A Lesson in Denial

[Lúka Jibral]

Coruscant was a manufactured world. Whatever efforts nature had once taken to shape the planet had long ago been buried beneath five thousand levels of durasteel and duracrete, eons of habitation, and a thousand generations of history, politics, and civilization. The ecumenopolis that dominated the globe stretched from pole to pole, burying mountains, continents, lakes, and almost every other aspect of the planet that might be considered in any way natural. It was a world that was no longer alive: a cybernetic, artificial husk upon which Imperial society teemed like an infestation, bringing about the planet's slow decay.

Yet, civilization would not simply let the world die in peace. It was not enough to have stripped away her ecosystems, paved over her geology, and plundered the natural mechanics that had allowed her to breathe and flourish in her ancient days as Notron. Civilization could not live with the murder of a world on their conscience, so they resorted to subterfuge, exploiting their technology to puppeteer Coruscant into some hollow semblance of life. Mirrors in orbit redirected the light from Coruscant Prime, spreading equal warmth to all aspects of the planet's surface. The WeatherNet, an intricate array of humidifiers, thermalizsers, cloud seeders, and other technologies manufactured weather patterns on a schedule, a timetable of rainfall after sunset, fog before dawn, winds of tailored intensity to fit a faux but mild seasonal pattern that allowed the wealthy to experience an illusion of the passage of time. There were stories of how, at its most absurd and ostentatious, the Galactic Republic had once broken regulations to schedule an afternoon shower, to better accommodate and welcome a diplomatic envoy and make them feel more at home.

Tonight, the forecast called for light rain, and as Lúka stood before the Imperial Citadel looking out at Coruscant's lie of a horizon, he felt the first droplets begin to settle on his cheeks. Despite it, he stood firm, smart and patient, hands clasped behind his back as a gust of wind arrived as ordered, whipping the lower edges of his long jacket gently around his ankles. Perhaps it might have seemed as if discipline was what kept him present, his Jedi, Inquisition, and Knightly training providing him with the meditative calm to ignore the minor distractions of rainfall, and remain steadfast in his resolve to watch the sunset. That was not the case, however. Lúka's presence was not without purpose, and his patience would not be without reward.

He fought the urge to glance at the chrono strapped to his wrist: they were beyond the appointed time of their arrival, of that he was sure, but nothing would be served by confirming it. They would arrive in their own time, because of reasons and factors far beyond Lúka's control, and nothing would be served by his impatience. So he waited, silent in the rain, as the minutes slowly ticked past.

Perhaps this task was beneath him. Perhaps it was a responsibility best passed off to one of his Cadets. There certainly were those who would have obliged the request: Cadet Redsun would have done so completely without question, his trust in Lúka earned and near-absolute; Cadet Par'Vizal would have obeyed, but likely would have felt the task was beneath him as well, a fact that Lúka would surely hear about at length. But no, it had to be him. Anyone could stand and wait, but for this arrival, this precious and private delivery, it had to be him.

More moments drifted past. Despite his calm and focus, Lúka felt the faint stab of irritation: not for his own sake, but for the sake of Doctor Anastasia Xivelle. She was the intended recipient of what was due to arrive, and its importance could not be understated. Her work, both her official obligations to the Imperial Knights, and her covert assistance to his own efforts in recent weeks and months, was invaluable. Doctor Xivelle needed this. Lúka's hands began to tighten slightly into frustrated fists, wishing there were a means for him to convey that importance to whoever was responsible for the current tardiness.

At long last, Lúka heard it: the whine of a repulsorlift in the distance. It was faint, weak even, the distinct discordant stuttering of disrepair grating on Lúka's ears. As it came into view, the sight was even more underwhelming: a scruffy old speeder bike, in stark contrast to the scruffy young rider whose scrawny limbs clung awkwardly to the controls, wild eyes frantically searching his overwhelming surroundings for some indication of where to go. Lúka offered an almost imperceptible nod, calling upon the Force to extend an invitation to the rider, drawing him in like a lure on a line. As the swoop came to a halt, the display of absent grace as the rider dismounted was perhaps the greatest insult the grand plaza before the old Jedi Temple had ever received: an impressive feat, given how many times these stones had found themselves beneath the feet of a certain Gungan representative to the Republic Senate. A cargo container was fumbled with, a package wrapped in polyplast retrieved clumsily, and held out towards Lúka with slightly shaking hands.

As Lúka accepted the delivery, the rider's hands failed to retract, his eyes fixed fearfully but expectantly on the Imperial Knight, voice apparently stolen from him, at least for the moment. Lúka's eyes narrowed.

"The stated delivery time has elapsed," he warned, sternly. "I am required to pay nothing."

A few trembling words found their way to the rider's lips, more of a squeak than anything that deserved to be called a voice.

"Please, mistuh, you have to! If I ain't get paid one more time, my boss is gunnuh kill me, fuh sure!"

Lúka's upper body turned ever so slightly, a glance cast over his shoulder to the towering structure behind, and the Imperial banners suspended from its walls. With equal slowness, he turned his gaze back to the delivery boy.

"And you presume that I will not?"

The boy let out a yelp, and perhaps a contribution from his bladder as well. A sigh escaped from Lúka, the sight too pitiful for his mild frustration to survive. One hand clutching the delivery, the other extended, fingers uncurling to reveal a credit chit, one that the Force levitated from his palm and conveyed towards the rider. Fear remained, but it was joined in the young man's eyes by awe and reverence, up until the moment that he snatched the chit from the air, and fumbled it into his data device. One brief transaction later, he held it back out towards Lúka, staring expectantly at his fingertips for the chit to move again of its own free will. Lúka obliged, brushing his coat aside for a moment to allow the chit to find its way back into his pocket.

"If I am forced to suffer these delays again," he warned, "You will not find me nearly as forgiving."

The rider nodded frantically, apparently possessing enough intelligence to seize his opportunity for escape, and leapt back onto his swoop, the engines screaming in dismay as he raced off towards the edge of the Imperial security perimeter.

Lúka waited until the speeder disappeared from view before he allowed a smile to creep onto the corner of his lips.

His return to the Citadel was not rushed, but he did move with purpose, the kind of purpose that ensured the Cadets and other Knights he passed along the causeways and corridors did not think to question why an Imperial Knight was marching past them with a polyplast carry-bag in hand. The pace was not entirely by design, however: the rider's tardiness had resulted in his own, and while his arrival at his destination was not explicitly or formally planned, he had stated an approximate time, and the prospect of being late irked him. It didn't matter, and yet it did: from others, it was acceptable, understandable, the result of different standards and priorities, but Lúka regarded his own organisation and promptness as a sign of respect, and a standard that he held himself to. His resolve wavered, and he glanced at his chrono. Eight minutes. He winced. Nine.

As he turned the final corner, he forced himself to slow, forced a certain calmness into his stride and demeanour, and in answer to some unspecified compulsion ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair. Seven more paces and he was there, standing outside Doctor Xivelle's doorway. He allowed himself a single moment of pause before he pressed the chime, letting his expression fall into a smile as the door slid open.

"Sorry I'm late," he offered, the faintest hint of a sheepish tone in his voice. His arm raised enough to display his precious cargo. "I brought takeout. Hope you like Neimoidian."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Doctor Xivelle had a lot of paperwork to do. One of the joys of being the Citadel's lead Medical Consultant - they hadn't granted her the title of Director... Yet. It meant her designated work hours didn't actually end when she left the Infirmary for the day. Today had been especially taxing - several training injuries, a migraine that was causing everything to levitate within her work area - and the crowning achievement: Cadet Hoob having got his hand stuck in a cylindrical canister as he attempted to reach down to get that last crisp.

Even the glass of emerald wine she had poured for herself as a last-ditch attempt to force relaxation upon herself was not enough to shrug off the cringe that came with that particular case.

She had lost track of the time, despite expecting company. It wasn't that she was thoughtless, but more lost in thought, lost in the rapture and loathing of the mundane. Her time within The Empire had been mostly lost to shadow, to the areas unspoken where normal routines simply did not exist. Now here, at The Citadel? Everything felt so beautifully ordinary and yet she never forgot that she was a mere human surrounded by those gifted in ways she could never be but was endlessly fascinated by.

So paperwork wasn't dreaded, but it was far from adored and the welcome distraction of her door chime felt so very much like what it was supposed to appear as.

Anastasia hovered at the doorway, and the false annoyance she was supposed to feel at her guest for the evening wasn't entirely faked. Her lower lip was teased at with her teeth subtly as she eyed the Knight who stood at the threshold. Fake or not, there was no denying that the man looked damn impressive in his chosen attire. Something about the way the long black coat folded around him; well, the Doctor couldn't deny that it suited Lord Jibral on many levels.

However much of a reaction his appearance caused to certain portions of her mind that she utterly wanted to silence, another organ took an entirely different precedence as it growled in reminder she hadn't eaten since mid afternoon.

"Are you kidding? It's been ages since I had that. And late or not, you are the most welcome sight I've had all day."

And with that she stepped aside and ushered him within her quarters. It struck her a bit odd how little acting she had to do in the public eye before her door closed and locked them both within, but right at the moment? Anastasia was far too tired, too busy, and too hungry to give a damn.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka was skilled at a number of many things. Observation was one; deception another. It had been an agreement between the two of them that they would maintain the pretence of a burgeoning romantic involvement, as a cover for the time their covert work for Khalid required them to spend together. An Imperial Knight and a Medical Consultant spending so much time together, both disappearing from the Citadel at similar times - that was suspicious. The two of them disappearing for dinner, a holomovie, or some other romantic engagement? That was easily dismissed, save for whatever rumours were rife within the Citadel at that point. The pretence needed to be preserved, however, and an evening in the privacy of Anastasia's quarters played into that perfectly.

It should have been simple: merely a performance, for the sake of any onlookers, and no one else. Yet things had been complicated by their night at the Facility; their night aboard the Maelibus. It had meant nothing - and it didn't, he reminded himself - and yet it had blurred the lines. Actions that he might have taken without a second thought as part of the performance were now second-guessed, lest he overstep what ill-defined boundaries now existed between them.

Case in point, his intention had been to kiss her, a course of action he had decided upon as he progressed through the corridors of the Citadel. But upon seeing her, he had hesitated, and now with the doors closed the moment had passed. As he left, perhaps, a parting kiss to fuel speculation among the Cadets. Perhaps next time. Perhaps not.

His attention turned to her apartment, a room that he understood the layout of - security plans were readily available, and there were instances where his desire for preparedness outweighed what might have been considered polite or appropriate in normal circles - but had not witnessed in person. It had been a calculation: Anastasia was a sophisticated woman, and Lúka was plausibly so as well; a number of evening excursions to the Facility disguised as faux dates had preceded this, but this was to be his first time visiting her in her home - something else for the Cadets to speculate about, he supposed. No doubt they'd have to discuss whether the deception required him to leave later that evening, or sleep on the couch until morning to maintain the ruse.

Unfortunately, that left him decidedly unfamiliar with his surroundings.

"Table?" he asked, with an awkward shrug, gesturing slightly with the polyplast bag. "I don't trust the structural integrity of this thing."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

She made her way from the door, a few steps taken off to the right to the sparse living area and only after retrieving the glass from the small table near the couch did she motion towards the small table near the kitchenette to the left of the door. On the whole, the suite the Doctor had been granted wasn't large, but it did command a rather impressive window overlooking Coruscant. Not that Anastasia took advantage of it often, even now the thick deep colored curtains had been drawn rather than allowing her to be distracted by the world outside.

Not that there was much to be distracting within, either. Anastasia knew there were several very very good reasons as to why her room was devoid of anything personal save for the obvious necessities to live. But shelves where books could be placed were empty, countertops uncluttered and containing only items that she had come with the living arrangements. It felt sterile, much like most of her life.

Not utterly devoid of signs of life, though, as the open bottle on the small island between the stove top and cabinets professed. Her glass was raised a bit again, not in gesture this time but offering.

"Afraid I don't have much to drink aside from this and water. I think there's tea somewhere as well, but I'm sure it's in need a restock."

As plain and unpersonalized as the room was, it still struck her as odd to have another within what was supposed to be her private space within the Citadel. It wasn't bad, just odd.

[Lúka Jibral]

Some might have said small; Lúka's mind went with modest, but perhaps that was the Coruscant in him talking. With a world as densely populated as this one, space was a premium, and while spaces of great importance like the Jedi Temple turned Imperial Citadel, or the vast plaza before the Senate Building could afford a certain openness and grandeur, that price was paid elsewhere, residential spaces squeezed into the barest minimum. As Citadel accommodations went - in Lúka's experience at least - hers was actually fairly well appointed. Lúka certainly didn't have a kitchen space; not that he would have used it, of course, to well catered for with commissaries and Imperial rations to have ever felt the need to acquire the skill for himself.

He nodded in response to her offer of alcohol, a small smile and a "Please," added for good measure, before he set about the process of unpacking the meal that his wayward delivery rider had brought. It had been a complicated process, selecting from the expansive selection of options presented on the Holonet site for Wok Durd: an establishment that came highly recommended on the Coruscant FoodNet, despite the morally dubious use of Separatist mass murderer Lok Durd (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Lok_Durd/Legends) as their jovial and rotund cartoon mascot. Partly it had been a crisis of options, far too many for a reasonable sentient being to make a selection in any sort of expedient manner, unless they simply resorted to ordering the exact same options as they did every visit. Partly though, it had been a crisis of Lúka's own making, overanalysis becoming the Cad Bane of his supposedly simple and easy restaurant choice. He simply did not know Doctor Xivelle well enough to determine her preferences. He could have asked, but that undermined the gesture of showing up at her door with food, making up for the fictional meal that he had denied her on their first expedition from the Citadel. He could have researched, delving into her financial history, searching through restaurant receipts for herself and her former fiancé to profile her choices, preferences, and dislikes; but that felt like an invasion, an efficient choice, but an inappropriate one. In the end, he had simply settled for accessing her medical records to ensure that he was not inadvertently going to trigger any allergies, and then had engaged in the most uncomfortable of tasks: he had guessed.

"Sorry," he added, extracting the plastcard boxes one by one, arraying them neatly in a specific order on the kitchenette worktop, careful to adjust them so that while not exactingly perfect, they all more or less conformed to the lines and angles of the surface. "I didn't think to look up drinks options. I should have researched which wine pairs best with Kaantay chicken and Koto-Si style sweet and sour nerf."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"The emerald works with almost anything," She countered, the surety in her tone dissipating into a half shrug and a tug at the corner of her lips. "Or, at least as best as I've ever figured."

A separate glass was fetched from a cabinet and a generous portion of the aptly named drink was poured out for Lord Jibral before she made her way back to the table and placed the delicate stemware in front of him.

"I've never been an aficionado myself. If you really wanted to know, however, you could probably ask your little red haired protege. He seems the sort to relish in that sort of trivia."

Anastasia oversaw the unpacking of their meal before retreating back to the cabinets in search of appropriate dishware and cutlery. A soft hum of her voice in indecision came before she selected a few smaller plates with slightly rounded edges - best used when serving something that had gravy or a potentially expansive sauce. She was far from certain it was the best choice, but her past hobbies did serve to at least aid her better judgement.

Upon returning to the table once more she began placing everything neatly, orderly, just as she had been taught by an aging grandmother far too keen on old world etiquette.

"Speaking of, how was Antar 4?" Anastasia inquired as she looked up from her own set task.

Her eyes met Lord Jibral's in a mixture of genuine curiosity and a need for - of all things - small talk.

"Did the cadets perform to expectations?"

She didn't dare ask towards the success of the mission that the Knights had embarked upon. After all, the Doctor knew that not every objective was so easy to define as mere success and failure.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka grimaced at the question, hesitating slightly part way through extracting one of the cryptically marked packages. Perhaps he could have blamed mindfulness towards security for his reaction: while Lúka was confident that the Imperial Knights were not monitoring the private accommodations of their officers and consultants - confident enough to allow their subterfuge to end at the apartment's threshold, rather than continuing further - the kind of diligence that came from a lifetime of espionage made it difficult to properly relax in unfamiliar surroundings.

That would have been a misrepresentation, however. Lúka's hesitation came from shame. Not disappointment in his Cadets: they had performed admirably, as he knew he could trust them to. His shame was aimed at himself, his failure to succeed, his failure to adequately foresee the circumstances and factors that would challenge them when they arrived. It was one thing for a mission to be subverted by unforeseen factors, like the intervention of a rogue group of Force Wielders; but crossing paths with local crime groups? Lúka should have predicted that, or at least been prepared. Their secret facility, their secret ship, and the assistance of two trusted Cadets was all well and good, and yet with the resources at his current disposal, Lúka struggled to succeed in situations such as this: and he blamed himself, not his tools, for his failure to overcome that obstacle. The sad truth was that on Khalid's behalf, he was attempting to do the work of the Black Archives, and yet did not have the backing of the Black Archives, or anything even close to equivalent. How that gulf would be overcome, he simply did not know.

"Redsun and Par'Vizal handled themselves well," he replied. At least that part he could answer honestly. Given the expectation of a benign and clandestine encounter with an illegal artefact sale that had led them to Antar 4, he felt a sense of pride in the part he had played in educating the two Cadets, preparing them to act and react with such efficacy under the circumstances. "They're good kids. The Knights are lucky to have them."

Hesitation gripped him again, reluctance to continue, the faint hope that perhaps he could let that response stand and avoid addressing any more of Doctor Xivelle's question. But, he supposed, there was no reason to hide it. She was an equal part of this, and a vital part: concealing information from her served no purpose, despite the reluctance that Lúka might feel at admitting a failure to one of his peers. A lesson learned the hard way in the Inquisitorious, more than once.

"We managed to prevent the artefact from falling into the hands of criminals, but there was a complication."

Frustration turned his hand into a fist at first, distracting him from his efforts to align the last container; but it faded, transforming into something else instead. His head shook, slowly.

"I had a building dropped on me by a rogue Force Wielder, using a kind of power that I had never seen before. She and her companions managed to escape with the artefact, and by the time Redsun and Par'Vizal had dug me out -"

He sighed, knuckles of the slackened fist eliciting a faint knock as they came to rest against the kitchenette counter.

"Two ships, two directions, and infinite possible destinations. I have Ivy monitoring, to see if we can uncover any indication of where they might have taken it; but it could be halfway to Terminus by now, or Ossus, or anywhere else; and we didn't even manage to get so much as a glimpse at what it did, so we're back to scanning the Holonet for something weird. Again."

Unless the artefact had something to do with the mystery redhead and her reality-bending powers; but no, that had been her, of that he was certain. Not that the alternative would have done much to alleviate his frustration anyway.

[Anastasia Xivelle]

It had seemed like a harmless question, an inquiry by colleges but rather than listening with the curiosity that should have presented itself in regards to a force user utilizing an ability that Lord Jibral was unaware of until that moment, her thoughts lingered on what had come just before that. I had a building dropped on me.

Anastasia had wanted to interrupt, wanted to question why he hadn't come to her immediately upon returning for an examination. It was her right given her position within the Citadel, but it went further. Why didn't you come to me to make sure you were okay?

No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she recoiled away from it as it were coated in venom. It wasn't her place. True, Lúka was more than just co-conspirator; she had come to terms with that. Friend was a difficult term to define but he was an ally in the very least. But to outwardly express concern, or to state that she even had the license to act upon it? No, that was crossing a line, that was firmly entrenched between them. There was more to it as well, that twinge of disappointment in his voice, the way his shoulders slumped slightly, just barely noticeable. It shouldn't have meant more than to stir a mild sense of discomfort at seeing him react but there was something far more visceral that she was having trouble shoving back down.

The glass of wine at her hand helped and she brought it to her lips and drank deeply of the contents.

"How frustrating," she commented finally after finding her voice and trusted it enough to finally not be swayed by the rising surge of the unexpected reaction she herself had. "At least you were not injured."

It was a slip, she had meant to comment on the rogue Force user but somehow that had managed to sneak past. All too human of an error and one she should have been ashamed of in his presence.

"I'm sure you'll be better prepared next time."

It felt hollow and yet correct to comment in such a way and she followed the simple statement with another swallow of wine.

[Lúka Jibral]

As far as Lúka was aware, he hadn't been hoping for anything in terms of Anastasia's reply, and yet somehow her words managed to fail to meet some unspoken criteria, and the result was worse than judgement, worse than mockery. Was she disinterested? Or merely disappointed? It was hard to tell, and while he could perhaps have reached out with his senses, attempting to discern some degree of clarification from her thoughts, he chose not to; recoiled away from the mere notion of it, in fact. Perhaps it felt like a violation, of trust perhaps, or perhaps something that felt a little too close to previous activities they had engaged in, and would not again. Perhaps it was more caution, or concern, about what he might regret finding if he looked. Perhaps it was just that on some level he had braced himself to be chastised by his Doctor for not seeking her attention after his accident, and apparent that absence of spoken concern left him feeling an emptiness he would not have predicted. But then again, while she was a Doctor by name, she was a researcher by trade; and yet even mentions of unfamiliar Force abilities had not piqued her interest.

It would have been easy to have assumed that she was disinterested, but his mind offered one small iota of hope. Perhaps what she sought was distance, the question asked out of courtesy but the answer not truly desired at this time. It was why Lúka had not volunteered the information, after all: there literally was a designated space for these conversations, and Anastasia's private quarters were not that locale. Perhaps his mistake had been to overshare, to provide more information about work - a taboo subject among medical professionals during downtime, potentially? - when in reality he should merely have countered the polite question with a polite answer, and left it at that.

He turned towards her, retrieving his glass, and offered a smile before he began to match her consumption. "Perhaps," he replied, addressing her statement of faint confidence. He offered a shrug. "Or perhaps I just need to bring my Doctor with me next time. In case there are any more buildings."

The words left him before he had truly finished considering them, and his reaction and realisation was hidden deliberately behind a sudden mouthful of wine. Why had he said that? Why attempt to provoke concern that Anastasia had not offered already?

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Your Doctor?" She retaliated, a faint smile of her own appearing that she didn't instantly bury against the glass' edge. "Well, if you insist. Buildings can be awful tricky, after all."

It was a tease it was a flirt and Anastasia had known it the moment she had uttered them. It didn't quite sit right that she was throwing professionalism aside so quickly, but whereas they were merely to be spending time together in an elaborate rouse to further explain their disappearance from the Citadel at later times, some part of her genuinely fought against propriety in favor of an alternative. There was absolutely nothing that stated that after usual work hours the two of them couldn't genuinely at least be entertained by each other's company. If they had to make such efforts, at least it could be with the semblance of two confidants enjoying some enforced down time.

It felt good to jest as well, as if it took an unnecessary weight from within her stomach and chest and let it be set aside. Not removed, it was far too apparent to be fully gone, but she could at least regain some small measure of control over it on her own terms.

The casual air she had used wasn't entirely abandoned as she spoke once more, quickly so as not to let him get in his own verbal Riposte.

"So, what have you brought? Favorites of yours?"

The glass in her hand was now wielded as a shield, almost, disguising and averting any self satisfied smiles that wanted to appear at the game.

[Lúka Jibral]

"No, actually, I -"

Lúka stopped himself, something that could have been a sigh, or laughter, or something else entirely provoked by the realisation that just crossed his mind. Those words, had set him at least a little at ease, and whether it was some passive perception of her emotions, or simply the side effects of that smile, he found himself all too readily slipping into the stride and rhythm of the casual conversation that she steered them towards. This felt better. This felt correct. This felt like how she wanted things to proceed, and for that Lúka was relieved.

However, the sense of security - perhaps genuine, rather than false - that she inspired had almost lured him into speaking more freely than he otherwise would have. Perhaps that was fine, it was not as if the Maelibus had not drawn out greater honesty from him; but it was unnerving in a way, how easily she disarmed him, how readily he almost opened up with only the slightest provocation. Bedside manner, he supposed; though frankly, with a little time and training, perhaps Doctor Xivelle could make quite the spy.

Taking a moment to consider, he decided to continue with his confession, though on his own terms.

"I've never had it before. We didn't exactly have the best delivery coverage in the Maw, and I've always been more of a commissary or ration packs sort of guy when it comes to eating. I've never really had any -"

He faltered. Anyone had been the next word, and perhaps it could have stood alone, but there was more to it. Anyone to share such things with. Anyone since the Maelibus with any desire to sit and eat with him. Anyone to make the process of eating anything more significant than an act in refuelling the calorie reserves of his body.

"- cause to be adventurous," he deftly redirected. "My quarters don't even have a kitchen; not that I'd have the first idea of what to do with it if I did."

He felt a sudden sense of sadness, and a frown tugged at his brow, unsure where it had come from. Describing the details of his existence with the Inquisitors and the Knights was factual, nothing more, and he knew his own mind: he had no emotional investment in it either way. Yet, as he explained it aloud to an outside observer, it seemed so pitiful, so empty, so devoid of the facets that made a person a person. Between the Jedi, the Purge, the Maw, and the Citadel, Lúka had gone where he had to, eaten what he was given, and had never given it a second thought. Anastasia had asked if he had selected favourites; in that moment, Lúka realised that his life up to now had not presented him with much in the way of opportunities to learn what those favourites might be.

"No, I -"

He turned, setting aside his glass, focusing his attention on the selection of dishes he had bought and brought.

"I wasn't sure what you liked, and I wasn't really sure what most of it was, so I just sort of... guessed. Picked things that sounded different, and hoped I got a decent selection out of it."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Anastasia was tempted to interrupt his train of thought with a groan regarding the meals that had been available to them both when they worked for the Black Archives, but she let Lord Jibral finish, allowed Lúka to explain without judgement.

It was another thing she had taken for granted that she couldn't help but feel a certain level of sadness that the Knight hadn't had the opportunity to experience. From his time with the Jedi, to his recovery with the Inquisitorius, to the Black Archives, and now the Knights... so many things that she had the opportunity to simply experience had been denied him. Anastasia envied him in some ways, certainly didn't pity, but there was certainly a bit of melancholy in the knowledge as well.

"Next time," she decided to announce. "I am so going to make you a home-cooked meal."

She honestly regretted that they had both been so busy she hadn't been able to do so now. Instead they would have to rely on whatever Wok Durd could offer. A pair of chopsticks was retrieved as one of the containers were opened and she quickly snatched a piece of nerf - or at least, she hoped it was nerf and not some poor back alley tooka - and popped the piece of meat into her mouth.

Definitely not disappointing. Anastasia had the obvious rational thought that perhaps it simply tasted amazing because of her own restrictions these past few years but damn.

"Though by guess or intuition, my dear Knight, this? This is perfect."

[Lúka Jibral]

He smiled at her offer, though it was an expression of concealment as much as it was genuine. The prospect of a home-cooked meal. My dear Knight. Perhaps the illusion of the two of them didn't end at the doorway for Anastasia; or perhaps it did, and this was simply how she was. Caring. Compassionate. Someone who made people feel better. His thoughts turned to a past conversation, to talk of Doctors and past encounters, to envy, and to the undeserving souls of people past, who couldn't comprehend how fortunate they were. Someone, of infinite stupidity, had spent each day in the company of Anastasia Xivelle, and decided he could do better; decided that the trivialities of other people's opinions was worth more than this.

This is perfect.

He drove the thought from his mind, still hiding behind his smile, an expression he allowed to adopt a slight hint of embarrassment. He understood the premise of chopsticks, the physics, the mechanics. What he didn't understand was the process, nor the point; and with no cause to the contrary, he had never trained himself in how to use them. It was an odd thing to feel ashamed about, but in that moment he did: a shortcoming hardly befitting my dear Knight, of that he was certain.

"I don't, uh -"

His expression mixed wince, grimace, embarrassment, and perhaps a hint of something that might solicit sympathy and protectiveness. He gestured towards the chopsticks in her hands.

"I never actually learned how to use those."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

It felt disingenuous for the playful smile to appear on her lips, not because it was there, but because she almost had to force it. Almost, as it had begun to form on it's own before she felt it shutting down not of her own accord, but of learned behaviors she had adapted to.

It wasn't the fact it was there that was bothering her now, but more that she had to fight for it, to make sure it could take place. Her... issues shouldn't have been intruding, but they couldn't be helped and that was what bothered her. But to what end? Why now?

"You'll have to forgive me, then," Anastasia replied, the actual time elapsed a mere second when it had seemed to endlessly stretch out in indecision. "If I indulge in showing off."

Another piece of the meal was plucked between the two sticks and brought to her mouth as she attempted - foolhardy as it was - a wink.

Anastasia made sure to clear her mouth of any remaining food, pallet cleansed by another drink of emerald wine.

"After all, you get to astound me all the time."

Her eyes remained trained on him, trying to keep the light tone apparent, to avoid any undue cruelty.

[Lúka Jibral]

Showing off, huh?

Social graces might have been a complexity that Lúka did not fully understand, but a challenge was something he could respond to. It wasn't that Lúka was an especially competitive soul. He had been, once, long ago when these rooms and corridors had looked so different and felt so much larger; but the selfish desire to succeed for his own sake had long ago faded from him. In its place was an aversion to failure, to inefficiency, to falling short. It was a desire not to be the best, but to be his best, to realise his potential, to push his limits - and in turn, to deliver that best unto the Empire he dutifully served. Anastasia's words had been in jest, and under normal circumstances, he would not have risen to the bait of such a challenge; but something compelled him to prove himself, to counter her demonstration with one of his own.

He waited patiently, making himself comfortable in a slight lean against a section of the countertop a little way from her, a sip of wine taken to let the brief moments pass. As Anastasia's chopsticks reached into the container again, a subtle gesture of Lúka's hand sent a ripple through the Force, a bow wave driven forward by his intent, nudging the hunk of meat subtly away from the Doctor's grasping implements. Another nudge was projected as she tried again, more exaggerated and obvious this time, a small smirk tugging at Lúka's lips. As the chopsticks finally grasped the errant nerf, Lúka waited until it was partly withdrawn from the container, before a flick of his wrist hurled it upwards in the air, Ana's chopsticks grasping at nothing.

Hand calmly raised, the mouthful of nerf came to a graceful halt, bobbing and turning slightly as it floated in the air, subtle shifts and twitches of Lúka's fingers disturbing it just enough to slowly turn and tumble before him.

"I astound you?" he echoed, with a playful hint of smugness colouring his words.

The hand rotated, the nerf drifting upwards, coasting until it hovered a few inches above the Knight; the Force subsided, and the hunk dropped effortlessly into his waiting mouth. He offered a shrug as he chewed, a brief flicker of thought crossed his eyebrows, both as he considered the flavours he was experiencing, and the Doctor's choice of words.

"I don't think I've ever been called astounding before."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Hmm, pity. I suppose that's my error for not saying so when it was more appropriate." She knew the comment was dangerously creeping close to a line they both had created, but at the moment? Well, it couldn't be helped.

Anastasia had long since gotten over any discomfort of seeing The Force manipulated. It was still something she could not fully grasp; all the research and observations in the galaxy could not tell her what it felt like to make use of such a thing. Lord Jibral had a way of making it all seem so effortless, however, and perhaps it was the reason that he seemed to use it as a very extension of everything else, a natural thing, that it didn't fill her with the disquiet that others who were incapable of tapping into such powers seemed to possess.

Still, she knew when he was doing it to deliberately make her take notice. Showing off, indeed.

It was fair, though. The challenge had been given and Ana knew very well how such things were pierced by the Knight.

"You going to do that all night?" Ana countered as her lips tugged at one side of her mouth, resulting in a smirk that felt far too genuine. "Or would you rather I show you how to use these?"

The chopsticks were twirled over her fingers in a needless display she had picked up in universities and had utilized countless times with various pens and even the occasional syringe. It was a foolish exhibit, but one that Anastasia was glad in indulge.

[Lúka Jibral]

For the briefest moment, Lúka suddenly became flustered, and river his thoughts might have been flowing down suddenly arriving at an abrupt waterfall that sent his thoughts elsewhere. That smile, that smirk, that playful gesture with her hands? It could have been a signal, inviting Lúka to once again oblige her needs; or it could have been nothing, merely playfulness between colleagues. Lúka lacked the frame of reference necessary to conclude either way, and it filled him with momentary discomfort.

"They say you're supposed to learn something new every day -"

He focused on words, and pushed the other thoughts aside. The momentary lapse had hopefully gone unnoticed, and even if it hadn't, he hoped a shrug and a casual smile would smooth over any discrepancy.

"- and the underwhelming day that I've had is cutting it pretty close on that front, so sure."

Lúka held out a hand, palm upwards, offering it and himself to Anastasia's tutelage.

"Besides, I can ward off a herd of gundarks with two lightsabers and my eyes closed. How hard could wielding a couple of little wooden sticks be?"

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Her words faltered, torn between asking for the story that he had begun and warning him how the little sticks might prove a worthy adversary yet. In it's place came an laugh, short and breathy; complete amusement at the fact he was tempting things so. After all, every living experience had told her that if something could go wrong, it had the highest potential to; especially if you spoke it. What's the worst that could happen? I have a bad feeling about this, Of course I know what I'm doing - they all amounted to the same tempting of fate, something Anastasia had time and time again had proven to her was a solidly bad thing to do.

Another jest, a comment about other utensils being available if it didn't work out was considered and tossed aside. Anatastia may not have known Lúka Jibral for an overly long time, but her experience around him more than told her that he was not the type to back down from something until he had mastered it. And to think, this was just supposed to be dinner under false pretenses. But now? Well, she would never go so far as to say they were crossing the line from pretend date to actual, that was ridiculous. But she had come recently to realize that Lúka was a friend. And as such, they could get away with certain behaviors when the official eyes of the Empire were not upon them.

"Okay so, first," She began, her tone shifting and with a small amount of horror Anastasia realized it was the same teaching tone she had used on various interns. "Try to hold them as I do."

She held her hand up, chopsticks poised between fingers in an effortless display.

"As far as I can tell there are some variances used to adapt to what works best, but start here."

That traitorous smirk formed again, going against every propriety she knew was proper between them. "It's all about leverage and grip. Concepts I know you're familiar with."

[Lúka Jibral]

There it was again, another small wave of bashfulness in response to her words. Was he expecting him to respond? Was this some coded invitation? Or was Ana simply someone so at peace with herself, and so comfortable with their actions together, that she could mention it in a casual conversation between friends without even the slightest flicker of anything? If it was the latter, Lúka envied it: not because he had any regrets about their time together; he simply lacked the ability to classify it as nothing, to divorce himself from the social significance that he had been trained to associate with such activities. Don't mention it. Don't talk about it. The concept of things that were considered taboo had been one his younger self had struggled with, but now he found himself struggling to let go.

Focusing his mind on the task at hand, he did his best to emulate what Anastasia was doing; to mirror, in fact, given Lúka's genetic predisposition to favour his left. It felt odd, like holding a datapad stylus, but holding it wrong, and then awkwardly balancing another on top of it. With careful attention he managed to get the positioning right, but as he attempted to manipulate the chopsticks, something went wrong. The points didn't align the way that they did with her, sliding awkwardly past each other rather than meeting with a satisfying click, something that was more likely to send food spinning than grasp it firmly.

"Uh -"

He tried again, but still failed to succeed in the way he was supposed to. He tried with more effort - perhaps it was a matter of confidence? - but no, that overzealous approach only served to dislodge the upper chopstick and send it tumbling, an awkward fumble of a catch from his other hand rescuing it before it reached the ground. His insides hurt, and he could feel Anastasia's amusement at his failures. That only intensified the internal feeling, and he wished it would reach out and grasp all of him, pulling his entire ashamed body into a collapsing singularity. Such an escape from Anastasia's smirking gaze was not possible, however. As he glanced at her, his voice was oddly quiet, carrying with it the faintest hint of defense, despite his efforts to keep things somewhat light and conversational.

"I guess you enjoying watching me fail is the reward for my overconfidence, huh?"

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Hardly," Even as the single word left her Anastasia knew it was wrapped in far too many meanings to be taken clearly.

It wasn't defensive, or even offended, but it wasn't nearly as playful as her tone had been - should have been. A soft sigh, far more natural than anything else she'd let transpire since Lúka had entered her Imperial-granted housing, left her as she watched him fumble awkwardly for another moment or two. That, she knew, even for just a breath, sounded far more like it carried the meaning she wanted rather than any hidden frustrations.

"Watching you fail, Lúka Jibral, is not something I have ever found any sense of pleasure in."

A smile drifted across her features as she paused and stole another piece of nerf for herself, the movement quick and the scrap small enough it could be finished in time to let her continue without skipping too much of a beat.

"And considering the rarity in which that happens... Well, no undue harm done?"

Anastasia gestured with the chopsticks her hands towards the ones in his own. "This though? This just takes practice and, clearly a better way of teaching."

"Here," she offered, placing her utensils down on a napkin before Anastasia reached over and carefully repositioned his hold on the two stick, balancing them and securing them in a similar manner to how she found comfortable to herself.

The touch of his hands in hers wasn't even noticed, not really, anyway. She looked at it much the same as having to manipulate any body part during an exam or when testing a patient's limits. Not that she entirely was looking at the procedure with such a sterile viewpoint, but it helped to keep her from becoming flustered by it, by the fact she had to step closer to him to do so, by the way their fingers brushing against each other threatened to drag her mind back towards other memories she simply did not want to acknowledge right then. This wasn't about that; she refused to let it be so.

"Try it like that."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka might have taken the reminder of other failures to heart, if Anastasia hadn't gone and recovered by describing them as rarely. He might have enjoyed how close she moved to him, if he hadn't been able to faintly perceive the detachment with which she was acting. All it would have taken was a few simple movements, a reach for his wine glass to 'accidentally' find his arms around her - but no. That was not what they had agreed; and that was not what she wanted.

"Like this?" he tried again, with marginally more success, but the tools still felt clumsy in his hands. His frustration bubbled below the surface, prickling under his skin; and then it subsided, suddenly, a single touch of a hand dispelling it like the magicks of some old fantasy novel.

He felt his hand being guided, and followed along with it, extending towards the container of food, snaring - with some difficulty, but successfully - his first conquest of Neimoidian cuisine. However, a problem presented, the Doctor positioned in the food's path between the container and himself, and he didn't have the heart to force her to move. Carefully, he lifted the nerf free, and presented it to Anastasia instead.

[Anastasia Xivelle]

A brief moment of hesitation was all that exited between her and taking the offered food. The chewing allowed her more than enough time to actually realize and fully consider that this was nice? Yes. That's exactly what it was. Nice. It was the sort of thing individuals who found themselves actually in the throes of their supposed cover would do. But did she want this? Was this routine marginally domestic act something that she was even capable of? Was all this just an act, an extension of the show created? And if it was, why was it that she felt that she actually liked this? Even down to the closeness she had inadvertently created between them once more.

The worst was knowing the bittersweet feeling that wedged itself firmly in her chest wasn't something she could hide. Not now, not with her veins free of any experimental numbing agent. It shouldn't even have concerned her as to how the Knight would react to such a thing. Understanding? Sympathy? Repulsion? No, not the last one. Lúka had already seen through her, to catch glimpses of the emptiness within where a normal person would have have a thriving entanglement of emotion and life; of potential, of possibilities for more. He hadn't turned away then, she doubted he would now. It was a kindness she suspected he didn't often show, and Ana felt nothing but privilege at getting to see this side of him and yet...

"Much better," The bit of nerf was consumed, her reason to stay in silent contemplation went with it. "See, knew you'd get it. Won't be surprised if you'll have it fully mastered by the end of the evening."

[Lúka Jibral]

Mastered. It was an interesting choice of word. A completely innocent one he supposed, one used often enough in common parlance that he doubted Anastasia meant anything by it aside from face value. For Lúka, it meant an assortment of other things. There were Jedi Masters. His master. Master Yoda. Master Aamoran. If someone was feeling somewhat formal, there was Master Jibral; or Master Lúka if there was a droid involved. Master Marksman. Master-at-Arms. Always two there are: a Master, and an Apprentice. Now, apparently, Anastasia had raised him to the dizzying heights of Master of Chopsticks. He wondered what kind of Council needed to ratify that kind of an appointment; and whether or not it came with some sort of special badge.

"I'll be sure to put that on my résumé," he replied, snaring another hunk of nerf and, with an awkward twist of his arm, managed to guide it to his mouth.

He reached for another, eyeing what to his strategic mind seemed like an opportune piece, balanced atop the others, backed into a corner, easy to snare. His chopsticks moved into position to flank it, but in doing so he was forced to move, shift slightly, lean a little closer to the counter top. That brought him not quite into contact with Anastasia, but close enough that the barest movement on either part caused them to brush against each other. He faltered, caught between wanting to continue his attempt, to abort, and to stay exactly as he was. He tried a breath to calm himself, instead breathing in the aroma of Ana's hair, which only deepened his contemplation.

Retreat. It was the only option. Agonisingly, his hand withdrew, and he took half a step backwards, feeling as if the contents of his chest remained where it was and was wrenched from him as he moved.

"Much as I'm enjoying the obstacle course," he offered, trying to maintain the playful tone between them, but perhaps not quite achieving it with all the same gusto as before, "Are we supposed to duel with these little sticks to see which of us gets to eat? And is this an eat one dish at a time sort of arrangement, or do we need to open up some of these other packages and have ourselves a buffet?"

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Lúka pulled away, and just like that the barrier that should have been was reinstated. The correct righted and she felt that crack that had formed within her shift so that it closed tightly once more. It was proper, it was more befitting their roles and yet...

Anastasia let a heavy breath, not quite a sigh as she allowed the smile to persist on her lips, it wouldn't do to interrupt it, after all.

"Thankfully no duel is necessary, I'm not really ready to see just how badly beaten I'd be in the battle of tiny sticks." She hadn't entirely left behind the far too-familiar tone, but the flirtation felt fake in comparison to how it had been only moments prior.

She moved away from where they had been standing, picking up one of containers in her free hand as she turned towards the small table just to the side of the kitchen.

"And I generally don't like to make rules about how to eat. Try what you wish, each what you like." She gestured to the small table, more suited to a cafe really than a room.

Anastasia slid into the farther away of the two empty seats and raised her hand that was still holding the chopsticks. "But really, I wouldn't linger too long. Food is getting cold, after all."

[Lúka Jibral]

I wouldn't linger too long.

He wondered if that sentiment referred only to their meal, or if it applied to the evening that surrounded it as well. Something had changed in her, and he was not sure how he had provoked it, although he was certain he had. All the desire in the universe would not be enough to undo whatever slight or misdeed or misspoken word he was responsible for, though it would surely dominate his thoughts until the morning as he attempted to decipher what.

Perhaps he could ask. Perhaps he should. Perhaps he could manipulate their situation, use their cover as an excuse, answers demanded in the interests of the mission. Lúka knew that in any other situation, that was exactly what he would do: tactfully, of course, and tactically. Yet with Ana, he could not bring himself to. He could not bring himself to analyse her, and affect her the way he did with others, the way he did with his students. With the Cadets, his manipulations forced them to confront themselves in new ways, urged them to face new challenges and perceive the world from new directions. It was manipulative, but benevolent, and Lúka had never doubted the validity of doing so: it was who he was, and how he operated. But Anastasia? Perhaps he felt she had been manipulated enough: by Inquisitors, by Khalid, by the other men in her life. Perhaps he felt that their shared ire at Khalid and his machinations was a fragile bond that united them, too critical to their success to risk. Perhaps it was some strange newfound sense of morality, some perception that Anastasia was not here by choice the way that the Cadets - in principle - were. Perhaps it simply felt as if it was not his place; outside his jurisdiction, so to speak. Whatever the why, he could not bring himself to it: and so his sin remained a secret, Ana's grievances left unknown.

Still, Anastasia continued their conversation. Perhaps with more effort, with more friendliness and openness, he could repair whatever damage he had caused; or at least distract from it. That had been the lesson from their time at Khalid's facility, yes? That Anastasia had welcomed his honesty, had responded favourably to his efforts to treat her as more than a colleague. Lúka had to admit, the concept of a friend was something foreign to him: with the exception of the Maelibus, his only acquaintances had been fellow Jedi, fellow Inquisitors, and fellow Knights; and even then, had they really been anything more to him than fellow fugitives in their flight from the Empire? Anastasia was none of those. They had met through the Inquisitorious, yes, and existed in each other's circles now thanks to the Imperial Knights; but while they were colleagues, yes, they were not counterparts, not trapped within the same hierarchy, not limited by the same perceptions and jurisdictions. Lúka understood friendship only from the perspective of the bonds it formed between others, but this dynamic, a peer but from outside one's peer group, seemed of a sort that many of those he had observed found favourable.

What to say, then? Following Anastasia's lead, Lúka settled himself down onto a seat as well, curiously opening the other containers to see how much variation there was between the cuisine. The first surprised him: unlike the obvious meaty appearance of the first nerf dish, this one boasted a bright ochre colour, and a viscous sauce within which, a few cursory pokes with the chopsticks revealed, lurked some sort of avian white meat.

"Don't get me started on rules for eating," he offered: the start of an anecdote, an invitation for Anastasia's curiosity and interest. "I once had the misfortune of being a minor guest at a diplomatic banquet. I forget the planet," he lied, "But the food was distributed in several portions, evenly spread around the table on a series of serving plates. Every time a gong was struck, you shifted one seat to your right and served the person opposite from the dish that was now in front of you; and on and on, until you found yourself in front of the same food you began with, albeit the instance of it a few seats further right. Only then were you allowed to eat, and only for that course: by the time the next rolled around, there was a new set of plates, and the process repeated all over again. The idea was for everyone to eventually be introduced to everyone else, and to make the symbolic gesture of offering food, but -"

Careful not to dislodge any of the sauce, Lúka manoeuvred the poultry out of the plasticard container, and dropped it into his mouth. Surprisingly sweet, and perhaps a little bit fruity, or was that something nut based? Maybe a hint of cream? It was hard to tell.

"- by the time you actually got around to eating anything, it was too cold, and you were too eager to actually taste what you'd spent all that time smelling that no one really got around to talking to anyone."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Sounds like some form of torture rather than a social gathering," Anatasia finally let herself comment after sampling the avian dish closest to the Knight. "Then again, I suppose the line that separates the two can be rather thin at times."

She tried not to let her own memories drift towards - not similar - but the best approximation that Doctor Xivelle had. Of fundraising galas for the handful of hospitals on Coruscant that she had interned at, of equally demanding ones that the Fobosi District Medcenter had run. In comparison to the story that Lord Jibral had shared, her own experiences seemed so... paltry.

"I envy you, you know?" A pause was taken, just long enough to finish the last of the emerald wine in her glass and ponder which of the dishes she would try next.

"I know you don't look fondly on all of your past, but you got to experience more of the galaxy than many. I think I can count the number of times I have been off of Coruscant on one hand." A shoulder was shrugged, a finger run against the rim of the empty glass. "I think travel and experience is invaluable."

Her eyes that had been lingering on the meal before them looked upward towards Lúka. "Maybe I need to start making excuses to tag along on your little excursions."

[Lúka Jibral]

Perhaps the statement had been offered somewhat in jest. None the less, Lúka gave it the consideration it was due. Thus far, Lúka had relied mostly on Cadets Redsun and Par'Vizal for assistance in his endeavours, trusting them out of necessity because he alone was not sufficient to succeed. That was not inadequacy in his part: it was pragmatism, as opposed to the ego that those in his position usually succumbed to. With Orenth and Shen returned to his custody however - two experimental clones whom he had raised and trained during his days at the Black Archives - his need to rely on the complicated process of justifying a field trip had lessened; and on the one hand, finding an excuse to commandeer the Citadel's medical consultant was a step backwards. On the other hand, Orenth and Shen required attention, and monitoring, and Lúka lacked the specific expertise for that, making Doctor Xivelle's presence decidedly beneficial; to say nothing or her company, or the value of an extra set of hands and eyes, and an additional shrewd mind.

"It gets pretty dangerous," Lúka offered, not as a counterpoint, but as food for thought. The pause in his words gave him the opportunity to attempt the contents of another container. Some sort of round, white disk of plant material, amid stubby white shoots, and rectangular strips of fibrous yellow. Having only ordered the one vegetable-heavy dish, Lúka was at least able to make an educated guess at what each of the items was. The disk was retrieved and popped into his mouth first; surprisingly crisp and refreshing, he noted with a hint of surprise.

"I wouldn't want to take you into the field without knowing that you can handle yourself. That said -"

Lúka opted for the rectangles, next. If he understood correctly, the foodstuff was shaved from the stem of a Neimoidian tree that had been exported throughout the Purse Worlds, boiled and flavoured as a source of important fibres and starches in the cuisine. There was an odd squishy crunch to it, not an abundance of flavour, but an interesting texture - something that seemed to be the primary point of interest with this particular dish.

Taking a sip of his drink to wash down the fibre strands, he flashed Anastasia a smile.

"- I might be able to arrange a few training sessions with one of the most capable and impressive instructors that the Citadel has to offer. If you'd be interested in that sort of thing, of course."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

She knew it was a trap he had created for her, and it was one she found herself entirely amused by, but no that would have been having the Knight exactly what he wanted. But who to choose to portray her sidestep from it? The Selonian? The Twi'Lek? No, there was only one choice, and while Ana didn't agree with what she was about deliver and her loyalties had been solidified far before either of the two of them had even stepped foot inside the Citadel as it was now called - She couldn't help but tease.

"Oh? Really?" The grin formed and Ana had a moment of reconsidering the little quip she was going to deliver, how it might effect Lúka... but well, the idea was fully too far formed. "You can introduce me to Knight Cain?"

It might have been a good jest had she immediately not pointed at him threateningly as possible with the chopsticks. "I mean, clearly you mean the most capable and impressive aside from you? Surely you don't intend to teach me yourself? Isn't that some sort of... conflict of interest? You might go too easy on me?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Whether by intent or by accident, Doctor Xivelle struck a nerve. Baastian Cain. He was a capable Knight, there was no denying that, but he was also a publicity stunt, and that was something that irked Lúka for reasons that were complicated to unpack. To say that Lúka preferred actions over words was untrue: the right words, in the right ears, could start or end a war, and Lúka relished in the use of language to provoke, compel, and encourage his students to betterment. What Cain engaged in was different. Presentations. Propaganda. An affront to the concept of show, don't tell, and a potentially disingenuous one at that. Cain was there to put a familiar and friendly face on the Imperial Knights, because someone, somewhere, decided that was necessary. Yet, with the same breath, the likes of Vissica and Sturkov thrived upon fear and intimidation, the very antithesis of what Cain's interviews and pronouncements aspired to. It was as if the Knights were confused about their very identity, and that was something Lúka had no desire to engage in. His path was not one of attention, neither positive or negative: his was a path of results, achieved with as much subtlety as was possible.

Anastasia was not the first to compare and contrast Cain with Jibral, of course. It was a topic of minor conversation among the Cadets. Who would win, if one were to pit the celebrity combat instructor against the man who taught them defense against the Force arts? There were differing opinions, interesting rationalisations; on some level, Lúka was pleased by the analysis that it provoked. On other levels, he found the mere notion of the contest absurd.

Of course he would win. Why was it even a question?

Speak of a conflict of interest gave him pause. Why? Because they had been intimate, in a single isolated incident? Or did Ana perceive something else between them, some complication that changed her subjective viewpoint? Or was this simply a dismissal, her faith in Cain over him genuine, an utterance of her personal preference between the two of them? Perhaps the idea of Lúka was merely a consolation. Perhaps she wished that what had transpired had done so with a different Knight -

"I had -" He stumbled over his words, a slight downturn tugging at the corners of his expression. "If you would prefer to be instructed by others, I can arrange that, of course. Only, I had thought you might perhaps prefer to learn from someone familiar, someone who -" Another falter. Another stumble. His throat unexpectedly dry. "- who understands and appreciates that which makes you unique. I can assure you, I am -"

A good teacher. As good as him. Good enough. Please.

"- not known for going easy on any of my students, as I'm sure Jeryd and Jensen's medical files can attest."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Lúka, do you honestly think I would choose someone else?"

It was as much accusation as curiosity. A challenge of thought, as if to get a better glimpse of exactly what he had meant by implying anything other than a fact that was frankly solid in her mind. Was there other data that she had not considered? Was there something that she had touched on? His stumbled over words made it seem as if he was unsure by what he said, even if his logic was sound and yet...

Ana sighed just before she lifted the glass to her lips, only to lament its emptiness. She had certainly imbibed enough as it was, and yet she wanted more, if nothing else to make simple conversation easier. To maybe help her speak truths which would avoid these damned pitfalls.

Abandoning the empty glass, Ana reached out and placed a hand atop Lúka's free hand. As she made contact her eyes locked with his, her gaze intent but still softening, the slightest of smiles trying to tug at the corner of her lips as she attempted to mend the mind, the worry, something that she felt she was far less capable of. Physical injuries were so much easier.

"You have been the only one I can trust since I was..." Her voice wavered, unsaid treasonous things lingering somewhere in her mind. "Made part of the Inquisitorius."

Ana's hand continued contact with his, a softness within her touch that didn't seek to pin down or force the pressure; rather serve as a gentle reminder that she had made the effort in the first place.

"And while I know our mutual benefactor is perhaps to blame for my reassignment here, I..."

Her voice faltered and Ana let another breath of air leave her lungs heavily to compensate for the silence.

"I don't have any of that sort of training. I'm a... scientist, Lúka. Someone who belongs in a lab, not in the field. But if anyone was to take on the challenge, if I knew anyone could prepare me adequately? It would be you."

[Lúka Jibral]

His eyes fell to her hand atop his, and he fought the urge to move so that he grasped her fingers gently. His eyes didn't rise to hers; instead they contemplated the food, the empty glass, anything else.

"That is why I wish to be the one who trains you. I am -"

What was he, precisely? Certainly he was, in Ana's words, someone who could train her adequately. He was the most familiar with her capabilities, with her mindset, with her ways of learning and of understanding. Any skilled instructor could impart knowledge, but Lúka specialised in tailoring the delivery to each student, finding the means that guided them to not just retain the information, but to truly comprehend it, to weave it into their understanding, to reinterpret and reapply. It was one thing to memorise an equation; it was another thing entirely to understand how that equation was derived, to know how it could be adapted and repurposed for other purposes, and to reveal deeper understanding.

But it was more than that, wasn't it? She described him as the only one she could trust. That brought with it an obligation. She would not merely be accepting his tutelage, she would be trusting him to prepare her. Placing her life in his hands. She thought that their familiarity might make him go easy on her; but on the contrary, it would make him more harsh, more exacting, more scrupulous in ensuring that he was not placing her in undue harm before she was prepared. Another instructor would view success as imparting their skills unto her. For Lúka, the only measure of success would be ensuring Anastasia could prevent herself from coming to harm.

His eyes flicked up, finding hers. The impulse to stay his hand was resisted, the slightest shift, the slightest pressure of his thumb, returning the touch of her hand.

"- invested in your safety."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Her eyes glanced down to their hands, of the measured amount of reciprocation that Lúka allowed. She couldn't help but wonder how much of this, aside from just a casual dinner, was new for him. Her studies of the Jedi, and a perspective that Lúka himself had offered, let her know how they weren't mere soldiers but people capable of great compassion. But it was in the overall sense, attachments weren't looked upon favorably and while she imagined there was a certain amount that happened regardless between teachers and students, she wondered if the Jedi would go so far as call one another friends. It seemed worse among the Inquisitors, and even now the Knights conducted themselves as if there was a demanded required amount of separation.

Even to try and ascribe the word to Lúka in her own case felt dubious, as if Anastasia unfamiliar with the sentiment herself. Sure, there had been people throughout her life that she had considered of in such ways, but the truth was plain - Not a one of them did she still have contact with, whether by natural drifting apart or the sting of them turning their backs on her when she probably needed them all the most. The relationships hadn't ended quite as swiftly as her one with Parrus had, but they ended all the same.

Now here, with the hand of fate or its devious representatives seen fit to place her and Lúka within range of one another's orbits once more... Yes. He was a friend. Perhaps her only one, truly; even if neither of them would openly label things such as that.

"Then that's settled," she mused, as if it had all been so easy and simple. "I'm not sure if I should look forward to it or not given what all you're going to have to put me through, but I always did like a challenge."

[Lúka Jibral]

"I'd like to think you'd look forward to spending time with me regardless."

The words tumbled out of him as a reflex, an impulsive reaction to conversational stimulus uttered so immediately that his mind had no opportunity to consider the context or phrasing. It took about half a second for the realisation to punch him in his gut, the sudden understanding of just how true those words were. Call it friendship, call it familiarity, call it the inflexibility of a mind more uncomfortable with change than he might like to admit; the end result was the same. Their conspiracy, and its cover, required the two of them to spend a not inconsiderable amount of time together. If he was to train her, and if she were to accompany him offworld as a result, that would increase that time spent in each other's company; and some part of him wanted her to want that, not just for the quantifiable gains, but purely on its own merits. He chose to brand it as loneliness: his one peer, his one friend, wanting to spend time with him. It felt like a weakness, something the Inquisitorious might have frowned upon; and yet for others, for mere mortals, normal people, actional functional human beings, it was an infinitely relatable desire.

Perhaps that was the power that Anastasia had over him, then: the ability to make him wish to be normal.

Yet, as much as he wanted her to respond, and respond in the affirmative in particular, he could not bring himself to chance it. This was the true reason why people like him chose to isolate themselves: not the weakness that attachment brought, but the distraction that came from disappointment, should it come to lose. The Jedi were not forbidden attachments because attachment itself was a vice: they were forbidden because an attachment gave a person something to lose, and that in turn gave them something to fear. It was the same mindset that drove agents and operatives to shut themselves off from the world; that inspired Knights, and Inquisitors, and soldiers alike to fixate on the mission above all other considerations, no sentiment allowed to compromise their efficacy.

Instead, Lúka drove the conversation forward, grasping for an easy topic from his thoughts as his implements raided the next food container.

"So how are the Twins doing?"

It was a benign question, a reference to Orenth and Shen: subjects and experiments of the Black Archives that Lúka had once been responsible for, and now found himself responsible for again. When Lúka had been reassigned, sent to join the Imperial Knights, they had remained in the custody of his past associates. Lúka had found them, mistreated and in dire peril, and had refused to return them. They would be safer in his care, of that he was certain; and with Ana's assistance, arrangements had been made to accommodate them in the facility that Khalid had recently guided them to.

To call them "twins", of course, was a gross misrepresentation. There was no genetic parallel, no shared womb; they didn't even share the same day of birth. Yet, to see them together? To understand that Orenth and Shen were not individuals, but a them? There was no other word to describe them, and so much as it rankled with Lúka's desire for accuracy and correctness, he conceded to the term that the Doctor had coined. Besides, he supposed, given the circumstances? He was hardly in a position to quibble and protest over biological terminology, if his favourite medical professional was content with it.

"Are they settling in okay?"

[Anastasia Xivelle]

She had wanted to respond, if nothing else in jest of Lúka's choice of words, something equally teasing and reassuring. But then he had cut off her line of thinking, taking her mind down an entirely different avenue, back to the cool transparent walls and nondescript lighting where their charges were currently housed.

It wasn't the first time that Anastasia had been exposed to the supposedly soulless clones, but this was different than when they had been residents of the Black Archives. She had never taken the Twins for granted, nor their counterpart; but now? Now it felt as if it was something more that Lord Jibral was entrusting her with the care of, and while Anastasia couldn't precisely pinpoint what it was, she took it as serious and with as much sincerity as possible. The two were no longer just test subjects, that much was clear.

"They're adapting to their new surroundings quite quickly," she reported. "Though, I suppose they're used to being under constant observation so the lack of privacy hardly bothers them..."

Her chopsticks nudged at a piece of nerf as she pondered the two, how close they seemed, how attached they'd become. Not that Anastasia was concerned of anything untoward happening between the clones, especially with how their rooms were divided, but still, none of the other subjects had become so dependent upon one another.

"I do catch them sitting on the floor quite often though, often putting their hands on opposite sides of the wall adjoining their cells. I'm starting to wonder just how much communication they share that goes unspoken."

[Lúka Jibral]

It was something that Lúka had observed many times, during training and in the field with the Twins, but had never felt the need to report or document. He wasn't quite sure why: the link between the two of them was extensive, and that should have been a point of fascination and study to be catalogued by the Archives. Yet, Lúka had omitted his knowledge from the records, not as an active deception, but a passive choice. Part of him wondered if the incidental secrecy was selfish, part of a subconscious desire to remain the most knowledgeable about the Twins, lest they be removed from his care: though if true, it was a strategy that had ultimately failed in the short term, leading to a traumatic experience for which he blamed only himself. Another part wondered if there was some other sentiment at play, some misplaced desire to respect their privacy, to allow there to be something between them that was not a matter of public record.

If such sentimentality existed, it would have explained the tug of conflict that twisted in his chest as Anastasia described the silent interactions between the two of them. At the Archives, Orenth and Shen had lived within the transparent confines of separate containment cells, allowed to see each other at all times, but prevented from physical contact without direct supervision. It was a pragmatic choice, not an intentionally cruel one, despite how it might have seemed to outsiders: a lesson learned from painful past experience with earlier iterations of their particular clone program. In the Archives, it had simply been the way of things, and Lúka had never thought to question it, because it had never been his place to do so. When the Twins had been relocated to the as yet unnamed facility that Khalid had guided them to, it had been only logical to create similar accommodations for them. In fact, placing them in adjoining spaces rather than opposite sides of one of the walk-spaces had been a kindness. Yet, to hear it described, it felt crueller than Lúka would have imagined it being.

"They definitely have some sort of mental link."

The confirmation of Doctor Xivelle's speculation was offered willingly, but another voyage of his chopsticks allowed him a moment of pause, within which his mind began to consider the wisdom in sharing such details with her. He trusted Anastasia, and had no reason to question that stance; and yet, she was a scientist. To her, Orenth and Shen were subjects for study, objects of curiosity, things to be contemplated and tested upon. To Lúka, they were something different. He understood what they were: pale imitations of stolen genomes, blessed only with echoes of consciousness and personality. Like the Clone Troopers, they were manufactured, created through science for a singular purpose. Yet, the Clone Wars had taught him that such assumptions and opinions became harder to maintain the more time you spent in the presence of said clones. They were imitations, copies of copies, and yet despite their origin, they were surprisingly convincing facsimiles of life. Over time, they developed variation, quirks, individuality. They were like droids left too long without having their programming reset: the ghost of personality, the illusion of a soul. In the time that he had spent with the Twins, he had watched them form the same. He had felt them form a bond with him - their "Keeper", as they called him - and had developed a certain kinship with them in reply. Perhaps, as a result of the role they cast him in, he felt an obligation to protect them, to care for his charges, and safeguard them from malicious intent. It was why he had stolen them away, a direct challenge to his former benefactors. Perhaps that gave him licence to keep them in his own way, rather than following the methods laid down for them by people he was no longer beholden to.

That notion gave him pause, and left him reluctant to expose the extent of their connected nature to Doctor Xivelle: not out of distrust of her, but out of loyalty to them.

"It reminds me of the kind of empathic bond that some Force Users are able to establish with animals. It allows them to share their intentions, emotions, and instincts, which is why they work so effectively in tandem, but it's nothing especially remarkable. An interesting quirk, not a groundbreaking discovery."

More of the Neimoidian stir-fried vegetables were sampled, leading to another momentary pause.

"I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. We've deprived them of much of the social interaction and stimulation that helps natural-born infants to develop language, so they've fallen back on a more instinctive way to communicate. Maybe its time we started being a little more humane in the way they're nurtured and cared for. Maybe it's past time."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

An interesting quirk, not a groundbreaking discovery - The words stuck with her, churning within. Nothing especially remarkable and yet Anastasia had thought it to be of significance. It only proved she still had so much to learn about her supposed area of expertise. It was discouraging, but also... Not. She knew perfectly well there was a difference between choosing to study something and having it be part of your every day life from the time you were a child. There was only ever going to be so much she could learn about Force adepts and their capabilities and yet...

She knew it wasn't intentional, that the Knight was only conversing, simply pointing out statements that he knew as simple fact that she took as something remarkable. But then, wasn't that the way with everything he was capable of? It was something she could never understand but Lord Jibral knew on a level she could only begin to assume was instinctual. While she could have taken that as a negative, there was something else to focus on... He was a friend, an asset. She couldn't understand, but maybe, just maybe he would allow her to question, to explore, to learn. A first hand account, from a trusted source that also - perhaps - trusted her? That was... invaluable.

"I'm sure we can find some sort of concessions to make, maybe move them into a shared room," She answered, a brief moment to address his comments before her mind fully turned towards other matters.

Anastasia glanced once more at her empty wine glass before she cast a look over her shoulder, contemplating a refill to bolster her courage at what she was about to imply. But no, that would be far too obvious in what she was thinking.

"These empathic links..."

The chopsticks she had been holding were allowed to leave her hold as she rested them against the lid of the container.

"Are they strictly between Force users and animals or other Force users? Or could one form with..." She struggled to think of a term that wasn't insulting. "A less gifted individual?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka followed her gaze to the wine bottle, any intention to retrieve it abandoned as she focused herself on her question. Her tone suggested there was more to it than the surface meaning of the words, and so Lúka allowed his brow to furrow, giving it the consideration it was due as he reached out across the apartment, the Force lifting the bottle gently towards his waiting hands.

"That is a complicated question," he started, pulling the stopper free from the bottle, and refilling Anastasia's glass before topping up his own, "And I think it is built upon an easy misconception of how the Force works."

He set the bottle aside, abandoning his chopsticks as well in subconscious mirror of Anastasia, before leaning back in his seat. He chose his words carefully, auditioning each attempt at explanation in his mind before daring to even consider speaking it. This was Anastasia's life - or at least, the work to which she had dedicated herself to, at the unfortunate eventual expense of romance, and friends, and family. This was important to her, and so his response could not be taken lightly, lest the information he provide somehow corrupt or sabotage her understanding. There were aspects of her research that part of him found unsettling, particularly in the wrong hands: but he knew Anastasia, and knew that she was not those hands, her intentions born out of pure curiosity and devotion to science. Understanding was a fundamental part of every belief system Lúka had ever considered himself part of, and while a Jedi or Inquisitor might meditate upon the Force, that was an opportunity denied to people like Anastasia - and yet, as beings of the universe, as aspects of the Force themselves, it was unfair to deny them the understanding that came from knowing the Force the way that Lúka did. This research was her meditation upon the Force, and Lúka was honoured - and terrified - by the prospect of contributing towards it. He owed it to her to do so in the best way that he could.

"When speaking about a connection to the Force, we tend to distinguish between those who have, and those who have not. It is not that simple, however. All beings are part of Force, from the smallest insect to the tallest tree, and everything in between. All life feeds from, and feeds into the Force, affecting it merely by existing. Consider gravity, and the way it can distort the fabric of spacetime. We do not think about the gravity of a grain of sand, because it is too slight and subtle, and yet it undeniably is there, leaving the faintest imprint of a gravity well. It is the same with the Force. You may think yourself unable to affect it, or to be affected by it, and yet you are, to imperceptible degrees. When your smile lights up a room, it is not merely psychology, or poetry: your emotions radiate from you into the Force, something that a Sensitive can easily perceive; but those ripples are felt by others as well, on some subconscious level, and are taken into themselves."

He reached for his wine, the smallest sip taken to wet his throat.

"In truth, the binary absolutes we accept as part of the nature of the Force are in fact thresholds. Force Sensitives do not possess a sensitivity that others lack, they simply possess enough of a sensitivity to consciously interpret the effect of the Force upon them, and to actively affect it in return. The more powerful an individual is in the Force, the more 'gravity' they possess, and thus the deeper their gravity well - the deeper their impact on, and presence in, the Force."

Lúka drew a breath, wondering if perhaps he was straying too far from the specifics of the Doctor's question. A little too much of his Master's influence in his willingness to stray into exposition, no doubt. Yet it felt important; felt like an essential part of answering her question in a way that was more than merely an approximation.

"There are many things that someone sensitive enough can perceive through the Force, and emotions are perhaps the simplest and most readily available. Emotions are a fundamental aspect of life, and the empathic bond that Force Wielders can establish uses those emotions as a language to communicate, even with creatures that do not possess the requisite faculties for language. A thranta cannot speak, nor understand instructions, but it understands fear, and comfort, and satisfaction. The more sophisticated the being, the more complex that empathic language can become, and a more practised and more sensitive practitioner can augment it with images, and impulses, and impressions. At the highest levels, with a truly complex mind, the Force can convey entire thoughts, and sophisticated messages. Like the Force itself, it is again all a matter of thresholds."

His brow furrowed again, trying to unpack the motivation behind Anastasia's question. It could have been curiosity, but he suspected that there was more. Was it concern, perhaps? Worry that he might be able to impress upon her through such a link thoughts and desires that were not her own? Or was it envy, and wonderment, wishing to know what it might feel like to experience that for herself?

"In the instance of a Jedi and an animal -" He cringed slightly, realising how comfortable it still felt to consider himself adequately described by that word. "- there is an imbalance, one Sensitive impressing their emotions upon a less sensitive creature, and perceiving the creature's emotions in response. Such things are always possible: that is the essence of the Jedi mind trick, for example, though that exploits a lesser mind and weaker will in order to succeed; something your keen mind and wit are no doubt much too advanced for, should you ever wish to resist it. It is the same process by which Inquisitors and Knights are able to forcibly strip thoughts and memories from the minds of others during interrogations: all relying on the existence of that imbalance. In terms of gravity, I suppose it is like orbit: a lesser gravitational object becoming bound to an object of greater influence. With equal minds, though?"

He let out a small sigh, born out of his own envy, perhaps. Though he had downplayed it, the bond between Orenth and Shen was almost beautiful, in a way, and it reminded him of his own lonely isolation to realise that there was no one with whom he could share that kind of constant contact.

"Orenth and Shen are like binary stars. Equal gravity, holding them symmetrical orbit of each other. Both project their emotions into each other, and both perceive their counterpoint in each other. For someone less sensitive to the Force -"

Lúka trailed off, overcome with a sudden sadness. He tried to bury it, though knowing it was there twisted his own words in his ears.

"Were there such a bond between us, for example, it would be one-sided. I would be able to perceive your emotions and impulses through the Force, but you would not be able to perceive mine: not unless I forcably projected them into your mind, which -"

A flicker of horror sparked into his mind, suddenly wondering if - in light of past encounters - this was the hidden purpose of the question she had asked.

"- I would never do. Not without your consent, and not without your mind being open to it. Such things are dangerous, and I would not -"

His words fumbled.

"I would not wish to influence you. Your mind is too important. As is your trust."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

He held her attention fully captive as the once-Jedi explained the intricacies that she had taken for granted, an oversight characterized by false information and secreted away truths. It dawned on her then, the amount of luck, or Will, or serendipity it took for the two of them to cross paths, one that had survived and overcome an extinction and burying of his kind, and her - wanting nothing more than to uncover those truths houses within his mind that some believed were better off lost.

True, she could have gotten the information from another Force adept, but not so willingly, not so freely expressed. There were no hesitations to Lúka's answers, nothing that hinted he was holding back information... even with how he had ended his miniature lecture. He knew then, of the trust she placed within him, of how it had altered in the time they had known one another. It brought a genuine smile back to her lips.

"I know you wouldn't. It's never been a concern, to be honest. I've never even thought you would even entertain the idea..." Her voice trailed off as she brought the refilled glass of wine to her lips.

The way he'd brought the bottle over was a reminder of all he was capable of, and while it was in some view, overly showy, Anastasia had come to realize that such acts were as natural to the Knight as if he had simply plucked the object with his hand. Still, it was a comfort to know that those abilities would never be turned on her, not in any negative way, at least.

"One of these days, if you are willing... Perhaps..." It felt foolish to ask such a thing, to elaborate on something he had said.

"Well, perhaps we could test those dangers? For curiosity sake, an experiment, if you will. I know you said that it is not something done upon those with a strong constitution but, after all, if one of your-" Anastasia didn't want to say peers, the other Knights were nothing of the sort in her own comparisons. At least, not in how she directly related to them.

"-Fellows should decide to make an attempt? I'd like to know what it feels like. How to recognize if one of the Cadets for instance is trying to push a boundary they shouldn't be.'

There was no lie in the statement, but some part of her knew it wasn't all that simple, either. There had been a twinge of - not entirely sadness but something - that came from hearing such a thing could only ever be one-sided against her.

[Lúka Jibral]

The request hit him with conflict and complexity. An initial, violent refusal sparked in him, an urgent and immediate desire to insist that he could not, and would not afflict such an intrusion on her, no matter the circumstances. But the request was well framed, and the underlying point well-made. There were many Knights in the Citadel, each with their own morals, agendas, and objectives. Few of them would have intentions towards the Doctor as benevolent as Lúka's were; and that was even before considering the secrets that she currently guarded on his behalf. To safeguard that knowledge, to protect her in some way from a stray thought that might snare the interest and intrigue of another, or at the very least to prepare her for what she might suffer if she continued down this path with him? There was wisdom in that.

Ordinarily, the logic of it would have been enough for Lúka. Training her and preparing her in such a way was the course of action most beneficial to the mission, most beneficial to him; and most beneficial to her, in the long run. That should have been enough. Yet, it clashed and conflicted with some core drive within him, some desire to shield her from the prospect of undue suffering beyond what she had already experienced. He only knew fragments, only understood the barest fraction of what life and the Empire had taken from her, in order to entrap her in service to first the Inquisitors and now the Knights; and even then, he knew that he could not truly understand what she had gone through, unable to relate to the kind of personal relationships and experiences that had been robbed from her. The prospect of invading her mind, while it might reveal answers to the understanding he lacked, it also represented a violation, a line that the thought of crossing sickened him to his core.

"I would be lying if I said I wasn't conflicted."

He wasn't looking at her, instead focusing on one of the part-empty food containers, his fingers idly fidgeting with one of the open flaps.

"I respect your curiosity, and I cannot argue with your logic. It is something I would prefer not be inflicted upon you at all, but if it must then I would rather be there to help soften the blow than be a powerless observer, or hear of it in hindsight. But at the same time? It will be unpleasant. It may be painful, and may awaken memories you would prefer not to revisit. It could undo much of the effort and progress you have made in moving on from your past, and -"

There was the crux of it, the unspoken barrier that his mind was struggling to traverse. His eyes found hers for a moment, just enough to convey a fleeting flash of sincere concern.

"There is a chance that you will not look at me the same way again."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Her expression had softened as Lúka spoke, a tug of her own concern showing at her brow. It wasn't out of fear for her own mind, of what was within it, but of the apprehension that seemed to colour his explanation. Unpleasant, painful... For her, apparently. But it left her wondering how much of that would be inflicted on her Knight as well. Enough, apparently, to allow him to freely voice his concerns.

The wine glass she had been once more idling sipping on was set down and her hand reached out to gently rest atop Lúka's, to bring a halt to his own fidgets.

Anastasia forced a smile, soft in it's sincerity, not merely preened to show when attempting to comfort.

"I know my own mind, Lúka. I know what waits for me there, and you're right. There are things I don't wish to experience again, to ruminate on. But to think their hauntings would cause me to change my view of you? Impossible."

Her head shook in the slightest as her gaze continued to focus upon his.

"If I even thought there was the slightest danger of that, I wouldn't have brought it up. I wouldn't have asked," Ana threaded her fingers through his and offered a reassuring squeeze. "And no, before you even think it... Yes, I am aware there are others in this facility that wouldn't be cruel about such things, but I wouldn't even consider it. If my life is to be laid bare, best it is done before you."

A sighed breath left her as Ana lifted her hand away from Lúka's, but only enough to softly run her fingertips along where her palm had rested against him. She hoped the feeling was as reassuring for him as it was her.

"You've already seen me in far more vulnerable a state than anyone else here. That hasn't made me want to end our association, I don't think it would be all that different?"

It was her tone that kept her from making light of what she was saying, the way her words threatened to tiptoe towards a line that Anastasia herself and firmly drawn.

"It you think it's too risky, I will trust that judgement and never speak of this again."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka stared down at the way her fingers intertwined with his, the way their minds would if he did as she proposed. It was an apt metaphor. Done gently, such a melding of minds could be painless, pleasant even, a willing symmetry letting his mind touch hers without harm. But that wasn't what the Doctor had requested: not completely. A Knight like Vissica would not be gentle. Her mind would have claws, and if Ana made hers a closed fist, Vissica would break fingers in order to access the interlacement she sought. If Anastasia wished to be prepared, he would be forced to provide at least some fraction of that unpleasant experience.

Anastasia's words carried weight, her assurances meaningful to him; and yet they came as the words of someone who didn't understand. It would not simply be remembered pain and sorrow, it would be relived. All the trust, all the willingness in the world, would not help them if Lúka stumbled across something too painful for Anastasia to bear. If she couldn't help herself, if she couldn't stop her minds urges to fight back? The harm, the damage, the broken trust -

His other hand came to rest atop the two that Ana had interlaced. His words were gentle, carrying all the sincerity that a matter such as this deserved.

"I will have to think about it?"

It sounded like a feeble response, too formulaic a string of words to convey just how much weight fell behind those words. He met Ana's gaze, forcing as much honesty as he could muster, allowing his barriers to descend just long enough for her to truly see the extent of his conflict.

"But please know, it is not the prospect of seeing you vulnerable that gives me pause: it is the prospect of being the one responsible for causing you harm. That is not something I ever wish to do, and I do not know if I would be able to forgive myself if I learned that I had."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

A hint of a smile pulled at her, more out of his choice of wording while her hand rested between both of his. It wasn't a willing thing Anastasia wanted to admit to herself, one she had categorically denied and refused for days now. But there it was, the undertow of truth tugging at her. He already had hurt her.

It was her own fault, the blame didn't reside with Lúka. A fractured soul had sought to find meaning in something that wasn't there no matter how much reason and rationale told her as much. Evidence blatantly disregarded by some stubborn, selfish, part of her. Maybe if this conversation had not happened until weeks from now it wouldn't have meant anything, it could have been overlooked. But the wound was too fresh, not yet adding to the tangle of scar tissue within herself. The vault Anastasia thought empty had been cracked open and the realization that there was more there than just dust was all her own doing. The Knight didn't deserve that sort of pressure put upon him, not then and not now.

There would be nothing to forgive because he would never know. That was a vow she made even as she considered the best method to truly purge herself of the guilty and treasonous heart that had somehow managed to survive within her. Anastasia would find a way, she had to. No one else would.

Perhaps the surgery would have to start with a lie, then. That too was not something Ana wanted to do to Lúka, and when it could be avoided she would make every effort to make up for this indiscretion.

"You haven't, yet." The smile she had allowed show became just a little more forced, but she hoped it showed as sincere. She would give anything to fool him, then. To fool herself as well. "I will respect whatever you choose, but know that... If you do end up hurting me? I already know you will also be there to make every effort at helping me mend. I won't suffer on my own, Lúka. Not with you there."

[Lúka Jibral]

No, he thought to himself: she wouldn't suffer alone, for knowing that he had caused her to endure such a thing would surely cause him to suffer as well. Despite all the confusion, over how he felt towards her, and his foolish false projections of the same onto her, of that much he was absolutely certain. To see sadness in her eyes, and to know that he was the cause? He would rather die than learn the truth of how such a thing would make him feel.

"Not on my watch," he assured, the tiniest iota of extra pressure placed around her hands. "You've hurt enough already. The next person responsible will have to answer to me."

Talk of watches dragged Lúka's attention to his own. More time had passed than he realised - what was the idiom, about the pace of time while one was enjoying oneself? - but perhaps not enough for the date that this meaningless meal between friends and coconspirators was disguised as. That Knight Jibral had been seen entering Doctor Xivelle's quarters that evening would no doubt be the talk of the Citadel by morning, sparking rumours that they would, of course, play the part of fledgeling lovers reluctant to confirm; but those rumours would be far more problematic if Lúka departed her quarters at the wrong time. Too soon, and the evening was nothing, too easily debunked as a civil, platonic encounter by the outside observer. Too late, and the disparaging insinuations would of course land disproportionately on Doctor Xivelle's feminine shoulders, leaving Lúka portrayed in a far more positive light. He almost welcomed the possibility, for the potential it presented to take each and every Imperial in the Citadel to task for their unsavoury perspectives on gender; but no, he would shield her from that.

His hands withdrew from hers, wrenched away quickly to avoid his reluctance taking hold. His eyes scanned over the partially demolished meal before them.

"I don't want to overstay my welcome," he admitted, "But there's no point telling a lie if you aren't going to fully commit to it, so I probably shouldn't be seen leaving just yet. That said -"

He winced, and patted his stomach for emphasis.

"- if I sit here and keep eating, we're going to end up sparking rumours that one of us is pregnant, and I'm going to be the one who looks the part."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

It shouldn't have made her laugh, but Anastasia found herself doing so all the same. She was immediately thankful that it didn't last long enough to be embarrassing; at least, no more so than the outburst was in the first place.

"Well I am supposedly some sort of mad-scientist, so you never know."

She slowly pushed back from the table, taking her ever emptying glass of wine with her.

"I suppose you're right, though."

A soft hum left her lips as she considered the options. Anastasia was more than certain her and the Knight could come up with things to converse about, she had so many questions, after all. It didn't feel right, though. As much as the pretense for the visit was false and neither of them ever really stopped being what they were to the Empire, there was sound reasoning in off-hours being used to recoup and relax. She'd perhaps badgered Lúka enough for the evening.

"We could watch a film, perhaps?"

It wasn't entirely a bad idea. There were plenty of references to various holonet films or series running about that seemed normal to most individuals; though sadly, were lost to the likes of Anastasia and Lúka. Their times within the Black Archives hardly lent itself to staying up to date on the latest releases. It was something they shared and Anastasia had experienced at least once as a cadet whose wrist she had been setting made some quip that was no doubt a quote from something famous from the holonet but she had been utterly lost to it.

"Not that I know which to suggest. I'm sure we can something agreeable, though?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"I -"

Lúka faltered, the confession coming a little to readily for his liking. For a brief, hesitant moment, he wondered if it was too much information, a revelation he should be ashamed of, or merely an understandable aspect of the kind of sheltered being that Anastasia no doubt assumed him to be. After all, she had witnessed how things were at the Maw - the isolation; the disconnection from the outside world - and while perhaps it hadn't dawned on her explicitly, life as a Jedi and then as a fugitive led to much the same experience.

"I don't think I've ever seen a -" He halted himself, adopting her choice of term rather than any more semantically accurate alternatives that he might personally have been inclined to use. "- film."

His brow furrowed.

"Well, perhaps that isn't true. There are documentaries that I was required to watch over the course of the time with the Inquisition, propoganda pieces and the like. As far as holomovies for entertainment though? We -"

He let out a small chuckle.

"We didn't exactly have a cineplex here at the Jedi Temple growing up, and I spent much of my time on the run from the Empire aboad the Maelibus as the youngest on the crew by a decade at least. It was not exactly a time of cultural immersion for me. I wouldn't even know what sort of holomovie I would even like, let alone have enough of an opinion to help guide the selection of one."

He contemplated that notion for a brief moment.

"Perhaps we should start with one of your favourites?"

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Her favorites? That was difficult to pinpoint. Anastasia doubted that now was the time for the various documentaries on the Clone Wars she found to be intriguing. Nor did she believe any of the aged, more philosophical dramas, such as Subject Abel were appropriate. That left a rather odd decision. It too was older, but made by someone decidedly Separatist. The film in question, lacked some of the artists' more political motivated pieces, but rather focused on a simple story told from multiple perspectives. The Starbird Gate was controversial, certainly, due to it's creator, but Anastasia had always found the influence it left to be... Well, simply captivating.

Still, Anastasia had a hint of reluctance. What if Lúka didn't care for the film at all? What if something she found to be worth introspection and contemplation was responded with an indifferent or worse perspective?

They had spoke of their trust, though, had they not? If he did not care for the holofilm, then no harm was done? But if he did...

Anastasia rose from her chair and smiled warmly, trying her best to suppress the hint of anxiety and nervousness she felt.

"I know just the thing."

[Lúka Jibral]

* * *

The Starbird Gate had affected Lúka far more than he might have expected, based on the premise alone. A story that predated the Clone Wars, playing into the nostalgia and mysticism surrounding the Jedi Order, was not something that would ever have appealed to the Knight, for perhaps obvious reasons. At first, he had questioned Ana's decision to share this particular holomovie with him. But then the story had unfolded, and it became clear. It wove a narrative that was retold from different perspectives, each one flawed, and yet each one holding a kernel of truth. It exposed the Jedi for what they were, as well: flawed, corrupt, and just as fallible as any other sentient being. No doubt there were more famous Jedi who had served as a direct inspiration to the filmmakers - there was something decidedly Skywalker and Kenobi about the interplay between victim and antagonist, leaving Lúka to wonder just how aware the director, Arika Awasorük, was of more recent revelations about the son of Skywalker and the illicit romance with a Senator that bore him - but Lúka found himself projecting his own experiences into the narrative, casting himself as the Knight opposite his master Inyos Amoran as the General, their Captain Elira Asael forced by the General's insidious affections to be complicit in in their betrayal and tantamount murder of him.

He had not expected the movie to affect him in such a way, and yet it had, the visuals and music and narrative all conspiring to strike at the very core of his being. Ana had glanced at him with concern at several moments, and Lúka had felt her nervous curiosity over his interest and enjoyment; Lúka had been too entranced, too absorbed in the story to even notice the way that his hand had crept across the sofa cushions to gently rest against hers.

Then it had ended, and Lúka felt strange, as if the experience had been torn away from him too soon. It left him introspective, to an extent that perhaps the Doctor misinterpreted as disinterest or lack of enjoyment, no matter how much Lúka reassured her otherwise, no matter how much they had talked about their respective insights, and the layers that Lúka's perspective allowed him to peel back in ways that Anastasia had not previously considered. It had hung like a cloud over him, and them, as they had dealt with the remains of their meal, and made an effort to make the Doctor's accommodations more presentable once again. Now, Lúka found himself at the doorway, his mind still fixated on The Starbird Gate, finding himself standing on an important threshold of his own.

"This was -"

He struggled to know what to say, both his introspection and his unfamiliarity with such platonic interactions leaving him uninspired.

"Thank you, Ana." He chose the address carefully, deliberately clipping her name into something informal and intimate. "For your hospitality, and for sharing something meaningful for me. Of all the hidden perks and privileges that I have uncovered over the course of our time working together, the opportunity to know you better continues to be the singular highlight. I am glad we are -"

His hand poised over the door controls, ready to trigger his exit back out into the Citadel, and back out into their deception over the nature of the relationship that he and the Doctor shared.

"- friends."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

Friends.

It was an accurate term, was it not? Closer than colleagues, more acquainted than associates; it was a line they had willingly stepped over together. Yet the word seemed to also create a chasm, the definition falling short and making a clear definition that Ana wasn't sure she liked.

Still, it was a word that had seemed a deliberate choice on Lúka's part. A line he created, an unspoken request that made it very clear he had no wish to revisit what they had stumbled upon and indulged aboard the ship of his past. It wasn't even the physical, but that hint of emotional connection that they had shared...

That clearly did not exist. Anastasia knew better, even from her own perspective. She was confused, attributing a lack of feeling that she was certain of for far too much in the absence. Lúka was her friend. Perhaps her first genuine one in far too long, it was no wonder that she was attempting to grant it more purchase than it truly had. Even if it did feel like more.

But no, she couldn't allow that. Her respect for the Knight far outweighed her own foolish notions that were allowed to seep in when she was not on her guard.

The soft smile that graced her wasn't entirely disingenuous.

"As am I," she replied, leaving other things left unsaid in favor of a truth that could be allowed. "We should do this again sometime. You know, when we aren't attempting to fake a relationship for the sake of others."

[Lúka Jibral]

The words stabbed and twisted in his gut. Lúka wasn't sure what he expected, what he wanted, but it wasn't this. Not the implication that, once the lies and deceptions of their cover story was swept aside, all that would remain was friendship. Of course that was the case. Lúka couldn't understand why part of him would have expected or hoped for anything else. The Maelibus was once - well, three times, technically, though it was hardly an instance that required counting - and then never again. It was a moment, and one that had passed, a line drawn beneath it. No matter what else Lúka might have inferred or wished to see, both of them remained firmly behind that line, and not just because of duty or obligation: but because that was where they belonged.

Still, if evenings like this one were what friendship led to? Perhaps being friends with Anastasia Xivelle was a fate he could live with.

The doorway opened, and Lúka took a step backward, escaping from the private confines of Anastasia's apartment into the corridor beyond. Like a wave, like passing through the threshold of a containment barrier, Lúka felt the honesty of the evening wash away from him, the obligations of the part he played for public consumption settling back into place. From the peripherals of his perception, he could not detect the presence of anyone, but it didn't matter: it was commitment to the role, he told himself, dedication to their cover, that caused him to reach out, a hand wrapping suddenly around Ana's waist to draw her close to him. His other hand caught her cheek, tilting her jaw towards his lips as he kissed her, a long and deep farewell that carried with it far more genuine sentiment than he would have liked.

It lasted seconds, but it could have lasted hours and still been over too soon. A small bittersweet smile flickered on Lúka's lips, but he buried it quickly.

"Goodnight, Doctor."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

It took far longer than Anastasia liked for her breath to catch up, for the never ending quiet contemplative thoughts that always persisted within her mind to return; for the words to finally form where they seemed stuck in her throat.

"Goodnight, Lord Jibral."

She allowed herself the restrained moments to watch him turn and walk away, but did not trust herself to fully wait until he was from her vision before Anastasia retreated fully within her quarters and allowed the door to shut. On the surface of everything, she had known what the kiss was, and there was something admirable in how Lúka had fully committed to the role with how it had been delivered. If it had just been a small peck, perhaps it would not have lingered with her, would not have caused her hand to raise and for her fingertips to brush against her lips as she allowed herself the guilty pleasure of reliving the moment.

Ana felt herself turn, felt the weight of her back lean against the closed door that kept her from the rest of the Citadel before her body sagged against it. A sigh left her as she slightly shook her head, a myriad of self-chiding remarks flooding her head. This wouldn't do, she couldn't keep letting herself do this, to ascribe more to what her and the Knight were.

Friends would have to settle, it wasn't such a terrible thing, was it? It was safer that way. It would let her recognize herself in a mirror once more, to remove those foolish half smiles she had caught herself wearing too often as of late. After all, the type of connection some clearly naive portion of her craved could never happen, nor should it. She had learned her lesson there, had she not? And every bit of injury she allowed herself at Lord Jibral's hand was an affront to the respect she held for him. Her research was why she was here, it was what was important. Everything else was just a distraction

So a friend was what she could allow herself to have, if that meant more evenings such as this? If that meant more actions taken to uphold and provide an excuse for the two's leave of the Citadel at odd hours? It would be enough.

At least, Ana hoped it would be. Otherwise things were going to become quite complicated.