Raven Silversea

Hitomi's like a shell, an afterimage of the woman that left. She's lost weight, lost sleep, her eyes are sunken and her skin is dull. She's got new scars on the skin he can see and the look in her eyes is just… haunted. She's taller than him, by just a bit, but she looks smaller somehow. Frail.

She just stands there in front of him, clutching the strap of her duffel bag like it's a lifeline. She looks weighed down in a way he's never seen before. She's looking into his eyes, but it's like she isn't even seeing him, like she's not even there herself.

"What the hell happened to you out there?" Katsuki doesn't mean to ask it aloud, but the dramatic transformation catches him off guard. He comes forward, reaching out to her, only to have her block him with a firm hand and a step back. He freezes.

"Don't," she said, and for a moment, there's sharpness in her eyes, something cold and flinty. She stops herself for a moment and the fatigue is back, colored by guilt, "I'm sorry," she murmurs, "but I don't want to be touched right now…"

"Right," he says softly, moving his hands down to his sides where they flex restlessly. He makes room for her as she steps inside their home, even still, Hitomi edges away from him like he's some sort of threat to her. He has no idea what's going on in her head right now as she avoids his gaze and holds herself like a wounded animal.

It's not the reunion he'd imagined for them when she left.

Hitomi quietly toes off her shoes as he worriedly watches over her every move. When it looks like she's just going to leave him at the entrance without another word, he has to speak up.

"Tomi," he has to stop himself from reaching for her again, so used to how tactile they are in private. She pauses, clutching her duffel bag closer to her chest. "Talk to me. Something clearly happened to you out there, it's-"

"I just need some space," she cuts him off, and there's the slightest tremble in her voice, she looks over her shoulder at him. A desperate eye peers at him through a curtain of limp hair, "please."

Katsuki's mouth presses into a firm line and he hesitates. It feels wrong, this all feels wrong. But Hitomi's telling him what she needs right now, and who is he to deny her that.

"Okay," he says helplessly.

That was nearly two weeks ago.

Since then, Hitomi's been haunting their apartment like a ghost, flitting around from room to room, staring heavily off into space, and just barely engaging with Katsuki. She took to using the guest bedroom at night, locking herself away from him rather than sharing their bed. She refused all contact, only gave him short answers when he spoke to her, she was barely eating. By all indications, she wasn't doing well.

And Katsuki is so fucking worried about her.

They've been living together for less than six months at this point. Back when Hitomi's lease was coming to an end and Katsuki first brought up the idea of living together, she had hesitated.

"Sometimes I get fucked up after my missions," she told him, rubbing the back of her neck. "Trust me, you don't wanna deal with that side of me…"

"I'll deal with whatever side you've got," he proclaimed, crossing his arms. "The fuck do you take me for?"

Katsuki wasn't just there for when it was easy and fun. He wanted a life with Hitomi, a future, warts and all. It'd taken more convincing, more assurances, but Hitomi eventually agreed to try living together. And it had been great.

Yes, there were times when Hitomi came back from patrol or her missions seeming off. She could be agitated and snappish, or drained and withdrawn. But she would always bounce back relatively quickly. It was that strong will of hers at work, a resilience even Katsuki couldn't hope to match.

This is the first time Hitomi has returned so… lost. Then again, this is the longest mission she's been on since moving in with him. He isn't sure what to think and it leaves him feeling pretty damn useless. Is this typical of her? Or is he not doing enough to help her?

Katsuki doesn't want to take any chances, he reaches out to someone who has some experience with this kind of thing: Hitomi's dad.

"Going undercover can be hell, especially for long periods. You have to completely disappear into your role just to survive," Aizawa tells Katsuki over the phone. "Sometimes it takes a while for Hitomi to come back to herself once she's out."

"So, what, I just have to wait it out?" Katsuki asks. Is that really all he can do? Frustration itches under his skin, as well as that sense of inadequacy. He's never been the kind of guy to see a problem and not immediately start working on the solution. The fact that there's not some immediate action he can take, especially to help Hitomi, it just doesn't sit right with him. "I just have to do nothing?"

"You're not doing nothing, you're showing her you're still there. You're being present," his former teacher corrects him. "You're offering her a place to rest when she reaches out. Just continue to give her space, and keep an eye out. When she's ready, give her the support she needs. Maybe nudge her to reach out to her therapist while you're at it."

Katsuki blows out a breath. Well, he did come to him for advice. "Got it."

"You're doing fine, kid. If it feels like she's getting worse, give us a call and we'll swing by."

They end the call soon after.

It's a couple of days later when something finally happens.

Katsuki's at the stove, working on breakfast. He's still cooking for the both of them, even if Hitomi is barely touching it, setting aside the portions for her just in case her appetite comes back. He hears her footsteps as she enters the kitchen. Hitomi can be as quiet as a mouse when she wants to be, but she always makes her presence known when she's at home. They're both heroes with a lot of mental baggage, no need to accidentally scare the shit out of each other.

"Mornin'," he grunts out, stirring some miso soup. He looks focused on his cooking, but really, every one of his senses is tuned in to Hitomi.

She doesn't speak, instead she slowly approaches him from behind. Cautiously, her arms wrap around his middle, her body pressed in close to him. The weight of her cheek presses against the back of his neck.

Katsuki goes still. The contact is unexpected after weeks of her keeping her distance from him, but he nearly melts from it. Fuck, it's been so long. He wants to turn around and return her embrace, but he's worried about scaring her off or something, so he calmly returns to cooking while she continues to rest against him.

After a few long moments, Hitomi speaks up, "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"What for?" he asks, just as quietly.

"I've been so…distant," she holds him tighter. "Fuck, I've been so cold to you. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair-"

"Hey," he carefully cuts her off, his hands moving to turn off the stove. He slowly turns in her arms to face her, and she lets go of him so that he can do so. He already misses the contact.

Katsuki looks into Hitomi's face and she still looks gaunt and weary, but she looks present now, and it's been so long since it's felt like she was actually seeing him when she looked at him. Cautiously, reaches a hand out to her, and she moves in closer. His hand cradles her cheek and she sinks into his touch with something like relief.

"You're going through a lot," he tells her, his thumb brushing along the dark circle beneath her eye, "don't beat yourself up about it. I'm still here, and that's not changing."

Her worn expression grows warmer, if only just a little. She moves even closer and she's holding onto him again, and he's holding her just as tight. She tucks herself under his chin, even if it's a little awkward, and her runs his fingers carefully through her tangled hair.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks quietly.

"No. Not…not yet," she says, "I just want to forget. Just for now."

"Okay," he agrees, willing to give her whatever she needs from him.

They end up in bed together, breakfast abandoned on the stove for the time being. They remove their shirts and Hitomi rests on top of Katsuki, draping herself across his chest. The skin-to-skin contact soothes the both of them as they remain like that for close to an hour.

"Thank you," Hitomi says, her ear pressed to Katsuki's heart.

Katsuki drags his knuckles up and down her arm, watching her with eyes full of steady devotion, "of course."

Normally, Wolffe considers himself lucky to have ended up with a Jedi who is notoriously hard to kill.

For some time before but especially after Abregado when General Plo had fought for them in the literal dead of space, Wolffe was pretty secure in the thought that nothing known in this universe would be able to kill the Jedi.

The fact that he is being proven wrong right this moment is making his head spin with worry.

Frost is slowly seeping through the uncovered parts of his armour, through the thermal suit he is wearing underneath.

The cave is entirely made up from ice, the ceiling is glistening blue and sparkling with white holes just like the massive glacier walls.

The permafrost drains through the floor and cools the air but at least the icy wind is kept outside for now.

“ETA for the AT-TE team is one hour, Sir,” he announces and brushes the snow from his shoulders and helmet that stems from the short trip outside to get enough radio reception for a com call.

Finally, they will be picked up from getting lost in the middle of a mission to a very snowy, unwelcoming moon.

There is no answer to his announcement, just eerie silence.

“Sir?”

Wolffe steps further into the cave and freezes when he spots the Jedi slumped against a large boulder.

“General Plo,” he exclaims and crouches by his side in a second.

Carefully, he pushes his hand under his shoulders and helps the Jedi sit up.

“Commander,” the Jedi rasps.

“What happened to you?” Wolffe inquires. When he left to find a signal, the Jedi was standing, seemingly in good health.

“I believe the frost is doing damage the filters to my mask,” the Kel Dor explains. Wolffe’s eyes widen under the helmet.

He has Vet on coms before he can even consciously decide on calling their CMO.

“Commander. Are you alright?” The medic inquires.

“The ice is damaging the General’s mask.” Wolffe doesn’t even know what he wants Vet to do. The medic stayed behind with the tanks, a full hour out.

“What’s his status?”

“I must admit, Lieutenant, I am a little out of breath,” the Jedi offers. It’s true, the soft gasps between words give away as much.

“How long have you been like this?” Vet questions.

General Plo huffs softly. “A couple of hours would be my best guess.

Vet is silent on the other side for a moment.

“With your permission, Sir, I would direct Commander Wolffe to switch out the filters. That would likely help until we can provide further medical care,” Vet suggests and Wolffe already knows he won’t have a say in this, but Vet could have at least asked about how confident he feels with touching the general’s mask system.

“Yes, that seems to be the best course of action.”

It feels awkward, crouching over his general like this but Wolffe chases off the thoughts and instead lays out the tools and parts in the small kit on the cloth.

“Are you ready, Commander?” Vet asks. It sounds like he is moving around, digging through some cabinets.

“Affirmative. Get on with it,” he answers.

“Good. Are you comfortable to begin, General?”

“Positive, Lieutenant. I’d rather we start soon.” Plo seems to be getting more breathless by the minute, so Wolffe shares the sentiment. Better start now than have their Jedi die right under his hands.

Wolffe can hear Vet breathing for a moment before he gives the first direction.

“Wolffe, there are two rings on each side where the extensions of the General’s ears meet the sides of the mask,” he describes slowly.

“I apologize for the intrusion, General. In advance.” 

“There is no need to apologize, Commander. I am most thankful for your assistance,” the Kel Dor answers gravelly.

Wolffe nods and focuses on following Vet’s guidance.

“I think I see what you mean, Vet.”

“Good. Those are the connections to the vocabulator. I need to you push the rings back and then gently pull the organic parts from the mask. Gently,” he emphasizes.

“Vocabulator, meaning…” Wolffe questions.

“You have to communicate with hand signals from here on, that’s right,” Vet confirms.

Wolffe takes a deep breath and watches General Plo confirm with a soft nod before he gets to work. Carefully, he does as Vet instructed him to. After a few tries, he finally manages to loosen the fixations and separate the mask from the organic parts.

“Are you alright, General?” He asks finally.

The Kel Dor signs a weak affirmative.

“Vet, I got it. What next?”

“The filters to the mask sit in the bulb-shaped tops of the claws at the bottom of the mask. Did you get that?”

Wolffe inspects the bottom of the mask for a moment, piecing the picture together in his head.

“Yes, I got it,” he answers.

“Before you touch anything, I’ll explain the procedure in its entirety.”

“I’m listening,” Wolffe answers dutifully, silently praying that Vet will just get on with it.

“This is getting to the actual breathing apparatus now so before Wolffe touches anything, you need to take a deep breath, General. As much as possible.”

General Plo signs another affirmative, but it looks like it is becoming more difficult to move his body.

“He understands,” Wolffe says to Vet.

“Alright, Wolffe. Whenever you two are ready, you start with unhooking the claw-part from the base of the mask. There are two teeth-like extensions on each side that are tucked into the back of the removable piece. Be mindful of those.”

Maker, that sounds terribly complicated. Wolffe tries to follow Vet’s instruction as best as possible.

“Breath, unhook the claw-piece, then unhook the teeth extensions, right?”

“Exactly. Then you can move the piece freely. You turn it over and should see the filter. The filter is a grey, round disk, the size of an eye. It has a screwing mechanism. You unscrew the old filter and then put the new filter into place. Once that is secure, you reattach the piece to the mask. Did you get that?”

“Loud and clear,” Wolffe answers while inspecting the replacement filter.

“Good. The time frame is short so I would appreciate if you could give me a note once you start. Try it, you’ll do well.”

Wolffe peers down at the Jedi.

“Are you ready, Sir?” He asks. He watches the chest of General Plo lift a few times and it doesn’t look like particularly deep inhales, but when the Jedi signs affirmative, Wolffe accepts it and gets to work.

“Starting now, Vet,” he announces.

Unclipping the side piece of the mask is an uncomfortable feeling, especially since Wolffe has to apply more pressure than he would have thought to get it free from the base of the mask.

Once it’s off, he hooks his fingers under the teeth-like extensions and pulls them free.

Silver liquid wets the tips of his glove and crystalizes in the cold air almost immediately.

“Vet, there is blood coming from the mask,” he says but doesn’t stop working, turns the piece and tries to unscrew the filter without freezing his fingertips to it.

“That’s to be expected. It’s their equivalent of when we get nose bleeding in especially dry air conditions. Keep going, you are doing great,” the medic answers.

The Jedi’s fingers dig softly into the ice under them, so Wolffe gets on quickly. He unscrews the old filter, sets it down next to him and picks up the new one.

It crackles softly in the grip of his fingertips.

“The new filters are frozen. Is that a problem?”

There is silence on the other side of the com that stretches just a little too long. Vet isn’t sure. The reg manuals that inform about the medical specifics of their Jedi are not at all extensive. Beyond basic anatomy and special medication needs, there is virtually no information.

“Warm it in between your palms,” Vet finally orders. “You have three seconds.”

It takes Wolffe two seconds to rid himself off his gloves and press the little disk between his hands, carefully not to damage it.

He can feel the ice burn on his skin, his fingertips scream in pain almost immediately.

Once the bristling on his palms stops, Wolffe is quick to screw the filter into the mask piece and attach it back into place with trembling hands.

“Vet?”

“A little over three minutes. Good job.”

“General?”

The Kel Dor doesn’t move.

“General Plo?” Wolffe asks, grabbing the shoulder of the Jedi.

“He’s alright, Commander. I’m tracking his vitals over his vambraces. Keep going,” Vet commands.

The second time, the whole procedure already goes a lot smoother, even though Wolffe’s hands are shaking from both the cold and from anxiety. He is highly trained, that much is true, but he is neither a medic nor has he done anything similar to this before.

He clicks the filter into place.

“Wolffe, you better be finished soon,” Vet notes slowly.

“I’m done. Almost done,” he exclaims but slips twice on screwing the filter in. He hooks the piece back into place and attaches it.

“Vet?”

“Now you reassemble the vocabulator.”

Wolffe’s fingertips are turning white by now, but he manages to push through the pain and follow Vet’s instruction.

He is shivering and a deep wetness settles into the bones of his forearms.

Nausea grips his head and fear rises in his chest when there is only silence lingering.

It fades almost immediately when the Jedi suddenly stirs and starts coughing roughly.

He is gasping for air in between, but he is breathing.

Wolffe lets out a heavy sigh himself and things that he soon will have so many grey hairs that he can rival Fox.