Sher touched his fingers with hers and opened her eyes. They were full of tenderness to the very brim. Tenderness and himself, reflected in the mirror of her dilated pupils.
"Do I look like someone who can be scared like that?"
The question didn't require an answer and wasn't a popular male trick – the pilot's eyes were too serious.
"What a pity," she whispered with a smile. "I don't even know what to do now, Nick," her palm touched the pilot's gray head, her fingers slid from his temple to his chin with light movements, like butterfly wings. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do to scare you, Mr. Viyyar?" she asked with a smile, but her eyes closely followed his.
He froze, like a large dog being fearlessly climbed by a kitten – not moving, not looking away, holding his breath. And he was distantly surprised that the usual pain of loss didn't resonate within him.
"And what do you think I can be scared of?"
"I've changed my mind about scaring you, Nick. Can you scare the wind...?" Sher looked at his eyes, enchanted. The green ocean in them left no hope of swimming out. And no desire to swim out. "And I have something much more interesting to do..." Her fingers slowly slid over his eyebrows, cheekbones, chin, as if drawing his portrait with her touch. "And it seems there's no time at all. Now is the time for Jethro to appear..." the girl sighed with a smile and touched the pilot's cheek with her lips. "And this is my signature..."
The pilot's movement was as lightning-fast as the recent lunge. Sher found herself in a ring of arms that embraced her with the same strength – only more gently – and pressed her to Nick's chest. Burying her face in his hair, the pilot closed his eyes.
"If he even tries to show up, I'll fix his interface again..." a whisper reached her.
Sher's arms flew up, wrapping around Nick's neck, and the girl hid her face on his chest, something she had dreamed of for so long...
"Nick..." she whispered, "if you don't let me go, I'll never leave this place..."
The pilot remained silent, touching her hair with his lips and trying to do it as discreetly as possible for the girl. He was in no hurry to let her go, but he also couldn't find words – however, what was happening now didn't require words.
His hands and lips remembered something. Other shoulders, other hair... But the memory was empty.
Trust? What would be its price for this girl? Hardly worse than what awaited her here.
"The Force will judge..."
Slightly swaying, as if lulling a child, Nick stood, hugging the girl, and silently thanked the dim lighting for hiding his noticeably swollen jaw.
Words were superfluous, any of them could shake this weightless feeling of happiness... Sher remained silent, simply experiencing these moments: the beats of Nick's heart in his chest, his warmth, his protection. And her tenderness... For her, at that moment, there was no Nar Shaddaa with its traps, no Empire, no Inquisition, nothing but the seconds of this waking dream. A dream on the verge of awakening, when you know you'll wake up anyway, but you try with all your might not to cross that line...
Sher's hands unclasped, her palm gently touched Nick's cheek and froze.
"Nick?! What is this?" the fog of enchantment slowly melted in her gray eyes, fixed on him. So that's what "fix the interface again" meant... "You decided to get to know Jethro better after all..." the girl sighed. "Let's go, Nick. We need to prevent the consequences of your conversation as soon as possible. Otherwise, they will be... very colorful," she chuckled.
"Nonsense, we just checked each other's strength a bit," the pilot said with obvious reluctance, releasing his arms and managing to bury his face in her hair one more time. After which he headed for the bed. "My consequences aren't that colorful, and besides, everything heals very quickly on me."
"A boy... Only gray-haired..." Sher thought with a mixed feeling of pain and tenderness, watching him go, and hurried to her medical supplies.
The spray gel that Sher took from the case was a highly sought-after product among medics on Luna. It had three advantages – prolonged action, sufficient cooling effect, and, of course, microparticles of the active substance that perfectly eliminated the results of such "checks."
The doctor's fingers touched Nick's slightly heavier chin on one side.
"It won't hurt, Nick," she said softly, looking at the sitting patient. "Tilt your head back a little more... And please, show me your gum..." apart from redness and slight swelling, there were no other damages. "Not bad at all. That's good."
"I should think so," Nick grumbled. "I don't have any spare teeth..."
He sat with his eyes closed so that nothing would distract him from the doctor's gentle touch.
It would be unforgivable not to take advantage of her official position. Sher applied the spray to the swollen area, gently supporting his chin with her fingertips, although there was no particular need for it.
She finished faster than she wanted, though much slower than she could have. Using her position for personal gain is always pleasant...
A transparent matte film remained on his chin, completely imperceptible to the skin.
"If there's a slight itch, tell me," Sher's fingers disappeared from his chin. It was very difficult not to mix the doctor and... But this was the only correct thing to do.
"Nick, shall we do the IV drip too, or do you have other plans?" she asked, turning the albumin bag in her hands. "Soon you won't need all this, just normal food, but, of course, not Nar Shaddaa cuisine," she concluded with a smile.
"I'm all for it," the pilot smiled back. "Otherwise, you can't even invite a girl for such a lunch. Just imagine how it would sound: "Allow me to invite you for a bag of albumin...""
"It sounds as disgusting as it tastes," Sher agreed with a laugh. "But don't be upset, Nick, there are still few girls around here anyway," she concluded, smiling as she set up the albumin bag on the IV drip.
"Lying down again," the pilot sighed, settling onto the cot. "A little more, and all my nightmares will be exclusively related to the horizontal position."
"Be patient, Nick, I want to be sure that everything is completely alright with you," Sher gently massaged the blue vein visible through the skin and accurately inserted the micro-needle. "Be patient a little longer. Judging by this... bruise," she indicated his jaw with her gaze. "And by the fact that you're tired of lying down, you're recovering quickly."
She adjusted the drip rate on the remote. The beads on the bracelet gently clinked together when she lowered her hand.
"I'll pop by when it's time to disconnect the IV drip, Nick," she stood up, casting a subtle glance at the dragon on the monitor's windowsill. "I'm going to Jethro, there's a lot of work there now."
"I only hit him once!" the pilot objected. "And he's tougher than me, by the way! But if you need to..."
The eyes of the felinx from the popular children's holofilm about the Gamorrean Hryuk on Nick's thin face looked very unexpected. And capable of moving a battalion of field doctors to pity.
"Nick, I haven't seen any damage on his face yet," Sher smiled weakly, trying not to give in to the provocation of his gaze and not to forget about Jethro completely. She caught sight of the dragon on the windowsill and continued talking to him. "And I'm not even talking about that. I'm talking about the bandage change and gymnastics..." she looked at him and smiled. "I think I was wrong about your company, Nick..."
"You shouldn't think badly of our company," the pilot said expressively. "No matter how badly you think, it will be a compliment, Sher. And now go, before I remember everything they taught me at the company and block all your opportunities to escape from here."
"As you say, Nick," Sher shrugged with a smile, but reacted to the threat, disappearing through the door – almost instantly.
She took her promise to distract the Twi'lek's attention with all seriousness. The position of her lekku changed slightly, giving her a look of touching and defenseless charm, the half-unbuttoned jacket created a rather piquant contrast with this impression, and her dancing gait made even the tables turn to look after her.
"No, did you see that?!" the Duro, who was sitting near the bar, greeted them. "I'm holding the defense here, and he's picking up a girl..."
A fresh bruise was greening under the pilot's eye.
"Wow," the smuggler grinned, "I see you can't go a day without an adventure!"
He became more relaxed when he realized there were no Anx in the cantina. Placing one of the cases on the floor, he pointed a finger at a plump bottle of bright green color and showed his index and middle fingers pressed together. And he leaned on the counter.
"Veymi, you're a good girl," he smiled, carefully placing both cases on the bar counter, and stared at Jethro. "Who did this to you?"
The Twi'lek didn't see anyone resembling an Anx in the room and modestly sat on a stool. She greeted Jethro, lowering her eyes.
"With your friend," the Duro snorted. "I walk into the doctor's room, and he's holding her hand and won't let you call. Well, we had a heart-to-heart talk... in the corridor."
"...damn it!" Instead of enjoying the drink from Kashyyyk, Rick downed it in one gulp and asked for another, "Don't tell me that skinny, scrawny, and barely alive human managed to hit you in the eye. Is he even alive?"
"May I live to be so!" he assured the Duro. "He's as agile as a sand snake, I barely managed to hit his jaw."
"Children's stuff..." He only sipped the second glass of counter. "Veymi, do you want anything? Order, don't be shy."
"Pure water," the girl asked, looking around with interest. She had never been here before.
Rick nodded to the bartender, then turned to the Duro again:
"Alright, let's chalk it up to a misunderstanding," he smiled. "Our friend is clearly recovering. That's good. How's the leg?"
"Great, the doc says I'll be dancing soon," the pilot kept glancing at the smuggler's companion. "Introduce me?"
Rick had serious doubts that the girl was capable of flirting at all, if she had been a slave her whole life. Interest in a girl, in a woman, is clearly different from interest in a thing, which she was considered. Which she considered herself to be.
"Veymi, meet Jethro. Jethro here is a romantic of the open road. Jethro, meet Veymi, she's my assistant," he said, feigning politeness and gesturing with his palm at the people being introduced. "And now that we're done with the polite pirouettes, would you be so kind as to invite us into your cozy dwelling? And order a full meal? To your room, naturally."
"No problem," the duros repeated, getting up and offering his hand again to the surprised girl. He clearly perked up at the prospect of being away from the cantina's inhabitants. "Should I call Doc with this skinny, fidgety guy? For completeness."
"You can call him later," Rick shook his head negatively. "First, we'll have a chat and figure out who owes what."
Jethro nodded, placed an order, and led his guests to his place. He still limped noticeably, but he stood more confidently than the last time they had seen each other.
Taking both cases in his hands, the contrabandist slowly followed the duros, studying the pair with interest. He didn't mind... He was only afraid that the fragile film he had begun to create between the girl's past and present might burst like a soap bubble.
Veymi chatted casually about some local news, and the duros listened, but behind his interest, there was more of a desire to understand what this girl was doing here at all, and a vague surprise directed at the contrabandist.
In Jethro's room, the transition from a rented space to a perfectly lived-in mess was already evident. The duros swept a pile of local press off a chair, offered the Lethan a seat, and then plopped down on the bed himself, gesturing to his friend to take a chair.
"Sit down already. And tell me."
Placing the chair backward, Rick sat down, resting his head on his folded hands on the back of the chair, like a felinx curiously observing a flock of birds.
"Can you? What if you get a nosebleed from the stress? Veymi, sit down, and you can start listening to why it's so important not to fear weapons in our difficult times."
He took a deep breath and began his story:
"After our conversation and your delivery here, I met a nice guy named Eugene. He's one of the intermediaries working for those guys who ordered you and encased Clark in duracrete. As it turned out, the one behind it was a certain Troy, to whom my sparring partner leaked information. And that same night, two polite fellows in armor and with blasters drawn knocked on my door. You should have heard the fireworks they put on in the motel... We politely drove to the rendezvous point with Troy. Their politeness made my right side ache a little. So. There I personally met Mr. Troy, face to face. After a short conversation, two of my escorts opened fire on us. A nasty feeling, I'll tell you. Then Larius and Bus intervened. I got information from Troy about why he needed you, as well as a few gifts: a knife, a blaster, a 'young poisoner' collection, and a migraine. How do you like the story?"
The duros politely applauded. The Twi'lek tried to wrap herself entirely in her tails, as if she were cold, despite her warm jumpsuit. The story clearly evoked no enthusiasm in her.
"What other troubles do we have, besides the young pacifist?" Jethro clarified.
"No troubles," Rick shook his head negatively. "There's information that Troy wanted to hit a Black Sun base. I have the coordinates of the BS base and a bug that will lead to Troy's gang's base. Two bugs."
He carefully took out two small containers, showing a pea-sized object.
"I think if you contact them, they'll gladly buy your cargo whole. And without any hassle."
"The gang? Or the Black Sun?" the duros clarified, just in case.
"The Black Sun, of course," the answer was immediate. "But the gang might have Troy's knowledge. The local Vigos don't want such formations under their noses, I think. His gratitude could be very useful."
"Well, if there's contact, why not communicate for mutual benefit?" Jethro didn't object. At that moment, there was a knock on the door – the ordered lunch had arrived. The trays were quickly unloaded onto the table, and the three of them were left alone again.
"Oh, food! Veymi, join us. If you want," the guy enthusiastically started eating. "There will be contact; there's an intermediary. A Toydarian named Karvo, 'Fly' if you like. After he hired Willy's gang to catch you, we had a nice chat. And now I have a discount and everything else. A good person overall, even if he's a Toydarian. I'll send you his coordinates on my deck. Tell me instead, where and how did you meet Larius?"
Veymi quietly pulled a plate of stew from the table and was now intently studying its contents. But she listened attentively, as far as the contrabandist could tell.
"An old story," Jethro waved his hand. "We tried to board a small ship... Three crew members managed to capture the boarding party without killing anyone. Ten hostages – you can imagine how happy the captain was."
"Three?" the guy's curiosity knew no bounds.
"Well, yes," the duros chuckled. "Clark, Larius, and that little shaggy bastard who's impossible to catch. I was one of those ten, by the way."
"Clark was also... a shaman?" the question arose unexpectedly. If Troy managed to defeat the gifted one... Does that mean he had been walking on a tightrope over an abyss all this time?
"He was," Jethro nodded. "He was a smart guy. He set a condition: they would take him as an intermediary, and no one would touch them, and they would release the group. Or the whole group would go to breathe vacuum, send the next ones. The first time in my memory the captain made concessions. And he never regretted it. We won much more than we lost."