"Are you seeing this?" Sever asked Methos as the ancient Immortal glanced up from wiping a table.

"You mean the mob of idiots playing at rebel?" Methos didn't outright roll his eyes, but his tone was one of aggrieved sarcasm as he scrubbed at a particularly persistent spot.

"They're actually becoming organized," noted Sever with a noncommittal shrug. He switched the feed to a different channel, something less… incendiary, much more innocuous. "You never know; they might give the Empire a bloody nose."

"A bloody nose is all they're going to give the Empire, and that's being generous." Methos finally managed to remove the spot on the table to his satisfaction before turning his attention to his employer. Though Sever looked like the elder man of the two, sporting the lines and scars of a long and difficult life, they both knew that the bartender/busser/bouncer/whatever-Methos-needed-to-be had many, many years on him, in more ways than one.

"You're such a pessimist, Old Man," Sever teased.

"Realist, young whippersnapper."

"Hah. Keep telling yourself that."

Methos concealed a smile. He liked Sever, despite everything. Their age difference was utterly hysterical, but Sever never let it get to him. Very few people living knew Methos's secret. Sever was one of them, and he would take that knowledge to the grave rather than turn on Methos… again.

That had not been one of their better days. But that was long behind them, and they both knew to deal in the present, not the past.

Sever was not one to beg for forgiveness, nor was Methos one to offer it freely. Nor was Methos one to beg for charity, but Sever needed someone to work for cheap. While Methos was more than capable of drifting from planet to planet like a leaf on the wind, as he had been doing, there was a distinctly perverse appeal in hiding out on Coruscant, right under the Empire's nose.

Imperial officials rarely came to this dingy bar. While this place wasn't exactly disreputable, they would generally have the money to patronize ratger more exclusive establishments. Their less wealthy (less practiced at corruption, anyway) lackeys saw no appeal in the place, either, as there weren't even very many smugglers or such from the exploding criminal underclass with whom to make unsavory connections or backhanded deals. The vast majority of the patrons were either the underpaid, underappreciated medical aid staff from a nearby clinic, complaining about being replaced by faulty droids, or the underpaid, underappreciated technical support staff complaining about having to repair faulty droids.

Fortunately, as far as Methos was concerned, this bar was not exactly a hotbed of rebellion, Sever's rather inflammatory comments aside. Sever just wanted to live out his life in peace. Methos just wanted to live.

Of course, there were blasters hidden behind the counter. Just in case.

The nascent rebellion against the Empire was doomed to failure. Though Methos, ever the realist, took the long view: the Empire was doomed to die one day, too, just as it had killed the Republic before it. But it would probably not be star cruisers and space battles that brought it down, but the weight of its own arrogance.

Until that day, the former Jedi Master and the former Clone Trooper would mind bar together, and mind their own business. Playing rebel was for the young.

Author's Note: For those of you who may be wondering, Sever the ex-Clone Trooper is an original character. This story was written for Cyberbutterfly, a fellow fanfiction author on AO3.