Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Kleya arrives on Yavin IV in a weighted haze of shock, grief, spent adrenaline, and fear.

She’s used to compartmentalising now, managing later – taking a similar methodic approach to her emotion as she takes to her comms. This combination of a disorienting head wound, relief at having accomplished her missions, and more powerful grief than she’s had for . . . quite some years, mean she can’t bring those usual coping mechanisms to their usual power.

Underneath it all are embers of this new, complex thing – part anger, so much more – which she really doesn’t know what to do with.

She’s had white-hot anger in her belly since she can remember. Seething coals which were probably born in her, stoked into a forever furnace that day she watched her family slaughtered, and tended to ever since by both Luthen and herself.

“Hold onto it.”

She had, and it served her well. She nurtured it and aimed it at the Empire, drawing on its heat for strength to do everything from giving assassination orders, to offering that odious Krennic a smile and laugh.

But never before had she been so angry at her grief. Angry that she’s afraid. Angry at Luthen for dying, for never giving her what perhaps he wasn’t even capable of. Grief at the certainty he never would be.

Anger at her own useless fear.

A gasp of hydraulics brings her around to her present predicament. The U-wing's door is opening. She’s about to go from one hostile world to another. From the frying pan to the fire, or the other way around?

She takes a deep breath, pulls her focus to one emotion as a lifeline. Anger is the most recognisable feeling blazing through her veins.

Ignore anything confusing, focus on what’s simple first. Sort complications to one side, deal with them later. Grab the white-hot. Let it sear and center you. Hold on to what’s doable. If you start slipping, squeeze tighter. They’re already disposed to hate you. Can’t show them you’re weak. Don’t give them a glimpse of anything they can use against you. The flame reminds you what’s important.

Inflict the pain, channel the pain. What’s one more psychic scar on top of hundreds?

Chapter Text

Left alone in the makeshift sick bay, given several shots of what she was sure were tranqs as well as painkillers and antibiotics, Kleya’s anger subsides from blaze to low crackle, leaving room for everything else.

Cataloguing herself, she finds panic, grief, pain, confusion, longing.

Panic. From the electronic lock noise the pneumatic door couldn’t fully muffle. Not that she was physically able to run, but the inability to even try, the lack of egress, gave rise to helplessness she did not care to examine.

Grief. Obvious. Nothing to do about that right now. Luthen would be just as dead.

Pain. Several bruises; a monotonously throbbing concussion; a second-degree blaster burn she hadn’t even noticed, perhaps from a ricochet; the sting of a stitches and a few deep cuts K-2SO had helpfully noted “shouldn’t spoil your looks too much.” 

Confusion. What the hell was Cassian doing with an Imperial security droid!?

Longing. Catalogue that under ‘helplessness and grief.’ Digging into that wound would only make her weaker now, better to wait until later. Or never. 

Anger, then. What’s left is anger. That, she can manage.

How dare they put her here? Well, what else did she expect? She knew the feelings Luthen engendered throughout the Rebellion. How much less likely would they be to welcome his protege who had been curt at best, acrimonious at worst, and was usually doing the dirtiest visible work? 

What’s the next move?

It was easier to strategise than to wallow. Could she make herself useful? Not only Cassian but Vel was here, surely they would vouch for her, and her knowledge of not only comms and electronics but the specific systems of Coruscant . . . 

Better or worse for her to reveal exactly how much of Coruscant’s infrastructure she had intimate knowledge of? Kleya sighed, then groaned at the sharp pain it brought. How could such a typical action bring a horrible throb in her head, a sharp stab in her side, and a burning pain in her lungs, all at once? 

Better not to mention much until she knew which way the wind was blowing. She wanted to help, she knew she could be valuable, but she needed them to trust her, first. Or not only would it be bad for her, they wouldn’t utilise the information, either. Stupid, shortsighted, naïve rebel play soldiers. 

Cassian and Vel, then, were her best options. Not that either of them had much to endear her to them, but at least they would take her at her word. Cassian had cared enough to make sure she got off the planet alive; though she had a dark hole in her memory for a hours, a psychic self-preservation mechanism, K-2SO had filled her in on the details. Cassian Andor had more stubbornness than she’d credited him for, and for some reason seemed to not only believe her but want her to emerge from this in one piece.

And Vel. Well. 

She kept herself from sighing again, tried to breathe through the pain, and slowly the blanket of darkness and tranqs slid down.

- 

The med techs who disrupt her every twenty minutes seem to resent Kleya as much as she does them. They aren’t too gentle with their implements, nor do they give any indications as to what’s happening, whether with the whirring machines or the situation outside. 

When Cassian enters after a few hours, he looks as exhausted as she feels. If she had capacity to feel pity for anyone right now, she’d have it for herself first, him second. But under the exhaustion, and a sadness she hadn’t noticed before — is it new, or had she simply never cared to look? — she notes there’s also a glint of steeliness. Good for him. 

She was grateful — no, he owed it to her, but she was glad, at least — he didn’t make her ask about what they were planning to do with her, but offered. Not that it was much use.

No heroes welcome. No shit. 

Pain. 

Doing what you can, isn’t that comforting. 

Empty.

All for this. 

The machine beeping lets her know her heart rate is steady, and slowing.

When anger has nothing to consume, it can burn out fast.

When Cassian leaves, the electronic lock doesn’t sound.

Sleep, more sleep. 

-

Kleya stumbles into the rain. 

I was looking for something. What.

All these paths look the same. 

They’re never going to let me live it down. 

Wet leaves, trees, rain, cold. 

Why did I come here.

Trees, rain, wet leaves, cold.

I don’t even have the strength to finish it.

“Kleya?” 

Trees, rain, a shape in the darkness calling her name. Why does she know my name?

“Kleya.” A statement now, not a question. “It’s me. It’s Vel.”

Rain. Cold. Vel. Pain. Trees. Pain. Vel. 

Grief, utter exhaustion, and the last of the tranqs in her system, have worn away all her pretences. For just a flash of thought, Kleya thinks to resent that it’s someone she knows, instead of a stranger who might just help her back to the med bay and forget about her, another faceless refugee in a simmering war. But it passes, and she realises somewhere beyond the pain and even the numbing depression, she’s glad it’s Vel. It makes no sense, that she should be glad of it. 

She should ask for help. She should . . . What is wrong with you? Open your mouth. Say something, anything. Your words have never failed to cut someone down, why can’t you - What comes out is a strangled half-laugh, half sob. This is what hysteria sounds like. 

Vel is taking off her jacket. “I’m not sure it’ll do much good” Suddenly Vel’s arms are around her, Never let anyone put their hands on you, it’s not safe, she’s touching my face, this is the safest I’ve been since “but put this on.”

From what feels like a vast distance, Kleya surveys her emotions and finds herself surprised to be relieved. So relieved, that someone she trusts is making this decision for her. Trust. Where did that come from. “Come on. You can’t stay out here. Come with me.”

Closer than Kleya’s let anyone get for ages, Vel leads her through the humid dark. When Kleya stumbles, the unfamiliar path rendered invisible through the blinding combination of tears and rain, Vel’s arm around Kleya’s waist catches and carries her along. 

It’s . . . insane, to be aware of something so insignificant and specific right now, but Vel is strong. Kleya holds onto that as a lifeline the same way she was holding onto her anger, letting it pull her out of her consuming grief just long enough to gasp another breath. Vel’s hand is firm and her steps sure.

Of course she’s strong. Stronger than she looks. She’d never be able to train all those recruits if she couldn’t also show them up. Plus she smuggled and piloted small craft and can disassemble a blaster in five seconds, her hands would probably put mine to shame. She could probably sling me over her shoulder if she weren’t trying to give me some dignity. Why is she?

The thoughts run in a jumble under the thrum of what Kleya vaguely again recognises as hysteria. Could I really be hysterical if I’m aware of the fact? Yes. Like being in shock. Part of the function is letting you assess but not feel. Okay. Assess, then. Not just Vel’s hands, what’s happening.

Kleya tries to get a look at Vel; if she can see her face, read whether her eyes meet Kleya’s the way she’s challenged her so many times before or avert from her, maybe she can gauge whether she’s misjudged the situation, led into a trap by her unstable state. Maybe Vel is angry at her, and this is the easiest way to subdue her. Maybe Mon found she left the med bay and sent Vel to take her to a proper detainment cell. If I had the opportunity to deal with someone who ordered me to kill a friend, or had a hand in my lover leaving for years on end, what would I be more likely to do? Wrap her in my own jacket and take her to safety? Or take her to a dark hole in the middle of a jungle where accidents happen all - 

“Step.”

Kleya stops moving, confused. 

“Careful, they’re a bit slippery even when it’s not pissing down tookas and ewoks.”

Kleya vaguely realises they’ve arrived at a set of steps leading up to a small hut. Vel’s patiently waiting for her. Well, not exactly patiently, she’s pattering to buy Kleya time to recognise what’s happening and step under her own power. Again Kleya finds herself appreciating a gesture she would resent from anyone else or under normal circumstances. But then, what’s normal now?

Kleya takes a step and feels Vel lift her just a little — she’s aware of almost nothing but Vel’s arm solid and strong against the small of her back, how do her biceps seem so unobtrusive when they feel like that  — as Vel helps steady Kleya up the stairs, manoeuvre her through the door into the warm hut before Kleya can fully process what’s happening, or where they are.

Just inside the door Vel pauses their trajectory to remove Kleya’s raincoat as quickly as she put it on her. “Arms, yep, okay.” Kleya’s not sure how much of this is Vel’s recruit training kicking in, or whether she has experience with small children, but either way Vel’s efficiently sorting things and talking through them at the same time. “Here, sit.”

Vel shucks her own rain gear off. “Just a tick, I’ll get you some dry things.” She’s already halfway out of the room, and as she disappears Kleya feels a surge of panic followed by a flash of shame and then anger at herself for the panic. 

Can’t blame her if she’s treating me like a child or recruit; freaking like I haven’t figured out object permanence yet. Get it together.

Vel emerges with a stack of clothes, pauses like she’s about to ask something, then makes up her mind to skip the request. She drops the stack on the kitchen table, kneels next to Kleya, and pauses with her hands on Kleya’s hips just long enough to say “We need to get these layers off before you catch your death.” Then she’s untying Kleya’s half-tunic and gently easing it off her shoulders, tossing it away. She slides Kleya’s boots off next, then looks up, places her hands gently on Kleya’s thighs and pauses, waiting for Kleya to look at her.

As Kleya slowly fights to meet Vel’s gaze, she considers how Vel never held back, never hesitated to signal exactly what she was thinking. All the things Kleya feels about herself, she expects to see reflected back in Vel’s icy blue eyes: judgement, anger, shame.

Instead Kleya finds concern, under something else which she doesn’t recognise or know how to name, but which she knows is soft and in her favour.

“Okay?” Vel asks, not moving her hands. “Do you want me to-“

In a lighting thought, Kleya realises she would rather die of embarrassment on the spot than let Vel take her pants off like this. What the fuck do you mean ‘like this.’ She shoves both those thoughts into a quickly-becoming-overcrowded drawer to figure out later, shakes her head I’ve got it. Kleya sits forward quickly as though she has to start proving how much she has it under control, and winces at the sharp stab which goes through her. 

Vel notices the wince, but just nods and stands. “Let me know if you need pain meds, anything else besides” Vel gestures to the pile of clothes. Kleya is too busy breathing through the pain to respond. Vel’s lips purse again, as though she wants to insist Kleya take something for the pain, but she doesn’t push it.

As Kleya fumbles with her sodden clothes, Vel picks up Kleya’s tunic from where she tossed it and hangs it near the fireplace; stokes the fire higher; fills a kettle, set it on top of a metal fireplate and swings it directly over the flame; picks up the oilcloth coats and hangs one to drip on a peg near the door over a tub for clearly this exact purpose; tosses a second one over a nearby stool; then unlaces and kicks off her own boots before traipsing back into her bedroom where Kleya can hear her rummaging around. 

She took care of me before herself.

Kleya is almost done redressing when Vel pads back out in a pair of fur house slippers and hangs her wet socks alongside Kleya’s tunic, then half-turns and checks Kleya is decent before coming to gather her pile of clothes and add them to the dry line. 

“Almost nothing in the world feels so good as dry socks.” Vel’s still making conversation, and Kleya’s still grateful. 

Kleya shivers despite the dry clothes and roaring fire, but Vel doesn’t miss a beat. “Here” and again, suddenly, Vel is closer than Kleya lets anyone get unless she initiates it, wrapping her in a thick, yellow wool blanket. Vel rubs her arms for a moment through the blanket; again Kleya is reminded Vel’s so much stronger than she looks, and the reminder is comforting.

“‘Dry socks, a good fuck, and hot tea. Not necessarily in that order.’ That’s what my gran used to say, anyways.” Vel doesn’t even glance at Kleya while she says this, which is probably for the best even if Kleya’s expression has hardly changed since they entered the hut. “It horrified my parents, but I think that’s probably half of why she said it.” Vel pauses, trying to gauge if anything is getting through, let alone helping lighten the mood. “I can do you two out of three.” Kleya gives an involuntary chuckle, more a muscle memory reaction to the humorous tone of Vel’s voice than a real laugh at the joke, but it’s at least a response, and Vel looks briefly chuffed.

Vel moves across to check the kettle. “I don’t know if I can tempt you to eat something — I’m really a terrible cook, so I give any rations I smuggle out of the dining hall to Cassian in exchange for Revnog . . . would you prefer Rev?” 

Kleya shakes her head; at least she thinks she does, she’s not sure her body is obeying her orders very well. But Vel gets the gist. “Good, because I’m fresh out. But I make a mean cuppa.”

Vel bustles around making tea, the hut lapsing into a silence somehow not awkward, just appropriately heavy with both of their thoughts. 

Trying to orient her emotions, Kleya pulls the blanket closer. It smells as warm as it feels, of something slightly spiced and sweet under the comforting woolen musk. Kleya has an unbidden thought that it’s from Vel’s bed, and probably smells like her.

Why is she being nice to me. Vel knows Kleya better than anyone else here — maybe better than almost anyone anywhere, now. She knows not just Kleya’s absolute commitment to the Rebellion, but her clipped words and pragmatic feelings, and worst of all the things she’s done and ordered done. Of anyone, Vel has all the ammunition to accuse Kleya of sins and crimes aplenty. Or failing that, to rub her face in how far the mighty have fallen. Instead, she’s giving Kleya her own warm socks and making her tea. 

Deep down, Kleya somehow knew Vel wouldn’t turn her in. Knew it even before Vel had led her to the hut and up the steps into the most comforting place Kleya has been since — there it is again, no, she can’t think that, shut it down.

Vel sets a mug down in front of Kleya. “Sweetener? Milk? Sorry, all we have is Bantha.” 

Kleya shakes her head and cups her hands around the mug, sighing a little then groaning as the pain kicks into her side.

Vel grins and says, almost to herself, “Black tea. I might have guessed.”

“Why’s that.” 

If Vel’s shocked by the first words Kleya has uttered in the last half hour, she doesn’t miss a beat. “Only psychopath tongues are so sharp they don’t need to soften their tea.” 

Kleya takes a slow, automatic sip, as though proving Vel’s point. “Another grandma-ism?” 

Vel puts a splash of milk in her own tea and brings her mug to the table, sitting across from Kleya as though it’s perfectly natural they be here, meeting like this, light years away from where their former selves met in a shopfront, playing rich buyer and art dealer before the world imploded. 

“She had words for every occasion, that one.” Vel’s smile falters. “I didn’t leave home until she passed, and obviously she never knew I joined the Rebellion, let alone . . . well, everything else. So it doesn’t matter what other people think. Because I know she’d be proud.”

Kleya isn’t sure how to respond to that; it feels like Vel is giving her something precious, but she can’t fathom why. 

In the space between, Kleya becomes keenly aware of the rain coming through some leaks in the roof, 

“I’m sorry about Luthen. What you did for him, it can’t have been easy.”

“Had to be done.” Kleya wants to cut Vel off, for her to go back to jokes, or stories of her past, to filling the silence with anything but this.

But Vel’s face shows she’s not letting it go. It’s as though she has to clear this from between them, acknowledge Luthen, before they can . . . what? What could she want? To condemn her? Nobody could flagellate her harder than she’s doing herself.

“It gets tiring saying that, doesn’t it.”

Kleya meets Vel’s eyes again, and again there’s more than she can parse, but still she doesn’t see a trace of the animosity she expects. Vel’s kindness is more disarming than a whole bottle of revnog, or the tranqs, or the head injury. Kleya had years to consider how she’d respond to torture, how long she could go without breaking, what she could do to end things before she revealed anything important; not just information but any part of herself.

But this was different. Vel wasn’t asking, she was offering. And somehow that made Kleya feel she could give something of herself, too. 

“He always used to say, ‘know your way out before you go in.’ I don’t even really know where I am.” She means it in many ways, but as the words tumble out she realises it’s also literal. If Kleya had to run, this very moment, she could barely find the door, let alone the path to anywhere she recognised, let alone a way off Yavin. She was at Vel’s mercy, entirely. 

“‘I have friends everywhere.’” Kleya recognised the passcode, but the intensity in Vel’s eyes promised it was more than just that. “You’re here with friends.”

Another lifeline, another kindness. Another thing Kleya had no idea what to do with. So she just clings to it, in silence.

Vel leans forward, gives her an out. “I need to find my cousin, and you need to sleep.” 

Kleya nods in . . . relief, she’s sure. The other things it’s tinged with she’ll figure out later.

Vel stands. “Are you okay to stay here?” The ‘by yourself’ went unspoken. Kleya had always assumed Vel was insightful, but acting on it was a different matter, and she was surprised to was find how considered — and considerate — Vel’s actions are.

Kleya nods again, her powers of speech deserting her as quickly as they’d returned. Vel walks around the table, not too quickly, as though she’s trying not to startle her. “Come on. Before you pass out right here. I can’t get you into bed under my own power.”

After everything she’d felt (and thought) earlier, Kleya had no doubts Vel would be able to manage, on all counts. But she wasn’t actually sure she was in full control of her body right now, and she didn’t want to interrogate that, so, okay. Besides, Vel’s arms around her again were steadying. It was surprisingly nice, and important, to feel that there was still someone in the galaxy who was both strong and capable, and had her back. 

Vel helped Kleya to the edge of the bed, where Kleya took it upon herself to swing her legs up and lie down without assistance, biting down a groan of pain because still had some pride, damnit. She made no protest when Vel pull a second blanket up and over her waist. 

Kleya slowly shifts, trying find the right spot on the mattress which hurt least, pushing down the panic which had crept back in since Vel mentioned leaving her alone again.

As though Vel could read her mind, she crossed the room to a small table piled with what looks like months of odds and ends emptied from her pockets after duty, and slid open a drawer. “I’ll be back in a bit. If you need anything, at all” she brought a small square box and placed it on the nightstand, before sliding a matching receiver into her shirtpocket. “I’m sure the cleverest comm artist in the galaxy can figure out how a one-way dadita signal works.” 

Before Kleya could wrap her mind around how to take that compliment,  Vel shrugged on her still-sodden jackets and disappeared back out into the rain.

Kleya reached to pick up the square transmitter, ignoring the dull stab in her ribs. She laid it next to the pillow where she wouldn’t accidentally trigger it, but could touch it without any real exertion.

How silly to get such comfort from a lump of metal and wires, but comfort it was.

Her eyes slide closed, and mercifully unconsciousness overtook her immediately. 

Chapter Text

Some hours later, Kleya wakes up, disoriented. She immediately begins her mental checklist:

pain but nothing debilitating, stress but nothing imminent, raining outside but I’m dry. thick blanket, the yellow blanket, scratchy wool, slight dampness, warm, smells of nutmeg and tea. Vel’s blanket, Vel’s bed, Vel’s hut. Yavin. Luthen gone. Luthen. Gone. Luthen. Luthen. Luthen. Luthen. 

As her eyes adjust, she takes stock of the room, and almost immediately sees Vel, curled up against the aluminium wall in what looks to be a small nest of blankets. Over herself Vel has draped a cloak, the hood bunched up under her chin and along the side of her face to create a makeshift pillow against the cold metal. Though she’s clearly asleep, she’s facing Kleya, as though she wanted to make sure . . . what? That Kleya was ok, or that Kleya wasn’t going to stab her in her sleep? 

Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not afraid of you. Why wouldn’t she be? Only Vel knew what Kleya had ordered her to do to Andor. She also knew the bare bones of what Kleya had done since, and did to Luthen. Maybe she interpreted it differently. No, she said it gets tiring, she understands. Does she? Or did she just need to placate you. She wouldn’t hurt me; she wouldn’t even hurt Cassian and she didn’t know then what she does now. It’s what she knows now which is the problem. It’s what happened to Cinta. Everything has changed. Giving benefits of doubt will only get you killed. Be sure. 

Kleya squeezed her eyes shut, as though a slight increase in darkness will make a difference to the cacophony in her head, but immediately opened them again to see . . . what? If Vel is still there as a comforting figure watching over her, or to be sure Vel wouldn’t stab her in her sleep? 

The argument went around, and around, and around, her head, for hours, until finally it exhausted her enough to fall back to sleep. 

-

When Kleya opened her eyes again the hut was brighter; she wasn’t used to what the light of this constantly-overcast-if-not-raining planet meant, but it felt early. 

The spot against the wall was empty, no sign of the blankets or Vel. Had she imagined it? Was that part of her psyche deserting her, too? 

She again catalogued what she felt; sting of the blaster burn, nausea from the concussion, shakiness from not having eaten a solid meal since right after, that. They’d given her some liquid nutrient at the med bay, but her last ‘real’ food was at the safe house, where — background brain processes demanding she needed sustenance to do her task properly — she had choked down emergency rations. The taste of sand in her mouth had turned to rocks in her stomach, and once she’d accomplished her task she’d been relieved she didn’t need to force herself to eat any more. But that was how many days? ago.

Sitting up slowly, Kleya feels the room rotate around her. Vel had said she didn’t have food on hand, but surely there was something. 

Pulling herself to her feet, still clutching the blanket around her shoulders, Kleya makes her way toward the makeshift kitchen, which was, in fact, completely devoid of anything edible. Cursing internally she turns, and spots a scrap of paper on the table, propped against her mug from the night before. 

Went to get breakfast, back soon. 

-V

p.s.  purified water in the kettle; don’t drink it from any elsewhere

The p.s. was smaller, and especially with the scribbled out half-word, clearly an afterthought; boiling the drinking water something Vel must be used to by now. We’re a long way from Coruscant. Or Chandrila.

Kleya pours some water from the kettle — still warm, Vel must have boiled it before she left — while considering whether she should go try to find the mess hall. But within five minutes the acts of ‘walking across the room, reading a note, drinking some water’ had exhausted her too much.

Surely that was it. Not the physical injury, waves of grief and pain, years of repressing stress and putting on a brave face in the midst of people who, if they knew half of what she’d done, would soon as slit her throat as look at her.

She walked back to the bed and laid back down. Just for a minute, to gather her strength, then she’d go get breakfast. 

-

“Kleya?” A gentle shake on her shoulder pulled Kleya out of sleep; Vel, perched on the edge of the bed, holding a small brown paper packet and a mug of water. 

Kleya bolted upright, trying to gauge how much brighter it was than when she last woke up. “What, time, what?”

“You’re okay. It’s early, not yet eight.” Vel set the water on the nightstand and began unwrapping the packet. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you, but I thought I’d check if you have any other questions or need anything before I went to training.” Vel pulled the tiny nightstand over, and flattened the paper out to reveal a large bread roll, a hunk of bantha cheese, a few biscuits, and a handful of nuts. She reached into some of the copious pockets of her coveralls and produced an apple, a tangerine, and a large, purple, gnarly-skinned fruit Kleya didn’t recognise. “I also didn’t know what you’d want to eat, or what your stomach could handle, so I just got some of everything portable.” 

It had not occurred to Kleya to consider Vel meant ‘get breakfast for you.’ Once again she found herself disarmed by kindness, which some people — like Vel, apparently, considered basic courtesy and essential hospitality. She was so disarmed it also did not occur to her to say thank you, and instead found herself deflecting. “What is that?” She pointed at the purple fruit. 

Vel chuckled as she fished a knife from yet another pocket and proceeded to casually flick it open and cut the fruit in half. “You would go straight for the most impossible thing to eat.” She began cutting it as she walked back toward the makeshift kitchen. “I’d never seen one, either, but apparently these moons are flush with the trees. It’s some cousin of a pomegranate, but better suited to the wet season. They’re more sour than sweet, but that’s why I like ‘em.” She returned carrying a spoon, and laid it alongside the two fruit halves next to the rest of the food. Together they finished crowding the small table, and Kleya stared at what looked like a small feast. 

“This should last you?” The up inflection at the end wasn’t unkind, but clearly Vel needed some sort of acknowledgement Kleya was okay to be left alone for the day.

Sitting up had kicked Kleya’s headache and the room spins into high gear, so she was spending most of her energy to stay upright and process Vel’s words. “Yes. Thank you. Sorry, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You need to go to work. This is excellent.”

Vel wiped the knife on the side of her pants, checked it was clean, closed and returned it to the pocket it came from, the whole time gauging Kleya. Maybe if Kleya hadn’t been a spy for almost her entire life, Vel could get away with it. But injured or not, Kleya could tell when someone was watching her closely while trying to seem casual; she could feel it even in a room full of people, let alone someone standing over her bed. If only I could get up without probably immediately needing something to hold onto.

“Vel. I’ll be fine.” 

As if on cue, entirely against her will and to her great consternation, Kleya’s stomach let out a grumble which could be heard from space.

Vel grinned, somehow mollified by this completely involuntary reflex. “Being hungry is a good sign. Okay. I don’t really get a lunch break, I’ve got to brief the gens on training progress, but that should tide you over, and I’ll bring dinner. If you need anything before then —“ clearly Vel hadn’t thought to check for the transmitter when she moved the nightstand, and her eyes flitted now looking for it, immediately spotting it next to the pillow. Kleya wished even more she could drop through a hole in the floor. How embarrassing that I had to sleep with it like some kind of child. 

But if Vel thought anything of it, this time her face didn’t give her away, and she smoothly glazed over her pause “ — you can always reach me.” 

Still mortified, Kleya manages to find her manners. “I appreciate it. Really. Thanks.”

- 

Kleya managed to eat the biscuits and the weird not-pomegranate; Vel was right, it was sour and delicious. Drinking half the mug of water made her realise she needed a shower. She found her clothes folded by the small bathing room, and spent another ten minutes examining and admiring the jury-rigged, gravity-fed shower system. A pipe ran from the roof where there must have been a tank, to close enough to the fire on the other side of the wall to mean the water was cool instead of freezing, across to a showerhead only barely higher than her head so the pressure was reasonable. She remembered with some satisfaction — unreasonable and ridiculous since it was something neither had control over, but satisfaction nonetheless — that if they were both not wearing heels, Vel was just, just a smidge shorter than she, and clearly the shower was made by Vel and set up for her height. 

By the time she had dried and dressed and stopped shivering, Kleya needed another nap. She tossed and turned and woke up to her stomach growling. The fireplate was perfect to toast the already-stale bread roll and bantha cheese, and thankfully it stayed down. She boiled more water but couldn’t bother with tea, just sipped it slowly while watching the fire dance, feeling almost mad at how eating, hydrating, and things do actually make one feel somewhat better.

Now she felt slightly more human, Kleya could really examine the hut, which really looked like it had been slapped together from parts of three wildly different style huts. She could see places Vel had patched walls, or rigged shelves, but overall everything was function over form . . . except one corner. A carefully constructed bookshelf had been built to fit an oddly-joined wall, and there was not only a slanted overhang to redirect the drips which seemed as perpetual as the rain, but an oilcloth 

A few hours later Vel came back, covered in grime and looking exhausted, to find Kleya curled up on the bed, fully engrossed halfway through one of her books. As Vel hung up her drenched rain gear, Kleya jumped up as quickly as she could manage and carefully put the book back in its spot. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind, but—“ Vel waved her off. “No, of course. That’s a good pick, though Cass actually borrowed the first in the series. You could ask for it back.”

“Well now I’m invested, I just might.” She paused, unsure why she was suddenly nervous to ask if Vel was coming to the dining hall with her. Not like she needed anyone to babysit. Much as Kleya dreaded having to go to the mess hall, with everyone staring and whispering and speculating, she may as well show her face and get it over with, Vel or no. “Will you be coming to dinner?”

“If you think I’m going back out in that maelstrom tonight you are sorely mistaken!” Vel reached into some hidden inner pocket in her oilcloth jacket and triumphantly produced a large packet. “Mess had roast shaak. I snagged not one, not two, but three.” She tossed the packet on the table. “If I get cleaned up, can you warm this all up?”

Taken aback at how casually Vel was asking her to do tasks, Kleya also finds herself pleased to be assumed to be useful. She concentrates on that instead of how relieved she is to postpone facing the crowds for another day as she pokes around the cupboards, finding her first instinct for where everything should be was exactly where Vel had it.

Except one.

“Why on earth are the bowls in there?” 

Barely having stepped into the living/dining/cooking area, still toweling her hair, Vel stops and stares. “Are you really making our first real conversation as my dinner guest an opportunity to pass judgement on my drawer organisational skills?”

“It’s not about organisation, because that would have to be an entirely different topic. Other than your reading material” — Kleya gestures to the undercover bookshelf — “I’m shocked you can find anything in here.”

Vel hangs her towel over the dry line closest to the fire and furthest from the biggest ceiling leak. “I know where it is, which is all that matters.”

“Spoons and forks just mixed into the spatulas like common implements, I can excuse.” Kleya pauses for a beat, bumping on something she hadn’t noticed earlier. She made a point to cut the breakfast fruit open before leaving. It wasn’t a thoughtful gesture, it was because of a this. How dare she. 

Kleya had meant to be teasing about the drawers, but the sudden realisation Vel had taken all the knives from the hut that morning adds real edge to her voice. “But the tactical disadvantage of having your bowls where the dishcloths should be is certainly throwing me for a loop.”

Not noticing the sudden acrimony, Vel plays along. “I’ll acknowledge dishcloths there makes sense for that cupboard orientation, but only if you’ll admit you missed the more important point.” 

Still stewing not just over her cutlery realisation, but anger she hadn’t figured it out before, it takes just a beat for Kleya to bring her attention around. “Oh? What have I missed?”

“Between being used and being washed and hung on the line, they’re never dry enough to put away in a drawer.” Vel sweeps triumphantly past Kleya to the table. 

Kleya bites her tongue. Just have dinner, make nice, then you can leave. 

-

Dinner smells delicious, even if Kleya can’t manage more than a few bites. She’s not merely ‘not hungry,’ every mouthful feels like choking down wet cement. She toys with her fork as Vel again watches her carefully while pretending not to. 

“The third shaak is for breakfast tomorrow; I also got some eggs. If you like eggs.” 

Vel assuming there will be the two of them for breakfast takes Kleya by surprise; not that during the afternoon she hadn’t, deep down, wanted to stay in the cozy-despite-its-drips hut. But she never expected Vel would want her to, and the realisation about the knives had sealed the deal: Vel obviously wants me out of here as soon as possible.

“I was going to head back to the med bay. If they can’t keep me tonight they can point me in the right direction. It wasn’t close to full, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

Vel frowns. “It’s late. May as well figure out next moves in the morning, when you can see the board.”

“Another grandma phrase?”

“Mhmm. A little too long to crosstitch on a pillow, but doesn’t make her any less right. Stay tonight. We can figure it out tomorrow.”

We, who? “It’s fine. I had a nap.”

“It’s also storming something terrible.”

It was unreasonable, how the same hospitality Vel had offered her all along was suddenly putting her on edge, but knowing it was being unreasonable didn’t make her feel any better. “You don’t have to offer just because nowhere else on the planet will be friendly. I’m used to unfriendly places.” Kleya snapped.

Now Vel has the temerity to look hurt. What the kark, Sartha. I do not get your deal.

“Okay. I won’t sugar-coat it, I think if you find a merely ‘unfriendly’ bunk on this base you’d be doing well.” Kleya doesn’t flinch externally, but internally, it smarts to have her suspicions so bluntly confirmed. Vel leaned forward, locking into Kleya’s eyes so Kleya would fully hear her. “But that’s entirely besides the point. I’m not offering out of obligation, Kleya. I’d truly like you to stay.”

It occurs to Kleya in a flash maybe Vel isn’t just being nice, maybe Vel wants something out of this. Not wants Kleya, specifically, that’d be ridiculous. But a body to be warm next to, something to make the gaping void feel perhaps less infinite for a night. She dismisses the thought as quickly as it came, but it still softens her reply. “I think I should get out of your hair. Besides. You can’t sleep on the floor again.” 

Surprised, Vel opens her mouth as though to reflexively deny it, then shakes her head. “I didn’t know you saw that” she admits.

“I did. I figured you were watching to see if I’d . . .” Kleya trails off. Vel doesn’t say anything to fill the suddenly gaping silence, but Kleya can read her face. She’s putting the pieces together of what Kleya means, knows, has guessed, and been thinking.

“Kleya. I’m . . . look, I’m not trying to ‘manage’ you. And I promise I’m not telling your business to anyone else on this planet.” Kleya had in fact been trying not to worry about that very thing, without much success. She knew the whole base was gossiping about her, and they could hang for all she cared, but it stung to imagine Vel joining in. For Vel to reject the thought as one of her first matters of business was comforting. “Not even Mon, other than obviously the basics she already knows. Your story is your own.” 

Kleya can’t find the angle here, and she can always find the angle. “So why then.” 

“Why what.”

Feeling the hysteria building in her stomach again, Kleya fights to control her voice, making her usually-measured tone come out colder than she intends. “Why were you watching me. Why did you take the knives. Why won’t you let me be alone. Why are you offering to let me stay.”

Vel pushes away from the table and sighs. “Can I make you some tea? I’m not avoiding, I’ll answer, just, if I’m going to do this, now, I need a cuppa.”

Kleya nods. Vel takes both their plates to the sink, carefully wraps Kleya’s with fat-waxed paper and places it in the little drawer Kleya had noticed earlier; it’s essentially a stone box which hangs outside the kitchen window, where the shade and rain keep it several degrees colder than even the coldest part of the house. 

Vel swings the kettle onto the fireplate, but then grabs two tin cups, walks across to her oilcloth and takes out a flask, and brings all three to the table.

“While we’re waiting.” She pours two fingers worth into each cup, and even from where she sits Kleya can smell the Revnog, strong and acrid. Vel pushes her cup across, downs hers as a shot, pours two fingers more, then plunks the flask in the table between them. 

“You can stop me any time, deal?”

“Deal.” Kleya brings the cup to her lips and takes a sip; holy shit. The Rev’s bite sends her stomach into revolt just for a moment, and Kleya regrets not being able to eat more dinner. 

“First, it’s important you believe me. It’s not about if I think you would do anything. But I remember . . . when I was in that place. Everything looked like an opportunity. One time I was asked to help arrange some sort of untraceable poison, and I was alone with bottles and bottles of so many things. All these little bottles, like they were calling out to me. Promised they could make me feel better, or feel nothing. Which was preferable. Nothing. Whether temporarily or not.” Vel pauses and takes a long, slow sip of Rev. The bite doesn’t seem to faze her at all. “Every time I woke up in the middle of the night and felt my blaster hanging next to the bed. Every time I was left alone for too long. Every time I saw a sharp knife. I’d been stabbed, I’d seen people go that way. I kept thinking about how blood flowing out of you feels, and it made me think, ‘maybe they’re right about the Force, maybe it’s my only chance to join her again, in any way. Isn’t that chance better than this?’ Which I didn’t believe. Not really. But I was willing to, for a minute, if it would end the awful, unbearable, pain.” 

Kleya doesn’t know how to acknowledge this. It’s not just a mirror held up to her own grief that she can’t bear to look into, she can’t imagine Vel has told many people. And being willing to say it to her, of all people . . . 

Softly, as though trying not to startle her, Vel continues. “It’s not that I wanted to hurt you, or don’t trust you. I just know, when you can’t think straight, certain things can hit you out of nowhere. And I didn’t want to leave anything that might make your thinking worse.” 

The kettle begins to rattle. Vel gets up, as much to let Kleya process as to make tea. When she brings the steaming mugs back, and sets Kleya’s down — black, no sugar — Kleya reaches out and puts her hand on Vel’s for a moment; Vel pauses, and 

“Vel. I’m. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you know how I feel. I’m glad you never did anything. I don’t know if you are, but. I’m glad you’re here.” She squeezes then lets go Vel’s hand

Vel bites her lip. “Thanks. Me, too.” 

As she returns to her chair with her mug Kleya is fairly sure she brushes her cheek against her shirtsleeve. She takes a sip of tea, gathering herself to resume where she left off. “Next. Why was I watching you. I mean, I wasn’t. I swear. Obviously I wanted to make sure you were OK, but—” Vel gestures around the hut. “Do you see any other place which would be any more comfortable?” 

For the second time that night Kleya grudgingly acknowledges Vel’s logistical point. But this time she doesn’t let it go: “No. Other than the bed. Which is where you could be sleeping.”

“I’ve slept in far worse conditions and performed to perfection, thankyouverymuch.” Vel pointedly sips her tea, and Kleya has to admire how Vel can sip tea at her. 

“You’re on your feet all day, dealing with a bunch of amateurs I can only imagine test your patience beyond reason” — Vel’s wry snort lets her know this is true — “you should not be sleeping on a cold, damp floor.” 

Vel isn’t backing down either. “If anyone needs a bed, it’s the one of us with a blaster wound, a nasty concussion, and who-knows-what internal injuries from the shock of that frag.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Please. You may not have liked me, but you had to know I was a decent operative.” 

“I didn’t not like you!”

Vel raises an eyebrow and switches beverages, swigging the rest of her Rev without blinking. “Oh really? Past tense, double negative?”

Kleya blows past that. “Do not distract from the point with grammatical technicalities.”

Vel puts on an innocent face. “What point is that.” 

It feels like Vel is toying with her now, but for some reason Kleya is enjoying it, even though — like with the dishcloth debate — she has a feeling she’s being cleverly led into a corner she can’t quite see around. “Which point is you sleeping in your own bed.”

Vel takes a long drag of the tea, sizing Kleya up. “You want me to sleep in my own bed.”

“Yes.”

“I concede. On two conditions.” Vel pauses, but when Kleya doesn’t verbally acquiesce she simply proceeds. “You admit you didn’t like me, and you admit you should also sleep in the bed. Best deal you’re gonna get.”

Kleya gapes at her. How did the conversation pivot so quickly. Sure, she’s operating on a nearly-empty stomach, but two fingers of Rev had never had much of an effect, and this . . . this is . . . well, she doesn’t want to admit it but this is highly favourable. If it didn’t involve eating humble pie, she might even like it.

Vel leans forward, elbows on the table, blue eyes blazing and locked into Kleya’s deep brown ones. “Is that a yes?”

“I did not particularly like the rich, cocky operative who came into my art gallery telling me what to do. Though I have to admit I don’t think you bear much resemblance to her.”

“I’ll allow the disclaimer. But you’ve still got one condition to fulfil.”

She’s going to wait as long as this takes, Kleya realises.

“And, we can share the bed.” 

Vel drains the last of her tea in triumph. “Was that so hard?” 

“You would never be able to maneuvere me into this arrangement if I were at full capacity, Vel Sartha.” 

Vel gets up and clears their mugs along with her. “Guess I better take advantage of it while I can then, Kleya Marki.”

Chapter Text

For the fourth time in 24 hours, Kleya wakes up in Vel’s bed to a lightning strike of panic running down her spine, and begins her mental checklist:

pain but tolerable, stress but nothing imminent, raining outside, still dark. Luthen gone. Luthen. Luthen. Cassian. Yavin. Luthen. Gone. Luthen. Luthen. Luthen. snap out of it. what do you feel? thick blanket, scratchy wool, warm. heavy. what do you smell. rain. nutmeg and tea. Vel’s blanket, Vel’s bed, Vel’s hut. Vel. 

Vel’s arm around me.

Vel’s presence could hardly drown out the cycling thoughts of loss, guilt, and pain, but it gave Kleya something to hold on to, a dial to turn down the rest of the cacophony.  Kleya’s thoughts flew to the night before: she didn’t even flinch.

After clearing the mugs from their conversation and then her ‘will you or won’t you stay?’ argument triumph, Vel had proceeded to prep for bed with no fanfare. Whether she was always like this, exhausted by her long shift and their rather intensive and emotionally demanding exchange, or simply figured she couldn’t give Kleya a sliver of an opening to back out of their sleeping arrangement, Kleya wasn’t sure. 

But if it were the last one, Vel was probably right. 

Kleya had spent the next five minutes at the table as though hit by a tranq — no, the tranqs hadn’t even paralysed her this much. What is wrong with you? Kleya had out-manipulated Imperial High Commanders, and Vel had just maneuvred her as easily as she might a child.

Sure, maybe Kleya had also desired this outcome, but to let Vel win so easily? What. Is. Happening. Now like a tooka who caught a speeder, she got what she wanted and had absolutely no idea what to do with it. 

Vel dimmed the main lights and stepped into the bathroom, where Kleya could hear her brushing her teeth over the jury-rigged sink. 

May as well get changed while she’s— Kleya hadn’t finished the thought before she saw Vel had laid out a pile of clothes on the room’s third chair. Guess she does actually have some organisational method to this madness. Kleya quickly stripped and changed, shivering because is this planet ever not wet AND cold?

Vel popped her head out into the common space, saw Kleya standing in the middle redressed, and emerged with a casual wave. “There’s a spare toothbrush in there.” 

There was in fact a spare toothbrush — Why does she have this? Did she bring it back with her tonight? Why does it matter? — and by the time Kleya had finished getting ready and procrastinating as long as she possibly could, Vel had turned out the lights and was already under the covers. 

Nothing for it now. She gingerly walked over, unsure of bumping into anything in the still-unfamiliar space. When she got to the bed the first thing she noticed was Vel against the wall, laying on her side with her eyes closed. The second thing was Vel had folded the yellow blanket and lain it on Kleya’s side of the bed, as if to say consider it yours, do whatever you want with it. For absolutely no godsdamn stupid reason this brought tears to Kleya’s eyes, and she was glad it was too dim to see her face as she crawled under the covers and tried to adjust.

Don’t take up too much of the bed. Don’t be too stiff, that’s just rude. But I am stiff. And cold. What are you doing, just, close your eyes.

Apparently lying still for at least thirty seconds was enough to signal Vel she had settled in, because Vel readjusted, moving fully towards the center of the bed and putting her arm directly over Kleya’s waist.

She didn’t flinch.

Kleya held her breath for entirely too long. When she finally exhaled, she swore she felt Vel’s arm tighten and release just a little bit. That was probably her imagination, but what certainly happened was Vel mumbling “you’ll never go to sleep if you don’t breathe, Marki.” 

Kleya spent the next minutes trying to match her breathing to Vel’s, some weird kind of meditation exercise which must have worked, because it’s the last thing she remembered before apparently falling asleep, and now waking on her side, Vel’s arm still around her, Vel’s face buried against her shoulder.

The noises were still fighting in the background Luthen gone. Luthen. Gone. Luthen. Luthen. Luthen. Luthen. but now she has something to help turn the dial. She concentrates on Vel’s breathing, which she can feel as well as hear. In. Pause. Out. In. Pause. Out. In. Gone. Out. Pain. Luthen. Gone. No, feel her arm, move your chest in time with hers. In. Pause. Out. In. Vel. 

-

She wakes up again when Vel stirs and grumbles, not usual nighttime adjustments, but waking-up moves and noises. This time Kleya doesn’t need to run the checklist to know immediately where she is. Vel’s bed.

Vel makes another grumpy noise which sounds vaguely apologetic, and clambers from under the covers, over Kleya, and out of the bed with surprising grace. A quick rush of cold air against Kleya’s back the only real disturbance. 

Vel makes it to the washroom without any lights, clearly intending to leave Kleya undisturbed as long as possible; but between the sudden, strangely aching loss of her warmth against Kleya’s back and a strange new desire, Kleya decides to get up anyways. 

That strange desire is to return Vel’s hospitality. Well, that might not be so strange, except underneath it there’s no additional drive to even the score, or remove any sense of indebtedness. It’s a desire to return the favour for its own sake. 

She swings the kettle over the fireplate and starts poking in one of the tins next to the tea. Empty. 

“Sorry, no caf.” Kleya whirls to see Vel, dressed and drying her face. “It’s particularly scarce right now, so I figured I’d wait to see if you even liked the stuff before I knifed any.” 

“You mean wait and see if my stomach could even take it.” 

Gods, Vel thinks, it’s so infuriating the way she makes every subtext plain as day. Except the things Vel wonders most about. Well, maybe that just meant it wasn’t there at all. “Well, yes. Stomach, brain, sleep, didn’t know if any part of you would want it, really. So I prioritised the eggs.”

Kleya doesn’t seem offended, at least. “Tea it is.” 

As Vel sorts out her gear for the morning training, Kleya puts a pan over the heat, pulls the shaak from the window cooler and slices it thinly, whisks eggs in a bowl (after stares pointedly at Vel as she slowly pulls it from the ‘wrong’ cupboard, while Vel merely grins and pretends to ignore the stare), finely chops some herbs, and quickly makes two omelettes with shaak bacon-resembling slices on the side.

“Best I can do with the shaak” she half-qualifies, half-apologises. 

Vel’s comes to help sort the dishes, helping carry everything to the table so they can sit down together.

“This smells amazing. Where did you learn to cook.”

“Luthen—“ she hitches over the word, but it’s a fond memory, and she clings to that to move on “—loved good food but was fundamentally incapable of figuring out how to season anything the right amount. If I wanted something that wasn’t either bland as air or saltier than the sea, I had to make it myself. By the time I was twelve, I was the only one allowed in the kitchen.” She pauses, and clarifies. “My rule.”

Kleya pours Vel’s tea with a splash of milk, and pours herself a cup straight. She sits and wraps her hands around the mug, appetite suddenly gone, washed out of her with another wave of grief. 

Vel notices, and considers how she can put Kleya at ease so she can eat something. 

Vel takes her first bite of the omlette and rolls her eyes back in her head. “That is perfect. How you managed with that pan, let alone that one fireplace, I don’t know. Maybe I should make the same rule about my kitchen: I’m not allowed in it.”

Kleya smiles weakly at the gesture and sips at her tea.

Vel mirrors her, drinking some of the tea. “I’ll make sure to snag some caf for tomorrow. I can’t cook, but I do make excellent caf.”

Kleya appreciates Vel is trying, and forces herself to try and engage. “How do you take it?” 

“Black.”

Despite herself Kleya finds herself engaged. “Wait, wait, wait. I take my tea black and that’s insane for some reason, but you think it’s perfectly fine to take caf straight.”

“Well, how do you take yours?”

Kleya rolls her eyes, but she’s walked into it, and a lie would be exposed all too soon and easily, so she has to tell the truth despite seeing how it’s a trap. “Sweet. With milk.”

“So you acknowledge they’re different beverages.”

“Of course they are, but, tell me then, why is tea the one you can’t drink as-is?”

Vel ticks off the reasons on her fingers as she goes. “One. The tannins of tea mean require another agent to soften the taste as well as mouthfeel.”

“Sounds like someone’s just a bit too soft to handle a real drink.”

Vel’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’ll make sure to bring some more Rev back tonight and we’ll see about that.”

“You’re on.” Immersed in the argument, Kleya takes her fork and nibbles a small bite of omlette; Vel notices, and throws herself into her subject with even more exaggerated fervour. 

“Two. You can adjust the process of making caf to suit the beans. Tea does not have similar mechanisms to compensate for the quality of leaves, so addition of sweetness and/or fat help ensure a more uniform and thus pleasant experience.”

“Is that so.”

“It is indeed so. But perhaps most importantly, three, at the point of serving tea is boiling, but caf is a drinkable temperature. A tongue is the worst thing to burn.” 

Kleya bursts out laughing, all enjoyment and affection without a trace of mockery. “If you could see your face! Where did you learn to take this so seriously?”

“My grandmother taught me various tea and caf preparations and ceremonies from around the galaxy. I have a few favourites. It’s actually a really lovely ritual. I’ll have to—“ the slightest note of somberness ghosts across the room, as they remember they’re in the middle of a Rebel base, only war and uncertainty ahead — “I’ll do a ceremony for you some time.”

Kleya smiles. “That’s a deal, Sartha. I’ll hold you to it.” 

Far off in the base a horn sounds. Vel jumps up. “Kark, I have to run. Sorry to leave you with the dishes, you cooked so I should be the one to clean up, but—“ 

Kleya waves her off. “You let me stay, you smuggle me dinner, and you have actual work to go to. There is absolutely no way you’re doing the dishes.”

“Thanks, Kleya. I mean it. This is the best breakfast I’ve had in months.” 

Vel dashes off to work.

-

Not that ‘bone-crushing exhaustion’ is a gift, exactly, but at least it allowed Kleya to fall into the unconsciousness which for a few hours would envelop the grief and pain. After taking care of the breakfast dishes, Kleya desperately seeks anything to keep occupied which won’t involve having to face anyone else on the base. 

She tidies the hut, washes the dishcloths (damnit, Vel was right about them); climbs up on the roof and examines the patchwork of tin and oilcloth which stop a hundred leaks but probably create at least a few dozen, then realises there’s no way to make it better without making it worse so she’ll leave it for Vel’s skilled hands; despairs over the silence in the hut, especially since it’s not raining; goes for a long walk but ducks off the path any time a human comes near; returns to the hut; scrubs the washroom; showers; and finally having expended some of her restless energy, settles down on the bed to read.

She’s nearly done with the book by the time Vel comes back with dinner, and like the night before she preps and warms things as Vel scrubs off the long day of training recruits and sitting through a lunch meeting she calls “the absolute most tragic waste of a briefing I’ve been to in my life, and I’ve sat through day-long Chandrilan etiquette classes.”

Kleya grins. “A fat lot of good that obviously did you.”

“Yeah, well, not like I need more than one fork these days, right? I mean, I could manage fine, but Mon was always the teacher’s pet in those things. Oh, which reminds me. I asked Mon about the spare quarters. She said there was nothing going right now, but the new pre-fabs will be done next week. She also suggested the med bay, but I think you should stay here again.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“Was sleeping with me really so terrible?”

“I can’t imagine you’ve ever had any complaints.” 

“That’s an excellent non-answer.” 

“Then how’s a question: can you confirm or deny whether you’ve ever had any complaints?”

Vel nearly chokes on her bite of potato. Kleya’s demure expression doesn’t change. 

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Vel manages to start breathing again, and realises the only way is to go on the offensive, fighting fire is with fire. “You’ve thought of me in bed a bit, then.”

But Kleya isn’t fazed in the slightest. “Obviously.” Kleya pauses just a beat to better enjoy Vel’s consternation, then proceeds. “You have to know you’re a stunning woman. It’s natural I’ve considered you in other circumstances. And assume you have as well.”

“You assume a lot.”

“Tell me you haven’t felt the attraction.”

Vel desperately dodges the question, which is actually more a statement. “Is that what you’re calling these feelings you’re so sure I have?”

Kleya leans forward, face as serious as Vel’s was talking about tea and coffee. “Tension, chemistry, frisson, interest, fascination, forceful draw. Whatever you want to call it, the attraction is undeniable, and strong enough it’s clearly mutual.” 

“Wait, it’s all just an electronic reaction to you?”

“Yes and no. I’d call it akin to the kind of invisible signals my transmission equipment sends through space; I know the basics, I can manipulate them, but their constant existence simply flows around us and sometimes reacts in ways we have no way of controlling, only sensing.”

“You maintain the way our bodies create heat is the same as electronic pulses, or cooking.”

“Exactly. Friction is what we can feel, but an invisible vibration of atoms really generates the warmth.”

“Rapid invisible vibration strong enough also creates explosions.” 

“Indeed. For better and worse.”

Under her breath Vel mutters “Well, I guess that answers my question about subtext.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Vel scrambles to regain any ground, any offensive capabilities she can muster. “So I suppose you are going to join me tonight so our atoms can again generate more heat together than they would alone?”

“Why Vel, I thought you’d never ask.” 

If Vel didn’t know any better, she’d think Kleya had set her up to . . . Actually, she did know better.

Kleya had definitely won this round. 

Chapter Text

Vel wakes up to her vibroalarm, and spends a few minutes grudgingly letting consciousness grow before she has to get up.

Just like the morning before, her arm is wrapped around Kleya’s waist and her face against Kleya’s shoulder — or more accurately her shoulder blade, because Kleya hasn’t so much as turned on her back, let alone moved to her other side, since they crawled into bed several hours ago.

Which is especially astounding because Vel knows she woke up frequently in the night.

The first time, a few hours in, Vel had felt a jolt of panic, familiar as an old enemy. Emerging partly from sleep and feeling it out she discovered the anxiety she was feeling was not hers, and quickly placed it as Kleya’s. She felt Kleya try and breathe through it, and though she was very good at falling back to sleep now — years of practice fighting the grief insomnia, with what felt every method in the galaxy — she assumed Kleya was fairly new to this particular cycle of horror. If serving as some kind of metronome helps, then that’s the least Vel figures can do in cosmic return for the many, many people who helped her survive when the grief threatened to drown her. 

Kleya stirs slightly, the movement against Vel’s chest reminding Vel that she isn’t wholly altruistic, either. She doesn’t want to admit it to herself, because it almost feels like betrayal of a ghost who can read her thoughts, but she’s absolutely found comfort in this arrangement, too.

Why she thinks it’s a betrayal, as though Cinta wouldn’t want her to find comfort wherever she could, or why it would have to be something obscene to simply hold another person through the night, she knows she can’t answer. 

And why with Kleya and not a hundred, a thousand, hells almost any other person she’d met the last two years. who would be kinder and make more concessions and . . . well, maybe she’s answering her own question. 

Whatever sharp edges or strong words Kleya may offer, Vel knows she will never be false, never do something she doesn’t want to do just to spare Vel’s feelings. Vel prefers knowing to wondering, however difficult the knowing may be. 

The light outside is undeniably getting brighter. Vel huffs at the inevitable, then slides out of the covers and maneuvres over Kleya, trying not to disturb her though she’s pretty sure Kleya will get up anyways.

And she’s right. Kleya is up by the time she emerges from the washroom, both invigorated and annoyed by the frigid wash she’s splashed on her face.

“Mess didn’t have a single scrap to spare last night, but I can run you back some breakfast before I go to work.”

“I can come down with you.”

“You sure?”

Kleya isn’t, but that’s never stopped her from following through. “I appreciate the offer, and letting me find her feet before having to go down there, but at some point I need to show my face. If only to prove I’m not hiding from the world.”

“Okay then. Leave in five?”

“Done.

-

As they navigate the wet-leaf-piled path, Kleya has to acknowledge having Vel by her arm is the only reason she has enough courage to enter the mess hall. She never needed anyone else to give her courage, and she’s faced far more terrifying lions, but she’s still deeply grateful.

Especially when she ducks under the tent flap and feels the mood shift more rapidly than Yavin’s storm clouds. The murmurs ripple outward, everyone either staring or pretending not to stare, but not for nothing has she spent her whole life building her armor up. She leaves Vel to greet a few recruits, takes her tray and breezes through the line like she’s belonged there her whole life, bestowing smiles on the line cooks and taking all the potatoes and eggs she thinks her knotted stomach will be able to handle. 

She spies a table with several empty chairs on one end and takes the furthest one, using her caf as an excuse to busy her hands while she waits to see if Vel will be able to join her or if she needs to bolt the food down in record time.

She looks up when another tray hits her table and sees a soldier glaring down at her, arms conspicuously crossed over his chest, fists conspicuously balled. 

“May I help you?” 

He leans over and props his fists on either side of his tray. “Only if you’re planing on leaving. That would help all of us, actually.”

Kleya looks coolly to one side of him, then the other. “Speaking for your other personalities, then?”

“Speaking for those of us who actually fight in this war. You know, everyone here. We don’t want to share a table with princesses who play at rock carvings and finger paintings. And we sure as hell don’t pander to Empire sympathisers who come eat our food when their sugar daddy dries up.”

At the word ’sympathiser’ a red mist descended, so she was still processing next moves when someone’s hand fell on her shoulder. 

She jerked her head around expecting to see another antagonising soldier, but instead saw a blonde she couldn’t quite place, who wasn’t looking at her, gaze fixed directly at the soldier across the table. 

“Have a problem soldier?” Kleya looked back as a curly, dark-headed man — boy, really. cute, eyes like saucers . . . Wilmon — placed his tray on the table next to the soldier’s. “Problem, Terance?” he asked. The soldier stood back up to his full height, but Wilmon just took that opportunity to move a step closer. “I think you’ve come to the wrong table.” Wilmon pushed his tray against the soldier’s shoving it down the table. “We were sitting here.” 

Terance squinted at Wilmon. “We?” 

The blonde chimed in. “We. People who’ve seen front line action in ways you better hope to the Force never come to find you.” 

Which of course makes her Dreena Kleya put together. 

The soldier turned to the side and picked up his tray; for a moment Kleya could see he was considering whether to swing it at Wilmon, but the curly-headed boy — okay, man, clearly more man than anyone else in here — stepped in again. 

“If I were you, I’d quit while I was ahead.”

The moment stretched out long enough for people around them to make up their mind what they’d do if a fight broke out.  But Terance decided he was more ready to bully someone when they were alone, and moved on of his own accord. 

Wilmon pulled out the chair and plopped down as though nothing happened, while Dreena sat down much more slowly, eyes not leaving Terance til after he had found another table; and even then, she continually, casually glanced over to check on him through the remainder of breakfast. 

Kleya gathered her wits and her bravado. “I appreciate your assistance."

Wilmon waved it off. “Any friend of Cassian’s is a friend of ours.” 

“A strong term for it.” Kleya wanted to bite her tongue as she said it; is that the self-sabotage or the utterly insane need to speak the blunt truth any time you’re not lying for your life? or maybe the deflection has really gotten out of hand.”

But Wilmon looks bemused more than anything. “Someone has to keep his head screwed on straight.” He tucks into his eggs with gusto. “Anyways, Dreena wouldn’t pass up a chance to show up that tosser.”

Kleya turns and raises an eyebrow at the blonde.

“You think what he said just now was stupid? Imagine what he could do with a little more time and audience.” Dreena takes two of her biscuits and plops them on Wilmon’s tray, snagging one of his tangerines in exchange, clearly a practiced habit. “I could overlook ignorance of art — which is merely culture and individual expression and the very meaning of humanity — but to act that ignorant AND have as trashy of tattoos as he has? Truly unforgivable.” 

Kleya is dumbfounded; these two barely even know her, and here they are not just ready to throw down, but put their reputations on the line, and managing to put her at ease to boot. 

Vel comes rushing up and sits next to Wilmon. “Sorry, got tasked with another random noob who washed ashore yesterday.” Her plate is half empty already, clearly eaten on the run. “Cmon Wil, we’ve got about two minutes til the horn goes, and I need to swing by requisitions before drill.” 

Vel notices Kleya’s untouched plate and looks up to her face, realising for the first time she looks strained. Maybe if you didn’t know her well you’d assume she was always aloof and frigid. Okay she can be. Okay she is. But there’s more under the ice, and it’s damn cracked now. “All good?” Vel’s asking the table at large, but makes sure to catch Kleya’s eyes so she knows Vel’s recognised her shakiness.

Dreena waits a beat, just giving Kleya an opportunity to respond if she wants, but when Kleya nods and pokes at her eggs, Dreena chimes in. “All good, just had to put one of those recruits in his place."

Under her breath Kleya mutters ‘fuck em’, and Vel is appeased it’s at least something which can wait.

The horn sounds; two thirds of the tent immediately begin clattering their trays and racing to get into line and out the door, including Wil and Vel. 

“That’s the spirit, Marki!” Vel offers before she dashes off.  

-

Kleya pretends to eat a few more bites before making her excuses and getting back to Vel’s hut where she boils the kettle, makes a strong cup of tea, and stews over her list of tasks she’d written up the day before and certainly doesn’t want to do now but realises she must. 

She scrubs the kitchen, airs the bedsheets in the rare bright sun, and beats the dust and damp out of the rugs. 

She pulls out Vel’s toolkit, but realises before she can begin her first intended task she’s simply got to empty and reorganise the whole thing.

Once that’s done and she has the first surge of dopamine satisfaction, she moves on to the rest of her list. 

She bores holes in several rusted tin cups from the recycle pile and strings them together, fills them with some omnipresent damp soil, carefully transplants some of the wild herbs she’d taken note of on her walk the day before, and hangs the whole ‘garden’ in the hut window.

She turns the kitchen table upside down and figures out how to even the many-times-over splintered and repaired legs so it doesn’t wobble.

She makes another cup of tea, and another, cursing herself for not thinking to take any food from the mess but not even considering going back alone.

The whole time she’s fighting her constantly mental feedback loops, but at least when Vel returns after dark, the volume has reduced to a dull roar, and some of the specifics to static. 

She accepts Vel’s compliments on the house, but she’s thoroughly worn out with both the mental effort and the physical exertion on her body which has still not fully recovered. Vel makes a few overtures, but when Kleya is clearly not reciprocal she doesn’t press, and they make dinner and eat in mostly silence.

Vel knows it’s the trip to the dining hall which put Kleya in a state of defensiveness, and recognises it’s mostly reflexive, and certainly partly subconscious. Still, she can’t bear that Kleya has seemed to transform into the cool, forcefully distant, armor-swathed operative she met on Coruscant. She wishes she could fix it, do something to repair Kleya the way Kleya so easily makes everything around the hut better.

As they’re undressing to get ready for bed, the silence and internal refrain fix it, fix it, say something, fix it, Vel blurts out “You should just stay here.”

Kleya stops short, looks at her sideways. “You’re taking this hospitality thing too far.”

“I’m not being— I’m not only being hospitable.” 

Kleya crosses her arms and glares, disbelief and challenge in one. 

Vel sighs. “You really make people spell themselves out, huh?”

Kleya’s posture doesn’t change. 

“Have it your way. One, it’s practical.”

“I should have expected a list.”

“Two. It’s the most comfortable situation you’re going to find.”

“I’m still waiting for the part where this is more than your sense of noblesse oblige.” 

In for a credit, in for a thousand. Vel takes a sharp breath. “Three. I remember what it was like when I lost Cinta.”

Though Cinta’s memory has shadowed all their time together, to one degree or another, it’s the first time in all their talks no matter how light or serious, where Vel has actually said Cinta’s name.

Kleya desperately fights to keep her face from revealing how much the name sent her stomach clenching, the flare of mingled fear and regret which rushed through her veins. 

Fear that this is going to lead to Vel condemning her, the way she knew almost anyone who knew the circumstances did, the condemnation she’d just felt thick in the mess hall. 

Regret because she’s never gotten rid of the deep deep down thought she contributed not only to Cinta’s death, but Vel’s current pain. Yes, it was Cinta’s choice to be directly involved. Yes, Luthen and plenty of others had believed, before and after, that the operation was necessary. But wasn’t being okay with others dying for your cause exactly what the Empire did? She believed it was right. She’d give her life for it in a heartbeat. But, sometime along the way of cauterising her soul she’d had to find where the line would be that would take her from a righteous fighter, to crossing the line Luthen had crossed before he found her. And she had sworn she’d never become that. 

 All these thoughts flash across her in a split second, because their pathways through her mind and body were so familiar and well travelled. She’d spent years with them, and accepted it was just the price she’d forever pay for choices made. 

And now she’d found one good thing on Yavin, here in this hut, but how could Vel possibly want her to stay if she for a second stopped to compare Kleya to someone like Cinta?

The myriad of conflicting thoughts warred for a moment, but Kleya masters them just as quickly, and her face doesn’t soften; she can’t let a crack manifest, or she won’t be able to hold it together. But she does stop what she’s doing and nod for Vel to proceed, that she’s paying full attention.

Vel is working to hold it together, too, though slightly more effectively. “I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I mean, I didn’t want to, really, I wanted to talk about absolutely anything BUT. Thing was, I couldn’t do that either. Because Ghorman was all they were thinking about. It was behind their eyes. The pity, the wondering the ‘when do you think it will be okay to gossip about this.’”

Kleya knows this is about more than the dining hall, but it so exactly articulates what she’s been wrestling with all day, her gut clenches again.

“I had nobody who understood, let alone accepted what I’d done. Not with the rebellion, not with loving Cinta, not with the type of mission we’d been on. The choices she had made, I had made, we had made. It was all there in the background. They wanted to ask if I regretted it. I do. And I would still choose to do it every way. They don’t get that. So, I’m offering because . . . You need someone who gets what you’re feeling, and doesn’t need to ask you about it.”

If Kleya wanted to be combative, if she were the same person she’d been a mere month ago, she would point out technically point three has still been entirely about her own needs, and not Vel’s. 

Instead Kleya reaches across and lays her hand on Vel’s arm, silently inviting Vel to go on. Vel blinks back what threaten to be tears and forges on.

“Four. I could use your help around here. You said so yourself, it’s like living in a leaky bucket, only more disorganised.”

Kleya’s mouth twitches. “I don’t remember putting it quite so eloquently.”

“Well, it’s true. Look what you did in just one day. It’s incredible. I don’t have enough time and hands to keep up with every leak which springs in this infernal roof. I don’t want to have to eat in the mess every night.” 

Kleya’s adrenaline and fears start ebbing, slowly. But she’s got to voice her doubts. “Is this your way of telling me they’re not going to let me anywhere near the comms on this planet and you think I need something to do.” 

“It’s my way of saying that, and also our arrangement is mutually beneficial.” 

 “Ah, ‘arrangement’ that’s what we’re calling it.”

Vel snorts. “Reckon we’ve both had far less beneficial bedfellows, hey?” 

Kleya doesn’t actually have to consider the offer. She knows she wants it, and would want it even if the entire rest of the planet didn’t feel as hostile as Hoth. She knows moving in with Vel wouldn’t be sheer necessity. Together in a short time they’ve somehow formed a companionship which is comfortable and nurturing. 

Yet for some reason, maybe what she subconsciously feels she deserves, she can’t help but make a last attempt to self-sabotage. 

“If you want a hand with the roof and a live-in cook, why ask me? You could ask Cassian when he gets back. You could snap your fingers and find a dozen recruits jump at the change.”

Vel runs a hand through her hair in frustration. “Can you stop seeing this as something to combat? I get you. You need something I have. I want something you can provide. We’re the same team. If you let that click . . . “ She trails off.

“If I let that click, what? Everything’s marvelously, mystically fine?”

“Obviously not. But just because things are bad doesn’t mean you have to make your situation as much worse as you possibly can.” 

Kleya is silent, which Vel takes is as close as she’ll comes to ceding the point. Vel has always taken risks, so, fuck it. She decides to push her advantage by embracing the sort of bluntness Kleya usually evidences.“Do you enjoy having me around? To talk to, to commiserate with, eat dinner with.”

“I do.”

“Do you enjoy being useful and having something to do during the day.”

“You know I do.”

“Do you enjoy when you can feel someone against your back at night? When you wake up with me holding you? When you can feel me breathing?.”

Kleya’s eyes slide closed involuntary; she says in a lower tone, breath catching in her throat, “of course I do.”

“Well, I do too.” Vel waits until Kleya opens her eyes. “I enjoy being reminded there’s more than just eat, train, war, repeat. Kleya, I enjoy your presence.” 

Kleya doesn’t know why in the galaxies Vel would want this, but she does absolutely believe her. Kleya swallows, but says nothing, unsure what she could offer.

Vel gathers all her courage. “And since as you have said the collision of atoms to create heat between us is simply an objective fact, I enjoy your body next to mine.” Oh sure, now Kleya looks as though she may reply, but Vel presses on quickly before she loses either her advantage or her nerve. “And if there’s anything we —  you and me, and all we’ve done and seen — should know after the last few years? It’s take joys in a rebellion where you can.” 

Kleya gives a shaky smile. “Are you really playing THAT card?” 

Vel grins back, almost as weakly. “When you’ve play rianza with Cassian you learn to play every card you’ve got.” 

Kleya tips her head to the side and considers Vel. “Many points, all well made. And even one you may have missed.”

“What is that.”

“You are almost the only person in the galaxy, let alone Yavin, who knows not just how I feel right now, but exactly who I am. And you’re still here.” As she says it, Kleya realises with a slight shock that somehow, despite it being a new feeling to be so known to another person, Kleya doesn’t mind Vel knowing her. “So. Okay. Here goes nothing.”

“Is that a yes.” 

“That’s a yes, Vel.”

Vel has the presence of mind not to look too pleased with herself. She simply nods, and gets under the covers. 

Kleya takes her time finishing her night routine, but unlike the earlier silence which had an undercurrent of tension, this is comfortable. 

When Kleya climbs into bed, she lays on her back, and stretches out her arm. Vel could almost laugh, it’s such a clearly difficult action, premeditated and unusual, but she knows Kleya is making an effort, and takes it for the overture it is. She tucks herself against Kleya’s side, draping her arm over Kleya’s stomach and settling her head on Kleya’s shoulder. As she starts to drift off, she feels Kleya trying to match her breathing.”

“And, Vel?”

“Mmmmm?”

“Hang onto that phrase, ‘take your joys in a rebellion where you can.’ One day in the future, when you’re a grandma, it’ll come in real handy.”

Despite the exhaustion, the circumstances, the lack of likelihood she’ll make it out of this war alive, the overwhelming everything of war and loss and fear and sadness . . .

Kleya’s confident way she has which convinces you anything really could happen, telling her she’s going to be a grandmother like her own, covers Vel in a comforting wave of pure joy. 

Chapter Text

Vel knows how to daydream, but for the last two years she hasn’t been able to bring herself to. 

Once you can do it, though, it’s a habit easy to pick back up, like riding a speeder bike. Occasionally through a crack Vel sees a parallel universe, one where she and Kleya aren’t up to their necks in a raging war which neither are likely to survive. It seems implausible, ridiculous even, so she tries to push it away.

What Vel does, despite herself, allow to creep in is hope for temporary respite. Perhaps while they remain on Yavin, they can forge a sort of home, a place where each has the other to fill the gaping, terrible silence. The kind of place which even when you’re there alone feels different, because it’s a place you share with another.

When Kleya agreed to move in with Vel, it released a psychic burden she hadn’t been aware of carrying. The weight lessening left her more capacity to regain a sense of herself which shattered when she’d disconnected Luthen’s medical equipment. ‘Life support’ was a cruel name for it, especially considering the only reason they were keeping him breathing; she kept having to mentally correct herself when she called it that. ‘Torture enabler.’ The moment kept replaying in her head, but at least now she was able to assert herself on it more. 

As the days passed, Kleya felt she could see a future where she might regain equilibrium. It was odd, that, because she’d never considered the future past a horizon of ‘fighting the Empire’ — if she brought it down, presumably her life would be razed to the ground with it. That was black-and-white, thus easy to accept. 

Now, maybe, Kleya could consider daydreaming . . . but turning happier scenes over in her mind was strange, somehow more difficult than hating the Empire and ruthlessly aiming everything she had at that hate. Even that hate now had burnt down to coals, which would always be there but held too-white-hot memories of Luthen. So she pushed daydreaming and planning to later, sometime, after, and focused on finding her way within the daily rhythms she and Vel were establishing. 

They both start to conceive that, possibly, they could do this together; carve something beautiful out of the hard stone of grief and impossible circumstances.

Then word comes of Scarif.

-

The news ran like wildfire through base. Other than those who were on essential duty or had to scramble into one of a dozen logistical meetings, everyone was released to find their loved ones, or something useful to do, or a dark corner to fall apart.

After about an hour, Vel found she couldn’t be useful and stumbled her way back to the hut.

Dreena was already there; Wil was on duty, so she had come to tell Kleya the news. She hadn’t said as much, but Kleya suspected Dreena was also there to ensure nobody who was upset by the news and angry about Kleya’s presence came to ‘pay a visit’ before Vel got home. Though Kleya was confident she could take care of herself, the show of solidarity touched her deeply, especially from someone she hadn’t even met before coming to this outlier planet.

Seeing Vel coming up the path, Dreena met her at the door, hugged her with a whispered ‘here if you need anything’  — even her hugs were firm and determined, Vel noted as though assessing one of her recruits — stomped her feet into her boots, and disappeared as quickly as she’d come. 

Kleya retrieves a glass of water as Vel fumbles her way to sit at the table, and suddenly both are aware they’ve recreated the tableau from a few weeks earlier, only in reverse, like a holo projection 180 degrees around. 

That other night feels distant now; after years of slow, careful, agonising planning, months and years of strategy and waiting, so much has changed in so short it time, they can’t comprehend. 

In the days since Kleya feels as though she’s changed more than any space of time since she first joined the Rebellion, before she even knew to call that. She’s reassessed Vel more than she thought possible in such a time, as well, certainly more than she’d changed her opinion on anyone she could remember. Vel had been a useful tool in the rebellion, a personal adversary, a sometimes-volatile ally, a calculated risk. Now she was . . . Kleya sits across the table and regards her loyal ally, comforting presence, infuriating verbal sparring partner, and friend, making her presence known but waiting for Vel to give voice first.

Between Cassian toasting Cinta, and her frankness with Kleya in order to help convince her not to do anything drastic, Vel had opened a locked vault she’d kept closed for years; in fact one she’d never expected to open, at least not like this. Now Cassian is dead, and it feels she can’t tell where old scars end and new fresh wounds begin.

On top of all that lies a thin layer of shock; raw, fresh, adrenaline with nowhere to go and nothing to be done.

Both are keenly aware of all these things and each other, unsure what can be said without cracking the world back open.

They sit in silence. 

The fire crackles. 

The sun goes down.

The fire burns low.

Vel mechanically gets up and walks the two steps to the kitchen, breaking the fragile spell.

As Vel stokes the fire, Kleya walks to the bed, pulls out a few cushions from the trunk underneath, and bundles up both blankets with them. Vel leans against the counter, tired and curious, looking on as Kleya takes her pile to the corner where Vel had sat to watch over her that first night. 

As Kleya starts arranging everything, it dawns on Vel; she walks to the door, kicks off her now-dry boots she’d absentmindedly left on, and by the time she comes over Kleya has settled herself into the joint where new aluminium partition meets older wooden wall.

Vel needs no invitation: she kneels then half collapses into the nest of blankets, and when Kleya’s arms curl around her, the fragile wall she’d been holding up since the news gives way.

She cries with sorrow for Cassian, for Bix, for the child he’d never meet. She cries with fury for the fact that the Empire was out to corrupt everyone good in the galaxy; those it couldn’t corrupt it would kill; those it couldn’t kill, it would destroy everything beautiful they held dear. Tears come interspersed with some incoherent snippets of words and dry heaves, but Kleya doesn’t try to interpret or ask, she just lays there holding Vel as the sobs wrack her until she’s wrung dry.

-

Vel wakes up stiff, her face swollen, her eyes sore. A blue-white light coloured the hut windows, and she sat up quickly, trying to assess why she was on the ground, if it was late or early, what — Cassian. Scarif. 

“Hey. You’re okay.” Kleya’s voice oriented her a bit; she was lying curled up in Kleya’s lap, Kleya leaning against the aluminium wall, holding her. “It’s early.”

“We were here all night?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You should have gone to bed.” Vel began disentangling herself.

“I was fine.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Some.”

“I didn’t expect to . . . any of that.”

“I didn’t either, was going to make dinner, but” Kleya shrugs “better to sleep through than try and move you to the bed and end up awake all night.”

Vel stands and offers her hand to Kleya, who tilts her head and remains stationary. “I might need a moment.” Vel’s blank face betrays her confusion. “For my legs to regain circulation.” 

Vel tries to laugh, but her mouth is so dry it comes out more a whispered bark. She trundles to the kitchen, pours two glasses of water from the kettle, refills the kettle and swings it over the fire to boil, and brings the glasses over to hand one to Kleya before swigging the other straight down. Kleya polishes hers in one go, then holds her hands up to Vel, who sets both glasses on the table before grasping Kleya’s hands and helping haul her to her feet. 

Kleya reaches full vertical before almost immediately beginning to topple; Vel lets go of her hands to catch her around the waist, and Kleya leans against her, half-grimacing half-smiling. “Clearly they’re still a bit dead, please standby.”

Holding each other this way isn’t any closer than they’ve been in bed, but somehow it feels different; Vel supporting Kleya’s full weight, gently swaying like she used to rock her niece to settle her. They stand like that for a few moments, almost like they’re dancing, before Kleya shakes her legs out a bit and takes a tentative step. “There we go.” 

Vel releases her waist, reluctantly, maybe Kleya mistakes it for just trying to be sure she won’t fall. Kleya takes another step, and plops down on the nearest chair to rub her legs fully back to functionality. 

“Vel.”

“Yes?”

“Who would we need to bribe to get a couch in here.”

Vel starts picking up the blankets and cushions. “Don’t act impressed, but I may know someone who has a connection. However, I don’t know where it would fit. We’d probably need to cut the dining table in half.” 

“Or, and hear me out: two people who are good with their hands could turn it into a half-table with an extendable leaf.” 

Vel assesses the table. “That is actually an excellent idea.”

“The only kind I have.”  

“Tell you what, you figure out what we need to do that, I’ll requisition the tools. I’ll talk to Mon about furniture paperwork red tape, then we can do table construction on the weekend.”

“Deal.” Kleya stands. “Ah, much better.” She leans over to stretch her legs out. “A little elbow grease and the right furniture orientation and we could almost pretend our hut has a bedroom, dining room, living room, and kitchen room instead of—” 

fucking hell. Suddenly Vel realises she’s been staring at Kleya’s thighs and ass for a few moments at least. She moves to the kitchen to hide her face, which she can feel is blushing furiously enough to give her away, and starts prepping for breakfast to cover for the roil of confusing feelings: gladness Kleya was there for her all night; fresh grief over the news; simple pleasure they’re so comfortable with each other; lust because what would it feel like to have her naked under me; guilt over feeling lust at such a time as this; humour because Cassian would have given her so much shit over lusting over Kleya of all people; grief because Cassian would never be able to tease her again. get it together, Sartha. 

They’ve started keeping eggs and cheese on hand, and Kleya’s herbs are growing like weeds, so there’s plenty to keep her hands busy and her face averted. 

Vel wanted desperately to distract herself. “Thank you for letting me use you as a human pillow.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can always ask. If I don’t want to answer, I will tell you so”

if that wasn’t the truest statement in history. “How can you manage to not just hold yourself together so well, but expend so much time and effort comforting me, when you’ve barely recovered physically let alone . . .” Vel trails off, tries to course correct, can’t come up with anything. think before you open your mouth, you id— 

But Kleya cuts in to finish the thought. “Let alone psychologically?” 

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for saying something accurate.”

“You can be accurate and still hurt someone.”

“But it you didn’t say or mean it to hurt me.”

“Of course not!”

“Then, don’t be sorry. Or at least, don’t apologise, because you don’t need forgiveness for anything.”

Vel raises her face to the ceiling and closes her eyes; Kleya is a steady force in times of need, but, Force, can she also be the most impossible. I wonder if they must go hand-in-hand. “Do you always scold people who are trying to be thoughtful and polite?”

“Do I always reject unnecessary social niceties? Only from my friends.”

Aaaaand there’s her being lovely just as easily as infuriating. “Okay. I won’t be sorry. But I’ll restart, anyways. Kleya, how can you be so helpfully supportive of me when you’re still dealing with a mountain of your own trauma.”

“We tend to find a way for the things we really, really want to do.” Kleya comes over and begins heating the fry pan, slotting herself easily back into their rhythm of making breakfast together. “As for the more practical ‘how,’ it’s distracting. Like a puzzle.”

Vel shakes her head at being called a puzzle to be solved, but there’s a deep affection behind it.

Kleya continues “I’ve still got everything coming through, but concentrating on someone, something else, helps me adjust the frequency so my own problems are a bit lower in the background.” 

“Well I very much appreciate it.” They chop and prep another moment, shoulder to shoulder. “It’s really good to have a mutually assured support system.”

“You’re welcome, Vel.”

-

Inside the hut, they’d reached a comfortable equilibrium. Outside of the hut, things went from poor to terrible, the frigid mood of the mess from a few weeks before only grows colder and darker. As the sentiments on base ferment, Kleya starts avoiding walking the paths alone during the day. 

One morning Kleya wakes up to find Vel’s not next to her, or more accurately wrapped around her. Not only does her clambering out of bed wake Kleya up, she’s never left without saying something, so pushing down panic, Kleya tugs on her boots and rushes out, only to find Vel crouched on the side of the hut steps, working away at the wood with a plane.

“Kleya, don’t.“

“What is that?”

“I was going to tell you, I just didn’t want you to see it before . . .“

But Kleya had already rounded and looked over her shoulder at the damaged wood, which read in deep-carved letters RAITOR — Vel had managed to obscure the first letter, but only barely.

“Here on a rebel base, I’d’ve thought that word was considered high praise.”

Vel notes even in her sarcasm, Kleya can’t bring herself to say the word. She rocks back on her heels and stands up. “I’ll bring back some scrap wood from the shop on my way back. Needed to replace the steps anyways. Damn rain makes wood rot at a crazy pace. Can’t believe we haven’t fallen through.” 

Vel’s rambling isn’t distracting Kleya one whit; she’s staring at the carving with eyes steely in that way Vel recognises from years on Coruscant but hadn’t seen much lately. 

Vel takes her hand and tugs her away. “C’mon. Make breakfast before I have to go?”  

Only doing something for Vel breaks Kleya away from her furious consideration of exactly what the base thinks should be done to her.

-

In the mess at lunch, Vel spots Mon alone at a table; for the first time since Scarif not surrounded by a whole gaggle of people. 

She plops her tray and herself down. “Hey.”

Mon comes back from wherever she was daydreaming, or gaming out her next meeting, or just lost in the exhaustion. “Good afternoon.” 

“How you holding up.”

“I suppose reasonably, considering the circumstances. I wouldn’t mind a good trip to the salon though. Or even taking a long, hot bath. Maybe for a month or two.”

Vel had been meaning to ask about the odds of getting a couch — or at least materials to make something resembling one — but realises this can wait. “I can’t help with the bath, and we both know you don’t want me anywhere near your hair, but why don’t you come to dinner tonight? I promise Kleya will cook and not me.” 

“Maybe next time.”

“Not even a joke about how at least you won’t have to risk death by my cooking? Things must be bad.” Vel tries to provoke a smile, but Mon doesn’t give.

“I’ve got a briefing tonight.”

“Emergencies are one thing, but surely you can do something about them scheduling meetings after dark?”

Mon makes a non-committal noise and sips at her caf; which Vel has long recognised as one of her tells. But a tell of what? Vel’s gears start whirring. 

“Mon. I haven’t seen you outside working hours in ages. You haven’t come by, at least . . .” the pieces are clicking into place. “Since Kleya moved in.”

“I’ve had a lot on, Vel.” 

Mon’s tone takes her aback. “I know. Which is why you should let us cook for you some time.” 

“‘Us?’”

“I already promised it would be mostly Kleya. Don’t worry, she only lets me do anything involving knives and chopping. Well, and then all the washing up.” 

“I’ll let you know.”

Vel squints at her cousin, trying to figure out how much of her cool tone was exhaustion, distraction, the weight of responsibility, or something heavier. 

“Anything else I can do to help?”

“No, thanks Vel. I’ll see you at the briefing.”

Using her name that way is the real tipping point; Vel knows Mon well enough to know her brush-off methods, and enough to suspect the real reasoning behind it.

Vel stands with her tray; not done eating, but done with the conversation. “You know, I was hoping once you got out of that whole toxic high-society circle, you’d be able to stop caring so damn much about appearances and what people think.”

Mon shakes her head. “A good politician can’t afford to ignore public sentiment.”

Looking for an outlet, Vel spies Wil across the room and starts his direction, but makes sure to pause so Mon will hear her, whether or not she listens. “And a good human being can’t afford to be driven by it.”

Chapter Text

They’ve taken to arguing — more accurately ‘passionately discussing even while vehemently agreeing’ — about art over breakfast. 

Vel pushed the limit’s of Kleya’s extensive knowledge of different cultures’ preferred mediums and materials, and Kleya teased Vel about her unironic love of modern Chandrilan pop music before grudgingly admitting some of their songs are catchy. 

As they wrap up their three-day-running debate around publicly funded museums versus private collectors versus other forms of preservation and display, Vel doodles potential couch plan dimensions and Kleya toasts homemade bread and bantha butter.

“Just because I’m pragmatic doesn’t mean I don’t feel deeply about it.”

“I never said you didn’t!”

“That’s true. But most people assume I don’t. Even if they don’t say it.”

“Lucky I’m not most people.”

“Indeed you’re not.” Kleya grimaces, though with humour and plenty of fondness underneath. “Which I appreciate now, but did give me a few fits when we met.”

“‘A few fits’ is certainly one way of putting it. I wondered how many times you thought it might be easier to put a blaster bolt between my eyes than continue being my handler.”

Kleya raises an eyebrow, but knows she can’t deny it, so her response is mild. “Here I thought I was the blunt one.”

“I suppose you’re rubbing off on me.” 

Kleya nearly chokes on her caf. Aware social graces dictate this is not the time or place for a double entendre comment, she bites her tongue, but it’s a narrow thing. Because she’s been . . . preoccupied, wondering how far she can push this attraction, since they’ve acknowledged it to each other. how could she ever wonder I wouldn’t be? even when she was frustrating the absolute hells out of me. has she seen herself? enough to make a girl wonder if it’s worth asking whether the definition of  ‘mutually beneficial situation’ extends to bending Vel over the table and having her— 

“— for dinner.”  Vel’s voice cuts into Kleya’s reverie.

“Pardon?” 

Vel waves her hand in front of Kleya’s face. “Where were you just now?”

“Nowhere.” Technically true; her mind hadn’t left the table. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Vel restarts her whole last sentence. “That Dreena and Wil both have tomorrow night off, so I want to ask them over for dinner. If you’d like that? I can requisitione some ‘specialty meats’ so who knows what that means, but I’ll bring them home tonight? Dreena said she’s got more wild mushrooms than eight people could eat, so we can ask her to do sides, and Wil is keen to show off by making dessert.” 

“And what are you going to do?”

“Be completely at your service, naturally.”

Kleya has spent years mastering her responses, down to her heart rate, so her face remains totally and completely neutral. pretty sure. But no human can repress a blush, and her face is radiating so much heat surely Vel can feel it across the table. get it together. “Excellent. I can work with that. Yes. Dinner would be lovely!” you’re overselling, Marki. 

The base horn sounds and Vel jumps up, saving her further obfuscation. 

-

That night, halfway through prepping for dinner, Kleya feels it; a few moments later the light in the hut dims, confirming her intuition. She’s getting used to all the signs of the quick-moving storm clouds pulled like a blanket over the base, heavy with rain.

She grabs Vel’s boots because they’re closest to the door, observing in the time it takes to tug them on it’s amazing someone whose drawers and desk are so disorganised never fails to untie her boots properly when she takes them off before dashing to pull all their clothes off the line before they end up less dry than when they’d been hung out. 

She makes it into the hut just as fat drops begin to hit the tin roof, and drops the armful of clothing on the table just as Vel darts from the washroom with only a towel wrapped around her, clearly with the same thought to rescue the laundry, stopping once she sees Kleya beat her to it.

Kleya pulls up short for other reasons. stop staring. but her shoulders. you know how strong her arms are, you’ve felt them plenty. yeah but this is, I mean, look at her. stop looking at her.

Kleya grabs the nearest shirt from the pile like a lifeline, snapping it out in a show of being busy. “Too slow, Sartha.”

“I just need a clean shirt” Vel clearly bluffs. 

 Kleya tosses her the shirt and picks up another, starts to fold it, but something feels off, a loose tie or seam coming loose, maybe? 

Her stomach drops as she spreads it out and looks closer; there’s a long, thin slash all the way from shoulder seam to tail hem. 

Vel damn her notices too, and examines the shirt she holds, finding two slashes through the arm and another through the chest pocket, unmistakably intentional.

Vel’s eyes turn icy, and she turns to the cubby of other clothes and begins dressing hastily. 

“Vel. What are you doing.”

“I’m going to go talk to Mon.”

“What do you intend to solve with that.” 

“I intend for it to have a better outcome than doing what I really want, which is hunting down the vandals myself.”

Kleya is almost distracted enough by Vel’s declaration to miss noting her muscled back and toned ass as she slips from her towel into a long-sleeved undershirt, underwear, and fatigue pants. 

Almost. 

It still takes her two attempts to get her mouth moving properly. “Don’t you dare put your neck on the line for me.”

Halfway done putting on a thick wool sock, Vel spins-hops to face Kleya so fast she has to sit back on the bed to save herself from tumbling over. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”

“I didn’t say I blame myself.”

“But, do you?”

Kleya doesn’t answer. 

“It doesn’t sound like you to take on responsibility for other people’s bad actions.” 

Kleya shrugs. “Perhaps not taking blame for about their actions so much as understanding the sentiment behind why they’re making said actions.”

Vel stands up, one sock on, the other in her hand, and marches over to Kleya. “Listen to me. Whoever did this, it’s not really about you. It’s about them being sad and scared and having nowhere to put it, then taking it out on you because they are small-minded idiots.”

“Doesn’t change you’re becoming collateral damage.”

“They’re aiming at both of us.”

“But this isn’t your fight.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“You can’t take on every idiot or evil in the galaxy.”

“I can if I’m given enough time.”

“Vel . . .”

“Maybe not all at once, but I’ll be damned if I back away from anything just because some narrow-minded pricks want me to. And you know me well enough to know I’ve never accepted injustice out of convenience.”

“Not convenience, just feasibility in maintaining the fight you do want to prioritise.” 

Vel flaps her spare sock flap in frustration. “You’re perhaps the most pragmatic person I’ve ever met.”

“You’re perhaps the most idealistic person I have.”

Vel shakes her head, props against the table and begins to pull the sock on.

“As though we don’t have the same ideology.“

“Base ideology maybe, but not at all the same romanticised idealism.”

“Same ideals, different approaches.”

“Polar opposite approaches” Kleya corrects.

“Maybe a revolution needs both to balance it out.”

“So can you let me balance you out now? At least postpone running to appeal to anyone.” 

Vel crosses her arms, not thrilled, but willing to hear her out. “What will that accomplish.”

“Not letting them know they’ve gotten under my skin, for one.“

“You know, even when you were cool and calm and collected, I could tell when I was having an effect on you.”

Kleya narrows her eyes at Vel. “Two, they were not so observant as you.”

Vel uncrosses her arms, leans forward and props her elbows on her knees. “Oh, a list, you’re speaking my language to try and win me over.”

“As I was saying. You may have had an effect on me, but not everyone does, and far, far fewer of them are actually aware of it.”

“I accept you telling me I’m special. What’s three.” 

“Three. Since you’re insisting on being entangled in this fray—“

“What a beautifully technical way of putting it.”

“—we can double our effectiveness by strategising together. Balance, as you called it.”

“Go on.”

Kleya draws her chair close to Vel’s and sits, addressing the strategy seriously now. “Whether we’re going to confront or ignore them, absolute lack of signalling or acknowledgement until we have developed our approach and are ready to action it is the best way. Talking to Mon, or hunting them down, would ruin that.”

Vel sighs. “But have you considered this is also the least satisfying approach.” 

“Perhaps in the short run. But I’d rather have the last laugh than the longest or loudest.” 

“Promise you’ll not just sweep your feelings about this under the rug, though. You’ll talk about it.”

Kleya makes a subtle expression Vel would describe as ‘rolling her eyes internally.’ “I promise I will continue to keep you appraised of my sentiments, however that may inform our actions and shape the strategies we can take to foil our mutual enemies.” 

“Are we still talking about this specific event, or the rebellion at large.”

“It can be more than one thing.”

Vel shakes her head in admiration. “If you weren’t so good at comms I’d say you missed your calling to be a lawyer, Marki.” She reaches out a hand. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”

Kleya reaches out and grasps Vel’s hand firmly. “Our way it is.”

- 

Wil and Dreena arrive for dinner, Wil with two large clay dishes in a twine sling, both still steaming from the drizzle hitting their heat on the walk over.

As Wil and Kleya fuss around the kitchen, trying to figure out how to best warm all the dinner at once while keeping dessert safe and dry, Dreena produces three bottles of wine from the copious inner pockets of her oilskin jacket. 

“Couldn’t let this one think she was the best smuggler on Yavin” Dreena grins.

Vel retrieves a small stick from the kindling pile next to the stove and holds the tip to the kitchen fire. “Normally I would protest, but this is truly the most impressive things I’ve seen in several moons.” She brings the burning stick over, apologising “I’ve not seen wine in so long I don’t even have a proper corkscrew.” 

Dreena — clearly aware what she’s going for — holds the wine bottle out at a slight angle and turns it while Vel holds the flame against its neck, just under where the cork ends. After a few moments of heat, the cork starts to emerge from the top; Dreena takes her free hand and gently taps the bottom of the bottle, popping the cork out; Vel catches the cork before it hits the ground as Dreena quickly rights the bottle without spilling a drop. 

Wil whistles in appreciation. “Hot.”  

Kleya agrees, but keeps it entirely internal. 

Or thinks she does; Dreena smiles to note the way Kleya lights up with delight at Vel’s showing off. 

Because Vel is certainly showing off, and Kleya is not mad about it. 

Vel’s wearing the blue shirt which brings out her eyes. Kleya had made sure to mend it first for that very reason, even if she’d rather walk over hot coals than admit that. 

She also certainly wouldn’t point out the way it shows off Vel’s breasts, especially when she’s off-duty and not wearing anything under it. snap out of it, Marki. 

As they eat and drink, go around the table giving compliments on each others’ food, share details of exactly how to get the potatoes crispy using just a single fireplate, and constantly top up each others’ glasses of wine, Kleya tries to sort the myriad of conflicting feelings raging through her. 

She’s a million lightyears more comfortable than at all the Coruscant dinners she’d ever been to, even intimate ones with ‘friendly’ faces. Cognitively, she knows she’s welcome and wholly accepted by all three at the table, but can’t shake the nagging feeling she’s an outsider; the thought continually pops up she hasn’t ‘earned’ her spot at the table. the fourth chair should be Cassian’s, they wish it were him instead of you. 

The others would be saddened if not hurt to know she feels this way, but she’s also painfully aware their history is drastically, insurmountably different than hers. Kleya spent so much more time in the antique shopfront, at society functions and dinners where she was only ever crafting a story, lying about not only her work but who she was, that she doesn’t know how to do this casually intimate thing naturally. 

So she shoves the feedback loops aside in favour of making sure everyone else is having a good time. She’s most comforted by seeing Vel smiling for more than a flash at a time. 

An undercurrent of sadness runs underneath the meal, everyone aware they’re permanently missing guests, but sharing the sadness enables them to all carry it better, and their banter and wine helps soothe the fresh wounds.

To say she had a difference in philosophy with Cassian would be putting it lightly, but Kleya was unspeakably glad not only to remember the best of him, but to be able to do it here, with a small part of the forged family he’d been key in bringing together. 

After dinner, a few rounds of rianza — which Kleya picked up quickly, beating Wil soundly and Vel narrowly before Dreena defeated her at the end — and dessert, they open the third bottle of wine, and Wil raised his glass.

“To our friends, and our futures.”

“To our friends, and our futures.” Kleya found herself unable to even whisper the last two words, but she covered it with her glass as they all drank.

-

Dreena and Wil walked down the path to their hut arm in arm. 

Wil looks over his shoulder at the warm glow coming from the hut they’d just left. “Okay, so, even IF you are right and they haven’t yet, I am telling you. Vel is a goner.”

“I am right. But yeah, Vel is so far gone. And Kleya right behind her.” 

“I don’t see it.” 

“She’s just naturally at a negative ten, so seeing her at a plus one is the equivalent of most people’s head-over-heels.”

“Love is totally beside the point, I still say they’ve been sleeping together since day one. Maybe three.”

“You just think everyone would do exactly what you’d do in the same circumstances.”

 “You adore how much of a little galaxy slut I am.”

Dreena pauses under a tree where it’s raining slightly less than on the path, grins, and pulls him back to cup his face. “Oh, I do. But I also know not everyone is jumping straight from the medbay into bed with the first pretty girl they see.” 

He grabs her wrist and kisses her palm. “Whatever you say. But you’re going to owe me that bottle of Rev sooner than later.”

“And you’re going to help me drink it.” She runs her hand from his jaw up to the back of his head and tangles her fingers through his curls, bringing him in for a kiss. “It won’t last the night.”

“Deal.”

-

Meanwhile, back in the hut, Vel finishes the dishes as Kleya preps leftovers and herbs for the next morning’s breakfast.

Vel dries the frying pan, hands busy but eyes studying Kleya intently.

“What?” Kleya asks.  

“You said I could ask anything, so. You didn’t toast to the future. I mean, you did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.”

“I didn’t mean to kill the mood.”

“You didn’t! No, please don’t take it that way. Clearly you’re comfortable enough with us to be vulnerahhh-open and honest, and I’m glad. I know Wil and Dreena wouldn’t mind, too, but they didn’t notice.” She puts the pan away, gauging how Kleya feels about her pressing. “Still, I wanted to ask . . . I wanted to see if you were okay about it. The toast, or whatever about it it was.” Vel wrings the dishcloth, unsure if she’s digging a hole too deep, so Kleya cuts in to answer; pragmatic, honest. 

“I just didn’t know how to conceptualise it. So saying it felt untrue.”

“Surely, you of all people can’t be that defeatist about the Empire winning.”

“Not the future. Just mine.” Simultaneously, understanding, and deep sadness flash across Vel’s face. “I can see outside of my own bubble. I know people weren’t only fighting to destroy the Empire, they were fighting to build a future without the Empire in it. People like Cassian, like Wil and Dreena, wage their war with a future in mind. One with friends, lovers, children, communities, hobbies, art for its own sake, growing old. But I never had reason to figure out what I might wanted decades from now. Or what ‘getting old’ even looked like. Luthen and I knew fanciful daydreams were an abstract, a waste of time.”

Vel puts the dishtowel down, Kleya reaches for it to have something to hold and fumble with, to distract herself, but Vel intercepts her hand and holds it. “And now what do you see?”

Kleya’s brain short-circuits at the intensity in Vel’s eyes, the sincerity of her gesture, the way such a simple friendly touch feels so intimate and burns a blazing path straight to her core. “I don’t know.” 

“What do you want to see.” Vel presses, gently. 

“I’m tired of feeling this way.”

“Which way.”

“Awful. Unsure. Sad. Angry. So angry, all the time. At the Empire. For myself. For the sake of people like you who have had to give up so much. I can’t remember the last time I felt really good. So good it crowded everything else out.”

Still holding Kleya’s hand, Vel takes a step forward. Kleya instinctively leans towards her in turn, breathing in the soft spiced smell of her which has become so familiar.

Vel wasn’t sure what she was going to do until she sees the effect their proximity has; Kleya’s breath half-hitching in her chest, her eyes sliding closed for slightly longer than a blink, reopening to look directly into Vel’s with unmistakable longing. 

Suddenly, Vel’s never been more sure of anything. She barely has to lean forward and her lips meet Kleya’s. She feels Kleya’s response, instinctively opening slightly to her, slotting their lips together perfectly. The heady feel of Kleya’s mouth and mingled taste of wine shoots through her like electricity. 

Kleya pulls away; not startled, more as though asking have you realised what you’ve really done, remembered who I am? are you sure you don’t want to take that back? “Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to. And you wanted me to.”

Kleya shakes her head. “It can’t be that simple.”

“Can’t it be?”

“I always thought things were clear cut. Black and white. But now, I don’t . . .” stop talking her out of this. you want this. no; you must be sure she’s sure. For nearly the first time in her life, and almost all of those times in the last weeks, Kleya realises: “I don’t know what to do. It’s as though now there’s suddenly a possibility of a future, there’s too much to lose.”

“You know what the flip side of that is?” Vel pulls her closer, bringing their bodies together so’s Kleya can’t tell whose heartbeat is shuddering through her chest. “We have absolutely nothing to lose.”

Chapter Text

“There’s too much to lose. There’s nothing to lose.”

Pressed against Kleya, feeling the electricity between their bodies, Vel waits, giving Kleya an opportunity to step back.

Instead, Kleya’s hands wrap around her waist; as though by reflex, or as though she’s been holding them back through sheer force of will and now given permission.

Vel lets out a soft exhalation and feels her stomach plunge, relief mingling with excitement and desire. “You want to feel something good? I’ll give you what you want.”

Rather than kissing her as Kleya expects, Vel takes her by the shoulders and moves her in the direction of the bed. It takes all of three or four fumbling steps to cross the short distance, the back of Kleya’s knees hit the edge of the bed, then Vel is gently pushing her shoulders, moving her down onto the bed and across until she’s sitting with her back to the wall.

Vel climbs up and straddles Kleya’s lap; only then does she kiss her; not tentative now, but sure, claiming what she wants. Kleya eagerly responds, reaching up— 

Vel takes Kleya’s hands and puts them down onto either side of her hips. “Keep them there.” Vel murmurs. Kleya raises an eyebrow, unsure how to respond, still assessing what just happened and what’s about to happen. 

With her hands on Vel’s hips, Kleya feels the tension surge through Vel’s body as she grinds down onto Kleya’s lap, taking her time, watching the effect she’s having.

Just as slowly, Vel unties the cords at the side of her shirt, and takes it off, oh-so-aware she’s being watched. Kleya remains still, taking everything in.

Once she’s removed her shirt, Vel leans down and kisses her again, sliding Kleya’s mouth open with her tongue. As they kiss, Vel reaches down and cups Kleya’s breast through her shirt. When Vel twists her nipple, Kleya gasps, and Vel takes the opportunity to kiss her even harder, while she continues to move against Kleya’s thighs.

Kleya groans at Vel’s body pinning her down; exactly what she wants, even if not yet close enough, hard enough.

After several moments Vel draws back; Kleya whines at the sudden loss, the cold air hitting her face.

“Tell me one thing you want.” Vel says.

“This. You.“

“You can have me. I’ll give you anything you want.” Vel reaches to the base of Kleya’s neck and tugs a handful of hair, the action gentle but insistent, making sure Kleya meets her eyes as she says “You just have to tell me.”

ah. okay. “I want my mouth on you.”

Vel leans closer, moving her chest near Kleya’s mouth. “Like this?” 

In answer Kleya puts her mouth on Vel’s breast, gently sucking for a moment before taking the nipple between her teeth much less gently.

Vel sucks in a gasp and arches her back, then immediately presses back forward, into Kleya’s insistent mouth. “Yes.” Kleya responds with a small tug, then releases and runs her tongue over it, soothing the sting. She repeats the motion, revelling in the way she can feel the effect she’s having in multiple places at once; in Vel’s breathing coming faster and more ragged, in the taste of sweat on Vel’s skin, in the way Vel’s hips shudder with pleasure under her hands when she bites down, the way she’s coming back for more.

After a few moments Vel draws back further than Kleya can follow, only to shift and lean in again to let Kleya repeat her actions on the other side. 

“Fuck. You feel amazing.” Vel continues to press her body against Kleya’s, pinning her against the wall with her hips, her hands, her mouth. “What do you want.”

“I want you to—“

“No, not what I should do. What you want.”

Another piece clicks into place. right. what do I want. “I want to be naked.” 

Vel reaches down and takes Kleya’s tunic, pulls it slowly up her stomach, dragging the fabric over her now-hardened nipples. She tugs it all the way off, tosses it aside, and takes Kleya in with her eyes and hands. 

“Do you know how many times I’ve pictured you like this?” Vel’s voice is low and rasping, and Kleya feels the statement — not a question, despite the upwards inflection — shoot straight through her. Vel drags her nails down Kleya’s chest, her stomach, her hips. “You’re as stunning as I could ever imagine.” 

She draws her hand up but pauses under the angry blaster mark still etched along Kleya’s ribs; she hadn’t gone back to the med bay to get it treated. “It’s only cosmetic” she’d said. But Vel had wondered if there was more to it; that she didn’t want the techs to see her vulnerable, or whether part of her craved the visible souvenir, a badge of honour or some sort of purgatorial reminder.

Vel leans down and kisses along the bright red scar, taking her time, silently declaring it’s all part of the same. all beautiful. 

After a few moments, Vel continues wandering down Kleya’s body. As her hand reaches Kleya’s waistband she lifts her own hips, rocks back and stands for a moment next to the edge of the bed, observing what effects she’s had in just a few short minutes; Kleya’s hair spilling out of its confines, her face flushed and breath coming in shallow pants, thin already-fading red lines running down her chest.

“Take them off.” 

Kleya needs no further command; she reaches down and slides her trousers and underthings off in one motion, tossing them off the end of the bed. 

Vel watches her and then, holding her eyes, slowly strips the rest of her clothes off and climbs, measured, back onto the bed, letting Kleya take her in.

“What do you want?” Vel asks again.

“I want to feel how wet you are.”

“Mmmm.” Vel moves closer to kneel over Kleya, one leg on either side, but not touching her yet. “Put your hands back on me.” Kleya places her hands on Vel’s hips, and Vel lowers herself slowly, deliberately, back down onto Kleya’s lap.

As Vel settles onto her, finally Kleya can feel how wet and hot she is, right against her skin. She lets out a strangled “Oh.”

Vel rewards her by grinding a slow circle against her; the sensation of her weight and friction, slick heat and slight raspiness, combines to makes Kleya feel lust-drunk.

“Vel.” Kleya is as close as she’s ever come in her life to begging.

Vel runs her hand up Kleya’s naked chest to her throat and tips her face up. “Yes, Kleya?” she asks. But before Kleya can respond, Vel’s kissing her silent, stroking her tongue into Kleya’s mouth as she slides herself, wide open and warm, again and again, across Kleya’s thighs. 

Whatever thoughts Kleya might have thought are lost in a haze. She kisses Vel back hungrily, tensing her hands to keep from moving from where Vel placed them. All she wants to do is reach up and pull Vel closer. inside. more. to feel her everywhere. 

She manages to hold back, to wait for Vel to ask or tell her what to do. She’s never let anyone order her around like this, let alone in bed — she would have eviscerated anyone who tried. Somehow right now, she finds it not only intensely hot, but weirdly comforting.

“What do you want.” 

“I want to touch you.”

Vel reaches down, takes Kleya’s right hand and moves it to her centre. “Touch me, then. Feel what you do to me.” She drags Kleya’s hand slowly but firmly across her cunt, groaning as Kleya’s fingers finally press against her clit. Kleya takes her cue and rubs in slow circles, watching where Vel bites her lip and returning to press more firmly. 

Vel holds Kleya’s hand there a moment, rolling her hips, concentrating on the sensations Kleya’s strong fingers send shooting through her.

Watching the effect she’s having, Kleya is overwhelmed almost to the breaking point — Vel’s weight on top of her, Vel’s moans of pleasure in her ears, Vel’s scent all around her, Vel throbbing against her fingertips.

“Vel. Please.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to taste you.”

Vel grasps Kleya by the wrist, brings her hand up, and motions for her to taste. Kleya slides her middle fingers between her lips, sucks on them, runs her tongue over them while Vel watches, eyes glazing with lust.

After a few moments, Vel takes Kleya’s hand and guides it back down, lifting her hips and sliding Kleya’s hand between them. She arranges Kleya’s three middle fingers, puts her hands on Kleya’s shoulders, and slowly, deliberately, lowers herself onto Kleya’s hand. 

Vel closes her eyes as Kleya slides into her, letting out a soft exhale which contains something like youfeelfuckinggood. She rocks forward, lifting herself up before pressing back down onto Kleya’s hand. 

Vel slowly increases her motion, setting a rhythm, thrusting Kleya deeper with every move, head thrown back, mouth slightly open, clearly intent on feeling Kleya filling her. Kleya watches, utterly absorbed; the look on her face is the hottest thing Kleya’s ever seen. what do I want. I want this. I want to feel her tight around me. I want to make her feel good.

Kleya takes her thumb and rubs it against Vel’s clit, copying the way Vel had used her fingers earlier, and is rewarded with a low groan. Vel grips onto Kleya’s shoulders, blunt nails digging in with every thrust. 

Kleya lets Vel set the pace, gauging exactly what she likes, assessing how she moves to get Kleya’s hand to the exact right angle. Once she’s figured that out, Kleya begins to move her fingers in time, curling them against the inside of Vel as she rocks forward. 

Vel can barely get out her words now. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to make you come.” 

The words alone cause Vel to bear down even harder; in response Kleya curls her fingers again, still circling her thumb in time with Vel’s thrusts. After a few moments she feels Vel’s legs begin to shake, then with a sharp cry her grip tightens on Kleya’s shoulders and her whole body seizes with pleasure. 

When it feels Vel is on the edge of being unable to stand it, Kleya gentles her movements, slips her fingers out and lets Vel ride out her pleasure against her hand.

After several moments she feels Vel’s weight slowly settling back down onto her, coinciding with her grip loosening on Kleya’s shoulders. 

She rests there for a moment, hot breath against Kleya’s neck, nuzzling her ear and making small satisfied noises. While Kleya aches to feel Vel touching her, she’s so overwhelmed with a heady mix of pride and joy and desire she’s in no real rush.

Vel, though, is not about to let her stay there too long. After a few moments she’s recovered her breath, and scoots back to stand on the side of the bed, then slides her hands behind the crooks of Kleya’s knees and pulls her across the bed as if she were nothing. Kleya’s legs slot on either side of Vel’s, knees bent over the edge of the bed, and she has a perfect vantage to see Vel’s face, flushed with happiness and exertion, the hut light shining a halo through her tousled red hair. 

Vel observes her with just as much pleasure before leaning down, pressing her body against the length of her, kisses her neck, bites her ear. “What do you want.”

“I need to taste you again.” 

Instead of bring Kleya’s hand to her mouth — which Kleya rather expected — Vel takes her by both wrists, draws them above her head and puts them against the bed. 

“Stay there.” 

 She moves her mouth down Kleya’s throat, across her collarbones, licking the already cooling salt sweat from her chest, running her tongue slowly over the blaster scar, then down the line of her abs to where they meet her hips. 

Kleya moans and pushes against her, trying to get any bit of friction, trying to feel some relief against the growing ache at her core. Vel immediately responds by pressing Kleya’s knees down firmly, keeping her legs spread while moving her mouth down to the marks she left earlier on Kleya’s legs. 

 She stops there, kissing and sucking everywhere she’d been, then sliding her tongue along Kleya’s sensitive inner thighs. 

After several moments she comes back up to lean over Kleya. “Taste me, then.” 

Kleya doesn’t hesitate, pressing her mouth up to Vel’s, moaning at the first taste, running her tongue along Vel’s bottom lip before taking it between her teeth and biting just enough to make Vel writhe against her. She moves her hands down to wrap around Vel’s neck because she can’t keep them still any longer, she fucking can’t, and Vel lets her. 

She pulls Vel deeper into the kiss, as though she could disappear into it. Pushing into Vel’s mouth to get more of her, as much as she can, Kleya realises with a flash of pleasure I’ll taste you on my lips the rest of the night. 

Vel whispers against her mouth “What do you want me to do now.”

Kleya notes the word change. “I want you to fuck me.”

Vel flashes a wicked grin Kleya feels more than sees. “That’s not very specific.”

Kleya takes a moment to savour how her heart is pounding so hard with desire it drowns out everything else. “I want you to return the favour. I want you deep inside of me. I want you to work me over with your tongue until I come in your mouth. I want to wake up tomorrow feeling everywhere you’ve been.” 

“Well then.” Vel nips her lip “You shall have your wish.”

Vel kisses down Kleya’s neck, but there’s a distinct shift now; her mouth firm and demanding. Suddenly she stops, sucking Kleya’s skin hard enough to send a flare of pleasurable pain running down her whole body, not letting go until Kleya writhes under her and she can push her body down to still Kleya’s hips. 

A mark blooms purple over Kleya’s collarbone as Vel moves her mouth down to Kleya’s breasts.

She pauses there, swirling her tongue around Kleya’s hardened nipple. Kleya arches into the sensation, brings her legs up around Vel’s waist and uses them to pull Vel’s body closer, unwilling to release any of the pressure against her core. Watching, feeling, making, Vel come, had pushed her so close to the edge already, now she was determined to savour the way Vel felt, to watch her as she concentrated on Kleya’s body.

Continuing to play her tongue across Kleya’s breasts, Vel slips her hand between their bodies and strokes down Kleya’s thigh to her centre; she’s barely touched her when Kleya — unprompted for the first time — says “I want you inside me.” punctuating her request with a rock of her hips to push closer to Vel’s fingers.

True to her word, Vel gives Kleya exactly what she asks for, not pausing to tease but sliding two fingers into her, all the way to her knuckles, then sliding nearly-out before pushing in again, now using her whole body against her hand to drive slowly but oh-so-firmly into Kleya, who gasps at finally feeling the exact sensation she’s been chasing. 

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes, please, fuck, please, don’t stop.” Kleya is aware she’s begging now, and can’t bring herself to care. first time for everything she thinks distantly, before the sensation of Vel thrusting into her again overwhelms everything else. 

Vel drags her tongue down across the valley where Kleya’s hips meet her thighs, then strokes it flat across where her fingers disappear into Kleya, before covering her clit with her mouth and beginning to suck. 

For just a moment Kleya has a flash of something more than longing and akin to sorrow, wishing she could stay here forever and not have to face what else is around her, including the possibility this is a fleeting, one-time thing; but she holds onto what Vel said: nothing to lose. 

Kleya releases herself to the sensations, letting Vel deep inside her drive everything else out of existence. Kleya has never felt so safe while being made to come undone. 

It feels like everything else in the galaxy is suspended, nothing mattering but how Vel is fucking her. 

When that feeling finally climaxes, she lets herself go with a cry of pleasure which echoes against the tin roof, drowning out the sound of rain. 

As the aftershocks roll through her, Vel gentles her touch, and kisses languidly up her body until they’re face to face again. “Is that what you wanted?”

Kleya nods, still regaining her breath and powers of speech.

“Me, too.” 

Vel kisses her again, Kleya tastes herself mingled with Vel. 

Vel props herself up on one elbow, observing her in an intent way which would be confronting if it weren’t so . . . how can something be caring, thoughtful, and hot all at once . . . Kleya is wondering when Vel asks “What do you want now?” oh. I suppose that’s how.

Kleya lets out a small huff as she rolls onto her side to face Vel. “I want, no, I need, to drink a large glass of water, because I want to not be hungover in the morning. I want to get under some covers so I don’t catch my death, and I want to fall asleep wrapped around you.” Vel’s mouth quirks with happiness at the last, which gives Kleya courage to overcome the slight flush of fear at what she wants to say next. nothing to lose. She boldly continues “And at some point in the very, very near future, I want to fuck you like that again, and again, and again” and is rewarded when Vel’s eyes flash with bright blue triumph. 

“I think you will find, Kleya Marki, that we want the exact same thing.”

Chapter Text

Thankfully, overseeing recruits assembling and disassembling and reassembling and disassembling inert blasters does not require a great deal of attention or effort, because Vel is still basking in the afterglow of the nights before. 

Seeing Wilmon striding across the hangar, she raises a hand to wave, but the look on his face freezes her in place; he looks as serious as she’s seen him.

She quickly tasks one of the senior recruits to continue the exercise so she and Wil can stand under a nearby Y-wing — out of earshot, but close enough to be in shouting distance in the unlikely case someone needs them.

“Everything okay? What’s up?” 

“You remember Dreena’s direct report, Niika?” Wil asks.

“Yeah.”

“She was pulled up to serve as aide to some off-planet head honcho guy named Efflin, who arrived last night. Niika is not in favour of him at all. And Niika was tasked because he made a special request for quote ‘a human female aide under twenty five.’ 

“Kriff.”

“Yeah. So she had her radar up from the jump. Which is why she reported the meeting to Dreena. Didn’t know what it was about, but I managed to get some more gossip from the mess cooks.” Despite Wil’s urgent tone of voice, Vel makes another mental note of appreciation for Wil’s ability to make friends with absolutely everyone he met; a skill she had never mastered. 

Wil glances around the side of the Y-wing before continuing “Everyone is pretty certain it’s about making sure someone take responsibility for Scarif.” 

Vel’s blood runs cold. “It’s a very bad sign I didn’t even know this was happening, isn’t it.” 

Wil nods, glad Vel picked up on the subtext and he doesn’t have to say the words. “Sorry, Vel.”

“Is this still in the talk phases, or what.”

“Look, I’m not positive, okay? But Niika said Efflin was antsy to make moves last night already. She said he was smiling after the meeting. And—“ Wil takes a breath “I checked the warden logs and they’ve put a unit on standby.” 

“Thanks, Wil. Can I ask you one more favour.”

“I’ll take over blaster assembly training.” 

She throws her arms around him and gives a squeeze “I owe you a bottle of Rev.”

“With what you owe me from our last card game, that makes two!”

But Vel is already gone.

-

Mon doesn’t seem the least bit surprised when Vel bursts into her private room and opens without ceremony. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“Vel, calm down.”

“Tell. me. what. is. happening.”

“Could you please—“

Unlike the political opponents and allies, Vel knows all Mon’s stalling tactics inside and out, and isn’t going to let them get rolling. “You owe it to me.” 

“And what, exactly, do you think you owe to her?”

Vel takes a deep breath, making a fist by her side to dig her fingernails deep into her palms, using the pain to ground herself. “So, this is about Kleya.” 

Mon sighs. “It’s complicated.” 

“It’s not.”

“I know you would like it not to be, but it is. Cassian’s death has changed a lot of things.”

“You can’t even wait until the funeral feast is cold.” 

“Rebellions don’t—“

“Don’t hide behind the shield of the rebellion. Cassian was as much a part of it as anyone. And he stood up for Kleya, believed her, followed through on her intel.”

“This is happening partly because Cassian believed and acted on her intel.”

“It was good intel!”

Mon crosses her arms and appraises her in that way Vel hates; it reminds her she’s always been younger and Mon has treated her like a child even after they both were full grown-adults, as her tone of voice leans into now: “I know you’re idealistic but you’ve never been naïve.” 

“People are upset about Cassian. Few of them have the right to be as gutted as I am. But assuaging people’s grief — or more accurately, their bloodlust — is not grounds to arrest someone.”

“It's not that simple. We don’t fully know the fallout yet, but we do know what we’ve lost to the news. It’s believable Kleya’s news was it too little too late. Or even a trap intending to kill key rebels before the weapon was unveiled, and we  managed to get lucky, but sacrificed many good agents to do it. Nobody knows for sure. There's misinformation on top of changing intel on top of doubt.”

“Fuck their doubt.” Vel is too angry to care she’s yelling, but Mon stays icy calm in that preternatural way of hers. “You know they’ve been trying to intimidate her for weeks, now? Never when I’m there, because they’re cowards, and they know she won’t fight back. But they’ve relentlessly—”

“That’s wrong, and horrible. You know full well I wouldn’t stand for it if I knew who was doing it.”

“Do I know that, actually?” Vel demands.

“No matter what she has done, nobody deserves mob violence.”

“What do you mean ‘no matter what she has done’.”

“We know Kleya was involved, what we don’t know is exactly how. There’s nobody who can prove anything she did. The only two who really could have we Cassian, and Luthen. Both dead. One we know she killed with her own hands.”

“Mon, you know better.”

“I know there is a plausible narrative Kleya tried to suppress the news, Luthen put the signal out, and when she found out, she killed him, then took over as damage control before Cassian arrived.”

Vel can’t believe what she’s hearing; and can’t believe she hadn’t heard this rumour was even floated. But that Mon is saying it . . . “That’s a horrific twisting of the facts, and you know it.”

“Being a leader is not acting on how I interpret her actions, but what her actions mean for the Rebellion, including millions of people I am responsible for.”

“In other words, you’re throwing a sacrificial lamb to the wolves.”

“I’m ensuring due process. Which starts by putting Kleya under arrest, and will proceed in accordance with the law.”

“Just like that.”

“And what else do you expect.”

“You’re the politician, you tell me.” 

“I’ve put a lot of thought and effort and political capital into this, more than you could presume. I can’t forestall it any longer.” 

“You did it all behind closed doors. The woman famous for making speeches at complicated situations, and you can’t even issue a public statement.” 

“People aren’t necessarily going to listen.”

“Isn’t that literally your job, to make them listen.”

“My job is to keep everyone safe, and make sure justice is served, and carry out a successful resistance to the Empire.” 

“And how does going after Kleya accomplish any of those things.” 

“It reassures people we are taking the right steps to resistance—“

“That is not the same thing and you know it.”

“She will have due process. If you’re so sure she’s done nothing wrong, then if justice is served, she will be free soon.”

“You can’t just arrest people on the chance they ‘may’ have done something and say ‘if you didn’t do anything you have nothing to fear.’ Arbitrary arrest IS A THING TO FEAR, MON!”

“Lower your voice.”

“Don’t lecture me on poor etiquette when you’re the one committing crimes under the cover of war.” Despite her fury, Vel is precise with her wording.

But Mon knows what she means. “I’d be very careful throwing a ‘war crimes’ accusation around when you led a group many would call a terrorist cell.”

“You want to compare helping people resist genocide to leveraging your power to arrest people when it’s politically expedient?”

“I’m saying not everyone would see your actions that way.”

“If I were to commit those actions while wearing fancy robes, then it’d all be perfectly acceptable? Is that it?” 

Mon stands. “I’m going to issue the order. It will take about ten minutes.”

Vel feels her guts twist, and she clenches her hands even harder, drawing blood in her palms. But she understands what Mon is telling her: stay and argue uselessly, or give Kleya the warning which will allow her to accept the inevitable with as much foreknowledge and dignity as she can. 

Vel spins on her heel and leaves, keeping her pace down to a brisk walk until she clears the doors.

-

Vel races through the twisting paths, cursing the constant dampness which means everything is too treacherous to go any faster, cursing again when she reaches the hut and can’t catch her breath before Kleya comes to the door. 

“Vel, are you all right?”

Vel brushes past Kleya and closes the door before responding. “Listen. The Council had a secret meeting this morning. Regarding Scarif. And you.”

Kleya’s jaw sets, and she transforms in front of Vel’s eyes: from a friend worried about Vel, to an operative who’s seen this event coming and has a contingency response mapped out already. “How long.”

“Kleya, they’re wrong, this is wrong. Fucked.” Her breath is still coming in short bursts.

“How long.”

“Ten minutes behind me. Fifteen at most.” 

Kleya briskly walks to the neatly organised shelf of clothes and pulls out her grey shirt and blue tunic, starts untying the thin blue shirt — Vel’s blue shirt — she’s wearing.

Vel realises what she’s doing and follows her over. “Here.” She takes a pair of leggings from her clothes and puts it on the pile, then takes a thick, long-sleeved green tunic and swaps it for Kleya’s blue one. “Mine is warmer.” Kleya nods in a way Vel is coming to recognise as her sign of gratitude.

As Kleya changes into the thicker shirt, leggings, and tunic, Vel pulls a small knapsack from under the bed; puts into it two pairs of socks and underthings, a spare shirt, Kleya’s toothbrush and a bar of soap, and folds the yellow wool blanket over it all.

“Anything else?” Vel asks. Kleya shakes her head.

Vel comes and puts her arms around Kleya’s waist, drawing her close. Kleya is not at all prepared for a display of affection in these circumstances, but after a reflexive stiffening of her spine, she softens and leans into Vel’s arms. 

“Okay, then.” Vel says softly. “May as well make the most of our three-to-six minutes.”

They stand together for a moment, Vel now the one trying to match her breaths to Kleya’s measured ones.

“Credit for your thoughts.” Vel asks.

Kleya shrugged. “This was bound to find me at one point or another. It’s always a pending cost of the kind of business I do. Did.” 

“You sound like Mon.”

“I don’t agree with her actions. I’m just not surprised.” 

“You spent the last decade looking over your shoulder knowing you could be executed, or worse, by the Empire for what you were doing. Now you finally escape that constant terror, join the group you’ve been working for all along, and you’re immediately . . .“ Vel runs a hand over her face in frustration, trying to shut herself up. “Sorry, I know this isn’t helping. I just don’t know what to do.”

“You can’t do anything in this moment. We have to let it play out, and we can confront it as it comes.”

“How are you calmer than I am.”

Kleya laughs, but it’s mirthless. “You’re cool and calm when you have something to do. Right now there’s no action, that’s all.”

“Mmm. I do thrive on having an actionable purpose.” 

“Besides,” Kleya offers. “Sometimes you have actually been able to accomplish things by raging against the proverbial machine. Whereas nothing in my situation could ever be gained with fiery words or actions. Thus I have more practice at the icy exterior.”

Vel doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she settles for a compliment. “You’re an impressive woman, Kleya Marki.”

“I know. In fact, I think that’s why they’re coming for me.” 

Despite herself, Vel lets out a small snort. “You’re not wrong.”

“First being blunt, now the use of double negative. Almost as though you were letting me be a good influence on you.”

“You jest, but. I think you actually have been.” 

Whether because of time pressure or because taking that kind of compliment is as foreign to her as affection for its own sake, Kleya steers them back to the matter at hand. “Vel. You need to stay here. Not just here. Inside. I know you can control yourself when you need to. But we also know there’s a lot of ill will on Yavin right now. I don’t want the first thing they associate with this arrest to be you.”

“I don’t care—“

“I know. But I do.”

“Kleya—“

“If I’m truly being that good of an influence, then look at it pragmatically. Being connected to my arrest will be bad for you, but also make it harder to fight the charges from the outside.” 

There’s a sound of several steps coming up the path; the signal they’ve both been subconsciously straining, dreading, to hear. Maybe it’s someone on their way to mess. Likely it isn’t. 

Vel moves her hands from Kleya’s waist to either side of her face, desperate to get this out before the knock they know is coming. “Okay. I promise. But, you aren’t alone. Promise me, whatever happens, you won’t shut me out now.” 

Kleya closes her eyes. She won’t promise anything she’s not sure she can keep. Vel waits. A knock sounds. Vel still waits. 

Kleya opens her eyes and meets Vel’s blue ones; soft with care for her, but behind that a flinty determination. “I promise.”

Another, louder knock. “We have a warrant. If you do not open we will enter.”

Vel opens the door to find four soldiers, trailed by Mon and another man Vel doesn’t recognise, wearing very expensive civilian clothes. Must be Efflin. 

The soldiers brush past Vel in a line; “Sure, come in” she mutters under her breath. 

She looks at Mon, eyes shooting daggers of overkill much? 

The soldiers form a diamond around Kleya, and Vel’s instinctive assessment kicks in. they’ve been told to treat her as hostile. that’s the technique for it. 

The lead soldier pulls out a pair of stuncuffs; on seeing them, Vel makes a sudden motion, pure reflex. The two soldiers nearest her react by turning their bodies towards her and placing their hands on the butts of their blasters. 

Vel holds her hands up, silently acknowledging her mistake, moving slowly now. She makes eye contact with both soldiers to reassure them she’s not a threat, then looks at Mon. “Those are not necessary. She’s going willingly.”

Efflin answers “There are a lot of people between here and the jail.”

by the force, I hate this prick. Vel lowers her hands, still slowly, as she responds, utterly unwilling to show him the slightest sign of surrender or deference. “And using those” she spits the word “is only going to reinforce the false idea she’s dangerous, a violent threat.”

“Dangerous hostiles do not get preferential treatment.” Efflin replies.

“Whose label is that? And who are you to speak with any authority here?”

Mon’s calm voice answers, defusing the situation. “If those people between here and the jail are angry, nobody is safe, least of all Kleya.”

Kleya gives Mon a look which shows not a scintilla of surprise, and the soldiers a look which could kill lesser beings. “If you need to make yourself feel better, then.” She holds her hands out towards the lead soldier.

Vel suspects the only reason Kleya acquiesces so easily is to keep Vel from doing something stupid. In order to keep herself from doing exactly that, and to avoid having to watch the soldier put those fucking awful things around Kleya’s wrists, Vel concentrates on walking one, two, three steps to the knapsack. She hears the electronic hum-whir as the stun cuffs are locked into place. don’t they know what she lost? what she gave up so they could be standing here? She wants to tear them all apart with her bare hands. 

Instead, she — slowly — opens the knapsack flap and holds the bag by its handle out toward the nearest soldier.

“No personal items” Efflin says coolly.

“Go ahead and search it. But we all know” — Vel puts all her condescension into the phrase, and out of the corner of her eye swears she sees Mon repress the slightest smile —  “Yavin’s prison is not outfitted for new intakes, and doesn’t have adequate bedding, let alone enough clothes. Which is why base rules requires people be allowed to provide their own.”

Mon nods at the soldier, who takes the knapsack and rifles through its contents as the lead soldier walks them all out, while reciting “Kleya Marki, you are being charged with wilful provision of information which led to the deaths of multiple members of the Rebellion. You will be held in detainment as these charges are investigated, and a lawful trial will . . .”

Holding to her promise, Vel watches the six rebels march Kleya out of their hut — it really is ours, Vel distantly realises — and down the covered path, until the soldier’s droning words of condemnation are drowned out by the roaring blood in her ears. 

-

Wil drops by with dinner from the mess, and keeps Vel company until she kicks him out, with all love and gratitude and exhaustion. 

Everywhere Vel looks around the hut has been touched by Kleya’s presence. Her tunic stacked amongst Vel’s clothes, her herb garden in the kitchen windowsill, her organisation of Vel’s . . . well, everything, except the bookshelf, where she let Vel’s “vibes based” system stay put, always returning every book she read to its exact place even when she complained it made no sense whatsoever. 

The bed taunts her, and Vel dreads having to crawl into it alone for the first time since she’d run into Kleya in the rain. But there’s either that or a floor-nest again, and that’s no good for her back — or her sense memory, if she’s being honest. The unbidden thought we never got that couch, of all things, is what finally sends her spiralling. 

In the washroom is her emergency medkit, with orange stimsticks for field ops and blue sleepsticks for emergencies. 

emergency? close enough. can’t help anyone if you don’t sleep. 

She can’t stop the insistent refrain this is happening again, you find someone and then you lose them, you can’t keep anyone safe, nobody stays. 

Totally different, she’s knows this is not the same, it’s not remotely the same, as what happened on Ghorman. But it’s not just Cinta, it’s Cassian, it’s Aldhani, it’s a dozen names and faces who fade like smoke. you can’t save anyone, you never will, they come and go and you’re still here, all for what, for what, for fucking what.

She tries to drown it out, Kleya is safe, she’s the most resourceful person in the galaxy, she’ll be fine, you’ve got time, and resources, you can’t help her if you don’t sleep, help her, Kleya, they hate her because of Scarif, Scarif, Cassian, Ghorman, Cinta, this is happening again

Vel takes Kleya’s tunic, balls it up, and buries her face in it, trying to blast the worst of the noise with reassurances and planning a dozen different courses of action, before the medsticks kick in and take her into sleep. 

Chapter Text

The emergency siren jerks Vel out of her medstick-induced sleep. It takes her a few beats to parse what the specific signal means: nothing emergent on Yavin. events elsewhere then. all heads to the hangar for a briefing. 

Her jacket and boots and blaster are on and she’s out the door before the first full siren cycle had finished.

-

The mood in the briefing room is grim.

The Death Star had obliterated Alderaan. All intelligence so far — which was patchy at best — indicated the strike was not only a display of power, but specifically chosen as an exhibit towards and against Senator Organa, having nothing to do with military or strategic advantage. 

Which meant two things: one, the Empire at large and Death Star in particular had at-least-fairly unlimited power and so could afford to be arbitrary with their choices; two, there was no way to determine what would be good places to evacuate, everyone was equally vulnerable. 

It meant a third thing to Vel, which was that bad feelings toward Kleya on the base would intensify. She knew that wasn’t a priority to anyone but her, and that she needed to compartmentalise it at least somewhat. On the other hand, she also recognised said battle was the only thing in the whole galactic situation she had even a modicum of control over; and as Kleya had correctly pointed out, unless Vel had something actionable to do, somewhere to aim her purpose, she felt not only useless but properly, downright crazy.  

As she was stewing over that, the briefing concluded, and the room hummed with small knots of people talking and strategising and expressing shock.

Vel transparently procrastinated leaving as everyone else grouped and filed out, until only she and Mon remain. Things had been tense between them the last few times they’ve seen each other, passing in the halls or actively steering away from each other at mess, but they can’t avoid each other forever. 

Vel stands at ease as Mon approaches. “Vel, how are you.”

“Fine, and you?”

“Well as can be expected.”

Vel knows it’s unreasonable to expect more than rote niceties with everything going on, but it still smarts. “I was wondering about obtaining outside counsel for the trial.”

Not using Kleya’s name didn’t make Mon any more amenable. “Counsel has been assigned.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you reconsider.”

“That would only postpone proceedings, as you know. And if Alderaan proves anything, it’s that I made the right call. Custody and a trial serves Kleya and her protection as much as—”

“Don’t you dare say you did this for her.”

“Vel.” There, again, Mon saying her name in that tone her mother used to use. Mon’s mother too, actually. “Don’t be stubborn. Think of all the other reasons this needed to happen.” 

“Such as your political career?”

“Yavin’s needs. The rebellion’s needs.” 

“I thought you resented political machinations which used innocent people as pawns.” A long pause. “Unless you don’t fully believe she’s innocent.”

Mon doesn’t reply.

Vel nods. 

That’s that, then.

She’ll figure out how to help Kleya another way. 

-

The events of Scarif had fanned the flames of distrust, but the Death Star attack shifted sentiment into a full-fledged wildfire. As she marches up to the prison among the bustling and aimless base dwellers, Vel feels their anger shimmering even in the damp forest.

After twenty minutes of paperwork and formalities, Vel is ushered into what is clearly a converted foreperson’s office turned visitor’s room.

When the officer brings Kleya in, she’s not wearing the stun cuffs, but instead more typical, non-electronic shackles. 

Vel gestures to them: “Are you not going to remove those?” 

The officer puts Kleya into the chair opposite Vel’s and shrugs, not exactly apologetically. “Procedure. We don’t have enough staff to do everything, so any time inmates are out of cell, cuffs on.” He spins on his heel. “No yelling, no touching, fifteen minutes, I’ll be back.” He’s out the door by the last word, giving no room for argument.

Vel glowers after him. “As though we’re not under surveillance anyways.”

Kleya gestures with her cuffed hands. “I’m actually convinced they switched to these because they presume given enough time, I could disable or reverse the electronic parts of the stun cuffs.”

Vel’s eyebrows shoot up; she keeps her voice and face neutral so nobody watching would think it anything but a deadpan joke, but her eyes ask it an actual question of Kleya. “You definitely couldn’t though.”

“Certainly not.” Kleya says, while her eyes answer best believe I could. 

Vel retrieves a paper cup from her side of the table and pushes it within Kleya’s reach. “I brought you some caf.” Kleya takes it, running her fingers along Vel’s hand just for a moment as she does, both aware they’re pushing the rules but if they’re quick enough the holosurvail might not even register it. “With a bit of honey and bantha milk in. Still can’t believe you take tea and caf the wrong way around.” 

“I suppose if I drank it was psychopathically as yourself, it would make smuggling it in easier.”

“This beverage is wholly official. Signed off on, literally. The guard did insist on tasting it, but otherwise all good.”

Kleya sips it gratefully, and her eyes slide shut with pleasure. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” 

Vel observes, tries to gauge, makes small talk.“Sorry about the presentation, but they wouldn’t allow a real cup.” In this context — her hands shackled, the hard metal furniture glare and bright flouro lights making everything look blanched and unfamiliar —  it’s difficult to tell how Kleya really is doing, let alone feeling.

“What were the sirens?” Kleya asks.

Vel knew she wasn’t going to be able to put off talking about the Death Star, but she also hadn’t been able to find a smooth way to tell Kleya, despite practicing a dozen different approaches on her way over. So she briefs her the way she would have back on Coruscant: clinical and detailed. 

Kleya blanches at the words “confirmed operational,” but otherwise doesn’t respond until Vel has finished. “What does that mean for Yavin.”

Vel doesn’t like not having anything to hold or do with her hands. She’d kill for a cup of caf just to play with right now. She laces her fingers together. “Unsure. We’re ready to move at a minute’s notice, but there’s no way to tell yet if we’re compromised, if moving will draw more attention, or if anywhere is safer anyways.”

Kleya nods. “If they evacuate the base, they won’t move me.”

she got there even quicker than I did. “I don’t know.”

“You do, Vel. They’ll set me free, with the whole moon at my disposal. Maybe try some sort of tracker, which would keep me occupied about five minutes. But they won’t use resources to take someone who is on trial for potentially endangering them. With my presence, if not my actions.” 

Knowing Kleya is right, Vel looks down in shame at her unoccupied hands; Kleya moves as though to reach for them, but the clink of metal reminds her she can’t, or rather shouldn’t. But Vel looks at her again as she continues. “I know it sounds cold to jump there instead of the loss of an entire planet but, to be honest, I have been trying to fathom what this possibility means for not just the galaxy, but me, for the last little while. And—“ Kleya glances at the door “I don’t know how long we have to talk. So I’d rather say goodbye now, and have it said. Then we can go about everything else.”

Vel feels her gut drop; how could she think that of me. “Kleya. I obviously—“ she thinks of the fact the walls are thin, and even if they haven’t rigged this room for audio, the guard could be just outside the door. She lowers her voice; not a whisper, not as though to hide anything, but to keep her words wholly belonging to them. “I don’t know and can’t promise what is going to happen with the base. But I will not leave you here.”

“You won’t have a choice, Vel.”

“Of course I will.”

“Your responsibility is to the rebellion, and to your recruits.”

“And I will fulfil it. But—“ she leans forward, and though she doesn’t touch Kleya’s hands she puts hers so close Kleya can feel their warmth in the cold room “I have a duty to you, as well. And I care about you. And I will not bloody abandon you.” 

The vicious bite in Vel’s last sentence makes Kleya wince slightly, and Vel fleetingly wonders if she’s being cruel or at least unnecessary. But she can’t bring herself to take it back. she has to know I would never. “Do you hear me?”

“I’m . . . Vel. Yes. I’m sorry.” Kleya takes a moment, considering how to best explain herself, then continues. “I admire your idealism. Sometimes I wish I could share it. I love that it drives your anger at injustice and your commitment to doing the right thing, even if our conclusions or methods are often different. I wish I had any first-hand example of your kind of ideals winning the day. So far in what I have seen and done, that would only get me hurt.”

Vel nods, waits; accepting, but waiting to see where Kleya is going with this.

“My experience, and knowledge of operational orders, is what I was drawing off when I said that, but that’s not to do with you. Or what I think of you. Vel—” Kleya shifts in her chair, moving her hands as she does so that just for a moment her fingers brush Vel’s “I believe you.”

Vel’s body slumps, just a little, with relief. “Thank you.”

A rattle sounds down the hall; the guard coming back. Vel curses under her breath. “Fastest fifteen minutes in history.”

For a split second, Kleya’s eyes flash with her old wickedness. “I bet that’s his problem in all areas of life.”

Vel lets out a surprised snort of laughter. good kark, this woman!

Kleya lowers her voice a bit, following in Vel’s actions to keep this between them. “But truly. Hear me. I trust you. No matter what happens. Okay?”

Vel returns her look of intense promise with one full of gratitude. “Okay.”

The guard enters and Vel leaves with him, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. I’ll see her again soon, she’ll be fine, we’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.

-

After her conversation with Mon that morning, Vel assumed they were at an impasse, so she’s surprised when a recruit brings her summons to Mon’s quarters after dinner.

She knocks and waits for a response.

“Enter.”

Vel waits for the hydraulic to fully close the door before she speaks. “What did you need to say you didn’t want anyone to overhear?”

“Nice to see you too, cousin. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Mon gets up to boil the kettle anyways. 

“I heard you went by the prison this afternoon.”

“Right.” 

“Don’t do this, Vel.”

“Do what.”

“Make things difficult on purpose.”

“I’m just confirming your intel, and waiting to hear where this is going.” 

“You’ve been picking up bad habits.”

Vel crosses her arms, clenches her fists, holds on to the familiar sting of pain, and waits. 

Mon proceeds. “It shouldn’t surprise you to know tongues are wagging over your visit.” 

“I gave up caring about idle gossip after I left Chandrila the first time.”

“This is not idle, Vel. Did you know the prison warden’s brother lived on Alderaan? With his children, all her nieces and nephews?” 

Vel hadn’t known this, and she cursed herself for perhaps missing a sign, not asking Wil for any additional info, being too distracted to check her gut. “No.”

“She was very unhappy about your ‘providing solace’ to a prisoner she believes aided the Empire in murdering her family.”

“First you swore Kleya would get a fair trial. Now we can’t even wait until the trial is over to send her to the gallows. Oh, and anyone who speaks to her.” 

“I’m telling you her beliefs. I thought you should know what people are saying.”

“Thank you for informing me. Am I dismissed?”

“Vel, those beliefs impact you. When people see you associate with Kleya, it also leaves you open to speculation.” 

Vel can feel her fingers begin to draw blood from her palms. “Like I said. I’m no stranger to people judging me for my personal life.”

“This isn’t personal.”

“Mon. Don’t.”

“It isn’t only personal. If you continue to visit Kleya, it won’t be my decision, Vel.”

“For a supposed leader, you don’t seem to be able to make many decisions.”

“If you continue to be seen with her, it will cause too much doubt and division. You will not be able to continue training recruits. If you cannot train recruits, you will be of no use to this base.”

“This base wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Kleya!”

“If you are not actively serving on this base, you will have to leave Yavin. I don’t want that, Vel. Not for you, not for the Rebellion. I hope you will not continue to insist on this course of action.” 

On the stove, the kettle comes to a boil, letting out the sort of shriek Vel is holding back. She snorts, a burst close to hysterical laughter. 

“Have it your way, Mon.”

“It’s not mine.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Yes. Recruit training is cancelled tomorrow to allow for additional camp duties. You’ve been assigned day watch assignment. Wilmon has been tasked to take over your other duties.”

“All day tomorrow. Late notice. I’m certain that has nothing to do with the trial starting.”

“You’re dismissed, Captain Sartha.” 

Vel snaps to, gives a sarcastic salute, and leaves.

-

Barely seeing straight let alone thinking straight, Vel manages to find the right path to Wil and Dreena’s door. They welcome her in, bustling around offering her tea and ‘these biscuits Wil just made which look ridiculous but taste divine’ and she’s comforted just being in their presence.

 Even when she sees them exchange the kind of glance which says they’ve been talking about her; worried, perhaps. not without good reason she grudgingly admits to herself.

She makes a show of fawning over the biscuits (which she’s pretty sure are excellent, though they taste like ash in her dry mouth) “I can’t stay. I gotta go crash. I just wanted to ask, Dreena . . . and don’t feel obligated, but tomorrow if you would be able to go keep an eye on how things are going . . .” 

Dreena is already nodding. “Of course. I was going anyways, but I can pass a message if you want.” 

“Just, if you have a chance. Don’t make a big deal of it. But if can let her know it’s not my choice. I’m not avoiding her. I need . . .” Wil comes over and puts and arm around her shoulders, letting her take her time. “I need her to know I’m not running, you know?”

“Absolutely, hon. You’ve got it.”

Wil chimes in. “And you’ve got us, okay? Go home and get some sleep.”

Vel gives him a grateful squeeze. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” 

They watch her go down the path, hearts aching for their friends.

It’s going be a long night.

It’s going to be a lot of them.

Chapter Text

The only thing worse than eating breakfast alone in the hut which once felt small and now is painfully cavernous, is having to eat in the actually cavernous mess, while pretending not to notice everyone giving her the side eye. 

As Vel calculates it, there are four broad categories of people on the base, with variants of overlap: one, those who know she and Kleya were close (whether they know about their entangled spy history is up for grabs, but whether they know exactly how close Vel and Kleya have gotten, they’ve surely speculated); two, those who are blithely unaware Vel knows Kleya at all; three, those who want to see Kleya hanged; four, those who are sympathetic.

The latter is rapidly dwindling.

Regardless of sentiment, one thing every last person on base seems to have in common is gossiping about the trial. 

Of those people who happen to know of Vel’s relationship to Kleya and also happen to notice if she sits nearby, half of them lower their voice to a whisper, and half of them raise their voice so she can hear exactly what they think of ‘the society bitch who flirted with the Empire, sent rebel cell members to their deaths, and thinks passing along a little information from a guy who died suspiciously should whitewash everything.’

Being on watch is almost a relief, because even though there’s nothing to distract her, she can at least exhaust her body, and doesn’t have to play nice or pretend not to hear the hundredth comment about ‘traitor scum.’

Holding her fists tight to keep herself under control is tearing Vel’s palms to shreds.

-

The moment watch duty ends, Vel beelines to Cassian’s hut. In the days after Scarif, it had been slated for reassignment to a group of recruits, but then everything went sideways and they hadn’t been able to spare the usual team to clear out personal belongings, let alone install bunks and proper amenities. 

Vel lets herself in, the familiar hinge creak of the door that never hung quite right a welcoming sound. She doesn’t need to turn on the main light, familiar with the floor layout and furniture as she is with her own, but she flicks on the softer auxiliary lights to more easily collect what she came for. 

First things first; she pries up the loose floorboard by the foot of the bed and retrieves the two emergency Rev bottles Cass always kept there. I could use it to pay off Wil . . . if it makes it to dinner tomorrow, I suppose I will. On a shelf by the window which she rigged with an oilcloth canopy similar to the one over her bookshelf she finds what she was really after; Cass’s rianza cards, a small Yavin-wood talisman he was nearly done carving, and the book she had lent him.

Picks up the book, Vel feels something sticking out from between the pages; she takes her armful of items to the table and sets everything down to examine the book more closely.

The protrusion is a thin wood-shaving bookmark, clearly something Cassian or Bix had carved and stained, a beautiful set of intertwining lines creating an abstract pattern.

After a moment of admiring the bookmark, it strikes Vel the bookmark is lodged about two-thirds of the way through, at a chapter break.

Vel slumps into the chair and clutches the book to her chest, and there in the cold, empty hut she cries for the first time since Kleya’s arrest. 

Tears of frustration not being able to do anything. 

Tears of anger at what’s being done across the galaxy. 

Wracking sobs for Cassian. The books he’ll never finish or begin, the stories they’ll now never tell each other, the multitude of joys and sorrows he had left ahead of him, the child he’ll never meet but sacrificed everything for. The fact he could still be there and alive, making fun of her for being so head over heels for an old enemy, embracing her so she knows he’s just kidding, playing cards and getting drunk and loving Bix and being his handsome, hilarious, irrepressible, beautiful self.

If only somewhere in the galaxy there weren’t people so full of anger and hate and greed and fear that they took it on themselves to cause endless pain and grief to others in the futile pursuit of their own greed and misplaced understanding of happiness.

She cries until the tears won’t come any more, then — relieved to be so exhausted — she curls up in Cassian’s bed and sleeps until the morning light wakes her.

-

Wil asks Vel — more like gently informs Vel that ‘Dreena has decided’ — to eat dinner at their house until further notice. “Not just because we know now you tasted Kleya’s cooking, you can’t go back” Wil jokingly reassures her. “But so Dreena can also keep you updated about all the daily trial stuff.” 

Vel is grateful to have it, even if she also understands the unspoken comment that they’re as worried about her eating and having someone to vent to as they are about keeping her from starting a fight in the mess hall. 

Which is how on the first day of the trial Vel shows up with two bottles of Rev in hand. 

“I pronounce your debt paid!” Wil gives her a hug and puts the Rev on a shelf in the kitchen. “With what Dreena owes me, I could open my own cantina.” 

Vel gives Dreena a questioning look. “What bet did you lose to him?”

Dreena bites back a grin; now isn’t the time, but hopefully Vel will be in a place to enjoy the joke some time soon. “Long story, but promise I’ll tell you.” 

As Wil pours and serves, Dreena starts with a rundown of the trial’s opening ceremonies so thorough Vel suspects she must have taken notes: who marches from what door, how they allocate seating to certain people and the rest come and go in the back, what the judge was wearing. “You really didn’t miss anything.” Dreena reassures her. “The first day is apparently usually dedicated to admin and summaries and technical jargon.” 

Wil spoons a large helping of roast root vegetables onto her plate, trying to tempt her with the warm smell of bantha butter and herbs. 

Dreena continues. “After they ran through the rules, they brought Kleya out. She looked . . . if I’m being honest, she looked great. I don’t know how she managed, but her hair was in place, she stayed calm the whole time.”

thank kriff I didn’t have to ask, Vel thought wouldn’t that sound pathetic to demand how Kleya looks, when Dreena’s concerned about, you know, the important things.  

“I think she’s hanging in ok. White and orange aren’t even that bad of colours on her, and she looks like she’s gotten more sleep than—“ Dreena caught herself on the nick of saying ‘you’ — “any of the rest of us.” 

Vel smiles involuntarily at the mental image of Kleya, perfectly put together and haughty, acting as though she were the one presiding over the court instead of the judge. 

Her amusement is short-lived; as Dreena continues to talk through the day’s events, Vel bumps on something. “That’s a lot of Rebellion leaders who made an appearance or were name-dropped.”

Dreena toys with a cube of daro root. “Yeah. Lotta posturing shirtfronts who seem to think being here is important.” 

Vel’s face betrays her worry. “I know Kleya’s not universally beloved. But this feels like they’re planning to take their dislike of Luthen out on her. Make him a scapegoat for everything on or coming out of Coruscant, and then her the proxy for him.”

Dreena, very cautiously, ventures a thought. “It makes you wonder, if that gives us a play. If they do go that route to make it about Luthen’s unsavoury aspects. If they try to pin all the rebellion’s sins on him . . . ” 

Vel’s never seen Dreena hesitate or equivocate like this. “Then what.”

Dreena looks to Wil, as though to say you know her better, you take this, and Wil rushes through the thoughts. “Even if zero of these words are accurate, and we know that, if this really is about not just Kleya but Luthen, it does makes you wonder if ‘murdered her adopted dad’ could be spun in her defence. Whether for the rebellion, or herself, that she closed that loop for them.”

Vel shakes her head, vehemently. “She’s not gonna go for that. Damn her pragmatism, and we know she can lie through her teeth as good as anyone in the galaxy when required to, but her idea of honour won’t allow it. Or justice. Or what she owes him, even when she . . . No.”

Dreena and Wil both nod; okay, they had to offer, they’ll let it drop. 

As dinner goes, Vel presses Dreena for a few more details, and Wil keeps trying to get her to eat between questions. 

What was everyone else’s mood in the courtroom? Honestly mostly bored. 

Did they indicate what sort of penalties would be, or who they were calling to testify, or specific charges? No it was still in legalese, the rest would be put in more detail tomorrow. 

But could you tell what they were after? It feels a bit scattershot.

Is that good or bad? Dreena, don’t sugarcoat it. They’ve run the gamut, really. Everything from serving information which led to a reveal of plans and a weapon without revealing the real risks, to the deaths of rebel operatives whose names I’ve never heard.  

Vel is exhausted by the end of dinner. Without saying anything, Wil disappears into their refresher and emerges with two blue sleepsticks. “One for tonight, one for tomorrow” he says, pressing them into her hand.

She nods a silent promise.

-

A stark grey discolouration ran along the ceiling where the electrical wires had been pulled out, then restrung in haste, before a quick patch job. It would have been when they converted this building from whatever it used to be — some industrial building? — to the prison it is now. Kleya traces the lines, considers what it’d take to dig the wires out, whether they’d be likely to be copper or synthetic-insulated, if they could be converted to carry more complex signals or simple dadita.

Of course, that was the easy part. How to alert anyone there were even a signal, and not let it be intercepted by the wrong people, that was always the trick. 

Maybe if they’d been lazy and bundled all the cables together —

The door at the end of the corridor creaked, and Kleya stiffened. It was too late for anything routine, too early for their usual 2AM rounds. Hers was the only occupied cell in the corridor right now, as this section of the converted building was designated for the ‘political’ prisoners, isolating them from everyone else. Whether for her safety or to keep her from communicating or influencing was probably equal consideration. 

fake sleep and perhaps maintain an element of surprise, or get up to confront it head-on?

Before she’d decided which would be the better course, a key came into the lock, and the door slid open a few inches.

Kleya tensed and prepared throw herself the only direction open to her: forward, straight at the danger, halted by

a low whisper: “Kleya, it’s me.” 

Vel slipped in and closed the door behind her, as Kleya stared, uncharacteristically struck silent. 

“Please, calm down, I’m overwhelmed with how happy you are to see me.” Vel tries to keep her sarcasm light and witty, though she actually feels a flash upset at the response. don’t be ridiculous. As she walks the whole three steps to the edge of Kleya’s bunk, Vel reminds herself that of the two of them, she has by far the easier position, and the less prickly coping mechanism. 

With a gesture which says ‘please, sit down’ and a tone which says anything but, Kleya asked “How did you get in?”

Vel sits, but doesn’t make herself too comfortable. “If training every single noob recruit on this planet didn’t give me a few ins, I wouldn’t be worth my spice. The guy in charge of night shift in this new build?” 

“With the bum knee?” 

Vel nods. “That’s why they picked him for this duty.  Arrol. Couldn’t physically keep up in basic, his knee kept going out. But he was a good recruit, and smart, and loyal. He would have let me in for the asking, but turns out he’s pretty sympathetic to the whole thing. There’s still some good ones around.” 

Tentatively, Vel reaches for Kleya’s hand, and Kleya lets her. “I thought you’d be happier. Or at least amused I managed to break some rules in your favour.” 

“Why would I be happy you’ve put yourself in danger?” 

Vel sighs. “I’m not in any real danger.”

“I’m not either. Nobody around me. Perfectly safe.”

“Don’t play it off like four white walls and dead silence is any good for you right now.” Kleya frowns, dodges Vel’s look. “Kleya. We both know solitary confinement is its own kind of torture. Another person to talk to helps. And that is the only thing I can give you right now. Please let me. ” Kleya continues to avoid Vel’s eyes. “Or if you won’t do that, then know I’m not doing this purely from altruistic motivations. Not everything is about you. I’m going crazy out there.” 

Finally, Kleya looks at Vel, who continues, less urgent but just as passionately. “You said it yourself: I hate nothing more than feeling helpless, being unable to do anything. So unless you can give me something to do that isn’t ‘stealing a crate of thermite and blowing the whole jail to smithereens’ . . . can’t you let me have this? Let me do something?”

“We will both be worse off if you— if anything happens to you.”

“Nothing will happen to me. I swear I won’t get caught. But I needed to see you.“

Kleya shakes her head; short, sharp. “If you thought I’d be out in a few days, or weeks, you could wait until it all clears over. Sneaking in to see me, that means I’m in real trouble. If I’m in real trouble, you’re putting yourself in danger by associating with me.”

Vel reaches out and gently, but firmly, tips Kleya’s chin towards her. “I will never not associate with you because of what people think.”

“It’s not about ‘opinion.’ At best, you’re risking your post. At worst, you’ll find yourself thrown into another cell.” 

She’s too damn good at this, Vel thinks ruefully. “That risk is mine to assess and take, Kleya.” 

“So you admit I’m in real trouble.”

Vel lets out a larger sigh of frustration. She had not meant any of it to go this way, she wanted to make Kleya feel better, not worse. But Kleya wasn’t merely a realist, she was pragmatic and insightful to boot. Obfuscating what they both knew to be true would only make her more upset. So the whole truth it was: “Fine. Yes. I think you’re right about exactly how bad a spot you’re in.”

Kleya pauses to process what it means for Vel to admit how grim things were going; not just to herself, but out loud to Kleya. That, of all things, softens her, and she gently tugs Vel’s hand in acknowledgement. 

Vel, relieved, takes it as a signal to move closer; as she does she feels the large bump of the book under her tunic. She reaches under and produces the book. “Brought you something.”

Kleya’s eyes go wide. “Oh! That’s. You shouldn’t have —“ Kleya sees disappointment flicker over Vel’s face. you idiot. stop ruining things. accept something good for once. “Thank you. That is lovely.” Kleya takes the the book and sets it next to her.

Vel tucks her arm around Kleya’s waist, lays her head on Kleya’s shoulder and her legs across Kleya’s. “You’re not in a great spot, but, hey, you’ve been in much worse, and managed that just fine.”

Kleya laces her fingers through Vel’s, and — almost against her will or better judgement — feels the warmth of Vel’s body against hers absorbing some of her anxiety, a modicum of tension draining from her neck and shoulders. “You feel like you need to do this. I’ll accept that. But if you can worry for me, how can I not return the favour? And what about your place in the Rebellion?”

Vel had clearly considered the possible angles and objections. “Two different questions. One. You can worry, of course. I wish you wouldn’t but, sorry to inform you, worrying about someone else is a human trait.” Vel nudges Kleya’s shoulder so she knows the teasing means well. “It’s normal. It’s good, even. I want you to tell me what you think and feel. You just can’t tell me what to do or not do.” A beat, and despite the serious nature of the whole exchange Vel grins cheekily and squeezes her hand “Not about this, at least.” 

Kleya hmmms acknowledgement of the joke but also grudging assent. It’s as good as Vel can hope to get, under the circumstances.

Vel continues. “And two. If this particular section of the Rebellion is hellsbent on treating you like this, I will have no part in furthering it.”

Kleya manages a smile. “Idealistic and principled as ever.” 

“Not sure I’d call me sneaking into a prison to see the most beautiful woman on Yavin ‘the highest of principles’, but you’re welcome to.”

“Mmmmm, you flatter me.” Kleya’s been steadfastly serious the whole time until now, but puts forth an effort to follow Vel’s lead in lightening the mood. “It is true, however, I’ve always held smuggling, sneaking, subverting authority as a high and principled calling.”

“Right. If our positions were reversed, you’d damn the rules, climb the walls, and blaze past a hundred armed guards to see me.” 

This declaration drives Kleya’s eyebrows straight up. “I absolutely would not.” 

But Vel is sure of her assessment. “You wouldn’t do it for your own sake, that’s true. You’re more principled than anyone I know when it comes to things like this, including denying yourself . . . well, anything you think isn’t strictly necessary.” Vel pulls Kleya just a little tighter to herself. “But if you realised I wanted — needed — to see you, the way I need to see you now? You would come, for my sake.” 

“You needed me?”

Vel’s reply is instant. “I did, and I do.” She pauses, and there’s no quaver in her voice when she continues. “If you knew that, you would take whatever risk was set in front of you.”

Kleya realises she can’t refute Vel in the least. “You’re . . . not wrong.” 

“You and your double negatives.” Kleya smiles a little at Vel’s triumphant tone; Vel is almost smug. 

In fact, Vel would probably be all-the-way smug, if she weren’t so full of endearment towards this clever, infuriating, loyal, ridiculous woman she’s tangled up within. 

“No, I’m not wrong.” Vel reasserts. “You would do quite a lot more for me than you would yourself. You would move sky and sea.”

Kleya nods slowly, considering. “I guess you do unreasonable things when you love someone.”

“And y—“ it takes Vel’s brain a second to catch up. “—ou what.”

“What is love if not taking difficult actions which disadvantage you, solely for the benefit of others.” Kleya pronounces this as matter-of-factly as she might explain how to rewire a transmitter.

“Putting it that way sounds as though you’re talking about the Rebellion.”

“It doesn’t not apply. We’ve both given ourselves to the Rebellion. But you can love and be fully committed to more than one thing.”

Vel doesn’t quite know what to do with this; her words, her brain, her whole self feels as though it’s on radio delay.

“Vel. It’s not that complicated. You knew what you said was true?”

Everything snaps into focus, Kleya’s question tuning the dial to the exact frequency Vel needs to answer: “Absolutely.”

“Well then, you said it.”

A wave of happiness surges over Vel, but ghosts and whispers of her past self-doubt, need for clarity, and history of talking at cross-purposes, rushes along with it. She has to not just be sure, but be reassured. 

“I said what.” Vel asks.

“You said that I love you. I simply put the specific words to it.”

“I said, that you—“

Kleya bridges the short distance between them, halting Vel’s lips before they can finish the thought. She kisses her thoroughly, then leans back just far enough to look directly at Vel, brown eyes blazing. “I love you, you idiot.  And you love me.”

Vel pulls Kleya back into the kiss for several more moments, revelling in her warmth, feeling the softness shown only to her, all for her, beneath the utterly unyielding exterior the rest of the galaxy sees.

“You’re not wrong.”

Chapter Text

Vel knows damn well when the full weight of of a government machine makes an individual its target, fighting it head-on is folly. 

Not that the knowing stops her impulse to throw herself head-first at the problem. But she has enough strategy and craft to balance her stubbornness and idealism . . . at least, when she takes a breath to consider. 

She can hold herself in check in public. Usually. She never could have made a good smuggler, let alone spy and tactician, otherwise. 

She knows best practice is working to mitigate the worst, while banding others to your cause, until eventually, with patience, together you can forge a faction big enough to defeat it.

patience. never exactly my strongest suit. 

Towards that end of ‘mitigation’ then — call it gathering intelligence, or knowing your enemy, or taking the edge off curiosity threatening to eat her alive from the inside — when Vel manages to get an hour free after her lunchtime briefing, she beelines for the converted market warehouse where they’re holding the trial.

Walking quickly, staring straight ahead to avoid making eye contact with anyone in the vicinity, Vel ignores Mon’s voice in her head; maybe Mon’s phantom admonishment even spurs her on. Obeying authority has never been her strongest suit, either. Especially when that authority is arbitrary.

She has to see and feel this for herself. Caution be damned. Ish.

The moment she crosses the threshold, Vel has the strangest, not unwelcome, feeling in her gut. She half-considers what it is as she slips in and find an unobtrusive spot in the back corner, before scanning the room for the defence stand til she sees Kleya: ramrod-straight, hair carefully and tightly arranged, in prison whites with glaring orange stripes running down them.

It’s the first time Vel has actually seen Kleya in the prison uniform. Since there’s only the enough to provide one uniform per three-point-eight prisoners, they’ve reserved the few they have for trials, thus Kleya’s always been in her own clothes — green tunic, my green tunic — when Vel visits. 

However it may have looked when the the trial started, the jumpsuit is wrinkled from use and storage and no washing, hanging oversized off Kleya’s postured shoulders, swallowing her to making her look small, guilty. probably why they do it. bastards.

Kleya doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, doesn’t even shift in her chair which is facing opposite from where Vel came in. Yet, the strangest sensation courses through Vel, feeling like her own internal monologue but different, a mingled sensation which is not hers but aimed at her: frustration. joy. shame. happiness. resolve. don’t react. didn’t want you to see me like this. why did you come. okay, well. fine. if you must. you idiot. don’t react. one more breath. don’t let them see you react. not much longer. thank you. I wish you didn’t. but. thank you. 

Vel lets the whole cloud of sensation float to the background, and moves her concentration to the defence attorney, currently rattling off a lot of words about the ‘lack of verification regarding data from Coruscant surrounding a dead ISB informant who was found in a local square.’ 

concentrate.

Defense: . . . couldn’t verify whether the holorecords had been tampered with, officially or otherwise, or even on which end of the transmission. The autopsy scan was conclusive for point blank range from an angle which could not have been self-inflicted, even if he had managed to disable the anti-suicide mechanism on his blaster and set it to reengage after his death, which was something only a high level engineer could hope to accomplish.

Prosecution: Question. Would the skillset of someone who wired and hacked communication devices to a level indiscoverable by trained Empire operatives be able to manipulate a blaster in this way?

Defense: There is not only no way of answering without multiple expert testimony which would all contradict each other, but even if there were, the relevance is zero.

Prosecution: Because rather than wire the blaster to enable said suicide, it would be easier to pull the trigger oneself?

Defense:  The initial question is utterly irrelevant, and the only intent of the follow-up is to bias both jury and listeners against the defendant.

Prosecution: For the record, could you state whether one or both of these actions were possibly carried out by the defendant? 

Defense: One or both of these actions could have been carried out by half of Coruscant— 

Prosecution: I thought your assertion was only someone skilled in technology and wiring of electronic components would be able to program a blaster to override its safety mechanism and then revert to its original state once suicidal protocol was completed.

Defense: Actually my point — Your honour, if I may return to the assertion before I was interrupted?

Prosecution: Prosecution reserves the right to revisit the question of wiring and programming at a later time.

Judge: So reserved. Proceed, counsellor. 

Defense: The real question is whether those records we have — of the investigation and the autopsy and the scene as a whole, is trustworthy or had they been faked—

Prosecution: Objection, what possible reason would there be to fake records unless they wanted—

Defense: If I would be allowed to complete my thought. 

Judge: Proceed; prosecution will be able to cross-question at the end.

Defense: Though it is possible the records were faked in order to cast doubt or aspersions on the defendant, it is far more likely the ulterior motives were completely unrelated. In fact, there exist a myriad of other reasons the records could be faked, including covering up a weakness in the system which the agent had exploited from superiors, covering up a weakness in the system which the agent had exploited so others did not find and use it, covering for an Imperial agent’s murder of a mole in order to hide from the general public that there was a mole or in fact any unofficial activities going on, releasing false narrative in order to continue their investigation without tainting the waters as is often investigative procedure, including on most of the planets our honoured jury is from. It could have also been a personal matter altogether unrelated, and any ranking Empire official easily could tamper with the records to hide their involvement. 

Prosecution: Is the defence truly asking us to believe the blatant murder of an informant known to the defendant, the body of whom was left in an open area so as to be found by passerby, or indeed potentially to be found by the Empire, should the defendant so have wished—

Defense: Objection! Assuming it was the defendant’s action.

Judge: Continue, and we shall then ascertain relevance.

Prosecution: —should the defendant so have wished to either prove her usefulness to the Empire, or to send a message to others who perhaps did not follow her exact instructions regarding procedure.

Defense: First you speculate she enabled him to cause his own death and covered the tracks. Then you say maybe it was to endear herself to the Empire, or was she working for them, or was she working for us—

Judge: Please clarify your pronoun references, counsellor. 

Defense: yes, your honour. One moment you assert the defendant could have been working for the Empire, the next you speculate she was working for the Alliance while assassinating Alliance members as some sort of effigiy in a public square? 

Prosecution: I believe the impossibility of determining the exact nature of the defendant’s allegiance is more than enough reason to detain her.

Defense: You’re grasping at straws, each one more far-fetched than the next. 

Prosecution: None of my theories are more far fetched than your fabricated potential reasons that the records we obtained may not be completely accurate.

Defense: My speculation in regards to the records is based on past events where we know for a fact records have been altered, tampered with, or wholly falsified from the beginning by the Empire.

Prosecution: My speculation on the involvement of the defendant also draws on past events. Or are you saying no rebel- or Alliance- affiliated agent on Coruscant was ever involved with the death of another agent, whether officially or unofficially or perhaps for their own monetary or personal gain?

The defence attorney’s response is lost in the murmur rippling outwards from Vel’s location. Like she’s a rock — or gauging from the disturbance, a boulder — tossed in a still pond, the murmur and shift in what she can best explain as ‘overall vibe’ clearly signals her presence has been noted. 

She should get back and grab a bite to eat before she has duty, anyways.

Before she leaves, she tries to tap back into that feeling from before, and finds it still flowing in the background. frustration. shame. resolve. Without quite considering exactly what she’s doing or how, she aims her own feelings towards where Kleya hasn’t moved in the defence box, stay strong, and slips back the way she came.

Outside, she gulps several deep breaths of rain-fresh air, marching away from the makeshift court half-wishing she hadn’t come at all.

Everything Dreena has said holds true, as she knew it would 

Only now she’s seen it for herself, somehow she feels worse about it. 

-

It takes an hour of Vel waiting outside Mon’s door before she returns from mess. Not patiently waiting, but waiting nonetheless.

Vel manages to let the door close before she launches into the diatribe which has been circling and circling and bouncing around her skull — unbidden but constant rehearsal — since she left the courtroom.

“Stopped by to see the security theatre being put on for everyone and their brother today. Are you really going to argue this is the ‘due process’ you promised, let alone fair?”

Mon has on her ‘diplomatic’ face, but with twin traces of anger and sadness underneath her poise. “Even if I did have total control over every part of the judicial process, from establishing laws myself to arguing them — which obviously I do not — you seeing one exchange does not suffice to condemn the trial, let alone cast aspersions on me.”

Vel shakes her head: not nearly good enough. “If you think I’m condemning you by holding you to your word, or the simple bare minimum standard, then sounds like you know you’re doing the wrong thing.”

“There is no foundation for you assessing this trial as unfair. As a matter of fact, I’d think you'd be happy to see her facing a public assessment.”

you can’t even say her name. “What reason would I have to be happy for this sham? Unlike others on this base, I’ve no need for a farce to distract from my own shameful actions, give me an easy target to misdirect my anger, or perhaps boost my political profile.”

Briefly, an expression crosses Mon’s face; her opponents in the Senate would call it political calculation, but Vel recognises it since long before Mon had such aspirations. From their childhood spats, every time Mon decided to stop holding back. jump down her throat, she’ll go for the jugular. As she does now.

“Her tactics and decisions did lead to deaths of people. People who still deserve justice. For Lonnie. And Cassian. And Cinta.”

Vel’s veins race hot, but her eyes turn ice cold. “Do not leverage Cinta’s memory for your agenda. Whatever happened between her and me is our business. But she went clear-eyed and with determined goal into every choice and risk she made in regards to the Rebellion. How dare you pin her loss not where it belongs, but on someone who happens to be logistically and politically convenient.” 

“If the defendant truly did what was best, if she has no crimes on her ledger, then let the process show it.”

“The trial is blatantly not about that. But even if the end the court declares ‘not guilty,’ the process has done catastrophic damage. Its accusations may be unfounded, but simply by being made, they will tarnish anything Kleya touches going forward.”

“Then that is how it has to be.”

“You mean that’s how you decided it will be.”

“Part of running a rebellion is forming a system of assessment. To adjudicate how people act, even in the aftermath. To find procedures which ensure your operation avoids becoming the thing you are trying to destroy.”

“Is that really what putting on this trial is about? Being different than the Empire?”

Mon purses her lips. “What else would you claim it is?”

Vel clenches her firsts against the frustration. She knows sparring in circles with Mon will not have an impact on the court proceedings. She knows the stakes in this room are personal. But she’s driven to pursue despite that knowledge. “You know Kleya is the only reason that we had this information. Cassian believed in her and her information enough to go after it.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“I’m aware of that every minute of every day.”

“You don’t act like it.”

They stand looking at each other for a moment, breath coming slightly too fast, sweating despite only talking. 

Vel controls herself and continues. “It’s impossible to know without much more distance whether it had to happen this way. Whether it was avoidable, or the best of a lot of bad options. But neither . . . Cassian didn’t die because of what Kleya said or did. He died for the rebellion. He died to give us a chance. He would not have wanted his compatriot on trial for the things they both had to do for that chance.”

“Their actions are not the same. How can you think there’s any good in her, after all she’s done?”

“How dare you judge her actions from your ivory tower.”

“I seem to remember a rebel leader telling me of a handler on Coruscant who was ruthless and dangerous and going to hurt people, if not endanger the operation.”

What makes it worse is Vel does remember that. “I can’t have been wrong? She can’t change?”

“Having changed now is not sufficient to overlook what she did in the past.”

“She did the best anyone could under impossible circumstances.” 

“‘The best I could do’ still carries consequences.”

“You certainly are happy to make everyone else around you take the bad consequences while you get the praise and promotions.”

“Are you defending everything she did?”

“She survived in a hornet’s nest. Meanwhile you take a high-powered position. Then in support of that position, you arrest innocent people to gain political advantage.”

“For an innocent person, Kleya has a lot to answer for.”

finally, her name. why now. “Answer to whom? The rebels and everyday people whose lives she saved?”

“Does saving people excuse doing so with bloody hands?”

“All those things she did, which you claim to abhor, are the only reason you get to stand here with clean hands. She and Luthen did the dirty deeds you don’t want to look at.” If Mon wants to pull sharp knives, so will Vel. “Like Tay Kolma.”

Vel’s words suck all the air out of the room. 

When Mon finally replies, her voice is quiet, but carries certain danger. “Don’t let your infatuation blind you into excusing what she’s done.”

“You were happy with what she’s done. Until some people who know nothing of her circumstances, let alone her sacrifices, put up a fuss.”

“There’s a system of justice which must be carried out.”

“Funny you never suggested she face ‘justice’ until you could no longer directly benefit from her actions.”  

“I am responsible for justice now.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Just because you’ve never had responsibility to the public—“

“You say ‘responsibility’ and ‘justice’ when what you mean is washing your hands and conscience by punishing those who did the hard business for you, and for many sitting in that very courtroom.”

“That courtroom based on the rule of law.”

“A law not made to deal with people trying to stop an Empire committing genocide. A law which can be unjust, and cruel.”

“We cannot simply abdicate the judicial process. Doing so would make us the Empire.”

“Codifying something and calling it due process’ doesn’t actually change the morality of it. Eliminating Kleya for what you convince yourself is a ‘pure’ reason doesn’t make you any better than the Empire.”

Mon stands. “I understand you’re upset.” 

This is the surest way to make Vel even more upset; her fists still clenched, she clings to strategy and craft to avoid further antagonising the situation.

Mon presses the button to open her door. “But I will not accept this from my cousin, let alone a subordinate.” 

Vel bites the inside of her cheek, nods, and sees herself out. 

She has the sense to go home, both to cover her tracks and cool down, before she makes her nightly trek to the prison.

She takes the long way, walking the paths for an hour, two hours, three hours, drenched in sweat and the constant Yavin mist, before finally finding herself at the foot of her stairs, back where she started.

-

An hour later, Vel lies tangled around Kleya, both under the wool blanket on the cold, makeshift jail cell bed. Kleya’s fingers methodically playing with her hair is doing wonders. who knew she had it in her to be as soothing as she is infuriating.

Kleya speaks first. “I didn’t know you were coming to court today.” 

Vel wonders whether to mention the strange sensation in the room. “I didn’t know I’d be able to until last minute.”

“I felt when you came in.” 

Well then. “I could feel you . . . feeling? me.” 

Kleya quirks an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“No idea. I thought maybe I was . . . “ Vel trails off, unsure whether to burden Kleya with exactly what she’d thought,

but Kleya finishes for her. “Hallucinating from exhaustion?”

“Something like that.” Vel shifts, trying to make eye contact while staying comfortable. “I wanted to support you, see it for myself, hear what was happening, maybe . . . “

“You wanted to ‘do’ something.” No judgement in Kleya’s tone.

“Yeah.”

“How did that work out for you.”

“I did something, all right. I came away ten times more furious.”

Vel had intended to hide her and Mon’s rift, at least for tonight, but she’d never been half as good at lying as Kleya is at detecting withholding. Before long Vel lays out their entire conversation; leaving Cinta and the worst of Mon’s condemnations out of it, though she suspects Kleya fills in those blanks, anyways.

When Vel finishes her recounting Kleya is silent for a moment, toying with Vel’s hair while trying to figure out what is, if not helpful, at least comforting. Not having much practice with either of those tacks, she reverts to the simple and direct. “I know how important Mon’s been to you, Vel. You’ve had a lifetime relationship. Don’t do this for me.”

“It’s not for you, Kleya. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Yes, I’m doing this for you, technically, but that’s not the kind of romantic I am. Rather, it is and I am, but it applies across the board. I’d do the same for Wil, or Dreena, or—” The name ‘Cassian’ catches in her throat; she swallows “—or Bix, or if someone were doing this to Mon. You know I would.” 

Kleya does know it, and it gives her frustration and pride in equal measure. 

Vel continues “If I’m being an idealist in this, it’s because I believe in Mon’s capacity to be better, do what is actually right. I’m not going to pretend everything’s fine and she’s not dead wrong.”

“Is her being wrong worth blowing up your entire relationship?”

“The way she’s being wrong means she’s choosing to blow up our relationship.” Kleya doesn’t respond. “Let me ask you something. If Lu— if someone, were to insist that because I made a choice which resulted in an undesired result . . . force! I’m not putting this well. I’m not saying much of anything well tonight, to anyone. Start over. Let’s say, on a mission, we got the result the Alliance wanted, but something went wrong. People got mad. The Alliance put me on trial. Threatened me with the Empire. Put me in solitary confinement. Would you accept that?”

“Are you asking on an emotional or operational level?” 

Vel is taken aback, though on a moment’s reflection realises she shouldn’t be. “Let’s say both.”

“Emotionally, or rather, personally, no. I think we’ve established that. In fact, you made that clear. Operationally, if I had to, I would, for the greater good.”

“Are you really arguing that putting you on trial is somehow going to serve the battle against the Empire.”

“No. But I understand how Mon might genuinely think it will.” 

Vel just stares, unsure what to do with this absolute pragmatism. “At least you’ve never been inconsistent in your life” she finally mutters.

Kleya’s voice is low; Vel feels it in her chest, still pressed to Kleya’s. 

“Returning to the emotional question. If the casualty was avoidable, or the situation negatable? If in retrospect you think perhaps you made the wrong call? Would you not try to take responsibility? Own the decision and its repercussions.”

Vel’s been walked into a trap and she knows it, but she still attempts to wriggle free. “If the situation had to be taken on, whatever guilt I feel, or should or shouldn’t feel, is not the question.” 

“I’m asking a new question. Would you take responsibility.”

“You’re looking for a reason to blame yourself, and I won’t give it to you.”

“Can you think of any reason I shouldn’t?”

“It has to end somewhere, Kleya.”

“I don’t know if it does.”

“You have to let it.”

“Why.”

“Because the alternative is we’re stuck, forever.”

“So I should keep being indifferent.”

“Not what I’m saying at all.” Vel runs her hand over her face, frustrated at the way all her words are coming out today. “The very fact we’re still fighting, still feeling, is the opposite of indifferent.”

“How, then.” It doesn’t feel quite like a question, more that Kleya is working through a puzzle out loud, so Vel waits. “How do you feel sad but not guilty, and continue the cycle of learning while breaking the harmful part of the loop? How do we take our grief and anger and weave them into a rope to move forward, rather than hang us.” 

Vel readjusts her position, propping up slightly so she has a better view of Kleya’s face, and vice versa. “What, exactly, have you been thinking about.”

“That saying, ‘one person is a tragedy, a million is a statistic.’ I’ve always understood the last part. Statistics are easy. Knowable. Manageable. Calculable. But I never understood the first half — what could make one person is a tragedy? The number one is simply a smaller element of the larger picture, an integer of the statistic, one side of the equation, a part required to make up the whole.” She searches Vel’s eyes before going on, but there’s no shock or judgement, just measured consideration. “Recently, my understanding of the idiom has shifted. Now I’m beginning to grasp the first half . . . it hurts. But I also want to know, does it ever cross back over to become a statistic? Do the spot fires finally run together to become one larger thing you can avoid?”

Vel readjusts again. “I used to wonder that. Whether the grief ever piles up so high you can sort of ignore it, and blithely go on as you were. But after living with it for a few years, I have two answers. A numbered list, if you will.” Kleya smiles weakly at Vel’s attempt to soften the blows. “The first answer is, no. Even as some griefs combine and run together over the years, they always burn, and new ones are always a fresh, different pain. The second answer is also no. But truly, and I know you might not believe me, you don’t want them to become a meaningless number.” 

They’re both silent for a moment, thinking of their own statistics, before Vel continues.

“It’s not because grief is some noble thing. It’s not because grief is one way of preserving a memory and honouring those you love. I don’t believe grief somehow ‘proves’ love, and I don’t think that sort of pain is . . . nobody who really loves us could want us to feel a grief so unbearably awful. When you love, though, grief is inevitable. More than that, once you’ve experienced that particular kind of pain, if you’re able to cauterise yourself against it, actually harden yourself to see your losses as numbers and statistics to be mitigated . . . you start finding it acceptable or even preferable that everyone suffer. First people you think deserve it. Then people you don’t like. Then everyone.” Vel pauses, her turn to search and see if Kleya follows. Finding what she needs, she continues. “Ultimately, if you accept the existence of immense pain as merely a statistical outcome of doing business, you are fine to cause it. Once you’re fine to cause it, then. I think you’re lost. I don’t believe in the ‘dark side’ as Force believers use it. But becoming lost in the darkness is a very real thing. Unable to become better. Unable to find yourself.” 

The silence is longer this time. 

Kleya breaks it first. “Do you think, it’s necessary for some people to lose themselves in the darkness, or maybe give themselves to it? To fight fire with fire, as it were.”

“I don’t know. Truly. I would like to think not, but maybe that’s just my blind idealism talking. Some people have done it, and maybe their choices have allowed me to stay in the light.” 

“Do you condemn them for it?”

They both know the full weight of what Kleya is asking.

“Sometimes. But in the end, I only have to make my choice. It’s not my place to judge what they’ve done with their own impossible choices.” Vel tips Kleya’s chin towards her, so she can see in Vel’s eyes that she not only fully understands the question, but has considered it and is not hiding any of her conclusion. “What I do know is, if you’re asking the question, then you have not become that person. What’s more, I don’t think you want to become that person. You want to see the individuals and not the statistics.”

“If this amount of pain and grief is the price for seeing individual tragedy . . . Vel. I don’t know I can pay it.”

“Nobody can. Not when they’re doing it on their own. But here’s the thing. You’re not doing it alone. You have friends. Don’t scoff. You do. You have me, and Dreena, and Wil, and people who are yet to surprise you. You have all my friends, and everyone who loves me and will grow to love you. That’s the only way forward.”

“Do you really think I can move forward.”

“I know we have to. I believe we can.”

Chapter Text

Dreena scribbles away, trying to keep straight the arguments about ‘hijacking’ versus ‘backloading on’ radio signals, which of those the prosecution was saying Kleya had done with various Empire communiques at what time, and why it mattered. 

She understood enough about the specific terms to know what she didn’t understand, but also enough to recognise the lawyers were mostly going around in circles. what a waste of time. But she’s not here for the arguments, she’s here for Vel and Kleya. 

Dreena knows that on no technical level does she ‘owe’ Vel anything, let alone Kleya. She knows if anything, her dose of distrust of new faces in their Ghorman resistance group was healthy, even if perhaps she could have aimed it better. She knows Vel doesn’t blame her for Cinta . . . though maybe had blamed her, somewhat, for a while, in that irrational way grief and anger have of throwing blame in all the wrong directions as well as the right ones.

But on a personal and perhaps also moral plane, she did feel she owed Vel. Loyalty at the least, which she tries to give even before they became friendly, then friends, via Wil’s relationship with Cassian. 

When Kleya came along, Dreena naturally felt her debt extended to anyone Vel would vouch for. That’s why she made a point to side with Kleya in the mess hall, at least. But Dreena also enjoyed how Kleya brought out a side of Vel rarely seen outside their most boisterous rianza nights, and how Vel spoke highly of her competency, her drive, and her efforts since she arrived on Yavin. Even if she hadn’t gotten a good sense of Kleya before this whole mess began, she sensed Kleya was a loyal person who had sacrificed much of her self to defeat the same Empire Dreena loathed.

The trial had provoked Dreena’s intense sense of justice, and closely watching how Kleya responded — or rather, managed to coolly not respond — to some of the prosecution’s more egregious provocations, had impressed Dreena and endeared Kleya to her further. So besides giving Vel updates, Dreena was now doing this for her own reasons; to do what she could for Kleya’s sake, and also to document what was a rather unprecedented set of proceedings in a burgeoning political movement.

Alongside recording the broad strokes of the legal bickering, she was making copious notes about what she thought the various participants were actually after. Efflin had been in the courtroom since before proceedings even began that morning, speaking in hushed tones with the prosector. After a particularly heated exchange surrounding the nature of Kleya’s connection to Saw Gerrera, he’d approached an handed him another piece of paper, which was when the whole tactic had shifted towards this conversation about which signals were used for what messages into the leadup of Luthen’s death and speculation around why, and— 

mid-sentence about radio tower construction, every light in the courtroom turns off. 

-

The recruits are smack-dab in the middle of flight console testing when the lights go out, followed a few seconds later by the snap-hum of emergency holo-blue glow lights.

Vel jumps into her emergency procedures without missing a beat. The word over the radio is no foresignal or seeming unusual activity. She quickly ascertains the outage is base-wide, not caused by explosions, no perceived attack or sabotage. 

-

From a combination of boredom over technological blathering and anticipation of arguments ending as dinner time approached, the courtroom was fairly empty, but the handful of people left managed to produce plenty of chaos. 

The judge pounds her gavel: “ORDER. Observers out. Guards, secure the prisoner. Everyone to emergency posts.”

The windows allow some of the overcast light in, so as eyes adjust shapes become recognisable, people attempt to file out, except for the small number of people converging on the defendant’s stand.

-

Vel issues commands to the recruits which will put them where they can do the most good: in other words, to keep them out of the damn way until the corp organisers can put them to work sandbagging, or ditch digging, or holding lights while the engineers to fix whatever’s blown.

-

Dreena checks her surroundings and secures her notes, then hops the waist-high barricade into the courtroom area and — making sure her hands are visible and out from her sides, hoping the guards are experienced enough to distinguish that in the darkness —  to ensure Kleya was safe.

As she approaches, the aux lights in the ceiling begin to glow; obviously a lower priority than elsewhere on the base, they’re still sufficient to make out faces from about five paces.

The first thing Dreena sees is the stark prison white-and-orange, Kleya flanked by a guard on each side clutching one of her arms as though it’s their only job. Kleya looks intact, but Dreena sees a sharpness on her face she might read as . . . kriff. It hadn’t even occurred to Dreena til that moment Kleya would assume and with good enough reason this could have something to do with her. 

The base had had plenty of power issues, and was always prepared for an attack or outage, but with the sentiment on base, combined with the lack of real security in the courtroom other than keeping the defendant contained, it was the perfect setup for something like revenge, or at least a little show of force and instillation of fear. 

Her brain rapidly cycling calculations, Dreena resolved to stay near even before the second thing she noticed: which was Efflin, looming behind Kleya.

-

Vel checks in at the command centre in person. 

To call it organised chaos would be generous. 

Mon is in the middle of it all, mostly implacable; another skill she has honed especially the last few years, and is only getting better. 

Vel waits until the cluster of commanders moves away from her, then approaches and lightly touches her elbow to draw her attention. “You okay? Need anything?”

“Are you asking as a soldier?”

“And your cousin.”

Mon gives her a look of gratitude, slipping easily back into their emotional shorthand. “Neither, at the moment. It seems to truly be an infrastructure matter, whether from a storm or a doodar tangled in the lines. Or who knows” there’s a wry mirth to her voice despite the circumstances “perhaps lightning struck at the same time as a whole pack of doodar.” 

Vel appreciates the subtext; Mon’s ‘truly’ assuring her the reports on the comms aren’t hiding something bigger, at least that she knows of. “That would seem to fit with our luck right now, wouldn’t it.” Vel salutes. “I’ll make myself useful.”

Mon nods her thanks as another soldier rushes up with a message, and Vel slips away through the bustle. 

-

Dreena considers for a moment whether to put herself between Efflin and Kleya, or pick up a chair. 

During the split second she’s deciding, the defence attorney — who is about three body lengths closer — steps in to address Efflin 

“Sir, do you need anything?”

Dreena hasn’t been exactly impressed with his performance as a lawyer, but she grudgingly admits the man knows how to throw his weight and booming voice around. Efflin may outrank him, but with chaos still rumbling and the lawyer not budging, there’s nothing to do but answer the question.

“No” Efflin says “I just wanted to ensure the prisoner was secured and not escaping in the confusion.”

If it weren’t both a ridiculous thing for Efflin to assert, and still possible the courtroom were under some sort of organised attack, it would be comical to note how the two guards tried to draw themselves up even taller.

“Yes, sir. I promise, everything is happening according to procedure” the lawyer replied, his words perfectly respectful while the tone in his voice suggesting except you still being here.

Niika approaches from behind the bannister; Dreena only had a moment to wonder what she’d been up to when Niika drew Efflin’s attention. “Sir, the path is clear. Emergency briefings are starting immediately.” 

Efflin paused for a moment, eyes still on Kleya, who didn’t flinch; hadn’t, actually, despite having clearly carefully manoeuvred her back close enough to the witness stand she only had 180 degrees to consider threats coming from, much of which was occupied by the two nervous guards. 

“Sir” Niika was still polite, but unmistakably insistent. “For your safety, and so the base wide briefing can commence.” 

“Coming, private.” Efflin sucked his teeth, gave Kleya one more appraising stare, and followed Niika out. 

Only then did the lawyer turn to address the guards. “Okay boys, straight to transport, orange procedures.”

The guards immediately hustled Kleya through the secure exit, where Dreena thought it wisest not to follow.

The whole exchange took maybe thirty seconds; still long enough to give Dreena the creeps, and make her resolve to get Niika assigned another private; less to help her manage Efflin, which she could clearly do, but more to make sure if Efflin tried anything, there would be extra hands on deck. She’d have a talk with Wil about who he thought may be trustworthy.

Til then, though. 

Dreena didn’t run, but she did walk very quickly, to the hanger to see where she could be of any use.

-

Darkness descended, duties discharged, Vel turns her full attention to what’s been roiling under the surface. 

For a split moment after the lights went out, she’d considered bolting for the warehouse-turned-courthouse, grabbing Kleya, and running . . . but immediately realised that made no sense. Not only does emergency power cover locks on everything from the warehouse — where Kleya would be either surrounded, or moved from by the time Vel reached it — but everyone was immediately on higher alert than usual, all flight traffic paused, pilots on standby with their craft in case they had to scramble. She and Kleya could do what, hide out in the forest until they’re waterlogged? It would only confirm Kleya’s guilt in the court’s eyes, Vel would be court-martialled, and that will be the end of things. ridiculous. why are you even considering the what if. patience, fucking patience. 

Now she’s had a chance to process, she knows it’s more than that, too; moving with total lack of a plan unnecessarily, stranding her recruits, leaving her friends in the lurch, none of that is within her. Momentary insanity is just that: insane. Waiting, figuring out next steps with Kleya, is the right thing.

But waiting doesn’t mean you can’t kill time.

Tucking her on-call radio into her shirtpocket, she heads for the prison, the long way around.

As she’s been doing nearly every time she has more than five minutes left alone with her own thoughts, Vel tries to tamp down any panic or sense of urgency. 

What happens if there’s an air raid, Vel is busy with her duties, and Kleya sits trapped in the prison. What happens if there’s a emergency evacuation of the planet. I won’t leave her, I swear to all the force, but how do I balance that with my soldiers . . . Dreena and Wil could take over but what if they’re detained, or if M—someone, finds her helping Kleya and stops her by force, stun cuffs her and puts her on a transport, letting Kleya think she was abandoned. 

What happens if the looming judgement comes sooner than expected, what might happen to her, to me, if they come back with a guilty verdict. 

It’s desperately fighting to avoid another loss — Cinta, Cassian, Bix, Nemik — fuck’s sake. It’s about staying out of the way of politicians or soldiers or the Empire — Efflin, Krenick presumed dead, Meero in custody — stop, stop, STOP, let it go. you’ve got to think of better things before she sees you. 

She takes a longer loop, driving her legs in a desperate bid to clear her brain. She tries to think what the future might be, and comes back to too many what ifs. She thinks about Cassian, how much he would have enjoyed talking to Kleya outside of their usual, adversarial context, exchanging ideas about art and tricks about tinkering with engines. She plays a rianza hand in her head. She thinks about how she’ll feel wrapped up in Kleya under her wool blanket. She lists every step of the Gatalentan welcome tea ceremony. Her brain starts to calm. She closes the loop and heads towards the prison.

-

Observing from the treeline, Vel sees Aroll open the side door, and the first thing she notes is it’s darker inside than out.

He steps outside, keeping the door propped, and lights a cigarra. all clear. She lets him have a few puffs, then sneaks to the wall, double checks around, and lightly sprints the few open meters to the door, where he follows her in, after carefully pinching off his cigarra for finishing later.

“Didn’t expect it to be so dim in here.” 

“Emergency flouros are scarce, and they didn’t really expect this place to be, well, in use very much.”

“At least not so soon” Vel remarks wryly. 

Arrol shrugs. “Wish it still weren’t. Least, not for her. Could think of one or other two who could do with being set apart from the rest.”

Vel puts her hand on his arm. “Are you sure this is okay tonight? I don’t want to get you in trouble.” 

“If anything, tonight’s better. Everyone’s distracted. They combed the place already before they brought her in from transport. Left satisfied nothing was up. I’ll send the usual signals, but don’t expect anything til morning.”

Vel squeezes his arm in gratitude and takes off down the corridor. 

-

Vel slips through the cell door, and even in the dimness moves easily and without hesitation to climb into the bed where Kleya is tucked against the wall, waiting for Vel to produce whatever book or snack or bit of gossip she’s brought, their new routine established even quicker than they had in the hut. 

amazing, and rather awful, how adaptable we all are to given circumstances. even when those circumstances mean arrest or bombs could fall on our heads any moment. 

Against her will (and rather annoyed at being unable to control it), Kleya shivers as Vel lifts the yellow wool blanket — she’s still in prison whites-and-stripes, her warmest clothes left in the prison’s containment room. 

Noting the thin uniform, Vel silently curses herself. “I should have brought spare clothes!” 

“I would have messaged you, but I was too busy preparing the hors d'oeuvres“ Kleya deadpanned. “Besides, I presumed you could warm me up other ways.”

“Oh did you?” Vel slips both her hands beneath the oversized top and finds Kleya’s waist. 

Kleya immediately yelps at the combination of cold air and colder hands directly on her skin.

“Shhhhhh” Vel, trying to laugh, shush, and silence Kleya by kissing her, all at once, does a thoroughly insufficient job at all three. 

“I absolutely will not.” Her tone is highly offended, but Vel feels Kleya’s smile against her mouth as she kisses her back. “There’s got to be one benefit of being smack dab in the middle of this nowhere warehouse on this nowhere base on this nowhere moon orbiting a nowhere planet. They know I’m here, I can be cold, and mouthy about it. You on the other hand” Kleya nips at Vel’s bottom lip and Vel suppresses a yelp, but barely “Nobody knows you’re here. So you had better keep your voice down. If you can.” 

If there’s one thing Vel will do, it’s rise to meet a challenge. “Why, Kleya Marki. What could you possibly do which would cause me to raise my voice?”

Kleya takes Vel’s lapel, uses it to tug Vel closer and hold her there as she kisses her harder, sliding her tongue between Vel’s teeth, deep into her mouth. Vel makes a sound of appreciation low in her throat Kleya feels as much as hears. 

Kleya explores her mouth, slowly, before loosening her grip and pulling back just far enough to proclaim “Same thing I’m going to do to warm myself up.”

“Kill two porgs with one stone, sure, why not.”

Kleya groans. “Clearly, I’m not working quickly enough.” She pulls Vel’s lapel downwards as she twists to the side, landing Vel on the bed next to her, then slips her left hand in under the layers of Vel’s tunic while beginning to unravel the tunic’s side ties with her right hand. 

Not for nothing has Kleya spent years restoring artefacts, manipulating sensitive equipment, and typing complex code; her fingers are strong, sure, and quick. They are also at this current moment slightly warmer than Vel’s, but Vel still gasps from the icy feel when Kleya’s hand cups her breast.

“You’re really not good at being quiet, are you?” Kleya asks.

“As though anyone could tell whether that noise came from me or yo—oh.” Kleya massages Vel’s nipple between thumb and finger. Vel’s eyes have fully adjusted now, and Kleya is close enough she can see her faux-innocent face and the wicked glint in her eye. 

“My mouth is going to be occupied, so any sounds will certainly be you.”

“Occupied by wha—oooooh” as Kleya moves her hand around to Vel’s back, holding her still(ish), and replaces her hand with her mouth, sucking insistently, then flicking Vel’s now-hard nipple with her tongue. how is my tunic already completely open? clearly she took that ‘not working fast enough’ thing liter—oh.

Kleya slips her hand down the small of Vel’s back, under her waistband, and grips her ass, pulling Vel closer to her, slotting Vel’s leg between both of hers, putting her exactly where she wants. Vel gladly presses into her a bit harder, and Kleya rewards her with a gentle bite.

For a few minutes they enjoy groping and exploring each other in the dimness, pushing and pulling, touching and tasting, forgetting or at least ignoring everything outside themselves.

Finally Kleya sits up and takes off the prison top in one easy motion there’s one benefit to it being three sizes too large. From beside her she feels Vel panting at the sudden loss of friction, Kleya’s hand, her mouth.

“I wish I could see more than your outline right now” Vel whispers, and Kleya smirks at the fact — despite her protestations — she is whispering. 

“Sight be damned. The sooner you get the rest of your clothes off, the sooner you’ll get to be up close again” Kleya responds.

Immediately Vel is wriggling out of her tunic sleeves and tossing it vaguely in the direction of the discarded prison top. They both discard their pants with the same speed, then as the cold air hits them again, Kleya resumes her earlier position but brings the sheet back over both of them.

Vel gives a sigh of satisfaction as Kleya pulls her body flush with hers again, locking them into the similar position but now nothing between their skin, rocking herself against Vel while Vel tangles her hand in Kleya’s hair and kisses her, open-mouthed and hungry.

They’ve fooled around in the cell before, even when under the circumstances the ever-present possibility of being interrupted, or worse, looms. But by unspoken agreement, aided by the reassurance nobody’s watching, they both know they need more tonight.

Vel’s been juggling a million different possibilities all day, having to give commands and manage logistics and answer a hundred questions she doesn’t know the answer, and ask herself another hundred in her head. It’s good, even in these admittedly weird, mere-months-ago-inconceivable circumstances, to be here. Here, with Kleya, as safe as they can be all things considered, she can allow herself to surrender to feeling, without thinking.

For her part, Kleya throws herself into fucking Vel in ways she approaches other aspects of her life: with singular purpose and lazer-beam attention. But nowhere else does she allow herself to enjoy things with this . . . total, wanton abandon. 

During their first several encounters she’d realised something not just about having sex with Vel, but being around her in general. Or rather, she’d noticed an absence of something: she wasn’t constantly calculating what move came next, or how she could get what she wanted out of every given exchange. She considered how Vel may respond, sure. She savoured their verbal sparring as well as their physical exchanges, and she enjoyed coming out on top as much as ever. But neither their conversations nor their sex was about control or political gain or personal leverage. Even though she liked taking over at times, especially now when she’d spent the entire day with no power whatsoever over her circumstances, it wasn’t controlling Vel for the sake of increasing her own position. It was an exchange, freely participated in, give and take. 

Nor was it about appearances. Kleya rather knows she must be a mess, literally and figuratively, but again for one of the few times in her life how she’s being ‘perceived’ doesn’t matter. 

What she cares about, and certainly all she wants in this moment, is getting closer to Vel, pinning her body to hers, tasting every inch of her skin, rubbing against her cunt, make her feel good, fuck her until she is completely and utterly spent. 

And blasted if it doesn’t absolutely get her off to do so. 

She runs her hand down the back of Vel’s thigh, hooks her behind the knee and pulls Vel’s leg up high over her own hip, spreading Vel further open. 

When she reaches around to stroke her fingers at Vel’s now exposed entrance, Vel moans into her mouth. Feeling how wet she is along with the vibrations of Vel’s pleasure in her mouth, gives Kleya the most intense feeling of satisfaction, and she croons her appreciation. that feels so good. all for me.

Vel nods, and presses down against Kleya’s hand, silently asking for exactly what she wants. Kleya drags her fingers in a slow circle, drawing out the moment as Vel’s body tenses in delicious anticipation, before she pushes her two middle fingers into Vel, savouring how Vel immediately shudders against her in response. 

She works her hand, keeping pressure while her fingers stroke Vel’s walls and her thumb circles Vel’s clit, a pattern she’s already come to learn well, is able to repeat endlessly. Her fingers set a perfect rhythm, driving out thoughts of anything else. Nothing but them in this room, on this planet, in the galaxy; nothing but these feelings, hot breath against her skin, strong fingers inside, tension building to the breaking point; nothing but the need to consume and be consumed by this fire of each other.

She can feel the tension growing, tightening through Vel’s body, a cord about to snap. “Say my name when you come.”

Vel does, gasping it over and over in her ear as she feels everything release, an exhale of pleasure achieved: Kleya. Kleya. Kleya. Fuck. I want you. Kleya. 

Each time her name spills from Vel’s mouth, each time Vel clenches around her hand, another wash of pride and pleasure rolls through Kleya’s body, nothing else existing outside this feeling, how her name sounds in Vel’s mouth, how how Vel’s face looks shining with sweat and pleasure in the dimness. 

When Vel finally stills, Kleya takes a moment to trace her fingers up her body, memorising her outline with her hands as well as eyes; her hips, her stomach, her breasts, the jut of her collarbones, the divot at the base of her throat. 

She’s in her own world enough, when Vel speaks it startles her. “I love having your hands on me.”

“Oh?”

“Mmmhmm.”

Kleya runs her thumb on one side of Vel’s neck, applies gentle pressure around her throat. “I’ll put them on you forever, then.”

Vel leans up into her hand, pushing into Kleya’s grip so she can kiss her. Kleya can feel Vel’s lips on hers, breath in her mouth, heartbeat thudding against her palm, blood rushing below her fingers.

When Vel finally pulls away, breathless, Kleya follows her down, seeking more. Vel gladly gives it, kissing her between breaths, pressing into Kleya’s hand in silent encouragement, as she drags her blunt nails up Kleya’s stomach, to her chest, etching into her skin as she slides her leg back between Kleya’s.

From feeling Vel come to her pulse racing, every sensation has stoked Kleya’s lust, now Vel pressing against her core sends the fire roaring. 

Still kissing her, alternating stroking her thumb along the side of Vel’s throat and tightening her grip along Vel’s jaw, she tilts her hips so she can ride herself along Vel’s thigh, driven by the sensations of give and take.

Vel runs her hand along Kleya’s thigh, over her straining muscles, up to her hips, holds them for leverage as she rocks her own hips in equal timing.

“harder, harder, yes, fuck, yes” Kleya urges, and Vel meets her challenge again. 

Both so concentrated in what they’re doing, and consumed by each other, it leaves no room for the rest of the galaxy — it could be falling apart for all they know. 

The white-hotness has been building in her all day, so when Kleya feels the edge approaching she surrenders, coming with a sharp cry, her legs clenching around Vel, who holds her tightly. After several moments, as the sensation starts to ebb, Vel withdraws just slightly; before Kleya can protest through her haze, Vel slides her hand between them, softly stroking her fingers through the dark curls at Kleya’s centre, silently coaxing several smaller waves of pleasure through her body. that’s it. that’s it. I’ve got you. 

Kleya loses all track of time, of anything other than Vel and the sensations she’s creating.

Gradually the waves begin to ebb, until she feels her body go limp. 

Vel shifts to allow Kleya to lie along and slightly atop her, tucks her arm underneath Kleya’s head, and tugs the blanket up around their shoulders. They both catch their breath, slowly returning to reality. 

From a distance Kleya realises this is something she never had allowed herself, at least not without anger and chastisement: letting herself go entirely, physically and emotionally, in someone else’s presence. Instead of shame or anger, all she feels now is satisfied. how could Force believers think this kind of emotion leads to the dark side? I’ve seen what is in true darkness. none of it is this. none of it is safe, as I am now. 

Another few minutes. Vel draws her closer, kisses her, draws her tongue around the shell of her ear, runs her hand along her back, scratches at the nape of her neck, presses her thigh between Kleya’s legs; not urgently, just prolonging the sensations. 

Finally, “I have to go soon.”

Kleya nods. “I know.” Kleya presses her body against Vel’s and feels the rush go through her, through Vel — she can’t distinguish whose pleasure is whose, both mingled together. “But, do you think, you can be quiet for twenty minutes more?”

Chapter Text

Time is blurring.

Cognitively, Vel knows how many days since Cassian’s death, Kleya’s arrest, the trial’s beginning. but she can’t distinguish them.

Sleep comes without medsticks now. Her nervous system has moved from overanxious adrenalised insomnia to depressive constant exhaustion. 

When she doesn’t have to be alert for training or duty, she takes every opportunity to fall into unconsciousness, snatching an hour here and there, the better to have time at night to sneak in and see Kleya. She’s ruefully aware the disrupted sleep cycle is not helping her state of mind, but there’s nothing for it. forge on.

It doesn’t escape Vel’s notice that since her courtroom visit, her daytime schedule has become even more packed. Every moment court is in session she’s scheduled for training recruits, a briefing, additional watch, or other assignments. Duties leaves her no time to even consider making another appearance. 

Deep down Vel knows Mon is trying to ‘protect’ her. Mon had always taken it upon herself to ‘save her from her own worst impulses’ by kicking Vel under the table, or diverting the conversation to keep Vel from running her mouth at social events, whether about the Rebellion or repressive sexual mores or their planet’s classist social structures. But she seethes at the well-meant interference, as much from Mon taking her agency as wanting to provide a modicum of moral support, make a statement with her presence, anything.

But at least Vel can be active, literally. She can vent to Wil and Dreena, wander aimlessly for hours in the dark rainy paths, expend energy in ways useful or aimless but exertive. 

Despite the morass her brain finds itself in, Vel knows things are harder on Kleya. The only daily relief from four blank, damp walls is the hostile courtroom, where she can’t avoid the growing disdain of what must feel like everyone on the planet. Frying pan to fire and back again.

Solitary confinement is torture: claustrophobia, isolation, horrible monotony of nothingness, the occasional startle of warning sirens an incessant unavoidable shrill announcing maybe today we get bombed, or obliterated by the Death Star, and you’ve nowhere to run, the constant helplessness knowing every single aspect of the situation is decided and enacted by everyone else.

Unable to show up for Kleya in court, Vel determines to see her every night. To keep Kleya’s mind occupied, as well as give herself much-needed action, she turns herself into a library and snack delivery system. 

She brings treats from Wil, who is constantly experimenting with new ingredients or trying to make something sweet even with the tight ration on sugar. 

She always smuggles in a new book just in case Kleya needs a fresh one — which is almost every time — and takes home the finished one, carefully wrapped in oilcloth to prevent getting waterlogged going to and fro. In the safety of their hut Vel flips through the worn-soft, familiar pages and smiles at the careful, precise thoughts Kleya has written in the margins. her handwriting would be essentially perfect, uniform and repeatable. 

The flashes of pleasure in those brief moments sharpen the pain that Kleya isn’t free to share in regular life with her; chores and breakfasts and trying to keep the herb garden growing and falling asleep at the end of a long day.

It hurts to see Kleya flagging, her strong facade clearly worn down by her grief and pain and being imprisoned by the same Rebellion she gave her whole life to. It also scares Vel to see her this way; while those who didn’t know Kleya might call her cold and detached, especially her imperturbable expression in the courtroom, Vel begins to recognise flashes of an emotion she’d never sensed from her in all the years she’d known her, even in those first, darkest days after she arrived on Yavin IV: resignation.

Vel has seen strong people fall and good people change, even in less drastic circumstances than these. Nobody is strong enough to survive a constant barrage of war and loss and hate without eventually breaking, even before it becomes as personal as it has for Kleya. For herself, if she’s being honest.

Everyone has the point where they get lost one way or another: whether succumbing to the darkness, or becoming it. 

-

One morning waiting in line for mess, an enlisted officer starts recounting to his compatriot the lurid details of how “that supposed Rebel operative” had murdered “the real hero informant” on Coruscant. 

“Why would she even do that?” his companion replied, whether truly curious or trying to deflect. The officer persisted, listing his supposed reasoning capped with “and then, she could try and take the credit, for doing nothing.”

He could clearly see Vel within earshot, either he doesn’t know who she is and is hoping to impress a random hot soldier in breakfast line, or he’s fully aware who she is and has some sort of death wish.

When Vel doesn’t respond to anything, he raises his voice just a bit and enunciates “at least Efflin will make sure the bitch gets what’s coming to her.”

Even with a bum leg, Wil can move like lightning when he needs to. 

Vel barely registers Wil coming before he has his arms around her, acting as though he’s meeting her for breakfast, greeting her with a bear hug. The hug barely fazes her, but when Wil whispers this will only hurt Kleya’s case in her ear, she stops dead in her tracks. 

Turns out, Vel’s better at holding herself back on others’ behalf than for her own good.

But the fury stays in her guts, hot and roiling. 

-

When Vel arrives to Wil and Dreena’s that night, Niika is at the table. She stands and begins saying her goodbyes, but Vel stops her. “No, please. You’re already a part of this. I know you've put yourself at risk, not just for Kleya, but for me. I owe you a debt.”

“You owe me nothing.” Niika moves her chair around for Vel to sit at the table, and pulls up another for herself. ”But if you insist, I will gladly stay and have more of Wil’s fresh bread.”

Over dinner Dreena updates Wil and Vel on the trial. “They’ve moved into establishing timelines, which is mostly ‘yes, Kleya was on the planet when XYZ happened.’ Still pretty mundane. The biggest thing to note today was Efflin. He was in attendance the whole time.”

“Does he have nothing better to do” Vel grumbled. “Such as I don’t know, help run a damn rebellion?”

Niika chimes in. “You would think so, but it feels as though he’s taken this upon himself. I haven’t heard anything which makes it sound personal, though. It’s almost . . .” She searches for words, still unsure how Vel will take things. 

Dreena finishes the thought. “Feels as though he thinks this would be a real ‘morale booster.’ Possibly even that he’s selling it back to other leaders as a sign of the Alliance’s commitment to moral purity. ‘We police our own.’” 

Vel pounds her fist softly against the table — much softer than she wishes to. “‘Moral purity,’ with nothing but hearsay to go on. While plenty of actual harms go completely ignored.” She fixes Dreena with her stare and voices the question Dreena had been waiting for, while wishing to the Force she wouldn’t: “This is a massive use of resources. They’re not going to do it for nothing. What do you think they’re really after.” 

“I’m not a lawyer or a politician, Vel.”

“But you’re there. You can read the manoeuvring, the things they aren’t saying. What do you feel, deep down, they’re driving at.” 

Dreena can’t avoid the piercing ice of Vel’s stare. “I think they feel if they can get her to confess, it will look good for them. Not just in terms of being ‘tough on transgressors,’ but that it will, you know. It shows ‘we’re organised. We have a system. We can win, and be trusted.’”

“In other words, they’re willing to do whatever it takes. Including spend money, coerce or extort her. In order to make her a public example.”

Miserable on her friend’s behalf, Dreena nods.

“By forcing her to incriminating herself. Using a big parade and threat of execution.” Dreena nods again. “Why bother with this whole show? Why not just going straight to the Dizonite device.” 

Wil gently puts his hand over her fist. “I’m not saying it’s not awful. But you know it’s not as bad as if she had been caught on Coruscant . . .”

Vel’s stomach churns. Despite desperately a thousand times tried not to consider it, she knows in detail what it would mean for Kleya to be in the depths of an Imperial prison. “I’m well acquainted. I was prepared to do anything not to fall into their hands.” Unable to sit still, needing to get away from the suddenly nauseating smell of dinner, Vel jumps up and begins pacing.

Dreena meets Wil’s eyes, sees his despair at trying to help without defending the actions they all abhor. “We know, Vel. Truly. We don’t excuse it. The fact ‘it could be more gruesome’ does not excuse arrest without cause, let alone psychological cruelty, even if it’s less direct.”

Vel knows they’re on her side, but can’t be mollified. “This is cruel. I don’t know how much longer she’s going to be able to last without being permanently scarred by it. And that’s even if . . . “

Vel can’t finish the thought, but Dreena does. “Even if they find her not guilty. Even if they agree to let her go.”

“And I don’t think they will.”

Dreena nods. This is what she and Wil had discussed, and needed to be sure Vel was aware of, had admitted to herself. It’s also why they’d asked Niika to drop by — to see if Vel felt ready to expand their circle. 

“We know it’s serious. That’s why we’re here, Vel. Not just you. All of us. We’re not going to let this happen. Not when we can do something about it.”

-

Paranoia had always hung over her, but Kleya was familiar, even comfortable with that. She knew the hyper vigilance it inspired was both justified and helpful; not only had it been supported by evidence, it had kept her alive. Now there’s another, much more unusual feeling maybe I do deserve this.

Once that first spark of guilt flickered, it wasn’t long until it roared. There’s plenty of tinder, giant piles of things to blame herself for; all the weight of impossible decisions built up since she was a child. 

She’d spent her whole life banking this away, but now the fire is going, she finds there’s no extinguishing it, only trying to tamp down the worst of it when it’s useful; in the courtroom, or before bed. But when she has nothing else to concentrate on, it comes back as strong. Stronger. 

In some ways, Kleya finds self-flagellating easier. Easier to blame herself, shoulder guilt for what she's done, what she failed to do, what she's been able to process. 

Her train of thought is broken by the now-familiar squeak of the hastily-constructed metal door at the end of the hall, and her heart does that stutter of excitement she simply couldn’t train it out of, and finally realised she doesn’t want to.

Her cell door swings silent on hinges Arrol carefully oiled, and Vel slips in. Before she clambers on the bed, the better to ensure she doesn’t squish her precious, crumbly cargo, Vel pulls out a small paper bag. “I didn’t make these, promise.” She proudly presents two deep brown cookies with shiny, jiggly purple blobs irregularly embedded throughout. “Fermented jogan cookies from Wil. No idea how that boy comes up with these things. They are . . . strangely salty? for some reason? but in a good way.” 

She flops onto the bed as from her other pocket she produces a small folding screwdriver, and the small square transmitter Kleya recognises as the one Vel hed given to her the first night. 

When she reaches to take the transmitter, Kleya sees the inside of Vel’s palm. “Vel!” She drops the transmitter on the bed between them and gently traces around the angry red marks. “What have you done.” 

“I held myself back from doing anything I shouldn’t.”

It’s enough; Kleya had observed Vel’s tells and coping mechanisms years before, thinking them fairly useful if rudimentary and often-too-obvious. She had noted when engaged in the field, Vel hadn’t used them, it was enough for her to be consumed by the task at hand. 

Now, she sees them differently. 

Kleya sighs and caresses the deep gouges with her strong, skilled fingertips; she’s used to reading objective facts from items, using her hands to glean the meanings from indentations on ancient artefacts, interactions of wires and mechanisms. Warm, pulsing flesh and emotions are harder to read, to know how to manage. “I wish you wouldn’t” she simply says.

“Me, too. But it’s better than the alternative.” Vel wants to pull her hand away, to hide the visual, irrefutable manifestations of her anger, but Kleya doesn’t seem repulsed, merely sad. Strangely Kleya touching and seeing the marks makes Vel feel better, even as it makes her want to never do it again, even as with a small twinge of shame she knows she will. So she leaves her hand in Kleya’s, while she talks about the transmitter.

“It’s encrypted as far as I could, but.” Vel shrugs.

“But short range on a base where everyone has compatible equipment, and I’m the only one in this wing of the prison, and you’re the only one in our hut” — a flare of happiness and grief intertwined shoots through Vel’s guts at the casual way Kleya mentions their shared space — “means it will be pretty easy to trace, if anyone notices it going off.”

“Yeah. That. The screwdriver is for the hiding place we scoped out last time.”

“If you’re giving me something difficult to hide and easy to trace, we’ve reached—“ Vel’s face telegraphs please don’t, we both know it, I can’t bear to hear you say it and Kleya softens her pragmatic blow “—that point already.”

Grateful, and noting how Kleya making an effort to be slightly less blunt is a sign of something meaningful, Vel answering with equal indirectness. “I’ll have my receiver on me at all times. If you need anything, send an s.o.s. and I’ll be here.”

“And then? What do we do.”

“Then, we’ll do what we’re doing now. Figure it out together.”

“You mean make it up as we go along.”

“Make it up, look damn good doing it.”

Kleya’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Your penchant for flattery strikes again.”

“My aim is true.” 

Kleya fiddles with the transmitter, trying to figure out how to ask one of the things that’s been on her mind amidst the swirling guilt. “Vel.”

“Mmmm?”

“It wasn’t just circumstances, before. Various events and personality clashes prevented us from becoming friends.”

Vel smiles, weirdly fond of that antagonism, especially now it’s become clearer where it was coming from, and how it developed. “To put it mildly.”

“So, why not now. How are we doing” Kleya gesticulates between them “this, now.” 

Vel doesn’t have to consider long, she’s been turning this question over too. “Obviously circumstances changed, and when they did, and we adapted to them, the same history which drove a wedge between us, helped wedge us together.”

“How do you figure.”

“Well. You know how I fight. I know how you fight.”

“Literally or metaphorically?

“All of the above.”

Vel nuzzles into her shoulder and kisses the side of her neck before proceeding. Still taken aback at some of Vel’s casual expressions of intimacy, Kleya considers how to respond, can’t figure out how until the moment has passed, so simply accepts, and waits for Vel to proceed. “More importantly we both know how we fight together, whether facing each other or a common enemy.”

“What of our different ideals?”

“Like we said. Our ideals are the same even—“

Kleya needs to bear down on this point, though. “Not all the same.”

Vel has been wondering what more specifically Kleya is driving at, and this clicks it into place. “True. Not all. While our aims are all the same, our methods of accomplishing them vastly different. Meanwhile the ideals are . . .” Vel searches for the right terms, but Kleya’s ahead of her.

“There’s always been overlap, of course. The places our Venn diagram circles didn’t overlap, however . . . may as well have been in different planetary systems.”

Vel chortles a little; there’s that bluntness again. “And yet, didn’t we drive each other to reconsider the deeper ‘what and why’ of our ideals? Whether affirming our own beliefs or moving the circles closer.” Kleya nods. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, both are comfortable within it. “We’re beginning to come together more than we — well, certainly I — thought possible a few years ago.” 

Vel shifts so she can more comfortably stay looking directly at Kleya. “I’d rather have people in my life who challenge me, than someone who lets things pass. I never want to be so inflexible that I can’t change based on, you know, new evidence or shifting circumstances or growing in myself.” She twines her fingers in Kleya’s. “Hardest trick is, the people I will be closest to in my life have to be willing to do the same. So to get back to your question. We don’t just know each other well, we respect each other. We’ve seen how each other has reacted to the changing galaxy, and our lives. We’ve seen each other suffer, triumph, and reconsider previous positions based on new understanding. I think that helps tremendously.”

Vel waits a moment, deciding whether to ask a lingering question. She’s not been scared to ask, exactly, but she’s not sure about the answer, and she doesn’t like being unsure. It feels like tonight is the right time. “Are you happy with the ways you’ve changed?” 

Unending confinement has given Kleya more than plenty of time to mull over that question. “If you had asked me a year ago, I would be appalled to think I could completely reconsider even one of my stances, let alone many, let alone my entire life’s course of action. But I never had regrets before. Or the guilt and doubt that comes with those regrets.“ The flash of sorrows across Kleya’s face is a blaster bolt right to Vel’s heart, but she lets her continue. “I know what you said about guilt, not getting caught in a recursive loop. But you also said, with love comes grief. I have griefs. So many. I’ve caused more than plenty, as well. And I’m beginning to think, one price to pay for causing them, is to live with them. I don’t have any idea what to do with them otherwise. I’ve changed in ways which I assess as better. But I don’t like how much that hurts.” 

Kleya seems to have spent her words; Vel takes Kleya’s face between her scarred palms.  “It’s often the harder and more painful thing to become better. But hear me when I say; anyone who avoids changing for the better simply to avoid facing their past choices is weak, and a coward.” Vel wipes a tear from Kleya’s cheek with her thumb. “Kleya Marki, you have never been and never will be weak or a coward.” Vel kisses her cheek where more tears are tracking, the same way she’d kissed her blaster scar. “Of this, I am absolutely sure.“

Vel lets Kleya cry in her arms until her tears are as spent as her words. 

When the worst of the storm has passed, she takes the long front of her tunic and gently dries Kleya’s face, then holds the hem out towards her face. “Blow.” 

Kleya could not look more mortified if you asked her to streak naked through a stormtrooper barracks. In fact, she would probably do that with less horror.

Vel rolls her eyes. “Trust me, it’s for the best.” Kleya still does not budge. “I’ll wash it tonight. It’ll probably get clean just walking through the rain on the way home.” 

Kleya grudgingly blows her note on the tunic hem, and is perturbed that she does, in fact, feel immediately better. Vel folds and tucks the hem up into the tunic pocket, then sits up, readjusting Kleya in her arms like it’s none of it a big deal. 

“You remember when I asked you what you want to see when you looked to the future, you didn’t . . . you didn’t know.”

Kleya nods again. 

“I know this is a ridiculous question since then we were at least—“ Vel glances around the cell — “Not here. But have you thought more about that?”

“About, what I might want.”

“Yeah. What you want, or can see, for your future.”

HRRRRUUUUUUUUUNG. The base siren blares, startling them both. 

Proving how she lasted so long under the Empire’s very nose, Kleya is on her feet and listening at the door in a heartbeat, as though she wasn’t just considering the weight of the galaxy on her conscience.

Vel takes her cue, checking the bed and her pockets that she has everything she came in with — except the cookies, transmitter, and screwdriver — and will leave no trace. 

Kleya cracks the door and waves her hand to hurry Vel along.

“Kleya Marki, are you trying to get rid of me?” Vel whispers, trying to leave things on a lighter note than they’d been since she came in.

In answer Kleya grasps Vel’s tunic collar and kisses her. Vel feels many things mingled in the kiss — tears, exhaustion, love, hunger, despair, longing — but also how Kleya gives it, along with her hurried words, as reassurance. “When I’m in need of space, Vel Sartha, I will tell you.”

“I believe you’ll do just that.” Vel eases through the door.

“Please be safe.”

“I love you, too.”

-

Arrol waits for Vel at the outside door; with practiced handoff she slips back his spare key as he opens the door to the dark night, looking ‘casually’ each direction. “Nice time for a smoke” he observes; all-clear. 

Vel slips out; she can hear irregular thuds of individuals and small groups of people running through the dark to get to their assigned stations. 

She ducks into the forest and circles around to where the path branches above the prison; she needs to head for the hangar from the path which leads from the mess and barracks area, instead of the path which would signal she was coming from the prison.

She checks it’s all clear, hops on the main path, and within five steps sees she’s about to overtake someone in shoes and pants unsuited for the terrain . . . kark 

The man turns and squints against the dark and mist, confirming her identification. “Vel, isn’t it?” Efflin asks.

“Yes, sir. Heading to the hangar?”

He ignores the question. “Aren’t your quarters that direction.” 

“Aren’t yours on the entire other side of the base?” 

Efflin seems surprised she knows that, let alone went on the offensive, and something behind his eyes leads her to take a gamble. “That’s where your peers are. As opposed to the barracks over here. Packed full of young recruits.” His expression in response to that confirms her suspicious, but the siren as well as her sense this man can be very dangerous tells her not to press the advantage too far. enough, get a move on. “I don’t know where you’re headed, but I’m on my way to my hangar post to ensure the base is safe.”

Vel takes off at a light jog, noting with no small satisfaction that Efflin tries to keep up for about sixty seconds before falling behind on the slippery, twisting paths. 

-

The alarm turned out to be half-nothing; there had been a potential intelligence about a ‘new planet’ which could have been a Death Star, only it was quickly determined to be a white hole event, commonly referred to as a ‘whevy’, which had relocated an overly large meteor. 

The brass had turned it into a whole test of readiness, and made plenty of drill assessments which would mean reams of paperwork tomorrow.

Only after the briefing, checking in on her recruits, the post-briefing breakdown, and stumbling home and falling on top of the bed without managing to do more than kick off her boots, does Vel’s adrenaline start to subside.

Never had she lost sight of the fact the trial was serious, but she had tried to insist it might turn around, or maybe convince herself it could, since she could see no other course she could affect. 

Meanwhile, she’d gotten a bit complacent with her night visits. Running into Efflin changed her calculations; not just about being more careful, but determining when to take action on Kleya’s situation as a whole. 

Or rather, their situation. Because clearly, to themselves as well as those who know them best, their situations are intwined.

Vel has known deep down for a while if — when — the trial goes sideways, she would need to make a decision in response. But she finally puts it into the galaxy, saying aloud to the dark, empty room:

“It’s time, Kleya. Let’s make a break for it.” 

Chapter Text

As Kleya prepares for her morning transport, Efflin appears with two soldiers to personally oversees a search of her quarters.

She’s hidden the transmitter perfectly within a carved-out brick behind the washbasin’s piping, replacing the disturbed pipe rust with some filed from her bed’s old metal frame with the screwdriver. The screwdriver itself she’s folded and stored within the bed frame, where along with a little grease and rust it looks like another support.

She’s always left her book openly on the bedspread, because it being impossible to hide means any attempt would only signify to search harder. 

Efflin pounces on it immediately. “Contraband, Miss Marki?” The way he pronounces miss is as condescending as only comes naturally to someone was raised in high society dinners; a tone Kleya is all too familiar with.

Kleya puts on a blank face similar to the faux innocent one she presents Vel when she’s trying to win an argument. “One of my visitors gave it to me the first day of the trial. I had no indication or reason to believe a novel was a prohibited item.”

“One of your visitors?” Efflin flips it open and looks at the flyleaf and first few pages; Kleya’s face remains perfectly still, but her stomach flips. She knows she checked every book, every time, surely Vel did as well . . . but had they remembered?

Clearly they hadn’t missed a beat and there’s no name or distinguishing mark in it, because Efflin doesn’t say anything. He obviously doesn’t believe her story, but also doesn’t have any basis to refute it. 

The two soldiers finished their — remarkably sloppy, hope they’re never put in charge of someone who would actually want to endanger the rebellion — search, and stand up.

Efflin snaps the book closed. “You won’t mind if I take it with me.”

“Of course not.” seething. “I’ve read it many times since I first received it.” I was just getting to the good part. “Maybe you’ll enjoy it as much as I.” I hope you choke on it.

Efflin nods at the soldiers, who file out, while he stays behind.

He waits as the transport guard handcuffs and frisks Kleya, and then checks the cuff tightness himself. Whether he’s trying to intimidate her, or put on an unnecessary bit of theatre for the three soldiers isn’t clear, but Kleya thinks probably both.

Efflin then accompanies Kleya through the corridors, rides in the transport to the courthouse where her follows her and her escort all the way into the courtroom’s prisoner quarters, until the escort steps out and she stands in front of the folded prison uniform.

She crosses her arms, and coolly looks at him for the first time since her cell. “I think you’ll find if observation is required, you will need to summon an actual prison warden.”

He nods as though this was all just some silly oversight on his part, and he didn’t realise she was going to have to strip down in front of him. “Quite right, then. See you inside.” 

Once in the courtroom, the judge begins by calling to order and making an announcement there will be an announcement, which would prompt a blistering Kleya eye roll were she not so sure this is a very bad sign. 

After a sidebar with both lawyers, the judge reads out a short proclamation.

“Upon deliberation and observation of outcomes which are still ongoing, and in commensuration with the weight of outcomes caused, the council, in close association with the Judicial Committee of the Alliance, has decided that actions which directly result in the death of rebel operatives, and/or failure of rebel missions, and/or provide aid and comfort to the enemy, is both tantamount to and the equivalent of treason. Thus it follows that anyone convicted of such, whether soldier or citizen, shall be assessed the ultimate penalty at time of war, which is death by firing squad.”

-

Dreena stayed long enough to make sure there wasn’t going to be some uproarious response to the pronouncement, to see if Kleya would be okay — if anything, her look was more stone and ice than before; whether that’s good or bad, I assume bad — then slipped away to find Wil to hurriedly update him before returning to the courtroom.

To Dreena’s growing amazement and fury, the rest of the day in court proceeded like most before it; specious arguments, long tangents about minutia which could mean nothing but might also mean the worst if you look at it just right. 

It’s true, some of ‘those things’ involved extortion, eavesdropping, poisoning, and sabotage . . . but nowhere was conclusive or even tangental proof any of those was connected to a failure of the Alliance, let alone intended any harm to the Rebellion.

The arguments droned on, the audience vacillated from bored to hostile, the judge’s decisions seemed as lax as ever. 

The day ended just as dinner was approaching, and everyone filed out chatting about their thoughts on a certain point, or what might be served for dinner, or the tasks they had to do when they got back to their quarters. 

It was as though the announcement the Alliance was happy to kill someone over acts done in service working for them had created no stir or change whatsoever.

-

Kleya visually traces the cracks in the brick wall as she tries to not let it mean anything that Vel is later than usual. she never promised she could come every night. there’s a dozen reasons for this, some of them good. at least, not bad. not catastrophic.

She wishes she had her book despite being sure she wouldn’t be able to properly read. She puts herself through a callisthenics and stretching routine. She double checks the transmitter hiding place, using all her willpower not to touch and disturb its camouflage. She sits crosslegged on the bed and runs through wiring configurations to convert a transmitter into a more targeted disruptor signal, and how much amplification might be required to affect large, powerful signals, running calculations of increasing size and complexity until her brain loses the thread.

Then she starts the configurations over again.

When Vel does arrive, her approach is even more quiet and cautious than usual, and her face confirms Kleya’s suspicions before her words.

“We only have an hour. Arrol is jumpy. The whole base is on edge.” 

Kleya nods. She knew Dreena would have filled Vel in on the courtroom events even if the base’s gossip vine hadn’t; she is happy to not discuss it further. She had been considering how to tell Vel about her encounter with Efflin, but decides now is not the time. It would only make things worse, with nothing actionable to come of it. She turns her mind to what could be helpful, and can’t think of anything besides the standard. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” Vel kisses her hurriedly as she produces a spool of vibrowire and a tin thermos of tea. “I am also exceedingly proud, because” as she pours into two tin cups “I have finally perfected the brew-and-conveyance system, meaning this the absolute best drinking temperature for these leaves.”

Kleya eyes Vel, noting her slightly manic energy. she feels better doing this for me. I wonder if she knows it’s because she’s about as furious as I’ve ever seen her. She sips and makes genuine appreciative noises. “At least caf is also good when it’s cold. Tea, not so much. This is perfect. Thank you.”

“You know this doesn’t count, right? I still owe you tea and caf ceremonies. I keep my word.” 

This confirms what Kleya suspected since Vel didn’t produce a book, but she lets it go. “I know you do.”

Vel is still standing, holding her cup. She takes a step as though to pace, then realises it’s all of three steps to the wall, and stands stock still again. 

Despite five minutes ago being on the verge of pacing the floor herself, Kleya finds having someone else to concentrate on helps her calm down, focus, go into problem solving mode. 

She sets her tea down and takes Vel’s free hand in both of hers, gently tugging until Vel comes next to the bed. Vel gives in and slumps down, but slides past the bed to sit on the ground, leaning against the frame. all right, that’s where we’re at then. Kleya retrieves her cup and comes down to sit next to Vel on the floor.

“Talk to me.”

“I can’t contain it, Kleya. When Wil came to find me, he told me what happened, I wanted to go see Mon, but I didn’t because I was afraid what I might do. It’s so transparent. It’s so . . . . un-fight-able. I’m so furious. I’m so, so terrified. And the more terrified I get, the angrier I am.” 

Taking her cue of what Vel would want from how Vel has responded to her own frustrations, Kleya turns herself ninety degrees, wedges her legs under Vel’s, and wraps her arms around Vel’s knees. She swears she can feel Vel vibrating with trying to hold in all her terrified fury after weeks of stress and exhaustion. “You can’t hold onto the anger, Vel.”

“Clearly, I can.”

Kleya rolls her eyes. “I do not doubt your ability. But it’s not good for you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of those people who believes ‘all intense emotions lead to the dark side.’”

Kleya quirks her eyebrow, a trait Vel finds endearing even in her frame of mind. “You wouldn’t like it if I started wearing long brown robes and swore eternal celibacy?”

Vel snorts. “You look good in anything, including brown robes. But celibacy?” 

“Now who’s doubting whom?”

“Oh, you’re stubborn enough to do anything for a time. Time being the operative word. I give you a year before you implode, brown robes and all.” 

“Lucky for me, then — and you, I may add — that I have no such delusions or aims.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” The humour does help soothe things. Vel rolls her shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension she’s been holding all day. “What are you saying about the Force or not-Force and intense emotions, then.”

As Kleya measures her response, she begins working her hands over Vel’s shoulders, slowly plying the physical knots in her muscles, then drifting across to massage the tightly strung cords in her neck. “We can sense things we can’t see, and interpret things we can’t full describe or explain. I know plenty of things which are invisible and imperceptible change the galaxy, and change us. That’s what my entire life has been based on. It’s how I survived, how I send messages across space, how I got here. How I could plausibly deny those actions? Calling it ‘the Force’ . . . ” Kleya shrugs. “People devise systems to explain what they don’t fully understand. Whatever it is, part of the whole point is it’s not truly codifiable, and making it so only weaponises it. I abhor the religious fervour and manipulative systems built up around the idea of the Force. Yet, do I think things like anger, or love, significantly change the galaxy? Yes. And in the wrong doses, they can be fatal.”

“And you’re against me being steeped in that anger, but not you.” Vel tries to keep the edge of accusation from her voice, with little success.

Kleya sighs. “No. In fact, seeing your anger towards injustice is one thing of many which I love. But it’s also dangerous. It cannot be the only source of fuel. And if you let have its way, it will eventually become the primary, then dominant, then singular, thing.” As Kleya’s strong fingers work, Vel starts to let go, incrementally, of the sickening tension she’s been carrying. Kleya continues, knowing her touch will help Vel absorb her words. “Anger is easy. It is useful. It makes you singular in purpose, then fuels that purpose. Then eventually, inevitably, it burns you up. Makes you unfit for any other purpose, unable to process anything else you need outside of simply existing, and effectively causing harm. I’m saying this not merely because I care for you, but because of the danger I see it present for me. Anger was too much of me for so long. It seared parts of me away. Some irrecoverable.”

The sharp edge has fallen from Vel’s voice now. “The anger that has always burned in you. It’s justified.”

“Yes. I don’t think that particular fire will ever fully burn out. Deep below it will always rage white-hot where it counts; at the Empire. But we both know I couldn’t stay the way . . . the way I was, indefinitely. Or even much longer.” She pauses to work at a particularly stubborn knot, and formulate her thoughts. “Someone wise told me: anger eventually means you can no longer stay true to yourself, or rather it makes you someone you didn’t want to be.”

Vel smiles sadly hearing her old words paraphrased. “Don’t you think anger helped you get here? Helped what you achieved, while also keeping you alive.”

“I do. And since we’re being brutally honest, yes, I will use it again. But I can no longer hold it the same way. Especially now I have something to lose from it besides myself.”

Vel shifts under Kleya’s hands. “You won’t lose me to it.”

“I could.”

“We’re going to make moves before that can happen.”

“Vel.”

“Kleya. We’re not dancing around it any more. You, who doesn’t dance around anything!” Kleya is silent, her hands fall still. This is what’s been looming since Vel came in. 

Vel presses the issue. “Tomorrow night.”

“Because of what’s really happening on the base.” 

“They think we’re compromised here. They’ve started procedures to move some of the main equipment, but considering moving everything to Hoth.”

“And everyone.”

Vel bites her lip and furrows her brow in response; but then, it wasn’t a question, but a statement. 

Kleya collects her mug and sips her tea, observing her hands aren’t shaking. still in good nick, then. “We talked before, whether they’d let me out before they go. I think . . . some people might be a little too eager for that.”

For the hundredth time Vel curses Kleya’s perceptiveness; just at dinner she, Dreena, Wil, and Niika had discussed how worried they should be about soldiers taking it upon themselves to go after Kleya, whether as a personal vendetta, misplaced ‘Alliance pride,’ or somehow convinced it’s better than ‘wasting resources which could be better spent on our people,’ as though Kleya shouldn’t be considered one of them simply because she was a prisoner. They had absolute faith in Arrol, but during the day other guards had access to the entire prison, and no-one in their small band of five could spare the time needed to keep watch on all the paths to and from the courthouse . . .

“Vel.”

“Sorry. What was that.” 

“I can fend for myself.”

“There’s no-one in the galaxy I believe that of more, but that’s not the point.”

“You can’t leave your post.”

“Since we went over this the first time, I’ve set the recruits up as well as I can. They’ve more than enough people to take over on Hoth. I’ve kept my word. I’ve done my duty. I’ll keep fighting the Empire, every way I can. But I won’t give my life, or risk yours, in service of a cause which is harming us both.”

Kleya observes her. “I need to hear you say it again.”

“What’s that.”

“That you’re not leaving the rebellion for me, or because of me.”

“Not only am I not doing that, you wouldn’t respect me if I did.”

Kleya huffs. “It’s true. I wouldn’t.”

Wanting to show she’s calmed down and giving her answer full attention, Vel shifts to face Kleya more squarely. 

“My dedication to you doesn’t alter my commitment to the fight, not one iota. But events have shown I need to change the ways I’m willing to wage that fight, and how far I will allow it to take me.”

“So long as you aren’t giving away anything you’ve believe in.”

“I promise. The weight of reasons has built over years. You know what I’ve done and seen. You know the worst of me. How I’ve almost lost myself. I accepted the risks, I don’t regret my decision. But I cannot continue this way.” 

Kleya considers this a moment.“Did you ever do things for the wrong reasons.“

“I followed through for the right reasons. But being tasked with certain things? The consequences and costs? I can’t say those all happened for any reason, let alone a right or good one. What’s been done to us. What we’ve been asked to do. What we’ve lost and given.” Vel is silent a moment. “When the time comes a person or a rebellion or a belief asks too much, for the wrong reasons, we are not committed to pay their price. I won’t be compromised any more. I won’t let others continue to determine my fate for their own motivations. And I absolutely won’t lose you to it.“

Kleya has to ask. “Do you truly think you can reconcile your rebellion with being with me.”

“I can and I have.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. You’re the one said we could love and be fully committed to more than one thing.”

“My own words, come back to bite me.”

Vel nudges Kleya fondly. “I promise, it won’t be the last time.”

Kleya smiles back, humour softening the blows again. “I’ll hold you to that.”

A sound down the corridor.

Vel shifts, listens. Kleya tenses. Vel notices, reassures her. “I’ve got a little longer.” 

Kleya shakes her head. “You had better go.”

“It wasn’t Arrol. Just a rat.”

“That noise was made by something big, and they don’t have womp rats on Yavin.”

“If it’s the signal, Arrol will repeat it.”

“Unless he’s otherwise occupied, or trying to be surreptitious.”

“Trying to loophole the mission? Why, Kleya! Am I rubbing off on you now.”

“I’m simply reacting to the changing circumstances and environment.”

“Speaking of. Kleya. Promise me, when it comes to our plan, you won’t do anything daring or noble or sacrificial.”

Kleya quirks a smile. “Does that sound like me?”

“It does, actually.” 

Kleya takes a breath. “You have my word. But we may not get a chance to carry out said plan if you don’t go.”

The moment she’d been expecting came all too soon. Vel clenches her left fist, blunt nails digging into her palm, trying to ground herself in this fleeting moment enough to be strong for Kleya, put on a brave face. Every second she lingers betrays the fact she’s not sure — cannot be sure, cannot guarantee — this will work. There’s no way to make it perfect, there’s only taking a chance. All or nothing. Knowing the chance they land on ‘nothing’ is high.

Kleya takes Vel’s hand and unfurls it, kisses her palm where angry red indents have already formed. “Whatever happens. Knowing you, like this. Is worth everything.”

Vel runs her hand from Kleya’s mouth up her cheek, curls her fingers at the nape of her neck and pulls her close, stopping just before their lips touch and breathing in her scent, feeling the strong, sure warmth of her. “I’ll see you soon.”

“And you love me.”

Vel kisses her. Not as though it will be the last time, as though to remind them both what she’s fighting for. 

“Now, go.”

Vel slips down the corridor, out into the dark, sending all her silent wishes to the galaxy or the Force or whatever may or may not exist that she can fulfil her promise. 

Chapter Text

Arrol gets off his graveyard shift and meanders back to the barracks, arriving as they’re emptying out of the last day shifters. All his peers going to training, to do the jobs he has been denied, pass him without comment. A few acknowledge him with looks of pity, more with disdain; some of that probably in his head, much of it probably not.

He packs his small trunk while trying not to make it obvious he’s doing more than after-shift organising, then sits on the edge of his bunk and considers whether to go to the mess or lie down. He had some of Wil’s fresh-baked bread on shift. He doesn’t feel like sleep, but knows he needs at least a few hours; Vel reminded him of it when she slipped out the night before.

He puts on his sensor mask and ear shield, lies down in the bunk in broad daylight, thinks, thinks, wonders what his future holds. Dreams.

-

Wil kisses Dreena and heads out for his shift. They’ve done all the talking they need to in the last days: what another new start means; why and how this one is different and the same as the last; whether they’ll ever lose count.

-

Vel watches her latest batch of pilots run training drills on the simulator. This group is close to getting their fulls, occasionally a missed call or wrong button prompting a bight red ERROR, but mostly running smoothly and working together. 

She’s hit with a wave of pride at the work she’s done, chased with worry they’ll be sent off before they’ve really mastered the skills, essentially as blaster fodder.

Or perhaps worse, become immune to blaster fire and the destruction it causes.

-

After lunch, the judge announces the day’s court session is being shortened ‘for logistical reasons,’ which Kleya knows they’re avoiding calling evacuation due to her presence.

She continues, announcing the next session will be a full day, and if all goes well they expect the verdict to come the day after that.

Perfunctory. Settled.

-

The recruits finish off cleaning, logging, reassembling, the flight equipment, and Vel signs them off. She bites her tongue against the impulse to admonish them, to say anything out of the ordinary, to wish them well.

It’s just another training session.

-

Dreena sits to run over a checklist.

Niika knocks and enters simultaneously, carrying Arrol’s suitcase and a large duffel of her own. “Can’t stay. Efflin’s all on edge.”

“See you tonight.”

Niika leaves, both bags added to the pile just inside the door.

Dreena stands, stretches, puts a rug over the pile. Looks at the checklist again. Everything scratched off. 

She holds the paper to the fire and watches it go up in smoke.

-

Back in her cell, Vel’s words circle Kleya’s brain, her attempts to convince Kleya you don't deserve this starting to grow above a whisper. Not yet loud enough to drown out the roar of the doubts, but despite her practical points in argument against, Kleya has for the first time considered maybe it’s true. if someone like Vel thinks it’s true. 

Kleya looks at the pipe behind which she hid the transmitter. She’d never used it, not even when the panic attacks were at their worst, not when she thought if she didn’t call out she might burn up like a dying star. A few times she’d taken it out, held it, felt the trigger button under her finger. Merely the solid weight in her hand, knowing that Vel was on the other side, and that if she signalled there was an absolute certainty Vel would make it to her, had always managed to stave off the worst of it.

She’s resisting her task of taking it apart because disassembling it will snap that last thin direct line to Vel, that if I really need to, I could, so I can hold out thread which tethered her. 

but that’s not what it’s needed for any more. 

She takes out the transmitter, along with the screwdriver and vibrowire, and begins disassembling.

-

Arrol starts his guard shift, settles in, tries to read the book Vel brought him.

-

Vel’s greatest fear flashes through her, full of physical sensations as much as vision: the sound of her own feet running down a faraway tunnel; someone grabbing her arm; a violent shake which comes from within as much as without; a body in her arms that is only sheer, dead weight; cold setting in.

Nightmare.

She lies there, hyperventilating. I can’t relive this again. breathe. I won’t. this will be different. It’s everyone you trust. the objective is simply to leave. it is different. I can’t. I will. I have to. no choice.

For what feels like the hundredth time that night she checks her chrono. A half hour before she must send the message, but she’s not going back to sleep.

  nothing for it now.

She walks to the kitchen sink and splashes her face with the always-frigid water, then pulls a small, encrypted data pad she borrowed from the council room and types out a message to Mon. 

Need to talk. Will come to you. /C\

She knows Mon will recognise their childhood ‘cousins’ signoff.

Almost immediately the reply pops up: I’ll be waiting.

-

Kleya falls asleep holding the transmitter, now put back together perfectly. 

When she wakes up, she’s still clutching it so tightly it’s left four sharp indentations carved into her palm; indents which echo the crescents so often carved into Vel’s hands.

-

Vel waited til the last minute to send her message for the same reason she’s waited til the last minute to make this visit: she doesn’t know for sure how Mon will react. 

She left the hut a mere five minutes before tapping on Mon’s door, and when Mon answers she’s fully dressed, and has put on her overly-composed politician self. Not only that — how does she do it? she was never so good at hiding her emotions on Chantilla, even Coruscant — Mon doesn’t seem surprised to see Vel at this obscene hour.

Mon prepares tea as Vel sits at the table, wondering how to jump into the conversation. 

“What couldn’t wait until the morning?” Mon finally breaks the silence.

“You don’t seem to realise how hard it is to get your ear at the morning. I never see you without a whole gaggle of politicians or visitors from other planets or aides carrying holos wanting your attention.” stop procrastinating. get down to it.

“This is purely a social call then.” 

Mon brings the tea tray to the table, setting it down exactly in the middle. 

Vel notices with a small startle the teapot, ceramic plates and cups, small spoons, cream and sugar sticks, are all arranged for a farewell ceremony.

Mon begins to pour, serving herself first, as is in keeping with the ceremony; you always serve a guest first, unless they are soon to take a long journey, or pass into death. In which case, serving them last is a signal of your appreciation, and your wish to keep them every last moment possible before you bid them farewell.

Vel watches in silence as Mon strains and pours, prepares her own tea with sugar, no milk, then serves Vel’s with the exact amount of milk she likes.

As acknowledgement of the ceremony, Vel reaches for a sugar stick and swirls it into her tea; another significant gesture, adding sweetness to take the edge of bitter sadness off of a parting.

They take their first sip together, and set their cups down, before Mon speaks again. “I wondered when you were going to come.”

The acknowledgement of her purpose makes Vel both relieved and more tense. nothing for it now. “There’s no doubt which way this is going to go, Mon. Changing the formal charge and the sentence it carries, may as well have been a guarantee. Even if by some infinitesimal chance the decision is favourable, public opinion and political expediency have written their verdict, and someone, or someones, will carry it out.”

“Even if I concurred, it may not come to that.”

“You know as well as I, evacuation is not the answer. They’re going to strand her here, where at best she dies slowly while they secretly hope she finishes it herself and spares their feelings. At worst, she gets found by the Empire. That’s what this group of freedom fighters wants.” Vel cannot keep the edge of bitterness from her voice. Nor does she want to.

“The council vote was not unanimous.” It’s as close as Mon’s going to gets to acknowledging the death penalty pronouncement. The apologetic tone behind her words sets off a fire behind Vel’s eyes. 

“You cannot defend it being tabled at all.”

“You don’t appreciate how hard I work behind the scenes.” 

“I don’t appreciate when politics are run ‘behind the scenes’ in shadows and darkness? As though we need to treat our rebellion the same secretive way as the Empire, instead of in the open? No, I don’t.”

“Would you prefer to have been called to testify?”

A chill shoots through Vel’s gut. When Dreena had informed her the lists for both lawyers excluded her name, she thought maybe they didn’t fully understand her connection to Luthen and Kleya. Or they wanted to protect rebellion networks. Or because she’d never been as involved in the Coruscant work as Cassian. Or because both sides thought she’d serve the others’ case better than theirs. The defence not wanting to dredge up orders which would make Kleya look bad, as though she would proclaim them even under oath. The prosecution thinking she was biased. Another chill. They could have dredged her entire personal life into it, if they’d known. Base gossip spreading quicker than enginefire, they would have eventually landed on it.

But maybe Mon had pulled strings to protect Vel. To keep her from being exposed.

Which, likely involved Mon pulling strings to protect herself, as well. 

Vel takes another long, slow sip of tea, attempting to clear her head. “I would prefer the rebellion not use the court as a cudgel. I would prefer I didn’t have to do half the things I’ve done these last years. I would prefer, a lot of things. None of it excuses the next steps taken being wrong ones.”

“Vel, I never wanted it to go this way.”

“I didn’t, either.”

“I love you. Maybe not the way you wish—“

“I know you do.” Vel cuts her off out of self-preservation. She knows Mon will think she’s doing the right thing, leveraging their relationship to get Vel to reconsider. Vel knows she will hold her nerve, what she isn’t sure of is whether she can do it without tears or anger, and letting Mon steer the conversation will lead to one or both. “I hope you make sure to hold to yourself. That you remember . . . why you joined this rebellion to begin with.” She weighs her words. “You’ll always be my family. Not just by blood, by choice. Our history holds a lot of change, and choices, and love. I do love you, Mon. But if you’re going to hold this post — no, not the post, the positions you’ve held these last few weeks. We cannot remain friends.”

“I concur. If we stayed friends, even public allies, the soldiers would hold it against us both. Possibly the public as well.” Mon sips her tea, taking Vel’s words as a pragmatic announcement and not a personal one. “I’m the politician, meant to bear their ire.” 

“I think you mistake who between us they’ll happily turn against.”

“Over time, they’ll look at this differently. They’ll remember you for being their compatriot, for having served.”

Vel scoffs, not at Mon but disbelief in her words. “You give them too much credit.”

“Perhaps.”

“I hope they give you half as much as you have them.”

Mon toys with her teacup, her first sign of nerves since she answered the door, and one Vel knows is a strong sign, at that. “After all this time, all the things you’ve said to me and done around the galaxy. I am most surprised that you would abandon the rebellion.”

“I am not abandoning anything.”

“How else could you see it.”

Vel always wondered how much Mon had used the rebellion as an excuse, valid or no, to publicly leave behind the family she’d long ago broken with or given to tradition. Now is not the time to ask. maybe there will never be a time. Maybe Mon herself did not know. 

“I’ve been a duty officer, recruit sergeant, a smuggler, a thief, a spy. In all those I have served the rebellion in different ways. This is moving to another phase.”

“It’s leaving, because you don’t like the fact our law and order has come down on your . . .” Mon pauses.

Vel charges into the space left. “No. No. That is not why I’m leaving. You know it’s not.” She takes a breath to prevent escalating the situation, and sees in Mon’s eyes that she knows she may have gone too far, and regrets it, so she decides to let Mon make the next move. 

Despite being dangerously close to snapping, Vel still grasps the humour in the fact Mon doesn’t know what to call her and Kleya, exactly, but she’s not about to define it now. 

“I know it’s been hard.” Mon says. “On all of us.”

“Hard is not the word.” Vel pauses to steady her voice. “The rebellion took more than I even knew I had in me to give. Kleya has also given it everything. In return, the rebellion has abandoned us.”

Mon has no answer for that. “What future can you have like this, Vel.”

“For the first time in years, I look forward and see more than one thing. My future is in the fight. But it is also with her.”

“What does that actually look like.”

“All I know is, it’s not high society, and it’s not a cell. The rest, we’ll figure it out as we go. As I always have.” 

Mon doesn’t reply.

Vel takes another sip of tea, and a part of her brain starts turning over that despite the high-society trained, perfect preparation, despite the sugar, despite drinking it from beautiful ornamental cups, the taste is not as sweet or comforting as the tea she had from a battered tin cup, lugged through a forest at this same time the night before. how strange I can sit here thinking about that, in the middle of a talk like this. 

Vel pushes forward, trying to make Mon understand. “We both have skills, knowledge, ways to serve. No one need know where we are, who we are, in order for us to fight, from wherever in the galaxy we end up.”

“I am not going to ask if this is what you really want. I am asking, is this what you will want in a year? In ten?”

“In ten years, to be able to look myself in the eye, to believe I have not compromised myself? I don’t just want this, I need to choose it.“ Vel pauses, waits for Mon to look up from her cup where she seems to be studying the swirling leaves. “My life is one thing. I’ve finally come to treasure it again. But if I have to, I would give it. For the rebellion, for those I love. What I will not do is give my life without reason and purpose. What I will not lose is myself.”

Mon nods, and Vel sees she’d come to a conclusion days, if not weeks, before. She hears the resignation in Mon’s voice. “I see you’re making the choice you think you must. I’ve also made the choices I thought I had to, for the greater good.” 

“I know you believe that.” It’s the best Vel can offer. She won’t lie, or soften it, even in the leadup to her last request. 

Vel drains the dregs of her tea, and puts the cup back in its saucer with the handle facing herself; the sign not to pour any more. “I have one more thing to ask.”

Mon’s face shows she knows what is coming. “What is that.”

“You don't trust Kleya, but I’m not asking you to. You know me. I need you to not see us when we leave.”

“You’re asking me to abdicate my responsibility.”

“I’m asking you to do what you know is right, instead of what the rules say to do.” Vel takes a shaky breath; no amount of mental rehearsal fully prepares how your nerves light on fire when you’re actually saying these things out loud. Her senses remember other of times she’s had, unsure how the person sitting across from her would react. “You’ve defied the rules in favour of the right thing before. The first time was many years ago, when you did it for me. You’ve done it since, with the Empire. I hope you can again.”

Mon doesn’t say she will. She doesn’t say she won’t. But she pulls a tiny holoprojector from a pocket in her robes and stands. 

The moment Vel sees her intent, she reciprocates. They cross the distance and embrace with all the familiarity of long history and all the knowledge of goodbye.

Mon speaks first. “I do love you. I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

With her strong arms wrapped around Mon’s shoulders, as much to feel her strength as to ensure Mon can’t see her face, Vel gives her last admonishment and hope. “I love you. Be careful you know who you are when this is all over.” Vel lets go, steps back. “Be well. Let the record forget us. This is all I ask.”

Mon presses the holorecorder into Vel’s hand, squeezes her hands all too briefly, then they’re parting, with Mon’s last words before she opens the door ringing in Vel’s ears:

“May you get all you want. May the Force be with you.”

Chapter Text

For the last time, Vel surveys her table. 

The plain, simple, sturdy piece of furniture where she and Kleya drank tea that night seeming lightyears ago. The same place they since ate breakfasts and dinners, hosted friends, fought and found common ground. 

Vel smiles, remembering the night her carefully smuggled franikhad fillings had burnt inedible because Kleya had lifted her up on the table and they were too consumed with each other to notice dinner burning until their eyes started to sting from the smoke. Kleya had grabbed a towel, taken the sizzling pan and its unrecognisably charred contents outside, set it on the ground in the pouring rain, and come back in to finish what she started. 

When they had finally turned their ravenous attention to the kitchen, all they had on hand was the franikhad wrapbreads, which had thankfully been left to warm until the last minute. They ate them toasted with bantha cheese, and both agreed it was one of their more delicious meals. 

Now on the table Vel’s laid out everything she needs: comms receiver; hand torch; thigh holster and blaster; receiver which Kleya likely can’t message by now, but Wil also has a short wave transmitter which is tuned to sent it an emergency message, just in case; a coil of rope; her knife, and one for Kleya. The holoprojector Mon gave her, which has shifted her calculations, just a little.

Both her oilcloth jackets are laid out over Kleya’s chair. 

The rest she’s already given to Dreena: a bag of essential clothes, another bag of ‘less essential but impossible to leave items’, including Cassian’s rianza set and four books, her favourite with Cassian’s bookmark tucked safely in its pages. Her other books will find new readers quickly, assuming anyone finds them before they manage to evacuate.

Despite the fact Vel’s taking very little, the hut seems as hollowed out as she feels. 

Leaving everything behind is beginning to become a familiar pattern, but this was more than a base camp. This had started to feel like home, perhaps the first time and place since her grandma’s house on Chandrila.

She checks her chrono. Fifty seconds since the last time she looked. The vibroalarm still on. 

Waiting to instigate the plan is the worst part, unable to do anything, biding time. You have to strike the balance of early enough nobody is waiting on you and you don’t miss your window, but cannot be so early you draw the wrong kind of attention, or make anything look or feel suspicious.

“Nothing for it now” she says to the empty room. 

Vel wraps her belt around her waist, buckles the bottom strap around her thigh, holsters her blaster, and begins her final preparations.

-

In final echo of the many nights before, Vel comes to the edge of the woods to where she can see the back jail door, and waits for Arrol to show.

It’s not like him to be even three seconds late. Waiting sixty seconds, seventy, eighty, stretches her already taut nerves.

When Arrol finally appears, ninety five seconds after the appointed time, it’s to poke his head out, whistle, and note aloud “too wet outside to light up a smoke” — the sign things are not all clear.

Behind him she sees another shape moving; an inspection? a coincidence? trick of the light? She clenches her jaw and forces herself to stay put; there’s a red flag signal, and he didn’t give it, so she waits. 

She checks the rope coiled around her waist, loose but firm, with a few feet of slack on the end. She bites the inside of her cheek, and continues to stay put.

Finally, after an eternity of eight minutes, Arrol leaves, gently closing the door before strolling a few steps into the night and lighting his cigarra. As the snap of the lighter and glowing ember of tobacco signals all is well, Vel allows herself the slightest exhale of relief. She’ll ask what all that was about later.

She continues to count the seconds until, perfectly three minutes later, Kleya emerges and darts across the short stretch of barren ground to join her at the treelike. Her hair is tied back, she’s in her warmest leggings, shirt, boots, and the green tunic — it’s hers, now Vel realises with a pang of joy. She’s not carrying anything, but she’s torn a thick strip of wool from the yellow blanket and it’s tied around her waist, holding the transmitter and Vel’s toolkit. 

Vel quickly tucks her spare knife into Kleya’s makeshift belt and puts her second oilcloth jacket over her, not speaking, trying to convey her relief and care silently. Finally, she hands Kleya the loose rope end, and they set off as quickly as they can without too much noise.

In the endless nights to and from the prison, walking circles to calm her mind, Vel had scouted and cleared this alternate route. No soldiers, no droids, nothing and nobody would be along their route between prison and hangar. Vel has memorised where the roots are, when to duck, where to walk up the side of the path to avoid the boot-sucking mudpits. The rope helps keep them close together since they can’t risk lights, and keeps Kleya balanced as she follows after, copying Vel’s movements through a combination of watching her shadowy form, feeling how the rope is moving, and somehow sensing what Vel is doing. 

The ways they’ve moved together in the days and nights since Kleya arrived on Yavin seem to tether them together in many ways, some less explicable than others. Along with her movements, Kleya can feel Vel’s palpable anxiety, the way she’s clenching to tamp down the flickers of anxiety crawling up her stomach, through her esophagus, into her throat. She tries to project silent comfort and calm. take it as it comes. we’ll face it together. which does taper the edge off Vel’s stress, as well as her own.

Finally they emerge from the trees to where a giant shadow blocks out the stars: the hangar. Vel knows Wil is the only person scheduled to be in this area right at this time, so it should be empty, but they still move cautiously, careful not to make too much noise or sudden movements until they’re flush against the hangar wall.

Vel unties the rope from around her waist and hands the entire length to Kleya, who squeezes her hand, then heads left along the giant metal wall. It knarls Vel’s stomach to lose the connection, but she forces her eyes away, takes a breath. concentrate. just make the next move. 

She walks along the wall to the right, takes a moment to run her hands over her face and jacket, making sure she looks presentable and not as though she’s been traipsing through a perpetually damp jungle undergrowth in the dark, and rounds the corner towards the hangar night entrance.

Ever since Cassian made that flight, security checks for departing spacecraft have been even tighter. that was also for Kleya, even if you didn’t know it then. bless you. and damn you, for making it now that much harder for the rest of us to break the rules! Vel smiles to herself. 

No way to know if Dreena and Kleya were safe, if Mon changed her mind, if Niika and Wil were in position. That’s not her task now. they’ll do their jobs. your next move is all that matters. what you need to do. 

Vel strides into the hangar like a woman on a mission, heading directly for the Chief Warden’s duty station. 

-

Dreena meets Kleya at the far hangar corner, and leads her around the back where a ladder leads to the roof. She gestures for Kleya to go up first, and follows closely behind.

-

Niika and Wil have been in the Longprobe since just before shift change, everyone else too consumed with their own thoughts — of dinner, or the coming evacuation, or their loved ones, or the person they want in their bunk that night, or whether they need to procure more tea or water their plants, or a million tiny things which make up a life — to realise Niika and Wil didn’t file out with them when the siren sounded. 

The two of them have sorted the luggage, prepped everything they possibly could, tried to snatch a little sleep one at a time, played several quiet hands of cards, and now wait until they can start the preflight checks in earnest.

Nine minutes later than planned, a slightly out-of-breath Arrol climbs in to join them. He explains he’s late because he’d had to patiently entertain the chats of his fellow guard, Philemon, who after months of never coming to see him a single time, had chosen this night to wander over from his shift in the nearly-empty soldier’s short-term discipline brig. Apparently Philemon was in search of sympathy after receiving a holo from his girlfriend — now ex-girlfriend — explaining she ‘simply did not think they were a good match.' Arrol had spent a full twenty minutes reassuring him it surely had nothing to do with all the time Philemon’s brother been spending with said girlfriend, and that no it was absolutely not a good idea to record a holo playing his self-composed forlorn string drum love song and sending it to her. “But he’s definitely going to send it.” Arrol whispers with an eye roll.

After that hiccup everything had gone to plan: Arrol entered the hangar with a carefully forged “requisition request” that would reasonably take him a good twenty minutes to fulfil. By the time anyone realises he never left, let alone didn’t belong there in the first place, all of them will be gone.

Either that, or something will have gone horribly wrong.

-

Vel hands the holoprojector to the Chief Warden, official manner on full display. When the warden presses the small button, a projection of Mon appears: “The bearer of this holo has my explicit permission for a singular transport departure and return flight. As it regards a mission of sensitive and diplomatic nature, no further information or pre-flight log is required. If you have any questions, contact me directly.” 

After the holo projection snaps away, the Chief Warden looks at Vel, then his chronograph, then Vel. 

She shrugs. “Don’t look at me. You want to wake up the head of the Alliance at this hour to clarify a top-secret mission, that’s all on you.”

Vel knows Mon won’t confirm the holo if asked directly, has known it since she expended one of its two limited plays in the safety of her hut that morning. It was a pleasant surprise when she realised what a parting gift Mon had given her, much better odds at getting the hangar doors open without having to incapacitate anyone or sending off any alarms. She’s well aware, however, the reason it’s in holo form and names no names is plausible deniability: Mon can claim Vel lied to her about the trip’s intent and necessity, Vel stole a holo meant for a different mission, Vel managed to trick her somehow into producing this holo. 

But if Vel acts casually enough, if this guy — who knows her, knows her face, knows she’s Mon’s cousin and Cassian’s friend, knows she has a history she doesn’t talk about, hope to the Force doesn’t know her connection to Kleya — simply chooses not to call. It’ll be fine, if she can convince him by not trying too hard to convince him. 

please this one time don’t be suspicious, don’t follow your gut, don’t take the extra step.

-

Dreena leads Kleya across the roof to an engineer access hatch, door propped open, which shows a narrow set of steps running down onto a catwalk along the top of the hanger.

Dreena leans in to put her mouth next to Kleya’s ear, so she can ask below the wind “Are you okay with heights?”

“I’m perfectly fine with them. It’s my stomach which takes umbrage.” 

Before Dreena needs to formulate a response, Kleya takes a deep breath, narrows her eyes, and shimmies down the steps.

Kleya and her stomach are less than thrilled to find the catwalk is mostly perforated, and up close she can even more clearly see through to the floor several stories below. Instead of looking down she looks forward, where several lengths of catwalk lead to the next set of narrow steps. 

She’s taken two steps when behind her, Dreena’s boots hit the perforated metal with a soft thunk, shifting the scaffolding slightly. Kleya doesn’t make any sudden moves, but her knuckles on the railing turn white with the effort to keep herself still, and her stomach contents in place. She takes another step. Another. 

-

Arrol triple checks the securement of everything in the cargo bay.

In the cockpit, Wil watches Dreena and Kleya’s shadows high in the hangar ceiling, while Niika keeps an eye on Vel at the Chief Warden duty station, both tensely waiting for any sign of success or danger. 

Despite the ship being off, both have their hands resting on the controls, itching and ready.

-

Utterly unwilling to awaken a Council member at this hour, especially the one who recorded a secure holo just so she wouldn’t need to be disturbed, the warden taps in the long sequence of buttons to open the launch bay doors.

-

Dreena and Kleya shuffle down the catwalk, which creaks are drowned out by the rain and general metal noises as the hangar adjusts to the wind and wet ground.

The series of walks and ladders gets them closer to the ground and near the Longprobe, where Dreena signals them to pause. 

They slowly sit down, careful not to make too much noise or motion. Dreena takes the rope and ties a quick hitch over the scaffold bracing between them, then points to where she’s going to drop the other end. 

Both women look towards the security station, where the warden is in conversation with Vel. Dreena lets down the rope end quickly as she can without causing too much motion. 

-

As the hangar doors begin to open, the Longprobe begins to power up, the only signifier a low hum and the interior running lights blinking low for a split second before being manually shut off before they come to full power.

Vel gives silent thanks to Wil’s timing; not only will the noises run together, and the Chief Warden doesn’t seem to think anything amiss, but the Longprobe will be ready to go by the time she gets to it. assuming everyone else is there too. please please please. 

-

Kleya concentrates on her breathing and the rope fibres encircling the steel brace next to her. She leans against the brace and adjusts herself as close to the catwalk edge as she can bear. cool metal. She takes hold of the top of the rope near its anchor point with both hands. rough hemp. She looks to where Vel is still engaging the warden’s attention. so close, so far. She surveys the hangar again. smell of starship fuel. She clings tighter to the rope. cool metal. rough hemp. so close. do not hesitate.

Dreena finishes unspooling the full length of rope, turns to Kleya, tilts her head: ready? 

Face grim, Kleya nods yes, swings her legs around the rope and tilts herself off the platform into empty space. The damp rope slides between her knees, against her tunic, between her palms, slowing her descent . . . though not as slow as she might like, considering the floor rushing towards her.

When her boots hit the cement she looks up to see Dreena still in position. Then, cursing the wobble in her legs for betraying her, she scurries the few remaining lengths to where the Longprobe mechanic access ramp is lowered.

-

“Thank you, Chief Leckbow.” Vel says, taking the holo back and pocketing it.

“May the Force be with you.”

Vel nods in response I hope it is and walks towards the Longprobe not too fast, casual, not too casual. 

Three steps, four steps, five, six, seven, and she hears someone behind her speaking, but not directed to her.

“Good evening, Chief Warden. Can you confirm for me if anyone was scheduled to depart this evening?” 

Efflin. kriff him.

-

Ducking into the cockpit, Kleya stops short at the sight of a dark-haired girl in the co-pilot seat. Wil sees her guard fly up, and puts two and two together. “Kleya, Niika, Niika, Kleya.”

Niika nods a greeting without taking her eyes off the instruments, double checking all Wil’s pre-flight checks as the craft continues to power up. “Nice to meet you, Kleya. Big fan of your work.” 

“Speaking of.” Wil points to a section of panel with several jerry-rigged wires metal twist-tied into knots. “We did our best to give you a head start, but could you take a look at that?” 

Given a task, Kleya snaps into action. She checks the wiring in concentrated silence, but Niika hears her mutter under her breath “not bad for amateurs” before she makes a few lightning-quick tweaks, then turns her attention to all the wires they hadn’t touched.

-

“Right there sir” the warden is saying, and when Vel turns around, still slow and casual, Efflin is marching in her direction, cape fluttering around him.

Vel takes a few steps toward him, not too fast, you’re not hiding anything, just to show you aren’t running. 

“Good evening, well I guess it’s nearly morning—“ she starts, but Efflin is having none of her pleasantries-slash-stall-tactics.

“The chief warden informs me you’re taking one of our ships on an unsanctioned mission in the middle of the night.”

we’ll play it your way then. “No, sir, he must have misinformed you. But I am undertaking an important task. For the rebellion.” Vel holds out the holoprojector, taking a half step towards him as she does, acting as though she’s being helpful to show it to him front-on, but turning him slightly so he will be angled in a way not to see any motion near the Longprobe, or lights through its windows.

-

Seeing Efflin turn his back towards her, Dreena slides down the rope as casually as she might take a morning stroll, and darts without pause to climb up the ramp to join the anxiously waiting foursome of Wil, Niika, Arrol, and Kleya.

-

Vel speaks quickly to cut off Efflin’s objections, to keep the conversation going. She notes — without once shifting her eyes from Efflin’s face — that Dreena had made it down from the rigging and into the Longprobe. Which means, Kleya is already onboard. “I’ve not been briefed to inform you of my movements, you understand. But this is my pass.”

Efflin takes the holoprojector from her and pushes the button; nothing happens. 

“Huh. Must have a hard limit set on its plays” Vel says, as though she didn’t know its plays had expired, didn’t know from the moment she opened it back in her hut and saw “1 OF 2” pop up before she watched Mon’s message the first time.

Efflin pushes the button again, stabbing at it with his forefinger as though this will produce a different result. It does not. “Assuming I even believe this ever had a message. You can tell me what it did say.”

“No, sir.”

Efflin squints at her, in anger. “You will obey your superior officer, soldier.”

-

Wil finishes running his checks, and Niika confirms them. “Waiting for blaster doors to hover. Once we can hover, can bring engines to full power.” “Copy.”

-

Squaring her shoulders, Vel puts on her most prim and proper business voice. “No sir, I’m sorry sir. And if the Chief Warden is doing his job properly, he won’t either. In fact, I think you may be asking me because he wouldn’t tell you. He knows as well as you do, as well as I, that you can’t ask us to reveal something if the people who gave me this holo put such strict limits on it.” 

-

Intent on the increasingly complex maze of wires in front of her, Kleya takes the knife from her makeshift belt, flicks it open, cuts two wires and strips the sheathing from their ends. 

-

Efflin shifts his weight, and as he does touches his right hip with his right hand. Noting the muscle-memoried movement, Vel realises: he used to carry a blaster.

The split second of recognition that Efflin’s about to attack gives her a chance to sidestep as he swings, a poorly disguised roundhouse which still comes with enough quickness and body rotation behind it to show he has significant training. His position isn’t a gift, he earned his rank through service.

Her sidestep moved Vel outside Efflin’s range of motion instead of having to parry, which is ideal because he’s got a good three handbreadths and thirty kilos on her; she doesn’t want to have to match him blow for blow. 

Nor does she have time to get into a prolonged fight, stay out of range until he overexerts himself, or take him down to the ground and subdue him — because in about sixty seconds the hangar doors will be open, the safety force field between them will automatically lower, and the Longprobe will be clear to take off.

Every second she isn’t on the ship after it’s fully primed escalates their danger. She cannot, will not, be the cause of their capture. Being caught at this point would mean court martial for everyone except Kleya, who will face her assured death penalty sentence alone. 

Vel’s sure she can beat Efflin in a footrace to the Longprobe, but not that she could get up the hatch and close it before he does enough damage to the door to keep the craft from being space-safe . . . let alone the fact that would require her to turn her back on him, and she’s not positive he doesn’t have a small blaster or other weapon hidden on him. On top of that, she doesn’t want to draw the warden’s attention to who is actually on the Longprobe yet.

All these calculations flash through her head in the time it takes to dodge Efflin’s powerful roundhouse and reset her feet.

-

A sharp spike drives through Kleya’s tunnel of concentration; turning to find its source, she sees Niika looking away from the console, and follows Niika’s gaze to where— Vel. 

Kleya has dropped the wires and is at the cockpit door before she cognitively processes her next movements, but Dreena is in the small hallway, hands up, trying to stop her without physically impeding her. “Wait, Kleya.”

“Vel needs me.”

“She went over this contingency with us; she has to sort it out alone.”

“Or what Dreena.”

“If we go out we run the risk—“

“Or what, Dreena.”

-

Instead of swinging again, Efflin takes off running on a 90 degree angle from their position. For a moment, Vel is confused; he’s not headed for the Longprobe, and no live weapons are allowed to be stored on the hangar floor. 

Then she looks along his path and realises he’s headed towards the emergency override control panel, housed in a larger console near the middle of the hangar.

Vel’s first instinct is to draw her blaster and shoot the panel, but she immediately discards that option because it would greatly hinder all of Yavin’s evacuation efforts in the coming days.

Instead, she sprints after Efflin, overtaking him just as he reaches the console. As he slows slightly, she speeds up, lowers her shoulder and plows into his back, squarely hitting his kidneys. 

Her impact causes him to overshoot, stumbling as a sharp corner of the console catches him on his hip and spins him half around. Surprisingly agile for his size, he doesn’t fall, but by the time he rights himself he’s a few body lengths away, and Vel has positioned herself between him and the override panel. 

Not slowly but still quite deliberately, meant to be a warning, Vel unholsters her blaster and thumbs the safety off.

-

Dreena’s hands are still up. “She said to tell you, don’t do nothing daring or noble.”

The words hit Kleya like a fist; the promise Vel extracted. If she gave Dreena those words . . . “She told you to leave without her.” It’s not a question.

“Only if necessary to ensure we got away safe.” 

“Fine. But leaving without her, means leaving without me.” Kleya moves toward the hatch. 

But Dreena steps between. “Kleya. You can’t.”

Her voice undergirt with steel. “Are you going to stop me?”

Arrol comes to the cargo bay doorway; both hands down by his side, but one holding a small stun blaster. Without moving her eyes from Kleya’s face, Dreena clearly knows Arrol is behind her. 

“Only if we have to.” Dreena says. 

Kleya doesn’t flinch, but her face darkens with every curse in the galaxy.

Dreena doesn’t flinch, either. Her very first mission was also with Vel. It was with her on Ghorman where Dreena had broken with the plan, disobeyed orders. Her actions had been a small part of what fucked it all up, one tiny ripple in the effects which led to Cinta’s death.

She’s never forgotten, and she’ll never make the same mistake again. 

-

“Move.” Efflin issues the command as someone used to being obeyed. 

Vel widens her stance ever so slightly, refusing to answer with words, making clear I absolutely will not.

-

Amidst her bright fire of fury, Kleya feels a calm come over her. It’s certainly not from within herself — she instantly recognises the feeling as Vel’s. 

Perhaps feeling something shift, Dreena takes a chance to continue. “Kleya. She can handle herself. She knows the odds. She’s sure.”

Kleya still does not move.

Dreena lowers her hands, slightly, slowly. “Do this for Wil, and Niika, and Arrol. For Vel. We love her, too, Kleya. I swear to you.”

Kleya’s eyes bore into Dreena’s. She spent years surviving because she could read people, and Dreena’s eyes show only truth. It’s not a ploy, not trying to save her own skin. Dreena’s only motives are to save everyone on the ship, and keep her promise to Vel. 

“The only thing you can do for Vel, is behind you.” For the first time in their confrontation, Dreena looks away and Kleya follows her eyes to the tangle of wires she dropped when she felt Vel’s sharp spike of adrenaline.

“You promised her.” Dreena finishes, so softly Kleya maybe imagines it.

-

In the corner of her awareness, Vel knows the ship, which is now pointed directly at the 80% open launch doors, is fully powered. Thirty seconds for the doors to be open, at which point they take off. 

At which point they leave without her, if she’s not there. 

She made Dreena promise on no account to risk anyone’s life for hers.

Especially Kleya’s.

-

Kleya forces herself to step back, to turn again toward the snarl of wires protruding from the cockpit wall.

She takes her rage, her fear, her desperation, and forces them down to the pit of her stomach. anger won’t help her. only this can help anyone now.

Neither Niika nor Wil acknowledge the confrontation which went on behind them; they know if they were in Kleya’s position, they would have attempted the same. They also know what they swore to Vel the night before around her dinner table. 

-

Efflin takes a sudden step as though to charge, but Vel doesn’t flinch. He stops, narrows his eyes, and spits. “You’d shoot a member of the rebellion, for what?” Seeing Vel isn’t going to reply, he answers his own question. “That woman has caused Rebel deaths. Now you’ve let your feelings lead you to the dark side.”

Vel scoffs. “The only one of us who is acting in darkness, is you.” 

“If you pull that trigger on me, you’ll have fully turned.”

Vel hears the familiar groan of the hangar doors. Twenty seconds til they’re open.

-

Dreena walks a shaky two steps to the open hatch, and waits. “She’ll make it.” Dreena says out loud, to nobody. She won’t budge from her position, even as she can’t think of anything but her desire to.

-

Efflin takes a slow step closer. 

Vel tightens her grip ever so slightly, and shifts her weight towards her front foot. She’s willing to bear whatever price. For her friends, for Kleya, for their chance at a future. 

-

The hangar doors clang fully open, and the safety force field drops with a soft blue whoosh.

Dreena feels Wil’s hand clench around the hover handle, but he doesn’t move yet. She can feel him urging Vel on, unwilling to move before he lets her play her hand.

She closes her eyes and sends a thought out to the Force she’s beginning to believe in. please, Vel. please don’t make me a liar.

-

Efflin takes yet another step toward the console as Vel stands her ground; suddenly, he lunges toward her.

Instead of evading, she steps into him, surprising him enough his momentum halts.

Efflin grabs her blaster with his left hand, then lifts his right hand to swing. Vel doesn’t resist, instead grabs his cloak with her left hand and uses it to pull him close, a moment of indecision giving her the advantage as he begins to flail. 

Realising his right arm too hampered to hit effectively, Efflin grabs the blaster with that hand too, and tries to wrench it from her. Yet again she moves with his momentum, jamming the blaster towards him with her right hand without letting go of his cloak in her left. A whoosh of air exudes from Efflin’s lungs as metal connect sharply with his ribs. 

- 

Kleya’s hands shake. She closes her eyes. Concentrates on the love she has, the love she knows Vel holds for her, the love which brought all of them together here and now.

Her hands steady. 

She begins working the wires, mechanically, finding her way by feel, relying on muscle memory and rote knowledge. 

-

Ultimately, Vel’s decision is not rooted in anger, or hate, or revenge. It is an attempt to make sure nobody else she loves has to pay the price of Cinta. Nobody in her care goes the way of Karis and Taramyn and Cassian. Nobody else need make the sacrifices she and Bix have had to. Nobody has to pays the price Kleya paid on Luthen’s behalf, the price she’ll be paying as long as she lives.

Vel makes her decision knowing Efflin is all that stands between her loved ones on the ship, and freedom. 

She flings the corner of Efflin’s cloak over her hand and blaster muzzle, pushes herself flush against him, and squeezes the trigger twice in quick succession. 

-

Kleya feels a rush go through her a split second before she hears the blaster fire; a burst of heat followed by a short, sharp nothingness.

-

For a moment Vel and Efflin stand suspended in space, locked together, before Vel steps back and lowers Efflin’s body to the ground, on the side of the console furthest from the duty station. She hopes the subterfuge will at least ensure the warden comes to check the body before he calls for backup, giving them precious seconds. 

All remainder of pretence gone, she breaks into a dead run.

-

Leaning as far as she dares out of the maintenance hatch, Dreena is the first to see Vel sprint from behind the console towards the ship. thank the Force. As Vel clambers to her feet, Dreena reaches down to pull the hatch door up, yelling “GO” as Arrol jumps forward to help secure the hatch space-tight. 

-

Wil shifts the hover handle up, and the Longprobe lifts a meter off the hangar floor. He lets Niika take over holding the ship steady as he squeezes out of the pilot seat, making room for Vel to clamber in.

Between the hangar doors, the safety forcefield comes back down; everyone is too busy to notice but Niika. “Update, the safety force field is back in force.” she says, calmly but loudly enough to be heard over the engines and general clatter.

Strapping herself in as she runs her eyes over all the panel indicators, Vel grits her teeth. “Copy. Continue preparations for a full-throttle exit, followed by a jump.”

Kleya continues working with the jumble protruding from the wall, her fingers deftly twisting their stiff wires, immersed in her task and the equipment’s low-humming frequency. Seeing she’s not about to move, Wil grabs one of the emergency belts. “Coming around, Kleya” he says. Not wasting mental bandwidth on words, she jerks her head in acknowledgement. He quickly wraps the belt twice around her waist, careful not to disturb the rapid flow of her work, and buckles her into an anchor point in the cockpit wall.

Once he’s sure it’ll hold, he runs to strap himself in to one of the short row of jump seats in the pocket between the cockpit and cargo bay.

The hatch secure, Dreena and Arrol join Wil in the jump seats and strap themselves in.

The tense silence, hum of wires, and whirr of engines is broken by a loud radio beep, followed by the warden’s voice crackling through the ship. “LP392, please hold.” 

Vel frowns, but makes no other response.

Niika asks “want the radio off?” but it’s Kleya who answers. 

“No. I need to hear what they may be doing, both with the force field, and their frequency.”

“Copy.” Niika replies.

Kleya takes out the transmitter she’d spent time rigging the night before, pops the cover off with the knife tip, and slides the still-open knife and transmitter cover into her makeshift belt. not the time for safe and best practice. She twists the four wire ends into the transmitter components she had carefully prepared. “Not exactly my best work” she mutters. 

Niika and Vel pretend they didn’t hear.

The ship remains hovering as its thrusters gather force towards max capacity.

“LP392, please hold. You are not clear for takeoff.”

Vel turns her head slightly to speak over her shoulder at Kleya. “Force field is back online. Thrusters at eighty three percent.” A beat. “Eighty four . . . Eighty five.”

Kleya replaces the transmitter cover and presses the button, resulting in a loud SNAP! A small shower of sparks issues from deep within the snarl of wires. 

Dreena leans over to Wil and whispers “Is that a good sign?”

Wil replies just as quietly “It is certainly a sign.” 

Kleya pokes her face closer into the mess of wires to ascertain where the sparks came from, whether all still looks intact.

“Ninety five. Ninety six.” Vel continues, steadily.

“Go when ready.” Kleya replies out loud, adding under her breath one of a handful of phrases she’s picked up from Vel “nothing for it now.”

Niika takes over the count. “Secure yourselves. Full power and takeoff in Three . . .”

Kleya holds onto the emergency belt with one hand and the transmitter in the other, as though she could convince her rapid patch job to work through sheer strength of will.

“Two . . .”

Arrol, Wil, and Dreena hold onto whatever is closest and, as though drawn by a tractor beam, focus on Kleya’s hands.

“One . . .”

Vel punches the accelerator.

“Go.”

Vel and Niika hold their controls at full throttle, looking steadily into the solid blue safety shield which comes rushing at them at maximum speed.

Chapter Text

Luck.

Miracles.

Invisible electric power.

Love applied with strength of belief.

Mystery of the universe.

Skill of timing.

The Force.

Call it what you will, some times your deepest losses come on whims of fate which would be comical if not so devastating, while other times you win despite every single odd in the galaxy being stacked against you.

When you can’t explain it, there’s nothing for it but to accept it. 

Whether through Kleya’s experienced rigging of wires and manipulation of electronic signals, their combined efforts and wills, or the mysterious Force they none of them fully — and most of them not at all — believe in, the hangar’s safety force shield blips out as Vel punches the Longprobe through the hangar doors.

The ship disappears into the night right as the Chief Warden reaches the emergency console which would solidify the safety shield and begin closing the hangar doors. 

At the panel, he finds Efflin’s body, and sounds the base alarm. 

But that’s no longer the concern of anyone on the ship.

After they’ve make a few lightspeed jumps, Vel is completely confident nobody has followed them, and she, Niika, and Wil have together made sure they’re on approximately the right course to where they believe Bix to be, with plenty of fuel and no foreseeable problems, she hands the controls over to Nikka and shakily climbs out of the pilot’s seat.

Fading adrenaline allows the long-hovering wave of exhaustion to rush over her body. She leans against the wall, breathing through the heady mix of relief and jubilation, and feeling below it a rushing stream of sorrow, bearing an undercurrent of fear.

She aches to see Kleya, but is unsure whether Kleya might want to see her. 

She knew full well when she’d briefed the others she was taking two risks: one, she would be caught or, though unlikely, even killed letting the rest of them escape; two, even if she made it, Kleya may not forgive her. 

Hadn’t she herself fumed at being managed and stripped of agency, even when those doing it imagined it was for her own good or the good of the rebellion? The fact that at times Kleya’s hand had steered or at least shaped those decisions didn’t make it any better, but worse. Vel should have known better. She did know. She could dress it up in care for Kleya all she wanted, but she had to take on responsibility for a fraught decision. 

It was certainly part of her calculus to protect the person who had suddenly, surprisingly, become more precious to her than anyone in the galaxy. Yet, Vel knew it was also a selfish act, an act which was calculated to spare herself.

She could bear the thought of dying — she’d faced it often enough, whether in service or otherwise. She could bear separation and capture if she knew Kleya was safe. She’d faced a damn sight more horrors than most people would ever give a ‘rich spoiled Chandrilan girl’ credit for, and of them all only one thing in her life did she think she couldn’t withstand again. 

Her worst nightmare had become a reality which had nearly killed her a dozen times since. Cassian had been crucial in her dragging herself, inch by agonising inch, out of the darkness which had consumed her, and now he, too, was gone. Seeing Kleya die in front of her, because of her, wasn’t unimaginable: it was all too easy. In fact, it had come unbidden several times in the nights she’d slept alone, in the same cold bed where she’d relived Cinta’s death. She knew what it would look like, feel like, in the moment and the years after.

Knowing made it worse.

So she had taken measures to ensure that wouldn’t happen, and now it was time to face the music. She couldn’t avoid having this talk for long . . . even if they weren’t on a small ship with only four other people, all of whom Kleya was possibly equally furious with.

Shifting her weight to lean a bit, from the hatch corridor, Vel can see Kleya standing in the storage compartment, ramrod posture and set of her jaw betraying her tension.

nothing for it now.

Vel crosses the few steps to the cargo hold door.

-

Kleya hears Vel come to the doorway, but doesn’t acknowledge her right away. She’s too occupied fighting within herself.

Simultaneous with echoes of fear and terror from watching Vel face death, Kleya fights her anger at Vel keeping her on the ship. I won’t let anyone make any choice for me. 

Her natural inclination is to freeze Vel out, to build a wall of words around herself and avoid dealing with these feelings altogether. She knows how to work with people she holds at arm’s length. They can get to their destination, and go their separate ways.

She knows this reaction is irrational, hypocritical. That she would have done the same in Vel’s position. That it was far riskier for Kleya to be seen on the hangar floor than Vel, a known soldier and cousin of a revered senator. That Vel as the mission leader would have taken her responsibility for everyone on the team seriously. That Kleya on the ship with the communications equipment was going to be best for the team, even if risking Vel’s safety.

Vel.

how dare you accept the chance of leaving me. if you’d do that, then I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.

Whether she did ‘need’ anyone, she wanted Vel, and she was furious with her, and she was desperate to protect her, and she was afraid, and she wanted to share her relief at escaping, and ease Vel’s sorrow at what she’d had to abandon, and if Vel said one damn word about doing it for your own good she was going to scream.

-

Vel takes a step inside the doorframe. Unsure how to approach — or rather, whether she’ll be welcome to at all — she hesitates.

With some effort, Kleya pushes down her loudest objections and turns her body slightly more towards Vel.

Fear still hot and tight in Vel’s stomach, she takes the gesture for the invitation it is, and steps in closer; not quite but almost touching, watching Kleya’s profile carefully.

Kleya doesn’t turn to face her, and when she speaks, her voice is so low Vel has to strain to hear her over the engines and ship noises. “I should be happy. I should be grateful. Instead I am . . . those, yes. But also angry. Sad. Conflicted.”

Vel’s fear doesn’t budge, but a tiny flare of hope, that Kleya may at least forgive her, flickers alongside it. “You don’t need to be grateful. I owe you, and everyone here owes you, just as much. We do it for each other. So much debt, there is no debt, they all cancel each other out.” Vel reaches her right arm around Kleya’s waist; when Kleya doesn’t pull away, Vel continues. “We all played our parts, and it was you who brought down the shields.”

Kleya is unused to accepting anything at face value, without needing to poke for an ulterior motive or ascertain what future reciprocal string may be attached. She finds herself surprised how readily she accepts that nobody on the ship owes anybody, or would expect repayment, or feels indebted. The last few weeks have shown her that at least Vel truly acts this way, so Kleya can accept so might her friends.

The other issue, though, Kleya cannot let rest. All cards on the table. “You told them to make me stay on the ship.”

She feels Vel’s body tense against hers. “Yes.”

“They held a stunner on me.”

Vel hadn’t had time or privacy, or to be honest with herself the inclination, to check in with the rest of the team, and discover how far they had ultimately gone to restrain Kleya from coming after her. She is not, however, the tiniest bit surprised it came to that.

“I told them use the minimum necessary measures.”

“You told them to incapacitate me if needed.”

Vel flinches at it being put so bluntly, but steadies. “Yes” she admits.

“You told them to leave you behind. If the doors were open and you weren’t onboard.”

Softer still. “Yes.”

“You told them to put my life above yours.”

“I told them the only way to ensure the most of us made it out, was to stick to the plan.”

Despite nothing changing about the situation, Kleya finds her fury slowly dwindling. Vel’s honesty, her acknowledgement of Kleya’s anger, lets Kleya start winning her internal war.

“You told them my safety was paramount.”

“To me. Yes.”

Kleya considers this. “I know why you were concerned for me. Why was everyone else? Don’t tell me it was purely about escaping. They could have gotten away without me. It may even have been better for them, if I had left the ship. The shield was down for a time. At worst they could have left me on the hangar floor. And at best, letting me go down increased your chances of making it.”

A realisation dawns on Vel. Kleya’s insistence and rephrasing questions began in frustration and anger, but continued because of disbelief. Vel feels a small pang of sorrow at Kleya’s incomprehension of the way some people — in this case Wil, Dreena, and two essential strangers, as well as Vel herself — strive to love and sacrifice for their friends. Especially because Kleya was willing to do as much to serve her cause; she simply couldn’t accept it would be done for her, on her behalf. Perhaps only Luthen had ever done anything like that, and even then, Kleya could convince herself he was acting out of guilt, or obligation, paying an eternal debt he felt he owed.

“They also wanted to keep you safe. Not only because I . . .” Vel’s stomach clenches with doubt, unsure how Kleya would react to that right now. “Not only because of what you mean to me. They care about you, too.”

Kleya frowns. “They have a funny way of showing it.”

“Going so far as to threaten a stunner is a lot. I know they wouldn’t have done anything so drastic, except they gave me their word.”

“Same as I did.”

Vel inhales shakily, nods. 

It’s not quite enough. Kleya presses the issue. “Same as you made me.”

“Yes.”

Kleya sighs, in what sounds to Vel like resignation. “I have to say, on one level, I respect the move you made. Making me swear not to do anything stupid or dangerous.”

Vel notes the slight hint of humor underneath the scalding words, and cautiously moves that way accordingly. “I believe I said ‘nothing daring or sacrificial’.”

“Or noble.” Kleya adds. 

“Or noble.” Vel concedes. “But you admit, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Sounds as though you were pretty determined on being both daring and noble.”

“I only wanted . . .” Kleya pauses, changes tacks. “When I saw Efflin there, I knew your priority wasn’t yourself. I knew exactly what you would be willing to do, and what else you’d risk.”

“Because you would have done the same.” Vel interjects softly.

Kleya ignores her assertion. 

“I could see you there, but I couldn’t do anything. It terrified me. I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t—” Kleya’s words catch in her throat.

“I know. I know.” Vel whispers.

Vel reaches up cautiously and puts her left hand along Kleya’s jaw, hangs there a moment in stiffness and uncertainty, before Kleya presses into Vel’s hand. 

She allows Vel to tip her face so they look fully at each other for the first time since their goodbye in her prison cell, last night. Kleya turns her body to follow, fully facing Vel now, and Vel runs her left hand down and around Kleya’s waist to encircle her.

“I can’t even ask you to say you’re sorry.” Kleya says.

“Because you would have done the same.” Vel repeats.

This time Kleya acknowledges the truth, nodding. “Damn you, Sartha. I can’t believe I didn’t make you promise me not to be noble or daring, too.”

Of all the things, this is what finally lets the hot coil of fear in Vel’s stomach start to loosen. “I did what had to be done.”

“By which you mean, be noble and daring.“

“I would have preferred it be boring and routine.”

“But you expected it wouldn’t be.” Not accusatory, matter-of-fact.

Vel nods.

“And prepared your team accordingly.”

“Don’t hold it against them. I ordered them.” Vel grimaces. “Even then, they followed a few orders quite slowly, didn’t they. Almost as though they were trying not to.” 

The barest hint of a smile crosses Kleya’s lips. “I suppose, we all do unreasonable things when we love someone.”

“Does this mean you’re not . . .” Vel asks slowly, still afraid to finish, what the answer might be.

“I am angry. But. It’s waning.” She rests her forehead against Vel’s. “I understand you did it because you love me. More importantly, I am not going to let you do it again. Since I rather love you, too. Meaning I’ve absolutely determined not to lose you.”

Vel feels Kleya’s warmth envelop her, followed closely by the full weight of how close she came to losing everyone, including this woman she loves, catching up and crashing over her. 

As Vel’s knees give way, Kleya feels her buckling, and shifts to bear her weight. Kleya takes a few careful steps backwards until her back is against the cargo bay wall, then manoeuvres them gently to the ground; Vel’s body draped over her own, head against her shoulder, face pressed against Kleya’s thick green tunic.

Kleya reaches up and tangles her hand in Vel’s hair, measures her own breathing so Vel can feel it as a guide, match it to slow her racing heart.

Despite being in a hunk of metal hurtling through space, running from an Empire which wants them dead and a rebellion which extracted nearly as high a cost, being alone with each other in the cargo bay is a kind of peace.

Exhaustion falls over Vel like a blanket. Held safe in Kleya’s arms, she enters a dreamless sleep.

-

An hour later, as her consciousness begins to return, Vel is first aware Kleya is still holding her, then they’re in the cargo hold, then—

“We made it.”

Kleya quirks an eyebrow at her. “Mmm. Wonderful powers of observation as always, Sartha.” 

Vel shifts her weight, trying to balance her desire to feel Kleya’s body against hers with a need to relieve the discomfort and stiffness of lying against cold metal for so long. Kleya adjusts slightly, making no move to get up, but Vel can see she’s not slept, and is putting on a show of stoicism for Vel’s sake.

Vel leans in and nuzzles Kleya’s neck. “Cmon. Let’s find . . . our, quarters.” Kleya nods, affirming Vel’s assumption, and Vel feels more of her fear and doubt draining away. “I’ll make you some tea.” 

“I’m not tired.”

Vel’s not about to argue any point; not yet. “Some caf, then.” Vel stands, offers her hand, and pulls Kleya to her feet. 

They peek into the cockpit, where Niika captains the ship while Wil dozes in the copilot chair. 

Down the corridor the first two doors are closed, then the kitchen is empty, but on the other side of the kitchen the last housing bay has “V / K” written in neat space chalk. Vel smiles fondly. “Bless Arrol.”

Vel begins assembling the mini thermal kettle and digging out tea while Kleya steps into their compartment. Inside, Kleya sees someone, presumably Arrol, had set their bags neatly along the wall, made the bed with an extra blanket folded on top, and laid out two sets of towels and scrubbers.

Kleya emerges carrying a towel and scrubber. “I’m going to jump in the sonic.” 

Vel looks up from figuring out which identical-gray vaguely-labelled packet of leaves may be the closest approximation to her favourite tea. “Oh.”

Kleya tilts her head to the side, attempting to figure out what that faux-nonchalant tone of voice meant. “Do you want to come?”

Vel toys with the tea packets. “I mean. If you’re fine with—“

Kleya tosses her towel and scrubber at Vel, who instinctively raises her hands, and even still holding one packet in her right hand manages to catches both; the towel in her left hand, and then trapping the scrubber between her right arm and her body. She’s still standing in that awkward position when Kleya emerges with the second towel and scrubber, marching straight on to the fresher without ceremony. Vel takes a second to process — are you ever going to stop surprising me, you confounding woman — then quickly drops the tea packet on the narrow inset counter, toggles the thermal kettle to start heating, and follows Kleya.

Mindful they need to conserve the ship’s resources for what could be a long trip, all too aware of the space-cold seeping into their bones, and despite Kleya’s protestations she’s not exhausted, it’s not long before they’re free of the last of Yavin’s mud and grime, and under the bedsheet with a steaming cup of tea each.

Kleya takes another sip and lets out a pleased sigh. “You really are good at this.” 

Vel smiles at the compliment, as she plays the edge of Kleya’s soft gray sleepshirt between her fingers. 

Even laden with the hurt both carried, their open exchange had reestablished a channel Vel and Kleya felt building itself in Yavin; they’re again aware of each others’ thoughts and emotions faintly underneath their own. 

Which is how Vel knows there’s still a little left to settle before they can move on, and she doesn’t want to go to bed with anything left between them. 

“Kleya. Are we . . . I feel like there’s something else you want to ask.” 

Kleya slowly drinks several mouthfuls of tea, letting the warmth seep into her, before speaking. “I spent a lot of years speaking lies with the ease and regularity other people breathe. On the other hand, the most present and important person in my life left everything most important unspoken. As the years went on, we simply accepted we understood each other, and thought that was sufficient.” Kleya looks up from her cup to see Vel’s blue eyes steadfastly fixed on hers. “I don’t want us to be like that. I can trust you won’t lie to me. I do trust that. But even when I know the answers, I think I need to hear you say them.”

Vel nods. go ahead. whatever you need.

“Why.” Kleya asks simply.

After Ghorman, Vel spent a great deal of time and effort avoiding taking about Cinta. For a long time, Mon and Cass were the only people who could bring her up, and they did so tangentially. Saying her name ripped the wound open as raw and fresh as the day it happened.

But she understands Kleya’s need for reassurance, especially in light of Vel cutting her out of a crucial decision. Answering Kleya’s question feels almost like penance, but Vel knows truth willingly laid on the table is ultimately the only path forward for them both. 

“I couldn’t risk what happened to Cinta, happening again. I could bear anything but that. Anything but watching you . . .” Vel’s eyes instinctively slide closed against the thought, but quickly open again. “I knew the odds. If I did get left, I’d likely be alive, and so would you. Kleya. If I thought you might be hurt, let alone killed, because of me? I’m not sure I would have been able to go through with the plan at all. Or I would have acted out of fear, whatever actions I took a result of being unable to think straight.” Stabs of pain in her palm makes Vel realise she’s started to dig her nails in. Or maybe has been for some time. “I’m not sorry for what I did. I accept how I went about doing it hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t see a way around it, at the time.”

Kleya, who stayed perfectly statue-still as Vel talked, now sets her empty cup down beside the bed, takes Vel’s still half-full one and places it down too, before responding. “I know it’s hard for you, to speak of her. I couldn’t begin to let myself conceive of it. Until recently, maybe.” Kleya takes Vel’s hand in both hers, uncurls her clenched fist, and gently massages Vel’s palm with her thumbs. “I know you felt helpless. Not just then, but on Yavin these last few weeks. The fact you didn’t explode, didn’t take your rage and pain out on everyone around you? It takes incredible strength, to contain that.” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, Kleya considering how to balance her love and compassion for Vel with her own needs.

Vel rubs her thumb along the back of Kleya’s hand, wordlessly giving her an opening to say what she needs.

Finally, Kleya finds her way. “I know you did what you thought was best for everyone’s chances. I know in the past, I’ve done the same. But if we’re going to do this, to have the future. From now on, we figure it out together. Agree, disagree, furious, doesn’t matter. I won’t keep you in the dark, and you can’t, either. You have to allow me in on everything.”

Vel looks at her palm, where Kleya’s minstrations are already erasing the marks her nails left. “I understand.”

“And, Vel.”

Vel meets Kleya’s eyes. “Yes?”

“I’ve never wanted anything so much, in all the galaxy.”

A blue flash of joy. “I promise.” 

The flame of hope in Vel’s stomach increases until it consumes her doubts, engulfs her fears, leaves nothing but bright, blazing light. 

Chapter Text

Vel had a vague idea where Bix had headed after leaving Yavin, and Wil thought she was likely right, but neither had been able to reach out to confirm or do cursory ‘asking around’, so as not to tip their own hand about leaving. When they arrived at her last known whereabouts, they found more breadcrumbs, and proceeded across the stars. 

Being careful to cover their tracks, they navigate the Longprobe across hyperspace, stopping off in a few backwater places where Dreena, Niika, and Arrol would slip off and gather intelligence, pick up a few necessities for the ship, and check in on the situation with the Alliance, now fully in evacuation mode from Yavin.

With all that, the journey to Mina-Rau took twelve days, time enough to establish new routines: Vel started the day making tea and caf for everyone; Wil made breakfasts and Kleya dinners; while Arrol, Niika, and Dreena rotated lunches; anyone who wasn’t cooking or piloting was on cleanup duties. 

On the third morning, something occurs to Kleya. She brings it up to Vel as they clean up the breakfast and Vel makes another pot of caf to take around to everyone. “It’s strange. I wasn’t even surprised when you mentioned Niika in our plans.”

“She’d had significant issues with leadership for a while. Probably why she and Dreena had hit it off so instantly. Then once they allowed Efflin free rein, and she knew what they turned a blind eye to—”

“Yes, she told me about that.” Kleya’s eyes flash dangerously, a sign which had caused many agents, Imperial and otherwise, to tremble over the years. “But, not what I was thinking of. More my response to your reveal was so . . . unconcerned.”

“How do you mean.”

“I simply accepted that of course she’d decided to come along. A person I’d never met! A person I’d maybe seen in passing, was going to join us on a dangerous mission, and risk everything. Now we’re sharing close quarters and life stories.”

Vel nudges her shoulder. “We have friends everywhere.”

Kleya nods, trying to take in how much has changed since the last time Vel said their old passcode to her. “How strange and wonderful, to be always among friends.”

In their spare time they played rianza, read from their tiny collective library, talked about art, and fought over whose music tastes were superior. (Everyone but Wil believed their own taste to be the best, but Wil and Dreena were right: it was Dreena).

Being in a tiny space for a sufficiently long time will strain any relationship, so they’re all relieved when their clues successfully lead them to the small outpost where Bix has restarted her life again.

In unspoken agreement, all but Wil decide to stretch their legs outside the ship, to let Wil go to Bix first.

When he comes to gather them a bit later, his eyes are red from crying, but he’s happy amidst the tears.

He leads them to Bix’s small house, where she is already putting out spare cushions to supplement the chairs so there’s room for everyone to sit. She begins sending short holos to figure out where everyone is going to sleep short term, and stay long term. She refuses to hear “any nonsense about sleeping on the ship a few more nights, absolutely not,” as she bustles around producing bits and bobs they may need. “Shampoo? What about a spare jacket, it’s freezing here as soon as the suns set.”

B2EMO attempts to help, and mostly succeeds at getting in the way almost as much as baby Karis, who is beginning to crawl.

Once the immediate necessities are taken care of, she breaks out a bottle of Revnog she’s been saving. Arrol ducks back to the ship and produces two bottles of his own homemade brew. As the suns set, they all settle in to finish the bottles together.

-

three moons later

Vel comes bearing two cups of caf to where Kleya looks out their window over the square of fresh, loamy ground they spent the last week turning and planting.

Kleya takes her caf and holds it close against the early morning chill, as Vel wraps an arm around her waist to achieve the same.

Time and trust have built new muscle memory; there’s no reflexive stiffening now, Kleya melds into Vel immediately.

“Credit for your thoughts.” 

Kleya considers, sips the caf, lets out a small sigh of pleasure as the warmth and the first tiny rush travels through her nervous system. “I was thinking about the future.”

“Mmm?” Vel brushes her lips against the shoulder of Kleya’s green tunic, encouraging her to go on.

“How I still don’t see it like you do.”

After a few more attempts talking about the future, Vel had stopped bringing it up. It had seemed to distress Kleya that she didn’t process forward thought the same way Vel — or any of their merry little band — did. When Wil led the toast their first night at Bix’s, Kleya again followed suit but struggled to say the words. Vel didn’t fully grasp how Kleya’s mind worked around the concept, but accepted it may not change, and she’d grow to understand over time.

Kleya bringing it up herself, unprompted, was a slight surprise; but then; Vel has grown so used to being surprised, it feels like her normal.

“I don’t daydream, perhaps a product of genetic or cognitive wiring, perhaps because it’s something you have to learn as a . . . when you’re young. For all my life I can remember, looking before me I see only destroying the Empire. Everything after that was a vacuum. I didn’t know what the galaxy, or myself, would come to after that destruction. Survive. Burn the Empire to the ground. Nothingness.”

Mindful how close they’ve both come to nothingness, Vel holds Kleya a little tighter to herself. Once the reality of obliteration has been as close as it has for them, the constant possibility, the deep-down familiar knowing of it, never fully recedes.

“If I didn’t see the future, I didn’t have one. If I didn’t have one, I could disregard myself, and do anything necessary. I was fully prepared to end myself at any point if the Empire came for me, if I even suspected they knew. To do what Luthen . . . what I did for Luthen. Is infinitely harder if you see any future, let alone a happy one. Even to hope for one is dangerous.”

Vel closes her eyes against a wave of sorrow, physical aching for the life Kleya could have had, the love she could have experienced and given freely if not for the Empire. If not for evil and avarice of otherwise common people who would ruin a million lives to gain an ounce more power.

She concentrates on the warmth of her body pressed to Kleya’s, quietly willing some of her strength to Kleya, and as always feeling strength flowing back to her in return. 

“Now, when I look forward.” Kleya pauses, trying to articulate what she’s concluded. “I still don’t see what may exist beyond the next few days. What I see instead, though, in place of what used to be a vacuum, is the is the possibility the future looks exactly like these next few days.”

The concept makes sense to Vel, but doesn’t paint a full picture yet. “What does that look like?”

“Like planting this garden. Like making dinner. Like building communication facilities and relay stations for the Rebellion. Like you.” Kleya feels a swell of joy surge through Vel at her words. “Yes, maybe one day you and I will look different. Maybe one day the garden is made a barren waste, but maybe instead it becomes a whole field, or maybe a skyscraper is built over it. Maybe I can stop hijacking radio waves and instead the communication equipment is tasked purely for making plans and buying caf and talking to each other instead of necessities of resistance. The particulars change. But the future has shape and form, instead of a nameless void.”

They stand together in comfortable silence, drinking their cooling caf, Vel considering both the import of Kleya’s words and her matter-of-fact tone.

Finally Vel asks “Do you prefer it this way? Seeing uncertainty to seeing nothingness?”

 Kleya takes in the cloudless sky hung over freshly planted ground, seeds biding their time. “I used to think seeing the future, any future, was only a liability. When Luthen said ‘life will show you what you stand to lose,’ I took it as a warning. At least partly, he meant it as one. But now life has shown me, I realise, it’s worth the price.”

“What makes you say this now?”

“When Bix said we should plant a garden, I know you were . . .“

“Moderately dubious.”

Kleya quirks her eyebrow. “That’s one way of saying ’in firm and staunch opposition.’”

That’s putting it gently, considering it took a week and calling in the combined reinforcements of Arrol and Dreena’s persuasive powers, before Bix managed to wrangle an “I suppose” from Vel to the idea they should plant their own garden.

“Simply because I did not see how we needed to spend all our own considerable efforts on planting when there’s a perfectly good market around the corner, and Dreena has a much greener thumb than both of us put together, and—“ Vel feels Kleya vibrating slightly as she tries not to laugh. “Anyways, ahem, yes we litigated it plenty, and you were right, and I’m going to love it, especially when we only have to step two feet out our front door to gather enough for winter stew.”

“We?”

“I will do the gathering, as you will do the cooking.”

“Mmm.” Kleya takes a triumphant sip of caf.

“Connect those dots for me. From giving me additional manual labor, to seeing the future.”

“I think that’s it, really. Just somehow, the act of arguing you around—“

“Gently convincing.”

“—debating you into the understanding of how having a huge selection of not just herbs but fruits and vegetables at our fingertips—” Kleya pauses, waiting for Vel to give sign of acquiescence, which she does with a nod and kiss on Kleya’s shoulder and only the barest noticeable grumble “—amongst all that, I found myself arguing for a future, and then from that, somehow, seeing it.” 

Vel sets her cup on the table, turns Kleya towards her, then slides her arms down around Kleya’s waist and draws her closer. She hears and feels Kleya try to put her own cup down and miss, banging it against the table edge. 

Nothing had ever made Kleya imprecise in her actions until Vel came along, and Vel’s hands on her still have an instant effect. 

She readjusts, gets the cup over the lip of the table, but in setting it down too quickly it clunks against Vel’s cup and sloshes some of her still warm caf over the side.

“Oh for fuck’s sa—“ Kleya begins, before Vel’s mouth against hers cuts off her words, as well as any desire for them.

Vel kisses her slowly at first, running her hands under Kleya’s tunic and along Kleya’s lower back, the better to press their bodies together. 

Kleya raises her hands to frame Vel’s face, the faint scar across the palm of her right hand in line with Vel’s jaw, and kisses her back hungrily, wanting more of Vel’s breath mingling with her own, more of her warmth, her taste, her everything.

When Kleya opens her mouth, Vel claims more of her, pushing her tongue into Kleya’s mouth. Kleya sighs happily at the sensation and the sharp tang of Vel and her unsweetened caf.

Time passes as they stand together, giving and taking, letting the galaxy revolve without them.

Rebellion will always exact a high cost.

The cause will always be important.

But it’s no longer everything.

-

Along with nearby locals, rebel stragglers, and others who hear of their venture, the band of friends establish themselves a tiny base, which gains its own notoriety, especially among white-helmet hackers and smugglers. 

Niika picks up her education and obsession with science which was interrupted by the Empire’s violence. As she trains to become a doctor, she enlists a local microbiologist to help cultivate everything needed for homegrown bacta. She enlists Vel and Arrol to build a small, jerry-rigged full-submersion bacta tank, which Kleya wires.

Arrol studies to become a medtech. Alongside his studies, he develops more dad jokes than Bix, Wil, Dreena, Kleya, Vel, and Niika combined.

In her spare time — which as a single mother, even with sixteen other hands and a droid happy to help, is hardly copious — Bix teaches explosives and chemical compounds to fly-in recruits.

Vel ends up with a string of protégés; never having to seek them out, but somehow being found by the right ones at the right time. Between smuggling, shooting, flying, and general tactics, she ends up dispensing more than a little advice on love and loss, too. 

Wil teaches bomb disarmament to anyone who wants to learn, and bakes to relieve his stress at dealing with the bombs. Before long, he becomes renowned for his fermented jogan cookies, which he makes for any and every occasion. The recipe is a closely guarded secret; only Kleya can replicate the process, and she keeps it as closely as she’s ever kept important information.

On the edge of their small housing compound, Kleya builds a small radio tower. Dreena helps her keep track of messages, passing on critical Alliance communications and eavesdropping on presumed Imperial traffic. Over time they bring in trusted locals so they can concentrate more on decoding encrypted messages, developing new code systems, and connecting refugees to support networks. 

Vel and Kleya are the best aunts in the galaxy: first to Karis, then a year later to Dreena and Wil’s wide-eyed, curly-blonde-headed twins. 

They tell the children endless stories, of daring space runs through asteroid fields and far-away planets where princesses slay rancors. 

Karis grows up hearing all sides of Cassian — that he often infuriated Kleya, could be a sore loser when Vel beat him at rianza, loved Bix and all his friends deeply, imperfectly, as well as anyone can hope to be loved. They remind Karis time and again that ultimately, most importantly, when push came to shove Cassian did what he desperately didn’t want to, not backing down even while hoping the burden would pass from him, because he was able and needed to do what was right and good. 

“Your dad fully committed to do difficult things, solely for the benefit of others. Which,” Vel says, looking across the room and finding Kleya’s eyes shining with pride and joy “is one of the many most important things love really is.”

They build bookshelves and kitchen benches, collect books, craft ceramic mugs which Vel uses to serve endless cups of tea and caf. 

Kleya finally has more than one fireplate to work with, and there’s always something simmering away. 

Vel construct a fence around the garden, as much to keep Karis and the twins from crawling, then running, through it, as to keep the wildlife from eating it. 

Where they never needed more than two chairs, they build a kitchen table big enough for ten to crowd around it, sturdy enough to hold a feast, or two people. 

And it often does all those things.

The rebellion rages. War is hell, even when it’s necessary to defeat a genocidal empire. They lose more friends and loved ones, they experience griefs as deep as they’ve known. But they meet them with friends by their side. 

The trick is to stoke the fire without letting it burn you, feeding it but never letting it grow so large as to consume you. 

Eventually the war ends, as all wars do.

Their base becomes a haven where rebels with physical, emotional, and mental scars can come and recover. Niika and Arrol are able to concentrate more on holistic medicine than patching up critically injured soldiers in order to send them back out to die. 

People travel from around the planet to use the clinic’s bacta tank, and eventually demand is so high they build a second, then a third, in order to tend to all the farm injuries in addition to lingering war wounds.

Dreena opens a tiny textile mill, employing locals to make sturdy, hardcore farm wear. Eventually the mill gains a reputation with off-world clients interested in how Ghorman techniques can be incorporated into their planet’s burgeoning high fashion.

When Karis and the twins grow tall enough to clamber the fence to the garden, Vel sets them to work digging out weeds, smiles of pride beaming from their grubby little faces.

Sorrow ebbs, joy and hope coming in to fill the space it leaves. 

Karis finds an orange-striped tooka hiding in Vel and Kleya’s shed, and insists on befriending it. When Bix will “aaaaabsolutely not” let him keep it in their house, Karis turns their big brown eyes on Auntie Vel. Kleya — who has come to realise Vel is utterly powerless to resist Karis’s 'pleading eyes' — accepts even before Vel does that they’ve lost this particular battle, and gained a housepet. 

To B2EMO’s great consternation, Karis names the tooka B2JEEMO, or BJunior, or Beejay for short. Beejay is an extremely good hunter, and the garden absolutely flourishes with her on pest control duties. 

Though Beejay absolutely adores Karis, she never becomes more than tolerant of anyone else but Kleya, and they deign to curl up with each other when Karis and Vel are not around.

Kleya spends three years plotting the communications centre for Mina-Rau. It improves holoreception twentyfold, but Kleya is most proud of how it enables her new home planet to have access to the best education and art history in the galaxy. She never runs out of time for her side hobby of ‘running wiring for the most elaborate contraptions Vel can come up with,’ including what becomes the centrepiece of their back shed: a caf roaster taller than them both.

Vel turns her hands more to architecture and build planning, but everywhere she goes she has a small cadre of young ones following, wanting advice on everything from how to operate the caf roaster to modding their jumpspeeder to where to take a girl on a third date. 

Wil opens a bakery, which Bix runs with attention to detail and precision, allowing Wil to experiment with more and more elaborate breads and baked goods. The jogan cookies always outsell his fanciest cakes, though, by a wide margin.

Eventually the war begins again, as all wars will.

Their merry little band continues to grow, and work across communications, training, and mentorship: fighting the Empire by whatever name and shape it takes, but with more love for each other than anger at any other. 

Heartbreak comes unexpectedly, hope more slowly and with effort. Exulting together and bearing burdens the same way, they multiply their triumphs and divide each others’ sorrows.

Vel and Kleya will serve each other and their found family until their last breath. With ever-present grief and continuing loss come love and joys as strong as they’ve ever known, along with this one new thing they gained together — something you can’t possess before you make it through your first, most terrible night which almost but not quite destroys you — the sure knowledge they have what it takes to survive the worst. 

There is always something to rebuild, and friends worth rebuilding with.