Three Kisses (and other clichés)
Characters: Luke Skywalker, Mara Jade
Setting: Following The Last Command
No profit is made from this story, alas. Written for fun only, all credit for characters and universe to Lucas et al.
The first time he kissed her, it was on the roof of Imperial Palace. The sun was setting, and there was an edge of light in his eyes, hard to see through. She moved her head a certain way, her eyes and hair lit with the dying sun, and it seemed perfectly natural that he lean in and bring his lips to hers. There was a moment, then. Mara stilled, frozen. He was afraid briefly, though he was not sure what, exactly, he feared, but Mara made no further movement beyond tilting her chin slightly. She didn't return the kiss, but nor did she push him away.
The moment had only lasted the space of a heartbeat, long enough for him to lean in, brush her lips with his own, and be surprised at his own impulsiveness, springing from nowhere after so long. Then he was leaning back, taking his hand away, removing his presence from Mara's space, undoing the intrusion.
Mara didn't look angry, insofar as he could tell. She didn't look awed, either, or particularly grateful. Her eyes were half-lidded, absent, her gaze somehow both present and very far away.
There was an awkward beat of a few moments, filled with silence. Luke wondered, should he speak? Should he wait for her to do so? Was there an etiquette for this?
"Uh," he said, "I—"
"Huh," she said, her eyes still far away, and she turned and left.
The second time he kissed her was outside some banquet in someone's honour, on a hidden balcony in the soft light spilling from the hall. It was less of a surprise then the first time, but still not planned by any measure; he saw only the way her eyes held his, the way her lips turned, and it was right in that moment to kiss her, because in that moment he wanted her like he hadn't wanted anything for a long time.
He thought she responded this time, just a little, barely enough to be felt, but then she pulled away, leaving him standing, hands in empty air, abandoned on uncertain ground.
She didn't say anything this time, not even that strange small non-word she'd uttered before; she just looked at him, eyes dark and thoughtful, and then returned to the ball.
The third time, she kissed him.
She was in his small apartment in the sprawling east wing of Imperial Palace, visiting for a slap-dash training session in Force techniques that ended up more reciprocal than Luke thought true instructional sessions were supposed to be; there was no denying, however, that Mara had studied her particular skill sets with far more thoroughness and detail than he'd ever had opportunity to with Yoda or Ben in his own training. It rankled a little when she kept interrupting him to question his technique or to challenge the basics of his method, but he recognised that the situation was strange for her and accepted this as her way of reconciling to it.
Dimly he realised there was some kind of power instinct at work here: that he, briefly in the role of teacher, held more information, and information was power; Mara was challenging that, because she could never sit comfortably without challenging everything she possibly could, and because it was an extension of the tug-and-pull weaving its way between them.
They covered some lightsaber technique, a spilling give-and-take of knowledge, and Luke was aware of how much physicality was involved: very much aware of it, in the tight, economical grace with which Mara moved, in her arms, in her legs, her hands, her shoulders.
They argued about the best way to face a taller opponent. They argued about the best way to cut through a door. They argued about the effectiveness of the lightsaber as a weapon. Luke corrected her hold for the third form, and then she criticised his technique for blocking a slash parry. They argued about that.
They argued about Leia's ideas for the smuggler's alliance. They argued about what C'baoth had planned with his new empire, and whether he was right about the public opinion of Jedi. They argued about the colour of the shades Leia had given Luke for his windows, which he'd never actually gotten around to putting up.
When she kissed him, it came as a surprise, though perhaps it shouldn't have. He was leaning across her to demonstrate the most effective way of calling a lightsaber to hand with the Force – not in her personal space, exactly, but for a moment he wondered when they'd become comfortable enough that such a casual gesture was acceptable – when she put her hand on his shoulder and moved her head and her lips were on his.
Luke paused, as his position was somewhat awkward, his weight off-centre, his hand hanging in the air. After a moment he dropped his hand to her arm, where her jumpsuit was sleek against his palm over the firmness of muscle beneath.
Mara was oddly tentative to begin with, so unlike her that he thought it had more to do with a general policy of cautiousness in unfamiliar territory than any notion of shyness. Then her hand moved, her arm tightening around him, and somehow it was natural for him to be even closer and her weight was warm and she was no longer tentative but confident, but he wasn't tentative anymore either and his hand was touching her hair, stray loose tendrils tickling the centre of his palm, her pulse beating strongly against the tip of his fingers.
They parted, close enough that her breath was warm on his face, his body flush against hers, her arm around his shoulders, his fingers caught in her hair.
Luke wasn't inexperienced with women, not in the strictest sense of the word. But it was an aspect of his life he'd set aside for varying reasons, some conscious and some only barely-realised. It was strange now to be ambushed with this, with Mara and their complicated interactions and the swell of all the things he felt for her, to find himself stumbling in the dark, having no idea where he was going beyond the fact that she made him feel things he hadn't felt in a while, that she engaged and frustrated him like no one else could, that he wanted her near.
"This is not the best idea," he said to her. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his body, the rhythmic beat of her pulse against his fingers, taste her breath on his lips.
"You think?" she said, sarcasm twisting the edge of her lips minutely.
"I tend to sabotage my relationships for one reason or another," Luke said. "Really, it's not a good idea."
"It won't work," Mara agreed. "There's far too much in the way."
Luke looked at her. He hadn't moved; neither had she. He could smell her, a certain scent he'd gotten used to without realising he had done so. Warm, edged in something he couldn't identify, tickling his nose like an edge of spice.
"It won't work," he repeated. "But maybe that's all right."
Mara touched his face. Her fingers weren't soft, too calloused from firing blasters and piloting ships and wielding lightsabers. Her eyes, though, seemed oddly gentle. She said, "Maybe it is."
The fourth time he kissed her, in his apartment, alone, in the dark, and he didn't bother to hold anything back.
- end -