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You never expected to find yourself on the wrong end of a blaster. Or well, technically you were always on the wrong end of a blaster, but the person holding it wasn't a person at all. It was, typically, a droid.
What you never expected was that the man you loved would be the one aiming his blaster at your head.
You were on Mygeeto, deep in another endlessly seeming battle. You’d been there for weeks, rerouted straight after another tedious campaign with your own battalion in order to assist your former Master.
Truthfully, you had mixed feelings about working with the 21st again. After finally being knighted, you wished to prove yourself more than anything – which was a little difficult to do if you were once again following Master Mundi around, listening to his orders, doing everything his way.
But you couldn’t argue with the Council. Not now when everyone was stretched so thin throughout the Outer Rim.
And well, there was a silver lining.
You got to see Bacara again, after months of distance and uncertainty. After that moment before your knighting ceremony when the words spoken between you felt a little too final, and you realised – properly realised – that his heart was breaking just as much as yours.
But finally, you were close to him again. And you were determined to find a way to fix everything, figure out a solution.
Maybe even confess those three words you’d always been a little too scared to say before.
If only things didn’t end the way they did…
The howling wind was almost as deafening as the blasterfire and canons, seeping deep into your bones despite your cold-weather clothing, and clouding your vision with a white, franticly moving curtain of snow. At least the constant running and slashing and dodging battle droids was keeping you somewhat warm. That and the promise of a heated embrace from the man leading the troops right behind you.
The thought kept you going. You were so close. You were going to push the Separatists back, right into the trap set by your men. Then the battle would be won, and you would be able to return to camp and slip away from debrief into the tent of your Commander.
Well. The 21st’s Commander.
But he was yours in other ways.
You just needed to cross this bridge, force the droids back and the battle would be won.
But then the Force was flooded with despair.
With so much pain and fear and suffering you felt like you couldn’t breathe. The lightsaber slipped from your grasp as you turned and watched your Master being gunned down by his own men. By his own Commander.
By your lover.
And then the helmets snapped to you.
With staggering steps you backed away until your calves hit the low barrier of the bridge, as Bacara and his men advanced on you with long, determine strides. The DC-15A blaster rifle in his hands did not falter a moment, trained on you the entire time.
The marines surrounded you, with Bacara right in the middle, a safe distance away were you to try anything. Your eyes fell to the blaster aimed right at your head, before moving past the barrel to his visor.
“Commander... what's going on?” you asked, slightly raising your trembling hands.
“You have been marked for execution by Order 66,” his cold voice announced, filtering unnaturally through the vocoder.
“Bacara,” you whispered, dread filling your chest. “I-I don't understand. Please–”
You barely finished uttering your plea when the booming shot cut through the air.
The pain you felt was like nothing you've ever experienced before. But not in the way you expected. Yes, the plasma scorched your skin, shattering the bone and damaging some nerves beyond repair. And yes, it was physically excruciating.
But nothing compared to the deep, crushing ache you felt inside your very soul, watching the man you loved turn on you. Staring in the dark visor of his helmet, not sensing him anymore. Not really. Not his warm, soothing presence.
Then you fell. You hit the water.
You don't even know how you survived. How you managed to keep afloat in that frigid water, and swim though the thin ice to shore with only one arm. How you managed to run when the fatigue wanted nothing but to pull your body under the waves of consciousness. How you found a ship. How you disappeared.
All while still seeing the blaster pointed at you. The same blaster that, only a week prior during a rare moment of calm between battles, he’d insisted he teach you how to use.
“I have my lightsaber, ‘Cara,” you chuckled. “I'm never going to touch a blaster.”
“You never know what will happen, sarad,” he argued. “You need to be able to defend yourself.”
That dammed blaster. How it would haunt your dreams...
Bacara knew he failed his mission. He knew it the second he pulled the trigger. The barrel had slipped down at the last second and he missed the clean shot he had on your head. Maker he was angry with himself. A clean, straightforward shot. It should’ve gone straight through your skull. Instead, it hit you in the right shoulder, and you fell backwards off the bridge.
Sloppy. Useless. Defective.
His captain had tried to assure him you wouldn’t survive – the river was half-frozen, the water frigid. So they continued the battle and pushed back the droids, and soon enough they’d destroyed the last of the Separatist positions on Mygeeto.
Then came the clean-up. Bacara returned to the bridge, and oversaw as his men dragged the river in search of your body. He stood in the same place for hours, almost as if frozen, waiting for the confirmation he knew would come.
You weren’t in the water.
And then word reached him of a missing ship – a Y-wing equipped with a hyperdrive. He went to see it for himself, as if that would somehow change the outcome.
Bacara’s fists clenched by his side.
Sloppy.
You were long gone.
Useless.
And for just one small, fleeting moment – he felt relieved.
Defective.
The months spent in service of the new Empire passed in a blur.
Bacara returned to Coruscant to find that the end of the war did not come without a price. Fox was gone. And so were Rex and Gree. Just more brothers to add to the list of remembrance.
But just because the war ended, it didn’t mean their duty did.
There were planets resisting the safety that the Emperor offered. Insurgencies rising. Lucky Jedi who’d managed to evade execution and were now being hunted down.
There was plenty to do, plenty to keep his mind occupied.
And Bacara needed to keep his mind occupied, because if he didn’t, if he thought too much of his beautiful, kind sarad – of the stolen moments shared together, of the blaster and the river – his mind would scream.
The pain was excruciating, twisting high above his right temple and wrapping around his eyes. It felt like he was being stabbed from the inside out every single time you crossed his mind.
So he kept being a good soldier. He kept following the orders he was given, just trying to survive one day to the next.
But there was no escaping the dreams.
Every night, without fail, Bacara relived that moment on the bridge. The fear in your eyes was embedded in his brain like a stubborn bloodstain on white fabric. But it never stopped him for firing the blaster. And every morning he woke up with a nauseating feeling in his stomach that festered into a burning frustration.
Why should he care about a traitor?
That's all you were. A Jedi traitor. An enemy of the state. A plague onto his mind.
But, as the months kept passing, his frustration and anger transformed – until one morning he woke up and realised what he was feeling was guilt. A deep, convoluting guilt that no amount of alcohol would be able to drown.
He sure tried anyway.
And then Cody disappeared.
His loyal, by the book tat… just gone. Vanished. AWOL.
“You're not serious,” he almost gasped when he first heard.
“Dead serious,” Neyo confirmed.
“Makes you wonder why we're all still hanging around,” Wolffe muttered, absentmindedly swirling the drink in his glass.
Bacara stared at his tat liked he’d punched him. It felt like a switch was turned off in his brain right that very second, and suddenly his chest was flooded by unbearably painful shame and guilt. 79s felt too small, too crowded. The room was closing in on itself and the air was slowly being sucked out.
All he could see, all he could hear, was the blasterbolt hitting your shoulder and your body staggering off the bridge.
“Are you good?” he thought he heard Neyo ask.
But he didn’t answer. He abruptly shot from his seat, the chair scraping loudly before falling backwards onto the floor, and pushed his way to the exit through the crowd of troopers and nat-borns. There was no air anymore inside the cantina. Inside the place where your eyes first met his. Where you shared a drink and talked and formed a connection that transcended anything he’d ever felt before. And he broke every rule just to keep you close, despite knowing you could never fully be his.
What has he done?
How could he have hurt you?
His beautiful, kind sarad.
His one and only love.
Bacara walked back to the main base almost in a trance, flinching whenever he caught his reflection in a storefront window. Because it wasn’t him he was seeing. No, your image was the one staring back from the glass. Wide-eyed and scared, and whispering his name like a prayer of protection. One he failed to answer.
When he reached the barracks he tore his private questers apart, ransacking the entire place until he felt empty inside. A ghost of the Commander he once was. Of the man who, yes, was loyal to the fault, but who never blindly followed an order he knew was wrong. Never once until that damn bridge.
But with emptiness came clarity.
Yes, he shot you. Yes, he injured you. Yes, you probably hated him – as you should. But you were alive. You’d made it off that frigid planet.
Bacara realised then and there that he needed to find you. He needed to apologise – even if you'd never forgive him. He needed to see you again.
And before the rays of Coruscant Prime touched the main base the next morning, he was gone.
The first thing he does is return to Mygeeto. He’s not entirely sure why – probably to fulfil some subconscious, masochistic need for self-punishment – but he needed to go back to the place he lost it all.
It looks different. Of course it does. It’s been months since that horrible battle, since he fought on the bridge, with fallen brothers, droids and UT-ATs all around. Since he watched you turn your head and offer him a small, loving smile before running ahead into the fray. Only minutes before everything went wrong.
He feels sick to his stomach the entire time, but Bacara goes down to the frozen river and retraces his steps along the bank. Just like he did after the battle, when he and his men were searching for a body. But the only thing they’d found were marks in the snow, and an empty space where a ship should’ve been.
A surge of disgust twists in his gut as he remembers how angry he felt that you escaped, and the bitter taste of bile creeps up his throat. Sure there was a moment of relief, but it was quickly drowned by frustration. How the hell could he ever feel anything remotely negative when it comes to you?
He never hated you. Not even when you chose the Order over him. He was hurt, heart-broken, dejected – but he never hated you once.
And yet all it took was three words from the Emperor for his own heart to betray you.
Thick, frozen snowflakes bite his cheeks, making him shiver and forcing him back to a present he can’t stand. He still has his armor – all except the thigh gauntlets and codpiece – and draped over he has a black, impermeable poncho. But his helmet is hidden back of his stolen ship. Too recognisable. Too clone.
Without it he can better hide in plain sight – just another man on the run. Maybe a bounty hunter. Maybe a mercenary. But at least when people look at him, the word ‘trooper’ wouldn’t be the first to come to their mind. Not with the beard concealing some of his features, and the genetic mutation that made his eyes blue.
He always hated his eyes as a cadet. They made him stand out, and the last thing a clone wanted was to stand out in front of the Kaminoans.
But then they also made him stand out in the 79s that night he first met you, all those years ago – and suddenly his eyes became his favourite feature, simply because you always liked them so much.
He still needs to be careful. He’s a deserter – as difficult as that it to believe.
And he definitely can’t stay on this planet too long.
Bacara takes out a small holo-projector from a belt pouch, bringing to life a blue, flickering map of the surrounding sectors. And the latest report on you that he's managed to access before going AWOL.
He wasn't involved in tracking you, that task was given to someone else. He simply returned to Coruscant like he was ordered. But the Empire did try to find you – thank the Maker you were smarter than whoever had picked up your trail.
The transponder ID of your stolen Y-wing was tracked to Ord Trasi, which made sense – you would've needed to refuel.
So that's where Bacara heads next.
Maybe it's a good thing he's never tried to find you before. He knows you. He knows how you think. Within a few rotations spent on the planet, he actually manages to locate the small repair shop where you took the ship to scramble its signature and the unlicensed med centre where you went for your wound. And with some convincing words, he gets a vague, possible location where you headed next.
He follows the almost invisible trail from planet to planet. It’s not easy to find the intel he needs – you were careful, moving like a ghost, never attracting too much attention to you, only spending one night somewhere before vanishing in the sun. But there are some breadcrumbs he can follow.
A Y-wing like your stolen one stopped on this moon to refuel.
A woman matching your description passed through this town.
A goodhearted person helped a little kid in danger here, even though no one can explain how she got the nexu to simply walk away when it was prepared to pounce.
An inquisitor came looking for someone, and the girl who had only just moved in this neighbourhood was mysteriously gone the same rotation.
Small clues that have him jumping from system to system, while taking the occasional job or bounty for some much needed credits.
In the many hours spent travelling through hyperspace, Bacara can only pass the time by thinking of you.
What have you been doing all these months? Are you still running? Always looking over your shoulder? Always moving, never feeling safe?
Or have you found a place to call home? Somewhere quiet where you can actually live your life? Have you made friends? Have you settled down with someone?
Do you still think of him?
Do remember him fondly? Or has Mygeeto ruined every tender moment the two of you shared?
If he finds you, will you even hear him out?
Not that he actually understands what has happened. Lately, before waking up himself, he heard whispers of a conspiracy. Hushed words about biochips and orders imbedded deep into their brains. And it would make sense, wouldn't it? How else can he explain turning on you? Hurting you – the best thing that had happened to him? And yet, he’s at a loss when he thinks of how he could even explain it all.
He hopes you will believe him.
But he won’t blame you if you don't.
It’s raining when he lands on Ossus, so Bacara throws the poncho over his armor and pulls the hood up before lowering the ramp. The breeze rushes in, smelling of saltwater and petrichor, while the waves break in a loud, rhythmic hiss on the rocks of the cliffs below. It took too long to find this place, and the sun is already starting to slip past the horizon – not that he can really see it under the curtain of grey clouds. He needs to start walking.
The trail he was following has gone cold on Niamos, and it felt like there was nowhere else for him to go. So he wandered into a local cantina, deciding to search for answers at the bottom of a glass and drown the painful loneliness that was settling over him like dust in an abandoned home. The people inside were way jollier than he could stand, and despite the corner he hid himself into, there was no escaping their howled cheers and shouted stories.
And that’s how Bacara heard about Ossus – the ruins of an ancient Jedi Temple, still half-standing after millennia. Filled with possible treasures that the pirates talking about it had never managed to reach – or that were simply no longer there.
Hope sparked in his chest instantly. Could this be where you’ve been hiding?
It would be dangerous to settle there, but… your connection to the Force was always sacred to you. It’s not impossible to imagine you’d want to go somewhere you could be close to it.
That very night, he was back on his ship.
The constant pattering of rain is periodically interrupted by roaring thunder, and so Bacara picks up the pace. The raindrops falling all around almost seem to mock him, slowly driving him insane. In this low light, and with the breeze blowing in from the sea, it looks like shadows shifting in the distance – and his tired, lonely mind fills in the blanks with a memory from long ago. Two bodies, dancing and holding each other in the downpour, on a much warmer planet than this one. A beautiful forbidden moment from the beginning of the war, when hope was stubbornly taking root in his heart that a life with you was waiting at the finish line.
A promise of a life he shattered when he raised his blaster to your head.
Or maybe you shattered it first when you were knighted.
Bacara shakes the memory out of his mind, trying to bring his focus back on the muddy path ahead. He’s too in the open and the worst of the storm is moving inland. He needs to reach some cover before the lightning reaches him.
The scanners picked up a small settlement, just a few klicks ahead. Dwellings carved into the stone of the cliffs in a vertical village of sorts, with no more than thirty lifeforms residing in it.
There’s no guarantee he will find you there. But it’s the closest community to those Temple ruins. It’s worth a try anyway.
You don’t expect to hear a knock on your door. Sure, the people here have welcomed you into their small community – but it’s a secluded one for a reason. Everyone here is running from something. And everyone knows not to ask what from. You’ve made a couple friendly acquaintances, but they all prefer to keep to themselves unless something happens – in which case they gladly jump to help.
So, naturally, you worry a little when the knock sounds again – louder, urgent. The first thought that pops into your head is Ayanma, the older Togruta who lives closest to you and who has been feeling under the weather these past few days. You’re not much of a healer, but you will try to help if she desperately needs it.
But when you open the door, it’s not her or any of the other members of your small community waiting on the other side.
No, when you open the door you’re met with a pair of blue eyes you thought you’d never see again. Not outside of the realm of sleep anyway, when the bed almost feels like it dips under the weight of another person, and your half dreaming mind conjures the memory of strong, warm arms, holding you in a tight embrace.
“‘Cara,” you gasp, eyes wide.
“Sarad,” he speaks, a small, wary smile curling his lips.
Immediately your eyes fall to the blaster hanging from his hip – and you don’t miss the rifle draped on his back either. You don’t move, and you don’t breathe. Truthfully, you’re not entirely sure what you’re supposed to do.
Bacara notices the alarm in your eyes, so he pulls on the hem of his poncho in an attempt to conceal the weapon causing you distress.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says, keeping his voice low and soft.
“Why are you here then?” you ask, eyes lifting to meet his.
Your tone is not sharp or dismissive – but it’s guarded. Cautious in a way that breaks his heart. Because you’re scared of him, he can see it. And it pains him in ways he never expected that you’re now looking at him with mistrust instead of love.
“I… I came to– I-I’ve been searching for you…” he trails off. And for the first time in his life, Bacara finds that he’s at a loss for words.
He’s dreamed of this moment for so long. He thought he knew what he would say. But finally having you in front of him again – and also not being able to miss the way your right arm hangs a little too limp by your side, and how the muscles look visibly smaller than on your left – a tight knot forms in his throat, preventing any words from reaching his lips.
You see it – of course you see it – and you sense it too. The turmoil in his mind, the pain in his heart. But most importantly – him. You sense him, the man you loved. That same soothing presence you’ve longed for ever since that night on the bridge, and who you’ve cried so many tears over, convinced you would never feel next to you again.
And yet, here he is, in front of you.
In the cold, pouring rain.
Shit. You’ve kept him waiting in the rain.
“Come in,” you invite, stepping back from the doorway.
Your place is small and a little dark, especially in the evenings when the dying light struggles to pass through the two round windows on either side of your door. Bacara stands awkwardly in your living area, as you busy yourself in the corner where your small kitchenette sits. His trained soldier eyes immediately make note of his surroundings – the small blue couch, the old holo-screen, the plants living in improvised pots and botanical drawings he recognises are in your style, although the lines are simpler and shakier than he remembers.
But, Maker, it’s the smell that almost brings him to tears – the exact same sweet perfume of dried herbs and flowers which always lingered in the air in your cabin aboard the Ro-ti-Mundi.
Despite the anxiety that has wrapped around his mind, he smiles. You’ve made a real home for yourself.
“You don’t have to stand, you know?” your voice sounds from behind him.
Bacara turns to see you carrying two cups of steaming tea on a tray. Your right hand is only half lifted, supporting the tray from the bottom instead of holding it from the side. His heart clenches in his chest.
“I uhh… didn’t want to get mud on your couch,” he murmurs, rubbing the back on his neck to hide some of the uncomfortable things he’s feeling.
“Take the boots off then,” you suggest. “Make yourself comfortable.”
You place the tray on the small caf table in front of the couch, then decide to help out the poor commander who doesn’t seem to comprehend the word ‘comfortable’.
Without even realising, Bacara straightens nearly at attention as you stop right in front of him – and his breath catches in his throat when your left hand lifts to the fastening of his poncho.
“Take this off too,” you instruct, your tone light-hearted. “It's wet and dripping on my carpet.”
He follows your command just like all the times he's followed your orders in the past. And yet, it's different. He's hesitant, unsure of himself – of where to stand, where to go, where to hang the wet cloak. Your brows pinch unintentionally. You've never seen him look so... small. If that's even possible.
Because the word ‘small’ was never one you thought you'd use to describe him. And you're not only talking about his physical appearance – you're talking about him. All of him. His personality, his entire presence – it always took space. He commanded every room he was in proudly, boldly, exuding confidence in a way that intimidated any admiral that tried to give him orders. He made it known he was there, without even uttering a single word.
But now, in your modest living room, Bacara looks… lost.
You huff a small chuckle, but the sound is more baffled than amused.
“Take the boots off and place them by the door next to mine,” you decide to give him a clear order. “And hang your poncho and weapons on that hook over there.”
He follows the instructions with the quick precision of a soldier, then turns to look at you, awaiting the next set.
“Come here,” you say, patting the place on the couch next to you.
Bacara approaches slowly, almost as if he’s afraid any sudden movement will spook you. He tries not to crowd you by sitting as close to the armrest as possible – but the small two-seater isn’t exactly spacious, and when you turn to face him better, tucking your knee under you, it grazes his thigh in a way that makes him shiver. Maker, he sure missed being so close to you.
“So,” you start, passing him a cup of tea. “You’ve been searching for me?”
He nods, trying not to stare at the right hand resting on your lap while you twist your torso to grab your own tea with your left one.
“I needed to find you,” he rasps. “To apologise.”
“What happened on that bridge ‘Cara? Why–” You purse your lips as the blastershot echoes in your mind. “W-Why did you…?”
Bacara closes his eyes, exhaling deeply through his nose. You still use your nickname for him, even after everything that’s happened.
“It’s a little weird,” he told you when you first called him that.
“I’m sorry, do you not like it?” you asked, immediately concerned.
“No, it’s not that,” he explained. “It sounds like ka'ra, which is Mando’a for ‘star’. Feels a bit childish, I guess.”
“Oh,” you said, smiling brightly and batting your eyelashes. “Well, I think that works perfectly then. You’re my guiding star after all.”
“Maker, you’re so corny,” he muttered before kissing you.
There are tears in your eyes when Bacara looks at you again and the sight nearly guts him – especially when he can tell how hard you're fighting to hold them back for his sake. He needs to say something, explain. But where the hell does he even start?
“I… I didn’t– I wasn’t me,” he fumbles. “Or I was but I…” He stops and shakes his head, frustration brewing in his chest. “I-I don’t know! I got the order form the Emperor and everything else – everything I felt for you, the loyalty I had for General Mundi – it was just… pushed out of reach.”
Bacara places his untouched tea back on the caf table, then lowers his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his thighs. This isn’t going as it should. He’s not explaining it well and you’re not going to understand. And if you don’t understand you won’t forgive him and soon you’ll ask him to leave and he will never see you again and–
“Hey.”
Your tender touch makes him jump, and Bacara stares at you almost in shock. You’ve gently untangled one of his hands from his hair, and you’re now holding it in yours, caressing the skin with your thumb.
“Breathe, ‘Cara,” you urge.
He takes a shaky breath as his eyes fill with tears, but unlike you, he can’t hold them back. They roll freely over his face, catching in his beard.
You’re touching him. You’re holding his hand.
You’re looking at him with the same kindness he remembers, the one that made him fall for you in the first place.
“I got the order and I had to follow it,” he says, voice a little steadier. “I couldn’t fight it.”
You nod and let go of his hand so you can wipe your own tears. He tracks the movement, before his gaze falls to the right hand that still rests on your lap. You’re holding the tea cup – or rather, your hand is acting as a brace to keep it from sliding off your thigh. You haven't actually gripped anything with it, and Bacara is quick to put the pieces together.
“I’m so sorry, sarad,” he adds in a whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say, reaching for his hand again.
He lets you take it, but he shakes his head at your words. “It’s not! I… I hurt you.”
“But you didn’t kill me,” you counter, somehow managing to offer him your sweet smile. “You must’ve fought it, even if you didn’t realise.”
“I didn’t–”
“That blaster was aimed at my head, Bacara,” you interrupt. “Trust me – I’ve replayed that moment countless times. It was aimed at my head but you changed the angle at the last second.”
He grimaces as both pain and relief overwhelm him. You guide him to the crook of your neck, gently running your fingers through his hair while allowing him to cry.
You don't remember ever seeing him break down like this before, and your heart shatters at his pain. With the Force, you try to envelope him in a soothing embrace, making sure you're tethering just on the edge of his mind and not pushing your way in. But you still need him to feel you, to know he's safe and loved.
He used to like having you in his head – he would sneak into your cabin after long, draining campaigns, claim your Force touch was the only way he could feel calm, quiet. And you wanted him to feel it, to relax and forget about the horrors of war he constantly had to face, so you were always happy to oblige.
You take a deep breath and pray you’re right to think he still needs you.
Then you softly dive in and caress his tired consciousness.
His mind is filled with guilt and shame, and also the bitter sting of self-loathing. You move through those cold emotions, attempting to gently guide him through them. You don’t want to influence him – or Maker forbid, control him – but you want to help him let them go so that he can find some peace.
He doesn’t push you away. Quite the contrary. Bacara melts into your embrace, both the physical and the ethereal one, allowing himself to be held for the first time in way too long. And yet, he doesn’t dare touch you, already worried that his forehead resting on your shoulder is too much and you’ll soon push him away.
But as the tea cools down, forgotten on your lap, and you’re still cradling the back of his head, he finally, hesitantly, wraps his arms around you.
You’re not sure how long it takes, but eventually his tears run dry, and Bacara pulls away from your arms, embarrassment rippling in the Force around him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes.
“It’s okay,” you answer.
His gaze darts to yours for only a second. “You’re saying that a lot.”
“Twice isn’t really ‘a lot’, ‘Cara,” you chuckle. “But it’s because I mean it.”
He hums a low sound, more an acknowledgement of your words than an acceptance of their meaning, then picks up the tea he’s abandoned on the caf table. The beverage has long gone cold, but the floral aroma is just as strong.
“This is nice,” he comments, unsure of the next steps. He never really thought you’d hear his apology, let alone hold him as he cried and allow him into your home for so long.
“Thank you,” you reply, studying his face. “I picked and dried the flowers myself.”
Bacara’s lips briefly twitch upwards. “I thought that was the case.”
“Well,” you muse, taking a sip of your own cold tea. “You do know me.”
“Know?” he challenges, his tone a little lighter, almost slipping back into the comfortable banter you once shared. “Present tense?”
You shrug. “Not much has changed.”
But Bacara doesn’t miss the way only your left shoulder lifts with the motion, and the small smile fades from his lips. Guilt coils in his stomach once more, tight and uncomfortable, as his eyes lock onto your right arm.
“Stop that,” you chide.
He quickly averts his eyes to the cup in his grasp. You shake your head and sigh.
“It wasn’t easy, but I adapted,” you explain. “I had to. So I don’t need you to pity me, Bacara. And I certainly don’t need you feeling sorry for yourself for doing something that was never in your control.”
You watch as his grip tightens on the tea cup, momentarily worried he might break the ceramic.
“I still pulled the trigger,” he says, voice strained.
“Yes, you did,” you agree.
His eyes snap up to gawk at you, a little surprised by your bluntness.
“You can’t go back and change that,” you continue. “You can only accept it and move on. Like I did.”
“Damn Jetti,” he mutters under his breath. “How are you so okay with all this?”
You laugh – actually laugh for the first time since he walked through the door – and warmth floods Bacara’s chest.
“I won’t lie, ‘Cara, I’m not entirely okay. And I definitely wasn’t at first,” you tell him. “I was angry and hurt for a long time. But then I found this place.” You finish your tea and slump against the backrest of the couch, staring at the amber quartz embedded along your ceiling. There’s patches of it in the rock, and from certain angles, the light of the lamp makes it shine like little stars in the sky. “This entire planet hums with the Force. It helped me, and hopefully it’ll help you too.”
Bacara sharply inhales. “You… you want me to stay here?”
You turn your head to look at him, finding that his eyes are full of confusion and disbelief. “I… of course I do. Is that not… why you were looking for me?”
“I didn’t… really have a plan for… for if I found you,” he admits, voice low and a little unsteady.
You swallow the knot in your throat, heart slowly breaking at how vulnerable he still sounds.
“Alright,” you say, trying to maintain the light-hearted lilt in your voice. “You don’t have to figure it out right now. Why don’t we get some sleep and talk more about it in the morning? It’s late and you seem… tired.”
“Yeah,” he nods, placing his empty cup, then yours, back on the table. “I’ve taken up enough of your night. I should head back to my ship.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re not going anywhere in this storm.” You stand, and hold out your hand, choosing to offer him your right one, even though you can’t lift it more than waist level. Maybe you’re pushing him to confront the past too quickly, but you’re tired of the way he’s looking at you like you’re something he broke. “Come on.”
Bacara takes your hand immediately. It’s almost instinctive, a reflex lingering from the countless times he’s done so in the past. Only once he’s pushed himself off the couch does the reality of the contact sink in. His grip loosens, turning hesitant, as if he’s afraid he’ll snap the bone all over again.
You try to squeeze back as hard as you can. It isn’t much; only your thumb and forefinger still work that way, applying soft pressure to his palm. But it’s enough to sense a drop of relief in the anxious sea of his mind.
“Come on,” you repeat, guiding him down a small stone hallway, deeper into the dwelling.
Bacara follows you dutifully, walking one step behind – but freezes in the archway that leads into your bedroom.
The space is small and simplistic. Since there’s no natural light in here, you haven’t decorated it much, preferring instead to spend your time in the other room. There’s a carpet on the floor, but its purpose is more utilitarian than decorative, keeping you from stepping on the cold stone. The furniture is mismatched and nothing fancy – just a wooden dresser, a desk that’s either metal or plasteel, a chair, and sitting on the far side of the room, a wooden-frame bed.
That is what Bacara’s eyes fall on.
The bed. With its colourful throw pillows, light pink sheets and a thick blanket that seems to be bantha wool.
And all the implications that it carries.
You walk to it, taking off your sweater and draping it on the back of the chair. You’re left in a white tank top, and when you turn to face him, Bacara can finally see the blasterburn scar on your shoulder. The one he gave you.
He shakes his head and takes half a step back.
“I can sleep on the couch,” he mutters.
“Really?” you challenge, giving him a look. “You can sleep on that tiny couch?”
“The floor then,” he suggests.
“Bacara,” you sigh, trying to remain patient. But your frustration is raising, and with it, a gnawing fear. Is it guilt or something else? Does he not want you anymore? “Just come to bed,” you plead.
“I don’t deserve it,” he blurts.
The words hang heavy in the air, almost like they take up all the space in the room. You blink, the confusion on your face fading into a heavy, quite understanding. But as you open your mouth to contradict him, Bacara speaks again.
“I just… I don’t deserve your kindness. And I don’t deserve to be that close to you again.” His voice is low and full of pain, and he keeps shaking his head, trying to convince you to hate him as much as he hates himself.
But that’s not something you could ever do.
Yes, there’s a part of your mind that’s still on edge, still replaying that night on the bridge and trying to tell you that you should be running. And there’s a voice in the back of your head that’s still angry for the way your arm hangs like a dead weight by your side.
Maybe you haven’t forgiven him yet. Not fully.
But you will. You know you will.
Because you want to – and you want him to forgive himself.
You want him to stay here, with you. To look at you the way he used to. You want him to hold you, touch you.
You want mornings sipping caf as you listen to the waves crashing on the cliffs. You want nights on that tiny couch watching old holo-films.
You want to grow old together.
You want everything you thought you threw away when you became a Knight.
And you just need him to want it too.
“You’re not going to convince me of that,” you declare, stepping closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “You deserve kindness. You… you deserve everything. Even if you think you don't. So please, just come to bed.”
“You shouldn’t want me,” he argues, eyes glassy with new tears that threaten to spill. “You should hate me.”
You shake your head. “I don't.”
“Why?” he asks weakly.
Your head tilts to the side as you look up at him, a soft smile curling your lips.
“Because I love you.”
Bacara blinks the tears away, his expression a mix of disbelief and adoration.
“Y-You...?”
“Love you. Still,” you say with a small chuckle. “I didn't say it back then – couldn't say it – but I… I've loved you for a very long time, Bacara.”
Bacara is speechless. His lips slightly part but no words come out. He’s been waiting so long to hear you say those words, he thought the day would never come. Especially not after Mygeeto.
You take his hand and slowly step back into the room, and he follows without fighting you, or himself, anymore. Carefully, you start taking off his armor. You remember every clasp, every latch, but the task is a little more difficult now that you can only do it with one hand. Bacara eventually snaps out of his daze to help you, and the pieces of plastoid fall on the carpet with quiet thuds, until only he is left in front of you. No longer a commander. No longer a trooper. But a vulnerable, unguarded man.
Yours.
He climbs into bed after you, his hesitation melting away into the burning need to have you close. The possibility that this is all a dream crosses his mind, especially when you snuggle into his side, seeking refuge in his warm body from the cold of the sheets.
Bacara turns to face you and pulls you tight into his chest. This is all he’s ever wanted. All he’s dreamed of since waking up from the nightmare that was Order 66. You look up at him, your eyes wide and full of love, and Bacara doesn’t think anymore – he acts. Surging forward, he presses his lips to yours in an impulsive kiss that's over as quickly as it began.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his cheeks darkening.
You smile and close the distance between you, capturing his lips in another quick kiss.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” you say.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, and finally, Bacara allows himself to properly admire your face. There's a scar he doesn't recognise above your eyebrow, and the lines on your face are just a little more accentuated. You're even more beautiful than he remembered.
“I’ve missed you so much,” you whisper, planting a kiss to the heel of his palm.
“I’ve missed you too,” he replies. “Even when I couldn’t. There was something always… absent.” He leans closers, pressing his forehead to yours. “Do you really want me to stay?”
“Forever,” you confirm. “I never want to be apart from you again. I… couldn’t bear to be apart from you ever again.”
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner mesh’la sarad,” Bacara rasps, planting another chaste kiss to your lips. “Forever it is then.”
The raw, vulnerable moment stretches, until sleep pulls the both of you under its veil. With breaths mingling, and your steady warmth against his body, Bacara sleeps through the night for the first time in months.
And when he wakes up the next morning to muffled singing coming from down the hall, and the inviting aroma of fresh caf floating in the air, he finally believes he’s home.