A/N: A huge thank you to my lovely reviewers! I promise the next chapter will be out faster. I will finish this, I promise. Hope y'all enjoy!
Impulse
There was something else I couldn't quite define-something that made me uneasy. We were a wrong fit, like unmatching puzzle pieces.
― Heather Anastasiu, Glitch
It was shaping up to be the longest shuttle ride of his life.
The seconds seem to seep by, blood dripping through a soaking bandage. His rifle is beyond immaculate, stripped down and scrubbed with the single-minded intensity born of desperation. Bly runs an oil cloth down the barrel again anyway, staring at the gleaming metal. Reminding his body to breath in an even, regulated pattern.
She is watching him.
It's a physical weight, a strange sensation of something hovering just above bare skin. The marks on his neck ache dully, a tightness sits squarely between his shoulders, and he is irritatingly aware of his own breathing, of the flow of blood in his veins. He would rather face a Sith barehanded without backup.
Where are the kriffing Seperatists when he needs them?
"Commander?" Her voice is calm, serenely calling for his input like she has hundreds of times before. His men line the sides of the little transport and the Jedi has claimed the seat across from him, as she has many times before. He has never felt her eyes like he does today. "Your thoughts?"
He looks up automatically and forgets to breath.
Her skin has never bothered him before, the revealing nature of what she wore never registering. Now his eyes get stuck in the gleaming expanse of blue skin, in the memory of how soft it was pressed up against his own -
No, no, no the mission - the mission has to come first.
The helmet jerks down so abruptly a popping sound comes from his neck.
"Ten men might not be enough." Bly blurts it out, making another determined swipe at his already-clean rifle. "If the Noghri could stop General En..."
The irrational urge to cover her flickers through his mind, to shield his brothers from the chaos he knows only too well she can cause. Bly does not acknowledge the possessive part of himself wants to keep his vod from seeing any of her. Clones are not allowed own a Jedi.
"My hope is that we can sneak in without being noticed then retrieve the package and General En before the Noghri know we're even there." Cloth rustles as she shifts forward but the helmets stays stubbornly tilted downward.
Its a risky plan, putting so much stock in keeping the element of surprise. If the Noghri have realized General En's target they will be prepared against another attempt at extraction. He doesn't like it. But if they bring a large force it could become another drawn-out battle of attrition the Republic doesn't have resources for, not to mention the risk of the package itself. Behind the helmet tan lips turn down at the corners.
"I don't like it either Bly." The hand on his wrist is blisteringly warm despite the glove, the grip steady and strong. Meant to be reassuring, but Bly has fought beside Aayla Secura too long. The tactile tendency to touch is a reaction to her own worry, a betrayal of her unease. His hand immediately twists to grip hers back, to sooth.
She is Jedi, one of the few and special. He exists to serve.
The reminder is almost enough to return his equilibrium, but her eyes are still on him and he can feel it. Perhaps this is why the Order is against "attachments." The marks on his neck ache and his blood pulses under his skin, the dual desires to stare at her and to never see her again.
It feels utterly wrong to be so consumed by one person and one act. It distracts him from the mission, from his men, from his orders. From the things programmed into his DNA. It makes his guts churn.
He scrubs the shining blaster rifle harder.
She is watching him.
It is the longest shuttle ride of his life.
He would rather face two Sith barehanded.