Work Text:
Background thoughts:
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Marc as a Jedi that narrowly escaped Order 66, currently on the run (to where, he doesn’t know)
- Marc can still hear him through the Force
- Khonshu was his master, but he disappeared
- Jake is the one who killed the clones and avoided Order 66, he prefers getting things done through brute force, not as in tune with the Force
- Steven isn’t much of a fighter, prefers using the Force to get out of situations
- Marc prefers using the Force when he fights, so he’s had several close calls post-Order 66 where he almost revealed himself as Jedi
- Blue lightsaber bc I said so
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Layla is a smuggler who helps the Rebellion occasionally by transporting supplies and refugees
- Her father was a Guardian of the Whills and she grew up with stories of the Jedi and the Force
- After her father died, she taught herself how to fly and worked as a smuggler in the Outer Rim
- She was approached by her father’s colleagues, and eventually began helping the Rebellion
- Known for ferrying out desperate people, especially former Jedi and force-sensitive children
Marc woke up in the middle of carnage. His head pounded as he stared at the glowing lightsaber in his hands, then the still bodies of his company around him, their plastoid armor mottled with scorch marks from what could only have been his own weapon. The din of the battlefield came to him in snatches.
“Good soldiers follow orders.”
“Order 66—”
“The general’s still alive!”
And above it all, a furious voice in his head.
Run .
So Marc did what he did best. He ran.
Marc pulled his hood lower over his face as he made his way deeper into the marketplace. Even though this planet was about as far away from the heart of the Empire as you could get, there was still the occasional clone—Stormtrooper—patrolling on the fringes of the crowd, their armor shining dully in the rising sun.
It was unlikely they would recognize him. Most of his original battalion was gone by now, either lost on Geonosis by his own hand years ago or scattered to the edges of the galaxy by the Empire.
Still not over that? Jake’s voice asked. It was faint, as if he were talking from somewhere faraway. I saved your sorry skin.
It wasn’t right, Marc thought with a snarl. They were our men.
They weren’t our men the moment they turned their blasters on us. Now get what you came here for and get the hell out.
Marc’s fists clenched at his side, but he could tell Jake had already retreated to somewhere Marc’s voice wouldn’t be able to reach. Fine.
Marc did his best to put the brief exchange out of his head as he made his way to a stall selling spare rations. The wizened old man behind the table squinted at him as he plunked down a few credits on the table. It was the last of his money, but he supposed he could always steal a purse or two if it came down to it. Stealing was probably the least of his moral violations lately.
“Two portions,” the man rasped as he snatched up the credits. “Times are hard, boy. You understand.”
That was enough for five last week. Marc clenched his jaw and nodded. He couldn’t afford to make a scene, especially when two Stormtroopers hovered just a block away. He grabbed the packets the man offered and stalked away.
He wasn’t even sure what planet he was on this month. It had been Jakku last week, and Tatooine before that. Just endless desert after desert, wasteland after wasteland. He would die a happy man if he never saw so much as a speck of sand again, but there was something in him that screamed at him to keep moving, to keep running even though the Empire stretched from one end of the galaxy to the other. He was running out of places to hide.
Before Marc knew what he was doing, he thrust his hand out in front of him and the two Stormtroopers flew backwards, landing in a pile of discarded crates. He reached over and yanked the hood off their prisoner.
To his surprise, the prisoner was a woman about his age, her brown curls cascading around her face as she stared at him in disbelief. “You’re a—”
“Talk later,” he grunted at her as he sliced through the cuffs on her wrists. He shoved a blaster from a dead Stormtrooper into her hands. “We need to get off-world.”
They both ducked behind a clay wall as blaster bolts fly overhead. The woman seemed to be struggling with a jammed release on her blaster, her shoulders tight with tension as she strained to pull it back into the right place. Marc kept his lightsaber at the ready and deflected blaster bolts as he tried to come up with a plan.
“I have a ship!” she yelled at him as the release finally slid into the right place. She popped up over the top of the wall and shot twice. Two Stormtroopers went down. “We just have to get to the shipyard.”
“Oh, just the shipyard which happens to be five klicks away?” Marc asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He twirled his lightsaber and a deflected bolt hit a Stormtrooper neatly in the chest. “Did you want to stop for a bottle of rum on the way too?”
The woman squinted at him, her brown eyes irritated. “For a Jedi, you’re very rude.”
“And for a rescued prisoner, you’re very ungrateful,” Marc retorted. He shoved her roughly and a blaster bolt flew by where her head had been. He wondered why of all the deserving people in the world, the Force had pushed him towards her .
“Drop me off at the nearest planet,” Marc demanded, trying to put as much authority into his voice as possible. But Layla only shrugged as her hands flew over the ship’s control panel.
“No can do,” she drawled, her voice smooth as silk. “Our course is already charted. If you want to leave, there’s an escape pod in the back.”
Marc glared into the back of her head and imagined dropping her into a sarlacc pit. It would certainly make his life easier. “Turn the ship around.”
Layla spun her seat around, a scowl already on her face. Her curls were tied back at the nape of her neck, exposing the sharp lines of her jaw and curve of her neck. Her brown eyes simmered with annoyance. “I already said no. You’re welcome to try your little Jedi mind tricks or whatever on me, but this ship is already charted for Alderaan. Get comfortable, your knightliness.”
He could feel her irritation rippling off her in the Force, each wave making his skin itch. If the kid in the hold had been a gentle light, then Layla was a raging wildfire, every emotion too big to be contained in just flesh and bones. He had the distinct feeling he’d be burned if he got too close. He took a deep breath, then forced a smile onto his face.
“Fine. I’ll be in the hold.”
“Marc?” Layla’s voice echoed and wavered like she was underwater. “Marc, stay awake.”
His limbs were heavier than anything he’d ever felt. He pushed a slow breath past his lips, a sharp and burning pain bursting in his side. If he’d had the energy, he would have cried out in pain. But right now, everything was hazy and heavy and by the Maker, he wanted to drift off to sleep. His eyes slid shut.
“Marc.” He heard her again. “Marc, stay with me.”
Layla. She was here too? Marc fought to open his eyes again and was greeted by the sight of her panicked face, her eyes wide and her lips parted.
“Why would you do something so stupid?” she snarled, but her voice betrayed her. Marc could feel her worry in the Force, a persistent mantra in his mind. Wake up. Stay with her.
He took another deep breath, gritting his teeth as his injury burned. He’d heard a whisper in the Force telling him to turn around, to look , but by the time he’d spotted the man with the blaster, it’d been too late to warn her. So he’d moved instead.
“Sorry,” he forced out, each syllable torturous.
“Don’t do it again,” Layla ordered. Something cool touched his side and the burning subsided.
Marc let out a heavy breath, his hand already rising out of its own volition to seek Layla. She leaned into his touch, small shocks of electricity dancing down his fingers where they touched her cheek. She was warm, so warm.
“I’m here,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Marc?”
Marc ran his thumb over her cheekbone and wiped away a smudge of grease. Had she always been so beautiful? He wished they’d have all the time in the world to work out what was between them, to dissect it into one of those complicated schematics she kept under lock and key in the hold. But the stars kept turning, the relentless march of time uncaring for the whims of just one man. In one instant, he mourned a lifetime that could have been. Slowly, he pulled his hand back to his own side and reached under his cloak.
His master had always said a Jedi’s lightsaber was his life. His fingers closed around the familiar hilt of his lightsaber and he pulled it out, letting it sit on his palm between them. A thousand memories rose to mind.
“Keep this safe for me.” Gently, reverently, he pressed the weapon into her hand and curled her fingers around it. Without its familiar weight on his body, he felt…vulnerable. But it was the last thing he had to give Layla, the most he could offer her.
“What does the Force feel like?” Layla asks, her voice soft in the dark. Marc risks a glance over at her. In the dim hotel room, he can just make out the bridge of her nose, the curve of her lips. Her arm is pressed against his and her curls tickle his cheek. He swallows.
“It feels…like an ocean surrounding you. It’s warm. Safe.” Marc licks his lips, struggling to find the right words. “And people…there are other people swimming in it and you can just barely see them out of the corner of your eye, but you can feel the ripples from their movements. You’re connected to everything, everyone.”
Layla shifts, her breath warm against the side of his neck. The bed dips. “Can you feel me?”
“Yes, you’re…” Marc closes his eyes and opens himself to the Force, the comforting weight of it washing over him. He’s hyper aware of just how close she is to him. She burns bright and strong in the Force as usual, a star that refuses to be tempered. He still feels that same pull towards her, like he was being pushed into her orbit. He turns his head and looks into her eyes, their breaths mingling. “You’re beautiful.”