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THE FARMING VILLAGE should have been empty of life forms. That’s what the scouts had told them, at least.
The township sat on Darro’s northern plain. It was marked as ‘ABANDONED’ after the Empire had stripped its moisture processors and dragged the local farmers into labor camps.
The Ghost crew was sent to recover records, piece together details of the atrocity, and track the specific whereabouts of the displaced. They had expected an empty relay site, a half-buried Imperial listening post, and maybe a few nimble probe droids if their luck was especially poor.
Instead, they found something much more dire. They found civilians trapped in the irrigation tunnels beneath the town square.
Thirty-two of them. All living in fear and squalor and in need of basic necessities.
They belonged mostly to the same few families. Children, elders, three injured farmers, and a woman close to childbirth were starving. They needed help, but dared not risk being discovered, separated, and sent to the labor camps or worse.
The Ghost crew found them when Kallus noticed an aberrant kind of dust on the relay station’s lower access hatch. No one else had seen it. Not Hera, Sabine, or even Ezra. Certainly not Zeb, who had been more concerned with the Imperial patrol sweeping the southern road.
Kallus had crouched beside the hatch, brushed two gloved fingers over the frame, and hesitated.
Zeb knew that look and that stillness. It meant Kallus could see something the others couldn’t. Something suspicious and indicative of trouble.
“What is it?” Zeb asked.
Kallus looked toward the abandoned township, then back to the hatch.
“This has been opened very recently,” he declared solemnly.
“Recently?” said Sabine, frowning. “The Empire?”
“No,” Kallus said. “The scuffing isn’t consistent with Imperial uniforms or equipment. And it’s low. I suspect civilians were here—possibly children.”
…
AFTER TEN MINUTES of cautious breaching tactics, they opened the tunnel and found the village hiding beneath itself.
Twenty minutes after that, the Imperial patrol became an Imperial assault.
Hera’s voice rang sharply over comms while blasterfire erupted through the upper streets.
“We’ve got two Imperial transports incoming from the west,” she reported. “Everyone, move now!”
Kanan was already ushering the first of the civilians toward safety. He and Ezra had uncovered an old drainage route that would take them beyond the town’s curtain wall. There, they could escape the area, undetected.
Ezra stayed near the tunnel mouth, keeping the children calm with a sort of gentle confidence that still surprised everyone.
Sabine rigged traps and smoke bombs and along the alleys to provide strategic cover.
Hera coordinated it all from the Ghost. She kept the engines warmed and ready for swift evacuation, just beyond the nearest ridge.
Zeb stood beside Kallus near a dried stone fountain in the center square, bo-rifle in hand.
“You just had to notice that damn hatch, didn’t you?” he grumbled.
Kallus glanced at him and rolled his eyes despite the mounting tension around them.
“My sincere apologies,” he said aridly, checking his weapons. “For discovering over thirty refugees in need.”
“That ain’t what I meant!” Zeb insisted.
“I know,” Kallus agreed. “But it’s what you said.”
“Ugh,” Zeb huffed, though there was no real irritation in it. “You’re a right pain in the arse.”
“Only as a rule,” Kallus said smugly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.
…
THE FIRST WAVE of stormtroopers entered the square before the last civilians had safely cleared the tunnel.
Kallus’ expression changed as soon as they arrived. All warmth vanished with the urgency of the situation. What remained was the stoic face of a man who had been raised to serve the Empire, defected from it, and then turned every bit of ruthless Imperial training back against itself.
“Zeb,” Kallus said, his voice low and focused. “Left flank. Keep them away from the tunnel.”
“Got it,” Zeb said. “And you?”
“I’ll hold the center.”
Zeb’s ears angled downward.
“The center, eh?” he asked. “By yourself? Looks dense.”
Kallus looked at him then. For half a second, the pending chaos surrounding them was muted.
“That’s because they’ve concentrated their novice troopers there,” he said. “I won’t be reckless.”
Zeb pinned him with a shrewd look.
Kallus sighed faintly.
“I will attempt to not be reckless,” he amended.
“A bit more honesty,” Zeb allowed. “But still not—”
PEW-PEW!
Then the stormtroopers opened fire, and the square became a battleground.
“No time!” Kallus shouted, rushing straight forward as Zeb turned and angled his approach.
Zeb struck the left flank like a catapulted boulder. His bo-rifle swept through ranks of shiny white armor with brutal efficiency, knocking troopers from their feet before they could get a clear shot at the entity assaulting them.
Kallus moved through the center of the square with controlled precision. He was relentless but methodical, dropping one stormtrooper after another. Strategically, he used the village’s stone fountain for cover, the market stalls for concealment, and the angle of surrounding structures to split the incoming fire into manageable lanes.
It was practical in the most terribly ironic and efficient way.
Thanks to cruel experiences before rebelling, Kallus clocked everything. He saw where the next firing squad would enter. He knew which trooper was about to arm and throw a grenade and which unwitting rookie was about to be intentionally sacrificed. He knew which sections of the wall would ricochet rounds into the wrong places. As a brilliant tactician, he acted before the threats could fully form.
But now, the process was fueled by the notion that innocents would survive because of it. His actions were not only moral but were necessary. And he would gladly carry them out in the pursuit of defying evil.
…
THE CIVILIANS ESCAPED gradually and in frantic clusters. Five made it to safety. Then seven. Then ten more.
The woman in labor was carried securely between Kanan and one of the more robust farmers. Ezra walked backward behind them with his lightsaber raised, deflecting blaster bolts with more determination than grace.
“The last of the group is on the move,” Hera informed Zeb and Kallus over comms. “We just need two more minutes.”
Two more minutes became a lifetime.
The Imperial assault intensified as soon as they realized what the Rebels were protecting so fiercely. A heavy repeater detail pushed into the northern alley. They didn’t see the explosive Sabine had concealed there earlier, and it took out the entire squad. But the surrounding structures were already weakened from the recent barrage. The blast brought two adjacent buildings down and sent a wave of heat and stone shards rolling across the main plaza.
Zeb felt it when the shockwave hit. He staggered and cursed, but managed to stay upright on sturdy, digitigrade legs.
Kallus was fighting closer to the danger. The blast shook the air like a doormat and flung him violently into the fountain’s stone base. His body rebounded and landed unforgivingly on the paved bricks with a heavy thud.
“Kallus!” Zeb shouted, worried that the brutal impact had incapacitated the man.
But Kallus pushed himself upright after only a few moments of idleness. He wasn’t out of the fight, but Zeb could see what that blast had cost him.
Kallus’ left arm hung wrongly for one breathless second before he clamped it tight against his side. Blood ran down from a cut at his temple, bright ruby against fair, freckled skin and dust-streaked blond hair. He was winded and blinking fiercely to try to regain his bearings.
Kallus caught Zeb observing him. He nodded vaguely and flashed Zeb the hand signal for ‘OKAY.”
It’s minor, he was assuring Zeb without saying it. I’ll manage.
Zeb hated knowing that the first notion was probably a sham. But, regardless, he knew the latter was the absolute truth.
Thankfully, it seemed the situation might end soon. Because, elsewhere, the last of the civilians had safely cleared the tunnel.
“They’re out!” Kanan reported over comms. “All clear. Zeb, Kallus, fall back!”
Relief hit so sharply that Zeb nearly lost focus. This battle was about to be over and won, and they could flee and help transport the victims to a safe haven.
With thoughts of the many lives saved and of celebrating another insane victory, he was actually on the verge of grinning.
Until the second blast came, much larger than the first.
An Imperial mortar shell whistled in flight, then struck the far side of the square. It tore their world open in blinding heat and shattered stone.
Zeb had just enough time to see Kallus turn and lunge toward him.
“Zeb!” he’d shouted. “Get d—!”
Then the square disappeared.
….
…
……
…
KALLUS REGAINED AWARENESS in jagged pieces.
First, he registered the dust. A sickly pinkish-gray blanket of it coated everything like snowfall. It filled his mouth, his nose, the back of his throat. He coughed and instantly regretted it as pain wrenched through his neck and down into his chest.
Then came sound.
There was distant blaster fire and the clattering and whooshing of heavy stone and rubble shifting. A high ringing in his ears made everything else seem far, far away.
Then he sensed living weight. It wasn’t on him, but near him.
Kallus blinked until the gray haze resolved into the ruined remains of the town square. The fountain had been split down the middle. Market stalls had been reduced to burning wreckage. Homes and shops had been flattened. Half the street had collapsed into the irrigation channels below, creating a congealing river of sludge and wreckage.
He peered through the chaos to find what he’d been pursuing when the mortar hit. An uneven mass of dust-coated purple fur caught his eye.
It was Zeb. He lay several meters away, unconscious.
For one terrible second, Kallus couldn’t move at all. Then, panic ebbed when he saw Zeb’s chest rise and brow furrow.
Alive.
Zeb was alive. The mission reassembled itself around that single piece of information. The relief he felt was so intense it nearly unmade him.
But it was clear that Zeb needed help. Kallus tried to stand. Though he didn’t make it very far, he did gather several facts from the attempt.
He knew his left arm was broken, fractured badly, and inoperative. The pain was bright and nauseating, radiating from his forearm to his shoulder and pulsing at his elbow whenever he shifted. At least one rib was broken as well, possibly more. His lower right leg shrieked beneath him when he put weight on it. And something was wrong with his ankle. His vision blurred at the edges.
He automatically cataloged each symptom and the most obvious injuries.
Then he dismissed them and prepared to stand. Zeb was unconscious in the open, and stormtroopers were regrouping beyond the smoke. That was the only relevant fact.
Kallus pushed himself to his feet. He made it three steps before his leg and ankle gave out.
He hit the ground hard enough to make him groan before he could stifle it. The guttural expletive halted when he bit down on it, but it embarrassed him anyway. Pain had become less specific now, no longer attributed to a list of injuries, more a state of existence.
He gnashed his teeth and breathed through it.
Once.
Twice.
Then he started crawling.
The ground was littered with shattered stone and searing metal debris. Every movement pulled at his injured midsection. His broken arm remained useless, clutched against his chest, which left him dragging himself one-handed. It was far from ideal.
But he was driven to make it to Zeb. And he was being masterfully propelled by the stubborn refusal to stop.
He would be by Zeb’s side, at the ready, no matter what. That was the only option.
So Kallus persisted.
…
BY THE TIME he reached the wounded Lasat, Kallus’ vision was tunneling. But he powered through it, resolved to do what he could to help Zeb.
Upon cursory assessment, Zeb was bleeding from a gash along his scalp, and his left ear had been badly scorched. One shoulder had taken the worst of the blast impact, and his breathing was too shallow for Kallus’ liking. But at least he was alive and perhaps not injured beyond possible full recovery.
Alive, yet still completely unconscious and too exposed.
Kallus knew he’d first have to find them adequate cover before he could render aid. He fisted his able hand into the front of Zeb’s padded jumpsuit and pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled!
Nothing happened.
Inert as he was, Zeb’s bodyweight presented a cumbersome challenge. With a standing height well over two meters, the fearsome warrior was long of limb and dense with muscle, strapping even among a species renowned for their physical prowess and physique.
Under better circumstances, Kallus could have easily moved his limp comrade with leverage, technique, and time. Under current circumstances, with a broken arm, injured ribs, and one leg threatening to fold, dragging Zeb to safety felt almost impossible.
Almost impossible. But never.
Kallus dug his boots against the fractured stone surrounding them and pulled again.
This time, he moved Zeb several inches. He nearly blacked out from the effort. But he did it again.
And again.
And again.
…
WHEN HE FINALLY dragged Zeb behind the collapsed retaining wall, Kallus was shaking so badly that he could barely maintain his grip. He lowered Zeb as carefully and effectively as he could against the makeshift shield, then positioned himself between Zeb and the advancing Imperial line.
Dragging Zeb to a more protected location must have taken much longer than he thought. Just as Kallus was about to try to rouse Zeb and perform some first aid, he realized that Imperials had recovered and were advancing on their position.
Dammit, he cursed to himself. He would have to take out more troopers before he could tend to Zeb. He found that extremely irritating.
There was also blood dripping inconveniently into Kallus’ left eye now. He scrubbed it away with the heel of his right hand and reached for his blaster.
The holster was empty.
Kallus looked back toward where he’d found Zeb, and saw it lying half-buried in rubble several meters away.
Too far.
A stormtrooper rounded the smoky, dust-covered street.
Kallus picked up a jagged piece of durasteel instead.
The first trooper never saw the strike coming.
But the second one did. Kallus took a rifle butt to the ribs and nearly went down over Zeb’s unconscious body. But he turned the fall into momentum, rolled sideways over Zeb, then drove the durasteel shard into the gap at the back of the stormtrooper's knee. When the trooper staggered, Kallus drove the shard up into the trooper’s neck. Then, he ripped the E-11 blaster rifle from his hands as he shoved the soldier away.
Kallus resumed his post directly above Zeb, where he lay. He sank into a protective firing stance and lined up the sights. After that, the fight narrowed to one simple rule.
Not one single enemy combatant would reach Zeb.
Not the rookie trying to flank them from the right.
Not the ground officer shouting for someone to secure prisoners.
Not the sergeant who spotted Zeb’s motionless form and signaled for his squad to move in.
Kallus killed that one with the last round left in the stolen blaster.
When the gas cartridge clicked empty, he swung the rifle into the next trooper’s visor. It knocked him back long enough for Kallus to heave a chunk of duracrete into him, sending him crashing into a broken pillar.
The respite was short-lived and wasn't significantly restorative to Kallus' energy. He was swaying now and trembling. His arm throbbed horribly, and every breath was wet with dust and pain.
Still, he guarded Zeb. Natural competence and years of rigorous training had made Kallus into a formidable fighter. Honor, newfound purpose, and love now made him unstoppable.
And unstoppable he would remain. It was comforting, really, to perceive his universe as simplified and reduced to one explicit objective.
Protect Zeb.
He would protect Zeb. And there was nothing that could come between them now.
…
HE DIDN’T KNOW how long the attack lasted or how long he remained there, hunkered over Zeb like something feral and dangerous. But it was long enough for the stormtroopers to understand his tenacity and skill, and stop advancing so carelessly.
By now, much of the dust of destruction had settled, and the smoke of the battle was starting to thin. Suddenly, Kallus realized that he was probably still standing only because the damaged fountain wall was behind him and Zeb’s life was at his feet.
He was mentally preparing himself to defend against another assault when Hera’s voice crackled through his comm, warped with static.
“This is Spectre-2,” she said, her wartime experience begetting controlled urgency. “Zeb, Kallus, do you copy?”
Kallus fumbled for the comm at his belt. His fingers were tingling and numb.
He managed to press the key to transmit on the third attempt.
“This is Kallus,” he rasped.
“Oh, thank—” Hera’s relief was audible before it sharpened into something commanding. “Where are you?”
“Town square. Eastern side.” He reported the easy part first, and then continued. “Zeb’s down.”
There was a pause.
“How bad?” Hera asked.
Kallus looked down at Zeb. Still unconscious but still breathing, and more easily now.
“Unconscious and unresponsive after that last mortar. Head wound. Probable shoulder injury. Visible burns, too. His breathing was shallow but has improved.”
“Copy,” she acknowledged. “And you?”
Kallus looked at the stormtroopers regrouping again through the haze.
“Not critical,” he reported. “I’m mobile and providing cover.”
That was technically true in the loosest possible sense.
Sabine’s voice cut in on the network.
“That report seems kinda vague for your standards,” she said, unconvinced of his status.
“It will suffice for now,” he asserted. “Tactically, we’re in decline. We need back-up or extraction or both.”
Suddenly, Zeb stirred faintly at his feet, and Kallus’ attention shifted.
“Zeb—!”
The Lasat’s eyes didn’t open, but his brow furrowed again, and his ears twitched. A low, pained growl escaped him.
Kallus lowered himself beside him too quickly and nearly collapsed. He cupped Zeb’s face with his useful hand, thumb brushing carefully over blood-matted fur near his temple.
“Zeb,” Kallus said again, urgently. “Zeb! Garazeb, can you hear me?”
Zeb didn’t wake fully, but he stirred. He turned his head toward Kallus’ voice and nuzzled weakly into the man’s palm.
That tender movement almost broke Kallus emotionally. Almost made him remiss in his mission to defend and ensure Zeb would survive.
But when blaster fire whined through the square again, Kallus rallied. He shifted instantly, draping his own body over Zeb’s upper torso and head as laser bolts peppered the stone around them.
One struck close enough that heat burned across Kallus’ back. He curled tighter over Zeb, jaw clenched, broken arm pinned uselessly between them.
“This is nothing,” Kallus promised Zeb, though he wasn’t sure if Zeb could hear him. “Let them see what happens if they dare try—”
The atmosphere above the square shuddered, and the Ghost arrived like a clap of thunder.
Hera brought the ship in dangerously low over the plaza, scattering nearby stormtroopers with the force of the thrusters during descent. Sabine fired from the ramp. Kanan leapt down first, lightsaber ignited, cutting through the carnage to locate and secure them. Ezra followed, clearing the path with controlled fury.
“Zeb!” Ezra shouted. “Kallus!”
Kallus lifted his head. The world tilted.
Kanan reached him just as he tried to rise and failed.
“Don’t move,” Kanan said sternly, dropping beside them. “Don’t—you’re both hurt badly.”
“Zeb first,” Kallus said.
“Kallus,” Sabine warned. “You’re—”
“Zeb first.”
“Okay,” Kanan promised, kneeling at Zeb’s side. “We have him.”
Kallus understood, but his body didn’t want to obey. He remained braced protectively over Zeb, unable to stand down.
Kanan gripped his shoulder.
“Sander,” he said gently. “You did your part. Let us take it from here.”
Sander.
The nickname reached him through the fog and bridged the gap between thought and action.
Kallus blinked at him. Then, finally, he let his weight shift back so that Kanan could move in and extract Zeb.
The moment he did move, the very last of his strength departed without warning. Ezra, probably sensing it before it happened, caught him awkwardly with both arms.
Kallus detested the small, broken groan that escaped when the teen embraced him.
Sabine appeared beside them, too.
“Careful!” she said. “You still with us?”
Kallus tried to answer, really, he did. It would have been rude not to. And unproductive. But no words came.
The extraction blurred after that.
He remembered Zeb being lifted onto a hover stretcher. Remembered trying to make sure they supported his head. Remembered Hera saying his name—not Kallus, but Sander, sharp and frightened from the Ghost’s access ramp. Remembered someone trying to guide him onto a second stretcher, but refusing because he needed to see Zeb.
He felt a moment of weightlessness as darkness descended and finally claimed him.
…
KALLUS CAME TO in muted fragments as Ghost’s bright medbay lights flickered above him. The onboard medical droid had been activated, and he could sense it nearby, scanning and assessing him.
That was never promising.
“Patient presents with severe blunt force trauma,” the droid announced. “Left humerus and radial head fractures. Multiple rib fractures. Moderate concussion. Right tibia fracture with ankle sprain. Multiple superficial contusions and lacerations. Advanced imaging recommended. Transfer to medical frigate advised for full orthopedic intervention and bacta treatment.”
Kallus blinked slowly. The report was predictable and bland. He was much more interested in the shape lying on the adjacent surface.
“Zeb,” he whispered.
Hera appeared above him, face drawn with worry.
“He’s hanging in there. Concussion, dislocated shoulder, some burns, and lots of bruising. He’ll need some stitches, too. The droid stabilized him.”
“Still unconscious?”
“Yes.”
That wasn’t good.
Kallus tried to sit up, but pain and exhaustion erased the room.
…
When awareness returned, Hera had one hand on his uninjured shoulder and was pressing him firmly back to the bunk.
“Relax,” she said.
“Hera—”
“No,” she insisted. “You need to lie down.”
“But Zeb—”
“I said lie back, Captain Kallus,” Hera commanded.
Kallus relented, the soldier in him responding to the order from a beloved superior.
“Whoa,” Ezra muttered from somewhere nearby. “That was terrifying, Hera.”
“Good,” Sabine, also somewhere nearby, commented. “He needed that.”
Kallus turned his head, needing to get a good look at Zeb despite the pain it caused.
Zeb lay on the neighboring bunk, one shoulder immobilized, bandage wrapped around his head and temple. His eyes were closed. His breathing was rough but steady.
Zeb was alive.
And safe.
Kallus closed his eyes, and sleep pulled him under.
…
HE COULD HAVE sworn he’d only shut his eyes for a mere second. But when he opened them again, Zeb was sitting up, looking at him.
His green eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and bright with pain, but fixed on Kallus with unmistakable alarm.
“Sander?” he called. “Hey, you awake?”
Kallus’ breath hitched. He’d sorely missed that deep, gruff voice.
“Zeb,” he answered hoarsely. “Are you alright?”
Zeb tried to move.
The med-droid objected. Almost everyone else objected too. Sabine cursed. Ezra made a distressed sound.
Kallus would have told him to stay still, but that would have been hypocritical beyond measure.
Zeb managed to turn partially onto his side. His hand reached across the narrow space between the bunks, broad fingers trembling slightly.
Kallus lifted his good hand.
Their fingers met halfway.
Zeb’s grip closed carefully around his.
“You’re fucked up, mate,” Zeb said, voice rough and faint.
“So are you.”
“Not nearly as bad as you,” Zeb complained. “So who cares.”
“I care,” Kallus said. “And my opinions supersede yours.”
“That right?” Zeb said dryly, squeezing Kallus’ hand more tightly. “We’ll spar about that later.”
“Much later,” Kallus said, lacing his fingers between Zeb’s and smirking deviously. “You’re in no condition to best me, Lasat.”
“Oho, yeah?” Zeb replied with a chuckle. “Lucky me, you’re such an honorable human. And so self-aware.”
They shared another wry grin between them before Zeb’s gaze turned serious.
“You dragged me, didn’t you?” Zeb said. “Then, fought a whole platoon of bucketheads. Arm and leg fucked up and all.”
“Yes,” Kallus admitted. There wouldn’t be any use in trying to deceive him.
“How badly did it suck?” asked Zeb, already knowing it must have been agonizing. “Scale of one to five.”
“Well, it wasn’t convenient,” Kallus allowed. “You’re quite heavy.”
Zeb gazed at him fondly. Then a weak, breathless laugh escaped him, quickly turning into a wince.
“You’re an absolute lunatic,” the Lasat said proudly. “Y’know that, yeah?
Kallus quirked a smile at him.
“I dragged you,” he said with mock affrontery, “and you’re insulting me?”
“’ Course I am,” Zeb reasoned. “Figured it’d reassure you.”
“It actually does,” Kallus allowed.
Temporarily lost in each other’s company, neither of them noticed when the ship’s med-droid approached. It moved between them with an autoinjector, and Kallus tensed at the sight of it.
Zeb noticed.
“Easy, mate,” Zeb murmured soothingly. “Take it easy. Just let droid do its job.”
Kallus looked at him.
He wanted to argue. He wanted to say that the pain was manageable, that his own injuries could wait, and that Zeb needed care more urgently. He wanted to insist they conserve their medical supplies and not squander them on the man who had once hunted them to earn his living.
Instead, Kallus remained silent when Zeb’s thumb brushed softly across the back of his hand.
It was a small, unspoken request.
Stay. Accept help, Zeb expressed through tenderness. You’re one of us now. So let yourself be cared for too.
Kallus looked back at the med-droid.
“Proceed,” he yielded with a sigh.
The injected medications dulled the worst edges of the pain but soon brought heavy drowsiness with it. Kallus fought it for several minutes, watching Zeb as the Ghost jumped toward the nearest medical frigate. Zeb watched him back, stubborn even while concussed and injured, refusing to close his eyes until Kallus did so first.
“You should sleep,” Kallus whispered.
“So should you,” Zeb insisted.
“You need it more.”
Though they’d been giving the injured men partial privacy, every other person in the compartment made their frustration known when Kallus said that. Sarcasm or not, the statement wasn’t going to be tolerated at the moment. Even Chopper, from the doorway, emitted a flat, derisive beep.
“Ha!” Zeb said smugly. “Outnumbered, Sander.”
“So it would seem,” Kallus huffed.
A tremor moved through him then, pain or shock or exhaustion finally breaking through the discipline he had used to drag Zeb through rubble and guard him with his own body. He tried to hide it.
“Hey,” Zeb said softly, noticing anyway.
Kallus closed his eyes, humiliated by the weakness.
“I’m alright.”
“You’re not,” Zeb told him. “But you’re here, yeah? With us. With…with me.”
That was an important distinction. One Kallus might have missed, once. One that made a warm, gooey sensation blossom inside his chest.
Zeb shifted with visible effort, then tugged gently on Kallus’ hand.
“Closer,” Zeb murmured.
Hera overheard that and objected.
“Zeb, no, you both need to stay still,” she said gently.
“C’mon. Just—let us be closer,” Zeb said, more quietly. “Please.”
Kallus opened his eyes.
Hera looked at them for a long moment. The, she sighed in the long-suffering way of seasoned captains, older siblings, and people who knew that ‘best medical practice’ was about to be thwarted by stubbornness and emotional necessity.
“Fine,” she relented. “But carefully.”
With Hera and Ezra’s help, they adjusted the bunks just close enough that Zeb could reach him properly. Zeb couldn’t move much without pain. Kallus could move even less. But somehow, with a ridiculous number of pillows, blankets, muttered warnings from the med-droid, and Sabine telling them they were both absurd, Zeb managed to curl one arm around Kallus’ shoulders.
Not tightly. Not enough to further harm any of their injuries, but just enough.
Kallus stiffened at first, trying to get comfortable and worrying about Zeb’s comfort, too.
Then Zeb nuzzled gently against his hair.
“I’ve got you,” Zeb whispered.
The words poured over him like warmth. Kallus exhaled cautiously and let himself lean into the careful shelter of Zeb’s body. It should not have helped as much as it did. None of it was conducive to any medical guidelines.
But Zeb was warm, and his fur was musky and soft.
Zeb was breathing deeply and evenly again.
Zeb was holding him.
Kallus’ muscles eased by degrees.
Zeb felt it and hummed softly, his large hand settling at the back of Kallus’ neck with impossible gentleness.
“There we go,” Zeb murmured, his voice low and melodic. “That’s it, Sander. Get some rest.”
Kallus relaxed fully and began to drift peacefully.
“I’ve got you, mate,” Zeb repeated, pressing his face gently into Kallus’ hair again. “I’ve got you.”
Kallus sighed happily.
Then, he slept.
