Kanan was going to be okay.
Kanan was going to be okay.
Ezra repeated the words over and over in his head like a mantra, as though if he wished for it hard enough; if he thought it enough times, it would be true.
It had to be true.
He crossed the room in a few steps, stopped at the wall, turned, walked back again, and repeated. His quarters hadn't been built with pacing in mind. He didn't suppose anywhere had been, but his quarters in particular were far from ideal; they were too small, there was no opportunity to get going before you were stopped and had to change direction.
That wasn't going to stop him from trying, because the alternative was to sit down, and if he did that, his exhaustion might force him to sleep. He couldn't sleep. Not before he knew for certain.
As soon as they had arrived back at the new base, Hera had bundled Kanan off to the newly constructed medical centre for treatment. Ezra had watched his slow, halting progress as she led him across the uneven ground, and felt his heart sink into his stomach.
Kanan couldn't see. The lightsaber burn cut right across his face; right across his eyes. There was no way a strike like that had been accidental. Maul had targeted his sight, either planning to finish Kanan off when he couldn't fight, or to leave him for dead, Ezra didn't know. He felt a surge of anger at the thought. He had trusted Maul, and he had betrayed him, and now Kanan was…
Fine. Kanan was going to be fine. Maybe he'd have a scar that would remind him of the incident every time he looked in the mirror, the way Ezra's did, but nothing else.
Ezra had tried to go with them to the medical center, but Hera had sent him away, ordered him to rest until they had news. She had no idea how impossible a task she had given him.
He reached the wall again and changed direction. He tried not to think about what had happened. He tried not to think about Ahsoka. He tried not to think about how Kanan's face had looked under the mask when he had finally removed it, or about the pained sound he had made when he had allowed Ezra, with trembling hands, to cover the wound with a bandage from the medkit.
He tried not to think about the lie he had told Kanan when he had hesitantly asked how it looked, and he definitely tried not to think about the smell of burning flesh that he knew he was never going to be able to forget.
He tried not to think about it, but his mind rebelled, playing the memories over and over until he could think of nothing else. He tried to push the thoughts aside, concentrating on the action of putting one foot in front of the other.
Kanan was going to be okay.
The Rebellion had resources. Nothing like the Empire had, of course, but it wasn't just the six of them on the Ghost anymore. They had a base now. They had connections; medics, experts, people that would be able to help.
He couldn't remember ever being this tired. It felt as though every cell of his body was screaming out to him, begging him to stop, to close his eyes and rest. He didn't even know when he had last slept, or eaten. Before they had arrived on Malachor, definitely, but he didn't even know how long they had been on the planet, and then there had been the long journey home, and however long he had been here, pacing, waiting for news.
A fresh wave of tears blurred his vision and he brushed them angrily away.
Kanan was going to be okay.
The stench of Malachor clung to him. It had sunk deep into the fabric of his clothing, and settled between the strands of his hair. His skin felt filthy with it, as though he was coated with a layer of grime. He wanted — needed — it gone. Before he finally did allow himself to sleep, he longed to climb into the shower and scrub himself until he was red raw, banishing every particle of that Force-forsaken place down the drain.
But not yet. He needed to be here. He needed to wait. If Hera came with news and he wasn't there, he would never forgive himself. He needed to know that Kanan was okay. Then, and only then, would he be able to look after himself.
Because Kanan would be okay.
He had to be.