of mud and MREs
A seven-rotation mission on Tiore. Read: hell.
It’s swampy. Muddy. Humid. Sticky. You think you started sweating the second you entered the planet’s atmosphere – you’d already shed your jacket, your t-shirt plastered to your back and your hair sticking to your forehead, and that was before the four hour trek to the nearest village. Now, sitting before a – very unnecessary – campfire, you feel like all you can do is sit and wallow in your own dirt.
Disgusting. You feel disgusting, and half-dead, and quite frankly undesirable – but Obi-Wan Kenobi stares at you from across the way like you are anything but. The blue-eyed Jedi is clothed in his regular pale robes – albeit scarred with purple mud – hair mussed from the heat and cheeks ruddy in the glow of the fire. His lips are parted in a tired smile, his shoulders shaking with laughter from the clone soldiers around him, and–
Maker. Can he feel it, you wonder? Can he feel the way your heart beats faster? The way your stomach turns pleasantly with every stolen glance? It would be embarrassing, yes, you think idly. But at least I wouldn’t have to tell him myself. It’s already embarrassing enough that you’re in this situation – you, a simple translator, in love with a Jedi Master?
A fool. You are a fool.
But the second he sees your eyes clear, he smiles that little half smile of his – the one that makes that fluttery feeling press all the way up against your ribs, rendering your hands shaky and too hot – and he stands. You see him puff out a tired breath, brushing his hands against his robes, and you’re suddenly very angry that Obi-Wan still manages to look so perfect with dirt spread across his torso. Though that is to be expected of the Jedi Master, who you have never seen look short of excellence.
He rounds the side of the fire, sharing pats on the shoulder and good-spirited jokes along the way – even now, even exhausted and overheated and covered in filth, he instills hope in his men. And he instills more than hope in you, you find, as he nears you with a sweet-tempered smile and a short shake of his head – something deeper, more unpredictable, much more incriminating given his status.
“You look miserable,” he greets, plopping himself down on the upturned log you’ve made yours.
You hum, trying not to think too hard on his proximity or the fact that his hair looks like woven gold in this light or that his nose is the prettiest shape or–
Maker, get a grip.
“Yes – something about being hungry and covered in mud and sweat doesn’t appeal to me,” you reply, risking a glance upwards. Fatigue-widened eyes scan the length of his face – and, upon being caught, return hastily to the fire. “And my skills as a translator are hardly useful in blaster fights.”
In truth, you’d wondered just why you were picked for this mission – what use was a translator on a simple reconnaissance? Of course, simple was what you thought before the locals turned hostile and tried to kill you – but you had been specifically requested by Obi-Wan. Specifically.
“Well,” he begins – hiding what you think (hope) is his own bashful smile– “the heat and sweat I can’t quite do much about. The hunger, on the other hand–”
And from behind him – like magic – he procures an MRE. That blue rectangular container that you’d lost along with the rest of your pack when you were forced to flee your first camp. Your stomach rumbles at the thought, but your first thought when he places it upon your lap is to refuse.
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not?” Obi-Wan says, incredulous. “Think of it as a gift.”
“They’re your rations, Obi-Wan–”
“I have more in my pack. And since it’s technically my fault you’re here…”
He pops open the lid – hands you the tiny metal fork that comes along with it, a silent order that’s solidified with the amused raise of his brows that comes after. “You’ll need the energy.”
You try not to read into it too much – try not to let your mind run with every theory and possibility under the sun, because Obi-Wan seems like he cares about you even despite everything happening around you, and he’s looking at you so softly, and–
He chuckles, glancing down at his hands clasped in his lap, and your cheeks burn. So he can feel it.
Hurriedly, you shove the first food you see in your mouth – and very nearly gag, because even your hunger can’t disguise how disgusting these kriffing rations are.
“What do you think?” Jokes Obi-Wan, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I made it myself, of course.”
“I think… I think you’re a terrible cook, Master Jedi.”
Obi-Wan hums. “Just wait until we’re back on Coruscant. My cooking rivals that of the best culinary masters, I assure you.”
Is that…? Is that an invitation? This is dangerous, dangerous territory. And yet, your answering smile is giddy, poorly hidden as you bow your head towards the rations, bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth. “That sounds like a promise.”
“Oh, it is.”