#stark writes

She clapped her hand over her mouth with a resonant slap of palm to skin that echoed in the silence and stung and throbbed. She hyperventilated into her fingers with her eyes squeezed shut, in a wince so tight it felt like the muscles might permanently tense and keep the shape. Ugh! Why was she making this worse?

Well, as per usual, she’d made a mess of everything. Now it was time for the inevitable aftermath and cleanup. He’d say something polite but firm, tell her he absolutely did not feel the same, how could he given the disastrous, messy everything about her and then there would be a whole new extra layer added to all the other awkward layers she’d added to their friendship today. Maybe he didn’t hear her?

Morff shook his head to clear it, tugged his tabard at the neck like it was too tight (a surefire sign he was uncomfortable) and she predicted, based on experience and entirely too much familiarity with his habits, that his right hand would reach up to stroke the whiskers of his beard as he thought.

The hand stretched upward, right on cue, trembling with palsy to trace the whiskers on his chin, though whether it shook from her confession or from his injuries, she couldn’t say. Then, after he took a lengthy breath, he settled his eyes on her. The gaze was steady, his expression kind yet guarded.

“Believe it or not, I heard you say fuck me.” Morff fought the vaguest hint of a smile, but all at once the corners of his lips tipped downward as his mood sobered. “Lia, you’re…you—you’re in love with me? Surely, you must be joking. This isn’t one of your bizarre pranks, is it?”

A joke? He thought her confession of her feelings for him was a joke? Oh, come on! How much worse was this day going to get? What was she to him, exactly? One of those jesters in a Hutt pleasure palace? Fucking yikes! His poor opinion of her confession was a new low in a day overflowing with them. It stung a little: the clash of her expectations with the cold harshness of reality. What had she expected? Well, for starters, maybe a smile? Then, maybe he’d open his arms to her, and she’d crash into them, giddy with relief. She pulled herself out of the fantasy and managed her disappointment.

Prax’s assessment of a potential romantic advance from her as a joke was…fair—okay, more than fair. A serious suitor wouldn’t have jabbed him in the neck with a sedative to avoid professing their feelings, but a jester would. A jester ran into danger to protect the battle master of the Jedi Order instead of trusting he was more than capable of protecting himself. Actually, maybe Prax was onto something. She was one poor decision away from earning a colorful cap ‘n’ bells and playing to the court of one of the Hutts on Nar Shaddaa.

An idea hit her with such ferocity it almost knocked her unconscious, and an obscure rule from the Smuggler’s Code instantly sprang to mind and dangled from the end of an attractive hook.

Smuggler’s Code: Rule 27: If someone mistakes you for a fool, play the part.

“Gotcha, pal! It was all a joke.” She said, forcing a swaggering smile as she punched him playfully in the arm. She leaned into the bit harder by throwing a couple of stiff-looking knee slaps and even pretended to wipe tears of laughter away from her eyes. “You should see your face!”

Prax’s face went tight, a microscopic flinch of his jaw, subtle enough to miss if she hadn’t been cataloguing his every move. As though her pretend practical joke had hurt. But before she could confirm that was what she saw, the expression disappeared, and the placid look of tired patience he always wore returned.

“Of course it was a joke.” His voice was thin as he dropped his chin to his chest to hide his face from her. He took a beat to master whatever he wanted to keep hidden before he lifted his chin with a tight, proud smile that was as cold as the tundras of Hoth. “I thought what you said was a tad out of character, even for a habitual liar. Why, given the gravity of our current situation, would you choose to make that joke now?”

“You were so mad at me for everything else I did today, I thought a joke might be a pleasant change of pace. Break the tension.” Zallia nudged him again with her elbow with the panache of a slapstick stage performer. “Come on, if you can’t laugh you might as well be…”

“What precisely?” Prax lifted one brow with a stony, challenging look, daring her to finish the rest of the sentence. “Enlighten me.”

The missing word sucked the oxygen right out of the room, and for the first time since she committed to the bit, she caught Prax’s eye. His face was hard as stone, mouth set in a rigid straight line, eyes dark and emotions veiled. They teetered on the precipice yet again of discussing it. His death and all the tangled emotions that came with it. The shift in his tone and mood took her aback.

“You’re angry with me again.” She observed softly.

“Not angry." He said with a frustrated sigh as the tension in his shoulders faded and his posture curled into itself, as though he was in pain. “Difficult to put paint to it, though the closest I can get is a touch disillusioned.”

“Ugh, that’s so much worse.” Zallia said as she threw up her arms with a mixture of exasperation and despair, wishing he’d shouted at her instead of sinking down onto the holoterminal in defeat. “What’s so bad about making a joke to break the tension? Usually, you think I’m pretty funny.”

“It’s not the joke itself but the lack of empathy you showed in the timing. Why, when I had just told you I died to protect you, would you make a joke about being in love with me?”

She didn’t have an answer for him, not really. Hell, she didn’t have an answer for herself. Why did she lie? She rotated through a few trite, canned responses and settled on:

“I’m a deeply unserious person and as conversations go, that was about as serious as it gets. Heavy, soul-bearing talks make me uncomfortable. Jokes help me cope.”

A truth disguised as an excuse; she hated heavy topics, especially when her poor behavior was the top point of discussion, but, as she thought about it, she realized she hated these types of talks less when they were with Prax. She filed the realization away in a folder entitled to be dealt with later and pushed the thought away. Then, for good measure, just to keep him distracted, she threw in a gut-wrenching:

“Honestly, Prax—sometimes it’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Her choice of attack had its intended effect. He struggled up to his feet, weak and weary, clutching at his chest with all the indignant dignity he had left.

“I know you too well. You accused me of wearing armor to keep you out, but what about your thick coat of cynicism? I’ve tried for months to see past the mask of the fool you hide beneath, deluded into believing there might be more underneath, but after today, I recognize I am the fool and there isn’t a softer layer underneath…” He put the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb like he had a headache and let out a bitter sigh. “Or at least, not one you care to show me, and I’m too exhausted by the effort of the search to hope our differences won’t impede our friendship.”

Ouch! Something strong wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed, and what oozed out next was bitter and made her stomach sick—regret. How many times had she tasted it? Besides whiskey, it was her second drink of choice. She’d drenched herself in regret and shame her whole life, but stars, how she hated herself for it now.

A shrill alarm burst into the uncomfortable silence with a shrill tritone melodic pattern Zallia didn’t recognize. She leaped into action, her hand jumping to the butt of her blaster without registering the move, face drawn tight and muscles tense, head tilted to the side to listen for any new clattering of the engines, signs of another attack, or not-so-subtle roar of fire. Something shifted, swift like a shadow, and swept past her—Prax, moving smooth as a nexu. He drew his sabers and activated them, and positioned himself in front of her, ready to fight the offending sound to the death with the whole of his battered body and all of his remaining strength.

“Please tell me you’re hearing that infernal racket and it’s not another one of my delightful hallucinations,” he said with a level of anxiety she’d never seen from him before. “What’s happening?”

If she knew ships and the damage they could take, and she did, they were probably about to explode mid-hyper lane, but she kept the dark mental image of their ship breaking apart to herself. Prax had been through enough today—her fault. He didn’t need a running list of assumptions about what was causing said infernal racket. He mentioned hallucinations—not a good sign. She made a mental note to badger him about another stem and medpack later.

“If I had to guess,” she began with a swallow as she took in his defensive stance. “We’re approaching Mek Sha and I need to land the ship at the safe house.”

Something about his posture, the way he, time after time, always stood in front of her like a shield, hit her hard in the gut. It came so naturally to him, this ability to sacrifice himself for her. And as much as she hated herself at the moment for letting her secret slip and then hurting him yet again with lies to cover her feelings up, she recalled the staircase, and the touch of his hand against her cheek as he slipped away from her, and knew this wasn’t a secret she could keep for long. Not when she’d come so close to…Zallia pushed the thought away and swallowed away the thick lump forming in her throat. Morff was alive, and standing so close she could feel the heat of his body chase away the chill of the climate control. She moved past him, but stopped short at the entryway to the cockpit.

“Truth is, we are different; that’s what makes us, our friendship, so special. If you’re ready to walk away, I don’t blame you, but give me a chance to fix this—to show you how much…” Her voice cracked as she struggled to tamp down the flood of raw emotion. “We’ll talk later. Rest; I’ll take care of the ship.”

**********

After a thorough systems check, a once over of the life-support system, and a quick rewiring of the comm system to give it a little extra juice in case the life-support system gave up completely, and they needed to broadcast an SOS, Zallia strapped herself from the Captain’s chair and reclined into the folds of the leatheris and let out a long, world-weary sigh.

Every muscle in her body ached, her head pounded, and her shoulder wound pulsed, and the muscles underneath the skin twitched with the promise of infection. Her ego? Shattered into tiny fragments—not a shred of self-worth remained. None of those minor complaints mattered as much as the heavy ache of her heart.

Zallia tilted her head back and gave into the weight of her eyes and her soul, while her mind raced a million parsecs per second. She drifted between wakefulness and sleep, panic and despair, then waded gingerly into the raging river of worry floating through her mind as she reclined against the seat to ease the headache. She cradled her aching right arm in her left to soothe the pull of her burning skin and eased her eyes shut to assuage the throbbing in her temples.

Gods, she regretted her slip with Morff. Sure, he bought her lie that it was all a joke and hated her for it, but the corrosive truth gnawed at her until it burned. No matter how she sliced it, there was no small part of her that wanted him to know she loved him.

But who was she kidding? There was not a single outcome she could imagine where she didn’t lose Morff for the second time in two days if she said it out loud, and that loss would break her forever. Why did she tell him it was all a joke?

‘Because you’re a Thane. You love him more than money, more than your ship, more than all those things you told yourself you wanted your whole life, and you’re terrified.’

Okay, yeah, her critic extraordinaire hit the nail on the head with brutal accuracy, but ouch. Also, who said that? It wasn’t Morff. His acute observations came with a bit more tact, and with the eloquent delivery of a velvet hammer. She popped one eye open with a cautious blink to find herself in the middle of the Nomad, with all its comfortable clutter, the unique smell of 30 weight and must, and a waft of Powin’s potent spice rub in the galley. Zallia uncurled her limbs with all the wobbling grace of a newborn fathier and staggered to her feet.

‘No way,’ she said in a breathless whisper, unable to believe her eyes. ‘My ship.’

All of it was there: the empty crates she kept stacked in the corner, all of them empty, of course, and without a useful purpose, much to Master Nightstar’s dismay. The Dejarik table with the scuffs from all the times she’d kicked her boots into the metal casing around the rim. It was there, whole and thriving, with the engines humming in the background, Powin’s knife clicking against a cutting board, Theron taping his stylus against the screen of his datapad. Master Nightstar’s pottery wheel squealed as it rotated. From the kitchen, Powin gave a set of instructions, and Prax answered him with a laugh followed by the sizzle of something in a pan. All of it was beautiful and perfect, and hers. Her loyal ship, her beloved crew.

“You mean my ship, Thane.”

The voice was Saia’s, raspy and wise beyond her years, but what was she doing here? A cold rush of realization flooded through her, chilling the warm glow of the cozy setting. Her ship was gone. Powin was parsecs away on Balmorra, probably wondering whether collocoids were an edible species and if he could elevate their taste with a bevy of side dishes. Saia? Tucked away safely on Ord Mantell with her Corso, her ships, and baby Kora. And Prax? Within arm’s reach, and yet so far removed from her he might as well be halfway across the galaxy.

Her heart ached with a need she didn’t know how to fill for all the people that made her ship a home. Zallia’s strength ebbed as the totality of her losses set in, chipping away what little power she had left to endure the stronger of the two emotions: loneliness. She dropped back down to the Nomad’s worn sofa, stained with ale and grease, whiskey and more than a fair share of sweat, overcome by the sheer weight of it all. A dream; this was all a dream.

Saia lowered herself onto the sofa with a grateful groan, with her fingers kneading the muscle in her lower back, and nimbly threw her feet up, muddy boots and all, onto the Dejarik table, leaned back into the pillowy folds of the filthy sofa and tucked her hands behind her head.

How many talks did they have in just this position? Two dozen? Zallia seated at the feet of the master smuggler while Saia sat with the ruling posture of a distant, radiant queen and dictated advice at her rapid-fire rate.

Saia shot Zallia a conspiratorial wink, reached deep into the folds of her long leatheris duster, and with a clink of glass, produced two chilled bottles of Gamorean ale. She tossed her long dark braids, laced with shocks of vibrant purple, over her shoulders, a sign they were in for a longer chat, and sighed with deep satisfaction as she pushed one bottle of ale across the table. It slid to a stop at Zallia’s fingertips. The glass was frosted and condensation sweated down the side. It all felt so real, the temperature of the bottle, Zallia marveled at the sensation.

Saia waited a moment or two, albeit impatiently, then, with a frustrated grunt, she snatched Zallia’s bottle back, twisted off each metal cap with her teeth and spat both lids onto the ground with a satisfying plunk. Stars, Saia made the tough broad act look effortless. Spacers and pirates saw her coming and fled in the opposite direction. Almost nothing got underneath that impervious skin—almost.

She grabbed the bottle and took a swig that rivaled most space pirates, then, after she downed the entire bottle at once, set it on the table with a click and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her coat and grinned, encouraging Zallia to do the same. To oblige Saia’s keen look, she took a half-hearted sip, then wrapped her hands around the bottle, elbows posed on the table, shoulders rounded in a way that made her wound ache, but somehow, this position felt safer and less exposed.

‘Stars, Kora. Look at you!’ Saia said, smile widening with amazement. 'He got to you. You’re not even drinking; that’s how far inside your head he got.’

‘Me? Pffft. No one gets to Zallia Thane. Here, look, I’ll show you.’

For spite or to prove a point, or both, she put the bottle back to her lips and chugged it down, all the way to the dregs. The ale sloshed its way down to her belly, but not in any way that brought her comfort. The success was hollow; the ale burned her esophagus all the way down, and she’d made another decision that made her head hurt for the umpteenth time today. Saia shot her a pitying look, unconvinced by the show.

‘So,’ Saia continued conversationally, as though they were discussing the finer points of rust removal and not a painful chapter in Zallia’s love life. ‘You took the coward’s way out—you’re the spitting image of your old man.’

‘Ugh, how dare you,’ Zallia said, fighting a smile. ‘One Darmas Thane is more than enough trouble for the galaxy.’

Saia let out a harsh, brittle laugh, tinged with all the heartbreak a ticket to the Darmas Thane experience offered. Zalia never asked Saia what had happened with Darmas, and Saia was less than eager to volunteer; a stone better left unturned. She sensed Saia was eager to move on, so she leaned into the fantasy and asked: ‘Alright, now that the think tank is assembled, how do I fix this mess?’

Saia tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowed and searching with a look that said she knew, but that the galaxy’s greatest haggler wasn’t willing to reveal her secrets. A look Zallia knew well and hated because it usually meant she had to do her own thinking while Saia led her, thought for thought, sometimes hours later to the conclusion Saia had come to in seconds.

‘Damned if I know, Kora. You always had a knack for creating larger-than-life problems for yourself. But he’s in pretty rough shape—you both are. He needs a doctor, a few days of healthy meals and sleep, and a lay so good it’ll put a smile back on his face and color in his cheeks. Speaking of your to-do list: are you gonna put some kolto on that festering shoulder wound you got, or are you going to let it marinate in pus and bacteria for a while?’

‘The only bed I’ll be lying in is inside an Akk dog house.’ Zallia scoffed as she rolled her eyes at the thought of even attempting such a feat at a time like this. Morff didn’t want to look her in the eye, let alone put his hands on her. She almost said as much aloud, but stopped short. No reason to give Saia more ammo to tease her with. Instead, she leaned back against her seat, and with as much casual aplomb as she could muster added: ‘And the arm is just a scratch, boss. I’ll worry about it tomorrow.’

‘Ah yes, the Thane family motto: worry about it tomorrow. Worry about it today!’ Saia hissed vehemently. ‘Or they’ll amputate your arm tomorrow.’

For spite, or just to prove a point, imaginary Saia punched Zallia straight in her bad arm in just the right spot that for a moment, Zallia’s arm twinged so aggressively, she thought she might faint which was of course, ridiculous since she was already asleep and involved in some sort of fever dream.

‘A lobotomy might be more useful at this point.’ Zallia muttered under her breath as she rubbed her sore arm with a wince. ‘It’d save everyone a headache, especially Morff. You’re right, I’m just like Darmas. I’ve been on my own too long, and I’m too set in my ways for a shot at anything better. Maybe that’s the real Thane curse: we aren’t capable of love. Too many jagged spikes for anything soft.’

Saia leaned in close, eyes narrowed, a dangerous look in her eye, curled up her left fist and punched Zallia in the injured arm again, this time with malicious intent.

‘Ow!’ Zallia yelped. ‘What in the absolute—cut it out!’

‘—Listen up: get on the comm and tell that smarmy ex of yours that you and your Jedi need a medic before I punch you again. Elbow grease today prevents a whole host of problems tomorrow—ship maintenance 101. Same goes for this mess with your Jedi—an apology today would go a long way to setting things right tomorrow. You want love and all the softness that goes with it? Then take your head out of your ass, use your voice to tell your Jedi you love him and Kora, for fuck’s sake, take care of that arm.’

Zallia smiled and shot Saia a rueful, humbled look.

‘Head out of ass, medic, apology,’ she ticked each item on her to-do list with each of her fingers. ‘It’s a tall order, but I think I can hack it. Thanks for setting me straight, boss.’

Saia rose from the sofa as the quaint, rosy scene with all the ghosts of Zallia’s past faded into shadow, and paused, her face soft and hesitant.

‘Even with all the jagged edges and ugliness he’s forced on you, you’re not like Darmas, as unforgiving as durasteel and twice as sharp—a blade that cuts twice. He tried to forge you in his image, and he failed. If you weren’t capable of love, your Jedi would be dead. You’re so much more than what Darmas made you. The only person who doesn’t believe it is you.’

Zallia awoke with a start, mid-snore, chest heaving and her heart pounding riotously. Her hands scrambled to reach for anything solid and stopped once they touched the solid armrests of the captain’s chair. She gripped the leatheris until it creaked as she reacquainted herself with her unfamiliar surroundings.

Ord Mantell. Prax almost died. She dragged him off the planet half dead. The separatists almost blew up the ship, and they escaped with the engines smoking with seconds to spare. Then she blurted out she was in love with him and now she was love-life hell with no easy exits. Except this time she didn’t want an exit. Maybe the precious few minutes of sleep had helped her come to her senses or maybe it was the Force reached out to her for the first time in her life to shake her by the shoulders and to tell her to ‘get a grip’, but Saia’s plain-spoken advice snapped her out of her downward spiral.

This whole being in love thing was new, and stars it was uncomfortable to navigate without costly collisions, but maintenance: that was a world she knew and brought her comfort. When a repair seemed daunting, she always started with a list. Somehow, getting Morff back on his feet and repairing her friendship with him, moving the mission forward…skrag, so much had happened she’d almost forgotten completely about the looming threat of the emperor’s return. Though her list was looking a tad overlong, there were two items to tackle first: 1. Order a medic and 2. Apologize to Morff.

Zallia activated the holoterminal from the command console at the center of the cockpit, entered the comm number she usually only dialed late at night when she was in the area and lonely, and organized her thoughts. Jonas picked up on the second beep, wearing a cocky smile.

“Well, well.” Jonas teased with a playful tilt of his head. “If it isn’t the galaxy’s most wanted smuggler. If you’re asking me, a million credits isn’t a high enough price for such a desirable prize.”

“Save it, Joe. We’re coming in hot, and I only have enough juice in the comms for one quick chat. You ready to take notes?”

To his credit, Jonas listened without interrupting after that. He took careful note of Morff’s injuries, her own, the potentially catastrophic list of ship’s repairs, and without so much as a goodbye told her:

“I’ll take care of it.”

As the blue light of the holoterminal faded, her datapad beeped with a message and coordinates to an SIS safe house. Zallia leaned her palms against the holoterminal and let out a sigh of relief. Finally, things were moving in the right direction.

She toggled a few switches and grasped the yoke of the ship as it shifted seamlessly from autopilot to manual. With a pop, the blue faded, and the sky erupted into a hazy veil of glittering stars, and with it, glowing pink in the distance, Mek Sha.

Moments later, after navigating the bustling cross traffic and city spaceport, they landed on the outskirts of the main drag and touched down on the durasteel gang plank of what looked like the abandoned warehouse section of Mek Sha. It was quiet, a little too quiet for her taste, but she supposed it was better their stolen ship went unnoticed. Through the cockpit window, the holotrees that lined Mek Sha’s hub glittered and shined in brilliant, clashing colors: pinks, greens, and vibrant purples. A nightclub’s bass thumped in the distance.

Zallia pulled out her datapad and double-checked the coordinates Jonas had sent. Yep, sketchy warehouse with rusty hanger doors, and faint remnants of lingering exhaust clouds was the spot. As much as the location spooked her, nothing compared to the raw panic she felt at facing Morff again.

It wasn’t too late—she could sneak out the side airlock. Disappear into the Mek Sha gloom and let Morff live his life in peace while she tried to drown her shame in whiskey and racing bets. It’s what she deserved, to end up alone like her old man. Prax was always too good for her anyway, had been from the start. He deserved someone thoughtful and as whip-smart as he was.

Someone courageous, whose soul glowed gold and pure like his. Someone who wasn’t afraid to love. Ugh, even her thoughts of escaping her problems proved her point. Morff needed to get inside the safe house and to spend time with a medic, and all she could think about was herself. Her feelings for him could wait, but the least she could do was apologize for her poor behavior, though the thought sent her heart racing. Sweat beaded on her temples, while her body went cold and clammy. Maybe it was better to ignore everything that had happened between them? Her mind pulled up the image of Saia, with her fist curled and aimed toward her bad shoulder.

‘Relax, Thane,’ Saia said in that wry, reassuring way of hers. ‘It’s an apology. How hard could it be? Speak from the heart.’

Zallia rose from the captain’s chair on wobbly legs and tried to rein in her panicking thoughts as she drug herself from the cockpit and back into the fray. She wanted to run past the lounge and straight out the door. She wanted to give into the uneasy toss of her stomach and vomit, but she held her ground. No; Morff deserved more from her, and he was going to get that, even if it killed her.

She rounded the corner of the cockpit and stopped at the edge of the lounge. Morff leaned on the edge of the holo terminal, his arms crossed at the chest, his head bowed, brows furrowed, deep in thought. Zallia gently cleared her throat with a polite cough to get his attention and lingered a few steps away from where he sat. Morff regarded her warily, his face unsure as all the hurtful things they’d said to each other in the last hour lingered, like smoldering ashes on the battlefield.

“Hey there—I mean, hi…I mean. Okay, ummm. Here goes nothing. I uhhh…I don’t know where to start.” She said as she ran her fingers through her hair to calm her nerves and winced at the grease and dirt that clung to her fingers—a mess inside and out. “I’m not great with this kind of stuff…”

“Talking?” Morff asked dryly.

“Yeah. Let’s add it to the list. And before you say it—it’s a long list…” Zallia swallowed hard, her mouth numb with terror. “What I’m trying to say, badly, is: I’m sorry.”

Morff nodded, a gentle sort of bob to the head, as though to say while the apology was a start, it wasn’t enough.

“Lia, I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t know if I’m in a place to hear—”

“—I never should have disrupted your mission.” Her voice escaped her spiraling thoughts and quaked as she said it. “The truth is…” She paused as she ground out the words, her throat tight. “Well…I’m a loser.”

Morff paused, stunned by the admission, head cocked in the way it did when he was listening intently or, at least, in the way he did when he couldn’t believe his dopey ears.

“You’re not a loser,” Morff said, softening as he patted a space next to him on the edge of the holoterminal. “A tad prone to hyperbole, but in my eyes, that’s part of your charm.”

Tears pricked her eyes; Zallia fought valiantly against the tide as she approached him with cautious steps. She lingered in front of the holoterminal indecisively, unable to summon the courage to continue her groveling.

“No, no. That’s not what I mean... I know you’re mad at me. Hell, you might even hate me, and I don’t blame you for a second—I deserve worse.” She slid into the spot next to Morff, careful to leave a respectful distance between their shoulders, not wanting to violate the fragile truce between them. “I’ve lost everything I ever touched. Friends, credits, the clothes off my back…Did I ever tell you about the time I had to walk through the 45th level of Coruscant naked as the day I was born after losing a game of Pazaak?”

“No,” Morff’s mouth twitched up into the faintest beginnings of a smile. “I think I would have remembered. I’d like to hear that story.”

“It’s a good story, if you’re the one listening to it and not walking barefoot through unknown liquids on Coruscant streets after garbage day, but that’s not the point. The point is, I’ve lost family. My mother won’t even speak my name without spitting twice, and Darmas? Well, you know all about him. You were there when I lost my ship. None of that matters, not anymore. Geez, this is getting away from me. My point is, when I heard you were in trouble, I didn’t hesitate or think it through—I ran into that base because…”

“You’re a loser,” Morff finished the sentence softly, his voice distant as he absorbed her confession.

Zallia dropped her chin to her chest, unable to look him in the eye, shoulders rounded to protect herself as she laid herself bare, or at least, she’d made herself familiar with vulnerability again and stars, did she hate the feeling. Almost everything was out in the open except one or two not so minuscule details she didn’t feel ready to share. And it was…a relief, like the Gamorean bouncer that had been sitting on her chest vanished.

“Don’t let this go to your head, okay? In fact, don’t even look at me while I’m saying the rest...”

“Saying the rest of—?”

“Knock, knock.” A crisp, cherry voice interrupted. “Guess who?”

They sprang away from each other to opposite sides of the holoterminal, each red in the face, air guiltily, as if they’d got caught with their pants down in the throes of passion and not, well, whatever this was. Somehow, the shame and guilt she felt were similar; couldn’t look Morff in the eyes, even though she felt the intensity of his stare from across the room.

Jonas Balkar strode into the center of the ship, face jaunty, hair rakishly combed to the side across his forehead in a way that once would have caught her attention and sent them both tumbling into bed together. Now, she’d never been less eager to see an objectively handsome ex than she was in this moment. Prax’s expression melted into a stormy frown, and she guessed he shared the sentiment.

“Jonas Balkar.” Prax ground out with a clipped, albeit unfailingly polite cadence between clenched teeth, like the name was his least favorite curse. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”

“It’s funny—Theron always says the same thing.” Jonas said with a plucky grin as he swooped in and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Hello Lia. You’re glowing with the radiance of a distant star.”

Jonas pulled her closer and pressed a lingering kiss against her cheek. Ordinarily, this would have been enough to get her attention, but in this moment, she was all eyes for Morff. Did he understand what she’d been trying to tell him? That she loved him and would follow him to the ends of the universe if that was what it took to keep him safe. Stars, she wished she knew what he was thinking. She met his gaze as Jonas pressed another lingering brush of his lips to the crook of her neck.

Morff’s jaw went tight as he dropped his eyes to the floor to give them privacy with a resigned sort of air that was his way when Jonas was in the picture. Zallia’s confidence curled into itself. Why was she making a mess of everything today?

“This star needs to be studied at a greater distance, Joe. Hands off.” She grumbled as she made a show of disentangling herself from Jonas’ arms. “What are you doing here?”

“You called and begged me for help with Master Praxis. I come bearing med kits and stems for my blood-soaked goddess! I have a doctor on standby for Master Praxis’ exam at the safe house and if you play your cards right, I may even stop by that noodle shop you liked the last time that we…” Prax pulled a face, bracing himself for Jonas’ over share of their intimate activities. Zallia motioned frantically for him to shut his gigantic mouth.

Jonas blinked; gaze shifting between Zallia and Prax as, for the first time, he registered the tension in the air.

“Censure?” Zallia leaned across the aisle to whisper with a mixture of confusion and concern to Prax. “What does that mean? Why did Powin stop talking? He had them on the ropes. He can’t give up now.”

“It’s not up to Powin—the senate rules are unflinchingly rigid.” Prax explained patiently as he ignored the pointed judgmental stares of a few of the Jedi Masters who sat in the surrounding chairs. “If the committee has censured him, he cannot speak again until someone else has used their point of privilege to speak on his behalf to remove the censure.”

“So, do something about it.” Zallia pleaded, with a note of plaintive desperation in her voice. “Powin needs your help!”

“Me?” Prax exclaimed with a high-pitched squawk. “I stuck out my neck to get Powin into this meeting today and he’s ignored every iota of advice I gave him about being mindful when he speaks. There’s nothing I can do for him without also facing censure, the condemnation of the Council, or worse. Did it never occur to him that Senator Schooze has the power to end the funding for our mandate? Once he does that, the Jedi Council will be forced to recall the Sixth Line from our mission and the galaxy will be lost! No, I’m not saying a word—the fate of the galaxy depends on my silence. Powin has made his choice, and regrettably, I must make mine. This is not a fight we can win.”

Zallia’s mind worked quickly. She thought of Powin’s evening chats with Vexa over the holoterminal, the dark circles under his eyes as he struggled to engage his daughter’s energy after every long day of datacron hunting. The courage of his battle cry as the over-enthusiastic Killik warrior almost crushed her windpipe with its claw until Powin had his say and split the creature in half with his saber. The cruel injustice of it all, the censure, the Jedi Council’s haughty indifference to Powin’s impassioned pleas, Prax’s inability to stand up on behalf of his dearest friend, all of it stuck in her craw like sand and something inside her snapped.

“Skill with a saber does not determine victory in battle, nor does it reflect a Jedi’s integrity. It’s the warrior’s willingness to sacrifice in a moment of defeat that reveals their true mettle.” Zallia quoted, her voice aching with frustration at Prax’s show of uncharacteristic cowardice. “A Jedi Master told me that once on one of his lecture tours. Too bad he didn’t show up for the meeting today.”

Prax recoiled with a startled blink, and for a moment, the hardened edge in his face softened as the blow landed.

“This doesn’t prove you’ve been listening to me at all. You’re not recognizing the real danger lies in the sacrifice for the greater good—“

“—I request a point of personal privilege.” Zallia interjected with a strangled voice; the words escaping from her mouth before her brain registered she was speaking. It wasn’t the worst split-second decision of her life, though she struggled in the moment to think of an equal as she sought Powin’s eyes. He lifted his proud, defeated head off his chest a fraction of a centimeter, and his lips twitched upward into a smile that edged dangerously close toward hope.

“Uhhhh…” Zallia said, her mind a scrambled mess as she struggled to think of what more she could say. Whatever it was, she had about thirty ticks before Senator Snooze censured her sorry ass into the lowest levels of Coruscant. For Powin’s sake, she was going to make the most of her misguided interruption, or at the very least, she would make an ass of herself trying. Zallia cleared her throat as she rose to her feet, legs full of molten lead as she added: “There’s something I’m dying to get off my chest.”

“I second her right to speak,” Powin jumped in smooth as synth silk before anyone could put the kibosh to their clandestine coup. “Though I’m currently censured, there’s no rule stating I cannot bear witness to testimony. Captain Thane deserves to be heard, and I’m sure there are some in this chamber who are eager for a glimpse of what’s on her chest.”

Powin spoke the last bit directly to Prax with a coy look, one they’d shared more often lately, with a brow curled up and a conniving smirk to match as he fluttered his eyelashes. Prax fumbled for words while his face went from white to scarlet.

Morff set his palms on the soft kit leatheris of the pilot’s chair, braced his biceps for the shock of pain from his wounds and pushed up with all his might. He strained and panted, grunted with effort, and yes! He was almost there, somewhere between half-way and three quarters of the way upright, until, as he met Zallia’s eyes with defiant triumph, his shoulder wound gave a violent twinge and he collapsed back into the chair, breathless and defeated.

“Do you want my help now?” Zallia asked with a tight voice that hid none of her alarm. “Because this is getting hard to watch. There’s no shame in needing help when you’re down for the count. It’s been one hell of a day.”

In this ‘one hell of a day’, he’d been dragged across an enemy base whilst almost bleeding to death, had survived an all out separatist air assault that aggravated his worst anxieties about space travel and set him on the volcanic edge of a tidy mental breakdown. To add insult to his already aggravated injuries, there was also their impending partnership with Jonas Balkar to contend with. How he detested that man! If dealing with Balkar wasn’t enough to set his teeth on edge, he’d had a sedative administered by a comically large needle jabbed into his neck, the side effects of which left him with a throbbing headache. A headache that felt like a needle was stabbing itself through his right eyeball and piercing his brain. If the needle had a name, it would undoubtedly be ‘Jonas Balkar’.

Force above! Would he have to endure the rekindling of Zallia and Balkar’s romance again while he suffered in silence? He didn’t know whether he could bear it a second time. Zallia and Balkar’s short-lived “reunion” on Taris had been an excruciating endurance test for his love-lorn soul, an exercise in absolute silent torment. They were nigh inseparable during that mission, with Balkar’s hands and lips roving over Zallia every opportunity he could find while he led her away to empty Rakghoul dens to fornicate amid the gloom and extreme danger. Jonas confided to anyone within earshot the thrill of near death from a potential Rakghoul attack kept things spicy between him and Zallia—Morff hadn’t inquired. Balkar also treated Morff to an hour-long treatise about Zallia’s most desirable physical attributes (most of which Morff was already keenly aware) and a thorough dissertation about Balkar’s most effective seduction techniques—again, Morff hadn’t asked.

Morff volunteered to take on an entire room of Rakghouls by himself to avoid Balkar after that delightful conversation. He told himself it was because he found the behavior and lack of discipline the man exhibited irritating, but in hindsight, knowing his true feelings for Zallia as he did now, it wasn’t the constant smack of their heated kisses and nor Jonas’ ceaseless, muffled moans that drove him to face the Rakghouls head on—it had been envy. Envy of a man who had more charm and confidence in his pinky finger than Morff had in the whole of his person. With his breezy, effortless charisma and blistering good looks, it was little wonder Jonas earned Zallia’s affectionate smiles while Morff earned her scowls and a double dose of sass. Stars, where was his mind? He ought to be thinking about their mission to Mek Sha, the potential destruction of the galaxy, his vision—anything but the woman who stood at his side.

“You okay, pal?” Zallia prompted in a soft voice as she waved her hand in front of his face to get his attention. “You’ve been staring at the light speed toggle for the last five minutes like it insulted your mother. Blood loss can make you loopy. A diagnostic and a stem wouldn’t hurt…”

Morff blinked, startled by her voice and the observations that came with it. A stem would come with yet another needle, and he still hadn’t recovered from the last one. He tore his eyes away from the vibrant sapphire hues of the hyperspace lane, and settled them at last on her.

Zallia’s face, streaked with sweat, dirt, and a trace amount of blood, was as white as the monotone interior of the ship—tight skin, with deep set worry lines and dark circles under the veiled expression in her eyes—she was worried. Ah, she’d pierced his skin with a needle so large it would have deflated an engorged puffer pig and now she had the audacity to be concerned about him? His sullen, nettlesome need to drive her back bubbled up to the surface.

“For which one of us has this been more than one hell of a day? Let’s compare our blaster wounds, shall we? I’m not in the mood for a healthy and safety lecture from the one person on the ship with zero blaster wounds and a flagrant disregard for both health and safety.”

Zallia straightened her spine until it clicked, mouth dropped open and prepared for her verbal assault.

“That’s rich coming from the man who offered himself up as bait to an entire base of blood thirsty separatists. I’m trying to take care of your blaster wounds and you’ve done nothing but bite my head off for the last twenty minutes. What’s gotten into you?”

He shot her a dark look, brows drawn deep, forehead wrinkled, and with an exasperated flourish of his gloved hand, gestured to each of the three scorch marks on his tunic where the blaster bolts had burned their way through linen and flesh.

“Am I allowed ten additional minutes of head biting time on that account, or should I have included a head wound to my injuries to earn it?”

It was a touch melodramatic, but he was proud of himself. It wasn’t often he got the upper hand when they sparred verbally, but given the way she inclined her head and the exasperated eye roll that followed, he could tell he’d won that round. While it was a win, it did little to lift his spirits or quiet his mind. He wanted peace and calm; he wanted to go home to Tython, back to the time before his vision, to the blissful simplicity of ignorance.

“Alright, you made your point. Look, I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but I’m not convinced my kark-up is the only thing bothering you. Come on, it’s me, your old pal, Zallia. What’s wrong?”

Morff went still as he returned to the fractured flashes of his vision, lodged in his mind like shrapnel, to the moment in the silo when he’d held Zallia in his arms, his hand covering hers, fingers tracing first the silver promise band around her finger, then, tracing the peak of her belly swollen with their child.

“I…” Morff’s mouth went dry as he fought the story from escaping from his lips and tumbling out into the open. “I saw a vision from the Force that is…concerning …”

Shame coursed through him as he imagined telling her his secret. Would she find kinship with him after he revealed his turn to the dark side, or would she call him a monster and leave him lonely and wanting? His eyes went distant, and reluctance set into his mouth as he struggled to speak. The oppressive silence lingered, interrupted by the heaviness of his labored breathing and the occasional spark from the temperamental life support system.

“Was it about Master Si?” Zallia asked, her kind eyes alight with sympathy as they searched his face. “Are you seeing her death again?”

Death—Morff’s heart took off, racing at the word at a frantic rate until a sharp pain made his shoulder ache. He rubbed involuntarily at the blaster wound that pierced his now pounding heart while his arms tingled with a strange sort of numbness he’d never experienced before. His ears rang with the percussive thud of each explosive blaster round and while he sat in the cockpit with his feet placed firmly on the ground, he felt as though his body was sailing through the air, down into the depths of that never ending stairwell. What in the blazes was happening? The muscles around his chest constricted, squeezing and wrenching the air out of his lungs until he feared he might pass out. He reached out and gripped the armrest of his seat until his knuckles turned white.

No, no, no. This was a mistake. He wasn’t ready to revisit his most painful memories about his master again, and he was in no condition to reveal the truth about his vision to Zallia, not when hearing the word death elicited this type of response.

“I can’t discuss it with you,” He managed with a quaking voice between heaving breaths. “It’s something I must face alone…”

“You don’t have to face it alone.” She said in a calm, steadfast voice. “We can face it, together.”

His eyes shyly met hers, fearful she may have seen his wounds ran much deeper than physical and that he would see her judgment. What use was he as a Jedi to the galaxy if he collapsed at the weight of this, yet another test in a lifetime filled with them? What use was he to her if he couldn’t use his gifts to protect her? Yet despite his fear that she would look at him and find him lacking, there she stood, regarding him with a look so tender he almost laid the entire story at her feet then and there.

Zallia reached out with a gentle hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation, stroked the sweat drenched locks of hair away from his forehead with her fingertips. Morff let out a shaky breath in response and, despite the gravity of his woes, surrendered to the moment to lean into the comfort of her touch. Her fingers traced his scalp again and again, in lazy circles. His eyes drifted close, and for the first time since the vision, he felt the sweet comfort of peace.

The tension in his aching muscles melted away with each caress as he gave way to exhaustion. Aching loneliness seeped into the recesses of his heart, painful in the way he longed to confide in her as he had always done. To sort through this mess with his chosen partner, let her tinker with and repair every woe in her wry, good-natured way. Her fingers curled through the locks of hair at the nape of his neck, and his mind drug him to the sun-drenched memory of how she’d done this once before, with her arms wrapped tight around him, and her lips pressed to his.

The hand strayed from his hair, drifted to his cheek and lingered. The need to tell her all of it sprang to the forefront of his mind. About that love-sick twinge she’d spawned in him the instant she’d stuck her glove into his face to rescue him as he dangled precariously from a cliff on Tatooine. To the time they sat side by side in a broken hole of her ship, bodies melded to each other, heedless of personal space. She worked to repair her ship’s navicomputer while he read a bit of ancient Jedi poetry to her until her head touched his shoulder and she drifted into sleep. They stayed in just that pose for hours until his arm had gone well and truly numb because hadn’t wanted to disturb her. He longed to tell her his dream for a life well-lived, no longer included a seat on the Jedi council—he would trade it for a co-pilot seat on any ship she flew.

Then, all at once, his thoughts swerved again toward darkness. A merciless, wild and violent turn, to the last seconds of his vision, to the moment the first vibroknife pierced Zallia’s flesh. The warm moment between them turned cold as Morff pulled his face away from her hand with an abrupt jerk and stood, to put as much distance between them as he could. The side effects of his kolto bath made his pulse race and his stomach turn, but it continued to rejuvenate him beyond the tank. His legs were sturdy enough now to carry his weight without threat of imminent collapse. He pushed past Zallia, away from the close quarters of the cockpit and into the spaciousness of the lounge, not trusting himself to avoid falling under the spell of her touch again.

Until he was certain what message the vision had given, this was not her burden to bear, and his frustration at not being able to trust her with what ailed him boiled over. He did not want this fight, yet, the distraction of it, the challenge she presented as she matched wits with him blow by blow, kept him from descending back toward the bitter path his thoughts forged.

“You deliberately dosed me with a sedative to avoid answering my questions about your unsanctioned foray into my mission—why? What are you hiding from me?”

“Would you give it a rest for one karking minute?” She burst out as she threw her hands up in frustration and followed his path into the lounge. “Sure, I almost got you killed, but I also saved your life. Where’s my thank you? Do you know how many blaster bolts I almost took dragging your Force anointed ass out of that base? Now, instead of gratitude, you won’t stop complaining. But yeah, sure—I’m the bad guy. So you know what? I’m sorry. Are you happy now?”

“Happy?” Morff countered with a sardonic snort. “Your half-hearted attempt at an apology didn’t include an ounce of regret. You’re avoiding the question—like you always do when you’ve chosen to lie. So again, I’m asking you why?”

“Are you sure you’re ready for answers because you don’t seem ready to listen to anything—”

“—You’re using your favorite deflections when I stumble too close to the truth. The conversation steers you towards accountability for your actions, and rather than own your faults—“

“—You are unbelievable! An enraged Wookie has more common sense. I am being the voice of reason for once in my life, and you have turned what should have been a joyful reunion into a Thane/Praxis prize fight. So how’s this for a little accountability since you’re so hellbent on putting my feet to the fire? I went into the base to chase down a few extra credits.”

Morff’s head recoiled, stunned by the admission. At last, they’d gotten to the truth! Zallia stared hard at the floor, humbled, exhausted, and utterly defeated. Somehow, seeing her like this was worse than the inkling of suspicion he was being misled and not for the first time in his life, he wished he hadn’t pulled on this thread.

“Why?” He asked, his voice soft with genuine confusion. “Forgive me for doubting your story, but if you went into the base to pickpocket credits, why the denials and the sedative? It’s no secret to me you’re a gifted thief—you stole my saber from me the night we met.”

Zallia sank into the unforgiving cushions of the nearby chaise lounge with a loud thud and folded her hands primly in her lap, an unusual move, so foreign to her she might have been a character in a scene from a holovid and not the woman of solid flesh and blood and flaws he adored. Odd, why did her actions seem so wooden and performative?

“You almost gave up your saber hilts to buy me a ship—the hilts that belonged to Master Si—your most prized possession. Do you know how humiliating it is to need that kind of hand out? I didn’t want Theron to know about it, so I used helping you with your mission as a cover story. There. You cracked the case and got the truth out of me. Are you satisfied?”

A prickle of suspicion crawled up his spine and lingered at the base of his skull. Everything about her looked miserable and sick to her stomach and yet, he sensed there was a part of the picture he was missing. The confession was perfect; too perfect. Zallia never revealed the truth so quickly, unless the truth she’d revealed was a lie. Morff’s mind latched onto a single detail as he reviewed the confession—she looked at the floor as she said it. Her tell! The one habit in her Sabacc game she’d fought so hard to break and had failed to overcome. The habit Morff used time after time to predict when she was bluffing. Of course! But he had to be sure.

He reached out through the Force bond between them and recognized a familiar recoil, a tension in it he hadn’t sensed since Hutta, where she revealed the truth about her bargains with a local crime boss to save his life in small, measured confessions.

Of course, it was possible the dishonesty he sensed was his own, as he was equally guilty of hiding the truth at the moment. Morff wavered on the precipice of a momentous decision. What if he accused her of lying and was wrong? The state of their friendship was already tenuous at best at the moment. Perhaps she might be more forthcoming with her secrets if he took the risk of sharing his? Of course, he’d nearly fainted during his first attempt and it was also a difficult topic to broach. How did he dive into those dangerous waters? Something like:

‘The Force showed me a vision where we married and had a child together. I also learned I would turn to the dark side…’

Morff virulently pushed the thought aside. With her gift for wit and wordplay, the conversation would delve too far into ‘what types of dreams he was having about her’ and how ‘she’d like to get a look at his dark side’ and he was decidedly not in the mood to defend himself against those types of attacks today.

One task at a time. First, her secrets, which somehow seemed more manageable and less terrifying to him than his own. Then, somehow, some way, he would address his vision in a tactful, delicate admission that didn’t make it sound like the ravings of a madman. Stars, he missed Powin. He’d give anything to parse out the meaning of his vision with his dear friend, but alas, unless he plucked up the courage and the wording to confide in Zallia, he was alone.

“I know you’re hiding something from me,” Morff said slowly. “My thirst for honesty is insatiable. It’ll take more than this meager confession to quench it.”

Zallia slapped her palms against her face and drug her fingers down her cheeks with an exasperated growl.

“—You are driving my insatiable need to drink whiskey. Prax, trust me on this: drop the questions before I say something we’ll both regret. Now, as fun as this has been, I need to get us to Mek Sha before the life support system fails or we won’t have enough oxygen left to argue.”

Regret? Her strange wording, the dark expression as she said it, puzzled him. What could she possibly have to say to him she would regret?

“Fine. I’ll agree to a temporary truce for the sake of requiring oxygen, but mark my words—I’ll have the truth from you, Lia, even if I have to die yet again to get it.”

“Sounds swell. Since we’re marking words—you mark mine. You show me Morff’s soft underbelly for a nanosecond, and then boom, the thick Jedi armor you wear grows back like skin. Or did you think I wouldn’t notice your five star panic attack earlier? Whatever was in this vision is eating at you. But rather than putting on your big boy robes and telling me why it’s worrying you, you’re pushing me away and picking a fight, hoping I won’t notice you’re spooked. So since you’re spoiling for a fight today; put up your dukes, Master Jedi. Now it’s my turn to ask the questions. I’ve screwed up at least twice a week since the day we met and you haven’t blinked an eye. Why is this one screw up so much more important to you than the rest?”

Excellent question, observant in the way it stripped him to the marrow of his bones with a few precise incisions. This was a time to tread lightly; truth in half measures with a large dose of genuine feeling mixed in—a cocktail of lies and truth he’d learned from her. He inhaled, a long slow cleansing breath, his shoulders rising to his ears before they dropped on the exhale, rounded and hunched, wishing he could slink away to hide from this moment.

“This incident on Ord Mantell has left me shaken and fragile in mind and body. What I seek is reassurance. Lia, I gave my life to defend you. Not as a Jedi dying to honor his duty to the code, but as a man who died for…lov…” Morff paused, unable to finish the word as his pulse thudded behind his eyes. “Loyalty for my dearest friend. Why did you really interfere with my mission on Ord Mantell? Am I so disposable to you that you’d risk my life for a handful of credits?”