Again, there’s that feeling of weight that accompanies his words. Must be a Jedi thing. His face returns to the old contemplative mien it was. “Your ship’s thrusters are cool by now. If you wish to reach your next checkpoint, you should leave now, while the moons might hide your trail easily.”

Cassian startles, “how do you-” He cuts himself off at Obi-Wan’s slight smirk. “The Force?”

“Indeed…” His head tilts suddenly moments before there’s a distant Bantha call. “And that is my cue to disappear.” He gestures at the embers, “feel free to rest yourself for a while.”

“No, I should go. I’ve already delayed too much.” He stands, brushing what few granules of sand have managed to sneak on him back onto the desert floor. “Thank you for the tea.”

Obi-Wan hums as he stands, “no. Thank you for bringing me hope. So far removed, I hear little news of the state of the galaxy and to hear such heartening news brings me joy.”

“I…am glad I could do such a thing,” Cassian says, more confused than not. 

“To hear that there are Jedi out there who are alive and fighting. It is good to know.” He says and suddenly Cassian is once more reminded that the person in front of him has lost family too, in one quick and brutal moment. One of the first genocides of the Empire, so soon after fighting a pointless war that whittled down their numbers and strength. “I knew I was not alone, but still…” He trails off, face lifting into a gentle smile. “Thank you.”

Cassian laughs self-consciously, unused to being the single point of focus from the Jedi. “It’s nothing.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth as if to say something before his eyes seem to look inside and past Cassian despite not moving from holding his gaze. His words come out heavy, like a blessing or a prophecy. “You brought hope to me. You’ll do the same to others, I’m certain.” He blinks and his eyes return to their typical state. Obi-Wan exhales softly. Then, with an almost reverent tone and a bowed head, says, “may the Force be with you.”

It’s an archaic phrase, whispered through comms alone. Not worth the possible troubles that could arise if unwanted ears were to listen in. Never has Cassian heard the phrase aloud, let alone passing through the lips of a hero from a bygone era. It sounds different, not just an uttered phrase of farewell, or a sentence to gain the other’s trust. Instead, the words are heavy with meaning, perhaps even with this mystical Force behind them. 

Cassian bows his head. “Force be with us all.” When he lifts his head once more, Obi-Wan’s eyes gleam in the low light. 

2. Mace has time to feel betrayed. Feel the sting of anger and hurt for a moment before he is occupied by other things. He has known of a shatterpoint poised around Anakin, precariously on the point of breaking at any point. He had hoped that when it broke, the balance would be restored, but now… well the rise of the Sith is hardly balance. There is a moment of this anger, that Anakin could not have chosen better, did not deem balance important, but within moments it leaves him. He can do precious little now, weakened as he is, to stop his fall. He can only think about what he is about to leave. 

3. He wonders how Depa is. Alone in the darkness of the world, struggling with her padawan, the newest member of their lineage. He wonders how young Caleb is. Whether the clones have befriended him, whether he has seen some interesting animal or tradition that he would have shared over tea next they met. He wishes, oh how he wishes, that he could see them one last time, could whisper his farewell to them, could press against their essence in the Force and feel them, feel his family, his daughter and her son.  

4. Mace feels something twang, some kind of resignation from up above, from the office he has just been thrown out of. The dark, cold, oppressive feeling suffocated the surroundings. Young Skywalker, he realises, is truly stepping for the dark. He feels pain because that is where the path will end. With Anakin and all of Anakin’s friends in pain. The shatterpoint that has hovered over Anakin for all the man’s life breaks and shatters with an intensity he has only felt a few times before. Of course, it would be Anakin that aggravates the pain of his death in such a manner, he sardonically notes. However, the loneliness, the fear, the pain, and the resignation is painful to feel. Part of Mace feels bad for Anakin considering the path that he will walk on guarantees pain. He hopes that Anakin will turn from this path, but already he feels the strings of fate being drawn together as though this inevitability has been years in the making and is finally culminating in the man's fall.

5. The Force is dark. It has been darkening throughout the war, and even darkening before that. Slowly, but surely, using the Force to sense things had become akin to wading in a swamp through fog with nothing to provide light. True darkness had hidden within the despair, anger, and hate of the general populace, tired of the galactic war that sucked up resources. The war machine, fueled by uncaring individuals who had sought profit had pushed and pushed and pushed until it had taken up every thought. Until classrooms became war meeting rooms, and until the mosaics and gentle art of the Temple were chipped and left in disrepair as it simply became too expensive to keep clean and intact. 

6. There is regret he feels for not having noticed what Palpatine was, what the man was capable of. He has never truly liked Palpatine. The man was a slimy politician like many others who somehow managed to put off a kind font for all his friends. The man has never done something like that for Mace, and Mace has always found the act somewhat manipulative. He spares an idle thought, wishing that the Zillo beast had somehow succeeded in eating the Sith. As a Jedi, he probably shouldn’t entertain such thoughts, but Palpatine is a sith lord who has orchestrated a galactic war. He hopes the Force will cut him some slack. 

7. Obi-Wan. His friend. What devastation the man will feel. He has lost his Grandmaster to the clutches of the dark, lost his own Master to a Sith monster from his nightmares, lost his Grandpadawan to the greedy clutches of the Senate and the war, and now he will lose his own Padawan to the darkness. He wishes he could comfort his friend the way he had done after Qui-Gon’s death. Mace hopes his death will not hurt so much, but he knows Obi-Wan takes it very personally when someone he loves dies. He… he wishes he could also meet with Obi-Wan, wishes he could bring some joy, some calm, something positive to the man who will no doubt feel the most devastating feeling of loss when he realises his family has torn itself apart, has hurt each other in such a horrid way. 

8. The Jedi in the Temple. There are so few, most of the older ones scattered throughout the galaxy, but he fears for the younger ones. With Anakin, himself, Kit, Saesee, and Agen gone, most of the defences in the Temple are gone. Now only the youngest of padawans, the younglings and the oldest members of their order remain. He knows, feels it in his bones, that the Temple will be attacked. It is impossible for Palpatine not to have planned something ensuring the death of his family. He hopes that the younglings might escape, that the few Knights might keep those younger safe, that the recovering Jedi in the healing rooms escape. However, Mace has always been logical. The best he can probably hope for is a quick painless death for the members of his family, one with as little pain as possible. Knowing Palpatine, the man who gladly played two sides of a galactic war, he knows that it won’t be so. His family will suffer more than just a quick death, they will suffer and he… he finds he hates the idea of it. What he would give to save them. He would die for them. Would take all their pain to save them. His family, the warmth he has always known will disappear, this he knows. 

9. His lightsaber is falling too. Ahead of him. The crystal which has been by his side always is mourning with him, feeling the and echoing his betrayal, winking brightly just like he is before Mace dies. One hand stretches out and calls the blade to him. If he was to feel one last thing in his life, his lightsaber and the warmth from it would be high there. His intact hand grasps the blade and clutches it close, looking for that warmth, that light that he has had by his side since his childhood. The crystal hums on his level, reflecting joy at being united with him, sadness at the coming doom. His faithful friend has been by his side through many dangers but now is the end. He recalls the first time he picked it up, surrounded by darkness and cold and ice the crystal had sat, glowing and colourless. The blade had been purple, much to the surprise and delight of both himself and his family. Sure, he had tweaked the hilt as he had grown, but the crystal had remained the same. He reached out for it and let its calm force envelop him one last time, letting the light peace wash over him moments before his death.  

10. Time seems to blur. He sees the past melding with the present. The future seems to push back and reaches him in strange visions, flickers across his vision. There are ghost feelings of something entirely alien drifting across his mind. The future, he realises with a quiet gasp, reaching back and showing him small flickers of it. Mace accepts it quietly. He accepts the flickers of death, destruction, and terrible darkness as they fall across his vision. He sees the lone figures of light as they leap across an indifferent galaxy, attempting to fight the suffocating darkness. There is a shadow of a togruta, old and unfamiliar with blades of pure light against one red and black shadow flickering across his vision, followed by a robes figure facing off a dark machine, a strange imprint of betrayal and sadness. Another shadow of green and red blades against each other followed by a sky of flickering light, illuminated by lightning. More and more visions flicker across his vision and finally a balance. He feels relief keenly as the light stretches past the few points it was reduced to. In the end, balance will prevail, he knows, and he rests easy with that knowledge.

11. His clones, he wonders, will be sad when they find out he is dead. He has somehow gained their respect and admiration. With that, as he and his colleagues had quickly found, came a need front he clones to keep them safe. Through many battles, Ponds watched his back, offered advice, and shared his pain. In turn, he has done the same, but it always feels like it is not enough. For all that he loves his troops, he can not save them from the Republic’s scorn and the Senate’s indifference. He has tried to save them, tried to keep the other military leaders from recklessly using the clones as a battering ram against the Separatists, disregarding the lives they will lose, but still he ends up with dead men. Ponds. He wishes… something. He wishes he could have said goodbye. Told him he wished he could have done more, could have saved more men. But, the time for that has passed and he cannot save them or comfort them. He only hopes that they will be safe and healthy and happy in the wake of his death. That someone will step up to take care of them. 

12. His family… the Jedi… He can feel them dying. Something is… something is killing them. Someone is killing them. He has failed. Failed to protect them. Failed to save them. Their pain rips through the Force as they are killed, betrayal, pain, and anguish suffocating the Force. No! He feels his bonds, some of which have been in place since childhood, be ripped mercilessly from him. Depa’s still glows bright, alive, but there is something painful growing around her. It feels as though the end is coming soon, both for him but also for her. Lights flicker and are put out mercilessly. From the old elder Jedi who had been a mentor in the past to the young Rodian child he had comforted two weeks ago. They burn brightly, like stars, and then disappear, cementing darkness in the universe. 

13. Mace Windu, moments before his death, sees something. He’s always seen things. Breaking points in people, situations, and things. He’s grown up with them. Now, in the seconds before he hits the ground at breakneck speed, he sees something different. An impossible possibility. The culmination of a billion small things resulting in the perfect world. So out of reach, so… impossible. It flashes for just a moment, blinking for an eternity. He observes it, observes the choices, observes the outcomes, the unfolding of events. It is almost as though he experiences it, almost like he lives through it, but not quite. This ‘what if,’ this best-case scenario, is an imagination. Nothing he can do will bring it to truth, and yet still Mace wishes.

14. Fourteen seconds. Mace Windu fell from a window fourteen seconds ago. For fourteen seconds he has fallen down the side of the building. Now, he hits the ground as darkness swallows the universe. It seems almost fitting that he would die the moment the Jedi are about to die and the universe is about to be swallowed by darkness. Mace closes his eyes a fraction of a second before he hits the ground at breakneck speed, the rapid speed of descent slowing abruptly in a split second. With the end of his fall, Mace Windu's life ends too.

“Why Ben? What’s wrong with Obi-Wan?” He wonders, not noticing he’s said it out loud until he hears Qui-Gon chuckle. “What?” He flushes, affronted by the cheeky grin on his Master’s face. It is a look that screams trouble.

“A little long, Obi-Wan, huh?” Qui-Gon pauses for a moment from where he is preparing for flight. “Not exactly perfect for yelling when I need your attention.”

Obi-Wan puffs up a bit, not dissimilar to a loth cat Qui-Gon notes with amusement. “Obi-Wan is a good name.” The boy defiantly tries not to pout while saying this. “It’s not like I call you… John.” He mutters softly, voice sounding put off.

“John?” The older man’s wrinkles crease around his eyes as he smiles. He shrugs. “Ben is a good name regardless.” He defends.

“Obi-Wan’s better.” He opposes tetchily, eyebrows furrowing. “What’s so special about Ben anyways?” He asks with curiosity, always eager for new information.

“Well, Ben technically means son of my right hand, a phrase from my homeworld’s main religion.” Qui-Gon murmurs, willing to try and satisfy Obi-Wan’s need for answers. “The religion is… complex. I don’t even understand it completely, but I do understand the meaning of the phrase.” He pauses.

“Well… what’s the meaning of the phrase?” Obi-Wan fiddles with his hands, eyes alight with interest. He flushes self-consciously when Qui-Gon lifts his eyebrows as though proving a point. He ducks his head, a hint of red on his cheeks. 

“Well, in the religion, there is an entity called God. And the phrase to be at the right hand refers to being in a space of special honour, the right hand, of God.” He explains, enjoying the way Obi-Wan seems to brighten with the new information. “Being the son of the right hand should mean that you will grow into this space of importance. Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

“Oh…” Obi-Wan flushes, freckles disappearing into the deep red colour. Qui-Gon swears the tips of the boy’s ears are red. “That is kind of you to say, Master.”

“It is the truth, my Padawan.” Qui-Gon smiles, clapping a large hand on his shoulder and tugging the boy in for a hug. Obi-Wan startles, tensing for a couple of seconds until he relaxes, shorter arms just barely managing to reach around Qui-Gon. 

::::

Satine was the next to call him Ben. You see, Bant never truly latched onto the name that Qui-Gon christened him with, preferring to stick to her shortened form, Obi. Therefore, Satine is the next. She hears it once when they’re getting shot at and Qui-Gon has a plan that has an 80% chance of ending up with all three of them dead, but it’s better than their current odds. Qui-Gon yells it at him to get the boy to pay attention. 

At first, Satine is startled, thinking a new ally has joined them but is surprised that it’s just a nickname for Obi-Wan. Granted, she doesn’t call him Ben for that long because she, like Bant, prefers to call him Obi.

She does call him Ben when they’re parting ways, and Obi-Wan’s chest aches something fierce. Qui-Gon watches, eyes somewhat sympathetic as they follow Obi-Wan. He pretends not to notice as they share one small, sweet, innocent kiss. It’s everything Obi-Wan wants, but he hesitates and glances back at his Master, and then pulls away from the embrace, head bowed. It is almost everything he wants, and that makes all the difference. If he stayed, he would abandon his Master and his family in the Temple. More than that, he would abandon his path as a Jedi. Even Satine, for all he cares about her, is not enough to sway him from his path. The Force whispers in his mind, sorrow and apologetic, thankful for his sacrifice. The choice cements and he lets go of Satine.

“Ben…” Satine whispers, the word almost lost in the wind. “I… good luck.” Her blonde hair, carefully arranged on her head, moves as she bows. “Thank you, Master Jedi, for your protection.” Obi-Wan bows back, though his head remains tilted down, not willing to look at the woman.

“It was our pleasure,” Qui-Gon responds, sending a little pang of comfort down the growing bond with his Padawan.

“Do be careful.” She says, deviating from her formal script. “Farewell, Master Jinn, Padawan Kenobi.” The names fall easily onto her tongue as though she hadn’t spent almost a year calling them something else with much more familiarity. 

“May the force be with you, Duchess Kryze,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and he walks away from Satine, from the comfort of that life, and into the Jedi transport, his Master, a steady and strong pillar in the Force, ahead of him.

“… Ben?”

“Yes, Master.” Qui-Gon looks as though he wants to say something, wants to spill some secret, but he thinks better of it, instead closing his mouth and opening his arms, catching Obi-Wan as he falls into them. 

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs into the pale ear, his hand stroking circles into Obi-Wan’s shoulders. The boy, because that’s what he is, does not respond, only tightening his grip and inhaling the comforting scent of his Master.

::::

Mace is the third Jedi off the transport ship. He is also the third to call Obi-Wan Ben, though that happened a while back on a joint undercover mission with Qui-Gon. He reverted to calling him Obi-Wan, but then he reverts once more. He’s older and wiser, and, has been a friend ever since Obi-Wan was a small young child of the creche. 

“Obi-Wa… Ben.” Obi-Wan’s heart cracks just a bit more. Never again will he hear that familiar voice whispering that name to him. The deep baritone voice rumbling it. It hurts worse than leaving Satine, Cerasi, or Siri, or losing Reeft had. “Sit down with me and let’s talk.”

“Yes, Master Windu.” The response is immediate, drilled into him with years of training.

“Tell me how you feel, Ben.” Mace rumbles, voice not as deep as Qui-Gon’s, but very close. Obi-Wan is certain that if he were to press his ear to the bald Jedi’s chest, he would feel the voice vibrating.

“Fine…” That response is nailed into him out of fear. Fear of not being good enough. 

“Really?” Mace murmurs disbelievingly, leaning forwards and taking in the red-tinged eyes. A hand reaches out and takes one of Obi-Wan’s hands, feeling the slight chill that seems to emanate from him. “You don’t look fine to me.” He says in a frank manner that only he can pull off without sounding overly rude. 

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Obi-Wan responds, more exasperated than he thought it was going to sound. 

“Ben… you’re not wrong to be sad. It isn’t wrong to feel loss or to grieve.” Mace says, voice closer to whispering than to speaking. The man scoots closer to Obi-Wan who, in the eyes of the Republic is also a man but, in reality, still feels like the thirteen-year-old being sent to Bandomeer, or the sixteen-year-old who left Satine, or the- “You’ve just lost a man who has been by your side for twelve years. It will hurt.” Obi-Wan laughs, but it is more cracked and painful than any laugh Mace has heard. He desperately scrubbing at his eyes as though he wishes to scour them away.

“I know it hurts, Master. Force, my chest feels as though I was the one who was run through with a lightsaber, not Qu-” His voice breaks around the name, and he devolves into small sobs. Mace observes the boy being thrust into Knighthood with something close to helplessness. He had lost Cyslin in a less brutal manner and yet it had hurt all the same. All Mace can do is offer some comfort to the man. “There’s a hole where he was and I can’t-” Obi-Wan's voice cuts off as he cradles his head in his hands. 

“Ben,” Mace says it curtly, as though fully taking advantage of how short it is. Qui-Gon dragged it out a bit, seemingly relishing the way the name made his mouth shape. Satine’s lips always made the name sound sweet. Short and filled with emotions. “Observe and release your emotions.”

“I can’t,” Obi-Wan admits. He tries to look at his emotions. He can understand, but he can’t release and make them go away. There’s just too much. He says as much to Mace. 

“Let me help, Ben.” And it is as though Obi-Wan is a youngling once more, trailing behind Padawan Windu in cream coloured corridors. As though they’ve been transported to a time when Mace’s forehead did not have the stressed wrinkles it does now. As though Obi-Wan hasn’t just had a piece of his heart carved out with a sith lightsaber. Together they sink into meditation, aware of each other, and acknowledging one another. With a little flick from Mace, Obi-Wan begins to reveal his mind warped by guilt and self-loathing and anger and pain and… it’s too much, Mace admits to himself. So, he starts small. A small statement, I was too slow, is given to him, and they watch it together, understand it together, and accept it together. Then, he moves to another, unwanted. And to the dozens that remain. Mace does not judge, and his heart aches at the knowledge of the burdens Obi-Wan is thrusting upon himself, but he says nothing about it, only reaching for the boy… man after their meditation and bringing him into a hug that lasts a full minute.  

::::

Cody is a really good researcher. Sure, he’s great with a blaster, and hand to hand combat, and anything to do with the military really. He was trained under Jango Fett and the Kaminoans. But, one of his greatest strengths is his efficient diving into the Holonet. He can splice information from different databases, even the Jedi Temple’s database. Technically, he could just go to the Archives and find the information, but he could be seen there, so he doesn’t. Instead, he sits at the main console of his barracks and begins to get information regarding his new General. The Jedi, Kenobi, seems nice enough, but looks can be deceiving. In this case, however, it seems that they’re not. The little ginger seems to have a kind streak about the size of Ryloth. 

“What in the world…” He mutters as browsers pop up. Multiple mission reports that he skims through to reveal another thing. Apparently, the General has a penchant for injuries. A really bad one if the reports are not a joke. He digs through one that was co-written by one Qui-Gon Jinn, and he spots some errors. At least, he’s sure they are errors because he’s pretty sure the General’s called Obi-Wan… not Ben. However, he doubts that the General would let that slide.

“Ben.” He forms the name under breath, making some multi-syllable word from it. “Ben.” He says it curtly. It is more efficient than to say General Kenobi or, Force forbid, Obi-Wan. The Jedi have the oddest names.

“Commander…” He jumps, turning to look at the man in question as he walks into the barracks completely unannounced. “I was, ah, wondering if you would like-” He squints at the console’s screen. Cody flushes deeper than before, the crimson stain spreading around his neck and up to his ears. Caught researching his General by the General in question. Rex will never let it go. 

“General Kenobi, sir.” He plants his feet and straightens his back. Obi-Wan looks at the report and then at Cody and then back to the report. 

“Did you… hack into the Temple?” He questions curiously. 

“Well… I do have the access codes…” He trails off. 

“Is this… the mission to Joonta?” The General strokes his beard, leaning forwards to read his report. “Force, my diction was horrible back then. So was Qui-Gon’s.” He scrolls down.

“Sir…”

“Yes, Cody.” He seems oddly enthralled by the report, scrolling rather quickly through the pages. 

“Is your name Ben?”

“Sometimes.” Obi-Wan… Ben? Hums. Reading through the report absently. Noticing the silent prompting from Cody, the General shakes himself a bit. “Oh. It’s a nickname given by my Master. Almost no one uses it.” 

“Ah.”

“Cody… you can call me Ben if you’d like. I don’t mind.” He stops the frantic scrolling to look at Cody.

“The vod will better understand if I call you General Kenobi, sir,” Cody says while ticking the name onto the General’s name. General Obi-Wan ‘Ben’ Kenobi. Jedi and their names. 

“If that is your wish.” Obi-Wan smiles. “Now, I came here to offer you tea in my quarters. Would you like to come?” 

::::

Ahsoka’s always heard of the famous Master Kenobi or Padawan Kenobi or Knight Kenobi in pairs. Padawan Kenobi was always paired with Master Jinn, Knight Kenobi was paired with Padawan Skywalker, and Master Kenobi is paired with Knight Skywalker. Knight Skywalker is now obviously paired with Padawan Tano, so they're all connected. Contrary to what Anakin would think, Padawan Kenobi is the term she’s much more familiar with, and therefore is more familiar with the pairing of Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi. Even though she knows so much about Anakin and Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are within all the stories that the Crechemasters say. She knows of the most interesting missions that the duo took and is somewhat embarrassed to admit the amount of hero-worship she has for the two.

“Master Obi-Wan, is it true that you had to drink pirates under the table to rescue Master Jinn?” She asks out of the blue one day, noticing the way Anakin’s hand tightens ever-so-slightly, blue eyes dashing to Obi-Wan’s pinched expression. She’s new to her apprenticeship and she still feels overwhelmed if she thinks too hard about the fact that she’s the Padawan of The Anakin Skywalker, and is part of the famous lineage. 

“… Yes. Where did you hear that, Ahsoka?” He frowns while stroking his beard, a habit he can’t seem to break. He doesn’t look too annoyed by the question. Instead, he looks amused and rather curious.

“Ages ago, Master, in the creche.” Obi-Wan shrugs and continues, waving off Anakin’s worried words. The smile on his face is nice to see. Ahsoka thinks it looks bad when the Frown is in place, and that is all that has been in place since the invasion of Ryloth began. She’s happy that she could coax a smile out of the typically austere looking man.

A few months later while they’re travelling through hyperspace on Obi-Wan’s ship, Ahsoka blurts another question. Obi-Wan had offered to teach Ahsoka some jar’kai during the hyperspace travel, and Anakin had assented, remaining on his ship while Ahsoka trained with her other Master. “Master Obi-Wan, is it true that you once were eaten by a large squid and then spat out?” She asks at the mess hall. Cody, who was rather peacefully eating his meal thank you very much, chokes on the ration’s he was chowing on. Stitches, the medic, appears to have swallowed water down the wrong pipe and is sending a concerned look at Obi-Wan. The man in question deflates, shrugs, and answers quietly. 

“Yes, Ahsoka. On Fuleya. Master Jinn thought I was dead for two minutes. Nearly screamed his throat raw trying to cut me from the beast's stomach.” He shrugs and then proceeds to tap on his datapad as though the clones in the immediate vicinity aren’t looking as though they’re having heart attacks. They’re very… protective of their General sometimes. Ahsoka shrugs as well, turning back to her meal. “Was this also heard in the creche?” He asks with the very amused glint in his eyes. The smile also seems to brighten his face. 

Ahsoka feels a warmth in her stomach at having brought another smile to the man’s face, especially considering the stress he seems to be under with the war. “Yes. I heard lots about you.” He shakes his head fondly. She thinks that the smile on his face is worth the possibility that the clones might wrap him in blankets and lock him on the ship. Not that that would be a bad idea thinking about it… 

“Master Obi-Wan,” She starts, her head tilted in wonder. This time, they’re alone. They are at the Temple, in Obi-Wan’s living room, sharing some tea. Anakin, ever the disliker of tea, had opted out, likely going off to see Padmè. “Is it true that your second name is Ben?” At this, Obi-Wan chokes on his tea, spraying the liquid around the room as he coughs.

Ahsoka startles, putting her own cup down and scooting closer to offer some assistance. “What?” He asks weakly, bringing a hand to his chest. This has been the most intense reaction so far. She rubs her hand softly on his back. Humans are ever so slightly warmer than togruta, and she delights in feeling the warmth through his Jedi robes.

“Barriss told me that Master Unduli told her that Master Windu told her that your second name is Ben.” Ahsoka chatters, looking curiously at the man who lies on the couch.

“Technically, Ben is not my second name. I don’t have one.” Obi-Wan runs a weary hand down his face. “Ben is a nickname given to me by my Master.” 

Ahsoka perks up. “Oh, really? Like I’m ‘Snips’ to Anakin?” She questions, excited to learn more of the rather mysterious Master. 

“Well, I suppose? Ben probably has more thought put into it than Snips.” He smirks playfully. 

“How so?” At this Obi-Wan flinches. Ahsoka casts him another worried look but he waves it off.

“It’s a name meaning that I‘ll be special, essentially. It’s native to Qui-Gon’s homeworld.” He smiles softly at Ahsoka. “Much better than ‘Don’t get snippy with me.’” She laughs, happy to once more bring another smile to his face.

“Maybe.” She concedes. “I like Snips though.” Obi-Wan lifts an amused brow.

“I like Ben too.” They smile at each other.

::::

Luke never knows Obi-Wan as Obi-Wan. The thing is, Obi-Wan is dead before Luke is even born. In his place, Ben Kenobi is there. He knows the rough and weathered hand of Ben, not the smooth hand of Obi-Wan. He listens to the voice of Ben, not Obi-Wan. Because of that, there is no need for Luke to call Ben anything but Ben. 

“Ben… why are you called Ben?” He asks one day. Owen is feeling in a more forgiving mood and Beru probably took pity on the sad old man, and they have allowed Ben to visit for a bit.

“The same reason you’re called Luke. I was named Ben.” He responds with a slight smile. 

“Your Mom named you Ben?” Luke asks head tilted in curiosity much like another youngling tilted her head while asking about the name Ben. He wonders where the young togruta is, or even whether she’s still alive.

“No. My… father named me Ben." He swears that there is the gentle hum of laughter in the deep rumbling voice of his Master floating through the air. He looks around, but just the typical homestead surrounds him.

“Oh. That’s cool.” And that’s that. The boy runs away to the deeper parts of the house, a smile on his face. In his hands, a soft blue blanket flies in the wind.

::::

Vader knows who Obi-Wan Kenobi is. He is the man who took everything from him. He took his unborn child, his wife, his limbs, and his potential. Vader is sure that most of his problems stem from this Obi-Wan. Vader, however, does not know who Ben Kenobi is. You see, Anakin never knew Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan together long enough to know of the nickname. He wasn’t there as Qui-Gon whispered the name softly before his death. He never listened to Master Windu sigh his name as the two were chatting as they walked the halls. He never listened to the now-dead Duchess whispering nicknames into the ear of his former Master. He never listened to Cody jokingly calling the ginger, Ben. He never noticed how Ahsoka would whisper to Master Ben sometimes. Because of this, he misses the Jedi Master in his hiding spot. 

“Darth Vader. Have you found your former Master as I asked?” Sidious sits on his throne of lies and steeples his fingers, wretched features obscured by his long, dark robe.

“No, my Lord.” The man bows stiffly at the waist, metal limbs not allowing anything truly graceful. “Kenobi is elusive, but he is old. Soon, he will be dead.” 

Unknown to the two, Ben Kenobi, not Obi-Wan because that man died alongside the thousands of Jedi in the Purge, watches as a boy, the son of his fallen brother, plays in the sand, a toy spaceship in hand. Ben sits on the tip of a dune, smiling at the happiness the boy unknowingly projects as he wooshes the ship around above him. Ben’s hands are busy, carving a new ship for the child. He plans to make a Nubian for the boy. 

“Ben!” The boy shouts across the desert, waving his hand. “Hello!” Ben smiles, and waves his hand in a silent greeting before he stands, joints creaking as he does, and turns back to his hut. Another day and the boy is safe. Cocooned in the silence of Tatooine, Ben takes comfort in the setting suns.

“Ben.” He hears the wind whisper, joining the deep baritone of Qui-Gon, the dulcet tones of Satine, the curt voice of Mace, the kind voice of Cody, and the young voice of Ahsoka. Luke’s toddler voice adds itself to the litany of voices, and Ben grins, watching the ever-changing dunes. Today was a good day. Seeing Luke usually makes his day, and this is one of those instances. A visit from his Master would do him good, he thinks. Soon, he will be too old for the lessons that the man has planned, but he plans to enjoy them while they last. Ben walks into the dunes, towards his hut. He might only have the ghost of one of the people who called him Ben, but he carries the other four close to his heart, carefully adding one more to that collection. The newest addition has a clear voice that is destined to deepen as he ages.  

“How was your day, Padawan?” Qui-Gon is standing in front of the hut, serene as he was in life. Perhaps even more so. 

Obi-Wan smiles wryly, feeling at peace for one of the first times in a while, “Quite nice, Master.”