Chapter Text
Staring up at the ceiling of his bunk, Kanan couldn’t help but think about how the day hadn’t even begun and he already wanted it to be over.
He’d been awake for some time now. His only companions being the silence of early morning on the Ghost and the dread sitting heavy in his chest. He’d collapsed into bed the night before, shadowed by a similar feeling, knowing that when he woke, it would be Empire Day.
In the past, at his lowest points, he’d gotten through the anniversary of the Purge by drinking himself into oblivion or getting into bar brawls or by distracting himself by falling into bed with the first person who accepted his advances. The first couple years after that fateful day, when he was too young and naïve to partake in such activities, the day had been nothing short of miserable as he tried—and failed—to forget.
Now, ten years to the day, the ache between his ribs was already worse than it had been in a long time. It was miserably reminiscent of those early years, and his fingers itched to have a glass of something strong between them.
But he’d made a promise to Hera when he joined her crew a little over a year ago now that he would sober up. It had been pretty rough—rougher than he’d expected. But he’d been sober for almost four months now. He didn’t want to screw that up.
With a slow exhale, Kanan pulled himself out of bed and readied for the day, hoping Hera had a lengthy list of chores to keep him occupied. They’d landed in a spaceport in one of the smaller cities on Toprawa late last night, which usually meant there were errands to be done come morning.
He found her in the cockpit, datapad in hand.
“Hey,” he greeted, settling into the copilot’s seat as he handed her a cup of caf.
“Hey,” she echoed, taking the warm mug from his hand.
He watched a content smile grow on her face as she sipped at the caf. The early morning sun shining through the viewport soaked her in warm yellow light. For a moment, the tightness in his chest eased.
She’s beautiful here, he thought, totally at ease in the safety of the Ghost.
But that was another thing they’d agreed upon when he’d first joined the crew. He hadn’t tried to hide his initial attraction to her after they met on Gorse, but she’d made it clear that wasn’t the kind of company she was looking for. He’d automatically taken a few steps back, cutting out almost all flirtatious remarks from their conversations. Almost.
He still teased her from time to time, but usually after she made the first move, and usually in such a way where he made a fool of himself in the process. If only because he knew it would make her smile. Whether or not she ever returned his feelings—which definitely hadn’t gone away like he’d hoped, and, in fact, had seemed to only have gotten stronger—didn’t seem to matter as much when she smiled at him.
All that aside, it was her friendship he valued most of all. And that’s what he wanted more than any requited feelings: to be her friend. And she was—well. He was pretty sure she was his best friend.
He’d never really ever had a best friend before, so he wasn’t exactly sure what the parameters were to be the best of someone’s. But it felt true enough. He determined he’d keep his feelings for her quiet forever if that’s what it took to stay by her side.
“Kanan?”
“Sorry—what?” he blinked, refocusing.
Hera was looking at him with slight bemusement. The look shifted to one of concern as she scanned his face. “Are you okay?” When he didn’t answer right away, her tone softened further. “With it being Empire Day and all, I know it’s not exactly a good day for you, but… you’d tell me if you needed anything, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly, taking a sip of his caf, then another. He made it the same way he did every day, but the liquid tasted especially bitter as it slid down his throat. “I’m fine. Didn’t sleep that great, is all. But nothing I can’t handle.”
Hera watched him a moment longer, seemingly unconvinced.
“Is that a shopping list?” he asked, hoping to distract from her scrutinization.
“Uh, yeah.” She glanced down at the datapad resting in her lap. “Just a short one. I already sent Chopper out to pick up the fuel shipment we ordered, so he should be back with that shortly. I’m expecting a call from Fulcrum later, so I was going to wait to pick up the rest until I hear back.”
Kanan nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show. “Is there anything I can do until then? Might as well do everything we can while we’re on the ground.”
Her brows rose. “The lack of sleep must be going to your brain or something. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this eager to do busy work.”
He shot her a grin. “I aim to please. Plus, you hired me on as crew. I’m just trying to do my crew thing.”
“Uh-huh.” Hera shook her head and made a few taps on the datapad. “Well, crewmate, you’re in luck. The internal comm system needs to be rewired—new wires are in the small cargo hold. There are a few things with the hyperdrive too....”
She listed off a few more items, showing Kanan the datapad before sending the information to his own tablet. They finished their caf, and Kanan went to work.
As he worked, he found the local music station on his portable radio. Attempting to drown out his thoughts, he turned it up as high as he dared without risking Hera shouting at him to turn it down.
He took breaks here and there to grab some more caf, praying the caffeine would combat the urge to walk to the nearest corner shop and grab a bottle of Corellian whiskey. He made lunch for him and Hera after finishing his rewiring project, but ate quickly so he could get started on cleaning the hyperdrive. Ignoring the worried look Hera gave him, he rushed off again, fourth cup of caf in hand.
Kanan hadn’t been surprised when she’d asked him about Empire Day. After all, the day meant something to her too. The end of the war, of the Republic, held different meaning for her, but it had spelled doom for her world all the same. Ryloth had suffered greatly during the Clone War, and with the rise of the Empire, her planet had been among the first in the Outer Rim to be occupied by Imperial forces.
He knew she had lost family to the violence and destruction that came to Ryloth during the war and after, but he didn’t know a lot of details. She’d never pushed him to talk about his past more than he wanted to—though he knew she was curious—and he’d paid her the same respect.
Still, in the year that he’d known her, he’d barely told her a thing about his Jedi past. She knew that he survived the Purge, of course, and he’d mentioned something about the Temple or his Master once or twice in passing. But everything else…he wasn’t ready for. Ten years and it still hurt too much to think about, much less talk about.
It was midafternoon by the time he finished cleaning and running the last of the hyperdrive diagnostics. Kanan found Hera in the common area, sitting at the dejarik table, head propped in her hand as she scrolled through items on her datapad. Chopper was across from her, switching the holochess game on and off as he grumbled a series of beeps about wanting to play a match.
“In a bit, Chop,” Hera muttered at the droid, in a tone of voice that suggested Chopper had been nagging. She lifted her head as he entered, one side of her mouth pulling up into a quiet smile.
Kanan squeezed past Chopper and slid into the booth next to her, ignoring the astromech’s attempts at getting him to play. “Have you heard from Fulcrum yet?”
She shook her head. “Nothing except a message that they’re postponing sending the intel until tomorrow. You okay to stay in port for one more day?”
“It’s not a problem,” he said with a shrug. Though, the thought of being idle for the rest of the day agitated him. The collar of his sweater suddenly seemed too tight around his neck. “Is there anything else I can do while we wait?”
“As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm for working today, we’ve kind of checked everything off the list. Unless you plan on giving the Ghost a full wax, there’s not much else to do.”
Kanan’s mouth twisted. He was half tempted to take her up on that, but he wasn’t quite desperate enough to wax the entire hull. He cast his eyes down, avoiding Hera’s gaze.
“What about the list you put together earlier?” he asked, motioning towards her datapad. “I know it’s not the most convenient to run out for supplies twice if we end up having to do it tomorrow, but I don’t mind.”
She slid the tablet towards him, and he quickly scanned and memorized the few items they needed. Mostly more rations and caf, along with some first aid supplies and a fresh pack of air filters.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.
Kanan almost said yes—he should have said yes—but bit his tongue at the last second. He’d spent Empire Day alone for so many years; he just wasn’t used to having someone else around for it. He told himself that’s why he wanted to be alone now.
He twisted his head and gave her a crooked smile. “Nah, I’ll be all right.”
“Well, maybe Chopper could go with then?”
Chopper started to make a warble of protest, but Kanan lifted a hand to quiet him before looking at Hera again. “I’ll be okay on my own. It’s just a quick run and I’ll be back before you know it. Promise.”
Hera pinched her lips together, like she was deciding whether not to insist. But with a soft exhale, she relented. “Okay.”
“I can make dinner when I get back,” he told her, sliding out of his seat. “And Chop we can play a couple games after.”
Chopper lifted a metal arm and pointed the pincer at Kanan, grumbling out in binary, I’m holding you to that.
Kanan threw on an oversized jacket to fit over his pauldron, pocketed some credits and an extra blaster. He was about to step over the threshold of his cabin, but he glanced back at the storage drawer beneath his bunk. For a moment, his thoughts drifted to his lightsaber.
He hadn’t used the saber since that day on Kaller—his blaster the only weapon he brought with him in public. He’d spent so long concealing who he truly was that carrying even that little piece of his past with him felt like too much.
No, not today, he thought with a shake of his head. Best to just leave that part of his past buried.
The door to his room slid shut and he walked to the lowered ramp of the Ghost where Hera was waiting to see him off. Her arms were crossed over her chest, lekku a little stiffer than normal.
Kanan touched her arm briefly. “My comm is on, and I’ll be back before the parade starts.”
“Be safe,” was all she said.
Kanan raised two fingers in salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”
Hera rolled her eyes, but the start of a smile curled at the corners of her mouth. “Get outta here. And while you’re at it, pick me up some of those chocolate truffles I like, or the spiced cookies with the cream in the middle.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He shot her one last smile and then turned down the ramp.
::
Despite his promises to be quick, Kanan took the long way into the center of the space port town. The air was mild, and it did help to cool his heated skin.
Pleasant night for a parade, he thought bitterly.
But the fresh air he’d so desperately wanted an hour ago also served as a reminder of the weeks he’d spent on the run. After their clone unit killed his master, he’d fled to Plateau City, taking shelter in alleys, gutters, and rundown buildings. He’d scrounged for scraps out of dumpsters; and he hardly dared to beg from the locals, for fear he would be recognized in his padawan robes. Even sleep had been elusive in those weeks. Sleeping put him in danger—it gave the clones hunting him the opportunity to catch up. And if they’d caught him, he would’ve been executed like every other Jedi across the galaxy.
He didn’t like thinking about those weeks he’d spent hungry, cold, terrified, and so very alone—but it was better than the alternative.
The alternative meant thinking about a night under the stars at the end of the war, before it had been broken apart by blaster fire. The alternative meant being haunted by the sight of his master, facedown in the dirt with smoking blaster holes in her back—
Kanan balled his shaking hands into fists, shoving them into his coat pockets as he quickly pushed those memories away.
Not for the first time that day he longed for a cold glass in his hands. He knew his master would tell him the best way to understand his emotions would be to face them head on. And in doing so, master those emotions, rise above them. He would never be able to move forward until he was honest with himself.
But if he was being honest—If he looked inwards—he was a tangled mess of grief and guilt and doubt and self-loathing. He hated himself for leaving his master’s side, even when she’d told him to. After all, what kind of future Jedi was he if he didn’t stand his ground and fight? But he’d obeyed her orders, because she was his master and he was the padawan.
And now she was dead, and he was alive, and he hated himself for surviving. (He hated himself even more to think what she would say to that.)
But, if he was truly being honest—what he hated himself for most was that he didn’t think about Master Billaba much at all.
He didn’t want to think about her, and all the ways he’d let her down. Didn’t want to think about how disappointed in him she would be. She’d given her life for him, and he’d spent years betraying everything he’d been taught growing up in the Temple, and at her side. Once he’d become Master’s Billaba’s padawan, he’d only ever sought to make her proud.
But if she could see him now… The theft and lies and cons, those he could justify for his own survival. Less so the drinking and gambling and bar fights, the flirting with strangers until they took him to bed, and he left without a goodbye.
Joining Hera’s crew was the most stable and secure he’d felt in years. And the best he’d felt about himself, too. But it still didn’t change the fact that when he thought about that fateful day, ten years ago, one damning word rose above all the rest: coward.
He’d been a coward then, and he was a coward now, trying to outrun the past without asking for a helping hand, even when Hera had offered it.
He sighed through his nose. He should just turn around and go back to the Ghost.
But he’d gotten so good at running away over the past decade that he didn’t entirely know how to stop.
Kanan hadn’t realized he’d walked so far until he exited the alley onto the main thoroughfare. The town’s main street was already bustling with activity in anticipation of the parade that would start once the planet’s singular sun set. Vendors hawked their wares, city workers strung up lights and Imperial flags down the center promenade, and he caught sight of a few stormtroopers milling farther down the road, closer to the town square.
“Kriff,” he muttered under his breath. He should’ve expected there to be this many people out already. On one hand, the crowds wandering about would make it easier to blend in. But that didn’t totally ease the feeling like there was a neon sign above his head blinking out, Jedi! Jedi! You missed one! Come kill the Jedi!
Kanan blew out a breath, mentally going over the list of items Hera had given him. He decided to try and find the sweets she’d requested first, since those were more likely to sell out on a day like today.
He tried a few different stalls before finding the cookies she wanted. He paid for a box of cookies and a pouch of chocolate candies and tucked them into the satchel he had slung across his body. He smiled a little to himself, picturing Hera’s face when he gave her the sweets.
It was early evening, the sun just starting its descent towards the horizon, when he finished purchasing the bulk crates of rations and caf. He hadn’t been able to find a place for air filters or first aid supplies just yet, and figured those shops would be on a nearby street.
As he counted out credits, loud laughter and a small crash drew his attention. On instinct—one that he’d long thought dead—his hand darted to his left hip—where his lightsaber would normally hang.
Kanan scowled inwardly as he turned to see what had grabbed his attention. Just off the main street, a few buildings down, he saw a couple locals stumbling, clearly inebriated, towards one of the street food stalls on the corner.
“Empire Day,” the supplier—a middle-aged woman with dark skin and tight curls of hair—said with a shrug as Kanan turned back to her. “The more sympathetic locals usually start the festivities early. They’re a bit of a nuisance, but make for good business.”
“I’ll bet,” Kanan agreed with a quiet huff. He spared one last glance at the small group, the gleam of credits in their hands as they started ordering from the food stalls. His eyes shifted to the cantina they’d come from, his mouth suddenly dry. He looked at the supplier. “Do you have courier droids that can take this stuff back to my ship for me?”
The woman nodded. “‘Course.” She added the fee to Kanan’s total, and he handed her the payment.
The supplier called one of her droids forward and they loaded the supplies onto a hovercart.
“Spectre 1 to Spectre 2,” he said, grabbing his comm.
Hera answered immediately, almost like she’d been waiting with her comm in hand for him to contact her. “I copy, Spectre 1. What is it?”
“I’m sending a courier droid to you with half the supplies. It’s taking a bit longer than expected with the crowds, but I should be back shortly with the rest.”
There was a pause, and he could practically see her worrying at her bottom lip. Then, in an even tone, “Do you want me to come meet you?”
“It’s okay, I can finish up on my own. I’m fine, Hera, really.” The lie rolled from his tongue before he could think twice about it. He cringed at the sudden bitter taste in his mouth. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself either, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay.” Her voice sounded much less certain this time. “Just…keep your comm on. Please. And be careful—there’s Imps—”
“Pretty much everywhere,” he laughed. “I know. I’ll be careful. Spectre 1, out.”
He clipped his comm back onto his belt, a slight waver in his hand. Kanan watched the courier droid roll farther away, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He looked down the cross street towards the cantina. More streetlamps and neon signs were starting to light up, and he could see several other bars in the same vicinity as the one the locals had stepped out of before.
Just one drink, he told himself. He’d been good for a couple months now. He could handle one drink. It would be enough to take the edge off, and then he could finish his errands and head back to the Ghost for the night.
With a sharp exhale, Kanan headed towards the line of cantinas. He avoided the one the locals had come from—if it was a popular spot for the pro-Empire townies, it wasn’t a place he wanted to be. Most places were regulated by the Empire nowadays, but if he could find one that was quieter, he would feel a little more at ease.
After wandering for a bit, he finally found a suitable looking cantina—called Bottom o’ the Barrel—two blocks off main street, albeit a little closer to the town square. The street it was on had a couple other bars and a nightclub that seemed to be attracting bigger crowds as the sun continued to go down.
Just as he was about to enter, Kanan grabbed his comm and weighed it in the palm of his hand. He wouldn’t be in the cantina long… Hera could scold him later if she wanted. He switched the comm off and clipped it back to his belt, stepping into the bar.
The cantina was moderately sized and at about half occupancy. Patrons occupied many of the tables near the door, chattering over their drinks and the music filtering low through the speakers. There was loud laughter to his right, and he saw a group of six nearly knock over their table as things started to get heated with their game of sabacc.
The place was warmly lit with yellow lights sunk into the ceiling, with some additional neon signs decorating the walls. A few secluded booths made up the front two corners of the establishment, with the rest of the floor being occupied with mismatched tables of various sizes and materials.
In the back corners, behind the bar, the left side had a door leading to what he assumed was the ‘freshers, the right door—which was cracked open to let in some fresh air—revealed the darkened alley behind the building.
Kanan eased his way past the tables on the main floor, sidestepping as a waitress droid, balancing two trays stacked with drinks, rolled past him smoothly with a polite, Excuse me, in Basic.
He had avoided bars while he’d been sobering up. Sometimes Hera’s contacts would request to meet in a cantina, and she always took those meets herself, having him stay on the ship if she deemed it safe enough, or having him stay outside if she thought back-up was necessary.
But there was a familiarity to the smell of booze and the din of conversation that instantly put him a little more at ease.
Just one drink, he reminded himself as he stepped up to the bar counter. A human couple was seated at the far right side of the counter, and an older Gotal sat a few stools down from them. Kanan moved to the left side and slid onto an empty stool.
He tapped his foot lightly against the floor, eyeing the lines of bottles behind the bar. His doubt about being there battled against the liquor craving on his tongue.
“What can I get you?”
Kanan looked up as the bartender stopped in front of him. The Mirialan man was at least six feet tall, with a broad chest and well-muscled arms. He had dusky purple skin. A shadow of stubble covered his jaw, his black hair was shaved closer to his head on the sides, with longer soft, thick curls on top. One curl in particular fell over his forehead, giving Kanan the irresistible urge to push it back in place.
The tattoos distinctive of his species dotted his skin. Small diamond shapes curved from the corners of his dark brown eyes, following his cheekbones until they stopped at the mid-point below each eye. More diamond shapes arched over his brows, with three larger diamonds creating a line down the center of his forehead.
“Um.” Kanan blinked, licking his lips. “Just an ale, please.”
“Sure thing,” the bartender said.
Kanan watched him pour a generic ale from the tap, perfect amount of foam on top. The Mirialan smoothly slid a coaster under the glass and pushed the drink over to Kanan.
“Thanks,” he said, nearly sighing at the familiar feeling of a cool glass, already damp with condensation, underneath his fingers.
He lifted the ale, taking a slow first sip. It was definitely a brand he’d had before, the taste familiar. At the same time, the dark gold liquid felt bright on his tongue at the same time. He drank down another mouthful, shoulders losing some of their tension.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a few more people file into the bar and wave down the waitress droid. The droid rolled up to the bar and Kanan watched the bartender fill the drink orders, hands moving efficiently as he concocted drinks he’d probably made a thousand times before.
“So,” Kanan said, keeping his tone neutral as the bartender came closer to his side of the bar, “don’t think I’ve ever seen this big of a celebration for Empire Day this far out in the Rim.”
He watched the Mirialan’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. His answer would tell Kanan how pro-Empire his establishment really was, and would also give him a good idea if it was being monitored or not.
The bartender’s eyes gave him an up and down as he wiped out a few glasses and carefully racked them behind the bar. “Guessing you’re not from here?”
Kanan shook his head. “Just passing through. Supply stop.”
He bobbed his head. “Makes sense. The market here is good for bulk shipments.”
“Mm,” Kanan hummed his agreement, taking another drink of his ale. Maybe it wasn’t worth it trying to make small talk after all.
The bartender’s eyes roved slowly over the people gathered in the bar. There was more loud laughter from the group playing sabacc, and he lowered his voice and said, “But I agree. The celebration here is, erm…excessive. A lot of folks around here took to Imperial rule a little too quickly for my taste, but,” he shrugged, “not much we can do about that.”
Probably safe enough to talk freely, Kanan concluded. Even vague comments made against the Empire wouldn’t fly in an establishment that was bugged, like so many places were these days, under Imperial occupation.
Still. He was cautious as he prodded further, “So, I take it you’re not the celebrating type?”
“Are you?” the reply was swift, cautious but with an edge of teasing. The way the Mirialan spoke reminded him a little bit of Hera.
“Not really,” Kanan replied. He gestured to his drink. “Just looking to take a bit of the edge off.”
The bartender’s brown eyes sparkled warmly. “I understand. That’s why I’m open. Though,” he made a face, “a lot of people just use today as an excuse to get shitfaced. But hey, who am I to complain when they make for good money, right?”
Kanan chuckled. He took another drink of ale, paused to consider, then said, “Kanan.”
The Mirialan’s full mouth broke out into a smile. “Laddon. Welcome to Toprawa.”
Kanan returned the smile, feeling satisfied with his choice of drinking establishment for the evening.
Laddon checked on the other customers and continued to fill drinks as more patrons filtered into the cantina. It was almost dizzying watching the waitress droid zip around tables, alternating between trays that were full of empty glasses or new drinks.
Kanan nursed his ale slowly, half-listening to the bar chatter or watching the holoprojector mounted above the bar counter. When he finished his ale, he hesitated for just a moment before lifting his hand to wave down Laddon. But he felt fine—great, even! There was a bit of warmth to his cheeks, but his senses felt clear. One more ale and then he would leave.
Just as Laddon slid a second glass over to him, the holo above the bar flickered. The six-spoked wheel of the Empire’s logo appeared as the Imperial marching tune started filtering through the speakers.
Kanan’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding together. His stared down at the glass between his hands. But he could still hear the broadcast, and it was almost too much as the music died down to a low hum and Grand Moff Tarkin’s voice filled the cantina.
“Citizens of the Empire, today marks an important anniversary for our galaxy. Ten years ago, our enemies attempted to tear apart the Republic from the inside. They urged the Clone War to continue long after it should have ended, and when our own Emperor tried to call for peace once and for all, an attempt was made on his life. These traitors—the Jedi—were hunted down and exterminated for their betrayal.
“They tried to destroy our very way of life—but we rose from the ashes stronger than before. Not as a Republic, but as a reorganized Empire that seeks order and stability for all beneath it.”
“Would you mind turning this down a bit, Laddon?” Kanan asked quietly, voice carefully controlled even as his hands tightened around his glass close to the shattering point.
Laddon dipped his head in a nod, switching the volume on the holoprojector down and turning the captions on for the patrons in the bar who were intently watching the broadcast.
Kanan cast Laddon a grateful look. “Thanks.”
Laddon gave him a cautious look. “No problem. Just be careful—not everyone in here feels the same way I do. So, best to keep your feelings quiet.”
“Will do.” Kanan swallowed down a mouthful of ale, wishing it was something stronger.
Laddon gave him a long look, before he said, “You lose someone on Empire Day?”
Kanan’s mouth twisted. He inhaled, then exhaled just as slowly, banishing any unwanted memories that tried to creep forward from the back of his mind. “Yeah, something like that.”
Laddon didn’t seem put off by his vague response. The Mirialan’s eyes were understanding as he offered Kanan a simple, “Me too.”
Tarkin’s speech eventually ended, and local footage of the parade took its place. A short Imperial propaganda film played before the local footage switched back to show a human man of average height with pale skin and a shock of blonde hair take to a podium in his Imperial uniform. Kanan figured it must’ve been an officer stationed locally, or maybe the city’s governor readying for another speech.
Before he could puzzle it out more, loud cheers from the cantina’s entrance drew his attention. He twisted his neck, watching as three more locals entered the bar. Two of them were human males—one with a stark black tattoo of jagged lines down one side of his face and neck, the other fairly average looking aside from the left side of his face, which was marred with what looked like scars from claw marks. His left ear was half missing. The third was a huge male Devaronian with ruddy red skin, both his horns tipped with silver metal caps.
Kanan didn’t even need the warning look from Laddon to tell him that these were locals who meant trouble. He kept quiet and sipped at his ale as the three made their way to the bar counter and seated themselves just a couple stools down from Kanan.
“Hey, Laddon, how about one of the house, eh?” the leader of the group—Kanan had decided to call him Face Tattoo—said loudly as the group sat.
Laddon shook his head and he stopped in front of the three. Kanan recognized the annoyance on the Mirialan’s face, even as he his it behind a joking demeanor. “Sorry, Grell. Gotta pay like everyone else. Even on Empire Day.”
The local man, Face Tattoo, Grell—whatever—wagged his finger in a slightly patronizing manner. “You’re lucky I like you Laddon. Three of the top shelf stuff.”
“You got it.” Laddon turned to grab what looked like whiskey from the top rack. As his back turned to the locals, he looked at Kanan and rolled his eyes.
Kanan smiled into his glass, watching Laddon pour the men’s drinks.
Once they’d been served, the group quieted down for a little bit, and Kanan wondered if he’d actually be able to finish his drink in peace.
He should’ve known better.
Grell waved his hand at Laddon, lifting his empty glass as he said, “Refill, Laddon. And while you’re at it, turn up the holo—I wanna hear the governor speak.”
Laddon refilled the man’s glass with hardly a word, and Kanan could tell he was debating about the holo. Clearly deciding it best not to piss off the locals, Laddon cast Kanan an apologetic glance before turning the volume back up on the holoprojector. Grell and his friends—who Kanan had dubbed One-Ear and Big Guns—gave small cheers of approval as the sound of the Empire’s recruitment theme rose once again above the din of the bar.
Kanan’s back was immediately stiff, both from the attitude of the locals and the sound of the local governor’s voice in tandem with the Imperial music. He kept his eyes focused on the polished bar top, trying to drown out the talk of Jedi traitors coming from the governor’s mouth.
His hand trembled ever so slightly as he threw back the last dregs of his drink and slid some credits across the bar towards Laddon. “Thanks. For the ear and the beer.”
Laddon dipped his head, “Anytime.” He gave Kanan a once over—he’d done it earlier, after Kanan had first sat down at the bar. But this time felt more deliberate, a quick but careful scan of Kanan from head to toe.
The man’s eyes lingered a couple seconds longer, and Kanan felt a familiar flush creep up his neck. The Mirialan was attractive, there was no doubting that. And it had been a long time since he’d been with anyone. For a moment, Kanan debated sticking around a while longer.
Then his thoughts flashed to Hera, a spike of guilt staking into his heart. But—wait. That was silly. He and Hera weren’t actually together. He didn’t have any claim on her, and she didn’t have any on him, despite what he felt for her. At the end of the day, they were still just friends. Which meant a one-night stand with an attractive bartender wasn’t out of the question.
But no matter what his body was telling him, he’d been gone far too long and Hera was bound to be worried. He was a little surprised that she hadn’t been trying to contact him until he remembered that he’d shut his comm off.
Kanan smiled at Laddon, but gave a little shake of his head. “I appreciate it, but I really should get going,” he said earnestly. “Thanks again.”
Kanan moved to stand, his stool scraping harshly across the cantina floor.
“Hey, watch the noise, yeah? Some of us are trying to pay attention to the speech,” Grell said, gesturing to the holo projected above the bar.
Kanan didn’t even flinch. He’d seen just about enough of this man’s attitude for one evening. Kanan had been in and worked at enough cantinas to know exactly what kind of guy Grell was. He was annoying, for one. But he was a bully, plain and simple. Trying to make other people feel small, or trying to pick a fight for no reason because he was confident he could win, especially with the muscle-bound back-up at his side.
“I’m sure you can hear just fine,” Kanan said evenly, mouth splitting into a crooked grin as he deliberately pushed his stool farther back with a loud squeak. He lifted a finger to One-Ear. “Well, except that guy, maybe.”
The three locals stood at once, with Grell getting right up in Kanan’s space as the other two stood a couple feet behind him, ready to start swinging should their leader give the word. A few other patrons shot glances their way, but most people were too preoccupied with their own drinks and conversation to pay them any mind.
Kanan spared a quick glance at Laddon, who was watching the situation warily. Kanan shot him a wink, before turning back to Grell.
“Look, fellas, I was just about to head out,” Kanan said, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. “Why don’t you all sit down, enjoy your drinks and the speeches, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Why’re you in such a rush to get outta here?” Grell asked. The pale man was only an inch or two shorter than Kanan, and he clapped a hand on Kanan’s shoulder. “Been watching you avoid the holo the whole time you’ve been here. You’re not one of those rebel sympathizers now, are ya? We can report you for that, you know.”
“He’s probably just one of those sensitive types,” Big Guns chimed in with a harsh chuckle, crossing his massive arms across his equally broad chest.
Grell laughed, giving Kanan’s shoulder a too-tight squeeze. “Oh, yeah? You one of those sensitive types, stranger?” He looked back at his friends. “Bet his mommy got killed at the end of the war or somethin’ and now he hates Empire Day because he thinks it gives him cred.” Grell released his grip on Kanan’s shoulder, only to take the same hand and give him a condescending pat on the cheek.
Kanan inhaled slowly, trying to douse the sudden fire in his belly and the sharp prickling of fear at the back of his neck as the image of his fallen master flashed through his mind. He exhaled, somehow finding his center amidst the adrenaline and alcohol coursing through his veins. He met Grell’s challenging stare.
“I’ll admit, maybe it was in poor taste making fun of your buddy’s hearing impediment,” Kanan said smoothly, flashing his teeth in a quick smile as he straightened his coat. “But let’s just call it even and go our separate ways. After all, I would really hate to make a mess of this gentleman’s fine establishment.”
Grell’s mouth turned downward in an exaggerated frown as he made a show of considering Kanan’s offer. Kanan watched as he bobbed his head, twisting to look at each of his muscled friends behind him, before he pivoted, swinging his fist right for Kanan’s jaw.
But Kanan had been expecting it—even without the little nudge from the Force—and he lifted a hand and easily caught the man’s fist.
Grell’s eyes widened briefly before Kanan used his grip to push the other man back, causing him to stumble into the barstool behind him. He didn’t fall. In fact, he recovered his balance a little quicker than Kanan would’ve liked, but the other part of him was singing for the challenge as Grell’s eyes lit up with a new fire.
Grell pointed a finger at Kanan. “Just remember you started this.”
“And I’ll finish it, too.”
He watched as Grell’s mouth curled into a wicked grin. The man reached down and drew a vibroblade from a sheath on his belt. There was the faintest hum as the blade activated.
Kanan considered drawing his weapon and making a remark about Grell being stupid enough to bring a vibroblade to a blaster fight. It would certainly end this a lot faster.
But a dead body was definitely not the kind of attention he needed to be drawing to himself, and Hera by extension. Besides, he was practically itching to knock these guys on their asses, and he wanted to do it with his bare fists. On a street lined with cantinas, a bar brawl was nothing out of the ordinary, especially on Empire Day.
“Finally,” Kanan drawled, eyeing the man’s blade as he raised his hands into loose fists, “a fair fight.”
Grell snarled then lunged.
The man overcommitted and Kanan sidestepped easily. But Grell recovered quickly like he had before, pivoting and striking with the vibroblade towards Kanan’s flank. He jumped out of the way, catching Grell’s arm as he moved past. He used the momentum to slam Grell’s face into the bar counter, squeezing and twisting the man’s arm at the same time until the vibroblade clattered out of his hand.
Grell crumpled to the floor.
He caught sight of a few patrons scattering from the bar, tossing credits on their tables as they bolted. Others gathered around, cheering and cajoling as One-Ear and Big Guns sized him up a little more warily. More credits flashed between hands as bets were made.
And damn, Kanan felt good. He felt light on his feet, the alcohol in his system making him warm and loose all over, in a way that he hadn’t been in a long time.
And underneath it all—the Force. He had no intentions of tapping into it fully, but he could feel it, shadowing him like a long-forgotten friend, heightening his senses.
Big Guns came at him first.
The Devaronian was tall, packed with muscle, but it made him slower. Kanan avoided the man’s first two punches easily, stepping into his reach and throwing a punch of his own towards the goon’s exposed abdomen.
Bug Guns grunted, feet shifting slightly, but he didn’t budge.
“Shit—” Kanan was a second too slow getting out of the way and the Devaronian’s next punch hit him square in the jaw.
He stumbled, crashing into a nearby empty table. The table wobbled dangerously, but he gained enough balance to not go crashing over it completely.
The Devaronian and One-Ear advanced on him together this time. Letting instinct take over, Kanan reached for an empty glass from one table over. He twisted, whipping it at One-Ear’s head.
One-Ear brought an arm up to block it. The glass shattered against his forearm, cutting up his skin and spraying glass. The man cried out, slowed down for the moment.
But Big Guns was still advancing. Kanan grabbed the nearest wooden chair, spinning around and bringing it down on the Devaronian. Big Guns shouted, stumbling sideways into One-Ear. One-Ear shoved at his friend. In the moment of distraction, Kanan gripped one of the broken chair legs and slammed the butt of it into One-Ear’s temple. The tall man fell to his knees next to Grell, clutching his bleeding head.
That gave Big Guns the opportunity he needed. He came at Kanan faster than expected, wrapping his arms around Kanan’s waist and tackling him to the floor. But Kanan used the momentum, tucking his knees and planting his feet against the Devaronian. With a huge push, he kicked Big Guns up and over him, launching the man into another nearby table. The table shattered beneath the Devaronian’s weight.
Kanan twisted, breathing hard as he got to his feet. But Big Guns didn’t follow, instead laying prone on the floor.
A noise behind him had him turning back around. Grell was getting to his feet, grabbing hold of One-Ear and helping him up, too. Grell glared at him, looking torn about continuing the fight.
Kanan spread his arms wide. “Now, the way I see it, you have two options. You can keep embarrassing yourselves, or you can get lost. It’s up to you.”
The venom is Grell’s voice was palpable as he pointed a damning finger at Kanan. “You’re going to regret this, you piece of outlander shit.”
“Oh, I highly doubt it.”
Grell and One-Ear grabbed Big Guns and the three of them stumbled out of the cantina.
After a moment, the bar patrons turned back to their drinks, the air of the cantina more vibrant than it had been before. Kanan recalled nights at The Asteroid Belt on Gorse, before he’d met Hera, when the bar hadn’t really felt lively until at least one fistfight had happened.
The waitress droid looked mildly annoyed as she started sweeping up the broken glass and shattered bits of wood. In the mess, Kanan caught sight of his comm—crushed.
Well, fuck. He didn’t know when it had fallen off his belt, but as he examined it, it looked thoroughly unusable. Hera was definitely going to scold him for that later.
He bent to pick the vibroblade up off the floor next and stepped around the waitress droid towards the bar. “Sorry about the mess,” he said to Laddon, sliding the shining blade across the counter. “I’ll pay for it.”
Laddon waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Watching you kick their asses straight outta here was plenty. Plus,” he picked up the vibroblade, weighing it in his hands with an admiring eye, “this is a real nice blade.”
“It’s yours,” Kanan said. Laddon cast him a bright, full smile, and he returned the gesture. His jaw ached a little with the familiar feeling of a blossoming bruise.
“Here,” Laddon said. Kanan watched him take a scoop of ice and pour it into a clean dish cloth, wrapping it up and twisting the excess fabric around before he handed it over. He took it from the Mirialan gratefully, setting the makeshift icepack against his sore jaw. Laddon grabbed a pair of glasses and poured fresh drinks—some kind of whiskey from the look of it. He gave Kanan a pointed look as he slid one glass across the counter towards him, and kept the other for himself. “That’s on the house.”
Kanan set down his icepack and lifted the glass. “Thanks.” He swallowed down a mouthful of the amber liquid the same time Laddon tipped his back. Definitely whiskey—and some of the best he’d ever had, at that. The liquor burned in a more familiar way than the ale from earlier and too soon, the drink was gone.
“That’s damn good stuff,” he told Laddon, reaching the glass out for more. There was a part of him that knew he should stop, but he felt fine. The adrenaline from the fight still had him on edge, and the alcohol was soothing his nerves. He could handle a little more.
Laddon grinned. “I make it in-house myself.”
He brought his refilled glass to his lips, relishing in the warm flush it brought to his cheeks. After finishing the second glass and having a third poured, that familiar fuzziness settled in at the edge of his mind, dulling his senses and keeping unwanted memories at bay.
It was exactly what he wanted, and he damn near cried in relief. He was going to make it through today.
As he continued to nurse the third whiskey, he risked a glance up at the chrono mounted to the wall behind the bar. The parade had already started. Worse than that—he was beyond late. “Shit,” he muttered, swallowing down the last of the whiskey in one large gulp.
“You got somewhere to be?” Laddon asked as he started pouring fresh drinks for some patrons seated further down the counter. The bartender was looking at him with earnest curiosity—and maybe a little hope. Like maybe Kanan would decide to stay after all.
And Kanan considered it again, asking Laddon when his next break was. But he’d already disappointed Hera enough for one night. He didn’t want to worry her by being gone all night.
“My, uh—I promised my captain I’d be back way before now,” Kanan explained, reaching into his jacket for a few more credits to pay for the additional drinks of whiskey.
“I see,” Laddon replied and Kanan was positive he saw a flash of disappointment in the Mirialan’s brown eyes. “Well, like I said, you’re welcome back anytime.”
Kanan paused. Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, but he decided to be forthcoming, dropping his voice low, “Honestly, if it was any day but Empire Day I would take you up on that.”
Laddon’s throat bobbed slightly. “Well,” he crossed his arms across the bar, leaning towards Kanan, “maybe if you’re still in town tomorrow. I’ll be here.”
Laddon winked and turned away, leaving Kanan flustered. He stood, head spinning a little. He was grateful that Laddon had already moved down the bar to take another patron’s order, so he couldn’t see Kanan grip the edge of the bar counter to steady himself.
Dammit, Jarrus, he thought to himself. He would have to take the long way back to the Ghost, to try and walk off some of his tipsiness. There was a time when some whiskey and a couple beers would’ve been nothing—but he had to remind himself that he hadn’t had a drink in nearly four months. Plus, he hadn’t been at the bar that long, and he hadn’t eaten since lunch.
He took a couple deep breaths. It was enough to steady himself as he gave Laddon one last fleeting smile before heading for the cantina door. Outside, the street was much busier than before, and he could hear the sounds of the parade a couple blocks over. But the fresh air felt amazing on his heated skin.
He was halfway back to main street when the first of the fireworks went off.
The explosion was huge, echoing through the air as colored sparks rained down in the night sky. Two more brightly colored booms followed in quick succession. People stopped and stared at the sky, oohing and ahhing as the display continued.
But Kanan’s heart hammered in his chest—the sudden sharp noise of the first rockets still ringing in his ears.
He was immediately taken back—to explosions on Kaller during that final battle, on Mygeeto and Kardoa before that, of another explosion in the black of space that had claimed the lives of Grey and Styles, the clones that had hunted him relentlessly for so long.
His next steps felt less steady as he weaved through people strolling along the street. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories. He steadied himself against a nearby building, pressing his back flat to the cool stone wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the vibrant colors overhead.
His balled his hands into fists, trying to even out his breaths and quell the craving for more alcohol. He started to get his breathing under control after a few minutes, but he couldn’t stop shaking. His heart still felt like it was rattling around so hard it would burst right through his ribcage.
Drink, he thought dully. I need a drink.
He wanted to drown himself in whiskey until he couldn’t remember a damn thing from today. It wouldn’t erase the past ten years, but he thought it might be a victory if he could at least forget today.
::
The next bar he found was louder and considerably more seedy than Laddon’s place. And Kanan was no longer sure what number drink he was on.
He ordered a drink and an appetizer at random right away at this new bar, after hearing one of the other patrons say something about dead Jedi. He hadn’t heard the rest of the conversation—and he didn’t want to.
He was ordering a second drink before he knew it, and soon after, the bartender was handing him another drink in a tall, skinny glass with a spiced-salt rim and a single stalk of something green in it. The liquid inside was an electric blue. He pointed at the cocktail. “I di’n’t order this.”
“I know,” the bartender said, before glancing down the bar. “She did. For you.”
Kanan twisted his neck to see a human woman sitting a couple stools down from him. She had a matching blue drink in front of her, and she raised it in his direction. Not one to turn away a free drink, Kanan copied her movement. After he’d taken a long sip—the salted rim of the glass helping to cut the sweetness of the cocktail—the woman got up and moved next to him.
“Hey, there,” she said in a low voice.
She was pretty enough, Kanan observed. Blonde hair cut to her shoulders, the sparkling leather jumpsuit she wore accentuating her curves, but leaving enough to his imagination. Her lips were stained a deep red, and her green eyes shone as she gave him a similar once-over.
With a pang of disappointment, Kanan noted that they weren’t the shade of green he wanted, nor was her voice the low alto of the one he was so used to, the one he would be happy listening to for the rest of his life.
“Hey,” Kanan echoed. “Thanks f’r the drink.”
The woman gave a delicate shrug of her shoulder, mouth curving into a smile. “Don’t mention it.” She lifted a finger and stroked it across the back of his hand. Kanan had to resist the urge to jerk away, chest suddenly tight. He mustered enough control to slowly pull back his hand. He watched disappointment flash across her face, but it was gone in an instant, as she tried for a different tactic. “This place can get pretty loud, but I know somewhere much quieter. What do you say—”
“Look,” Kanan interrupted quietly, but loud enough to be heard over the noise in the cantina. He made his alcohol-addled brain focus enough to speak clearly, “I’m flattered—really. But I’m not interested. Thanks again for the drink, but you’ll have better luck elsewhere.”
“My apologies,” the woman said, giving him a polite nod. “Enjoy the drink.”
She moved away, taking to the bar floor to see if she could find someone else to pick up for the night. Kanan watched her disappear into the crowd, unwinding as he exhaled.
Kanan downed the rest of the blue cocktail, and without thinking, ordered another. By the time he stumbled out of the bar, his head was heavy, steps uncoordinated as he started walking.
The parade had been over for some time now, but the celebrations were still in full swing. The streets were packed with people, locals and stormtroopers alike. Most of the locals were milling around the cantinas and clubs, but as Kanan got closer to main street, he could see a number of families still enjoying the night. The big fireworks had stopped, but on a couple corners he caught sight of people lighting off smaller rockets, or children running around with sparklers in hand.
He started making the trek up main street, trying to concentrate on keeping his feet going one step at a time, even as the fog in his head made it difficult to focus. If he had to guess, he was maybe a block away from being able to turn onto the side streets to get back to the Ghost.
“Stop, Jedi!”
Kanan froze instantly.
Unbidden, another voice leaped from the memories he’d spent all day—or, rather, ten years—trying to forget, Execute Order 66.
He screwed his eyes shut, hands shaking.
Execute the Jedi!
Panic seized Kanan’s throat, his whole body frozen in place.
Run, Master Billaba’s voice echoed in his head.
But he hadn’t been able to move—then or now.
On that day, Caleb Dume had stared at the familiar red and white helmets of Commander Grey and Captain Styles as they pointed their weapons at him and his master, and he’d been utterly and completely frozen.
On that day, in that same moment, Jedi died all across the galaxy.
Caleb Dume had been filled with fear and confusion—images filling his head of fallen Jedi, masters and padawans alike that he’d trained with, lived with, all as he struggled to grasp what was happening right in front of him.
The Force had been filled with so much pain and anguish, so full of death where there was usually so much life.
The Force filled Kanan now. He was so drunk, though. It was a strange feeling—the alcohol dulling his senses, even as the Force was trying to sharpen them. To help him survive.
The voice from earlier came again, ”Stop, you Jedi traitor! In the name of the Empire, you are under arrest!”
His eyes shot open, and he turned, even as he readied himself to bolt.
When he looked, there were no clones, no stormtroopers, no one pointing blasters at him. Instead, he saw a small group of kids, their parents standing off to the side, watching with amused expressions. Three of the kids—a human boy and girl, along with a Rodian boy—were wearing makeshift clone armor, pointing their fingers at the fourth child, who…
Kanan swallowed.
The other child—another human girl with brown skin and dark hair braided down her back—was wearing a brown cloak over her clothes, carrying a long stick that had been painted blue.
“Get the Jedi!” the human boy shouted, and with a clamor, the three dressed as clones took off after the girl pretending to be a Jedi.
Kanan watched in silent horror as they chased her. She slashed with her fake lightsaber, stabbing at the other girl who had tried to tackle her. But the lead boy raised his hands—which he’d folded together to look like a blaster—and shot at the Jedi girl’s exposed back.
She played her part well—falling onto the ground, toy lightsaber rolling out of her hand. The three clone kids started to cheer, and soon enough the Jedi girl was breaking character to giggle right along with them. She stood back up and they started again, chasing each other up and down the street.
Kanan’s stomach churned violently. He turned on his heel and started making his way as quickly as possible through the crowds. His head was spinning, pounding. It felt like his lungs were constricting in his chest, making it hard to breathe.
He tugged at his collar as he squeezed through a group of people. They gave a few mutters of protest, but he barely heard them over the blood rushing through his ears. He was too hot and dizzy and drunk and he couldn’t—fucking—breathe.
A group of teens were kicking a ball around, but all Kanan could see was the helmeted head of Mixx rolling on the ground, just after Master Billaba had cut it from his shoulders.
Padawan—!
Blaster fire—no, flares. Colorful flares lit up the corner to his right, the mini fireworks whistling and screaming past the blood rush in his head. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he picked up his pace, desperately trying to get away from the noise and the crowds.
Bile rose in his throat as he thought about the clones he’d cut down—the same ones he’d shared meals and marched into battle with. The same ones he’d considered friends. He’d killed his friends—
But they were also the same clones who had turned on him and his master. The clones had betrayed them, and across the galaxy—Jedi had died.
He half-tripped, ramming shoulders with someone.
“Hey! Watch it!”
“Sorry,” he gasped, not even seeing who he’d run into or where he was going. All he knew was—away. He had to get away.
Caleb, we cannot win this battle. You must run, Billaba’s voice rang through his head again.
Then, her last words to him, Go. I’ll be right behind you.
Kanan reached the end of main street, a sob half-stuck in his throat as he threw himself around the corner onto the next street.
She’d lied.
She hadn’t followed him, and now she was gone and he was alone. She’d lied to him… but he’d known. The words had left her mouth, and he’d known she wasn’t telling the truth.
She had said it herself—it was a battle they couldn’t win.
Caleb Dume had known, in his bones, even without their connection in the Force, that his master wasn’t going to make it out of there alive.
But he had run anyway.
Instead of standing and fighting with her, he’d run. Because he was a coward.
Coward, coward, coward—
Concentrate fire on the padawan!
Kanan stumbled into the first alley he came across—
Styles, no!
Caleb shouldn’t have stopped—he should have kept running like his master told him to.
But the distant sound of her voice had drawn his attention. He had watched from higher up on the hill as his master turned for just a moment, just a split second—trying to warn him—
Right before she was shot in the back by the very clones who had fought by her side every day of the war.
All the death he’d felt—crying out, echoing through the Force—focused sharply in. As Billaba fell, the thread tying them together snapped. Her presence in his mind, in the Force beside him, exploded like a proton torpedo—and was snuffed out in an instant.
Where once her light had shone beside his in the Force, there was nothing.
No light. No warmth. Nothing.
Gone. She was just—gone.
Kanan bent over and emptied the contents of his stomach next to the alley wall. His eyes watered from the clenching of his stomach and the taste of acid in his throat. Tears continued to leak as the memory of his master, face down in the dirt on Kaller with blaster holes burnt into her back, floated into his mind and refused to leave.
He let loose a ragged sob, hitting a closed fist into the stone wall in front of him. His knuckles ached, but he didn’t have long to think about it before his stomach rolled. He threw up again, wiping at his mouth when he heard footsteps farther down the alley.
Blearily, he lifted his head. His mind fog cleared a little after throwing up. But there was still too much alcohol in his system, and it took him a minute to realize there were at least four silhouettes at the mouth of the alley.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Sensitive,” a voice drawled.
Kanan nearly groaned as Grell came into view. Big Guns and One-Ear from earlier were behind him, along with two newcomers.
Straightening, he looked pointedly at Grell. “Clearly One-Ear over there isn’t the only one with hearing issues. I thought I told you to get lost earlier.”
“And I told you,” Grell said, pulling a new vibroblade from his belt, “that you were going to regret that business back in the bar.”
The warm feeling of the Force coursed through him, nudging at him to use it. But he couldn’t risk revealing himself to these men, especially if they were pro-Empire.
Besides, as inebriated as he was, his lack of focus meant a Force-push could seriously hurt, even kill, one of these men. Alternatively, there wouldn’t be a lot of power behind the push at all and he would just look like an idiot.
No. No—the not killing thing was definitely more important than his image here.
And not killing—he was pretty sure that was still the best course of action. He wasn’t trying to rack up a body count that would draw attention to him and Hera.
On the other hand…
He eyed the weapons being drawn and knew they would kill him given the chance. He didn’t plan on giving it to them.
Kanan half slumped, making himself look even more dead on his feet than he already felt. In one swift movement, he bent to grab his second blaster from its holster at his ankle, flipping it into his palm to fire at Grell’s closest goon. The human man—one of the newcomers—collapsed with a scream as the shot blasted through his left kneecap.
He fired at Grell next, but Grell was quick enough to duck at the last second. The bolt flew harmlessly past. Kanan aimed the blaster again, but Grell was already on him. Grell spun, landing a solid kick against Kanan’s wrist, forcing him to drop the blaster.
Kanan barely had time to recover before Grell was slashing with his knife. Kanan struck at the man’s arm, blocking just in time to avoid getting gutted. But Grell was quick to switch hands, dropping the blade into his right palm. He lifted the blade up, aiming downwards towards the juncture between Kanan’s neck and shoulder. Kanan’s hand shot out—grabbing Grell’s wrist and stopping the blade from plunging down further.
Grell’s teeth were bared, fury alight in his eyes. Kanan gritted his own teeth similarly, one knee starting to buckle as he held Grell back.
Then, gathering up as much saliva as he could muster, he spit in Grell’s face.
The man jerked back, letting go with a string of curses.
Kanan’s legs gave out beneath him as he tried to catch his breath, head swimming. In the next second, though, One-Ear and the other newcomer—a Klatooinian of average height—swept past a still-recovering Grell and grabbed Kanan’s arms, hoisting him up.
Big Guns approached, giving Kanan a tremendous scowl before slamming a fist into his stomach.
Without One-Ear and the Klatooinian holding him up, Kanan would’ve collapsed again. He wheezed—all the air rushing from his lungs. He coughed, trying to catch his breath again.
“You know,” he said with a rasp as Grell approached him again, wiping at the last remnants of saliva from his face, “I’m starting to think this four on one business isn’t so fair.”
Grell nodded once at Big Guns. One-Ear and the Klatooinian holding him tightened their grips, right as Big Guns gave a growl—and slammed an iron fist into the center of Kanan’s face.
“Ah—fucking hells—” Kanan nearly bit his tongue off.
There was a loud crunch, pain branching out as his eyes instantly watered. Then came the gush of blood from his broken nose, spilling over his lips and into his goatee. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue mingled with the still lingering taste of alcohol and the sourness of vomit.
As the black spots cleared from his vision, he saw Grell laughing. The vibroblade glinted in the man’s hand. Kanan knew that if he didn’t pull it together in the next few seconds, that vibroblade would be rearranging his insides.
“Not so tough after all, huh, outlander?” Grell sneered, taking a step closer.
Just one more step, you piece of banthashit, Kanan urged silently.
Grell continued, “Lucky for us everyone is out celebrating. The chances of them hearing you scream are pretty low—”
There. Grell got closer, putting him perfectly within reach.
Kanan used One-Ear and the Klatooinian to his advantage. He hauled his lower half up, forcing them to bear his weight as he struck out with both legs. His kick landed solidly against Grell’s chest, sending him flying into Big Guns. The two tumbled over each other.
In the same move, Kanan tucked his legs and lurched forward. He landed in a crouch, sending One-Ear and the Klatooinian crashing to the ground. Kanan didn’t even get fully to his feet before he was drawing his primary blaster.
He shot the Klatooinian in the center mass as he tried to get up, the blast sending the male face-first into the dirt of the alleyway. Then two quick rounds fired at Big Guns, who had recovered and been barreling towards Kanan with a crazed look in his eyes.
One-Ear was trying to push himself up, and Kanan delivered a sharp kick to the man’s head. He cried out, arms giving out beneath him. Before he could shoot, Grell came charging towards him.
Kanan fired—missed. Grell swung his vibroblade and Kanan dodged out of the way barely in time, the knife tearing into the fabric of his jacket. The catch of the knife gave him just the opportunity he needed, though. As Grell swung around for another attack, Kanan pivoted, firing point blank.
The shot hit Grell in the side. Kanan couldn’t tell if he’d hit vital organs or not. But as Grell stumbled and started to fall, he slammed an elbow into the back of his head for good measure.
Grell went down, and didn’t move.
But the victory was short-lived as he was attacked from behind. “Kriff—” He swore, dropping his blaster as One-Ear tackled him, landing a punch to the side of his head.
They fell to the ground hard, Kanan lifting his arms around his head to block the following blows. One-Ear was slower on the draw with the next punch. Kanan pushed upwards, throwing the other man off him. He crawled to where his blaster had skidded to, next to a half-full dumpster.
His fingers brushed against the metal of his blaster right before he was being dragged backwards.
“Get back here!” One-Ear snarled.
Kanan groaned, more out of frustration than anything. Couldn’t these guys just give up already?
He twisted, using his free leg that One-Ear wasn’t pulling on to kick the other man in the face again. One-Ear jolted back—but it was only for a second. Then he was on his feet, hauling Kanan with him.
One-Ear’s arm wound back and his next punch had Kanan sprawled out on the ground—again; blood and dirt mingled in his mouth.
“Hey!”
Kanan lifted his head at the sound of a new voice. His vision blurred in and out of focus for a moment as he struggled to focus his gaze on the… three newcomers? He blinked a couple times. No. Just one person. They were wearing a cloak that covered their torso and head—
“Master?” he mumbled.
But before he could get a better look at the person, One-Ear was hauling him up by his hair, only to slam a fist into his stomach. Kanan doubled over with a gasp, coughing as the breath left his body once more.
Without giving him a second to recover, One-Ear yanked him up, dragging him forward and slamming Kanan’s head into the edge of the nearby dumpster.
There was a burst of warmth as the skin of his forehead broke—and then the world went black.
But he must’ve only passed out for a few seconds, because when he opened his eyes, One-Ear was standing above him, fist raised. Kanan tried to roll, but his body was slow to respond now that his head felt like it had gotten crushed in a trash compactor.
He raised his hands to block any punches—but One-Ear never got the chance.
“Hey!” It was that same voice. Kanan looked to see the cloaked figure fire a blaster at One-Ear. A red blast of energy hit One-Ear in the chest. The big man went down with a quickly silenced grunt; dead.
The alley was quiet now—Grell and his men either unconscious or dead.
Kanan groaned in relief, blinking like it would make his rapidly growing headache go away. The side of his face felt sticky and warm from what was surely the nasty gash on his forehead. And that wasn’t counting all the blood coating his mouth and chin from his still leaking nose.
His palms scraped against the rough ground as he tried to push himself up on shaking arms. He managed to rise to his knees and grab onto the edge of the dumpster before his stomach rolled and he was doubling over again.
“Oh, goddess,” the voice said as the stranger came and caught him, avoiding stepping in what little he’d just heaved up. “Kanan!”
That voice—oh, he would know that voice anywhere. He blamed the alcohol and the beatdown for not recognizing it right away earlier. The fight left his body, and he collapsed to his knees, voice rough as he said her name, “Hera.”
“Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here,” she said, lifting a hand to push loose strands of his hair aside, her other hand keeping him from faceplanting in his own puke.
Kanan searched for her face, half-hidden under the hood of her cloak. Her green eyes were filled with immeasurable concern, and what little sense he had left told him that he needed to listen to her.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
“I thin’so,” he mumbled. He tried to nod and winced as it sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull.
He bent and grabbed his blaster, holstering it before trying to steady himself. Hera wrapped an arm around his torso, taking one of his arms and draping it around her shoulders for support. “Come on,” she encouraged, helping him stand. “We just gotta make it back to the Ghost, okay?”
Kanan took a couple deep breaths, “Mm-kay.” He tried to center himself in the Force, tried to pull it together long enough to get back to the ship. He could stand, but his head was spinning worse than before, his stomach right along with it. Bile rose in his throat, but he sucked a breath in through his nose and swallowed it back down.
Hera used her free hand to grab her comm. “Chop, I need you to get the ship ready. We’re going to move to another dock for the night.”
Kanan heard the astromech’s distinct warbling, but his brain was working too slowly to translate the binary. Hera tucked her comm away again, so he figured the grumpy droid must’ve agreed pretty quickly.
“Not too much longer,” Hera said, tightening her grip around his waist as they turned onto a new street.
This time, he couldn’t even muster a short reply. All his concentration was going towards staying upright and moving his feet forward, one step at a time. The sounds of the celebration faded and all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, harmonized by the breaths laboring from his lungs.
“Almost there. Just a bit—” Hera cut off as she dragged him roughly into an indented doorway of one of the homes on this street. She steadied him, making sure they were out of sight. Distantly, he heard voices, though they were too far away to make out what they were saying.
When he looked at Hera, he noticed how stiff her lekku were, the slight highlight of fear in her eyes as they sparkled and caught the light coming from the streetlamps.
The rational—or maybe completely irrational—part of his brain that was still swimming in adrenaline went on high alert. She was watching the street intently. The thought that he was putting her in danger made his stomach churn again.
He wondered vaguely, if he twisted and looked out onto the street, which ghosts of his past would he see? Would he see clone troopers intent on hunting him down? Or would it be someone newer—stormtroopers? Maybe Grell and his crew?
If they—if she—was in danger, they had to run. They had to run and run and run and never look back, and—
Wait. What were they running from again?
His head was a vortex. All his thoughts swirled together, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol, blood loss, or just his own memories playing tricks.
“I think it was your friends from earlier. The ones that are alive, anyway. Probably looking to finish the job, but I think they’re gone now, so… Kanan?”
He blinked, refocusing.
“You still with me?” she whispered.
His tongue felt thick in his mouth, making it damn near impossible to speak. He nodded instead.
“Good.” Hera tilted her head to scan the street one more time. Deeming it clear, she grabbed hold of him again. “C’mon, I got you.”
By some miracle, they made it back to Ghost without any more trouble. Chopper lowered the ramp when he saw them approaching, and Kanan sat down on it, dropping his head between his knees while Hera went to talk to the droid managing their dock.
There was the sound of Chopper’s wheels on the ramp, and Kanan saw the orange dome of the astromech out of corner of his eye. Chopper beeped out something in binary that Kanan was pretty sure translated to, What the fuck happened to you?
Kanan didn’t have time to answer before Hera’s voice sounded, “Chop, leave him alone.”
Wa-wap!
“Just go up to the cockpit and get us out of here. We’re moving to Dock 14 for the night.”
Chopper grumbled, barely moving.
“Go.” The commanding tone of her voice—what Kanan fondly called her Captain voice—nearly made him smile. He heard the droid trundle off, and he was about to lift his head to look at her when her gloved hands settled on top of his knees. Her voice was gentler as she spoke to him, “Let’s get you down to the med bay.”
::
Stupid, stubborn, Jedi and their stupid honor, Hera grumbled internally as she looped an arm through Kanan’s to help him stand. Goddess forbid they actually accept help when they need it!
She tried to be patient, even if her irritation was the least Kanan deserved right now.
But even as she tried to cling to her annoyance, it wasn’t enough of a buoy in the anxious storm of anger and fear that had accumulated in her stomach.
And guilt. A lot of guilt.
She should have pushed him, should have insisted on going with him earlier and not leaving him alone.
But—she gnawed on her lip—she knew why she hadn’t.
This partnership between them was still so new in so many ways; she never wanted to push past what he was willing to give.
She couldn’t remember much about the previous Empire Day they’d spent together—only a couple months or so after he’d first joined her crew, so she barely even counted it—only that they’d been out in the field on a mission. That must have been enough of a distraction for him to not spiral like this.
Kanan swayed in her grip, but she got them moving off the ramp and into the main cargo bay. His arm shot out to steady himself as the Ghost’s engines fired up, ship rumbling beneath their feet.
“Nothing too fancy, Chop!” she called up to the cockpit as they lifted off.
To Chopper’s credit, the ship remained steady as they flew to another section of the spaceport.
“Can’t believe ‘e actually listened t’you,” Kanan slurred as the freighter slowed, preparing to land.
They were three feet away from the med bay door when the ship shuddered and landed roughly, causing them both to stumble.
“Kriff. Sorry about that.” Hera wrapped an arm around his waist again, keeping him upright.
“S’okay. Spoke too soon, I guess. Shoulda known he’d pull somethin’.”
Hera huffed out a small chuckle. Chopper had landed the Ghost plenty of times in the past and done it much more smoothly. So the rough landing was definitely an indication that her astromech was doing it to spite Kanan.
She hit the panel and the med bay door slid open. One more tap to the panel on the inner door and the harsh overhead lights flickered on overhead. A few more steps and Kanan was seated on the single bed in the small room.
Kanan exhaled, like he was relieved to finally be sitting in the safety of her ship.
For the first time, Hera got a good look at him.
Her heart squeezed, and she had to suck in the sharp breath of shock that threatened to fall from her mouth.
His coat was covered in dirt and dust, the front of his sweater equally dirty and stained with blood. His hair was loose around his face—his hair tie having gotten lost at some point in the night, most likely during all the fighting. But even that didn’t hide the state of his face, pale from blood loss and shining with perspiration.
At least half his face was covered in blood and dirt. The gash in his forehead, an inch or so away from his hairline, looked like it was already starting to clot in places. But from what she knew of human biology, head wounds bled a lot, and this one certainly had. The gash, though it wasn’t wide, looked like it had split the skin all the way down to the bone. It would require stitches for sure, before any bacta patches could be applied.
Then there was the state of his nose, which was definitely broken.
His nose had always had its defined bump. He’d also told her that he’d broken it once or twice before meeting her, injuries that had only accentuated the ridge. This time would likely be no different. Bruising was already starting to form around his eyes from the blow that had caused the break. On top of everything, it was still bleeding; though the flow had slowed to a trickle.
Blood coated his chin and mouth, and much of his forehead and the left side of his face, making it look like he was wearing some kind of grotesque face paint. And underneath all the blood, she was sure she would find more bruises.
Not to mention any bruises or scrapes she would find beneath his clothes.
Hera swallowed, inhaling slowly.
Stupid, stubborn, Jedi, she thought again. Damn him for not accepting her help earlier. For not giving her the chance to find him sooner.
“Let’s get you out of those clothes,” she said, stepping up to the table.
Kanan nodded sluggishly, lowering himself from the bed. He’d been standing for just a few seconds, one arm out of his coat already when his face paled further. His throat bobbed and he crossed the small space in three steps, bending over to hurl into the sink.
Wordlessly, Hera reached over and gathered his damp hair into her hands, pulling it back from his face while he retched. From the sound, there wasn’t much left in his stomach.
She gathered his hair into one hand, rubbing his shoulder with the other. He relaxed immediately under her touch. The movement had happened so automatically, Hera found herself a little surprised by how natural it felt.
They’d been working together for over a year now, and while they certainly weren’t opposed to being near each other, they were conscious of each other’s space. Occasionally their fingers would brush, or there would be the touch of an arm here and there, maybe even an arm over her shoulders if a mission called for it.
But Kanan—despite his initial flirtatious demeanor on Gorse—kept a respectful distance. Like he didn’t want to scare her off. Like he knew how much it meant to let her set the pace between them.
Kanan turned the faucet on, rinsing out his mouth. The water swirled red down the drain, and she wondered just how much blood he’d swallowed because of his broken nose.
When he finally pulled back, Hera maneuvered him towards the bed. She helped him out of his coat and pauldron. Next came his sweater, which took a bit more maneuvering since he was taller than her, and currently not in full coordination of his limbs.
“Lay down,” she urged once the top half of him was unclothed.
“Ayeaye, cap’n,” he mumbled. As Hera grabbed the supplies she needed to get him cleaned up, he spoke again, “ M sorry. ‘M so so sosorry, Hera.”
She bit the inside of her lip, dragging over the stool and little table next to his bedside. She believed him—she did.
But she was stubborn too.
She didn’t know if she could—or even wanted to, right now—accept his apology so quickly. Especially not in his drunken state.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Just… we’ll talk in the morning, okay?”
“Dropped my comm,” he said, as if he hadn’t even heard her. He had a hand up against his nose, like he was trying to stop the slow trickle of blood. “Got stepped on. Couldn’t call you. ‘M sorry. Reallyreally sorry.”
Well, at least that explained why he hadn’t picked up his comm after a certain point.
She swallowed down a scowl.
Hera knew a lot of the anger she was feeling was just worry in disguise. But that didn’t change the fact that she had worried herself sick about him for the better part of her day—half blaming herself for even letting him go without at least Chopper at his side, and half pissed at him for insisting that he was fine, when clearly he wasn’t.
She started dragging a damp cloth across his torso first, which, aside from a few already forming bruises, seemed relatively unscathed. She stood to rinse the cloth out before starting on cleaning up his face.
When she seated herself by his bed again, his eyelids were starting to droop. “Hey.” She poked his arm gently. “Stay with me, Jarrus. We gotta get you cleaned up first.”
His lashes fluttered, eyes opening more fully once again. “Yesma’am.”
She worked mostly in silence. There wasn’t much they could talk about anyway, not with him still so drunk. Aside from the occasional mumbled sorry, Kanan kept quiet. Most likely out of exhaustion than anything else.
She cleaned up his face as best she could. He smiled contentedly as she pushed a few of his stray hairs back. His fingers lifted to touch her wrist lightly, and Hera froze for a moment, breath catching, before his hand fell away again.
Then the smile disappeared from his face.
His gaze—which had been unfocused, eyes glassy—settled on her more sharply than it had since arriving on the ship. “Hera, I’m—I fucked up, the drinking, I messed up, ‘m sosorry, I’m…I didn—I thought—”
“Kanan,” she interrupted, pausing in wiping the blood off his face. “It’s okay. Like I said, we’ll talk about this in the morning.”
He seemed to hear her better this time, taking as deep a breath as he could before nodding.
“How is it breathing through your nose?” she asked, trying to get him to focus on something else.
“‘S’okay.” He lifted a hand to poke at the injury, as if to confirm the answer he’d just given her.
When he winced, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand back down. “I’ll call a medical droid in the morning to look at it.”
She offered him some rolled up cotton, and he stuffed wads up both nostrils, lips parting so he could breathe. She handed him an ice pack next, pressing it into his palm.
Kanan lifted it to his nose, stiffening for a moment at the cold before he relaxed. “Thanks.”
“Just keep holding that there while I look at your head,” she instructed firmly.
Kanan did as he was told. Hera finished cleaning around his head wound, the rag thoroughly soaked red. She tossed it into the sink, nose crinkling slightly at the metallic tang of his human blood hanging in the air.
Upon inspection, she saw the gash indeed went down to the bone. Frowning, she said, “I’m going to have to stitch this up now. I don’t want to wait until morning for a medical droid, but we’re out of num—”
“Numbing agent,” Kanan finished for her. A crease formed between his brows. “I didn’ get all the medical s’pplies we needed.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “It’s fine. I’m just letting you know this may hurt.”
He waved a hand, blinking, taking a second to focus on her face. “It’s fine. I c’n handle it.”
Hera pinched her lips into a tight line, contemplating. Then she sighed, “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He grinned. It only lasted a second, but it gave her enough strength to push forward. She washed her hands, sterilized the needle and thread, and set to work. It only needed a few stitches, so it didn’t take long. Kanan barely flinched throughout. His eyes were unfocused again, and it didn’t seem like it was just the alcohol or head injuries.
The distance in his gaze told her that he was seeing something a million miles away. Or maybe something just ten years in the past.
“All done,” she said, snipping off the thread. Kanan lifted his fingers to prod at the wound, but she gave his hand a light swat. “Don’t touch it. You still need a bacta patch.”
She swore he damn near pouted, which brought the slightest smile to her face as she applied the patch.
Kanan lay still as she moved around, washing her hands again, cleaning up her supplies. She held out the trash for him to drop his bloodied nose wads into, then handed him a glass of water and ordered him to drink while she prepped an IV drip. Considering how drunk he was, she figured the extra fluids would be good for him. She would only get so much water in him before he passed out for the night.
“T’ankyou,” he mumbled, handing the now empty glass to her.
His fingers brushed against hers just barely, but it still sent sparks dancing up her arm. “Of course,” she answered, ignoring the sudden flush of warmth down her spine.
“I mean it,” he said, a little more firmly, moving like he meant to get out of the bed. “Thank you. Don’ know what I’d do w’out you.”
“Lie down, please. I need to get your IV in.”
“Yeah, okay, but—”
“Kanan, seriously, just lie down.” She pressed her hands against his shoulders until he finally laid back. Another minute and she had his IV in, settling the cords in such a way that hopefully he wouldn’t accidentally yank them out.
“Sorrysorry,” he mumbled, eyelids drooping. He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the pile of garments she’d just helped take off him. “Jus’ wanted t’say I got y’somethin’. I ‘membered what y’told me.”
Hera blinked, trying to parse through his words. “What?”
His eyes were fully closed now, his breathing slowing as he spoke, “Always…” his voice was barely audible, “always ‘member what you say. Wanna…wanna heary’r voice forf’rever…”
Hera leaned back as Kanan sighed and fell quiet, slipping soundly into sleep.
I want to hear your voice for forever.
She was glad he couldn’t see the hint of blush coloring her cheeks.
Kanan had told her early on that he liked the sound of her voice. She passed it off as one of his flirting remarks. Which, after she’d told him she wasn’t looking for that kind of companionship aboard her ship, he’d soon stopped.
They still teased back and forth—the banter came easily to them. Once in a while, he’d still sneak in a compliment or flattering comment. It was easy enough to tell herself that’s just how Kanan was; but she tried not to think about how often she let him get away with it.
Deep down she knew that—despite his vows otherwise—his initial attraction to her hadn’t just gone away. That it had probably grown into something more. But he never pushed. He asserted as often as he could that they were friends and was happy to keep it that way.
But then he said something like this and she wondered—if the stutter to her heart was any indication—if maybe he wasn’t the only one who felt something.
Hera shook her head, chasing away those thoughts. Her mission was too important to get caught up in personal feelings.
But—what was that other thing he’d said?
He’d pointed at his pile of clothes and said…he had something for her?
Hera bent down to rifle through his garments. His sweater was covered in dust and blood; nothing there. She picked up his coat and found nothing but a single credit in his pockets.
That left his satchel. Flipping the front flap over, she looked inside.
With a smile, she pulled out a partially crushed purple box and a crumpled paper bag. The desserts he’d promised to get her. Inspecting the box first, she found all the cookies intact, aside from three or four crushed ones. The chocolates were in a sadder state, most of them squished and oozing caramel.
But taking one from the top, it still tasted just as good. She hummed quietly in satisfaction as she discovered the caramel in the middle was the salted kind—one of her favorite combinations. She tried a cookie too, savoring the combination of the spiced cookies with the sweet cream in the middle.
She sealed up both packages again and stood so she could take them back to her cabin. As the door whooshed open, she looked back at Kanan once more. Even as beat up as it was, his face was soft as he slept.
The thought snuck in—Handsome, still, too.
Hera allowed herself a moment to bask in the fluttering feeling in her stomach. Smiling to herself, she exited the med bay with her sweets clutched carefully between her hands.