#14 "Hey, I'm with you, okay? Always."
Her hand slides across one shoulder as she passes, her fingertips breaking contact somewhere on the back of his neck. He listens as her footsteps recede into the 'fresher, and the shower turns on.
He could leave right now. Gather the rest of his clothing and his armor and walk out the door. It's early yet. The traffic in Coruscant hasn't quite reached it's peak. He could be aboard Slave I in an hour.
He imagines her confusion, when she emerges from the shower and finds him gone. She wouldn't be expecting it. Not after last night. Not after this morning.
Leia is a slow waker, so his success is never guaranteed in the morning. That's part of what makes it good. And it was good this morning. Only a few minutes ago he was in her bed, lazily watching as she sat up and stretched, exhaling in a long, contented sigh.
She put on a robe and stumbled out into the kitchen to make caf. It took him a minute to find his shorts, but then he abandoned the bed for the 'fresher and then went to join her.
She took a white cup down from the shelf, filled it with hot caf, and added a splash of rich cream. No sugar. He could get it himself, but she always did it for him. A strange little formality. "How long do you think this next job is going to take?"
"Could be a few weeks."
"So I might be on Mandalore the next time you're free."
"You might."
"I'll send you the location data. Just stop by you can." She finished her own caf. "You're always welcome."
Then she drifted off to the shower, and left him alone with the little white cup filled with dark liquid, a swirl of cream on the top.
He would see her while she was on Mandalore. Of course he would. There was no reason not to.
You're always welcome, she said. It was meaningless. A courtesy, like this cup of caf.
He doesn't like the word "always."
Everyone who promises him always breaks that promise in the end. His father. His ex-wife. Always doesn't really exist.
"I'll always come back for you."
"Hey, I'm with you, okay? Always."
"You're always welcome."
Until he didn't, and she couldn't, and he wouldn't be.
So. Was it better to end things on his own terms, or to ride it out until the last shuddering breath?
He looked down at the cup of caf, and touched the pristine ceramic surface with one finger. Still hot. She didn't have to fix it for him. Maybe that wasn't meaningless.
He picked it up, carefully, and took a sip. It was good caf. And there was no real hurry.