A/N: HEY Y'ALL! So...it's been a while since I posted anything. Like, yikes. (If you're following "After Everything," good news-I'll have a chapter ready this weekend!) I've had a lovely, crazy, incredibly busy summer of traveling for friends' weddings, taking classes, and visiting family. It was a whirlwind and I'm glad I got to do everything that I did, but I'm glad that life will return to normal-ish soon! School starts for me next week, so that's another crazy busy thing to get through, so I'm not sure when I'll have time to sit and write much. But in the meantime, here's a little one-shot (possible two-shot? We'll see?) that I wrote to try and get my mind back in fanfic mode. I was feeling super rusty-hopefully this little fic doesn't give that away too much.

Threads

"I don't like it here." Kanan mostly mumbled as he took in his new surroundings. He kept his voice low enough that there was a fifty-fifty chance his alluring companion wouldn't hear his complaint; the so-subtle movement of her lekku told him she had heard and was choosing to ignore him in favor of thoroughly enjoying her day. It was early summer on Alderaan and very pleasant. Kanan didn't trust the place. He scowled at nothing in particular. "It's too...nice."

For the tenth time in as many minutes, his fingers twitched as his belt, missing the comfortable weight of his blaster. His eyes scanned across the scene in front of him, looking for...something. He didn't find it—not this time, or the others before. But he kept looking before returning his gaze to the woman in front of him.

It seemed that no matter what, his gaze always returned to her.

But not even Hera's charms were enough to set Kanan at ease. Clammy fingers brushed against his unarmed thigh yet again, causing his sour mood to deepen further. He leaned close to Hera. "You still have your holdout, right?"

"Of course," she answered distractedly. They were wandering through a pleasantly-quaint street market and Hera's eyes roamed over everything she passed, from mechanical parts to flowers to dresses. Kanan's eyes roamed over her.

"But where is it?" He glanced down at her right boot again, looking for her Blurrg-1120 and he was sure the inconspicuous holster was empty. She never wore the blaster on her hip or thigh, which meant now it had to be concealed somewhere…else. "If those bounty hunters come calling, is your plan to distract them by undressing to get your blaster out?"

"Why not?" She asked coyly, a sly smile on her lips. "Don't you think it'd be a good show?"

Kanan swore under his breath. "You'll be the death of me, saying things like that," he muttered.

"Funny," she said lightly, glancing back at him, "that's exactly what I was thinking when you mouthed off to those thugs on Nar Shadda last month and got us into this mess."

"Oh, come on!" Kanan rolled his eyes hard. "Are you still ticked about—"

"Til the day I die," she quipped. "You—oh!"

She interrupted herself as she stopped at a textile vendor's stall, admiring an ivory scarf with delicate gold-embroidered flowers. She fingered the gauzy fabric. Kanan noticed how her eyes lingered on the garment and he thought how lovely it would look against the green hue of her skin. For a moment, she seemed to consider buying it, but then she pursed her lips and moved on, no doubt calculating how much fuel or food she could get for the same price. Kanan shook his head.

He paused for a moment, taking the fabric up himself and feeling the smooth material under his rough fingers. It was an alien sensation, much more smooth and feminine and inviting than any garment he'd ever worn, but it was pleasant somehow; not unlike the way Hera's skin felt beneath his fingertips whenever he kissed or touched her, which had happened just often enough to leave him wanting more.

He chided himself. It was just a scarf, and she was just a woman; no need to wax sentimental.

But that woman was moving further through the market and he quickly set the scarf back, jogging to catch up with her. His fingers returned to their subconscious search for his weapon, though not as anxious as before.

As he drew up beside Hera, she turned to him with amusement dancing in her eyes. "Find something you liked back there? I saw a blouse in just the right color for you."

He didn't dignify the jab with a response. "You should get that scarf, Hera. We've got a little extra after that last job."

"I certainly don't need it," she said, sounding almost scandalized by the idea. "I doubt it would look good with this outfit, anyway." She brushed her hand across her plain, fitted black shirt and utilitarian khaki pants.

"You didn't need that new hydro-spanner you bought last week," he pointed out, "but you got it."

She sniffed. "That was a practical purchase."

"You're always practical."

"I think I like it better when you call me pretty," she answered sourly.

His gaze turned playful and he slipped an arm around her, letting his hand settle in the curve of her waist. "That so? Well, I can do more than that if—"

"Kanan." With a dramatic, fake-aggravated sigh, she removed his hand from her waist and twined their fingers together, leading him to a stone bench at the edge of the market. She sat down and turned her face to the warm afternoon sun, squinting.

Kanan was sure he had a mildly-inappropriate comeback at the ready, but it died on his tongue as he studied her profile. Her lekku hung down her back, swinging slightly in a gentle breeze. The curves and contours of her lashes, nose, lips, chin were tantalizing, even after the year and a half he'd spent familiarizing himself with them. In the past, he'd bored of other women in a matter of weeks, if not days. But Hera Syndulla...Hera Syndulla was something else.

She was enough to make him forget that they were on peaceful, bore-you-to-death Alderaan, ducking bounty hunters. She was the only person in the galaxy with whom he'd consider staying on bore-you-to-death Alderaan. He felt like he could spend every day of the rest of his life doing nothing but talking to her and still not know everything about her that he wanted to. She was both completely familiar and a mystery. He loved and hated that.

She was perceptive, too.

"You're staring," she said, not bothering to turn and look at him.

"I—" His mouth worked wordlessly for a moment before he blurted, "I want to know why you didn't get that scarf."

She did look at him then. "What? Are you still on about that?"

"Well?"

She was obviously taken aback by the question, her thoughts having moved far beyond the pretty little garment. "I don't—I liked it," she said slowly, "but I don't—"

"I know," he interrupted. "You don't need it. But you know what, Hera? In all the time I've known you, I've never seen you spend money on yourself. Not really."

A handful of expressions crossed her face and her eyes were guarded. "That's not true," she said. There was an edge of defense in her voice.

He shook his head. "Buying a few meiloorun here and there doesn't count." Hera folded her arms and Kanan knew he should have taken the hint and let the subject drop, but he didn't. "I don't think the galaxy would implode if you let yourself have one little luxury—"

"Kriff, Kanan, you don't understand." Her voice was harsh and she recoiled, surprised at herself. She twisted her hands in her lap, looking down. "During the war, I—Ryloth—food was a luxury. A meiloorun...that was..."

She let the sentence hang, flicking her eyes to his and then down again. Kanan saw weariness and heavy memories in the set of her shoulders. He cursed himself. Ryloth had been hard-hit by the war. He knew that—of course he knew that.

He'd been there, just for a few days.

He and Depa Billaba had been sent to distribute food and aid to Ryloth's citizens after the Separatist blockade broke up. A pocket of resistance remained in the Tann province, but he and Depa were on the other side of the planet, far from all the fighting. Young, battle-hungry Caleb Dume had been disappointed to miss the action. The hours had dragged slowly as he and his master gave food and necessities to the war-weary Twi'leks. His master spoke of compassion and of fighting oppression with more than a lightsaber but he either hadn't understood or hadn't wanted to. He understood now.

That mission wasn't about fighting. It was about people. It was about people's lives and homes being wrecked. It was about helping pick up the pieces. He remembered the Twi'leks-how thin and exhausted and defeated they looked. He remembered how the children didn't laugh and how they cried when they tasted fresh water.

Children just like Hera.

Kanan realized he'd been hoping, subconsciously, that the war had left Hera alone. He'd been hoping that it hadn't scarred her the way it had scarred him, that she'd never known a night spent in terror or hunger or pain. He'd halfway believed there was enough goodness in the galaxy to make it so.

"It got bad?" He asked tightly.

She hummed. "It got bad." She paused a beat and then scooted over on the bench, laying her head on his shoulder. "And then it got better. But I haven't forgotten. It made me appreciate...small things."

He rested his cheek on the top of her head, her cap smooth and sun-warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, centering himself. In a flash of Force-given insight, he was able to understand how the war, for all its futility, made Hera into the beautiful being she was. "It made you want to help people," he murmured.

"That, too." She sat up and turned to him with a playful smile, light returning to her eyes. "And," she said, nudging him with her shoulder, "because I don't make a habit of buying pretty scarves and other things I don't need, I have plenty of room on the Ghost to take in handsome, smooth-talking crewmen."

Kanan grinned. "Handsome, huh?"

Hera didn't reply, but she stood up and the swing of her hips as she walked away was answer enough. Watching her go, he couldn't help but feel there was more to the story than what she'd told him. He didn't know whether she'd ever open up and tell him the rest, but he stood and followed her, hopeful that if he stuck around long enough, he'd get to find out.

His eyes were ahead now, in more ways than one. Before meeting Hera, he never would have let himself think about the war, much less sit down on a bench in a public place and talk about it; that was another thing she'd changed. His past might be right behind him, but it was still behind him, and she was his future. His fingers no longer yearned for his blaster, but for something else entirely.