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Zeb is foolish to think he could have just dealt with something that would lead to this.
The smell of chemicals and fumes combining with the thundering sounds of the explosions stirs up things he spent months trying to bury. And with just one tiny blow, it all came caving back in on him; everything all at once-
The confusion, the panic, the rage, the desperation, the grief.
The guilt.
He's here in his present, he can see the storm troopers. He can see Chopper. He can see Hera. He can see Kanan. And he can see her.
Sabine is in the middle of a crowd of buckets, weaving through them in some sort of dance as shots leave from her blasters and she throws-
Another explosion sparks that ghost over his body. A ghost that he knows is just a memory.
But, karabast, for a just a memory, it feels so real, as though he can feel the palace coming down on him all over again. It's coming down on him all over again, and when he comes back to they will all be-
“SABINE,” Zeb roars, his voice bellowing through the field, halting the mandalorian in her tracks. Kanan has to sweep in behind her to cover her during her sudden standstill. “Cease and desist! Leave explosives off!” Zeb can't tell if his throat is hoarse from his screaming to the girl, or from before that.
“Spectre-four,” Hera hisses behind Zeb, shooting down a trooper who had the warrior in his sights, “what did I tell you about using the code-names?”
Sneering, Zeb sends a bucket head crashing to the ground beneath his foot, “There won't be anyone left speaking.” The number of buckets left still standing have drastically decreased. When Zeb takes a split second to glance back at the girl, he freezes.
She looks right at him and hurls a detonator into the last crowd of buckets by her. He can't tell if he doesn't catch what Kanan yells to her because they're across the field or because of just how loud that explosion that follows is or because of the dying screams of those who had been standing by his side barely over a year ago.
Zeb isn't sure when or how he came to be standing right in front of Sabine, but she doesn't flinch nor stand down from her defiance. He can feel her daring glare at him, he can almost see it.
Words that are spilling from his tongue don't reach his own ears or even process in his mind. He isn't even sure if he's yelling in basic or if he finally just slipped back to the words he knows. There's also no way of him knowing if Sabine is yelling back at him or just glaring up at him because karabast, he can't hear a single thing other than the blood pounding in his ears.
Kanan is struggling to push at his chest while Hera is having the same struggle trying to drag Sabine by her arm.
No one stands down until Chopper flies barely an inch above their heads, knocking himself into the last three storm troopers. The droid's angry beeps rushing them. Zeb growls at him, still not understanding what the kriff it's trying to tell them. But how does a kriffing droid have so much attitude in such mechanic-based sounds?
“-eat,” Hera's demanding tone brings Zeb back to himself, “Spectre-four, Spectre-five, retreat, that's an order!”
Shaking his head, Zeb stalks off, following close behind the rest of the crew.
—---—
“Both of you,” the pilot stands before Zeb and Sabine, arms folded over her chest as she glares down at them, “explain yourselves.”
Sabine and Zeb are sitting in the back two seats of the cockpit, giving their own glares at the wall and at the ceiling, respectively. Neither budge, the silence growing heavier by the minute.
Hera takes a deep breath, but it does little to tame back her own anger. “Everything that happened was handled so damningly poorly on both your ends.”
She looks to Zeb first.
Karabast.
“You told me I had nothing to worry about. That it would be fine. That I didn't need to drag it up. Your ‘I'll be fine’ got Kanan shot.”
Her glare is bearing down on him just as heavy as the palace had. Zeb chews the insides of his cheeks to keep from tearing up.
“He'll be fine. But this is why I needed you to tell me the truth. So that we could handle the situation together. After I've had the chance to calm down, you and I will be having that conversation again. And I need you to be truthful with both me and yourself when we do, Garazeb Orrelios.” She leans back to set a fist on her hip. “Am I understood?”
Zeb just nods.
“You're free to go. I'll come find you when either I'm less angry with you or when dinner is ready.”
Kanan is the one who cooks. Zeb swallows harshly, his own tongue nearly choking him. “I can cook.” He goes right back to chewing the insides of his cheeks as he waits for her permission.
The pilot taps her foot for a moment of consideration. “You also have to make dessert. Something with-”
“Meiloorun?” Zeb glances back over to her nervously, but with the smallest bits of hope.
He can feel a weight lift off him slightly when she finally breaks into a soft smile.
“Yes. That's an order. Now get!” Hera slides her gaze over to Sabine, with far more patience than she had with Zeb. “Your turn.”
Zeb doesn't catch anything else Hera says as he practically leaps over his chair to bail from the cockpit. His talk was bad enough. He was not about to sit through whatever Hera and Sabine were about to have.
But he doesn't go straight to his room like told. He stops before that. He gulps as he gives the door a gentle knock. If Kanan is sleeping, he doesn't want to wake him.
“It's open.”
A breath of relief leaves his entire body when he hears the other’s chipper voice. The door whooshes, revealing Kanan laying across his bunk. His shin is bandaged twice over, and he grins at Zeb with a little wave. Probably doped up on the surely strong dose of meds Hera shoved down his throat.
That suspicion is confirmed when the man giggles at the sight of Zeb. Then he snorts, “I see you've survived the Tirade of Hera,” he's barely able to finish the sentence before dissolving off into another set of giggles and snorts.
“Stopped to check on you.” He doesn't step farther into the room. Not until Kanan waves him over as the giggle fit dies.
“I'm alive, big guy.” Kanan holds out his fist for Zeb to brush his own against.
A ‘fist bump’ as the human calls it.
Zeb crouches beside him. “I'm cooking.”
Kanan’s jaw drops in excitement. If Zeb didn't know how much Kanan loves his cooking, he would have assumed that it was an over exaggeration because of just how much of a dosage is in his system right now. “Really? Yessss.” Kanan does the smallest little shimmy of his shoulders, dragging a grin to Zeb’s lips despite himself. “You need to get me shot more often-”
Zeb can feel how his ears fall against his skull. He knows that's not what Kanan means by it, but…
The other man seems to sober up very quickly as the words slip from his tongue. “Shit! No, Zeb, I’m so-”
Zeb quickly shakes his head. “Please, don't finish speaking.” He drags his eyes back up to Kanan. “Apology’s mine.”
Kanan goes to ease himself to a more upright position and Zeb instantly moves to gently help. He adjusts the pillows behind him to bring more comfort.
“Yeah, a bit. Hera's right about how you should have been honest, but you thought you were being honest. You thought you'd be fine.” Kanan clears his throat as he sits up, his face becoming much more somber. Refined.
The expression strongly reminds Zeb of the Revered Masters he would often pass in the halls of the palace.
Sighing, Kanan relaxes against the pillows. “Would I be correct to say that you haven't been around a full explosion since back then?”
Zeb’s tongue becomes heavy again, but he nods. Before today he only would catch the scent before making himself scarce, or hear the sounds from much farther away.
“I didn't think it would-” he cuts his shaky sentence off, taking in a trembling breath. “Everything from Lasan… the following months- hit at once.”
It was the before, the during, the after. All of the time he spent grieving, the months of trying to move on, to find a footing again. All of it knocked the air from his lungs in one fell swoop. In a single moment.
“It did,” the tiredness from the day finally begins to catch up in Kanan’s voice, but he still offers his friend a soft smile. “You want to talk about it?” Kanan gently glides a knuckle affectionately over the back of one of Zeb’s hands. “We can work this out; together.”
Despite everything, a grin tugs at the corner of Zeb’s mouth as he turns his palm over to give Kanan’s hand a light squeeze.
He appreciates that Kanan is so willing to help him, but… Not just the fact that it's still so painful for Zeb to remember, but Kanan also had a long day and he knows Kanan is sensitive to strong emotions. He needs to rest and recover, not try and patch someone else up.
“I'll… come for you at dinner.” After Kanan nods, Zeb stands, their hands slowly slipping from each other's as he leaves Kanan to rest.
—---—
To re-regulate himself before he begins cooking, Zeb reorganizes the books on his shelf; reads through some of them and sounds the words out in his head as he slides each old relic into their places. Gifts, from Hera and Kanan. When he hears steps outside his door, he stands and dusts off the top of the shelf, carefully ignoring the top bunk.
The door slides open, followed by a simple, “Hey.”
Zeb takes a deep breath and turns to the kid.
The only times she doesn't have her helmet on is when she's on the ship, usually. It's only been recently that she's done so outside of her room. Even earlier, when Zeb and the kid were getting a glare down from Hera, she still had it on.
Sabine has her helmet clutched under her arm as she chews on her lip. Zeb knows that an apology is seconds away from coming from her, but.
“Look, Kid, you don't-”
“Yes, I do.” Sabine curls her lip as she glares at the ground before taking an immense amount of effort to try and soften her features.
“Sabine, I lashed out on you,” Zeb straightens his posture as much as he is allowed in the space, turning fully toward the teen. He forgets how young she is when she's always under that helmet. He swallows the knot in his throat. “It's not your fault.”
“Who’s fault it is doesn't matter, Zeb. I still made the decision to further antagonize you in the middle of an op.” She looks him in the eyes and Zeb is taken aback by the sheer brightness of the fire in her eyes. He admires it just as much as he loathes the jealousy that he has the gall to sprout from the mere sight of it. “What you did wasn't an excuse for me to push buttons.”
Zeb watches as her eyes shift over from him slightly, and the fire too shifts. From one of intense passion to a curiosity. Knowing exactly what caught her attention, Zeb does his best not to tense up. He himself hasn't been able to bring himself to even look at it since he-
“I've never seen a weapon like that one.” Sabine is so zeroed in on the item behind him that she doesn't pick up on how Zeb is failing to try and ignore her curiosity. The look of complete wonder and enthrallment on her face is nearly enough to make him forget about it all for just a moment.
Zeb looks to the cherished honor, the one he doesn't deserve to bear. He eyes Sabine out the corner of his vision. He knows that she would respect any boundary he sets without arguing. She doesn't do that often, but he knows she would for this. And the honor would still sit there. For him to continue to try and evade.
But something about the gentle curiosity she has at the mere sight of it. It makes him forget why he chooses to leave it out of reach; and it's a much better alternative than how he chose to forget before meeting the crew, and even now- trying to ignore its constant pulling and tugging for his attention.
A heavy sigh leaves his lungs as he gestures for her to sit on the lower bunk. He almost chuckles at just how quickly she moves, her foot quickly tapping as she waits patiently. Taking a deep breath, Zeb reaches to the top bunk for the first time since he was given the room.
And he hesitates.
One finger brushing against the material, an ignition of sparks is sent up his entire arm, his nerves weeping for the chance to hold it dearly once more. To cherish it. To honor it.
The warrior sends a prayer to the Ashla as his tongue slides over his fangs, doing his best to keep himself grounded. And he lifts it up, every movement and flex of muscle being fueled with an intent.
“Zeb?”
“This is a bo-rifle. Scared, honored amongst my people,” Zeb gently sits besides Sabine, his eyes never leaving his bo rifle. Because if he looks at how the curiosity has shifted to concern on her face, he'll lose his nerve and return to neglecting this. Which he still can't figure out is better or worse than it being held in his hands, in his sight.
“It's much older than anyone you'll ever meet. It's passed- earned through honorable combat. To Lasat, there is no greater reverement than to be victorious in the Boosahn Keeraw.” Zeb lays the weapon over his and Sabine's knees. He watches as her hand hovers over it and looks to him for permission. He gives her a nod and smiles as she graces the weapon with pure respect and adoration.
“It's like my armor,” her voice is hushed, but steady. Firm. “A history that flows through it.”
Zeb only nods again in response.
The sound of Sabine hesitating reaches his ears. She has a question. One he knew she would ask the moment he recognized that curiosity in her.
“You want to ask why it stays here?”
Sabine looks away from the bo-rifle, still cradling it tenderly, and up to Zeb, “if you don't-”
“I don't feel I have the right. Since… since that day, I haven't even been able to bring myself to lay eyes on it. Until now.” Zeb sucks in a shake breath, desperately trying to keep his voice even. “What honor is there to have in surviving when…” he trails off, still unable to even ask the question out loud.
“What honor is there in choosing not to fight?” The sudden bite in the mando'ade's voice snaps Zeb’s attention. The passionate fire that had been- it revives in her eyes. “This tradition has survived to outlive every single predecessor by fighting; not by being laid to rest.” Zeb can feel how her passion, her fight flows from her, into the bo-rifle, and back to him. “It would be a worse dishonor to leave her in a grave like that when she could spend her remaining days earning justice.”
The same defiant glare Zeb had felt back on the field is now visible to him in this moment.
“Bean, I lost my honor when I failed my people.”
“So earn it back!” Sabine pushes the bo-rifle into Zeb’s arms, against his chest. He can feel the sparks from the bo-rifle setting a fire in his lungs, in his heart. He hasn't felt that in such a long time. “Your predecessor passed it to you to do just that! You're still alive, so fight!”
For the first time in a little over a year, Zeb clutches the bo-rifle tightly in his hands, with a fire that warms his body.
—---—
While there's still the feeling that eats away at him, the one saying that he has no right to the borifle in his possession, there's the other one that blooms, almost apprehensive. It borders on excitement, but he can't tell if it's his own or if it belongs to the bo-rifle. She longs for combat. She can almost have it locked in her forestock- the taste of another metal challenging her.
Zeb feels his hair standing on end as he tries to stop acting like a kit about to get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He stands guard over Sabine, prepared to attack any imperial that rounds the corner. And, for the first time in well over a year, the scent of explosives doesn't make him falter nor freeze. He's antsy. He's anticipating the fight. He's excited.
“You almost done back there? Or you trying to cover every centimeter of that bleak wall?” Zeb smiles, hoping that the small jab will get Sabine to stop staring at the canvas and-
“Hush, you can't rush artistic finesse,” Sabine chides him as she continues to add more paint. “And don't turn around. I'm not done yet.”
“I can't turn around because I'm standing guard. Don't want you to be finessing away and get grabbed.” Zeb chuckles to himself, holding back the urge to start aiming at patrolling troopers off in the distance. His aim had always been the best. Accuracy unmatched.
“Come look,” Sabine's excitement matches his own as she pats the center of his spine. He turns around to see what she's been working on. And his breath freezes in his lungs.
Painted on the wall is the two of them, Sabine in all her armor, dual blasters drawn and shooting off into the distance behind then while Zeb is standing at full height, his bo-rifle in firing position to shoot at enemies in front of them, some of the most beautiful color combinations exploding between their backs to each other and out from the tips of their weapons against the bleakness of the imperial wall.
“It's… Sabine, this is great!” Zeb wishes he had the words in basic to pull from to fully express just how astounding this piece is. He never got the chance to see much of her work before she usually blows it up, runs because they were in the middle of an op with a bit of down time, or because most of her work is in her room.
“Yeah, and now it's time to blow this popsicle stand!” Sabine tugs at Zeb’s arm, “and to do that, we have to move at a safer distance away.”
Zeb spends two more seconds to finish etching the work of art into his memory before allowing the small teenage human to tug him away. Once Sabine deems that they're at far enough a distance, they turn around and she holds out the remote detonation to him.
Zeb’s eyes widen at the implication, at the offer. “Me?”
“This op was your idea, so only if you want to, Big Guy.” He doesn't even have to see her face to know how big the grin that sits there is. “Figured it could help with bracing yourself for it.”
Zeb gently plucks the pen from her, it's even smaller now that it's pinched between two of his fingers. He turns his head to the direction of the far off compound. His ears perking up, still able to picture every inch of the painting. He presses the button against the palm of his other hand and watches as the colorless compound explodes with such a wide variety of vibrance, the clouds of fire practically dancing to life and the colors blend and mix in ways he can't describe.
But karabast is it somehow even better than the painting. It wasn't until this moment that he knew why Sabine would take all the effort into her work, calculating every stroke, just to destroy it. But with those colors, the way the sight of them lights an even stronger fire of fight in his blood.
“Karabast…”
“You can say that again.”
They stay and watch the final moments of the explosion until it dies down.