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sithsecrets · 3 years

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five intimate moments | din djarin x reader

A chronicle of five moments that shaped the Mandalorian’s relationship with his one and only crew member.

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3.5 k words

Mentions: illness, hallucinations induced by a high fever, minor injury to the reader character, NO SMUT!

(This is my first attempt at a Mando fic so please have mercy!!!)

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When the Mandalorian says he wants to hire you as his first and only crew member, you’re taken aback to say the least. Your first impulse is to laugh and tell him that his joke is very funny, because what else could an offer like that be from a man like him? He’s entirely self-sufficient from the look of things, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the credits to buy services from others when he needs them. But one long look into the darkness of that visor tells you at once that what Mando’s said is no jest, tells you that he’s serious.

He tells you that he’ll cut you in ten percent if you help him out a little bit. It’s standard stuff, really, just ship repairs, navigation, and taking care of the baby. You’ve learned a lot under Peli over the last several years, you’ve definitely sat in the pilot’s chair a time or two, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have a soft spot for Mando’s weird little baby— so why not? Working for him would get you off this planet, and it would be a change of pace for sure.

Doubt sets in the night before you’re set to go off with the Mandalorian, though Peli waves your feelings off pretty readily.

“You’re being stupid,” she tells you bluntly. “He’s a Mandalorian. Just do as you’re told, help him with the kid, and let him keep to himself if he wants to. Everything’ll be fine.”

Peli’s words are of some comfort, though anxiety is still fluttering in your gut the next morning. You say your goodbyes to your mentor and the droids, and then you’re flying off in the Razor Crest on the way to somewhere.

The first day is strange as you try to pick your way around your new home, and you spend much of your time feeling as though you’re snooping around in someone else’s space. The Mandalorian is just as quiet as you thought he’d be, clanging around in his armor doing this and that while you try to make yourself busy. You run out of tasks quickly, however, and it makes you skin itch to sit idle like this.

You watch for nearly an hour as Mando fiddles with the mechanics in one of his arm guards, cursing under his breath through the modulator as he picks at this and that. You think you know what the problem is, but you’re not sure you’re brave enough to tell him that. Finally, though, you can’t let him struggle anymore.

“Let me see,” you declare, cringing as you realize your tone was more commanding than you’d meant for it to be. But Mando says nothing to this, letting you take hold of his arm without uttering so much as a sound. Just as you thought, there’s an issue farther up the guard, one he’d overlooked. A little soldering here, a change of wires there, and then the thing’s good as new again.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says, and you can feel his eyes on you through the visor.

“It’s what you hired me for.” You laugh nervously then, suddenly shy under the attention. “Gotta show you I’m not completely useless somehow, right?”

The Mandalorian stands, headed for the ladder on the other side of the room.

“Don’t call yourself useless.”

This is said without so much as a glance over his shoulder, and you find yourself rushing to explain for no apparent reason.

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did.” The Mandalorian pauses with one foot on the first rung, finally turning to look at you now. “You’re not useless.”

The Razor Crest’s interior, in the grand tradition of spaces owned and maintained by single men, is in desperate need of a tune-up. There’s a bit of clutter here and there, and the walls and surfaces and well, everything else could do with a good scrubbing. It’s a big project to say the least, but you think you can tackle it given enough time and supplies.

The perfect window for such an undertaking opens up just a few days after the idea strikes you. Mando’s got another assignment, and it’s brought you to a relatively safe planet nearer to the Outer Core. He’ll be gone a few days, or so he says, and you know already that the market in town will be the perfect place to get what you need.

You set about your task the same day the Mandalorian leaves to set about his, the baby secured to your chest in a makeshift sling. It’s a good thing you brought him, too, because his charm helps you score several bargains along the way.

Organizing everything takes almost a whole day by itself, but after that, the cleaning is easy. You scrub and dust and mop until everything sparkles, and then it’s time to do laundry and see if you can make some functioning garments out of the scraps you find in Mando’s small closet. The clothes he wears aren’t rags by any means, but a little patching here and mending there gives him two more shirts and another pair of pants to work with.

It takes two more days for Mando to come home after you’re done, and he notes the changes immediately. He stops dead in the little hall between the main hull and the place where he keeps his carbonite-contained quarries, looking to the left and then to the right very slowly. You can’t tell if he likes what you’ve done at first, his expression obscured by that damn helmet like it always is.

“I didn’t touch your weapons,” you declare, holding up your hands as if to ward off whatever anger Mando’s about to level at you. But he doesn’t get upset, doesn’t cuss or ask you what the hell your were thinking, so you think it’s safe to go on.

“I scrubbed the whole interior, organized some of the stuff you had laying around, and made myself a better place to sleep.”

You gesture to the pallet you’ve made for yourself on the floor, proud of how you’ve managed to tuck it out of the way. That was the problem with your old spot— Mando had to step around you a lot, and it was becoming impractical. This new space comfortable, too, plush thanks to some cushions and blankets you managed to score in the market. You even have pillows now, but this is something you delight in privately.

The Mandalorian stands silently before you, and you prattle on, showing him this and that.

“I got the baby a couple of outfits to wear, one for colder weather and one for warmer weather. I mended some of your old clothes and washed everything that was here, so that’s done.” You shut the door to the little wardrobe and go to Mando’s bunk, pushing the button so he can see inside. “The woman that sells upholstered goods in the market really liked the Child, so she gave me a great deal. I managed to get you a decent mattress, or something close to it, and a couple of new pillows. She fixed up your old quilt for me too, so I hope it’s warmer now…”

You trail off, words escaping you under the intensity of Mando’s gaze. He’s staring you down properly now, the visor trained right on your face.

“Why did you do all of this?” he asks, gesturing to his bunk, the wardrobe. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps you should have asked before you messed with his things, his sleeping space, and a wave of something not unlike embarrassment sweeps over you.

“I— Mando, I’m sorry, I should have—”

But the Mandalorian still isn’t cross, cutting you off before you can finish apologizing. “Don’t apologize for anything. This is… This is…” He stares at his bed for a long moment, searching for his words. “Thank you.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flutter, though you can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

The cough is innocuous enough when it starts, just a tickle in the back of your throat that comes on one afternoon. You brush it off as allergies, even telling Mando you’re fine when he asks about it that night.

Two days later, you’re bedridden.

Mando insists you’re absolutely burning up even as you shiver and shake beneath a virtual mountain of blankets, so cold that you think you’ll never be warm again. He forces you to sip on broth and water, though it all settles like sludge in your stomach. It must be bad, whatever you have— you must look bad— because the Mandalorian’s façade is slipping. He’s having full-blown conversations with the baby now, asking the little green infant if he thinks it’s a good idea to cut this hunt short, if he thinks you can be left alone for even just a few hours while he collects the last quarry. And though your body is aching, though you can practically feel the fever cooking your brain at this point, you tell him to finish the job. He made an agreement, and you know it’ll kill Mando not to honor it— you’ll be fine by yourself.

The two of you touch down on some planet in the Outer Rim, and then Mando’s practically running out of the ship. He promises to be back within the day, the sincerity in his voice managing to pierce the haze clouding your mind, and the ache in your bones makes you hope he means it.

Sometime later, you begin to hear a voice coming from the ‘fresher, one that taunts and teases you. It speaks nonsense on and off, but the clearer messages are frightening nonetheless. The voice says that Mando’s not coming back, that he’s left you here forever. Why else would he have taken the baby, hm? He doesn’t care for you, he’s not going to help you.

“Yes, he is,” you retort weakly, becoming more and more upset with each passing hour as this faceless thing continues to fill your head with words and threats. Somewhere in the very back of your fever-addled brain, you know that none of this is real, that all of this is a fever dream. But still, you weep and twist in your bed, scared that the Mandalorian really has abandoned you.

True to his word, though, Mando’s back in record time. You cry out for him the minute you hear footsteps inside the ship, and even the quarry grows quiet at the sound of your voice. Things are hazy after that, but you know that Mando comes to you after just a few minutes, promising over and over again that you’ll be better soon.

You and the Mandalorian and the baby fly somewhere together, this much you know, and Mando comes to sit on the floor with you once the Crest is in hyperspace.

“We’ll be there soon,” he tells you, voice tense and nervous through the modulator. He shushes you when you become upset all over again, emotions stirred by more taunting from the voice in the ‘fresher.

“Make it stop,” you cry, so very weak, “please make it stop. It’s so mean, Mando.”

“Hey, hey,” the Mandalorian cuts, pressing a gloved hand to your forehead. “Nothing can hurt you while I’m here, I won’t let it. I’ll stay right here until we get you to a doctor, I promise.”

And that’s enough to calm you for a few hours, it’s enough to help you fall asleep. You only wake again when you feel arms around your body, when the plushness of your mattress is no longer underneath you.

“Come on,” Mando says, talking to himself as much as he’s talking to you. “The medic will fix this. He’ll fix this, and everything will be fine.”

The medic the Mandalorian takes you to does fix this, but things are touch and go for a few hours there. Your fever breaks in just a couple of hours, thank the Maker, but you’re still very weak from being so sick for so long. You spend two days confined to a medbay bed before you’re deemed well enough to be discharged, and even then, it takes about a week before you’re truly feeling like yourself again.

It’s not until much later that you realize Mando never left your bedside once, and not for the first time do you find yourself wondering what something like that means coming from a man like him.

Mando’s been gone nearly two weeks, and the baby’s beginning to lose it just the slightest bit. He doesn’t talk, of course, not in a way you can understand, but you know he misses his father. If the Child isn’t in a sour mood, he cries, and you’ve caught him playing in Mando’s clothes more than once. It’s stressful, taking care of the baby when he’s like this, but you understand how he feels. You feel strange and almost embarrassed to admit it, but you miss the Mandalorian too. The rational part of you knows it would be best to chalk it up to proximity, but you know in your heart that it’s a little more than that. But just because you know this doesn’t mean you accept it, and you tamp down the feeling at every turn, focusing instead on getting the Child through this rough period.

At the sixteen-day mark, the baby refuses to sleep in his pram entirely, insisting instead that Mando’s bunk will do much better. And you would be fine with that, all things considered, if he wasn’t insistent that you climb in there with him as well.

“Bug, I know you want Mando to come home, and I know you like sleeping with me when he’s not here, but I’m not getting in there with you.”

The baby makes a most discontent noise, pulling on your fingers so hard that he tumbles back onto Mando’s mattress when he lets go. You tell him once again that you won’t be invading his father’s space like that, and then the Child is crying, sobbing so hard his little shoulders shake beneath his baggy outfit. I’m too tired for this, you think to yourself, and you finally give the baby what he wants.

“Alright, alright,” you acquiesce, climbing up into the bunk with a sigh. “But we’re not telling him about this.”

The Child is soothed at once, snuggling down beside you in Mando’s blankets as if he was never upset in the first place. You lie beside him in the dark, eyes already growing heavy as you breathe in the scent of the covers around you, the scent of the pillow beneath your head. All at once, you realize that this is what Mando probably smells like under all the armor and the weapons. Something about that only serves to make this whole thing feel even more like a violation, but you force that thought out of your mind.

At some point, you do drift off, only the be woken hours later by the feeling of a hand on your ankle. And there the Mandalorian is, standing before you in the flesh (and beskar) after all those days away.

“You’re in my bed,” he says to you, though there’s no edge to the words. It’s a simple statement of fact, a plain observation.

“We missed you,” is all you have to say in explanation, though it takes you about three seconds too long to realize which pronoun you chose to throw out in the front there. Now properly awake, you go to cover the mistake, but Mando cuts you off as he is so wont to do.

“I missed you too,” he says slowly, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Both of you.”

You realize that Nevarro may not be as safe as you thought about three seconds after a man with a vibroblade demands you hand over all the credits you have. You try to flee on impulse, your mind focused on protecting the baby—

Right up until the man catches your shirt, using the natural momentum of the action to propel you right into his clenched fist. Searing hot pain blooms behind your eye, spreading across the entire side of your face and into your nose. You’re completely stunned, unable to so much as form a coherent thought as your attacker moves to hit you again.

It’s like everything happens in slow-motion after that. One minute, your assailant is bearing down on you with murder in his eyes— the next, he’s grimacing, falling to the ground with thud. Two voices urge you to follow them now, and there are hands on your shoulders, your back. You’re so disoriented that it takes you a moment to realize that there are two fucking Mandalorians in your face, but when you do, the urge to fight back leaves you immediately.

Neither Mando is your Mandalorian, but you follow them anyway. They usher you into a tunnel system beneath the city, telling you to turn this way and that, and you do as they say without question. For some reason, they know you— they know your name, and they certainly know the baby because they ask about him the moment the lot of you are concealed. About a thousand questions swim around in your mind as you follow the Mandalorians deeper and deeper into the tunnels, but you aren’t given a chance to ask a single one.

Finally, you’re allowed to stop in a smith of some sort, coming to stand before a Mandalorian woman sheathed in maroon and gold. She regards you for a long moment, pausing over her work to take in the sight of your face, the way you clutch the baby protectively against your chest.

“Fetch him,” is all that she says, speaking to one of your saviors, and they turn and leave without a word.

A period of time elapses before you hear movement in the hall, though you can’t be sure how long. What you are sure of, though, is that you hear Mando’s voice drawing near, and the wave of relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming. You’re safe here, of course— anyone would be, surrounded by this many Mandalorians— but… but they’re not him.

“What happened?”

It’s the first thing Mando says to you, picking up the pace once he lays eyes on your injuries. You’re taken aback by how he crowds you, how he lets his gloved hands linger on your cheek.

“She was attacked by a chakaar,” says the Armorer, speaking from workspace. “He will not be bothering anyone again, though.”

Mando is satisfied by this, thanking his brothers and sisters for protecting you and his child. You thank them as well, though it’s hard to tell if the sentiment lands with the Mandalorians. The Armorer is the only one who responds at all, saying, “You are our brother’s cyar’ika,” she explains, confusing you with a word you don’t recognize, “we as his brothers and sisters must protect you. This is the Way.”

“The is the Way,” intones the group, and then you’re being ushered from the room, tucked under Mando— your Mando’s— arm.

The walk back to the ship is a quiet one, though the Child coos happily. He seems largely unaffected by all of this, even dozing off in his pram as though he’s had an uneventful afternoon. You’re glad he’s asleep, knowing it’ll give you and Mando some time to talk. You want to ask him about what the Armorer said, what that word meant. Mando’s cyar… cyar’ika? Is that what she’d called you?

But you don’t get the chance to speak a word, because Mando crushes you against him the moment you get the baby settled. His arms are strong around your back, the sensation of being held by him effectively knocking the air from your lungs. When he finally lets you go, every question you had stuffed in your mind is gone.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” the Mandalorian says to you, sounding more distraught than you ever thought possible. You shake your head at that— how could he possibly have known?

“I’m fine, Mando,” you press. “Don’t worry about my face, it’s—”

“I should have been there.”

The both of you just look at one another after that, and the Mandalorian doesn’t flinch away when you lay your hand on the side of his helmet. You know at once that everything is different now, but you need to hear it just to be sure.

“That woman—”

“The Armorer,” Mando corrects.

“The Armorer,” you begin again, speaking slowly and deliberately. “What did she mean when she said what she said about me? What is a cyar… cyar’ika?”

Mando’s hand comes up, and his glove is cool on your uninjured cheek.

“’Beloved,’” he says softly, “’cyar’ika’ means ‘beloved.’”

You think your heart’s going to beat right out of your chest, but you force yourself not to be calm.

“If you’re going to call me your cyar’ika,” you whisper, afraid you’ll shout if you don’t, “then what should I call you?”

“Din. You can call me Din.”

#my writing #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #cw: illness #tw: illness #cw: hallucinations #tw: hallucinations

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btschooseafic · 3 years

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Hey you, what’s your dream?

Pairing: platonic!oc x ot7

Details: manager!oc, predebut/idolverse, partial BTS World!verse

Summary: Aviva and Hoseok go clubbing with Soonyoung for her birthday. Aviva has a panic attack.

Warnings: This is a fictional story based on real events. The characters presented here are not the same as their real life counterparts. (TW: drinking, panic attack, cultural appropriation) [Masterlist]

Track 16: Afraid of the future

Doubt - Twenty One Pilots

“Scared of my own image, scared of my own immaturity

Scared of my own ceiling, scared I'll die of uncertainty”

January 4th 2013

To start off the year, Aviva posted a previously unreleased solo track Namjoon gave her. She thought the subject matter of the lyrics (“Time passes and I’m already in the 10th grade/ But I haven’t done anything so I’m worried about my future”) fit well with the troubled youth image the studio was going for.

“Come on… Get dressed…” Soonyoung whined, pulling Aviva away from her computer. “You promised!”

“I know, I know,” Aviva said. “Show me what you want me to wear so I can disagree, choose something you don’t want me to wear, and then find a compromise.”

Soonyoung’s birthday was on January 1st. This was a busy time of year, but she had managed to convince Hoseok and Aviva to sneak out clubbing with her that Friday as a belated present. Not that Hobi needed much convincing. Of course he loved dancing, but also, turning nineteen internationally this year, and able to legally drink, he was excited for the opportunity.

They started off the night going out for a drink with Yoongi, Jin, and Namjoon.

“You two look hot,” Yoongi said, bluntly as ever as he looked over the girls. Soonyoung was wearing a skin-tight green dress with pink pointy heels. Her hair was lightly curled, and her makeup was done up to the max. Aviva was barefaced as usual and wearing a black mini skirt, black tights, black boots, and an oversized black Green Day t-shirt.

Hoseok pouted. “Yah! How come you didn’t compliment me?”

Yoongi looked him over, nodded, and gave him a thumb’s up.

Hoseok blushed slightly. Namjoon laughed.

“Can we go into the bar before my break is up?” Jin grumbled.

Soonyoung leaned on Aviva, watching Namjoon and Hoseok down shots.

“Ah…I remember that age.”

“You’re literally only a year older than us!” Namjoon complained, his face flushed from either the alcohol, annoyance, or both.

“It makes a big difference sometimes,” Yoongi said wisely.

“Yeah.” Soonyoung nodded. “Respect your elders.”

“I should have the most respect, then,” Jin said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

“I just wanna go home,” Aviva muttered.

“Ah.” Jin smiled. “It’s Avi-yah saying that for once instead of Yoongi-yah.” Yoongi took a sip of his drink, grinned, and flipped him off. “Come, come, Avi-yah, this bar has some fun food too, let’s get something tasty, yeah?”

She squinted suspiciously at him. “You’re just bribing me cause I’m the designated driver, huh?”

“Also, he wants to eat more,” Yoongi put in.

“That also,” Jin agreed.

“Eh.” Aviva shrugged. “I’ll accept the bribe.” Aviva didn’t love drinking, or clubbing, but she loved her friends, and she didn’t mind tagging along with them, especially for a special occasion. She caught Jin’s eye. “Just remember you have work tonight, Jin-oppa.”

He groaned. “Why did you remind me, Avi-yah?”

“Skip and come dancing with us instead, oppa~” Soonyoung said, fluttering her shimmery mascara eyelids at him. Jin swallowed dryly. Yoongi snorted, refilling his hyung’s glass for him.

“Yah, leave him alone!” Namjoon said to Soonyoung.

“Are you sure he wants her to?” Yoongi said, smirking as he leaned on Namjoon’s shoulder.

Namjoon frowned and turned to Jin, his face serious.

“Seokjin-hyung, you wouldn’t choose Soonyoung-ssi over me—over Bangtan, right?”

Jin blinked at him. “Are you drunk already, Namjoon-ah? I thought your tolerance was higher than this…”

“I think these two got over-excited and overdid it,” Yoongi said, motioning at Hoseok at Namjoon. “Look at how red Hoseokie is.” He poked Hoseok on the cheek, laughing as Hoseok pouted.

“Well, we should go before he’s too drunk to dance,” Soonyoung thought, standing up.

“Not possible,” Hoseok said smugly.

“If you start puking all over the dance floor, you’re too drunk to dance,” Soonyoung told him. “That’s the point I make you go home and one of your boys has to nurse you all night.”

“…We all know it would be me,” Jin said, sighing. “Let’s just leave.”

Aviva dropped those who were working off at the office before driving the rest of them to the club.

At the club, Soonyoung and Hoseok pulled Aviva through the press of twisting bodies out onto the floor, sticking together as a trio.

“You’re improving,” Hoseok said in Aviva’s ear. She could just barely hear him over the thumping music. She opened her mouth to thank him, but no words came out. His smile fell and he stopped dancing. “Avi, are you okay?”

Soonyoung stopped swaying on the other side of them. She took one look at Aviva’s face and cooed softly. “Aw, baby. It’s okay. Let’s get you out of here.” She made a path through the crowd, careful not to touch Aviva or stand too close. Hoseok followed behind them, guilt and confusion twisting in his stomach. Out in the alleyway, Aviva took quick gulps of the cold air. “Can you count it out, Avi?” Aviva shook her head, her eyes tearing up as she breathed heavily. “Yes you can. Come over here by the wall…” Still without touching her, Soonyoung shepherded Aviva so that she was facing the wall, her palms pressing against the rough stone. Hoseok could see tears dripping down the side of her face, hitting the ground.

“Aviva…” He took a step closer to her.

“Hobi, it’s fine,” Soonyoung said firmly.

“Obviously, it’s not,” he growled. Aviva flinched. Hoseok took a breath, adjusting his voice to be softer. “How can I help?”

“Can you get her some cold water?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” He quickly slipped back into the club and came out again to find Aviva and Soonyoung sitting up against the wall, with their knees against their chests. Aviva was picking at a hole in her tights. Soonyoung was casually holding her pointy heels in one hand, texting with the other. Hoseok privately thought that only Lee Soonyoung could look so effortlessly cool squatting in a dirty alleyway.

Aviva didn’t meet his eyes when he handed her the water, but she drank. Hoseok was glad to see that her breathing appeared to be back to normal.

“…So,” Soonyoung said, after a moment of silence. “I’ve told Jin-oppa to come pick us up. He’ll take the train over and then drive us back.” Aviva’s eyes widened as she looked at Soonyoung, shaking her head. “No buts, kiddo, you’re not driving tonight.”

“…Okay,” Aviva said weakly. “Um, but, if you and Hobi want to stay and dance—”

“Hmmm.” Soonyoung made a bit of a face and looked at him.

“Can’t say I’m in the mood, for once,” he said honestly.

“Sorry.” Aviva stared at the toes of her boots.

“Hey.” He bent down, trying to catch her eye. “Nothing to apologize for, Avi-yah. I can dance whenever I want. Spending time with you is what makes my night special.”

“…Dork,” she muttered.

“Yeah, but I’m your dork,” he said, smiling at her.

Jin didn’t ask any questions. Maybe he’d been warned against it by Soonyoung, Hoseok wouldn’t have put it past her. Hoseok had about a million questions he wanted to ask, but every time he opened his mouth, he caught a glimpse of Aviva’s puffy eyes and decided to stay quiet.

“Is she going to be okay?” Jin finally asked, after he’d dropped the girls off at their place. Hoseok frowned.

“I don’t know.”

“Soonyoung-ssi said she would be, and she knows Aviva-yah better than anyone, so I guess we’ll just have to trust her on this one,” he thought aloud. “…I’ll make pancakes tomorrow, invite them over.”

“She might not be up to it,” Hoseok thought.

“Then I’ll activate my special delivery service!” Jin said, cheerfully undeterred.

January 5th 2013

Hoseok was somewhat surprised when Aviva agreed to come to breakfast at the dorm, although Soonyoung apologized that she had prior engagements. Hoseok was frankly a little annoyed at Soonyoung for abandoning Aviva after what had happened… but she looked a lot better than he’d expected her to when he met her on the street out front of the dorm.

“Ah.” He tilted his head. “You’re wearing makeup.”

She flashed him a peace sign.

“Just a little. Soonyoungie is just as good at skin care as Jiminie, so my eyes were barely puffy at all this morning! What about you and Joon? Are you hungover that badly?”

“Um, we’re fine. Just took some medicine when we woke up and drank a lot of water. Aviva…”

“…I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“No, that’s not what I…” He sighed. “You don’t owe me anything. But… I want to know, if you’re comfortable telling me.”

“Backyard?” She suggested. He nodded. They walked around the building and she moved past the yard, coming to sit up against a tree behind a bush. It was a secluded area that she couldn’t possibly have known about without scouting it out beforehand. It was a safe place, he realized, and he was touched that she was allowing him inside.

He sat next to her, keeping a little space between them. She picked at the grass, shredding it methodically. His fingers itched, and he mirrored her, with a twist. He plucked wildflowers and started twisting them together into a bracelet, like his older cousin had taught him to do.

He waited a while, and when she didn’t speak, he prompted. “So, last night…”

“I get panic attacks sometimes. They used to be a lot more frequent, but I’ve developed certain coping mechanisms… I was on medication at some point, maybe I need to be again, I don’t know.” She sighed.

“What caused it?” Hoseok wondered.

“Hmmm, abnormal brain chemistry? Me repeating the same bad patterns over and over again? Pure dumb luck? Take your pick.”

“No, I meant, um, last night, specifically.”

“Oh. You mean like, a trigger? There isn’t always one, sometimes they just happen, like if I’m particularly tired or stressed, but… yeah, bright lights, loud noises, and crowds don’t usually aren’t exactly my kind of thing.”

Hoseok frowned. “You’re living in Seoul.”

She shrugged. “Yeah. And I grew up in New York City. I like a busy city, even if it makes my brain freak out sometimes.”

“And you’re the manager of an idol group…”

“Ah.” She grimaced. “Soonyoung was concerned about that at first as well, but… I’m very determined, you know? And I do love music, it’s just I can be extra sensitive to sounds sometimes, so I can wear earplugs or headphones at concerts, I mean, not to block out the sound entirely, but just… lessen the intensity a bit.”

“I’m sorry for pushing you out onto the floor.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t know. I’ve done my best to hide it, actually…”

His brow furrowed. “But Soonyoung-ah knew.”

“I told her I wanted to try,” she said to him. “That’s why she was more forceful than she would usually be. She would never make me do anything against my explicit wishes, she’s Soonyoung.”

He sighed. “Can I… can I learn things like, like how she was helping you last night?”

Her eyes widened. “Hobi, that’s not your responsibility—”

“I want to! I’m supposed to be your hope, remember?” He held out the finished flower bracelet to her.

“Okay.” She laughed, sliding it onto her wrist. It was a perfect fit. “Okay, I’ll send you some links. And I have to talk to Jin-oppa too, thank him. But…” She chewed at her lip. “Can you keep this quiet from the others for now?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” he said. “But you do know secrets are really hard to keep in this group.”

“I know. I should probably tell them, in case it happens again…well, it will happen again, but if it happens in front of any of you, and worse case scenario if it happens while we’re working…”

“If you say you’ve got a handle on it, I trust you,” he said. “But I still want to be there for you, for extra support.” He looked at her. “I really want to hug you right now… is that okay?”

She opened her arms.

In the dorm, she seemed as cheerful as ever as she ate Jin’s pancakes. Hoseok did think the others must have realized something was up, though. Yoongi took one look at her and piled extra bacon on her plate, and then actually got up to make her a cup of coffee just the way she liked it. Namjoon just squeezed her shoulder, noting when she stiffened, and then intercepting Tae zooming over to her for his usual greeting hug by wrapping his arm around the young man’s shoulders and ruffling his hair affectionately. Jungkook tilted his head, studying her from across the table, and then started telling her and Tae that the new issue in a comic they all liked to read was coming out soon.

Jimin sat down on her other side, reaching out to hold her hand. Hoseok caught her eye, silently asking if she needed help, but she shook her head.

“What’s this?” Jimin wanted to know, lifting her hand delicately as he studied the flower bracelet. She smiled.

“Just Hobi being cute.”

“Ah, what else is new?” Jimin shrugged. He studied her. “But you know what would look good with that makeup and that bracelet?”

“…What? You know I don’t do makeovers, Jiminie.”

“I know, I know.” He waved his hand. “Not a whole makeover, just… can I braid your hair, please?” He pouted. Surprisingly, she nodded quickly.

“Jen, Soonyoung and I used to braid each other’s hair,” she said as he squealed and dragged his chair so he could sit behind her.

“Really?” Jungkook said, looking as interested as he always did when Jenny was mentioned.

Slowly, Hoseok saw her relax against Jimin, and even give him a kiss on the cheek when he finished as a thank you.

“You look pretty,” Tae said. She made a disagreeable noise. “Fine, handsome then.”

“Yah! That’s my thing!” Jin protested.

“I can’t be handsome too, oppa?” Aviva pouted at him.

He took her hands in his.

“You can be the second-most-handsome, Aviva-yah. I will train you in my ways.”

“Thank you, teacher!” She bowed and everyone laughed.

Hoseok tried to act like his normal self, teasing Jimin about his red face, and asking Aviva if he could get a kiss too.

She shrugged and leaned up to give him a peck on the cheek.

“Ha!” Jimin said. “Now your face is all red, hyung!”

“What?” Hoseok touched his face. “No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is!”

After the pancakes were finished, the kitchen emptied except for Jin and Aviva, who stood side by side at the sink, Jin washing and Aviva drying.

She thanked him for last night, and for the pancakes, and gave him an abbreviated version of the explanation she’d given Hoseok.

Jin listened quietly, the silence stretching after she finished, as if he were making sure that she’d said everything she wanted to.

“Thanks for telling me,” he said, smiling gently at her. “You have given me a great sense of peace at times, please let me know if there’s anything I can ever do to do the same for you.”

“…You already do,” she said honestly. “With your mediation between the group members, your puns, and cooking.”

He suddenly put his dish down and walked over to the freezer. He pulled out a bag of frozen peas. “I’m pea’s keeper?”

Aviva snickered. “Extra points for the English!” She picked up a piece of fruit from the fruit bowl. “I a-peach-iate you.”

He blinked and then burst into laughter.

“I knew I liked you!”

Over the next week, Aviva and the boys had brainstorming sessions with the leaders of the stylists teams in order to formulate their looks for the debut. Namjoon’s makeover was finished first.

He wanted Aviva’s opinion, so she met him in the office hallway near the dressing room.

“Your hair!” Aviva exclaimed, staring at Namjoon’s shaved sides and faux-hawk.

“Um, Eunjung-ssi suggested something dramatic to grab attention,” he said. “Honestly don’t know if this makes me feel like less like myself, or more. Does it at least look okay?”

“Kind of cool, kind of lame?” Aviva said uncertainly. Namjoon frowned.

“So... neutral?”

“No, ah, I think you make it work somehow, because it’s you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cause you’re...” She motioned at him. “I don’t know, you always look good, even when you’re wearing things that don’t suit my personal tastes.” He stared at her. “What?”

“You think I’m good looking?”

“Well, yeah, you all are. That’s kind of why the marketing department wants to capitalize on your image so much.”

“...Right.” He sounded a little disappointed.

“Can I touch it?”

He blinked, and then nodded, leaning down. She rubbed the fuzzy shaved part of his head, smiling a bit.

“So...” He smirked. “You ‘sort of’ like the way it looks, but you definitely like the way it feels, huh?”

She nodded. “It’s a nice texture. I could get addicted to that...” She finally let go of him. He stayed leaning over for a moment, his face close to hers, his eyes searching hers for... what? “Maybe I should shave part of my head? But I’m not sure I could pull it off...”

He chuckled. “I think you’d look cool.” He tucked her hair behind her ears, his fingers continuing down her jawline before his hands came to cup her face.

“Namjoon…?”

He abruptly drew back, straightening up, his face pink.

“Sorry! That was probably too much. I know you don’t like being touched so much, I shouldn’t have—”

“Namjoon,” she said his name again, holding her hand up to stop him. “I don’t mind. I mean, maybe in the past I would have... back when Soon and Jen were the only ones to really touch me... but you guys touch me all the time, and I don’t mind, for some reason. It feels nice, most of the time.”

“So, you don’t mind when Hope and Taehyung-ah hang off of you?” Namjoon wondered.

“Most of the time, no.”

“And when you do mind, you’ll tell them?” He asked. She hesitated. “You have to tell us if we go too far. You’re a young woman surrounded by men most of the time... we should respect you and your boundaries.”

“I appreciate that,” she said. “Although I don’t think gender is that much of a factor for me.” He looked a little confused. “Never mind.” She grimaced. “I’m still figuring all that out.” She took his hand in hers. “Why don’t you show me your new wardrobe, hmm?”

He swallowed and nodded, his face brightening into a dimpled smile as he led the way.

Aviva startled as her phone buzzed. She sat up a bit, wiping drool from the corner of her mouth. It looked like she’d fallen asleep on the couch, reading some article on her computer.

She glanced at the text notification.

Joon: ‘r u up?’

She sighed. ‘Sort of. Why are you?’

‘Can’t sleep. So I recorded another vlog.’

‘Oh, are you addicted to it?’

‘No. People keep saying I’m awkward, so I want to improve.’

‘Aw, your awkwardness is part of your charm.’

‘…Thanks? Um, anyway, I was wondering, if you were up, if you could watch it and lmk if it seems too awkward. But if you’re too tired, just tell me some other time.’

‘I can look,’ she texted. ‘But I’ll probably try and go to sleep after that. And so should you.’

‘No promises, but I’ll do my best.’

‘That’s all I ask.’ She clicked the link he sent and snorted. ‘First note: outfit choice very interesting for a 2 am video.’

‘Interesting good or…?’

‘I think it’s cute, I think Joonho-ssi would be happy with it.”

‘Who?’

‘The leader of the clothing stylist team! Park Joonho-ssi!’

‘Ah, right.’

‘Also, I don’t think you’ve gained weight, and if you have it’s fine. If you’re hungry, you should eat, although, maybe not this late… drink some water or something and ask Jin to make you a nice breakfast in the morning.’

‘Okay, mom.’

‘Shut up, you’re the mom today.’

‘…Sure I am.’

‘Oh, and the little ‘fighting!’ exclamation at the end is really cute. I think it’s a solid vlog. You’re getting the hang of this, Joon.’

‘Thanks for indulging me and watching it this late.’

‘Anything for you. But if you need anything else, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’m going to sleep.’

Aviva was very excited to help film a small music video for a song Namjoon and Yoongi adapted from Kendrick Lamar's Swimming Pools. But when she arrived on set and saw Namjoon’s hairstyle, she paused.

“No.”

“No?” He looked at her, touching the braids coming out of the center of his head.

“Are they supposed to look like dreads?”

He blinked. “Huh, I guess they are. I hadn’t thought about that…”

She let out breath. “Look, I know rap’s really popular right now, and a lot of idols are trying to look like famous rappers, but, this…” She motioned at him. “…Is not cool. You’re not black. You can’t wear your hair like that.”

His brow furrowed. “I hear what you’re saying, and I can tell by the way you’re saying it that it’s important to you, and I trust your judgment, but… I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m not the one needs to be apologized to…” She took another couple of deep breaths. “Imagine if, after years of making fun of the way you dress and look, somebody suddenly decides that it’s cool when they do it.”

He tilted his head, and grimaced. “Ah, okay.”

“It’s… an oversimplification, but, that’s the gist of it.”

“Okay, so let’s talk to the stylist and get her to change it.”

Lee Eunjung, the head of the hairstylist team, had done Namjoon’s hair today. Eunjung was in her late thirties, so Aviva worried she would be set in her ways, but was relieved when Eunjung listened carefully to Aviva’s explanation and grimaced.

“I see what you’re getting at, and I’ll try to do better in the future, but unfortunately, it’s too late for this time.”

Aviva frowned. “…What do you mean it’s too late?”

“This hairstyle’s already been approved by Chief Kyungso,” Eunjung explained. “If I have to submit a new one, it’ll take some time.”

“And we don’t have this space booked for that long,” one of the crewman said behind them. “Today is our only day of filming.”

Namjoon looked at Aviva. “What do you want to do?”

She shook her head. “It’s your hair. You should make the choice.”

“…Let’s film the video,” he decided. “If I look back on it and regret it, that will be on me, but the boys have been working hard for this, I don’t want to take it away from them.”

#bts #fanfiction #jung hoseok #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #bts world #idolverse #bts predebut #manager!oc #ot7 #bts x oc #bts fanfiction #hoseok x oc #seokjin x oc #namjoon x oc #my fics #hey you what's your dream

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panda-noosh · 5 years

Text

in the morning, we will see {Pidge x Reader}{The Rockstar Series}

The Rockstar Series: a series of fics documenting rockstar!Voltron falling in love.

Words: 9.9k

Summary: What a coincidence that you and Pidge are both having an identity crisis at the same time; the only difference is, Pidge is a rock star, and you’re a bartender.

Genre: angst

Warning: mentions of anxiety - mentions of drinking

Notes: masterlist - buy me a coffee! - this got so ... personal? like i projected my own issues with anxiety into this character and i don’t really know how it happened yeet.

---

Pidge didn't mean to become a rock star.

This is a fact that not many people believe when she tells them. They question how a person can be thrown into such a world entirely by accident. It's the kind of job that requires commitment, a life-long dream, a lifetime of experience and wishing. In the movies, that's always how it's laid out – the person picks up a guitar one day and immediately their one goal in life is to get on stage and make music.

Pidge wasn't like that.

She picked up her guitar at the age of nine just for the fun of it, and that was all it remained for a good portion of her teenage years; she would learn new songs, smile when she mastered them, and then swiftly move on to something else. She never itched to get her fingers back against the frets, never woke up in a cold sweat because she just had to write this specific riff down on paper.

To Pidge, music was a casual hobby that she used to fight off boredom.

However, she had friends who were of the opposite side of the spectrum, Lance being the most passionate of them all. For as long as Pidge could remember, Lance McClain was trying to form a band. He sang, but Pidge always had the impression that he cared more for the money and the female attention than anything else.

Nonetheless, she tried to support him. When he asked, she would provide a nice little tune for him to sing along to, but she never meant to fall into his trap of actually starting something. She just wanted to help out, but by the time she'd turned seventeen, Lance got a hold of her and had no plans of letting go.

That was how she came to be part of Smokey Saturdays.

Her dreams of becoming a programmer were dismissed. She dropped out of college, and her parents supported her decision, because at least she wasn't landing on soft ground. She had a fall-back plan, no matter how unsteady it was in the beginning. She led them to believe that this was what she wanted, what she'd always wanted, and they'd let her go with little to no argument.

Now she toured.

She was away from home for months upon months out of the year, dealing with her bandmates bullshit and losing herself to music she didn't even really like; she was an indie listener at heart. This rock vibe that Lance clung onto was something she would never get used to, but something she suffered through because it meant getting her pay check at the end of the day.

This was a difficult lifestyle to live. It wasn't the kind of thing someone just got used to, considering there was no routine to really get accustomed to in the first place; it only got worse with time, and Pidge was starting to feel those effects.

She sat with her feet up on Keith's bouncing knee, tuning her guitar as she waited for Lance to return with the news of when they would be going on stage. The dressing area was quiet, Hunk humming to himself in the background, the soft blow of the fan in the corner being the only thing filling in complete silence. Keith was never much of a talker, and Pidge was too far in her own brain to really start a meaningful conversation.

She wanted to go home.

She hated thinking like this; it was pointless. She knew she would never go home, not whenever she'd promised everyone else her complete, undivided attention. Despite knowing this, she couldn't quite keep her head out of the gutter, and it was putting a major damper on the mood. She must be the only person in the world who could sit back and listen to thousands of people cheer her name, and still feel down in the dumps.

Lance arrived with a flourish, bursting through the door with a grin on his face and a hop in his step. Pidge looked up from her guitar; he'd clearly been given good news.

“We can play next!” he exclaimed. “Is everything ready?” He pointed at Pidge, raising a brow. “That guitar of yours tuned?”

Pidge held it up as way of response. Despite that not really giving Lance a viable answer, he gave her a thumbs up anyway.

He span on his heel and slapped Hunk on the back. “You ready, big guy? We've got two new songs to perform tonight, and your drum solo's need to be perfect.”

“They always are,” said Hunk, before chuckling nervously. “Is there a lot of people out there, do you think?”

“At least a thousand,” Keith replied casually. Pidge always thought Keith had a bit of social anxiety because of how quiet he was, but the size of crowds was never something that bothered him.

Hunk paled. “A thousand?”

“One. Thousand,” Lance whispered, bursting into a grin. “We're really going up in the world, lads. They're out there waiting for us, and we have to deliver!”

“Which we will, considering you've had us busting our asses for two weeks straight,” said Pidge.

Lance continued to smile.

Pidge sighed, looking back down at her guitar. She forced herself to at least be grateful – this life she was living was unbelievable, and it wasn't as if she didn't appreciate it. Every night she asked herself how she'd gotten so lucky, what she had done to stumble into this lifestyle without even really needing nor wanting it.

But there were some days when she just wanted all of it to end. There were some days where she just wanted to breathe.

---

If this crowd were to get any larger you'd. . . you'd. . . .

You put your head in your hands, blocking out the sounds of the outside world for the time being.

Some days, you just wanted to breathe.

Being an adult was tasking. You'd learned this the hard way; after going through multiple job interviews, being too nervous to really fit for any of them, you'd finally been offered a job as a bartender – the least you job anybody could possibly conjure up.

In your desperation, you'd said yes.

Listen. It was the only choice you had. Things were expensive these days, and as you were thrown into adulthood entirely against your will, you were coming to realise that money was genuinely a thing you needed to take into consideration from time to time. Rent wasn't going to pay itself. Food wasn't just going to magically manifest in your cupboards; you needed to work for that kind of thing.

The band – Smokey Saturdays – was announced. You nearly rolled your eyes, still not looking up from the cocoon of darkness your hands provided. They had it so easy; they were living their dream, able to perform in front of adoring fans and get paid for it – you thought it was unfair.

What did they do to deserve such an easy ride through life? Who had they paid?

Certainly not you, that was for sure. You were too busy working nights at a bar that gave you so much anxiety it was almost dangerous.

Looking up, you noticed the crowd had started moving. You shuffled a little closer to the shelves behind you, analysing; this was perhaps the largest crowd you'd ever seen in this place. It was almost too large, some people being pressed into walls as the excitement started kicking in and people started jumping around, waving their hands above their heads. The music started, and you nearly scowled at the volume of it – was the crowd cheering not good enough for them? Did they have to have the added ruckus of bad music going on in the background, too?

The stage was almost entirely obscured by the people jumping in front of it. Craning your neck, you were just able to make out who was playing – all of them were so young. The lead singer was already jumping up and down, yelling the absurd lyrics into the microphone. Behind him, two men were bobbing their heads, less mobile but still enthusiastic.

And then there was the girl.

You'd read about her quite a bit – it was difficult these days to not come across some kind of article on Smokey Saturdays and it's members. They were growing quite popular, but Pidge was always the one you took the most interest in. Now, don't get it twisted – you didn't obsess over her. You didn't sit there and read through her biography, screenshotting her Famous Birthdays page – but you would admit that you spent the most time reading about her when she popped up on your phone.

She came from a fairly small family, from what you'd read. She was intelligent, had a history in both piloting and computer mechanics, as well as a fair bit of engineering. Overall, she was a very ambitious person, and it was clear she enjoyed learning.

Not once had you read anything on her love for music.

People shoved that to the side, it seemed. Whilst Keith, Hunk and Lance's biographies were filled with exclamations about how they'd started music at a young age and had always known this was the path they were destined to take, Pidge's was always more focused on her love for. . . other things.

Looking at her new, you were beginning to see why.

It wasn't as if she wasn't all in it. She was. Her fingers drifted easily up and down the neck of the guitar, and she was playing beautifully – there was no doubt in your mind that she was a talent when it came to music.

However, she was almost entirely stationary, bar the slight dip of her knees and bob of her head here and there. Just looking at her made you feel bad for her.

“Excuse me.”

Your head snapped up, fake smiling plastering on your face immediately. The man standing in front of you looked slightly annoyed, and you silently cursed the distraction Miss Pidge Gunderson had caused. You needed to shake her out of your mind – she was probably living her dream. You were just thinking much too deeply into things.

However, even as you served the man and apologised for your daydream, you couldn't help but wonder what was really going on behind the scenes – you desperately wanted to ask, but speaking to a celebrity was so far out of the realm of possibility that you nearly laughed at the mere thought. You'd learned not to get your hopes up – life never really went the way you wanted it to.

---

Pidge needed a drink. Desperately.

She ordered her manager to get her a couple of cans whilst she snuck out round the back. Lance was back on his bullshit, yelling his congratulations and over-enthusiastically thanking the staff at the club for letting them perform, as if the managers hadn't been hounding them for weeks to play a gig; they just wanted the attention.

After receiving her drinks, Pidge pulled herself up onto the industrial bins round the back of the club. Inside, she could hear the music pounding against the concrete walls, but it was clear the club was clearing out now that Smokey Saturdays had finished their set; it was getting awfully late, and Pidge wanted nothing more than to get absolutely wasted before going home and sleeping off the grimy feeling that had taken over on this particular night.

She inhaled. The night sky was pretty today. It reminded her of the days she used to spend in the library, hunched over a notebook or a laptop, or a textbook. She used to dive so deep into the pages that she lost track of time, and when she looked out the window after what felt like only minutes, the stars were blinking back at her, a warning that she needed to get some sleep before her body gave out on her.

The memory made her smile. She wanted to relive them. Nowadays, the only reason the stars gave her warning was because she was sat up late writing songs, or Facetiming Matt, or drinking until she forgot the simple mistake she'd made on stage that day; now, her reason for drinking was purely because she didn't want to feel guilty about the fact she didn't enjoy the show she'd just put on.

She emptied her first can and tossed it to the ground.

The door closed, startling her. She turned, glancing over her shoulder to see you standing there.

You were clearly startled, a black bin-bag in your hand, eyes wide and jaw open. Pidge raised a brow, cracking open her next can of beer before ushering you forward.

“You can do whatever you came to do. This is public property.”

“Sorry.” Your voice was quick. You ducked your head down, scampered forward and started plucking bits of rubbish from the floor.

Pidge tilted her head, swinging her legs as she watched you work. A tiny stab of guilt formed in her chest when she watched you pick up the can she'd just thrown on the floor.

“You work here?” Pidge wasn't entirely sure why she cared. She just wanted to start conversation.

You nodded. Clearly, you didn't have the same attitude.

“Hm. Did you see the show?”

“Yes,” you mumbled. “You did really well.”

“Do you listen to a lot of rock music?”

You paused.

Pidge grinned round the lip of her can. “No?”

You shrugged. “Not . . . Not particularly.”

“Nah, don't worry,” said Pidge. “Me neither.”

You narrowed your eyes, glancing at her over your shoulder. Pidge met your eyes, and immediately you looked away, getting back to the job you were assigned.

You were obviously a timid little thing; in Pidge's drunken state, she found something endearing about that. Most people would be trying desperately to impress her, but you seemed like you barely even had time to talk to her.

That was a very, very pleasant change.

“So what do you listen to?” Pidge asked.

“I like all sorts,” you replied. To Pidge, this was just a way to drop the conversation.

“Name me an artist you listen to,” she pushed. “I'll tell you if I like them or not.”

“Smokey Saturdays.”

“You don't like our music. You're only saying that to impress me.”

You winced, caught out. “Hozier.”

Pidge's eyebrows shot up. “Hozier, hm? I like him. What's your favourite song?”

You paused, hand hovering over a glass bottle as you thought. “Someone New.”

“That's quite old. 2014, I believe.”

You shrugged. “I don't think it gets old. I can listen to it on repeat.”

Pidge nodded, leaning back on the top of the rubbish bin. She watched you work, before slowly reaching into her back pocket and tugging out her phone; she was in a weird mood this night, and for some reason, this seemed like a good idea. She pulled up her Spotify app and put Someone New by Hozier on.

You shot up, turning to look at Pidge with wide eyes. Pidge simply grinned, holding the phone out as if to help you listen better, despite it being clear you could hear every word. Pidge watched you swallow, and felt a sense of pride at the fact she was the one who had made you so suddenly. . . surprised.

“Uh. . . Yeah,” you muttered. “It's a good song.”

“Have you ever listened to Oh Wonder?”

“A few of their songs. They're not one of my favourites, but I like them.”

“You should listen to Superlove by them – it's really good. Different to what they usually put out.”

Again, you only humbled Pidge with a small nod. It didn't tell her much; you were back to picking up the litter, not looking back to give Pidge a glimpse of your expression. She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much – perhaps it was the drink in her system. Maybe it was just because she was a rock star – she'd grown to thrive off of attention from others, even if that person was a strange bartender she'd never even spoken to before tonight.

Nonetheless, you'd somehow piqued her interest; it was strange how Pidge had met hundreds of famous celebrities, thousands of fans, so many other well-known names, and none of them knew how to capture her attention like this.

“Have you got a name?” she asked.

“Y/N,” you replied. “Just Y/N.”

Pidge raised a brow. “Okay, Just Y/N – why have your managers got you out here picking up litter? Surely you're more helpful behind the bar.” Pidge stuck out her bottom lip, furrowing her brows. “If I'm not wrong, I'm pretty sure that's where I saw you earlier on.”

You jerked up. “You saw me?”

“Yeah. You were trying to hide behind some of the shelves when we were playing.” Pidge grinned teasingly. “You really hate our music that much?”

You bit your bottom lip, looking back down at the bag in your hand. “I just get nervous when things get too loud.”

Pidge took pause with this comment, a rush of fresh guilt crashing down upon her. She hadn't taken into consideration that maybe you struggled in social situations – had she been making you uncomfortable this entire time?

She slowly sat up, pulling her knees into her chest. “Sorry. I didn't . . . If you want me to stop talking to you, I don't mind. I can go inside and leave you to your work.”

You were quiet for a moment. Pidge was sure she'd ruined it – you were going to ask her to leave and Pidge would be forced to go back into the building and face a life she was no longer sure she really wanted to live. She'd found herself enjoying the little bit of normalcy a conversation with you had given her.

“You can stay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

Pidge tilted her head. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” you mumbled, not looking up. “Tell me a bit more about your band.”

Pidge bit her lip, staring at the back of your head. You continued to work, and there was something about the casual atmosphere that made Pidge feel comfortable. She leaned back on her hands, taking yet another swig of her drink before she said, “It's really not all it's cracked up to be, you know.”

“No?”

“Not in my head, anyway. I enjoy performing, don't get me wrong, but I've never been much of an outgoing person. I prefer to keep things fairly private.”

“You can keep your life private and still be a rock star, you know.”

Pidge scoffed. “Easy enough for you to say. You don't have cameras following you around everywhere you go.” She swigged her beer. “Or a Lance McClain forcing you to post on Instagram every two seconds.”

You snickered. “No. I just have famous celebrities talking to me whilst I do my work.”

Pidge grinned round the lip of her can. “I offered to leave and you said no.”

“I'm not saying it's a bad thing.” You glanced at her. Pidge was certain she glimpsed a tiny smile. “I'm just saying it's bizarre.”

“Yeah, well. I'm nothing special.”

“I'm still slightly awestruck.”

“Was that why you were so shy when you first walked out here?”

You shrugged. “That, or I was just embarrassed. You're up there in your million pound outfit and I'm here, picking up other people's litter.”

Pidge frowned, raising a brow as she looked down at the raggedy grey shirt and jeans she was wearing. “Hardly a million dollar outfit, Just Y/N.”

“Better than my alcohol-stained uniform.”

Pidge scoffed, and before she could think better of it, she tipped her can of beer straight down the front of her shirt. You gasped, shooting upright before you furrowed your brows and tilted your head in confusion. Pidge merely grinned, downing the remainder of the drink. She sat up straight, tossing it in your direction; it landed right in the bin bag.

“Kobe!”

“Why did you do that?”

Pidge slumped back, lazily shrugging. “Why not?”

“You're gonna go back in there smelling like a brewery.”

“Oh, boo hoo.” Pidge wiped her mouth on her collar. “We're going back to the hotel. And it's not like half the people in there aren't off their heads on drugs and alcohol anyway.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Now we match,” said Pidge.

“Why would you want to match with me in the first place?”

Pidge shrugged. “You're a lot cuter than you give yourself credit for; I don't know why I wouldn't want to match with you.”

Your eyes widened. Sober Pidge would have been mortified at such a comment slipping past her lips, but Pidge was past the point of caring about that right now; she simply grinned, letting her legs fall so she could swing them back and forth. She planted her hands between her knees and gazed at you as if you were the celebrity and she was your biggest fan.

You coughed and turned away, biting down on your lower lip. “That was nice of you. I – I think you're cute too.”

“Is this the part where we give each other our numbers?”

“Do you want my number?”

“Do you want mine?”

You paused, grip tightening on the bin bag. Pidge watched you take a deep breath, as if hyping yourself up to answer her question. Your response was quick: “Yes.”

Pidge nodded, tossing her phone in your direction. You yelped, dropping the bin bag to catch it. Pidge casually leaned back on the rubbish bins, waiting for you to figure out the mechanics of her mobile on your own.

You glanced up at her. “Do I just put my number in your contacts?”

“Mhm,” said Pidge. “Save your name under 'Cute Bartender.' I'll know who you are then.”

“Stop flirting with me,” you grumbled, even as you punched your digits into her phone.

Pidge raised a brow. “Do you not like it?”

“I don't know how it works,” you said, tossing her phone back onto her stomach. “I can't reciprocate, so therefore it's better if you just . . . don't do it.”

“I don't mind a little one sided flirting.” Pidge read your name, grinning when she saw you had taken her suggestion and actually put yourself down as 'Cute Bartender.'

You scooped the bin bag up and looked at Pidge for a final time; even though you hadn't announced your parting, Pidge could just kind of tell that the conversation was drawing to a close; she wasn't entirely sure why it bothered her.

She smiled, waving at you.

You swallowed, nodded and awkwardly waved back. Without even saying goodbye, you ducked your head down and fled from the alleyway. Pidge listened to the door slam closed behind you before finally tilting her head back to look up at the stars; they were no longer warning her about going to bed. They were warning her about staying up and thinking on this moment for too long.

---

You hated this.

Whatever this was.

A feeling of terror mixed with excitement mixed with a tiny voice in your head telling you to just fucking go for it. For the past few years, your life had been just that – you willing yourself to do things. Maybe that was why you were so sheltered – there was only so much anxiety a person could ignore before they let an opportunity pass by them.

But this was just so far beyond what you were used to. You didn't even know where to start.

You stared down at your phone, the place where Pidge's contact was flashing back at you; it was just her name. Even though Pidge hadn't seen her own contact in your phone, you were still too shy to put her name as anything other than 'Pidge.' Even giving yourself a nickname in her phone – at her request – had left you heated and fumbling.

Did she expect you to text first? Maybe she did. She was probably too busy, was probably drunk when she first thought it was a good idea to ask for your number. This morning, she'd most likely woken up with absolutely no recollection of who you were, or what this random number in her phone even meant.

You groaned and rolled over onto your back, pressing your knuckles into your eyes. Why was this so difficult? Why did your chest feel tight? Why couldn't you just do it?

These were the thoughts that stampeded your brain for the minutes it took for your phone to go off.

Immediately you bolted upright, snatching the cell up and looking down at the message that had just come through. As if the gods had somehow heard your complaints, Pidge's name popped up on screen – only it wasn't a message.

She was calling you.

Phone calls made you nervous at the best of times. There was always more of a struggle to keep a conversation up when you couldn't see their face, so you tended to avoid them as often as possible. But if you didn't answer this one, she would think you weren't interested. She was giving you a chance here, and you couldn't just-

You cursed under your breath and hit accept.

“Hello?” You said it like a question, as if you hadn't read and reread her name when it first popped up on screen.

“Just Y/N!” Pidge exclaimed. “This is Pidge, from last night. The bassist. The girl you spoke to in the alleyway.”

“I remember,” you replied, relieved that Pidge at least seemed to be good at holding conversation.

“So, I hope you're not busy at the moment,” she continued. “We have the day off and I was hoping I could see you.”

You paused. “See me?”

“You know, go out. Just you and I. Perhaps to a place that doesn't have flies swarming around it.”

“What do you have in mind?” Why couldn't you just say yes? You had the day off, too, and you knew for a fact you wanted to talk to her again; it was strange. You were almost never so enamoured by strangers – actually, sometimes you were downright terrified of them. So why was Pidge any exception?

Pidge hummed in thought. “Well, are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Then we'll go out to eat.”

“I can't afford to go to a fancy restaurant, Pidge. I work as a bartender.”

Pidge scoffed. “Bold of you to assume I'd let you pay for your meal. No. Don't worry; we'll go somewhere simple. Maybe get a chippy and then have a picnic – it's a nice enough day for it.”

You glanced out your window – she wasn't wrong. The sun was shining and the grass looked greener than ever. It truly was the perfect day for a picnic.

“Okay,” you replied. “Sounds good. When should I be ready?”

“Five minutes. I'm already walking out the door. Text me your address.”

You shot upright. “Pidge, no. I'm not-”

“Five minutes, Just Y/N!” she exclaimed. “Ready or not, I'll be at your front door in five minutes!”

She hung up before you could respond. You groaned, tossed your phone onto your covers and stampeded for the shower, scooping your clothes up on your way.

This was going to be an eventful afternoon.

---

When Pidge saw you, she was immediately reminded as to why she had taken such a liking to you the previous night.

Waking up this morning, her mind had been slightly foggy. Hunk was playing the drums in the basement, forever thinking he was being quiet, whilst Keith and Lance were arguing about their next gig in the kitchen. Pidge had been cursed with a hangover, but through the haze, she was still able to clearly make out the memory of you and her in that alleyway.

She'd thought about it all morning. As she was making breakfast, as she was arguing with Keith, as she was laughing with Hunk – she could not get you off her mind, no matter how hard she tried.

And so, she'd bitten the bullet and called you.

She wasn't entirely sure a phone call was appropriate – she just couldn't gather her wits to text you. She wanted to be coherent, and with the state she was currently in, talking was the only way she was going to be able to get her point across.

The entire journey to your flat was like some kind of fever dream; Pidge didn't even know where she was going, made a fool of herself as she pressed her phone to her ear, listening to the Google maps app talk her through directions. She'd ended up outside your block of flats, had been forced to ask the door man how to get up to your room; he'd simply nodded towards the door at the side of him, the bright green sign that read 'THIS WAY TO APARTMENTS' being a dead give away. Pidge had smiled and dashed up the steps before her embarrassment could reach higher levels.

But that embarrassment was ebbed away the moment the door opened and you were standing there, hair still damp and eyes glistening with what Pidge could only hope was excitement.

Pidge grinned, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “Well, don't you look pretty.”

“Five minutes isn't enough time,” you said. “My hair isn't dry yet.”

“We're going for a picnic.” Pidge stepped out of the way, ushering you out the door. “You don't need dry hair to enjoy some fish and chips, for crying out loud.”

You scowled but stepped out of the house anyway. You locked the door before you and Pidge started back downstairs and headed towards the chippy.

Pidge would be lying to claim things weren't a little more difficult than yesterday; your first conversation had been partially artificial, a product of the alcohol in her veins and the faux confidence said alcohol always gave her; today, however, she was overthinking everything. She wanted to call you pretty again – she liked the little smile you got when she said that – but couldn't bring herself to do it. She wanted to hold your hand, but she wasn't even sure you were seeing this whole thing as a date – maybe it wasn't. Maybe Pidge had been a little too hopeful, and she supposed it was partly her fault if you saw this as nothing more than a casual catch-up. She had asked you to a picnic. There had been no mention of a date within her request this morning.

Conversation was scarce and cracked as you walked into the small chippy and ordered a fish and chip each; Pidge chastised you for getting vinegar. You chastised her for having hers plain. The two of you gathered your orders and walked to the park, sitting down on the grass to enjoy the view.

And it was a splendid view; the park was right beside a rock beach, so the two of you could watch the waves softly lapping at the shore, plus the kids and families who were running up and down the length of it, giggling as the rocks prodded their bare feet.

You started the conversation this time, a fact which both surprised and excited Pidge. “Do you live here?”

Pidge looked up, raised a brow. “Here?”

“Here.” You gestured around you. “Or is this just a tour stop for you?”

“Oh, right.” Pidge wiped her hands on her jeans, ridding them of oil. “I have a house here, but we're on tour quite a bit nowadays. I wouldn't really say I live anywhere.”

“Is that not annoying?”

“It's nice sometimes. Although sometimes it's a little weird not having anywhere to call home.”

You nodded as if you understood. Pidge hated that you didn't, hated that she still wasn't talking to someone who could genuinely relate to her; however, Pidge also acknowledged the fact that she didn't want to be talking to anyone else.

She picked up a chip and tossed it at a nearby seagull. “What about you? How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life,” you replied through a mouthful of fish. “I don't think I've ever lived less than two miles from a beach.”

“Lucky bitch.”

You shrugged. “It's all I've ever known. Plus, that also means we always got the worst winds at winter time – living near the coast isn't always sunshine and sunbathing.”

“But it's always peaceful, isn't it?”

“There was one time a ship with a bunch of smugglers pulled up on the shore, and-”

Pidge raised a brow. You grinned, swallowing the rest of your story with a giggle. Pidge simply rolled her eyes, leaning back on her hands to gaze out over the ocean; it really was a peaceful sight, even with your attempts at dampening that.

You leaned back alongside her; Pidge's stomach erupted into butterflies when she felt your arm brush against her own.

“I think I need to apologise for last night,” said Pidge suddenly. The words weren't even planned, shocking even to her.

You turned your head. “There's nothing to apologise for.”

“I was brash,” said Pidge. “I was a little drunk, I think. I don't usually act that way in front of people.”

“I don't think you acted badly-”

“Cute bartender?” Pidge raised a brow, tilting her head in your direction.

You bit your lip, stifling a giggle. “Okay, maybe that was a bit bold of you-”

“It was disrespectful,” Pidge corrected. “I shouldn't have made you uncomfortable.”

You sighed. “Pidge, I wasn't uncomfortable.”

“But you could have been. I was treading on thin ice.”

“You entertained me.” You nudged her shoulder, urging her to look at you. “There's a big difference.”

Pidge stared at you for a moment longer; in this light, you looked utterly incredible. It almost took her breath away, made her feel flustered in the best way possible. Your eyes were glittering, your lips parted, a small glean of sweat on your collarbones, revealed by the slightly low cut summer shirt you were wearing. Pidge found herself slowly reaching forward, and you weren't stopping her, so she continued, and-

“Oh my God, is that Pidge Gunderson?”

She flinched away, letting her hand drop back in her lap. A young girl around the age of fourteen had dashed up to her side, was jumping up and down by the time Pidge finally managed to gather her bearings and look up, forcing a smile on her face.

You, however, had immediately ducked back into your shell, pulling your knees into your chest and looking away. Pidge had the impression that you were pretending to not know her, lest the fan take notice of her company.

Pidge greeted the fan as she always did – with enthusiasm, engraved into her head by Lance McClain himself. She took a picture and signed the girls shorts, before she turned on her heel and left, squealing to her friends that she finally met that girl she'd been telling them all about. Pidge watched them as they glanced back at her, and she knew then there was no point in staying if the fans planned on sticking around; you and her would get no privacy.

Pidge turned back. You looked flustered, ducking your head behind Pidge so the fans wouldn't be able to see you. Pidge sighed and grabbed your hand; you tugged it out of her grip, stuffing it into your shorts pockets.

Pidge frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you said a little too quickly. “I'm fine. I just – I think I have to get going.”

Pidge's heart stopped. “What? Why?”

You were already standing up, gathering your half-finished chippy. Before Pidge could even argue, you were tossing it into the bin, nearly stumbling over your own two feet in your attempts to get away quicker.

Pidge followed you, grabbing your elbow before you could get too far. “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down a second. What's this about?”

You couldn't meet her eyes. Your voice was a whisper, the words cracking. “I just have to go, Pidge.”

There was something in your tone that made her arguments cease; you were panicking. Pidge knew what panic felt like, but never before had she been triggered by something as simple as human interaction. She stared at you for a moment, fingers hovering beneath your elbow but no longer holding you; she couldn't put you through that. If you felt yourself getting overwhelmed by what just happened, Pidge wouldn't be the one to make you go through it again.

But there was no way to stop it besides letting you leave.

She swallowed thickly and nodded, stepping back. “O-okay. You'll text me when you get home, won't you? Just to – Just to let me know you got there safely.”

You nodded, already walking away.

“Okay,” Pidge called after you. “I'll see you soon, then, yeah?”

You nodded again, but there was no verbal response. Pidge let her hand drop, slap against her leg. The noise echoed, sounding dull in her ears. It sounded like the most pathetic noise in the world – the sound of rejection.

---

You hated everything.

You hated yourself, hated your brain, hated the anxiety you had been cursed with for entirely no reason.

It ruined things. In fact, there were some days you were genuinely convinced it ruined everything, because you knew for certain your life would be ten times better if your brain would just shut off for a few hours and let you live.

But that was never the case. It would never be the case. The world was bleak, and you let it get to you, and you hated it.

You hugged the comforter tighter around your body, Netflix playing as nothing more than background noise. Sometimes having something on in the background helped quieten your brain, but it was getting more and more difficult as the stresses of life emerged to the surface. You had a job now – you would need to interact with people again tomorrow night, and that thought was enough to keep you awake. You imagined all the ways you could mess up – you were still new. You hadn't learned everything, certainly hadn't mastered anything you'd been taught, and so there was every possibility that you would mess up somehow. People would stare at you and laugh, because you knew for a fact you looked odd in that place; a shy little thing being forced to serve burly, overexcited drunk teenagers.

You must have looked a sight.

In truth, you thought you were starting to get used to this new job. You were able to sleep a little better, was getting more skilled at convincing yourself everything was going to be fine. However, the situation with Pidge brought you right back to square one, reminding you of just how bad it was.

You liked Pidge. A lot. A lot more than you had a right to, considering you barely knew her, considering she was a rock star and you were a bartender.

But, weirdly, she seemed to like you, too.

So what was the problem?

That was the question you asked yourself on a daily basis – why did your brain go into overdrive over absolutely nothing? The pieces were all there – you and Pidge got along, enjoyed each others company. The only thing missing was your ability to understand her lifestyle, and it was your anxieties fault that you couldn't do that right now.

You'd at least had the decency to text her when you got home. Whilst your anxiety was strong enough to make you ditch her at the last minute, it apparently wasn't strong enough for you to disappoint her by not texting her back when she asked you to.

She'd replied, but you hadn't looked at it. If you didn't see it, you couldn't really chastise yourself for ignoring her.

You sighed and closed your eyes; nights like this were painful. You just wanted to go to sleep, but turning the TV off meant the thoughts had free reign. You would be up until the early hours of the morning fretting over what happened today, and you honestly saw no point in doing such a thing – if you were going to overthink, you may as well do it with Netflix playing in the background to keep you entertained.

And so, you stayed awake until your body could no longer properly function. You fell asleep upright that night, head tilted against your shoulder, Pidge's message going unread on your uncharged phone.

---

“You look like someone took a shit in your cereal.”

Pidge looked up, hair dishevelled and fingers aching from how hard she'd pressed into the copper strings of her guitar. Keith stood over her, toothbrush dangling out of his mouth as he got ready for the second night playing at the Club From Hell – that was the nickname Pidge had given it. As soon as she walked in the doors, she had been reminded of you, reminded of the date, reminded of the fact that she had been completely rejected.

He was shirtless, his guitar hanging across his chest. He raised a brow when Pidge looked up, but all she did in response to his mild insult was blink drearily.

Keith leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “Did you sleep last night?”

Pidge shoved him away. “For a few hours.”

Keith grabbed her wrist, inspecting the indents in her fingers; they shouldn't have been there. Keith, being a bass player himself, would definitely know this. Pidge had been playing guitar since she was nine years old – by now, her calluses should have been strong, able to take the pressure it took to make a good note ring out on the guitar. It was clear by the damage he was inspecting now that Pidge had been pressing extra hard into the strings.

She pulled her hand away, wrapping it back round the neck of her bass.

“Pidge...”

“Do you not have something better to do?” she snapped.

“Not until the show starts,” said Keith, sitting down in the seat across from her. “You gonna tell me what's going on, or do I have to get Lance in here to-”

“Please, for the love of god, do not get Lance in here.”

“Then explain.” He leaned back, going back to brushing his teeth.

Pidge inhaled; how could she even explain what was going on? Never before had she been so unsure about her life and her goals and her future – she'd always known that music had been an accident, but she'd enjoyed it. It was a happy accident.

However, she was starting to think of life outside of concerts, outside of touring, outside of the thousands upon thousands of fans who supported her. She was beginning to think of the people who she wanted to care for her, but couldn't because this lifestyle she owned wasn't something they could keep up with.

But maybe that wasn't right. Maybe Pidge should give herself more credit – why should she give up the life she enjoyed just to please somebody else?

Well, the answer to that was simple; the life she enjoyed didn't always include music. The life she enjoyed, however, did include being loved by family and friends.

“What would you do if you met someone you ended up really liking, but they couldn't keep up with the whole rock star life?”

Keith narrowed his eyes. “That's what this is about?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Well.” Keith sighed, his head falling back completely. He draped his arm over the back of the chair. “Why don't we take Shiro as an example here. His partner was a god damn criminal when they first met. They were robbing his house, for fuck sake.”

“So?”

“So.” Keith looked back up. “Their lifestyle didn't match up with Shiro's, but they managed to make it work because they love each other.”

Pidge frowned. “They ended up becoming a criminal profiler, Keith. They got out of that life.”

“Shiro fell in love with them whilst they were still living this crazy life. You wanna know why?”

“Because Shiro's a crackhead.”

“Because Shiro realised he loved them for who they are, and he was willing to help them change. He kept up with their life because he wanted to see them get better. If someone falls for you, Pidge, they'll stick around because they want to see you do what makes you happy. They'll stick around because they want to see you reach that point.” Keith put the toothbrush back in his mouth and scoffed. “And people say I'm not a romantic.”

Pidge ignored him, pondering on his previous example – it was true that Shiro and his partner had a horrendous story between them; Shiro had nearly been robbed by the person he would later become engaged to. In a sense, Pidge always thought that was stupid of him – but Keith was right. Shiro had helped them get their life on track. He'd stuck around because he wanted them to be happy, wanted to help them reach that happiness.

It hurt her heart to think that the person she'd been talking to, the person she enjoyed talking to, wouldn't feel that way. But it was the truth. You'd walked away, unable to handle the life Pidge had chosen for herself. That was your choice, but Pidge was under no obligation to drop her whole life just to please someone else.

It was a hard truth to conclude, but it was the truth nonetheless. She could do nothing but move on.

---

You could barely even hear Lance.

You weren't concentrating on the lyrics any more; you were concentrating on her.

Tonight, she really was wearing a million pound outfit. Her black shirt was decorated with golden chains that dangled from her arms and glinted against the spotlight cast down upon her. Her brown hair was sticking up in that crazy do she always seemed to have it in. Her body swayed just slightly to the music, fingers working wonders against the neck of the bass guitar she played so wonderfully.

You wanted her to look at you.

For the first time in your whole entire life, you wanted someone to look at you. You were prepared to meet her eyes, prepared to hold that eye contact until she understood what it was you were trying to communicate – you were sorry.

So, so sorry.

Anxiety vibrated in your bones as you stood behind the counter, but you were so willing to push that out of the way right now. You could do that. You were capable of pushing it to the side if you really tried, and right now, you were willing to put yourself through that exertion if it meant getting your point across to Pidge.

If you wanted to be with her, you would have to make sacrifices. That was what you'd learned, what you were willing to attempt. If it got too much for you, it would be okay. You could leave the fire knowing you tried to put it out – if you failed, then so be it. What more could you do?

You turned away from the stage as the last song came to an end; Pidge was clearly trying to avoid you. She knew you worked at the bar, so she hadn't looked over a single time throughout the entire set. You didn't mind. Sure, it hurt a little bit but you would be lying to claim it wasn't exactly what you'd expected to happen.

Nonetheless, you couldn't help yourself when you joined the rest of the crowd in exiting the club; your shift wasn't over, but that was fine. You could come up with an excuse when the time came. For now, you had one objective, and one objective only.

You found Pidge not long after.

As expected, she hadn't gone out the back. That was too similar to the happenings of the first time you met. Instead, she was with the rest of her band mates, huddled outside the front of the club, greeting fans. She was smiling, but that smile quickly faded when she looked over and saw you standing there.

You hugged your arms tight around your body, staring right back at her. You wanted to say something, usher her forward, but the words died in your throat, and you were suddenly growing much too nervous to do anything like that. So instead, you stared, and you hugged yourself, and you hoped she got the idea.

She hollowed out her cheeks, giving Keith a subtle nudge before she broke away from the crowd and walked towards you. You turned on your heel and jogged round the side of the building; she followed.

“You wanna talk to me now?”

“I'm sorry.” It came out a jumbled mess, not nearly as coherent as you'd originally planned it to be – but, well, that was how it often was with you.

Pidge narrowed her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. The chains dangling from her loose black shirt glinted under the late night summer sun. “Sorry for what? Ditching me on our first date?”

You blinked. “That was a date?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

You quickly shook your head. “What? No. No! I'm – I'm glad you thought it was a date. I just – I wasn't thinking. It was nice, though. I – uh – I enjoyed...” You trailed off, biting your lower lip when you realised just how badly this was going. “Look Pidge, I feel like an asshole.”

“You didn't want to stick around. I don't have a problem with that.”

“I panicked.” You grabbed her arm. She froze. You froze, but didn't pull away. “I'm working on that, alright? It's just . . . my anxiety has been an issue for me from day one, but I want to get better. I want to help myself, because it's getting past the point of manageable, and it's just. . . I can't keep going on like this, worrying about the smallest of things. It's not fair on me. It's not fair on you.”

Pidge blinked. You inhaled shakily, letting your hand fall back to your side.

“I panicked,” you repeated, quieter this time. “But I panicked even worse when I got home and realised I'd probably lost every chance with you. I think that says something.”

Pidge was silent. You thought for sure you'd messed it up this time – she was going to laugh in your face. She was going to turn on her heel and tell you to go to hell, and quite frankly, you were starting to believe that's what you deserved.

But then you felt her fingertips brushing gently over the back of your palm. Your breath hitched, lower lip trembling.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke, soft. “You're apologising because of your anxiety?”

“I – I guess so.”

“You don't have to apologise to me for that.” She stepped closer, examining your face for any signs of discomfort. You stayed rooted to the spot, fingers twitching with the need to grab her and pull her closer. “If anything, I have to apologise for making you feel bad for something like that.”

You closed your eyes. “Pidge, this is my mistake. You don't need to-”

“Why don't we just agree that we both slipped up?” Pidge flicked your chin, urging you to open your eyes. Looking back at her, you could see she was now grinning. She kept her fingers hovering near your chin, and when you didn't back away, she traced her thumb along your bottom lip. “We can pretend none of this ever happened. We can get you help for your anxiety. We can make all of this work.”

“I don't – I don't know how quick I'll be able to throw myself into the public eye like that-”

“You don't have to throw yourself into the public eye at all if you don't want to.”

You blinked. “But that's what you do. That's your job. I want to support you in that.”

Pidge chuckled, stepping closer. This time, the step saw your chests touching. “You can support me without getting involved in things you don't want to get involved in. Honestly, just seeing you at the bar when I'm performing helps keep me sane.”

Your cheeks heated. “Okay. Okay, that's okay. We can . . . We've got plans, then.”

Pidge raised a brow. “Plans for what?”

You swallowed. “Well, I mean . . . I don't know. I guess I was just kind of wondering if we could do that date over again. I promise I'll try my hardest not to, like, ditch you again.”

Pidge was smiling even before your sentence was finished. “Does this invite mean I get to kiss you?”

You blinked. “Uh, yeah.”

Pidge chuckled before pressing her lips to your own. Your heart thundered in your chest, but this time, it wasn't a product of horror and fear, but of emotions you'd never even felt before. Pidge's hands wandered to the back of your neck, and your own rested on her hips; you didn't know where else to put them, and yet Pidge still groaned into your mouth when your fingers made contact with the flowing material of her black shirt.

She pulled away first, looking into your eyes. “How about we re-do that date of ours tomorrow afternoon? The fish and chips are on me.”

---

You squeezed Pidge's hand. She was brought back to reality.

The fans were screaming her name. This was something she had grown used to in the years she'd been in the public eye, but it was different this time; they were here for the album.

The album.

The album the whole band had been working on for years was finally out, had debuted at number one in the UK album charts, was rising to number one on every other bloody music chart there was – Pidge was overwhelmed as she stepped out of the limo and waved to the fans who had been waiting on her for hours. Some of them had camped out for days.

You being by her side was the only thing keeping her sane.

You stepped out of the vehicle beside her, reaching for her hand almost immediately. Pidge looked over and smiled at you; you awkwardly smiled back. She was proud of you. It was only the year before you would have nearly passed out from so much as being beside Pidge when she was spotted by a single fan, and now here you were, standing beside her, smiling at the cameras at her album debut party.

She was so proud of you.

The two of you walked into the venue. Keith, Hunk and Shiro gave you a polite peck on the cheek, whilst Lance threw himself into your arms and cried out, “You made it! You made it!” You'd giggled and nodded, admitting you were a little nervous but more than happy to be there for Pidge on her big night.

The show started. You stayed back stage, and Pidge couldn't help but grin when she looked over and saw you dancing with Allura and Hunk's significant other – Pidge remembered the first time you had met them, how awkward you'd been, how you'd basically hovered round Pidge the entire time. Now, Allura was hanging onto your arm like she was afraid of losing you, and you didn't even seem to care.

Plus, it was only last year that you had openly admitted to not even liking Smokey Saturdays music.

Once the show was over, Pidge made a B-Line for you. You were waiting for her, arms already outstretched. Pidge laughed loudly, all but bounding into your grip. She nuzzled her head in your neck, pressing multiple kisses to the flesh there because she knew how flustered that got you.

You squealed and pulled back, shoving Pidge away playfully. “You're sweating.”

“I'm happy.” Pidge dived back in for a hug, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you into her chest. You didn't fight this time, simply laughed and hugged her back. “God, this is incredible. I feel so happy.”

“I don't want to hear it any other way,” you said. “I'm so proud of you, Pidge. You've worked so hard for this.”

“It would have driven me insane if you weren't there with me,” she replied, pulling away to look into your eyes. “Honestly, Y/N – when we first got together, I was on the verge of giving this whole thing up.”

You nodded solemnly, because you knew. Even after things with you had become official, Pidge had still gone back and forth with what she really wanted – music was part of her now, and it always would be, but she questioned it's benefits to her personal life more than she wanted to admit.

You had been part of the reason she'd chosen to stay on – not because you pushed her to choose music. You pushed her to understand. You sat with her until the early hours of the morning, listening to her rant about the recent song she was working on, how she wanted to give it all up and go back to university to study something she was good at. You'd always cut her off at this point, tell her with a firmness unfamiliar to you that she was good at music – but if she was losing her passion, you promised to stick by her no matter what path she chose to take.

You always just wanted her to be happy.

It had worked both ways. As Pidge looked at you now, she realised with a tiny sense of pride that maybe – just maybe – she had done the right thing with you. You had done all the work, gotten yourself to this fresh point of confidence entirely on your own, but Pidge had been there for you – it was all she really could do. She went with you to counselling when the idea of walking into that office on your own was too daunting. She held your hand when the doctors gave you the official diagnosis of generalised anxiety. She went running with you on days when not even Pidge's soothing words could calm you down.

You'd been there for each other, and you had somehow managed to reach this point of utter happiness that Pidge would not trade for the world.

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lurkingcrow · 5 years

Note

Fanfiction Trope MASH-UP: 51 and 97, any pairing.

You know anon, you really lucked out. Because I SWORE that the next person to leave out a pairing was going to get Maul/Grievous whether they liked it or not. But as is happens, @generallkenobi managed to wheedle me into contemplating a plot that fits this prompt rather neatly so you’ve been spared the cyborg courtship this time...

So, Time Travel and Accidental Marriage.

It starts with Commander Poe Dameron really wishing that he hadn’t left BB8 behind at base for maintenance. Because he has no idea what the hell that anomaly his X-Wing is being pulled into is, and the General is going to be PISSED if he gets himself killed before they work out exactly what monstrosity the First Order has been hiding in the Unknown Regions...

He hits the anomaly and suddenly everything is offline and it's a he can do to manage a crash landing on the nearest planet that he SWEARS wasn't there a moment ago!

It's desert. Of course it is. And of course he's injured, not critically but enough that he's going to need medical attention sooner rather than later. But his ship is so badly off that it's all he can do to strip out the emergency supplies, fashion himself some kind of a pack and makeshift crutch and begin walking to find some shelter in the cliffs up ahead.

He's almost there when he sees some kind of commotion, a small number of hooded figures attacking what seems to be a young man with a broken down speeder, and not even stopping to think Poe pulls out the his blaster and does his best to help the kid.

He seems successful, as the figures retreat and Poe does his best to look charming and relatively harmless as he approaches the local.

"You alright?"

The kid's bleeding kind of heavily, but his smile is bright and damn those eyes are blue.

"I will be, thanks to you."

As it happens night is closing in, so they take shelter together in a little alcove. The kid (Luke, he'd introduced himself as) is indeed a local, his speeder having run into mechanical trouble as he was returning home for the day. It's fixable, but the ambush sank his chances of getting it done tonight.

Poe is cautious with his own story, but before he can do much more than mention his crash Luke's eyes light up.

"You're a pilot aren't you? Your gear's from a fighter - are you with the Rebellion?" He asks eagerly.

And ok, it's a little weird that he's using the old name but technically the Resistance is the continuation of the Rebellion, but either way he doesn't seem hostile which is all Poe can want at the moment. Still discretion is the better part of valour.

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. Doesn't really matter given I'm not going anywhere soon" Poe responds, gesturing to his crutch.

The kid seems to accept that, and they pass a bit of time quietly together. Until Poe notices that his new friend is shivering, his shirt having been used as makeshift bandages.

(He definitely doesn't think about all that golden skin exposed to the firelight).

"Here, take this." He offers, holding out his jacket, and Luke shakes his head.

"I'll be fine."

And ok, Poe may not always be the coolest of heads but he is a capable and experienced commander and he knows that's a lie.

"Wear it." He repeats, tone allowing no disagreement.

The younger man looks pensive for a moment but, after reassuring gestures from Poe, Luke does so. Poe tries not to think about how good he looks in it.

Good. No hypothermia. What else is on the "desert survival checklist"? Oh. Water. Good he has a full canteen.

Poe takes a mouthful, careful not to overindulge, and then offers it to his companion.

"Drink?"

This time Luke is definitely hesitant and really, what does he think Poe's going to do? Poison him?

With a huff Poe shakes the canteen. "Look, it's fine. There's enough here for both of us to share. Please. Drink."

Luke's face turns distant for a moment, as if weighing up his options before nodding decisively. He turns to look Poe straight in the eyes a gentle smile on his lips.

"I accept your offer." He says, drinking deeply.

(That should not have been as hot as it was. What is with him today?)

Then Luke grins, full of sly humour.

"You realise this makes us married right?"

***

Luke Skywalker is having a very interesting day. He'd been restless since that morning, the urge to take the speeder out stronger than usual, pushing him to finish his chores early so he could sneak out after lunch and head to one of the better racing canyons. Then there had been the itch in the back of his mind, telling him he NEEDED to take the longer route home, which led to the attack by raiders and the very last thing Luke had expected was a handsome rebel pilot emerging from the sand to save his life!

It sounds like something out of a holodrama.

And then it turns out that Poe really is the helpful sort, helping bandage Luke's wounds despite his own injuries and finding them shelter for the night. The part of his brain that sounds a bit like Uncle Owen tells him that he shod be careful, that Poe is still a stranger, but there's another, stronger, part of him, deep in his soul, that tells him this is a Good Man, a person to be trusted.

A hero.

Luke's instincts have never failed him before, and so he allows himself to relax a little. Perhaps if he's never he enough he can convince Poe to take him with him when he leaves.

(Or if not, maybe he can at least get a goodbye kiss, the pilot is so VERY pretty after all)

The jacket is unexpected. It's not as if Poe himself is in much better shape than Luke, there's no real reason for him to... huh.

If he hadn't already been thinking about the traditional stories it would probably have passed him by, but Poe has chosen to defend Luke from his foes, provided him a place at his fire, and freely offered him shelter from the elements, all at his own expense.

Really, all it needs for this to be something out of one of the old romances is...

Water. Poe is offering to SHARE his water.

This can't be real. Luke should just speak up and tell Poe what exactly he's offering...

And that part of him that always seems to know things screams for him to remain silent.

Poe is getting agitated but Luke needs to THINK. There has to be a reason why everything in his soul is telling him to let this happen, he needs to keep this man by his side.

There's logic there too. Poe is going to need help, and time to recover before he can rejoin the Rebellion. But on a planet like Tatooine he's more likely to be sold out to the imperials for a rich reward. But if Luke marries him, it makes Poe FAMILY.

And on Tatooine family is everything.

Well then. It looks like Luke is getting a pretty husband of his own.

He drinks, and the water tastes like destiny.

***

"What do you mean married???" Poe exclaims, eyes wide, before the Kid holds his hands up in a calming motion.

"It's an old tradition, a way of temporarily binding clans together for short periods of mutual protection. If you want we can pretend it never happened and custom says it will dissolve at the next moon's turn regardless. But..."

"But?" Poe asks, and Luke blushes.

"But, if you want a safe place to lie low and heal you're not going to find better than our farm. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru wont like it, but if you're my husband they're not going to turn you away. When time's up I'll give you a lift to the spaceport and you can do your own way from there."

It's a good offer. There is something distinctly off about this while situation (not so much Luke, who seems pretty damn genuine, but the anomaly and the planet that shouldn't have been there? Definitely wrong.) and he's being offered the chance to get his bearings and mend in relative safety. All is means is having to call the pretty blond his husband.

... ok. He can do that. His father will kill him once he finds out and there's going to be some ribbing back in the squadron, but there are truly worse dates than this

Poe's silence is obviously worrying Luke, who immediately beings apologising and insisting that it doesn't have to be anything more than a in name only thing, and as cute as the babbling is Poe is going to need sleep soon, so he uses a single finger to press against those lips and hush the younger man.

"Why don't we just see where this goes hmm?" He offers with a sincere smile which is soon matched by Luke's own.

"Yeah, ok" Luke breathes (and oh it's really flattering to be looked at like that). "Wait, I just realised, I don't actually know your full name?"

"Under the circumstances," Poe starts, "I think it's probably safer for both of us if I take your name for the time being. So tell me, husband, what's my name?"

And this time Luke's grin is brighter than the twin suns and oh Poe definitely wants him to smile like that always.

"Skywalker. Your name is Poe Skywalker, husband to Luke Skywalker."

Wait.

What?

Hang on.

Oh FORCE!

Poe feels distinctly faint, his new partner's face (Luke. Karking. Skywalker. Young and bright and not even a Rebel yet) watching him worriedly before the darkness rises up to meet him.

What a mess.

...

Yep! There we have it! Just before TFA Poe Dameron meets just before ANH Luke Skywalker and ends up getting hitched. After Luke wakes up Poe from his faint they do indeed end up making it back the farm and Poe does his best to win over the parental figures (which he does, he's helpful and polite and really if it weren't for the fact his existence fosters Luke's desire to leave he would have Beru's full approval). At some point a certain old hermit shows up to scope out if Poe is a threat to Luke...

("You don't belong here." Says Old Ben. "Oh thank the Force, no I really do not!" Poe sighs in relief before spilling the whole story because if anyone is going to know how to fix this it's a JEDI. Poe does NOT want to toy with timelines if he can help it.)

But then of course the Empire comes calling and Poe starts to discover how very different it is BEING in the story to hearing it from someone who was there. On the other hand he gets to travel on the Millenium Falcon and thats something his childhood self could only dream of!

I have more ideas on how this AU fleshed out but it's late and my head aches, so that can be left for next time :)

#anonymous

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drinkupthesunrise · 6 years

Note

Hi! Wedge has a notebook with rather good pen sketches of everything (he makes them seldom in minutes between battles and duties). Luke occasionally finds it (sorry for mistakes and grammar, it's not my native language). And thank you for your so beautiful fics!

Hello!! This is a delightful prompt and should have been a lovely happy fic to write; it instead delved into drawing-as-a-coping-mechanism for mental health issues. and Luke being supportive. So, I hope you like that? (Also, not kidding about the mental health issues, please tread carefully) (also on ao3)

Wedgeisn’tsure quite where he picked up the habit. He was always known forscribbling in things, over things, doing anything he could to keephis hands busy. When he’d decided that he wanted to be anarchitect, it had turned into a useful study, observing people fromlife, places, things.

Sohe keeps a notebook of flimsi and a real ink-pen in the pocket of hisflightsuit at all times, and he doodles in it when he can. It keepshis hands busy in meetings, at least, when he finds it difficult tostay concentrating and listen no matter how hard he tries. Beforelong, he’sbuilt up a book of sketches of the upper brass, everyone who comes tobrief them. He knows the way their ships are built from observingthem, putting pen to paper and marking out lines and shadows wherethe seams of metal fit, finding a way to represent them cleanly.

“How’dyou get away with it?” Hobbie Klivian whispers sharply, when Wedgepulls the notebook out during a briefing and balances it on his kneeto try and capture Jan Dodonna’s serious face.

They’dtold him to stop once, and Wedge had spent a week in briefings beinga constant figit, leg bouncing up and down restlessly, the sound ofhis boot hitting the floor echoing through the briefing room. He’dnot taken in a single word they’d said. A near-miss with twofighters later, and everyone had agreed to rescind the restriction.

LetWedge keep his coping mechanisms, because when they work, they makehim one of the finest pilots the Rebellion has seen yet.

“I’mjust that good,” Wedge replies, like if he says it it will be afact.

There’sa boy in this briefing with the most radiant golden hair and stunningvibrant blue eyes, and Wedge’s fingers are itching to draw him. Butthe black ink in his pen would never do this boy justice, and themood in the briefing room is electric enough that Wedge is pulled toattention.

Everyoneknows this is the big one. This is where the Rebellion with stand orfall, and the weight is born on the shoulders of starfighter pilots,on single-man craft. They are the underdogs, and apparently thesolution to beating the Empire’sgreatest weapon is to put a proton torpedo down an exhaust port.

Wedgemanages to get the gist of the briefing, but the boy besides him isdistracting. Wedge finds himself using his eyes to trace the boy’sfeatures, wondering if he can commit them to memory well enough toget the boy down later. It’s never the same as drawing from life,but Wedge isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to capture this boyanyway.

Hesparkles with something more.

Inhis grief, Wedge tries to draw everyone who flew that day. He pullsthe pictures from his mind, desperately trying to get it down beforehe forgets how Biggs’mouth used to curve as he smiled, how Piggy’s cheeks wobbled, howDreis’s eyes were strong and worn after years of service. He tearsholes in the paper of his notebook where he tries to get the ink downtoo quick, drawing too fast to try and get these things out of hishead, the faces of the twenty-one pilots who went to their deathsthat fateful day.

Hedoesn’tdraw in meetings any more. The distraction doesn’t work like itused to; now, when he draws, he gets lost in it, lost in his grief.Instead, he dedicates himself to using every ounce of his brain powerto keep his concentration on what’s in front of him, to keep theghosts from bleeding in at the edges of his memory. Luke takes tositting as close to Wedge as he can manage, his entire body lined upby Wedge’s side, giving Wedge something to focus on. He’ll stilltap his hands over anything he can get – he starts making sure hebrings caf to the meetings just so he can play with the mug, drum hisfingers over the sides of it.

Narradrags him aside one day, having noticed Wedge’snervous habits. He asks Wedge if he’s fit to fly. Wedge says he is,without hesitation. Narra gives him a look of complete disbelief,hauls him into the sims for three hours until Wedge vapes him fourtimes in a row.

Heunderstands Narra’sconcern, but flying is the only thing he’s ever done where thereisn’t something eating at the back of his brain. It’sinstinctive. His ship feels like an extension of himself, and hismind is clear, and he can see what he needs to do with a clarity heisn’t blessed with anywhere else in his life.

Hefeels free, up there amongst the stars.

Hisbrain is definitely wired a little differently, he knows that now. Hehas to have a full medical work-up every three months, and see acounsellor every one to retain his flight clearance. He’sconstantly on the edge of having it revoked, of being told that hecan’t fly anymore. If there wasn’t a war on, Wedge doubts he’dbe allowed to fly. He doesn’t tell anyone about it. It’s just whohe is.

Whenthey give Skywalker a squadron, he asks Wedge to be his second.Immediately, the panic starts eating away at Wedge’sbones, but he chokes out a yes. Because he can do this. He standsalongside Luke and Narra in that first briefing that they give, handsbehind his back, a thumb stroking the palm of the other, and suddenlyknows that he can.

It’sa lot easier to give a briefing than to listen to one.

Lukeis a brilliant CO who hasn’tthe first clue how to do all the behind the scenes work a squadronrequires; Wedge can do it all but only when he’s reminded andpresented with a list of exactly what needs doing. They findthemselves without the requisite parts, supplies and weapons a coupleof times in those first few months, before they work it out betweenthem.

Wedgepicks up drawing again, though now it’soften as he files datawork, allowing himself five minutes every timehe completes a new task to put a few more lines down. Luke becomeshis favourite subject, often because he’s the only person in theroom when Wedge gets out his pen these days. If he notices Wedgescribbling away, he doesn’t say anything. Luke’s good at that, atknowing when to intervene and when to keep his head out of otherpeople’s business. He’s inexhaustible sunshine, but he knows thatnot everyone wants that all the time.

Wedgelearns Luke, in that time, learns the curl of his hair, the curve ofhis nose, the dimple on his chin. The hollows of his cheeks as theycome into sharp lines as he grows a little older. He’sa pleasure to draw, in every way.

Wedgecatches himself staring. No one else does; Wedge has a reputation fora focused gaze, for holding his eyes on something too long, andeveryone lets it pass on him where they wouldn’tnecessary let it on anyone else. But he’s drawn to Luke, the softsmile he always has on his face, specially for Wedge at the end of along day.

Wedgeprobably shouldn’tbe surprised that one day he can’t quite clamp his impulsivenessdown quickly enough. Kissing Luke is like clear skies after rain,cleansing and beautiful and oh so right.

Lukekisses back.

Everythingis fine until it isn’t.

Eventually,something always breaks. That’sthe reality of life. Wedge can count the fractures in his life,retrospectively, awareness of them only coming after the fact.

Thisone creeps up on him. He stops sleeping properly, waking up in fitsand starts during the night and then wide awake before his alarm goesoff. That goes unnoticed because everyone else is doing it too. Hedevelops a fit of short temper, but again, half the Rebellion isrunning on a hair trigger, and Wedge is fineas long as he only talks to his squadron and certain members of HighCommand. He’sback to fidgeting, and his pen strokes never land quite the way hewants them too, and the shots he fires don’t either, and his X-Wingfeels clunky in his hands, directionless and aimless.

Thewar isn’tgoing well. It’s turned everything upside down, every person thisway and that. Any semblance of a routine has been thrown out oforder.

Andwith it goes the rest of Wedge’ssanity.

Notthat anyone realises that until they find him, tearing apart hisX-Wing, shredding wires with his bare hands as he tries to dig deeperinto it to fix a single switch that won’tlight up properly. In his frustration, he’s torn away half thecabling that makes his dashboard work in the process, smashed a pieceof glass, and bent several tools out of shape.

He’scursing up a storm and he’s practically vibrating with excessenergy as he tears things apart, pulling out to look for a tool,finding one, smashing it repeatedly into the box before deciding it’ssatisfactory, and returning with it. Luke, Hobbie and Tycho watch,wondering who spirited their friend away in the night and replacedhim with the half-version of himself. “Wedge, are you alright?”Luke asks.

“I’mfine,” Wedge forces out, in perfectly level tones, almost soundinglike himself only he clearly isn’t.

“Wedge,do you want to come out of there? Whatever’s going on one of themechanics can fix it,” Hobbie says. Concern spreads all over hisface; he knows that there’s history with Wedge, something thatmeans commanding officers have a tendency to watch him like a hawk,but he’s never been sure what. But Wedge is clearly not alright. Hedoesn’t respond to Hobbie at all. Hobbie draws back, letting Lukeapproach Wedge, and tells Tycho to go for medical help. This isbeyond them.

“Wedge.”Luke crouches besides him. “Come on. Lets go get breakfast – haveyou had breakfast?”

“Idon’t want breakfast, I want this to work—”Abroken sob enters Wedge’svoice, and Luke puts an arm around Wedge, wanting to help soothe hisfriend, a man he cares for more than that. Wedge throws Luke off,violently, not caring about what hurt he does. Luke furrows his brow.“It doesn’t, and I need it to, cause I can’t fly without it—”Luke doesn’t mention the fact that Wedge’s X-Wing was fit forservice the last time he saw it, and very much is not now. “Whywon’t it work?”

Wedgecollapses into violent, heaving sobs. Luke, wary of how his touch hadbeen taken earlier, is cautious in how he moves, but this time whenhe wraps an arm around Wedge, Wedge falls into the embrace. Luke justholds him, and then slowly removes the tools from his hand, fingersgrazing over all the little cuts Wedge has given himself in his pathto destruction.

Hemanages to help Wedge up. A tall women in her forties with a medicalinsignia on her uniform is standing beside Tycho, her arms crossed.When Wedge looks up at her, he sighs. “Iknow,” he says, before she can say anything. He’s two days offhis standing appointment with her, when all this would have come outeventually.

Sheshakes her head. “Myoffice, now. Skywalker, which of you is Skywalker?” Luke raises hishand, and she nods, like she’s not at all surprised. “You too.”

Wedge’scounsellor, who’s name is Dr Elan Monri, has a two-one-bee droidwaiting in her office to clean up all the damage that he’s managedto do to himself. It cleans the cuts on his hands, and bandages theworst ones. Luke sits close to him, still not really understandingwhat’s going on, whilst Dr Monri hauls a reasonably thick flimsifile out of a locked cabinet.

“Wedge,are you back with us?” Dr Monri asks, her voice perfectly calm andlevel. Her chair is pulled out in front of her desk. Luke and Wedgeshare a sofa that runs along one wall of her office. Wedge nods.“First things first; I’m revoking your flight clearance.”

“Ifigured.” Wedge is surprisingly accepting of that fact; given whatLuke saw, he thought for sure his friend would rail against it. “AmI off active duty as well?”

“Notyet. A repeat of an incident like this morning’s, and it will beconsidered.”

“Excuseme—” Luke butts in. He thinks he probably shouldn’t, but he’sconfused about this entire situation. “Look, Wedge, sorry, this isawkward, but as your CO I have to know – when can he have hisflight clearance back?”

“Whenhe’s gone four weeks incident-free, and not a moment before,” DrMonri replies. “And I’ve signed off on it. I suspect we arelooking at six-to-eight weeks. Wedge?”

“Thatsounds about right.” He sighs. “Sorry Luke. It’s for everyone’ssafety.” Wedge is fidgeting with his hands again, picking at hisnails, and Elan picks a piece of flimsi and a stylus off her desk andhands it to him, and then gives him a book to lean on. He glances atLuke and then starts putting marks to paper.

It’sabundantly clear that he’s drawing Luke, and Luke just looks onmystified. “Actually, Luke – I do need to speak to you, but wouldit be possible for you to swing by later? I think Wedge and I need totalk first.”

“Yeah,sure.” Luke stands up. He clasps a hand on Wedge’s shoulder.“Stay safe, okay. I’ll see you later.”

Wedgedraws on, barely cognisant of Luke’spresence. As Luke leaves, door falling closed behind him, he hears DrMonri say, “Are you sure you don’t want to take that medicaldischarge?”

Wedgemight not be able to fly, but that doesn’tstop him from being an active participant in every other part ofsquadron life. Dr Monri had explained to Luke that the most importantthing he can do is to keep a routine for Wedge, make sure he sleepsand eats properly, so Luke attempts to keep the squadron on schedulefor the first time in its life.

It’ssurprisingly hard, but easier after the first week, when everyone’sgetting on board and used to it; drills at oh-eight-hundred hours,patrol from twelve-hundred to eighteen-hundred. It won’t lastforever; the life of a fighter pilot is unpredictable at best. ButLuke watches Wedge closely these days, and he seems better for it.

Wedgeis still not the best at taking care of himself, so Luke findshimself dragging his friend out of their shared office when he findsWedge still in there working, long past the time they’dagreed everyone should stop.

“Haveyou eaten?” Luke asks, well aware he’s sounding like a mother henbut not trusting for a second that Wedge has. A shake of the headconfirms Luke’s suspicions. “To the mess hall with you, then.”

“No,”Wedge says, and Luke stops. “Urgh. Sorry. No, food is okay, but Ican’t face the place.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck.I’m sorry Luke.”

“Hey.”Luke leans over to take Wedge’s hand, pull it away from where he’sdangerously close to tearing his own hair out. “I’ll go getsomething for you. And you can eat in our quarters. How about that?Sound manageable?”

Wedgeconsiders it for a moment. “Yeah.I can do that. If you would do that for me.”

Lukereally doesn’tmind; he hates seeing Wedge like this, and will happily do anythinghe can to help Wedge out. Dr Monri had made it quite clear that therewas no miracle cure, no amount of therapy or medication that wouldever make Wedge ‘normal’, that he’d always be managing thisthing, but there was a lot they could all do to help mitigate hissymptoms.

Sohe fetches some food, and returns to find Wedge sitting on his bed,cross-legged, a notebook on his knee and a pen in hand. Wedge flickshis eyes up when the door opens, and drops the pen and moves thenotebook to take the tray off Luke. Luke settles down beside hisfriend. He picks up the discarded notebook. “Mindif I have a look?” he asks.

“Goahead.”

Lukeopens the book. He’sseen Wedge drawing a lot, it’s something he does – a copingmechanism, Luke now understands. But he had no idea that Wedge wasactually any good. Luke’s own likeness stares back at him,bright-eyed and intense; on another page, Hobbie, Wes and Tycho jumpout at him. There’s technical drawings of X-Wings and Y-Wings andA-Wings, helmet designs that Luke recognises. A page of just hands inmotion. And Luke. More of Luke. From every angle, in about everyoutfit Luke owns. “You’re good,” Luke gasps. “Really good. DoI really look like that?” He finds himself resting on a portrait ofhim, with a soft smile, that Wedge seems to have taken a little moretime over than some of the other sketches in this book.

“Tome, you do.” Wedge uses his fork to gesture at his footlocker.“There’s more in there, if you want to look. This is just themost recent.”

Lukefinds half a dozen notebooks stashed there. He lifts them out andcarefully flicks through them. It’spossible to date them just from the faces that appear in them, peoplewho are long dead. He has to stifle a sob when Biggs turns up; ittakes Wedge a few tries, but he manages to capture Biggs’s wrysmile with a deftness that makes Luke ache for the loss of Biggs. Andthen Luke shows up again, again and again and again, Wedge clearlydetermined to work out his face, how to try and capture his spirit.

“Youdraw me a lot,” Luke comments.

WhenWedge doesn’treply, Luke lifts his eyes and finds Wedge blushing.

“Ilike it,” Luke says. “Though I still think you might have takenliberties with how pretty I am.”

“Notat all.”

Lukeleans across and kisses Wedge. It’shardly the first time he’s done that. But this time it’s backedup with quiet desire, and a want for more,because this beautiful man is battling so much and still, stilldoesn’tknow how wonderful he is.

Wedgegets his flight clearance back seven weeks and two days after hisincident in the hangar.

Luketakes him out, just the pair of them in their X-Wings, to check thatWedge’sflying skills are up to scratch; it’s pretty clear that they are,but Luke has them stay out for the full length of their allottedtime, playing around and having fun under the guise of testing everypart of Wedge’s flying skill.

He’smindful of how Wedge said that flying helps, that it clears his brainand for those moments, it feels like he’s normal.

Whenthey return, Wedge is exuberant with joy and twirls Luke around in anembrace, whilst the rest of the squadron converge and envelop themboth in a group hug, glad to have Wedge back.

They’reall better about managing Wedge, these days. It’s a collectiveeffort, one that Luke spearheads but is backed up by the rest ofRogue Flight. Wedge’s bad days are spotted and dealt with beforethey blow up to become issues. He’s still antsy sometimes, butTycho will tug him off to the gym to run laps, or Wes will take himfor target practice. When his brain won’t stop replaying hismistakes, Hobbie will sit with him and talk about the good old times,when they were just kids trying to do what they could for theRebellion.

AndLuke? Luke is besides Wedge in all things, these days.

Thatmeans giving him space sometimes, and picking him up and refusing tolet him wallow at others. Luke learns Wedge’shiding places, and how to tuck in there with him and just hold himwhilst Wedge watches the world go by. He’ll drag Wedge away fromhis work and back to bed, redirect Wedge’s intensity onto pleasingLuke and then echoing it back up at him.

Itturns out that sex is a good way to break Wedge out of his worstmoments, and that works for both of them.

Lukeholds Wedge as they fall asleep, comforted by each other. Wedgeusually wakes first, and Luke becomes accustomed to waking to thescratching of Wedge’spen, Wedge finding a new angle to draw Luke from, another piece ofhim that he hasn’t studied in detail.

(There’san entire separate notebook that isn’t fit for public consumptionthese days.)

Hestill has bad days; he’llalways have bad days. But he works through them. He’s got people toturn too, knows how to fight, and when he needs to just step awayfrom it all.

Whenthe war is over, maybe he’llhave a chance to live a normal life. The cost of freedom for thegalaxy, though, is a price Wedge thinks is worth paying. He’llsoldier on through the bad times. One day, it’ll be worth it.

#wedge antilles #luke skywalker #swfic #myfic #ficlet #star wars #otp: constellations of the things we left unsaid #this was almost cathartic to write which sounds weird #but it was #it'll be okay wedge #i think?#Anonymous

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