In Learning You Will Teach and In Teaching You Will Learn an Obi-Wan x reader story
Warnings: violence alluded to and depicted, religious trauma (not from the Jedi), referenced child abuse, eventual sexual content, implied PTSD, age gap alluded to, mentor/mentee relationship (sort of)
Pairing: Obi-Wan x AFAB (and she/her pronouns used) reader
A/N: I've given all major warnings I can think of, but there is no possible way for me to tag for everything anyone will be sensitive to. This is a warning that this fic will contain potentially triggering content. Please take good care of yourself and don't proceed if something makes you uncomfortable.
Serious things out of the way, I'm excited to get this one out. Thank you for reading! :)
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Chapter 1
He’s not what you’re expecting. Not that you knew exactly who to expect, but you know it’s not him. Not a man in a tunic that blends into the rough, sand-beaten buildings, tattered at the edges. He doesn’t carry himself tall, ducked under the brown hood of his outer robe, and his aura is a lacking, blank thing, like the cloth canvasses the vendor of the ever-empty store on the corner sells.
You’ve met other blank auras, sanded smooth in one way or another by cruelty or indifference. But that blankness leaves a void, a sort of tangible something that had been there, and you can taste the imprint it left behind, feel the texture of it when your spirit reaches out.
His hasn’t left a dent. It’s like looking at a white-washed wall, like the treatment they give to the duracrete on buildings near the sea you’d seen once.
It doesn’t suit the dessert.
The first thing that catches any attention at all on him visually is when the wind pushes his hood back ever-so-slightly, and the sun catches on a copper beard.
Once you see his eyes, you know he’s the one you’re looking for. The cog slides into place, despite the conspicuous nothingness you still find on him when you reach out. You just know.
The trouble is, once he sees you watching him, he seems to double down on his camouflage, slowly ducking into an alley. It’s not quick enough to be an all-out retreat, just enough to let you know his lack of interest in whatever reason you had for staring.
Is he hiding for the same reason you’re looking for him? Does the Zabrak with vengeful yellow eyes take his sleep too?
You follow him, but from far enough back to not alarm him. As uncomfortable as it makes you to pursue someone so obviously intent on not being bothered, well. You’d like to not be bothered too, and that entails having your sleep back.
You’ve long since given up trying to resolve anything with the information those strings of stardust pull you toward, and usually you’re able to shake the one-off dreams, even the recurring ones with enough effort.
But sometimes.
Sometimes.
The pull is hard enough even your strongest feigned apathy won’t let you get back to sleep.
You’re exhausted. It’s been weeks since you’ve had more than a couple hours of sleep at a time, and the world floats parallel to you in a type of fog.
At least this one isn’t dreadful, as far as messaging goes. “Hey, someone is looking for you,” isn’t nearly as bad as “Hey, the Hutts are planning to make rancor meat out of you.” Or, maker forbid “Hey, someone’s cheating on you.” You’ve been able to roll your eyes and go back to sleep over that one for a long time. Rarely did telling anyone that go well.
Rarely does telling anyone anything, based on nothing except “Hello, Stranger, I dreamed something about the intimate details of your life and I thought you should know,” go well in any case, really. Luckily, you’d learned that lesson before you ended up on Tatooine, and you don’t have to brave the chance of making awkward eye contact at the market with someone you tried that on.
You wondered why it even concerned whoever or whatever pulled those strings of stardust, or if it did it all. Maybe the information they gave you was random, or not even meant exactly for you. Maybe whatever energy pulled the galaxy together was like comm signals, and you just happened to have the nearest intercepting device.
Either way, the cosmic comm signals didn’t smile on those who got involved where their noses didn’t belong, strings of stardust or not. And even if they did, the non-metaphysical powers that be had rewards posted for anyone suspected of being a little uncanny.
Even though the Empire doesn’t seem too concerned with Tatooine, Tatooine loves to make a fuss anywhere a reward is offered. Even if Anchorhead is quiet enough, there are plenty of reasons why you don’t bother trying to be any type of cosmic messenger anymore.
But. You need sleep, and this one wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard you tried. You wish they’d only bother you if you were actually supposed to do something about it. But, of course, it could never be that simple.
You can only hope this time can be the exception.
You stop when he ends at a stable, greeting an eopie with words you’re too far to hear individually, but close enough to hear the affectionate warmth of his tone. He lowers his hood to address the animal, and the eopie leans in to rub its nose against his hand. You smile despite yourself and soften, slightly.
He’s older than you, if the creases near his eyes are correct. The sandy copper of his hair seems tinged with hints of silver, but you’ll have to get closer to know for sure.
In the dreams, his face came in fragments, only coming together now that you see the wholeness of him in person. Or, at least, what you can see from here. You wonder if the rest of the fragments will snap into place, eventually. Those flashes of red and blue plasma, those anguished screams. Maybe you don’t want to know. And maybe you won’t have to, if you pass this message on.
Without looking up, he addresses you, still far enough back he has to project his voice, bouncing off the sandstone walls of the buildings surrounding the stable.
“Was there something I could help you with?” His accent is distinctly from the Core, flitting with an elegant air even with the thinly veiled terseness in his question.
You clear your throat and raise your mental shields, forcing yourself to stand up tall from where you are crouched and walk over to him.
“I was hoping so.” You hope your voice doesn’t betray your embarrassment at being caught watching him. You huff a small laugh at the insanity of what you need to inflict on him.
“Oh?” He has a brow quirked, the first sign of his personhood from under his brown cloak and bleached aura, but his shoulders are tense, still squared to his eopie.
You take a deep breath in. No use dragging it out. “Someone is looking for you.”
Something glides across his face, there a moment and gone the next, and then that faintly amused expression is back. “Someone other than you?”
Your lips purse. “Yes. A Zabrak male. Dathomirian, if I remember the facial tattoos correctly.”
Alarm cracks in his eyes in a flash, and then they’re fixed on you. “Is he here?” His voice does nothing to betray the obvious urgency of the information you’d just given; It’s just icy, matter of fact inquisition.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did he send you from?”
You realize, suddenly, that this information seemed more dangerous than you’d hoped. You check your mental shields, holding them with more intent.
“He didn’t send me,” you say, taking a slow step back.
He looks at you, gauging. After a beat, he places his hands at his sides, palms open, as if he were approaching a stray animal. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, but still insistent. “Then who did?”
You hesitate. The truth is not an acceptable answer, not without your sanity being questioned at best or getting the shit beat out of you at worst, if he doesn’t like what you say. It’s not your first time to skin a womp rat.
The eopie has grown restless, shifting its weight in a way that makes you wonder if they’re a more empathetic species than they’re given credit for.
The man sighs in a way that seems well-acquainted with the sound, and asks, “If you won’t tell me who employed you, will you at least…”
“I wasn’t employed.”
He quirks his brow at you again, but with no amusement this time. “You volunteer your time to deliver messages on behalf of those who you don’t know and won’t pay you? How noble of you.”
Kriff it. Sleep is overrated. You’ll drink yourself to sleep forever and become a true Tatooine citizen in the process. You give him your most diluted, sarcastic, thin-lipped smile as you try to widen your eyes to some imitation of delusional, not caring if it’s persuasive or silly, wanting the conversation to end at any cost.
“You’re right. Only the most noble of us graduate from Merisee Asylum. My message is delivered, and now I am free to ascend to the next realm!”
You turn to leave, and you can feel the step he takes after you. “Oh, noble and convincing. What a loss the galaxy grieves that you didn’t make a career in politics.”
Your back teeth grind together as you whip back around. “Look, it makes no difference to me if you believe me or not. I’ve told you what I know, and you can do whatever you want with it. Disregard, whatever, but I’ve given you everything I know.”
His palms are still open, deliberately displayed, the only reason you bother to stay to hear him. “Except where you received your information from.”
You consider, for a moment. If he was going to hurt you, he likely would have by now, and you somehow don’t think he’s going to drop this anytime soon, and you don’t have all day.
You huff a humorless laugh, looking away. You drag your boot in the dust in front of you, eager for some way to move. He still hasn’t moved when you look up at him.
Inhale. Exhale.
You need sleep, you remind yourself.
“It comes to me in dreams.”
The alleyway itself seems to hold its breath as he takes in what you’ve told him, his face betraying nothing. “This isn’t the first of these dreams?”
“Of the Zabrak, only reoccuring for some weeks.”
“But not the first time you’ve seen your dreams come to pass?” He’s genuinely asking. Genuinely believing you. Like it's not the first he's seen of this.
It’s not the first time someone has believed you, of course. Growing up, everyone listened to dream messengers, so long as they aligned with Doctrine. After, in your travels since, it was mostly the superstitious or religious types who gave anything you had to say a second thought, but somehow, he didn’t strike you as such. Maybe you were wrong.
“No, it’s not.”
“How did you know I was the intended recipient?”
“I just… know. Knew it when I saw you.” You’re unable to look at him as you admit it, then you’re suddenly doubly shy at caring about this stranger’s opinion of you, especially when you’re still unsure where this is going, if you’re safe or not.
“You didn’t see anything of me in the dreams?”
Something in the way he asks makes you know you need to give him eye contact for your answer. He needs to know you aren’t lying, and you try to force your body language into something resembling calm, even as you double down on your shields.
“Just... fragments. Just enough to know your face when I saw it.”
He’s quiet again, long enough you think he’s waiting for you to speak. “You risk a great deal to pass on these messages.”
You shrug. “I’m fast if the recipients get mad about it.”
He flicks his eyes around the clearing where you stand, to all the alleyways that let out from it, and says in all but a whisper, “Surely you must understand the risk beyond that, these days.”
You feel his words run like ice up your spine.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” You know exactly what he means, but you’ve taken great care to ensure no one has ever tied your little house-grown semi-insane dreaming to force-sensitivity.
“I think you do.”
“You’re paranoid if you think anything as insignificant as my little trick is going to call attention.”
“And you are truly delusional if you think it’s not only a matter of time until it does.”
You take a step back again, your turn to take inventory of all the exits to the clearing. “Are you threatening me?”
He shakes his head, once. “On the contrary, it is you who is threatening me.”
“Wha-”
He interrupts. “Do you tell others of these dreams often?”
“What do you me-” You blanch at the implication, then the question, head spinning to keep up.
“Can the Zabrak see you?”
“Hang on! Maker. Is this a conversation or not?”
The man sighs, then makes a soft surrendering gesture with his hand. “I apologize. I’d like to know most if the Zabrak has given any indication he can see you through your dreams.”
“No, he can’t. No one ever seems to know I’m dreaming of them, and they sure as kriff can’t see me. No, I don’t tell people what I see often, unless it’s a particularly bothersome one, like yours, that has left me without decent sleep for weeks. Weeks! No, I’m not threatening you. I’m too damn tired, even if I wanted to.”
He considers this, crossing his arms. “Then why tell me at all?”
You throw your arms up. “Because I can’t sleep until I do!”
“The dreams dissolve, after you deliver the contents to the intended recipient?”
You nod, annoyed at the whiplash of the interaction, grasping for some understanding of why the man is so interested in this information. Some distant chime in the back of your mind reminds you that the less you tell anyone, the better.
But, you’re tired, and…
something,
Something beyond the tiredness gives the smallest tug toward staying, consequences of wasting this much time away becoming insignificant.
“Either that, or they just… dissolve eventually. This one won’t, though.”
“How often do you have these dreams?”
“I told you, I’ve been having this one for ...”
“I mean as a whole. How often do you have dreams that seem to be messages?”
“Most nights.”
“So you spend your days searching people down and giving messages?”
“No, I usually ignore them. But this one…I just…” you trail off, rubbing your boot in the dirt again. “Some dreams you can’t ignore, they just don’t pass with time.”
You’re not sure what you said exactly that does it, but something in the way he shifts his weight, drops his shoulders a little clues you in, and you know, suddenly, that he believes you.
His eyes seem far away for a moment, but then he’s back again, addressing you. “You’ve taken great risk to tell me this, thank you.”
With that, he just. Saddles up his eopie, climbs astride, and starts off toward the edge of town.
Mind spinning and heart racing, you remember that you need to be back for the end of your shift and start walking back.
******
A week later, the dreams have stopped, but an eerie, itchy feeling of something coming will not leave you alone, like the heavy rain that’s eluded Tatooine for decades and likely will for years to come.
The thought occurs to you that he could turn you into the authorities for force-sensitivity, earn himself a reward. But you saw alarm in his eyes, not ambition. Still, fear makes people do strange things.
You're tormented, back and forth, in the following days.
You need some direction.
It’s a calculated spending, to take from your meager funds, but you need some clarity, and as much as the certain things in the realm of the… uncanny bend to your will, the cards never answer directly if it’s your hand pulling them. She’d insist on doing it for free, but you know she needs the money almost as much as you do.
So you seek her out when she's at work.
You know it well, the vibrancy of the aura even brighter than the glass beads hanging from the threshold, the incense, the array of desert plants that thrived off nothing but the air.
Maree inherited the place after her mother’s passing two years ago, and while at first, as she confided in you, she felt intimidated by the large shoes to fill, she now has found her own strength within the practice.
It’s a tricky thing these days, to make a living on something technically illegal, but also not significant enough to draw any real attention. Not that any imperial presence has been interested in Anchorhead for some time anyway, but still: bounty hunters lurk, and people talk when there are enough credits on the table.
It’s part of the reason why you seldom play messenger for your dreams anymore yourself.
So, technically, this is an apothecary. Little trinkets, stones, candles, and teas accompany the jars of desert herbs. If anyone has a cold or a rash, a hurt muscle Maree knows just the right concoction to blend and send them away with. On top of her basic first-aid training, and especially in a town where medical care is sparse and expensive, it's this service that keeps her in business more than anything.
Now If anyone comes inquiring of other services, Maree will enthusiastically do the most theatrically wrong reading with the utmost confidence, and it’s enough to ward any unwanted attention away. Half the town is convinced she’s a fraud besides her teas and tinctures, and that’s just the way she likes it.
If her energy hadn’t been so potent with that something, you doubt you’d have given her a second thought. A year ago, she was still somber with the loss of her mother, and you were still looking over your shoulder as you settled into Tatooine as your next transient home, and yet you found a friend in each other.
Maree speaks often of her mother, how she’d do things this way, tie the herbs that way, insist on this certain incense for that certain issue. “She would have taken you under her wing, too. Taught you the ways.” Maree said, some time ago. She was making tea, then, so she didn’t see how straight your spine went, how your jaw clenched. By the time she turned back, you’d wiped it from your face, asking intently about the tea she’d made.
Today, you sit with her in the corner of the shop. She’s drawn the richly-colored but still sheer curtain over the window and turned the sign outside to the side with “back in an hour.” She lets you make the tea, now. There’s something relaxing to it, the cracking open of the ugly, flavorful pods and grinding the inner fruit with the mortar and pestle. It’s nothing like the soft, delicate crumbling of the herb leaves you used to know. You have to put your forearm into these, but that was the way of Tatooine: you had to work harder to reach anything worth having.
You set the steaming cups on the table, taking the first sip of yours, even as you brace for the slight burn. If you had ice, you’d add it, now that the boiling water has extracted the nutrients; the last thing you needed was more heat. Taking off your scarf, you drape it on the chair back behind you as Maree begins shuffling the cards.
“Past, present, possible future?” she asks, still shuffling perfectly without looking. Her hands move with a type of sureness, and the room grows heavier, like all the light and shadows move around the motion of her fingers.
You nod, taking another sip of your tea, annoyed at the stray drip that falls from the slight shake in your hands.
She closes her eyes, whispers something you don’t fully hear with your name, and one of the cards falls out of the deck. You laugh, humorless, at The Tower.
Maree smiles sympathetically. “That card loves you.”
You grimace behind another shaky sip. “Wish I could say it was mutual.”
“Good thing that’s your past, hm? I don’t think you need my interpretation for that one.” Her eyes are closed again, and this time she cuts the deck, pulling a card after hovering between two. “The Hermit. Interesting, I don’t think that one has come out for you before. It usually implies a period of self-reflection and the wisdom that comes from knowing yourself. It can also mean a pivotal point, a choice, perhaps a priority shift.”
You nod, appreciative to hear it even as you’re well-acquainted with the meaning.
“With that being her present, what do we have to look forward to, what possibilities for the future?” she says into to the air, and once again, one falls out of the deck. You lean over to see what it is, then laugh out loud.
“Oh, Maree, I didn’t think you’d need to shoo me away with a future of tall tales. Am I to expect a long, prosperous life too?”
She picks up The Lovers card and slides it closer to you, leveling you with a withering stare. “Feigned cynicism has never been your best look, dear.”
You bring your tea and your gaze to your lap.
“Besides, you know it’s not always that literal. It’s about vulnerability, connection, and once again, choice. Knowing your core self and making decisions from that.”
She’s looking at you, you can feel it, but you don’t move your eyes up from your lap.
“I’d say more, but you’ve offended the poor cards, so you can use the book to read for yourself.” Her tone is clipped, but she places a warm hand on your shoulder as she stands and walks behind you.
You prop your elbows on the table, then smoosh your face into your hands, muffling your groan. “Would it be too much to want The Star for once? Or for maker’s sake, any Minor Arcana?”
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Maree says, quietly, rubbing her hand gently on your back. More jovial, she adds, “Come by my place later, if you want. I have a new holofilm that’s incredibly stupid and I need you to see it.”
You turn to smile at her, genuinely, placing your hand over hers on your shoulder. “Thank you, Maree.”
She squeezes your shoulder, then releases it. “Now go, your lunch break is over, and I need to open back up.”
*****
The Zabrak man doesn’t show in your dreams, but instead, a memory visits.
An old woman sits across from you in a spaceport, trying to make eye contact with you as you double down on your determination to keep your eyes away.
She’s been just a little too uncanny, a little too knowing, and sought you out despite your efforts to fade into the moving crowd, to the next transport, the next planet, searching… for something. Peace is an abstract art you cannot afford anymore, but quiet: maybe that was feasible. Just enough activity to fade into.
Your sympathy for what will likely come for the woman if she keeps wearing her sensitivity on her sleeve is the only thing that keeps you from outright shutting her down, instead giving a polite nod at her small talk.
At some point, you drop the ball of yarn you keep with you to fidget with when traveling. When you bend to pick it up, it’s already floating to you. You whip your head around, checking to see if anyone was watching, but you encounter a sea of beings absorbed in conversation or in their holopads.
Finally, you look back to her, glaring. “Stop that. You’ll get us both in trouble.”
She only smiles. “You still have much to learn.”
Your back teeth slide together.
“You need guidance. You need a…”
You stand and walk away.
****
You and Maree fold yourselves into the back storage room at your job, piles of clothing haphazardly sorted boxing in the small, rickety lunch table. Technically, only employees are allowed back here, but fortunately, your boss is a frequent of Maree’s, and once Maree suggested she’d be happy to give him discounts if she could eat lunch with you occasionally, it wasn’t an issue.
Maree sticks her spoon in your broth, and you return the favor.
You blow on the bite, speaking softly over the steam. “Next time, I’m getting what you got. I don’t think I saw it on the menu.”
She smiles back at you. “It’s not, I requested it.”
“Of course you did.” Rolling your eyes with an affectionate smile, you take your bite, savoring the full flavor on your tongue. Her way with people, how easily she could get on their good side when she wanted, would never cease to amaze you.
The door slides open, and your boss, Erntren, nods at you. “Someone out front for you.” It was harder to recognize a smile on an Abednedo, but you could still see the hint of it under his mouth tendrils and white mustache hair. He was a decent enough boss, but he rarely smiled at you.
It’s not as if you expect a lot of visitors at work, besides Maree. You know, with a sudden dread, who is asking for you. You blot furiously at your mouth, hopefully clearing any residual broth away from your lips, while Maree asks your boss something in Abednedish. You know just enough to get the gist.
“Not that - woman with the - ?” Maree asks, or something like it.
Erntren responds with a negative, then something else you miss, then clarifying that whoever is waiting is a human man.
Growing uncomfortable with their increasing curiosity, you leave the backroom before any anxiousness can get the better of you.
Sure enough, there he is, touching something soft and blue on one of the racks, but immediately looks up when you slide behind the counter. He’s taken his hood down, and you wish he hadn’t. His eyes seem almost a different color, alight from within, without the shadow of the brown fabric or the weightiness of your last conversation with him. Laugh lines frame his eyes, and you can’t help but think they suit him.
“Was there something I could help you with?” you say, imitating his first words to you, including the slight annoyance.
The rest of his face stays neutral even as his eyes spark with a hint of humor, at what, you can’t think. “Might I borrow you outside for a moment?”
You press your lips together, running a quick danger-check, deciding that the amount of people walking the streets this time of day and Maree, currently eavesdropping, no doubt, would be out within minutes to check on you. Minutes could be enough, though. Especially with him being… well, something about him reeks of capability, even as he carries himself unassumingly. You can’t think of anything he’d gain from harming you in broad daylight, though.
“I’ll be brief,” he adds into the silence you’ve left him in.
You nod, leading him to the alley on the left side of the store, the side most openly in view of the street.
“I’m sorry to pull you away,” he says, sincerely, and leans against the wall opposite you, situated further in the alley than you, leaving nothing between you and the way back to the street.
“No worries. I…” you force yourself to lean against your side of the alley, forcing your body into your closest imitation of casual. You quickly spurt out the rest. “I assume you want an update, and I don’t have one for you. He disappeared from my dreams after I told you.”
He looks at you for a beat, another, then nods, looking back to the street, scanning. “I’m glad to hear it isn’t troubling you anymore.”
You stare, perplexed and waiting, sensing he means to say more.
“You mentioned dreams like this trouble you often?”
You stiffen, dropping any pretense of relaxing against the wall. “It depends. Sometimes. You know, I really should…” you jab a thumb toward the shop opening, taking a step toward the street.
“What if I could teach you how to damper it? Shield it, to an extent?”
It feels like every vertebrae in your spine grinds together as you square your shoulders to him, balling your fists at your sides before realizing it, then releasing them.
“I already know how to shield, but thanks.”
“Yes, a moment too late, and obviously enough it advertises that you’re about to hide whatever information you wish to conceal.” His voice is soft, like he’s speaking to a frightened animal, and it’s almost more condescending than his criticism. You’re about to wish him a very brisk goodbye when he speaks again, even quieter, watching the street again before looking back at you with a laser focus.
“Which is how I know you’ve seen more than my face.”
You’re silent, steeling yourself to keep eye contact as the information sinks like duracrete to the bottom of your stomach. That heavy piece clicks into place, that plasma blue light from your dreams, the word “wanted” over his face you’ve seen somewhere in passing, an obscene amount of credits under it for a reward.
The word, the full truth, awful and far too large and dangerous for the slice of a quiet life you’ve worked too long to grasp.
Jedi.
You inhale through your nose, but say nothing. He doesn’t wait for your response, seemingly finding the last bit of confirmation he needs on your face.
“That’s an expensive silence. I’d like to repay you for it, as well as ensure its duration.”
Scrutinizing him, you look for any sign of falsehood, but of course, he has facial neutrality mastered. You extend out your mind, nudging against his signature, the equivalent of a massiff pup curiously sniffing something new, only to find that reflective, bleached wall, perfect and impenetrable. It makes you feel a foot shorter, like you’re the one at his mercy, like he doesn’t have a price on his head and you couldn’t turn him in. You snort a little at the thought. As if he’d go easily, as if you could overpower a Jedi.
Ensure its duration, yeah, you bet. The dead don’t speak, and this is as good an excuse as they come to get you somewhere quiet, tie up his loose ends.
His expression twists, and you realize you’ve been silent for far too long. “You’re thinking remarkably loudly.”
You square your shoulders, sharpening your eyes. “Can you read my mind?”
He has the decency to look a little bashful at that. “I’m not reading it, but I think you may… project certain things when graced with a particularly strong emotion.”
“But you could read it, if you’d like.” Folding your arms in front of you, you stop even trying to look like you’re not on the defensive.
“In the same way I could tie up my loose ends in the way you imagine, but don’t you think I would have already? You were alone when you approached me at the stable, and I knew then that you know what I am.” His eyes are far too soft for someone casually pointing out their ability to end your life.
You’re quiet, not daring to look away from him, hating how you can feel your pulse in your fingertips.
His voice is quieter, but still holding that melodic sureness stitched throughout his tone. “I would tell you that it’s not in the character of my person and that it’s against The Code of my order, but I doubt either means much to you.”
You incline your head, affirmative. “It still seems an odd way to pay someone off.”
“It’s just as much a protective measure for me as something that stands to benefit you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d be teaching you to improve your mental shields, hence protecting all that you know, including what you know of me.”
Your throat feels dry as you swallow. “Are you expecting someone to come asking? Your Zabrak friend, perhaps?”
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “I expect that luck favors the prepared.”
You notice the side-step, closing your eyes briefly, integrating the implication. “I’d want you to teach me more than just mental shields, then. I’d like to have some basis of defense, should you be unlucky.”
“That can be arranged.”
You unfold your arms, suddenly unsure of how to ask simple logistic questions after a whole “give a good reason you’re not going to kill me” conversation.
“So…where, when, all that?”
A flash of humor sparkles in his eyes, lovely and light, and it somehow feels just as potent as the danger that looms over him. You bristle at your own thought, clamping down on it. That would get you nowhere good.
It’s decided, Benduday, in the morning, you’ll meet him just outside of town, and he’ll take you to his place, and he’ll take you back before dark.
“Well, I should get back. Erntren’s gonna be pissed I made him wait this long.”
He bids you goodbye, and you’re just about to leave the alley when you turn back around. “I just realized I don’t know your name.”
He raises a brow, a rusty roguishness washing his demeanor. “Did both the ‘wanted’ holo and your dreams neglect that detail?”
You mirror his expression, refusing to give in to the desire to look at your boots. “The credits offered were in much bigger font.” They weren’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Snorting, he gives a half smile. “Either way, it’s Ben now.”
He repeats your name back to you, once you give it to him, and it sounds so much lovelier in his accent, a thought that sends you into a startled laugh.
“What is it?”
You half shake your head. “Just that chaos seems to be my fate.”
He chuckles, but his eyes are lightyears away. “And reluctant students, mine.” Raising the hood of his cloak, he turns away. “I’ll see you Benduday.”
