A/N: I'm baaaaack! Kind of. This fic has been taking a little bit of a break partly because I needed to take a breather, partly because I'm undisciplined, and partly because I was having trouble keeping up with getting it written. Fortunately, summer's around the corner and I'll have much more free time to devote to this then. I'm hoping to have regular updates again around the first of June.

Until then, here's a short, fluffy little scene guest-written by RagnarDanneskjold. I'd be lying if I said I remember how the idea for this one came about, but if you like it (and you will), shoot him a PM!


Dirty Laundry

"Sabine! Have you seen my shirt?"

Freshly laundered and previously folded clothes were strewn haphazardly around the bedroom, the fruitless result of Ezra's current predicament. Workout pants lay in a crumpled heap by the door. Shirts of various colors and designs were thrown about the room carelessly. Even Sabine's lacey unmentionables fell victim to his search and were scattered about the bed.

"Which shirt are you—hey! What the kriff did you do? I just folded those!" Sabine stood in the doorway, sheer exasperation on her face.

Ezra looked up at her, two of her shirts in his hand, poised in mid-throw. "I'll put it all back!" He covered, trying to wipe the guilty look off his face and redirect the conversation back to more important matters. "And you know which shirt I'm talking about."

She did. She knew all too well from the moment she heard him ask from the other room what this was about, and she'd hoped the chance to get on him for messing up the laundry would allow her a respite from what would surely come. It wasn't working.

It was time for a new tactic. Perhaps ignorance?

She crossed her arms. "You have a lot of shirts now Ezra. Manda knows you needed them. Which one are you looking for, exactly?" Sabine moved about the room, picking up discarded garments and giving off an air of distracted indifference and not daring to look him in the eye.

"My orange one. The only one you let me keep. You know that's my favorite shirt Sabine. Tell me you didn't lose it when you did laundry." Ezra said, giving her an even look.

"Oh, that old thing?" Sabine asked, pretending like she was just remembering what he meant. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere. Did you check the closet?"

"I was just about to." Ezra latched on to that last thread of hope and rushed to the bedroom closet, dropping the clothes he had been holding right on the floor behind him.

"Ezra! Could you at least try to keep things orderly around here? I'm not your protocol droid you know." Sabine shot sourly.

"I said I'd fix it!"

"Stuffing everything into drawers or back in the hamper doesn't count, Ezra." Sabine sighed, surveying the mess he had made.

There was a long, guilty pause before he answered. "I know that Sabine. I'm not a child."

"Keep looking in there. I'll...check...out here" Sabine retreated quietly to the bedroom door. She wasn't sure he had even heard her.


Sabine was in a bind. She knew it, and soon, Ezra would too. There was no escaping her fate this time. She briefly regretted pestering Ezra into throwing out every last one of his old orange outfits, worn and threadbare relics from a bygone age though they were. He'd clung to those stupid garish shirts for well past their expiration date. Lacking anything resembling fashion sense of his own, one of the first things Sabine had done when he'd returned was taken him shopping, just as she'd promised. He was certainly more dashing now, almost respectable even.

But he'd insisted on keeping his old clothes, the ones he'd worn day in and day out in their youth on the Ghost. Sabine, for her part, had insisted the tattered and scruffy shirts see their way into the nearest refuse slot. In the end, they'd compromised and he'd kept just one, normally wearing it around the house on lazy days like today. She still wouldn't stand him wearing it in public, not with her in tow, and over time, the shirt had become a bit of a running joke between them; her making no secret of her utter disdain for it, and him attempting to rush out at the last minute wearing it on a date or shopping trip.

But Sabine did have a secret. Well two now. First...she loved the shirt. Not on him mind you. On him it looked almost as ridiculous as that beard he'd attempted. No, Sabine loved it on herself. There was something oddly comforting about it. She'd slip it on when she knew he would be gone for hours, laying around the house, taking in his scent and feeling the soft fabric on her bare skin. She'd snuck it out of his drawer on many occasions for just that purpose, only sneaking it back in at the last minute when she heard the tower lift activate. It was one of the reasons she insisted on doing the pair's laundry, that and the fact Ezra was hopeless at it. He'd come home more than once to find her walking out of their room topless and in the middle of slipping one of her own shirts. It was a shameless distraction tactic, but it did keep his mind off what she had been doing changing clothes in the middle of the day.

Her second secret, however, was much more distressing, for it was the one that lead to today's problem. Sabine, despite her protestations, knew exactly where the offending shirt was. At the moment, it was wadded up inside her art supplies cabinet, someplace she knew Ezra would never think to check.

Sabine stood in from of the cabinet, looking over her shoulder one last time. She could still hear Ezra making a mess in the bedroom. She opened the door and withdrew the shirt, unfurling it in her hands.

It was no longer orange. Not entirely, anyway. Across the front, right on the chest, was a large splotch of pink paint.

Sabine clutched the shirt to her chest and bowed her head, muttering to herself and taking one last moment before plunging forward. "Ezra?" She said quietly, tiptoeing through the door, her hands behind her back. He was still in the closet, but stopped moving when she'd entered the room, even before she'd spoken.

Ezra stepped out of the closet, his eyes tracing up her body, keenly noting the placement of her hands. He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, waiting for her. Somehow, he must have known.

Hera warned me about this, she thought bitterly. She vividly remembered Hera telling her how many times Kanan had appeared to buy into a clever excuse or fib, only to reveal later that his abilities told him far more than he let on.

"Whacha got there?" Ezra asked. He looked stern and dispassionate, but he was unable to keep the tiniest corner of his mouth from raising in a smile.

"So...I found your shirt...and..." She began timidly, hating that he was the one person in the galaxy who could disarm her normally intimidating and fiery Mandalorian persona.

"And?" He prompted, raising an eyebrow. Her eyes narrowed for half an instant; he was playing this too cool. Like he was enjoying it. But she continued.

"And well...I know you're gonna be mad, but I..." Wincing, she finally raised her eyes from the floor to look at him. He was grinning widely.

"And you got pink paint on it when you were wearing it yesterday," Ezra finished for her, gloating. Sabine's mouth fell open.

"You knew?" She stammered. "Why did you...all this?" Sabine looked around the room at the mess of clothing.

"Come on, I had to mess with you a little. You do owe me that for destroying my shirt." Ezra told her, smirking and soaking in every bit of her confusion. "The only thing I can't figure out is why you didn't just tell me you've been wearing it when you thought I wouldn't notice. I'd have given it to you if you'd asked."

"You—" Sabine stopped, mouth gaping. A pleased, girlish flush stained her cheeks even as she tried to look indignant. "You would not."

"Would too," he argued. "Why wouldn't I want you to have it? I can only imagine how much more..." He trailed off, eyes tracing the curves of her hips and legs. "...attractive it would look on you than on me."

Her breath caught and she was half-tempted to kiss him senseless because when he looked at her like that, it was hard to keep from doing anything else—but she blurted instead: "I didn't tell you because—because I'm not that kind of girl."

His face scrunched in confusion. "What kind of girl?"

"The kind who's so..." She waved a hand, made a disgusted expression. "...needy that she has to wear her hu—her boyfriend's clothes when he's gone just to—to—"

"It's a comfortable shirt," he said evenly. His gaze was firm and understanding. "Nothing wrong with that."

She faltered, and she thought maybe later she'd tell him how many times in his absence she'd let herself feel the fabric beneath her fingertips and no more. She stuck her hand out and he took it, drawing close. "It smells like you now," she said, just barely making eye contact with him. "It didn't used to."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She tilted her head back and he teased her with his mouth just barely brushing hers.

"It's yours." He kissed her too lightly for satisfaction. "But I warn you—I might steal it back from time to time."

She almost forgot to answer. "Why?"

"Because it smells like you now, too."

"You'll—you'll have to peel it off me, Ezra Bridger," she said, voice husky and low. Force, she loved him.

His eyebrows waggled. "Is that a promise?"

"Mm." She tiptoed, leaned in like she was really going to kiss him, and at the last second, she ducked out of his grasp and backed away, grinning wickedly. "But nothing like that is ever going to happen until this—" She swung her arm out in an expansive gesture, showcasing the room and the laundry he'd thrown all over the place. "—is completely put back to rights."

He gave her a fake frown. "You fight dirty, Mandalorian."

She turned, walking out of the room, and she could feel his gaze on her every step of the way. "You like it that way, Jedi."