"i love your costume!" with fives????
✶ – ARC TROOPER FIVES / READER ; hallowe'en
summary: you and fives cross paths at 79's at the annual hallowe'en party.
pairing: fives / reader
tags: shameless flirting, lost of pining, absurd star wars costumes, 79's drink menu is the pinnacle of creativity, fives is a flirt, torrent company are my besties
a/n: please enjoy me pulling my usual shenanigans and trying to make holidays fit within the star wars universe in a context that is not children's books about ewoks!!! and happy halloween!! this lovely gif is from this set by @sergeant-hunter!
79's — as it goes — tends to be a haven for this sort of thing: theme nights, karaoke Tuesdays, and of course, holiday parties.
Hallowe'en, really, is more popular on Coruscant than anywhere else. Echo did mention something about ewoks and the story about Bright Tree Village on the cab ride over, but Fives wasn't listening — he was too busy trying not to snap his haphazardly made wings in half as Jesse shouldered in beside him.
Don't look at him like that —they're soldiers. His costume is shit. He knows it's shit. You think this angel costume was easy to make? He had to bribe Rex with mess duty just to get the Captain to turn a blind eye while the ARC Trooper made a move for some extra medical tape from the medbay. And even still, all he got was Dogma ribbing him because 'he doesn't look like a real Diathim', blah blah blah. Whatever.
...What was he saying?
Oh, right, Hallowe'en.
Yea, no, Echo made a few good points he did catch, he thinks as he steps out of the cab and onto the platform, Y'know... Mass consumption of a marketed holiday, all that shit.
It still didn't stop vod'ika from making his own costume.
Echo, as he stumbles out of the cab — last to exit — sports a bit of a cop-out. He's in Five's armor, sporting a drawn on 5 and a poorly shaded goatee. Commander Tano had insisted it was a great look (having helped apply the look before insisting she had her own Hallowe'en business to attend to at the Temple), but Fives has to admit it brings a bit of a blow to his ego. Even being his genetic match, his best friend looks more like Echo now: awkward, quiet, and already regretting being here.
The line isn't bad, but Fives admits he's freezing his ass off by the time they do get in — and whatever sort of marketing campaign 79's pulled for the lucky bastards on leave at the time of Hallowe'en worked. The place is packed; tonight there are more civvies than usual, too. Fives makes note as Jesse roughs up his shoulders and swats at his wings.
"Gotta find a lil' devil fer you, vod," he calls over the base.
Fives snorts and reaches up to adjust his poorly made halo.
Jesse's half-ass attempt at smuggler-turned-pirate-turned-half-trooper was something, better than some of the other troopers in here who had decided 'decorated war hero' was enough of a costume. Kix, by his side, is in a clean set of scrubs and a white coat he's stolen from one of the civilian doctors.
"A little cold?" the medic calls, grinning wolfishly.
"Fuck off," Fives chirps back, shoving them both roughly to move on — because truth be told, yes, this white compression tank and shorts weren't doing much to keep him warm. A drink will warm him up. And judging by how crowded the upper mezz was, he'll be sweating his ass off in no time.
As he weaves through the crowd with the gaggle of Torrent Company members, Fives ignores the burn of his muscles. The last mission is still clinging to him — but, tonight he can let loose. He's got a whole week of leave to look forward to. And with his luck, maybe he won't have to go back to the barrack's tonight.
Maybe.
Maybe.
At that very moment, in all honesty, he wasn't expecting to see you there at the bar.
The Republic's Auxiliary Corp was comprised entirely of natural-born civilians — folks who usually took on the more supportive roles of engineering, nursing, and communications to name a few. You happened to be The Resolute's lead communication officer; the one, who in lieu of Admiral Yularen, often gave debriefs and mission reports on his behalf.
It wasn't out of the ordinary for Aux Corp to party at 79's, but... You? Last you'd said, you'd sworn off 79's. Too many coworkers and, apparently, enough grab-ass to last a life time.
Despite being an ARC Trooper with the Grand Army of the Republic, despite outranking most by a mile, Fives has to admit his intimidation is real when he sees the other communication officers by your side — and while rank means fuck all at 79's, he can still feel the tension is his back wind tight.
Then your eyes meet his.
Sonofabitch, you're wearing wings like him.
You and Fives were... an interesting pair.
It was no small secret there was something going on here — but Echo never really knew how to exactly broach the topic with his vod. Fives was unusually quiet about this particular genre of flirting he did with you, be it between debriefs or in the line at the mess. Either way, it didn't stop the ARC Trooper from seeking out other means of distraction. Nor you, if truth be told.
And now, Echo is seeing this all come to a head.
"Well, well, well," comes your voice, high and tight above the bass; your face is covered with glitter, intricate make-up highlighting your features as the lights from the screens overhead replay the latest final match of bolo-ball, "If it isn't the boys in blue."
Your entourage is comprised of familiar faces — communication specialists and intel officers — but it's you that Torrent Company gravitates towards. Fives leads the charge. He's content to saddle up beside you, squeezing in-between the small space you make at the bar. The others make small talk, and find spots to flag down the bartender.
For now, it's just the two of you, locked in conversation and proximity in a sea of troopers, civilians, dancers and waitstaff.
You watch Fives turn his face up to the holiday themed menu — and then you reach for one of his wings.
"Nice costume."
The ARC Trooper snorts, attention now fully on you. You raise your drink, some odd looking creme thing in a wavy glass with a gummy dianoga hanging off the edge. His brown eyes twinkle with a little bit of mischief. You catch it easily.
"If you wanted to coordinate, you only had to ask—"
You laugh at that, offering up a sip of your drink.
Fives takes it, and with warm, calloused hands tips it back. He seems content enough with it, granted it's fruity and colorful and less likely to knock him on his ass. When he hands it back, he has to lean in a little closer as the music hikes up a notch.
"You look beautiful."
His cheek brushes yours and you smirk as you fiddle with your straw. When he leans back, half-occupied with giving his order to the bartender and half-distracted by you, you figure this was a long time coming — this back and forth you've been doing with him has been months in the making.
And, maybe you'd just hoped you'd catch him here.
His hand falls to your knee as he leans forward over the bar, answering something Kix called out to him about with a tight nod.
It's warm and rough against your bare skin.
(He did that on purpose.)
The matching costumes was all luck.
In a blink, he's back and leaned close into your space with his elbows on the bartop. His hip brushes your knee as you cross your legs and lean with one elbow on the counter. The shared proximity lends itself to a bit of privacy all while the club around you seems to tip into extended chaos.
Fives is... well. He's interested. He's been interested. More interested than he usually is — and that sort of admission is the stuff he tends to shy away from. He's got a big heart. The last thing he wants is to go and break it. Hence, the volley after volley. Slow and steady. A steep climb towards something more real, maybe.
And here he is, nearly nose to nose with you at the bar, dressed like a god damn angel. You're dressed like one, too. But... Yours is better. Prettier.
Very pretty.
"I thought you said you didn't do 79's?" Fives asks, breath hot against your cheek.
You smile timidly, flashing your eyes to your compatriots over his shoulder. Your lashes flutter as you call over the bass. "Consider this a forced outing."
Fives grins; his eyes crinkle at the corners and you watch with bated affection — his arrival had come at your third drink of the evening. Everyone knew 79's tended to over pour, but... Lights alive, you were going to be feeling this tomorrow. You're already regretting your shoe choice.
Fives is slid his drink by the bartender — a tall glass of some amber liquid you assume is that Coruscanti lager your roommate had been raving about. His halo hangs lopsided on his head as he cocks a smirk.
"C'mon," he chirps, tipping back his beer and taking a long swig, "It's not that bad."
Truth be told it wasn't — but there was really only one trooper you had your sights on. You're lucky enough to his his center of attention now.
You brace your chin in your hand and reach to adjust the crudely made headband. Fives grins.
"No, it's not that bad, and I like Hallowe'en," you supplement; your fingers brush his cheek before you reach back for your drink. Garbage Compactor, the menu called it. You pop the gummy into your mouth and nudge him with your knee, "But it is better now that you're here."
The words make his heart leap — and he doesn't bother to hide the sheepish reaction that brings him to hang his head and ward off a bright smile. It's his turn, once he's composed himself, to prop his head up in his hand. He's mirroring you. His eyes roam your face closely.
For a moment, you're the only two people in the bar.
Then, his free hand finds your knee again.
It's a thoughtful touch — he's admiring the warm, smooth curve of your skin. His hands are calloused and warn from war; and you find yourself squirming in your perch at the bar.
The tension is wound tight like a coil.
"Didn't have a date to match with?" he asks, half jest, half seeking confirmation that this is okay. That he can touch you like this, that he can buy you a drink, that he can inevitably steal you away to the murky privacy of a crowded dance floor — because now, he's seeing this. He's seeing you. He knows that he can have this... if you'll let him.
"No," you adjust your wings as you wet your lips, "I, uh... no."
You shrug, then, with a tipsy look that makes Fives beam. It's cute. You're cute. This sheepish, sweet, happy look you've got about you is different from the one you usually wear on the bridge. You're capable, intelligent, witty... and now he's seeing a myriad of other facets that he finds just as enamoring.
Fives is distracted. His eyes hold your own.
"I look like an idiot," he says suddenly with his trademark humor that's enough to break your moony-eyed stare, "And here I am, trying to put the moves on you—"
"They're working," you laugh, waving off his evident sheepishness, "And it's not a bad costume, really. Captain Rex would applaud your ingenuity."
"He wanted to kick my ass," he says, leaning in to laugh over the music; his nose is against your cheek again as he waves with his beer, "Was about to cite me for gross misuse of GAR medical supplies—"
You're laughing, hand on his chest.
"How much gauze did you use?" you call out, poking at the wings.
"Too much!" he says, swatting at your own wings, "Shoulda just called you up—"
The suggestion is enough to lock you both in that same sticky tempo as before — but this time it's you who settles into it neatly with a smile. You offer a playful shrug.
"You could of."
Fives' smile is slow. He asks in a playful way, chin jutting. "What?"
"Called me," you explain as you loll your head to the side, "You can, y'know. I'd like that."
He's — god damn it, you're good at this. You're good at disarming him. Usually he's better at navigating this sort of thing, but... with you it's different. With you, there's a weighted pressure of succeeding.
He takes it. He runs with it.
"Yea?" he asks, hand on the bar and other fiddling with the wing of your costume, "You'd like that? Or me?"
The suggestion isn't lost on you. Your smile is bright.
You stretch, leaning up to speak closely. "Are we really gonna keep playing this game?"
Fives hand moves to your hip — the proximity is making his head swim. He turns his head and his nose brushes your cheek, just below your eye. You toss him a look. Half challenging, half sugar-sweet. Every bit some beautiful visage of an angel.
"Can I kiss you?" he calls out suddenly, brown eyes flicking to your lips.
You blink, unsure if you heard him. "What?"
"Can I — blast it," he leans in, nose to nose, and speaks again, "I'm asking if I can kiss you."
Immediate understanding blossoms on your face and your reply isn't verbal — it's a coordinate kiss that catches him by surprise. Fives makes a small sound against your mouth before settling, melting, and anchoring his hands to your frame.
His hands are big and warm and the hold he keeps on your waist is near crushing, as if you'd fly away at any moment, and you ease into the control he seeks at the kiss — all while the world continues to thrum alive around you.
After all, 79's was a haven for things like this: lucky troopers and lopsided lip-locks, all while their brothers cheered from behind their own drinks. Only tonight, wings provide a partition from the Hallowe'en festivities.
Well worth it.
