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“Are you okay?”
His voice is soft. Uncertain, even, and she lifts her head. Theron leans against the computer console, and there’s almost a sense of casualness to him—cultivated, like he’s being intentional about it. Which, she thinks, he probably is. He’s always slouching, with his arms crossed over his chest, his feet apart, lilting slightly to one side. But it’s still an almost. There’s a stiffness in the air, clinging to him. A fragility, like he’s afraid of being shattered.
“Are you okay?” she asks, because he’s not. Something comes to wickedness inside her, just at the thought.
He quirks a brow. “Deflection doesn’t work on spies, you know.”
“It worked on Rhyss,” she says, because it did. “I mean, she’s technically not a spy anymore, but it worked when she was a spy, so it should really still count—”
“Callie.”
She doesn’t know what he wants her to say. No, she’s not okay, but it’s not like she can even remember the last time she was, so ‘okay’ as a measure of sanity, well-being, having-your-wits-about-you doesn’t necessarily hold water. And besides, even if she were to tell him the truth, he wouldn’t understand. Kira would, but Kira’s still reeling from the attack on the Temple, and she really doesn’t want to make things worse—
“Callie.”
“I’m tired,” she says, finally, after a moment. “But we’re all tired, so I can’t really complain. At least, I shouldn’t, but I guess I just did.”
There is silence for a long while.
Her eyes flick from his frame—a knife, filleting the air—to his face. To the bruises, and she swallows, hard. It hurts to look at them. It hurts to look at him—to remember, dimly, what could’ve happened, like something from a dream. He could’ve died. She could’ve lost him. The thought is foreign to her, burrowing through wet soil, a hand clasping her throat. Her lungs seize in reaction, a cold vise, colder than the Force.
“Let me heal you,” she says, suddenly. It sounds before she can stop it.
He shifts, blinking. “What?”
“Let me heal you,” she says, again, practically mumbling in her haste to get the words out. They trip over themselves, frantic, scattered across the soft dirt floor. “I can’t make the bruises go away, but it’ll help with the pain, and… I mean, I know you’ve been trying to downplay it, but—” I can tell, she wants to say, but doesn’t.
She can always tell.
He stares at her, brows furrowed. “I thought knights couldn’t heal.”
“They can’t.” A pause. “I mean, they can. Technically. But they’re knights, and we have healers for that sort of thing, so they usually just don’t teach us that… stuff.”
“So how—”
“I taught myself. Years ago, before I joined the Order. I was going to become a healer but I… didn’t.” She winces. “It’s a long story. The point is that… I mean, you’re in pain, and I can help, so…” She trails off, uncertain.
The Force pulls at her, ghostly white hands, just at the edge of her awareness. Rishi is, in many ways, like Nar Shaddaa: a shining vista of energy, easy to get lost in. She’s had to mute the Force, if only to keep her mind from wandering, from picking up on stray thoughts, emotions, the lone impulse, and strangely, she hasn’t missed it. But now, in this moment, she feels its loss, like a snapped limb. If only she could reach out. Curl her fingers, probe the surface of his—
“Okay,” says Theron.
She blinks. Once, twice, three times. “What?”
“Okay,” he says, and his lips curl at the corners, and something cracks inside her, releasing a breath. He pushes himself off the console, clutching his side. His face contorts in a moment of pain.
“Right.” A pause. “Okay.” Another pause. She lets out a breath. “I feel like I should probably tell you I haven’t done this in a while.”
“I never would’ve guessed.” But there’s a softness, there, lurking beneath the surface. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“I was the one who brought it up, Theron.”
His eyes are on her, so she turns, looking for something, anything, as long as it means she doesn’t have to look at him. “I’m just giving you an out, Callie.”
“I don’t need one.”
“I know.”
“Well, good.” Her eyes light on a chair. She gestures to it with haphazard, almost absent-minded gestures. “You can, um, sit, if you want. I mean, or you can stand, but I feel like most people like to sit when their body is being metaphysically repaired by the Force. So,” she huffs, shrugging a shoulder. “Whatever floats your boat.”
He presses his lips together, but does as he’s told, crossing the room. His steps are small, shaky, and his brows are drawn together—a dark, jagged line. She fights the urge to slot her body between his side and the crook of his arm, supporting him, propping him up. But she doesn’t.
She never does.
He sits, eventually, letting out a haggard breath. The color has drained from his face, leaving him monstered, sickly. The bruises pierce the air, plum-colored, as cruel as an open wound.
“They’re not as bad as they look.” His voice is soft. Guilty, almost, and her gaze snaps to his.
“You should’ve let me do this earlier.”
“You should’ve offered earlier.”
She makes a sound in the back of her throat. “You made it pretty clear the mission was supposed to come first.”
He goes silent, and she takes that as permission. Perching atop the console, she reaches out with the Force, and the chair—and Theron with it—glides across the room. He startles, but otherwise doesn’t react.
She barely even remembers the last time she did this, and yet, the ritual of it—unfurling, like a plant seeking sunlight—remains familiar to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees it: her hands, glowing, a smudge of golden light. Her limbs tingle with it, anticipation, a heady buzzing.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he says. His gaze is heavy, almost reverent, on her hands, and she swallows, curling them into fists.
“I don’t do it very often.” And, really, what else is there to say? “Have you ever… I mean, has a Jedi ever…”
Theron shakes his head.
“Right.” Of course not. “Well, it’s not going to hurt or anything. It might just sting a little. And I am going to have to—” her tongue flicks out to wet her lips— “touch you. Trained healers don’t require physical contact but, I mean, I’m not trained, and I haven’t done this in… years, so it makes it easier for me to funnel the healing energy towards the wound if I can feel it—”
“Callie.” He pulls his eyes from her hands, smiles. It occurs to her that, in all the time she’s known him, Theron has never once been this reassuring. “It’s okay.”
She nods, sucking in a breath. “Where does it hurt?”
He pauses, considering. Then, after a moment, he lifts his arm, gesturing to his flank.
Her eyelids flutter shut. Her hands are warm. Hot, even, but she wouldn’t call the temperature unbearable—in many ways, it is a relief, the quiet relieving of pressure. In some dark, abandoned corner of her, a pipe wrenches loose, and the Force—like warm liquid—gushes through her. It’s always like this. Always an occasion for grief, and she wishes it wasn’t. She can’t afford to miss this, like a limb long forgotten.
Leaning forward, she reaches out, until a palm collides with something solid. Theron. He shifts beneath her, taut, and she follows the line of tension in his body. And then, finally, she feels it. A beating heart, but not of blood—of pain, ripe, a branch bowing beneath the weight of its fruit.
She presses the heel of a hand to the wound, calls the Force to her. Lets it use her as a conduit, passing through her into him, mending what is broken, making it new again. It is a strange, almost obsessive sensation. Submersion, almost. When she breaks for the surface, her body is singing with it, a threaded chorus of new new new—
She opens her eyes. Theron is staring at her, unmoving, breathless.
“What?” she asks, after a moment. “Does it hurt? I mean, I’m pretty sure I did it right, but maybe Revan did something to you—”
“No,” says Theron. He shakes his head, slowly, as if moving through a fog. “It’s fine. You’re fine. It—” He feels his side, fingers probing. “It feels… warm.”
“Oh.”
“Is that—”
“Yeah, that’s normal.” Her lips part in relief. “You scared me, there.”
“Sorry.” His eyes are on her, still, as if somewhat unbelieving. “I’ve just… never seen you like that before.”
Something passes over her. Exhaustion, maybe. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He shifts. She can’t be sure, but it almost feels like he’s getting closer. “Like something from a… fairy tale.”
She flushes, then. “You must’ve hit your head.”
“I don’t think so.” After a moment, he reaches upward, until his knuckles are grazing the side of her temple. It’s a soft touch—unassuming, really, in its gentleness, but her lungs still seize, halfway between an in- and exhale. “If anyone hit their head, it’s you.”
She swallows. Opens her mouth, closes it, wets her lips. She has been all over the Galaxy, to the Unknown Regions and back again, but in this moment, it’s like the Universe has shrunk to a pinpoint. A coin, balanced, spinning. “What?”
“You’re bleeding.” He turns his hand, palm inward, cupping her cheek. “You’re hurt.”
She doesn’t feel hurt. But the adrenaline remains, lurking, just out of reach—she can hardly trust her body, especially now. She covers Theron’s hand with her own, feeling for a scar, a bruise, anything. But there’s only blood. Her hand comes away with it, red, shining.
“I guess between Torch’s island and coming after you, I could’ve—”
“No one checked you over?” His voice sharpens, almost imperceptibly. Even so, his movements are gentle. Checking for other wounds, yet it feels vaguely more than that.
“Kira gave me a once-over.”
Theron stands. There is silence for half a second, maybe less. Then, his fingers hook around her chin, and she’s looking at him, eyes wide, shining.
The truth, of course, is this: Kira had looked her over, briefly, on the way back from Torch’s island. You know I don’t say this lightly, but I think you need to rest. She’d taken it under consideration. Resigned herself to a hot meal, or a quick, ten-minute nap, probably at Doc’s insistence. But then Lana had delivered the news—Theron is the only one the Revanites saw—and all thoughts had dissipated, a plume of smoke. Again, like something from a dream.
Theron had needed her.
Her lips part. You needed me, she could say. Or, if she was feeling brave, I need you. But the words stick to the roof of her mouth. Impassable. A thick, unholy smear.
She looks away.
His fingers still, tracing the curved half-moon of a scar. She tries to remember—Alderaan, maybe, or Belsavis. Her time with the Emperor. But then it writhes away, arcing through the air, a glittering white fish. She has the sense to feel relief.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, pressing his fingers to…— she sucks in a breath, nodding, yes and yes and yes. So she is hurt. She never would’ve considered it, which is probably a failing on her part. Jedi aren’t invincible, no matter how much it might seem. “Thought so,” he says, and his voice is low, and she wonders, dimly, at the cause of it. He’s seen her bleed before. What makes this any different? “I’ll get the kolto.”
He steps away, and she shivers, hands moving to cup her elbows. Part of it, of course, is the sudden assault of heat; the fire dances in the center of the hut, flames rippling, a constant mirage. But most of it, she knows, is his presence. He pulls away from her, from her orbit, and the spaces he leaves behind are just as violent as her wounds.
“I can do it,” she offers. The space yawns between them, insurmountable, and she has to fill it with something.
He doesn’t say anything. Just grabs a tube of kolto from a basket near the hut’s entrance. After a moment, he steps closer, and her legs part, making way for him. He settles between her knees, and it’s not so much insufferable as it is blinding. They’ve never been this close before.
He uncaps the tube, and she reaches out, latching onto his wrist. “Theron,” she says. “Really. It’s okay.”
He shakes his head.
“But—”
“Let me,” he says, strangely earnest. Then, a pause. “Trust me. I’ve gotten pretty good at applying this stuff.” Another pause. “How else do you think I’ve survived this long?”
She tries to laugh, but it doesn’t quite sound right. “That’s not funny.”
He makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “Then we’ll have to work on your sense of humor.”
I don’t have one, she wants to say. Or, maybe, Jedi aren’t supposed to have one, which isn’t exactly the truth, but not necessarily a lie. But the words don’t come, probably because his hand is snaking behind her head, fingers pressing to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, closer. She swallows, tries not to fidget. Tries not to think about skin against skin—his skin against her skin—what it all means, if anything.
His free hand moves to her scalp, and she winces. She’d hardly noticed the pain, before, but now that he’s pointed it out, she can hardly think of anything else. Something hooks its claws in—discomfort, or maybe it’s just lightheadedness. In any case, her vision speckles black, and she scrunches her eyes shut, leaning into the palm at the back of her neck.
His movements are slow. Languid, but intentional, like he’s done this before. “Tip your head down,” he says, so she does, and the warmth of his breath unspools over the surface of her skin. She can feel him. Through the Force, yes, but through touch, as well, and the corporeality of it is… so much. Every breath, every twitch of bone and muscle. Too much, but at the same time, nowhere near enough.
“Is this why you’re tired?” he asks.
She blinks. “What?”
His thumb skips across the skin at her nape. A few inches lower and he’d be tracing the edges of her cybernetics, knitted into the column of her spine, fibrous as bone and nerve. She fights the urge to shudder. “You’re tense, Callie.”
“I’m not—” He brushes something tender, and she writhes unthinkingly against the palm of his hand. He laughs, low and warm. She huffs out a breath. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“It’s just been a long couple of—” days? weeks?— “months,” she says, finally, if only to keep herself occupied. His fingers aren’t moving. She doesn’t necessarily want them to, but at the same time, there’s something curdling inside her—not exactly fear, but not exactly not fear. Like she’s about to be seen, somehow, in a way she’s never been before.
He nods. “I’ll be glad when this is over with.”
Part of her wants to tell him, but part of her isn’t sure she has the words. It’s easy with Kira. She understands things like I just saw Master Orgus for the last time and I don’t know how to cope, or Master Orgus asked me about the future and I told him I’d stay with the Order but now I’m not so sure. But things are different with Theron. She can’t exactly say we’re not supposed to form attachments but I’ve never really agreed with that part of the Code and anyway it’s too late because I’m pretty sure I’ve become attached to you and expect things to stay even somewhat orderly.
He tucks a strand of hair behind an ear, presses his fingers to the wound, and…— without warning, something pulses through her. Pain, but not quite. More the aftermath of it, of pain, a quiet burning in her calves. She sucks in a breath, and it’s like she’s choking on air. No, water. No, an unidentifiable liquid. Cold spreads from his touch, a blossoming bruise, covering the wound that’s already there.
So that’s what kolto feels like, she thinks. In a way, she had forgotten.
“I wanted to thank you,” he says, suddenly. His hands are still on her face, rubbing the kolto into her skin, but his movements have grown uncertain. Halting, almost, in expectation of something.
“For what?” It comes out as a whisper. She tries again. “For what?”
Theron pauses, exhales. “For coming to get me.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “I mean, we’re partners.” Right? “That’s what partners do.”
He laughs, then, but it’s not the right laugh. Not her favorite laugh, with the soft, fluttering sounds. “You’ve got an interesting definition of a partner, Callie.”
She frowns. It feels like a jab, but at the same time, she knows it’s not. “I don’t know,” she says. “I like my definition. It’s a good definition.”
“Really?”
“It saved you, didn’t it?”
“I’m pretty sure you saved me,” says Theron.
Semantics, she wants to say, but doesn’t. “Even if we weren’t… what we are, I wouldn’t have just left you there.” He probably knows what she’s trying to say, but at the same time, it doesn’t feel enough, so she tries again. “There’s no universe in which I wouldn’t have come for you, Theron. Not a single one. And I know you’re probably not used to that since you work on your own and agents are expendable or whatever, but I just—” She huffs out a breath. It’s still not enough. It’ll never be enough, but there’s nothing else she can say. And isn’t that the way it’s always been between them? “I needed you to know that.”
His hands still, fingers twitching. She tries to pull away, but his hand remains at the back of her neck, keeping her still—an anchor she both does and doesn’t want. “You’re right,” he says, finally.
She freezes, breathless, heart in her throat.
“I’m not used to… having someone.”
“I know,” she says, because she does.
“I’m probably not very good at it.”
“That’s okay,” she says, because it is. And then, before she can stop herself, “I can teach you. If you want. I mean, I’m not really sure if I’ll be that good at it—”
“Callie.”
“But Kira turned out all right, so I figure I’ve got a bit of track record—”
“Callie,” he says, again. Firmer, this time. She swallows, lifts her head, and the look on his face is strangely soft.
“What?” Barely above a whisper.
He laughs, then, and it’s her favorite laugh. It burbles out from him, breaking his surface, hiccup after hiccup. “Nothing.”
She makes a face. “Liar.”
“Spy,” corrects Theron.
“I’m pretty sure those are one and the same.”
“Ouch,” he says, chuckling. “That hurts. I thought sarcasm wasn’t allowed in the Order.”
“A common misconception.” She shrugs a shoulder. “In fact, Kira would probably argue that Jedi are encouraged to practice sarcasm.”
“Really?”
She nods. “To be fair, though, Kira’s gotten pretty good at spinning things in her favor.”
“I can imagine.”
There’s silence for a moment, so she swings her legs, heels thumping against the base of the console. She doesn’t know where to look. Doesn’t know where to put her hands, palms slick with sweat. His gaze rests on her—heavy, but not unwelcome—and she wishes he would do something, say something, anything.
Her eyes find his, finally. Something flutters between them, wings cutting through the thick, pregnant air, and then—a smile, curling the corners of his mouth. Her fingers twitch against her thighs, as if an impulse to chase after it, to pin it down, to keep that softness—as rare as it is, as fleeting—from slipping past her again. She wants this agony to end. She wants this agony to last forever.
Her lips part. One breath, two, billowing in the air between them. He blinks, gaze drawn to the movement. And again, the Galaxy, spinning, spinning—
“What?” she asks, because she has to. Because otherwise she might just kiss him.
He lifts his shoulders, shrugs. “You,” he says, finally. An expulsion of energy, torrential. “Just you.”
“Just me?”
Theron nods. And again, his eyes flick to her mouth. His fingers curl against her nape, pulling her closer, closer.
“Theron,” she breathes.
“Callie.”
“Are you going to kiss me?”
He exhales, laughing against her, a pool of warmth between them. “Do you want me to?”
“I might be bad at it.”
He shakes his head, tugging lightly on her strands of hair, coiling them around his fingertips. “You’re good at everything.”
“Don’t lie on my behalf.”
“Then answer the question,” parrots Theron. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
She thinks, dimly, of Master Orgus. Suppose you live long enough to see the war end. How will you live? How will you find comfort, when your time finally comes? There is only one answer, one truth. Not the right truth, but her truth, in a way—in this moment, the only truth to come to her. And again, the Galaxy, narrower than a pinpoint. If she focuses, lets the Force sing through her, she can feel it. The thrumming of the stars. The elliptical orbit of the planets, this planet, Rishi. Rocks tearing through empty space, broken bodies, never as alone as they think themselves to be.
His palm finds her cheek—uncertain, almost shy, but still gentle. She leans into the touch, seeking something. Seeking him, his warmth, whatever he has to offer her. And then, finally, softer than a breath, “Please.”
He leans forward. And a touch, the briefest of, thumb pressed to the corner of her mouth—
“I spoke to Marr.” She rears back, pressing herself against the console. Theron scrubs a hand through his hair, taking one step, two steps, three steps away from her. Her body aches with something unknowable, a possibility, there then gone. After a moment, her eyes flick to Lana, barely a silhouette near the hut’s entrance. “He is displeased, naturally, as is the rest of the Dark Council, but remains on course for Raider’s Cove.”
“Right,” says Theron, swallowing. Hard. “Do we have an ETA for him and his entourage?”
Lana makes a face, probably at Theron’s tone, but possibly at his use of the word ‘entourage’. “Within the hour.”
“Good to know.”
“Have you heard from the Grandmaster?”
“She’s on her way.” A pause. Theron won’t look at her. But there’s still something in the air, something between them—a torturous hum, as quiet as it is painful. “We should get going.”
“Indeed.”
Lana glances at Theron, then at her, then at Theron again, and she swallows. Should she deny it? Would Theron want her to deny it? But then his eyes find hers, and she sees it—regret, but also a kind of promise. A smile, maybe, in another life. A kinder one.
“You fought well,” Lana says, suddenly, as they step outside. “But, then again, I knew you would.”
She tries for a smile, and is surprised to find it fits. “Was that a compliment, Lana?”
“Perhaps.”
“You wouldn’t know a compliment if it came after you with a ‘saber,” says Theron, coming up behind her, fingers curling at her hip bone. Pulling her closer, closer, ever closer.
“I feel like I should resent that.”
“That would be wise,” Lana says, and they laugh, and Theron keeps his hand on the small of her back for longer than she thought was possible.