[She almost blurts out again in an attempt to save face, but fourteen long years of conditioning with a slight gap in the two years she spent on active duty, has taught her to hold her tongue. But Ahsoka knows what's coming, in spite of what Angel tells her.
There's a long beat, where she wonders what will happen when the Force recognizes what is happening as she does. It doesn't occur to her, in that panicked moment, that nobody had ever suspected Anakin and Padme -- that nobody simply knew when the Code was being dishonored. And Angel's mental bliss momentarily sets still her rabbit-quick heart.
Her cheeks don't lighten, but she doesn't flinch when her lips come to her cheek. She lets go of a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. There's no abolishing the shy state she finds herself in so suddenly, hiding in the curl of her arms while she tries to digest -- everything.
Its nice, the buzz she feels from the alcohol, the warmth from another body so close, the genuine affection she had realized she'd been missing since Anakin had perished -- though its a different sort of affection, a line she can easily draw. In spite of her strength, she doesn't pull away. In spite of every neuron screaming in warning, she stays close, grip going too tight around the other woman's arm. The promise she tries to make, of always having her no matter what--its a promise that can't be kept.
Experience has taught her that, more than anything else.
But she's quick to realize her world doesn't crumble, in spite of how long it feels like Angel has left her lips there. No one has descended to scold her, no lightening has come to strike either of them for daring to defy the Jedi Code. Anakin had been right -- love was not all seeing enemy the Jedi had always warned them of, though she now understood what ruin it could bring if allowed too close.
So she relaxes a little in the pickle of honey and lavender, disappointed in her own reaction. There's no question of her calm, her delight, in spite of it being overshadowed by her own disappointment in herself. Surely, Angel must be disappointed as well. Not in the enjoyment of it -- but in her own strange fear that she can't put a name to. She doesn't deserve Angel's affection -- anyone's affection, for that matter.]
I'm sorry.
[Its quiet, but it feels like the right thing to say. Carefully, she reaches with one of her arms to pull a tightly wound ribbon from her waist -- a royal blue, like the tips of the stripes on her montrals -- to instead tie around Angel's wrist.]
no subject
There's a long beat, where she wonders what will happen when the Force recognizes what is happening as she does. It doesn't occur to her, in that panicked moment, that nobody had ever suspected Anakin and Padme -- that nobody simply knew when the Code was being dishonored. And Angel's mental bliss momentarily sets still her rabbit-quick heart.
Her cheeks don't lighten, but she doesn't flinch when her lips come to her cheek. She lets go of a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. There's no abolishing the shy state she finds herself in so suddenly, hiding in the curl of her arms while she tries to digest -- everything.
Its nice, the buzz she feels from the alcohol, the warmth from another body so close, the genuine affection she had realized she'd been missing since Anakin had perished -- though its a different sort of affection, a line she can easily draw. In spite of her strength, she doesn't pull away. In spite of every neuron screaming in warning, she stays close, grip going too tight around the other woman's arm. The promise she tries to make, of always having her no matter what--its a promise that can't be kept.
Experience has taught her that, more than anything else.
But she's quick to realize her world doesn't crumble, in spite of how long it feels like Angel has left her lips there. No one has descended to scold her, no lightening has come to strike either of them for daring to defy the Jedi Code. Anakin had been right -- love was not all seeing enemy the Jedi had always warned them of, though she now understood what ruin it could bring if allowed too close.
So she relaxes a little in the pickle of honey and lavender, disappointed in her own reaction. There's no question of her calm, her delight, in spite of it being overshadowed by her own disappointment in herself. Surely, Angel must be disappointed as well. Not in the enjoyment of it -- but in her own strange fear that she can't put a name to. She doesn't deserve Angel's affection -- anyone's affection, for that matter.]
I'm sorry.
[Its quiet, but it feels like the right thing to say. Carefully, she reaches with one of her arms to pull a tightly wound ribbon from her waist -- a royal blue, like the tips of the stripes on her montrals -- to instead tie around Angel's wrist.]