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separatist-apologist · 2 years ago

Text

no gods. no religion.

Just bad, bad decisions

Summary: Galactic Senator Elain Archeron knows her ex-fiance is financing a crime syndicate. All she needs to oust him is a little proof.

And, of course, a pilot.

The prompt: SENATOR ELAIN AND FLYBOY LUCIEN

Part 1/2 | read on ao3 (OR GIVE ME A KISS)

12k words, but this is STILL A DRABBLE

Elain Archeron required a pilot.

Well—not technically a pilot, but a soldier, really. But someone who could fly better than most, who knew how to be discreet, and perhaps most importantly, could fire in a straight line. She didn’t know many in the naval academy, but she did know her sister. General Archeron, the woman who had turned down ruling a planet in favor of military service, was the exact kind of woman Elain had been hoping for when she’d gone to her sister.

“I need to know the true scope of the Nolan’s involvement,” Elain had whispered. Nesta could have sneered, could have narrowed her eyes and asked if this was just a personal vendetta. After all, she and Count Nolan’s son had been engaged. And it was known well enough she was angry about how things had ended.

She’d won her election and he’d left her, despite supporting her campaign publicly for months. And Elain had learned it had been, in her fiance’s eyes, nothing more than an amusement for him. He hadn’t expected her to actually win. He’d thought she’d lose dismally, marry him, and finally settle down on his country estate, raising babies while he did the true politicking.

Now they shared the same air in the Senate and things were tense. Sure, she’d been upset for the first couple months, but with the help of several friendly staffers, Elain had begun to think Graysen had done her a massive favor.

She hadn’t known just how filthy his hands were, or how well connected to criminal syndicates his fortune was. Nor did she want to believe he’d help terrorists ship deadly weapons, pumping the republic full of modified blasters capable of cutting through all but a lightsaber. Meanwhile, Graysen waxed poetic about ridding the galaxy of criminals who obeyed nothing but their own greed.

All the while funding the Hybern Syndicate.

Elain just needed to know for herself. It was risky—not only was her life forfeit if one of Hybern’s mercenaries caught sight of her, but if Graysen learned what she was up to before she could compile an expose and rid democracy of grifters like the Nolans, she’d lose her seat, too.

“What do you know about…” Elain looked down at the data pad in her hand. Nesta had sent over her recommendation that morning with a note to meet just outside the hangars. “Lucien Vanserra.”

Her elder sister's lips quirked in not quite a smile. Nesta was as severe as ever, hair braided in a crown against her scalp. She wore the Naval white and orange, vest snug to her chest.

Holding up a hand, Nesta ticked off Vanserra’s qualities. “Discreet, quick on his feet, damn good pilot. That was what you wanted, right? He’s the best and he owes me a favor. Plus, he’s afraid of me, which means he won’t take unnecessary risks when it comes to your life. Do what he says, alright El? No matter how…arrogantly…he barks those orders?”

That didn’t sound promising.

“Does he know the mission?”

Nesta’s eyes swept over the massive, open hangar with distaste. To Elain, everything was running smoothly—pilots, mechanics, and other professionals bustled about, readying a wide array of ships to both fly in and out of port. A large viewport betrayed air command, setting courses and waving ships in and out. Elain could still recall growing up on Naboo and the advisors who used to joke there was no pleasing little Nesta Archeron. She’d been bred to be a Queen, so why wouldn’t she act any different? To Elain, Nesta’s straight spine and her unwillingness to accept anything but perfection always made sense.

What hadn’t was a moment of weakness—a man, sent from the Republic to meet the middle Archeron, diplomat to diplomat. Cassian Alonso was more rebel than anything. A man already when Nesta had only been nineteen. They’d taken one look at the other and that had been it. Elain still didn’t understand it a decade later. Nesta hadn’t wavered, though. She’d married Cassian and joined the Republic.

And now, instead of Queen, she was General Archeron. Elain wondered if her sister didn’t see them the same way.

“He knows enough,” Nesta finally said, cutting through Elain’s musings.

There was no opportunity to interrogate her sister further. They halted before a rather run down ship that seemed as if it must be fast, and able to take a beating. Sleek and pointed, with a little orange fox painted just over the ship's hull, Elain thought it was better than nothing. Far shabbier than her usual vehicles, and yet she knew she was in no position to complain. Not when her plan was going off without a hitch and someone was willing to help her.

A pair of legs hopped to the platform, landing with a grunting oof. The man who rose was much younger than Elain had been imagining in her head. He couldn’t have been two or three years older than her. Maybe as old as Nesta, but likely not by much.

“General,” he said respectfully, offering up a dimpled grin. He was a beautiful man despite the trio of scars running over his left eye, which had been replaced with a rather lovely golden cybernetic. The other was a nice shade of russet brown, flecked with just enough gold to catch the light.

Auburn red hair was half braided off his handsome face, allowing the rest to spill over broad shoulders wearing the same red and white vest her sister wore. She hoped he didn’t plan to keep his uniform, given how immediately noticeable it was. He seemed like the sort who could blend in under the right conditions, although maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“Vanserra,” her sister replied, ignoring how Lucien’s eyes immediately fell on her. Some of his easiness faded as he, too, drank her in. Obviously she wasn’t going to wear her heavy skirts, nor was she going to sport the elaborate updo she currently wore. It wasn’t like they were leaving today. Still, Elain couldn’t help but fidget under his disapproving gaze, her fingers crushing the velvet of her blush colored dress.

“My sister Elain.”

His smile returned, bright and hot like the sun. “Senator, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she replied stiffly.

He knew. From the way his expression sharpened, Elain knew he knew. Maybe not all of it, but he knew, just like Nesta had when Elain had first dumped all this in her lap, that Elain was still chasing after Graysen. She wanted to scream, to get on the holonet and tell the whole damn galaxy that she was over it. Graysen humiliated her on a grand stage and now the whole galaxy would forever believe she was nursing a broken heart.

Elain wouldn’t have taken him back even if he’d begged. He had no integrity, no heart, and if she was right about his underworld dealings, no soul, either. And what did that say about her, that she’d slept beside him for so many nights unaware the man she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with was a rotting cesspit of greed?

This wasn’t the place to ruminate on that.

“Nine am sharp, then?” he said, unaware of how much relief his words provided. Who cared if he thought her merely a scorned woman so long as he did what she wanted. Elain didn’t expect this man to understand.

“You got it,” she agreed, offering up her most practiced smile. His own faltered for a moment, his eyes taking on a strange, glassy quality.

“Vanserra!” her sister snapped. His head bowed, cheeks warming as pink crawled up his neck. Elain understood she had been dismissed and with a sunny smile and a wave to her sister, vanished out of the hangar without tripping on the hem of her dress.

Tomorrow. Elain would finally repay Graysen for what he’d done. Maybe she’d always be scorned, but at least she wouldn’t be the one sitting in a Republic prison.

And for someone who loved compromise, that was the best Elain could ask for.

LUCIEN:

“That’s your sister?”

Lucien looked up at his General, hoping his expression conveyed his reproach. He’d been imagining someone more like Nesta or Feyre…not…not….kriff. Elain Archeron was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. And when she smiled? Gods, but Lucien didn’t think this mission was a good idea anymore. All the things he loved when accepting an off the book mission—risky, unsanctioned, likely to end in death—seemed unreasonable in the light of Elain’s beautiful face.

“Keep it in your pants,” General Archeron snapped, though Lucien swore Nesta’s silvery blue eyes were filled with amusement. “She has that effect on everyone.”

Yeah, he bet. Lucien might have told Nesta to find another pilot had he not been sure that man would have fallen in love with her, too—and that was unacceptable to Lucien. Especially when he knew Nesta was likely to send her stealthies pilot and Azriel wouldn’t waste an opportunity like Elain Archeron.

“She seems…” like my future wife, though Lucien didn’t dare say that out loud. “Green.”

“She’s a junior Senator. Just…do this for her, okay?” Nesta said with an air of resignation. “I don’t expect much to come from it, but this is the liveliest she’s been in months.”

“Right,” he agreed, his mind racing. He hadn’t paid much attention to the dust up when Nolan and Archeron had split. Amiable, that was what he remembered. Clearly not if Elain was trying to link her former betrothed to a crime syndicate. Ballsy, too. Lucien liked that. If Elain was right, he hoped to be the pilot who helped take a corrupt Senator down. That sort of thing all but guaranteed him a promotion.

And a beautiful wife, if you’re smart about it.

Lucien was a strategic man. Lucien was a smart and patient man. And he wanted very few things out of his life, but he knew the minute Elain Archeron smiled at him, that he wanted her. Even if it made an enemy of Nesta and even if it meant a lifetime of rubbing elbows with politicians.

Lucien was willing to sacrifice for her.

It was an exhilarating feeling.

“Nothing is to happen to my sister. No matter how persuasive she is or what promises she makes you Commander. Remember that my sister has been trained from birth to be a politician. She could convince anyone to do anything she asks with a few smiles.”

Yeah, Lucien believed that.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Lucien said, hoping he sounded convincing and not desperate. “I spent a month with Feyre, remember?”

Nesta was polite enough not to remind Lucien how he and Feyre had managed to set an ancient estate ablaze under his watchful eye. Still, she let him go with only minimal threats, which Lucien thought spoke to his skill. There were likely very few people Nesta Archeron entrusted her sisters to, and he’d been tasked with both. That filled Lucien with warm pride, buoying him long enough to make traversing the Coruscant markets for all the creature comforts a Senator was likely accustomed to.

Lucien’s last assignment had been a month with a Jedi. That, he thought, had been far easier given the man wanted very little. Lucien suspected Elain wouldn’t be content to live off supply bars and sleep on the cold, durasteel floors.

Lucien spent more money than he might have, and when he was finished, submitted his receipts through his datapad to Nesta for reimbursement. If the amount irritated his General, she didn’t say—all Lucien’s credits had been returned before he made it back to The Fighting Fox.

Lucien set his things away, clearing space in the small Captain’s quarters for Elain. He’d make do in one of the swinging hammocks just outside the cockpit. The room he offered her was small—the bed took up most of the available walking space, and the closet was really three drawers stacked atop each other. She had a viewport, though, and a short walk to the shared ‘fresher. Lucien even swapped out the soap dispensers for something nicer, something a shopkeeper assured him women loved.

With nothing left to do, Lucien kicked his boots up over the dash, pulled his data pad from his pocket, and decided to do some recon. All good missions started that way…and if it meant he got to study his soon-to-be wife, well, all the better for him.

Lucien learned several things about Elain Archeron. She was a spit-fire. Feisty and passionate all under the demure, beautiful face that had stunned him into silence for perhaps the first time in his life. He got caught up watching speech after impassioned speech, occasionally rewinding to listen to a particular turn of phrase a second time.

And Graysen, the Senator supposedly financing the Hybern Syndicate, was every bit as clever as the woman he’d let go. Lucien studied him, too, though he was far more critical than he was of Elain. Lucien, by virtue of growing up with an elder brother who was, perhaps, one of the wiliest politician’s the galaxy had ever seen, knew what a liar looked like. Graysen was adept at saying so much without saying anything at all, and yet it felt good.

And, though it felt a little like betrayal, he watched Graysen’s holovid where he announced the end of his relationship with Elain.

Amicable. Lucien remembered that from memory, and yet by his count, Graysen stressed it no less than four times in the span of fifteen minutes. Smiling like too-white teeth, he hardly looked sorry at all. I wish her nothing but the best.

Elain had opted to say nothing at all, which had allowed the media to run roughshod over her. Perhaps she’d figured there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t make her seem bitter and had chosen to give the media nothing to work with. No words to pick apart, no lines to read between. Just Elain, several days later going to work with clear eyes and a bright, practiced smile.

If she suffered, she didn’t show it. Lucien wondered what had fractured them. Maybe he’d find out. By Lucien’s estimate, they’d be together, conservatively, for a month. With the time it would take to get out to the outer reaches from the inner core and then the recon, the data collecting, and whatever else Elain hoped to achieve, a month assumed perfect circumstances.

It assumed nothing would go wrong. Lucien had never worked a mission like that. They’d have plenty of time to get to know one another, to impart painful truths and perhaps, if he was exceptionally lucky, plan a wedding.

Though, he wasn’t counting on that last one.

Still, the thought put him to sleep in his hammock, tucked away in the obnoxiously loud hangar. He slept like a babe, used to the clanking and the shouting of military life, and woke an hour before Elain was supposed to arrive.

It had occurred to Lucien that the one thing he knew Elain and Graysen had in common was their impeccable sense of fashion. He could dress well, too, though too often what was the point? He was covered in oil half the time, and the other half splattered with blood or goo or some other substance he preferred not to think about.

There was no point putting on his nicest pair of robes—the pair such a deep, forestry green that it made his skin seem to glow—but there was wisdom in digging out a pair of well-fitted brown pants and an equally tight blue shirt with the quarter sleeves.

Just so she could see the black inked tattoo on his forearm. The one that denoted his rank in solid black bars. No one called him Commander, but they sure as hell knew he was Commander Vanserra when they saw those six black bars. He wanted her to know that he was ambitious, same as her.

He rebraided his hair after carefully pulling out the tangles, and shaved just enough to leave the stubble behind. It was rugged, he decided, and women generally liked that. At least, the ones he was in frequent contact with did. Why shouldn’t Elain, too?

Lucien was buckling his belt low over his hips, weapons laying out before him, when he heard the punctual, polite, rapping knock on the door. He was grinning like a fool and he knew it, and still he couldn’t help himself. Lucien pulled his boots on and met her just outside the hangar.

She was a vision with a bag at her feet and her hair pulled in a neat chignon just at the nape of her neck. He suspected this was Elain Archeron’s attempt at looking nondescript, as if the hundreds of credits she’d spent on that deep blue cloak pulled over her beautiful face was anything but a massive neon sign that screamed wealth.

She was in a white jumpsuit that hugged every inch of her—not that he was looking.

“Ready?” he asked, leaning against the open door as the ramp slowly descended. Elain didn’t seem convinced of him, but that was fine.

“As I’ll ever be,” she admitted, teeth sinking against her full, bottom lip. Lucien stepped aside, one hand outstretched to take her bag.

“You’ll be in here,” he said, closing up behind her before gesturing for her to follow. Elain hesitated when she saw that little room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“We’ll be sharing?” she asked, her cheeks the prettiest shade of pink. It was Lucien’s turn to hesitate. If he said yes, he could force them into close quarters.

“No,” he replied, thinking it was better to give her some space. “I’ll be just outside. It’s not much, but it's better than nothing, don’t you think?”

Relief stole over her expression. “Yes,” she admitted as Lucien shoved her little bag inside. “I’m surprised there is enough space for a private room at all on this thing.”

“It was my only requirement when picking it out,” he admitted with a sly grin. In his mind, he was already upgrading to a nicer—albeit more expensive—model. One with a room big enough for them both to move around in. He assumed a Senator was used to yachts, but maybe she could get used to something smaller in exchange for speed.

One thing at a time.

He expected her to make a small fuss. To hole up in that room while he got them ready, but Elain merely followed after him, up the ladder and into the cockpit where she took the co-captain’s chair. He liked the sight of her there, hood down and wide eyed with excitement.

That’s my girl, he thought, practically giddy.

“How does it all work?” she asked, watching him carefully flip switches.

“Maybe I’ll show you some day,” he said, not wanting to make himself obsolete to her just yet. “But not today. Buckle up, princess.”

If he’d said that to either of her sisters, he’d have been shot in the face for it. But Elain merely rolled her eyes and did as she was told.

Unaware she was a princess—his princess.

And he’d do anything she asked.

ELAIN:

“How long before we get to our outpost?” Elain asked, already bored. They’d been zooming through space for the better part of a day. Realistically, she knew it was going to take five days of non-stop, lightspeed travel. And yet part of her hoped Lucien knew some magical shortcut that would get them there by the end of the night.

Long legs stretched up over the dash, his datapad held in one of his broad, strong hands, Lucien Vanserra didn’t look her way.

“Five days,” he replied, thumb sliding over his screen. Elain sighed and Lucien finally looked over at her. It was an effort not to rake her eyes down his muscular body again. She didn’t think he’d appreciate being ogled when he was merely trying to fulfill his duty to her sister. Had Nesta chosen him specifically for how appealing he was? Or was Lucien really the best?

“Yes, princess?” he drawled in that deep, warm voice of his. Elain suppressed a shiver. It had been so long since any man had made her feel anything but revulsion that she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

“I’m bored.”

That was enough to bring back his dimpled smile and to convince him to turn off his data pad. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me what this little journey of ours is about then. The whole version,” he added pointedly.

So he wanted to know about her break-up, then. Elain swallowed some of her bitterness.

“Well. I guess if we started at the beginning then I’d say that I met Graysen Nolan back on Naboo during Feyre’s first campaign. I was helping her run it as her official diplomat to the Republic, and Graysen had been sent to get a feel for her. She was young, and everyone expected Nesta to run, but she’d recently run off with Cassian…it was a mess.”

He chuckled, but said nothing. It was invitation enough to continue.

“Father was…unwell,” she said, thinking that was the most charitable way to describe their fathers rapid spiral into misery. “And mother was dead. Nesta was gone and Feyre busy…I was just…”

Stars, but Elain hated admitting this to herself, let alone the beautiful man with the teasing eyes.

“Lonely?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “And Graysen was nice. It was a whirlwind, truthfully. I never had a moment to catch my breath. Feyre was elected and Naboo needed a new Senator and Graysen convinced me I ought to run and Feyre was begging me to…so I did.”

Elain swallowed hard. “When he asked me to marry him, I think he expected I’d drop out. And then, when I won, well…What he wanted was someone more domestic.”

“Okay,” Lucien said, still smiling though his eyes were tight. “I wasn’t asking about your breakup, for the record, but I guess it’s good to know Nolan is as much of an asshole as I always suspected. I assume this is why you want to go on this mission? Revenge?”

Well kriff. “No,” she said, a shade too defensive. “It’s been eight months. I’m not still…I don’t miss him. There was a bill up for vote in the Senate last month and Graysen waged war to kill it in a committee. I couldn’t figure it out—of course he comes from money, but who doesn’t know that at this point? His rivals point it out every change they get. Why wouldn’t he want to share who donates to his campaigns? It seemed like such a nothing bill, easily passed. And it made me start digging. I still have all his old passcodes,” she admitted sheepishly, thinking Lucien would think her low for snooping.

His real smile returned. “Clever.”

“He must have figured it out because he changed them, but I was in long enough to see a lot of his money leaving accounts for offshore banks in planets in the Outer Rim. And money came in, too—in huge sums, all unaccounted for. I did a little digging, and it turns out the First Raider Bank is used exclusively by the Hybern Corporation. And Hybern—”

“Deals in black market weapons,” Lucien supplied for her, rubbing at his stubbled jaw. Elain’s satisfaction returned.

“Exactly. I know I don’t have a lot to work with, but if I had some proof I could remove him from his seat and the Republic could have the transparency it so badly needs.”

Lucien, to his credit, didn’t add what anyone else would have—and your revenge. Elain wasn’t denying that was part of it. She’d loved Graysen. Believed the best in him, even when her sisters thought her stupid and naive. And he’d not only abused that trust, but he’d been lying to her the whole time. Sometimes, when Elain truly wanted to punish herself, she imagined what would have happened when she learned. How humiliated she would have been.

And how trapped.

Instead, Lucien tilted his head toward her, body still facing the neon blue viewport and the blurred stars that illuminated the entire cockpit in blinding, burning white. “I’m in this until the end, princess.”

She wondered if he called her that because, technically, she was a princess. When she returned home, everyone addressed her as such—though no one called Nesta princess. They called her General. Elain didn’t mind it because Lucien didn’t make it seem mocking.

“Well,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “I should…I’m going to head to bed, if that’s alright with you.”

Lucien’s gaze returned to his data pad. One had waved for her to go, revealing six black lines inked against the skin of his forearm. Commander.

He seemed awfully young for a rank so prestigious, and hardly showy about it like she might have expected. Nesta hadn’t said anything about it, either. Lucien, unaware of where her attention now lay, was fully immersed back in his holovid.

Everyone she knew had managed to achieve such great, important things. Feyre was Queen of Naboo, her sister a General. Even this pilot, Commander Vanserra. And what was she, besides a joke?

Elain climbed the ladder back into the hull, listening to the pleasant hum of the ship as she made her way back to the closet Lucien called a bedroom. Elain was used to shuttles and yachts with private ‘freshers and enough space to stretch out her legs and pace. Lucien’s private quarters housed a bed that might have fit them both if they laid chest to back.

An appealing idea, given the general shape of him.

And likely totally inappropriate given he worked for her sister and this was just a job. Elain wasn’t sure she was even in the right space to indulge him. Something about the way he moved his body and the casual arrogance that radiated from him made Elain think Lucien wouldn’t say no if she invited him back into bed.

And he wouldn’t look at her twice when they were back on Coruscant. He’d get to say he’d been with the naive senator and she’d…she’d be humiliated twice. That was enough to convince Elain to carefully fold up the clothes she’d brought, dig out a towel and her night dress, and pad down to the equally tiny ‘fresher.

She knew she’d have to be quick on a ship this small. The water tank likely couldn’t support a full forty five minute break down beneath scalding hot water and Elain refused to rinse soap from her hair in the cold.

She felt a moment of wicked delight when she pushed the shampoo dispenser and found her favorite honey scented soap plunk into her hand. Had Nesta told Lucien, or did they just so happen to prefer the same? She’d ask him later—once she wasn’t in the shower, at any rate.

Elain stepped out in a short, ivory night dress and her hair dripping down her bare arms as she tried to towel dry her wild hair. She’d wondered if Lucien would be sleeping in his pilot's chair and found a hanging hammock just between the ladder up to the cockpit and her own bedroom.

And Lucien, shirtless and staring at the water she was dripping all over his floor. This wasn’t a yacht, she reminded herself. This was his ship that had likely cost him a year's salary and she was careless.

“Sorry,” she said as Lucien stepped forward, one hand outstretched when she tried to toss the towel to the floor.

“No,” he replied, his eyes unfocused. “No, you’re fine. Just…watch your step, princess.”

He never looked back up at her, which gave Elain the briefest opportunity to look at him without being caught. Lucien was…wow. Shirt gripped in one hand, the other still hovering in midair, while the rest of his body was lovingly carved by whatever god blessed pilots. Elain had the strangest urge to cross the gap between them and trace the muscled grooves of his golden brown skin with her fingertips.

Or her tongue, depending on his preference.

But he wasn’t looking at her, his cheeks inflamed, and Elain suspected he was uncomfortable. So she offered him a smile he couldn’t see, murmured a good night, and vanished behind the closed door of the bedroom, cursing herself for making things weird between them on the first day.

It certainly did bode well for the rest of their mission.

LUCIEN:

He couldn’t sleep. Not with the image of that very shreddable nightdress clinging to Elain’s body, made sheer by the sheet of dripping curls tumbling over her shoulder was burned just behind his eyes. And he’d been shirtless, not that she’d noticed or cared. She’d assumed he was upset about the water, unaware Lucien was screaming at his stupid, useless cock to remain as it was instead of thickening with interest.

Like it was now, pulsating against his thigh and urging him to go and check on her, the utter bastard. Lucien warred between his rationality and his cock driven need to open the door and see how she was doing. In his mind, her hair would be a wild halo of curls around her beautiful face and those big, brown eyes would be half lidded from sleep. Maybe the tiny nightdress would have ridden up her hips and she’d pull at the blanket so he could slip in.

And Lucien would part her legs and—

“Stop it,” he hissed, refusing to even touch himself. He didn’t want to give in, like his cock was a living thing that could be rewarded and not a manifestation of his own aching need. He could go in the ‘fresher and handle his erection and it made him feel like a pervert. So Lucien remained in that swaying hammock, eyes closed as he ran through drills and listened to the gentle hum of the engine. Eventually his cock grew bored and deflated and Lucien fell asleep, too.

He woke to the smell of food winding around him, filling his lungs and reminding him he was not alone. Lucien shifted, checking that he was still flaccid before opening his eyes. Elain had set up shop in the tiny little kitchen, if it could even be called that, frying eggs and panna cakes with a cheerful smile.

“Another day,” she said when he all but fell from the hammock. Lucien flung a shirt over his chest quickly before making his way toward her. Elain eyed him hopefully, but the answer was unchanged.

“Four days,” he said in a sleep heavy voice. Elain’s smile threatened to drive him to his knees though he was appropriate enough. Maybe his smile bordered on sultry, but she didn’t seem to mind.

They went on like this for three days—sharing little bits of information or playing games where Lucien learned Elain had the most infectious laugh he’d ever heard in his life. He slept better than he ever had, despite the knotted rope digging in his skin. Maybe that was her, too, because Lucien had never had to fight his cock for the right to use his own blood the way he had been recently.

The day before landing, Lucien pulled up a holomap. “Florrum,” he said, letting Elain drink in the arid, desert planet now hovering before them. He couldn’t picture the pristine woman sitting beside him trekking through the desert, and yet the determined slant of her mouth told Lucien she would be.

“We’ll land in the outpost tomorrow afternoon,” he said, bringing up the image of the oasis Doshar outpost was situated against. It was deceptively lush, though Lucien knew from his own research harsh sandstorms often wrecked the pretty greenery and made the sparkling water undrinkable without a filter. “Spend a day getting our bearings and plotting our course. I’ll need a little time to track down a speeder and we don’t want to go charging in. It might be worth your time to chat up the locals…see what they’ve heard.” Elain bit the inside of her cheek, nodding. “So maybe two days at the outpost.” She glanced over at Lucien before reaching into the pocket of the nice dress she wore. His heart stumbled at the sight of the plain, silver band now resting in her open palm.

“We’ll need a backstory,” she said, swallowing as he plucked that ring from her. Lucien slid it over his finger, admiring the way it looked. He’d have to wear it around his neck when he was back on Coruscant, but maybe another tattoo, inked where the ring would go? Beside him, Elain slid her own simple band over a slim finger before curling them into a fist.

“Married,” he said with dizzying delight. “Good idea.”

“You could say you’re looking for work,” she suggested, sliding a hand over her flat stomach. Lucien’s heart pounded as she continued, “And I’ll say I’m looking for a place to settle for the time.”

Children. Because they were going to have a family and— “Good thinking,” he managed, unable to look her in the eye. “Smart.”

“You probably shouldn’t go around telling them you’re Commander Vanserra—”

Lucien’s whole body went achy and tight at the sound of his title coming from her lips.

“So I thought we could be Rose and Fox.”

“Rose…and Fox…” he repeated, still fixated on Commander Vanserra. Commander Vanserra and Senator Archeron, married with three—no five—children, settled on Naboo after—

“Lucien? Would you prefer something different?” she asked, her voice timid and soft. Right. Pretend to marry her for now, really marry her when they arrived back home.

“Fox is great,” he said, flashing her an easy smile. “Anything else I should know?”

A flush crawled up Elain’s neck. “No, I…that’s all I have. I didn’t want you to think…”

Lucien reclined back in his chair, the image of Florrum forgotten. “Think what? That you’re trying to trap a gorgeous guy like me into marriage?”

“No!” she exclaimed, immediately defensive. Lucien needed to get out of her breathing space for a minute or he was about to admit he wanted her to trap him. Despite being strangers, and despite the attraction simmering just beneath his skin, Lucien wouldn’t have told her no if Elain had said they needed to get married truthfully, nor would he have freed her from it once they were finished.

“Sure,” he replied with a wink. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

And though it was a flippant comment, he’d accidentally touched an old wound. Jes, who’d wanted to get married right until she didn’t, which had been, conveniently, the day before their planned wedding. Lucien considered, as he stood with a grin he knew didn’t meet his eyes, that he rushed into things.

He was always all in. Hadn’t he sworn he wouldn’t be hurt again? That he’d be more cautious next time, that he’d spent months—years, even—making sure the next woman loved him more than she loved anything else. That she, at the very least, loved him the way he loved her. Elain was none of those things and yet here he was, planning a whole future with her all the same.

His boots hit the bottom of the hold when he heard her say his name.

“Lucien!” Elain breathed, unaware he’d hurt his own feelings. Still, Lucien remained still, listening to the sounds of her carefully climbing down the ladder behind him. “If I upset you—”

“You didn’t,” he said, adopting an easy smile she thought she saw right through. “Trust me, there are a million worse things than being married to you.”

She didn’t smile back. “You’re the only one who thinks so,” she said, and Lucien wondered if they didn’t have matching wounds. He’d foolishly forgotten about Graysen.

Lucien couldn’t help himself, turning to reach for that pretty, heart-shaped face. “Lucky me,” he murmured, letting her see some of his desire. Not all of it, but enough to settle her—to let her know he meant it.

She sucked in a soft breath through her teeth. “Lucien—”

“Save it,” he replied, not wanting to hear her protests. Exhaling, Lucien dropped his hold. “Get to know Florrum before we land. I’m gonna…”

He was gonna what? They were practically on top of each other. He couldn’t escape her, not when she occupied his bed and all the private space on their little ship. Still, Elain waited, her chin tilted just enough that he could have reached for her again and kissed her. She might have liked it, too, if Graysen Nolan was the last pair of lips that had touched her.

“...use the ‘fresher,” he finally said lamely.

Was it his imagination, or did some of the air deflate from her body? Elain murmured something polite and the pair vanished, getting about as far from the other as they could without flinging themselves into hyperspace. Lucien sat in the ‘fresher longer than was polite, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

Get it together, Vanserra, he ordered himself. He knew he wouldn’t, just like he knew when he climbed back up into the cockpit and Elain turned in her chair, smiling up at him, that he was in so much trouble. A face like that…surely there had to be some other reason for the demise of her engagement? Did Graysen imagine he could do better?

Lucien was certain no one could do better than Elain Archeron.

ELAIN:

They landed at dusk, kicking up sand all over the viewport. Elain didn’t care, though Lucien frowned at the sight, eyes narrowed. She was practically giddy with anticipation, ready to put her boots on the ground and finally—finally—prove she was more than just some pretty nobody from Naboo. Overshadowed by her far more powerful, more interesting sisters. This was her shot, and the only one she’d get.

Lucien had convinced her to ditch the cape, saying it was far too conspicuous in a place that seemed drenched in poverty. He was right, she reflected, and she might have told him so had they both not stepped onto the hangar so Lucien could immediately begin arguing with someone about cleaning up his ship.

Fussy.

She wandered toward the edge, fingers curling over the railing that overlooked the outpost below. The image Lucien had shown her made it seem picturesque, but reality was far less kind. The grass was more brown than green, clinging to the sandy as an unforgiving wind battered it about. Everything had a fine layer of red sand dusting it—even the giant yellow sun dipping in the sky cast a hazy, bloody glow.

Lucien’s presence at her side told Elain he’d managed to haggle out a price for fuel and repairs that he could live with. Was Nesta financing this trip for him, or had it come out of his own pocket? Lucien hadn’t asked her for credits which seemed unusual. Even Graysen had often opened his palm in the name of fairness.

“C’mon,” Lucien said, handing Elain a heavy brown jacket that smelled of smoke and oil. “Try not to breathe in too much of the air. I’ll get us some scarves in the morning.”

And that was that. He kept a hand on her back and his body angled as if something lurking in the sand was going to come running at them. Elain very much doubted anything would, though she had read that gundarks made their home on Florrum, though typically higher up on the cliffsides she could just make out in the distance.

No sand monsters. Just sand, which was its own monster given how it was filling her boots despite the elevated walkway that wound toward town. Lucien seemed unphased and even the cruel wind somehow avoided his beautiful face, as if the world recognized he was special somehow.

Or perhaps too beautiful to mar, which Elain agreed with. The galaxy had so few lovely things to start, it would be a shame to harm him further. Elain still wondered what had happened to his eye—who had wounded him? And why did it make her so angry? Elain had been trying to work up the nerve to ask him without making him feel self-conscious about it. The scars added something to his beauty, told a story of someone brave and clever—a survivor.

Unaware of her own admiration, Lucien stepped in front of the cantina. Everything about him shifted so quickly she might have blinked and missed it. Gone was the serious pilot, the smiling man she’d come to know. All his worst traits seemed exaggerated when he stepped into the dim, artificially illuminated space.

No one batted an eye or even turned to look at them. It allowed Lucien to saunter up to the edge of the bar, wedging himself between two open stools so he could lean against his elbow. “Got any work?”

That…wasn’t what she’d expected him to ask. The barkeep glanced up at the pair of them, eyes narrowed for just a moment. Lucien certainly looked like the sort who came into places like this all the time. Elain might have appreciated his worn clothes and how he strategically hid his arm so the bars denoting his rank were no longer visible. He could have been any low-life looking for a job.

But she couldn’t. And when those pair of green eyes landed on her, Elain knew she couldn’t fake her easy, privileged upbringing. Lucien hadn’t mentioned that at all, and now she wished she’d thought of it.

“You’re looking for work?” the woman asked, turning her attention back to Lucien.

Lucien’s grin widened. “Got a pretty new wife to support. Her family didn’t like when I ran off with her.”

And just like that, Lucien had smoothed over every question on that lined, weathered face. The barkeepers shoulders relaxed and she went back to rubbing that filthy rag all over the equally filthy bartop.

“Aye! Marcellus! Got you a taker!”

Lucien turned his head, angling his body in front of Elain so she was half hidden behind his bulk. From the shadows, a tall, lanky, dark haired, dark eyed man stepped forward. His gaze swept over Lucien first before turning to Elain. She didn’t think she quite liked the way his expression sharpened into something akin to hunger.

“You want a job?” Marcellus asked Lucien, though he was still looking at Elain.

“Pretty, right?” Lucien asked casually, hand drifting toward the blaster holstered against his muscular thigh. “If you keep looking at her like that, we’re gonna have trouble.”

“Ain’t never seen a woman half so pretty,” Marcellus replied, tipping his head in Elain’s direction. “Where’d you find her?”

“Corellia,” Lucien replied with a grin.

Marcellus turned his attention back to Lucien. “Maybe it’s time to pay the core a visit.”

They laughed at Elain’s expense, but she didn’t care. So long as they believed she and Lucien were together, Elain didn’t mind a little male laughter in the form of bonding. From the corner of her eye, she watched him rest his hand on his blaster, a subtle warning that for all their joviality, Lucien would make good on his promise if he felt like he needed to.

“What’s the job?” Lucien asked once Marcellus’s smile faded a bit.

“Gundarks,” Marcellus said with a grimace. “You a steady shot?”

Elain reached for Lucien’s arm, squeezing slightly. The gesture wasn’t lost on their new friend, who glanced at her again.

“Maybe we should go,” she said, letting her own anxiety creep in. “I’ll talk to my father, I’ll—”

“No,” Lucien interrupted smoothly, playing along perfectly. “I can take care of my new wife. Gundarks aren’t the worst thing I’ve faced, besides. Your sister, for one,” he said, earning another laugh from Marcellus.

“I’ll bring him home mostly intact,” Marcellus informed her. Elain shrank back like the good, sheltered Corellian woman she knew he expected to see. In truth, Elain had never been to Corellia and had no idea what women were like there. She trusted Lucien knew what he was doing.

“Speaking of, you know any places with some availability. I think we’ll be sticking around for a bit,” Lucien told Marcellus. The barkeeper, still listening over the hum of conversation, leaned forward again.

“I got a place. It ain’t much, but it’s cheap.”

“I love cheap,” Lucien told her with an easy, beautiful grin. They worked out a price for the month and Lucien handed over credits without looking at her at all. Elain had been prepared to pay, even if only to continue with the charade. There was a tightness to Lucien’s shoulders as he paid and she wondered if this wasn’t a matter of honor that she didn’t understand.

He was given a key card and directions to their new home for the month with another murmured, remember it ain’t much, as if they hadn’t just spent a week on top of each other on his ship. Anything was better than the tiny room they’d been given.

“I’ll meet you in the morning. You got a name?” Marcellus asked.

“Fox,” Lucien said with that same charming smile. “And this is Rose.”

“Well, Fox. I’d get your pretty woman a blaster if I were you.”

But it was the barkeep, with her narrowed eyes, that leaned toward Elain. “If you want a job, I got something for you. It’s not glamorous, but it pays.”

“Okay,” Elain said breathlessly, nodding her head with an earnestness that felt real.

“Come by when he leaves and I’ll get you set up.”

And that was that. Elain stumbled out an appreciative thank you while Lucien snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She felt his lips pressed into her hair, swore he inhaled softly. She was tempted to fling her arms around his middle and didn’t, if only because that wasn’t the sort of thing high born ladies did. She’d never seen Nesta act that way with Cassian when they were surrounded by people, though she knew her sister loved him enough to risk everything for him.

Lucien led Elain back out into the rapidly cooling desert, his arm migrating from her waist to her shoulder so he could pull her closer. It was practical, given the wind whistled around them, throwing sand right into her mouth. Lucien was, once again, immune to the weather and the world, leading her through closed shops and little, round houses shut tight for the night. Their own was right in the middle of a rather nice neighborhood, rundown and shabby and yet she saw a child’s hovercar parked in front of a door a few houses down. People had a life, were happy here.

The sight strengthened Elain’s commitment to bring Graysen down. The galaxy was filled with people like this, who just wanted safety and security. They deserved better than the rich getting richer off shady deals while funding terrorists to ensure that wealth.

Lucien opened the door with a, “Home, sweet home.”

The barkeep hadn’t lied. It wasn’t much at all. Three connected rooms that hadn’t been updated since the High Republic if that peeling, gold paint was any indicator. The kitchen seemed functional enough, and the bedroom had a closet at least—and a bed hardly any bigger than the one Lucien kept on his ship. Maybe he wouldn’t be directly on top of her, but he’d certainly be touching her.

“I’ll sleep out here,” he said, peeking his head over her own when Elain turned on the light.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. She’d seen the sofa and its lumpy cushions. If he was going to clear out gundark nests, he’d need better sleep or he was likely to get eaten. “We’re married, right? We’ll sleep in the same bed.”

Lucien took a healthy step away from her, back in the hall that held the decently sized ‘fresher. “We’re not actually married,” he reminded her, shaking sand from his pulled back hair. “This is just a job.”

Elain swallowed the little hurt. Just a job. “I don’t want to explain to my sister why Gundarks ate her favorite pilot,” Elain snapped, her words just a shade too frosty. “I didn’t realize sleeping beside me was such a terrible prospect, but if you want to risk it, be my guest.”

She went to stomp toward the kitchen and see what they had in the way of cookware when Lucien’s fingers curled around her arm.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, looking down at her. Russet and gold were matched in their intensity. “The idea of sleeping beside you is a little too appealing. Surely you know that.”

“I don’t know anything,” she replied, wrenching her arm from his grip. There was no ire to her voice, though. In fact, Elain thought she sounded just a shade too suggestive given the way he was looking at her.

Still, it soothed her a little, knowing the attraction wasn’t one sided.

“Would you like to?” he called after her retreating form. Elain shivered, though she didn’t turn. Yes, her mind screamed. Instead, Elain went to the kitchen just as she’d planned.

Silent and wondering how long they’d last before they gave in.

LUCIEN:

Elain was back in that silky ivory nightdress—the one with the pearls on the straps, a detail he’d missed before. She’d unbound her hair, letting it fall around her delicate, freckled shoulders. Lucien wanted to map them like a constellation, wanted to memorize them like star charts. Instead, he slid into bed beside her, nervous like this was his first time. Elain glanced over, her cheeks burning red and Lucien was glad he hadn’t put on a shirt.

“Are you really going to clear out gundarks?” she asked once they were alone in the dark. Lucien resisted the urge to pull her against him, if only because he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands or his mouth to himself.

“I meant it when I said I’ve done worse jobs. It’ll give me a chance to get a read on the planet—and you a chance to hear the local gossip. If the Hybern Syndicate is working here, that’s more money and I’m a good shot.”

“You’re going to work for them?” she gaped, twisting so she was facing him. Lucien remained on his back, sliding his hands behind his head to keep them to himself.

“No, but an introduction never hurt anyone. Especially not you,” he added, though in truth it very well could hurt her. This was just recon, and not a takedown, and as long as no one recognized either of them, they couldn’t get hurt.

Not badly, anyway.

“I have a blaster for you,” he added, thinking of the weapon he’d left in the kitchen for her. “Shoot first, ask questions later. Nesta will kill me if I bring you home covered in bruises.”

“Nesta isn’t my mother,” Elain replied, shifting back to her original position. She kept rolling, until her back was to him and once again, Lucien had to fight the urge to pull her closer. He remained where he was long after sleep took Elain, his mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions. Nesta would want a report tomorrow, and Lucien didn’t know what to tell her. This was a monumentally bad idea, made all the worse by how fervently Elain wanted to see results. Lucien wasn’t convinced she would back down if they managed to find proof of Graysen’s connection—and that was what made Elain dangerous. She was untested, unpracticed, and too used to using her words as weapons.

The Hybern Syndicate would use weapons as weapons, and would hardly mourn the loss of one dead Senator. Lucien would, though, which made him risky, too. He lacked his usual distance and the ability to shrug things off. His mind was still in the cantina, on Marcellus and his lightning hot rage as the man looked Elain up and down with open appreciation.

Mine, she’s mine—it wasn’t rational, and yet he had been too close to putting a blaster bolt in the man's head if he hadn’t backed down. Lucien didn’t think he could handle a whole day listening to another man talk about how beautiful his pretend wife was.

In the end, Lucien gave in to impulse and pulled Elain’s pliant, sleeping body against his own. For as long as they were on Florrum, she was his wife and surely that meant he was allowed to hold her.

He woke to a painful erection—the result of being relaxed and asleep and the scent of her shampoo burning in his nose—and the sound of knocking on the door.

Elain groaned. “I just fell asleep,” she mumbled as Lucien angled his hips away from her. Best not to assault her with his penis first thing in the morning. He didn’t release her though, burying his face in her hair to drink that floral, sweet smell.

The sun filtered through a filthy window, betraying to Elain that she hadn’t, in fact, just fallen asleep. Elain pressed herself back against him, narrowly avoiding sliding her ass against his still interested, still very awake cock, unaware of how Lucien’s heart stumbled at the thought. He dind’t want to freak her out.

He wanted her to touch him.

“Fox! You still coming or what?!”

It was Lucien’s turn to groan, resting the urge to kiss her arched neck. “Another day, princess,” he said, though truthfully he was talking to himself.

“Give me a minute!” Lucien yelled, flinging the blankets off his body. By the time he’d managed to get himself into his pants, he was back to normal which was a relief. He didn’t want to face the gundarks still worked up over his pretend wife.

“Here,” Lucien said, fishing in his pockets for some credits. “Get a couple scarves and whatever else you need to blend in. Nothing fancy,” he added, as if she’d be likely to find it. Elain sat up, her tangled hair tumbling down her back.

“I have credits—”

“C’mon,” he chided, pulling his hair back in a rather sloppy bun at the nape of his neck. “What kind of husband would I be if I made you spend your own credits? And besides. Nesta will reimburse me for all the money I spend, so no harm done.”

“She wouldn’t do that for me,” Elain mumbled, taking the little gold and silver pieces.

“Exactly,” he said with a flourish, offering up a grin while he tripped into his boots. “Don’t forget your blaster, sweetheart. I love you!” he added loudly, pushing open the door a second later.

Marcellus looked exactly the same as before, though his sleeve was rolled up. Lucien wasn’t stupid—he saw the half-hidden, black inked tattoo in the shape of what seemed to be a cauldron just beneath leather vambraces.

Marcellus wasn’t a simple good samaritan, then. Good. If Lucien impressed him, he’d be able to loosen his tongue with liquor, and maybe get that invite faster than he’d anticipated.

“Ready?” Marcellus asked, running a hand through his closely cropped hair.

Lucien felt a pair of hands run up his back. Turning, he found Elain still in her nightdress.

“You’ll take good care of him?” she asked, blinking wide, doe-eyes up at him. Kriffing hell, but Lucien was seconds from closing the door, damning the mission and convincing her all the reasons she should be his actual wife.

“Very good care,” Marcellus replied, his expression just a little too friendly.

“Yeah, okay, eyes up here pal,” Lucien grumbled, brushing his knuckles over Elain’s cheek. Their first kiss wasn’t happening like this. Not that Elain seemed to have gotten that memo, as she reached for his hand and pressed a sweet, soft kiss against his palm.

“Be safe,” she said earnestly. None of it felt fake to Lucien, whose knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of her words.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replied.

And then they were gone, walking into the sand and the early morning heat. Marcellus whistled softly, leading Lucien to the blue and silver hovercar idling just off the path. “How’d you meet a girl like that?”

“Luck,” he said honestly. Better to pepper them into his lies to make them easier to remember. “The same way you meet any beautiful woman.”

“Need me that kind of luck,” Marcellus said with a smile. “But I don’t think I’d bring that kind of woman out to these parts.”

Lucien grunted, taking a seat beside Marcellus. “You would if you met her father. He had plans for her.”

“I’ll bet,” Marcellus replied. “You hidin’ out, then?”

“For now. Trying to find something long term, but I gotta start somewhere.”

“I might have a job for you after this, if you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

“I’ve never minded that,” Lucien said with a grin. That much was true—he was pretty sure he still had a little engine oil caked beneath his nails. The whipping wind silenced their conversation, and Marcellus was kind enough to offer Lucien a smoky smelling scarf for his face, if only to keep his lungs from filling with sand. Lucien hated Florrum, and was desperate to return to the artifice of Coruscant. There was no true weather at all—just a carefully controlled climate made by machines in order to keep the planet from total collapse.

Marcellus drove Lucien out into the dune filled landscape, drowning him in a sea of red. Cliffs scaled a few feet in the distance with carved out holes likely made by the gundarks in question.

“Got a nest of ‘em right up ahead,” Marcellus told Lucien grimly. “They’ve been harassing workers on their way to the mines.”

“Mines?” Lucien replied with genuine surprise. What could they possibly be mining on Florrum? Sand?

“Some upstart from Coruscant’s little pet project,” Marcellus said flippantly, unaware this was exactly what Lucien wanted to know. “Not many from Doshar Outpost work there—conditions are rough and credits are low. But a lot more a few towns over do, and the gundarks are picking them off one by one. I’ll go half with you if you don’t die.”

“Encouraging words,” Lucien grumbled, swinging himself out of the speeder. So it was Graysen’s money funding this job. Lucien didn’t hate that, though he also didn’t like being so close to the man he was trying to take down. Still, he trusted Marcellus not to do too much blabbing—that would be bad for business, after all.

What followed was, perhaps, the worst day of Lucien’s life. After scaling the cliffside, both he and Marcellus quickly found that gundarks in any number were a formidable foe. At least as tall as Lucien, with four arms, red fur, and the will to kill him, there were several back handed blows that convinced Lucien this would be his last day alive.

They stumbled back to the speeder closer to dusk, bloodied and bruised and exhausted. “Fuck you,” Lucien said, adopting the crudest language he could think of. “That was…that was a suicide mission.”

“It’s done,” Marcellus replied, swiping at a cut over the bridge of his nose. The unspoken words between them was, of course, that neither had truly believed they’d survive it. There must have been eight of them in that nest—no wonder so many people were being hunted. Lucien had questions about the mines, about Graysen, about all of it.

And none of it mattered. Not as he fought to catch his breath and adjust to the ache of his body. Lucien indulged himself in a fantasy where Elain patched up all his little hurts like a good wife, though in truth he figured she’d admonish him loudly for being so reckless.

She’d just have to get used to that.

“I’ve got another job for you, if you want,” Marcellus told him, pulling outside the cantina.

“Pay me for this one, first,” Lucien grumbled, stumbling out of the car. “And then we’ll talk another.”

Marcellus chuckled. “You got it.”

Lucien pushed open the door, intending to wash himself up in the ‘fresher before going home to Elain. He didn’t need to bother. There she was, with a pretty yellow scarf tied around her head, hiding her hair and leaving just that beautiful face of hers visible. She’d taken his advice and gotten some new clothes, and the brown pants clinging to her hips, along with the pretty blue of her shirt tucked inside neatly, made Lucien forget all about gundarks.

Wife. That's my wife.

Elain had an empty tray in one hand and an apron tied around her waist. “What happened to you?” she gaped, rushing between tables for him.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the ebbing fear. Lucien didn’t know what made him reach for her face, nor could he account for drawing her closer until his mouth slanted over her own. All Lucien knew was he couldn’t die without kissing her, at least once.

He’d expected something polite back. Just enough to sell the kiss before pushing him away with get it together eyes.

That wasn’t what happened. Elain reached for him, too, arms tangling around his neck as she surged upwards for what, to Lucien, felt like a frantic, desperate kiss. Good. He forgot they were in a cantina, forgot he was covered in gundark blood. He even forgot his aching body and this mission that was going just a shade too well for his personal comfort.

All he knew was the taste of her mouth—spicy and sweet, like she’d had a spice brew sometime that afternoon—and the way her tongue slid into his mouth so she could taste him, too.

A jarring touch on his shoulder pulled Lucien back. “Got your credits,” Marcellus said, offering up a tired smile. “Why don’t you sleep on it, get back to me sometime tomorrow about this new job. You were a damn good shot in there. Glad to have you at my back, Fox.”

“You too,” Lucien admitted, slipping his datapad from his pocket for a quick transfer. “I’m taking her home, if no one objects.”

The barkeep merely waved them on, uninterested in the small, personal drama playing out in the middle of her floor. Elain tripped forward, handing back her tray with a sweet, grateful smile.

“Thank you for the job,” she said, her words endearing. She played the part of sheltered, naive princess so well. Even the barkeep's flinty eyes softened.

“You got it. Glad to have some help in this dump.”

“I’d carry you out, but I think my ribs are bruised,” Lucien told Elain ruefully, leading her back into the chill. It had been blazing hot all afternoon and now that night was approaching, they’d be treated to freezing weather again.

“What happened?” she demanded, reaching for his scratched up hand.

“Gundarks,” he replied grimly. “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re back inside.”

“Here,” she told him, unwinding a scarf from her apron for him. Orange, just like the little fox painted on his ship. Lucien wondered if she’d guessed, or that had been the only thing available to her. Another day he might have asked, but Lucien was merely grateful to be back inside their shared, temporary home. Tripping out of his boots, Lucien made his way for the ‘fresher.

“I’ll make dinner,” Elain called, reminding him he had no idea when he’d eaten last.

It was on the tip of his tongue—I love you—and he was grateful he didn’t say so. That kiss would surely be ruined by his stupid heart and his inability to look before he leaped. That had been his problem with the gundarks, with this mission, with everything he’d ever done.

It would have been a lie to say he didn’t have a few regrets. Maybe someone else would have been better suited for this mission.

But Lucien knew one thing with absolute certainty: Nesta Archeron had sent him on this mission for a reason. And if Nesta thought Elain had nothing, and this was merely to placate her, she could have sent someone better suited. Someone more level, someone less likely to jump into things. That wasn’t Lucien.

That had never been Lucien.

ELAIN:

Real or not real?

All through dinner, that was Elain’s only, burning question. Had the kiss been real or had it been fake? It felt real, and there was no reason for it—everyone believed she and Lucien were married after the day of gushing she’d done. Not to mention, Elain’s worry as the hour grew later and later certainly sold the nervous, sheltered wife act. She was nervous…and maybe a little sheltered, too.

And then Lucien had come in, looking every inch the hero Nesta had suggested he was. Cut up, bruised, and covered in blood that, for a second, she’d been terrified had been his. But no, gundark blood was so dark it was almost black, mingled against his own blood of which there seemed to be very little of.

The wanting slammed into her mere seconds before he did. He looked good. Better than good—incredible, like the sort of man she’d been waiting on her entire life. And then he’d kissed her and Elain had forgotten about their mission or even that they weren’t really married. Because of course this was her husband—her filthy, stupid husband—and he was safe.

And now he was clean. A little battered and bruised but alive and spooning a third bowl of her mediocre stew into his mouth. In between bites, Lucien recounted his day and the fight with the gundarks, unaware of how her heart stumbled every time he laughed off a near miss with death. As though it were all funny to him.

And all the while, all Elain truly wanted to know was if the kiss had been real. Did he mean to kiss her like that? Like the only thing keeping him on his feet was her? Or had it been part of his ruse for Marcellus? Tapping her fingers, Elain waited until he finished another bowl, groaning as he stood.

She cleaned while Lucien eyed her warily. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, walking toward the other side of the counter so he could lean his muscular body against the cool metal. His clean shirt clung to his chest, a vibrant blue that made his skin seem more sunkissed than usual.

“I’m fine,” she lied, because she wasn’t.

“Are you upset with me?” he asked. And she wasn’t mad at him, either. Not when he’d managed to score a job with Marcellus, who might be connected to Hybern, and when he’d learned Graysen was operating a mine, for reasons Elain couldn’t untease.

“No,” she said, looking up at him. “Of course not.”

“Then what is it?” he asked. Damp tendrils of auburn hair spilled over his shoulders, framing a face that was too perceptive for his own good. Elain blinked.

Nothing. That was what she intended to say. “Why did you kiss me like that?”

Lucien’s lips parted. “Because…” he swallowed hard, the knot in his throat bobbing ever so slightly. “Kriff, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…I crossed a line, and…I’m sorry.”

“So…it was for show?” Stars, but that hurt more than anything he could have said.

His expression sharpened. “Who said that? I said I was sorry for crossing a line…not that I was putting on a show.”

Finger beneath her chin, Lucien tilted her face so she had to look at him. “All I want to do is kiss you. All the time,” he added, just in case she didn’t understand.

“All the time?” she repeated. “Like…right now?”

“Especially right now,” he agreed, drawing them closer.

“Lucien—”

He silenced her plea to get on with it, a smile on his face. She could taste it, warm and bright and tinged with the dinner she’d made him. There was a soft exhale of air and then his fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her closer still, until she was flush against his body.

Lucien groaned from either want or pain—she couldn’t say for sure. Whatever it was, it didn’t keep him from banding her closer, to pulling her up so her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was holding her in the air despite his many injuries.

And the whole while, all Elain focused on was kissing him. The taste of his mouth, the softness of his tongue gliding against her own—all of it was too much. She wanted far more, wanted to peel his clothes from his body and have him whatever way he’d let her.

Lucien grunted when she tried to pull the shift up over his head. “I want to,” he panted, pressing his forehead against her own. “You have no idea how badly I want to, but…”

But she was sliding back to the floor and the splattered bruises against his ribcage told Elain he was in far worse shape than she’d originally thought.

“Take it off,” she whispered, wanting to take stock of him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Lucien tossed his shirt behind him, shrugging his cut up shoulders. He didn’t react while she ran her fingers over his toned chest, mapping the scars and bruises beneath her fingers.

“Will you let me take care of you, at least?” she asked him.

His eyes flashed with heat. “Careful, Elain, or I’ll start thinking you’re my actual wife.”

Something in his tone made her think he might like it if she was.

“What woman wants such a reckless husband?” she replied lightly, grateful he couldn’t hear the way her heart raced. “I’d be a widow before the year was out.”

His eyes tracked her, even when she reached for his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom. “I don’t know about that,” he all but purred. “I’m deceptively resourceful.”

“I’m learning,” she replied dryly, shoving him gently to the bed she’d made after he left. “Stay here. I’ll dig out some bacta.”

Lucien laid flat, stripping to just his under things so she could slather his cuts in the thick, cold goo before gently laying a bandage over top.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say the princess was a healer,” he said, his voice strained and breathless. It didn’t take much to understand what had him so worked up. Elain had seen the bulge outlining those tight shorts the moment she’d settled between his splayed legs to clean up a rather nasty cut against his inner thigh. And maybe she’d lingered there, rubbing her fingers over his skin like she was checking for something internal, when in truth she merely liked feeling his muscles flex just beneath his skin.

“Why do you call me that?” she asked him, settling back once she was certain he was as patched up as she could get him. “Princess? No one calls me that outside of Naboo.”

“You look like one,” he told her earnestly, rising up on his elbows to look at her still kneeling between his legs. “What else would you like me to call you?”

So long as he wasn’t mocking her, Elain didn’t mind if he called her princess. In fact, she didn’t think it was such an awful thing to be considered his princess. “Princess is fine.”

He grinned, gesturing for her to come toward him. Elain collapsed against the solid strength of his chest, burying a smile into his skin when his arms wrapped around her. His face was back in her hair, inhaling deeply before he kissed her gently.

“My pretty princess,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

“Marcellus can wait a day,” Elain told him, laying flat on her stomach so she could look at him. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Lucien offered her that dimpled smile. “Oh? Hoping to keep me in bed, are you?”

“I have a job, don’t I?” she shot back without malice. “I’m working a little charm, too. But it would be nice knowing you’re here, tucked away and safe.”

“It’s tempting, but if you’re leaving, I am too,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

“Because this is a job?” she asked anxiously.

“Because I’d be a shitty husband if I laid in bed all day while my wife worked. I’ll take care of myself,” he added hastily, offering another warm kiss.

“Promise?”

Lucien placed a battered hand against his bruised chest. “I swear it on the vows we made the day we got married.”

Elain offered him a loud, exaggerated sigh of exasperation, but Lucien was still grinning. “He knows I need the money. He’ll expect to see me tomorrow. And I want to know what’s going on with that mine and how it all connects. Trust me,” he added.

Elain settled beside him.

“I do.”

#elucien #fly boy lucien x senator elain #as requested #by me myself and i

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