Themed Drabbles Set 7

Breakfast

She loves sleep, mainly due to its scarcity. Constant fighting has tired her, made her desire to sleep as much as possible.

So of course the door chimes.

She covers her head with the blanket. "Go away!"

The door slides open, and she frowns from within her cocoon. She hears a soft gentle foot step.

"Goddess?"

She lowers the blanket slightly, allowing one eye to peek out. He stands there. A tray held carefully in his hands, his uniform immaculate as always. The smile, a slight tug of the lips which crinkles the scar on his face.

"Breakfast is served."

---

Lunch

She sits at a table, surrounded by her squadron, her teammates, her Twin Suns. The twelve pilots situated carefully at a table designed to hold eight. Their lunches packed tightly against one another, an interesting array of foods from Jaina’s nerf steaks to Lowie’s k’savach slugs.

She grins at them, enjoying the company and the food.

The Ralroost lurches and an alarm goes off. A flash of red, a somber voice demanding battle stations. One of the pilot groans.

Jaina laughs and starts pulling her hair back into a simple knot. "Lunch is over boys, let’s go kill some Vong."

---

Dinner

She scrubs at a grease stain on her hand, hoping it will come off. She absently walks to her destination, looking at the door number for a second when she arrives. She briefly wonders why he called her to his quarters.

Giving up on her hand, she shoves the rag into a pocket of her battered orange flightsuit. She jabs the button by the door, and hears Jag’s muffled voice. "Come."
She steps in, and stares.

A darkened room. A table with lit candles. The smell of something appetizing hanging in the air.

She looks at Jag and slowly smiles.

---

Food

She glares at him. Anger grants her face a reddish tint. His superior smirk rests lightly on his lips. Her hands ball into tiny fists which she slams against the table on either side of her tray.

"Why you stinking, scruffy looking…" she pauses grinding her teeth. "Nerf herder!"

He laughs, further incising her.

"Now, Jaina I know you know better put downs than that."

Letting out a low growl, she scoops up a pile of her mashed tubers and flings them at Jag. She grins maliciously as they slap against his face with a satisfying smack.

"Take that flyboy!"

---

Drink

She lifts the bottle of Whyren’s Reserve, holding up the amber fluid to the light of her room, allowing it to cast a golden glow over her face as she stares at it.

It would be so simple to allow herself to lose control and her sadness in its contents.

She plucks a glass from the shelf and pours some of the whiskey into it. Setting the bottle aside, she allows the fluid to flow past her lips, burning as it slides down.

Why did Anakin have to die?

She takes another swallow, searching for answers.

But she finds none.