Ezra glared down at the lounge couch, its fabric worn, but smooth to his touch. His hand twitched as he picked at the tufts in the material. Pitching forward, he leaned down, like a hunchback, burying his hands in his hair. Creeping fingers wound his hair into whorls. He held his breath for as long as he could. He was getting better with this, holding his breath longer each time. His chest rested against his long, lean thighs. He closed his eyes. He concentrated, bent on communing with Kanan. He had not been able to do so for a while. Not since they'd embarked upon this rescue mission, with Hera fully onboard with the attempt.

Kanan…

He could not be dead, or they wouldn't be making this trip. The enemy would not waste its time with a dead body. Preoccupation with this thought was a mainstay of hope. The faster they got to him, the better chance they had of making off with him intact.

Squeezing his eyes even tighter shut, Ezra endeavored to put into practice his master's instructions. Pivotal words of guidance chimed in his head. His brow furrowed. Another word kept getting in the way, interfering with his resolve.

Mustafar…

The name of the place where it was touted that Jedi went to die had managed to worm its way into every recess of his tormented mind. The fiery world's reputation never gave him a moment's peace, unceasingly jerking him around.

Disoriented, he straightened up, shaking his head as though it were a ragdoll's. At least doing this released some of his stiffness and tension, which kept ratcheting up. And up, and up, and up. Pain killers worked fine for physical aching. The ache he had would only be cured when they had Kanan back.

Ezra, although knowing he should, couldn't bring himself to go back to Zeb's and his quarters. He wasn't all that sure Zeb wanted him back in with him. Ezra wasn't the easiest person to live with these days, what with his moody outbursts and surly behavior. Not to mention wreaking havoc with Orrelios' sleep. The Lesat, although not known for being a light sleeper, had thrown him out any number of times, dead set on getting needed sleep in peace.

This old couch never complained. Never berated him for flailing his arms and legs savagely against its padding. What little there was of it, in the furnishing's scruffy condition. Hera's ship couldn't help showing its age, what with all the wear and tear it received. The lounge couch never cared how loudly, and how often Ezra cried out in anguish, in the throes of a vicious nightmare. Beating it down as he feverishly worked to free his master from the Empire's coldblooded, heartless minions.

His face contorted and he thought:

Mustafar…

"You in here again?" His clipped affectation permeated her short and sweet delivery. The trim gal regarded him in compassion. She had begun running out of ideas just how to lift his spirits. Cheering him up had somehow become a full-time job.

Ezra, although knowing who it was, didn't bother looking up from the position he'd reassumed. The sweet musk of Sabine filled his nose, driving him to distraction. One welcomed. The gentle tonality of her voice worked its wile, stilling his thoughts that easily had their way of spiraling out of control. He needed Kanan back in his life something fierce. Her shoulder to cry on wasn't some shabby swap, though.

He nodded in answer, knowing that his verbal response would sound miserable. His dark frame of mind, highly depressive in scope, smoldered. He wanted her to leave him alone, although he didn't want that, deep down. She was offering him her consideration, who was he to rebuff it? Torn up inside, Ezra whiffled. Would it bother her if he remained silent? The silence was deafening, even in his own ears. This was hard for him. He needed, shook with want, but he carried on as though he were stone. An island unto himself. Familiar territory, but unsatisfying.

He squelched his tears, behaving as though they'd never formed in the first place. Shake it off. Babies cried; he was no baby. Though still young, he had taken on the responsibilities of a man. He vowed he would be one, come what may.

Sabine expected it; they all did.

By this time, she had dropped down beside him on the couch with a slight plop. The quiet didn't seem to bother her, as Ezra supposed. She chatted blithely on. "Hear that?"

This time, he shrugged, still hugging his knees. Words were forming, but his mouth wasn't ready to uncork them.

"That's your bunk calling your name. It misses you."

"Zeb doesn't," Ezra croaked.

Sabine kept her sigh quiet. "Can we not talk about him right now. And just concentrate on you?"

Instead of shrugging again, he muttered, "O…" He sighed heavily. "Kay."

"Your Dreams're pretty bad, huh?" Sabine, asked, easing into the touchy subject.

"The worst." With deliberate purpose, Ezra began uncoiling himself. The least he could do was come to a correct sitting position for her sake. Gazing into her eyes, drinking in their flawless luster never did him any harm.

Sabine fell silent then. Looking inward, contemplative. She cared for him, despite her cold-fish exterior she unfailingly displayed. Covertly, she'd begun nurturing these perplexing feelings skirring within her. He had toned down the overweening roustabout to emerge as someone she could respect. Perhaps even love, in time. These feelings were still all too new. She needed more time to get used to them. Being on her own for as long as she'd been had fine-tuned her self-reliance. A flint-like work of art.

She was Sabine Wren, the artistic weapons expert, an integral part of their well-oiled machine, this ragtag rebel faction based on Lothal. And now, she was seeing herself as this kid's close, treasured friend. As naturally as breathing, she slipped her arm about his shoulders, wreathing them. She forced her smile to permeate her eyes as he looked deeply into them.

"Can you talk about your dreams?" she softly spoke.

"These nightmares, one in particular… It's like we're almost about to rescue Kanan. Then up pops the Inquisitor, blocking my getting to Kanan. The Inquisitor is goading me. Challenging me to fight him. If I don't, Kanan and I-we both die. Then before I can do, or say anything, we're fighting high over the fires of Mustafar. On some invisible platform. It's so hot, I can't see straight. The Inquisitor has got Kanan locked tight in a Force cage. There's no way he can get out…"

"You think this'll happen?" Sabine inquired, as calmly as her feeling would allow.

Ezra crumpled, visibly shaken. "I don't know. I don't know. Kanan would explain it better than I, if he were here. Much of all this Force business is too new for me. I'm not sure if I'll ever really understand it all." He slumped against her.

Sabine, not saying much, could empathize. As was the case with Ezra and the Force, so too it was with her and her evolving feelings for this jittery apprentice. The hold she had of him firmed. "You know enough. Enough to get our honcho and friend back."

Still remaining an issue for him, Ezra queried, "You think so?" It stank, feeling this feckless.

Sabine's ungloved hand smoothed over his thigh. "I know so."

The verve interlaced with sincerity of her faith jolted him. "B-but why? How? How can you be so sure?"

A change came over her, one impossible to miss. One that went straight to his heart. "Because I'm getting to know you. And I like what I see…" Thoughtfully, Sabine, as though she'd been doing it for years, ran her free hand through his hair.

If this is a dream, this better not be the Inquisitor, raced through Ezra's mind. Not a dream, not a dream repeated all the while as she drew her face closer to his in cozy cheek-to-cheek proximity. Next he thought: If anyone interrupts this, I'll Force them out.

His heart pounded through his suit. Anticipation was a glowing ember in his belly. All of her nuances took on newer meaning. Sabine was everything, at once. He felt his throat tighten, filling with pressure locked in. Along with his jaw, also feeling the strain.

"I like very much," Sabine purred, blowing tiny draughts of air along his quivering jaw line.

This dream, if in truth it was one, was shaping reality. Such a lovely way this was to salve his emotional wounds. His voice finally emerged from his tight throat, it was a macerated squeak. "I l-like you too." What he should do? Be passive, or meet her halfway? "Very much, I mean."

The Ghost's confines blurred as though vertigo had set in, when Sabine stroked her thumb over the boyish flesh of his lips. His neck's nape prickled. Ezra had the feeling he must be looking perpetually startled as Sabine puckered her lips. Mirroring her, Ezra did the same with his. She sketched one of his cheekbones with a hovering finger, then an ancient dimpled scar near the corner of an eye. There was longing in her eyes, he unobjectively assumed.

That went for his eyes too.

Wisely, he kept quiet, not wishing to spoil it for himself. Nor for her as well. She was doing great, taking the initiative.

Sensing what she was doing might not be what he wanted, she whispered, "I won't bite."

"That goes for me too." He thought to say: 'Proceed." But it sounded ludicrous to his inner ear.

Still, her lips made no contact.

"Uh…Sabine?" She smiled an unconvincing description of a smile. Ezra was used to seeing a sudden sadness huddling within her magical brown eyes. Observing it crouching there sparked a twanging pang. "Are you all right?" he petitioned.

"Are you?" After she kissed him full on his mouth, she huskily continued with a whisper. "Much better, now."

"D-does th-this mean-"

"It means you're going to get through this. All of us will as long as we stick together."

Ezra truly agreed, going in for a bit more of Sabine's confidence-building.

Deciding not to hold back, Sabine gratefully obliged, pouring even more emotion into her ministrations. Ezra gave better than she gave, this time around. In his eager embrace, Sabine easily recognized that he wasn't new to kissing. She wasn't a flirt.

But she knew talent when she kissed one who had it.