Hullo and happy Thanksgiving! Hope y’all are all having a wonderful day today; hopefully this little Rebels Thanksgiving fic will make you smile!
Despite all coming from different upbringings and places, Ezra made the discovery one day that every person on the Ghost had, at some point or another, had Thanksgiving as a part of their culture.
He’d mentioned it to Hera one day during his piloting lesson.
What if we all celebrated Thanksgiving together, on one day?
Hera had thought it to be a wonderful idea.
So the Rebel Thanksgiving day was born.
Zeb loved their Thanksgiving – especially the food. Zeb loved food. Especially jogan sauce.Ezra had taken all of the jogan sauce, and that made Zeb slightly angry. He forked up a large mouthful of dressing and contemplated the table. They were all squeezed around the holo-chess table, plates and glasses shoved together to make room. His crewmates, tightly packed as they were, roared with laughter as Kanan missed the table by a mile and dropped his cup onto Ezra’s lap. Even Kanan laughed. Sometimes he did “blind person” things as a joke. This, Zeb suspected, was one of those times.
“Har har har, he really got ya, ay kid?”
Ezra pretends to glower but failed, his laughter carrying above the others. Sabine’s hair, dyed crimson and gold for the occasion, glinted under the light as she tosses her head.
“Sometimes I wonder who’s really the brains of this operation — you or Hera, Kanan?”
Kanan sighed and nudged Hera’s elbow. “Questioning leadership again. I thought she’d grown out of that.”
Hera grins. “I don’t think our Sabine will ever grow out of that.”
Sabine pretends to pout, causing Ezra to break into another fit of laughter. He pounds the table with his fist. . . and Zeb watches in dismay as his hand misses the table, smacks into the edge of his plate, and catapults the whole dish into the air. Mynock, jogan sauce, greens, and oatbread fan delicately over the table, suspended from the sky for a long moment, then snap back into time and splash with a plop.
All over Zeb.
Ezra’s blue eyes widen.
“Ummm. . .”
All eyes turn to Zeb as he stands to his full height over poor Ezra. He reaches a long-clawed finger into the kid’s face.
“What are ya gon’ do ’bout this, huh?”
“Ummm. . . ask why jogan sauce somehow improves your complexion?”
A collective snort of laughter sounds from the others.
But Zeb doesn’t laugh.
Well, not yet.
He still towers over Ezra, thinking this through for a moment.
Then, he laughs.
“Ha, guess you got me there, ay kid?” he cackles.
As the table breaks into relieved laughter, Zeb takes his seat.
Thanksgiving is about being thankful, not complaining.
And hey, he does have all of the jogan sauce to himself now.