So, this shall be a collection of vignettes about Star Wars characters that are not Han and Leia, although they will probably appear in a few (I just can't stay away).
Disclaimer: George's. Always George's.
So, a reviewer over at TNQLL named nikki commented that Janson and Mon Mothma would make a great couple. I blame her for this plot bunny, which bit and just wouldn't let go.
Basically, I stuck Mon Mothma and Janson in a turbo-lift together. They were far more serious than I had anticipated.
Enjoy. Or something to that effect.
Ma'am
"Hold the door," she says. He does so, and when she steps onto the turbo-lift she almost looks as though she regrets the request.
"Janson," she says curtly.
"Ma'am." She can hear him grin behind her as she turns to face the doors. They ride in silence, until-
"Why the Supreme?"
She doesn't even bother to turn. "What."
"Why Supreme Commander?"
This time she turns. "Because it's a military rank, Janson."
"But why the Supreme? Why not just Commander? You know, people might think you're a bit conceited if you-"
"Janson!"
"Yes ma'am?"
"Shut-up." She turns back to the doors and damns all Alliance lifts and their lack of anything akin to speed.
He obeys for half a second before-
"What if this thing falls?"
"Excuse me?"
"What if this thing falls and we die? Just think; the Alliance's leader and most promising pilot gone in one fell swoop. Bet the Emperor'd pay money."
"Oh yes, Palapatine's probably willing the failure of Alliance lifts as we speak."
"It'd be a tragic end, you know."
"I'm sure."
There is a beat, in which she smoothes down her hair. She hears him shift his weight behind her and-
"You should grow it out."
She turns full around to face him, to check for different sized pupils. For something.
"Yeah," he says thoughtfully. "It'd suit your face shape better if you grew it out."
"Planning to go into the hair business, Janson?"
"No ma'am."
She touches her hair. "It would be highly impractical to have long hair."
"Great shame."
"Oh yes," she turns back to the doors. "Galaxies everywhere are committing mass genocide of beings possessing short hair."
"You know, if you grow it out you'd having better looking wanted posters."
She doesn't bother to answer. As the lift creaks toward the ground, the term 'hell in a hand basket' takes on a whole new meaning.
"So… ever been ravished in a turbo-lift?" She spins to find him grinning at her. The turbo lift beeps, and the doors slide open behind her.
He slips by her and tosses a "G'night, ma'am" over his shoulder. And she is left to touch her hair with suddenly burning hands, and walk slowly off the lift. And she is reminded that she wasn't always a soldier.
Well?