Time and place - Part I
Summary: “Another second too long before you remembered that you didn’t have any obligations for the night and rushed out the door, running after him with a panicked “Sir!”. You told him your shift ended in a quarter, you just needed to clean up and close up the atelier, that if he’d like, he can wait for you and you will show him around, show him that Paris is more than war, that France is more than a promise of imminent death.”
Pairing: soldier!Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader
Wordcount: 9.6k
Rating: T, although the general theme is war, there is no violence mentioned here.
Warnings: mention of war, death, alcohol and food. Overall some sadness.
Notes: It’s here! It took me forever to complete this, I got sidetracked quite a bit and apologized for it. The first part is inspired by a short french novel I read in highschool and always wanted to work with called “Initiales” by Paule du Bouchet (I do not intend to plagiarize and do not own the underlying idea). Please please please let me know what you think of it, I’ve been playing around with ideas and writing style a bit and would love to know what suit you best or if you have any expectations! Thank you for reading, and special thanks to @maybege, @alideetoo and @profkenobi for the support.
Taglist: (I have added users who seemed interested by the story from the concept, please dm me if you wish to be removed) @maybege @alideetoo @princessxkenobi @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @profkenobi@penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories @themusicplayedherlife
i.
The afternoon is surprisingly sunny for a mid-September Saturday. The atmosphere is heavy with the sense of urgency people get when they feel obliged to enjoy the last rays of sunshine; urging themselves through their last hours of work to get off and get out faster, a rush to stock up on warmth before autumn fully hits the city. The wind blowing through Boulevard Haussmann dropped in temperature a few days prior, and the newspaper’s weather forecast page was progressively trading its bright yellow sun icons for much more monotonous grey clouds, matching the front page's news about the war that only gets grimmer by the day. This catalyses to the frenzy of Parisians chasing the sun, chasing whatever light they could get before darker days began.
You are not immune to this autumnal spell, longing to feel the auburn leaves crisp under your shoes as you will walk home by the Seine. Later, soon, you tell yourself, your eyes lingering outside your shop’s display, then on the black digits of your wristwatch. Tik, tok; you watch as the two long needles chase each other, cursing at the hour hand that couldn’t seem to trail behind the minute hand fast enough. The book splayed open on the small counter in front of you makes you frown; all its figures and pathways you’ve been trying to force into your brain for the past hour are staring back at you mockingly and you refuse to let them humiliate you any longer and close the book, deciding in a sigh that you will be more productive in the back atelier preparing and restocking homemade cough syrups and balms. For once, you didn’t have anything planned back at the institute until Monday, and if the weather remained mild, you will be able to enjoy it on your only day off.
Pharmacie Boncourt, the little drugstore you were working at is located just outside the city centre where the hustle and bustle of citizens melt into the more peaceful, slower pace of residential areas. This welcomed calmer environment is however not synonym of low frequentation - the proximity to the suburbs makes your store an ideal pit-stop for housewives running errands or workers on their way home. Thus, you tend to run out of winter essentials and cold medicine quite fast into the season and the pharmacist always insists on spending off-peak hours ensuring the shelves are at full capacity.
The apothecary is run by a strict and stern but kind Mademoiselle Boncourt who gives you more liberty and responsibilities than you ask for. You had started with some botanical knowledge and enough chemistry skills for her to deem you fit to take over formulations and homemade production within one month. Soon after, she put you in charge of inventory and stocks, and you occasionally think about reminding her that you initially volunteered for a part-time sales assistant position. But she was a sweet old lady who gives you drugs for free when you fall ill and you swear that she often turns a blind eye on the lower-class mothers who fail to meet their credit payment on time. You enjoy working here. Besides, you much better prefer pretending to be a witch brewing potions by yourself in the back of the store than serving nosy and rude businessmen on the main street’s cafes.
You are in the middle of melting honey to be infused with sage and ginger when Mademoiselle Boncourt pops her head into your atelier, requesting your help with a client. “Monsieur ne parle pas francais'', she says, and you understand the help she needs doesn’t call upon your scientific knowledge. You lower the gas on the heater and throw your white coat on, leaving silver and wooden spoons and aromatic plants in a mess before following your employer to the front counter.
There, you are met with a man, taller than you, but young. His face is freshly shaved, his very deep blue eyes are tired and sad. Timid and beautiful features are drawn with worry yet still tinted with youthful innocence, and your heart sinks a little when you recognize the emblematic khaki Battledress. The British uniform. Innocence only exists if it is protected, you think, and war is its worst enemy. His hands are fidgeting with his cap, lips pressed into a tight but kind smile as he politely waits for one of you to say something. He looks like he doesn’t fit in here, next to your white counter, with your white coat, between the glassware filled with soon-to-be very precious substances and the cosmetic aisle. Suddenly, you feel like you need to take him away, far from Paris, from the war, from whatever he was going to ask you to help him with. You want to take his hand and tell him to walk you home along the Seine, that look! It’s sunny outside, it’s not always sunny outside, we should dance! But you put on your most commercial smile and ask in your best English:
“How may I help you, sir?”
You cringe. Tints of French accent. Will you ever get rid of it? You can’t blame yourself for it - after all, ever since your father died over a decade ago, English has been pushed back as your second, secret language, and you barely get to practice it as much as you’d like to. Mademoiselle Boncourt - let’s call her Adèle from now on - was not even aware of your extra skill until she surprised you reading untranslated English Romance. There was no harm in her knowing, but it still irritated you when she started asking questions - you wanted to keep this to yourself, a precious heritage from your father that comforts you. It is the language you read some forbidden novels in, the one that gave you a headstart with scientific publications among your peers as they wait for the translated version, the language you use to write your secrets in your diary ever since you were a child. Any chance you now have to converse with an English-speaker, a real English-speaker, you would happily let the words bubble out from your lips like spilt ink. You know that after a few days of practice you will lose the intrusive accent and get your native tongue back, but until then, you will just have to make do.
The young soldier that looks out of place on the other side of the counter beams at you, seemingly more confident now that he could be understood, and when he speaks, his voice like a pleasant melody dipped in honey and early autumn sun, a small wave of nostalgia and elation washes over you. You are mesmerized by his lips, the way they curve into O’s and A’s and never quite seem to touch as much as they do with French, the tone of his voice as he explains the most basic things, asking for products you sell countless time a week, with the same words most customers use, yet it just wasn’t the same coming from him. Adèle has gone back to the atelier, probably to finish the syrup you started. It is just the two of you now, and you try to not let any of your internal excitement seep through your commercial facade - because it just isn’t normal to get this giddy over hearing a language, is it? - and you hand him what he asks for; a salve for blisters and small cuts.
“Don’t they supply you with these in the army?” you dare inquire.
“They do, I just figured having my own stock can’t harm. There’s an awful lot of men and we are meant to run short soon”.
You smile tenderly at him, not knowing what to say, trying not to think or acknowledge the reality behind his words, that he knew he was just cannon fodder with a short-term expiry date. Asking for insect bits and blister balm seemed ironic next to it. You wrap the products into a little packet, discreetly throwing in some extra bandages and ask him if there is anything else he needs before finalising the payment.
“Actually, yes - I was hoping to get a present. To a- a woman. I’ve never done this, I’m afraid I am quite clueless when it comes to beauty products.”
You proceed to ask him questions; eager to help. What does she like? Does it need to be shipped overseas? He’s not sure, he confesses, and no, he will hopefully see her soon and give it to her in person. It has to be small, something she can carry around if she wishes to. You tell him he’s quite limited in here, only having a choice between the cosmetic aisle and some perfumery articles. He says he’s happy with that, he doesn’t feel confident giving her a clothing item yet. Like a cat chasing a dog, you ask him questions and he gives you elusive answers. As you grow more self-assured with your English, happy to be aligning more than a few words at a time with this charming stranger, the picture you both paint of the mystery woman seems to take shape. “Both”, because you are guessing, suggesting traits and colours and he puts them together, adding more details about her without you asking.
You are enjoying the interrogation, a complicit moment in your secret language stolen from a working day, and you discreetly glance at your watch only to regret doing so. Your shift is coming to an end soon, and you must finalize the sale. Stop this guessing dance, go back to the moment. You don’t want to, so you take the initiative to break the game and advise for a lipstick, in the shade Rose d’Amour, a neutral pink that suits any style and skin tone, and he accepts only after you give him the translation of “rose d’amour”. You inform him that, if he wishes, he can have something small engraved on the casing. You will take care of everything and make sure he gets it by Monday, you can even have it sent to his barracks. There is a moment of silence and what he says breaks you a little:
“My battalion is to be deployed Sunday evening to the Maginot Line.”
A beat. Silence again. The Maginot Line, that one big defence your country had set up against the German. If the battle was to break somewhere, you are sure it would be there, and you are sure it would break hard. You try not to look down but you don’t know what to say, and he breaks the silence, again. He must be used to this, more than you are. You don’t want to think about how many times he had to tell close ones he is leaving. Goodbyes spoken in different ways, the pain identical nonetheless. But he will find a way, he says, or someone to pick it up. Maybe the lady herself could come. You still don’t say a word, handing him a piece of paper and a pen, turning your back to fill out a request form for the engraving. When he hands you the paper back, his handwriting cursive and fine and slightly shaky, you copy down the two letters he inscribed on the form. No - not two letters; initials. The same as yours. Yours, you realize, the one you wear on the pocket next to your heart, on your white coat. Your fingers come up to trace the embroidered letters, looking down at them as if to make sure that the letters you just copied match the ones you identify with. Finally, you look up to him, knowing it’s just a coincidence, internally screaming for it not to be. And suddenly it’s back, that sadness in his eyes, those fingers fidgeting with the hem of his cap. His eyes are now wide and wet and you are caught off guard, but you don’t want him to cry. He mustn't cry, or it will break a dam you didn’t know you had until now and you will shed tears you didn’t want to have. But he doesn’t cry.
He tells you he is here, alone. No one is waiting for him at home either. He saw you earlier when he went into town, at the beginning of your shift, and you exuded kindness with the way your scarf was wrapped around your neck and showing only the upper part of your face, clumsily holding your books as you were fighting with the keys to unlock the store’s door. How despite that, you still pulled down your scarf to smile at an old couple greeting you as they passed by. He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t know anyone in this war he never asked for, he is lonely and scared and hates to admit it. All his brothers-in-arm had someone to go home too, and he knows he couldn’t hope for that, but he still wants to give you something, still hopes you’d accept the present, the Rose d’Amour lip tint, that maybe you’d agree to remember him.
“Will you write?” you whisper. You were crying now. “Would you like that?” You can only nod in response. “Will you let me miss you?” “Yes, please.”
On that unspoken promise, he pays, and you slip him the apothecary’s visit card with your home address handwritten on the back. Another sad smile. He searches for your gaze but you avoid it, not trusting yourself to keep composure. Then he leaves.
-
ii.
“So, how come you are a commissioned officer if you’ve never served before, lieutenant Kenobi?” “Oh, I’m only the second lieutenant for now. I was initially meant to be a pilot, but I had to be mutated when my brother graduated within the same arm. The army won’t put two family members together. Pilots get an officer rank after their training and they let me keep the title for the infantry. “Do you wish you got to fly instead?” “No. I’d rather die on the field next to my brothers than alone in a tin can”. “You make war sound oddly romantic.” “Not war. Death. And I meant to be poetic, although I admit the difference is minimal. Besides, I’m not sure I like flying.”
You let out a small laugh, noticing how the way he speaks is always soft and measured. One idea a sentence, his thoughts never overflowing his words, never letting you satisfy your indulgence for his perfect accent. He speaks the same way he holds himself, straight but not stiff, tender but firm. His combat boots hit the pavement beneath you in a rhythm that dictates your heartbeat, the pace slow and steady. You feel it too in the way he lets you hold his arm, his other hand resting on top of yours as you walk towards town; gentle and sure.
It had taken you a second too long to dry your tears and realize that you wanted to know more about this cute English soldier who enters your shop on a Saturday afternoon and buys you a lip tint you could have gotten free of charge before breaking havoc in your emotions. Another second too long before you remembered that you didn’t have any obligations for the night and rushed out the door, running after him with a panicked “Sir!”. You told him your shift ended in a quarter, you just needed to clean up and close up the atelier, that if he’d like, he can wait for you and you will show him around, show him that Paris is more than war, that France is more than a promise of imminent death.
“I would love that very much”, he said, a smile gracing his lips, and although its width has tone down in magnitude, you don’t believe he has wiped it away since. You’ve also never closed up so quickly, wishing Adèle a nice evening in haste. You only took a minute to properly apply your new present on your lips and rushed to meet the soldier diligently waiting for you outside. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service” he replied when you greeted him with your name, your cheeks flushed and warm despite the cold air. You felt bold taking this stranger - a soldier, on top of that - out, and even bolder when you took the arm he offered. But again, there is something kind about him, something that makes you trust him and not think twice when you give him your home address rather than a poste restante.
“A brother, then? I thought you said no one was waiting at home?” “Well, he’s not exactly waiting anywhere if he’s serving in the RAF, is he?”
You look down to the tip of your shoes, blushing at your mishap. Your mind is running at full capacity, trying to gauge what would be the best next thing to say. You didn’t want to spend the afternoon talking about his deployment - after all, you offered him your time to get his mind off things. Talking about yourself seems too obnoxious and you have never felt comfortable babbling about your life without being asked. Instead, you dress a mental list of all the activities and places available to you at this time of the day, and what a foreigner might want to enjoy in a metropolitan city like Paris. But then perhaps he is from London and no stranger to the busy streets of a big city? In truth, you want him to talk about himself, to listen to the way he makes words sing just for you because no passer-by would be able to eavesdrop on your conversation and understand. When you catch your reflection in a nearby store window, you smile at how casual you both look, your shoulders pressed in each other’s warmth, as if this was not the first time you walk bundled up next to a stranger.
For a moment, you let your mind wander to your late parents, who met at the start of the first big war, the one everyone thought would be the last. Father seldom ever talked about mother. You only knew they met (in France too), when your mother was replacing her brother in the tobacco factory and your father (an Englishman too) was on leave. A romantic spark inside of you hoped history would repeat itself with you, that this was your mother’s doing, her sending you a sign, a presence she never had the chance to be for you. The sadness is back again, as you remember when you came back from school one spring Wednesday, looking forward to spending the free afternoon cutting wood with your father and aunt, only to be met with the latter bearing sad news. How for months after, you also felt like you had no one to go home to, that you were alone, like him. You shake the thought away, deciding that no - this Obi-Wan soldier will not be alone or feel lonely. Not on your watch. Happy thoughts, you tell yourself, faisons quelque chose d’heureux.
“Let’s go to Montmartre. One of our famous buildings is there, we will have a nice view of the city and we could stop by for dinner in some nice brasserie.” “You’d like to have dinner with me?” “Unless you have to go back to your barrack or something… I don’t want to impose”. “Oh, please impose! I am honoured if you’ll grace me with your company for supper.”
You then set out to take him on a tour of the city (on foot, of course, you don't trust the metro) towards your destination. You take him to the inevitable Eiffel Tower, but the whole area is sealed for military use and you both admire the towering steel lady from afar. You take him along the banks of the Seine, with a stopover towards Notre Dame. You don't go in - there are already a lot of people and you prefer to leave the place to the believers. He stops with a few booksellers along the banks, marveling at old collections from the last century. You offer to buy him a book that seems to particularly capture his attention, an old version of a certain Moby Dick. You wonder for a moment what kind of adjective "Moby" might be to describe something so vulgarly masculine. Then you notice the sperm whale printed in white ink on the blue cloth cover and think that you might not be as fluent in English as you thought and that the whale’s nomination is very fitting. He seems to hesitate a little to take up your offer. You encourage him with a "come on, consider it a payback for Rose d'Amour" and then he doesn't want to hear anything about a transaction anymore.
You grab his arm a little tighter as you start to climb the butt of Montmartre to steady yourself, perched on your little heels on uneven ground. You curse at their impracticality as you stroll along the artists, occasionally stopping to admire their work. You can’t help but whisper gossips about how some of them look the same, seemingly trying to copy each other with a different colour palette. But his uniform and your foreign language seem to attract too many unwelcomed looks and you slowly slip him towards the main stairs leading to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. You get lost on the way, and he is amazed by the flowery balconies, the number of cats passing by (you smile when he stops to pet them all and none seem to resist his outstretched hand), marvelling in front of the Haussmann-style architecture and the colour of the stones on the slabs.
You tell him, "My city has never looked more beautiful than through your eyes". And he says, "Maybe you should look at yourself through them too then."
Air leaves your lungs and you wonder if you’ll manage to force it back in without burning and collapsing and slap him on the shoulder in an attempt to hide your blush, throwing him a "sweet talker, soldier boy". His deep blue eyes, wrinkled by the laughter that draws his lips, try to appear offended as he points his badge with his index, inflating his chests before saying "it’s lieutenant to you, young mademoiselle".
When you finally arrive at the top, he helps you up a wall facing the city, hoisting you up with both his hands on your hips, and you both sit there, taking in the beauty of the sun setting over Paris, bathing the city in a warm, beautiful golden light. You tell him about the little history you know of the city and the basilica. He tells you there is something magical about being on the highest summit of a place. Maybe it’s a vestige of his pilot career. He asks about your English. You explain your origins and apologize for your accent and occasional improper use of language. And when he says that your accent is “the most adorable thing he’s ever heard” you feel your cheeks burn hard and you’re grateful for your scarf hiding half your face. Then there’s a comfortable silence as the sky wraps itself in a blanket of orange and pink and purple colours. He also wraps his arm loosely around your shoulder when he feels you shiver and scoot a little closer. Suddenly, you can faintly hear your landlord’s voice, a respectable but old woman who cared very much for all the young ladies in her house, saying how unlady like this is, going out until dark with a man who isn’t yours, who doesn’t even know you. But Obi-Wan makes no further attempt at trying to get you closer and you shut the voice off.
When the sky is done burning the city fire red into the ground, it swaps its colourful blanket for a dark nightgown and you can’t hide your shivers anymore. The soldier offers you his coat but you decide it’s best to head out for dinner before everything gets too dark and cold. He first makes you promise you won’t get him any frogs or snails and you laugh at the stereotype, promising that you won’t (for tonight). You take him to la Brasserie de l’Etoile and you both order cheap wine, having found a seat in the back corner of the restaurant with your knees touching under the table. You make him try a coq au vin and treat yourself to a boeuf bourguignon.
“This is the first and probably the last most delicious meal I’ve had from French cuisine!”
You hate how he keeps dropping bombs on you like this, constantly reminding you of his deployment and war. It’s probably just a façade he uses to hide his own emotions about it. Probably. You hesitate, chewing slowly a piece of carrot, “Find a way back to me and I’ll cook you anything you can dream of”.
He smiles with that wide smile of his that you’re starting to grow very fond of, “And I do have big dreams, little one”.
You wine and dine and he makes you laugh with stories of unfortunate events and you take him for a late night stroll around Quartier Pigalle, the eclectic nightlife and neon lit bars a sharp contrast to the soft and slow evening you previously had. You are as fascinated as him by the environment - you never come down here alone and having a uniformed man walking alongside you sure serves as a nice chaperone for you to let your eyes and feets wander wherever they please without worry. The debauchery of the bars overflows into the street, the cobblestones soiled by spilled beer here and there. Naked women can be seen through the windows of the least isolated brothels, the patrons noisy and merry. All this exuberance makes your head spin and you might give up on offering to stop for a drink, despite a budding desire to dance - to enjoy your only night off and his last night off. You show him the Moulin Rouge, the entrance hidden by a long queue of customers, civilians and soldiers, French and allies alike. He rolls his eyes and you finally pull him in the opposite direction from all this ecstasy, towards more familiar areas, closer to home, closer to your heart.
-
III.
You have indulged in two more beers and he even paid for a cocktail in a smaller, more friendly bar and you are feeling tipsy and light headed after being spun around to jazz tunes in the arms of your beautiful soldier. It’s really late now and you wonder how you will justify your absence from your bed to your landlord; maybe you could pass it off as another late night working in the lab which ends with you sleeping at your desk (it wouldn’t be the first time). He holds you close to his chest and swings you to softer tunes, the kind they put at the end of the night when the late workers are closing up and the early ones waking up. The atmosphere in the bar is shifting, other tables growing quiet and starting to ask for l’addition. You are weary from all the walking and dancing and staying up for so long and you know you will soon have to leave too and it makes your heart ache. He must feel it too, because his voice is deep and low when he asks:
“Must this night end?” “It doesn’t have to.” “Will you stay with me tonight?” You eye him suspiciously and huff back: “To your barracks? Please, don’t forget yourself.” “What- No! That’s not- I- I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant”. And to your frowned look, he adds softly, “We’re having such a good time, I just wished tomorrow did not have to come yet, to stay with you a little longer.”
You blush, your head finding its place on his chest again, tightening your grip in his hand, smiling at the use of “we” instead of the first person.
“Ah. Well, I live in a house for young women anyway. It’s a strictly “no men allowed” ground after dark, so…” “A no man's land”, he smirks. “Yes, yes. We can call it that if you want”
You did not want to think about tomorrow any more than you wanted him to and you did not know what tonight will mean for the days to come. You only know that you were scared to let your mind wander on those thoughts. That right now, you only want to be held by the soldier’s strong arms, to let him swing you softly to music’s tune into the tender night, to never let him go. And when you will have to, you want time to pass fast, you want him to write to you until his hand aches from holding a pen for too long. And then you want that same hand to come back and take yours, far, far away from here. Perhaps to England, the motherland you never saw other than through your father's recollections. Perhaps further away, across the pond, where people speak english with the back of their throat and use their foot as a metric. You press yourself a little more into him, humming with content. No, you did not want this to end with no guarantee for a second chance and you wanted this to last a while longer.
So you do something you should never do with a stranger and a soldier when war was just declared and sides yet have to be defined, something both your landlord and your cousin and your friend, hell, even yourself will chastise you for it - you take him to your hideout. Well, it’s not yours, per say, but when you had started to attend university and had first met your current group of friends, their faces screaming “mischief and adventure”, you had opened a door and unknowingly given yourself access to hidden and forbidden parts of the city. It is a mix of students from different backgrounds and fields and you found yourself happy amidst the whole diversity. A nice break from the sexist, overly stern and serious academic environment at your institute. Your friend Hector, the perfect, emblematic example of the anarchist art student, not only has a brother who knows different access points to the catacombs, but also owns a forgotten storage room behind the train station. It served multi purposes, from an impromptu studio for him, a safe room for late parties and the numerous drinking sessions you’ve been part of, and occasionally and more adequate to your situation, as a hideout for secret nights with lovers. You cross under the train tracks into the storage area, and all the way to the back, in the row of buildings closest to the tracks, you remove your shoes and climb up a window. He follows, still silent until you look at him, his face stern and eyes frowned.
“Do you come here often?” “No, mostly with friends anyways” This slightly relaxes his brows: “Good. I don’t like the idea of you alone in these streets”. “I am perfectly capable of fending for myself!”
You are standing on one leg, brushing the dust away from your stockings before attempting to slip your feet back into your shoes. But you are not holding yourself on anything but your shoewear and gravity choses that exact moment to call you to it and you lose balance. Obi-Wan catches you before you fall, a small laugh escaping his lips as he puts you back on your two feet.
“I would never doubt that.”
You roll your eyes at him and push a door into a darkly lit, but relatively well kept room. Someone must have been here recently. He helps you remove your coat and as he strips himself, you proceed to light the few candles your friends always leave around the room. You pull the couch next to the window and pull the curtains before sitting down to wait for him. He’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, again looking out of place, like his uniform was not made for this make-up room, for anywhere else than the battlefield, really. You watch as he removes his combat boots and his vest, his shirt, keeping his long undershirt on. He still doesn’t move and you tap the empty space on the couch next to you as an invitation for him to join you. He hesitates, and when he finally sits you both shift yourself to face each other. You cross your legs, careful not to let your skirt ride up too high, but still a little bit higher, and he imitates your position, taking your hands his is, his again tired blue eyes finding yours.
“Are you scared?”, you ask, “about tomorrow?” “Very.”
It’s quiet again. There is something raw and oddly intimate in the way he allows himself to be weak in front of you, admitting his fear twice now.
You look down to where your fingers meet, how he is numbingly playing with yours yet never letting them go, how your fingers just seem to fit in the space between his.
“Thank you for this night. For your time. It’s a beautiful city.”
The way he says it sounds like goodbye and suddenly you are not so tired anymore. You let the surrounding overwhelm you - the dim light seeping through the closed curtains and reflected in the room with the candles, the faint woody scent emanating from Obi-Wan, the underlying chill you know will slowly turn your hands into ice, the same chill you feel running through your veins, the slight dizziness left by all the drinks, the warmth in the same veins caused by the same drinks, the occasional train passing by, the slight vibration in the walls of the room when it does, the same vibration you feel deep in your ribs.
“You’re fidgeting”, he says. It’s a statement. A fact that you have not even noticed, but you are, in fact, feeling restless. “Do I make you nervous? I can walk you home and head to my barracks, I apologise; I did not realize it might be odd for you to stay the night with a stranger -”
But you cut him off, because he’s got your headspace all wrong. You feel safe with him. Your guts were not screaming at you to run far away from him, and his presence actually grounds you in the present moment.
“You are not a stranger. You are Obi-Wan Kenobi, British officer, and you will write me letters from tomorrow on.” “Is that all you want to know?” “Silly you, if you told me everything about you now, what will you write about?”
He smiles and you do too, admiring the way the corner of his eyes mimic the curve of his lips when he does and how the dim lit seems to paint constellations in his dark blue eyes. Still feeling the strange mixture of warmth and chills, you dare lift your hand to push back a strand of hair from his eyes, tugging it above his ear, a gesture you’ve noticed him doing multiple times throughout the day. You found it mesmerizing, the way his large hand would push back his locks, his fingers combing through them as they parted and glided back in place. When you pull your hand back, your fingers brush against his cheekbones and he turns his head slightly, just enough so his lips meet the soft skin inside your palm. You freeze, the chills now taking over the warmth, but he puts his hand on yours and pulls both down to their initial position - his hands clasping over yours, and the warmth is back.
“What about you, sweet miss? Where are you from, and where are you going?” “I am from here. Here and nowhere. And I want to go everywhere.” “Then I shall take you there”.
It sounds like another promise and you desperately want to cling to it, but you both know the odds and although none of you speak the words “after the war”, the thought is deafeningly loud. You tell him you look forward to it, and he actually looks happy that you say so. You thank him again for tonight, and he tells you it’s his pleasure. You believe him and the muscles around your heart are squeezing so hard it hurts.
Your eyelids are starting to weigh heavy and you are fighting against the growing exhaustion. But you do your best to not appear miserable in front of him and smile, your eyes still transfixed to where he’s holding you. He lets go of your hand, only for his to find your chin, nudging you to look at him. “You’re tired”. You nod. Like before, he asks, with the same lingering sadness in his eyes, his voice tinted with longing and desperation. “Will you let me hold you, tonight?” And like before, in your store, in the middle of your glassware, you whisper “yes, please”. You’ve lost count of the number of times you should have said “no” tonight, and you’ve long ignored your inner moral voice, because how could you say “no” when any declination of it that could leave your lips is inevitably twisted by your soul and bones into a “yes”?
He gets up and walks around the room, checking the door, the windows, grabbing his coat and your scarf, blowing on the candles back to you. He gently turns you around, spreading his legs to make room for you. You settle yourself comfortably between his thighs, your back pressed against his chest. He pulls his coat from his side and drapes it over you, snuggling you closer to him, brushing your hair to one side of your neck and lodging your balled up scarf next to the bare skin on the other. Then he wraps his arms around your middle, and when his hands find yours you intertwine your fingers with his. His chest is warm, a welcomed contrast to the cold that still seeps through the closed window and brushes against your cheeks. You feel him press a light kiss into your hair, above your temple, and you nuzzle into his chest, your lips only reaching the side of his jawline and you both hum contentedly.
You know yourself, how much of a hopeless romantic you are, inspired equally by your addiction to romantic tragedies and your own parent’s love story. You longed to be the protagonist of your own narrative. Even though this evening has been nothing but platonic intimacy with a gentlemen who did not once have a misplaced hand or word, you know that as soon as it ends, as soon as you slip into the darkness of sleep, your mind will wrap it up into something more, a yearning for something that will only end up hurting you. So, for now, you are going to take in all that you can, burning this moment forever in your brain. You think back to the last few hours, the exaltation of it all and try to bath yourself in that happiness. You breathe him in knowing you will never get enough and he will never fully leave you now; cigarette smoke that clings to your lungs no matter how hard you exhale. And as you succumb to slumber, your heart both empty and full, you hear him whisper to himself, whispers of a prayer, a promise to come back to you, but you know tonight is a promise that tomorrow will only break.
When you wake up to the sound of trains, stirring against something soft and warm, it takes you a moment to recall the previous day’s events, and you smile when you realize where you are and that your soldier was still by your side, his arm securely holding you still. But he is already awake, and he looks tired, eyes red and raw, like he didn’t sleep. You mumble a soft “bonjour”, burying your face against his chest and he responds with a kiss to your forehead, his hand gently stroking your hair.
“I’m sorry to rush you, but I must leave. I would like to go to mass before our call. You look lovely when you sleep.”
You nod, ignoring the compliment, realizing his departure is imminent, barely opening your eyes and refusing to let emotion wash over you in your vulnerable, sleepy state. He gently pushes you up and extracts himself from your warmth. You couldn’t know, but it was the most difficult thing he had to do, leaving you like this, curled up on a couch in an area that looked too sketchy to him by night. He thought he might not be able to do it, not after watching your eyelids flutter shut last night, after listening to your breathing evens out, your chest rising and falling to your calm heartbeat. He tried not to stare at your form as he got up and put on his shirt, readjusting all elements of his uniform, smoothing the folds out. He had to resist the urge to go back to you and bury his nose in your sweet-smelling hair like he secretly did last night but he grabs his shoes and still walks to your couch to put them on. You reach for his elbow as he ties his laces, a silent plea for him to stay, and the same sad, deep blue eyes meet you again. Will you ever see light coming from them? Will they ever smile back at you? His boots secured, he bends over to press his lips to the tip of your nose, to your eyes that are now watery and wet, to your forehead, and finally, the tip of your fingers. He takes his coat that was still covering you and replaces it with yours. You watch him wrap himself in it, and his fingers as they fasten the belt around his waist. Your throat is tight and your chest heavy and you only manage to say:
“Stay safe. Come back to me”.
One last smile, blurred by both your tears.
And for the second time in less than 24 hours, you watch him disappear behind a door.
-
iv.
You can’t think as you head back to your home. You don’t even take your usual shortcut, instead letting your feet aimlessly guide you along the main roads, ignoring the noises of the city, oblivious to automobiles and cyclists cursing at you to make way. Your heart is empty. It was full a mere hour ago, but now it is empty, and you do not know what else to fill it with, or what would be better than those few stolen moments with the beautiful English soldier. He disappeared this morning as fast as he has arrived yesterday, and he could have been a dream if it wasn't for his lingering scent on your clothes or the Rose d’Amour lip tint you were clutching in your hand, shoved in your coat’s pocket.
You want to scream at the moon that was still in the sky to go to bed, to stop staying up so late, that this was not her time to shine anymore. But the sun was not shining either and nothing felt like it could ever shine again. You don’t stop by the bakery like you always do, you check your mailbox as you arrive, not thinking that there is no mail on a Sunday, and you sigh in relief when the house is empty as you push the large door, faintly remembering that your landlord and most girls too, attend mass. You make a beeline up the stairs, straight to your room, and you don’t allow yourself to cry until you have stripped all layers of your clothes and bundled them into a ball in the corner of your room. You soak yourself into the lukewarm bath the other girls have left behind before heading out and only then do you let your tears spill and drown in the soapy water.
You let the ripples your body makes in the bath take away the emotions of the night like the tide, washing up a sense of emptiness you can’t quite understand, and with it, anger. You resent yourself for thinking an intimate evening like this could lead to romantic ramifications. You were a fool to spin a sad unknown soldier into a storyline you wished for, especially in this time of war. You were mad at countries for getting back into something they promised never to start again, when history books were barely finished telling about the previous war and its damages. He could never come back. He could not mean a single word he said last night, and never write. And still never come back, even if he were alive. You try to scrub the shame away from your skin for being so naïve and when you can’t ignore the feeling of all your bones breaking for him anymore, and the water has turned cold, you decide to get out of the bath, of the house altogether and hop on your bicycle towards your institute’s lab.
At least science doesn’t lie, you tell yourself a few hours later, your freshly prepared petri dishes drying on your bench. You finish scribbling down your last notes and proceed to clean up your workplace. Science is reliable, you repeat yourself; like a mantra. It’s truthful, sometimes maddening and sometimes comforting. Science is something you knew how to do, how to handle, how to wrap your mind around and communicate with. Science isn’t so different from a relationship, after all. It burns hot when you light the gas burner and bites cold when you plunge your hand in liquid nitrogen. Like a lover’s kisses and hands. Like the soldier from last night.
“Will you stop thinking about him now?” you hiss to yourself.
But as mad as you are against your brain for constantly bringing him up, you can’t. You failed at leaving him in the cold bath when you left the house, and the thought of his cerulean blue eyes trails in the back of your mind like a ghost. You couldn’t resist putting the lip tint he gifted you on this morning. The faint taste of wildberries it left on the tip of your tongue when you would stick it out as you focused on a task did not help to forget him. You wondered if he would barge through the door into your lab like he did at the pharmacy, if his uniform will still make him look out of place in this sterile academic environment. But there was no way you could ever know - you haven’t even told him about your situation and your life. Looking back, you realize even more how the previous evening was futile, merely scratching the superficial aspects of both your lives, and if it wasn’t for his pretty face and the longing for something new, perhaps a bit forbidden and secret - an adventure entirely yours, perhaps the evening would have been yet another dull courting session.
But he didn’t court you thought, did he? Although his company was highly enjoyable, he merely wanted someone to talk to, someone, anyone to hold. “Anyone”. A part of you despises the fact that you were just an interchangeable pawn in his war game, a comfortable pit stop conveniently found in a supply run, but another voice inside of you screams against your science and your rational mind, screams of words you did not want to believe in like “fate” and “meant to be” until you gave in and decided that coincidences do not just happen.
Thus, once your bench is clean and petri dishes have dried and cultures started, you left your building into the dying day and headed for the city hall, where you knew they kept track of all troops arrivals and departures. For obvious reasons the information was confidential and you had to bribe the civil officer with your best smile and charming winks, passing yourself as Lt. Kenobi’s girlfriend who forgot the time her man would leave (this made you feel all fuzzy and you hoped he wouldn’t mind), leaving your name and contact information in three different registers before finally leaving the city hall with a time and place: 8 o’clock, Gare de Lyon; platform 12.
Merde.
A quick glance at your wrist watch and you’re jumping on your bicycle again before you realize what you’re doing. His train is leaving in half an hour, and it takes you half as much time to reach the central train station from your current location. This boy is really making you go through an emotional rollercoaster. You ignore the cold wind that’s biting your face as you slalom through the streets, your thumb hurting from constantly ringing your bell to pedestrians, ignoring their insults of protests (after all, this is Paris, and protests are a part of your daily background noise). To be honest, you did not know why you were putting yourself through such an intense train of thoughts for a boy you’ve met for barely a fraction of your life, but something deep inside your gut was aching for him in a way that every cell of your body could no longer ignore.
Red traffic light.
It wouldn’t be too bad if you missed him thought; or at least that’s what you’re trying to force yourself to believe, but you know damn well that you will probably melt down if you were to arrive at the train station only to be met with the rear end of the train disappearing in the distance - and your soldier with it. Your foot is nervously tapping the pedal of your bicycle, impatient to put weight on it and move on.
Central, crowded, roundabout.
Perhaps you should have taken the underground metro. But when you told him about the insalubrity of the transport last night he almost made you promise to never take it alone. Damn it! How are you already letting him dictate your actions? You will have to take the underground once winter hits, biking on snowed roads seems even less appealing than the broken fauna of Parisian metro. If you ever told your friends about this, they’d make fun of you and scold you for all the unnecessary risks you’ve taken (for him), and how uncharacteristic of you this behaviour was (was it?).
Gare de Lyon.
Two turns, quick lock on your bike. Maybe you should turn away now, forget this fantasy and refuse to feed it more thoughts, let the fire die out rather than consume you. But it’s too late and your heels are hurting from all the biking and running as you enter the main hall and - why are suddenly so many english families sending their men off? You don’t recall ever hearing this many foreign languages in the hall of the train station other than the occasional arrival of noble tourists in summer, but you can’t be bothered to stop to think about it now. Platform 12 is in front of you, and you rush to the first class coaches, hoping you’d find him amongst the other officers.
Ten minutes to departure.
The announcement on the speakerphone is deafeningly loud and you can’t find your soldier, not after sneaking a peek through every window you could reach. You want to jump on the train, look for him there, hide there and go with him. You want to scream his name and find him, take him away. They all look similar, with their khaki uniform and shaved faces and trimmed hair. Maybe no one will notice if he’s gone.
Five minutes to departure.
You hold back the hot tears that are threatening to fall, not willing to cloud your vision even more with blurry eyes. You swallow the panic that’s rising in your chest as you realize you might not see him - he might not even be here, in this battalion, and the civil officer at the city hall just played you. You’re not running anymore, barely pushing your way through the crowd back towards the second class coaches, occasionally lifting yourself on your tiptoes to glance into a window. But then someone calls your name, and you hear it so faintly you could have imagined it. But then there’a a hand around your elbow, warm and soft and firm, and a faint smell that gives you a very needed déjà-vu.
Khaki uniform, shaved beard, trimmed hair; blue eyes, tall. Obi-Wan.
His blue eyes. His smile. His surprised, happy, tired blue eyes and smile.
“What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?” “I-”, you don’t know what to say. Was he happy to see you? Where you too pushy? Adrenaline is coursing through your veins and you speak fast. “I wanted to see you before you left, I went to city hall. Will you really write? You can’t leave me without a kiss.”
A whistle. Another, larger, smile.
“I promise I will, darling. You will hear from me sooner than you’d expect, I swear it on my honor”.
Shouting. Steam. Another, louder, whistle.
“You must leave!” You push him away with one hand, the other still clutching his forearm.
Another second, and that same forearm is on the small of your back, the hand attached to it holding your waist. You see a glimpse of something blue, like lightning, and his lips are on yours. Warm, wet, searching and wanting and you open yourself to him, letting him explore and write promises of more with his tongue on yours. His other arm snakes around you too, and you are pressed against his chest, your hand roaming around his neck, through his hair.
But like lightning, it’s intense and loud and bright and short and it marks you. When he pulls away, because he has to leave, because air has become a necessity, he pecks your lips once more, and presses one last kiss to your temple. “You taste of wildberries”, you hear him whisper, before he flashes you a final smile and hops on his coach. Second class. Of course he would ride with his men rather than the other officers.
He disappears for a moment before reappearing next to two fellow soldiers, and all three of them lower the window pane. The train has started and you can’t hear anything distinctively over the din. There is a lot of waiving, and your eyes are trying to memorise everything about him. You’re crying again and your heart doesn’t know if it should stop beating or explode, and Obi-Wan is grinning at you and blowing you kisses and his lips are forming words you can’t catch but you scream back anyways, and too soon there is nothing left but empty tracks and a dispersing crowd. You stay there, staring at the space he used to fill, waiting for the blood drumming in your ear to calm down. When it finally does, you turn around and head back to where you left your bike. You tighten the scarf around your neck and face and shove your hands in your coat’s pocket, fingers curling around something that wasn’t there before. What you pull out make your heart skip (yet another) beat, an envelope he must have slip there, both proof and promise that he will write, unfinished yet real words:
Dearest darling,
Mass was meditative and I now have a moment of spare time before we leave for our train. My boys are making fun of me because they do not believe you exist, therefore I must write to you now, when my memory of you is still fresh and beautiful and in case I indeed made you up. I haven’t, though, have I? You look like an angel when you sleep, maybe waking up next to you this morning was a dream. But I found a hair on my coat. It’s too long to be mine and the only logical explanation would be that you are not, in fact, made up. I hope you are not. You have given me joy, strength and comfort in ways I have not thought possible in my situation, and I am eternally grateful to you for it. I will write again as soon as my battalion is settled; you can always reply to the address enclosed on the back. In the meantime, I beg you not to worry, my men’s spirits are high and you’ve given me a purpose and reason to survive. I will lay tonight in my coach thinking of you and -
And you smile, folding the letter back into the envelope. This time, you’re not as sad about him leaving, your mind soothed. “I will think of you too, Obi-Wan.”
-
