𝐒 𝐓 𝐀 𝐑 𝐖 𝐀 𝐑 𝐒 | 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 + 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬

war doesn't choose between the worthy and the worthless (it shapes them)

[ What does it mean to have a responsibility to someone? ]

//

Venator-class cruisers are cold. (Anakin Skywalker knows this from chilled metal meeting bare feet when he rises from precious sleep to seek out another blanket, only to realize they have no spares.)

The desert is cold, too — (unfeeling and impersonal), but also when twin suns sink beneath seas of dunes in sight — it is cold. (But he'd always welcomed the arduous chill, wrapped up tightly in arms of scratchy fabric and dirtied aprons, sweat drying cool against skin in Dusk's careful fingers of ice that slip through cracks and burrow under blankets — sharp and stark contrast to twin suns high in the sky carefully caressing sweat filled eyes and dry, chapped lips with the soft roar of madness when water becomes more of a privilege than a right.)

But still, Venator-class cruisers are cold, and the Resolute is no exception -- especially after bearing the tumultuous atmosphere of dry dust and scalding wind that constitutes the system they've just left (sublight engines no longer roaring their precious song, and hyperdrive singing it's uproarious melody in tune with tired feet winding through corridors, the chill of hyperspace seeping through the carefully unconscious adjustment to brittle sands and burnt air).

Anakin finds himself nursing the same ailments from childhood; chapped lips drier than the dust coating his body, tangy scent of sweat dried cool, uncomfortable against his skin as he trudges half-witted to the mess, grasps the warm cup of caff with aching, calloused hands, dirtied and broken nails that leave odd sensations shooting up his fingers when they catch on fabric.

The cool strip of metal beneath him seeps through his robes, just as the chilled, stagnant air filtering through the mess leaves the barest hint of touch against his skin. He sighs, eyes heavy and arms even heavier, glances to his left where the intrinsically familiar chevrons of blue and white, coated in a thick layer of dust and bruises, stay level with his upper arm as she takes her place next to him (sits, but more like collapses, a casing of bones stripped of muscle and skin, onto the bench beside him).

Orange skin dusted brown with a mirage of either dirt, blood, or bruises (most likely all three), she slumps into the seat next to him; doesn't bother with a cup of caff and instead simply replaces the spot where her mug would go with her forehead. It thumps down carelessly on the table, and Anakin only winces slightly at her glaring display of lack of awareness.

It hits him again (like it does every time she's next to him) how incredibly small she is. (And maybe she's not even really that short — but still, she is slight, and she is so terribly minute when surrounded by a cruiser full of beings who comically dwarf her.)

Ahsoka can hold her own, he knows this better than anyone (and he trusts her with his life already, even only knowing the young togruta for a month). She is capable — but her skills and attitude aren't what worry him. (More so the fact that war is indiscriminate, and as unfair as it is, it is incredibly just ; what worries him is that she's too good , too pure , too innocent , and too much of nothing heinous that there is not enough that can't be corrupted by atrocities she shouldn't have to understand. And Force , that scares him like nothing else.)

He looks away; averts his eyes to the steaming rim of black liquid that is only for staying awake and not for enjoying (as if not looking at her makes him forget how terrifyingly young she is, and that he can't do a thing about it). Anakin focuses on his caff -- lets the fight of his steadily, rapidly drooping eyelids occupy his mind when the dark ocean of liquid caffeine does nothing but reflect the stark blue stripes of Ahsoka's montrals back into his face, distorted.