Chapter Text
The Temple is quiet.
As quiet as it could be in the middle of a war.
Cal had been dropped off at the end of the last battle. As the sky was painted with hues of orange and pink, signalling the end of another day on Coruscant, Cal found himself standing amidst the hustle and bustle of the Jedi Temple's hangar.
Master Kenobi had stood beside him; his expression troubled despite the attempt at a reassuring smile. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, betrayed a hint of weariness that Cal couldn't ignore. It was as if the weight of the galaxy rested upon the Jedi Master's shoulders, bearing down upon him with relentless force.
He had said that he was just focused on the next mission and to not worry about him, but adults can be really stupid and stubborn sometimes. And that’s speaking from personal experience. And Cal couldn't shake the nagging feeling of foreboding that gnawed at his gut. He had seen firsthand the toll that war could take on even the strongest Jedi. Like his real master.
Focus, Cal. Master Kenobi will be fine. He was fine in the Before; he'll be fine now.
He should really be walking to his dorm room now. However, an inexplicable, irrational hesitation gripped him, anchoring his feet to the ground. It was as though an invisible force was compelling him to wait until the figure of his new not-master disappeared from his view.
Then, and only then, does he feel his body twist and creep into the main halls of the Temple.
With each deliberate step, the soft resonance of his footfalls reverberates against the polished marble floors as he walks through the corridors of the Temple en route to his initiate dorm. He savours the serenity that envelopes him like a comforting embrace. There’s the faint but unmistakable hum of lightsaber training, the distant murmur of scholarly debates, and the buzzing energy from padawans who ignite the air with eagerness as they seek to prove themselves under the guiding hands of their masters.
It's peaceful.
Maybe he can even change his gloves. Some nice brown ones would be good.
But he should start actually working towards changing things now. He’s spent enough time doing nothing. He should look through his datapad and start making some moves…right, after he figures out when those initiate classes he has to go to are. And how to interact with the younger versions of his old friends.
Hopefully he won’t run into any of them anytime soon.
Hello-watching-excited-hello!-knowhim
“Cal! You’re back!” The shout pierced the peaceful ambience—a familiar voice, one he hadn’t heard in a long, long time.
But before he can even begin to process the origins of that voice, a force collides with him. The impact sends a shockwave through his body, jolting him into a whirlwind of sensations. For a fleeting moment, the world around him blurs as a cascade of images floods through his mind.
Memories, vivid and raw, flash through him like fragments of a shattered mirror: the intense focus of lightsaber training, the haunting sight of Master Depa confined to a bacta tank, the mischievous escapades with his creche mates through the Temple's labyrinthine corridors.
Reacting on pure instinct, he pushes back against the unexpected assailant, his muscles tensing with the effort. The force of his action sends the figure crashing to the ground with a resounding thud.
“Oww…Cal! You didn’t have to push me!” The voice, unmistakably Caleb's, carries a mixture of surprise and mild pain. Caleb Dume, his friend and fellow clanmate, now sprawled on the ground before him, causes a knot of anxiety to twist in Cal's stomach.
“Woah, not cool, Cal,” comes another voice, this one to his right, belonging to Sammo Quid, another familiar face. The disapproval in Sammo's tone only heightens Cal's unease.
“Tch. Hello to you too, Cal.” Tai Uzuma's voice interjects, dripping with blunt annoyance, her arms crossed over her chest, further fuelling Cal's sense of dread.
“Hi—hi there,” Cal replies shakily, “you really caught me off guard there, Caleb. Are you—are you okay?”
Cal’s fingers twitch nervously at his side as he watches Tai and Sammo help Caleb up from the ground. They’re so baby-faced and young. Is this what people see when they look at him?
“It’s fine. Just don’t do that again, please.” Caleb playfully narrows his eyes. “You alright, though? You look like a startled tooka.”
Cal manages a weak smile, trying to mask his unease. “Oh yeah…yeah just—” come on, think of something believable, “—you just really startled me. Sorry about that.” His teeth worry the soft flesh inside his cheek; it tastes like iron.
Silence settles between them.
“Yeah, no worries, Cal.” Sammo's voice breaks the silence but not the tension.
“So, what are you three doing here?” Cal asks, attempting to steer the conversation away from the recent...incident.
“To see you, Jellybean,” Caleb replies with a light-hearted grin.
Hah. A nickname. He doesn’t deserve a nickname. Nicknames are for close friends and family. And he doesn’t know…he doesn’t think that they’re close enough to be called that anymore, but Caleb doesn’t know that. He thinks that one of his closest friends has become a padawan, and that—
Is Cal taking advantage of this friendship? Should he keep his distance? Or will that cause confusion and disappointment? He, the person he is now, is not the Cal that Caleb knew.
Is he a bad person for wanting to have friends?
“Hey, so, you want us to help you move rooms?” Sammo offers.
“Oh, uhh…right, yeah. Moving rooms. I forgot about…that.” Cal stammers: his nerves are still frayed.
He doesn’t deserve this.
“So, you’re moving up in the galaxy, Cal. Don’t forget to pass on your infinite wisdom.” Caleb quips, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.
An awkward laugh bubbles out of Cal: “I’m not that wise.”
“Tch. What Caleb means is you’re apprenticing under Master Kenobi,” Tai drawls, his words cutting through the awkward atmosphere with blunt honesty.
“Oh...yeah, right,” Cal responds.
Yep. The spotlight that comes with being with the big figures of the Clone Wars. He hears more than feels his feet shuffle nervously on the cool, polished floor of the Temple. Sammo and Caleb lean forward slightly, their eyes light up with eagerness and curiosity, like a pair of Neekoflights spotting a shiny object. In contrast, Tai's gaze remains fixed on Cal with a sceptical intensity. His expression is harder to read—a mix of caution and, is that concern?
“Come on, let’s get your stuff!” Caleb grabs his attention as the boy bounces down the hall.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t snoop through your stuff.” Sammo chimes in with a huff, trailing behind Caleb. His tone carries a mix of humour and reassurance.
Cal and Tai watch the other two race through the hall, their footsteps echoing with youthful energy. Meanwhile, Cal and Tai proceed more slowly, taking their time to reach the same destination. As they walk together, Cal's knees tremble slightly with each step, a physical manifestation of his nerves. He's walking beside a face he barely remembers.
“So, padawan to Master Kenobi, huh? How’d you pull that off?” Tai asks, her tone a mix of curiosity and mild scepticism.
“Oh, you know…I—I don’t know, actually. I just—it just happened?” The uncertainty rolling off Cal's tongue is very noticeable.
“Is that a statement or a question?” Tai’s gaze locks onto Cal's with unnerving intensity.
“A statement?”
“Ha! Of course.” Tai's brow furrows. “So, what happened?”
“What?”
She sighs, her expression thoughtful, as she gazes down at him. “You’ve changed. You’re… quieter.”
That’s Tai—the blunt one, known for her straightforward observations and unfiltered honesty.
Their walking gait is slow and measured. They pass several tall windows, but the sky above is now only lit by a blanket of artificial lights from the city below. The glow makes their surroundings feel hollow. The ambient noise of the bustling environment now grates on Cal's ears—the bitter grunts of failed lightsaber spars, the distant but vaguely polite scholarly arguments, and the restless energy from padawans make him grind his teeth. Cal feels the weight of it all, the familiarity tinged with unease as they walk through the bustling atmosphere.
She knows.
“You feel different in the Force. Stronger but less...present. Care to explain?” Tai's voice carries a challenge; her tone is sharp and probing.
“Oh, uhh. I did some extra reading in the archives. And I’ve been in a war zone, so I had to increase my shields…psychometry so…”
“That much improvement? That quickly?”
“Yep. It was a really good holobook.” Cal responds, attempting to deflect the scrutiny, though Tai's narrowed eyes make it clear he hasn't fully reassured her.
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to raise any more of her suspicions—she's too perceptive—because they arrive at their destination: Cal’s old room. They are greeted with the sight of Sammo trying, and failing, to restrain Caleb from tearing through the place, meticulously packing away anything that specifically belongs to Cal. It's sweet. He doesn’t deserve these friends.
“Caleb, there’s a thing called personal space,” Sammo remarks, his tone teasing yet sincere.
A genuine giggle bursts out of Cal, drawing two sets of eyes towards him. “It’s fine, Sammo. Most of my stuff was already packed when I was sent out to Christophsis, so there’s not much to move.”
“Suuurreee,” Sammo responds playfully. “Still, it’s your personal bubble, Cal.”
“Yeah, sorry, Cal. Just...excited. You’re the first one of us that’s moving to the Padawan dorms,” Caleb chimes in.
Cal strides up to the bag that Caleb mysteriously sourced from Force-Knows-Where and takes a closer look. Pretty much everything is in there and neatly organised too: toiletries in a compact pouch, his personal blanket—for his psychometry—carefully folded, along with his clothes and spare Jedi robes.
“Come on, let’s go choose your room!” Caleb urges.
“Slow down, Caleb!” Sammo calls out, his voice echoing down the corridor as he tries to keep up with Caleb's brisk pace.
The two friends rush ahead again, their footsteps echoing off the polished floors. Sammo chasing Caleb.Cal fondly shakes his head as he slings the packed bag over his shoulder and moves to follow them.
"He’s scared.” Tai’s voice comes from behind him, breaking the silence.
“What?” Cal turns, surprised by the unexpected comment.
“He’s scared that you’re going to leave us. You’ve got a master—a high council master—you’re a padawan; he’s afraid that you’re going to only associate with other padawans or something stupid like that.”
Cal processes Tai’s words, a pang of realisation settling in.But that’s what he’s afraid of. That they’re going to leave him.
“That’s not true,” Cal asserts, his voice tinged with a hint of defensiveness.
“Tch. Of course not. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s afraid.”
His fingers twitch as he thinks about what he should do. It’s not Caleb's fault that Cal got apprenticed early. It’s not Caleb’s fault that Cal is from the future. That he doesn’t know why things are moving so fast. That weight of this knowledge gnaws at him like a persistent ache. That he’s a karking faker—
“JELLYBEAN! HURRY UP!” Caleb’s shout echoes loudly across the hall, drawing curious glances from several passersby. Cal watches the embarrassment colour Caleb's cheeks as he apologises. And Cal can see it. The way his smile doesn’t stretch all the way to his eyes and the way his slightly more rapid blinking of his eyelids that seem to be squeezing back tears when he looks back towards him.
This didn’t happen in the Before.
“We’re hurrying! We should catch up with them before they choose a room for me…right?” Cal's eyes dart to Tai nervously.
Tai tilts her head in his direction. “If you don’t want the others to figure that out that you’ve changed, then you should do something about it.”
A forced chuckle escapes Cal’s lungs. “Why do you think something’s changed?”
She doesn’t say anything; she just stares at him with a penetrating gaze, her eyes narrowing into slits as she visibly restrains herself from rolling them.
“Uhh…right…” Cal mutters, effectively ending their conversation.
In the end, he chooses a room far away from the noise of the majority of other padawans. It isn’t an anti-social thing. It is. Cal just doesn’t want to deal with the echoes; the child-ish thoughts of the other padawans. He’s not a child. But he feels like one. Every day here feels like he’s sinking more and more into the actual mindset of an actual child.
"You sure you want to bunk here?" Caleb asks with a furrowed brow, clearly concerned about Cal's choice. He clenches and unclenches his hands by his sides, his unease evident.
"Yeah, don’t want my psychometry acting upand stuff, you know?" Cal explains, watching Caleb closely to gauge his reaction. He's struck by how much he had missed while he had been lost in his own mind.
Stop being selfish.
“Ah, gotcha. Makes sense… Is that why you shoved me earlier? It was your psychometry acting up?” Caleb's voice carries a blend of realisation and a touch of concern; his eyebrows rise as he pieces the puzzle together.
Cal hesitates, his hand pausing in an aborted motion to rub his neck. “Yeah…” he admits quietly.
“Is Master Kenobi helping you with all that?” Sammo's question hung in the air, tinged with concern and curiosity.
“Oh, well, we haven’t really done much together yet," Cal responded hesitantly, his voice betraying a hint of discomfort. "Still, uh, getting used to each other.”
The three of them blink at him and exchange glances.
“But he is helping you, right?” Caleb pressed slowly, his voice gentle yet insistent. He’s pouting. The baby fat on his face curling around his cheeks.
He’s talking to an actual child.
“Well, we haven’t really had many lessons together. I’ve only been his padawan for like…four? Four and a half rotations," Cal explains, his words measured. "And we’re in the middle of a war, so…that’s taking up a lot of his focus and time.”
“…”
“…”
"I’ll trip him up with the Force," Caleb declared with childish determination.
"What?! No, no, no," Cal protested vehemently.
"What do you mean ‘no’? He’s not paying attention to you like a master should," Caleb countered, his tone edged with frustration and concern.
Just a moment ago Caleb was annoyed at him for moving on without him, and now he’s angry at Master Kenobi for what? Not coddling him? Master Kenobi has a lot on his plate with the war. He's doing his best. And he doesn’t need Master Kenobi anyway. It only needs him for the image and rank privileges. Maybe he should give Master Kenobi a chance.
Tween logic really doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey, look. Master Kenobi is just really—” Cal starts.
“And you’re not even calling him just ‘master’ so clearly something’s wrong," Caleb injects, his tone pointed and coloured with accusation.
“I’m just not used to having a master yet, that’s all," Cal responded, his tone growing more defensive as he felt himself getting increasingly riled up by Caleb's undue criticism.
“Yeahhh riiiight.”
“I’ve only been with him for four and a half rotations. Four and a half. That’s not a very long time.”
“Oh yeah? Why’d he send you back here then?”
“Standard practice, Caleb. All padawans are sent back to the Temple at predetermined—”
"Are you two done?" Tai interrupts, her expression unimpressed.
"Whatever," Caleb mutters as he stalks off. Tai follows closely behind him, her demeanour suggesting she isn't going to let the matter drop easily.
“…”
“I’ll talk to him,” Sammo says with a crooked smile, his blue lekku swaying behind him as he speaks animatedly. “It’s good to see you back. Never woulda’ guessed that you would become the Master Kenobi’s padawan. And you just wait; we’ll all be padawan’s in no time, and—and ‘cause you’re so far away from the other rooms—we'll be able to be in some of the dorms right next to you. But uh, catch ya’ later, dude, I don’t want to lose track of Caleb.”
“Yeah…see you," Cal replies, his arm raised in a half-wave, as he watches Sammo move off to catch up with Caleb and Tai.
After the others leave, Cal takes a moment to simply look around his new room. The space feels eerily blank, and the echoes here are faint. As he steps further into the room, a layer of dust tickles his nose, evidence of its disuse. He can sense that a Padawan has used this room before, but not for a long time. There's a lingering sense of past occupancy, faint traces of someone's presence that evoke a feeling of curiosity. He should probably start practising his psychometry again.
Calm-warmth-safe
He’s afraid. Afraid of being found out. Afraid that his old crechemates will realise it’s more than the battlefields messing with his head. Tai already knows…something. Afraid that he’s going to kriff up something just by changing the timeline. Afraid of dying alone again.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.
He’s doing okay though. Despite the weight of his fears, Cal hasn’t broken down in front of anyone. He hasn’t screamed at the sight of anyone’s alive face. He hasn’t allowed himself to succumb to the overwhelming emotions that threaten to engulf him.
He just needs to distract himself. Healthy distractions are good. With a deliberate motion, he reaches for his datapad, his fingers tapping on the screen to unlock it. The familiar glow of the display illuminates his face as he navigates to the folder labelled ‘Changing Tides’. So far, he’s written down:
Save the Jedi
- Ensure order 66 never happens (see Save the Clones).
- Loosen ties with the Chancellor and consequently the Senate (strategize diplomatic approaches to maintain Jedi independence)
- Have the high council be more approachable (initiates were intimidated by the older Jedi)
- Have an escape plan if something goes wrong (map out and memorise alternate 'secret’ escape routes within the Jedi Temple and equip designated safe rooms with emergency supplies and communication devices)
Save the Clones
- Tell someone about chips (this could be done with a Force scan(?)/a brain scan)
- Remove chips (research safe and effective methods, consult medical expertise(?) and establish temporary sanctuaries or safe zones where clones can receive chip removal procedures discreetly)
- Make laws protecting clone rights (make ties with a senator(?))
Admittedly, it really isn’t much, and he isn’t sure if he can actually do all of the things that will save his people and the clones. Cal stares at the screen, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Closing his datapad with a sigh, he leans back in the chair he had moved to, the dim light of the room casting shadows that mirror his uncertainty. The weight of responsibility settles heavily on his shoulders.
"Oh well," he murmurs to himself, forcing a small smile for no one but himself. "Tomorrow is a new day."
He’ll just sleep on it. Maybe he’ll think of something better tomorrow.
—
Cal forgot that classes start early.
That’s why past him usually had an alarm set.
He stirred reluctantly from his slumber, blinking away the remnants of sleep as he reluctantly peeled himself from the comfort of his bed. Despite the temptation to linger, he forced himself into action, hastily assembling his attire for the day ahead, already mentally prioritising the tasks on his to-do list.
The sudden barrage of urgent knocks that echoed through the room served as an abrupt reminder of the one thing he had forgotten. Classes. Sammo practically yanked him out of his room, the urgency evident in his grip and his frantic complaints about their lateness reverberating in his ear like a clanging bell through his groggy mind.
The day begins with a light meditation session and Force exercise—disguised as a game. The room fills with a serene yet charged atmosphere as each participant engages in the exercises with focused determination and camaraderie. Cal is kept with the members of his old clan, so he is sitting with Caleb on his right, Sammo on his left, and Tai sitting directly in front of him.
The game is called 'Push Hockey' or something like that. The rules are simple yet require precision: using the Force, they must pass a circular weight from person to person without allowing it to touch the floor.
As the weight hovers and glides through the air, propelled by each participant's focused bursts of energy, the room fills with a mix of determination and light-hearted banter. There are moments of intense focus and quick reflexes as they anticipate and react to the weight's movement. Laughter echoes through the room from the other groups.
They sound so carefree.
They don't know that their entire way of life will be wiped out in three years.
Caleb seems to have calmed down from yesterday, and Sammo and Tai were their usual selves. Or at least what Cal recalls as their usual selves. Sammo, Tai, and so many others from their clan did not survive the Purge.
He barely remembers the other faces in the room with them.
Each passing second in the game, every exchanged glance or playful jest, burns itself into Cal's memories. They didn’t survive the Purge.
They gather for the morning-meal in the bustling dining hall, with Caleb naturally taking the lead as they queue up with trays in hand. Cal makes a conscious effort not to linger too long over the tempting spread of food, aware of Sammo's gentle but insistent nudging from behind, urging him forward in the queue.
The array of choices is almost overwhelming.
They find a spot at the far end of a lively table, enveloped in the cacophony of surrounding conversations that subtly muffle their own idle chatter. Small things like favourite teachers, upcoming assignments, and possible exploration areas.
At mid-morning, the members of Thranta Clan made their way to their first academic class of the day: politics. These classes were usually taught by non-Jedi instructors, though Cal rarely paid attention to the specifics of who would be teaching. Not that he would know. It's been years.
As they walk into the room, Cal finds that he’s right. Another non-Jedi has been assigned to teach them. He made an effort to follow along with the lesson, but, ultimately, he finds the depth of the material covered lacking. If he really wants to learn about the current political climate, it would be better to just go up to the Senate and watch a Senate hearing. Or whatever they’re called.
Caleb and Tai seem to have tuned out for most of the class, their attention wandering elsewhere. Sammo, on the other hand, is diligently jotting down notes on his datapad. Whether those notes pertain to the current class or something entirely different, Cal isn't sure.
Then comes the noon-meal back in the bustling dining hall. This time, it was Tai who was behind him, keeping him moving. The aroma of food fills the air, but as Cal takes a bite, he finds it chalky and unappetizing. His gaze wanders to his friends seated nearby.
They are his friends, he reminds himself, each engrossed in their own conversations and meals. But Cal can't help but contrast them with the Mantis crew, a tight-knit group forged through shared adventures.
A group he would never see again.
Not if he wanted to save his people.
The other three appear to be feigning casualness, their expressions and gestures subtly betraying an underlying tension. Cal notices this, and a twinge of concern flickers through his mind. Did he do something wrong? Should he apologise for something?
After noon-meal, the next class is lightsaber training in the training salles. The Battle Master, Master Drallig, stands with composed patience, awaiting the clan to file into the training area.
Cal enters the training salles with a hint of reluctance; these spaces are meticulously monitored. He’ll have to tone down his skills a bit. He possesses knowledge of saber skills that he shouldn't have—techniques honed not just for honourable combat but for situations where survival is the ultimate objective.
He knows how to fight dirty.
Luckily, today's session revolves around katas, specifically focusing on the basics of Form IV: Ataru. Cal channels all his energy and focus into mimicking the movements of his fellow clanmates, meticulously replicating every swing and shift of body weight, any and all flaws included. If he keeps up appearances, then no one will question him. With each fluid motion, he blends in seamlessly—albeit a little clumsily—concealing the extent of his skills.
As they continue through the katas with their lightsabers set on the lowest setting, Cal senses the weight of someone else's gaze upon him. He doesn’t physically look around, but he keeps his other senses attuned to the presence of Master Drallig, who weaves in and out of the group, adjusting the positions and postures of the initiates.
Strangely, Cal notices that while the Master corrects many of the other students' mistakes, he consistently overlooks the very same errors Cal deliberately makes. It leaves Cal feeling both perplexed and uneasy, wondering if there's a deliberate reason behind the master's actions or if it's merely a coincidence.
As the lesson concludes, Master Drallig begins to circulate among the class, offering personalised advice and guidance to each initiate. However, it's not Master Drallig who addresses him.
“Unbalanced, your lightsaber is.” Master Yoda's voice comes unexpectedly at Cal's side, “Feel it, do you?”
Cal blinks down at his great-great grandmaster. “Yes…Master Yoda. I think I’ve…offended it somehow.”
“Hmm…changed, you have. Changed, your lightsaber has not.”
Great, another person knows something is off about him. “So, what should I do about it? Uhh…Master Yoda.”
“Go to Illum; you must. Find your centre, you will.” Master Yoda imparts vaguely.
“What do you mean, my centre?”
“Hmm. Leaving next month to Illum, the members of Savrip Clan are; accompany them you will.” Yoda continues without answering Cal’s question.
"Right..." Cal mutters to himself, watching Yoda hobble off. He had forgotten how Master Yoda could be simultaneously vague and pointed, his short conversations packed with a certain type of wisdom that often left more questions than answers.
Does everyone know that he has changed?
"Hey dude! Let's go to evening-meal," Sammo calls out.
"Yeah... let's go." Cal joins Sammo as they head towards the dining hall together.
Evening-meal is the same as the other two meals. They sit in the same spot and make the same idle talk. The taste of the food is dull and unappealing, akin to ash on Cal's tongue. The incessant chatter around him feels overwhelming, each word battering his eardrums like a relentless wave. It feels like an eternity of waiting and forcing a smile before his group gets up.
He breaks away from the group with the excuse of going to his room. Instead, Cal makes his way to the archives. Madame Nu greets him with a friendly but suspicious look. He didn’t spend much time here in the Before.
Navigating his way through the towering shelves of ancient tomes and data pads, Cal feels a sense of comfort amidst the quiet solitude. He needs to collect information about the Senate, battle strategies, and maybe some mando’a while he's at it.
He would be smarter.
The rest of the month passes in a blur. Clanmates, classes, meals, archives, practicing katas to get used to this body, making some technical adjustments to his datapad, respond to the occasional check in from his new not-master (and Ahsoka), repeat. Although he spends most—if not all—of his free periods in the archives.
Something Cal has realised now that he has spent most of his time here is that very few Masters come here. Which was more of a relief than anything else. But it doesn’t stop Madame Nu from raising more than one eyebrow in his direction. Cal eventually claims a spot for himself tucked away between shelves in a secluded corner at the back, where he can immerse himself undisturbed.
And suddenly it was the evening before his trip back to the planet Illum.
Hello-watching-Caleb-warm
“Hey, Jellybean. I didn’t see you at evening-meal today. What are you doing wasting away in the library?” Caleb's voice interrupts Cal's focused thoughts.
“I just want to catch up with everything that’s going on. I feel like I’m not up to date with things.” He is far beyond it. “And I wanted to have a look at the records relating to the Mando'a language since our men speak it. At least, I think they do. They are Mandalorians. Or Jango Fett was anyway.” That’s a good excuse, right?
“Yeah, I get it…Hey, did you hear? Masters' Kenobi and Skywalker have been captured by pirates.” Caleb lazily stretches over his seat, his voice adopting a mockingly grave tone.
Ah, yes. Cal remembers this mission. But it turned out fine…he thinks. No wonder Master Kenobi hasn’t been able to get back to pick him up from Coruscant. He must be drowning in missions.
Cal's eyebrows furrow slightly, though he manages a faint smile. "Well, I'm sure they'll be fine."
They always were. The dream team of the Clone Wars.
“…”
“…”
“So, heading to Illum tomorrow. You excited?” Caleb breaks the silence.
“Yeah…yeah…”
Caleb squints down at him, his mouth forming a small frown. "You've been acting different. Is it the war front?" Caleb probes.
Yep. Good. People can draw their own conclusions. Cal nods slightly. “…It’s not as good as the Temple rumours think it is,” he admits, keeping his response deliberately vague.
Caleb lets out a breath and plops down on the seat next to him. Cal looks at him. Really looks at him. At the baby fat framing his youthful features. At his eyes—large and round—carrying a sense of curiosity and optimism that Cal envies. At the lack of scars. At the innocence of his once best friend.
“We’re worried about you, you know,” Caleb says, shaking him out of his thoughts.
Cal co*cks his head slightly in question, silently urging Caleb to continue.
A resigned chuckle bubbles out of Caleb, but there's a seriousness underlying his words. “You’ve been…more distant. You still sit and talk with us, sure, but…you look like a depressed tooka sometimes when you look at us. Was the war front really that bad?”
So, they did notice something. Is that why they’ve been treating him like a fragile piece of glass? “…I’m just…really tired, Caleb.”
“Okay…is—is there anythi—okay.…Do you want me to leave?”
“…No.”
“Okay.”
They spent the rest of the evening with Cal skimming through the holobooks spread out in front of him, Caleb quietly offering assistance wherever he could, even if he wasn't entirely sure what Cal was searching for. As the night progressed, Caleb entertained Cal with tales heard from the Temple's rumour mill, each story embellished with humour and unrealistic twists that elicited quiet laughter between them.
After bidding each other goodnight, they both trudged back to their respective dorms.
It was a good evening.
Cal lies on his back on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling, thoughts of tomorrow's journey to Illum occupying his mind.
He would be better.
