#quick-write

A drabble/scene/thing I wrote for the wonderful @ask-whistledixie because they’re making art for me and it’s wonderful. No real plot, just a sweet moment between Jesse and the reader :)

You're absorbed in a drawing – so concentrated the world outside doesn't even exist anymore – when you hear a voice behind you say, “Hey, d'you know where I could find my hot girlfriend? I just don't know where she's gone.”

You drop the datapad with a happy little squeak, and turn to throw yourself into his arms. “Jesse! You're home!”

“Nah,” he says with a wink. “Just your imagination, love. Not really here.”

“Oh, right,” you say, playing along. “Because, you know, it's totally not allowed and it would be very wrong for you to have a girlfriend.”

“Exactly.” He breaks into a smile and draws you in close for a kiss. “I'm actually back at the barracks sleeping the sleep of the just and innocent.”

You sigh happily, hands on the sides of his face. Everything just feels more right when he's here with you. “I missed you so much.”

He hums in response, closing his eyes. “You have no idea...it was hell out there, love. I couldn't even bring you back any chocolate.”

Normally that would sadden you, but the first part of his sentence stays stuck in your mind; you step back a little and search his face. “What do you mean, it was hell?”

No answer – which makes you immediately suspicious. “Jes, what happened?”

He sighs a very tired sigh and scrubs a hand down his face. “We took Umbara,” he says, starting with the good news at first. “But our General was a traitor and we...we lost a lot of brothers out there.”

“Skywalker?” you say incredulously.

“No, Krell. He's dead.”

“Good.” There's a savageness to your voice, clipped and brutal. Nobody hurts your boys and gets away with it. “You want me to beat someone up?”

“Hey, which one of us is a professional soldier?” he complains.

“I'm serious.”

“I know.” He sighs once more, but with the exhalation his shoulders lift; as he looks at you he seems less tired, less worn. “Can you just show me your drawings now and forget about it?”

You don't really want to let it go – but you can see he needs you to. So you find your earlier enthusiasm for your art, and pull him over to the datapad.

(Of course, love, I really hope she’s okay - I totally know what that’s like. Hope you feel better soon!)

It’s when you start snapping atcleaning droids that you realize: you need a rest. It’s not like thedroids care about being yelled at, but still – you need a rest. Youcan’t go on like this. Without a word to anyone, you throw down yourbroom and run from the deserted battle bridge.

The job of night janitor on a Jedicruiser isn’t exactly a prestigious one, but it gives you plenty ofquiet time. Usually that’s a good thing, but not now. Not tonight.

With a tired sniffle, you collapse ontothe bench in your ‘office’ (really just a closet with a chair) andtake the paper out of your pocket again.

By this time, the edges are wornragged, but the letters, written in the neat hand of a clone officer,are just as visible.

Your homeworld’s been invaded, and theSeparatists have taken the capital. Where your family is. Tears bluryour eyes and you lean your tired head back against the wall.

“Um, hello?” The voice is familiar(how could it not be) but uncertain. Gasping, your eyes fly open andyou hurriedly wipe the tears from your cheeks.

“S-sorry,” you sniffle, standingup. “I’m sorry, I know I should be working, I-”

“Hey, no, it’s fine,” the clonesays, stepping into the closet. He’s dressed in grey off-dutyclothes, and there’s a goatee on his chin and a number tattoo on histemple. “Don’t be sorry. You alright?”

You want to say yes, to say you’refine, thank you. But looking at him – kind eyes, full of concern –your face crumples with fresh tears.

He glances sideways, looking a littleuncomfortable – but then steps closer to you. “Shh,” he says.“Come here. It’s alright.” And despite the fact that you don’teven know his name, you’re perfectly happy to lay your head on hischest and let him hug you. You need a hug.

“I’m s-so sorry,” you mumble. “I’mgetting tears all over you – sorry, here -” You start to moveaway; he sets both hands on your shoulders.

“I, uh, I know I’m just a clone,”he says, “but is there anything you wanna talk about?”

You dry your eyes. “Just a clone? Whydoes that matter?”

“I -” he stops; sits down and patsthe bench next to him. “Never mind, I guess. So…what’s wrong? Idon’t usually find people crying in the closet in the middle ofsleeping hours.”

You sit on the bench beside him, andtake a shuddering breath. “Just…the war, I guess. My – myhomeworld, my family…”

Seeing tears threatening again, hewraps an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Arethey…”

He doesn’t finish the statement, but hedoesn’t have to.

“I don’t know,” yousay miserably. “That’s the problem. All I know is it’s beeninvaded, and I’m sure as hell not going to get news of my family wayout here.” You set your chin in your hands. “I’ll be alright. Whoknows? We might even head there if I’m lucky.”

Hedoesn’t offer advice – probably he doesn’t know what to say – butjust telling someone makes you feel so much better. You’d beenholding it in all day, and nobody noticed except the droids. You tellhim so, and he snorts.

“Well,I know that feeling,” he says. “Just…keep your chin up, Iguess. And…sorry, what was your name again?”

“Y/N,”you say with a watery smile. “I’m Y/N the night janitor.”

“Fives,”he replies. “ARC trooper.”

“Really?”Your eyes widen.

“It’s,um, not a big deal,” he says, clearing his throat. “Listen, Ineed to get some sleep before we land, but if you need someone totalk to again -”

“I’lltry to find you,” you finish. You stand and take up your broomagain. “Thank you…Fives.”

I seem to remember having a dream once. When I was a small child. My mother came to my bedside, told me she loved me, and said she hoped I’d have fun at school. That must have been a dream. We found her the next morning in the kitchen, those old-fashioned yellow-red Tylenol dripping from her mouth.

I haven’t dreamt since.

I often wonder what it’s like for those that do. Is it comforting, knowing that you’re still active, still conscious even after you shut your eyes? Or is it another interruption of a well-deserved rest?

This one sucks. It’s mopey, depressing. Pointlessly so. Let me start over.

Once upon a cliche, there was a happy pixie family that did happy pixie things. They sang together, drank the fresh morning dew off the grass, listened to punk-rock and bubblegum pop together without judgement. Then one day, Pretty Pixie #24 got addicted to heroin.

Wow, I’m fucked up. Is that what dreams are for? Expelling the built-up fucked-upness that generates throughout the day? Maybe that’s it, my valve is simply sealed shut. Alliteration always amuses.

Well, what do I do now? Go to sleep? PULL THE PLUG? We need new pornos!

Guess I’m still writing.

And stealing. “” - missed these. Primus - Spaghetti Western.

Hey, am I the same guy? You know, the one who kept moping about seeing shit out of the corner of his eye. Maybe I’m him. Later, or earlier. God, I hope not. He’s a whiney motherfucker. But I suppose I’m likewise.