Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, nor any of the other characters. If I did, Mara would never have gotten sick, Borsk Fey'lya would have died a traitorous, bloody, prolonged death, and none of our favorite characters would ever age. (I have problems imagining a 50 yr + Han Solo and an old Leia and Luke…and Mara…dear gods…)
A/N: Takes place…well, sometime before Specter of the Past. Alternate Universe. I'll let you all decide when you want this to happen.
You see him watching you from the corner of your eye. He is standing in a group of diplomats, all vying for his attention. You know that none of their questions are particularly important—these low-life's just want to be able to go home and tell everyone that they spoke to Jedi Skywalker, and did you know what he said to me? He's engaged in polite conversation with some tall Twi'lek, her skin a shade of sea green that is considered lovely to the species. To you, it would look like she is seasick. You notice that his eyes never meet hers. His icy eyes are watching you. It is unnerving.
You clear your throat and purposely look away fro him. The two men near you turn towards you in expectation. Did you want to say anything?
Thinking back to what the conversation had been about, you offer, "I believe that Connel Aidel did an exceptional job on that. Not many Barabels would listen to a human, unless he was Jedi, of course." Aidel had managed to keep a deranged Barabel from detonating the Senate Chamber during one of the sessions. His victory brought new attention down on the smuggling community, and this time not negative views. You'd already been congratulated for discovering him and bringing him into your employer's smuggling ring a few years earlier. He had been a long shot, but your small sacrifice had certainly paid off. And that was all smugglers and traders cared about, right?
Your employer nods in agreement, but you notice that he is watching you carefully. Did he know something was bothering you? Someone who didn't know you well might not have realized it, but he did. Your attention was not on the conversation but on something on the other end of the ballroom. Damn, how could you be so transparent? You can see him surreptitiously glancing in the direction you'd been looking. Well, he'd wanted you to come, which was the only reason you'd attended this reception. If not for your employer, then you wouldn't be voluntarily this close to Skywalker.
The gentleman he'd been speaking to took his leave, and Talon grabbed two tall thin glasses of New Alderaanian champagne. He hands one to you, his second-in-command.
"What's bothering you?" he asks quietly. He glances around, keeping a pleasant expression on his face.
"Nothing," you answer. "I've just never enjoyed these receptions." You force a small laugh. "I guess that means I'm not cut out to be a politician, then. I think they live off of these things."
"I wouldn't be able to see you as a politician, Mara. You'd rather skewer these people on your lightsaber than smile at them."
"Agreed. I'd never make a good diplomat. Well, damn. There goes my life ambition."
"But, truthfully. Something's on your mind. What is it?"
You turn, a mask of amusement already fixed on your face, but you can't hide the disgust as you see one of your least favorite people walking towards you and Talon. You lift the champagne glass to your lips and gulp the entire glass in one swallow.
"Master Karrde, I didn't expect to see you this soon," the roguish gambler smiled, oozing charm. He turns to you. You don't bother hiding your disdain for the dark-skinned man in front of you. He was impeccably dressed in a deceptively simple crimson tunic with gold trim and black pants that you are sure cost him more than what you pay on clothing, ever. The gambler and now (sort of) respectable businessman snatched two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter droid. He tried to hand one to you.
"I already have one," you tell him, holding up your blue-tinted glass.
"But it's empty. Here's a full one."
"I don't want it." You place your own glass on one of the banquet tables and walk away.
As soon as you know you are far enough from Lando Calrissian, you stop. Why did Calrissian always have to come to these things? you ask yourself. At the same time another part of your mind sighs that at least he had good timing. You never realized you were so obviously distracted. How did Talon know?
You exit the ballroom quickly, and the voices from the hundreds of beings become only whispers as you ascend the white stone steps toward one of the balconies. The main balcony, lower than this one, was always crowded, since it lead immediately into the orchestra pit and the not-so-sober guests did not have to climb any stairs. You could still hear the voices of all the individuals up here still, but you are glad to be away from them all. You hate it when he stares at you like that. The cool breeze brushed your hair from your face, pulling even more from the silver clasp that it had been kept back with. The voices from below grew quiet and you could hear the faint music beginning, so far below.
You shouldn't have come. You can't stand to see him so soon after admitting that you and he were over. Your year and a half together would never be forgotten, at least to you; sneaking around on dozens of planets and scoffing at the sludge news articles that mentioned your relationship. But after a little less than two years…you can't stand to be near him, knowing that it was over. Huh, girl, you think to yourself. Tonight would have been your second anniversary.
You find yourself swaying to the soft music. You remember teaching him to dance. He'd caught on so quickly, the farmboy earnestness concentrated entirely on you. Several times you and he would just stay in your hotel room and dance.
You don't want it to be over. You never did. But you don't want him to feel guilty. Guilty that he couldn't tell his sister.
You had been concentrating on your thoughts and the beautiful sight of Imperial Center…uh, Coruscant, that you nearly jump when someone touched your bare shoulder. You turn, already knowing who was there. An Alderaanian waltz began down in the chamber.
"One last dance?" he asks you softly. He gently unclasps your hair, letting it fall down your back. He always preferred it down, and to tell the truth, so do you.
"Sure." Your voice is soft. You'd always lied to yourself. You missed this, missed him. You never wanted to hurt him.
Your mouth is dry as he holds you close and you both fall easily into the rhythm of the steps you know so well. His concentration is fully on you, but you don't mind. After all, he was the only person you saw as well.
Neither of you ever notice the couple making their way up the staircase, the sister who'd come to talk to her brother about his recent indifferent behavior and her ex-smuggler husband.
One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four…
When his lips met yours, you smile.
Maybe this wasn't the last dance after all.