1: War

...

The bridge between them lasts long after Snoke's death; once their minds are connected, the effect remains. It brings them visions of each other, visits of some specter they begin to know.

...

He screams at her the first time he sees her after That Day, the day of explosions and attacks and betrayal, the day they fought together and against each other. The visions bear her to him at his most vulnerable moments and she's already seen him at his weakest. His pride is gone, given to her in pathetic pleas.

Join me. Please.

And so he screams. Screams at her for her betrayal and her refusal, at his parents for not being enough, at himself for being so weak.

There isn't fear in her eyes anymore, or even anger. There's pity.

His own anger turns to icy coldness, frigid avoidance after a few days. He refuses to acknowledge her presence, carries on with his life and duties like she isn't there, like he isn't counting the breaths until she leaves each time, like there isn't a stillness in her presence that he wants to disappear into.

Like he's been successful in forgetting how her touch felt on his skin when she reached out to him in front of the fire and told him he wasn't alone.

Liar, he thinks. She's the one who reached out and yet he's the one who ends up begging her to stay with him, to not leave him to his fate.

She doesn't know the words to say and he doesn't have any left, so he ignores her and she doesn't try to stop him. She wants to tell him that he misunderstands and misinterprets her actions and her meaning, that she'd chosen the way she did not out of betrayal of him, but out of an understanding that he wouldn't come away with her, wouldn't leave the darkness yet.

Yet, she still hopes, is the key word.

No one is ever truly gone.

But she can't assume things anymore; can't assume he'll accept the light again, can't assume he'll have mercy against what's left of the Rebellion for her sake, can't assume he'll use his power for good. She can't assume he'll come to her in peace if she waits long enough for him to.

They watch each other change out of the corners of their eyes through the weeks that follow. She notices that he's lost weight and has dark circles under his eyes. He notices that the weight of her role in the Resistance is taking a toll on her, forcing her to lose her innocent optimism, hardening her by experience. She stays cheerful through it all, but she can't hide herself from him the way she's learning to with others. He appears in her most quiet moments and she in his, in the moments where they're hiding from the rest of the world. There's a nakedness in such quiet chambers; a bare truth. They can't hide anything from each other even if they want to, if only the other person chooses to look.

She guesses he doesn't sleep well, but doesn't know it for sure until she sees him sleeping for the first time during the ninth visit when she's returning late from a mission. His brow is furrowed, eyes screwed shut, curled into a half-fetal position, arms tight around his body. He mutters something, but she can't make it out. He's fighting with someone in his sleep; perhaps an unseen enemy, perhaps himself. She sees the war he feels then and it moves her towards him, to kneel at his side and touch his shoulder.

He's a light sleeper and jerks awake, staring over his shoulder into her empathetic eyes.

"You were dreaming," she starts to say.

"I know what I was doing," he spits back, angry as he first was That Day, but then it drains away and he's just tired again. "It happens every night," he says, more low. "You should've just left me to it."

But he doesn't turn to go back to sleep, back to his war. He rolls over to lay on his back and stare at the metal-gray ceiling. He can see her in his periphery, unmoving from her position kneeling by his bed, and he waits for her to speak first.

"There's a divide between us now," she says softly. He can't tell if she regrets it or not, this schism, but her tone is gentle. "Do you feel it?"

Yes, he nearly says. He does.

Her question goes unanswered, but they both know the words that lie in the silence between them.

"You're still not alone." She finally says, seeming to know their time is drawing to an end for the night. "I know you think I betrayed you, and maybe I did, but I still understand."

She understands everything but his motivation for trying to rule. And maybe she understands that too, to some extent. He's been searching for justification, for proof that he was right to leave the Light and go to the Dark, and he can't find justification under Snoke's leadership after Han. So he thinks maybe if he's leading, he can find his own way and—

And do what? Find his own way how? She doesn't know. She only knows he's lashing out desperately. He's spiraling.

She's had a lot of time to think in the past few weeks about their choices, his and hers, on That Day. She'd shut the ramp in his face That Day and would again because she knows now he wasn't ready to come with her and still isn't, but she's watching his loneliness and shame tear him apart from the inside out and she doesn't have it in her to hate him or to let him be punished so severely. Not when she knows him the way she does, not when she's seen a future for him so full of life and hope, even if he's not choosing it for himself.

He still doesn't say anything for a moment.

"You might think you do," he says, and the implication is clear. You don't understand my shame. You don't understand why I've done what I have. You don't understand.

"It's not too late," she starts, but he holds up a hand, expression unchanging.

"Please," he says, and she's surprised to hear the emotion in his voice that his face doesn't betray. "Don't."

When he finally looks over at her to speak to her, to tell her that today isn't the day, not after that dream, the dream he keeps having of the look in Han's eyes before he fell to his death, she's gone and the visit's over.

...

The next time is different, although it's several days before they see each other again. It's the longest period they've gone without a visit since the whole thing started, since the bridge was formed. When he sees her, she's shivering. She's somewhere cold, though he can't see where, and she doesn't have much protection from the elements. She looks miserable.

When she sees him too, she doesn't pay him much heed, blowing air that isn't even warm into her shaking hands. She's used to him ignoring her and figures he probably will this time too, but he surprises her by taking off his cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. She can feel the warmth of it galaxies away.

"Th-thank you," she shivers through numb lips.

He wonders if laying his lips over hers would warm them, help her teeth to stop chattering, and the thought lingers no matter how hard he tries to shake it.

"Don't." He replies. "Just repaying a favor." So I'm not in your debt.

She doesn't question it or challenge it. He doesn't say much after that; he just sits there next to her and waits for the visit to pass. It isn't the silence of avoidance or dismissal, but a silence of shared misery and minute acceptance of their unintentional and unescapable bond.

This is how it is. He's stuck with her. And while he can't forgive or forget what seems to him a betrayal, he can't ignore her any longer. Not after that night, not after she said he wasn't alone again. He doesn't believe the words she says, but he knows that she does, that she honestly thinks she can understand him and see him. And maybe she does to some degree, but he can't even imagine her still speaking to him if she truly understood him, truly saw him for everything he was.

She'd been right before; he is a monster.

It's like that the next few visits too. Silent, but not cold. Begrudging acceptance of her presence.

And then he finds her crying one day and it cuts him to the bone.

He's seen it before, seen her face marred by tears, and two of the three times were because of him, but the impact is no less this time.

He doesn't know what to do, so he steps to her side and sits next to her and waits. His presence brings on fresh tears, although he isn't sure if it's because she doesn't want to see him or if it's for some other reason.

"I'm tired," she says, wiping at her cheeks in frustration. "Tired of fighting." Fighting a war he's waging against her and the people she's chosen over him. Fighting against him and his pull.

"Then stop," he says. Stop fighting.

"I can't," she replies and looks straight at him, red-rimmed brown eyes staring into his. "I won't."

He concedes this point. He knew that would be her response.

"Then stop fighting me," he says and surprises even himself with the gentleness of his voice. He'd meant for it to come out differently, although he's not sure how.

She doesn't reply to that, but he feels her breath still when he reaches for her face and slowly, carefully wipes the tear tracks from her cheeks. His touch is gentle, nearly reverent despite his apparent anger towards her only days before. She's something to be handled carefully, no matter the choices she's made that took her away from him.

"Truce?" He asks, and she feels herself nod. They have to fight on the battlefield, but they're stuck with each other in private and it's wearing them both down to continue that fight, that war at all times. At a certain point, it starts to feel pointless.

And so it begins; the temporary markers of a friendship, blurred and strangled by blood and violence and war, but still there all the same. They both know it won't last –– it can't –– but they're both willing to ignore that truth for just a few moments every day if it means finding a minute of peace in an otherwise grueling world.

It's never awkward, their interactions, even though it probably should be. They don't need words to speak, so even when words fail — which they often do — there's only ever tension, but no uncertainty. There's a shifting silence between them; they understand each other even when they argue.

They're careful not to touch at first. It seems like an unspoken truth that neither of them can afford to touch the other again. It had unforeseen consequences last time.

Join me. Please.

But soon enough they both remember how the touch of the other felt and wonder if it can really be so wrong, if they're already friendly and nothing earth-shattering is coming of it.