Summary: Sam is stuck in purgatory, and there's only one solution. Or, You confront your feeling.
Word count: 931
CW: the grammar is dead/eng isnt my first language | angst no comfort
The street was dirty, hidden away from the sun, the only colors being the graffiti on the wall taunting you, highly contrasting with the situation at hand. Standing next to the impala, you watched as Dean and Benny were heavily talking, heart bare for each other to see.
With Sam being stuck in purgatory, the vampire had agreed upon the hunter's plan, which had been the only solution he had managed to think about. The regrets and turmoil were painted all over the Winchester's features, the way he carried himself, the way he talked, his eyebrows furrowed upward. He was going to behead someone that had become family to him in order to save his little brother.
In the back, you felt helpless, powerless, like you had never felt before. Bits of past conversations you had with Dean about the vampire were flashing in front of your eyes, particularly the one back at Bobby's cabin.
The discussion had occurred weeks before, Sam had been away jogging, saying he needed to clear his head, leaving you alone with the older brother. Strangely, it had been a rather calm day, nothing odd happening in the world. There had only been welcomed peace and quiet, something you had both rightfully earned.
Laying on the couch, a blanket on you, you had exchanged with Dean, who was fumbling through Bobby's mess the second you all arrived the day before.
“You want to know something?” You had inquired, straightening and twisting your upper body up to see the man you were talking with, arms resting at the top of the couch’s backrest. “I like Benny.”
Your statement had struck Dean, getting him to stop his digging, his own body turning completely to you, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah?” Was all he said, surprised lingering at the back of his voice. Yet you still caught how he secretly examined you, searching for hints that you were lying or messing with him. He found nothing.
Humming, you nodded, an affectionate smile illuminating your face. “He seems very nice, polite, funny, reliable, loyal.” You explained, listing all the qualities you had seen in the vampire. “He's quite handsome and charming.” A twinkle of desire had been visible in your eyes. “And you trust him, which in my book is a rather big argument.”
At that, Dean couldn't help himself, letting a bark of laughter slipped out of his mouth. It wasn't often that his lack of trust in others was used as a positive point. All you saw at that moment was his smile, a faint one, but it was there. Knowing he had been through a lot the past year, you never asked why he had smiled fondly, gaze looking beyond you, preferring to admire the rare sight of Dean Winchester smiling.
“If Sammy was here.” He had declared, disapprovingly shaking his head, a smile still etched on his face.
“Screw him!” You exclaimed, a smile on your own drawing your lips. “He had a fling with a werewolf and a weird thing with a demon.”
The evening had been light, filled with laughter and warm feelings. It was a fond, happy memory. The opposite of what was playing in front of your eyes.
Emotions were flying around, both men having a high esteem and respect for the other. They were tired, exhausted of losing their loved one, fed up with this world that wasn't making any sense.
It broke you, listening to Benny saying he didn't belong here, that he was out of place. He was a beautiful soul who the world had decided to be cruel with. You had seen how loving this man was toward others, he didn't deserve an ounce of what happened to him, you were convinced of that.
But what broke you down the most was the way he talked. Like he wasn't coming back, like he wasn't going to take the ride back with Sam like he had done with Dean. You couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to be the last time you would see him, hear him. The faraway look in his beautiful eyes didn't help either.
You were in despair. Everything was crumbling around you, people were dying, others were just leaving. You were tired as well. And you had regrets, a lot of them. Which was why, in the depth of your being, you found enough boldness for one last act. Walking toward the vampire, you put one hand at the nape of his neck bringing him lower, closer to you, pressing your lips against his. It was a simple kiss. One you tried to convey all the affection and love you had for him.
Detaching your lips you whispered, "I owe you a rather embarrassing explanation once you come back."
A small smile came latching on Benny's lips, playfulness sparkling in his ocean irises. "And if I don't make it."
"Then this is goodbye." Your voice broke a little, as you drifted your eyes one last time around his features, memorizing every detail.
Walking away, you turned back facing the wall, not brave enough to witness Dean cutting the vampire's head. Tears were pickling the edge of your eyes upon hearing a muffled thud on the ground.
The drive to Maine was silent. Neither of you were in the right state of mind to talk. Arriving at the forest, you followed Dean closely, anxiety slowly starting to eat you away, a pit forming at the bottom of your stomach. And by the look painted on Sam's face, you knew you had said Goodbye.
The studio hesitated. Cameras kept rolling. Sandler leaned forward, eyes locked on the panel with the same laser-focus he usually reserves for a performance.
“Let me be clear,” he continued. “This chaos you keep talking about isn’t spontaneous. It’s being amplified. Weaponized. Used for political gain.”
A panelist tried to jump in, but Sandler raised his hand, halting the interruption with professional poise.
“No—look at the facts. When streets are allowed to spiral out of control, when police are restrained, when the rule of law is weakened, ask yourself one question: who benefits?”
He paused, then answered it himself.
“Not Donald T.r.u.m.p.”
“This disorder is being used to scare Americans. To convince them the country is broken beyond repair. And then—conveniently—to blame the one man who keeps saying the same thing: law and order matters.”
Someone muttered, “That sounds authoritarian.”
Sandler snapped back immediately.
“No. Enforcing the law is not authoritarian. Securing borders is not authoritarian. Protecting citizens from violence is not the end of democracy—it’s the foundation of it.”
The camera zoomed in.
“The real game here,” Adam Sandler said, his voice sharpening, “is convincing Americans that demanding order is dangerous, while celebrating chaos as progress.”
He spoke slowly, deliberately.
“Donald T.r.u.m.p isn’t trying to cancel elections. He’s trying to defend the voices that the political and media elites ignore—the people who just want a safe country and a fair system.”
Sandler finished, staring straight into the lens.
“America doesn’t need more fear-driven narratives. It doesn’t need apocalyptic monologues. It needs truth, accountability, and leaders who aren’t afraid to say that order is not the enemy of freedom.”
The room fell quiet—not from shock, but because the message had been delivered plainly.
pls forgive me, this took way too long😭 I’ve been getting back into the swing of work plus my main blog has been severely neglected. but here you go!
table of contents
chapter 7 - tiniest death
Dalphri and the Jedi in the medical wing have pumped you so full of drugs that the two weeks after Jelucan are nothing more than a fever dream. Your conversation with Jecki is the most coherent you’ll be until a sunny morning where you wake up to find Yord, asleep on a chair and holding your hand.
His head is tilted back, mouth slightly open. He’s snoring every so slightly although he’d be appalled at the accusation. His robes are crumpled slightly, and you wonder how long he’s been here. You’ve rarely (if ever) seen his clothing wrinkled, aside from the night you saw them on the floor.
And even then, you weren’t really paying attention to the clothes, were you?
Yord senses you’re awake and opens his eyes.
“Morning sunshine,” you say.
“Good morning,” he replies. “How are you?”
“Good, I think,” you respond. You take stock of your body. Your blood feels normal, hand feels normal, heartbeat- well, you don’t think it will ever be normal if Yord’s in the room.
It’s so silly and so stupid- you feel like a padawan, blushing at the thought of him.
He’s just Yord, you remind yourself. The same Yord who steams his robes every night and needs everything in his room to be perfectly straight. Who short-circuits at the thought of something outside his paradigm, unless it involves a diplomatic matter in which case, he’s all in.
“What are you doing here?”
Yord moves to lean on the bedrail. “Venez and I have been staying with you in shifts. He should be here in a few minutes. Do you need anything before I go?”
You grip his hand and pull it ever so slightly. “Can you stay?”
Yord frowns, but you know it’s really a smile because he tells you to move over and gets into bed next to you.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says. “Imanu Venez is insufferable without you.”
“Rude,” Venez says from the doorway. “And hey, you’re all better! Move over, Yord, I don’t want to squish her.”
“I can’t move any further-”
“Well you need to make room somehow-”
“It’s a finite space, it’s not like I can just-”
“You could try.”
Venez and Yord are on either side of you at awkward angles, but you don’t care. They’re both doing their best not to hurt you, and it’s sweet.
Dalphri opens the door a moment later. “You’re alive!” she squeals. “I got the notification that your vitals were back to normal and I ran, literally ran to get here first. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Dalphri piles on top of you, causing yelps of complaint from Imanu and Yord.
“Touching, this is,” comes a voice from the doorway.
“Master Yoda!” the four of you chorus. Yord tries to get up but can’t, awkwardly pinned down.
“Seen this sight since you were younglings, I haven’t,” Yoda says. “The best at meditation, you were not.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Master, I was an angel,” Venez grins.
Yoda diplomatically says nothing.
“Better you are?” he asks and you say, “Yes,” as best you can from being crushed under your friends.
“Good,” he replies. “Much to discuss we have, I’m sure. Resume your celebration, I will let you.”
Venez says, “My back is cramping.”
“Happens, when you get older,” Yoda replies with a smile.
“No Master, I’m young and exciting! My whole life is ahead of me!” Venez calls to Yoda’s retreating figure. You turn your head to look at Yord. He has a pained expression, so you tap his ankle with your foot. He meets your eyes but his expression stays the same.
You mouth, “Lighten up a little, love,” and he softens.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers into the shell of your ear. “I missed you.”
—
It’s your first night back in your room in almost three weeks. You stand in the doorway and take it in.
It’s a standard room for a Jedi Knight, but it’s one of the few things that’s just yours. The bed on the left with a pillow you got on Naboo. The cream-colored curtains on the round window directly opposite from where you’re standing. The uneti tree in the corner from Ahch-To.
As you survey your room, your eye catches on something. Someone’s been in here, straightened up and placed your new kyber crystal on your dresser. It’s right next to your lightsaber, and they fill your chest with a pleasant buzz.
You close your eyes and plant your feet in the floor, just feeling. You see the ghosts of Imanu Venez opening the window for fresh air, Dalphri Ameras straightening the bedspread, Yord Fandar re-straightening it and unpacking your bag. You feel him turn the kyber crystal between his fingers, press it to his lips, then put it next to your saber.
Breathe in.
I am one with the Force.
Breathe out.
I wish Yord were here.
You wonder if you should go find him, he’s almost certainly in his room; but he’s probably meditating, and you don’t want to disturb him. But he probably wouldn’t mind. Or would he? You haven’t had a moment truly alone with him since that night on Jelucan. What if Master Battchi was right, and Yord’s beginning to regret his actions?
Your hand hovers at your door as you debate.
No, this is Yord you’re talking about. He’s not so fickle as to change his mind like that. You open the door and make your way down the hall to his room. He’s not far, you’re on the same floor, but it’s a more difficult walk than you’d anticipated in your weakened state. A few other knights give you curious looks as you pass, but you disregard them. Curious looks are nothing new.
You pause to lean against a column by a large window. It’s night, but Coruscant is no less busy. Ships and vehicles of all kinds pass by and you press a hand to your chest in an effort to regain control of your breathing.
Breathe in.
I am one with-
Breathe out.
I am one-
Breathe in.
I am-
Breathe.
You slide to the floor
Your clenched fingers dig into your crystallized palm, reminding you that you’ve been permanently changed. No one, not even yourself, truly understands the physical effects Jelucan had on you. Why you’re still weak and Yord was fine, you’ll never know. You wonder if you’ll have side effects for the rest of your life or if the kyber in your hand will eventually become the only reminder of your mission.
Your eyes are heavy. You should have listened to Dalphri when she told you to take it as easy as you can, and you remember the pills she gave you for fatigue.
“Force illness or no, these will help you get back to normal. Take two in the morning and one at night, and you should be back to yourself in a week,” she’d said.
You can picture where they are in your bag back in your room, and mentally curse yourself for not taking one before you went to find Yord. You close your eyes, just for a moment, promising that you’ll get back up in a minute.
Someone calls your name. Boots hit the floor, running toward you and you crack your eyes open. Yord drops to his knees in front of you and puts his hands on either side of your face. He’s checking your pulse, tilting your head from side to side as carefully as he can.
He asks, “What happened?” and it takes far too much effort to reply than you think it should.
“Came to find you. Got tired,” you slur. Best to keep it succinct and conserve energy.
“Can you walk?” he questions. He’s still holding you, running his thumbs up and down your cheekbones.
“Dunno. Can try.”
Yord slings your arm around his shoulders and supports your back as he all but drags you to your feet.
You say, “Thanks,” and lean heavily against him as you stumble back to your room.
He punches the door code in with ease. “Go lay down.”
He doesn’t have to tell you twice. You flop down onto the bed with a sigh as Yord rummages through your bag.
“Here,” he says. He hands you a glass of water and you throw back your medication with a grimace.
You say, “I feel hungover,” in an attempt to make him laugh but he just shakes his head.
The pills works with remarkable speed and before long, you feel your head clear up.
Yord hasn’t moved from his position, standing beside your bed with his arms crossed. He’s either changed or pressed his robes, because they show no sign of his visit in the medical wing.
“All better,” you say with a half-hearted smile.
He doesn’t budge. “What were you doing?” he asks sternly. “You’re supposed to be resting. Do I have to install a lock on the outside of your door?”
You shrug and look away. Tears well up and you blink them back. You’re not even sure why they’re there. Maybe it’s relief at finally being in your own bed and finally being alone with Yord.
Yord sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. He reaches for your hand and presses a kiss right on the crystals. “I was just worried. You’re lucky I was on my way to find you.”
At those words you surge forward to capture his lips in yours. He makes a startled noise but reciprocates as you tangle your hand in his hair. You run your other hand down the length of his arm and when you reach his hand, you place it on your thigh. He squeezes for a brief moment, then pulls away.
“We can’t.”
You groan. “Yord. I’m fine. And anyway, it’s a natural painkiller.”
Yord shakes his head. “I’m not talking about that, but that is a concern. I was considering the fact that there are a few thousand Jedi in the Temple right now, and that raises the chances of us getting caught by an astronomical amount. Besides, it’s forbidden.”
You snort. How quintessentially Yord. He abides by his rules even when breaking them. “Yord. Do you have any idea how many padawans, right now, are-”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he warns.
You raise your hands in defense. “You remember what it was like,” you tell him. “All those hormones. Being told that we still had a chance to decide if the Order was for us or not. Of course, I was a perfect angel and never did anything but I know for a fact Dalphri-”
Yord covers your mouth with his hand. He says your name like both a plea and a sigh of resignation, a talent of his you’ve never been able to mimic. You kiss his palm and look up at him with the softest eyes you can muster.
“All right,” he relents, beginning to untie his robe. You reach to help him pull it off and he continues, “You have to let me know if it’s too much. You’re still not supposed to exert yourself.”
You smile. “I’ll just lay back then, shall I?”
Yord pauses. “Not a bad idea.”
You take a moment to admire his biceps as he slips his fingers under your waistband. The cool air hits your legs and you gasp.
tee hee guys I know I say it every time but I’m living my best little life writing this. I’m so serious, this brings me SO much joy and ik it’s silly and whatever but I don’t care!!
in case u didn’t know, in this house we stan the Jedi. there is no Jedi slander here, they are sweet beautiful people (with flaws, okay, I’m not blind) but they really are keeping peace in the galaxy. and people get weird about their attachment rules but that’s because over time the intent of the law gets corrupted by the letter of the law. and that’s just life.
anyway Jedi good Sith bad idk how to make it more clear😌
table of contents
chapter 6 - quiet treason
Morning comes far too soon. It’s not unfamiliar to wake up next to Yord, but what is unfamiliar is the way he brushes the hair out of your eyes with the softest smile you’ve ever seen. That’s all it takes to remind you that yesterday was no dream.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough with sleep. You groan.
“My bones hurt,” you say, and it’s the understatement of the millennium. Every single nerve feels like it’s on fire, your muscles are tensed to the breaking point, and it feels like a herd of banthas are running inside your head.
Yord sits up to get a better look at you, concern etched on his face. “You don’t look well,” he says, and you frown.
“Thanks, Yord. Sorry I don’t wake up with perfect hair like you.”
Yord half-reaches for his hair, self-conscious. You can practically hear the words, you think I have perfect hair? but instead his hand changes direction to touch your forehead. It’s soothing, the cool of his hand against the warmth of your forehead.
Except you run cold-blooded. His hand should feel warm.
“You’re burning up,” he says, throwing off the blankets. “I’m calling Dalphri.”
You reach for him, but catch sight of your left hand in the process. You gasp.
“Yord!”
He’s back at your side in an instant, and you thrust your hand to him, palm up.
“Oh,” he says, voice catching in his throat. “That cannot- that cannot be good. I’m sure Dalphri will know what to do. You’ll be all right, I promise. You’ll be all right.”
He reaches for his comm, still in his cloak from yesterday, and it lands securely in his hand. You’re barely aware of his call back to the temple as you stare at your palm. The gash has crystalized, white minerals sparkling along the edges. Black veins pulsate from the cut and up your arm before becoming diluted in your bloodstream.
“…Thank you, Knight Ameras,” Yord says to the comm, turning it off. “We’re going outside,” he says, pulling on a shirt and trousers before helping you into your undershirt. You groan again, whether at the prospect of moving or the fact that Yord is now in a shirt, you’re not entirely sure. But you comply and let him lift your arms as he slides your top carefully over your head.
He asks, “Can you stand?” and you shrug.
“Won’t know unless I try,” you say, except the words don’t actually come out and the world goes black.
—
You wake up to the entire world ringing. You’re no longer in your undershirt, instead wrapped in your cloak with a heavy weight on your chest. Everything is pleasantly cold; soft snow tickles your lashes as it drifts down onto your face.
“…Not sure when she’ll wake up,” comes Yord’s distorted voice. You’re coming back into your senses, buried from the neck down in a snowbank to regulate your temperature while he speaks on comms nearby.
“Hey,” you croak, and he turns to look at you. Relief doesn’t come naturally to him; his emotions are carefully trained to lie beneath the surface, but you’ve known him long enough to see the knot between his eyebrows loosen ever so slightly.
“She’s just woken up, Master,” he says. “As I was saying, I believe we will need more surveillance on this mine. This is a corrupted vergence, and-”
“Corrupted?” interrupts Master Vernestra Rwoh. “And the two of you just happened to come out unscathed?”
“Unscathed, they were not, Master Rwoh,” comes Master Yoda’s calming voice. “A debrief, we shall have. Trusted, these knights are.”
You sigh. Master Rwoh is one of the best Jedi Masters the Temple has produced in a century, becoming a knight at a mere fifteen. And yet, you wonder if perhaps that weight of responsibility is too much for her. If she is too paranoid, so bent on preserving the perfection of the Order that she has forgotten its true place in the galaxy.
“Excellent it is to hear you are well, my padawan,” Yoda says, and you crack a smile. He’s the only one who could ever get away with calling you a title below your rank. It’s a sign of affection and for you, a bond of family.
“Hm,” you rasp out, and you barely hear his chuckle before he and Master Rwoh sign off.
“Yord,” says Master Battchi.
You frown. You hadn’t realized he was on the call. In fact, you’re not sure who else had been on the call. It stands to reason that if three members of the council were there, the rest could have been as well.
“I wanted to speak to you on a personal matter,” Master Battchi says. You do your best to tune out what he’s saying, instead trying to focus on the snow around you. Your temperature is going back to normal, and you wiggle your hand to see if you can feel the crystals there. You’re not sure if it’s your imagination, but you think you feel a crunch.
Your ear picks up Master Battchi saying, “I just want you to be mindful of personal attachments,” and just like that, you’re hyper-focused.
He continues, “Events like this can put great strain on our minds. Emotion clouds judgement, and there are some judgements that cannot be undone. I have seen many a Jedi slip due to hasty actions.”
“I understand, Master,” Yord says. “I have not allowed my emotions to distort my decisions. You have taught me well; this assignment was highly eventful, and my concerns lay in making sure that we did not lose one of the best swordsman the Jedi have seen in a good long while. She is a great asset to the Order, and I would hate to be the one responsible for losing her.”
“Good,” replies Master Battchi. “As long as your concerns are not emotional. Yord, I shall see you soon. May the Force be with you.”
“May the Force be with you,” Yord responds. He clicks of the comms then finally turns all the way toward you.
You, meanwhile, are having a hard time understanding what you’re hearing.
“Yord. You just lied. And you lied well,” you say, incredulous.
Yord never once wavers in intensity. “I want you and I want to remain with the Order. I will not sacrifice one for the other. I will do whatever it takes to have both.”
You’d kiss him, except the Jelucan colony is beginning to appear around you. You settle for a half-smile instead. He feels your forehead, nods in satisfaction, then stands. “More Jedi are coming to help contain the mine, and to help you find another one to sustain your lifestyle. I’m happy to answer further questions in an hour, once my partner is in a more stable condition. The Order thanks you for your cooperation, and we hope to help you move forward as soon as possible.” Yord bends, scoops you up out of the snow, and carries you back to your housing.
“What happened to my shirt?” you mumble, snuggling as close as possible.
“You threw up,” he states. “It was disgusting.”
—
The flight back to Coruscant is a blur. You have no memory of the Jedi sent to remain on Jelucan or of getting on the ship; you barely remember a worried Dalphri Ameras poking your arm and attaching you to all kinds of machines.
“We just need to keep her stable until we get back to the medical wing,” she tells Yord. “No, don’t touch that!” She swats away a med droid, then apologizes. “I’m sorry, I just need you to keep an eye on her vitals. This is a discipline in which I’m not well-studied.”
“Apology accepted, Knight Ameras,” beeps the droid. He moves to hover in a corner, watching the ebb and flow of your vital signs.
Something’s in your right hand, and you grip it trying to figure out what it is. Everything is so… hazy.
“Hey, I’m right here,” says Yord, his face coming into view. “I’m not leaving. You’re going to be all right.”
You try to smile and tell him, I know, silly, but something Dalphri has given you hits your system and you black out once more.
—
You wake abruptly, with the strangest feeling that you’re being watched. Things are clearer now, and you can tell you’re in the Jedi Temple’s medical wing. But you could’ve known that by the sterile smell alone. It’s never been a particular favorite place of yours, but you’ve spent a good amount of time here while Dalphri studies and schemes so you’re familiar.
You roll your head to the other side of the bed and come face to face with a group of younglings.
“How-“ you ask groggily, but are interrupted by a Caphex closest to the front.
“Do you really have kyber crystals in your hand?” she lisps.
“Are you going to build another lightsaber?” asks a Quemerian, head sticking above the group.
“Can you teach us how to fight? Master Sol says you’re the best-”
“Can I be your padawan? I’m still little, but Master Poof-”
“Why does Master Yoda talk like that? Can you-“
Their clamoring is sweet, but overwhelming. You’ve always liked younglings, with their wide-eyed optimism and eagerness to learn. There’s a part of you that considers teaching in the temple one day, if you were ever asked. You’re fairly certain Yoda will at some point, and although younglings lack the technical skill with a saber that padawans possess, there’s something satisfying about teaching them the foundations of Jedi combat.
You smile and open your mouth in hopes that a response comes out, but you’re saved by someone loudly clapping their hands.
“All right, everyone out! You’ve disturbed her enough. I’m sure she’ll come see you when she’s good and ready.”
The younglings groan, “Jecki,” in unison but they file out without further complaint.
Jecki steps forward, previously blending in with the group of younglings. “Hello,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
You squint at her. “What’s happening?”
“Master Sol sent me to check on you,” she says.
That makes sense. But- “Why were the younglings here?”
Jecki grins. “No one’s allowed to see you except members of the Council and even then, I think Knight Ameras would put up a fight. She’s so cool. Did you see she pierced her lekku?”
“We pierced her lekku,” you correct. “And anyway, what does that have to do with the younglings?”
“Master Sol isn’t allowed to see you so he sent me. I figured that I could let them in, they’d cause a scene, and then I’d be your saving grace and kick them back out. That way if Knight Ameras comes back you can tell her that I was actually helping enforce her rules,” she explains.
You take a moment to study Jecki. She seems familiar, and as you take in the orange markings on her pale face, you try to remember why. It’s not until you note her horns that you realize why.
You laugh. “I know you. You tried to out-argue Yord in front of Master Sol.”
Jecki shrugs. “Almost had him too. I see how I could have won in hindsight. Next time I suppose,” she sighs.
You laugh again. “He would not shut up about it. I think he was impressed, but don’t tell him I said that. I’m doing well, I think? My hand is still weird but my veins have receded.”
Jecki opens her mouth then shuts it just as rapidly.
You raise an eyebrow. “You want to see it, don’t you.”
“Very badly,” she responds. “Just so I can give Master Sol a… detailed report.”
“Whatever you say,” you tell her as you unwrap the bandage. “But if Dalphri comes in and sees this, we’re blaming it all on Imanu Venez. You know him? Not sure exactly how to pin this on him, but he’s our fall man.”
Jecki nods and leans closer. “That’s weird,” she says in awe. The crystals have closed the gash, forming makeshift scar tissue. You clench your hand expecting a crunch of rock against rock impeding your movement, but it feels like normal. The veins extend to your fingertips and wrist, no longer up your arm. You touch it gingerly.
“It went all the way to my chest,” you say. “I’ve never heard of anything like it. You can touch it if you want.”
Jecki reaches with her index finger for the largest crystal closest to your thumb. “Feels strange,” she says. “It’s like- it’s like I can feel the Force through it.”
You like Jecki. Maybe it’s because she’s gutsy enough to go against Yord, willing to blame a Knight she doesn’t know for trouble she’s definitely caused, or the youngling Sol chose on a private mission to check on you. It’s probably all of those things. You watch her as she gently pokes at your hand in fascination and think, do I want a padawan?
The question remains unanswered as Jecki asks, “You know how the Sith can bleed a kyber crystal?”
You nod.
“Well, what if that happened to you? I don’t mean that you’re a Sith,” she hurries on, “but rather the opposite. As in, the Jedi version of bleeding kyber? Or maybe it bled you? I’m not really sure, it’s just a working theory but I promise it’s a positive one.”
You pause to consider the implications. Certainly other Jedi have been cut by their kyber crystals in the retrieval process. And you’re by no means the first to be called by two. Jecki’s hypothesis would mean something about the purity of your heart, of your commitment to the Jedi Order- a level of commitment you’re not sure you possess.
“Jecki,” you begin slowly, “I understand what you’re saying. But I do not believe that applies to me. I would believe it if it were about a Jedi such as Master Yoda or Master Sol, but as interesting as your theory is, I do not believe it is possible in my case.”
Jecki tilts her head. “Isn’t it?”
The door swings open, silhouetting a furious Dalphri Ameras.
“What the actual kriff is going on in here?”
Without skipping a beat, you and Jecki reply, “It’s Venez’s fault.”
when I tell you these two have never thought these thoughts before… I mean it!! They are very unsmart!! But they’ve loved each other this whole time in case you couldn’t tell. You probably knew it before they did.
shorter chapter because i’m tired reasons. I’ve gone full nerd in this story and I’ve already written the ending. I’ve decided it does go through the Acolyte, but I won’t have a retelling of the series, fear not.
table of contents
chapter 5 - longsuffering propriety
Finally, finally you’re back in your room. Ja-Leri hadn’t said a single word when she appeared through the trees, sighting you and Yord for the first time. A second-wave officer, clearly her vaguely-referenced lover, is in tow. Neither of them argue when Yord commands, “Nobody goes in. Find a new mine.” They just nod and begin the trudge back to the colony.
Your hair is tousled and matted, blood and sweat dried on your face. Yord doesn’t look much better. His tunic is ripped and he has cuts on his face, too.
The door closes, and he sets the deadbolt with a satisfying click before whirling on you.
“That was incredibly irresponsible of you,” he says, and his words are like daggers, carefully sharpened and aimed. “Using Trakata? I knew you studied alternative forms, but that is both forbidden and dishonorable! It’s one thing to utilize Ataru, but the way of the Sith…” He’s seething, angrier than you’ve ever seen him.
You’re taken aback. You hadn’t needed a thank you from him, but you certainly didn’t expect him to be mad that you saved his life.
“Irresponsible of me?” you retort, “I’m not the one who went off by myself. What the actual kriff were you thinking, that was-”
Yord strides toward you, interrupting mid-sentence. “What was I thinking, what were you thinking? Oh wait, you weren’t! You just ran headfirst like you always do, not a single thought about how-”
“I guess I should be more like you then, and run all my decisions by the Council instead of taking action??”
“You could have died-”
“Would you rather I just left you to-”
“Yes! You’re too attached, you should have put the assignment first, you could have gotten hurt-”
“Oh, so I should throw away almost two decades of a friendship for some stupid assignment? You’re my best friend in the whole galaxy, Yord! I can’t just let you die!” you snarl.
You realize Yord is no longer shouting, just staring down at you with a distinct, Yord-like intensity.
You barely have a moment to exasperatedly ask, “What?” when he crashes his mouth into yours.
Your mind goes blank except for the thought: We are one with the Force.
That’s the only thing running through your head as your hands reach for his tunic to pull him closer. But no sooner do you touch him than he’s pulling away in abject horror.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t- I’m sorry. I thought you were going to die. I think I’m just- tired, maybe? I’m sorry.” He’s panicking, the epitome of Yord-ness. And you realize, oh. Of course.
Of course this was going to happen- is happening. It feels inevitable, like the last cog of your friendship has finally clicked into place. You remember a thousand moments throughout your life of the two of you, where you both should have realized that this attachment was headed in this direction.
We are one with the Force.
“Yord?” you ask, uncertain.
He’s still close enough that you only have to move half a centimeter to touch your forehead to his, but you won’t. This is his moment to process.
Yord’s eyes are squeezed shut and you briefly wonder if he’s broken.
He just went against the Jedi Code for the first time in his life, and in no small manner.
He opens them at the sound of your voice and meets your gaze.
His expression is assured. It’s so unlike him, and yet it suits him perfectly.
“We are one with the Force,” he says.
Then he’s kissing you again, backing you toward the bed, and you let him.
—
Neither of you are entirely sure what time it is as you let the warm water from the shower wash away the last traces of the earlier fight.
Yord’s hands skim along your arms and back as he leans down to kiss you. It’s slow, but no less hungry than before.
The more you touch him, the more you wonder why the thought never crossed your mind before. Or perhaps it did, but never in a way that truly registered with you.
There’s nothing quite like the freedom to softly mouth your way across his chest while he cradles your head like it’s something holy.
The entire affair feels reverent, each gasp a prayer instead of sacrilege. It doesn’t cross your mind until much later that there will be consequences if you’re found out, but for now, you’ll let his hands continue their exploration down your body.
He’s serious as always, not cracking even a hint of a smile until he brushes a soapy strand of hair out of your face.
“You look like a Nautolan,” he says, and you grin.
“My hair always looks like this in the shower,” you respond.
Yord hums. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
You raise an eyebrow and he continues, “I’m going to need to gather more evidence before coming to a complete conclusion.”
He winds the hair around his finger and you reach for his free hand. You lift it and press a kiss to the inside of his wrist as he shudders. Any physical contact seems to send him into overdrive, contorting his muscles and sending sparks through his nervous system.
Yord drops your hair in favor of resting his hand on the side of your neck. “We should get some sleep.”
You nod, and it’s only at his words that you realize how tired you actually are. Yord steps out of the shower for a towel then turns off the water before wrapping it tight around you. He flips the water switch, gets his own towel, then follows you to the bed.
You settle into his strong arms, a relatively familiar action, but one that feels more like a puzzle piece being slotted into place.
You’re facing each other in the dark. It’s much different from hours before, yet it brings back vivid images of Yord gasping your name and pressing you into the mattress, consuming you like a fire.
It’s no less intimate.
Clothing seems like a crime at this point, but he’s helped you into sleeping trousers, at least.
“I know you can’t sleep without them,” he whispers and he’s right. You’ve never been able to sleep in the gown-style nightclothes that many Jedi opt to wear. There’s something sensory about needing full-length pants in order to rest, but Yord, Dalphri, and Venez are the only ones who know.
You tangle your legs with his and press as much of your skin against him as possible. He’s warm, contrasting with the cool blood pumping through your veins.
“Master Yoda taught me,” you say quietly, running your thumb and pointer finger along Yord’s collarbone.
“Hm?” he asks, voice rough.
“Trakata. Master Yoda taught me. He said the honor of defense supersedes the honor of combat. An opponent who fights without honor does not need to be shown it in return, especially when a life is at stake.”
You’re not entirely sure why, but it’s important to you that Yord knows. Knows that you’re not a Sith, not breaking the Code, not a stranger.
At least, not breaking the Code in a way that involves him.
“I expressed an interest in lightsaber combat, and he encouraged me to learn as many different styles as I could. We all have our interests and mine seems the most… well, it seems the least serious. I flip around and swing a stick. But the rules of Jedi combat run deeper than most Jedi realize, and they are only meant to be upheld when the opponent holds the same tenets.” You’re speaking barely above a whisper now. “Trakata… it’s about reacting. Thinking outside of the box. You use your opponents strengths against them instead of targeting their weakness. It was developed for a true fight and bastardized by the Sith; my use of it makes me no more susceptible to the Dark Side than a Sith using Soresu is to the Light. It’s about what’s in your chest.”
“That is… an interesting perspective,” he answers. He disagrees with you, but not enough to do anything about it. Later though, when he has the time, you know he’ll research what you’re telling him. This is a challenge to the Jedi Order he believes in; but not the the Order as it truly exists. It threatens his paradigm, but not the Jedi.
Yord ghosts his lips across your forehead and down your nose. A contented sigh escapes your lips, and you slip away into a deep sleep.
finally finished chapter four and I’m going to do some good work on chapter five. that one is my fave so far
I am sorry that’s we’ve been slow to the romance. We’ll get there I PROMISE and then there’s no going back🤭
table of contents
chapter 4 - reference this open part of me
The humming gets louder with each step and with each crunch of dirt under your boots, you become more of the cave.
Ghosts of Jelucani miners pass by you, going about their business at first. You hear the clang of their picks and taste metal on your tongue. The peaceful visions soon transform into horror, as the ghosts rush past you with faces distorted by fear.
You feel it, terrible and visceral. Your heart’s beating faster than it should, and you grip your lightsaber tighter. The blue light mingles with the yellow from Yord’s, casting a not-quite green glow but the only thing really keeping you grounded is the sound of the nearby kyber crystal.
“We’re close,” you grit out in response to Yord’s unasked question. “Turn here.”
“It’s off the path,” Yord says, but he follows anyway.
You turn a sharp corner and find yourselves in a large cavern with multiple outlets. The two of you switch off your lightsabers; the cavern shines with a luminous glow from the kyber crystal, embedded on a wall of fogstone.
“Well,” says Yord. “We found the crystal. But no monsters. I wonder if there’s a toxin in here that’s been causing hallucinations.”
You shake your head, eyes fixed on the kyber. “Absolutely not. Just because we haven’t seen anything doesn’t mean it’s safe. We’ll get the crystal then we’ll keep going.”
Yord isn’t paying attention. “I hear something,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
“No, wait, Yord-“ you say but it’s too late, he’s disappeared. You sigh. So much for all his talk about sticking together. Oh well. He’s not far off, and you’ll join him in a moment.
The kyber crystal is high out of reach, but it’s going to be an easy enough climb to get it. You take a step and in the space it takes to blink, you’re in a desert.
Navy blue sand forms large, barren dunes under a bloodied sun filtered by clouds of smoke. The air is stifling, and reeks of death.
You can feel the cave no longer. Yord’s heartbeat is far from you, and for a brief moment you wonder if you’ve died.
But no. This cannot be what it means to become one with the Force. There is no peace, no serenity.
There is only emptiness.
No.
I am one with the Force.
You spin, lightsaber ignited against an arm swinging toward you. They meet with a buzzing clang and for a moment, your blade crackles. For the first time, you are really and truly afraid.
This has nothing to do with the nervousness you felt the night before. This is fear, real and palpable.
The arm pulls away, fades into smoke, and reforms into a being.
“Jedi,” it hisses.
Your lightsaber is still in a defensive position. This is the Force, corrupted as the Sith of old. Chills spread up your arms, and your chest tightens. You have no frame of reference for what stands before you but as you will dark sand out of your eyes, you know.
There is no way out but through.
“Let me go in peace,” you say despite the fear settling in your chest, “or we will continue in violence.”
The entire desert shakes in laughter. You watch as the sun descends, splitting into two as the smoke being grows to fill the air around you.
The ends of your hair begin to singe with the heat, but you dig your heels into the sand. The newly-formed twin suns blink and you realize they have become eyes.
“You cannot kill me, Jedi. I know who you are. You serve a cause that does not care for you. One of hypocrisy. One that turns a blind eye to way of the world. I exist to bring order to the galaxy. Your fear consumes you. I am inside of every living thing. I am inside of you.”
You smile. The being has made a critical mistake. You are no longer afraid as you breathe in, feeling the desert plants gasping for water and the buried bones of those come before you. All are one.
“You’re wrong,” you say simply. You think of Master Yoda and of Yord. Sweet Yord who has been there from the beginning; so inflexible with his ideas of propriety, but never once has he let you down. “The Jedi do care for me. You, however, do not. I feel the bones of Jedi beneath this sand; you would consume me as you did them. You say you know me, but who are you?”
The being rumbles, “I am Death.”
“I am one with the Force. What is death but a different sort of life?”
The being laughs, distorts, multiplies. “Then I am mistaken,” it choruses. “I am Nothing. I am the End.” Smoke races toward you but you don’t swing at it; instead you hold your lightsaber high as a beacon. You’re listening, straining your ears.
One of the most useful things Master Yoda ever taught you was that if there is at least one way in, there is at least one way out. You’re certain your step toward the kyber crystal is what brought you here, so you listen until you hear exactly two things:
The first is Yord, breathing in and out.
The second is the low hum of the kyber crystal.
You close your eyes, smoke clogging your lungs and vision as you press forward toward the sound.
In your mind’s eye, you see the cavern. You see the crystal shining with a dim glow on its fogstone shelf.
Hands grab at your shoulders, waist, and legs, pulling you back. You choke.
You holster your saber and muster all your strength to break free, kyber crystal clear in your mind.
I am one with the Force.
In desperation you reach for the crystal. It trembles, loosens, but a yell from deeper in the cave causes it to overshoot; slicing a deep line in your palm. “Kriff,” you swear, uncaring that you’re a Jedi and foul language is beneath you.
You clench your palm into a fist, feeling a flash of pain as the crystal is pressed into the gash. You swear again then drop it into your right hand.
It’s warm, no longer the cold piece of rock kyber remains until united with a Jedi.
You watch in fascination as it pulses with a dull blue sheen before it absorbs the blood from your hand. It swirls inside the crystal, turning it a brilliant white that illuminates the whole cavern.
I am one with the Force.
The light turns inward, traveling in a blaze up the veins in your arm through your chest and spilling out your eyes.
Someone’s screaming; whether it’s you or the being, you can’t tell. Maybe it’s both.
It doesn’t really matter because the light streaming out of you is blinding, so bright that you try to close your eyes despite the fact they’ve been closed this whole time. You wrench them open to find your self back in the cavern, kyber crystal clenched in your left hand. You’re not sure how it got there, but it’s pressed into the very real gash in your hand.
You slip it into your pocket and shake your head in an attempt to clear it. You’ll try to make sense of what happened but for now, you need to find Yord.
Another yell echoes through the cavern.
“Yord!” you shout, running toward the noice.
He calls your name and you follow it. “Yord!”
You come to a fork in the road and turn right without hesitation. You could find him anywhere. You’ll worry about getting out of here once he’s safe.
Yord’s kneeling on the ground beside a stream, head tilted back to the ceiling. As you get closer, you see his eyes are rolled back into his head. He opens his mouth to groan and black smoke spills out. The same kind you saw in the desert.
On instinct, you grab his face with both hands. The smoke disappears with a hiss, and Yord’s eyes come back to normal. He blinks, shakes his head; a mirror of you a few minutes prior.
“What happened?” he asks. “I was- I don’t know. I’ve never- We have to inform the Council.”
“We have to get out of here,” you say, exasperated. The Council is low on your list of priorities at the moment. “Come on.”
You turn back the way you came and are met with a stone wall.
You mouth kriff, and spin around to Yord.
“We’re stuck.”
He grimaces and opens his mouth to respond, but is silenced by a sound down a fogstone corridor you hadn’t noticed before.
“Yord!” calls a voice. “Yord, I’m down here! Where are you?”
He looks first at you then toward the voice.
“Yord!” calls the voice again, the one that’s identical to yours.
“Yord,” you say slowly, “that’s not me. I’m me. I don’t know what that is, but we have to get out of here.”
There’s a deep crease in his brow as he studies your face. “You feel different,” he says.
You can’t believe this. There is no way he thinks the voice is you. There’s no way he’s going further into the mine, further into the vergence instead of looking for an exit with you.
“Yes, Yord, we’re in a cave on a vergence and something weird happened with the kyber crystal and I’ll tell you about it once we get out. But we need to go and call the Council.” You’re beginning to feel exasperated, frustrated by the fact that he doesn’t trust you. It’s unnatural, in a way. He always trusts you.
“Yord, help!” shouts Not-You and before you can stop him, he’s gone again.
“Kriff,” you say, short and swift. You run after him, lightsaber ignited and trailing behind you.
You come to an abrupt halt. The path has widened into a cavern, much larger than the first and although you’ve been going downhill, you’re almost certain it’s near the entrance.
Yord has stopped in the middle, staring at a shadow.
“Yord,” the shadow says again, moving out of the darkness. It’s shaped like you, walks like you, talks like you. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Not-You steps into the light, all gray skin and limp hair.
“I told you that wasn’t me,” you gripe. “Now look what you’ve done.”
Yord throws a worried glance at back you, hesitant to take his eyes of Not-You for more than a moment. She laughs, bouncing of the stone and ignites a lightsaber. It crackles filling the air with the same energy you felt in the desert.
Yord ignites his in kind, running to swing at her.
You take half-a step to follow him, but are stopped by a hand on your shoulder. On instinct, you shrug it off; whirling around to come face-to-face with Not-Yord.
Time seems to freeze as you take him in, frozen with the shock of seeing rotting, but a shooting pain from the cut in your left palm brings you back to reality.
Not-Yord swings and you block, but he’s stronger than you. As he bears down, you’re caught in his hauntingly hollow eyes. It takes all your strength to prevent his lightsaber from pushing yours into your face. As you struggle to overpower him you notice his lips are black.
Blood spills out as he laughs.
You duck and break away. Not-Yord cackles as his lightsaber buzzes past your ear. It all seems to be happening in slow motion, your movements weighted as if you are underwater.
Dimly, you’re aware of Yord fighting the Not-You. She fights in a parody of your style, just a bit more blunt and a bit more sloppy.
But you can’t focus on that now. You have to trust Yord and fight your own battle so you assess; if Not-You is fighting like you do, then it stands to reason that Not-Yord would fight like real Yord.
And you know all of his weaknesses.
Yord primarily stays in Form III, Soresu; effective for deflecting blaster fire with applications in close combat, but repetitive in movement.
As you block and parry, you take note of Not-Yord’s strikes. He lands a powerful blow, knocking you into a stalactite. Blood runs down the side of your head and you will it away from your eyes. You count, one, two-
There it is.
His lightsaber meets yours and at just the right moment, you switch yours off. Not-Yord is thrown forward, off balance, giving you the perfect opportunity to strike.
His head falls to the dirt with a howl and a stream of thick smoke. As soon as his body hits the ground you turn, leaping on a rock for height as you bear down on the horrible facsimile of yourself. She’s so busy attacking Yord that she doesn’t notice your lightsaber slicing her in half until it’s too late. She falls apart in the same smoke as Not-Yord, and you watch as their bodies dissipate entirely.
“Well,” you say, breathing heavily, “I think it’s time for us to go.”
y’all I am having way too much fun writing this. and I am genuinely excited about the interactions I’ve been having because of this series. pls keep telling me your thoughts and if you have any feedback at all!! 🥹🫶
table of contents
chapter 3 - if you go i’m going too
Ja-Leri doesn’t say much more the entire hike despite your efforts to get more details. Mass insanity is not terribly uncommon among clandestine species, particularly those that are not evolved to spend prolonged time underground.
But something’s wrong here.
There’s not much of a welcome when you enter Colony Six, but the community’s reaction can only be described as relief. Jedi on assignment are often met with apprehension, mistrust, and downright malice; this is a welcome change.
Snow begins to drift from the sky and cover the ground in a thin dust. You see Yord stifle a shiver and slip him a heat pack.
Ja-Leri leads you to standard housing, a long building with at least twenty doors. You follow her to the very last one, where she points to the keypad.
“Code is 3341,” she says. “I’m the one that sets them, so I’m the only one that knows it. There’s a deadbolt on the inside. Everyone’s been using them these days. I’ll be back at first light to lead you to the mines.”
You say, “Thank you,” but she’s already gone. You shrug your pack off your shoulders and onto the floor. Yord is already unpacking onto the small dresser in the room.
“Only one bed,” he says, nodding to center of the room. “Please don’t kick me this time.”
You flop down onto the center, arms outstretched. “No promises.”
Yord sighs in mock exasperation. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to share a bed, and thankfully it’s large enough for two people. He says, “Move over,” so you scoot to the left side. Yord lays down next to you and stares at the ceiling.
“We should contact the Council,” he says.
“Why?” you ask. “Nothing’s happened yet.”
Yord cranes his neck to look at you. “The Jelucani deliberately withheld information to get us here. What if it’s a plot of some kind?”
You take a moment to consider. He’s not wrong. This entire thing has seemed strange from the moment you landed. And you’re not trying to be paranoid, but even the Force seems strange.
“It’s dark here,” you comment, and Yord understands.
He says, “I feel it too,” and you’re both silent.
“I’m not scared,” you say, but your grip on Yord’s hand says otherwise.
“We’re together. It’ll be fine,” he says, sitting up. “Come on. You can use the fresher while I notify the Council and see if our instructions change.”
You sit up too and wrinkle your nose. “Are you saying I’m smelly?”
“Yes,” Yord deadpans, and you laugh.
“Fine. But you’re next. You have dirt on your face.”
Yord swipes at an imaginary smudge, making you laugh again as you head into the fresher.
—
You’re awoken by a scream.
Yord sits bolt-upright in bed, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.
“Hey,” you say, alarmed, “are you all right?”
He turns to look at you, and you’re startled by the haunted look in his eyes.
“You’re okay,” he finally says.
You give him an odd look. “Yes I’m okay, are you? I’m not the one who woke up screaming.”
Yord reaches to touch the end of your hair. “You’re okay,” he repeats, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Yord,” you say as you grab his wrist, “you’re scaring me. I’m okay. I’m asking if you’re all right or if I need to call someone.”
That seems to shake him out of whatever shock he’s in. “Yes, I’m all right. I just- I had a nightmare.”
You softly ask, “Do you want to talk about it?” and Yord says, “You died.”
Oh.
You take a breath. “Well. That’s going to happen one way or another. I am one with the Force, Yord. It will just be in another form.”
Yord nods. He knows this, has been taught this since he was a youngling just like you.
“Was it bad?” you ask after a beat.
You’re still holding his wrist.
“No,” Yord whispers, but he’s lying. He wouldn’t wake up screaming if it weren’t bad and anyway, he’s a terrible liar.
But you won’t question him so instead you lay down and tell him to go back to sleep. You wrap one arm around him and he sighs. It’s a long day ahead, and you need to be rested.
—
Ja-Leri knocks on the door moments after you and Yord finish getting ready.
“Let’s go,” she says.”
Colony Six has already woken up, but people just mill about; no one seems to be headed to the mines.
“They’re afraid,” she says, as if reading your mind.
Gray faces stare at your little trio as you pass. Each species that has settled here has evolved to blend in with the mountains. Or maybe they’re stained from fogstone dust or it’s from the climate but whatever the case, it only adds to their ghostly appearance. Hardly an eye is free from that same haunted look you saw in Yord’s eye last night.
“You said some of the children have nightmares, and the adults have gone insane,” Yord prompts.
Ja-Leri shakes her head. “We all have nightmares. It’s expected, but the children- they haven’t been to the mines. We don’t know why they’re affected. But it’s always the same. Graphic visions of death, of things that they shouldn’t even know. It can take hours to convince them it wasn’t real and even then, I don’t think they believe it.”
You glance at Yord. That has to be what happened to him.
“That just sounds like a normal bad dream,” he says. “Not enough reason to request Jedi presence.”
“It isn’t normal,” Ja-Leri retorts.
She’s getting agitated, but Yord won’t let up. “You say that, but we have yet to see signs of insanity. Your dreams sound like dreams. And what makes you think there’s something in the mines, or that the Jedi can do something about it?”
Ja-Leri glares at him. “Half the children in town had the same dream of their parents melting right in front of them. Almost all of them have been able to describe dreams where they are crushed by rocks in horrible detail. And I have yet to hear of a child who hasn’t dreamt of watching the town get eaten by monsters. They all describe it being dark and smelling like sulfur. We take care of our children hear. They shouldn’t even have a frame of reference for this and yet they’ve seen it. They can’t not see it.”
Yord meets her gaze. “I understand. Thank you for clarifying.”
That seems to quell Ja-Leri as she continues the path out of the colony.
Ja-Leri is the leader of Colony Six. Each Jelucani colony has their own way of choosing representatives, some through bloodlines, some through rotation, and some through election. She’s young to have such a responsibility on her shoulders, but she holds her head with stubborn pride.
Colony Six elects leaders through public forum, with no set term. If the forum decides the term is up, it’s up.
“How did you become the leader of Colony Six?” you ask in an effort to retain the peace.
Ja-Leri shrugs. “I know how to read and I’m good at keeping the peace. Have been since I was a kid. No one around here is vying for leadership, we’d all just rather follow instructions. But I suppose that makes things easier, in a way. Don’t have to worry about being assassinated. And anyway, I get claustrophobic.”
You smile. “You’re a first-waver, aren’t you? Do you find it difficult having to be with second-wavers all the time?”
She shakes her head. “No,” she replies. “They’re not all bad. Some of them… anyway, the younger ones don’t have the same prejudice our parents have.”
You raise an eyebrow. You’d bet every credit you have that she’s in love with some second-wave official. You don’t need a Jedi mind-trick to figure that out.
You continue the rest of the hike in relative silence. It’s started snowing again but not heavily enough to deter you.
Finally, you’re at a large cave with a yawning mouth.
“Here you are,” Ja-Leri says. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“You’re not coming?” you ask.
Ja-Leri smiles, but it’s without mirth. “You couldn’t pay me enough credits to go in on a good day,” she says, and then she’s gone.
You turn back to Yord. “Well. Are you ready?”
Yord sniffs. “I am a Jedi Knight. Of course I am.”
“Lighten up, Yord,” you groan but secretly you’re glad. You’ve had a horrible feeling that’s only grown in strength the closer you get to the cave. Yord’s stiff nature brings a sense of familiarity. It’s reassuring.
You turn on your light and head into the cave.
There are colored, bioluminescent lines in the floor; each denoting a different path.
Yord points, “That one,” and you begin following a violet path deep into the heart of the mine.
The dirt twists, widens, and narrows as you walk down, down, down. Rocks jut out of the ground and ceiling, and you have to duck to avoid scraping your head.
“It feels wrong,” Yord says, quietly as if not to disturb something. “It feels like we’re being watched.”
He’s right. But before you can say anything, a strange noise catches your attention.
“Can you hear that?” you whisper to Yord. He tilts his head ever so slightly toward yours to better hear.
“Hear what?” he whispers back.
You strain for a moment, just to make sure your ears don’t deceive you.
Once you’re sure, you whisper, “Music.” There is the faintest thread of a melody coming from deep within the mines.
Yord says, “I don’t hear anything,” but you aren’t paying attention. Instead, slip away from his side and down the path.
“Wait,” Yord hisses, but you’re mesmerized by the sound. You stop only when he calls your name.
Yord catches up with you and grabs your arm. “What’s wrong?” he says. “We need to stick together. Things don’t feel right in here. We could get lost far too easily.”
You wriggle out of his grip and grab his hand instead. “Yord,” you say, “it sounds like kyber. I swear to you it’s the same melody I heard on Ilum but higher-pitched, maybe? Or more of a harmony? But I’d recognize that sound anywhere.”
Yord stares at you. “You already have a lightsaber. Why would a crystal be calling out to you?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “But I think I’m supposed to follow it. I haven’t felt this way since I was a youngling. But-” you hesitate. You know it’s the right path but you also can’t help but know that it leads to indescribable evil.
“It’s a vergence,” Yord says before you can articulate exactly what you’re thinking.
“I’m an idiot,” you say by way of reply. Of course. It has all the signs.
“You’re not. I’m just smarter,” Yord says matter-of-factly. You punch his arm.
“It’s definitely corrupted,” you say, looking around the mine in a new light. “What do we do? Should we go back and call the Council?”
Yord is quiet, considering as he stares down the dark path. “No,” he says. “We go forward. We are two trained Jedi Knights. We’ll notify the Council once we’ve explored further. And besides-” he looks at you. “You believe we should proceed. I trust your connection with the Force.”
You meet his gaze, expression serious. “I do. But Yord- it’s going to be bad. I don’t know how, but it- there’s something horrible down there.”
Yord asks, “So what are you going to do about it?” but it’s a challenge.
I am one with the Force.
You reach out to touch the cave wall. Eyes closed, you breathe deeply.
I am one with the Force.
You feel energy pulsing through the rock. You feel the heartbeat of a family of Jelu-bats. A mushroom pushing through the dirt. A kyber crystal vibrating, calling you. Yord’s sharp inhale.
You exhale.
I am one with the Force.
“Good?” he asks.
“Good,” you reply. You’re overcome with a wave of intensity, knowing whatever lies ahead- you won’t come out unscathed.
“Good,” he says decisively. Yord ignites his lightsaber in a smooth whoosh, then half turns, beckoning you into the heart of the mine.
table of contents
chapter 2 - cross your thoughtless heart
The ship hurtles through hyperspace past the main systems and to the Outer Rim. You fiddle with the hilt of your lightsaber, sprawled sideways in the copilot’s chair. It’s on autopilot, but Yord’s concentrating anyway.
You breathe in, out, and think I am one with the Force.
That mantra is taught to all Jedi from a young age, but you were quicker to grasp it than most. The understanding that everyone and everything is linked to the Force gives you the peace Master Yoda always reminds you to embody.
Jelucan isn’t a particularly large planet, but it’s beautiful. It’s best known for its mining, specifically of fogstone. The mines are in mountainous forests that have existed for centuries.
The plan is for you and Yord to land in the main village then make your way to the heart of one of Jelucan’s largest forests with a guide.
It’s simple enough. Shouldn’t take longer than two days, especially since a) Jelucani aren’t known for their anger and b) you have Yord.
“Do you think they’re trying to get us to become Masters?” you ask absentmindedly.
“Neither of us have padawans and that’s the fastest way to become one, so no,” Yord replies. “Wait, do you mean through the Trials?”
You shrug. You’ve thought about it before. You have no particular desire to become a Jedi Master, nor do you want a padawan. The Trials certainly are not easy. They aren’t something you would set out to do, unlike the path to knighthood.
Your trials had certainly been comprehensive and although neither of you had control over their exact contrivance, there had been somewhat of a race to see who would become a Jedi Knight first.
(It was Yord, but only by three standard rotations.)
Both of you had exhibited competitive tendencies since childhood. Dalphri and Venez hardly participated, choosing instead to egg you two on for their own amusement.
Neither of you had been particularly easy padawans; eager to please, sure. But easy?
Never.
You suppose that is why Master Yoda took you on. Most other Jedi would be steamrolled by a thirteen-year-old padawan with lightsaber skills to rival their own and an ego to boot. You had been named best in your class since you were eight.
Yord on the other hand was another kind of difficult. He followed every rule, knew every code. He was an excellent diplomat and because of that, an excellent negotiator. He could talk his way in and out of almost anything, particularly when he believed a rule was about to be broken. A weaker Jedi would have deferred to him, but not Master Battchi.
No, Master Ahmand Battchi of Glee Anselm was not one to be dissuaded from a battle of knowledge. He had endless patience and once fourteen-year-old Yord realized this, he did everything he could to pick Master Battchi’s brain about Jedi history and protocol.
So all in all, it worked out.
“I don’t want a padawan,” you tell him. “I’d rather die.”
“That’s a bit dramatic,” Yord remarks.
You look over at him. “Do you want a padawan? Yord. We’re basically younglings. We can’t be responsible for a child.”
Yord flips a few switches then turns to face you. “In this scenario, it sounds like we are sharing a padawan. In which case, I think we would be successful. However, I am not confident you are responsible enough to properly guide a padawan. But I welcome the opportunity to train a young mind in the ways of the Force.”
It takes every bit of self-control in your body not to reach over and slap him. You’re still debating whether or not you can get away with it when the ship jolts out of hyperspace.
“Here we are,” Yord says. “Are you going to co-pilot like normal or should I leave it on autopilot?”
You shake your head. “Let’s fly manually.”
Yord chuckles. “I still don’t understand why you like flying once we enter the atmosphere. Wouldn’t you be able to enjoy it more if you were just watching?”
“Nope.” You grin as you buckle into your seat. “Let’s do a flip.”
—
Jelucan is far more beautiful and terrible than any of the holos you’ve seen. The mountains stretch upward toward the atmosphere with giant trees covering the sides. If you’re flying over any settlements, it’s hard to tell.
You steer the ship to a private docking bay in Valentia, one of Jelucan’s major cities. A small detachment waits for you; all dressed as Jelucani officials except one.
“This shouldn’t take very long,” Yord says, helping you into your robe before you disembark. “Jelucani first- and second-wavers are notorious for their disputes, but as such they are relatively easy to solve.”
He hands you your back before shouldering his own. You follow him down the ship’s ramp and into the fresh air. It’s thin, thinner than even Coruscant’s high altitude and the brisk wind makes you glad you brought your thick robe.
“Greetings,” says a girl about your age. She’s the only one dressed like a miner.
“I am Ja-Leri Corkin. I’ll be your guide into Colony Six.”
“Colony Six is one of the oldest mining colonies on Jelucan,” Yord whispers. You elbow him.
“We hope your stay is pleasant, Master Jedi,” says one of the officials as if you’re here on vacation.
“We’re Jedi Knights,” Yord corrects and you refrain from elbowing him again. He doesn’t need to split hairs, but there’s something strange about these people. It doesn’t have to do with the grayish tint to their skin, but rather the fact that they seem like they’d all rather be anywhere else. A few aren’t meeting your eyes.
“My apologies,” says the same official. He hasn’t offered his name and you have a feeling he doesn’t plan on it. “If there is any way we can be of service, please do not hesitate to let us know. Otherwise Ja-Leri is ready to take you to the Colony.”
You say, “Thank you,” and watch as they all hurry away. You glance at Yord, who’s frowning.
So you’re not the only one who thinks this is strange.
You nudge him ever so slightly and his eyes flick to yours. He nods, fiddles with his earring, then turns to follow Ja-Leri.
—
It’s a long, steep walk through the forest. Various animals call out to one another in a strangely beautiful symphony but you can’t enjoy it; you’re on high alert, ready for anything to tip you off as to why this place feels so wrong.
Yord is too. His hand keeps ghosting over his lightsaber, and there’s a deep line in between his eyebrows.
You’ve done this kind of thing before, so it doesn’t matter that there is no opportunity to talk; Yord will focus on what’s up ahead, you will focus on what you’ve left behind. That way you won’t be caught off guard.
“So, Ja-Leri,” you say, jogging up next to her. “Tell us a bit about Colony Six. What type of dispute are the first-wavers having with the second? I know they’re usually rooted in classism, but it might help for us to have an idea of what we’re getting into beforehand.”
“Oh. I believe you have been misinformed. It’s not infighting, we have laws against that dating back to the second-wavers; it’s…” she hesitates. “You must believe me when I say we wouldn’t have asked the Jedi for help if we hadn’t deemed it absolutely necessary.”
“You did the right thing,” Yord says and instead of coming off grandiose it comforts Ja-Leri. You’re surprised even further as he reaches out to touch her on the shoulder. “Tell us what you know,” he says.
A bird hoots, followed by the rustle of tree branches in the breeze. You shiver.
“There’s something down there,” Ja-Leri replies, barely audible. “We’ve been in these mines for generations and yet it’s something no one’s ever seen. The most seasoned of us refuse to enter. The children have uncontrollable nightmares. Few miners dare to venture in and those that do…” she shakes her head. “They come out insane.”
Hey! Here’s the first chapter of what has the potential to be a very long fic. I have a million bits and pieces already written that I am now doing my best to put together into a cohesive story. I hope you enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated.
table of contents
chapter 1 - in all chaos, there is calculation
“You have to stay still,” you say.
“I am,” says Yord. “Is your hand shaking? Maybe this was a bad-”
He’s cut off by your hand on his mouth.
“Stop moving,” you say. “Three, two-”
Yord yelps.
“Don’t be a baby.” You pat the side of his face as he sits up. “It looks good! What do you think, Dalph?”
Dalphri Ameras flips her salmon-pink lekku over her shoulder as she hands Yord a mirror. “It’s too cool. It’s too… un-Yord.”
Yord meanwhile is turning his head back and forth, watching the tiny hoop in his ear catch the dim light of Dalphri’s room.
“I disagree,” chimes in Imanu Venez, feeling the back of his neck; newly free from his Padawan braid and unsure what to do with his hands. “I think it makes him more Yord. It makes sense.”
“I still don’t understand why this is necessary,” Yord says.
You and Dalphri share a look. “It’s called bonding, Yord,” she says. “Venez is finally one of us and we’ve been talking about doing this since we were padawans. And Jedi don’t break their word.”
A gold hoop dangles from the tip of her right lekku, matching the one in your cartilage. The two of you had spent extensive time in the Archives and the medical center researching exactly how to pierce it without raising suspicion. Imanu’s earring is in the same place as Yord’s, and he received it with much less complaining.
The four of you make an unlikely quartet; two humans, a Twi’lek, and a Mirialan, very different in temperament and execution of the Jedi code. And yet you’ve been inseparable since you were younglings. Dalphri’s interests are more of the medical variety, Venez prefers piloting, Yord studies diplomacy like it’s a religion, and you spend far too much time practicing with your lightsaber.
But it works. The Order is the only family you have ever known, and none of you would trade it for anything.
“It’s a good thing you got knighted yesterday,” you say to Venez, as the group of you files out of the room. “It’d be sad if Yord and I missed it while we’re on Jelucan.”
The living halls are strangely busy for the evening, but the four of you expertly navigate padawans and chattering younglings. There’s no need to discuss where you’re going; dinner before and after missions is a long-standing tradition since you came back from your very first assignment as a padawan.
Dalphri asks, “What time do you leave?” and you grimace.
“Very early,” Yord chimes in. “And I am not going to be happy if I have to drag you from your bed.”
“It’s just routine, though, right?” says Venez. “I heard Master Rwoh say it shouldn’t take more than a couple days.” His hand is on the back of his neck again.
You shrug as you push the door open to the dining commons, nodding to a few Jedi. Venez grabs a piece of fruit off a Bith youngling’s plate with a wink. The group of children giggle and start to toss fruit at him, which he suspends in midair before catching in his mouth. He always was a favorite of the younglings.
Yord shakes his head. “That is an improper use of the Force,” he says with a frown.
“Lighten up, Yord,” Dalphri and Venez chorus.
“Yeah, lighten up, Yord,” the younglings echo. Yord silences them with a glare.
“The Force is powerful, and not to be used for paltry tricks,” he says. “It’s meant to be taught appropriately. Catching fruit is inappropriate and teaches irreverence.”
You’re only half-listening as you pile food onto a tray. It’s nothing Yord hasn’t said before, and it’s nothing he won’t say again. You wonder how the mission will go. It’s diplomatic, a small squabble among miners deep in the mountains but it’s the first time just you and Yord are sent on your own.
Yord’s still talking as he takes the tray from you, but no one is listening. He waxes on about the Force and its binding nature as your group makes its way to the Atrium.
He’s leading the way now, barely stopping for breath as he pushes open the doors for you with his boot.
“…I just think it’s best if the Force is treated with proper respect,” he finishes as you sit down under a tree.
“No one’s disagreeing,” you say soothingly, patting his hand.
Yord grunts and hands you a pastry. “Here. There was only one of these left.”
You smile. It’s your favorite. “Last real meal before ration packs,” Venez reminds you. He’s grinning with far too much glee at the thought of the two of you suffering on nutrient-rich cardboard squares.
You’re not nervous. You’ll be back under this tree in a few days.
—
“At peace, are you?” Master Yoda asks, early in the morning. You shrug.
“As at peace as I’ll ever be, I suppose. I’ve never been to Jelucan but this certainly isn’t the most difficult assignment you’ve ever sent me on.”
“About the assignment, I was not speaking,” Yoda says.
Of course. Yord.
“Master, I promise I won’t kill him. I’ve been putting up with him since we were younglings. I’m used to it.”
Yoda smiles. “Remember I do, the assignments when my padawan, you were. Complained you did.”
You reflect on the times you’d spent pacing around some starship as a patient Master Yoda listened to you gripe about Yord’s inflexibility, or Dalphri’s proclivity for involuntary examinations, or Venez’s inability to remain serious for longer than three milliseconds. And each time he turned you inward toward your reactions, using it as a lesson.
Yoda was a coveted Jedi Master. Padawans bent over backwards in their attempts to impress him, to be chosen by him. There was a part of you that wished you hadn’t cared, you had just been yourself and that alone had gotten his attention but in truth-
You had tried your absolute hardest to be the type of padawan Master Yoda would want.
And it worked.
“It will be fine, Master. I am at peace.”
Yoda tilts his head up at you. “Find me when you get back, you must. Entertained I am by your stories.”
Series Summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 3.3K
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing
(Masterlist) (previous) (next part)
You stood there a moment longer than you meant to.
The parking lot noise felt distant, like it belonged to someone else’s life. Your fingers tightened around the paper bag note.
I would have stayed all night.
Of course he’d say that. That was the problem.
You got into the car before your thoughts could turn into something louder.
In. Out.
One.
Two.
Three.
The door clicked shut with a soft, final click.
For a second, you didn’t move. Just sat there with the note still in your hand, the steering wheel cold under your palms.
Dana’s voice surfaced first- calm, certain, impossible to ignore.
The man I know…
Then Jack’s, rougher around the edges.
He thinks he did something bad enough that you changed your entire life.
Your grip tightened.
That wasn’t the truth.
He had done something, but the result wasn’t bad. Not like he thought.
Something had changed in your life.
And the worst part wasn’t what you’d done to protect it.
It was how quickly your brain started building a world where it never existed at all.
There was separation between your worklife and your homelife. They always taught in Med school that you had to separate your outside life from what you had going on at home. Compartmentalize, detach, survive.
Maybe you had gotten too good at it.
You had left PTMC when you found out you were pregnant. Started over at St. Mary’s. New hospital. New badge. New life built carefully around silence and control.
No one knew. Not really. Not the part that mattered.
Your little boy had five people in the world that knew he existed. One of them was his pediatrician. One was your OB/GYN. Dana and Jack were just necessities. Pieces you’d stolen from your old life just to keep him safe.
This was supposed to feel controlled. Responsible. Safe.
It didn’t.
It felt like you were erasing the most important part of yourself. You had built your entire world around your son… and still had to hide inside it.
How was that fair?
You finally started the car.
The engine filled the silence before you could spiral any further.
Breathe.
It’s time to clock in.
You had to be a mother now. Not the doctor. Or the woman with a past.
Just Mason’s mother.
The wall in your mind was coming back up- familiar, practiced, necessary.
You didn’t know how long it would hold this time.
Your apartment was quiet, save for the soft whir of the baby monitor. Mason was asleep in his crib, one tiny fist curled near his cheek. You stood in the doorway of the nursery, watching him breathe. Dana’s words echoed in your mind.
He’d see a son.
There was a knock on the front door, sharp and insistent in the quiet. You froze. No one ever visited this late. Through the peephole, the hallway light illuminated a familiar, weary face.
Robby stood on your welcome mat, his hands shoved in his pockets like he was trying to hide the fact that they were shaking. He wasn’t in his scrubs anymore.
What. The. Fuck.
You checked in on Mason before you made a move to open the door. You peer into the dim nursery. He was still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Reassured he wouldn’t wake up, you walked back to the front door. You unlocked the deadbolt and opened it just a crack, the chain lock still engaged.
“Robby,” you said, your voice low. “It’s late… and you’re on my doorstep.”
He stood on the other side, the hallway’s harsh fluorescent light casting harsh shadows under his eyes. He looked…unstable.
He didn’t push the door. Just stood there, looking at you through the narrow gap like it might close if he moved too fast.
‘I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.
His jaw tightened, like even saying that felt like crossing a line.
“Jack gave me your address.”
Shit.
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. He wasn’t quite looking at you. He was looking through you like he was trying to put a square peg in a round hole in his mind.
“He’s been… off. The past few days.”
A small, humorless exhale.
“You didn’t see him when his wife died. It’s like that. It was eerie. Like he knows something and won’t say it out loud.”
His eyes flickered up to yours, searching, then away again.
“I asked him what was going on and he just-” he stopped, shaking his head, frustrated. “Nothing. Wouldn’t give me anything.”
You took a breath. Control this.
But he kept going before you could get a word in.
“Then I went in to cover Chen’s shift and Jack just… snapped.”
His voice dropped.
“Said if I didn’t come now, I might not get another chance to fix whatever I broke.”
Another breath- shakier this time. You were sure if it was yours or his.
“And then he handed me your address on a crumpled piece of paper like he had been carrying it around for a while. He-” He cut himself off, jaw working like he was chewing his words.
Silence stretched for a second.
“He still wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong,” Robby said, quieter now. “But I saw you at lunch.”
His eyes finally locked onto yours- and this time he didn’t look away.
“You said it was the opposite of someone else. I’ve been stuck on that all day. The opposite of someone else isn’t no one. It’s… more than one person.”
His gaze was intent, searching your face in the sliver of light from your apartment. “Please,” he said, “Either let me in… or tell me to go to hell. But don’t make me stand out here and guess anymore.”
“Fine. Okay,” You said, your voice barely a whisper. You carefully shut the door, your heart hammering against your ribs. You could hide this from him.
What was the harm in a quick visit if it got him off the scent?
He was exhausted. Confused.
Not-
Not close enough to see it.
You moved through the living room in a frantic, silent dance.
The brightly colored mat- rolled and shoved under the sofa.
The stack of clean burp cloths went into a kitchen drawer.
The dirty bottle in the sink- covered with a dish towel.
You paused at the entrance to the short hallway, breath catching as you glanced in the nursery.
Mason was still asleep. The monitor glowing softly beside him.
You pulled the door completely shut.
And immediately felt it.
Guilt. Sharp and instinctive.
Fuck, what if something happened and you couldn’t hear him?
You push the door back open. Just a crack.
Breathless, you returned to the front door, unhooked the chain, and opened it fully.
You hoped you didn’t look like a mad woman who had just speed cleaned her house.
Robby hadn’t moved. His eyes flickered to your face- then past you, into the apartment.
Taking it in.
Too carefully.
He stepped inside. You closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sealing you in your personal hell. He was in Mason’s space. And he didn’t even know it.
“Can I get you something?” you asked, your voice too cheery. “Water? Coffee?”
He didn’t answer.
His gaze moved through the room. Slow. Quiet. Not casual.
Taking things in.
The too-clean surfaces. The faint, unfamiliar smell in the air. Something… off.
Then his eyes caught on the sofa.
A small shape tucked between the cushions.
He stilled.
A pacifier.
Like Mason had planted it there himself. Like he wanted to be found.
He was farsighted, not nearsighted. Then his eyes traveled to the almost-closed nursery door. A soft, questioning hum came from his throat.
You followed his gaze to the pacifier then to the door then back to him.
No. No no nonononono-
“It’s not what you think,” you said, forcing a short, casual laugh that sounded brittle even to your own ears. “I’ll make some coffee, yeah? You can tell me about your trip.” You quickly grabbed his hand- his skin was cool like the blood had drained from it- and pulled him toward the kitchen, away from the damning pacifier on the couch.
He let you pull him, his body moving, but his eyes stayed fixed on the nursery door. In the kitchen, you released his hand and turned to the coffee maker, your back to him. You fumbled with the filter, your fingers clammy and clumsy.
Get. Your. Shit. Together.
“The trip was… fine,” he said, like he wasn’t really present in the room with you.
“Long. Quiet.”
“I read a lot of books I’d been meaning to read.”
“Saw some mountains.”
“It was… fine.”
You could feel his gaze pierce through your back. The silence felt like a lifetime, thick and heavy, broken only by the gurgle of the coffee maker starting to brew.
He whispered your name. Not ‘baby.’ Your real name. Said so softly you almost didn’t hear it over the machine.
You didn’t turn around. You gripped the edge of the counter, your knuckles white.
“...whose baby is that?”
“A real one,” you said, your voice thin. Your hands shook, making the carafe clatter against the base. “Can we ignore the baby for right now? Please?”
You hear how insane that sounds, but you say it anyway.
Robby didn’t answer. He just stood there, in the doorway of your kitchen, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. The coffee maker began its noisy, gurgling cycle, filling the small space with the smell of dark roast. It was a normal sound, a normal smell, in a moment that felt anything but.
“Ignore the baby,” he repeated, his tone hollow. “There’s a baby in your apartment. And you’re asking me to ignore that.”
He took a step forward, not towards you, but to the side, as if to get a clearer view down the hall. His face was pale, his expression one of dawning, terrible comprehension. All the pieces- your disappearance, your new job, your evasions, the ‘opposite of someone else’- were clicking into a picture he clearly hadn’t let himself consider.
“How old?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.
“Please, Mikey,” you said, your voice cracking on the old, soft nickname you’d never used before. Your hands were trembling as you stepped directly in front of him, trying to block his view. You place your palm flat against his chest, a feeble attempt to push him back. “Please… let’s have coffee. Please.”
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. There were bricks being thrown at your carefully crafted walls. You had to patch the holes before the whole structure came tumbling down.
You can’t.
He didn’t budge. He was solid, immovable. He looked down at your hands on his chest, then back up at your face. His eyes, usually so expressive and warm, were wide with a kind of horrified clarity.
“‘Mikey,’” he repeated, the name sounding foreign and broken in his mouth. “You haven’t called me that. Ever. You thought nicknames were stupid.” He gently, firmly, took your wrists and moved your hands away from him. He didn’t let go. “How old is that baby?”
The coffee maker beeped, signaling it was done. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the soft, precious coo that sounded from Mason in his room.
He was waiting. They both were waiting. Neither was going to be moved, distracted, or ignored anymore.
You shook your head, tears welling up and blurring the stark lines of his face. “You left,” you whisper, the words a choked accusation and a plea all at once. You bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the inevitable sob, but your body betrayed you with a violent, silent shudder. You couldn’t meet his eyes. You stared at the floor, at his scuffed boots, anywhere but at the dawning realization you knew was there.
Robby’s hands, still holding your wrist, went slack. He released you. For a long moment he was perfectly still. The only sound was your ragged breathing.
He did the math. His eyes lost focus as he calculated backwards.
“Three months,” he said. He didn’t need to lay eyes on Mason to know that. His voice was eerily calm, detached, as if he were diagnosing a complex case from a distance. “That baby is three months old.”
“Oh, God,” he breathed. He took a stumbling step backwards, bumping into the kitchen counter. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth. “Is it… is it mine?”
‘I…” You couldn’t get the words out fast enough between the sobs. A sharp, startled cry from the nursery cut through the tension- Mason, woken by the commotion.
In a blur, you turned and rushed down the short hall, pushing the nursery door fully open. The secret was out. The soft nightlight cast a gentle glow over the crib. Mason was on his back, his face scrunched, working up to a full wail. You scooped him up instantly, his warm, solid weight a familiar anchor against your racing heart. You cradled him close, your back to the doorway, rocking gently. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby. Mama’s here.”
The crying subsided into soft, hiccuping whimpers. You could feel Robby’s presence in the doorway behind you, a silent looming shadow. A part of you hoped this was a horrific nightmare you were going to wake up from any moment. You pressed a kiss to Mason’s dark hair, breathing in his sweet, clean scent.
“I’m not a bad mother.” you spoke into the dim room. You repeated it to yourself. Maybe it was to convince yourself your decisions weren’t wrong.
“You’re not a bad mother.” Robby confirmed, “You’re a careful mother.”
When you finally dared to glance over your shoulder, he was in the doorway. Staring at Mason, his expression utterly shattered. He took one hesitant step into the room, then another, moving as if he was in a dream. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the details of his son’s face in the dim light.
His breath hitched. “He has your chin,” he whispered, his voice raw with awe and devastation.
You held Mason tighter, his little body a warm shield against the world collapsing around you. “He…” you managed through hiccuping sobs, “He has your… everything. Spitting image.”
Robby made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. He took another step closer, his hand lifting as if to touch, then fell back to his side. His eyes never left Mason’s face, tracing every feature with a desperate, hungry intensity.
“What’s his name?” he pleaded.
“Mason.”
“Mason,” he breathed, testing the name.
You nodded, fresh tears spilling over. ‘Mason Robinavitch,” you whispered, giving your son the full name you’d only ever written on official forms.
At the sound of his name, Mason turned his head, his big dark eyes- Robby’s eyes- blinking sleepily in the low light. He stared curiously at the strange man looming in his room.
Robby’s composure shattered. A single, silent tear tracked down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He just stood there, utterly cracked open, looking at his son for the very first time.
“I left,” he said, his voice thick with a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from the inside. “And you had our baby. Alone.”
It wasn’t an accusation or question. It was a broken statement of fact.
“I had our baby. Alone.” you nodded, rocking Mason for some semblance of comfort for both of you. “I think I had to be pregnant a month before you left. I… I don’t think I noticed I was pregnant until three months in. S-stress, I think.”
A doctor’s explanation felt absurd in the face of the living, breathing child in your arms. Robby listened, his gaze still locked on Mason, absorbing the timeline. The math was brutal. He’d been walking around, packing for his sabbatical, while you were carrying his child and didn’t even know it.
How selfish was he?
“Three months,” he echoed. He finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours. The heartbreak, not just at the loss of time with his son, but the heartbreak for you was so complete it stole your breath. “You went through your whole pregnancy. The birth. The first three months. And I was… reading books in the mountains.”
He said it without a trace of self-pity, just a stark, horrifying statement. He took one more step, closing the final distance between you. He didn’t reach for Mason. He reached for you, his rough palm coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. His own tears were falling freely now, silent and unchecked.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered, the words ragged with a grief that seemed to be etched on his very bones. “Baby, I am so, so sorry.”
“You didn’t know. I… I didn’t want you to know. I’m so angry.” You shook your head, looking down at Mason, who had finally fallen back asleep, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks.
Robby’s hand was still on your face, his touch achingly gentle. ‘I know you are,” he said, his voice a raw scrape. “You have every right to be. I left. I didn’t… I didn’t fight for us. I just went.”
He let his hand fall, but he didn’t step back. He stood so close you could feel the heat of him, could see the pulse hammering in his throat. Mason slept peacefully, unaware of the storm he had just caused.
“Can I…” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. He looked up at you, his eyes pleading. “Can I hold him? Just for a minute?”
“He’s sleeping… he startles easily,” you said, the truth a flimsy shield for the real, primal fear coiling in your gut; that if you handed Mason over, you’d never see your son again. It was ridiculous, you knew that. You know Robby. But some little primitive part of your brain was resource guarding. “Maybe… another time? I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask. I… I don’t mean to be cruel.”
Robby’s face crumbled. He took a slow, shaky breath, his eyes closing for a second as he wrestled with the rejection. When he opened them, the raw hurt was there, but so was a dawning understanding.
He looked from your terrified face to Mason’s peaceful one, then back to you. He took a deliberate step back, putting more space between himself and his son, a physical gesture of surrender.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Tomorrow. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He looked utterly lost, standing in the middle of your son’s nursery, like a man who had found treasure only to be told he couldn’t have it.
You just nod once. It’s easier than trying to form words around the conflicting emotions in your chest.
Robby lingers for half a second longer- like he wants to say something else, like leaving now might cost him something he just got back- but he doesn’t.
For once… he listens.
He turns and walks out of the nursery, slower than he came in. You hear the soft creak of the old floorboards, the quiet click of the front door.
And then-
Nothing.
Real silence this time.
Not the kind you built.
Not the kind you forced into place.
The kind after a hurricane passed.
Mason shifts slightly in your arms, a soft, sleepy sound leaving him as he settles deeper against your chest.
Your son is still with you.
You press your cheek to the top of his head, your eyes closing as your grip tightens just a fraction.
Breathe.
One.
Your lungs don’t cooperate.
Two.
Your chest aches like it’s trying to relearn how to expand.
Three.
Air.
Shaky. Uneven. But yours.
You survived.
Barely.
But you did.
And for the first time since you found out you were pregnant.
Some women will never want children in their life in any meaningful capacity. They don't want to give birth. They don't want to adopt. They don't want to be the fun auntie. They don't want to be a godmother. They don't want to work in a field with children. They will never change a child's diaper and don't believe their lack of childcare skills is a problem that needs fixing, because childcare is not a crucial part of the human experience, with billions of people on the planet. They go about their day while only seeing kids out at the grocery store or at the park, and nothing is missing from their lives.
The refusal to accept this is driving a global right-wing backlash movement.
I'm a conservative. Children aren't for everyone. And if you don't want children - don't have them.
Do everything in your power to not have them- birth control, etc.
Make a plan for your care when you are old.
I knew a granny who was 55 (I know - really not that old)- she was childless, she made plans for her future care. Her legs were bad- she went into assisted living at 55. Don't depend on a system - even people with kids should have a care plan.
Maine Democrats Shield Medicaid Fraudsters on Taxpayers' Dime
Janet Mills, the Democrat governor of Maine, just proved she's more interested in protecting fraudsters than safeguarding hardworking taxpayers. Buried in her bloated budget is a sneaky provision that forces Maine families to reimburse any businesses or providers who lose federal funding when the Trump administration cracks down on waste, fraud, and abuse in Medicaid.
That's right—while President Trump and his team are finally auditing the rampant improper payments in MaineCare, including tens of millions flushed away on shoddy autism services and behavioral health scams with sloppy documentation, Mills wants everyday Mainers to foot the bill for whatever gets clawed back. Federal audits already flagged over $45 million in questionable payouts, with the feds demanding refunds on the federal share. Instead of owning up to the failures in her state's oversight, Mills is scheming to launder the losses straight back to the providers through state coffers.
This isn't "compassion" or defending health care—it's a blatant betrayal. Mills has spent months whining that Trump's fraud probes are "political retaliation" and "predetermined," even as her own administration quietly froze enrollment in some of the worst offending programs. Now she's doubling down by sticking taxpayers with the tab for admitted screw-ups and potential grift. Hardworking Mainers already shoulder a Medicaid program that's ballooned out of control. They shouldn't have to bail out the very operators ripping off the system.
