"Consider yourself lucky," he said, smiling as he placed the datapad down on his desk, "You're too lovely for anyone to hate you." It was, perhaps, another of the playfully inpolitic comments that he was infamous for, and loved to make. It had once been said that he had a way with words in the Senate Rotunda, but spent most of his time outside of it apologizing. "Still," he went on, drinking from his mug and then clearing his throat, "Even the hate mail's been more polite than the Senate lately."

"But enough of all that," he said with a shrug, as he went about unrolling his sleeves, buttoning the cuffs and eventually retrieving the jacket from the back of his chair and pulling it on. He finished his coffee, set the mug down, and approached Illanah, gesturing for them to walk for the door. "I didn't forget the reservation," he said, "I'm just late for everything now that I don't have a full time staff anymore to keep me on schedule. In retrospect, it's scary that I used to run the Republic. Shall we go?"

But this is why he enjoyed his time with Lana, infrequent though it was. She was one of few politicians he knew who was candid in her opinions, and even disagreeing with her on the Senate floor, as he did occasionally, was fun. It was refreshing, since politics lately had become so acrimonious. But above all, Illanah was one of few people he knew, certainly on Coruscant (where he spent most of his time, these days), who was willing to talk about something other than politics. Something else, to take his mind off of the speeches, the hate mail, Ponc and, yes, a certain slug. In any case, he definitely understood what Tremaine saw in her.

"Thank you," he said at Illanah's compliment, smiling with some embarassment as he looked idly at the carpeted floor a few paces ahead of them down the corridor while they walked. He didn't handle compliments well, because like most politicians he secretly enjoyed the approval of others and, also like most politicians, did not admit this even to himself. "Sorry to hear about Aris," he changed the subject, "Tell her to keep at it! I think I'm usually the one who gets Jena in trouble at school, because I'm always encouraging her to ask obnoxious questions. It's because I never had the chance to where I grew up, Sena says."

He trailed off for a moment, glancing out a couple of passing viewports as they went on their way. That sentence brought up more bad memories than he'd intended. "But how are you doing?" he asked, turning his attention back to her, "And how's Tremaine? I don't see much of him on the floor these days."

Insisting on holding his own door was, in fact, one of many aggravations he'd caused his poor staff (and his security detail) when he was Chief of State. For instance, he also wasn't used to traveling in a blastproof speeder; against the advice of everyone, he'd always declined all but the slightest security. His term was still remembered largely for the risks that he took, including multiple flights into Imperial Remnant space—and even speeches hastily delivered there—when the war was still on. This, and other little things (such as refusing to live in the Imperial Palace, as other Chiefs of State had and still did) he considered important symbols.

Not that he didn't mind a little privacy, however. It was nice to have a speeder that was more discreet for a change, to keep the cameras away. He relaxed on the speeder's upholstery, unbuttoning his jacket so that he could stretch his arm over the empty seat beside him, as he sat opposite of Lana. "I'm glad your children are doing well, especially Caden," he said, and then added honestly, "It's a hard time to be a Jedi. Most of the Senate hates them, and many of the people do too. Perhaps this is why we need them now more than ever."

"Speaking of the Senate," he said with a wry grin, stealing a glance at his wrist chrono, "Do you suppose the Sky Room serves drinks this early? I could sure use one after having to watch Senator Kruus, of all people, be appointed Poet Laureate." In fact, this was saying a lot for Fitzgerald who, as it was well known, drank rarely and, when he did, lightly. He had always boasted that his first official act as Chief of State was to remove the last Chief of State's liquor cabinet from his office and replace it with, no surprise, a small coffee bar. The office had smelled like caffeine ever since and, he was told, it still did.

But even though he'd never been one to drink alcohol therapeutically, he had found himself resorting to it more often lately. The peace treaty really did bother him as much as he said it did, and in honesty, Cambrist was probably half right about his motivations. That and no politician (despite what they say) could ignore their approval ratings, or feel warm inside to see them plummet. His advisors on Ralltiir were telling him that if he loses his election, it will be because he didn't campaign hard enough; the he didn't want it enough. Perhaps they were right.

He smiled at Lana, somewhat randomly as far as she would know, but he was glad simply not to think about all of that. Not now, at least.

Still, he felt guilty that he wasn't spending as much time on Ralltiir as he'd prefer. His parents never had a choice in the matter (the Empire ultimately decided how much time they would spend with Eli), but now he did. He tried to remind himself of this often, but politics seemed so demanding on his time that whenever he took a break from it, as he did now with Lana, he was reminded moreover.

The driver interrupted them, as the speeder pulled into an enclosed and lavishly decorated landing pad. "The Sky Room, Ms. Thanatos," he announced over the comm. Once again, Fitzgerald had him beat—opening the door long before he could, stepping out and holding the door for Lana. "Let's hope the media don't see us," he said, jokingly (and presciently, he would find out later), "They might get the wrong idea."

"As for the press," he said dismissively, "I don't mind them so much. I'm used to them writing silly things, although it's funny how circumstances change, isn't it? A few years ago, they were saying I was 'the most eligible bachelor in the galaxy.' Now it's stubborn this, and warmonger that. At least it's always entertaining. Thank you," he said to the droid as it returned with the drinks. The service was fast. He raised his glass, opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again, hesitating. "There isn't a lot to toast to these days, is there?" he asked, in a rare moment of realism from the Senator known usually as an optimist.

A moment of silence fell upon their table, as Fitzgerald glanced momentarily out the viewport at the stunning view of Coruscant outside. It occurred to him, then, that his current stay on the planet might be his last, depending on the election on Ralltiir—the last time he would see the glint of the sun on this austere skyline, the bustle of traffic, and the way everything seemed to shimmer at night (because of exhaust, mostly, but never mind that; it was beautiful). He glanced back to Lana and sighed, contently. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted when the waiter returned to the table a moment later and told him there was an urgent call waiting for him.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"A Mr. Barnum, Senator," the droid answered in its characteristic monotone.

Fitzgerald pressed his chair out from the table. "My campaign manager," he said to Ilanah, apologetically, "I don't want to answer, but he'll be mad if I don't. Will you excuse me for just a moment?" He stood, bowed his head respectfully to her, and straightened his suit jacket as he followed the droid toward the reception area. Lost in thought, he almost didn't notice Tremaine as he walked past, but placed his arm cordially on the man's shoulder as he did. "Hey, Tremaine," he said warmly, "haven't seen you since Morishim, old friend. Welcome back to Coruscant. I have to take a call, but Lana's just through there—I'll rejoin you in a moment." He nodded to him and hurried out of the room.