A Hand On The Shoulder

Mirror and Image

Denial

A hand on the shoulder.

Ezra had never thought about how much one gesture meant. How much it defined his relationship with one person. Or how much could be conveyed by such a simple thing.

Kanan, his master, a Jedi of the ancient religion, a cowboy, a brilliant strategist, a firm but kind teacher... Kanan always put his hand on Ezra's shoulder. It had become a familiar weight, a reassurance.

A hand on his shoulder was support. A soothing squeeze. You can do this. A call for patience. Hold on a second. A guidance. Take a moment. Breathe. A reminder. So many things in the past two years.

When Kanan had been held by Tarkin and the Inquisitor, Ezra had realized how much he missed that hand on the shoulder. How much it was just a part of the life he had chosen. Had grown into. It was a connection. The old Ezra was self-centered and closed off. But that hand on the shoulder was a symbol. He never dared let anyone touch him when he was just a lothrat. That was rule number one for safety. For survival.

Joining the Ghost had changed that. There was roughhousing with Zeb and Chopper, trying to get close to Sabine, working with everyone on repairs and maintenance, Hera leaning over him to check his work. And Kanan teaching him to connect. To give. To live again. Hugging him when he lost his parents, moving his arms and legs just so to get a stance right and his presence. The Force, once Ezra was aware of it, had connection on a whole different level.

Through all of it, as Ezra opened up in a way he hadn't for years, as he relearned empathy and compassion, generosity and courage, Kanan's hand was on his shoulder.

That harried and tumultuous time when Kanan had been in the hands of the Empire had left Ezra's shoulders cold. Too light. Lacking.

And then Kanan was back. Ezra unconsciously vowed that he would never take that hand on the shoulder for granted again.

But now...

Now...

Now a hand on the shoulder was something else.

A hand on the shoulder was being a guide for a blind man.

Because Kanan was now blind. Sight burned away with instant cauterization of a lightsaber. A Sith's lightsaber. Maul.

Kanan's hand was on more than Ezra's shoulder. Hera would often guide him, or Chopper. Zeb was too tall, so a hand on the elbow. Kanan used a hand on the wall as a guide. Kanan, strong, fierce, frustrating Kanan, stumbled. Tripped. Needed things read to him. Asked for descriptions of pictures.

Ezra's heart clenched tightly, feelings roiling and raging and uncontrollable.

A hand was on the shoulder.

And it was so wrong.

There was still a question on what the medics could do. Cybernetics, false eyes, sensors. But Kanan needed more time to heal before any sort of procedure could be considered, let alone implemented. Bacta could save the eyes, but not the sight, more tests needed to be done, occular nerve damage, words that held no meaning, and milky white, and stumbles. So for now, Kanan needed help.

Ezra was torn. One the one hand, he couldn't stand to see Kanan like this. It was like cutting out his own eyes, his master wasn't supposed to need help like this! He was strong, wise, unbeatable! And now he was weak, pained... And this was permanent, unlike that time under Tarkin and the Grand Inquisitor. Ezra didn't want to see this, didn't want to be a part of it, he wanted to deny it! It couldn't exist! It shouldn't exist! If he ignored it, maybe things could go back to the way they were.

Maybe he could go back and never speak to Maul.

Never touch the Sith holocron that was in his bunk.

Because Ezra stubbornly helped Kanan as much as he could because this was all his fault. He had listened to Maul, stood up for Maul, followed Maul. He had seen Maul as someone like him, someone hurt by the Empire. And maybe that was true, maybe they did have something in common, but Ezra would never hurt Kanan. And Maul had. And he would pay, just like the Empire would pay. Because this was all his fault, he would help Kanan.

… How could he not?

Kanan's hand was on his shoulder and Ezra was guiding him through the markets. They were looking for supplies and Kanan had insisted on going, saying he needed to adjust to being around others and out on runs.

Ezra didn't know how Kanan could ever go out on an op again.

Ezra had a steady stream of descriptions going. "Junk shop on the left, focused on actuators I think. Different junk shop on the right, with actual junk. There's too much scoring to tell what he's even selling. Now there's an actual parts shop on the left, droid focused, and a competitor right across. End of this street is a..." Kanan didn't say much, or even acknowledge what Ezra was saying, but Ezra had the sense that he was entirely focused all the same.

The jostling crowd wasn't helping. Most people, the ones actually moving and watching where they were going, quietly stepped out of the way as Ezra guided Kanan through the street. But with the shops and the barkers shouting out deals and people crowded around to look at wares or argue pricing, it was still difficult to walk down the street. Ezra needed to shift direction to avoid crowds, softly telling Kanan everything, from where the crowds were, why they were changing direction, just keep helping Ezra, because this was all your fault.

Ezra didn't want to be there. Not like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Smacking his lips, thirsty from so much talking, Ezra turned down another street. "This street looks like it might have the parts Hera wanted. Definitely more ship focused than junk focused. On the left..."

But in the middle of the sidewalk, Kanan stopped and squeezed Ezra's shoulder.

Ezra stopped and fought down the knot curling up in his throat and the sting in his eyes. A squeeze meant something else. Not a cue to stop.

A hand on the shoulder meant something else.

"Ezra," Kanan said softly, his head tilting to some sound that Ezra didn't know. "We need to stop. Take a break. You're thirsty, we need to go to a restaurant. Don't worry about describing anything else, just get us to a cafe where we can eat."

The stinging in his eyes was sharper.

For all that Ezra helped Kanan as much as he could, he had only ever shared a meal with Kanan once after returning from Malachor. The two day shuttle ride home was its own form of hell, but they'd had ration bars to eat. Just hand one to Kanan and Kanan could figure out how to eat it. But the first meal they'd had back at their new base, one that had been cooked and prepared and smelled delicious. Ezra had sat down with the rest of the Ghost's crew, including Kanan, looking forward to relaxing as long as he didn't actually look at Kanan. The Jedi had been laughing and joking as normal, and conversation had started and it had sounded normal. Ezra had been able to pretend that Kanan wasn't blind and that maybe things wouldn't be so different.

Then Kanan had reached for his drink and knocked it down. He felt for his food and got it all over the table. Zeb had to cut things up for him.

Ezra couldn't share another meal with Kanan after that.

And now he was suggesting going out to eat.

The lumpy knot in his throat doubled in size.

And Kanan was doing this because Ezra was thirsty.

Kanan was the one struggling and having difficulty, but he was looking out for his Padawan first.

Ezra breathed in sharply through his nose and swallowed the knot. Then swallowed it again.

"Whatever you need, Kanan."

Ezra desperately wanted to get this over with. Rush through the meal and avoid watching Kanan struggle through finding utensils or finding food or not making a mess. Kanan had always been such a neat eater, a good cook, said it was part of what he'd learned at the Temple... how to survive, find food and make it palatable. And Kanan couldn't do that any more. So yes, Ezra desperately, desperately wanted to rush.

But that wouldn't help Kanan. At all. So Ezra took a breath and kept describing as he weaved his way past fast-food servers or speeder trucks designed for quickly passing out food. Places that would be cheap to their credits. Instead he went to a family dining place, still affordable, but definitely a better quality of food. It would give Kanan a chance to sit down and relax. A treat.

Ezra didn't want to be here.

The host of the restaurant looked at them, a scruffy pair with Kanan clearly having just been injured and adjusting. Pity surged in the host and Ezra winced. He didn't want to be here. Not like this. The hand on the shoulder squeezed. The reassuring squeeze that meant so much, Ezra's eyes stung and the world got a little blurry.

The host took them to a booth and Ezra guided Kanan to one side of it, then sat across. The hand wasn't on his shoulder and Ezra was equal parts grateful and desperate to get it back. The waiter came with water and menus, quietly explaining to Kanan and guiding his hand to a button that would make the menu speak the list, and settings for the language.

Ezra gratefully drank the water for his parched throat, and didn't watch as Kanan took his own sip. His master sat back with a heavy sigh and Ezra watched Kanan reach up to rub the bridge of his nose, like he always did, then pause millimeters away, then reach up to rub his forehead.

His heart clenched tighter and the knot in his throat surged up.

"Ezra, this isn't working."

That just made everything hurt even more.

"I know," he mumbled, appetite gone.

Kanan actually chuckled. "I don't think you do," he said lightly, smile in his voice and on his face if Ezra dared to look. (He didn't.) "Your eyes can deceive you. Don't trust them."

Ezra blinked. That sounded like Kanan was quoting someone.

"We were trained since we were brought to the Temple to trust the Force, not our eyes. I've fought blind when I could barely walk. It was a common training technique. Before all this I was thinking of starting that with you."

Ezra looked up, surprised. And a little disbelieving. "If you can fight blind, then why are you-" he bit back the accusation, bit back how much he hated the situation, he bit back everything.

With frightening accuracy, Kanan reached out and squeezed his hand. "It's okay, Ezra. I'm not how I was, but I'm okay."

"No, you're not," Ezra hissed back. "Kanan, you're really not." He pulled his hand back. He didn't want comfort. Because as much as he hated this, as much as he didn't want to be here, like this, he hated himself more, because this was all his fault.

"Ezra-" but the waiter had arrived to take their order.

Once the waiter was gone, Ezra slumped forward, burying his head in his arms and just wanting the world to go away for just a few moments. Just so he could pretend to forget that everything had changed. Changed for the worse. Changed like when he'd lost his parents. Change just couldn't be a good thing. Except change brought him the Ghost, expanded his world view beyond himself, reminded him of what his parents had done...

And now he wondered if maybe it was better to have been ignorant. To not know what he was, to have not met the crew and be adopted into their family. Because this, this moment, this never-ending moment in time, was pure agony.

A hand on the shoulder. One he craved and cringed from.

"Sensing people is easy," Kanan said softly. "Sparring blind, you get to know where others are so you don't trip into them, to say nothing for your opponent. But things, objects are harder. I know danger, a blaster bolt thrown at me, an avalanche, those are ripples. Missing that is like forgetting how to drive a speeder. I've never had to sense obstacles around me like this. It's taking more experimentation than I like to find a method that works and doesn't drain me."

Okay, so that made sense. And Ezra felt worse for having thought so negatively of Kanan when his master was so painfully honest all the time. Ezra buried his head further into his arms.

"Ezra, when I said this wasn't working, I-"

The waiter arrived and Ezra had no choice but to lift his head so the food could be put on the table and pull his shoulder away from the hand. The food was steaming and smelled delicious and Ezra's stomach churned. He sipped his water instead, and stared at the plate. Block out the sounds of Kanan reaching and fumbling for utensils.

Kanan was struggling.

Holding back a growl, Ezra looked up and started describing the plate, what was where, and reached out to guide Kanan's hand. Fingers curled around Ezra's wrist, pausing him. "Ezra. I wanted to say-"

"You need to eat, Kanan," Ezra interrupted him. "The medics are still worried about infection and you've been pushing yourself. You haven't been getting enough rest."

Neither had Ezra, for that matter. Nightmares were nasty. For both of them. And Ezra knew Kanan was having trouble getting to sleep with all that sensitivity right around his scarred eyes.

Kanan opened his mouth to say something, but Ezra pulled away and worked on eating his own meal. Subject closed.

With a tired sigh that ripped open yet another hole in Ezra's heart, Kanan focused on the food as well.

Meals weren't supposed to be silent. They were silent for those seven years when he was just a Lothrat. That heavy thick silence of emptiness. Meals with the Ghost were lively, energetic and loud. Bickering, laughing, chatting.

It wasn't supposed to be like this and Ezra didn't want to be here facing it. Swallowing his food was difficult with the chunky knot that was almost permanently lodged in his throat, and his eyes were still stinging. The silence was so oppressive, but Ezra didn't dare say a word. He just couldn't.

He couldn't.

Yet somehow, he was able to clear his plate. Get another glass of water and drink all of it. Even had an iced dessert that did a lot to take away the sting and cool off his warming cheeks.

Then the waiter came, and Kanan pulled out the credits, running his fingers over them to try and read the denominations and Ezra had to reach over and correct the amount left on the table. Standing and helping Kanan stand, a hand was on the shoulder again, this time leading his master out of the restaurant. With a deep breath, Ezra ignored his stinging eyes, hot cheeks, and lumpy, knotted throat, in order to start describing again.

Force, he wanted this afternoon over.

He wanted to hide in his bunk, find a datapad, something to distract himself and forget this and just avoid the world. He wanted to be back on Lothal and ignorant. He wanted to be back on Malachor and tell Maul to stuff it. He wanted to be back on Atollan and the rebel base before they had even left and decide to not go.

He wanted so much, and none of it was this.

"I think we'll cut through an alley," he said mechanically, steadfastly ignoring the knot in his throat. "Less crowds and it will get us back to that street with ship-focused parts faster. On the left-"

They were halfway through the dark alley, sunlight streaming in from the other side as the planet kept rotating through this never ending afternoon, the warm rays just a few steps away.

A hand on the shoulder. It squeezed. And Ezra automatically stopped. Another hand on another shoulder. Ezra's eyebrows tensed and squeezed and the world was blurry and he couldn't talk and his cheeks were burning but he kept swallowing it all down.

"This isn't working," Kanan said, using his blind hands to turn Ezra around. "Ezra, I've been calm and open for you. I've been letting you take this at your own pace, but it isn't working."

Kanan, Ezra wanted to say, but his throat was too clogged.

Hands on shoulders, gently pulling. Strong arms wrapped around him. A hand running through his hair. "Mourn, Ezra. Grieve. Let it out."

His eyes stinging eve more, his face buried in Kanan's sweater, Ezra gasped for breath, tried to swallow down a sob.

"Come on, kid. Cry."

Kid. Kanan just called him kid. Like he hadn't in a long time, calling back to those days when they were first getting to know each other, when they were both healthy and whole. And Ezra just couldn't hold back any more. A moaning wail escaped his throat as he wrapped his arms around Kanan and clutched at the back of his sweater, his cheeks burning with feeling, his brows pinched even tighter together, and tears pouring out both corners of his eyes as he just sobbed. His breath hitched, he couldn't catch enough air, he couldn't stop the tears.

It all came pouring out, all the guilt, all the fear, all the shame, all the frustration.

And Kanan just held him close like he always did.

And that just made it all worse, because Ezra was supposed to be the support for Kanan now. It was all backwards. But it was the way it was supposed to be, it was like it was, it was like it should be. And Ezra just cried.

"It's not fair!" he shouted, voice ragged and pained and knotted and hoarse. "It's not fair! It should have been me! I trusted him, I dragged us along, it should have been me!"

Arms hugged him closer and Ezra held on tighter, grasping at the green sweater that Kanan would never see again. Burying his face that Kanan would never see again. All because he had trusted.

His cheeks were burning and soaked. And Kanan just kept holding him tighter. Holding him together. But he wasn't together. He was falling to pieces and Kanan didn't need that.

But Ezra just couldn't stop sobbing or crying or choking or clutching.

He cried.

He cried and he cried and he cried.

Encased in love he didn't deserve but craved so much.

And as the sobbing subsided, there was a hand on the shoulder.

Encased in love he didn't deserve but craved so much.

The tears didn't seem to stop. They just kept going and going and going.

And then, through his sobs, Ezra noted something.

The solid chest that he was wailing into, decrying everything into, was also heaving. Was also sobbing. Was also struggling for breath. Ezra, tears still flowing freely, throat still a tight knot, cheeks still burning, pulled back and looked. Kanan's bandage was damp, and tears were falling. Grief was surrounding them, and Ezra suddenly wondered if maybe Kanan was trying to be okay and wasn't. So Ezra pulled his hands back and then up around Kanan's neck and just held each other close. Because Ezra was lost, broken, in pieces that were being scattered across everything. And so was Kanan.

Kanan was at his side no matter what. Whether Ezra wanted him there or not.

So maybe, just maybe, just this once... they could cry together.

Author's Notes: This fic was, originally, going to go up much sooner. Everyone and their brother has written some kind of season 2 coping fic, and we were/are hardly any different. Losing a sense like sight is a huge deal, and the five stages of grief were not a stretch of imagination to apply, and Kanan isn't an island unto himself, everyone else is affected by this, too, and so we visit everyone else as they try cope (and we subsequently try to cope) with what's happened.

And then, a scant three months ago, our father passed away. It was very sudden.

For the first time in our lives the two of us are actually living the stages of grief, and for a long time we couldn't look at this fic without thinking about how it came out "Before" and we were afraid of what we would feel proofing it. Then, once the initial shock passed, there was physically no time, because the two of us have to handle his affairs (which are so terribly disorganized that we're still finding things scattered about the house) since our mother is in no state to. It wasn't until school ended that we even had time to catch up, and it wasn't until last week, after we posted Chopper's little vignette that we opened up the fic and risked reading it to see if we could post it. We could, and so we are.

To call the five stages of grief stages is a bit of a misnomer, because emotions aren't so rigid as to go step by step from one stage to the next. The two of us have bounced from one stage to the next and the next in as many hours let alone as many days or months, we skip around as the mood strikes us or as a memory hits us or as the latest crisis pushes us to make more decisions.

Denial is more than just not wanting something to happen - though for Ezra and his self-loathing and guilt that will be the strongest manifestation - it's also looking at the clock and wondering why Da hasn't come home from work yet. Or coming up the driveway and being confused at seeing his car when he should be doing food shopping. It's leaving in the morning and not seeing his silhouette waving us off and wishing us safe. Denial is slowly realizing the absence of a huge part of one's life is the sum total of a million little moments. For Ezra, he wants to undo everything that's happened, but he also is coming to understand that something as simple has a hand on the shoulder, something that has its own weight and context and symbolism is now something very, very, different, and he can't reconcile the changes.

We didn't want to go much further than that because this was (obviously) written before the season 3 teaser. We weren't even sure what Kanan's eyes would look like or if they would even be seen, so we kept the injury as vague as possible. Before posting this we added a few small hints here and there that more closely align with what we know will happen, but from here Ezra can start the season in the next stage of grief: anger. And we all know where that leads.