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Rafa has made a habit of rifling through the public Coruscant listings—it can be a good way to make some quick cash with few strings attached. With Pintu looking to collect on his debts, she’s a little more anxious than usual to line up some new streams of finance.
She almost scrolls past the post, until her eyes catch on the credit count offered for the job. All that they’re looking for is a pretend date for a single evening, and they’re willing to pay an outrageous amount of money for the job. It looks too good to be true, which sets Rafa on edge, but not enough for her to avoid the seemingly perfect opportunity that’s fallen right into her lap.
Rafa shoots the person a message. She wants half of the money up front, and a specific dress code for the evening. The poster agrees to her terms immediately, which only serves to increase Rafa’s suspicions.
How rich or how horrible is this person if they felt the need to offer such an obscene amount of money just for an evening of company? Rafa doesn’t know, and if she’s being perfectly honest with herself, she doesn’t really care. This amount of money will take care of her debts to Pintu with enough leftover for Trace to invest in her ship. With that in mind, it’s well worth whatever nightmare is ahead of her for a singular evening of her life.
Worst come to worst, at least she’ll get a chance to wear that black dress she bought ages ago and hasn’t had an opportunity to pull out of her closet.
/
Rafa doesn’t know what the person she’s meeting looks like, but it doesn’t matter. There’s only one person they can be.
She's wearing a well fitted suit in a medium blue with a silky black shirt and towering black heels. She stands out in the lower levels just by nature of owning something so nice, but she doesn’t look bothered or worried by the side glances she's receiving, and Rafa can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t notice or because she trusts herself to handle anyone that wants to make an issue of her presence here.
She looks unassuming, but there’s an air of assurance and dignity that are too steady and worn to be faked. This person knows exactly who they are and what they’re doing in the galaxy. It's a far more intimidating confidence than the blowhards and bullies Rafa typically interacts with on the day to day, not that she’d ever let herself be intimidated. Still—her demeanor gets under Rafa's skin in a way she’s reluctant to admit to.
“Do I get a name to call you this evening,” Rafa asks, fiddling with the code to unlock the laundromat. It can be a bit finicky, and she really doesn’t want to have to do a manual override of the security system with someone watching. It unlocks, thank the gods, and Rafa breathes a silent sigh of relief, glancing over at the stranger and flicking her hair out of her eyes, awaiting an answer.
“You can call me Talia,” the stranger replies. It’s clearly not her real name, but that’s on par with what Rafa expected from tonight. She doesn’t call her on the lie, just waves her inside the laundromat with a casual hand.
Rafa would have preferred not to meet at her place of business, but she needs a safe place to store the credits, so it was this or her apartment with Trace, and she’s not about to expose Trace to a potentially dangerous stranger she met on the holonet.
“I'm Rafa,” she says, brusque, “you should probably know that, since I’m supposed to be your date for the evening.”
She'd considered a fake name, but she doesn’t know where they’re going tonight, and she’d like to avoid getting caught in a lie if they run into people she knows. It's unlikely, given how many people are packed into Coruscant and how nice the dress code for the evening is, but definitely not impossible. Easier to save the potential headache.
“Rafa,” Talia repeats, looking at Rafa with an evaluative stare that makes her feel unusually fidgety. She takes the opportunity to step behind the counter to put some distance between them and regain control.
“Thank you for answering my ad,” Talia continues, and Rafa makes a disbelieving sound in the back of her throat that she can’t manage to restrain.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” She says, just a tad condescending.
Talia gives her a sheepish smile. “It’s that obvious?”
“Yeah,” Rafa snorts, leaning her forearms on the counter and allowing her mouth to curve up into something sly and teasing, “it is, princess.”
There’s an undeniable presence to Talia, standing in Rafa’s dingy laundromat, and something about her eyes that strips Rafa down to her soul. Rafa doesn’t know if she likes it. She doesn’t want anyone to know her as well as that gaze promises to.
The moment stretches like taffy between them until Rafa clears her throat, pushing off the counter to stand upright.
“First order of business: you have the money?” Rafa asks, moving the conversation back to familiar territory.
Talia quirks an awkward little half smile and sets a case on the counter between them, flicking the closure mechanism to flip open the lid.
“Half now, half after. Like we agreed,” she confirms, and Rafa rifles through the stacks of credits, somewhat astounded to be looking at this much money.
“You have the rest for after?”
“It's secured close by,” Talia says, and Rafa hums in acknowledgment.
She appears to be telling the truth, and since a significant amount of Rafa's work involves determining whether or not someone is lying to her, she feels fairly confident trusting her instincts for this. And if this Talia is a better liar than she appears or if this job goes to hell before they can complete it, then that’s what the front end insurance money is for.
“Anything else I need to know going into this?” She asks distractedly, doing a mental count to ensure all the credits are there.
There’s a rather telling pause, which doesn’t bode well.
“I need access to a party happening tonight,” Talia hedges, “and I figured bringing a date would attract less attention than going solo.”
“Is what you’re doing illegal?” she asks, not really caring if it is, but definitely wanting a heads up.
“It’s extremely unlikely that either of us would be arrested for any actions taken at the party tonight,” Talia replies, which is not a no, and practically guarantees that where they’re going will be dangerous. Rafa suppresses a sigh and tells herself to think of the money. That sweet, sweet debt free life, and the smile on Trace’s face.
“Wait here,” she says shortly, closing the case and swinging it off the counter to take to the safe she has hidden in one of the back rooms of the laundromat. Talia looks a bit amused to be ordered around, but nods her acknowledgment of Rafa’s request.
/
When she returns, fully dressed and ready to leave, her date for the evening is chattering away with Trace, which is precisely what she was hoping to avoid by meeting at the shop.
“So how'd you meet Rafa?” Trace is asking as Rafa steps through the doorway with a haste that is made enormously difficult by the shoes she’s wearing.
“It's sort of a long story,” Talia evades, and Rafa snorts.
“Yeah, you can say that again,” she retorts, before turning to Trace, “I'll be home late. Don’t wait up. Lock the shop before you leave for the night.”
“I will,” Trace says brightly, giving her a messy salute to acknowledge her orders. Rafa huffs out a laugh, wry smile pulling at her lips in spite of herself.
“I like her,” Trace adds in a stage whisper, “she knows a lot about starships and she’s nicer than the people you normally go out with.”
“Alright, you’ve made yourself clear,” Rafa says, placing a hand on Talia's back to hustle her out the door before Trace can run her mouth further. She can see Talia suppressing a smile out of the corner of her eyes. It's horrible.
“Have fun,” Trace calls as Rafa is slamming the door shut. She closes her eyes for a brief moment to compose herself, before flicking them open and looking out at the street.
“How are we getting there?” Rafa asks, instead of asking about what went down inside like she actually wants. She can tell Talia is studying her, but doesn’t meet her eyes.
“I've called a cab,” Talia says finally, looking out to the street. Rafa can feel the absence of her gaze like the removal of a physical weight, and it’s harder than she’d like to keep her composure.
She nods jerkily and doesn’t say anything further.
/
Talia isn’t very chatty on the way over, leaving Rafa to look out the transparisteel window, watching mindlessly as the cab crawls towards the upper levels. The buildings outside grow gradually cleaner and better maintained, reflecting the wealth that the upper levels possess and hoard for themselves.
The silence is somewhat unnerving, but not in a way that sparks danger along her nerves, just in a way where she has no kriffing idea what Talia is thinking and it puts her on edge. Though she supposes this is still preferable to suffering through small talk with someone she doesn’t really care to know and won’t see after tonight.
/
“What behavior are you expecting from a hired escort?” Rafa asks in an undertone as they step out of the cab and walk towards the club entrance. She leans close enough to Talia's lek that she shivers at the sound of her voice. “How much does your pretend date like you? Am I supposed to hang off your arm for the evening?”
It’s not like Rafa’d complain about that. It wouldn’t exactly be a stretch to act enamored by her. Talia is objectively gorgeous and Rafa has eyes, even if the way she acts gets under Rafa's skin.
“You don’t have to pretend to like me just because I'm paying you,” Talia whispers urgently, looking vaguely nauseous at the thought.
“Then what the kriff was the point of hiring a pretend date?”
“I just want you to be you,” Talia says, astoundingly, horrifyingly genuine. “You don’t have to do anything special.”
She seems to sense that Rafa doesn’t know what to do with that request, which is slightly sickening, mostly because Rafa hadn’t realized her discomfort was so easy to read. “Just keep it subtle,” Talia concedes, “the point is not to attract attention.”
/
Rafa wraps a hand around Talia's bicep as they wait in line among the self-important rich assholes that are attracted to this sort of event. Talia asked for subtle, so that’s what she’ll receive. but Rafa can’t do nothing—it would draw too much attention for them to be standing a couple feet apart in a place like this. Talia glances at Rafa, then does a passable job of acting like women hanging off her arm is a common occurrence for her, which based on her everything, it is very much not.
“Name?” the bouncer asks when they reach the front of the line, a thin veneer of politeness covering their utter boredom.
“We are both on your guest list,” Talia says.
“I don't—” they start, looking like they’ve already had to deal with this 9 other times just tonight.
“We are both on your guest list,” Talia repeats, a strange weight to her voice that has the hairs on the back of Rafa's neck standing upright.
The bouncer shakes their head as if trying to clear it. “Of course,” they agree, and Rafa digs her nails into Talia's arm in an attempt to cover her shock. “My apologies.”
“That's quite alright. Thank you.” She smiles, sharp as a blade and giving nothing away, and guides Rafa into the club.
“That went unusually smoothly,” Rafa comments in an undertone.
Talia looks like she’s considering responding for a moment, before staying silent. Rafa doesn’t roll her eyes at the person who’s employing her for the evening, but she definitely wants to.
/
Talia is boring, which Rafa probably should have expected.
She took a seat in one of the out of the way tables right from the start, and hasn’t bothered to make conversation with Rafa or anyone else since. It’s not like she thought Talia would magically turn into a social butterfly, but still—it makes Rafa feel irritatingly fidgety, which isn’t ideal in a location like this.
“Stop looking like you don’t want to be here,” Rafa murmurs, irked and no longer able to conceal it, as she slides onto the bench next to Talia after retrieving their drinks. “You have to act like everyone else if you want to fly under the radar.”
Talia uncoils gradually, muscle by muscle, like she’s only appearing relaxed through sheer willpower. She glances around the room lazily and slings a casual arm onto the bench behind Rafa.
“Better?” she asks, looking at Rafa imploringly. Damn those blue eyes of hers.
Rafa rolls her eyes and takes a swig of her drink instead of responding. It’s time for Talia to receive a taste of her own medicine.
/
She’s midway through washing her hands when she hears a sniffle from a couple mirrors over, and can’t help the way her immediate thought is a despairing kriffing hells what is it now?
Rafa is tempted to just ignore it and leave whoever it is to their breakdown. She’s not particularly charitable at baseline, and especially isn't with the way this night is going. But—no, she’s not going to do that. Rafa doesn’t know when she got so soft, but it’s really starting to inconvenience her life.
“Hey, you okay?” She asks, a bit too brusquely maybe, but honestly she thinks she deserves a medal just for inquiring.
“Fine,” the other woman replies, voice wobbling just on the single syllable. Rafa sighs internally.
“You need to clean up your makeup a bit,” she says, making a conscious effort to gentle her voice and only partially succeeding.
“Yeah, I, um, I’ll just—”
“Do you want help?” She forces out, cutting off the jumble of words before it can continue. Rafa is sort of hoping she’ll turn down her offer, but no such luck.
“Please,” she says, lighting up under Rafa's reluctant kindness.
“You got a tissue?” Rafa asks. It's one of those ridiculous fancy bathrooms where there are only synthcloth towels, which aren’t ideal for cleaning up smudged eyeliner. The woman pushes a packet of tissues towards her and holds herself still, putting herself in Rafa’s hands with an uncomfortable amount of trust.
“I'm sorry. Gods, I'm such a mess,” she says, letting out a cracked laugh.
Privately, Rafa is inclined to agree with that assessment, but she just hums noncommittally, dabbing carefully under the other woman’s eyes.
“My father defaulted on his loans to the Pikes,” the woman offers out of fucking nowhere while Rafa is partway through redrawing her eyeliner. “They've forced me to work here until he can pay off his debt.”
Rafa doesn’t know how to tell her that she shouldn’t admit potential weaknesses to essential strangers, especially not ones of such astronomical proportions. The wrong person would leverage that against her—has, by the sound of it.
What the hell is it about her that is attracting such excruciatingly genuine people tonight? She needs to figure out what it is so she can exterminate the root cause and stop having these horrible interactions.
“All done,” Rafa says, instead of responding to what was admitted.
Rafa gives the other woman a career hustler’s smile and straightens her posture, tipping her head in acknowledgment when the other woman follows her lead, standing straight and rolling her shoulders back.
“Eyes up,” she says bracingly, and gets a smile in return, small, but steady, Rafa notes with approval. She could make something of herself yet, though Rafa hopes she doesn’t have to, hopes she doesn’t teach herself how to shore up all her soft parts and sharpen her edges out of brutal necessity.
It’s an empty wish, though. The galaxy isn’t that kind.
/
“You failed to mention that this location is operated by the Pikes,” Rafa says, sidling up to Talia as she hovers around the bar, waiting for another drink.
Talia looks caught for a moment, before her expression smooths out to one of infuriating blankness.
“I assumed that would have been made self-evident by the obscene amount of money you’re receiving,” Talia replies. Gods, she’s annoying. “I'm certainly not paying for your acting capabilities. You clearly don’t like me and aren’t hiding it well.”
“You were the one who wanted me to be myself,” Rafa says scornfully, “and it’s not like anyone actually cares about that. No one is going to get involved even if they think we’re having ‘relationship troubles’ or not. Your cover is airtight. You were the one who went to the holonet for a date to a club run by the Pikes.”
Talia smiles a bit ruefully at that. “You’re right,” she says, and Rafa has to force herself not to rock backwards in surprise.
“I should have told you what you were getting into,” Talia continues. “I was hoping that not knowing would make you less tense, but I shouldn't have made that choice for you.”
Rafa swears, cutting a glance off to the side. She doesn’t know what to do with the earnest, guilty look in Talia's eyes and it’s making her feel unbalanced.
“Just—is there anything else I need to know about this? For real this time.”
Talia looks chagrined, and Rafa rolls her eyes, looking at the white arch of her brow as opposed to meeting her eyes. She touches a hand to the space between her montrals unconsciously as if reaching for something that is no longer there, but drops her arm once she comes aware of it.
“I need you to cover for me while I find what I came for,” Talia says, before grudgingly admitting, “it may be wise to prepare for a quick exit if things go wrong.”
Oh joy. Those are never the words you want to hear. Although she supposes it’s still preferable to hear it confirmed outright than to be caught unawares.
“Is whatever you’re looking for worth your life?” Rafa hisses, stepping into her space and catching her wrist before she can turn away. “I don't think I need to remind you that this place is owned by the Pikes.”
“Why do you care,” Talia says snippily, clearly deflecting, “you don’t like me.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I don't like you,” Rafa agrees readily, “I think you’re stuck up and privileged with a superiority complex several clicks wide. But,” she says, gripping Talia's chin and leaning closer, “you still haven’t paid me the second half. And my neck is on the line alongside yours.”
“Cover for me,” Talia says, disengaging, “I'll take care of the rest.” Rafa shakes off the irritation that she can’t get Talia to rise to her bait or answer any of her questions, and lets go of her chin, stepping backwards with a scoff.
“Whatever,” she says disdainfully, “don’t be a hero. You’re not paying me enough to get you out of trouble.”
Talia rolls her eyes dismissively. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself out of any difficult situations,” she says, which is basically a fancy admission of guilt in Rafa’s book. “Just stay under the radar here.”
/
Rafa puts that whole fiasco out of mind and flits around, making business connections and lining up future sales. She's not going to let an opportunity like this go to waste, even when the people are this caliber of dangerous.
Then it all goes to shit, because of course it does. Rafa really should have expected this as soon as she saw Talia’s stupid earnest face.
She hears commotion in the direction Talia disappeared off to, and sighs mentally, excusing herself from the person she’d been schmoozing with to go see what sort of disaster Talia has undoubtedly ended up in.
“Babe, where’d you get off to?” She asks, projecting her voice when she sees Talia surrounded by a couple of guards.
“Got lost coming back from the bathroom,” Talia replies, reaching out and linking their hands together. Her hands are oddly calloused for someone who seems so out of touch about the world.
“You were in a restricted area,” one of the guards argues.
“I'm so sorry about this,” Rafa says, addressing the guard that spoke, “her sense of direction is terrible. We’ll just be on our way now, you know, back to the party.”
She tugs on Talia's hand, guiding her back to the relative anonymity afforded by being in a crowd of people.
The guard behind them receives a comm transmission, and Talia stiffens minutely, like she can tell something is going wrong.
“Time to run,” she says, tightening her grip on Rafa's hand and taking off down the corridor just as the guard yells after them to stop, like telling someone to stop has ever once worked in the history of ever.
“I hate you so much,” Rafa huffs out, struggling to run in the stupid shoes she’s wearing. Talia is quick, even in her equally horrible shoes, and there’s a grace to her movements that’s sort of enchanting in spite of everything.
“I know,” she tells her, and Rafa snaps back to focus, berating herself mentally for her distraction. Talia isn’t even out of breath, despite their full out sprint. “Trust me, I can tell.”
“You ruined my contacts,” Rafa grumbles.
“Perhaps you should take this as a sign not to make business connections with known criminals,” Talia replies tartly.
“That's how the kriffing world works,” Rafa spits out, “you do business with the people who have the money, and the people who have the money typically haven’t acquired it through legal or ethical means. Wake up, princess, I haven't got a choice.”
“There's always a kriffing choice,” Talia says, vehement, and Rafa groans.
“Can we—karking survive this first? I don’t give a fuck what you think of me, but I don’t want to die here.”
“This way,” Talia says, tugging on Rafa's hand to pull her down a side corridor. She flattens herself to the wall just before the intersection with a new hallway, and Rafa follows her lead, mimicking her position as a few guards run past. Talia waits for a moment, before peeking her head around the corner and dragging Rafa into the new hallway.
They’re halfway down the corridor when Talia palms open a door and shoves Rafa inside, shutting it quickly behind her. Rafa opens her mouth to complain about the manhandling, but Talia slaps a hand over her mouth and pulls, until Rafa is pressed right up against the length of her, sandwiching Talia to the door.
“Listen,” Talia breathes, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Rafa hadn’t heard any warning signs, but sure enough, there are hasty footsteps traveling right past the room they’ve ducked into. She knows the montrals help with situational awareness, but she hadn’t realized they would make her prescient. Talia seems almost able to sense what will happen before it does.
Rafa shakes herself and tries to refocus, instead of thinking about the fact that there’s no way she could have managed to get out of here if Talia had abandoned her during the chase. She’s good at talking her way out of things, but this is the Pikes—it’s far more likely that she’d end up dead in a trash compactor somewhere than for them to bother with giving her an opportunity to make amends. And with the addition of the bathroom conversation she just had, she’s even more reluctant to be on the other side of the Pikes’ retribution.
“Ready to go?” Talia murmurs, unspeakably gentle in spite of the situation they’re in. Rafa pushes off her with a scoff, because for some inane reason she didn’t immediately move away when she had the chance.
“What's the hold up?” She responds snidely, but it’s a half hearted effort at best.
Talia doesn’t respond verbally, but she does raise one brow marking in a movement that carries with it a thousand unspoken words. Rafa rolls her eyes. She won’t be goaded. Not yet. They have to survive this first.
“Let’s go,” Rafa says, and doesn’t complain when Talia reaches out to link their hands together.
/
Eventually, there are just too many people swarming the building for them to escape notice forever. They’ve picked up three people on their tail, and they turn into two more when they dart around a corner.
There’s a blaster bolt headed right towards her; Rafa can’t react in time, can't dodge or duck. But—it misses her. Miraculously. Bafflingly. Rafa hadn’t thought she had any good luck left to use.
She sidesteps the direction of the blaster, grabbing the barrel and bashing it back into the person’s face, then again in quick succession when they don't immediately crumple.
She looks towards Talia after dealing with the danger in her immediate vicinity, and her expression slants towards confusion. There are 4 bodies slumped around her, and it’s pretty clear they won’t be getting up anytime soon. Talia doesn’t look remotely phased, just steps around one of the people that’s out cold and reaches for Rafa’s hand again.
“You’re okay?” She asks, doing a cursory sweep down Rafa's form.
“I—fine,” Rafa says, stumbling a bit in her response. She kind of wants to ask what the kriff?! but they absolutely don’t have time for that.
“We need to keep moving,” Talia says. “There will be more people on the way.”
/
They’re trapped.
They’re trapped out on a rooftop with no way out. It was either the stairwell to the roof or the cluster of guards in the hallway, but now Rafa sees that they’ve only prolonged the inevitable.
They’ve wedged something in front of the door, but it’s unlikely to hold for long. It's only a matter of time before the guards break through their makeshift barrier, and they’re stuck out here with nowhere to escape to but the open air.
Talia stalks the circumference of the rooftop like a prowling nexu, studying every angle of the building before returning to Rafa's side. She resigns herself to hearing a summary of what she already knows, but instead—
“We’re going to jump,” Talia says, all focused determination and fire. Rafa kind of hates that she finds that look so attractive. Why are the hot ones always deranged, she bemoans, very briefly, before getting it the fuck together enough to process the words from Talia’s mouth.
“Absolutely not,” she says.
A smile flits around Talia's mouth, and Rafa wrenches her gaze away, pulse gone fast from more than just the adrenaline. “If I die here I'm going to haunt you for the rest of your miserable existence,” she promises.
“If you die here I'd deserve it,” Talia replies, like that’s a normal thing to admit in conversation and not yet another sign that she’s got a screw loose.
She pulls Talia up to the edge and points towards the ever present traffic in Coruscant.
“We can jump on one of the passing transports or shuttles, then ride it until it brings us close enough to jump onto a walkway,” she explains, eyes bright.
That is somehow better and significantly worse than whatever Rafa was imagining. At least this way they’ll have stepping stones instead of having to cross the insurmountable distance to one of the nearby walkways in one go, but jumping on a transport leaves very little margin of error, and that’s not accounting for whatever unpredictable reaction the driver could have to two people dropping down onto the roof of their vehicle.
“Karking hells I can’t believe I’m considering this,” Rafa mutters, bending to strip off her shoes and tie up the skirt of her dress so it doesn’t catch on anything or get in her way. She’d like to salvage this dress if she can. It would be disappointing to ruin it after only wearing it once, but if that’s the price for escaping with her life, then she’ll bear it.
She grabs the straps of her shoes and steps up to Talia's side. Now that she’s looking at the scene as more than a passing hypothetical, she’s gripped with nerves again. There’s no way they both can manage this. Talia nudges her arm before she can spiral too much further.
“You’re going to make it,” Talia says, and for some utterly insane reason, Rafa actually believes her.
“The blue shuttle on my count,” she says, studying the flow of traffic. Rafa takes a few steadying breaths that don’t at all settle her fear, and jumps when Talia tells her to.
She lands hard on the shuttle, the impact jolting up her feet to her knees, but she makes it, which is such a relief that Rafa starts laughing, likely appearing absolutely hysterical and unhinged. Nothing about the situation is even remotely funny, but she’s helpless to contain the cocktail of adrenaline and nerves that has bubbled up to the surface. There’s something too large in her chest, and this is the only way she can think to relieve the pressure. It's embarrassing, but she’s so astounded to still be alive that she can’t help it. She looks over towards Talia, unfamiliar expression lighting her face, and—
Talia is smiling, like her joy is something infectious and good, like Rafa is made up of more than her poisonous soul and sharpened edges.
It’s a heady thought, makes her breath catch in her throat, makes her incapable of looking away, makes something unnamed and untamed in her mind rear its head.
/
They jump to a nearby walkway that is thankfully devoid of people at this time of night, and Rafa puts her shoes back on so she can hobble over to a more populated area as quickly as possible and catch a cab. Her shoes are murder on her toes, but there’s no kriffing way she’s walking around this city with bare feet. It looks like they managed to shake off their pursuers sometime around when they made the deranged choice to leap for a moving vehicle, but Rafa doesn’t want to linger anywhere too long just in case.
Unsurprisingly, Talia isn’t very chatty during their walk and cab ride, and the wild euphoria that flowed through Rafa's veins is steadily being replaced by exhaustion.
The comedown isn’t pretty, and gives Rafa too much silence and too much time in her own head, which is never a good combination for her.
Talia is fiddling with something on what looks like a repurposed forearm comm—the ones that are typically issued to the clone army, but Rafa doesn’t ask. She’s probably tying up loose ends, and Rafa doesn’t really need the blow by blow on that, especially when the sound of a voice would grate along her flayed nerves.
Rafa sits in the cab and stews, and thinks about the fact that she nearly died tonight, because what the kriff else is there to think about. By all rights she should have died, several times over, but didn’t.
Didn’t because of Talia, because of her quicksilver mind and fighting aptitude and the way she was so tuned into the situation it almost seemed like she could sense everything, more than just the sound of footfalls and the pattern of movement.
There’s something nagging at the back of Rafa's mind, but she can’t quite manage to pin it down.
She is well aware of her own capabilities and would never sell herself short. Has, on a few notable and nerve wracking occasions, sold herself as more than she’s ever achieved, but she always delivers, no matter how out of her depth she may be.
Rafa knows herself, and knows she couldn’t have done what Talia did tonight. Which makes her wonder how or where Talia learned the skills she utilized so sleekly during their escape. People don’t fight like that unless they’ve done it before, done it out of the brutal necessity that the galaxy requires.
She hadn’t realized people from the upper levels had use of such skills, learned them in the trial by fire that molded Talia and allowed her to succeed tonight.
Talia nudges her out of her pondering as the cab pulls up to a hotel a couple blocks from Rafa's laundromat. She follows Talia up to the room on autopilot.
There’s something she’s not seeing, and she needs to put all the pieces together.
The hotel room is barren, but Rafa clocks a robust security system watching the door and window, one more thing in a long list of things that itches and makes Rafa take note.
Her inexperience with the lower level. Her discomfort among the corrupt members of the upper level. The way she talks about morality. Her familiarity in dangerous situations. The GAR issue comm device. Her timeless poise. Her beauty.
She knows a lot about starships, Trace had said. Gods, she’s an idiot. Of course Talia would, she’d have been on them enough, given the wealth of the Jedi order and their involvement in the war.
Talia cuts Rafa a glance out of the corner of her eyes, like she can tell what Rafa is thinking, and it makes her so ferociously angry that she can’t hold her tongue any longer.
“So, Talia,” she says, cold and accusatory, “you’re a Jedi.”
She's been wracking her brain for how she could have avoided dying, and there are few other explanations. Rafa doesn’t know why she’s picking this fight now, before being paid, but it’s too late to draw the words back into her mouth, and she doesn’t really want to, anyway.
Not-Talia opens her mouth, then shuts it with a sigh. “I once was,” she says, which isn’t really an answer. “And my name isn’t Talia, as you’d guessed from the start. It’s Ahsoka.”
Rafa crosses her arms across her chest and glares at her, at this Ahsoka.
“I'm sorry. I didn't want to deceive you, but I couldn't see another way of getting the information I needed.”
Funny how she’s so chatty now that she needs to talk her way out of something. Funny in all the ways that it isn’t. Gods, Rafa is so tired.
“Here's the second half,” she says, putting a case on the lone table in an otherwise barren room. “Thank you for your help tonight,” she adds, gentle and oh so genuine.
It’s not even that she kept it a secret from her—Rafa can’t even blame her for that. It’s the fact that she’s a Jedi.
Rafa spent most of her life putting the Jedi on an unreachable pedestal, before being forcibly and painfully shoved into reality, the reality that the Jedi order is just as fucked up as everything else in the galaxy. Now, her feelings towards the Jedi order are a seething tangle in her chest that flips between resentment, pathetic disappointment, and blind rage most days, and an almost terrifying apathy on others.
The loss of her parents is an open wound, raw and festering. She’s never had the time or space to process it, not when there were bills to pay and certainly not when Trace needed her support. She has to be the strong one, she has to look out for Trace, she can’t afford to waver, can’t afford the unsteadiness and unspeakable magnitude of her grief. It fills every nook and cranny of her, a constant reminder of what she no longer has, what she’ll never measure up to.
Just once she’d like to be able to crumple, to rage against the injustices of the world until she’s all burned out and the only thing that’s left in her is a melancholic emptiness lapping sluggishly at her corroded insides.
“Let me walk you home,” Talia-Ahsoka offers. She looks genuinely regretful, which is stupid, and horrible, because it makes it that much more difficult for Rafa to hold onto her anger.
She needs her anger and her venomous words, needs that familiarity with a vicious desperation. She no longer knows who she is without them.
“I can walk myself home,” Rafa says shortly. “Been doing it fine by myself for years now.”
“I know you have. But you don’t have to tonight,” Ahsoka points out, looking at Rafa with those awful blue eyes.
Rafa doesn’t bother responding to that, just jerks her head and says, “fine,” as long-sufferingly as she’s able. It’s not quite convincing and Ahsoka can probably tell with her Jedi banthashit, but Rafa is past done caring about that.
/
Ahsoka is infuriatingly resistant to the silent treatment. She has her hands tucked in the pockets of her suit pants and she moseys along beside Rafa like she doesn’t have a care in the galaxy. She doesn’t look uncomfortable or bothered at all by the tense silence they’ve existed in for the past couple minutes.
“A kriffing Jedi,” Rafa mutters, kicking at a can littering the walkway and breaking the quiet.
“I'm not a Jedi,” Ahsoka says. “Not anymore, at least.”
“Too good for your ivory tower in the upper levels,” she snarks.
“No,” Ahsoka says, measured and calm. She looks amused almost, that Rafa is trying to bait her, instead of irritated. The set of her shoulders is utterly relaxed, and it, on top of everything else, is so baffling it almost distracts Rafa from her anger.
“Then what was the problem,” Rafa says flatly, refusing to be frustrated that her antagonism isn’t working.
“They blamed me for something I didn't do. And when the truth came out, they were going to try to fix everything and knight me, but I left. Cowards route, I know,” she says, rueful and resigned.
“Not cowardly to look out for yourself,” Rafa says, a bit too harshly to be comforting, but she means it.
“I left so many people behind to fight the war without me,” she admits quietly, staring unseeingly at the walkway in front of them. “My master, all the clones—my brothers. They’re fighting and dying and I'm not there to protect any of them.”
“All the galaxy’s ills do not fall on your shoulders,” Rafa scoffs. “Stop with the self importance and self pity. It’s moronic.”
“I know, I just—” she sighs. “My faith in the Jedi order was shaken. And I know I needed to leave, but some days I regret that choice.” She sounds tired, and aged beyond her years. “Most days, I regret that choice,” she admits quietly.
This time the silence that stretches between them is contemplative, and tinged with melancholy.
“You don’t like the Jedi,” Ahsoka says. It’s not phrased as a question, but it’s clearly inquisitive.
Rafa snorts. “No, I don't.”
When she doesn’t elaborate further, Ahsoka glances at her briefly, before returning her gaze to the walkway. “Why?”
“Why should I like them? They started the war, didn’t they?”
“The Jedi didn’t—” she starts in a huff, before reining herself in with a sigh and continuing in a more measured tone.
“I know better than most that the Jedi make mistakes, but they’re still trying to do the right thing. The Jedi didn’t start the war. They got involved to protect all the innocents impacted by Dooku’s avarice,” Ahsoka says, intensity threaded through her voice. “They can be misguided, wrong at times, and too beholden to the Senate to make the right path the easy one, but—” she waves her arms expressively and can’t seem to muster anything further.
“The Jedi killed my parents,” Rafa says, and she can almost feel the ripple of shock and horror from Ahsoka like it’s a physical force. Her satisfaction at finally managing to knock Ahsoka off balance is undercut by the topic that managed it. She speaks tonelessly, because it’s that or allowing her voice to rattle it’s way out of her throat.
“It was during the chase for Ziro the Hutt,” Rafa explains. “The person protecting Ziro blasted the engine of a cargo transport. The Jedi tried to gain control of the spiraling ship, diverting it away from a populated landing platform and steering it into the portal wall. Our home was on the other side. My parents saw it coming—got me and Trace out, but they couldn’t escape in time.”
“And then one of them came up to me. After our parents died and our home was destroyed. And do you know what she said? That she had to make a choice, but we shouldn’t worry because ‘the Force will be with us,’” Rafa says, smiling bitterly, “like that’ll do anything of substance. My home, my parents lives, we were nothing more than collateral.”
She takes a sharp breath and continues, voice low with anger. “The Senate and the Jedi are so selfish and corrupted in their thinking that they forget that people are impacted by what they do. And that they could make a lot of people's lives better if they wanted to, but they don’t. You can only rely on yourself here. No one else. Because there’s no one else that cares.”
“I'm sorry,” Ahsoka says softly, “Rafa, I'm so sorry.” Rafa can tell she's looking at her, but keeps her eyes focused on the path ahead. “I know it doesn’t make anything better, but I am.”
Rafa grunts. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t really want to say anything at all.
“Do you want to talk about them?” Ahsoka asks, uncomfortably tentative, “your parents.”
“What's the point?” Rafa says gruffly, “they’re gone and they’re not coming back.” It hurts to say out loud, but she needs that sting of pain to remind her to keep her distance.
“Sometimes it helps to talk about people. Sometimes it’s still too fresh, but—I don’t know. It’s important to have someone there that’s willing to listen.”
“And that someone is supposed to be you?” Rafa scoffs, not fully able to contain the note of I would rather die than do that from entering her voice.
“It could be,” Ahsoka says. “Or Trace, or someone else.”
“Fuck off,” she says, “I don’t need to talk to someone.”
“Alright,” Ahsoka agrees easily. It’s annoying. She's annoying.
Now that Rafa's said she doesn’t need to talk about it, she finds that she really wants to. Ahsoka has lost people of her own—Rafa can hear the depth of that hurt in her voice. There’s a safety in telling someone that understands, down to their very bones.
“My dad used to make meiloorun pancakes for us for breakfast. He'd whip up this sauce to go alongside that I could eat by the spoonful.”
Ahsoka hums to show she's listening, and Rafa opens her mouth again and continues speaking. She knows she sounds awkward and unpracticed, but she’s trying. Tor the first time in a long time she wants to try.
“I could talk to him for hours. My mom less so,” Rafa says with a cracked laugh. “We’d butt heads often. We were too alike, I think, though neither of us wanted to admit it.”
She shoves down all the horrible I wish statements that bubble upward in the wake of that admission, and takes Ahsoka along the meandering path through her bittersweet memories.
Ahsoka just listens. Doesn’t offer any cheap words of comfort, doesn’t interrupt, just walks by Rafa’s side as she purges everything she’s shoved down for years. Rafa knows she’s going to regret this, can already feel the itching humiliation and discomfort at letting someone else so close, but right now it just feels good to say it, to remember the good parts before all of the bad.
/
Subconsciously, Rafa has led Ahsoka right to her apartment building, which is a mistake so phenomenally stupid that she’s momentarily stunned at how much Ahsoka managed to slip through her guard. A Jedi, of all people. Or former Jedi. Semantics. She seems pretty damn Jedi to Rafa, not that anyone is asking her opinion about that.
Rafa slows to a stop outside the entryway, crossing her arms over her chest and turning to face Ahsoka. She's rocking back and forth on her toes, an uncharacteristically nervous gesture that hasn’t cropped up at all in any of Ahsoka’s behaviors until now.
“What, I don't even get a kiss goodnight from my date?” Rafa goads, not wanting the night to end like this—all tentative and uncertain.
“Do you want a kiss goodnight from your date?” Ahsoka asks, something unreadable illuminating her eyes.
The streetlight casts shadows on her form, making her at once softer and more untouchable. She's like a statue, standing before Rafa, something still and pristine, but the curve of her lips and the brightness in her eyes bely any such associations. She’s beautiful, and of course Rafa had known that, but she hadn’t had the space or will to acknowledge that until now, until the quiet comfort of the shadows and the soft yellow light that makes the galaxy seem a little kinder, a little easier.
“It's common protocol, isn’t it,” Rafa says, not quite an answer. Her voice is gentler than intended, so as not to disrupt the liminality of the moment and the feeling of euphoria steadily growing in her chest. The galaxy feels limitless, and for once she allows a cautious hope to take root. It’s a deliberate choice, to want and to dream.
“I don't know,” Ahsoka says, hushed, like she too respects the night, “I don’t go on many dates.”
She’s so infuriating, even now, but in spite of everything Rafa wants her. She wasn’t planning on ever seeing her after tonight, but—anything could happen. If only Ahsoka would give Rafa something to work with that isn’t I don’t go on many dates.
Rafa makes the magnanimous choice not to comment on that piece of information and the astoundingly matter of fact tone it was stated in, and instead stares at Ahsoka in a what the hells are you waiting for kind of way, with a side of how much clearer do I have to make this, you idiot, for that added spice.
“Just ask for what you want,” Ahsoka says softly, teasing smile flitting around her lips. Rafa huffs, practically resigned to the fact that none of her usual tricks seem to work on Ahsoka.
“Just kiss me, already,” she relents. “Karking hells, you need to work on picking up hints.”
“I pick up hints fine. I just prefer when people speak plain—“ Rafa decides to cut off the rest of her diatribe and kiss Ahsoka herself since she’s clearly taking far too long to get to it.
She intended it to be something pointed and brief, but very quickly abandons that half-baked plan in favor of deepening the kiss: settling her hand on Ahsoka’s neck, brushing the line of her jaw with her thumb, and flicking her tongue along the seam of her lips. It’s heady, the way her mouth falls open under Rafa’s guidance, makes Rafa feel powerful in a way she could become addicted to. She runs her knuckles down the length of Ahsoka’s front lek, gets a shiver, a gasp at the barely there touch. It’s exhilarating and terrifying and dangerous all at once.
She forces herself to pull away, to maintain her control. Her heart is beating too fast to make it convincing, but still she pastes a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, battling to return to familiar territory.
“Night, princess,” Rafa murmurs as she turns, smug, content to leave Ahsoka standing there with a faintly dazed expression on her face, before a hand catches her wrist and spins her back around.
“Not a princess,” Ahsoka says, stepping forward and crowding Rafa against the doorway. There’s an addicting roughness to her voice that sends a shiver down Rafa's spine. Her neurons are firing wrong—or right—she’s having trouble telling. All she knows is that the ease in which Ahsoka is able to hold her in place has a flare of heat igniting in her stomach that promises to become a wildfire. Judging by the surprise and then satisfaction that flashes across Ahsoka’s face, she can probably tell as well. Damn that force nonsense and the inconvenient ways it’s infiltrating Rafa’s life.
“Maybe you should do something about that, then,” Rafa huffs out, voice a bit too raspy to nail the bravado she is reaching for. Ahsoka smiles, with teeth, and leans even closer.
“With pleasure,” she rumbles.