#she’s theelin now it seemed more interesting

[keldabekush]

OC updated ! Nuclear Crotch Floss’s drummer who is 100% not available for any of the weird band drama that is going on. she’s here for the GIG and because she gets a lot of free time on tour to listen to audiobooks about deep space plankton and attend her online knitting class. Her name is Bulann (boo-lan) Miiracul (mir-ack-yule) but her stage name is Miracle. She is the embodiment of moisturised, unbothered, in her lane.

She used to be the drummer for Cascade; The Oracle!, but was offered a MUCH better contract by Nuclear Crotch Floss. She has worked with the Max Rebo Band and does a LOT of studio work for other artists, not limited to percussion but also bass and quite a few brass instruments. Highly talented and respected outside of her work with NCF.

[libradusk]

Touch Starved | Savage Opress

Word Count: 2,895

Pairing: Savage Opress x Reader

Summary: You finally crack and end up voicing a suggestion that’s been brewing for a while now, maybe it’s the night air that charges the situation more than you intended.

warnings: mentions of bodily harm and tattooing + needles. Otherwise, just good old yearning and fluff!

part of the Touch Starved miniseries

He never smiled.

The thought struck you one evening as you’d stared over your drink in the crowded, backwater cantina. It had become a regular haunt for you and the Zabrak brothers, ever since you had become entwined in their navigation of the galaxy’s underworld. He had sat unflinchingly stiff across from you, saffron eyes forever trained over Maul’s shoulder even as he sipped his own ale, tense and poised to snap the moment an unruly patron stumbled too close to where you all had poured over the cracked screen of a stolen data pad.

Savage Opress never showed much emotion in general really, remaining stone faced and apathetic towards most anything that didn’t strike the furnace of his temper. Since your first meeting he had always preferred to step backwards and allow his more talkative younger brother handle diplomacy, and even weeks later into your working relationship he had remained politely aloof at best and irritated at worst. He just seemed… empty, intelligent yet gullible and loyal to his brother to a fault at the best of times, but still so lost beneath the glares and the wall of muscle and armour.

You were just their accomplice by association, their guide to navigating the underbelly of the black market - not there to ask questions beyond what taste of freedom they could possibly offer you when all was said and done - how they could liberate you from the rotten depths of it all. Really, you had no reason to take such an interest in the taller brother, but there was something about him that sparked something within you, that constantly wrestled against your better judgement.

Whether it was pity, empathy, morbid fascination or something even deeper, you didn’t truly know - nor were you initially prepared to dig through the darker complications of your inner voice to do so.

Whatever it was, you were drawn to him further than what your line of duty - if you could really ever call it that - commanded you to be.

Somehow, over time and slotted snugly between covert operations and what little downtime he allowed himself - your gentle persistence seemed to work, Savage cracked just enough for you to scrutinise beyond the harsh line of his sneer. What you discovered proved to be more troubling than you had envisioned possible.

Savage Opress was a fragile soul - hollow and uncanny in the way he wore skin that did not quite fit him - that did not fit with who he was beneath it, who he used to be. You knew he had endured hardship - he sported the same scars of abuse you had seen countless times over plastering the slaves in the marketplace, and that branded the souls of tortured assassins as they drowned their demons in cheap ale and blood money. The trauma hid deeper than the ink that patterned his flesh, suffocated with fluctuating success behind his dedication to his kin, and the desire to reclaim power that had been stolen from them both.

Yet he still flinched at any touch of your skin against his own when you sparred, recoiling as if you had stabbed him with his own blade when you thoughtlessly placed a friendly hand against his forearm in the busy cantina. It broke your heart to think that you had contributed to the pain festering within him, the shame boiling your blood each time you witnessed that all-too-familiar flicker of panic dance across his eyes for a moment before it was bitten back behind a surly frown once more.

The underworld constantly reminded you that it was birthed through suffering - it only flourished through the agony of those that convulsed through its veins.

The alleyway fumes began to strangle you ever more tightly after that.

You thought you were dreaming the night he finally touched you. He had hauled you to your feet following your training session with such force, that for a horrible second you thought he was preparing to break you over his knee with the action. Savage’s fist had dwarfed your own as he had locked it around your wrist, and despite the frantic motion that had threatened to dislodge your shoulder from its socket, his actual hold on you had been uncharacteristically delicate. He’d seemed as shocked as you then, and while the memory pulled a shy smile from you now, at the time you had been too flabbergasted by the gesture to voice anything outside of wide-eyed disbelief as you stared up at the tall Zabrak.

When he had returned the flustered smile that blossomed across your heated face with a small twitch of his own lips, you had truly been convinced it was all some romanticised fabrication resulting from hitting your head after he had swept your feet from under you.

But he began to smile at you a lot more after that - it was always a little unsure, shy even, but it suited him all the same - like it should always have felt at home on his face.

The ghost of it played at the corner of his lips now, the light of the campfire softening the harsh lines of his face further as you sat together just outside his ship. Maul had long retired for the night, leaving just the two of you to watch as the embers flickered and grappled amidst the blackened wood. Despite the perceived serenity of the scene, you were nervous. You had long since noticed that the tattoos decorating his right forearm, though usually hidden beneath his armour, appeared faded and mottled with scar tissue. The extent of the damage was particularly glaring now, as he rested beside you in a short sleeved tunic that highlighted the swell of his arms. Even in the gentle lighting, whatever harm had been inflicted on him by his old “master” had long since twisted the sienna lines into a warped yellow-grey mess across the surface of the limb.

Scars were a commonplace sight across the underworld - some even viewing them as a mark of experience amongst the darker professions that thrived here - yet there was something about seeing them marred across the skin of someone you had grown to care for with increasing intensity that turned your stomach with anger.

You had taken a private trip to the marketplace not long after you had first caught sight of them, vowing to yourself, as you bartered your way to a rudimentary tattoo kit, that if you were ever to meet the person that had defiled him you would gut them yourself.

Now the little bag of equipment dug stubbornly through your pocket and into your thigh as you shifted in place, mulling over how best to voice your suggestion to the Zabrak. Would he be offended? Enraged? Would he even be willing to have your hands on him for as long as it took for you to retouch his tattoos? The shadows surrounding you bloated with your anxiety, swelling and looming ever more menacingly with each twitch of your knee.

“Speak.”

Savage’s stern bellow cut through the charged silence, commanding your attention and silencing the buzz of your thoughts in one fell moment.

Your eyes find his as they stare down at you, their supernatural glow glinting beneath his dark lids.

Like melted starfall, a pretty Theelin cantina-owner had once described them as such. Though she had obviously been attempting to butter the brothers up to spend more at her bar, the comment had stuck with you to this day.

Suddenly you felt incredibly tiny in their spotlight.

Spots of light stain your vision as you raise your head, and you realise that your gaze must have previously fixated on the glare of the fire pit for longer than you thought. Hurried fingers reach to rub at your face in an aim to refocus your vision. Savage’s face rests in an expression which is at once soft but unreadable as you blink up at him.

It's one he wears often these days, when it's just the two of you.

“You only make that face when you have something you wish to ask, so ask it.”

His speech is as straightforward as ever, but the Nightbrother’s tone is softer now, voice purposefully smooth and steady as he folds his hands in his lap and leans to sit back up straight. You can't help but curse inwardly at how quickly he has become able to read you, noting that your poker face must be losing its touch.

You allow a sigh of defeat to pass between you before fishing the kit out of the confines of your cloak pocket, your idea and reasoning spilling out along with it.

Savage’s face remains unmoving for your entire garbled confession and you contemplate hauling yourself to the nearest cantina to drink away the prickling embarrassment currently spreading across your body. Maybe a bartender will take pity on you and wax poetic about your own features just to numb the humiliation of it all.

The heavy weight suddenly dropped across your lap halts you before you have a chance to spring to your haunches. You jump in your seat, heart instantly racing with an all too familiar surge of adrenaline sharpened from years of simply breathing the air in the epicentre of danger. Savage releases a breathy chuckle at your reaction, but the rigidity of the arm splayed out across your thighs doesn't go unnoticed by you, its fingers flexing around the air in clear apprehension. The sight tugs at your heart uncomfortably and manifests itself in a sigh even as the brief panic fades.

“You don’t need to feel obliged, Savage - I can promise you now that it’ll be no masterpiece.”

The words are hollow and you both know it, but there is truth behind it nonetheless - an invitation to back away if it's too overwhelming a suggestion for him to handle. His eyes search yours again and this time your gaze remains steadfast. You note then, how the campfire paints across his skin in a sunset spectrum and suddenly the heat of his arm against you flares to a burn. His fingers continue to ripple over each other almost rhythmically for a moment as his eyes gloss over in thought, it’s a habit of his that became apparent to you early into your partnership - one that had served as a rare glimpse into his inner anxiety back when he’d remained otherwise unreadable. The muscles across his neck and upper body are pulled tight despite the lax position he's settled himself in, and a sizeable part of you now fights the urge to gingerly push him away and coax him to return to his quarters for the night.

His painted lips part to interrupt you once more, the glint of his teeth catching the thought before it could be tempted to coerce you into running once more.

“...Tattoos are important between Nightbrothers,” his voice rumbles like thunder, it stirs across your ribs even as he breaks your gaze to whisper into the embers of the fire pit, “-having another apply them for you is the ultimate sign of trust in our culture.”

The confession winds itself around your heart and thickens the words in your throat until all you can do is wordlessly reach for the pouch of tools and ink between you both.

Savage doesn’t so much as blink when the needle pierces across his flesh, but his complacency does little to prevent your own face from twisting to a cringe each time you cut into a particularly nasty patch of scarring. He has never properly spoken to you of his kin, aside from Maul that is. You had learnt early into meeting them both that raising the topic of family only served to darken the older Zabrak’s brooding, and you had never dared to pry further after that. Yet as you trace the hooked lines cascading down his arm, you can’t help but wonder how many times he has sat through this treatment before - no doubt by hands who’s skill extends beyond merely giving the odd stick-and-poke to an acquaintance within the brotherhood circuit.

The bare expanse of his skin is warm under your hands, apparent even through the barrier of medical gloves sheathing your fingers. It's different to Maul’s however, who’s penchant for going shirtless had often resulted in you brushing up against his heated flesh in the cramped conditions of the bars and marketplaces you visited. You knew Zabraks ran a higher temperature than most other beings, that much was common knowledge - but Savage’s skin was boiling even in comparison to that. However you couldn't ignore that it also left you feeling unnaturally cold each time you pulled away to refill the needle, as if there was something other than just blood stirring beneath its surface. You had been ignorant to how strange the sensation was before, but now as he sat at your mercy there was no escaping it for either of you.

Still, you fought back the shivers that threatened your hand and finished the job to completion, fuelled by affection than ran much deeper than any surface level discomfort ever could.

The campfire had shrunk to a simmer by the time you finally set down the needle. Savage remained motionless even as you let out a satisfied sigh, golden eyes glowing warmly in the moonlight. They retain their hold on your figure even as he takes a moment to flex his freshly inked arm. It requires a great deal of self-restraint to hold back your own from wandering over the broad expanse of his bicep as he rolls out the fatigue rusted across his joints.

“Wait-�� your voice is barely above a hurried whisper, yet it seems to echo through the midnight air with a force that makes you both startle - you realise then that neither of you have really spoken the entire time it's taken to ink his arm.

“I need to disinfect and bandage it,” you hold up the small bottle of rubbing alcohol to punctuate your concern, pairing it with what you hope comes off as a casual smile.

Why did your mouth feel like it was stuffed with cotton? The task was done, yet your throat felt so tight it almost hurt to swallow.

“Besides, can’t have you ruining my hard work by stuffing them straight back into your armour straight away, can I?”

Your words, though much less polished than you would have liked them to be, seem to ease the Nightbrother all the same. Savage lets out a grunt of agreement and settles closer to you this time. Another shudder creeps down your spine as his shoulder brushes against your own, the heat continuing to ripple from his body despite the chill of the night having long since settled around you.

Gently, you take hold of his wrist and stretch out the expanse of his forearm across your knees once more. You can feel the muscles contract under your firm touch, as well as the subtle intake of air that grazes past your ear as Savage leans over beside you.

He jolts violently the moment you drag the disinfectant-soaked rag across his flesh, and for a moment you’re gripped with the fear you’ve hurt him, flinching away and almost knocking the bottle over with your foot in the process. There's a beat before he apologises in a voice far too small for a being of his statue. The surprise in your gut gives way to the electric flutter of butterflies as you become all too aware of the warmth of his palm clutching at your knee.

He nods for you to continue as you glance upwards to his face once more. If he can see the flush that has settled across your cheeks in darkness, he doesn't react to it.

His own eyes are preoccupied with following the path of your knuckles as you gently swipe the cloth in smooth motions across the raised patterns on his skin.

“...There.” The comment is mostly spoken to yourself rather than Savage as you wind the dressing around his forearm, but he thanks you all the same in that smooth voice of his.

The shadows have blanketed further now, yet even in the dying light, they no longer seem threatening.

You hold his arm to your face for a while longer. Your eyes are beginning to sting in the low lighting now, but you’re certain that despite your tiredness you could easily trace each and every line on his arm from memory across the bandage concealing them.

Perhaps it's the sleep deprivation that provokes you to edge forward between your fingers and place a chaste kiss against the exposed marigold skin of his wrist.

At least that's what you settle to tell yourself as you pull back, the sharp sting of rubbing-alcohol clinging to your lips.

Perhaps it's just because he looks so wistful.

Perhaps it's just because you’ve wanted to do it for a while now.

His face wears a new expression then - not a smile, but one you think you might like even a bit more. It's slack-jawed and shy, but also paints his face in thinly veiled peachy delight that even seems to brighten the sickly yellow-green bruising beneath his tired eyes.

You make a note to tip the stall owner the next time you pass through the market.

[bedlamsbard]

Concept writing for what I’ve been calling the “surprise AU,” the product of my latest streak of crazed concept writing, this time while moving cross-country (again).  Like a lot of my concepts, this is pretty sketchy at times; I also tend to do a lot of intro stuff for the first scene in a new concept with an outside POV (in this case, as in many, Cham), and this is no exception.

About 4.3K beneath the break.

“I am looking for a girl,” Cham said after the bartender had poured him his drink, which vaguely resembled the lum ale he had ordered.

The Aqualish seated on the stool next to him snorted and said in his watery voice, “Aren’t we all, my friend.”

“I’m not,” volunteered the Theelin male on his other side, who had been eyeing Cham with definite interest since he had walked into the cantina.

The bartender, a lean Pantoran with a missing ear, just said, “I’m not a pimp.”

“She’s my daughter,” Cham said, and when the Pantoran’s brow furrowed, went on, “She’s about eighteen, with green skin and white markings on her lekku –”  He moved his glass so that he could trace the pattern in the circle of condensation it had left on the countertop.

“What makes you think I know?” said the Pantoran.  “A lot of people come in here.”

“This isn’t the first cantina I’ve asked at,” Cham admitted.  “I saw her in the back of a holo, the fight last night –”

All three men nodded, which Cham took to mean that they had attended as well.

“Green Twi’lek–” said the Theelin thoughtfully, scratching at the base of his spikes.  “That could be Kanan’s girl.  I know they were all over each other last night.”

Cham’s stomach flipped, but he did his best to keep his voice neutral as he said, “Kanan?”

“One of the fighters,” said the Theelin. “Young human male, won his category last night.  I think he bunks over at the Poison Rose – tends bar there too, sometimes.  I don’t know about his girl.”

“She probably bunks with him,” the Aqualish pointed out, leering.  Then he seemed to remember that Cham was her father and lifted his fingers in a gesture of apology.

The Pantoran bartender was still frowning. “She run away from you?” he asked, a wary note in his voice.

Cham shook his head. “She was stolen from my wife and I, four years ago.” Almost anywhere else he would have named the Empire as the perpetrator, but here on the Emperor’s homeworld he was uncertain how that would be taken.

The three other men all exchanged looks, presumably evaluating the likelihood of Cham’s statement being truthful.  He must have been convincing, because the Pantoran said, “The Poison Rose is on the next street over,” and jerked a thumb in that direction, heedless of the walls between them.

“Thank you,” Cham said, and put a twenty-credit credchip on the counter. “For your next drinks.”

He left his untouched lum ale behind him as he slipped out of the cantina, into the cool, humid air of the Theed night.  For a moment he just stood there on the sidewalk, trying to fight down the surge of excitement in his chest.  His daughter suddenly felt shockingly in reach in a way that Cham hadn’t felt for years.  Part of him wasn’t quite willing to hope, not after everything that had happened since the colony had burned, after all the false alarms, but maybe – maybe this time –

There was only one way to find out.

The Poison Rose was easy to find, another cantina with several neon signs in the window advertising various alcohols.  Cham pushed the door open and stepped inside, finding that it was bigger but quieter than the previous cantina, already slowing down for the night. The bartender, a female Devaronian, looked up at his approach and said, “What can I get you?”

“I’m looking for a tenant of yours,” Cham said. “A human named Kanan?”

She jerked her head towards the hallway on one side of the bar.  “He’s upstairs, room 6.”

“Thank you,” Cham said.

“He’s got his girl in there with him, so I’d wait if I were you,” she warned as he started in the indicated direction.

Cham’s breath caught.  Hoping that his voice didn’t betray him, he said, “I’ll take that risk,” and went down the hallway.  There were stairs at the end of it, creaking a little under his feet as he climbed.

The walls here were thin, and Cham heard the murmur of voices as he passed various doors.  Someone – a child – was crying, being hurriedly shushed by their mother in a language he didn’t recognize; in another room a woman cried out in passion that he was fairly certain was simulated.  The sound of a smashball game on the HoloNet spilled out from a third. From behind the door to the room marked with a peeling 6 he heard laughter, a man’s and a woman’s.

Cham found himself reaching for his blaster, touching the worn blurrg leather on the grip to reassure himself before undoing the strap that kept it in place. He didn’t know who was in there with Hera – if Hera was in there at all – and he didn’t know if whoever it was was her friend or her captor.  Either way, Cham was not leaving without his daughter.

He knocked on the door.

The laughter stopped.  There was a soft murmur that he couldn’t make out, then footsteps before the door slid open and Cham’s daughter stared up at him.

She was bareheaded, wearing a man’s blue shirt and nothing else, and she looked at him as if she couldn’t believe what she saw.  Behind her, Cham could see a human male sitting up on the room’s single bed, hastily pulling a shirt on.

“Daddy?” Hera whispered, then, before he Cham could answer, flung herself at him.

Cham caught her in an embrace as Hera buried her face in his shoulder, her hands fisting at his back.  She was saying, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” like she couldn’t believe he was real, like if she stopped for even a second he would vanish.

“It’s me,” Cham said. “It’s all right, I’m here now.  You’re safe.”  He shot a glance over her head at the human, who had finished dressing and was watching them with concern.  He hadn’t picked up the blaster that was sitting on the nightstand.

After a moment, he said, “Hera?”

Hera took a breath and stepped back from Cham, wiping at her eyes.  Cham kept a hand on her shoulder, unwilling to release her as she half-turned towards the man. “Kanan, this is my father,” she said. “Daddy, this is my – my friend, Kanan.”

Given Hera’s state of undress, Cham had a good idea about the nature of their friendship, but there was real affection on Hera’s face when she looked at the man.  And she had been laughing, before, which seemed indicative of – something.

“General Syndulla,” Kanan said cautiously, and when Cham frowned at him, he added, “We haven’t met.”

Cham stepped into the room so that the door could slide closed behind him, watching the man’s mild eyes.  Boy might be a better way to describe him; he wasn’t much older than Hera, a well-muscled human with amber skin and dark hair loose around his shoulders.  There was a bruise on his cheekbone, a reminder that he had been in the fights the previous evening.

“Are you hurt?” Cham asked Hera.  He could see at a glance that Hera wasn’t wearing a collar, not even the light slip-chain that some slave-owners used instead of bulkier shock-collars.

She shook her head, looking confused and a little overwhelmed. “I’m fine, Daddy.  I – I don’t – what are you doing here?  How did you find me?”

“I saw you on the HoloNet coverage of the fights last night,” Cham explained. With him, he didn’t say, or what she had been doing when the holocam had panned briefly over them.  Well, she had had more clothes on then than she did now, at least.

“You don’t watch cage fights.”

“Themarsa does.  I was in the room.”

“They don’t broadcast the fights at the Spotted Shaak,” Kanan put in, his eyes narrowing in something that seemed to be worry.

“Someone streamed it,” Cham said.  He looked back at Hera, whose gaze had been flickering worriedly between them. “We need to go now, freykaa.  Get dressed, and pack anything you want to bring.”

She blinked at him. “Go where?”

“Home,” Cham said patiently. “Back to the Free Ryloth fleet.”

He saw the words that’s not home flash across Hera’s face, but she didn’t say as much.  She just hesitated, her expression torn.  “I – I can’t.”

“Why not?” Cham demanded, shooting a glare at Kanan.

The human looked just as surprised as Cham felt. “You don’t owe them anything, Hera,” he said, but she shook her head fiercely.

“I do!”

“No, you don’t!”

“I do!” Hera insisted. “I can’t just – and not for him –”  She shot Cham an apologetic glance, her cheeks flushed as the boy shook his head in return.

“Hera –”

“Hera,” Cham said as gently as he could, “I am not leaving without you.” As she hesitated again, he added, “I won’t do that to your mother.”

Hera jerked her head up, suddenly looking very young.  “Mama?”

“She’s back with the fleet,” Cham told her.

Hera shook her head, but it was a gesture more of confusion than negation. “I can’t – I –”

Cham had hoped to get through this without having to stun his daughter, but that seemed less likely by the moment.  “Hera –” he began, trying to conjure up an argument when he didn’t know what he was arguing against. “What is holding you here?”

He shot a glance at the boy, but Kanan was watching Hera as intently as Cham.

“I –” Hera said.  She looked helplessly at the boy, then at Cham, then down.  “I’m an Imperial cadet,” she confessed, and when Cham stared, lost for words, she added hastily, “It was my choice.  It was the only way I could get out of prison, when they were holding me at the Spire four years ago.  I worked hard for it.  I can’t just leave.”

Cham shut his eyes briefly, then opened them again and reached for Hera. She looked up at him, her expression distressed. “My daughter, you owe the Empire nothing.  They have all but destroyed our family, our world.  They took you and your mother from me, murdered your aunts, stolen your cousins, cost us our home.  Whatever they have to offer you is nothing in the face of what they’ve taken.”

Her face crinkled up in dismay.  “But – I –”  She stumbled over the words, looking at her lover for help, but all he said was, “You know how I feel about the Empire, Hera.”

She shut her eyes, looking painfully young in the too-big shirt she was wearing.  “I’ll come,” she said finally, following that up with a glance at the boy, who nodded in response.  Cham took that to mean that he would be leaving Naboo with two passengers instead of just his daughter, but under the circumstances couldn’t resent it.

Hera turned away to search for her clothes, which turned out to be scattered around the room in a way that Cham didn’t want to think about.  Kanan went to help her, seemed to remember Cham’s presence, and hesitated.

Then he went absolutely still.

“What?” Hera demanded, halfway through pulling her trousers on. “What is it?”

“There’s something wrong,” he said.

“You think?” she hissed at him, jerking her trousers the rest of the way up.

“Not that –”  He caught up his blaster from the nightstand and strode to the window, throwing the shutters open to look out into the street.

Cham followed him, frowning.  Kanan stepped aside so that he could see too, his handsome features creased in worry.

All the pedestrians that had been in the street when Cham had arrived had vanished.  Instead there was a single figure standing there and looking up at them – no, not them, Cham realized.  At Kanan.

“Who is that?” Hera asked, stepping up beside Kanan and trying to peer around him as she did up her jacket. “I thought competitors from the fights didn’t hold grudges.”

“The bettors do,” Kanan said absently, “but I don’t think –”  He flinched back suddenly, and the shutters banged shut, though Cham hadn’t seen him reach for them.  “We need to go.”

Hera caught his sleeve. “Who was that?” she demanded.

“Something evil.”

He looked badly shaken, like he had reached for a piece of stone only for it to burn his hand.  For a moment he stared at the blaster he was holding as though he couldn’t comprehend its purpose, then tried to holster the weapon before apparently realizing he wasn’t wearing his holster yet.  He crossed the room to put it down and pull a bag out from under the bed, digging inside it for a moment before pulling out what looked like the carrying case for a riflescope.  Hera grabbed the bag from him and began to throw things into it, prudently taking the blaster and finding the holster as well.

“Daddy, were you followed from the spaceport?” she asked. “Maybe –”

“No, I’m certain of it,” Cham said.  He looked at both children with bemusement he couldn’t shake – “children” wasn’t fair since they were both be legally adults on Ryloth, but Hera was his daughter and he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that anyone in her company would be any different than her.  And right now they both seemed very young.

The boy put his head to one side, his brows creased as though listening to something. “They’ve cleared out the cantina down below,” he said. “You’re going to have to go out the back, or take the upstairs route.”

“You mean ‘us’,” Hera said, dropping the bag on the bed with a light thump; it didn’t seem to contain more than clothes and a datapad or two.

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m not leaving you behind.”  She lifted her head stubbornly, so like her mother that it made Cham’s heart clench. “And how do you know the cantina’s been cleared out anyway?  By who?”

“Stormtroopers,” Kanan said. “And I just – I just know.”  He looked down at the riflescope case he was holding and grimaced, standing back on one heel.

Cham couldn’t hear anything, but there was something familiar about the boy’s prescience that he didn’t want to think about too closely.  “I will investigate it,” he informed them. “Both of you stay here.”

“No –” Kanan protested.

“Yes,” Cham said, putting all his authority into the word, with the result of seeing the boy hesitate.  Cham left before he could protest again, leaving the door open behind him so that they could hear whatever happened downstairs.

Something had changed.  The earlier sense of life in the cantina had vanished; Cham could still hear small noises coming from the rooms behind the closed doors in the upstairs hallway, but they seemed muted now, as though their residents had realized something was wrong.  Music still played in the cantina downstairs, but Cham couldn’t hear any conversation, and as he paused to listen, he heard under the music the slight but familiar creak of stormtrooper armor.

Kanan had been right.

Cham drew his blaster as he made his way cautiously down the stairs, hugging the wall as he did so.  He remembered the place where the steps had creaked earlier and stepped around it, light-footed as he reached the bottom and the short hallway there.  Beyond it, he could see the dim light reflecting off polished white armor.  The bartender was just visible, standing against the wall with her hands up alongside her patrons.

Had he been followed?  Cham was nearly certain that he hadn’t been, given his meandering path through the city, but evidently he had been mistaken. Unless they hadn’t come for him –

He still had to try and get a count of how many there were.  If there were only a few, then they might be able to fight their way out; if there were more – flight might be their best option.

He edged forward along the wall, his blaster lowered but his finger on the trigger.  From here, he could see four troopers – not too many, but not so few that Cham wanted to tangle with them either, not with his daughter’s life and freedom at stake. He couldn’t see the whole room, either, there might easily be more out of sight.

He started to back up, most of his attention still on the room in front of him. When the back of his heel hit the step behind him he glanced down, unwilling to risk tripping up the stairs and alerting the stormtroopers –

“General, duck!”

Cham dropped, his years on the battlefield sending his body reacting before his mind caught up with Kanan’s shouted warning.  Something red pinwheeled over his head with a half-familiar humming sound, wooden walls splintering its wake and leaving the smell of burning behind.  All at once his lekku went tight as Hera, her voice terrified, yelled, “Daddy!”

Out of the corner of his eye Cham saw a flash of blue light.

When he looked up, there was – something else – standing in the narrow hallway in front of him, blocking the entrance to the cantina.  Cham blinked and the dark shape reformed itself into a Pau’an, dressed in black and gray with red highlights like streaks of blood and holding a round-hilted lightsaber, both scarlet blades extended.  He stared at it, astonishment blanking out every other emotion, even fear.

It was an Inquisitor.

Cham had heard of them before, some creature of the Emperor’s with arcane powers like the Jedi of the old Republic, but he had never seen one except in holograms.

“There you are,” he said, voice a pleased purr that made Cham shudder, but his attention wasn’t on Cham.  “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I thought I dreamed you,” Kanan said, his voice soft and stunned.  The stairs creaked as he stepped down; Cham looked up to see him holding a blue lightsaber, his hands white-knuckled on the hilt.  Hera was behind him, clutching both the bag and the blaster.

His voice soft with amusement, the Inquisitor said, “You thought you dreamed me?  After everything we shared?”

“That’s not what I would call it,” Kanan said, strained.

Cham pushed warily to his feet, but neither of the two men was watching him. The stormtroopers that had appeared in the corridor behind the Pau’an were, though, and Cham saw their blasters move to follow him.

Kanan stepped past him, moving to put his body between Cham and the Inquisitor. From here Cham could see him shaking, sweat beading at his hairline.

“Planning to fight?” the Inquisitor inquired. “You remember how well that went the last time.”

Cham reached for the comlink on his belt and found it, clicked two short and two long, then heard a click in response.

“Let them go,” Kanan said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “and you can have me.  I won’t fight.”

“Kanan, no!” Hera hissed.  “Don’t –”

“I have no interest in your friends,” the Inquisitor told him, almost kindly.  “The Imperial Security Bureau, however, does, and they will be here shortly.”

Hera made a small, pained sound in her throat, and Cham glanced up to see her hands tighten on the blaster she was holding.  He had to fight down his own moment of panic, because he had just gotten his daughter back and he was damned if he was going to let the Empire have her again.

The Inquisitor flicked his lightsaber forward, Kanan’s gaze following the glowing red blade as if mesmerized by it.  “I have no desire to harm you, my boy,” he said, and then smiled, all teeth. “I would prefer to keep you intact, but that is hardly necessary.”

Kanan shuddered all over, but said gamely, “Let them go –”

The cantina door blew in.

Amidst the muffled thumps of exploding concussion grenades that followed, Cham grabbed the boy’s shoulder and thrust him up the stairs before him, heading for the rooftop exit he had seen earlier.  He collected Hera along the way, sending both teenagers scrambling through the corridor heedless of the explosions and blasterfire below.

The clatter of armor sent Cham whirling around, firing at the stormtroopers that had followed them.  In the same instant Kanan shoved his free hand out and the stormtroopers went flying backwards down the stairs, where more shouts suggested that they had taken out a few of their fellows along the way.

They found their way out through a trapdoor to the roof, slipping on the moisture-slick tile.  Cham steadied his daughter, keeping a wary eye behind them for pursuit, but for the moment they seemed to be clear.  They made it over the roof to a ladder that reached mostly to the ground, depositing them in the narrow alley that ran behind the cantina.  There was a stormtrooper there keeping an eye on the backdoor, but before he could shout Hera dropped him with a stun blast.

Cham’s comlink beeped urgently and he took it off his belt.  “Themarsa, are you clear?”

“We’re clear, no casualties,” his cousin reported. “Do you –”

“I’ve got her,” Cham said. “We’ll rendezvous back at the ship.  Cham out.”  He replaced his comlink on his belt and turned back to see Hera staring at him.  “Did you think I came alone?”

“Yes,” she admitted.  She glanced at Kanan, who looked sick to his stomach and was still staring up at the building, his unlit lightsaber hilt clenched tightly in his fist.  “Love – Kanan, we need to go.”

He didn’t seem to hear her; Cham could still see him shaking.  Hera touched his arm and he jerked, looking wildly around before he saw her.

“We need to go,” Hera repeated. “Come on, love.  It’s all right.”

He nodded, shivering, and hooked his lightsaber onto his belt.

They had to dodge out of the way of stormtrooper patrols twice on their way to the spaceport where Cham’s small ship was docked, but they made it there without getting into a firefight at any point.  Themarsa was waiting on the ramp when they arrived, his brows climbing when he saw the human with them, but didn’t comment on Kanan’s presence, just hugged Hera quickly and hustled them inside.

The pilots took off almost before everyone had gotten seated, the force of it pushing Cham back in his seat.  They all sat in silence, waiting for a seemingly inevitable attack, but no TIEs came screaming out of the stars after them, and they jumped to hyperspace a few moments later.

*

It wasn’t a large ship, but Kanan managed to slip away while Hera was being enfolded in the loving arms of various second and third cousins – wary of alerting Alecto, Cham had only brought Themarsa and three others with him, people whose absence Alecto might notice but who wouldn’t tell her if it had turned out to be a false alarm.  Cham tracked the boy down to the airlock, where he found him sitting in the corridor, his back against the hatch and his head in his hands.  He twitched a little at the sound of Cham’s footsteps, but didn’t look up.

“You are a Jedi, are you not?” Cham said quietly.

Kanan lowered his hands.  His expression was bleak; Cham thought from his red-rimmed eyes that he might have been crying, but wasn’t certain.  “I used to be.”

“And the Inquisitor?”

For a long time Kanan didn’t answer, looking away from Cham. Eventually, he said, “A few years ago, not long after – after – you know – I was captured.  By him.  He had me for – a few days, a week, longer, I’m not sure.  He wanted…it doesn’t matter.  I managed to get away, and he – it was easier to pretend that it hadn’t happened.  I didn’t have any permanent marks, and – I thought – I don’t know what I thought. It was like a bad dream, in a way. It didn’t seem to…to leave anything behind.  And I wanted it not to have happened.”

“He hurt you.”

Cham hadn’t heard Hera approach, but he stepped aside so that she could go to the boy.  She settled down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him familiarly against her.

“Not like you’re thinking,” he said softly.  “He hurt me, but not like that.  And it was – it was a long time ago.”

If it had been just after the fall of the Republic, then he must have been about the same age Hera had been when the colony had burned, Cham thought.

“You should go be with your family,” Kanan told Hera, with a sideways glance at Cham.  “I’m all right.  I was just – I was just surprised.”

Hera hesitated.  Cham wanted to question the boy further, but he suspected that he would have to do so without Hera there, which Cham would have preferred to do anyway.  That, however, required getting back to the fleet, and it would be a few hours yet before the.  He thought that it could wait for another rotation or so.  Long enough to hand Hera over to her mother, when he could figure out what to do with her lover.

He still wasn’t certain what he thought of that, but there were worse places that he had expected to find Hera, and this had gone as well as it could.

“Come on, Hera,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

She gave Kanan a worried look, but he didn’t look at her, and after a moment she pressed a kiss to his cheek before getting to her feet.  She didn’t take Cham’s hand, but she preceded him out of the airlock.  When Cham looked back, it was to see Kanan curling in on himself, his hands locked over the back of his head like he was holding together an open wound.