Private In Which Mr. Praxon Behaves Poorly

[Dominic Praxon]

It is a truth universally acknowledged, though seldom spoken aloud in polite company, that a gentleman of Naboo, however distinguished, must feel somewhat out of his element when surrounded by an overabundance of Jedi serenity.

Such was the condition of Dominic Praxon as he traversed the radiant concourses of Lightspire Station, whose gleaming silver halls and benevolent lighting seemed determined to impress upon all who entered that harmony was not merely an aspiration, but an expectation. The Jedi moved about with an ease that bordered upon elegance. Dominic, in contrast, maintained the precise bearing of a statesman who would have preferred marble floors, proper drapery, and a Senate aide at his elbow.

"...and with the Parabrite reinforcement fully set, the civilian vessel stands ahead of schedule," proclaimed the logistics officer at his side, a man who spoke with such unabashed optimism that Dominic wondered whether he, too, might secretly be a Jedi. "Sensor lattice installation commences next week. A triumph, Senator, truly."

Dominic inclined his head with the polite attentiveness of a man habituated to good news arriving attached to a very large invoice. "Excellent. And the Viator?"

"A marvel, sir. Hyperdrive spooling tests begin tomorrow. The Jedi Council is exceedingly pleased."

"Of course they are," Dominic murmured, though with such genteel restraint that the officer could not possibly take offense. It was not the Jedi he objected to, precisely, but rather their alarming ability to assume that the future would unfold just as they wished it.

They passed one of Lightspire's grand viewports, where whole terraces of hydroponic gardens unfurled in impossible greenery under artificial skies. A trio of Padawans tended shimmering vines with an earnest devotion that would have touched many hearts. Dominic admired it, privately, but very privately.

He was on the verge of offering a comment of perfectly diplomatic blandness when a sound...a voice, or perhaps simply a laugh...carried across the vast hall. Something in it arrested him at once.

He turned.

There, across the atrium, stood Bastila Sal-Soren.

Shit.

She was surrounded by Padawans and fellow Knights, yet seemed entirely unencumbered by their company. Lightspire suited her in every possible way. The golden illumination gathered upon her as though intentionally arranged, while the gentle hum of the station provided an obliging accompaniment. It was a scene that might have been painted, had any artist the courage to attempt it.

Dominic felt a most unwelcome stillness settle in his chest.

It had been some time since last they stood within the same room, and longer still since he had spoken words he ought never to have uttered. One does not easily forget telling a woman — that woman — that she would "always be the daughter of a terrorist." Indeed, even he, a man trained in the fine art of political composure, could feel the faint sting of old regret prickling at the edges of memory.

His gaze lingered too long, and he felt her notice him.

It lasted only a moment, but it struck him with the force of a great many unspoken things.

Dominic looked away first.

"Send the full reports to my terminal," he said, his tone calm and perfectly polite, though he could not have repeated the officer's last sentence if his life depended upon it. "The committee will expect thorough review."

"Yes, Senator."

With that, he turned toward a nearby corridor, choosing, quite deliberately, a path that would take him in the opposite direction. His steps were steady, his posture exemplary, and his expression arranged with the utmost propriety.

But his shoulder paused - just briefly, just noticeably enough for anyone who truly knew him.

Regret, however expertly concealed, is still regret.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

One does not intend to collide with the past, if it is to collide it simply steps into one’s path with the unhelpful confidence of something unfinished.
Bastila had been listening, or at least appearing to listen; to a gentle discourse on botanical empathy when the shift in the air pulled her attention elsewhere. It was a subtle disturbance, not in the Force exactly, but in something far more mundane and far more troublesome, instinctual memory.

Dominic Praxon.

She did not move at first. A Jedi did not startle after all. Her spine remained poised, hands loosely folded before her, expression composed with a serenity she had earned, not inherited. But her eyes, unbidden and unwise, watched his transport and finally as it landed sought him across the atrium.

There he was, with his stupid immaculate posture, his stupid immaculate composure, and that stupid immaculate avoidance. Dominic, a man who could justify the collapse of an empire with a footnote and yet be undone by the echo of his own conscience.

Her pulse did not quicken. Of course it did, she had to stop lying to herself. She was a master of her own emotions, and what lingered now was not heat nor ache, but something far quieter and cooler, it was a shard, one that had been smoothed by time, but still remained sharp.

She took the time to circle around the group, feigning interest in a particularly interesting display of force growing leaves and silently, excused herself from the lesson, stepping away from the circle. Her pace was unhurried, deliberate, drawn not by longing but by a principle older than Jedi doctrine and far less forgiving;

Some words do not get to live without consequence.

She followed the corridor he had chosen, steps falling soft against the polished floor, not chasing, that would be weird, but she was closing distance on him. When she finally spoke, she did not raise her voice; she merely allowed it to exist in the space between them.

“Senator Praxon.” It was not a cold greeting, nor was it warm either. It held a level of questioning intrigue. He would halt, as she knew he would.

Bastila paused a single measured pace behind him, enough to honour dignity, not enough to permit escape.

“You know you don't have to leave the room,” she said quietly, “every time you see me.”

A thin breath slipped from between her teeth. Being this close to him, unmasked and alone was striking into her mind. The smell of whiskey was remembered on her nose.

“I’m not a ghost.” She let the words settle, “Not yet anyway, and even if I were… I’d be haunting someone less…you.”

Then and only then, Bastila stepped beside him, facing forward, she would not ask permission, this was her territory. Around them the station hummed, it’s entirety spanning beyond comprehension.

“Now that is out of the way. Good afternoon, Senator. How are you?” She turned her head and smiled out of the corner of her mouth towards him. She reminded herself that today she would not run, she also would not watch him walk away.

She had already learned what both of those things cost.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Dominic Praxon EQUIPMENT:

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[Dominic Praxon]

It was remarkable, Dominic reflected with a tightening of his throat, how a single voice, softly spoken, entirely unthreatening, could bring a man to heel more effectively than any Senate summons. He halted at once.

Slowly, with all the care of a man rearranging a shattered composure, he turned to face her.

“Lady Sal-Soren.” The title emerged too quickly, too neatly, an instinctive shield. His gaze flickered once, an uncontrolled, traitorous thing, before settling into the polished neutrality he had perfected over years of political survival.

Her words followed, light as silk and twice as cutting.

“You know you don’t have to leave the room every time you see me.”

Dominic felt something inside him jolt, guilt, or maybe recognition, the sharp echo of a moment he had revisited far too often in the privacy of his own conscience. But none of that reached his face.

“My business here is concluded,” he replied, far too swiftly for the line to hold any true conviction. He adjusted a cuff that did not require adjusting. “There was simply no need to linger.”

A lie, spoken with the elegance of a man who lied only to himself.

Then she asked, so simply, so devastatingly.

“How are you?”

It undid him.

Dominic’s mouth opened once. Then closed. Opened again. Then closed faster. The silence pressed in, expectant, merciless.

“I..."

"...oh. Fine.” The word stumbled, tripping over the remains of his composure. “Quite fine. Entirely so.”

He swallowed. He stood...quiet, stiff, betraying far more than any confession. “And your siblings,” he added abruptly, reaching for the nearest lifeline of mundane conversation. “Are they…well?”

But his eyes, for one unguarded heartbeat, revealed what his voice refused — You should hate me. Why don’t you? He tore his gaze away first.

Bastila Sal-Soren​