#i hvent done one of these in a long time it might suck

[smoocheveryclone]

dirty old town

Gregor x jedi!reader, part one of ???, ~3k words, uhhh, i don’t actually remember if i gendered the reader? i have to check, no (y/n), no smut though it does begin to get very mildly suggestive near the end. pg13 i guess? if that?

premise: reader is the one to find Gregor on Abafar instead of Colonel Meebur “i am droid racist but will treat clones with even less respect” Gascon

under a cut bc long post

You have mixed feelings about these undercover missions.

On the one hand, despite the danger, there is an element of freedom to them that you relish. You’re not bound by the strict codes of the Jedi Order; you feel greater license to act and speak on impulse… but at the same time, you aren’t strictly yourself. You’re playing a part. 

And then you go home, to the Temple or to the War, and maybe it’s just mild disorientation, but you still feel like you’re playing a part. The part of a Jedi.

But you always end up leaving those feelings behind you, and do what you must do.

Your current mission is over now, and you’ve just started your journey home from the Outer Rim… but of course, nothing can be simple.

You end up having to pilot your ship through a- beautiful, admittedly- field of comets. Trusting in the force, you manage to get through it mostly without damage.

Mostly being the operative word.

You take a hit, and you lose your fuel tank, forcing you down onto a force-forsaken planet not far from the one you’ve just left.

You instruct your astromech to power down until you get back, because you don’t know when you’ll be able to recharge her battery next, grab a satchel with some essentials and a full canteen, and set off toward what you sense is some kind of small town.

It’s a long walk, and by the time you see buildings, you’re dusty and dry and tired. And there are battle droids here. Which is fantastic.

First things first, though. You see a sign for a diner and make a beeline for it. Never mind that it looks dirtier and more disreputable the closer you get; there’s food and drink inside. The door opens, and you stop.

That voice.

There’s no mistaking that voice, you know it as well as you know your own. Better. You’ve heard it in countless permutations, all with particular vocal tics, intonations, cadences, turns of phrase which you’ve gotten to know, in some cases quite well. So this one is familiar… but unfamiliar at the same time. 

By the time you’ve thought all this, you’re already staring… and not just in curiosity or surprise. You’ve never seen a clone wearing civvies before. You’ve seen them in their armor, whether shiny and new or scuffed and painted; you’ve seen them in their uniforms; you’ve even seen them in the black body gloves they wear under their armor, once or twice (an image you have to swat out of your mind like an insect buzzing around your ear). But never civilian clothing. Something about it plays havoc with your composure, but you can’t look away.

His arms are bare. His hair is attractively mussed, and he’s got a full beard. 

He’s also looking back at you.

You’ve seen eyes exactly like his so many times before; you’ve never seen them look back at you quite this way. Like he’s seeing… you. Not a Jedi, not a General, just you. Of course, you realize, you’re wearing civilian clothes as well. As far as he’s concerned, you are just you. 

It takes you long enough to wonder who he is and what he’s doing here that you feel a bit silly about it. But once you do wonder, it’s quite a puzzle indeed. Is he undercover, as you were? Is that done? You’ve never heard of it. Though if a man with a million identical brothers could get away with going undercover anywhere, it’d be out here on some Outer Rim dustball. The other possibility is that he’s deserted. You’ve never heard of that, either, though you expect that it must have happened before. 

You wouldn’t blame him if that were the case. You certainly wouldn’t squeal on him.

This attitude is, at the heart of it, why you have never, and will never, lead a battalion.

At the moment, though, either of these possibilities leaves you in a delicate situation. You can’t blow his cover, if it’s the first case scenario. You don’t want to scare him off if it’s the second. Then, of course, there’s the third possibility: it’s neither of those things. What else could be going on? But whatever it is, you can’t just avoid him. You can’t go on with your business, pretending you never saw him. The force is telling you that you are meant to be here, and you were meant to find him. Why?

So many questions.

You’ve been loitering by the door, staring at him this whole time, and he’s been going about his job, sneaking glances back at you as he collects dirty dishes and clears off the booths. A Sullustan- owner and operator of the place as far as you can guess- has appeared behind the counter in the meantime, and you give him only a cursory glance as you walk up and take a seat on one of the grimy stools. You pick one where you can peek back into the kitchen and follow him with your eye as he goes back and forth.

The Sullustan is chatting up a regular, which is fine by you. You may be hungry, but you can wait: there’s something far more interesting here than food and drink.

You watch the clone more or less discreetly, every so often letting him catch you looking. You’re waiting for a chance to speak with him, however briefly. Before you can find one, he comes to you.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says, giving you a smile.

“I just got into town today,” you say, smiling back at him. Seeming encouraged, he lays down the stack of dirty dishes for a moment to loiter a bit beside you. “My name’s Gregor.”

You give him your name in return, and he tells you it sounds pretty. This unexpectedly beguiling exchange disarms you, and for a moment you almost forget why you wanted to speak to him in the first place.

“I’m very glad to meet you,” you tell him emphatically. You can’t really speak with him here, not beyond this chitchat, but at least you can hint that you’d like to. Gregor, meanwhile, looks delighted.

“Likewise,” he says, and there are a few seconds of oddly intense silence.

“So…” you say, nodding up at the menu sign behind the counter. “What’s good?”

“Well,” he hesitates pointedly, scrunching up his face, and you laugh. “Number four’s all right.”

“Thank you for the recommendation.”

“No problem.”

Your little conversation is interrupted by the Sullustan bellowing for him to get back to work. You have already decided that you do not like this man- Borkus is his name, from what you have overheard- but you order your food and the coldest drink possible, and are otherwise left alone until it arrives. 

From then until you finish and pay, he is mostly in the back washing up. You don’t get another chance to speak with him. Whenever he emerges, though, he meets your eye, and before you leave, you give him a lingering look.

Outside, you stop and lean against the outer wall of the diner for a few minutes, thinking. While you’re standing there, you hear something coming from around the back of the building. A door, the scraping of a container on the ground, something being lifted and emptied. You make a guess at what you’re hearing, and duck down the little alleyway. When you peek around the corner… there he is.

“Hello again,” you call softly, hanging around at the edge of the back alley, hoping he’ll come over and talk, away from the overflowing trash bins. It smells back there.

You can’t help noticing the way his face lights up when he sees you again. Peering backwards through the kitchen, he lets the back door close softly and, to your immense relief, begins walking over. You beckon him out to the side alley where the air is less foul.

“Hey there,” he says when he gets close. 

“I was wondering… will you be free later on?”

“I get off work in a few hours,” he says, with an air of cautious encouragement.

“Would you meet with me?”

You can feel a little ripple of (pleased) surprise through the force. Obviously he’s amenable to the idea.

“I’d like that,” he replies.

So would you, now it comes to it.

“Good,” you say. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Then, there’s the sound of the diner owner shouting again.

“Gregor! Where are you! Get back in here!”

There’s the sound of the back door into the alley being thrust open, and heavy, stomping footsteps, and you frown in the general direction of the noise. Gregor looks embarrassed; you reach out tentatively, and touch his arm in what you hope is a comforting gesture.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

He looks at the hand on his arm. You pull it back. He looks at you. You look at him.

“Worth it,” he whispers as the Sullustan rounds the corner.

“What are you doing out here? You take an extra break, it comes out of your pay! Get back in the kitchen and finish washing the dishes!”

“Sorry, Mr. Borkus,” he says, slipping around his irascible employer and scooting back the way he came. “I’m getting back to work, right now!”

You hear the door open and close, and the Sullustan turns a disapproving eye on you. Before he can speak though, you raise your hand and wave it lightly in front of his face, which goes blank.

“You should stop yelling at Gregor,” you say. “I should stop yelling at Gregor,” he repeats. “You’re not going to dock his pay.” “I’m not going to dock his pay.” “You need to get off his back and let him be.” “I need to get off his back and let him be.”

Satisfied that you’ve done what little you can to improve the mysterious clone’s day- whatever his situation actually is- you turn on your heel and walk away.

You spend the next few hours as you had intended before meeting Gregor: enquiring about the parts you need to repair your ship, discreetly poking around for information, observing the battle droids. There’s something going on here (there’s something going on everywhere, these days) but you haven’t figured out what. Frankly- although you chide yourself that you are doing your duty and not to be childish- you’re bored. You’re very much looking forward to meeting up with Gregor later.

So you can figure out what he’s doing here, of course.

After the appropriate amount of time has lapsed, you meander back to the diner, and wait across the road, watching the door.

Eventually, he and the owner emerge. He sees you right away, and veers over in your direction immediately, waving and calling for you as his employer stares (and is ignored by both of you).

“I’ve been waiting all day to see you,” he says, with a big smile on his face.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been doing the same,” you admit, smiling back. “How was work?”

“Better than usual.”

You smile wider.

“Glad to hear it.” 

“So… what are you doing here?”

You shrug.

“Passing through.”

“Oh? … How long are you staying in town?”

He looks hopeful. You stop yourself from chewing your lip.

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly. “It depends.”

You realize you’re chewing your lip again when you see the way he’s looking at you.

“On what?”

You can’t help smiling at him.

“Lots of things.”

“Hmm.”

The conversation that follows is, like your first exchange earlier today in the dingy little diner, oddly compelling. Repeatedly, you must remind yourself that you are trying to figure out what he’s doing here, but much like your earlier investigation into the Separatist presence on this planet, you’re getting nowhere. You even attempt, once or twice, to steer the conversation in directions that would raise the suspicions of someone under cover… but he isn’t suspicious at all, and you end up just talking.

Talking, laughing, enjoying each other.

He’s endearing.

But before you while the whole evening away just walking around town, chatting, you come right out and ask.

“So, Gregor… what are you doing here?”

“You mean… besides washing dishes?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. Surviving, I guess.”

You nod slowly.

“Hmm. How long have you been here?”

“About a year now,” he replies, and you manage to disguise some of your shock at his answer. ‘Undercover’ is starting to look less and less likely. “... What?”

“Nothing. Just. Wow. You’ve been working at the diner that whole time?”

“Yeah.” 

You grimace.

“Well, frankly, that sounds awful.”

He laughs, running his hands self-consciously through his hair.

“Well, it… it could be worse.”

That pricks at your heart. 

“Yes. I suppose it could.”

You know very well how much worse it could be.

He looks at you, but neither of you speaks for a long moment. Maybe it’s time for the two of you to speak more plainly than this.

“Gregor… Is there somewhere we can go and talk to each other privately?” His eyes are wide as he looks at you, and for just a second, you sense the buzz of excited nerves.

“Oh, uh… well, it’s- it’s not much, but, there’s always my place.”

“That sounds perfect,” you say, touching his arm like you did earlier. It seems to help.

“Great,” he says. “This way!”

He takes your hand, and leads you down the dusty streets that still all look the same to you. You’re not really looking at them anyway.

On the way, you pass by a man he knows in the street. They wave to each other, and- after the strange man glances at you- exchange smiles. 

“I’ve been really enjoying talking with you,” he says suddenly.

You look at him.

It’s been so nice, spending time with him like this. Just being yourself, with no part to play.

“Me, too.”

You’re almost there, now. You see the stairwell down into a basement apartment, and he’s slowing down. Before you get there, he stops, leaning against the wall. You can feel his self-consciousness.

“Listen, um, when I said my place wasn’t much? I… Well, it really isn’t much.”

“It doesn’t matter to me where we go,” you tell him kindly.

“It’s just… I wish I had somewhere nicer to take you. I’ve never met anyone like you, before.”

That affects you in a way you can’t altogether contain. For a second, you’re breathless.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before, either.”

It’s the truth.

He’s smiling again. Having never let go of your hand, he runs his thumb over your knuckles and begins leading you down toward his door. You would be able to tell he was nervous even if you couldn’t feel it through the force.

True enough, his place is small and as dingy as the rest of the town. But it’s his, and you decide you like it here, for that fact alone. You’re looking around when you notice him staring at you.

“... What is it?”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, completely guilelessly. It’s so plain and sincere that you can’t help believing it, and once again, you’re breathless. “I never expected to see anything so beautiful on this whole planet.”

Then, he leans in to kiss you… and you let him. You do more than let him: you kiss him back. The only concrete thought in your head is that his beard tickles. It feels wonderful. Is that noise coming out of you? 

It takes feeling his hands on your hips to realize you’ve got your own in his hair, and the way his fingers grip you makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your lips press together again, and again, and again; sometimes so softly you’re barely touching, sometimes so heavily you almost topple over, sometimes you can feel him humming against your mouth and it’s all you can do to stay standing. 

He’s guiding you gently toward- what? A chair? A crate? A cot? You don’t know, you don’t care; he sits down, and pulls you into his lap, and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. You hold him so close, closer than you’ve ever held anyone. You love the way his hands feel on you, and you tell him so. In reply, he makes a sound you know you’ll hear in dreams for the rest of your life. 

The way he handles you- so sweetly, but so direct- makes you feel things you couldn’t repress if you tried.

But… of course… nothing can be simple.

You break the kiss, and take a breath.

“What is it?” he asks softly. “Is everything all right?”

“Before we go any further, there’s something you need to know about me.” He’s a little wary, a little worried, and you hate it, but you can’t just let this go without him knowing the truth. Maybe it was an illusion, but you already miss the way this felt so uncomplicated a moment ago. 

“You’re… you’re not married, are you?”

Your reaction to this question tells him you’re not, even before you actually answer.

“... I can never be married. I’m a Jedi.”

He’s still holding you, and he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t care what you are. We’ll work this out. I-if… if that’s what you want.”

Your eyes have never been so wide in your life. ‘We’ll work this out.’ He means it, you can feel it. You think you would believe anything this man said to you. 

But.

This is forbidden. 

If this is not an attachment, nothing is.

Can you do this? Can you work this out? The doubt is suddenly swallowed up by something you’re not sure you can identify, but feels very much like indignation. No attachment! But what is the bond between master and padawan but an attachment? What is friendship but an attachment? What are those bonds formed on the battlefield, are they not attachments? Can you name one single Jedi in the whole order who is wholly unattached? Who is attached to no one? Can anyone live in such a way?

It’s true, sometimes you must be able to let go.

But what value is there in anything without fondness? Without care? 

And enough of your philosophizing! What about him? Doesn’t he deserve to be loved? That question, at least, has a clear and definite answer. One that cannot be interrogated. The answer is yes.

You shift around so that you’re straddling his lap, and kiss him so deeply that you get lost in each other.

“I do,” you whisper. “I do want this.”

You can sense his relief. His elation. Something inside of you aches beautifully. Is this what love feels like? You kiss him. He kisses you.

“Good,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And then, he says something that shocks you so profoundly that you stop cold.

“... But what’s a Jedi?”