Thinking about the kind of person Cassian would have grown into if there was no war, no rebellion, no 6-year old child soldier. What would he have liked to do? I think he'd have liked working with his hands. Fine carpentry, or wood cuts, or pottery. A young man living at home with his parents, maybe a little sibling or two. His parents' faces are lined after fifty hard Festian winters, years of laughter, years of raising boys. Cassian's old enough now that he doesn't cause them too much trouble--just enough. All the boys in town follow him around, call him over when he walks home from work or school to show him their crudely carved figures; he jokes with them, helps them with the finer cuts, ruffles their hair and invites them to dinner. His mother chides him for bringing home more mouths to feed, but they all know she doesn't mean it. She's no stranger to Cassian's antics and always makes a little extra when she can. And as they eat together, Cassian and his siblings and the neighborhood boys, and the parents who lived to see him become a man, there's neither echo nor mirage of a distant world of war where boys as young as five and six sat together parentless in cold, uninsulated bunkers, hungry, huddling for warmth before they have to fight again tomorrow
Rex, Wolffe, and Gregor had lived in that AT-TE for years before anyone found them. By a bunch of kids, too! Younglings, even--though none of them could bring themselves to say the word out loud. It felt, to everyone, like a forbidden word from the distant past, a past they had tried to escape and a present they were trying to rectify.
If Ezra had been more observant, he might have noticed the all the artwork inside the retirement home. It ranged from austere, geometric patterns to the natural to the abstract. Sabine did notice, of course. How could she not? Her artist's eyes saw them everywhere, anywhere the clones could get paint to stick: wedges of blue and gold along metal seams, red triangles, red diamonds, angular blue stripes applied with a steady hand. Black and white and gray animals hid in janky corners, foxes or wolves maybe; here and there a faded old Republic crest. She understood that, at least--these three seemed loyal to a fault and loyal up to death--but the rest escaped her. Maybe they all had an active imagination and an artist's eye like she did. All the same, she couldn't help the nagging in her chest, telling her, whispering to her that she should recognize them.
But no matter how much she thought about it, that blurry familiarity never focused. The furthest she got was asking where they got their paint. Rex, flushed and scrambling for words, finally told her they'd distilled some from the joopas they'd caught. Scales and tissues and the like. Sabine, who had asked more to understand their intent rather than technique, dropped the subject. Clearly they didn't want to talk about it. Not now.
But Kanan--Kanan knew. He knew as soon as he stepped foot in the damn place, as soon as he saw the old helmet with the chipped jaig eyes. He knew when Sabine asked her questions, knew when Rex avoided them--he knew and he remembered and he felt sick to his stomach just to be there. Wanted to set the whole walker on fire.
But he knew, too, that they were here to make allies. Here to find soldiers in old traitors. He doubted they'd make it that far, but if by some miracle they did--he knew they shouldn't be trusted with a bucket of paint.
Pairing: Captain Rex x Artist!Reader. No Y/N.
Word Count: 7.1k lmfaooo
Genre: spicy fluff to angst to fluff (+ mutual hurt/comfort if you squint)
Summary: You’ve dedicated your life to beauty, to color, to the fantasy of life. And then there’s Rex: gentle, steadfast, battle-hardened Rex. You respect it, you think you’ve accepted it. But sometimes it’s just too much to bear—and the differences in the lives you lead come to a head.
Warnings/Tags: TW: depiction of a mild panic attack and some depressive behavior. Implied sex, implied/referenced nudity but absolutely nothing graphic. A dream sequence involving some unsettling imagery (though not overtly nightmarish). Mention of death, mention of blood. Swearing. Arguing and making up again. Gender neutral reader. (If I’ve missed anything, please let me know)
Rating: T
Masterlist + Taglist :)
It's stormy over Coruscant and almost quiet. On days like these air traffic's limited: much less honking, shouting, occasional crashing. But in its place is the thunder, of course, and the wind and the rain and the bristles on canvas, and the snoring from the man behind you.
He got back late. He always does, dead on his feet and covered in bruises. I'm fine, he insisted. Kix patched me up. No matter. Don't worry. But you worried anyway. You always do. He showered and settled into your creaky pull-out couch; you traced the blooms of purple and black and the nicks too small for bandages, and he was gone within seconds. But you lay awake: watching the creases in his forehead fade and the rain clouds roll in over the city. Clouds like this are a rarity here. They bewitch your mind, filling it up with strange images... Lit from below by the ecumenopolis, they gathered themselves into coils and shapes that lent themselves phantasmagoric to your tired eyes. Broad, inhuman faces; wings like claws and wings like teeth; wings of beauty slipping away...
So here you are next morning before your easel, before the window. Beyond you, a masterpiece in its own right: plumes of black and purple and indigo-gray towering over the skyscrapers, lightning flashing gold and silver and violet. You forget, sometimes, what Light can do when the air is right. You forget how it fills the clouds like lanterns, or sprawls like the fingers of ancient, instant, skeletal gods. It floodlights your studio apartment and shakes the whole city with a wall-shattering CRRAAAAACK.
You flinch. Not from fear. It's the gasp. Almost louder than the thunder and infinitely worse to your ears. It's the sound of shifting sheets and newly labored breaths. Your heart aches; your throat constricts. You set your brush on your easel and your pallet on your stool.
"Just the thunder, Rex."
He sits bolt upright on the low mattress, panting harder than if he'd just run a mile. Lightning flashes against his face and highlights the beads of sweat already at his brow. You catch them on your thumb and he leans into your touch, closing his eyes.
"'M sorry," he mumbles.
"Shh. Go back to sleep." You kiss his forehead and pull away.
"What time is it?"
"Late."
"Not too late, I hope. Wouldn't want to sleep through all my leave."
You shake together and mix another shade of blue. He doesn't leave again until Wednesday. You don't mention it.
"You could use the extra rest," you hum. "No, not too late. It's midmorning, I think. Hard to say."
"Mhm."
The bed groans—those springs have been broken for a year and a half—and is silent; you hear heavy footfalls behind you. Warm, strong, bare arms wrap around your waist. Rex buries his face in your neck, kissing along your shoulder, searing your skin, tugging at your oversized black shirt.
"Is this mine?"
"You left it here months ago."
"And you turned it into a painting shirt?"
"You never asked for it back."
His head drops to your shoulder, breathing deep. His arms tighten around your waist; his fingers trace up and down the textured flecks of paint and feel like butterfly wings against your skin.
"'S better on you, anyway. Come back to bed."
"In a minute, Rex."
He grumbles something incoherent; you don't bother asking what he meant. You only laugh and kiss him lightly at the corner of his mouth. "Just a little bit more."
The warmth pulls away. The mattress groans again under his weight.
"What's that?"
"It's a thunderstorm, Rex."
"I know. I meant that yellow. In your background."
It takes you a moment—too long—to notice the burst of white and yellow through the whirlpool of blues. Not lightning in the clouds but long, bold, bright rays breaking through the horizon. You shrug.
"Sunrise, sunset. Doesn't matter."
"No sunrise out there."
"Then feel free to make your own."
"And your window faces North—"
"Oh, go to bed," you grumble as you add still more yellow to the center. A little more light. Just a little—
"Where were you this time?"
"Felucia. Again. I'm getting sick of it."
"That's the one with the flowers, isn't it?"
"Giant, glow-in-the-dark ones, yes." You can hear the smirk in his voice, but you don't engage.
"It sounds beautiful."
"Sure it is, when it's not crawling with Seppies. They've all but destroyed the place."
And Republic gunnery can't be helping things, either, but you don't say that. Your hand stills. "There's nowhere on the whole planet you could go to see the flowers as they are? Somewhere that's not a warzone?"
"Well, I... I guess there is, but that's not where we end up."
"I don't like that for you," you say firmly, resuming your brushwork.
"It's the job, sweetheart."
You don't like that job for him, either. You look at the canvas and sigh; it's time to put away your paints.
"You done? The whole bottom half's missing."
You gather your brushes into a cup of turpentine in the kitchen, trying to ignore the jaig eyes on the table. They're turned right towards you as you clean, beautiful and strange and powerful. "Not yet. The paint needs to dry. Can't... I can't do anything about it."
If there's a wistful note in your voice, Rex doesn't notice it. "I don't know how you have the patience for it."
"Neither do I," you mumble. More to yourself than anything. But when you turn around, you can't deny yourself a small smile. Rex is leaned back in bed, an arm beneath his head, gazing at you with a sleepy but contented smile. He's broad, bare-chested, uncovered by the thin bed sheets, and his dark eyes twinkle with mischief. Your face heats up. You know he's caught you staring.
"Don't look at me like that," you tell him sternly, smile still breaking through.
"How should I, then?"
You sit on your side of the bed, the one closest to the window, and ignore the creaky springs as much as you can as your hand trails lightly down his chest. His skin runs hot beneath you.
"Not at all, really. I'd rather you go to sleep."
He pulls you by the waist, tugging at your shirt until you're half on top of him, until your lips meet. You brace himself on his shoulders. The muscles flex beneath your fingers, solid and steady from years of bearing his armor, while he kisses you with everything he has. His hands dig into your waist hard enough to leave bruises; you squirm in his grasp. The vibrations from his chest to yours are enough to make you shiver as he groans into your mouth.
"Sounds like an awful waste of a weekend off," he pants when you pull away. You rest your head in the crook of his neck. The warmth almost overwhelms you. It takes you to an other-place far away; it grounds you as you nip the column of his throat.
"I want you at your best for when you have to leave... well-rested... just in case."
Rex sighs and lifts you off of him, lying you both on your sides. He could manhandle you easily and you're floored—again and again—at the gentleness with which he cradles you. Directly across from you now he can hold your gaze more steadily, lightning flickering against his cheekbones around the shadow you cast. The thunder rolls still.
"I know you don't like it. But orders are orders. This is what we're made for.”
You bite your tongue. No, no, no! No one's made for this. No one's made for a thousand days of war and clouds of smoke, cannons, gunfire, the decimation of whatever is good. No one's made to bear the wounds and scars of a Republic divided on innocent, unblemished skin. And damned if you know for sure what you are! but—Maker—he's wrong. He's wrong—
"Okay," you whisper. Your fingers dance across his side. "But... damn it, Rex, look up at the sky once in a while. Look at the sun. At the flowers. Once in a while."
"Sure thing, sweetheart."
"I mean it, Captain." You run your nails through his close-cropped hair. "I want you to have at least one good memory to look back on."
"Mhm."
Without warning he pushes you down on your back and kisses you again until you're both breathless. When he pulls away, it's only an inch—enough to let his eyes, darkened and dilated, rake down your face and neck below. A hand works its way beneath his old shirt.
"Oh, believe me, sweetheart. I intend to."
* * *
Sometime in the very early morning the clouds broke; they're still breaking now. Rex is still asleep and almost all on top of you: half settled between your legs, his head nested in the crook of your neck, a heavy arm looped around your waist. You've managed to shift away just enough to breathe, but you're not going any further. So you continue to lie quietly. One hand draws figure eights in his hair and the other stretches out towards the closed window where the clouds whisper their silent hellos.
Strange. Strange that among such large swathes of purple-gray sky, the little wisps that seem to float just feet away still burn like tongues of fire in all manner of summer and autumn. They are far, so far from you, but you imagine even so. Stretching, stretching—as if in a dream—until your fingertips graze the mist... It would be cool to the touch, freezing perhaps, and your fingers stained red and gold. Not water droplets but evaporated paint collecting on your skin, on bristles, too—if you could just open the window and stand on the sill, balanced on your toes, raising your longest brush into the sky.
How vivid would your paintings be, dyed with the clouds themselves? It's worth it though you struggle and strain, though you may fall. So much more tangible. So much more real than water and fire and canvas and flesh—
With the softest sigh, Rex breaks the spell. Hot air fans across your bare chest; his arm curls around you more tightly; his fingers begin to dig into your waist. You feel his lips against your neck and his tongue against the marks he left there yesterday.
"Morning." His voice is coarse and heavy with sleep.
"Mm."
"Time is it?"
"I don't know."
He's content at that, for the moment. Content to lie further, content to trace the blooms across your neck and chest. And you're content to lie still, content to run your fingers through his hair and watch the candle-flames outside give way to a golden morning in the East. The rays shine through to your quiet room and break through the lonely, sleepy shades of purple.
"Kriffin' hells," Rex mutters into your skin.
"What?"
He lies on his elbow a little above you. His other hand strokes up and down your side. "You... are... a vision."
You pull his head down to yours. Or maybe he lowers to kiss you himself; you truly can't tell. His hand encircles your neck like he's cradling a rose in full bloom, pulling it to his nose; it's warm and large and perfectly shaped to hold your head against his.
"Rex," you murmur against his lips.
"Mm?"
"Did you feel it, when the rain stopped?"
"Excuse me?"
"I mean—"
A high-pitched beeping cuts you off. Rex gives you a look—one you can't exactly read—, hauls himself off of you, and wraps one of the top blankets around his waist. The beeping comes from his pile of belongings on the kitchen table.
(You shouldn't call it a pile. It's immaculately organized, much more than the painting shirts and whatever other clothes—you don't even know—you have hanging over the wooden chair. No matter how tired he is when he shows up at your doorstep, Rex always takes the time to arrange his things properly even if you find neither rhyme nor reason in it. It's the military training, you suppose.)
From somewhere near the top of the pile—stack—assembly, he pulls out his comlink. His back straightens.
"Yes, sir."
"Rex, where are you?"
Rex looks at you from the corner of his eye. You probably shouldn't be hearing this, whatever it is, but there aren't exactly a lot of places he can go.
"Off-base, sir."
"Off-base? What the hell are you doing off-base?"
"My apologies, sir. It's our leave."
"I'm sorry about that, Rex, but I need you back here as soon as possible. We're an emergency call to Naboo; the Queen's worried about another invasion attempt."
"Sir, yes sir." Rex's face hardens. You sit up, pulling the sheet around you, and stare at him. The comlink's light dies; immediately he begins to pull on his blacks like a machine.
"Who was that?"
"That was General Skywalker," he replies, his back to you. "501st's being sent to Naboo."
"I heard that," you say quietly. You wait for him to face you again, but he doesn't—he doesn't speak again, either.
"So that's it, then?"
"Hm?"
"You're leaving. Just like that."
"Yep."
You look back out the window, hands flexing in the sheets. "You're supposed to have two more days. This is official leave time, isn't it?"
"Orders are orders." He's putting his armor on now and he still won't look at you. You bite your tongue, almost hard enough to draw blood but not quite, watching the still-shifting clouds.
"It's not right."
"It is what it is. Me and my brothers, it's what we're here to do."
"It's not though, is it?"
You're surprised to hear you've spoken it aloud. Even more surprised that you've raised your voice—just a fraction of a degree, but enough. Rex finally turns around. You still can't read his face. But it's towards you now and you've spoken your mind. There's nothing else for it.
"I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning."
"I mean—" You swing your legs off the bedside and pull yesterday's shirt over your head. "—that it's something you do, not something you're here to do. There's a difference."
"Is there, now?"
"People aren't just made for war and they're not just made for the government's fickle interests. No one's born a lamb to the slaughter."
He chuckles. You'd be hard-pressed to find any humor in it. "Very nat-born of you to say."
"I'm sorry?"
"My apologies. I mean that only nat-borns think that way. Things are different for clones."
"But they shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't what? Can you even hear yourself?" You flinch at the harshness in his voice. "Clones aren't born. We're created. And even if we had been, what are we supposed to do? Rebel? Send the Chancellor a polite letter? There's over a million of us. We've got the group to think about."
You clench your fists until you feel your nails cut into your skin. Your face burns; your blood boils. "That doesn't mean you don't deserve better."
"Well," he laughs again, "when you figure out a way to end the war, and all wars forever, until you feel more comfortable, let us know. We'll take you right to the Senate; I'm sure they'd love to hear."
"It's not just me—"
But your voice betrays you. It's much too thick and your throat tightens with welling tears until you can hardly breathe.
"I just... hate this for you, Rex."
"I know."
In full armor now—though helmetless—his footsteps are heavier than ever on the thin floor. His gloved hand is gentle but cold when he takes you by the chin. There's something in his expression, something soft, that reminds you of the Rex who woke up on top of you this morning. But it's not quite him. This is the Captain. A CO of the GAR who looks at you now with hardened eyes.
"I know, but you've got to try and understand. You're—" He shakes his head with a deflated sigh. "You're soft, sweetheart. Good soft. But maybe too soft."
You pull yourself from his grasp. He's close enough, still, to see the beads that cling to your lashes. You hate crying in front of him. And you flat out refuse to cry before the Captain.
"They don't care," you choke. Your head throbs. "They don't care if you die."
"Some of them would. But they're not meant to. Try to understand."
You look away in silence, back to the clouds. They're almost gone now. Rex clears his throat.
"I'll be back in a few weeks..." He squeezes your arm. "Don't go anywhere while I'm gone."
You don't know how to respond, and you don't. You don't even look back at him, though you feel him let go—hear his heavy footsteps back across the room, the door opening, the door shutting. Footsteps down the hall. And silence.
It's a long time you stand there. Long enough for the morning to yield to full and freshened day. And when you force yourself to sit you gasp, and your heart races. It's the mattress. You need to replace it. You should have replaced it by now. But all you can do at this all but inextant moment is sit still. You don't want the springs to shriek again.
And something inside you spreads like slow poison, changing your blood to lead and your cells and your muscles to mercurial moonlight. You should eat, a distant voice calls to you through the mist. Drink some water. Move, at least. But you'll have to get up and you want to get up but you're afraid, afraid of the bed groaning. So you sit still, so still you fall asleep without intending to. And when you wake up golden light pours through the window into your kitchen and the far corner. This time, though, it's towards the right and now the left. It's sunset, the voice returns. You sit up. The springs creak and there's a crick in your neck; it's autumn outside but inside you're dreadfully hot and almost sticky. This is why you don't take naps in the middle of the day.
But at least your limbs will move again. You pull yourself out of bed, drift aimlessly to the window, unlock it with numbed fingers. The air is cooler but only just—that heavy, humid cool in the days before and after a storm. But with the air the daily pandemonium: engines and horns and shouts in every pitch and timbre that crush your ears and fumigate every nook and corner, the pockets of air in the sheets on your bed, the air between your shirt and your skin.
"Come on, move!"
"Out of the way!"
"Never taking this lane again; like it never ends—"
Out of the way. Out of the way. The words echo in your brain. You can't get them out. Your heart races but your lungs have quit you; a millstone hangs around your neck and resin in your diaphragm. The air, the air—it's not coming. If not for the easel you might have collapsed: you clutch it like a vice, and the wood feels grainy under your hands... Splinters. You'll get splinters. You'll get splinters if you grip too hard, too long, and you can't get them out. So coarse—
And then that canvas! Fuzzy corners, blended colors, dim and muted, swirled and muddy, melting snow on early, strengthless daffodils. Chuck it. Chuck it—somehow, somewhere out the window to the endless, noisome pit below, the brushes, the paint, the easel—the very stolen shirt you wore—stolen! yes, you'd stolen it—out the window. Out the window.
Out.
Out.
Out.
But the easel stays put. The painting, too. Your hands still on the splintering wood, the millstone on your chest, sludge the paint, sludge in your veins, sludge your paralytic.
And when the millstone lifts your lungs balloon with air; your hands release and slip away with just enough time, not a moment to spare, to make to to the bed before tears come in droves.
He shouldn't have gone.
He shouldn't have gone.
He shouldn't have gone.
You should have said goodbye.
And didn't you? Surely you said something. You must have. You had to. And what can you do with yourself? It's not like he'll be back tomorrow. Back next week. Back next year. Not for certain. At war for months, for years with no reprieve. Or maybe not. Maybe awaiting hasty burial, dead in a sunless field, where the remains of grass and flowers smoulder. Or maybe not. Maybe left a hundred years, dead in a sunless field, to feed the next generation of reeds.
No, no—they don't leave brothers behind. Not if they can help it. They bury them with honor. They'd bury him with honor. They'd say goodbye. But you didn't know how.
How can you do it? you asked him long ago. He'd just told you about the search-and-rescue missions that sometimes—too often—turned into body recoveries. And you'd shuddered at the portrait: searching and and recovering and burying a hundred men and a hundred of your own face. I don't know how you do it.
"It's difficult work," he agreed gravely. "But we manage, all of us. Me and my brothers. No matter."
"I can't imagine. Or don't want to, maybe." You lay down on the grass, what felt like grass; it was green and almost blue beneath your head and soft as fleece. Rex sat beside you fully-armored, though helmetless. One of his hands stretches out towards yours, not quite touching. "Not just difficult work, but... soul-destroying, it would seem. Or you don't think so?"
"Well... I wouldn't know about that. We don't have the luxury of thinking like that."
"I wish you would," you hummed. The sky darkened. A star or two was showing. "It's only human."
"And only of a different sort," he countered. There was a smile in his voice, but a serious note, too. You didn't quite understand. So you continued, pointing:
"What are those?"
He looked up. Huge creatures with wings shaped like pterodactyls', vivid red and white and black like butterflies', wheeled above your heads like carrion birds, above the flowers tall as lamp posts. They swayed without a breeze; their broad leaves and broader petals glowed teal and magenta in the twilight and reflected off the bellies of the beasts. Or maybe the beasts glowed themselves. You couldn't... You couldn't tell—
"Those are the ——," Rex answered coolly.
"The what?"
"The ——."
You stared at him. What was he saying? It was like he spoke to you through a pool of deep water, or through very thick glass. Far, far away.
"Rex?"
His mouth was moving, forming words, but it came to you a garbled mess.
"Rex? Rex, where are you?"
He spoke still, pointing to the circling creatures. They seemed so much closer now than they had just a moment ago, like the transports that sometimes brushed by your apartment... Every so often you glimpsed the rest of them through the thick foliage, so thick it fully canopied your grassy little clearing. But suddenly a creature poked its head through a skyscraper of a cerulean lily and much to your horror it was a human face. But still so birdlike!—shiny black, convex eyes twice the size of dinner plates stared back at you over a beak-like nose, thinly stretched over with bloodless skin. Its mouth is large enough to devour you whole.
"Rex—?"
"Not to worry, sweetheart."
You worry anyway. You hated not to understand him but this is somehow worse, and when you turn around you find he's not even there. He's walked straight up to the creature without fear, mumbling something where its ears should be.
"That's a good girl, aren't ya?" He pats its neck. "Don't worry; she's with us. And she'll fly us back home if you'll hop on her back."
And now that you think of it, of course these creatures are part of the GAR. You've all but grown up with them outside your window.
But going home... Home's just around the corner, isn't it? Yes, it is; just behind that wall of daffodils. You walked from home to meet here with Rex; you remember somehow. But Rex is leaving on his carrion bird...
But you can run home! If you run, you can meet him there when he arrives. So you run, run home but the lane never ends. There are no corners to turn off into. Just a little more, just a little further ahead—that's the avenue you need. The enormous stems tower above you like skyscrapers and in the narrow gaps between them you catch snippets of home. Nothing so much as a door or a shingle but the painted blue and white that decorated its walls. And house-side of the foliage, a hawk flies low to the ground. It's paced with you, never ahead and never behind; perfectly silent, dark and indistinct, with a long tail.
You're running still. The lane never ends. You get flashes of home, and a hawk flies beside you. It's quiet and shadowy. You're running and running.
The lane never ends. A hawk flies beside you. It's getting dark out. The sun is setting. You're running. And then everything is still. Still so soon, still so fully that you lurch and your heart skips a beat.
And then everything's so bright. Too bright... you left the curtains wide open, you realize. And the window, too. The morning air blows into your apartment. But it's not cold air. It must be late, very late morning.
Shit—you're probably late for work. And late by a good hour or two.
You roll onto your back; the sheets are cool against your neck. What's the point of rushing? It must be noon, or almost noon. How long were you asleep? It couldn't be as long as that... But you think and you think and you can't remember even waking up in the night, not even to close the window. But you do remember—what a strange and awful dream. You close your eyes, not to sleep but to think.
Had you... really said that to Rex? "Soul-destroying," you'd said. "Soul destroying work"—what on earth had you meant by that? You can't just say that to people. You couldn't have. It was a dream.
But—you had.
You had said that. Just in passing. It must have been months ago now, maybe a year, back when you'd first met him or a little after. But you'd been in a daylit diner with walls and booths and people—people of an ordinary size, people with ordinary features. And you'd said it so off-handedly! That's right, a casual conversation... And what did he say? ... You couldn't remember. Or had he said anything at all? Maybe not. Maybe he'd just continued to wolf down his food like he'd never see it again. Whatever he did, he couldn't have seemed particularly bothered. You would have remembered, surely, as you lie on the old pull-out couch in the late morning.
And when you open your eyes the light remains; off and to the left your painting stands unfinished. And of course it does, unless any creature flew to your window and carried it away in the night. Noonday sunshine forms a pleasant halo while a shadow hangs over its surface. It makes the colors look so dull and faded. Not nearly so abhorrent as they had seemed last night; you're too tired, really, to hate it too much. Abhorrence is born of the fire within, and the fire's long rained out. The ashes smoulder and smoke and your lungs are heavy. There's just enough spark to heave a great sigh, turn back on your side, and fall asleep again. Maybe Rex will have beaten you home after all.
But Rex doesn't come home that day.
You wake up next morning at dawn; your boss chides you for missing a Monday; the days move on and you along with them. You rise tired, you sleep tired. You do it all again. And in the day-to-day it's easier to eat, to move, to drink, and you find yourself firmly tethered again. The fire is gone and with it your fear; the night is over and the morning not begun. Now is the twilight and the working-hours: the colorless and the nameless and the painless. The memory of the carrion birds darkens. And Rex doesn't come home that week, nor the next.
Nor the next.
And the fragile autumn blue gives way to early winter. In the heart of Coruscant winter is mild, with the metal and concrete and exhaust from the pit. It's good, you think, that it's not so bitterly cold, else that might be too much to bear, good that you can still open the window without shivering. You like for the fresh air to blow in. And what's winter on Naboo like? Or is it winter? Might it not be spring, or high summer? ...
And you think of the 501st in the spring and the lengthening days. Everything is waking up. Everything is new.
But here the nights stretch on and on, like a snake from its coil; you leave and return to your studio without the sun. On these days you stand again at the window. Hundreds of thousands of man-made lights in every tint and shade imaginable—but they do little to cheer up the late afternoons. No lamp you light will suffice. And it's on such a day as this (a near-night, rather, and a Saturday) that you watch the sun set at four in the afternoon.
It's the winter solstice, you believe; a coworker mentioned going out for drinks several days ago. No... no, that was only Friday. One day, then. Two thirds of a day. It doesn't matter. You've long lost track of time in the endless, twilit work day, and now the night is upon you again.
In the corner are your paints and brushes. Your easel, your brushes, your abandoned canvas. The paint's been dried for weeks, and now a new layer of fine dust—the sun reaches it only rarely here and it's easier to forget. But the empty bottom half, two thirds, really, seems so expansive—so much more so than when you'd first set it aside. You'd resevered the emptiness for the city before you and its discarnate, artificial light. But you've stared at them so long; all you want now is the kiss of the sun, a warmer summer wind, and the padding of grass and clover you've never felt beneath your feet.
You move the easel back to its spot before the window; in the last real dying rays you mix together your paints. And you pull on the old, oversized blacks. The sleeves are cold against your skin.
In your mind's eye, a field. Not a field, a meadow firmly beneath your grounded feet. Hills beyond or mountains, maybe—indigo beneath the storm above, veiny tracts of gold-lined lilac where the sunlight's broken through. Flowers in the foreground. Poppies red as pomegranites, daisies white, forget-me-nots scattered across the slopes. Would they really grow side by side? Do they bloom at the same time? ... You don't know, nor do you care. You paint them all the same. The storm sends a great wind to prepare its way, or to herald its departure. It blows their petals up and all around: an airborne current of blue and white and red.
It's beautiful. Much more beautiful than here. But the canvas still isn't used up—not even the mountains behind suffice to fill the negative. And the meadow seems so terribly lonely. Stroke by stroke you create a frame, solid and steadfast.
You've heard Naboo is a beautiful place. And you've seen pictures, too, of the lake country and its mountains all around and the palace at Theed with its high turquoise domes. And you imagine them now: they'd look like eyes, wouldn't they? Great blue eyes watching you and the sun and the stars, could you fly as a bird overhead...
And you never looked back at him.
Your hand stills. That's right. You hadn't. And you resume.
Fabric from fabric his hand slipped away. You felt it. You heard the footsteps. You heard the door. And you did not turn.
A shuddering breath. You grip your brush in your fist like a child holds a pen. You squeeze your eyes shut.
When did Rex last look at you? You only remember from across the room, across the sky, across the valleys, the Captain with the hardened eyes.
You wash your new-sketched frame with titanium white and check the time on your datapad. Ten o'clock. You're not going to stop; you're not going to allow it another minute in that sunless corner. And you're not going to stop because it is what it is and you'll manage, all of you, no matter.
And you sleep and eat and work and sleep again, and winter surrenders to spring. Longer days from longer nights; the sun shines and the air warms. Your apartment is made light again and clean. The painting is finished, varnished, and hung by your bedside. Morning is at hand.
* * *
It's early, very early Morning (and a very wet one, too) when you hear footsteps in the hall. The door opens, the door shuts; there are footsteps in the room—heavy yet soft, in a controlled sort of way—and then the silence. You've been washing your face in the bathroom before bed; you press your face against the door as your heart races. From the other side, you catch a broken sigh.
"Hello?"
You throw the door open a little too suddenly. "Rex?"
Rex stands still and at attention. His helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, he's straight and stiff as if he were speaking to his CO. But even in the dim orange light you can see the weary lines around his eyes. He won't quite meet your gaze.
"I'm sorry to wake you."
The five feet between you might as well be a chasm, bridgeless and bottomless and prone to slides. "You didn't. I just... I hadn't been expecting you."
"I know. I'm sorry."
He rubs the back of his head. You feel strongly that he's not angry with you. Just... you don't know.
"Why don't you take all this off," you nod at his armor, speaking slowly, "and take a shower. Have you eaten?"
"Yes, sir."
You stare at him. His face crumbles, and he sighs. Your heart breaks.
"You're dead on your feet, Rex," you murmur. You take a step towards him to take his free hand; to your relief he doesn't back away. And now that you think of it, you don't know why you expected him to. "Let's get you some rest."
Rex nods and begins to take off his armor, mechanically and methodically. You go to pull out the bed and arange the sheets but sneak glances of him as he works. His cuirass first and then his cuisses, the greaves, the vambraces, the spaulders, and a dozen other plates you don't know what to call—stacked neatly atop each other like shells or reams of paper. His comlink fits gently in the curve of his gauntlet. Surrounding them all is his belt and finally his helmet. When he leaves for a five-minute shower, the jaig eyes remain and watch you carefully. They're a comfort to you.
When Rex comes out you're in the kitchen, setting the caf machine for just a few hours. You faintly hear him sit on the bed.
"When did you get back?"
"A few hours ago. What time is it now?"
"1:33."
"Hm. Sounds about right." He pauses. "You fixed the springs?"
"New bed, actually," you hum. "But the sheets are still the same."
He doesn't answer. And you're content to finish your chores, but the silence goes on, much longer than you had expected or hoped for, while you set out two clean mugs for later. The ceramic on laminate grates on your ears. You'd ask how long he's here for, but not this late—this early, rather. He could leave in an hour for all you care: he's here. And that'll be enough for the moment.
But then the silence breaks for real and when you turn around, it's worse than you could have imagined:
"What is this?"
Rex sits, bent over, on the bed with a full canvas in his hands. It's dim but you can't mistake the moody purples, the burst of yellow, the crop of blonde hair. Shit. Shit. You should have put it away. And he's taken it down from the wall! You could have put it away—he was in the shower just a few minutes ago—and you hadn't even thought of it.
No matter. No matter. It's here and so is he. But your voice is quiet.
"It's a painting, Rex."
"I know; I—I..." He shakes his head and seems to deflate. You flip of the kitchen lights and drift towards him slowly, your eyes readjusting to the softer orange of your bedside lamp. Slowly, slowly.
There in his hands is the painting.
That whirl of stormclouds, that sunshine breaking through, kissing the flowers and the hills and the valleys. But in the foreground, tall and broad and grounded, is the Captain himself. In full armor—though helmetless—he faces the mountains beyond. But he looks up: up towards the sun, up towards the rivulet of flower petals blowing softly overhead; one brushes against his gold-lit cheek. A butterfly—huge and bold and red and black—rests on his shoulder while his hand rests at his side, clutching a short bouquet of poppies and forget-me-knots. The colors are vivid, the composition sure: yes, it turned out well. Even if you're mortified that it's now in his hands.
"Is this me?"
"That's you."
"It's... I..." Rex releases a shuddering breath. His hands grip the edges of the canvas as hard as they can without tearing it.
"It's lovely."
"Rex?"
He won't look at you. Decidedly. You reach a slow hand to his shoulder; he's shaking.
"Hey. Hey—"
You tug the painting from his grasp, propping it against the arm of the couch, and go to cover his hand with yours. But at that moment he looks at you and to your horror there are tears in his eyes.
"Is this... Is this how you see me?"
You're quiet for a moment as you hold his gaze steadily. You'll feel tears pricking at your own eyes soon, no doubt. But you'll manage.
"Yes," you say finally. "And this is... how you are, I think. But I can't really say that."
He nods, and nods, until it's not nodding at all but shaking with deep, shaky breaths. You pull him into your arms, tightly against your chest. And Rex weeps.
It's a long time before either of you speak. Doubled-over as you are, stretching your arms as far as they'll go over his bare and bruised and bandaged back, his skin still damp from the shower—the water seeps into your nightshirt and you almost shiver. But he is an anchor to you and you to him—even as he weeps and you with him against the sound of the pouring rain. And when your tears dry and the outpour ebbs, you still hold him. His arms clutch at your waist; his face is buried in your chest. He mutters something you don't catch into the fabric.
"It's what?"
"It's you," he mumbles.
"Hm?"
"Soft. You're... so soft..."
The words trail off. Fresh tears well in your eyes. "Rex—"
Your voice trembles and your head throbs. "Rex, I'm sorry—"
"No." He gathers your shirt in his fists, pulling himself impossibly closer. "Don't."
"But I didn't—didn't even—" Your throat constricts as the beginnings of a sob surge in your chest.
"I didn't even look at you."
He doesn't say anything, though his arms grip you tighter.
"You shouldn't—" You swallow, forcing the words out one by one. "You deserve better, Rex. Better from me."
He's shaking again.
"Sweetheart—" Rex lifts his head and you're startled to see how red and swollen his eyes are, though yours probably look much the same. "You can't."
"But—"
"And you deserve better from me," he says firmly, hoarsely. "And I... I can't give it to you. That's just... how it is. But—" He takes your face in his hands, wiping your tears away even as his own still dry on his face. "—I can keep coming back to you. If you'll still wait for me—"
He doesn't get to finish. You've thrown your arms around his neck, pressed your lips to his. Chapped and warm and salty with tears and he kisses you back like a man starved: all but devouring you, fixed beneath his hands. So much power there and raw strength—it's what he was made for, after all. But he holds you so gently. He could break you in half in the blink of an eye and he won't, not ever. It's not his way.
And not yours, either, to tear him apart.
"I promise you. Forever, forever..." you whisper, "... and I'll be better. Better to you, my love."
Rex mumbles your name against your lips. It's sugar-sweet, flower-fragrant on your tongue. Another kiss, an oath, a brand, and tongues of fire shared between your lungs; a love whispered and a current petal-soft behind your eyes. I love you. I love you. I love you more. I promise.
When you turn off the lamp darkness settles in, though not the silence. You settle in, him on his side, you on yours; the curtains blow like streamers in the gentle, humid air of early spring, wafting through the open window beyond which shapes of blue and silver, red and gold shrink and stretch and die and light again. It's lessened now, you think.
One hand rests again in Rex's hair; the other lies towards the window where you've fixed your gaze. But Rex, using your stomach for a pillow, takes your outstretched hand in his and pulls it to his lips. And he keeps it there, squeezing tightly, while you trace figure eights against his scalp.
"Rough day, hm?"
"Something like that," he chuckles. The sound alone is fresher air to your soul than any that's ever blown in from the window. "Maybe a rough year. But I'll tell you tomorrow. Let's get some sleep."
You hum in response and close your eyes as your breathing harmonizes with his. All is still, yet gently moving. Perfect for a moment.
Summary: In the aftermath of the execution, Cassian and Mirian are left to pick up the pieces. As the sky darkens and the air freezes, and as Cassian's anger burns hotter and hotter, he struggles to accept the close of his first, long day. The first of how many?
Word Count: 6000
Chapter Warnings: Swearing, depictions of grief, references and reflections of canon-typical violence
Series Masterlist + Taglist
ch. 4 // ch. 5 // ch. 6
Reblogs are the best way to support writers on Tumblr. If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging and commenting!
+ A thank you to @oloreaa for the nickname “Miri”!
Cassian still remembered the first time he killed a man. Hiding behind leafless brambles, clothes torn and small fingers bleeding, covered head to toe in the mud of the Festian spring thaw, squinting through a foggy scope. The soldier walked alone. The soldier's back was turned. Cassian could never fight him face to face. Cassian had orders. Cassian was eight.
These men on the ridge, these five crumpled bodies—they weren't his kills and he wasn't their killer. He hadn't held the gun today. That was for the Imps, for other men with orders. So why, fuck, why did he feel so sick? Why the guilt? He'd done nothing. He was nothing here.
His shirt felt wet. His shirt was moving. Cassian looked down. Sedra was still there. And Sedra was crying. How long had he held her there? Long enough for the birds to shriek and take flight, circling and diving and rising again into a failing sun. Adjourned.
Cassian let go of her, quickly. The girl shot away to her mother, held onto her sleeve. He shook his head in a daze. In a dream. It was the light, he told himself. Dreamlight that washed the landscape red, Mirian, red, with Sara in her arms and the girl beside her. Ugly, ugly light. He wished the clouds would close the gap. He got to his feet.
Fuck, his knees ached.
Looking around, everything was the same. Clusters of people clung to each other, shrubs overlooking dying grass: a man and woman with ancient faces, veiny, trembling, interlocked hands; a Mirialan woman on her knees, dark-haired, human-complexioned son in her arms; a tall, dark-skinned man kneeling next to his mother, head resting against her stomach. There were more further down, before the sleek, trooper-manned transport. They stood at attention and stared across the valley. Cassian stared back.
Commandant Riceter broke the silence and the hushed, forbidden weeping.
"Go back to your homes. Night is falling."
And they did. Little by little like the thaw and the not-yet spring.
A few from the crowd, friends and neighbors and the otherwise bold, joined the families at the front. They laid hands on them, gently helped them stand. Sara Yarem stayed put, and Mirian with her.
Cassian stood alone.
"My apologies, Mr. Skova." The Commandant descended down stairs roughly cut into the rock. He sidestepped Mirian and Sara, approaching Cassian with his usual languidness. His eyes shone ghostly in the last, unfading glow from Kepnos's noxious city lights. The execution squad stood silently behind him. Cassian fixed his eyes on their helmets.
"It's a nasty business, certainly." Riceter looked at the ridge with a shade of fake regret. "Particularly unpleasant for your first day. But I hear Eleos suffers similarly."
Cassian said nothing.
"We are lucky, then," he said pointedly, "that this isn't frequent, or else that might be too much for us all to bear. Especially for our young Point over here. Competent and loyal to a fault—" Cassian's stomach turned. "—but still new to it all."
"How new?"
"Well, older, actually, than almost anyone. She's lived here ten years or more. But she is new to the work." Riceter shook his head. "I myself only arrived three years ago, right before Mirian the Mother died—after a decade in Huvo, that is. Have you heard of it?"
"Vaguely."
"Well," Riceter replied, "if you ever have the chance, I'd certainly recommend a look around. The Empire has done a particularly magnificent job of setting its barbarism into order. We've set up factories and industrial centers to put its citizens to good work; we've set up schools to educate their children, and to discipline them: Huvo is well on its way to maturing into a most industrious Imperial state, one of our finest successes. Have you ever heard of the Huvon black hawk, Mr. Skova?"
"No."
"Half bird, half amphibian: they can soar over a hundred and fifty thousand feet in the air, yet can dive and swim among the creatures of the Huvan reefs. Nearly extinct now," he added sadly. "They lived primarily in Huvo's great seaside forests, which have been mostly cut down out of necessity. However, I did manage to snag one for my private aviary. A beautiful creature it is, the poor thing. Mirian, my dear!"
Mirian stood, straight and still and ready as a droid. Her clothes were dirty.
"Yes, Commandant."
"I've determined that you and your Second will visit in two weeks' time. He should be well-established in the position by then, and just in time before the freeze. You'll take care of him well, I trust? Keep him out of trouble?"
"Yes, Commandant."
"Splendid!" He clapped his hands with that mildly saccharine restraint. "I will remind you the day before. Have a good night, my dear Mirian. A brief one too, let us hope. And you, Mr. Skova..."
Riceter lowered his voice and leaned closer, close enough to make Cassian's stomach crawl. "... Your position has been empty for far too long. I hope that, with your support, mishaps like these may be better avoided. And a good night to you, my friend."
He left for his transport. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back; his back was firmly turned. Oh, how Cassian would have loved to use him for target practice. His shoes looked too clean for this muddy earth.
Mirian knelt again, muttering into Sara's ear. They both forced themselves to their feet on shaky knees, in ash-caked clothes.
"Skova!" She was already walking past him. "Take care of Sedra, please."
Take care? Care of what? Sedra was fine. Sedra didn't like him, or wouldn't like him later. Why should she? Happy just as she was at her mother's skirts.
"Skova!"
Cassian grit his teeth— just a kid— grit his teeth and closed the gap in one long stride. He laid a hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Walk with me, Sedra."
The girl stopped, wrapped her arms around herself, and looked him up and down. "Who are you?"
"Skova. Well—" Cassian choked on his words. "I'm Amrodoro. Skova."
Her eyes narrowed; she leaned away. Cassian started to panic. Why the panic? This was a kid. A fucking kid.
"You can—call me Amrod if that's easier."
"My name is Sedra."
"Yes." He glanced ahead; Mirian and Sara were yards ahead now. He held out his hand. "Let's walk, Sedra."
She paused—would she? what then?—but put her small, slight hand in his. Her fingers were cold; Cassian gripped them tighter. He walked slower for her short legs. Not that the others set a rough pace. He was glad—it meant he slipped less often. Especially now. It was getting dark.
"Who are you?"
"Amrod."
"What do you do here?"
"I help Mirian."
"You and Miri?"
"... Yes." Cassian's face twitched. "Me and Miri."
Sedra's fingers relaxed a little in his. They were getting warmer.
Several minutes passed in silence. The four of them kept Kepnos at their backs; far ahead something dully reflected its ugly blue light. The bogs. North and maybe a little East. Far, far from the house. The Mirian House, they'd called it this morning. Midmorning. It was evening now, close to night. Miri of the Mirian House. Cassian tested the name once more on his tongue. He hated the taste.
"Uncle Sergo was there," the girl said suddenly.
Cassian bit his tongue and looked to Mirian. Her back was turned. She was no help.
"He was."
"He plays Catchem with me. You play Catchem?"
"I don't know what it is."
"Huh." Another pause. "Uncle Sergo got me swords."
"Swords?" Panic welled again. Cassian felt silly. "Where'd he find swords around here?"
"Under the black houses. He takes me there sometimes. Mama doesn't like it unless she comes. Then she tells me to sit by the tree. But sometimes Bobbidy comes."
Cassian had no idea what she was talking about but let her go on; short, matter-of-fact sentences. He was unreasonably tense. Why panic? Fucking kids. He'd been a kid too, once. A long time ago. Like everyone. He couldn't remember it, couldn't remember what to say. Should he say anything at all? He'd been a kid who'd lost family once. All of them, actually. What did people tell him? He couldn't remember.
Didn't help that she'd apparently adopted Mirian's delivery. Miri. Downright unsettling.
"How old are you, Sedra?"
"Six. I turned six two weeks ago. Actually... three weeks ago."
"Well. A happy birthday to you."
Cassian asked nothing else.
It was pitch black by the time they stopped. C-Series still whirred here and there in the streets like artificial torches, belts pulsing white and orange and gold. With Kepnos they cast a warm, muddy light over the glinting muddy streets, and the people who walked them—fewer now; still very much alive. Cassian's eyes stuck on their hardened faces. They knew. They'd seen. No one spoke.
Mirian and Sara disappeared into a little door. Seconds later soft, yellow light streamed through the opening. Sedra pulled her hand from his. His fingers felt cold.
"Come on, Amrod."
Cassian followed her through to the little house.
Very little. A single, rectangular room with a low roof; three dingy white walls and one on the right of poorly paneled wooden slats. Bits of light shone through from the other side along with unfamiliar voices. A two-family house. In the far right corner beside a single yellow lamp hung a set of bunk beds—slabs of metal protruding from the plaster wall, covered with sleep mats and sparse bedding and draped with torn clothes. Sara Yarem sat on the lower bed, resting her head in her hand, staring at the sandy, unswept ground. Across the room Mirian had straightened her scarf again and worked at the makeshift stove, a thin metal tile balanced on half of an old heat generator.
Sedra laid her head on Sara's knee. "Mama?"
"Yes, baby."
"Can I show him my swords?"
"Yes, baby."
The girl scrambled up some sacks from the end of the bed and emptied them into her hand.
"Here." She showed Cassian. Two spiral screws lay in her palm.
"What are they?"
"They're our swords. Here."
She jabbed one towards his chest. Cassian flinched; his heart pounded.
No panic. Fucking kids.
He glanced at Mirian. She'd put a pot on the stove and was measuring out a helping of rice. She watched him from the side. Cassian waited for her to tell him what to do. A Skova!; a jerk of the head. Mirian looked away. Nothing.
Cassian accepted the screw.
The girl smiled and held up her sacks—not sacks but dolls, two of them, oval heads the length of their flattened bodies, hairless, mouthless, charcoal streaks for eyes, made from what looked like faded rice bags; loose threads tied off their grotesquely oblong limbs.
She shook the doll in her right hand. "This is Bobbidy—" then her left; "—and this is Graida."
They were identical. Cassian pretended to tell the difference.
"These are their swords?"
She nodded. "Do you wanna play Catchem?"
Back to Mirian. No sign from her yet. The frothing pot reminded Cassian of his hunger, and his thirst, and his exhausted eyes, and his cold fingers, and his overheated head. But no, no. This wasn't the time, this wasn't right.
"I'll play."
"Sit down. No, here."
Sedra dragged him from the door to the center of the room; he had to bite back a laugh. It felt so wrong here, small and chairless with a silent, grieving stranger on one side and a silent Imp on the other, but he hadn't had a kid boss him around since he was a kid in the Pecquenta Corps. He looked up. Mirian was smiling.
"Catchem," as it turned out, was Sedra's tag— armed tag. Cassian didn't remember his tag involving swords. Sticks, stones, hand grenades, maybe, running after and running from real armed men. They'd had that. But that wasn't for fun. Maybe he shouldn't try to relate. Maybe just sit, and humor the girl as long as possible, and try not to kick up too much dust. He let her doll catch up with his; she drove her screw through its limp abdomen. Cassian flinched.
"Bobbidy wins!" she yelled. "And Graida falls with a great scream. A scream, Amrod."
"Ah!"
"A great scream."
"Aaahhh!"
"She falls to the ground—" Cassian dropped his doll. "—and breathes... her... last..."
Sedra threw her hand over her forehead and collapsed. "Dead!"
"Are you Graida now?" Cassian asked. She scowled and sat up again.
"No. I won."
"Yes," he laughed, "I think you did. Just about skewered it—"
She seized his doll, screw hanging out, and lifted it victoriously. "And Graida lives!"
"She—" Cassian blinked. "She what?"
Just then, Mirian tapped Sedra's shoulder. Dinner was ready. She set a small helping of rice and a cup of water next to the other doll, and stooped down by Cassian's shoulder.
"Weren't you listening, Skova?" Her voice trembled with excitement. "Graida lives."
Cassian rubbed his ear where she'd whispered. Goosebumps. By the time Mirian had given Sara her share, he couldn't help but notice there was none left for them. His stomach ached with hunger; he could feel it in his chest. And Sara only picked at her food.
"Baby, don't eat on the floor."
"Yes, Mama." Sedra picked up her food and joined her on the bed.
"And don't leave your—"
"I have it." Cassian swooped up the dolls and screws like a hawk its prey. He set them gently at the foot of the bed, forcing himself not to look at their food, not even to smell it. He felt guilty. Why the guilt?
"What do you say, Sedra?"
"Thank you."
Cassian only nodded. He leaned against the door while Mirian drew a rickety stool to the bunkset. She sat with her elbows on her knees, pulling a datapad from an inner coat pocket, tapping here and there in silence. They'd have to talk soon, one way or another. Sara didn't seem ready yet, and Mirian didn't push her. Decent of her. Cassian couldn't stand to watch.
There was a window a foot and a half from the door, a little below his eye level and boarded up with rocks and mud. The insulation looked several years old, if not more. Too old to hold up another winter. Cassian examined the doorframe. Little cracks spread from the seams. Here, the light within and the dark without, there was no telling if the cracks were wide and deep enough to let cold air right through. The plaster itself was cold to the touch. Would Mirian mind if he stepped outside? Just for a minute, just to look at the door. She probably would. Did Cassian care? It was chilly out. And there were people out, too; what if he recognized one from the crowd? So what if he did! He'd meet them eventually. Possibly. Probably.
"Household. . . Livelihood. . . Unit compensation. . ."
Compensation... Awfully Imperial to Cassian's ears. Awfully pragmatic. Was Sara in any shape to talk, to understand? Of course. She worked here. Volunteered here, actually. There was a difference. Was Mirian her employer? Or her coworker? Would Mirian demand her back to work the next day? Awfully Imperial... But that happened in the Rebellion sometimes, too. Back-to-back missions, frequent loss. But that was different.
Would he be shipped right out again, once he got back? If he got back. The whole thing was already fucked. Hopefully they'd send him off right away; he didn't like to sit still. If he got back.
Cassian scuffed his boots over the sandy floor. Little pills of rolled up mud peeled off his soles, sticking against the ground. He tried to stomp them up again.
"You alright, Skova?"
Mirian had put her datapad away and stared at him. In other light, in other eyes, Cassian might have called it genuine worry. He flushed.
"Fine. All fine."
She nodded, unconvinced, but turned back to Sara. She squeezed her hand.
"We'll have it in first thing tomorrow. Things will be okay. You and Sedra both. I promise. And I'll take these—" She bundled up the clothes hanging from the top bunk. "—and I'll be back soon. And you're welcome any time of day and any time of night, for anything. I promise."
"Thank you."
"No need." Mirian kissed Sedra's head and tugged on her braid. "You stay out of trouble. Promise me?"
"I promise." The girl nodded bashfully. Mirian kissed her again and tightened her hood scarf.
"Skova."
Cassian opened the door and held it for her. Her scarf brushed against his hand; the fabric was warm. He shuddered.
"Bye, Amrod!"
Cassian froze in the doorway.
No panicking.
"Goodbye," he said with another forced smile. He shut the door tightly behind him; hopefully Sara remembered to lock it. Hopefully she didn't notice the rolled up mud on her floor.
Here in the darkness, Cassian could see light leaking through the cracks in the window and door frame, dull, golden filaments that led to nowhere. Someone had better fix them before winter came.
He caught Mirian staring.
"What?" he snapped.
She raised an eyebrow. "All fine?"
Cassian took one last look at the door before pulling himself away. "All fine."
They took a soft pace back; Mirian walked more beside him than ahead of him. She murmured directions now and then, "left" and "straight" and "cross." Otherwise they walked in silence. Snippets of somber conversations drifted through thin, plaster walls; tookas snarled lowly from dark, adjoining alleys; the vibrowire fence droned on to the melody of a lone, late-evening mourning dove. And then there was his own shaky breath and its pale steam. He had nothing to cover his face.
It was almost nice to walk beside another human being. Almost, for the time being.
Back at the squat, square house, Mirian input the key code. Outside, nearby droids shone on the scratches in the door like ghosts. Inside, Mirian's own droid was working. Cassian could see the fragile, telltale filaments around the door frame. These would need fixing, too.
The door slid open. Mirian wiped her boots on the mat and Cassian followed suit. She set the Yarems' clothes at the foot of her bed.
"Sit where you want."
Cassian took the chair on the far side of the desk-chest, the one he'd taken this morning. Mirian stood again at the stove. Should he offer to cook this time? His head was so heavy, heavy as an ion cannon; he propped it up against his palm. The sedated droid was warm against his other hand. If Cassian wasn't sure she'd see, he'd press his whole face against it. Fall asleep. He was so tired. Where would he sleep? Too tired to even ask. But too hungry to be too tired. His ears pricked up at the sound of rice poured into water. Cassian looked over, expecting to see Mirian as she was at the Yarems'. No. Here she was hunched over the narrow countertop, head against the cabinet, fingers digging into an empty plaster bowl. Cassian thought she might be sick. What then? Go on cooking, probably. She seemed like the type.
"He'd brought the bread home," Mirian said suddenly. Cassian raised his head.
"She had enough time to get it out of the house, sink it in the marsh. She could have been killed if they'd found it first. Certainly arrested."
Cassian waited for her to continue. She didn't. Eventually she straightened up again, stirred the rice pot, strained the water out through old mesh. Cassian only fought his way through muddled thoughts and foggy memories of the day. Yes, they'd seen Sara before. He'd seen the brother, too, what felt like days ago. It had to be less than twelve hours. He didn't know the time. And Cassian realized he'd never known which of those gaunt, scared faces belonged to Sergo Yarem. Not that it mattered anymore. His body was gone and over the ridge. The blackbirds here, the shriekers—were they scavengers? They'd make unrecognizable messes of those faces, anyway. His stomach flipped, now with hunger, now with nausea.
"You told her to, didn't you?" he finally asked.
Mirian walked to the desk with two bowls of sticky rice; she returned with two cups of something steamy. Her eyes were glued to the ground. She took care to pull her chair out quietly.
"I can't help them when they get caught," Mirian repeated to her own food. "But sometimes... sometimes we can get away with a little more. With much discretion."
She began to eat. Cassian eyed his food suspiciously. Poison wasn't completely out of the question but the odds were low enough. He took a bite, two, three, four, shoveling rice into his mouth like he'd never eat again. It was wet and unseasoned; the sogginess soon dried out on his tongue into a plastery paste. A whole minute passed before he remembered his thirst and he looked to the mug. Tea, probably. Lifeless gray leaves floated on the water.
He took a sip. It burned his lips and tasted like licking a power generator. He tried to control his puckering face. Mirian put her spoon down.
"I'm sorry that this happened today, Skova."
Cassian froze with his mouth still full of battery acid. He'd have to get used to this stare of hers: wide, gaunt eyes with dark circles swallowing up his, rarely blinking. Eyes it might prove difficult to pull the wool over and a mouth sharp enough to slice through it, anyway. Cassian tried to match her stare, but—oop! He didn't care to. He went back to his sticky rice and tried to forget about the tea.
"I'm not the one who needs an apology."
"Let me amend it, then." Mirian folded her hands on the desk. They rested dangerously close to his; he pulled his rice bowl closer.
"I dislike," she said after a deep breath, "the circumstances surrounding your arrival and subsequent assignment, for reasons we've already discussed. I say 'dislike' for two reasons. Firstly, because their peculiarity sets me on edge. I find it hard to believe that a single day has brought not one but two misfortunes. Secondly, because they've made your life here—for the immediate present, at least—much harder. No one's supposed to jump into this with no training whatsoever. Especially since, I admit, I'm not in the best position to train you. You need to learn quickly and you need to be ready, in an emergency, to take the lead. I'm afraid the manner of your own arrival has sabotaged you—to what extent, I don't know.
"Nonetheless: whatever's at the root of the peculiarity—" her eyes flashed. "—you've been dealt a cruel hand. Personally so. It's cruel that you should witness the worst of the job in your first twelve hours. Perhaps you're right," Mirian sighed. "I shouldn't apologize to you. But I think it's beneficial, for honesty's sake, to acknowledge the unique ways in which today has been cruel to you. And it would be cruel of me, too, to pretend all is well when I'm sitting right across from you. That's why I'm sorry."
Cassian swallowed another mouthful of slimy rice and tried another swig of tea. He very nearly coughed it up.
"If it's cruel, it's common. Commonplace. It's the same everywhere." Cassian shrugged. His voice was hoarse.
"Maybe—" Mirian stared at him with knit brows. "You mean to say that none of today's events have bothered you?"
"I mean it doesn't matter who's bothered. What happens, happens."
She looked down into her untouched tea. Something deflated in Cassian's chest, like the string pulled taut between them had snapped.
"I think..." Her fingers twitched. "I think you're lying, in some way or another. I hope you're lying."
"Life has enough worries already," Cassian echoed from the transport. Bitterly.
"That's right."
But something about that wasn't as genuine. Cassian thought she was lying, too.
Without warning, Mirian scooped up the last of her rice and downed her whole cup of tea, leaves and all. She took both their bowls to the sink.
"We'll stop by Sara's tomorrow, and all the other families. Make sure they've gotten through the night. Distribution begins at noon. We'll submit the R&R the day after tomorrow or tomorrow evening, if there's time."
"R&R?"
"Recompense Requests." She scrubbed their spoons with a hard block of soap. "Imperial-related deaths, when they impact a family's livelihood, are sometimes eligible for some compensation. Never enough, but it's something more than nothing. Executions are harder."
She sighed. She spent several more seconds bent over the sink. "Sara's a registered volunteer. We might be able to push something through for her."
Wasn't Sergo a volunteer too? Cassian didn't care enough to ask. His tea still sat before him mockingly. It wasn't steaming anymore. Cassian decided to chug it. Fuck. He should have chugged it when he had the chance; the heat at least distracted from the rancid perfumy taste. The hair at the nape of his neck stood up on end. Cassian threw it back like Mirian did, forcing himself to keep it down. Every muscle in his face contracted. He felt thirstier than ever as he smoothed over the cup with his thumb.
"Where am I staying?"
Mirian glanced at him from over her shoulder. "You stay here. You can bring me that mug to wash."
"Here?"
"That mug, please."
Cassian pursed his lips as he handed her the still-warm cup. He was getting impatient.
"Points and Seconds house together," Mirian explained, satisfied. "In some of the newer Sectors they live in adjoining units. Our house is too old to add another wing. So, yes, here."
He forced a laugh. "Where would I sleep? There's only one bed."
Mirian hesitated. "The last Second and I shared," she said slowly, "and my mother and I before that. I have a sleeping mat and bedding to spare if you'd rather take the floor, and we can keep the droid beside you if you don't mind the noise. But winter is coming on quickly. Past winterfall the droid won't be of much help. But it'll be enough for now."
Cassian looked around. Professionally, a nightmare. If he could reconnect with Kaaza, they'd need a way to communicate regularly—far from Mirian's gaunt eyes. Not just Mirian, or Miri . An Imp. If she wouldn't try to save a friend from a public execution, she'd do nothing to cover his ass. Hell, she might report him for getting mud on her bedsheets. Just for fun.
But where else was he supposed to go? Sector One housing seemed thin as it was. Was he planning to curl up next to a feral tooka for warmth? They had a personal C-Series here; if he had to stay through the winter, he'd want somewhere clean, warm, and dry. And staying through the winter was rapidly becoming less possible than probable.
Not if they moved fast. Maybe this was incentive. Fuck.
"... I'll take the floor."
When he looked back, Mirian's eyes had lost their razor focus. She nodded absentmindedly, almost in relief. "Yes, the floor... And the mat."
She slid a sleeping mat from under the bed, spread it alongside in front of his duffle bag, and handed Cassian one of the pillows and the top blanket.
"It'll drop to freezing tonight, though not below yet. The fresher's in the back corner. We have enough water if you need a shower but not much of a water heater. There's an extra towel in the cabinet. You have something to sleep in?"
"Yes."
Mirian spared him a tight smile before heading to the fresher. He soon heard running water.
In the meantime Cassian spread the blanket neatly over his mat and straightened the flat pillow. The mat was stiff but not damaged, and barely dented. Barely used. The old Second had shared her bed, after all. Wonder who they were, wonder what happened to them. Long gone by now, probably. Wonder why they left.
Rummaging through his duffle bag, Cassian found the tattered old day clothes he kept for pajamas—but good enough that he could move and run and work at a moment's notice. Next to them were his toothbrush (no toothpaste) and a handheld scope the length of his index finger. Cheaper than he liked, but cheap got you through the detectors at customs.
Cassian listened for the running water before changing into his pajamas. They felt like his day clothes when he put his parka back on. He stood, dirty clothes in hand—how did they do laundry here? How often? Sometimes Cassian hadn't changed for weeks, sometimes he'd lost count. Mirian seemed like she'd care, though. Would she kick him out if he didn't keep clean? Cassian chuckled at the thought.
He heard a bout of coughing from the fresher, deep from the lungs. He stopped laughing.
She wouldn't cough all night, would she? Cassian refused to sleep with ear plugs on principle. Maybe he'd just have to deal with it. The water shut off. Not wanting to be caught standing, he draped his muddy pants over his bag, pushing them back from his pillow.
The fresher door slid open with a shuddering scrape. It should be re-oiled. Mirian reappeared with her outer clothes in hand, including her hood; long, dark hair hung down her back in a loose braid. She opened her desk-chest, folded and replaced some of her clothes, and draped her ashy trousers over the wooden chair.
"You can put your dirty clothes here," she said with her back turned. "I'll wash it all tomorrow if I have time. Not all days are this messy."
Cassian's face burned as Mirian checked the locks on the door and then the window: thick, grimy glass instead of mud and pebbles. She pulled the ratty curtain tightly shut and tucked it into a crack in the plaster.
"Things are quiet here," she murmured, "but we all keep cautious. You remember what I told you today?"
"If I'm not cautious I might be turned into peat."
"I told you to keep your mouth shut." Her fingers dug into the fabric of the curtain. "Among other things. This house is probably the safest place in the whole Sector. Bear in mind that that could change in an instant. You understand."
Cassian nodded, and waited: she looked like she wanted to say more. Nothing came. She only dimmed the lamp that sat near the stove—soft, deliberate steps near silent without her boots—and sat on the bed with her legs dangling off.
"You'll move the droid where you will?"
"Yes."
She paused, eyes darting. "... Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
"No."
Cassian met her bloodshot gaze.
"Goodnight, then. Skova."
"Goodnight."
Mirian curled up into the single pillow under the single coverlet, curled tightly next to the wall. Cassian frowned. She'd be colder there.
He draped his muddy trousers over the opposite chair and set his boots by the front door. Mirian's sat on the other side. They'd run into each other if they both had to get up in the night. He pulled the C-Series closer to his mat, running his hands lightly over its buttons and lights. Medium heat setting. Fine enough. He wrapped the blanket around his coat and lay down.
Even with the mat, the ground was harder than he'd braced himself for. COlder, too—though nicer, somehow, than the cramped stuffy quarters in the belly of the ship. At least he could stretch out his back. But whenever he tried the backs of his legs froze. So he curled up again, quite as cramped as he'd been most of the past week.
This morning. The ship was this morning. It had been a forever. Not a forever. Just a time.
Kaaza was in Sector Two. Their intel was in Sector Two. Their maps, their comms. Everything.
Cassian was in Sector One.
That was okay. Okay. All that separated them was a ridge, after all. And Mirian said it could be crossed. Further North, probably—unforgivable idiocy, Cassian thought, to try to climb in secret over Golgaelar Hill. But would secrecy matter more than speed? And Cassian was Second now. Would he even find the time?
Golgaelar Hill. Strange name. He shuddered with cold. Who named it? Doesn't matter. It sounded hateful coming from Riceter's mouth. These men we call our friends. Brothers. Sons. They had crumpled like puppets without their strings. Sergo Yarem was one of them. Which one was he? Where had he stood? In the middle for all to see? Or shafted to the side, watching his sister scream from a distance? Did he see Cassian standing there behind the front row? Standing alone—behind the front row with the other families mourning.
Strange that no one else had tried to fight. Maybe they had. Cassian hadn't been paying attention. Maybe they had. Maybe Mirian just played favorites.
Not that it mattered. Even if the crowd overwhelmed the execution squad, backup would be close behind. They'd all have been killed anyway. They were as good as prisoners here. They had no power.
Mirian did. Mirian who was called but not named; Mirian who wept and cooked for the woman she'd rushed to restrain. Our young Point, competent and loyal. Karlon Riceter knew her well. Karlon Riceter esteemed her highly. She had no right to be here. No right to cook for Sara and no right to tug the girl's braid. No right to whine. I can't help them when they're caught. Had she even tried?
No, of course she wouldn't. She'd lose the esteem; she'd lose the house with the personal C-Series she hated. That droid was a privilege. She had no right to complain. How many others froze through the night? How many others slept on the ground, and what would their Point do for them once winter fell? No telling—might even be his job by then. Get fucked.
Don't get ahead of yourself. Don't get too worked up over a handful of people you don't know. You're here to get your intel and get out. You're here on a mission. Maybe it'd help to kill her in her sleep. For the mission, of course. Nothing personal. Just like the men they'd shot up on the ridge. The men awaiting justice. The men we call our friends. They'd crumpled like puppets. Crumpled down the opposite cliff. He saw them like shadows. Fuzzy, burgundy shadows backlit in red, shadows through leafless brambles, crumpling, and crumpling again—
Cassian sat up. He was covered in sweat. He threw off his blanket, threw off his parka, stumbled to the fresher. He hadn't taken that shower. He hadn't brushed his teeth. He'd have to wait until morning. Shaky hands forced on a faucet ringed with white crystals. He splashed water against his face. It was ice cold. Fuck, he was so thirsty. He drank out of cupped hands, drank until the water ran down his forearms and the dryness of his mouth relented. He turned off the water and stared in the mirror. Gaunt eyes with dark circles. His whole body sagged with exhaustion.
Without the running water, he heard breath from the other room. Uneven breath, again and again. Cassian wiped his face with his shirt and leaned against the fresher doorway.
Mirian hadn't moved from her spot by the wall. Another breath. Shuddering, shaking the mattress below. A sniffle so faint he could only just hear it. Muffled in fabric. Cassian felt sick to his stomach.
He had to cross the room; he had to put his coat back on. He heard her crying clearer here. He tried to be quiet. He wanted to scream.
Cassian turned the droid's setting to High; it hummed a little louder. When he wrapped his pillow around his head he heard its whirring only faintly. Resting on his arm—he knew it'd prick and ache tomorrow. At least the sound was drowned.
Characters: Din Djarin, Boba Fett, with appearances by Grogu and Din’s mother
Word Count: 1387
Genre: light angst
Summary: Aboard the Slave I, Din finds himself in need of a haircut for the first time since his life on the Crest, and his life with the kid. But don’t worry; he can do it himself. (post-season 2)
Warnings: minor injury + blood mention. I didn’t revise a damn thing and will probably hate it by tomorrow but! here it is please enjoy
Masterlist + Taglist
Din's hair was too long. It chafed at the base of his neck against his clothes and stuck down on his forehead, slick with sweat beneath the beskar. It was weeks since he'd cut it—maybe months—in front of a mirror hardly bigger than his fist and a little too low on the wall on a night when he'd gotten the kid to sleep early. Or maybe it was a morning. Not that it mattered out in space, but it did bother him that his memory was so foggy. It couldn't have been that long ago... Not that it mattered.
"I need to borrow some scissors, if you have any," he told Boba in the cockpit. His pair had been on the Crest, and of course wasn't made of beskar. They'd been blasted to smithereens.
"Fresher cabinet, bottom shelf," Boba answered without so much as a glance at him. There was a silence. "Need help?"
Din blinked—he was still standing there in the cockpit, motionless. "No," he said hoarsely. "No, thank you."
He was painfully aware of his footfalls against the metal floor and the pinpricks in his neck. And the Slave I fresher—though more private—was somehow even more cramped than he was used to. Din was by no means a slight man but he definitely wasn't beefy, either; some of the more thickset Mandalorians used to tease him for his stature. All in good fun, of course. But now, shuffling in full armor into the four by five space, a space he was already well-acquainted with, Din had never felt like more of an oaf. He glanced out the open door. No Boba. No Fennec. He shut the door, and pulled off his helmet.
Even with the helmet off there was hardly enough room to open the cabinet. And even when he managed it, the scissors were smaller than he'd imagined. Smaller, at least, than his old pair. He'd have to take his gloves off. Din began to sweat. His hands were clammy; they felt slippery against the cool metal. Dank farrik, he was gonna cut his own fingers off. Din almost stuffed the scissors back in the cabinet, pulled his gloves and helmet back on, and left right then. His hair wasn't that long. It wasn't that much of a nuisance. But no sooner had he thought it than he was blinking back strands of hair from his eyelashes.
Din breathed deep, breathed with his whole chest, and turned to face the mirror. He choked on nothing but the air in his lungs.
Before him stood a man more bent, more pale, more haggard and disheveled than he'd ever seen, not in all his time as a bounty hunter. And—dank farrik—that was him. He grit his teeth and took a chunk of his hair between his fingers, and raised the scissors.
Snip. A good two inches of dark brown fell to the dingy and age-streaked polycarbonate sink. Din looked back up. He'd cut too high. The half of his hair not laced with his lashes stuck out choppy and slanted against his sweat-beaded temples. He flexed his fingers, trying to swallow down the panic bubbling in his chest, and cut the other side.
Snip. His face felt cooler now, but without the overgrown bangs his skin looked paler and his eyes darker than ever. Rings of gray and purple hung beneath his sockets with nothing to distract from them but the uneven rectangle that reluctantly lay on his high forehead.
Dimly—very, very far off, a neighboring galaxy away and its silvery slivers of stars—he remembered his mother, the one he'd been born with. She'd been tall, dark-eyed and dark-haired and pretty to his childish eyes. Such a handsome face, she whispered to him with his cheeks in her hands. She said it like it was a secret, something fun and exciting for his ears only, and the promise of more. Strong forehead, like your father. And she'd press kiss after kiss between his brows, holding him firmly in place as he squirmed.
He'd always wondered if she had survived, somehow. His father, too. Long after he'd forgotten his love for them, he still pondered their fate. It had probably been bleak; the Mandalorians who found him found few other survivors. They'd have to have been very, very fast runners.
Snip. His hair had grown bushy around the ears; Din hated having these things so close. The helmet muffled most sounds for him and made them tolerable, if a bit monotonous. He hated how each swipe of the blades echoed through his ear drum and reverberated in his skull. It was enough to drive a man insane. His hands were shaking.
"Damn it!" The scissors hit the sink with a clatter. He'd nicked himself. The wetness in his ear felt foreign and made him shiver; his blood looked almost indigo in the cold, blue-ish light. He found a wad of cotton in the cabinet and pressed it against his head. He should have left his hair alone when he had the chance.
But he couldn't stop now. Even he had that much self-respect.
Snip. Snip. Snip. He took deep breaths, regular breaths. His hands steadied. He didn't nick himself again, not even when he had to reach around to the nape of his neck where the metal felt coldest. Locks of hair landed in his undershirt and cloak; he'd have trouble cleaning that out later. It'd be a very scratchy next few days but at least he'd be cooler. He set the scissors down on the sink—more gently this time—and brushed what he could from the fabric. And a little less dimly—a candle in the next room—he saw a little green fist clutching a clump of dark brown hair, waving it like a flag.
Where'd you find that, kid? Din scooped him up in one arm. I think you've been climbing where you shouldn't. Hm?
He only cooed and stared up at him with those enormous, dark eyes. He was smiling, Din thought; he could see his tiny teeth peeking out. Hell, the kid knew he shouldn't be crawling onto the fresher sink. Did he care? Apparently not.
Give it to me. Grogu only clenched his fist tighter. Open, Din said louder, holding out his other hand. Grogu's fingers relaxed, leaving the fine strands to fall between Din's cloak and his cuirass. He sighed. Thank you.
Din lurched to turn on the water and leaned over the sink, gripping the sides with both hands. A cold flash washed over him even as he sweat through his clothes. He was not gonna be sick. He was not gonna be sick. The dark strands floated down the drain. Dimly, far off, he remembered that hair belonged in the waste basket. Not the plumbing. But by the time he remembered it was almost all gone, along with his cold sweats.
He went to clean the scissors on his cloak of any remnants and noted a rusty smear at the tip of each blade. It was his blood, now dried. Some of it had gotten into the rest of his hair, no doubt. He'd have to shower it out later. For now he only ran them underneath the cold water, dried them with his cloak, and put them back in the cabinet. Bottom shelf, though he couldn't remember if they went in front of or behind the package of bacta patches. Not that it mattered.
Satisfied that he'd more or less cleaned up his mess, Din looked back in the mirror. A crack job. Clumps of hair still stuck out at odd angles—not to mention the too-short, too-crooked bangs in the middle of his forehead. But when he put on his helmet, all of it disappeared: the haircut, the dark circles, the flushed and pale patches. The cut on his ear. Only the cool blue light on polished beskar, impenetrable by blasters and sabers and scissors alike. He slipped on his gloves, opened the door, and turned off the light.
"Find what you need?" Boba asked him back in the cockpit, helmet still fixed ahead.
"Yes," Din answered. He sat in the passenger's seat and gripped the armrests with a silent, shuddering sigh. "Yes. Thank you."
Hey, y’all! Tumblr deleted the original ask as well as the first version >:( but @kenobee had requested your first kiss with padawan!obi for my 600 celebration blurbs. This accidentally turned into a ficlet instead of a blurb. Even so, I hope this brings a little bit of light to your day, Makayla! <3
Word count: 1.1k oops
Genre: fluff!!! ignore the hints of angst pls. it’s fluff.
Warnings: i didn’t edit a damn thing so enjoy !
// // //
In late Winter just before the thaw, a ship touched down on a nearby hill and out walked two men clad in modest robes.
There’s trouble in the city, you hear. Something political. Senatorial, maybe. But that’s not your concern. You’re only happy that the strangers decided to stay in your village in the meantime. And strange they are indeed—a little quiet, a little grave, but the younger’s around your age and not so grave yet that he won’t blush if you teasingly tug on his cloak. And in the month and a half he’s stayed he’s stayed in your village, there have been plenty of occasions.
And it’s not all that, of course. There are times when you’re able to sit quietly, to listen with rapt ears as he tells you of the galaxy beyond. His master, their travels, their Order—
and a life you can never participate in.
But you won’t let that get you down. What’s there to be sad about? You’re friends. New friends. Almost even good friends. And you’re friendly, right? It’s friendly and normal to lie awake thinking of the scent of their robes, wondering if it’s enough to keep them warm, to hold your breath when their hand brushes yours as you walk and talk down the street, to look first at each other when you tell a joke, just to see if they’ve laughed.
They’re normal and friendly tears that well in your eyes the day the Master announces their departure.
But you won’t let friends get away that easily.
The morning before he leaves, you sneak into his room. Kenobi. Kenobi! He’s groggy, confused; it’s dark outside, and chilly. But you pull him out of bed by the hand to the outskirts of your village and beyond. He’s quiet as you walk—not quite yet awake—and your heart races faster and faster in the silence. But the stars are fading away and fresh sunlight breaks in the East. A little lighter, a little warmer, a little gentler as Obi-Wan adjusts to the morning and as you find your mettle at last.
“Close your eyes,” you tell him. He hesitates, but smiles—and with his eyes closed you let yourself admire him just a moment longer. The straight of his nose, the dimple in his chin, the braid that falls from his ear to his shoulder to the plains of his chest, thin and interwoven with beads.
It’d fit so nicely in the curve of your palm, you think, though you’d never dare ask. Not in a million years, and as it is you’ve only twenty four hours.
You pull him by the hand to the top of the hill and pause for a last, uninterrupted look at his face. Open.
And before you both is the lake in the middle of the buttercup field still sparkling with the morning dew. The sun rises just beyond, mirrored on the water with the single willow tree.
Again you pull his hand, running, backwards, down the slope. He laughs and you laugh with him; it echoes, the only sound of the early morning, along the hills.
“What’s this?” He grins, his smile brighter than the rising sun. The stars have melted away and left a likeness in his eyes. You sit beneath the willow and pull him down with you.
It’s your gift.
And you match his grin, surpass his laughter, try to light your eyes with stars of your own. But the morning wanes. Gentle pink gives way to broader daylight, and to the widening hole in your chest.
“How are you so troubled, with such a gift as this?”
“My gift to you, if you’ll remember. And I would... give you so much more, were you... should you not leave so soon. You’ve really put a wrench in my hospitality.”
“We’ve been here weeks, already; I think we’ve stretched your hospitality to its limits,” he laughs. “And the kindness you’ve shown us is much more than we’d ever expect.”
“Is it really so austere? Jedihood?”
“Not at all. Our training is crucial.” Obi-Wan smiles; there’s a twinkle in his eye you can’t quite place as he lifts his hand. A stream of flowers and fallen petals circle around your face, settle in your hair. “For tasks such as these.”
You can feel the blood rushing to your face. You look away. And you shiver.
You stifle it as soon as you feel it. It’s cold, after all. Chilly morning air, the ground beneath you wet with dew. And maybe you’re underdressed. It was nothing, you tell yourself. It was normal.
New heat blankets your skin—not from bloodrush but from Obi-Wan’s cloak, now wrapped around your shoulders.
“It’s—it’s okay, Obi-Wan. You don’t—don’t have to—”
He takes your hand, holding it light as glass. Your words fail.
“Your heart’s racing,” he murmurs. “... I don’t mean to upset you.”
“You’re not! I’m not—it’s cold, is all. There’s nothing... Nothing else.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “If that’s true, by all means—tell me. I’ve felt—” His hold on your hand tightens. “I’ve felt you. And... and your thoughts. But if there’s nothing, tell me now, and I’ll leave in peace.”
Another shiver runs down your spine. You’re so pressed for air; it’s like your ribcage is collapsing on you. He’s felt it. Felt you. Felt... what you feel? Or how? Felt your thoughts—surely he feels all this now, even as you sit. Might you just run away? No, no, that’s not right. Might you simply ask?
“Close your eyes,” he tells you. You hesitate; the beginning of a smile threatens to betray you. Not yet. Not yet. But you assent, and he squeezes your hand, and pulls it closer, cradling your wrist—
“May I?” he whispers.
“Yes,” you breathe, and you feel his lips against your hand. Feather-light, a sweep of the sparrow against finest crystal, the willow boughs dusting the ground. You feel his lips against your temple, your cheekbone, drifting lower to the corner of your mouth. It’s everything at once, yet not enough. The light without its warmth, the field without its color, the waves without their crash. And you don’t need the Force to feel his hesitation. Eyes still closed, you turn—kissing him deeply, kissing him truly.
Obi-Wan responds immediately, dropping your hand and grabbing your waist—tentative, hesitant, but there and close and real. In your own darkness you grip his arms for an anchor, moving to his shoulders, squeezing the tension away. He groans into your mouth and you into his. Your hand finds his braid, rolling the beads beneath your fingers.
And you pull away and open your eyes. You have to see him to believe him, closer than he’s ever been. Closer than he’ll ever be again.
“You leave tomorrow,” you whisper breathlessly.
“I know.”
“Then what was that?”
He smiles sheepishly, his forehead dipping back to yours, kissing your cheek, kissing your jaw.
Summary: After a series of failed missions to the refugee moon Veneskar, Captain Andrew Kaaza and Lieutenant Cassian Andor are the Rebellion's last hope. But their mission begins to sour from Day One. It's salvageable, maybe, by the stern but idealistic Point Runner—if and only if Cassian can convince her to set aside her principles.
Pairing: Cassian Andor x Mirian (OFC)
Tags: Slow burn, enemies to lovers, character backstory, worldbuilding, undercover missions, angst and drama
Series warnings: canon-typical violence, angst, major character death, swearing, some sexual (though not graphic) content. Check individual chapters for specific content warnings.
Aubrey! Congrats on 600!!! 🥳 I wanted to request a soft / fluffy blurb for Cal Kestis where he and reader allude to or confess feelings for one another? 🥺 Thank you so much ILY 🥰
YES i love him okay (and i love you too ajdksfajfksh). i also love plants ! ! but we all knew that. anyway,
Consider: you’re a mechanic on the Mantis. A mechanic in name, anyway. Really you’re there to do whatever needs done, from repairs to cleaning to the occasional meal. You don’t mind it, though. As long as you’re out of the way of close combat, you’re happy.
But not everyone on the Mantis has that luxury.
It’s that damn Force user with a glorified glowstick of a saber.
And it was fine! For a while. You’d work on the ship, he’d go gallivanting around whichever planet you’d landed on, getting into trouble left in right, nearly getting himself killed every other day of the week, and you’d all be back in time for whatever passed for dinner these days. It worked.
Sometimes he’d come back with a cut on his hand, or a bruise on his cheek. He’s a Jedi, you’d tell yourself. This is what he does. He’d say he was fine; you’d nod. That was the end of it- at least, once you got over the flood of pure relief.
But there were other days. Bad days. When he’d come back barely conscious with a distinct wobble in his step, and a gash on his forehead as long as your hand. Days when you watered the flowers in the terrarium and hummed to fill the silence, only to drop your pail at the sight of him.
You’d sit him down, patch him up. Make sure he gets to sleep. Mop up the water. Get back to work. But you can’t. You’re too busy sneaking glances back to the couch where he lay: will he be okay? this wasn’t the last straw, was it? he needs to be more careful. what would we do without him? what would you do without him? no, that’s silly. he’ll be fine. and if he’s not, you’ll get by. unless-
Your brain tortures you like this for hours. Until finally you collapse into your bunk, expecting to sleep off the weight of the day, only to realize: you’re done for.
Days pass. Weeks pass. You do your repairs. You water your plants. You patch Cal up when necessary. And you keep your mouth shut.
Until one night, when you’re restless. You check your clock. It’s early, not yet 5. But it’s late enough to justify getting to work. So you slip on your overcoat and some shoes, and creep out of your bunk.
You enter the main room, and almost shriek.
There he is, standing by the terrarium. Still as stone, and silent, too. His eyes, closed as if in sleep, bolt open to stare right into yours.
“Fuck, Cal, you scared me to death.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Wh-what are you doing? It’s 4:30 and you’re... feeling up our plants?”
He blinks as if he doesn’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Then he looks down to where his hand is buried in amidst the little leaves.
“No, I... uh... it’s not..” He runs a hand down his face; you cant help but wonder whether he’s gotten any sleep tonight. “It’s, uh... a Force property.”
You raise an eyebrow. “A Force property.”
“Yes!” he insists. “I- I can touch something, and see--”
“I know.” You join him at the terrarium. “But... these are plants. What exactly are you supposed to be seeing?”
You’ve never seen Cal blush before, and much less expected to like it. And here he is, just a foot away from you in nothing but the dim light from the terrarium, redder than rouge liqueur.
“You don’t have to say if you don’t want--”
“You.”
Your mouth falls open, and his face somehow manages to flush even darker.
“Well, not- not you, exactly, but- but when you water them, and hum, and it’s quiet, it’s... It’s nice,” he finally settles. “Helps me fall asleep, when I can’t...”
You inch closer, just close enough to take his hand that’s still resting atop the foliage. What the hell are you doing? This wasn’t what you signed up for. This is too much, this is-
“You could just ask me to sing to you, you know,” you say quietly. “When it gets bad.”
He looks at you for a long time, with an expression you find downright impossible to read. You’re sure your face is much easier, and he’s a Jedi, no less. This isn’t fair. You shouldn’t have said that, should’ve just gone back to sleep when you had the chance-
“Maybe I will,” he says finally. Before you can respond, you hear an alarm from the other room.
“That’ll be Greez,” you say, desperate to break the tension. “We’d, uh, better get our hands out of his terrarium before he finds out. And you should try and get some sleep.”
“You’re right.” He nods and lets go of your hand to replace the terrarium lid. It was nice, holding his hand. Warm. You’ll have to remember that later-
Before you can finish your thought, he lays his hands on each side of your face and kisses your forehead.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he whispers, “and take you up on that offer.”
You can only nod, frozen in place, as he heads back to his bunk for another hour of sleep.
