cassianandorjyn:

@basada-en-la-esperanza requested: The smell of freshly baked bread + sniperpilot

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Maroon curtains dance lazily, their intermittent swaying allowing Jedha’s star to set the golden stitches of his mother’s kameez aflame. Her bangles catch the same sparkle as she pulls the tray from the oven.

These new fangled nanowave ovens are more finnicky than the stone ones we used when I was your age, she laments. His sister rolls her eyes; being the elder child she’s heard every complaint to cross their mother’s lips a thousand times at least, or so she claims.

Bodhi, however, ignores their troubles and is preoccupied with the aroma wafting from the tray. The sweet warmth fills the air, his nose, his every thought. Already he can taste the syrupy sunburst dates, the soft flavoured dough melting in his mouth.

So far ahead of yourself, beta, his mother chides, shooing him away from the piping hot tray and imminent burns. What did I tell you? Patience. All good things come to those who wait.

Bodhi nods, soundlessly stepping away. She prods the loaf with a fork. He doesn’t bother to catalogue every minute detail, as he will later in life; because now he thinks there will be many more loaves to slice and cashews to roast and cold almond milk to wash it all down with.

He’s forgotten the scent of the oils in his sister’s braids and the pattern of his mother’s dishcloth. He can’t remember what their kitchen even looked like; nor can he recall his mother’s voice. He only recalls her hacking coughs and delirious rambles; the hoot of watchful birds and the crackle of stormtroopers’ commands.

Bodhi does remember the recipe, and as he pulls the tray out of the oven he thanks the almighty for granting him that sole mercy. God-willing it will taste just right, or close enough.

Close enough is just as valuable as perfection, these days.

The scent wafts up to his nose, and the mere hint of cardamom manages to clear away years and years of stale cockpits and musty quarters.

“That smells fantastic,” Cassian says, leaning over Bodhi’s shoulder.

Bodhi sets the loaf down to cool and turns to regard his companion with a slight smirk. “You’ll have to wait for it to cool,” he says, brushing flour off the bridge of Cassian’s nose. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Cassian cracks a smile at that, one of his not-as-rare-anymore ones that reaches his eyes and makes them twinkle.

Then his expression shifts, the dark brown of his eyes growing mischevious, and Bodhi has half a second before Cassian’s arms are around his waist and face burrowed against his neck. He thinks about playfully swatting him away, but the loaf has to cool and they have time, so much time, so he sighs, shifting his weight to rest against Cassian.

Cassian’s stubble brushes against Bodhi’s pulse.

“I know a thing or two about waiting for good things.”

“Oh?”

Bodhi grins, the heat spreading to his face; and he’s soon reminded Cassian’s lips are capable of a sweetness outshining measly sunbursts.