Drabbles: Ewok & Typewriter Rating: PG
From TFN: A Drabble is an extremely short work of fiction with exactly one hundred words. The purpose of the drabble is to teach brevity and test author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. They must be 100 words each. No more, no less.
She's beautiful at the best of times, but the clever, intimate lighting in this place wraps veils of light and shadow across her face, and in her hair, he can see colours that range from deep, dark crimson to the palest, brightest gold.
It's the jungle in her eyes that holds his gaze, though that, and then the quick, knowing dagger of her smile.
He looks back down at his plate, at the knife in his hand. Stay in character.
Silently, he saws another strip off the fillet musing on the contrast between white meat, white metal, and white porcelain.
A clock is striking as they stray out onto the sidewalk, the chimes carrying clear through the still night air. For a moment, Coruscant seems strangely quiet.
Gradually, other sounds intrude. The hubbub outside a club, laughter and shouts, the murmur of waiting engines. Speeders scream down the high-speed lanes.
He pulls up the hood of his cloak, and offers her his arm.
In reply, her hand ruffles through the loop of his elbow. They pause to catch their breath, and set off, their footsteps making conversation on the metal deck a discussion of shared secrets, disguised by city noise.
She wakes in terror, stripped of her senses by the storm numb spine arching from the cold rock floor, lips parted by a silent cry, eyes staring blindly in the dark.
She hardly knows who she is, or where: a prisoner of the raw, alien stench that rules the cave, awful and overpowering like death.
But then she calms, recognizing the strong musk of his warm body wrapped round hers; the healthy aroma of vincha roots, mingling with the freshness of new rain.
Her nose wrinkles, and she shifts closer into him comfortable, content, and not caring to wonder why.
Luke notices the little things, the subtle change in her.
She serves scrimpi for supper.
Her salads have acquired the soft, flaky taste of alien tubers.
She drinks more whiskey smoke, burnt caramel, blunt ice. She trains herself to make Corellian ryshcate, using the palpable excuse that it's Ben favourite desert.
Being Luke, he doesn't even think of looking for a reason; but one lunchtime, as their son tucks in to last night's leftovers, he makes a joke about the time she spends with Jacen.
She laughs in answer, and he never knows how close to the truth he came.
Neither of them can admit their true feelings for the other.
At times, it reminds him of the stories his parents tell.
They stand, squared against each other two killers, blades poised. Enemies, perhaps.
Then they move: sudden speed, smooth grace, the lean economy of predators. Each knows exactly what the other will do.
A single touch. Sparks cry, where the blades connect.
For a moment, their eyes meet. His glance is steel. Her green eyes smoulder.
Then they step back, resume their wary admiration of each other.
Two smiles flicker, like two heartbeats.
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