wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2017-01-06 09:24 pm
wintersday) wrote2017-01-06 09:24 pm
Fic: Games of Chance
Title: Games of Chance
Fandom: Rogue One
Major Characters/Pairings: Cassian/Bodhi
Wordcount: ~4,100 words
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: Cassian gets captured by a bounty hunter, and Bodhi goes undercover to win him back in a card game. (Written for a kink meme prompt)
Notes: The card game Bodhi plays is from KOTOR, and was chosen because detailed rules could be hunted down on Wookiepedia.
Content notes: implied rape/noncon (not explicit or on-screen), canon-typical violence and physical abuse
Bodhi doesn't know what he's doing.
Decision making is still new to him, and not exactly comfortable. Everything in the Empire was regimented, and after he left, even those Rebels who trusted him didn't trust him to be in charge. And the truth of the matter is, that suits him just fine; he likes doing what he can for the right cause instead of flying blind and on his own. But with Jyn still in hyperspace transit there's no one else on Os Lunda Station with Cassian's best interests in mind, and not enough time for waiting. That leaves Bodhi to get him out of the mess he's in.
The station is a maze of multi-tiered catwalks and passages, close and dark and more crowded than anywhere he's been before or ever really wants to be again. He makes his way down from the docks to the lower levels, past gambling dens, taverns and junk shops built up layer on layer like a colony of fungus, trying not to stare too long in any stranger's direction in case it brings trouble. He knows where he's headed, at least, and a little of what he's getting into. The Rancor's Claw is infamous on Os Lunda, as is the syndicate that owns it. You can get anything there, if you care to pay: banned weapons, spice, a night of pleasure with any one of a dozen species. Hired killers. Slaves. A small knot of fear and anger solidifies in his stomach as he contemplates that last possibility. He doesn't have the credits to buy Cassian free, and he knows exactly what the odds are of making it out alive if he goes in shooting, but leaving Cassian to that fate isn't an option either. And then he's there: a backalley cantina with an unassuming facade, tinted windows and music drifting through the open doors. No obvious bouncers, he sees, though he knows there are enforcers keeping watch unseen. The Rancor's Claw lets anyone in, and trusts the clientele to be smart enough to keep their own peace, because no one wants to court the syndicate's displeasure. Bodhi certainly doesn't want to court the syndicate's displeasure; if he's honest with himself, he'd rather be doing practically anything else at the moment.
What would Galen do? The thought is clear through the static buzzing of his nerves, and as soon as it crosses his mind, he knows the answer. Galen would walk through those doors smiling like a bastard, ready with a clever lie wrapped in just the truth they wanted to hear. They have no reason to suspect a thing, and Galen wouldn't give them one. Bodhi feels his posture shift – shoulders straight, eyes forward, hands loose and relaxed at his sides. Like Galen facing Krennic, ready to report on progress far more incremental than it should have been. He feels that same false confidence settle over him, and with it a better identity for the job at hand: not Bodhi Rook, but – he thinks for a moment – Gol Adni Ashka, smuggler and spice runner, flush with credits and looking for a good time before shipping out on another long trip through Imperial territory. Not a man with anything to be afraid of here.
The doors slide open, and he saunters through into the hazy half-light and the swell of cantina music and conversation, dodging service droids, half-clothed dancers, and scowling station toughs as he makes his way to the bar. He's one unexpected tap on the shoulder away from breaking out in a cold sweat and a drawn blaster away from full-blown panic, but he doesn't let that shake his lazy half-smile; if there was one thing his time in the Empire had taught him, it's how to bluff.
"I'm looking for a game and a drink," he tells the bartender, a Twi-Lek woman with a jagged scar down the side of her tattooed face. "Maybe some company. I'm told I can find all of them here."
"Maybe so," the bartender says with a file-toothed grin. "Games are in the back. Company... might be you can find that in the back too. As for what you're drinking?"
"After three bloody months in the arse-end of the galaxy with nothing but Jawa juice, I'll take anything that doesn't kill me." He slides a credit chip across the bar, and she scans it with a disinterested flick of her wrist and pours him a viscous red-black drink from a bottle behind the counter
"Bantha Blood," she says. "Might kill you, but you'll die happy."
"Suits me fine," he says, and tips it back, not sure what to expect. It burns and fizzes and leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he can already tell from the tingling warmth in his belly that he'd better not have too many.
"Bracing," he says. "I'll take another."
He drinks that too, because he has to seem like he's here for drinking, trying not to grimace at the taste and privately hoping that Bantha Blood is just a name and not an ingredient.
It's not the worst drink he's sampled on a mission, he decides, as he makes his way toward the back of the house where the bartender told him the gaming tables can be found. There's a charge to be allowed through, though nobody here is taking IDs. Another flash of a chip, and they wave him into the gambling hall, heavy black curtains sweeping shut behind him. He hopes Cassian doesn't mind that his account is being drained for this, and then he shakes his head once, irritated with himself for falling into that trap, and pushes thoughts of Cassian away. There's no reason to believe he's anything but alive, and Bodhi can't afford to be distracted by fear.
The music back here is tense and pounding, and the overhead lights are dim. Most of the illumination comes from card tables lined with glowing neon and low red and violet light, hosting games of sabacc and Liar's Cut and more, and from the stage along the back where more dancers twist in time to the pulsing beat. Others weave through the crowd, sleek and shirtless, carrying trays of drinks and appetizers. He doesn't know whether or not they're here by choice, but he recognizes the caution in their steps and the concealed flinch when one of the patrons lets their gaze linger too long. But Gol Adni wouldn't avert his eyes, even though Bodhi wants to, so he takes a shimmering green cocktail from nearest tray and doesn't let himself think too much about it. We'll come back for them, he tells himself, but he can't be sure, and it's better not to wonder.
You can't save everyone, he hears Galen whisper in the back of his mind. Sometimes you can't save anyone at all, so do what you can and get out before it all goes bad.
It's good advice – advice Cassian would agree with. Bodhi just wishes he were better at accepting it.
He plays a few games of sabacc, sipping his drink as he sizes up the competition covertly and the dancers openly, letting the syndicate enforcers along the walls take the measure of the man they think he is. He lets himself lose more often than he wins, though he wins enough to be interesting, and all the while, he watches the crowd from the corner of his eye. If his informant was right – if his informant could be trusted – the bounty hunter who brought in Cassian liked to drink here, and he's been known to parade his prizes in person before collecting the price on their heads.
It feels like longer than it is, and every passing second seems to wear his nerves down further. He can feel his smuggler's mask slipping, and the subdued fear in the pit of his stomach ready to bubble up again if he only lets it. But after too much waiting and too many small sips of his cloyingly sweet drink, the curtain to the front sweeps open and there – there's the bastard Bodhi's been looking for. A Nautolan man in battered armor, with a laser carbine slung across his back and an ugly-looking blade and a blaster at his belt. Bodhi's in luck, too, because a second figure follows the bounty hunter into the room, walking with the kind of careful gait that speaks of hidden pain and keeping his head bowed.
Bodhi had known what to expect. It's still a shock to see Cassian chained and quiescent, bound at the wrists and bearing a heavy collar around his neck. Bodhi knows him well enough to know that he's seething with rage, watching and waiting for any moment that might offer escape or revenge, but none of that shows in his lowered eyes. He doesn't look good, despite the stubborn dignity that still somehow clings to him. He looks bruised and too thin, with shadows beneath his eyes, and Bodhi's stomach rebels at the sight.
Not yet, Galen's memory cautions. Don't tip your hand.
I'm a better gambler than you, old man he thinks, pushing away a familiar pang of grief. There's no time for that now. Before cowardice can drag him back or anger can drive him to something stupid, he goes to greet Cassian's captor.
The bounty hunter watches him with calm indifference, and offers no greeting of his own beyond a slight incline of his head. No surprise there. Bodhi can work with that.
"Pardon me, sir," he says, and this time, Academy-trained manners serve him well. "If you have no objection, I have something to say to your slave."
"Go on," the Nautolan rumbles, sounding more amused than offended. That's a good sign. He's curious – time to keep him that way. Bodhi circles around, slow and self-satisfied, all his attention on Cassian.
"Fallen on hard times, have you, old friend?" he says.
Cassian is quick on the uptake, but Bodhi had never doubted he would be. He looks up just long enough to look Bodhi in the eye, then spits at his feet and snarls, "I'm still better than you, scum."
The Nautolan freezes for a second, then backhands Cassian hard enough to send him sprawling, blood dripping from a split lip. Bodhi can't hold back his flinch, but thankfully, no one is looking at him. He can't let this escalate, though. He won't watch Cassian hurt in front of him.
"No need for that," he says. "I've got a better idea."
"And that would be?"
Good question, he thinks, but his mouth is already outpacing his rational mind, and the next thing he says is, "I'll play you for him. Your choice of game?"
He knows nearly all of them, after his time as a cargo pilot, which is just as well, considering his tendency to speak without thinking.
"Your old friend has some enemies," the Nautolan says, with a jerk on Cassian's chain. "He's worth ten thousand credits at the nearest Imperial outpost."
Cassian's eyes flash, but he glances at Bodhi and subsides. Anyone who knows him would be able to read incipient violence in the set of his jaw, but he's a gambler too, in his way, and he's willing to wait.
"Then that's how much I'll wager," Bodhi says, which is a slight problem, because ten thousand credits isn't something he actually has. "That and five thousand more to sweeten the deal."
The Nautolan seems to mull it over. He probably isn't taking his own blasted time just to make Bodhi sweat, but Bodhi can feel himself sweating anyway, and he has to fight the urge to shift from side to side.
"Pazaak," he says at last, and Bodhi nods. He knows this game. He's good at this game, and he's spent some time between missions building up his deck, and he thinks he might have half a chance of winning even without resorting to the kind of card tricks that can incite murder in a place like this.
They take the next open table and a house deck for the main cards, and settle in across from each other, sizing each other up with calculated nonchalance while Cassian stands beside his captor's chair, impassive and waiting. They seem to have gathered a few curious beings as onlookers, but most turn back to their own business now that it's clear there's not going to be a fight.
They shuffle their decks, and Bodhi draws his hand: a few pluses, a minus one, and a plus/minus one-or-two. Not bad, though he could have done better. A four to the Nautolan's one gives him first play, and he draws a three from the main deck and lays it face up on the table. Nothing more for now, except to nod politely and say, "Your turn."
The Nautolan draws a seven, watching Bodhi all the while. His ink-black eyes make him difficult to read, but it's hard not to imagine suspicion there.
"Tell me. Why do you want that Rebel garbage enough to throw fifteen thousand credits away for a chance at holding his chain?"
"He owes me," Bodhi says, and follows up with a ten. "He owes me a great deal, as it happens, and I owe him every bit as much. I'm looking forward to the opportunity for payback."
He watches with no visible concern as his opponent plays a six, only takes another drink of green liqueur and says, "Of course, if I don't win, I hope you'll be amenable to a little payback in my honor before you send him off to rot."
I'll win, he thinks. I'll win or I'll take my chances with a blaster. But he's good at odds, and he's got a better chance with the cards.
"It'll be my pleasure," the Nautolan says in reply. Bodhi hopes he's imagining the emphasis.
Each of them draws a one for their next turn, leaving Bodhi with fourteen points, too early to stand and too uncertain still to waste one of his pluses. A seven next round puts him over, but he lays down a minus one from his hand for a total of twenty, taking the set.
Bodhi calls for drinks as the Nautolan reshuffles the main deck, and the game begins again. He starts strong, but his opponent takes the next set with a double-card that brings him to twenty points only a few plays in.
Tied for the final set, then, damn it to hell and back. Bodhi draws another card from the main deck, and Cassian watches warily as they play a few rounds in quick succession, projecting an impressive sense of resignation to match Bodhi's feigned indifference. It shouldn't matter to him, after all, which of two scoundrels wins the life they're betting on. But Bodhi sees his eyes tracking the cards, and he knows from every mission they've shared how strongly this man clings to hope.
The Nautolan's next draw brings him to eighteen points, a hard but not impossible number to beat without going bust. He looks at the cards in his hand like he's considering risking one more turn, but finally spreads his hands and says, "Stand."
Bodhi nods, and smiles, and draws again. A four, for fifteen points. A two, for seventeen – and a plus two from his hand. He's still too tense to feel anything like triumph, but he sees Cassian's slight exhalation of relief and the twitch of anger in the Nautolan's face when he realizes who's won, followed by a wider grin that might or might not signify danger.
"Good game, my friend," he says, clapping Bodhi on the shoulder from across the table in a gesture that certainly seems friendly. "Looks like you've won yourself a new toy."
"So it seems," Bodhi says, with an equally wide grin. "You have his transmitter for me?"
"Right here," the Nautolan says, and taps a gauntlet on his left wrist. "One wrong move, and – bang! Oh, and you'll enjoy this."
He flicks a switch on the gauntlet, and blue lightning crackles and arcs across Cassian's skin. He goes rigid, trying and failing to bite back a scream, and falls twitching to the floor.
Bodhi can't keep himself from standing or starting to reach for Cassian, even as his brain screams at his body that that's a bad idea. He isn't sure what his face looks like, but the Nautolan is watching him coldly, suddenly alert and no longer smiling. The real game is up, and he just lost.
The only warning he has is a flicker of motion as the Nautolan reaches for a blaster, but that's all the warning he needs. He twists out of the way and rolls as a bolt of energy hits the floor where he had been a moment before, and another just behind him an instant later. Patrons and servers scramble out of the way or turn to watch the show, but Bodhi barely notices. He ducks around a sabacc table, reaching for a weapon of his own, only to freeze when he sees the Nautolan's blaster aimed squarely between his eyes. He feels words catch in his throat, torn between an old Jedha prayer and a curse at himself for failing. No pleas for mercy, though. Not here. He swears time slows enough to see the Nautolan's finger pressing down on the trigger. And from his place on the floor, Cassian reaches out with a grunt of pain to throw his own chain around the bastard's legs and yank.
The shot goes wide as the Nautolan falls, and Bodhi draws, aims, and fires in one motion. There's a flash of light, sound and then silence, and the collapses falls with a smoking hole in his chest.
Silence falls again. Bodhi stands, looking around with a confidence he doesn't feel, and goes to recover the transmitter from the dead Nautolan's wrist. Another blaster shot shatters the chain, and he hefts Cassian to his feet. This time, he can feel the stares of every other being in the room, and the weight of Cassian sagging against him. He's practically dead-weight right now, breathing shallowly, and Bodhi should not be thinking about his proximity or his warmth, or the dark sweep of hair across his brow. Not now, when he smells of blood and fear-sweat, and has a broken chain hanging from one wrist. Not when Bodhi still has to get them both out of there alive.
"I'll just be taking my prize," he says, with a toss of his head. "Scum tried to cheat me." He hears a few sabacc players muttering to each other, and sees a number of others with their hands at their weapons, but no one tries to argue.
"You," a woman says, and Bodhi looks over to see the bartender he'd spoken with earlier. She's standing just inside the curtain with a heavy disruptor rifle leveled in his direction, and she looks much less friendly than she had before.
"Get out," she snaps, and jerks her head in the direction of the exit. Bodhi suspects she's doing him a favor, and he complies as quickly as Cassian's injuries will let him. He's half expecting an energy bolt to the back, and he keeps expecting it all the way to the door, though he knows better than to turn and look behind him. Nothing will serve him better, here and now, than one more good bluff. He makes it out to the open street again, and the tenuous security of anonymity in a crowd of strangers, still alive and with Cassian still alive at his side. As far as he can tell, that's more than he has a right to hope for, and he'll take it with no complaints.
The journey back to someplace that might count as shelter isn't easy. As desperately as Bodhi wants to get off the street and away from prying eyes, they have to stop and rest more than once, with Bodhi keeping watch for trouble and letting Cassian lean against him until Cassian says he's good to go on.
He isn't sure how Cassian does it, beyond sheer stubbornness and the will to keep putting one foot in front of the next. He's tired himself, by the time they get to someplace they can stay: a seedy-looking hotel with the entrance nestled between an unregulated open-air market on one side and what looks uncomfortably like a brothel on the other. The tired-looking desk clerk doesn't ask questions, only takes their credits and waves them on down the hall to a small, bare room with a bed, a holoscreen and a refresher, and not much else. Not safe, but safe enough for first aid and a chance for Cassian to rest, and that's what matters now.
He helps Cassian down onto the bed, then takes a small medpack from his belt and lays out the contents: analgesic hypos, bacta patches, spray bandages, nutritional gels, all the portable basics. Painkillers first. Cassian winces and then relaxes as Bodhi presses a hypo into his upper arm, but waves away the offer of a sedative. He sits with an effort to let Bodhi help him out of his shirt and run the scanner over his body, then falls back heavily against the pillow. No broken bones, thank the Force. Deep bruises, though, and burns from the lightning, standing out red against his skin. Hypoglycemia and mild electrolyte imbalance – Bodhi is glad he thought to bring the nutrient gel. But first, he administers bacta patches to Cassian's chest and abdomen, and salve to the burns, trying to keep his touch as light and efficient as possible. It's surprisingly easy, considering how often he's imagined Cassian shirtless, to keep his mind on the work at hand – but the Cassian in his midnight imaginings had never been weak or hurt, nor thin and shaky from dehydration. This is real, and the only things that distract him now are worry and anger when Cassian's breath goes sharp and shallow again, or when he flinches infinitesimally despite the painkiller.
But Cassian endures without complaint, and when it's over, he only lets out a laugh that turns into a cough, and says, "I wonder how many different species of parasite I'm sharing this bed with right now."
"None we can't get rid of when you're not half dead," Bodhi says. He hopes it's an exaggeration, but considering the uncharacteristic pallor in Cassian's face, he's not actually sure. He looks bruised and bloodless and far too tired to be talking as much as he is, but Bodhi understands the impulse well.
"They're better company than the sleemo you just killed," Cassian says, and Bodhi doesn't know what to say about the ugly edge to his words – not yet, not now – so he just says, "That we killed. Tripping him up like that – he could have killed you."
"He would have killed you," Cassian retorts. "Never knew you were such a good actor."
"I'm usually not. I was – motivated." He shakes his head and almost reaches out to give Cassian's arm a friendly shake, like he always has after a successful mission together, before remembering that maybe anything but clinical touch isn't what Cassian needs right now. He lets his hand fall to the bed between them, and looks down. "I wasn't lying about everything, you know. I really do owe you a lot."
"And I owe you a little bit more every day, it seems," Cassian says, sounding wry and even a little teasing, like even this was nothing more than another joke. Bodhi could almost believe it, except for the way Cassian takes his hand where it lies and grips it like he doesn't want to let go.
"Just sit tight for now," Bodhi says. "Get some sleep. Jyn's on her way to bail us out, but we've got time."
Cassian nods and lies back, eyes closing, and Bodhi sits with him holds his hand until his grip loosens and his breathing slows. Only then does he step away to check his datapad and reassemble the medpack, and even then, he keeps looking back at Cassian curled on the bed, sleeping the deep sleep of the trusting and profoundly exhausted.
He's safe. They both are, at least for now. One more time against the odds, which seems to be an increasingly common occurrence in Bodhi's life, but hey, he's not complaining.
"You were right, you know," he says quietly. He doesn't know whether he's talking to Cassian about hope, or Galen about doing what he can and forgiving himself for the rest. Both of them, maybe. He leans back against the door, finally able to rest himself, and settles in to wait for Jyn to bring them home until it's time for the war to start again.
Fandom: Rogue One
Major Characters/Pairings: Cassian/Bodhi
Wordcount: ~4,100 words
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: Cassian gets captured by a bounty hunter, and Bodhi goes undercover to win him back in a card game. (Written for a kink meme prompt)
Notes: The card game Bodhi plays is from KOTOR, and was chosen because detailed rules could be hunted down on Wookiepedia.
Content notes: implied rape/noncon (not explicit or on-screen), canon-typical violence and physical abuse
Bodhi doesn't know what he's doing.
Decision making is still new to him, and not exactly comfortable. Everything in the Empire was regimented, and after he left, even those Rebels who trusted him didn't trust him to be in charge. And the truth of the matter is, that suits him just fine; he likes doing what he can for the right cause instead of flying blind and on his own. But with Jyn still in hyperspace transit there's no one else on Os Lunda Station with Cassian's best interests in mind, and not enough time for waiting. That leaves Bodhi to get him out of the mess he's in.
The station is a maze of multi-tiered catwalks and passages, close and dark and more crowded than anywhere he's been before or ever really wants to be again. He makes his way down from the docks to the lower levels, past gambling dens, taverns and junk shops built up layer on layer like a colony of fungus, trying not to stare too long in any stranger's direction in case it brings trouble. He knows where he's headed, at least, and a little of what he's getting into. The Rancor's Claw is infamous on Os Lunda, as is the syndicate that owns it. You can get anything there, if you care to pay: banned weapons, spice, a night of pleasure with any one of a dozen species. Hired killers. Slaves. A small knot of fear and anger solidifies in his stomach as he contemplates that last possibility. He doesn't have the credits to buy Cassian free, and he knows exactly what the odds are of making it out alive if he goes in shooting, but leaving Cassian to that fate isn't an option either. And then he's there: a backalley cantina with an unassuming facade, tinted windows and music drifting through the open doors. No obvious bouncers, he sees, though he knows there are enforcers keeping watch unseen. The Rancor's Claw lets anyone in, and trusts the clientele to be smart enough to keep their own peace, because no one wants to court the syndicate's displeasure. Bodhi certainly doesn't want to court the syndicate's displeasure; if he's honest with himself, he'd rather be doing practically anything else at the moment.
What would Galen do? The thought is clear through the static buzzing of his nerves, and as soon as it crosses his mind, he knows the answer. Galen would walk through those doors smiling like a bastard, ready with a clever lie wrapped in just the truth they wanted to hear. They have no reason to suspect a thing, and Galen wouldn't give them one. Bodhi feels his posture shift – shoulders straight, eyes forward, hands loose and relaxed at his sides. Like Galen facing Krennic, ready to report on progress far more incremental than it should have been. He feels that same false confidence settle over him, and with it a better identity for the job at hand: not Bodhi Rook, but – he thinks for a moment – Gol Adni Ashka, smuggler and spice runner, flush with credits and looking for a good time before shipping out on another long trip through Imperial territory. Not a man with anything to be afraid of here.
The doors slide open, and he saunters through into the hazy half-light and the swell of cantina music and conversation, dodging service droids, half-clothed dancers, and scowling station toughs as he makes his way to the bar. He's one unexpected tap on the shoulder away from breaking out in a cold sweat and a drawn blaster away from full-blown panic, but he doesn't let that shake his lazy half-smile; if there was one thing his time in the Empire had taught him, it's how to bluff.
"I'm looking for a game and a drink," he tells the bartender, a Twi-Lek woman with a jagged scar down the side of her tattooed face. "Maybe some company. I'm told I can find all of them here."
"Maybe so," the bartender says with a file-toothed grin. "Games are in the back. Company... might be you can find that in the back too. As for what you're drinking?"
"After three bloody months in the arse-end of the galaxy with nothing but Jawa juice, I'll take anything that doesn't kill me." He slides a credit chip across the bar, and she scans it with a disinterested flick of her wrist and pours him a viscous red-black drink from a bottle behind the counter
"Bantha Blood," she says. "Might kill you, but you'll die happy."
"Suits me fine," he says, and tips it back, not sure what to expect. It burns and fizzes and leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he can already tell from the tingling warmth in his belly that he'd better not have too many.
"Bracing," he says. "I'll take another."
He drinks that too, because he has to seem like he's here for drinking, trying not to grimace at the taste and privately hoping that Bantha Blood is just a name and not an ingredient.
It's not the worst drink he's sampled on a mission, he decides, as he makes his way toward the back of the house where the bartender told him the gaming tables can be found. There's a charge to be allowed through, though nobody here is taking IDs. Another flash of a chip, and they wave him into the gambling hall, heavy black curtains sweeping shut behind him. He hopes Cassian doesn't mind that his account is being drained for this, and then he shakes his head once, irritated with himself for falling into that trap, and pushes thoughts of Cassian away. There's no reason to believe he's anything but alive, and Bodhi can't afford to be distracted by fear.
The music back here is tense and pounding, and the overhead lights are dim. Most of the illumination comes from card tables lined with glowing neon and low red and violet light, hosting games of sabacc and Liar's Cut and more, and from the stage along the back where more dancers twist in time to the pulsing beat. Others weave through the crowd, sleek and shirtless, carrying trays of drinks and appetizers. He doesn't know whether or not they're here by choice, but he recognizes the caution in their steps and the concealed flinch when one of the patrons lets their gaze linger too long. But Gol Adni wouldn't avert his eyes, even though Bodhi wants to, so he takes a shimmering green cocktail from nearest tray and doesn't let himself think too much about it. We'll come back for them, he tells himself, but he can't be sure, and it's better not to wonder.
You can't save everyone, he hears Galen whisper in the back of his mind. Sometimes you can't save anyone at all, so do what you can and get out before it all goes bad.
It's good advice – advice Cassian would agree with. Bodhi just wishes he were better at accepting it.
He plays a few games of sabacc, sipping his drink as he sizes up the competition covertly and the dancers openly, letting the syndicate enforcers along the walls take the measure of the man they think he is. He lets himself lose more often than he wins, though he wins enough to be interesting, and all the while, he watches the crowd from the corner of his eye. If his informant was right – if his informant could be trusted – the bounty hunter who brought in Cassian liked to drink here, and he's been known to parade his prizes in person before collecting the price on their heads.
It feels like longer than it is, and every passing second seems to wear his nerves down further. He can feel his smuggler's mask slipping, and the subdued fear in the pit of his stomach ready to bubble up again if he only lets it. But after too much waiting and too many small sips of his cloyingly sweet drink, the curtain to the front sweeps open and there – there's the bastard Bodhi's been looking for. A Nautolan man in battered armor, with a laser carbine slung across his back and an ugly-looking blade and a blaster at his belt. Bodhi's in luck, too, because a second figure follows the bounty hunter into the room, walking with the kind of careful gait that speaks of hidden pain and keeping his head bowed.
Bodhi had known what to expect. It's still a shock to see Cassian chained and quiescent, bound at the wrists and bearing a heavy collar around his neck. Bodhi knows him well enough to know that he's seething with rage, watching and waiting for any moment that might offer escape or revenge, but none of that shows in his lowered eyes. He doesn't look good, despite the stubborn dignity that still somehow clings to him. He looks bruised and too thin, with shadows beneath his eyes, and Bodhi's stomach rebels at the sight.
Not yet, Galen's memory cautions. Don't tip your hand.
I'm a better gambler than you, old man he thinks, pushing away a familiar pang of grief. There's no time for that now. Before cowardice can drag him back or anger can drive him to something stupid, he goes to greet Cassian's captor.
The bounty hunter watches him with calm indifference, and offers no greeting of his own beyond a slight incline of his head. No surprise there. Bodhi can work with that.
"Pardon me, sir," he says, and this time, Academy-trained manners serve him well. "If you have no objection, I have something to say to your slave."
"Go on," the Nautolan rumbles, sounding more amused than offended. That's a good sign. He's curious – time to keep him that way. Bodhi circles around, slow and self-satisfied, all his attention on Cassian.
"Fallen on hard times, have you, old friend?" he says.
Cassian is quick on the uptake, but Bodhi had never doubted he would be. He looks up just long enough to look Bodhi in the eye, then spits at his feet and snarls, "I'm still better than you, scum."
The Nautolan freezes for a second, then backhands Cassian hard enough to send him sprawling, blood dripping from a split lip. Bodhi can't hold back his flinch, but thankfully, no one is looking at him. He can't let this escalate, though. He won't watch Cassian hurt in front of him.
"No need for that," he says. "I've got a better idea."
"And that would be?"
Good question, he thinks, but his mouth is already outpacing his rational mind, and the next thing he says is, "I'll play you for him. Your choice of game?"
He knows nearly all of them, after his time as a cargo pilot, which is just as well, considering his tendency to speak without thinking.
"Your old friend has some enemies," the Nautolan says, with a jerk on Cassian's chain. "He's worth ten thousand credits at the nearest Imperial outpost."
Cassian's eyes flash, but he glances at Bodhi and subsides. Anyone who knows him would be able to read incipient violence in the set of his jaw, but he's a gambler too, in his way, and he's willing to wait.
"Then that's how much I'll wager," Bodhi says, which is a slight problem, because ten thousand credits isn't something he actually has. "That and five thousand more to sweeten the deal."
The Nautolan seems to mull it over. He probably isn't taking his own blasted time just to make Bodhi sweat, but Bodhi can feel himself sweating anyway, and he has to fight the urge to shift from side to side.
"Pazaak," he says at last, and Bodhi nods. He knows this game. He's good at this game, and he's spent some time between missions building up his deck, and he thinks he might have half a chance of winning even without resorting to the kind of card tricks that can incite murder in a place like this.
They take the next open table and a house deck for the main cards, and settle in across from each other, sizing each other up with calculated nonchalance while Cassian stands beside his captor's chair, impassive and waiting. They seem to have gathered a few curious beings as onlookers, but most turn back to their own business now that it's clear there's not going to be a fight.
They shuffle their decks, and Bodhi draws his hand: a few pluses, a minus one, and a plus/minus one-or-two. Not bad, though he could have done better. A four to the Nautolan's one gives him first play, and he draws a three from the main deck and lays it face up on the table. Nothing more for now, except to nod politely and say, "Your turn."
The Nautolan draws a seven, watching Bodhi all the while. His ink-black eyes make him difficult to read, but it's hard not to imagine suspicion there.
"Tell me. Why do you want that Rebel garbage enough to throw fifteen thousand credits away for a chance at holding his chain?"
"He owes me," Bodhi says, and follows up with a ten. "He owes me a great deal, as it happens, and I owe him every bit as much. I'm looking forward to the opportunity for payback."
He watches with no visible concern as his opponent plays a six, only takes another drink of green liqueur and says, "Of course, if I don't win, I hope you'll be amenable to a little payback in my honor before you send him off to rot."
I'll win, he thinks. I'll win or I'll take my chances with a blaster. But he's good at odds, and he's got a better chance with the cards.
"It'll be my pleasure," the Nautolan says in reply. Bodhi hopes he's imagining the emphasis.
Each of them draws a one for their next turn, leaving Bodhi with fourteen points, too early to stand and too uncertain still to waste one of his pluses. A seven next round puts him over, but he lays down a minus one from his hand for a total of twenty, taking the set.
Bodhi calls for drinks as the Nautolan reshuffles the main deck, and the game begins again. He starts strong, but his opponent takes the next set with a double-card that brings him to twenty points only a few plays in.
Tied for the final set, then, damn it to hell and back. Bodhi draws another card from the main deck, and Cassian watches warily as they play a few rounds in quick succession, projecting an impressive sense of resignation to match Bodhi's feigned indifference. It shouldn't matter to him, after all, which of two scoundrels wins the life they're betting on. But Bodhi sees his eyes tracking the cards, and he knows from every mission they've shared how strongly this man clings to hope.
The Nautolan's next draw brings him to eighteen points, a hard but not impossible number to beat without going bust. He looks at the cards in his hand like he's considering risking one more turn, but finally spreads his hands and says, "Stand."
Bodhi nods, and smiles, and draws again. A four, for fifteen points. A two, for seventeen – and a plus two from his hand. He's still too tense to feel anything like triumph, but he sees Cassian's slight exhalation of relief and the twitch of anger in the Nautolan's face when he realizes who's won, followed by a wider grin that might or might not signify danger.
"Good game, my friend," he says, clapping Bodhi on the shoulder from across the table in a gesture that certainly seems friendly. "Looks like you've won yourself a new toy."
"So it seems," Bodhi says, with an equally wide grin. "You have his transmitter for me?"
"Right here," the Nautolan says, and taps a gauntlet on his left wrist. "One wrong move, and – bang! Oh, and you'll enjoy this."
He flicks a switch on the gauntlet, and blue lightning crackles and arcs across Cassian's skin. He goes rigid, trying and failing to bite back a scream, and falls twitching to the floor.
Bodhi can't keep himself from standing or starting to reach for Cassian, even as his brain screams at his body that that's a bad idea. He isn't sure what his face looks like, but the Nautolan is watching him coldly, suddenly alert and no longer smiling. The real game is up, and he just lost.
The only warning he has is a flicker of motion as the Nautolan reaches for a blaster, but that's all the warning he needs. He twists out of the way and rolls as a bolt of energy hits the floor where he had been a moment before, and another just behind him an instant later. Patrons and servers scramble out of the way or turn to watch the show, but Bodhi barely notices. He ducks around a sabacc table, reaching for a weapon of his own, only to freeze when he sees the Nautolan's blaster aimed squarely between his eyes. He feels words catch in his throat, torn between an old Jedha prayer and a curse at himself for failing. No pleas for mercy, though. Not here. He swears time slows enough to see the Nautolan's finger pressing down on the trigger. And from his place on the floor, Cassian reaches out with a grunt of pain to throw his own chain around the bastard's legs and yank.
The shot goes wide as the Nautolan falls, and Bodhi draws, aims, and fires in one motion. There's a flash of light, sound and then silence, and the collapses falls with a smoking hole in his chest.
Silence falls again. Bodhi stands, looking around with a confidence he doesn't feel, and goes to recover the transmitter from the dead Nautolan's wrist. Another blaster shot shatters the chain, and he hefts Cassian to his feet. This time, he can feel the stares of every other being in the room, and the weight of Cassian sagging against him. He's practically dead-weight right now, breathing shallowly, and Bodhi should not be thinking about his proximity or his warmth, or the dark sweep of hair across his brow. Not now, when he smells of blood and fear-sweat, and has a broken chain hanging from one wrist. Not when Bodhi still has to get them both out of there alive.
"I'll just be taking my prize," he says, with a toss of his head. "Scum tried to cheat me." He hears a few sabacc players muttering to each other, and sees a number of others with their hands at their weapons, but no one tries to argue.
"You," a woman says, and Bodhi looks over to see the bartender he'd spoken with earlier. She's standing just inside the curtain with a heavy disruptor rifle leveled in his direction, and she looks much less friendly than she had before.
"Get out," she snaps, and jerks her head in the direction of the exit. Bodhi suspects she's doing him a favor, and he complies as quickly as Cassian's injuries will let him. He's half expecting an energy bolt to the back, and he keeps expecting it all the way to the door, though he knows better than to turn and look behind him. Nothing will serve him better, here and now, than one more good bluff. He makes it out to the open street again, and the tenuous security of anonymity in a crowd of strangers, still alive and with Cassian still alive at his side. As far as he can tell, that's more than he has a right to hope for, and he'll take it with no complaints.
The journey back to someplace that might count as shelter isn't easy. As desperately as Bodhi wants to get off the street and away from prying eyes, they have to stop and rest more than once, with Bodhi keeping watch for trouble and letting Cassian lean against him until Cassian says he's good to go on.
He isn't sure how Cassian does it, beyond sheer stubbornness and the will to keep putting one foot in front of the next. He's tired himself, by the time they get to someplace they can stay: a seedy-looking hotel with the entrance nestled between an unregulated open-air market on one side and what looks uncomfortably like a brothel on the other. The tired-looking desk clerk doesn't ask questions, only takes their credits and waves them on down the hall to a small, bare room with a bed, a holoscreen and a refresher, and not much else. Not safe, but safe enough for first aid and a chance for Cassian to rest, and that's what matters now.
He helps Cassian down onto the bed, then takes a small medpack from his belt and lays out the contents: analgesic hypos, bacta patches, spray bandages, nutritional gels, all the portable basics. Painkillers first. Cassian winces and then relaxes as Bodhi presses a hypo into his upper arm, but waves away the offer of a sedative. He sits with an effort to let Bodhi help him out of his shirt and run the scanner over his body, then falls back heavily against the pillow. No broken bones, thank the Force. Deep bruises, though, and burns from the lightning, standing out red against his skin. Hypoglycemia and mild electrolyte imbalance – Bodhi is glad he thought to bring the nutrient gel. But first, he administers bacta patches to Cassian's chest and abdomen, and salve to the burns, trying to keep his touch as light and efficient as possible. It's surprisingly easy, considering how often he's imagined Cassian shirtless, to keep his mind on the work at hand – but the Cassian in his midnight imaginings had never been weak or hurt, nor thin and shaky from dehydration. This is real, and the only things that distract him now are worry and anger when Cassian's breath goes sharp and shallow again, or when he flinches infinitesimally despite the painkiller.
But Cassian endures without complaint, and when it's over, he only lets out a laugh that turns into a cough, and says, "I wonder how many different species of parasite I'm sharing this bed with right now."
"None we can't get rid of when you're not half dead," Bodhi says. He hopes it's an exaggeration, but considering the uncharacteristic pallor in Cassian's face, he's not actually sure. He looks bruised and bloodless and far too tired to be talking as much as he is, but Bodhi understands the impulse well.
"They're better company than the sleemo you just killed," Cassian says, and Bodhi doesn't know what to say about the ugly edge to his words – not yet, not now – so he just says, "That we killed. Tripping him up like that – he could have killed you."
"He would have killed you," Cassian retorts. "Never knew you were such a good actor."
"I'm usually not. I was – motivated." He shakes his head and almost reaches out to give Cassian's arm a friendly shake, like he always has after a successful mission together, before remembering that maybe anything but clinical touch isn't what Cassian needs right now. He lets his hand fall to the bed between them, and looks down. "I wasn't lying about everything, you know. I really do owe you a lot."
"And I owe you a little bit more every day, it seems," Cassian says, sounding wry and even a little teasing, like even this was nothing more than another joke. Bodhi could almost believe it, except for the way Cassian takes his hand where it lies and grips it like he doesn't want to let go.
"Just sit tight for now," Bodhi says. "Get some sleep. Jyn's on her way to bail us out, but we've got time."
Cassian nods and lies back, eyes closing, and Bodhi sits with him holds his hand until his grip loosens and his breathing slows. Only then does he step away to check his datapad and reassemble the medpack, and even then, he keeps looking back at Cassian curled on the bed, sleeping the deep sleep of the trusting and profoundly exhausted.
He's safe. They both are, at least for now. One more time against the odds, which seems to be an increasingly common occurrence in Bodhi's life, but hey, he's not complaining.
"You were right, you know," he says quietly. He doesn't know whether he's talking to Cassian about hope, or Galen about doing what he can and forgiving himself for the rest. Both of them, maybe. He leans back against the door, finally able to rest himself, and settles in to wait for Jyn to bring them home until it's time for the war to start again.