The Republic has fallen.
In the final days of the Clone Wars, Chancellor Palpatine died under mysterious circumstances. With the Senate struggling to retain a sense of unity, it was the perfect time for the Separatists to strike. And strike they did...
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Ahsoka really hated her ballgown – if the ornate scraps of deep purple fabric twisting down her back from her shoulders and into a slitted skirt at her hips even fell under the definition of 'gown'. The only thing solid about the construction was the matching bandeau pressing her breasts tight to her chest; the rest of her felt like she was one stiff breeze away from billowing out like a solar sail and flying away. She'd just have to hope that if it came to that, the excessive amount of golden jewelry adorning her arms and montrals would be enough to weigh her down.
Still, there was something kind of nice about getting ready for a fancy party. Lux's excitement was contagious, and memories of Padmé fussing over Ahsoka's borrowed gown at that ball on Alderaan were never far from her mind. Even closer – and more painful to think about – were the times she and Anakin had been invited to diplomatic functions on Coruscant. They'd only ever wanted to go as themselves, without even the very modest frills of Jedi dress robes, but Anakin had always loved a change in routine. Especially if said change meant ready access to quality spirits.
Ahsoka could still remember the feeling of his hair between her fingers when, on one occasion, he'd had her help him fashion it into four neatly braided rows on the sides of his head while the rest of it hung free. She wondered what he'd say to the heavy makeup that had been slathered on her face. A smile crossed her lips. She didn't have to wonder. She already knew; she could almost hear his laughter.
Longing made her stomach clench, and her smile faded. The mission, the voice of reason hissed at her, seizing the opening. Remember your mission. These things are of Lux's world, not yours. The sooner you focus, the sooner you can see Anakin again.
She'd nearly finished scrubbing the makeup off again when Lux and his retinue – his servant Dakharen and a trio of guards – showed up in the mirror of his suite's large refresher. Ahsoka winced. Her eyes were red and puffy with the effort of trying to dislodge whatever darkening agent the servants had put on her lashes, and the water still dripping from her face made it look like she'd just been crying.
Apparently, the last vestiges of her makeup were waterproof. Kriff.
Despite the mess, he lit up when he saw her, affection and warmth coming off him in waves she didn't need the Force to sense. Ahsoka's lekku heated up. Lux, of course, looked radiant, eyelids dusky with kohl and smile bright. His cheeks were powdered with light sheens to accentuate the plains and shadows and to soften the curves, and beneath it all, an excited flush of his own was blooming.
"We match."
Ahsoka snorted, eyeing his clothing – particularly the way his tunic fit around his hips. His outfit certainly covered more skin than hers did. "Do we? Do we really?"
"We both have capes," he pointed out.
Ahsoka ran a skeptical hand down her back, following the complex way her cape – if it could be called a cape – folded into the back of her skirt with her fingers. "Does this even count?"
