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SW Gray Tales: Interlude 2 - Vasha
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 15:39:17 +0000 UTCA/N: Sorry for the delays. I was intending to wrap up everything that has been going on up at once. This is interlude chapter, and then we go back to 1 Ezra POV chapter and then prologue finale.
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[Vasha's POV]
The sun broke across the city like it was trying not to wake anyone up. Pale light filtering in through the worn blinds of our little apartment above the shop. It always caught the clutter first—light glancing off the dull chrome of tools left lying askew on the counter, glimmering faintly on the handful of datapads stacked on the shelf near the kitchen. Most days, I didn’t even notice it. But these past few weeks, I’d gotten into the habit of waking early—before Ezra. Which, up till recently? Was like trying to beat a Loth-rat to leftovers.
He was usually up around sunrise. Sometimes before. Twitchy. Energetic. Haunted, in a quiet, uncomfortable sort of way. But now? Now I had the strange pleasure of seeing his ridiculous bedhead still buried under that scrappy blanket, curled tight, one leg always kicked out like the fabric offended him mid-sleep.
I sat on the couch, clutching my caf with both hands, windows cracked open just enough to pull in the morning breeze, cool and dust-soft. The light wasn’t in full force yet. Lothal’s orange skies still bruised with early violet streaks. The depot below us was quiet. No clangs. No capacitor whistle. No half-muttered rants about how repulsor alignment made no damn physics sense.
It was peaceful. Ish. Enough for nerves like mine to unwind, one joint at a time.
It’d been a month since we had That Talk. The dreaded, painfully adorable, heart-stab of a conversation where my maybe-not-really-son had looked me in the eye with those too-old-for-his-face eyes and told me he thought something was coming. Something bad. For me.
And then he’d tried to hide how scared he was. Fumbled around it with excuses and distraction, the way he always did when things brushed too close to the chest.
So, naturally, I stopped leaving the house.
Well, not literally. But I cut down my outings to near-zero. Let clients stew in their panic about missing hyperdrive parts. I messaged a few I trusted, pushed their appointments out, outright canceled some sketchy requests that came in through side channels. My polite “Sorry for the inconvenience” notes could’ve won awards for customer service, though the underlying vibe was clear: Deal with it. I’m busy. With things more important than corporate grunt work.
Because Ezra was more important.
He had no idea why all that started. Or why I never offered to take jobs outside the workshop anymore. He didn’t question it either, which in itself told me how wired he still was. But things had shifted. Slightly. Subtly.
He was sleeping more. Still twitchy, sure, and still burying himself in half a dozen overengineered weapons and clever contraptions that could put the average stormtrooper to shame. But the tilt of his shoulders wasn’t so damned tight anymore. That haunted silence? It’d softened. Not disappeared, gods knew I didn't expect miracles, but at least it didn’t hang over his every breath anymore.
And Maker help me, I was starting to miss the little gremlin haunting the kitchen at 3 AM. Funny how most people celebrated their kids developing healthy routines. Here I was, clutching my caf and sulking because mine wasn't crawling out of bed like a sugar-powered ghost with insomnia.
Whatever the nightmares had been, they weren’t clawing at him quite so hard now. I still checked, sometimes. Would watch from the hallway when I pretended to look for something. Just long enough to see if his chest rose evenly. If his fists were unclenched. If he sighed in his sleep like something had finally let go.
He did. More often now.
That made everything worth it.
The slowdown in business? Worth it. The irritated clients and missed credits? Worth it. Keeping the people asking too many questions away from the shop—worth it a thousand times over.
We’d spent the last couple years skating that weird line between a backalley tech repair shack and the kind of efficient, clever little operation that earned way too much for how underground we pretended to be. That’s the thing most people don’t realize: too much success gets dangerous.
The Empire notices wealth. It notices talent. And once they notice, it’s a whole new game. Paper trails where there shouldn’t be any, inspections that “just so happen” to target those doing better than expected. Lots of men in crisp uniforms wanting favors, bribes, or worse.
I didn’t want that. Not now. Not ever.
Especially with Ezra.
He was special. I didn’t just mean smart or talented, though that too. He was wrong in all the right ways—still a mystery box of potential even two years in. The boy could fix thirty-year-old tech he’d never seen schematics for.
He could point at a malfunctioning hyperdrive governor and rattle off five flaws in its internal relay within seconds, all with that deadpan delivery that made him sound like he didn’t even realize how impressive it was.
He’d pass it off as “intuition,” or mumble something about weird brain stuff, but I knew. Whatever the reason? It was dangerous. Not in the “kid might blow up the house” way—though, yeah, also that. But in the “someone out there would want to take him apart to see how he ticks” sense.
That’s why I had to be the face of the business. Had been from day one. Because the moment anyone really realized who Ezra was—what he could do—this quiet little life we’d carved out of bolts and ship-grease and bad jokes would crumble like powdered bone.
I could take that blame. Could take the bribes, the Empire inspections, the glares, the empty praise, the fake awards for “excellence in local industrial contribution.” Whatever. All it meant was they didn’t notice him.
All they saw was me: a grumpy Twi’lek woman with grease under her nails and a reputation for fixing the unfixable. Nothing more.
Sometimes, I hated that. Felt that guilt simmering low and hot under my ribs. That all Ezra’s brilliance lived in the corners. That it only surfaced in whispers, passed through me. How I took credit that should’ve been his.
But it kept him safe.
And if nothing else, I’d earned that. The right to keep him protected—however I could.
Still. His fear—that creeping, pressing panic that'd haunted him recently—it was something to worry about. Not just because he was often right, but because of why it surfaced now. I had a dozen theories, but one kept tugging at me:
He was at that age—emotionally, cognitively—where kids start realizing t
hings. You grow up just enough that pieces begin to click. Even if no one’s told you, your brain starts to fill in the blanks.
People don’t just vanish without reasons.
Parents don’t just leave.
And while Ezra had never truly said the words, I knew. That clever, troubled mind of his had probably pieced together what happened to his real family a long time ago. Or worse, hadn’t—but knew enough to be afraid of what he’d discover if he pushed too hard. That kind of subconscious grief builds roots in weird ways.
Maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn’t danger from without, but from within. Maybe he was scared he’d lose me the same way—without goodbye, without explanation, without warning. Not consciously, sure. I didn’t think even he fully knew that’s what he was reacting to. But fear doesn’t need form to feel real.
So I did what any reasonable guardian would do: I pampered the hell out of him.
And I mean really pampered. Not just extra dessert or letting him skip chores. I went full-on, childhood-memory-core-dump mode. The kind of stuff my own mom used to pull when I’d scraped my knee raw or had a nightmare about the Rylothian dust storms swallowing our hovel. Stuff that, looking back, was probably a little ridiculous even for a seven-year-old, but damn if it didn’t work.
The feeding thing started first. One evening, I’d made this thick, spicy stew – the kind that sticks to your ribs and warms you from the inside out. Ezra was poking at it with his spoon, staring into the bowl like it held the secrets to the universe instead of just nerf-meat and tubers. That distant, worried look was creeping back into his eyes.
Enough of that.
I walked over, plucked the spoon right out of his hand, and scooped up a decent mouthful. Blew on it dramatically, like I was cooling down a reactor core. "Open up, Ezra-bird," I said, aiming the spoon right at his face.
He blinked. Stared at me like I’d just suggested we repaint the depot in glitter-pink. "Vasha, what are you doing? I’m ten. I can feed myself."
"Obviously," I said, undeterred. "But humor me. Ahhh." I wiggled the spoon.
His cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of crimson. "Seriously? Stop it. This is weird."
"Weird is my middle name. Now, before it gets cold. Ahhh." I leaned in a little, putting on my best ‘don’t-mess-with-mom’ face. It probably looked more constipated than authoritative, but it usually worked.
He squirmed. Glanced around the empty workshop like there was an audience. "Vasha…"
"Either you open up, or I start making airplane noises. Your choice." I raised an eyebrow. "Don’t test me, Bridger. I will absolutely make the ‘whoosh whoosh’ sounds."
He groaned, a long-suffering sound that was pure exasperated pre-teen. But finally, reluctantly, he opened his mouth just a crack. I slid the spoon in. Victory.
"There we go! Good boy!" I beamed, already scooping up the next bite. "See? Not so bad, right?"
He chewed slowly, avoiding my eyes, the blush still high on his cheeks. "It’s humiliating," he mumbled around the food.
"It’s efficient," I countered, blowing on the next spoonful. "And I’m making sure you actually eat instead of just staring into the void like it owes you credits. Now, ah-h-h-h-h…" I drew it out, making it sound like I was launching a torpedo.
He shot me a look that could curdle milk, but he opened up again. And again. And again. My relentless persistence was a force of nature, honed by years of dealing with stubborn droids and even more stubborn clients. Ezra, brilliant and powerful as he was, stood no chance against the full-frontal assault of maternal doting.
By the end of the bowl, he’d stopped fighting it. He still looked profoundly embarrassed, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into his own collarbones, but he ate. Every last bite I offered. And when I finally declared him done and wiped a stray smear of gravy off his chin with my thumb, he didn’t even flinch away. Just sighed, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound of resignation.
"Happy now?" he muttered, pushing his chair back.
"Ecstatic," I said, grabbing his hand. "Now, phase two."
That’s when the mandatory cuddling sessions began. Right after dinner, no exceptions. I’d herd him towards the worn, ridiculously comfortable couch we’d scavenged from a junk dealer years ago. The one that sagged in the middle but had cushions like sleeping on clouds.
"Vasha, I really need to check the calibration on the—" he’d start, already trying to veer towards the workshop.
"Nope," I’d say, steering him firmly by the shoulders. "Couch. Now. Doctor’s orders." (I wasn’t a doctor, but the authority usually worked).
He’d grumble, but he’d go. Plop down on one end, trying to look like he was just tolerating this brief interruption in his Very Important Work. Then I’d plop down right next to him, grab the remote, and pull him in.
He was bigger now than when he’d first shown up, all knees and elbows and growing-boy awkwardness. Back then, he’d fit perfectly tucked under my arm, a small, warm bundle of anxiety and hidden genius. Now, fitting him against my side required a bit more maneuvering. I’d have to shift, maybe drape one leg over his to anchor him, pull his head down onto my shoulder. It wasn’t as seamless, but it worked. He was still manageable, especially if he didn’t fight it too hard.
"Vasha, this is unnecessary," he’d protest weakly, trying to keep a sliver of space between us.
"Nonsense," I’d say, clicking through the holo-channels until I found something suitably brainless – maybe a slapstick comedy about droids malfunctioning, or a nature documentary on Loth-wolves. "It’s medically proven. Cuddling reduces stress hormones. Or something. I read it somewhere. Probably."
He gave a long, dramatic exhale like I’d just pushed him into a garbage compactor, but I could feel he wasn’t mad. If anything, he was trying not to melt. His head tipped slightly toward me, like instinct. That quiet little lean he always pulled when he forgot he was “grown-up” or “sullen” or whatever internal performance he’d been running earlier that day.
So I dragged the blanket from the back of the sofa. The stupid one with stitched loth-cats and fraying edges. Wrapped it around us. Sunk back into the cushions like a queen taking her throne. And pulled his too-long limbs until he was curled across me again, just like old times.
He’d grown, sure. Not by a lot—he was still skinny, knees knobbier than his age should allow, elbows poking out at weird angles. But even with those noodle-teen stretch-outs, he still fit. Chest-to-chest, hip to hip, chin tucked lightly against my shoulder. Heavy in a way that meant trust. Familiar. Real.
And that was it. Every day since, like clockwork: Afternoon meal, hand-fed if I suspected he was under-eating again. Then one full hour of enforced sofa-lounging, screen flipped on to some dumb holo-series he actually seemed to enjoy, even if he’d rather be quietly executed than admit it.
We watched everything. Old holo-cartoons from my childhood, dumb docu-shorts about shipwrecks, slice-of-life dramas with very questionable Twi’lek romance plots that left him watching with a sort of horrified fascination. Sometimes I picked the shows. Sometimes I told him he got the remote—and then vetoed it immediately because his taste was garbage. "We're not watching Military Engineering Disasters Vol. 34 again, Ezra."
He'd roll his eyes. I'd bop his nose. The cuddling persisted.
The way he relaxed against me during those sessions? Gods. It made every second of stubborn resistance worth it. His body would go pliant like he’d turned into melted candy. Occasionally he’d mutter something about how "this is mildly uncomfortable," while refusing to actually move, like a cat glued to a warm keyboard.
When the credits rolled and the show's outro music started playing, he would shift just enough to pretend he might get up. I'd throw the blanket tighter around him and hum vaguely threatening lullabies until he stopped pretending.
“Vasha... you’re going to make me soft.”
“I intend to make you soft. It's my life’s work now.”
It was probably silly. Probably not what any child development expert would recommend for a kid with his specific brand of trauma and genius.
So I did what I remembered working on me.
Spoons full of warm soup with familiar seasoning. Gentle hands scratching idly behind his ears. Dumb holo-shows and beat-up couches and the weight of another person’s breath rising against yours as the day blurred away.
This was how we held the world back. One cuddle and one spoonful at a time.
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I will upload the next part and the quiet finale a hour later. Gotta have dinner and all.
Also, I might have to take a break after the finale for a couple of days.
College stuff is rough, and its kinda overwhelming me these days. Currently I am writing chapters as I am posting them here, and as such, makes it harder to take a break without distrupting the updates. And that also makes it harder to make any major changes to the recent chapters as they are already published.
Using the break, I could build up some reserve chapters.
(PS: As semester progresses, academic obligations would increase, making it harder to update 2.5k plus chapters every alternate day, so that might need to be adjusted a bit but that's a thought for later)
