A/N: Inspired by the Fictober prompt: Age, the Brandy Carlile song "The Story," and my own discomfort in discovering that aging is not an abstract concept anymore. I toyed with setting this concurrent with last week's episodes of Rebels (In the Name of the Rebellion pt. 1&2), but I'm really curious to see how they're going to steer our ship before I start writing about it. I'm a little worried about Hera, y'all. Anyone else?

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Hera recovered well from the injuries she got over Concord Dawn and she was back in fighting form in almost no time at all.

But her fighting spirit, Kanan noticed, took a little longer to recuperate.

She didn't say anything or act out of the ordinary, but her eyes were missing a certain spark. She looked a little tired, and maybe a little too thin; all of which was to be expected of someone who'd nearly been shot to death in space. But Hera Syndulla wasn't just "someone," and Kanan was concerned. He watched her carefully for days, debating with himself about whether to talk to her. It was a cup of caf one morning, poured at breakfast and then never touched, which finally made up his mind.

It took some engineering, but Kanan managed to empty the ship of its crew so he could talk to Hera completely alone. He knew she was more likely to be open if she wasn't trying to keep a brave face for anyone else. When he found her in the cockpit, her fingers were curled loosely around the steering column, and her eyes were set on empty space in a distant stare. He came up softly beside her.

"I was thinking about making some tea," he said when she glanced over. "Would you like some?"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You don't drink tea."

He shrugged, and then grinned mischievously. "I was going to make mine a Corellian," he admitted. Hera rolled her eyes and shook her head, turning back to the view screen.

"I'll pass."

"Well, if you change your mind—"

"Not in a thousand years."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine." He turned on his heel as if to leave, and then he stopped. "Hey, if you have a minute later, I need a haircut. It's getting kind of—"

"I noticed," she said. She drummed her fingers. "I have a minute now."

Behind her back, Kanan smiled; his scheming had worked. "Perfect," he said.

He gathered the necessary supplies and went to the hold where Hera was already waiting for him, gloves off and sleeves rolled up to her forearms. He sat on a crate and she stepped behind him, draping a towel over his shoulders. She stayed behind him after that, which was very telling. She almost always worked from front to back when she cut his hair and they usually engaged in light banter; her complaining about the irony of a Twi'lek cutting hair, him insisting that she did it better than anyone else. But today, she was choosing not to meet his eyes. She didn't talk any more than she needed to.

"When did you wash it last?"

"Last night."

She pulled the elastic band at the back of his head and slipped it over her wrist. She started finger-combing his hair as it fell free. "Dry cut, then?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Hand me the—"

He finished her sentence by holding up a brush, and she took it without a word. With practiced ease, she brushed his hair smooth and then parted it at the center of his scalp, brushing it again. He traded her the brush for the hair shears. "How much off?"

"About an inch."

Her only reply was the first snip of the shears. She worked meticulously, measuring the appropriate length between her fingers before she made each cut. She started on one side of his head and worked around the back to the other side. Kanan sat very still. He couldn't look up into Hera's face without straining his eyes, so he settled for observing the set of her shoulders and the swing of her lekku; they were rigid. Through the Force, he could sense unease swirling around her. He'd seldom ever seen or felt her so off balance and he knew that if she didn't start talking soon, she'd break. But she maintained silence and he knew better than to push her. She stepped out in front of him and narrowed her eyes, appraising him critically. Satisfied that she'd cut his hair to a uniform length, she disappeared behind him once more and gently tilted his head back. She raked her fingers across his scalp, combing his hair into place before she tied it back as usual.

"Neck?"

"Please."

She held out her hand for the clippers. "Look down."

He tilted his head forward so that she could trim his lower hairline, which didn't take long. "So how'd you do it?" She asked after she turned the clippers off.

"Do what?"

"Empty the ship."

"It's a rebellion, Hera," he said. "Lots of work to do. People are busy."

"Hm." She stepped in front of him, one hand on her hip as she gave the clippers back. "Neck and sideburns, too?"

"If you don't mind." He held up his razor.

This was the part he liked the best. Whenever Hera shaved his face and neck, she leaned very, very close, which always gave him a renewed appreciation of her bone structure and her eyes. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have found her proximity tantalizing, would have tried to kiss her. It was certainly tempting, her face hovering just millimeters from his as she carefully trimmed around his sideburns. But his intuition and experienced warned him against it.

Hera finished her task and turned the razor off, setting it down on the crate. She studied his face, making sure she'd done everything neatly. Her eyes softened and her shoulders relaxed minutely. He watched how her mouth twitched in uncertainty, as if she was deciding what to say.

"What is it?" He spoke softly.

She sighed. "I'm just—"

"Don't say 'tired,' Hera," he warned. "I know better than that."

Her mouth lifted in a half-hearted smile. "I am tired, Kanan. I'm still battling with fatigue because of Concord Dawn."

"I know." He rested his hands lightly on her waist. "But there's something else. I can sense it."

"Is this a Force thing?"

"No," he countered, "it's an 'I've known you for my entire, sober adult life and I can tell when something's wrong' thing."

"Ah." She brushed her fingers across his temples for several moments. She took a breath to speak and then suddenly, her eyebrows pulled together. "Kanan," she said strangely, fingers still at his temples. "You've got…grey hair."

"Yeah," he said, surprised by the abrupt change of topic. "Just a few." He'd recently noticed the silvery strands himself, but they didn't bother him; he figured he'd earned them.

"But you're only thirty-one." Hera's voice carried bewilderment, and a note of something else.

"Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you."

"I don't—" She hesitated, sitting down next to him on the crate. "You'll think I'm ridiculous."

"I doubt it." He took her hand and squeezed it gently.

She drew a deep breath and when she spoke, she sounded small and vulnerable. "When I was still recovering in medical, I looked in the mirror one morning and I noticed…I noticed lines on my face. On my forehead, between my eyes, around my mouth."

She glanced at him and he nodded. "Go on."

"At first I thought it was just from pain and fatigue. But then the more I thought about it, I realized they've been there for a while, and I—it made me panic, Kanan."

"Why?"

"I'm just twenty-six." She rubbed her palms on her knees. She was silent for a long moment before she said woodenly, "I almost died. I'm twenty-six and I almost died."

Ah.

There it was.

She continued. "I was seventeen when I left Ryloth and eighteen when I met you, and I felt…invincible and so…so sure."

"If you're doubting your abilities—"

"No, it's not that," she said quickly. A trace of a smile lit her eyes. "I have never been unsure of my ability to fly."

At that, he felt relieved. "Good. What, then?"

She laid her head on his shoulder. "I'm afraid."

Those were two words he wasn't sure he'd heard her say before. "Of what?"

She was silent for a beat. "I'm twenty-six and I—we—have been in this fight for almost ten years. What if—what if another ten years goes by and all we have to show for it is—is grey hair and lines on our faces and scars and loss?" She sat up and looked into his eyes beseechingly. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Kanan sighed heavily. He was afraid of that, too. They already had scars, they'd already taken losses, and he knew it would only get worse. The older he got, the more he wanted something else from life, but the rebellion was Hera's life. As much as he hated that, as much as he wished it wasn't the case, he knew it was never going to change. He knew it would always be a point of contention between them, existing beneath the complicated layers of their feelings for one another. He knew that it would bubble up to the surface someday and hit a boiling point, maybe one they wouldn't be able to come back from.

And he knew it didn't have to be today.

Today was not the day for saying I told you so. Today, all he needed to do was to let Hera feel vulnerable, to let her feel afraid, and to let her know he believed in her no matter what.

"You could be right," he said slowly. "We could fight for the rest of our lives and never see the Empire abolished. We could lose ourselves, each other, the crew. It could all fall apart." He snorted lightly. "I'm sure it all will; it has before. But," he continued, lifting her chin. "I have to believe that even if we fail, we're laying a foundation for someone else. If the Empire doesn't fall in our lifetime, then maybe Ezra and Sabine will live to see it through. I have to believe that what we're doing matters to someone, somewhere."

Hera tried to smile. "Coming from anyone else, that would be a beautiful speech. You sound more like me than like you. I know exactly how you feel about the rebellion, Kanan."

He felt his face flush, chagrined. But do you know exactly how I feel about you? He rubbed the back of his neck; today was not the day for that, either. "I…I may not like the military thing, Hera, and I may not want to be mixed up in it forever—I'm not going to lie to you about that. But I have every faith in you. What you're doing is not in vain." He squeezed her hand. "Also, I'm really glad you didn't die."

Kanan could almost hear her eyes rolling. "Thank you so much," she said.

"And for the record," he added lightly, "I noticed those lines on your face a long time ago."

Hera bristled at that. "Kanan Jarrus," she said severely, "I don't consider myself to be vain, but that is not what any woman wants to hear."

"Well, let me finish, would you?" She frowned deeply, but nodded. "Let's start with this." He took his thumb and gently smoothed the crease between her brows. "I see this when you're most in your element, when you're concentrating on flying the Ghost. And these," he said, brushing his fingertips around her mouth, "linger after you've been smiling. So do these." He traced under her eyes and around to the corners, where the tiniest traces of fine lines were beginning to show. "I love your smile, Hera. I love watching you pilot this ship. It's what makes you you. Don't worry about the lines. And don't be afraid."

Hera wound her arms around his neck and laid her head on his chest. "Thank you, love."

He held her tightly, wordlessly, until he sensed her fear and anxiety begin to ebb away. And as he held her, he looked down into her face and committed every feature, every line, every single thing about her to memory.

Something told him he should.