With indispensable help from Smehur, brightest star in the skies of Palaven.

Prequel: Heirlooms

The Other Beginning

I. The rules of convergence

The answer to your question is yes. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. I want to start at the beginning. The other beginning.

His parting gestures were still heavy on my mind a week after the dedication ceremony. I don't know how long he stayed there that night, only that he wasn't there at dawn. I berated myself, then, for not staying with him. I still do.

So I wrote him a letter much like what I'm writing now. Well, not exactly. But the frankness was the same. I told him that I'd noticed the seal of approval for his leave application. I asked if he was fine when I knew he wasn't. I asked if he wanted to have a talk, maybe a friendly match; I could certainly arrange it at the base.

He said yes. As in, that one word. Yes.

I didn't know what to expect. From him, from myself. I booked one of the practice rooms, as out-of-the-way as possible. I told the security to let him through with his mismatched ID – he wasn't technically cleared for the place after the divisions relocated. Then, at fifteen-fifty sharp, I returned to my office and waited.

I busied myself with disassembling and reassembling one of my sidearms, re-fitting some old mods into it simply to see if I still could. Its guts were laid out on my desk when Saren rang. I told the system to let him in.

He was carrying a plain cloth bag, the straps at the top tied together. He wore the twin swords crisscrossed on his back.

"Baratus. Sir." He'd stopped calling me by my clan name some time ago, but he couldn't keep the formality out of his voice.

"Sit," I said. "Let me clean this up."

He put the bag on the desk and casually nudged a block of ammo so that it lay parallel to everything else. "There's no need. I brought—"

"You didn't have to." My fingertips touched the back of his hand, lightly, just as he made to open the bag.

"I don't mind."

It turned out that he'd brought us handsome portions of home-cooked fish. When I complimented him, he flicked his mandibles and said it was nothing compared to my hospitality. Which, mind you, I had yet to show him. I couldn't help but remember Desolas, lounging with the men during lunch and boasting that he was the worst cook in recent turian memory – even worse than the one who made the food in their bowls.

We decided to leave the still-warm boxes in my office; we could pick them up on the way to the canteen later and reheat them there. I took the lead at first as we walked, but eventually we ended up side-by-side. He passed me one of the swords – the one you currently possess. I inspected the worn grip. My fingers were paler that Desolas'. It didn't look right.

"It belonged to him," Saren said, echoing my thoughts. "I have my own."

"You were both very skilled. I was impressed."

He flicked a mandible. "Thank you, sir." His voice was strained.

"Where did you learn the kata?"

"He taught me."

"He did?"

"He said he used to practice it, reimagine it with someone from his old unit. At one point, I thought it was you."

"It wasn't me." An icy hand gripped my insides. I wished it had been me. Surely I'd have taken things further, had it been me?

"I'm afraid I'm not as familiar with other forms," he said, shaking me out of my reverie.

"It doesn't matter. I want to learn."

He was quiet for some time. We didn't meet many people on the way, and none whom I recognised. It was after hours for most, and the base was no longer heavily staffed. The time for men of peace and parley, not the likes of us, was at hand. Fortunately, the passers-by didn't seem to recognise Saren either, even though his face had been clearly shown for a few seconds during the broadcast. I would know. I had watched it on the net several times over after I got home. If you look up that cast, you can see him. You can see me, too, in the first row.

The walls inside the practice room were lightly padded and heavily worn. The panels were supposed to be refitted on a regular basis, but the men rarely booked this one, and it suffered from some degree of neglect. The room was also smaller than the others, hardly large enough to accommodate more than five or six. Worked fine for us, though.

I don't know how he instructed you, but he was rather hesitant that day. Hesitant, and slightly unsure of his own methods. But he was very young then, as difficult as it may be for you to imagine, and the raw confidence we're used to now was once reserved for the heat of battle.

"There's a particular draw that we used. Are you interested?" He asked.

I was curious. Draw styles weren't generally the focus of duelling. "Of course."

He nodded to himself, then bent his knees slightly and began the slowest and most elaborate draw I've seen to date. He seemed to use the scabbard itself as a weapon, moving it sideways, swerving behind his waist before even showing a millimetre of blade. He finished in the standard begin position, strangely enough.

"That's fascinating," I said, hoping he'd elaborate.

"It's done much more quickly in practice. Its purpose is to defend against multiple armed opponents simultaneously."

"Care to show me?"

He looked at me, tilting his head a little; paused. Finally, he sheathed the sword again and held the scabbard to his hip.

"When you're ready."

I drew mine. "I'll aim to your left."

"You needn't tell me."

And I really didn't have to. He blocked the first strike easily, then swung the scabbard around and he was suddenly at my side, already intercepting the return strike behind his waist. He drew in a glint of metal at the corner of my eye, and we found our swords crossed at the hilt, our knuckles almost touching. Right in time for my third strike.

"Impressive."

Saren tucked his mandibles, perhaps in modest embarrassment. "He told me it originated from the mountains of the Rakan Sector, for swordsmen to protect themselves from bandit ambushes."

Desolas had always liked history. I thought of the Temple again and my face must have grown rigid, because Saren started shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back, looking uncomfortable.

"It's a beautiful technique," I said quickly. "I'd like to try it. Will you show me again?"

I smiled at him. He blinked several times. "All right."

I managed to get the basic form down that day. I could block his first strike, but the scabbard felt strange when I turned and I almost always missed the next. We used standard forms after the first fifty minutes or so. Of our two trial duels, I disarmed him in the first and had him at swordpoint in the second. It wasn't his best performance. I expected that. The lethal eyes were absent.

"Thanks for coming," I said as we pulled on our jackets. His plates were slightly lifted; it was a strenuous workout, and the small room didn't help with the heat. I could see the ridges of his spine clearly through his undersuit. "I appreciate it."

"Thank you," he said.

We agreed to meet two days later – on my day off – at his apartment. It was under the pretense that I needed a bit of fresh air, some change of scenery, some pleasant companionship. I could've found all that at the recently refurbished Square Zero club atop the Elanus Tower, I reminded myself, but he didn't seem reluctant to issue the invitation and I wasn't going to refuse. I was already starting to grow fond of him, in a way.

He lived near the mountains. I took a skycar to the edge of the metropolis and the river delta, which took about an hour, and got on a land shuttle to his city. If I were to truly experience a change of scenery, I figured, I might as well take the scenic route.

It was quite scenic. The summer was officially at an end, but the sunshine and the wildlife clearly disagreed. My fellow passengers were an elderly couple and a much younger couple with a small child. The elderly couple was quite taken with the child, and they struck up a conversation with her mother. I smiled and looked out the window at the upcoming bridge over the Sonta. I should visit my own parents sometime. Take my mind off things.

When I arrived at the terminal, I found Saren sitting in a grey, plastic chair, datapad in hand.

"Have you been waiting for long?" I asked.

"No." Though he probably had. He folded the thing and tucked it away. "I don't drive, so we'll have to take a taxi."

"What about transit?" I wasn't in any hurry.

But Saren was glancing at the young couple, now stepping into the lift for the transfer. The woman carried her daughter on her shoulder.

"The taxi's better."

We arrived at an entirely nondescript group of buildings, of the kind you'd often see on well-established, temperate colonies with a steady stream of funding. Open balconies, open quad. There were a few children playing a game of tag. There were men and women leaning against the banisters and chatting; some with glasses in hand, some with small dishes of fruit cubes. An elderly lady was hanging some laundry. She waved at Saren. Saren waved back.

I had never been in the area before. Desolas would have treated me to a night out at Square Zero instead.

"How long have you lived here?"

He didn't look back while unlocking the door. "Since I was born." Pause. "It was issued to my mother as compensation."

He has a habit of doing that, doesn't he?

The words it's a nice place died on my tongue. Instead, I busied myself with putting away my jacket, fumbling a bit with the civvie fastenings. I almost forgot about the paper-wrapped package in my pocket.

"You didn't have to," he said with a ghost of a smile.

"I don't mind."

I think he appreciated the gift. It was fifty-five grams of Thessian tea. He immediately prepared some in stainless steel mugs. He passed one to me.

"It's quite hot," I commented. I put my hands around the large mug. My fingertips barely crossed on the other side.

Saren nodded, and then opened the window at the far end of the commons. Since the door had been left open as well, this let in a pleasant breeze that certainly helped to cool the tea.

We settled on the couch, which was devoid of cushions just like the walls and shelves were devoid of art, and even kitsch. There was only the box-planter on the windowsill and the miniature, dark-leaved hedge that grew from it.

"Extremely tolerant to drought." He'd been following my gaze. "I watered it months ago."

That was before.

I looked at him sideways. Whereas Desolas would've leaned back and put his feet on the table, Saren was sitting more or less upright, balancing the mug perfectly on his knees. His fringe was more even, his mandibles shorter at the front. Not the same, Baratus.

"I'd still manage to kill it, I bet." And then I laughed. To my surprise, he smiled behind a sip of the tea.

"Of course." He stared into his mug. "It's what we do."

"You accept it?"

A pause. "No, I don't."

"I see." I thought I did.

"It wasn't fair."

"No, it wasn't fair.

"I don't understand."

I wanted to put my arm around him. And I grew uncomfortably warm. Because I could have. I very well could have. It would be like embracing a memory. I don't know how you think of me as you read this. Not very highly, if I may hazard a guess.

But Saren was sipping his tea and paid me no attention for once. I took a second survey of the apartment. It was very small, and I could see both the commons and the kitchen at once. I noticed there were no holoframes, but there was an analog clock. It was early afternoon.

I sipped my own tea; it was very bitter. "We all have to cope."

I remembered sitting on the cot with Desolas and looking at that wound. It had proven to be shallow on close inspection, the kind that would scar very little, if at all. I had taken my time with the antiseptic, and I had applied the bandage more carefully than ever before. Desolas only laughed at me. "I owe him one," he'd said.

"Why?" I had asked.

Desolas had gestured to his forehead, indicating an invisible scar. "Gave him one right here. He wasn't too happy about it."

"I wouldn't be either. He's good-looking."

Desolas had laughed again.

And now I was sitting with Saren and a mug of bitter tea, and neither of us were laughing.

Saren looked directly at me, as if searching for something. "You were close?"

I had grown offended somehow. No, probably just teasing. Desolas had looked ridiculous with the bandage, after all. "Unlike you," I'd said to him, elbowing his ribs. "How are you even related?"

"Unfortunately." But he grew serious. "He's very good at what he does."

I had raised an eye ridge. "Evidently."

"I need to introduce you properly sometime."

So he had, twisted as the circumstances were.

"You could say that," I replied to Saren, who nodded and lapsed into silence again. How could I begin to help? I doubted myself, for I mourned just as deeply. And I was beginning to see things. Such as how his silver eyes reflected light rather than softened it like the blue-gray of Desolas'. Similar, different. Different, similar.

I had muttered a quick 'sure' to Desolas. I couldn't have cared less about introductions, but if it meant getting more familiar, then I'd prepare the utmost enthusiasm as a matter of course. My forearm had been resting on his leg for a while. I left it there for a little longer.

"You forgot to close the door," he'd remarked dryly.

You know, they both had a habit of doing that.

"Sorry."

"It's quite peaceful for the eve of battle," he'd said as the door slid closed. "Only, it's a bit cold."

I didn't dare.

I didn't dare. You would've done it, I suspect. Not I. Maybe all I did was trade one more wound for one more regret.

I recall myself saying: "Strange. It's only midsummer."

"It's only midsummer," he'd repeated.

Saren and I eventually, somehow, managed to relax. Perhaps it was because we decided to step out for a bit, roll up our sleeves and lounge against the banister like the people across the quad. The sun favoured our side, and the tea tasted less bitter when cold. We talked about things I've now forgotten. There were some new rifles being field-tested, some dreadnought being decommissioned in orbit and so on. He refilled our mugs once.

It grew dark without our noticing. We only went back in when Saren gave a sudden start and apologised for having forgotten about dinner. I told him not to worry, but he said he'd make a quick stew.

I rarely cooked for myself, so it was a pleasure to watch him work. He set the stove to let the stew simmer for a while. "We could have some cold cuts in the mean time. This'll take a few minutes."

"I'm fine."

I had been leaning on the counter on my elbows; he moved to copy me, leaning in from the other side. "It's nothing fancy. Vatgrown."

I smiled. "What do you think the canteen serves every day?"

"You're a first-class general. I thought—"

I could have made special orders had I wanted. Of course, Desolas never had; he was always in the canteen or in the beat-up commons, watching the men play on an ancient gaming console and occasionally getting cajoled into a round himself. I was often there with him. He'd laugh at all the inappropriate jokes, even gossip about that new Major and a smitten Lieutenant's chances, or lack thereof. Oftentimes I felt as out of place as a krogan in a china shop. Or china in a krogan den. But I stuck with it.

"I like to mingle," I said.

"I see." Pause. "So did he."

"What about you?"

"Not really." He looked at his own fingers. I still thought he was shy. Maybe he was – who'd know? – before the years turned it to a wall of silence.

"Sometimes though … I tire of it." I looked around. It was completely dark now, except for the thousands of lit windows in the distance. I noticed that Saren's windows came with blackout screens. "This is nice."

"It is."

"We should do this more often."

"We should."

If he hadn't told me beforehand, I would not have guessed in a million years that the stew was vatgrown. Usually, people cooked it sloppily – hey, it's cheap, why not – but Saren did it well, and I even had seconds.

True to our word, we decided that he should visit the base more frequently. I was eager to continue our duelling sessions, and it was convenient because he could get there just as my work was finished, whereas I'd have to spend extra time commuting if I were to come here. I offered to rent a shuttle for him. Of course he said no thank you, he'd manage. I mentioned the speed, the convenience. He said he had a bicycle.

On a whim, I took the land shuttle again on the way home. There was little to see. Occasionally, I could distinguish the hazy outlines of landmark skyscrapers, and the night traffic at the civilian spaceport was always a sight to behold. Eventually, though, I drifted off.

I should be ashamed of telling you what I'm telling you now, but for the sake of honesty I'll go on, if you'll forgive me. When I slept on the shuttle, I dreamed of Saren.

I was taking Desolas to the washroom, you see; the bandage was ready to come off, and I was determined to show him that there would be no scar. I had one arm around his waist while my other hand peeled off the plastic. There was no scar. I smiled at him and looked in the mirror.

Of course it was Saren in my arms now. His body felt hot; his spinal plates were lifted, perturbing the undersuit. I touched his face. Spirits, there was some give to it, just enough for me to press my thumb exactly into the hollow of his cheek. He was taller than me – Desolas wasn't – but the bewildered look on his face made him look even younger than he was. And I wanted to sleep with him.

In the dream, I did. Which meant that I woke up flustered and alone. The shuttle was just pulling into the station, thank goodness, and my jacket was long enough.

Once the image was in my mind, I couldn't dispel it not matter how hard I tried. Maybe because I didn't try very hard. I tried to convince myself that it was fine. I missed Desolas, that was all. We both did.

Except there was always that nagging little voice in the back of my head. They look exactly alike. Even their voices are alike.

I never had the strength to tell it to shut up. Instead, I busied myself with examining the ridges on Saren's back; I always booked that tiny room with the faulty air conditioning, because I could. I defeated him often. Every time I did, and our blades crossed centimetres from his face, I had these little flashes, visions. I'd hold him, yes; I'd run my hand down his back and feel those raised plates for myself. And perhaps, I'd unfasten his—

You get the idea.

I'm not particularly pious, but back then I wondered, daily, what Desolas would think of me. I never asked for forgiveness. Only explanations. To this day I have received neither.

We would often sit in my office and chat for a while before he went home. I never offered for him to stay overnight. I was afraid he'd accept; I was afraid he'd decline.

He was reading the news on his datapad with his legs crossed, one arm draped over the armrest. And then he looked up at me.

I was going through some reports, though my heart wasn't in it. "What is it?" I asked.

"Are you free the day after tomorrow?"

It was my day off. I was going to visit my parents, but I had decided against it a few days ago. It felt wrong. Saren didn't have anyone else.

"Yes. What do you have in mind?"

He swallowed. "I… wanted to spend some time here."

"Ah. Well, there's the museum. I haven't been there in a while. Or how about a short cruise?"

"I want to go to the Temple."

"Ah." Ah.

"It's fine if you have other things to attend to," he added quickly. "I don't—"

"I want to go with you."

It was a bright, summery day again, even though we'd pushed yet another week into the realm of autumn. I brought an extra jacket and an umbrella in my daypack, just in case. At that time of the year, the weather tended to change its mind quickly and frequently, even if there were no clouds on the horizon when I looked out the window. The ocean was a deep teal that day, and I could see leisure boats like so many specks of dust, occasionally drawing apart to admit behemoth cargo ships and the rare fishing rig. From this altitude, even those looked like toys.

I looked towards the east, down the escarpment. The military base was there, the off-limits spaceport where we received our returning troops. Its metal blast shields reflected the golden light. The Temple site was even further east. I couldn't see it; a highrise was in the way, and it was half-hidden in a forest of rock formations.

I used to go there on occasion, when I was a child. The Temple sat low in terms of elevation, and the tide would cover the grounds every so often, sometimes even lap at the front steps of the entrance. The stone used in the structure shone a bright jade green when stricken by light, and, in turn, so would the water. It had been fun to explore the shallow pools left behind, and the creatures in them.

I pulled away from my apartment window and checked the time. Eight. I should go.

I picked him up from the terminal in my second-hand skycar. He wasn't dressed for mourning: a simple black shirt, grey pants, messenger bag.

"I want to see it again," he said as he slid in the front passenger's seat, before I even opened my mouth. "I didn't, last time."

We passed by the Spire on the way there. It was atop the escarpment, and only minutes away from the Temple. There was no singing today. I activated the external feed, too; nothing. Too bad.

At least it meant we could find parking almost overlooking the Subourus Plaza, now reconstructed in white marble. There was a long, winding staircase down the side of the cliff – the narrow way. I almost reached for his hand as we descended, but checked myself at the last second.

Saren stopped in his tracks when he reached the bottom. He took a few deep, even breaths, his eyes closed. I copied him. The smell of the ocean was heavy and calming.

"The tide's in half an hour," I told him.

"That's good."

The Plaza consisted of a network of intricate walkways, carved from whole blocks of stone. Beneath that was an equally complex system of water channels, rock beds, shallow pools – a sight to behold once the tide comes in. I thought he was going to rest at one of the stone benches lining the side, but he pressed on.

A sunny day meant the Plaza was full of people, half residents, half camera-toting tourists. I had an easy time blocking out the chatter because I had to keep my eyes on Saren, who was moving through the crowd with such purpose that more than a few actually stepped out of his way. He only slowed down near the other side.

The front steps were still there. Redone, of course, but the incoming water would be able reach their foot, just like old times. Beyond that was a maze of stone planters and native plants growing out of the gravel.

"Shall we?"

Saren's eyes searched upward until they rested on the tip of the obelisk. "Yes."

It took us longer to get to it than it did for the water. We watched it rush past our feet. We smiled at each other. That part of the walkway was nice and cool, and I observed the shadows of leaves dance across his face, all without a word. I can't write down the feelings that flowed through me. I can't. But I know you understand.

"Come on," he finally said, and took my hand.

We settled on the edge of one of the planters, which had been subtly sculpted to serve as a seat. Our fingers had become entwined along the way and I was in no hurry to disengage, but Saren pulled away first.

"Water?" He pulled out an aluminum bottle, opened it, and offered it to me.

"I'm fine."

He sipped from it and put it away.

"What do you think?" I asked.

I took in the view with him. The obelisk mimicked the spires of the Temple, but in white. Only its base was made of that green stone; judging by its appearance, it could have been part of the original structure. The whole area was surrounded by tall, close-grown trees, mimicking the green walls of the great domed hall. But the sky was our dome now, high overhead, crisscrossed by airplanes and birds alike.

"It's beautiful."

It was, compared with last time.

I had a flashback of journalists and flashing hovercams, of an amorphous mass of robed men, women, and children all blending in with the pitter-patter of the rain. Saren had been wearing that plain black cloak with the hood pulled low. It had kept his clothes dry, but his shoes had been soaked; even though the tide had been low, a centimeter of rain had gathered beneath the steps. My deepest recollection, however, had to do with his eyes. He had not looked away from Desolas' name even for a second.

After the dedication ceremony had concluded, he had stayed behind. So did about a dozen others, presumably fellow mourners. But, one after the other, in twos and threes, they had all eventually faded into the oncoming night. I had coughed, alerting him to my presence.

"Are you leaving?"

"Eventually," he'd said. His voice had been hoarse. "Go ahead, Baratus."

I had pretended to leave, but stopped where the entrance to the great hall would have been and watched him for a while. He had stayed completely still for the longest time.

I had left first.

I reached for his hand again and didn't stop this time. I drew my fingers over the back of his hand more firmly than I had the first time he'd brought dinner to my office. He looked at me questioningly.

"Beautiful," I said. I tucked my mandibles. "He was."

You may have noticed that my younger self was a complete and utter fool. Now that I'm old, I use that as a convenient excuse.

Saren grew very still. "I see."

What could I have said? As are you? I winced just thinking about it.

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing," I lied.

Saren nodded. "I think Solas – Desolas would've liked to hear that."

And then, would you believe it, he shuffled closer and rested his head on the edge of the planter, looking into the sky. I stiffened, then relaxed so much that our legs touched because I didn't want him to sense me stiffen. He seemed perfectly fine with it, though; his eyes eventually fluttered closed. I knew he wasn't sleeping, but I slowed down my breathing as well, letting myself go under bit by bit.

Why, Desolas, why?

I dreamed, as was usual in those days, even in my half-waking state. I don't remember the details, only the swirls of whites and greens and the silver of Saren's face beneath my lips and the trail of plates down his back and the smell of Palaven rain pine. When I came to, Saren still had his eyes closed and his fingers interlaced over his stomach, blissfully unaware of me crossing my legs and blushing in embarrassment.

Eventually we did sit apart. He took a gulp of water again and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"How many more weeks of leave?"

"Many. I asked for two months."

I leaned back, considering. "What do you plan to do?"

He shrugged and said nothing.

"Are you looking forward to going back?"

He shrugged again. "Somewhat."

"Tell me more about your work."

"It's challenging," he said after a pause. "No two situations are the same. Improvisation is key."

I remembered the night duel, backlit by the floodlights. "I can imagine. How long are your missions? Do you often work with the legions?" Things I knew already, but Spirits, I wanted to hear that voice.

"A few weeks, in general. We have our own specialists. If the legions are involved, we're support or spec-ops."

"I see."

"May I ask about your work?"

He was just being polite. "It's rather dull. You've seen me at it."

"What about recreation?"

"I can't remember now, since I spend so much time with you." I laughed at his aghast expression. "I'm not into much. This is the best week I've had in a while. You?"

"I don't have many pastimes, either."

But he didn't praise our time together.

We ended up going to my apartment some time before the evening tide, mainly because Saren had shown no inclination for going home, and there was a restaurant with excellent take-out that had recently been opened on Caralis Street. His eyes were wide when we stepped out of the parking tube and into the tower lobby.

"Millions on interior work, and one in three elevators still out of service. Come on."

I pulled him along by his wrist. It wasn't limp, but he didn't offer any resistance. I was very nervous about what I was doing and tried to keep the tremors out of my body as we rapidly crossed the polished marble floor. My neck flushed blue instead; I caught my own reflection in one of the wall-length mirrors, and immediately looked away.

My place was in complete disarray. Not more so than usual, but I couldn't help but wonder what Saren thought of me when he looked from the dusty bifilari case, to the couch piled high with cushions and clothes, to the haphazard pile of hardcopies on the dining table, and, finally, to the overturned shoes near the door. His apartment had been spotless.

"You can leave yours anywhere. I don't mind."

I watched him leave his boots in a corner, perfectly upright, and wondered why I had ever thought this would be a good idea.

"Come on in," I said when he wouldn't budge from the doorway. "Here, sit." I rapidly cleared an area on the couch, by which I mean transferred the mess to an unfortunate dining chair. The side table was a bit low, but relatively uncluttered. It would do for eating. I was in the middle of unwrapping my box and stifling a growl from my stomach when my omni rang. It was my sister.

"Be right with you. I have to take this."

"All right." He made to put his box back. I stopped him, waved a quick 'you go ahead', then picked up.

"Hey," I spoke quietly into the mic on the way to my bedroom. "What's the occasion?"

"Pa called yesterday."

"Oh," I replied, tiredness suddenly dripping from my voice. "Well, what'd he say?"

"He wants to have a reunion soon. You know, since he and ma are about to go on that vacation."

"Are they coming back to Palaven en route or something?" I lay back on my bed, arm behind my head.

"That's just it. Only in orbit for the transfer. I'd love to take Ika offworld, but I'm not sure if I can get time off at the agency."

"Yeah, I see," I nodded, half-listening.

There was a pause. "So do you think you can make it?"

"I'm not sure either." I was sure. Time with Saren was more important. "Probably not."

"Is work that bad? You sound completely worn out."

I looked around the room. The bed, with its navy blue sheets, wasn't meant for one person, and Spirits knew how many times I'd woken up with the taste of his skin on my tongue, eyelids heavy with sleep, and—

"It's pretty bad."

Another pause, and I realized I had to give her something. "You know the dreadnought we're decommissioning? Do you know how much classified tech is in that thing?" I mock groaned. "Guess. I dare you."

"Billion credits."

"Not even close. And that's not counting the eezo."

"Spirits."

"Yeah."

I allowed the silence to speak the words I wouldn't. Thankfully, she was a good listener.

"I should let you rest."

I smiled. "Thanks, sis."

"Bye, Baratus."

I shut off the feed and collapsed into the sheets. I hadn't realised that my back muscles were all tense and knotted until I tried to relax them. I needed a hot bath and a shot of liqueur. Yes. And trade these pants for something more loose. Then I remembered that Saren was still in my apartment and leaped up with renewed vigor.

If he'd heard anything from that exchange, he didn't show it. He was almost halfway through his food, and seemed to be quite interested in a holoframe on a corner table. It was displaying a slideshow that my mother had compiled months ago.

"Is that your sister?"

"Yeah. And that's her husband." I finally got to my dinner. "That's my niece. And those are my parents. My father was in army intelligence. Really fond of that uniform, you can tell."

I talked about my family briefly. Saren lost interest in eating by the time I got halfway through my meatloaf; nothing I could do but put down my utensils as well.

"Can I get you something to drink?" The question slipped out naturally. If it were Desolas in his place, he'd be raiding my cabinets on his own and pouring some pomdargent cider. He liked the sweet type, brought from the tropics by those behemoth cargo ships coming and going through the harbour. I looked at the floor-to-ceiling window in the commons, but it was so dark out that I could only see my own reflection.

"No thank you. I don't drink."

How many times had I told Desolas to quit it? Never seriously, of course. But I had warned him that this behaviour would make us broke. And he'd just smile and say, "Sell this place, then. We can room like cadets." I'd blush and mutter something about my father getting a hernia and pour us another round, as if that would solve everything.

"Water? Tupari?"

Saren looked out the window, too, as if he could see something beyond our reflections, doubled in the layered glass. He frowned. "I should be going."

"Stay," I blurted out, yet somehow managed to salvage it. "Stay. I can drive you back. When's the last shuttle?"

But he was already standing up and slinging his bag over one shoulder. "My bicycle's at the terminal. Better go by myself."

"All right then." I sighed, bit my tongue, and walked him to the door. Along the way, I picked out my long jacket from the rack and dropped it around his shoulders. "It's cold out. Ten, I think."

"Autumn's finally coming."

"That must be it." I sighed again.