Gray Tale, A Star Wars Rebels Story

SW Gray Tale Side Stories: Perfect World V (Part I)

A/N: Someone reminded me that side stories existed and I had an bit of them stored up, so even if main story is gonna be updated on sunday, you can still read the side story. As said before, treat it just as omake stuff, read it if you liked the previous ones, skip if you didn't.

Btw in previous chapter comments, I had explained the chronological order of events that happened in main story so if you were one of the people who is like 'What in the Cracked Cocaine LSD shit is happening?', you can check that out.

___

Vasha was elbow-deep in an engine block when I walked in, her blue skin streaked with grease, her lekku wrapped up in a bandana to keep them out of the way. She glanced up at the sound of my footsteps and grinned.

"Momma's boy returns," she said, wiping her hands on a rag that was somehow dirtier than her hands. "Thought she'd have you on lockdown after yesterday."

"She walked me to school."

"Walked you?" Vasha snorted, leaning back against the workbench. "What are you, seven?"

"She's just worried. There was a murder."

"The tweaker?" She shrugged, tossing the rag aside. "Heard about it. Can't say I'm crying. He used to come around here trying to steal parts. Chased him off with a hydrospanner twice."

She stretched, her arms going over her head, her coveralls pulling tight across her chest. The top few buttons were undone because of the heat, and I could see the thin tank top she wore underneath, damp with sweat and clinging to curves that had no business being that distracting.

I realized I was staring and looked away.

"So," I said, clearing my throat. "Need help with anything?"

"Actually, yeah." She jerked her thumb toward the speeder she'd been working on. "Repulsor's jammed. I need someone to hold the coupling steady while I realign the motivator. Think you can handle that?"

"Probably."

"Such confidence."

I pulled out my flip phone while she gathered tools.

"She better not suspect it..." I mumbled, thumbing open the messaging app. The keys clicked as I typed out a message to Mom: School project at Jax's house. Might be late. Don't wait up.

Then another to Jax: Cover for me if mom calls. I'm at the garage.

His response came back almost instantly: U owe me. Also ur mom scares me.

Fair enough.

I snapped the phone shut and shoved it in my pocket.

"Alright," I said, walking over to the speeder. "What am I holding?"

---

Twenty minutes later, we were both wedged under the hood.

It was cramped. The speeder was some vintage model Vasha had picked up cheap, which meant the engine compartment was designed for mechanics with smaller bodies and fewer appendages. We were shoulder to shoulder, our heads ducked under the raised hood, our bodies pressed against the chassis.

"Hold that coupling," she said, pointing. "No, the other one. The blue one."

"This?"

"Yeah. Don't let it move."

I grabbed the coupling and held it steady while she worked on the motivator assembly. Her tools clinked and scraped. Sweat dripped down her neck, trailing along the curve of her throat before disappearing into her tank top.

"You're staring," she said without looking up.

"I'm watching. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh."

She shifted her weight, her hip bumping against mine. The contact sent a jolt through me that I tried very hard to ignore.

"So this coupling connects to what exactly?" I asked, mostly to distract myself.

"The repulsor motivator. It regulates thrust distribution." She pointed with her wrench. "See that conduit? Power flows through there, hits the motivator, and—"

Her elbow knocked against something.

There was a click.

Then a hiss.

"Oh no," she said.

The hydraulic jack that was holding up the hood assembly made a sound like a dying animal. I saw it start to collapse, the heavy metal hood beginning its descent toward our heads.

"Move!" Vasha shouted.

There wasn't time to get out. The space was too narrow, my body was wedged in wrong, and the hood was coming down fast.

I did the only thing I could.

I threw myself sideways, toward Vasha, toward the gap where she'd removed components for repair. My body slammed into hers, driving us both down into the narrow cavity as the hood crashed down above us.

Metal groaned. Something hit my back, a glancing blow that sent pain shooting through my spine. And then everything went dark and tight and warm.

My face was buried in something soft.

Very soft.

It took me a second to realize it was Vasha's chest.

My face was pressed directly into her cleavage, the thin fabric of her tank top the only barrier between my mouth and her skin. My hips had ended up between her legs somehow, my body pressed flush against hers in the narrow space. I could feel every curve, every breath, every slight shift of her body beneath mine.

"Alex!" Her voice was panicked, muffled by the metal shell around us. "Alex, are you okay? Did something hit you? Oh Force, oh Force, if something impaled you—"

"I'm fine," I said, though the words came out muffled by her breasts.

"Don't move! Something might have—stay still, let me check—"

Her hands ran down my back, fingers pressing and probing, searching for blood or metal or anything that shouldn't be there. Every touch sent shivers through me. I bit my lip, trying to focus on literally anything other than where my face was currently located.

"No blood," she breathed, relief flooding her voice. "No punctures. You're okay. You're okay."

"Told you."

"Shut up. You could have been killed."

Her hands stopped moving, resting on my lower back. I felt her chest rise and fall beneath my face as she caught her breath, the adrenaline slowly fading.

Then she seemed to notice our position.

"Um," she said.

"Yeah."

"This is..."

"Yep."

A long pause. I could feel her heart beating through her tank top, rapid against my cheek.

"Okay," she said, her voice shifting into problem-solving mode. "Okay. The jack failed. The hood's down. We're trapped."

"What do we do?"

"I'm thinking." She shifted slightly, which only pressed her body more firmly against mine. "Do you have your phone?"

"Side pocket."

"Can you reach it?"

I tried to move my arm. The space was too tight. My elbow hit metal.

"No."

"Okay. I'll try."

Her hand slid down my side, searching for my pocket. Her fingers brushed against my hip, then lower, probing through the thin fabric of my shorts.

"Wait," I said.

"I've almost got it—"

Her hand closed around something.

It was not my phone.

"Found it," she said, squeezing slightly. "Why is your phone so hot? And... cylindrical..."

Her hand froze.

I felt the exact moment she realized what she was holding.

"Oh," she said, very quietly.

"That's not—"

"I know what it is."

"I can't help it. You're touching—"

"I know."

She didn't move her hand. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us moved at all. I could feel myself getting harder in her grip, which only made things worse. Her fingers twitched, almost involuntarily, and I had to bite back a groan.

"Other pocket," I managed.

"Right. Right."

Her hand released me—reluctantly? No, I was imagining that—and moved to my other side. This time she found the phone, pulling it free with trembling fingers.

"Okay," she said, her voice slightly strained. "I'll call emergency services."

She tried to bring the phone up to her face, but the space was too cramped. Her arm knocked against the underside of the hood, and the phone slipped from her fingers.

"No, no, no—"

She grabbed for it, but only succeeded in pushing it further away. I heard it skitter across the ground, coming to rest somewhere out of reach.

"Fuck," she said.

"Can we yell? Get someone's attention?"

"I soundproofed the garage." She groaned in frustration. "Neighbors kept complaining about the noise. We'd have to scream for hours before anyone outside heard us."

"So we're stuck."

"We're stuck."

I exhaled, and my breath ghosted across her chest. She shivered.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's fine. Just... try not to breathe directly on my... you know."

"Kind of hard when my face is literally in your..."

"I know."

We lay there in silence. The heat was oppressive, our bodies generating warmth in the enclosed space. Sweat trickled down my back. I could smell her—engine grease and something floral, maybe her soap, mixed with the salt of her skin.

"Are we going to die like this?" I asked.

"What? No. Don't be dramatic."

"I'm just saying, if we're trapped here without water—"

"We're not going to die. Someone will come by eventually. A customer, a delivery guy, someone. We just have to wait and make noise when we hear them."

"Oh." I felt stupid. "Right. Obviously."

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah."

More silence. More heat. More of her body pressed against mine in ways that made thinking very difficult.

The thing between my legs had not gone down. If anything, it was getting worse. Every tiny movement she made, every breath, every shift of her hips—I felt all of it. And I knew she could feel me too, pressing against her thigh through our clothes.

"Alex," she said, her voice strained.

"I know. I'm sorry. I can't—"

"I know you can't."

I felt her chest rise with a deep breath. When she exhaled, her body relaxed slightly beneath mine, her thighs shifting just enough to cradle my hips more comfortably.

It was a small adjustment. Practical. It didn't mean anything.

But it felt like everything.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe. I had no way to know. All I knew was the heat, the pressure, the sound of her breathing, the feeling of her body beneath mine.

Her nipples were hard. I could feel them through her tank top, pressing against my chest. And she had to know I could feel them, just like she could feel me.

Neither of us mentioned it.

"Alex," she said again, and her voice was different now. Lower. Breathier.

"Yeah?"

"How long have we been down here?"

"I don't know."

"It feels like forever."

"Yeah."

Her fingers moved on my back, tracing small patterns. It might have been unconscious. It might have been deliberate. I couldn't tell, and I wasn't sure it mattered.

I could feel myself losing the battle. Every breath I took filled my lungs with her scent. Every heartbeat pushed my hips forward just slightly, grinding against her. And she wasn't stopping me. She wasn't pulling away.

"Vasha," I said, and my voice came out rough. Desperate.

"Don't."

"I can't—I can't control—"

"Alex, wait. Wait wait wait—"

I kissed her chest.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't thought out. My lips just found the exposed skin above her tank top, the soft blue curve of her breast, and pressed against it.

She gasped.

I kissed her again. And again. My mouth trailed across her collarbone, up her neck, leaving a path of heat and moisture on her skin. She was making small sounds, these little whimpers that went straight to my brain and short-circuited every rational thought I had left.

"We shouldn't," she breathed. "I'm too old for you. This is—we can't—"

"I don't care."

"Alex—"

"I don't care about your age. I don't care about any of it."

I wedged myself higher, my lips finding her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She turned her head, and then we were kissing for real, her lips parting against mine, her tongue sliding into my mouth.

She tasted like caf and something sweet.

Her nails dug into my back, hard enough to hurt, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. Her hips rose to meet mine, grinding up against me, and I groaned into her mouth.

"This is insane," she gasped between kisses. "We're trapped under a speeder—"

"Don't care."

"Someone could come in any second—"

"Don't care."

"I'm eight years older than you—"

"Vasha." I pulled back just enough to look at her, though I could barely see anything in the dim light. "I like you. I've liked you for months. And I don't care about any of that other stuff."

She stared at me. I could feel her chest heaving against mine, her heart racing.

"Idiot..." she mumbled.

And then she kissed me again.

We lost ourselves in it. Her hands in my hair, my hands wherever I could reach, our bodies moving together in the narrow space. The heat was unbearable now, sweat slicking our skin, but neither of us wanted to stop.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps. The creak of the garage door.

"Hello? Vasha? Is the shop still open—"

We froze.

---

The fire department arrived in seven minutes.

It took them another fifteen to safely lift the hood without risking further collapse. When they finally pulled us out, blinking in the sudden light, I was painfully aware of how we must have looked.

Me, on top of her. Her tank top askew, her lips swollen, her neck marked with what I was pretty sure were going to be visible hickeys by tomorrow.

The firefighters exchanged glances. One of them smirked.

"Hydraulic failure," Vasha said quickly, straightening her clothes. "The jack gave out. We got trapped."

"Uh-huh," the lead firefighter said, his voice carefully neutral. "Well, you're out now. Might want to get that jack serviced."

"I will. Thank you."

There was a small crowd outside by the time we emerged. Neighbors, a few customers, people who'd heard the sirens. I saw familiar faces, people I recognized from the block, all staring at us with varying degrees of curiosity and amusement.

At least the fanfare wasn't big enough that mom would be here.

Thank the Force for small mercies.

Vasha walked me to the edge of her property, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

"So," I said. "About what happened—"

"I need time," she cut me off. "To think. About... all of that."

"Okay."

"I'm not saying no. I'm not saying yes. I'm saying I need to think."

"Okay," I said again, because what else could I say?

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she reached out and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead, her touch gentle.

"Go home, Alex. Text me tomorrow."

"I will."

I walked home in a daze, my body still buzzing, my mind replaying every kiss, every touch, every sound she'd made.

The Star Destroyer drifted overhead, its shadow falling across the street.

Just another day in Anchorhead Heights.

__

Dinner was Mom's famous nerf roast with those little potatoes she made. I pushed food around my plate, my mind still back at the garage, replaying the feeling of Vasha's lips against mine.

"You're quiet tonight," Mom said, watching me from across the table. "Something on your mind?"

I stabbed a potato. Chewed. Swallowed.

"Can I ask you something? It's not about me," I added quickly. "It's for a friend."

"Oh?" Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "A friend. Of course."

"Yeah. He's got this... situation."

"Tell me about your friend's situation." She nodded along, her expression open and believing in that way that made it clear she didn't believe a single word.

"So there's this girl," I said. "And she's always finding excuses to be close to him. Like, really close. Pressing up against him, touching him, that kind of thing. And she seems comfortable with it. Doesn't pull away or anything."

Mom cut into her steak, the knife gliding through meat.

"Does she do this with other boys? Or just your friend?"

"Just him. As far as he knows."

"Well," she said, chewing thoughtfully. "That does sound like interest. A girl who singles out one boy for that kind of attention is usually trying to communicate something."

"So she likes him?"

"Possibly." Mom took another bite. "Or she's just cheap."

The word landed like a slap.

"What?"

"Throwing herself at a boy like that." Mom's knife scraped against the plate, cutting a bit harder than necessary. "Pressing her body against him, making herself available. That's not romance, sweetie. That's desperation. The behavior of a girl who doesn't respect herself."

"That's not—she's not like that."

"How would you know?" Her smile was still in place, but something about it looked fixed. Painted on. "This is your friend's situation, remember?"

"I mean, he says she's not like that."

"Mm." The knife bit into the steak again, sawing through with unnecessary force. "Well. Girls like that, they know what they're doing. They use their bodies to trap boys. To distract them from what matters."

"She's not trapping anyone. She's just—"

"Slutty?"

"No!"

Mom looked up at me, and for a second her expression was strange. Then it softened, melting back into the warm, maternal face I knew.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to upset you." She reached across the table and patted my hand. "Your friend is young. You're all young. These feelings, these little attractions, they seem so important now. But there's a whole life ahead. Studies. Career. Family."

She squeezed my fingers.

"The right girl will come along eventually. Someone who respects herself. Someone who doesn't need to rub herself against boys to get attention. Your friend should focus on what matters for now."

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I'll tell him."

"Good boy."

She went back to her dinner, humming softly, and I pushed potatoes around my plate until she let me leave the table.

__

I woke in the dark to the familiar dip of the mattress.

Mom slipped under the covers behind me, her body warm against my back. But instead of the usual position, she turned me gently, pulling my head against her chest. Her nightgown was thin, and I could feel the soft give of her breasts against my face, the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

Her fingers combed through my hair as she held me there, buried in her warmth.

"My baby," she murmured into the darkness. "My sweet boy."

I was too tired to question it. Too comfortable perhaps. I breathed in her familiar lavender scent, but underneath it was something else.

Iron, like pennies or rust.

Her arms tightened around me, almost possessive, pressing my face deeper into her chest, and I let myself sink back into sleep.

...

...

Leia wasn't at school the next day.

I noticed the empty seat in homeroom, the gap where her elaborate buns should have been visible three rows up. Nobody mentioned it. Mr. Pau certainly didn't seem to care, already launching into his lecture about the "necessary sacrifices of civilization" while tapping his ruler against his palm.

Jax cornered me at lunch, as usual.

He'd gone full conspiracy board overnight, apparently. His notebook was covered in scribbled connections, names and dates and arrows pointing everywhere. He talked for twenty minutes straight about Mr. V, about Nari's parents, about how they'd had some kind of business dispute with the weird neighbor years ago and then just vanished one night. Never found. Case went cold.

After that, Nari had dropped out. Started using. Became the hollow-eyed tweaker everyone avoided.

"It's all connected," Jax insisted, jabbing his finger at the notebook. "The parents, Nari, all of it. Mr. V's been picking them off one by one."

Mira leaned over, actually interested for once. She asked questions, pointed out holes in his theory, but seemed genuinely engaged. Arno just kept his head down, studying for the economics test, muttering about supply curves.

I nodded along without really listening.

My mind kept drifting back to the garage. The feeling of Vasha's body pressed against mine, her lips parting under my kiss. The way she'd said she needed time to think.

Did that mean she was considering it? Considering us?

She'd kissed me back. That had to mean something.

I checked my phone under the desk but there weren't any messages.

The day crawled by as I wondered why...