fod dy galon yn y chwyldro (star wars | amilyn/leia)

[fiachairecht]

fod dy galon yn y chwyldro. star wars sequels, amilyn/leia. the contradictions and comforts of resistance politics. 487w, rated t.

"Would you hate me," Leia says contemplatively, "if I said I had missed this?" She runs the brush through the tail of her braid one last time, frowning as it curls the opposite direction from what she'd meant.

"No?" When Leia looks over Amilyn's brow is furrowed in concern, like she can't understand where the question had come from at all. The worry is entirely at odds with the rest of her posture, the way she's perfected the art of lounging against the pillows on their bed so the shimmersilk and lace of her gown flows navy and gold across the sheets without wrinkling at all. Her own hair is perfectly behaved, and Leia would be jealous if the blue wasn't so breathtakingly gorgeous on her.

Leia sighs, gives up on the brush and sets it down with perhaps more force than necessary. "It's just ... again. I never thought we'd have to get used to war again." Politics never would stop for war, but a state dinner on Lonera in the middle of planning a rebellion was ... well. It was a contrast, rough as her silken shirt against her calloused hands.

"You're not used to it," Amilyn says plainly, understanding what Leia isn't quite saying. "If you were you'd stop caring, and that's not you." She opens her arms wide and Leia goes to her without hesitation, gingerly settling herself so she's not sitting on Amilyn's skirts.

But Amilyn hugs her close, earlier care for lack of wrinkles abandoned. Leia almost thinks about protesting — their clothes, the time — but Amilyn's embrace is the first thing to ease the knot of worry in her stomach all day, and she gives in and relaxes into the warmth, thankful at least that she hadn't put her suit jacket on yet.

"Remember what I told you about happiness?" Amilyn asks, gently kissing the top of her head.

"Our moral imperative," Leia grins ruefully, blinking through a haze of blue curls. "When did your hair get so long?"

"All the better to hide you, my dear." Amilyn's fingers are teasing at her waistband as Leia tips her head up to capture her lips in a proper kiss, one that leaves her breathless and almost entirely convinced that she should be allowed to enjoy one night out of the shadows.

And Amilyn's right — under the curtain of her hair, it almost feels like nothing in the galaxy exists apart from them. Almost.

"You're still thinking too sadly," Amilyn informs her when they separate, and shifts them so they're lying face to face.

Leia winces as her ring catches on the lace overlay of Amilyn's bodice. "Your dress—"

"Then you'd better take it off me, Princess." Amilyn's smile is wickedly, impossibly adoring. "Varish won't mind if we're late."

Leia's much less sure of that, but as Amilyn's fingers make quick work of her buttons, she finds she doesn't have it in her to argue.