"I wouldn't know, either," Luke said gently, with a smile. "But I doubt it's watching me while I sleep. Go on, now. You've... done your duty. Get some rest."
There was no graceful way to end this conversation, especially with her standing in his hut, but once she left he would lay down again. He wasn't sure he could sleep, after all that, but he was more exhausted than he knew, and eventually drifted off.
As confused as his thoughts and feelings were around Rey's presence on the island, one thing she definitely was not to him was a mother. And contrary to his outburst and her own fears, he did not exactly see her as a child. Perhaps if he'd been around society more, he'd have been more cognizant of what his own age meant, but as worn and out of it as he was, there was a part of him that had, perhaps, never grown up. In truth, he had skipped something between the farm and the rebellion hero, some stage that he'd never really passed through.
Not that he was conscious of any of this. No, it took his subconscious and the admonition to sleep to manifest. And, perhaps, not a little bit the connection itself, morphing within dreams into a form that made physical the metaphysical link between them.
Finally dead to the world, Luke's mind was no less active, in a way he had not experienced in many years. He'd been alone for so long. And before that, he'd kept everyone at arm's length, as well as kept his mind and desires tightly regulated lest anything get past his barriers to disturb his charges. Without that practice, and with new material, suddenly his imagination took liberties he never would have guessed.
The images and sensations were dim and abstract, at first. Just fleeting touches, a tingle of aroused nerves, warmth traveling the unmapped course of his body. Gentle and tentative, almost shy with lack of practice. But the ambiguity did not last long. There was only one focus for such feeling, after this day, and his sleeping brain caught glimpses of her. Smiling up at him, hand on his arm, scooting closer. Body and spirit both bending to touch his, to get closer, to take more than the taste they'd fumbled for platonically that afternoon.
It was more a feeling than specific acts. Union. Togetherness. Warmth, but a heat that touched parts of him long forgotten except for where he had to maintain the basics of life. Flashes of hands, lips, of awkward rhythms enhanced by shared energies, minds brushing along with skin. Two souls, needing connection, finding it in each other.
When he woke, it was with a sheen of sweat and a sickening sense of guilt at the twist his mind had put on her kindness. She had shown him compassion, and it had taken less than a day for him to make it into something dirty and selfish. That it was not like him did not matter. Nor did it occur to him to wonder if it was entirely of his own doing--the idea that she might have something to do with it was unfathomable. No, this was Luke, dirty old man, taking advantage of a young person's trust in his legend yet again.
And further proof he could not be trusted about other people. Further proof, unlooked for, that something was very wrong with him and he was not worth saving.
no subject
There was no graceful way to end this conversation, especially with her standing in his hut, but once she left he would lay down again. He wasn't sure he could sleep, after all that, but he was more exhausted than he knew, and eventually drifted off.
As confused as his thoughts and feelings were around Rey's presence on the island, one thing she definitely was not to him was a mother. And contrary to his outburst and her own fears, he did not exactly see her as a child. Perhaps if he'd been around society more, he'd have been more cognizant of what his own age meant, but as worn and out of it as he was, there was a part of him that had, perhaps, never grown up. In truth, he had skipped something between the farm and the rebellion hero, some stage that he'd never really passed through.
Not that he was conscious of any of this. No, it took his subconscious and the admonition to sleep to manifest. And, perhaps, not a little bit the connection itself, morphing within dreams into a form that made physical the metaphysical link between them.
Finally dead to the world, Luke's mind was no less active, in a way he had not experienced in many years. He'd been alone for so long. And before that, he'd kept everyone at arm's length, as well as kept his mind and desires tightly regulated lest anything get past his barriers to disturb his charges. Without that practice, and with new material, suddenly his imagination took liberties he never would have guessed.
The images and sensations were dim and abstract, at first. Just fleeting touches, a tingle of aroused nerves, warmth traveling the unmapped course of his body. Gentle and tentative, almost shy with lack of practice. But the ambiguity did not last long. There was only one focus for such feeling, after this day, and his sleeping brain caught glimpses of her. Smiling up at him, hand on his arm, scooting closer. Body and spirit both bending to touch his, to get closer, to take more than the taste they'd fumbled for platonically that afternoon.
It was more a feeling than specific acts. Union. Togetherness. Warmth, but a heat that touched parts of him long forgotten except for where he had to maintain the basics of life. Flashes of hands, lips, of awkward rhythms enhanced by shared energies, minds brushing along with skin. Two souls, needing connection, finding it in each other.
When he woke, it was with a sheen of sweat and a sickening sense of guilt at the twist his mind had put on her kindness. She had shown him compassion, and it had taken less than a day for him to make it into something dirty and selfish. That it was not like him did not matter. Nor did it occur to him to wonder if it was entirely of his own doing--the idea that she might have something to do with it was unfathomable. No, this was Luke, dirty old man, taking advantage of a young person's trust in his legend yet again.
And further proof he could not be trusted about other people. Further proof, unlooked for, that something was very wrong with him and he was not worth saving.