Grievous Sin

By Viedyn

A/N: Not much to say, really. This is my first official Star Wars fic, and is set in the aftermath of Kit's confrontation with Grievous (episode ten, season one, of the Star Wars: The Clone Wars series), but it can be read without having prior seen the episode. If you do want to see Kit's awesome-ness in action, go look it up on YouTube. All comments and suggestions welcome!

Special thanks to Minion of Sekhmet for her diligent proof-reading, and her endless support and encouragement! Go read her stories if you like Aayla and Kit; I highly recommend both her and her fics!

Disclaimer: Star Wars © George Lucas.

It was almost unbearable; the lonely flight back to Coruscant, the flashing lights as he bore his trademark grin, displaying encouragement for the many watchers to-be of the holonet news. Countering the legitimate interrogations of the reporters with his outwardly smooth, baritone voice while the urge to scream his voice hoarse within the privacy of his quarters continued to grow…

… a harsh, hacking laughter, gravelly but hoarse from the side-effects of internal damage and cybernetic additions. Wondering if the rasping, metallic timbre of the murderous cyborg had been the last voice his now-dead former Padawan had heard. Wondering if perhaps Grievous' hateful voice had haunted Aayla's mind as she barely eluded the cold tendrils of Death…

'No,' deeply-ingrained teachings rose to mind, 'there is no death; there is the Force.'

Walking through the echoing halls of the Jedi Temple – his home, their home; the Jedi's home – but not feeling the warmth and relief that used to, but no longer spread throughout his being. Because it was hauntingly devoid of life, because the empty halls were a stark reminder of how many Jedi had been lost to the war – but if he was honest with himself, it did not feel like home because…

'Because Aayla's not here; not beside me, not with me…' and the thought was gone as fleetingly as it had entered his mind, taunting him elusively with the temptation to chase after the notion and savour the forbidden fruit.

So he continued to walk, past the few life forms, to the elevator that would transport him to the Council room. Standing in the suddenly spacious elevator was surreal, feeling the frigid touches not of the shift in atmosphere, but of loneliness. He searched for a memory of Aayla – laughing, smiling impishly, returning his mischievous grin with her own – and the cold seeping into his being receded slightly. Even the long elevator ride up to the very top of the five Temple spires did not seem quite so unbearable.

And then he was speaking with Mace and Master Yoda, and trying his hardest to focus on the present, and recount the failed mission as objectively as possible. The Viceroy's un-anticipated slip through their fingers, Count Dooku and his cryptic manipulations, the dead Clones, Nahdar's fate…

"His heart was in the right place, but he tried to answer Grievous' power with his own."

The icy cold feeling rushed through his veins again, at that name, drowning out his fleeting urge to continue speaking. He barely heard Master Yoda's words.

And it all came flooding back: the pain of watching Aayla struggle against her wounds, the helplessness he had floundered with as he stood by her bedside – the plethora of emotions that had erased all traces of calm reasoning and awareness of Jedi teachings.

He matched Grievous' unflinching glare with his own, his lightsabre humming with almost righteous eagerness. The near-shattering of his resolve, the collapse of his strained morals, and the abandonment of his pitiful restraint in the face of the cyborg that had done Aayla such harm. The swell of anger, of vengeance, of vicious, uncompromising fury…

And of pure, unadultered, murderous intent.

He caught Mace's eloquent dismissal, and bowed, rather stiffly, for all the tension his chaotic thoughts were causing, before leaving, having enough presence of mind to not outwardly display his haste – because he was still a Jedi Master, but he did not feel like one for the grievous sin he had committed, and was still committing.

And he remembered what little Aayla had told him – hesitantly and painfully – about her descent to the Dark Side; the bloodthirsty haze that had permeated her being and flooded her essence. She had told him about it all: the time she hadn't been Aayla the Jedi, the Padawan of Quinlan Vos, but when she had been Aayla the Apprentice of the Dark Side, the Queen to-be of the Anzati – the heartless physical embodiment of all that was inhumane and not a Jedi.

Alone in the privacy of his quarters, he remembered his previous contemplation of venting his negative feelings through physical means, and considered it once more, for a fleeting moment, before settling into a meditative posture. But he could not relax, could not let it all go, because the anger was coiled too tightly around his twin hearts, and still he tried.

Try as hard as he might, the anger and pain was still there, and for all his supposed prowess as a Jedi Master, he found he could no more release the negative emotions into the Force than he could let go of his love for Aayla Secura.

He abandoned his futile attempts to achieve a meditative state, paced a restless circuit around his quarters, lingered at the window briefly, before deciding that a hot shower might just diminish the anger that continued to sear relentlessly through his veins.

And yet it continued to burn him as much as the stinging comfort of the hot needles of water sluicing away the impurities.

He sat at the edge of the fountain, atop a smooth, large boulder. The spray from the waterfall spattered him lightly from time to time, but he paid no heed to it, so engrossed was he in observing the blue-skinned beauty floating amidst the rippling of the fountain water.

Despite his concerns and her still-healing injuries, Aayla had insisted upon and successfully snuck out – with a worried Nautolan in tow – of the Infirmary. Her left leg still bandaged at the knee, Aayla had donned a pair of shorts that left little to the Nautolan's stimulated imagination as he followed her at a short distance to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Thankfully, Aayla had been unable to discern that he'd been staring at her shapely legs because of his pupil-less black eyes.

A wave of water washed over him suddenly, his errant thoughts flooded away by the unprecedented assault. He gaped at Aayla, who was grinning impishly, before he regained his sense and dove in after her, and the night passed far too quickly amidst joyous laughter, happy smiles, and tender exchanges.

He jerked out of his thoughts, realising suddenly that the water had long-since turned icy cold and reluctantly stepped out. Alone in the solitary silence of the refresher, his thoughts returned once more to the recent mission to the third moon of Vassek. A shudder that was not borne of the cold ran through his body, and the recollection of Grievous killing Nahdar rose once more to mind, followed closely by a wave of shame and sorrow.

He had not thought of his deceased former-Padawan on more than a few occasions, so caught up in his anger was he, and he stilled, staring at his lightsabre absently. What kind of Master was he, to not pay even a few moments of thought for his old Padawan? What kind of Jedi could not let go of his irrational anger? What kind of Councilor, the ideal role model for other Jedi, selfishly treasured the feelings of love for another life form, another Jedi of all people?

But he knew, deep down, but had never acknowledged, that a small but potent bubble of hatred towards the monstrosity that had nearly killed Aayla existed. Aayla's mission to Hypori could have resulted in her death, even if he had never dared to think about it.

What if Aayla had died? What is she ceased to be, and became one with the Force? His heart clenched suddenly at the thought, and he nearly collapsed, dizzy and disoriented. His hand snapped out to steady himself against the wash basin, but the mere notion of Aayla dying clouded out his rational thoughts.

The thought of being alone, of not having Aayla beside him, of not being able to rely on her and trust her implicitly and confide in her caused his heart to clench painfully.

It frightened him: the thought of never again being able to see her impish grin, her sparkling hazel eyes, her elegant grace and beauty – never being able to simply see her for who she was. To never hear her clear, ringing laughter, the way his name flowed from her tongue, and her melodious, pleasant voice. Her unique fragrance that tickled his nose with its simultaneously relaxing and tantalising scent, and the intoxicating taste of her soft lips that he had only been able to savour once…

And he realised that he had been standing, completely bare, for over ten minutes in the 'fresher. Glad that no-one was around, and glad to be distracted from his thoughts, he pulled on his pants and rooted around for his tunic, and found only his battered, sturdy utility belt. He sighed, and exited the 'fresher into the main area of his quarters – and came face to face with one Aayla Secura.

Surprise dominated the second-long pause as they stared at each other, before Aayla's face broke out into a pleased smile.

"Kit, good to see you! I heard you just got back from Master Windu, and I knocked on your door for several minutes but you didn't answer. I could sense you were in, though, so I just came in." She hesitated when he continued to stare blankly at her. "You don't mind, do you?" She asked tentatively.

Suddenly, the Twi'lek noticed his state of undress and flushed, quickly turning around and striding a respectable distance away, although not before having caught an eyeful of the Nautolan's bare, impressively muscled torso. "I apologise, I'll wait for you to get dressed first," she coughed, standing awkwardly.

His brain took a few moments to process Aayla's words, but when he did, he too flushed and quickly grabbed the nearest, clean tunic and pulled it on hastily, his sensory tendrils detecting the embarrassment and – dare he hope – attraction emanating from her. As soon as he was fully clothed, he sent a wordless message across their bond, and Aayla moved to sit on his couch, not quite looking at him.

"So," she began awkwardly, her cheeks still faintly-tinged with pink, "how did your mission go?"

He took a moment to respond, images of Aayla lying unnaturally still on the infirmary bed from serious wounds, then of Grievous and his mocking, sadistic eyes. "Terribly; the Viceroy escaped, and no-one else survived." He managed to keep his voice steady as he sat opposite the Rutian Twi'lek.

"Who…" Aayla's unfinished question was understood anyway, and reluctantly answered.

"… the Clone troopers, and… Nahdar Vebb."

There was a soft gasp, and a quiet, "I'm sorry, Kit."

"It's alright."

There was a distinct pause, during which Kit could feel the weight of her piercing gaze assessing him, averted as his eyes were.

"No, it's not."

The passing of one, then three, then another two troopers filled his soul with pain and regret, but bolstered his determination with promises of retribution. The sudden void that ripped into existence where the Commander's life force had been, extinguished so abruptly that it nearly threw him off-balance, despite the many similar passings he had felt since the outbreak of the Clone Wars. Nahdar's death, the pain of the slow diminishment of his life force and the noticeable swell of malicious pride emanating from Grievous…

And he sagged into the couch, broad shoulders slumping and tentacles falling over his shoulders to partially obscure his face. "No, it's not," he agreed softly.

A soft wave of soothing comfort washed over him, and he embraced it gratefully, responding by sending a wave of tired gratitude in return. There was a silent prompt from Aayla, and without meeting her eyes for fear of revealing the true depth of his fury, he continued to speak, in a flat, dead tone of voice.

"Grievous killed them. Murdered Nahdar."

A sharp intake of breath. "Grievous?" Aayla's voice was fainter from dread and, despite how well she hid it, fear. "Oh, Kit… I'm so sorry… are you unharmed?"

"I… yes. I am uninjured."

The soft padding of footsteps crossing the room floated to his ears, then the couch dipped slightly as Aayla settled her weight beside him. Still, he resolutely fixed his gaze on his clasped hands in his lap. Elegant, cool hands brushed his tentacles back over his shoulders, and gently cupped his face. He shivered involuntarily, and leant almost imperceptibly into her soft touch. Then she lifted his face, gently and slowly, and reluctantly, Kit raised his eyes to meet her compassionate gaze.

"Oh, Kit! Your cheek…" Aayla gasped, a flash of distress leaking across their bond, and she caressed the darkening bruise carefully.

"Oh… Grievous hit me," he answered lamely, suddenly feeling the sensitised flesh throb in pain from the gentle pressure.

He barely restrained a growl as the Commander steadied him, his deactivated lightsabre in hand. The suffocating trooper with whom Grievous had previously smashed him across the face fell limp with a quiet groan, strangled to death, and was tossed carelessly into Nahdar.

His smarting cheek was ignored, and as he re-activated his green blade, he briefly imagined Aayla being tossed through the air similar to how he had just been assaulted, and wondered if Grievous had done so just as flippantly. Aayla, being flung into a wall so forcefully to have caused near-fatal damage to her head-tails, coming so close to death and leaving him behind…

"… get some salve," Aayla was saying, and he felt an irrational surge of panic as her cool hands moved to pull away from his face.

"No!" he exclaimed softly, reaching up to trap her hands against his cheek. "No… this is fine," he continued softly, his larger, green calloused hands complementing her smaller, cerulean ones.

Aayla complied, and remained sitting beside him. After a moment of comfortable silence, filled only by the sound of their synchronised breathing, Aayla shifted. Kit stared resolutely at her chin, avoiding her searching gaze. Then he felt her hands move again, and he instinctively looked up.

She was leaning closer towards him; her face nearing his, ever closer by the second, a scant inch from his face, and he could feel his breath catch in his throat, could feel the tingly sensation that struck him whenever he was close to her. She was so close he could see – could count – every single eyelash, her intoxicating fragrance completely overwhelming his senses, the mere proximity sending him over the edge and nullifying any remaining sense of Jedi rationale. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and his lips parted slightly of their own accord…

And then her cheek was resting against his, and his vision was obscured by her shoulder. He was acutely aware of her smooth, unblemished skin against his bruised cheek – which didn't feel quite so sore now – and her hands (Oh, Force, her hands!) tangled in his tentacles, gently stroking the length of the digits.

"This is better, isn't it?" she asked, but he knew she already knew, and did not need to respond.

He shuddered, pleasure and disappointment and waning control coursing through his body. His hands had responded reflexively and one hand was at the nape of Aayla's neck, the other resting lightly against her hip. He rested his forehead against her slender shoulder, still managing to maintain skin-contact with her at his bruised cheek.

The cold waters of Kamino engulfed him, but the true exhilaration stemmed from the lithe, agile being pressed against his own body. He could feel the sensuous curves through the thick material of his tunic, and could not resist the urge to slide his hands around her slender body as her hands slid around his neck and up to his head, pressing him closer.

Her lips were soft, sweeter, and fresher than the light drizzles of water following the frequent dark storms on Glee Anselm. He pressed his lips harder against hers, as if he were the one starving for air, not she –

He inhaled shakily, trying to imprint the rare contact he shared with Aayla into his mind, filling his senses with Aayla, Aayla, Aayla…

Before he knew it, he was embracing her smaller body with all the desperation he could muster, burying his face deeper into the hollow of her shoulder. His hands settled on the planes of her shoulder blades, then moved to grip her shoulders, then moved further down, discontent as he was with not being able to touch as much of her as he could, and it still wasn't enough.

His larger, calloused hands pressed into the bared skin of her lower back, just above the waistband of her pants, and he suddenly realised with clouded awareness that they were standing, several green tentacles falling over both their shoulders and intertwining with her lekku, sending shudders down their spines and across their bond, resonating in their minds so harmoniously it was impossible to distinguish which emotion came from whom.

His head-tresses could, though, and he could detect the confusion from the pheromones around her, underpinned by the fear, dread, loss, despair and pain…

He tried talking, and found he could not dislodge the lump in his throat, so he further widened their bond, and he could detect her surprise now so he asked her why, why, why…

Because I almost lost you…

I'm still here…

He could have killed you… taken you from this world… from me…

His hands tightened around her.

I was winning… I almost had him… almost had him for what he did to you… what he could have done to you… what he almost succeeded in doing to you…

I'm not dead, Kit…

To no longer have you by my side… unbearable…

And he knew, in that instant, that he could never – would never – let her go again, not with all the words left unsaid and actions left undone in his twin hearts. There was a moment of unending separation as he pulled back slightly, away from her, then he dove back down again, crushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was passion, love, desperation, lust, pleading, proffering, taking and giving…

He nearly pulled back, began to do so, when the realisation that she wan't responding reached his muddled mind, but then her arms snaked around him and her lips pressed back just as urgently, and all sense of doubt and rationale fled from his mind.

His hands were not still, roaming over her sensuous curves and ghosting across smooth skin, and it was still not enough…

She pressed into him, her slender body molding into his, and he gasped into the kiss, completely undone, and he pushed her backwards, gently with frantic motivation. The back of her knees hit the seat of the couch and she fell onto the cushioned surface, dragging him down with her…

As he lost himself in the waves of passion, he found that his anger had disappeared; dissolved, burned away by the love that ignited his being. And he knew, that come morrow, their Jedi teachings would separate them, tear them apart again, and that in time they would return to each other, drawn to fill the emptiness that he knew would grow and widen unless they were together, but until then…

This was enough.