#I promise… things change

[obsob]

i am a being capable of immeasurable love and whimsy

[hitlikehammers]

Rockstar!Eddie Leaves What He Had With Steve Behind in Hawkins 💔 to Chase His Dreams 🎸

(so why is it that he’s back in Steve’s bed Hawkins every couple months for ‘very pressing reasons’ that are straining Steve’s heart honestly anything but? 🫤❤️‍🩹🥺)

NOTE: this was originally a fill from @eddiemunsonbingo AGES ago, and I’m only bringing it over here NOW because something for the @steddielovemonth is going to be posted soon that is a standalone in its universe, but also very much a sequel to it ♥️

Steve really does try not to think about it in terms of…time.

Maybe that’s foolish. It’s mostly denial. Lots of it isn’t reliable anyway: the score his body keeps isn’t accurate, war-time left over from too many near-misses with a fucking alternate dimension but the popping in his joints and the ringing in his ears and the white hair he pulled out of his scalp and stared blankly at in the sink for a good twenty minutes: those are real things, but they don’t chart the passage of days, of hours, months and fucking years with any real meaning.

It’s been four years. Roughly. Depending on what the start point is. Whether it’s that Spring Break. Whether it’s the first winter. Or the spring after, when Robin begged him to go with her—there’s still time. She still begs, because they still talk given the thread inside them stays tied unbreakable to one another, oblivious to miles between. Maybe it’s measuring from the graduations, the kids—only Erica’s left at Hawkins High, now, though Steve gets calls from the whole bunch of them, Eleven the most, which was maybe surprising, then it’s a good split between Dustin and Will, another surprise. Max calls enough but her calls are calls, with a weight most of the others lack. Lucas’s calls aren’t super frequent but always long, mostly because he talks around the point forever, whatever the point happens to be. Even Mike usually ends up on the other end of the line once a month. It’s…that could be where the time starts from.

Or it could be the summer, that first summer. The one that taught Steve what it was to have a heart just to fucking break it.

Could be that. Impossible to say.

(It’s been 3 years, 7 months, and 14 days. Steve had only counted in retrospect, in the wreckage left behind, because while he’d known there was a deadline in it, to it all, he’d thought he could be enough. That he could change a mind. He’d thought…

Foolish things. Bullshit. Didn’t matter. Could be any fucking date.)

But since the point's come up, and it’s front of Steve’s mind, his least favorite (most favorite) place to find it: he hadn’t expected it. Robin liked to say she saw the signs but. Steve hadn’t watched it happen in slow motion because there wasn’t a single goddamn slow thing about it. Which was…for whatever it was worth, Steve knew falling fast and hard and with everything he was had maybe failed him every time, thus far, but at least he knows that for him?

That means it’s real. He’s all in. He might not be met equal on the other side of the equation—hadn’t been yet, maybe wouldn’t be ever, but he wasn’t having any luck trying to fucking change that fact so, learning to work with what he had was the best he could do. And he had love. He’d never been able to name it to himself so far: not before, and certainly never since. But.

Figuring out the sexuality thing had been a not-bathroom-but-definitely-floor talk on the shitty Family Video carpet sometime around November of ‘85. Slow days, idle comments, and Robin’s suspiciously-but-reliably-gentle-when-the-need-was-dire hand to his shoulder to say no, no: actually wanting to kiss people of any gender wasn’t really…the default Steve had always expected it had to be. How could anyone look at, say, Harrison Ford and not think, oh yeah, I would at least suck his face?

Turned out probably at least half the people on the planet. As in the straight guys and the lesbians. Steve had spent the majority of three days on that disgusting fucking carpet, open to close, popping up to ask Robin if she was sure because what about—

She was sure. And eventually, through a couple of needs for deep breathing and a handful of assurances that it was okay to cry—he appreciated that, but he kept the crying to his room after these long-ass shifts and if Robin stayed for some of those times, that was because she was half his head, half his heart, and she knew what he was going to do sometimes before he did.

They did end up on the floor of his bathroom, a clean one for once, at one point. Maybe because they both held to tradition. Maybe because Steve had largely come to terms with the mindfuck of yet another piece of his world, his self unravelling and rewriting itself, and thought the vodka in his dad’s liquor cabinet was a good way to celebrate. The label was entirely in Russian and Robin had been practicing on hers, said she was pretty sure it was the good shit.

Sometimes you can drink enough of the best shit on an empty stomach, though, and still spew the whole of it up.

Steve sometimes does think he drinks his dad’s best liquor that way on purpose, though. Delightful going down and yeah, it sucks to chuck it up but. The idea that it’s ultimately wasted feels…right.

Anyway: Steve had settled with it all by New Year's, and while he’d hosted the rugrats who could only blabber about their latest campaign with their epic DM, and he’d kissed Robin when the clock turned, well. It felt like a new start, a fresh page.

Something that had the chance at being a good thing.

And nothing much happened in the two-and-a-half-months that followed save for finally catching a glimpse of the D&D god who ran their little club while he was idling in his car to pick up the shitheads, this legendary DM who did not make Steve jealous one tiny bit and who was cool and was edgy and was so fuckin’ cool, Steve, did we tell you got cool he is?! and Steve had said language as monotone as he could before he squinted as out came all the metal and the ink and he’d said your club president dude is Eddie goddamn Munson and he should have kept his mouth shut because the amount of talking that ensued left him with a headache the size of Montana; but.

That was really all that happened until about…mid-March.

Then Spring Break happened.

It could be argued Eddie and Steve grew close enough to pass the acquaintances benchmark, ended up as at least tentative friends on top of necessary battle mates as early as the Upside Down. Whatever reason Eddie gave, he jumped in after Steve. Whatever speech Steve landed on, he didn’t want Dustin orEddie hurt.

It could be argued Steve wasn’t paying attention and didn’t stop in time and landed in the land of Tentative Friends You Wouldn’t Mind Added Benefits With after the…at least after the way Eddie leaned in close and his lips we so red and he called Steve big boy and…

Yeah.

When Steve carries what may or may not be Eddie’s still fucking corpse out of the Upside Down—he can’t tell, every time he tries to check again his own heart's too loud, his own breaths too shaky—but by then, they’re family. Bound in blood. Steve would die for him, like the others. He won’t let him die, if he can fucking help it.

Between him and Max, Steve almost crashes, breaks. Steve’s there when Max’s fingers twitch and he laughs with tears in his eyes and hands over hands and tells her he loves her and he’s sorry and he’s there, tries to talk around the letter he opened and resealed without evidence because Steve knows some tricks too, okay, and her words had broken him but now he could live up to what she thought she was leaving behind, could make sure she had every goddamn thing she thought she was giving up in spades, to roll around in in abundance. He was going to take care of her, whatever she needed. Whatever it took.

Her lips had quirked and the doctors called coincidence, don’t get your hopes up but; Steve knew Max. That was all her.

And there were more tears, he let her fucking feel them; he fucking hoped she’d notice, and remember, and give him so much shit.

Eddie takes longer, pulls out of the woods enough to exhale a few days later, and the way Steve slips out to find the hospital chapel, the only goddamn place he won’t be found by anyone he knows, and bawls his goddamn eyes out?

It’s family, and it’s love because it’s family but…it’s been so quick. It’s been intense, and that probably speeds it along but…

Shit. Shit.

That’s when Steve knows he sets a new goddamn record for himself and falls hard and heavy and stupidin, like, a week and change. Jesus Christ.

It’s in the recovery that they build something though. Something that’s not trauma or terror or the threat of imminent death. Steve spends most of his hours between two hospital rooms listening to progress reports and taking notes and the kids gravitate toward Max—Dustin would have been the outlier but Steve knows he’s not ready, and so he gives his own updates just to his brother when he drives him home after visiting hours—but that means Steve’s Eddie’s most common conversation partner. They talk about bullshit. Steve defends a-ha to the last breath he has. Eddie’s rendered speechless for a second and then frantic when challenged to pick his favorite band. Again when it’s his favorite song, from his favorite band. And again when it’s his favorite song of any song, ever at all. Steve's heart swells in the watching. He’s foolish enough to bask in the glittering of Eddie’s eyes when Steve indulges in talking, scene by scene as guided by the master in the bed beside him, about what his opinions on Star Wars really were. And then guided by no one, just invited to share what his opinions are on the last movie he saw and loved: which was Weird Science, the last movie he watched in a theatre because he and Robin had gone to face their fear or some shit after Starcourt and it was easier than he’d expected. Eddie listens, and nods, and asks if they can rent it when he’s out, before making sure to add  but you should really have a new choice like, eight months later, man, you work at a video store.

Steve was mostly just focused on Eddie more than implying, of his own volition, that he wanted to have a movie night.

Eddie’s released before Max, largely for mobility reasons, so they both go to visit her now. Robin’s put on the night shift when they schedule their movie night and Steve immediately moves to reschedule but she says no, she’s seen it, make Eddie suffer this time. So it’s just them.

They sit closer than they have to, on the couch.

And it’s little things that build from there. Max’s physical therapy is a government secret, like some fancy space-age protocol that has real hopes to put her on her feet again so she needs a ride, and while they could take turns, Steve and Eddie just take turns as to which vehicle they hop into to drive her. They stay when she needs them—not when she asks because she’s Max and she never asks—but it ends up three days a week back and forth and during: together.

And a lot of nights, for a movie or a smoke or a nightmare or a pulled stitch before they’re all taken out: together.

And shifts where Steve doesn’t even bother to bring his own lunch because Eddie Munson, unpredictable and wholly forgetful super-super senior—who Nancy and Hopper and most of all Joyce convinced the School would be finishing his final senior year at home save for tests, and only that once he was cleared by his doctors—that Eddie Munson brought Steve something every single time he worked. A burger, a chili dog, chicken fucking nuggets. A PB&J clearly homemade and cut diagonal.

So yeah. It starts out how it does when Steve’s in trouble. But it builds like…Steve’s never known before.

They kiss in May. Maybe so that it’s not their first, and a total cliche, when Steve kisses him for graduation behind the bleachers.

The sleep together after graduation, high on the thrill of it, and that’s maybe a cliche but Steve could not give a shit less.

And then they're EddieandSteve, only to find out they have been for a while; and this is just something a little deeper, a little bit more.

In ways that mean everything.

Looking back, Steve knows Eddie never minced words about his plan to leave Hawkins in the fall. With a mixtape and a prayer if I have to, Stevie-boy, he’d said once even, and Steve had laughed.

He’d fucking laughed.

So he’d known.

But July bleeds into August and Steve…Steve’s in love, okay, for real in a way that he’s never felt before. Right in a way he’s never felt before. He kinda just…overlooks it. Because Eddie seems to be at least on the same wavelength. Touches him first, reaches for him first: wants him. Looks at him with not just desire or attraction but…something no one’s ever looked at Steve with before.

And so he hopes. More than hopes.

But when Eddie starts packing, Steve can’t breathe.

He buys a set of luggage and goes home to start the same, has half of his not-excessive possessions shoved in when he realizes:

He’s not invited. Eddie’s never asked him to come.

Looking back, he’s afraid he wasted too much of those last weeks. Scared of giving too much away, the hurt from so many sides and the heartache that’s already taking root, but also: the way he clings, but tries not to make it obvious.

Fuck; but of course it was gonna be obvious, and how much energy did he waste, how many opportunities slipped by, because Steve was trying not to give away that Eddie leaving—to get away from a town that hated him, to try and make a real go with his music, to be anywhere without Steve so he could live out the dreams that predated Steve, that Steve had no place in—to try not to give away that all of it; it’d fucking destroy him.

Steve doesn’t know, to this day, how he stood and let Eddie kiss him breathless out the driver-side window, how he waved until Eddie was out of sight. He doesn’t know.

Kind of like he doesn’t know how he fucking keeps doing it.

Eddie throws tapes to every radio station with Van Halen or other top-played bands written on the insert in sharpie like that gives nothing away, and sneaks a demo in every underpaid delivery boy’s hands to record executives as he drives to the West Coast, sends Steve postcards what seems like has to be every goddamn day, filled up with his rambling until there’s no space left, has to draw lines around Steve’s address to make it clear where the damn thing’s going lest it get confused. Like they’re SteveandEddie still. Like only…only the things that changed after graduation are gone.

Steve sobs after about a month of it all, grateful and resentful, hateful and still so goddamn full of love it’s sickening. Literally, it makes him feel nauseous. He…

He keeps every postcard.

When one of them comes to say some idiot in San Francisco accidentally played Corroded Coffin on what’s apparently an important station, and Eddie got a letter in response from one of the labels, he says he’s coming back for the boys, they need to be ready. Steve knows he’s not one of the boys, but.

Eddie wouldn’t have told Steve he was coming if it wouldn’t matter to Steve. And maybe Eddie wasn’t in love with him anymore, maybe never was in love with him.

But he’d be lying if he said he thought Eddie didn’t love him. In a different way. A…you-don’t-get-to-come-with-me-but-I’d-still-want-to-see-you-when-I-stop-back kind of way.

And Steve…Steve’s not a fucking monk or anything. But even Robin doesn’t try to push him when he finally just tells her what he feels, lovesick and pathetic as it is:

I gave everything I had to someone else, and it’d be different if I wanted to back, to give again, but…I don’t.

I don’t want it back, not from him. Not if any part of him, wants to keep any part of it.

And because she’s Robin, she knows he means something else when he says ‘it’. And because she’s Robin? She’d push if she thought it was worth it.

She just holds him, and that’s really the best thing he could ask for.

But it becomes a thing. The boys go with Eddie, and they record new shit to impress...whoever. And they do. They come back for Halloween, because Eddie loves it. The label’s dragging its feet, but they’re not deterred, they’re energized. They come back for Thanksgiving because Wayne loves it—except he doesn’t, Steve knows that, Wayne actually hates trying to make a bird and Eddie had lamented more than once that they ended up with lunchmeat cut into cubes one year when Wayne was particularly frustrated with the process. They go out East, and try a few studios in New York. They come back for Christmas.

Eddie spends most of his time with Steve. Steve doesn’t fucking fight that; wants it…like…

There’s nothing to compare how he wants it to. Nothing exists that fits.

Eddie spends most of the time that he spends with Steve, though?

In Steve’s bed.

And here’s the thing: Steve had a decent amount of experience to compare to, but once they’d fallen into a rhythm, got past the awkward bits, the learning curve? Sex with Eddie had been a goddamn revelation. Not just because he was a man—after he’d left, Steve had forced himself to try, and dispelled that possibility quick as hell—and now?

Now, it’s like they never stopped. Every fucking time, it’s like they never stopped.

Steve’s not surprised in the slightest that he remembers every give and tell of Eddie’s body—of course he goddamn does—but that Eddie doesn’t miss a beat in touching, sucking, licking, worshippingSteve’s? That’s insane. That’s…

Unexpected. Every time it’s unexpected and every time Steve’s shown he wasn’t forgotten when he probably should have been. Eddie’s building a life that doesn’t include him.

He’ll only get in the way.

But Steve is selfish and stubborn and maybe it’s often, like almost strangely so, but it’s only a week or two at a go so he tells himself he’s allowed. He tells himself that it felt like making love in the beginning because Steve was in love, and that it still feels exactly the same because Steve…Steve never stopped.

Steve is still just as goddamn in love.

So yeah. Steve sleeps with Eddie and it’s like…it’s like rationed air. He gets a regular taste and he gets to keep breathing.

And it’s okay. Probably more then. Because he gets Eddie—even a little bit. Even just in scraps. When he has Eddie?

He has him, even for moments that were never made to last.

It’s Easter, this time. The band put out their first record in January. It’s doing really well. Eddie’s over the moon. Someone called about a magazine cover for a publication in Cleveland that’s apparently kind of a big deal, Alt..something. Steve will buy every copy in a fucking 100-mile radius. 200 miles. 500—

It’s Easter. Eddie didn’t lament not celebrating it after Spring Break in ‘86 but he’s back every year now. And if it’s just…come to mean something, or maybe did then and circumstances won out against it? Steve will be here. Steve will be comfort and a reprieve or a hot as hell romp with a familiar body, Steve will…

Yeah. Steve will do whatever’s needed. Wanted. Anything.

Pathetic.

But so much better than nothing.

Case in point: they’re both naked, sweat mostly dried, sharing a joint and it’s comfortable. It’s quiet and gentle and put up against sitting alone on a weeknight, not with Eddie?

It’s heaven.

“So when’s the dream happening?”

Steve looks cross-eyed toward his lips; he hasn’t smoked this thing long enough to have heard wrong. He squints up at Eddie, whose chest he’s laid out on, confused. Offers him the smoke but he waves it away.

“The dream?” Steve asks finally, when Eddie doesn’t seem to want to answer on his own.

Eddie looks at him weird. Not weird for its own sake but like: like he’s staring into him, and then like he’s disbelieving, but then also like he’s seeing him for the first time.

That kind of weird.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie answers like it’s obvious. “White picket fence. Little nuggets.” He spreads his hands as wide as possible without tossing Steve from where he lies. “See the sights.”

And Steve’s response is immediate. Doesn’t even require a thought.

He laughs. Like, ugly-laughs.

“Man,” he shakes his head as he catches his breath, and passes the joint off this time with purpose, not an offer or a choice as he snorts a little; “that’s not the dream.”

When Eddie doesn’t grab the smoke, Steve finally looks up. Eddie…

Eddie looks like what Steve’s always struggled to understand the word ‘poleaxed’ to mean. He thinks it might be this.

He looks…like something stuck him through the gut. Slapped him silly across the face.

“What d’ya mean?” And it’s just three words, one that’s a cheat, and he says it slow enough to take an age.

Steve breathes out, and then, if he’s gonna be honest, and if he has to keep holding the damn thing anyway, decides to take another drag before speaking:

“Figured out what the dream was, inside the dream,” Steve says, wondering if he’ll get away with the vagary; knowing he won’t.

“All we see or seem?” Eddie jokes a little, but it falls flat, his tone eerily kinda…strained but hollow.

“I like poetry.” Steve smiles up at him, soft, and offers the joint again straight to Eddie’s lips. He takes it this time.

“It was about family. It was about stability, not,” Steve shakes his head, stops talking half-assed around the lungful he’s holding, and lets it out slow; “not in a place, fuck, not in a house, but,” a person he doesn’t say, but he hears it in his head; “it was about sharing it.”

And that's it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward truth. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything complicated, or offensive in it. Hard to swallow. Even if he’s come to terms with it. Is mostly at peace with it.

Which is why it’s weird, that Eddie feels suddenly rigid beneath him.

So Steve turns, and braces his hand on Eddie's chest for balance, and frowns when he doesn’t even have to push down to feel the way his heart’s a fucking riot.

“What?” Steve asks, gentle; Eddie’s face is a portrait of conflict, of distress and Steve can’t fucking figure out why, they just came like four times between them and are sharing some very nice Cali weed—they’re nestled close, they’re together, it’s…

Eddie’s quiet, his breath disconcertingly steady for how his pulse pounds, and then he breathes out slow before covering his face:

“I don’t think I can fuck this up any worse than I already have, so,” he mutters, dejected for reasons Steve can’t even guess, then he laughs, humorless, shakes his head:

“Let me try, I guess.”

Steve frowns, uncomprehending, until:

“I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Steve thinks the world stops. His heart does, at least. Suspended. Silent so he doesn’t miss a syllable.

“And I told myself,” Eddie bites at his lip, worries at the bottom swell; “end of that summer, from the very first, I said: don’t ask him to come with you, even if it breaks your heart,” and oh god, oh god after all this time: Steve doesn’t think he’s projecting to hear the genuinely broken heart in those words for just remembering.

“Don’t ask him to settle, you’re not even in the same universe of what he wants,” fuck, what lies Eddie’s saying; did he believe them? Has he always—“what he needs.”

But Eddie is everything he needs, always was, will always be—

“You’ll never have the picket fence. You can’t give him his nuggets. You should never be trusted to park a Winnebago.”

They could have had a shitty studio apartment. They could have had the kids in college. They could have run the BMW until it died, or sold it to put toward a better van for equipment. They could have—

“You’re selfish, Munson, you’re a rat fucking bastard but,” Eddie’s still going, heart still hammering under Steve’s touch even as Eddie swallows hard and fails to smile, looks ill with the attempt like it hurts to try: “you love him too much for that.”

Oh. Oh god.

“It didn’t break my heart, though,” Eddie clears his throat and glances away, to the ceiling, eyes too bright: oh fuck; “broke my goddamn soul,” and a tear falls, and Steve can’t help but wipe it away, and kiss the track. Even just once.

So he does.

“When I saw you again that first time back,” Eddie starts again, voice rougher and shakier as he reaches a hand for Steve’s. “I could have asked the boys to fly out, the execs offered, but,” and this time, the attempt to grin is more successful, like a weight’s lifted from it: “and you smiled at me, it felt like,” and when he shakes his head this time it’s for disbelief, but the kind that comes with awe; “and when we slotted back together like we’d never been apart, it was…”

Eddie’s voice trails, but it cracks at the end—Steve doesn’t know which does more to stop his words.

He’s grateful, relieved, when they come back. He’s powerless but to give when Eddie touches his cheek so gentle and breathes:

“And I had to tell myself again, and again,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s skin like he’s precious: “you love him too much to take his dream away from him.”

“What did it matter?” Steve can’t help but ask, no malice in it, just the need to understand. “You had your dream, you have—“

They have a contract. They have an album climbing the charts. They’re not just on their way—they’re there. The only next step is to get bigger, and bigger, and—

“Dreams within dreams, wasn’t it?” Eddie murmurs close to Steve’s cheek, where maybe he’s pressing to be close, or maybe he’s hiding a little, so Steve strokes his hair because he can either way and relishes how Eddie leans, melts into it like always. “Inside the dream?”

Steve nods, more to encourage more words. More Eddie.

“Break my dream open and there’s you with me, every step,” Eddie whispers, his lips warm on Steve’s skin. “Break my heart open, same damn thing,” and that causes Steve to shudder, and his heart to pick up now, too. “Both just kinda crumble if you take out the center.”

Steve can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Wants to. Doesn’t think they’re lies. It’s just, he…

“Those,” Steve tries to speak but his voice cracks; he clears his throat and kicks his lips while he tucks Eddie into his neck, under his chin: “those would be good lyrics.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and nuzzles Steve’s throat with the motion and this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening, can it?

“No, those words were only ever meant just for you.”

And Eddie kisses the pulse point close to his mouth and holds there, like a sentry and a miser, and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“And I don’t know,” Eddie’s saying more, but it’s pitchy, thready, like he’s barely holding the words together at all; “I don’t know if it’s nostalgia, or convenience, or routine,” his voice breaks again and the sob’s in the word when it comes even if it’s not streaming down on his cheeks: “pity,” and no, no, not fucking ever, how—

“I was never your dream then, and I don’t even know if I can be your inside-dream now, and,” Eddie’s rambling, and he does that when he’s desperate, when he’s overwhelmed and overfull with feeling—and Steve knows that. Steve knows that about him.

Steve knows. Better than he knows himself, Steve still knows him.

“I just want the world for you,” Eddie whispers, stroking up and down Steve’s jaw; “my sweetheart. My sunshine,” he smiles so real and soft and Steve melts, like the heart in his chest starts spilling through his ribs, warm and liquid: “you deserve more than the world, more than fuckin’ me and I,” Eddie shakes his head again, more this time like he’s stopping himself, like it’s a defense mechanism and Steve reaches for his cheeks, broad palms on either side to hold him still because…he doesn’t want Eddie to stop.

Ever.

“Did I ruin it?” Eddie breathes, and barely at that, eyes so wide and swimming and oh, god; “did I—"

And Steve can’t help it. He can’t help but kiss him with all he’s got, even if it couldn’t be all Eddie’s worth in all the world. Steve can’t contain all that Eddie’s worth.

But he can give everything, because this is the man who already has it.

“What the hell was I supposed to be to a rockstar?” Steve tries to talk through his own tight throat, his own growing smile, his own threat of tears bubbling close to the surface. “How the fuck was I ever going to measure up, ever do anything but hold you back when you could have—“

“I come back to you, for you,” Eddie answers immediate; it’s not what Steve’s asking but he won’t lie and say he didn’t want to know, at least a little. “The handful of times I’ve tried,” Eddie shakes his head once now, definitive; “I have always left my everything with you.”

The idea that Steve’s spent all this time feeling empty, and hollow, and missing the best of himself where it lived in the man he loved—the idea he was wrong, that they both were so fucking wrong is…insanity.

“I had a bag half packed.”

Steve doesn’t need to explain further. The noise Eddie makes is pure pain.

“Baby,” he nearly croons, falls into Steve somehow closer, wraps him up tighter; “I wanted to kidnap you in the night.”

“I sobbed in my bed after you were out of sight.”

“I pulled over before the town sign, because I couldn’t see the goddamn road.”

And Steve…Steve doesn’t really have a decision to make about what he says next. What dream he wants; always has.

“I never got rid of the luggage.”

And Eddie hears everything he says in those words, because after everything, Eddie Munson knows him, and…yeah.

Steve’s been kissed in a lot of ways before. By this man in particular, even.

But this: if leaving broke Eddie’s soul, if somehow the lack of Steve somehow did that?

This is…this is the body meeting another body, heart to heart and tasting the way a soul slides back in place. It's Eddie’s hands in his hair like hell never let go and he’s happy about the idea; blissful for it, even. It’s—beyond anything Steve’s ever known. So: yeah.

It’s not a decision. It’s just a fucking given.

♥️

🎸also on ao3

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

[technicallyfriendly]

So, I really love time travel fics and I love the Lucerys cuts out his own eye trope while Aemond watches in horror. That's why my brain conjured up the following plot idea:

What if after their respective deaths, they both travel back in time to the same moment without knowing the other came back too and it's the exact moment where Aemond demanded Lucerys' eye as paiment for his debt on Stormsend just before the fateful flight.

This time though Lucerys does not run. He processes the situation just a second before Aemond does and fueled by his own fear of death does the only thing that seems logical at this moment. He lungs for the dagger and proceeds just as Aemond demanded. Aemond snaps out of his own stupor just as the screaming starts and tries to stop Lucerys but it's already to late. The eye is lost. A meaningless debt which had been paid tenfold in another life had been paid again. And Lucerys looks up at him through tears and blood, his face twisted in agony and asks: "Will you let me leave now, uncle?"

[sciderman]

the mcrib is back

[dykealloy]

ripple effect legacy // my tears are becoming a sea, M83

[binglepringle]

Idek what this is but here you go 🤲

[frownyalfred]

Things you might not realize are affecting your ao3 readership:

Putting unrelated fics into one compilation instead of series or collections

Not tagging your fics/“haha I’m so bad at tagging!”

Tagging all of the ships in a fandom instead of the relevant ones to the story

“This is my first fic ever”/ “I’m really not a good writer” / “sorry if this is crap”

Summaries that say “sorry don’t think I will update much” or “might be abandoned idk”

Tagging “r@pe” or “unaliving” etc instead of the actual tag so people can filter/exclude

NOT tagging major, relevant tags or kinks without using the “creator chose not to use archive warnings” option

Telling people how bad your writing is and how you hate it so much and how they shouldn’t even be reading your fic (self deprecation)

Weird punctuation: not starting new quotes or descriptions on a new line, and/or putting extremely long blocks of text on the page without a break

[instars-mara]

Magma doodle I did

[cautiously0ptimistic]

no one home, but the void is loud.

[abitcaughtinthemiddle]

Hey Vaxleth fans, you know how I checked in with ya’ll last week?

This is a Perc’ahlia fan asking for love and support, thank you.

I’m so happy for you I really am! I’m also in pain.

[writingbyshiloh]

Lazy Day

AN: I got scheduled to work closing shifts and wrote this to wind down for the night! I have a longer, more interesting piece coming soon!!! Ep 3 broke my heart for Jordan I want them to be happy.

CW: fluff, swearing, mention of The Deep, No beta. Could be read for AMAB or AFAB Jordan, I’m still ironing out the kinks of writing for a bigender character with that power

WC: 0.4K

You pull your hand out of Jordan's hair to grab your highlighter for a passage in Deeper. Satisfied with the yellow splotch you made on the page you cap your highlighter and bring your hand back down. The angle is awkward for you though. Your back is resting on Jordan's headboard and your legs are splayed to accommodate Jordan resting against you. Their back is pressed against your stomach, slouching because of the support you provide. Property Brothers play on their laptop for the two of you. 

You’re not really watching, just happy to spend time with them and try to get caught up on your class readings.

“Babe, are you even seeing this floorplan?” Jordan asks. 

You tear your eyes from your book for a second, just enough to see the camera switch from the spare bedroom to the loft. 

“Yeah, it's something.” you say, trying to find your spot on the page instead of caring about the plans for an entertainment station on the upper floor of the house. 

“It’s shit. Wait, are you even watching?”

“Mhmm.” you hum in response, removing your hand from their hair again to flip the page. 

You barely feel Jordan lean their head fully against your chest. What you do feel is them twisting your wrist holding The Deep’s autobiography. You slide your thumb between the pages to keep your spot so you can give all your attention to Jordan. 

“You’re seriously reading that?” 

“It’s homework.” you reply. 

“For an acting class.” They shoot back. 

“It’s actually a class on coming back from a setback in media.” you correct. 

“I don’t know why you're even taking it,” they say, pressing the space bar of their laptop to play the show, relaxing against you once again.

“I needed an extra credit. My courses got fucked last year because someone didn't want me in Brink’s class.” You both know you’re talking about Jordan but you don’t have any venom in your words. 

There’s also no venom in the middle finger Jordan flips you, their eyes still trained on the laptop. You huff out a laugh and bend forward to kiss their hair. 

“You’re so fucking rude.” you laugh.

“You love it." 

You do, probably more than they know. 

[hedwig221b]

hiii i hope you're well ! can we please have a snippet ? 🥺

You're in luck cause I've been writing over the weekend so I actually do have something to share lol

.

“Are you familiar with this part of town?” Derek asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stiles smile a little.

“No,” the omega answered with a tinge of nostalgia. “This is where the rich kids lived. You know, the assholes.”

“Are you saying I’m the asshole?” Derek arched his brow.

“No, you’re a rich kid.” They walked a bit in silence. Stiles sighed. “I guess, I should stop saying that.”

“Saying what?”

Stiles shrugged. “I mean, I should probably stop referring to myself as not rich. It’s not a good look if I want to attract someone with money.”

Derek tensed. He worked his jaw for a bit and glanced around, suddenly despising the humans living there.

Assholes, Stiles said they were. The same assholes that would probably sell the said houses to get the omega.

Derek felt Stiles’ careful gaze at the side of his face.

“What, no ‘just be yourself’ speech?” Stiles let out a dark laugh. “Harsh, dude…”

“I can be harsh if you want me to.”

Both of them stopped.

Stiles folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at him. “Shoot.”

Derek huffed and shook his head. “Listen, I don’t know what movies you watched—”

“Hey!”

“— or what bullshit they told you about marriage. But those people? The ones that requested a meeting with you? They offered to buy you.” Derek breathed out harshly. Stiles just stared at him with a mask on his face. “They came to my mother, they came to me. You don’t even understand what kind of money they have going around. And don’t think they didn’t make the same offer to the institute — they did. It was my mother who refused to let them accept.”

Derek bit down on his words and glanced around, instinctively seeking danger and finding nothing but bright orange light and high brick fences. When he turned back, Stiles was still staring at him from under his long fucking eyelashes.

“You are a status, Stiles,” Derek grunted, meeting his gaze. “A rarity only the ‘best’ of them can afford. I’m sorry but they don’t give a fuck about who you are.”

Stiles blinked, his jaw working.

“Sure, anyone can send a request for you. A hopeless romantic from those movies you watched, the one you would maybe fall for. But the minute they notice whom you favor… God help them if they don’t have the means to protect themselves.”

“So, what,” Stiles’ throat clicked, “you’re saying I should just lie down and spread my legs for anyone who’s rich enough?”

Damn, Derek hated the thought with vitriol. He jutted his chin out and flashed his eyes at the omega.

“No. I’m saying that I can’t lie to you. I doubt someone told you how it’s gonna be, and I don’t think anyone will bother in the future. Sorry to be the bearer of the truth. This is not a movie, or a fairytale. I cannot guarantee who is going to request you or what the poll is going to be like. But I swear to you that I’ll do anything to make sure that you will be the one making the choice in the end.”

Stiles’ eyes were unreadable.

Still, in this ugly light, with a frown on his face, and an angry tightness to his lips, he was the most beautiful creature Derek had ever seen.

Damn him. Damn whoever gets to have him.

[the-travelling-witch]

Hehe nice to see you're trying to get back into writing, Holly!! Can I request Reo Mikage from Blue Lock and the word "promise", please? Take your time!!

please, i've been trying to get back into it for months but my brain just won't let me (the way i procrastinated starting the timer for this was embarassing). i fear no man, but that thing [blank page], it scares me /silly

in any case, i hope you can enjoy this little thing my two braincells came up with!! also, how are you doing, my dear? ♡

𝐑𝐞𝐨 𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐞 - 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞

It was easy to lose yourself, to lose sight of the person you wanted to be. Reo knew this well. Not only had his upbringing always been overshadowed with the certainty of the future his parents wanted for him, but even in the sport that had given him freedom for a long time, he found that pretending to be someone he was not was still his strong suit. Countless nights had been spent staring at the ceiling as thoughts about who he was and who he was supposed to be tossed and turned in his head.

Those doubtfilled hours, however, were in the past. Despite what he was led to believe early in his life, sometimes being yourself simply was enough and could lead you down the best paths. The sleek silver band around his fourth finger was a steady reminder of this.

It wasn’t a wedding ring, nor an engagement ring. No, not yet. But it signified the promise you made to him, to love him for who he was, no matter what the world would throw at you, and that made it just as valuable to him. At this point, taking it off felt unfamiliar, his finger used to the gentle pressure of the jewellery. And in the rare case that he absolutely couldn’t wear it on his hand, he had bought a matching necklace chain he could loop it through. Dumb as it sounded, he just couldn’t bear to be away from the thing -and the reassurance it brought- anymore.

Familiar fingers intertwined with his, a matching ring twinkling up at him. You had once scolded him not to spend money carelessly on you, but as he ran his thumb over the worn metal, no part of him considered this purchase unnecessary. Even so, he should probably replace this ring with the one waiting in his bedside drawer soon.

After all, Reo had quite a few promises for you too.

1 character, 1 word, 11 minutes

masterlist

[salt-baby]

at some point in disability you stop wanting to "get better" and this is just really hard for able bodied people to understand for some reason

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Pendulum

Chapter WC: 11,047

Chapter Tags/Warnings: author does not understand the Force and is doing whatever the hell she wants (threatening), angst

A/N: There are so many things I could say about this chapter but none will adequately capture the process I went through to get this out of my head and onto the page. I apologize in advance for the heavy handed use of metaphor. And for the everything else.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Join the Taglist | Masterlist

Coruscant, 21 BBY

You wake to the sound of birds and a bright stream of sunlight shimmering through your window, and you immediately roll over and shut your eyes. You've only slept for a handful of hours, and the idea of waking up is almost too much to bear. But the sunlight continues to shine through the blinds, and the birds continue to sing, and the more you try to ignore it, the more awake you become.

With a resigned sigh, you force yourself to sit up, the blanket pooling around your waist. The movement causes the room to spin, and you blink hard, waiting for the sensation to pass. When the world finally settles, you look around the room and find the bottle of water and the pills on the bedside table.

You swallow the medicine and gulp down the water, and once the pain has faded and the nausea has passed, you push the covers aside and get to your feet. It’s not the worst hangover you’ve ever had, but it is the worst one you’ve had in months, and the thought alone is exhausting. You're not even sure how you made it back to the Temple from the barracks without falling over.

Your usual morning routine takes longer than usual, but by the time you step out of the refresher and dress, the fog has lifted from your brain. Once you’re presentable, you grab your comm link and check for messages, and you smile to yourself when you see the few you and Rex had exchanged last night.

You: Made it back to the Temple. We only stopped to vomit once.

Rex: Thanks for letting me know. Rex: We?

You: Booker. He’s going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.

Rex: [Image attached] Rex: Echo too. Rex: He says hi, by the way.

You: I’m impressed he’s still coherent.

Rex: That’s why I made him ARC trooper.

You’d fallen asleep after that, and now, in the light of day, you can't help but feel a little silly. The conversation was short, and yet, it had left you smiling, and the warm, tingly feeling in your chest is back.

It's strange, the difference a single day can make. Yesterday, you were determined to distance yourself from him, to forget your feelings and put a stop to the budding romance before it could start. Now though, all of those feelings are back, and they're stronger than ever. 

The mere thought of Rex sends your pulse racing. And the idea of him loving you in return, of a relationship or a future together, is almost too good to be true. You have no doubt that the reality is much less pleasant, and that the situation is far more complicated, but the hope inside of you refuses to go away.

A small voice in the back of your mind tells you to stop this, to not risk it. But the other voices, the ones that want Rex, and love him, and crave a relationship with him, are louder. And right now, the voices telling you to move forward are the ones you're listening to.

But as much as you want to run off and find Rex, to talk to him and sort this out, you need time to think. There are too many questions and too many uncertainties, and the last thing you want is to make things worse. And there's always one thing that helps you think.

You: Still up to spar this morning?

Booker: can’t Booker: dead

You roll your eyes and type a reply.

You: You promised.

The minutes tick by, and the three dots appear, disappear, and reappear, before finally disappearing altogether. When the screen remains blank, you sigh and shove the comm link into your pocket. Looks like you'll be finding something else to occupy your time.

The halls of the Temple are quiet when you step out of your room. The early hour and the weekend mean that the place is deserted, and you make your way to the training room with only a handful of encounters. A couple of younglings are in the hall outside the library, their eyes wide as they watch you walk by. You give them a small wave, and they bow their heads and scurry away, their voices fading down the corridor.

When you reach the training room, you're surprised to find it just as silent as the rest of the Temple. It feels strange, wrong even, to be here and not have the place buzzing with activity. Even the lights seem dimmer than usual, the sunbeams streaming through the windows a poor substitute for the usual overhead lamps.

You used to crave the silence, doing everything you could to avoid the bustle and noise, but the quiet is uncomfortable now. After so many months at war, surrounded by people and chaos, the emptiness seems strange. Almost lonely.

You shake your head and step further inside, and a quick scan of the usual spots tells you that the training room is, in fact, completely empty. There are no signs of life, no indication that anyone has been here today, or will be for a while. Just you, the dust, and the silence, the tidiness a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the last battle.

The last battle. You glance down at your hands, your eyes tracing the scars on your palms. The memory of the power that coursed through you, the heat and the energy, makes your fingertips tingle.

You don't understand what happened. This thing inside you doesn’t seem to want to leave, no matter how much you want it to, no matter how much meditation or positivity or mindfulness you try. 

You’d foolishly thought it would fade after your conversation with Rex on the Resolute, that coming to terms with your emotions and your past would help you. And for a while, it had seemed to. You'd been calmer, more at peace, and the anger had seemed easier to manage. But the last battle, the sight of your men in danger, had caused it to come back in full force.

Maybe it will never go away. Maybe this thing will stay with you forever, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. Maybe it's who you are now. A Jedi with a temper, a warrior with a short fuse, a general with an unsteady hand. A person with too much anger, too much sadness, too much of everything.

It's not a comforting thought.

The last time you were here, you’d sparred with Obi-Wan. You held your blade to his chest and nearly killed him. And he forgave you, because that's what Obi-Wan does. But neither of you had ever forgotten how close you came to falling. How easy it would've been for you to snap and lose control.

How easy it still could be.

The memory makes your chest tighten, and you press a hand against your sternum and force yourself to inhale. You didn’t do it, you remind yourself, and you didn’t kill Dooku as Obi-Wan had feared you would. You didn't chase after him and try to strike him down, or fall prey to his false promises.

Instead, you'd turned your back on him and left.

A small part of you regrets the decision, but the larger, more rational part knows it was the right choice. It's what a Jedi would do. And as much as you don't feel like it sometimes, you are a Jedi. A Jedi Master. You made a commitment to the Order, to the Force, and to the galaxy. And you can't give up on that just because the anger is hard. Because the pain is too much. Because the memories are too raw.

You can't lose control.

With a sigh, you make your way towards the center of the room. You don't bother grabbing a weapon, and you don't bother stretching, either. You hold out your hands, palms out, and take a deep breath.

Dooku said he could teach you how to control the Force, to master the rage and the pain inside you. You’re not sure if he was lying, if it was simply an attempt to trick you or rile you, or if there is a truth to his words. Regardless, his offer weighs heavily on your mind, and no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to shake it. 

You’d rather die than be his apprentice, his anything, but...you'd be a fool not to consider his words. Not to at least entertain the possibility of learning how to control the darkness within you. To turn it into something useful, or at the very least, make it bearable.

Obi-Wan would say no. That much is certain. He'd say that the anger and the rage aren't worth it, that you can't learn how to use the Dark Side without becoming a monster. And he's right. But that doesn't change the fact that Dooku was right, too.

This rage is a part of you. A part that can't, and won't, go away. The question isn't if it will come back, but how often, and how strong. How far will you go, and what will it take for you to stop? Will the next time be the time that you cross the line and fall into the darkness, or will it be the time after that, or the time after that? When will it finally become too much, and what will you lose in the process?

Rex can't be the reason you stop. Or the cause of your downfall. You can't drag him into the middle of this, can't force him to be the person who stops you from going too far. He can't be the person who pulls you back, or the person who holds the leash, or the person who saves you. Because you know he would, no matter the cost. You can't let that happen. He deserves better.

And so, you'll have to figure this out on your own. Somehow. Some way.

You close your eyes and inhale slowly. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Your shoulders drop, the tightness in your jaw and the ache in your spine easing slightly.

You need to learn how to control the rage. You can't keep living like this, and you can't keep putting those around you at risk. And if you can learn how to use it, if you can use the anger to your advantage, well...the benefits could be limitless. 

The things you could do. The battles you could win. The Separatists would have no chance. Countless lives would be saved. And no more of your men, your friends would die. Rex would be safe. He'd live.

He deserves to live.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Your shoulders drop, and the weight on your chest fades slightly. The darkness in your mind, the pain and the fear, eases, and you feel yourself slip deeper into the Force. It’s a whisper of a song, a melody just out of reach, and the closer you focus on it, the clearer it becomes. It wraps around you, enveloping you in its warmth, and for a moment, everything is calm. Everything is peaceful.

Yaddle had always taught you to be the current, the wind, the water. To follow the pull of the Force and let it guide you. She told you to flow, to dance, to let go. 

And yet, there are times that the pull is stronger than the current, the need greater than the need to let go. Those are the times you need to fight, to claw, to hold onto the threads with every fiber of your being. The times that the only option is to bend, or break.

Those are the times you need to win.

The muted hum of the Force grows louder, the vibration becoming a song you’ve heard a thousand times before. But there’s a discordant note in the melody, a sharp edge that hadn't been there before. The longer you listen, the more pronounced the discord becomes, and the harder you have to strain to hear the music beneath it.

It doesn’t feel like a gentle breeze or a quiet river. Instead, it feels like a torrent of water, a wave ready to crash down on unsuspecting ships. Like the moment of silence between the lightning and the thunder, the anticipation heavy enough to make the air tremble.

This is not the Force you know.

This is something else entirely.

And so, you don't let go. You grasp the threads and pull, tugging and yanking and ripping until the current changes direction, the waves rising higher and higher. Until the Force is yours, the power filling your veins, and the rage is under your control. 

You need to break free of it. You need to tear the power apart, destroy the thread and shatter the current, and find the other side. And once you do, once you have control, you can turn it into something more. Something stronger. Something that doesn't hurt.

You hold the darkness in your hands, and for a moment, you can feel the lightness. You can feel the power, the potential, the possibilities. And with a single thought, a single spark, you could have it all.

This is what it's supposed to feel like.

It's the feeling of the first bite of food after days without eating. Of the first drink of water after wandering the desert. Of the first kiss after a lifetime of loneliness.

It's a feeling of rightness, of certainty, of power.

It's a feeling that terrifies you.

Your eyes fly open, and the training room disappears.

Instead, you’re standing in the courtyard in front of the Great Tree, the sunlight shimmering through the golden leaves. You close your eyes and breathe in, the scent of the flowers surrounding you, the air cool and sweet. You can hear the birds singing, the distant hum of traffic, and the soft murmur of conversation. And behind it all, the low buzzing of the Force. It's a familiar melody, a calming song, and you let the tune wrap around you, soothing and soft.

You watch as a leaf floats down from the Great Tree, drifting lazily through the air until it hovers right in front of your nose. You grab for it, but it floats just out of reach, and you let out a frustrated sigh and reach again.

"Come on," you huff, your arm stretching out. "Stay still."

It moves faster than you expect, dancing through the air, and no matter how hard you chase it, you can't quite manage to catch it. You move forward, your steps clumsy and awkward, and you can hear Yaddle laughing.

"Be the leaf," she instructs. "Feel the currents and the breeze. Be the leaf."

"I am," you groan. You stumble and nearly trip over a root, your fingers missing the leaf by a fraction. You growl and chase after it. "It's not fair. You're cheating."

The accusation only seems to amuse her more. You glare at her and chase after the leaf again, and again, and again. It floats just out of reach, hovering in front of you before moving higher and further until finally, it's lost in the branches.

You stop running and look down at Master Yaddle, pouting, and she lets out another laugh. She shakes her head and holds out a hand, and the leaf returns, fluttering down and landing gently in her palm.

"You will catch it," she tells you. She moves closer, and you instinctively kneel to meet her eyes. Her small, three-clawed hand rests on your shoulder, the touch warm and comforting, and the gesture is enough to make the pout fade.

"When?" you ask, and she tilts her head, her expression thoughtful.

"When the time is right," she answers.

She holds out her hand and the leaf floats from her palm into yours. You watch it spin and dance, the sunlight glinting off its edges, and the sight is breathtaking.

"But I'm ready now," you protest. "I can catch it now. I know I can."

Yaddle closes your fingers around the leaf, squeezing gently before letting go. Her hand rests against your cheek, her eyes soft and full of warmth, and she smiles.

"Not yet," she tells you, her voice quiet. She pats your cheek, and the wrinkles deepen around her mouth as she grins encouragingly. "One day, my Padawan, but not yet."

You get to your feet and look down at the leaf, and with a deep breath, you let it go. The breeze catches it, and it spins and dances through the air, disappearing into the branches of the tree. The world seems to shift underneath your feet, the sun becoming brighter and the sky bluer.

You blink and look around the courtyard, but Yaddle is nowhere to be seen. You turn in a circle, searching, but there's nothing but the flowers and the trees and the grass. It's just you, alone.

"Master?" you call out, your voice echoing through the courtyard. "Master, where are you?"

The birds sing their songs, the breeze rustles the leaves, and the sunlight shines through the branches. The world is bright and vibrant, but the longer you stand there, the more you feel the emptiness around you.

You're not sure how long you wait, or how many times you call her name before you hear her.

"I am here," she says quietly. "I am always here."

Her voice comes from somewhere behind you, and you whirl around, searching desperately for the source. But the clearing remains empty.

"Where are you?" you ask. Your eyes scan the flowers and the leaves, the ground and the sky, but there's nothing.

"I am everywhere," she tells you. Her voice is soft and gentle, the words almost a whisper. "I am with you."

A sudden breeze blows through the clearing, the wind causing the trees to sway and the flowers to ripple. The shadows seem deeper than they were before, the light dimmer, and a shiver runs down your spine. You wrap your arms around yourself to ward away the chill, and the warmth seems to seep from your bones, the cold settling deep inside.

"I'm afraid," you confess, the words tumbling out. "I don't want to lose control. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to go too far."

There's a pause, the silence thick and heavy, and the fear builds inside you, threatening to choke you.

"What do I do?" you plead. Your hands are clenched into fists, the knuckles white, and the trembling intensifies. "I don't want to hurt anyone. Not again. Please. I can't...I can't hurt them."

Your voice cracks on the last word, the plea breaking into a sob, and the tears spill down your cheeks. Your chest tightens, and a choked gasp escapes your throat. You can feel the darkness clawing at the back of your mind, the rage and the fear swirling together.

In front of you, a leaf falls. It drifts to the ground, landing at your feet, and you stare at it, unable to move. The golden surface seems almost iridescent, the edges sharp and glittering, and the longer you look at it, the more the darkness seems to creep in.

You force yourself to look away, back up to the Great Tree. You watch as another leaf falls, then another and another, the leaves spinning and dancing, until a shower of them is raining down. They fill the clearing, covering the flowers and the grass, and the sight is so beautiful that it's almost painful. 

Your hand reaches out to try to grasp the nearest leaf, but the current is too strong. Your fingers slip past the surface, passing through it as if it was made of smoke, and you pull back with a frustrated cry.

"Master Yaddle!"

You're not sure where she is, or how to reach her, but the desperation inside you is overwhelming. You spin in a circle, the panic rising, the world seeming to tilt beneath your feet.

"Master, please!" you beg. "I don't understand! What do I do?"

The world seems to shift around you, the colors fading, the darkness creeping in, and you watch helplessly as the leaves are swept away. The flowers wilt and shrivel, the grass turns brown, and the tree is nothing but a skeleton, the branches bare and brittle. The darkness surrounds you, enveloping you, and the weight of the despair is almost unbearable.

You close your eyes, hoping to block it out, but the vision remains, the darkness filling your mind. You can feel the tears rolling down your cheeks, and a sob escapes your throat.

And through it all, the words echo.

"I am always here."

The darkness seems to shift and twist, the shadows turning into something else. You open your eyes, blinking against the sting, and the world has changed. The courtyard has vanished, and in its place is a crumbling cityscape, the buildings reduced to rubble and the streets littered with bodies. The air is filled with smoke and ash, and the screams of the dying fill the air.

A battle. You're in the middle of a battle.

And above you, a shadow looms.

You look up, and a choked cry escapes your throat. Streaking across the sky like shooting stars are hundreds of missiles. Their paths arc towards the planet, each one leaving a trail of destruction and chaos behind it. The sight is almost impossible to comprehend, the sheer volume of firepower sending a wave of nausea through you.

You close your eyes and press a hand against your mouth, trying to keep from vomiting. When the sensation passes, you take a shaky breath and force yourself to look up again. The missiles are still coming, still falling, and the realization that there's nothing you can do hits you with an almost physical force.

This is beyond you. This is beyond anyone.

Fire falls from the sky, each impact sending shockwaves through the air. The ground trembles, and the buildings shake, and the screams become louder and louder until they're all you can hear. The pain is everywhere, the agony so intense that it threatens to overwhelm you. You can feel it inside you, in every fiber of your being, and you can't imagine the pain it must be for everyone else.

You can't imagine the agony.

There are hundreds of voices in your head, a cacophony of pain and despair, and the emotions are so raw, so visceral, that it's a struggle to even stay standing. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel the suffering of the dying. It's a feeling so deep and so painful that it threatens to consume you, and the only thing keeping you from drowning is the thought of what will happen if you give in.

The thought of what will happen if you lose.

You look down and watch as cracks appear in the ground, fissures spreading outward in every direction, toppling buildings and swallowing people whole. The planet seems to tremble beneath your feet, the very core shuddering and shaking. You can feel the tremors vibrating through your bones, a pain that threatens to split you in half.

And underneath the sound of the screams, you can hear a voice calling your name.

It's a familiar voice, and it fills you with a sense of comfort that's staggering. But there's something else. Something that seems to pull at you, a tug on the edges of your awareness.

"Come home."

The words echo through the destruction, and the pull becomes stronger, more insistent. You can feel it inside you, a yearning so powerful that it's almost a physical pain. The pull seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, the voice wrapping around you and whispering in your ear.

It's a voice you recognize. A voice you love. A voice you trust.

"Please," the voice begs. "Please, come home."

The pull is irresistible, and before you can stop yourself, you give in. You follow the voice, allowing it to drag you down and down and down, until the world around you changes.

The pain and the anguish fade, the screams quieting and the cries silenced. You can feel the heat of the missiles against your skin, the flames and the ash burning and choking you, but the sensation is muted. It's as if you're watching the battle from far away, removed and distant, and the only thing that matters is the voice calling your name.

The voice begging you to come home.

"Rex," you whisper. The name is barely audible, the word more a sigh than anything else, but it's a relief. He's here. You're not alone.

The pain of the battle, the devastation and destruction, seems to lessen. The world falls away until all that's left is the two of you. An endless void stretches out in every direction, and the only things that exist are his voice and the pull inside you.

The voice becomes a face, the words a body, and Rex appears before you. He's standing in the middle of the darkness, the only solid thing in the void, and the sight is like a breath of fresh air. But the look of desperation on his face is terrifying. There are tears streaming down his cheeks, and the agony on his face nearly brings you to your knees.

"Come home," he begs. His voice breaks, the words raw and hoarse. "Please, come home."

He reaches out to you, his hand trembling, and his fingers brushing your cheek. The warmth of his touch seems to burn, the sensation so overwhelming that it's almost unbearable. But it's the look on his face that hurts the most.

"Please," he whispers.

He's not real. He can't be real. But the pain on his face is real. The agony in his eyes is real. And the way he looks at you, like you're the only thing in the world, is real.

The voice and the pull and the need. It's all real.

This isn't a dream. This isn't a nightmare. It's something else. Something worse.

You can't bring yourself to move, can't bring yourself to speak, can't bring yourself to do anything but stand there. You know instantly that this isn’t a man burdened by the loss of a battle or the pain of a war. This isn’t a man grieving a friend, or a brother, or a comrade.

This is a man who has lost everything.

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, and the breath leaves your lungs.

He's in pain, and it's your fault.

Rex's shoulders sag, and his eyes fall shut. His fingers trail along your jaw as his hand drops, and he lets out a shuddering breath. Another tear rolls down his cheek before he forces his eyes open to meet yours.

You feel it the moment his heart breaks.

It's as if a knife has been driven into your chest. The pain is sharp and intense, the ache so deep that it's a struggle to draw a breath. The agony is like a living thing, a monster clawing its way through your ribcage and tearing at your heart. The world seems to blur and darken, and the only thing that's real is the agony.

It's an agony that has no end. It's a torment without reprieve. It's a torture without mercy.

And it's all because of you.

You want to scream, to cry, to fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness. But you can't do any of those things. Because the look on his face tells you that he already knows.

Rex's hand shakes as he lifts his blaster, and the weapon seems to hover between you, aimed directly at your chest.

"Please," he whispers again.

The single word holds a lifetime of pain. His eyes meet yours, and you see the resolve there, the acceptance. The determination. And despite the sorrow and the despair, you can see the love in his gaze. The love that he's been trying to hide for months, the love that has grown despite his best efforts.

And it's the love that will kill you.

Rex loves you, and he's willing to do anything to save you. Even this.

You don't know what to say. There's nothing you can say.

You love him too. You've loved him for months, and you will continue to love him for the rest of your life. No matter how short that might be. No matter how much time you have left.

You don't want him to suffer. You don't want him to carry the weight of your death. But more than anything, you don't want him to have to choose between you and himself. Between his duty and his heart. Between what's right and what he wants.

Between his brothers and you.

"Do it," you whisper. "Save me."

His hand shakes, the barrel of the blaster inches from your chest, and you can see the conflict in his eyes. He's hesitating, and the last thing you want is for him to hesitate.

And so, you do the only thing you can.

You lift your hand and place it over his. The metal is warm against your skin, the barrel pressed against your sternum. Your fingers close around his, and you squeeze gently. 

His eyes meet yours, and despite the pain, the tears, the sorrow, you offer him a smile.

It's not the ending you'd hoped for. It's not the ending you'd planned. But it's the ending you're willing to accept. Because if it means saving Rex from the pain, the suffering, the loss, well...that's a price you're willing to pay.

He loves you, and you love him. And that's the only thing that matters.

With a final sigh, you close your eyes and squeeze his hand.

"Okay," you whisper.

The blaster goes off.

When you come to, the first thing you notice is that you're lying on something soft and plush.

A bed. You're on a bed.

It takes a moment for your vision to adjust to the light. When it does, the sight of the Temple is a relief. The familiar walls, the dimmed lighting, the muted humming of the Force. It's exactly where you're supposed to be.

The second thing you notice is the dull ache in your chest. It's a small pain, almost unnoticeable, but the discomfort is still there. You lift a hand and touch your sternum, and the memory of the blaster shot comes rushing back with a sharpness that's staggering.

A blaster shot. Rex.

No. No. No. It's not possible.

You sit up quickly, pushing past the pain and stumbling out of bed. Your legs are shaky, and the movement sends the world spinning, but you force yourself to keep moving toward the window. You need to see. You need to know.

Your hands fist around the curtains, and you yank them open. Sunlight streams through the window, blinding you momentarily, and you blink hard against the brightness. When the spots fade and your eyes adjust, you look down at the courtyard, and your breath catches.

Everything is the same. The flowers are blooming, the leaves are turning, the sun is shining. Speeders and ships are flying overhead, dots against the bright blue sky. The air is warm and sweet, and the Force is calm. Nothing has changed. Nothing is different. Everything is the way it's supposed to be.

A sigh of relief escapes your lips, and you close your eyes. The nightmare was just that. A nightmare. Nothing more.

Except...it had felt real. Too real.

Your heart pounds, and you grip the curtains tighter. You can still feel the pain in your chest, the phantom ache of the blaster shot. And the way Rex had looked at you, the despair in his eyes, the pain in his voice. It's not something you can forget.

You don't want to forget.

Because it's not just a dream. It's a warning.

Your eyes open, and your gaze falls on the Great Tree. The leaves are dancing in the breeze, and the sunlight is glinting off the golden surface. But the sight is no longer calming. It's ominous. It's a reminder.

You take a deep breath and let the curtain fall. The world is calm, the Force still, but the dread lingers.

“You’re awake.”

You jump and turn, your eyes falling on Obi-Wan. He stands just inside the doorway to the bedroom, his arms folded across his chest. He's dressed in his tunic, his robe draped over a nearby chair, and you realize that you’re in his quarters.

"Obi-Wan, what are you—" You try to step toward him, but the room spins, and you reach out for the window sill, your balance unsteady. He's by your side in an instant, his hands gripping your upper arms and keeping you upright.

"Careful," he warns. He keeps his hold on you until the dizziness passes, and you manage to regain your footing. When he's satisfied, he releases you and steps back, his eyes scanning your face.

The concern on his face is unmistakable. You know him too well, and after all the years of friendship, you can read the worry in his expression. But it's the fear in his eyes that's the most startling.

You open your mouth to speak, to assuage his worries, but the words don't come. You're not sure what to say, not sure how to explain. Not sure if you even can.

Instead, you take a staggering step towards him, and before you can stop yourself, you're wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close. He tenses, clearly startled by the gesture, but after a moment, he returns the embrace. His arms are tight around your shoulders, and he presses his cheek against the top of your head.

"You're okay," he murmurs, his voice low. "It's over."

The words send a wave of relief through you, and you cling to him tighter, your hands clutching the fabric of his tunic. You inhale slowly, the air filling your lungs, and the pain in your chest fades slightly. It's not gone, but it's bearable.

It wasn't real.

Slowly, the trembling in your limbs fades, and the pounding in your chest subsides. The anxiety and the fear fade, replaced by a dull ache and a sense of exhaustion. You sigh and rest your forehead against his shoulder, allowing the last of the panic to drain away.

Obi-Wan pulls away, his hands settling on your shoulders.

“How are you feeling?" he asks.

You think about the question, the memories of the vision still fresh in your mind. The pain and the suffering. The fear and the desperation.

"I'm okay," you answer, the words barely audible. "Just tired."

He nods and releases his hold on you, taking a step back. He gives you a once-over, his gaze traveling over your face and down your body, and he frowns.

"What happened?" he asks as his eyes return to yours.

"I..." You trail off, the memory of the vision sending a shiver through you. You wrap your arms around yourself and shake your head. "I don't know."

You close your eyes, trying to recall the events leading up to the vision. You remember waking up, alone, and walking through the halls of the Temple. You remember reaching the training room, and...the rest is a blur. You don't remember falling asleep. You don't remember anything. Just the darkness and the pain and the fear.

And the blaster shot.

Your fingers touch the spot where the blaster would've hit you, and a flash of memory comes rushing back. The image of the courtyard outside, the golden leaves of the Great Tree shimmering in the sunlight, and Yaddle's voice.

Her voice.

The memory is faint, barely more than a whisper, and you can't quite grasp it. But it's there, like a shadow at the corner of your vision, and you can feel it. You can hear her.

And for a moment, the pain in your chest eases.

Obi-Wan's hand squeezes your shoulder, and you open your eyes and meet his concerned gaze.

"I found you in the training room," he tells you, his voice quiet. "You were unconscious, and I couldn't wake you. I had to carry you here."

He pauses, his brow furrowing, and his gaze becomes more intense. "What were you doing there?"

The question sends a jolt through you, and you take a step back, breaking contact.

"I..." You pause, your mind racing. Your arms wrap around your torso, and you take a shaky breath and shake your head. "I can't remember."

You're not sure if it's a lie, or if the words are true, but either way, it's a poor answer. Obi-Wan's expression changes, his gaze sharpening, and his jaw clenches.

"Try," he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, and he leans closer, his eyes never leaving yours. You can see the determination there, the stubbornness. He's not going to let this go, not until he gets the answers he's looking for.

"I was...meditating," you begin slowly, the lie rolling off your tongue. "I was trying to connect with the Force. I...wanted to understand."

His brow furrows, his gaze never wavering.

"Understand what?" he asks.

"Myself," you admit. "The anger and the...pain. I wanted to understand."

His gaze softens, and he sighs, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. He looks away for a moment, his eyes focused on the floor, before his gaze finds yours again.

"I think I know," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He sits on the edge of the bed and motions for you to do the same. You settle beside him, and he turns towards you, his gaze searching, his hands twisting in his lap. "You felt the darkness. Didn't you?"

You look down at your hands, at the scars on your palms. The memory of the battle, the fight with Dooku, the vision, the blaster shot, it all swirls in your mind, flickering past your vision like a broken holo.

You close your eyes, the pain in your chest throbbing, and you nod.

Obi-Wan shifts, and you open your eyes to find him staring at the wall, his brow furrowed. His expression is contemplative, and the lines around his eyes seem deeper than they were before. There's a sadness in his gaze, a pain that goes beyond the physical, and his mouth is set in a thin line.

"What are you thinking?" you ask.

He shakes his head, his expression turning pensive.

“What happened on that planet? With Dooku?” he asks. His tone is gentle, but the words send a wave of anxiety through you. “You never told me the details.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, the memories flashing through your mind. The anger. The rage. The darkness. It had been overwhelming, terrifying. It had taken every ounce of strength and willpower not to give in. And even though you'd won, you'd come close. So close.

Too close.

You shake your head.

“We fought. He nearly killed me, and Rex and Jesse saved the day,” you say, your gaze fixed on your hands. “There isn’t much else to tell. I'm not sure why you're bringing this up now."

"Because I've been thinking about what happened on the Resolute," he tells you. His voice is quiet, and there's an edge to it that hadn't been there before. A sadness. An anger. "How convenient it was for a hyperdrive malfunction to lead you to the exact place Dooku was hiding."

“He wanted to kill me,” you counter. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the frustration bubbling up. You know where he’s going with this, and you can’t help but feel defensive, protective of your secret.

"No." Obi-Wan shakes his head. "He wanted to turn you."

The words land like a punch to the gut. He isn't saying anything you don't already know, but hearing it out loud, the implications and the potential...it's too much. You stare at him, speechless, and he stares back.

"What are you accusing me of?" you finally manage.

He's silent for a moment, considering his words carefully. His eyes are dark and troubled, the lines around them deepening, and he sighs.

"Nothing," he answers quietly. "Not yet."

"Not yet?" you echo, your tone incredulous.

"When I found you in the training room, there was something wrong. The Force was...out of balance," Obi-Wan tells you. His gaze never leaves yours. "There was something dark. Something wrong."

You open your mouth to speak, to deny, to defend, but he continues before you can get a word out.

"I know you've felt it too," he says, his voice softening. "I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it."

You look away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. The truth of his words stings, and you can feel the guilt and shame rising up, threatening to drown you. He's right. You have felt the darkness. You've seen it, felt it, and tried to ignore it. And now you’re trying to hide from him. But he's not going to let that happen. He's not going to let you hide.

"Obi-Wan," you try again. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, and you can't seem to look him in the eye. "I don't—"

"Don't lie to me," he cuts you off.

His voice is sharp, the words like a slap to the face. You flinch, and his expression softens.

"Did Dooku tell you how to access the darkness? How to harness it?" he asks quietly.

"No," you say immediately.

"Are you sure?" he pushes. "Because you seem to know more than you're letting on."

You hesitate, and his expression hardens. You look down at your hands, the scars seeming to burn. The darkness inside you pulses and writhes, the rage and the pain simmering just beneath the surface. It's a struggle to keep it contained, to not let your emotions win out. And Obi-Wan sees it all.

"Tell me the truth," he demands.

You swallow hard and look up at him. His gaze is intense, the blue eyes piercing, and you can't bring yourself to lie to him again. You can't hide anymore.

"I've always had it," you confess, your voice hoarse. "The anger, the darkness. I've always had it, but now it's worse. I'm more connected to the Force than ever before, and the power is incredible, but it's overwhelming."

You pause, taking a deep breath, the emotions churning inside you.

"It's getting harder and harder to keep it under control," you admit quietly. "I can't ignore it. I can't pretend it doesn't exist. And I can't let it go."

His eyes never leave yours, and you can see the understanding, the acceptance. He doesn't blame you. He doesn't hate you. But he's worried. You can see the concern in his eyes. He's scared for you. Scared of what you might do.

"Dooku tried to make me think he could help me, but I'm not stupid," you tell him, your voice stronger now, more determined. "I can feel the darkness, and I can see the effects it's having on the galaxy. The war is tearing everything apart, and the violence and hatred are everywhere. I don't want that for myself."

"Good," Obi-Wan says simply.

"But..."

You pause again, your throat tight, and you force yourself to continue. You need to say this. You need to confess the truth of what happened on that planet, and you need him to understand what's at stake.

"I nearly lost control," you whisper. You can feel the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the memories flooding back. "When we fought, it was like I could see every weakness, every fear, and I wanted to destroy him. I wanted to end his life."

"And you didn't," Obi-Wan counters softly. "That's what matters."

You shake your head.

"I could have. I came so close," you mutter. You let out a bitter laugh. "Or I would've died trying, anyway. If Rex hadn't been able to convince me..."

Your voice trails off as you recall the memory of his words, the plea, the desperation. The same words mirrored in your vision, and the understanding that comes with them.

You could have destroyed him. You could have embraced the darkness and brought about his demise.

The thought is a sobering and horrifying reminder of just how close you'd come to losing control. Of how much destruction and devastation you could have caused. Of the power you possess. And of the danger that comes with it.

"That's why you have to stop," Obi-Wan urges, his tone gentle, but firm.

"I am trying," you say.

"Not hard e—"

"No," you snap.

The word comes out sharper than intended, and you take a deep breath, trying to calm the rising tide of emotions. You close your eyes and count backwards from ten, your jaw clenched tightly, the anger and the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The last thing you need is another argument. Another opportunity for the darkness to take hold.

When the feeling subsides and the urge to scream passes, you open your eyes.

"No," you repeat, more calmly this time. "I am trying. I'm doing everything I can to resist the darkness. I'm meditating and training and trying to strengthen my connection to the Light. I've let go of my need for revenge, and I've been forgiving and compassionate, and none of it is working."

You look away, focusing on the far wall, and you force yourself to keep talking. You have to explain. He has to understand.

"Every time I think I've finally gotten a handle on things, something happens and it slips out of my grasp," you continue, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Like on Bothawui. I didn't lose control. Not completely. But I could feel it. The anger. The hatred. And the part that scares me is how natural it feels."

Obi-Wan's eyebrows rise in surprise at that admission, but he says nothing, letting you continue.

"It's like a reflex," you say quietly. "Whenever someone attacks me or threatens someone I care about. It's just there. Waiting for an opportunity."

Your hands clench into fists, and your nails dig into the palms of your hands. The pain is a welcome distraction from the emotions roiling inside you, and you close your eyes and take a deep breath.

"That's why I'm trying so hard," you say, your voice calmer now. "I'm trying to control the darkness, not embrace it. There has to be something, some kind of balance I can find."

There's a long silence, and the only thing you can hear is the beating of your heart, the blood rushing in your ears, and the steady inhale and exhale of your breathing. The anger has faded, but the fear remains, the terror of the vision, the nightmare, coming back in full force.

"There's something else," you whisper, your eyes opening to look at him. "Something you should know."

His brow furrows, but he doesn't interrupt, allowing you to continue.

"When we fought Dooku," you begin hesitantly, the memory of the battle still fresh in your mind, "He said something."

"What did he say?" Obi-Wan asks, his voice low.

“He said things…things I know now not to be true, but they made sense at the time," you admit, the words coming out in a jumble. "That the Order is corrupt, the Senate, the entire Republic. That the Council is using the war to increase its power and influence. That they betrayed me, kept things from me, used me."

"And you believed him?" Obi-Wan asks, disbelief coloring his words.

"Yes," you answer. "For a moment, I believed him."

You pause, the guilt and the shame rising up, threatening to overwhelm you, but you force yourself to keep talking. He needs to know. He has a right to know.

"When we fought, he tried to get me to join him. And he seemed like he knew all the buttons to push, all the things I wanted to hear," you explain quietly. "He was good. Too good. Like he knew exactly what to say and do."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That Dooku's been watching me," you tell him. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable reaction. "That he's been planning this since the start."

You close your eyes, expecting anger, denial, rejection. But none of those come.

"I know," Obi-Wan's voice breaks through the silence, and your eyes fly open, meeting his steady gaze.

"You what?" you ask, shocked.

"I know," he repeats. "And I agree."

"How? How do you know?"

"Master Windu and I have suspected as much," he admits quietly. "The Separatists have always been aware of our strengths and weaknesses. We've tried to keep the details hidden, but there are times it's difficult to keep information quiet."

You stare at him in shock, the revelation leaving you speechless.

"Dooku has spies in the Senate, in the GAR, and likely in the Jedi Temple as well," Obi-Wan explains. "The fact that you were attacked during a classified mission was a concern for the Council."

"I...Why didn't you tell me?"

"We weren't sure how you'd react," Obi-Wan answers truthfully. "It seemed prudent to investigate further."

It takes a moment for the implications to sink in, the realization that the entire Council has known and has been keeping the knowledge from you a struggle to comprehend. You take a shaky breath and close your eyes again, the anger and the betrayal washing over you in waves, but there's something else underneath it. Something darker. Something more dangerous.

The seed of doubt, planted by Dooku and watered by the Council's secrecy, is taking root, and it's not going to let go easily.

"If the Council has known that I'm being watched and targeted by Dooku and his allies," you begin slowly, "Then why have I been kept in the dark? Why haven't they told me?"

Obi-Wan sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly, and he looks down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

"We were worried you would act impulsively," he answers after a moment, his voice low and resigned. "That you would be reckless, and the consequences would be dire."

"Well, you were wrong," you snap. You stand up from the bed and turn away from him, pacing the length of the room. "I figured it out on my own. And I kept my head down and focused on the mission and the war."

"You did," he concedes, his eyes following your movements. "And that's admirable."

"But you don't trust me," you continue, not giving him a chance to say more. "The Council doesn't trust me."

"We trust you," Obi-Wan says softly. He stands and steps toward you, his hand resting on your shoulder, forcing you to stop and turn towards him. "I trust you."

"You don't."

"I do," he argues, his voice firm, the conviction in his words ringing true. "You are the most important person in my life, and I trust you implicitly."

"But the Council—"

"The Council is worried," he admits quietly. "They are concerned for your safety. And their concern is warranted. You are a powerful Jedi, and you are a valuable asset to the Republic.”

You close your eyes, and the images flash across the backs of your eyelids, the vision replaying itself over and over again.

The blaster shot.

Rex's grief. The destruction you're capable of causing. The death and the despair.

The way he looked at you.

It was a warning.

A warning of what's to come.

"You are strong," Obi-Wan tells you quietly. His hand slides down your arm and grips your hand. "You are capable of incredible things, and the Council recognizes that. But you are also human, and you are vulnerable, and they are worried that Dooku will use your strength and your weaknesses against you. Especially after your outburst over your investigation into Master Yaddle's death."

Your eyes fly open at the mention of Yaddle's name. The memory of her voice is still echoing in your mind, and you can't help but wonder if this is somehow connected. If she's reaching out to you, trying to warn you. Trying to stop you from destroying everything and everyone around you.

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan adds after a moment. "I wish the Council could have been more forthcoming. But the fact remains that you are an asset in the war, and they can't afford to lose you."

The words sting, but there's no malice behind them, no anger or resentment, and you know that he's telling the truth. That the Council is scared of what might happen if Dooku and his allies managed to turn you away from the Light.

You are an asset.

A weapon.

A tool.

Nothing more.

"I understand," you say softly, the resignation in your voice matching his. You pull away, the distance between the two of you seeming like a gulf, and you shake your head. "And I don't blame them."

Obi-Wan gives you a small smile, and he reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "That's a relief."

You grab his wrist before his hand can fall back to his side, and you hold his gaze, the intensity in your eyes matching his.

"But I need to know that you believe me," you say quietly. "That I'm doing everything I can to resist the temptation."

His expression softens, and his fingers twitch, but he doesn't try to pull away. He nods and squeezes your hand gently.

"I believe you," he murmurs.

The words send a wave of relief through you, and a bit of the weight on your shoulders lifts. It's not much, but it's something.

You let go of his wrist and step away. Your hand drops to your side, and you turn towards the window, looking out at the courtyard below, the leaves dancing in the wind, the sunlight glinting off the golden leaves.

"What happened in the training room…” you start slowly.

Obi-Wan's arms are folded across his chest as he comes to stand next to you, and he leans against the windowsill, his eyes on the courtyard. "What is it?"

"I...had a vision," you confess. "Or a dream. I'm not sure. But it was bad. Really bad."

You can see his brow furrowing out of the corner of your eye, and he turns towards you, the worry in his gaze unmistakable. "Tell me."

You hesitate, the words stuck in your throat. You can still feel the weight of Rex's grief. The pain and the anguish. The way he had looked at you. And the way he had pointed the blaster at your chest and pulled the trigger.

Your hands grip the sill tightly, the stone biting into the skin of your palms, and you tell him everything. Yaddle. The destruction of the city. The darkness. Rex. The blaster shot. Everything.

"It felt so real," you finish. Your voice is shaking slightly, and you can feel the tears threatening to fall, but you manage to keep them at bay. "I could feel the pain. I could feel the fear."

Obi-Wan's silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he speaks.

"Do you think it's a vision of the future?"

"I think it's a warning," you reply. "It has to be."

He nods.

"I agree," he says quietly.

The words send a shiver through you, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. It's not a relief, not really, but it's a validation of sorts. A confirmation that what you're feeling is real, and that it's worth fighting against.

"And I think..." you begin hesitantly, the memory of the blaster shot still fresh in your mind. "I think Rex is the key."

"The key?" he asks.

"In the vision," you explain. "Rex is the only person who can stop me. He's the only person who can save me."

"From yourself," Obi-Wan concludes, understanding the implication of your words immediately. At your nod, his brow furrows, and his hand comes up to stroke his beard thoughtfully. "Are you sure about that?"

You hesitate. Are you? You think back to the way Rex had pleaded with you, the desperation in his voice, the way his hand had shook as he'd pointed the blaster at your chest. The same way he pleaded for you to leave Dooku behind and live instead of killing him and dying yourself.

It's everything you'd feared and more. Rex doesn't just hold your leash. He holds your life in his hands. If you can't control the darkness inside you, the anger and the rage, the potential for destruction, Rex will have to be the final defense. He will have to be the line in the sand.

You can't let that happen.

"Yes," you finally say. You swallow hard and look down at your hands, the scars standing out starkly against the skin. "I'm sure."

Obi-Wan sighs and shakes his head.

"Well," he says. "That complicates things."

"It does," you agree quietly. You can feel the anxiety and the fear rising up, the dread settling in the pit of your stomach. But you push it back, forcing yourself to stay focused, to keep the fear at bay. "But I'm not going to let that vision come true."

"No," Obi-Wan agrees firmly. He places a hand on your shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "You're not."

You nod and take a deep breath, the confidence in his voice bolstering your resolve. You're not going to let the darkness win. You're not going to become the monster in the vision. And Rex isn't going to have to pull the trigger.

"You have my word," you say quietly. "Whatever it takes."

"I believe you," Obi-Wan replies. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and he pulls you into a hug, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. "I'm proud of you."

"Thanks," you murmur. You close your eyes and lean into the embrace, the warmth and the safety a welcome comfort. You allow yourself a moment to enjoy the feeling, the fear and the anxiety fading, before pulling away and looking up at him. "I...I'm sorry. For everything. For keeping this from you. For lying to you."

"Don't be," he says gently. He runs a hand over your hair, his expression softening. "I'm sorry we weren't more forthcoming. It's as you said before. We're both to blame. Though I would agree it was more myself and the Council to blame than any other.”

"I can’t argue with that," you sigh. You shake your head and offer him a weak smile. "I'm still sorry."

"Me too," he says quietly. He gives your shoulder another squeeze before letting his hand drop back to his side. "And if you promise never to hide anything of this nature from me again, I might consider forgiving you."

You snort and roll your eyes playfully. "Deal."

"Good." He smiles and motions toward the door. "Now let's get you to the Halls of Healing. You need to be checked out."

"Obi-Wan," you whine, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, "I'm fine."

"You were unconscious for hours," he reminds you. His voice is stern, but there's a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and he gives you a shove towards the door. "I'll hear no more complaints. We're going."

"Fine," you grumble.

The two of you make your way out of the bedroom and down the corridor. You're relieved to see that the Temple is relatively empty, and no curious eyes are on you as you pass through the hallways and make your way to the Halls of Healing.

"In the interest of honesty," you begin, keeping your voice low so no eavesdroppers can hear, "There's one more thing I should probably tell you."

"Yes?"

You take a breath, steeling yourself.

"I’m in love with Rex."

You don't wait for a reaction from Obi-Wan. Instead, you continue walking, stepping into the lift and hitting the button for the Halls of Healing without pausing. The doors slide shut before the two of you, and the lift begins its descent.

"Well," he remarks once the lift starts moving. His expression is carefully neutral, but there's a glint in his eyes. "That's certainly an interesting development."

"Interesting," you repeat dryly. "That's a nice way of putting it."

Obi-Wan chuckles. "Forgive me if I'm not entirely shocked by the news."

"Not entirely?"

"I'm a bit surprised you're only now bringing it up," he admits, the teasing in his tone impossible to miss. "I tried to tell you, several times. But you insisted that the two of you were just friends, and that the way he looked at you meant nothing. As if I wouldn't recognize the way he looks at you."

"I was being stubborn," you admit sheepishly.

"You were," Obi-Wan agrees. He gives you a playful nudge. "So what changed?"

"I've always felt something for him," you start slowly. "But the more time I spend with him...the stronger the feelings have become. And last night, some of the Torrent boys let it slip that he was in love with me."

"Ah."

"It was the way they said it. Like it was something everyone knew, something so commonplace, so inevitable," you continue. You can't help but smile, a small chuckle escaping your lips as the memory comes back to you. "They were talking about him like he was this hopeless romantic, and I just...I couldn't ignore the truth of it anymore."

He hums and gives a small nod. "He does seem rather devoted."

"Yes, well," you huff. You turn and give him a pointed look. "Apparently it's been that way for a while."

"And?"

"And," you continue, "I realized I feel the same."

Obi-Wan is silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the floor. He seems to be deep in thought, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his response.

"I'm glad," he finally says.

"You are?" you ask, surprised.

He nods and turns to face you fully, a small smile on his lips.

"I'm glad that the two of you have found happiness together," he tells you. His voice is gentle, and his expression is soft. "And I'm glad that you've finally admitted your feelings for each other."

"But the Code," you protest weakly.

"The Code is meant to guide us. To give us structure and focus. But it's not infallible," Obi-Wan answers softly. "The Code does not forbid love."

"But attachment–”

"Is not the same as love," he finishes for you. He reaches out and takes your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It's possible to have love without attachment. You know that well. You just have to choose to be selfless. And I have no doubt that both of you are capable of such a thing."

You let out a shaky breath and blink back the tears that are suddenly pricking at the corners of your eyes, giving him a grateful smile.

"Thank you," you murmur, and you squeeze his hand.

"You're welcome," he says softly. He sighs and looks down at your joined hands, his expression turning wistful. "I was worried. For a while. After our...disagreement about the Council's decision not to investigate Yaddle's death."

You frown and open your mouth to respond, but he shakes his head and continues, cutting you off.

"It was a difficult time for you, and I know I was a part of the problem," he tells you quietly. His thumb strokes the back of your hand absently. "I didn't want you to lose your faith in the Order. In the Light. In yourself."

You stare at him, your heart swelling in your chest.

"But you didn’t. And I'm so proud of you," he murmurs. His gaze finds yours again, and his smile is warm. "And I'm glad that, even though your path is complicated, and the journey is challenging, you're finding happiness and love along the way. It's apparent how deeply you care about each other. If this is what it takes to keep you from falling, I'll gladly give my blessing, however much that matters to you.”

"Obi-Wan..." 

You trail off, the lump in your throat preventing the words from forming. You're not sure how to respond, or even what to say. The relief and the gratitude and the love are too much, and the tears threaten to spill over. You blink hard against them and force a shaky smile. 

"You won't lose me,” you murmur. “I promise."

"I hope not," he says. There's a sadness in his gaze, and a bitterness creeps into his voice. "Nothing is certain in war. Nothing is guaranteed. Not even love."

"I'm not going anywhere," you reassure him. You step closer and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. He returns the embrace, his arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. "No matter what happens, I'll always be here."

Obi-Wan is silent, and you can feel his body tense underneath your touch. There’s a tremor in his hand, and you can hear his heart pounding in his chest. His grip on you tightens, and his breath hitches. For a moment, you wonder if you said the wrong thing, if he's upset or angry. But all you can feel through the tenuous connections of your bond is sadness and grief. Regret.

Finally, Obi-Wan pulls away, and his eyes find yours. There's a weariness there, a pain that's been hidden away. A burden he's been carrying for years. He looks like he wants to say something, but the words won't come. The emotions are too strong. So instead, he gives you a soft smile, and he steps away as the doors open.

"I know," he says quietly. He looks away and takes a deep breath. "I know.”

taglist: @baddest-batchers @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear

@thegreatpipster @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @aynavaano @floofyroro

@ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon

@heavenseed76 @dreamie411 @sukithebean @bimboshaggy @bunny7567

@lostqueenofegypt @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @heidnspeak

@ghostymarni @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @burningnerdchild @yoitsjay

@callsign-denmark @julli-bee @moonychicky @captn-trex @feral-ferrule

@webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @cw80831 @chaicilatte @somewhere-on-kamino

@sensitive-shark @kashasenpai @kkdrawsdecently @isaidonyourknees @awkwardwookie

@sugarrush-blush @lunaastars @capricornrabies @champagnejaig @silly-starfish

[paleo-vodka]

i gave up