nothing for me today.

for you?

She can walk, but she accepted the droid's help getting to bed anyway. Her memories of how she was injured are already dim and distant. She wishes, sharply with regret, that she could still heal herself.

[An image of him sitting beside her bed: her appearance is vague and not really defined, but it is clearly her, somehow.]

She sends appreciation, and swirls thinly around him; she's not weak, exactly, but even mental effort aches, and most of her energy is being used elsewhere.

He wonders what she's doing.

it's okay if you can't stay.

He wants her to stay, badly, but she needs all the strength she can get, and he's not breaking down so much right now.

No - stubbornness, stubbornness and willpower - staying is important; because he needs her, and for another, forgotten reason too. (The swirl gets a little more substantial, and even as she manages it he can feel her gasp in pain and curl up tighter, and a moment later be covered with and comforted by a thick quilt - the droid, her droid, she loves her droid.)

He loves her droid too, almost immediately.

He doesn't push her to leave. He tries to send her his own thin, wavering energy again, stay with her as much as she's staying with him.

She stays. She's weaker, less alert, not even close to being able to communicate; she responds to his thoughts as if they were her own, more often than not. But at the same time, she's doing something new; he can feel her, lying in bed, aching, as if her body was an extension of his, smell the tang of sweat from earlier exertion, see that her eyes are closed, until they briefly aren't, giving him a view of crimson bedthings and crowded dark-wood bookshelves. Only hearing is missing; there's something like it, but - garbled, delayed, almost to the point of uselessness, and she's mostly ignoring it.

...oh.

His first instinct is to try to wiggle his? her? fingers. 

She has to cooperate, but it doesn't take much effort to. Wiggle.

This is incredible.

why?

She doesn't know, but she does know that there's a reason.

She trusts herself-who-was-smarter on it; it will, probably, make sense when the fog lifts.

That makes sense.

He tries to move her arms enough that she's hugging herself gently.

She stops him, when it pulls painfully on the bruises at her back. But she gets the idea, and she loves him, too.

Loves him!

He puts his own arms around himself, shy, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

(It’s good, though, and that will keep them alive, too.)

Aww. He's so cute. Of course she loves him.

[An image of a young girl cradling a furry animal in her arms that he doesn’t mean to send.]

Gosh. (Sith don't get to see many cute kids with furry animals.)

—oh, she liked that. Well...

[Viewed from an alleyway, two men each holding a little girl’s hand, swinging her up into the air. She’s giggling.]

[A soft, furry six-legged creature barely visible in its nest inside a fallen log. It’s curled around its pups.]

[A sunrise over glittering snow.]

Aww. Aww. Aww. And then a moment of confusion - what's that sunrise from? She doesn't watch sunrises; sunsets are so much better. She's going to name herself for them, when - when something. But she's going to. Pradnakt.

pradnakt.

[The same view of a field of snow, with a single track of footprints. Above it is a gorgeous, fiery sunset.]

Awesome.

She uncurls on the bed - it still hurts, but she doesn't care - and opens her eyes to show him the sunset scene above her bed, a bas-relief of stone and gems lit from behind.

...it’s beautiful.

yours?

Pleasant memories, of sanding down the large plates of stone, of sorting through diamonds and rubies to find ones that would glitter just so, of sneaking glances at the stored materials when she was meant to be working. Yeah.

He pictures painting delicate lines with gold leaf down some of the curves. His hand is quick and steady.