Throw Your Pennies Back - ShastaFirecracker (2025)

fountain, fountain, we are the same
all that anyone ever has for you are the things you reflect back to them
don't you wish you could throw your pennies back at them?

-

1

The loss of Atollon was one of the longest days of Kanan’s life, in a life of some very long days.

Familiarity with catastrophic loss didn’t make it any easier to bear. He knew so many of the right words to tell others to be a balm on their mental wounds, but none of those words worked on himself. He held each beloved face in his mind’s eye, tracing their imagined worry lines, thanking every particle of good in the universe that his own family were still alive.

By the time the remnants of the fleet reached Yavin 4, he’d been running with his Force-sense wide open for a gruelingly long time. He'd needed to see the shape of the spaces and actions happening around him, which took more out of him than just picking up vague auras of emotion. Even on the Ghost, where he could usually close himself off and rest in mental silence, he’d had to keep his senses blown wide to account for all the unfamiliar bodies crowding a layout he knew by instinct. And now that he was on the ground in Dodonna’s base, on a planet he had no way to interpret other than hot and loud, he still couldn’t rest his mind or else he’d get lost in the maze of temple rooms.

He was so close to being able to go back to the Ghost and just stop. He and Hera had only now gotten out of their exhaustive debriefings, and they’d agreed to run a last few essential errands before they were supposed to meet back at the ship to… well, probably to fall apart. But Kanan couldn’t fall apart, couldn’t shut down, couldn’t let himself feel the kind of day he’d really had, until he was alone with Hera. There was no one else for him but her. He just needed the silence, and her voice in the dark.

Slump-shouldered, Kanan finally reached the place he’d been informed was the current supply warehouse. He'd been warned that no staff had been available to sort the most recent seized shipments, nor the few cargo-holds' worth of goods that had managed to be saved from Atollon, so the warehouse was currently a disaster zone. Kanan had been hoping to find someone on the way who could help him look for the things he needed, but everyone was rushing off their feet with the aftermath of the crisis. Being a blind man's personal shopper was a negligible priority, Kanan understood that. If he got to the warehouse and there was nothing he could do, he'd give up on his errand and head home.

Of all the voices he did not need to hear right right now, AP-5 arguing with Agent Kallus was high on the list.

“Why should I care what size you wear?”

“So that you can issue me something, anything, I don’t care about appearance -“

“Your facial hair belies that statement.”

“You are an inventory unit, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, define me by my manufactured purpose, how Imperial of you.”

“What - no - you’re in the quartermaster’s warehouse, doing inventory, I thought you were who I needed to report to.”

“Report to me! It’ll be a cold day on Dathomir when anyone reports to me. No one tells me anything. Welcome to a new base, AP-5, why don’t you take a look at the inventory, AP-5, as if I hadn’t just completed the most perfect set of spreadsheets on Atollon, but no, your lot had to go and explode most of it - my beautiful system -“

“I - people died.”

“Thank you for noticing, my personnel roster is also utterly ruined.”

“I can’t deal with… please, I just need a shirt. Any shirt.”

“Go find one, then! Ruin my rudimentary beginnings of a system.”

“How am I supposed to know what I’m allowed to -?”

“Allowed to! Just take whatever you want! One thing the Empire and the rebels have in common, taking whatever they want.”

“I’m trying to have some regard for order, you insufferable -“

Kanan decided he’d better intervene before the rebellion lost another member (bets still out on which one). He rounded the wall quickly, injecting confidence and energy into his movements that he didn’t really feel. He called out, "Agent! Didn't think I'd run into you again so soon."

There was a beat. Kallus sounded wary when he said, “Ah. Hello.”

AP-5 said, “Commander Jarrus, I cannot begin to tackle the issue of organization if this entitled stray keeps asking me to fetch things for him.”

Kallus made an affronted noise, and Kanan tried to begin, “I doubt that’s -“ But he stopped himself. Don’t engage. “I’m sorry,” he said evenly. “I’ll take responsibility for Agent Kallus. You do whatever you need to do.”

“Thank you.”

“And don’t forget to take a break to charge. Supplies’ll still be here tomorrow.”

“In a fresh new hell of disarray, I am sure,” said AP-5, and turned and clanked away.

Kanan turned to Kallus and said, “Sorry about that. Organics offend him by breathing, it’s not just you.”

“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” Kallus said, his tone muted now. “I only need a shirt, and I wasn’t sure how else to address…” Kanan could hear the rustle of him waving his hand. “All this.”

Kanan focused his Force sensitivity onto Kallus, perceiving all he could. It wasn't quite like sight - it was more than that, an abstraction shaded in feelings and light and drifting connections. Kallus wasn't showing any outward signs of distress in his voice or movements, but his energy was shaking and cold like someone going into shock from blood loss. His edges were blurred and uncertain, like he wasn't fully present in reality. He seemed disfigured, somehow. It went deeper than the mere physical pain that Kanan could feel oozing out of him, no matter how stolidly he shoved it down.

Carefully, Kanan said, "I guess you're used to being issued everything?"

Kallus let out the tiniest of breaths. "Yes," he said.

"So, it feels like... stealing, to just come through and take stuff?"

"... I don't know. I don't want to take anything anyone else needs." Kallus paused. "I hardly even really need the shirt. I'm sure I can mend..."

"You do need the shirt," Kanan told him firmly, interrupting. "You need clothes that don't put a target on your back.” Kanan blamed his tiredness for why he hadn’t thought this sooner, but he came to the full realization even as it left his mouth: “You need everything, huh.”

Kallus was silent for a long moment. Quietly, he said, "It's my own fault I have nothing. I'm owed nothing."

"It's not about owing," Kanan said. "It's about basic dignity. You can take the things you need." He shrugged. "Maybe once it's more organized, AP-5'll be in a position to issue things. Honestly, once he’s gotten this sorted out, he’ll probably love you for respecting the supply chain.”

Kallus let out a slow breath. His energy still felt cold, but a little more stable. Kanan could tell he was looking around at the warehouse. At length, he said, "I haven't a clue where to start."

"Well," Kanan said, forcing some cheer, "you help me, I'll help you. Since we let half the fleet use the fresher coming here, Ghost's pretty much wiped out of toiletries and first aid. So that's what I'm hunting. Help me look?”

Kanan had gotten very familiar with the particular kind of silent beat that meant someone was remembering he was blind. "Oh," Kallus said. "I... admit I have no idea what it is you do, to... compensate."

"Jedi stuff," Kanan said, happily unhelpful. "It's fine in broad strokes but the Force can't read product labels. Point me to some clothes and I'll hunt up your sizes, and you can check whatever soaps are around for ones that are fragrance-free."

He could feel the whiplash as it moved across Kallus' forebrain. Questions felt like a carbonation bubbling at the surface of someone else's energy. Finally, with much restraint, Kallus said, "I... see some open crates with clothes this way."

Kallus led the way there. Once he had his hands on fabric, Kanan began feeling for labels, and asked, "So what size are you?"

"I... reg-18-B in Navy sizing, but..."

"Yeah, what's that when it's in the rest of the galaxy?"

"Maybe... large?"

Kanan furrowed his brow. "No, c'mon, I remember you being a big guy. Have you changed a lot?"

"I've... lost weight, this past year."

The shiver in his energy gave a rough tremor. Kanan considered him. Once the stress eased, once he started eating properly and sleeping without his neck being on the chopping block at every moment, he'd almost certainly regain lost weight. Kanan just shrugged and said, "Well, you're still tall, and better to have extra you can take in than no seams to let out. I'm going with XL-tall's, if I can find any."

Kallus hovered for a moment. Finally, one of those bubbles of curiosity forced its way to his surface. He said, “May I ask... why fragrance free?”

"Lekku have sensitive skin, and Zeb has a sensitive nose."

“…Ah.”

Kanan's roaming hands had found a stack of necklines where he could reach in and feel the coded bumps stitched onto the info tabs. Most manufacturers still used the same accessibility standards that predated the Empire, which was not something Kanan had been aware of before losing his sight, but which he was grateful for now.

"I'll just... go scrounging, then," Kallus muttered, and his steps moved away.

It took longer than Kanan might have wished, but eventually he and Kallus ventured into most corners of the warehouse. They weren't the only people who had come in looking for various things, either - at a distance, Kanan felt several strangers' momentary flashes of panic and distrust, all directed towards the faint tremble of exhausted pain that was Kallus. He didn't hear any hints of confrontation, though. People had enough sense to realize that a real Imperial officer would not be digging around in the supplies, fully uniformed, bloodied and limping. They probably assumed Kallus had come from an undercover op gone wrong. Which wasn't entirely incorrect.

He moved in Kallus' direction with an armful of hopeful clothes, reconvening near the doors. He heard a heavy rustling; Kallus was lifting something in his direction.

"Carryall," Kallus said. "And hopefully enough supplies for your crew."

"Great. How's this stuff look?" Kanan asked, hefting his armful.

"Like too much," Kallus said.

"But it'll fit?"

“Probably."

They hesitated for a moment. It was like a hostage swap. Kanan wanted to laugh, but he bit his cheek to keep it down. He was reaching the point of manic-tired.

Kallus started, “I’ll just…”

Kanan interrupted him: “Do you have somewhere to sleep?”

A beat. Then Kallus said, “It was indicated that bunking assignments would come after there’s been some time to reorganize. Most of the new arrivals have been offered bunk space by volunteers.”

“Most, huh,” Kanan said. “Okay. You’re coming with me, then.” When he heard Kallus start to say something else, he raised a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. The reorganization will come, give it time, and you’re not gonna get lost in the shuffle. In the meantime I’m not letting you sleep on the floor in a dusty corner. Rex is already staying with us, so you can share with him.”

Kanan could hear the click of Kallus’ jaw as he must have opened and then closed it again. Then he said, “The corners are more mossy than dusty, but… thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Meant what I said after we picked you up,” said Kanan. “You risked everything for us and we’re lucky you got out alive. I am… weird as it feels to say it… I am looking forward to working with you, Agent Kallus.”

Kallus’ voice was softer when he said, “Please… not Agent.”

Kanan considered him. In his Force-sense, Kallus had shifted somewhat as they’d talked - he’d gone from shaky and uncertain, to more firmed around the edges. Smaller, but firmer. Not for the first time, Kanan wished he could compare his visual memories of people to how they must have looked in the Force at that time, in the past. He’d only barely seen Kallus through the Force before now and part of him wondered… way, way back, when he'd first met Kallus, would Kanan have only seen a puffed-up cactus of righteous arrogance? Or would he have had the clarity to spot a caged light smothered by the lies Kallus told himself?

Probably not. But only because Kanan himself had done a good bit of growing over the years, too.

Kanan was beginning to suspect that Kallus hadn’t changed as much as he thought he had. The muted, melancholic light shining within Kallus now didn’t strike Kanan as a new-born thing. Fresh hope was fragile but blinding-bright. This hope was dull, starved and aching - but clinging tight, as if it had been holding on for a long, long time.

Kanan adopted an affect of insolent cheer and said, “And here I thought Agent was your given name!”

He’d judged correctly: Kallus gave a slightly disbelieving huff, startled by his own capacity for amusement. His Force-aura strengthened even more around the edges.

“It’s Alexsandr.”

Something about the sheer banality of the name sucker-punched Kanan harder than he’d thought it would. The shadow of ISB-021 loomed between two men: the jagged, tainted one who stood in front of Kanan now, and the one hidden behind the Agent, who had been an ordinary child with an ordinary name. Called to dinner by it, maybe, or told to clean up after himself.

Kallus would have been old enough during the Clone Wars to see and feel its horrors, more than Kanan ever could have, being a decade younger at the time and full of stars and hope and fledgling magic. Kallus might have even enlisted pre-Empire.

Kanan thought about Sabine at the Academy. He did some rough age math and thought about Alexsandr - not Kallus, but Alexsandr - cutting his hair to regulation, like Sabine. Being stripped of all color, like Sabine. Being as angry as Sabine once was, but burying it, giving it no outlet, beating himself into stillness over and over again until the light inside him nearly died.

Mouth dry, Kanan said, “Well. Let’s get out of here before AP-5 comes back.”

“Yes. And here - you don’t have to carry those.”

Kanan focused his senses on shapes and realized Kallus was holding out the carryall bag, open. Kanan rolled the clothes he’d collected into a bundle and shoved them in. Then he held a hand out and said, “I can take that, you’re injured.”

But Kallus didn’t hand him the bag. ”It isn't heavy. And speak for yourself. I can see that sand rash from a click away."

Kanan shrugged and dropped his hand, turning to leave. "Yeah, I don't recommend crashing speeder bikes in deserts."

"Hm. I don't recommend the Death Trooper massage technique, either."

It was so dry it took Kanan a beat too long to realize it was a joke. He coughed a disbelieving laugh. They started out of the warehouse, back towards the hangars, and Kanan said, "Hey... can I ask a favor?"

"Of course," Kallus said easily. Kanan marveled again at how much things had changed.

"Describe the landscape to me?"

That carbonation feeling surfaced in Kallus' energy again - questions held deep, unasked, suppressed until forgotten. He was bubbling to understand Kanan's vision better, but he shut away his curiosity. Kanan wondered if the rebellion would be able to break him of the habit. If nothing else, something about his mysterious stranding with Zeb had drawn those stinging, itching bubbles of questions out of him.

After a moment, without any questions, Kallus began to talk.

"It's a medium-sized moon, primary climate ranging between tropical and subtropical. Thick jungle biome, a range of carbon-based mammalian and avian fauna roaming near the base site, no noted examples of current sapience. There is a great deal of evidence of ancient civilization, pyramidal structures that General Dodonna's analysts have labeled temples, though their actual anthropological purpose is uncertain -"

Kanan couldn't let this travesty keep going on. He interrupted as gently as he could, "Alexsandr."

The use of his given name shut Kallus up fast and sent a shudder through his energy that Kanan didn't know how to interpret. Distaste, fear? Simple shock?

"Less like a mission report, please," Kanan said. He could feel that they had moved outside of the building and into the sunlight, and that the stones beneath his feet had gained a softer padding on top of them. Moss, he assumed. "Just... what does it look like?"

Kallus was quiet for a few steps. Then he said, "Green. All warm greens, yellow-hued. Humid - I suppose you can feel that. The sky is... tinted into the warm color spectrum, but not enough to indicate pollution. It's nearly sundown. The shadows of the trees are long and in constant motion. I find it disorienting."

"Anything blooming? Insects?"

"Surely you can tell there are insects," Kallus said dryly.

"Okay, yeah, I've got a few bites already."

"Blood gnats, yes. Beetles and lizards crawling on parts of the temples removed from habitation. I keep catching flashes of colorful birds in the undergrowth. Flowering plants, I couldn't say without getting closer. General Dodonna's occupation has trampled the pyramids and the area around them quite barren besides moss and lichen. There are large tangles of hanging vines in the trees and clinging to the stones."

Kanan let out a small sigh. No flowery language, still overly technical, but at least he had a better sense of the place around him. He hadn't been in many utterly unfamiliar locations since losing his sight – he's been on ships and in cities he'd been to before, planets he'd seen or at least knew what they were supposed to look like. Today had been a trying day, made that much worse by simply not knowing what was around him.

"Thank you," he said.

Hesitantly, neutrally, Kallus said, "May I ask why you haven't pursued medical intervention? I'm well aware that it's not that difficult to find off-grid surgeons or bionics manufacturers."

Kanan turned the question over in his mind. He noted, with curious approval, how carefully Kallus had not said 'fix.' Why haven't you fixed yourself, it's no big deal to fix yourself.

"I have my reasons," Kanan said, a little test he couldn't help needling Kallus with.

But Kallus passed it, because he only nodded and said, "Understood."

And damn it, Kanan thought maybe he really did understand. If not the exact reasons, at least the desire to hold his own imperfections close to his heart.

They'd reached the Ghost. Kanan didn't need to be told; he'd know the sounds and smells of her anywhere, but besides that, the Force-sparks of his family shone like a constellation. Their lights were battered and subdued, but still so warm, so stable, so all-enveloping. At the core of them was Hera, her Force-aura, as always, casting a huge shroud of tiny, fibrous connections to the entire shape of the ship and everyone within it. She didn't know that she held their home together with light, but Kanan could see it. And he'd never give that up, not for the best cybernetic eyes credits could buy.

As they reached the ramp, Kanan felt Kallus slow and fall behind. He turned his face over his shoulder and said, "Better not be thinking of refusing my hospitality."

"No," Kallus said quietly. His stride lengthened and he caught up. "I'm coming."

"Good. You owe us that much, minimum."

"What?"

"After refusing extraction multiple times? You owe us a chance to take care of you, at least for one damn night."

Kallus remained utterly baffled by the sentiment, but only said, "Thank you?"

Up the ramp. No one in the ship who didn't belong there. Kanan let out a breath, and tension along with it, and with each step he felt the Force dimming in his head. The release from overwhelming sensation was a cool balm. His mind had felt as burnt as his sand-abraded skin for so many hours, and he was so tired...

They climbed the ladder from cargo. No longer able to see in any way, even Force-assisted, Kanan still pointed in various directions with complete self-assurance. "This is where Hera and I will be, that's Zeb and Ezra, that's Sabine, and that used to be my room but Rex is in there now. I know he claims bottom bunk but if climbing with your leg's going to be a problem, I can talk him into switching."

"I've climbed the ladder from cargo multiple times today."

"Yeah, but you haven't slept yet. That next-day stiffness is no joke."

"Well - yes, but don't make any interventions on my behalf."

Kanan shrugged. The exhaustion was catching up with him and he found himself not particularly willing or able to give a kriff about what Kallus did anymore. He could feel the tingle of Hera's presence in her own room, probably curled up on her bed, and if he wasn't horizontal with his arms around her in the next ten minutes Kanan might... either Force-throw something or start sobbing, neither of which were ideal.

"All right," he told Kallus. "Do what you want. Don't kill us or steal the ship or... just don't be a mistake. Please."

Quietly, Kallus said, "I'll try."

"Gotta go to sleep," Kanan said, swaying on his feet. "Go sleep, Alexsandr. G'night." He turned to Hera's door, palm sliding over the panel, and didn't wait for a response.

Hera's room was cool and lacked the buzz of lights, so he knew it was dark. He closed the door and barely managed to get his shoes off without falling over. While he staggered, Hera's groggy voice mumbled, "Kanan?"

"Here," he said, and stumbled to her. She rolled over when he laid down.

He got an arm around her, her face to his chest, her hands seeking the bottom of his shirt to skim beneath. Just to touch, skin to skin, warm and desperate and the only thing he could ever need. She smelled like a long, miserable, unwashed day, and so sweet he could hardly stand it.

“Heard someone else,” she murmured into his shirt, nearly asleep again.

He mumbled, “I put him with Rex.”

“Who?”

“Shh. Sleep.”

“Nn hm.”

He fell asleep thinking I love you so loudly he didn’t know if he’d spoken it or not.

-

2

For the third morning in a row, Hera woke to the sound of a muffled thud and a curse.

She wasn't yet beyond feeling pleasure at Agent Kallus' expense, so him banging his head on the ceiling over his narrow top bunk wasn't a terrible wake-up call. Give it a few more days and she might start feeling bad about it.

Kanan and Zeb seemed to have made their internal peace with the man, which was their right. Hera didn't want to argue with them about it. And Kallus had done less to hurt Hera personally than he'd done to most of the rest of her crew - mainly because she'd usually been on the ship, away from the immediate threat of his guns and troops and torture methods.

But Agent Kallus had hurt her crew. Her family. Helped them too, sure, but Hera felt no urge to forget or forgive just yet. She could work with a man she didn't like - she'd been sucking it up and tolerating people she didn't like for her whole life - but still. If he gave himself a few more convor eggs on the forehead from sitting up too fast, she'd take her entertainment where she could get it.

The ex-Agent's daily altercation with the ceiling worked like a perfectly timed alarm. He and Hera seemed to have a shared inclination to wake up abruptly and completely, hammered into them by a lifetime of needing to be alert to danger within seconds of waking. And Kallus woke up (and sat up) at the same time every morning, almost to the minute, even though Hera had never seen or heard him set an alert on his datapad.

Knowing she wouldn't get back to sleep, Hera sighed and rolled out of her bunk. Kanan and Ezra had gone on an overnight exploration of some of the temple structures, hoping to find some spiritual connection with the ancients of this moon. Hera didn't begrudge it, but she did shiver a little as she headed for the sonic, missing Kanan's warmth.

She was pretty sure everyone else would still be aboard. Rex had slept through every single one of Kallus' morning concussions, too used to bunking with his brothers. Zeb would be blissfully sleeping in without Ezra around, and whether or not Sabine was ever awake was a total mystery, as the artistic impulse had no respect for sleep schedules.

Once out of the sonic and dressed, Hera popped her head into the cockpit to check that Chopper was charging peacefully. She brushed a hand over his dome and he faintly warbled, Another half hour.

"No rush today," she murmured.

He beeped and went silent again.

Outside the galley Hera paused, her stomach souring with irritation. She could smell caf, which meant Kallus was already up and brewing it - and brewing the first caf of the morning was her thing. No one else did it right, and it was her quiet time, and it was her caf machine, and how dare Kallus of all people touch her caf machine -

She opened the door prepared to chew him out, but the sight of him made her pause. He was standing by the counter with his head bowed, loose hair falling over his forehead, his expression drawn and oddly fearful. His injuries from fighting Thrawn had reached the ugliest stage of healing, emphasized by his pale complexion far more than Hera was used to seeing on the darker skins of her most beloved humans. His bruises were a mottled mess of streaked burgundies and greenish-browns with sickly yellow edges. His hands were on the countertop, fingers lightly curled under.

He heard her coming, of course, so she only had a glimpse of this vulnerability before his head shot up and he looked back at her, expression closing off. His blank severity was the face Hera was used to seeing, but it was hard to shake the knowledge of what was hiding beneath the mask.

Kallus said, "I hope it wasn't presumptuous of me to start the caf."

Hera pursed her lips. "It was," she said. "But it's fine. This time."

"I'm sorry."

"You'll only have to apologize if you make bad caf," she grumbled, and went to the pantry cabinets.

They had some breakfast bars left - not nutritionally balanced enough to qualify as ration bars, but Hera liked them. They had far too much sugar in them, but the sweetness was what made them worth taking up the storage space that probably ought to go to more efficient food stores. Hera almost never shared them.

She wasn't sure what spirit of generosity possessed her, or if it was just how pathetic Kallus had looked a few moments ago, but she pulled out two bars and tossed him one. He nearly fumbled it.

He didn't say anything. Irritation started stirring in her gut until she remembered snapping at him yesterday to stop thanking her for every tiny thing as if he were striving to fill a quota. She distinctly remembered saying, "I'm not your Empire superiors, licking my boots won't get you anywhere with me."

So he opened his food wrapper in silence and she couldn't be mad about it. She sank onto the bench at the dejarik table and took a bite of her own sweet, sweet breakfast bar. She sighed and took the quiet moment to really appreciate the flakes of tart fruit and rich chocolate mixed into the sugar-sticky grain. Hera's quiet breakfast time was for mindfulness practice, for centering herself, so that her lifelong well of anger couldn't get the better of her once the day got hectic.

She heard a small noise and opened her eyes. Kallus was chewing and looking mildly startled. Their eyes met accidentally.

He swallowed awkwardly and said, "Expecting a ration bar."

"Oh." She took another bite. "Guess I should've asked if you have allergies."

Standard rations were stripped of all major allergens and mainly manufactured out of crude proteins, carbs, and fats, with only a perfunctory attempt at flavoring. The only risks you ran with a ration bar were dying of boredom, or choking on one that had gotten too stale.

"I don't," Kallus said. "I just wasn't expecting... dessert."

Hera gave an unhelpful grunt. It was too early yet for talking.

Kallus took another bite and chewed in silence. After a while, he said, "Caf's done."

Hera made as if to stand up.

Kallus said, "How do you take it?"

She plonked her butt back onto the bench and considered the simple insanity of letting Agent Kallus make her a cup of caf.

"Two spoons of sugar," she said, finally. "In the big mug. Blue."

He found the right mug. He didn't add too much sugar. He added nothing to his own cup, which she didn't know if was by preference or by a desire not to take too much from his hosts. He brought the mugs over to the table and handed Hera hers before sitting awkwardly on the far end of the bench.

She didn't thank him, because she'd made him not thank her, so it felt even. He didn't offer to start any conversation; that was good, because she didn't want any.

Hera had known so, so many people in her life with whom this silence would have been excruciating. But for some reason, with Kallus, in the dead quiet of the early morning, both of them breathing in bitter steam... it felt strangely all right.

And gods damn it, Kallus had made the caf perfectly.

Hera let her mind drift in the simple liminal space of sweet sugar and bitter steam for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet. Other than the occasional click of Kallus' mug on the table and the soft tap of his finger on his datapad, he didn't make a sound. She didn't hate his presence. It was weird.

Finally, Hera let out a small sigh and stood to refill her empty cup. Maybe it was finally time to make a little effort. She reached over for Kallus' mug, which was also empty, and caught his eyes when he glanced up. She gestured with the mug in a clear, silent More?

He gave a slight nod and said "Thank you," then opened his mouth again and snapped it shut, vaguely flustered.

It nearly made Hera smile. She turned back to the caf machine to preserve her facade. "Sorry for snapping at you yesterday,” she said. “The groveling just gets old after a while."

"I'm not trying to grovel," Kallus muttered.

"Well, try harder," she said, turning back with both mugs prepared the same way. She asked, "Are you taking it black to punish yourself or something?"

He furrowed his brow at her, bemused. "No," he said. "I always drink it black."

"Okay." She handed him the mug and sat down with hers. "Because no one's gonna ship you hogtied back to the Empire for using our sugar or cream."

“That’s… good to know?"

She just sipped her second cup and sighed in satisfaction. After a minute, she asked, "More debrief today?"

He shook his head. "I'm on standby while General Dodonna consults his intelligence team about attaching me. Someone mentioned bunk assignments should be worked out today as well. So I can stop damaging your hull with my face."

Hera let out a genuine laugh. "That hull's had worse." She considered him for a moment. "If you're at loose ends today, speaking of hulls... what do you say to roughing up those soft ISB hands?"

He snorted. "I won't dispute that many hands in the ISB are soft, but mine are not among them."

"So you're telling me you don't mind doing a real job for once?"

Tension visibly bled out of his shoulders at the suggestion of manual labor. Hera watched this with curiosity and a surprising spark of approval. Kallus said, "Please put me to work," like he was begging for relief.

"Now that is a sentence I love to hear," Hera said. "You good with heights?"

"Not an issue. You'll need to instruct me on any engineering maintenance, though, it's not my field."

"Nah, you're on carbon scoring cleanup duty. I'll work in the vents - your shoulders are too big to fit anyway."

He nodded, seemingly unperturbed to be asked to do the lowest possible shipwork. In fact he seemed eager, taking a bigger swallow of his caf to get through it quicker.

So they went outside, Hera got Kallus the equipment he'd need, rolled over a ladder, and they worked. The sun rose and burned off the mists of the morning. Rex left the Ghost mid-morning and glanced up at Kallus on the roof with an eyebrow raised before moving on to wherever he needed to be.

Zeb came out another hour or so later and found Hera to ask what she wanted for lunch, since he had the time to cook. She slid her upper body out of a vent shaft to talk to him, smudged all over with old grease, and she caught the moment he realized that Kallus was on the roof. His eyes went huge and the flash of very real concern surprised Hera a little.

"You can't have him up there, his leg's all kriffed up," Zeb told her, more accusatory than she'd like. "What if he falls?"

Hera propped herself on her elbows. "Zeb, he's a grown man who knows his limits. He said he was fine with heights."

"He hates heights!"

"And how do you know that?"

Zeb went quiet. After a moment he muttered, "On Bahryn - he di'n't say, but his heart rate was all. Wild. When we was climbing out of the cave."

Hera despaired of stupid men. "You think that could have been adrenaline?" she asked flatly. "Or monsters? You said there were monsters."

"Knife-face chickens," Zeb muttered.

"Or maybe his heart was racing because you were holding him?" Hera asked, with only a little bit of a leer.

Zeb glared up at the roof one more time, then glared at Hera and went back inside. He'd never waited for her to say what she wanted for lunch.

Kallus climbed down once the top of the ship was immaculate, an hour later, and the way he favored his right leg did make Hera feel a pang of worry that she'd allowed him to push himself too hard. It had only been a few days since his defection and he'd been limping badly when he'd been rescued. Hera should have asked what the diagnosis was - break, fracture, sprain, or just bruises? But whatever it was, Kallus made it down the ladder with minimal trouble and found Hera to report for further duty.

"Nothing else for now," Hera said. "Lunch soon. Zeb's cooking."

She didn't miss his wide eyes before he schooled his expression. "I can head to the mess, then."

"Don't be stupid," Hera told him, nearly irritated. This was the groveling she hated. "Eat Zeb's food and don't complain."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Clearly bewildered, he said, "I wouldn't."

She decided to be magnanimous and added, "You're allowed to complain if it's too spicy. But you still have to eat it."

He wiped his hair back from his forehead, leaving filthy streaks, and agreed.

Zeb brought the food outside, a chunky shaak and root veg stew with flatbreads to scoop it up into messy bites. It was one of his milder recipes. Hera caught Kallus glancing at her a couple of times as though he suspected this was some sort of trap - she'd hinted it would be spicy, but it wasn't, so was he missing something? She decided not to clarify anything. One of these days he'd experience Zeb's pepper sauce and she looked forward to seeing him turn inside out.

It was just the three of them sitting around on crates for the meal. Kanan had commed Hera to say that he'd found an intriguing temple with Ezra and they were staying out another night, but that they'd be back to base tomorrow. Kallus wasn't due to report to Command until 1800. They finished their food, and Hera started thinking about suggesting a few rounds of cards, when Kallus said -

"This was delicious, Zeb, thank you."

And Zeb went weird in a way Hera had not really seen from him before. His ears contorted into new shapes. He muttered something accepting of the compliment, took all their dishes, and fled inside. Kallus didn't seem to register it as odd, considering he hadn't known Zeb for as long or seen as many of his moods.

Hera considered the two of them. She wasn't dense; Zeb was flustered around Kallus, maybe attracted to him, in a way that Hera found difficult to rationalize against Kallus' past. If it were just a matter of Kallus trying (and repeatedly failing) to capture them on Lothal, she could put aside their differences much more easily.

But Lasan.

She could only think... what if Kallus had been involved in the oppression of Ryloth? And then carried a kalikori around with him afterward? It was such a struggle to make Zeb's behavior make sense. She knew he'd said he'd moved past Lasan (which she accepted, even if she didn't believe) - and she knew that discovering Lira San had been a huge turning point in his healing - but still. Still! Kallus had participated in genocide. With weapons even the Empire had banned.

She wanted to be a person with a generous heart. She wanted to believe in sincere and lasting change, both within people and within systems of government. Given one less atrocity, she could bring herself around on Kallus.

... It was the bo-rifle that haunted her. The Force-forsaken bo-rifle, the war trophy, the blatant desecration of the dead. It kept Hera's hackles up.

In the real world, an awkward minute had passed since Zeb's departure. Kallus stood up, wiped his hands on his trousers, and said, "I suppose I'll go see if the mechanics need more hands."

"No," Hera said. "Stay. I can still put you to work."

He gave her a slightly wary look, as if sensing her ill thoughts, but nodded. "Anything you need."

What she needed was to fully disassemble the atmo condenser and deep-clean it, a mind-numbingly tedious job that somehow Ezra, Zeb, and Sabine almost always managed to disappear just before she could ask them to do. Kanan used to help her just to spend the time with her, but now that he couldn't see the fine details of the machining, he was no help with the work (although the company was still appreciated).

Hera threw out a tarp, weighted the edges, and had Kallus haul the heavy, clunky piece of machinery outside to be broken down. He took orders immediately and never got them wrong, worked without complaint, and meshed with her pace seamlessly. The work went smoothly.

Her desire to dislike him grew in an agonizing bubble in her chest, rubbing raw against how sincere he was being. He was helpful without being obsequious; he was a quick learner and a strong pair of hands; he was, in all honesty, everything Hera could ever wish for in a crewmate, and she found that infuriating.

"So," she finally said, once the cognitive dissonance had gotten to be too much. Her chest was thick with battling emotions. Kallus glanced up at her from where he was soaking buildup off a grate with solvent. She said, "You and Zeb."

He went very still. "Yes?"

"He's been your biggest advocate," Hera said. "He really believes in your ability to change."

Kallus looked down quickly. He busied his hands and muttered, "I don't deserve him."

Silently, Hera agreed. Aloud - testing - she said, "I imagine it's a relief to him that you aren't carrying around that awful trophy rifle anymore."

His reaction was immediate and telling. His hands clenched tight around his work and the quick pulse of defensive anger was clear on his face. He took a sharp breath and let it out through his nose. Then, with obvious effort, he relaxed, smoothed his face into impassivity, and went back to work.

It was clear after a long moment that he wasn't going to say anything. Hera set aside one clean coupling and picked up the next filthy one. "I don't need to resort to your old methods to make you talk," she said.

Kallus' eyebrow twitched. "What do you want me to talk about, General?"

She made a face at him. "Things changed on that moon. I've heard some of Zeb's side - not enough, but some - so I want to hear yours."

He said nothing.

"Zeb didn't even tell us you were stranded with him until after Skystrike," Hera said. "And then all he said was that you had to help each other to get out, that there were large carnivores, and that you talked a bit. He never said about what." She worked for a moment. "Did he tell you to stop using that bo-rifle?"

"No," Kallus said sharply. "He -" But he stopped there, hands stilled. After a breath, he said, "It's not my place to explain. It's his culture."

Hera put down a clean coupling. Picked up the next dirty one. Only eight more to go. "You made it your responsibility to explain yourself when you decided it was okay to steal culturally significant artifacts from a people you murdered."

"I didn't steal it," he snapped, finally goaded into meeting her eyes. He looked deeply hurt and conflicted, but his defensiveness was one of the first real signs of life she'd seen out of him since he got here. He'd been deliberately being a doormat for days and Hera knew he wasn't like that by nature.

He said, "I won that rifle in combat."

"Is that what the Empire calls taking belongings from the people they kill?"

"No!" Kallus' nostrils flared. He looked back down at the grate he was holding. Thumbed over it and took a steadying breath. "Boosahn keeraw is what the lasat call it. Single combat, honorably fought. The loser may choose to acknowledge their defeat by gifting their weapon and asking to die by it. Their weapon is like a lover whose touch they may never know, except once. Gifting their weapon to an opponent is an act of faith that it will be wielded with skill in the killing."

Hera held the half-cleaned coupling in her hands, staring at him. It certainly sounded like a lasat sort of thing to believe. It also sounded like Kallus was intimately familiar with the culture, more so than she'd expected.

There was a long pause. Kallus went back to moving his cloth over the grate, prodding into the corners to get the deep gunk. Hera thought he might not say anything else, and was considering her next angle of attack, when he finally started talking unprompted.

"I went into the ground assault with a T-7,” Kallus said. “We all did. They were minimally tested prototypes, and not intended for ground-to-ground combat anyway, so we didn't know... anything about how they'd work. Not just their effects on organics, but their flaws. They turned the conflict into a massacre in the Empire's favor, yes, but a solid quarter of them backfired, melted down, or exploded after any continuous use. Not saying this to garner any sympathy. It was simply not part of the reports.

“My disruptor overheated and I abandoned it on the press towards the target coordinates. By the time I encountered the guardsman, I'd lost my helmet, my primary weapon and my sidearm, and my squad. He could have killed me at range. All I had was a vibroknife and a training staff I'd picked up in the barracks. When he saw I had no ranged weapons, he converted his rifle to staff mode. I remember feeling... grateful, for a moment, that he chose to give me a fighting chance. I look back now and... I think he saw a child. There was gray in his beard. I think he saw a human child he couldn't bring himself to shoot outright.”

Kallus drew in and let out a long breath.

"It was one of the most difficult fights of my life. He didn't speak Basic. Once I had him on the ground with the knife at his throat, he said something in Lasana and lifted his weapon. I cut his throat thinking he meant to attack. He kept raising his weapon to me as he bled out, trying to get me to understand. I realized the stock was turned to me. When I took it, he thumped his chest and pointed at himself. The bleeding felt like it was taking so long, and I didn't know - he was looking at me and I wasn't sure what - I only knew I didn't want him to suffer. So I shot him, to end it." He clenched his jaw. "My own research later led me to understand that I'd fulfilled some sort of combat ritual, but it wasn't until Zeb recognized it as the act of boosahn keeraw that I knew it had been fully intentional. That was what the guardsman had said to me, at the end."

Kallus poured more solvent on the cleanest corner of his rag and flipped the grate over.

"That bo-rifle was mine,” he said, more quietly, filthy hands never stilling in their work. “Keeping it... learning to use it... was the only way to make what happened on Lasan have any meaning at all. That's what Zeb and I talked about on Bahryn. Among other things."

Hera sat there with her couplings, her solvents and rags, and digested this story. Kallus had no reason to lie, especially when she could so easily check his account against Zeb's.

“You once said you took it off a body,” Hera said, finally. “Why did the story change?”

Kallus finished scrubbing the grate and set it aside, gleaming. He left his hands in his lap for a moment, gaze drifting across all the pieces left to clean. “I was allowed my eccentricity of a non-regulation weapon,” he said, “because it was perceived as a trophy. It was easier to embrace the lie. It's not like I could explain to anyone what had happened.”

Kallus picked up another panel, re-doused his rag, and set to work. Mouth shut. It seemed like he was done.

Hera wiped her way through the rest of the couplings, thinking. Her chest was still thick with conflicted emotion, but... her righteous rage had deflated by a lot. There was still some there, mostly about the pointless, awful loss of life. But it was harder to make that anger stick specifically to Kallus and Lasan, since Hera had been feeling it for most of her life, about hundreds of atrocities.

What was finally coming home to her was that Kallus' change of heart wasn't recent. Couldn't be. It wasn't even as recent as Bahryn, and whatever Zeb had said to him there. She loved Zeb dearly but she'd honestly found it hard to believe that his oration skills over a single night were so extraordinary that he'd fully converted one of the most raging Imperial hardliners she'd ever met. Which, before now, she'd interpreted as not being able to believe that Kallus had really changed...

Unless what she was wrong about was how much of a hardliner he'd been in the first place. Or at least, why he'd thrown himself behind the Imperial party line with such fervor. She'd always thought it was because he was a true believer – and maybe he had been – but she did, unfortunately, understand how doubly, triply hard a person could work to make themselves believe something wrong just to drown out a quiet voice of conscience. Digging in their heels, burying themselves in the trenches. Sunk cost.

Hera had known too many true believers in her life who had passed the point at which acknowledging their wrong choice would break them. Looking truth in the face would simply obliterate the person that they had become.

Kallus might have gotten to that point eventually. He was certainly further along the path towards that point than anyone Hera had ever met who'd managed to turn themselves around. And... she began to finally accept that he really had turned himself around. Zeb had given him a tremendous shove in the right direction, but it wouldn't have worked if Kallus hadn't already been struggling against his course.

As realizations went, it hurt in a completely different way.

“On Ryloth,” Hera said hesitantly, “a lot of value is placed on family history. Keeping the history, and the relics that record it, is a sacred role in the family. I admit that I have a hard time not projecting about cultural objects.”

It wasn't quite an apology, but it was what she was willing to give. For now.

Kallus surprised her by saying, “I've seen your family's kalikori in Thrawn's collection. I'm sorry I wasn't able to bring it out for you.”

The thickness in her chest moved into her throat. She blinked and scrunched her nose against it, unwilling to be vulnerable in front of Kallus. Even if they were having a moment. She coughed slightly and said, “Well. Thank you for confirming for me where it is.”

“I'm sure my bo-rifle has joined it,” Kallus said dryly. “Thrawn's cabinet of curiosities is... extensive.” His voice dripped with distaste.

“Someday we'll break it open,” Hera said. “Send everything back where it belongs.”

The corner of Kallus' mouth twitched. “It's a worthy dream.”

“My favorite kind.”

She finished the last of the couplings, wiped her hands, and looked for the next task. The sun was getting low. She wanted this condenser back in place inside the Ghost before Kallus was called off to his meeting. She picked up a scorched coil and asked Kallus, “Pass me the solvent?”

He handed it over.

The rest of the work went on in silence that sank slowly into comfort. Hera couldn't help seeing a little bit of herself in Kallus: the perpetual motion of his hands and eyes, an unquiet mind always trying to fit pieces together, to solve the world around him.

For the first time, she didn't mind having common ground with him.

-

3

Chopper rolled through the Massassi Temple base, running idle calculations and looking for any being to interact with. The floors here were kinder on droids than the sand at Chopper Base, which had gotten into his systems and required frequent and frustrating cleaning. However, Chopper was unsettled and displeased with the new stationing. Yavin IV was clearly inferior due to not being under the command of Hera's cell, and also due to not being named after Chopper.

The Ghost was fully repaired and restored for its next mission. Hera was outfitting the galley for various disgusting organic needs, like fuel (fine, 'food') and mind-altering chemicals (Chopper still didn't understand why organics doted on caf but got strange and furtive about spice; did they approve of altering their mental states or not?). Hera's man was meditating in the jungle with Small Yeller, while Big Yeller was in the fields outside the base doing large body motions with his pointlessly complex weapon. What was the point of all the large body motions, anyway, when the weapon had a perfectly servicable blaster component. If Big Yeller would just shoot bucketheads from a distance, he wouldn't have so much reason to yell when his stupid organic body got damaged.

The ancient flagstones rolled by in smooth bumps. There was no mission, Chopper was not needed for any tasks, and he had a full charge. This was the worst sort of time to be a droid in an organics' world. He craved enrichment but very few forms of organic enrichment suited him.

(He had tried to learn to cook once, but Hera had banned him from it after a day. Fine, he'd thought. See if I try to contribute to organic maintenance and upkeep again, then.)

At the moment he was rolling around base trying to find any other droid that would make good company. AP-5 wasn't good company, exactly – he was tolerable – but he was away. So were the handful of other older-model astromechs Chopper had struck up any rapport with. The newer models didn't have much common ground with him, so it was harder to unfreeze the communication circuits. And Chop would be damned if he'd stoop to hanging out with protocol droids.

Chopper was... lonely. Lonely and bored. The combination organics hated the most, yet did nothing actionable to address.

A passing flash of blonde hair and green jacket caught the edge of Chopper's sensors. He did a rapid dome-360 to catch the figure in his reticle and then spun his body to match, darting towards the figure. An acceptable organic he could bother for attention! Even if the man was busy, Chop could trail him for a while.

When Chopper rolled up next to his legs, Kallus looked down and blinked at him. He was carrying an open-top crate but Chopper couldn't see what was inside. “Hello,” he said. “Here with a message?”

No, Chopper said. Bored. Are you busy. What are you doing. He flicked through various sensor arrays to scan the contents of the crate.

It contained a broken droid. Small one. Cleaning model. Chopper's mood sank; Kallus was probably taking it to the mechanics bay to be broken down for parts. It wasn't that Chopper had a problem with that – it was pragmatic, and he was aware that organics sometimes used components from other dead organics to fix broken living ones, too – but it was still a bit macabre.

Kallus gestured vaguely with the crate and said, “Not busy, no. I'm off shift so I thought I'd tinker.”

Chopper's curiosity whirred up. He made questioning sounds.

“I worked with several MSEs on Lothal,” Kallus said. “I hadn't done much droid work before, but I found repairing them to be meditative. I think this one can be salvaged.” He looked down at Chop again. “Would you like to assist? You likely know more than I do, anyway.”

Yes! Chopper flicked through multiple locations internally, calculating. Where are you going, extent of tools available?

Kallus' stride slowed. “I was just going to my bunk,” he said. “I only have a basic toolkit.”

No, Chopper declared at once. Sabine's room ideal. Sabine not present.

Kallus gave a negative hum. “I won't use Miss Wren's space without her consent, sorry.”

Frustrating, but expected. Chopper spun his dome and said, Ghost cargo bay. I'll get tools. Follow me now.

He sped forward and from behind him, Kallus said, “You're just going to get the tools out of Sabine's room, aren't you,” but Chopper was conveniently too far away to hear it (if anyone asked).

By the time Kallus arrived at the Ghost (much more slowly than he was capable of walking, by Chop's calculations), Chopper had already brought out a heavy toolcase, the soldering kit, and three divided trays of assorted metal findings. The case and the trays were brightly painted, but that proved nothing. Sabine's door was locked now, and who could say if it had been locked all day or not. (She was on another planet! She couldn't possibly care!)

“How convenient,” Kallus said as he brought his crate over to the worktable. His tone and pitch indicators aligned with what Hera called dry, or sarcastic. Chopper burbled in an imitation of laughter, and Kallus gave him a momentary smile.

While Kallus found a stool and adjusted its height for his giant (for a human) frame, Chopper went to grab the scrap metal pallet he used when he helped Sabine or Hera work at the table. Hera had sized it for him specifically. He arranged it by the table legs and popped a momentary jet flame to hop onto it. It placed his manipulators perfectly at the height of the workbench. He locked his mag brake down and spun his dome, manipulators clacking.

“Excited, are we?” Kallus said, lifting the heap of broken droid parts out of the crate to arrange on the bench top.

Bored, Chopper buzzed flatly. Unneeded. No missions.

Kallus made a commiserating noise. “I know the feeling,” he said. “When there's no work to be done. Does anyone tell you to 'get some rest'? As if doing nothing isn't the most stressful thing.”

Chopper blatted with disdain.

“Exactly,” Kallus said. “So. The report said this was collateral taken during a supply run, accidentally crushed between a crate and the maglock. I supposed I could probably work out the crush damage, as the core processor survived – here – and the chassis can be replaced, the cables remounted -”

Mag wipe bigger issue, Chopper said.

“Yes, exactly. I need to test the processors first. Even if they're still functional, all memory will be gone.”

These don't have much cognitive capacity anyway, Chopper said, almost dismissively. It won't know it died.

Kallus traced fingertips over the mangled machine. “No,” he said. “But they can develop personalities if they go unwiped long enough. There was one on Lothal that liked to do a set of movements every time we met – a few sidesteps, back and forth, then a turn. Almost a waltz. It seemed to make it... happy.”

Chopper warbled indecisively about an MSE's capacity for happiness, at least as organics defined it, but he imagined that yes, the little droid probably did derive some satisfaction from fulfilling a small executable that its unique internal system of glitches had produced. (And what was an organic brain anyway, if not a unique internal system of chemical glitches.) Cosmic particles flipped a zero to a one here and there, a process accelerated by hyperspace travel, until all droids either went insane or reorganized those tiny cosmic injuries down into contained pathways. Which created “habits.” “Behaviors.” Whatever organics wanted to call them. It happened to every droid, even the ones without the full spark of sentience.

This little cleaner would be a blank slate after its unfortunate collision with a strong magnetic field, but that just meant the process would start all over again. This one, too, might start to waltz someday.

Chopper reached out and picked up the first of several circuit bricks he could run diagnostics on.

Working with Kallus was remarkably pleasant. The man didn't talk much, which Chopper appreciated, and when he did talk he left out most of the time-wasting filler that most organics repeated over and over. Chopper imagined that he might be called “short” by other organics, maybe even as far as “rude” depending on the social mores of the specific location. But it was the correct, comfortable speed of communication for Chopper.

His hands were large but steady, suited to detail work, unlike Big Yeller's, who Chop had never allowed to clean his circuits ever again after the incident. Small Yeller's hands were a good size but not steady enough. Hera's man had been pretty good at delicate work before he lost a primary sensor array, and now that Sabine was absent, it left Chopper with only Hera as the one organic in the galaxy he trusted to touch beneath his panels. But watching Kallus work on the MSE, Chopper idly considered that if Hera were not available for whatever reason, Kallus might be an acceptable substitute.

Only if it were an emergency, of course.

“Primary stable. Route to aux,” Kallus said, as he and Chopper held either side of a delicate webbing of cables and circuit bricks connected to a small power cell. “All right, power down. Solder here, here -”

Chopper beat him to most of the points that needed connection or reinforcement. They were thinking on the same frequency.

“I think it's ready to mount in the chassis,” Kallus said. “I'll take the soldering back if you'll calibrate the navigational sensors.”

That made Chop pause and replay the request several times to see if he'd heard the wording the right way around. He trilled, Repeat for clarity?

“I'll do the soldering, you program the sensors?” Kallus repeated, questioning. “Unless that's not your preference. But I supposed that a droid would be better suited to understanding another droid's needs in environmental navigation.”

Chop got stuck in a brief internal loop again. In Chopper's experience, it was very unusual for any organic to take a purely mechanical task over any aspect of programming. Organics tended to think that droids were best suited for precision mechanical handling, and that organics were the only beings capable of problem-solving creatively.

Skirting the issue, Chop said, These are buckethead tech. You are more familiar with their logic structures.

“Bucket – oh. Well, I've only done their navi calibrations within the bounds of ships and bases where the flooring is polished and the maps are pre-uploaded into their memory. I'm not sure how to account for unpredictable environmental obstacles. Or for adapting to changing layouts without manually resetting their maps.”

That was fair. MSEs typically operated in a fixed range in controlled conditions. Chopper made nonsense chatter sounds as he spun through ways to adapt them. Finally he said, Hinged treads and self-righting mechanisms ideal for inconsistent terrain. Memory core this small not able to process the necessary complexity of object-avoidance parameters.

“Ah! We'll make the first AT-MSE.”

Chopper cackled and clacked, pleased with the plan. I will program map layout adaptability, he said. You will glue in the guts. Yes.

Kallus raised an eyebrow but pulled the warmed soldering stylus to his side of the bench. “Very organic turn of phrase.”

Big Yeller talks about guts, said Chop. Sabine talks about guts. Hera's man is made ill by talk of guts. Subject of guts seems to be an organic favorite.

Kallus laughed, smoke trailing up from the work in his careful hands. “Big Yeller is Zeb, I assume. Who am I?”

Kallus, Chop said dismissively.

“No nickname?”

You are acceptable as is.

Kallus glanced at Chopper. “Thank you,” he said.

Chopper gave a noncommittal flat tone.

They continued to work in comfortable tandem for a few hours longer, building and testing the tiny droid. A few Ghost residents came and went, but they didn't bother the pair at the workbench and Kallus seemed too deeply focused to notice.

Finally, Chopper's charge indicator blinked at him that it was down by half. He ran the same standard-parameter maintenance calculations he often ran about Hera, and found that Kallus (like Hera) was in unacceptable condition to continue working.

Chopper blatted a flat alarm tone that made Kallus jump, startled out of his concentration. “What?”

Done for today, Chop said. Go away.

“Pardon?” Kallus said, slightly affronted. He reached for something on the bench and Chop (lightly) zapped his fingers. “Ow! What the - ?”

Sun's down. You need fuel and charge.

“Fuel and...”

Food and sleep, Chopper said impatiently. He unlocked his brakes, jetted off his pallet, and rammed into Kallus' stool to knock him off balance. We will complete AT-MSE tomorrow. Leave or I will make you.

Kallus steadied himself against the bench as Chopper bonked his seat a couple more times, looking rattled and like he wanted to object more. Chopper brought out the zapper, which generally stopped objections in their tracks. It worked this time, too.

Finally, Kallus stood up. He brushed a few fine metal filings and cut wire-ends off his shirt and looked around. “I should help you clean up, at least,” he said.

Chopper tittered, pleased at the offer. But he had to refuse. Go away now, he demanded. Eat and sleep. I will store project securely.

“Well,” Kallus said, and paused awkwardly. “If you're sure.”

Don't make me use the prod.

Kallus raised his hands in surrender. His face twitched into a faint smile. “I wouldn't dare,” he said, finally surrendering.

Chopper hustled him out of the ship. He left without further objection, pausing only to thank Chopper for his time, his help, and the use of the Ghost's space and tools. Once he was gone, Chop noodled around the workbench space, cleaning up debris and tucking away tools. He burbled quiet happy noises to himself.

Tomorrow, barring an actual mission coming up, Chop wouldn't have to be bored. Or lonely.

-

5

Sabine's room on Krownest was cold. The whole compound was cold. Not as cold as it was outside, of course, but not quite a comfortable living temperature.

This wasn't new, and Sabine didn't remember it ever bothering her before. Before going off to the Academy, she remembered running through the halls and training areas, her level of activity always keeping her blood up and her body warm. She remembered going outside frequently, and the relative warmth of her home being a welcoming balm; she remembered hanging around in the kitchen, the boilerhouse, the sauna, all sorts of wonderfully warm and homey places for a child to spend comfortable hours.

But she wasn't a child anymore and she'd learned a lot of the value of stillness. She needed stillness in a way she hadn't before. She meditated now, and tinkered, and drew and painted, all sedentary things that needed stability... except that was the chink in the armor where the cold could get in.

Beskar was a wonderful temperature regulator. There was a reason Mandalorians were comfortable wearing their armor all the time, and it was because the armor was comfortable. Sabine still loved her armor and all it represented; she would never be parted from it, and she hated to harbor any resentment towards it. It had kept her safe and sane for many, many years. Her soul was in it, as it was for all Mandalorians. As long as she kept it on, she wasn't too cold.

But... on the Ghost, there had been Hera's soft blue blanket from Ryloth, which had mysteriously found its way over Sabine's shoulders countless times when she'd fallen asleep over a project. There had been Zeb's bunk, and all his dense fur and big warm arms, on the nights when the self-hate cut to the bone and the dreams of her awful inventions wouldn't stop. There had been the hot tea that Kanan always made her without asking, and the way street-kid Ezra never hesitated to sit against her back or by her side to share heat, and Chopper holding his igniter out for everyone to cup their hands above when the fuel was low and life support had to be cut back to minimums.

On Krownest, Sabine wore her armor and didn't complain. But it was hard to forget how many other ways there were to stay warm.

She couldn't sleep. It wasn't time for her weekly check-in with Hera, but she knew she was always welcome to comm the Ghost for no reason – she just tried to resist the urge, usually, because it made everything harder, and because unnecessary communication during war always carried some risk. But she couldn't sleep and her fingers had gotten too chilled to draw, and if she didn't see someone she loved soon, she might explode.

Each long-range comms station was held down by a single guard at night, monitoring various frequencies for anything important. Two guards would be more secure, but they didn't have the people. Sabine rapped on the door before letting herself in and finding that tonight's guard was Thali, a childhood acquaintance whose mother had once trained with Sabine's mother, leaving the two of them occasionally stuck with each other as barely-more-than-toddlers to make their own fun. Thali had warmed to Sabine quickly after her return, having lost two brothers to the Imperial Academy and the war already. She didn't hold Sabine's mistakes against her and was ready to kick the Empire's ass any way she could.

Sabine let out a small sigh of relief that it was Thali in here and not someone less sympathetic. “Hey,” she said, keeping her voice down out of habit. The Wren compound had far thicker walls than the Ghost; she wouldn't wake anyone even if she yelled.

“Hey yourself,” Thali said, spinning her chair. “What's got you up in the darkest dark?”

“Nothing,” Sabine lied, but it was a common enough lie that Thali hummed in understanding anyway.

“Need to make a call. Mind if I take over for a while?”

Thali stood and gave Sabine a friendly grin. “Sure thing. I could use some hot caf anyway, freezing my butt off just sitting here. Want me to bring you some?”

Sabine shook her head. “Thanks, but I'm hoping to get back to sleep sometime this week.”

Thali passed her and knocked her bracer against Sabine's pauldron, that solid, deep beskar clank that sounded like safety and home. In Mando'a, she said, “The dead may sleep content, eh?”

“While the living tend the fires,” Sabine said, the rote reply to the old saying, punctuating it with a slight eye roll. “Yeah, yeah.”

Thali laughed. “Back in a few.”

Sabine waved her off. Once Thali was gone, Sabine took the chair at the comm panel and keyed in the frequency she wanted, making sure the encryption was still tight. It took a couple minutes to connect. Sabine chewed the inside of her lip, anxious to see Hera's face. The scratchy, blue-hued holo blinked on, and -

It wasn't Hera.

Sabine's stomach did an instinctive flip of panic even though her more rational brain already knew that Kallus being in the Ghost didn't mean her family was dead or captured. His face still triggered alarm deep inside her. She wasn't sure how long that would take to wear off. Probably if she'd been on Yavin IV longer, seen him more in person, she'd have had time to ease into the new normal of his defector status. But she'd left Yavin while Kallus was still mostly sequestered in the Intelligence offices, endlessly debriefing, and she just... wasn't used to him.

Holo-Kallus blinked at her, clearly also taken by some surprise. “Miss Wren,” he said, voice tinny and mildly distorted. “What's the situation?”

Oh. He thought... “No situation,” Sabine said. “This isn't an emergency contact. I was only – I was hoping to talk to Hera.” She furrowed her brow. Why was Kallus answering Ghost's comms? “Do you have a situation?” she asked.

“No,” Kallus said. “Only a mission. We're mid-jump.”

“Oh. Good.”

There was a pause. “It's a long jump, so everyone's getting some rest. It's just me awake at the moment. I can go wake General Syndulla -”

“Wait,” Sabine said instinctively, guilt and yearning warring in her heavy stomach. “No. How long has she been in bed?”

Kallus had moved towards the edge of the holo; he settled back down. “Three hours,” he said.

Sabine shook her head. The worst amount of time. Even if Hera had been awake for a while (with Kanan or without him), she'd be asleep now. And it hadn't been nearly long enough for that sleep to be restful. “Never mind, then,” Sabine said, trying with every fiber of her being not to sound disappointed.

“I'll tell her you commed,” Kallus said.

“Don't,” Sabine said. “You have a mission, focus on it. I'll comm again when it's time to check in.”

Before Sabine's hand could reach for the console to end the connection, Kallus said, “Wait.”

Sabine paused.

“Are you sure - is there - anything I can help with?”

Sabine's immediate gut instinct was to say no. To think, obviously there was no way that Agent Kallus could help her. She'd called because she was lonely and wanted her family, not...

Not the guy who had been living with her family for weeks – months, now – after Sabine had run off and left them. The guy who had saved her life pretty damn directly once, and indirectly many times. The guy who'd still been painted all over in the colors of torture the last time Sabine had seen him in person, and who Hera clearly trusted enough now to handle the Ghost alone, and who might know the answer to the most pressing question Sabine could think of, which was -

“How is everyone?”

Kallus blinked at her again. “Pardon?”

Sabine let out a breath. “I really just commed to talk because I can't sleep, and I wanted to know how everyone's doing. You know. Is everyone... happy?”

Kallus was quiet for long enough that Sabine started to think he wasn't going to answer, and he was just thinking of a way to back out of this awkward conversation he'd invited onto himself. His face was pinched in a way that read as mild distaste. Sabine was on the verge of saying “never mind” and disconnecting anyway, when he started to talk.

“I'm not the best judge of others' moods, but... I think so,” Kallus said. “There's been a general sense of levity around the base for a couple of weeks. No great losses for long enough to let everyone find their centers again. For now, anyway. The cynic in me wants to say lulled into a false sense of security, but Zeb assures me everyone still knows there's a war on without being, and I quote, a joykilling heap of swamp sludge about it.”

Sabine let out a startled laugh. She realized with mild disbelief that Kallus' serious, concentrating look a moment ago had been him sincerely trying to decide if the people around him were happy or not. If he could recognize happiness when he saw it.

Oh, how she wished that didn't feel so familiar.

“Good,” she said. “I mean, good that everything's going well there and that Zeb's telling you to shape up.”

Kallus gave a small snort. “When he isn't fleeing every room I enter, anyway.”

“Oh?” Sabine needled. Hera had already told her her suspicions that Zeb might have a little crush. It seemed insane, but... there was very much a romantic side of Sabine, the artist in her, that got it. Billions of holonovels, films, and dramas didn't get written about lovers from opposing sides of a war out of nowhere, after all. For both good and ill, Kallus was deeply entwined in Zeb's life, and vice versa. Even if nothing more dramatic came of it, Sabine hoped they could reconcile. Be friends.

They reminded her of herself and her clan, in a way. The fact that such stark differences, ambitions and betrayals, ultimately couldn't keep her and her family apart, made her have hope that all sorts of gulfs could be closed between people.

If they couldn't, then there wasn't much point in hoping to win this war, was there?

Kallus shook off her prying with a twitch of his shoulders. “Sorry, I don't mean to bother you with my petty business. You are being thought of, you know. You come up all the time.”

A sprout of warmth unfurled in Sabine's chest. “Are they telling all my embarrassing stories?” she groaned.

Kallus' mouth quirked at the corner. “Hardly,” he said. “Ezra said he found a place in the jungle he wants you to see the next time you visit. Zeb came barging in yelling for you the other day before he realized you aren't here. Hera had to paint Chopper for this mission and kept bemoaning how much neater of a job you would do.”

The warmth soured and cooled in her chest. Sabine could tell Kallus was trying to be kind, but hearing how her family missed her was like... like hearing that they were grieving her. They were struggling to adapt to her loss as though she were permanently gone, and as much as she wanted to scream that she wasn't really gone, that she was still a Spectre, that she'd come home as soon as she could... she was old enough now, and enough of a realist, to know it wasn't that simple. She was home. The Ghost was home but so was Mandalore, in a way that was simply irreconcilable with her inability to be in two places at once. She had gone through hell to get her birth family back and she wouldn't give them up again.

That meant that, for all intents and purposes, she was no longer truly, permanently, a member of the Ghost's crew. Oh, she would always be a member of their family. But ship's crew? She couldn't pretend she was just on a particularly long mission and that she'd be back when it was over. The Ghost had to go on without her.

It was weirdly comforting to know that Kallus was there in her place, a familiar face instead of a stranger. Even if the familiarity came from a dubious past.

Kallus seemed to realize he'd upset Sabine somehow, because he said, “I'm sorry, if I've overstepped...”

“No, it's fine,” Sabine said, shaking herself. “You're fine. Thank you for telling me. I'm just... I'm not sorry to be missed, but I'm sorry they miss me. Does that make sense?”

Clearly it didn't. Kallus looked bewildered.

“Don't worry about it.” Sabine sighed. She could sign off now but she still felt restless, and Thali wasn't back yet. “What's the mission, anyway? How come you're there?” It wasn't accusatory, just curious.

Kallus smirked. “One of those supply-warehouse-cracking operations you Spectres would have made a spectacle of in times past,” he said. “I'm coming because I can simply open the doors.”

Sabine laughed. “Oh c'mon, busting in the fireworks way is more fun.”

“Perhaps,” Kallus said, smiling, “but not nearly worth the risk for a distribution center this low-level.”

“Not munitions, I guess?”

“Food,” Kallus confirmed. “Medical and hygiene supplies as well, we hope.”

“Ugh, Imp food,” Sabine said. “Hate to even think of it.”

“Not exciting, I know, but you can make a ration bar halfway decent with a little creativity. Haven't you ever soaked one in broth to make porridge?”

Sabine scoffed. “Obviously. We did all kinds of experiments with those things in the Academy.”

“Well, I was in school longer than you were. Surely I've seen more outlandish things done with a ration bar.”

“Oh, bet,” Sabine sniped, perking up in her seat. “I was with the artsy, rebellious Mando kids. No way you top-of-your-class Coruscanti snobs could find more ways to kriff up a ration bar than we could.”

Kallus' smile got sharp. “Top of my class, maybe, but snob I was not. Have you ever eaten a whole hawkbat hatchling on a dare, Miss Wren?”

Sabine leaned forward. “Oh, I need to know everything about that immediately.”

So they spent the next ten minutes one-upping each other with the most horrifying things that they had ever done to, or with, or in the name of, food. It turned out Mandalorian and Lower Coruscanti could go pretty much toe to toe on food-related performative bravado. Both Sabine and Kallus were fully laughing by the time Thali opened the door and brought the smell of fresh, bitter caf with her.

It smelled really good, but Sabine could already feel her limbs and eyes growing heavier and she didn't want to be kicked wide awake all over again. The laughter had siphoned a lot of the heartache out of her chest.

“What in the galaxy are you talking about?” Thali said. “All I heard was something about sticking behot root up a dalgo's -”

That set Sabine off giggling again. She told Thali, “I'll tell you later.”

In the holo projection, Kallus' chuckling was interrupted by a deep, questioning voice slightly out of visual. Kallus turned to the side, leaning partly out of field. “Apologies, did I wake you?”

“Nah,” and there was Zeb's arm coming into the holo field. “More sensitive hearing than the rest, an' I wasn't asleep anyway. Is that 'Bine?” He leaned his face down into field and broke into a big, toothy grin.

“Zeb!” Sabine said, leaning her elbows on the console and beaming. “It's so good to see you!”

“Whatcha callin' for? Something up?”

“No, just missing you all. But I didn't want to wake anyone.”

Kallus got up from his chair and for a moment all Sabine could see was hands gesturing one way and another. Finally Zeb slid into the seat and took over the call. Zeb said, “Yeah, maybe for the best. Ez ain't been sleeping well lately. Something Force-y, I think.”

Behind Zeb, an arm passed by the back edge of the field, blurry and fading. “Wait,” Sabine said, “Kallus, hey -”

Zeb glanced over his shoulder. After a moment, Kallus came back into view, eyebrow quirked. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” Sabine said. “For the company.”

Kallus blinked, then nodded. He smiled faintly. “And you, as well.”

“You get some sleep too,” Sabine told him. “You've gotta be fresh to open all those doors.”

Kallus gave her an eye roll and a little wave before he stood back out of field. “Good night, Miss Wren,” he said, faint with distance. Then he was gone, presumably out of the cockpit altogether to give Zeb a chance to chat with his sister in private.

It wasn't private, exactly, with Thali there on Sabine's end, but Sabine was okay with that. Her knotted-up, agonized urge to see her Ghost family had eased down into a managable ache. Seeing Zeb was more of a delight than a gut-punch now.

“Gettin' on with Kal?” Zeb asked.

“Yeah,” Sabine said. “He's pretty okay, isn't he? He's almost cool without that stick up his butt.”

Zeb choked on nothing, coughed, and gruffly said, “Yeah, reckon he's all right.”

The warmth in Sabine's chest returned, along with private glee. Zeb did have a crush. Oh, Sabine couldn't wait for her next proper comm call with Hera.

“So, random question, I know,” Sabine said, settling in for a good chat with her delightfully dense big brother, “but – what did you guys have for dinner?”

By the time Sabine got back to her room nearly an hour later, her stomach ached from all the laughing, and she fell into an instant, dreamless sleep the moment her head hit the pillow. She forgot she'd ever been cold at all.

-

6

Ezra was having a perfectly decent, stress-free evening laughing over a card game in the tapcafe when something abruptly jolted him to pay attention to his surroundings.

He tuned out the chatter near him and darted his eyes around the room, quickly landing on the bar. He hadn’t thought anyone he was close to was around tonight, but he blinked as he realized whose straggly blond hair and hunched shoulders he was looking at.

Ex-Agent Kallus was at the far end of the bar, trying to make himself look small and failing miserably.

Whether it was a Force suggestion or just his own street-honed sense of trouble brewing, Ezra wasn’t sure, but his attention was snagged by a group of several rebels taking up much of the bar space and talking a little too loudly. Not loud enough to carry across the entire tapcafe - unless you were paying attention, like Ezra now was - but definitely loud enough for Kallus to hear, and to be intended to hear.

“- razy stories about that crew! But I guess they gotta be pretty cold to work with the kinda people they do.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t imagine cozying up with genocidal maniacs.”

“I dunno, maybe having a pet Imp to take shit out on is like therapy. I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Haha, yeah, maybe keeping him around’s like their kink - like that big purple guy, he looks like -“

But Ezra didn’t get to find out what the last asshole thought Zeb looked like, because his sentence was interrupted by a fist to the nose.

The ruckus was loud and immediate. Several chairs scraped back as rebels around the tapcafe reacted instinctively to the sound of fighting; the bartender hurried over, yelling, “No fighting, outside, outside!” Too many people started talking at once. A few cheered, just for the hell of it.

Ezra told his card table, “Sorry, gotta go,” and leapt up.

Kallus was swinging fists and kneeing groins and headbutting noses like a cornered lothrat, but even half a head taller than all his opponents he was still one man against at least half a dozen. Ezra didn’t doubt that Kallus could hold his own, but he was pretty sure that by the end of this the others were going to drop a wet ex-Imp-shaped lump of ground meat on the floor and walk away with only a handful of cracked knucklebones and bruises between them.

“Hey, hey!” Ezra yelled, getting close to the fray. He wasn’t the only one. Hands were reaching out from all over the place to try to grab shoulders, pull back clenched fists from taking another swing, and the bartender was still ordering the belligerents to take it outside, for all the good that did. “Kallus!” Ezra yelled, trying to get his attention. It didn’t work.

Ezra grimaced, raised his hands to gather the Force, and tried to be gentle.

All of the combatants burst away from each other and fell, hitting the ground on butts and hips and shoulders that would surely be in pain tomorrow. Quite a few people hollered at Ezra. Ezra winced but darted over to Kallus. The other fighters were being offered hands up, and Ezra wanted to be gone before anyone rallied.

“C’mon,” Ezra said, grabbing Kallus’ arm and pulling. Kallus looked up at him, face splattered with blood, nose oozing bright red - and it was at that point that Ezra realized that the man was bottom-of-a-ditch drunk. Absolutely blasted.

“You,” Kallus said. His hand reached up and wrapped roughly around Ezra’s forearm, holding too tight.

“Yep, me!” Ezra said, hauling up with a groan. There was no way he could bodily move Kallus’ weight. The man was like, three of Ezra jammed together into a solid brick.

Before Ezra could resort to trying to Force-lift him, though, Kallus figured out what Ezra wanted and which way was up. He hoisted unsteadily to his feet, still holding Ezra’s arm. Then he looked over Ezra’s shoulder and his face twisted up in anger.

“Nooo, no no no,” Ezra told him, pulling him by the arm towards the exit. He failed to make Kallus move an inch. Behind him, he heard the overlapping yelling picking up in volume (“- kriffing Imp shitsmear broke my nose, gonna give him a -“ “- get written up, man, leave it -“ “- banned for fighting -!” “- hiding behind a kriffing kid -“).

Ezra went up on the balls of his feet, punched Kallus’ shoulder as hard as he could, and shouted in his face, “Leave it!”

Kallus blinked. Focused on Ezra, fully. Gave one curt nod.

“Good, follow me!”

Ezra darted out the door, this time without any resistance from Kallus. Behind them, Ezra could hear the other belligerents getting kicked out of the tapcafe, which would put all of the brawlers outside in the dark jungle night, where shit had every possibility of getting far more violent, far too quickly. The well-trodden, decently-lit path that led away from the tapcafe and back to the barracks proper was just asking for stupidly large, stupidly loud Agent Kallus to get spotted and laid out on the flagstones with half his teeth missing.

Ezra didn’t really question his own motivation as he yanked Kallus off the path and into a dark shortcut between temple buildings. He’d simply covered enough rough escapes, made enough distractions, and darted off down enough alleys in his life that the whole process rolled out on instinct.

“Where -“ Kallus tried.

“Around the back of the armory,” Ezra said.

Kallus grunted and kept allowing himself to be led. Ezra had let go of his arm by now but he could hear Kallus’ footsteps keeping up with him. It would be dangerous to move this fast in the jungle in full dark, but these spaces between the temples had been so cleared and flattened by occupation that there weren’t any trip hazards.

They’d gone far enough that Ezra could no longer hear the sounds of the tapcafe - only the general muffled hustle of an occupied mini-city that never fully slept - when the footsteps behind Ezra faltered and slowed to a halt. He turned to urge Kallus on, but was stopped by the unmistakable choke of a retch.

“Aw, c'mon -“

At least he couldn’t see Kallus puking in the dark. But somehow, just hearing the sound by itself felt worse. He could barely make out the starlight-rimed silhouette of the man leaning over, hands on knees, gasping for breath between heaves.

It was over pretty quick. In the thick silence that followed, Kallus spat a couple of times and then stood straight. Ezra actually heard his spine crackle, and winced.

“Man, I figured you’d be better at holding your liquor,” Ezra tried to joke.

Kallus cleared his throat. Leaned over and spat again. In a raspy voice, he said, “Out of practice at brawling and sprinting while drunk.”

“You ever had practice at that?”

Kallus didn’t answer. He moved in Ezra’s direction, barely swaying at all. “Thank you for the assin – assiss – help. I can get myself to my room from here. You should… go back to your evening.”

“Nah, I'm not going back," Ezra said, shrugging. "Give it a couple nights for the pushing thing to blow over."

"Surprised i'ss taken this long for it to happen again," Kallus said.

"Huh?"

"You with the invisible, big... throwing me at things."

Ezra blinked. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough so he could make out more of the shape of Kallus' face now, and had to grin at the way the man struggled to wrap his intoxicated brain around words. "Ohh," Ezra said. "Yeah, you're just so throwable."

Kallus snorted. "You 'n Zeb," he said. "Only people who can say that 'bout me."

"I mean, Kanan could totally throw you too, so that's three. Sabine, with the right kind of blasting caps and a chance to set up -"

"Bridger. Please."

"Oof, back to Bridger. And after I saved your butt!"

Kallus rolled his shoulders and winced. "Doesn't feel especially saved."

"Well, whose fault is that? ...Most of that."

Kallus didn't reply. He just started moving along the path in the dark again.

Ezra kept pace. "Hey," he said after a moment. "I heard what those guys were saying. I mean, I think throwing hands about it was kinda immature – and that's coming from me – but I don't want you to think I don't get it. Defending your honor and all."

Kallus let out a heavy breath through his nose. "Not my honor," he muttered.

"Okay, fine. Zeb's honor."

"No – all of you... the idea that... it lowers any of you, to associate with me... when all you do is. Lift people."

A warm little spark kindled in Ezra's chest, and he shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, well. You weren't up and breaking noses until after 'big purple guy.' Just saying what I see."

Kallus didn't reply again. They walked in silence for minute, with Ezra pointing the way - his secret routes were longer, but ensured they wouldn't get spotted by anyone until they wanted to.

While they walked, Ezra let himself poke along the surface of the Force, barely twirling the currents with a mental fingertip. Like most people without a sensitivity to it, Kallus broadcast his feelings in a messy oil spill that sent rainbows of emotion swirling into his vicinity. He'd probably be horrified to know that he was so uncontrolled - though that wasn't just a tightass spy thing; lots of people were horrified to find out how hard it was to lie to a Jedi, and why. Not that Kallus was lying about anything, he just...

He was hurting. That wasn't new; Ezra couldn't remember ever feeling anything off Kallus that wasn't tainted by pain, physical or mental or emotional. But it was sharper than normal, and fresher, not an old wound aching but a new one stinging. Ezra didn't think it was about the guys at the cafe, considering Kallus had already been trying to drink himself blind before that, and had already been shaken enough to fall for their bait.

And a thick thread of guilt and worry running through all that pain was just chanting Zeb, Zeb, Zeb. As clear as if Kallus were saying it out loud.

Ezra wasn't stupid. While he still wasn't sure how he felt about Kallus personally, or about how Kallus felt about Zeb, he did know that Zeb cared about Kallus' well-being. And Zeb would be beyond pissed if he got back from his current mission to find Kallus in the infirmary with alcohol poisoning or a mugging-related concussion, or both.

Ezra cleared his throat. He tried to be casual when he asked, "So, uh... bad day?"

Kallus just grunted.

"Cool, yeah... but... everything's fine, right?"

Another grunt in a slightly different tone.

"Like, Zeb's fine?"

Kallus' steps faltered. He picked back up and said, "How would I know?"

"Uhh, spy?"

"Not psychic," Kallus said shortly. "He'll be back tomorrow, or he won't."

Ah. Maybe it was just the universal wartime worry, then. Someone leaves, and they'll either be back or they won't, and there's no way to know until you know. One of the worst feelings Ezra's ever known in his life. He hasn't felt it about Zeb this time, though, even though the lasat got attached to another crew who needed some extra muscle on a simple supply run. And Ezra tends to trust his gut when he doesn't worry, has only learned to doubt himself when he does, because the panic spirals that negative Force visions have sent him into in the past have usually bitten him in the ass.

He feels like Zeb is fine, the mission was probably fine, and that Zeb'll be back tomorrow no problem. But Kallus can't know that, and clearly doesn't feel that way.

They reached a point in the path where one direction would lead to the barracks, the other to the hangars.

Ezra took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he was about to say. Zeb didn't know it yet, but he was gonna owe Ezra a big one. The biggest one. "Hey," Ezra said, "why don't you come crash in the Ghost tonight?"

Kallus tripped over nothing and stumbled a half-step. He might be great at masking how drunk he was, barely slurring his words at all, but Ezra hadn't forgotten that red-eyed, shitfaced, only-half-present expression as he'd been lying on the tapcafe floor and clearly trying to make half a dozen Ezras settle into one.

"What?" Kallus asked.

Ezra shrugged. "If those guys are roomed in the barracks you might run into them again. Come sober up somewhere safe."

"That's – absurd. I can take care of myself."

"Just this once!" Ezra said. "And you'll know as soon as Zeb gets back, too."

Kallus tried, "I don't -"

"Come onnn," Ezra whined. "If you get all your teeth bashed in, Zeb'll be mad at me."

Kallus opened and closed his mouth a couple of times.

"Yeah, c'mon," Ezra said before Kallus could formulate another rejection. He grabbed Kallus' arm and pulled in the direction of the hangars.

It was easy enough to lead the inebriated spy along. When they got to the hangar bay where the Ghost was docked, stepping into the bright floodlights made Kallus wince and shade his eyes. In the direct lighting he looked a complete mess, only slightly better than he had immediately post-Atollon. He had a split lip and a shiner starting to form, and a splatter pattern of blood down his lips and across the bridge of his nose that looked like something had exploded near his face (that something being someone else's nose). Ezra immediately felt more self-assured of his invitation.

"This is, is... totally unnesssass. Un. Not needed," Kallus managed. "I can -"

"Aaand you're here," Ezra said, hauling him to the ship and up the ramp. "Too late! Now there's hospitality rules."

"There's what?"

"Mandalorian hospitality rules," Ezra said cheerfully. Kallus winced. "Hasn't Sabine explained them? The guest can't leave until the host says so!"

"I am... positive that's not a real rule in any culture," Kallus said. "Except prisons."

"Okay, it was more complicated," Ezra said, shrugging. "Something about being satisfied with trade and eating salt or whatever. Anyway, you're here and you're staying and I'll be right back, gonna get a medkit."

He pushed Kallus towards the ladder out of cargo and went around the bay to fetch the kit and a couple of spare clean rags. He followed Kallus up-deck, found him having just sat down at the dejarik table, and thrust the kit and rags into Kallus' face. Kallus reeled his head back a bit, unprepared, but he took them.

Ezra dropped onto a stool opposite Kallus and leaned his arms on the tabletop. "Gotta say, I didn't know you could be so -" He waved his hand at Kallus, failing to encompass what he was trying to express.

Kallus eyed him warily while he opened the kit and tore open a packet. The sharp, bitter smell of bacta-soaked sterifiber filled the common room. Kallus wiped the blood off his face and suggested, "Messy?"

"No, like," Ezra pinched his mouth in thought, "Impulsive? Defensive?"

"Messy," Kallus said again, leaning his head back and pressing the patch over the bridge of his nose.

"I guess, but in a good way." Ezra shrugged. "It's good to know you can feel."

Kallus huffed. After a moment, he lowered his head, tore open a fresh patch and applied it over his eye. Holding it there, he said, "Expressing every emotion that crosses your mind isn't a virtue."

Ezra made a noise of disagreement and said, "Pretty sure expressing none of them isn't great either."

Kallus gave a faint groan. “Jedi balance talk, is it?”

“Uhh, Jedi don't own balance as like, a concept,” Ezra said, rolling his eyes. “It's basic human stuff, venting when you need to so you don't completely blow up.”

“Well,” Kallus said shortly, “I did vent when I needed to. With my fists, on a face that asked for it.”

“Ugh, you're just like Zeb,” Ezra said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms behind himself.

He felt the stutter running through Kallus' emotions before he looked back down to catch the man's expression. His worry was back in full force, giving Ezra a vicarious stomachache.

“You're really worried about him,” Ezra said, frowning.

Kallus took the bacta patch off his eye and refolded it to stick the other side to his lip. “Zeb can handle himself.”

Ezra rolled his eyes again. “That doesn't have anything to do with you worrying.”

Kallus refused to meet Ezra's gaze. In the galley lights, the redness veining his eyes really popped. He looked... not just drunk, but potentially like he'd cried sometime today. His sleepless eyelids were puffy. It was so weird seeing him like this.

Hesitantly, Ezra said, “He really is going to be fine. It's a Force feeling thing? I'm almost positive.”

Kallus' eyes finally flicked to meet Ezra's. If he hadn't been so smashed, he might have done a better job of hiding his vulnerability. As it was, his sincere relief was almost comical. His mouth moved around the word, “Positive,” with barely any voice behind it.

Ezra shrugged, a bit uncomfortable. “I wouldn't rely on Force intuition all the time, but it feels pretty sure right now. Zeb's fine. Probably just bored on his way back here.”

He could feel the way Kallus' tension wanted so badly to bleed away, and how Kallus held onto it with an iron grip, refusing to relax. Even so, some of the pressure did lift from him.

Kallus licked his lips, avoiding the patch on his cut, and finally said, hoarsely, “There was bad intel. Not my source, but. I vetted it. A different mission today, a pilot died.” He swallowed, back to looking at the wall. “Zeb's mission's hyperspace pathing came from the same bad source. I should have caught it. Source was compromised. I didn't see.”

Oh. Hence the drinking.

“I'm sorry,” Ezra said. “That's awful, about the pilot.”

Kallus face fell utterly blank. In the drifts and eddies of the Force, his emotions spiked to a cacophony that nearly made Ezra wince. The man was not used to having his feelings validated. Ezra knew he'd heard Zeb, Kanan, and even Hera tell Kallus that not every bad thing was his fault, but... had he ever heard anyone just... commiserate? Not say “don't feel bad,” but rather “yes, this feels bad and that's okay”?

Ezra's heart sank to his shoes.

“What, um... do you know the pilot's name?” Ezra asked hesitantly.

Kallus worked his mouth for a moment soundlessly. Then he managed, “Can't tell you. Classified.”

“No, that's okay,” Ezra said hurriedly. “I didn't mean I wanted you to tell me. I just... um. Back home on Lothal, some folks would light a candle for the dead. You say their name three times into the fire to carry their spirit away in peace. I remember my parents doing it every now and then for friends of theirs they'd lost. I kinda shoved it away after... I mean, I didn't do it for them until... pretty recently. But it helped.”

He swallowed, pushing through the awkwardness of making an emotional confession to a guy who'd tried to kill him, who still sometimes mockingly called him Jabba, and who he'd just heard vomit his guts up less than half an hour ago.

Which made him think - “Oh, kark, you should drink some water.” He jumped up from his stool, relieved to have a reason to leave the table and busy his hands. He filled a mug at the tap, deliberately not looking at Kallus for long enough for the man's projected emotions to settle into a calmer state.

When Ezra returned to the dejarik table, Kallus was looking as impassive as ever. His face was starting to swell. Ezra slid him the mug and when Kallus took it Ezra finally noticed that his knuckles were bloodied as well, and he hadn't cleaned them up. Hadn't taken a pain tab either.

Ezra gave a forced chuckle. “You really walloped that first guy,” he said. “Gotta admit it was kind of satisfying. I used to be that hotheaded.”

“I don't know if iss a compliment,” Kallus said, lightly slurring, “to be likened to a feral child. By a feral child.” He picked up the water and took a sip with a wince.

Ezra grinned, taking 'feral child' as a compliment himself. “Lothrats are as lothrats do. I know another street scrapper when I see one. You didn't learn some of those moves in the Academy, huh?”

Kallus slumped in his seat and took a bigger drink of water. “No. Not all of Coruscant is high society, y'know. Most of i'ss slums.”

“Oh man, really?” Ezra leaned forward. “Did you have a gang? Did you pickpocket? What was your favorite trick?”

Kallus said, “Jabba, I am still quite drunk. My head is killing me. Not now.”

“Aww.”

“If I remember any of this tomorrow,” Kallus deigned, “maybe I'll teach you something.”

Clearly a cop-out. Ezra glared. No way was Kallus blackout, memory-loss drunk. He was just impulsive, angry, anxious drunk. Ezra knew his drunks, okay.

Kallus looked at him and sighed. “D'you know any lower Coruscanti tag code?”

“Ooh, no!”

“I'll make you a chart.”

Ezra pumped his fist. Not only would it be cool and potentially useful to know, it would be something about tagging that he might get to know before Sabine did.

Ezra decided to regale Kallus with some of the highlights of his pickpocketing career, with particular focus on how easy it was to con off-duty Imp officers, which made Kallus lean his head back and groan. It had exactly the lulling effect Ezra wanted. Only half the cup of water was gone by the time Kallus started to flag badly, crashing hard from the adrenaline and alcohol. His gaze tracked muzzily across the galley to look at anything but Ezra, lingering on the mug rack, the wall art, and Zeb's chair.

“Okay, that's enough, you gotta lie down,” Ezra told him, after Kallus blinked a little too long and then jerked his head back up. “I'm not Force-lifting you into bed.”

“'M fine,” Kallus mumbled on autopilot.

“You're not hearing me at all, huh?”

“Nothin' wrong w'me, 's all... 's nothing.”

“Man, there's plenty wrong with you. C'mon, get up.”

Ezra coaxed Kallus upright. The man was uncomfortably big to haul around like this. Kallus roused enough to attempt to help, but his footsteps were getting less and less coordinated as he got closer to passing out. His emotional aura confirmed what Ezra could have guessed just from knowing human nature: assurance that Zeb was safe had unraveled the knot in Kallus' center that had spent all day snowballing out into the rest of his tight, vibrating wad of anxiety. With that knot undone, the rest of him was rapidly falling apart.

Ezra had every intention of dropping Kallus off in Rex's room, but the man staggered heavily in a lean towards Ezra's own door. Zeb hummed through his emotions again, flavored with yearning this time, and Ezra caught a whiff of the idea that Kallus was... following his nose?

“Auuughh,” Ezra complained loudly. “Gods, you're so gross.”

“What?” Kallus demanded, dazed and bewildered.

Ezra suppressed a gag. He couldn't believe a sloppy-drunk Kallus was draped over his shoulder, yearning for Zeb's musk. Ezra turned towards his own door, accepting his fate.

“If you puke in Zeb's bed - “ Ezra paused. “That's fine, actually, just keep it in Zeb's bed. He's gonna owe me so big time.”

“Wha -”

The door slid open. Ezra dragged Kallus the last two steps, twisted under his arm, and dumped him onto Zeb's bunk. Kallus bonked the back of his head against the top bunk (with a pathetic “ow”) before he went down completely, at which point he seemed to realize where he was, rolled his face into Zeb's pillow, and hauled in a deep breath.

“Ew,” Ezra told him wholeheartedly, not that Kallus was remotely listening anymore.

Ezra rolled his eyes to the ceiling, went off to the fresher, and by the time he came back Kallus was snoring. Not as loudly as Zeb did, thankfully. With a sigh, Ezra climbed the ladder and rolled himself into his own bunk-burrito.

Maybe, if luck and the Force were on his side, Kallus and Zeb would figure themselves and each other out before Ezra had to overhear any more longing feelings about scents. Ugh.

-

+4

After a dull debriefing for an equally dull mission in which Zeb's only contribution had been lifting about a million crates, all Zeb wanted to do was throw his bag on his bunk, grab some food, and maybe go nap on top of a temple in the sunshine for a few hours. He cracked a huge yawn as he thumped the door controls to his and Ezra's room. With his eyes half-closed and his mind fully on the goal of breakfast, he did not think to look (or sniff) carefully at anything.

His bunk let out a gut-punched “oof” when his bag landed on it.

Zeb froze, blinking. “Sorry, Ez – what're you doing down -”

His nose caught up with his brain at the same time an arm flailed out and pushed the bag to the floor. Definitely not Ezra's arm, all pale and freckly and crisscrossed with scars.

What... what was Kallus doing in his bunk?

Zeb took a deep, investigative breath, and amended, What was a very liquor-scented Kallus doing in his bunk?

The man in question croaked, “Zeb,” in a voice that sounded like he hadn't used it in a century. “You're safe.”

“... Yeah?” Zeb was more confused than ever.

Kallus struggled upright, swinging his legs off the bunk (he still had boots on! he put his filthy boots in Zeb's bunk?) and pulling himself to his feet by grabbing the upper bunk's bars. (Zeb noted the suspicious emptiness of the upper bunk and knew he would need to track the kid down for answers later.) Kallus swayed for a moment, his breath hitching as he presumably worked through the headrush of standing.

“Uh,” Zeb said eloquently. “What're you -”

Kallus took a deeper breath, which hitched again, and held onto the upper bunk with knuckles going pale.

“Hey,” Zeb said, starting to hold out a hand.

Kallus let go of the upper bunk and stood perfectly straight for a moment. He tugged his wrinkled shirt down as if to make himself presentable. (He was not presentable.) He raised his chin by a fraction. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he rasped, “Pardon me,” and lunged in the direction of the refresher.

Zeb's ears instinctively flattened against his head in a wince, but from the sound of things, Kallus didn't have anything in him to lose. Didn't make the dry-heaving any more pleasant to listen to, of course.

“I leave for two days,” Zeb muttered, moving his bag from the floor to the bunk again. He sniffed and grimaced at the rough scent combination of stale alcohol, bloody bacta, and fear sweat, although Kallus' natural smell beneath all that was perfectly fine. Sort of like cut wood and hot metal. (Lately Zeb was trying real hard not to think about how much he liked that smell.)

Zeb sighed and went to the galley only to find Hera and Kanan already there, drinking caf and talking over the remains of breakfast.

“Hey, Zeb! Good mission?”

Zeb shrugged. “Didn't die, 'bout as good as they get. Ez say anything about letting a... uh, guest stay in my bunk?”

Hera and Kanan exchanged glances (still eerie with Kanan's milky eyes). Kanan gave a light laugh. Hera said, “Yeah... he said Kallus was sleeping off a rough night, so we let him be.”

“An' where is Ezra now?” Zeb asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Mmm, hard to say,” Kanan said knowingly. “He also caused a bit of a ruckus at the tapcafe last night, so probably not going to be showing his face for a bit.”

“I see,” Zeb said in a light growl. “Well, someone needs to inform the kid that even if maybe he can get away with volunteering someone else's bed to a drunk buddy, he better take that buddy's karkin' boots off first.”

Hera snorted into her caf. “Oh no,” she giggled. “Sorry, Zeb.”

Zeb heaved a sigh. He needed to clean anyway; he could air out his bunk cushions this afternoon. “I better hear this story about the tapcafe, then,” he said. “Any food left? I'm -” His ears flicked back, catching distinctive steps, and he whipped around to the galley door to bellow, “Kallus! Don't you sneak off, get in here!”

There was silence for a moment. Then, if a door could be said to open sheepishly, the galley door did so. Unkempt, miserable-looking Alexsandr Kallus stood there with his shoulders hunched as if he were about to get told off by an instructor.

“Come on, get some caf an' food in ya,” Zeb grunted, pulling him into the room and depositing him on the bench opposite Kanan and Hera. “Yer not allowed t'be hung over on the Ghost without waffles.”

“I,” Kallus tried, and cleared his throat. “I sincerely apologize – I had no right to -”

Kanan interrupted with a grimace and, “Oof, you sound like you've been gargling durasteel filings. Don't talk until you've had something to drink.”

“I -” Kallus tried.

“Better do what he says,” Hera said, standing up and joining Zeb at the counter. “I know it's not caf, but I'm making you some of my hangover tea.”

“It's good stuff,” Kanan said heartily.

“What,” Kallus all but whispered.

“Hush yer face,” Zeb told him grumpily, and this time, Kallus complied.

Hera steeped some lukewarm, peppery tea and made Kallus choke it down before she would give him a mug of fresh caf. Zeb worked the waffle iron. Once he'd made more than enough, he filled two plates and thunked one in front of Kallus.

Zeb poured syrup on his plate, saw Kallus about to nibble a dry waffle, grunted, and reached over to pour syrup on his plate as well. Kallus gave him a bloodshot stare. Then he ate the syrupy waffle without comment. Smart man.

“Let's hear the fresh drama, then,” Zeb said.

So Hera and Kanan regaled them with the version of the previous evenings events that they'd heard, which, from Kallus' acrobatic eyebrows during the telling, didn't seem to entirely square with reality. At one point Kallus muttered “there were only six of them, not a squadron,” but Zeb shushed him.

“Anyway,” Hera concluded, “they've already been disciplined and taken off their next assignment. It won't last long, we need everyone in the air who's able, but at least it'll sting for a couple of days.”

Kallus' head had drooped over his plate, his broad shoulders tucking in. He'd only eaten half his waffles and seemed uninclined to finish them, nursing his black caf instead.

“Draven does want to see you,” Hera said to Kallus, her tone gentling. “But don't worry, the popular opinion's with you, not the other guys. Their squad's been full of cocky jerks for a while now. Getting on everyone's nerves.”

Kallus' head came up just enough that Zeb could see his perturbed expression. “I deserve the harsher punishment,” he said. “For disturbing order and instigating violence on base.”

Kanan leaned onto the table on his elbows. “You're under different leadership. The pilots get what punishment Fleet Command sees fit, you get what Draven and Intel sees fit. If that's just a stern talk, then that's that.”

“But -”

“Alexsandr,” Kanan said firmly. Zeb blinked. He didn't realize Kanan was already at the point of taking the fatherly, full-first-name, I'm-just-disappointed tone with Kallus. Kanan said, “You had a bad day. Everyone here understands a bad day. Take your lecture and don't make a fuss about it.”

Kallus stared at Kanan like the Jedi was crazy – at least, for a moment. Then he looked down into his caf, seemingly cowed.

“What made your day so bad, anyway?” Hera asked gently.

Kallus' mouth twisted. He took a drink of caf, cleared his throat. “Dirty intel blew a mission, and I had reason to believe several others were compromised. Including yours.” He nodded towards Zeb, not looking up. “Spent yesterday purging the bad source and reviewing all related information. We could recall a few crews that weren't on comms blackout, but...”

Zeb sighed. His supply run had taken them into a sector where the relays were unsafe, so they'd run dark until their jump back to base. Comms silence was necessary sometimes, but few things were more nervewracking.

Kallus said, “Once the last crew reports in, you'll be hearing about the failed mission. There were casualties.”

Silence around the table as Hera, Kanan, and Zeb digested the news. Zeb had heard far worse reasons – had had far worse reasons – to seek out the solace at the bottom of a bottle. It was also a bit rattling to know that his dull, boring supply run had been on such a knife's edge, and he'd never even known.

Zeb lifted his mug an inch off the table. “To gettin' home safe,” he said.

Hera and Kanan immediately cheered the toast with murmured agreement, clanking plasteel against ceramic. Kallus raised his mug last, though Zeb wasn't sure if his reluctance was to the sentiment or to being included. Just as his mug clicked against Kallus', Zeb added, “And to the people who make sure we do.”

Kallus' eyes flicked up to meet Zeb's. They were still bloodshot and bruised, and he looked so vulnerable. Zeb gave the tiniest nod, to emphasize that the toast was to him, to Kallus, to the intelligence division for what they did, day in and day out.

Kallus's eyes went back to his mug. A bit of challenge entered his expression, and he added, “And to the ones we lose anyway.”

Zeb nodded and drank to that. Kallus, mollified that he wasn't being celebrated too much and that his failures were still on display, finally drank the toast. Zeb sighed to himself. Maybe someday, Kallus'd get to a better place. Or maybe that would be a lifelong project.

After a bit more chatter, Hera finally stood up and said she needed to get to work. Kanan left with her, musing about where his wayward padawan might have gone off to hide. Hating to see food go to waste, Zeb pulled Kallus' plate over and polished off his waffles in a couple of bites before taking all the dishes to the sink.

“More caf?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” Kallus said, sliding out of the bench seat and standing. “There's always some going in Intel. I need to go take my licks.”

Zeb scrunched up his face at the saying, which was definitely one of those idioms he hadn't learned in conversational Basic lessons. “I know you'll do worse to yerself than Draven ever could,” he said. “Jus' remember that Kanan's right. You had a bad day an' there's nothing wrong with handlin' a bad day... well... bad. Every now an' then, anyway. Maybe don't make bar brawls a habit.”

Kallus huffed a laugh, tucking hands into his jacket pockets. “It's one I thought I'd broken years ago. Rebel life certainly has a way of making me relive teenagehood.”

How's that? Zeb almost asked. Because for him, teenagehood had been less about getting in fist fights and more about crushes, and hormones, and his own scent changing, and inappropriate bodily responses to the burgeoning scents of his peers – like how Kallus' scent had changed from sterile, cold metal to more of a hot, lightly greased-metal smell, with smoldering woodfire and musk behind it -

Zeb blinked hard and flicked his ears like he was trying to get rid of a gnat. “Uh,” he said. “Got, um. Got in a lotta fights, huh?”

Kallus' ears had gone slightly pinker than usual. “Yes,” he said. “Fights. I was... angry. I just needed to learn to focus it.” He cleared his throat. “And now I need to learn to... focus. Again. That's all I meant.”

All you meant, Zeb thought. What else did you think I thought you meant. Did you think I was thinking what I was thinking? Because I was thinking it. Karabast.

“Yeah, focus...” Zeb muttered, unfocused. “I'm... pretty tired, actually. Was gonna go take a nap.”

Kallus took a step backwards to the galley door. “Right. I was leaving.” He turned.

“Wait,” Zeb said, not even sure why he needed to, just knowing he needed to. Kallus turned back. “Grab dinner in the mess with you? After yer licks?” He winced at himself for using the kriffin' idiom he disliked so much.

Kallus swallowed visibly, but nodded. “See you later,” he said. Then he turned away again and left.

Zeb puttered around the galley for a while longer, cleaning all the dishes and tidying up. He went back to his bunk, unpacked his satchel and neatened things. He took his cushions outside and hooked them over crates and low branches to air out. He gathered his cleaning kit and bo-rifle and climbed one of the shorter pyramids to a spot halfway up that he'd used for a bit of privacy before, where he could get some sun and just listen to the wind in the trees for a while.

He worked on his rifle and finally, finally let himself really think about Alexsandr Kallus. Or, well... not the scent stuff. Or Kallus' face (which he found himself wanting to watch, all the time), or body (... it was a good one...), or voice (humans didn't usually have vocal registers that low, and speaking of things that had done a number on Zeb's teenage body, a good rumbly-deep voice – well -).

No. Zeb pushed all that aside (for now).

Instead he thought about Ezra rescuing Kallus from a bar fight and bringing him to the Ghost to sleep it off, instead of leaving the man to his own devices. He thought about Kanan's tone when he said “Alexsandr,” and Hera making the old hangover tea recipe she hadn't needed to break out for years – not since the last time Kanan leaned too hard on the bottle for support, which had been before Sabine. And speaking of Sabine, what about the last time Zeb talked to her? She'd been laughing with Kallus on the comms, happy and relaxed, even though she'd told him outright that she'd been feeling down before.

Kriff, even Chop had adopted the man as a partner in mad droid science.

Kallus didn't seem to realize how thoroughly he'd been embraced and absorbed into the Ghost family. He still looked lonely and lost most of the time, when he wasn't acting hard and cynical.

Sabine knew she could call home when she was struggling. Kallus didn't realize he had a home he could call.

Zeb curled over his bo-rifle, the old familiar motions of cleaning soothing his thoughts and making up his mind. He had to make Kallus realize he was cared for and thought of. He had to do right by his family, because now all of them had invested too much in this soggy, street-scarred lothcat of a man to just let him sit outside, shivering and forever feral.

Zeb chuckled to himself at the mental image. He ought not infantilize; Kallus was stronger than all that, and far more complex. Still. If only hand-feeding the man some shredded convor meat and scratching behind his ears would fix all his problems, eh? Would make the galaxy an easier place.

The galaxy was not an easy place but Kallus made his own place in it harder than it needed to be, and Zeb decided there and then that was going to convince Kallus of that or die trying. He was going to invite Kallus home, in every way he could, until Kallus hopefully realized that he'd been home all along. After all, that was what Kanan and Hera had done for Zeb when he'd lost everything. It was what Hera had done for Chopper, once upon a time, and Hera and Chop had done for Kanan, and all of them for the kids... open their hands, open their hearts, and build home outward to encompass everyone who needed it.

Zeb put his gleaming weapon aside and reclined against a worn-smooth stone that felt good on his tired back. He closed his eyes and let the sunlight soak into him, fur ruffling lightly in the jungle breeze. He grinned at no one.

He was looking forward to dinner.

-