bakerstreet | Call me, call me any, anytime!

On your 2 o'clock. I don't trust the way he's looking at you.

[ He doesn't like the way the said man is looking at her but, you know, he has to keep this professional. ]

[ Oh, is that the problem? Doubtful. To emphasize this point, she has no issue approaching said 2 o'clock threat, making light, friendly conversation, and then dismissing herself to deliver her findings. ]

He's a politician. I think it's more that you have a problem with politicians than the way you think he's looking at me. Anyone else you need me to investigate for you?

That's not what I meant...

[ How can he even hope to explain this? ]

You deserve more respect than that, that's all.

What do you mean, then?

[ Okay, maybe sometimes it's obvious that people aren't looking at what she's wearing with an eye of fashionable appreciation. Not that it should concern him any, right? But it is thoughtful that he notices. ]

I can take care of myself, you know. But I'm not changing how I dress for anyone, and I'm not afraid of them. Besides, I have you here.

I know that you can take care of yourself. And you shouldn't change anything about yourself for anyone. You're beautiful and strong and there's so much to admire about you.

[ It can still be read as an objective assessment right? Depending on the recipient of the message. So he's just going to hide behind that, while silently wallowing in the warmth that comes from her saying I have you here. ]

[ For as perpetually kind and generous as he is, there is still something startling about it, something that blooms as heat in her cheeks. But it's just a courtesy, right? Professionally polite. Maybe choosing something else to talk about would be wise. ]

I'm not entirely convinced that you're safe, though. You've also been drawing attention, I've noticed.

I am?

[ It still does not compute that anyone would find him attractive. That night was because of the wine. Or so he keeps telling himself. ]

Well, green does say 'go' instead of 'stay away'.

[ Because he's not wearing black. He's not been for a while, after she's basically spring-cleaned his wardrobe. The last time he wore black was... well... ]

[ Green certainly does say go. It is, however, immediately clear that it would be dangerous to let her imagination lope off in that direction. As it does: Go, as in approach, as in closer, as in yes. Green was a wonderfully magnificent and terribly sabotaging decision. But, more generically - ]

I think the green was a splendid idea. There’s no better color to wear here, after all. It makes you look very approachable.

[ More so than the black, and while of course black is useful when it comes to discreet security, it also had a certain sharpness to it. A certain danger. A darkness that only she knew was safe to approach. Like deep night that she had once veered too close to. But she could never admit to missing the black. It was best not to be reminded of moon-splashed midnight visions, anyway. ]

Just don’t make yourself too approachable. You’ll never hear the end of what some of these people have to say.

[ That, and she’s not particularly fond of the idea of him being swallowed up by a crowd. She likes having him in sight. ]

[ It's not even an outrageous outfit or anything, but he's uncomfortable enough, anyway. As though anything but black deactivates the body armor of invisibility he's taken to protecting himself with. ]

I don't want to be approached.

[ He's never been an eloquent speaker. He's even worse at small talk. But beyond that is what he leaves unsaid: I only want to be approached by you.

Something about what she says makes him pause, though. And he's not sure why or what manner of feelings her words have stirred in him, because then he can't stop himself from jesting: ] Would you rescue me, then?

[ It is a rather eye-catching ensemble. But he tends to draw attention in anything he wears - he naturally carries various styles well. An objective observation. She tries not to confirm it with too many furtive sideways glances.

But - he doesn't want to be approached? By anyone? She almost feels a pang of disappointment until his words seem to take on a more jesting tone. It's a question that she doesn't need to think twice about. ]

Yes. I would have no choice. That's what wolves do for one another, right?

[ Wolves are loyal. And they are their own sort of small duo of a pack, right? Bonded, in a way. Professionally. For security purposes. ]

Although if you would teach me how to use your lightsaber, I would be better equipped to protect you. Not that I'm opposed to using my bare hands.

[ Um, a fumbling clarification. ]

I mean, to protect you.

[ A pack of wolves. He really likes the thought of that. ]

Aye, they do.

[ There's a furrow of his brow that's probably visible from where she's standing, though. ] A lightsaber?

[ She might think it's a no, because it takes a while for him to say anything more, but... he's thinking about it. While lightsabers are normally associated with the Jedi, in Westeros nearly all the noble Houses and ancient families, Force users or not, have lightsabers for ancestral weapons. Even the men of the Night's Watch — and not all of them are Jedi — use lightsabers. So there's really no reason for her not to have one of her own. A shoto, perhaps. Or a saber pistol. ]

It won't be easy. You will need to train hard, and acquire your own crystal.

[ And, just to clarify: ] With my supervision, of course.

[ Maybe too presumptive? Lightsabers are reserved for Jedi, as everyone knows, but what about in Westeros? There is plenty he has taught her about the history of his homeworld and that distant region that doesn’t appear on any map she knows, but there is plenty more to learn still. It’s never as simple as it seems. And even if it was – why shouldn’t she be able to learn? From someone with the recognized authority to wield one, of course.

Even so, for a moment it looks like it might be a no – from where she stands, the furrow in his brow is as visible as the shadow of a crater, and his silence almost leaves her no choice but to begin mourning an opportunity she never had. But, as is often the case, his silence seems to have been indicating only deep thought, not refusal. So it’s impossible not to break into a bright smile. ]

Nothing worthwhile is ever easy. But I’m patient. [ Sort of, sometimes. Depending on the situation. ] I can do it. I want to do it! But where do I find a crystal? [ Or, maybe multiple crystals, if that’s permissible – for different colors, right? Because that’ll be necessary. Then, without waiting for an answer or sparing a thought for how it might fit in with their plans logistically: ] We'll go? You’ll show me?

[ As much as he would like to forbid her from ever attempting such a dangerous endeavor, he can't help but smile at her enthusiasm. How could he possibly refuse her now? He doesn't want to disappoint her, doesn't want to smother that joy he can feel even with the distance between them.

He seems to be typing an awful lot, but when his reply finally arrives, it's a simple: ] Do you want to go now?

[ But it looks like he's been searching, because his next message is a set of coordinates to the Naboo Cave. ]

We can start there.

[ Typing, typing, typing … maybe this is where the ‘no’ comes in? Too dangerous after all? No feasible way to fit it into their itinerary? Anything at all that could begin to tug on the threads of doubt? One glance in his direction is all she allows herself, and then it’s back to acting as if she’s more invested in the business of mingling than she is in waiting for his official answer. When it does come, and her attention flies back down to what it had never really left in the first place, the simplicity is enough to leave her breathless. Now? ]

Oh, yes! Let’s go!

[ What adventure, after all, has ever been more tempting? And when will she ever have such an opportunity again? Escorted by a real Jedi on a search for a lightsaber crystal – the excitement is radiant. Doubly so when the set of coordinates that arrives in her hands is here, on Naboo. As if the stars have, as they so rarely do, and never more than metaphorically, aligned. ]

I can’t believe you’re really going to take me. Are you even really allowed to?

Don't you want to change into a proper crystal scavenging attire first?

[ Sorry, he can't resist teasing. He can almost feel her excitement from where he's standing, and he can't help looking through the crowd, at her, and smiling softly. ]

Allowed to what? Teach you how to use a lightsaber? Help you make one? Why not?

[ Well… he might be right. What she’s wearing right now was designated for one occasion, and crystal-hunting is certainly another. Which begs the question: what does one wear for crystal-hunting? The options are dazzling and manifold, which is terrible, because if she gets caught up deciding what to wear, they might not ever go at all. ]

I appreciate your concern, but I think this will work, won’t it?

[ Sure it will. It can’t be too rigorous of an adventure, can it? And she’s still distracted, anyway, by whether or not this particular adventure is condoned in the first place, even if she’s already beginning to politely remove herself from the current gathering. ]

Because I don’t really have a need for one, not like you do. I don’t want to disrespect it, or the Jedi, or you.

Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

[ It could work, he supposes, since he's going to be there do any heavy lifting for her anyway, but... it's still a very distracting attire.

What she says next gives him pause, though. She's thoughtful, truly; even in her excitement she manages to consider such things, and he appreciates that about her. ]

Many Westerosi Houses have lightsabers for their ancestral swords. It will not be a disrespect.
Besides, you'll know if you're not meant to wield one. The crystal won't call out to you.

[ It'll work. It's plenty breathable, and that's probably important while clambering through a cave, right? Plus, maybe she's enjoying the way he's been looking at it.

She is, however, concerned about his generosity now bringing him dishonor in some way later. That's not something she's willing to accept, and if it means sacrificing the possibility of ever constructing a lightsaber of her own, then it's the price that will be paid.

But that isn't what she's hearing, and the explanation she's provided is met with a tilt of her head. She has no ancestral claim to the revered weapon, either, but if the real test is whether or not the crystal itself will call out to her, then she will trust it. Something she can lightly tease about as she meanders her way back over to where he stands. ]

I do hope I'm worthy, because I think I'm going to need several crystals.

[ Excuse you he's not been looking ~~that much, anyway~~.

But who said she had no claim? If she'd been born a Westerosi, she would've been from a noble family, and they would have had a lightsaber, passed down from one generation to the next, even if no one would actually use it. Just as his family had one, just like the saber he's currently carrying.

He makes a face at her for that last comment, though his fingers continue to type up and eventually send his response. ]

One in every color, I'd imagine.

Edited (i cannot words this morning why) 2020-07-07 02:33 (UTC)

[ It's a success if he ends up making a face about something, right? Or maybe it's just always amusing to see, even if it is over something that's really not up for debate. If she's going to find a crystal of one color, how can she be expected not to search for one in every color? How are any future ensembles including a lightsaber supposed to function if they don't - and it should be obvious - match? Something he understands, based on his response, sarcastic though it may be.

An issue to be addressed face to face, once she reaches him, letting her gaze wander swiftly down his wonderfully green figure before finding his face again, not without the exuberant smile that has been lingering there ever since this impromptu mission was given official clearance. ]

"There's no rule against that, is there?"

"Having a lightsaber? Not in Westeros." He can't speak for the rest of the galaxy, given that the Westerosi have almost entirely isolated themselves from the mapped worlds, building their own culture and traditions, and, well, he's aware that there are at least some key differences between the Jedi Order and the Night's Watch. "Having one in every color..."

He offers his arm to her, a gesture that's so second nature by now that he doesn't even really think about it, his attention almost completely on her bright smile — and the possible color combinations she must be thinking about by now. He might still pretend to huff about it some days, but he's learned more than a few things from the fashion education she's generously granted him. "I should ask Sam if he's read anything about that." Because if there's anyone who has that sort of information, it's Sam.

Then he glances at her with the faintest hint of a smirk at the corners of his lips. "You'll have to prioritize, or we'll never make it out of the cave." His free hand seems to distractedly go to the hilt of his own saber, fingers closing around the wolf's head. The best swords have names, he'd once told her; his was called Longclaw, and it was a silver-bladed beauty. "If I find a black one, will you give me your blessing to use it?" he teases.

The lightsaber is, like so many other tales he’s told her, so steeped in mystery that she almost can’t imagine how it will feel to have in her hand, nevermind the fact that he always carries one. The same way she can’t imagine a direwolf’s coat – coarse or plush? – or a blizzard raging against castle walls. It was something she could, for now, only dream about, and so she was naturally dreaming of a saber in every color. But the aesthetics of matching and complementing colors wouldn’t be a problem for someone who chiefly wore black. A habit she was slowly coaxing him away from; the green really was marvelous. It was a shame he didn’t have an emerald saber to go with it.

She brings her fingers to his arm – as reflexive and effortless as a heartbeat – and her eyes wander down to the saber at his hip. The one with a wolf’s-head hilt, with a name, even, which was a detail that still fascinated her. But it made sense; why shouldn’t a cherished weapon have a name? She would have to think up several, now, if her ambition to acquire a rainbow of crystals was realized. “I can’t be the only person to have ever asked,” she assures them both, and it has to be true, right? Surely there has been someone in the history of Westeros with a desire to match their saber to their professional gown, their gala down, their retreat gown, and their nightgown?

When she lifts her gaze back up, she finds the ghost of a smirk on his lips, and she scoffs softly at the veiled warning. “You ought to know by now that art can’t be rushed,” particularly the art of creative fashion, and the collecting of crystals needed to bring it to life. Would there really be anything so terrible about disappearing into a glimmering cave for a little while? Something flickers across her shoulder blades at the thought.

And then comes the question she should’ve expected, and while a despairing sigh is ready to answer, she is abruptly taken by a different, not entirely unpleasant vision. Two glossy black crystals, two obsidian blades, for igniting on rare, star-crossed occasions. There’s something magnetic about that, and she already has a name for her own supposed black blade, hiding a small, secretive smile. “Yes, and one for me, too. I’ll call it Softspar.”

He chuckles softly at her comment — that she can’t be the only person to have ever asked — because he's sure that nobody, at least in the North, would've thought of that. The Northmen are cold and dreary and austere like the planet they live in and the name of the House that rules them. Although perhaps Sansa would have, that is if she's ever recognized the value of a saber beyond combat; she's always dreamed of being a Southern belle, with all their colors and fineries. Maybe she and Padmé would've gotten along, too, even if it's just in that regard.

Art. That's what it is to her, really, and having been in Naboo for a while now, he's come to understand and appreciate her views better. Dressing up is not vanity or an endeavor simply for the lack of anything better to do; it's almost tactical, the way she employs her wardrobe, making her clothes work for her, helping her get things done. Like how she's successfully managed to distract him with that sweet smile and those excited eyes and that strip of smooth, pale skin along her stomach. Seven hells, and they're heading into a cave, just by themselves? He's not that dumb to not realize how that is making him feel, how his body is tensing up in anticipation, and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

Only... what she says next catches him so off-guard that he doesn't really know how to react. He doesn't stop walking, but his head turns to look at her, catching the look in her eyes and that small, secretive smile. "Softspar," he echoes, and he's surprised that he's laughing. Because until now, neither of them has ever made mention of that night, or even alluded to it; he'd even left before she could wake, dreading her reaction after sleep had dulled the effect of all that wine, though he could almost swear that she had already been awake then. In any case, there's the slightest tinge along his jaw as warm memories of that night flood into him, and he licks his lips absently as he's reminded of the way she'd glowed in the moonlight. "And here I thought you don't approve of black."

A lightsaber was a perfectly acceptable accessory, wasn’t it? And, like any accessory or textile worth its weight, it served a tactical purpose. Like fire-resistant Karlini silk, or the buoyancy of waterweave. Adding a lightsaber to the carefully-constructed arrangement of such a wardrobe? Her excitement went on unfading, interrupted only by the words she herself had spoken. Without much forethought – how could a midnight blade be called anything else? – but as she feels his gaze on her face, it becomes more than a lighthearted quip. There’s nothing teasing or careless about the memories that promptly go cascading through her head: they’re vivid and warm, a rush not only of images, but a physical rush, directly across her skin, and the tinge that appears on his jaw also finds a place on her cheeks, catching the corner of her lip with her teeth, like she might’ve liked to take the words back.

Because after the night had come the morning, and that had been something worse than brief: he’d vanished, or so he might’ve liked her to believe. Because he’d wanted to vanish? To make the whole thing disappear by removing himself from it as quickly as possible? An onslaught of shame and regret, as she’d suspected might happen once the wine evaporated from their senses? Suspected of him, anyway – she’d never been so lost to the wine that waking up in the morning made it seem as if the night had belonged to someone else. It had been her breathing his name in the moonlight, and it had been her blinking slowly awake in a slant of sunlight. Only to feign still being asleep, just long enough to feel him lifting himself away from her side, and then never speaking of those lost hours again. Until now, like this, lightly. That heartbroken lapse of silent morning, spent alone, wondering if he wished he could take it all back, was more than enough to convince her to lock it away.

But now he’s laughing about it, and echoing the name the same way he’d fondly echoed ‘softly sparring’ that night, so there’s a flutter of relief following the shiver of shadow. There isn’t anything more to say about it; it’s like stepping onto unsteady ground or bumping into something fragile, so she slips along the edges of breathless memories that make her heart quicken for a moment longer before schooling her attention back onto the original issue. Color versus black. The merits of black. Why she hadn’t ever been partial to it, and why she should continue to be now, if things were to remain uncomplicated. It’d be wiser, and she tips her chin to align herself with that wisdom. “I approve of it when and where it serves its purpose.”

Before she can be concerned about whether or not a black crystal has a place in her imagined collection, however, they have to make it to the cave, a thought which flickers like a cauldron of color. “When it calls to you, how do you know?” Or, a more worrisome question: “What if I can’t hear it?”

They would never really know, would they, unless they dare speak of it? Until then that night would simply be a memory, perhaps even a figment of their imagination; not because it hadn't been real, but because they refuse to make it so. Reality, after all, had complications. Reality was the fact that he was her protector, and ought to be nothing more. Reality was the fact that she was a Senator, and he was a Jedi. Reality was that he'd made an oath in front of a heart tree, vowing to put duty first above all else. How could a soft spar in the moonlight fit into that reality, even if it had felt so incredibly right?

Truth be told, he hadn't wanted to get up at all. He'd wanted her to breath his name in the light of day. He'd wanted to hold her without it having to be under the pretense of defense or the cover of darkness. He'd wanted to kiss her mouth and down the length of her body. Those are the thoughts that have haunted him since. Among many others. So is it too much to hope that she's been thinking about that night, too? What else could that smile mean, if not to hint at a secret? One that they both share, and would be safe in each other's care?

But then she's jumping right back into their discussion of fashion — one that's becoming more frequent, though he can't say he doesn't like the way her eyes twinkle when she gets all excited like this — and he's prepared to counter her lamentations about black as a color when her tone turns serious. Worried, even. Enough for him to reach out with his other hand, resting it over the one she has on his arm. No gloves.

"You'll hear it." And he says that with a certainty that leaves no room for debate or aggressive negotiation. "It'll be... it'll feel like home. Something that's yours."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

there will come a day he'll realize there are other ways to use "lightsaber" in a conversation lmfao

and they'll both realize it with shook pikachu face lmfao

and then we'll have a proper sexting thread lmfao

it's a precarious build up okay eheheh

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject