His gloves are worn from the elements (his own, like the rest of his trappings, were left on the station itself) bearing scuffs and scrapes - a thin layer of dust from the work of establishing his own space - he sets his hand across her own, and latches onto the warmth without hesitation.
How simple a thing it is to hold something so fragile.
To know that he could shatter it in a single moment, to consider how wracking the grief of it might be to that single, brilliant point between them. To promise, like a predator with its great maw unfurled, no harm to the bird that perches on sharp teeth, trusting. His thoughts are a pool, deep and endless, but Ren takes care not to drown her in the memories that rise to the surface once her breathing is his own: at first, there's only light.
Joy in shifting toys without contact. Pride in his mother's smile, though dutifully she departs after minutes. After hours. Weeks. The Falcon runs cold, but there's so much warmth in Han Solo's rough hands where they fall heavy across his own, guiding him, whispering stories of countless, beaming worlds. The Falcon runs cold, and then it runs. Because the whispers permeating every memory are louder, now, and his shadow seems so long when he's alone. When Ahsoka's alone, the world a terror with no buffer, no shield. Claustrophobic. And they argue over what's to be done about it without touching her or going near. Like they're afraid of her. Afraid of themselves, even.
And when she's angry for it, when she's desperate, it's worse.
The darkness is so strong she might suffocate in its grasp: days colored black as night and fear is the only hand to be held. They send her away. They tell her the Jedi will help, that her Uncle will teach her to control it. Only his solutions barely scratch the surface; the other padawans don't suffer as she does. There's no one living at their backs, preaching hatred, sorrow, misery. Over and over again, and it spreads like a cancer, boils in her blood, the Force is so strong but the agony of it is maddening and it isn't until violence-- searing hot as a flame-- finds its way in that for a moment, the worst subsides.
The shadows shrink in supplication, warmer than the smile of her mother or the hands of her father. More beautiful than promised stories, and safer, so much safer than any locked door ever was.]
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His gloves are worn from the elements (his own, like the rest of his trappings, were left on the station itself) bearing scuffs and scrapes - a thin layer of dust from the work of establishing his own space - he sets his hand across her own, and latches onto the warmth without hesitation.
How simple a thing it is to hold something so fragile.
To know that he could shatter it in a single moment, to consider how wracking the grief of it might be to that single, brilliant point between them. To promise, like a predator with its great maw unfurled, no harm to the bird that perches on sharp teeth, trusting. His thoughts are a pool, deep and endless, but Ren takes care not to drown her in the memories that rise to the surface once her breathing is his own: at first, there's only light.
Joy in shifting toys without contact. Pride in his mother's smile, though dutifully she departs after minutes. After hours. Weeks. The Falcon runs cold, but there's so much warmth in Han Solo's rough hands where they fall heavy across his own, guiding him, whispering stories of countless, beaming worlds. The Falcon runs cold, and then it runs. Because the whispers permeating every memory are louder, now, and his shadow seems so long when he's alone. When Ahsoka's alone, the world a terror with no buffer, no shield. Claustrophobic. And they argue over what's to be done about it without touching her or going near. Like they're afraid of her. Afraid of themselves, even.
And when she's angry for it, when she's desperate, it's worse.
The darkness is so strong she might suffocate in its grasp: days colored black as night and fear is the only hand to be held. They send her away. They tell her the Jedi will help, that her Uncle will teach her to control it. Only his solutions barely scratch the surface; the other padawans don't suffer as she does. There's no one living at their backs, preaching hatred, sorrow, misery. Over and over again, and it spreads like a cancer, boils in her blood, the Force is so strong but the agony of it is maddening and it isn't until violence-- searing hot as a flame-- finds its way in that for a moment, the worst subsides.
The shadows shrink in supplication, warmer than the smile of her mother or the hands of her father. More beautiful than promised stories, and safer, so much safer than any locked door ever was.]