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In hindsight, there was only one thing to blame: the relentless heat of summer in Yavin, which was directly responsible for the predicament he found himself in in Senator Mothma’s quarters.
He came into the senator’s quarters often, at first clearing his throat politely by the threshold since there wasn’t really a door to knock on, being waved in often enough with a “Yes, yes, General, please come in” and spending hours strategizing or arguing over datapads and scandocs, not leaving until dawn sometimes, until he can’t even remember at what point he felt comfortable enough to just barge in, often midway through a sentence. There was never a time when Senator Mothma wasn’t working, and he usually found her sat on her desk with a cup of tea, surrounded by a mountain of datapads.
Which was why this time made him stop in his tracks. He had walked in breezily as usual, with coordinates and names on his lips, which died instantly when he saw her.
The first thing he noticed — though a sarcastic, traitorous voice in his head asked, was that really the first thing you noticed, Davits? — was that she was sprawled in her cot in the far corner of the room, deeply asleep, a rare enough occurrence that he often wondered if the woman ever slept or if she just subsisted on caf and adrenaline.
“If only that were true,” she replied once, her eyes dancing in amusement. “The Rebellion would be far more productive, wouldn’t it?”
Though a distant part of him did remember that she had just been up nearly three days straight supervising the last mission on Bespin.
The second thing he noticed was that she was wearing nearly nothing. Well, not nothing — a luxurious silk slip, no doubt expensive and a remnant of her former life, so out of place in the hut and the general shabbiness of everything in the base that he could only assume she had been wearing it under her robes when she first escaped the senate.
It was summer in Yavin — which made the planet even hotter and more humid, not that it needed help in that department — and these days the heavy humidity was like a physical object present in every room with them, and he had noticed her discreetly lifting her collar and fanning herself with some flimsi when she thought no one was looking, beads of sweat dripping down her neck. He himself had been taking showers twice a day, water conservation be damned.
Now though. His training for details automatically, absently kicked in as his eyes roved over her form. The slip — Ghorman silk, a muted beige — came halfway through her pale thighs, riding higher as she shifted in her sleep, leaving her long, long legs exposed, her sheets and pillow kicked off the cot and littering the floor.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had never seen any part of her body aside from her hands and forearms. She was always wearing her white, diaphanous, shapeless robes — now folded neatly on a chair – that hid her by design, since she was the symbol and figurehead of the Rebellion, and they wanted to keep her as one. She had agreed to it without complaint, and he didn’t think much of it, didn’t think that it would be a fraction of what others had sacrificed — after all, she was used to being in the public eye, her image everywhere in the galaxy and spread across the holonet, used to shielding her true self, already gracious and elegant by default.
For the first time he realized how effective it was, since he was around her everyday and had himself forgotten that she was flesh and blood, not a symbol of idealism and rebellion and hope. Draven wasn’t blind — he knew the senator was beautiful, but often that beauty, regal and untouchable, went hand in hand with the symbol. He had forgotten that she was just a woman, and it seemed this night was all about reminding him that she was a desirable one.
As if on cue, she shifted again, twisting in her sleep.
He held his breath, torn between being horrified at her waking up and seeing him standing there, and yet there was something in him – a reckless, curious part – that wanted her to open her eyes so he could see her for the first time, the woman behind the symbol. After a few moments that felt like hours, she remained asleep, ignorant of the inferno she had caused mere feet in front of her, her breathing even and her eyes still closed.
Her moving had caused the slip to tighten around her body. That damnable slip was delicate enough to be see-through, and Draven felt the escalating heat on his face and the sudden, uncontrollable tightening of his trousers as he continued to rake his gaze up her form, the material transparent enough that he could see the outline of her nipples, the curve of her breasts against the fabric. The senator’s hair, usually cut short to her chin, had grown longer, falling in auburn waves on her neck, strands of it pressed against her cheek and tangled in her long, dark lashes.
Draven was paralyzed where he stood, the datapad he was holding forgotten in his numb fingers. He felt such a strong wave of want. He wanted to peel that slip off her, he wanted to drag it up her thighs and over her breasts; no, he wanted to keep the slip on her body, wanted to know the taste of her nipples through such fine silk and lace. He suddenly needed to know what she would sound like. Would she gasp in pleasure, or would she be unable to suppress a breathless moan at the sensation, her blue eyes wide and blown out? Or would she whimper helplessly as she squirmed, all that tightly held control shattered?
He shook his head, as if to clear it. What the hell was he thinking? Get it together, Davits. You’re not some horny prepubescent boy, you are the head of Rebel Intelligence, and that woman you’re fantasizing about is the leader –
A thin lace strap chose that moment to slip down her right shoulder. It was by some miracle of gravity that the fabric clung to her nipple, not completely baring her to his gaze, but his mouth still went dry at all the exposed smooth, pale skin, the slip barely covering her. The always-controlled senator, en deshabillé - there will never be a more arresting, sensual image.
The loose strap was calling to him, whether to pull it further down or to pull it back up on her shoulder he didn’t know, and he took a step closer to the senator’s figure on the bed.
“I’ll have you know that the swill they call tea in the kitchens isn’t – oh, General –”
Vel’s loud voice was a bucket of ice that completely extinguished whatever desire he was feeling and not so much as brought him back but hauled him violently to reality.
He turned around and, for a prolonged, almost comical moment, he and Vel stared at each other, the latter with a confused frown on her face – perhaps wondering why he was just standing there, face flushed no doubt – and the former with a vein throbbing in his forehead.
Then Vel’s gaze shifted and fell to where her cousin was sleeping, and some dawning realization lit up her face. Draven took that as a sign to leave and practically sprinted out the threshold, but not before hearing Vel’s voice ring out, “Mon! Get dressed and stop traumatizing your generals!”