Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The radio clicks off, and the wave of relief that rushes through Bodhi’s body is so intense, so profound, that he slumps to the floor atop the comm cable. His head spins.

They’re here. They’re listening.

Listening. He hears a clatter, a steadily rising beep. Against every instinct, he scrabbles towards it, half blind with panic and exhaustion. His fingers close around the cold casing of a grenade. Who knew his own death would come in so small a package? He turns, flinging it wildly toward the pandemonium outside, and curls into a ball.

He’s never been the religious type, but in those few seconds, he prays for what feels like an eternity.

--

Chirrut is halfway to the comm tower by the time Baze manages to pick his jaw up off the ground. He looks so small, one weedy figure against the backdrop of explosions and blaster fire. Even over the ruckus, Baze would swear he can still hear the prayer.

And the blasters keep missing.

But he’s never been content to let the Force have Chirrut’s back alone. He sets his jaw, readies his blaster, and charges into the field.

--

The explosion rocks the whole ship. Rogue One groans and shudders around Bodhi’s shaking shoulders. A heavy box lands on his back, drawing a yelp of pain from his throat that he can’t even hear over the ringing in his ears. The only thing he can hear, in fact, is the pounding of his own terrified heart.

Which means he’s alive.

He’s alive!

And if one grenade made it in, more are sure to follow.

The cargo bay is full of dust and smoke, but he knows these shuttles well. He finds the ladder, drags himself up into the cockpit. The air is clearer up here; outside the viewport, he can see reinforcements on their way. People bleeding on the ground. People dying.

For a wild instant he thinks, This is Galen Erso’s fault. Then he sets his jaw, shakes his head. No. This is what Galen spent his life trying to prevent.

He punches in the ignition sequence. The ship shudders, but it starts, exhaust ports blowing crazy eddies in the smoke. He hears feet below, doesn’t know if they’re friend or foe. Doesn’t matter. He kicks the hatch shut and locks it. His fingers fly over the console. Please let the ship be skyworthy, please please please –

It lifts.

--

Baze takes a blaster shot to the shoulder as he runs. His armor deflects the worst of it, leaving a burn and the smell of singed carbon behind. He tucks his head, abandons any pretense of shooting back, and runs faster.

Chirrut’s just pulled the switch when Baze staggers to a half beside him. “The Force is with me,” Chirrut says triumphantly, turning to smile in Baze’s direction.

Baze hears the screams of TIE fighters. He grabs Chirrut’s hand. “Let’s hope it still is,” he says, and takes off across the battlefield with the monk in tow.

The sound is right overhead. He swings Chirrut in front of him, puts his armor and his bulk between the smaller man and the comm tower.

Not a moment too soon. There’s an enormous noise, and a giant force swats him in the back. They go down, Baze huddled over Chirrut. The heat washes over his back. He can feel Chirrut’s voice, a vibration in the plating on his chest.

I am one with the Force. The Force is with me.

--

Bodhi’s a little surprised he doesn’t immediately get shot down, but to be fair, the Empire doesn’t know he’s not one of them, and the Rebellion…

The Rebellion has bigger problems.

Bodhi knows how the Empire thinks. He knows the key to getting out of here alive is speed above all else. Even at full strength, the Rebellion’s no match, and they’re not even close to that now.

His hands hover over the controls. He could just leave. Use the confusion to slip away, wait for the shield to go down, fly away with no one the wiser. No one could blame him. The odds are overwhelmingly against him.

He turns the ship towards the explosion in the distance. The comm tower. How many people died for that uplink? For a few seconds of hope?

Keeping the ship low above the trees, he heads for the tower.

--

Baze’s arms feel hot and tight, the skin stretched too thin. His ears are ringing. He sits up. Chirrut doesn’t move.

A chill of panic shoots through his chest. “Chirrut? Chirrut!”

The smaller man shifts, blinks clouded eyes. “We’re alive? I did not expect that.”

Baze grins and claps him on the shoulder. “Looks like the Force was with us, eh?”

Chirrut smiles. “It still is.” And points.

A shuttle swoops overhead, banks, and comes back, skimming near to the ground. Baze squints. “Is that…?”

“Let’s go, no time to waste,” Chirrut says briskly, levering himself to his feet. He lost his staff, Baze realizes, somewhere in their crazed run. There’s no time to go back for it.

The cargo door opens for them as they run up. Two bruised, blood-streaked faces greet them with toothy, triumphant grins from under Rebel helmets, and hands reach out to help them inside. It’s not until the door closes behind them and his eyes adjust to the darkness that he sees the Imperial troops piled haphazardly in the corner.

He gets Chirrut settled, then climbs up to bang on the hatch. It opens quickly, revealing Bodhi’s exhausted, frightened face. Baze grins at him as he clambers up into the cockpit. “Thanks for coming to get us.”

“Ah… no problem,” Bodhi says with forced casualness. “Did anyone else…?”

Baze glances out the window. He can’t see their battlefield at this angle, but he doesn’t need to. He shakes his head.

Bodhi mutters a quiet curse and slumps into the pilot’s chair. After a moment, he looks up again. “What now?”

Baze shrugs. “You’re the pilot. I just fire the big guns.”

“What was that?” Chirrut shouts suddenly from below.

“What was what?” Bodhi calls back, but Baze has already seen it.

“The shield,” he says, pointing out the window. Then, louder so that Chirrut can hear, “The shield is down!”

“They did it,” Bodhi breathes. “I can’t believe it.”

Baze scans the sky, but the shield is completely gone. Massive chunks of debris light up the atmosphere as they fall – one, he would swear, looks like a Star Destroyer. But that would be crazy. And then, on the horizon…

“We need to go,” he says.

Bodhi looks up. Draws in a breath. He’s frozen, staring at the weapon slowly cresting the edge of the world.

And then, suddenly, he moves. The ship turns in response to his flying fingers, heading –

heading straight for the central tower.

“Cassian and Jyn are in there,” Bodhi says, almost defensively. “They’re going to need a way out.”

Baze looks at the Death Star for a long moment. Then nods. “They may need help,” he says, and heads back to the ladder. He pauses, meets the pilot’s eyes. “Fly true.”

--

The building judders and shakes around them, flexing in the miniature shockwave from where the beam clipped the top. It’s going to get worse. It’s a good thing Jyn’s never been the nervous type, she thinks, or getting in an elevator right now might sound like a really bad idea. But they can’t take the stairs, so she hits the button for the ground floor.

Cassian leans against the wall where she left him, breathing hard with the effort of staying upright. She limps back to him, steadies him with a hand on his arm.

“Where are we going?” he asks after a moment. “You saw it fire. You saw what it did to Jedha.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it on a choked sound, then tries again. “Hope, remember?”

He snorts, but doesn’t argue. Blood drips from the wound in his side, squeezing out between the fingers of the hand he’s clamped over it. She puts her hand over his, like that’ll help, like she can keep the blood inside him by sheer force of will.

She looks up. He’s close, his eyes inches from hers, glinting in the uneven light. His breath huffs against her skin. Goosebumps race down her arms. It’s not fair. The first person who’s ever stuck around when things got rough, and neither one of them is going to be around long enough to find out what that could mean.

He drifts closer. His gaze is warm and dark. She slides a hand up to loop loosely around his neck, and closes the final inch between them.

He tastes like sweat and blaster discharge, acrid like the smoky air, but she kinda likes it that way. After a moment, he leans into her, hard. His free hand cards through her hair.

Neither of them has the breath left for a long kiss, but neither of them wants it to end. They only break apart when the elevator thuds to a stop, and the doors grind open. Their eyes meet. He bumps her forehead with his. She smiles, shakes her head, and slings his arm back over her shoulder.

The view when they emerge stops them both dead. Not the hellish glow on the horizon, no, that she expected.

The Imperial shuttle hovering just before the door, its cargo doors wide open? That’s a surprise.

“What are you waiting for?” the man leaning out of the doors yells, and Jyn’s exhausted brain belatedly realizes it’s Baze. He’s out of context. She’d never expected to see him again.

She glances up to find Cassian smiling, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Hope, huh?” he grunts. Jyn elbows him gently and they limp for the ship.

Once inside, they collapse together onto the bench seats. Someone who sounds suspiciously like Bodhi shouts overhead as the doors close, and the ship lurches away from the ground. Baze bends over Cassian, tending to the wound on his side with unexpected care. “I’ve patched that one up enough times,” he grumbles in response to Jyn’s questioning look, jerking his head towards Chirrut.

Chirrut smiles. “We are one with the Force. The Force is with us.”

Cassian’s arm is still around her shoulders. She doesn’t mind. Baze mutters to himself. Chirrut prays. The ship shudders and jukes in time with Bodhi’s whoops and shouts.

Jyn leans into Cassian, just a little.

Welcome home.

Chapter Text

Looking back, Bodhi remembers their escape only in tiny snippets. The controls shaking in his hands. The ship fighting him every step of the way. The glow that seemed to chase them all the way to hyperspace, creeping slowly in from the edges of the window and threatening to swallow them.

The instant the ship sets down on Yavin, an absolute horde of rebels descends on the landing pad. It must be every single person on the base, Bodhi thinks, or very close to it. He remembers Saw Gerrera, two days spent being hauled around with a bag over his head because of the (now torn and grimy) uniform he still wears.

He opens the cargo doors, but he stays in the cockpit. The ship vibrates with footsteps and voices. Through the window, he sees Cassian hustled away on a stretcher with a tense Jyn and a cloud of medics in tow. Baze and Chirrut follow a little more slowly – Baze’s armor still smoking faintly from blaster burns – and the rest of the survivors.

Then, the white-armored bodies that inadvertently came along for the ride, carted off by grim-faced Rebels. He wonders what they’ll do with the bodies. Sure, they’re the enemy, but he understands them. Without Galen Erso, he’d probably never have pulled his head out of the sand, either.

He considers going after them, trying to find answers. But he’s wearing an Imperial uniform, and his friends are off getting patched up. He’s alone. No backup.

The cockpit feels suddenly like it might be the only safe place in the galaxy.

His heart thuds faintly in his ears, the burn of panic stinging deep in his throat. He scans the cockpit almost frantically. He needs something to do, some way to occupy himself until a friendly face comes back for him.

If they even want anything to do with you now, a little voice murmurs in the back of his mind. You’re Imperial scum, remember? You’ve outlived your usefulness.

Bodhi remembers a frozen moment, staring at a tidal wave of earth straight out of an apocalypse vid bearing down on him. He remembers Cassian grabbing his arm, shouting over the hellish roar, “Let’s get out of here!” Even after he’d told him where to find Galen.

He resolutely shoves the little voice in a box in the corner of his mind and locks it.

His eyes fall on a data disk, tucked carefully into a niche next to the copilot’s chair. Where K-2SO sat. He pulls it out, and a folded piece of paper falls to the floor. He picks it up.

I can’t believe I have to write this on paper. Actual paper. It’s like you enjoy living in the Dark Ages.

I calculate a 22% chance that at least some of you make it out alive. However, the probability that I survive is only 4%. Since I am not, in fact, an idiot, I’ve made a backup of my core programming and memories. Which you are now presumably holding.

Just don’t put me in an astromech droid. I enjoy being tall.

Bodhi turns the disk over in his hands. It seems awfully small to hold such a… big personality. He’ll have to give it to Cassian. Maybe they can steal Kaytoo another body.

“Bodhi?” Someone – Jyn? – shouts from below. “You up there?”

He stashes the disk in one of his many pouches. “Um, yes, I am,” he calls back. He hesitates. You can’t stay in this ship forever, he reminds himself firmly, and goes over to the ladder.

Sure enough, Jyn is waiting for him in the cargo hold. She’s lost most of her gear, dressed only in loose pants and a clean linen shirt, but he notes she still has a blaster handing from her belt.

She sees him looking. “Force of habit,” she says, casually.

“No, I get it,” he says. Honestly, sometimes he wishes he was comfortable using a blaster, too. Maybe he’d feel safer; he certainly does now that she’s back and armed. “Some people might not have gotten the message yet about your father being a hero, not a traitor.”

She smiles, sending a pang of warmth through his chest. He’s not used to seeing people smile at him. “Exactly,” she says.

Bodhi shifts his feet, a nervous tic. “How’s Cassian?”

The smile sours a little. “They say he’ll be fine. They… suggested I go and get some rest, and they’d come and get me when he wakes up. I think I was in the way.”

“So this is resting?” Bodhi asks.

She grimaces. “I can’t. Too much…” She waves a hand vaguely around her head.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he says fervently.

Jyn’s smile returns faintly. “You do, don’t you.”

“Your father—“ Bodhi blurts, but Jyn shakes her head so sharply that he swallows the rest of the words.

“Not yet,” she says. “I do want to hear about him. I want to know everything. But not now.”

He nods. “It’s just… he’d be proud of you. That’s all.”

“Y’know,” she says, “Cassian told me the same thing, before he passed out.” She takes a breath. “So. What’s on your plate?” Then, with a somewhat critical look, “You’re not going to the medic?”

Bodhi shakes his head. “Oh, no. Nothing worth that. I just got scrapes and bruises, a little ringing in the ears. I got lucky, I guess.” He hesitates, but the words spill out. “I saw them taking the Stormtrooper bodies away.”

“Yeah?”

“What do they do with them?”

Jyn shrugs. “Probably strip the armor for parts,” she says.

“And after?” he asks.

Her eyebrows furrow.

“There are people inside that armor,” he says. It comes out a little angrier than he’d meant, but he plows forward anyway. “They deserve a proper burial.”

“They’re Imperial,” she says slowly.

“So was I,” Bodhi says, “and your father.”

Jyn purses her lips. She mutters something under her breath, then looks up at him, a bit of a spark in her eye for the first time since they returned. “Low blow, Bodhi.”

“But true,” he counters.

“Yeah,” she concedes. “Come on. Let’s figure out where they’ve gone.”

He deflates a little. He’d been expecting a bit more of a fight. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

She turns and limps for the door. He follows, but hesitates on the edge. Don’t be stupid, the little voice says, You’ve been here before, and you were fine. Just go.

But his feet won’t move.

Jyn realizes he isn’t following and turns. Her eyes soften, or at least he imagines they do. “It’s okay,” she says, “You’re a hero, remember?” She smirks. “And besides that, you’re with Cassian’s crew. You think anybody wants to risk pissing him off?”

Something starts to ease in Bodhi’s chest. “He’s injured,” he points out, “People might get ideas.”

Jyn snorts. “He can still kick anybody’s ass. Besides, you’ve got me, too.” She pats the blaster at her hip. “And my little friend.”

Bodhi smiles, a little. He takes a deep, slow breath, trying to settle the anxious vibration thrumming through his body. And he steps out of the ship.

His shoulders itch as he follows Jyn through the base, expecting a knife or a shot at any moment. But, slowly, the feeling eases. People barely spare them a second glance, bent over beeping, flashing consoles, or locked in tense conversations.

A hollow feeling seeps into his gut. “Did the plans make it out?” he asks quietly.

Jyn’s lips purse. “Yeah,” she says after a moment. “They did.”

“Why don’t you sound happy about that?” Bodhi asks. “We did it. Right?”

“Yeah,” she says, “But the fleet over Scarif got blown to shreds. Admiral Raddus didn’t make it back. The last anybody saw of the plans, they were on a ship running for its life from Darth Vader.”

“Oh,” Bodhi manages. “That’s—not good.”

Jyn gives a tight, unhappy nod. “But,” she says, her tone a little lighter, “The Empire hasn’t called us up to brag yet. So.”

“No news is good news,” Bodhi says.

“Something like that,” she agrees.

They turn a corner and almost run straight into Mon Mothma and a small collection of aides. Bodhi hangs back; he started this, but he still doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. It feels dangerous, to remind them that he’s here.

“Ma’am,” Jyn says, “We’re here to ask about the Stormtroopers.”

“The Stormtroopers?” Mon Mothma repeats, her eyebrows drawing together. “What about them?”

“We want to make sure they get a proper burial,” Jyn says. She glances back at Bodhi; he manages a small nod, but he can feel his shoulders hunching each time the councilor or her aides look at him. Jyn continues, “They’re people, not just garbage to be thrown away.”

Mon Mothma regards them both for a moment. If Bodhi didn’t know better, he’d almost say she looked a little bit pleased. She turns to an aide and says something just on the far side of audible. The aide nods and hustles off. Mon Mothma turns back. “It will be taken care of. You have my word.”

Jyn nods. “Thank you.”

“You should get some rest,” the councilor says, “Both of you. You’ve earned it.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Bodhi says, startling all three of them, “I think we’d rather have something to do.”

She blinks, then smiles, understanding. “Come with me, then,” she says, “I’m sure we can find something for the both of you.”

Chapter Text

Mild burns across his upper back and arms from blaster fire and the explosion. Bruised knees (he’s getting old, Baze thinks wryly) and a small gash on his head from shrapnel. That’s it. He got lucky, just as they all did.

But a deep, vague sense of thwarted foreboding keeps drifting through him. It’s not the Force, he’s decided. He and the Force parted ways what feels like a lifetime ago. It’s the instincts he’s gained from countless battles, telling him just how bad Scarif could have been.

He waves off a medic approaching him with a pack of bacta patches. “Save them for someone who needs them,” he says. She hesitates, then nods and moves away.

Baze leans back against the cot, ignoring the way the scratchy synth fibers make the skin on his arms sting, and watches Chirrut, sitting on the other cot in the small room they’ve been given. The monk is charming, as ever, making the medic checking him over smile despite herself with a wildly embellished retelling of the escape from Scarif.

“The explosion was blinding,” he says, with absolute sincerity. “And the dust cloud was so large, I thought I might never see the stars again.”

“You know, the blind jokes are going to get old eventually,” Baze says, loudly enough for both of them to hear. The medic glances at him, a little uncertainly.

Chirrut grins. “That’s what you think.” And launches right back into his story, undeterred.

Chirrut’s always been the people person, between the two of them. Baze is no good with words. Even when they were both proper Guardians, Baze was the silent protector, the one who kept the temple safe, while Chirrut brought new visitors in every day with his easy smile.

Without that smile, Baze isn’t sure he’d still be here.

Eventually, the medics give them both (relatively) clean bills of health, and depart to tend to others. Baze sits up with a grunt and fishes his discarded armor out from where it’s stashed under the cot. He looks it over critically. The backplate is probably a loss, its ablative coating flaking away where blaster fire scorched it one too many times. The rest should be salvageable. Which is good, considering…

“Damn,” he says, as much to himself as Chirrut, “I’m gonna need a new blaster.”

Chirrut bobs his head. “I’m sure the Rebellion will lend you one, if you ask.”

Baze grunts noncommittally. He really liked that blaster.

Chirrut stands. He steps forward, a little uncertain without his staff to guide him. A new staff abruptly replaces his new gun at the top of Baze’s priority list. A couple more steps, and Chirrut is close enough for Baze to snag his hand and guide him down to sit on the edge of the bed.

They sit in a comfortable silence. Chirrut is warm against him, alive, and if Baze still believed in the Force he’d be thanking it a thousand times for this quiet moment in the aftermath.

Predictably, Chirrut is the one to eventually speak. “You came after me.”

Baze grunts. “The Force gets you into trouble. I get you out. That’s how it works.”

Chirrut smiles, shakes his head. “We were in trouble from the moment we landed on Scarif. We knew that.”

“And I got you out,” Baze points out.

“You always do,” Chirrut says fondly. “That’s why I can afford to get into trouble in the first place.” He pauses. “But the Force got you to me. It protected you.”

“My armor protected me.” The argument feels like his armor; comfortable, a routine weight around his shoulders. They’ve had it every day since they lost their home.

Chirrut shakes his head. “And the explosion? How did you know it was coming?”

It takes a moment to sift through his memory, muddled by adrenaline then and fatigue now. “I heard TIE fighters.”

Chirrut pauses. Then, “I didn’t.”

Those two words ring oddly in Baze’s ears. Chirrut’s hearing is far sharper than his. How could he not have heard it? The screams had been deafening.

He knows the little smile on Chirrut’s face. “It was not the Force,” Baze says firmly.

Chirrut shakes his head again, a note of true frustration creeping into his tone. “Has your faith really abandoned you so completely, that you refuse to see?”

Baze lets the question sit. They’ve had this argument so many times, but this time the usual quick dismissal doesn’t come to him.

“I’ll think about it,” he says eventually. It’s the best he can do right now. The utter betrayal of everything he once believed in is a hard thing to shake off, even after so much time has passed. The only reason he even entertains it at all anymore…

Well. Chirrut’s always been wiser than he is, even if he’d never admit that out loud. And it’s important to him. So Baze tries to keep an open mind, and Chirrut doesn’t hold his cynicism against him.

Chirrut looks satisfied. “I’m tired,” he announces, with the air of one who’s won, even if his opponent doesn’t realize it yet. “I think I’ll get some rest.” And he pulls his legs up onto the bed.

Even if he wasn’t bone-tired from the fight, Baze wouldn’t decline an invitation like that. It’s a narrow cot for two, but they’re used to that. He stretches out with his back to the wall, and Chirrut folds himself inside Baze’s larger frame.

Near-death experiences may be depressingly common for the both of them these days, but this part never gets old, Baze thinks. Feeling Chirrut breathe in time with his own heartbeat, warm and alive and full of that indomitable faith. Baze still isn’t at all sure he believes that the Force is protecting them, but he does believe in hedging his bets. He mouths a silent prayer into the other man’s short hair.

Thank you.

Chapter Text

The Rebel fleet, Jyn thinks as she follows Mon Mothma through the landing bay, has seen better days. The ships around them are dented, damaged, streaked with the telltale scorch marks of too many close calls.

She glances back at Bodhi. His shoulders are finally beginning to come down from around his ears, and the fear in his eyes is slowly being replaced by open curiosity as he looks around.

If only it were so easy for her to shake the fear gnawing at her own gut. Part of it is for Cassian: that he’s hurt worse than they realized. That he’s dying, back there in the medbay, and she’s out here waltzing around like nothing’s wrong. That the universe is going to figure out it’s made a mistake, letting them live, and collect what it’s owed. That they’re never going to have a chance to find out what they could be together.

But most of the fear is… deeper. Familiar. A weight inside her that she’s carried ever since the day Krennic came for her father, ever since Saw Gerrera lied to her and left her behind.

She’s getting attached. She cares. And even worse, she doesn’t want to stop.

You’re going to get hurt, Erso, she tells herself. And she is. Everyone’s going to leave her sooner or later. Even if they don’t want. Even if it’s to “protect” her. This is a Rebellion, after all. They’re all in danger, every minute. And sooner or later, all of the people she can feel easing their way into her heart – Baze and Chirrut, Bodhi, Cassian – are going to leave, and she’ll be alone. Again.

You’d think she’d be used to it by now. But, she thinks, this time it just might destroy her.

Not caring was so much easier.

Mon Mothma comes to a stop beside a pair of legs poking out from under a slightly listing X-wing. Jyn limps to a halt, ruthlessly stuffing the fear down so it won’t show on her face. Bodhi bumps into her back. She gives him a look, raises her eyebrow, shrugs off his muttered apology.

“Chief Adin,” Mothma says to the legs, “I have a couple of new hands for you.”

“Great,” comes a muffled, harried-sounding woman’s voice. “Can they fix a hyperdrive?”

Mothma glances at Jyn, an eyebrow raised. She shrugs. “I’m handy enough with a wrench, but.” She glances at Bodhi. He is a pilot, after all.

He blinks, as if startled. “Uh.” He drums his fingers on his leg, then gives an uncertain little half-shrug. “Probably?”

“Well, not like you can break it twice.” A hand emerges from under the X-wing to point. “Tools over there. Ship is that way. X-wing. Red Two.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mon Mothma says. She exchanges a nod with Jyn, smiles faintly at Bodhi, and departs, her cloud of aides in tow.

Jyn glances at Bodhi. The pilot looks at her and grins, a bit of a gleam in his eye. “Let’s get started.”

--

“What’s with all these switches?” Jyn muses under her breath, toggling one of them back and forth. There must be a hundred, at least. None of them labeled. And the cockpit is tiny.

There’s a yelp from under the ship. Jyn snatches her hand away from the switch she’s just flipped. “Bodhi?”

“Dropped the wrench on my head,” he says after a moment.

Jyn shakes her head, a smile quirking at the corner of her mouth. Probably better to leave the switches alone, she decides, just in case. Careful of her weak leg, she lowers herself to the ground, peering under at Bodhi. “How’s it going?”

“I can’t get this—“ he kicks the ship, “—panel open to get to the hyperdrive.”

Oh, she’s so got this. “Let me try,” Jyn says, and squirms under the ship next to him, ignoring the way her leg protests the movement.

Once she’s settled, Bodhi reaches up with his wrench to bang on a panel. “The bolt there won’t come out,” he says, pointing. “I think it melted, fused shut. But I need this panel off to see the hyperdrive.”

“You’ve got the wrong tool,” Jyn decides. She fumbles for the toolbox, digs around inside it blind for a moment, and comes up with an absolutely massive hammer. She grins. “This is more like it.”

Bodhi’s eyes get big. “I’ll just—get out of your way.” He rolls out from under the ship.

Jyn squirms around until she can get a proper windup, and then she goes to town, unleashing all of her fear and worry and leftover rage on the little bolt.

It never stood a chance. Weakened by stress, it groans under the onslaught. It bends. And then, abruptly, it gives way.

Unfortunately, so does the panel.

She covers her head just in time, so it mostly hits her arm and side. It still hurts like a—

“Jyn? What happened?” Bodhi says, a little frantically.

“Get this thing off me,” she grunts.

He tugs it out from under the ship, then crawls back under next to her. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she says. She can add the bruises to her collection.

Where the panel once was is a nest of wires, some hanging loose, all tangled around each other. Jyn knows what exactly none of them do.

Bodhi takes the lead, directing her which cables to tuck to the side, which to check for damage, which to just yank out and worry about later (which is by far her favorite option, and oddly therapeutic).

She’s elbow deep in the ship, holding a thick bundle of wires out of Bodhi’s way as he tries to find the leak that’s slowly covering her, drip by drip, in congealed grease, when someone knocks on the ship overhead. “Uh… Jyn Erso?”

“What?”

“Ym sent me. Captain Andor is awake.”

Pins and needles explode through Jyn’s body. She glances at Bodhi.

“Go,” he says instantly. “I’ll follow you later.”

She hesitates. “You sure you’re okay by yourself?”

He smiles a little, nods. “I’ll be fine.”

It’s all the permission Jyn needs. She can’t quite run, not with her leg, but she comes damn close.

Chapter Text

Cassian wakes up to the familiar sting of a bacta patch as it adheres to his side. It’s not a pleasant way to return to consciousness, but it subsides soon enough into the cool numbness that means the bacta is doing its job.

He opens his eyes; the medbay, of course, one of the private rooms since he wasn’t awake to object to them wasting the space on him.

Ym, the head medic, leans over him. “How are you feeling?” she asks, checking the edges of the patch to ensure it’s adhered properly.

“I’m fine,” he says reflexively. He looks past her, but the only other person in the room is an apprentice medic, cleaning up. A chill shoots down his spine. “Jyn Erso,” he says, looking back at Ym. “Is she alright? Where is she?” She’d been limping in the tower.

“She’s fine,” Ym says, pushing him gently back against the cot. “In better shape than you, that’s for sure, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Where is she?” Cassian repeats.

“We sent her off to get some rest,” Ym says.

“Oh,” he says.

“Of course,” Ym continues, an amused glint in her eye, “She’d only go when I promised we’d send for her as soon as you woke up.”

“Oh,” he says again. “Well.”

Ym turns to her apprentice. “If you would.” The young man nods and hurries out. Mollified, Cassian sits back against the cot and lets Ym poke and prod at him, answering questions almost on autopilot as he tries to sort out his confused memories of the escape.

He remembers shooting Krennic. He remembers the plans going out. He remembers the ship, gleaming in the glow from the horizon.

He remembers the elevator, and can feel heat creeping up his neck. He remembers Jyn, tucked against his side in the ship, warm and alive.

And then she’s in the doorway, breathing hard. She has grease smears on her forehead and cheeks, her hair escaping its bun to hang around her face. What was probably a clean shirt not long ago is covered in similar black smears. A small blaster hangs from the belt holding up her too-large pants.

Ym excuses herself; Cassian barely notices. Jyn takes a moment to catch her breath. She rakes her hair out of her face. She doesn’t take her eyes off him.

“You’re okay?” she asks, finally.

He nods. “I’m fine.”

She limps to him, pulling up a chair. Looking at the way her eyes scan over him, the tightness in her shoulders, he realizes she was worried about him. He’s not quite sure what to do with that information. Once, he would have used it for leverage, but now?

He settles for asking, “The others?”

Jyn bobs her head. “All fine.”

He has to touch her. He raises a hand, slow enough to give her time to pull away, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She goes still, and he lets his hand drop.

Cassian is one of the best Intelligence agents in the Resistance. He knows what to say to get what he wants. He can lie straight-faced to Imperial officers and has done a hundred times. Whether with words or a blaster, he always gets what he needs.

But what he needs right now is to touch her, to convince both of them that they’re still alive, that he didn’t imagine what happened between them on Scarif. But she’s closed off, radiating tension and something that looks horribly like fear, and he has absolutely no idea what to say.

“Jyn,” he tries.

“Did you know Kaytoo had a backup drive?” she says suddenly, the change so abrupt it almost gives Cassian whiplash.

“Uh, no,” he manages.

Jyn nods. “Bodhi told me he found it in the ship. Said he’d hold onto it until you woke up.”

Cassian blinks. His mind races; Kaytoo might not be gone after all. They just have to get a new body. Maybe—

He stops. Narrows his eyes at Jyn. “Don’t change the subject.”

She raises an eyebrow, trying for innocent. “What subject?”

He starts to push himself up. Then, her hands are on his shoulders, pushing him back down. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” she says.

“Jyn,” he says. But he lets her push him down. And he waits.

Slowly, her hands move. One drifts up, ghosting over his jaw to settle lightly over the stubble on his cheeks. The other skims lower to rest over his heart, like she’s double-checking to make sure it’s still going.

A ripple of tension goes through her, a movement like she’s going to pull away. He puts a hand over the one on his chest, holding her there.

“I’m not good at this,” she says suddenly. “I’ve never…”

Cassian smiles, feeling her hand against his cheek move with the motion. “Me neither,” he says, “But I’m the best bluffer in the Resistance.”

She snorts, the corner of her mouth quirking, a spark coming back into her eye. “I’ll call your bluff, Cassian Andor. Watch me.”

“I can’t wait,” he says, challenging.

Jyn leans toward him—

and the door bangs open. Abruptly, her hands are gone as she turns to face—

Oh, no.

Draven stops just inside the door. Cassian can’t see Jyn’s face, but judging by the rock-hard look of her shoulders, he’s guessing it’s not exactly welcoming.

“Captain Andor,” Draven says after a moment. “Good to see you awake.”

Cassian just nods. It’s probably a little insubordinate, and definitely rude, but he keeps most of his attention on Jyn. Draven’s earned a little rudeness, he thinks.

The general draws himself up, his eyes flickering to Jyn before returning to Cassian. “When you’re feeling up to it, I’d like a debrief on what happened on Eadu.”

“Would you,” Jyn says, and her tone is poisonous enough that Cassian wonders if he needs to hold her back.

Draven finally looks at her properly. “I’m sorry about your father,” he says, and a visible jolt runs through Jyn’s body. Cassian takes her hand, just in case. She glances at him, but even though she could easily break his weakened grip, she doesn’t.

“Whatever you may think of me, Miss Erso,” Draven continues, “I do regret the loss of life. That said, under the circumstances, I would make the same call again. With Captain Andor’s help, maybe we can prevent it in the future.”

Jyn stares him down, practically vibrating with the rage she’s barely holding back. Cassian can feel it in the hand he holds, a tremor of barely-contained fury. He finds an echo of it deep within himself. Not at Draven, necessarily. He recognizes the reality of difficult command decisions, having had to make plenty of them himself, even if the general is a convenient scapegoat. No, he’s angry at the situation, at what the Rebellion has had to become to have even the slightest chance against the Empire. He thinks maybe he’s been angry about that for a long, long time.

When Jyn says nothing, Draven glances at Cassian. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. His mouth thins, and he gives a short, sharp nod. “Well. Captain. Miss Erso.” And he leaves.

Jyn is shaking. “Sit,” Cassian says, squeezing her hand.

“The next time I see him, I’m gonna deck him,” she declares. But she lets Cassian tug her gently down, until she sits on the edge of his cot.

Something nags at the back of Cassian’s mind. Something about the difference in the titles Draven used.

He can’t think about that right now. Jyn’s shoulders are slumping; she slowly folds over on herself as the anger drains out of her. He wonders if she’s slept, if she’s even stopped before now. He suspects not.

Before he thinks himself out of it, he scoots over in the bed. Jyn glances at him. A tired smile graces her face, an eyebrow quirking upward. “Trying to tell me something?”

He shrugs, and immediately regrets it when the motion tweaks his injured side. “Just that there’s room her for two.”

The eyebrow climbs higher. “You sure about that?”

“For you?” he says. “Always.”

A flicker of something crosses her face, and for an instant he’s sure he’s ruined it. But then she puffs out a sigh and shifts to lie down. “Promise me if I hurt you, you’ll kick me out.”

If you hurt me, it will be worth it, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He just smiles, a little, and says nothing.

He can’t really turn over with his injury, so Jyn tucks herself against his good side, her head pillowed on his chest, and his arm around her shoulders.

Her breath puffs warm across his neck, her hair drifting up to tickle his skin. She smells like grease and sweat, messy and alive. Her hand drifts up to rest over his heart again, even though he’s sure she can hear it just fine.

He’s slept alone every night since he was a child. But after this, he thinks as he drifts off, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to do so again.

Chapter Text

Chirrut Îmwe is on a mission.

Surely, he thinks, there must be something in the Rebel base he can use as a staff. Operations like this always hoard whatever materials they can find. It’s simply a matter of finding it.

“How are you going to find anything?” Baze grumbles, trailing behind Chirrut as the monk wanders the halls. “You can’t even see.”

Chirrut smiles. “The Force is with me.”

A disgruntled sound. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Then why did you ask?” Chirrut says, and continues on his way. He’s in no particular rush. The Force works in its own time, and in the meantime, he’s rather enjoying the feel of the wall under his fingers. The only way for him to really learn a new environment is by touching it. And oh, the things he’s learning.

He pauses as his fingers encounter a shallow dent in the wall. He crouches, trailing his hand down. Someone sat here once, in the throes of grief. Someone lost something precious to them, and this is where it overwhelmed them.

He’s guessing most of the people in this base are familiar with the feeling.

He straightens and continues on. The space around him shifts. A cool breeze tugs at his robes, and a few steps later he can sense the walls around him opening up. He cocks his head. Voices echo through what sounds like a large chamber. The smell of grease and hard work hangs in the air.

“The landing bay,” he decides aloud.

Baze snorts. “That’s not as impressive as you think.”

Where there are ships, Chirrut knows, there is bound to be scrap metal. He has a good feeling about this room. He finds the wall again and follows it. A familiar energy leads him around the room, until he finally nears the source.

A bang. A yelp. And a surprisingly creative curse, a bit on the muffled side. Chirrut smiles and crouches down. “Having trouble?”

Another bang – well, more like a thunk. The sound of a head hitting metal. Chirrut winces sympathetically.

“Just… fighting a faulty hyperdrive,” Bodhi says after a moment. “And I think it’s winning.”

Chirrut chuckles. “Maybe you could help me with something else?”

“I thought I was helping you,” Baze says. Fear starts to creep around the edges of Chirrut’s senses. Fear that isn’t coming from inside him. He tilts his head. Now, isn’t that interesting?

“You can both help me,” he declares. Then, to Bodhi, “You see, in all the commotion on Scarif, I seem to have lost my staff. I’m looking for a new one.”

A pause. “Sure,” Bodhi says after a moment. “I can help.”

Rustling sounds as the pilot pulls himself out from under the ship. The sense of fear grows stronger. Chirrut straightens, rubs his chin thoughtfully.

Well, he’s always enjoyed the blunt approach. “No need to be afraid of him,” he says cheerfully, nodding slightly toward Baze. “I know he looks big and scary, but he’s really just a big teddy bear.”

Baze makes a vaguely offended grunt.

“I’m not…” Bodhi says weakly. None of them believe him. After a moment, he says, quieter, “I’m sorry.”

Baze grunts again and slaps Bodhi on the shoulder. “I wasn’t exactly friendly before. But don’t worry.”

Bodhi coughs. “Yeah?”

“You took a big risk, leaving the Empire,” Baze says. “Knowing you’d meet people who couldn’t see past the uniform. Like me. I admire that.”

“Y-you do?” Bodhi stammers.

“Teddy bear,” Chirrut says wisely.

“Shut up,” Baze says, but there’s no rancor behind it.

The fear subsides. Not entirely, but enough that Chirrut is satisfied. Bodhi clears his throat. “Let me uh, let me show you to the scrap pile,” he says, “I bet we can find a staff there.”

Chirrut smiles and follows the pilot on another partial circuit of the room. They move into a smaller space.

“Let’s see,” Bodhi says. Metal clanks, jangles, bangs in a hundred variations as he digs through it.

Chirrut closes his eyes. It doesn’t change what he already cannot see, but he’s found the muscle memory helpful to focus on the Force.

“What about there?” he says, and points.

“Over…? Oh,” Bodhi says. More clanking, a quiet “ow”, and the sound of something being unearthed from the pile. “Might need to cut it down a bit, but yeah, this could work.”

Chirrut holds out his hand. Cool metal lands in it a moment later. He runs his hands across it; it needs some cleaning up, and yes, to be trimmed down a little, but it has a nice heft. It feels right in his hands. This will do—

Something SHATTERS. Suddenly, Chirrut can’t seem to take a breath. A million voices scream into the Force, and Chirrut hears them. An enormous shockwave rocks through him, sending him staggering. He falls.

The screams, abruptly, cut out.

He slowly comes back to himself, to the feeling of someone shaking his shoulders vigorously.

“Is he alright?” Bodhi’s asking frantically, “Should I get the medic?”

Chirrut shakes his head, a little groggy. “I’m okay,” he says. He doesn’t need to figure out where he is – he’s perfectly familiar at this point with waking up in Baze’s arms. It’s a much-needed comfort. He reaches up, touching Baze’s cheek. He tells himself it’s to reassure his partner he’s alright, but he finds a great deal of peace in the contact as well. Baze’s arms grow a little less tense around him.

“Did you feel that?” Chirrut asks. Baze might not believe anymore, but he was once the most devout of them all. And the Force remembers.

A long moment passes. “I felt it,” Baze says finally. “I heard it.”

“Heard what?” Bodhi asks, “What happened?”

For once, Chirrut doesn’t have the words, still reeling from the magnitude of it. For once, it’s Baze who speaks first.

“The Death Star,” he says, quiet, subdued. “The planet killer. It works.”

Chapter Text

Alderaan is gone.

Bodhi still can’t quite wrap his head around it. He’s almost glad, to be honest, that he can’t wrap his head around a loss of that magnitude. An entire planet, its millions of people, reduced to ashes and space dust and memories. He’d thought Scarif was bad. Jedha.

At least those planets are still there.

It’s a good thing he defected when he did, he admits, if only to himself. Before the threat was made so horribly, undeniably real. If he’d really known what the Death Star could do, he’s not sure he would’ve had the courage to walk away.

Baze might be willing to look past his sordid history, but as news of the destruction spreads, Bodhi becomes increasingly aware that not everyone is so forgiving. And with the Guardians having disappeared after Chirrut woke up, he’s once again alone in what feels more like hostile territory with every passing moment.

Chief Adin has disappeared as well, likely called into some leadership meeting, so Bodhi escapes the landing bay unchallenged. He keeps his head down as he hurries through the halls. There’s one place he knows for sure he can find someone safe (and almost certainly two, if he’s reading the situation right).

Sure enough, when he rounds the doorway into Cassian’s medbay room, Jyn is there too, perched on the edge of the bed. Cassian is sitting up, back propped against the wall. He doesn’t quite smile at seeing Bodhi, but he comes close.

The other person in the room, however, is a surprise. Bodhi stops, looking uncertainly back and forth. “Um, sorry, am I interrupting--?”

“No, come in,” Mon Mothma says, not unkindly. She looks exhausted. “This affects you, as well.”

Jyn beckons to him, so Bodhi takes a seat in the chair next to Cassian’s bed. The anxiety recedes a little with two of the only people in the world he can really call his friends at his back.

“As I was saying,” Mothma begins, “Many of our troops had roots on Alderaan. Families, friends. History. Right now, they only have rumors. When we confirm those rumors…”

“They’ll be looking for somewhere to put it,” Jyn says, with certainty. “The pain.”

Mothma nods. “And, as you both have… shall we say, Imperial ties, I am concerned that some of that fallout may land on you, should you be within reach.”

“So… what do we do?” Bodhi asks. The fear is back, but it’s starting to feel like an old friend at this point. It doesn’t paralyze him as it once did.

“I’d like for you and Jyn to take a ship off-planet,” she says. “For a couple of days at absolute most. Just until we can…” a flicker of a grimace crosses her face. “Redirect the anger to where it truly belongs.”

“I’m going, too,” Cassian says immediately. Jyn glances at him, and he adds, “We’re a crew. We stick together.”

Mon Mothma smiles, tired but genuine. “I thought you might say that,” she says, “Ym has agreed to discharge you, on the strict condition that you take it easy.”

Jyn nods. “Don’t you worry,” she says, “I’ll make sure of it.”

Cassian shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Deal.”

Mon Mothma nods again. “The shuttle you brought back from Scarif has been prepped with fuel and food and is waiting for you in the landing bay, ready for launch.” She pauses, looking a bit pained. She takes a deep breath, looks at Jyn, looks at Bodhi. “I apologize. To both of you.”

“Why?” Bodhi blurts.

“Because we should be better than this,” Mothma says, not in anger, but in something that looks a lot like grief. “But we are not, and I would not have you harmed because I refused to face that.” She draws herself up. “With any luck, by the time you return, we will have the Death Star plans in hand, and we’ll be moving to take down the Empire once and for all.”

“We’ll make the bastards pay,” Jyn says.

Mon Mothma’s eyebrow quirks and the obscenity, but she nods. “Stay safe,” she says, and sweeps out of the room.

--

When they reach the ship, Chirrut and Baze are waiting. Jyn smiles at them, though she stays under Cassian’s arm. Bodhi’s not sure how much is her supporting the still-healing Captain so he doesn’t hurt himself, and how much is something else entirely, but he’s very sure it’s none of his business.

“Did Mon Mothma tell you to get lost, too?” she asks the two Guardians.

Chirrut’s face seems gaunter than it was a few hours ago, Bodhi notices, the lines carved deeper into his skin, but it just makes the smile he flashes light up his face even more. “Not exactly.”

“Where you go, we go,” Baze says.

They pile into the ship. Bodhi makes his way up into the cockpit, starts punching in the ignition sequence.

A few moments later, Cassian lowers himself carefully into the copilot’s seat. He’s not exactly moving fast, but it still makes Bodhi jump. “Are you sure you should be climbing ladders?” he says, and winces. “Sorry, I’ll butt out.”

Cassian waves a hand. “It’s okay,” he says, and his eyes crinkle a little in a smile. “It’s kind of nice to be worried over.”

“Did you want to--?” Bodhi says, gesturing to the controls.

Cassian shakes his head immediately. “No, you fly,” he says. He looks at the controls with a vague expression of distaste. “I miss my ship.”

Bodhi doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He grabs the headset and puts it on. Hits the comm button to call the tower. Then he lets go of it, and fumbles at his pouches.

“Here,” he says, and hands the backup disk and note to Cassian. “Sorry I didn’t give it to you earlier.”

He radios in for clearance to take off, watching not-so-subtly from the corner of his eye as Cassian opens the note. The Captain’s mouth quirks a couple of times as he reads.

Their departure is almost comically anticlimactic. The shuttle labors a little to take off – it’s been through a lot, Bodhi thinks sympathetically, just like they all have – but once they clear atmo it smooths out. He finds himself smiling as he starts the calculation for their jump to hyperspace (hanging around Yavin, after all, would be akin to waving a flag advertising the Rebellion’s presence there).

This is where he’s meant to be. The pilot’s seat of a sturdy, reliable ship, jetting out into the stars. He knows this ship, and the people on it, and for the first time that he can remember, for a moment he feels truly safe.

Once they make the jump, Cassian refolds the note. He clears his throat. He holds the storage disk like it’s something precious. “Thank you,” he says eventually.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Bodhi says softly.

Cassian’s face goes flat for a moment, and Bodhi’s afraid he’s gone too far. Too personal, too fast. It’s easy to forget that he’s only known Cassian a few days; turns out when you’re running for your life the whole time, it feels like a lot longer.

But then the captain’s expression softens. “He was my partner,” he says, “Of course, I do.”

Bodhi glances over. “We’ll get him back.”

Cassian just nods. But out of the corner of his eye, before he turns back to the front, Bodhi catches Jyn watching them, a speculative look in her eye. She’s planning something, he can tell. And whatever it is, he’s probably not going to like it.

I have a bad feeling about this, Bodhi thinks. And flies on.

Chapter Text

Jyn waits until Cassian falls asleep, a couple of hours into their pseudo-exile from the Rebel base. In truth, she waits a little longer than that – she loses some time fascinated by the difference in his face when he’s asleep. He always has that guarded, careful look when he’s awake. Asleep, he looks like he did when he came to her rescue on the platform on Eadu, when they fought in the ship afterwards, when he came to tell her that he believed in her. In the elevator, on Scarif. When he’s asleep, he looks like the Cassian she’s slowly getting to know (and, Force help her, falling for), the one he usually keeps hidden behind the mask of Captain Andor.

Then she starts to feel like a creepy voyeur, so she pulls herself away. Besides, she has a mission to complete.

The atmosphere in the ship is… gloomy, to say the least. Chirrut and Baze are tucked up in the corner, occasionally muttering to each other but otherwise quiet.

She tells herself that Alderaan is not her father’s fault. She tries very hard to believe it.

The climb to the cockpit is a little painful, her leg still twinging when she uses it too much, but at least she’s not limping anymore. She plunks herself down in the copilot’s seat. It still smells like Cassian, leather jacket and blaster discharge.

Quit mooning about, Erso, she tells herself, with a mental smack upside the head. You know better than this.

Bodhi’s looking at her, a little nervously. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“I haven’t even said anything,” Jyn protests. Then, after a moment, “No, probably not.”

Bodhi makes a face. “You know how I could tell? Because—“ he lowers his voice, “Because you waited until Cassian went to sleep.”

When the hell did he get so observant? “Oh, sure, call me out,” she grumbles, then waves it off. “Does the ship’s computer have a listing of known Imperial bases?”

“I’m definitely not gonna like this,” Bodhi mutters, but he calls up the list.

Jyn pages through it, correcting for the variables she has in mind. Something small, but with a bit of infrastructure. Not near Yavin, or Jedha, or Scarif. Or Alderaan. Somewhere out of the way of the Empire’s attention.

“There,” she says, finally. “Set course for that one.”

“Why?” Bodhi says, even as he reluctantly calls up the nav computer. “Aren’t we supposed to be hiding?”

“Hiding is boring,” Jyn says.

“Or, y’know, safe,” Bodhi corrects.

Jyn waves a hand. “Potato, potahto. Can you take us there or not?”

“I can,” Bodhi says, “But first, tell me why.”

Jyn glances back towards the ladder. “Because we’re missing a member,” she says finally. “And we need a win.”

“Oh,” Bodhi says. He’s quiet for a moment, then punches a new set of coordinates into the nav computer. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Baze climbs up a few minutes later. He leans between them to squint at the nav computer, then grunts. “Change of plans?”

“We’re gonna go pick a fight with the Empire,” Jyn says.

“A small one,” Bodhi adds hastily.

Baze grins. “Good,” he says, “I’ve been itching for a fight.”

--

As much fun as it is to surprise Cassian, Jyn figures he is technically the commanding officer. She should probably loop him in before they drop out of hyperspace. So, as they approach their destination, she climbs carefully back down to the cargo bay.

She finds Cassian awake, turning K2’s backup disk over in his hands. “I reprogrammed him when I was fourteen,” he says, without looking up.

When she was fourteen, she was still running with Saw’s crew. She had backup. “That young?” she says, taking a seat across from him.

“I’m not so bad with computers, in a pinch,” he says. He looks up at her. “I thought I’d lost him.”

She hesitates. “About that.”

The ship shudders, the telltale blip of the ship dropping out of hyperspace. Cassian glances upwards, then back at her. “Wait. Where are we?”

“Near Sullust,” she says, “Also known as the middle of nowhere. Which just so happens to play host to a modest, mostly-automated Imperial base.”

Cassian blinks. He looks down at the disk in his hands.

“We’re going to get him back, Cassian,” Jyn says.

He looks up at her again. She’s still learning to read him, really, but she can see the conflict in his eyes.

“This is a bad idea,” he says, finally, but it doesn’t sound like a no. It sounds like convince me.

“The Empire’s busy chasing after the plans,” she says. “They’ve got plenty to focus on; one little, isolated base attack isn’t going to bring them down on us. And we’ve got the shuttle, so we don’t have to fight our way in.”

“It’s a risk,” he says.

“He’s one of ours,” she says. “He’s worth a few stupid risks.”

She knows she’s won when he grins, the Cassian who wants his friend back emerging from the Captain Andor who thinks in phrases like ‘acceptable risks’. “I thought you promised Ym you’d keep me out of trouble,” he says.

“I did,” she agrees, “And you will be. You’re still injured, so you’re the getaway driver.” She grins. “I didn’t promise anything about the rest of us.”

--

The Imperial base turns out to be installed into the side of an asteroid in the system’s Kuiper belt. Astonishingly, their access codes still work. It’s like Jyn said, Cassian thinks. The Empire has bigger problems, and probably thinks they all died on Scarif, anyway. It’s almost funny, how easy it is to talk their way past the station’s lax security, but then again, it’s not like it’s a prime target for Rebel incursion.

They lure the station’s attendants aboard and relieve them of their uniforms. Watching Baze, Jyn, and Bodhi climb into their new disguises, Cassian finds himself thankful that the Empire apparently hasn’t realized how much of a security risk it is to treat everyone so interchangeably. It certainly makes his job a lot easier.

“We’ll have to install him on the go,” Jyn says as she buckles her belt. “No way we’ll be able to drag one of those massive rust buckets back here.”

“I can do it,” Bodhi says, muffled by the shirt he’s pulling over his head.

Jyn tugs her uniform into place. For an instant, Cassian has a vision of a different future. One where she wasn’t left behind when Krennic came for her father. One where the Empire had time to extinguish the fire burning inside her. One where she grew up in a uniform like that, and they met as enemies, and not reluctant allies.

He shudders, pushing the image away.

Jyn’s looking at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Cassian says. “I should be going with you.”

She smiles, a little. “You can’t,” she says, “You’re hurt. And I promised, remember?”

He frowns, searching for a way around it. The idea of staying behind while they go into danger for his sake – for Kaytoo’s sake – rubs him all the wrong ways. It’s not that he doesn’t think they can pull it off; they’ve all shown repeatedly that they aren’t deterred by long odds. It’s that he’s the one who’s supposed to do the dirty work.

“Cassian,” she says. “Do you trust me?”

He nods, no hesitation. “With my life.”

“Then trust me with his,” she says, and holds out a hand.

He gives her the disk.

She pockets it carefully, then leans up to him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. Her face is a little pink when she pulls back, but his probably is, too, judging by the heat creeping up his neck.

“Be careful,” he says.

“Always,” she says with a smirk, and pulls her helmet over her head.

--

Waiting is a standard part of any Intelligence officer’s job. Waiting for an opening, for the exact right moment to strike. Cassian’s waited weeks before, when he has to. It’s one of the first things he learned after joining the Rebellion.

None of the tricks in his arsenal seem to work today. He paces the cargo bay until his side aches, mind full of all the ways the mission could go wrong. After a while, Chirrut points out, “You’re limping.”

Cassian grunts, but takes the hint. He retreats to the cockpit, staring out at the landing bay, watching for any sign of commotion, any sign that they’ve been found out. He listens to the silent comm line. He drums his fingers on the control panels.

Suddenly, the line crackles to life. “Cassian?” Jyn says.

“Are you okay?” he responds immediately.

She snorts. “We’re fine. I just thought you might want to listen in on this part.”

In the background, he hears Bodhi say, “Got it.”

A moment passes. A quiet, mechanical hum starts, barely audible over the static on the comm line.

Then, “I did not expect that you would be the one to wake me up, Jyn Erso.”

Cassian’s heart jumps.

“Cassian wanted to be here,” Jyn says, “But he got himself a little bit shot on the way out of Scarif.”

A pause. “Your fault, I assume.”

“Kaytoo,” Cassian says chidingly, forgetting for a moment that the droid can’t hear him.

But then, “Cassian?”

“I have you on speaker,” Jyn says. Then, a bit more urgently, “But I think we need to move now.”

“That would be good,” Bodhi agrees hurriedly.

“That is a lot of security drones,” Kaytoo observes.

“Jyn?” Cassian says, lurching to his feet.

Blaster fire sounds in the background. “Start the engine for us,” Jyn says, a little out of breath. “Looks like we’ll be leaving in a hurry.”

The line clicks off. Cassian curses and punches in the ignition sequence. “Chirrut,” he calls, “Get ready. They’re coming in hot!”

By the time the team comes tearing in, Cassian has the door open and the ship hovering ready a couple of feet off the ground. It’s a good thing he does; right behind his crew is a horde of security droids. Cassian’s hands tighten on the joysticks, itching to turn and open fire, but his friends are too close.

“We’re in,” Jyn shouts a moment later. “Let’s go!”

Cassian guns the engine. The backdraft sends droids flying every which way. He punches in a quick hyperspace jump as they clear the landing bay, and a moment later they’re gone.

Jyn comes up next to him, shedding bits of Imperial uniform as she goes. He notices a scorch mark on her sleeve. “Are you hurt?”

She turns her arm, showing him a pink streak across her bicep. “Grazed me. Kaytoo deflected it, or I’d have a hole clean through.”

Cassian frowns, a mixture of guilt and gratitude roiling inside him.

She rolls her eyes at him. “I’m fine. Go see Kaytoo,” she says, “He sassed me the whole way back. I think he’s worried about you.”

He pauses at the top of the ladder. “Jyn?”

She looks at him. The blue light of hyperspace highlights her profile, reflects and refracts in her eyes so they almost seem to glow. His mouth goes a little dry.

“Thank you,” he says.

She smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Bodhi is waiting at the bottom of the ladder. He flashes a smile at Cassian and climbs up as soon as the ladder is clear. Baze and Chirrut are back in the corner, Baze dozing while Chirrut applies a bacta patch to a blaster burn on his leg.

And, by the comm station…

“Cassian,” Kaytoo says. The droid’s eyes scan up and down, and Cassian gets the impression he’s not sure what to say. Finally, he says, “You’re injured.”

“It’s healing,” Cassian says.

“So Jyn told me,” Kaytoo says, head tilting forward slightly. “I wasn’t sure whether to believe her.”

Cassian wonders what Kaytoo’s going to think when he finds out Cassian and Jyn are… whatever they are together, and has to bite back a laugh.

“The installation went okay?” he asks, when he’s sure he’s got the laughter under control.

Kaytoo pauses. “Yes,” he says eventually. He flexes his hands. “This body is in good condition.” He looks back at Cassian. “But there is a hole in my memory. Obviously. What happened on Scarif? Did we succeed?”

Cassian hesitates. “Sort of.”

“That means no,” Kaytoo says.

“No,” Cassian says, “It means sort of. It’s complicated.”

“Explain,” Kaytoo says.

So he does. He recounts the approach, the landing, their infiltration of the base. Getting to the archives. And then he stops, fingers clenching at his sides.

“This is the part where I die,” Kaytoo says, “Isn’t it?”

Cassian nods.

Kaytoo’s head rocks back slightly. “I want to know,” he says after a moment.

Cassian takes a deep breath. “We were in the vault,” he says, “You locked the door to keep the troopers off us. And you told us to climb.”

Kaytoo is quiet for a moment. “And then?”

Cassian recounts the rest of the mission, glossing over the part where he fell twenty feet with a blaster wound in his side (which is easy, since his memories of that are blessedly muddled).

“So the plans are out there,” he finishes. “Somewhere.”

“So we succeeded,” Kaytoo says. And then, in a passable imitation of Cassian, “Sort of.”

Cassian nods.

Kaytoo mulls this over for a moment. “The Death Star is still operational.” His eyes focus on Cassian. “But you came to get me a new body, anyway.”

Cassian nods again.

Another pause. “That was foolish,” Kaytoo says. Then, “Thank you.”

Cassian smiles. “It’s good to have you back.”

Chapter Text

There’s a tension in the Force.

Something is coming. Chirrut can feel it. Something that will determine the fate of the galaxy forever.

Everything happens so fast, he thinks. A few days ago, he and Baze were on Jedha, doing what they could to keep the legend of the Jedi alive a little bit longer while the Empire stripped the temple bare. Then, a star, a speck of kyber lighting up to his senses like a beacon, echoing the fire that burned inside the person wearing it.

In retrospect, he thinks, he should have known she’d change everything.

He’s checking the bacta patch on Baze’s leg, ignoring the larger man’s halfhearted grumbling, when he hears Bodhi’s voice above. “Cassian? You’re gonna want to hear this.”

Footsteps, uneven, still a trace of a limp. A long silence. Chirrut eases Baze’s pant leg back down over the patch.

“What is it?” Jyn says.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Bodhi says faintly.

Jyn makes an impatient sound. “Just tell me.”

“Good news,” Bodhi says, “The plans made it to Yavin. With a Jedi? Apparently?”

Chirrut starts. A Jedi? But –

No.

They’re all gone. Aren’t they?

He quests out with his senses into the Force, reaching, searching with a quiet desperation. If there really is a Jedi, he should be able to feel them. He has to. He has to know.

And then he feels it. Like a planet bends spacetime around itself, a presence in the Force draws him in, massive and undefined. It’s not the feeling of a Jedi, not yet. They are paragons of order, their edges sharply defined, even as they are one with the Force. This presence is uneven, like putty, like raw clay, like something that has only just begun to be shaped.

But the potential…

It takes his breath away.

He snaps back to himself, to the sound of voices arguing overhead. They’re overlapping too much for him to pick out who’s saying what, specifically, but he gets the gist: All Rebel ships advised to stay clear of the Yavin system. The Death Star has come.

Dread creeps into his heart. He imagines that magnificent presence, annihilated in a shockwave like the one that destroyed Alderaan.

They have to do something.

But what can they do? Five people and a droid on a stolen Imperial shuttle? Chirrut considers himself an optimist, but even he doesn’t like those odds. The voices above come to the same conclusion. They can’t help. Whatever happens, it’s out of their hands.

“Is it true?” Baze asks quietly. “A Jedi?”

Chirrut can only nod.

Without another word, Baze gathers Chirrut into his arms. They’ve faced everything else together. They’re going to face this together, too.

Chirrut prays. For the Jedi, and the Rebellion, and the galaxy. He can feel Baze murmuring something, a subsonic rumble in his partner’s chest.

They pray together, and wait.

--

Bodhi drops them out of hyperspace on the very edge of the Yavin system, well out of range of the battle currently raging around the gas giant. They might not be able to help, in their clunky stolen shuttle, but they can at least bear witness.

If the Rebellion dies here, they will remember.

Cassian stays glued to the comm system, eyes intent as he listens to his friends fight for their lives, for the future of the galaxy. Kaytoo is puttering around behind them, doing some kind of tune-up or diagnostic. Bodhi’s pretty sure the droid is trying to distract himself. It’s hard to tell, without an expression to go off of.

Bodhi can’t bring himself to listen. It’s too much, too fast. He can’t take it, hearing all those people dying when he can’t do a single thing to help.

He’s never been a fighter, but in those moments, he resolves to learn how to pilot an X-wing. The next time something like this happens, he doesn’t want to be stuck on the sidelines.

Jyn stands between him and Cassian, staring out the viewport as if she can see all those light years to where the Death Star slowly looms closer to destroying the future of them all, and cementing her father’s legacy as the engineer of the mobile apocalypse.

She takes a sudden breath. “Tell me about my father.”

Bodhi blinks. “Now?”

She nods. “Please. Tell me how he tried to prevent this,” she says, her voice thick, “Tell me he was a hero.”

“He was a hero,” Bodhi says. He digs through his memories. There are so many things he could tell her. So many little acts of kindness, times Galen bore the brunt of Krennic’s temper to spare the rest of them. The way he could still smile, still had compassion, even after everything.

“The last time I saw your father,” he says finally, “He came aboard the shuttle to ‘inspect my cargo’. He gave me the data stick with the recording. He told me to go to Jedha and find Saw Gerrera. Find you.”

Jyn’s eyes are glistening.

“He used to say, whenever anyone asked him how he got so much done, that it was a pinch of stardust. People thought it was a drug, but—“

“It was me,” she says.

He nods. “Before he left my ship that day, he stopped. He looked at me, and he asked, ‘Are you afraid?’” Bodhi laughs a little. “I said of course I’m afraid. Who wouldn’t be?” He can remember with perfect clarity the intensity in Galen’s eyes. Like he was looking right through the uniform, and the fear, right into Bodhi’s heart. “He put his hands on my shoulders and he said, ‘Good. Do it anyway.’”

Jyn’s crying, now, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her hands on the control panel are clenched, the knuckles white with the effort of holding back sobs.

He reaches over and squeezes her arm, gently. It breaks the spell; she flashes him a watery smile and scrubs at her eyes with the heel of one hand. “Thanks.”

Cassian suddenly lurches up, leaning forward to stare out the viewport. Below, Chirrut yells something, so loud and excited that Bodhi can’t make out the words.

Bodhi hangs suspended on the razor edge between hope and despair. He vibrates.

Jyn grabs Cassian’s arm. “What? What happened?”

He rips the headset off and turns to them. His entire face is alight, alive, a broad grin transforming his features. Gone is the reserve Bodhi’s become used to; triumph radiates off of him like a supernova.

Jyn yelps in surprise as Cassian throws his arms around her and spins her out into the open area behind the seats, so fast her feet leave the ground.

“They did it,” he says breathlessly, “We did it. The Death Star, it’s—“

Words abruptly seem to fail him, and he crushes Jyn against him, murmuring into her hair. For her part, Jyn is clinging to him just as tightly. Kaytoo looks vaguely put out, behind them.

Bodhi gives them their privacy. He turns back to the controls and sets a course for Yavin IV. Then, curious, he picks up the discarded headset. He puts it to his ear and immediately yanks it away, wincing; the comm line is chaos, a cacophony of joy that’s so loud it’s painful.

He raises it again, holding it a few inches away from his ear this time, and listens. Occasionally, he can make out a few words, but it’s largely just… joy, and triumph, spilling out pure and unselfconscious. Screams and whoops and cursing and a hundred other noises he doesn’t have names for, pouring out into space.

It sounds like a future.

It sounds like hope.

Chapter Text

The Rebel base is absolute chaos when they land. The instant the doors open, Cassian gets half-tackled, half-hugged by at least four people simultaneously, all laughing and talking a mile a minute, all on top of each other. It’s probably not good for his side, but he’s flying so high on endorphins that he doesn’t even feel it.

They won.

They won.

His mind keeps circling back to those two words. Against all odds, running on the tiniest speck of hope, they’ve destroyed the Empire’s superweapon. They’ve taken the very thing that was supposed to cement the Imperial reign over the galaxy and used it to shatter the terror that is their true secret weapon.

They won.

He loses track of the others in the chaos. Everyone seems to want to pat him on the back, to the point that Cassian’s pretty sure he’s going to have bruises in the morning.

He tells the story of Rogue One a hundred times, a hundred different ways. He emphasizes the bravery of Bodhi Rook, the faith of Chirrut and steadfast Baze, Galen Erso’s sacrifice, the sheer indomitable will that drove them all to follow Jyn to almost certain death.

He ends up in the bar, but barely drinks anything, too busy toasting. To fallen comrades. To the Empire’s defeat. To Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa, Han Solo and Chewbacca. To his teammates, their names roared from a hundred rebel throats.

“To Galen Erso,” someone cries, and the crowd thunders its agreement.

Jyn needs to see this, he thinks.

He spots Bodhi further down the bar and fights his way to him. “Have you seen Jyn?” Cassian shouts over the din.

Bodhi shakes his head. “Not since we landed,” he shouts back.

A seed of dread starts up in Cassian’s gut. He manages to escape the bar (eventually). The party is going on all through the base, but at least he can move freely in the halls.

Still, it’s slow progress, dodging drunk revelers and people wanting to congratulate him. His side starts to ache in earnest, but he keeps going. He finds Chirrut and Baze in the War Room. They haven’t seen Jyn either. Cassian keeps looking.

He finally finds her in the medbay, in the room where he woke up after Scarif. Her back is to the door. Her shoulders shake.

“Jyn?” he says.

She jumps, scrubs hurriedly at her face. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He’s so, so not good at this. “What are you doing in here?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Hiding? That party out there, it’s… not for me.”

“Not for you?” Cassian repeats. “Jyn, people have asked about you all night. They toast your name every five minutes. And your father’s.”

“My father?” she says.

“Yes,” he says, “Your father is a hero, and will be remembered as a hero.”

His hands itch to comfort her. He takes a step towards her—

and she takes a step back.

A pit opens up in his stomach.

“Jyn?” he says.

She doesn’t answer.

“What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, except to wrap her arms around herself, tight. Like she’s trying to keep from falling apart.

She’s so small. It’s easy to forget; her fire burns so bright, like a star, and it makes her seem bigger than she is. But there’s no sign of that fire now. She’s folded in on herself, crumpled like a broken bird, and Cassian would do anything to fix it.

He’s good at taking people apart. He has no idea how to put them back together.

“Did I do something?” he asks, finally.

A twitch of her head, the barest shake.

“Did someone else?” he asks. He can hear the desperation slipping into his voice, but there’s a chasm widening between them, and he’s terrified that if he doesn’t cross it now he’ll lose her. “Did something happen? Somebody say something?” He keeps spilling out questions, because if he can find the problem, maybe he can fix it.

Jyn shakes her head, small at first, but soon her entire body wobbles with the force of it. “No, no, nothing like that,” she says.

“Then what?” he asks. “Talk to me, Jyn. Please. Let me help.”

She looks at him for a long time. She trembles. She takes a deep breath.

“I’m afraid, Cassian,” she says, in a voice so small and fragile it breaks his heart.

“Of me?” he asks.

“Never,” she says immediately. Then she grimaces. “Well.”

Abruptly, he gets it. “You’re afraid that I’ll leave. Like your father. Like Saw.”

She frowns, swallows hard. She’s trying to hide it, but Cassian’s learned to read her well enough to see the tears forming in her eyes. “We did it,” she says, with a weak attempt at a smile. “We blew up the Death Star, and that’s great, except now there’s a future, and that means eventually… eventually…” She pulls in a shaky breath. “Whether you want to or not. And I don’t know if—“ She chokes. She tries again. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

His first instinct, trained into him by the Rebellion, is to soothe. To promise whatever she needs to hear. A vow never to leave her. And from a certain perspective, it would even be true. He certainly has no intention of doing so.

But the Empire’s wounded, not dead. And the Empire doesn’t care for good intentions. And he’s so, so tired of lying.

“I wish I could promise you that I won’t,” he says, finally. Honesty is a strange taste in his mouth, but he presses forward. “But you know as well as I do that the Empire may not give me – either of us – a choice. I don’t want to lie to you, Jyn.” The chasm is getting wider, the dark between the stars. The words spill out even faster. “What I can promise you is that as long as I can be, as long as you want me to be, I am with you. I want to be with you. So much it scares me, too.” He swallows. “But it’s always a risk. You have to decide if you’re willing to take it.”

He wants to keep talking. To find the magic words that will wipe away her fear, make her decide that the (beautiful, irreplaceable) risk they are together is worth taking.

He remembers a moment, staring each other down over the question of a blaster. Sizing each other up.

Trust goes both ways.

So he waits. He hopes. He trusts.

And, after what feels like an eternity crammed into a few heartbeats, she smiles. It’s tremulous, and the fear in her eyes hasn’t left, but she smiles.

“What the hell,” she says. “I’m sick of playing it safe.”

Warmth floods through Cassian’s body, relief so profound he forgets how to move. Then she’s in front of him, looking up. This close, he can see flecks of reflected light in her irises, flickering as she shifts.

Stardust, he thinks, dazed.

She runs her hands up his chest, slowly. And further, skimming up the sides of his neck, the fingers of one hand threading into his hair while the other traces the stubble on his cheeks. His arms move of their own accord, cupping her hips, one sliding up to the small of her back. He can’t take his eyes off her. She’s luminous, lit from within, her inner fire rekindled with that one, enormous choice.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

He considers several answers. Honesty’s worked well so far, so he says, “I’m thinking how nice it would be to kiss you.”

She smiles, a little wicked. “Just kiss?”

Heat rushes through him, headed south. “For now,” he says. He pulls her closer.

“Come on, now, Captain,” she murmurs. “Where’s your imagination?”

He kisses her. She kisses back, no hesitation, not an ounce of self-consciousness. Neither of them is practiced at kissing, but neither of them cares that it’s messy, a little clumsy. She pushes him back into the wall, presses against him until he’s not sure where one of them ends and the other begins. He cups her face, her skin soft against the piloting calluses on his fingers.

Her hand slides under his shirt on his good side, skimming over bare skin. It feels like a burning brand, like her handprint will be left behind forever, a welcome new addition to the scars he’s already collected.

His head is spinning a little. She pulls back, just enough to say against his mouth, “Still just want to kiss?”

“I can think of a few other things,” he manages, breathless.

She grins. “Bring it on, flyboy.”

He reaches over and pushes the door closed.

--

Later, Jyn drifts off to sleep warm, Cassian’s arm draped across her waist, his breath tickling the hair on the back of her neck. She’s boneless, both of them exhausted by the roller coaster day. They fit together so well, she thinks. His larger frame curls around her, surrounding her, but it doesn’t feel stifling. It feels safe. It feels like coming home.

She’s still afraid, deep down. Maybe she always will be. She sighs in contentment and nestles back closer to him, smiling as he ghosts his lips across the nape of her neck.

So, she’s afraid. He’s worth it.

Chapter Text

At first, it’s easy to get caught up in the party. There’s plenty to celebrate, after all – the Empire sent running, the Death Star destroyed, the Rebellion safe (at least for now). It’s the exhilaration of survival, of winning against impossible odds. The tide of triumph sweeps through the base and carries them all along with it, including Bodhi.

But after a while, even with everyone clapping him on the back and toasting to his name (which is profoundly weird), something starts to eat at him. Something dark, and sad, that no amount of merriment can seem to wash away.

The contrast grows harder and harder to bear, a feeling of isolation growing until the faces around him start to blur, the voices and cheering taking on an odd, faraway quality.

He manages to stammer out an excuse, something about being tired, and extricates himself from the crowd around the bar. And he walks, managing an occasional nod to the congratulations that just. keep. coming. He walks, with no idea where he’s going except away, somewhere where he can hear himself think.

The faint trace of fresh air leads him eventually to the landing bay, past the ships and small clots of drunken carousers. Out through the open bay doors and onto the landing pad, until the voices really are just a distant, distorted echo behind him.

The Yavin air is balmy, but at least it’s moving, soothing some of the sweat from Bodhi’s face and neck. He sits down on the edge of the platform, legs dangling over the edge (you get over your fear of heights really quick in pilot training), and tries to catch his breath.

Emotions roil inside him. Pride mixes with guilt, oil and water, almost nauseating. Triumph and relief swirl with a deep, dark, sucking grief.

There were hundreds of people on that station. Maybe thousands. All those people gone in a split second, before they even knew it was coming, their remains consigned to the gas giant’s uncaring clouds, lost and unmourned.

He could so easily have been every one of those people.

Bile rises in his throat. He knows it was necessary, remembers all too well the destruction of Jedha, and Scarif, and Alderaan. Something like that couldn’t be allowed to exist. He understands that, can’t bring himself to regret that it’s gone.

But the cold sweat on his hands feels like the blood of thousands.

He draws his legs up, puts his head between his knees, and struggles to breathe.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” a mechanized voice says behind him. “Are you in distress?”

Bodhi’s reaction startles himself; he starts laughing. It’s desperate, a release of tension more than anything close to mirth. Of all the people to find him here, K-2SO would not have been his first choice.

“Should I take that as a yes?” the droid asks.

Bodhi struggles to get himself under control. “I’m fine—“ he manages.

“You are clearly not,” Kaytoo says.

“I’ll be fine?” Bodhi says, but it doesn’t even sound convincing to himself. What the hell, it can’t hurt, he thinks, a little wildly. Maybe Kaytoo will surprise him. “It’s just,” he says, “All those people, on the station. Gone, just—gone.”

“It was necessary,” Kaytoo says.

“I know,” Bodhi snaps. Then, quieter, “I know. But.”

Kaytoo is quiet for a moment. Then, sounding as surprised as Bodhi has ever heard him, he says, “But. I understand.”

That startles Bodhi enough that the storm inside him recedes, at least enough for him to think straight. He lifts his head, glancing over his shoulder at the droid. “You do?”

Kaytoo’s glowing eyes lift up to the sky. Bodhi follows his gaze, and sucks in a breath. Streaks of light smear across the atmosphere, some flaring bright enough to hurt his eyes, some barely a flicker against the stars. All quick, ephemeral, gone in an instant. Debris, he realizes. The remains of the Death Star. They must be orbiting through it.

“I have been running calculations,” Kaytoo says. “If I had not met Cassian, the likelihood that I would have been on that station is… high. Very high.”

Bodhi nods. That’s part of it, the realization that had things been different, he could have been one of those caught in the explosion. But he’s nearly died a hundred times in the past week. It’s more than that.

“How many of them were like me?” he asks finally. “How many would have left, if they’d ever felt like they had a choice?” How many died tonight because they were too afraid to take a stand?

Kaytoo makes a soft clicking sound. Bodhi would swear it almost sounds like a sigh. “There are too many variables,” he says.

“Tell me about it,” Bodhi says. But the storm continues to fade, or at least settle to a more manageable level. Just talking, being understood, even if Kaytoo has the apparent emotional range of bantha shit… it helps.

“Your heart rate has settled,” Kaytoo observes. “Are you no longer in distress?”

Bodhi snorts. “Not quite,” he says. “But… better. Thanks.”

Kaytoo tilts his head. “I’m not certain how I helped. But you are welcome.” He pauses. “I will have to tell Cassian.”

“Tell him what?” Bodhi asks. He’s not sure how he’d feel about the droid telling anybody about this.

“That I am not, in fact, ‘terrible at emotions’ as he has claimed.”

Bodhi laughs. “You do that.”

He leans back and watches the ashes of the station burn up in the atmosphere. It’s beautiful, he admits to himself, even if it is also terrible.

I’ll remember, he promises. I’ll remember you, and I’ll make sure that next time, we do better.

Chapter Text

It takes most of a week for the festivities to die down. In that time, the members of Rogue One go from strangers to legends. Not quite on par with the young Jedi who fired the final shot, but enough that they’re all perpetually hoarse from telling the story over and over again.

Jyn spends her days learning the Rebellion. Names, faces, histories. It’s hard at first, letting herself care about these people, especially knowing that not all of them are going to survive the coming fight. But she’s already in too deep; at a certain point, it just makes sense to keep swimming down. She finds she likes it, likes getting smiles and nods in passing in the halls instead of wary looks.

She spends her nights learning Cassian. How to make him smile. How to make him gasp. He learns how to make her toes curl, finds the one secret ticklish spot on her side. She learns how to hold him when he can’t sleep. He learns how to wake her from a nightmare.

In the dark, he tells her about the things he’s done. Lies he’s told. People he’s killed. She tells him about Saw Gerrera, about prison. About her father, and the mother she barely remembers anymore. They share their losses with each other, find the places where their holes match up. They’re gentle with each other.

It’s the best five days of Jyn’s life, hands down.

But nothing lasts forever, and the Empire won’t sleep for long.

--

Mon Mothma calls them to the War Room. Jyn arrives to find Cassian and K-2SO already there. Bodhi comes next, then Baze and Chirrut. The latter has sweat beading on his brow, a satisfied look on his face. He’s been sparring with the Jedi, Jyn’s heard. She’s happy for him.

Once they’re all present, Mon Mothma stands. “First,” she says, “I want to extend our gratitude to you all, again, on behalf of the Alliance. We couldn’t have done it without you.

“But,” she continues, “As I’m sure you’re aware, this is only a temporary victory. The Empire is wounded, yes, but it will strike back. We have many fights ahead.” She pauses. “And we could very much use your help.”

“In what capacity?” Chirrut asks, openly curious. “We are not soldiers.”

Mothma nods. “You called yourselves Rogue One. We would like to make that official.” She clasps her hands. “You would be a team, under the command of Major Andor, tasked with Intelligence missions similar to those you have already completed.” She pauses, smiles faintly. “If, hopefully, less suicidal.”

Jyn glances at Cassian; he hadn’t mentioned the promotion. He quirks an eyebrow at her and looks pointedly back at Mothma.

The chancellor spreads her hands. “You have already done more than enough for this Rebellion. If you so choose, we will be happy to supply a ship and whatever supplies you need to go wherever you choose. The choice is entirely yours.”

The silence hangs in the air for a moment. Surprisingly, Bodhi is the first to speak. “I’m in,” he says. “I want to help. However I can.”

“Me, too,” Baze says gruffly.

“I suppose I have to stay, then,” Chirrut says, “Someone has to watch your back.”

“As if you’d give up the chance to keep sparring with a Jedi,” Baze says.

“There is that,” Chirrut admits cheerfully.

And then they’re all looking at Jyn. She hesitates. They’re offering you a clean break, a small part of her whispers. Take it and run before you get hurt.

She looks at Cassian. His face has gone flat and impassive, but he can’t hide from her anymore. She can see the fear in his eyes, even now, that this is the moment she’ll leave.

As if she ever could.

“I made my choice already,” she tells him, and only him. And then, to the others, “Of course I’m in. Who else is going to keep you all out of trouble?”

“More like get us into it,” Bodhi says, but he’s smiling.

Mon Mothma is smiling, too. “Excellent,” she says. “Then it’s official. Let me be the first to officially welcome you all into the Alliance. May the Force be with you.”

Jyn takes Cassian’s hand. Her other rises to touch the kyber pendant at her chest, warm from the heat of her skin. A piece of her past, to carry with her into this new future.

Cassian pulls her into his arms, warm and solid and strong. He leans down to murmur in her ear.

“Welcome home, Jyn.”

Chapter Text

Bodhi’s heart pounds in his chest. Sweat drips down the back of his neck. His clothes feel stifling, the collar of his new shirt too tight around his neck. He slips a finger under it and tugs, trying to get some airflow going. “Is it hot in here? It’s hot, right?”

“Breathe, Bodhi,” Jyn says.

“My sensors indicate this room is at a standard temperature,” K-2SO says.

Bodhi flaps a hand in a weak attempt to fan himself. “How did I let myself get talked into this?” he mutters to himself. He can’t do this – stand up on stage in front of hundreds of people? He’s going to pass out. He’s—

“I need to sit down,” he says.

Jyn takes his arm and guides him to a bench. Bodhi sits and tries to breathe.

Chirrut plops himself down next to him. “I can see you’re nervous,” he proclaims. Baze makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a groan. Bodhi manages a weak smile. “Tell me,” Chirrut continues, “What are you afraid will happen?”

Bodhi opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers. “I’m afraid—“ he starts, and hesitates. “That I don’t deserve to be up there,” he finishes, in a rush. “I’m just a pilot. I’m not a hero.”

“Bullshit,” Baze says. Bodhi starts; he’s never heard the Guardian swear before.

“Seriously, Bodhi,” Jyn says, shaking her head, an exasperate smile tilting her lips. “You are so full of shit sometimes. Not a hero? None of this would have happened without you.”

“Galen would have found another way to get the plans out,” he says weakly.

“In time?” Jyn counters.

“Without you,” Kaytoo chimes in, “The probability of a positive outcome drops to zero point oh two six percent.” He pauses. “That is low,” he says. “That’s very low.”

“That can’t be right,” Bodhi protests.

“I do not make inaccurate calculations,” Kaytoo says frostily.

“Bodhi,” Cassian says, making him jump. He’d almost forgotten the Captain – no, Major, he reminds himself, he’s a Major now – was there, he’d been so quiet. Cassian crosses to grip Bodhi’s shoulders, waiting until the pilot looks up to meet his eyes. “You earned this. You deserve this. As much as any of us do.” His gaze is intent, deadly serious. And then he smiles. “I’ll drag you up there myself if I have to.”

What’s he supposed to say to that? “Well, don’t make it sound too fun…” he mutters.

“Things like this,” Cassian says, “are about thanking you. You helped save the lives of everyone in that room, and this one. Let them thank you.”

Bodhi nods, tries to settle. “Okay,” he says.

“It’ll be fun,” Jyn says encouragingly.

“Fun,” he mutters. “Right.”

And then the music starts in the next room. “Showtime,” Cassian says, and offers Bodhi his hand. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Bodhi says. He takes Cassian’s hand and lets him pull him to his feet.

Cassian and Jyn go first, in step with one another. Bodhi wonders how they make it look so easy; with the height difference, it just doesn’t make sense that they can walk in sync so flawlessly. But then again, it’s them, so maybe it makes perfect sense.

Then it’s Bodhi’s turn. Baze claps him on the arm as he goes by. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps into the room.

He doesn’t look at the faces around him, keeping his eyes on his friends’ backs as he follows them towards the stage. He keeps his head up, shoulders back, doing his best impression of Cassian’s posture, even as his hands tremble with nerves.

Bodhi considers it a victory that he doesn’t trip up the stairs, blows out a shaky, relieved sigh as he takes his place next to Jyn. She takes his hand long enough to squeeze it. “Fake it ‘til you make it,” she tells him, a mischievous look in her eye.

He raises his eyebrows at her and turns to face front—

Oh. Oh, no. That’s a lot of people. He swallows and focuses on Baze and Chirrut, walking up the stairs like they do this sort of thing all the time. Kaytoo brings up the rear, his dark plating a stark contrast to the bright aesthetic of the room.

Once the droid takes his place at the end of the line, Bodhi’s heart starts to settle a bit. This is his team, he thinks. His friends. He has those now. And they deserve the applause they’re getting, so, maybe he can as well.

Another trio enters, and Bodhi’s jaw drops. Even if he hadn’t seen them around the base, the Wookiee towering over the second man’s shoulder would be enough of a giveaway. Out of the corner of his eye, Bodhi sees Chirrut’s head tilt, his face turning towards the young Jedi in a way that reminds Bodhi of a flower turning towards the sun.

The trio takes up positions mirroring Rogue One, and Princess Leia steps forward. She starts with Cassian. He looks good with a medal, Bodhi thinks, but then, he’s known Cassian was a hero from the moment they met. He catches the faint murmur of speech as Jyn receives her medal; he can’t make out the words, but when Leia moves away, Jyn’s eyes are wet.

And then it’s his turn. The medal is heavier than he expected, but he’s not having trouble breathing anymore. On the contrary, he feels strangely light, like without the weight to hold him down he’d float right on out the window.

“Thank you,” the Princess says, brushing his shoulder gently as she moves away.

He can only nod, dizzy. Is this what pride feels like?

To his left, Chirrut says something and the Princess laughs. Bodhi looks out over the crowd, at all the eyes trained on the stage, on him and his friends and the legends standing with them.

They’re still here because of me, he thinks, and for the first time he starts to believe it.

There’s a hard future ahead. The Empire will come back, and they will have to fight for their lives. But standing with his friends, his chest full of warmth under the weight of physical, tangible proof that he’s done something worthwhile, Bodhi truly believes they just might win.