Sometimes, lying in his bunk in the dark of night, he swore he could remember their faces: her nose, his strong brow, both of their easy, warm smiles. Then the memory would slip away and he would see instead the faces of his crew or any number of his contacts on the streets. Like some insubstantial phantom, the more he grasped for it, the more it seemed to elude him. It galled him to be incapable of this simple act and he often wondered if it was some personal failure on his part that he could not recall something as important as the faces of his own parents.

For the first few days, he silently observed the crew, coming to several realizations: they trusted each other a hell of a lot and they had little regard for personal space.

Playful shoves in the halls and jokes in the small common area were commonplace, as were requests to cover each other's shifts or to borrow equipment. While the privacy of bedrooms were fiercely protected and universally respected, the crew was so much more open with each other than any other he had come across, reminding him uncomfortably of a family rather than a business partnership.

That they showed so much to each other shocked and confused him. On the streets, he had always associated such actions with weakness: you held your personal life close to your chest and you kept your problems to yourself. Everyone knew that and everyone respected those unspoken rules. And so it shocked him to see these fierce individuals, who were anything but weak, sharing and living so comfortably together, trusting in the good will of their fellow crew mates. While nobody was throwing out personal information and much was still hidden, the crew members would still let certain details slip, without fear that the others would use it against them. They even occasionally comforted each other.

Of course, he rebuffed all such endeavors to extend this courtesy to himself, though these efforts were few in number and almost exclusively made by the Twi'lek pilot, Hera. He was a hell of a long way from trusting any of them, especially when they almost left him on that Star Destroyer.

It could become quite uncomfortable, living without the protective barrier of mistrust that he had adapted on the streets. It was much harder to keep his feelings in check when Hera was asking him how he felt or Sabine wanted to know how he liked his eggs. Long forgotten emotions seemed to suddenly rear their head, wreaking havoc on his carefully maintained front of calm indifference.

In the face of so much change, he dug in deep and threw up his strongest shields, pushing away any attempts at friendship. It was the only course he knew.

"Sabacc!"

The proud declaration startled him from his train of thought, and he silently observed Zeb pulling a small pile of credits toward himself. Sabine was looking at the Lasat with a sour expression, her eyes narrowed with displeasure. Noticing this, Zeb showed a toothy grin.

"Guess you can't win all the time, eh?"

She smiled ruefully.

"I suppose I had to let you win sometime. Otherwise you'd never play me again."

The Lasat snorted, leaning back in his chair.

"I'm not afraid of anything. I just know when I'm being hustled."

Sabine sniffed, wiping some imaginary dust off her gloves, and then stopped as she spied Ezra leaning against the wall.

"What about you, Ezra? Want to go a round?"

He shrugged his shoulders, secretly both pleased and terrified that she was speaking to him.

"No credits."

Zeb lifted an eyebrow in mock amazement.

"What, none at all? I'd thought you'd have stolen some more by now."

If he thought that mocking Ezra's profession would make him lose control, he was mistaken. Ezra had spent the better part of seven years being trod underfoot and had heard much worse. Verbal abuse was almost expected. Now that he was on familiar ground, he felt the confidence to lean forward and quietly answer.

"I used all my credits on food. Haven't had a chance to make any more, but I am seeing some new opportunities."

The Lasat pulled his pile of credits closer, snarling menacingly at him.

"Try it, little Lothrat. Give me an excuse to space you."

Sabine rolled her eyes, as if bored of the confrontation.

"Who's going to space what now?"

The new voice was deep and warm, the vowels rolling softly in a Rim world accent. Ezra's eyes didn't leave Zeb even as Kanan entered the small common area, his boots softly tapping on the metal floor until he came to a halt in front of the sink, where he began to wash engine grease from his hands. The Lasat didn't look away either, and continued to gaze at Ezra with unconcealed enmity.

"Oh, nothing. Just clarifying some things for the kid."

Making an irritated noise, Sabine stood up abruptly and knocked on Zeb's shoulder plates as she walked by.

"Come on, big guy. We need to get started on those repairs."

Zeb gave Ezra one more look, then got up and followed the Mandalorian out. Kanan watched them leave, then looked straight at Ezra. Unnerved by the piercing stare, he looked down and crossed his arms protectively, all too aware how defensive that looked.

I have nothing to feel guilty about, he tried to convince himself.

The older man continued to stare, and then opened the food unit, pulling out some of Hera's left over soup from last night. He began to heat it over the stove top, stirring every so often with a wooden spoon. Although the silence was uncomfortable, Ezra was determined to wait it out. He would not be led or provoked into speaking first. The self-professed Jedi had nothing on him.

"Soup?"

Starting at the words, Ezra turned to look at him. There was no judgment in his eyes, no reproach. From previous experience with the man, Ezra had expected a lecture on manners or warning to not bite the hand that fed him, but it wasn't any of that. It was just an honest question.

"Okay."

Kanan nodded, grabbed a second bowl, and ladled him a generous portion. He had noticed there seemed to be some secret campaign on his and Hera's part to help him gain some weight. While he was a bit uncomfortable with what seemed an awful lot like concern, the extra food was not unwelcome.

After handing him the bowl, Kanan sat at the small table and dug in. Ezra blew on the soup, not wanting to burn his tongue.

"Are you going to sit down?"

Ezra shrugged.

Kanan blinked and then turned back to his food, as if he couldn't be bothered to care where Ezra ate his food. This, more than anything else, helped set him at ease. After a few moments deliberation, Ezra crossed the room and slid into the booth, avoiding eye contact with the Jedi. They continued to eat in an almost companionable silence and for the first time since coming onboard Ezra didn't feel like he needed to be anywhere else.

Yay! My first Rebels fic! Leave a review and this writer will be endlessly grateful. Sorry if Ezra comes off more serious in this piece than he does on the show. While I love him along with all his whiny adolescent complaints, I have always felt that a kid that lived seven years on the streets would be a bit more subdued by his experiences (although I am also aware Disney had to make the content appropriate for children). This Ezra still has a mouth on him, but is more quiet and observant. Perhaps this is due to my propensity to create brooding, introspective characters with too much angst. Now that I think about it, that's probably something I should look into. Hm. Oh, and I believe that this may be one of the few times that Kanan's aversion to talking about things works out in his favor as Ezra would have reacted poorly to anything else. Hope you enjoyed!