a heart of kyber

'Can't sleep?'

You're startled by the sudden interruption to your self-contained thoughts—and yet, find yourself latching onto that simple question with clambering hands. The new presence in the room is a helping hand, there to keep you from drowning in your own turbulence. Accordingly, the blurred lines of hyperspace become lost to you as you attempt to calm yourself enough to quell the tremor in your voice.

'Sorry,' you reply with restraint, 'didn't mean to wake you.'

Hunter shuffles behind you, soft footsteps stepping closer in a non-threatening manner—assuring you that he wasn't intending to sneak up on you. 'Not your fault,' he dismisses your apology, 'Heightened senses, remember?'

There's a hint of a chuckle in his reminder. It's an honest attempt to lighten the tension.

'Of course,' you smile unconvincingly, 'how could I forget?'

As you look over your shoulder, you hope that Hunter doesn't see the weariness in your expression under the shadows of the cockpit. Unfortunate for you, you know that he doesn't need enhanced senses to read you better than anybody else. You just wish it wasn't him that found you tonight.

'What's wrong?' he asks - and there's something so contagious between you and him that when he frowns, your sad attempt for a smile immediately abandons its stage position so that your expression can mirror his. You internally cringe at the futility of your basic performance.

'It was nothing,' you attempt to shake it off - playing it as no big deal, 'Just a nightmare.'

'Yeah?' he steps around your chair, kneeling to your height. A hand rests on your knee, offering you the opportunity to seek the comfort you need from him but careful not to crowd into your space and back you into a corner. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

You gulp. 'Not really, no.'

'That's alright,' he assures you in a lowered voice, matching your volume, 'Do you want me to take you to bed?'

A real smile graces your face this time. Even your tired eyes shimmer as you bite back a giggle at his suggestion.

'Not like that,' Hunter chuckles at your reaction, shaking his head at your misinterpretation.

'I know,' you hum, the moment bringing you slightly more comfort. 'But stay?' you timidly request, 'Here - with me. I just want to watch the stars for a little longer.'

'Of course,' Hunter smiles, his lips turning upwards the more he sees your face morph into an expression of comforted-bliss and relief. He intertwines his fingers with yours, holding onto your hand as he takes the seat next to yours.

And as you approach a sense of contentment straying away from the troubling start to your night, Hunter finds himself with his own struggle:

To look at the stars, or you?

With a sigh, you make your way down the ladder and shift it along the wall a little. It’s not much of a difference — it can’t be when you still need the ladder to lean against something solid — but It’s still steady enough that you should be fine. Who knows, maybe an extra inch or two is all you need.

You almost believe yourself until the ladder is teetering again, and this time you have to grasp at the neon sign above your head just to keep your balance.

“You’re gonna fall,” a clone’s voice calls from somewhere behind you.

“Dank ferrik,” you mutter under your breath. You’d really been hoping no one had seen that. And, as you turn to see just which clone it could be entering the bar so soon after opening, you’d really been hoping it wasn’t him who had seen that.

“I don’t have a bigger ladder,” you call back to Wolffe as you turn back to the problem in front of you.

Without the music on, Wolffe’s footsteps thud loudly against the floor as he walks up behind you. The plastoid creaks and clacks as he moves, stopping only when he stands in front of the ladder and looks straight up at you.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re going to fall,” he says flatly.

You huff out an annoyed sigh. “And that doesn’t change the fact that this is the only option I have.”

Wolffe stares at you for a moment, his face almost completely neutral. You’re getting a lot better at reading his expressions, but even this one is a mystery to you. Eventually, he sets his helmet down on the closest table and gestured for you to come down.

“I’ll hold it for you.”

“What?”

The question sounds a lot more incredulous — and therefore more offensive — than you’d intended it to be, but Wolffe just rolls his eyes and motions for you to get off the ladder again.

“You’re trying to reach the center, yeah?” he asks as you climb back down to solid ground.

“Yeah.”

Wolffe doesn’t say anything else — just grabs the ladder and positions it under the spot you’ve been reaching for, testing his grip on the sides and adjusting the angle a bit.

You blink. “That’s not going to work.”

“It is.”

“That’s way less safe than what I was doing before.”

“The only way you’ll fall is if you throw yourself backwards,” he grunts, irked that you’re doubting his strength. “Come on.”

Well, what’s one more bad idea?

You have to admit that he looks sturdy. His whole body braces as you tentatively step on the first rung, and you can just imagine how his muscles must be rippling under his armour. Legs as wide as his hips, arms tense and holding you up, gaze burning into your skin — it actually feels pretty familiar. Despite what you said before, you fully believe that the ladder would bend and break before Wolffe did.

“What are you doing, anyway?” he asks once you’re at the top.

“Do you not see the other decorations?” you call down. It’s a rhetorical question — he’d be blind if he didn’t notice everything else strung up around the bar. There are lights and ornaments and plants and bows everywhere, transforming 79’s into a holiday card. It’s a bit of a grungy holiday card, sure, and no one would really know what holiday you’re celebrating, but it’s hard to ignore the festive nature.

Wolffe grumbles under his breath before rephrasing his question. “What’s so important that you have to hang here?”

Fair enough, you think as you fasten a hook to the ceiling. With everything so decorated, it must look silly to see you try and hang one tiny thing in one very inconvenient spot.

“You know what this is?” You pull the bundle green-and-white sprigs out of your apron and closer to Wolffe’s eye level. The ladder doesn’t so much as tremble as he takes it in.

“Not a clue.”

“It’s mistletoe,” you say as you start to hang it up. “It’s a tradition from my home planet. You hang it up around the holidays and when people walk under it, they’re supposed to kiss each other.”

Wolffe lets out a quiet laugh. He doesn’t need to ask why you’re so intent on hanging this particular decoration here of all places. You’re fastening it at the very edge of the bar, right above the dark corners and closed doors where your customers love to get handsy and stick their tongues down each other’s throats. It might just be a joke for you and a few others who know what mistletoe is, but the idea was too good to give up. Still, now that Wolffe is in on the joke, his little chuckle makes you smile a bit.

“Is everything here from your home planet?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you call down with a laugh. “There are so many holidays around this time and I doubt anyone would really care about mine. I decorated for the most popular ones, plus the ones my servers celebrate.”

“That’s… that’s nice of you.” He almost sounds surprised, and you remember what he said to you once: not a sweet bone in your body, is there? You thought he might have changed his mind about that by now. Apparently not.

“Yeah, well, they’re not really around to see it,” you sigh. “They’ve all gone home for the holidays.”

“What about you?”

“Can’t,” you say plainly, adjusting some of the white berries. “Someone’s gotta run this place. Plus, with the war and all, I shouldn’t really be going back anyway.”

Judging by the silence as you finish up your work, Wolffe doesn’t know how to respond to that.

You climb down, putting the extra ribbon and tape in your apron pockets as Wolffe leans the ladder against the back wall. For a moment, it’s quiet, and you’re wondering if you said too much. Maybe you shouldn’t have said something about the war — maybe it’s pathetic to complain about not being able to travel back to your planet while Wolffe is literally travelling across the galaxy and back as part of the war.

But then you look up from your apron, meeting Wolffe’s eyes just as he pulls his gaze away from the mistletoe and sets it on you instead. It takes a beat for you to realize why the look in his dark brown eyes sends the same kind of cold shock through your veins as when you nearly fell off of the ladder.

You and Wolffe are standing under the mistletoe.

This can’t happen. It can’t. It’s one of your cardinal rules — actually, you think it might be the only rule you and Wolffe have. There’s no part of you that thinks he’ll actually kiss you — first of all, there’s no way he’d want to; second of all, you wouldn’t let him; but most of all, you know he wouldn’t just cross that line.

And yet…

Your heart still skips a beat. It’s dread, obviously, just like before — there’s clearly nothing you want less in this moment than for him to close the gap and take you by the cheek with a gloved hand, waiting for a nod of permission before tilting your chin and pressing his lips against yours.

You clear your throat and look away, pretending to fidget with something else in your apron. The moment is broken, but there’s only a short pause before Wolffe speaks again.

“People do anything under this thing other than kissing?” he asks. It’s somewhere between awkward and flirty — you can’t tell which before you look at him again, taking in the smirk he’s plastered on his face.

Flirty, then.

“Not in my bar,” you shoot back.

Wolffe shrugs. “You have an office.” He looks around. “And no customers.”

In other circumstances, that might feel like a dig, but not right now. Obviously he just wants a quick hookup before — well, before whatever he has to do after this. And, anyway, he’s right.

“True,” you say, untying your apron and tucking it into a drawer under the bar. Wolffe’s already on his way to the locked door, waiting to follow you down the hall as you power up a server droid and unlock your office.

Even when you’re pressed close together, your lips don’t meet — not each other, not any skin on the other person’s body. That’s how it always is — but for some reason, you’re hyper aware of the distance between you today. Maybe that’s why a distracted thought worms its way into your brain, nudging at your mind and trying to shove its way in between you and this moment with Wolffe on the couch.

You’ve never kissed anyone under the mistletoe, you realize. And part of you — a teeny, tiny, itty, bitty part — wonders what it might be like.

------

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You hummed to yourself as you kneaded the dough on the kitchen counter of the rented house you were staying at while Mando hunted for a job. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched the Child babble and play with the cookie cutters you had bought earlier that week. You smiled at him as he waved the cutter that looked like Mando in his chubby little hand.

“What are you making?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin. You knew Mando had come back about an hour ago from his hunt, but you hadn’t realized how silenthe could be out of his armor.

“Making sugar cookies,” you said, smiling at him. “I’ve almost got the dough ready. Do you want to help us cut them?”

Mando considered you with a tilted helmet for a moment and then turned to pluck the cutter from the Child’s hand, scratching his ear. “Sure.”

You helped the Child make bantha-shaped cookies while Mando made his own blaster-shaped ones with his knife. Then, you helped the Child make Mando out of cookie—using the generic human-shaped cutter to make his body and then adding his helmet to it. Then, you made the Child and lay them on the baking tray together. The Child clapped his hands and babbled happily at your creations.

Mando studied your cookies while you prepared the oven for baking. “Where’s your cookie?”

You turned to him in confusion. “What do you mean? I made plenty of cookies.”

He shook his head and pointed to the tray that had his and the Child’s figures as cookies. “No, you’re not on here.”

“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed as he pointed it out. “Well…you know…I just didn’t think….”

He shrugged. “You’re a part of us, you should have a cookie.”

Your cheeks warmed at his words. Thus far, you had never considered yourself part of Mando’s group. You just helped him take care of his kid while he was on the job.

You rolled out the rest of the dough and pressed the humanoid figure into it. Once you’d cleared away the rest of the dough, you added your noticeable features then placed it on the opposite side of the Child’s cookie, so there were three figures on the pan.

Mando nodded, satisfied, and placed the tray in the oven, along with the tray of banthas and blasters. While he watched the oven, you took the Child to the sink to wash off the flour and dough from his sticky fingers. Soon after, the sweet smell of cookies wafted through the kitchen. You opened the oven and clapped excitedly at the golden-brown cookies.

“They’re done!”

You carefully pulled the pans out of the oven and placed them on the counter to cool. You stood beside Mando as you both watched the Child play with his toys while waiting for the cookies to cool. Mando shifted beside you and cleared his throat.

“You seem happy when you’re making cookies,” he said.

You shrugged. “I baked a lot with my parents when I was a kid. It’s always stuck with me as a happy time.”

Mando nodded. “You know, if you ever want to bake more…I’d be happy to help you—if you wanted me to, of course.”

You looked up at him, wishing you could see his face from under the helmet to know if he was serious. But the way he spoke and the way he nervously fidgeted beside you, you knew he was serious. You smiled at him.

“Of course, I’d love to have you help,” you said, your cheeks hurting with the intensity of your smile. “It’ll be our new tradition.”

He nodded and you could have sworn you heard him sigh in relief. “Yeah, our new tradition.”

You turned back around to face the cookies cooling on the pans, your heart warm and fuzzy. The three figures on the pan waved back at you.

—

Seasons don’t pass in space. It’s like time stands still aboard the Resolute, or at least that’s how it feels waiting for the 501st to return. In the day, you work yourself to the bone, welcoming the collapse into your cot when your shift ends.

It’s easier to push away the bubbling anxieties about Rex and his legion when you’re elbow deep in bacta. The approaching holiday almost entirely slips your mind, only realising that Christmas is, in fact, here, when you walk into the medbay one morning to find a coworker teetering on the edge of a ladder as they attempt to attach stringy tinsel to the doorway.

Huh.

That’s when you force yourself to slow down — even the shinies have taken it personally to refrain from maiming themselves on such a coveted day. The medbay is near deserted by noon and your supervisor gently tells you to take the day off. The pitying look on her face is enough to have you scrambling out of there without having to be told twice.

So you miss Rex. But who can blame you? This was meant to be your first Christmas together. In a perfect world, the two of you would be together on Coruscant. You’ve always wanted to see the planet’s infamous festive light shows. Seeing it in holovids can’t possibly hold the same meaning as seeing the light rays dancing with your own eyes.

Now, the thought makes you smile ruefully. It’s Christmas Eve and you’re alone in your quarters while Rex is Maker-knows-where.

You don’t even know if he’s alive. There’s been nothing but radio silence from the 501st for days. The last time you had spoken was rushed over your commlink.

“I’ll be home for Christmas, cyar’ika, I promise,” Rex had told you before his comm channel went static.

The mere thought of it sends a chill through you, and then you’re wrapping yourself under layers of GAR standard issue blankets, the same ones that Rex had snuck in for you. You had only mentioned your quarters being too cold once, but he remembered. The next night he had shown up, blankets bundled up in his arms with a shy grin painted on his lips.

As you burrow further under the layers, you realise they still smell like him. Closing your eyes, you can almost pretend that he’s lying right beside you. Yet, imagination can only do so much; get you so far. It’s never as warm without him.

—

Christmas Day passes as quickly as it comes. You spend it in a blur, though it honestly isn’t half as bad as you had dreaded it to be.

Aware of the emptiness haunting the barracks of the 501st, your friends take it upon themselves to rope you into all of their plans. They drag you by the elbow to go carolling throughout the ship, even cornering Master Kenobi at one point and subjecting him to an off-key rendition of Deck The Halls. The look on his face is almost enough to completely redeem the holiday.

By noon, you’re strong armed into the ugliest Christmas sweater you’ve ever laid eyes upon, then wrangled into the medical staff break room for a Christmas movie marathon. By the end of the day, your cheeks are sore from all the laughing and return to your quarters feeling that much lighter.

But then it slowly becomes silent again as the remaining people on board shuffle back to their quarters, exhausted in the best way possible after a full day of doing the opposite of work.

You have to give yourself credit for how long you manage to stay put. Your resolve lasts until just before midnight — and then you’re creeping out the doors, cringing at how loud the sliding doors sound against the stillness of the corridor. You’re careful not to wake anyone as you make your way down the winding halls.

It’s like operating on autopilot, finding yourself standing before the clinic doors, keycard already pressed against the sensor. The doors slide open, creaking the way they always do, as if greeting you while you slip into the darkened hall.

The lights aren’t even turned on, but you manage to make your way to your work station with ease, a testament to how often you make the same journey time and time again. The thought that maybe you should get out more crosses your mind (fleetingly).

With a sigh, you fall onto the stool and flip the lamp switch on. Soft lighting fills the gap between yourself and the desk; at least now you can see your hands — the starlight filtering through the portholes really wasn’t doing you any favours.

Unlike in your quarters, the silence here is welcome. Stillness in the medbay is a sign of reprieve, when everyone’s been tended to and you finally get a chance to take a breath. The noise comes when the company returns and suddenly you have bleeding soldiers at your feet. That’s when you miss the silence.

It’s all too easy to wallow in self-pity being alone on Christmas. You know it really isn’t that bad — you’re lucky to even make it to Christmas. You have friends who were kind enough to include you in their plans and truly, you had enjoyed it. Yet, at the end of the day, the one person you want and love isn’t here. The fact that there’s nothing you can do about it is what brings you here.

You sink just low enough to start considering doing next week’s paperwork in advance, when the overhead lights flicker on. Your entire body tenses, feeling like you’ve been caught doing something wrong, when really, you’re probably in the one place you can be on the ship.

Immediately, you squint at how the harsh, white lights attack your senses. As you blink to adjust to the sudden change, a wave of irritation washes over you. Gritting your teeth and still turned away from the doors, you suppress the urge to yell at whichever poor soul had the misfortune of stumbling upon you.

The footfall approaches steadily and with each step the person takes, the heavy clunk and thudding of armour reaches your ears. The first thought that reaches you is relief that it isn’t your supervisor catching after hours.

The second thought is that this is a clone — all clones were definitely armour-free at this hour and probably in the barracks, which leads you to your third and final thought.

“Rex?”

Your voice is just barely above a whisper, unwilling to get caught being hopeful, in case you’re wrong. But you know you’re not. You’d recognise him anywhere.

Whipping around so quickly you nearly topple off your stool, it takes two seconds to register the man standing so starkly out of place in the medbay. It is Rex, and he’s finally home.

Hearing him chuckle breathlessly when you barrel into him cements the fact that he is here, he is alive, and when he wraps those strong arms around you, all those weeks of desperate longing is wiped away.

Rex’s hands smooth over your back as your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck. His hold on you is equally tight, squeezing you like if he didn’t, he’d wake up to the white skies of Hoth once again.

When you pull back, your hands fly to his face and graze the stubble peppering his jawline, a testament to how long he’s been gone. “I missed you, Rex,” you say, lips quivering because saying it aloud now that he’s back in your arms is very different to feeling it. Your eyes don’t leave his, and he seems content to do the same.

Rex can’t stop the grin that stretches his lips before he leans down to peck yours gently. “I missed you too,” he kisses you again, lingering just that much longer, “thought of you every day I was gone.”

He follows your gaze as you take him in, eyes travelling over his face, his neck and he can practically feel when you finally notice the dried blood disappearing down his collar, the scrape above his brow bone where his helmet failed to do its job. Rex knows you well enough to predict the second you’ll start fretting.

And fret, you do.

He regards you fondly as you start to usher him to sit, already turning to retrieve your supplies with the sole goal of patching him up. Only when you actually step away from him does he place warm but firm hands on your biceps, rooting you in place, a hair’s breadth away from his armoured chest.

“Come on, Rex, let me clean you up— I need to—” You begin to fumble with your words, thoughts rushing at you faster than you can get them out. “Let me make sure you’re okay, please?”

Rex’s heart constricts at the pleading in your voice. Your eyes are glassy as he runs a thumb over the furrow between your brows. “I’m okay, cyare, I swear,” he says, tugging you closer to rest his forehead against yours. Your shoulders sag in defeat, possibly exhaustion too – your heart’s been working double time.

“You can clean me up in a second,” he concedes, lips ghosting your forehead before he tucks your head under his chin. Neither of you see the way the other’s eyes flutter shut, revelling in how right it feels, despite standing in the middle of the deserted medbay.

“Just let me hold you for a while,” he sighs, feeling you nod beneath him. Both of you need this. You’re still reeling, in mild disbelief that all your wistful wishes have been heard and he’s actually back.

You stand like that long enough for your tears to dry, basking in the warmth you had both been missing since the second he’d stepped foot off the Resolute. You hum contentedly into his chest, aware that you’re no longer alone on Christmas.

Finally, Rex pulls back, tracing his gloved fingers down the side of your face. “What are you smiling at?” He questions, with an equally dopey grin. It’s a sickeningly sweet scene, one you’re glad only your eyes are privy to. Distantly, you wonder how Rex had known to come to the medbay.

“You, di’kut,” you murmur, stars filling your eyes with how unabashedly you’re staring up at him. Maybe it should concern you how easily your mood can flip with the mere presence of the man in front of you, but you truly can’t find it in yourself to care — you’re just so happy.

Rex looks away bashfully, a flush creeping up the exposed expanse of warm golden skin above his collar. He chuckles, a deep sound that makes your heart flutter, a near-Pavlovian response.

“Come on, cyare,” he says, taking your hand and pulling you back in the direction of your quarters. You let him, enthusiastically lacking in protest.

You watch Rex lead you down the winding halls, following the way he notices and admires the festive decorations adorning the walls. He chuckles at the 501st-coloured tinsel looped over a control panel. Rex listens dutifully as you fill him in on the activities he had missed while away. Midway through your vividly detailed retelling of Master Kenobi’s mortified face is when Rex goes still, his attention pulled elsewhere.

You follow his gaze and it doesn’t take long for him to drag you over to the arching doorway connecting the hangar to the rest of the ship. Rex steers and situates you with gentle determination; a man on a mission.

He laughs at your raised brow as your eyes flicker up to the spruce of mistletoe hanging overhead.

“This wasn’t here the last time I passed through.” You state questioningly, recalling your covert trek to the medbay.

Rex shrugs, gloved hand reaching up to rub the nape of his neck sheepishly, “Y’can probably thank Fives for this.”

You loop your arms around his neck with an incredulous giggle, “Rex, my love, you best believe I’m sending him my thanks and a gift basket for this.” Your lips trace over his as you speak, and watching his eyelashes flutter as he closes his eyes makes you thank the Maker for the thousandth time since he first returned.

Seasons don’t pass in space. Only now, you’re glad that time stands still aboard the Resolute, because that means you get to spend forever with your lips pressed to Rex’s.

When you break apart, Rex chases your kiss and punctuates it with one more, then another to your cheek. He memorises every detail of your face, not for the first time, mapping out your beauty and keeping it tucked away for the next time he inevitably has to leave once again.

Though, as you smile up at him and murmur a sweet “merry Christmas, Rex”, all thoughts of leaving are gone just as fast as they had come.

“I promised I’d be home in time, didn’t I?”

Fives is focused, sure, but the goofy smile on his face betrays any kind of intimidating military intensity he might have. The countertop is covered in scattered candies, gingerbread crumbs, powdered sugar, and dried blobs of icing.

His gingerbread house is just as cluttered — it seems like he won’t stop until every inch of cookie is covered in candy decorations. It’s not exactly messy, it’s just… full. There are icing icicles hanging from every feasible edge, a bouquet of lollipops sticking out from the chimney, and little squares of chocolate tiling the roof — which is then covered by a generous dusting of powdered sugar snowflakes.

You finished your gingerbread house a little while ago, and until now you’ve just been content to chat with Fives and watch him do his. But… you’re getting a little bored. He’s thorough in his design, and you think he’ll use up every bit of candy in your home before he’s done — so you decide to tidy up a bit.

On your way to the sink, you snag a peppermint swirl from the counter and pop it in your mouth.

“Excuse you!” Fives protests, his head snapping up from his work.

“What?”

“That happened to be a very important piece of my artistic vision,” he says in mock offense, “and you just wasted it!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say with a mouth full of peppermint. Then, just to taunt him a little more, you bite down on the candy with a crunch and chew it loudly.

In an instant, Fives has abandoned his intricate masterpiece and followed you to the sink, grabbing your waist just before you wriggle away.

“You’re a liar,” he teases. “And you’re wasteful.”

With a little laugh, you stop squirming and let yourself be held in Fives’ warm arms. There might have been an apology coming — until you run your eyes over the handsome face in front of you.

“I’m not the only one wasting stuff!”

Fives cocks his head. “What are you talking about?”

“I can see you’ve had a taste or two of icing…” You trail off as you place a palm on his cheek, thumb poking just under his bottom lip where a small dab of icing has crusted onto his goatee.

“It’s the best way to get it off my fingers!” he insists, reaching for his chin. “I didn’t know it would be this sticky.”

Sensing an opportunity, you catch his wrist before he can wipe the icing away.

“Well,” you murmur, eyes flitting down to his lips, “let me help you get it off.”

He looks a little confused at first, but by the time you close the distance between you, there’s a soft smile on his lips.

The kiss is sweet — and not just from the sugar on your tongue. It’s slow, gentle, and nearly motionless as Fives lets you pull him in. There’s nothing inherently special about it — it’s just a kiss, after all, and you and Fives have shared plenty of them — but somehow, you can feel your mouth spreading into a smile as the icing dissolves.

When you pull away, his smile has extended into a full-on grin.

“All gone?” he asks softly.

You nod, unable to keep a smile off your own face before smacking him playfully on the chest. “Yep. Now hurry up and go finish your house!”

“Okay, okay!” Fives laughs as he raises his hands in submission and walks back over to the counter. “You’re the one who distracted me though.”

You shake your head, filling up the sink with soapy water. “Where’s that ARC trooper focus?”

He doesn’t answer, but you’re certain he just rolled his eyes at you.

At the pace Fives is making progress on his gingerbread house, you expect to get through all of the dishes and start wiping down the counter by the time he’s done. That’s why, when he calls out for you only a few minutes later, you’re so surprised you think he must be joking.

“How does it look?”

Drying your hands on a towel, you turn to look back at the gingerbread house and figure out why he finished early. You hardly get a glimpse of it, a magnificent toothache just from looking at the amount of sugar on the house, before you’re distracted by something — well, someone else.

Fives stands with his hands on his hips, grinning as wide as you’ve ever seen him, looking positively pleased with himself. It’s still not a serious expression — and how can it be? How could anyone look serious when they have white icing smeared all across their upper lip and in the hair on their chin.

“You have something on your face again,” you smile, crossing your arms and waiting for him to come over to you.

“Oh, do I?” he asks, voice brimming with untethered glee. He takes the few steps around the counter towards you, and you have to bite back laughter at the sight of his face covered in sugar. “I didn’t notice.”

Fives puts his hands on your hips, just like before, his grin still as bright as the twinkling lights around your home.

“But, you know, since you did such a good job cleaning it off last time…”

Your laughter cuts him off as you take his face in your hands. The icing is hardening already, some of it starting to dry and crack on his skin, but you just look at his eyes for now — those dark, sweet eyes that look at you like you’re the centre of the galaxy, the thing that everything spins around. And really, to him, maybe you are.

You close your eyes and lean into him, his mouth soft and warm and sticky with sugar against your own.

It’s funny, you think as the sugar melts against your lips, that he would do this just to ask for a kiss. His playfulness warms your heart, but long after the icing is gone, you kiss him enough to reassure him that his lips are sweeter than anything else you’ve tasted.

------

'Who the fuck are you?'

The helmeted figure whips their whole body around, blue visor swiftly moving from their reflection in the mirror to you, and allowing you a better view of the armour they don. Armour that was evidently once white and yellow but now greyed and dull in colour.

'I can explain!' they manage quickly, hands flying up to show you they mean no harm. It takes a moment for you to recognise the voice, confusion lacing yours when you realise who it is.

'Gregor?'

He nods, slowly moving his hands towards the thick-looking helmet, gloved fingers framing the canvas of hash-marks as he pulls it off his head. He shifts the helmet under his arm, smiling at you shyly when he meets your wide-eyed expression.

'You cut your hair,' you point out, bewildered by the seemingly new man in front of you, freshly shaved and hair much shorter. You weren't even aware he had a razor.

Gregor shrugs, not particularly expecting that question considering he expected the armour would be of more concern. Still, he runs a hand through his hair with a nervous smile. 'You like it?'

'I do,' you stare at him a moment longer, appreciating the new sight of him, though you will miss the shagginess of his old 'do—not that that needs to be known.

Though, you still recognise the cute upturn of his lips, and the soft eyes he always greets you with, even with the new kit of armour.

Right.

You blink away your awe-stricken gaze, clearing your throat, 'So...what are you wearing?'

…

‘You’re shitting me. A clone captain?’

Again he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck, adorably awkward and still humble. 'Crazy, right?'

You and Gregor are now seated on the low table in the middle of his room, alternating his large bottle of red liquor between the two of you. You wipe off your mouth after another swig, passing the bottle back to him.

'Yes!' you laugh, leaning towards him to punch his shoulder, 'Knew you could do more than just dishwashing.'

Gregor returns your laugh, his plated chest shaking with him, but there's an uneasiness in the sound, a slither of tension that you can still see through the unfamiliar armour. His laugh dies down, and he sees the remnants of your amusement becoming replaced by concern as you anxiously bite your lip.

He sighs, setting the bottle on the ground and avoiding your gaze, 'I'm leaving tomorrow.'

'You're what?' you blink, trying to keep your voice level as you search for clarification, but you're unable to stop how unexpectedly betrayed you sound. 'Gregor,' you say sternly, 'look at me.'

The gears turn in his head, debating with himself as to whether he can handle looking at you right now; whether he could fathom leaving someone as breathtaking as you if he chose to look, or whether he could handle it if he saw hurt in your eyes, knowing it was him that hurt you.

'I can't.'

You huff, 'We have to talk about this.'

'It's not up for debate,' he pauses, the words come naturally but they feel so wrong, 'It's my duty.' He doesn't savour the bitter taste they leave in his mouth.

You scoff, 'You didn't even know anything about the Clone Wars until this afternoon, don't give me that bullshit about duty.' The word leaves a bitter taste in yours too. 'There's no war here, you're safe here, we're safe here.'

'I can't just do nothing,' he laments, regarding the erosion on the old plastoid armour, as if they will give him the sense of purpose he's been looking for.

'It's not your war, Gregor,' you plead.

'It's my brothers', which makes it mine,' he snaps his head towards you, making you flinch, 'I don't expect you to understand.'

Taken aback, you shuffle away from him, moving to the other end of the table. 'I really can't change your mind, can I?' You swallow, attempting to hold back your tears. You steady your breathing, ineffectively masking your grief, 'I won't stop you then.'

A mixture of relief and sadness overtakes his face. On one hand, he appreciates you coming to accept his immovable decision, and on the other, he's saddened to see you give up so easily, to see you letting him go so easily.

'Why aren't you fighting harder for us?' The words tumble out before he can think of stopping them.

You laugh, but he can tell by the way the sound is thicker that you're on the verge of tears. He looks at you quizically.

'Guess I'll just wait for another stranger to show up here,' you muse, though you're both aware that nobody ever really comes here, or stays. Maybe you should've known better.

Gregor doesn't laugh, but before you can gauge his reaction, he's crossing the short length of the table, on plastoid knees and all, and pressing his lips on yours.

You kiss him back fervently, not wanting to exchange any more words, the tears slipping from your closed eyes without your knowledge. He can taste them though, as they reach your lips and he pushes his tongue between yours, guiding the two of you around so he can gently lay you down on the table.

Gregor releases your lips, pinning your body under him as he lets you breathe. You lift your head up, seeking him out again, to which he only entertains you with a peck on the lips and a murmur, 'Let me take care of you.'

With your desperate nod, he spends an eternity between your legs, spreading them apart and bringing his hot tongue to your region of desire. He brings you over the edge time and time again, always patient and letting you rest between each high, but always eager to go again.

He sears himself to you, the sounds of his sopping tongue lapping away at your arousal are the only noise your ears can bother latching onto. You're intoxicated by the heat of him as he burns you between your legs. Seeking reassurance that it's him when you will yourself to look forward and meet his eyes, only to have your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he wrings another shuddering orgasm out from you.

It isn't until you're blindly clawing at him after another high, your hand trying to reach for his, that you beg him to fuck you. And when he turns you over onto your stomach, your eyes find the mirror again, and you remember that he's still wearing that armour. He fucks you slowly, grinding his length along your walls with his thickness. The edges of the armour are sharp and rough, but his grip is soft and stable, ensuring your comfort despite the unfavourable surface he's taking you on.

You can't take your eyes off the mirror. You're unsure whether he chose this position on purpose, maybe so that you can share the same memory of this even after he's left. You don't dwell on the thought, not when his eyes find yours in the mirror, blurred softness with that spark of desire, asking you to be with him now.

His name falls from your lips, and he loves the way it sounds, how you look when you moan it underneath his touch. You grip the edge of the table, and then he hears his name again, this time more hidden but more demanding of his attention.

'Gregor,' you moan quietly, 'Promise me - Promise me you'll come back.'

He feels you clamping down on him, the squeezing becoming more erratic as you uncontrollably head towards another high. It spurs him on. He wants to cum with you, anywhere you'd let him. He wants to feel you when he cums, and he wants you to feel him.

He debates on his answer, having the wisdom that wartime has no guarantees. But he's hopeful. You deserve everything, and if the galaxy won't give you that then he'll give you everything. And you know it - it's that knowledge that comforts you. You're hopeful because like you said, it's safe here, but he's gonna give it up to fight anyways. He deserves to come back because he is a good man, the sweetest and kindest man you know, even if you didn't know as much about him as you'd like. He will find his way back to you, so long as the galaxy keeps him safe.

'I promise,' he gasps, making eye contact with you in the mirror once again, pure sincerity in his eyes, no empty promises without meaning. Those soft eyes reassure your glazed ones, hazed by pleasure and love. 'I promise I'll come home to you.'