Chapter Text
He breathes in and out. In and out. In and out, but it catches on something and Brasso coughs and wheezes.
His funeral jacket wasn’t too tight earlier, but now it’s binding him. He unties the knots holding it closed--or tries to, but his hands are shaking.
Giving up on the jacket, he starts focusing on his breathing again. In and out. In and out. His fingers curl up tight in spite of himself.
Ash to stone, flying has never been his favorite, but this is bad.
“Brasso, get up here!” Jezzi’s shout catches him by surprise. His legs kick upward and he ends up grabbing something along the inner ship wall to maintain his balance. The movement knocks off his cap; he leaves it there on the floor.
“Coming, give me a moment,” he hollers. The words scratch in his throat. Oh, right, he thinks, I was screeching at some stormtroopers not too long ago. He closes his mouth to avoid letting out a burble of hysterical laughter.
Winding carefully around B2, Bix, and Wilmon, he finally makes it through the corridor to the cockpit. There's a jump seat; he unfolds it and sits down. Looks at Jezzi. Tries not to look outside.
“Put your hand here,” Jezzi orders him. “Hold it steady for a minute.” He does what she says, staring at their hands on the console. Hears her hiss, watches as she carefully flexes first one wrist, then the other.
"Thank you,” she tells him. “I needed a break. Should be good for a while longer now."
Cassian had said something about using the hand throttle for the controls. “You sure?” Brasso asks her.
She huffs out a laugh, and he realizes: there's no alternative. Wilmon is only sixteen, for all that he just threw a bomb during a riot. Bix from before might have been able to pilot this hunk of junk, but certainly not now. And here he is, so scared by the flight that he can't even look through the screen. Never been able to bear the thought of piloting anything outside of atmo.
Jez’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “What's your ex's name?”
“What?”
“Your ex. Was her name Pazandra?”
“Palandra.” He’s more than a little surprised at the question; Jez and Palandra had been friends. Or had gotten along well enough through the Daughters, at any rate.
“Doesn't she live on Morlana Four?”
“She did. She moved last year, though.” Married again--for the third time, such optimism--and moved to the Inner Rim. Brasso’s not sure he can imagine a love big enough for that right now. That close to the Empire?
Not that the Empire stayed within a set of boundaries. Not that they’d been safe on Ferrix. Maarva was right. They’d been sleeping.
“Too bad.” Jezzi sighs. “We could have used a quick connection.”
He nods in agreement.
“We need a plan. But first. Go back there,” Jez tells him. “Pick one of those two humans and give them a big hug.”
He should have thought of that before now, should have done something. Brasso stands up, but before he can pivot toward the back of the ship, Jezzi pats his hand. It's a quick tap-tap before putting her fingers back on the controls.
“It's okay if you didn't do anything before now,” she says. “You're allowed your own panic now and then, you know?”
“Thanks, Jez.”
“And start thinking about our next step,” she shouts as he moves to the back of the ship.
Right. Hug a human, make a plan. But breathe first.