Work Text:
It doesn’t happen right away.
In all honesty, there’s something about Thane that bothers Cassandra at first. He’s so … still. In her experience, the only people that still are predators, killers. But then, he admits it, completely unabashed. He’s a killer. Just like she is.
So why does that get to her?
It would be cliché to say he’s a mystery she needs to solve, so she doesn’t say it. Also, it’s not true. Thane is many things, but a mystery isn’t one of them. He’s open. Honest. Forthright. She could ask him any question and trust the answer he gave her, even—especially—if it’s not something she’d prefer to hear.
After a while, it’s like she goes to Life Support out of muscle memory. She stands for only a moment as the elevator door opens. To the left: a stoic warrior who would kill her without remorse if she knew even half the things Cassandra had done. To the right: a stoic warrior who would kill her without remorse for a sufficient paycheck.
It wasn’t so easy a decision in the beginning. The first time she went to see him, it was an exploratory mission. She would be able to tell if he was lying, and if he didn’t meet her standards of trustworthiness, she’d kill him herself. Cassandra had already died once. She preferred not to do it again.
As frustrating and unexpected as it was, he was unerringly honest. He admitted to his role in his wife’s death. He didn’t try to justify his absence from his son’s life. But something still ate at Cassandra.
“How can you say it’s not your fault,” she said one day.
Thane tilted his head at her as his secondary eyelids blinked. “What is supposed to be my fault, siha?”
“Don’t call me that,” she sneered. “You’ve killed more people than you can count. You haven’t even bothered to count them. How can you say their deaths aren’t your fault?”
He nodded. “Their deaths are not your fault, Commander.”
She shook her head and rubbed two fingers against her temple. “I’m not talking about me, Krios. I’m talking about you.”
“Of course, Commander.” He paused and hummed, considering his next words. “The hanar trained me to kill effectively. Mercifully. I fulfilled my first contract when I was twelve.” He took a deep breath. “Looking back, I was too young for that assignment. But I didn’t know better. All I knew was that the people taking care of me needed me. Even if the way they needed me wasn’t … conventional.”
Cassandra snorted. “Even a kid knows what’s right and wrong.”
Thane nodded again. “They do. A child also knows what’s necessary. He knows what he needs to do, not just to keep his room and board, but to maintain the affection of those who keep him. And those who keep him know this much.” He paused for a long moment before continuing. “If the ones who keep him direct him to behave in a way he wouldn’t have normally … the responsibility is with them, not him.”
“That’s bullshit,” Cassandra said, almost without pause.
“Is it, Commander,” Thane said, tilting his head further. “If a child is about to starve and she does something unfortunate to stay alive, who is at fault? The child, or the person who asked the child to do the unfortunate thing, knowing full well what the stakes are?”
Cassandra pushed away from the table and stood, pacing the small space. “Of course the child isn’t responsible,” she said. “But eventually that child becomes an adult. They can make decisions for themselves.”
“Yes,” Thane agreed. “They can make decisions. Including taking contracts that kill people.” He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against his clasped hands. “There will always be people who can’t do their own killing. I can offer a service that both achieves the inevitable and affords the target minimal pain and discomfort.” He turned his gaze toward Cassandra. “I might kill professionally, Commander. That does not mean I enjoy it.”
Cassandra continued to pace. How could he … how did he think … no. If you killed a person, you were responsible. End of story. Trying to say otherwise was an equivocation. A justification. She was responsible. No. He was responsible. He’d been paid to kill people and he’d done it.
“You could’ve said no at any point,” she said, her arms crossed as she carefully looked away from him.
“That’s true,” Thane agreed. “And I could’ve starved at any point. I could’ve alienated myself from anyone who meant anything to me at any point.”
Cassandra finally looked at Thane. “Yeah? Do you think Kolyat would buy what you’re selling.”
Thane started, visibly taken aback by her words, and she immediately regretted them. “That’s not,” she shook her head and looked away.
“I mean …”
“You said what you meant, Commander,” he said. Already, she felt a twinge in her chest that almost felt like she missed him calling her siha. God, why did she want to hear him call her that? “It’s a fair question.” He paused as he considered his answer. “I suspect Kolyat would be as suspicious as you are. That’s not something I can control.”
Cassandra wanted to take the question back. She didn’t want Thane thinking that … she wasn’t sure what she didn’t want him thinking. She’d upset him, that much was clear, and she didn’t like how that made her feel.
“What I mean to say,” he said after a moment, “is that it’s not your fault, Commander.”
Cassandra stopped and turned toward him, unable to move toward the empty chair across from him.
“You have spent a significant part of your life … what is it humans say? Taking out the garbage for people who had no respect for you,” he said. “But just because they had no respect for you, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.” He paused again. “You deliver death, that’s true. But you do not relish it. It is something you deliver quickly, cleanly, and painlessly. That’s something to be admired, siha. I apologize. Commander.”
She sighed. She could get used to the nickname, if she was being honest, and didn’t correct him.
Cassandra couldn’t look at Thane. She wanted to sit across from him and look him in the eyes, but she didn’t want to sit. She needed to bleed off the energy building up inside her. “I just need to … I need to think.”
Thane caught her hand as she moved past him. He didn’t lean forward. He didn’t look at her with any kind of smoky gaze. He just ran his thumb down her palm and across her wrist and focused anywhere that didn’t meet her eyes.
“That’s good, Commander,” he said, his eyes still on the hand he held. “Taking the time to know one’s own thoughts is important.”
“Siha,” she said before she realized it. Thane looked up at her and she felt her heart jump. “It’s okay if you call me siha.”
Thane nodded and pressed his thumb against her palm before leaning back again.
After a moment, she slowly pulled her hand back. Without a word, she headed toward the door. Something inside her was … still. She hadn’t felt that before.
She needed to figure it out.