Rila: AAAHHH THIS TOOK WAY TOO LONG TO POST. Gah. Truth of the matter is I'm just really, really, really horrid at updating things when I need to But hey, with all the brand new Ahsoka/Rex feels — 'cause hey look they acknowledged that there's something between them — and you're lucky that this isn't full of more angst because Noble Team and the repeated 'It's okay/I'm okay/It'll be okay' is akin to when a parent or a sibling reassures a small child, "It is/will be okay." NOT SURE IF THIS MAKES ANY MORE SENSE THAN THE LAST PART DID BUT CARPE DIEM (I refuse to say YOLO, as that's Carpe Diem for stupid people)

Disclaimer: Hnng I don't even like Halo Reach but gah the Noble Team gah it's like Domino Squad noooo

Word Count: 2,784

Chapter Description: And there was hope. There was always hope.

She had always wanted to be a Jedi.

There was nothing beyond that, no other possibility — she had never given herself the chance to come up with another possibility. She had trained so hard, worked her fingers to the bone, and finally, finally, become what she strove to be.

And then found that it was harder than it looked. She had never entertained the delusion that it was simple, but she had never, never thought that she'd be thrown into a position where her decisions, her actions, affected everyone around her. Her choices between what was right and wrong was the difference between life and death for some, and even though she tried her hardest, there were always far too many casualties.

Too many bodies, clad in the white plastoid armor that she knew so well, strewn along the ground as gruesome mementos that reminded her of what could have been. If she had been faster, if she'd been stronger, if she hadn't taken so long in getting over there where they so obviously needed her —

"Ahsoka." Her name, spoken by a man that she knew so very well, broke through her thoughts. She squared her shoulders — not against him, but against the emotions that pulsed with each throb of her heart — but did not turn, even as he came to a stop beside her. He was not shoulder to shoulder with her, but just close enough that she could feel the lightest of touches, the brush of smooth, if not slightly dented, plastoid against her skin.

He did not speak, did not reach for her hand or place a hand on her shoulder — but his presence was enough, soothing the ragged edges of guilt and blame that she lay upon herself like duracrete. This, she knew far too well, was the brutality and honesty of war. Those of the public, those that they protected — they got the glossed over, preening version — a version of victory, of unstoppable force. Of pride and protection.

They did not get the reports of losses, of battle-scarred individuals and the resounding emptiness of LAATis that had, in the beginning, been alive with voices just hours before the battle. They did not see the harsh, cold reality. What they saw was, unfortunately as of late, a lie. Forces were waning, strength was fading — the war was finally taking its toll.

She was not immune to it, and she would be the first to admit that she did not feel the same as she had before, no longer naive and painfully ignorant to the cold, grim grip of war. She had changed, her Master had changed — and so had the man behind her. She turned, not all the way, but just enough so that she could see him.

He had removed his bucket, the item attached at his belt. His armor had never been clean in the time that she had known him — but there were a few new additions, new scrapes and dents and scuffs to the armor that she found so familiar. It was armor that she sought out after every battle, trying to comfort herself with the knowledge that at least he still remained.

Rex, even with the lines that had most definately not been there before across his face, even with the battle-weary look to his eye, even with the knowledge of having lost so many more brothers, remained a constant. A solid, reassuring constant that she found that she relied on more and more. And perhaps, in a way, it was selfish — she could not keep him forever, he was not hers — and yet, she found that she didn't care.

Because as long as he remained, as long as she had him, as long as — and she ignored the possessive connotation to it — he was her Captain, things would be alright. It was some stupid, silly idea, an almost romantic notion in some ways — but the fact still stood.

As long as she had him, everything would be okay.

It was the ache of her head and the persistent pressure of light just beyond her eyelids that woke Ahsoka, and she groaned, nearly surprised by the raw, hoarse sound of it as she opened her eyes. Immediately she wanted to close them, and she lowered her lids — not all the way, but just enough to allow her vision to compensate for the sudden introduction of such harsh lighting — and became aware of where she was.

She was in the medical bay. It smelt too clean to be anywhere else, too much like blood and bacta and sterile things. There was a presence beside her, a presence she would have known even without the acknowedgement of the presence in the Force. The steady thrumming, a pulse of waves that she had grown so attached to.

"Rex," she greeted, shifting her head to the side. The name alone brought a sleepy smile to her lips — a smile that wilted under the firm scrutiny and flickers of relief and concern that he examined her with.

"How are you feeling?" he inquired, his tone distant, polite — but with still an undercurrent of worry and concern that matched in his eyes. Ahsoka shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position so that she could still look at him and avoid getting a knot in her neck — and winced when it started a low, pulsing throb in her head.

"Like I got ran over by a herd of banthas," she replied, and could not keep the amused quirk from forming on her lips as he shook his head in both exasperation and amusement before he motioned to the medical droid. "I don't need anything."

Rex gave her a probing look, one that pretty much said that there would be no downplaying of her injuries — and whatever extent that they were — and so she sighed, allowing herself to recieve the dose of painkiller. It muted the ache, and though she felt almost loopy, she found enough coherency to resume speaking. "What happened?"

"We won," answered Rex, but that wasn't the answer that Ahsoka wanted. It was, but she wanted more, wanted to know what had happened after she had apparently lost consciousness. It came back in fragments to herself, the proximity to an explosion that had thrown her through the air and against the hard ground — but there was nothing beyond that, an irritating gap that she needed to close.

Ahsoka stared up at the bright, blinding lights before glancing back at him. "How many casualties?"

Rex frowned. "Ahsoka—"

"Rex." Her gaze met his, a pleading quality to it. It was not that she wanted to know how many men she had lost, how many brothers Rex would never see again — but that she needed to know. Either out of a masochistic sense or to comfort or berate herself, she needed to know. And then the number came, a number that was both worse and not quite as bad as she had thought it to be.

It had her staring back up at the bright lights, trying to wash out the burning ache of tears in her eyes. She was a Commander, she had no right to cry — not when there were more battles to face, not when she was depended upon. She could not cry. She would not cry. Swallowing hard, she shifted, refocusing her attention upon him. "And Master?"

A muscle in Rex's jaw tightened, and Ahsoka's stomach plummeted. Now, more so than ever, her Master's behavior had been strange — the bouts of anger over inconsequential things, the terrifying fury with which he swept through enemy lines, and the unconcealed terror that he eyed her with whenever she received new bruises and fresh cuts. It was a terrifying change for him, and Ahsoka did not like it one bit.

Ahsoka closed her eyes and resisted the urge to cry once more, the struggle eased by the fall of a hand, warmer and larger than her own, against her right, a reassuring squeeze that, though it had been repeated many a time before, said more than words ever could. Her eyes, still blurring and swimming with unshed tears, locked with brown. The kind, warm brown that she knew so well, that made her chest squeeze and ache in a way that she was beginning to accept as something more than just friendship.

Swallowing back her tears, swallowing back the overwhelming worry and concern and fear for her Master, Ahsoka squeezed back, and forced a smile. "I'm okay."

Everything was not okay.

It repeated, resounded, echoed, a mantra in her head. Wrong. Something is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

Her troops — her beloved, friendly, brotherly, loyal troops — had tried to kill her. And when she had thought it could not get any worse — she had felt it, a resounding echo of emptiness within the Force. Strong presences, familiar presences — they were gone. Gone in a nature that was permanent, that would not be returning — they were dead. Master Plo, Master Luminara, Master Secura — gone, by the hands of the soldiers that they had fought beside for so long. And some, Ahsoka had realized, the young ones, the small, tiny younglings who had never had a chance to become Padawans — they were gone too, but slayed by an entirely different hand.

Her own Master. Her own Master, Skyguy, Anakin — the man who she'd come to love as a brother. And when she reached for him through the Force — to try and see if she could understand why he had done such a thing — all she could feel was an all consuming hatred and fury that had her stomach twisting in knots and resisting the urge to heave.

Whatever he had become — whoever he had become — that was not her Master. Her Master was gone, and he may as well have been dead for all the resemblance to the man that he had once been that this new entity held. Shivering, Ahsoka tucked her knees in closer and wrapped her arms around her legs, trying to ward off the echoing lonliness that cornered her in all aspects.

"Ahsoka." The call of her name brought her attention back to the world that still existed, and she opened her eyes. She did not look at him, however, and shook her head when he continued, "Look at me."

She refused, and hands — so warm, so gentle — came to either side of her face and guided her head up so that she could not turn away, forced to meet his gaze. There was the same sense of shock and disbelief in his eyes as there was in her own, an incredulity for his own actions in raising a gun against his own brothers. For her. He, and he alone, was the reason that she still breathed. It had been him who had tackled her down to the ground, shielding her, protecting her from the sudden barrage of bright blue blaster bolts.

And now they were safely aboard the Twilight, catapulting towards some point that, Ahsoka was sure, not even Rex knew of. And it was not just in a physicial sense that they were drifting towards the unknown — but in other aspects, because there was no way that things could remain the way that they were. The Republic had fallen. And with it, everything that they both knew.

It was not until Rex's thumbs were sweeping beneath her eyes that Ahsoka realized that she was crying, her vision blurring and burning until at last, she threw herself forward with a cry, latching onto him with a desperation borne out of a need to confirm that he was still there, and that she was not completely alone. Despite the hard ridges of plastoid that bit into her skin as he wrapped his arms around her in return, the pressure and presence was reassuring and comforting all at once. She allowed herself to cry, and he said nothing as he held her, a gloved hand sweeping up and down her back until her sobs had quieted out into strangled hiccups and shuddering sighs. And still she clung to him, not wanting to let go just yet. "What are we going to do, Rex? What can we do?"

"I don't know, Ahsoka." His voice was quiet, tired, and resigned as he sighed and repeated, "I don't know."

Shivering with a shaky inhalation of air, she blinked as he pulled away and shifted into a more comfortable position, his back against the durasteel wall of the Twilight before he reached for her again, tucking her against him. She allowed herself to be cradled as such, her head resting upon his shoulder. The silence almost reminded her of the night they had discussed family and the possibility of such — at least, for him. But that had been before all of this and now —

"Is there any hope left, Rex?" she inquired, and for a moment, she was unsure of what exactly she was asking about — but in a way, though it was awkwardly phrased and almost without direction, it made sense. Was there any hope left? Hope that this was all just a mistake, that it was all just a nightmare — that there would be anything left for them to look forward to? No doubt, as morbid as it was and as much as Ahsoka hated to think of it, they would be looked for. They would be hunted down if they weren't careful.

Instead of answering her right away, Rex sighed and then shifted so that he could see her. And then he began speaking. "I never did tell you about what happened on Saleucami, did I?" For a moment, Ahsoka was confused — and the confusion only deeped further as she recalled what he was referencing.

"No," she answered slowly, white lines above her eyes furrowing, "but I don't see what that has to do with the situation at hand, Rexter."

Perhaps it was because she called him by his nickname, but Rex smiled — though it wasn't a complete smile, more of a softer, bittersweet one that disappeared as he began talking. Though Ahsoka was still confused as to why he was bringing this up now, she settled herself against him and listened as he spoke. She did not interrupt him, and by the time that he had finished, she was staring up at him, uncertain of what to say. It made sense now, however, his desire for a family — after seeing one of his brothers with one that was not comprised of faces similar to his own — it was a goal worth striving for.

She was still confused, however, as to why he had told her this now, when that sort of ending seemed so very far away — and when she asked, that same smile that had been there before returned as he answered, "Because there's always room to hope, Ahsoka."

She blinked, stared — and then smiled, tucking her head back against his shoulder. "You're right," she mused, "there's always room to hope."

I looked up at the sky and saw the Pillar of Autumn depart into the heavens. I couldn't help but gaze out at the barren landscape stained with the blood of my fallen brothers. Covenant drop ships were swarming around me, I could hear the inhumane roars of Elites out in the distance. I was a lone wolf once again. Death seemed certain, there was no escape. No, I told myself it is not my time to die, I will survive. I grabbed my rifle assuring myself, "There will be another time..." — Noble Six, Halo Reach.