#that issue is in my head and as I've crossed out of young adulthood into adult-adulthood i've really been challenging it

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 29 (NSFW-lite)

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Read chapter twenty-eight (NSFW)

Title: ASSISTANCE REQUIRED

Words: 5.6k

Summary: I am very uncomfortable with the vibe we have created in the studio Infirmary today...

Warnings: mentions of abuse, suicide

ST Rambles: So... I graduated nursing school. And will be taking my licensure exam next month and start working as well...

In my time away, other than the above mentioned accomplishments, I've been reading a lot of books and even went to see an internet friend just last weekend. Life got insane and I needed to focus on school, and I do appreciate the patience and enthusiasm.

I hope this was worth the wait. I hope the next part will be even more so ;)

[MASTERLIST] || BANNER // @elmidol

Fucking, fuck!

“I know in academy you were told to pierce the skin at a forty-five-degree angle, but it works a lot better if you-,”

“Go in at a fifteen-degree-angle, go parallel to the skin. I know,” you huffed, embarrassment burning your skin. “That’s not the issue. I do that. The issue is-,”

“That is the issue,” Silver corrected, interrupted. Your preceptor-for-all-intents-and-purposes crossed her arms and stared at you with hard, unyielding eyes. “You won’t listen to me,” she spat. “You are the issue.”

Calliope Silvren, or “Silver”, as she’d informed you upon meeting, was everything you were supposed to be. And you hated her for that fact, hated her for that and so much more.

She was intelligent and concise and respected, she knew everything and made sure you were aware that you didn’t. During the past eleven hours, not with so many words, Silver had made it clear that you were never supposed to be here to begin with, that hers was the name in the original provider candidate pool and you were nothing but a fluke, a nobody, nothing.

Compared to Silver, compared to Calliope fucking Silvren, who’d graduated valedictorian, who had star-white hair and golden skin, whose eyes were a harsh sea of frozen cerulean, whose legs were long and lips were full and head was high and posture was perfect – compared to the program’s prototype? What were you other than a fluke? A whim? Compared to her, how were you anything more than the fascination you’d been labeled as from the very start?

As you stared up at her, her height almost that of Kylo’s, and felt the wrath of that frozen sea that resided behind her glare, you couldn’t speak. Every word of defense left you, and your mouth dried and your chest hollowed. Because her words not only rippled through your head but echoed through the unit’s halls so every nurse and physician and maintenance worker had heard them. Heard her and how superior she was, heard how incompetent you were.

Silver knew what she’d done, could feel the eyes of her coworkers gawking at her scolding; you knew by the smallest quirk to her lip, the slightest tick in her platinum brow. She had you trapped and on display, and all you could do was stand here and take it. The Board was watching, and so was Hux – CB-7070 always shadowing ten paces behind – you had no choice but to remain neutral-faced and silent.

She spoke your name and it was beautiful, a voice like sugar even when it slithered and bit like venom, “We’ll pick up tomorrow. If you absolutely need me, I’ll be organizing my report sheets for the oncoming shift.” When no one was looking anymore, her eyes narrowed and she leaned in. “Busy yourself for the next hour.” A sneer slipped past the benevolent mask she wore. “Don’t need me.”

With a steel spine, she whipped past you, stalking off toward her task, the white of her hair streaking from your periphery. And there you were, clutching an IV starter kit – missing the needle, much like you’d missed the vein – trying your hardest to keep from showing any emotion whatsoever. Less people were gawking now that Silver had left, but you still felt eyes on you. Whatever lay in those lingering stares, pity or humor or apathy, it all burned you, reminded you how temporary you were. Not only in this place – the “Infirmary” as the staff referred to it – but in your life, as well.

Smoothing the skirt of your uniform, you cleared your throat and turned to do as you were instructed, catching CB-7070’s visor for a second before peering around the unit. She faced you, and even though you couldn’t see her face, you knew she may be the only one around who was on your side. The white of her helmet glinted as she gave a small nod in your periphery. Yeah, she wasn’t so bad, no matter who she’d report to the second you got back to the Consulate.

The Infirmary was a large unit, and, unlike any place you’d practiced in since graduation, it was efficiently staffed and stocked. Safe nurse-to-patient ratios, sufficient supplies, and an allocated provider available for any emergent orders or treatments. It was a surreal representation of the “hospital utopia” you’d heard of all throughout school.

But, aside from its apparent perfection, some characteristics of the unit confused you, but you didn’t ask about it because no one else seemed to think it was weird, and Silver didn’t exactly foster a great learning environment.

What struck you first was the Infirmary’s construction and layout. It was all glass, floor to ceiling windows that offered full views of each patient in their respective rooms. You’d watched the sun dance across the sky as the day went on, nothing hindering you from the beautiful view of the sea beyond the fanned-out city below. The only thing that offered a semblance of privacy for each patient was the wall-spanning mirror positioned in front of their beds. None of them saw each other, but it was still odd that there seemed to be no concern towards the errant lapse in privacy policy the design created.

At the center was the nurses’ station, large and circular, a skylight fixed right above. The staff used the lack of patient privacy to their advantage, peering above the counter to make sure their assignments were doing alright. Their assignments who were all under the age of twenty. Some much younger, just grasping at adolescence, others kissing young adulthood – those seemed much worse off, something darker rimmed their eyes, ghosted behind the lifeless face all of them wore.

It was a strange environment to be in, even more so due to how vague the progress notes were, history and physicals extremely short and never too in depth, especially when it concerned anything related to the patients’ family history or living situations. Something seemed off, something that tugged at you and made you yearn to break past the flat affect each patient met you with.

So many were here for a few hours and then gone the next, a constant influx of admissions and discharges. But, so strangely, there was never any patient education given, never any parents or guardians for the younger ones to go home to. They were always escorted from the unit by two “official personnel”. And watching their faces as Silver told them they were done with treatment and could leave, it killed you to see the faintest slash of fear quiver their bottom lips.

Beyond that, beyond seeing these younglings so fearful and defenseless, what clawed at your gut the most was that none of them had a name. They had no birthdate information, no address listed, no family contacts entered or even offered. They were all in the system only by the letters “FL” followed by a code of eight numbers. The nurses would refer to them by their room numbers to make it simpler, but none of them shared your concern for the lack of identity these patients were plagued with.

Yes, something seemed off, seemed wrong here. Something waswrong here, but you feared you would be gone before you ever knew what that was.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a tray left on an isolation cart next to a door. Heeding Silver’s command, you approached it, discarding the IV kit and feeling CB-7070’s focus catch your every step. You’d passed this door frequently, never seeing anyone approach it for longer than a few seconds at a time, assuming it was a closet for extra supplies or scanning machines. But the meal card on the tray indicated differently.

This was a patient’s room. The room number matched, there were no other doors labeled with it that you could see. No staff paid you any attention as you peered around. The only one watching was your white-armored shadow standing against a pane of glass.

Shrugging to yourself, feeling you couldn’t possibly get in trouble for delivering a patient’s food, you said over your shoulder to CB-7070, “I’m taking this in. I shouldn’t be long. Don’t follow me in here.” More to yourself, you sighed, “Even if I am the only one here concerned about privacy, I’d prefer not to violate anyone’s rights on my first day.”

CB-7070 nodded. “Affirmative,” her modulator croaked.

A swipe of your new badge gained you access past the door, a whoosh of air whipping through your skirt as it closed behind you. It was pitch dark, the only light coming from a holo-chart programmed into the wall. It appeared you were in an antechamber, those that often came with isolation patients, but there was nothing indicating this patient had any infection or ailment that necessitated a gown or mask.

The air was stale, like nothing and no one had stirred it in a few days, and the only glass visible was that of a window peering into the room beyond – or, it would be peering, were there not closed blinds on the other side of it.

You saw yourself in that darkened pane, clutching the tray to yourself, the first glimpse you caught of your face since the start of shift. Truthfully, you looked awful. Hair frizzed at your temples, a sheen of oil had gathered on your forehead, and exhaustion was evident in the puffy bags beneath your eyes.

But it was an earned appearance, no matter what Silver wanted you and everyone else to believe. Today you did your best and you interpreted and communicated abnormal findings, you assessed every patient without bias and documented everything you did. There were things you were unsure of, not having performed many skills while being assigned to Kylo, but you always asked for help, even though you realized it would be met with disgruntled aggravation after the first few times.

You had done everything right, understanding the consequences if you didn’t. As far as you were concerned, and even as much doubt as she’s caused you in the singular day you’ve known her, Silver was the problem. Not you.

And, not for nothing, the IV you missed earlier… not entirely your fault.

Kylo Ren picked the wrong day to Force-edge you. Or maybe it was you who really initiated the torture, but he’d been the one to follow through with his threat. Every hour had been memorable.

The first three had luckily occurred when you were away from patients but did earn you a few wary glances from the unit staff, your jaw set firm as you gave them a reassuring nod, hoping they couldn’t see how badly you were shaking as your cunt spasmed toward orgasm, but never got there.

There was something vicious in the rate at which he was forcing you toward the edge. Even though you couldn’t see or hear him, you felt like he was tormenting you with spite in mind rather than pleasure, like something you’d said or thought had angered him.

You didn’t have much time to consider that, though, as the hours went on and you’d begged the stars that the slick slipping from your center wouldn’t go past the hem of your dress. A few times you’d cursed the damned uniform, but quickly turned to cursing Kylo Ren for the ever-so-slightly too high hem. It’d surprised you that he never acted on those silent curses aimed at him, that it hadn’t earn you another hour riding the edge of pleasure while choking down the gasps and moans he’d surely intended to draw from you.

During lunch, you’d found a corner and ate alone, speaking to the wall and scorning Kylo under your breath, spitting empty threats, telling him to stop, to slow down. When that hadn’t worked and the Force picked up in pattern and pressure, nudging your clit just right, your hands had clamped around a plastic fork as you held on for dear life. He was nowhere near you and you’d almost cum four times over the course of your twenty-five-minute break. At that point, you’d considered begging him to let you cum, but part of you knew that would only lengthen his schemes.

Other times during shift, when Silver was rolling her eyes when you’d asked for her help, you’d felt the light, teasing lance of the Force trail along your neck. When you were priming tubing for a new admission, you’d felt the strange, unseen presence caress your ear like Kylo’s tongue might. And one hour, right after the previous had left you wondering if you’d be able to stand the next time you needed to – that hour where you’d traded your curses for pleading, traded the harshness you were spitting for the simple, hushed breaths you needed to outlast the never-ending torrent of pleasure he kept surging through you – the Force was kinder, something sentimental in the way it’d weighted your body like Kylo would, draped itself along your shoulders as sweat dried on your brow and the shaking of your legs settled.

A delicate, “Thank you,” had breathed over your lips when the Force – when Kylo’s teasing – seemed it would let up for the remainder of your shift.

But, of course, that peace had been temporary, a strategy to lapse your guard, to make you vulnerable when you’d most needed a clear mind and a steady hand. It had started with the gentle lulls you’d been left with, a stroking tendril swift over the column of your neck, the tourniquet tight to the patient’s arm as you poked their forearm in search of a vein. And when you informed Silver you’d found one, the Force deftly switched its attention to your pussy.

Silver had been scrutinizing you before, but when your shaking hand and short, shallow breaths appeared as fear instead of the pleasure they were born from, her brow had narrowed that much more. When you’d anchored the vein and aligned the needle – at her all-important fifteen-degree angle – your hand had shifted, jumped as your thighs tightened and you fought to trap a moan in your throat. It was an accident that the needle pierced the patient – and, worse, through the vein – at a greater angle, and it wrought you with emotion. Guilt for hurting the patient, shame for screwing up under Silver’s icy appraisal, and unyielding anger for Kylo Ren for causing your fuck up and not being able to explain that.

So here you were, taking the brunt of criticism and punishment for a mistake you wouldn’t have made had it not been for Kylo Ren, and studying your reflection in the scant light offered from the holo-chart of a patient you hadn’t known existed up until three minutes ago.

“Kylo,” you breathed, reaching for the second badge-scanner, “I can’t look bad here. The Board is watching. Hux is watching.” You glimpsed the radar fastened to your wrist, directing your tired eyes at Kylo’s indicator like he could feel your attention on him. “Give me this last hour and let me be good. Let me do well. Let me prove that I can to everyone who believes otherwise.”

A few seconds passed by as you waited for a reaction. Nothing came. The Force remained absent from you, and your shoulders dropped in relief. With a final glance at the chart, noting the patient’s identifier and checking it against the meal ticket, you swiped your badge and the entrance rushed open.

Darkness met you once more, but this darkness was heavier somehow. Not in the way untouched rooms are usually heavy – not with dust or grime – but a heaviness that clutched at your heart. It pressed into you, taunted you even as you remained a step outside the threshold. It was only shadows, unmoving and unremarkable darkness, but it clawed at you. It writhed at your feet and stirred your heart.

This was the darkness that lived behind each of those younglings’ eyes, but here it was concentrated, like this was the very source of it. Like this was its home.

“Hello?” you croaked, still not daring to pass into the shadow-thick room.

No answer, not even a stir. Nothing but that unyielding darkness.

You cleared your throat. “I, um, I have your dinner.” You took a small step forward. “Sorry for the wait… if there was one.”

More of the same. More of nothing.

A light switch entered your periphery with your next step, and you reached for it, but before you could flip it—

“If I wanted it on, do you think I’d be sitting in here like this?”

The voice was weak, small, but not that of a child. Not even that of an ill person, or an elderly one. It was male, though. Boyish, but not a boy’s. Somehow, the voice was young and old at the same time, as if the boy had lived long years already, and those years had worn him down.

The voice was a singular stream against the dark’s thick, silent wrath, and it was hollow, empty like the shadows before you should be. As the question ended, you found that it wasn’t bitterness or pain that lived in its tone, but rather a broken apathy, like whoever this was had cared and fought for so long but had ultimately lost in the end.

“Not that anyone here is really concerned about what I want,” came the voice again, an edge weighting its words.

Finally, you stepped completely into the room. You had to swallow a gasp when the entrance at your back locked shut. The tray jostled in your arms, but you succeeded at remaining upright.

With a sugary tone, you asked, “How will you eat if you can’t see your food?”

A huffed laugh, tired and bitter. “You should work on that nurse voice. Not very convincing.” A long, deep breath filled a few otherwise silent moments. “Send that tray back. Give it to someone who wants it.”

Without your “nurse voice”, you said, “Why did you order it—”

“—I didn’t. I never do. I’m being kept here, why would I want to sustain myself to make my stay that much longer?”

“Kept?” you whispered.

The longer you stood in place, the more your eyes adjusted. The room was still suffocated by the swamp of darkness, but there was some light after all. Scant, but there, a beam of the setting sun speared the room, and from what you had begun to make out of the body in front of you – a small form curled in the center of a bed – you found he was staring out of the broken blinds from which it came, like he was looking at something. Looking forsomething.

“Kept. Held prisoner. Restrained but not restrained because thatwould make this whole operation illegal, right? Whatever way you want to put it, I’ve made it obvious I don’t want to be here.” A long pause and a sad sigh. “Starvation is a better fate than most here, anyway.”

The more he spoke, the clearer it became that his voice wasn’t hollow, but burning with quiet fury. For what, you weren’t sure, but you realized this was the first patient who had spoken all day. And his tone, his words, only solidified the fact that there was something very, very wrong going on.

You walked closer to him, past the foot of his bed until you saw where the small slant of light was focused, what he continued to brokenly fawn over.

“What are you looking at?” you asked, leaning down so you could match your view with his.

He turned his head from the mostly covered window, the creak of light only possible through a bend in the blinds, and he looked at you, a flash of realization spreading through his features before he reined his expression into a void of dull emotion.

He stared at you as you stared at him, appraising you just the same. He was young, but it appeared as though his youth had been leeched from him. Long dark brunette curls framed his face and teased his shoulders, heavy with oil inherent of unkemptness. An immense sadness lived in the downturned state of his mouth, a contrasting anger set in the crease of his brow. And when you finally found his eyes, you restrained a shiver, as the deep hazel burned with that cleave of sun and struck you with the anvil of pain and desperation that lived in them.

He wasn’t alarmed at your proximity but confused. With a shaky voice, and something of a weak sneer biting at his mouth, he said, “You’re a sick, brutal cunt, you know that?”

“What? What do you—”

“What am I looking at? Do not patronize me!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Are you stupid or just cruel?”

“I’m not either, I—”

“You’re both!”

“I’m temporary! I don’t work here! I’ve been here for one shift! I’ve been on this planet for one day!”

Without missing a beat, but less heated and more restrained, the boy said, “Just stupid then.”

He continued to glare at you, but your eyes wandered back to the break in the blinds, and with narrowed eyes you found something that resembled a racing track. It was far out in the distance, but you knew that was what he had been focused on, sure of it by the way his demeanor shifted when you looked back down at him.

“Help me understand, then, if I am so stupid,” you whispered.

“You aren’t any different from the others, no matter if you’re temporary or not. Whatever that means, anyway.” The boy’s jaw set so firm you swore you heard it crack. “You don’t want to understand. If you did, if anyone cared so much, the Infirmary wouldn’t exist.”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Help me?” the boy barked. He considered you for a moment, sun and shadow warring across the hollows of his cheeks as he did. Those pained eyes narrowed a fraction. “Who are you? What does temporary mean?”

You leaned away from him, straightening your posture and setting his tray on a counter off to the side. You offered your name, just the first, and dragged an absent-minded finger over the embroidery of your uniform. “Temporary means…”

Perhaps it was his already non-existent trust in you, but you did not think that informing him of the real reason you were here – telling him that your license and life were on the line and you were here so the Board of Physicians would have ease in their decision to end your life or not – would do much to foster his confidence in you, you took a second to frame it in a way that would appeal to him.

Clearing your throat, you kept his stare and said, “Temporary means that I’m here for less than two weeks, and I have no loyalties to any staff here. Temporary means that I do care so much, and I do want to help because temporary also means that I’ve seen some weird shit today, and I don’t understand it.” The boy’s brows raised for a fragmented second, but you knew you’d gained at least a small portion of his respect, so you continued.

With a lowered voice and an unbreakable stare, you said, “Temporary means that I am on your side, and if you let me, if you help me to understand what is going on, I will help you as best as I can.”

The boy shifted, ringing a hand around his opposite wrist, toying with the identification band secured there. He never stopped looking into your eyes, and you knew he was searching for deceit, but the longer he stared, the more he came up short.

You offered him your hand, observing how he flinched away from it, but keeping it extended as he considered it for another few moments.

“I told you who I am. Will you tell me who you are?”

It seemed like the darkness that surrounded you was watching with bated breath, watching in awe as the boy’s gaze remained on your extended hand.

He swallowed, and ever so slowly, with a hesitation that struck through your heart, he lifted his hand and clasped it around yours. The light from the broken blinds coiled around your matched hands, and for the first time today, you felt hopeful. And no matter how dim and breathless it was, a flicker of that same hopefulness played through his eyes.

“I…” the boy hesitated, so you squeezed his hand and offered a reassuring nod. His shoulders relaxed with his next breath. “I am Quynnland. With a ‘Y’.”

“Quynnland,” you parroted, trying it out and letting his hand go. “Do you have any nicknames? Like Quynn? Quynnie?”

“No one calls me Quynnie!” he roared. “Nobody calls me that except…” Quynnland shifted in bed, away from you, turning his face back toward that racing track. His bottom lip quivered, and he appeared as if you’d just lashed him with molten plasma.

“Quynnland,” you soothed, “nobody calls you that except who?”

He remained quiet, but he shuddered, and you saw the light glint off a stream that found its way down the slate of his cheek.

“I want to understand. I want to help you.” You swallowed against your throat, which had become markedly thicker since you last spoke. “Please, help me help you.”

Quynnland’s chin rose, his eyes fell shut, and he balled his hands into tight fists. He wasn’t angry, but in pain, and you knew from the sight of how broken he was that he’d been in pain for a long time now. Perhaps, it seemed, he had never known a day without it.

Just when you were about to speak, Quynnland coughed against a sob and whispered, “They won’t let me see him. He’s there on his own. He’s never been alone for this long.” A tight breath whipped into his chest. “They’re keeping me here so I age out. They’re keeping me away from him.”

“Who is he? What are you aging out of?” The more he offered, the more questions you thought of.

“I almost got us out this time,” he whispered. “I almost saved us both, but they caught me and dragged me away from him. He’s young, but that never stopped them before.” A wheeze of pain slipped from Quynnland’s lips. “They probably broke him just enough so he could still work.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you kept quiet.

After what seemed like an eternity, Quynnland spoke again. “My brother. That’s who gets to call me ‘Quynnie’. That’s who I tried to save, and that’s who is suffering because I failed.” He pushed an aggravated sound from his lungs. “The only way you can help me, is if you help him.”

“How do I do that?” you asked, watching as his fists relaxed at his sides.

Quynnland opened his eyes and bore the full weight of their pain into yours. He took a long breath and squared his jaw. “You get him away from the wardens, and then you get him out.”

“Where is he?” you asked, needing to know what that racing track he kept glancing toward was.

He went to answer, but a rush of motion sounded beyond his door, and just as quickly, the entrance to his room shot open. Quynnland ducked his head and balled his fists, and you turned to see that it was Silver who stood in his doorway. She wore an unfamiliar face, one of shock and terror, and you went to speak, but her hand whipped out and signaled that you would notbe saying a word until you left this room.

She stared at Quynnland a moment longer, surveying him like she’d never seen him before. “Eat your dinner. I won’t have you starving to death under my license, not now that this will be your last stay here.” Silver more so talked at him rather than directly to him, and her tone was hard and full of disgust.

It gave you another reason to hate her.

You wanted to reach out and take Quynnland’s hand, but Silver snapped at you before you could. “You,” she sneered. “Out. Now.”

The ice behind her eyes had seeped to her tongue, and her words froze the very blood in your veins. She watched you as you stepped around her and into the antechamber, and you glanced the final withering, aghast glare she shot at Quynnland as you did.

When you reached toward the door that opened to the hall, Silver caught your wrist just before your badge met it. She was eerily silent for a moment, and you swore she was practically shaking with rage, but then she settled herself and stared down at you with such concentrated antagonization that it knocked the breath right from your lungs.

“What made you think you could go into this room? I never went near this room with you today. Why would you be allowed to enter it alone?” She was seething, but she hid it behind something of a gnarled smile.

“There was a tray just sitting outside, unattended to. I figured I would find something to do and deliver it to the patient. No harm done.”

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes on you. “Are you aware what this patient is here for?” she asked sweetly, but it came off as clear condescension.

Silver waited for you to answer, but you wouldn’t give her the satisfaction she wanted from humiliating you again. So you remained silent, and she sneered at you. “Exactly what I thought. So why would you interact with a patient you know nothing about? And did the double security not tip you off that you were somewhere you shouldn’t be?”

“Look, Silver,” you huffed, enjoying the disgust that smeared across her features as you said her name, “I saw a tray. I had nothing better to do. My badge had access to the room. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

She cast you an undying glare, and her eye twitched when she gave you a once-over. “This patient willfully tried to kill himself and his brother last week. Did he tell you that?”

Your heart blackened, and your ears rang with silence as she let her words sink in.

Silver was pleased with your shocked silence. She went on. “Oh, and did he tell you just how many times he’s tried to do this exact thing in the past?” You remained wordless, feeling betrayed for reasons you couldn’t understand. “No? Not even a guess? Well, he’s a unit regular, if that gives any indication.”

She waited again and was once more elated to be met with silence. “It’s the same story every time. The wardens say he takes his kid brother to the shore and plans on swimming out to the Falls and either drowning to death or dying from impact.”

You swallowed in vain, mouth drier than sand. A part of your knew you didn’t want the answer, but you still asked, “How old… how old is his brother?”

A sick, deathly smile creaked across her perfect face. “Of course, we don’t know exactly, but previous scans estimate that he’s no older than seven.”

Seven. A child. Quynnland had tried to kill his brother… had tried to kill himself and his kid brother…

“Next time, don’t poke around business you don’t understand,” Silver cut your panic short, her frigid tone icing your skin with gooseflesh. “Your shift is up.”

She shoved your shoulder on her way past, but before she could activate the door the room filled with bright red light, and a shrill alarm screamed through the ruby darkness.

It was your watch.

Endless, screeching notes sounded from your wrist. Your stomach dropped, and you couldn’t think for a moment, completely thrown back to that last hour on Starkiller Base.

Kylo was in trouble. Kylo was hurt. Kylo needed you and you weren’t there.

When you lifted your arm as your heart sank through the floor and you read the continuous scrawling message, your feet pounded the ground and carried you away from the unit to wherever he was, wherever your radar was guiding you.

All you could think of was him lying under you, his blood slipping along your skin, and his still, comatose body. And as you made your way to him, not seeing the world around you, hardly aware of CB-7070’s footfalls booming behind you, you kept rereading the message that raced along your watch’s screen, and as you turned corner after corner and fled down hundreds of steps and staircases, the simple, abbreviated message taunted you with the past.

ASSISTANCE REQUIRED ASSISTANCE REQUIRED ASSISTANCE REQUIRED

As it scrawled endlessly across the small screen, all you could think of was how this felt too familiar to the day Starkiller exploded. And the only thought that remained, the only one out of the thousand that flooded back from that day, was that you would fight for the future you’d realized you wanted then.

Only now did you admit the full truth of that thought: the only future you wanted was one where you could be with Kylo. The only future worth having, you realized, was the one where you would spend it with him.

So you ran toward your future. Just as you had run that day not so long ago, you ran toward Kylo Ren.

#keeping your promise #st kyp #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #smut #angst