"For Force's sake, don't move!" Frantic hands tugged at his shirt, followed by a sharp hiss of breath. "Mical, give him the best medpac we have."
A small sting in his thigh registered briefly before his attention wandered back to how it was impossible to breathe, what with the pain splinting his lungs and the fact that he felt like he was drowning.
"This is, not how, I thought it, would go," he panted, too short of breath to push out more than a few words at a time.
"What?" the most popular not-a-Jedi Jedi in the galaxy almost screamed at him.
"You, taking, my shirt off," he managed.
"You idiot!" Her face swum in his vision as the kolto began kicking in. "Just stay with me. Talk me through this, Mical." Warm hands ran lightly over the bare skin of his chest.
"It seems likely that he has a haemopneumothorax-"
"In Basic!"
"He has multiple rib fractures, he's probably punctured a lung and is bleeding around it."
"So? How do I fix it? And that shot he took to the gut-"
Was that a sob? He couldn't be sure, not when the world was going dark. He tried to make his tongue work. If this was it, he had to tell her. But his stupid mouth only managed a moan before the darkness closed over him.
"Any movement from flyboy? I mean, not that I mind hanging around Nar Shaddaa a bit longer, but you're looking like a bantha's back end, Meetra. You should get some sleep."
"I'm fine. Compared to Atton anyway."
"Mical said he's stable. Come on, you haven't slept a wink for almost two days now."
"Someone's got to keep an eye on him. Hey, his heart rate is going up." The steady beeping in the background suddenly got much louder. "Can you get Mical?"
"On it."
There was a firm pressure on his wrist as practiced fingers took his pulse, then rather less professionally, brushed the hair away from his face. "Atton," she called softly. "I know you're waking up."
He forced his eyes open, blinking slowly in the bright light. Someone-probably the blonde wannabe kid- had gotten around to fixing the overhead lights of the Ebon Hawk's med bay. "Hey."
"Hey you," the Jedi exile said with a smile. She did look exhausted but that had not diminished her beauty. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a sarlacc chewed me up and spat me out again. But I'm alive, so that's something. Guess I've got you to thank."
She fluffed up his pillows and raised the head of his bed. "Among others. Mical talked me through stabilising you. Mira found us a good medic, who chucked you in a kolto tank for a while, charged us a bundle then kicked you out."
He glimpsed the aforementioned two in the doorway for a moment before the former bounty hunter dragged the self-proclaimed disciple away. It didn't seem like that was worth mentioning to the exile. Instead, he sank back into the pillows as she checked the monitors. "Since when did you become a medic?"
"The alarms aren't going off, so that's a good sign. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three," he said in a bored voice. "I wasn't hit in the head, you know."
"Really? I couldn't tell with the way you were carrying on."
He swallowed hard. "What do you mean? Did I say something dumb?" He forced a laugh. "That would have been the kolto."
"Never mind what you said," she said darkly. "You get shot and go down-speaking of which, when you're out of here, you are going to be spending all your free time practicing Soresu, mister-and then like a rancor that hasn't learned its lesson, you get back up and shoot the damned Gamorrean!"
"He was about to cleave you in half," Atton pointed out.
Meetra glowered at him. "I can handle myself. Next time don't try to be a big damn hero."
"Can't help it, sweetheart." He chuckled and winced as his ribs twinged again. "I won't go down as long as you're still standing."
"You're more stubborn than a bantha neck deep in a food trough. But you're tough." She sounded equal parts frustrated and grateful. She pulled the sheet back to check the dressing across his belly, and he realised that he was shirtless. "That looks good. Is it sore to touch?" She pressed gently around the wound.
"It's fine," he whispered, mouth abruptly as dry as the sands of Tatooine. Her hand gently moved from that wound to the pale, puckered scar next to it, then to a long, raised one that tracked up toward his ribs. The beeps of the monitor began racing again.
"Looks like you'll have another for the collection." Her mouth quirked as she avoided his gaze. "Well, I absolutely forbid you from trying to get killed for the next few weeks. I might see if we can hire a pilot to fly us back to Dantooine. It's a better place for you to recover."
He tentatively placed his hand over hers. "Save your credits, I can fly the ship. What else do you keep me around for anyway?"
"Just for a good game of pazaak. Speaking of which-" She drew away, still carefully not looking at him, and reached into a trolley next to him. "Republic Senate rules?"
He wanted to say, no thanks, when on Nar Shaddaa, we play by their rules, and I've given you a head start...
Instead he took the deck from her, his skin still tingling from her touch. "Show me what you've got," he said teasingly.
"You haven't got anywhere to hide your cards now."
"I don't need to cheat to beat you. Your honest Jedi face tells me exactly what you have."
"Liar. Cheat."
"Are you going to trash talk me all day, or are we gonna play?"