Big Trouble

[Laira Darkhold]

Laira had been without a comforting hand for a significant time. Saeza filled the void of a friend to talk to about all her problems and multitude of traumas, but she wasn’t someone that could hold her and make her feel safe. Make her feel wanted.

Make her feel like there was a reason to keep going. A reason for her to wake up.

The redhead was led into the east bedroom, her hands never leaving Cato’s broad shoulders or muscled abdomen, sliding against the cloth of his tee shirt. He pushed her to the bed and she landed amidst soft silken sheets and comfortable padding with a slight bounce, giggling as the redhead tugged on the hem of his shirt, pulling it up. She was simple, easy to please when it came to aesthetics, even if the complex web of who and what type of person she liked had little to do with their physical characteristics. His lips pressed against hers once more as he pinned her to the bed, kissing her deeply and passionately. Laira’s hands swept through his mane, trimmed medium length, dirty brown locks. Her legs wrapped around his waist and ankles locked behind him. She struggled for control, heart pounding as she drew up his shirt to his neck, heart thrumming in her chest rapidly.

“Alright,” she fought for breath, fighting against herself to pull away from him long enough to suck in air.

Time passed, the lights grew dim. Laira lay upon his chest, her head rising with each breath he took and falling as he exhaled. His scent filled her nostrils and taste filled her mouth as she kissed him weakly. She now wore his shirt over herself, though bunched up around the small of her back leaving the black lace of her bottoms visible around her hips, bare legs rubbing against his calf deliberately. The redhead laid on her side, partially atop him, clinging to Cato’s form with her arms as the princess fought off sleep, eyes heavy when she did open them, and breath soft and subtle.

“In the morning...” Laira once more kissed him, digging her fingers into his skin as she held him tightly. “I’ll give you a massage...” and again, licking his neck hungrily. She had left a darkened spot upon his throat that she could admire. “Can’t have you going in there sore or knotted up.” Slowly, she began to drift off, intent on using Cato’s pectoral as her pillow if she was forced off to sleep, a gentle purr beginning in her throat as she got comfortable, contentment across her features.

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

The long rest was deep, with few dreams and those that came were pleasant and inconsequential. Cato woke. The dawn was still an hour’s time from blooming on the long, jagged terminator, their bedroom cast in blued tones melting into warm shadows and indigo darks. Creaks sounded in the durasteel framing, with high twilight winds gusting cold and shrilly across the palace ramparts and bulwarks. The rest of Kang’s domain had never gone to sleep; occasional sonic reverbs shook up through the flooring whenever music in the great hall below reached a new bridging zenith, a thousand-plus voices cheering on the new track. Cato willed the slight distractions away until silence rang in his ears. Just his breathing now, and Laira’s, her breath tickling his chest. She slept with both her legs entwined one of his own, one arm across his belly, the other stuck behind his neck, her fingers not far from his ear, making it quite plain she was holding on to him and this time, regardless if propriety or nerves jolted him, she wouldn’t let him slip away. He tucked aside some bangs that’d strayed over her nose, laid back, and contemplated.

There’d been an unknown element lacking in his character, a piece vital to exacting the level of fighting mastery he had sought since they’d first laid a bokuto in his hands. He’d assumed it related to an unencountered trial awaiting him somewhere in the great galactic ‘wilds’, on a battlefield not yet chosen or fashioned. The solution to that ‘wholeness’, always frustratingly close but paradoxically light years out of reach, drove his entire focus. He guessed the essence of it was a lack of close and immediate purpose. Yes; he’d never forget Yuna’sif’s memory or the long mission of vengeance that at times tore him from sleep. Once he’d seen to Sedh Garon and freed them of Kang the Hutt’s entanglements, he would return to the routine of training, exercise, drilling the katas, and meditating on the deeply fathomed mysteries of self-discipline. At the cost of feeling of worn, stretched and frayed as old fabric, rudderless, working towards an end that seemed unattainable unless a miracle availed itself. A miracle wearing sun-fire hair, half-dressed and wrapped around his frame, sleeping pristinely and unbothered.

Another gust rapped at the windows. A glow was beginning to warm through the paper blinds, pushing twilight into retreat. He shifted and put his shoulder in the way of the light, shadowing Laira’s face. Just a little longer, he thought. He needed to parse out what she precisely was to him, uninterrupted. Her face was ever youthful. Achingly so. Too beautiful for her own good and making a question out of every emotion. He wagered dozens of younger suitors had fallen over feet and tongues trying to proclaim their undying affections for her, blinded by pretty gray eyes. What did he want? What did she need? Could he truly give her what she sought out of him? Laira’s brow knuckled at something in her deep rest and nuzzled deeper against his ribs. It prompted him to gentle her, drawing her closer against his muscle, tucking her in under the silk sheets that stirred like a second-skin across their hips.

There was still the question of the arena. Cato’s answer was to win. Win powerfully, undeniably, so that the Hutt would face little choice but to recognize his triumphant claim and sever Laira from his chattel. If Garon interfered, the Mandalorian would be dealt with. Asahian martial sciences and Noghri fighting acumen against Mando’ade suppercommando tenets and million-credit armor. It would not be an easy contest but Cato knew Sedh Garon would not be walking away from the arena. If he did, he would be assuredly ruined to the point of never again taking up arms or armour, living the pariah existence of a humiliated cripple beaten by a man in civilian garb with just swords and bujutsu-wit. Perhaps there was too much of the ego in that thought, that’d certainly bring up frowns in his teachers, that he was placing far too much on the line. Emotional compromises, he thought. But he wanted Laira free… More importantly, he wanted Laira his. The unknown facet missing from his spirit slid unbidden into place. Much as his hands ached to hold onto her a few moments longer, they wanted more for his swords. Time, soon, to work.

“Needa get up…” He mumbled in her hair. “Needa wash…”

[member="Laira Darkhold"]

 

[Laira Darkhold]

Laira slept peacefully through the night, only once or twice clinging tightly to the Mandalorian she was using as her pillow, peaceful dreams running through her mind on occasion. Nothing of importance for the majority of the night, however just before she was roused a reminder of her past crossed through the happy dreams she had.

She was sat in her cockpit, crossing through the inky black void between stars. Off to her right she could see an X-wing with Cato and to her left her Rebel Outcast, piloted by Saeza and Leo. They were fighting someone, some faction using TIE fighters lining up on Cato and the Outcast respectively. Her comms buzzed with static, both Saeza and Cato calling for her to cover them. The redhead turned her head one way, then the next.

She had to make a choice.

Laira veered right, and on her cockpit Saeza’s name was scribbled down on the list of her lost wingmates. Leo’s followed shortly.

She turned back left, their names disappeared but a new one found itself scribed on the bottom. Laira felt a tear fall from her cheek, brushing it from her face as she twisted the X-Wing in space, gritting her teeth as she went.

Eventually, the dream began to fade Laira fought hard, and the names faded from her cockpit before it turned to black.

Laira, gripped at Cato tightly as he mumbled to her. She let out a defiant grunt, burying her brow against his pectoral muscle. “Nooo,” she responded, twisting and stretching out her stomach and back without releasing him just yet, planting a kiss against his chest as she roused from sleep. “Fine,” she murmured, slowly letting pulling her hands away from him and untangling her legs from his, not without rubbing her bare thigh against his own leg suggestively. “But you gotta come back so I can give you that massage I promised.”

The redhead released Cato from her grasp, rolling to her back and kicking the silken blankets from covering her. As much as she would have enjoyed keeping him, her mind was on something else.

She couldn’t give up being a Jedi. She couldn’t give everything for Cato, even if she wanted to. Her responsibilities to the Force would prevent her from placing his needs and wants first and foremost, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t care deeply for him. After all, Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade had made it work somehow. They had even raised a child together through wars and strife which left some room for some hope for the future. The redhead wanted desperately to discuss what they each wanted from a relationship with one another, but the looming arena Cato was forced to enter with her future on the line swore her to silence. He had to focus on surviving.

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

He slid with some care from underneath her weight and stood, already feeling cold for her lack of body warmth, taking long strides into the dark en-suite washroom. He showered and washed, shaving a week’s growth of crop off his chin and jowls, making use of a rudimentary grooming kit left as a complimentary amenity. Sonic cutters hooked and lopped off errant hair locks, trimming months worth of unchecked growth, shortening up the sides to a fine if thick fuzz. He considered if Laira would find any joy helping him with personal minutiae. Certain confidences, facets of mental discipline and personal strength, stemmed from observing the writ and rote of mechanical ritual. Grooming, training. What if he took the opportunity one day to show her how to clean Asahian steel as the old swordmakers had?

Cato paused, pulling the cutters away. What did Laira do for fun now? Their undercover stint required them to playact scenarios fitting for a monied merchant-marine with a young and easily bored trophy lover. Shopping and dining and making appearances as jet-setting Deep-Core heavies, tanning, swimming in azure-plated pools, visiting the local culture centres before disappearing into the nighttime throb to appear as if they belonged to the skin-and-dance club scene. He allowed a soft grin; they instead retreated to their hotel rooms, foiling potential spy-bugs with make believe lovemaking, turning out for the night in long bathrobes and enjoying mindless entertainment streamed from the room Setfix box.

“The arena’s going to be the proving ground,” Cato said. He’d emerged from the ensuite, toweling perspire off his chest, redressing while Laira watched. Long cords of sleek musculature pulled and knotted across his frame. “If Kang’s playing to his type. If the fighting goes well, he might play to the crowd and keep me alive. …Conversely, he could stoke their bloodlust, make them bay for carnage. The Hutt will have his day regardless – “ He retrieved his blades from the lounge seat near the entertainment display. “ – And we will have to overcome. What’s your plan after we get the collar off?”

[member="Laira Darkhold"]

 

[Laira Darkhold]

Laira spent most of the time Cato was in the wash flipping through channels on the Holoscreen. Without the silken sheets or his body laying underneath her, the redhead had begun to cool off, goose-bumps rising on her exposed legs while she waited for him to finish in the washroom so that she might claim it for herself eventually.

When the dark-haired man returned she eyed him over, nibbling on her lower lip and gently running the tips of her fingers against the collar of his tee-shirt that she had worn to bed, grey eyes studying the man intently. The redhead wasn’t exactly trying to hide her emotions or thoughts, exuding them openly, rubbing her toes against the silken flesh of her calf, muscles in her legs flexing and relaxing while stormy eyes watched Cato. Usually this was the part where she would try to make him nervous, try to leave him confused. Unfortunately, he was probably about to have the fight of his life and needed to be focused on that, rather than the redheaded slave laying on the bed in his shirt.

Laira pouted when Cato pulled a shirt, letting out a disappointed sigh before rolling off the bed and standing. “Well, first is to make sure no one takes any potshots at you while you are vulnerable. Fourteen million is going to make people take risks. A lot of people are going to come at you, so I’ll make sure they don’t make it.” The redhead began running through stretches, reaching down to hug her calves, pulling her leg muscles taunt. “Assuming they don’t do you a favor and blow me up first.”

“After that, I’m where I need to be. My Master was too busy with the war to help these slaves, so he left it to me. I’m not leaving until I find a way to free them.” She stood up, reaching for the ceiling, the shirt pulling up to expose the bottom of her abdomen.

“We can figure out the next step tonight towards that while we celebrate your victory.”

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

Cato stilled the colour spotting his cheeks and busied with personal inventory. The tanto knife buckled up his sleeve, shaken throwing stars laced up the other, the long and short swords belted closely over his hip and stomach, jacket lined thinly with reinforced mail. Meagre armament, poor by any mercenary standard. Garon’s previous ambush had robbed him of his arsenal, slagging a thousand-year-old set of Rallymaster casement and the majority of carefully maintained shinobi articles. Suit, tools and weaponry charred to pitted shavings, the rest soot, buried beneath a half-ton of fire-cooked stonework and shoddy Nar Shaddaa support joists. It still set his jaws tight; he would repay Garon the insult. For having the bad manners of not fighting him personally, and for destroying property that’d been entrusted to his keeping.

Silk shirred on skin. Cato glanced out the corner of his eye before turning about fully, sure that Laira was clothed and readied. The slave-dancer’s skirt and halter-support were returned to her figure, that she wore, her sheer force of personality dominating the costuming, forcing what was supposed to be a subservient image into the look of magnificence. Cato smiled; her ego would accept nothing less. Even slave attire had better compliment what was already impressive or she’d have the dresser up by their ear, verbally lacerating their fashion incompetence. Eyes trailed up the lines of her legs and midriff, waistline cocked just so, bosom straining the halter fabric. Her eyes, as warm and grey as summer storms, studied and appraised with equal interest. The moment spoiled when the bell to their suite rang.

The Kaleesh was at the door. “Dressed. Readied,” He commented, looking Cato over, at his hand holding with unnerving lightness the grip of his killing longsword. “This is good. Your summons isn’t due for another hour but I abhor tardiness and my Master much less so. The arena is not so far off but we’ll arrive prematurely, to give the attendants time to perfect the… stage. Is the woman ready?”

Cato’s gaze never left the Kaleesh; the majordomo was the enemy, a subset of the larger foe encompassed by Kang the Hutt and Sedh Garon, but the enemy regardless. “She’s awake and dressed.”

“I trust you did not break her over night - - !” The Kaleesh was breathless. Cato’s fingers clutched his collarbone, sinking into a nerve and blood vessel cluster, tripping hard striations of stringing pain. The Kaleesh could not move, trembling on his heels, cold and hurt and breathlessness turned his organs to water. After a hard beat, Cato released his hold.

“I’m holding you responsible for Miss Darkhold’s safety. If that’s violated, if she’s hurt,” Cato said and left the consequences unaired. The Kaleesh swallowed on thick, bilious spit.

“…Whenever you are ready,” The majordomo rasped.

 

[Laira Darkhold]

Laira showered letting warm water fall over her as she sat inside the refresher, clutching herself. In her mind, the thousands of ways he could die for her played in her head, reminding the Jedi of her curse. That she would live while others died protecting her. Cato wouldn’t be the first to risk himself, Stalgis, Cix, her wingmates had all given their last to save her. Even though she knew Stalgis and Cix had no regrets, having conversed with their spirits, it was still a weight.

Could she bear the weight of living up to another sacrifice?

No, that wasn’t it. Cato was different. It wasn’t just his sacrifice, it was the little part of her heart that warmed around him, that fluttered when she kissed him. That part she had buried and allowed him to stoke the flames within last night. Could she live without that part of her that he brought out.

Buried and dead were very different effects.

When she had decided to leave the refresher and was dressed, the redhead sat quietly often tossing amused glances towards Cato while he prepared for his fight, occasionally licking her lips while he stretched. She did her best to hide her worry for his safety behind a figure of coquettish confidence while she dressed and prepared herself, sliding on a pair of knee-length boots rather than the laced sandals she had worn the previous day, something she could run and jump in without concern for breaking the heel. Cato was about to fight for her life, putting himself and his own life on the line for hers. It was a bet she didn’t want him to take, but the redhead knew better than to hurt his pride or cast doubt on a fighter before their big moment. He didn’t need her uncertainty clouding his thoughts.

Instead he needed something to look forward to. Something to drive him in case he didn’t already have enough. Laira just hoped she wasn’t a distraction for the killer.

The door chime buzzed revealing the Kaleesh Majordomo, who Cato conversed with. She caught the partially uttered phrase, grinning widely when she did saunter out behind her Mandalorian protector. “No, I left him intact.” She answered coyly, “Made certain he knows what awaits him when he wins, but left him wanting for his rewards.” Laira winked at Cato before taking the first steps down the corridor to the lift with a proud stride, chin held up.

“Come on, I want to get good seats.”

[member="Cato Fett"]