#sw fic

But he isn't, and you know it. A few weeks ago, he'd left for a mission on the planet Saleucami, intent on tracking down General Grievous and bringing him in.

That night, the night he left, was the first time he kissed you.

You're taking your relationship with Rex slow. Trying, despite everything he makes you feel, not to get too attached in case something happens—in case there's a mission Rex doesn't come back from.

You know that over every mission, every goodbye, looms the threat of never seeing Rex again. Every time he leaves he promises he'll come back, but those promises are more often than not empty.

They're just reassurances, said to make you feel better, usually accompanied by a hug—or, in the case of last time, a lingering kiss that makes your heart flutter every time you think about it.

But really, how could he know? Rex is no Jedi, and despite how little you know about the ancient religion of warriors, you know that their ability to see the future is rare. To cheat death, even more so.

Rex is mortal.

You wish, selfishly and horribly, that he wasn't.

The memory of your first meeting flashes before your closed eyes. A cafe on the upper levels of Coruscant, open windows bathing the tables in sunlight, warm summer air wafting in through the open door. You were working on your datapad in the far corner, absently sipping your coffee, when a gaggle of identical soldiers walked through the front door.

"Is this seat taken?" Rex asked, then, and you were so starstruck by his sharp features, his gentle smile, his shock of blond hair—that all you could do was shake your head and stare.

He still throws you off your guard. Still makes your heart skip a beat with his smile. It's effortless for him but oh-so-beautiful to you. You smile sadly, eyes still closed as you imagine him carding his calloused fingers through your hair, making your tight bun come loose.

Cyar’ika, he calls you. Beloved.

"Cyar’ika?" asks a voice, and you can't help the gasp that escapes you, because you think you're dreaming—you must be dreaming.

Maybe you wished him into existence, you consider as you whip around in your chair to see a bleary-eyed Rex standing in the doorway to your bedroom. But no, Rex really is there, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a simple grey t-shirt—both of which you bought for him, along with several other civilian outfits. Just one of the many things you did at the beginning of your friendship to make him feel like he belongs.

"Rex," you breathe in disbelief, standing up to meet him. His arm is in a sling and his cheekbone is bruised purple. "How—how long have you been here?"

He smiles, and though it's lopsided and half-asleep, it makes your stomach do backflips. You choke back a relieved sob and throw yourself into Rex's arms, not caring that your tears are wetting his shirt.

"Oof," he coughs out, tensing slightly. "Ow—cyar’ika, my arm—"

"Sorry, sorry," you say hurriedly, pulling away. Staring up at Rex now, you feel the sudden urge to kiss him with everything you have. You look down at his arm sling and frown. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live,” Rex says flippantly. “It’s not too bad.”

“If you’re sure,” you say quietly.

"I’m sure," he whispers into the quiet, uninjured hand coming to rest hesitantly at the nape of your neck. "I missed you."

Smiling widely, you stand on the tips of your toes and press a soft, chaste kiss to Rex's cheek. Just as you're about to pull away, though, you feel Rex pull you back against his body in another warm hug.

His injured arm is pressed underneath your chest, but his other hand is now on your waist as he buries his face into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, sending chills all down your spine. Despite the shift in his mood, you huff a quiet laugh.

"What?" Rex asks, voice slightly hoarse as he pulls away to raise an eyebrow at you.

You swallow and shake your head, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. "Nothing, it's just—" you shake your head. "I've never seen you like... this."

And, you think happily, it's a pleasant surprise. You bought Rex clothes and gave him the code to your flat several months ago, long before any feelings were made clear—but you've never actually seen him in civvies, much less his underwear. You glance down, and feel your cheeks burn when you realize that they're not so much boxers as they are briefs, somewhere in the middle of skin-tight and loose-fitting.

You clear your throat and look away. "Anyway... yeah."

Rex's fingers under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him, make you blush even more-if that's possible.

Your face feels like it's about to burst into flames.

"I should be sorry," he says quietly, honey-brown eyes searching yours. "I didn't mean to put you in an uncomfortable position."

Rex's gaze is tender and soft, like sunlight spilling over a field after dawn. You can't help but bite your bottom lip briefly before replying, "No, no, you didn't. I’ve told you a million times that what’s mine is yours. I’m glad you’ve finally listened.” You pause. “I just... I had no idea you had the legs of an underwear model."

At this, Rex laughs, voice low and gravelly. His cheeks are flushed too, now, a pleasant pink color that makes you feel warm all over.

"Careful," Rex chides softly, smirking, "or you might overinflate my ego."

You let out a short giggle and feel the sudden urge to kiss him, but your relationship is still so new, so tender and uncertain. Yes, he kissed you before he left for the mission on Saleucami, but it was rushed and spur-of-the-moment.

And you've never kissed him. It's only ever been the other way around.

But as you look up at Rex's honey-coloured eyes, you start to build up the courage to initiate the kiss yourself this time—but he beats you to it.

Because the next second Rex is cupping your cheek with his uninjured hand and pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss seems to last forever. When Rex pulls away, he leaves you breathless and blushing, heart beating faster than you knew it could. After a moment of disbelieving silence, you smile widely and move your hand to the back of Rex's neck, pressing your forehead to his in what he once taught you was a kov'nyn—a Keldabe kiss.

"Thank you," you whisper, breath fanning onto Rex's mouth.

He cards a hand through your messy hair and chuckles softly. "For what?"

You pull away and press a soft, chaste kiss to Rex's lips before smiling widely at him. "For coming back."

"Always, cyar׳ika," Rex whispers. "This is the only place I want to be."

"Really? This dinky apartment?" you ask.

"With you," Rex clarifies. He takes a step closer, pressing your abdomens together, and kisses the corner of your mouth quickly. Then, expression suddenly turning almost apprehensive, he says, "I... I hope it's okay I spent the past few hours here."

You blink. "What?" you ask, taking Rex's hand and leading him to the kitchen. "Rex, why wouldn't it be okay? I keep telling you—I didn’t give you the code for no reason.”

In the several moments of silence it takes for Rex to answer, you hop up on the kitchen table, legs swinging back and forth. Rex is still holding onto your hand with his uninjured one, and it strikes you that you haven't even asked him what happened.

But then again, he rarely enjoys talking about his missions.

A throat clear from Rex makes you frown. He's blushing again. "Well, I just..." he trails off, hesitating. "I kind of fell asleep in your bed without meaning to. I wasn't thinking that maybe you're not comfortable with—"

"Rex." You lay a hand on his jawline. "It's okay. Really. I told you—I keep telling you—what’s mine is yours.”

He looks doubtful. "If—if you're sure..."

You nod. "I am. I promise." There's a long silence; Rex is searching your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You smile reassuringly. "In fact, I’m so sure that… I was thinking of extending the offer to tonight."

Rex blinks. "Tonight...?"

"As in," you hesitate, swallowing your nerves, "I was going to say you could just sleep here tonight. My bed is big enough for both of us, and it's okay if you don’t want to stay but you really shouldn’t have to take yourself home in this state—I mean, you’re hurt—”

A small crease has appeared between Rex’s brows. His cheeks are flushed, his honey-coloured eyes blown wide. You frown and start to pull away, disentangling yourself slowly from Rex’s grasp.

“But,” you continue hurriedly, stumbling over your words, “but I’d completely understand if you’d prefer to go back to your barracks—if you don’t feel comfortable taking that step yet—”

Rex’s uninjured hand, large and firm and steady against your back, moves to take your smaller hand and draws it to his chest. Breath stolen, you stop talking abruptly.

“I do,” he says softly, voice firm but gentle. “Feel comfortable, that is. Here. With… with you.”

You inhale sharply, and move your free hand up to his cheek to run the pad of your thumb across his face—over the bridge of his nose, across his cheekbone, to the slightly-longer-than-regulation blond buzz of hair. "Really? You're sure?"

"Absolutely," Rex breathes. He squeezes your hand and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Your bed felt empty without you in it, you know."

"Hm." You return the kiss, this time on his lips, and it feels more than right. "Well, why don't we fix that?"

“Er,” Rex says.

You clear your throat.

Rex says nothing.

You are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in your bedroom, facing the door to your refresher with your backs to your bed.

Since the beginning of your friendship with Rex, you have always felt uncommonly comfortable with him. Only now that there is something new between you—now that there is a definition for this thing that you have finally decided to act upon, and now that you are faced with the real possibility of intimacy—you are overcome with nerves. It seems that Rex is, too.

“This is—” your voice cracks embarrassingly, and you clear your throat, drawing the sleeves of your work uniform shirt further down past your fingertips. “This is a lot more… intimate than I was expecting.”

Rex turns to you, looking somewhat panicked. “I can go, if—”

“No!” You say hurriedly, turning to face Rex, then feel your face heat up. Don’t sound so desperate. “No, it’s alright, I’ve just never… well, you know I’ve never really done anything like this before—or been with anyone in… in that way…” your voice is trailing off, growing more hushed as you continue.

“It’s—don’t just say that you’re okay with me being here for the night if you’re not,” Rex implores, taking a step closer to you. He reaches out with the arm that is not in a sling as if to take your hand, then seems to think better of it and steps back. “I’m just as lost here as you are.”

You smile, then, and feel a warmth settling over the two of you, and think that perhaps the fact that there is something new between you doesn’t have to make what the two of you have any different.

You take Rex’s hand. “Alright,” you say quietly. “That’s good to know. And I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t mean it.”

Rex huffs a laugh, his hand trailing up your arm to cup your cheek; it makes you shiver as warmth trails up your spine.

“Well… we can take it slowly,” he murmurs, and there is something reverent in his amber eyes, like he can’t bear to ever look away. He smiles, then, and it fills you with more warmth than you ever thought possible. “And anyway, I sort of just want to sleep.” He pauses, hesitating for a moment, then tilts his head slightly and drops his hand. “Preferably with you in my arms.”

You cannot help the smile that pulls on your lips or the flutter in your stomach. “I think that can be arranged. But first—I need to shower.” You roll your shoulders back, stretching out your spine. “It’s been a long day.”

On impulse, you lean forward and press another chaste kiss to Rex’s lips; his uninjured arm all but chases your body, drifting to your waist as he leans into the kiss—but you pull away almost immediately, giggling at his disappointed expression and flushed cheeks.

Rex sighs. “Don’t laugh at me. It just gets more addicting every time.”

This only makes you laugh more, walking over to your closet to pull out an oversized sleep shirt and a pair of clean underwear, along with a towel for the shower. You palm the control pad next to the refresher door; the door slides open, and at the same time the bedroom lights wink out, throwing the space into a cool darkness. A sliver of golden light from the refresher spills out, bathing you in warmth, and when you smile over your shoulder at him, Rex is gone.

“Get back in bed, okay?” you say. “I’ll be right out.”

You disappear into the refresher, leaving Rex alone in the quiet of your bedroom.

For a long moment, he simply stands there, listening as the sound of you pattering around in the refresher reaches him from the other side of the closed door. It hums softly around him, in a symphony of simple domesticity—the air filters circulating, the conservator humming from the kitchen, distant traffic whirring outside in the late Coruscant night. He has always loved your apartment, despite it being so different from the constant mechanical drone of the Resolute or the restless noise of the barracks.

In the beginning, the quiet—your quiet—left him disoriented. Now, it is all he waits for on long campaigns.

Carefully, slowly, Rex sits down on the edge of the bed. His injured arm still aches, wrapped up and bacta-slathered though it is. Not for the first time since leaving Saleucami, he thinks of Cut and Suu—of the love they share, and of the line they crossed. Rex wonders if, one day, the two of you might cross that line too.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as it did the first time, just hours ago when he found his way to your bed as you told him he could. He still feels guilty—for coming into your home while you’re not there, despite you explicitly stating that he can.

He runs his uninjured hand over one of the many plush pillows and inhales deeply. The faint scent of your shampoo lingers on the sheets.

What’s mine is yours.

Your words, unconditionally kind and so painfully you, echo in his head.

Rex glances toward the refresher door when the sound of running water begins. This, too—the fact that you have a running water shower, not a sonic, something he hadn’t experienced until you told him he could come to your apartment after campaigns—is a novelty. He imagines you standing under the spray, shoulders relaxing after the long day you endured at work, hair darkening with the water and trailing down your back. The thought makes his chest ache with something he can’t quite name.

Maker, how he’s missed you.

Without really meaning to, Rex lies back against the pillows. He blinks up at the ceiling above him; it is plain and unremarkable—but it isn’t a durasteel bunk above his head, and it isn’t the cold open sky of a battlefield. It’s yours.

Rex’s eyes drift shut for a moment—you did say to get back in bed, after all—but just then, the refresher door slides open with a quiet hiss and pulls him back to awareness. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, blinking sleepily towards the doorway, and watches as warm steam spills out into the bedroom, curling lazily in the air.

Then you step out.

Your hair is damp, the ends darkened with water, and the oversized sleep shirt hangs loosely off your shoulders, one side slipping just enough to show the curve of your collarbone. The hem brushes the tops of your thighs as you walk, toweling at your hair, face flushed from the hot water.

And despite your unreal beauty, Rex wasn’t staring before—he’s gotten better about it, since first meeting you. But now… now, he definitely is.

You catch the look immediately. Your brows lift, and a small, amused smile tugs at your mouth as you continue drying your hair.

“Enjoying the view, Captain?”

Rex startles like he’s been caught doing something illegal, sitting up suddenly and tucking one leg underneath himself. He clears his throat, willing his face to stop burning, and fiddles awkwardly with his arm sling.

“I—what—no,” he says quickly, voice rough. He clears his throat again and attempts a recovery. “I mean—I wasn’t staring.”

You’re smiling at him like you know something he doesn’t. “You were absolutely staring.”

“I was not.”

You drop the towel over the back of your desk chair and turn to face him fully, arms crossing loosely over your middle.

“Oh, really, now?” you ask sweetly.

Rex rubs the back of his neck with his good hand, looking everywhere except at you now—the floor, the wall, the ceiling, the nightstand. Anywhere but the oversized shirt that somehow manages to make his brain stop working. He wants to look back at you, but he knows that if he does, he’ll surely embarrass himself, either by being struck dumb and unable to look away or by succumbing to the insatiable urge to touch you. Which would be rather—well, improper.

“I was… observing,” Rex mutters. It sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.

You snort.

“Observing,” you repeat. “Right.”

Despite your teasing, warmth spreads through Rex’s chest, and he gives in to the desire to look at you again—and he truly cannot look away. The sight of you like this, hair damp and mussed, wearing sleep clothes, more skin bared to him than he’s ever seen—

It feels strangely domestic. Strangely right.

You move toward the bed, towards Rex, and nudge him gently to his feet. As he watches, you pull back the covers he’s been sitting on and climb in; it exposes more of the soft skin of your thighs, along with a quick glimpse of your underwear. Rex files that sighting away to think about later. In this moment, you deserve all of his focus.

“C’mon,” you say softly, scooting to the far side of the bed and fluffing the pillows. You hold out a hand. “Get in.”

Rex takes it—and then hesitates. You notice immediately.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I…” Rex swallows. “You’re sure?”

You frown and scoot closer to him, taking both of his hands.

“Of course,” you murmur, kneeling on the bed so that you’re at eye level with him. You move your hands to rest on his clothed chest, warm and small compared to his unforgiving, obtrusive bulkiness.

“Okay,” he says softly.

You lean in to press a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek, then pull away and look at him with your impossibly beautiful eyes, smiling slowly. “Okay.”

In the quiet, it’s easy to get lost in you—in your flowery scent, in the softness of your knees against his thighs, in the warmth of your presence. He leans in, drawn to you, and whispers, “Cyar’ika—”

You cut him off with a kiss, and this time, it’s different. Before, they were all soft, careful, almost shy—but this one lands with intent, like you know what you want.

For a heartbeat Rex freezes, startled that you were the one to close the distance, but then he feels something in him shift. His hand at your waist tightens of its own accord, reveling in the warmth of your skin even through the fabric of your shirt, and he leans into the kiss with a low inhale. You make a small sound against his mouth that he feels more than hears, and it sends a shiver through his entire body that makes the pain in his injured arm all but disappear.

Your hands move from his chest up to the nape of his neck, toying with the short blond fuzz there, and Rex cannot help the sigh that he releases into your mouth as his lips move against yours.

“Stars,” he whispers in between kisses, breathing the air between your mouths, “You’re so—so soft—”

You deepen the kiss without a word. Rex’s movements are still careful—he is always careful with you—but his hesitance from earlier melts away. His mouth moves against yours with a growing certainty, slow and thorough.

He feels you shift closer on your knees, and seizes the opportunity that comes to him as your balance wavers just slightly. Rex reacts on instinct, sliding his hand from your waist to the dip between your shoulder blades, and guides you back towards the mattress, shifting you so that your head is on the pillow.

Slowly, Rex lowers himself to lie beside you, careful of his bad arm, and props himself up on his good elbow. He turns to look at you, and the sight that greets him is dizzying—your hair, draped across the pillow, is haloing your face; your eyes are bright; your lips are flushed and swollen from kissing. As Rex stares, you smile and reach up to run your knuckles across his cheek.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” Rex says softly.

He reaches down to pull the covers over the two of you, and you shift closer to him, moving to lie on your side as he turns into his back. Your arm snakes across his stomach and around his waist, while your leg tangles with his.

“Is your arm alright?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbow to look up at him.

Rex nods, reaching up with his good arm to brush a stray curl from your face. “You have a way of taking the pain away.”

“I thought about you for weeks. About being here with you,” he says. “Out there, it was… it was all I thought about.”

You hum softly and trace circles over Rex’s chest; it makes him shiver.

“Well,” you murmur, “you’re here now. With me.” You’re talking so quietly that it’s only because of how close you are that he can hear you at all.

“Yeah,” Rex whispers. “It does look that way, doesn’t it?”

With a soft hum, you lean down, kissing him with a kind of reverence that makes Rex’s breath catch. It is the kind of reverence he kisses you with. His hand moves from your cheek to your waist, pulling you a little closer to him as the kiss lingers.

The world outside your apartment fades from his awareness—the city, the galaxy, everything but the warmth of you and the feel of your body against his. For the first time since he left for Saleucami, the war feels very far away.

Anywhere but the vicinity of the unknown, of the one variable that, no matter how hard you had tried to ignore, the Force always found a way to put right back into the equation.

Unknown was something you had stopped being afraid of a long time ago, for not many choices had been presented to you - not knowing if your belly would have been full into the night, or if your ship could have withered one more hit through the ion storms, had trained your mind enough to develop the courage to dive headfirst, regardless of the consequences.

It was survival, after all - that never changed, whether you found yourself on a daunting warship or the leveled moon, and it did not listen to your excuses stemming from fear or hesitation alike.

It demanded motion, movement, action, for they were the only answers it had ever accepted, and every fiber of your informal training obeyed, much against the heartbeat in your ribs that kept calling a name you could never forget.

The question of where answered itself in the frantic thoughts of your mind that threatened to match your motions, as you had very limited choices before facing the wrong end of a blaster.

The ship.

Your ship, the one that carried you across worlds, the one with the damaged starboard panel, the one holding your trusted droid safely occupied. The one that seemed like the only familiar place to run to, the only constant that you could name, as the halls were foreign, the overhead lights were too bright, and the air suddenly felt too dry to breathe in.

The heat that had burnt enough to scar within your sternum grew colder with each step treaded.

The boots that had seen the grime of the Outer Rim hit too hard against the polished durasteel, too fast, in a hurry that they had not been in a while, with intention in mind, your memory not failing you yet to map the turns you had walked through a mere hour ago.

They kept up.

They did their job of lining up your feet, one after the other, keeping you as stable as they could when your gait threatened to falter at any given moment, holding up the slight buckle of your knees with the shock running through your limbs.

Yet, they could not be fast enough, for you did not make it far before a heavier, louder stride made the steel echo, with a frequency you could never mistake for anyone elses.

The low static in your mind that had hummed since the first step onto the warship, now erupted, spreading across all your senses, your limbs, and took over your thoughts in the only way it knew how to.

Instinct, the honed edge just under your skin that had kept you alive, that had managed to extract you out of impossible situations in one piece, was left defenseless against the mere proximity after a decade of distance, and the sheer possibility of an exchange after a decade of silence.

Of all moments, across the stars and the space and through the days spent wishing, it chose this one to break resolve - when a voice you had lost all hope in rang through metal with a certain plea.

“Wait.”

------------------

“Wait.”

In the moment that your body moved to turn, an otherwise instant motion that stretched reality this time, etching itself very well into his mind - Anakin Skywalker could swear he felt the galaxy fall, right through his fingers, star and planet alike disappearing into oblivion the moment his eyes locked into yours.

War, he could prepare for.

He could train endlessly in the salles, swing and push until he was drenched in sweat, obliterate any obstacle to perfect his form. He could review approach plans till the rotations slowed and blue of the holotable became one with his vision. He could read maps and create tactics in the hopes of surviving a siege in a clever way, bending the rules just a little when he needed to.

War, at least, was something from which he could come out victorious.

The fastening heartbeat that echoed against his ribcage reminded him, almost instantly that, from this, there was no parting with a win.

It was a ripple within the Force so strong it dragged deep cracks across the surface as if the very fabric of the universe was mortal durasteel. It was the clash of many truths he had once attempted to sweep aside, by his own hand, finally landing to show face.

This, no rule he had ever come to know could contain. There was nothing, nothing in the whole wide galaxy, that could have prepared him for just how this would feel.

Nothing would ever account for the collapse of all that held him whole, from the very instant he had felt your signature in the thread of the universe, to this moment where his feet had dragged him towards you, without permission, without a second thought.

The corridor, the standard sleek design of the Republic’s finest warship, that often bore the coldness he had gotten used to way too quickly, now pulsed with the warmth of the thread that refused to be tamed.

His pulse had found a new tempo, a new rhythm that the war had not yet taught him, one that lived in the marrow of a boy who had once pressed his cheek to a viewport in a ship that would fail to keep promises.

What lived beneath the walls he had once built with bloodstained hands, the very emotion he had refused to name even in the privacy of his own mind, had never disappeared through the years that, unknowingly, inevitably, all led to a singular point in spacetime - and, they tugged onto the pull that lived in his sternum to awaken it.

They did not have to try for long, for the thread was no longer a dormant, silent being once filtered out by his own doing, for no wall, no mind trick could ever contain scorching warmth.

Following the pull, his reflexes moving against the will of his mind, the movement of his eyes betrayed the difference of rank that hung in the air.

And, at this moment, perhaps with a hint of shame, he allowed himself to take you in, for the war did not afford the recognition often, for the weight of long lost years demanded it so.

The dreams that had often woken him up in sweat and gasps, the faint visuals that rendered him unable to fall back into slumber could not do justice to what the galaxy had carved out of the girl in the desert.

Innocence was a long lost feature that no longer coated your face, as fate and decision alike had rendered it infeasible to stay. Your flight suit, a dark synleather number he had noticed you zip up with haste prior to leaving, spoke of a thousand runs, of rattled seats and metal that pierced through on a hit taken too hard, yet, above all, of all the hits that you had survived.

The lines of your figure had gotten sharper, leaner, taller than the girl who had once fit under a workbench. The faint traces of definition along your limbs were molded by a life spent from one cockpit to another, a life of survival that he had been too afraid, too occupied to witness.

It all added onto the tender tragedy of your face, one he had not been ready to read, one he thought he had memorized every letter of in his mind once, yet, still, the inscription was of a language he had forgotten how to speak.

It was a face that would haunt his living and breathing moments, one that had stolen the air in his chest before he could protest, one forged in fire and molded by pain, one the galaxy had no right to make this beautiful.

And, Maker, your eyes. Those eyes that had shone with the fire of building, of winning, those familiar irises that overlaid themselves to the expanse of his dreams, of his conscience, of the memories that threatened to resurface regardless of the many tactics the Jedi had taught him.

From the day you had pranced into the junk shop, ever since the formation of that unforgettable memory he etched onto his heart long ago - Anakin had known those eyes would be the death of him.

And now, they were, unapologetically, staring right into his, making him wonder just what you were seeing, and what exactly mirrored the defiance in your gaze in the depths of your soul.

The general, hardened by the weight of decisions he had to make, scarred by fire and ash alike, was reduced to a little boy on the desert with sand in his hair and the suns blinding his eyes.

It was no longer the warrior that stood in the spotless halls, but rather the little boy who had also once stood in a shop, and believed, with all the certainty of childhood, that there would never be a force strong enough to take you away from him.

He was, with all that was left of him, at that moment when the ship stood still, the boy that had promised you the stars.

The strength that often came natural to him, dwindled as it decided to let fate take over - and it was evidenced by words finally finding voice, finally dragging themselves from his dry throat, low, unbelieving, and raw.

“It’s you. You - you are alive.”

As the admission left his mouth with a tremble in his voice, nothing seemed to matter.

Suddenly, the war disappeared from his thoughts. Voices that belonged to the routine of the ship quieted, the distant murmur of clones and officers moving through the belly of the vessel no more than residual noise.

There was nothing but the resurrected pulse within his chest, echoing the vibrations in your signature, screaming, kicking, yet silent.

There was nothing but the very reflection of all he had once held close to his heart, standing on a pair of dusted boots, shining with the blinding light of the suns that the galaxy could not succeed in dimming.

His gaze flickered across your face with a helplessness he despised in himself, in an attempt of attaching memory to a face, of digging what he had buried with his own hands.

He hoped, in the depths of his heart, that the child from the desert was in there somewhere, whose laughter was subdued for survival, who was forced to grow up too soon. It was in the almost defiant way you held his stare and did not flinch under recognition, in the faint tension along your jaw that spoke of secrets than aggression, as they all materialized into the sharp silhouette that the lowest places in the galaxy carved out of you.

Then came your voice, dry but purposeful, and it proved to be enough to rip the galaxy apart in the depths of his conscience.

“It seems that I am, General Skywalker.”

The title, uttered from voice he had only heard in dreams finally finding tone, struck him like a blaster bolt, making his jaw twitch.

It did not carry the warmth of the nickname you once had for him, one you never dropped from your tongue when he had to rewire, one that you had screamed across the stars at his rising ship. It was pure ice, for it sounded wrong coming out of your mouth, after all these years. It was too clean, too deliberate, shaped by a restraint that made the thread ache between his ribs.

It awakened something in him, born out of the ashes of recognizing yet always falling short - a certain melancholic denial that he was told, countless times, to let go as a Padawan.

The words left him before his discipline could stop them, his training falling short yet another time, as shame could not act fast enough to drag them behind his teeth where they belonged.

“That is what you are calling me?”

The simple question hung in the sterile air, followed by the slight breathy chuckle that carried the disbelief of a man who had heard his own rank spoken to him thousands of times across the war, across each rotation, and had never once felt it tear open a wound up until that moment.

However, you seemingly did not care to share his disbelief, as your gaze remained on his with a stillness that, at first glance, could have passed for indifference. Yet, the burning feeling beneath his ribs had another thought as it tightened in a way that made the empty space between your bodies some uncharted territory no voice dared to cross.

“It is your rank.”

The obvious truth sounded nonchalant as it spilled from your mouth, yet the rank did not belong to your voice, not to him, for there was once a shorter name you had for him that had carried a different melody in the warm air.

Anakin, with the stubbornness that had won him battles, made it his unspoken mission to uncover what the decade had eroded whatever was left of the sparks that once erupted in your eyes when they had landed on him, whether the name you had for him still rang close to your heart or if it had been swallowed along with many words that never came to the tongue.

“You know that is not what I meant.”

Your hands went back to clasp themselves, assessing, in the same way they did when you had been inspecting his wiring under the panels, when you had watched him attach servomotors to half-finished droids, with a certain maturity carved by sand that many children had not possessed that young.

To an outside observer, to the passerby clone heading to his post, to any other pilot or soldier, it would be seen as a harmless, natural gesture of a lower-ranking officer when faced with the general of a legion.

To him, it was a blade, rough along the edges, lodged into his skin deeper with each beat of recognition - yet the memory managed to outweigh the pain as it earned a softening in his electric blues, for your hands, beneath the icy enigma of your stance, still spoke the same language, even when your mouth refused to.

“I am afraid you are going to have to be more clear, sir.”

He did not know what he had wanted or what he had expected, for he had imagined all the possible scenarios seeing you would bring, over the years, often in the darkness of his bunk or in the corners of the training salles. He had imagined this a hundred different ways, often times with a gentle hug, or an angry outburst, a sobbing yet smiling face, if the Force had given him the blessing of sparing your life enough to meet again.

It had, and along with the light, it had also given him the dark.

The guise of recognition that the heat in his sternum denied viciously, the relaxed body language that you never broke as if it was strict formation, the words that concealed their true meaning under formality, the closeness of a mere three meters yet all the distance that came with it - brought out what he had often forgotten about.

It brought back, in the flesh, the boy in the desert, the relentlessly stubborn yet kind demeanor, with the childish anger stemming hot and anew, the one his masters and their doctrines had attempted to bury under the sand, yet could only hope to succeed.

His gloved hand flew to the back of his neck, a restless, frustrated motion of a body that refused to stand still in front of a ghost from the past, in front of the one, singular, constant truth that the galaxy had never succeeded in taking away from his soul.

“Don’t.”

That earned him a slight tilt of your head, your eyes relentless in their calm hue as they kept contact with his, a slightly confused expression settling into your gaze.

“Don't stand here and act like - don't talk to me like you don't know me."

His breathing shifted into something more urgent, the rhythm of it slowly losing its resolve, following the tightening of his jaw, yielding to him even before the implications of the words could fully take a shape. Hints of frustration, something no Jedi should have ever housed within, crossed his face more evidently now, turning more unguarded by the second.

He was a man who could command armies with precision, yet could not command a single sentence right there in that corridor, against the patient voice of a woman who, seemingly, had all night, and had no intention of giving anything away.

"I know who you are, General. Everyone on this ship knows who you are. Half the Outer Rim has heard your name by now."

And, before the silence could engulf the air, before the meaning could land in his mind and soul, your voice carried on its steady pursuit which showed no mercy to the fire in his ribs.

“I also know where we stand.”

Something behind his eyes shifted, the light in them dimmed as if the flame that kept his protest alive got extinguished. His shoulders, broad and tense beneath the robes that had always, somehow, seemed to belong to someone older, someone steadier, dropped into the quiet stance that spoke of defeat.

It was a surrender for a battle he had not been given a chance to negotiate through, for he had already done so, when he had boarded that ship in the middle of the dunes, when he had sealed your name into the void with bloody hands in the desert.

Words rose, still, like ash swirling in the wind to make it to the skies. All the sentences he had silently screamed, all the apologies, the regrets and explanations that came with them, all ten years’ worth of utterances, yet none of them felt worthy against what the years had carved out of you, and none of them felt sufficient to cover what he had owed.

He wondered if they ever could.

They did not make it past his teeth before your voice rang in the sterilized air again, sending his heart into a frenzy.

“Now, unless there is anything I can help with, General,” you spoke, voice cold, dry in a way that could never reveal any emotion underneath, “ - I have a mission to prepare for.”

And, once again, in his troubled blue eyes, he carried the look of the nine-year old boy under the suns, watching your parting figure disappear into a sandstorm - only this time, the sand was durasteel, and the storm was one of his own making.

The thread, the one he had buried alongside every promise he had broken, every plea he had failed and every vow he had made, stretched taut between as you turned the corner without awaiting formal dismissal - and it did not grow cold.