Lyrics: "Fire and Rain," by Matt Kearney, from City of Black and White.


Chapter Fifty-Two

I'll meet you half-way,

If you're coming the long way.

Don't care what the people say,

Of the prodigal runaway,

'Cause they don't know you like I do.

Ares would never consider himself a paragon of tidiness, but Bane's ship stank. The stench may have had something to do with the old food containers, empty power packs, and cigarra butts that littered the Sleight of Hand's interior, and Ares was hard-pressed to suppress his gag reflex with almost every breath. It wasn't the sort of smell one could easily get used to, and he'd had the better part of two days to try.

Perhaps he should have welcomed the odor as a distraction, or at least considered it penance for what he was about to do, but most of his mental energy had been consumed with not thinking too hard. Soon the Stark Raven would be his again. That was all that mattered. It had to be.

"I set us down about five klicks from Rudral," Bane said from the pilot's chair, a lit cigarra dangling from his mouth. Curling trails of smoke contrasted with the waning light beyond the viewport as dusk fell over this part of Aruna. There were no settlements here, only distant mountains and rocky terrain.

Bane tapped the control panel. "Cloak is up and no one's scanned us." His hat tilted as he glanced over his shoulder, where Ares stood just behind him. "Time to make good on your end, tailhead."

Now was not the time or place for lewd jokes, even if Ares' throat had not been dry and his heart had drummed at a normal pace. Nodding, he entered Kalinda's code on his comlink, though he was torn between relief and shame while he waited for the link to take hold. She was not just a Jedi, but a wife and mother, and, as far as he knew, she did not deserve to be captured by the likes of Bane. Was he truly prepared to go through with this?

Freedom, he reminded himself. It was worth everything.

Even honor.

The comlink chirruped as the link opened, and a clone voice filled the cockpit. "Who the fek is this?"

It could have been any clone, of course, and from the sounds of chatter, there were a few of them around the speaker. But Ares knew the timber and pace of this particular baritone, and his heart froze in his chest. "Trax?"

"Ares?"

"Yes," he managed after a beat. Bane's eyes narrowed as the Duros blew a puff of smoke toward him, and Ares fought for self-control. "I have information about Stonewall. May I speak with Kalinda?"

A wary edge came over Trax's voice. "What kind of information?"

Ares swallowed tightly and forced himself to speak normally. "I know where he is. I wanted to tell her as soon as possible. Is she available?"

Silence bloomed around him, so deliberate it was almost tangible, until Trax replied. "She's not here."

"Where is she?"

Trax's reply was clipped. "Somewhere else."

Kriff.

Bane's face was shadowed by the brim of his hat and the darkness beyond the viewport, but his quiet, dry chuckle was audible. Clearly he wasn't surprised in the least. Or concerned. Why should he be afraid of a foolish former slave, playing at being a hunter? They were on Bane's ship, with Bane's resources at his spindly, blue fingertips. In his eyes, there was no danger from Ares here, or anywhere. He was quite capable of finding his prey on his own.

Both lekku twitched and heat flooded Ares' body. Sweat pricked his palms and the small of his neck, because he was, to put it rudely, fekked. He blinked into the viewport and his own reflection peered back at him, distorted by the mountains and the encroaching night.

I am going to die here. He'd not told Clio or Elpenor where he was going, simply snuck out of their home after they'd gone to bed – old habits. No one would know where Bane dumped his body. And he deserved such a fate.

Then Trax spoke again, slightly harried and muffled, as though he'd turned away from whoever was around him. "You sound...weird. What the fek is going on?"

How strange, the way the scarred soldier's voice had changed. The rough edges smoothed, softened by hope and some other emotion Ares didn't want to consider. Understanding swept across his entire being, a crashing wave eager to bring him to his knees.

How can I do this? The answer was simple.

He wouldn't.

With this thought came, not quite calm, but acceptance. So there it was: he would die at Bane's hands, a slave to his idiotic choices, but at least he would not die without honor. He'd lived enough without freedom; perhaps dying without it was fitting.

"Nothing's going on," he said easily. "I apologize for bothering you."

He paused, searching his memory for the right pronunciation; with this came an image of Trax's scarred face, watching him leave this same planet. "Ni ceta, Traxis," Ares said at last. "Please believe that."

Before Trax could reply, Ares cut the link and looked up, into crimson eyes and trailing cigarra smoke. Beyond Bane's seat was the door to the cockpit; the rest of the Sleight of Hand was bathed in darkness and cluttered with garbage. Perhaps, if he was quick, he would have a chance. At least he was armed.

Adrenaline pulsed through Ares' veins, but he managed to keep his voice light. "I suppose it's too much to ask for you to return me to Ryloth?"

Bane shrugged and reached for his blaster in one fluid motion and Ares tensed the muscles of his legs in preparation. Bane's reply was smooth, mocking. "Eh. I figured I'd just leave your worthless carcass here."

"That would be easier," Ares agreed. His voice sounded tinny beneath the furious lash of his heart, but when the first hail of blaster bolts fell, he was already darting for the door.


A few minutes earlier...

Traxis slashed his hand in the signal for "cease fire," and the shriek of blasters halted immediately. The troopers that were lined up beside him stood at attention, weapons tucked against their shoulders, eyes ahead, faces solemn. Not too shabby. He caught Weave's eyes at Misfit Squad's other side, and nodded once to show his approval.

But his medic-vod's gaze flickered to the targets, and Trax sighed. The row of flimsiwood cut-outs were intermittently peppered with scorch marks; the rocky outcropping behind them, however, had been shot to haran. So much for his brief flash of hope. It was just as well. Optimism had never been his strong suit.

He looked back at Misfit Squad. Those troopers closest to him – Zero and an older-looking fellow named Trig – had been watching him, but beneath his gaze they snapped forward sharply, practically quivering with nerves.

Maybe he should have been pleased, as they had come pretty far in the last couple of months. But the only emotion Traxis could muster was annoyance as he nodded to the targets. "You lot do know the object of target practice is to hit the fekking target, right?"

Any remaining semblance of order dissipated as Misfit Squad erupted into an indignant chorus.

"We're trying!"

"The kickback on this thing is kriffing terrible – it messes up my aim!"

"You've been running us ragged ever since we set foot on this planet!"

Zero tapped the butt of his pistol. "In my defense, I only have one arm."

Traxis snorted. "When Rime out-shoots you, shiny, you have no defense."

"Cobble," the Misfit Squad medic added sagely, nudging Rime's side with his elbow.

The blind clone raised his face to the sky, painted crimson and gold by the setting sun. "Did I hit my target, at least?"

It was kind of a dicey move to give a blind guy a blaster, but there was little danger of a mishap in this controlled environment, so Trax and Weave hadn't thought there'd be an issue. Hell, Rime was a better shot than half of the others, and all Trax had told him to do was point his rifle straight ahead. At least he followed orders.

Weave replied before Traxis could. "You did, actually. And you're all getting better, each day–"

"'Better' my shebs," Traxis broke in, scowling. "If they're 'better,' than I'm a crinking Hutt."

"Trax–"

But apparently he was on a roll, though he did switch to Mando'a so only Weave would understand. "Fek, vod, we've been at this for days. We're all clones; they should be able to pick this up, same as us. Kriff, this is getting ridiculous."

"They weren't trained the same way as you and I," Weave replied, also in Mando'a. The others began to shift in place, casting wary glances at one another.

Traxis ignored them and clenched his fists. "It's not right. None of this is right."

His brother regarded him a moment, then glanced at the others and spoke in Basic. "Why don't you guys start packing up? We're losing the light, anyway." As Misfit Squad began to disperse, he looked back at Trax. "When was the last time he checked in?"

Trust a medic to go straight to the problem. Weave was kind of obnoxious that way. "This morning. They'd just landed; he said he'd comm once Kali was done with the meeting."

Weave's brows knitted. "That was probably hours ago."

They each wore their armor, but both men had their helmets clipped to their belts; Misfit Squad, of course, had no armor. They hardly had weapons, but Trax's collection of blasters was, apparently, enough to outfit a small army, and the palace guards had donated the rest. A couple of bikes and large speeders had also been provided, and while it was good to get out of Rudral, Trax found that even training the shinies wasn't enough of a distraction, not when his vode were scattered across the galaxy.

"I should have gone with them," Trax muttered. But no. He'd been so effing worried about running into Ares – an impossibility on such a populated planet as Corrie – and he'd chosen to stay behind, like a karking coward. At least Weave had the luxury of a distraction in working on the tiny droids; even now, his brother had his fragging datapad at the ready.

"You weren't worried before," Weave said gently. "Why start now? What changed?"

"Nothing." Traxis sighed and skimmed his gloved hands along the barrel of one of the modded blasters he'd taken from Stonewall. It fired even better than it looked. "I'm just second-guessing myself."

Weave nodded. "Happens to the best of us."

His tone was somber, even for him, and his shoulders sank. But before Trax could question him, his comlink chirped with an incoming transmission. Holstering his pistol, Traxis furrowed his brow as he read aloud the text-only message. "'Finished with the Council. Bringing W and H to Fox now, then will bang out.'"

"Did he say how it went?"

"No." Traxis sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Di'kut. Of course now he's kriffing succinct. I told him I wanted regular updates."

Weave gave a quiet chuckle. "I imagine he's got a lot to deal with right now, Trax. But I think if there was a problem, he'd let us know."

"He could've given a little more intel." Trax scowled. Fragging officers were all the same, even when their rank had been stripped away.

The medic seemed to hesitate, then cleared his throat. "So he didn't mention anyone else?"

"Like who?"

Weave gave a shrug that was probably meant to be casual and immediately looked down at his 'pad. "Just...anyone. Milo and Crest, maybe. Or..."

Ah. For all of Weave's tact, he was pretty shabla obvious when it came to a certain Jedi fem. Too bad he always seemed to fall for the ones out of his reach.

"Like Tallis?" Traxis kept his reply as neutral as possible; Weave was a good vod who rarely gave him osik about his own love-life – or lack thereof – so there was no reason to aggravate him. "He didn't say."

Weave flushed and rubbed his neck, then glanced to where the other guys were loading up their equipment on the speeders. Still flushing, he mumbled something about helping them before hurrying off. Traxis sighed again. He didn't know much about women, but the red-haired Jedi didn't seem like she wanted anything to do with anyone.

But what the fek do I know?

There was a soft thunk as Zero dropped his weapon, though thankfully it didn't go off. Better go help them before they blow us to kriff. Traxis lost himself in disassembling the targets and loading the speeders, until his comlink chirruped again. Finally. Maybe Stonewall had finally deigned to send a real effing sitrep.

But when he checked the transmission's source, he didn't recognize the code. Blaster tucked in one arm, Trax activated the device. "Who the fek is this?"

"Trax?"

No fekking way. It couldn't be. Why would he call now? All of a sudden, Traxis' di'kut heart dove into his stomach and began swimming laps. His throat went dry and he honest-to-Force nearly dropped the blaster. "Ares?"

There was a pause before the familiar, lilting Ryl accent swept over Traxis. "Yes. I have information about Stonewall. May I speak with Kalinda?"

Familiar, yes, but there was something...off in Ares' tempo. A lifetime of living among men with the same voice had attuned Traxis to the tiniest change in pitch or cadence, even if he hadn't known Ares very long in the grand scheme of the galaxy. Something wasn't right.

Not to mention the subject matter was... Well, it was cause for suspicion. Unless Ares also had secret Force-abilities, any information he had on Stonewall was likely to be out-of-date.

"What kind of information?" Traxis asked.

"I know where he is," Ares said, a little too quickly. "I wanted to tell her as soon as possible. Is she available?"

Yeah. Something was weird. Traxis' frown deepened as someone came to stand beside him. Make that several someones. Zero, Rime, Cobble and Weave had surrounded him, glancing between Traxis and the comlink and muttering amongst themselves.

All but Weave, of course, who only studied the comlink, no doubt trying to catch the source code. Traxis caught his vod's eye and gave a slight shake of his head to indicate that something was off as he answered. "She's not here."

"Where is she?"

"Somewhere else."

There was another pause, and Traxis exchanged another speculative look with Weave, who frowned. Yeah, this whole situation was getting weirder and weirder. Traxis' heart stopped the laps, but only because his gut twisted. Why the fek would Ares need this information? Unless...

No, he thought, gripping the comlink. It can't be. Maybe Ares had done some stupid osik, but he was one of the good ones. Traxis had little use for blind conviction, but this he knew as surely as he knew his name.

Something was wrong, but it wasn't Ares. Something else was going on. Was he in trouble? Traxis passed off the rifle to a confused Zero and turned away from the others, pitching his voice low to keep the others from overhearing. "You sound...weird. What the fek is going on?"

In a stark contrast to his earlier words, Ares' reply now was smooth as cigarra smoke. "Nothing's going on. I apologize for bothering you."

Traxis opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Ares added, calmly, "Ni ceta, Traxis. Please believe that."

The link died. Trax was left slack-jawed and suddenly, inexplicably, terrified. What the fek is going on? circled through his head while he stared at the comlink like a shabla moron.

Ni ceta. Ostensibly an apology, but...more. A lot more. It was the sort of thing you said to someone you'd truly wronged; a Mandalorian plea for forgiveness. Since when did Ares know Mando'a?

Fek. I said it to him. The memory came rushing back with the cooling night breeze. It was one of the last things Traxis had said to Ares, the day after they'd arrived on Aruna. It'd been a plea then, too, but not entirely one centered on forgiveness, though Trax had a lot of stuff to apologize for.

I wanted him to stay.

His breath caught.

"Trax?" Weave placed a hand on his shoulder-bell, drawing his attention. "What's going on?"

"It's Ares," Traxis managed.

Weave frowned at the comlink again. "What did he want? Is everything alright?"

"I don't know." Traxis shook his head to clear it and met his brother's eyes. "Can you trace a comlink's transmission source from that shabla 'pad of yours?"

When it mattered, Weave always got right to the point. Before Trax had finished the sentence, his medic-vod had grabbed the comlink and was tapping away at the datapad. "Definitely," he said as he worked, forehead furrowed. "Huh. Looks like it's onplanet, not far from here, actually."

What wasn't mountains was rocky ground, and there was a fekload of it. Traxis swallowed thickly. "Can you narrow it down?"

Weave made a noise of satisfaction. "Got it. Ares comm'd from about five klicks to the northeast. We can be there within a few minutes."

"Who's Ares?" Rime asked suddenly, blaster rifle tucked in the crook of his shoulder.

"That tailhead pilot who dropped us off on this planet," Zero replied wryly. "Weren't you paying attention at all?"

"Nice thing to say to a blind guy," Rime snorted.

"Yes, he's the fekking Twi'lek," Traxis snarled at Zero and Rime, breaking through their banter. He turned his glare on the lot of them and fought to keep his voice from conveying the sudden terror that had caught in his throat. "All of you: Finish loading up our shit, 'cause we're about to bang out."

"What's going on?" Zero asked as the rest of Misfit Squad scurried to the speeders.

Traxis shoved on his bucket and strode for the nearest speeder bike. "We're going on a rescue mission, shiny. Now move your shebs."


Thank the Force Crest's white-haired former-queen had a taste for fast vehicles, because even traveling at a breakneck pace, it took Traxis, Weave, and Misfit Squad far too long to reach the source of Ares' signal: a dusty clearing in the middle of nowhere. As he could tell, there was nothing here besides rocky outcroppings and fading daylight.

Traxis had taken point, flanked by Weave and Zero, so he was the first one to halt his vehicle at the edge of the clearing. "HUD's useless," he muttered to Weave on an open-mic channel. "Can your medscanner tell if there's anyone here?"

"Sort of," Weave replied. "It's best in close proximity, but I'm picking up two faint heat signatures about ten meters ahead, plus lots of ion particles...probably from a starship engine."

"I know I'm new at this soldier-business," Zero said as Cobble cut the engine on their speeder. "But are starships usually invisible?"

It would be a waste of energy to yell at the di'kut, so Traxis only gritted his teeth and dismounted. "It's probably a cloaking device," he said curtly.

"Did Ares have one on his ship?" Weave asked.

That uncomfortable twisting in Traxis' gut got worse. Good thing he had a remedy. He withdrew both pistols and flicked off the safeties. "No. But that fekker Bane did – at least, he did on Corrie."

Weave's voice dropped in pitch and he, too, reached for his deece. "Why would Cad Bane be here?"

"No idea, vod." But it likely wasn't good. Traxis risked a glance at the other clones, who'd clumped behind him and Weave. "Misfit Squad, form up. Ready your weapons and watch each others' backs, and for fek's sake, don't shoot unless Weave or I give the order."

A chorus of, "copy that" broke out among them as they scrambled to form two neat rows, and Weave sighed. "And keep quiet," the medic added. To Trax, he said, "Well, there goes any chance at stealth."

Only part of Traxis' brain registered his brother's words. His attention had gone to the space before him, which, upon closer inspection, seemed to ripple, as if the air were a curtain being ruffled by the wind. Weird. Blasters raised, he took a few paces forward. "Kriff. See that? The air..."

"It's a side effect of a cloaking device." Weave studied his scanner, then pointed to a spot several meters to Trax's left. "The ion particles are concentrated there, which could be where the hyperdrive is located."

"That's well and good, but what about the front door?" Zero muttered.

For once, Traxis was in agreement with the one-armed clone. Luckily, he didn't have to voice the fact. The scream of blaster fire broke through the quiet of the clearing as two figures came charging seemingly out of thin air, emerging about five meters to the right. Even in the fading light, the silhouettes were distinct: one was tall and thin, with a wide-brimmed hat and blazing red eyes. The other...

Ares stumbled down the loading ramp, ahead of Bane by only a few paces. One hand was wrapped around his midsection and he staggered as if he were blind drunk; he carried a blaster in his other hand, but his grip was loose and fumbling.

Traxis didn't think. He lunged forward.


Everything hurt. Both lekku burned from when Bane had dragged Ares bodily from behind a crate of illegal blasters. That was before the punch that had surely broken his nose, but after the Duros had fired a shot at his guts, though thankfully Ares had been able to twist out of the way; the bolt had only grazed. Somehow, he didn't quite remember, he'd managed to dart for the Sleight of Hand's entry hatch while Bane withdrew a thermal det from some hidden place in his gear.

Now Ares' vision was gray and dim, and he could not distinguish the ground from the loading ramp, only barrel forward in hopes of putting as much distance as possible between himself and Cad Bane. Stupid, stupid; the litany beat a strange cadence in his brain. Perhaps he should let Bane incinerate him. He did not have the Stark Raven. He did not have his freedom, or even very much honor. He did not really have anything.

Streaks of electric crimson screamed past his left lek; there was heat and the scent of ozone and burning skin. More pain. A burn so hot it froze. Perhaps another glancing blow, but it was so hard to think. Ares stumbled again, this time careening face forward into the dirt. Rocks tore at his hand as he instinctively tried to catch his fall, and he tightened his grip on his blaster, for whatever good it would do. He was going to die here and no one would miss him. Well and so; he deserved nothing better.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something white, something that shone as it cut through the night with a purposeful stride. The white shape approached, sharpened into a man in armor...

For one moment, Ares forgot to be frightened. Surely it couldn't be. Surely he was hallucinating. The armored figure leaped forward, planting himself between Ares and Bane and raising two pistols.

"Stand the fek down, you karking shabuir," the man in armor snarled.

Traxis. Ares' heart lifted.

Ares twisted his head around to see Cad Bane's crimson eyes narrow; he'd not moved down the loading ramp, and was bathed in the shadow of a nearby rock formation "Who's gonna make me, jar-brain?"

"Me."

Cad Bane's laugh was low. "You and what fekking army?"

Another clone voice emerged from Ares' right. "This fekking army."

One more white-armored figure appeared, flanked by a dozen or so Human men who wore no kit, but had the same face. Thoughts were slow in coming, but Ares recognized some of the men he'd brought from that lonely facility on Kamino. Armor or not, they each had a weapon trained on the Duros.

The second white-armored clone – Ares, dazed, could not match a name to his voice – added, "You're surrounded, Bane. It's over. Drop your weapons."

Bane laughed again, and it was only because Ares was on the ground that he saw the bounty hunter flick his wrist, no doubt preparing a nasty surprise. "Nah," he said in a bored voice. "I don't think so."

Ares' heart froze. The thermal det!

Traxis still stood between Ares and Cad Bane. At this he raised one pistol, aimed and fired in a single, fluid motion. The shot bit into Bane's shoulder, but Bane was strong and had likely been shot many times, and did not waver. He returned fire, lobbing a barrage of bolts at Trax even as he stepped backward, seemingly into empty air, making for his still-cloaked ship. If he reached it, he'd throw the det and leave everyone here a smoking pile of slag while he flew off.

"Thermal det," Ares managed to choke out. "Traxis..."

Without pausing, Traxis stepped forward, into the river of bolts Bane poured his way; two shots struck his chest-piece, another bit against his thigh plate. Acrid, burning plastoid filled the air, and still Traxis marched forward, dodging what he could and returning fire, hopefully enough to distract Bane from using his det. The other clones fired too, but many of their shots went wild and the closer Traxis got, the more danger there was from being struck by friendly fire. The other armored clone shouted something, but Ares didn't catch the words.

All of his attention was on Traxis, fearlessly, ridiculously determined to risk his own life to save a lowly chakaar tailhead.

Only a few seconds had passed since the firefight began, and likely it would not last much longer. Each breath hurt and his poor lekku were screaming, but there was no choice. Ares gripped his blaster, checked the settings, and aimed.


The first shot didn't hurt. It was more like a punch in the chest. Easy to ignore.

The second shot stung, but Phase II kits were kriff-loads better than their predecessors; what good was armor if it wouldn't protect the wearer against a few blaster bolts?

Shots three and four burned, but within, Traxis was strangely calm. The entire world had seemed to slow; even the shots that shabuir Bane fired at him seemed to meander by, lazy and ineffectual. He could duck or dodge them with ease. It was, he realized, the first time he'd ever charged into battle with his blood not boiling.

Ares was in danger. Traxis would protect him. It was simple, really. Plus the pistols he'd taken from Stonewall were effing sweet to shoot, like extensions of his arms. Distantly, he was angry at Bane and concerned for his vode and Ares, but that strange sense of calm flooded over those other feelings, washing them clean. Was this what it felt like to use the Force?

His shots were fast, but Bane was agile, more than a man in full body armor could hope to be, and was able to duck out of the way. A twinge of anxiety nipped at Traxis' calm, but he ignored it and marched forward, stumbling every few moments as the bolts tried to shove him off his feet.

Only when he was close enough to look into Bane's crimson eyes did he see the thermal det, and his heart froze in his chest. Fek. Who's the shabuir, now?

Bane smiled.

A buzzing whine broke loose behind Traxis, immediately followed by what felt like a kick in his shoulder, and his world went hazy.


Weave's heart was in his throat. The stun bolt swept past Trax, glancing off of his shoulder, before meeting its mark in Bane's chest. The Duros crumpled to the loading ramp, and something small and round bounced away from his grip, onto the dirt.

Weave recognized a thermal det when he saw one. "Hold," he called to Misfit Squad. "That's a thermal det – no one move!"

The det lay in the dust, silent and still. Exhaling in relief, Weave nodded to Bane. "Cinder, Roth, Trig: See that he doesn't go anywhere – and do a thorough search. I'll bet he's got some other toys tucked away. Leave the det for now; we'll collect it later. Zero, help Traxis to his feet. Cobble; you're with me. The rest of you, keep your blasters trained on Bane, and don't for one second let him out of your sights."

"Me, too?" Rime asked. "'Cause that's hardly fair."

Weave sighed. "Go help your brothers."

Ares knelt on the ground, fingers still wrapped around his blaster, though his face was contorted with pain. At Weave and Cobble's approach he looked up, blinking. "Traxis?"

"No, it's Weave," Weave said, kneeling beside the Twi'lek and withdrawing his scanner while Cobble began rummaging through his medkit. Thankfully, one of the other clones thought to set up a few lanterns to push back the darkness.

Ares glanced around, though given the way Misfit Squad was milling about, he likely couldn't see much of anything. "Is he...?"

"Your stun bolt grazed him," Weave said calmly as he ran the scanner's wand over Ares' left lek, where a mottled, purple bruise was starting to form. "And his kit's probably done for. But he's had worse. He should be fine."

"Cobble," the other medic said, gently urging Ares to tilt his head so he could wipe up the worst of the blood and patch up Ares' broken nose.

Ares obeyed, but his eyes still darted in search of Trax. Weave knew the moment Ares saw his scarred brother, for Ares' entire body relaxed even as his pulse picked up. That, and the huge smile, quite an odd sight against his bloody, bruising face.

Bucket tucked under one arm, Traxis knelt beside Weave, but his eyes, too, were fixed on the Twi'lek. "What the fek are you doing here, you di'kut?"

"I should ask you the same thing, my friend." Ares' eyes lidded even as Cobble smoothed a bandage over his nose. "I'm sor–"

"You already said that," Traxis broke in, shaking his head. "You're here. You're okay. We're all okay. That's all that fekking matters to me."

"The ends do not justify the, ah, intention." Ares' voice softened, and Weave got the sense that he and Cob were intruding on a private moment. But he had a job to do. Best to focus on that plasma burn on Ares' side.

Then Traxis leaned forward and pressed his palm against Ares' neck, one thumb skimming the Twi'lek's jaw. "Shut the fek up," Traxis muttered, "and let me kiss you, already."

Weave sighed and sat back. He caught Cobble's eyes and bit back a laugh at the other medic's flushing cheeks. "They can't do much out here, in either of their states," he said to Cob. "Best let them get it out of their systems."

Cobble's blush deepened and he nodded quickly, glancing at the rest of Misfit Squad. Weave studied his scanner and tried not to think of blue eyes and coppery hair.


There was nothing better than this. There had never been. Traxis held Ares close and kissed him like it was his last day alive.

He would have done it forever, too, but Ares pulled back, hissing in pain. "I should remind you that my nose is broken..."

"Sorry," Trax replied, breathless and grinning like a kark. "You can pay me back, later."

Ares chuckled and his eyes on Traxis were warm. "Is that so, my friend?"

"You're damn right." If anything, Trax's shabla grin widened.

Weave cleared his throat. "I hate to break up the reunion, but you both need medical attention, and I'd like to do so in the comfort of a medbay."

Without looking at his vod, Traxis nodded. "Copy that."

He rose, a little stiffly; his armor was shot to hell and he'd probably have all kinds of bruises and burns beneath the plastoid plating, but right now he felt no true pain. Ares took his hand and Trax helped him to his feet, and they limped, together, to the nearest speeder bike.


Next time: Back to Corrie. :)