Eight days pass.
The cots are beside each other, lucky to be the same height. Shiri is laying on her back and Cal is resting his head against her chest, his leg draped over her one that is closest to him. He hooks the appendage between hers. Her skin against his is a feeling unmatched.
She has an arm resting as a pillow behind her head, her thin pillow flattened out beneath it. Her other hand is placed so that her fingers brush through Cal's hair, a gesture that spills the hardness out of his body. He breathes out slowly, letting the usual stress move into the night.
"A senaar Senar adol te kebii'tra. Te me'suum'ika cuyir laamyc o'r te kebii'tra. Te senaar cuyir o'r te pirun, hiibir a beviiragir. Bic naritir te beviiragir bat te vhekad."
She starts to sing, her voice that familiar cord of a language unknown to him. She sings with the confidence of a native tongue. He has no doubts what language she is using.
"Te beviiragir cuyir ures Gaa'tayl. Te senaar motir ogir, Ke'pare par te beviiragir at ash'amur. A shonar Jarilur bat te vhekad, hiibir te beviiragir bal te senaar at te pirun."
He doesn't ask her to translate. His eyes are closed and heavy, the darkness of the room brings no sense of apprehension. He simply relaxes and allows the unfamiliar words of her lullaby to soothe him to sleep.
"Te beviiragir ba'slanar. Te senaar ba'slanar te pirun. Bic haa'taylir par bic's projor beviiragir."
Her song finishes and she kisses the top of his head. His breathing is soft and light. The depth of his breaths encourage her to match his pace. She hears the sound of a shuttle flying overhead, a low mechanical buzz and the sound of air pushed aside and redirected.
Three days pass.
It's passed lunch at the shipyard. Cal is excited about showing Shiri his newest project, something he is both repairing and modifying.
He brought her to a room, tossed on its side, inside one of the larger ships. A long thin gash allows light into the rubble filled room.
Shiri bends over the workbench, examining the purposeful hunks of metal, careful not to touch the exposed wires. She's wearing the smallest of his shirts, one leftover from when he was still growing.
The shirt hugs into her body perfectly, following the bends of her. He likes those curves, such a contrast to what he's been used to for the past four years.
He steps behind her, placing his hands on her hips. He follows her curve down and kisses the back of her head. His hands move forward and inward to meet at the fastenings of her pants.
She turns her face, "I'm dirty," she tells him, a smile already at her lips.
"I don't care," he says before pressing his lips to the shell of her ear. He bites it with just his lips, gently sending a spark of arousal down the side of her neck.
He trails his lips down as his hands make quick work of buckles and buttons and zippers. He kisses the angle of her jaw, pushing the fabric around her hips down.
He finds her pulse point, bringing the skin between his teeth briefly. He presses his upper body into hers, pushing her into the work surface. She moves his project to the side and braces herself onto her elbows.
His lips are at the back of her neck now, his breath hot against her. The tingles of arousal move from there to her breasts, then swim lower to her groin. The harsh fabric of his work pants, pressed against her, is quickly replaced with his bare hardness.
He moves a hand beside her on the tabletop. His other hand guides himself into her, her wetness easing the entrance. When the guidance is no longer necessary, he grabs her hips.
His thrusts are slow and deep, careful and certain. His fingers move from her hips, tracing under the worn material of her shirt. The soft expanse of her stomach. An almost tickling touch across her ribs. The structure of her bra forces his hand firmly against her breast.
He buries his face into the back of her shoulder.
"Cal," she moans quietly. Her low husky voice quickens his pace. He squeezes her breast tighter. The softness of her is so addicting, everything he was supposed to reject if the galaxy had faced different circumstances.
She presses her hips backwards into him when he thrusts. Her fingers grip the far edge of the workbench and her face is pushed into the hard metal surface. He straightens up and moves his hands to her hips. He has little control anymore over the fevered pace of his movements.
She tightens around him, her voice almost lost to the sound of their hips slapping against each other. The pleasure builds up in him, a twisting aching of a climbing tension, until it overflows and spills out of him. Her name is a caught breath gracing the tip of his tongue, muffled by his impassioned groans.
Five days pass.
Shiri sits at the edge of Cal's cot, her legs folded and her fingers messing with a dirty component of her blaster. Her eyes dance up from time to time to watch Cal move around the small space of the kitchenette.
His back is to her as he busies himself with a pot. The pot sits atop a small portable burner. He stirs around the content before adding a few more ingredients.
"That smells delicious," she tells him. She enjoys the way he turns his head slightly and she catches the upturn of his lips.
"It's almost finished," Cal says. He continues stirring. The liquid starts to boil, there is a satisfaction to the way the bubbles form and pop in the thick creamy liquid. The steam slips into the air, filling it with a wonderful smell.
Shiri's stomach grumbles in anticipation. "I'm excited," she says behind a smile. She sets the component back into the blaster, content with the current level of cleanliness of the weapon, and moves the blaster to its usual place.
"I'm glad." Cal keeps his attention on the pot. "I hope you like it."
"I'm sure I'll find it satisfactory." She watches the steam rising over the top edge of the pot.
Cal laughs in response. "I suppose I could settle for that."
"You'll have to. I am known to be very hard to please."
"Is that so?" he asks, turning off the burner and grabbing two bowls and spoons from the lower cabinets. She stands and walks to him as he fills the dishes. She takes hers from him.
She sniffs it and swirls the spoon around. She fills the spoon and blows on its contents. He's watching her very carefully, a small smile already formed. She lifts her eyes to him when she finally tries the food. She mimics a face of ponderance, pursing her lips and moving her head side to side.
"It will do," she tells him. A wide smile paints her face, her eyes bright and watching him.
"Is that so?" he asks in mock hurt, setting his bowl down and moving his hands to hers.
"No!" she says, holding her bowl more firmly and stepping back.
"If you don't like it, you don't have to eat it," he tells her, schooling the smile from himself.
"No, I like it," she relents. He lets go of her bowl and places his hands on his hips.
"Are you sure?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.
"Yes," she says, "It's the best thing I've ever eaten." She burns her tongue on the next quick spoonful.
Six days pass.
The morning light streams through the window, casting a warm glow across the bottom half of the cots. The couple is cuddling, both on their backs with her body pressed into the side of his and her head on his shoulder.
His arm is curved around her with his hand making small circles around her belly. He can sense that something is there, he can feel its presence through the force. Is it the will of the force, he wonders.
She's still asleep right now. No signs of disturbances across her face or tensed in her body. He closes his eyes, wondering how much longer until his morning alarm blares and starts the bustle of the day.
Moments like these are still new to him. The calm of her breathing juxtaposes the panicked breaths of his past fitful nights. A dreamless sleep used to be his only real escape from reality. She allows him to live in reality, in little moments like these.
He leans down and kisses her forehead. She stirs in her sleep, her hand moving to cover his over her stomach. He wonders if she knows, then wonders if he should wait for her to tell him. Should he act surprised? He doesn't feel good about lying to her, not even that sort of lie.
He feels a sinking in his stomach as he wonders what kind of life they will have. He pushes it aside, she fills him with hope. He knows that this is something to fight for. He will protect them both.
Maybe, if he can save enough credits, they can leave here and find some place secluded on the outskirts. He can train them as a Jedi. Then another sinking feeling. His connection to the force is more a disconnection. He thinks about the dissatisfying lack when he tries to meditate.
Shiri stirs again, her eyes fluttering open. She turns onto her side, moving her hand across his chest. She sinks herself into the new position. "Morning," she mumbles against his shirt.
"Morning," he replies, brushing his fingers through her hair.
Four days pass.
The market is busy with the sun high over the sky. Cal is standing in the shade of a stall, studying the selection of tech. He is trying to find the perfect pieces for his project.
Shiri had left him here, choosing to pick out the groceries on her own rather than waiting for him to carefully pick out each piece he needs.
He holds something small and metal in his hand. He turns it over and opens his mouth to ask the vendor about the price, but instead he snaps his head behind him as the sounds of the market pick up. He drops the piece as he registers the crowds of people moving in his direction.
He remembers that Shiri had walked in that way earlier, hoping that her favorite vegetable vendor had new stock.
Cal hears blaster fire, loud and in quick succession. A quiet rushes through the area.
He finds himself running down the path, then stumbling into a walk.
His feet stop moving ninety meters from a grouping of Stormtroopers.
It's so quiet. He can hear his heart beating, can feel the violent thumping in his chest. The vein that runs along the outside of his neck hurts, matching the throbbing behind his sternum.
Five corpses are arranged in a neat row. Two meters away is Shiri. Her blaster, offset from the group, lays inches away from her fingertips.
It's so quiet, except for the way the Stormtroopers speak to each other. Their words carry no real weight. This is routine for them, this is just another day for them. Another moment for them.
They are walking away now, in the opposite direction of him. He grips his fist before hanging his head. It's too late to do anything about it now.
He moves towards her with steps so careful. Her blaster is gone now, taken by one of those men. He kneels down beside her. He can feel the weight of his lightsaber, heavy against the skin of his lower back. He focuses on that, pressing his burning eyes closed.
Her eyes are open, hollow and cold. He opens his eyes to see that. He wants to pull her body to him, but instead he swallows hard and stands. She wouldn't want him to join her in this and those other eyes on him cannot be trusted.
Author's Note: I had this story completed on AO3 for a while now. I've been hesitant to post anymore on FFN since one of my stories was reported for smut and taken down, I'm really afraid of my account being taken away without warning. I'm choosing to risk it because I think part of the reason that that story was reported was because it was a one shot and I said it was smut in the summary. My other chapter story on here with sex scenes hasn't been reported, so I think this one will be safe as well. Check me out on AO3 if you want to read my one shots as I won't risk posting them on here, I have the same username.
Anyways, I really appreciate all the readers who have read this far and I really hope you liked the story.
