AH-HEM CLEARS MY THROAT LOUDLY 12 - 30 - 53

12. pushing a strand of hair behind their ear (Mon/Luthen)

Life on Yavin still feels like a fever dream sometimes. Some kind of purgatory, perhaps. A half life where Luthen never expected to find himself. On Coruscant, there was always something to do, a never ending list of tasks that moved things forward. On Yavin, he’s relegated to the most menial tasks – once he’s released from house arrest that is. Over time, Rebel High Command decides they can still get some use out of him yet. He finds himself placed in low trust, operational support roles; mostly in supply procurement and logistics coordination.

It’s not bad, if he’s being honest. Kleya has found her footing too, and it reassures him to see that she is welcomed into the fold, after so many years of saying I have friends everywhere and having it finally, finally mean something. Luthen keeps to himself most days. He’s been given a small yurt on the perimeter of the base where he watches the rainfall on the little makeshift patio beneath a translucent tarp. He works, he puts up with others who try to wheedle anything out of him, and he finds a strange sort of freedom in the way he can silence them with a glare and be on his way. No need for the jovial antiquarian here.

So it’s even more surprising when one muggy afternoon, he finds Mon trodding up the path that leads to his yurt. Her white trousers are muddied at the hem, but she looks as free as he feels. He realizes she’s holding an unmarked brown bottle when she comes closer.

“You’re early.” Luthen says. He fully takes in the sight of her now; she’s covered mostly by the rain cape but the look on her face is something he’s never seen before.

Mon stops in her tracks. The rain has slowed down a little though the droplets still drum a quietly steady rhythm over the tarp.

“Unexpected downtime,” She explains simply. “I’m told this batch is better. I wondered if you might test that claim with me...for quality assurance.” She holds the bottle up as she speaks, and he feels some type of way that Mon Mothma would think to spend her precious downtime drinking this swill with him. He has to restrain the part of himself whose instinct it is to turn her away.

“I’d supposed you were here to get me into trouble. Luckily, quality assurance happens to be one of my most sought after skills here.” Luthen tries on some of his old flourish from Coruscant. The corner of Mon's lips tugs upward as she holds back a laugh. She perches herself on the worn wooden bench on his humble patio while he gets the glasses and pours the foul-smelling spirit.

The wine is indeed as awful as the first batch produced. The conversation, however, is more diverting than he’d expected.

___

It's become a habit, this.

Ever since that long conversation in her own yurt, ever since they shared that first tea made from fifth-brewed leaves. Luthen looks at Mon as she leans back against the bench and the smile she's been holding back grows a little wider. She's been telling him about a study trip to the ruins of some ancient ecumenopolis in her youth, long before she came to Coruscant. He listens, he watches, he actually enjoys her ability to tell a story that has nothing to do with the Rebellion and everything to do with the young woman she was before. Before — well — everything.

There are topics they both carefully avoid. There are some things time will never heal. Things he won’t ask forgiveness for, and forgiveness she’d never grant.

They've lapsed into a comfortable silence. He feels oddly relaxed in her company, like he's starting to reclaim the part of himself that can admit wanting companionship.

The rain grows stronger as Mon slowly stands up. The bottle is empty, their glasses drained. She looks at him, still seated, and he looks back. He startles a little when she reaches down with a gentle hand and smooths a strand of his hair that's fallen over his forehead. He avoids mirrors now that he doesn't have to worry about costuming himself and hasn't noticed how long it's grown.

"I should see about cutting it." Luthen's voice is quiet. Mon's hand comes to rest on his cheek, then she brushes his hair again behind his ear.

"No, don't," she says softly. "It rather suits you."