Archive of Our Own

“Early bird?”

The question pulls Cere out of her quiet contemplation. She tears her gaze away from the vastness of space to look at her new companion. Greez Dritus is hovering at the edge of the cockpit, seemingly waiting for some sort of permission despite being the actual captain of the Stinger Mantis. Her sudden movement highlights the soreness of her back, makes her wonder exactly how long it’s been since she wandered to the co-pilot seat when all attempts at resting in her bunk had failed.

Cere blinks.

“One would have to sleep in order to be considered an early bird,” she says, voice hoarse with a night of disuse. She shakes the thermos she’s somehow still gripping as tightly as when she first sat down. “Caf?”

Greez nods, and for a few seconds only the sound of pouring liquid fills the galley. It’s not a comfortable silence, not when they’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but it’s not daunting either, and Cere has learned to appreciate the quiet. “You don’t sleep a lot,” Greez says eventually.

Cere exhales, eyes back on the stars. “I have, ah… trouble adjusting, I guess.”

“The room’s not comfortable enough?” Greez asks, and then just does not stop talking. “Just say the word. This ship isn’t enormous, I’m aware, but we could set up a bed in the engine room or something. I hear some people like the noise better. Helps them focus. Or unfocus, I guess. Whatever it is that helps them sleep better.”

“The room is perfect, Greez.” Cere offers him a tired smile. It feels foreign on her dry lips. “Thank you.”

He stares at her for a moment, until they both look back at their caf.

Cere’s has been cold for a while — she’ll finish it eventually, because she wouldn’t dare to waste anything. But sometimes, the bitter taste becomes too much, and it pulls her mind back to a time when she’d drink it with milk to make it sweeter, when her head barely reached Master Cordova’s shoulder and when being a Jedi Knight was nothing more than a fantasy she’d play over and over again in her head at night.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” the captain’s voice reaches her through the fog of her mind.

She used to be. She recalls a time when she could spend her days blattering nonsense, talking Master Cordova’s ear off because she had to tell someone about the books she’d spend her nights wide awake to finish. She recalls long hyperspace flights, Trilla’s head on her lap as her Padawan breathed through her own whirlwinds of emotions and listened to her Master’s multitudes of stories. She remembers always thinking out loud. To Cere, talking used to feel like an anchor — it used to be her way of connecting, of creating a place for herself in the universe. A way to reflect, to help, to teach.  

Then, the Purge happened. Then, Cere’s mouth betrayed her, and Trilla, and the younglings.

Talking hasn’t felt like much of an anchor ever since.

“Good thing I’m enough of a talker for the both of us, then,” Greez says after a while of sitting in silence, the words spoken like an offer. When Cere looks up at the Latero, he’s raising an eyebrow at her over the rim of his steaming mug.

And the quietness of the Mantis, the familiar humming of hyperspace, the warmth in the captain’s eyes — it seizes Cere right in the stomach. Despite her never daring to admit it, the freefall she’s been in ever since her own troopers turned their weapons against her apprentice is slowing down. She’s not so much plummeting to her doom as she is sliding gently towards it. For the first time in what feels like a decade, she can actually raise her head and take a look around. Feel the bitter caf on her tongue, holding preciously onto the knowledge that she could sweeten it with the honey sugar Greez keeps in the cupboard if she ever wanted to. Lay down in a bed that’s starting to smell like her, with clean clothes wrapped around her limbs and a holobook chip she paid for with her own money. Eat warm, filling food without having to clutch onto her knife and look over her shoulder constantly. Trace imperial transmissions for a greater purpose than just watching her own back.

Trying and failing to suppress a smile, Cere takes a sip of her own caf. 

“Good thing you are, yes.”

*

“Hold still.” 

Cal grits his teeth and presses his forehead against the crook of his elbow, trying really hard to ignore the tweezers digging into shoulder and failing. He knew he shouldn’t have taken that shortcut, should have followed his gut instead of BD’s holomap. He won’t say any of that out loud, though, because the droid is watching him closely, following Cere’s order and shining his flashlight on Cal’s injury.

“Greez,” Cere calls out, voice probably too low to actually reach the Latero, “any luck finding that sewing kit?”

“What’s taking him so long?” Cal grunts into his elbow.

“Wild bantha chase,” Cere answers methodically as Cal feels yet another sharp quill being pulled out of his skin.

Cal raises his head slightly at that, brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“The sewing kit’s in a drawer in my room. I sent him down there so I wouldn’t have to deal with your poor attempt at becoming a spiner and him passing out at the same time.”

Cal earnestly laughs at that, which earns him a painful twinge in the back and a sigh from Cere.

“I just said—”

“I know, I know,” Cal waves a hand over his head as he retreats to the blissful darkness of his elbow once again, squeezing his eyes closed like that’ll make the pain go away. “Sorry, by the way.”

Another quill. “For what?”

“This,” Cal waves his good hand again. “I would’ve taken care of it myself, but…” But despite being more in shape than he’s been ever since crashlanding on Bracca, Cal is still not flexible enough to pull needles out of his own back. “You know.”

Cere is silent for a moment, despite her relentless assaults on his skin. “You don’t have to do everything yourself,” she says eventually, so low that Cal almost doesn’t catch it. A palm lands on his neck. The unexpected contact makes him tense, though his muscles swiftly relax under the warmth of Cere’s hand. “I don’t expect you to trust me,” she continues, her voice stronger, “or the captain anytime soon, and I can’t pretend I know what life on Bracca taught you, but we’re a crew. We help whenever we can, and try and accept help whenever we need it. It’s a tough battle, I’ll admit it. One I’m not entirely done fighting yet myself.” Cal finally sits up straight and looks her in the eye. “But Cal… don’t put it all on yourself, all right?” She pats his uninjured shoulder. “We all need a bit of help sometimes.”

They stare at each other for a moment, irises translating more than words could. Despite Cere being adamant about cutting herself from the Force, Cal still feels her differently than he feels regular people. It wraps around her, a dim light pulsing quietly and retreating every time Cal tries to reach out. It’s strange, witnessing Cere reaching out through words and actions yet feeling her Force signature constantly take the opposite stand.

There’s a longing, buried somewhere deep inside Cal, wishing for her to reciprocate; wishing for any kind of reminder that he’s no longer the only survivor — but Cere’s eyes are warm, and earnest, and maybe this can be enough.

She squeezes his shoulder. “Turn around,” she says, and when Cal opens his mouth to argue that they could take a break, she cocks an eyebrow and adds, “we’re not done yet.”

*

“Noodle soup?”

Greez snorts and ruffles Cal’s hair before following Cere to the galley. “Sure, kid. I’ll make you noodle soup.”

“How come when Cal is injured, he gets to pick what we have for dinner?” Merrin asks as she spreads a blanket over Cal, effectively hiding his bandaged torso from sight. “You always refuse my suggestions,” she continues, sitting at the edge of the couch by the Jedi’s feet.

“Uh,” Greez says as he struts up the stairs, “because Cal usually asks for noodles or nuna, not intestines or shaak tongue.”

Cal wiggles his eyebrows at her and Merrin promptly pinches his little toe. “That was one time,” she answers as Cal yelps and retaliates with a weak kick to her thigh.

“And I’ll keep bringing it up til the day I leave this universe,” Greez answers.

A few months ago, the flat glare Merrin throws Greez’s way would have most definitely made him cave. Now the Latero does not even flinch when he meets her eyes over the counter. It almost makes her long for the days when he feared her.

“If I also nearly die on our next outing,” she asks when it is clear that Greez will not prompt her any further, “will you at least consider my meal suggestions?”

“No, but that’s because no one’s allowed to nearly die for at least four entire standard weeks,” the captain answers, bushy eyebrows raised and the indexes of his left hands pointing at her and Cal threateningly. “I’ve lost enough hair in the past two hours as it is.”

“Wasn’t even that bad,” Cal mumbles before burying his chin under the blanket. 

Cere raises her eyebrows so high they nearly reach her hairline as she throws the blood-soaked gauzes down the garbage chute. Greez says nothing, just sighs dramatically and opens the conservator. 

“Bad enough that you get your bland noodle soup, apparently,” Merrin says as she lets herself sink into the cushion.

Cal gasps exageratingly and kicks her thigh with his heel again. “Don’t talk about my comfort meal like that.” He glances up toward the galley, where all Merrin can see is the top of Greez’s head as the Latero gets to work. Cere has disappeared, probably gone to the refresher to clean Cal’s blood off her hands. “We could fake-injure you in a few days,” he whispers to Merrin while she busies herself with properly tucking the blanket around his legs. “I’ve got some red paint left from BD’s last makeover.”

Merrin considers the offer for a moment, but ultimately shakes her head as she leans forward to rest her forearms on his shins. “Greez has seen people covered in actual blood before. I do not think this would work on him.”

“Maybe not,” Cal shrugs, settling back against the pillow Merrin brought him from the engine room earlier. “Could give him a good scare, at least. Might be fun.”

BD-1 gurgles a string of binary that Merrin does not even try to understand, but it brings a smile to Cal’s dry lips. “You’re right, he does make that funny sound when he’s startled.” He looks back at Merrin, mischief shining in his eyes despite the underlying glaze of pain. “Worth way more than any meal suggestions, if you ask me.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Cere asks as she joins them in the lounge, finally blood-free, one hand occupied by a datapad and the other by a steaming cup of tea. 

“Nothing,” Cal and Merrin answer at the same time, the former burying himself deeper under the blanket like the injured individual he’s supposed to be while Merrin grabs her abandoned book from the lounge table.

“Probably mercilessly plotting my demise again,” Greez grumbles from the galley, and when Merrin looks up from the book cover and meets Cal’s eyes again, she can’t help the smile that tugs the corners of her lips upwards.

*

It’s a rare thing, these days, for Cere to find a moment of peace in the middle of the day. True to his objectives, Cal left the ship early to meet one of Saw Gerrara’s informant; true to his stomach, Greez decided to go and explore the food market of the small town attached to the spaceport they landed in. Which left Cere, alone in the Mantis, with nothing to do but make herself some tea and wait for their return.

She’s on her way to finally finishing the book she started over two weeks ago when her peaceful morning is brought to an end by Cal barging in the ship, BD-1 following close behind.

“Cal,” she calls out, then nearly throws her datapad in the air when her friend turns around and reveals his face. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Cal answers, but his eyes carry the wildness they usually do right after a fight, and the bottom half of his face is covered in fresh blood. “Is Greez back?” Cere winces when he tries to wipe his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, most definitely jostling his injured nose in the process. It does not seem to bother him, though, Cal’s expression still set in the same adrenaline-fueled snarl he wore when he walked in. “The informant never kriffing showed—”

“Did you get in a fight?” Cere asks as she stands up, setting her datapad down on the couch. So much for finishing her book.

Cal sniffs. Even more blood drips from his nostrils and rolls over his lips. “I said it’s nothing.”

She grabs his chin to get a closer look, eyebrows raised. “Looks like a broken nose to me.”

“Not broken,” he pushes her hand away sharply, the gesture curt but worth over a thousand words. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“It does to me,” Cere replies, watching Cal round her and make his way to the galley. “What happened?”

“The Empire, Cere,” Cal answers with his back turned to her. “That’s what happened.”

“You were recognized?”

“Maybe Greez was right afterall,” he mutters, so low that Cere nearly misses it as she follows him up the steps. “The red hair’s a dead giveaway.”

“Or maybe this is why we should be laying low instead of parading ourselves around the galaxy,” she counters sternly.

“Saw needs our help,” Cal answers as he presses a kitchen towel to his bloody nose, which they both know Greez won’t be happy about.

Cere crosses her arms against her chest, tries to stub out the desire to reach out and help. “And you already know my feelings about this,” she says, propping her hip against the counter to steady herself.

“I don’t—” Cal is getting worked up, she can see it as much as she can feel it. He can’t even meet her eyes, his own set on the chair in front of him. His fingers are curled around the back of it, pressing into the cushion, knuckles bone-white. “He trusted us with this mission,” he continues, voice muffled by the towel in a way Cere would normally find comical. “I won’t disappoint him.”

“Sure,” Cere nods, eyes flitting between Cal’s face and the chair he’s holding hostage. “Then what? Another job? That man will never leave you alone if you don’t start setting your own boundaries.”

“And the Empire won’t ever leave me alone unless I kriffing die, Cere, so I really couldn’t care less about Saw’s work ethics.” Cal’s voice is sharp, sharper than it ever is when he addresses her. Despite being so young, he’s always amazed her with his ability to resist anger and brush off conflict. Spirits know Cere wasn’t so wise at nineteen.

So, it takes her aback, just like the Force swirling bitterly around him. She lets it roll over her, like angry waves crashing against a quiet shore. “When’s the last time you meditated?”

Cal throws his hands in the air, bloody nose all but forgotten for a moment. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’d like to think you’re wise enough to figure that out yourself,” Cere retorks, raising her eyebrows and trying to gently project some of the stability Cal seems to be lacking.

Cal laughs. It’s a dry sound. “Really, you think I’m wise enough?”

“I know you are.”

“How come you won’t trust my judgement, then?”

“I’ll trust it when you’re not acting like a petulant teenager anymore.”

Cal just looks at her, eyes wide and mouth hung open, like he’s got too many thoughts to actually vocalize them. Cere just raises her eyebrows challengingly, because she’s finally caught his eyes and she’s going to make the most of it.

Greez chooses this exact moment to come back to the Mantis. “You guys will never believe the karking price of a good nerf steak in that sad excuse of a market,” he says around an armful of groceries. “Never have I been bled dry like this, and that’s saying something when you know I used to…” his voice dies and he stops in the middle of the lounge, eyeing the scene warily. “Are you guys all right?”

“We’re fine,” they both answer at the same time, Cere’s duller voice drowned by Cal’s hoarse one. “Greez,” Cere adds, pinching the bridge of her nose, “we need to get out of this spaceport. Cal’s been spotted.”

“Aye aye,” Greez says, eyes flitting between the two of them, brow scrunched in confusion. “Guess I’ll be in the cockpit, then,” he adds, uncharacteristically leaving his bag of fresh groceries on the lounge table before making his way to the controls.

Cal and Cere look back at each other, silent. The moment has passed. His shoulders have somewhat loosened. Cere takes a deep breath.

“I know Merrin leaving has shaken you,” she says quietly, deciding that the both of them would be better off finally addressing the bantha in the room, “but this is not the way to handle it.”

“This has nothing to do with Merrin,” Cal counters, but the words are heatless and his eyes are back on the chair.

“You have many qualities, Cal,” Cere says, taking a small, audacious step forward. “Lying isn’t one of them.” Fresh blood spills from his nose and Cal’s jaw clenches as he presses the towel against it, but he doesn’t reply. “Change is hard,” Cere dares to continue. “With everything you’ve endured, it’s normal to feel upset. No one could ever hold it against you.” She puts a hand on his arm, squeezes. “But you still have us. You have us.”

Cal is silent for a long time, staring through Cere’s hand. The Force has finally settled, retreated to a barely noticeable sway. Discomfort still pools in Cere’s gut, though, for a reason she can’t quite put her finger on. 

Cal finally lowers the towel, eyes on it as he asks monotonously, “for how long?”

The question strikes Cere, hard enough that she knows it must show on her face. And Cal’s eyes have shifted, now watching her closely, his green irises sharp and darker than usual. Silence stretches, for Cere has been unknowingly led to the edge of a cliff and forced to finally confront reality. 

Their mission has been withering for a while now; even before Merrin left, they’d been struggling to stay on track, the Empire always so hot on their tail that catching a break or a success seemed impossible at times. And by finally working on restoring her connection to the Force, Cere has started unlocking new paths, new possibilities.

New purposes, unachievable aboard the Stinger Mantis.

She’s been delaying it, this inevitable split. She tells herself that it’s because there’s still hope for them, work to do, people to help, but she’s too old now to fall for her own lies so easily. The truth is, she hasn’t missed the way Cal took Merrin leaving like a knife to the heart — hasn’t missed the way his already fragile composure has started to frail.

Perhaps she shouldn’t allow Cal to let his emotions cloud him so strongly, but the Jedi Order is no longer standing, and her apprentice has suffered more in his teenage years than most Jedi Masters have in their entire lives. It’s also hard to ignore the difference between her own upbringing and Cal’s. Cere was taught to be a guardian of the peace; all Cal has ever known is to be a soldier. So, sometimes, she can’t bring herself to admonish him, for it feels like the universe has already done too much of that to a child who just wanted to help his galaxy. She could never blame him for holding on a little too tight.

Perhaps Cere has gone soft. The blatant hurt in Cal’s eyes is striking enough for her to consider lying.

She doesn’t, though, and silence stretches on.

Cal presses his lips together, fresh blood gushing out of his nostrils with the lack of pressure. He doesn’t bring the towel back against it. “Yeah,” he says eventually, rolling back his shoulders. “That’s what I thought.”

 “Cal—” Cere starts, but doesn’t get anywhere, because he’s already moving.

Cal very nearly knocks his shoulder against hers as he rushes out of the galley and disappears down the corridor. BD-1 offers her an apologetic beep before following him.

When she meets Greez’s eyes over the blue hue of the holotable, Cere sees her own turmoil reflected in them.

*

“F—” 

The curse dies on Cal’s tongue, not because he’s afraid it’d wake anyone up anymore, but because the twinge of pain coming from his ribs surprisingly takes his breath away. He drops the tweezers in the sink with a gasp, and can’t do much but grits his teeth through the pain and hopelessly dig his fingers into his own skin, a few inches away from the actual wound.

“Kriff,” he exhales when the worst of the pain has receded, leaving him with the original run-of-the-mill agony that comes with getting stabbed in the back by over a dozen finger-sized splinters after getting thrown off a small cliff. Dropping the shard he just pulled out of his skin, he tries to twist himself again, to assess his progress in the small mirror of the refresher, but it’s useless — the movement just pulls another grunt out of him before he can help it, and black spots fill his eyesight as he desperately tries to blink the pain away.

With a sigh, he brings his bloodied hands to the sides of the sink and decides to take an actual break from wood-picking. He’s already got a good number of them out, if the seven bloodstained splinters laying near the drain are any good indicators. There’s fresh blood everywhere, on the durasteel and the faucet and even the mirror, but it’s not like Cal really has to care anymore. It's not like anyone is going to need the 'fresher sanitized anytime soon.

His heart seizes with a completely different, frighteningly familiar kind of pain, and he forces himself to inhale again. This is no time to think of the could’ves and the should’ves, is what he’s been repeating himself over and over for the past six months. Has it been six months? Maybe more. He can’t really be sure anymore. The constant hyperspace jumps and insomnias have started to screw him over, and the digital clock in the galley does little to help him keep track of the real world. Greez’s imposed mealtimes used to be his saving grace, his routine in the midst of chaos — now, the conservator is empty and most of Cal’s meals come in the form of chemically-flavored ration bars.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winces. Locks of too-long hair are escaping the headband Merrin left behind when she split. He’s never actually worn it before, usually just tucking it under his pillow because it’s full of happy echoes and memories and no one’s here to judge him anyway; but with his own hair getting longer, today’s task at hand is requiring them to stay out of the way.

And when he brushes his fingers against the smooth yellow fabric, the memories still whisper at him.

“This one? Really?”

“Yes,” Merrin nods as she smiles down at the headband in her hands. “This one.”

Cal glances at the rest of the crowded table. “Out of all of them?”

“Yes.”

“Out of dozens—”

“I am buying it.”

She’d picked the brightest, most flashy headband with a smile and immediately walked up to the vendor. And worn it for a week straight after that, finally letting her hair out of the practical bun she usually favored. Cal recalls almost telling her she looked pretty at some point, but aborting his sentence the second he caught Greez staring at him with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing smile.

She really did look pretty. Carefree, for the first time since she first boarded the Mantis.

And Cal looks ridiculous. Red hair pushed back by the silky fabric but still trying to rebel, bloody fingerprints on his face from his current medical ordeal, deep dark circles under his aching eyes, the shadow of a beard he can’t bring himself to bother shaving anymore.

He bites down on his tongue once, twice. No more dwelling on the past.

It’s only when he reaches for the tweezers again that he hears the timid footsteps clanking against the floor. BD-1 walks into the refresher with an enquiring boop, his antennas so low they’re almost horizontal.

“I’m all right, buddy. Sorry I woke you up.”

But Cal didn’t wake him up, BD-1 answers, because droids cannot sleep. 

“Well, are you fully charged?” His friend beeps a negative. “Then I definitely interrupted something.”

He doesn’t get an answer to that, but the blue light of BD-1’s scanner suddenly lights up the right side of Cal’s body. There are exactly seven shards of wood left in his side, he announces.

BD-1 tries to say it brightly, but tears immediately well up in Cal’s eyes anyway. He blinks them away fast, because the droid is too damn smart for his own good and won’t ever let it go if he catches Cal on the verge of a breakdown. “Wonderful,” he answers, voice terrifyingly shaky. He absently wonders whether too much strain could actually break his cracked ribs for good, then clenches his jaw and twists his body again.

This time, the pain is so dazzling that he actually curses and lets go of the tweezers. They fall loudly against the metal of the sink, but Cal is too busy trying not to hyperventilate to really notice.

He can hear BD-1 say something, but the sound is too weak to overtake the sudden roaring in his ears.

Because it’s all pouring down on him. Cal is alone. And he has not been alone, not in so long. Because Cere and Greez picked him up, and then Merrin was there, and they made him feel like life could be something more than just plain survival. Because even when he was only surviving, Prauf was there, and Tabbers made him laugh. Because despite everything, despite the hurt and the trauma and the grief, Cal still can’t handle the loneliness — he can’t handle the silence, or the lack of warmth, or the stillness of the Mantis.

And the pain that should only be a bother suddenly feels like a fatal blow he’ll never recover from.

Methodical blows against his leg slowly bring him back to the refresher, away from the sound of Master Tapal’s voice and rain tapping against the window of a crappy Bracca apartment and Cere whispering encouragements as she works to free splinters from his skin.

Cal exhales shakily, BD-1’s visor is in his face, the droid standing on his left knee. When did he sit down? The wall is pressing the shards further into his skin. BD-1 taps him on the knee again.

“I’m okay,” the words come out automatically, despite the fact that Cal still can’t really breathe and his vision is blurring in and out of focus. “Sorry, I‘m all right.” He brings a numb hand up to pat the droid’s head. “Sorry for worrying you, I’m okay.”

BD-1 says nothing for a while, his lenses just staring back. 

He’s mad at them too, he says after a while, in low beeps that don’t really sound like him. Mad at Cere, and Greez, and Merrin for leaving Cal. 

Cal tries to smile, but doesn’t think it’s working. “They didn’t really leave me, BD. I just—refused to follow them.”

BD-1 doesn’t understand the difference.

“Do you feel like they left you behind?” BD-1 chirps negatively. “Why?”

Because BD-1 chose to stay with Cal, is why. He could’ve gone with the others. They didn’t mean to leave BD-1 behind. BD is silent for a moment, then beeps again. …Oh.

Cal can’t help the snort that comes out of his nose. His breathing is finally under control. “Yeah. Exactly.” He looks down at the few droplets of blood that have missed the sink and splattered against the floor. “I can’t—I’m not mad at them, buddy. I can’t be. We all had a choice to make, and we made it.” He runs a hand over the top of the droid’s head, feeling the soft, comforting whirring of BD-1’s internal mechanisms. “I can’t blame them for wanting out.”

But Cal has been really angry, for a really long time, BD-1 counters, his antennas down.

Cal swallows around the painful knot in his throat, the one he suddenly feels like he’s been ignoring for months. “You’re right. I just—I guess I forgot what it’s like, being alone.” BD-1 beeps a protest, and Cal chuckles. “Sorry,” he says, patting his head. “Not alone, I know I can always count on you.”

Damn right, BD-1 buzzes, rubbing his head against Cal’s palm like the misshapen Lothcat he was in another life.

Cal laughs again, but his throat is still oh so tight, and the tears that were threatening to shed are still pulling at the corner of his tired eyes. BD-1 is warm under his fingers, but even though Cal would never admit it out loud, it doesn’t compare to the warmth of organic beings. Greez’s four-armed hugs, Merrin’s side pressed against his on the Potolli-weave, Cere’s hand lingering on his shoulder after a particularly rough mission…

Cal finds himself blinking back tears again, and for a moment he feels so hollow that he considers it — considers giving up, walking out of the ‘fresher and straight to the holotable to look up the Koboh system. Considers punching in new coordinates, turning the ship around, go find the old Latero captain and call it quits. Maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe there’s more to this than just fighting. Maybe whatever Cere deserted the Mantis to do is worth a shot. Or maybe, just maybe, living a quiet, peaceful life, surviving under the imperial flag is enough of a rebellion. 

But when Cal shifts, the bulkhead digs the shards deeper into his back, and the sudden sting of pain clears his head.

Hold the line, Master Tapal said.

Hold the line even though everything was so uncertain that for the first time, Cal could see doubt in his Master’s eyes. Hold the line even through the roughest landing of his life that sent Master Tapal’s limp body flying through the small escape pod. Hold the line through Bracca’s rain, through the cold, through ship carcasses and dark alleys and hopeless nights and windy planets and abandoned temples and imperial prisons and lonely days. Hold the line and wait for the council’s signal, even though the council is gone. Hold the line. Trust only in the Force.

Because where there is nothing, there is the Force.

Hold the line.

Cal takes a long, deep breath that pulls at his ribs, and pushes himself back up.

“C’mon, buddy. I need to get the rest of these out so we can get some sleep.”

*

“Hey, Kestis, catch!”

Force warnings aside, the pure glee in Gabs’s voice is enough to make Cal whirl around before he can understand what he’s meant to catch. He raises his hand just in time for a bottle to land in it, and slams his hand against the bulkhead to counter the sudden wave of alcohol-induced nausea. Then he brings the bottle to eye-level, blinks at the label.

“Absolutely not,” he says, words slightly slurring together. Perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted that fourth — fifth? — drink, but he’s found in the past months that the Partisans (namely, Gabs and Bravo) love their post-mission celebrations and, well, alcohol does a pretty good job at numbing Cal’s senses for a while. 

“Absolutely yes,” Gabs replies, and when Cal looks at her, her usual devilish grin is tamed by the way her eyes are starting to cross. “I’m willing to bet that this bottle’s been collecting dust since before any of us were born. Well,” she glances at their newest recruit, “maybe you were already born, Akuna. Sorry.”

Bode, sitting on the couch and looking mostly amused, shrugs. “Hey, you’re probably right, anyway.” 

“Did I just hear the word “sorry” come out of your mouth, Gabrielle?” Bravo asks as he makes his way back to them from the refresher.

“Call me that again and you’ll hear a bunch of other words come out of it, dipshit,” she retorts, but the words are lighthearted. “Anyway,” she waves a hand at the bottle. “I say let’s drink it.”

Cal looks back down at the label. It’s old, a liquor with a name he couldn’t pronounce for the life of him even if half the label hadn’t been ripped in half whether by time or hand. Sure, it’s covered in dust, a layer of it already sticking to Cal’s palm, but it’s also very obviously a Lateron liquor. Two years ago, Cal probably wouldn’t even have been able to touch the bottle without getting an earful from Greez.

Greez isn’t around anymore; there’s no one to tell Cal the long, mostly made-up story that came with this fancy bottle. All he gets are echoes, blurred by the alcohol numbing his brain, telling him that the bottle was bought to celebrate the birth of the Stinger Mantis — Greez Dritus’s baby in every way.

“We really can’t,” he says, looking up at Gabs as Greez’s younger, joyful voice resonates around his brain. “This isn’t mine.”

Gabs throws her hands in the air. “This is your ship, right?”

“At the moment, yeah,” Cal answers with a shrug. “Look, we bought enough booze on Kajah to last us weeks, Gabs. We’re not drinking this one.”

“But this one’s fancy!”

“It does look like the kinda stuff you drink after a successful coup,” Bravo concedes bashfully when Cal glances at him. 

“And all that alcohol won’t last more than a standard week once we pick up the Twins,” Gabs sighs as she pushes past Cal to sprawl herself all over the couch.

“C’mon, guys,” Bode says with a warm chuckle. “We deserve a better victory drink than this,” he adds as he takes the bottle from Cal’s hands and shakes his head at it. “If you ask me, fancy’s just the cover. This stuff is probably cheaper than what we bought.”

“You’re just saying that to get on Cal’s good side,” Gabs drawls from where her head is hanging over the edge of the couch.

“And you’re just mad because you’ll never get there yourself,” Cal retorts, cocking his eyebrow when Gabs fruitlessly throws a used napkin at him.

“What’s that about a “better victory drink”, then?” Bravo asks, looking nonchalant as he takes a huge sip from his glass.

Bode flashes a smile. “Give me ten minutes and you’ll find out.” He then catches Cal’s eyes and nods toward the galley. “Kestis, a hand?”

And so Cal finds himself standing in the galley, trying to focus as Bode rummages through the cupboards. There’s a lingering pain in his right calf from an earlier rough landing that the buzz of alcohol isn’t quite managing to suppress.

“Ha!” Bode exclaims, pulling a shaker out from underneath the sink. “There we go.”

“We’re making a cocktail?” Cal asks as he leans against a chair to try and alleviate the dull pain. He takes another sip of his drink for good measure.

“We’re trying to, at least, since those cupboards of yours aren’t offering much more than what we bought in that spaceport.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I haven’t done a grocery run in a while.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bode waves him off as he moves to grab the bottle of juice laying on its side on the counter. He gets to work, then, pouring juice and then a bunch of liquors into the shaker. Cal winces at the sight — this cocktail is starting to look like the very last drink of his night. “Where’s that droid of yours?”

The question takes him by surprise. Cal blinks. “Oh, uh, charging. Mission wiped him out.”

Bode nods, eyes on the shaker. “You two are quite the pair, huh?”

“I guess we are,” Cal shrugs, but a small drunken smile tugs at his lips as he absently looks over his shoulder. “I’d definitely be long gone by now if it wasn’t for him.” He watches Bode slice a lime for a few seconds, the gesture strangely skilled. “You work alone? Before joining Gerrera, I mean.”

Bode takes a beat to answer. “You could say that, yeah.”

“I guess we’re a pretty daunting change of pace,” Cal says as he looks over at Gabs and Bravo, his two friends actively and physically arguing over which song to play next.

Bode follows his gaze and chuckles. “I don’t know, I think this is nice,” he shrugs. “Nicer than the alternative — I don’t think the Empire parties this hard after a victory.”

“I don’t think the Empire parties at all,” Cal mutters, leaning against the counter and resting his chin on his palm as he watches Bode work his cocktail magic. He thinks he sees a shadow pass over the older man’s face, but it’s gone too fast for Cal’s brain to really register it. He elects not to mention it, focusing on Bode’s hands closing the shaker instead. “Where’d you learn to do this?”

Bode shrugs as he starts shaking the small container. “Odd jobs I did when I was in my twenties and trying to survive. Comes in handy sometimes.”

Cal’s odd job taught him how to dismantle ion cannons in record time with shitty tools and no protective gear on; making cocktails sounds a whole lot nicer than that, he muses as Bode expertedly pours the pink mixture into four new glasses.

His eyes drift back to the bottle Gabs dragged out of the storage room, echoes swirling around it like an invitation to sink back into the happy memories etched in its glass. The truth is, Greez probably forgot about it. When he left the ship with Cal, the Latero spent hours making sure he’d taken everything he needed before exiting the Mantis. Nothing of real, important value to him had been left on board.

So he’d left the bottle, and he’d left Cal.

A hand nudges his shoulder. “Hey, Kestis,” Bode calls, and smiles when Cal looks up. “Cheer up, cocktail’s ready.”

“What’s this, exactly?” Bravo asks as he and Gabs join them in the galley.

“Uh, Stinger Mantis specialty,” Bode answers as he hands them both a glass.

Gabs sniffs hers, nostrils curling over the pink liquid. “Sure smells like it,” she mutters, and some of her drink spills when Cal elbows her.

“All right, then,” Bravo says, raising his glass with the loopy smile that only escapes him when he’s inebriated. “To the liberation of the people of Sakadia.”

“To the Partisans,” Gabs adds sloppily, raising her glass a little higher.

“To Bode’s first mission and first success,” Cal continues, meeting Bode’s eyes over the chipped rims of glasses.

The older man smiles, dark brown eyes shining as he stares at Cal and says, “and to new friends and new beginnings.”

*

“Cal, kid, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“What?”

“Where’s the food?”

A few beats of silence follow before Cal’s voice echoes from the lounge again. “In the cupboards,” he says, but there’s that undertone in his voice from when he knows he’s screwed something up.

Greez closes the empty conservator with a sigh. “You want me to cook dinner with a handful of ration bars and canned soup? Cal, I taught you better than this,” and oop, when he looks down at the lounge, he can feel he’s touched a nerve. Cal’s expression closes up immediately and he looks back down at BD-1. The droid gurgles something Greez doesn’t quite catch before shutting himself down right there between Cal’s hands. Cal, who’d been in the process of cleaning him, frowns like BD-1 just personally offended him. Perhaps he did. Greez wouldn’t know. 

“Kid,” Greez calls out when the silence starts stretching. “You all right?”

It seems to set Cal back into motion. “Yeah,” he answers as he finally resumes scrubbing the dirt and dust off BD-1’s plating. “Fine.”

Greez suddenly feels like he’s talking to the scrawny kid he met years ago, freshly off Bracca. Like he’s surrounded by a minefield of eggshells again. “Okay,” he says slowly, making his way down to the lounge. “Well, we’re gonna have to make a pit stop at the next spaceport. I can’t exist in a ship that doesn’t hold any sort of fresh food. I’m pretty sure I’m already starting to wither, I mean, look at my skin.”

“We don’t have time to—”

“Oh, but we do, young man,” Greez says in a tone that has Cal finally look up, his face scrunched up in confusion. It hit Greez back on Koboh and it’s hitting him even harder now in this environment, how different Cal looks. It’s not just the hair or the stubble on his cheeks; his eyes are changed. There’s a tiredness to him that didn’t used to be there, even back when the kid would run himself to exhaustion on an almost daily basis.

Greez wonders when it happened, wonders when Cal lost that spark that used to light up the entire ship. He ponders, for a moment, whether he’s to blame for missing it — more precisely, for missing his opportunity to prevent it.

Cal, unaware of Greez’s internal turmoil, stares him up and down. “Why are you talking like that?”

Greez look at the scolding finger he’s still raising and clears his throat as he brings his hand back to his hip. “I don’t know. But my point still stands; we’re stopping for groceries,” he continues as he slowly makes his way toward the cockpit. “I’m the captain of this ship and this is non-negotiable.”

“Actually, I’m the captain of this ship now,” he can tell that Cal is trying to aim for lightness and his usual humor, but the sentence falls flat. “You know, since you gave it to me.”

“I merely lent it to you, Kestis. Don’t get cocky.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” and there, the humor is gone again, replaced by something different, bitter.

Greez whirls around, throwing two hands in the air. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?” Cal asks with a frown.

“The attitude,” Greez replies, waving in Cal’s general direction like that’ll explain it. “What’s that?”

Surprisingly, it seems to do the trick. Cal looks back down at the rag he’s still scrubbing over BD-1’s head, brow still frowned but face somewhat relaxed. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

Kid’s not really used to having to share quarters anymore, is Greez’s best guess. He sighs, hands falling back to his hips as he watches Cal twist the rag between his fingers and closes in on himself a bit more. Well. Greez still sucks at this whole thing, apparently. He scratches his head, sighs.

“Don’t apologize. I just…” he sighs again, for the lack of anything better to do. “I wish you’d take better care of yourself, kid.” He clears his throat. “And I spent way too much time and effort trying to put some meat on those skinny bones of yours for you to ruin all my hardwork, all right?”

Cal, surprisingly, smiles. It’s a flicker thing, gone as soon as the moment has passed, but Greez catches it, and finds himself holding onto it like a fisherman to his line. “You’re right,” he says eventually. “We need food.”

“Who’s talking about food?” Bode asks as he enters the galley, causing the both of them to look up. “I’m starving.”

“See, there’s a man who’s got his priorities straight,” Greez says, snapping his fingers at Cal’s friend, before turning to the cockpit. “I’m gonna check the navcomp for a spaceport.”

*

Sometimes, the low purr of the engine is a blessing to Cal’s ears, the perfect white noise for him to fall asleep to without drowning in his own thoughts — other times it feels like the entire ship is screaming at him, the whirring taking over his head and taunting him with every slight hiccup and change.

This is one of those nights, but Cal is too tired to give up on falling asleep just yet. Instead he lets his gaze rotate, from the dim light of the corridor shining under his door, to the monitor on the wall, to BD-1 charging on the work bench, and back to the door. It’s his best bet at not letting too many undesirable thoughts occur, but while his eyes are starting to ache from the movement, his brain doesn’t seem ready to let go of its awareness just yet.

He’s seconds away from calling it quits and heading to the lounge when the door slides open. Cal blinks up at the newcomer, her face hidden in the semi-darkness.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asks as Merrin shuffles to the bed, a pillow and a blanket in hands.

“Your new friend has taken my usual bunk,” she says as she stands right in front of him. She’s wearing mismatched pajamas that she probably dug up from her old stuff. “Sleeping in Cere’s feels illegal.”

“So you’d rather sleep in mine?”

Merrin shrugs. “It is more comfortable than Greez’s couch.”

“That’s debatable,” Cal answers, but shuffles anyway til there’s enough space for Merrin to join him, her socked feet settling next to his head as she slots herself in the narrow space. It takes them a moment to find a comfortable arrangement, the two of them wordlessly moving around until they’re both lying on their back, eyes on the ceiling, their bodies only separated by pajamas and blankets.

It’s like they just time-traveled, a small, longing part of Cal’s brain provides. Like they’re both eighteen again, and readying themselves to talk each other to sleep or to death, because they might have been legal adults then but there was so much of adolescence and companionship that they were only just discovering.

“I went to Tanai, like you suggested,” Merrin says after a while.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You were right, it was a very beautiful town. I bought one of those warm fritters and watched the sunset,” he can hear the smile in her voice. “It wasn’t pink like you described, though. Mine was more of a purple.”

Cal frowns at the ceiling. “Did you go in the summer?”

“I believe it was closer to springtime.”

“There you go. My pink sunset was in the summer.”

“A shame,” Merrin announces in that deadpan tone that is so painfully her, it takes Cal’s breath away. “We will have to visit it again.”

Cal chuckles softly, a knot unlocking in his chest with the action. Warmth spreads across his ribcage as he watches the ceiling. He slips a hand under his pillow and stops when his fingers brush against familiar fabric.

“You left your headband here,” he says before he can really think about it, and pulls the accessory out of its hiding place.

Merrin sits up. Cal mirrors her, handing the headband over. “I thought I had lost it,” she says.

I thought I had lost you, he thinks, but doesn’t dare to say. It’s so strange to get to see this version of Merrin again, pyjama-clad, hair messier than she ever truly lets any outsider witness, dark eyes reflecting every single little lights in the room. “You left it in your room. It came in handy a couple of times,” he chuckles, and thanks the skies that he’s the one with the psychometry — otherwise, she’d see right through the fabric and his laugh.

“You kept it here. In your room.”

Cal swallows. “Yeah. Happy memories. You know.”

He watches as she runs her thumb over the fabric. “Which ones?”

“The day you bought it. And that one time Greez finally caved and made the stew you wanted, even though he replaced the liver with minced shaak. Also when we spent two entire days cleaning the Mantis after that sandstorm on Jakku. And just… happiness, comfort. Belonging,” he shrugs again. “Good emotions.”

It’s hard to know what Merrin is thinking as she watches him. “Are you better at handling it now? The psychometry?”

“Yeah. It’s still harder when I’m tired, though. Or hurt.”

“I visited many markets when I was alone,” she replies, still stroking the headband. “It wasn’t as funny on my own as it was when you could tell me funny stories about the objects people were selling.” 

Cal doesn’t say anything — he feels like if he tried to open his mouth, nothing good would come out. The warmth in his chest subsides, toned down by the reminder of their time spent apart. 

“Your hair is longer than mine,” Merrin says after the silence has stretched for a while.

Cal blinks. “Yeah,” he says, watching her uneven locks of short hair. “Weird, huh?”

“Has it been growing ever since I left?”

Cal shakes his head. “Shaved my head once, because it was getting in the way and I’m not good with scissors like Cere is. Then I just gave up entirely.”

“It looks good,” she nods. “Different.”

“Still feels weird whenever I look in the mirror.”

“I could cut it for you, if you’d like,” Merrin shrugs. “I have cut my own a few times.”

“You did this?” he asks, twirling a strand of her hair between his fingers.

Merrin smiles wide. “Yes. It’s a fun activity. I have messed up a few times, almost ended with a hole somewhere on the back of my head. But it grew back.”

“We both went through our own hair experimentations, then,” Cal chuckles, hugging his knees close to his chest. He dimly wonders if he’s supposed to be too old for such a posture.

“I am sad I missed the buzzcut,” Merrin sighs, ruffling her hand through his hair. Cal doesn’t even find it in him to complain.

“You know,” he offers when her hand drops back to her lap, “I could give you one, if you’re that sad about it.” 

She flicks him on the shoulder and they both laugh.

“Perhaps we should shave Greez instead. His hair is nearly long enough to graze the floor.”

Cal laughs again and rubs his eyes. “I honestly didn’t think he had that much hair left in him.”

“He looks happier,” Merrin says, leaning back on her hands. “Maybe that has something to do with it.”

Cal considers the words, shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You don’t look happier,” she says after a while. Cal looks down at the blanket covering his knees. “You look as sad as the last time I saw you.”

“I’m not sad,” he mutters, suddenly all too aware of the quietness of the Mantis and of Merrin’s leg pressing against his.

Merrin reaches out again, warm fingers coming to tuck a wild strand behind Cal’s ear. Senseless echoes whisper to him as her rings brush the side of his head. “I know you, Cal Kestis,” she says. “I have seen many of your emotions.” Her fingers slightly tap under his chin until he looks up, meets her eyes. “You have never quite managed to keep them from shining in your eyes.”

Her fingers linger on his skin and Cal feels the muscles of his throat tighten painfully as he swallows. “Turns out, fighting the Empire’s not as much fun on your own,” is all he dares to say, eyes on his knees.

They sit in silence for a while, Cal’s words echoing around the room, mixing with the whirring of the engine that had seemed so loud and inescapable mere minutes ago.

“I’m glad I could experience the galaxy on my own terms,” Merrin says, voice low. “I would not be who I am today if not for that. But it helped me realize…” she twists the headband between her fingers, then lets it drop to her lap. “Maybe depending on other people is not so bad. Maybe what I had found on the Mantis was more than just a stepping stone. Without Greez, without Cere,” she reaches out, then, her fingers gently encircling Cal’s wrist, “...without you, I don’t know if anywhere could ever feel like home again.”

Her fingers squeeze, and Cal looks up — the earnesty in the eyes he meet is so striking he has to look away, for the warmth seeping from Merrin’s warm and the weight of her words is already more than enough to cause his unravelling.

He blinks, once, twice. Feels the telltale prick of tears at the corner of his eyes, blinks again.

“Yeah,” he says, throat so tight he nearly chokes on the word. He reaches out, covers Merrin’s hand with his, holds tight. “Yeah, same.”

*

“Thought I heard you say today was a quiet day.”

Cal looks up to find Cere standing in the doorway of the refresher, her face and body shadowed by the lighting of the hallway. “It was,” he says, then clears his throat. “This is nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” she retorts, but doesn’t dare to step inside the small room.

“Well, it is. Those hardshells are sharper than they look, is all.” He goes back to cleaning the wound on his shoulder, straining to reach it but doing his best to show nothing of his struggle. Cere is still standing in the doorway. “Did you need anything?”

Cere shrugs. “Thought I heard some noise. I just came to check in on you.”

“All right. Good night, then.”

Cere doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move either — just watches as Cal struggles to clean the back of his shoulder, biting down on his tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood.

“You missed a spot,” she says eventually, when he drops soiled gauze in the sink. He gives her a deadpan look, but she holds his gaze. “I can help.”

“I don’t need help.”

Her face softens. “I know you don’t, Cal. I’m offering anyway.”

Cal looks down, where his bloody hands have taken to gripping the edge of the sink. It takes him back to all those times he had to stand alone in the refresher of the Mantis and tend to his own wounds. His knuckles are turning white. He knows he can handle this alone, now.

Before he can open his mouth to tell Cere off, a warm palm comes to rest on his shoulder, and, well — the warmth of that is simply too all-encompassing for Cal to protest. He doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t dare to find Cere’s eyes or his voice as she starts gently cleaning the wound, the distinct scent of Cere, a scent that used to mean home, cradling him like a misplaced hug.

“Greez told me you crashed the Mantis,” Cere says after a long while as she applies bacta to Cal’s back. “He didn’t look to be on the verge of an aneurysm when he talked about it. I’m considering this huge progress.”

The unexpected sarcasm pulls a huff out of Cal’s lips. “Yeah. I guess Koboh has been good for his blood pressure.” 

“Maybe a few years of living with two raudy yet endearing teenagers have also helped him reevaluate his priorities.”

Cal huffs. “I wouldn’t necessarily call us endearing.”

“Depends on who you ask,” Cere answers, and the familiar stickiness of a bacta patch against his skin tells Cal she’s done. He grabs his shirt and puts it back on, then turns to face her. Cere is wiping her hands with a disinfecting cloth and watching him. “You look tired.”

“Cere—”

“I’m not lecturing. Just noticing.”

“I guess there’s been a lot going on lately. I haven’t had much time for a break.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Cere replies, and if she means it maliciously, it doesn’t show. “I didn’t think we’d all be reunited so soon,” she says, and Cal is grateful for the topic change.

I didn’t think we’d ever be reunited at all. “Yeah. It’s weird.”

Cere smiles. “A reminder of the good old days, as Greez would call them.”

Cal stares at her. It’s hard not to feel like his heart is withering in his chest when looking at Cere feels like looking at the past he’s been trying to mourn for over two years now. He missed her so much. “I’m glad you’re doing okay,” he ends up saying, the words harsh against his knotted throat, because how could he ever vocalize just how much he’s missed her? How much he’s missed all of them, really.

“And I’m glad you survived long enough to come and visit me,” Cere says, the familiar sarcasm she’s an expert at slightly dripping through her tamed voice. “You’ll always be welcome here, Cal,” she brings a hand to his cheek, warm palm cupping his skin. The Force reels around the gesture. “It’s good to see you,” she says, eyes digging deep into his.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling like he’s about to drown. “It’s good to see you too.”

She backs away, then, the sudden lack of warmth painfully noticeable. “Change that bacta patch in the morning. Come to me if you need any help.”

“Cere,” he calls out, lungs tightening with the sudden feeling that he’s running out of time. Cere stops in the doorway, turns around. He breathes out. “Thank you,” he says.

Cere watches him, face softening in the harsh light of the refresher. She nods, the gesture barely perceptible. “Good night, Cal.”

“Good night,” Cal echoes, and stares at the empty doorframe for a long time after that.

*

The nights are hypnotizingly dark on Tanalorr. If Cal didn’t know better, he would think himself drifting aimlessly through space, with the engine of the Mantis turned off and the deep black of the galaxy shedding no light through the thin windows of the ship.

But the price to pay for the peace and quiet of Tanalorr was too great for Cal not to know any better. If he didn’t, he would probably be sleeping soundly in the engine room right now, instead of camping on the potolli-weave with a lukewarm mug of tea and a critically acclaimed holofilm failing to distract him.

He used to share some of those sleepless nights with Cere. For all they never dared to talk about, they were good company to each other, unintentional partners in drowning the night away with tea and whatever activity could keep their minds occupied. He knows, with smothering certainty, that most of the objects in this loft could bring him back to one of those nights. It’s times like these that psychometry feels like both a blessing and a curse, for he wants nothing more than to chase those echoes, those wisps of Cere’s existence, yet he knows that doing so would cause nothing but his own unravelling.

So he stays where he is, mug of tea held tight between his fingers and feet propped up on the table, eyes staring through the story unfurling onscreen.

He tries, suddenly, to remember the last time Cere and he shared one of those nights. Tries to remember which one of them shuffled to the lounge first, what they busied themselves with, whether an important conversation had taken place or not. It’s no use, though — whenever that night had been, it probably hadn’t seemed so final at the time. Making a note to remember it more firmly had probably not even crossed Cal’s mind.

If Greez were awake and apart of this turmoil, he would probably tell Cal something about how one never knows they’re in the good old days until one leaves them. But alas, Greez is fast asleep in his bunk, and all Cal can do now is blame himself for not trying to remember harder, for not paying more attention to the last moments he shared with Cere, for not hugging her one last time when he still had the chance.

He hugged her when she passed, cradled her close to his chest when the heartbreak felt so brutal and raw it nearly dragged him down with her. He hugged her like he hugged Master Tapal, even though back then his arms weren’t nearly strong enough to hold on as tight.

Cal wishes he didn’t know what hugging a dead body feels like. He wishes he would be better at hugging people while they’re still alive.

A character shouting in the holofilm snaps him back to the moment, lets Cal realize that he missed a good chunk of the story. He pauses it, sighs, brings the heels of his hands to his eyes and presses.

Cere’s face dances behind his closed eyelids, morphing into Cordova’s, into Gabs’s, into Bravo’s, into—

“Cal?”

Cal looks up from his hands and finds Kata standing at the top of the steps, hair ruffled and arms wrapped around herself.

“Hey,” Cal says, watching her. They haven’t known each other for long, still tiptoe around each other most of the time, but despite the chaos of his own youth, Cal can discern the telltales signs of discomfort emanating from the kid. “Are you okay?” 

Kata nods, but she looks weary. She’s been quiet ever since Bode… ever since then, but this feels somewhat different. He pats the couch next to him in a silent offer and she pads over, sitting much closer to him that expected. Cal doesn’t let the surprise show, just nonchalantly tugs the blanket off his shoulders to drape it across hers instead. “Bad dreams?”

She nods again, silent, eyes on the table. Cal dimly realizes that they rarely spend time alone, just the two of them. Without Greez there, or Merrin, there’s no one to break the silence but him.

“Yeah,” he says, then clears his throat. “I have those, too.”

Kata is quiet for a while longer. Then, “is that why you’re watching a mediocre holofilm instead of sleeping?”

Cal can’t help but laugh. “Who told you this one was mediocre? Because Greez and Merrin can’t judge anyone’s tastes when it comes to films and shows, okay? They’ve both been, like, obsessed with this one soap opera for years and it’s ridiculous.”

“BD said,” Kata mumbles before burying half of her face in the blanket.

Cal raises his eyebrows. “Well, in that case—”

“What was your nightmare about?” Kata asks, out of the blue, and oh, Force, Cal is not nearly old and responsible enough to handle any of this.

The truth? He doesn’t remember much except that he woke up covered in cold sweat and with the distinct feeling that he was holding Cere’s still body in his arms again. Is that something you can tell a child? Is it?

What would Cere say?

“I…” he sets the datapad down and sinks a bit deeper into the couch, so he can sort of see Kata’s face as he speaks. “I dreamed about Cere, I guess.”

“About her death?”

Spirits, help him. “About how I miss her.”

Kata is silent for a while, nose still buried under the blanket. “I dreamed about my papa.”

Cal’s heart misses half a dozen beats. The weight of Cere's body in his arms is replaced by Bode Akuna’s on his shoulder. “Yeah?”

She nods, the movement barely perceptible. “I miss him too. I know—I know he was wrong, I do.”

And, well. There probably aren’t any words heavy enough to describe the feeling that pools in Cal’s stomach when he looks at her. He wonders, suddenly, whether he looked the same way after the Purge, face of stone but haunted eyes betraying it all.

He takes a deep breath, tries to center himself, to keep his own emotions away as he processes the moment. Bode’s death is not something that they discuss together. Merrin has taken it upon herself to have those conversations with Kata, for the memory of the entire ordeal still manages to leave Cal feeling like a live wire, even months later. And Kata might have been unconscious for most of the fight, but some truths were simply too harsh to ignore, namely: when she woke up, her father was dead, and Cal couldn’t bring himself to even look at her.

He’s the last person she should ever want to discuss any of this with, really.

“Kata,” he pauses when the name sounds more like a strangled sound than his own voice, exhales, tries again. Cere would try again. “B–your dad, he… it doesn’t matter what he did. He’s your dad. You’re allowed to miss him.” Just like Cal misses the friends he made amongst the thirteenth battalion; just like he sometimes still finds himself mourning the friendship he could have shared with Trilla; just like he also misses the companion he found in Bode Akuna, really. He twists his head, does his best to meet Kata’s eyes with what he hopes is confidence. “Whatever you’re feeling, or thinking — you’re allowed to.”

“He hurt you and your friends,” she replies, then looks down. “He hurt me, too.”

“He was trying to protect you.”

Kata shakes her head. “I wish he would’ve listened to you,” she says, voice small. “He said you were best friends. I wish he would’ve trusted you,” the last word comes out strangled, and when she sniffs, Cal’s hands twitch in his lap, aching to reach out.

“Yeah,” Cal answers in a mere whisper, throat tight. “Me too, kid.”

They sit in silence for a long time after that, the atmosphere heavy as Kata tries to discreetly wipe away her tears. Cere would do more, say more, find the right words, but Cal has hit a wall. It suddenly hits him, moreso than it ever does, that he’s only twenty-three — that despite everything he’s already been put through, some conversations are still out of his reach. How could he ever comfort a kid when a part of him is still thirteen and holding onto his dead Master’s body? 

“I don’t want to go back to bed,” the admission is barely audible as it leaves Kata’s lips.

Cal smiles, despite himself. There’s an area he’s good in. He shakes the datapad. “Good thing we’ve got a comfortable couch and great entertainment, then. What do you wanna watch?”

He wakes up an undefined amount of time later, to knuckles gently rubbing against his cheek. He sighs into the blanket tucked over his nose, lets himself sink a bit deeper into the soft cushions. Then he opens his eyes slowly, waiting for sunlight to assault him, but the Mantis is still plunged in the darkness of a Tanalorr night. Merrin is sitting on the lounge table and smiles softly at him, hair messy with sleep and pajamas askew.

“Hi,” she says, her voice barely audible.

It’s only then that Cal fully remembers what he was doing before dozing off, and the warm weight resting against his left arm chooses that exact moment to shift and mumble in her sleep. Cal looks down at Kata, can only see the top of her head peeking from the blanket they’re sharing. His body is sore from sleeping on the couch; his back hurts; his arm has gone numb. He can’t bring himself to care. “Hey,” he whispers back, looking at the datapad lying abandoned in his lap and then at Merrin. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“She likes you,” Merrin says, her face soft in a way it never used to be before.

The words sound heavier than she meant them to be. Cal swallows, throat dry. “She shouldn’t,” he replies, so low he can barely hear himself.

“Bode was gone long before you pulled the trigger, Cal.” Merrin’s hand comes to rest on his knee, warmth bleeding through the fabric of Cal’s pajamas. “You cannot blame yourself.”

“I can’t blame anyone else, either,” he replies, eyes suddenly stinging. “I’m tired of watching children suffer,” he whispers shakily. “I just want her to be okay.”

Merrin moves, then, from the table to Cal’s side. “We made it through,” she says, hands cupping his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. Her eyes are so dark. Cal believes he could retrace the entire galaxy in them. “So will she.”

“I missed you,” he says, unable to stop the words before they spill out.

Merrin smiles again. Cal never wants her to stop. “Yes,” she says. “I have missed you too. It’s good to be home.”

Home. Cal doesn’t realize he’s crying until a boiling tear rolls down his cheek when he blinks. He tries to look away, to stop more from spilling out, but Merrin’s thumbs swipe under his eyes and then her lips are pressing against his, warm and salty from his own tears. It’s a short-lived kiss, but something unlocks in Cal’s chest anyway, and he finds himself chasing after Merrin when she pulls back. She kisses his forehead, then, and settles next to him, her slim fingers finding his under the blanket and latching on.

They don’t say anything after that, Cal’s ears lulled by both Merrin and Kata’s breathing, one of his hands numb and the other safely held. The warmth planted in his chest by Merrin can’t seem to stop expanding, bleeding through his ribs and pooling in his stomach. Cal inhales.

The Empire is still out there, terrorizing entire populations, and in a few days they’ll leave Kata with Greez and get out of Tanalorr for yet another mission, and the fight won’t be over as long as the flag they’re surviving under doesn’t burn, but. 

But Merrin’s hair smells like the shampoo Cal has kept in the back of the cabinet in case she ever found her way back to them; Kata is alive, somewhat okay, sleeping soundly against him despite everything; and soon Greez will shuffle into the galley, grunt at Cal to take his feet off the table, and start making coffee. Real coffee, that Cal could sweeten with the honey sugar Greez loves and that Cal never bothered restocking when it was just him on the Mantis.

Merrin’s breaths even out after a while, but Cal doesn’t go back to sleep. He basks in their warmth instead, eyes on the Tanalorr sky as another day slowly creeps out of its fitless sleep.

Merrin was right, he thinks. It’s good to be home.