Chapter Text
Coruscant. 8 BBY.
Luthen Rael had seduced politicians before.
Men and women. Nobility and riffraff. All it took was a well-timed compliment, a brush of hands, a gaze that lingered seconds longer than propriety allowed. He played the role of a charming antiquities dealer with ease, disarming even the sharpest bureaucrats with his curated smile and gentle touch.
Mon Mothma was not supposed to be this difficult.
And she was certainly not supposed to be this dangerous.
She entered the Embassy’s reception hall like the answer to a riddle only the dead could understand. Grace incarnate, with eyes that burned too bright for someone so publicly restrained. Draped in soft white silk, hair immaculate and swept back out of her face, she moved like she already knew she was being watched. Her husband quickly sauntered off with an acquaintance after niceties were exchanged.
Kleya was the one who initially identified the senator as potentially sympathetic to their cause. A loveless marriage, a fraught relationship with her young daughter, a political career beset by Imperial stonewalling, it shouldn’t be hard to turn her. Everyone needed something for just themselves.
That was his game tonight. Get close. Learn her limits. Tease her resources free from the tight hold of Chandrilan decency. Use her affection, her doubts, her hunger—he’d been told she had one, hidden well—to bleed her dry for the Rebellion’s coffers.
The moment her gaze met his across the glittering crowd, Luthen felt the ground shift under him. Politicians, bureaucrats, aides, staffers and hangers-on were but a drab tableau.
She didn’t smile. She studied him thoroughly with a contemplative glance, then with a slight tilt of her head, invited him to approach.
Later, in a private parlor, after most of the other guests had vanished into their own schemes, Luthen played his part to perfection.
He spoke of culture. Of Chandrilan artifacts, long lost. Of beauty in exile. He brought a select sampling of wares as part of his cover. He handed her a carved onyx piece said to be a mourning token from the Old Republic, his fingers brushing hers.
She arched an eyebrow and kept her eyes on the artifact, holding it gingerly. “Are you trying to impress me with sentimentality, Master Rael?”
“No,” he said, watching her mouth. “I’m trying to learn what you value.”
That made her laugh, low and unexpected. She shifted her weight delicately, and he watched as her Chandrilan decorum relaxed ever so slightly. “Most men who try to seduce me lead with compliments, not philosophy.”
“And do you fall for them?”
Her eyes darkened. She placed the mourning token down atop his closed case. “Not anymore.”
He took a slow sip of wine, the air between them charged now. Not yet desire, but she was relishing the moment. He certainly shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was. Her wit wasn’t ornamental but a weapon. She enjoyed the slow draw of it, like a knife slipping beneath skin.
That night, when he returned to the gallery to debrief with Kleya, his thoughts were clouded. Not by strategy. Not by the usual cataloging of leverage points but by the memory of her mouth at the rim of her wineglass. The curve of her neck when she’d tilted her head. The way she’d looked at him like she already knew what he was.
“Stay focused.” Kleya warned sternly. She was never particularly fond of honey traps, he never asked that of her which he was unwilling to do himself but she had distaste for it nonetheless. Too messy, too much risk, even if it was the most expedient way to their intended outcome. “I’ll arrange a follow up viewing in a few weeks’ time.”
Chapter 2
Notes:
Thanks for reading so far! I was going to wait to post but when I’m excited about a story, I have absolutely no chill haha. I haven’t been this inspired in years!
Couple things for this one: 1) I know Axis wouldn't have been known to ISB yet at this point, so just roll with it for the sake of the story, 2) I have no idea how Mon's family amassed its fortune, so I'm taking some liberties here with its origins.
Otherwise, hope you enjoy! Drop me a comment or two if you like ;)
Chapter Text
Kleya’s invitations for a private viewing at the gallery were either ignored or missed by Senator Mothma’s office. Luthen had to get creative. He became a constant presence in the senator’s social circles. A whisper in her vicinity at diplomatic functions. A half-laugh behind her at glitzy fundraisers. At last, Kleya secured an invitation to one where he posed as a socialite. Coiffed and costumed, a harmless eccentric with too much money and time to spend it as he pleased. Enough space had been granted, just enough, that he could make another attempt at her.
She clocked him immediately despite the slight tweaks to his appearance and came to stand at his side. He’d half-heartedly lost the charity auction to an overzealous Corellian.
“You don’t belong here,” she said evenly.
He looked sidelong at her, amused. “Neither do you, Senator.”
Her eyes, fathomless blue, snapped to him. He had her attention.
She wore an expression of haughty indifference, facing him directly. “As I’m sure you’re aware, circling me as you've been doing in Chandrilan etiquette would lead me to believe you are attempting to court me, sir. Well, I am married and that’s likely not changing anytime soon.” Light sarcasm colored her tone. Divorce was not permitted for those married in the old ways on her planet, and she and Perrin were counted among them. Her voice dropped lower, “You want something from me, for purposes yet unknown. So which is it?”
Mindful of curious onlookers, he leaned imperceptibly closer.
“Midnight. Come alone—no guards. No Perrin. No aides. Roof of the Old Senate Annex.”
Indeed later in the evening, the senator found him leaning against the railing, the city a living engine of lights below. He was different now than any of the personas he had assumed thus far, no wigs, no ostentatiousness. Darker. Quieter. As much himself as he was willing to be in front of her.
“You invite a Senator to a mysterious meeting alone and expect her to obey?” she asked coolly.
“I expected you to be curious.”
“And if I’d reported you?”
He turned to her fully, looking over her luminous face. “I’d have used what I know about your family’s accounts to bury your reputation so deep not even the Emperor could find it.”
“That sounds like blackmail.” She remarked softly. This was surely not the first time Mon Mothma had been subjected to a manner of extortion throughout her lifelong tenure in the Imperial Senate.
“Only if I wanted to hurt you.”
“Do you?”
“No,” he said, voice like gravel. “I want to recruit you.”
He handed her a chip. It pulsed faintly—encryption beyond Senate grade. She didn’t take it. Yet.
“You’re the one they call Axis,” Mon said finally. “I know the name, I’ve received threat briefings from the ISB.” She drew a shaky breath and asked, “Why me?”
He knew he was getting somewhere, so he forged ahead.
“Because you’re not asleep. Because you’ve already lied for the Rebellion and you haven’t even admitted it to yourself. Because you’re too smart not to notice that this Empire is sharpening its teeth, and too moral to let it keep eating children.”
A hover car blared its horn in the distance, a reminder their moment was near past its expiration and they were meeting on borrowed time. He had to close this deal.
“Because I’ve seen how you look at me when you think Perrin’s not watching.”
Her breath hitched though she didn’t look away. He stepped closer, not threatening, just near. He towered easily over her despite her steadfast posture. To hold his gaze, she was forced to crane her neck, lips slightly parted as her breathing picked up.
“I need access. Money. Discretion. A face that people trust.”
“If I say no?”
“Then I disappear. You spend the rest of your career crafting meaningless speeches while children burn, all the while knowing you could have done something about it.”
The senator’s elegant brow furrowed at his provocation. “And if I say yes?”
He leaned in and whispered, “Then I’ll show you what we’re capable of. What you’re capable of. We will build this network together.”
She said nothing, just took the chip and pocketed it. They had somehow moved close enough for him to detect the Alderaan vintage on her lips from the party earlier. The cool night air, her scent (Chandrilan gardenias, he was certain), and the exhilaration of a recruitment nearly confirmed all made for a heady moment.
“I shall await your response.” Luthen left her there, without a backward glance. He would hear from her, it was just a matter of patience.
One week later…
He watched the message self-erase from his encrypted console in the gallery, fingers still resting on the keypad as the ghost of her voice echoed in his head. I’ve seen it now.
That was all she said. But her tone—measured, haunted, exhausted—told him everything. She’d opened the chip and played the footage he pre-loaded onto it from Antar V, from Bellassa. The mass arrests, the executions, all of it. She was cracked now. Hairline fractures in her belief that this system could be saved. That decency had any place left in power.
She summoned him this time, on an encrypted channel with her voice masked. Warehouse 9X, Industrial District. Dusk.
He smiled to himself. The senator was learning.
When he arrived, she was already there. No aides, no guards, draped in a hooded shawl the color of storm clouds. Aristocratic as ever, like a painting half-buried in ash.
“Do you follow my husband?” Mon Mothma asked without preamble, shrugging off the hood and smoothing her hands over her short auburn hair. She wore no cosmetics, no jewels. Beautiful, he thought, despite a rising feeling of apprehension he couldn’t pinpoint. He was savoring this, whatever this is evolving into.
“No,” he lied smoothly. “But I know how he moves.” She would be appalled if she realized the extent to which he and Kleya surveilled her and her family, over several months, before setting their plan in motion.
She didn’t call him out or push any further. Instead she turned and tossed a small datacard to him.
“There’s a credit node tied to a Chandrilan relief fund. You’ll find a back door.”
Luthen caught the card. “That’s a felony against Chandrilan legal code.”
“It’s misallocated charity funds.” Mon clarified. “80,000 credits to start. I can raise the amounts gradually, shouldn’t be an issue if I’m careful.”
He studied her, then pocketed the datacard in his leather coat.
“Still married, Senator?” Luthen quipped darkly. He didn't know what possessed him, but he found himself eager for her reply. Verbally sparring with her brought him a peculiar sense of satisfaction he had never felt when trying to get a rise out of one of his agents or informants.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not here for flirtation, Rael.”
Luthen stepped closer anyway.
“I’m here,” she said, low and cold, “because I’ve decided to burn my life down one match at a time, and you’re the match.” Mon sighed, then briefly closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. When she opened them again, she was serene as ever. Back in control. “Now, it's well past time you outline our next steps.”
Chapter Text
Coruscant, 7 BBY.
The growing atmosphere of unease in the Senate chamber and offices was palpable. It was couched under the general attitude of “ah, what more can we do than mind our own planetary jurisdictions?” Every fruitless conversation Mon had with her fellow senators, even ones who were friendly to her politics and values, ended with platitudes and apologies.
The ISB made its rounds through relevant committees. Galactic security and oversight, mainly. She’d been reassigned to committees with less pull, so anything she could learn about what Major Lio Partagaz’s lackeys were briefing senators on had to be gleaned from private conversations with colleagues that were increasingly difficult to pin down. She’d be damned if she didn’t capitalize on what little the Empire was willing to share information about. Heavily redacted, of course.
One report that made its way to her caught her eye. A freighter chartered for a humanitarian mission called the Cymari Wind was carrying medical aid, agricultural supply units, and other commodities to Silerra Prime, a Mid-Rim planet under heavy Imperial crackdown. Reading the report, Mon saw it was chartered by a Chandrilan organization she supported.
The freighter was destroyed at a refueling depot, not far from Silerra. The tragedy was attributed to engine containment failure upon attempted takeoff. There were no survivors. As it was ruled an accident, imperial authorities saw no reason to investigate further. Something didn’t sit right with her and she had a feeling she knew who had the ground truth.
Luthen Rael in his full regalia greeted her with open arms and a wide smile when she entered the gallery. If he was caught off guard by her arrival, he didn’t show it. Kleya was assisting another customer amid the medium-sized sculptures. The younger woman was attentive to her client but Mon knew she was being observed in the space between interactions.
“Master Rael, I have a gala coming up and it promises to be quite the affair. I hoped you might have some new pieces to show me.”
Luthen grinned and motioned for her to join him at the ample display case where he kept a plethora of fine jewelry. It was far enough away from the other client who kept milling about while Kleya moved to usher her out of earshot.
“Always happy to assist you in looking your best, Senator. Please have a look at what you see here and let me know if you’d like to try anything on.”
She felt him studying her as she perused the collection below the glass. Although it had been nearly a year since Luthen unceremoniously popped into her life, it was early days yet in this covert partnership. Luthen was still an enigma to her and there was little opportunity to get to know what sort of man she had agreed to work with.
“These, I think.” She pointed at an earring and necklace set, bronze inlaid with amber gemstones that matched the color of her hair. “Would you get them out for me, please?”
“An excellent choice, Senator.”
As he helped her put the necklace on, he murmured, “Why are you here? We mustn’t meet unless absolutely necessary.” Then, louder—“Lovely! We have a full length mirror in the back room if you’d like to see the effect.”
Mon nodded amiably. She followed him, feeling Kleya’s watchful gaze on her until she disappeared around the corner with Luthen.
“The Cymari Wind, three days ago. Was that one of ours? Do we have people on Silerra Prime?” She picked up each earring from his outstretched gloved hand and met his eyes in the mirror as she fastened them.
Luthen’s entire demeanor changed and it left her disconcerted.
“The less you know, the better.”
She bristled and unconsciously grasped at the chain around her neck. “Look, I’m not trying to get involved in operational planning and I understand the need for decentralization. What I want to know is what my money is being put toward. I want some semblance of transparency, Luthen.”
There was a pause as the man weighed what he wanted to tell her. She realized he could tell her anything he thought she wanted to hear, but she wanted something nonetheless.
“There was…a loose end aboard the ship. Signals intelligence couldn’t relay the message fast enough. I chose to remove any chance of compromise.”
Mon regarded him warily. “Recovery of anything or anyone else on board wasn’t possible? There was a pilot, just doing her job, relief workers…”
She trailed off as his expression turned grim. “This is the war you’re funding, Mon. There will be collateral damage, we cannot risk the network.”
Mon nodded and inhaled deeply. This was no trite fantasy of being undercover. She was in it, now. This was a reality of her own making. What she was learning of Luthen’s modus operandi made her uneasy, but her desire to contribute outweighed that. If she admitted it to herself, she was drawn to his aura of danger. The excitement stemming from disruption to her daily routine.
“I believe these will do. I’ll take them.” She said, at normal volume.
“Very good, Senator. Kleya will wrap them for you as always.”
Mon handed him back each piece. When she placed the earrings back in his hand, he brought his other one to grasp her wrist. Firmly enough to make her pulse jump.
“Kleya will give you the updated transmission protocols. I don’t want to see you here for at least a few weeks.” Luthen tightened his hold briefly, then released her. She felt his touch like a brand, even several hours later.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Anyone have a sense of how currency transfers actually work in the Star Wars universe? I haven't wrapped my head around how Mon is covertly funneling what must be huge shipments of gold bars (like what Cassian and co stole at Aldhani) without drawing any attention even before the heist. Let’s assume for now that there’s a digital option available for the sake of secrecy.
Also...we've reached the porn with plot part of the story, folks.
Chapter Text
Coruscant, 6 BBY.
The senator and spymaster developed a steady cadence over time. Credits were delivered personally when possible but also via dead drop which either Luthen or Kleya would collect. The senator had a direct line to the gallery and was fastidious in its use. He grew confident in her tradecraft as it improved. For a civilian, she picked it up fairly quickly.
This particular round, Luthen expected 150,000 credits. True to her word, Mon Mothma had upped her cash withdrawals. She normally followed the drop protocol exactly as instructed. There was nothing particularly special about this drop location. It was in an alley next to what used to be a shoddy restaurant, directly under the Senate District but down several levels. The only people around were street urchins and kids skiving off school during the day. At day’s end, manual laborers and other menial workers made their way home, making it easy to blend into the faceless throng.
Luthen had been waiting in the rundown diner just shy of an hour. He’d checked the coded cylinder for the drop behind a ventilation grate in the back of the building. It remained empty. Where the hell was it? Did she miss the drop?
He went back into the alley when he heard footsteps fast approaching. Mon appeared at last, breath visible in the cold air. She was dressed plainly with her hood drawn over her hair, silhouette backlit against the fading light.
“You’re late,” He said sharply. “Someone followed you.”
“I think, I’m–I’m not sure, I had to take several turns and double back a few times.” She looked paralyzed, eyes wide and pupils pinpricks of fear. “Senate proceedings ran late again, I couldn’t leave when I planned to—.”
“Get inside.” He hissed as he yanked open a rusting access hatch in the alley wall and gestured her in. She climbed quickly, shoulders tense. He followed and sealed the door behind them just as footsteps echoed past outside beyond the alley. Someone was laughing, making throwaway comments on their day’s exploits. The space was barely a meter wide—an old maintenance crawl, metal walls covered in flaking rust and heat-warped plating. He had to stoop to avoid slamming his head into the ceiling.
“Quiet,” he whispered against her ear.
“I am,” she murmured back. Luthen felt her exhale across his throat and held back a shudder. They didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, for a moment. He noticed the press of her body against him and felt himself respond despite the harrowing circumstances. After a few minutes that felt like an hour, the present danger seemed to have passed. She said, very softly, “This isn’t exactly how I pictured sedition.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m sorry it hasn’t met your expectations.”
She laughed too, a touch hysterical. Perhaps they both lapsed into a moment of insanity because without any thought at all, Luthen leaned down and claimed her lips with his. She melted immediately, arms coming up behind his neck as she met him with equal passion. Luthen knew he was being reckless, wanting more, escalating his conquest of her until he had her panting and flexing her hips into the bulge in his trousers. Suddenly she pushed against him with both hands.
“Gods, the credits,” Mon gasped, slipping the datacard into the inner lining of his coat pocket. She didn’t pull away or recoil further but it was enough to shock Luthen back to his senses. She then placed her hand over his heart, still racing with the adrenaline of ever present danger and their current compromising position.
“Thank you, Mon.” His voice was hoarse. He backed up and carefully pushed the access hatch open, taking a furtive glance over their surroundings. When he deemed it clear and his ardor cooled, he stepped out and half looked at her over his shoulder. She was still against the wall where he left her, looking as dazed as he felt. That touch of insanity threatened to take hold of him once more, compelled him to finish what he started and fuck her senseless.
“Take more care next time,” was all he could manage before departing. Furious at himself, at her, at the Empire, at the cause.
“Did she deliver?” Kleya inquired upon his arrival back to the gallery. Her concern grew as she noticed the thunderous look on his face. He was pissed. Luthen handed her the datacard and said through gritted teeth, “She was delayed.”
“Again?” Kleya asked incredulously.
They went together to the terminal in the back of the shop to verify the numbers. The numbers didn’t lie. But they did sweat.
Kleya stared at the readout on the datapad—ghost accounts, hidden ledgers, shell companies—and felt the fine, cold sheen of risk rise across the back of her neck.
Mon Mothma had indeed moved the funds.
“This is still too clean,” Kleya muttered. “Too deliberate. Anyone with a half-trained auditor in their pocket will sniff this out in a week.”
Luthen said nothing, He went to the other end of the room—likely running through his mental list of everything they needed that this round of funds would cover while also considering her criticism.
“Maybe choosing her was a mistake, Luthen.” Kleya said, louder now.
“She’s learning.” He didn’t meet her eyes, not wanting her to suss out what had him so rattled. It had been a long time since she’d seen him this unsettled.
“She’s guessing!”
“She’s adapting.”
“She’s still Senator Mon Mothma,” Kleya snapped. “With a face on every Holofeed, a husband who takes joy in flexing his Imperial ties, and a daughter who detests her. And now she’s got her hands inside the guts of the Alliance treasury? Forgive me if I’m not ready to call that progress.”
Luthen didn’t flinch, didn’t shout. “She’s the only one who can do what we need,” he said. “No one else with her access, her credibility, her reach. She’s brave.”
Kleya stepped forward. “Why did you really choose her?”
“What do you mean? Your assessment based on Vel’s recommendation was to involve her. I wanted Bail Organa only, you’ll recall. If you have something to say, out with it.” Luthen was properly hacked off now.
“I mean—” and now there was something hot in her voice, some streak of jealousy or fear she probably didn’t care to name—“you’ve never let assets talk back before, question you, show up late repeatedly to dead drops because of Senate proceedings.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.
“She’s not just an asset.” He snapped back, too quickly.
Kleya stared.
Luthen seemed to realize it a second too late. Something unreadable crossed his face.
“She’s the rebellion’s most dangerous weapon,” he added, recovering. “She’s one of us now, whether you like it or not. No matter how she joined us.”
Kleya’s mouth tightened. “Then let me be clear: I am not comfortable wagering the fate of the rebellion on a senator with a spotlight on her and an emotional entanglement you're not being honest about.”
He had no rebuttal so she pressed on, emboldened. “You trained me not to gamble with conviction. And this? This is a hell of a gamble.”
The money ended up covering three months’ worth of informant salaries and a shipment of illicit small arms. Piece by piece they were building the network. That particular exchange with Kleya must have resonated with Luthen, because whenever he returned from a pick up at a drop site thereafter, he was fully on guard and on edge in a way she hadn’t seen in months.
I need clarity. Away from Mon Mothma.
His self imposed cooling off period lasted an admirable period of time. Kleya stepped in to handle the senator as well as their normal clientele on Coruscant while Luthen tended to other urgent issues away from the capital planet. Days turned into weeks turned into months. Wrangling with other factions. Putting new assets into play. Shoring up what force structure the rebellion had.
Mon was unendingly busy shepherding legislation and patching together coalitions where she could in the Senate. Environmental restitution was the flavor of the day among special interest groups representing planets ravaged by the Empire's extractive mining policies. It was an issue that bigger, wealthier planets could pay lip service to but not have to actually do anything about. Ambitious colleagues of hers could attach their name to the bills at no great risk to their political capital.
All the while, the money continued to flow. 100,000 a month for refined fuel, weapons, facility upgrades and other things Luthen kept from Mon for plausible deniability. He was finally back in Coruscant when she left a message for him at the gallery console. Even masked, her voice was clipped, tone brittle with irritation. I need to see you. Now.
He found her at a safe house a good distance away from her residence at the Chandrilan Embassy, but close enough for her to return swiftly should she need to. Mon was still in her workwear, the blue folds of her senatorial robe slightly rumpled, hair pinned back though strands were slipping loose. Luthen was of a mind to admonish her for showing up as unmistakably herself. But she was agitated. Pacing. He steeled himself to pull her back from whatever cliff she was about to leap off of. For the sake of the rebellion, not because of any personal sense of worry for her…
“He asked me outright,” she said.
That made him frown in confusion. He expected a comment on how long he’d been gone or questions about what he’d been doing and with whom.
Mon continued pacing. “Perrin confronted me. Accused me of taking a lover. He’s noticed my periodic absences apparently. I’m going to have to change the timing of the drops, now that he’s watching.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him to go fuck himself.”
The rare profanity in her Chandrilan lilt made him blink. Mon looked up then and stopped pacing, eyes sharp and damp and tired. “He dropped it. I don’t know if I’m relieved or terrified.” She crossed her arms protectively over her torso.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
“I need you to tell me this is still mine,” She gestured between them. “That I’m not just a tool you’re using for your rebellion.”
“Our war. Our cause.” He corrected quietly. He knew what she needed to hear. “You’re the reason this war has a soul.” As he watched her fight back a sob, he found he actually meant what he said.
This time, she was the one to pull him into a kiss, igniting all manner of their mutual repression at once. He kissed her back with fraying restraint. She answered with a sound from her throat that nearly undid him. He wrenched himself away from her, almost violently, and took several steps back, running a hand through his hair. All of that compartmentalization he perfected over the years was obliterated in an instant by this woman.
Luthen knew then with a sinking realization that Kleya was right. This was a massive liability. He’d boxed himself into a corner because they did indeed need her resources. At the time, seduction seemed the best way to that low hanging fruit. The problem was that Mon Mothma was now someone to him, someone more than an asset to use and discard. Perhaps down the line, he would look back on this moment and know with unmistakable certainty why he did what he was about to do.
The only explanation he had then and there was that, in his mind, she was the embodiment of the rebellion. The evil he committed and will continue to commit in the name of every person saved would be for her. For the noble values she espoused and her faith that together, the galaxy could achieve them. This newfound understanding of himself frightened him as much as it inspired some flickering, burgeoning hope. If he weren’t careful, he may want to live through the madness to come after all, and that was absolutely not a contingency he had planned for in this whole damned endeavor.
Mon’s lips were wet and swollen from his kisses, her eyes smoldering. She unclipped her chains of office and they slipped from her fingers to the floor with a clang. He couldn’t avert his eyes or even bring himself to move. Off went her blue outer robe, leaving her in her white brocaded dress and belt. The blue fabric puddled at her feet and she stepped over it to get to him.
She took his right hand and lifted it to her neck, where her dress parted to reveal her collarbones. He let her guide it down to the swell of her breast, then the curve of her waist to settle there. It took every effort to hold himself back and let her lead, to see if she would falter.
“Show me this is still mine.” Mon repeated.
Luthen stroked his thumb over her dress, contemplating his next actions. He didn’t want to think about how much she would eventually despise him for this. For what the rebellion would ask of her, how much it would test her. So he shoved that all away with the rest of his demons and tightened his grip on her waist instead. Kissing her with a tenderness that belied his inner turmoil, he had her out of her dress and underclothes in no time. She reciprocated in kind and pushed his coat off his shoulders, unfastened his trousers as he lifted his shirt overhead, and stepped back as he kicked his boots off. She ran her hands over his chest and sides, littered with scars from his Imperial career and all the time after. She traced her lips over an old scar from a graze of an explosion, faded white on his pectoral muscle.
He claimed her mouth once more, craving the taste of her, her scent, and feeling of her warm, unmarred skin against his. He never allowed himself to enjoy the carnal aspects of a honey trap like this. She was intoxicating, mind and body. He moved them toward the narrow table along the wall of the dingy safehouse, kissing her the whole way there then lifting her roughly onto the surface.
“Luthen,” Mon was breathing harder now, willing, needy. “Now.”
Powerless to obey her command, he used one hand to brace her against him and the other to bury himself between her thighs in one hard thrust. Once firmly inside her, he moved his hand to the wall behind her head, needing leverage to drive his hips in and out of her while keeping his tight hold on her. Mon clung to him desperately, kissing him everywhere she could reach. Her legs wrapped around his ass as he picked up the pace, lost in the intense pleasure that coursed through him.
He came so hard his vision blurred for a moment. She followed him, squeezing him tightly, unbearable friction and pressure rendering him mute save for his stuttering breaths.
“We shouldn’t do this again.” Mon said at length. They were still naked, sweaty, tangled in each other. They both heard the lie in her voice. Luthen looked down at her. She was smiling tremulously, glowing. He was thoroughly fucked, literally and figuratively.
“No…no we shouldn’t.”
Chapter 5
Notes:
I hadn't planned on continuing into the events of Andor S1/2 but here we are!
Luthen and Mon are having their cake and eating it too.
This chapter also features a bit of a raunchy rewrite of the Aldhani conversation.
Chapter Text
Coruscant, Galactic Antiquities and Objects of Interest, 5 BBY
Perrin and Leida were off-world, summering with his side of the family at the Fertha ancestral home on Chandrila. It was not unusual for Mon to stay behind on Coruscant, even if the Senate was adjourned. Luthen wouldn’t mind if her family stayed there forever. She was presently shuddering through another orgasm, riding him hard and fast. As she gradually lost her rhythm, any further conscious thought flew out of his head as his own release shattered him.
Seeing her so out of control was the most erotic sight he’d ever seen and could damn well be the last thing he'd see if they kept this pace up. Mon fell forward onto his chest with a contented sigh, her skin glistening from their exertions. He ran his hands over her hips and back and lazily thrust into her a few more times, drawing out the sensation for them both and making her moan softly.
"How are we not one person yet?" Mon slid off him to curl up at his side.
He snorted and pulled the thin blanket over them both. "It's not for lack of trying."
They had the luxury of a little more time and a bed. After their earlier business was done and the financial transfer confirmed, she was on him like a woman starved. He knew this was self indulgent, deeply perilous, and a bad idea on so many levels. What began as a means to an end had become the guiltiest of pleasures, at least where he was concerned. For as open as she was with her physicality, Mon kept her inner thoughts on this facet of their connection closehold. They never talked about it out loud.
He thought back to the night they first met. How he was both intrigued and contemptuous of her. How she looked so at ease in her element, in her resplendent attire. What would she know of grit and sacrifice, how could she possibly? And then, out of nowhere, he found himself utterly addicted to her. Luthen had not accounted for her appetite, how readily he could coax away her modesty with his hands, mouth, and body.
He fancied privately that no one could render her thus, neither Perrin, nor any other man who’d try their luck. Mon was demanding and uninhibited in their covert meetings. He wanted it all. Her lust, her rage. Rejoiced in breaking down the proper politician to her basest, most animalistic form.
In the aftermath, he still felt that searing heat, seeing Mon flushed and in disarray.
“I’ll be in touch when the next tranche of funding is queued.” She intoned while dressing after a brief touch-up in the fresher. So many layers with Chandrilan garb, layers he had gotten too good at removing, and she got too good at putting back on in a hurry. He watched as she wound herself back into her cream colored dress and outer robe, no signs left of anything they’d just gotten up to.
“I’ll be away for a time. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He told her before she made to leave. He never used to tell her of an impending absence. He wanted her to miss him, perhaps. Mon inclined her head, unable to hide her worry. She leaned down to kiss him where he still sat on the mattress, a soft hand on his cheek.
“Where are you going?” She gave him a sad smile, not expecting an answer. Luthen skimmed his hands over her waist as he stood up. The urge to break yet more protocol gripped him and he said, "A planet in the Outer Rim. There's an exceedingly rare piece out there that has caught my eye."
"Ah..." She murmured. He looked over her face again as if trying to memorize her every feature. He tended to do that when he'd be gone for extended periods. She leaned up to kiss him again when he didn't let go of her waist, until he finally nudged her away for her own good.
Luthen watched her leave the gallery on foot, glad that Kleya had made herself scarce and closed up shop when the senator dropped in for an impromptu visit sans driver. His apprentice had grown to begrudgingly accept the partnership with Mon. If Kleya had further opinions like the ones she’d already voiced, she kept them to herself.
In the blink of an eye, everything changed. Luthen had grown impatient. The ISB loomed ever larger at the edges of Mon's personal and professional activities. She had to slow her movements, slow the transfers. Bringing in Cassian Andor was extremely risky considering how long the Aldhani operation took to plan. He had no qualms about Aldhani given the massive payoff it turned out to be, though he acknowledged the position it forced Mon into. After the heist, Imperial authorities began truly cracking down on intergalactic financial transactions, starting with the Core Worlds. Chandrila was among the first identified for audits.
As its senator remained a perpetual thorn in the Empire’s side, Chandrila was no stranger to Imperial scrutiny. Imperial inspectors were due to examine the planet’s largest accounts at each of its financial institutions. The day Mon learned of this development, she made sure to clear some time in her schedule to visit the gallery on the way to the Senate Building. She brought Perrin’s Day of Days gift to return as her pretense.
Kleya’s voice called out, “Mon Mothma.”
“Without warning?” Luthen asked. He’d just put down the radio, his deep satisfaction from hearing about the fallout on Aldhani transitioning to thoughts of the senator just exiting her hovercar.
“Wipe that smile off your face.” His protege smirked.
He and Kleya went to greet the woman in question on the hoverport. Her driver, the ISB plant, held Perrin’s gift in his hands as she disembarked.
“I should have called. We’re on our way to the Senate and I realized we were passing by.” She gracefully took the gift from her driver and dismissed him. She continued striding toward them. “Perrin likes it, but I’m not sure he loves it. I think he might want the other one.”
Kleya accepted the box as Luthen waved Mon through the gallery entrance. As soon as they were through the revolving door, she asked in a low voice, “Was this you?”
“What do you mean?” He matched her tone.
“The garrison on Aldhani. I was worried you might do something like this.”
Luthen clasped his hands together dramatically and assumed a delighted expression that wasn’t difficult to feign at all for the benefit of the driver outside. Mon had her back to her driver so she didn’t bother to hide her disapproval, fixing him with an accusatory stare.
“How I wish I had,” He said, still smiling. “Let’s have a look.”
“I don’t believe you.” She followed him to the center of the shop as he placed his white gloves on.
“Well, you’ll have to try harder.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”
“Why don’t we retreat to the back room? We’ve just had a new shipment come in yesterday.”
Kleya averted her eyes and busied herself with a case of old trinkets as Luthen and Mon disappeared into the back, out of sight and away from the wide window.
“I don’t have time for this–” She said even as she let him pin her against a workbench. He yanked off a glove he just put on and dug through her layers: a coat, a dress and flowing slacks, until he reached the warm junction of her thighs. He stroked her skin over the thin fabric of her underwear and watched her bite her lower lip.
“Kloris won’t wait long before he suspects something is amiss…” Whatever else she was about to say trailed off into a quiet moan.
“Nothing Kleya can’t handle.” Luthen growled. “Now where were we…I believe I was saying how expensive revolutions are.”
“I told you,” Her breath hitched as he touched her exactly how he knew she liked. She spread herself wider, allowed him more access, panting. “I’m doing everything I can.”
He finally slipped his hand into her underwear and pressed his palm against her clit, fucking her with two fingers. Mon grasped the edges of the workbench behind her, knuckles white with strain. When they were short on time, they never kissed or touched beyond what they had to, but always on the ragged edge of self control.
“Your everything seemed to be bringing in a savior to access your family funds.” Luthen’s need to drive her out of her mind warred with his frustration at her resurging hesitance for their shared cause. He knew about Tay Kolma though she hadn’t explicitly told him yet the identity of this so-called savior. He knew Kolma’s type–-a fair weather financier who would crumble the minute his interests were threatened. Most irritatingly, he was Mon’s childhood sweetheart from Chandrila.
“It was you, wasn’t it.” She started to writhe against his hand. His wrist twinged but he ignored the minor pain for the ecstasy on her face.
“I explained to you the risk of new faces, but you seem to know better.”
“You realize what you’ve done?” Her voice pitched slightly higher. She was so close. There really was no time to drag this out, no matter how tempted he was. He had to up the ante.
“I thought you were here to tell me about the meeting.” He grazed his teeth along her neck and nipped her earlobe, not hard enough to leave a mark. His free hand came up to roughly knead her breast through her dress and all the sensations together tipped her over the edge. She came on his hand, shaking, then batted him away to straighten out her clothes.
“It’s tonight. I may reschedule.” Mon said once she caught her breath. A thousand things were flying through her head, he watched her catalog his reactions. She knew he wasn’t entirely unaffected by her despite their current constraints and was trying to find a way to leverage that.
“I warned you when we started.” He said simply.
“You told me we were building a network.”
“What were my words?”
“This is something else entirely!”
“Turning back would be impossible. You knew where this was going. You’ve always known.” Luthen stepped away from her, the air between them turning chilly. “Has anyone ever made a weapon that wasn’t used? The network’s been built, it’s up. It grows or it dies. We’ve waited long enough.”
“You realize what you set in motion? Palpatine won’t hesitate now—“
“Exactly. We need it. We need the fear. We need them to overreact.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The Empire has been choking us so slowly we’re starting not to notice. The time has come to force their hand.”
She looked on as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blushed when he wiped her essence off his fingers before replacing his glove. She shook her head with irritation and continued, “This could expose us…expose me! You've effectively put a target on my back. The banking guilds are freezing access. Chandrila’s financial oversight entity has flagged two of my trusts. Perrin is asking questions he doesn’t even realize are dangerous. Meanwhile, the Senate is pushing for new public order laws driven by the Emperor. People will suffer.”
“That’s the plan. You’re not angry with me. I’m just saying out loud what you already know. There will be no rules going forward. If you’re not willing to risk your conscience, then surrender and be done with it.”
Mon looked so wounded that he felt a bit of regret that ran deeper than he would’ve ever let himself feel with any other agent. He softened his tone.
“We need every credit we can get our hands on. Let me know how the meeting goes.”
She inhaled deeply and by the time she let it go, she regained her composure.
“I’m afraid I won’t be taking any of these pieces this morning.” The senator projected her voice loudly, alerting Kleya in the showroom that they were done. With a pang, he sensed she was also quite possibly done with him.
“Ah, I have some other new things coming in very, very soon.”
“I’ll be sure to come by.”
“Always at your service, Senator. Always at your service.”
Mon fixed Luthen with a final glance before leaving the main gallery and climbing into her hovercar. The thought rose unbidden of how slick and sticky she was beneath her dress. How she’d spend all day thinking of what he’d done to her and be reminded every time she shifted in her Senate seat. He tried and failed to perish the images as fast as they occurred to him.
As he waved goodbye with his smarmy shopkeeper’s grin, Kleya muttered, “I hope she’s worth it.”
The hovercar took off and then she was gone. Luthen flexed the hand he used on Mon then contracted it into a fist. He didn’t have to do that to her, he wanted to. He wanted to drive his point home in a way she wouldn’t so easily dismiss.
Worst of all, he wondered if it would be the last time she’d let him touch her like that. Allow him any kind of intimacy at all after how much he’d ratcheted up the pressure. She would come through, he believed. The strength of their connection was almost as powerful a motivator for her as the rebellion itself, in his estimation.
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we. We can’t hide forever.”
Chapter 6
Notes:
Mon dances through the pain. Luthen is falling victim to his own machinations. Vel and Kleya have opinions.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chandrila, 4 BBY. Mothma Family Estate.
Luthen found Mon on the dance floor.
The techno droid was pounding out something obscene and joyless, a synthetic anthem to wealth and decadence. Somewhere near the center of the swirling lights and crowd of wedding guests, Mon was well on her way to getting blind drunk. Hair falling loose. Dress sliding just a little too far off one shoulder as she danced alone. Her long shining sleeves sliced through the air while she spun and jumped, somehow still elegant in her chaos.
Luthen stood on the perimeter of the reception hall, watching her. Watching his work. He could no longer remember where the manipulation ended and the ache began. The bass shook the chandeliers overhead and the glass in his hand vibrated with every beat. Everyone suddenly tossed their hands up and bellowed, “Niamos!”
Mon threw back another shot, something green and local, and cheered with a pair of diplomats’ daughters who had no idea they were clinking glasses with a woman financing high treason. Luthen wanted to drag her out of the room and protect her from prying eyes. Take back the sting of what he said about Tay bloody Kolma. Soothe the anguish in her that no one else could see.
Leida was sitting near the edge of the floor, resting for a moment beside her smug little husband. A perfect doll in a game she couldn’t conceive of in her wildest dreams or even recognize she was a part of. Perrin was watching Mon resume her frenetic movements with a mildly curious expression.
“Luthen, there you are! I hoped you’d do me the honor of lending me your eye…” An older Chandrilan gentleman approached him suddenly, brandishing a medallion on a silver chain at him. He felt a hot flash of annoyance wash over him as he tore his gaze from the senator to react appropriately to the situation at hand. Mon disappeared into the swell of dancers once more.
She didn’t notice him until later, when the guests began retiring and the music thinned out into slow, ceremonial refrains. Leida and Stekan had retired to their wedding suite. Davo was still waxing poetic about the Chandi Merle to anyone who’d listen. Chandrila’s moons began to appear, hanging like coins above the mountains that surrounded her family estate.
Mon wandered back toward her room for the last few days, barefoot, heels in hand. No one was looking for her, by some blessing or miracle. Except for the wraith trailing her, she mused drunkenly. The serpent to her supposed Sun goddess.
She looked over her shoulder and stumbled a bit to actually find him there. “Came to check on your investment?”
“You’ve had too much, Senator.”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I haven’t had enough.”
He quickly closed the gap between them, despite the limp he always had. She wondered suddenly whether the limp was real or if it was yet another part of his cover that he’d grown so used to that it had become real over the years. The man looked older, careworn. His theatrical joviality disappeared.
“Mon—”
Inebriated as she was, she recognized the door to her guest quarters and slapped her hand onto the biometric lock. She pulled him along before he could protest.
“Did you know Leida asked for it? Sacred tradition, she said. She thinks she’s honoring our heritage.” She snapped, spinning to face him once the door hissed shut behind her. Her voice was wrecked.
Luthen said nothing. There was no version of the truth that could soothe that.
“Tay is afraid, all this is…more than he signed on for.” she fretted, changing the subject. “He’s not like you.”
“No one’s like me,” Luthen grunted. “You shouldn’t have involved him.”
“Yes…what did you say earlier? Oh yes, people fail.” She flung her shoes at him and stormed past to the center of the room. It was a beautifully, if sparsely furnished room. A large bed covered in a Ghorman silk bedspread dominated the space. The floor to ceiling windows were covered by light filtering shades. None could see inside, but they cast the room in the faded blue of Chandrila’s early evening. He placed her shoes at the foot of her bed frame.
She turned on a small lamp on the nightstand then slumped onto the edge of the mattress. Shoulders rolled forward, head bowed.
“All these years, I gave you everything. I did everything you asked me to do.”
Luthen went to her and dropped to his knees. He took her hands gently and settled them on her lap, looking up at her wan face.
She laughed once, a sad, broken sound. “Don’t do that. You don’t really care about me. You wanted my money and everything else was just cream off the top, wasn’t it?”
He frowned, mind likely sifting through all the things he could possibly say to reverse them out of her spiral. He was ever mindful of their setting. The room could be bugged. Anyone could be listening.
When he finally spoke, he settled on, “You are everything I can’t afford to be.”
If they were being surveilled, it sounded like a lovers’ quarrel. An antiquities dealer supplying a rich woman with more than just priceless artifacts. Traditional Chandrilan weddings, ritualistic as they were, were far from immune to the usual debauchery once the newlyweds have exchanged their vows.
“If you really mean that, I’m afraid you’ve put me on a pedestal and turned me into a thing that doesn’t feel.” Mon whispered.
He stared at her, still unwilling to say what he wanted to.
“Get out,” she said weakly.
He didn’t move. Every instinct in him could have been alight with panic, but he didn’t budge. He watched her ire rise.
“My daughter is a stranger. My husband is—”
“—presently with Renai Sculdun.”
Mon’s lips pursed as if she’d eaten something sour. She hated hypocrisy in others, much more so in herself.
“It’s the worst kept secret among the senatorial spousal circuit. You’re still watching him?”
“I watch everyone around you,” he said. “I can’t afford not to.”
She looked at him with loathing and longing and shame. She reached for him then, grabbed his lapel. If she tried to hit him, he would probably let her. Instead she pulled him into a kiss. Rough. Crushing. He was the only other person in the galaxy who could comprehend how utterly alone she was in that moment, they were intertwined in that way and it suffocated her as much as it steadied her.
“You paranoid, nihilistic bastard. I hate you–” She said against his lips.
Mon tasted like tears and expensive Chandrilan liquor. Luthen clutched her to him as she ended up sliding off the duvet and into his lap. He leaned against the mattress, sitting on the floor with his arms around her.
When she had calmed a bit, she started tracing idle patterns on the sleeve of his coat. She was sprawled across him, facing him but staring at the ceiling. Time slowed as they sat there. Luthen watched the glassy look in her eyes start to fade. She was sobering up.
“Did you know I was arrested? After the Republic fell. The Empire detained as many as they could from the Delegation of 2,000. We asked for limits on Palpatine’s emergency powers. A symbolic gesture.” Mon met his gaze. She was more herself again, but the fatigue of the past three days was setting in.
“They intercepted me outside the Imperial Executive Building. They beat me then threw me into a cell no bigger than a public refresher stall. I hit my head and when I came to, they gave me a choice. Pledge my loyalty or else. My hand shook so hard I could barely hold the stylus while signing.”
Luthen found himself slowly stroking her back while she recounted her brush with the Empire. She seemed lost in memory, talking more to herself perhaps than him.
“I was still nursing Leida at the time. She was eight months old…my beautiful baby girl.” Mon’s voice quivered. Tears slipped down her cheeks and her nose dripped. She clumsily wiped at her face with her sleeve. Then she turned that devastating gaze right back at him.
“I have risked plenty over the last two decades, Luthen. Not in the same way you have. But I’ve never forgotten those thirty hours in that cell.”
Luthen had never heard her speak of that part of her life. He’d read the details on the screen of a datapad, years ago. Mostly archived stories on the Holonet—early Imperial propaganda.
Hearing her tell it was something else entirely. It made him want to tear the soldiers responsible limb from limb. He realized he might have been one of them, in his past life.
“I hate you,” Mon said again, on the verge of sleep. Her makeup was smudged and there were shadows under her eyes, which were slowly drifting shut.
Luthen cradled her closer, murmured into her hair, “I know.”
The sky was beginning to lighten as Luthen stepped out of Mon Mothma’s quarters, robes slightly wrinkled, Coruscanti cravat undone. He moved briskly, taking deliberate steps across the polished stone path that led toward where the Fondor awaited him. His was not the only ship that lingered. Several guests had stayed overnight although the estate and grounds were quiet now. The scent of her still clung to him. Chandrilan gardenias like always.
He should have left hours ago, after helping her get cleaned up and tucking her into her bed. Should never have stayed to watch her sleep. He was almost to the outer gate when the soft click of a safety strap stopped him in his tracks.
Vel Sartha stepped out from behind a stone pillar. Arms crossed. No pretense.
“Heading somewhere?” she asked, too casually.
“Didn’t realize you were still here.”
“Morning after a Chandrilan wedding there’s usually a ceremonial breakfast,” she said. “Family only.”
Her eyes raked over him. Disheveled and wearing the same clothes he’d donned for the wedding.
She tilted her head. “You’ve been with her.”
Luthen didn’t respond.
Vel let the silence stretch. “You said when you brought her in that my cousin would be a keystone. That she’s too important to compromise.”
“She still is.”
“So you decided to do it anyway?”
He shifted his weight. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
“But it did,” she snapped. “Now what? Are you going to tell me she was just a soft target in a high tower?”
He flinched. Just slightly. But Vel saw it.
“You used her, no, have been using her,” she said under her breath.
“Her survival is paramount to everything we’re doing. If I have to be the monster she needs to keep her conscience clean, then fine—I’ll be that.”
Vel took a step forward, furious now. “How dare you. After what she gave up. After what she had to do to her daughter last night—”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I didn’t watch her make that deal and die inside while smiling for the cameras?”
Vel’s hands balled into fists at her sides.
“She trusted you,” she said. “She cares for you. I noticed when she looked for you during the reception. I saw you follow her from the hall. All the while you—you were already planning how to make Tay Kolma disappear. I spotted Cinta driving him home last night and I knew.”
His expression didn’t change as Vel stared him down.
“Kolma,” Luthen spat the other man’s name with barely hidden disdain, “—arrived home, hale, hearty, and none the wiser last night.”
Vel’s jaw dropped. She knew what cruelty Luthen was capable of. The lengths he wouldn’t hesitate to go to for the cause. His rare mercy was almost more frightening in that it existed, and something about her cousin had compelled the man to grant it.
“Mon cannot know.” His tone brooked no opposition.
He then brushed past her to get to the Fondor, the sun just beginning to rise over the immaculate mountains of Chandrila—drenched in luxury, drowning in rot.
“Mon…are you alright?”
She was wrested from sleep by a voice entirely wrong, rolling to her side to find her husband inexplicably beside her. Luthen was long gone, of course. Thank the stars Perrin hadn’t attempted to enter the room any earlier.
“What time is it?” She groaned. The chronometer at her bedside was impossible for her bleary vision.
“Nearly time to get ready. The children are already up and about somehow.” Perrin chuckled softly. When she didn’t respond, he observed her with the same questioning look he had while watching her dance the night before.
“I need water. Please.”
Her husband nodded and went to oblige her request. She noticed nothing irregular about him in demeanor or appearance—almost like he put forth too much effort into looking like he hadn’t been with his mistress all night. Renai was vapid, beautiful, and fun. Mon couldn’t find it in herself to feel even slightly wronged.
She exhaled slowly and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. She didn’t feel as hung over as she thought she’d be, though her mouth was dry and her hair a tangled mess. Her feet and calves were sore from all the dancing. She vaguely recalled Luthen giving her hydration gels and pain relievers to help with the consequences of over imbibing.
Perrin returned to her, water glass in hand. She sat up slowly and accepted it from him. As she sipped, she stared at her dress from last night—slung over a chair—which looked foreign in the daylight. Gilt thread, ceremonial cut, her burnished veil. She remembered laughing too loudly. Shooting back liquor to techno drones like she was young and free of burdens.
Mon remembered Luthen’s eyes on her from across the reception hall. His usual brooding stare. The same paranoia that drove her somber lover coursed through her now and she suddenly hauled herself up, wrapping her robe more tightly around her, ignoring the way her knees almost buckled. Perrin reached out as if to steady her, but she found her balance and he dropped his hands to his sides.
“I’ll be fine, thank you. I’ll meet you all in the garden in an hour.”
Perrin nodded, knowing she needed time to gather herself. He moved to make his exit but only after looking on as she busied herself at her wardrobe.
“I don’t think anyone would fault you for being late to breakfast, Mon. I’ll let them know.”
She thanked him again as he let himself out of her quarters. Once he was gone, Mon went to her luggage and pulled out the comm unit she used for Axis purposes.
No message. She stared at it for a long moment. There wouldn’t be one, not where any transmission she would send or receive couldn’t be masked. Disappointment flooded her all the same. Their moment together felt like a progression of sorts. They’d never just talked like that before, he never just held her. He was concerned no doubt of the stress on her psyche. Couldn’t let her destroy herself before her usefulness to him had run its course.
His behavior confounded her, in hindsight. She didn’t expect anything resembling genuine emotion. Luthen Rael had no use for that. Yet their trysts brought out a different side of him, almost against his will at times. Despite this aberration, he was still a man who weaponized emotions and she’d been only too happy to hand him her bleeding, neo-Republican heart on a silver platter.
Still, she had hoped for something. A scrap of humanity. The quiet, gentle way he listened to her, held her, and put her to bed was so at odds with the violence he wrought upon others that it made her head swim at the contradiction.
Tay, she thought, feeling sick. Bile threatened to rise in her throat. She pressed her palms into her eyes again.
Somewhere in the house, Leida would be getting dressed for the day. Her daughter. Her bright, beautiful, fragile child, bound now to a boy she didn’t know, in a tradition she didn’t truly understand the implications of yet, because Mon had made it so.
All for the cause.
Mon crossed the room, opened the window, and breathed in the morning air. In the distance, she heard the roar of a ship as it lifted off and disappeared into the clouds.
The Fondor rattled lightly as it breached Chandrila’s upper atmosphere. Luthen kept his hands clasped behind his back, watching the planet shrink in the viewport like a gem dropped into ink.
Her bed was still warm in his memory. Her voice still raw in his mind. That breaking point—seeing Mon so despondent—had carved something open in him he wasn’t sure he could stitch shut.
He activated the secure line.
A moment passed before Kleya’s voice snapped in. “You’re late checking in.”
“There was an unexpected complication with one of the other pieces. I had to ensure its structural integrity and it took a bit longer than planned.”
“Ah…you were able to resolve the issue?”
He didn’t answer.
Kleya sighed noisily. “Perhaps we’ll have to rethink our sustainment strategy. No use patching up what can’t be fixed,” she said. “I trust you’ll have a lot to think about on your way home.”
The line cut off before he could respond. Luthen remained still as the stars outside swam past. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he ruthlessly cleared his mind. Buried anything and everything that had surfaced against his ironclad will. There was work to be done.
Notes:
I drew inspiration from the song Meteorite by BANKS while writing…
Chapter Text
Coruscant, 3 BBY. Senate Ascension Week / Investiture.
Time passed in a flurry of actions, major and minor, that saw Mon through the end of the Senate’s legislative calendar. There was a brief planetary work period where lawmakers traditionally returned to their home planets. It once meant caucusing on various domestic policy priorities… in practice, it had become a glorified holiday month that saw Coruscant’s elite empty out of the city en masse.
Mon thought of returning to Chandrila. She would have loved to go home one more time. Some strange instinct whispered that this might be her last. But the thought of being alone there, of being there without Leida, deterred her. Her daughter and new husband were on the final leg of their year-long honeymoon tour, wrapping up on Alderaan. Bail and Breha Organa had kindly stepped in as hosts and Mon was grateful for their discreet support.
She stayed behind, keeping herself busy. Hosting gatherings for her charitable outreach program, real ones, not just covers, and doing site visits to the lower levels her office funded. Mostly orphanages and youth unemployment centers. It was easier to be useful than idle. And as for her other activities…
She and Luthen had become ghosts in each other’s periphery. She had needed time to lick her wounds, and by the time she could have been convinced to face him again, he was gone. Kleya gave no details. Mon had learned not to ask.
So she leaned more deeply into her alliance with Bail. His honesty, his refusal to manipulate her feelings, his idealism—it was a balm. Together, they built structures in the shadows. The vision of Yavin IV as a legitimate rebel headquarters was no longer an illusion. It was a horizon.
Then somehow, Vesty Week arrived in all its garish, performative glory.
Perrin took the lead in arranging the schedule of galas and receptions, while Mon consented to be dressed by Chandrila’s finest couturiers. By nature she wasn’t vain, but she understood the value of armor. Every gown was a shield. Every look conjured up by her stylists was a necessary projection.
She and Perrin strategized over the final schedule, and it brought a strange warmth back between them—for a moment, they remembered how they used to be, before politics and secrets consumed their marriage. It only sharpened the guilt she carried for everything Perrin would never be permitted to know.
The first party she was to attend alone.
It would be at the Zeltron Embassy, hosted by the newly elected senator from Zeltros. She’d suggested to Perrin that they split the week’s duties. After all, Bail and Breha often did. She was quietly surprised he didn’t insist on taking Zeltros for himself. Perhaps he, too, was tiring of the performance.
Her first gown of the week was a deliberate act of heresy.
Not her usual soft cream or gold. This was Ghorman silk the color of blood in moonlight, so dark it could almost pass for black. The sheer veil that covered her hair and shimmered down her back echoed the same hue. Star-lattice embroidery clung to her sleeves and collarbones. She wore no jewels on her neck, which left her throat bare, exposed and defiant.
They would say it was a statement about Ghorman repression. Let them talk.
She hoped it frightened them a little.
The party felt like a hallucination—too rich, too sensory. Perfumed bodies, dim lighting, bioluminescent vines curling along the walls. Music that slithered through the marble halls and into the bloodstream. The glass murals shimmered with depictions of legendary Zeltron lovers, creatures of myth, tangled in ecstasy and war.
There were things whispered about Zeltros, about what it meant to linger too long in their world. That even the most disciplined guests might lose their grip, that pleasure bled into compulsion when the air was thick enough with pheromones and possibility. No one could keep their masks on forever in a place like this.
Luthen Rael stood motionless against a column in the far western gallery, dressed like the type of man he detested. Dust-blue merchant robes. A forged signet. The wig he'd grown to tolerate. A smile that didn’t belong to him.
He wasn’t particularly fond of Zeltros, its artifice, its open hedonism, but that made it the perfect place to disappear. No one paid attention to men like him here. Not unless they wanted something. He’d made two contacts already and cataloged a few prospects who might be turned in time. He was about to leave.
And then—she arrived. Mon Mothma.
Her gown was darker than the night outside, embroidered with constellations he had once traced on her skin. She donned a veil anchored by fine jeweled combs in her hair. The lights caught on her combs, but not even those could distract him from the length of her neck, the regal lift of her chin.
He hadn’t seen her since the wedding. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night. When he left her in her bed, because staying might have meant choosing her and forsaking all else, before Ghorman had consumed all his time and energy. Erskin Semaj's reports on her activities were cut-and-dry, so he was aware of the objective details of Mon's comings and goings. They did not convey her trademark grace, how she still moved like memory. Like judgment. Now, in this alien temple of vice and indulgence, he realized he was still hers. Entirely.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, alert, practiced. Then they met his, just for a breath.
She turned away at once, murmuring something to a diplomat near her, but he saw her fingers tighten around her glass. Just slightly.
Mon couldn’t breathe.
Her ribs were a cage, her lungs suddenly fighting to expand. He was alive. He was here. Her mind raced. Did Bail know? Had he been sent by Kleya? Had he known she would be here?
None of it mattered. He had found her, and she hated him for it. She hated the way her body remembered him. Hated the way her pulse stuttered in her throat. Hated that she wanted to hurt him and hold him in equal measure.
The night was still young when she made her way out onto the veranda, seeking cool air and solitude. She'd met her obligations, made her rounds before the mood of the party shifted away from politics. The gardens stretched out before her, radiant in soft moonlight. The Zeltrons worshipped beauty in all forms and designed a sprawling green space in the thick of Coruscant's concrete and transparisteel megalopolis. The scent of midnight blossoms floated thick in the air. A perfect trap for fools and liars.
She leaned on the balustrade and let herself exhale.
“Senator,” he murmured, appearing just behind her. “Zeltros suits you.”
She didn’t turn. “Careful. Flattery from strangers draws attention at these functions.”
His voice dropped into something real. “Come now. Is that what I am to you?”
“It’s been a year,” she said. “People change.”
“I haven’t.”
She turned to face him and he felt the blow of it. Her face, pale in the garden light, was carved from pain.
“Then that’s a pity,” she said. “Because I have.”
Silence opened like a wound between them. The only sounds were the murmur of the fountain below in the center of the garden and the distant beat of music. If they were going to do this, there was probably no place better than among a race of empaths. It unwittingly provided them a way to express themselves as freely as they probably ever would be able to in any public or private setting.
“I missed you,” he said at last.
Her lips parted. Something flickered in her eyes but the emotion stayed buried.
“You still believe in it?” he asked, softly. “All of this?” The rebellion. Me and you.
Her answer was immediate. “I believe we’re too far in to stop. You were right. There’s no turning back.”
He stepped closer—just close enough to fall into her gravity. Mon’s gaze bored into his.
“I thought you were dead,” she added, more quietly. “I thought I’d lost everyone.”
“You still might,” he said, voice rough.
There was a kind of permissiveness in the air, fragrant and liquid, that belonged only to Zeltros. Somewhere within the maze of hedges, two Mid-Rim senators were tangled together on a velvet bench. Further still, a trio of performers braided themselves into the limbs of a Sullustan dignitary while Zeltron hosts hummed encouragement.
No one noticed Mon Mothma and Luthen Rael step off the path into the shadow of a thick-bloomed arbor. If they had, they would not have cared. They were in Zeltros for the night, where consent and gratification were the only currency.
She fisted her hands into his robes before she could talk herself down. She wasn’t even aware of moving, only the sensation of the fabric in her grip as she pressed him back into the ivy-draped stone wall.
He didn’t resist.
His hands braced on either side of her ribs, not quite touching, hovering just slightly—like if he laid a single finger on her, he’d lose what little restraint remained.
“Mon,” he warned, voice hoarse. She kissed him anyway.
Fury lived in her mouth. Grief, too. The betrayal of a thousand things unspoken. Beneath it all was the same need that had haunted her for years—him. His hands, his voice, his body, his damned silence.
Luthen didn’t hesitate after that.
He switched their positions and held her against the stone, kissing her like she was the last vow he’d ever make. Her lips opened under his with a gasp, and suddenly he was devouring her like something sacred and starving. Their mouths were brutal—biting, teasing, tasting. It wasn’t tender. There was nothing sweet about it. It was the years they'd shared set on fire.
He grabbed the edge of her veil and tugged it loose, his hands threading through her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head. She moaned into his mouth, low and quiet.
“Say it,” he whispered against her throat. “Tell me you hate me.”
“I do,” she hissed. She’d gotten his shirt open, hands dragging down his chest. “You turned me into this.”
“You were already this,” he said, squeezing her ass roughly before rucking up her skirt.
Her dress slipped off one shoulder, and his breath caught when moonlight revealed the pale skin beneath. Mon clawed at his belt, and Luthen groaned when she found him hard, aching and furious. She pressed against him through layers of fabric, demanding.
“You’re mine,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she gasped. “And you’re poison.”
“Then drink me.”
Their mouths met again, and he pressed her harder into the wall, shielding her from view with his body. Her leg hitched around his hip as she let the rest of her bodice slide down past her breasts. He wasted no time in cupping them with his hands while plundering her mouth. Somewhere, faintly, she heard the distant purr of music and the laughter of intoxicated dignitaries. No one would come. Even if they did, they’d assume it was part of the festivities. Luthen slipped a hand between her thighs and growled at how ready she was for him. She bit his shoulder hard to stay quiet.
“Fuck, Mon—” he choked.
The first thrust was punishment—for the months they’d spent apart, for Tay, for Leida, for every life they bought with blood. But she met him with equal force, teeth clenched, nails raking down his back. She wanted to mark him. To remind him whose soul he carried like a talisman.
The garden around them melted into scent and shadow. Somewhere in the maze, others were crying out in pleasure, in ritual. But no one else was like them. No one else burned like this. There were no more words, only heat and movement as they lost themselves in each other again, not as penance or forgiveness—but as the truest, filthiest confession of their lives.
She didn’t speak right away, after. Neither did he. They stayed in the dark, breathing in the scent of crushed blossoms and sweat and what they’d just done. Eventually, he pulled her veil back up to cover her shoulders with reverence, his fingers shaking. She caught his wrist to stop him from trying to get her combs back in place.
“I’ll still hate you in the morning,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, languorous. “Good. I wouldn’t believe it if you didn’t.”
Notes:
I got the sense that there was a distancing between Mon and Luthen after the wedding. They perhaps avoided each other between then and when they next interacted at the Sculdun party, hence Luthen’s forward thinking recruitment of Erskin to keep tabs on Mon. I think we are nearing the end of this fic, but we’ll see.
Thanks for reading!! Comments are delightful :)
Chapter 8
Notes:
Here we are folks. The end of my first Mon/Luthen fic: one that I feel I clumsily navigated my way through but had a blast writing. Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments and encouragement for this rare pair! I'm not huge into the Star Wars canon lore but I sure enjoyed exploring it through Andor and these two characters. I hope I turned at least one other person onto this pairing and that more folks join in writing for them! I’ll go down with this ship, even if I’m the only one on it LOL. I should also thank marianamreza for the helpful nudge to finish this fic.
Would love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined, and I'm very open to feedback on my character development, since when I started writing this fic I was so new to the fandom.
Next I'll be focusing on my other Mon/Luthen fic "Never Let Me Go" as well as another Mon/Luthen modern AU that I won't say much more about, other than I'm REALLY excited to share it with anyone interested in this pairing when it's finished.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The safehouse was quiet—just the low hum of the air recycler and the distant echo of traffic far above. Mid-cycle light slanted through the wide, dusty windows and painted everything in gold. Luthen lay on his back, sweat drying along his collarbone, one hand folded behind his head. Mon was curled against him, skin warm, breath even. He could feel the shape of her thigh against his hip, bare and smooth beneath the thin sheet. They had an hour but she wasn’t sleeping. Of course not.
“Why is your mind still moving?” he murmured.
“I’m wondering what happened to the Teydor stockpile from the Outer Rim seizures,” she replied, her voice a soft lilt against his shoulder. “Those crates held over forty thousand detonite charges. The Empire designated them as lost during transfer between Daro and the Jabiim corridor, but we both know that’s nonsense. They're using them somewhere.”
Luthen exhaled. “You just had the best orgasm of your life and your follow-up is detonite logistics?”
She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair falling back away from her face. “I’m serious. You know better than anyone that supply chain failures can end entire campaigns.”
“Oh, I don’t disagree. I just find your choice of post-coital pillow talk concerning.” He rolled toward her, catching her waist with one hand beneath the sheet. “I think this is your kink, Senator.”
“Don't be absurd,” she said, but her lips twitched.
“I’m not judging.” He pitched his voice low, leaning into his natural timbre. “You want to talk about which side kept control of the hyperspace lane junctions at Saleucami? I’ll put my mouth wherever you want while you do it.”
She laughed, an unguarded, breathless thing. “You’re insufferable!” She leaned down slowly, pressing her mouth to his throat. “And you’re impossible to distract.”
“I’ll remind you that last time you were droning on about the Ord Mantell ration failure.”
She gasped against his skin. “That was strategic context.”
Luthen let out a low groan and dragged her closer. “You drive me to madness, you know that?”
“I think you were born mad,” she whispered. “I just helped you organize the madness into actionable phases.”
“Of course you did,” he said, flipping her onto her back with practiced ease.
She let him, because she always let him when it was like this—tension coiled beneath the laughter, her body burning under his, her tongue still chasing the taste of rebellion even while his hands mapped every curve of her.
The light fractured. The safehouse dissolved. Her voice, once tethered to breath and skin, scattered into thin air.
He reached for her.
And woke up.
2 BBY
Luthen was in his bunk aboard the Fondor, sweat gathered at his temples. The dark was thick around him, save for the blinking red diode from the comm relay panel. He didn’t speak or move, just let the silence settle over him like dust.
It was a dream, a memory from those earlier days before the cause had taken so much from her. When she could smile at him and exchange stupid jokes in the cocoon of that damned safehouse. It left him hollow now, knowing the spirit of that time would never be, could never be reclaimed.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, pressing his hands over his face. Ghorman’s planetary ring rotated slowly outside the viewport, streaking the stars with faint, silent movement. A whole world embroiled in horrific violence, that he had partly facilitated.
He couldn’t afford dreams like this. Not with her speech on the horizon. Not with the ISB circling. Not with death as the most likely outcome for all of them.
Still, he thought of her face. Of the last time in that safehouse.
Hours later on the way back to Coruscant, Luthen stood at the main console in the Fondor’s cockpit, eyes fixed on the encryption matrix blooming across the holoscreen. The message had come in just before dawn, a low-priority data packet flagged for routine review.
Only three people in the network used that coding structure. Only one of them worked from the Senate. Luthen keyed in the response protocol manually.
The text was decrypted.
SHE’S WRITING AGAIN. LONG HOURS, LOTS OF CAF. FIRST DRAFT NEARLY DONE.
WON’T LET ANYONE READ IT YET.
PER HER REQUEST, ORGANA IS ALREADY SCHEDULING FLIGHT LOGS FOR “VISITOR TRAFFIC” TO CHANDRILA 2 DAYS FROM NOW.
CAN’T CONFIRM EXFIL DETAILS, BUT BELIEVE SHE’S MOVING SOON.
SHE’S GOING TO DO IT.
— E
So it was real. She was going through with it. Mon Mothma was going to light the match on the Senate floor, she was their final bet on which all their aspirations rested.
Kleya would be furious. She’d warned him not to trust Erskin too deeply. But Erskin wasn’t a field agent. He was a bureaucrat with an honest face and a love of Chandrilan poetry, which made him perfect. No one suspected the clerk who always had Mon’s caf order memorized.
Luthen sat down in the pilot’s seat, spine stiff with tension.
He could see her, sitting at her Senate office desk in some soft shawl, night cycle bleeding through the windows, writing with that pinched brow she always wore when angry and afraid. His fingers closed into a fist. She was about to become the public face of dissent. No more shadows. No more deniability. This speech would be her formal break from the Empire. Once it was done, she’d be marked. Everything she told him about the Delegation of 2,000 came back to him now, all that she endured then and ever since. She was about to do it again, voluntarily, on a scale far beyond what she herself probably could have ever imagined. Just a woman using her voice on behalf of untold millions.
He keyed into the encrypted uplink and recorded a message for Kleya.
“It’s happening. She’s going to make the speech. I need you to confirm our emergency exit plan for the Senate rotunda. Our contact says there’s a team planning a cover, but I want redundancy. We go in quietly. No marks, no names.”
He sent it, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling of the cockpit, letting the silence press down on him.
He’d dreamed of her just before Erskin’s message came in. That wasn’t a coincidence. It never was with her. Even the Force, if such a thing existed, seemed to understand that Mon Mothma haunted him like no ghost ever could. She was going to do it. By the stars, he’d do whatever it took to make sure she could.
The meeting point was a derelict tram platform deep in Level 262, where the only sound was the slow drip of condensation and the metallic scurry of vermin. Luthen waited alone, shoulders hunched against the ambient chill, the fingers of his left hand ghosting near the hidden blaster beneath his coat. He didn’t expect trouble. But he always expected betrayal.
The door across the track hissed open. Lonni Jung stepped through, still in uniform, face drawn and damp with sweat. No time for cover tonight.
“You’re lucky I came,” Lonni muttered.
Luthen ignored him, there was no time for this dance. “Tell me about Organa’s people.”
Lonni blinked. “What?”
“Are they still viable for the Senator’s exfiltration?”
The man hesitated, which was answer enough.
Luthen stepped closer, voice lowering to a near-growl. “I need details. Now.”
Lonni scanned the shadows, then spoke quickly. “The ISB has a human intel asset embedded in the crew arranging false diplomatic flight manifests and security rotations for the Senator’s post-speech evac.”
“One of yours?”
Lonni nodded. “They’re embedded deep and were recently tasked to run interference by Organa’s team in preparation—clean comm logs, create false telemetry records.”
“Name?”
“I can’t give you that.”
“Then tell me what they’ve done.”
“They flagged their pilot roster to the ISB. Said someone on Organa’s team keeps rerouting starport requests to the same corridor node near Fonderen Lane. Too many redundancies. Too neat. ISB sniffed it out—now they’re planning to intercept.”
“When?”
“Day of the speech. They’re planning to hit the evac route after the broadcast, make it look like a transport accident. Quiet. Blame the techs or the crowd panic. Alternatively, they may not let her get that far, might arrest her on sight.”
Luthen’s pulse raced but his voice stayed calm. “They’re waiting for her to speak. They know she’s planning something.”
Lonni nodded grimly. “They want her on record. Treason in her own voice. Once that’s done, they’ll move.”
Luthen turned away, jaw tightening. Lonni’s voice softened. “Look—you can’t run a rescue through Organa. If she tries to walk out that door with his people, she won’t make it off-planet either way.”
“And your asset?” Luthen asked. “Can you burn them?”
Lonni shook his head. “If I pull them now, ISB will know I tipped. I’ll lose my clearance.” He didn't have to outline the worst case scenario, it breathed down both their necks every minute of every day.
“And if I kill them?”
“That’s your choice,” Lonni said quietly. “But you’ll only get one shot.”
Luthen stared down the rails. His reflection warped in the oxidized metal, not quite human. “I’ll take care of it.”
She was alone, practicing her speech in the darkened Senate plaza, exactly where he told Erskin to send her. The plaza was empty, its great arches shrouded in darkness, the air carrying only the hum of distant repulsors. Here in the shadowed edge where she stood, the night almost seemed to hold its breath. He walked toward her purposefully, never taking his eyes off her silhouette outlined in Coruscant’s endless industrial glow. A pale figure draped in white against the plaza’s backdrop, clutching at her datapad like a lifeline. She looked like a statue they’d forgotten to place in the rotunda.
Luthen stepped out of the shadows. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Mon didn’t startle. She knew his gait too well. “You shouldn’t be here at all,” She shot back. She turned slowly, the lines of her face hard in the half-light. “I like the quiet before the storm,” She lowered her datapad in one hand. “It’s all I have left for myself.”
“You won’t have much more of that after tomorrow.” He said. He didn’t meet her eyes at first, he surveyed the plaza, the high facades of the government buildings, the distant figures retreating to the Senate offices. “Bail Organa’s team is burned. You won’t make it out if you go with them.”
He had her attention now. She looked at him with consternation, then resignation, because of course he moved at a pace that had him several steps ahead of her, a dance partner moving to a new beat she couldn’t hear.
“How burned?” She asked quietly.
“Past the point of trust. If you go with them, you’ll be in a cell before sunset tomorrow or worse. What I’m telling you cannot be shared. I’ve arranged for one of mine to take you after your speech—someone I trust. Someone I know I can trust.”
Mon considered his words, searching his face for something. He was struck by the strangeness of this liminal space, how it felt like they were finally hurtling toward that which they’d dedicated so much of themselves to for so long. He wondered if she felt it too, the sense of an era drawing to a close to give way to a brave new world. If she dreaded it as much as she welcomed it.
“There’s something I need to know, first.” She intoned gravely, casting her eyes down for a beat before fixing him with an urgent expression. “Tell me Tay Kolma is dead. Do you remember him? My childhood friend?”
He looked at her for a long moment. This wasn’t a subject he expected her to raise and he found himself on the back foot. She advanced toward him, voice accusatory. “Tell me he’s dead, Luthen. Tell me you did it. Because if you didn’t, I want to know why.”
He didn’t answer, he wanted to hear her illuminate her thoughts behind this line of questioning before formulating his response.
Mon drew a breath like it burned her. “A few months ago I received an automated notification from Chandrila’s regional accountancy board. Apparently, Tay’s name was quietly removed from three corporate registries. No audit. No fines. He sold everything, then he vanished. All this right after Leida’s wedding, but I’ve only just found out about it because of his involvement with my charities.”
Still, Luthen said nothing. He kept his face unreadable but she knew him too well. She knew the set of his shoulders when he was bracing for impact.
“You spared him,” she said, stunned. A beat passed.
“He was sloppy,” Luthen said. “Was going to bring everything down, draw too much scrutiny toward you—”
Her eyes gleamed—sharp, angry, questioning—as she cut him off, “Then why is he living quietly in some Mid Rim backwater under one of your fabricated identities?” When his eyes darted to hers in alarm, she chuckled darkly. “You’re not the only one with useful informants.”
Luthen inclined his head, acknowledging her point. He settled for, “Because I needed you to stay clean.”
“Don’t—” Her voice trembled. “Don’t you dare make this about protecting me.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I did it because if you thought I killed him, you’d hate me. You’d believe it was just another trade—another ruthless cut. I wanted you to believe that.”
Mon swallowed, astounded by the clarity of the admission. “You let me think you were a monster.”
“I am a monster,” he said softly. “Yavin needs your leadership. You must be above these petty human foibles, they must look to you as a beacon in the times to come. I could give that to you, Mon. I don’t know everything but I know what I owe you. The best thing I can do for you now, is give you an out, and give you distance.”
She closed the space between them but didn’t touch him. “I never wanted to be another burden to you. You never gave me the chance to trust you. To really, fully trust you.”
Luthen looked away, jaw tight. They breathed together for a moment, both knowing that every second past was a second more than they had before the risk of being in the plaza together grew too great.
“Bail’s team is compromised. Alright. Then what do I do?” She asked, returning to the most pressing matter. He was close enough to take her hand, but refrained and refocused on the contingencies Kleya helped him map out.
“My operative will meet you in the Rotunda, after your speech. You’ll ask if he’s alone. He’ll say: I have friends everywhere.”
A faint breeze caught at her long white vest, and this time he did reach out to grasp at the fabric as if to steady her. His fingers moved gently to her arm and lingered a fraction too long before dropping it back to his side, missing what it was like to touch her. It was so brief a second, but he thought he felt her lean ever so lightly into his hand.
“I’ll go with your operative.” She said finally.
He let his relief show. “It’s the only way you walk out alive.”
“Come with me.”
Not much surprised him anymore, but that did. He looked at her in disbelief. “You know I can’t.”
“Then meet me there. When you’re finished with this place.” She was the one to breach the last bit of distance between them, take his hand where it was hidden in the folds of his dark cloak. Her grip was certain, her thumb pressing into his callused palm. “Promise me.”
He gave a rough, short laugh, but he didn’t let go. “You’re bargaining for my life now?”
“You deserve to live in the light, Luthen. Nothing will ever be as hard as hiding as we have, all these years…”
For a brief moment, neither spoke. He had to break her gaze eventually, finding the hope on her face painful to look at for too long.
“Is this goodbye then?” Mon whispered, her breath hitching as her eyes grew too bright. Her hand tightened its hold on his.
His gaze locked back on hers, unblinking. “No. Just for now.” His words were fierce enough to believe, but they both knew better. She let go first. The separation landed like a blow to the chest. He watched her walk the lone path to her office, until she disappeared from his sight.
Notes:
Writing this was tough for me, especially the espionage bits. Hopefully the stuff with Lonni sort of made sense? I also couldn’t remember where in the timeline it was that Luthen physically went to Ghorman, so forgive me for that inaccuracy if it’s particularly heinous. I was very tempted to continue writing an arc where Luthen survives and gets to Yavin with Kleya, but ultimately I think his end in canon was the more poignant way to go, as angsty as it is for Mon in this AU.
Anyway, thanks again for reading!
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