"It's over," she tells him, her voice thick with tears, her face showing the evidence.
He smiles, not unkindly, pityingly, "Pateesa," he adds insult to injury," it never began," he tells her and those dark eyes flash in anger, the tears disappearing as he walks away.
He's never hidden his intentions with women. And they do the same with him. As much as a day or two or as little as a few hours on a planet is all he can promise. Sometimes he can't even promise that much time. He belongs to no one and nothing. Every once in awhile, he'll.... revisit one of his fair friends, though that gets messy. Emotions get involved and he's never had the feelings to soothe and apologize.
No, no. As much as he may come from an honourable lineage, this lifestyle, his life, he is anything but. The Twi'lek behind him is as proof as any to can't let himself stop. He can't think about how far things have fallen. How far he's fallen. So, he doesn't. He doesn't stop. He fights and deceives and enacts revenge so he doesn't have to think.
But sometimes, nothing he does stops the thoughts from tumbling and bumping around his head, images spinning before his closed eyes. That's when he breaks his promise (not that that's anything new) and the death stick tubes tumble to the ground, empty except for a few drops clinging stubbornly to the side.
The nightmares don't stop, death sticks don't do that. He lies on the bed, during those moments, eyes unseeingly fixed at some point on the wall, a cold sweat dripping over his body.
There's a point during these times when she'll walk in. She used to say something about the death sticks, about how his pupils would expand and pretend like they were letting in more light. But she knows he knows better, so now she says nothing. Instead, she picks up and and disposes of the empty tubes, sad eyes and a breaking heart for the prone figure on the bed. Her pink hands pull the blankets up over him.
He's oblivious to it all, his mind fighting to forget the demons his childhood self witnessed.
Her hands deftly, gently tuck him in with his nightmares. When he's lucid and in command of himself, he doesn't tolerate touch, his eyes flinch and his body shies, the child who was abandoned still lurking beneath the surface of his skin.
She brushes the sweat-streaked hair from off his forehead and he relaxes, for a moment, before she exits. She knows it's the one thing legendary Cade Skywalker wishes he could say, "It's over," to and walk away from, laughing.