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Sometimes Ahsoka isn’t sure why she even bothers anymore.
It’s well past the planetary midnight, the bar was rowdy (in a good way, the mysterious, pulsing-beat, sexy way) but now it’s a little too quiet for Ahsoka’s liking. There’s a few patrons that are way too wasted to know better, they’re still laughing uncomfortably and trying to make eye contact with the others in the bar, who’ve long since dropped their gaze to the ground.
“ Asajj ,” Ahsoka hisses under her breath, covering it by taking a large gulp from her neon-blue coloured drink. It had been an expensive luxury, and she’d seized it from the table with quick reflexes before Ventress had flipped it in anger.
Ventress pays her no attention.
She stalks closer to the Mirialans that had insisted on sitting down with them at their table, intent on making conversation (and later, they had probably hoped, much more) to either of these mysterious strange women on this rocky dump of a planet in the Outer Rim. Ahsoka scowls and takes another sip. Just when the night had been getting good, she thinks.
“ Taj ,” Ahsoka warns more loudly, using Ventress’ assumed name.
“Back off, Ashla ,” Ventress bites back, dragging her blaster over the aluminum tables in a terrible screeching noise as she weighs what she’ll do to the arrogant Mirialans. She uses Ahsoka’s alias with menace, almost like a threat: we both know what you are, so stop judging , her tone seems to say. Ahsoka almost winces, but she catches herself and downs her drink instead. She slams the elegant glass back on the table, not enjoying the burn of the drink at the back of her throat and down into her belly, but trying to hide her discomfort.
It had been such a good drink, something to enjoy sipping over an hour, not a rushed shot in the midst of a violent escape. Why did Ventress always have to pull this shit?
“Taj, we have to go,” she insists. “Forget him, he’s not worth the time.”
Ventress doesn’t back off.
Another time, earlier in this strange partnership of theirs, Ahsoka would have intervened. Physically forced Ventress to back off. This time, she only turns and grabs her cloak from the back of her chair. She swings it around her, pulls the hood up, and marches out of the bar. Ventress will follow or she won’t; it stopped being Ashoka’s mission to stop Ventress a long time ago, and now was no day to pick it up again. Not when they had just picked up a damn good paycheque from rescuing a kid, some local criminal loyalty, and returned him to his evil but deeply concerned family.
There were good days with Ventress, and bad days. Ahsoka was learning to roll with both.
\
There’s something to be said about the power of being able to get what you want without the Force. It’s been a long time she’s had to use the Force on anyone, come to think of it, especially not seedy Duros in seedy bars. She’s sitting on a high top chair in a loud, twangy country bar where the half the lights have been smashed in from fights that probably happen every weekend. The wood on the tables is almost rotten from the amount of booze spilt on them and never mopped up, but none of the patrons seem to care. No one on this entire planet seems to care; the place is packed with every possible local, clanging fingers on instruments and steins on tables (and occassionally, clattering to the floor).
But of all the people she had to seduce, it had to be Cad Bane. Ahsoka’s beginning to reconsider her personal pact to avoid using the Force.
Ventress shoots her an encouraging look from across the bar -- well, almost encouraging, if there hadn’t been a hint of mirth to her eyes.
“No,” Cad Bane’s voice cuts in, bringing Ahsoka’s attention back to their conversation. Focus, she just had to focus.
“Bane,” Ahsoka implores, resting an elbow on the bar and leaning in. “It’s a good deal. The commission I’m offering you is insane-- “
“Doing business with a Jedi is insane, especially one that I’ve got history with --”
Ahsoka shoots a hand up to his mouth, pressing a slender finger on his thin lips. “No reason to use that kind of language, okay?” she insists quietly, leaving her finger on his mouth. Bane scowls, opening his mouth under her finger, and Ahsoka takes a bold leap.
It’s not even a thought anymore, not the way it used to be; she pushes her finger into his open mouth and runs her finger along his teeth. “And hey, history is history, okay? I don’t care if you don’t,” she breathed the words, just barely above a whisper. He’s not bad looking, with hard red eyes that she can’t read and a strong forehead. He hasn’t reacted yet, which is a good thing, she thinks -- he’s not totally against the idea of making her happy. “I just need an introduction to your friend. That’s all. You take ten percent off any deal I strike with her, okay?”
His red eyes glow brighter for a moment while he thinks. But Bane gnashes at her finger -- Ahsoka pulls her finger away lightning fast -- and Bane lasts. “You don’t interest me, girl,” he sneers. “You think I got to wear I am today because I jumped out of my pants at every pretty little thing that sidled up my way? Not a chance.”
He throws a few rugged coins on the bar, slams his whiskey back and gets up. “Maybe some other time, when you’re not trying to wrangle a deal out of me,” he remarks as he shrugs his coat over his wiry shoulders. He brings his boney hands to his wide-brimmed hat, adjusting it, and leans in close so she’s the only one that can hear: “I’ve killed a lot of Jedi, but I’ve never fucked one.”
Ahsoka knuckles tighten around her own dusty beer bottle but it’s a mark of how much time has passed that she doesn’t smash him in the fact with it. She know’s her energy has tightened into a ball of anger -- Ventress is looking at her now from under her cloak, watching her, feeling the tension in the air. Instead, Ahsoka smiles viciously and says, as sweetly as she can, “The only time you’d ever get laid is on a deal, Bane. Everyone knows that.”
To his credit, he gives her an equally sharp smile, unsettling and mean. “That’s just good sense.”
He leaves the bar, and Ahsoka thinks, he’s damn right. It’s the wisest thing anyone has said to her (apart from Ventress, who insists on dispensing wisdom with a healthy side of mockery and bullying) since she left the Order.
Ventress comes over some time later, plops herself down and pulls down her hood. Ahsoka’s on a new drink now, a pungent cocktail of mostly engine fuel, by the taste of it. She pulls a face and takes another sip. “No dice, Taj,” Ahsoka sighs, shrugging one shoulder limply.
“I noticed,” Ventress tells her, her tone dry but not angry, which is a good sign. “He was never going to give in; I told you it wouldn’t work.”
“I know,” Ahsoka agrees absently, running a finger over the lip of her glass, remembering the feeling of it on Cad Bane’s lips. It had been nice . It had made her want something.
“Then why even bother? Wasted both of our time on this shit-hole planet,” Ventress says bitterly, taking a delicate sip from her own stein.
“Eh, it was worth a shot,” Ahsoka gives Ventress a wily grin. “It was worth the challenge, testing out all those new skills you taught me.” Ventress rolls her eyes and says nothing in response.
“Obviously you still have much to learn,” Ventress shot back. She pauses, reaches out with the Force and Ahsoka winces, knowing Ventress can feel what she feels. “You’re disappointed.”
“Obviously,” Ahsoka tries to cover up.
“Not just about the deal.”
Now it’s Ahsoka’s turn to scowl in silence, taking a sullen sip of her foul drink. Well, Ventress knows now, she knows exactly what Ahsoka is feeling, so Ahsoka doesn’t try to suppress it anymore.
It’s the little fire in her pelvis that’s been building since she and Cad Bane started talking; a little arrogance bubbling in the back of her head in a way that she only used to feel in a fight or battle; a little iron in her spine when she thinks, this isn’t over, he has no idea what she can pull out ...
“I’m glad I didn’t use it on him,” Ahsoka says quietly, knowing that Ventress knows what’s she’s talking about. Ventress doesn’t reply, only quirks a perfect eyebrow at her. “I am ,” Ahsoka continues more firmly. “It’ll make it that much better when he finally goes for it.” Ahsoka folds her arms over her chest, casting a cool gaze on Ventress. “He will . And he’ll remember that night for the rest of his mercenary life.”
Ventress laughs, a rare sound from her. “The night? That’s very generous, pet. I like the confidence but ... we’re going to have to work on your tactics.”
\
If you remain his student, you may not see your future . Orange ... red -- there was a fire, she was in fire, she --
“... Tano ... Tano ... Ashoka!” Ventress hisses, a firm hand on her shoulder, shaking her. Ahsoka’s eyes snap open and she wakes, rigid, one arm curled under her pillow. She takes stock of herself before she takes in where she is; her breathing is hard, her heart pounding, and she’s too scared to move a muscle. Talons ... she can still feel the sting of talons on her arm.
Ventress backs, looking away, studying her nails to avoid looking overly worried. “You’re not saying anything,” Ventress observes flatly. Ahsoka still doesn’t say anything, uncertain. The Son had grabbed her, made Anakin choose between his Master and his Apprentice ... Force, she hadn’t thought of that in so long , why now? Ventress huffs, turning away. “Well, good. I almost thought about not waking you up, the last thing I need is your endless chatter while I work.” Ventress gets up and walks away.
She’s not on Mortis. She’s alive. She’s on their ship, they were ... they parked overnight on a dusty moon on a Hutt-controlled planet last night, a rough landing ...
Ahsoka groans. “Asajj,” she finally croaks out, her voice harsh. There’s a pause in clanking, a wrench on an uncooperative radio, and Ashoka knows Ventress is listening. She swings her legs over the hard emergency bed near the cockpit and asks, “What’s the damage to her, huh?” Ahsoka stands up, rolling her shoulders, still feeling uneasy.
“Not bad, I found a supplier in town that’ll sell us light armoured plates at a steal of a price,” Ventress comments tersely, continuing with her repairs. The grind of metal on metal, the methodical rhythm of turns.
“Only the surface armour was damaged?” Ashoka asks, climbing to the front of the cockpit, rubbing her head still. The radio has been completely taken apart and exposed, wires hanging loose and metal plates scattered on the ground.
“It could have been worse,” Ventress says, pulling apart two wires and examining them, before deciding to strip one wire down and exposing more copper.
“I don’t see how ,” Ahsoka mutters, dropping into the copilot seat.
“Well,” Ventress drawls. “ You could have been the one doing the landing.”
Ahsoka snorts, reaching over and picking up an energy bar still on the dashboard. She starts to unpeel it, her stomach wobbles, and she puts it back down.
“You smashed your head against that wall like an unprogrammed droid, you know. We should get you some kind of medic.”
“Naw,” Ahsoka says, crossing her arms. “It just hurts, that’s all. Just a headache.” She closes her eyes, leaning back. It’d been a quick escape, she hadn’t buckled into her seat properly and then one very rocky landing later, she’d flown out, hit the side wall and ... blackness.
Ventress leans over to the toolbox on the floor of the cockpit and pulls out a screwdriver, purposely dropping the wrench and letting it clatter on the ground, loudly . It reverberates, ringing against the walls and Ahsoka’s ears and she hisses.
“Okay, fine , it’s a headache the size of Mandalore,” Ahsoka confesses. Ventress shoots her a knowing glance and Ahsoka scowls. “It’s not that bad, seriously . I’ve had worse. Like ... like that time you made me do nebula lines at Uberuk’s? Holy shit. I had a hangover for a month because of you.”
It’s Ventress’ turn to scoff a laugh. She does, turning to face Ahsoka, resting an elbow on the dashboard. But the laugh stops quickly and she frowns, hard lines etching her pale blue face. Looking at Ahsoka’s shoulder, she asks, “Another one?”
Ahsoka turns, looking at the arm that had been stinging in her dream -- (her memory?) -- and tries to cover her startled reaction. There are fresh prints there, the long fingers of a talons leaving red marks on her flesh.
“Forget the medic,” Ventress rolls her eyes, covering her concern with annoyance and anger (as usual). “You need a shaman, or a witch-doctor.” Even more angrily, she adds, “Or a nightsister. They would have known what was going on.”
Ahsoka doesn’t say anything, picking up the energy bar again and breaking off a piece of it. She should eat, she thinks. She should sustain herself and keep going and not dwell on this because she knows why these moments keep happening. She knows Ventress must know too, but they don’t talk about it.
They never talk about the Force anymore, and they certainly don’t talk about the surges in the Dark side they can both feel, crawling over their skin like a scream as the war drags on.