Father's Day
Prompt: Day 3 Father's Day
Words: 1674
Rating: G
Warnings: None
This one is set in my Unexpected-verse and features Mira, Wolffe's daughter, who learns the important lesson that not all gifts need to be material.
The comm chimed just as Plo was finishing his afternoon tea. He answered without hesitation, recognizing the comm code.
Mira’s face blinked into view, her curls tousled and her brow furrowed in frustration. “Grandpa,” she said without preamble, “Father’s Day is this weekend and I still don’t know what to get him. I need your help. It’s an emergency.”
Plo folded his hands in front of him. “Ah. A very important mission, then.”
She huffed. “I asked him, and he said, ‘You don’t need to get me anything.’” She dropped her voice, mimicking her father’s accent with surprising accuracy.
Plo smiled behind his mask as she rolled her eyes so perfectly reminiscent of her father that it warmed his chest.
“And what do you think he meant by that?” Plo asked gently.
“I think…” Mira scrunched her nose, thinking hard. “I think he’s bad at gifts. Like, scared of them or something.”
Plo made a thoughtful sound. “That may not be entirely wrong.”
“I wanted to get him something good. Something he’d really like,” she continued, arms crossed now. “But he won’t tell me what he wants. And he never buys anything for himself. So how am I supposed to know?”
“Perhaps,” Plo said slowly, “you and I should discuss it in person.”
Mira stopped pacing. “Like… you’ll come get me?”
“If your mother approves,” Plo replied, “I shall place a call to her and pick you up after school tomorrow. We’ll take a walk. Perhaps near a few shops. And get some ice cream.”
Mira lit up. “With the candied berries?”
“If they have them.”
She leaned closer to the screen, grinning. “Okay. It’s a deal.”
#^#^#^#^##
The next afternoon, Plo met Mira outside the private academy she attended. She came bounding down the front steps, still in her school uniform, her bag slung over one shoulder and her hair only half-tamed. The moment she spotted him, her face lit up.
“You came!” she called, skipping the last step to land in front and hug him tightly.
“I said I would,” Plo replied, patting her head. “Did your lessons go well today?”
“They were fine,” Mira said, brushing the question off with a wave of her hand. “But I’ve been thinking about Dad’s gift all day. We have to figure it out.”
They set off together, Mira walking just slightly ahead, then circling back every so often to match Plo’s slower pace. The plaza they entered was wide and open, lined with fake plants in neat planters and a variety of shops.
“I thought maybe a mug,” Mira began. “Or a shirt. Something cool.”
Plo gave a thoughtful hum. “That is one possibility. Do you believe he needs a mug?”
Mira wrinkled her nose. “He already has like, a million mugs.”
“Mm,” Plo agreed, diplomatic as ever.
“I could get him something for his speeder,” she added after a moment. “But I don’t know what. He doesn’t really like… stuff.”
“No,” Plo agreed. “Your father does not seem to place much value on acquiring new possessions.”
Plo, ever subtly offered, “Sometimes, the most meaningful gifts are the ones made by hand.”
Mira wrinkled her nose again. “I guess. But I want it to be good.”
They walked a little further in silence before Mira brightened.
“He has this old jacket,” she said. “The one he wears on his speeder bike. It’s got a hole in the shoulder.” She reached up to show the spot. “Right here. So… maybe a new jacket?”
“Yes. I recall that jacket. It’s from Liri, I believe.” Plo said.
Mira blinked up at him. “Mom bought it?”
“She did,” Plo confirmed. “It was one of the first civilian garments your father ever owned. I believe it holds some sentimental value.”
Mira went quiet, mulling that over. “So… he won’t get a new one because it reminds him of something?”
“Perhaps,” Plo said. “Or someone.”
Her brows pulled together. “Well… what if we fixed it?” she said suddenly. “Made it better. He won’t get rid of it, but we could fix the hole.”
Plo tilted his head, his tone warm with approval. “How do you propose we do that?”
“I don’t know,” Mira admitted. “Maybe one of those patch things. With a design. You can make those, right?”
“You can,” Plo said. “With patience and the proper tools.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide with excitement. “Do you know how?”
Plo made a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps. With some guidance. And a snack or two… I believe we can figure it out together.”
Mira grinned. “Okay!”
#^#^#^#^#
The gardens at the Jedi Temple were calm and serene. Birds chirped in the canopy, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees and flowers. On a bench under one of them, Mira sat cross-legged beside Plo, surrounded by a carefully arranged bundle of supplies, cloth, threads, needles, and a small sketchpad.
Her brow was furrowed as she focused, tongue caught between her teeth, trying to copy the lines of the Wolfpack symbol onto a square of fabric. Plo sat, one hand steadying the sketchpad as she drew, the other occasionally pointing or nudging to guide her lines.
“Like this?” she asked, holding it up.
Plo tilted his head, studying it with care. “Very close,” he said. “The placement is just right. You captured the spirit of it.”
Mira beamed. Next came the needlework. Plo threaded the needle for her, then gently placed his hand over hers to show the motion. She got the hang of it rather quickly and soon he was merely supervising.
“Yours is a steady hand,” he said.
“It’s not perfect,” she muttered.
“Perfect is not the point,” Plo pointed out. “It is made with care. That is what matters.”
Eventually, the patch began to take shape: the Wolfpack emblem in silvery thread, and just beside it, a smaller silhouette of a wolfcub.
Later, they walked through the plaza near the apartment, on the way to bring Mira home. At a small food stall, Plo ordered his usual shake, and Mira got her ice cream piled high with candied berries.
She took a huge bite. “This was a good idea,” she said, mouth full.
Plo looked down at her, the edge of pride settling warmly in his chest.
“I believe it was.”
#^#^#^#^#
The table was set with a variety of pastries and finger foods, some fruit. A light lunch. Liri set the last of the dishes on the table with a flourish.
“Are you sure you won’t eat?” she asked again.
Plo inclined his head, hands folded neatly in front of him. “Just tea, thank you. I was served a rather generous breakfast earlier, and I still have two more visits and a dinner to attend before the day ends.”
“Well,” Liri said, pouring the tea, amused, “We’re glad you made time for us.”
“Of course.” Plo said warmly.
Across the table, Mira fidgeted in her seat. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her whole body buzzed with barely contained excitement. She kept casting glances toward Plo and her father, clearly waiting for the right moment.
Wolffe was finishing his caf, the cue she’d been waiting for, when she finally burst out with, “I have something for you!”
He blinked, caught surprised. “You do?”
“Uh huh. It’s Father’s Day,” she reminded him, matter-of-fact. She darted across the room and retrieved a small, carefully wrapped box from behind a cushion on the sofa. She placed it in front of him. “Open it.”
Wolffe glanced between her and Plo, with just a hint of suspicion. Plo gave a faint, knowing nod and Wolffe pulled the twine and opened the box. Inside was the embroidered patch that Mira had worked so hard on. The stitching was beautiful, the lines a little uneven in places perhaps, but she had done a remarkable job.
Wolffe stared down at it, silent.
“It’s for your jacket,” Mira said, her voice quick. “The one with the hole. That’s your symbol. And the little one is…” She hesitated. “Me.”
He looked up slowly, and something in his expression cracked wide open. His mouth twitched toward a smile, but it was his eyes that gave him away. He cleared his throat, voice low and a little rough.
“We’ll sew it on later,” he said, brushing a thumb over the edge of the patch. “Right over the shoulder.”
Mira beamed.
Liri was already reaching for a napkin, watching them, blinking against the emotion.
It was rare to see Wolffe so moved, rarer still to see him allow it.
“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy,” Mira said softly.
Wolffe reached for her, pulling her into his arms. He pressed his forehead to hers and kissed her temple. “Thank you.”
“Grandpa helped,” Mira added. “He taught me how.”
Wolffe looked over at Plo and nodded once, his voice steady now. “Thank you. Both of you.”
Wolffe stood slowly from the table, taking a deep, almost shaky breath. The emotion lingered in his expression as he crossed the room and pulled a box from a drawer..
He returned to the table and set it in front of Plo.
“Happy Father’s Day,” he said.
Plo tilted his head in quiet curiosity, then opened the box.
Inside lay a custom-made bracer, similar to the ones he wore, but clearly newer in a dark, polished material. It had his usual markings, the Jedi Order emblem and the Wolfpack symbol, carefully etched and painted. The inner lining was clearly custom.
“It’s reinforced,” Wolffe explained quietly. “Adjustable straps for support. Heard your wrist was acting up again.”
Plo paused, claws tracing the curve of the bracer. “And who, may I ask, told you about my wrist?”
Wolffe’s eyes flicked toward Mira, amused, almost conspiratorial. “A little bird,” he said. “Or cub, rather.”
Mira grinned wide. “You did say handmade things were better than buying them.”
“I did.” Plo agreed, and this time it was he who was overwhelmed by emotion. Plo looked between them, and then reached for both. One arm wrapped around Mira, the other around Wolffe, pulling them close.