Scientific Methods
He's being absurd.
It only takes one person to fly Nightshrike, true, and she won't deny that Theron is perfectly capable (of the two of them he really is the better pilot, though he'd gloat for days to hear her say it), but she's never liked letting her out of her hands.
"Also-" the speeder glides up the ramp into the docking bag, the hatch raising up behind them- "I'm Alliance Commander. I outrank you. More to the point, she's my damned ship."
Fastening the last of the tie-downs, Theron slings the strap of the sample container over his shoulder and starts herding her toward the medical bay like a bantha into a pen. "Yes, but-"
"I don't need medbay."
"Yes, you do." He steers her around the couch. "Protocol's protocol."
She scowls. "When have you ever cared about protocol? It took you two days of headaches to even agree to go to the infirmary the last time you hit your head."
"True. But I-" When they reach the medical bay Theron stands just behind her, blocking off her exit route when she tries to duck around him, and she braces herself against the door. She's still a little dizzy- just the sedative wearing off, she's sure- "had a concussion. You had a seizure. If something's really wrong-"
"There is nothing wrong with me!" She sighs, looking back over her shoulder at him. "I'm fine."
He rests his hands on her shoulders. "I'll get us up and jumped. But the sooner we get you checked out, the better."
"Later." Nine digs in her heels, resisting his push. "I'll use Lokin's scanner once we're back on Alderaan. Let's just get out of here."
His hands wrap around her waist instead, then, and he lifts her through the doorway, twisting to avoid her as she swats at him in protest. "Nope. Scan first."
"Let go of me, Theron." If he's going to fuss this much she's going to make him work for it; she goes obstinately limp, the toes of her boots brushing across the floor as he keeps moving across the room with her suspended in his arms. "Doctor Oggurobb's run every test in his arsenal on me a dozen times over since I got out of carbonite. Physically, I'm perfectly healthy."
"Then just humor me. Please?"
"Are you going to lock me in here until I do?"
"Probably, yeah. It's that or hit you with a tranq dart and you've already had a pretty heavy dose today."
She kicks backward at him for that but her foot passes through empty air, and when he stops in front of the medscanner she sighs. "If it'll make you stop worrying so damned much, fine. But if you crash my ship-"
"I'm not going to crash your ship," Theron says, kissing the back of her neck, finally letting her go and setting the sample box down on the lab bench to his left. "I'll come check on you as soon we're locked into the route."
She fights the urge to throw the nearest thing to hand at him- that'd be the genetic samples, and they'd spent far too much time wrangling rakghouls for her to waste them in a fit of pique. Instead she settles for activating the scanner with an irritated swipe of her finger along the screen and, as it hums to life, starts to strip out of her clothing again.
(It doesn't take long, not with all her underclothes still wadded into a sodden ball in their gear bag. The bedsheet had only helped to dry her halfway but the friction of it, the rough-woven fabric between Theron's hands and her bare skin, could almost have passed for warmth, and the breeze through her hair as she picked off rakghouls from the gunner's seat of the speeder did the rest. Still, she'd prefer to spend the journey back to Alderaan with a hot shower, hotter caf and perhaps a nap- no, definitely a nap, why's she so tired when she was out for hours?- instead of yet another afternoon spent in infirmary.
But when she turns back to set her jacket on the examination table he takes it from her, instead, laying it down carefully, and the way he looks at her takes the fight out of her.
The war's only beginning and already she's so tired of it; the last person she wants to fight is him.)
"I'll be right back, okay?" Theron knows the layout of her ship now, not like the first few trips where when one of them got hurt he had to search through every cabinet for supplies (granted, she wasn't much better- they'd moved everything from where it lived in her memory and she had to relearn it all, too) and he opens one of the doors to pull out a blanket, draping it over her body as she settles down onto the scanner's bed. "And I'll get some caf going."
"Finally, the man says something reasonable."
He grins.
She drifts in and out of sleep, she thinks, the steady rhythmic hum of the rotating machine lulling her eyelids closed, but even so she can feel it when they make the jump to hyperspace.
She loves the feel of it, of flying, of the void of space- the first time she'd been allowed off Dromund Kaas as a student- barely even a journey in the grand scheme of things since they'd only gone to see the shipyards at Dromund Kalakar- when the ship's engines roared to life and they broke atmo half her classmates were sick and she just laughed, joyful, at the way her heart pulled taut inside her chest.
Today is no different.
They jump. Her pulse stutters; she smiles, and keeps drifting.
She wakes again to the slow outward slide of the scanner bed, its programmed cycle finished, and turns her head to check the room.
No Theron. No clothing, either: her armor's gone from the table where she left it and the sample kit's plugged into the main cryo unit. He must have come in while she slept.
(Normally she'd worry that she hadn't noticed it. But he could move quietly when he wanted to- he wouldn't have survived in the SIS if he couldn't and that he'd managed to sneak out of her bed was proof enough; with anyone else that would have been her job- and she knew he would have tried so hard to let her rest-
Ah, stars, she doesn't deserve him-)
She sits up, letting the blanket fall. By the sound of the hyperdrive they're well on their way so she won't be needed on the bridge for hours, not until they get close enough to require full stealth. Time for a shower, then.
Out of habit she checks the readout- normal. Ghosts and AIs and torture and five fucking years in carbonite and still her scans are fucking normal. Next verse, same as the first, and when she thinks it there's an echo in her head like the memory of laughter.
As she pads, barefoot and undressed, from medical bay to their quarters she glances further down the corridor toward the bridge. The door's open but Theron's not in the pilot's chair. Where's he wandered off to? Shrugging, she keeps walking- past the bed, still neatly made from this morning, their bags tucked together at its foot; past the desk, less tidy, datapads and caf cups scattered across its top- until she reaches the 'fresher.
When the first drops of water hit her skin the water's already hot and she lets her hair down, lets the water soak in until it hangs heavy down her back. Even with her earlier drenching she still feels dirty, sweat and blood and urine in her nostrils and over all of it the half-dead smell of Taris (sometimes she thinks the Sith that bombed the planet all those years ago had the right idea- if only they'd finished the job properly). Turning toward the shelf and the little bottles, she fills her palm with bright-scented soap and takes a deep breath in.
That's better.
Minutes pass; she cleans the day from her skin, inch by inch, until she's pink from heat and scrubbing but finally, finally clean.
She ought to shut the water off. She ought to get dressed. Her muscles ache, though, and she bends forward, palms pressed flat to the tiles as the backs of her legs howl protest.
I am not accustomed to being ignored, Cipher. She can't tell if his voice is echoing off the tiles or the inside of her skull, and she turns, snapping upright so quickly her head spins. Do you really think you can shut me out?
"If you've got something useful to say, then please, go ahead. But I've finally got the blood out of my hair so if all you mean to do is hurt me-"
She could never picture Valkorion as a father, even having seen him beside Arcann. But when he sighs, deep and long-suffering, water droplets hanging in the still air around him like bits of shimmering glass, she almost feels sorry for his children.
Almost.
What is my son doing at this moment, I wonder? My daughter? Not chasing after beasts to help a dying old man. How many more of your allies have died while you distract yourself with foolish errands?
His words cut deep. She frowns, looks down at herself, at her toes, at the flat unmarred skin of her stomach, pristine and scarless, and-
Wait.
Wait.
(and there is a noise just beyond her hearing, more a feeling than a sound, that reminds her more than anything of someone rather smugly clearing his throat, and the world twists around her and-)
Nine wakes again to the slow outward slide of the scanner bed, its programmed cycle finished, and sits up in a panic.
Shoving the blanket aside, she drags her fingers across her belly until they catch on the puckered edge of the scar. When she looks down this time she can see it, too, soft pink beneath her hand, and the five crimson lines etched along her ribs- everything where it ought to be.
Her heart's racing, body prickling in a cold sweat; she pulls the blanket back up over her chest, wiping the damp from her skin as she glances around the room.
Still empty.
Her armor's gone again and Theron's nowhere to be found, just as before, but now she thinks she can hear him, humming deliberately off-key somewhere near the kitchen, and when she reads the scanner's screen once again (she's almost afraid to- what if-) the results are exactly the same. Normal. Always normal.
Now she really does need a shower.
She practically runs toward the cabin and the 'fresher, slips inside and into the shower cubicle before the door gets halfway open and slaps the panel so hard her hand stings. The water's hot, as it should be; the tiles are cool beneath her feet, against her forehead as she slumps against the back wall. The bottles on the shelf sit in a neat line, soap second from left. As it should be.
Her hand shakes as she reaches for the bottle.
I'm losing it. The soap alone isn't enough to strip the discomfort away. Taking up the cleaning-cloth, she scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until her skin's raw and her hands are shaking. I'm fucking losing it. Can't even tell what's real any more, or what's in my head-
Footsteps, a shadow in the doorway: she turns, steadying herself against the tiles. If it's Valkorion again-
"If you keep going at that rate," Theron says quietly, "you're not going to have much skin left. What's wrong?"
She shakes her head. "It's nothing. I fell asleep in the scanner. Just a-"
"Nightmare?" He sighs; he's got a mug of caf in each hand and sets them both on the counter as he steps in toward her. "Must have been bad. You look like you just saw a ghost."
She shrugs, raising an eyebrow, and he nods understanding.
"That kind of nightmare."
"Yes." She hangs the cleaning-cloth back on its hook.
Theron leans against the rim of the sink. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." (She should. She really, really should, and Theron always asks, even when the answer's almost always no. It helps sometimes, but so often what Valkorion's dredged up isn't something she wants to remember. She supposes that's why he chooses them. And if he can still manipulate her into seeing things that aren't there at all, well-)
"Okay," he says, and it isn't- she can hear it in his voice- but he just shrugs.
"I think I'll stay in here for a little while, if we've got time. I still need to wash my hair."
"We won't make scanner range of Alderaan for a few hours yet. Take all the time you need." He picks up the right-hand caf cup and takes a sip before he sets it back beside the other. "Though I remember you as the short shower type, given I'm pretty sure you don't even need to shave."
He's teasing her now, and she forces herself to smile in return- he's only trying to cheer her, she knows. "Mostly correct. We didn't have unlimited hot water on Rishi- and yes, when I started as a new agent I blew my entire aesthetics budget on electrolysis. Made undercover work quite a bit easier without having to worry about the carpets matching the draperies."
She can tell he gets it when he starts to laugh. "So that is your natural hair color. But seriously, you got an aesthetics budget? That's not even a little bit fair. I had to buy my own blasters."
"The official suggestion was rhinoplasty. But I rather like my nose."
"So do I." Pushing his shirtsleeves up to elbow height, he reaches forward into the spray of water and taps his finger lightly to the tip of her nose; she scrunches her face up at his touch. "I'll leave you to it, then. I'll use the shower in crew quarters."
Theron starts to go before she answers and she nearly lets him, but no- if he stays, if she can see him, talk to him, maybe his presence will be proof enough to settle her restless free-floating brain. He only gets halfway out of the 'fresher before she calls out.
"Don't go. I mean-" she says when he turns around, pausing mid-step- "there's more than enough room for two here, if you don't mind sharing."
"Do you promise not to hog the water?"
"I promise."
A minute later his clothes are in a heap on the floor and they're both wedged into the little shower cubicle- there wasn't really room enough for two at all, of course, and they both knew it; her quarters were well-appointed as ships go, but no refresher on any ship was ever built for more than one person- and her back's to him as he works shampoo into her hair, fingernails scraping lightly over her scalp.
Oh, that's lovely.
Hair properly lathered, Theron presses the pads of his thumbs into the knots at the base of her skull until the tension releases and she sighs. She tilts her head back, letting the water run over it; his fingers follow the trail of suds down, down, until he gets to the middle of her back where by rights she ought to still have a scar except that in those days she wasn't allowed scars-
She shivers.
(She ought to have learned a long time ago that just because the evidence was gone didn't mean the wounds didn't linger.)
"Theron?" She turns, grounding herself in the way his hands circle around her waist. "Can I ask you something?"
"Hm?"
"This is all really happening, right? I'm not still stuck in carbonite, watching Valkorion's third-rate melodramas play out on the backs of my eyelids?"
He blinks down at her. "I'd argue that personally I'm at worst second-rate melodrama, but clearly I'm missing the point. Why would you think that?"
"I don't-" she sighs, purging her first thought from her mind as soon as it takes shape. He should know- someone should know about Watcher X, probably, if something happens, but- "Even when I knew I was dreaming, I could never completely tell the difference between the truths he showed me and the lies he fed into my head. I spent five years second-guessing myself, and now- what if all of this, the war, everything, isn't even real?"
"Nine." He catches her face between his palms. "You're not dreaming. You're not. I promise. And we are going to find a way to get him-" she knows who Theron means, of course, but if she wondered she'd have known by the way he says the word, full of spite even as his lips press gentle on her forehead- "out of your head."
She closes her eyes. "I want to believe that."
"People said we'd never get you out of Arcann's vault, either, and look at us now."
"True," she says. "But still. How can I be sure?"
He bites back a huff of amusement, not quite well enough; she can still hear it. She doesn't blame him- she must sound ridiculous. "Somebody told me once that there are things you just have to take on faith."
"Imperial, remember?" Eyes still closed, she leans forward into him, lets him bear her up with hands still on her face. "I'm not any good at faith."
Theron sighs. "Well, then, I'm pretty sure I'm real. Does that convince you at all?"
"Maybe."
He seems real enough, at least, solid beneath her fingertips as she slides them up his back, inch by inch, until she's stretched out tiptoe-tall against him and she can feel him smile and his mouth, hotter than the water, brushes across her eyelids, along one cheekbone, and finally settles on hers-
When he nudges her backward she hits the wall and the tiles are cold against her back, as they should be; the water is warm, as it should be, and when he lifts her up her legs wrap around his waist as he presses into her, slowly, slowly and then not (and then not, again and again, her teeth in his shoulder)- and oh, Force, she is anchored by him, if only for that moment.
Back on Alderaan, she throws herself into the research.
Three days pass in the lab with too little sleep and too much caf until she sees pipettes and vials and spinning centrifuges in the rare moments when she dozes. Between the four of them- Tee-Seven's surprisingly handy at chemical mixing for an astromech- they brew ten batches of serum in those three days.
All of them fail, and with every trial Doctor Lokin looks greyer and thinner and the spines protrude further through his skin. He's confined to the kolto tank, now, between attempts, and as they lift him back into the tank he shakes his head.
"You've done enough, Ciph- Commander. A valiant effort, to be sure-" he gasps and she can hear the howl hiding inside his breath- "but enough."
"Two more vials." The door slides closed between them. "Two more. It can still work."
"Then if I might make a suggestion?"
She nods.
"Double the adjuvant."
Double adjuvant doesn't work, either. Close, close enough that they all hold their breath as his muscles dance beneath his skin, spines receding-
-but no.
"One last try," he says as the kolto reaches chest height. "Quadruple it. But if we are unsuccessful-"
"I know," she says, and looks out of the the corner of her eye at Kaliyo, who's standing with her arms folded and her lips pressed together in a thin line. "We'll be ready."
Before he can respond the tank is full; he lifts one hand to his forehead, taps the center with one sharp talon, and mouths his reply. Good girl.
The needle sinks home one last time, and they hold their breath, all four of them, as Tee-Seven chimes anxiously and Scritchy whines and curls around one leg of the lab table.
The last of the serum flows out of the syringe; Lokin shifts, pulling restlessly at the restraints that tether his wrists and ankles. Behind him, Kaliyo lowers one hand to her hip, unhooking the retention strap on one blaster (she's got her own on the counter behind her, just within reach- her rifle won't be any good at this range, not if it comes to that).
Nothing to do now but wait: a minute passes, then another. She counts the seconds by his ragged breaths as Theron, beside Kaliyo across the table, shakes his head silently.
That's it, then. After everything, to fail so close to the end- if they hadn't waited so long, if they'd only found him sooner. If, if, if. Another verse in the lengthening song of things the war destroyed.
And then he gasps, back arching, as one hand grips the edge of the table and Scritchy yelps, high-pitched and piercing. She reaches back behind her for the gun.
"That won't be necessary." He sounds like himself again, the growl that's been a constant presence beneath his voice this last week finally gone; his claws retract, his body shifting, straightening, softening, and when he tries to sit up a fit of harsh coughing racks his body, a froth of blood on his lips.
She forces herself to stand her ground. The last batch lasted a full minute before it failed. If he reverts back again-
Her hand closes around the pistol's grip, and she waits.
A minute.
Two minutes.
Long enough.
"Get him shipboard, 'liyo, and then get Doctor Oggurobb on holo. Tell him I've found him a new project."
"I suppose," Lokin says as she releases the restraints, "this means my retirement is over."