A/N: Because apparently, I'm still not done writing post-Malachor angst. I actually wrote this a while back and finally got around to polishing it up. I know we're halfway into season three, but I hope you like it.

Chopper Base's infirmary had released him only yesterday; he was elated to be back on the Ghost. Hera refused to let him out of her sight, and refused to let anyone else change his bandages. He was grateful for her: her presence, her voice, the light touch of her hand. But Kanan wouldn't let himself be babied; this was his life now, and he had to adjust to it, the sooner the better.

He was still working on feeding himself. Hera handed him a napkin for the soup that had landed on the table and in his whiskers.

"It was only a drop, love," she assured him.

"You're just saying that to be nice," he teased. Hera was near but not close; he heard bustling from the direction of the sink.

"Are you doing my dishes, too? Darling, you spoil me."

No reply. The soft susurrations of a towel, the clink of a bowl being set back in the cupboard. Then silence. He only panicked for a second, and then her hand touched his shoulder.

"Anything else, love?" She asked.

He shook his head. "Sit with me for a bit?"

"Sure."

Her voice was unsteady, which was uncharacteristic of Hera. He heard the rustle of fabric as she sat, but Hera didn't lean against him, like he'd been half-hoping she would. Sure, the common area was common, and Hera was reluctant to public displays of affection of any kind, but this distance felt different, intentional. He set his hand down between them and hoped she'd take it.

She didn't. They sat in a silence for several minutes that was only punctuated by Hera taking a deep breath.

And then he heard an awful sound. Kanan reached his hand out, found her arm and then slowly brushed his way up to her face. Her shoulder shook once before he found his way there, and when he reached her cheek, it was wet.

"Hera, are you crying?"

She shook her head furiously, brushing his hand away. "No, no, I was fixing a leak on the Ghost earlier, and—"

"Hera, don't." Kanan could sense how hard she was working to keep her voice steady, and it pained him. He reached out to pull her into him, but she grabbed his hands, holding them between him and her like a barrier. Even with the distance, he could feel her body shaking with the effort of holding back tears.

"Kanan, I'm fine," she said.

"You've been 'fine' since Malachor. Stop it."

"Kanan—" She pleaded.

"No. Take five selfish minutes and stop being fine."

Her arms dropped, and as his words sunk in, he pulled her into his chest. She stayed there, still, for a moment, and he held her tighter.

"You can't squeeze emotions out of me, you know," she mumbled into his tunic.

"Sure I can," he replied smartly. "It's an old Jedi mind trick."

"Kanan…" She started to laugh, but her mirth quickly died, replaced by something more painful. A heart-wrenching sound, carrying too much pain to be a whimper, escaped Hera, and she suddenly clung to him, her chest shaking. "Oh, Kanan," she sobbed.

He felt her release, the great tension she had been holding within her flooding into the Force. It was enormously painful for a second, almost knocking him unconscious, but he was revived by the surge of relief that followed. It hurt more than Maul's strike, knowing she had carried that much pain for so long. He brought his hand to the small of her back, stroking gently, choosing to leave her sensitive lekku alone until she was calmer.

"I never should have let you go," she whispered. "I should have been there, I should have done something—"

"Hera, don't do this to yourself," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "You did everything you could."

"I didn't do anything!" Hera ripped herself from his arms. He faced her in shock; he could sense her fury burning in the air between them, and was bewildered by it.

"I did nothing, Kanan!" Her voice was raw. "I let you go without a second thought; I should have been there for you! I should have forced you to ride in the Ghost with me, I should have disabled the Phantom, I should have made up a mission or… or taken your lightsaber, anything! Don't you dare tell me I did everything I could when I didn't even go!"

"And what could you have done, Hera?" Kanan demanded. "Against a Sith?

"I don't know!" She cried. "But maybe if I had just been there, he wouldn't have… You wouldn't be…" Hera trailed off, sounding helpless for the first time.

"Wouldn't be what, blind?"

It was the first time the word had been said aloud, the first real acknowledgement they had given it, and it hung like a death sentence in the air. He knew his tone was too sharp; the moment he said it he felt her recoil, and regretfully, he tried to soften. Kanan reached out carefully until he found her hand, then slipped her glove off and ran his thumb over her skin, smooth and warm.

"I can handle losing my eyesight, Hera." His voice was soft now, but intent. "I can't handle losing you."

"Love…"

"Ezra and I barely made it out of that temple alive, and Ahsoka…" he let his head fall, and Hera made a noise of sympathy, squeezing his hand.

"I know," she said quietly. "I know. I just… I wish there was something I could have done."

"I never would have forgiven myself if something had happened to you," Kanan said.

"Then you understand how I feel about this happening to you!" She countered angrily.

"Hera, I had to go," he exclaimed. "I was putting you in danger. And we both know you're too important to the rebel cause for that to happen."

He could practically feel her frown of disapproval.

"Okay, I'm lying," he shook his head with a sad chuckle and framed her face in his hands. "You're too important to me for that to happen."

He felt her smile fade beneath his hands, and Kanan didn't think any motion in the world had ever cut into him so deeply.

"I should have been there."

"Hera—"

She pushed his hands away. "I should, have been there, Kanan."

He sighed. "Hera, it's in the past. You need to let go of it, it'll only lead to suffering—"

"I am not, in the mood, for your Jedi philosophy," she hissed. The Twi'lek crossed her arms and glared straight ahead at the durasteel wall, knowing full well that he couldn't see the anger in her stance but taking it up anyway.

She heard him trying to stifle his breath, and her eyebrows lifted to her flight cap in righteous, furious anger.

"You're laughing at me," she accused.

Kanan was actually struggling to breathe at this point. "Sorry," he wheezed. "Sorry, I'm… I'm just picturing your face."

Her jaw dropped in indignation, and he must have heard the faint sound it made.

"Wait, wait, hang on, stay right there," he chuckled, shifting and reaching his hands toward her. Hera clamped her mouth shut and stiffened her posture, defying him silently. Slowly but surely, Kanan fumbled his way to her shoulders, then down her arms to find them folded at her chest.

"Okay, tense shoulders, crossed arms… yep, you're definitely mad…" His hands traced back up her arms and found her jawline. "Ooh, that is one tense jaw," he murmured. His touch was as gentle as it had ever been, and she tried not to let it affect her as his bare fingertips traced along the edges of her mouth and nose. Her cheeks were sticky with dried tears, but he tried to forget about that.

"Firm, disapproving frown. Check," Kanan remarked. "I wouldn't have expected any less."

At this point, Hera was fighting not to let that frown crack into a smile, but she held firm. His hands crept up.

"Is that a vein throbbing in your forehead? You're committed," he grinned. A miniscule snort escaped her, but she kept her expression stiff.

"And last but not least… Oh, kriff, I can't feel your eyebrows," he cursed. "I forgot about that."

This gave her great and childish satisfaction. "They're angled downward," Hera informed him.

"Ah, there it is," he nodded approvingly. "I knew I was picturing the right face." He kept his hands on her face a moment longer, cupping her cheeks with warmth. "Still beautiful, though."

"Even when I'm seething with anger?" She managed to keep the edges of her lips from curling up.

"Especially when you're seething with anger," he chuckled. Against her will, her mouth shifted beneath him. "Ah, there's that smile that I love." He ran his thumbs along the apples of her cheeks, and the grin that was growing wider. His hands lingered there, for a moment, and then Kanan's tone changed. His voice fell deeper, husky and low, an inflection of urgency there that he usually reserved for the privacy of their quarters.

"Call me love. I need to know what it feels like when you say it."

It was on her lips immediately. "Love," she whispered, the word burning in her throat. "Love, love, love."

The nearly-inaudible click of her tongue leaving the roof of her mouth, the gentle way her jaw dropped into his hands, the way the final sound of the word hummed into a whisper, lingering long after the voice that had procured it fell silent. He wanted to memorize these things until they were written in his soul.

She only stopped speaking because he pressed his lips to hers. It was a gentle touch, without pressure or desire behind it. In a way, it was reassuring, comforting. It was one thing between them that hadn't changed, that would never change. Hera knew it didn't sound romantic, but it was a reliable kiss: dependable, sturdy and unfailing. In their line of work, consistency could sometimes be the most romantic gesture of all. He seemed to understand that she didn't need it to lead anywhere, and when their lips parted, hers broke back into a smile. He leaned his forehead against hers and breathed deeply.

"Are we okay yet?" He asked softly.

She framed his face in her hands. "You might need to kiss me again, just to be sure."

Hera's last, fleeting thought was that even without his eyesight, he would find her lips every time.