Chapter Text
The hanger bay is completely deserted when Cassian exits the ship. The cool damp air soothes across his skin, reaching out from the jungle beyond. There's someone making his way across the bay towards him, datapad tucked under his arm.
“Captain Andor,” the title feels foreign to his ears, “welcome back,” he's already giving the ship a once over with his eyes.
“Sergeant Dameron” he inclines his head, “ships fine but there’s a blockage to reserve fuel that’ll need attending before she's cleared to fly again” Kes Dameron taps a few icons on the datapad.
Though the hanger is unusually quiet, even for so late into the night when only the insomniacs and standby crew frequent the space, there is the dull thud of bass that thrums though the floor. Distantly, Cassian can pick out the distorted sounds of music and laughter.
“Party for the newcomers,” Kes says bitterly, “I drew the short straw for night watch,” he sighs, making a final few taps. “Alright,” he tucks the data pad back under his arm, “Draven is expecting you to report” he jerks his head towards the base's interior.
Cassian had hoped, probably too optimistically, that he’d be able to at least shower off what feels like three months worth of grime (Cassian doesn’t care that the sonics are more efficient, it never feels like they really get him truly clean) before having to face up to bureaucratic command structures. It must show on his face because Kes barks out a laugh at him.
“I’d try looking a little more pleased when you see him,” grinning, his hand reaches out and clasps Cassian's shoulder. Cassian forces his body not to flinch. “It’s good to have you back Andor,” Kes pats his arm twice more before dropping it. Cassian's skin crawls at the point of contact, at least Sergeant Dameron won’t expect him to return the smile. He nods, forcing his voice to come out level and measured.
“Thanks,” it doesn’t waver in the slightest, “enjoy the rest of your shift,” he even throws in a raise of his eyebrow, tilting his head towards the direction of the thumping music. Kes groans.
“I guess we both have places we’d rather be,” he’s looking longingly towards the base. Cassian expects that the name Shara Bey is written all over any party the rebels must be having. In different circumstances that thought might have dragged a grin to his face and prompted some probing questions for Kes over a flask of nog.
These aren’t different circumstances though.
Cassian just nods again,
“I’ll catch you round,” he says. It's perfunctory, even if he doesn’t really mean it.
“I’ll hold you to that Andor,” Cassian is afraid he might pat his shoulder again. He doesn’t. “Good luck with Draven,” he says, and heads into Cassian’s ship. Not his, he reminds himself, everything belongs to the rebellion.
Allowing his feet to guide him through the base is as familiar as breathing, even as he canvases for all the exits he already knows exist. The thumping base of the music grows louder as he gets closer to the mess hall and his body automatically turns down a different hallway, taking him the longer route to Draven’s command quarters, not much interested in bumping into anyone else, much less loud and drunken recruits. The longer he walks the more the noise becomes a bearable humm, and by the time he reaches the command corridor, it could be the distant sounds of insects, the floor beneath his boots only barely vibrating with the bass.
The door slides open with a hiss. General Draven is hunched over his desk, datapad clutched in one hand, the other wrapped around a mug of caff.
“General,” he greets, body shifting to attention by muscle memory alone. When Draven glances up at him his face is impassive and unreadable. He shuts off the datapad and leans back into his chair.
“At ease, Captain Andor,” Cassian doesn’t particularly feel at ease, but he unclasps his hands from behind his back anyway. Draven looks as tired as Cassian feels as he watches the General scrub a hand across his face. “Sorry we had to pull you out on such short notice,” his voice barely masks the frustration, “You were still able to achieve our objectives I assume?”.
Cassian debates on whether he should let the anger that floods him answer. He lets it rise with an intake of breath, pushing it down as he breathes out, letting himself go numb. He reaches into an inner pocket, draws out a datadisk and lets it thud on the desk between them. Draven eyes it skeptically for a moment.
“And the target is still active?” Alive? Cassian grits his teeth.
“Yes, Sir,”
Draven nods, reaching out to take the datadisk from the desk and turning it over in his hands.
“No suspicions about you then?” The question is asked without looking at him. Cassian tries not to spit out his reply.
“If there were, I would not have left the target active,”. When Draven looks at him again his face is plastered with amusement.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” he pulls out a drawer and drops the disk into it. Cassian's hands ball into fists at his side.
“Before I dismiss you,” he starts, “Your old billet is no longer available. We had to free up some space for another operative while you were away. I had K2 pack your personal items for storage.” Cassian is too exhausted to argue, even if he did like his old lodgings.
“Will I be bunking in one of the communal rooms, Sir?” he asks, making no effort to conceal his frustration this time.
“No,” Draven leans back, folding his hands into his lap, indifferent to Cassian's tone, “I’ve had a private billet made available for you up on Level Two. Vey quadrant, at the end of the hall next to storage, shouldn’t be a problem for you to find.” He levels him with a steady gaze, “I’m afraid it’s a little further from the mess hall than you’re used to.”
Draven knows that Cassian almost never uses the mess hall.
“I expect a full report debrief from you tomorrow,” Cassian raises an eyebrow.
“Full report, Sir?”
“Just the mission critical details, as usual Captain,” Draven folds his arms across his chest, expression still impassive.
A distant, but distinct cheer floats through the air, and Cassian swallows the vitriol, or maybe it’s bile, that creeps up his throat.
“I’ve had a Pathfinders Unit transferred here,” Draven says by way of explanation, “I believe one of the flight officers thought that they should be given a ‘proper welcome’,” he reaches for the mug of forgotten caff, “you could always go and join the party.”
“Is that an order, Sir?”. A lesser man might’ve rolled their eyes at the remark, Draven just flicks the datapad back on without sparing him a look.
“You’re dismissed, Captain Andor. Do whatever you want with your own time.”
Too tired to retort, Cassian turns and lets his body lead him away and towards Vey quadrant.
The route, thankfully, does not lead him back past the mess hall, and its thrumming music fades near completely as he reaches the end of the corridor and enters his new quarters. It’s as empty as he’d expected. Single bunk, footlocker, desk, a set of standard issue shirt and trousers, several ration bars and a water canteen. A single door off the room leads to the refresher. Blessedly solitary, one of the few perks of being an intelligence operative.
For a moment, Cassian stands in the middle of the room, torn between collapsing into the bunk and letting exhaustion drag him down into sleep (maybe even for longer than three hours) or heading into the fresher to clean up. A favored middle ground finds him peeling the clothes off his body and letting them lie in a heap at his feet.
The blue and gold fabric stares back at him. They aren’t his. Everything on Canto Bight was provided for him.
He kicks the bundle out of sight under the bunk and picks the fresher.
A water shower is technically a downgrade from his previous billet, given that the more efficient and thorough sonic-showers supposedly clean better. The tepid water streaming down his back says otherwise.
Water droplets fall through the canopy in sheets. A woman pushes him out into it and follows, a bundle propped against her hip. The soil underfoot is slippery. Rain soaks their hair and runs down over their bodies. He can smell the soapnuts as they start to foam from the damp.
By the time he’s scrubbed away the memory of the last three months the water has gone cold and he is shivering. His hands shake as he dries himself off and pulls on the provided clothes. They only shake from the cold.
Cassian climbs under the covers. He does not stop shaking. It’s just the cold. Panic doesn’t claw at the back of his throat. He remembers how to breathe. Everything is numb.
He is alone.
He can't tell if it's comforting or not.
Notes:
No Content Warnings for This Chapter
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Chapter 2: someone i haven't seen in a long time
Chapter Text
Fingers stroke at his cheek, close enough that if he turned his head Cassian could bite them.
He doesn’t.
The room is still spinning and the hand keeps petting him. He tries to stifle the whimper that crawls out of his throat. He doesn’t quite manage it. He feels like a pathetic pitdog, tail between its legs, cowering against the cold tile floor.
“Poor thing,” the mark soothes sweetly, honest enough that Cassian thinks he might actually be trying to be comforting. It makes Cassian's stomach turn.
He can’t tell if it was in the food or the drinks, even though he's had enough of them that he can pass off his shivering frame and blame it on the alcohol. The implant in his arm, steadily streaming antieth into his veins has worked well enough so far. Whatever he’s been drugged with must be reacting badly with it. Or maybe it's not reacting at all, just unsuppressed and surging through his bloodstream.
The intentions are still unclear to him. If it's the marks doing or some other stranger in the gambling halls of Canto Bight hoping for a pass. Perhaps he picked up a drink intended for someone else.
Regardless, he’s still the one sweating and shivering on the floor of the hotel refresher, his mark looming over him, crooning with concern. He can’t fight back, even if he isn’t supposed to.
Hands paw at his clothes, tugging and revealing. Exposed.
“Let's get you all cleaned up,” it’s almost kindness. Cassian hopes the vomit gets on his robes.
The luma-bulb buzzes faintly, never having been turned off. Cassian rolls onto his side, focusing on his breath. Steadily in and out, in and out. The room is exactly the same as when he fell asleep. His eyes feel raw, not helped by the slightly flickering light above him.
He checks his chrono. It’s still an hour before dawn.
The steady pulse behind his eyes tells him whatever sleep he’s had hasn’t been enough.
Squeezing them shut again he rolls into the thin bunk pillow, blocking out the light. Thoughts prod at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to spill forward into the front of his mind. To a place where he cannot ignore them. He inhales the faint scent of detergent on the sheets, rough against his skin.
It isn’t flowery perfume. It isn’t smooth silk. It isn’t a bed big enough for two.
He gets up anyway, scrubbing at his face with his hands. He knows that trying to fall back asleep is an exercise in futility.
There’s a datapad in the footlocker when he checks it. A cheap note taking model that blinks to life with a soft whirring when he taps the screen. Perched at the end of the bunk, Cassian stares at the blinking cursor. Only the mission critical details. He’s done this before, and yet unwelcome thoughts push against the wall in his mind. The cursor blinks back at him from the empty screen. Cassian kriffing hates mission reports.
Ninety minutes and half a choked down ration bar later, he turns the datapad off, stuffing it into a trouser pocket as he stands.
Dravens command quarters are empty when he drops the pad off. It tracks. It’s still early enough that there are relatively few people awake, even without last night's festivities. Cassian eyes the hallway that leads down to the mess, the faint scent of porritch, or perhaps grainmush, wafts toward him. He tries to remember the last time he ate there and finds he can’t.
He’s barely a few feet into the hanger when a looming shadow towers over him. For the first time in months a real smile tugs at his lips.
“Cassian,” K2 says, dropping a large cool hand on Cassian's shoulder. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that the contact doesn’t make his heart race with adrenaline. He grins upwards. “I am glad to see you have arrived back in one piece.” Cassian winces at the wording. K2 must notice as he leans his hulking frame down to stare at him more closely. “Or at least I had assumed. Have you been checked out by medical?”
“Nice to see you too, Kay,” he grumbles, shrugging the hand off his shoulder, but patting the droids breastplate all the same. He is pleased to see Kay, really. “Been keeping yourself busy?”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Cassian rolls his eyes. Unfortunately K2 is much more perceptive than he would like, at least outside of missions.
“I don’t need medical, I haven’t been injured,” he says, brushing it off. K2’s head tilts on its axis.
“You look terrible,” too kriffing perceptive.
“Thanks,” he says and runs a hand over his face, “it was a late night, haven’t slept much, that’s all,” he hopes its explanation enough that Kay will drop it. He changes the subject anyway. “Draven said you packed up my old billet?”
“Yes, I retrieved your items from storage this morning.” Kay says, a hint of annoyance, “You were not in your new lodgings when I brought them up. I have been looking for you,” its accusatory. Cassian almost laughs.
“You must have just missed me, I’ve only just been up to Dravens office." He shakes his head, "That doesn’t matter now, what have they had you doing while I’ve been away?” K2 makes a click of annoyance before filling Cassian in anyway. As he does, the sounds of base life seem to gradually increase, several tired looking officers appearing around them, more than a few clutching mugs of steaming caff. It’s a symphony of normality. Cassian remembers how to breathe.
“That's good,” he says when Kay is finished. Sunlight is beginning to stream through the doors and spill across the floor, the sun finally higher than the surrounding treetops. He pats Kays breastplate again. It helps.
“You should be resting Cassian,” Kay says, as Cassian rubs at his eyes. He huffs. The billet has no natural light, and sleep is the last thing he wants right now.
“I’m fine,” he says, stretching his arms over his head, “Now, who do I pester for something to do?”
A somewhat harassed looking technician jerks to attention at their approach. She relaxes when Cassian waves a hand at her, though she still clutches at her datapad.
“Captain Andor,” she greets, though still looks a little wary. Kriffing rank making everyone around him uncomfortable as usual. He hopes he can twist the grimace on his face into a convincing smile.
“Technician Pela,” K2 had supplied him with a name, “anything I can help with this morning?” She levels a stare at him, not doing a very good job at masking her surprise.
“I thought you only returned to base last night Captain?” Her gaze shifts between him and K2, then back again, “I mean, you haven’t been assigned duties yet, shouldn’t you be,” she falters and continues, “t-taking a break?”. Cassian shifts his weight, crossing his arms across his chest. This shouldn’t be that difficult.
“Didn’t fancy hanging around in my billet all day,” he says, sweeping his eyes across the myriad of crates and containers piled up in this area of the hanger, “I can take something tedious off your hands?” She doesn’t look convinced, but nods wearily.
“Alright,” she says, and gestures towards a pile of crates a little distance away, “Blaster shipment, partisan donation,” she taps at something on her datapad, “there’s eight crates that need their gas cartridge levels checking. They’ll need to be sorted for which can go into issue, which can be used for training and which need new cartridges.” It’s useful, and extremely boring work.
“Perfect,” he says, eyeing a group of techs starting to make their way over. Her own gaze follows his, and the harassed look spreads onto her face again. Cassian and K2 are already gone by the time she turns back.
It is, in fact, a very tedious job. Checking the cartridges is slow and repetitive, given that K2 insists on cataloguing each one. There are only a handful of blasters in the first crate that have full canisters, most being less than half filled. These get shunted into the pile for blaster practice, they’ll be used to train some of the new recruits. Almost a fifth are practically empty, heightening Cassian's frustration. Before he went off world, the rebellion had already been low on replacement cartridges.
Repetition lets the numbness roll through him, speaking only to give K2 data readouts on the cartridge weights. His hands move methodically. Pick up a blaster, unscrew its cartridge, check for erosion, weigh the cartridge, repeat the readout, calculate the remaining gas density, reattach the cartridge, place it in the correct pile for assignment, pick up a blaster.
Raucous laughter interrupts him half way through the third case. Turning, Cassian can see Flight Officer Shara Bey speaking animatedly with another young woman, both are smiling. It’s not unexpected that Cassian doesn’t recognise the woman, he’s been away for long enough. He watches them talk, unlike Bey, the woman he doesn’t recognise is not wearing a standard issue flightsuit, her dark hair is twisted into braids along her scalp, helmet propped under her arm.
“Who’s the new recruit?” He asks, handing K2 yet another empty blaster.
“Officer Lilla Dade, Pilot within the Pathfinders Unit,” K2 supplies. Ah, one of the people the party was for last night, Cassian thinks. Dade looks pretty alert given that it must have gone on until the early hours of the morning. Cassian checks his chrono. It’s early in the afternoon. Maybe not so surprising then.
When he looks back up, two men have joined Dade and Bey. They look significantly rougher than either of the women do.
“Officers Sora Acle and Jal Henle,” K2’s informative drone provides, “respectively explosives expert and ground communications,” Cassian watches as Dade thumps Acle on the back and the man goes pale. He turns away, picking up another blaster to check.
“Why do you think Draven’s brought them in? Pilot, comms and explosives doesn’t sound like your usual SpecOps team?” He reattaches the full cartridge and drops the blaster in the dedicated crate for assignment.
“According to my analysis, this unit has one of the highest success rates for extractions within the rebel alliance,” Cassian's hand stalls when grabbing the next blaster. He hadn’t expected Kay’s response to be anything but sarcastic. He shoots the droid a suspicious look.
“And how do you know that?” He asks.
“General Draven permitted me access to their files, obviously,” it's the tone K2 takes with him when he thinks Cassian is asking stupid questions. Cassian frowns anyway. That’s…unusual. Kay’s data uploads are restricted on a need to know basis, given that extracting information from a droid is in some ways easier than from an organic.
“What was the access for?” Cassian prods.
“To run simulations,” Kay says, like it should be obvious.
“Simulations of what Kay?” frustration creeps into his voice.
“The General has not yet requested any,” he states flatly, head tilting to one side, “Is there a simulation you would like to run on the Pathfinder’s data, Cassian?” Cassian glares at him. Unhelpful kark. He goes to pick up another blaster.
“Three is small for an extraction team,” he muses, taking a different approach. Kay loves to correct him with statistical analysis, it’s like the droid can’t help himself.
“Unusual and incorrect,” Kay chides him. Perfect. “The Pathfinders are a Unit consisting of five active members. There is Lieutenant Taidu Sefla, combat analyst and sniper, and then there is also their ground combat specialist -”
“Hey!” A shout drowns out the last of K2s words. Cassian fumbles the blaster in his hands at the noise, dropping it back into the crate. Irritated he turns and,
Familiarity crashes over him like a wave. Striding toward him across the hanger, tall, broad shouldered, close cropped hair and tanned. A smile splitting across his face.
The sun is on his skin but he’s shivering. The ocean hounds against the shoreline, wind whipping at his clothes. His ears are ringing, chest carved out and hollow. He wants to reach out, for hands to grasp his own and stop his mind from drifting out to sea. He’s watching the back of a blue shirt walking away from him. He is alone.
“Melshi?” His own mouth drops open, just before the body crushes against him, arms circle his back and laughter is pressed against his neck.
Cassian can’t move his arms. He can’t move any part of himself. Every muscle in his body tenses, too much, too close . Thoughts sprint through the front of his mind with incredible speed. Melshi is here. Melshi is alive. He is part of the rebel alliance. It’s been years. They both made it this far. Everything hurts. Nothing hurts. He needs to kriffing hug him back.
Mechanically, stiffly, Cassian's arms raise and cross Melshi’s broad back, thumping him below the shoulder. His hands don’t shake. He remembers how to breathe.
When Melshi pulls back, catching Cassian’s elbows in his hands, holding his body too close, there is even a real smile on Cassian’s face.
He can’t help but scan him. Melshi looks well.
“Cassian,” the warmth with which he says his name settles hot in his stomach, “It really is you!” Melshi is beaming, “They’ve been talking about a Captain Andor but you never told me your full name. I can’t believe it’s really you!” Cassian is aware he should be saying something but his throat fails him. He blinks at him stupidly.
“You didn’t tell me you were already familiar with Sergeant Ruescott Melshi, Cassian,” K2 cuts in, sounding about as affronted as a droid can. Ruescott. His throat relaxes.
“I guess you never told me your full name either,” Cassian says, at least they are even.
“Yeah, I guess, just promise to never call me Ruescott,” his nose wrinkles in a faux frown then laughs. “So, the KX droid belongs to you then?”
“My name is K-2SO, and I don’t belong to anyone.” Okay so maybe a droid can sound even more offended.
It’s Cassians turn to laugh. It sounds foreign coming out of his mouth. Melshi leans closer, the hairs on the back of Cassian's neck prickle unbidden, his skin is suddenly too hot where Melshi’s hands are on his arms.
Cassian steps back. Something flickers across Melshi’s face. They are no longer touching. Cassian remembers how to breathe.
“Oi,” Shara Bey’s voice rings clear across the hanger, “Melshi!” Cassian can see her waving him over, looking unimpressed.
“Ah kriff,” he looks apologetic, then “Look, come join us in the mess this evening? You can meet my team and tell me everything, yeah?” he looks at Cassian hopefully. Something tightens in Cassian's throat, but nods anyway.
He’s watching the back of a blue shirt walking away from him.
Once Melshi is out of his line of sight, Cassian slumps against the crate, raking his hands through his hair. Cool, metal ones pull them away.
“You didn’t tell me you were already familiar with Sergeant Melshi?” It's a question this time. He shrugs out of K2’s grip.
“He’s an old...” Stranger? Friend? Less? More? “Someone I haven’t seen in a long time.” Someone I never expected to see again. His skin is too tight across his chest, heart pounding fiercely in his ribcage. He'd said barely ten words and yet his throat is raw and his mouth feels dry. Images push to the front of his mind. White hallways, call booths, a dingy hotel room, water stretching out and foaming, the scent of bacta in his nose. Too warm skin under his hands.
“You should go tonight Cassian,” Kay says, jerking Cassian out of his thoughts.
“Since when did you care about my social life?”
“Since you became necessary to my functioning. I understand that organics require socialisation and I have noted that you engage with others far less than average,” Sometimes Cassian wishes K2 wasn’t so damn loud.
“Keep your statistical analysis of me to yourself, Kay” he grumbles, turning back to the crate of blasters. Another half empty cartridge. Kriffing partisans.
Notes:
In this Chapter, it is implied that Cassian has been drugged without his consent. This leads to non-consensual contact by another character, the nature of which is not described. There is also a mention of vomit, its is non-graphic.
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Chapter 3: the distance between
Summary:
No Content Warnings for This Chapter
Notes:
First of all, thank you to all of the positive responses to the first upload! I'm really excited to keep sharing this fic with you all.
Secondly, admin. No set upload schedule I'm afraid, also the number of chapters is entirely liable to change though I am hoping 10 will be about right.
Thirdly - D23 Andor S2 crumbs anyone???
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He’s been staring at his hands in the sink for too damn long. The extractor fan whirs noisily, sucking up and spitting out the same stale air. The luma-bulb still buzzes faintly from the next room.
He’s been debating whether or not to go down to the mess hall for the last hour. Already having poked through the crate of his meagre possessions K2 had dropped off earlier in the day, finding no great desire to unpack them, then pacing back and forth between the two tiny rooms for anything to keep his mind occupied, he’s running out of excuses.
He runs the sonic tap another cycle for something to do, not that there is anything left to clean off his hands, they still feel wrong somehow. He’s thankful, at least, that the fresher doesn’t have a mirror.
He switches off the light, though the fan still clatters away. He thinks about taking the damn thing apart and re-oiling its joints, given how kriffing annoying it is. Half a ration bar sits accusingly on the small desk. He’s stalling.
He scrubs his hands across his face, rough, stubble finally growing back in after months of daily shaving, prickling at the skin of his palms. He can’t remember the last time the mess was anywhere but someplace to choke down a luke-warm meal and leave as quickly as possible, let alone be an active participant in a crowd of conversation. It would be easier just to stay in his billet, finish the remaining half a ration bar and then climb into his bunk and try to get the sleep his body so desperately needs.
Except the luma-bulb above him continues to buzz, mocking his requirement for rest, and Cassian can almost hear K2’s belligerent tone, Cassian organics are not suited to isolation.
All of this is redundant anyway, because, of course, he does want to see Melshi again. That part of his mind that piques with curiosity, the need, hammered into him as an intelligence operative, to know. Not just that though. The memory of a hotel room on Niamos brushes up against his consciousness.
His hands don’t shake when he removes them from his face.
The mess hall is, regrettably and, he supposes, obviously, louder than he remembers. It’s more than a little jarring. Handing out of the evening's meal has clearly ceased. Cassian watches from the doorway as two Twi’lek porters clear away the last of the heating trays, replacing the cleared tables with caff dispensers.
He’s just debating whether to grab a mug for himself when he hears someone call his name. It takes a second for him to scan the room. There are only half of the officers that he recognises, and less than a handful that he could name. A pang of isolation settles in his chest, even as he spots Melshi waving him over to a table by the wall.
Just as he is about to raise a hand in acknowledgement, someone sidles up beside him. Kes Dameron, always one to appear at inopportune moments, does nothing to conceal the surprise on his face as he greets him.
“If you’ve had a change of heart over the quality of the food Andor, I’m sorry to say you’ve just missed out,” he gives a good natured chuckle, exiting from his peripheral and into Cassian's field of view. Cassian takes a half step away, nervous that Kes might try to clasp him by the shoulder again. “Survived your encounter with the General then?”
“Escaped you could say,” Cassian tries not to grimace at his own bland attempt at humour. Kes laughs anyway.
“You should join us,” he gestures his head to the far corner of the hall, of the group, Cassian only recognises Shara Bey, “we’re just setting up a round of Sabacc.” It’s not as though he dislikes them, in fact, Dameron and Bey are some of the few faces he knows outside of Dravens command team, well enough that he’d spent more than a few nights skulking around the edges of Bey’s unsanctioned barracks parties. Drawn in under the promise of a good evening of gambling and enough homebrew hooch to burn away the memories by morning.
“Not tonight,” Cassian tries to put on a half smile and hopes it comes off apologetic, “I’m here to meet an old friend,” the word slips out without thought and it doesn’t take much observation to spot the puzzled look in Damerons eye. Cassian’s head turns toward the Pathfinders table and Kes follows his gaze.
Melshi’s body might be turned to face his team, but his eyes are fixed on the two of them, watching with interest. The others appear engaged in conversation, though he’s sure he spots Dade’s eyes flicker towards them for a moment, before slipping back into the discussion at the table.
“The new transfers?” Kes asks, voice steeped in disbelief. Cassian shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Just the Sergeant.” Kes lets out a low whistle.
“Small Galaxy I guess,” he shakes his head, turning back to Cassian, “Well, I won’t keep you then,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender, then adds, “Watch out for that pilot though, I’ve heard she can outdrink the lot of us,” he winks and turns away, heading over toward the already boisterous Sabacc table.
This time he makes it across the room without further interruption, sliding into the seat at the end of the table opposite Melshi. Elbows leaning against the table, chin resting on his thumbs, face half hidden behind steepled fingers, slip down to reveal the smile on Melshi’s lips, as the conversation dies away beside them.
There is the sound of someone clearing their throat. Cassian turns his head to see Officer Dade from her seat beside Melshi, and raises an eyebrow at the pair of them.
“So,” Cassian doesn’t miss the wicked twinkle in her eye, “are you going to introduce us, Sarge?” there is a playful edge to her tone. Melshi rolls his eyes.
“I was just going too, Officer,” he pokes back at her. The pang of loneliness twists a little deeper at watching them rib one another so casually, even if his face remains neutral. Melshi introduces Flight Officer Lilla Dade, though Cassian already knows her name. Her teeth flash brilliantly white as she smiles, in contrast to the deepness of her skin. Her dark brown eyes search him in such a way, that if Cassian wasn’t so used to scanning people himself, would come across as casual.
Then Melshi introduces the two other men at the table, Officer Jal Henle, who sits on the other side of Dade, and Officer Sora Acle who Cassian is next to. The two men share a brief glance before they nod their heads in greeting, and Cassian finds himself suddenly self conscious of the rank insignia on his shirt. They both wear their hair cropped short, Henle’s as pale as Acle’s is dark.
“Isn’t there someone missing?” Cassian asks, remembering K2’s informative slew from the afternoon. Dade laughs.
“Yeah,” she says, “Our Lieutenant is still recovering from last night’s hangover,” she leans forward across the table, “How come we didn’t see you at the party Captain Andor?”
They are all watching him intently. Melshi’s boot taps against his own beneath the table. Cassian keeps his breath steady and even, answering as nonchalantly as he can.
“I was indisposed,” he shrugs, “Sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“We heard you’ve been away three standard months,” Meshi probes, keenly interested. Cassian suddenly wishes he had grabbed a mug of caff, at least it would have been something to keep his hands occupied. He confirms with a nod of his head.
“You’re under General Dravens command?” Acle’s deep timbre asks beside him. Cassian shifts away to meet his eye.
“Aren’t you?” He levels back at him. Acle shrugs.
“S’pose,” it’s Henle this time, “least we heard tha’s who requested the transfer. Not that he’s given us ‘out orders since we got here.” The frustration in his voice is evident.
“Enough of that,” there’s a firm and authoritative edge to Melshi’s voice, “we go where we’re needed, that’s all,”
“You sound like Sefla,” Dade huffs, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. Melshi glares at her, then turns back to Cassian.
“Nevermind all that,” he seems to visibly relax, “what have you been doing, Cassian? Stop these guys from guessing what getting drafted into SpecOps entails,” he grins, the rhythmic tapping resuming against his boot.
Coming here had been a bad idea from the start. He knows, logically, while they might all be under Dravens command, their roles will likely be entirely separate. A highly trained team of specialists, hell, K2 had even said they were known for their extractions success, would not be tasked with the same dirty jobs as Cassian. Team. It's a concept foreign to him by now.
“No loose ends with only one operative,” Draven says, sliding an aide's Imperial Uniform across the desk. Cassian runs a finger lightly along the collar, the raise in the stitching barely noticeable.
Losing a spy costs the rebellion one man. A spy captured alive costs many more.
They’re waiting for him to say something. Cassian draws his foot away.
“That’s classified,” he says, staring down at the table. He shouldn’t have come .
No one says anything. He risks lifting his head up again. Melshi doesn’t conceal the expression of disappointment fast enough. Out of the corner of his eye, Cassian can see Henle muttering something to Dade, her brows barely knitting together, surveying him.
He stands abruptly, shoving back from the table. His heart is pounding in his chest.
“Sorry for interrupting. It was nice meeting you all,” and with a curt nod he turns and walks out of the mess hall as fast as he can without actually running.
Though the hallway is cooler, Cassian’s face still feels warm. The sounds of the mess seem to follow him. It’s the laughter that cuts through, a painful reminder of a distant feeling that doesn’t belong to him anymore. His hands curl into fists, a generator hum ringing in his ears. It strikes him then, how unfamiliar that world has become. Of the easy closeness and comradery that has become strange and out of reach.
That cool, numb, isolation that has settled so into his very being, flickers, and without warning, burns through his nerves.
“Cassian, wait!” he whips round to watch Melshi stop up short a few paces behind him. And maybe for the first time today, Cassian looks at him. Really, looks at him.
He’s bigger than Cassian remembers, like peering through fog into a buried memory. Melshi was lithe and wiry, too much limb and awkward jutting bones beneath pale skin stretched to thin across them. The man standing before him, broad shoulders beneath tanned skin, arms still muscled but now robust, the distinct air of a man well fed. It only makes Cassian’s own worn frame shrink smaller, brittle and sharp. The look of barely masked concern on Melshi’s face sets off a flare of anger in his chest. He should be back in the mess with his crew. Not standing here in a deserted corridor with him.
“Back off,” he spits, the words hot in his mouth.
If time and distance had pushed a rift between them, Cassian feels it widen now, a vast gully into which pours the vitriol of every shitty, lonely mission, of too much blood, of too little time, of failure after failure, and closed doors and classified intel and nothing but the few pieces of him left not to tumble into that chasm completely.
Melshi takes a step closer anyway.
“What happened to you?” It’s so earnest that Cassian almost believes it. He laughs bitterly. It tastes like bile in his mouth. Somewhere beneath the rage, the injustice, there is a pang of guilt as he watches Melshi’s wounded expression.
“That’s classified,” he’s seething, the words are hollow nonetheless.
“Don’t give me that banthashit,” Melshi’s raised voice takes him by surprise. It’s not unwelcome, Cassian knows how to deal with anger.
“Or what?” he sneers, lips curling, “Because you know kriff all about me, don’t you? You don’t know me and you don’t know a thing about what I’ve done.” Blood is rushing in his ears, all his frustration burning white hot beneath his skin. “I’m glad you have your Pathfinders, I’m glad you’re doing well. But some of us have had to give everything to the rebellion,” It’s a low blow and he knows it, and with maddening glee Melshi takes the bait.
“Do you think I haven’t given everything I have to this fight?” his face is flushed, “You’re not the only one in this, you’re not the only one who’s lost something, who’s had to get their hands dirty.”
Melshi doesn’t know because no one does. No one can. Cassian knows it’s unfair, knows that everyone is fighting just as much, just as hard. Maybe that's why it cuts so deep, the separation between himself and the rest of the rebellion. His fight will not be remembered, wrapped up in secrecy and lies and information passed silently between hands. Not like the tangible weight of a blaster in his hand, of an enemy to eliminate alongside his fellow rebels. Not feeding an army. Not outfitting a fleet or servicing ships to fly. Passed from one architect of knowledge to another, from Luthen to Kleya to Draven to those unknown gatherers of information that send their orders to him.
Maybe he’s angry most of all, because Melshi’s fight is so real.
But Cassian has never been good at taking things back, and pushing that rift further is easier than apologising, or paying any mind to the guilt swelling in his chest.
So he steps forward, not sure if it’s to lash out or just to physically push him away, but as his arm raises up, Melshi’s hand wraps deftly around his wrist and closes the distance between them. The ringing in his ears falls silent, only his too loud breathing breaking the stillness of the air. Melshi’s palm is hot against his skin.
“Talk to me, Cassian,” his voice is low and soft, leaning in so close Cassian can feel his breath against his cheek, “I’m here,” he breathes. The anger burning in his veins runs cold.
The room is barely illuminated by the street-bulbs outside their window. A faintly trembling hand is sweeping across his cheekbone, face wet with tears. The steady heartbeat thrums beneath his fingertips, chest rising and falling with each breath. A broken sob forces its way out of his throat.
“Let me go,” it’s barely more than a whisper. Melshi’s hand releases his wrist. Cassian steps back, and does what he has always been best at.
Running away.
Notes:
As a noisy environment hater myself, Cassain overwhelmed and lashing out after the bs he's been dealing with was...likely. Up next, a flashback and better time for a reconnection.
tumblr @laneboyheathens where you can find me going insane over the new Melshi crumbs from the D23 leak.
Chapter 4: the only two who made it
Notes:
Thank you for all the support on this fic so far and thank you for baring with me spelling Cassian “Cassain” half of the time for the first three chapters because my dyslexic ass did not catch that and imma be real with you they still look the fucking same to me aaaaaaa. Went back and changed all the instances I could find to the correct spelling and find and replace (my beloved) should hopefully prevent future occurrences aha SORRY. No beta we die like my ability to differentiate between letters fr
No Content Warnings for This Chapter
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first brilliant rays of sunrise stream through the slits in the blinds, casting dancing spots of glowing orange across the crumpled sheets and tangled bodies. Trembling hands caress his lower back, warm skin beneath his cheek, heartbeat steady where his head is laid against Melshi’s chest.
His eyes are dry, the beginnings of a headache pulse behind them. They both must be dehydrated, and though hunger claws at his stomach Cassian makes no effort to move. His head rises and falls with each breath Melshi takes, hands running back and forth to the same beat. Tells himself that he doesn’t move because Melshi is the one that needs this. Doesn’t try to remember the last time someone held him with such tenderness.
“Kino used to rough us up, you know,” Melshi says. It breaks the quiet chorus of their breathing. “I think he knew. I think he’d been there long enough to see it, when we started to crumble. When too many of us were standing too close to the edge at night.” Though his voice is steady, Cassian can feel the trembling in his hands worsen. He wraps his arm around Melshis’s waist a little tighter.
“Kino wasn’t always shift leader,” he continues, “but things got pretty bad and, he just took charge. It took everything from us,” his breath hitches, “but Kino would start fights with us, knew exactly what to say to get you riled up. I think he figured that anger was a better motivator than desperation.” Cassian thinks that Kino must have been right. He’s been burning for as long as he can remember. He says nothing, it's not the right time.
“If you would still fight back, it meant you were alright, it meant there was still something left of you. It couldn’t be kind, or tender. That shit would get you fried. But someone's hands on you, to throw a punch or kick or push you up against a wall, it was something and that was more than the nothing it always was. I think he knew best of us all. I think he was trying to save us in the only way he could.”
Cassian’s fingertips trace carefully along exposed clavicle, thumb resting in the dip between them. He slides his hand upwards, reaching to cup the back of his neck and pulls him down towards him. Melshi obliges, sinking them both into a deep slow kiss that tastes of salvation, and Cassian ignores the rising dawn a little longer.
Cassian awakes, shivering. The billet is as empty as it's ever been.
The warmth of the dream, no memory , slowly evaporates, replaced by that cool emptiness he's become so accustomed to. He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighs.
That morning. That had been before everything had gone to hell. Wrapped up in ignorant bliss before the world came chasing down with the harsh slap of reality. Before he’d known what had happened back on Ferrix. To Salman and Bix and Maarva. For a moment, the wave of grief threatens to overwhelm him. He rides the surge, allowing the tightness to hold on to his chest. Then he lets it fall away again.
It’s been years.
That hotel on Niamos. A tiny island of reprieve amongst an ocean of chaos.
And of course, he’s now done a spectacular job burning that bridge.
His shoulders sag, he knows he needs to face it.
Given that the closest to a friend he has in the rebellion is K2, it’s no wonder he’s gotten away with his snapping attitude for so long. Easy enough to slowly push everyone away when he’s spent so much of his time alone. And if there’s one thing Intelligence has taught him, it's to trust no one.
Last night had only served to remind him how little he has to show for everything he has given, and when someone had finally held out an olive branch, he could only see it as a sickening taunt.
Then he’d exploded, like it was a threat. At one of the only people in the galaxy to have seen him at his most vulnerable. To have known him before the facade of ‘Captain Andor’. Before something had crawled inside his chest and died there.
He rubs his knuckles against his eyes, blocking the sharp unnatural light from the still buzzing luma. Two days and the thing is already getting under his skin.
His vision is still blurry when he checks his chrono. It's too early. He should try and sleep more but restlessness already has him out of his bunk and pulling on a fresh shirt. He can’t stay here and run a hundred possible conversations in his head.
He’ll have to pester the technicians for something to do.
“Cassian,” Kay is prodding at his thigh to get his attention. He’s elbow deep in the underside of some cockpit controls, which is a mess of blown fuses and corroded wiring. He shrugs his leg away, trying to unscrew yet another access panel hiding yet more of the damage.
“In a minute Kay,” he mutters, struggling to get the angle right to turn the final hexscrew holding the damned thing in place. Whoever had serviced the ship last had stripped the screw threads almost completely smooth, and his tools keep slipping out of place, meaning what should have taken a few minutes has taken almost an hour. It’s no wonder none of the technicians had gotten around to this one yet, not when there are more critical service craft to turn around. With a lurch, the last screw finally gives way just as K2 says,
“Sergeant Melshi is here,” and the panel smacks down straight onto his face. He jerks, swears, then wrenches himself out from under the controls, rubbing at his forehead. When he looks up to glare at Kay, he instead finds himself staring at Melshi, who shuffles uncomfortably in the gangway.
Cassian's stomach drops. He's spent all morning cursing at shoddy electrical work and listening to Kay berated him for his poor abilities at ‘typical organic behaviour’ leaving him woefully unprepared to deal with any of this right now .
“Is this a bad time?” he asks, eyes flickering between K2, the control panel and Cassian, who only barely remembers to wipe the murderous look from his face in time. Sitting up properly, he rolls out his stiff shoulders, shifting back to lean against an intact wall panel. He draws his knees up, leaning his arms over them. Black lubricant oil stains his fingers.
“It’s fine, I needed to take a break anyway,” he replies, trying to wipe the grease off on his trousers. He grimaces, anxiously focusing on the feel of the fabric between his fingertips.
It has to count for something that Melshi doesn’t seem angry, just uncomfortable, shifting in the entry to the cockpit. Uncomfortable. Because of him. It’s only a fair assumption after last night's poor display, even if Cassian’s frustration is currently directed toward the ship more than anything else. Probably still scrubbing at his hands with a bit more force than strictly necessary.
“I require charging,”
Kay’s vocalisation contains a notable warble of ‘this is not going to be my problem’, that has Cassian whipping his head towards him, trying to keep his face neutral.
K2 has battery reserves that last weeks and absolutely does not need recharging. Cassian appreciates the sentiment all the same. The cockpit is cramped enough with the two of them in it, and Cassian’s not sure this is a conversation he wants to have in the presence of the droid. If he even wants to have this conversation at all.
He watches as Kay hunches to exit the frame that is far too low for his towering form and Melshi has to press against the wall to let him past.
Kay turns back, considers for a moment, then says, “You can fetch me once you’ve finished your talk,” then stomps away. Cassian cringes, maybe he’d been too optimistic about K2’s proclivity for tact.
There are a few horrible moments of quiet, Kay’s last words hanging in the air as Melshi sits, back to the wall in the spot recently vacated by the same. At least he’s not the only one blushing. Cassian goes back to staring at his knees.
“Hey,” the greeting softly drifts over the rift between them. The anticipated tone of resentment is nowhere to be found. Cassian can’t tell if that's better or worse.
“Hey,” He sounds pathetic and hates himself for it. Hates that when he tries to think of anything to say, his mind draws a blank, and the quiet stretches out again.
“Look, I wanted to come and apologise for -”
“What?” Cassian interrupts him, shaking his head, “No, I was the one being a real ass last night, I should be the one apologising,” he is painfully aware that ‘I should apologise’ is not actually an apology. Melshi shrugs.
“I did dump you in with everyone from the jump, that was probably a bit unfair,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “and, well, I did ask some pretty stupid questions.” Cassian frowns. It had been overwhelming and uncomfortable. But Melshi had no way of knowing that the mess hall would set his nerves on edge. He couldn’t possibly have expected Cassian to try and bite his head off for trying to make conversation.
There’s so much he can’t explain, but he tries for mostly the truth.
“I’ve been off base for a while. It’s, uh, it can be hard, being back here,” he gestures vaguely around them. Trying to find the right words is like thinking through gravel. “I have to spend all my time watching my back, not being able to trust anyone or anything, it's hard to turn it off,” he sighs, stretching one leg, “it takes some time to feel like myself again but that's no excuse for what I said. It was kriffed up because I know the rebellion kriffs us all up, one way or another, and I’m sorry, I just got in my head and, yeah.” He trails off, it’s a poor excuse for an apology.
“I’m sorry, too. I was just, I didn’t think anything of it,” His boot lightly taps against the side of Cassians. “We should have just done this in the first place, just the two of us,” Cassian doesn’t pull away.
“I am really glad to see you again,” When he looks up, there is an open calmness on Melshi’s face, and unlike the day before, he seems tired. Cassian's eyes sting and he turns away.
“I’m really glad to see you too,” he can’t look at him and his voice is thick, Melshi keeps tapping their boots together steadily. It's grounding. Cassian has to take several deep breaths before he can look at him again. “Where did you go, after Niamos?” he asks, even managing to hold back that tinge of loss that comes with the memory. In fact, it's calmer than he’s felt in months. Melshi’s hands fold into his lap.
“Got the first transport I could find heading for the Core Worlds. Got as far as the inner rim before I lost my nerve and figured that was kriffing stupid idea,” he laughs, it’s strangely hollow, “We split up to get the word out about Narkina and I couldn’t even bring myself to tell anyone, I was terrified I’d get picked up and thrown back in, you know? I…I guess I didn’t know who I could trust either so, I just went home. Paid a smuggler for a transport and he even had the decency not to rob me of the credits I had left.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand across the back of his head. “I don’t even know why, s’not like I had anyone there to go back to anyway,” he trails off, not looking at anything. Even his leg has gone still.
“What happened then?” Cassian prompts, gently testing out rocking his own foot to knock against Melshi’s boot, watching as he takes a deep breath before continuing.
“My village was gone. Everyone I’d ever known was just, and I didn’t even know where to look for anyone that might’ve made it out.” his mouth is set in a grim line. “That's where Taidu picked me up.”
“The lieutenant?” Melshi nods.
“He was pretty forgiving considering I tried to kill him at first,” Cassian raises an eyebrow quizzically, “Well, he was dressed as a Trooper at the time. Anyway, he let me tag along back to Paucris Major. We stationed there for a while until the evacuation,” Cassian remembers hearing how close the Empire had come to discovering Paucris, where the rebellion’s largest ships were built and stored.
“Bounced around outposts for a couple of months, we were ground crew mostly until we met Lilla and Sora. Command wanted task teams for ops and we volunteered. Got Sergeants rank after we did our first successful prison decommission.” Melshi flicks the rank insignia on his shirt absentmindedly.
“Not Narkina. The Empire’s not that innovative though, what I knew helped. That's where we picked up Jal. He’s a good kid just,” he shrugs, “Kriffed up, like we were.” Cassian nods, he can sympathise with anyone who's been through that kind of hell.
“You ever find out what happened, with Narkina?”
“You didn’t hear?” Cassian shakes his head. Melshi frowns.
“Got wiped a year after we got out,” it’s Cassian's turn to frown.
“Wiped?”
“Shut down. Everyone fried, guards included.” It settles like a rock in Cassian’s stomach. Thirty-five thousand men. Gone. And all for what? He tries to keep his breathing steady through the guilt that rises up inside of him. We’re they the only two that ever made it out? Those odds sound immense.
And yet, here they both are, after years and systems apart. The only two who made it. Close enough to reach over to place a hand on Melshi’s shaking ones.
He doesn’t.
“You think they were covering something up?” he asks instead.
Melshi hands ball into fists, “Aren’t they always?” His shoulders are stiff. It’s never good to ruminate on sour topics like these, where there are no solid answers. Cassian seizes the chance to change it.
“I guess you wouldn’t have heard about the riots on Ferrix?” Melshi blinks a few times, his shoulders relax again. He shakes his head.
Cassian nods grimly, “That’s where I went after Niamos. I wasn’t even involved with it really, just there to try and help some friends.” He pauses, considering whether or not to say he found out just before Melshi left. It’s so long ago, what does it matter now. “It started at my mother’s funeral, I think it’s exactly what she would have wanted. It was a real kark up for the ISB though, radio silence about it on the holonet channels.”
That was back before the rebellion had solid communication channels, spread thinly out across the galaxy in independent pockets of resistance and anarchy. The empire cracking down hard on what could legally be published, opposition silenced violently.
“I had a contact at the time, an independent cell. Got drafted here when that all went to kriff,” he can’t bring himself to grieve Luthen but Cassian has made his peace with that. It’s not like the old bastard would have grieved for him.
“Save that and use it,” Luthen growls, dragging Cassian along by the front of his shirt. His vision blurs as they step into an ally and he is roughly shoved against the wall. The cool bricks press uncomfortably into his back.
“Pull yourself together or you’ll get us both killed,” Luthen spits, shaking him by the shoulders. There’s wetness on his face, barely able to get words out around the lump in his throat.
“I need a second,” he chokes on a shuddering breath.
“There isn’t time for that, boy,” drawing them further into the shadows. “Swallow your grief before it swallows you whole.”
“Cassian?” He blinks away the memory, Melshi coming back into focus once more.
“Yeah,” he rubs a knuckle hard between his brows. What can he even say about his time on, or off, Yavin? Half of it classified up to the gills, the other half buried. Under layers of shame and guilt, locked away and labelled Do Not Touch. Those things he doesn’t even let himself think about. Shoved down and unacknowledged.
Melshi is patiently waiting for him to continue. What can he even say that isn't wrapped in secrets or downright dishonesty? There's tightness in his chest. Yet somehow, with crystal clarity he realises, he doesn’t want to lie.
He drops his hand from his face.
“I’m away more often than I’m not. I don’t work closely with the rest of SpecOps.” When he meets his eyes, dark and sad, it's easy enough to read the disappointment. They might share a command, but the similarities end there. “I work alone. ‘Captain’ is just so no one here asks any questions. The things I’ve done,” he swallows something bitter, “Those things change you.” He can’t keep his gaze, so stares at his clasped hands instead. “So much has happened Melshi,” he trails off, weight heavy in his chest.
Melshi reaches forward and lays a hand on his ankle, he can feel the warmth of it sinking though the fabric. Cassian finds he doesn’t mind it.
“I know,” he says, hand squeezing gently, “I’ve done things too,” but Cassian shakes his head.
“I’m not the person you remember. I’m no better than a stranger,” that past version of him is unrecognisable. That version of Cassian still had a fire inside him, now all that’s left is barely glowing embers and a simmering storm that threatens to put them out.
“Not to me,” Cassian blinks at him, “You’re not a stranger to me,” Melshi repeats, sitting straighter. “I know it’s been hard. This fight, it ain’t easy on any of us. But we’re still here aren’t we? That has to count for something?”
Cassian wants it to. Of course he does. That he still wants to do what is right. That every inch they gain is worth the pain and suffering. Only, he is so tired, and there’s nowhere else for him to go. What is even left for him outside of the rebellion?
He can’t bring himself to agree. He doesn’t want to lie.
“You don’t think we’re strangers?” it tugs at a raw and lonely nerve to ask. When Melshi smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkle and Cassian finds he can’t tear his own away.
“We don’t have to be.” He rocks forward on to his knees, then holds out a hand between them.
“Ruescott Melshi, I was arrested for stealing Imperial medical supplies” It’s so novel, so absurd, that without thinking, Cassian reaches out and shakes it.
Melshi’s hand is large and warm under his palm. He tries not to focus on it. In all their time in Narkina, and the short time after, Cassian had never asked, never even thought to.
“Cassian Andor, I was arrested for being a tourist” Melshi laughs, he doesn’t drop his hand.
“Will you ever tell me what you were actually in for?” Of course he doesn’t believe him, but he’s grinning, in spite of all he must think that Cassian is lying to him.
And then Cassian is grinning too, “I swear, they thought I looked funny”
“Hmm,” Melshi considers, “well you were walking around with a suspicious name like Keef Girgo,”
But Cassian is hardly paying attention. Melshi’s hand is still wrapped around his own, burning into his skin. Either one of them could let go, should have dropped the other. Melshi’s thumb brushes over his own and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He could pull him closer. Cassian can’t tell if the idea excites him or terrifies him but his heart rate picks up all the same. He suddenly finds it hard to breathe.
There’s a knock against the durasteel.
Cassian snatches his hand away.
Melshi draws his own back calmly, then rocks back onto his heels and out of Cassian's personal space once more.
Lilla Dade is standing in the entry to the cockpit, pointedly not looking in their direction. She clears her throat.
“Taidu’s looking for you Sarge,” She grimaces, risking a look over her shoulder, “briefing.”
Melshi sighs, rolling his shoulders and standing “Alright,” he's halfway to the door before he turns back, “don’t be a stranger, yeah?” but with Dade standing in the doorway it’s as though his tongue won't work.
He nods, throat tight.
Melshi smiles then exits, ducking past Dade in the hall. The grip on his neck eases off.
Just as it seems like Dade is about to follow, she turns to him, rocking on the balls of her feet.
“By the way Andor, your droid is terrifying, ” she mock whispers. It’s so unserious that Cassian lets out a bark of laughter. It sounds foreign to him.
“Don’t let him hear you call him ‘my droid’. He might like the terrifying bit though.” She flashes a very bright white smile at him and hums,
“I’ll keep that in mind, certainly makes for a good guard dog, he really didn’t want to let me in here,” she gives a little apologetic shrug, “Sorry,”
So Kay hadn’t just excused himself so they could talk without him there, but also to make sure no one else interrupted them. Cassian feels a twinge of gratitude. It must have been a good reason if Kay had let her up here.
“It's fine, I need to get back to this anyway,” he says, picking up his tools again, “Will you send him up on your way out?”
“Sure,” he’s already rolling himself back under the controls when she replies, the fully exposed wiring looking worse than ever.
Dade hovers in the doorway still, Cassian cranes his neck to catch her eye.
“Was there something else you needed?” She looks torn for a moment, fidgeting with one of her braids, twisting it back and forth between her fingers. Then seems to make up her mind and shakes her head.
“It’s nothing,” It’s nothing? That sparks his interest but she is already turning. “See you round, Andor,” He frowns, her footsteps trailing away.
He lies back, staring up at the wiring, but not really seeing it.
They don’t have to be strangers. There is a tiny flicker of hope in his chest. Maybe that can even be true.
Notes:
*cradling Cassian by the face* Have you considered not isolating yourself?
Anyway, this chapter got out of hand they kept going on tangents.
As always, come and yell with me on tumblr @laneboyheathens where I am always insane <3
Chapter 5: an incident
Notes:
Anyway so, this chapter wasn't in my original draft, but then the OC brain rot set in and other things needed occurring and once again, the chapter bloomed out of my control.
Did I technically steal Lilla Dade's name from a new resistance character? Yes, but she's mine now.
I may drop character sheets over on my Tumblr and I'll update this note if I do.No Content Warnings for This Chapter
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There are officers on his ship.
Well, more accurately, Cassian can hear the distinctive sound of someone pacing back and forth across the durasteel grating in the hull of the pile of scrap that he has been finding yet more problems in over the last few days. He can hear voices, though he can’t pick up what they are saying.
Most unhelpful of all, K2’s looming figure blocks the walkway to the hatch.
“Cassian,” he greets as Cassian approaches.
“Kay,” he tries to peer around him, but whoever is in the ship is not in view of the hatch. The rhythmic clanging of boots on metal drown out any hope of picking up on whatever conversation is occurring within. “Who’s in there, and why did you let them in?”
Kay’s optics fix on him, body leaning to block even more of Cassian’s view. “Officer Dade requested use of the ship for herself and three other members of the Pathfinder’s for privacy ,”
“Who?”
“Not the Sargent,” Kay seems annoyed by the interruption, “And as for why, my analysis indicates that Officer Dade is a highly trustworthy individual and that her request did not raise any risk indicators. If they did want to take the craft without authorisation then they’ll be disappointed to find it inoperable,” Cassian, unfortunately, can’t fault logistics subroutines, “She also asked if I would stand here and look scary ,” he sounds rather pleased with himself. Cassian groans, how corrupted code created pride he’ll never know.
He can’t help but admire Dade figuring out how to get Kay on her side though. Terrifying indeed.
“Why are they here though?” He pushes. Kay shrugs.
“I believe there was an ‘incident’ during morning training,” Cassian doesn’t like the sound of that. He especially doesn’t like that the rest of Melshi’s crew are here without him. He tries to ignore the uneasiness that rises in his chest.
“What incident?”
“Well if anyone had bothered to share that information with me I would be able to pass it on to you,” Cassian glares at him, Kay can be a real pain in the ass when he gets flippant like this.
“I guess I’ll have to ask them then,” he folds his hands across his chest, jutting his head to the entrance behind Kay.
Kay’s vocals whirr, a horrible imitation of a sigh as he moves out of Cassian’s way. It still catches him off guard sometimes, just how much personality K2 possesses.
Out of habit, he keeps his footsteps light, not wanting to alert them to his presence, though unnecessary given the continued loud pounding of boots.
“Lilla, will you stop that? I’m exhausted just watching you,” says a voice he doesn’t recognise. The pacing halts, the last of the ringing reverberating through the floor. Cassian ducks around a corner and the small hold space comes into view.
Four pairs of eyes land on him. He recognises Officers Henle and Acle, sitting together on the bench in the narrow room, Dade, who has clearly only just stopped pacing, stands a little off centre to the walkway. The fourth, who Cassian assumes must be Lieutenant Selfa, his broad form leaning against the hatchframe to the cockpit.
It's clear that Dade is fuming.
“Captain Andor,” Sefla straightens, though none of the others move, “we’ll get out of your way.”
Before Cassian can reply, Dade scoffs, her arms folding across her chest, “Not like there’s anywhere else that’s private in this kriffing place.”
Hadn’t Kay also mentioned something about privacy? It’s then that Cassian notices Acle’s arm across Henle’s shoulders, face drawn and pale.
“Lieutenant, Officers” At the very least it doesn’t appear that the group are here to ambush him, and while the Lieutenant’s offer stands, Cassian is reluctant to throw them out. Officer Henle’s vacant look in particular spiking his concern. “Please don’t feel the need to leave on my account, but you could tell me why you’re here?”
It’s hard to miss the shared looks that flicker amongst them, weighing up exactly how much to share with him. He can’t blame them for their hesitation. He’s barely shown his face since that first abysmal night in the mess hall, only briefly interacted with Dade the following day, and to the Lieutenant he is a complete unknown. It’s a beat too long before Sefla responds.
“My apologies, Sir. We just needed a moment to take a breather and Officer Dade suggested we might use this craft. The droid seemed amenable and let us onboard, please forgive our presumption,”
Cassian cringes at the use of the honorific. It’s clear that mistrust has won out this time. Anxiety gnaws at him, Melshi’s absence seems to radiate in the empty space, and if they don’t trust him what chance does he have to work out where he might be?
He’s noticed that, in the few brief days and passing glimpses across the hanger, that the five Pathfinders are always together. So either they’re not drawing attention to Melshi’s absence because Cassian has miscalculated their closeness, or the reason for Melshi’s absence is deemed information with which they have determined Cassian is not to be trusted.
He’s beginning to think it might be easier to let them stay here and try and find out what’s happened though other channels, Kes and Shara are usually good gossips. But just as he is about to open his mouth and tell them that he’ll get out of their way, Dade blurts -
“You’re a breakout aren't you?” Cassian blinks at her in confusion.
“A breakout?” He asks. Dade makes a frustrated huff.
“Ex-imperial prisoner, right?” She is staring at him intently. Something clicks together in his mind as his gaze lands on Henle’s pale face again. That’s where we picked up Jal. Cassian doesn’t like the implication.
“Lilla,” Acle’s deep voice is laced with warning. She rounds on him, finally taking her eyes off Cassian.
“Sarge said him and Andor were locked up together, Sora,” She sucks on her teeth. Something passes between them and Cassian finds himself watching their silent argument.
There’s a flicker of warmth in his chest. He hadn’t known they knew about Narkina, and in truth he still doesn’t know the extent of what they know. Yet the implication that Melshi had told them about him, how much? When? It’s as though for the first time he realises he exists to Melshi not only when he’s right in front of him, and well, Cassian has no idea what to do with that feeling other than to push it away for later consideration.
Acle straightens, “We never agreed to -”
“He’s a breakout” Jal Henle’s voice is so soft Cassian only just catches it. Everyone’s eyes are on him, but Henle’s are fixed on Cassian, “Production, right?”
“Yes,” Cassian says, “Sergeant Melshi and I worked the same table,” his mouth is dry, this feels like a test. Henle blinks once, then nods slowly.
“It’s fine,” he says. Acle opens his mouth as though to argue but Henle cuts him off, “Sora, it’s fine, really. She can tell him,” he leans back against the durasteel wall, eyes resting closed.
Cassian watches the flurry of glances pass between the other Pathfinders once more, deliberating Henle’s words. Guilt crawls unbidden through his chest. It seems unfair that his less than two months in prison should suddenly make him worthy of their trust, even if that is the conclusion Henle has reached. That random circumstance, impossible odds and the mere fact of his survival should somehow indicate an understanding between them. Cassian wonders if they know just how short his sentence was. That Henle’s extension of comradery is sorely mistaken.
That Cassian never really had it that bad.
Dade’s eyes meet his anyway.
Her jaw tightens, arms folding across her chest, “Someone gave an ‘on program’ order during training.”
Henle flinches horribly and Acle seethes “Seriously Lilla?” before taking one of Henle’s hands in his own and squeezing it. While his words are directed at Dade, Cassian receives the glaring look as though he’d been the one who’d spoken.
It takes a second for the words to sink in, and when they do, recognition crashes into his stomach like a stone. Now, of course, he understands why the questions of his time in prison, but it does nothing to abate his guilt. Words that would have so easily washed over him. Words that could mean nothing to him but a distant memory of discomfort. Not a loss of control, not a jerking of his arms up to place hands on the back of his head, vulnerable and exposed.
Words that detonate something painful and unconscious. Reflexive and fresh for someone like Officer Henle. The effect on someone with years in the can…
“What happened?” the words come calm and steady as Cassian doesn’t feel. He needs to know more before bolting off, or doing something rash. Dade shifts her weight nervously.
“Everything happened so fast, next thing we knew Sarge was taking a swing at the guy that said it and everyone was scrambling to pull them apart,” She casts a look back at Sefla, who nods encouragingly, “we only got out of arbitration half an hour ago and uh, I brought us here to cool off,” she finishes. It's vague, though Cassian can piece together just enough to picture the scene. Details left out of Henle’s reaction likely due to Alce’s protective presence, still shooting dark looks Cassian’s way. What little trust there is between them is a delicate thread at risk of snapping at a moment's notice.
It doesn’t escape his notice that the resolution was arbitration rather than court-martial.
“I said it was fine,” Helne murmurs, though his knuckles are strained in the grip of Alce’s hand, “he didn’t need to blow up on my behalf,” he blinks, and when his eyes meet Cassians they are dark and distant.
Sefla steps forward, reaching out to place a strong hand on Henle’s shoulder.
“You know Melshi wouldn’t stand for that Jal, and just as much his right to fly off the handle over it,” Selfa says, low and steady. Henle nods, eyes closing and leaning into the touch.
Without warning, anger flares in his chest. Their comforting presence, kind words and gentle touches to sooth Officer Henle. All in Melshi’s absence.
“Why isn’t Melshi with you?” he doesn’t even try to mask the rising anger in his voice. Dade’s eyes widen at his tone but it's Selfa that answers.
“When we got out of arb’ he went to get some air,”
Cassian’s voice rises, “And none of you went with -”
“I know my team Andor,” Sefla interrupts, his voice low and laced with warning, “And I trust them to tell me what they need”.
Four pairs of eyes survey him coolly, and that fragile thread of trust disintegrates once more.
It hits like a punch to the gut all the same. They know Melshi, have known him longer than Cassian ever has, but even so he can’t bring himself to agree with their actions. He doesn’t blame Henle, caught up in his own pain, but for all of them to be here with him and not one of them with Melshi. Melshi, having to work through his pain, seemingly alone and separate from his team.
What use is there, in getting angry and righteous here, when Melshi is alone.
“Use the ship as long as you need,” he says flatly, turning his back on them. It’s not like he’s planning on waiting around for Melshi to arrive now.
He’s halfway down the ramp, K2 watching him boredly, when the sound of footsteps catch up behind him.
“The lookouts,” Dade says. Cassian whips round to face her and watches as she takes a steadying breath before continuing, “The ones that overlook the landing bay on the northside of the temple.”
He blinks at her, confused.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Dade shrugs, twirling a braid between her fingers. A nervous tell.
“You’re going to go after him, aren’t you?”
Cassian stares at her. Why tell him anything when he’s given them no reason to trust him? Let alone to go after their team-mate, their friend, who is at best in a fragile state of mind, at worst… Cassian tries not to think about Henle’s vacant eyes. He frowns, but Dade is already heading back into the ship. She pauses, looking back.
“Just tell him we’ll be here, when he’s ready,” she says.
And the anger seeps away again, replaced once more by that cool guilt that writhes in his chest. How quickly had he jumped on the worst possible conclusion? I know my team Andor, Selfa had said, and Cassian doesn’t.
For a moment, he’s torn. Maybe the other Pathfinders are right to give Melshi space, they don’t seem callous, that much is clear from their behaviour toward Henle. But there it is again, the picture in his mind of them comforting him and he can’t help but wonder why Melshi is absent from that scene.
Maybe it’s Cassian’s own selfish desire to be needed, maybe it's a burning memory of standing on a beachfront, Melshi’s face cradled between his hands to stop them both from falling into a great empty sky.
He shakes his head, then turns, bushing past K2.
“Make sure no one bothers them,” he says, heading in the direction of the north-side temple.
The faintest breeze rolls in through the jungle, warm and slightly damp as Cassian ascends the final few steps to the disused lookout spot. The vines and branches have grown close here, and only when positioned at the perfect angle is there a clear view of the hangar exit below. Officers mill about on the ground, small and distant strangers unaware of their observation, unless they happened to look up to just the right place.
Though a well known location within the Temple, it’s not well used. Moss growing thick and lush between cracks in the stone, a soft carpet only faintly worn away by the occasional individual willing to climb the steep Temple sides for a view across the treetops, for a moment of peace.
This had, on occasion, been used as a drinking spot by officers wishing to escape the watchful eyes of their commanders. The practice had come to a grinding halt after two men slipped and fell on their way back down after hours of overindulgence, resulting in cracked skulls and shattered bones. Medics had complained about the use of their limited resources on what should have been easily avoided, and everyone agreed it was best not to kriff off the medics.
The single set of fresh scuff marks in the moss let Cassian know that someone has recently ascended before him, but not yet left the hidden viewpoint.
It doesn’t stop the cold shock that shoots through him when Melshi comes into view.
His knees are drawn up to chest, head hanging between them, hands lightly placed at the base of his skull.
Fifty men, arms raised, heads bowed, orders demanded, herded like cattle from one room to the next.
Cassian shoves down the memory as anxiety and anger battle for emotional dominance, a flash of panic settling a lump in his throat.
At the sound of Cassian’s arrival Melshi's head jerks up, body tense, then relaxes in recognition. Cassian searches his eyes, only to find them clear and bright, with none of the vacancy that was present in Officer Henle’s.
Anxiety wins out, anger briefly tempered, though it lessens slightly as Melshi sends him a lopsided smile.
“You heard then?” Melshi asks, leaning back against the stone wall, arms coming to rest across his knees. Cassian could almost convince himself of Melshi’s calmness, if it weren’t for the noticeable tremble in his hands.
“I’d like to hear it from you,” Cassian says, partly because he barely knows what happened, and partly because he suddenly can’t think of what to do with himself. He had been so set on finding Melshi, of ensuring that he was okay, that the how of doing that seems to have slipped his mind.
Melshi sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing a thumb over the crease between his brow.
“You gonna stand all the way over there while I tell you?”
Cassian shrugs, then strides over the mossy ground and slides down the wall next to him, to sit, legs crossed, leaving an arms length distance between them.
“You alright?” Cassian asks. Melshi laughs harshly, running a hand over his face.
“No? Yes? Depends what you define as ‘alright’” He sighs, hands bracing against his knees again with increased pressure. They still tremble slightly. Cassian’s hands seem to ache with longing, to reach out and steady them between his own. Only his arms are numb and heavy with an invisible force that keeps them pinned to his sides. He tears his eyes away from them, stuffing the clawing feeling of guilt down into his chest, and settles on watching Melshi worry at his lip.
“We were just going through the evac drills,” Melshi begins quietly, “the officer going through it all was fine, just getting all particular and self-important about the procedures. Gods, it was just a joke, some other officer saying that he was running us like a prison guard and that's when he shouted it,” Melshi’s fingertips press firmly against his forehead, puckering the flesh, “I didn’t even have to think. It was like a bloody reflex, you know?”
Cool anger radiates outwards from his chest. Cassian does know, somewhere buried in his brain, the unconscious reflexes he has collected. The ones that take intense effort to overcome when hands brush across his skin or when someone stands just out of his periphery. He pushes the thoughts aside, nodding anyway even if Melshi can’t see him.
“When I dragged my mind back to my senses, and saw Jal frozen up the same, it was his eyes. I saw the fear in them and I just snapped,” He stares at the back of his shaking hands. Melshi’s knuckles are faintly red. Cassian hopes he got a few good punches in before Sefla pulled him away.
“I don’t really remember much what happened next, just the garrison General pulling us up for arbitration. Decided that the officer had karked up saying it, even if he hadn’t meant any harm, and I karked up by breaking his nose. We could leave it as even, since everyone was in the wrong, and signed us off for the rest of the day.”
So the officer hadn’t been disciplined for using an ‘on program’ order amongst what must be the highest concentration of ex-imperial convicts this side of the galaxy. It’s a wonder that he had only been beaten by one person. Cassian hopes that the commander general for the garrison had at least scolded him harshly, and supposes it’s better than Melshi getting court- martialed for assaulting a fellow officer.
“Where's your head at now?” He keeps his words calm and low, trying not to think about wringing the neck of the officer at fault. It doesn’t escape him that he remains unnamed.
Melshi shrugs, “Probably halfway to Narkina,” his head rolls to the side, catching Cassian’s eye, lips curling as though to smile but only making it as far as a grimace.
The loathing for the empire, always present but controlled, swells within him. He wants to see it burn . It’s all he can do not to let it consume him completely.
But what good is that loathing as a feeling in his bones? It is not the Empire in all its vile revelry that sits before him. Only a friend, worn down by the same weight of suffering as the rest of them, maybe more. What good is anger to comfort in the present?
A long time ago, a younger, less wounded Cassian might’ve pulled him close, laced together their fingers to sooth his shaking hands, reminded him what it is to feel real. Cassian wonders how he ever could have done it. That version of himself curled up and died in his chest too many cycles ago.
Yet somehow, he raises his dull, heavy arm, and his hand lands softly in the crook of Melshi’s elbow. Awkwardly, he squeezes his hand, forcing it to remain there for Melshi’s sake, even as his skin prickles uncomfortably with heat. I’m here. The words stick heavy in his mouth, unable to make them pass his lips. Melshi sags under the touch and Cassian pretends not to hear the small hurt sound he makes.
When he tips his head back, shining eyes watch the streaming clouds wander across the sky.
“You know, I couldn’t stand it to begin with. The open sky. I got so used to those white walls that sometimes when I looked up, it was like I was going to fall into it. Keep falling and never stop. It took time before being outside like this connected more with freedom than with fear.”
Cassian looks up too, the pale blue sky brushed with clouds, fresh air tugging at his hair and the sunlight a warm caress on his skin. The vines and leaves rustle softly in the breeze, the faint chirping of insects in the canopy below, the slow and steady breathing beside him. Cassian takes a deep breath of his own, and suddenly his chest feels a little lighter. He’d forgotten how much he missed this.
“That’s why you came out here then?” Cassian wonders when he started sweeping his thumb steadily back and forth.
Melshi hums, “Jal’s newer to this, having four walls around feels safe. I felt like I was suffocating in there.”
“Why did no one come with you?”
“Jal needed them more than I did. Besides, I’m not alone now, am I?”
Cassian’s chest squeezes at the comment. Melshi had asked them not to come out of concern for his teammate, and wonders how often Melshi puts the wellbeing of the rest of his team before his own.
“I think they’re worried about you,”
“Why would you think that?”
Cassian hesitates, remembering his angry outburst and departure from the transport ship. Officer Dade’s nervous demeanour as she gave up his location
“You wanted to be alone. Dade told me where to find you,”
“Lilla’s too smart for her own good,” he laughs fondly, and sunlight could never warm Cassian as much as hearing that laugh. Melshi’s eyes search for his before continuing, “I’m glad she did,” and his hand comes to rest on top of Cassian’s with the slightest pressure. His breath catches in his throat, and somehow his skin doesn’t crawl in discomfort. Only warmth, and the weight of Melshi’s words in the silence between them.
The distance has somehow closed, and Melshi's head leans close against the cool stone wall. Deep brown eyes reflect his own and a sudden fear grips him. As though Melshi might stare into the darkest parts of his mind and see those things that Cassian won’t even admit to himself. And if Melshi knew, if Melshi knew…
He would want nothing to do with you.
Cassian pulls away, drawing his hand back to his chest. Tells himself he doesn’t see the flicker of disappointment in Melshi’s eyes.
“That wreck of a transport ship I’ve been fixing,” he forces the words past the lump in his throat, “Dade said they’d be there, when you were ready.”
For a long moment, Melshi’s gaze seems to burn a hole in the side of his skull, while Cassian resolutely stares back up at the sky. Then, with a quiet sigh, he stretches his limbs and drags himself to his feet.
“I should go check on Jal, and let them know they’re fools for worrying,” he smiles downwards, just as the sun creeps over the edge of the retaining wall setting him aglow. The golden light dances across his face, softening the deep lines in his face. He looks somehow younger than Cassian has ever seen him.
He shivers as the shadows seem to deepen around him.
Then Melshi offers a hand to help him stand. Cassian stares at it a moment too long.
He doesn’t take it.
Notes:
Two steps forward and one step back.
Next update should come a little quicker as the next two chapters will be shorter (because I broke them up from one longer chapter fdklkjjff)!
tumblr @laneboyheathens
Chapter 6: rationed out
Chapter Text
He must have pissed off the technicians. Whether it had been the exhaustive list of repairs needed to the busted transport, the many requests for parts, or his own shoddy workmanship, Cassian can’t be sure. Whatever it was didn’t much matter, when K2 had loomed outside his billet door earlier this morning, a data pad pinched lazily between his fingers. A message blinking dully when he tapped the screen.
“Since you can’t keep your hands to yourself. ~ Draven”
Cassian had frowned, closing the message only to find that the datapad contained a detailed work rotation, almost every free minute crammed with tasks. He would have groaned, if it weren’t that he hadn’t actively been searching for things to fill his time with from the moment he touched down back at base. Anything to occupy his hands, occupy his time, occupy his mind.
Which is how he finds himself in the deserted stock room checking for gone-off supplies to make room for the newest shipment. Row after row of shelves loom in the semi-dark, a few faintly flickering lumas casting just enough light to check the date stamps on the items that have them. Cassian glares at the lights, wondering if there are any in the Temple that actually work without some irritating fault.
He shoves the box of ration bars back into its place on the shelf with a thud and crouches down to examine the stack of bags on the bottom shelf. The air down there smells dank and musty. He pokes one of the bags, yielding and cold? That’s not right. He rolls the wetness between his fingertips, squinting to try and make out the writing on the paper. The bulbs flicker and Cassian lets out a huff of frustration, grabbing the bag with both hands and tugging it towards the light.
The damp paper splits with a soft tear and mouldy grain goes spilling in every direction across the floor.
Cassian swears.
“Having fun there Captain Andor?”
His head snaps up at the sound of the voice, hand flicking to rest on the grip of his blaster. He hadn’t heard anyone enter the room, his heart suddenly thumping in his chest. Dark eyes meet his.
Lilla Dade, leant up against one of the shelving units, one hand one her hip and head cocked to the side, surveys Cassian with mild interest. He carefully moves his hand off his blaster. She tracks the movement of his hand, the smallest frown tugging at her brows, but otherwise unconcerned. The deep, calming breath he takes to steady himself sends the strong scent of bitter, damp grain coiling into his nose, wrinkling in disgust. An amused expression plays on Dade’s face. Cassian scowls, standing.
“Officer Dade,” he side-steps her, trying to remember where he saw the brushes and pans to clean up the mess behind him, “I thought your team were posted up evac drills again?”
She trails behind him as he stalks his way through the shelves toward the cleaning supply cupboard. Cassian can feel her presence at his back, bobbing in and out of his periphery. It sends a prickle of alarm up his neck, but the sound of her footsteps are far enough behind him that he crushes down his own sense of discomfort.
Something about her presence bothers him, though he can’t quite pinpoint why. She isn’t a threat. He tells himself. If she was, she wouldn’t have waited for you to notice her. He shakes his head. He’s being paranoid. Even so, he angles his body to keep her in his line of sight.
He doesn’t know her. That’s why he does it. Only…
Hadn’t Dade trusted him ? Come after him and told him where he could find Melshi? He watches as she sweeps line in the dust on one of the shelves with a finger as she walks. Dade is a Pathfinder and a team-mate, no, friend of Melshi’s no less. Melshi must trust her. Maybe that should mean something. Maybe he should even trust Melshi’s judgement.
But Melshi trusts you.
Cassian swallows down the painful twist in his gut as he wrenches open the supply door.
“Yeah, they want everyone to be able to pilot a transport craft if needed,” she sucks at her teeth. Cassian turns to face her, watching as she nudges at one of the newly delivered supply boxes with the toe of her boot. “I don’t exactly need the practice,” She flashes a white smile at him.
Cassian tries to suppress the flare of irritation.
“So you decided to come and annoy me instead?”
Dade laughs. Cassian blinks at her in surprise. She plucks a bulging can off of one of the shelves, rolling it between her hands.
“I was going to say help, but I can do that too,” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. The dismissal dies in his throat.
He turns back to the cupboard, snatching up several items before closing the door. Forcing his shoulders to relax he closes the gap. Dade’s eyes widen momentarily before she can school her features. Good thing she’s a pilot and not a field operative, Cassian thinks.
He offers her a broom handle.
“Might as well do both.”
To Cassian’s surprise, Dade’s presence, quiet and calm, isn’t annoying at all. In fact, they work wordlessly together, sweeping up piles of the gone-bad grain off the floor. Cassian presses a hand to the wall next to the bags of grain and it comes away wet. A bad place to store, dry, perishable goods. Mentally cursing whoever unpacked the last ration shipment, they dispose of the other affected bags, handling them delicately so they don’t tear like the first one.
Dade squints at the faded words on the paper.
“They don’t serve this stuff in the mess, do they?’
Cassian grunts, shoving his own bag down the disposal chute.
“We get a fresh shipment in from the agricultural sector every other week. This is just the back up stock in case our supply line gets cut,” he dusts his hands off on his trousers leaving white marks. They should really be wearing respirators for the mould.
“Ah,” she says, turning back to look at the maze of shelves and hallways, peeling labels and rusting cans, “how long would this last?”
He shrugs, nodding to the final bag in front of her. They lift it between them and deposit it on the chutes ledge.
“Yavin’s the largest single rebel cell in this sector as far as I know, and there are new volunteers signing up every day. Once we replace the dead stock, a month? Two on half rations?” With a push, the bag slides, echoing against the metal as it falls. There is a distant dull thud. Dade lets out a low whistle.
“That's not long,”
“Long enough to set up a new supply line,” but he’s not convinced. Almost all the agricultural planets are crawling with Empire troops these days. They’d been lucky to find sympathisers who could be discrete, but even those arrangements had taken months.
Dade brushes her own hands together to dislodge the mould, sending pale spores drifting through the air.
“Right, time for a caff I recon,” she says briskly. Cassian raises an eyebrow at her.
“You only just got here?”
“Yeah, and you look like you could do with a break,” she retorts, heading towards door leading back into the kitchen.
Cassian checks his chrono, mentally calculating the hours he’s been down here and blinks at the numbers that read well past noon. Maybe he could do with a break.
Sinking down against a stack of newly delivered crates, Cassian tucks his head down onto his knees, letting his eyes rest closed for a moment. The faintest beginnings of a headache pulse behind them, a combination of dehydration and strain from the flickering lights.
“They were just refilling the dispensers, good timing,” she deposits the mug in his hands, hot against his palm. Steam rises from the cup, the warm earthy aroma filling the air between them. “I grabbed us these as well,”
She holds something wrapped in a napkin out to him. He takes it. A still warm buttered roll. He can’t help but stare at it. Considering they don’t know one another, it seems odd to try and guess something Cassian would like. Something plain and simple. Like you’d offer someone used to eating paste through a tube for years . His heart aches at the consideration.
“Thanks,” He takes a bite, chewing slowly, trying to remember the last time he ate something that wasn’t a tasteless ration bar.
She slides down to the floor opposite him, careful not to spill her caff and biting down on her own roll. She got them both the same thing, Cassian notices, and wonders why she is doing any of this.
The question forms in his mind, as if suddenly realising why he had been so unnerved at her arrival.
“How did you know I was down here?”
She looks at him, confused, “You’re on the rota?”
Well, that's news to him. “What rota,”
“General Draven added yours to our Pathfinders one,”
“Why?”
Dade sucks at her teeth, “How should I know? Maybe since he’s offworld he wanted SpecOps to all keep track of each other?”
It clicks into place in his mind. The datapad with the work rotation, keeping him busy while Draven couldn’t keep a leash on him, sharing his location so someone else could keep an eye on him. He scowls into the dark liquid. Why hadn’t anyone told him?
They fall back into another uncomfortable silence.
"Look, about the other night, and yesterday" she starts, her voice soft but steady.
Cassian shakes his head. "Forget about it. I was intruding."
"No, really. We were all a bit on edge," she insists, her eyes flickering with sincerity.
All is certainly the truth of it, himself included. Cassian can’t remember a time he wasn’t constantly checking over his shoulder, nerves frayed from anxiety. Dade watches him with an intensity that makes him squirm. He hates this, being on the receiving end of yet another apology he doesn’t deserve. He sighs, looking down into his cup.
"You know, he talks about you all the time,"
His eyes snap up to meet hers, but she is watching her finger trace the rim of her mug of caff. His heart pounds in his ears at her words, said so offhandedly.
"The man who got him into the Resistance. We kind of thought it was all banthashit until we got here."
Cassian’s expression darkens, a shadow of something complicated crossing his face. Got him into the resistance . He hadn’t even been in it himself back then. Whatever image of him that Melshi created was just another mask, another in a never ending string of aliases. Sometimes he loses track of where his cover ends and where Cassian begins.
But he had let that mask slip, hadn’t he? Somewhere on a Niamos beachfront, where they had clung together, worn and exhausted and he had told him his name. And then, and then…
The memory burns so bright in his mind that he has to force himself to keep his breathing steady and push it away. He’d let himself be raw and vulnerable then, and he won’t make the same mistake twice. Not that he could, not when his life is divided into before and after that day, that call on the beachfront.
Wherever he goes, Cassian leaves a trail of destruction in his wake, and he won't let anyone else get caught up in it again. Never letting anyone close enough to see, before they inevitably get burned by the proximity.
"That was a long time ago."
"But you’re still here," she says, nudging the toe of her boot lightly against his. Achingly it makes him think of Melshi, and he wonders who taught who that particular comfort.
"Aren’t we all?" He doesn’t even try to give a half-hearted smile, he knows it won’t reach his eyes. He wonders what her story is. Everyone has one, their reason for joining the rebellion. She still seems so young but Cassian knows better than to assume that she hasn’t been burning to fight just as long as the rest. A different forest creeps into his mind's eye before he can stop himself, blinking away the sudden blur of grief.
"You’re not what I expected," she says, leaning back slightly, studying him.
"Sorry to disappoint," he mutters. He doesn’t know what Melshi has told them, but it must have been enough that the difference between now and the man he used to be is a stark, jarring contrast.
"I don’t think you’re what he expected either," she adds, her gaze softening. He stares into his cup as if the swirling liquid might offer him some escape from the conversation. He doesn’t need to hear how much of a disappointment he is. Dade continues anyway.
"He was pretty inconsolable that first night, you know?" she says, her voice dropping. "I think he thought he’d kriffed everything up and -” she pauses, thinking. There is a tiny shake of her head as she decides better than to finish whatever she had been about to say. “I'm just saying, I’m glad you two figured it out."
He blinks at her, confused. Melshi had been inconsolable? Why? He stiffens, remembering the cruel words he’d spoken, just because Melshi had tried to reach out to him. It should have been enough to push him away and yet, he’d still come looking for him anyway. Still tried to draw them back together despite Cassian's efforts to show him how everything had changed.
Unbidden, the memory of Melshi’s hand resting on top of his, warm and solid slides to the front of his mind.
Cassian’s lips twitch upward, just barely. "Yeah, me too."
A soft smile plays on Dade’s lips. "Look, I get it. Intelligence works alone, all that kriff. But stop by the mess with us again tonight."
He hesitates, remembering the sounds of chatter and laughter, remembering too many eyes on him as he stumbled over conversation. "I don’t know."
Dade rolls her eyes, "Seriously, I’m sick of hearing the same old crap every night from those boys and Shara’s got an evening shift," she says with a grin.
There’s that sincere flicker in her eyes once more and Cassian can’t hold her gaze.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask," Dade replies, her curiosity piqued. "But I might not answer."
Why are you even here? Why do you and Melshi keep trying? He swallows the lump in his throat, and picks something easier instead.
"Can you really outdrink the whole garrison?"
She laughs, a light sound that echoes off the walls. "I'll let you in on a little secret," grinning as she places the mug of caff on the floor. Rolling up her sleeve, she presses two fingers to the soft flesh of her bicep. A faint line raises beneath the surface. "Antieth implant. Pilot's concession. Always gotta be ready to fly. It’s a good party trick for the ones who don’t know, though. Doesn’t stop Jal and Sora from falling for it every time."
Cassian can’t help but smile, an unexpected warmth creeping into his chest. He hesitates for just a moment, trust goes both ways, before rolling up his own sleeve, pressing two fingers to the same spot on his own arm. The implant shifts beneath his skin. "Intelligence concession too."
Her eyebrows shoot up, surprised. Cassian feels a sudden flush of embarrassment flood his face and rolls the sleeve back down again.
Dade checks her chrono. "They should be getting back about now," standing and tucking her braids back over her shoulder.
“So you skive off, move a couple of sacks, drink caff, and call that helping?”
She flashes a grin at him, “Yeah exactly,” she pauses, levelling him in her gaze, “I’ll see you later, right?”
“I’ll think about it,” and he will, but it’s not a promise. She looks pleased with herself all the same.
Maybe he could , he thinks, watching her walk away.
It doesn’t mean he has to let them get close.
Chapter 7: taken away
Notes:
PLOT TIME!
A shorter chapter (that was originally part of Chapter 6) because things need to happen O.O
No Content Warnings for this Chapter (tw mentions of nausea?)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cassian hesitates at the threshold of the mess hall, leaning back into a shadowy spot and allowing his shoulders to hunch over. He melts into the wall with practised ease, and any officers that pass don’t give him a second look, if they bother to notice him at all.
The false security of his private quarters rings alluring in his mind as the sounds of laughter and conversation tug at something in him. His eyes sweep the crowded hall, and after a second he spots them. Melshi has his back to him, bent in conversation with the other Pathfinders. Watches as his shoulders shake with what must be laughter, swept up in the noise of a hundred other conversations that press in close around him. It sends a twinge of hurt deep in his chest.
For the second time since he’s been watching them, Dade scans the room, worrying at her bottom lip. “I’ll see you later, right?” Cassian sinks further into the shadows, closing his eyes.
He can picture it, their natural cadence of conversation, the flow of light touches, shoulders brushing up, anticipating one another’s movements as only a tight knit unit can. Sees the flickers of silent communication that pass between them if he were to join them, uneasiness seeping into their movements. Why try and force himself in where he doesn’t belong ?
Dade’s voice rings clear in his mind. “ He talks about you all the time.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, taking a calming breath. Somewhere, buried so deep under aliases and lies and walls of protection, the smallest flicker of the man he once was reaches out.
They don’t have to be strangers.
And he sees them again, bright and open around the mess table, quiet and comforting in the hull of the transport and Melshi…his hands burn at the memory of the contact.
Cassian straightens, stepping out of the shadows.
An officer exits the hall ahead of him, jumping slightly as though they’ve only just noticed him standing there. Cassian gives them a curt nod as he passes.
"Captain Andor,"
He stops just short of the entrance. He turns, the officer snapping to attention when Cassian's eyes land on him.
"Mon Mothma has requested your audience, Sir" the officer says with a crisp tone, though there is a nervous twitch in his neck.
Cassian’s stomach drops. "Now?"
The officer nods. "She says it's urgent."
Cassian glances toward the table again. The warmth and camaraderie in the mess hall seem suddenly so far away. He clenches his fists hidden in his pockets. He knows what this means and numbness seeps back into his limbs.
The decision is made for him.
With a final look at the Pathfinder’s table, he turns his back on the room and follows the officer, smothering the man he used to be once more.
The war room is deserted when he enters, the officer hanging back to guard the door. Senator Mothma stands by one of the displays with her back to him, watching as the locations of the fleet ships ping steadily on the screen.
She turns, her Chandrillan robes flowing around her like water. Her expression unreadable in the dim glow of the screens, casting shadows across her face as she faces him. Her posture, always that stiff political demeanour, composed but carrying a tension beneath the surface. Dropping an act is something not so easily done, Cassian knows all too well.
He steps further into the room, her calculated gaze following him as he stands to attention, waiting for her to speak.
"Captain Andor," she begins formally, offering the faintest twitch of a smile. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
He clenches his jaw. As if he had much choice anyway. He knows this is a formality, a prelude to whatever unconscionable thing he’ll be asked to do next.
"Of course, Senator," he replies, keeping his voice neutral. The title is a clinging relic, one that wasn’t shaken in the structuring of command. It doesn’t matter, her rank vastly outstrips his own.
Mon nods, though her eyes flicker with something more probing. She reaches back in a smooth motion, the elegant movement sending a spike of anxiety through him as he watches her pick up a familiar datapad.
"I've read through the report you submitted to Draven," she begins, the device pinched between her fingers. "Thorough as always. But… you and I both know that's not the full picture."
Cassian stiffens. "All the details are in the report."
Her eyes drop to the datapad in her hands. "Three months undercover, Captain, and this is all there is? How long did it take you to write that report? An hour? Two, at most?"
He swallows the rising panic at her question. Draven has never questioned his reports, something for which Cassian has always been quietly grateful. Draven doesn’t care for the filler, so Cassian makes them clean and detached. Like recalling a mission doesn’t sink its claws into him and drag him down with it. Results, never the journey to reach them.
He narrows his eyes, a knot forming in his gut. "Why does it matter? All the important information is there."
Mon exhales, dropping the datapad back onto the console. Her shoulders drop by a fraction. "Because there's something I need to ask of you."
His stomach drops. "I don’t understand," Cassian says, "We pulled the plug on Canto Bight. Why, is there more?"
Mon folds her hands, her brow just barely furrowing in a look that Cassian recognises as contemplation. His fists clench behind his back, even after everything he’s done for the Alliance, he never gets to see the full picture. He crushes his rising frustration as he watches her weigh how much to tell him.
When she finally speaks, her voice is calm but firm. "The rebellion is always running low on resources, Captain. We’re stretched thin—money, food, fuel. You know this better than most." She pauses, her eyes fixed on him.
And he does know, he’s watched their supplies dwindle and rot, kept afloat by donations and those willing to turn a blind eye. He cringes at the phrase. Stretched thin. How adequately it describes him now.
“Aris Targos... he's wealthy. Very wealthy. Spice mines, investments. We need access to his funds."
Cassian suppresses a flinch at hearing the name. He frowns, trying to make sense of the implication, suspicion curling in his chest. "The Alliance needs his money?"
"Yes."
"For what?"
"For everything, Andor," she says, the edge of exhaustion creeping into her voice, finger tapping lightly on the plasteel console. "We can’t run a rebellion on empty stomachs."
Cassian shakes his head. If they want to send him back there, he should at least get the truth. He fixes his gaze on her.
"That’s banthashit, ma’am."
Mon eyes widen at the profanity, then quickly schools her features back to neutral. The words hang in the air between them. For a moment he wonders if he’ll be reprimanded for his use of language toward a higher ranking officer.
Instead, Mon sighs, "And why is it banthashit?"
"Because you could get credits from anywhere, from any benefactor. But this isn’t about the amount, is it? It’s about where it’s from. Money from an Imperial account, making an official payment—that’s something else entirely."
Mon doesn’t answer for a long moment, but her silence is answer enough. "You're very perceptive, Captain Andor."
"It’s my job to be perceptive," Cassian replies coldly, his frustration bubbling under the surface. "Why him?" He swallows bile, he can’t bring himself to say his name.
"I cannot disclose the full details of why we need the credit from this particular source." Her voice is quieter now, almost regretful. "But I have an account ready for it to be routed through. You would never have to see him again. Can you do this?"
Cassian leans forward, the air thick between them. "What exactly do you need me to ask from him?"
Mon holds his gaze. “The broker expects one hundred thousand credits, how you play it is entirely up to you, but Captain" she pauses, voice softening, “I cannot risk your life, if you think this might put you in a compromised position I need to hear this from you now.”
Cassian hesitates, the memory of those three months spent on Canto Bight racing through his mind. The thought of returning so soon sends a chill down his spine.
Mon’s eyes pierce through his hesitation. "Would he kill you to save his own skin?"
Cassian clenches his fists, his throat tightening. "No," he says, though the word tastes bitter. "I’ll be in no danger." And maybe it’s true, at least not to his life. That’s the only thing that matters anymore, all that’s left. What use is he to the rebellion as a corpse?
Mon gives a brief nod, satisfied but cautious. "There’s a ship waiting for you in the cargo bay. You must leave immediately. Tell no one. The ship contains everything you’ll need. Formulate your background for why you’re back on Canto Bight."
Cassian nods, his body tense. "Understood."
Mon watches him for a moment longer, her expression softening just a fraction. “I swear to you this will make a difference, Cassian. You know what we’re up against."
He nods stiffly, though the unease still gnaws at him. He turns to leave, but Mon’s voice calls out one last time.
"Andor," she says quietly. "Be careful."
Cassian doesn’t look back, reality settling heavily on his shoulders as he steps into the Temple corridors once again. The officer at the door doesn’t look at him. The world seems to take on a subtle blur around him as he makes his way down to the hangar.
Distantly, he registers the sounds of laughter as he passes the hall that leads to the mess. He feels nothing. He can’t let himself, not now. His chest feels tight as he keeps walking, letting the numbness roll though him.
Ready to give what the rebellion has always asked of him. Everything.
Notes:
How could I be so cruel?
Oh folks, the next chapter is something else, if you are here for the hurt and angst...ooooh its coming!
In the meantime, feel free to come and yell at me on tumblr @laneboyheathens
Chapter 8: it has to be enough
Notes:
CW - Everything. Please heed the tags on this one. Nothing is described graphically but 'implied' is doing a lot of heavy lifting here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The job, the mask, his name - they change like shifting fog, blurring and blending together. Tugging, indistinct and fragmented, never quite long enough to grasp them. A dark and smoky cantina, a lavish party strung with a hundred coloured lights, a private room strewn with silks. They flow around and through him. Time slows then speeds, inconsistent.
He’s leaning over the table in a dimly lit corner, the air thick with the scent of spice. The mark sits across from him, laughing, drunk, and oblivious. Cassian’s fingers trace the edge of his glass, his eyes focused but detached. The laughter grates against his ears. His hand slips onto the mark’s arm, a fleeting touch, a coaxing smile. The smallest gesture sending dark eyes roaming across him, caution forgotten.
Heady perfume assaults his senses as she pulls him into a private room. Flickering candles burn bright in the darkness, fluttering when the door closes with a soft hiss. She detaches herself from him for a moment to key in the lock for the door, making no great effort to conceal the numbers. He commits them to memory, though the quiet click still sets his nerves on edge. Then she is on him again and he pulls the mask around him tightly. He can barely remember the name of the planet or the woman he’s with, but her voice is soft and low and dangerous. She begins to undress him, sharp nails brushing against his neck. He’s not really there, not in any way that matters. His eyes close and his body takes over, mind drifting away. And in it, the perfume morphs into the smell of a forest, damp and earthy. Reaching out with childish fingers to trace the rough bark, solid and warm beneath his palm.
Somewhere else, anywhere else.
It doesn’t last. Her nails dig into the flesh of his arm and tug him back into reality, eyes wide and hungry. He forces a smile. He’s always smiling.
The club is a mass of heaving bodies and strobing lights. Heat presses in all around. He’s dancing, the beading on the mark's dress brush against his legs. Her pupils blown unnaturally wide while her body rolls against him to the beat of the music. How many more hours of this? How many more lies before he can get what he came for? The gloss is sticky on his lips when she kisses him, sickly sweet and tingling. She slips the little pill under his tongue and the lights begin to shimmer.
Stumbling into the harshly lit corridor the younger officer pulls him into an alcove, the closest to privacy they can get. The mark kisses him roughly, inexperienced and desperate. Cassian raises a hand to cup his face, mind a thousand miles away. He whispers a promise, empty as it tumbles from his lips. Always lies. But the mark believes it, eyes shining with awe.
He’s losing count of how many times he's done this, how many faces, how many masks he’s had to wear, leaving a trail of broken hearts across the galaxy.
Broken hearts are the easy part.
A different face, a different bed, the same same disorientating sensation of the ground falling away beneath him. Everything blurs, where does one night end and the next one begin? He smiles placidly, spinning out a neverending spool of lies, chords tugging at him in every direction. Always in motion, always moving on to the next target, chasing the latest thread of intel.
He stares in the mirror and a stranger stares back at him. Where does the line between Cassian and the masks he wears end?
Recollection is a haze of disconnected scenes, each with Cassian placed at their centre, always playing the part, never himself. The missions blend, the faces shadow and flicker and overlay. Men, women, officers, criminals - he seduces them each in turn, pulling them into his orbit, watching them flounder as he melts away into the dark.
A vivid memory of a luxurious hotel room, high arching ceilings and soft plush carpet. The mark stands before him, a high ranking Imperial officer, uniform discarded carelessly and crumpled on one of the expensive chairs. Cassians’s eyes trace the lines of the officer's face, the sharp jaw, the thinning hair. It barely registers. He’s learned to stop seeing them as people, learned to stop seeing them at all. He smiles, practised but convincing, and steps closer.
His mind drifts away when the officer begins to talk. They never notice, too interested in themselves, their own self importance, telling Cassian things he already knows. It’s all part of the game, the performance. He can feel the eyes on him, eager and possessive, but Cassian is far away. In the forest. In the dirt. Wind whistles lightly through the underbrush as he runs barefoot beside the river. Untouched by grief, untouched by the rebellion.
When the officer touches him, Cassian’s mind snaps back to the present, back to the heavy body pressing against his own. He blinks through the fog, finding the reason again, reminding himself of why he has to be here. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let any of his unease show. Instead, he leans into the touch and murmurs something that makes the man laugh, breath hot against his neck. A joke, a flirtatious comment, he can barely recall the words he’s just said, but whatever they were they work. The officer’s grip tightens on his arm and Cassian feels the bile rise in his throat. He pushes it down.
He always pushes it down.
The mark is a black-market dealer, with equal measure information and supplies that the Alliance needs. The corner of the seedy rundown cantina they occupy is dark and the mark is drunk. His hand resting too high on Cassian’s thigh, breath sour and hot against his cheek. Cassian plays along, slowly sipping at his drink that won't take the edge off, eyes half-lidded and body relaxed, but inside he’s somewhere else.
He’s always somewhere else when it happens.
The dealer leans in closer, hand creeping higher and Cassian nods, pretending to listen, pretending to care. Even with the slur of his voice, Cassian catches the information he needs, cataloguing it somewhere in the back of his mind, as the rest of him detaches completely. He’s standing on a beach, the sun setting low and red over the waves, the ocean swell ringing in his ears. He can almost convince himself he can smell the salt in the air, feel the sand between his toes. It’s not real. Nothing feels real anymore.
Later, in a rented room, Cassian is going through the motions, body moving on autopilot, mind blank and distant. This is what it's come to. Selling his body for parts. But he’s perfected this, the dissociation, shutting down everything that would cost the rebellion. Shutting off the parts that make him human.
He runs his hands over the dealer’s chest, and he responds, groaning, pulling Cassian closer. But Cassian isn’t there. He’s in the forest again and the birds are singing in the trees high above him, the sky clear and blue peeking through the canopy. The dappled sun that warms his skin is almost enough to make him forget the weight pressing down on him.
Almost.
Then it's over, and the dealer is collapsing on the bed, satisfied, oblivious. Cassian pulls away, grabbing his clothes, trying not to hurry, trying not to let it show. His heart is racing and he swallows hard, pushing down that all too familiar feeling of disgust that rises in his chest. He’s gotten what he came for, information, supplies, codes, data, whatever it was this time. Whatever the rebellion needs. It’s done. He can leave.
And yet they begin to pile up, a vast wave on the very precipice of breaking. Threatening to swallow him whole if he watches it too long. Each time, a piece of him is carved away, left behind to rot in those dark rooms he cannot enter in his mind. Rooms filled with the faces and touches of people he doesn’t know that set his skin to crawling. He scrubs his hands until they bleed but can’t remove the stain. But he can’t stop, even if there is an empty aching cavity in his chest that never goes away.
The missions roll in on the fog and Cassian finds himself in yet another room, facing yet another figure. This one older, an Imperial guard with greying hair and cruel eyes that devour every inch. The electro-rod crackles with vicious energy, searching for the opportunity to use it, to send them screaming like cattle to slaughter. The men and women about him press in close, clutch at their filthy clothes and cry out as their few remaining possessions are ripped from them, funnelled into holding cells. It’s easy to join the swaying mass, to slip into the part of a wide-eyed and desperate refugee seeking protection.
Cruel eyes pass over his scandocs, but Cassian knows the right things to say, a carefully placed look through heavy lashes and the guard is interested. Lets him think he holds all the power like the electro-rod in his hands while Cassian weaves his threads of quiet deception. He plays the act well, half fighting half compliant when the guard drags him from the holding cell and into his private quarters. The moment the door shuts behind them Cassian can feel the tension shift to something darker.
The guards hands on him are rough, demanding and Cassian lets him be. His body goes slack. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t flinch. Vaguely, he can sense the roughness of the ferrocrete pressed into his cheek. The guard grunts, his hands bruising Cassian’s skin. He knows how to endure this, how to disappear inside himself until it’s over. The anvil is chiming as Cassian runs through the streets and alleyways, breath billowing in great white plumes. He’s small again, untouchable, out of reach.
When the guard is done, and the sedative Cassian slips him drags him off to sleep, he gathers the access codes, and slips away unnoticed. Forgotten. The datastick is gripped tightly in his fist, shoved deep in his pocket. What he came for.
There’s no satisfaction in it, no sense of victory. Just the same emptiness he carries with him everywhere. An old wound that never quite heals, the nothing that feels like a part of him now. He’s a weapon, honed and hardened, used for whatever the rebellion asks of him. Not a hero, Cassian knows better than that. But he’s in too deep now, too far gone to be anything else.
The war in the shadows marches ever onwards. He closes his eyes, takes another breath, and pulls on the next mask, the next lie, the next face he’ll try to forget.
The technician meets him in a dimly lit bar on Coruscant. Cassian has been watching her, knows she has clearance codes and doesn’t follow strict data protocol. He plays the part of a charming off-worlder with just enough mystery to draw the technician in. She smiles eagerly, easily swayed by a few well-timed compliments, her naivety palpable. At least it won't be difficult to win her over.
The drinks flow as she rattles off enthusiastically on parts and repairs and all Cassian has to do is nod and ask just the right questions. The conversation is easy and light and for one aching moment he thinks of Bix, of hours spent in Salmans yard as she had worked on something and Cassian had half listened to her explain. He wrenches himself away from the memory, but the technician seems not to have noticed his slip.
He asks another question to keep her talking, but Cassian isn’t really listening anymore. His focus shifts to the woman's datapad, lying in the open on the table between them. His fingers brush against it as he laughs, feigning interest in whatever story the technician is telling. A subtle flick of his wrist and the necessary files are copied onto the hidden device. Breathes out in relief. He can leave now. He should leave now.
Only, the technician smiles, open and inviting, lightly touching the back of his hand. And there is that look, equal parts hope and desire swirling behind her eyes. There’s the faintest flicker of something in his chest as he flips over his palm and her fingers slide against it. He pushes it down reflexively and yet…
He already has what he came for so it's not the same. At least that's what he tells himself as they stumble back to the technician's quarters.
She laughs nervously as her hands fumble with his jacket, eager eyes shining in the darkness. Cassian kisses her, guiding her to the bed. He tells himself this is different, though he’s gone through the motions so many times it’s almost automatic, touching, kissing, pretending. She whispers something in his ear, quiet and vulnerable, but Cassian barely hears it. He responds without hesitation, something reassuring, something kind, it hardly matters anymore. Her hand presses against his chest, and the hollow ache that lives there presses back, contained just below the surface. He feels nothing.
It happens without trying, his mind detaching and it's not him anymore. It’s whoever’s name he wears tonight whose body moves, their lips pressing against the woman’s skin. Who doesn’t even register her moans or flinch at the warmth of her breath. It’s all just noise, background static as Cassian recedes into his head and thinks of codes and targets and data and planets and orders and running and forests and beaches.
He knows her face will blur into the rest, just another piece in the Empires machine, one for Cassian to wield, break and discard. It smacks him in a moment of blinding clarity. The technician is a tool, just like him.
When it’s over, the technician sleeping deeply beside him, Cassian slips out of bed and dresses in silence. His fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. It was no different than the rest. His hands grip the window ledge for support, leaning his head against the glass. The city outside a distant, persistent hum. When did he stop noticing it? Coruscant, an endless sprawl, a sea of blurring lights, so many lives stretching out in the darkness.
When did everything begin to slip through his fingers like sand? When did the hollow in his chest become a constant? Has it always been there, gnawing at the edges of his mind? When was the last time he slept through the night without waking in a cold sweat, faces flashing behind his eyelids?
Is it ideology that keeps him pushing forward? Is it rebellion that rationalises his compromises? A rotating wheel of faces, ones he’s worn, ones he’s used. One’s who have used him. When he doesn’t know why anymore, just knows that he can’t stop.
Because what is left if he does?
Time shifts and he is somewhere else, hanging on the arm of a senator. Older, wealthy, arrogant. Cassian slips on the persona like a second skin, a smirk here, a soft laugh there. The senator pulls him closer, charmed, Cassian can see the glint of it in his eyes. He thinks he is the one in control tonight, that he is the one pulling at the threads of manipulation, oblivious to the fact that this has all been planned in advance. Cassian's mind is already on the report, hidden somewhere in the senator’s home, data on the transports in his sector of hyperlanes. He just has to be let in, just needs time to search without raising suspicion, without triggering security.
The senator takes him home, just like Cassian knew he would. Hand’s are on him now, gripping at his shoulders, pulling him closer and Cassian lets it happen. Let’s himself be moved and kissed and touched. There is a mouth to his throat and a false moan crawls out of it, so far gone it feels like it’s happening to someone else. There’s the energetic hum of the ship console vibrating under his fingertips, stars blurring as they whip past the viewport. Space stretches vast and empty before him, endless forever. It’s so peaceful out there, quiet.
The senator drags him down onto the bed and Cassian’s mind goes blank.
There’s no telling how much time has passed when it’s over. Long over. He’s laying on his front, face pressed into the soft silk of the sheets, staring at the wall. The senator is asleep beside him, Cassian can’t remember slipping him the sedative. When he goes to move there is the twinge of hurt, peripheral, but his body feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.
He sits, swinging legs over the over onto the floor, onto soft plush carpet and sways at the vertigo. For a long moment he just sits there, staring at the floor.
This is what he does. This is what he’s become.
The rebellion requires his sacrifices, and Cassian gives them without question. Tells himself it's worth it, that it has to be, that each night he spends like this brings them closer to some nebulous, distant, victory. It has to be, because he knows that each time he carves out another piece of himself, and there’s less and less of Cassian Andor left with every inch they gain.
He dresses quickly, unable to look at his body. Is it? Or does it belong to the rebellion now? The senator doesn’t stir when Cassian searches the house and finds what he came for and more besides. Tonight was a good night, successful by all mission markers. But there is no satisfaction in it.
He doesn’t look back at the bed when he retrieves his boots from the bedroom. It’s easier that way, go without looking back, pretending it never even happened.
But it did happen. Will keep happening until they win or Cassian slips up. He doesn’t know which one he hopes comes first.
Cool air hits his face as he walks out into the night. Unnoticed, forgotten. He breathes deeply, clearing the scent of the sheets from his nose, trying to shake the feeling of the senator’s hands on him, of the dealer’s breath on his neck, of the officer’s laugh in his ear. They swell, threaten to breach the front of his mind in a never ending stream. He shoves them down. He’s gotten good at that.
The memories cling to him anyway, sinking into his skin and bones like a stain, one he’ll never be able to wash away.
Cassian stops in the street, swaying slightly, tipping his head to see the stars blinking down at him. Inviting. Let’s that thought creep to the front, that wonders what it would be like to just… stop? Stop putting on the part, stop lying, stop being just another tool of the rebellion.
But he knows he can’t. Because the rebellion needs him, and he has nothing else. Because if he strips it all away, is there any of Cassian Andor left?
The rebellion needs him. And that has to be enough.
He keeps moving, towards the next target, ready to forget this one too. Ready to let the next face blur into the rest.
Notes:
So, uhhhhhh, that one was a lot!
Unfortunately for Cassain, were heading off to meet Aris Targos in the next chapter O_O
As always, join me on Tumblr for ramblings and previews @laneboyheathens
Chapter 9: canto bight
Summary:
TW See Tags - Implied is IMPLIED - Drink and drug use (not by POV character)
Notes:
Phew hello gang! I am back after a month with TWO (count them) TWO chapters and 12.5K words because once again things got out of hand. Now this chapter was a real struggle and I'm still mostly undecided on whether I am happy with it. Anyway, we're keeping the implied implied here so warnings for cannon typical power hungry imperial assholes? (Not beta read so I'm sure I will slowly edit any typos and errors over the coming days whoops).
Edit 5/11/24 - okay I think I caught all the typos Enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The First Night
The first time Cassian sees Aris Targos is from across the hall of one of Canto Bight’s numerous gambling establishments. Flicking another credit down onto the shapps table, his eyes flicker over the sea of drunken heads, all absorbed in their games, and their slowly emptying pockets.
Cassian thinks that Joreth Sward, his current cover, would be playing at one of the higher buy-in tables, but the line of credit from the hall will only stretch so far, so one-credit shapps it is for now. It shouldn’t be an issue, not yet at least. Cassian is almost certain that Targos hasn’t noticed Sward so far tonight, hung low over the cheap and crowded table, lost amongst the crowd of other betters chancing their luck. It’s the perfect observation spot. No high roller worth their salt would even bother with a table this meagre and full of debtors.
Joreth’s hand comes up poor again Cassian hisses at the loss, moulding expertly into the reaction expected from the other patrons around him. Buying in again, Cassian takes the opportunity to cast an eye over the sea of heads once more as the dealer flicks out cards.
There is quite a crowd around the private table.
Targos is easy to pick out, even without his imperial uniform. Something about the rigidity of his posture amongst the others screams command, in contrast to the light flowing robes. His eyes begin to scan the room and Cassian lowers his gaze in time to see another lost hand, the dealer collecting his chips and his cards with smooth, bored efficiency.
Cassian play’s a few more rounds, winning some hands, losing most. Enough that his pockets have become sufficiently lighter. Straightening, he sips at the cheap, mid-rim produced brandy. Not quite bottom shelf, not that he could enjoy it anyway, the antieth makes it all taste much the same, like spilled ship fuel in an enclosed hangar. He lets his eyes flicker across the hall again from behind the glass.
Targos is no longer at the private table.
Swearing internally, Cassian sweeps the room, cautiously throwing down another credit to buy himself the time. It’s fine, the table is still surrounded by Targos’ usual crowd, perhaps he had only slipped away to the fresher.
But then his gaze catches that too stiff posture in loose robes at one of the numerous bars, seemingly low in conversation with one of the waitstaff. Cassian doesn’t let the frown show on his face. It’s not as though the private table doesn’t have its own dedicated staff, he’s been watching them scurry back and forth all night with drinks and kriff knows what else. What could have pulled Targos away from the exclusivity and into the fray of the rest of the common gamblers?
It’s also as good a chance as he’s going to get.
Cassian loses a final shapps hand and downs the remainder of the brandy. Closing his tab at the table, Cassian pushes away, letting his body sway just the smallest amount as he crosses the floor, remembering he should be tipsy from the amount he’s drunk at this point.
He slides into the empty space to Targos right, leaning up against the bar and signalling for the waiter. For now he doesn’t acknowledge him, just goes about ordering another brandy, Corellian this time, expensive. He knows he’s picked right when a light laugh, a false one, starts up by his side.
Turning slightly, he raises an eyebrow and slips on Sward’s persona, rough around the edges.
“Problem?” He asks, rolling the tumbler in his hands. Shocking blue eyes meet his, devoid of the laugh that continues. He doesn’t like them already, too calculating. Targos lips curve into a convincing smile that teeters on the edge of a sneer.
“Oh yes,” he begins, just as the waiter deposits a heavy glass bottle on the bar, sloshing with amber liquid, “I wouldn’t give that swill to a tooka,” and he points at Cassian’s glass. Cassian lets his lip curl in annoyance, it’s what Joreth would do. Targos laughs again and it makes the hairs on Cassian's neck prickle.
“Oh no need to make a face like that,” he says and with a flick of his wrist the waiter drops down two crystal cut glasses. As Targos rattles off the vintage, Cassian watches the glasses be filled closely, only satisfied once the drink has been pushed his way that it remains untampered with.
“Once you have one of these, you’ll never go back to drinking that bantha piss,” Targos raises his own glass, tilting it toward Cassian. The clink of glass on glass seems to echo even in the crowded hall and the background fades, “Aris,” he introduces himself.
“Joreth,” Cassian offers with a nod, eyeing Targos low through his lashes as he takes a sip. It still tastes like ship fuel. Targos holds his gaze as he takes his own drink to his lips, watching for Cassian's reaction.
“Good?”
“You have expensive tastes,” Cassian says, offering a ghost of a smile, leaning forward, deliberately entering Targos personal space. At this distance, Cassian can smell his aftershave, sharp, almost clinical, drenched in corporate authority that sets off every alarm in his brain. He ignores them, because being this close lets him better see the micro-expressions that ripple across Targos face. They’re barely there, just the smallest crinkle of skin around the eyes and a fractional widening of his pupils. Small enough that it's clear that Targos has a strict control on his emotions, but there are some things even practice can’t conceal.
Targos body shifts and relaxes into the charged air between them.
Flattery might work then, if he can use it carefully.
“Luck with you tonight?” Targos asks, those calculating eyes boring into his own. Cassian blinks once and takes another drink.
“Could be doing better,” he lets his shoulders rise into a shrug. It’s true he’s already made a loss tonight. Targos smiles, all harsh lines and no substance, inclining his head over his shoulder.
“Well, if you were after something a little more exciting, I’ve got a private table,” his eyes flicker to Cassians’s untouched Correlian brandy, “the buy-in is ten thousand though.” Cassian can sense the insult through the cadence of pity. Joreth would bark out a laugh, so he does.
“I’m not rolling with that kind of cash,” he doesn’t try and hide the note of defeat that creeps in, just a touch. Cassian’s line of credit falls well short of that price, but Joreth would be interested in higher stakes and the even higher reward potentially just in reach. He just has to work out how to play this.
Targos beats him to it, leaning in even closer, voice low and soft, “You could be my guest, Joreth, I’ll pay your buy-in.”
Cassian rolls the drink between his hands, considering the offer.
“I don’t like owing anyone,” he tries, testing to see how Targos will react.
He only smiles, reaching across and covering Cassian’s hands with one of his own. His skin crawls at the contact, but Joreths don’t, so his hands only go still, not flinch away.
“With luck on your side you’ll be able to pay me back twice over by the end of tonight,”
Cassian doesn’t like the sound of those odds, but it’s a risk he’s going to have to take if this will get him closer to what he came for. Targos’ hands slide off his and Cassian finishes the drink to stall for times. Before the glass even hits the bar Targos signals for the waiter to refill it.
“And if luck isn’t on my side?”
“If you stick with me it will be,”
When they join the table it’s without much remark from the other attendees. Cassian has seen a rotating cast of faces around Targos almost nightly private events and he only bothers to remember the names of the men he has seen more than once. It doesn’t escape Cassian's notice that there are several other dark haired men around the table, each sending an acknowledging nod at their newest member.
Cassian knows that Targos has his particular tastes. It still sends a sick feeling coiling in his gut all the same.
“Here,” and with a flourish, Targos hand slips into his, depositing a pair of glittering skanska die. He leans in close enough that Cassian can feel the breath against his ear. “You’ll roll for me tonight, Joreth,” Targos adds with a wry smile, his eyes flicking down to where their hands touch, a fleeting spark of possessiveness. When his hands draw back, Cassian can feel the warmth of his palm where Targos' fingers lingered a second too long.
The heavy, twelve-sided die, stone cut and decorated with inset jewels roll back and forth between his fingers. He’s almost certain that the symbols are painted in gold, catching in the low light. There’s something not quite right about them, not just the excessive weight, but they don’t roll cleanly in his hands. An almost unnoticeable, subtle imbalance.
Cassian rolls the dice, and as he expects the land good, not perfect, but better than average. And it's suddenly clear what kind of game Targos is playing.
Targos chuckles and his hand comes to rest on Cassian's lower back, slightly pushing him into the edge of the table. Cassian can feel the power radiating off him, that raw Imperial arrogance. “See, Sward here is bringing me a bit of good luck tonight.” His tone is self-assured, dripping with entitlement and it's as though he is parading Joreth Sward about like some well bred specimen.
And there it is, that flicker of resentment that crosses the other men's faces. Because Aris Targos has something new and shiny to play with.
Cassian’s jaw clenches, though outwardly, he remains poised. He knows how this game works. He knows what Targos expects from him: obedience, charm, and perhaps, eventually, something more. But Cassian also needs something from Targos, and if the illusion of control is what Targos craves, well...
He rolls the dice, and they land good again. Targos' smile deepens, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. For now, let him think he's winning.
The humidity in the hookah bar presses in on Cassian like a damp, suffocating blanket. The air, heavy with secondhand exhalations and a fine mist, hanging over the entire room like a cloud. He tries to relax into the misshapen and too soft lounger, though he can’t miss the thin, sticky film that coats every surface and has to suppress a grimace of disgust.
Targos sinks down into the space beside him, rigid posture and all too sharp angles even as he throws an arm across the back of the seat, fingertips resting lightly on Cassian's shoulder. He ignores it, focusing instead on the fresh set of inhalators brought over by the bar staff, the bubbling liquid an array of unfamiliar neon bright colours.
Even during his youth of reckless indulgence and escape, Cassian had never particularly enjoyed the sensations of a vapour induced high. Though that experience had been limited to the single proprietor on Ferrix and a handful of other times on nearby planets, and none of those bars had come with a hundred and fifty credit entry fee. He doubts that Targos would be ordering the same cheap runoff that supplied the hookah taverns of the industrial sector or the outer rim, either way, he’s not keen to find out what effect high end vapours might have.
Thankfully, Targos declines an offered mouthpiece, so Cassian also waves the offer away, instead ordering another expensive drink. Having already paid back Targos buy-in, and more winnings besides to supplement the meagre credit line the rebellion had scraped together, there's no longer need for hesitation when it comes to reckless spending.
“Not interested Sward? Vapour’s are on me,” Targos voice is low, pressed in close to his ear.
“Not really my thing,” he says, retrieving his glass from a waiter. All around him the men are huffing on their mouthpieces, one by one slumping back into their seats, hazy eyed, hands rolling back and forth against the textures of the fabric. It must be potent stuff.
Targos hums in casual agreement. Or at least, as casual as one can for a man who must still be as sober and lucid as Cassian is. It had not escaped his notice, just how in control Targos had been all evening. While there was never a moment that the man did not have a drink in his hand, in terms of consumption, Cassian had seen him barely finish two, the rest discarded or handed off to another member of the group almost as soon as the ice had begun to melt.
All the while watching them. Fascinated.
It were as though he were observing some exotic animal in a cage, casting out the occasional bone of enrichment in the hopes they might just do something entertaining. Drugs, alcohol, a light touch, an underhanded compliment.
And then Joreth Sward, the new addition to the pack that had them all fighting for his attention.
It hadn’t taken long to pick up that dynamic. Cassian had watched as Targos had strung one person or another along just enough that it cut them with frustration when he inevitably rounded back to Sward. Added to that the sting of each lost bet and the disappearance of too many credits and the men had begun muttering and bickering amongst each other before the night was halfway through.
“He’ll get bored of him soon enough, always does,” one had slurred, while Cassian had kept Targos wrapped in conversation.
It coils something thick and nauseating in his gut. These men are nothing but Targos playthings, vying for his attention, or perhaps his affection. Playthings, and Joreth Sward needs to become one of them. Not one that Targos will discard, bored after a handful of nights, but a regular face around the tables, night after night, reliable.
Targos shifts against him, pulling Cassian from his thoughts.
“This damp is oppressive, I’m going to the roof,” Targos stands, towering over Cassian from his spot in the low seat. He reaches out a hand in offering, “Join me?”
It’s the second good chance Cassian has had tonight, and the opportunity to get Targos alone, to weave his way closer, become something, someone he might find interesting, is dangling right in front of him. He lets Targos pull him up, adding a stumble to his step, sliding up close to his chest.
Targos lip curls, then steps back, leading Cassian by the hand to a dimly lit stairwell. Cassian doesn’t bother looking back, last he’d checked, everyone else would be too high to notice them slip away.
Out on the open rooftop, a light breeze flutters across his face and he breathes deep, expelling the lingering vapours and thick moisture from his lungs. He almost shivers at the drop in temperature, the sheen from the bar below evaporating off his skin with another gust of fresher air.
Targos has long since dropped his hand, striding over to the thick glass railing surrounding the rooftop, looking out over the sea of glowing lights and the muffled hum of the streets below. Distantly, the vast artificial ocean, visible from almost every viewpoint of the city, shimmers, then stretches to the horizon, a deep inky black.
It's somehow quieter out here, without the thumping music that Cassian had long since tuned out ringing in his ears. And in that quiet space hangs the nervous energy, that this next conversation might make or break his work here.
When he leans up against the railing it’s Targos that speaks first, eyes never leaving the horizon.
“You noticed that those skanska die were rigged,” It’s not a question but a statement. Cassian lets it hang in the air, pausing to sip at the too warm drink in his hands. He’ll let Targos take the lead here, decide the pace at first, at least until Cassian can work out where to steer the conversation in his favour. Targos takes the bait.
“Why did you say nothing?”
“The house always wins,” Cassian says evenly, letting his glass drop to the ledge and allowing for a small shrug. “What’s the harm in tipping the odds a little in our favour every once in a while?”
Targos smirks, and in his periphery Cassian can see his eyes go hard, “You should be careful what you say around Imperial High Command.”
That sends a prickle of warning shooting down his spine. All evening they’ve tiptoed around who or what they are and yet here Targos is showing his hand, acknowledging his position. It’s so early, why reveal that information to Joreth at all, when Sward would surely still think that Targos is just some rich and curious benefactor, interested in stringing him along for the night?
The harsh laugh cuts through his racing thoughts.
“You think I picked you up by accident?” Targos sneers, pushing off the railing, his voice slick with calculated condescension. “I know what you are, Sward. And don’t think for a second that you’ve fooled me, pretending you don't know who I am.”
Cassian keeps his face neutral, and his breathing steady, but his mind scrambles for the next move. Targos alone at the bar, the offer to join the table. It hadn’t been a lucky opening. It had been a trap. Mentally he swears at missing it, that he’d convinced himself that he’d been the one in control, manipulated Targos into letting him into his group for the evening. No. The whole evening had been a game, only Cassian has just realised he’s been missing half the rules.
With an outward calmness he doesn’t feel, Cassian meets Targos gaze, “Why not report me already?” He asks, despite the tight feeling in his chest. How could he have only just grasped the scope of the danger he was in?
“Oh I could,” and there it is again, the lightening of his tone, the charming lilt as he says, “but where would be the fun in that?”
And with an odd flourish, he pulls a card within his robes and slides it into Cassian’s breast pocket with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing against him just long enough to make a point. “You clearly want something from me, and perhaps, there’s something I want from you.”
Cassian’s muscles tense where the card sits against his chest, burning a hole right down to his skin.
“Oh just a little proposition for you,” Targos says, stepping back with a self-satisfied smile, smoothing his robes with a casual grace, “now, you can either take me up on that offer, or I suggest you skip this planet before the enforcement squad catches wind of your…colourful presence.”
Opportunity. Not quite the way that Cassian had expected it, but opportunity nonetheless. He tries not to mull over his earlier mistake, playing into Targos hand far too easily, naively expecting him to be much like any other mark. But Targos isn’t interested in drink or lust, not in a way that Cassian is used to. No, Targos sees Joreth as just another piece on the board, one he would like to make dance to his own tune.
If he gives in too easily, Joreth won't be so interesting, not without a little bite, not without the small defiance befitting of his persona.
“And what if I were to report a corrupt Imperial official?” Cassian retorts, forcing the smug tone of a seasoned sector hopper, and watches the glimmer of excitement that dances across his expression.
Targos only laughs at the empty threat, “I’d like to see you try, a smuggler's word against mine? No, no I don’t think that would do too well for you Sward.”
Targos picks up his abandoned glass, tilting it so the liquid within sputters over the railing with the breeze, falling into the streets below. His gaze never leaves Cassian’s as if daring him to make a move.
“You’ll give me your answer by tomorrow evening, won’t you?” Targos asks, his voice dripping with certainty.
And with that, he leaves Cassian on the rooftop, to mull over the offer and it's like he never left the suffocating humidity of the bar below. Heaving in a deep breath, forcing his body to redirect the nervous energy charging through his nerves so that should anyone be watching him, he would appear completely relaxed.
Even as the lights of the city below blur in his vision, his mind sharpens, trying to reframe everything that just happened in the last few hours. He has less than one standard day to decide whether to take Tagos bait. He will of course, returning to Yavin with his tail between his legs, with nothing to show for the wasted time and wasted opportunities, he will not suffer that disappointment. They’ve already invested too much time, too many resources into Canto Bight for Cassian to let this offer go to waste.
Cassian slips the card from his pocket, its edges smooth between his fingers as he turns it over in his hand. A comlink code and an address, no more than a few numbers scrawled across the surface. But it’s more than that. It’s an invitation. A doorway into Targos’ private world, where the real games begin.
He can almost see the smirk on Targos' face as he slipped the card into Cassian’s jacket, confident in his control, thinking he had the upper hand. Targos believes he’s stringing along some oblivious smuggler, a pawn in his twisted web of influence and manipulation. It’s all a performance to him - one where he’s the director, the puppeteer, pulling the strings of anyone foolish enough to wander into his path.
Cassian turns the card again, watching the ink glint faintly in the low light of the rooftop.
Both of them think they hold all the cards.
Targos likes control, that much is clear. He likes bending the will of those around him, likes testing the limits of their morals and their loyalties until they snap or bend into the shape he desires. The men sinking into their drug induced states in the bar below are less than people to him, and he holds their leashes like trophies. Every member of his inner circle wears an invisible collar, bound by his whims, dancing to his tune. And Targos visibly loves it. Loves the power, the subtle domination, the feeling of owning another person’s choices, their very lives.
But because of that desire for control - because of his near-obsessive need to possess, to own, he’s vulnerable. That’s where his weakness lies.
And it’s a weakness Cassian can exploit.
Targos may think he’s the one holding all the pieces in this game, but Cassian knows better. He’s seen men like Targos before—men who wrap themselves in layers of power, believing they’re untouchable, never realising how easily it can all unravel when the right thread is pulled.
Cassian can be that thread.
He takes a deep breath as he slips the card back into his pocket. It’ll take finesse, patience, and a delicate hand to guide Targos where Cassian needs him to go. To make him believe that Cassian wants to be in his grasp, that he’s willing to play the game by Targos’ rules.
But when the time is right, Cassian will be the one walking away with the upper hand, leaving Targos none the wiser.
For now, though, he takes one last look at the glittering skyline, the weight of the night settling over him. Tomorrow, he’ll make his move. Tomorrow, the game truly begins.
Somewhere In Between
Cassian is sure the pounding of his heart in his chest must be loud enough to hear, in the now familiar penthouse suite. Dimly lit and all polished glass and soft furnishings steeped in expense and elegance. It’s all a facade, smoothing over the casual cruelty of the man who owns it. He clasps his hands loosely behind his back. Maybe he’s just become used to seeing false faces everywhere. It takes one to know one.
Targos has barely flicked his gaze over him in acknowledgement since he entered, and yet still the persistent feeling of observation crawls across his skin. It’s almost worse than being inspected, not knowing when the strike will come.
There's the sound of flimsi being turned over as Targos reads the printed words on the sheets in his hands and Cassian prays he doesn’t notice they aren’t originals.
He’s been running shipments on Tragos request for weeks now, or at least that's what Targos thinks. Taking every possible opportunity to gather information of the network of corruption spreading its tendrils across this sector of the galaxy, working out the players. Marking those individuals that could prove useful, if not outright sympathetic to the rebellion.
As such the original flimsiplasts were in one of their hands, and Cassian had spent an extra day grounded outsystem while they decided whether or not he was trustworthy.
With a sharp nod, Targos returns the flimsi to the stack, then hands the lot over to Cassian. Of course, Cassian knows what the request is, and he strides the few short steps to the woodburner - its own kind of luxury on a wood rare planet such as Canto Bight - and deposits them into the flames. The plast curls and blackens with the heat, just beginning to bubble as Cassian closes the heavy iron door, and it's once more too quiet in the penthouse.
“Three standard days,” and when Cassian turns, Targos cold blue eyes are on him, inspecting. It’s a challenge, the job should only have taken two.
Cassian inclines his head, almost deep enough to be a bow, his voice carefully modulated, "Forgive me. Business took longer than expected, you know how these cryo-merchants can be." He has to hope that Targos will let it slide, that he won't go looking for more detailed answers for why Sward was held up with delays. He needs to appear the epitome of trustworthy, of unwavering loyalty.
Useful, but most of all, interesting.
“Joreth,” and the name curls around the room like the smoke from the woodburner has escaped containment. “Come closer. It’s been some time since we had a night without…business between us.”
Casssian makes his lips curve slightly as he steps forward, though his mind is already drifting, numb at the edges. This is what Targos finds interesting. Adrenaline shoots through his veins, spiking his already soaring heart rate. It’s fine. It will be noted as excitement, not fear. A rough, cutthroat smuggler from the outer rim, Targos looks at Joreth like an untamed beast. And for a man obsessed with control, there seems to be no greater desire than domesticating what he sees as a wild animal.
He’s here, he reminds himself, mind struggling to remain present. Targos is too observant, and though nights like these are not so frequent, Cassian can see that raging desire whenever he lets his mind slip out of his body. It’s a push and pull, a little defiance makes all the difference to the illusion of manipulation.
But tonight his mind seems to resist, the mental fog seeping into his limbs as he approaches, locking down around his emotions, tucking away Cassian, what’s left of him, somewhere he can’t access.
Targos reaches out, gently tracing his fingers along Cassian’s jaw. The touch, deceptively tender, sends a tremor of disgust down his spine, one that he is all too familiar with concealing. Targos likes compliance, with just the slightest touch of insolence, and Cassian has learned to give it, to play this game, even when everything in him recoils.
Instead, Cassian leans into Targos’s touch, allowing his expression to soften, eyes half-lidded in just the way he knows that Targos finds captivating. “I’ve been waiting for a night like this,” he murmurs, as Targos fingers brush over his lips. His voice is a touch too low, forced, yet he has to hope it sounds as earnest as Targos wants it to be.
Targos eyes glint darkly, wide blown pupils the only indication of that insatiable concealed appetite. His hand slides down onto Cassian’s shoulder, the touch just possessive enough to unsettle him. Fingers grip into the fabric there pulling Cassian closer with a harsh jerk. “Funny,” he says, low and threatening, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me, Joreth.”
The delay has not yet been forgiven then, and maybe this is part of the payment.
Cassian clutches onto the name like a shield that might ground him, if only faintly. Joreth. It reminds him that he’s not Cassian here, that it's not Cassian doing this. He’s slipped Joreth on so many times, lived as him for weeks, it should be settled in like a second skin by now. As easy as pulling on a mask. Yet, even as he, Joreth, leans in, tracing a hand along Targos’s arm, there’s a strange distance that refuses to close. It’s as though he’s standing outside himself, detached. His own movements foreign, his own voice somehow someone else’s.
“No one could forget you, Aris,” he hears Joreth say with his voice, the words smooth and polished as they roll off his tongue. For a moment he’s sure that Targos will hear it, the hollowness, that there's no one currently occupying that body as he watches Joreth bend down to sink lips onto exposed skin. Hovering at the peripheries of the room, the detachment chilling him like rain clinging to his skin.
Then Targos’s hand fists into his hair and Cassian is dragged back into his body with a gasp. “Good,” he murmurs, drawing him so close that Cassian can feel his breath warm against his ear. It makes his skin crawl despite the numbness.
“Because I don’t like to share my…closest allies.”
The words, half-intimate, half-veiled warning, echo through his mind, colliding and merging with fragmenting thoughts he can barely grasp onto. He has to remain focused, has to draw Joreth’s persona tight around him like a safety blanket at the barely concealed threat. Cassian wants to shove Targos away, wants to shake him off and leave the room and Canto Bight and never look back. Not Joreth though. Joreth wants what Targos has to offer, and is willing to give himself over to have a chance to grasp at power.
Dragging his mind back under his control, he makes Joreth take over, straddling Targos’s lap, leaning in closer with a faint smile on his lips as he brushes his fingers over his chest. Because Joreth would be playing the game too, all part of the act, all part of what he’s here to do to achieve his own aims. Cassian can barely feel his own hand as Joreth starts working on the shirt buttons.
There’s noise, and Cassian belatedly realises it’s Targos saying something, but through the pounding of blood in his ears it’s muffled and indistinct. He blinks hard, uncertain what he’s just missed.
Targos hands catch his wrists, stilling them as he leans back, tilting his head and raking Cassian with his gaze. “You seem, distracted Joreth,” hands squeeze his wrists in a feigned comfort that makes Cassian feel nauseous. “Something weighing on your mind?”
Cassian schools his features into a handsome smile, disentangling from Tragos grip so he can go back to the buttons on his shirt. He lets his eyes soften, wrestles his mind back under control, lets the mask of Joreth Sward reassert itself. Cassian can’t keep slipping through anymore.
“Only you,” he says, and the words fall easily from Joreth’s lips.
Targos, satisfied with that answer, draws Joreth down beside him, murmuring something flattering in his ear. Joreth leans into him and replies something charming and Cassian is locked away again. Watching from the edge of the room as Targos uses Joreth for his own sick mind games.
He just has to make it through this night. And the next. And the next.
He can be Cassian again once this is all over.
The Last Night
The rain drives in icy sheets as Cassian trudges down the deserted city streets, his shoulders hunched against the cold, the water soaking through his clothes and chilling him to the bone. Above, the sky stretches dark and unforgiving, the clouds split open to unleash torrents that pelt the empty streets with relentless force. Neon lights flicker and pulse from the bars and casinos that line the road, casting garish colours that bleed across the wet pavement in jagged patterns. The streets are lifeless, as if every soul has retreated inside to shelter in the inviting warmth, leaving only Cassian to face the storm alone.
A gust of wind, sharp as a knife, whips back his hood. Freezing rain slaps across his face, stinging against his skin and drenching his hair in an instant. Shivering, Cassian tugs the fabric back up, but its too little too late. The rain has already seeped through his clothes, each frigid drop lapping away any lingering warmth from his body.
How had he missed the weather alert? Storms such as these were an infrequent occurrence, what with Cantonica’s mild climate and temperate warmth. Cassian shudders through the chill of his ill-preparedness, the damp weight of the clothing tugging at concern in his mind.
A careless mistake. Would Joreth have made it?
He can’t afford to dwell on it now.
Shaking the water from his eyes, Cassian ducks into an all-too-familiar alcove, at least somewhat sheltered from the hammering rain. But even here, the wind finds him, curling in gusts around the walls, needling his skin through the soaked fabric of his coat. A warm, golden light spills through the tall arched glass doorway beside him, flickering invitingly and almost serene across the private entry.
A trembling finger presses the call button for the penthouse. He waits, ignoring his racing pulse.
It’s a moment too long before the comm crackles to life, and the voice Cassian had hoped he would never have to hear again cuts through the static and the storm raging all around him.
“And here I thought you’d grown tired of my company, Sward,” Targos voice rings out clearly, despite the surrounding noise, cool and detached as ever.
The use of the family name, Sward, not Joreth. The insinuation is immediate, the instant tipping towards formality over familiarity. Cassian should have expected this. His original withdrawal from Canto Bight had been to slip away unnoticed, without so much as a by your leave that would have left Targos stewing over his disappearance. Just another underhanded smugglers tactic. You can’t burn a bridge that hasn’t been built.
And it’s exactly the opposite of everything Cassian needs this encounter to be.
He stares down the camera, the one he knows is feeding into Targos apartment, broadcasting his every expression, and morphs his expression, apologetic, wretched. Morphs his voice into something he doesn’t recognise, “Aris, please,” and there’s a note of desperation that he can’t help but despise. “ Just let me in, I can explain everything,” and he hates it. Hates the way it’s his mouth that vocalises Sward’s plea, twisting out his throat, a bitter taste he can’t swallow.
“I’ll do anything.”
There’s nothing but the noise of the wind and the rain and Cassian’s own hammering heartbeat as he tries not to let his whole body tremble from the cold. The waiting. Cassian always hates the waiting, the stretching seconds of uncertainty where he can never quite guess if they’ll take the bait.
“Anything?” The word drips with a dangerous sweetness, like honey over knives.
“Anything.”
The short ride up to the penthouse seems to drag, every passing second building tension, anxiety clawing at his gut. Though now in the dry, the faint air conditioned breeze does nothing to warm his frigid limbs.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, depositing him on the smooth, tiled atrium. There are no soft lights here. No warm lamps casting a soft glow over every surface. Instead the harsh white overhead lumas seem to bare down on the scene, leaving Cassian squinting in the sharp light.
Across the floor, by the lavish wooden desk in front of the floor to ceiling windows, Targos doesn’t even lift his head to acknowledge his entry. Rain lashes hard against the glass, a muffled cacophony.
“You’re dragging mud on my floor, Sward.” Targos voice is flat, echoing off the walls of the open room.
Cassian looks down. The footprints he’s tracked from the storm are stark against the polished floor, each one a mark of his soaked, dishevelled state. A greyish puddle has begun to form around him as the fabric of his clothes release the excess rain in a thin stream of droplets.
Targos lip curls with his next words. “Take those off before you ruin my carpets.”
Nodding, Cassian shucks off his boots, discarding them nearby, the tile cold under his numb feet. Targos is watching him now, his eyes a calculating gleam.
“And the rest,” he orders.
Cassian shivers, letting it mask his hesitation.. He should have known it would be like this, Targos using every opportunity to assert his control.
He peels off his coat first, the heavy, soaked fabric hitting the floor with a dull slap, each layer removed leaving him more vulnerable than the last. Targos’s gaze rakes over him, assessing, taking in every inch of his exposed skin with an intimacy that makes Cassian’s spine tense. He fights to keep his expression impassive, not to let Targos see the discomfort clawing under the surface. He won’t let it show. He can’t.
Only once he stands in the centre of the room, completely undressed and shivering, does Targos seem satisfied.
“Come here,” Targos says, leaning back with a casual indifference against the enormous wooden desk.
Cassian steps forward, crossing the room with measured, careful strides until he’s standing before Targos. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough that Cassian has to shove down the sick feeling in his throat.
“Kneel,” Cassian obeys the command without hesitation, letting his mind start to slide away as he sinks to his knees. It’s just another game. He’s just one of Targos' playthings again. He just has to offer enough to receive something in return. He can do this. He just has to let his mind go away.
But he can’t help the flicker of disgust that wells up within him. He swallows it down, breathing slowly, feeling the room blur around him, the sound of his own pulse deafening in his ears. He lets his mind drift, his thoughts turning static, distancing himself from the scene, from the way his body feels cold, exposed, every nerve frayed to its extreme.
Then Targos hand is gripping him harshly by the jaw, tilting his head up, forcing Cassian to meet his gaze. Leaning down over him, his blue eyes gleaming darkly, he smirks with mocking affection.
"Let’s get to it then," Targos says, his voice smooth, almost amused as his fingers dig into Cassian’s skin. "You disappear. Slip off the grid without so much as a whisper." He lets the words hang in the air, each syllable deliberate, his gaze pinning Cassian like a specimen under glass. "And now you’ve come crawling back, because there’s something that you need from me."
Cassian forces himself to keep his posture steady, his gaze levelled, though every instinct screams at him to be anywhere but here, with Targos's eyes dissecting him. He knows he’s playing with fire; Targos isn’t the type to forgive someone going rogue, especially not someone he once considered a favourite.
“What makes you think I need something?” Cassian replies, trying to keep his tone calm, unaffected. But he hears the faint edge in his voice, the hesitation he can’t fully conceal.
Targos chuckles softly, low and indulgent, as though Cassian has just confirmed everything he suspected. “Oh, come now, Joreth. You and I are past games, don’t you think?” His gaze narrows, a knowing glint in his eye. “Men like you always come back with a reason.”
Cassian braces himself, feeling Targos's presence close in, and steals his mind, burying whatever sliver of self-preservation remains. His hand twitches, almost instinctively, but he keeps his body still, his breathing steady, meeting Targos’s eyes.
“Maybe I just missed you,” Cassian says, forcing a charismatic smile that doesn’t fit the tone of the confrontation. He lets Joreth take the lead, the words sliding off his tongue, the lie wrapped in a thin layer of charm.
Targos’s mouth curves into a smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. He tilts his head, studying Cassian, a glint of something almost triumphant in his gaze. “Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice laced with just enough resentment to make Cassian’s skin prickle. “Then why does it feel like you’re hiding something?”
Cassian’s heartbeat quickens, his mind racing, trying to calculate just how much of the truth to offer. There’s always been too much at stake, and he can’t afford to slip up. Not when he’s here for a reason. Credits. That’s all. He just needs to sweeten Targos enough to succeed at that and then…
He loses his train of thought as Targos hand leaves his face and he straightens, and Cassian realises he has said nothing at all.
"You know," Targos says, his voice a lazy drawl as he leans back again, eyes glinting with amused cruelty, "I always quite enjoyed that little streak of defiance you had, Joreth." He pauses, looking down at him, savouring each word. "Or was that just a lie too?"
Cassian feels the words like a knife’s edge, slicing through his defences. He keeps his gaze steady, forcing himself not to respond, not to give Targos the satisfaction he’s seeking. But the question hangs in the air, taunting him.
A cruel smile spreads across Targos’s face as he takes one step closer, bending slightly, his eyes searching Cassian’s as if peeling back a layer, one he’d rather keep sealed. “Come now. Surely it can’t all be an act? Or perhaps you’ve spent so long pretending that even you don’t know the difference anymore.”
Where does Joreth Sward end and Cassian Andor begin? Where did the defiance become another part of his cover and not his own self preservation? When did he forget to stop following orders without question?
Cassian doesn’t let a flicker of reaction cross his face, holding Targos’s gaze with steady defiance, his silence a shield against the taunt. But his insides swirl with fear. At the loss of control, at the loss the that careful barrier he has kept in his mind all this time and it’s all he can do not to let his body shake.
The silence stretches, heavy and charged, until Targos backhands him sharply. The force of it snaps his head to the side, body sloughing to the floor. The crack of flesh on flesh sends a fresh bolt of pain through his cheek that blooms hot against the coldness of his skin. His vision blurs for a moment as he tastes the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, but he doesn’t waver, steadying himself, feeling the ground beneath him as his mind fights the numbness creeping in.
“Get up,” Targos barks, and Cassian’s sure he can hear the note of glee. Cassian pulls himself back up, returning to his previous position, his knees pressing into the floor, his gaze steady as he waits, unflinching. Targos sneers.
“So obedient. When did you become such a pit dog, hmm? Jumping to do whatever your master tells you.” Cassian doesn’t flinch. The words carve a hollow into Cassian’s chest, but his face remains blank and calm, and his mind begins to drift to the sound of the rain outside.
He keeps his gaze steady, locking eyes with Targos once more. The silence between them thickens, tightening like a noose around his neck until his vision starts to blur. He knows Targos is watching, waiting, savouring each second of Cassian’s silence, relishing the twisted power that hangs in the air. Waiting for the facade of Joreth Sward to slip just a little.
But Cassian remains still, and silent.
Because he's not really there. He’s envisioning the inside of a decommissioned ship cockpit. He’s watching the clouds roll overhead on Yavin. He’s on a beach somewhere far, far away.
“Now, if there’s something you want, Sward,” Targos says, his voice dropping to a vicious, mocking accusation as he leans in close, “you’re going to have to beg."
Notes:
We've survived the detour to Canto Bight (well...the readers have anyway...not so sure about Cassian). Will we finally be seeing a familiar face next chapter? (Yes that's why I've published these at the same time because I felt bad about too many chapters in a row without Melshi in and didn't want to make the wait even longer...)
As always, yelling appreciated over on tumblr @laneboyheathens
Chapter 10: re-entry
Summary:
TW - Stress/Anxiety/Exhaustion/Horror induced vomiting - (sorry gang Cassian's going through it)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Static buzzes through the comm line, crackling faintly in the otherwise silent ship. Cassian blinks, body heavy and sagging into the pilot's chair. He was just about to do something?
Slowly, he lifts his head. There in the viewport, hung brightly amongst the stars, Yavin IV stares back at him. Swirling clouds drifting lazily through the atmosphere.
He blinks again, trying to clear away the dense fog of his mind. When did he drop out of hyperspace?
The comm line continues to crackle.
Dimly, awareness creeps in, as if rising through his body inch by inch. Radiating outwards from his spine to the tips of his numb fingers. It’s all numb. Even breathing seems to drain the energy from him as he turns to watch the blinking lights on the console.
“Repeat your Call Sign,” the voice is loud, too loud, and slightly distorted as it echoes through the ship. It makes Cassian’s head hurt.
He opens his mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.
Sandpaper roughness coats his throat as he swallows, tongue heavy, jaw aching. Had he been clenching it?
“Captain Andor. Call sign Fulcrum. Requesting permission to land,” he manages to say the practiced words, but even that effort is with difficulty. His voice sounds strange and foreign as it bounces around the durasteel walls.
There is silence on the line. Even with his clouded mind Cassian can recognise it goes on for a moment too long. It stretches, and suddenly Cassian can hear the pounding of his heart in his ears.
“Cleared to land,” the operator finally says.
Cassian sags with relief, though he can’t quite pinpoint why, following the route to his assigned landing pad.
He blinks.
What was just the sight of Yavin IV below him is suddenly the view across the hanger bay. His hands are hovering just above the controls. Somehow, he can’t quite connect his actions, what must have been a successful re-entry and the reality in front of him. It makes his head spin.
Reeling at the apparent loss of what came before, Cassian tries to remember what usually happens next.
He should report to Draven, though faintly recalling that Draven was off-world when he left and wonders whether he’s even planetside. How long has it been?
But when he tries to think his mind draws a blank. There’s just…nothing there.
If he had the energy to panic that might be a reasonable reaction to the apparent black hole in his memory. As it stands he can barely drag his arm through the thick air to hit the switch for the hatch release.
While the hatches' hinges creak, and there is the hiss of the pressure equalisation, Cassian pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are dry and his eyelids seem to scratch and irritate with each blink. Tenderly, he probes the peripheries of the empty space in his mind, searching for something, anything. All it achieves is sending nausea coiling in the back of his throat. He retreats.
The ringing of boots against metal cut sharply through the haze in his mind. He must have been sat here for too long. Dragging himself out of the chair is agonising and he has to grip onto the back of it to stop himself from falling as his head spins with vertigo. Barely turning and straightening in time to see two men enter through the door, posting up on either side of the gangway, blaster rifles resting across their chests.
They don’t have to say anything to make it clear they are blocking his exit.
Their faces swim before him. One he doesn’t recognise the other, why is it always Dameron?
“Well,” the words stick on his tongue, “I wasn’t expecting such a warm welcome.”
Kes shifts uncomfortably, “Additional precaution,” his gaze flickers uncertainly to the other officer who gives the smallest of shrugs. Neither of them seem willing to meet Cassian’s eye.
Cassian clenches his jaw in frustration. After everything he’s done, whatever he has done, all for the rebellion, and what thanks does he get? A kriffing armed guard and no answers.
A fresh set of footsteps ring through the air, lighter this time, apparent that whoever they belong to is not wearing standard issue boots. Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise that it's Senator Mothma, robes billowing around her like smoke, who enters through the doorway.
Dameron and the other officer stand to attention, and Cassian’s body moves without command, stiff and straight and prays he keeps his balance.
She seems so out of place amongst them, clean and bright in stark contrast to the dull durasteel and rough edges of the worn ship interior. Her sweeping gaze takes him in. Something flickers in her expression before she can mask it, only Cassian is too focused on stopping the room from spinning to place it.
“Captain Andor,”
“Senator,” he inclines his head respectfully, it gives him a moment to close his eyes and blink away the blur.
“We received confirmation of the payment this morning,” and while she smiles, Cassian can’t help but notice the harsh lines around her mouth, the stiffness of her hands clasped too tight in front of her, “I had every faith in you Captain.”
The wrongness of it hits him, that Mothma is even standing here in the first place, so far from protocol that it should have registered as strange well before now.
The payment. The emptiness in his mind where that knowledge should be gapes wide and taunting. He wouldn’t be back here if he hadn’t been successful and yet… why can’t he remember how?
He swallows down the unease simmering in his chest, “Thank you Ma’am,” it’s a wonder his voice doesn’t waver.
She opens her mouth, then seems to think better of it and instead nods in reply, all the time watching with interest. Cassian can’t think of anything else to say. The silence lasts a beat too long.
“General Draven will no doubt be pleased to hear you are returned” it strikes Cassian as an odd thing to say, “I think perhaps it would be best for you to return to your billet and remain there for the meantime. Dameron and Herry will escort you,” it doesn’t escape his notice that it’s a command, will, not can.
His teeth grind together. What could he have done to deserve treatment like this? He was just following orders. The last thing he wants is Dameron and some stranger following him around.
But it’s not like he has any choice.
He nods bitterly, using all his willpower not to stagger as he follows her exiting the ship. Dameron and Herry flank behind him and it makes the hairs of his neck stand on end, the rising anxiety and not having them in his line of sight.
Mothma stops abruptly in front of him and Cassian barely has the chance to plant his feet and not go barrelling into the back of her.
He looks up.
K2 towers over all of them. A wave of unexpected relief washes over him at the site of the droid. Cassian has never been more pleased to see him.
“K2SO,” Mothma says, her voice carrying the faintest hint of surprise. Cassian watches as Kay draws himself up to his full height, looming even taller over their group, an almost defiant air of authority as his optics train on the Senator.
“I have come to escort Captain Andor” Kay announces, his mechanical voice formal yet firm, optics shifting to the space behind Cassian. Somehow, just barely, his body relaxes, knowing that Kay has his sights covered. The faint click of the safety being disengaged on one of the rifles seems to echo through the hanger. Cassian risks a glance backwards. He can only see Kes, though he notes that his rifle still has the safety on. It must be Herry then, readying at the first sign of trouble. There’s the smallest twinge of gratitude at Dameron’s action, or rather inaction. He twists back towards Kay.
Though he can’t see her face, Cassian can see the tension ripple through the Senators shoulders, head tipping upwards, observing K2 with consideration. It feels horribly like a stand off and Cassian can’t figure out why.
What happened while he was gone?
When Mothma speaks again her voice is calm and steady, “What an excellent suggestion K2SO."
“But ma’am,” Mothma cuts Dameron off with a raise of her hand.
“It’s alright Dameron, let them go,” her tone is clipped, but clearly unwilling to start a custody fight in full view of the hanger, a number of officers now pulled back from what they were doing to watch the scene. Mon Mothma steps aside to let Cassian pass.
“We’ll have someone send for you,” she says, low so only Cassian can hear her. He nods, more out of habit than understanding, because he still can’t work out why any of this is even happening.
With Kay falling into step beside him, the other officers in the hanger seem to turn back to their work, or certainly do once K2 stares them down. While he’s always found it amusing, the unwarranted fear that some of the other rebels have towards Kay, he’s currently extremely grateful to have his imposing presence striding along next to him. The empty threat turning away unwanted looks as they make their way through the base.
It’s halfway up a flight of stairs that his vertigo gets the better of him and his legs threaten to give out. Kay catches him by the elbow as he sways dangerously, steps merging and blurring in his vision.
“Cassian, you are exhibiting signs of physical and mental fatigue,” Kay says, optics scanning him in a calculating sweep, “organics need to eat and sleep.” It’s almost a reprimand but hearing his voice modulator is grounding even as he stumbles up another step and grips onto Kay’s free arm, cold to the touch. Heaving in a deep breath he tries to recall when he last slept or ate, but there’s nothing, only the day with Dade in the food store comes to mind.
Kay’s hand shifts from his elbow to his back, large and cold and steadying. So far from human that Cassian finds he can manage it, that his skin doesn’t crawl at the contact.
When the dizzy spell passes, Cassian asks the question that’s been gnawing at the back of his mind. “How did you know to come find me?”
Kay’s optics meet his eyes with a tilt of his head, as though he’s considering.
“Officer Dade informed me of your arrival.” It’s that tone again, like he’s just asked a stupid question and the answer should have been obvious. Except it’s not. It’s…odd. How could Dade have known to tell Kay in the first place? He’s missing something, something big, not just all the time he can’t remember.
But before he can ask anything else there are heavy footsteps on the stairs above them, coming fast and frantic. In a second Kay angles his body just so, not quite stepping between Cassian and whoever is careening towards them, but enough the make a protective barrier as the person rounds onto the landing above them and -
Melshi. Red faced and out of breath shudders to a halt on the landing, chest heaving and eyes slightly wild.
“Cassian,” his name falls from his lips, breathy and relieved and it sends a lump to jam in Cassian’s throat at the sound of it. The last of the footsteps still echo off the walls around them.
As though the sudden halt of momentum were only temporary, Melshi clears the last few steps toward them.
“I came as soon as I could. I’ve just been up in Dravens office” he gets out between still heavy breaths coming to a stop again just a few steps above them. Cassian head tilts, trying to bring Melshi into focus, trying to parse meaning from the words. Dade, Melshi, Kay, Draven. It’s all a jumble. A flicker of concern crosses his face as he takes Cassian in.
“Are you alright?” He says, reaching out a hand to rest atop of Cassian where they are gripped to Kay’s arm.
Reflexively, Cassian jerks backwards, and it’s only Kay’s hand on his back that stops him from going tumbling back down the stairs. It’s too much. He can’t meet Melshi’s eye.
In a smooth movement, Kay’s body slips between them, practically blocking Cassian from his view. Cassian’s now free hands cling to the stairwell railing, every effort focused on remaining upright.
“We need to go back to Cassian’s quarters,” Kay says, clipped and leaving no room for argument.
Melshi’s hand hangs in the air between them.
“Right, of course,” and with that his hand retracts.
Disentangling himself from Kay’s hold they start up the stairs again, Cassian spurred on but the sudden need to not be out in the open. It’s harder, without Kay’s steadying hand at his back but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need help, they’re just walking to his billet for kriffs sake.
“Cassian,” Kay’s tone is full of warning but Cassian cuts him off.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, dragging himself up the stairwell. He’s not. His body feels like a deadweight and each step feels taller than the last. Darkness clouds the edges of his vision but he’s determined to make it back the rest of the way without help.
“I’m fine,” he repeats as Melshi hovers next to him after a particularly wide sway that almost sends him face first to the floor. He backs away reluctantly.
After what feels like an agonisingly long walk, Cassian slams his hand onto the door release and stumbles into his room, looking back in time to see both Melshi and Kay follow him inside, the latter having to duck to fit through the doorway. It’s cramped with the three of them in there, even when he sits heavily on his bunk, scrubbing his hands across his face. Cassian wants nothing more than to lie down and pass out until the world stops spinning so fast.
“Where have you been?” Melshi asks, arms folding across his chest, a deep frown line between his eyebrows.
Cassian shakes his head. He can’t tell him, even if he could remember. And since he can’t remember anything…
“How long have I been gone,” Cassian doesn’t miss the quickly concealed shock that graces Melshis face.
He knows it’s not the strangest question to ask, given time dilation and solar cycles. Only, he should have been able to keep track. Didn’t think to check the ships internal calendar or account roughly for the time passing whilst away. It feels like a slip up and anxiety claws at his chest.
“Five standard days,” it hits like a punch to the gut. Five days and he can’t recall a minute of it. Whatever happened… it’s a void, a black hole that weighs heavy in his mind, but no matter how hard he tries to grasp at the edges, he can’t pull anything from it.
Melshi continues, his tone tense, “Upper Officers have been losing it. No one’s been telling us anything. We’ve been grounded—no incoming or outgoing ships—and on emergency evacuation hold for the last few days. We didn’t even know you were missing until the morning after, when Draven wanted you for a briefing. That’s when they locked us down.” His gaze softens and Cassian has to turn away. “What the hell did Mothma have you doing?”
The implication makes Cassian’s head hurt, scrambling to piece it all together. “Draven didn’t know I was gone?”
“Not as far as we could tell,” Melshi says, shaking his head. It doesn’t make any sense. He’s still missing something. Something critical.
“I don’t understand, if no one was telling you anything how do you know all of this?”
Melshi shifts his weight from foot to foot, “Well…you know how Jal’s our comms expert? We may have found a way to listen in.”
The first piece clicks into place. “You bugged the war room?” He can’t help but be impressed by their resourcefulness.
“I knew there was a reason you didn’t show up that night. And then you were gone and everything was going to kriff and-“ he sighs, one hand rubbing at his temples, “I figured it had to be connected and we weren’t getting any answers so, aye, we bugged the war room.”
“I helped,” Kay adds, nodding sagely.
Cassian can’t figure out what to make of it. The evac standby, the bottleneck of information, all because he went back to Canto Bight. Or maybe it's just some freak coincidence. Deep down he knows it’s not. Why? This assignment wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. The same question as before surfaces in his mind.
“How did you know I was back?”
“We also tapped incoming and outgoing comms from the radio tower. Jal monitored the line and when your call came through Lilla went to get K2 and Sora came to find me,” he pauses, fiddling nervously with the hem of his sleeve, “I-we wanted to know when you got back, if you got back…” he trails off.
Emotions he can’t name rise in his chest and Cassian chokes them back down. All of the Pathfinders, even Henle and Acle, with whom Cassian is sure he made a bad impression, all of them looking out for him. An ache of loneliness permeates through him. They don’t know him, and he can’t understand why they care.
Suddenly remembering something else that Melshi said, he asks, “You said you were in Draven’s office, why?”
“Aye, with Taidu we-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, “It doesn’t matter now you’re back anyway. Just….are you alright?” He sounds uncertain.
“I’m fine.” He’s not.
“You look like shit,”
“I said I’m fine,” the room spins harder with the force of frustration. Gripping the edge of the bunk, he swallows thickly, willing it to slow down.
“Your current disorientation would indicate otherwise,” Kay interjects. Cassian glares at him.
“Cassian,” and his voice is so obviously laced with worry that it hurts , “what happened?” He grits his teeth.
“It’s classifi-“
“Don’t give me that banthashit,” Melshi cuts him off, tone more forceful than before, eyes sharp with frustration, “Mothma went behind Draven’s back for this. Waited until he was off planet specifically to undermine his command. As far as I can tell, Draven didn’t sign off on whatever you’ve been doing which means there must have been some serious level of risk involved. Bad enough to put the whole base on kriffing lockdown.”
Another piece clicks into place. Draven didn’t clear this operation.
The room keeps spinning when he exhales, chest suddenly tight, “I don’t know the details, really,” he admits bitterly at Melshi’s incredulous expression, “it’s nothing I’ve not done before alright? Just convincing some Imperial to make a payment, but I don’t know why that Officer and I don’t know why now.”
Even as he says them the words feel hollow. What’s another classified operation? Another vague order? What does it matter that it was all pushed through without the usual oversight? Except…he had to go back, had to do all of it again and he doesn’t even know what for. He never even questioned it, moved without thinking, following whatever order he was given.
“So obedient. When did you become such a pit dog? Ready to do just what your master tells you.”
The memory cuts through with a stab of clarity, sending heat rushing to his face with a dizzying surge of nausea. He bolts upright, shoving past Kay and Melshi and staggering into the fresher where another wave of nausea crashes over him and he barely makes it in time, heaving violently into the basin.
His knuckles whiten as his body convulses, and nothing but liquid and bile surges up his throat, sharp and bitter as it forces its way out. He shudders, white noise ringing in his ears as he clings to the cold metal as another rush of sickness collides with him. His body heaves again, and this time, the retch is deeper, tearing through him with a viciousness that leaves him gasping.
His forehead presses against the metal rim, cold against his flushed skin. He spits, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste, but it clings to him, heavy and sour. For a moment, all he can hear is his own ragged breathing, the world tilting around him as he waits for the nausea to ease. Through the ringing in his ears he can hear snatches of conversation but he can hardly make it out through the pounding of his head until he catches one word.
Cassian shakes his head weakly, panting between retches. “No medics,” he manages to get out, voice strained with effort, closing his eyes, trying to shut out the way the world won’t stop spinning.
Then a hand touches his back, tentative, pressing lightly between his shoulder blades.
“Don’t touch me,” he spits, lurching away from the contact as best he can in the confined space, it makes him gag even harder.
The hand retracts instantly, leaving him alone with the bile in his throat and the overwhelming sense that he’s lost control of something vital. Something that used to make sense.
Melshi and Kay are talking quietly again, and Cassian strains to hear what they are saying.
“Is he drugged? Should we get someone?”
“He is not exhibiting symptoms associated with any known inhibitors in my database.”
“So he’s ill then?”
“From this presentation I would think not. Cassian’s thermal output is no higher than baseline readings,”
“Since when were you a kriffing med-droid,” he interrupts, even if it does make his throat spasm. He’s done with them talking about him like he’s not there.
“I have always been equipped with thermal sensors. I have also catalogued your responses enough to recognise when you are experiencing distress,” Kay answers calmly.
“Kriff off,” he spits, but then his abdomen cramps again and he hunches forward, expelling what can only be his stomach lining at this point. Gasping through the retch he spits out acrid bile that burns his oesophagus, barely able to suck in air as every muscle tenses until he’s heaving up nothing at all.
When he finally doesn’t feel like his stomach is going to flip itself inside out and crawl out of his throat, Cassian slumps back against the wall, breathing deeply. The room still tilts, though not as badly as before as he wraps his arms around his legs and drops his head to his knees.
There’s the scrape of metal on metal, and when he looks up he sees Melshi pushing a water canteen towards him, before retreating back to the threshold of the fresher.
It feels claustrophobic with them blocking the doorway, but it’s not as though he has the energy to bolt anyway. Instead, he reaches out and grabs the canteen.
“Thanks,” he manages.
He rinses out his mouth, but it does little to rid the taste of bile that coats his teeth. He spits, resting back against the wall, eyes rolling closed. If he tries to stand right now he’s pretty sure he’ll pass out, but the sourness on his tongue does nothing to settle his rolling stomach.
“There are mouth tabs in the cabinet,” his voice comes out quiet and raw. It’s stupid, asking for this small help shouldn’t wound his pride so much, like everything up until this point wasn’t a blow to his dignity.
There’s the sounds of movement and by the time Cassian opens his eyes Melshi is crouched in front of him, arm outstretched and bottle in hand. As Cassian goes to take it, their fingers briefly brush together and Cassian's skin burns. The tabs in the bottle rattle as he watches in abject horror at his hands trembling, trying to twist off the cap without success.
He lets the bottle drop to the floor, pressing the heel of his palms to his stinging eyes and breathing hard. Trying not to let the trembling travel further than just his hands.
He’s been fine. He’s been managing just fine and now he can’t even open a kriffing bottle.
There’s the sound of the tabs rattling again, and Cassian peers through his fingers to see Melshi with the bottle in his hands.
“You must think I’m pathetic,” the words slip out before he can stop them. Melshis hands go still for a second.
“Taidu helps me all the time when my tremors get bad,” the lid opens with a pop. Shaking a tab into the lid, he holds it out to Cassian.
He hates the way his hand shakes as he sticks out his hand, palm up and watches as Melshi tips the lid, tab falling into his hand. He stares at it while Melshi replaces the top back on the bottle. It doesn’t escape Cassian’s notice that he’d done so in a way that meant that their hands wouldn’t touch. He can’t tell if it’s nausea or guilt that clings to the back of his throat.
He sticks the tab under his tongue. The strength of the menthol threatens to make him gag again. He takes a deep breath. It’s better than the taste of bile. He spits out the foam, wiping the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand before slumping back again.
“The fuck have they had you doing?” Melshi’s voice cuts through the heavy silence and it almost makes Cassian wince. He’s crammed cross legged in the doorway, K2 looming behind him, far too large to actually enter, unwittingly blocking his only escape. But how can he escape their concerned looks, how can he brush it off like everything is fine after he’s just puked his guts up in front of them. That firm look of determination, that need for answers written across Melshi’s face that makes him squirm.
He wishes he could close his eyes and pretend that none of this was happening.
“I can’t,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. He can’t, not because of the classified nature of his work, not because he can’t remember the last week, no that he’s sure was no different to the rest, the same messed up kriff as always, but because if he starts talking-if he even tells him a fraction of what he’s done in the name of the rebellion-it will push him so far he won’t come back. And he can’t. He can’t bare the thought of the look of disappointment, of disgust that would cross Melshi’s face. Not when he’s just barely let him in. Not now he can’t bare to lose him a second time.
Ever since Melshi arrived he’s felt like his frayed edges could begin unraveling at any moment, if only the correct thread were pulled. And of course it’s Melshi, who’s already seen him at not quite his lowest, though in retrospect it was barely a dip to the crater he’s in now, that’s gotten close enough to see. That’s gotten close enough that all the threads are right there, just in his reach.
And if Cassian lets him, he’s afraid he’ll fall apart completely.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t,” and it’s all right there, bubbling just beneath the surface, and with the exhaustion gripping at his insides, if it spills over he’s not sure he’ll be able to control it.
Melshi doesn’t push it, just shifts his position, stretching out his legs so that the toe of his boot knocks against Cassians and the gesture makes his heart lurch.
It’s easy enough to clamp his mouth shut, grit his teeth and say nothing. He’s had plenty of practice staying silent. He knows he’s being irrational, to think of it like an interrogation, but he can’t help but feel like it is, like those questions are trying to draw out everything he wants to remain hidden. Everything he won’t even admit to himself.
“I’m sure the silent treatment works well on everyone else but two years in an imperial prison will teach you a lot of patience,” Melshi sighs, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “so I’ll just keep on asking until you work out something you can tell me.”
Cassian would laugh if he wasn’t afraid it might turn into a sob. Of course he’s not going to let this go. At least not until Cassian can give him a satisfactory answer and currently his brain feels like it’s melting, dehydration and exhaustion pounding behind his eyes. There’s no way he can be coherent right now, let alone controlled.
“I just want to shower and to sleep,” Cassian mutters, finally. At least it’s honest. It’s the closest thing to the truth he can offer.
Melshi’s shoulders droop, expression half a frown but mostly understanding. “Yeah, alright,” he says, once more firmly knocking his boot against Cassian’s before drawing his legs back, making to stand, “this conversation isn’t over though,” he adds, firm but not harsh.
Cassian nods, exhausted, thankful that Melshi lets it slide for now. Once he’s had a chance to sleep, once his body feels less like a walking corpse, maybe he’ll be able to figure something out, come up with a reason for there to be nothing for Melshi to worry about.
Then he offers him a hand. Cassian stares at it. True enough his legs feel unsteady and he’s sure the dizziness will get worse once he stands. But his still queasy stomach clenches at the thought of taking it, anxiety swirling through his gut as he realises he wants to.
He reaches out.
A sharp knock on the door cuts through the tension like a knife, both Kay and Melshi’s heads whipping around toward it. The timing couldn’t be worse. Cassian winces and everything feels suddenly too close. So much for sleep. He sighs, trying to rub the grit from his eyes.
“Stall for me?” He asks, dragging a hand across his face. “I just need five minutes.”
Melshi hesitates, clearly torn, “I think you should rest Cassian. I’m sure whatever this is can wait.”
“Sergeant Melshi is right, Cassian. Your actions would suggest you are experiencing sleep deprivation,” Kay adds, crouching to stick his head through the doorway.
But Cassian just shakes his head, forcing himself upright, even though his body screams at him to stay down. “Five minutes,” he insists, leaning on the wall until the wave of vertigo passes, “I just want to get this over with. Then I’ll sleep, I swear.” He adds before either of them can chide him.
He’s not even sure if that’s entirely true, that he wants to just ‘get it over with’. Maybe it’s because his quarters feel suddenly too crowded, maybe it’s because he just wants some kriffing answers.
He just needs to get through this debriefing. That’s all. The rest he can figure out later.
Notes:
Once again, Cassian can't catch a break. I promise that the Comfort part of this H/C fic is coming soon.
In the meantime, feel free to come and yell at me on tumblr @laneboyheathens
Chapter 11: crash landing
Notes:
Am I finally making good on the Comfort part of the Hurt/Comfort tag? Maybe 👀
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The hair curled behind his ears is still damp.
In truth, it had taken rather more than five minutes to shower and change, what with the world still wildly spinning and the persistent tremor in his hands. Whether stalling had been strictly necessary Cassian is still unsure, given his singular focus on remaining upright long enough to choke down a few bland bites of a stale ration bar and the remainder of the water canteen. Regardless, what little amount of the officers he could see beyond K2 and Melshi’s bodies, defiantly blocking the doorway, had appeared to hold within them at least the faintest modicum of uncertainty as they caught sight of their charge.
The cold water had, at least, the benefit of shocking his body back to alertness.
The same could not be said for the still gaping hole in his memory, looming and persistent in the back of his head. Whatever this debriefing might entail, Cassian can only hope that he will not yet be required to try and recall that missing time.
What good could an intelligence operative be, if they could not retain vital information?
And if he can’t do that…
What use is Cassian to the rebellion at all?
He swallows that anxiety, which lands heavy in his guts beside the ration bar.
Gathering up the shredded remains of his pride, he belligerently ignores the looks on the officers faces as he strides between them, heading in the only direction that makes sense. Cassian doesn’t need to look back to hear the distinctive heavy footfalls of the droid behind him, and know that at least for now he is not on his own. Knowing at least two pairs of eyes are watching his back makes the trek across the Temple that little bit more bearable, even as his insides twist into ever tighter knots with each step he takes. It’s less of an escort and more a parade.
Stubbornly he keeps his head held high, as passersby halt in their tracks and turn to watch their troop move swiftly through the corridors. Cassian had let exhaustion get the better of him in the relative privacy of his billet, but he’ll be damned sure not to make that same mistake again out in the open.
And who else would it be but Kes Dameron, standing sentry to the entrance to the war room. He has, this time, the decency to meet Cassian’s eye, and the flicker of guilt behind them is unmissable. It does nothing to reassure him.
“They just want you, Andor,” Kes says neutrally, but his gaze slides to somewhere behind him, too far to be looking at the officers. Cassian takes one last look over his shoulder in time to see Melshi standing beside Kay, folding his arms across his chest, as if to refrain from saying something that might make all this worse. When he catches Cassian’s eye, he nods once, firmly.
We’ll wait for you.
It’s enough that Cassian can breathe, steel himself, and stride past Dameron into the war room.
It’s jarringly empty, just like the last time Cassian was here.
Far too large without its usual dozen officers stationed at their holoscreens. Far too large with only the occupation of three people.
It’s Draven that straightens first with an urgency that Cassian has only seen reserved for the delivery of pressing news or information. Cassian’s own body stiffens to an attention that drags out of him like second nature, planting his feet firmly, grateful that whatever dizziness that had overtaken him so recently has subsided.
Mon Mothma rises from her own seat more slowly, those still stark white robes almost glowing in the low light of the room, the very spectre of grace. It’s never easy to forget her political background, posture exuding calm confidence. Then her hands clasp tightly in front of her, and the illusion fractures just the smallest amount.
“Sir, Ma’am, my apologies for the delay,” he offers the expected pleasantries even though they ring untruthfully in his ears.
“Captain Andor,” Dravens voice cuts through the heavy quiet of the room, his expression as unreadable as ever, except…the bruise tinged skin beneath his eyes appears more prominent than usual.
It seems that Cassian isn’t the only one that’s been losing sleep these last few days.
“Five days no contact,” the words don’t have the inflection of a question, simply hard and flat. Too loud and too stark and too confronting as they ring through the air of a too empty room. Settle somewhere in Cassian’s too empty chest. Cassian supposes that it must be true, he doesn’t have access to any details that might suggest the contrary. It’s not a question, but Draven is watching him intently all the same.
“Yes, Sir,” he says, because Draven’s eyes are searching him for something, and what else can he even say?
“And that was essential to keeping your cover?” Draven’s eyes are still assessing him with an intensity that Cassian struggles not to look away from.
It would not be unusual to go dark for a short contact such as this had been. Certainly, Cassian has gone dark for many more than five standard days before. Those occasions however, had generally been planned in advance, or elsewise been monitored remotely.
It’s a stark reminder that whatever this had been, whatever he had done, Draven hadn’t cleared it. As far as he might know, Cassian had appeared to go rogue, at least until Mon Mothma must have admitted her order. And how long had that taken to come out?
The question itself, not only unusual, understandable even, given the circumstances, but one that Cassian can’t provide a satisfactory answer to.
The hole in his memory blares so loud that Cassian has to concentrate not to let it show in his expression. Had he gone dark in the interest of keeping his cover, or had the situation on Canto Bight left him unable to make contact with Yavin, or something else entirely? There’s just the empty gap that bleeds uncertainty into his mind and he doesn’t remember. In fact all he is sure of is that he can’t let them know just how much he doesn’t remember.
“Yes, Sir,” Cassian repeats, hoping that the conviction in his voice will cover up his doubt.
Draven keeps pressing anyway.
“Were you compromised? Was your ship tracked?”
“No, Sir,” he might not be able to remember kriff all but he is sure that he wouldn’t do something as stupid as fly a tracked ship right into the heart of the rebellion. Would he? Would he have remembered to check for trackers, fly outsystem, double back to shake anyone on his tail?
Yes. Even if he can’t remember right now Cassian knows he would, and Draven could check the ship log himself. The damn ship would have been searched twice over by now if a tracker was a concern and they would be on evac already, not standing here grilling him for answers.
And compromised? It’s not as though he’s been tortured, even with the damn hole in his mind Cassian knows what those latent effects feel like and its not this . Sure he’s running on little sustenance and even less sleep and its taking so much energy just to think, but he’s been in worse states than this. Cassian has never cracked before. So not this time, no, he’d sooner die than give up any information.
He’s too tired to really take it for the insult that he feels it is, to even be asked that in the first place.
In a smooth movement Mothma steps forward, her hands still clasped tightly before her and for the first time Cassian notices the faint pattern of small brown droplets staining the fabric where her hands hang, the thin crust of dried blood clinging to the edges of her fingernails.
“General,” and her voice, though steady, is laced with the traces of an unfinished conversation, one that Cassian is not privy to, “the broker confirmed that the payment was-”
“Kark the damn payment,” Draven cuts across her sharply and Cassian only barely contains his flinch of reaction. The usual unreadable expression of his handler, the calm that borders on indifference, required of his commanding officer, has been replaced by barely concealed frustration. Draven seethes, pitching his brow between thumb and forefinger.
It is suddenly quite clear to Cassian that he is standing in the middle of an argument, and one to which he knows very little of the details. Well, that’s not quite true, thanks to Melshi he knows that the Mothma had given his return orders to Canto Bight without oversight from Draven, but even knowing that, why would Draven have such disagreement over reinstating that contact?
And if Cassian had been able to make it back to Yavin this time, surely he must have left the contact in a position to reestablish if required? Even that small thought of returning sends a tightness to claw at his throat, and the hands clasped at his own back dig into the flesh of his wrists.
Mon Mothma had said he would never have to see him again.
“Andor,” the sound of his name drags him from his thoughts. When had his gaze shifted to the floor? Blinking once, hard, he raises his eyes to find them both viewing him intently. Mothma undeterred, if not for the way her nails pick at the raw skin of her fingers, and Draven…
He can hardly call the look on the General’s face soft, no, that’s not a description one could ever bestow on the man, and yet. The lines of his expression seem less harsh than usual, the frustration of only moments before replaced with something Cassian can’t name.
“Are you alright?” Those words themselves are in the first instance, poorly understood, and make even less sense coming from Draven’s mouth. Words so simple they shouldn’t send his mind reeling for an answer. Alright. Every nerve feels raw and ragged, there's a blinding abyss where his memory should be. Alright? What but a superficial reply can he even offer, what, but the fact that he made it back, alive no less? Surely there is little less that matters. His physical condition has only ever been of last concern to anyone, so long as he could keep getting up, over and over again. Cassian swallows - resentment perhaps - but finds himself too tired to summon even that.
“I’m here, aren’t I, Sir?” What use is he to the rebellion as a corpse?
Draven’s brow furrows again at the response, and for a moment, it seems as though he might press the issue further, just the lightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s only because they have worked so closely for so long that Cassian recognises it for the tell that it is.
The Senator speaks again before Draven can.
Her eyes are indeed what Cassian might describe as soft, wide and open with an expression that he doesn’t know her well enough to recognise, as her words fill the silence with a quiet solemnity that lands heavy in his chest.
“Captain, sealing the alliance with this broker has been of undeniable benefit to the rebellion,” her eyes flicker to Draven, though he resolutely refuses to meet her gaze. After a moment she continues, “I say this because I appreciate that returning to Canto Bight had its…costs.”
His heart sinks in his chest as the words strike their meaning; what Mothma is alluding to. Every awful thing he’s done, buried, or tried to forget. Leaving fractures to the very core of him, leaving hollow spaces in his own mind.
And of course it had cost, every mission did, whether that was one that left blood on his own hands or blood on someone else's. The cost of shredding what feels like the last fraying hold on his sanity, trying desperately to hold in the last remains of himself that threaten to spill over and seep away between the cracks in the Temple stones, like bile and blood.
Cassian’s ribs tighten, and though the war room is almost empty the air feels stifling, too close as he remembers the room is bugged. What’s to say that Officer Henle or the other pathfinders aren’t listening in on this very conversation? One, that if he allows to veer much further into what it took to get here, the things he's done, the cost, they’ll know. And then Melshi will know too, know the things that he can barely admit to himself.
And he's no longer sure where the anger that bleeds through his veins is directed anymore.
“And what did it cost you?” he can’t bite back the words that slip out, vicious and bitter. Regardless that he made it back, regardless that he’s somehow still standing, these were orders that were not universally agreed, and the cost was his alone.
“Andor-” Draven’s tone is warning, whatever his own disagreement with Senator Mothma is doesn’t override that Cassian still shouldn’t be speaking out of turn. But Mon Mothma raises a pale hand to stop him, and she looks at Cassian, really looks at him, and she appears the very image of a white flag of surrender.
“It’s quite alright General, Captain Andor has every right to ask, given the circumstances,” she pauses, collecting herself, and when she meets Cassian’s gaze her eyes are wide with a rawness he’s never seen in them before. “All of us have lost something, you know as well as I, that is why so many have joined us. And I - my daughter. Everything I did, everything I’ve done, selfishly…it was all to protect her. And now she is gone,” her voice trembles, just slightly, but her eyes never waver, “She is gone, and yet, I am still here, still fighting in what way I can,” she takes a breath, and her grief hangs between them like an open wound.
“I have read your file, Andor. Your mother and father, Ferrix, I know you have lost. The people we fight for are gone. So why, Captain Andor, are we still here?”
He has no energy left for fire, only embers.
“For the life they should have had, for everyone still suffering under the empire,” he says, and Mothma offers him a small sad smile. Even after everything, what can he do but go on?
Draven clears his throat, “If you’re quite finished Senator-”
“I believe Captain Andor and I understand one another,” Mothma says, and he does, maybe, because if he thinks too long on who stands on the other side of the doors, maybe he has even more reason to stay.
Draven catches his attention again with a long suffering sigh, before he straightens, and the commander he recognises appears in front of him again. “From now on Andor, your orders will come from me,” his scrutinising gaze bores into Cassian, “directly.”
“Yes, Sir,” and whatever had been holding him upright these last few minutes is starting to fail him, aching and bone weary, it makes straightening back to attention require some effort.
If Draven is considering saying more he decides better of it.
“Then you are dismissed,”
Kay and Melshi are there the moment he exits the war room, leaving Dameron flailing to dismiss the other officers still lingering in the corridor, their eyes darting nervous glances toward at the looming figure of the KX droid now at Cassian’s side.
“How did it go?” Melshi’s voice is low, but it does nothing to conceal the concern etched into it.
The last of the other officers are still lingering so Cassian rolls his shoulders in what he hopes is a passable casual shrug. “Could have been worse, at least I haven’t been court-martialed,”
Melshi scoffs, a glimmer of annoyance that Cassian is grateful for, he’s too tired to feel much of it himself. “Would have been a karking joke if you had. You were just following orders,”
Just following orders.
A wave of dizziness crashes through him again, leaving him breathless and his vision swimming. Thankfully the only other person in sight is Dameron, because Kay has to grab Cassian to stop him from falling. The firm cold grip seizes his arm, keeping him upright as he sways.
Melshi swears, ducking to try to meet Cassian’s unfocused gaze, appearing as a blur in his vision. “Are you alright?”
Alright. That damn question again. It’s not like he can even remember the last time he was, like alright, and good, and anything that isn’t pain and numbness, are nothing but distant and foreign to him now. It crawls out of him like a sick and strangled laugh. “No.”
His hand flails out, desperately seeking something solid, something to grab on to, anything to steady himself, ground him back in reality. His fingers close around Melshi’s arm, and dig into the soft, warm flesh there, holding on like it’s the only real thing left in the galaxy.
Melshi’s hand is immediately over Cassian’s, and he must be holding on hard enough to hurt, but Melshi exerts a steady pressure there anyway, burning hot on his flesh in a way that is more real than anything Cassian has felt in months.
“Whoa, easy,” but Cassian is hardly listening. Between the cool, unyielding metal of Kay's grip and the warm, solid press of Melshi's arm, Cassian finds he can manage to drag air into his lungs. Grounded between pillars of steel and flesh he can breathe he can breathe he can breathe.
“Does he need medical -”
“No I don’t need kriffing medical,” Cassian cuts off Dameron viciously, he’s not about to have this discussion again. Kes awkwardly shifts further away.
He hates the way the world won't stop swaying. He hates the way it makes him look weak.
And Melshi is squeezing his hand and his skin doesn’t crawl and it shouldn’t feel like so much, and also, not enough.
And the worn down part of his mind that makes him want is terrifying.
He pushes off of Melshi’s arm with a surge of frustration, recoiling from the sense of vulnerability the point of contact makes him feel.
The hollow in his chest aches at the loss.
Kay compensates for the sudden lack of balance by tightening his grip around Cassian’s arm, keeping him upright like a brace. He turns away, if only so he doesn’t have to see the look of hurt on Melshi’s face.
“Would you like to hear the odds of you making it back to your billet without assistance?” Kay's tone is entirely neutral, though Cassian’s quite sure he can detect the trace of challenge under it.
He hates that he’s right, hates that the touch of metal is easier to handle, and he hates that he can’t give Melshi the explanation he owes him.
“Fine,” the sound barely escapes his clenched jaw, giving in to the support with as much dignity as he can muster.
Cassian pretends not to notice Melshi trailing them back through the base, in much the same way as he ignores the pointed looks and whispers between the officers that pass them in the hallways. He pretends not to notice, because maybe if he just keeps on ignoring it, the way he always has, he wont have to face it, face him. Ignores it, because though the touch of metal might be easier, doesn’t make his heart race with fear. It doesn’t make his heart race with anything else either.
He carries on not noticing when Kay says he’ll make sure Cassian isn’t disturbed, resolutely standing guard as the door to his billet slides open and Cassian has to scape the energy to drag his feet the last few steps without assistance.
His billet is as empty as he’d left it, the crate of personal items still unpacked in the corner of the room. He stares at the bare walls, and wonders how someplace so impersonal, so unlived, could ever feel like coming home. There is the distinctive hiss of the door sliding shut behind him, and Cassian knows without looking that Melshi has followed him inside. That someone is at his back and he can’t see them and subconscious screams danger, danger, danger.
He doesn’t turn around.
For a long moment neither of them moves, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the distant muffled noises of the rebellion fill the air between them. Don’t ask. Cassian begs silently as his shoulders slump forward, wanting nothing more than to curl up in his bunk and wake up when the war is over.
“Cassian,” Melshi says finally, “what happened?”. The voice comes from closer than he’d expected but still he doesn’t turn. It’s just Melshi, it’s not danger. His heart is racing anyway.
“You know I can’t tell you -” but Melshi cuts him off.
“You know I’m not asking about that. I couldn’t care less about mission objective kriff, just…” there is the sound of footfall as Melshi comes to stand in front of him. Cassian stares at his boots, unable to bring himself to raise his head and see whatever look is plastered across Melshi’s face.
“I know something is wrong,” he continues, “Just like I knew something was wrong the last time we spoke on Niamos.” This last part catches Cassian off guard, and before he can stop himself he lifts his gaze, and Melshi’s face is open and earnest before him. A terrible ache blooms in his chest because Cassian knows, he knows that if he tells him he’ll never see those eyes full of worry and concern again.
“If I tell you,” his voice doesn’t sound like his own, “you would want nothing to do with me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that, project the worst on me. Acting like you know me, like you know what I would do,” his voice is raised now and Cassian can’t prevent the flinch that shudders through him. For a moment there is silence, but when Melshi speaks again his voice is soft and low.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not angry. I just want to understand, I just want to help,” and Cassian would laugh, but it would only make his head hurt. He swallows down the words ‘ you can’t’, because that would mean admitting to himself he’s past the point of no return, a quietly terrifying thought.
“What do you mean?” He doesn’t sound like himself but he wants to know. “You knew something was wrong the last time we spoke on Niamos?”
“You could barely look me in the eye. You can barely do it now.”
And what can Cassian even say to that, what could he even fill the quiet with, that stretches out between them.
“Cassian, when I left Niamos, I thought that I would never see you again. I spent years fighting, not knowing what happened to you,” Melshi steps closer, and this time Cassian doesn’t flinch. “Then you were here, like a second chance from the galaxy. And I could see that hurt, and I was afraid it had never stopped, between Niamos and now.” And maybe he’s right, maybe it has never stopped hurting.
“I’ve spent my whole life scared, Cassian, I was child afraid of the dark, a young man afraid of getting caught, I was afraid every second of every day I was in prison, and then I met a man who I would have followed anywhere, and that terrified me most of all,” deep brown eyes meet his own, “I spent years wondering if I made the right choice, and now you’re here, and I, I won't make that same choice again. I’m not afraid anymore.” He steps so close that Cassian can feel the heat of his body in the air around him as he says, “Cassian please.”
His throat feels swollen shut as he shakes his head, even as he leans forward.
“I can’t,” he repeats like a broken holo, unable to prevent his voice from cracking, and everything else seems to shrink away. Like there’s no one in the world but the two of them, stood here in his billet and Cassian can’t. Can’t lose the one thing he has left in this whole damned galaxy.
“I won’t make that choice again, but,” Melshi pauses, and to Cassian it feels like forever, “If you want me to leave then I’ll leave. Even if it’s the last thing I want, because I would do anything for you Cassian. Even if that meant never seeing you again, if that was what you wanted but I won’t go unless you say it.” And he is so close now that Cassian can feel the ghost of breath across his cheek. “Do you want me to leave?” It's so quiet that Cassian almost doesn’t catch it, but that deep hollow in his chest, the one that's full of loneliness rises up and fills his lungs, crushing the plea out of them.
“Please don’t go,” because if Melshi isn’t afraid then Cassian certainly is. A large, warm hand captures one of his own and places it to his chest, the steady thud of Melshi’s heart beating beneath his fingertips.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, thumb brushing across his knuckles, tired eyes meet his own, full of all the things he can’t bring himself to say. It’s vulnerable, he knows, to let the storm that swallows him whole shine though in his eyes so he closes them, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Melshi’s.
He’d done that once, hadn’t he? Crowded into Melshi’s vision when he’d been staring too long at the open sky and it had just been them. When they’d finally had permission to fall apart.
“I’m here,” Melshi breathes and there is salt in the air, sand between his toes and a bright orange sunset.
It feels like permission.
Cassian crashes into him like a wave to the shore. He pulls their hands from between them so Cassian can wrap his arms over Melshi’s shoulders and bring him closer still without their lips ever breaking apart. Hands press against the small of his back and Cassian gasps into his mouth, every place that touches him burns with desire and fear.
It feels like coming home.
Even as he slides a hand up Melshi’s neck to cup the back of his head, cropped hair prickling under his palm and sinking deeper into the kiss, Cassian can feel it all begin to slip away. His other arm tightens across Melshi’s back as his chest threatens to cave in on itself. He knows he’ll lose this too and kisses him harder. Because no matter what he says, when Melshi knows, he won't want him anymore, and he needs it to be real, needs to be touched and held by someone that knows him, sees him before it’s too late.
He kisses him like goodbye.
When Melshi pulls back Cassian wants to scream.
“Cassian,” he says.
“Don’t stop,” Cassian begs, reaching across the space between them once more, but Melshi is stronger.
“Cassian, breathe.”
Awareness seeps back into his body, and suddenly there isn’t enough oxygen in his lungs. The strange and strangled noises that reach his ringing ears are coming from his own mouth and when Melshi touches fingers to his face there’s wetness on his cheeks.
His limbs are shaking badly as he sways and the world is spinning spinning, spinning . Melshi pulls him to his chest just as his legs give way beneath him and the first clear sob rips itself from his throat. As his body trembles with the force of expelled grief, there's a hand rubbing circles into his spine and he’s sinking to the floor. He’s being rocked to and fro and he’s gasping for air and he can’t make it stop.
He’s unravelling. Every awful feeling pours out of him, great choked sobs that spasm through his chest as the reality of everything he has done courses through him. Somehow his hands find purchace on fabric and they are curling and uncurling into fists without conscience.
Melshi says, ‘I’ve got you,” and it makes him cry harder, wretched and bitter and cracking. Eveything he has swallowed down for a later that is now.
It’s over, he thinks, even as Melshi still brushes his thumb back and forth between his shoulder blades and rests his head atop of Cassian's. It’s over, he thinks, as Melshi's heart beats a soothing pace beneath his ear. It’s over, he thinks, because he knows he can’t keep his secrets buried inside him anymore. It’s too much, and he is so, so tired. He closes his eyes and breathes in time with the rise and fall of Melshi’s ribs and lets the words bleed out of him.
“Every day people die for the rebellion. Everyday we put out bodies as blaster fodder, and we all accept it as the cost of war. We accept the cost of dying for what is right, for the freedom of every citizen of the galaxy, for a better day that will someday come,” He pauses, struggling to formulate what comes next. “When you join the rebellion, your body isn’t yours anymore, it belongs to the fight, and when they tell you to use it, you do it without question,” his throat begins to constrict but he pushes through it, “They tell you to fight, you fight, they send you to die and you go willingly. They order you to seduce,” his breath hitches, this is it, “you, you do exactly what needs to be done. You get what the rebellion needs by any means necessary, and every time you carve out a piece of yourself until one day you wake up and find there’s nothing left of you.” Tears sting his eyes once more as he holds his breath and waits for Melshi to let him go.
Instead a hand brushes through the hair at the nape of his neck and the arm around his back grips him tighter. Cassian thinks he might start sobbing again.
“You should have never had to do that,” the words are pressed into the top of his head with a kiss and Cassian can feel that crushing tightness across his chest. He shakes his head.
“I wouldn’t have done anything differently,” he says, body sagging further, defeated, “If it wasn’t me it would have been someone else. You take on what you think you can handle to protect the next person, do what needs to be done so no one else has to,” he shivers, “It was never about me, it didn’t matter how I felt because it was for the cause. It always is. What else could I do?”
“How long has this been going on?” There is a tremor in Melshi’s voice and Cassian is glad he can’t see his face.
“A year or so. Some of it was my own initiative, most of it…wasn’t.” He has to pause to work past the lump forming in his throat again before continuing, “It’s just a tool, get someone to trust you, get someone to use you, whatever gets you in the room, whatever gets you what the rebellion needs, ” Melshi’s hand finally goes still against his back.
“That’s where you were gone when I arrived?” Cassian's throat has closed but he nods against his chest and feels the hitch of breath beside him, “For three months?” He can’t, he can’t force those words out of him, like doing so would be just as real as living it over again.
“You survive it,” he says. He doesn’t really believe it. “It’s like it wasn’t really happening to me. It’s like I wasn’t even there, I’d just go somewhere else until it was over,” and he can’t tell which of them is holding their breath.
Then he laughs, bordering on hysterical and the admission escapes him, “I wasn’t even there Melshi, five days and I can’t remember anything,” he can’t stop shaking, but Melshi’s arms just wrap around him tighter to stave off the trembling. Holds him until the tremoring eventually subsides and theres just the rise and fall of Melshi’s chest, and the gentle breeze of breath against his hair.
“Where do you go?”
“Anywhere else,” and it’s maybe the first time he’s really acknowledged it at all. “Sometimes, I’m in a greaser yard,” he whispers, “and the workers are shouting to each other. We go for drinks when they get off shift. I’m in the jungle, there is dirt between my toes and the chorus of a hundred different bird songs in the air. I’m on a beach, watching the waves crash against the sand at sunset.”
I’m in a hotel on Niamos, and if I go away far enough it’s almost real.
Cassian waits for him to leave. Melshi’s arms don’t pull away. The heartbeat still thrums steadily as he leans against his chest. The hand that was on his neck cups his cheek instead, tilting Cassian's face up so that their red rimmed eyes meet.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says, softly brushing his thumb across Cassian's cheekbone, “I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that alone,” and if Cassian had any tears left to cry he would, only his body is wrung dry. He brings a hand to wrap around Melshi’s wrist, to feel the pulse beneath his fingers, closes his eyes and tries to remember to keep breathing.
He’s still here, he didn’t leave.
“What do you need right now?” Melshi asks.
Some small, irrational part of Cassian wants to tell him to kiss him again. That he wants Melshi to touch him in all the places that make his heart race with terror and delight. Because he’s real, and this is real and because Niamos was the last good thing. He should tell him that.
The exhaustion he’s somehow held off hits him all at once, body stiff and aching from sitting so long. All his energy has been sapped away and dissipated into the cold, stone floor beneath them. Each limb heavy without even having tried to move them.
He lets himself be held a moment longer, and his skin doesn’t crawl and everything is soft and he feels inexplicably safe.
“Told you and Kay I’d sleep, didn’t I?” he says. Then, almost in a panic, almost as if he lets Melshi out of his sight he’ll have been wrong, and he’ll leave, and he’ll never get to feel real again “Will you stay?”
Melshi’s lips press lightly to the space between his eyebrows.
“Of course,” he murmurs against his skin.
Cassian can almost convince himself it sounds like a promise.
Notes:
Woof, that was a tough one, I hope it was satisfactory.
Hey Dani, 'gone' is a pretty vague word to use...Is Leida dead or did Perrin just get her in the divorce? (You choose your own adventure as its not getting further explored here!)
Maybe "I’m here" could be our always? (will I ever not be referential to part one...no)
So I have finally given poor Cassian some comfort, fear not though...there is still angst ahead!
In other news, we got Andor Season 2 trailer crumbs today in which Cassian is looking exhausted and has a split lip and I am being very normal about it (frothing at the mouth)
Yelling at me on tumblr @laneboyheathens encouraged as always <3
Chapter 12: explosion
Notes:
Short chapter this time, but I wanted this interlude before the behemoth of Chapter 13 (unless of course I decided to split it into two chapters...increasingly likely).
Oh H/C, we're really in it now.
CW: mild violence, panic attacks, do let me know if there is anything I've missed.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He’s keenly aware that there is someone in bed with him. Hot, caustic air rolling up the length of his back where they are coiled against it. The weighted impression of a body pressing into the mattress. There is a split second where Cassian can taste bile in the back of his throat before his body strikes out instinctively.
Throwing back his arm, he buries his elbow deep in the person's stomach, while at the same time wrenching his head backwards, rewarded with a sickening crunch as it connects with their nose. Using the precious seconds of confusion, Cassian grabs onto the hilt of the vibroknife from its hidden spot, strapped to the underside of the bed.
With a surge, he flips himself over, pinning the intruder down with his hips, trapping them between his thighs. The tip of the blade pressed into the soft flesh beneath their chin. A single, bright bead of crimson blooms there.
He’s not sure why he expects them to laugh, but it’s jarring enough when they don’t.
He’s not sure why the lack of hands around his wrists, just barely holding him back seems so wrong.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what he expects anymore, only that he’s absolutely and utterly done, with all of it. Forget playing along, forget keeping them sweet.
Has he really lost his restraint when violence feels like the sweetest control?
He needs them alive, that much he knows is important, or at least he would have slit their throat already. They’re going to laugh. Laugh to hide the fetid fear rolling off them in waves. Laugh like they don’t believe he would do it, as if the threat is empty, while knowing there’s a knife at their throat all the same.
And it’s only a fraction of what they’ve made him feel and that stench of terror is the most delicious, dizzying high.
The laugh doesn’t come. Neither do the hands on his wrists.
Instead he watches their lips move in slow motion, and the words don’t match.
“Cassian.”
He hesitates.
That’s not right. He’s not Cassian. Never Cassian.
They can’t know that. Here he can’t be Cassian. It’s not safe. How could he have let them see?
See…
Their hands aren’t on his wrists, because they are raised in surrender at either side of their head, a fresh trickle of blood running across their face from their nose.
The eyes staring up at him are brown, not blue.
Shit.
The vibroknife clatters to the floor as Cassian scrambles out of the bunk and upright.
Upright for about as long as it takes for a wave of vertigo to crash through his head, sending the room into a spin and darkening the edges of his vision. He throws out arms, grasping for something, anything. The wall under his hands. A rising nausea that pins him to it.
Shit, shit, shit.
A cocktail of adrenaline and guilt surges through his bloodstream, alternating roiling heat and icy cold that leaves him sweaty and shivering.
Something in his mind breaks.
The wall that had protected what was left of Cassian from the things that happened to his aliases. The things that didn’t, couldn’t happen to him. Smashed, raw and tender. It bleeds together, a choking rotten mass that sticks in his throat and makes his skin crawl to the tune of a hundred different touches. Everything he’s tried to forget sinks its teeth into those bloody, exposed remains of him. Of what little he’d tried so hard to separate.
And this is what is left of Cassian Andor. A wild animal trapped in a cage of his own making, and without the cage there is only impulse and instinct to survive. Cornered and lashing out.
Like prey.
Melshi hasn’t moved, hand’s still resting at either side of his skull. Hands that hadn’t tried to stop him even as Cassian had pinned him down and held a knife to his throat. Had broken the skin.
If his own admission hours earlier hadn’t been enough to push him away…
Cassian digs his fingers hard into his ribs. He’s kriffed everything up. A danger to the only other living, breathing, being that cares about him, that he cares about.
He’d stayed after finding out the darkest, hidden parts of him, and in return Cassian had tried to -
“Cassian,” the sound of his name wrenches him from the spiralling thoughts. Darting a look back toward the bunk he watches as Melshi sits up, very slowly, keeping his hands where Cassian can see them. Watches as he winces, bringing fingers to pinch his nose as gravity sends a gush of blood down over his lip.
He’d done that, hadn’t he?
“ I’m so sorry I didn’t know where I was I didn’t know it was you I never meant to hurt -”
“ Cassian, you need to breathe. ”
He can hear it now, sharp and shallow and too fast. Not enough oxygen, the tingling in his limbs, the harsh pain clinging to his ribs and the bright spots swimming in his vision. He tries to suck inwards and it feels like something wet and ripping in his chest. Guilt. He chokes on it.
There’s the wall, under his hands, under his shoulder. He must be leaning on it, heavily. His legs are shaking.
He slides down it to the cramped space between the closet and the desk. Penned in. It doesn’t feel like enough. He wraps his arms around himself like it will hold him together, stop him from unravelling at the seams, fingers digging into the flesh of his arms hard enough to hurt. The bite of pain isn’t enough to redirect his focus.
“Cassian look at me,” he can’t, nor can he remember when he squeezed his eyes tight shut, burning behind his eyelids. “Look at me,” Melshi says again and Cassian tries to look. Everything is a colourful smear, lit by the luma overhead, buzzing its faint humm.
He’d asked - Melshi had - if they should keep it on. Cassian had been too tired to be embarrassed about saying yes. He hadn’t complained, whatever discomfort it might have caused, just rolled onto his back and thrown an arm over his eyes. Kept the light on, because Cassian had asked. Stayed, because Cassian had asked.
And now all Melshi was asking,was for Cassian to look at him and it's so damn hard to keep him in focus.
“Look, I’m fine,” it’s a sorry sight, blood dripping in-between his fingers, hand rubbing at his side where Cassian’s elbow must have caught him. Regret tightens like a noose around his neck and he clamps a hand over his mouth, gagging. Melshi’s voice might be measured and calm but Cassian doesn’t miss the way his eyes go wide.
“I’m okay, Cassian, I’m a tough old bastard, alright,” he removes the hand from his nose. The blood has stopped flowing. There is still a smear of red on his upper lip. Cassian imagines tasting metal and stops breathing all together. “We can figure this out but you need to take a deep breath first,” and as Melshi says it, he raises a hand in the air between them. Palm outwards and fingers splayed, not the hand with blood streaked over it but the clean one. Cassian searches for the tremor.
It’s not there.
It’s not an offer to take it. It’s not even asking permission to touch, just hovering, patient. A white flag.
He’d let his hands show he wasn’t a threat, rather than try to hold Cassian back. It’s an act of trust he can’t quite comprehend.
The realisation is a punch to the gut that forces him to gasp, and the sudden intake makes him see stars. It comes with the side effect of faintness, so he sticks his head down between his knees - he can take his eyes off him, it's just Melshi there is no danger - taking great, gulping lungfuls of air. Tries his best to copy the slow rhythmic breathing that cuts through the static rush of the blood in his ears, the hum of the luma.
In and out. In and out.
He’s not sure how long it takes for his breathing to even out again. Long enough that the tendrils of panic have dissipated, leaving his nerves threadbare thin and his body utterly drained. Whatever sleep he’s managed to get hasn’t cut through the bone deep fatigue, and evidently none of this has helped.
Still, he can’t seem to stop the shaking of his limbs, as if the remaining anxiety is trying to extricate itself from his body. He wraps his arms around his knees. It helps, if only a little.
“Cassian,” Melshi says his name very quietly.
He’d told him, back then, on Niamos. Told him, wanted him to know. Wanted to hear what his name sounded like when Melshi said it. When he didn’t have to be Keef Girgo anymore. When they’d clung to one another in the imagined safety of a setting sun. Couldn’t conceal that, hide Cassian from him. Not after everything they had been through, after everything they’d lost. He’d wanted it so badly to be true that he was free, more than just from Narkina. Like giving away a piece of himself. Real. Vulnerable.
And everytime Melshi had said his name Cassian had felt a little more alive. A little more whole.
Cassian. It sounds right when Melshi says it.
He blinks him into focus. He’s managed to wipe away most of the blood.
“You with me?” Melshi asks. Cassian nods, curling his still trembling hands into fists.
“I’m sorry,” it emerges from his raw throat with an unsteady waver.
“No, I’m sorry,” Melshi is shaking his head. There’s a stain of red under his chin. “I shouldn’t have stayed here.”
Shouldn’t have stayed. It hurts more than he expected, even if it was an inevitability. Cassian’s insides twist and he hides his face in his arms again.
“I understand.” He wants to be sick.
“Ah kriff, no I don’t mean -” Cassian jerks at the sound of movement, back hitting the wall, suddenly realising his position has him pinned, preparing to bolt. Melshi is between him and the door and -
It’s just Melshi. Melshi, now crouching on the floor, level with Cassian, hands still raised and empty. Not moving.
“I mean ,” and the words are firm, important, “I shouldn’t have stayed in your bunk.”
Cassian can’t really see the difference. Wanting him to stay, wanting him next to him, they are tangled together. Their arms had never left from round one another, even when Melshi had helped him to his feet, and in the haze of his exhaustion, Cassian had dragged Melshi down into bed with him. Rested his head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat like a recreation of a memory from so many years ago. They had blurred a little, present reality and the safe place on Niamos, warm and solid and real as his body finally gave into sleep.
“I asked you to stay,” he says, because admitting how badly he’d wanted it, irrationally still wants it , is a truth too raw right now.
“I know,” Melshi says with a sigh, hands dropping onto his thighs. “What I said before, that’s all true, I’m not going to leave unless you want me too, alright? It’s just…” he pauses, and Cassian can see him thinking, searching for the right words.
He’s not sure that there are any that could soften the blow he’s sure is coming. I shouldn’t have stayed in your bed because I don’t want you like that, you’re damaged goods, you’re a live wire, you hurt me, who could want you after everything you’ve done -
“It was selfish.”
That’s…what?
Melshi’s eyes are very intense as he continues, “You’ve been jumpy from the minute I got here, and after everything you told me…I shouldn’t have assumed this would be okay. I just didn’t want to let you go, I -“ For a long, aching moment, Melshi looks so very sad. “I missed you.”
Oh.
Something slackens its grip around his heart and his chest aches with relief.
I’ve missed you too. The implicit reply sticks in his throat. It hardly scratches the surface. There’s just so much. So many things Cassian could never have imagined wanting again. Missing touch, missing warmth, just being held. You’re the only one who sees me, has seen me, maybe the only one who can.
“You asked me to stay and I wanted to stay, and I didn’t consider what you might actually need,” he frowns, “I have no idea what might be bad, might not feel safe for you. And I might be wrong, but I don’t think you do either.”
He’s right and Cassian hates it. Hates that his body feels so far from his own anymore that the line between what he wants and what he can handle is a blurred and tangled mess. His eyes sting and he presses his palms against them, as if that will hold anything back.
“I hurt you.”
“I’ve taken harder hits.”
A laugh escapes his tight throat and almost immediately dissolves into a sob. Just one, harsh and wet and his skin feels raw from all the damn tears.
“Can I touch you? You can say no.”
He wishes he could chase away the phantom touches with something real. Is aware, dimly, that Melshi’s touch doesn’t make his skin crawl, nor remind him of someone or something he isn’t. There is an uncontrollable surge of anxiety at the thought all the same.
He shakes his head behind tear streaked hands, ”Not yet.”
“That’s okay,” Melshi says softly, no hint of offence in his voice. “Would it help if I fetched K2?”
That’s right, Kay is standing just outside his billet door, no doubt listening in on this whole kriffing mess. He considers it. Kay’s metal touch that’s so far from organic that it doesn’t trigger that animalistic flight in his brain. Except, Kay is all logic, and Cassian isn’t feeling very logical right now.
“No, I just need a minute.”
There is nothing touching him. He’s on Yavin. He’s in his billet. Melshi isn’t leaving. Kay is just on the other side of the door. He can remember how to breathe.
He sniffs, and tries to wipe away the worst of the mess from his face. It hurts a little. Then he takes a deep breath, and another, and another. Wraps his arms across his chest and just holds himself, holds in the trembling that might actually be shivering, when did it get so cold?
Finally he lifts his head and finds Melshi waiting, still in the same spot on the floor in front of the bunk.
“Help me up?”
Melshi moves very slowly and deliberately, crouching in front of Cassian and holding out a hand again. This time it’s an offer to take it. Shifting to get his feet under him, Cassian reaches out and takes it before he can think too hard. Melshis palm, big and warm under his, pulling him to his feet. He steps back, giving Cassian space if he needs it, letting go of his hand again.
The room's chill is more noticeable with it gone. For a long moment, Cassian doesn’t dare to move, to ask for anything now, to want for anything is too much. He doesn’t deserve it anyway, not after lashing out, all this patience, understanding. It's painful. It’s enough to make his eyes sting again.
“Cassian,” there he goes again, saying it like that.
It hits him then, it’s the most anyone has used his name in as long as he can remember. Not an alias, not Captain , not Andor . Just Cassian.
He’s stepping into the circle of his arms before he can stop himself, clutching on tightly. There’s only the briefest hesitation that has him thinking he’s made the wrong decision before Melshi’s arms settle across his back, head pressing into the side of his own.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes.
“I know,” Melshi says quietly, rubbing soft circles with his thumb into Cassian’s back, “I know.”
I know. Not, ‘it's okay’ or ‘it's alright’. It’s not. None of this is. Not everything he’s been through, not lashing out, not the fraying tether keeping him grounded but only barely. I know, is safe. I know, is honest.
But Melshi is holding him. Holding Cassian. He just keeps breathing, focusing on the warmth of hands on his back, the rub of stubble on his neck, the steady heartbeat beneath his chest.
“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have pushed you last night. You were exhausted, that wasn’t fair.”
Cassian’s fingers dig into his back harder than they should. He’s been on the verge of something for months now, and he hadn’t felt in control, everything coming to a pinnacle all at once and yes, Melshi had kept pushing him. But more importantly, he’d been there. Familiar and reassuring. And he hadn’t left.
Maybe it’s easier to admit, with his face hidden against Melshi’s shoulder. Where he can’t see him.
“Would have just found another way to shake you off. After sleep. After I got my head on straight again.”
Maybe if he hadn’t been so tired, tired of it all, tired of hiding, pretending, but gotten those precious few hours of sleep, he could have kept on lying. Ignoring everything. Pushing it down for another day.
Or maybe the explosion was inevitable.
Maybe, or maybe he wouldn’t have. Even after everything bad, saying the words, putting it out instead of locking it inside, has somewhat lessened the weight that has been slowly rotting away inside him, untended, unacknowledged.
The hollow in his chest a little less empty with Melshi’s arms around him.
I’m glad you pushed me, I was already on the edge.
He leaves that unsaid.
Cassian’s not sure how long they stand there, long enough that he’s stopped shivering, Melshi’s warmth slowly dissipating into him, like bacta. Everything hurts a little less.
Eventually Melshi pulls back, not fully, still keeping Cassian close and turns his head to the floor.
“You got anymore of those hidden away in here?”
Confused, Cassian looks to the spot on the floor that Melshi is and -
Oh kriff.
The vibroknife lies there accusingly, unmoved from where he would have dropped it. The damage it could have done if it had been activated.
Every recently relaxed muscle tenses all over again, “ Kriff, I am so sorry I -” breath hitches in his throat. Melshi’s eyes go wide.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he’s very gently squeezing Cassian’s biceps, ducking down to catch his gaze. “Bad time for a joke, sorry.”
Cassian fingers clutch involuntarily at the front of Melshi’s shirt and takes a shuddering uneven breath.
“ I could’ve-”
“But you didn’t,” Melshi cuts him off before he can spiral. The hands on his arms are firm and steady. “Look at me,” there should be anger on his face, maybe even fear. It’s just open and honest, same as last night, “I’m okay, don’t even think you broke my nose, it was just being dramatic. I’m alright, Cassian.” he ducks closer and finishes, “ We’re alright.”
He chokes down the what if’s, for all the good it will do him. Focuses on breathing, steady, in and out. That he can control, should be able to control. He loosens his grip on Melshi’s shirt, though not fully letting go. Warmth leaves his arm and Melshi’s hand is gently resting over his own, lightly pushing it up to his chest and Cassian can feel the beat of his heart under his fingertips again.
“ I’m here ,” he breathes, “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t scare me off that easily.”
“How do you-” he stops, words catching in his throat again. “How can you keep saying that after-”
“Because it’s true. Because I’ve been through hell too, you know that. Hell, day after day and you have to find something to hold on,” he glances down to where Cassian’s hand is still pressed to his chest, “So this right here? This is real. And it’s not going anywhere.”
Cassian’s fingers flex, the texture of the fabric beneath them, warm unyielding flesh, as if to test the truth of it.
“I don’t deserve it,” Deserve what? Kindness? Tenderness? Touch that doesn’t hurt?
“You don’t get to decide what you do and don’t deserve,” Melshi says, thumb running over Cassian’s knuckles, “but you deserve more than you think you do. You just have to give it a chance.”
A beat passes, then another, and slowly Cassian’s breathing starts to even out. Leaning forward, his forehead hits Melshi’s with a gentle bump.
“There we go, starting to look less like a kicked loth-cat,” Melshi murmurs, a small smile quirking up the edge of his lip.
Cassian laughs, shaky, “Thought it was a bad time for jokes?” He tucks his head back down onto Melshi’s shoulder, exhaustion catching up to him again. Melshi’s arms wrap around him, more holding him up than anything else.
“Better joke this time,” Cassian can feel the rumble of the words, a kiss pressed near his temple and he sags impossibly closer.
It’s a minute or so before Melshi speaks again.
“D’ya reckon if I sleep on the floor that’ll be okay?” His fingers are sweeping gentle arcs across Cassian’s shoulder. It’s very nice. “Or if not, I can swap with K2. I’d just, I’d feel better if you’re not on your own.”
Even after everything, the thought of Melshi leaving, even just to sit outside the door makes loneliness swell in his chest. He loves Kay, he really does. But Kay isn’t Melshi.
“Floors hard, it won't be comfortable for you,” he murmurs into Melshi’s neck. He doesn’t really want to let go but he is so, so tired. But he can’t drag him down into his bunk this time, even if everything feels soft and warm and safe for now. Wrangling control of his reactions while lucid is hard enough.
“I’ve slept in worse conditions, we’ll figure something out,” Melshi gives him a final squeeze then pulls back to catch Cassian’s gaze. He already misses Melshi’s strong arms across his back. “You sure it’s okay I stay?”
Cassian swallows down that lingering guilt and nods.
“I just, I didn’t know it was you, when I woke up. I think, I think if you’re not touching me…”
Melshi’s smile is only a touch plaintive. “Okay, I can do that.” Then he’s striding across the floor, bending down and picking up the vibroknife. He can’t help but feel nauseous looking at it.
Melshi turns it in his hands, seems to consider for a moment, then offers the hilt to Cassian. “You should put this somewhere safe.”
He’s making it very hard to keep his breathing steady.
“Melshi I -”
“It’s alright,” he says, arm still outstretched between them. “I know you’re not going to hurt me.”
There it is. Trust. Even after everything.
Once the blade has been stashed in the footlocker, they come to a compromise on the sleeping arrangements. Cassian drags the thin mattress off the bunk, finding a few spare sheets amongst his limited possessions to make the bare slung canvas a little more comfortable. He insists Melshi take the mattress on the floor, the more comfortable of the two, but also because Cassian thinks having the height might feel safer, just in case.
It’s not the most comfortable for either of them, but at least it means Melshi can stay.
Cassian curls on his side, shielding his eyes from the luma, still on, still humming away. He listens to Melshi’s breathing for a few minutes, steady, but not yet the deep rise and fall of sleep.
He reaches out, dangling a hand over the edge of a bunk. Wordlessly, Melshi laces their fingers together, stroking his thumb back and forth across Cassian’s knuckles. It’s nice.
Something so small shouldn’t feel like so much. Cassian remembers how to breathe.
He should tell him. It’s only fair that Melshi should know what he’s getting into by sticking around. Give him chance to change his mind. Cassian knows this is just the surface, that there is so much more he hasn’t said. Can’t say. Can barely admit to himself.
“Melshi,” it sticks in his throat. Melshi’s palm is warm against his. He could still lose this.
Lips brush the back of his hand. “It’s alright Cassian. You can tell me in the morning,” and Cassian realises that Melshi sounds tired too.
In the morning.
Maybe he will. Maybe he will.
Notes:
C'mon Cass, use your words!!!
tumblr @laneboyheathens where I'll be giving updates/snippets/WIP Wednesday and otherwise being insane about whatever new Andor S2 crumbs we get
Thanks for reading, kudos and comments fuel me putting this guy through it
Chapter 13: fall-out
Notes:
Hey guys, uh, sorry I took a year and 23 other Andor fics as a looong detour. Yes I had to chop this into more chapters, if you see the chapter count go up, no you didn't <3 Thank you for waiting for me all this time, I hope you enjoy <3
Content Warnings: discussions of assault and dubious consent not recognised by the characters themselves, sexpionage, mentions of nausea - please let me know if I have missed any, stay safe ily
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The solar cycle on Niamos feels off kilter after the strict twelve hour regiments of ‘on shift’- off shift’ on Narkina. The days too long and it’s nights too short. Long in that way that entices the tourists to spend too many hours lounging by the ocean, spending their credits before the short cool nights roll in, rest and begin again. That’s why sentients come here. That’s why Cassian had.
Sunrise takes a long time on Niamos.
So, while the dawn has broken, still it slowly rises, casting shades of deep bright red and orange bleeding across the water, everything tinged with the hue of the warm light. For now at least. Cassian can see the clouds rolling in off the distant skies. It will be overcast soon.
It’s still early enough that the beachfront is almost deserted, what with the breeze still this side of uncomfortably cool, tugging at the roughspun fabric of his clothes. They are strikingly similar to the ones he was arrested in. That feels like a lifetime ago.
The Kitonak server whistles to get his attention, then deposits two thermocups on the counter, spoons sticking out of their tops.
Melshi is exactly where he’d left him, sitting on the ‘crete risers along the shore. He’s staring at the sunrise on the sea, expression open and unguarded. Cassian stares at him for longer than he should, trying to hold the image in his mind, the serenity in freedom.
When he’s stalled for long enough Cassian clears the last few steps and sits down beside him, careful not to jostle the cups.
“Here,” their fingers brush as he hands one over. Melshi tears away his gaze from the horizon to look down at the offering. The porritch is thick with a swirl of blue honey running through it.
“Sorry, it’s probably all your body will be able to manage right now,” Cassian says softly even if the words won't carry far on the breeze. Melshi nods, lip twitching as the faint grain smell rises between them.
“Thanks,” he says, quiet and raw. There’s a tremble in his hands and a sheen of wetness in his eyes. Watching him eat real food for the first time in years feels like intruding on something personal. Cassian turns away to afford him a little privacy, which might seem unreasonable given how they’d spent their morning, but these are unusual circumstances.
They eat their porritch side by side, arm to arm and leg to leg. Still there, still alive against all the odds. It can’t last. Running from his guilt has done him nothing good. Cassian needs to call Ferrix. He should be able to get a message through to Xan. Let Maarva know he’s coming home. Try and convince her to come away with him again. Somewhere better this time, somewhere he can keep her safe and well. He’s done wasting his time, doing nothing, too drunk or too hungover to function. Maybe he can even make her proud.
He’ll stall a little longer anyway.
When Melshi sets the empty cup at his feet his hands aren’t trembling as badly as before.
Neither of them say anything for a long time, just breathe in the warmth of the rising sun, feel the points of contact, arm to arm and leg to leg, let the briney wind ruffle their clothes and hair. Knuckles brush against the back of his, and Cassian tangles their fingers together, not even caring that their palms are slightly clammy. Melshi’s brow is furrowed, eyes on the horizon once more.
“You’re thinking,” Cassian says.
“I’ve been known to.”
Cassian wishes he had the courage to ask what’s troubling him, but Melshi stands before he can summon it, dropping his hand in the process.
“You should make that call,” Melshi reminds him, and Cassian feels the sting of loss. He misses the hotel, and the too small bed and the sounds of only their breathing. Misses the way Melshi had kissed him once more, one final time before they had made their way out onto the promenade where they are now.
Maybe they’ve both been delaying the inevitable.
The clouds roll in off the sea, and the sun disappears behind them.
The grey stone ceiling stares back at him, blank and unshifting. The light still hums away. It makes his dry eyes hurt as the low, dull, headache pounds away behind them. His mouth is dry too. Dehydrated. Probably from all the crying. He should feel embarrassed. Mostly he just feels nothing.
There’s another sound though, quiet and familiar. Cassian tips his head to one side over the edge of the cot. In sleep, Melshi’s breathing is slow, chest steadily rising and falling. One hand sprawled at an odd angle, fallen away to the side with curved fingers resting on the cold stone floor.
Cassian doesn’t know how long he’s slept, other than that it doesn’t really feel like it's enough. Still though, he watches Melshi’s sleeping from. He should be surprised to find him there, after lashing out, after last night's complete and total detonation. Anyone sane would cut and run once the smoke had cleared.
Had he really expected to wake and find that Melshi had snuck away during the night? That he hadn’t been honest when he’d said he’d stay?
No. The answer drifts to the front of his mind with all the clarity of clearing fog.
Cassian can’t find the energy to try and parse that certainty out right now.
What he can find the energy for is the swirl of guilt in his stomach at the sight of the dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. The lines of worry etched into the corners of his mouth. The slight furrow of his brow. The dried scab of blood in the soft flesh under the curve of his chin.
Cassian breathes through the nausea and the pounding in his head. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t scare me off that easily.” Melshi had said last night. And if that's the truth, Melshi isn’t afraid of him.
And when he thinks of himself? Cassian is terrified. The memory loss, losing control, lashing out in adrenaline fuelled panic. Everything could have gone so horribly wrong if he hadn’t come to his senses in time. If the blade had been pressed just a little higher. Just like, just like…
It hurts to think. He’s dehydrated. His tongue feels like sandpaper sticking to the roof of his mouth.
Carefully he sits up. The room still spins but it’s manageable with a few deep breaths. As quietly as he can, Cassian swings his legs over the edge of the cot, steps over Melshi’s still sleeping form and crosses the small room, shutting the fresher door behind him.
He squints into the harsh light as he flicks it on, and the awful creaking fan whirs up again, too loud in the silence. On the counter sits the canteen from last night. He leans against the sink for balance. Drinks until his stomach hurts. His head still aches after but taking any pain-tabs on an empty stomach will just make him sicker before the medication will kick in.
He drags a hand over his face to shield his eyes from the light. They feel swollen. His whole face does, the skin raw and sensitive. He turns the shower on to cold and tries not to wince at the noise. It’s probably loud enough to wake Melshi in the other room if the fan hasn't already. He tries not to dwell on the thought. One thing at a time. Cassian braces his hands on either wall and ducks his head under the stream of water.
His hair and face are soaked in an instant, cold stream beating into the back of his skull. Anxiety claws at his lungs without warning as droplets drip down his neck and under his shirt. He breathes through it. This is Yavin. He’s fine. He’s safe. His hands are trembling like kriff against the tile.
It’s unsettling, but the water carves cool lines over his cheeks, soothing his skin, and the cold makes the pressure behind his eyes ebb into something more manageable by the time he finally shuts the water off. Cassian stands there, head bowed, water dripping off his hair and breathes and breathes until his hands stop shaking and he just feels exhausted again.
He dries off the worst of it. His face doesn’t feel quite so sensitive and warm anymore. He must still look a mess. Not for the first time he’s grateful not to have a mirror in the room so he doesn’t have to see it. Stubble scrapes against his palm as he rubs the side of his jaw. He wishes he could grow it out, but the empire likes their ranks clean shaven. Such a simple choice, and even that he can’t have. It shouldn’t stir up so much resentment. It doesn’t matter what he wants in the end. Not having the choice of whether to shave or not is hardly the worst of it.
Facing up to the worst of it is waiting for him on the other side of the door, because letting Melshi come into his life with half-baked intel isn’t fair. Even if he hardly knows how to talk about it. Even if it will push him away. Melshi deserves more than half-truths. Melshi deserves to have that choice.
He stops stalling, and hits the door release.
He's already awake of course, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, legs pulled up in a loose fold. His shirt is creased to all kriff, like the thin sheet bunched around his waist. The slope of his shoulders show no alarm in a moment caught off guard. No scanning for threats or exits. Even in the harsh light of the artificials he looks soft and unassuming. Cassian considers for one absurd moment crawling onto the rollmat with him, curling up close to the heat of his body, thawing out his frozen limbs.
He crosses his arms over his chest as Melshi blinks him into focus, clearing away a haze.
"Hey," Melshi's voice is full of burr from sleep. His own throat tightens as a distant memory flickers on like a holo somewhere in his brain. That same deepness after having slept more peacefully than he must have done in years. The gradual float to consciousness not interrupted by some alarm or flash of lights, just the creep of the sunrise steadily bathing the room in an orange glow. The touch of lightly trembling fingertips across the bridge of his nose, the sweep of his brow, the side of his jaw.
"Cassian," he says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
"What?"
Melshi shakes his head, still tracing Cassian's features. "Nothing. I just like saying it. Cassian."
A pang of guilt tugs somewhere behind his sternum. That name is trouble. He's handed over something dangerous, done nothing but put himself and Melshi at risk by telling it. Reckless. But it had felt right in the moment. He swallows that sour tasting fear and finds a smile so Melshi wont know the unexploded ordinance he's handed him.
"You're ridiculous," he says, catching Melshi's fingers with his own. Melshi just shrugs.
"Sure am," he says as he closes his eyes against the creeping sunlight, turning his face to tuck into the space between Cassian's head and the thin pillow. In the warmth and relative safety, Cassian begins to doze again. The next words are spoken so softly he barely hears them. "Names are all we had for a long time. Thank you for giving me yours."
"Freshers free," he says, and his voice is wrong and rough, and his throat is full of knives.
Melshi takes him in, damp hair and rumpled clothes and skin that must be puffy and red raw from tears. Cassian's hackles raise unbidden at the scrutiny, at what must be the carefully composed and calm expression on Melshi's face.
He's raw as an exposed nerve and that's no one's fault but his own. He's had everything under control, and he can't afford not to have it that way. Last night had been a royally massive kriff up, and Cassian isn't stupid enough to think that they can pretend it didn't happen. Kriff, he doesn't want to ignore it, but picking apart the threads that lead to it like a mission debrief feels less appealing than being smothered by his own bedsheets.
But he'd already decided hadn't he? That Melshi deserves the truth, the parts that aren't classified up to the kriffing eyeballs, even if only for all the kriff he's put him through in the last twelve standard hours.
Cassian sidesteps to let Melshi pass, an arms breadth between them, and crawls back onto his bunk before the spins get any worse.
He's had more than enough experience with torture that the pain barely registers as danger anymore. Luthen taught him that lesson first, then Draven. Pain is just the body's way to let the brain know that something is trying to kill you. But the pain of torture isn't meant for that. Dead men don't talk. And once the brain knows the pain isn't to kill, the matter of tuning it out becomes simple.
The pain is the easy part. It's the anticipation that you can't mitigate for. Waiting, knowing something terrible is about to happen, something that there is no recourse to escape from.
"Assets don't give up information because of the pain, they give it up because of the treat of future pain. We are encoded with our own survival. Endure. The pain will be awful, but it will be temporary. Fear is the thing that kills you fastest."
So Cassian stares at the grey stone ceiling and endures for knife twisting minutes for Melshi to come back into the room. He doesn't take his eyes off it when the fresher door opens and he hears the horrible rattling fan shut off. He doesn't look away as he listens to Melshi settle back down on the floor next to him.
Everything feels more real and present in the harsh reality of the morning. The creases in the sheets under his shoulders, the places where the threads are fraying at the edges of the blanket. Even the room has stopped spinning for the most part. Thinking no longer feels like clawing his way through gravel. Instead, his mind spins with a million different words and he descards them all. They don't seem right, or enough, or are nonsensical. The admittance that had felt so close those few short hours ago, when utterly worn from lack of sleep, when Melshi had been holding his hand, rubbing shapes into the back of it. It had seemed so easy then, like the confession might just slip out.
He hadn't been thinking clearly. Maybe he hasn't been for a long time. Cassian opens his mouth and each time the words get caught by the shame blocking his throat. Kriff. He shoves his hands up into his armpits. They're shaking from the cold. This is stupid. Why can't he just -
"Do you keep the cobwebs up for decoration, or do you just like the company of spiders?"
What. What.
"What?" The blast of utter confusion lets the word barrel past the barricade. He drags his eyes far enough from the blank ceiling to see Melshi's hand, raised and pointed toward a far corner. Sure enough, several sizable and intricate webs are strung there, shifting imperceptibly from the light currents of air in the room.
"Oh. No, I didn't…" notice? When had those gotten there? When had he stopped taking in all of the details? "I haven't had this billet long," had they been there since he moved in? His throat still feels like sandpaper. "Not gotten round to cleaning up yet."
"Ah," Melshi says quietly. They lapse back into oppressive silence.
"I'm not on base often," his voice sounds much too loud in the quiet of the room, so does the rustle of sheets as Melshi shifts on the floor beside him. Cassian's insides feel like they're being gripped in a vice. There's pressure building in his chest. He's not sure if he might be about to cry or puke again. His hands are too warm and he moves them to fiddle with the hem of his shirt.
"I've done things," the words are shrapnel, "I've let people do things to me. For information. Mostly. Access. Sometimes to keep assets happy." His mouth tastes of blood. The pressure in his chest won't let him breathe deeply. Everything begins forcing its way out through the cracks that fissured last night, but that have been embedded in his skin for months.
"I've convinced people that I want them for more than what's in their head, or on their data drives. Convinced them that I love them, or made them love me or…" shame threatens to claw its way out of his mouth but Cassian swallows it back down. "…desire me. Made them think that they have power over me. It depends. Some want to have you, or they want to control you. The worst get off on crushing you." That's almost right. There's a gaping wound in his chest and it's leaking something foul all through his body. "Having or controlling or crushing me. I had to make them think that those things were real. Except it wasn't really me those things happened to. Just whoever I was pretending to be."
"Cass-"
"I traded myself for parts," Cassian keeps going because Melshi says his name too gently and because now he's started he can't stop. The more he talks the more the horror bleeds into the comforting and familiar numbness he's become accustomed to. "For intel. And it's not like I didn't put myself in those positions," because the rebellion asked it of him. What did it matter if he couldn't say no? "It wasn't violent. Almost never. I've been through worse." He's been put in a medically induced coma thanks to torture twice for kriff sake. He should be able to handle this. Distance himself from it like he always has. If he can't even say it then it controls him.
"The sex was just a tool. Either I used it or they did." His body doesn't feel real. The ceiling doesn't look real. None of it really happened to him. Detaching himself from it is survival. "I couldn't break cover. So I put myself in the back of my mind and let it happen." He could be reading out a report for all the lack of cadence in his voice. "It's very likely that I will have to take on assignments like this again."
For a long moment, Melshi is just quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes Cassian’s pulse climb, makes him brace for recoil or pity or disgust. But when Melshi finally speaks, his voice isn’t any of those things.
"Kriff, Cassian," and for the first time he hears the total wreckage of Melshi's voice. The shaky breath he takes to steady himself. When Cassian hears him make to sit up he turns his face towards the wall. He can't look at him. Not when he's out of his head like this, that wouldn't be fair.
Melshi clears his throat, "Would it be alright to hold your hand?"
Cassian suddenly doesn’t trust his voice. The memory of how nice it had felt just those few short hours ago is maybe the thing that brings him closest to tears again. So he just nods. A movement small enough to take back if he needs to.
Melshi’s hand finds his nearer one with a careful, feather-light touch, like he’s afraid Cassian might startle. Cassian hates that it's not unfounded. Then he gathers Cassian’s hand between both of his own and draws it in, pressing it against his chest. He can tell by touch-sense that he's leant back against the edge of the bunk but facing outward toward the room. His heartbeat thuds under his fist, moving with each rise and fall of his breath. Melshi's thumb starts tracing shapes over the back of Cassian’s hand. Circles, maybe. Or nothing with a pattern at all, just tracing over his knuckles over and over.
It's grounding. He feels a little more real again, closer to the surface. He shouldn't be surprised by now when he expects the fear to come and it doesn't. There's just more quiet. He tightens his grip on Melshi’s hand without meaning to. Melshi answers by tightening his hold too, and he's not sure which of them is holding the other more tightly in their strange little setup.
Melshi’s breath hitches only once. Cassian feels it through the place where their hands are joined. Feels him breathe, slow and deliberate, the way someone does when they’re trying not to let their voice shake again. When he does finally speak, his voice is steady.
“Cassian…stars.” A slow exhale. “You shouldn't have to go through that.”
Cassian flinches almost imperceptibly at the simplicity of the words, and Melshi must feel it. He doesn’t let go. He just tightens one hand around Cassian’s, the other still resting over it like he’s afraid Cassian might disappear if he stops touching him.
“I’m not angry at you,” Melshi says quickly. “I’m angry at what is being asked of you. At what Draven thinks you’re capable of surviving.”
How much more of this does Draven expect him to endure? How soon before the next briefing comes. What parts of himself will he have to cut off and bury away in order to mold himself into the perfect cover. Able to manipulate with a smile. Or worse.
If he thinks about the worst part he might actually throw up so he shoves down the thought and tries to focus only on the pressure of fingertips still tracing pictures into the back of his hand.
“It’s just what has to be done,” he forces out. “I can handle it.” He's made it this far hasn't he? And the waiting between is always worse than the torture itself. He knows this. Between Luthen and Draven it's been beaten into the fabric of his nerves.
"No, you're not handling it," Melshi’s fingers clench around his. Cassian can feel the tremor in them. "You can only shut your mind off from what's happening to your body for so long. Believe me, I know. Worked for me in Narkina until it didn't. When it all finally hit, that was the closest I got to flooring it."
"Kriff, Melshi, I'm sorry, I didn't know-"
"I’m not blaming you,” Melshi says softly. “You hear me? I’m not. You did what you had to do to get yourself out alive but I won’t pretend that shutting down is handling it. All it does is turn you into a detonator primed to explode."
Well, that part doesn't sound wrong. But Cassian already detonated, with Melshi caught in the blast radius. And if Melshi weren't here…would he still be trying to paper over the black hole in his chest. Would he have been set off on the next assignment or the one after that? Would that detonation have blown his cover, got him picked up by the Empire’s authorities, would it have destroyed a critical relationship for the alliance? It doesn't matter. Wont matter
Cassian’s pulse kicks in his throat. “If I say no to those missions-”
“Then someone else goes?” Melshi finishes, voice tight. "So it's bad when other people have to do this, but perfectly fine when it's you? You said you take on what you think you can handle to protect the next person, but who protects you?"
No one. There hasn't been anyone for years. Everyone who might have cared about him is dead, or somewhere far away and safe from this fight. Then he feels guilty for thinking that, as though Melshi isn't right here. Still. After everything. He's still gently cradling his hand to his chest. He's become so unused to being held like something important, something precious. Cassian shuts his eyes. The light is too bright. His head hurts.
“I get results. It’s what I’m good at.”
“No,” Melshi says, and the word is full of grief. “It’s what you survived. That’s not the same thing.”
Cassian is pretty sure that they might as well be the same thing, but Melshi says it with such conviction that the smallest shadow of doubt starts to creep into his head. Cassian’s hand twitches, overwhelmed, and Melshi’s hold gentles immediately, thumb still dragging across Cassian’s knuckles, slower now than before.
“I’m not telling you to stop fighting,” Melshi murmurs. “I’m not telling you to walk away. I’m asking you to stop handing yourself over to be used until there’s nothing left of you. Because I can’t-” His voice breaks and he has to swallow. “I can’t sit here beside you pretending that I can't see this destroying you.”
"That won't be my call." Cassian’s breath shakes loose from his chest. He's not sure he can handle any ultimatums that could end with Melshi letting go of his hand, heading out that door and never seeing him again. The thought of losing him is so much more unbearable now he's gotten in close enough to remember what safety tastes like. To know a gentle intimacy that doesn't set his skin to crawling.
Cassian feels Melshi shift beside him, restless, like he’s trying and failing to sit with something too big to hold still.
“I want to tell you that it doesn't have to be like this,” Melshi says finally. “I want to tell you that command will understand, or that someone will stop sending you into these situations if you tell them what it’s doing to you.” He lets out an exhausted breath. “It doesn't work like that, does it?”
Kriff it. Time to rip off the bacta patch. The longer he drags this out the worse it will be. He swallows. The knives are back in his throat.
"I understand if that's the reason you can't stay."
"What?"
The taste of blood is back in his mouth. "It's a lot, all of this. It's just, I'll understand if you want to walk away right now. No hard feelings." Just hard on his own. But thats his own fault for getting attached so easily, for shattering under the lightest strain.
Melshi lets go of his hand slowly. The sound of Melshi getting to his feet almost crushes the last remaining ember of hope inside him into smouldering soot before he feels him sit down at the very edge of the bunk.
"Cassian," the sling on the bunk tips with their combined weight, making Cassian's hip press into Melshi's leg. He very badly doesn't want to lose this. "Cass, look at me."
His headache is coming back, the lights in this room have always been too harsh, his eyes are so dry he's seeing floaties drift behind his eyelids. Despite all that and the anxiety tearing up his insides, he opens his eyes.
Melshi's hands are folded over his knees, shoulders hunched and rounded forwards, making him appear smaller. The bruising under his eyes is awful, Cassian's own much be even worse. His dark, sad eyes bore into his own. Sad eyes. Kind eyes. Eyes that shone with the light of streetlamps in a dingy Niamos motel room, but might as well have been stars.
"I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere because of what you told me. I don't think you're broken. None of it makes me see you any differently," his eyes are very wet, blinking rapidly. Cassian covers one of the hands on his knee with his own. "You're still stubborn, still fighting for what is right," Cassian's chest feels strange, something swoops down into his stomach.
"I think you're resilient," his voice is softer than a whisper, he's taken Cassian's hand between both of his own again, "to have gone through this without anyone to stand by you," he exhales shakily, giving Cassian's hand a reassuring squeeze, "and I think you're brave."
And though they've been threatening since the moment he woke up, Cassian's eyes finally begin to smart. He's spent so long afraid that he'd forgotten that was the other half of it. Oh, what a relief, to have someone who could see him again, not just the lies and the facades. Someone who wasn't going to leave, not willingly.
He pulls himself up and into Melshi's arms, letting out a dry sob into the shoulder of Melshi's shirt. He can't tell who is clinging more tightly, which of them is anchoring the other.
One of Melshi's hands presses firmly between his shoulder blades, "I've got you," he soothes through a wash of tears, "I'm not going anywhere." The hand slides up to cup the back of his neck, warm and reassuring and without a spike of fear.
“And if you can’t say no to command,” Melshi murmurs, “then at least say it to me. Tell me when you’ve had enough. Tell me when you’re scared. Tell me when it’s too much.”
When isn't he all of those things and more? When did he stop being able to endure? And if he can’t endure, he’s less than useless to the rebellion. Wasn’t that what it was all for. When did it stop making sense? “And you won’t think less of me?” He gulps air. He wants to stop, of course he does, but that isn’t his choice. He doesn’t know how to be anything but useful, even if it’s tearing him apart.
“Of course not,” the response is immediate. "Let me take those things to help you carry them. I'm here, Cassian, for whatever you need. I can't sit back and watch you cannibalise yourself for the cause and lose you again."
Cassian swallows hard. His throat still aches, but it’s not knives anymore. Melshi's shirt feels impossibly soft against his cheek. Warm skin and the scratch of stubble on his neck “I don’t know what I want,” he admits, barely audible. “I don’t know how to-”
“You don’t have to,” Melshi says, so soft it almost blends into the hum of the luma. "I don't expect anything from you."
Cassian’s breath shudders against Melshi’s collarbone. The words settle somewhere deep in him, in places he’s spent months kept locked and dark. He feels hollowed out, scraped clean by truth and fear and relief all at once.
Melshi’s hand stays at the back of his neck, thumb brushing a slow, grounding stroke just below his hairline. “You don’t owe me anything,” he murmurs. "Just don't shut me out, that's all I'm asking."
Cassian pulls in a trembling breath. He's spent the better part of his time on Yavin shutting everyone out. Withdrawing. Finding himself unable to relate more and more. Living more like a passerby than an intimate cog of the intelligence division. Cassian’s grip tightens instinctively, his fist hooked in the back of Melshi’s shirt. It feels unreal to be held this firmly, this kindly, without expectation. Terrifying, and so desperately needed he feels dizzy with it.
Melshi’s fingers curl gently into the fabric of his shirt. “I know this isn’t something you just walk away from, but we’ll figure it out,” Melshi says with the kind of fragile conviction that comes from not knowing how they could possibly manage it, but wanting to try anyway. “I don’t know where you want to go from here, or want to start. Whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone.”
It's a comforting lie. He's a spy. Going out into the field without backup is a matter of 'when' not 'if'. But when Melshi says it, he can almost convince himself it's true. Cassian lets out a small, broken sound, and Melshi immediately tightens his arms around him, folding him in as though he’s something precious instead of someone worn thin.
What could it hurt to believe it for a few minutes more?
Notes:
Can you believe this is only 1/3 of what I originally had outlined for this chapter (yes its quite easy to believe when you note that I have never once used few words when many can have more I'm hoarding words).
If you like this you should absolutely check out A Wide and Soundless Place by tumblr frankly_alien This fic is so real and raw and beautifully written I can't recommend it enough. It gave me the motivational boost I needed to pick this fic back up again and I'm so happy I finally have.
As always, yelling at me over on Tumblr @laneboyheathens is encouraged and welcomed, as are kudos and comments. I hope this was a nice surprise to find in the inbox of the 78 of you who are subscribed to this fic, ILY!!!
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Bright_Thorn on Chapter 5 Thu 19 Sep 2024 03:14AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 19 Sep 2024 03:14AM UTC
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