Work Text:
Brow furrowed in concentration, you squint in the hazy light. Reaching up to your forehead with your left hand, you slide your fingers across the surface of your skin, batting away renegade wisps of hair that had fallen away from your bun.
Maker, but it was warm down here, in the maw of this behemoth ship. You curse softly to yourself as a bead of sweat hovered perilously close to your eyelash, threatening to obscure your vision as you strain to locate the loose wire that had sent you onto the Negotiator in the first place. Hadn’t your father always warned your that space was cold? When you told him you had joined the Civilian Engineer Corps to help with the war effort, he had even cracked a joke about adding extra layers to your uniform.
You frown. Clearly, accomplished pilot though he was, you father had never been in the hyperdrive control center of a Republic Venator-class Star Destroyer.
Catching your distraction, you shake your head. No. You needed to focus. Now was not the time to question your father’s supposed space travel wisdom. There’s a job to be done. Hyperdrives did not fix themselves.
There she is. Rather than simply becoming disconnected, the wire had split in two, snapping under the pressure from the processing core directly above the unit. This was going to be more complicated than you thought.
For a few hours, the only sounds that filled the room were soft snip of wirecutters and the gentle thrum of the engines. As you start re-routing the stray wire, your mind begins to wander.
You had heard stories about Star Destroyers with entire hangers of processing cores for the shields alone. That their nav computers were the most accurate in the galaxy. That their holo encryption system was unbreakable (it wasn’t. You had written and sliced a viral code into their data key a few standard months back, just to see if you could). This was your first time on such a warship when it was in space, and while it was impressive, at the end of the day, it ran like any other ship.
Tali had been even aboard General Secura’s flagship, the Liberty, for a supply dump once and she swore that their weapons systems were the most flawless thing she had ever seen - barring General Kenobi, of course, she had added with an impish grin tossed your way.
Your not-so-subtle crush on the dashing General was an open secret among your platoon of female engineers. Most of them assumed it was because he was pretty and famous — he was on nearly every holomag cover, after all — but you knew better. You knew he was a good man. His hands told you so.
The first time you had seen General Kenobi, you had been playing in the undercity of Coruscant when a boy a little older than yourself had stopped to ask what you were building with the rubble left behind from an explosion caused by the nascent Black Sun cartel a few days earlier.
“I don’t know,” you had responded belligerently, upset at your endeavors having been interrupted - and by a boy, no less. “Why do you have a braid in your hair?” you continued. “I thought only girls had braids.”
The boy had adjusted his stance to stand up taller. “I’m going to be a Jedi,” he proclaimed. “I’m Obi-Wan,” he offered with a smile. His eyes flashed suddenly, and with a quick thrust, his hand extended into the dusty air. A sheet of durasteel that had been hovering precariously at the tip of the heap was now suspended in midair, mere centimeters from crashing down on your head. Even in the grim half-light of the slums, you could see sapphire eyes earnestly fixed on the hunk of metal. Strong, lithe fingers gestured gracefully. The object fell with a great crash a few meters away.
You could only stare in awe.
The faint sound a male voice calling had caused him to twist his head and listen. “I have to go.” He frowned. “Master Qui-Gon is calling me. I hope I see you again some day.”
He bowed slightly, then turned and trotted back toward his Master.
You had never been quite able to forget the teenager with pretty hands who had saved your life.
Nearly two decades later, you had seen him again. You and Tali had been sipping cups of caf before your shifts in the makeshift mess hall of a personnel loading area when you sensed his presence. Not in a Jedi way - you didn’t have a lick of Force sensitivity, you knew - but in the way you noticed that everyone seemed to speak a little softer and trail their eyes after the passing figure in white armor.
He had strode past the the two of you, hardly sparing a glance at two female civilian engineers and pointedly ignoring the sheer weight of the gazes trained on him. Later, over a pint of lomin ale, Tali has raved about his hair, and how “he had a shoulder to hip ratio that was sharper than a vibroblade, didn’t you notice?”
You had taken a sip of your drink and laughed good-naturedly at Tali’s antics. You had noticed him, to be sure, but you had been transfixed by his hands, not his muscles.
Back in the days before the war, when you were still a little girl, your father Aves had always told you to take note of a being’s hands. In the present moment, you smile as you refit the access panel on the hyper drive’s core reactor as a the memory comes to mind.
Even though he was a good father, Aves had been a man of mystery. Whatever it was he did for a living, it had blessed him with an intimate knowledge of guns, starships, and computers, and he had passed everything he knew on to his “blazing sun,” he used to call you affectionately.
“Blazing sun,” he would instruct you, “you can tell a lot about a being by their hands.” When he was satisfied he had captured your attention, the impression of a smile glowed across his face. He resumed cleaning his carbine rifle as he spoke, his voice low and smooth. “You can tell a lot about a being by their hands,” he intoned again. “Their trade. Their social class. How they hold a weapon. What kind of weapons they use. If they can pilot a ship. If their mind is focused or skittish.” The tall man had shrugged gently, an action that seemed counterintuitive to the grade A contraband blaster now resting comfortably in his expert grip. A new power pack slapped into place with a precise snap. “If you ever want to know someone” — he tucked a stray hair behind your ear tenderly, the other hand still clutching the blaster — “look at their hands.”
You begin tapping out routine codes on the core reactor to test the replacement wire. The various combinations of letters and numbers in basic and binary were muscle memory, and you stared in awe as your own fingers punch in the digits seemingly of their own volition.
Yes, it was General Kenobi’s hands that most enraptured you, you decided. Slender, calloused (you supposed - not that you had ever had the pleasure of testing that theory for yourself), extensions of strong, well muscled arms that indicated a strong degree over his motions. He had held them so softly at his sides that day in the mess hall. They had gestured animatedly as he walked alongside a clone commander, a graceful arc to his movements that made you think he would be a good dancer — or a formidable fighter.
The klaxon of an alarm drives you from your reverie. “Oh, kriff.” The latest code you had entered seemed to have caused the wires to short circuit, tripping an internal safety alarm.
“Kriff, kriff, kriff.” You continue to swear violently as you all but run over to the central computer console and entering a code to kick-start a program to halt the shrieking din. Within the minutes, the alarm bells stop, and you sag against the console in relief.
“Is something the matter?” a rich tenor voice asks from behind you.
Immediately you tense. In a singular, practiced motion, you pivot on your left heel and whip your blaster into your right hand simultaneously, turning to face the voice in a fighting stance.
“Freeze!” you call into the shadows. Your eyes scan the cavernous room methodically before settling on a spot a few meters in from the doorway where the light seems distorted. You take aim with your blaster.
“Justice, freedom, faith,” the disembodied voice replies calmly from the same spot.
Your eyes narrow. Whoever the being was, they had given the correct password. But the upper-class Coruscanti accent didn’t belong to anyone in your platoon, and who else would be prowling around the underbelly of General Kenobi’s flagship? There had been faint rumors of a lightsaber wielding Separatist operative. Maybe they were coming to sabotage the ship? Well, not on your watch.
“Step into the light,” you order, durasteel edging into your voice. “Keep your hands above your head.” The contours of the blaster are cool, comforting in your grip, soothing the blood rushing just beneath the surface.
A tall auburn-haired man steps into the light, arms raised. “Will this suffice?” he asked wryly, amusement playing across his features as you feel shock and embarrassment creep up your neck and onto your cheeks.
Stars above. I almost shot General Kenobi. A thousand thoughts race through your mind faster than light speed - some witty, some pragmatic.
But of course, what slips out is neither of those.
“Fierfek, you startled me,” you manage to spit out instead. It’s only your steel will that prevents you from collapsing from embarrassment on the spot. Feigning nonchalance you decidedly do not feel about almost murdering a war hero and childhood crush, you holster your weapon and turn back to the console.
“I gathered as much,” he returns, amusement still coloring his tone.
The room fell silent for a few moments as you run system diagnostics.
“What is it you’re working on?” This time, he’s so near you can feel the heat of his breath on the back of your neck. Well honed reflexes are faster than your brain, though, and it isn’t until you feel a gentle pressure on your elbow that you realize it’s raised to jab him in the throat.
General Kenobi’s chuckle seems to fill the room. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to kill me?” he murmurs. A shiver runs up your spine despite yourself and you feel your stomach start to coil.
You stare at the data steaming on the console until your eyesight begins to blur. “That depends. Are you trying to kill me, sir?” Maker, but you were mouthy today. What was wrong with you?
Kenobi releases your arm dropping his to his side. Immediately, you feel bereft somehow with the loss of his touch.
Peering over your shoulder, he asks, “hyperdrive problems?”
Kriff, does that man not realize what he is doing to you, muttering in your ear like that? Of course he doesn’t, you dolt, you tell yourself; he’s a Jedi.Not his fault you’ve had a crush on him since you were nearly eight years old.
“A replacement wire short-circuited the system and triggered an emergency code,” you respond as evenly as you can manage. A fresh sweat breaks out across your forehead as another complex code dances across the screen.
“What code is that?” He reaches out as though he could absorb the masses of data contained in the system through osmosis. Maybe he can. You’re not a Jedi.
The movement serves a different purpose for you. Something wet and bright glistens as his hand moves into the blue light of the console.
“You’re bleeding.”
He glances down and grimaces. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it to me.” Blood is starting to gather around an incision slashed across his right hand.
He opens his mouth to retort no doubt, but you beat him to it. “Don’t give me that bantha dung about Jedi business.” A grease stained finger jabs in the direction of his chest.
Kenobi’s face remains impassive. When he doesn’t respond, you roll your eyes, and, tugging at his elbow, drag him over to the glow lamp near your workstation.
He continues to scrutinize you, and you look down at yourself, wondering what he’s staring at. Your coverall sleeves are rolled up, there’s sweat gathering at your collarbone, and you feel the grimy mixture of dust and stale perspiration coating your face. You’re a hot mess if there ever was one.
Resolutely, you ignore the flush on your cheeks and the steel of his gaze and rummage for a bandage in the care pack attached to your hip. Several excruciating seconds later you find one and tear it open.
It’s when you’re grasping his hand in one of yours the he finally speaks. “I’ve seen you before.”
His cool composure inspires a sudden flash of irritation. “You seem rather certain sir,” you say as you apply a bacta salve.
“Because I am,” he responds mildly. His hand grips yours tightly when you apply the bandage, and you almost asphyxiate on the spot. You were right — his hands are calloused.
“Well, consider this your repayment from saving a girl from durasteel in the Coruscant under-levels about twenty years ago,” you answer with a quick smile. It’s hard to be angry when Obi-Wan Kenobi is in effect, holding your hand.
Reluctantly you release him from your grasp, letting your hand drift down to your side.
The General inclines his head in thanks, then glances back at the computer. “Is the hyperdrive fixed, then?”
You nod, stuffing supplies back into your pack. “I modified the code and replaced the wire so it should be okay.” You meet his eyes. “I’ll be with the ship until it returns to Coruscant, so if there any problems I’ll be available to assist, sir.”
You turn to leave, but he reaches out and catches your hand. “And who do I have to thank for such diligent caretaking of both my ship and my hand?” he inquires. His touch is like satin against your dirty hands and you grin in spite of it.
You consider for a moment. “A blazing sun,” you tell him.
You smile as you make your back to your quarters. Yes, you could tell a lot about a person by their hands.