#because I like blueballing myself apparently

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Critical (m, cold)

It’s an Elijah fic! Okay, so, I wrote this fic specifically for @waterfallofspace because she’s sent me so many amazing prompts and I’ve been blueballing her saying I’m going to use them. So I used as many of the prompts you sent in as I could in this one, along with a prompt from an anon about a critic coming to the restaurant, and this text post from @ithadtobesneezing. What can I say, all of you inspire me :) 

Hope you all like it, let me know if there’s anything you’d like to see in the future, and I’ll stop rambling so you can read it lmao. 

A little under 3k words. cw: male snz, colds, mention of contagion but no explicit contagion, vertigo/dizziness, a passing out moment, light mess. 

Critical

“We have a problem.”

If there was one sentence Elijah didn’t want to hear today, that was it. “I haven’t even set my shit down yet,” he said to Greyson, running a hand down his face. “Can we have a problem in twenty minutes, when I’ve mentally prepared myself?”

“Unfortunately, it’s an urgent one,” Greyson said, pushing his computer monitor towards his boss. He had the reservation sheet pulled up; Elijah raised an eyebrow.

“Is the problem OpenTable?” he asked, dropping his bag on the ground and siting heavily in his chair. Greyson gave Elijah a look and tapped the screen hard enough to brighten the spot he was touching.

“The problem is this,” Greyson spelled out, clicking on the name Trevor James. Elijah, still not following, just shook his head. “It’s a critic,” Greyson said.

Elijah huffed out a laugh. “Grey,” he said, “I know every critic in this city’s name. Trevor James is not a critic.”

“Wanna bet?” Greyson asked, pulling out his cell phone and clicking the screen rapidly. He held the device up to Elijah’s face, making the other man squint and pull back from the bright light.

“Christ, Greyson, hold it a little closer why don’t you,” Elijah pushed his glasses up his nose and grabbed the phone from the chef, whose eyes widened in sudden realization.

“Oh, fuck, you’re wearing your glasses,” Greyson groaned. “Oh, shit. Tell me you didn’t catch the plague that the servers have been passing around.”

“I didn’t catch the plague the servers have been passing around,” Elijah parroted, a liquid sniffle betraying him immediately. Greyson slammed his head into his hands, defeated. “I didn’t,” Elijah insisted, squinting hard at the phone. It was a conversation between Greyson and a chef at an Italian spot in the financial district; the chef at the other restaurant was warning Greyson about the newest alias of the New York Time’s most renowned food critic, Natalia Gomez, who had showed up at his place unexpectedly and docked them a star. Elijah knew Natalia well; they had been first acquainted when he was managing at Eleven Madison Park in his twenties, and she was working for Forbes; she was known for being ruthless even back then.  Apparently, ‘Trevor James’ had made her way through half of Manhattan under the fake name, collecting stars with every unexpected drop-in. It was dirty, but it was propelling her to national attention – the only thing critics really gave a fuck about at the end of the day.

“Lij, you really cannot be sick for this service, like I’m sorry but we can’t lose a star; we just got two last year, and -”

“I’m fine, Greyson,” Elijah snapped, placing the chef’s phone back in front of him. “I – HNGTSHH-ue!” Elijah caught the sudden sneeze in his elbow, cursing himself for the comically-poor timing. He sniffled again and sat himself up, attempting to look as put-together, as unruffled as possible. “I’mb good.” Fuck.

“Fuck, Elijah,” Greyson moaned. “This woman is going to tear us to fucking pieces, and you pick today of all days to get fucking sick?”

Elijah gave Greyson a look that could cut glass. “I’m not sick.”

“Your nose is literally twitching.”

“Fuck off, you dickhead it is n- hhNGSTHH! IGTSZCH! Huhh -!” Elijah allowed himself a moment stuck in pre-sneeze torture before putting his arm down and sniffling pitifully. “Okay,” he said, grabbing a tissue. “I have a cold. Happy? It’s ndothing. I’ve done full events with a fucking cold, I think I can handle one critic for one night.”

Greyson was already pawing through their medicine drawer like a madman. “Dayquil,” he said, placing the bottle of orange liquid on the desk. “Cough syrup. Ibuprofen. I don’t think -”

“Chef,” Elijah said, an attempt to snap Greyson out of his mania. It seemed to work; Greyson whipped his head towards his boss, the endless bottles of medicine seemingly forgotten for the time being. “What I need from you is to go prepare to cook the meal of a lifetime. Okay? I’m a grown man. I can handle myself.”

The two of them held eye contact for a few moments before Greyson sighed and looked back at the reservations. “Okay,” he said. “Just… let me know if you need -”

“I won’t need anything,” Elijah insisted. “Just go do what you’re best a- ahh… ahhTSHZUE!”

The chef set his jaw as Elijah yanked another tissue from their shared box. “Bless, boss.”

“Go do your fuckin’ job.”

***

Elijah didn’t have a cold.

Or maybe more accurately, he didn’t just have a cold.

From the moment his feet had hit the floor this morning, Elijah knew that he’d picked up the awful flu the servers had swapped back and forth for weeks. His head and neck hurt, his lymph nodes were swollen, and he could feel the tendrils of a soon-to-be fever snaking up his back before he even got in the shower. The servers had complained over and over about this illness, but he’d assumed they were all just being dramatic, as servers are wont to be.

He assumed wrong.

“Hey, Elijah, so I think we should put the critic at twenty-seven, I know you had her at thirty-one but -”

“GTSHHH-uhh! hhhNGTSHZUE! ITSHZ-ue! Hhh…”

Mark, caught completely off-guard by the intensity of Elijah’s sneezes, placed the floor chart he’d been holding on an unset table and pulled out a chair for his boss to sit in. Elijah did so, grateful, and invited Mark to sit next to him with a flourish of his hand. He did, and regarded Elijah with a look of disquiet before addressing the elephant in the room. “Um...you good?”

Elijah gave Mark a watery glare. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and congested. “What were you sayigg?”

The floor manager warily picked up the floor chart again and pointed to the two tables he’d been considering for the critic. “So, twenty-seven still has the city view, but the sun doesn’t set near it. At thirty-one, she’s going to get the sun right in her eyes; see, she’s coming at six, and -”

“HFTSHH! HRRSHH-ue! HTSHHH-uhh! Fuck – hhhETSZHUE!” Elijah doubled over at the waist, barely able to get a hand to his mouth before the volley of sneezes escaped. Mark, eyes wide, fast-walked away from the table, only to return a few moments later with a box of tissues. His boss pulled a handful out, grateful, and cleaned himself up before regarding the younger man.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting up and rubbing an eye behind his glasses. “Yeah. Twenty-sevend sounds like a good pland.” Elijah directed a wheezing cough into his elbow and cleared his throat. “Andything else?”

“Uhh… I mean, other than once again asking if you’re okay, then no, nothing else.”

The GM attempted a smile. “I’mb okay,” he said. “Is Riley on tondight?”

Mark nodded, silent. Elijah gave a nod in return.

“Let’s put her on Natalia, okay? I ndeed someone strong serving her.” Mark nodded again and escaped to the kitchen, leaving Elijah to wallow. This is going to be such a goat fuck, he thought, pushing himself to a standing position and grabbing the table when a wave of vertigo passed over him. Oh, shit.

A minute or two must have passed while Elijah closed his eyes and willed himself to stay upright. Finally, the vertigo unraveled its fingers from his aching head and he opened his eyes. For now, he was fine.

Elijah walked carefully back to the office in search of more Dayquil, those two little words rattling in his fevered mind. For now.

***

“Guys, the mbost important reservation tondight is Trevor Jambes at six o’clock. It’s an alias for Natalia Gomez, the critic at the Time’s. Riley is ond it, but I really ndeed you all to – to… hhh…” Elijah trailed off, an arm raising to catch a sneeze that didn’t seem like it was going to come. After a moment, Elijah lowered his arm and sniffled. “I ndeed you guys to be on your best behavior. Okay? Ndo gossiping on the floor, everyone ndeeds to check their uniforms for spots, just… let’s all act like we’re civilized tondight. O – HNGTSHHH-ue!”

“Bless, Elijah,” a few of the servers chorused. Elijah nodded, pulled out a tissue from his now-ever-present box, and blew his nose quietly. Greyson stood and placed a hand on Elijah’s shoulder to signal that he would take over.

“If not for the restaurant, be on your best behavior for your boss, who one of you infected with your disgusting germs,” Greyson joked, prompting a collective chuckle from the group. “We’re already biting our nails waiting for Elijah’s nose to blow this whole thing for us, don’t make us worry about you blowing it, too.” Elijah reddened, and the servers laughed in earnest this time.

“Hilarious, Chef,” Elijah muttered, rolling his eyes. Greyson did as he was told, while Elijah held on as tightly as he could to his consciousness. The wave of dizziness earlier seemed to set off a ripple effect, and now anytime Elijah moved his head a little too quickly he was about three seconds away from passing out.

“...boss? Hellooo? Earth to Elijah!”

Elijah yanked himself back to the present and looked up to see Greyson standing above him, looking worried. The servers had exited the dining room to go eat family meal – when did that happen? - and the two of them were alone. “Yeah, what’s – hhNGTSHZZUE! Guh, fuck. Snrf. Whadt’s up?” Elijah asked, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

Greyson raised an eyebrow and sat back down next to his boss. “Are you sure you’re alright? I mean, you took Dayquil, right? How are you still sneezing so much?”

Elijah gave Greyson a look. “I have a cold, Grey. Combes with the territory.”

“Yeah, but like… you also look fucking awful, dude. Like not trying to be an asshole, but you look like you’re about to keel over. Do you have a - ?”

“HNGTSHH-ue! HTSZZHHUE! HhhNGTSHZUE!” Elijah wrenched away from Greyson, managing to bury his face in his elbow just in time. Greyson pulled back, pushed the tissues towards his boss, and waited for the other man to clean himself up before gently placing a hand on Elijah’s forehead.

“Dude,” he said when Elijah pulled away. “You’re burning up.”

Elijah rolled his eyes – mistake, he thought, steadying himself on the table once again. He took a big breath and swallowed painfully before responding. “Shut the fuck up, Grey. I’mb fine.”

“Yeah? Because you’re holding on to the table for dear life right now.”

The GM bit the inside of his cheek and let go of the table, allowing the wave of dizziness to wash over and move past him. When it did, he regarded Greyson again. “I’mb good. Just go get ready to service. I’ll take some mbore meds. Dond’t worry about mbe. Okay?”

Greyson stood and shook his head. “Whatever you say, Lij,” he said, defeated. “You trying to ignore the fuckin’ flu has nothing to do with me. Try not to sneeze on the critic, okay?” He exited to the kitchen, and Elijah slowly lowered his head between his legs. He took some deep breaths. Everything is going to be okay, he told himself. It has to.

***

By the time six o’clock rolled around, Elijah was 100% sure he wasn’t going to make it through the night without passing out.

The first hour of service, he’d been able to sit in the office and try to hype himself up, while avidly avoiding the looks Greyson flashed him every few minutes. That was the easy part; the moment the critic showed up and the hostess came back looking for him however he really didn’t know how he was going to pull this off. “Yeah,” he said to the concerned-looking hostess. “I’mb coming. Thanks.”

Elijah took a deep breath and pushed himself to a standing position with little drama, then swallowed hard as he put on his blazer. He checked his reflection in the tiny mirror Greyson had put up in their office a few months ago – looking absolutely horrifying, congrats – then grimaced and looked away. He took one more slow breath in, uncapped the Dayquil he’d been chugging the past ten hours, and took a long swig. Good as it’s going to get, he thought, walking out of the office and pushing through the swinging kitchen doors.

The restaurant was packed; it was a Tuesday night, but it was spring break and every local in the area knew that Elliot’s was the place to see and be seen, even during the week. Elijah breezed past the server’s station, ignoring the looks the servers were flashing him, and approached the host stand.

“Is she still at twenty-sevend?” Elijah asked the hostess, and she nodded without looking back at her boss. Elijah nodded in return, swallowed hard, and waltzed into the dining room.

Natalia Gomez was not the kind of critic the Time’s usually employed; that is to say, she was anything but unremarkable, which was generally what you wanted in your critics. Natalia certainly stood out in a crowd; tall, curvaceous, big hair and a bigger laugh – stunning was the first word that came to Elijah’s mind, but he shook it away as quickly as it entered. Critics were the bane of every restaurant owner’s existence. Not meant for ogling, but for tearing to shreds from the comfort of the back-of-house, post-service.

“Good evening, Natalia,” Elijah said, approaching the critic’s table. “Good to see you, as always.”

Natalia turned away from the window with ease and smiled at Elijah. “Elijah,” she said. “Can’t pull one over on you, can I?”

Elijah returned the smile, with difficulty. “It appears ndot,” he said, clearing his throat. “Chef has prepared a tasting menu for you this evening, if you’re interested.”

The critic laughed, the sound light and tinkling like water poured into glass. “You know me too well,” she said, handing her menu over. Elijah nodded, picked up her bottle of wine, and refilled her glass.

“I’ll send himb out shortly,” Elijah said, placing the bottle back where it was. “Enjoy your night, Natalia.”

Elijah turned and walked away from the table, not stopping at the host stand, not stopping at the server station, not stopping until he was at the pass, in Greyson’s line of sight.

“Chef,” he said, as clearly as he could. “Tasting mbenu’s a go.”

Greyson nodded and signaled Matt to start putting Natalia’s first course together. He turned back to Elijah and asked, “Are you going to take the first course out?”

The GM swallowed hard, grabbed onto the prep table, and shook his head. “I don’t think -” he started, then stopped suddenly. Elijah’s grip on the table loosened, he blinked hard, and his eyes rolled back. He felt his knees buckle, heard Greyson say, “Lij!” and finally lost consciousness.

***

When Elijah came to, he was laid out on the infamous tablecloth bed that every manager seemed to succumb to when they were ill. It took a moment, but when he remembered where he was and what was going on, Elijah attempted to push himself to standing.

“Whooaa, boss, go ahead and stay right there,” Greyson, who Elijah hadn’t realized was sitting behind him in one of the office rolling chairs, said, gently pushing Elijah back to the ground. “You’re not going anywhere til I take you home.”

Elijah slowly sunk back down and cleared his throat. “Why aren’t you cookigg? Shouldn’t you be mbakigg Natalia’s tasting?”

Greyson looked down at his boss with bemusement. “Natalia’s long gone, boss,” he said. “She ate, we talked for awhile – she said she loved everything. She sends her regards; she said she’s sorry she booked on a night when you’re so sick.” Greyson turned his chair to fully regard his boss. “You never told me you guys knew each other.”

The GM shrugged weakly. “Doesn’t mbatter, right? She’s still a critic. She doesn’t give a fuck if I’mb her best friend; her job is to critique at any cost.”

Greyson knitted his eyebrows together. “I mean, but she does give a fuck though, Lij,” he said, handing Elijah a bottle of water that the GM gratefully gulped from. “She felt badly. I feel badly.” Elijah gave Greyson a confused look, and the chef shrugged. “I know I made you feel like you were going to ruin our star rating because you’re sick,” he said. “I’m sorry. You know I care about your well-being, right? Like, more than I care about stars.”

The GM closed his eyes slowly and took a deep breath. This conversation would have been a lot even if he wasn’t flu-ridden and fever-addled; in this state, he was sure he was about to burst into overwhelmed, sick tears. “I know, Grey,” he managed. “Thangk you.”

“Anytime,” Greyson said, clearly grateful to be done with the conversation. “Now, just lay there and try not to keel over, okay? I’m just going to check out the line, and then I’ll drive you home.”

Elijah managed a weak smile. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and thanked whatever God there was that Greyson’s back was turned when a single, grateful tear fell onto the tablecloth nest.

[taromilksnake]

2:04am

fuck it, complaint time:

thoughtless @ my deadname

misgender my friend

after all that, STILL NOT GIVING ME A STRAIGHT ANSWER ABOUT HOW THEY FEEL ABOUT ME

disinterest in my work

disinterest in hearing about my work

disinterest/inability in talking about THEIR work

disinterest in talking about their past

disinterest in expanding past their hometown

weird awkward reassurances without sincere vulnerability

apologizes without clarity

disinterest/inability to follow my line of thought

seemingly ignores my words and actions and just seeks approval (eg feedback on their work)

just—have very little interesting things to say outside of agreeing with me and literally parroting my words

inability to relax and be supportive of my passion in arts

tells me they’re not interested in hearing about my art because it “ruins the experience,” but then having nothing interesting to say about the work anyway!! basically shit at talking about their own thoughts AND hearing mine!!

misreading characters, but also not sticking to their viewpoint

LACKING EMOTIONAL AWARENESS. BRO I DONT KNOW THE POKÉMON AND I CARE LESS BY THE SECOND. JUST TELL ME.

THEY SAY IT HAS EMOTIONAL SIGNIFICANCE AND THEN. DOES NOT ELABORATE FURTHER!!! WTF IS THIS BLUEBALLING BULLSHIT

honestly their last relationship in combination with complacency with their hometown is a red flag. (along with the active disinterest in my art. which like, even acquaintances would express interest in. that’s not a red flag, it’s just a dealbreaker)

ok and like i get being intimidated by my friends but what was all the waffling about meeting my friends about??? and then to say it’s good to know i’m not getting bullied (even jokingly) is pretty insulting tbh. you don’t get to say that while you’re jealous of my friends dude

i hate that they’re apparently like, ‘it’s been 1 month, time to cryptically seek approval while saying nothing concrete about the other person” THE TIMES WEVE MET UP I CAN COUNT ON ONE HAND WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT.

honestly i think the problem is they’re insecure so they’re self-centered. like, they’re so worried about my approval that they don’t think about my feelings at all, and they don’t recognize or speak up about where they lose the thread

i honestly still don’t understand why they don’t say anything concrete about me or about art. like, is it the nerves of being in my house? why would you say something is important then not elaborate further. is it that they’re not ready to put in effort w/ their art?

not being able to put aside the intimidation around my art is a dealbreaker. esp if they consider me showing off as “flashy.” that’s just a fundamental difference in values right there. they don’t know how art has saved me and how much work it took (takes) to be proud of my work and unashamed of myself

it’s shitty behavior. it’s not fair to me. they have their reasons but theyre (ALSO) not being a good friend

…the emojis and memes are cringe

it’s kinda telling that they can’t vouch that their friends will act right tbh. like your friend reflect your judgment, and at minimum you need to be on their side

lacking attentiveness. misgendering me on initial meeting (but then misgendering my friend too!!). meeting up at mitsuwa too early w/o checking the time

completely missing the point when i was talking about bi rep. like, RIGHT after me saying i want it done right, for it to represent my experience, they say maybe they’ll casually throw in a bi character in their next work. DUDE that’s just insulting lmfao you didn’t LISTEN TO WHAT I SAID!!!! YOU JUST SAID WHAT YOU THOUGHT WOULD BE CUTE AND CHARMING!!! pisses me off

they could have asked me about my feelings toward my sexuality. or had something more interesting to say about their work so at least when they say they’ll add bi rep it’ll at least MEAN something

i want my degree of passion and emotional expenditure to be reciprocated

i want a hype man, i want to feel supported and for the other person to be excited for me

i want someone to show me they understand what i say, and care about what i say

i want someone confident in their own self enough to actively participate in decision-making

i want someone to see my love not as a threat, or competitor, or reward. i want it to be accepted and reciprocated

i want someone that can support me when i feel insecure in myself. i want to be seen as flawed person, and loved anyway

i want someone who can see facets of myself that i don’t see, and will tell me how much they love me

[uglypastels]

okay getting to the other stuff now that i’ve said my piece about the heart-wrenching cliffhanger you’re going to keep me up at night with lmao

- he was scared of losing her and was just gonna go be sad in his room by himself🥺

- even though he’s a good pirate (can’t believe i’m a pirate apologist now) he’s killed people before but what sits heaviest with him is that he’s hurt her!!! stfu that’s so pure

- as soon as he said to just call him eddie… oh babeyyy i knew shit was abt to go down in a sinful way. but no! poor eddie was blue balled, reader had a terrifying dream, and us (actual) readers were on the edge of our fucking seat

- the crew said they’d miss her!!

- hellfire shot first, right? (i kept getting interrupted trying to read that part so it’s fuzzy to me) WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE THE RED TAIL SANK I NEED THIS BACKSTORY OH MY GOD

CAN WE TALK ABT THE SMUT JFC. cause you rly fucking delivered on that

- ‘Really? The princess had thought of me, a filthy pirate?’ ‘I’m not a princess.’ You rolled your eyes playfully. ‘Out of all the things to dispute, you argue my words of affection?’

- ^fucking swooning over these lines

- ‘So you can be good for me.’

- ^this one too

- him admitting he lost his control due to jealousy!!! idec if it’s toxic (only cause this isn’t real life) jealous eddie is so hot

- as a tit (wo)man myself, i have to give my thanks for including boob stuff *chefs kiss*

more comments of after the smut cause i apparently have a million fucking thoughts abt this chapter i’m sorry😭

- they comforted each other after their nightmares that is so goddamn sweet im SICK

- ‘I had honesty considered just locking you away and keeping you forever, but I am a man of my word, am I not?’ HE SHOULD HAVE JUST KEPT HER THERE FOREVER. TURNED TF AROUND AND NEVER LOOKED BACK

- reader writing the ransom note and changing the whole story to try to spare eddie/hellfire was so smart oh my god u rly had me fooled that they weren’t gonna get in any trouble and be seen as fucking heroes or smth

- the comment abt him not having carpet fr cracked me up

- he read her mind and shut the idea of staying with him down:(( that son of a bitch (still love him tho)

- and he didn’t tie her hands tight so she could start swinging at any moment!! (c o m e o n reader…we’re fucking waiting! punch ur dad in the face!)

- ‘governor, i see we meet again’ again!!! AGAIN?!!?!

amazing fucking chapter. ur updates always make me so excited, and i’m eagerly waiting for more<333

Dont mind me just giddily giggling over all of this 🤭 but its really hard for me to reply bc i am just rereading your comments and kicking my feet with joy. You really know how to butter me up lmao and i wish i could write rn but i'll be at the beach the whole day so i will have to do with daydreams and the notes app- which, btw, do not ever again apologise for sharing your thoughts!! I as a professional attention whore absolutely thrive off of this so please do not stop

Well, ya know the title of the fic, and it is eddie so you know he's a sweetiepie at heart. He's just been through stuff (and yessss we will find out what. All questions will be answered i hope (unless people have questions to things i did not even consider but so far i dont think that has been the case???).

And listen, with [fan]fiction, there is no such thing as red flags 🫤🙄 only black ones with skulls on them 🏴‍☠️ and toxicity is what makes everything that extra bit spicy.

I am a bit sorry for blueballing yall at the beginning, but if i hadnt then we would not have gotten the rest of the chapter as it is now?? And that counts for something suuurely

plus, i tried to hold off on the smut as long as i could bc i really really do not like writing it, as much as i am an avid lover of it, which brings me to my next point of i really appreciate all the comments on the smut bc i honestly dont know what in doing most times and it was probably the main reason why it took so long to write this chapter because i just freeze up at the mention of genitalia lmao. My brain just becomes that cymbal monkey.

Hehe i was really proud of that pirate/princess line. And the carpet one. Just gotta break up the heaviness sometimes ya know. And you just know these two have that kind of "deprication as love language" affair. Is that a even a thing? Well i made it a thing. Especially since its basically canon for this au that eddie has a major degradation kink.

In a perfect world, they would have been welcomed as heroes, but in a perfect world they also would never have kidnapped her so 🫠

And yes Again 😌

[insanitysscribblings]

Reyna Writes: An Unlikely Pair [UPDATE - 6/27/18]

first second third fourth fifth

My need to write has been building up, so have another snippet of this pet project~

~Reyna

Usually, Zuko slept on his back. It was a force of habit: if his back was exposed, he was a sitting duck. And ducks who just sat idly had the unfortunate habit of winding up dead.

However, when he was having a particularly nasty nightmare, he couldn’t help his thrashing. So when he woke up, a hoarse scream tearing through his throat, it was to his surprise, relief, and consternation to find that he had flipped onto his stomach sometime during the night; his scream was lost to the down of his pillow, which was hopefully enough to keep it from reaching Katara’s ears through the very thin wall between their rooms.

Zuko sighed, pushing himself to sit up, grasping his dagger once again. It was a gift, one his uncle had given to him the day he enlisted in the military. The handle was made of pearl, with words of power etched into the steel: Never give up without a fight.

Zuko swallowed, carefully tracing his fingers over the inscription while his breathing slowed. It was okay. He was here. He hadn’t surrendered. He had fought to survive. It was okay...

With another sigh, he replaced the dagger under his pillow and slid out from under his sheets, parched. He should really get into the habit of keeping a pitcher of water next to his bed, but if he was being honest with himself (and he rarely was), he just needed a reason to get out of his room. If only for a few minutes, to chase the bad dreams away.

He received a surprise when he stepped out into the hallway: the TV in the living room was on. He paused, squinting against the blue glow that reached the hall. What in the world...?

The answer to his unfinished question came when he rounded the corner and found Katara curled up on the couch, in her pajamas and her messy bun, tired eyes shining with unshed tears in the glow of the television. Zuko paused, cringing when Katara noticed him and hastily hid her face, rubbing at her eyes. Why did he seem to always stumble upon her crying in the middle of the night? This was twice now, damn his luck.

“Oh, Zuko,” Katara muttered, and Zuko frowned at the note of false cheer in her tone as she turned back to him with a dry face and a too-bright smile. “What’re you...?” She trailed off, her eyes scrutinizing him. Slowly, her fake smile faded, and her eyebrows came together. “Bad dream?”

Zuko grimaced. And this was thrice now that she had caught him emotionally compromised after a nightmare. He didn’t know how to feel about being called out like this--when Sokka happened to catch him in his late night prowling, he never pried, but he did insist on reminiscing about “the good times” they had in boot camp, though if Zuko recalled correctly, those “good times” involved a lot of Sokka getting them in trouble with his backchat and sarcastic comments. Pain in the ass...

Zuko glanced away, looking for a way to change the subject. A laugh distracted him, and his eyes were drawn to the TV as a beautiful woman laughed brightly while two children splashed around in a kiddie pool.

He blinked. It was Katara--wait, no, the woman was a little too old to be Katara. And their noses weren’t the same, nor were the shape of their eyes...

Despite the minute differences, it wasn’t difficult to put it together: Zuko must be looking at Katara’s mother.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Katara shift uncomfortably.

“I...sh-she died around this time of year, when me and Sokka were kids.” Zuko hated to see the fresh tears prick Katara’s eyes, and so he looked away. “I was feeling nostalgic tonight, so--”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Katara,” he said gruffly, folding his arms defensively, as if they could protect him from this conversation. He wasn’t good with emotions, whether they were his or someone else’s, so this was pushing him way out of his comfort zone. Dimly, he recalled some moments over the years where Sokka would suddenly become sullen during the summer, and he suddenly felt ashamed that he had never thought to ask why. Some friend he was.

“I know,” Katara replied with a weak laugh. Zuko chanced a glance at her, finding her eyes on the screen once more. He spotted her phone clutched in between her hands, and a memory from earlier that evening came floating to the surface.

“Is that why you threw your phone earlier?” He blurted out before he could stop himself. His horror struck him acutely when Katara’s eyes suddenly flashed over to him. But it didn’t appear to be him she was angry with.

“No,” She spat with a scowl that, frankly, intimidated Zuko, even though he happened to be a soldier. “I was being harassed by Jet.”

Jet? As in a jet plane? No, wait, that didn’t make sense. Damn it, Zuko, wake up.

“My ex,” Katara clarified, appearing to notice Zuko’s confusion. His brows immediately furrowed for a different reason entirely.

“What do you mean, he’s harassing you?” He growled, feeling his gait stiffen. If Sokka was here, he’d be howling for blood right now. Honestly, Zuko wouldn’t blame him.

Katara peered at him, apparently sizing him up. When Zuko continued to scowl, her lips twitched in a suspicious manner, and she patted the spot next to her. Though he raised an eyebrow, Zuko did as she asked and took a seat.

“I guess ‘harassing’ is the wrong word,” she said softly, though her face looked mutinous as she unlocked her phone and went to her text messages. Quietly, she handed her phone over, something that surprised Zuko. Hesitantly, he took it, watching her out of the corner of his eye to see if this was really okay. She gave him a nod and a smile, and inwardly, he marveled. How could someone be so open like that? Like she had nothing to hide?

Zuko was careful to only glance at the most recent text messages, and there were a lot of them. The further he went down, the more he scowled.

Jet, Katara’s asshole ex who cheated on her, was basically demanding that Katara return to their shared apartment. Though Katara hadn’t bothered to respond to any of them, there were ‘apologies’ peppered in here and there, and assurances that he and whatever woman he had cheated with were through, but mostly, it was whining that Katara was giving up on them too quickly, and that Jet needed her.

Zuko made a disgusted noise. Selfishness. Manipulation. He had seen these tactics one too many times to mistake them for anything else.

“He’s harassing you,” Zuko confirmed, handing Katara’s phone back to her with a dark look. “You need to block his number.”

“I really should,” Katara mused, giving her phone one last irritated look before she huffed and set it down on the coffee table. “I...just need time.”

“He’s going to keep texting you until you answer if you let him.”

“I know. But...”

“You’re not seriously thinking about going back to him, are you?” Zuko demanded suddenly, sick at the very thought. Some part of him wasn’t quite sure why this was, but he shoved it aside. In living with Katara, he had come to know her as a kind, compassionate woman with a temper that rivaled his own if he pushed her to that point, but overall, she was someone who did not deserve to be guilted back into a terrible relationship by a shitty ex.

Katara blinked, her eyes wide and surprised, for some reason.

“Of course not,” she replied, her tone becoming withering. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” Zuko said roughly, insulted by the insinuation. “Which is why I’d be disappointed if you made such a stupid decision.”

Katara blinked at him again. Zuko couldn’t understand her expression, but something in the way her eyes shone as she looked at him made him flush, and he looked away awkwardly.

“I mean,” he tried again, searching for a way to rephrase his rough words as he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “This guy--I don’t know him, but I’ve heard Sokka talk about him. It sounds like he was a giant man-baby, and you don’t need that. You shouldn’t be having to take care of someone you plan to marry--you should have someone who’ll be your partner, and who’ll treat you like an equal, not like his mom. I know you’re used to taking care of Sokka and everything, but it wouldn’t kill you to let him learn how to do things himself, and your jackass of an ex really shouldn’t have you waiting on him hand and foot. I guess...I’m just saying you deserve better. That’s all.”

He trailed off in a mumble, feeling his whole face turning red and cursing himself for it. What the hell was he embarrassed for?

A touch on his arm made him jump, and he turned to find Katara smiling at him, her eyes glowing.

“Thank you, Zuko,” she said softly. The blue of her eyes was so distracting; they looked almost inhuman in the glow of the television, as if she wasn’t actually human, but a spirit masquerading instead. A shiver went down Zuko’s back, and he could do nothing but nod, his throat suddenly constricted.

He needed to get out of here. He was steadily getting more and more confused on how to deal with her, and he needed air. Now.

As he stood up, excuses on the tip of his tongue, Katara suddenly gripped his wrist.

“Wait!”

Zuko paused, staring down at her in surprise. Katara seemed to grow embarrassed; she dropped her hand, and she glanced away, a finger curling through a loose strand of her thick hair.

“I-I just...I mean...could...could you stay? For just a little longer?” She asked, looking meeker than Zuko had ever seen her. When he continued to stare, a dark flush made its way into her brown skin. “I-it’s just that...well...with the movie we watched earlier and everything...”

She trailed off, but Zuko caught her meaning in an instant. As he snorted, her flush grew darker still.

“Don’t laugh!” She protested, but Zuko ignored her, chuckling as he grinned down at her.

“Scaredy cat,” he teased her once again, his amusement growing as she glared up at him. “What’s wrong, Katara? Don’t want the spooky ghosts to come and grab your ankles from under the couch?”

“You’re an ass,” Katara snapped at him, though sharp amusement danced across her features, even as she fought to keep her scowl. “Never mind, go back to bed. I hope the ghost kills you first.”

“No you don’t,” Zuko contradicted her, obligingly sinking back onto the couch next to her. “Who would protect you if I’m dead?”

“I’d just make my escape while it’s busy murdering you in your bed,” Katara said smartly, her nose in the air as she crossed her arms. Zuko snickered morbidly at that.

“You’d just leave me like that? That’s cold, Kuruk. Aren’t you studying to be a doctor?”

“And as a doctor, I’d know a lost cause when I saw one, Caldera,” she shot back at him, more than comfortable with dishing it out as she took it. She was spirited that way, Zuko had discovered; unafraid to stand up to him when he was being a jerk. While it used to annoy him, it was quickly becoming a part of her that was endearing to him. She reminded him a little of Azula, back when they were kids, and when things weren’t so...

To distract himself from the dark turn his thoughts were taking, he took up a pillow and shoved it against Katara, knocking her over onto the other side of the couch.

“Hey!” Katara protested, quickly snatching up a pillow to retaliate, and there was nothing but laughing, teasing, and banter for the rest of the night.

Zuko stirred slowly, reluctant to wake up. His internal clock was panicking; he was probably running late for work. That made him frown, and his hand reached for his nightstand, wondering why his alarm hadn’t gone off yet.

When his hand met nothing but air, his brows furrowed further. Where the fuck was his phone?

Zuko slit his eyes open.

There was a whole lot of brown hair in his face, a weight against him, and slow, even breathing that did not belong to him.

Zuko froze.

What the fuck was happening?

Had he brought home a girl? While the times that happened were few and far between, it was still known to happen. But why couldn’t he remember doing so? Did he drink himself into a stupor last night?

There was a shift, a small groan, and a yawn. And then the girl lifted her head, blinking bleary blue eyes at him.

It was Katara.

The instant Zuko recognized her, she froze, staring wide-eyed at him. Then, at the same time, they yelped and scrambled away from each other, ending up on opposite ends of the couch, staring at each other. As he gaped at her, Zuko rapidly bullied his brain into remembering what occurred last night, and how they had reached this point of all things:

They had been talking. Then they roughhoused. Then they talked some more, easing further and further into the couch as they did...

And then they must’ve fallen asleep. That was where Zuko’s memory ended.

Relief flooded him. Oh, thank the spirits. If they had done something unbelievably stupid last night, there was no way Sokka would’ve forgiven him.

Katara seemed to reach the same conclusion he had, for her shoulders relaxed, and he could see her letting out a breath, an awkward smile crossing her face.

“So...” she began.

“Yeah,” Zuko replied, clearing his throat. He rubbed a hand over his face, frowning slightly when his hand made contact with his scar.

Of course nothing had happened. There was no way.

“I have to get ready for work,” he grumbled, getting to his feet. Katara seemed to notice the change in his voice, but other than a slight tilt of her head, she said nothing, and just nodded.

“I should get ready for class,” she mused as well. Before she could get up, however, Zuko rushed into his room, snatched his towel, dashed across the hall, and slammed the bathroom door shut behind him in record time. Back in the living room, Katara huffed in irritation. “I do not take forever in the bathroom!”

“Yeah, right. And pigs don’t fly,” he replied dryly, smirking to himself when Katara growled curses at him, the sound of her voice trailing off as he heard her pad into the kitchen, presumably to start the coffee pot. Turning, he dropped his towel on top of the toilet cover before he shucked his pajama bottoms and boxers, turning on the shower.

Though he had to rush through his morning routine, he got to work just in time by some miracle, and even had a smile to offer Iroh when he encountered him.

“Morning, Uncle.”

“My my, good morning, my nephew,” Iroh replied, eyeing his nephew keenly as Zuko shrugged the strap of his briefcase higher onto his shoulder, intending to go to his office to handle the finances of his uncle’s import company. “What a smile. That is a rare occurrence. Did you manage to get a good night’s sleep last night?”

Zuko paused at that. As Iroh watched, interested, a hand came up to rub the back of Zuko’s suddenly flushed neck.

“I guess so,” was the only reply he offered before he was walking again, towards his office. Iroh smiled and drank deeply from his tea cup.

[jessepinwheel]

hey how about that story where obi-wan and rex go on a walk and nothing bad happens. maybe they could even hug and maybe have a tiny smooch if they want. they deserve nice things

okay fine they can kiss just this once

"Rex, your boyfriend is here to pick you up!" Jesse shouts from across the apartment.

Rex's cheeks turn hot from embarrassment. "Shut up! He's--he's not my boyfriend!"

"Well, yeah, if you don't sack up and make a move he sure won't be," Jesse says, moving to the doorway. "You've shared a bed with him like twice and still haven't even kissed him? I'm getting blueballed just by watching you. I'm serious, Rex. Secondhand blue balls."

Rex doesn’t get why Jesse’s blue balls have to be his problem. It’s not his fault Jesse can’t mind his own damn business. "He doesn't--Jesse, Obi-Wan doesn't do that kind of thing, just lay off already.”

"I don't know about that, he seemed to like Fox well enough," Jesse replies.

Rex flushes harder, if that's even possible. Even if Jesse hadn't told him about it directly, it would have been completely impossible to miss the most recent hot gossip that Obi-Wan had gone on a dinner date with Fox and kissed him. There was holo proof and everything, and...

There was Fox’s expression, shocked and also so...unguarded. Like he hadn’t expected it, but not in a bad way. Just like he’d discovered something he hadn’t known existed. Rex has never seen Fox look so relaxed, and apparently neither has anyone else. It’s no wonder everyone’s talking about it.

Rex knows whatever feelings Obi-Wan has for Fox, it doesn’t negate anything Obi-Wan feels for him--and it’s not like Obi-Wan has ever stayed over with Fox or shared a bed with him overnight. But still, Rex can’t help but feel a little...jealous. What does Fox have that he doesn’t? Besides being a CC and a bad attitude, neither of which are exactly selling points.

Well, Obi-Wan previously had some kind of thing with Jango--maybe he’s into people who are assholes.

Jesse crosses his arms. “Hey, Mission Control to Rex, your boyfriend’s still waiting. If you keep moping around, I’m gonna put on a blond wig and go on your date myself. He’ll be surprised when he sees how much more handsome you got since the last time you went on a date.”

“Yeah? And how are you going to explain the huge tattoo on your face?” Rex asks.

“Well, obviously you were so impressed by your favorite brother Jesse who’s such a big inspiration that you just had to emulate his impeccable--”

Rex throws a pillow at Jesse. “Piss off, Jesse.”

Jesse catches the pillow and rolls his eyes. “All right. I’ll tell him you’ll be out in a few minutes. But seriously, make a move, Rex. All your pining makes me embarrassed I’m related to you.” He sets the pillow on Rex’s dresser, then goes to talk to Obi-Wan.

“I’m not pining,” Rex mutters under his breath as he pulls on his jacket. He hurries to get out, because the longer he leaves Jesse out there alone with Obi-Wan, the more likely it is Jesse will say something completely mortifying.

Two and a half minutes later, Rex goes to the door. Sure enough, Obi-Wan is there, not dressed up dressed up but still in a crisp shirt and a long embroidered jacket. His hair is twisted up and secured with a pair of shining brass pins with colored glass drops dangling from the ends. Rex still doesn’t know why Obi-Wan started wearing nicer clothes more often, but he’s not complaining.

Obi-Wan smiles. “Rex,” he says. “It’s good to see you. Jesse was just telling me about how your studies were going.”

“And that’s all he said, right?” Rex asks, glaring at Jesse.

“Rex! I’d never say anything bad about you,” Jesse says, looking perfectly angelic like the wonderful supportive brother he isn't. “You shouldn’t be so hostile to your brothers, sir.”

“If you keep this up, I’m going to tell Kix what happened to his favorite caf steeper,” Rex hisses.

Jesse’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

Rex wouldn’t, but Jesse doesn’t have to know that. “Get out of here, soldier. Don’t destroy the apartment before I get back--you know how Kix is about the deposit.”

Jesse salutes. “Yes, sir. Have a good time!” He makes some kissy faces for emphasis, then closes the door.

Obi-Wan hums. “Should I be concerned about that?”

Rex sighs. “No, it’s just...sibling things,” he says as he starts walking. It’s nearly sunset and cooled down because of it, and he’ll enjoy the weather better the sooner he’s away from any of Jesse’s potential ‘assistance’. “I love Jesse, but sometimes he drives me up the damn wall.”

“Ah. I had some siblings like that. Truly, nobody can annoy you like family can,” Obi-Wan replies.

“I thought you didn’t remember your family,” Rex says. “The Jedi took you in when you were one or something.”

Obi-Wan glances over at Rex. “No, I never really knew my birth family. But I was adopted into the Jedi Temple. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Oh,” Rex says. He knows the Jedi are...close to each other, especially between Masters and Padawans, but all the Jedi? He's not sure how he feels about that. “I don’t...I don’t know.”

“I don’t think it’s so difficult to understand. We grew up together, we learned together and supported each other. We spoke each other’s languages and ate each other’s foods and found comfort in each other’s company,” Obi-Wan says. “If you and all your brothers are a family, I don’t see why the Jedi wouldn’t be.”

“But you’re natborns,” Rex says. “It’s different. Your birth family is supposed to be...important, right?”

“I don’t think it’s unimportant,” Obi-Wan says. “But blood relation isn’t in of itself that big of a deal--it’s not as if you feel much connection to Jango, do you?”

Rex’s stomach twists. “That’s hardly the same thing. Jango sold us so we could be part of some insane genocide plan. Of course I don’t want to be associated with that bastard. Your family...they’d never do anything like that. Right?”

“No. In that regard, Jango was a very special type of deplorable,” Obi-Wan says. “My birth family gave me to the Jedi because they believed I would have a better life in the Temple. I’m sure it was a difficult choice for them--I sincerely believe they cared deeply about me, as most parents care about their child. I’m glad for what they did, but all the same, I don’t feel much connection to them, certainly not just because I share genetic material. The Jedi are the only family I ever truly had, and it’s a good family. I grew up loved and cared for and happy--I’ve never felt the absence of my birth relations.”

Rex considers that. He and his brothers never had what Obi-Wan or the Jedi had--nurturing figures and teachers who actually gave a damn about them as individuals. More than anything, Rex feels his bonds with his brothers are forged not because of some inherent connection between clones of the same template but because it was Kamino and the trainers against them, so they had to cling together because that was all they had--brothers watching out for brothers because nobody else would. In some hypothetical world where the clones could exist without the context of the war and the training they endured and the people they lost, Rex can’t imagine they ever would have grabbed so tight to each other.

The Jedi aren’t like that. They had peace and safety and built connections from food and stories and lessons that didn't have to hurt so bad they’d crack a tooth trying to keep the screams from coming out. Perhaps that's a family, too--one that isn’t forged from having to fight just to survive. Rex can’t even imagine what that’s like.

“Did you love them?” Rex asks. “The Jedi.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says. “In many ways, I still do.”

“But...” Rex hesitates. It’s not like he and Obi-Wan haven’t talked about heavy topics before, but it seems...not right to be so frank about these kinds of things.

“If you have a question, you can just ask,” Obi-Wan says. “I assure you, whatever it is you have to say, I have heard much worse.”

Rex takes a deep breath. “If the Jedi were your family and you loved them so much, then...why did you leave?”

“Hm. I wonder that myself all the time,” Obi-Wan says distantly. “I've already told you about the choice I made at Melida/Daan. If I were in that place again, knowing what I do now, I don’t think I would choose differently.”

Rex bites his lip. He can’t imagine leaving his brothers for anything, much less to...to walk away like Obi-Wan did, and never come back. He can’t understand why Obi-Wan would ever give up that safety of the Temple and walk face-first into war and bloodshed and death. And for what--a missing hand, a lifelong banishment, and decades drifting the galaxy?

“I admit, sometimes I wish it didn’t happen,” Obi-Wan says. “It's impossible not to, after everything I lost there. If I could be in a kinder universe where that did not happen to me, I would wish to be there in a time and place where I still had my faith and my family and my entire soul. Of course I would. But if all that hadn't happened, I wouldn't be who I am now.”

“I...I see,” Rex says. He can understand that, sort of. He knows what it's like to resent the war and Kamino for everything it's done to him, but feel irrevocably indebted to it for making him who he is. If he took a knife and ripped the war out of his soul...there would hardly be anything left.

But it doesn’t have to be like that. He’s learning--slowly, but surely--how to be someone in a world without the war. He’s building himself outside those lines, defining himself in new terms and relationships and maybe one day he won’t need the war at all anymore.

Obi-Wan’s been indelibly marked by his ordeals in similar ways, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost everything forever.

“Obi-Wan,” Rex says. “If you still love the Jedi...why don't you go back? They missed you, and there's so many people who remember you. They would love if you returned. If you want your family still, there’s a place for you there.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says softly. “I’ve changed too much since I left the Temple--it’s not my home anymore, and it never will be again.”

“Why not? Just because you’ve lost the Force? I don’t think they’d care that much--you’re the one who says it takes a lot more than the Force to make a Jedi,” Rex presses. “If you just asked, they’d welcome you back with open arms.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t respond straight away. He guides them down to the Coruscant promenade, which is swarming with people shuttling between shops and taking evening walks of their own. The setting sun casts long heavy shadows across the square, and Obi-Wan stops next to a large fountain, looking down into the softly lit basin.

“The place reserved in the Temple isn’t for me,” Obi-Wan says. “It’s for the ghost of a thirteen-year-old boy that they will never find in me because I killed him twenty years ago.”

Rex tries to respond to that, but finds himself bereft of words.

“I lost a lot more than the Force at Melida/Daan, Rex,” Obi-Wan continues. “I lost my faith, I broke my vows, I knowingly and willingly killed innocents. I’m a betrayer through and through, and I’ve committed crimes I’ll never be able to make up for. If someone like that can be a Jedi, then what is the point of being a Jedi?”

Rex takes a deep breath. “So, what, you feel like because you did horrific things when you were young and in a terrible situation, you have to...suffer to make up for it? Denying yourself your family because you think they won’t forgive you?”

“You misunderstand me, dear. I’m not trying to repent and I’m not trying to get forgiveness--and it’s not as if the Jedi could forgive me anyways, because they’re not the ones I wronged,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m just trying to be a better person and find some kind of inner peace, and I don’t think I can do that in a place that reminds me of all the things I’m not. When I go to the Temple and the Jedi look at me, they don’t want me, they want that murdered thirteen-year-old boy. They want to see the shape of his faith and love and kindness and not the walking coffin he’s buried in.”

“I--I think you’re not giving the Jedi enough credit,” Rex says. “I don’t think they only want who you were back then--they understand you’ve been through a lot, and they want to know who you are now.”

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan allows. “But no matter what, they’re still looking for that ghost, and I can’t stand that--being compared against everything I could have been. It’s why I like Coruscant. I could be anyone and nobody would give a damn where I came from or who I was. Nobody can judge me for anything except who I am now.” He glances over at Rex. “Aren’t you ever the same way? Don’t you ever wish people would look at you and not see Jango’s shadow?”

“Yeah, I do,” Rex admits. “Sometimes, I wish I could be out there and just be a person without all the baggage of being a clone or the things Jango did to us. But at the end of the day, I am a clone, and you did come from the Jedi Temple. Neither of us can escape that.”

“I’m not trying to run away,” Obi-Wan says. “I loved the Temple and the Order and I still do, but its time in my life has passed. It’s not a safe place for me anymore--and not just because I have a medical condition that makes it difficult to visit. There’s only bad memories there now, and I don’t think it’ll do any good to my health to expose myself to that if I don’t have to.

“I know the Jedi would accept me if I asked it,” Obi-Wan continues, leaning down against the edge of the fountain and gazing somewhere far into the distance. “If I asked, they would forgive me and do everything they could to help me and let me have the family I lost so many years ago. They would do that in a heartbeat, but I don’t want that. I don’t want them to make exceptions for me--I don’t want to have the title of Jedi, I want to be a Jedi, and I’m not...not capable of that anymore. I can’t swear those vows or uphold those duties, and I won’t insult the Order by pretending I can. I respect them too much for that.”

On some level, Rex can understand that. He’s spent plenty of late nights thinking about his rank and if he really deserved it or if he was just there because someone thought he would be someone to fill the ranks. There’s a lot of responsibility and expectations with being a Jedi, and having the rank without the qualification is a slap in the face for everyone involved. Rex doesn’t think he’d want that either.

“So you’re giving up on your family because you can’t be a Jedi?” Rex asks. “Because you have bad memories of the Temple and you’re scared of being compared to who you were?”

Obi-Wan turns to face Rex, and there’s a deep sorrow in his eyes that’s hard to look at. “Rex. The Jedi Order hasn’t been my family for a very long time. I spent twenty years believing they did not want me, and they spent twenty years believing I was dead. The Jedi are important to me and they always will be, but they’re my past and not my present. I have a life now--one that I built for myself with my own two hands. I won’t drop everything to chase old ghosts.”

Rex doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. He won’t kid himself and say he completely understands, because he still can’t imagine a circumstance where he wouldn’t want to come back to his family, no matter how long it’d been, but...twenty years is an unimaginably long time--his entire life twice over. In that time, Obi-Wan has found duties and people he can’t abandon--Organa, Boba, Feral and Savage. It wouldn’t be fair to them if he were to uproot everything to try and chase old dreams of Knighthood.

Obi-Wan stares up into the sky, letting the silence stretch. The two of them stay leaning against the fountain and watch the red sky turn purple and gray as the sun dips below the horizon. It’s a heavy silence, but not an uncomfortable one.

“I'm sorry,” Obi-Wan says eventually. “It feels like this happens every time we spend time together.”

“What do you mean?”

“We talk, and I say something that makes you uncomfortable. We were supposed to have fun today, and I've killed the mood. I'm sorry,” Obi-Wan says.

“No, it's fine,” Rex says. “I like talking to you, Obi-Wan, I just...didn't know what to say. It’s a lot to think about, that’s all.”

“Sometimes, silence says a lot all on its own,” Obi-Wan says. He scrubs a hand over his face, then stands up properly. “It’s getting late. Are you hungry?”

“I wouldn’t say no to some dinner,” Rex says. “Did you have some place in mind?”

“Well, we’re already in the promenade. I’m sure we can figure something out,” Obi-Wan says, setting off in some random direction.

Rex follows after him. “Do you eat here often?”

Obi-Wan nods. “Coruscant street food is pretty good if you know what to look out for. Convenient for cases where you don’t have a lot of time to stop and eat. Here’s a stand I visit a lot--the owner usually gives me extra dumplings.”

This is how, ten minutes later, the two of them are on a park bench sharing a large box of fried dumplings.

“These are good,” Rex says, chewing on one. The meat filling is tangy and not too salty while the dough outside is crisp without being hard. “You said these are called dumplings?”

Obi-Wan nods. “Most cultures have some form of dumpling because filling wrapped in dough is a very straightforward blueprint. I’ve always had a soft spot for them--at the Temple, making dumplings was a common get-together activity. I usually helped making the dough for the wrappers and rolling them out. Bant liked to fill dumplings for me that were full of seafood. Honestly, with all the different fillings we worked with, it’s a miracle we didn’t have more cross-species poisoning incidents.” He helps himself to another dumpling, looking wistful. “I never have the time to make dumplings by hand anymore. It’s a lot of hassle if you’re by yourself.“

“Um,” Rex says. He’s got the opportunity, so he has to take the shot. “Well, if you--I mean. I could help, if you wanted. I’ve never made dumplings before.”

“What, just the two of us?” Obi-Wan asks, raising a brow.

Rex flushes. “I, I mean, it doesn’t have to be, we could invite Ahsoka and some other people too, or--”

Obi-Wan sets a hand on Rex’s shoulder and grins. “I’m just teasing, dear. If you want to visit sometime and make dumplings together, I’m certainly not going to say no. Nothing would make me happier.”

Rex’s heart flutters. “Yeah, we--we should do that sometime. I think I’d like that.”

Obi-Wan smiles softly. It occurs to Rex that this Obi-Wan is one that not a lot of people ever get to see--out of the aloof and all-knowing private investigator guise, reminiscing about a brighter past and trying to find small joy in a tumultuous present. Obi-Wan always seems so strong and capable and self-assured that it’s hard to believe even he feels things like doubt and personal conflict--in moments like this, Rex remembers that Obi-Wan is only a person just like anyone else. Sitting here so close, Obi-Wan feels so huantingly human, and Rex wants to reach out and touch him, just to be sure it’s real. He wants to put his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders and press close enough to feel his warmth. He wants to keep this moment and--

“Is everything okay, Rex?” Obi-Wan asks, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“I...” Rex looks away. “I think so.” Now that he’s thought about it, he can’t stop thinking about it, and unbidden, the image of Obi-Wan pressing lips to Fox’s cheek drifts back to his mind.

It’s so inconsequential. It doesn’t mean anything at all, but stars if Rex doesn’t want it.

But Obi-Wan makes no move even now to kiss him, and Rex doesn’t understand why--if it was just how much he cared, surely Obi-Wan likes him more than he likes Fox.

“Are you sure? You seem upset, Rex,” Obi-Wan says.

“Why did you kiss him?” Rex blurts out.

Obi-Wan blinks. “Pardon? Who am I kissing?”

“Fox,” Rex says. “Why did you kiss Fox?”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says. “Well, he asked me to.”

Rex’s mind grinds to a screeching halt. “Wh-what? You--He--” Rex takes a deep breath. “He asked you? That’s it?”

“Well, not in so many words. There was something about his brothers giving him a hard time so he made a bet with them without thinking about it,” Obi-Wan says. “So I gave him a kiss. It isn’t that big of a deal.”

“So you mean this whole time I could have just asked you to kiss me?” Rex asks. “You--you’re not--”

Obi-Wan shrugs. “I don’t really see the appeal of kissing. So it’s not something I think to do on my own.” He glances at Rex. “Is this your way of asking?”

“Yes--no. Yes?” Rex says. “If that’s--if it’s okay with you. I mean.”

“I don’t mind. It’s just a kiss,” Obi-Wan says.

Rex nods. “Yes, please, I want to--if you can--that’s...”

Obi-Wan laughs. “It’s okay, Rex. I think I get the idea.” He sets the dumplings down on the bench, then gently holds the sides of Rex’s face. “Don’t think too hard about it, okay?”

And then he kisses Rex directly on the mouth.

Everything in Rex’s mind stops working all at once. He can feel firm fingers on the edge of his jaw, the press of lips beneath his, the soft sigh of breath in his mouth. Without thought, Rex makes a noise from the back of his throat, his eyes fluttering closed as he tries to lean into the sensation. There’s scratchiness of hair against his lip and chin, a mass of warmth against his side, and Rex reaches out to hold that warmth close almost on animal instinct.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. Warmth recedes and cool evening air rushes in, and Rex nearly collapses against the bench, gasping for breath. He feels like he’s seeing stars. “What--” he says. “I--Obi-Wan--What was that?”

“A kiss?” Obi-Wan says.

“But you--on the lips? What--”

“I’m sorry, did I misread your intentions?” Obi-Wan asks. “When you said you wanted me to kiss you, I thought you meant...”

Rex shakes his head. “No. I mean yes. That’s--” He swallows and tries to reboot his mind into something resembling function. “I liked that.”

Rex feels like he’s been hit with a bolt of lightning, and his lips are still tingling just thinking of it. His heart is pounding--he’s not sure if it’ll ever calm back down.

“Is kissing always--always like this?” Rex asks

Obi-Wan shrugs. “I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t see the appeal of kissing. I don’t really enjoy it--it’s tedious more than anything.”

Rex blinks and looks at Obi-Wan. He’s not smiling now. Cold realization washes through Rex that maybe this wasn’t the best idea. “Obi-Wan...did I pressure you into something you didn’t want to do?”

“No, I genuinely don’t mind,” Obi-Wan says. “It’s just a kiss. It doesn’t mean anything. As long as you enjoyed it, that’s what matters.”

He says that, but Rex can see it plain as day--best case scenario, Obi-Wan is indifferent to kissing, and worst case scenario, Obi-Wan is actively uncomfortable with it. Maybe he doesn’t mind, but Rex has found there’s a lot of things Obi-Wan doesn’t mind that he probably should.

Rex wants it again, but...in the end, it’s just a kiss. The two of them have shared a bed and food. They’ve bared their hearts to each other and chosen, again and again, to make time for each other because it makes them happy. Compared to that, what’s a kiss worth?

Nothing at all.

“I did enjoy it. Thanks, Obi-Wan,” Rex says. “I won’t ask again.”

Obi-Wan glances at him in surprise, then his expression softens. “Thank you, Rex.”

The two of them lapse into silence, making their way through the no longer hot box of dumplings. Rex settles himself against Obi-Wan’s side, and Obi-Wan sets an arm over his shoulder and pulls him in so they’re butted against each other. It’s a peaceful silence, together in the coolness of night, and Rex thinks to himself that he wouldn’t trade a million kisses for this moment.

Still, he has to ask.

“Was I a good kisser?” Rex asks.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Well, you were better than Jango.”

Rex sputters. “Obi-Wan, what--why would you say--that’s completely--”

Obi-Wan laughs and sticks the last dumpling in Rex’s open mouth.

[justjessame]

A Little Ass and A Lotta Sass Chapter 22: New Job, New Me...And Six Weeks Doesn't SEEM Like That Long...

My first day, at Negan’s side, during the meeting with his outpost leaders turned out to be less nerve wracking than I’d expected. I had a few theories about why that was, but first let me go through my impressions of the people he chose to act in his stead at each outpost.

For the most part, they were ambitious, but loyal. Each one had their own way of dealing with things, I could tell that even before they started offering their monthly reports.

Gavin, who I knew was in charge of dealing with the Kingdom, was laid back. He wanted things to run smoothly, and I could see how Jared would go against his careful grain of cooperation. Jared, I could tell from that first meeting a month ago, was egging for confrontation. He needed it like most people needed air. For the most part, Gavin liked the responsibility that being a leader gave him, but he didn’t want more. He was content.

Simon, the man with a mustache that most seventies porn stars would envy, was ambitious too. He was loyal, to a fault, but everyone had some level of loyalty to Negan. I knew, unlike Gavin, Simon didn’t need an even keel to keep him satisfied. He was fine either way, though he didn’t necessarily have the urge to kill, he wouldn’t shy away from it. He’d convince himself, and hopefully Negan, that every death he carried out or ordered was for the greater good. Aside from his loyalty, he also envied Negan. While I didn’t think he’d make a play for Negan’s role outright, I knew he’d try if he sensed any weakness that would create cracks. As he studied me, I wondered if he were stupid enough to count me as such a weakness. I sure as fuck hoped for his sake he didn’t.

The others, I made note, fell somewhere between the two. Some closer to Simon’s end, the others firmly nearer Gavin’s.

I smiled as Negan introduced me, not just because he was taking the time to do it, but because he also fumbled with just who the fuck I was to him. There’s something immensely hilarious about a man like Negan being tongue tied. And he got me back, because as I mentioned the first day by his side wasn’t nerve wracking, and he made sure that my nerves weren’t what he was fucking with.

As his people gave their reports, Negan’s hand started to creep up my leg under the table. He’d insisted that I sit, not at the spot next to him along the side of the table, but situated my chair beside him at the head. And so, while this one or that prattled on and on about quotas and whatnot and I tried to focus on their gestures, the way they met his eyes and the obvious and less than obvious tells, his fingers took a tour of my bare skin. The dress, I was slowly learning, was a two-fold choice for him. It did make me look both professional and emphasize my place at his side, but it also gave him greater access to me.

I parted my legs and bit my lip as he kept climbing higher. I felt him chuckle when he noticed that I’d given him greater access, but he kept up with the conversation in front of us, and I was trying to keep my own place among it. When his fingers slipped under the lace fabric that I’d been forced to wear, I bit my lip harder, holding back any noise that I’d be tempted to make as his fingertips teased along my dampness. I hadn’t paid attention when we sat down, but he’d apparently removed his gloves, the calloused pads were making it incredibly difficult for me to remember why I was in the room. That we had an audience never fully left me, but as I swallowed hard against a building whimper, I felt some tension leave when he dismissed everyone.

Thank fucking God, I thought, groaning as Simon held back to have a private moment with his fearful leader. Negan smiled at me, not ordering Simon away, but keeping up his torture under the table while carrying on a fucking full and detailed conversation with Mr. Porn Stache. I closed my legs around his hand and arm, hoping that would stop him from his rubbing and the building fucking climb he had my body doing, but that was a futile hope. His long finger slid inside me and I closed my eyes at the penetration. Jesus, he had to feel just how fucking wet I was, from being in the room with all those fucking people while he played me like a violin and now, now he knew that I really did fucking enjoy the thrill of the possibility of being caught.

I barely noticed when Simon finally left. I didn’t pay attention to the door being closed behind him. The only thing I was focused on was Negan’s finger and hand, bringing me higher and higher. “Callie, princess, you’re fucking soaked.” His finger was moving harder inside of me, and I found myself finally able to move with it. Fuck. I felt myself clenching around his finger, and then it was gone. Shit, really?

 I watched, my lust full blown as he sucked the taste of me from his finger. I was panting, and fucking thankful we were completely alone now. I wrapped my arm around his neck, bringing his face to mine so I could kiss him, let him share what he’d tasted of me on his mouth, and he pulled me from my chair and lifted me onto the table in front of him. And then, as he’d promised twice this morning, he spread me out before him and feasted.

 Lunch was a new experience. Instead of having something brought to us in the conference room or going back up to our rooms, we slummed it and ate in the cafeteria. Negan went to the kitchen and made our plates himself, and then, in full fucking view of the entire Sanctuary, he served me. I would have laughed, but the shock on every single fucking person’s face told me that they’d never seen him behave like this with ANYONE. And if the sour look on Frankie’s face proved anything, then it proved that some of our audience didn’t just fucking hate it, but they found me lacking of the honor.

I ignored them. Every single one, because Negan was smiling at me and it was easy to fall into our pattern of eating and chatting. Even with an audience watching us, even with eyes burning into both of us. It didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. We did.

“Aside from huge ass heads,” Negan said, picking up his fork. “What else do you have to look forward to?”

 I did laugh then. “Oh, honey, I think you used the wrong word there. WE have a lot of shit to look forward to. Like the fact that after that huge fucking head comes out, we have six full weeks of celibacy to look forward to.”

He stopped eating. His mouth was gaped open. And the look of utter disbelief was Kodak worthy. Yep, the best way to stop Negan’s bullshit was to let him know that blueballs may become his constant fucking accessory for the weeks following his demon seed’s birth. “You’re joking.” He scoffed, picking up his fork and putting his mind at ease with a certainty that I had to be fucking kidding.

“Ask Dr. Carson.” I said, casually eating my way through my own lunch.

I could hear him swallow. Hard. Poor guy, I ALMOST felt sorry for him. Almost, because I could still see his hands trying to show me just how fucking huge thirteen inches was. Pain was going to be going around with the birth of this baby, guess we’d have to see who bounced back from it first.

My checkup with the doctor went quickly. Even with Tanya glaring from the corner. Jesus, it was like throwing a rock and hitting another chick your boyfriend banged in high school. Except here they were grown ass women, and they seemed more angsty.

Doc was happy with the way I was progressing. And he took note of the fact that I’d been born prematurely. He affirmed that I was taking my prenatal vitamins and that Negan had me following the diet that he’d recommended, then he dismissed the two of us. After, I have to mention, Negan got confirmation that I hadn’t been fucking teasing about the six weeks waiting period.

“She’ll have to heal, Negan,” the doctor explained, trying to fight his own smile. “After all-”

“Thirteen inches,” I offered in a singsong voice. I giggled at Negan’s glare. Too bad, buddy.

 We made our way back to our rooms, and once inside, he pulled me to him and claimed my mouth more hungrily than he ever had. Pulling away with a question on my lips, he practically growled at me. “Six fucking weeks?” His eyes were so dark that I could barely see his pupils. “If I have six fucking weeks without being inside of you ahead of me, then I plan on having you every spare fucking moment until then.” If that was a challenge, then I was more than willing to accept. I held on to the lapels of his jacket, licking into his mouth to show I was game. And then, he and I made good on the promise or threat. Over and over.

[potato-hater3]

Him, myself, and I

We decided to give each other another chance. Both hopelessly in love with one another but do you know the whole story? We dated for a week when I was in my grade eight year. He was a grade nine. That week felt like forever, he noticed me before I got some of my shit together. He stayed. A few months ago, we started talking again. Since I wasn't wanting to be a rebound after he got out of a relationship a day after me. I wanted to keep him at a distsnce. I never knew how big of a wedge being friends with benefits for a week could form. Apparently very large. We don't know each other at all. We don't say greetings in the hallway. We don't hangout often. He is a social butterfly with more then two wings. And I'm the introvert who likes to spend her lunch alone, recharging. I once almost invited him to walk around with me. Which is a huge deal to me, cause if I'm willing to sacrifice the last bit of my sanity to soak up your presence you damn well accept the invitation. But he never caught on. Instead, I caught him sharing laughs with another girl. I smiled and continued on my way. He didn't smile back. I had an asthma attack and was coughing my lungs out while he didn't notice and continued walking with his friend. I was once sick but had to go to school anyway, so I was stopping at trashcans at lunch and sitting beside them. I told him I was sick. As I layed my head against the wall, hoping the dizziness would go away he walked past. He looked at me, and looked away. Continued on his way never asking me if I was okay. He doesn't like texting first. But he does it with me. He makes me feel so warm and secure, so accepted that for once, I wasn't embarrassed to eat in front of him. I didn't have to wear a hoodie to cover my scars, my stomach, my body... I love the way he lets me take control, do things I'm comfortable with. Even suffered through blueballs for me. Because I wasn't ready to do anything after I've been sexually assaulted three different times by three close people. He forgot that I was assulted. He still angrily rants about his ex. Always telling me when I hug him for comfort that 'I got over her faster then I did you - we always come back here. I believe its fate pulling us together.' He still tells me this. I love his curly blonde hair, his dimpled smile, the way his hands hold me when he leans down to kiss me, the way his eyes light up when we laugh together. I. Love. Him. We barely know each other and we're mad for each other. But he's playing with heartstrings that are to thin to be poking at. The more he rips, the more my heart breaks. Every shattered piece is for him. About him. It's kinda funny, neither of our friends like the other but we still find away to be together. Kinda like Romeo and Juliet. I asked him to lunch today. I don't know his answer but I hope he says yes. So we can awkwardly walk beside each other and make jokes neither of us get. So I can hug him again... He said no. I'm done. Every last string has been pulled. Any thread left has desecrated into my body. I have nothing left to give. Nothing left to lose...