Chapter Text
The attack is so sudden yet so precise that George's first thought is that He is behind it.
The space station shudders beneath their feet, metal walls creaking from the shock waves left by blasts that ripple through them. The entire panels fall off the walls, the heavy bolts snapping in half and raining down on the floor like bullets. One of the pipes winding under the ceiling bursts, making George duck to avoid hot vapor hissing right in his face. The fumes quickly fill the narrow corridor, stuffing his nose, mixing in with the smell of smoke, oil, melted metal, and blood. He tries to breathe through his mouth even though every intake of hot air feels like sandpaper scratching his throat.
Urged by the screaming alert and frantic blinking of red lights, George speeds through the maze of the same grey walls, his grip on Kimi's wrist so tight he must be leaving bruises. But he won't let go, can't let anything separate them, not when they are on a gigantic transport station so big and complicated he fears that every turn leads them further from the rescue pods.
Their escape comes to a halt when the doors in front of them slide open, revealing a small group of stormtroopers, no less than ten. Normally, they wouldn't be an issue. But George doesn't have his lightsaber on him, and Kimi's still learning, hardly capable of standing against so many soldiers.
"Back, go back!" He shouts, stumbling backwards. The element of surprise works for them. By the time the troopers realize what happened and raise their rifles, the doors shut close, sealing them off. With a quick swipe of his lightsaber, Kimi destroys the control pad, short-circuiting the opening mechanism.
"Wow, that was close! You think it'll hold them up?" He exhales, wide-eyed, as he turns the saber off and hides it. His accent thickens, and George only now notices how irregularly the teenager breathes. He should add more cardio and endurance to Kimi's training. If they make it out alive, of course.
"Do you remember which way we came here?" George asks, instead of replying, looking down the corridor behind him, unable to tell which turn will lead them to the rescue and which will get them trapped.
"The corridor to the left, I guess," Kimi vaguely waves in that direction.
"You guess?"
George doesn't mean to sound snarky, but the urge to get away makes him impatient. The longer they stay on the station, the more dangerous it gets. The safety pods aren't limitless, especially since stormtroopers are already raiding this place. The door behind them may keep this group away, but if there's more on this level, they are screwed.
Suddenly, the station rocks sideways, as if it weighs nothing, sending George and Kimi tumbling onto the ground. Moments later, a loud bang bursts out through the air, an echo of an explosion inside the station. The siren goes mute, leaving an eerie silence interrupted only by pops of sparks showering from torn cords and the hiss of burst pipes overhead. Then the lights blink once, twice, and then die completely, emergency illumination kicking in immediately after, flooding the corridor with bloody red. The siren comes back alive next, its tune changed.
It's not a warning anymore. It's a cry for help.
"W-what–What happened?" Kimi asks, struggling to stand up. George notices a streak of something dark marring his temple. He hopes it's just dirt, a stain of machine oil or grease. Not blood, please don't let it be blood.
"We need to get the kriff out of here, now," he hauls Kimi up, steadying him when the kid sways on his feet, and darts forward, tugging Kimi along.
Throwing away all caution, George dives into the Force, bluntly brushing off the relief from the half-forgotten comfort radiating from it. He doesn't have time for that; instead, he focuses all the attention he can spare on sensing the directions, praying for the Force to lead them to safety. A pod, an abandoned ship, a cargo transporter waiting for clearance that will never come. He'll pilot a piece of space junk if it takes them off this doomed station (if George's suspicions are even half-correct).
Turn after turn, long narrow galley after galley, corridor after corridor, they chase the ghost of hope until another set of plain-looking doors hisses open, letting through a flood of light that momentarily blinds them as they stumble into the room.
It takes George a moment to blink the bright spots away and make out the surroundings. It looks like they are in a communications center of one of the cargo hubs. It's half-trashed, with some of the stations burning, fire slowly eating away whatever it can. The backup power is on, though, and the siren is much quieter here, especially once the doors close behind them.
Through the floor-to-ceiling viewport spanning the opposite wall, he catches a glimpse of a hangar bay, a few dozen ships still stranded there. George can almost taste the sweetness of escape on his tongue as Kimi lets out a relieved sigh beside him.
For a moment, it feels like they made it out.
"Sir, we got more!" A sudden voice, muffled by a helmet, bursts through their illusion of safety.
George instinctively turns towards the sound, his eyes darting around frantically until they land on a few projection panels, still powered on. The web of illuminated grooves, tracing the transport routes on the grid, is a perfect cover for three figures in a white uniform. Their blaster rifles are already aimed at George and Kimi, pointing at their chests, protected by nothing but thin shirts and hastily pulled-on jackets.
"Should we shoot them, sir?" the stormtrooper to the left asks, turning his head slightly to the side, and George can't help but follow the motion, letting his eyes slide past the muzzle facing him, the blinking indicator of the fully charged battery ready for an impulse shot, past the chest plate bearing scorched marks and scratches, all the way to the figure shrouded in darkness, standing at the back wall.
"No need," the man says, and George's heart halts for a second before dropping so fast and hard he can almost hear it hitting the floor.
He knows this voice.
His first instinct is to yank Kimi by his hand and push him behind his back despite a muffled sound of surprise. He takes a hasty step back, too, crowding the kid against the door, shielding him from the troopers, from him, hoping that if they fire, at least Kimi will have a chance to get to the control pad and slip behind the door. Or negotiate. He's young, and the Imperial Army would be stupid to pass on an opportunity to try and reshape him into a useful tool. And Kimi will either die fighting against it or break, becoming something he has been running from his entire life.
Neither option is favorable, but at least surrendering now will buy him time to come up with something.
George has no illusions regarding his fate. He will be killed, either as a repayment for all the damage he's done to the Empire or as a warning. A clear message to everyone—that's what's going to happen to you if you keep running.
"Take them to the ship," a cold, detached command spurs stormtroopers into action, two of them moving towards them, lowering their blasters to get out a pair of cuffs each.
George is almost relieved; keeping them both alive increases their chances of escaping later. Kimi has a different idea, though.
A familiar buzz of a lightsaber zips through the room, the soft green glow filling in the edge of George's vision.
Everything happens so quickly, even his refined senses struggle to catch it all. His body automatically steps to the left and forward, moving away from the range of Kimi's incoming attack.
"He's a Jedi!" One trooper yells, fear evident in his voice.
"Kill him, kill him!" Another screams frantically, yanking his rifle up and firing, only to get the shot bounce against the blade and be sent back at him.
George's ready to throw his body at the nearest stormtrooper, but before he has a chance, two shots crack through the room in a rapid succession. Two bodies drop dead, the armor plates clanking and scraping against the metal surface.
"The kriff are you doing here?" The man emerges from the shadows, the muzzle of his blaster pistol still half-raised.
"Max," George says dryly, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. He straightens up, trying to appear calm and collected, "What are you doing here? Finally decided to rat me out?"
"Are you nuts? We got a tip about illegal smuggling. It has nothing to do with you."
"Well, that's an unfortunate coincidence then. Because we missed our connection and were waiting for the next one."
"We," Max clarifies, his eyes darting to Kimi, whose lightsaber is still humming with energy. "Who's this hot-head who almost got you killed?"
Even without looking, George can feel Kimi stiffen up, the implication cutting deep. Without taking his eyes off Max, he moves closer to the kid, firmly planting himself between him and Max, lifting his chin a bit in a silent defiance, "He was trying to protect us. Not a familiar sentiment to you, I assume."
"You were outnumbered. We didn't know you were a Jedi. If not for me, at least one of us would've been killed. Next time, think twice before pulling out that glow stick out of your ass."
"Yeah, thank you for the lecture. Can we go now?" George glances at the sliver of outer space visible at the far end of the hangar bay.
He might not be well-versed in piloting gigantic transport hubs orbiting uninhabited moons, but even he can tell the stars shouldn't move so quickly and in the same direction—upwards. The remaining control stations in the room also do not inspire confidence, not with this many blinking red lights.
"Do you have an escape plan?" Max asks, looking at them skeptically.
"Not really, but we thought we could take one of the ships and happily fly away from here."
"Not an option, we are controlling every ship that tries to take off. Backup plans?"
George purses his lips, but it doesn't take him long to admit, "We don't really have one."
"That's stupid. How are you even still alive?" It's humiliating to be reprimanded by Max out of all people, but George swallows the urge to argue. They were stupid, after all, not establishing an escape route. It's just...they were also so careful. It's not their fault that even when pursuing smugglers, Imperial forces manage to screw them over.
"The base will lose its integrity within three hours and crash onto the moon in four. We need to get out of here before they send a search party after me," Max looks over the communications center with a calculating gaze. "I'll get you out on my ship. Come on, follow me."
George hesitates.
He wants to trust Max, as he did five years ago on Coruscant, when the man let him go and promised not to follow. He wants to believe that it's truly just a coincidence that they met like this on this Force-forsaken station. And he wouldn't spare it a second thought if he were here on his own.
He isn't, though. He has Kimi right behind him, and he was never a part of the deal with Max. They agreed: one secret for one secret, one's leverage against the other's. Kimi's connection to the Force and George's care for the kid tips the scales in Max's favor, and by extension, the Emperor's.
"For Force's sake, don't be difficult," Max notices his hesitation and clenches his jaw, clearly annoyed. "If you want to stay here, stay. Don't blame me if you both end up dead because you were too proud."
"I'm most definitely not," George bristles. "But you are the Empire's hound, and for all I know, 'your ship' might as well be a flying prison with a torture chamber designed specifically for Force-users."
Max grumbles something under his breath and then takes several steps forward, passing the dead bodies of the troopers like they are nothing. They might as well be to him. He stops so close to George that the latter could count each individual lash fanning his stormy blue eyes if he wanted to.
"You listen to me now," Max says, each word punctuated like a punch. "If you don't pull your head out of your ass, you will die. Either here or at one of the prison camps on planets so far off the maps, you've never heard of them. I have no gain in saving you. In fact, it will do me more harm than good. But unlike you, I can put aside our differences if needed. So will you suck it up and follow me, the only person here who can help you?"
A familiar heat of irritation fires up under George's skin, reminding him how much he hated it when Max acted as if he knew better. Still, as much as it pains him to admit, this time he is right. He is their best chance.
Kimi finds his hand and squeezes it lightly, and George feels all the fight leave his body as he says, "Okay then. What's your plan?"
"Finally. Come on, I'll tell you on the way down," Max huffs, turning around and walking towards the elevator leading to the bay area, while George and Kimi have no other choice but to follow.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Being rescued by Max Verstappen, a decorated and feared general of the Imperial Army, is a surreal experience, mostly because of how smooth it goes.
He makes them exit the elevator one level above the hangar bay and crawl into the circulation vent, which is the oldest trick in the book. George is slightly annoyed with himself for not thinking about it sooner. Once they are safely hidden, Max heads to the bay and orders stormtroopers to move some of the cargo containers, effectively paving the way for George and Kimi. The rest—hiding behind random containers, crawling under ships' bellies, and quietly slipping behind troopers' backs even as the floor beneath their feet is trembling from the strain of keeping the structure together—is relatively easy.
Fortunately for them, Max prefers to stay away from commotion, so his ship is stationed in the far corner of the bay, away from bigger transporters swarming with idle troopers. At some point, they have to spend a few minutes crouched behind a stack of crates, waiting for the group of troopers to pass and clear the way to the ship, so George spends the time admiring the view.
The ship is a work of beauty, and he isn't ashamed to admit that. Its form is sleek, all smooth lines and fluid shapes, looking like a ship meant for racing in higher layers of a planet's atmosphere, where the air is so thin you feel like you're gliding over a line dividing the colorful expanses of the planet's surface and a vast blackness of the cosmos. The ship seems well-kept, too, its surface polished, glinting in the cold blue light of the power shield separating the bay entrance from outer space.
An echo of an itch to take over the controllers and push the ship to its limit buzzes at the tips of George's fingers.
Before he can get any dangerous ideas, Kimi tugs at his sleeve, silently pointing at the group of troopers who are far enough not to hear any movement behind them. George nods, and they quickly cover the distance from their hideout to the ship, climbing up the boarding ramp that Max had left lowered. A short corridor leads them past the entry to a small cargo hold, then an engineering nook, and into a small lounge with a galley on one side and a plain gray sofa on the opposite.
As soon as George's eyes land on a sofa, he realizes just how tired he is. His legs are heavy from all the running, his feet going numb, and the worn-out draping is calling for him as no silk sheet or softest mattress would. Under normal circumstances, George would be an exemplary guest, polite and not overstepping any boundaries. But today has been excruciatingly long and tiresome; he feels like he aged five years in five minutes
in that communication center. If he dies for desecrating Max's sofa, at least it'll be in comfort. And watching Max being pissed.
Without further ado, he plops onto the sofa with a loud sigh, stretching his legs out until he hears a telltale pop, and drapes his arms along the sofa's back. Kimi's more hesitant, hovering but not feeling brave enough to sit down.
"Come on. If he gets pissy, I'll deal with him," George pats the spot next to him, and Kimi obediently settles down with an ever louder exhale, like a popped balloon letting out all the air.
They don't talk, too tired for that. Doesn't mean they stop thinking: Kimi keeps gnawing at his lower lip, most likely worrying over Max's words. George, in the meantime, worries about Max's presence in general.
He didn't expect to meet him. And now everything he has spent years carefully pushing down until it drowns in the muddy waters of the river that's his denial comes back to the surface. It's distracting, these thoughts, and dreams, and broken expectations. Flashes of memories. He can't afford to get sidetracked. So he tilts his head back, letting it rest against the cold durasteel panel, closes his eyes, and starts meticulously pushing it all down, until his mind is clear again.
It does take some effort; the more stubborn memories fight to remain at the forefront of his mind, as vivid as the day they happened. But he wrestles them down anyway, reclaiming control over his mind, the waters once again clear blue despite the demons lurking underneath.
When he opens his eyes and blinks a few times, adjusting to bright lights again, he's calm, focused, and ready to take back his leading role.
"Hey," he speaks up, angling his body towards Kimi, "are you okay?" He also looks the kid over, his eyes drawn towards the dark streak on his temple. It's blood, sadly, but it's dry, crusty, and mostly flaked away now, the cut underneath it superficial.
"Yeah, totally," Kimi replies. Bites into his lower lip absentmindedly. Darts his eyes over the lounge. Shifts slightly, his body too restless to stay still. "Um...I just wanted..."
George doesn't rush him, having learned quite early on that when the kid hesitates to start talking, it's about something important and difficult for him to articulate.
"I'm sorry," he says finally, his voice slightly cracking. "I see now how stupid I was. I shouldn't have taken out the saber."
"What nonsense," George doesn't hesitate to tug Kimi in a hug, the kid leaning into it eagerly. Smiling softly, George rests his chin on top of Kimi's head, careful not to put too much pressure, and lets his hand draw soothing circles along the teenager's back. "You were scared. Of course, you would try everything you could to get out of there alive. I would never blame you for that."
"But, this 'Max'–he said I shouldn't have–"
"That's his opinion, not a fact," he doesn't even let him finish. "Sure, my choice would be to buy time and try to break out of prison. You decided that a fight was the only solution. Either of us could've been right. Or wrong. Now you know that next time you'll need to wait for a bit longer before drawing up your lightsaber."
He hates that he has to say "next" instead of blanketing Kimi in an illusion that it was the last time they got so close to being caught.
"Yeah, but, maybe, next time I shouldn't start the fight with a saber, that's–wait!" Kimi straightens up, his face rapidly paling as he looks up at him with eyes filled with dread. "George, your saber! You didn't–"
"It's okay," he smiles, even though it feels brittle at the edges. "Green was never my color anyway."
"But–"
"I told you, it's fine. We can't get back there, you heard Max, the station will crash soon. We'll do something about it once we're far from the Imperials. After all, you wanted to see how the crystals can be synthesized, right?"
Kimi doesn't look content with it, but the alternative is worse, so he drops the subject. And promptly readjusts his saber, tucking it even more safely behind the layers of his clothes.
They lapse into exhausted silence again. Soon, Kimi dozes off, curling into George's side. However, he quickly starts shivering slightly as the ship's thermostat is not working, and the station slowly falls apart, its systems shutting down. It takes some time and careful manoeuvring, but George manages to shrug off his jacket and drape it over Kimi, who immediately snuggles closer to him, exhaling quietly. With a small smile, George brushes a few stray curls away from the kid's eyes. The sight of him sleeping so peacefully makes him feel oddly soft and hopeful.
The illusion of calm shatters as soon as he hears boots climbing up the ramp. George tenses up instinctively, even though he can feel the familiar presence brush against his Force senses a few seconds before Max appears in the lounge entryway.
"Is everything okay?" George whispers, not wanting to disturb the kid's sleep.
Max's eyes meet his, sharpening, as if he has just remembered they are here at all. He looks at him, then at Kimi, then back at him, "Yes," he replies, his voice low. "We swept and cleared the station, so I'm taking off in five."
"Cleared?"
Max doesn't grace him with a reply, busying himself with the pre-flight checkup. George follows him with his eyes, silently cataloging all the changes in the man's appearance and demeanor, refamiliarizing himself with someone who once held a special place in his heart.
He's still shorter than him, which does make George's lips curve into a small, private smirk. His shoulders are much broader now, though. The black uniform, no matter how unflattering, barely hides all the muscles he gained. They become especially noticeable once Max sheds the heavy cloak and outer jacket, leaving only a pressed shirt on. His face is sharper now, too, years and whatever he's doing, leaving its marks in deep creases across his forehead, greyish skin pulled taut under his eyes, and a sharp jaw. He also catches sight of white lines of scars, glaringly bright in the ship's harsh lighting; even the Empire's top medical facilities were unable to erase them.
Max notices him looking. Of course he does. He arches his eyebrows in a silent question, but George stares back, waiting to be called out openly. Max doesn't rise to the bait, though, muttering under his breath and disappearing into the cockpit, his steps much heavier and purposeful than they need to be.
It feels like a twisted déjà vu.
Years ago, in a different setting and under better circumstances, they would get just like this: George looking at him, fascinated, and Max hiding away, pretending to be annoyed rather than flustered by the attention.
Sometimes, George thinks those memories are just dreams. That's how unreal they feel: he and Max strolling around the pale green terraces of Coruscant, children of neighboring systems brought to the capital planet by the same dream, to make the galaxy better. George showing his "Jedi tricks" and Max sharing gossip from the Senate, followed by his own commentary that made George laugh so hard his belly hurt.
There's no mental technique to stop this feeling from slowly spreading through George's body like an infection. He can't deny it, can't ignore it. He misses those times so damn much.
He misses Max. His Max, with patchy stubble, squishy cheeks, and a wide smile.
The man in the cockpit is not him, despite wearing a similar face and responding to the same name.
Lost in his thoughts, George doesn't register the moment the thrum of the engine fills the room, and the ship takes off, leaving the station behind. He notices the change only when it gets even colder and an occasional shiver runs through his body, making Kimi shift and snuggle impossibly closer to him, as if trying to share the warmth.
The gesture, so open and instinctive, tugs at George's heart. On a whim, he kisses the top of Kimi's head, overwhelmed with affection. Max chooses this exact moment to emerge from the cockpit. He moves around the space quietly, opting to sit at the small dining table in the galley rather than taking the remaining space on the sofa.
"You have quite a spacious ship," George comments when it becomes obvious Max isn't going to say anything.
"My usual transporter is much smaller. But I got called off from a...scouting mission, so I didn't have time to switch."
"I see," George isn't sure he wants to hear more about the nature of Max's duties to the Empire. He has more pressing matters to discuss. "What's the plan then?"
To his credit, Max doesn't beat around the bush: "I need to submit a report about the status of the operation, but that can be covered remotely before we enter hyperspace. Then I can drop you off on some planet that aligns with the route of my mission, and we go our separate ways, hopefully forever, this time."
"Just what we need, jumping from one place crawling with your troopers to another."
"That's the best I can do for you. Be grateful," Max's face looks unimpressed. His fingers, though, keep twitching until he crosses his hands over his chest and leans back on his chair. "Or did you expect me to deliver you to the doorstep of the Rebellion's base? That would go so well."
"No, no, I am grateful, truly," George squeezes his eyes shut, taking a few deep breaths. He forgot how careful one must be to navigate a conversation with a tired Max. Even though he himself is far from brimming with energy, the last few stops on their run weren't exactly welcoming or easy to navigate, with too many enemies in white and too few allies willing to shelter them. And this constant need to move is getting on his nerves more and more; years of running are finally catching up with him.
Doesn't make it Max's problem, though. Far from it.
"I'm sorry, I didn't want to sound demanding," George says, sending his best convincing smile at Max. "Whatever planet you choose, we'll take it from there, thank you."
"Years later, and it's still scary," Max comments offhandedly after a brief pause, his eyes not leaving George's face. He wants to squirm away from the heavy gaze, but Kimi is still cuddled to him, and waking him up is the last thing he wants, so he remains still, pinned under Max's scrutiny.
"What's scary?"
"You, switching to this persona. Even tone, robotic voice, plastic smile. Used to scare the kriff out of me when we were younger. One moment you are a normal teenager, and the next you sound like a droid."
"I was trying to be polite," he doesn't mean to pout, but it's not every day he's called robotic.
"Sure," Max huffs, unconvinced. He taps a pad built into the dining table, a hologram of a clock appearing in front of them. With another tap, he makes it vanish before turning around on his seat and looking up at the cupboard over the kitchenette. "You hungry?"
"I'm not sure I can stomach anything heavier than water right now, but Kimi definitely needs to eat something."
Max nods, gets up, and focuses on fixing them a meal. Soon enough, Kimi starts to stir, the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, and food-processing machines beeping, waking him up. He sits up slowly, yawning and rubbing his eyes sluggishly. George can't help but smile as he tugs his jacket back onto Kimi's shoulders, preventing it from sliding off completely.
"You're awake," Max comments, placing two plates onto the table. "Hope you're hungry."
"Yeah, starving, actually," Kimi replies, stifling another yawn.
"Good. Eat, then."
"Oh, thank you, uhm, mister...Max?"
"Just Max is fine."
"Just Max, got it," Kimi nods enthusiastically, scurrying on his feet and leaving George's side oddly cold. He sits down at the table like a model child: back straight, chin high, hands clasped over his knees. But it doesn't stop him from talking a mile a minute. "Also, thank you, like, from the bottom of my heart. I don't know what we would do without you. We were so lost, and you saving us was Force-sent, really. The way you killed those two troopers, bang-bang, so quick, so efficient. Did you train a lot for that? That must be some damn good reflexes."
Max sends an amused glance to George, who stretches his arms along the sofa back again and shrugs, showing with his entire body that he's here to watch and not interfere.
"Oh, actually, isn't it offensive to say 'Force-sent' to you?" Kimi keeps rambling on, his accent thickening with excitement. "With, well, how much you obsess over the Emperor, should it be 'Emperor-sent'?"
George covers his mouth with a hand to stiffen the laugh, enjoying the look of absolute bewilderment on Max's face.
"Um, I'm...not triggered by mentions of Force, so it's fine," he says when it becomes obvious that Kimi's question was genuine and he's waiting for a reply.
"Cool, cool. So, what's on my plate? Smells good. Not as good as that one dish from my home planet. I think you've heard about it. It’s..."
The conversation between the two of them flows like a mountain river on George's home planet, fast-flowing and smoothing over any jagged rocks that would make others wary. Once they establish that Max did try some of the dishes that were popular on Kimi's home planet, the kid, without batting an eye, asks him why he decided to kill the troopers instead of ordering them not to shoot. George wishes he had had a camera to capture Max's face before the man managed to recollect himself and provide quite an in-depth analysis for a split-second decision. Kimi nods along through the entire speech, not forgetting to dig into his food, and, once Max finishes his explanation, promptly asks him about why he decided to attack the orbital transport station.
At some point, George abandons the sofa and joins them at the table. Max gets up, heats some water, and pours three mugs of tea, putting one in front of George without as much as a glance. George hopes his lack of snarky comments will be interpreted as gratitude.
It's not long before Kimi asks the question that must've burned his tongue since the moment George realized who they faced in that communication center.
"How come you know each other?" A grin on Kimi's face doesn't promise anything good, his eyes darting between Max and George, who are now sitting at opposite sides of the table.
"We were friends before the Republic collapsed," George says, gripping the hot mug between his hands a tad tighter, to the point his skin starts to sting.
He tries to pretend the words don't hurt as much as they used to.
"Wow," Kimi's eyes go wide, sparkling in the fluorescent light. "Is Max also a Jedi?"
The said man looks up at that, tensing, but George shakes his head calmly, "No, we met in the Senate during one of my visits there. My Master was lenient and allowed me to leave the premises of the Jedi Temple, but since there weren't many children wandering around Senate District back then, we kind of had to stick together."
"The suffering," Max rolls his eyes dramatically, making Kimi giggle into his mug. "At least now I see you only once every few years."
"Oh, you've met after the shitshow happened?"
"The shitshow?" Max looks at George with his eyebrows raised.
"Don't look at me like that," George grumbles, feeling his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. "I found him at a difficult period of his life, and contrary to my best efforts, the progress is slow." At that, he stands up, gathering the empty plates, and moves to the cleaning station, putting an end to the conversation.
Shortly, Max goes off to show Kimi the bathroom unit. They take some time, so George, having nothing better to do, relaxes on the sofa again, listening to the soothing hum of the engine.
When Max comes back, he's alone, looking puzzled and holding a stack of blankets like some foreign object he forgot how to use.
"What is it?" George straightens up, alerted. "Did something happen?"
"He...fell asleep," Max replies, awkwardly lingering at the far end of the sofa. "On my bed. I showed him the bathroom and went to get the blankets from the crate under the bed. I bent down—he's sitting. I straightened up—he's slumped over and snoring."
George bursts out laughing, imagining Max standing like this, confused and hugging a pile of fluffy blankets to his chest over Kimi's sleeping form.
"Why are you–" the man sighs, exasperated, "Is it even okay to fall asleep so quickly? I thought he looked like a human."
"Of course he is. When you are on a run, you learn to make the best out of any opportunity to rest. It's a physical reflex now. As soon as he feels safe, he falls asleep. A neat trick, I'm yet to master it."
"You don't get much sleep?" Max asks, dumping the blankets on the sofa before sitting down. The gap he leaves between them feels intentional. George tries not to let it get into his head.
"Nope, I'm too anxious to sleep for longer than strictly necessary. I...know how unsafe it can be to fall asleep and wake up to a muzzle pointed at your face."
He doesn't know why he says the last part. It's not like he wants or needs to guilt-trip Max; the man was neither giving the orders nor carrying them out at that time. He wasn't even aware of what was happening for the first few days, away from Coruscant on some diplomatic mission with his father.
Still, a small, illogical part of George, the one he tried so hard to suppress during his training, can't help but despise Max for enjoying the simple comfort of having a sound sleep within the safety of his personal ship.
Max is either too tired to start an argument or doesn't deem George worth the effort. Instead, he stretches out with a satisfied sigh, sliding down the sofa slightly, and tilts his head towards George. His face gets this contemplative look that means unavoidable and uncomfortable questions, "Is the kid your," he frowns in concentration, trying to remember the right word, "parawan?"
"Padawan," George corrects him, "and no, I was never knighted, so I cannot take an apprentice."
"But you are teaching him."
"Yes, so that he can survive and, hopefully, one day pass this knowledge further."
"So he is your apprentice," Max looks at him like it's George who cannot grasp a simple concept.
"Well, in a way, yes, but–" It’s so irritating how important it is to him that Max understands the intricacies of the Jedi Order and its training.
"You're teaching him how to fight with his glowing stick and use Force tricks. As I see it, he's your Padawan," Max shrugs, oblivious to the way his ignorance grates against George's nerves. Or enjoying it.
“For the stars' sake, no, he is not," George says sharply, tapping his fingers against the headrest, as if punctuating his words, "I cannot call him my Padawan because Lewis didn't conduct my Trials. Moreover, Kimi has never passed initialization. He wasn't a youngling. Calling him my apprentice would be inappropriate."
"Of course," Max rolls his eyes, disgruntledly mumbling something under his breath, so quiet even George can't pick it up. "Who even cares? It's just a stupid title. It doesn't change the fact that you're teaching him."
"I do, Max," George purses his lips, his voice clipped, annoyance bubbling in his chest. He tries to look composed, even though his heart speeds up behind his ribcage. It's like he's a youngling again, and after a long day of gruesome training, he went to Max for comfort, but they started fighting over some nonsense instead.
George missed him dearly, to the extent he doubts he'll ever admit even to himself. But the years they spent apart smoothed over the jagged edges of the memories. George forgot the feeling of sitting side by side with Max, but talking to a durasteel wall, never met halfway, always being the first to try and search for a compromise. Because it was always Max who expected people to accept his point of view as the ultimate truth.
A useful skill for a Senator-to-be. An irritating trait that George hates to tiptoe around.
Suddenly, he feels trapped on this ship where he doesn't belong, in a conversation that has turned against him in a way that will hurt him. How could it not? When Max still disregards how important the millennia of Jedi tradition and history are to George, refusing to understand or at least accept it, putting his need to be right above empathizing.
But if Max is stubborn, then George is just twice as much, so he draws some patience from the reserves even he didn't know existed, and tries to explain it once again, "Maybe for you it's just a word, but for me it's more than that. It's a tradition, a proper order of things. We lost so much, I lost so much. So, rather than disregarding and simplifying, I want to preserve what I can. Besides, Lewis won't even hear about the Trials, trust me, I asked. Apart from him, there's no one else left, so I can't move up the ranks as well."
Max's mouth twists with something sharp and dark as he looks away without saying anything. George already knows that he didn't accept the explanation, which is okay. If they don't argue about it further, it's already a win. At least he says so to himself, lowering his eyes and pretending to be nonchalantly focused on his bruised knuckles.
When Max speaks up, he sounds terrifyingly calm, "And what about Kimi?"
"What about Kimi?" George looks up from his hands, puzzled.
"Is he okay with being no one to you? Just a kid you're using as a backup hard drive for your Jedi rule-book?"
"You're joking, right?" George's appalled by the very idea. He subconsciously leans towards Max, searching, waiting to catch him cracking a grin. But his face remains blank, "Wait, you're serious? He knows I care about him!"
"Does he? If you're passing on your knowledge, it means you explained the whole Jedi hierarchy thing in great detail. All the nuances, the implications."
Hearing Max say it is like throwing a knife at your enemy and having it lodged into your chest instead. He has no retort to that, because even though it's so untrue—Kimi knows that he adores him—when Max says it, it makes too much sense.
George grips the edge of the headrest to stop himself from tugging at the collar of his shirt, exposing his throat, because it becomes harder to breathe. The pressure of disappointment in Max's eyes constricts his windpipe. To an onlooker, it'd seem like George is towering over Max, tall and imposing. In fact, it's completely the other way round: George feels small all of a sudden, coveting before Max, who doesn't smile, doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at him, letting silence speak for him.
"No, you are wrong," it sounds weak even to George.
Max doesn't fail to plunge the knife even deeper. "Kimi is a smart kid, I gathered that much. He must be thinking you don't consider him a real deal, someone who will be called Jedi in the future."
He laughs, but sounds forced, dark, and deprecating, sending a shiver down George's spine. "Do you still moon over your Master every chance you get? Bet you keep saying how honored you were to be chosen by him. Be his apprentice. I for sure heard that tune way too many times. Imagine listening to all that while knowing you'll never have it because your teacher, or however the kriff you call yourself, refuses to recognize you for who you are."
"Max, I–" George croaks out, his throat dry. He doesn't even know what to say, cracking inside. He can't understand how their conversation came to this, why Max sounds like he's angry at him. He has known Kimi for less than a few hours, so why is he so dead set on protecting him? Why does Kimi mean more to him than George?
The demons drifting at the bottom of his mind rejoice, lunging towards the surface, pushing through the cracks, fighting to be the first one to sink their claws into George's mind to drag him down, where there's no calmness, only sea storm and painful awareness of how little his presence means to others.
Before he can say anything, Max waves him off. As if he’s a pest that’s too tiresome to kill, so it's easier to ignore it and wait until it dies on its own. "Yeah, why do I bother? You'll once again play the victim role, and I'll be the villain."
At that, he stands up, his posture perfectly straight, like he hasn't just pushed someone through the emotional grinder, and walks away without sparing George even a fleeting glance. He stops at the archway leading to the cockpit, though, turning just enough to indicate that he's talking to George, but not enough to show his face.
"If you do want to listen to the voice of reason...now it sucks being you, this Jedi thing. This kid is one of the most wanted people in the galaxy just because of who he is and the color of his glow stick. Don't make it harder on him by pointing out how he doesn't belong anywhere, not even among those he's been hunted for."
Once the door hisses closed behind him, George remains alone, torn apart and left for his demons to feast on. He hunches up, leaning on his elbows resting on his knees, and bowing his head. His fingers tremble as he brings them to his face, pressing the pads to his eyes until all he can see are splashes of colors. He takes a breath, aborted, ugly, sounding like a half-aborted sob. Releases it. Repeats the motion until his throat no longer feels like it's being crushed.
Maybe that's why he's never wanted them to see each other again.
Not because Max climbed the ranks of the Imperial Army so quickly, not because they both had leverage against each other, not because it would be much safer for them not to face each other ever again.
Not because every fond memory of them together is now tinted with the smoke and fire of the burning Jedi Temple.
No. The true, shameful reason for that is George’s fear of Max. Of his ability to somehow find that one insecurity, one button that will hurt the most if pushed, and then exploit it, pressing on it relentlessly until the person crumbles.
George saw it happen one time too many when Lewis took him to the Senate sessions, where Senator Verstappen gave the tribune to his son, and a barely seventeen-year-old child kept verbally destroying his opponents, much to everyone's shock and his father's delight.
But they were friends back then, and George was mostly safe from Max's wrath.
Now, though...
Now, Max is free to destroy him.
And as a first tear slides down his cheek, George can't help but think that what remains of his heart will be reduced to dust on this ship. The version of him who will get off on whatever planet Max chooses to land on will be just a living, breathing husk, waiting for Kimi to leave him behind as well.
Just like everyone else did.