Peter pushed, and Kanan was already moving, the sight of lightning causing his breath to catch even as a single leap carried him up to perch into a bough of a tree that was splintering below him. His hand, by reflex, twitched toward his hip, an old instinctive grab for a lightsaber that wasn't there having been knocked out of him the hard way some eight years before.

So there Kanan was, up a still smoking tree, a blaster in one hand and the Force filling his senses with an urgency that it hadn't pummeled him with in ages. And rather than being afraid or even worried, Kanan was pissed off.

"Peter!" His voice was a sharp bark this time, the concern that had been in it now replaced by something harsher, fiercer. "Peter, get a karking grip!"

Because he would really hate to have to shoot you because you were a crazy murderous Sith, Pete.