Work Text:
Sinjir Rath Velus can proudly claim that he is familiar with every single establishment that serves a decent drink within the immediate proximity of the Senate Building. Whenever the Galactic Senate is relocated to a new planet, he makes it his first mission to do the necessary reconnaissance work and discover every cantina and tapcafe in the neighbourhood that is worth a visit.
He does so mainly for his own entertainment and mental wellbeing, but it tends to prove useful later on. Every now and then, he finds himself in dire need of a location for an ad hoc meeting with a senator, or has to attain information without arousing unwanted attention – and no one knows more about the sordid affairs of politicians than the people who serve their drinks. And at the end of the rotation, no matter how transparent the New Republic is aiming to be, a good chunk of the legislative process – the part with the clandestine negotiations and the swaying of crucial votes – is decided in places more or less like this one, behind closed doors and far from the prying eyes of the public.
He could find his way to this cantina blindfolded by now. The bartender calls him by name, and even the regulars know enough of him not to refer to him as ‘Mothma’s ex-Imperial’. The place itself is a bit rundown, but the drink is cheap and it’s barely a few clicks away from the Senate. Which is part of the reason why it is constantly filled with overworked senatorial aides and off-duty guards.
The Lasat in a blue flightsuit sitting alone on a barstool, however, is certainly a rare sight – not that the clientele is anything but diverse, they come in all shapes and sizes, Sinjir is used to that having spent years in the service of the New Republic. But the Lasat notoriously keep to themselves. Even after their homeworld’s accession to the NR, they rarely leave the faraway planet.
Evidently, some of them do.
And the man is about to make an awful mistake.
Sinjir quickly proceeds to order two glasses of Corellian rum and slides one of them across the bar. The drink comes to a halt in front of the Lasat, who looks at him questioningly, with a hint of suspicion in his vibrant green eyes.
“Believe me, you’ll thank me tomorrow,” Sinjir explains. “I don’t know much about Lasat biology, but that nasty stuff induces the worst hangover I have ever experienced, and you don’t seem like the type who has lost the will to live.”
He snatches away the glass of Kowakian rum that the man has been nursing and places it out of reach for good measure. Not that the Lasat would have any difficulty taking it back. Or cracking Sinjir’s head open on the counter for the insolence, for that matter.
The Lasat scoffs in response. “I’ll take your word for it,” he says with a lopsided smile, and knocks back the newly purchased drink in one go. “Thanks…?”
The ex-Imperial just stares at him, with a mixture of awe and disbelief, until he realises the man is asking his name. “Sinjir,” he provides.
The Lasat introduces himself as Zeb, thanks him again, and in the same breath insists on paying for the next round.
“Long day, huh?” Sinjir asks and gives a jerky nod, accepting the offer. He moves closer, dragging his chair along. For one, it looks like Zeb could use some company. Secondly, he’s never turned down a free drink in his life, and he’s not about to break that habit now.
“Two kids. They are a handful on a good day, and this wasn’t one of those.” Zeb lets out a tired sigh. Fortunately, he doesn’t toss his second drink back in one swig, but starts sipping it cautiously as he turns to Sinjir. “You got any?”
“Kids? Nah.” He vehemently shakes his head. “I’m enough trouble for my husband on my own,” he adds and raises his hand, showing off the simple golden wedding band that glimmers slightly, even in the dimly lit cantina.
His impromptu companion tilts his glass, as if to congratulate him, and Sinjir’s chest is flooded with a strange sense of pride. He does consider marrying Conder Kyl one of the greatest achievements of his life.
“We’re not hitched. Never even thought I’d have a kid, let alone two.” The Lasat’s voice is deep and husky, mixed with throaty laughter, but he doesn’t slur his words. Presumably, he’d need to drink a lot more than the average Human to achieve that. “I don’t want to paint the wrong picture, I love them to bits, but at times like this I feel like we didn’t know what we were signing up for. Though, I suppose no one really does, eh?”
Sinjir doesn’t know much about raising children. He’s fairly confident that he would never want one of his own, and thankfully, Conder seems to share the sentiment. He had given it some serious thought. He likes Temmin well enough, though the kid is practically a grown-up already, even if Norra would disagree, but it’s not like he needs any coddling or disciplining or someone to take care of him. Sinjir doesn’t think he would be fit for any of that, considering his upbringing. Mother dearest wasn’t exactly a role model in that regard. It’s hard enough for him to learn and relearn what is considered decent human behaviour, let alone pass it on.
But the guy sitting next to him appears to be trying, which is a lot more than some parents out there can say for themselves.
He doesn’t say any of this out loud.
“What changed?” he asks instead, with genuine curiosity.
“Well, it was sort of an accident, if you catch my drift.”
Saying Sinjir doesn’t catch his drift would be an understatement.
When he sat down and took a closer look at the Lasat, he had a hunch. A distinct feeling that Zeb, as some might say, is from the planet Gailea. That he is on the other hoverbus. That he is a Jogan fruit, as a particular gentleman in a not-so-elegant cantina so elegantly put it.
That he is the same as Sinjir.
Unintended pregnancies not only do not fit the picture he had in mind, but completely shatter it.
As he ponders the revelation, lost in his thoughts and lightheaded from the quickly consumed rum, Sinjir doesn’t notice the newcomer who walks into the bar at first.
Once he does, he immediately notes three things. One: he’s definitely coming their way. Two: he’s not exactly limping, but his unsteady steps suggest an old injury to one of his legs. Three: his posture. Head held high, back straight as a rod, shoulders pulled back. The posture that Sinjir sees in the mirror every day and has repeatedly tried and failed to get rid of, because it is ingrained in him, like the programming of a droid – as it is in every other person that has ever been enlisted by the Empire.
The stranger quickly closes the distance between them. Apart from the way he’s bearing himself, there’s no indication of his Imperial past, and he most certainly knows Zeb, because they greet each other with a clumsy half-embrace, but lingering, and the Lasat’s face practically lights up and isn’t that interesting?
Sinjir would describe him as dashing, with his broad shoulders and prominent jawline, the long, sandy hair, and the sideburns that somehow, impossibly work on him – if it wasn’t for his overall dishevelled state and the dark grey circles under his eyes that perfectly mirror the tired expression of Sinjir's recently acquired drinking buddy.
“I see you’ve got a thing for ex-Imps,” Sinjir says to Zeb with a thin, sly smile. Mainly to get a reaction out of the man who joined them, but to his disappointment, he doesn’t even see a flinch in response. Impressive. He doesn’t just admire the self-restraint, but quickly draws another conclusion. “Let me guess, ISB?”
“ISB,” the man confirms, his face blank, his tone even. Zeb is easier to read. He is tense and agitated, more than ready to intervene and defend his… friend? Partner? Co-parent? Not yet spouse.
Still, detecting emotions used to be part of Sinjir’s job description. He knows exactly which buttons to push.
“But not one to do the dirty work, huh?” he asks coolly, and the ex-ISB agent’s jaw falls open, his eyebrows shoot up, a moment of outrage and something else flickering on his face for a split second, before he catches himself and schools his expression.
It was a guess, but it was a good one and it hit the right spot.
The man isn’t someone who turned his coat after the Empire fell, but deserted long before that. He must have been afraid of the repercussions.
Loyalty officers were above everyone, in a way. Even members of the Imperial Security Bureau needed a reminder of their allegiance from time to time, and they were kept in line just like any of their fellow greyshirts. Do people like Sinjir haunt his dreams? Has he ever met any of them, or are they just faceless shapes in white uniforms?
“You’re Mothma’s advisor,” he states matter-of-factly, and it’s Sinjir’s turn to be impressed again. He hides it behind a smug smile as he replies, “The one and only.”
The man arches an eyebrow sceptically, but otherwise remains unfazed. “She always has at least two.”
“Touché,” Sinjir concedes and raises his glass cheerfully. “But the only one with relevant work experience.”
The man ignores his comment and turns to Zeb instead. “Everything alright with the kids?”
“They put up quite a fight about leaving, but once we’ve arrived to Hera’s place, I couldn’t drag ‘em away from Jacen. I’m not sure they even noticed I left,” the Lasat replies and sits back, his shoulders relaxed, seemingly convinced that the two ex-Imperials won’t jump at each other’s throats. “You done with whatever you needed to do?”
The newcomer – former agent Alexsandr Kallus, designation ISB-021, as it turns out – only inclines his head in response. And although Sinjir was trained in detecting and analysing microexpressions, he doesn’t need any of that knowledge to recognise that the man is visibly nervous, as he keeps averting his eyes and fidgeting with something in his left pocket, his shoulders tense and his forehead glistening with sweat. Hiding something.
“Let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use it,” Sinjir offers, not as one ex-Imperial to the other, but because it feels like the polite thing to do. He would also very much like to figure out the reason behind the anxious behaviour, but the world seems a bit too hazy for that at the moment.
“I am the designated driver, I’m afraid,” Kallus declines, but takes a seat next to his partner.
By this point, Sinjir’s blood alcohol content has reached a certain level, and he doesn’t feel any urge to hold his prying questions back. To be fair, he’s not sure his sober self would either. “Pray tell, how did the two of you end up with an unplanned family?” he asks, shifting his gaze between them.
The agent shoots him a puzzled look, but starts to explain, carefully choosing his words, “We have adopted children in need of–”
“What Alexsandr here means is that he brought children home like stray Loth-kittens,” Zeb quips, interrupting whatever clarification his other half was about to provide.
“If I recall correctly, you were the one who found Allana in the first place,” Alexsandr points out sternly, but his lips twitch slightly as he tries to hold back a smile.
But the Lasat doesn’t leave the argument at that, “You’re the one who took care of the adoption papers.”
“It’s not my fault you pretend you cannot read Basic the minute we have some paperwork to do.”
“You know I hate it,” Zeb mutters before thinking of an appropriate comeback, “We didn’t have to fill out requisition forms for karking travel biscuits in the Rebellion.”
“That’s because you didn’t have any travel biscuits unless you’d raided our supplies,” Kallus counters. “But I can assure you, the New Republic is just as capable of creating useless bureaucratic obstacles. If it ever falls, it will be buried under stacks of flimsisheets.”
Sinjir watches the exchange with an amused smile on his lips, as if it’s an exciting game of grav-ball. The bickering is entertaining and sickeningly adorable at the same time – must be the side-effect of the drink, making him sappy. How are these two not married already?
“Don’t even remind me,” he sighs wistfully. “Those biscuits were the perfect hangover cure. I could kill for them.” He stops for a moment, downing the rest of his rum, and thinks better of it. “Not literally. A little maiming, maybe? I’ve done worse for less.”
He shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes find the ex-agent’s gaze, and to his satisfaction, it reflects that solemn understanding he is seeking. Not remorse or penitence or sorrow. Acknowledgment.
“We all did, didn’t we?” As soon as Alexsandr says the words, he’s already parsecs away, might as well lost in another galaxy, staring into the distance somewhere above Sinjir’s head.
“Sanya, hey, stay with me.”
Zeb’s murmur seems to break the spell. He reaches out, his hand practically covering Kallus’s shoulder blade, as he starts stroking his back gently. The ex-agent startles and puts on a forced smile, his eyes are cloudy and unfocused, but his voice barely wavers as he speaks up, changing the topic of conversation, “Has Zeb told you how we’ve ended up with little Kyrill?”
Sinjir takes the bait and listens to the intricate tale of how they had been aiding the resettlement of refugees and displaced persons on Lira San, but were unable to find any living relatives of a particular Lasat boy. By the time they had come to the conclusion that the orphanage remained their only option, the kid hid in their house and refused to leave – as it turned out, Allana was complicit in the plot, harbouring the little fugitive in her room.
Talking about the children seems to ground Alexsandr, he’s calmer, his smile turns genuine, and his voice doesn’t trail off, not even when the conversation moves on to his time as an officer, basically tasked with hunting down Zeb’s crew and eventually becoming a spy for the Rebellion.
Sinjir briefly wonders how he had never heard of the man before. Such a high-ranking agent’s betrayal couldn’t have been easy to cover up. But he has to admit that treachery within the Security Bureau wouldn’t have exactly come across as a boost of morale – had it happened under his watch, he would have done anything to keep the incident under wraps.
And then he spots Kallus pocketing a tiny box and realises why the agent’s comportment made him feel so uneasy. It’s a familiar sight, not quite nervousness, but anticipation mixed with a good amount of fear of rejection.
Conder had been like that for a tenday before he proposed.
Well, he tried.
They were in bed one evening, Conder working on one of his gadgets, tools and pieces of wire scattered on the sheet. Sinjir snarkily asked him whether he should give them some privacy, even though he was aware he was being a hypocrite. He’d also brought his work home, reading a thirty-page long report on the trade relations of the Sluis sector, which should have been practically non-existent. How someone had managed to fill thirty flimsisheets with information about it was beyond him.
“Hey, Sin,” Conder said suddenly with feigned casualness.
Sinjir murmured, “Yeah?” and dearly hoped that the conversation that followed would bring an end to the tension that had been building for the past tenday.
“You know, you make it pretty kriffing hard to keep a secret from you?” his boyfriend asked, but it didn’t sound like a question at all. Not even leaving him a chance to reply, Conder went on, “I have never managed to throw you a surprise Name Day party.”
Sinjir just hummed noncommittally and placed the report on the nightstand. He had no idea where this argument was going, but it was no doubt more interesting than the amount of minerals successfully extracted from Dagobah’s swamps. “Unless you count last year, when you blackmailed me into pretending to be surprised,” he retorted.
“I did no such thing!” Conder protested, and Sinjir couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, genuinely reflecting outrage at the mere suggestion.
Sinjir huffed. “Oh, no, you just kept reminding me how awfully disappointed you would be if I were to find out.”
The slicer positively pouted at that. “For a former professional torturer, your definition of blackmail is quite lax.”
The ex-Imperial couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. The fact that they were able to casually joke about it meant that his past really did belong in the past, and making each other laugh was his favourite thing to do. “It’s the eyes, Con,” he exclaimed dramatically. “You know I can’t resist you when you look like a wet tooka kitten.”
Conder muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll give you a wet tooka kitten,” and then continued to grumble, “Point is, you see right through me. You keep figuring out what your Life Day present is before I even get a chance to buy it...”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Sinjir interjected. It wasn’t. On one memorable occasion, he had to intervene, because Conder was about to buy him a particularly hideous vest, and he knew he wouldn’t have the heart to pretend he liked it.
His remark didn’t seem to stop his boyfriend from listing his alleged misdemeanours. “You also knew about the getaway trip I planned.”
“You started packing.” Sinjir really couldn’t be blamed for noticing that. “Objects disappeared around the house. You’re lucky I didn’t accuse you of stealing my spare socks!”
Conder shot him a sharp look, with an eyebrow quirked and his arms folded across his broad chest. “You’re just proving my point.”
“What point, Con? I have noticed you’ve been nervous, and I thought you wanted to tell me something, but this feels like I’m being put on trial.” Sinjir let out a frustrated sigh, searching his mind for a plausible explanation. “Did I forget some kind of occasion? Our anniversary is… Not now, I’m pretty sure.”
It was one of the rare instances in which he had failed to come up with one, so he couldn’t do anything but stare at his partner, waiting for clarification, while he was increasingly unnerved by the whole situation.
“Will you marry me, Sin?” His breath hitched and his brain barely registered the nervous rambling that followed, the question hanging in the air between them. “I wanted to do this properly, I really did, but you make it impossible. I feel like you’d know the second I stepped into a jewellery store. We could buy the rings together, at least I won’t have to worry whether you’ll like them. Or I can…”
He snorted a laugh, breaking off the monologue. “Oh, the flashiest diamond will suffice. I’m not that particular.”
“Is that a yes?” Conder scoffed incredulously.
“Of course it is, you doll,” Sinjir leaned in, smiling into the kiss he pressed to his fiancé’s lips.
This, of course also provided the perfect opportunity for Sinjir to plot the kind of surprise proposal Conder would have wanted – after all, who would expect a proposal following their engagement?
He got the rings and threw a party inviting the old crew: Jas, Norra, Temmin and Wedge, and Conder’s closest friends, and all his nerdy co-workers. Leia and Han brought Ben with them, and even Sinjir’s arch nemesis – his closest colleague and well-respected friend, Sondiv Sella made an appearance.
And when he popped the question for the second time, and Conder laughed at him and answered “Yes, you incorrigible bastard,” they kissed in front of everyone, and then shared the bottle of lachrymead he had received from the Chancellor herself.
Long story short, Sinjir muses, fiddling with his wedding band as he recalls the memory, if his hunch is correct, his newly made acquaintance is about to propose to his other newly made acquaintance. And his instincts always proved him right.
Well, most of the time.
“…so we’ve been on Lira San since then,” Zeb concludes, the sudden silence cutting off Sinjir’s train of thought.
“You’ve been together that long?” he asks.
Zeb smirks. “That’s actually a funny story…”
“Garazeb, please, Sinjir’s surely not interested in–” Kallus tries to deflect, something akin to horror showing on his face
A rather futile attempt to change the subject, as the Lasat’s smug grin suggests a promising anecdote. Sinjir’s quick to reassure them, “Oh, no, I’m listening. I like funny stories.”
Alexsandr sighs in resignation and gestures for his partner to speak.
“When we arrived to Lira San, we moved in together, mainly because we didn’t know anyone else too well.”
“A perfectly reasonable decision,” Sinjir nods, flashing a grin in Kallus’s direction, who only rolls his eyes in exasperation.
“As we have established, Sanya here is quite an accomplished spy–“
“I have accidentally overheard a conversation,” Alexsandr interjects through gritted teeth. “It happens.”
His cheeks turn a darker shade of pink with every single word as Zeb continues: “Accidentally or not, he’s heard me telling our friend Hera I fancied someone. And with the help of his admirable deductive skills, he came to the conclusion that he should move out to give me and my new partner some space.”
“This is a very biased retelling of what actually happened. It’s not like you gave me any sign your affection was directed towards me...”
“That’s right,” Sinjir chimes in, silencing the other ex-Imperial. “Inciting a high-ranking officer to question their loyalties and not only defect but spy for your side, then taking them to your super secret homeworld to prove they hadn’t completely erased your race like they’d thought? I’m sure that happens a lot. Strictly platonically. Between buddies.”
Kallus scowls in response, but any comeback is left unsaid, as he catches a glimpse of his chrono and remarks, “We should get going. We have half an hour until our reservation, and we need some time to get there.” He glances at Zeb apologetically.
“Right. I’ll go settle the tab,” the Lasat concedes and gets up, leaving the two ex-Imperials alone.
Sinjir can’t fight the urge to reveal his recent discovery, but he’s well aware that Zeb barely moved out of earshot. And who knows what those pointed ears are able to pick up?
So he only says in a hushed voice, “Good luck with your mission, Agent.” And Kallus’s furrowed brow is replaced with an amused half-smile as he realises what Sinjir is referring to. “Not that you need it, of course.”
He doesn’t. Both of them were visibly enamoured and disgustingly adorable all evening.
“If Loyalty Officer Rath Velus says so,” Alexsandr drawls the words, “I am inclined to believe him.”