I'd honestly thought you were an angel.

I mean, yeah, it was just one of my lines, but give me a break; I'd been stuck in a containment cell for days. I hadn't eaten or slept for longer.

Some woman in her underwear shows up in an abandoned mining colony, what would you think?

I know better now.

You may have an saint's face, but you have a sinner's past.

Not that I would propose to know anything about that, sweetheart.

No, I'm just the pilot.

Atton Rand, at your service.

I'm also good at running and drinking, princess. Pazaak, lying, shooting things, i.e. - all the important things in life.

I'll admit, for someone who can usually feel when a bad thing's coming my way, I wasn't expecting this. Not to be dragged along for the ride by some angel-face ex-Jedi and blackmailed by her old hag of a shadow.

I figured I'd hang around until you were on your way to wherever it was you were going, and maybe I'd get a good night out of you for my help.

You can blame that on your first impression, sweetness.

But here I am.

"Where to next, angel?" I ask, casually turning to get a glimpse of your profile as you check the navigation charts behind me. You get that line in your forehead and your lips purse at the nickname.

I smirk and you give me a brief sideways glare in response.

Your young-looking face, those big hazel eyes, that rush of pink to your cheeks, I can't help calling you that.

You can't even tell the things you've been through by looking at your face.

Except for your eyes.

Your coppery stare carries the weight of your past, I can tell just by the way your smiles never quite reach your eyes.

Then there's the way you gaze off when you think no one is paying attention, as if you're stuck somewhere else.

- not that I would claim to know anything about carrying the burden of the past on your shoulders.

I know you're not more than a few years younger than I am, but you make me feel fracking old sometimes.

If age were measured in experience, you and I would be too old for things like this ten times over.

"Set a course for Onderon," you finally reply, through still-pursed lips. "Make sure we're ready for a quick jump to Nar Shaddaa, just in case. I've got a bad feeling about Onderon, and we're headed for Nar Shaddaa straight after, anyway."

"Right." A small knot of dread forms in my stomach at your answer, despite how much I've been pushing for a trip to the smuggler's moon.

A place like that is no place you belong.

"Problem, Atton?" you ask, your tone all business. You're in one of those moods today. I guess you're not so thrilled about seeing another one of those Masters of yours.

"No problems here, beautiful," I reply absently. I hazard a glance just in time to see your pretty scowl aimed in my direction. Your hands are clasped behind your back and you're standing perfectly straight and still.

I never knew someone could carry so much on their shoulders and still have better posture than I do.

"I do have a name, you know," you retort. "I'm sure it wouldn't kill you to start using it."

"Oh, yeah. Exile. Jedi. Angel," I wave a hand in the air.

"Right. And yours is "fool," you retort through clenched teeth.

You stomp off back toward the main hold.

And what do you know about me anyway, gorgeous?

Maybe it would kill me to use your name.

That's what it starts with, you know.

Tell someone your name, and they take it as an invitation to dig up your past.

Frack, Atton isn't even my real name.

Have you figured that out by now, Ari?

Is that even your real name, angel?

Don't tell me. I don't want to know.

So you're just "exile."

Or "sweetheart" or "beautiful" or "gorgeous."

Take your pick, angel.

Because that's all I can allow you to be to me.