Daybreak

The Players: Paul Nighman, Ariana Millikin

Introduction

After the previous nights events, Paul took a most distraught Ariana back
to the _Hawk's Wing_.  In initial intention was to fly down to Caspar to
get some genuine "fresh air", but once on board, it became clear that
Ariana was in no shape to go anywhere other than her own misery.  Paul
did the best he could with her, which involved plying her with drink and
food, making her as comfortable as possible, comforting her as best he
could, and offering her a partnership in his venture with Nerik and
Sinjon.  The Corellian put Ariana to bed with a mind at peace, feeling
for certain that the next morning would bring it's due rewards ...

************************************************************************

The night passes uneventfully, save for the fact that Paul came to the 
decision at about 3 in the morning that the mattresses on the fold away bunks 
were definitely in need of replacing. Waking up early, the Corellian stumbled 
into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing. His hands had memorized the 
placement of each item and switch, which was fortunate because his eyes 
weren't open yet. The smell alone was enough to crack his eyelids, and with 
that he crept quietly into his room, his eyes drifting to the sleeping woman 
there. For awhile Paul stood silently in the doorway, watching her sleep, a 
small smile on his lips even if his hazel gaze was unsure. The refresher, 
however, beckoned, and slipping inside, Paul starts up the powerful spray, 
sighing with relief as he sheds his clothes and steps beneath the water, 
careful to shut the door behind him.

The sound of the refresher is enough to rouse Ariana from her sleep, even if 
the soft pinging of water droplets are like tiny needles on her mind. Wincing, 
she cracks open her eyes, moans at the blaring (yet diffused) light, and rolls 
onto her side. No good. A wave of nausea runs its gamut through her, and, 
hurtling upward, she springs for the door of the bathroom. It is opened with a 
yank before she lunges for the toilet and, as perhaps would be expected, loses 
the good food and brandy Paul gave her the night before.

The soft humming in the shower ceases at the doorway being open, the water 
stops at the sound of retching. The door opens, and fortunately with her head 
in the toilet, Paul has the opportunity to grab a towel and wrap it about his 
waist. A second smaller towel is rinsed in the sink, and crouching down next 
to the clearly ill blonde, Paul lays a supporting hand at her shoulder, the 
cool wet towel ready for her when she's ... finished.

Ariana reaches blindly for the button to flush the toilet once her stomach's 
contents are gone, and, face against the seat, she mumbles, "I hate life," 
with the thickness of someone who has alcohol in her system as yet.

Tilting her head gently, Paul wipes at her face with the cool cloth. His voice 
is very soft and lightly pitched as he murmurs, "All done, or is there more to 
come?" He brushes her hair out of her face, hazel eyes concerned as he tries 
to gauge how much she consumed with how much she threw up.

Ariana twists her head dizzily to regard Paul through matted lashes; her eye 
makeup is smeared and useless, making her appear black-eyed as well as sick. 
The tousled hair adds a touch of the horrific to an already unglamorous 
appearance. "Blaster," she mutters, groping toward her side where the holster 
for her blaster is still strapped to her upper thigh.

_Okay, not that sick clearly_ His hands reach for her face, the wet cloth 
wiping away at some of the ravages of overworn makeup. "Blaster? I don't even 
-know- her," he jokes poorly. "I figured you probably didn't want to sleep 
with it poking into your thigh, going off unexpectedly in the middle of the 
night. It's on the bedside table."

Ariana makes a token effort to pull away; the result is flopping against her 
Corellian host as her muscle control takes a vacation from the rest of her 
body. If Paul looks toward the bedroom, he might notice that she sometime in 
the middle of the night, perhaps after he finally fell asleep, located more 
brandy. The bottle's nearly empty...and might in part explain her presently 
graceless state. "C'n I have it."

"Shiisa, not in the state you're in honey, come on," and with that Paul gets 
an arm about her waist and hoists her up. For a moment he considers just 
supporting her, but that will take more time and effort. With one more slight 
heave he has Ariana up in his arms, pressed against his chest. He shoulders 
his way out of the bathroom, laying her back on the bed gently and scooping up 
the palm blaster with the intention of sticking it in his pocket ... which of 
course he doesn't have on yet. There is another lowly muttered curse as he 
pulls the robe over her, muttering, "Yer naked," in the hopes that that will 
distract her from the loss of her weapon.

"Water," is Ariana's next request as she is put horizontal, though nearly at 
once she fights to sit up. A wave of disorientation sweeps over her, however, 
and with a groaned oath that is in Paul's native tongue she flops backward 
again. Her greenish complexion is unpleasant, matching her attitude. "'Zere 
coffee?"

The blaster is tucked gingerly at his back, between his flesh and his towel. 
Pressing on her shoulder gently, Paul eases her back onto the pillows. "Ariana 
... listen to me, alright? I want you to lie here and rest for a moment, no 
moving about. If you do that, I will bring you water, coffee, and something 
that will make you feel -much- better, alright?" He holds his position, just 
in case she's planning on fighting the idea or didn't quite get it the first 
time. Small droplets of water stream off from his hair, dampening the bed and 
her skin in tiny splashes.

Ariana nods numbly as she makes every effort to focus on the handsome face 
hovering above her, clinging to each word while her alcohol-thickened mind 
sorts out its meaning. "Why're y'here?" she asks, fingers digging into his 
shoulder as a hand closes atop him. "Where're we anyways? Y'ship? My head's 
going t'explode."

Shifting on the bed so he's sitting next to her, Paul leaves his hands 
pressing gently against her shoulders. "I'm here because it's my ship ... Your 
head isn't going to explode, it just feels like it's going to. We're here 
because you were very upset ... and if you promise to lie very still and be 
quiet till I come back, I promise you that I will give you something that will 
make your head less like a bomb and make you stop seeing four of everything, 
okay?" Still, the Corellian waits ... as her grip on common sense seems 
woefully poor at the moment.

Ariana casts a disparaging look at the bottle she damned near emptied the 
night before, realizing that it is the cause of her numbed sensation and her 
lack of mental faculties. "Paul," she mutters. "You. Paul. This is your ship." 
Willing her muscles to relax (and amazingly they do) she adds with as little 
coherence as she has shown earlier, "Gotta rest. Can't think. Last night. 
Talon. Brandy." A pause. A moan. "Brandy. Uhhhhhh."

"Okay, stay still, alright? Just give me two minutes of non-motion ... I think 
that's a fair request ..." Waiting just one more second to see if she'll be 
obedient, Paul rises, moving quickly out of the room and to the kitchen. The 
palm blaster is tossed into a drawer with various cooking utensils in it, as a 
mug is filled with coffee, a glass is filled with water, and another glass is 
filled with a suspicious red looking fluid. Balancing these carefully, Paul 
re-enters the room, half expecting to find the blond on the floor instead of 
the bed.

If Paul expected to see Ariana laid out on the floor, he's not much 
disappointed. Not long after he departed for the kitchen she found herself 
consumed by another bout of nausea that sent her scurrying for the bathroom 
again. There's little left to bring up, so after some token wretches the dry 
heaves set in. By the time Paul and his red liquid appear in the bedroom, she 
is laid out by the toilet, face against the mercifully cold floor, moaning 
something along the lines of intending to get her head removed at the earliest 
convenience.

"Gods," he mutters softly. The assorted glasses are put down on the floor, 
Paul walking to the bed to pick up the soggy towel and the green robe. 
Returning to her side, Paul washes the cloth again and then gently lifts 
Ariana up. He wipes her down tenderly before helping her into the soft robe, 
wrapping it securely about her to keep her warm. Now sitting on the floor of 
the refresher himself, he pulls her slight figure into his lap, wiping the 
hair from her face before offering the red liquid to her. "It looks horrible, 
tastes like nothing, and will make you feel better ... promise. Just sip at 
it, don't gulp." The Corellian doesn't really trust that she can do this 
though, and the words are more for explanation as he holds the glass up to 
Ariana's mouth to help her drink from it carefully.

A child she is not, but Ariana currently obeys better than making decisions 
for herself and drinks what is offered to her. She gags once, a simple reflex 
from the operations working in the opposite direction so recently, but the 
rest of the fluid is absorbed as directed. Once she is finished she slumps 
against her Corellian lean-to and, shivering as one often does in the throes 
of post-nausea stress, she thanks him...even if she doesn't precisely know 
what he just gave her. If Fortune smiles upon her it's poison. "Y'need a 
shave," she slurs as her cheek brushes his. "Feel like th'Tatooine desert."

"And you told me that you liked men with beards," he rumbles deeply, the sound 
emanating as much from his chest as his throat. Once assured that the glass 
has been drained, he puts it down and out of harms way. Wrapping an arm about 
her as they are sprawled on the floor in a most undignified manner, Paul rubs 
her arm through the overflowing robe. "In a few minutes," he murmurs softly, 
his voice gaining tenor and richness due to the acoustics of the refresher, 
"you'll feel that nausea abate, and your head should shrink several sizes ... 
I would hazard a guess that the rest of the alcohol in your system should be 
neutralized shortly thereafter ..." And for those minutes, it seems that the 
Corellian is content to simply hold her close.

Ariana decides to pass that time reclining in Paul's warm embrace and asserting 
her willpower toward dismissing thoughts and awareness outside the comfort of 
his arms. Sure enough, with each passing minute her headache and its throbbing 
insistence diminish, her stomach ceases its zero-g rebounding, and the 
disorienting effects of the alcohol lingering in her bloodstream fade to 
nothingness. A long, heavy sigh escapes her parted lips while she reaches for 
the previously promised water.

Sensing what it is that she wants, Paul reaches for it as well, his hand 
colliding with hers as he picks up the glass. He keeps his hand there only 
until he is sure that the small fingers beneath his are steady and able. Once 
released he drops his hand again to her arm, rubbing soothingly. "Better?"

"Better," she affirms and takes a tentative, testing sip. The water is swirled 
around her mouth then, with a single apologetic glance at Paul, spat out into 
the toilet. The inelegant action is repeated a second time before water is 
actually swallowed. "How much did I drink? I can't even remember. Serves me 
right..." Her voice dwindles to nothingness while she plucks the discarded 
cloth to wipe at her face, "...for drinking when I'm not used to it."

There is a small chuckle at the unlady-like gesture, the hands on her body 
squeezing slightly. "Well, I only let you drink enough to be comfortably 
soused but not sick. Unfortunately, apparently you decided somewhere during 
the middle of the night to finish off the whole bottle." Cocking his head to 
one side so he can look into her mussed face, he murmurs, "Ready to get off 
the floor, or you want a few more minutes?"

Ariana considers, then, for safety's sake, answers cautiously, "I like
the floor better. How horrid do I look, Paul? I feel like a Bantha
tap-danced on me, and that's not a comfortable feeling." Her weak attempt
at humor at least indicates her nausea and headache have indeed abated;
she is trying to cheer herself up.

Peering into her face with a considering expression, Paul replies, "Like a 
bantha tap-danced on your face ... and with black eyes to prove it." His lips, 
however, are curved into a teasing smile. "Here, hold still and close your 
eyes," he instructs, and takes up the wet washcloth for a more thorough 
scrubbing of her features.

Ariana's eyes flutter shut obediently, though her hand reaches up to hold his 
while it glides across her smirched features. "I could use a long shower," she 
confesses. "And thank you. I was hoping this morning I was dead or dying. I 
don't feel perfect, but by comparison..."

Ariana mulls over the question, though, frankly, the pleasant sensation of the 
cool, moist cloth passing over her features is enough to lull her into 
mindless relaxation. Despite the lethargy her body desires, her mind turns the 
question this way and that, focuses on the previous night, and eventually she 
says unhappily, "I remember sounding like a mewling Ewok babe, whining about 
my life."

"That was a small part of it, yeah, but you had a right to be upset," he 
counters.

Ariana shrugs. "What time is it?" she asks rather than pursuing that line of 
thinking.

As her figure pliantly settles against his own, he continues his 
gentle washing of her face. Between the washcloth and the medication, she's 
beginning to look human again. "I have no idea," he murmurs softly. "I've 
been, ummm, kinda distracted." Paul thinks for a moment before hazarding a 
guess, "Eight in the morning?"

"I should go," she mumbles, though her body shows no inclination of obedience 
for this decision. "He'll be worried. Or just angry."

The temptation to mention that Karrde can go *bleep* himself is a powerful 
one. Instead he offers up, "And rightly deserves to be ... let's get you human 
again first, hmmmm? And then I'll remind you of my offer before you go." Paul, 
however, also doesn't seem terribly inclined to move from the floor. Recalling 
how she called out to him the night before, calling out Talon's name, causes a 
sharp sense of anger. _He doesn't deserve her ..._

Herself disinclined to rise, Ariana snuggles against Paul and lets her eyes 
flutter shut until necessity for cleanliness urges her to struggle to her 
feet. "Shower." The word is more insistent than her lethargic movements might 
imply her to be.

That was what the Corellian was invested in before all this happened, and the 
brief image of him finishing that, with Ariana, is both unexpected and 
uncomfortable. Allowing his head to drop utop of hers, Paul murmurs, "Shower? 
You seem more sleep inclined than shower inclined ... you want to rest some 
more first?"

Ariana shakes her head, determined to make it to the refresher and, well, 
refresh herself. Doggedly she insists, "I don't want him to worry more than is 
necessary, Paul. I don't know what he'll think of me."

Sighing softly as she brings up -him- yet again, Paul grips Ariana's arms, 
pulling her away from himself so he can get his footing. He then rises up, 
helping her get to her feet as well and waiting for the inevitable 
lightheadedness rush to hit her. "Alright then ... you think you can stand in 
the refresher alright?"

Chuckling wryly, though every scrap of visible skin is coated in a blush, she 
counters while accepting Paul's support against the dizziness, "What 
alternative do I have? Just prop me inside there and let the hot water beat 
sense into me, hmm?"

"Well, maybe I better just set the seal in place ... that way you can sit on 
the floor and let it fill up like a bathtub ... with the shower running. It'll 
be just like one of those old holovids where the submarine springs a leak. 
Just don't forget and suddenly try to open the door or something, or you'll 
flood my room." Paul stands there, waiting as she leans against him, grateful 
for the fact that he bought large towels. He moves over to the refresher, 
getting the temperature just right before reaching for the robe. "Okay, go 
ahead and strip down and step in ... when you close the door, the seal will be 
in place and the refresher will start to fill with water. Just ease yourself 
down and press the silver button when you want the shower to stop filling it 
up, okay? And yell if you're in trouble?"

Ariana smiles thinly as she watches the Corellian busy himself with the 
business of readying the refresher for her. "Maybe I should just let it fill 
up entirely and save us all some time," she says crossly, though the moodiness 
is but half-hearted. Off comes the robe, then the thigh holster for her 
blaster, then the panties, and into the refresher she steps, a slender line of 
pale flesh who fits her NRI moniker of "Javelin" to a T.

There's no time to respond to her sharp self derisive jibe, and Paul's mouth 
simply opens and closes as she tosses it off along with her robe and what 
little she was wearing. With a soft sigh, Paul hangs the robe up, pulling out 
another towel and setting it on the sink for her. The fact that nearly every 
statement from her lips is either an attack on someone, him, or herself bothers 
the Corellian ... because one day she isn't going to joke about it. One day 
she just might do it. With that uncomfortable thought in his head he retreats 
from the battle field, not bothering to close the door between that room and 
his own. Stripping off the towel he sets about to getting himself dressed.

"Paul?" Nearly the instant the door to the refresher is closed, Ariana's voice 
floats out, tinged with anxiety. "You're not going anywhere, are you? I 
mean...can you stay nearby and talk to me, please? I'm feeling a little...YE 
GODS, this is hot!" A second after adjusting the temperature of the water, she 
continues, "A little insecure and alone. I'd like to hear your voice. It's...a 
wonderful voice, really."

His head raises, hazel eyes focusing on the doorway between them, steam 
wafting out and into the main room. Pitching his voice loud enough to be heard 
over the space and the rush of water, Paul calls back. "I'm right here Ari ... 
just getting dressed. Not going anywhere ... and thanks." There is a small 
pause as he reaches into a closet for a shirt. Blue. "What would you like to 
talk about?"

Ariana's shrug can be heard in her voice as she calls back, gurgling while the 
water splutters in her face, "Anything. Um...do I remember correctly? Did you 
offer to take me on some sort of treasure hunt last night? I can't think that 
clearly through the haze of the...where's the soap? Ah. Of the alcohol."

Shirt on, now button. "Yeah ... I, well, we could use someone of your 
expertise to help us get some fake permits, convince the Imperials that not 
only are we a legitimate whatever, but that there is no need for them to 
breathe down our necks or send a small platoon to go with us to the North 
Ocean of Anthaniss."

From the refresher there is silence save the distinct sounds of someone 
bathing, then washing her hair. The water makes small, appealing pings against 
the walls and door of the shower. Eventually she offers, more softly than 
before, "More pursuit of treasure, of wealth, of gold and tangibles."

"More?" Paul queries a touch curiously. Pants ... brown and comfortable. "To 
be honest, I have no idea what we'll find ... could be quite valuable, could 
be nothing. You'd be a partner in whatever we gathered ... and if it doesn't 
pay out, I'd compensate you for your time and talents of course." Ah, clothed. 
Brushing his hair back casually with one hand, Paul settles himself on the bed 
somewhat restlessly.

Ariana emerges from the shower in two towels, one about her head, one about 
her slender frame, her color restored to its pale pinkness, her face scrubbed 
clean of makeup and shining with youth. Without her fancy attire and jewels 
and makeup she looks sixteen. "I don't know what Talon will say," she ventures 
hesitantly, lingering in the doorway.

Glancing up, Paul simply stares for a moment, but whether it is at her 
appearance or her comment is hard to determine. "I imagine he'll either say 
no, or that he doesn't care ... but that either way you'll feel that he 
doesn't approve and you won't accept." There is a small but meaningful pause 
before Paul murmurs, "And this isn't something you can share with him. Perhaps 
I shouldn't have even shared it with you ... I didn't think about the fact 
that you would feel obligated to tell him anything after last night."

Pausing as she works a towel into her hair, Ariana just stares at the 
Corellian with mouth agape. It isn't that she can't keep confidences, it isn't 
that she cannot understand why Paul wants this kept secret. No, what blazes 
across her confused features is the concept of withholding something from 
Talon Karrde, the man with whom she shares her life. The man from whom she 
withholds nothing. "I can't go without telling him why," she says limply. 
"He's more husband than employer, and I owe that to him."

What the Corellian is thinking is something of a mystery, his hazel eyes 
flickering with unspoken thoughts. In something of a nonsequitor, he simply 
points out her dress to her. "I figured you'd want to go as you came, so 
there's your dress and things ... I'll give you some privacy to change." He 
moves, his form seeming to take up more space suddenly, his face a touch 
harder than usual. As he passes Ariana by, he calls over his shoulder, "Want 
some food? You should eat and keep it down this time ..." The door opens for 
him obediently, almost as if fearing he wouldn't stop it if didn't.

You exit from the Captain's quarters.
Main Ring -- Quasar Bolt
This is the main area of the ship and obviously serves multiple purposes. The
entrance is open and airy, with several couches and a table. It is designed to
be an area for passengers and the occasional crew to lounge in. There is a
computer terminal available in one corner. To the right, sectioned off
slightly, is a kitchen area, well stocked with the latest in cooking equipment
as well as a fine assortment of food. Off to the back of the entrance space is
a walled off crew quarters section. To save space, the bunks are folded up
into the wall space and can be pulled down at will. There is a storage unit
available for personal belongings next to each bunk compartment. There is a
door visible, leading off to the right next to the kitchen, but it is locked.
                 -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Real Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> Captain's Quarters
                  -=-=-=-=-=<<Visible exits>>=-=-=-=-=-
 <OUT> leads to <KOS> Level 5 -Public Hangar-.
 <A>ft leads to Cargo Hold -- Quasar Bolt.
 <F>ore leads to Cockpit -- Quasar Bolt.
Paul_Nighman enters Main Ring -- Quasar Bolt

Ariana follows the Corellian out of his quarters, still clad in her towel;
now, however, she also wears a frown that furrows her brows to a point just
above her nose. "You're about as discreet as a drunken Trandoshan in a
crystalwares shop. What's wrong?" she queries from the spot directly behind
him, ready to ensnare him if necessary to prevent a second strategic
withdrawal.

Heading into the kitchen, the Corellian seems to decide that the simplest form
of resistance is simply not to acknowledge the query. Instead, he busies
himself with drawing out various cooking utensils and food items. One drawer
is open, displaying a number of spoons, tongs, spatulas ... and Ariana's palm
blaster. Pausing for a moment, Paul picks up the diminutive weapon and turns,
handing it back to it's diminutive owner.

"I know you're not deaf." For a moment the strident voice, coupled with the
upper-class Adleraanian accent, sounds much like the princess of Ariana's
birthplace. She takes the blaster and holds it loosely, having no present
storage place. "So tell me what's making you close up."

"You," is the Corellian's simple response as he turns his back on Ariana, his
hands cracking open eggs and cutting up a hunk of cheese. "It's none of my
business, it's not my problem, so for once I'm just going to shut up." Despite
the slightly stiff motions of his body, his voice is deceptively calm.

Ariana pokes Paul in the back, and none too gently, either, before sliding to
one side. He can easily avoid regarding her if he still wishes, but at least
she can stare at his face. The frown manages to furrow all the further, lining
the youthful features already soiled by the morning's nausea and the previous
evening's excesses. "I thought we were friends now, and that makes it your
business. Besides, something's irritating you royally. Let's hear it."

"Don't push me Ari ... just let it go. You don't want to hear and
I don't particularly care to say it ... again." It's only one slight turn to
his left and Ariana has a nice view once again of the back right side of the
Corellian, who turns on the heater and pours the egg solution into a pan.

Ariana's shoulders slump and, twisting away, she clenches and unclenches her
fists while her lip finds its way between her teeth. Wordless is her response,
and, save the rapid breathing that signifies her struggle for emotional
control, no sound is audible from her direction. Then, jaw clenched, she
stomps back into his quarters and, once the door is shut, accents her arrival
by the sound of something crashing into the door.

Perhaps it is only the crash that brings him in after her ... or perhaps her
reaction merely forced the issue, the Corellian unable to let her go away
upset. Standing there, the expressions on Paul's face shift between regret and
frustration, and then to dismay. He glances about for a moment trying to
determine just -what- exactly was broken. When he spots the vase, there is an
ominously long moment where he simply stares. Whatever was about to leave his
lips stills and dies there. Walking over he bends down, touching the pieces
delicately for a moment before slowly picking them up one by one, laying them
in the palm of his opposite hand.

The small blonde has apparently shot her temperamental bolt and now sits on the
edge of the bed, face in hands. Can she hear Paul's entry and the delicate
retrieval of each piece of vase? Probably. Does she react or indicate she
cares? No. Her breath whistles in and out between her fingers; no sounds of
weeping are heard, but her muscles are taut enough to bounce credits for a
good few feet.

The vase looks to be of little value. Of all the things she could have thrown,
it is clearly not an artifact or even expensive looking. It is simply a small
hand blown glass vase, pretty in the shades of rose, green, gold, and blue
that it is shot with and speckled by. Of all the things she could have thrown,
it was the most precious. Paul takes his time, not uttering a word as he picks
up the small shards, careful to get every little piece off the ground. He
rises slowly, walking over to his desk to deposit the handful upon the
surface, a sweet tinkling sound coming from the shattered bits. Brushing off
his hands carefully, the Corellian turns, leaning back against the desk to
look at the woman sitting upon his bed.

Ariana does not budge from her perch on the bed's edge, although her muscles
become tenser still. Add to that a tremble of sheer nervousness and you have a
woman who is emotionally wound as tight as a Grand Moff's wallet.

For awhile Paul just lets her sit there and stew in her own juices. Perhaps it
is attempt at punishment ... or perhaps he simply doesn't trust himself to be
gentle. Finally, though, his eyes flicker to the pile of glass and he forces
himself to realize that it is -only- a pile of glass. Shifting, the desk
creaking with the movement, he moves away and toward the bed, sitting down
next to Ariana. There is another pause, and a soft sigh before he shifts to
face her, wrapping arms about her shoulders and drawing her close.

Ariana drags herself away from him, standing with an abruptness that is sharp
when juxtaposed with her former stillness. "What a blight I am to men. I know
I drive you to distraction, I know I'm bad for Talon; the Maker knows that I
hurt Lando deeply." The words seem queerly devoid of emotion, as if a simple
statement of fact. "I don't know what I broke, but it's something you value.
Just give me the boot, Paul. I deserve it, and worse."

"For once I would like you to sit down and stop ripping yourself to shreds,"
is his quiet reply. Paul doesn't rise, merely waits for her to stop. "I'm
going to say my peace this once, and never again. It's your life, you do with
it as you will. I'll always be there if you need me, but I can only do -this-
one more time."

Ariana shakes her head vehemently and answers, voice fought to a
conversational level that trembles twice, no more, "I'm being honest, Paul.
I'm just being honest. I'm of absolutely no help whatsoever to anyone else
around here. You were fine until I dumped all over you last night, and
considering your expression now you've had enough of me. I'm not feeling sorry
for myself; I'm just stating that I excel at making men unhappy." Resting her
temple against the forehead, she mumbles, "I'm such a child where
relationships go."

It takes awhile for Paul to restrain himself yet again, and when he finally
does, he lifts blank eyes to Ariana. "You're so ready and willing to give up
on yourself ... to see only your faults. What can I say?" Rising up, Paul
walks over to where Ariana's dress is laid out. Lifting it, he brings it over
to her. "If that's your perception, then that's your reality. I really don't
know what to think any more ... you're a very persuasive woman. I'd argue with
you, but you've never -heard- me before, so I don't suppose you'll hear me
this time either." Handing her the dress, Paul leans over, placing a kiss on
Ariana's cheek. "Get dressed and come to breakfast ... please?"

The dam of Ariana's eyelashes and lids holds back the twinkling of tears in
her grey-shot blue eyes, and, putting a hand on Paul's chest, she tries to
explain in tentative, tremulous terms what he does not understand. "I haven't
given up on myself, Paul. I just hate how..bloody horrid I am with men. I can
learn, I can change, I know. But I have really cared for so few people and I
make each of them fracking miserable. I...I just don't know what to do
anymore."

Laying a hand on top of her own, Paul stares down at Ariana. The heat of his
chest and hand trap her own, the slight thrum of his heart barely discernible
beneath her fingertips. "Ari ... I don't know what to say, save for my own
experience. I don't know what happened between you and Lando, I only know what
I see and you tell me regarding Karrde. As far as I can tell, the only reason
you hurt others is because you are so wounded yourself." His fingers absently
rub against her knuckles as he murmurs, "I almost wish he physically beat you
... that way at least I could show you the bruises and try to convince you.
But maybe it is you ... maybe Talon is not so much a distant and uncaring man
as you are an overly demanding woman. I don't know. I just don't know."

Ariana cannot decide whether to be offended at the implications that Karrde is
heartless and/or she demanding...or to be shocked at the notion that Karrde
has somehow abused her. At least the dichotomy of her emotions distracts her
from the self-derision. "W..what are you trying to say? That Talon's
mistreated me?" she stammers.

"Ariana, I am merely telling you what you tell me ... and what I see. Does
someone who loves you manipulate you like he did last night? If someone loves
you, shouldn't you be able to at least -ask- them for anything? If someone
loves you, don't they at least try to make time to spend together with you? If
someone loves you, don't they want to spend as much time with you as possible,
even if it's just being in the same room?" Paul stares down, hazel-green to
blue-grey. "Would Talon have spent the night taking care of you, held your
head while you threw up, hold you in his arms and comfort you when you needed
it?"

"He DOES love me!" she bellows insistently, alternately horrified and irate
over the implications of his words. "He protects me even when it chafes, he
lets me do as I please so long as it's safe, he...he...he's a busy man, Paul!"
Defense of her lover triumphs over the worry that she is somehow suffering.
"He has a vast enterprise to organize and maintain, and he doesn't need some
mewling female wanting him to coddle her. He wants someone strong, someone
independent, someone who doesn't need to hear 'I love you' more than twice in
an entire year..." Rattled, is she? To her bones.

Taking a different tack, Paul simply and quietly counters, "Does a woman in
love describe her relationship as a "chain"? Does a woman in love berate her
relationship more than she lauds it? Why would a woman, who knows that she is
loved, hold on with a death like grip for fear of losing that love?" If that
weren't enough, those hazel eyes dare as he states, "You have a choice - you
either choose Karrde, for better or worse and make the best of it, cherishing
the moments together and resign yourself to the separations, or you end it. If
you want him so badly, then there's no point in bemoaning his absence."

Ariana whispers, as if denoting irrefutable evidence of her decision, "I'd die
without him, Paul. I swear I would. I know that sounds ridiculous and
sentimental, but I have no life without him. I cling to everything he says, I
watch everything he does. But...but..." She sniffles, angrily brushing her
forearm across her eyes, "I don't seem to have a life with him, either."

"I watch myself when I'm with him, too," the small blonde continues, "and what
I see is a facade, this wonder woman who acts so forceful and strong, an iron
maiden that seems to be what he wants. It's not me. It's NOT." This, more than
anything, seems to be the confession that disturbs her to the nth degree.

Taking a regretful step back, Paul once again presses the dress forward toward
Ariana. "That isn't ridiculous or sentimental. That's dangerous and unhealthy.
You're not in love, you're obsessed." Shaking his head, he notes, "I've been
there myself, but not to your degree .... when she left I didn't die, but I
certainly wanted to. Even tried in a way. I got better ... eventually." Taking
a step toward the doorway, Paul turns back for a moment. "Everyone wears a
facade, not just you. I doubt you could have been in the NRI without being at
least a little bit "forceful and strong". People are what they perceive they
need to be. I imagine that if he fell in love with you, it was with who you
-are- not who you pretend to be. I would not, if I were you, assume that your
facade "seems to be what he wants" ... I would ask him."

Ariana and the beaded gown sit on the bed, the garment clutched against her
towel-shrouded figure like a security blanket. Her gaze fixes straight again
with the piercing aspect that hints at a mind seeing far beyond where the eyes
are aimed. She ruminates over the advice, then, meekly, asks with the weakness
of an insecure female, "What do you think of me, Paul? I mean...do you
understand why Talon might care for me?"

Running a hand through his rumpled hair, Paul sighs. It's a hard question to
answer, especially after this mornings events. "I'm not Talon, so I can't give
you clue one why you are special to him. What -I- find attractive about you is
your strength, your humor, your style and grace ... and of course the fact
that you can frequently take my breath away with your looks. If I knew you
better, I would imagine there would be other things that I would admire about
you. But we're more like intimate strangers - knowing deeply personal things
without really -knowing- each other." Turning aside to look out the door, as
if contemplating the now ruined food, Paul notes, "However, each of these
qualities with exception of your beauty, have diminished slowly since we've
met ... you put yourself down constantly, your humor is more one of
self-derision and sniping, and your strength is diminished by a lack of
self-confidence and self-esteem. To be honest, Ari, it's very painful for me
to watch you slowly slip away."

Ariana remains motionless for a second, then another and another and another,
her eyes burning twin holes in the bulkhead. Finally she leverages herself
upright, discards the towel, and draws the gown over her head. Shortly
thereafter she straps her thigh holster onto her left leg. No word comes
forth, no emotion surges forth in her expression as she uses her fingers to
rake her hair into a bastardization of her preferred hairstyle. Then her
fingers move for the palm blaster she has left on the bed and shove it into
place within its leather holster. Straightening up, she tugs her dress into
place and turns to go.

Swinging about readily, hands catching her at the shoulders, Paul growls
softly, "Oh no ... you don't get to ask me a question, get an honest answer
and storm out of here. Not after all this."

"I'm not storming." Ariana's voice is hollow, distant. "I'm just leaving. When
I get somewhere I'll let you know where I'm going."

His hands don't waver, and Paul waits, his eyes burning against her features,
willing Ariana to look up at him. "I want you to come with me ... I want you
to be a partner in this venture. I need someone of your talents."

The blue eyes are dark grey now, and wide to boot, as they lift to meet his
hazel gaze. "Someone of my talents?" she echoes distantly. "Someone who is
terminally self-deprecating and who is obsessed with her lover, someone who
snipes and lacks self-esteem. Oh, yes. Those are ample qualities for a partner
in a lucrative venture."

Shaking her now, his temper rising up for about the third time now this
morning, Paul barks, "Stop it! Just stop it! It's not you, so stop painting
such a tragic little picture. I don't buy it. You know exactly what I mean and
exactly what your talents are."

"You said not ten minutes ago that my qualities had diminished because of
those things," Ariana points out quietly. "I'm not saying I'm all of that. I'm
repeating what you said. Or did I hear wrong?"

His grip is still tight, the Corellian more aggravated by her lack of emotion
than he was by her high emotion. "I'm telling you that since I've met you,
yes, you seem less than the woman that you used to be ... but I'm not hiring a
"woman" to be my partner. I'm hiring an "ex-spy", who undoubtedly has much
talent and expertise. I also think that the reason for your, let's call it a
slump, is this place. It's sucking the life out of you. Time for a change of
pace, even if it's only for a brief time. Time for you to -do- something again
other than waiting around for Talon to come back."

After a decent pause, Ariana suggests feebly, "I need to think about it," and
begins asserting herself to break Paul's hold. "I need...I need something."
Whether she is confused by the blast of emotion and accusation or she is
distracted by her mind masticating on Paul's words is not clear.

The Corellian's internal emotional temperature holds at her soft words, the
boiling point merely degrees away. Slowly it simmers down, the grip of his
hands easing up. "Alright then ... think. I'll wait the day. If you don't
come, I'll go to Calamari, but you can call if you change your mind." There is
a moment of silence. "Ari ... I know you love him, but I don't trust him.
Please do not betray me." The words are not spoken harshly, but simply in
regard to her previous mention of her need to be completely honest with Karrde.

Sick at heart. That's the expression she wears, were one to label it
appropriately. As she withdraws from his grasp and angles toward the door,
defeat her shadowy companion, she murmurs, "I don't know if I'll even see him
again. Or you. Expect my answer in some form, Paul. And thank you." Her hand
activates the door mechanism, and as hurriedly as possible she slips away.

Part of him screams to follow her, grab her, stop her ... but he doesn't. The
Corellian simply stands and lets her flee from him ... or herself. He just
doesn't have the energy to stop her. Slowly, Paul walks over to the bed and
lowers himself down on it. He simply rests, refusing to think about anything
for awhile. After his mind seems clear, he rises up again, walking slowly to
his desk, one finger shifting through the broken shards of vase. Sitting down
he quietly, calmly, opens up his datapad. The chrono reads 09:48 .... 12 hours
to go ...