Carth woke to a familiar sight. He had been locked in the med bay. Again. He sighed, sitting up and groping his head. Oddly enough, he felt fine, refreshed even. He was happy to find that he was not only still alive, but also in one piece. Nothing was bleeding or bruised, nothing felt out of the ordinary at all.

He swung his legs off the cot and jumped down, shuffling over to the door. He decided to try it, aware that he was probably locked in and doomed to suffer whatever fate Mical cooked up. A searing pang of anger rippled through his chest. He had been betrayed. He should have known better; it was all just too good to be true.

With a grunt, he heaved against the door. It opened hard into the corridor and he swung out, nearly tumbling to the ground with the force of the momentum. Strange, he thought, standing in the hallway and gazing around, why hadn't he locked the door?

Carth headed in the direction of the cockpit but stopped fast when he passed by the sleeping quarters. Lined up like little ducks in a row were Gatlin, Spryte and Akil, all three of them bound hands and feet and lying on the floor. They slept--or had been stunned--and Carth stifled a laugh. They looked absurd, like children strapped down for mandatory naptime.

"Carth, please don't take this personally," Mical said. Carth turned to find the Jedi standing in the hallway behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. "It's not that I dislike your brother… It's just…"

"That you don't trust him?"

"Precisely."

"That makes two of us."

"I apologize," Mical said, inclining his head in a subtle bow. "But I needed time to incapacitate your brother and his crew. I didn't want you to experience a conflict of interest. I thought it better to stun you. If your brother ever asks, you weren't part of it."

"You didn't have to do that," Carth said, chuckling. "I don't care what Gatlin thinks of me."

"All the same. He is your brother."

"And the prisoner?" Carth asked. "Your recruit?"

"She's well," Mical replied. "I hope you know by now we won't be going to Coruscant."

"I guessed as much."

Mical nodded, coming to stand beside him. They walked to the main hold and Mical sat down on one of the benches, resting his elbow on the table. "I'm afraid I can't tell you where exactly we're going. It's a secret. But I can tell you that you will come to no harm and that at your request, you will be shuttled to whatever planet you desire."

"But?" Carth asked, sensing more. Mical nodded, smiling at him approvingly.

"But, if you would like to stay on I think you will find our destination rewarding. This prisoner, this Jedi, is more precious than you could know," Mical told him gravely. "It is a burden to become her protector, but I would gladly share that honor with you if you so choose."

"Her protector?" Carth asked. "Whoa, hey, I haven't even met her."

"Don't decide now," Mical said, standing again. He turned toward the cockpit, looking over his shoulder at Carth with an unreadable expression. "You will know what is right. Soon."

Carth watched him go, frozen in a confused silence. He didn't want to be anyone's protector; he just wanted to go home. Maybe this little adventure was what he needed all along. He felt better, more alive and present, but sad still, as if he had secretly hoped his brother had been hunting Revan. No, not secretly hoped, outwardly, desperately hoped. He turned and wandered around the hold, turning a slow circle around the table. A soft, clattering noise drew his attention and he followed the sound down a corridor to the storage hold.

He stopped in the doorway, watching as the young Jedi—facing away from him--tipped upside down onto her right hand, balancing in a handstand, her other arm out at a ninety degree angle for balance. She stayed that way, swaying only a little, her knees slightly bent. After a moment, Gatlin's long, wooly shirt came free, falling down around her head. Carth knew he should go, that staring at the sleekly muscled back of a young woman he had never met was weird and inappropriate, but he couldn't help it, he was jarred by the simple beauty of her back. A woman's naked back. When was the last time he had even seen that?

The shirt had broken her concentration and she wavered and then leapt backward into a standing position. The shirt fell quickly back into place, but Carth knew two things: He had seen the quickest flash of her bare chest and he was caught staring, red-handed.

"Um, oh, I -- " he stammered, turning to go, his face flaming. "Sorry."

"Classy."

"I'm sorry," Carth said. "I didn't… I didn't want to…"

"You're an Admiral? Like an Admiral of the Starfleet or like the Admiral of peeping Toms?"

Carth tried to extricate himself from the doorframe and his horrifying shame, but he was trapped, stuck in place, his limbs glued, frozen. She had trapped him in a web-like haze of purple sparkles, a force field.

"Not so fast, creep," she said, coming up behind him.

I'm sorry, he tried to say, I'm not a creep, I promise! But his mouth wouldn't move; it was stuck firmly into place as if his tongue had been nailed to the roof of his mouth. His nose, however, was still working and he could smell the light, dusty scent of her skin, like a library or the way his kitchen had smelled on Telos as a boy, fragrant with sunshine and rain. He felt her strong little hands on his shoulder and she spun him around to face her. He had no choice but to stare down at her as she scowled right in his face.

She was short, petite, her head barely reaching his shoulders and she was young, no older than twenty-five. Her eyes were pale gray-blue, like the inside of a stone. Her ash-blonde hair was still damp from the 'fresher, falling in choppy strands across her eyes. A livid red and purple bruise had blossomed across the sharp line of her cheekbone where Spryte had hit her.

If Mical was a pillar of serenity and stillness, this Jedi was a crackling fist of energy, charged, electrified with a kind of willful spirit that made Carth quake inwardly. Her eyes spit fire, her pert rosebud mouth tightened into an unwavering line.

This was not the sort of first impression he liked to make.

He wondered if perhaps he was shortly to be meeting the business end of her lightsaber, but she produced no weapon. Instead, her fingers worked at the edge of his shirt and then gripped the collar of his jacket. She pulled, yanking the jacket down his arms roughly, spinning him to pull the sleeves free. Carth felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, a feeling not unlike the worst half hour of a vicious hangover. He had spent happier moments bent over a toilet expelling the result of a night's binging.

The Jedi took hold of his shoulders and turned him again to face her. She gripped the edges of his shirt and tore it upward, jerking his arms over his head so that she could pull it completely free of his hands. She lowered his arms and took a step back. The storage room was freezing, less than freezing, a subzero refrigerator cold enough to chill the snot hard to your lip. Carth stood, stunned, humiliated, and fuming at this stupid girl who had mistaken his curiosity for something sinister. She smiled at her handy work, analyzing his bare chest from a few feet off. In earlier days he could stand in front of a woman with his shirt off and feel twenty feet tall but now, with his age and his bad habits catching up with him…

"Not bad, gramps," she said, clapping half-heartedly. "But I'd lay off the beer."

Then he was free, the force field evaporating around him and he stumbled forward. He stood up straight, defying her to look at him and then snatched his shirt and jacket from the floor. The anger in his chest surged upward until he felt an important safety cord snap in his brain. He lunged forward, stopping inches from her face. She didn't flinch, but he saw the little crackle of alarm in her big gray eyes. He yanked the shirt over his head and pointed an accusing finger in her face, breathing down at her from his considerable height. She looked young, fragile, wearing Gatlin's too-big sweater and the thermal tights, like a girl dressing up in her father's clothes.

"You're not making many friends around here," he said.

"Fair is fair."

"I didn't mean to catch you like that," Carth said, refusing to back off. "It was an accident."

"Alright," she said quietly, shrugging her slim shoulders. She extended her hand and begrudgingly, Carth took it. It was cold in his grip and he felt a pang of regret. She shook his hand resolutely. "Next time you knock first and I'll get my hands on a bra. Sound good?"

"It's a deal."

"Haven," she said, letting go of his hand. "And you're Carth."

"Yes," he said, a little embarrassed by the way she said his name. Her earnestness, her big, beguiling smile was making him feel strange in his own skin. "I'm Carth."

"I'm sorry if I hurt your friend," she said, nodding to the door. It took him a minute to realize she was referring to Spryte.

"Oh," he said laughing, "She's not my friend."

"Then I'm not sorry," Haven said, amending her apology with a disarming little shrug. "You're not a Jedi," she observed.

"No, I'm a soldier."

"But you could be a Jedi," she said simply, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she gazed up at him. "Is that why you're coming with us?"

"I haven't decided yet," Carth said, uneasy. "And I'm not going to be a Jedi. That's not really my thing."

"Are you hungry?" she asked, pushing past him and going to the door.

"I—Yeah, I suppose I am," he said, following slowly, keeping his distance.

Haven strode out of the storage hold, padding down the corridor in her bare feet. Where are the socks I found for you? Carth wondered, imagining that her feet must be icy with cold. She seemed to pause and Carth chided himself silently, remembering that in the presence of Jedi it was foolish to keep his thoughts hidden. Still, she didn't remark on his curiosity and she took off again down the corridor, marching toward the mess as if she owned the ship and always had.

When they reached the mess Carth stood to the side and watched her go directly to a small, canvas bag on the counter. It hadn't been there before. It was black, the same rough, tattered material as the robe she had worn. He covered his mouth, coughing to hide a sudden fit of chuckles. The idea that Gatlin, Akil and Spryte had nearly been leveled by this pretty little Jedi with her pixie face and big, lovely eyes was almost too funny to bear.

"I hope you like your food spicy," she said, pulling out a number of glass canisters from the canvas bag. Carth observed her going to the small, silver food storage bin. She sorted through the ingredients quickly, pulling out boxes and jars and bags. Carth had never learned to cook. He could reheat an army ration and he could dump a can of freeze-dried soup into a reconstitutor, but that was about the long and short of his culinary expertise.

Haven worked quickly, measuring with her fingers, flitting between the storage bin and the enormous ion range built into the wall. She chopped a fennel root with amazing speed, the knife blurring as she maneuvered the razor sharp blade up and down. Suddenly, the thought of his brother being outclassed by this nimble little thing was not so surprising. She handled a blade like an artist handled a paintbrush.

"You're good at this," Carth said, leaning against a stainless steel cabinet. She didn't look at him as she managed several different steel pots on the range. She tapped her pink toes on the floor impatiently, stirring now and again.

"When you live on the street you pick stuff up," she said amiably. With her pinky finger she tasted something simmering on the range. She made a soft noise of pleasure and then sprinkled a few more magenta flakes of something into the pot. "I've looked after myself since I was eight."

"And your parents?" he asked.

"They weren't much of anything," Haven replied. For the first time, Carth sensed a crack in her armor. "I remember, I was eight and doing really well at school. The teacher wanted to come to my house and talk to my parents about having me transferred up a few grades. I was learning things too fast, languages, astronomy, and she was worried I'd get bored. When she showed up my parents were passed out on Roon Spice. I shoved them into the back room and locked the door," she paused, laughing bitterly. "I bribed their spice dealer to pose as my dad. He met with my teacher and told her yes, fine, move Haven up a few grades. I'd never been so humiliated in my life."

Carth could see the pieces fitting together; the story made sense. Her hair was shorn short on the sides, close to the scalp, and grown longer on top, a style popular with street kids he had seen on Nar Shadaa. It was a subculture, an entire population of young people who lived from doorway to doorway, eking out a bleak existence he could only imagine. Haven's shoulders sagged, but only for a moment. Then she was hurrying to chop something else. Afterward she turned toward him, her cheeks pleasantly pink from the heat of the range. She cornered him against the cabinet, holding up a piece of something for him to eat.

"Here," she said, "Try this. See if you like it."

Carth carefully took the bit of leafy green from her fingers, choosing to take it with his hand and not his teeth, noting with an excited jolt that her hands smelled strongly of peppery anise and sweet basil. He tasted the leaf, his skin flushing from the intense, tangy flavor. He smiled as he chewed, feeling the small, clandestine wonder of a new flavor he had never experienced before.

"What is that?"

"Do you like it?" she asked, intent.

"It's… Good, really good. Tastes like…"

"Summer?" she supplied. Carth nodded slowly, realizing that she was right. That was exactly the word he had been searching for.

"Yes. Like summer."

The food was ready a moment later and she served him a healthy portion of everything, making little mounds of the different sauces and stews and purees. She began to eat right away, sitting on one of the cabinets, her bare feet bouncing rhythmically against the side of it.

"Should we get Mical?" he asked.

"I made plenty, he can eat whenever," she said, shoveling another forkful of food into her mouth. "Don't worry. It won't hurt his feelings."

"Do you know him then?" Carth asked, eating slowly, taking his time in order to concentrate on every delicious bit of it. He hadn't eaten so well in months. The rosy thrill of spicy food filtered through his chest and slowly down to his toes until his entire body felt delightfully warm.

"Mical? No," she said, shaking her blonde head from side to side. "But I feel a connection with him, it's… Difficult to describe. It's like we've met before, on some other plane of existence. I knew right away I had nothing to fear from him."

"But he fought you," Carth pointed out, reluctant to stop eating.

"Fought?" she repeated, her fawn-colored eyebrows tenting with concern. "We sparred, but it was more like a conversation. I guess that's hard to understand… In those movements, in the language of battle we communicated. He won my trust."

"You mean you surrendered?"

"Something like that," she replied, nodding. She had already finished one portion and went to refill her plate. Carth had barely eaten a quarter of his plate. Haven hopped back up onto the cabinet and resumed eating. "He's the better swordsman, I saw that. If he wanted to he could have struck me down. But he wants to teach me and I want to learn. I can't explain it, I feel bonded to him, intertwined."

Carth swallowed with difficulty, coughing to keep from choking. He threw back an entire cup of water, drowning the sensation that burned in his chest, a sensation that deeply troubled him. It wasn't the spicy food, that much was certain. He went on eating, determined to hide his fears, determined not to let her pick up on his thoughts.

Jealousy.

"Good?" she asked mid-chew, nodding toward his plate.

"If this whole Jedi thing falls through I think you've got a future in food," he said, grinning. She beamed back at him and, as he watched, her face fell a little. She looked quickly down at her plate, away from him as if embarrassed, and then back up. Her face was pale, worried.

"I shouldn't have taken your shirt off," she said. "It was wrong. It's just… Where I come from, if you don't stand up for yourself…"

"You don't have to explain," Carth replied. "I shouldn't have been spying."

"I feel like an ass," she admitted, her shoulder sagging again under an invisible weight. "I guess I'll have to learn some manners."

"Not too many."

Carth had finished his food and took her silverware and empty plate, piling them in the basin of the automatic washer. He turned back to her, listening to the thump-thud-thump-thud of her heels against the cabinet. Suddenly she jumped down, brushing the crumbs off the front of her sweater before turning to go.

"I should start sewing."

"Sewing?"

"I'll need new clothes," she said. "And I think I'll help myself to the assassin woman's things." Absentmindedly, her fingertips brushed over the long bruise on her face.

"A vigilante who cooks and sews?" Carth asked. "You're not like any Jedi I've met before."

"Mm," she replied, one foot out the door. "We're not all bad."

"What do you mean?"

Haven stopped, one hand propped on the doorframe. Her hair had dried, leaving her short shock of blonde hair to fall like a crest over her forehead. "The one who wounded you, she is the source of your mistrust. But not all of us are like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Carth said, withdrawing almost immediately. He felt his defenses go up, the cold, hard shield of indifference.

"You wear it like a wound, Admiral. I saw it," she said, nodding toward him, "on your chest."

"You what?"

"It's strange," Haven added, regarding him with a quizzical expression, "usually a wound begins to heal with time, but not yours. It's as raw now as the day she gave it to you."

"Get out," he said. A dark and dangerous feeling rose in his throat, strangling him. What did she know about anything? What gave her the right to pry? She didn't belong in his thoughts. No one belonged there. She looked frightened suddenly and he knew, sensed, that his eyes were snapping with the fury churning painfully in his heart.

"I, I didn't--"

"Get. Out. Get out!" he roared.

The Jedi fled, carrying her confused, hurt expression as she went. Carth looked down at his hands and saw that he was gripping the edge of the counter, gripping it so hard his knuckles had turned white and a fingernail had fissured and cracked from digging against the steel. This wasn't him, what he felt now, it couldn't be. He closed his eyes, the anger turning swiftly to sadness. He wanted to be off that damned ship, away from the familiar halls and rooms, away from the ghostly memories of a woman he could no longer hold and love.

Carth put a hand over his shirt, over the place where he knew the invisible scar festered. Had she really seen it? Of course she had, he thought with a sneer, she was a Jedi, she could sort through a man's thoughts, spy on a man's feelings effortlessly. He had put his guard down, let himself be lulled into complacency by a Jedi, again. The Jedi girl was wrong: they were all bad, all of them.

He didn't know where to go. He didn't want to be seen or scrutinized. Silently, he crept down the hall to the med bay and shut himself inside, pacing until he felt too exhausted to go on, turning in circles until he found he could no longer stand.