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"Lieutenant Croy." Her golden heels clop against the metal bridge, a high pitched, signature ringing echoing through the hall. Even if he didn't know her voice, he'd know that sound. He continues for a couple more steps, pretending he didn't hear her call over the hum and whir of the engines. "Lieutenant!"
"What?" Croy sighs as he turns on his heel, coming face to face with Amethia Tope once again. He takes his usual stance: hands clasped behind his back, chin tilted up. "What could it possibly be, Miss Tope?"
Against the flashing blue of the consoles, her skin almost glows, amethyst in both color and luminosity. For once, she is not in her opulent robes, but simple, silken nightwear set. Her pet isn't in tow either, but it's still present; it's ugly snort is hand stitched into the pocket of her pants. The dedication to ostentatiousness is unbelievably Coruscant that he can't help but roll his eyes at the display.
"I don't know what I have done to you to deserve this attitude-" Amethia stomps her foot and the clash of metal rings out- "But I believe I deserve an apology."
"An apology." Croy repeats. Behind his back, he tightens his hands and the leather creaks together.
"I have been trying ever so hard to enjoy my vacation." Her body is bunched with annoyance, shoulder high and tight around her ears. Her Twi'lek twin tails bounce as she talks. "But somehow I have been thwarted at every turn."
She steps forward. In the thin halls of the engineering bay, he has no where to retreat; Croy remains there, facing her anger.
"I spent thousands upon thousands of credits on what was supposed to be the most relaxing trip in the universe, only for that ship to be overrun with both rebels and storm troopers," Amethia seethes. "My room is painfully small, I could even not see my favorite singer in the whole universe perform, and frankly, the droid on board has started a tiff with my darling Skippy. I have been sick from the stress of it all-"
"I don't know what you wish me to do about it, Miss Tope."
Croy tries to sidestep her, but the smaller woman blocks him in, forcing herself even closer than ever.
"I-in fact," He stumbles over his words. "I am the one trying to quash this rebel uprising and save your vacation-"
"And yet when I offer my help with these rebels, you push me away." Her voice is carrying enough that he must look around to make sure no one else is listening. The guests should be sleeping, but the crew might still be awake- "Lieutenant, are you trying to-- how did you put it?"
Her eyes bore into his, her nose crinkled with disgust. "Cut the rot?"
He says nothing, jaw flexing as her chews his own words coming from her mouth.
"Am I rot to you, Harman?" Amethia spits. "When what I want most of all is to help you?"
She fumbles in her pocket for a moment before pulling out her communicator. In stark green, his messages flash on the screen. "After I pledged my allegiance to not only to the Empire, but to you?"
Something hisses in the distance. Her chest rises and falls as she tries to catch her breath, but her hands quiver around the communicator. There's a sea of text between them, a history he wishes he could forget.
After a moment of consideration, Croy pulls one of his hands free from his glove and carefully closes it over hers. She's warm, surprisingly so; Croy wonders if he's just forgotten how the touch of another feels.
"Amethia." He pushes her hand down, but doesn't let go. "I believe you are many things. You are spoiled and annoying and strange and loud-" Croy's voice drops to but a whisper. "But above all of those things, I believe you are kind. Too kind to involve yourself in this."
"You do not know me, Harman." His first name is unexpectedly soft on her lips. Amethia gently tries to pull her hand away, but, despite his gentle hold, she doesn't. It's for show, a last inkling of her pretend disgust. "You do not know me or my sister or anything-"
"I know that your hands are soft." Her runs his thumb against his for effect. "And I know it is never worth it to sully soft hands-"
This time, when their eyes meet, her gaze is softer, rounder-- a vessel not for anger, but for sorrow. Croy sighs, and already regrets what he is saying: "Or soft hearts by involving yourself with war."