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"Damning Evidence" by Bleu Wales
It's 4am I haven't slept in two days and I wanted to write something for Luke. Noticed this month's challenge and thought I'd try a bit of a different style. No dialogue but lots of choppy sentences and everything's weird and confusing. I'm very tired.
I almost spelled "Lukeskywalker" in the summary. Also almost started this fic with "ah, there he is. that motherfucker. what a tool." Thought better of it.
I'm very tired. Please enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars.
Damn it, there he is.
You’ve spent your entire evening in the mess hall just to see him and, of course, the moment you choose to leave, he enters. Halfway out the door, you run into him — quite literally. He apologizes, even though it was mostly your fault for brooding in your thoughts and not paying attention. Then he invites you to eat with himself and his friends, but you’ve just ate and anyone else in the cafeteria would think you a fool for returning almost immediately. Though you hate to do so, you tell him you’ve already ate and that you needed to rinse out the bacta tanks, which isn’t a lie; you’ve been avoiding it all afternoon on the off chance that you might catch him for a meal. He expresses his disappointment and you part ways, he sending you a smile at the last moment that you barely catch in your peripherals.
Then he’s gone and the remaining goodness in your soul goes with him.
That damned smile. Those damned eyes. That damned laugh you can hear as you turn the corner. You wish you could make him laugh like that. Alas, you are a mere medical technician and he’s, well, him. The first time you met him in person was back on Hoth, when he nearly froze to death and you monitored his tank while he recovered, and he was unconscious for the most part.
From then on, you saw him periodically whenever he came into the med bay, which thankfully wasn’t often. He once needed his blood drawn for some routine tests and you were the lucky individual assigned to the task. You were embarrassingly surprised when he remembered you, even going out of his way to thank you. The medical droid overseeing the procedure asked if you’d like them to take over when you dropped your second needle in as many minutes. When you turned back to him from telling the droid off, he was giving you that smile. That damned smile!
2-1B quietly scoffed when you inevitably dropped your third needle. The CMO chewed you out for it later when the little droid tattled, and 2-1B told her that he, as a droid, would be better suited to such a task, as “irrational human emotions” would not deter him. The next day, 2-1B reactivated with an entire roll of gauze wrapped around his optical receptors. The egotistical ass.
After that incident, he made sure to smile at you whenever you passed in the hall, or, as if he were on some personal mission to induce myocardial infarction, would purposefully seek you out and invite you to dinner. You accepted, of course, but as you are a dreadfully shy person, the more flamboyant personalities of his friends often overshadowed your own presence. Eventually, it would just be you sitting across the way, observing everyone else interact. When the night grew long and you grew tired, you’d leave. No one objected.
Such is the life of a medical technician. Overlooked and thankless, even when he does his best to include you. There was only so much one man could do, you suppose.
You make it to the med bay, where the two new medical droids are already resting at their charge stations, while you cannot locate the CMO for the life of you. It’s Friday night, so you can assume she’s clocked out for the night, leaving you alone to clean out the slimy tanks. Great.
With that in mind, you turn off the lights and head in the opposite direction. You can withstand the hell you’ll get tomorrow morning for shirking your duties if it means not having to crawl into that icky, tiny space for at least another twelve hours.
The barracks are dark and quiet when you enter to retrieve your coat. Everyone’s either getting some extra shut-eye on their night off, or partying with friends. Be it your personality, or the fact that your comrades in arms are constantly putting themselves in the line of fire and thus leaving you with little time for social interaction, you find yourself without many whom you’d call a friend. Thus, you head out for a walk amongst the tall trees of Endor.
Faint laughter and the tinkling of glasses disappear as the outer doors of the base slide closed behind you, and you are ensconced in the vast, living silence of the forest around you. Nocturnal animals cry into the night, winter winds howl through the foliage, snow crunches under your boots. A single step into your walk, the doors hiss open, and you turn, fear twisting your innards as your mind automatically conjures images of the CMO’s stormy expression. Instead, you find Luke Skywalker standing there.
He makes a snarky remark about you skipping out on your responsibilities, to which you automatically reply with something belaying the fact that you do so all the time. He laughs and you trip over yourself, managing to forgo landing on your face by clinging to the nearest tree branch. Your cheeks burn anew.
He saw. By the Force, but you are an idiot. He doesn’t laugh, however, merely asks if you’re all right. Physically you are. Mentally, you’ll be beating yourself up over this for the next decade or so. You leave out that last bit when you confirm your okay state of being. Things fall silent again.
Luke drifts closer as you walk. You chalk it up to the narrow path, content to wallow in naiveté and self-pity for the time being. His hand brushes yours. You trip again. He catches you this time, commenting on your supposed clumsiness as he rights you. You don’t mention that it only happens when he’s around. He doesn’t let go of your hand.
You don’t mention that he could be leading you to your death and you’d comply without a care if he just held your hand. That would be weird wouldn’t it? He doesn’t mention anything about it, so neither do you.
He turns his head slightly and gives you that damned smile.
You finally find enough feeling in your facial muscles to return the gesture.
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