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The heat is not yet unbearable, but Bly is still glad that they managed to get to shelter deep below the planet's surface before the worst of the heat storm began.
It’s just him and Aayla, they’d gotten separated from the rest of the 327th in the rush to get to cover before the heat storm hit.
It’s just her; blinking up at him, beautiful and oh so kind and him; weak and half in love with her.
He breathes steadily, doesn’t think about it, doesn’t give in to that temptation. Knows it will go awfully wrong for one or both of them if he does. Refuses to let that happen.
He drops the supply bag, does a perimeter check and scans for any danger, finds none other than the heat above them.
Aayla shuts her eyes and breathes, opens them and smiles, says at the same time as him, “Clear.”
He huffs and she laughs, bright and beautiful.
Bly looks away from her, “We should get set up for bunking down, we’ll be here for a while.”
Aayla nods, “Yes, these things can last a while if they choose to.”
He looks up, watches her as she tilts her head, hums and walks steadily around the cave, “In the case we are here for a while, we’ll need to entertain ourselves I suppose.”
Bly nods, “Yes, though I’m afraid you’ve already heard most of my stories worth telling, Sir.”
That’s not quite the truth, but it’s not quite a lie either. He’s told her the fun and funny stories, the others, with pain and suffering and nothing good for miles, those aren’t worth telling, not when it will break her heart. Maybe one day, but, not now.
He is not ready for that.
She huffs out a quiet laugh, “As you say, Bly, though I’m afraid I am quite low on stories that aren’t simply the stumblings of a youngling as well.” She jokes, stops in front of a section of the wall. And Bly withholds his curiosity as best he can.
He’d be fine with whatever she gave him really.
“You know I’ve never been as into literature or all the poets as my Master and Grandmaster, yes?” Aayla asks softly as she traces a seemingly random, not meaningless, never meaningless, pattern on the wall.
He does, he knows that she would rather spar than read books on etiquette, knows she prefers katas to meditation, that she meditates anyways because she loves the feeling of peace she gets from it. Knows that when she has to do paperwork her nose will wrinkle just the slightest.
He knows a lot of things about her. Because he is her commander and her right hand, yes. But also because he finds that sometimes he can’t take his eyes off of her.
He can’t say any of that, doesn’t know how to put that into words, nods instead and swallows against the knot in his throat.
She smiles softly at him, that kind, gentle, smile with even kinder eyes. Warm with something that Bly hopes—just to himself, in the privacy of his head—is love, thinks could maybe be love, if things were different. If she were not a peacekeeper turned general, in a war she didn’t want, fighting for people who call her and her people awful things. If he were not a weapon trained from birth, one of millions and inadequate in hundreds of different ways, replaceable and meaningless.
Aayla presses her hand gently against the wall, closes her eyes and is silent for a breath, before laughing, the sound of it fills Bly’s ears and made it a little hard to breathe past how much he adored it, adored her.
She looks up at him with a grin, eyes soft and smile carefree despite the fact they are stuck in this cave until the heat storm dies down.
“Come here,” she beckons him, and he listens without a second thought.
She hums and does something with her hands and Bly is startled when there is suddenly a plant sprouting out from the wall in front of him.
She laughs, twines her fingers around the plant and coaxes it gently to bloom. Bly breathes and it feels like he is about to overflow with the love in his chest, growing every second as she stands there. Gorgeous even after the panicked rush underground, with dust smeared on her arms. The vibrant red of the plant stands out starkly against her skin, as it twines around her like she is the warmth it needs, the nutrients giving it life.
He thinks he can understand that feeling, knows it deep in his bones everytime Aayla smiles or laughs, everytime she shows just how much she cares about the men under her command.
She sighs, “It’s been growing in that little space there, this species doesn’t need the sun, just warmth and some humidity and nutrients. It’s quite happy to have all this new room to grow now.”
Bly smiles, fingers twitching at his sides, doesn’t know if he wants to reach out and touch the plant and it’s leaves and blossoms, or her. He clenches his hands into fists, stops himself before he does something regrettable.
“Gorgeous,” he says, and means her and the plant both, hopes she doesn’t know that, can’t read it off of him.
She smiles at him, a glimmer of something in her eyes, “Yes.”
She hums, strokes a few of the leaves and blossoms gently, “What I was saying before, Bly, was that I do not often read literature, nor find myself entranced by poetry.”
Bly nods, chest tight and breathing steady. His mouth is dry, maybe from the heat, maybe not, he closes his eyes and exhales, opens them to Aayla watching him. Her eyes are soft and searching and they tear into him, leave him feeling stripped bare and vulnerable.
Her voice is soft as she speaks, tone nonchalant as she fiddles with the supply bags, “Despite that all, there has always been some that stuck with me.” She glances up at him again, a wry grin on her face.
“It comes with having both Master and Grandmaster attempt to find something to convince you to appreciate the art of words.” She jokes, before looking back down.
Bly wants to go to her, hold her hands in his, press his forehead to hers and exist in that moment until the heat storm passes and they can go out and reunite with the rest of their men.
Wants, desperately in that moment, to have just this before having to go back to what is right and acceptable.
He doesn’t, folds his hands together and grips them, keeps his back straight and his too weak shields up as high as he can.
(He’s always been too greedy.)
He chuckles instead, quiet, says softly, “I imagine something had to stick eventually, Sir.”
She nods, laughs, and Bly feels that happiness in his bones.
“Indeed it did,” she agrees, taps her fingers against her arms, “I mention this because there was a set of lines, from the ending of a particular story, that always seemed to catch my eye.”
Bly tilts his head, “Sir?”
Aayla smiles, self-reproaching, “I have always been a little too much of a romantic it seems.” She says, and Bly can’t breathe past the hope in his chest.
“Sir?” He asks again, and it is maybe the voice of a desperate man.
She takes a step towards him, reaches her hands out to his, flicks her eyes up to his in question.
He has never been so thankful for his bucket, and also never hated it more.
He nods, a jerk of his head, and she slips her hands into his, squeezes them gently.
“Where you reach to the Force to hold and keep,” she begins, voice falling into an even cadence, “Tempered and tamed, A being and a lover, Entombed, Then the suffocation of the Dark will be a slow descent into madness.”
Bly exhales, and it is a struggle, Aayla squeezes his hands, runs her thumb over the back of them soothingly.
“Where you reach to the Force gently and let it sing,” she continues, voice soft, “it will glow and blossom, encourage the being and the lover to thrive, and the joy of Light will be breathtaking.”
Bly swallows past the tightness of his throat, “General I—”
He cuts himself off, doesn’t know what he’s trying to say and can’t find any words to string together right.
She hums, doesn’t look up at Bly as she explains, “It’s meant to be a cautionary tale, of the dangers of possessive love.”
Bly tilts his head, and Aayla hums again, “It’s the ending of two stories, one about a Force-sensitive who fell so deeply into love with someone, with the idea of having and keeping them forever, until the love was more important than the being they loved, that they twisted themselves into something Dark.”
Bly breathes, steadies himself, “What happened next, in the story?”
Aayla smiles, “That is the happier part of it, it tells of how another Force-sensitive fell so in love with someone and still saw them for who they were, loved them and not the idea of them. Loved them enough to respect them and to let them make their own decisions, let the two of them each do the duties they needed to.”
Bly shakes, squeezes at Aayla’s hands, feels too warm and lightheaded. He worries for a second, that maybe they didn’t head deep enough for cover but—
Aayla looks fine, it’s just him.
He doesn’t look at her as he steps back, clears his throat, “Sorry, Sir, I’d love to hear the rest of it, just getting overheated.”
She steps forward, “I could help, if you don’t mind.”
Bly’s chest is full and overflowing with love, he is shaking with it and she is kind and everything he should never be able to have, never deserve to have.
He nods, and she steps forward, kneels down and starts with the greave on his left leg, sets the plating down gently, almost reverently when she finishes, and switches to the next leg.
She is gorgeous and Bly is warm and shaking in a way that has nothing to do with the heat, the soft feeling leaving an aching in his chest.
She starts to explain the story again, as she moves up to the knee platings, “The second Force-Sensitive, with their gentle, growing love, was so bright that it hurt to look at them sometimes. But they were kind and they were wonderful.”
The knee plates join the slowly building pile and his fingers twitch at his sides, to stop her, or to help her, or to reach out and cradle her head in his hands he doesn’t know.
He feels vulnerable like this, trusts her with it in a way that terrifies him.
“A lesson story?” He asks her, and his voice is hoarse.
She hums, sets his cuisee’s next to the rest, let’s him detach the codpiece as she unclips his utility belt and starts on his breastplate and plackart.
“Yes,” she says, her hands gentle, the movements soothing and bleeding safety into Bly’s mind, “It’s a story to teach anyone the difference between loving someone so much it destroys you, and loving someone in a way that brings you both up.”
She sighs, “It’s an old one though, and doesn’t get read as often as it maybe should, but Master Quinlan gave it to me and asked me to give it a try and I did, ended up loving it.”
Bly smiles, “I’m glad that you did, Sir.”
Aayla laughs, “Yes, so am I Bly.”
He swallows, as she settles her hands on his shoulder, takes the spaulders off both his shoulders and then pauses, grips lightly there and she hesitates for a second, before she smiles again. Moves on to the rerebraces.
“There’s a poem that I always loved,” she says softly, like it’s a confession, “Master Kenobi actually showed me it. Master Quinlan would’ve been intolerable for weeks if he found out about that.”
Bly chuckles and she grins as she looks up, says with laughter in her voice, “It’s true."
She shakes her head as she sets the elbow plating down. "I think it’s something to do with the fact they’ve known each other so well and for so long," she says, "the friendly rivalry there is strong.”
She unclasps his left vambrace, and it’s so very hard to keep he’s shields up like this, stripped of armour and in her gentle hands.
He clears his throat, closes his eyes, “What was the poem?” he asks, feels the barely there stutter of her fingers over his other vambrace.
“It’s by a Naboo poet, and it’s,” she pauses, sets the vambrace down and purses her lips as she thinks, “well I did admit that I was a bit of a romantic” she smiles sheepishly, “it’s about love as well, though it’s about gentle, selfless, love, and how thankful the poet is to have their lover.”
He doesn’t look at her, unlatches his gauntlets himself and sets them down, reaches up for his helmet and is startled when he feels hands grasp his.
Aayla holds his hands in hers, and there is something so very soft and warm in her eyes.
“There’s a nebula somewhere that birthed a star, and let you find your way to me.” She says, her voice gentle, and slipping into a cadence that is soothing and leaves Bly feeling raw and far too seen.
She squeezes his hands, raises them to her mouth, presses a gentle kiss there and Bly can’t breathe past the longing in his throat.
Her voice is soft, but to Bly it echos like a thunder clap, “And when I watch you laugh I am reminded of how much I owe it.”
She raises their entwined hands to his bucket as she speaks, and Bly can feel his heart pounding out of his chest, “How do you thank the atoms in the air? The elements?”
“How do you thank something that keeps the universe spinning,” she asks, as she lifts his bucket gently, reverently, “for giving you someone so infinitely precious?”
She holds his bucket in her hand, and Bly watches as it slowly drifts over to join the rest of his armour.
She brings a hand up to his face, brushes gently fingers along the streaks of gold splashed across his cheeks, says with something awed in her voice, “I think this must be how it feels, to touch the Force.”
Bly shudders out a breath, leans his head forward, slips into keldabe as if it’s natural, and she presses up into it without hesitation.
“Not bold,” she says, voice a whisper now, “not brash, not possessing.”
Bly gives in to temptation, lifts his hands and holds the nape of her neck gently, brings his other up to press against her cheek, runs his thumb under her eye and closes his eyes.
She breathes, wraps her arms around his neck.
“Careful,” she continues, “quiet, holding in your hands the breath of the universe,”
She presses into a kiss and Bly kisses her back gently, and as if it will be the only one he ever gets.
She pulls away, and he opens his eyes, meet’s her gaze and the love-adoration-warmth there as she finishes the poem softly, “and wanting nothing more than to see it glow.”
He holds her close and laughs softly, under his breath, “I think it’s a good one.”
She laughs and kisses him again and he has never been more thankful for a planet and it’s ridiculous weather in his life.