| abstract | - Standing outside of Ylsa's apartment, Paul tugs on his clothes a touch nervously. Wearing a handsomely tailored outfit in warm browns and greens, he looks both stylish and natural. Hazel eyes, with colors all round to compliment them, spark as he raises his hand to the buzzer. Dinner and breakfast seem to be the meals that Ylsa and Paul share frequently these days, and while her apartment has a tendency to put him slightly on edge with all of it's perfect purity, somehow it seems more discreet than for her to constantly be spending the night over on the Wing. It's none of Sinjon's business, but somehow, with the Horansi being so much better and purer than thou, Paul feels more at ease spending the evening, and perhaps the night, at Ylsa's for a change. With a smile full of promise he presses his finger to the call button. An empty, noiseless moment follows Paul's pressing of the call button. The silence is heavy enough for someone to conclude that no one is present within to hear the chime. Interestingly, an odd mark rests on the door jamb near the button pad: a gouge, something like a claw might leave...or, perhaps, an electronic lock breaker? Noticing the mark belatedly, Paul frowns, fingering it suspiciously. While Ylsa has sometimes taken a moment to answer the door, she has yet to be late or absent. Reaching forward, he presses the button again, and then, presses the door, hoping that it will resist his attempts and prove his fears false. But yield it does, the electronic mechanism broken such that the door gives way and slides into the wall as designed to do. Within the apartment, that immaculate dwelling where nary a hair is out of place, chaos reigns. The coffee table is overturned, with its decoration - a bowl with minute glass beads - scattered to the four winds. The window is open as well, a drape fluttering mightily in the heavy Bespin breeze, and the former occupants of a fastidiously arranged set of bookshelves have been swept onto the carpet. Reaching for his blaster, Paul silently breathes a curse as he dressed for dinner, not for a fight, tonight. Slipping inside, eyes and ears intent for any sound, Paul reaches down, pulling out a knife that is always in his boot. It's not much, but will have to do in a pinch. Although it's quiet enough for him to suspect that the perpetrators have left, he doesn't dare call out his name and give away his position or potentially endanger Ylsa. Walking silently, checking every corner, Paul starts to make a rapid but through check of all the rooms, adrenaline rushing through his system as well as a low sense of dread. He doesn't even allow his imagination to start working over the scenario. The dining room, adjacent to the living room, has been similarly dismantled: the china press is overturned, and in the middle of the shattered dishes are the remnants of a hand-blown vase and a broken long-stemmed bloom. Further back into the kitchen is less disarray, though each of the cabinets is opened. As Paul approaches the bedroom noise is audible at last: the shredding of upholstery. And visible from the doorway are two shapely alabaster legs, bare and motionless upon the carpet. The sharp prick of panic for the worst is overcome by a burning rage and the adrenaline calling Paul to action -now-. He silently shifts his head to peek around the door frame, studiously not looking at Ylsa laying on the floor, but trying to get a good look at his opponent instead. The Rodian busily tearing apart the bolsters on Ylsa's bed looks up with that feeling of being watched; a quick glance at the floor indicates nothing to fear there, and he resumes rending a pillow in twain. Jerking back, Paul takes a deep breath, realizing that his opponent, if he lives up to the majority of his race, is not the smartest of creatures. Still, a blade is going to be of little use against those claws ... and if he's armed? No, this requires some less than brilliant strategy. Shifting past the door in a flash, Paul makes his way to the kitchen, fetching both a glass and a heavy pan. Testing the weight of it, Paul hefts it in one hand, shifting once again close to the edge of the door, making sure that the Rodian's trajectory will have him angled more toward the opposite side as he comes out of the bedroom. Taking a deep breath Paul hefts the glass carefully and chucks it hard. It sails across the living room to smash against the floor on the opposite side. Focusing on the light shining out from the bedroom, his own light source blessedly diffused, he waits for the Rodian to cast his shadow and come to investigate the noise. Sure enough, a minute later the Rodian comes out, puzzled look blanketing his green face and large eyes. He is armed, but only with a still-whole pillow. Burbling to himself, he raises a comlink and speaks into it; the rough voice answers in Huttese, "Then come back if it isn't there." Waiting till the Rodian is in the room and the communication has been terminated, Paul steps out from his hidden position, raising the pan high and bringing it down on the back of the Rodian's head with all the strength he can muster. The Rodian, hardheaded though he might be, slithers down to the ground in a green heap. Paul takes a minute to see if the Rodian is alive and if he is armed. Although every emotion tells him to check on Ylsa, he knows in the back of his mind that if the Rodian wakes up, he may not get such an easy shot again. A single blaster is on the Rodian, in its holster where it belongs. And while the being is alive, he is out cold. Drawing out the blaster Paul rises, thumbing it to stun, at the highest setting, before firing point blank at the Rodian. Sighing he then turns rapidly, rushing into the bedroom before drawing himself up short and carefully approaching Ylsa's still form, crouching down next to her to try to determine her condition. Ylsa is unclothed, sprawled near her bed with one of her silken dresses, a towel near her still-damp hair. Face down in the carpet, she is still but seems not to be bleeding; upon further examination, however, the beginnings of bruises can be seen on the side of her face, against her shoulder, and, most alarmingly, across one side, which is puffy and red. Making sure that the worst of her injuries are the bruises, Paul gently rolls Ylsa over, gathering her up tenderly to lift her and lay her out carefully on the bed. Pulling a light blanket over her figure, Paul sits down next to her to carefully examine the bruising, eyes growing dark with anger, though deep down there is a release of tension at the relatively minor injuries. Brushing away a damp tendril of hair, Paul releases a breath, murmuring, "Awww honey .... I'll be back in a sec," before dropping a kiss to her brow. Rising up he heads to the bathroom and the kitchen to get what he needs - a bowl of cold water, some towels, and a few ice packs that he blessedly discovers in the freezer. Returning with these he settles himself next to her again to apply a little cold therapy. At the touch of chill against her skin, Ylsa lets out a mumbled sound of complaint and struggles feebly, though any malcontention evolves into an indication of pain. Still groggy, eyes as yet closed, she bats and pushes at the hand near her ribs, muttering all the while in that melodic language he has come to recognize as her native tongue. Keeping his voice low and easy he comforts, "Shhhh, it's alright Ylsa ... it's Paul. Just rest easy and lie still for a bit." He eyes the swelling against her side, wondering if she was hit there or fell on something. Having cracked and broken a few ribs himself, he knows how painful that can be. He offers no pressure, just lays cooling packs against the swollen area, watching her breathing carefully. "Ylsa, can you hear me alright? Ylsa, it's Paul." Ylsa opens her eyes to show slivers of sapphire, a lack of comprehension and awareness emblazoned on her pale visage. Then, as consciousness clarifies itself, her expression alters to show fear; her eyes open more widely, and, as perhaps expected, she tries to leverage herself upright. "Paul..." That movement was a mistake, of course, and she flops backward onto the cushions with a mewling complaint not unlike that of a small animal in distress. Laying a hand against her uninjured shoulder, Paul speaks softly and clearly, his voice devoid of any of the tender emotions that prick at his throat. "Ylsa, you have to lie still ... the Rodian has been ...dealt with, and I'll jerririg a lock for the door in just a minute. You need to be quiet ... you very well may have some cracked or broken ribs ... and if you thrash about and one is broken, you'll puncture a lung. You hear me?" "Yes." Lucid at least in that one syllable, Ylsa lies motionless and moves her gaze about the room in a meticulous search of perhaps a half-minute before her eyes flutter shut and her muscles unclench. "What Rodian?" she finally asks, fatigue and pain tingeing her words but each syllable crystal-clear. "There was one awaiting me as I left my bath, but not a Rodian." Her words taper off, a hand rising to press against her temple. _Shiisa_ Paul glances about uncertainly, as no other beings have made their presence known ... and hopefully they won't. "What was waiting for you?" he queries softly, the blaster he had laid on the floor nearby being lifted again warily. Ylsa does not answer for three seconds, then four, then five. Thinly she explains, "One of Ullo's men, a human. Perhaps a Mandalorian. He...struck me." A breath seeps out from her and is retaken before she clarifies: "I believe he did. We quarreled first. They did not hurt you?" The question from her happens to contain a peak of concern, not for herself but rather for the man in whose care she is placed. "-They- do not appear to be here at the moment ... just the one, unless the others are hiding," he murmurs low. Leaning close, Paul covers Ylsa up again whispering, "Let me double check everything and get a temporary lock on the door .... be right back. -Don't- move," he warns, his eyes dark and somber before he shifts off of the bed, blaster raised as he moves to re-check the rest of the apartment. Moving is pain, so Ylsa obediently remains still, a hand atop the icebag nestled against her side, her other arm over her eyes. Though Paul has already arisen and is likely out of her bedroom, she whispers, "Be careful." The bedroom and bathroom seem clear, Paul closing doors and locking them to ensure that no one can double back. He feels a touch foolish, lurking about in what is most likely an empty apartment, but if there -had- been more before, there may still be more now. Course, the Rodian speaking into the comlink was also a good indication that the others had left ... but why? Searching an apartment of this size is easier and faster with several than one. The kitchen too is clear, but remembering the waving curtains from the patio door, Paul slinks carefully over, crouching low to be below normal target level, his head jerking around the corner to take a quick look, blaster ready. No, the apartment is indeed empty save the remnants of Ylsa's possessions, the Rodian, and Ylsa herself. On the patio is nothing but an overturned table, most likely in anger. Things appear - appear, mind you - to be quiet, like the aftermath of a Calamari typhoon. He doesn't like it ... not one bit, and after double-checking the rooms, Paul heads over to the main door, staring at it for a moment before deciding that the system has been fried. And the only way to lock it now is to fry it ... this time for real. Aiming the blaster at the panel, Paul fires, the controls melting the lock into place. "It was gonna need a new lock anyway," he mutters to himself, turning back to check on Ylsa. Miracle of miracles, she is as-yet lying where he left her on the bed with hand pressing the ice pack against her side. Pale are her features, lips approaching chalk while, and her breathing is a shade too rapid to make a doctor comfortable. When Paul reappears, however, she arranges her expression to a less distressed appearance and inquires, voice tight, "Is everything all right?" Nodding slowly, Paul takes in her color and her respiration, not liking either. Kneeling beside the bed he murmurs softly, "Ylsa, I want you to take as deep of a breath as you can. If you feel a sharp pain, stop, but try not to jerk, alright?" Very carefully Paul pulls away the ice pack, his gaze professional as he considers her side carefully. "I don't suppose you have an aid kit with a fracture detector in it, do you?" "W-why would I?" is her answer, a trifle petulant, even peevish, but that can be excused because of discomfort evidenced in her gritted teeth. Then, obedient to his professional tone, she inhales until, abruptly, she emits a heartfelt cry of anguish, then a single sob...which she hurriedly gulps back. The detached air about him cracks, his hand taking hers and gripping it tightly as he consoles, "Easy, okay, breathe lightly Ylsa, breathe lightly." Bringing his face up and close to hers, Paul murmurs, "You have either cracked or broken some ribs I'm guessing ... don't see the point of me poking at you to determine which it is when a proper medical scanner will do so painlessly. Just lie still and let me call for emergency medical." One hand, of it's own accord, reaches up to brush away a tendril of hair from her sweated brow, a cool cloth following to wipe at her features tenderly. Ylsa's hand lances outward to forestall his action. "No!" she exclaims stridently, then, sinking backward, she adds with less deliberation, "No. I am fine. Bruises, nothing more. The...the best thing is for you to assist me to your ship." A shallow breath is inhaled cautiously, then expelled with equal care. "I have no need of medical facilities." Staring at her for a moment Paul leans close again, his hands resting lightly on her arms. "Ylsa ... this is could be -quite- serious. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have emergency medical come and take care of you properly." Cocking his head, he sits back slightly, covering her side with the ice bandages while he waits for her reasons. "The facilities here are likely monitored by Imperial officials," Ylsa answers while her eyes grow heavy-lidded, then close. "Certain questions can be difficult if any scanners are used. I..." She swallows, summoning courage to continue unabated while suppressing discomfort, and manages to gain a more upright position. "My family has distinctive blood." Nodding without relish, Paul sits back on his heels, hand raising to rub across his face thoughtfully. "I need something I can tear up into long strips for bandages ... you have any sheets you don't particularly mind parting with?" Hazel eyes lift from the floor to meet Ylsa's, dark with emotion and sharp with control. Smiling without a scrap of humor, Ylsa responds caustically, "Considering the disaster that is my bedroom, a sheet is hardly to be missed at this point. Help me up?" "In a minute," he replies, "rest easy for a minute while I prepare them." Rising up, Paul casts his gaze about before settling on a discarded white sheet on the floor. Sweeping it up he efficiently starts to tear it into strips, settling himself on the bed again, this time the opposite side from where Ylsa lies. Raising his head and jerking it toward the door, he asks, "So ... what do you want me to do with the Rodian?" Ylsa asks with a tiny thread of terror in her voice, "He is not dead, is he? If you have killed him, Ullo will come after me with ... " The fear assaults her full-force, and she allows herself a moment or two of silence to regain her composure. The unexpected violence of the evening, her apparent failure to protect herself properly, and an undisclosed concern have rattled her otherwise-unflappable self-control, and, to her consternation, tears appear in the corners of her eyes. "_Baasikk_," she curses, angrily brushing them away from her cheeks. "Paul...we must go, if nothing else. I have put you in danger." Reaching across the bed, Paul takes her hand, waiting till Ylsa's gaze meets his. "He's not dead ... and I suspect he has no idea what happened to him ... he certainly did not get so much as a chance to see me." Gathering up the bandages, he murmurs, "Hold on, I'm going to lift you now to wrap your ribs." His hands carefully reach behind Ylsa's bare back, supporting her as he brings her upright. Try as she might to restrain vocalization of her discomfort, one blistering outburst is yanked from her throat; her coloration, which had begun to pinken, turns snowy once more. "I...am sorry," she breathes once the spiking pain has diminished. "I have gotten soft." For a long moment, Paul stares at Ylsa, struggling with a decision before he carefully lowers her back down to the bed. Turning away for a moment he fiddles with something out of sight ... the Rodian's blaster, which he sets to the lowest stun setting. "It's alright Ylsa," he murmurs, "It has nothing with you being "soft" ... broken ribs are extremely painful ... I know from experience." Turning his head to glance over at his shoulder, he adds softly, "However, I can't wrap you and get you to the ship this way ..." Turning away, Paul takes a deep breath before turning back, blaster in hand. "Forgive me," he murmurs softly, his finger pressing the trigger. With no time to react or prepare, Ylsa gasps once before falling back against the mattress, limp and blissfully unaware of her surroundings ...and her pain. Gathering up the bandages and Ylsa, Paul tightly binds her chest, the work made harder by her limp frame, as much as it is made easier by the silence in which he works. Choosing a flowing rose caftan, Paul slips it over Ylsa's nude form before lifting her into his arms. As he heads toward the front door, blaster tucked into his pants, he glares down at the senseless Rodian, one foot striking out to kick the green being - once. Hard. Striding to the door then, he raises the blaster again, firing to blast away the locking mechanism completely. The door obediently opens to a push, and laying Ylsa down gently again, he closes the door behind him. It's sure to draw some attention, but not as much as leaving it open would. Gathering her up again, Paul curses softly as he recalls that they were -looking- for something ... something that he forgot to ask Ylsa about before rendering her unconscious. "Shiisa," he curses low, making a mental note to come back later. Staring down into Ylsa's peaceful features, he presses a tender kiss to her brow. "Hold on sweetheart ... have you on board soon." As if she can respond? Ylsa's thankfully lightweight frame is easily nestled in his arms, and she makes nary a sound or movement as he bears her toward his ship. Limply she bobs along as he carries her away from the destruction of her home, her tousled hair half-masking the welt along her cheek and temple. Taking less traveled routes, Paul manages to avoid attracting too much attention. Arriving at the Wing, he spares not a moment but takes Ylsa straight to his room, laying her down on his bed carefully. He leaves her only for a moment, pulling out his well stocked aid kit from the cockpit before setting himself down next to her. Pulling out several tools, Paul first gives Ylsa a painkiller, then something to gentle rouse her from her unconscious state, and finally he draws out a fracture detector, placing it gently against her injured side and scanning through the bandages to determined what is cracked and what is broken, and to see if he's done a decent job of setting them or not. One hand rests with soft but determined pressure against Ylsa's chest, holding her down against the bed while he examines her injuries more thoroughly. The stimulant does its work well, rousing Ylsa from her stunned state while the painkiller makes the journey easier. As her damaged ribs are probed, she murmurs a few words of complaint but no longer of discomfort, and when her eyes open their murkiness is thanks to the drug rather than wooziness fraught by whatever is beneath her face's swollen discoloration. One thing is certain: she is conscious but confused, and her expression denotes with clarity her lack of awareness. Eyes flickering up to take in her altered consciousness, Paul softly reiterates the facts to Ylsa. "It's alright ... you're on the Wing, your apartment had been broken into, I assume by your employer's men ... they were looking for something. You have suffered some injuries ... specifically two cracked ribs ... none seem to be broken though," he breathes with an edge of relief in his voice. Placing the scanner aside, Paul places his hands on either side of Ylsa, leaning close. "How do you feel?" Ylsa answers bleakly, "Oddly out of touch with the rest of me. I remember the rest somewhat and my head aches." Her eyelids lower, then raise, her gaze remaining unfocussed and her pupils a touch dilated. "I am such a bother, Paul...my profoundest apologies." Raising one hand to hold her face, thumb lifting her lid fractionally, he checks her dilation. "Are you cold? There may be some internal bleeding ... nothing to mess around with, let me tell you." His soft medical banter helps to cover his emotions, but his eyes do not. Swirling in a mix are anger, and worry, and something more tender and less definable. "Ylsa ... what were they looking for? I thought Ullo didn't believe in having "damaged" merchandise?" Weakly she shakes her head and clutches at the Corellian's hand, keeping him within a comfortable range. Her guise of sophisticated, in-control businesswoman has been shattered: she is now every inch a battered, beleaguered, and frightened girl whose injuries combined with the painkiller have rendered her virtually helpless. Trying valiantly not to cry in front of Paul and lose face entirely, she sniffs, "I should not have struggled with them...it was my doing." "Bakaru," Paul softly barks. "They broke into your apartment and tried to take something from you ... this is -not- how employers are supposed to deal with their employees." Snorting softly, Paul does a valiant attempt to cover his rage, but his eyes fairly percolate with the emotion. "If I were you," he growls, "I'd complain to the union." A small twisted smile curls his lips as he raises a hand to brush tenderly against her features. "What did they want?" Trying to smile, Ylsa reaches a tremulous hand to Paul's cheek to cup his chiseled features. "Ullo would be unhappy with them if he discovered what had happened, but they know I cannot tell him, not when..." A small, nearly unnoticed tremble courses through her, making her hand slide from his face. When she can continue, her voice is somewhat diminished. "Not when I have withheld something of value from him." Taking that hand tenderly, Paul presses his mouth to the knuckles, brushing his lips against the back. "I think he may have guessed ... the Rodian one at least will have injuries to explain, as well as the loss of a weapon and a comlink. But why can you not tell him? Is that what they were looking for ... something that you've been withholding from Ullo?" Ylsa's nod is mute and her expression, begging forgiveness, clouds over. She averts her gaze, then closes her eyes altogether. When she speaks a moment later, it is not entirely with the openness with which she has discussed things earlier in the evening. "I will explain later," she begins, then, with a twinge of discomfiture, she adds, "I can barely think...." Stroking a hand through her hair, he knows an evasion when he sees one, Ylsa's face giving away probably far more than she would be comfortable with. Dropping his face closer, Paul presses a soft kiss to her brow, murmuring, "It's alright .... just rest. You don't have to tell me." Rising up, his hand lifts, knuckles brushing over her uninjured cheek. "I'm going to leave you just for a minute ... get some ice packs for the swelling. Just rest easy ... and let me know what you need from your apartment, alright?" Ylsa opens her eyes to gaze at the Corellian and, for a second, perhaps even a half-second, her mask slips and what is revealed is naked terror at being alone. With alacrity she yanks a facade of acceptance over any distress and replies to his question, "Clothing, makeup...I can get them before we leave, Paul. It is all right." Reaching down to take her hand, he murmurs softly, reassuringly, "I'll be right back." True to his word, Paul is only gone for a few moments before he returns with the packs, laying them gently against the side of her face and neck. "I really should pick up some bacta packs ..." Sitting on the edge of the bed he takes Ylsa's nearest hand in his own, fingers stroking soothingly. "Are you sure there is nothing you need me to get or rescue from your apartment. Nothing important?" His gaze lifts to his desk, the Tamisian tome resting there from the night before. He'd stayed up all night reading it, but as he recalls the Rodian's words and the reply, his gaze shifts back. "They weren't looking for the book you gave me, were they?" Silence. Stark, utter silence. Ylsa seems so out of sorts, especially for her, that the tears reappear in her gaze. Inhaling as deeply as she dares, she instead answers, "All that is important to me is presently with me, Paul. That is all you need know. The things broken in my apartment were borrowed or simply baubles acquired over the years. Do not fret." Patting her hand gently Paul takes the deep breath that Ylsa cannot, not enjoying the particular sensation that he is experiencing. Impotence. An inability to do anything more than simply sit. There is an urge to retaliate, or take at least some form of action. But he also knows that right now she needs him to simply be with her. His mouth opens to ask another question, and then stops. Instead he sits quietly by her side, holding her hand for a long time, his other hand reaching over to wipe gently at the tears forming in her eyes. "You should rest ... maybe sleep?" Ylsa nods, her horror palpable at such emotion and such vulnerability, and when she manages to meet Paul's eyes once more, gratitude shines in the sapphire depths. Perhaps surprisingly she begins to speak, changing the subject to a startlingly personal revelation. "When I was younger, when the Empire came, things were not always easy for me, Paul. I am not the average woman, I am stronger and more adept at caring for myself. But...but...I am still a woman, and there are things a man can do to subdue me. Years have passed since then, but whenever I think my fears have died, I am reminded cruelly of them and what caused them. I hate that I am so weak in front of you, but..." And there she lets her voice die down to nothingness, likely due to her throat's constriction. Listening quietly, his hands holding hers firmly, Paul's head dips, hazel eyes meeting her gaze evenly, with no censure in them. There are implications in her words that cause a sick feeling in his stomach, a thought that hadn't occurred to him before of something that might have been done to her in the past .. might have been done in the last hour. "You are not weak ... you were taken unawares, without means to defend yourself readily at hand." Squeezing her hand in his, he assures her, "Believe me, I've often made a false move, or simply been in an untenable position, unable to protect myself. I have the scars to prove it. There's no shame in that." His gaze drops for a moment before raising again with concern glimmering in the golden-green depths. Leaning closer, laying a hand to stroke over her hair, he murmurs uncertainly, "Ylsa .... did they ... he ... what did he do to you?" "Nothing that I have not endured in the past," Ylsa explains thinly, then, with shame mottling her visage, murmurs, "I should sometime explain other aspects of my contract with Ullo, Paul. The Rodian was nobody, but the other...he is someone of rank within Ullo's organization and is presumed to have privileges." She shudders and gives Paul a smile intended for reassurance; certainly the discussion feels cathartic and has calmed her somewhat. "You are one of the few gentlemen left in the galaxy, my dear Corellian. It is why you are cherished by women." His grip tightens before it gentles, a blatant rage surging to the fore before he manages to restrain it. It's a horribly macho thing to say, but to his very core Paul feels it when he murmurs, "You're not working for Ullo any longer ... I won't let you. We can send him a credit check when we're done if honor demands it of you." It's one thing to do such a service willingly, Paul is familiar with that career choice, but this is not the same. The dissipation of tension, which had added years to her lined features, has a remarkably youthening effect when it slips away from her and leaves her smiling softly, tenderly, at the dashingly noble man beside her. "For someone so scarred," she whispers, finger touching his lips, "you are remarkably naive. I pray that that never changes." "I mean it Ylsa," he murmurs from behind her finger, eyes somber and serious. "Unless you tell me that you -want- to work for Ullo, and after all you've told me, I don't think you could do so without lying, I won't let you go back. We'll buy your freedom or figure out some plan that will allow you to leave him. It's not naivetŽ ... it's determination." And if the sharp light in his eyes is anything to go by, the Corellian means it. Dubious at best, downright afraid for Paul -- and herself -- at worst, Ylsa can think of no better response to such vehemence than to force her tortured body upright so that she can kiss the Corellian with a sweet intensity. "We shall see," is all she allows before sinking backward onto the mattress. The Corellian will concede to a tie, though the very idea that she had been forced, has been, still causes a deep burn to percolate in his chest. Reaching a hand to tenderly stroke her brow, he murmurs, "Can I get anything for you ... food? Something to drink?" Secretly Paul can't help but wish he'd had a different setting on the blaster when he shot the Rodian. Ylsa, giving her head a minute shake, gives Paul another earnest answer: "I need to bathe, I want to bathe, but that can wait. It will have to. I am so very tired, and my head aches." Suppressing a shudder, Paul rises up, still holding her hand. There is no way he's going to let her remain as she is a moment longer. "I can handle the bath part. You're not going to be able to bathe properly for a bit, but a sponge bath will help. And I'll get sometime more for the pain ...." Reaching for his kit, Paul pulls out yet another painkiller, checking the dosage carefully before settling himself next to Ylsa, pressing the sleeve of her caftan up to inject the medication. Any protestations that Ylsa might have formulated are thrown to the winds with the injection, the result being a further slacking of her muscles and the half-lidding of her eyes. Her fingers catch on his hand, holding him for a minute while she enjoys his nearness and the reassurance of his deliberation and strength. "Thank you," is all she whispers. Pausing for a moment, a soft sigh feathering across her temple as he leans close, Paul breathes, "You're most welcome ... only wish I could do more." And then he is gone, the sounds of water coming from the refresher. Soon after he returns, his presence merely the soft ruffling of clothes, the scrape of a chair. The painkillers in effect, and her ribs safely bandaged, Paul feels more at ease with moving Ylsa. Lifting her gently, he removes the caftan before sponging her clean with fresh hot water and a sweet smelling antiseptic that doesn't need to be rinsed away. He bathes her thoroughly, still horrified in part at what she's been through, what she's offered up and had taken from her by force. But somehow he toils over her with a soft song that he hums as he gently scrubs at her flesh. Lulled into a sense of serenity that, considering the afternoon's events, can be construed as startling, Ylsa begins to doze thanks to the tender ministrations from Paul's gentle hands. The last painkiller has worked miracles for easing a legion of aches and pains, and the nearness of this Corellian, his dedication to her safety, has reassured her so utterly that a blissful sense of safety has permeated her very being. By the time the bathing is complete, she is deeply asleep...and with the faintest of smiles on her lips. Shifting her to put dry bedding beneath her, Paul covers Ylsa with a sheet and a soft blanket. Pulling up a chair he settles himself next to her, the book that has caused all of this trouble, unbeknownst but suspected by Paul, he draws into his lap. His fingers trace over the binding thoughtfully before he opens it, pulling out his glasses and pressing them over the bridge of his nose. A leather notebook is pulled from his satchel and flipping through the original Paul begins to take painstaking notes ... in particular, copying as best he can the drawings of several statues pictured in the book. If he's going to give it up for her well being, he best get as much as he can out of it while there's still time ...
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