Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cal passes his lightsaber from one hand to the other. Back again. The reflective yellow-gold of it shows an opaque reflection of himself on each of the panels, and it’s an eerily close match to the clouded state of his mind.

He excused himself a while ago, gave some easy reason about needing to meditate. He probably does. Need to meditate. He just sits instead, tucked away in his room at the Partisan base, in the hollow of the bed’s bottom bunk. No one uses the top one. It’s just home to whatever equipment he brings from the Mantis, things he wants to have close at hand.

Months of planning never feel like enough when the day of the mission actually comes. He thinks he should be used to it by now. Knows that he isn’t, because today’s the day. 

Coruscant. 

Every endeavour to resist the Empire is important. Everything makes this one feel bigger, though: the place, the plan, the fact that it was his idea, but a familiar silhouette in the Force interrupts the thought.

“Knock-knock,” Gabs says, like she always does instead of actually knocking on the door. Cal is used to this. The smile that builds on his face is impulse in the face of familiarity, and when Gabs pokes her head around the door she’s smiling too. She tips her head to the side, catching his eye.

The worry that’s been building – swirling – feels that much further away.

“You look rough,” she says, so it isn’t gone entirely. That’s okay. He thrives under pressure, because you have to when the only other option is to lose. He can’t lose. There’s too much work to do.

“I feel rough,” he admits, and Gabs’ smile shifts, all sympathetic and grimacing. “But I’ll be fine.”

She climbs in next to him and flops back onto the bed, staring up at the panel separator for the bunk above. Cal follows her gaze up to the names there, some painted on, some made from careful scratches of a vibroknife. Conversations through art, spoken through lines and swirls and flowers and spirals, though none of them have left echoes. The canvas of various lives must tell the story well enough. 

This bunk was someone else's before it was his. It was someone else’s before that. Someone else’s before that. There’s an assumption he can make here, a connecting thread to weave. This bunk is his now, because some of those Partisans – most of them – didn’t come back.

This war is endless. It’s greedy, and it’s taken far too much, will take even more.

Cal just wants to make a difference. And right now, he can do that here more than anywhere else. So he stays.

Gabs hums something under her breath that he doesn’t catch. He watches her eyes track across the picture others have left behind, and it’s the same way he has, when it’s late and he can't sleep.

He stays for other reasons, too.

They haven’t really talked about it. Whatever this is. Whatever makes Gabs save a spot for him in the mess hall even if he doesn’t show – something she’d confessed through a laugh when they were all half-giddy on adrenaline, back safe and sound and together after a close shave, everyone poking fun, revelling in survival. Whatever makes them share tattoo stories. Whatever makes him smile so wide at her jokes his cheeks hurt. Whatever made her save his life on that mission she never lets him forget, you owe me sounding a lot like please be safe underneath.

Whatever makes him stop passing his saber between his hands and hold it out to her instead. Whatever that is.

She doesn’t take it right away. She reaches out for him first, linking their arms together and Cal knows why she’s smiling. He can’t remember when she told him – just that she did. Yellow’s her favourite colour.

“Who’s taking it?” she hums, turning it over in her hands, and the light way she asks would sound like a lack of care from anyone else but from her means the opposite. She saved his life. Cal knows she cares.

“The new guy. He’s running point.”

“Okay. He seems nice.” She tugs him closer by their joined arms like she already knows about the flicker of worry in his chest that’s starting to rise. Her head finds his shoulder. “Are you okay with it?”

It’s just a box. A box they can open, should anything go wrong. He’s not going to lose his lightsaber. (His master’s lightsabers. He won’t. He can’t.)

“I'll be fine,” he says again, trying to mean it. He definitely needs to meditate. Takes the saber back when she offers it, passed from careful hold to careful hold.

Gabs tips her head upwards again. Rummages in her pocket until she pulls out a folding knife, scooting up to reach the panel. Cal just watches: the blade releasing with a click, the slight crease of focus at her brow, the way she hums under her breath.

She carves a few wavy lines, slow and precise on each curve.

“What’s that meant to be?” he asks, after she’s done.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Duh. The Force.”

He can’t help his snort of laughter, and Gabs glares at him without any heat, brushing loose shavings away. “What,” he says again, and he’s smiling so wide his face hurts.

“You try drawing something you can’t see!” She jabs at his shoulder. “It’s everywhere, isn’t it? It’s everything. It’s still the Force, however I draw it.”

“Alright,” he says. Reaches, smoothing his thumb over the lines so the last few shavings might fall away and leave them clear. One more physical echo to join all the rest. “I concede the point.”

“Great.” She offers him the knife. “Because it’s your turn. I didn’t see your name up there.”

She must see his uncertainty, because she’s good at that. Reading people. Reading him, and Cal doesn’t know how long she’s been able to do that, but he’s just glad someone wants to. “You’re here, aren’t you? You’re fighting. You deserve to carve your name into a shitty bunkbed as much as the rest of us.”

So he writes it. Takes the knife, writes Cal Kestis, and gets halfway through Gabrianna in an empty space above before she spots it and gasps; wrestles the knife back again. Cal just smiles, smug while she scratches it out, muttering something about his ungratefulness as she does. 

Then she settles back down, back against the wall. Her hands spin the knife in absentminded circles on her lap, and the moment feels unfinished. Cal sinks down next to her, mirrors her pose.

“Not writing yours?” He smiles. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Using my wisdom against me.” She shakes her head. “Devious. Fine, I’ll do it later. Oh, here’s a thought.” Her smile turns mischievous. “We should keep the Senator’s ship. I think we deserve something luxurious.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Does this mean you’re letting me keep the Mantis?”

“Hm.” Gabs drops her head back against his shoulder. “No.”

He sighs, and she laughs, and they sit there for a while longer. It’s not meditation, but his head feels clearer anyway. His kyber sings golden in the Force. He hasn’t stopped to listen to it for a while. Hadn’t had the time to.

Cal turns his head; breathes a slow kiss against her temple. Feels Gabs smile against his arm.

They have some time. They can just stop. Exist for a while. They can talk about this later.