"Master?" The door slides open to reveal a darkened room, the only light coming from the corridor beyond, spilling into the room and painting Ahsoka's outline in harsh black-and-white contrast across the deck plating. The stars are just barely visible through the small window at the end of the room, tiny pinpricks washed out by the reflection of Ahsoka's worried face, bright in the glass as her eyes scan the room. "Are you in here?"

"Here," his voice calls; a shape moves in the darkness, black shadow on shadow, but then his eyes catch the light from behind her. They seem to glow as he squints in the bright light. "Either come in or don't, but close the door, Snips."

She steps inside and lets the door slide shut behind her, cloaking the room in darkness once again. There is a moment of silence before she can work up the nerve to ask, "… So is there a reason you like sitting in the dark, exactly?"

Her master snorts a bit, rather unceremoniously. "I like the dark. Is that a good enough reason for you?"

"I guess," she says, in a tone that says it's anything but. He must sense it, because there is another, softer snort, and he shifts again.

"What's on your mind?"

"Most Jedi like the light," she says, which isn't the reason she came here, but it seems more relevant at the moment. She frowns, though he cannot see it, and takes another step into the room, feeling the comfort of the wall fall away behind her until she feels lost in a sea of nothingness, though the room is barely large enough to house his bed and washstand.

"You may have noticed," he says after a moment, the tone of his voice half-sardonic, half-amused, "but I'm not most Jedi."

That doesn't answer her question, but she smiles despite herself. That's her Master, indeed. "No," she replies, "I guess you're not."

"It helps me think," he offers after a few more beats of silence. "It clears my mind. It seems warmer than the lights, somehow."

Warmer? she thinks, curious, but then she remembers the place that he's from, the suns beating down on the desert and the heat so oppressive you feel you can do little but lie down and let its weight crush you to dust. She supposes space is awfully cold, compared to that. She wants to offer some kind of condolence, but that would seem silly coming from her. So instead she says sarcastically, "I could always get you an extra blanket from storage."

He laughs. "Un ni yoka, little girl." She's not sure what he said, but decides not to ask.

Instead she rolls her eyes and searches the shadows for the darker splotch that signifies where he's sitting. "Want to tell me what you're thinking about?"

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with," he says, almost ruefully.

"Well if you're concerned about it, then I'm concerned about it," she says, perhaps a bit more forcefully than she meant to. But it's true, in a way – whatever troubles her Master troubles her, by default. If something is on his mind, she wants to be a sounding board if he needs one. Not that Anakin seems one to talk to anyone about much; she wonders if he even talks to General Kenobi about much, sometimes. She knows they're close, and she wonders if she'll ever be as close to him as that. She knows he still sees her as young, inexperienced, but she's trying. She's doing her best. She'll show him what she's made of, and she hopes he'll be proud of what she becomes. What more could any Padawan ask of their Master?

"Thanks for the concern, but you've got other things to worry about. Like how you're going to explain this latest stunt to the Council."

She feels her cheeks grow warm despite herself, and is suddenly glad he can't see her. "Well you went along with it!" she counters into the darkness. "Besides, you're responsible for me. If I do something reckless, it's because you let me, isn't it?"

"Don't try and turn this around on me, Snips," he says, but he's just as responsible as she is, and his voice tells her he knows that. They're in this together, after all, and it's become clear that both of them are willing to accept that, though she thinks she'll never get him to admit it in so many words. But he's said something to the effect a number of times already, and each one is a small victory that sits happily in the pit of her stomach, warm and full. Acceptance is something Ahsoka craves, and she believes that maybe she's finally found it, here among the stars, from this unique individual among unique individuals. There is no man, no Jedi, quite like her Master, and she is secretly glad for it. He might be a pain, but she knows she's no picnic either. They fit together and they both know it, and they are stronger for it in the end. Together, they just might make it through this.

The silence has stretched almost thin, and she realizes she's almost forgotten what she came to tell him in the first place. "We're almost at the rendezvous coordinates," she says. "The captain says we'll be there within the hour." She bites her lip and places a hand instinctively on her lightsaber, as though to remind herself it's there. The comforting weight against her hip makes her feel safe when little else can. She's worried about how their next mission will go – she knows he can sense it, but he won't comfort her. It's not his way, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Comfort would feel hollow, after all.

"Okay," is all he says, as he shifts again. "I'll be up to the bridge before we get there."

"Right," she says, and turns to go. She resists the urge to look over he shoulder as she leaves – she'll see him in the light again soon enough.