#has anyone else written boop fanfic or am i the only one who has gone that insane

[supervisormeero]

Boop.

“And your thought is that if we question the driver, we might find evidence of Mothma’s rebel sympathies?” Syril asks, staring down at his datapad. He waits. Dedra’s silent, so he assumes he’s not said enough; assumes he’s not shown sufficient intelligence to earn her answer. “Which could, in theory, lead us to… Axis?” he presses. “And Andor?”

He waits.

And waits.

She’s quiet.

When the silence has stretched for too long, he glances up to find Dedra’s chin nestled in the heel of her hand, her eyes closed. Her fingertips skim the tight strands of her blonde hair just above her ear. Every determined wrinkle has smoothed from her brow. Her mouth has opened slightly; her lips have parted with the subtle relaxation of sleep. It’s the third time she’s fallen unconscious in the midst of their surreptitious meetings in her apartment this week, so it’s the third time he’s been fortunate enough to sit across from her at the table and witness this beautiful, paradoxical side of her, like a flower sprouting between steel beams. Dedra is as soft when she sleeps as she is sharp when she’s awake. It’s impossible for him to rip his gaze from her.

And yet.

The last time he continued with his work and left her to catch up on hours of much-needed rest, she’d awakened, taken a half-second to adjust to her surroundings, and promptly snapped at him for “proceeding insubordinately in my absence.” She’d made it clear that her expectation was for him to wake her up, rather than to keep working out of respect for her well-being, and his stomach clenches at the thought that she might drag him down the hall and shove him out the door if he disappointed her again. As much as they both know she needs it, he can’t let her sleep.

And yet.

How is he to wake her? Shaking her by the shoulder seems even more insubordinate than continuing their work. Dropping his datapad risks startling her, frightening her. He’d rather shoot himself in the heart than leave this place of his own accord. For seconds that last eons he sits in the chair opposite Dedra Meero, painting her into the mural of his memory with the precise lines and manifold hues of a lovelorn artist, and ponders. Ruminates on all of the ways he might misstep and trigger an explosion. His heart thuds, and twists, and sprints.

Then, without thinking, he leans forward, extends his index finger, and taps it lightly against the tip of her nose. He doesn’t know when, or where, or why he learned the gesture. He knows it’s called a boop just as he knows the name, along with the thing itself, is riddled with impropriety. Inelegant as it is, it does serve its purpose.

Her blue eyes slit open as her lips suck in a short, shallow gasp of a breath. Her shoulders stiffen. She swallows. She pulls her head up, and then back. Proper posture, always. He watches fog churn in her gaze as she glances around the room, and he watches clarity sweep in to blow her confusion away. To free the sunbeams of her brilliance. A tinge of red blooms across her pale cheeks.

She fixes her attention on him, focuses on the outstretched pointer finger he’d dropped into his lap. Evidence. It’d never slip past her.

Her lip curls in exquisite disdain. “What was that?”

His throat tightens. “I… know you didn’t want me to continue on without you. I thought it best to, ah… employ a… less harsh method of waking you.”

Her glare is an ice storm, and he’s honored to sit motionless and freeze in place. “Try that again, Syril, and you’ll lose a finger.”

He’s booped his final boop, then. He nods.

“Of course.”