Archive of Our Own

The energy of Yavin IV was powerful enough that even the most force-blind beings could sense it. There was always something lurking between the trees; at times it was playful, but at others it whispered dangerously in the wind. The parts of the planet not dominated by the jungle were dotted with defiant ruins. The Yavin temples would see the rise and fall of a thousand empires and stay unchanging, not a single stone would deign to move. Kallus stood on the edge of a rocky cliff, puzzling the drop. It seemed too sheer to exist, the chasm was long and dark and the bottom met with another layer of trees that expanded out into infinity. It was a good place to hide from the Empire, he thought. The dense jungles would provide decent cover from the sky and the terrain would be a significant challenge to ground troops. Beyond the planet’s strategic value, Kallus’s private opinion of the planet was that it was haunted; being alone out here made him uneasy. Quietly, as if not to disturb the ancient world, he stepped away from the cliff and kept walking away from the Massassi Temple. 

For the third time in six months he’d been… accosted. It was only fair, only natural, he told himself. Grief processed in many ways and nearly all the rebels had known him as an enemy. His identity as a Fulcrum agent had been a tight secret until the moment his escape pod had been scooped up by the Ghost. Naturally, the pilots who’d beaten him today hadn’t quite read up on his resume.

Sometimes, there were days when Kallus would think he was still the enemy, too. When he shot up in the middle of the night with terror still clouding his mind, Kallus would fear he had awoken on one of his commandeered Star Destroyers, or worse, in a cell on the Chimera. In small, painful moments, Kallus wondered why he wasn’t in a cell here. Why was he allowed to roam freely, let alone carry a sidearm? Fulcrum was a feather trying to counterbalance a stone.

Life in the ISB taught him that many things couldn’t be explained rationally. Whether it was his life now, or the unfathomable topography of Yavin, Kallus knew he would never get his answers. Stewing on the mystery, he started the slow trek towards the Cherek Outpost. Cherek was close to one of the larger airfields and he found himself hoping that the Ghost was back. Stars. That was also an answer he wasn’t ever going to get. Speeding away from the Empire aboard the very vessel he’d once sworn to see melted into slag still gave him pause most days. The idea that he was near desperate to see the Phoenix crew would buckle his knees if he thought about it too hard. Usually, he made a point to not think about it. He could think about it later, after the war, which he had no plans of surviving. 

His distracted wandering was interrupted halfway to the airfield. This close to the outpost, he could hear the banging and clanging of ships landing and he could smell the uniquely sour odor of off-gassing coolant systems. But just under the industrial smells of war and the petrichor of the jungle, Kallus caught the wispy smell of a cigarra. 

The smell made him remember being on Coruscant as a young man. In his memory, he was standing in full uniform for the very first time, watching an Empire Day parade. He’d just graduated from the ISB Academy and his class stood guard along the route. Kallus remembered Mical, the boy stationed next to him. When the last of the confetti settled on the ground, Mical grabbed Kallus’s arm and dragged him into an alley. He pulled out a crushed pack of ciggarras from the waistband of his uniform pants and offered one to Kallus. It’s a celebration, right? Kallus watched him die, choking on his own blood, six months later on Onderon. 

He took a deep breath, held it, and pushed away the memory. He should walk away from whoever was smoking and continue towards the airfield, but his body didn’t listen. Kallus found himself moving towards the smell, unconsciously following along even as the trail veered off the beaten path. Peeking through a bit of underbrush, Kallus found the smoker. 

It was Garazeb Orrelios. 

Fate and circumstance always brought him together with Zeb. This man was the single greatest catalyst of his life. Lasan, Bahryn, Fulcrum. When he found himself next to Zeb, a shatterpoint was usually lingering nearby. The cracks in the universe became so obvious and fragile that he could break them with the press of a single finger, shattering reality into shards of glass at his feet.

There was an invisible rope around Kallus’s wrists constantly dragging him closer to Zeb. As a man who valued personal control, the idea was irritating. More troubling though, was his growing desire to be close to Zeb. He wanted to be friendly with the man, companionable even. When the universe pressed him closer, Kallus’s heart begged to stay. But his mind knew better. No matter how he felt, Kallus needed to keep his distance for his sake and Zeb’s. It didn’t matter that he wanted to be worthy of the friendship Zeb seemed willing to give him. It didn’t matter that Kallus found himself quietly craving the attention that — oh, shit. 

Zeb would be upset when he saw his face. Dried blood crusted on his split lip and bruises bloomed on his face from the beating. He’d still been spitting blood when Draven ordered him off base so everyone could “cool off.” His ears were still ringing from the last blow when he was sent away into the jungle like a dangerous animal. Command needed to keep him from people who rightfully couldn’t stand the sight of him, but Zeb thought Kallus was honorable. He wanted the other rebels to tolerate him, if not trust him. Zeb wanted him to be treated with fairness and respect. That would never happen. 

It was foolish to have let his unconscious mind guide him where he didn’t belong. Kallus tried to back away and flee, but the heel of his boot caught under some fallen twigs, snapping them. Zeb flinched at the sound, his ears going flat against his skull. When he turned to look at the intruder, Kallus didn’t miss the relieved “oh,” that escaped from Zeb. Kallus brushed a hand through his hair, shagging some of the growing mop into his face to shadow one blackened eye before slipping into the small clearing to face Zeb. 

“Don’t, uh,” Zeb stuttered, “don’t tell Hera,” he gave Kallus an embarrassed, fang-filled grin.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kallus told him. Zeb laughed and the happy sound bounced off the trees, sending a pack of stonerays screeching off into the sky. 

“I was willing to share to bribe ya, so I might as well anyway,” Zeb flicked off a length of ash and shuffled the little thing between his fingers before holding it out. Kallus thought of refusing and making an excuse to leave, but he couldn’t find the energy to deny himself this small thing. Kallus muttered a thanks before taking a drag. It tasted like he remembered, only staler, because nothing in the Rebellion was truly fresh. All they had was smuggled and stolen and scraped together. He wasn’t much of a smoker in his ISB days, but there were more than a few times when he bummed a smoke off a trooper or found his own packs planetside. 

Swallowing the smoke brought more memories to his mind. He remembered one of Tarkin’s visits to Lothal.  He remembered his hands starting to shake as he listened to Tarkin’s cold demand to execute the Academy instructors. The sound of bodies slumping to the ground echoed in the small office. The Grand Inquisitor lurked in the shadows, gleeful, his lightsaber still glowing red as Tarkin barked more commands over the fresh corpses of Aresko and Grint. Kallus had stumbled outside and lit up a cigarra, sheltering the glowing tip from the wind. He finished the first one and chained it into the next, trying not to think about just how easy it was to picture himself kneeling on that floor. He needed to steel himself, to push everything out of his mind and focus on the good and glorious work of the Empire. But he just couldn’t get rid of one nagging question: was a lightsaber to the neck painful, or would he die fast enough that he wouldn’t feel the burning blade? The memories made him cough. 

“Not up to your exacting Imperial standard, eh?” Zeb teased. Kallus shook his head. He couldn’t explain what was wrong because the words would choke him. Kallus lifted his head just enough to look at Zeb as he passed the cigarra back over. Zeb looked exhausted and more than a little wrung-out. It was selfish of Kallus to dwell on old wounds that should have long been scarred over. Zeb was hurting in some way and Kallus should help or at least make a token offer of comfort. He opened his mouth to speak, but Zeb cut him off.   

“Karabast, what happened to your face?” 

“Nothing,” Kallus lied. Zeb sighed and licked his fingers to pinch out the cigarra, saving it for later before he leaned in for a closer look at Kallus’s face. It made his heart race even though it was wrong to enjoy the soft look in Zeb’s eyes.

“It looks a lot like a fist to the face, you know,” Zeb’s gaze flickered between Kallus’s split lip and the rest of the bruises down his cheek and neck. There were more marks hidden under his jacket, but he didn’t need to know about those. Zeb frowned. “It looks like a few fists, actually.” 

“And if it is?” Kallus looked away. A quiet moment passed before he spoke again, “It’s nothing,” he repeated, “Either way, I don’t blame them for doing it.”  

“I do.” 

“Don’t.” Kallus snapped before he could catch his tone. “Don’t blame them,” his voice settled into something softer, shameful, “You, out of all the beings on this base shouldn’t blame them,” Zeb looked at him like he was going to object, so Kallus spoke quickly.  “Besides, it’s good for morale to see me beaten down.”

“Who told you that load of bantha shit? Draven?” Zeb’s voice was gruff. His dislike for the General was well known, and at times, well earned. 

Kallus didn’t need Draven to tell him that the rebels liked to see him with his face in the dirt. He’d seen it in their eyes the first time he limped off the Ghost. Many had hoped for his head, uncaring or disbelieving that he had spied for them. He was a defector, yes, but not a trooper or a pilot or an engineer. ISB-021 was a monster. He was vicious in his actions. Cruel. 

He’d destroyed the defenseless Tarkintown on Darth Vader’s orders. He watched the fires burn and consume, witnessing the destruction with an unlit cigarra in hand. Ironically, he’d brought flame troopers but forgotten his pocket lighter. The ramshackle tent homes disintegrated and their refugee occupants perished or fled into the plains. He hadn’t questioned Vader, only followed the order. He could no longer remember if it was the fading light of his own Imperial zeal that made him obey or if it was fear.

By the time he razed Tarkintown, several months had passed since the deaths of Aresko and Grint. All the same, Kallus still kept careful watch over his throat. He’d been more bothered by his imagined execution than by the sickly cough that came from inhaling the ashes of innocent victims. 

Those refugees had been aided by the rebels, especially the Spectres. They’d eaten food smuggled from the same suppliers and worn clothes stolen from the same Imperial shipments raided by Zeb, Sabine, and later Ezra, too.  And Kallus burned them, making their destruction a trap for the Spectres, the perfect beacon of needless suffering. Kallus made a face, pulling on his split lip with a flinching pain that regrounded himself in the moment. Zeb crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Beating another rebel is not good for morale,” Zeb said plainly. But he was wrong.  

“I’m not another rebel.”  

Zeb’s ears pricked up at the statement, confused.

“I’m not a rebel,” Kallus repeated, “As far as anyone on this base cares, I’m an ‘imperial asset’ with a too-long leash,” Zeb let him speak, but he didn’t relax his tense arms or scowling face. He stood taller as Kallus kept talking, unfolding to his full height in a rare display.

“I left too late for it to make a difference to anyone except you, for some reason. I hurt every rebel on this base. I inflicted years of terror on these people during my service to the Empire. And even those who I didn’t manage to harm with my own hands suffered from my failure at Atollon,” Kallus didn't know why he was suddenly so angry, his voice climbing with each indictment. Anger and shame spilled out of his mouth as he admitted his role in destroying Chopper Base. The rebellion that he was trying to help could have been annihilated because he was stupid and panicked enough to run to that tower, ruining a year and a half’s worth of work and leading Thrawn to that world. Zeb made a noise in the back of his throat, something like a growl. Kallus looked up, not realizing his eyes had fallen and stuck to the dirt, unseeing. 

“Atollon wasn’t your fault. Thrawn did that,” Zeb’s voice was as measured as it had been on Bahryn. It was stone, his words carved into it like a proclamation. 

“I brought him there!” Kallus hissed, “I gave him everything he needed to massacre you, down to the precise coordinates of the command center. Acting as Fulcrum was the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life and I failed. People died. Rebels died.”  

There was a beat of heavy silence between the men. Even the ever-present winds of Yavin had stilled as if the ancient energy of the planet recognized the weight of this moment. Kallus did not back down, his hard eyes watched Zeb’s face as his scowl started to show a bit of fang. Zeb unfolded his arms and stepped closer, smothering the space between them and looming over Kallus. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides. 

“Are you still loyal to the Empire?” 

“No!” Kallus was appalled at the question. He took a half step back, recoiling. 

“No?” Zeb asked again, low and serious, “Not even a little bit sympathetic to the good cause?” Kallus’s face twisted and outrage pooled in his gut. How dare he? I thought Zeb was an ally, maybe my only ally. 

The press of a heavy hand on his shoulder pulled Kallus away from his panic. Zeb didn’t shove him like he was half expecting, instead he held his hand firmly over a hidden bruise. 

“Then you’re not a fucking Imperial. You’re a rebel, and it’s time people started treating you like one.” 

“Garazeb, it’s not that simple.”

“Yes it is. And it’s time you started treating yourself like a rebel, too,” Zeb’s hand pulled away from his arm to prod at his bruised chest. Kallus winced and wasn’t just from the physical pain. The look in Zeb’s eyes also hurt. The man was so determined, so convicted in what he’d said.

You’re a rebel.  

Kallus didn’t feel like one. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel like a rebel around the others. Thrawn had taunted him by calling him a rebel, but that meant less than nothing when Kallus wasn’t faced with his own imminent defeat. Zeb noticed how he shrunk back, shoulders hunching in. 

“You’re worse off than you look, ain’t ya?” Zeb asked, his gruff voice catching aground the sentence. Of course Kallus was worse off than he looked. Today’s small detour was the second one in only a few weeks. The bruises had hardly healed from the last one, if they had healed at all. His arms were a mess of tender spots and friction burns. His back was sore. He was just grateful the rebellion at large didn’t know about his leg. When they found out, it was certainly going to be broken for the third time.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Kallus said, “Thrawn worked me over far worse than any of these little skirmishes,” That was true, of course, but it wasn’t the only reason Kallus was refusing help. He’d had been right when he said the rebels liked to see him with a black eye. It gave them a feeling of power to defeat the big bad imperial, even if “imperial” was only a technicality at this point. He had no ties left to the Empire, save for a trail of blood.  

“That’s part of it. You don’t have to do it alone anymore,” Zeb was still studying his face intently. Those big eyes read back and forth across his face like Zeb was trying to parse his mind. “Look, I have plenty of stuff in the pack I brought out here with me, let me just —”

“You can’t waste supplies on a split lip and a handful of bruises!” Kallus exclaimed. A tragic part of himself wanted to hold on to the stinging aches, but a bigger part of him was deadly, practically serious. “I know firsthand how the Empire likes to target medical supplies and pick off the wounded. It would be better served elsewhere. I won’t be the reason you run short on your next mission.” 

“Two ounces of watered-down bacta isn’t going to save anyone's life! But it’ll fix your face and show people we’re not keeping you around as a punching bag. And I — we care about our people.” 

Kallus caught Zeb’s stutter. He’d bitten off the sentence, but Kallus could still see the words “I care about you” floating away into the tallest branches of the trees. It made his stomach ache. Zeb bent over and rifled through a small utility bag on the ground. He pulled out a pouch of first aid supplies and used his claws to delicately pick out a few bacta strips. When he stood up, Zeb looked at him, begging for a challenge. Lasat don’t know when to give up, Kallus thought, amused at how often he had to apply that sentiment to Zeb. 

“Now, are you going to cooperate or am I going to have to knock you around a little more and put you into dreamland?” Zeb’s tone was light, but his face hadn’t settled into anything less than stony determination. Resigned, Kallus nodded and held his arms open in a gesture that said ‘have at me.’

Zeb sighed heavily, partly in relief and partly in anger. He was displeased at the extent of Kallus’s injuries, no matter how relatively superficial. Zeb peeled open a bandage and pulled Kallus closer. Just like being on the Ghost, coming to Yavin, or any number of things in his new life, there was something frightening about Zeb’s proximity. It was confusing how much he enjoyed Zeb’s closeness, and fear came from the same place, just two steps to the left of reason. It made Kallus skittish. Zeb either didn’t notice or politely ignored the way Kallus had started to tremble when he’d cupped the man’s jaw. 

Zeb had to push Kallus’s head to the side to get a good look at the largest bruise. The move meant that he was forced to bare his injured throat. It wasn’t so long ago that Zeb touching that vulnerable skin would have been with vicious, raking claws. Even after Kallus had become Fulcrum — barely a month after Bahryn — Zeb wouldn’t have hesitated to end him. Now, he kept his claws carefully out of the way. It was strange to him, Kallus realized, that those hands would never aim to injure him again. The pads of Zeb’s fingers pressed firmly, but softly, to secure the patch to his neck before opening another to place just under his eye.

“There’s more under that puffy jacket, ain’t there?” 

“Yes,” Kallus had considered lying, but Zeb was already staring at his zipper like the tiny metal tab offended him. 

“When we talked, way back when you were Fulcrum-ing, you didn’t seem the type to take shit lying down, y’know. Heart of a rebel. Imperial steel for a spine. All that stuff. What changed?” Zeb asked as he dragged a claw down the catch of Kallus’s jacket. As it fell open, Zeb revealed a shirt stained with dried blood. Kallus ducked his head away as Zeb gave an exasperated groan.

“It’s one thing to take abuse and another to pay penance,” Kallus answered the half-forgotten question. Zeb tsked, annoyed. 

“And just how long do you think you’ll be atoning?” he tugged on the bottom of Kallus’s shirt before lifting it up and over to show the sickly mottle of bruises. The Ghost had been gone for a while, and Kallus had been jumped twice since he’d last seen Zeb. Of course, it didn’t help that he never sought basic care, he didn’t want to waste the already scarce supplies.

“If you keep going like this, they’re gonna hit you harder,” Zeb fussed as he picked through the medkit for a bacta mister. “What happens when you have to choose between hitting back and having your skull crushed into the pavement? What happens if they stop aiming to break your nose and start gunning for six feet under?” 

Zeb wrapped a warm hand around Kallus’s ribs to assess their tenderness. Kallus couldn’t suppress the flashing thought of Zeb tightening his grip and cracking every bone. It would be fair. It would be fair just like how it was fair that those pilots dragged him into that empty hangar. Better yet, he should find a T7 and carve his name into the barrel. He should give it to Zeb as a gift. It would be more than fair to watch the man use it, to make the last thing he saw the horrible green gleam of the disruptor. Kallus inhaled deeply, feeling Zeb’s light touch move with his expanding chest. 

He didn’t have an answer to Zeb’s questions. Would he fight back? Surely some part of his hindbrain would kick in to protect himself, but the moment he swung, it was over. No one would tolerate violence from him. Even if it was years later, even if he’d done everything he could to help, even if he was a model soldier for the rebellion, a single punch would be too much. Besides, he didn’t think anyone here would go so far as to actually kill him. At least not openly or on base. 

The warmth of Zeb’s hand was replaced with the cold mist of a hypospray. The bacta smelled terrible in the same way all sterile things smell and the icy misting felt like needles on his skin. Yet the tightness in his chest did not ease, even as the area grew blissfully numb as the bacta worked. Zeb looked at him expectantly. 

“I don’t have an answer to your questions,” Kallus shook his head, “You don’t truly believe they’d try to kill me, do you?” He shouldn’t answer a question with a question, but he was curious what Zeb thought. 

“I don’t think they’d try to kill you, you’d just let ‘em.”

“What does that mean?” 

“It means you’re lookin’ for a fight, an out, something like that. And it’s gonna kill you,” Zeb turned back to the utility bag and pulled out a length of bandage tape. He wrapped and unwrapped it around Kallus’s bruised ribs, making sure it was perfect before talking again. “I’ve seen it before. When you don’t fight back, they don’t know what you can take. They’ll keep going, even after you’re out cold, because you’ve never squirmed or pushed back. They don’t know when they’ve crossed the point of no return. Some fucking idiot is going to kick you in the ribs so gods damn hard they puncture a lung.” 

“You’ve given this some thought,” Kallus hummed, letting his fingers skim the bandage. 

“No,” Zeb’s voice was sad, “I know this. I’ve been there before.” 

I put you there, Kallus thought. Zeb would have been in Ithdasira, at his post near the palace. Kallus had been miles and miles away. It didn’t matter that he’d never looked Zeb in the face that day. It was enough that he was there at all. 

“Garazeb.” 

“Don’t, alright? Don’t say it’s not the same, I know it’s not. Doesn’t make it hurt less. Doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what’s going on in your head.” 

The space between them widened into a gulf. Turning inward, Kallus tested his breathing under the bandages while Zeb packed everything away. The wrapping was done expertly by devastatingly caring hands. He couldn’t tell if breathing was more or less painful because of it. He looked over at Zeb who was pretending that he wasn’t looking back. He caught flashes of sadness in those eyes. Kallus felt guilty for it, but he didn’t know what to say to help. He had never been a helper. The silence continued until Zeb shook his head sharply and spun to face Kallus again. Suddenly, Zeb’s hand was wrapped around Kallus’s bicep, holding him steady as Zeb pierced him with sharp eyes.

“Promise me that I won’t find you curled up and bleeding out in a dark hallway,” The grip on Kallus’s arm grew just a little tighter and Zeb’s voice became a little more pained. “Promise that you won't make me find your body in one of the hangars because you can’t forgive yourself, even for a little while.” 

His own death was a fickle thought. Kallus hadn’t expected to survive being Fulcrum, but he rested easy knowing that his demise would have been at the hands of true enemies. It didn’t matter how he died, so long as it wasn’t in vain. It would be a brutally simple affair, his remains would be cremated and spaced thoughtlessly. But now there was Zeb. Kallus hadn’t thought about how he would react when he heard the news. 

“Captain Kallus has been killed in a freak training accident,” some poor page would tell him. High Command would do its best to cover up the fragging, of course. 

“Ah, that’s too bad,”  shrugged the Garazeb in his mind. 

But he realized that wasn’t right. Zeb would be upset. He would mourn.

Kallus never considered himself someone who would be mourned. As an ISB agent, he knew he was part of a machine, useful until he wasn’t, dying for the betterment of the cause. No one mourned a martyr; he would have been celebrated in death, far more than he had been in life. As Fulcrum, death was irrelevant. 

But on Yavin, Kallus had seen the mourners and heard the keening cries that shattered the night when someone didn’t come home. He’d done his best to close his eyes and quiet his mind when he was jealous of their grief. The universe offered precious few truths and he clung to the reality that Alexsandr Kallus would die an Imperial death, unmourned and swiftly replaced, even among rebels.

Zeb held fast to his arm. His big green eyes scanned across Kallus’s face as desperation seeped in at the edges. Kallus saw himself reflected in those eyes. He saw a guilty, broken man but something else lingered there. It was the same thing that had been in the hands that bandaged him, the tongue that scolded him. Even if it was just one person, even if it was only Zeb, someone cared for him. It had taken Kallus far too long to recognize it and now it stared him bare in the face. 

“Kallus,” Zeb shook him, urging him to break through his silence. Kallus opened his mouth and closed it twice as words escaped him. 

“I promise,” Kallus finally swallowed, his voice reedy in his throat. He would try to uphold it, too. He could look at Zeb, but only for less than a second at a time as an exhausted, kindred pain bled into the air. Zeb let go of his arm and Kallus was half surprised and half overjoyed when he didn’t collapse to the ground. As with nearly all encounters with Garazeb, Kallus’s world had shaken and crumbled beneath his feet. He would resent the man if he wasn’t so comforted by his steadfast presence. Zeb rubbed his neck and cast his own eyes into the dirt.

“Good,” Zeb grunted, “because if you die because of somethin’ stupid like this, I will reach through the Ashla itself to kick your ass,” Zeb tried to chuckle, but it was more of a shaky breath. 

Kallus gave Zeb a short nod before breaking the tense moment to pick up his discarded shirt. The plain cotton slid over his skin and barely ruffled over his bandaged chest. Kallus forewent the coat, choosing to keep it in the crook of his elbow for the time being. He didn’t need that armor anymore, not around Zeb. By the time Kallus had righted himself, Zeb had resumed his relaxed pose, leaning on a tree.

“Now that we’re clear on that, I’d like to get back to what I was trying to do and enjoy a smoke before Hera finds me,” Zeb wore a wan smile. Kallus took the statement as a dismissal and went to leave, but Zeb tugged on the jacket with a too-nimble foot, almost making Kallus fall on his ass. “Nah, mate. You’re part of this too now.” 

Kallus was part of a lot of things, now. He was part of many things he’d never thought he would find himself doing. Rebellion, for one. But being precious to Zeb was another. Kallus found himself pleased with both. He watched as Zeb pulled out a new cigarra, full and long. Zeb handed it over to him, and Kallus rested the unlit thing between his lips and let Zeb lean in with the lighter. The heat tickled as the flame caught and Kallus took a drag. Somehow, it tasted smoother than it had before. He blew the smoke towards the sky and looked at Zeb with a sparkle in his eyes. 

“Didn’t you just tell me something about keeping myself alive?” Kallus smirked, taking another short pull before handing the cigarra back to Zeb. “You know these things will kill you, Garazeb,” Zeb took his own long drag. The tension of the last few minutes floated away with Zeb’s exhale. 

“You sound like Hera,” he snorted, “All I said was don’t let them beat you to death. Or at the very least, don’t let them hit your face,” he laughed, “Roguish and defiant was a good look when we rescued you, but I like your face better without the blood and bruises. That mess ruins the look.” 

“Oh?” Kallus appreciated the levity and pushed it a little further, “You think I have a pretty face?” 

“Maybe,” Zeb hummed around the cigarra, “It’s mostly the sideburns. Always liked ‘em.” 

“Always?”  

“Well, since Bahryn. Never said I wasn’t a sucker for good facial hair.” 

Kallus laughed. It was the first time all day. It was the first time in a few days. This time it was his laugh that disrupted the jungle creatures. Kallus and Zeb watched a few baby sleen skitter away, making annoyed little peeps. 

When Zeb passed the cigarra back, Kallus didn’t miss the way Zeb’s hand brushed across his knuckles. There were a thousand words hidden in the furred touch, none of which could be properly said aloud; there was no language that could contain them. Kallus brought the cigarra up to his lips and let his tongue run over the filter in a disembodied kiss. It was selfish to steal it, no matter how small, no matter how unreal. 

This would be another memory, too. Zeb in the dappled sunlight would laugh with the ghost of Mical and keep vigil over the ashes Kallus had wrought. They finished the cigarra quickly and Zeb silently chained it into the one he’d stashed away when Kallus had so rudely interrupted him earlier. 

“You know what I said earlier? About keepin’ you around?” Zeb asked. The men quickly had given up the pretense of leaning against separate trees and settled close together on the soft grass. If anyone asked, laying shoulder-to-shoulder had just made it easier to share the cigarra. It would be a thin excuse. They’d only smoked the two and were now just laying together watching the sun set through the trees. Perhaps they’d say it was practical to share body heat in the cooling dusk of the jungle. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done it. Kallus hummed in acknowledgement.

“I was gonna say that I care about you. Kriff the rest of the Rebellion,” Zeb rolled his head to the side so he could look at Kallus. The sunlight framed his fur in a soft halo and if Kallus was a braver man, he might reach out and touch the tip of Zeb’s ear, just to watch it flick. Laying on the ground in this hidden part of the jungle, he felt warm and safe. Knowing that Zeb cared about him in any way just made it easier to let down his walls. Not all the way, not yet. But Zeb was doing a good job of clawing apart the first layers of duracrete. Kallus closed his eyes and turned his face towards the sky. 

“I know,” was all he said. He spoke softly enough that only Zeb could have heard the words. Kallus inched his arm closer to Zeb’s, resting them together gently. Zeb was too tall for Kallus to hold his hand while they laid like this, so he settled for brushing his little finger along Zeb’s forearm, trusting it to say what his mouth could not. 

“Yeah,” Zeb chuckled. “Of course ya did.”

The sun was quickly dipping below the nearest treeline, but the encroaching shadows of Yavin IV were not filled with ghosts tonight. The storied planet hummed in time with the way Zeb let Kallus pet his arm, taking comfort and offering it with the steady way the two men existed in this moment. Soon, the numbing effects of bacta and nicotine would wear off and Kallus would be sorer for the way he’d laid in the dirt; but he would carry his aches lighter knowing that there was someone to tend them now. Kallus knew these moments would not change much about how the Rebellion felt about him. Someone would still try to spit in his caf or trip him on his way out of a briefing. But it might be easier now. He had a tether out there, someone who cared, no matter how unlikely. The evening beetles started buzzing and Zeb let out a deep, fanged yawn, looking a little like a loth cat. Kallus smiled at the way Zeb’s ears danced as he stretched and that smile only widened when he saw how grumpy Zeb looked when he noticed. Zeb settled into his own little chuckle as he sat up, hauling Kallus with him. 

“It’s getting dark,” he announced, “and it’s a long way back to the main base.”

“It is,” Kallus agreed. “I’m sure I’ll be safe to walk back, I don’t think there are any more stray X-Wing pilots lying in wait for me,” Kallus was never much good at jokes and it showed as Zeb’s ears drooped. 

“That’s not exactly a comforting thought there.” 

“No,” Kallus agreed again. 

“What I was saying though, was that you could come back to the Ghost with me. Ezra and Sabine are still on Mandalore... so there’s an open bunk for the time we’re grounded, yeah?”  

There was that pull again, the tiny traitorous voice that made Kallus want to go with him. The winds of Yavin picked up again and sent a chill through the air. Kallus knew his bunk would be cold, too. Zeb got up and offered Kallus a warm hand to help him stand. That hand trailed up Kallus’s arm to knock gently at his shoulder.  

“Besides, I want to check those patches in the morning, ‘cus I know you won’t.” 

“No,” he whispered, “I wouldn’t,” Kallus tugged his jacket back on and watched Zeb shoulder his pack. 

“So come back with me, then.” 

And for the first time, Kallus agreed with the universe.

He went with Zeb.