Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Star Wars, or any characters, events, or any other nouns therein. They all belong to the All-Mighty George, and everyone else who is lucky enough to own them.
It's been said that no matter where, or when, in the Universe you travel, one question, has always been asked:
Boxers, or briefs?
Oh, if you knew the number of time's a Jedi is asked that a day. And if you think that's unfortunate, then you would really pity me. I've thought about it to the point that I see my life stretched out before me, an endless parade of underwear of varying sizes, colors, and patterns. And I see this all, with the knowledge that no one has ever seen what I wear under my Jedi robes.
Anakin always makes it a point to remind me that nobody, absolutely nobody, has seen what I wear under my Jedi robes. He usually follows this with a comment about lightsabers that I know is below a Jedi to make, but I just pretend to not understand.
And besides, it isn't entirely true: One time, I was knocked unconscious during a mission, back when I was still a Padawan. Circumstances aside, when I woke up, my clothes had been changed, and Qui-Gon made a comment about no imagination. That day I realized even my own Master wore more interesting underwear than I did. And he was forty-three, while I was a boy of fourteen. Wasn't my underwear supposed to be the fun pair?
Yes, that's right. Tighty-whities even at sixteen. And for most of my life before that, I'm sure. That's when I decided it was time for a change. I was sixteen, I was good-looking enough, as human standards go, and I'd be damned if my own Master was going to out-underwear me. At the time, the phrase I believed I used was, "as if."
So it went that I bought my first pair of boxers. They were white.
Hey, a guy can only change so much at a time, you know.
And boxers it was for the time being. After I got comfortable with the feel, the freedom, I began to experiment. The colors! The patterns! These were supposed to be the best years of my life and my drawers reflected that. My favorite pair actually had a pattern of little Jedis posing dramatically with their lightsabers. (Although, the sales lady informed me that this pair was most popular with non-jedis.) Boxers were my love well into my twenties.
Then, while on a mission, the beautiful young princess Qui-Gon and I were protecting pointed out that you could see my boxers under my leggings.
A few weeks and a smirking Master later, I was back on Corousant sulkily looking for something new. Something that wouldn't show "panty lines", as the princess had unceasingly called them. And this was how I was introduced to boxer-briefs. No more panty lines for this Padawan.
I found I rather liked this new partner in my life. I was older, nearing knight-hood, more mature. Boxer-briefs afforded me comfort, as well as a secure feeling of my own jedi-ness. They may not have had all the patterns that boxers had, but the colors were there, if not more subdued. I liked them. Freedom of movement, combined with the support I needed in those lightsaber duels. What a wonder.
Then one day, on some sand-ridden hole of a planet, this upstart kid who apparently had more midi-chlorians than hairs in a room full of Wookies and a new-found special place in the heart of my Master shows up.
Before I know it, my beloved Master with the cool underwear is dead and I'm kneeling in front of Yoda, asking to train the little fart. Well I got my wish, and I'm in my room, with a little kid who's growing on me way too fast, and I suddenly realize that apparently on Tattooine, slaves don't have undies. Now I have to explain underwear to this poor kid and I'm starting to itch, because it just doesn't seem right that he gets a lecture like this from a guy in underwear like that.
Anakin Skywalker, meet Mr. Tighty-Whities.
All. Over. Again.
Because now I am the Master, and he is my apprentice, and I must be the mature one. But for now, he's only nine, and damnit, he can wear tighty-whities too, because I'm not going to tell him about the other kinds. And at least now, I'm not in this alone.
Until one day, my now sixteen year old Padawan is stripped down to his drawers in some mission that has gone more off-course than any other I can recall and what do you know; he's got boxer-briefs on. That little jawa skipped the boxer stage completely and went straight to boxer briefs. How did this happen? When? Why wasn't I informed of this? Does that boy tell me anything? I'm his Master, and damnit, I should know when such an event in his life has occurred that he needs to change underwear.
And not two minutes later, I'm standing with him, tighty-whities brilliantly white next to his navy-blue boxer-briefs. Our captors are laughing at me, and if that wasn't bad enough, Anakin is sniggering right along side them. It's even worse that he's trying to hide it. Oh, the mirth in his eyes.
Then suddenly one day, I'm waking up upside down in a service elevator staring at my Padawan's ass cheeks and I realize:
I don't think he's wearing underwear.
Why didn't I think of that?
A/N: This is my first go at a Star Wars fic…also my first go at writing a story like this. Read and review, if you please, and remember: I enjoy constructive criticism just as much as I love praise. :D Just letting me know you read it makes me day. Many thanks to all who did!