I have a really tasty Matt ask in my inbox and I had like a 500+ word response typed up and then Tumblr glitched and lost it all before I could save it to my drafts
Also, I super need to go to bed due to my deeply exciting week of standardised test grading starting tomorrow, but let me quickly state for the record that I am in no way prepared for the (hopefully inevitable) moment where we get new Liam Neeson/Qui-Gon Jinn in the flesh (or rather, Force ghost) content. Not in the least.
I am laughing and crying at the same time, Obi-Wan having to deal with the daughter of two of his dearest friends, that he can still say, “You remind me of her.” but he can’t say, “You remind me of him.” and it’s not because she’s only like Padme, but because Obi-Wan can’t even look at his feelings for Anakin, they’re like staring into the sun, they’ll burn him blind if he goes near them, so he can only compare her to Padme, stubborn and clever, and try to just breathe around the white hot pain of how her smartass remarks and fondness for droids and her getting into everything reminds him of Anakin. He can’t even think about Anakin, it would undo him, so he focuses on how like Padme Leia as.
Good afternoon specifically to the woman who lives rent free in my head ever since I went looking for frozen lake refs and found the article where she sank her car, took a selfie on the roof, and told the people who rescued her she’d ‘totally do it again’
They’re fickle, Stede warns, but Ed is having fun, liking being Jeff the Accountant, enjoying being charming and funny instead of terrifying, liking the feeling of being liked, liking being seen and admired and wanted. It turns, of course, Ed uses escargot tongs and a melon spoon to eat a prawn and gives absentminded wrong answers to questions and the tide turns, swiftly making him the butt of the joke instead of the one doing the joking, and they’re laughing AT him and not WITH him and Stede was right, they’re all fickle, and their derision cuts deeper for his being softened up, opened up by the attention and the illusion of belonging.
They’re fickle, Stede warned him, but Ed didn’t listen, too high on the sensation of eyes on him and a hand on his shoulder and sharing of brandy and clothes and a boot sliding over to touch a beribboned high heel, too drunk on what makes Ed happy and what makes Stede happy and one perfect imperfect kiss to see it coming. He doesn’t know his misstep this time, why he falls out of favor, what he could have said or done differently, what spoon or fork could have saved him, but he sits alone on the dock and understands in some deep part of himself that the tides have turned on him again, only there’s no friend in his corner this time, no gentleman to fight for his honor, no quiet corrective gesture or remark. No hand to catch the heart he’s offering, softened up and open like it’s never been before and the hurt cutting deeper for it.
They’re fickle, Stede warned him; these are my people, Stede told him. Ed didn’t listen.
ALT
