Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ben!”

Your voice rings out across the landing deck. It echoes, clear and bright, past the group of mechanics gathered around a sleek silver ship to the robed man stepping off of its boarding ramp. Your steps quicken into a run as you watch the Jedi turn, those familiar blue eyes crinkling into a surprised smile. You fling yourself at him, laughing when he lifts you off your feet with a spin. You smack his shoulder lightly as he sets you upright. 

“I can’t believe you left me alone for a month ,” you chide him, mouth curving into a mock pout. “I was depressed. Terribly lonely, with naught but the archives for company—”

At that, Obi–Wan chuckles. “Ah. You were thrilled to work late into the night without me interrupting, you mean.”

You shoot him a smirk. “It certainly was a lot quieter around here with you gone,” you tease. Your face softens as you take him in, all broad shoulders and quiet confidence. Just being in his presence is already loosening the tension that’s slowly wound through your body each day he’s been gone. The stress is annoying, but it’s become an inevitable part of your life now that your best friend is old enough to chase threats to the Republic across the galaxy.

“I did miss you, though,” you confess. “And kriff , would it have killed you to send a comm?! What was I supposed to think, when you didn’t come back for weeks after the mission was supposed to end and the Council refused to tell me where you were?” 

Obi–Wan winces, running his hand through the lock of strawberry–blonde hair that grazes his cheekbone. “You can thank Anakin for that. The transmitter was another unfortunate casualty of his nostalgia for podracing,” he grumbles, muttering something about canyons and impulsive Padawans. And then the last part of your sentence hits him, making his brow furrow with confusion. 

“Bunny, why did you ask the Council where I was?”

You blink innocently up at him, a movement that years of practice have trained him to recognize as your tell—usually, that you’ve done something he definitely wouldn’t approve of. Obi–Wan sighs, massaging his temple with a weary hand. 

“You were going to come after me, weren’t you.” 

Another slow blink. He gives you a look of total exasperation. 

“You’re an archivist! Being able to use the Force does not mean you are trained to fight assassins and bounty hunters—” he protests, but you roll your eyes. 

“Oh, so now only Jedi Knights can lead rescue missions?”

“Yes! That is exactly what I’m saying,” he groans, throwing his hands up in the air. Your only response is an impolite snort. 

“You don’t even have a lightsaber!” He calls after you, but you’ve already skipped ahead to meet the tall Padawan stepping off the ship. 

Obi–Wan raises his eyes to the heavens, grimacing. This is the fourth time the two of you have had some version of this argument, and yet he still doesn’t feel like he’s won. Which is your fault, really. Every time he tries to intimidate you into staying at the Temple no matter what—where you’re safe , protected from vicious mercenaries and Sith lords—you either berate him about “sexist ideologies that are so last decade,” or send him the saddest, most soul–crushing look until he relents. 

He understands your frustration—the Temple has never been the most entertaining place to live—but he would  

It’s a miracle that Anakin hasn’t tried to copy your infuriatingly effective manipulation techniques yet, or he’d be entirely defeated. 

“Ani!” You greet the Padawan in question, making an exaggerated swoon when his mouth curves up in a boyish smile. “I see you’ve finally decided to grace Coruscant with your presence.” 

He laughs. “Hello, Bunny.”

You eye his suspiciously darker–looking robes with interest. “Are those new? I didn’t realise the Council had updated the colour scheme.”

“Won them in a podrace,” he grins, looking supremely pleased with himself. “Has Master Obi–Wan told you about my undefeatable racing record?”

“He did tell me a bit about your adventures, yes.” You place your hands on your hips, suddenly looking deadly serious. “I heard you broke the transmitter. Again.” 

He swallows. “I did.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I would suggest being more careful next time, or the Council might suddenly volunteer you as my newest research assistant.” You shrug, voice sweetly casual. “Such a shame, what happened to the last one. You can never account for every variable, I suppose.”

The brunette’s eyes widen. He glances at Obi–Wan where he stands behind you, but his mentor merely shrugs, placing a hand on your shoulder. Anakin scowls defeatedly, already sensing that he’s lost. There’s no point in resisting when the two of you pair up. If Obi–Wan’s the closest thing he has to a father, then you’ve assumed the role of the sweet, scarily competent mother figure who’ll indulge his hobbies and chastise him into behaving “like a proper Jedi” within the same hour.

The Padawan nods sullenly in assent, and then you’re beaming up at him again, practically radiating sunshine. Like you didn’t just threaten to test your stomach–droppingly creative archive research on him, he thinks incredulously. 

 “Glad we’re in agreement,” you chirp. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal Ben for a little while.” You pause. “Hopefully before the Council sends him off on another life–threatening mission that’ll send me to an early grave.”

Anakin shakes his head, watching you grab the fabric of his master’s sleeve and tug him through the hangar doors. 

“Kriff, she can be terrifying.” 

You poke at your food, squinting suspiciously at the mysterious purple chunks sliding around in the last dregs of your soup. 

“You’d think having Force–sensitive cooks would make the food more edible,” you gripe, and Obi–Wan makes a noise of agreement. The two of you are tucked into your usual spot behind a tall column in the Temple courtyard—out of sight of the younglings, but still close enough to hear them screech with laughter. It’s a rare, lovely day on Coruscant. A soft wind brushes against your skin, leaving warmth in its wake.  

“Walk with me?” He invites, and you gladly scramble to your feet. The tall Jedi levitates your bowl to the return tray, and the two of you slip unnoticed into the gardens. You meander peacefully through hedges and towering flower bushes, pausing occasionally to inspect a particularly intricate vine. 

“What’s your next assignment?” You’re the first to break the silence, curious as ever. Obi–Wan shrugs, watching you out of the corner of his eye. 

“The Council hasn’t decided where to send me yet.” 

You’re unconsciously chewing on your bottom lip, brows pulled together in a frown. He knows you’re nervous about something—can feel it practically radiating off you, after years of becoming attuned to your energy signature in the Force. He waits patiently for you to speak. 

“I met with High Archivist Illian last week,” you begin, gently stroking the petals of a pale orange candlewick bloom. “They think I’m ready to head my own division.”

He turns to look at you in shock, a genuine smile breaking out over his face. “That’s incredible, Bunny,” he breathes, heart swelling with pride. You’ve spent every waking hour in the archives for years, researching and cataloguing until you nearly collapse. He should know—some days, he’s the only one who can pull you away from the stacks for a meal or a few hours of rest. You give him a shy smile, eyes alight with excitement. 

“They’re willing to let me design my division’s focus—none of the other department heads are ready to retire yet, and they think the Archive could benefit from a broader scope of research.” You pause, peering up at him with wide, joyful eyes. 

“It’s rare to become a master archivist this young—but stars , the opportunity to develop my own branch? Unheard of,” you beam. 

Obi–Wan grins down at you, topaz eyes crinkling at the corners. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” he says softly. You flush at the praise, eyes darting down to the berry bushes. The two of you begin walking again, this time stepping onto a cobblestone path shaded by a tall canopy of vines. 

“So when do you start?” He asks, and you grimace at the question. 

“The Council wants me to prove that I can conduct a thorough research mission before they grant me more administrative powers,” you sigh. “It makes sense—usually, department heads have travelled far and wide before they move up in the ranks. I’ve only conducted my work within the Archive.” 

He hums, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “Is travelling an issue for you? I thought you always wanted to go off–world. You’re always so insistent on following after me,” he teases.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Travel’s not the problem, their… condition for the assignment is.” You worry your bottom lip again, fidgeting with the crystal bracelet that adorns your wrist.

“There’s this planet in the Middle Rim—Joli, part of the Kestrian system. All we know about it was that there was a civil war many years ago, and the planet’s almost entirely deserted now. But two months ago, a Jedi Service Corps officer flew past it and sensed a strong Force presence.” You take a deep breath. 

“It might be a vergence,” you half–whisper, and Obi–Wan’s eyebrows raise. 

“Are you sure?”

“No,” you admit. “That’s why I want to explore the planet—to figure out what’s causing the Force presence, hopefully document whatever we learn about the civil war. It could be of critical importance to the Archive—to all Jedi, if there’s another haven for us out there. But the Council thinks it’s too dangerous for me to go alone, especially if it really is a vergence.”

You glance up at him shyly, words tumbling out of your mouth in a rush. “They want me to be accompanied by a Jedi Knight—and I thought, if you weren’t already on another mission…” you blurt out. “Maybe you could go with me? But I know you’re busy, saving people and training Ani and becoming one with the Force and all so it’s really not—”

Ben interrupts your embarrassed rambling with a gentle touch to your shoulder, turning you towards him. His voice is soothing, tinged with a hint of amusement. 

“Bunny,” he says fondly. “Of course I’ll go with you.” Your heart cartwheels with hope.

“You and me?” You beam up at him, eyes glimmering with the joy of having a conspirator. He’s reminded of the first time the two of you went on an adventure, when you looked just as eager, just as sweetly fierce as you do now. The bracelet on your wrist shimmers in the light. He can’t fight the urge to let his mouth curve upwards.

“You and me,” he promises. “Pack your bags. I’ll inform the Council of our need for a ship.” 

You let out a little squeal of excitement and throw your arms around his middle, gushing your thanks. He’s knocked off balance by the motion, but quickly recovers to hug you back. Ben rests his chin on your head, enjoying the rare moment of peace. The smell of your lightly floral shampoo rises up and surrounds him, soft like your energy signature mixing with his in the Force. 

And then you’re darting out of the embrace, practically skipping away from the garden path in your hurry to get ready. The action is so quintessentially you— he chuckles under his breath at how some things never change.

“Before you go,” he calls out to you, and you wheel back to him questioningly. Obi–Wan leans down to your ear, lowering his voice.

“What happened to your last research assistant?”

You let out a long, sorrowful sigh, pausing dramatically before responding. “She got promoted.” 

The sound of your laughter follows him all the way back to the Temple. 

Joli is clothed with a thick, lavender–grey fog when you arrive. Obi–Wan barely manages to land the ship, balancing the sleek silver vessel precariously close to the edge of a cliff. You’re surprised by the rocky terrain—all of the other planets in the Kestrian system are remarkably lush with plant life, their ground soft and green. Here, spires of rock break through the mysterious clouds, your boots clanging against bleach–white pebbles in a strangely melodic rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, waves crash against stone, the saltwater spray just barely tangible from where you stand. The air smells like petrichor and burnt everlilies. It adds to an odd, waxy sort of ambience—calming, though the lack of visibility makes your explorations harder. 

“Stay close,” he warns, and you agree. Neither of you are willing to risk getting lost in the fog, so you remain within a few paces of each other as you explore. You carefully climb down the side of the ledge, sending pebbles skittering away in your wake. The rock leaves a salty residue on your hands when you grasp onto it for stability. The long hike is almost meditative, despite the physical exertion it requires. You let your breathing even out, grateful for the respite from the worries of your usual daily routine. 

Unfortunately, you’re so lost in your thoughts that you startle violently when a bird calls out. You stumble forward, losing sight of your Jedi partner as your foot catches on a particularly jagged rock. When you regain your balance, the fog has surrounded you completely, and there’s no sign of Obi–Wan. 

“Ben?” You call out uncertainly, scanning the cloudy environment for the silhouette of your best friend. No response echoes back to you, and your brow furrows. You close your eyes, reaching out through the Force until you feel a pulsating presence beneath you. You sigh with relief, and begin picking your way down towards the energy beacon. It wouldn’t do to lose your bodyguard on your first mission, you think wryly. Perhaps that’s a story for your second. 

You arrive at the entrance of a cave, the birdsong echoing around you once more as you step inside. The fog slowly disperses in the cave, lit through with the glow of crystal stalagmites that pepper the damp floor. The gentle pops of colour are beautiful, though you can’t see much else in the darkness. The air is cooler here, drier. You trace the smooth stone wall with your hand, following the path the Force sets for you. A line of gold shimmers at the edge of your vision, and you press forward curiously. When you’re sure you’ve finally reached the Force presence, your brows press together in confusion. Ben is nowhere in sight, but the gold persists—in the form of a pool, bubbling softly with a twilight glow.

You’re not sure why you’re drawn to it. Maybe it’s that its rosy, aureate sheen is the exact colour of his hair, or how the sweet steam curling from its surface is tranquil, soothing. Whatever it is, it pulls you closer. The Force thrums through your very bones here—it’s entrancing, a silent bell echo. You don’t realise you’re kneeling, stretching towards the water until you find yourself toppling into it with a splash.

The first thing you notice is that the water is warm—the sort of suffused warmth you imagine a mother’s womb might cocoon a child in. The next is that you can breathe in it. You accidentally draw the liquid into your lungs, expecting to choke on the fiery stream, but the panic doesn’t come. You float just under the surface: melding, flowing with the water as a symphony of energy swirls around you. 

Suddenly—visions appear, a hundred lives and potential pathways flashing through your mind in quick succession. A gilded ouroboros, weaving between you and Ben as you speak fervently to the Council— Ben, falling, dark waves crashing against a rocky shore—luminescent scales, leaving hurricanes of sand in their wake—a tiny girl with brilliant blue eyes. You’re overwhelmed by the weight of the images, sinking deeper into the pool as birdsong vibrates through the water. They intensify, grow darker—an army of droids marches towards you, led by a shadowed figure in dark robes. There are no voices here beneath the water, but you still hear the pleas of the people the metal creatures stomp upon as they march into battle. You can feel yourself splintering under the sacrifice the Force asks of you in return for this knowledge—

A tanned arm is reaching for you, hooking underneath your arms and pulling you from the depths. You break through the surface, sputtering when white foam crashes against your mouth. Ben cups your face, frantically looking you over for injuries as you collapse onto his chest.

“ Talk to me, Bunny,” he demands, voice rough with panic. “Are you hurt—”

“‘M okay,” you wheeze, suddenly unused to oxygen saturating your lungs instead of whatever strange water was in the pool. “The visions—you fell, the droids—why—” You’re shaking against him, drawing in jagged, too–fast breaths. Your hair is plastered against your cheeks, wet and tangled, and Ben looks equally drenched. He dove in to get you, you realise, and the thought warms your chilled bones. 

“Thought I lost you,” he mutters, holding you tight against him. “I called out for you and you didn’t answer—the Force led me here.” You relax in his arms, the knowledge that you’re safe slowly loosening the tension in your muscles. The two of you stay like that for a moment, until Ben’s brows pull together. 

“What do you mean, visions?”

You glance up at him, startled. “You were in the water—didn’t you see them, too?” 

He shakes his head warily, and you frown. It’s strange that he wouldn’t be privy to the visions, if the Force drew you both to the same pool. You explain what you saw as best as you can, though the intensity of the images threatens to scramble the coherency of your words at times.

“It truly is a vergence, then.” Obi–Wan states, and you nod. “Do you have any idea what kind?”

“From the light side,” you decide. “I don’t think it was a Trial—the visions didn’t show me my greatest fear.” You hum thoughtfully, staring at the rippling water. “Possibly a concentration of the Unifying Force, if the ouroboros is anything to go by.” 

You motion for him to hand you your rucksack, and he obliges. You rifle through it until you find your holopad, using the small tablet to take photos of the shimmering pool. You jot down everything you can remember about your experience—now that you’re not in danger of drowning via precognisant daydreams, you’re practically vibrating with excitement to bring this discovery back to the Archive. The last time anyone found a vergence was before the Jedi Temple was made, you realise with no small amount of awe. When your hand finally starts to cramp, you stand up, shaking droplets of water from your tunic. And you gasp, because now—

The fog has dissipated, leaving only a faint trace of humidity behind. It’s cleared to reveal a vaulted stone ceiling that arcs across the wide expanse of the cave, plastered with intricate carvings and inlaid gemstone. Cave isn’t the right descriptor—this is more like a temple, or a palace. Rays of afternoon sun break through the pale marble roof, emanating from skylights hidden by tangles of moss and ivy. Cerulean flowers with iridescent stamens drape around columns of jagged stone. You spin around giddily and realise that the pool you fell into is just a tiny eddy in a larger stream, one that bubbles around the perimeter of the temple. 

And no matter where you gaze, there’s gold: sparkling around stalagmite lanterns, flashing in the foam of the water, etched into mosaics that decorate the temple walls with visions of auburn flame and metallic–winged priestesses. An amber stalactite hangs from the apex of the temple, veins of gold stretching out from its centre to every corner of the chamber. Below it, the well–worn floor reflects an identical pattern of glinting gemstone roots. It’s breathtaking—you’ve never seen something so beautiful, so intricately beloved. Not even the Jedi temple on Coruscant feels this sacred. 

“Why would anyone leave this place?” You wonder softly. You hear Ben move behind you, stepping closer as he, too, takes in the majesty of the hidden temple. 

“Perhaps they didn’t go willingly,” he murmurs, voice contemplative. 

The Jedi walks forward, bending down to examine a pile of bleach–white shards. You follow him curiously. Upon closer inspection, you realise that the shards are what remains of a round clay vase, the broken handles and curved rim splayed out on the floor. The mural on the wall next to you is marred by explosions of white dust. You glance around the temple again, suddenly noticing the disarray of its decorations. Stone benches lay tipped on their side, craters of blaster residue left on their seats. Tall staffs made of pearled ivory are scattered on the floor—most of them crushed by splintered columns of marble. The marks of futile struggle make for a tragic contrast to the soaring beauty of the temple. Though it is ever–present, the Force hums stronger here, tinged with sorrow. 

Your heart pangs, and you turn to Ben. “We owe it to them to find out what happened,” you say, voice filled with determination. 

“After you,” he nods, gesturing for you to take the lead. As always—it’s the only encouragement you need to step forward and begin your work.

By the time the two of you have worked through the entirety of the main hall, the last hazy streaks of sunset are glowing through the skylights, soon to be replaced with the diamond pinprick of stars. Your hands feel like they’re about to fall off from all of the frantic typing and holocapturing you’ve done. And so does your smile—you’ve been grinning like a maniac for the last hour, ever since Ben discovered an entire hallway of perfectly–preserved living spaces. 

You nearly faint from excitement when he pulls a dusty, leatherbound diary from a hidden drawer. It’s written in a language you don’t immediately recognize, but the entries follow the same date–title–body format you’re all too familiar with. Your inner historian is practically salivating over the find, hoping to learn more about what caused the civil war and the destruction of such a beautiful place. You spend an excessive amount of time copying the pages into your holopad, so lost to the world that you startle when Obi–Wan gently taps your shoulder. 

“Time to eat, Bunny,” he informs you, but you can barely focus on his words when you have work this important in front of you.

“Just—five more minutes,” you mumble distractedly. You’re so close to having the entire book documented, strange symbols and all. You hear an exasperated chuckle sound from behind you, and then he’s leaning forward, breath hot on your ear. 

“Don’t think I won’t make you,” he warns, voice lowly amused. You shiver involuntarily, eyes unfocusing for a moment. 

“Okay,” you squeak, brows pulling together in embarrassment when you realise your tone is much higher than usual. “I’m—I’ll get up now.” 

Your voice must be rusty from disuse, you think, after all that silent cataloguing. The work seems to have done a number on your stomach too—there’s a strange, tugging feeling in your abdomen that threatens to curl upwards and quicken your pulse. You brush away the sensation, figuring that it’s probably just hunger from a long day of adventuring. 

Sighing, you push yourself out of your chair and wobble to your feet. You clutch your treasure to your chest, walking over to the doorway to carefully tuck the book into your bag. 

“What’s for dinner?” You call over your shoulder as you fiddle with the clasps. Ben is sorting through his own rucksack at the workbench, presumably looking for anything edible. The Temple’s bland food extends to even mission meals, apparently. 

“For an appetiser… Powdered bantha milk and meiloorun rind,” he announces with a dramatic bow. You groan, eyeing the dusty packages suspiciously. 

“Really? At this point I’d prefer to fast,” you admit ruefully.

He grimaces in agreement. “Yet another reason to become one with the Force.” You can’t help the giggle that rises from your mouth at that, and he raises a brow. You clasp a hand over your mouth, fighting the urge to grin. 

“It’s just—” you gasp out. “Do you think that’s the Council’s intention? To make everyone so sick of the food that they become better Jedi, just so that they don’t need to eat it?” 

Obi–Wan releases an impolite snort. “If it is, it’s their most effective plan yet.” At that, you can’t contain your laughter. He shoots a delighted smirk in your direction, aquamarine eyes glinting. 

You grin back for a moment, then return to your rucksack to finish jabbing the clasp into position. You’re about to stand up and join him when you notice a soft glow emanating from beneath the bag. Curious, you gently push it aside to reveal a small pink stalagmite glimmering in the dirt. Next to it is a second crystal, and then another—it’s part of a rosy line of gemstones that traces an inviting path into the darkened hallway. You reach out, fingertips brushing against the cool stone. The Force pulses hot beneath your hand, drawing your gaze to the end of the corridor. 

You hesitate for a moment, glancing back at the silhouette of the tall Jedi. Biting your lip, you consider your options. When you’d followed the pull of the Force earlier, it hadn’t been malicious. You assumed that the visions would be helpful in some way, although right now they made very little sense. But… you’d been overwhelmed by their intensity, and if he hadn’t jumped in—

“Ben?” You call out quietly, eyes fixed on the curving stalagmites. “There’s something you should see.”

He’s at your side in an instant, letting the rucksack drop to the floor with a thunk in the other room. You gesture to the line of crystals in front of you, unable to voice what exactly it is that calls you to them. But Ben understands—as he always does—and drops to crouch next to you.

“I feel it too,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed for a second as he stretches out an arm to feel the cool stone. 

He glances at you, pointing to his lightsaber in a silent question. You shake your head. He straightens and offers you a hand, quietly brushing a lump of dirt from your shoulder as you rise. When he tilts his head towards the dark corridor, you squeeze his palm twice in unspoken agreement.

The two of you step into the hallway, following the rosy path. It’s longer than you expected, almost labyrinthine with how it winds around the back of the temple. The air grows heavy with the smell of rich floral incense as you walk deeper into the corridor. 

All of a sudden, Ben throws his arm in front of you, stopping your forward trajectory. You can sense that you’ve come to the end of the tunnel, but it’s so dark you can’t tell what lies at the end. When the blonde Jedi activates his lightsaber, the glow of the cerulean beam reveals an intricately detailed half–moon carved into the pale stone. The surface of the indented shape is inlaid with shimmering crystals that spiral outwards from its centre. Candle wax drips from the stone ledges outside the door, stuck to the dried remnants of flower petals. You examine the area thoughtfully, making a soft noise of surprise when you realise that the archway is a door . Two large, golden gemstones are cemented in its middle—handles, you assume. It’s far more beautiful than any other door in the temple, and you wonder what lies beyond it.

Obi–Wan moves cautiously to the carved archway. He exhales softly as he tilts his head towards the door. You watch him press his palm to one of the handles, and your eyes widen when it glows brighter at the contact. You step forward, intending to tell him what you saw, but he’s already turning towards you. 

“There’s nothing there,” he mutters questioningly. “The Force’s presence just—stops, behind this door,” the Jedi explains. 

You close your eyes and find that you can’t feel anything either, to your great surprise. Your brow furrows. 

“But it led us here,” you murmur, and Obi–Wan nods in agreement. “Why would it take us to a dead end?” 

You squint suspiciously at the door, feeling as if the Force is playing a cosmic prank on you somehow. You tentatively reach out to grasp the other handle, intending to see if you can pry the entrance open. You’re not one to give up easily, especially when your curiosity—and pride—has been piqued. But your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a blinding flash of light from the golden gemstones in front of you. Your startled gasp is drowned out by the sound of stone scraping against stone as the door splits in two, each piece rolling into its respective side of the cave. 

The curved entranceway gleams with unfamiliar runes as you step forward, mouth dropping open in surprise when you glimpse what lies within. The room is oblong, with arching walls that alternate between holding sagging bookshelves and long–extinguished candles. Rounded stalactites hang from the ceiling and suffuse the room with a pulsing pink glow. To your surprise, a pile of colourful cushions are arranged invitingly beneath a maroon canopy in a far corner. The curiously cosy chamber is at odds with the starched elegance of the rest of the temple. You make your way into the room, Ben following only a step behind. 

“What is this place?” He murmurs, peering at an assortment of dusty glass vials over your shoulder. You twist to look at him, shaking your head in wonder. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But I can almost taste the energy residue. Whatever this room is, it’s the centre of the vergence—”

The rest of your sentence is cut off by a second thundering of stone. Ben reacts faster than you by a millisecond, placing his body between you and the door as it slams shut. You peek over his shoulder, face falling in dismay. 

“Our rucksacks are out there,” you realize with a groan. “Stars, how could I have been so stupid… ” 

Ben stills, releasing a frustrated breath. For a moment, you can practically see the electricogs turning behind those startling blue eyes. He finally turns to you with a shrug, motioning to the weapon slung at his side. 

“Nothing a lightsaber can’t fix,” he says with a wry scoff, but your eyes widen. Your hand shoots out to stop him from taking it from its hostler. Obi–Wan raises a brow at the unexpected action.

“You can’t,” you rush out, stumbling over the words in your hurry to get them out. “This place—it’s sacred, I can feel it. We can’t just—just destroy it, without trying anything else,” you plead to him. 

He’s quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Fine,” he accedes begrudgingly. “Twelve hours—we need to rest at some point anyway. And then we tear it down.” 

You beam up at him, cheeks dimpling. “I didn’t want powdered rations for dinner anyway,” you shrug. The corner of his mouth twitches. 

The two of you split up for a while—Ben to practice meditation and Force–wielding techniques and whatever real Jedis do to open doors, and you to catalog everything you can reach. You’re endlessly grateful that you didn’t leave your tablet behind with the rest of your things in the rucksack, because it means you can holoscan the hundreds of tiny knickknacks scattered on the bookshelves. One column holds a rather raunchy (yet impressively anatomically accurate) set of sculptures. Another is piled with dusty books, their covers made of strangely pebbled leather. Even the worn tiles beneath your feet are swirled with beautiful, if unfamiliar, lettering. It’s an archivist’s wet dream, and you’re positive this is the breakthrough you’ve been looking for. Your brain spins at warp speed as you methodically log each new trinket into your holopad. Something about the room has gotten under your skin—there’s something you’re missing, you know it, but the purpose of the room continues to elude you. 

You huff out a breath, blowing the little strand of hair that’s escaped your braid up past your eyeline. You’ve been staring at this shelf for too long, you decide. Clearly, the spiraling metallic lines of the carafes in front of you have hypnotised you into an unproductive state. Or… something like that. You bend down, intending to take a break comfortably collapsed on the floor, but accidentally slam your head on a shelf instead. 

“ Ow, ” you whimper, half–dazed from the force of the impact. You can almost hear Ben’s head whip around at the pitiful sound. 

“Bunny? Are you alright?” He calls, already crossing the room to where you crouch.

 You glance upwards, intending to wave him off before tears begin to leak from your eyes. Instead, the look gives you only a millisecond’s warning of the glass vial toppling off a higher shelf towards your face. You hear the sharp shattering of crystal, and then you feel it—a crackling pain above the crease of your brow. Something grainy covers your face, sliding down your chin and chest under your tunic. You inhale when the injury pangs, then cough violently—you’ve somehow managed to ingest whatever remained of the sand–like substance on your face in a singular uncomfortable motion. Boots scuff on the floor in front of you. You feel callused hands tilting your chin up with a feather–light touch. 

“Breathe out,” Obi–Wan instructs you, and you obey. It’s a mistake—he uses the moment of distraction to pull something sharp from your forehead. You yelp, fingers digging into the stone floor. Squinting, you open your eyes to curse him—but the pain unexpectedly lessens, and instead you slump forward with relief. Tiny grains of something golden shimmer in the curve of your collarbone as you sag against him. 

“How bad is it,” you ask him resignedly. His response is to tear a strip of fabric from the bottom of his cape. You sit quietly as he soaks the makeshift bandage with a few drops of water from the flask at his side, then wraps it gently around your head. He examines his work in silence for a moment, making tiny adjustments to the linen. Your heart warms at how determined he is to make this comfortable for you—it’s so very, very Ben . And then he sighs. 

“Not as messy as last year’s Gala incident, although that’s not a very high bar,” he admits with a frown. “It’s already clotting, but we should still get you to the ships’ mediport.” His lightsaber is already halfway out of its holster when your eyes widen with realization. 

“What? No, that’s not necessary,” you babble, scooting between him and the door. If he carves open that door—and you know he will, once he’s decided—your chances of preserving any clues it holds to the ancient mystery of this room are gone. You just know that those runes are important somehow. You can’t let him end that twelve—hour limit early, and you imply as much in an impassioned speech.

Ben gives you a hard look. “Your health is far more important than any door or project,” he says lowly.

You wince, then offer him what you hope is a reassuring gaze.

“I know, Ben. But—it’s really not that painful anymore, see?” You point to the bandage with an innocent look on your face that you will never let him know hurts. 

“ Please ,” you practically beg him. “I can’t leave yet. I—” and here you hesitate, because even you can’t explain exactly why exploring this place feels so essential to your being. But something in his gaze shifts ever–so–slightly towards sympathy, and you know that he understands. You push out your hope and gratitude and curiosity to him with all of the unhoned might of the Force that you possess. He’s silent for minutes, but you wait. 

“We will stay.” He declares quietly, and your heart leaps. Ben fixes his cerulean gaze on you sternly.

“But we sleep now—and you will only continue your research if you are still feeling well in the morning.”

Disappointment ebbs in your chest, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the fact that you will still be here. And perhaps the Force will grant you another vision in your sleep, one that shows you the missing piece of this hauntingly lovely alcove. The wound throbs in an almost—soothing rhythm as you settle beneath the pile of cushions, iron sweet in your mouth. 

Chapter Text

It’s the middle of the night when he feels it. A nudge from the Force, firmly tossing him out of dreamless sleep. He lays on the thin bedroll, hovers between sentience and unconscious comfort. 

And then he hears you whimpering, fear and frustration saturating your voice. His eyes snap open and he bolts upright, hand flying to his lightsaber where it rests at his side. He twists to realise you’d moved sometime in the night to the furthest corner of the blanket. Your spine is pressed against the wall—soft arms wrapping tight around your torso, the delicate slope of your shoulders trembling with every breath.

“…Bunny?”

You look up at him, cheeks stained with tears, pupils blown open so prettily he can barely breathe. He glances upward, shocked to find that the injury on your forehead has disappeared. Only a tiny white star remains where the glass carved lines of blood into your face. When his eyes find yours again, you can barely hold his stare before you’re dragging your gaze away, face flushing crimson. 

“It hurts ,” you choke out, and Obi–Wan nearly lunges across the makeshift mattress to get to you. He reaches out to feel your forehead, stomach dropping as your skin scorches his palm. Fever, dilated pupils, pain. He runs through every medical diagnosis he knows, mentally scanning through injuries and poisons and trauma responses in a futile effort to understand what’s happening to you. Another look, and he notices how you’re practically slumped against the pillows, sweat beading at your brow.

“Right. I’m getting you out of here,” he mutters, feeling along the wall for the edge of the entrance. His fingers catch clumsily on its outline and he staggers to his feet—examining the room for any tool that might help him unlock it for good. His inhales come faster and faster, but he forces himself to repress the panic that threatens to stall his jerky movements. You don’t need Ben— impulsive, flawed, can’t stand the thought of losing you—right now. You need the controlled, powerful Jedi Knight who will use every weapon in his arsenal to protect you. 

He finally finds a ledge on the door’s surface and pulls , drawing from every well of strength in the Force to pry the stone away from the wall. It moves— barely , but it’s progress—and he exhales harshly. Obi–Wan prepares to break the damn door down, even if it breaks him. But then he hears your breathing speed up, so fast you must be close to passing out. 

“Please don’t leave me,” you whisper. His heart throbs painfully in his chest. 

He turns, dropping to his knees before you with the most reassuring look he can conjure. “You’ll be okay,” he promises, reaching out a hand to cup your face. His thumb swipes an errant lock of hair away from your forehead, and for a moment a traitorous voice in his mind begs him to comfort you for just a bit longer. Visions from a parallel universe, one where he’d be allowed to hold you anytime he wished, swirl through his mind. They’re sweet, so tempting—

He shutters the thoughts away almost as quickly as they appear, ready to pull his hand from the soft velvet of your cheek. 

But then you’re leaning forward, practically nuzzling into his touch. His pulse skips in his throat as he watches your eyes flutter closed with a tiny, blissful sigh. Slowly, gently, he withdraws his hand from your skin. Your eyes—familiar, beautiful, bewitching—fly open to meet his. 

And your gaze is needy. You’re staring at him like he’s the only thing you ever wanted, like he’s the centre of your universe and no one but the two of you exist right now. Doe eyes shimmer under lowered lashes, dark against the flush of your cheeks. You look at him like you’d devour him if he’d just lean in a bit closer—

He notices you shifting where you sit, as if the simple touch has thrown you completely off balance. And something in the action triggers an old memory, the glimmer of crystal from inside an apothecary’s cabinet. The thought nags at him, insistent on its importance. But the context of the moment hovers frustratingly out of reach. 

Ben leans forward, almost pleading. 

“Talk to me, Bunny. What’s wrong?”

You bite your lip, covering your face with shaking hands. The braid you’d hastily drawn your hair into during the day has fallen out, he notices. Now your hair flows loose over your shoulders, the sweet, bewitching perfume of your shampoo surrounding him once again. But instead of soothing him as it normally does, the scent only sets his body more on edge. When you finally look back up at him, it’s with a shyness that barely conceals the want written in the flush of your cheeks.

“ It feels like I’m going to die if you don’t touch me. ” 

His head spins. Time suspends as he searches his memory, thinking back to shattered glass—blood—golden powder dusting your brow. The powder. He curses himself for not realizing sooner, belatedly understanding why the phial’s shards looked so familiar. Only concoctions produced in the Royal Apothecary of Naboo hold that swirling insignia etched into the sides. He’d visited the grand building once on a visit to Padme, looking for a poison used on a council member. The same swirls carved into this glass had also decorated every arch and column of the statuesque shop. Cold remedies featured a small ilderflor traced along the neck, while calming draughts shimmered with a light lavender vine pattern. And in the dark back hallway of the emporium, next to the wyrm scales and poisonous widowroot, lay the aphrodisiacs.

Metallic and pristine.

As brilliant as an empress’s diamond, with their gasoline sheen and mind–numbing price.

...exactly the same as the one you’d knocked over. 

Ben kneels on the tile, exhaling sharply. The puff of air sends tiny golden particles soaring airborne, launched from ridges between stone as a wave of nausea cripples him. Kriff —a pinch of stimulant alone could keep someone on the edge of arousal for hours. You’d nearly drowned in the dust. The scholarly part of him prickles at the oddity of this discovery. Why would a deserted temple, orbiting at the most mundane edge of the Middle Rim, hold an aphrodisiac meant for royalty? But the rest of him—the part wholly devoted to you—can’t spare another moment wondering about its strangeness. 

Your trembling voice breaks the weighted silence. “What is it?” You whisper.

He sees how you try to tear your gaze away. How you fail, pupils wide and hungry.

“It’s an aphrodisiac,” he tells you, steeling himself as he meets your gaze. He costumes himself as the scholar once more, internally pleading for composure in this nightmare of a situation. “You ingested an… unusually large amount, but you’ll be fine.” He winces before delivering the final part of his assessment. “As long as it’s allowed to, ah, run its course.” 

“What does that mean?” You ask, voice rising in panic. He feels a sharp pang at the distress rising up your throat, an urge to make everything right and soothe the most precious of bonds. Still, he cannot find the courage to look at you when he tells you the truth of your situation. 

“It’ll make you feel this way until you—find release.” He finally grinds out, jaw clenched. 

The two of you sit in tense silence as the reality of your situation sinks in. He’s ready to start tearing down the door again—the needy rise and fall of your chest the only sound in this collapsing room—when you inhale shakily. 

“I…tried that. Didn’t work,” you admit with a whisper, and if the image of you touching yourself, next to him , isn’t enough to break his fragile self–control, then your next words most definitely are. 

“I need you , Ben. Please .” 

He feels as if he’s been ejected into deep space, so far away from every feeling he considers familiar. For the first time in his life, Obi–Wan Kenobi is utterly unprepared to deal with a situation. He’s overwhelmed. Flooded with a shipload of emotions he hopes he never has to reflect on again, lest they reveal a part of his psyche he’s tried so hard to stamp down. But—a realization stills his racing mind. You’d never seriously dated anyone in the time that he’d known you—which was, effectively, your entire life up to this point. If you had, you’d never mentioned it to him. He could be wrong, he thinks, and he’s not sure which idea makes his heart sink more: that inexperience is contributing to the fear in your eyes, or that you’d fallen in love somewhere along the way and decided not to tell him. But he has to know—he needs to know—

“Have you ever… been with someone?”

You shake your head, soft pink mouth twisting downward with embarrassment. And it’s heady and painful all at once, to realise that he is the first—the only—person to see you like this, and to know that this should have happened differently. You should be lucid, not drugged; your limbs poised with playfulness instead of tension, your eyes fluttering shut from desire instead of shame. Worst of all, you should have had a choice in your partner—not forced into his arms because the manufactured attraction consuming your thoughts has chosen him as a convenient surrogate lover. It’s a small comfort to know that you’re not stranded with a stranger, at least. Still, Obi–Wan wonders if you’ll ever speak to him again after this. A hidden part of him wants to live in this moment forever: the heavenly rush before the heartbreaking, inevitable fall.

But then your voice is calling his name again, and his attention snaps back to your beautiful, desperate eyes. They’re startlingly clear for an instant, piercing him where he kneels as you clasp your hand around his. He can feel how you tremble, how even the beds of your nails blaze hot. Yet you do not break his gaze, tethering him to the ground with the sincerity of your words. 

“ I trust you ,” you tell him, and something in him shatters.

“Tell me what you need.” His voice is low, strained. There’s a promise hidden underneath the tension—your wish, his command—or maybe it’s a poem. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s yours, if you want him to be. And the secret is this: he’s yours, even if you don’t. 

“Hold me,” you beg, and Ben complies. His arms circle around your waist and tug you into his lap in a singular, swift motion. You settle into his arms, legs straddling him as you lean against his chest. And it’s good, for a while—he feels you relax against him, pressing your face into his neck with a contented sigh. This new embrace feels easy, right , like each minute he holds you is a kiss to every battle wound that scars his weary soul. He should have done this sooner, he thinks, should have given you the physical affection that you crave even outside the influence of the drug. 

But good things never last, and soon he feels himself veering into dangerous territory as the drug renews its course through your veins. You’re unconsciously starting to shift around in his lap, an activity that is not doing anything to help the quickly–growing problem in his pants. And it all goes to Hoth when you become curious about just how good it feels to touch him. 

It starts with his chest. You toy idly with the fabric of his robes, pulling it into star shapes and bunched rosettes. It’s all perfectly innocent until you reach the neckline, where his collarbone is exposed. Your fingers tap—tap—tap a happy melody along the ridge, then pause. He feels your head tilt upwards, and then the warm heat of your mouth is pressing little kisses where your fingers had explored. His breath catches, stuttering on the inhale. 

Somehow, this singular action is more intimate—more intense— than any of his half–blind flings in supply closets and bar bathrooms. And of course it is, because it’s you— you, lovely you, who knows his every tell and deepest wish. It makes sense, in a twisted, karmic way, that you’d know how to touch him, too. The blonde Jedi forces himself to relax as you wind your fingers into his hair and weave little braids into the ends. Maybe—if he lets you have this one little victory, a consolation prize—his willpower might still stand a chance.

He’s doing a damn good job of convincing himself of that theory when you giggle, apparently struck by what you consider to be a brilliant idea. He should have been apprehensive, but clearly his mischief–sensing reflexes are out of practice from being away from Anakin this long. He hesitates, and that’s all the time you need to make a move. 

Ben nearly loses his mind at the feeling of your fingers sliding up his jaw, tentatively tracing the outline of his mouth. Your body presses closer to him—a motion he didn’t think was possible, but kriff, will he pay for that assumption now. You peer up at him, pupils darkening even further with a mixture of mirth and want. 

“Don’t think that’s the best idea, Bunny,” he warns, barely containing a shudder at the feeling of your fingers on his mouth as he speaks.

“Why not?” You pout, clearly put out by his words. He closes his eyes, begging the Force for whatever help it’s willing to grant him. It’s ironic, how useless his years of training seem now; the Trials never once prepared him for the way his heart beats a battle rhythm at each ghosting of your fingertips.

“You might regret it later,” he explains, baritone softer now. His voice is shaded with the hint of an accent, as it always is when he’s close to losing control. You’d have every right to regret all of this—and resent him, for being too weak to stop it from happening.

But his words seem to have the opposite effect of what he’d hoped for. Instead of sliding away from him, your eyes light up with a newfound sparkle, and you shift forward until your nose is almost brushing his. He’s dizzy from the sudden contact, nearly missing your next words from the sensation of your breath warming his skin. 

“I could never regret it, Ben. It’s you ,” you whisper, and before his heart can deal with that particular confession, your lips are slotted against his. 

And, Stars . If there’s a god somewhere out there in the universe, they live in the pause between the sweet taste of your mouth and his broken, answering groan. There’s no going back after this, he thinks wildly. He might never touch you again for as long as he lives—he might deserve that, for allowing this unspoken boundary between the two of you to be broken. But he knows, he swears he will never forget the feeling of belonging only to the little sighs you make after each fervent embrace. 

This time, he’s the one to deepen the kiss.

You gasp when he licks into your mouth, but it only takes a second before your fingers are twisting into his hair and you’re reciprocating with the same intensity. It’s rough, and messy, and it shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does when you nip lightly at his bottom lip. You kiss like you need him more than you need air . He’s spiralling, but the fall is one hell of a ride.

The time melts away as quickly as you melt into his arms. It could be hours later, for all Ben knows, when you suddenly break away. For one petrifying moment he’s worried he fucked it all up—but then you start tugging your tunic over your arms, and every coherent thought flies out of his head. 

“Too hot,” you mutter, and he’s inclined to agree. You’re topless now—completely topless, because at some point during the night you must have unhooked your bra, and stars damn him if he isn’t an oblivious idiot—and he’s pretty sure this is the most beautiful view he’ll ever see in his life. You’re flushed, lips swollen, looking like a goddess in white cotton panties with a tiny satin bow on the front that he knows will haunt him every night after this. He’s speechless, for once. So he does the next best thing he can think of, trailing a line of swollen red kiss marks across your neck and over your shoulders and down.

His tongue traces a circle around your breast with his tongue, achingly slow and teasing. You arch forward, eyes half–lidded as you watch him. When he gives an experimental flick of the tongue to your hardened nipple, he feels your hips unconsciously jerk into his. 

Fuck , does that feel good.

“‘M sorry, Ben,” you gasp, but you’re already repeating the motion, grinding your pelvis against his leg. 

“It’s alright, sweet girl,” he gasps out, using the last shred of his willpower to keep himself from coming in his pants at the sight of you. “ You can let go. ”

And you do. You rub against him, eyebrows furrowing prettily as you chase your release. Somewhere between the third and twentieth motion you reach out to tug the rest of his tunic off, too. Your hands trail across his back, leaving sharp little crescent moon marks when he presses a kiss behind your ear. It’s the best high he’s ever known, touching you, and he’s selfishly glad you haven’t given this blessing to anyone else. You’re so beautiful in the soft light of the temple, flushed and glowing. His gaze drifts to the curve of your hips. He settles his hands on them, lets himself enjoy the little hitch in your breath when his fingers dig into the soft skin just below the bone. And then he rocks you against him, hard . 

Your eyes roll back in your head at the friction, a whine escaping your throat as your soft pink mouth parts in the shape of an O. Ben guides your hips forward again, settling into a heated rhythm. Your chest is rising and falling faster now, each exhale transforming into a breathy moan. There’s a dark spot on his pants where you grind against him, soaking the fabric. He knows you’re getting close—he can feel you tensing around his thigh, your movements becoming shakier. But right when it seems like you’re about to topple over the edge, your legs lock up and you slump forward with a sob of frustration. 

“I can’t ,” you cry out, head falling onto his shoulder. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to still the rutting of his hips. You’re growing feverish again, the ruined orgasm worsening the effects of the drug in your veins. He needs to finish this—to keep you safe, to keep himself sane. 

“Please— please, Ben.” You punctuate your words with kisses that taste like spun sugar, laving them messily across his mouth and jaw. “Need you—need you to make me come,” you whimper. His hands stiffen, spasm at his side before they reach out to touch you. 

“So polite,” he murmurs, threading his fingers through your hair. “Begging so nicely for me.” He gently tugs your head back until your wanting gaze meets his. “What do you think, sweetheart? Do good girls deserve rewards?”

Your lips part and you’re nodding, a hundred yeses spilling out of your mouth. He’d tease you about how eager you are, if it wasn’t making him so painfully hard. Ben flips your positions in one fluid motion, pinning you beneath him. Your back has barely hit the pillow before he’s hooking his fingers into your panties and sliding them down your legs. And then he pauses—because you’re bare for him, so perfect and beautiful he can barely think. He wants to touch you—want to taste you, he thinks desperately—and he’s kneeling down to do just that when your arm shoots out to stop him.

Ben scans your face, instantly sobered by the thought that he’s hurt you somehow, done something you didn’t want him to do. But your hands are reaching down to fumble with the waistband of his pants, his vision whiting out when you accidentally brush against his hip bone. 

“Just want to feel you inside me,” you plead. “No teasing—” 

“Later?” He asks without thinking, wincing internally once he realises what he’s said. Of course there won’t be a later— no matter how bad he wants to touch you, it won’t happen again. He’s helping you through a difficult situation, like good friends do. That’s the mantra he needs to live by—he won’t, he can’t destroy the thing he treasures most. It doesn’t matter if deep down, he knows he’s ruined for anyone else.

But you nod enthusiastically, seemingly unbothered by his slip of the tongue. “Yes, later,” you promise, and then you’re tossing his pants somewhere away from the bed and pulling him closer to you. 

“Fuck, sweet girl, you’re soaked ,” he gasps out as you push your hips up into his. 

“‘S for you,” you slur, already lost in the feeling of his length sliding against you. He’s breathing hard as he lines himself up at your entrance. You reach up to cup his face, pressing your forehead to his when his hair falls around you. He kisses you—slow, sweet, sacred—and then he’s pushing into you, inch by inch. Your mouth opens against his and you keen , the vibration sending a lick of heat up his spine. 

“Gonna go slow, Bunny, promise,” he groans, but you shake your head deliriously, grinding upwards into him. 

He chokes out a groan at the movement, silently wondering if it’s possible to die of desire. If it is, he won’t last another five minutes. “You don’t want slow,” he realizes, voice rough. “You think you can take it, sweetheart?” 

You whimper in agreement, and he braces his arms around your torso. 

“Yeah, I think you can too,” he murmurs. 

And then he drives into you, filling you completely in one swift motion. Your mouth drops open, little “uh”s falling off your tongue like the sweetest drops of honey as he thrusts. He feels you clench around him when he changes his pace, hitting just the right spot inside you. It’s nearly enough to make him come right there, but by some miracle of the Force he holds on. Somehow, he can’t seem to shut up— he’s rambling, telling you how pretty and perfect you are like this, how he’s never felt anything this good and it’s all because of you. Sweetheart, darling, love . Every term of endearment he knows is stumbling out of his heart to bless your flushed cheeks, and he knows he’ll never be able to take them back. He doesn’t want to, though he feels so wildly out of control. It’s never been like this for him—never been more than an occasionally convenient way to release tension. But he’s losing himself inside you, and worse, he’s starting to think that it’s not a bad way to go. 

You’re nearly crying from all the sensation, your moans becoming louder, pleading. Your eyes are glazed–over. It nearly kills him to see them unfocused, pupils blown wide, and know that it’s because of him.   He’s always been singularly attuned to your energy signature, but now? It feels like your very essence is seeping into his soul, pure and lovely when it mixes. He realizes with a start that it’s not just a feeling—with each thrust, the Force thrums stronger with satisfaction around the two of you. 

“Ben,” you gasp, and he’s so keenly aware of you, all of you. He knows you fully, now: the little scar above your left eyebrow, the watercolor beauty of your eyes, the surprised little noise you make each time he kisses you. The way your legs are shaking, your walls tightening around him as you near your release.

“Eyes on me, love,” he groans, a command and a plea all at once. “Want to see you when you come.” 

And you obey, training your gaze on him like nothing else exists. Because nothing really does, in this moment. It’s just the two of you—Bunny and Ben, the way things have always been and were always meant to be.

The Force pulses between you, heady and blazing. Your moans break off into little gasps, breath catching as he rocks against you. Your pupils flash gold, so quickly he thinks he must have dreamed it, and then—

You’re coming, eyes widening as you stutter out his name. Your orgasm ripples through you, the aftershocks making you spasm around him uncontrollably. The sensation is overwhelming, and combined with the sight of you moaning beneath him—he quickly follows you over the edge. He spills into you, liquid hot. You gasp at the feeling, collapsing against the pillows as the drug finally releases its chemical pull on your muscles. 

Ben slumps over you, breathing hard. He stays inside you for a moment, watches you closely to check that you’re alright. And then he rolls off of you, settling into the makeshift bed at your side. 

You make a whimpering noise of disappointment at the lack of contact, but he gently quiets you.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Just going to make sure you’re taken care of,” he explains softly, raising a hand to levitate a bottle of water from the rucksack over to you. 

While you’re busy sipping the water, he rifles through the blankets for your clothing, ending up with your panties, his tunic and his pants. It’s good enough, he decides—he tosses the first two items to you, helping to tug the baggy fabric of the shirt over your head, and slips into the latter himself. Soon, he notices that your eyes are fluttering shut. He slides in next to you, lets you tuck yourself into his side drowsily. You’re warm against him, letting out a little sigh of contentment. Right when he’s sure you’ve drifted off for good, you press a sleepy kiss to his shoulder. 

“Love you, Ben,” you mumble. His heart pangs strangely. It takes him a moment to respond. 

“I love you too, Bunny,” he whispers, just like he always has. When you were kids, irrationally scared of thunder and lightning, he’d huddle with you like this in the glow of the Temple fires. Remind you that there was nothing the two of you wouldn’t face together, that there was nothing that would break your bond. You’d rescued a kriffing dragon together, what could be worse than that? His confident words never failed to bring a smile back to your face, easy lightness gracing your features once more.

This time, it’s somehow bittersweet. Ben wonders if you’ll still believe that in the morning. If you’ll never be able to look him in the eyes again. If you’ll look at him—but only with shame, disgust, regret.

He buries his face in the soft cloud of your hair, eyes shuttering closed. He’s not sure he wants to know.