Private Hearthfire

[Dominic Praxon]

The last of his whiskey swirled in the bottom of the broad glass. He had been staring into it for too long, hoping for some revelation that never came.

With an elbow braced against the mantle, Dominic let the fire's warmth soak into him. The flames were the only light in the room, throwing his silhouette against the shelves and furniture. The shadows danced and flickered, mocking him in their rhythm.

He slumped further, forehead resting on his arm. Teeth clenched, eyes shut.

Eighteen percent.

The number hovered in his mind like a brand.

He was going to lose. And yet…why did it sting so deeply? He was new to the political arena, little more than a back-room aide before this campaign. To climb from obscurity to nearly twenty percent was, by any measure, respectable. Admirable, even. Something to be proud of.

He almost smiled at the thought. Almost.

But no.

He could already hear his father's voice: that soft, reluctant praise that landed like a blow. Ordon Trozky would send word within hours of the results, just enough to prove he had been watching closely all along, without having lifted a finger to help.

Dominic pushed off the mantle and began to pace. His shadow loomed, long and distorted, as if it were judging him more harshly than anyone else could.

And then Loria. Sweet, unassuming Loria. His chest tightened at the thought of her, of how he was using her. He could happily give himself to the cheerful fantasy of her. But he doubted she would see beyond his aspirations.

He pressed the glass to his forehead, the cool crystal biting against his skin. A bitter laugh nearly escaped him, but it caught in his throat.

Aspirations. Fools chased them. And perhaps he was the greatest fool of all. He being willing to risk reputation, to toy with a good woman's heart, all for the fantasy that he could "save" the Republic.

The laugh twisted into a hiss, low and guttural. He saw Loria's disappointment when she discovered the truth. Bastila's hurt when she realized there would never be more. And behind it all, his father's looming judgment. His constant...unrelenting disfavour.

The growl tore out of him before he could stop it. He spun and hurled the glass at the hearth. For a moment the fire faltered, as if forgetting how to burn, before the liquor caught and the blaze roared up with sudden fury.

Dominic sagged, shoulders heavy. His hands rose to cover his face.

He had lost control. Again.

The door buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

"Come in," he snapped, sharper than intended.

The protocol droid shuffled through, polished frame glinting awkwardly in the firelight. Even for him, the moment seemed ill-suited.

"What is it?" Dominic asked, drawing himself upright, though weariness still visibly clung to him.

"Sir. You have a visitor."

His eyes narrowed. "At this hour?"

The droid gave a stiff nod. Dominic exhaled slowly, then flicked his fingers toward the door. "Send them in."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

The droid barely had time to shuffle aside before Bastila slipped through the door. She didn’t wait for the usual formalities, not tonight. She stepped inside as if she’d been here a hundred times before, cloak sliding off one shoulder as she moved into his presence. The chill of outside still clung to her clothes, damp with the bite of the evening, her hair loosened in strands around her face.

“Your droid looks like it’s about to faint,” she said lightly, her voice carrying an edge of amusement that didn’t match the smouldering firelight. Her eyes caught the fire first; the way it leapt too high, too sudden, licking the chimney as though it had been provoked. Then they moved to the broken glass glittering at the edge of the hearth. Her brow rose.

“Well,” she said, her voice lighter than the room deserved, “Guess I missed the party.”

She let the cloak slide from her shoulders onto the nearest chair, leaning lazily against the mantle as if she were entirely at home. For a moment she let the silence stretch, watching him, gauging him. His shoulders were stiff, his face shadowed by more than just the firelight.

“You look like hell,” she murmured, her tone still carrying the faintest hint of a smirk.

But she felt it suddenly, the aura around him wasn’t one she had felt before, and something shifted in her chest. The casual mask slipped. Her gaze dropped to his hands, still trembling faintly. His breathing wasn’t steady. There was a sharpness to his presence, the kind that came from too many nights with too little rest.

“Dominic…” she said, quieter this time. Her arms folded, though there was no defence in her pose now, more to stop her own unease from showing too much. She tilted her head, studying him, almost afraid of what she was seeing.

The laughter she’d been ready to throw into the room; anything to lighten it, died before it reached her tongue. This wasn’t garden party politics, it also wasn’t one of their half-sparring exchanges. This was private, this was him fraying at the edges, burned by something far deeper than the campaign or the numbers it spat back at him. This was her being here when she needed to be. Like he had been for her, even if that still had gone unsaid.

Bastila stepped closer, voice softer than it had been in weeks. “Dominic, what happened?”

Dominic Praxon ​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He didn't laugh. He barely breathed.

Bastila.

She spoke. He barely listened, hands shaking still, though from something different now. His shoulders had tensed, neck locking into place, and jaw taut with muscles that threatened to cramp.

He did, probably, look like hell. The fire light washing over him probably did not diminish the metaphor in the slightest.

"Thanks," he said, through clenched teeth.

He had to regain some composure, control the situation. Control himself.

He looked away, to the decanter on the credenza beyond the high backed leather reading chairs. The break in eye contact, despite her pleas for answers allowed Dominic to reign himself in, for the moment. He walked rigidly toward the five glasses that lay upside down on the silver tray. The ring of dust around where the sixth once lay served as a reminder to him of his actions just moments ago.

Father likes this set.

He tipped a glass over. It caught on the edge of the tray and tumbled out of his hand, skipping across the wooden cabinet top. He moved quickly, catching it before it fell off. Gripping the glass firmly, he placed it carefully back on the tray. Only the barest of glances was spared for his guest.

"Whiskey?" He said, using the single word to loosen his throat, so he could attempt a full sentence.

He was already pouring himself another couple of mouthfuls. Any more and the fire it could start might spread to the whole house.

"And an explanation as to why you are here," he said, still not looking at her. How could he? Remember the night at the races, the words she said, and he was fool enough to believe. The promises they made. His determined bid for power. Her willingness to step aside and permit him his rise, while she awaited the right moment to join his side.

"Between end of campaign parties, and recovery from your injuries," he said, turning another glass over and preparing to pour. He finally looked up at her, eyes betraying his irritation. "A late night visit to Praxon Estate feels like the last thing you should be doing."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

Bastila let out a short, dry laugh when he offered the glass, as though the weight in the room couldn’t quite smother her instinct to deflect. “Whiskey? You realize I’m not supposed to be drinking yet. Recovery rules, stern lectures from the healers, all of it.” She reached for the glass anyway, her fingers brushing his as she took it. “But then again, rules and I… we’ve never had much of a lasting friendship.”

She raised it in a mock salute, let the rim just touch her lips, and sipped. She coughed as it burnt her throat, instantly reminding her that not a month ago it had been crushed by the fingers of an assassin droid, she again did her almost snort of a dry laugh and lowered it onto the tray again. The faint amusement in her face dimmed as the silence wrapped around them; silence heavy with firelight and shadows, thick with everything unspoken.

“I..I didn’t come for that,” she said softly, almost startling herself with how earnest her own voice sounded. She stepped closer, the space between them narrowing until she could feel the warmth of the hearth across his shoulder as much as she could feel the tension in him. Her hand lifted, hesitated, then came to rest gently on that shoulder. The contact was simple, grounding, but it carried more weight than she intended.

“I couldn’t sleep and I was thinking all the thoughts that come to mind in such a situation, that I should come here and talk about your campaign, that I should shake you and tell you eighteen percent is amazing and that you are amazing and..." She caught herself and took a breath. "Then I just had to, so I did…I came because I wanted to say thank you.”

The words seemed too small, too fragile against the blaze of his turmoil, but even as rushed as they were she pressed on. “They told me… when I woke. That you were there. Every day. Well they actually said every minute.” Her gaze wavered, as though the thought itself unsettled her. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me.”

She moved around so she could see his face better, cast in the hues of the fire like mood incarnate. Her eyes found his again, and this time she didn’t look away. The fire cracked, shadows leaping up the walls, as if the whole house was listening. She felt it then, the feeling that she had told was gone, that she had to ignore; the edge of something neither of them could sidestep. Gratitude, yes, but tangled with the gravity of paths that kept pulling them back into one another’s orbit.

“I don’t know what that means, or why you were?” she admitted, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “But it feels like it matters. Like it was… meant to and it does matter to me Dominic.”

Dominic Praxon​