#aimeefic

It was one of the reasons why she had come to stay with her and Vel in the first place. Outside of the stupidly tremendous Christmas tree that Vel had snagged from a tree farm without checking its height — which, despite how much she had silently complained about dragging it up the stairs of their flat, made her secretly smile each time she thought about it — there was nothing in their flat that was remotely Christmassy. 

The way its height made it sag forward, however, worked as a sad reminder of what they were arguing about in the first place.

“Kleya, it’s just one night.”

“One too many. Why you want to go to Sculden’s Christmas party is beyond me.”

The reason had been locked away in a hidden compartment Cinta stitched into her purse. Telling Kleya about it was not an option. 

“It’s fun?”

Kleya scoffed. “You hate fun. You’d rather shoot people at a party than go to one.”

“So would Vel!”

“Who will be going with you. I'm an unnecessary addition.”

Not for the first time since they had spoken to one another today, Cinta tried to keep her jaw from twitching. It was her one and only tell, and the only people who seemed to be able to decipher what it meant were Vel and Kleya. Thankfully, the other woman’s back remained turned. “Vel thought it might be nice of you to come.”

“It was Vel's idea?” Kleya finally spun her chair around. Her painted lips were stretched painfully, sharp and biting. An expression that reminded Cinta of lawyers in cop shows when they were about to eradicate the entire defense in a few words or less. “Incredible. Have fun. I plan to stay in and eat Chinese food.”

Cinta bit her lip. She hadn’t wanted to do this. “Alright. Operation Alderaan.”

Kleya had been halfway between turning her chair back around when she gripped the edge of the desk to stop herself. She glared at Cinta from over her shoulder. “You're not serious.”

Cinta looked at her, really looked at her, and watched as Kleya, so often surrounded by sky-high walls made of steel and titanium, crumbled just enough for the foundations to begin to shake. 

Kleya’s shoulders slumped. “Fine,” she bit out, “but do not expect me to have fun.”

“Thought never crossed my mind.”

Kleya hated to admit it, but Sculdun knew how to throw a party. 

A live jazz band, adorned in white and red tuxes, was located at the center of the room, just in front of a gigantic Christmas tree. They belted out the Christmas classics and, like everyone else in the room, wore animal masks that concealed their identity. The tree, a sparkling silver with its bristles flecked with fake snow to match the matte white decor of the grand hall, was lit by what looked like a thousand fairy lights and adorned with red and gold tinsel.

Directly in front of the band were people: dancing and mingling, and the harried butlers who were rushing through and in between the throng of bodies. Beyond them were multiple cocktail tables that, for what Kleya knew of Sculdun’s tastes, were utterly gauche in comparison to the rest of the hall. If any tabloid journalists were at this inane shindig, she expected that they would be mentioned as a point of contention on page 4 of the Daily Coruscant before the week was out.  

As for her…

Vel and Cinta had dropped her off at the bar like two parents depositing their child at the nearest nursery. This was perfectly acceptable. The drinks were free, and she had already promised herself that for the majority of the night she would be sitting here, perched on this ridiculously high stool and trying to decipher which wealthy socialite was hiding heinous secrets from their body language alone.

Three Purple Rains later, and Kleya had picked out seven people to look up via her and Luthen’s old databases when a young boy, whose chin hairs had barely grown in, sidled up next to her at the bar. His hair was slicked back, and when he spoke, Kleya was sure she would have been able to fit her whole fist inside his gaping maw.

“H—”

"I'm working." 

The 'go away' was implied, but the man, boy, whoever he karking was, only gave her a grin that said he absolutely had not received the message.

"At Christmas time?"

"Did Christmas prevent us all from working in the past? No, I don't think so." She snatched her drink from the bar counter. "Now remove yourself, or we'll see if this Purple Rain looks just as good on your suit as it does in my glass."

His face dropped into a glare and, running a hand over his slicked back hair, he pushed past her to hustle out onto the dance floor. His rush drew Kleya’s attention to the golden dog mask of Vel, who was missing the ever-present shadow of Cinta as she leaned against a cocktail table, rolling the stem of her wineglass in between her fingers. 

"You handled that rather well." A voice behind her said. Unlike the drawl she had been subjected to moments before, there was a light, feminine lilt to this one.  Kleya didn't need to look back to know she preferred the latter to the former.

"Nor am I. I'm avoiding my husband. Well," the voice paused. "Ex-husband now."

Kleya arched her brow. “A divorcee among this crowd? You're risking a lot telling a random stranger about it.”

“It's because you're a random stranger that I feel confident in doing so.”

Kleya made a point of easing herself back around at a pace she was adamant could only be interpreted as bored. 

These sorts of events attracted beautiful people like her and Luthen attracted dyke drama to a spy network, so she was far from surprised to see that the stranger was otherworldly, with her cream-colored dress, wrapped up to her neck like armor, and her dangling golden jewellery. 

Of course, the caveat was that these events also attracted the most soulless individuals around. Only time would tell where this stranger would fall.

“And if I were a journalist in search of hot gossip?”

From two seats away from her, the stranger chuckled. It reminded Kleya of the melodic noise of the canaries that Luthen had kept in the aviary by the greenhouse. 

“You're no journalist.”

“How do you know?”

“I've met plenty in my career. There's tells that they don't even know about.”

Kleya pushed the edge of her raven mask back against her face and, as if she had pressed pause on the TV remote, felt her surroundings fall away as she examined the woman.

It was clear from her posture, elegant and poised, with one leg draped over the other, that she was just as wealthy as the rest of the guests. Her mask was a rose-gold colour and shaped to resemble a swan; the point of its beak was orange, with garnets similar to those she wore in her ears. Her hair was a flickering flame, one that wavered when you ran your hand over it, stylish and prim. It reminded her of Vel’s natural locks before she had taken to dying it blonde.

The green-grey of the stranger’s eyes was like an oncoming storm, a deadly spectacle that you couldn’t help but watch until the danger was too close to run from. But wasn’t that what storms were so very mesmerizing in the first place?

Kleya glanced at the drink in her hand with a frown. Then called the barman over for another. She glanced over to see that the swan stranger hadn’t stopped watching her, her index finger running around the rim of her own amber tumbler. It wasn’t intentionally seductive. Kleya could usually pick up those sorts of come-ons a mile away, but it was certainly… something. 

With a lick of her lips, Kleya picked up her now-full glass. “What sort of—”

The swan mask was immediately swallowed up from view as Cinta, as poised and brutal in her movements as she had been in battle, collapsed next to her on the stool. If she was aware of the stranger next to her, she didn’t let it show, turning to face Kleya with her lips thinned into a grimace. 

“How do I look?” There was a tremor in Cinta’s voice that Kleya hadn’t heard in a long time. Not since Cinta’s accident, the one that had gotten her benched from MI6 for good, and had led to the long, arduous process of Vel retiring soon after. 

It was enough for Kleya to put her glass down on the bar’s countertop. When Cinta met her gaze, not even the bold rim of the black cat mask’s eye sockets was enough to hide the crack of fear, how it shone off the sclera mark within Cinta’s dark eyes.

Operation Alderaan flashed to the front of her mind. For Cinta to use it against her, to bring her here, to a Christmas party of all places… Whatever Cinta was up to, and with the way her fingers were curling and uncurling again and again over the space of her stomach, it must have been serious.

Was she about to go back into spywork again? Too little too late, considering Luthen was no longer…. 

A sensation, like someone had spilled something cold and slippery on her chest, slammed the brakes on those thoughts continuing. 

Kleya cleared her throat. To her left, Cinta still hadn’t budged from her side, and her fingers were curled into fists. She picked up the shot she had been saving for herself and pressed it into Cinta’s hand. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I do?” Not waiting for an answer, Cinta necked it. From the space left behind by Cinta’s arm, Kleya could see that the stranger wasn’t hiding her attention from them. The way her lips were pursed together almost seemed fond. 

Cinta slammed the glass back onto the bar. Her jaw was tighter than Kleya had ever seen it, but when she pulled herself up from the stool and caught sight of Vel among the crowd, now browsing on her phone… It was as if someone had stuck a pin in her, the way she deflated. 

Cinta’s head shot round to face her. She said only one thing: “Fuck,” before she stormed back into the crowd, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as she went.

Standing in the middle of the relentless bodies that pushed and pulsed to the music around her, Cinta watched as the strobe lights of the mansion glided over Vel’s face. For a moment, she had the ridiculous thought of counting how many times she had seen Vel in her life. It surely must have been in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions.

In Sculdun’s great hall, her purse heavy and weighed down by an all-important stone, Cinta saw Vel and felt her blood roar in her ears like the hollow drumming of wings. She was so… Words couldn't do Vel justice.

When Luthen had first recruited Cinta, she had just scraped past her nineteenth birthday. Ragged, vengeful, and willing to do anything and everything if it put her in the fight, there had never been an endgame for her that wouldn't be a bloody affair.

Now, nearing fifteen years later, the endgame felt a lot like waking up in Vel Sartha's arms, safe and content, with a new life ahead of them.

And this new life meant attending Christmas parties as a favor to Vel's cousin, Mon Mothma.

Or at least, it had started like that. Then, when she had scoped out the place (old habits died hard), the idea had sprung up on her like a grenade breaking a window pane. The reason for Kleya being invited was both a simplistic and sentimentality-driven choice; something which she and Kleya both detested. Kleya had been her handler for so long, that this… mission… felt like she needed to be there. If she had brought it up to Kleya, she didn't doubt she would be ridiculed. This was no mission.

Still, according to every heterosexual man with a distinct lack of a funny bone she had come across, marriage and assassination were very much the same thing. It seemed only fair to bring Kleya along.

A man, pimply and lean, pushed past her with a drunken laugh, his hand wrapped in a squat man’s own, and, as if waking from a dream, Cinta lurched forward with only one destination in mind. 

When she arrived at the table, the silver tree towering above them not unlike the one in their living room, Cinta’s heart throbbed at the smile that lit up Vel’s face.

"There you are!" Vel said, accepting the glass of Chardonnay that Cinta had forgotten entirely she’d been holding in the first place. She moved in to kiss Cinta's cheek. “Thought you got lost.”  

"Just checked in on Kleya."

She had expected the roll of Vel's eyes, but it tugged a smile out of her all the same.

"Right," Vel sipped at her wine, her fingers drumming on the table she stood at.  "Still committed to having a terrible time?"

Cinta snorted. “How did you guess?”

“She's predictable like that.”

“You're the one who invited her.”

Vel raised both her brows and gave a twist of her mouth. “And as predicted, I completely regret it.”

If there was one thing Cinta knew about Vel Sartha, it was this: kindness, even at the cost of her own peace of mind, came so naturally to her. And even when you drew attention to it, she denied it was even there in the first place. 

It was one of the things Cinta loved about her. The sentiment lingered on her tongue like an old, sour sweet, and while she had grown better at putting those thoughts into words, there were times such as these that she couldn’t find the bravery to say them.

Kleya and Luthen had looked down on Vel, had always thought, of the two of them, that she was the strongest, that she could handle anything and everything. Cinta didn’t know they could have been more wrong, even if their lives depended on it. 

It was that truth that made her square her stance, inhale sharply, and start to count down from 20 to 0. A calming exercise all agents learned, and while it was usually used just before combat or in an interrogation, Cinta had found it was a great technique to prevent her from leaning in and kissing Vel in front of hundreds of well-connected, socially elite strangers. 

Instead, she tucked a stray lock behind Vel’s ear. “Seen Mon yet?”

Vel’s eyes fluttered a moment before, having finally managed to pull herself from the realization that Cinta was touching her; they hardened into a glare. “Yeah. She’s keeping a low profile tonight, what with how many people are gunning to find out more about her and Perrin.”

“She’ll be fine, Vel.”

"Just don’t want any stupid bastards harassing her, so I’m keeping an eye out all the same.” 

In times of trouble, which usually meant when she didn’t know what to say that would comfort Vel, Cinta took her hand. She did so now, thumb rubbing across her knuckles. “Doubt it. That’s what we’ve got masks for.”

“Trust me, those Coruscanti journo fuckos probably have her silhouette memorized by now.”

Cinta scanned the grand hall. There were so many dancing couples that the exit to the balcony out back, the one that would lead them down to the perfectly sculptured gardens, the prim-and-trimmed hedge maze, and the gigantic fountain with matching-colored loveseats nearby the gazebo, could barely be seen.

Mon had said she was going to wear a rose-gold swan mask, but while Cinta could see a variety of animals parading around, none fit the description.

Vel's grip got tighter. "I swear, if Perrin is here and bothering her--"

"He won't be."

"You don't know that."

Cinta did know that. She had paid Perrin far too much money to stay away tonight. There were already too many variables of this whole gesture going wrong, and the idea that Perrin could somehow ruin it was enough to make her want to be sick. 

She squeezed Vel's hand. "Come on. One dance and we'll go look outside."

Underneath her golden retriever mask, Cinta watched the side of Vel's mouth quirk. It was such a small smile, and yet it warmed Cinta's body better than any nightcap ever would. 

“Cinta Kaz, dancing?”

She deposited her and Vel’s drink at the table, twirled her around with a smile at Vel’s chuckle of disbelief, and then dragged her in closer until they were chest to chest. 

“Tis the season for it.” She said and pressed their masks together until they were nose-to-nose.

Together, they moved into the swell of the crowd, and Cinta got lost in the peace that was Vel’s laughter. 

“Do you think she’ll be alright?”

Kleya raised her glass to her lips and sipped at the glittery liquid. The stranger hadn’t moved to sit directly beside her, but the way her eyes lingered on the stool Cinta had vacated said she wanted to. 

“Most likely. She’s usually so confident, if a little quiet. How she even got an invitation is anyone’s…” She had been mumbling the last part around the rim of her glass and, feeling the heat travel up her cheeks, moved the glass away to glare at it. She couldn’t be so drunk already that she was actually engaging in a personal conversation with a perfect stranger. 

Her eyes darted to the side, accusing. The stranger, in her rose-gold swan mask, only tilted her head to the side. 

“Have I offended?”

As far as Kleya was concerned, it was an offense to talk to her at all when she was so adamant about having a terrible time. But there was something about the kindness in those eyes that made her pause, despite the sharp words resting on her tongue. 

There was something about those eyes that felt familiar. 

Shaking her head, she leaned back against the bar’s countertop and called for another shot of Fireball. “No. But you are incessantly chatty,” Kleya paused and found that the stranger’s quirk of her brow behind the swan mask was more amused than insulted. Odd, considering how high-strung the rest of the soulsuckers in this place were. “I’m also trying to figure out why I’ve not got up from this stool to move to a quieter corner.”

“Pity, perhaps?” 

“I don’t have room for that particular feeling.”

The last thing Kleya expected was for the stranger to let out a breathless chuckle. She couldn’t tell if the warmth at the back of her neck was from the alcohol or the fact that, in her laughter, the stranger had accidentally brushed her mask to the side to reveal a small beauty mark. Kleya swallowed around the dryness of her throat. 

She brought the whiskey to her lips. At the back of her mind was the incessant and throbbing feeling of an old memory, one where Luthen had scolded her about the classlessness of mixing drinks in a social situation. 

Well, he wasn’t here. He never would be again.

“I’m deadly serious. I couldn’t care less about your divorce.”

“I know. It’s refreshing,” The stranger replied. The lilt in her voice was so pleasant that, despite knowing how bad an idea it was already, Kleya couldn’t help but be drawn back to the other woman’s gaze. Amongst the glitter and glamour, there was no mistaking that whoever was here was the elite crop of Coruscanti society. The way the stranger talked… Kleya wondered just how much she could learn about this woman’s divorce from news articles alone.

Take the spy out of the spywork, but the spywork was impossible to remove from the spy. 

“No other guesses?” Kleya ventured when the silence became louder than the beat of the band’s drums. 

“None. I must be good company.”

Behind them, someone – the bartender, who had been generously filling up both her shot glass and tumbler since she had parked herself in this spot – let out a groan. 

He grabbed her empty glass and shook his head. “Get a fucking room already.”

Kleya watched him trundle to the other side of the bar, speechless. She turned towards the rose-gold swan mask, who looked just as perplexed as she was.

Together, the two of them glanced back out at the dance floor. Kleya, having monitored Cinta for so long and eager to move away from the awkward atmosphere, looked and found that she could spot Cinta a mile away, swaying side by side with Vel's arms wrapped around her neck. Even in the midst of dancing, it seemed evident that they were in a deep discussion about something.

“Oh,” beside her, her companion let out a breath. It was so close to Kleya’s ear that it took everything in her not to jump from her seat. 

Kleya straightened when, seeing Cinta lean to whisper something into Vel’s ear, the other woman nodded, and together they left the dance floor to head outside onto the balcony terrace on the far side of the room. Usually, anything that had Vel and Cinta moving so fast either meant trouble, and well, if she had to choose between staying here with this inane atmosphere or venturing off somewhere else… 

Kleya sprang from her stool. Only to find that the floor was already rushing up towards her. 

A hand, firm but soft, grabbed her under her arm and pulled her to a standstill. When the world righted itself, and she could see, the swan mask was so close to her raven that she could feel the beak press against her cheek. 

A thought about how she must smell of whiskey, and how unattractive it must be, grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. But when she made to pull away, the concern in the stranger’s green eyes made her pause.

“Steady now.” The swan whispered. “How many have you had?”

Kleya wrenched her arm away. “None above the amount I couldn’t handle.” She departed and, blinking away the dizzy spell, moved through the crowd like an arrow from a bow. 

Behind her, the stranger was hot on her heels.

Cinta had seen the life bleed from a man, had stared down the barrel of a gun, and counted the seconds it would take for the target to wrap his sweaty finger around the trigger and open fire. She had done all of these impossible, gruelling things that still gave her nightmares at night, that let her see flashes of bloodied hands and red circling down ceramic until it whirpooled down the drain. Fear should have melted from her conscience long ago.

Staring at Vel now as she chatted away, the crunch of gravel underneath their feet as they headed towards Sculdun’s gazebo, Cinta would rather have been forced to take point on another assassination mission. That, at least, was something she knew everything about. 

Vel’s hand squeezed her own. In the other, her purse had never felt heavier.

“You alright?”

Cinta inhaled sharply and gave Vel the brightest smile she could muster. “Fine. Cold, isn’t it?”

Vel’s brow immediately furrowed with concern. “We can go back inside–”

“No!” Cinta bit her lip, closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she was adamant that her next words wouldn’t be a total fuck-up. “No. Sorry. I… Are you alright?”

Vel was looking at her as though she had grown an extra head in the space of a few seconds.

“Cinta.” That voice. Cinta recognized it so well — the voice of someone who knew something was going on and was waiting for Cinta to take the plunge to reveal all. 

Cinta squeezed Vel’s hand and, with a quick glance at the gazebo, gently tugged at her fingers. Vel, as she always had, regardless of whether it was walking into the jaws of death itself or choosing to love her, despite it all, picked up her speed and followed without a single complaint. 

It was moments like these that made Cinta realize how very easy it was to fall in love with Vel Sartha.

The gazebo was decked out in fairy lights that probably cost more than their rent, but Cinta had no time to appreciate them. At the very top of the stairs, she turned. “Vel, I love you. You know that, don’t you?” 

Vel’s response was to pull off her mask. The worry in her clearwater blue eyes made them gleam in the twinkling lights above. “Christ. What happened?”

“Nothing!” Cinta threw up her hands. She was absolutely ruining this. “Nothing, I’m just… Me telling you that I love you doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong.”

“I know that, but look at you, you’re pacing.” 

“I’m just…” Cinta turned and ripped her own mask from her face. “I was bad to you. Before. The running away. Telling Luthen and Kleya not to tell you about my injury. I shouldn’t have…”

Vel's hands on her elbows, gentle but firm, pulled her to a stop in front of her. She was intimately aware of the goosebumps running up and down her arms, how Vel could probably feel them, and how Vel still looked at her with a tenderness Cinta knew she would never feel she deserved.

“I'm not perfect either,” Vel said.

“I don't want you to be.” It was the closest thing she could say to saying what she wanted. “I’m sorry for it, though, Vel. For all the hurt.”

She was about to continue — there were so many things to apologize for — when Vel cupped both of her cheeks.

“Do you really think that anything like that could make me stop loving you?”

Cinta heaved in a heavy breath and leaned into the touch of Vel's hands. Years with Vel, and she still couldn't square away that she was being touched so gently by someone.

“No. You're… stubborn like that.”

Vel laughed. “Cheers!”

“I mean!” When Vel's smile only grew wider, Cinta found that she couldn't prevent her own from appearing. Her eyes darted to her feet, the black heels, and the way she could see her reflection in the gazebo's golden light. “I’m ruining this, aren’t I?”

Vel shook her head. “Not even close.”

Cinta peeked back up, and for the first time tonight, the purse in her hands felt as light as air. Was this really all it took to ease her down from the edge: a few words of reassurance from Vel Sartha?

Reaching into her purse, Cinta grabbed the small, octagonal box and knelt.

It was not the most expensive ring in the world, but Mon had told her that it would hardly matter to Vel. The small sapphire looked so flimsy, as if one strong push of wind would send it flying out of her hand and leave it lost within the long grass. The reality was, Cinta imagined, that the only fragile thing here was herself.

When she looked back up, Vel's face represented that of a fish out of water.

“Let's not be perfect together. Forever.” Cinta pushed back against the wave of irritation at herself that always shot up whenever she dared to be vulnerable. Now was not the time. “I know that Chandrila has its own customs, and I asked Mon, and she said you'd most likely prefer something less traditional, so…”

“Really?” Vel’s voice was as small as a peony waiting to be crushed underfoot. 

Cinta peered down at the ring, swallowed back the scorching bile that sat at her throat. While she hadn’t put this lack of belief into Vel — that ‘honour’ belonged to her mother and father — her past behaviour hadn’t helped. 

“Really.” In this moment, nothing could have forced Cinta to look away from Vel’s gaze. “There’s nobody else I want to spend my life with but you. Nobody.”

“Mon didn’t—”

“Nobody put me up to this, Vel.” Cinta confirmed, knowing immediately where Vel's head was at. “The only thing Mon helped with was picking out the ring. She didn’t suggest it. She didn’t mention anything. This was me. Just me.”

A brightness came to Vel’s eyes that Cinta hadn’t recognized as missing. Bit by glorious bit, the other woman straightened up, and the smile, that same, shy smile that had made Cinta’s palms sweat at the same time as it had pushed her to irritation more times than she could count, appeared on Vel’s face. 

“You want this.” Not a question. Cinta’s mouth ran dry and, not willing to wait until she could find the words she wanted to say to ease Vel’s heart, she nodded. 

Time, its fingers broken and stubby, crawled. Silence, which Cinta had once cherished so dearly, now felt as suffocating as a wire wrapped around her throat.

She was about to plead for an answer when Vel, blinking rapidly and running a thumb underneath her left eye, said, “Get up, please.”

Cinta had no idea what her face must have looked like, but she had a feeling it at least resembled some sort of terror for Vel to look at her and let out a wet, wheezing laugh. “Get up so I can kiss my wife-to-be, yeah?”

If anyone asked, Cinta would swear she didn’t jump up at the request. Whether it was accurate or not was highly unimportant anyhow, because as soon as she was up on her feet, Vel was kissing her. It was as if the sun had reached down to embrace her, the way each brush of skin against skin ushered warmth into her chest.

Vel’s hands on her drove her bare back against one of the gazebo's columns. The gasp at the chill stone on her bare back was quickly swallowed by the slick softness of Vel's mouth, her legs automatically parting to let Vel slide between them as much as humanly possible in this tight dress.

“Wife.” Cinta gasped between kisses, groaning aloud when she felt the dull edge of Vel’s teeth against her collarbones, her hot breath in between the valley of her breasts.

“Wife.” Vel echoed back, falling to her knees, hands roaming over the black sequined fabric to tug it up over her thighs.

After that, there was very little either of them felt deserved their time outside of each other.

Descending into the garden, Kleya took a moment to grouse under her breath as the chill of winter bit at her arms. She was halfway down the steps when she realized that the gazebo next to the maze could only be reached via a gravelled path, and headed out onto the grass. The mud squished underneath her heels, and it took far more effort than she was comfortable with to suck them out of the ground.

It was only when she got to the gigantic hedge of the maze’s entrance that Kleya realized the stranger had followed her. Choosing not to deal with her complete lack of care about this particular choice, Kleya pressed up against the hedge’s wall. She glanced around the edge where she could just about see Cinta’s back to her, with Vel sitting down on the gazebo’s loveseat in the far corner. 

Movement out of the corner of her eye. Kleya whirled to see that the woman in the swan mask had managed to sneak in beside her.

God, she really was maybe-a-little-drunk.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Perfect. Now be quiet.”

The woman scoffed out a laugh that felt so similar to Vel’s that Kleya couldn’t help but look back over. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re quite demanding?” 

God, she even sounded like Vel. Though Kleya suspected the Sartha heir would have probably worded her take in a far less eloquent fashion.

“A few times. You’d be the first woman in a long while.”

“Charming.”

She peered back around the hedge. Kleya couldn’t hear either Vel or Cinta, but she could see that, to her utter surprise, Cinta had begun to pace up and down. Vel was now standing, her one arm outstretched as if she wanted to take Cinta by the hand, but not so much that it would get in the way of her lover’s strides. 

A warmth at her ear. Kleya turned around to see that the stranger had pressed closer to look over her shoulder, too. She could feel the heat of her body against her, smell the mint of her breath, and how its warmth travelled down the plane of her neck and sent goosebumps all across the back of her shoulders. 

Kleya forced herself to look away. She wasn’t blind to her own inclinations: if the person behind her had been that loathsome cockroach of a man she had met at the bar, perhaps she wouldn’t be so kind to the idea of anyone leaning against her.

Granted, it was clear from how gentle the pressure was that the other woman was doing her best not to get too much into her space. It was respectful; chaste even. 

“Oh. Perhaps we should leave.”

Kleya whipped her head back around. Vel had grabbed Cinta by the elbows to pull her in. Their masks were nowhere to be seen, which meant that the evening’s moonlight lit up every single worried crease on Vel’s face. 

Still, it all looked relatively mild. She had been witness to a few of Vel and Cinta’s arguments in the past — the one that had exploded on Aldhani over Andor’s flirtation with Cinta remained particularly memorable — and it didn’t seem as though whatever was happening here was coming close to that. 

“We’re fine,” Kleya said. “Considering the truly diabolical noises I hear from their room most nights, I’m working under the assumption they’re on good terms with one another. Highly unlikely this is going to be a break-up.” 

“I suspect you’re correct.” The stranger said. When Kleya looked back, she quickly pinpointed the reason there was a trace of humor in the other woman’s voice. Cinta had knelt on the floor, and Vel was standing over her, mouth agape. 

Kleya felt her own jaw drop. She knew that Cinta fancied herself in love with Vel, and Vel couldn’t go five minutes without referencing Cinta in a conversation. Still, she had no idea that it was severe enough for Cinta to consider marriage.

Granted, she hadn’t expected Cinta to leave behind their work at Axis, either. After finding out about Luthen’s plans for Ghorman, the relation to Cinta’s accident… It was a minor miracle — and perhaps that awful sentimental drive she knew Vel was packing in spades — that they had allowed her to crash with them for so long after Luthen’s funeral.

The more she thought about it, the more an awful awareness was brewing inside of her. Like a cup of mulled wine, it sat heavy and filled her with a warmth she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. 

That was why Cinta had wanted her here tonight, why she had wielded Operation Alderaan like a cudgel to get her to come: support. Cinta, and perhaps even Vel, saw her as more than their assignment handler. They considered her a friend. 

Kleya swallowed around the lump in her throat. Beside her, the stranger watched on, oblivious to the inner turmoil that was wreaking havoc through Kleya’s entire being. 

A hand pressed in front of her face, and Kleya took in the delicate scent of the other woman’s perfume. It reminded her of the lilacs that Luthen had grown in the greenhouse, one of the few things that he had taken pleasure in outside of spywork. She couldn’t recall the last time she had set foot in there. If she was being honest, she tried not to remember anything about him at all. 

The sight of Cinta and Vel blurred as her eyes began to water. 

“May we leave now?” 

“What, why?” There was a bubble in her throat that Kleya placed the blame entirely on for why her voice couldn’t seem to grow any louder. 

She blinked back the unexpected tears and found the answer came in the form of Vel Sartha having pressed Cinta Kaz up against the gazebo’s columns.

Kleya hadn’t been Vel and Cinta’s roommate for long, but she could tell where this was going. Clearing her throat, she turned back to see that the stranger had also ducked back behind the hedge of the maze wall. There was a slight smile on her face, one that lacked any remarkable quality really, outside that it had stolen Kleya’s attention long enough that when she finally came to, she realized that the swan mask was missing. 

Beauty didn’t do anything for her. There had been so many beautiful women in her life that if she were to get enraptured by every one of them, then nothing would have gotten done. So, Kleya put this undefinable urge to reach up and kiss the stranger down to the several drinks in her system. That, and the somewhat annoying fact that her gut instinct had been right: the stranger was, indeed, incredibly beautiful.

She couldn’t recall the last time she had, nor felt the desire, to kiss someone. There hadn’t been time for anything like that. But when their eyes met, Kleya swallowed so loud that she felt her ears pop. 

“Well,” the redhead leaned back against the shrubbery, a small whisper of a chuckle escaping her. “That was certainly a turn of events.” At a groan off in the distance, her brow immediately furrowed. “Let’s get away from them before I hear anything scarring. Shall we?”

Kleya couldn’t find the words she wanted to say, but it didn’t seem to matter because soon enough her hand was intertwined with this stranger’s and, peering out over her shoulder to ensure Cinta and Vel were far too busy to spot them, they crept out and behind the maze. 

It was only when Kleya felt the wet grass start to soak through her heels that she realized that she was failing every lesson Luthen had ever taught her. The first, and certainly the most important, was to know your surroundings. With a glance, it confirmed that they were still in the proximity of Sculden’s mansion but little else. Yet, the intriguing stranger? She didn’t even know their name. 

And who cared if she didn’t? Luthen wasn’t here. Vel and Cinta weren’t here. Nobody was here but this woman and, for some reason she didn’t quite want to grapple with, Kleya couldn’t think of anywhere else she wanted to be. 

"Where are we going?”

 “My car. If we circle, we’ll get to the car park in about a minute or two. Then I can take you home.” The woman replied, tugging her along as though she was a sailboat on still waters, her hand clasped in Kleya’s own, and the other tilted, her phone’s torch their guide towards the parking lot. 

Among the wild variety of feelings she was feeling tonight, there was a rising wave of amusement that threatened to carry Kleya away. “You’re rather daring, aren’t you?”

The stranger stopped so suddenly that Kleya’s nose hit against her shoulder. When she spun back around, Kleya was satisfied to see that the pearls of her eyes looked at her as though she was scanning an ocean’s surface, searching for meaning beyond the depths. 

“Daring?"

“Who said I was coming home with you?”

“Oh! No, nothing like that. I was referring to driving you home—”

Kleya interjected. “Is there wine?”

“Pardon?”

“At your house.”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant.” When Kleya didn’t answer, the stranger sighed. “I’m divorced. What do you think?”

Kleya moved to overtake her, shaking her head. “Even better. Let’s go.”

The stranger prevented her from going much further by holding out her arms on both sides.  “I don’t think that’s wise, considering your condition.”

Kleya pushed the arms aside, striding past. “I’m tipsy, not catatonic. Nor do I plan to be.” Walking backwards now, Kleya blindly tossed her raven mask behind her. “More importantly: I know why I didn’t move from that stool.”

The other woman followed her, and even in the dark, with the sucking noise of her heels as they got stuck in the mud, Kleya caught the slight tilt of the stranger’s head, the faint flex of her hand as she moved. Curiosity simmered under the regality of a painfully neutral mask.

With the wind whistling around them, wet grass tickling their calves, and the rush of feeling that came with the very real realization of why she was here, right now, in front of this beautiful woman, Kleya brought them both to a halt. 

Bunching the front of the stranger’s dress in her hands, Kleya tugged her forward and kissed her.

She tasted of money, mint, whiskey, and regret. She smelled of lilacs, a sore wound, and warm honey. And when Kleya’s tongue touched her, she groaned so loud, so desperately, that Kleya had little choice but to wrap her arm around her neck and hold on tight. 

The first thing Kleya noticed when the depths of unconsciousness freed her from its grasp was that her mouth was drier than the Sahara.

The second thing was that she was in a bedroom that was far too large to belong to Vel and Cinta. 

The third was that her phone was blaring. 

Bleary-eyed and head throbbing in time with each ring, Kleya smacked the cupboard next to the far-too-fine bed she was in until she could grasp it in her hand and bring it to her ear.

“What?”

“Do you know where you are?” Cinta's voice was quiet, but even Kleya could recognize the pangs of deep disappointment there. It was like needles to her brain. 

She took in her surroundings with the same grace of clearing a room before moving onto the next. Large queen bed. An ensuite bathroom to the right, its door open with the light off. Above her, a rotating fan-light with crystalline jewels hanging off each blade. The bedsheets that had been thrown over her were scratchy, but not unbearable. She lifted the comforter and saw that she was in pyjamas that, if nothing else, looked like what you would find straight off the rack in the fanciest city boutique. Sensual at first glance, maybe, but ultimately made for comfort. The right side of the bed was neatly made and cold. 

“A quick scan confirms it: somewhere much nicer than your flat.”

“Right. Well, you'd better start getting used to not being at the flat soon, because you're in Mon Mothma's house.”

The senator of Chandrila? A flash of skin, the taste of a fragranceless moisturiser on her tongue, and liquid desire pooling in between her legs. She pressed at the bruise on her neck, a smile tugging at her lips at the pleasant throb it left behind.

Well, there were far worse people to go home with. Vel had mentioned that her cousin was going through a divorce, but Kleya hadn't ever met the woman to care much about anything to do with her. She fought hard during the parliamentary hearings, but the biggest surprise was that they hadn't crossed paths at all during her time with the network.

Wait. Mon Mothma? 

Vel Sartha’s cousin.

Kleya sat up so fast she swore she could see her life flash before her eyes. “No.”

“Apparently so.”

“Shit.” She double-checked her pyjamas, stuck a hand between her legs, and tilted her chin to sniff at the silk. “I don't think we — wait. How do you know where I am?”

“Do you think you're the only one capable of gross invasions of privacy?” Kleya sucked in the breath that she had been hoarding to throw a flurry of accusations Cinta's way. Touché Kaz, touché.

“Where's Vel?”

“On her way.”

Kleya groaned aloud. “The nosy…”

“Careful.” Cinta's voice had turned honey sweet. “That's my fiancée you're talking about.”

“Oh, good, you're going to be one of those couples,” Kleya muttered, kicking off the covers and falling to the floor to search for her dress.

She found it neatly folded up on the drawer just beside the bedroom door; her heels, now free of mud, sat beside it.

As if Cinta could read her mind, she added. “Vel's bringing you clothes.” 

Ah. Considerate of the Sartha heir to dress her up before she commenced with the murdering.

Not bothering to say goodbye, Kleya clicked off her phone and threw it back on the bed. She glared at her reflection in the long, slim mirror at the far side of the wardrobe.

Time to face the music.

The music, as it turned out, was prepared to face her too. Mon Mothma was sitting at the kitchen island, a space so huge it swallowed her among the pots and pans and the smell of cooked eggs and bacon. Two mugs of steaming tea sat in front of her.

When she caught sight of Kleya, the hand that had been stirring a spoon in her mug fell to a standstill.

“Kleya, good morning.” The fact that Mon Mothma knew her name told her that there had been at least a conversation between kissing and getting into bed. Small mercies.  “I’m sorry. I tried asking you where you lived, but you were so very out of it.”

Kleya sighed. “It’s fine. Thank you for,” she gestured to the pyjamas. “These. And for allowing me your bed, you really didn’t need to.”

“Nonsense. I couldn’t leave you in the state you were in.”

“Right. About that, we didn’t…” If anyone asked, Kleya would blame her hangover for the poor decorum she showed by making a scissor motion. 

Mon’s mouth fell open. “Absolutely not. You were drunk.”

Kleya shrugged. “Didn’t stop you from making out with me in your car.” When Mon’s lower lip started to move again, doubtless to try and defend herself, Kleya let out a low chuckle and murmured the rest of her words around the rim of her cup of tea. “It’s alright. I didn’t say I hated it. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“I had a good time too.” Mon tilted her head to the side, once more idly stirring the contents of her tea. “Still, I shouldn’t have…”

“I was drunk, not a corpse.” 

Mon’s lips couldn’t decide whether to gasp or twist into a laugh. Kleya shoved the amusement creeping up her throat down into the pit of her stomach, but her eyes remained on Mon’s eyes and the way they couldn’t help but linger on her.

Eventually, the other woman let out a chuckle. “By all the… The things that come out of your mouth.”

The taste of sweat and skin and fingers in her hair flashed to the front of her mind. “And inside it.” 

The high-pitched screech of the doorbell drowned out Mon dropping her spoon onto the kitchen counter. The impact sent it rolling into the sink with another unceremonious clatter. 

“That will be Vel.”

“I'm not going to ask how you know her.” Mon sighed and promptly departed.

When Mon came back, Vel, hair windswept and hand clasped around a Tesco carrier bag, was hot on her heels. She looked as vengeful as a god, and when her eyes clasped the sight of Kleya, she was only a little surprised that the glare she received didn't kill her instantly. Instead, Vel stopped dead in her tracks, the color draining from her face.

Despite the pang of sentimentality for Vel that had grasped her last night, Kleya found that, fortunately, it hadn’t made her immune to not wanting to put her inside a torment nexus with every interaction they had. 

With a barely there grin, Kleya reached over to grab the bottle of Baileys that was nestled between a bottle of red and a bottle of white at the center of the island.  Eyes remaining on Vel, she poured the brown liquid into the mug in front of her. 

She pushed the mug over to Mon, whose brow was furrowed in a way that told Kleya that, much like herself, she recognized the nuclear explosion that was heading their way.

“What the fuck, Kleya?”

Cinta wasn't done. "You have Luthen. Get him to teach you to shoot."

Luthen had already taught her everything he knew about blasters. She imagined it was this expertise that had made him so efficient at gunning down her family. Sometimes she could hear him mutter to himself, those three words that had made her stomach roil like the first time in hyperspace. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

She swallowed. Bitter bile coated her throat.

"That's not what I'm after. You were with the Partisans, you know hand-to-hand combat."

"So?"

"Eventually, this will be larger, harder to handle. If I run into trouble--"

"Then you're doing your job wrong. If they get close, it's too late." There was that look in Cinta's eyes. The one that had both her and Luthen curious about how far she could be pushed, and whether it would be a good idea to do so. Her gaze roamed over Kleya's for a moment longer, before they rolled to the side towards the door with an irritable sigh. "Besides, I've got bigger things to worry about than educating you."

The other woman kicked off from where she had been leaning against one of the radio podiums. The thought of Cinta out on the streets of Coruscant again, rainwater streaking down her face, and that all defiant answer of 'no' cushioned on her full lips, felt unforgivable. Would she have said no to Luthen? Unlikely.

"I didn't say you could leave." When Cinta made no move to stop, irritation drove Kleya forward to catch up, venom leaking into her next words. "Do you think it makes you special, having lost everything? It doesn't."

Cinta paused at the door. Kleya watched as her shoulders straightened and the slow curling of her fingers into fists.

"Should I tell you what it makes you?" Kleya didn't wait for an answer. "It makes you a statistic among a sea of statistics. A blip among thousands of blips."

Cinta finally turned. The eye freckle that sat in the sclera of her left eye looked bigger, as if each fervent breath that Cinta wrestled to remain calm and placid in her chest was making it grow larger and larger.

Kleya leaned forward, her words sharp as the knife she knew Cinta kept in her boots. "If you want to die, then so be it. But to go out having contributed nothing outside of a few dead stormtroopers? You're worth more than that. Teach me. Pass your knowledge on."

Cinta's eyes burrowed into her. What Kleya liked about Cinta was that she always weighed out her words before she spoke.

The palm and nails at her neck was so quick that Kleya didn't realize what had happened until her knees touched the tiles of the backroom's floor.

Cinta stood over her like an obelisk protruding out of the dirt, defiant and strong. "That's a claw strike," she said, and then knelt. Over the sound of her ragged, desperate gasps, Kleya could just about register the bone of Cinta's elbow resting against the back of her neck. "If I'd come down harder with my arm, you'd be dead."

As her lungs desperately screamed in relief at the sweet oxygen pumping inside, there was a sliver of something inside of her, a dark, fetid thing, that couldn't help but laugh around her gasps. Her age and stature meant many treated her as though she was part of the collections she and Luthen sold, ornamental, delicate, and precious.

Cinta's hand was underneath her arm, dragging her up with the affection of a mortician yanking on a cadaver's ankle before throwing them into the furnace.

By the time she had fully recovered -- eyesight cleared, knees locked -- Cinta was gone. The only sign she had been there at all was the puddle she had trekked in through the doorway, and the mishmash of fury and delight that thrummed through Kleya's veins.

Not that she was complaining about the former. Cinta had only been to Lothal once, but here, among the hustle and bustle of the Clak’dor VI opera house, Vel’s dress reminded her of the planet’s two moons. A pearlescent silver that ran around her curves like water rounding a riverbend, it was remarkably similar to the one she had worn on Chandrila all those years ago. While thinking back to that time always brought a lump to her throat, tonight, surrounded by the deep reds and purples of the opera house's finery, the look only served to make Cinta's blood run hot. 

Her dress, on the other hand…

She knew she had nobody to blame but herself. Kleya had asked her for specifics on what she wanted, but a job was a job. As long as she didn't show Vel up, she felt it hardly mattered what she wore.

That had been her first mistake. The dress was made of arachnid silk dyed gold, and while it at least gave her some movement, it was a far cry from the heavy cotton and leather she wore while on a job for the New Republic. 

Cinta caught hers and Vel’s reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror by the bar. She looked good, with not a hair out of place, and the sunray pattern that dripped like tears down her off-the-shoulder cape made her feel like royalty. It was a stark contrast to Vel’s silver, and yet the dresses – and they – worked so well together.

The main problem was that it was too tight around the chest.

“I can't kriffin’ breathe in this thing.” Cinta complained, her arm looped around Vel's. 

Beside her, Vel’s smile was positively wicked. “I can't breathe with you in that thing, either.”

Cinta rolled her eyes and dug her elbow into her wife’s side. The wheeze it earned immediately transformed into a laugh and, despite trying very hard not to, Cinta’s own smile broke onto her face. It wasn't often Vel felt comfortable enough to flirt with her in public, especially while on a mission. It was also rare for her to truly enjoy it.

Sometimes the mission didn't always come first.

As if in sync, the two of them shared a glance. Beside them, operagoers bustled further inside the domed structure to make way to their seats. Even as their feet carried them forward; to each other? The crowd may as well not have existed.

Cinta leaned in, touched her lips to Vel's ear. “You’re beautiful.”

Vel turned her head so quickly that Cinta could taste the acai-berry lipstick that stained her lips. She wasn't entirely sure it hadn’t been on purpose.

“Yeah?”

Cinta could see the chandelier's silver-encrusted strands light up Vel's gaze like fireworks in the great blue yonder. Not for the first time tonight, she found herself unable to do anything but nod.

A crackle in her ear from her earlink made them both draw back with a wince.

“Cinta, Vel, sorry to interrupt. But, have you made it to your box yet?”

Cinta bit back a sigh, the tips of her ears as hot as lava. “On our way now, General.”

“No need for formalities,” there was an unmistakable warmth in the voice of their handler and pilot for the night. “It’s just Hera, remember?”

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. It had been years, and Cinta still had to stop herself from calling Mon ‘senator’ even in casual conversation. 

“Also, just a reminder that I’m here and we should focus.” Hera clicked her tongue, but a chuckle followed soon after. “Seriously: please don’t make me third-wheel. I did enough of that on the way here.” 

“Noted,” Vel responded, lips pursed so tight that it looked as though she had swallowed a lemon. Cinta knew Vel, knew that she was only a few seconds away from muttering that it couldn’t be any worse than it was to be in the same cockpit as the General and her husband.

Humbling as it was to be reprimanded, it was also a much-needed reminder. Tonight was not about them, but Jaa Sharif. A prison warden from Narkina 8, life under Sharif’s command had left many the Rebellion had rescued half-mad from the torture. According to his file, Emperor Palpatine himself had paid Sharif a visit to commemorate his willingness to push people to their limits, all in service of their glorious Empire. Cinta doubted that was the case; many a has-been under the Empire’s rule had fluffed up their profile just because they could. 

But Sharif’s profile had also mentioned that he used some of the prisoners as fodder for a project that they, despite the New Republic’s meddling, couldn’t quite grasp. They knew the name was Necromancer, but apart from that? Little else.

Tonight, if all went well, they might just get the answer they were looking for.

Sharif’s daughter, Amii, was the star of the show. Her name had been wiped clear from the records to keep her connection to the Empire a secret, but New Republic officials had been patient and practical. If there was a way to find Jaa, they would first need to find those close to him.

Once they got to the foyer, two Bith ushers rushed forward to meet them. The first gave Vel a once-over in a way that was so unsubtle that Cinta watched, amused, as his mouth dropped. She pulled Vel tighter into her side. There was no jealousy, not really, but Vel liked it when she was protective, and even with what they had in store for them tonight, Cinta would do anything to see Vel’s poor attempt at fighting back her smile. 

As expected, there was the slightest quirk to Vel’s lips when she handed the Bith their invites. The ushers, on the other hand, sobered up immediately, eyes wide. “Oh. A friend of Kiko's?”

Cinta could feel the tension creep across her body like a rattlesnake in the long grass. No matter how long she and Vel had been doing this, it still made her feel as though she was going to snap in half. She could fake the ease well enough, but she was nowhere near as skilled as Vel, whose warm body leaned against her, shoulder pressed to hers, with a casualness that looked every bit as authentic as the diamonds in her ears. 

Vel laughed prettily, a far cry from the genuine snort that made Cinta weak at the knees. “Kiko has the best parties, and always promises the best seats.”

The second Bith, the shorter of the two, exchanged a look with his fellow and nodded. “Follow me, ladies. I’ll get you to where you need to go.”

Up to the third floor they went.

Their seats were one level below Sharif’s, but from the way they were positioned on the opposite side of the dome, they could still see into the Sharif family box. 

Vel handed her the viewing binoculars that came with their programme, and she trained them on him. His original description had him as bald with a face that sagged under the weight of age, but given how much he had made as Narkina 8’s prison warden, it was no surprise that he had managed to hide from the New Republic for so long by changing his face. Now he had a full head of gray hair and a chiseled jaw. But everyone made mistakes, and him here, now? Love would be his undoing.

He was seated, his legs crossed, a martini in one hand and the programme open in the other. On the edge, just by the door that would lead him back to the VIP lounge, Cinta took note of a single guard, another human, clad in a white and black suit. If he had a helmet, she could imagine him as a stormtrooper. 

Considering their plans for tonight, maybe she would.  

“He’s reading the programme,” Cinta said.

“Probably looking for Amii.”

“He can have one last look tonight.” She moved the binoculars to the stage, as if she cared even a little about the opera that was on tonight. 

Vel’s hand took her free one. Even in the past, when the cause was everything that mattered, Vel couldn’t help but reach out to her in the way she knew communicated to Cinta best. It was a tug, a small reminder, to come back to her and not lose herself entirely. 

It was a struggle, but the moment Cinta felt her wife squeeze her hand, she put the binoculars down and settled back in her seat. If she pressed her leg at a certain angle, she could feel the outline of the blaster’s muzzle, the one strapped underneath the seat, press against her skin. 

The calm before the storm. Love would be Jaa Sharif’s undoing, yes, but that didn’t make him unique. It only made the reminder of how thin a line between them and him more stark – a blood splatter revealed under the gaze of a security droid’s scan.

The lights slowly dimmed, and the swell of music surrounded them. The opera was about to begin. 

Having planned for this operation, both of them knew what to expect when it came to The Heiress and the Bodyguard. Not only was it excessively long, with a 30-minute interval in between, it was also ridiculously flashy. At one point, there was a scene where, to convey the heiress’ planet blowing up, a white flare would light up the entire stage, and the sound of an explosion would play.

That would be their time to strike. 

She relayed the information to Hera, who confirmed that she had started a timer on their chronometers that would signal to them when the best time to go was.

As the opera went on, Cinta found her eyes straying to Sharif’s box. He hadn’t moved a muscle, enraptured by what was going on and ignorant of how little time he would have left as a free man. 

A lone finger caressed her wrist in the dark. It pulled her away from the opera and Sharif, and brought her into the clutches of Vel’s soft, clearwater eyes. Even after so long together, after years of blood spilled, it still sent a shudder up Cinta’s spine to be touched so gently and to know that she didn’t have to kill a part of her to get it from the person who loved her most. 

A soft, twinkling chord of a harp, the motif to signify the princess’s arrival on the scene, rang in the air. Cinta, bereft of speech, took Vel’s hand in her own and rubbed her thumb across the palm. For each line she could see, she followed it with her thumb and silently delighted in the way it made Vel shudder. 

When she brought the hand to her lips, eyes still focused on the opera below, Vel let out a soft, amused hum. “Cinta Kaz, not focusing while on a mission?” 

Years ago, the accusation would have felt like a betrayal. As if Vel had turned around and spat in her face and told her that she was losing sight of everything she had lost: her mother, her father, her sisters… Now? Now she forced her attention back to the stage, cheeks warm. “I am.” She checked her chronometer. They still had thirty minutes before the TIE and X-Wing sequence occurred. 

The stage blurred before her eyes. She was shockingly aware of Vel’s hand in hers and the complete lack of professionalism that was haunting her on this mission. Maybe this was exactly why she and Vel had never been allowed to do a mission like this together, back when Luthen was alive and she had been nothing more than a well-sharpened blade for him and Kleya to wield. The only one who had seen her had been Vel.

When she risked a glance this time, Vel was already looking at her. Her smile was equal parts smug and, to Cinta’s bewilderment, irresistibly shy. Even now, years later, Vel couldn’t quite believe that Cinta wanted her as much as she did. 

“Now who isn’t focusing?” Cinta muttered, but her words lacked heat. 

Vel didn't say anything because she didn't have to. Even in the low lights of the opera house, Cinta could see a flicker of warmth in her eyes that made her heart thud like a drum in her chest. Everything about Vel Sartha was so undeniable, Cinta felt helpless to combat it.

She glanced again at her chronometer. More than enough time. 

“Two moments, General.”

“Everything alright?”

Plucking the earlink from her ear to drop into her purse, Cinta leaned in, her nose brushing against Vel's and her skin tingling where Vel cupped her cheek, to press their lips together. She sighed into Vel’s mouth when she felt the scratch of her nails against her scalp, her hand coming up to toy with the silver studs embedded at the back of her dress.

Kissing Vel was like kissing the sun – all-encompassing, its heat moving through you and stirring at your loins until you had no choice but to allow it to wash over you. It was hard to imagine a time when she had tried to deny herself this.

When they pulled apart, Vel's neck was flushed and Cinta hated how much she wanted to drag her lips over the strained tendons she could see there. This wasn’t the time, but afterwards? When they finally dragged this scum back to Chandrila? 

She was going to take her wife’s dress off with just her teeth.

The strength of her desire robbed Cinta of thought for a moment, lost in the sound of both hers and Vel’s heavy breathing, even among the orchestra and the wailing of Amii below.

In her adamant effort not to look at Vel, Cinta refocused her binoculars on Sharif's box. He hadn't moved once since the last time she had checked; the only difference was the tears in his eyes.

Pride. It was good that he felt it. The next time would be far from now.

On the stage, the princess, Amii, descended from her throne towards her beloved bodyguard's X-Wing. When her hand touched the durasteel of her guard's gauntlet, Cinta grabbed the blaster from underneath her chair, a compact little thing that she hid in her purse, and together she and Vel departed.

Like a moonbeam, Vel's silver dress shimmered in the spotlight of the opera house's stair lights. Cinta, a moth, followed. Her fingers twitched against her side and, reaching into her purse, she handed over the shades they would be using to combat the explosion of light. On Vel it almost looked natural, but on her? Cinta could only assume she looked ridiculous. 

The Bith outside of Sharif’s door took one look at them, bowed, and scurried away.

They waited just outside the door. Cinta pressed against the frame with Vel in front, her own blaster set to stun. 

“We should do this again sometimes,” Vel whispered. Behind the door, Cinta could hear the piercing sound of a TIE fighter’s shriek. 

“Kidnap someone?” 

“No. Go to the opera.”

“Not my scene.” Cinta preferred holovids. The ones that Papa and Amma had used to let her watch were fond memories of Jedi and their many adventures across the galaxy. Now that she was older, and as Vel liked to tease her about, she had a fondness for romance.

“Who says I’m going for the opera? I’m more interested in your performance.” Vel’s smile was so transparent in its intent that Cinta had to bite her lip, her face suddenly feeling hotter than the fires of Mustafar.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You like it.”

She did, painfully so. 

Her chronometer beeped.

They pushed their way inside. The guard never saw them coming, Cinta stunning him with her blaster and lying his crumpled form down on the floor. Vel, on the other hand, had already ripped the shoulder piece from her dress off herself and wrapped it around Sharif’s head, cutting his cries off instantly by dragging him to the ground. 

Vel was smaller than her, but her arms were lean, and years at war had made her tough and wiry. Sharif was older and even softer than before; it was easy enough for Vel to bring him down. Her knee against his chest, constrained as it was against the silver dress, pinned the breath inside his lungs.

Cinta crawled over to her, touched her cheek with a hand, and stuffed the tissues from her purse into Sharif’s mouth. His already muffled cries fell away. Together they sat him up, locked the stuncuffs around his hands and dragged him out of the box and back outside into the stairwell that would allow them access to the opera house’s roof.

There was no more playing around. It was do or die. 

Cinta reached into her purse and pressed the earlink back into her ear. “Hera. We’re on our way.”

A crackle and then Hera’s voice filtered on through. “Wondered how long you were going to keep me waiting. I take it you’ve got the package?”

“Get to the roof.”

“On it.”

She nodded to Vel. Sharif’s eyes widened when Vel pressed her blaster to his spine. “Move it.”

Slowly, but surely, they made their way up the stairs. Behind the gag, Cinta heard every single garbled plea she had already heard before. I have money. I’ve got a family. Please, you don’t have to do this.

Vel pushed him along and up the stairs. “Keep talking, and you'll be using your money to cover your funeral.”

When they got to the roof, Hera was already waiting for them. Beside her was the C1 class astromech droid that, for no reason whatsoever, seemed to take great delight in being a nuisance and getting in the way. It beeped in what Cinta assumed was a greeting, but wouldn’t have been remotely surprised if it was actually criticizing them for taking so long. 

Hera gave their prisoner a casual, mocking salute.  “Sharif, I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but that would be a lie.” She moved aside to let them in on the Ghost, her droid following close behind.

Vel pushed Sharif back toward storage and Cinta, unable to do anything but follow her, went to help. She was promptly interrupted when Hera called her name. 

“Do you have him?” Cinta called to Vel’s retreating back.

“He’ll be meeting a stun as soon as possible.” Vel glanced at her over her shoulder. “I’ve got it.”

“Be careful.” Tell me you’ll be alright.

“Always am.” I’ll be fine. Go.

Hera was waiting for her at the cockpit of the Ghost. “Good job out there.” Beside her, the droid, Chopper, if she remembered right, made a whistling noise. Hera’s face, usually so calm and collected, turned aggravated. “Yeah, Chop, I’m getting there.” She turned back to her. “Ignore him. He gets cranky when he’s made to wait.”

Cinta couldn’t relate more. There were several reasons why she wanted to get back to Chandrila, and at least two of them had to do with getting Vel out of that dress. 

“You two work well together. That was slick, efficient, and pretty smooth for a job that could have gone wrong several times.” 

“Thank you, General.”

Hera nodded but just as she was about to fully turn and slide into the pilot seat, she turned back around, arm slung over the top of the leather seat. “By the way, I know that trick.”

Cinta arched a singular, questioning brow.

“The ‘take your earlink out so you can make out while on a job’ trick.” Hera clarified with a smile. Cinta hoped against hope that her face had stayed as passive as she silently prayed it would, but from the way Hera was leaning her hip against the pilot chair, she had a feeling that wasn’t the case. “Can I give you a little advice?” 

She sighed. “Sounds like I can’t stop you.”

Hera leaned forward. 

“It helps if the other person has their commlink out too.”

Chopper let out an unmistakable chuckle.

Cinta poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue and, with a shake of her head, turned away from the smug look Hera was sending her way to go help Vel.

She was so certain of that feeling that it took walking into the armory and seeing Sartha idle next to the gun bench, shoulders tense, her stance as small as her stature, to break her confidence with the weight of a hammer on a gong. 

It had been made clear to her that everyone on Yavin was here for a reason beyond fighting the Empire, but it was another thing entirely to see it so plainly on them. The dark circles under Sartha’s eyes were more like bruises, her cheeks as gaunt as rebel-dug trenches.

Jyn’s footsteps echoed off the concrete floor and she watched as Sartha, warned now, squared her shoulders and leveled her with cold, clearwater eyes. Intimidating, but Jyn had grown used to staring down the dregs of humanity even before the Empire had captured her. She kept forward until she came to the end of the bench, her A-180 blaster pistol in reach. 

“Name?” Sartha asked.

Jyn bit back a scoff. Cassian had told her that Sartha was Mothma’s cousin; there was zero chance she didn’t already know who she was. Even so, she reined in the attitude. It wasn’t smart to piss off anyone on this base, especially someone who was in charge of weaponry.

“Jyn Erso. Here to pick up my blaster and get out.”

“Where’s out?” 

“Wherever the Empire won’t find me, right alongside everyone else.” Frustration at appearing a coward left her coiled and eager to spring, fingers tapping at her palms, but she had very little choice. They needed to go soon .

Sartha levelled her eyes at Jyn once more. There was something undecipherable about her, like glancing into a mirror only to realize that the glass had shattered entirely. Cracks of emotion shone underneath the surface; the bite of Sartha’s cheek, the determined narrowing of her brow. It made the hairs on the back of Jyn’s neck stand up.

Sartha checked her inventory pad, brought the A-180 pistol forward, and pulled it apart to examine with callous precision. Jyn watched her, silent. 

Behind them, a shout echoed from somewhere inside the base. “Kaz Unit, move out!” 

Sartha flinched. Or rather, she paused for half a moment, her fingers tight on the worn engravings of the blaster, before she flipped it over and began to check the cell pack. Slower this time, as if she was committing it all to memory, or using it as a guide to assemble herself back together again.

For Jyn, the name was like uncovering an old childhood relic underneath your bed. 

“Kaz Unit.” Her smile was wry. There was no reason to comment; she wasn’t even trying to make conversation, really, but just for a moment, she wanted to bask in the serendipity of it all. Even as she stood on the precipice of something greater than any single person within the Rebellion, the past couldn’t help but reach out to touch her. Saw, her father, and now a name that she hadn’t heard for so long, not since the time Saw had told her to close her heart from friendship to survive. Kaz wasn’t coming back. She had to look after herself now, prove to the others that she could handle being a Partisan.

Saw had been right. She and Kaz had never crossed paths again.

To her surprise, Sartha had paused in the inspection to look at her. There was a tightness to her jaw, as if she was swatting back the words creeping up her throat. 

“Knew a girl with that name.” She explained. 

Sartha’s grip on her blaster turned her knuckles white. “Common name.” 

There was an intensity to Sartha’s tone that raised her back. She clamped down on it with the same ferocity her father had used to stop dirt-snakes from entering their house. There was an odd calm to it, knowing that you were likely to die soon. It made even the most non-existent slights feel like nothing at all.

As it turned out, it also made her chatty. Who cared what Sartha thought of her, anyhow, when nothing was guaranteed?

“Cinta Kaz was pretty uncommon.” That was putting it mildly. Out of all the older girls that Jyn had spoken to on base, Cinta was the only one who hadn’t threatened to break her face in when she had caught Jyn, eight-years-old, starving, with skinny legs and wobbly knees, staring at her ration pack. 

“Tell me about her.”

That made Jyn pause. Sartha hadn’t moved on from checking her cell pack. Her stare was so locked on Jyn that the blaster looked almost like an afterthought, locked tight like a prisoner of war within the palms of her callus-torn hands. 

“Do I get my blaster back faster if I do?” The joke felt feeble in her mouth. 

Sartha’s glare was harder than kyber and heavier than steel. “Haven’t decided yet. Try it out and see.”

Jyn didn’t know where to start. She had been so young and so many terrible things had happened since then. The Partisans hadn't been entirely cruel, not while she had been under Saw's protection, but she had learned fairly quickly that to rely on others was the fastest way to get yourself killed. 

Cinta had been as kind as a hand to the mouth to prevent you from screaming. Tough and harsh, but she had seen Jyn treading water and hadn’t looked away, even if it would have been easier to do so. 

She was halfway between telling Sartha of the time Cinta had broken the arm of a boy who had tried to steal her necklace when, seeing the determined absence of expression in the lines of the Commander’s face, it clicked. 

“You know her.”

Unbidden, a thrill rushed through her. She hadn’t seen Cinta for years, and she doubted the woman would recognize her, but the chance to reconnect wasn’t something she could, or wanted to, pass up. How different would she look? Did she still have those multiple piercings in her right ear? Did she still call out for her father at night, just like Jyn herself had? 

She wanted to know all of this and more, but Sartha’s silence quickly diminished the embers of hope that had begun to light in her stomach. When the older woman swallowed and cleared her throat, she stomped the longing Jyn felt into ashes under her boot. 

“She’s gone?” It hadn’t meant to be a question, but old habits from Saw Gerrara – question everything, believe nothing but your gut – died hard.

“Ghorman.” Sartha ground out between clenched teeth. Her smile was flat, unfeeling, fake. 

Jyn had heard about Ghorman while in prison. She must have gone down fighting – that was the kind of person Jyn knew Cinta to be. Defiant, brave and determined to take the Empire down or die trying. Saw had thought her useful, but ultimately, like everything else, she had just been another weapon. Jyn, naive as she had been back then, had thought of her as a friend. Her only one before she was gone for good. 

She hadn’t had anyone outside of Saw. But, if she remembered right, Cinta hadn’t had anyone at all. She was a loner, kept to herself and had risked it all to save her from a bully. The memory was fuzzy, as most of hers were, but she recalled Cinta’s interference hadn’t gone unanswered. Her lip split, a cut just above her right eyebrow. Or had it been her left?

Jyn had so many questions, and all of them about a dead woman that she had no idea would have even remembered her. But she could see the way tension had flooded through Sartha’s body, the tight squaring of her shoulders, and the grim, flat line of her mouth. Cinta had been more than a comrade. Maybe even more than a friend. It wasn’t a good idea to poke old wounds.

But she couldn’t pretend either. Not now – not anymore. She had spent so long looking at her feet; it was time to look up again. No matter how much it hurt.

“She saved me.” She said. The words didn’t feel as though they did Cinta justice. They were the words of an eight-year-old girl who had been scared and alone. Maybe it meant nothing, maybe Cinta wouldn’t have even recalled who she was, but right here, right now? It was all Jyn could think of to say.

At first, Sartha said nothing. Her hands still worked, slower now, but the way she wet her lips and dug her fingers into the grooves of the blaster? It was obvious where her mind was. 

“She’s good at doing that.” Sartha eventually said, seemingly coming back from the dark place she had been in. Jyn didn’t have the heart to correct her. It was clear that, despite her words, Sartha didn’t need the reminder. 

On the tannoy, Draven was looking for Comms Officer Marki to meet Kaz Unit in section L1. This time, Sartha didn’t flinch. 

“Did you…”

“Name it after her? No.” Sartha swallowed. Faster now, her hands moving to the rag on the bench, gliding it clumsily over the blaster. “Mon’s doing. Thought it might help. Didn’t.” Without another word, she thrust the blaster back into Jyn’s hands. “Right, you’re good to go.”

Jyn nodded and, despite the rush she was in, felt herself slow as she walked away. There was no time to linger in the past, but she felt that she owed it to Cinta not to rush away from this. 

“Erso.” 

She turned, one foot at the threshold. Jyn knew it wasn’t possible, but looking at Sartha now? The older woman looked as though she had been shaved right to the bone, her nerves exposed in a way that she doubted Sartha showed often.

“Don’t be a stranger. The Rebellion needs people like you.”

The words were deceptively warm, but Jyn knew better. Sartha wasn’t reaching out to her, but to a ghost of a woman who lived only in each other’s memory. 

And yet she couldn’t find it within herself to deny her this one false hope. For the woman that Cinta Kaz knew.

She nodded and, without another word, left to find Cassian.