Chapter Text
And the salt in my wounds
Isn't burning any more than it used to
It's not that I don't feel the pain
It's just I'm not afraid of hurting anymore
And the blood in these veins
Isn't pumping any less than it ever has
And that's the hope I have
The only thing I know is keeping me alive.
-Paramore
Yavin IV -Kleya.
It’s muggy on Yavin IV.
The heat here is heavy and damp, nothing like the planet she grew up on and hardly remembers. Not like the dry desert winds of Tatooine or Jakku; the air here is humid and slow - the occasional winds that roll out of the jungle doing nothing to cool her down.
She misses the luxuries of Coruscant - the air conditioned comfort of the gallery and the small apartment she’d occupied above it. The constant hum of the city - shadows to hide in, the flow of people, traffic.
The noise here is different - the sluggish warmth permeated with the roar of an X-wing taking off or the shouts of the troops training near the temple.
She doesn’t know if she should put it down to those last hours on Coruscant or the concussion, but loud noises suddenly make her start, panic trying to settle in under her ribs as she fights it down each time.
She hates it, hates that she feels weak.
She misses her space. She’s not used to living in such close quarters with anyone except Luthen, and he always liked his own space too.
Here, the second her concussion was deemed “self-manageable” she was sent on her way with vague instructions to check in with the medics. Back to the small quarters she’d found herself in on that first night when Vel had found her. Shielded her from the rain, grasped her sodden face between her hands. A dripping, broken, mess of a human.
It made sense - Mon needing to be closer to the makeshift command centre and more in demand than ever.
Vel had the space, it seemed, and after the olive branch (or whatever it had been) she’d extended during that first night she was quite possibly the only option she had.
She drifts unseen on Yavin, the concussion and the heat making her aimless. She sleeps, she avoids anywhere large groups of people gather. She can’t face them yet, can’t handle the eyes on her. Those who have heard of her, or have at least heard the word “Axis” in relation to her stare as they pretend not to. Trying to piece together the puzzle and reconcile her with what they knew about Luthen - where she slotted in.
Everyone else ignores her, too caught up in their own role in the rebellion.
She keeps to herself, a ghost, not sure where she fits in and not sure if she wants to.
The nights are the worst - the panic rushing through her as she wakes with sweat dripping from her brow and names falling from her lips. Vel’s there every time, awkwardly at first then resolutely as they begin to fall into a rhythm, holding her through the tremors and finding a cold washcloth to cool her down. Vel holds her through the worst of it, her strong arms helping Kleya from caving in on herself. It becomes ritualistic- something they never talk about during daylight hours.
Kleya doesn't know how to feel about the way she's coming to depend on the other woman.
She barely remembers how to rely on another person. While she’d trusted Luthen with her life, her modus operandi had always been looking out for number one.
She was all she needed.
She could look after herself.
With Vel it's almost too easy to let herself be cared for.
The concussion takes a while for her to fully recover from, her thoughts fuzzy and actions heavy in a way she's never felt before. Vel picks up the slack - keeping her fed, carefully dressing the wound on her head, brushing her hair and braiding it out of her face each morning. Surprisingly well, Kleya is surprised to learn too.
“I spent years doing Leida's hair when I was living with Mon,” Vel confesses to her one day.
She does it without being asked, hands sure and steady. Never expecting thanks, never wanting anything from Kleya in return. It’s just who she is. That infuriating heart of hers seeing someone in need, someone broken, and having to be the one to fix them.
Vel kriffing Sartha.
Kleya’s first instinct is to protest, to assure Vel she can look after herself.
She doesn't, though.
She silently accepts it. She slowly learns to let herself be cared for. Something tells her Vel needs to do this for her almost as much as she’s coming to depend on it.
Vel has her own demons, of course. Kleya knows this better than anyone, still remembers the way Vel sounded when she’d finally reported in after the job on Ghorman - the last time she’d heard from her before all of this.
The broken sound of Vel’s voice over the crackling radio still haunts her.
The scar on the palm of her own hand from debugging the codex had become synonymous with that night - she still remembers the biting pain as she’d squeezed her nails into the wound to force back the tears that pricked her eyes as she listened to Vel over the comms.
The rage she’d felt at the stupidity of what had happened, the waste of one of their top operatives. The biting anger she’d felt at herself when she’d realized she wasn’t just shedding tears for the loss of a spy, but for the loss of the person Cinta Kaz had been.
A Warrior.
A Miracle.
Vel’s voice had been hoarse that night - as if she'd been screaming. She’d barely made her way through the report before she swore, finality in her voice as she disconnected the transmission.
“Never contact me again.”
Now they were here, thrust together by a series of events and decisions that Kleya was sure would haunt her for the rest of her life. Who knew what she would have done if Vel hadn’t brought her out of the rain that night. She hadn’t even known herself.
It must have taken everything in Vel to bring Kleya in that night. To share this space with her, finding their feet as they learned to coexist.
Kleya doesn’t think she’d have it in her had their roles been reversed. Vel had always had something she didn't, though. A burning desire to see the best in people, to do the right thing no matter the cost.
It was just that…Vel's endless capacity to love, her infuriating tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve - those very characteristics that had driven Kleya to insanity when Vel was an operative…now she herself was the beneficiary of those traits. Kleya doesn't know how she can ever move past her shame - admit that without that kindness she doesn't think she would have been able to hold herself together.
She does just that - hold herself together- for the remainder of their time on Yavin IV. No more, no less.
Sometimes when the sun filters through the trees Kleya can feel something inside herself, a small flame yearning to burn brighter.
She almost takes Vel up on her standing offer to accompany her to the mess hall, to find her something to do in the communications centre.
“For kriff’s sake will you just come outside and take a walk at least?”
She shakes her head. Vel doesn’t push it.
Then the tables turn. Slowly, and then all at once.
Kafrene.
The intel that brought her here, that blood-soaked knowledge that had carried her from her old life into whatever this was; it’s been confirmed. Too bad that they didn’t trust it at first, Kleya can’t help but shake with rage at the absolute time-wasting the Rebel Council has undertaken.
It all happens so quickly after that.
Cassian landing back on Yavin IV with the wide-eyed, feisty little ward of Saw Gurerra. Kleya’s never met her before, somehow. She likes her. She’s young, arrogant, but Kleya can see something of herself in Jyn. She’s a survivor, a cynic.
Jedha.
That scrappy little Jyn Erso proving her worth, Cassian throwing up the middle finger to the entire Alliance council as he jets off to save the galaxy.
Scarif.
With a triumphant rallying of the Alliance forces, Cassian’s gone. A sacrifice to the cause that Luthen would be proud of. Maybe that was what he saw in Cassian all along.
The stuff of legends.
With the news of his death, despite the hope that his final actions infuse within them all, Vel implodes.
Kleya feels useless, she doesn’t have that natural ease with comforting other people like Vel does. She takes a leaf out of the redhead’s book and suddenly it’s like they’ve switched places, Kleya climbing into Vel’s bed night after night and holding her through the tears, the grief, the utter hopelessness at the loss of life around them.
Cassian had become a true friend to Vel, and Kleya hated every memory that plagued her at the way she’d treated them both.
On the night of the battle she steps outside, eyes on the sky along with every other grounded inhabitant of the rebel base. That small flame grows to a furnace inside her and she feels the wetness of her cheeks before she even realizes she’s crying. Vel takes her hand before Kleya even registers she's standing next to her.
The Death Star’s explosion lights up the night sky and suddenly it looks like morning as the face of every rebel still present on the base turns upward.
It's like a sunrise.
And to her own surprise, she’s there to see it.