Title: Walking Home, an ABH
Author: BJ Stahl
Rating: PG-ish (no smut, fair warning)
Spoilers: Nada. Just cleaned out the 'fridge.
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so's I can update my bookmarks.
Summery: See title . . .
Disclaimer: All names recognizable as being a part of the Star Wars universe are the sole property of
Godfather Lucas. I just need a quick escort home. No infringement is intended, please don't sue me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Good Christ, what a day! you think to yourself as you ease your tired body out of the chair. Snookered into working Circulation, the fellow that knows what's going on (known as Gerbil Boy by his legions of admirers) is out sick, Admiral Cheerio has spent the last six hours cheerfully breathing down your neck, and you still have to sneak in laundry back at the house before someone else monopolizes the washers. *And* you forgot your CD player, i.e. no tunes on the way home.

And let's not forget the not-inconsiderable challenge of getting home in the first place, you remind yourself. You live a mile and a half away from work, have no car, and the busses don't run past 6:30. At least it's downhill. And at least the weather's nice. Better than nice, really. After a long stretch of hot-n-muggy, the city has finally gotten a reprieve. The last few days have been positively glorious; sunny, warm without being hot, with a cool breeze blowing in from the east.

You punch out, holler good evening to your fellow student slaves, and head out the door, wincing a little as the sun slants directly into your eyes. After the cold of the air conditioning, the slightly warmer air is like a caress, easing some of the tension in your shoulders.

On an impulse, you turn off the main road, mount the steep slope between the teacher's credit union and the fieldhouse, and you come to a tiny park seated at the top of a *very* long, steep slope. From here you can see quite a bit of downtown, including the now-deserted transit center and Magoo's, the bar you haven't quite worked up the nerve to frequent. The sinking sun's rays fall on you. You could sit in the shade, but at this hour the sun is kind and you need its touch. You feel a little enchanted, despite the unkemptness of the grass around you and the ugly blight of the construction zone at the bottom of the hill and you just sit, soaking up the peace.

Your mood is abruptly shattered when you see an all-too-familiar figure ride a bike into your personal space, blocking part of the sun.

You don't know his name. You never bothered to ask. You see him from time to time, on his bike held together with duct tape and wishful thinking. He's tried--aggressively--to get you to confess your life's story to him. He even tried to follow you home one night. All you've told him is that you live in a dorm with 20 other women and your name, false of course. You don't trust this guy.

"Hey baby, what's up?"

"Not much," you say in the driest, least inviting tone you can muster. Unpeterbed, he banters on, prying for details, probing for weak spots in your psyche.

Finally, your courtly grace at an end, you say, "Look, I appreciate your company, but I'd rather be alone right now."

"Hey, baby, you don't need to get all defensive like that," he answers, backpedaling easily into a soothing tone.

"I believe the lady would like to be left alone," you hear an awfully familiar voice command behind you. You gotta be fucking *kidding* . . .

If possible, the fellow's eyes glaze over some more. Moving with no grace whatsoever, he wheels his bike about and rides off.

You, in the meantime, turn on your bench and look directly at a young man, hair shorn short except for the tail in back and the braid at his right temple, wearing sand-colored trousers and tunic. The sun paints his skin a tawny gold and catches stars in his eyes.

He walks around behind you and sits at the other end of your bench. One part of your mind greedily notes every little detail, while the other is firmly convinced you've lost what's left of your marbles. You really didn't think that reading some of the stuff from your list sisters was conductive to hallucinations.

"It isn't," he replies, as though you spoke the thought out loud.

You blush. "I *really* wish you wouldn't do that," you request, and you're rewarded when he blushes a little himself.

"Should I leave?"

"Oh no," you reply quickly. "It's just been a long day, y'know?"

He nods, and you sit together in companionable silence as the sun sinks in the west.

Unconsciously, your hand moves to the back of your neck, trying to rub away some of the day's tension. He sees your movement.

"Are you all right?"

The accent is doing weird things to your insides . . . "Yeah, just a little tense is all."

He sits up. "Maybe I can help." Before you can say aye or nay, he takes your hand. His hands guide you off the bench and to your knees in the grass, your back to him. He carefully slides his fingers under the neckline of your T-shirt and he rubs at the knots at the base of your neck.

If his accent melted you, his touch liquefies you, and he's not even trying to be erotic or anything of the kind. You arch forward, trying to stretch out your back muscles and make his work a little easier. His hands move up your neck and into your hair, not so much rubbing now as just to feel your hair between his fingers.

You don't want this to end for about ten years, but the sun is almost halfway gone. You're going to have to shake a leg if you want to get home before dusk. That is, if you can walk without stumbling (bad) or squishing (worse).

"I'm sorry, but I really need to get home. It's getting late."

"How are you getting home?" he asks.

"Hush Puppy Express," you reply automatically. "I don't have transportation."

"I'll walk with you," he offers.

Obi-Wan. Walking. Home. With. You.

Your mind does a little flip. You should refuse, he's a busy man, you can't invite him in, your roommates would kill you, you can take care of yourself . . .

"Thank you. I'd appreciate it." Which is true; you don't exactly live in a posh part of town.

He stands, helps you to your feet (good thing) and makes a little lead-onward motion with one hand. You head down a long flight of stone stairs, skirt the construction zone, and come out by the transit center. With the familiarity bred of long practice, you head home in the darkening evening, trying like hell to keep your warring body under control. He strides next to you, keeping his peace, watching you with one eye and the streets with the other.

You cross the river, pausing as always to admire the colors the sky paints on the city's two glass skyscrapers, cut through another small park, duck under the highway overpass, and enter your neighborhood. It's not a ghetto, but it's working on it. Normally you'd be scared shitless walking this way after the streetlights have come on, but not tonight. Nothing's going to hurt you. He won't let it.

Finally, you come to your building. You allow yourself a moment's bitter regret that you can't ask your escort to come in.

"Why not?" he asks.

You're too grateful for his company to be annoyed. "Because I live in a dorm with twenty other women. Visitors after dark are frowned upon by the establishment. Especially those of the opposite sex."

"Pity."

"Listen, thank you for chasing that guy off. And for the escort. I don't like walking here after dark."

"My pleasure." He pauses for a moment, considering his words. "Do you normally walk home alone in the dark?"

"I usually don't leave it until this late, but yes, I usually walk home."

"Alone?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Be that as it may," he says slowly, "I can't in good conscience let a lady walk in this sort of place alone at night. Would you mind if I walked you home tomorrow?"

Would I *mind*?!? "I really don't want to be a bother . . ."

"No bother." His hand comes up to rest on your shoulder. "Please."

The hell with it . . . "I'd love to."

He smiles, turning his face into something else entirely, something almost saintly. He leans forward, gives you a small, lingering kiss on the cheek, and waits while you fumble out your keys, unlock the door, and duck inside.

You lean against the door for a moment, gathering the shreds of your shattered composure. Before you head to your room, you can't help but take a peek out the peephole. Sure enough, you see him striding down the walk, turning right, and disappearing behind the thorny hedges.

You turn around and lean back against the door, sighing with an utterly stupid smile on your face, one hand pressed to the spot his lips touched. One of your roommates glances into the entryway and sees you standing there. "What happened to you?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."