Saer moved into the medical quarters doorway, and cast a shadow over his lab station.
Mical looked up from his chemicals. Saer was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. She was wearing an outfit she'd bought on Nar Shaddaa in order to look slightly-less conspicuously Jedi. Black pants tucked into high boots, utility jacket, lightsaber in her inside pocket instead of on her hip.
She cocked her head and smiled in a way that made him distinctly nervous.
"Saer? Are you going somewhere?"
"We are going somewhere, my friend."
He sat down his tools, very carefully, blinking up at her. As always, he was amazed at her ability to transform herself though body language, affect, and clothing—with just a subtle touch of the Force. When he'd seen her last, at sunset, she was the last living Jedi Master. Now she looked like one of the multitudes of spacers to pass through Khoonda.
"Are we?"
"We are."
"Are we…going in disguise?"
"Not precisely. It's just that we won't be immediately recognizable. Don't you ever want to just go out…and be yourself? To not be a Jedi, to not carry that weight for awhile?"
Mical paused, thinking over his response carefully. "Ah, well…no. Not actually. I've never thought of it."
She moved away from the doorway. She snorted, smirking, and squeezed his shoulder. He smiled up at her, hoping fervently that she wouldn't realize how much he liked being touched by her.
"Of course not. But come with me anyway. Show me some of that stuff they taught you in Galactic Intelligence. Let's go out and just be…people. I think we should get out more, anyway."
He had been going slightly stir-crazy inside the Enclave for the last few weeks. They'd cleaned, stocked, repaired, gardened, trained, meditated, and sparred until they were sick of it. And he knew Saer was even more restless than he. Sometimes he could feel her pacing in her quarters relentlessly--for hours--when she was supposedly asleep.
But what exciting place had she found to go? The Hawk wasn't up and running yet and although Dantooine was certainly beautiful, it was hardly an exciting place. Khoonda didn't even have a cantina.
Saer was smiling even wider—and in a decidedly predatory way.
"…And Khoonda got a cantina."
Mical cleared his throat and started cracking his knuckles one by one. A nervous tic from childhood he'd never been able to drop.
"Ah. A cantina…" Crack. "Splendid."
He'd never understand it as long as he lived. Why did sentients pack themselves into tiny, smoky quarters with blaring music to drink overpriced liquor? Especially when they could just take it home?
"And you still have your civilian garb, don't you?"
"Ah. Yes, of course."
Crack, crack.
