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The ancient temple on Yavin gets quieter during planetary night; there's a hush when the only people moving are the people who are assigned to be awake, and not the entire base population, active or not. Normally, Kallus quite enjoys that-- the lack of chatter settles his nerves, and the nearly-empty data center eases the constant hyper-awareness of both friend and foe that the ISB trained into him.
He's too conscious of the half-full cup of caf at his side; he's increasingly desperate for a sip, as bad an idea as it would be to add stimulants to his current state of mind. He can't indulge, however. When he works late he almost always pours himself a cup of caf and forgets it halfway through. If he actually finishes a mug for once it might attract attention from the few other night-convors still in the data-center.
Nothing he's looking at is particularly damning by itself; the intel department has good reason to look at old battle-logs and mission reports. It's good practice to go through and check the status of allies and informants.
However, that it's him accessing these details specifically about the Specters... well. The picture that paints is clear and ugly. No-one would believe that his intentions are benign; he would be appalled if any of his colleagues were that credulous. He wouldn't trust himself, either.
Unfortunately, the only alternative is... unacceptable.
The data flickers as his anonymizing routine rolls over, simulating another user login at another terminal. It’s clumsy espionage; it would raise a dozen red flags in an Imperial database, but the Rebellion plays somewhat faster and looser with its data structure. It’s the understandable result of a loose collective of ships pilots and smaller cells trying to maintain one larger command structure, but the result is a system that is secure more because the file structure is so esoteric than because there are real checks in place. He’s not alone in being appalled at that, everyone who has to try to crunch old data to synthesize actually useful information bemoans it, but none of the intelligence division are in a position to fix it.
As long as he’s careful, he’ll be fine.
…As long as he’s careful and competent, he curses himself. And doesn’t use the wrong date conversion between the Galactic Standard calendar and the Rylothian planetary year. He’s going to have to throw out this entire set of data and try again. Maybe this time he can wring something out of the dry, terse data reports– anything. The most glancing mention of cultural practices, of a battle delegated elsewhere because of religious scruple or the whisper of personal obligations.
So far there’s nothing for any of the holidays associated with the Specters’ various backgrounds, or those of their known associates– and of course there's nothing, you idiot, why would someone put that in a report?
This isn’t Imp-sec where the unspoken second duty of every agent is to keep a dossier on any rivals, waiting for them to slip and reveal an exploitable weakness, or kept as insurance against them trying to do the same. Rebel agents don’t gather blackmail material on one another as a matter of course, as a matter of survival.
His stomach drops, like it always does when he finds himself straddling the wide gap between the Empire’s cold structure and the Rebellion’s ideals. It leaves him with a feeling of vertigo, like long-term exposure to fractional gravity, and he doesn’t have time for this.
Without thinking, he grabs the mug of caff and knocks it back in one bitter, cold swig. It’s absolutely foul and it jerks his brain out of its spiral. He quickly sweeps the rooms for witnesses. The technician who was replacing data cores must have finished and gone; Andor’s terminal is locked down but active, his chair set at an angle and his insulmug gone. He’s up refilling his own caff; Kallus has five minutes’ grace there.
But he heard someone come in earlier, his brain supplies, the unconscious offering up something the conscious can use, finally. Someone who stopped nearby. They didn’t leave. In fact…
“Late night, Kallus?” someone says, from behind him.
He doesn’t bother closing down the terminal; he’s well and truly made. He places his hands on his thighs and turns in the swivel chair to face his accuser.
“It’s rude to read over an intelligence officer’s shoulder, Captain Rex.”
“It’s rude to stalk your crush’s crew, Captain Kallus,” the old clone offers, and instead of ordering Kallus away from the terminal, he puts his hip casually against the nearest table and leans into it.
“I beg your pardon.” He hears his inflection wobble, the second word almost a squawk of indignation. His control of the situation is already gone, but now his dignity’s going to follow.
Rex flashes a grim smile– the way his teeth show looks like a growl. “Is that not what you were doing?”
“It was not.” His voice makes a break for the top of his register. He used to be able to control his tells. …Except around the Rebels, he remembers, too late. They all seem to have a way of seeing through him.
Except that Rex’s assumption is–
“That’s absurd,” he babbles on. “Who would I even–”
The furrows in Rex’s forehead deepen as his eyebrows raise, and now he’s grinning outright, looking almost predatory.
“It does not look like I’m stalking a– a potential romantic partner, it looks as if I’m spying for the Empire,” Kallus hisses. “Why isn’t that your first concern?”
“Because I know you aren’t.”
“How could you possibly?”
“Too nervous. You’re never nervous when you’re on the job. You get nervy when it’s personal,” Rex points out, and Kallus damns him for his accuracy.
“More caff?” the old clone offers sweetly.
“No. Thank you.” He scowls at his own mug as if it’s to blame for his shoddy performance. “I’m surprised you know my habits well enough to comment.”
“I don’t. Zeb does, though.”
That sends a pulse of surprised warmth through him. “Garazeb sent you?”
“Yep, he wanted me to check if he was going to need to scrape you off a chair and put you to bed.”
“That’s… kind of him.”
“He said to make sure you weren’t rereading the same screen over and over with cold caff by your elbow.”
That is also… unfortunately accurate, once he reaches a certain hour and his body and mind hit a wall that he can’t overcome without actual medical stims. And the Rebellion doesn’t pass those out to officers, doesn’t expect them to use them to make unforgiving deadlines.
When Zeb is working the late shift in the engineering pool, he usually stops by the data center to drag Kallus away from the screens, either for a late night meal or a drink at the tapcafe. Or, if Kallus is particularly unpleasant, Zeb takes him straight to his sleeping quarters to spare the rest of the base from his temper.
He’d thought himself safe tonight; Zeb is working the midnight-dawn shift. Kallus hadn’t expected him to deputize someone to check in.
Perhaps he ought to have. Zeb is decent in a way that leaves him defenseless.
“So.” He goes straight to the point. “I expect you’ll want to report this to Draven.”
Rex cocks his head, his predatory grin subsided to a mere smirk. “Are you spying for the Empire, then?”
“Of course not.”
“You out to hurt anyone?”
“No!”
“What were you doing?”
He inhales, listens to the sentence he’s about to speak– realizes how it’s going to sound, but it’s too late–
And so when he admits: “I’m trying to find out if Hera Syndulla celebrates Life Day,” it sounds extremely deflated.
Rex’s grin is back. He looks like a delighted Nexu. “Why?”
“To find out if she would want a present for Life Day– which before you ask, is intel someone else asked me to find so it could be a surprise.”
“And you thought you could get that from their flight logs?”
“It was that or from direct spying– which went extremely badly. I didn’t realize how territorial C1-10P would be. What he did to the unfortunate MSE I had following General Syndulla….” He shudders. The poor little droid is back on its drivewheel and fully repaired, but its little neural net will probably bear scars for the rest of its functional life.
“I considered bribing C1-10P directly– but then he might have been labeled as complicit in spying, and laying that kind of stress in the Spectres’ laps would be counterproductive to a ‘happy holiday’.”
Rex is nodding along, at least. “So at a last ditch, you went diving into the old transmission records. I can see the logic in there, halfway. They might have asked for a religious exemption to sit out a mission or dropped a ‘happy Life Day’ as a signoff.”
“Yes. Any– indication. Personal stops between missions that might have been for celebratory reasons. Anything.”
“It’s impressively thorough,” Rex concluded. “But Kallus. You’re overlooking something.”
He frowns, wracking his brain. “Captain?”
“Did you ever think of… asking the Specters?”
Kallus stares, waiting for Rex to reconsider. He shows no signs of doing so, so Kallus coaxes him toward the obvious answer:
“Did I, the source of a great deal of grief for them and their loved ones, think it was a good idea to pry into their personal lives. That’s the question you’re asking.”
“...is it?”
Now Rex’s face has softened into something sympathetic, and Kallus misses the Nexu-smile already.
“How would you phrase it, then?” he challenges, and Rex just shakes his head longsufferingly.
“You’re a mess, Kallus.”
“Yes, well. I’ve hardly claimed otherwise, since I threw in my lot with the Rebellion.”
It makes Rex chuckle. “C’mon. Shut your terminal down, let’s go.”
“Draven will want to–”
“Nobody’s telling Draven about this. You do the thought experiment this time,” Rex says. “Imagine how your boss will react if I tell him you’re so stressed about the holidays you’re doing an Imp-sec style report about it.”
Kallus does imagine it; he doesn’t quite flinch at the phantom sensation of a door whooshing shut in their faces. “...A good point, well made. But if you’re not taking me to be disciplined, where are we going?”
“You need some fresh air, a cup of caff, and something to eat.” Rex rummages in his pocket; comes out with a bundle of something wrapped up in crinkled wax-flimsi. He tosses it to Kallus, who catches it and peels open the sticky layers to reveal a golden-brown bar with an almost glassy sheen, studded with inclusions of glazed yecca-nut.
“Kriff me, is that Chacobi’s homemade protein brittle?”
Rex hadn’t expected it either, apparently.
“The entire intelligence division has been angling for the recipe. Technician Chacobi promised to take it to their grave,” Kallus says, bewildered.
“Guess that’s what Zeb meant about ‘someone owing him a favor.’” Rex clucks. “No wonder he was so paranoid about making sure it got to you.”
“Zeb sent this? For me?” It comes out as nearly a whisper. His fingers curl around the sweet as if it’s worth its weight in high-denom credits.
Which it might as well be, frankly; the baked candy was adapted from a Shili recipe, modified to use stolen Imperial nutrient powder. Chacobi had managed something of a minor miracle in making it not just edible, which was already more than the Empire had ever managed, but genuinely wonderful. The Togrutan engineer now monopolized the black market in homemade bakes for all of Massassi Base, and the waitlist for first dibs after a supply interception is long and jealously kept.
And Zeb had gotten some, then– instead of enjoying his no-doubt well-earned treat– had sent it to Kallus?
“‘Who would you even’ indeed’” Rex mutters – Kallus looks up to catch him rolling his eyes. “Stop mooning, come on. Wrap that back up before someone mugs you for it and let’s get caff in you.” He gives Kallus another long look. “Scratch that; let’s get water in you. You look like you need real sleep.”
“I assure you, I’ve worked substantially longer hours without--”
“Don’t.” Rex slices a hand through the air. “I knew enough people like that during the Seppie war, all right? You can’t win a war by beating yourself to death. Little gods, if it worked like that we’d have won in the first year for sheer force of lost sleep. The 212th alone...” His face shadows as he says it, but his tone remains brusquely teasing. “The Rebellion isn’t going to fall because you get your head down.”
“I know that,” Kallus snaps, in no mood to be teased, prickly about the implied jab at an inflated ego. “But if I sleep, someone else has to pick up my work, someone who actually deserves--”
Rex lets out a groan that sounds pained. “No. I’m not unpacking this with you. Your boyfriend can do that, all right?”
And as Kallus is sputtering about what in the zero-level hells Rex means by that, the captain– more than a head shorter than him, but as he is quickly reminded, at least six kilos of genetically optimized muscle heavier– hauls him bodily out the door.
–
Out in the misty night air, on the right side of an electrolyte-laced hydropack and a grain muffin, Kallus feels significantly better.
The great outer steps of the Massassi temple are all but empty at night; a sentry looks out of the access door every so often, but otherwise Kallus and Rex have the wide stone lookout to themselves.
“Feeling better?”
“It’s rude to gloat,” Kallus sighs. He reaches into his inner vest pocket, delicately withdrawing the brittle that Zeb had sent for him. He holds it without unwrapping it, wondering if he should wait for a special occasion– if perhaps Zeb would want to share it? Would it be an imposition, or–
Rex’s beard bristles triumphantly, his eyes crinkling up with a less menacing smile. “You want to talk about it?”
“What?” he looks up sharply, jamming the wrapped sweet into his pocket.
“What got you in such a twist?”
“I told you.”
“You told me someone asked you to help figure out a gift for Hera, and you told me why you didn’t think you could ask, but you didn’t tell me why you agreed to do it in the first place. Seems a little frivolous for you.”
“I…” Ugh. “No, I do not want to talk about that, actually. It– I came to several revelations about my view about holidays and realized I needed to correct it. Nothing about it reflects well on me.”
“It’s because it’s a Wookie holiday,” Rex says knowingly. “You wouldn’t be the first defector with that ‘non-sentient’ Imperial bantha-shit in your head.”
“That was part of it,” he admits– it’s easier to confirm Rex’s observation than it is to say it cold. He still doesn’t want to talk about it, but he feels he must, or the break in his worldview might heal wrong. “I do– I know the non-sentient classification is a farce. But it’s specifically a Kashyyyki holiday, and I admit I thought it was absurd for a mid-rim human engineer to celebrate it and even moreso for a Rylothian Twi’lek….”
He looks out over the jungle– all the green, still so foreign to him.
“But everyone is talking about Life Day. I don’t know why. I don’t know what people celebrate when it isn’t mandated. If I ever knew it was because I was trying to stop them from doing it. I barely remember the holidays we celebrated on Coruscant when I was young. For so long… the Empire was everything. The first time I saw a tree it was part of a battlefield. Something to be overcome and left behind, as if everything outside Imperial control wasn’t real--”
“Kallus.”
He’s been babbling. His face flames. “I’m sorry. This sounds absurd--”
“Kallus. I was twelve before I saw a solid planetary surface, and it was during the first battle of Geonosis. I grew up in a domed city less than twenty kilometers square. I thought holidays were something the natborn trainers made up as a prank.”
His heart plunges. “I’m sorry, I--”
“I’m saying I understand, Kallus.”
The clone’s hand closes over his shoulder, and he has the absurd notion to say stop, I’m not used to being touched but Rex understands that, he just got done saying he understands and he knows this is difficult and–
“Exhale, Kallus.”
Rex squeezes his shoulder before retreating to a comfortable distance.
“Zeb’ll be here in a bit. He’s good at talking you down.”
“Zeb’s coming? Here? Why?”
“Because I commed him when I found you and his meal break is in fifteen.”
“You intercepted me successfully, he doesn’t have to waste his meal break on me.”
“Maybe he wants to spend it with a friend.”
“Oh, I’m hardly--”
“He got you Chacobi’s protein brittle.”
No, that is true.
He puts his head in his hands; he can still feel the heat of his flushed face through the thin leather. “I’m an intelligence analyst. I made a career out of understanding people’s motivations and behaviors. Why am I so disastrously bad at understanding the people around me?”
“Because the Empire tries to build perfect soldiers, but they don’t have the warmth, creativity and compassion of the longnecks so you’re all a bit of a mess?”
“I’m not sure what that means,” he admits, because he may as well.
“Funny story. I’ll tell you later.”
“Is it funny?”
“It’s not, really.”
He hears Rex shift, suddenly enough that it snaps him out of his self pity– looks up to see him scanning the area. A moment later he hears the rustle of something moving, out toward the edge of the long roof, and then, stark against the darker unlit jungle, the tips of two purple ears.
Garazeb’s face pops over the edge; he sees the two of them staring and sighs. “Someday I’ll catch you napping, Rex.”
“It’ll have to be a coma,” Rex jeers back playfully. “Got your package.”
“And all in one piece, too! How’re you doing, Kal?” Zeb hops up nimbly onto the roof, as if dismounting from a vertical climb is nothing. Which it is, for the Lasat’s impressive musculature and a body well-adapted for climbing. He made it up those freezing columns on Bahryn with sixty-odd kilos of dead weight on him, these sheer stone walls must be a playground. With arms and shoulders like those… those strong hands and muscular digitigrade legs…
“Kal?”
Oh kriff him, he’s just been staring silently this whole time.
“I’m sorry. I may have overdone it a little,” he admits, hangdog. “What did you say?”
Zeb pads closer and crouches near him, giving him an assessing look. “I asked how you were doin’, so you answered me anyway. And I’m proud of you for admitting it.”
“You rebels and your celebration of frailty,” he says, without the force behind it to keep it from descending into irony. His body betrays him further with a yawn.
“Accepting it isn’t a celebration. Asking for help isn’t giving up.”
“I may be willing to concede that… just for tonight.” He lets out a long, slow breath, focusing on that as Zeb sits down next to him.
It’s easier to handle Garazeb’s proximity than most other people’s. Jarrus is also all right, but part of that may be general… Jedi serenity. He’s not sure he trusts it.
On the other hand, he is absolutely certain that he trusts Zeb. The bitter cold and the unfriendly denizens of Bahryn left them little time for squeamishness, and having pushed past that discomfort once he hasn’t encountered it a second time. Zeb is safe; sturdy. Kind. The slightly sour, rich, musky smell of him is deeply mingled with the memory of a strong warm back supporting him, staving off the cold.
The humid night is cool enough that that warmth would be a delight. He can almost feel it now…
“Kal?”
His body is not in the position he left it in. It has listed distinctly sideways, and he is propped against–
He freezes at the enormity of his imposition, certain that as Zeb’s shoulder moves it’s preparation to throw him off. Instead, a long arm scoops around him, steadying him.
“Kallus, you all right? Rex, you sure he’s okay?”
“Yeah, he’s just coming out of an adrenal overload. Got his blacks in a twist over Life Day, if you can believe it.”
“Heh. Still can’t believe how many human-types celebrate Life Day in the rebellion. Folks did on Lasan, but usually only the one’s who’d fought besides Wookies.”
Kallus still can’t make his body react. He’s just lying here, uselessly, as if the arm slung over his shoulder is some kind of restraint. Warm, strong, muscular restraint. …and thank the Void he’s too tired for his mind to do anything with that misfired thought, thank you and stop that.
Rex is volleying the conversation back as if Kallus isn’t having a physical and mental collapse. It seems unfair.
“I can see why it’s caught on. I think they do the Alderaanian solstice, too. Empire tells you not to celebrate something…”
“...you make it a real party,” Zeb concludes, his laugh rumbling. “What’s up with Life Day, Kal?”
“...a rebel agent asked me… to find out what your captain likes as a present. He impressed that it was supposed to be a surprise, and I…” Overreacted? Leaned on the sharpest and least appropriate tool in his arsenal? Something as equally damning.
“You could have asked me, mate. …If it was that big demolitions expert, he’s beat you to it, he’s been canvassing everyone who knows Hera.”
“Bless your heart, you were doing this for Tonk?” Rex laughs, delighted. “You were trying to maintain opsec for a guy who’s never met a secret in his life?”
“I know. I know, this has not been one of my brighter moments, thank you.” He wants to hide his face against Zeb’s side, but that comes with its own embarrassing perils, so he settles for closing his eyes and praying for a swift meteor strike.
“Aw, I think it’s good of you to take him seriously,” Zeb says, a smile audible in his voice. “We’ll come up with something nice for her, you and me.”
“I barely know her and all the contexts in which I do know her I was either the aggressor or a nuisance in an escape pod. Does she even celebrate Life Day?”
“She doesn’t have to have a deep spiritual connection to the ecosystem of Kashyyyk to like a present, Kal. And… come to it, if anyone knows what improvements the Ghost could use, it’s probably someone who’s been banking on its weaknesses for years, eh?”
“You want me to tell General Syndulla that her ship is less than perfect. You want me to die. You hate me and you want me to die,” he whines, and it makes Zeb laugh as he rather desperately hoped it would.
“Nah, we’ll say it’s from all of us. She can’t kill all of us.”
“Have you ever seen her success record on paper? Yes she can.”
“See? It’s like you’ve known her forever.”
Rex snorts something that he only half covers by a noisy swig of his own canteen.
“Something on your mind, Captain?” Zeb asks primly.
“Oh, nothing.”
“You celebrate Life Day yourself?”
“Only when invited. Fought next to some damn good Wookies in my day. Wasn’t my holiday, strictly.”
“He said…” Kallus remembers, though the words seem to come from far away, “That he thought holidays were a prank.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Oh, yeah. We all knew there was more to the galaxy than Tipoca City and the flash-training labs, but we were also cagey little bastards who were sensitive to being fucked with. See, you have to understand that by the time I was decanted the longnecks had gotten very careful about letting our trainers get too attached to us. They started selecting professionals who wouldn’t let personal feelings get in the way by the time the Jedi showed up.
“But it was too late for the first generation Commandos and the Alpha class– they got Mandalorians in to train the first bunches starting at two years old. Now, one of two things happens when you introduce a Mando to a bunch of serious little kids who look like natborn four year olds. Option one, they’re Deathwatch scum and they ‘injure the product’. Option two, and possibly worse for the longnecks, is they’re True Mandalorians or Protectors who adopt the kids en masse and start teaching them unacceptable concepts like ‘culture’ and ‘soul’. Heh. The Kaminoans had to write off nearly a whole generation as ‘unacceptably individualistic’. And since they couldn’t risk bringing more outside teachers in until we looked more like adults, it was those older generations training the Command class, and Commander track kids trained us rank-and-file CTs, so there was a healthy rumor mill about life outside Kamino, most of which was fourth or fifth hand and sounded completely impossible…”
Rex’s voice is cheerfully conspiratorial, but not in a way that raises alarms; Zeb’s body is as warm and safe as Kallus remembers. He realizes he’s drifting when he tunes back in and realizes that the conversation has jumped to young clone cadets separating into extremely competitive rival camps centered around the speculated existence of ‘cake’, yay or nay.
Zeb seems to know what he’s talking about. Something Mandalorian he picked up from Wren.
“-- hope she brings some back from Mandalore, but I’ll settle for her not bringing back any new scars, poor kid.”
“That poor kid kicked Gar Saxon’s slimy shebs across Krownest. Have faith in her.”
“I have faith. I just worry. As many brothers as you have, you never worry?”
“...of course I do.” A soft sigh.
“I shouldn’t be hearing this,” Kallus objects, his voice strained and raspy. How long has he been sitting here.
“You’re still awake?” Zeb asks, surprised.
He manages to lift a hand, tilting it sideways to indicate how approximate a description that is.
“We must have monopolized most of your meal break.”
“Eh, it’s a slow night, only thing I’m missing up here is a sabacc game. But you oughta get to bed, Kal.”
“I like when you call me that.”
Rex makes a choking sound that brings him fully back to awareness and the mortification awaiting him therein.
“I mean.” He struggles to sit up. “Pardon me.”
“I’m glad you like it, Kal. I imagine the ISB didn’t go in for nicknames.”
“No, but the troopers we worked with did. I escaped it mostly because nobody could think of anything more cutting and on the nose than… well, ‘Kallus.’”
“Doesn’t suit you, really.” Zeb clears his throat. “I mean, I’m sure it’s a great family name, just one of those ones that sounds…”
“Kallus. Yes.” He chuckles. Zeb is so disarming when he’s nervous– he doesn’t wear it naturally at all. “You’re so delicate with my feelings. Don’t you know I’m a very bad man?”
“Right. My cue to leave,” Rex says, with an exaggerated and– in Kallus’ opinion– inexplicable noise of disgust.
Kallus looks up to see Zeb’s face wrinkled in confusion, his ears at a charmingly lopsided angle as he watches the clone push up to his feet and stride away across the roof.
“What’s that about?” Zeb wonders.
“No idea.”
The door to the roof slides open, silhouetting Rex’s body in a rectangle of artificial light, and then closes again. Kallus realizes, very suddenly, that aside from the automated sentry turrets, he and Zeb have the night to themselves.
“I should get to bed,” he offers again, quietly. “As kind of you as it was to play support-pillar, I can’t imagine it’s what you want to be doing.”
“Eh.” Zeb shrugs, squeezing Kallus against him in the process. “I can walk you to your quarters if ya like.”
“Hardly necessary.” Then, at the look of disappointment that drags down the corners of Zeb’s wide mouth, and adds a furrow between his brow-ridges. “But if it would make you feel better, the company wouldn’t be unwelcome?”
The corners of Zeb’s mouth correct themselves, and Kallus tries-- and fails-- not to take pride in it.
Zeb escorts him down through the levels of the old temple to the haphazardly assigned crew quarters– any room that doesn’t house supplies has been commandeered. Kallus’ berth is barely more than a closet, but he has it to himself, which he prefers to the three-high bunkrooms some of the pilots seem to like.
He thinks it might look odd, suspicious– Zeb bodyguarding him, or prison-guarding him down to his room, but that’s his thoughts echoing off the cold shell of the Empire again. They’re– they’re friends. Like any other two sentients that walk down this hall, side by side, just because they enjoy the company.
Kallus hangs his jacket on the hook by his cot once Zeb’s deposited him at his door, smoothing it down, puzzled briefly when he hits something hard, frowning as he retrieves a paper-wrapped square of– of a piece of difficult to acquire confectionary that Zeb thought he, specifically, should have–
Oh no.
He bolts for the door, gaze flicking both ways down the corridor. “Zeb?”
The Lasat turns on his heel, only a few strides down the hall. His ears are up at the alert. “What’s up?”
“I–” am an idiot. “You– you sent this with Rex.” He holds up the precious little package. “Is this– should I– is it a gift?”
“Yes? Oh, you mean for Life Day or something? No. Just– the normal kind of gift.”
“Bribe,” Kallus says before he can stop himself.
“What?”
“Bribes are the normal kind of gift. Other kinds of gifts aren’t normal. For me.”
Zeb’s eyes crinkle around the edges. “Well, it’s not one of those, either. It’s just somethin’ for a friend.”
“Thank you.” Completely inadequate. Garbage. Why is Zeb still smiling at him. “I– still feel, there must be something I can do for you in return?”
“You’re alive and you’re on our side. You’ve got gifts covered this year,” Zeb says, closing the distance so they aren’t half-shouting at each other down the corridor. He stays a few steps back so that he isn’t crowding Kallus into the doorway, but that seems too far away, so Kallus takes a step backwards, and Zeb follows, and Kallus moves again and then– Zeb’s in the room, and Kallus is reaching past him, arm too close to arm, to close the door.
“It doesn’t– I assure you, being alive and here is a deeply selfish thing for me.”
“Doesn’t make it not a gift. Best kind, really, where it makes both parties happy, right?”
“But why me? Of anyone who survived– of anyone who should have survived–”
“Don’t start talking like that,” Zeb says, quiet but intense. His eyes are so luminous in the dim night-hours lightning. “We can’t make trades with the Bogan and I wouldn’t, if I could.”
“But I’m– a mess. I don’t even have current Imperial clearances anymore, I’m– I’m not anything. Now. I barely know how to function outside an Imperial context.”
“You’re doin’ fine. And you’re forgetting I crew with a defector. Bine’s a hell of a kid. Our admiral’s a defector these days, too. Nobody’s gonna fault you for havin’ a learning curve.”
His hands are starting to dig into the protein bar; he can feel it crumbling, and in a sleepy panic he almost throws it onto the little crate that serves him for a bedside table and stands, wringing his hands.
Zeb looks down at them, back up. “Hey. You wanna sit down with me?”
More than anything. “I. Uh.”
Zeb sits, folding himself up dexterously on the foot of the low cot, and pats the surface beside him.
Kallus gives up, and sits. He can feel Zeb’s warmth, again– in the controlled environment, almost too warm, but he doesn’t want to move away. He braces both hands on the frame of the cot to keep himself awake and upright.
“You, specifically, Kallus, I’m glad you’re here. If there’s anyone out there who remembers Lasan– someone an Honour Guard thought was worthy of holding their memory– they should be with us. Not fighting for the Empire. I’m glad you turned out to be a better man than I thought. I’m glad you saw the light and did so much to keep my family alive. And I’m glad you survived it.”
Warmth on his hand. Pressure. Garazeb’s hand, on his, a thumb rubbing over his white-knuckled grip on the frame.
It makes him stupid, and bold.
“Share it with me.”
“Wha-?”
“The– the gift. Share it with me.” He swallows. “Please.”
He reaches for it with the hand that Garazeb isn’t pinning with that damningly soft pressure– spreads it out on his lap with fingers that do not shake.
“Are you su--” this time Zeb cuts off because he’s snapped a piece off and is holding it out, demandingly, just in front of his mouth.
Kallus holds his breath as Zeb nips it delicately out of his hand– his front teeth aren’t so frightening, and there’s only a flash of the fang. Zeb’s full lower lip brushes the pad of his thumb and it feels like a cut anyway, the sensation is so sharp.
Kallus is still staring at his outstretched hand when Zeb reaches down between them. There’s pressure on his other hand, his thigh, a soft snap, and then he’s refocusing on Zeb’s hand, held close to him, a piece of brittle between his claws.
“Is this what we’re doing?” Zeb rumbles.
Kallus closes his eyes, and trusts Zeb. It’s always been easy, since the first time.
He leans in, and Zeb very carefully puts the treat on his tongue. There’s just the faintest hint of sugar, the surface waxy and firm, but when he bites down the whole thing crumbles and dissolves like sand, and his mouth is flooded with a toasted-nut sweetness.
He’s been getting used to real food after a diet of largely ration bars and protein shakes, but this is a bit more than perhaps he was ready for.
“Oh.” He licks his lips; they feel sticky, the inside of his mouth coated in a sweetness just shy of cloying. “That’s. I don’t think I can have more of that right now.”
Zeb doesn’t seem offended by the reaction. “Yeah, it’s real rich. Little bits at a time is best. And you do need some sleep, Kal.”
“Yes.” The prospect isn’t as attractive as it rightfully should be. As it was even ten minutes ago, before he knew that Garazeb thought he was a gift. Before they’d closed this last distance. Now that they have, will it be easier to do it again, too?
“You can have some more in the morning. I’ll be off shift. I could… swing by with some real breakfast for ya? If you’re still in a sharing mood.”
“...I’d like that. Quite a bit.”
“It’s a date then.”
Zeb shifts off the cot so he can lie down, the brittle folded back up in its flimsi and set carefully on the crate again. The relief of being horizontal is instant, and intoxicating. He kicks off his boots and wriggles his belt off, unwilling to do anything else if it means sitting upright.
Zeb tugs the thin sheet up over his legs, then starts rummaging in his things. He frowns when he shakes Kallus’ canteen and finds it empty, immediately refilling it from his own.
“Zeb–”
“I’ll fill mine at the water station on the way back to the vehicle pool.” He tucks the now-mostly-full flask into Kallus’ hand and coaxes him to lean up just enough to have another drink. “You get some rest. Big surprise holiday plannin’ for us tomorrow.”
“We’re all going to die,” he says, hoping Zeb will smile.
Zeb beams at him, filling his chest with something pleasantly buoyant. Then he crouches down, leaning in to brush their foreheads together, a tender gesture that Kallus barely dares breathe through. Zeb's scent lingers even after he leaves, so quietly only the door hydraulics and brief flash of hallway light mark his passing.
It leaves Kallus alone with his thoughts, and he’s surprised to find despite everything that they’re much more pleasant company than usual. He feels… grounded. Everything is real, here. He’s bad at navigating it, but it is… real. And better, and he is safe in a way he had forgotten he could be, safe from being punished for his humanity.
Rex was trying to tell him that, he thinks. And he’ll have to thank him later. He can ask Zeb how.
As he lets sleep take him without a fight, the last thing he knows is the echo of sweetness on his tongue.