Pandora's Box
It's hereeeee: my current comfort fic that was prompted courtesy of @marvelassassin221b. Love you to bits, babe, keep being you and doing what you're doing.
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Cal Kestis x Reader
Word Count: ~4.2k
Warnings: Violence, flashbacks, angst, grieving
Summary: You haven’t seen Cal since before the Purge. You’d convinced yourself to abandon hope, to accept that he probably died along with his master. You closed the box on hope, until the train disaster on Bracca busts it wide open.
A/N: Full disclosure: I have no experience personally with PTSD. Most of what I know is from what I have read, and what I gathered about Cal's PTSD from the game. I am in no way claiming that this is how the disorder works. Reader, or "Slippy", is caught between the past and the present because she hasn't truly worked through her trauma because of years of repression rather than learning to grieve her lost loved ones.
“Cere! What is happening?”
She ignores you, one hand holding her headset in place and the other furiously recalculating to detect frequencies. The Imperial chatter is loud enough that you can hear voices, but you can’t make the words out even as you strain your ears to understand the Basic. In a flash of movement, she has the headset around her neck and is speaking quietly to Greez. “Set course for Bracca. A Jedi has surfaced, and the First Order is after them.”
Bracca. The mining planet, overrun by Imperials during the Purge. All of a sudden you’re twelve years old again, waving good-bye to Master Tapal and his red-headed Padawan. Cal. Could he be the Jedi? It could also be Master Tapal, but you can’t help but hope that it’s his Padawan instead. Does that make you a bad person? It definitely makes you a bad rebel against the First Order, any self-respecting insurgent would hope for the experienced Master instead of the lesser trained Padawan. It could even be a different Jedi. There were hundreds, maybe thousands before the Purge. Many died, but some escaped. But to Bracca?
The rationalization spins your mind every which way, disorienting and confusing your thinking. But it doesn’t change the feeling deep inside your innermost being that it is someone that you knew in a past lifetime.
---
The hallways of the Republic destroyer are crisp and clean. Even your soft-heeled boots send noises echoing off of the sterile walls, announcing your presence long before you even get close to Master Ra’vena. The Twi’lek Jedi is deep in conversation with Commander Glade, but the pair spares a glance in your direction.
“Padawan.” Your master’s voice is deep and comforting, resonating off of the walls.
“Master Ra’vena.” You incline your head respectfully, before falling silent, staring into space as you wait for them to finish.
“What concerns you?” You glance back at them, and they haven’t looked away from you.
“Oh, nothing. But it is time for training.”
Ra’vena checks his timepiece, “So it is. Well, that is excellent timing, for I have some exciting news for you.” He nods at Glade, who turns and enters the bridge. He turns back to you, and that familiar spark of anticipation is in his eye. “Jaro Tapal and his Padawan in preparation will be boarding soon to consolidate forces for the Bracca campaign. I believe that young Cal is about your age, actually. You will join them for training as I continue to strategize with Commander Glade.”
“Cal?” The name rings a bell, though you can’t quite put a face to it.
“Yes. Fiery thing, good at climbing.” Ra’vena regards you, searching for a sign of recognition even as you slowly shake your head. “Bright red hair?”
Oh. You remember the youngling that was always the first into trouble and the last out of it. He’d climbed the walls of the training room, creating handholds out of a smooth wall as he tried to retrieve the ball from a game gone wrong. He’d reached the ball, but had lost his footing and fallen almost ten feet. A gap-toothed smile became his trademark for the rest of your youngling years. Hazel eyes and a mischievous grin float across your memory, and you resist the urge to smile. Cal Kestis had been cute.
---
Bracca appears on the Mantis holomap, and you tamp down the nostalgia that floods back to you. How many times had you stared at this same planet while floating hundreds of feet above its surface? How long had it been since? You shove the question away. It’s dangerous to be here, not only because of the First Order presence. It’s dangerous to remember your Master, Jaro Tapal, and Cal Kestis. It's a box, full of dangerous memories that threaten to drag you under the surface.
Memories of screams that you thought you had abandoned echo in your ears once again, and you fight the urge to plug your ears. They’re not real. They’re not actually there. You repeat the words to yourself, the words that Ra’vena had whispered to you in the darkness of the wreckage of the temple.
“They’re not real.” Blood is pooling beneath your master’s body. You clench your hands into fists, bringing them up against the cool metal of the Mantis’s hull. Trooper footsteps echo outside, clanging off of the rubble. You inhale slowly, and the recycled air floods your lungs. You recognize Glade’s voice, assuring his men that no one could have survived the building collapse. Your hand is clamped over your mouth and Ra’vena’s, scared that even the barest sound of breathing will alert them to survivors.
Your name echoes sharply through the hull, and your head snaps up. Greez is tugging your hand, looking up at you with slight concern. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “We’re about to land. Take your seat.”
---
“Bet I can land before you.” Cal’s taunt rings directly in your ear despite him being on the other side of the destroyer, courtesy of the hacked comm unit. You’re supposed to be flying separate missions, and therefore unable to communicate at all. But Cal has always been good with technology, and he presented the hacked unit to you with a flourish and a grin before the exercise had begun.
You keep your eyes focused on the simulation screen in front of you. Your virtual fighter flickers in and out of the clouds as you steer towards the base. “Bet you can’t. I’m only two clicks out.”
“I’m one and a half. You won’t catch up, Slippy.” Glade and his men had been calling you that nickname since that tragic day in the mess hall when you tripped over your own two feet, then spent the rest of the meal trying to convince your master and the clones that there had been a puddle of water. Glade had told Cal, and that was the end of that. Your only refuge on the ship are the two Jedi Masters, who are gratefully mature enough to call you by your real name.
Your fingers play with the thruster. “I win, and you have to stop calling me that.”
“Deal. I win, and you have to do my chores for two months.” Your jaw drops, even though you know he can’t see your face.
“Fine.” Your hand closes around the control and you gun your digital engine. “You’re going to regret that.”
“Doubt it, Slippy.”
You speed up, spiraling into a dive as you avoid two vulture droids. Sky whips past your viewscreen, and you grin as the base comes into sight. Almost there. Your hand hovers over the button for landing gear. The virtual base is right through a canyon, and you angle your ship to pass between the narrow ridges
“Padawan.” You jump as Master Ra’vena’s voice booms into your ear. Your hand jerks sideways on the controls, and your ship follows suit. The wing clips the cliff edge, resulting in an impressive explosion that sinks your heart in your chest.
“Master Tapal!” Cal’s shocked voice comes over the comm before it cuts out and static reigns in its place. You stare at the failure screen, gasping for air as the adrenaline rush slams through your chest.
The simulation cockpit lightens around you as Ra’vena disengages the system and enters. His hand extends, his face a severe mask of disapproval, “Hand over the communicator.”
You remove it from your ear and hand it over sullenly, “We weren’t cheating.”
Ra’vena regards you with a slight smile. “No, you weren’t. But that--” He gestures at the screen, glaringly announcing your failure to complete the mission. “--doesn’t exactly prove competence. You must be able to fly solo missions without me, or the pressure to beat Cal in a race compromising your judgment.” Blood rushes to your face and you look down. Ra’vena studies the comm unit before placing it into his own ear and turning to go. “Now, again. We’ll compare Padawan scores afterwards.”
---
The Mantis drops from hyperspace with a boom, the familiar and strange planet filling the transparisteel. Clouds cotton along the horizon, occasionally flashing from the inside with bolts of lightning that illuminate nightmarish figures trapped inside the storm. You remember watching the storms from the Republic destroyer, pointing out shapes in the clouds along with Cal. Cal always seemed to manage to find more complex shapes in the shapeless fluff, leaving you to point out spheres and cubes.
Cere mutters your name softly, a single hand landing on yours where it rests on the arm of your flight chair. You tear your eyes away from Bracca. Your knuckles are white, and as you focus, you become aware of the tingles in your fingers that signal the lack of blood flow. With gritted teeth, you slowly force your hands to unclench.
But Cere is still looking at you. “Do not reach out through the Force when we enter the atmosphere. The Sisters are here, and will sense you.” Does she know? Does she know the fragile butterfly of hope pressing against your heart right now? The warning in her eyes implies that she does, but how could she know about a childhood crush from years ago?
“Hang on, it’s going to be a rough entry.” Greez’s words herald the rain. It comes all at once, drumming against the Mantis and drowning out every other sound from your crewmates. Cere’s headset is on again, and she’s talking to Greez through the interlaid comm system. You have your own headset, but you don’t feel like putting it on. All you can think about is the Jedi.
The Mantis drops through the air in a steep dive that would normally feel like freefall, except you trust Greez’s steady hands and the hope fluttering in the pit of your stomach carries you through the fall without major consequence. You want to reach out through the Force, you yearn to know if it is really Cal. If he escaped the Purge all those years ago.
You know that it’s wrong to hope. It's the box from before, only this time it's filled with something even more dangerous. It's Pandora's Box, filled with hope that could be released with the tap of a latch. Hope is what destroys a soul. Survival requires the hardening of one’s spirit, so one is not left vulnerable to the crushing counterattack of disappointment and despair.
For five years, you convinced yourself that Cal Kestis died in the Purge. Just like Ra’vena, just like all of your Padawan friends in the temple.
You’d been good at it, too: convincing yourself that everyone was dead. You’d woken up one day, one day in the middle of hundreds, and you’d automatically believed it. You’d believed it for the rest of your blissful ignorance, until Cere mentioned the Jedi on Bracca and shattered your carefully composed defenses.
Even now, you’re tugged forward in your seat by this unfamiliar hope, straining to see through the rain as dark shapes appear on the planet surface. It’s a graveyard for ships. Massive destroyers adorn the surface like skeletons, stripped down so that you can see dark shadows extending into the bellies of once majestic spacecraft.
Motion catches your eye, and you see a train snaking its way along the ground. Cere’s lips move, and the Mantis angles towards the train. It grows with every passing second, and you lean forward to study the vehicle. You can’t see anything through the pouring rain, except… a beam of blue light, too concentrated to be a blaster bolt, too vividly blue to be anything except a lightsaber. The saber of a Jedi Guardian, the same color that belonged to Jaro Tapal and Cal.
---
“Do you ever wish you had a different saber?” You’re in his quarters. He’s standing by the bed with your lightsaber in hand, admiring the handle. You’re seated on his unmade cot.
“Are you kidding? This--” He grins at you a little wildly. He flicks his wrist and turns your saber in his hand effortlessly. The orange blade slices through the air with its familiar muted thrum, and your eyes track it nervously even as Cal handles it with an expert hand despite his limited years. “--is the coolest thing ever. Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Ever wish you had a different saber color?”
You answer without a second thought. “Yes.” You fidget with your sleeve. “All the time.”
”Seriously? Do you know how many Jedi have orange blades?” Yes.
You sigh, “Master Ra’vena told me that it was less common.” You study the lightsaber in your hand, envisioning the blade color without actually activating it. “Blue blades are for guardians, the warriors of the Jedi Order. You know where you’re going to end up. Me, on the other hand--” You finally give in and hit the switch. Cal’s saber never fails to strike you as it ignites and fills your vision with the distinctive shade of blue. “Orange blades signify strength. Potential for great good, or great harm.” You recite the words exactly as Master Ra’vena had told you over and over. “Apparently, they mean I have huge potential. And yet no one will tell me where I am going once I finish my training.” You blink when the words finally leave your lips.
You hadn’t uttered those words to anyone. They’d been floating in the back of your mind, the fear of the ever-changing future and your place in it. But fear was not the Jedi way. You retract the blade and dart an anxious glance over to Cal.
He doesn’t look judgmental, he never does. He simply rotates your lightsaber through basic forms with a sympathetic glance over at you. “Do you want to fight in the war?”
You gaze at the blue lightsaber in your hand and consider the question. These days, it feels like that is the only thing Padawans are ever being trained for. You remember the excitement of newly instated Padawans from your youngling years at the temple. Every single one of them hoped for a general as their master, so that they could fight on the front lines. But that wasn’t your wish. “I just want to belong.”
“Well, you belong with me.” You almost choke at the statement. Does he know? Does he know about your crush on him, the attraction to his bright eyes and kind smile? The crush that lightens your day and distracts you from your training. The one that you don’t really know how to fit into your life as a Jedi. He continues as if he hadn’t lit a fire underneath your entire internal psyche, “You’re my best friend. And you belong with your master. You two work so well together, better than me and Master Tapal could ever. And you belong with the clones. Glade and his men treat you like a little sister.”
You feel your heartbeat slow if only marginally. He doesn’t know. You manage a weak, “Yeah, I guess.”
“And--” Cal’s eyes glow in the light of your saber. The orange highlights his fiery hair. He’s beautiful. The thought flits across your mind before he continues speaking and you wrench your attention away from his eyes and back to his words, “--the Force chose correctly. You’re the strongest Jedi that I know.”
You smile, “You say that as if the generals don’t exist and fight in the wars every single day. Generals Skywalker and Kenobi are the stuff of legend.”
“But they don’t have orange sabers!” Cal argues back, “That has to mean something, Slippy.”
“Yeah, whatever you say, Kestrel.” The nickname is something that you’ve been trying to get to stick. The kestrel is a bird of prey from your home planet, quick and deadly like the boy wielding your saber around the training area. It helps that his last name is so close to the name, but you’ve yet to get the clones to agree with you.
“That’s not going to stick. It’s more syllables than just ‘Cal’.” He flourishes the blade with a whirl of light, temporarily turning away from you.
‘But you’re so much more to me than just Cal.’ You want to argue, to speak the words that leap to your mind like a second instinct. But your mouth stays shut. Strong Jedi, you want to scoff at the idea. You’re not even strong enough to confess your feelings. Another time, perhaps.
---
The train stops. Why did it stop? You put your headset on.
Cere is speaking, her voice filled with dread, “We’re not alone.” A high whine cuts through the storm, and a small fighter craft zips around the Mantis. You’re helpless to do anything but watch with dread as it flies parallel to the train, before veering sharply in a u-turn. An explosion rocks a connection point of the train, sending the back half crashing off of the rails as if in slow motion. Greez curses, and Cere points urgently, “There! Do you see it?”
“Yes.” Greez aims the Mantis towards a single point on the crashing portion of the train and your heart clenches. You can’t see anything except falling debris, but Cere obviously does as she shrugs her harness off and runs towards the aft.
You’re about to follow her, but she fixes you with a stern gaze, “Stay.”
A siren blares through the cockpit when Cere opens the hatch. You hear her scream into the wind, but you can’t make out the words. You’re craning your neck, trying to see out the door while Greez struggles to hold the Mantis level.
Something explodes off to the right of the ship, and Greez curses. The ship rocks uncontrollably, and you hear Cere cry out, “No!”
Screw it. You unbuckle your harness and run to the back. “Cere! Are you hurt?”
She ignores you, brushing past to rejoin Greez in the cockpit. Well, you’re going to assume that means no. You hurry back.
“Find him again! The Second Sister will destroy him!”
“You try flying in the middle of a warzone!”
“Just pull level!” She thrusts a hand out haphazardly in your direction, “Man the firing station!”
You rush to the controls, praying that your practice sessions would pay off. Greez turns the Mantis to face the damaged train. Your eyes are automatically drawn to the concentrated beams of light, and the two figures engaged in a lightsaber duel on a rickety train that’s about to plummet into the canyon below. Holy stars.
You can’t believe your eyes, “Cere!”
“I know.” She answers grimly. “Aim for the Sister.” The figures are so small compared to your targeting system. Even a fraction of an inch of movement shifts the target drastically.
“I might hit him!”
“You won’t. Concentrate. Use the Force. Fire, then prepare your supplies. He’s going to need your skills.”
You inhale shakily through your nose, then allow your hand to guide itself. Hours of practice pay off as you lock onto the figure wielding the red lightsaber. The blue and red sabers are locked together, but you can see the Jedi giving. She’s too strong, too rooted in the dark side for the red-headed Jedi to ever have a hope of overcoming.
Red hair. Holy stars. As if of their own will, your hands move. One takes the aiming controls and centers it at the feet of the Sister. Your finger hits the trigger without hesitation, and your vision lights with red artillery fire within the fraction of a second. As if in slow motion, you see the floor of the train explode, blasting apart the two duelers and immersing the Second Sister in a cloud of smoke.
All of a sudden, a conviction comes over you. If you killed Cal in that blast, you couldn’t--
No, you don’t even allow yourself to consider the thought further, whipping around and sprinting to the back of the Mantis to retrieve your supply bag. Force healing tends to leave you loopy and drained, so you carry a bag of medical supplies for less emergent care. You pass the door just as Cere leaps out of it. You snag the handles of your bag with shaking fingers, returning to the door to see Cal limping up the ramp, arm thrown over Cere’s shoulders. You freeze where you are, about even with the meal table. He doesn’t see you even as he rushes to the cockpit, lightsaber still ignited and vibrating through the air with its telltale thrum of energy.
Blaster fire rips your attention back to Cere as she stands at the door. The Second Sister approaches, lightsaber drawn and at the ready and your hand reaches into your bag to the concealed pocket. She’s getting close, seemingly undeterred by the bolts whizzing about her head, and dread clamps over your heart like a vise.
Blaster bolts, flying through the air. You gasp, dropping the bag but holding onto the hilt of your saber. A blue lightsaber, unmarred and glowing brightly as General Skywalker himself stalks through the hallways. The Mantis shakes underneath your feet as Greez begins to pilot away from the trainwreck. The rumble of explosives. Ra’vena yelling that they’ve rigged the wing of the temple to explode. You dart towards the door, lightsaber igniting with a familiar thrum of energy that you haven’t heard in years. You have to stop them, they’re going to kill your master. The clones are outside, Skywalker leading them. He’s going to cut you down, but not if you get to him first. Your saber clashes against the red blade of the Second Sister as she lunges forward towards the retreating Mantis. You stare into the unyielding face of the helmet, reaching out through the Force. There! A shallow burn on her arm, probably from her short duel with Cal. You reach out and dig your fingers into it at the same time as you pierce into the injury with the Force. She screams, a bone-chilling wail of pain and you snarl, a feral grin across your face.
Someone screams your name and a hand appears at the scruff of your neck, grabbing your collar and yanking you back into the safety of the ship. Your grip dissolves, and you’re forced to release the Second Sister. She falls into open air briefly, before her ship appears underneath her and she lands heavily on top of it.
The panic leaves you, your vision unclouding just as you slip and almost fall. You’re halfway out of the Mantis, the ramp long gone. The only leverage keeping you aboard the ship is a single foot planted on the threshold of the door and Cere’s hand securing you by the neck.
She yanks you inside, and you land heavily on the floor. She’s breathing heavily, staring you down with the intensity of a hawk, “What.” She pauses, taking a deep breath in the way that Ra’vena used to when you really messed up, when he had to calm himself before ripping into you. “Was. That.”
“I--uh--”
“No. Don’t answer that.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, turning away from you. “I wasn’t aware that you still had your saber.”
"Slippy?" Your real name echoes after the nickname into the empty silence that follows. You and Cere both glance over to the door of the cockpit, where Cal is standing in shocked silence. Stars. He’s grown up, but then again, so have you. His jawline is stronger now, his hair grown out of the Order regulation cut. There are several new scars, and your eye is drawn especially to one that slices across the bridge of his nose. He’s still beautiful. The thought is inappropriate in timing, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Because while he’s changed, his eyes are the same. Soulful, deep, and kind despite the hardships that you know that he’s endured. Sadder, maybe, but not cold. Not hardened in the way that yours have become.
Cere sends you a meaningful look that says, ‘We will have this conversation later,’ before she turns and enters the cockpit, leaving you with Cal.
---
She’s grown up, but then again, so have I.
Cal wants to slap himself for two separate reasons. Firstly, he’s ninety percent sure that he’s dreaming, because after five years, you’re alive and well and standing in front of him with your orange lightsaber like a warrior goddess. After five years, he’d finally been able to sleep without hearing your scream. He’d finally come to peace with the idea that you were dead, that you’d died in the Purge. He’d finally been able to accept the hope that your death had been painless.
Second, he wants to slap himself because he charged right past you when he’d come aboard the Mantis. He’d walked past the love of his childhood because he’d been too hopped up on adrenaline to register that you were standing right there, fighting flashbacks of the Purge. He’d only noticed you when you’d drawn your iconic orange blade, and hadn’t your entire childhood been spent trying to become more than just your saber’s color?
But he can’t slap himself. Because you’re right there, staring at him like your entire world had just collapsed in on itself and left the three square foot space containing you and him. With a swish, your saber is retracted and then you’re in his arms and everything that is right with the galaxy is suddenly contained in the small space that his arms can hold.
A.N: A moment of silence for the tears, please, mostly mine. I wish I could flesh this out more into a real fic, but this is an excellent stopping point. Might fuck around and add more in the future, I've really fallen in love with Slippy and Cal's backstory together, so I might talk more about her Purge experience and how Slippy and Cal continue through the quest together. I'm aware that Slippy isn't exactly the coolest nickname ever, but I chose it with the clones in mind, and they don't exactly have the most serious nicknames either.
Taglist: @alliterative-albatross
