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It’s the first victory celebration after the war, and Bana hasn’t felt nervous about attending any event in decades, but—
The nerves are getting to her now.
She has strict orders from her stylist not to smudge anything, but the urge to tug at her headscarf is overwhelming, a little bit of fussing that always drove her eldest sister to distraction when they were younger. Bana has enough self-control now that she resists the urge, smoothing her fingertips over the soft, flowing silk of her gown instead, then rises carefully to her feet. There's still far too much time until she has to take her place at the front of the Senate, waiting for the procession to reach her, and Bana reflects ruefully that being early is almost worse than being late would. Right now, all she has to occupy her is waiting for Giddean and Master Windu, and knowing them both, they’ll be precisely on time.
And then, soft, there's a chime. The door slides open, and Fox leans in, looking suspicious, and says, “Chancellor Breemu, there’s a Jedi here to see you. Says she’s your guard.”
The flatness of his voice makes his opinion on that statement clear.
Bana contains the urge to smile and dips her head instead. “Send her in, Commander,” she orders. When Fox gives her a disgruntled look, she raises a hand to halt his silent judgement and says, “Master Windu insisted, Commander. It is no insult to your abilities, or the skills of the Guard.”
Fox grunts, unimpressed, but leans back out of the office. A moment later, Bana can hear the lift doors slide, and Fox says more or less politely, “General. I thought Jedi had a dress code.”
“Commander,” a light voice returns, full of good humor. “When you can beat me in an arm-wrestling match, I will cater to your delicate sensibilities and wear a robe. But last night proved that it won't happen yet.”
Bana puts up a hand to hide her amusement, even as Fox huffs, disgusted. “Bly is a karking traitor and set me up,” he complains, but waves the doors open.
Aayla is laughing as she enters, and her smile only brightens when her gaze lands on Bana, when she comes to a stop in the middle of the office. Her eyes flicker up to the drape of intricate blue lace covering Bana's hair, then slide down over pale, gauzy blue, intricate flowers embroidered on the soft gold slip of the dress beneath.
“Chancellor,” she says, and meets Bana's eyes, a weight to her gaze that wasn’t there a moment ago. “You look beautiful, my lady. I don’t think I've ever seen you this dressed up.”
There was no cause during the war, and all of Humbarine’s funds went to its defense. But—
“We won the war,” Bana says, and takes a step towards Aayla, still in her sleek leathers, her arms left bare, her lekku held back by a serviceable leather wrap instead of the intricate ones Bana is more familiar with. The sight of her makes something quicken in Bana's chest, memory and allure all tangled up, the secret between them a gilt thread instead of a weight the way she might have expected. “This seems like the best of times to celebrate.”
“It is,” Aayla says, and bows to her, lekku curling in a motion of respect. “My former Master sends his regards.” She glances up, fingers brushing over her lightsaber for just a moment, and says with a smile, “And his thanks as well.”
“Did he send you?” Bana asks, even though the words want to stick in her throat, caught up in the quickening of her heartbeat as Aayla rises, approaches. “I had thought Master Ti was to be my guard.”
Aayla chuckles. “I volunteered,” she says lightly. “And Master Ti let me. Thankfully, because I doubt my ability to beat her in an arm-wrestling contest.”
Fox, still clearly listening in, makes a sound of deep offense and slaps the controls for the door, sending it slamming shut. It makes Bana give in and laugh, and she reaches out. Aayla catches her hands, pulls her in to rest their foreheads together, and Bana closes her eyes and breathes into it, into the warm curl of Aayla's lekku sliding over her arms.
“Aayla. You came,” she murmurs.
“I wouldn’t stay away for anything, Sith-killer,” Aayla murmurs in return, and she cups Bana's face, leans in to kiss her. One lek finds the slant of the lightsaber scar hidden by gauzy, dream-blue fabric, lingers, but she doesn’t offer any apologies, any thanks for saving her and Quinlan from Palpatine, because all of it has been said before. Just kisses Bana like there will never be a reason to separate, like the rest of eternity will be this kiss, slow and light and so overwhelmingly gentle.
Suddenly, the time between now and the procession feels like it can't possibly be long enough.