.
Shaking her head just slightly at Skywalker's typical willful stubbornness, Mara followed. By the time she reached the washroom the sink was already spattered with blood, more of the same still trickling from his hand.
He let out a small sigh, as if uncertain what to do, and Mara stepped forward to take his hand and open it without resistance, examining the deep cuts with a soldier's eye.
He remained silent for long seconds before offering in a quiet voice, "I think there's still some glass in, but I can't find it."
She lifted his hand closer, examining the oozing gashes. "I can't see anything," she said, easing the wounds open one by one to look, then pinching them closed. "These need stitching though. I'll send for Hallin."
"Stupid." He looked away, annoyed. "Stupid thing to do."
For some reason, Mara kept hold of his injured hand. "I think you both have a way of getting round each other's defenses," she said without looking up.
"Yeah, I don't see him calling out the medic."
"You've scored a few blows, believe me," Mara admitted, wondering why she was telling him this. "He thought he'd have you well trained, by now."
He was silent for long seconds at this, in which time Mara studiously studied his hand. When she finally looked up, he was frowning at her, clearly wondering the same thing.
She held his gaze for long seconds...
When he took a breath to speak, Mara cut in quickly. "I'll...get that medic."
She released his hand to walk quickly past him in the doorway, aware that she'd brushed against him even though he'd stepped back, the room plenty large enough for her to have avoided it.
"Thanks," he muttered quietly, then, "Mara--"
She glanced round, surprised; it was rare that he called her by name. "What?"
"Sorry," he said, a strangely heartfelt apology.
"For what?"
He shrugged. "Just...sorry."
Mara stared for a few moments longer, wondering at this, but he glanced down and took his bleeding hand in his other, so she turned to walk away, aware of the surveillance lenses, wishing she could slap herself on the forehead at her own rash actions.
.
.
.
Skywalker remained uncharacteristically quiet as Nathan cleaned and sutured the wounds in his hand, sitting on the arm of a chair in the locked drawing room, a light pulled close.
Nathan was getting used to being just dragged out to perform his duties wherever his sole charge happened to be at the time, so that being summoned from his own quarters in the North Tower and brought through the incredible security of the South Tower to tend to Vader's son in what were hardly sterile conditions, with poor light and only what equipment he had brought with him, seemed little more than a mild inconvenience now.
It had become clear that Skywalker occupied a strangely ambiguous position within the Palace--though that was about the only thing that was clear. He seemed, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner here, with locked doors and countless guards. Yet he also seemed to occupy a position in the Emperor's personal entourage and the title of Commander, with apartments and staff and all attendant entitlements.
It was just that all these privileges existed under incredible security, most of which was kept well hidden from the few who were entitled to travel this far into the always-restricted South Tower.
No one within the Palace, outside of those who were involved with him on a daily basis, seemed to have the slightest idea who he was, and Nathan had found himself the subject of many subtle attempts to find out. Why exactly they thought he would know was a mystery, since he was almost as clueless as everyone else, aware now that he had been fed the official party line with regard to Skywalker's past.
Still, it had been made abundantly clear by the higher powers that speaking Luke Skywalker's name outside of the man's presence was absolutely out of the question. He was to be referred to as the Commander; only ever the Commander.
Nathan had heard it whispered many times now that he was one of the Emperor's vaunted undercover agents, as Commander Jade was suspected to be, trained from a young age to travel unnoticed throughout the Empire fulfilling his master's commands in 'delicate situations.' But then he'd also heard that he was an ex-Royal Guard, an infiltration specialist who, like Lieutenant Commander Reece, had now been retired to take up a more conventional position within the Emperor's retinue. Either of which could well be true for all Nathan knew, though neither explained the guards at the door, more jumpy than ever tonight.
For some reason, Skywalker seemed to be limited to the bedroom and drawing room again now; or rather, for what was a very obvious reason--it was hard to miss the huge amount of repair work visible around the drawing room entrance, the massive reinforced cage of the underlying security structure surrounding the security doors carefully reconstructed but not yet matched in and hidden.
That they'd actually tried to take his scalpel from him at the outer doors tonight had seemed a little extreme even here though, as outrageously wary as they always were of their charge. He'd argued strenuously that the short medical laser was hardly a threat, before finally being allowed it by Commander Jade.
It all seemed rather a case of obsessive overkill as far as Nathan was concerned. Although he was clearly here against his will, it wasn't as though Skywalker had ever done anything even vaguely threatening. He seemed always polite and mild-mannered, and was no taller than Nathan himself, though he had the kind of rangy, solid musculature one probably got from a life as a professional soldier, rather than Nathan 's more sedate days spent studying papers on specialist surgery and medical anatomy.
But he'd always remained so very equitable and composed. Never once had Nathan felt threatened in his company the way he did in his father's presence, even when they had differences of agreement in their discussions--which they almost invariably did. For a man who lived in the Imperial Palace, Skywalker seemed to have decidedly radical views.
He'd often been tempted to just ask directly of Skywalker what exactly was going on...but since that one slip in which Skywalker had clarified just a few brief points, his answers posing more questions than they addressed, it had been made very clear to Nathan that his newly-acquired position depended greatly on his co-operation, and while a little knowledge could be a dangerous thing, Nathan had the distinct impression that in this case, a lot of it could well be deadly.
Skywalker broke into Nathan's train of thought as he worked now, his question as searching as every other discussion they'd had. But always congenial, even in disagreement.
"Do you ever ask yourself what you're doing, Hallin?"
"What, in suturing your hand?" Nathan asked lightly. "No, I'm pretty sure I know how to do it. They gave me certificates and everything."
Skywalker's voice was quietly good-natured. "You know what I mean--whether this is right."
"No, I don't ask myself any such thing," Nathan said pointedly. "Which is why I'm here and you're there."
"Then you're a fool," Skywalker said easily with a brief, tight smile. "If I get out of here I'm free--you'll stay in your prison forever."
"How wonderfully self-righteous you are," Nathan countered easily, no malice in his voice. "But then I suppose that's all you have left."
"I have my integrity," Skywalker said without looking up as the medic sutured the deep slices in his hand.
"Integrity doesn't open locked doors," Nathan dismissed amiably. Though he disagreed with his views, he rather liked Luke in truth, enjoying their little debates.
"Integrity can't be chained," Skywalker said affably.
"But you, apparently, can."
Skywalker smiled at this, typically unoffended. "Touché."
He looked at his hand as Nathan sprayed a liquid protector over the wounds, the worst three of which had required sutures, the rest closed with sterile strip.