Chapter Text
(I) The Past Leaves Scars i
[Angst, Hurt/Comfort]
The anger bubbles under his skin every time he catches sight of one of the Clones passing around him; it’s un-Jedi-like of him, to let his hate for these men consume him, but the sight of them makes his blood boil and his hands shake. He looks at them and he remembers Gray and Styles - he remembers the death of Master Depa, his overwhelming fear, and he remembers the hunt for him that followed. The attention they had once shown for his safety twisted and warped into a narrow focus on his death.
Kanan wants to trust them, he really does. He watches the way they act with the younglings and the padawans, the gentle fondness on their faces, the kindness in their eyes.
But he sees them, and all he can remember is the loss of everything he ever knew. He remembers death and suffering, and it chases away the happy memories he has of the men who had become a second family to him. He no longer thinks of Grey’s kind laughter, or the way Styles would clap him over the shoulder and call him Commander Vod’ika - instead he thinks of blank helmets staring back at him and the sound of whining blasters. He can’t stop the way he stiffens every time Gregor hefts Ezra into a spinning hug, or the flinch that shakes him to the core when he sees Rex ruffling Sabine’s colourful hair after she shows him her skills with her dual pistols. He wants to put himself between Hera and Boil when the two of them start talking about Numa and Ryloth, and he’s always seconds away from throwing himself at Wolffe whenever he happens upon the one-eyed Clone sparring with Zeb.
Kanan hates that he can only think the worst of these men, knowing that they’re as much the victims as he is. He knows that they never had a choice, that they were stripped of their free will and forced to commit atrocities, and he hates that he can’t bring himself to cry when Cody tells him what happened to Grey and Styles. He wants to mourn them, he wants to scream and cry when he learns that they had rigged their transport to explode with themselves on it, but all he feels is numb.
(II) The Dominos Still Stand
[Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Romance]
“I thought you were dead.”
They’re curled together in the room Echo had claimed as his own, the room that he’s dragged Fives into. They’re bare as the day they were decanted, but Echo can’t bring himself to do anything but cling to his riduur, to bury his face against Fives scarred chest and wrap his arms around him, holding him close and letting his warmth seep into his bones - letting it chase away the cold of the metal drilled into his skeleton.
He hears him whisper his name like a prayer, peppering quick kisses in his hair "Echo." He feels Fives’ fingers trail across the twisted burn scars that mark the place where his prosthetics connect to his thighs, the pressure of his hands disappearing when they drift over the biosteel that make up his legs. “I know the feeling.” He agrees, voice hushed, and Echo clings to him tighter, wishing that he could feel more of him, but lacking the right amount of human limbs that would make it possible. “I’m sorry, Eyayah.” Fives’ voice shakes in the way that Echo knows means his squadmate is about to cry. “I’m sorry.” His fingers have moved from his legs, up his hips and ribs to rest against his neck, pressing into the pulse. “I should have looked for you.”
“It would have gotten you killed.” Echo argues, lifting his head from Fives’ chest to meet his tearful brown eyes, “I would have just been dead weight - I wouldn’t have been able to fight, or help.” Fives sniffles, and Echo leans forward to gently kiss away the quiet tears that have already fallen. “And even if you did get me out, somehow, we both know what happened to soldiers who couldn’t make themselves useful.”
“I wouldn’t have let them.” Fives - wonderful, brave Fives who was so passionate and wouldn’t let himself be weak unless Echo was there to catch him - tells him passionately, and Echo can only quirk a faintly bitter smile in response. They both know that Fives’ stubbornness wouldn’t have saved him from decommissioning if he had come back from a mission with only one arm and half of a spine.
Instead, Echo just leans his weight on his partner’s chest, stretching to capture Fives’ lips with his own, and letting the kiss say the words he couldn’t get across.
(III) Family Sticks Together i
[Family]
Blythe smiles in delight as she watches the small colourful trinket reflect the light of the planet’s golden sun, casting patches of rainbow across the market stand. The chance to just leave The Temple and spend the day being a teenager is rare, and the young hybrid is enjoying the opportunity she’s been given to visit the market; she already has a pack full of little things to bring back to the ship and decorate her room with. Bright bobbles and colourful fabrics are stuffed into her bag with care, and she already has a sheer violet scarf looped around her neck.
The teenager looks up, offering the elderly Etti woman manning the stall a kind smile as she lifts the small bird shaped bobble up, “How much?”
The blue skinned woman studies her, then looks at the trinket, humming thoughtfully, “Seven peb.” Blythe beams, digging out the currency from her pouch and pulling the seven round blue stones out to pass them over. The Etti takes them with a toothless smile of her own, quickly inspecting them before sliding them into her pocket. “A lovely day to you, Little Miss.”
“A lovely day to you, Respected Elder.” Blythe nods her head with another smile, getting a small chuckle from the shopkeeper for her manners, and as she turns to leave, Blythe finds herself bumping into another market goer passing behind her. Large hands around her upper arms catch her as she squeaks, followed by a rumbling chuckle.
“Careful there, darling.”
She steps back, blinking, looking up at the Zeltron who had caught her. He’s young, probably in his mid twenties, with a handsome red face and well-maintained blue hair, smiling pleasantly at her - he seems like just another person looking to browse through the market, but something about him makes her feel off. “Oh! I’m sorry!” She takes another step back, his hands lingering a little longer on the bare skin of her arms a little longer than would be necessarily considered polite, but Zeltrons are a tactile race in general.
“No harm done, little lady.” The Zeltron quirks a charming, crooked grin, his maroon gaze roving across her pointedly, taking in her leather clothing in a way that some might consider flirtatious, but just succeeds in making Blythe a little nervous.
She’s not ashamed of her body, she never has been - Blythe likes the way she looks and dresses in a way that makes her comfortable. She prefers her tight pants and leather halter tops - they make her feel powerful, like her mother - and she complements the dull leather with brightly coloured bandanas that she ties around her head and other colourful accessories like the ribbons she has tied around her arms. Today she’s wearing yellow to match the dashes of paint she’s dashed across her cheekbones, and it’s some of her favourite - she had picked them because she was heading into the market and wanted to look her best.
“Tell you what,” The Zeltron says, “Why don’t you make it up to me and join me for a drink.”
“No thank you,” Blythe takes another step back, bumping into the Etti woman’s stall but refusing to take her eyes off of the man who had moved back into her space. “I’m underaged.”
But she’s also acutely aware of the warnings her mother had given her - of beings who looked at pretty Twi’Leks and only saw their bodies.
“That can’t be true.” He laughs, resting a hand on her arm, but another hand snaps forward and wenches his limb away from her bare skin, and Blythe lets out a relieved breath as Mara shoulders her way between them, shoving the Zeltron away.
“It is, besom.” Dressed head-to-toe in gleaming beskar, her cousin cuts an imposing figure, and what she lacks in height compared to the tall Zeltron, she makes up for in pure aggressive stances as she sets her shoulders and growls through the modulator of her helmet. “Back off.”
“Whoa, hey,” The Zeltron steps back, looking both nervous and offended as he tries to tug his wrist out of Mara’s tight grip. “I’m just trying to invite my friend here to join me for a drink.”
“Funny, because my cousin has never mentioned you before.” She growls, “She’s sixteen, shabuir.” Blythe reaches out, gently laying a hand across Mara’s shoulder when the Zeltron yelps in pain, and Mara’s expressionless helmet tilts towards her. The two are silent for a moment, before Mara lets out a gusty sigh that crackles through her modulator, and she aggressively tosses the Zeltron’s hand aside. “I’d snap your wrist if it were up to me.” Mara tells the man dangerously, “So I’m just going to give you a warning, don’t touch people without consent - especially teenagers.”
The Zeltron retreats, grumbling under his breath and rubbing his wrist, “I was just trying to be friendly, you don’t have to be so uptight about it.”
Mara growls, taking a threatening step forward, a knife that Blythe hadn’t seen her pull out suddenly in her grasp, and the Zeltron scuttles even further away from her, “Copaani mirshmure’cye, besom?” The Zeltron turns and flees, and Mara scoffs, rolling the blade across her knuckles dramatically before sheathing it with a huff. “Nar’sheb.”
Blythe lets out a relieved breath, tension leaving her shoulders and she gently takes her cousin’s hand in her own, “Vor'e, ori’vod.”
Mara huffs again, but less aggressively this time, and she tilts her head in a way that Blythe knows her cousin is offering her a small smile as she squeezes her hand in return. “Kih'parjai, Blyth’ika .” She tells her genuinely, and Blythe beams. “Aliit sticks together.”