Dare Number 2

Do I dare to later go on a date with this guy?

Raving red. Bombed blue. Yucky yellow. General green. Washed-out white.

"Can I get you anything, miss?"

I looked up from my contemplation of the painting on the wall, distracted by the metallic voice of the serving droid, which was now looking at me with its usual impassive mask and supposedly polite expression. This was the third one that had come over to me in this past half hour asking if I wanted to get anything more.

With a very forced smile, I gestured to my half-drained glass. "No, I'm fine, thank you," I said, forcing a polite note in my tone.

Satisfied, the droid rolled away to annoy other customers.

I checked the chrono and felt the sinking feeling in my stomach get a little worse. It was 1710 hours.

He said he'd be here at 1700 hours at the latest. At the latest, 1700 hours.

I had nearly pounced on Ash at our next meeting, but of course she and the others had barely let me get a word out after I had confirmed I had gotten in and out and had danced with a guy. She had told – no, downright demanded that I go out a formal date with him. And it hadn't helped that at that moment he had chosen to call me (we had exchanged numbers after I had decided to be polite and call to thank him and he had gone and asked for my number because he claimed he was busy and would have to call back) and my comlink had gone off – within their hearing range.

So I had tried to maintain my decorum with them giggling and whispering and plotting in the background.

Finally, though, Ash had stolen the comlink and had Luciana talk while she demanded I go out on a date. It was either, she said, that I ask him or she would for me.

Furiously, I had given in. Oh, I had shunned her for quite some time afterwards as revenge, but . . . inside, I was slightly thankful for her intervention. I would have been way too shy to arrange this on my own, but . . . but I was . . . slightly . . . looking forward to it.

Or had been.

I didn't know much about the guy, but I didn't think that being late was exactly the best thing as a signal to me about his feelings for me. If anything, it was now making me question why on I had agreed – and make me curse Ash even more for getting me into this. She was going to be in a lot of trouble when I finally decided to leave.

Five minutes, I decided. I'll give it five more minutes. Then I'll get out of here as fast as possible and go beat Ash up.

So I went back to staring at the painting, knowing that my sour thoughts were the reason it appeared so ugly to me but unable to do anything to distract myself from dwelling on it. I had to think about something, anything, other than the fact that he was late.

I glanced at the chrono again. 3 minutes.

I causally cast my eyes out towards the window, but even despite the enormous press of people outside this café, I could not spot the distinctive copper hair or immaculate uniform of a general.

My hope slid a little further.

This café wasn't the classiest on Coruscant, but it wasn't the lowest either; it was well-kept, and neat, and the service was pretty good. I had been here a few times during school field trips to the museums and the Senate. (Field trips to the Jedi Temple, however, weren't allowed.) It was a good meeting place. Even a general wouldn't be embarrassed to come here. . . Would he?

Once more glance at the chrono. 1 more minute.

And then I'd book it and forget the whole experience. If he didn't come, obviously he didn't want to come. Perhaps it had been some sort of joke or a prank.

I looked one last time at the chrono, praying I was wrong when I saw that it read 1715. I pinched myself. My eyes watered, and the numbers became blurry – but even blurry, I could see that they read 1715.

And immediately I engaged in a mental argument.

It's only been fifteen minutes.

He said 1700 at the latest.

Maybe he got caught in traffic.

The Senate, the military headquarters, and the Temple all aren't more than five to ten minutes away. It's not traffic.

Maybe . . . Maybe he forgot.

Precisely.

I groaned. Maybe I should stop arguing with myself. I made one last glance at the door – but no, he wasn't there. With a sigh, I called the waiter droid over, paid, and grabbed my coat. There wasn't any point in staying.

Ben wasn't coming.

General Owen, the voice corrected sarcastically.

Oh, shut up, I told it irritably as I pulled my coat on and moved out the door.

I could see that this slight was going to make me very cranky in the days to come. But perhaps that was a good thing – I could use it to my advantage when I finally cornered Ash for playing on my weakness to get me into out and playing a prank on me to get me out. It was annoying, and all t he more so because I couldn't understand the strangely hollow sinking feeling in my heart, like a feather brushing down a hole. . .

Elaine!

Shut up, I told the voice again as I walked briskly across the street and headed towards the transport station. If I was lucky, I could perhaps find a transport that would come soon and be able to take me home; then I could take a shower, go to bed, sleep, and forget this whole affair. . .

Elaine!

Strange, but now my mental voice was suddenly sounding like General Owen's. . . Shut up, I told it, walking even faster. The sun would set soon, and I wanted to get home.

Elaine!

A hand suddenly seized my arm.

I shrieked in surprise, only just then noticing that the voice in my head that had sounded like General Owen's . . . was not in my head. Someone really had been calling me. But before that thought had even registered, I was whirling around to face my assaulter, dead ready to get a good yell in at them.

I was frustrated, annoyed, and hurt. I needed somewhere to dissipate this stuff, and since the only people who would call my name would be one of my friends who had set me up . . .

"How dare you – "

I stopped abruptly when I noticed quite then that there had been a very good reason that the voice had sounded like General Owen's.

Because it was General Owen who had just released my arm.

"Elaine." He smiled slightly. "I'm glad I caught you."

"Um . . ." Heat crept over my cheeks. Oh, blast it. "General Owen . . . I'm sorry I didn't hear you . . . I don't know what came over me . . . I'm so – "

He raised a hand to cut off my babbling. "If there's anyone to apologize," he said gently, "it would be me, not you. I am sorry I am so late. . . I was . . . held up. Senate business, I am afraid, and I am deeply sorry that it interfered. . ."

It sounds like a reasonable excuse, some part of me whispered, but gods, this is so embarrassing. . .

So I was very relieved when he asked, "Would you care to come with me? It would still be open, you know. . ."

I stared at him, really wanting to pinch myself but not eager to do it in front of him. Still . . . Did he really, honestly still want to go on the date? Was he really into me . . . or was he just being polite for being so late? As a matter of fact, was this even a date in the first place? Or just a meeting of friends for political reasons – after all, he did think I was someone high up for being invited to the Senatorial Gala. . .

Well, there's only one way to find out, I decided.

But by the time I had decided that, he had retracted his arm slightly, uncertainty in his own expression.

"That is, if you want to. I'll understand if you don't. . . You're probably busy."

That bald uncertainty hit me. Hard.

He was a Republic general, for crying out loud, and here he was, uncertain about whether I, practically nothing but a citizen, wanted to go with him? If anything, that destroyed any uncertainty I had about this being a real date.

And besides, that touch of uncertainty was charming . . . in the strangest way.

"Less busy than you, perhaps," I retorted, pleased that my voice didn't shake. "So . . . can we go and stop wasting time?"

His smile returned then, and I nearly blushed under its intensity. It was so strange to see that kind of power that my words – that I could have over him, to make him smile with happiness or frown in uncertainty. That had certainly never happened to me before, and he was a general.

Which reminded me . . .

"What, no immaculate uniform today?" I asked teasingly, hoping to fill the silence.

His smile turned self-conscious, as if he would have fidgeted or lowered his eyes had we been sitting. His simple civilian attire was a far cry from the well-groomed general's uniform I had last seen him in, after all, just a beige shirt, tan pants, and dark brown cloak – all looking more homegrown than I had thought a general would wear . . . more like . . . oh, what was it . . .

He shrugged slightly. "I don't like being the center of attention, or attending diplomatic functions. This is what I wear normally, after all. . ."

I snickered when the mental image connected.

Ben looked at me, confused. "May I ask what is so funny?" he asked.

"You."

"Me?" he repeated, sounding like he was halfway amused and halfway confused. "Did I say something?"

"No. . . Just . . . Sorry. You look like you could almost pass for a Jedi in that clothing," I said, snickering again. "All you need is a lightsaber and tunics and the combat boots."

Something flashed across his face, an emotion that was so extremely out of place that I thought I had imagined. Was it fear?

"And how did you decide that?"

"No reason. . . But Anakin Skywalker dressed much the same – well, with the lightsaber and the tunics, of course. Just imagine," I said dreamily, "General Ben Owen turned Jedi-dressing-like Ben Owen. The media would love you for it."

"What?"

I laughed again and shook myself. "Sorry. . . One of my friends works in the press, and she loves dreaming up the most random titles that she thinks her audience would drool over. I'm afraid that I've gotten used to it."

Ben appeared strangely interested – just not in a good way – as we reached the café and he politely opened the door and arranged for us to be seated in a little corner near the window, which had good lighting but was pretty quiet compared with where I had sat before and the rest of the café. But it wasn't until we sat down that he spoke again.

"You're friend's involved with the media?" he said, frowning slightly. "Who is she?"

"She is one of the editors for the Intergalactic, but sometimes if it's a really big story she writes it herself. . . She's a good friend though," I added quickly, for some reason feeling the need to defend her against his frown.

An apologetic smile appeared on his face. "I'm sorry; I wasn't criticizing your friends," he said. "I'm just not on great relations with anyone in the media, I'm afraid.

"But . . . the Intergalactic. . ." he murmured. "What articles has she written?"

I bit my lip as I racked my brain. I had never read her journal; I didn't really read much of that kind of stuff. Tabloids weren't my thing. But . . .

"Mainly articles on General Kenobi, I think," I answered finally. "She likes causing fuss about him; no idea why. Mainly just embarrassing things, like about his supposed affairs with a Naboo handmaiden named Sabé or his fling with a girl named Miluiel. . . Stuff like that. Not really interesting to me, I'm afraid; I'm sorry, I can't tell you more."

The waiter droid interrupted then, but I thought I caught another strange flash of emotion across his face, yet another one I couldn't identify. Was it resignation?

I decided to take the interrogation in my own hands now that he didn't seem to want to probe further.

As he started eating, I asked, "So . . . what do you know about General Kenobi then?"

Ben's expression became slightly strained before his forehead smoothed out and he looked questioningly at me. "What doesn't the public know about him?" he countered.

I lowered my eyes shyly and poked my fork at the mound of noodles in front of me. It was true that his name had been splashed across every single tabloid, journal, holonews, and anything else that talked about the war. But in the medcenter where I had worked all these years, everyone was the supposed to be treated the same – just a patient, meaning that high-profile people were just Patient A or X to us. I could have treated the Supreme Chancellor himself and not known it if I hadn't seen his face before, which, of course, I had.

Besides, my dislike for war and the need to care for my ailing father meant that I didn't pay much attention to the war heroes if they didn't come through the medcenter. Anything I knew about General Kenobi I had heard about; I didn't even know what he looked like.

Well, I knew the uniform, but there were thousands of Jedi wearing that same uniform, so it wasn't much.

"Not much," I admitted bashfully, not daring to look at him. "I know his name, and that he's a Jedi, and that he's called the Negotiator."

I felt it was safe to look up when he exclaimed, "That's it?"

I nodded timidly. "We don't pay attention to that in the medcenter. . . We're not supposed to. Some of my coworkers drool over Skywalker, of course, but I don't really have the time or the inclination to. The way things work over there, I could treat Skywalker and not even know it."

A slow smile crept across his face, and he muttered something under his breath.

"Sorry?"

He cleared his throat. "So . . . you don't even know what General Kenobi looks like?"

"Nope. Except for the Jedi robes."

"That's what everyone wears," he said, waving a dismissive hand as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes remained fixed on me, his lips pursed as though he was studying me. "I have to admit, you're very interesting, Elaine. I've never met anyone who wasn't . . . well . . . Most women are determined to know as much as they can about Skywalker and Kenobi."

"I know they ended the war, and are now responsible for negotiations to make sure it never happens again, and that now there are a lot less wounded in the medcenter. That's all I need to know."

He chuckled. "As I said, a very interesting case."

We ate in silence for a few more minutes – or rather, I ate in silence for a few more minutes. Ben seemed content with taking sips of his drink and alternating between gazing at me and looking out the window. It made me nervous, and as a result I started eating faster. He sure managed to eat a lot more quickly than me.

"Hey, calm down," he said gently, reaching across the table and touching my hand. "There's no need to hurry."

I froze when his fingers touched mine. A flutter passed through my body, with the origination point in my hand, and it made butterflies dance in my stomach. I swallowed nervously and nearly choked; I had to dive for my drink and take a big gulp.

"Are you all right?" he asked, concern in his eyes.

"It's nothing," I said hastily.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." I put down my fork. "I'm done. You?"

He rose. "Let's go, then."

We chatted about inconsequential things, with him plying me with questions about my work, my life, my hobbies, and seemingly anything else he could dredge up. He seemed to become more . . . relaxed, I guessed the word was, with each passing minute, allowing his arms to swing at his sides and smiling as we passed verbal barbs and parries.

Then a new thought hit me, and I turned to meet his gaze. "Ben," I said, slightly happy to be using his name and also slightly confused as to why I was happy, "you never answered my question?"

"What question?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Now you're playing with me."

He splayed his hands, all wide-eyed innocence as he matched my gaze. "Why would I do that?" he asked. "Why would I have the nerve to play with a determined, strong-minded, beautiful young lady?"

That threw me off beat, and I scrambled to recover. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Oh, I believe it just got me somewhere," he replied, his eyes laughing as he glanced down at me. "But for what it matters, Elaine, you are very beautiful, you know."

I blushed furiously. "Um . . . thank you?"

He smiled warmly at me before shifting back to the topic at hand, the laughter leaving his eyes and being replaced by concentration. "As to your question about what I know about General Kenobi – I know more than you, I think," he teased.

I glared at him before remembering that he was a general and I was a common citizen and it was very rude and . . . well . . . I blushed yet again.

Ben paused at my blush. "Don't be shy to express your thoughts, Elaine. Your honesty is very . . . refreshing. I don't see much of it in the Senate nowadays." He chuckled softly. "You wouldn't understand; but it is really is invigorating to just be . . . normal, I guess, and have a normal conversation where the only demand is that I play along and don't be annoying."

"Well, you are being annoying right now."

"My apologies, then, m'lady," he said with a short bow and another teasing smile.

I sniffed indignantly and looked away.

"But back to your question. He's not quite as dramatic, I suppose, as Skywalker or as audacious. He prefers negotiation to fighting. His critics have always said he's . . . what's the word . . . too cautious, too careful, too . . . pacifistic."

"Yes, well, doesn't Skywalker not being cautious and careful end up in him charging in and getting hurt?" I muttered.

He heard me, which surprised me, for he answered, "Sometimes, yes."

I shrugged. "I'm sorry. Being surrounded by a bunch of Skywalker fangirls sort of numbs me to his fame, I guess. . . I'm more a pacifist than they are. General Kenobi's path would be the path I would want the Republic to stick to."

Ben gave me a strange look, stopping abruptly.

"What?"

"You."

"Okay . . . What about me?"

He laughed. "Nothing. Just . . . You are, I think, one of the most interesting women I have ever met. You prefer a diplomat over a Jedi."

"Well. . . Isn't Kenobi also a Jedi?"

"Yes, but he is more of the diplomat Jedi. Anakin, I guess, is the epitome of a Jedi Jedi."

"I thought Kenobi was called the epitome of a true Jedi," I countered, recalling the glowing holonews report after he had been declared a Jedi Master and given a seat on the High Council. "'Phenomenal pilot, devastating warrior, peerless negotiator, role model to the new generation of Padawans, and humble to a point'. . . What?" I demanded, noticing that he was giving me the strangest look.

"And you said you knew nothing about General Kenobi," he accused.

"I don't! That came all from tabloids."

"Then you read some very interesting ones, Elaine," he said smoothly. He reached out and opened the door to the speeder – which I only then noticed was parked right next to us. "Would you like a ride home?"

"Oh . . . thanks . . ."

Ben displayed a phenomenal talent for piloting the speeder, even when I was giving him last minute directions – I had never gone home this way before, usually only by transport, so I was never quite sure what I was doing. But eventually, I managed, between his guessing and, later, when I told him what district, his apparent familiarity with the layout of Coruscant's sectors.

When he parked, I looked at him with newfound respect. "You know, if I had a say, I'd say you leave Kenobi behind for flying."

Ben chuckled. "I hate flying, you know."

I stared. "But you're so good at it!"

He shrugged carelessly, folding his arms across his chest as he walked around the speeder and opened the door for me.

"Being good doesn't mean you like it," he commented quietly.

I took his hand when he offered it without thinking. The warm flutter zipped through me again, and I nearly stumbled. Okay, I did stumble, and rather ungraciously too. But he, displaying once again faster reflexes than I, caught me gently and steadied me.

"Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.

"Yes."

But our faces were extremely close when I answered, and perhaps he sensed the strange butterflies dancing in my stomach, because he abruptly pulled away, a sheepish expression on his face that quickly fell into impassivity and sternness. It was the first time, I decided, that he actually looked like a general.

"I – "

"Elaine – "

We both stopped at the same time we had both started. The sheepishness came back to his expression; the blush came back to mine.

"You first," he said.

"Well . . . um . . . Thanks. For everything," I blurted out, blushing even more fiercely.

Ben seemed to relax, and a smile appeared on his lips. "Thank you as well, Elaine," he said, and I noted with chagrin his thank-you sounded way more formal and sincere at the same time.

"Yeah . . . um . . ." I started edging away. "Good-bye."

He laughed, and suddenly I found my hand held in a tight grip. "Not so fast," he teased, moving closer as his grip loosened. He stared at me, blue-green eyes serious as they met my own, and then I couldn't look away.

"Don't run away, okay?" he murmured.

"Why not?"

"Because . . ." He hesitated, and then shook his head. "Never mind. Just . . . I'll call you again, all right?"

"'Kay."

"And try not to be around your friends when you answer, will you?"

I blushed again, but I didn't – couldn't – lower my eyes. "I am so sorry about – " I tried to say.

He rested a finger on my lips, startling me with the closeness and intimacy of the movement. He didn't seem prone to it, but . . . maybe I had been wrong.

"Hush. It's okay. I was just teasing."

He removed his finger and stepped back, folding his arms into his cloak and offering me a formal bow.

"Good day, Miss Kyna."

But when Ben stood straight again, there was a soft, teasing smile on his lips. "I look forward to meeting you again," he finished.

"Me too," I managed to stammer out.

And as he gracefully leaped into the speeder and drove off, I found myself wearing a faint, soft smile of my own and immediately pinched myself.

But no.

This really had happened.

Oh gods above. . . Am I falling in love with him?