Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“Why did you come back with a life form?”

Cassian sighed and debated pulling off his sopping sweater. His jacket was on the tiny figure at his feet, equally wet, and he decided the draft of the ship would be worse without a top than with a wet one.

K-2 ducked out of the cockpit and looked at the child almost standing on Cassian's boots.

“It's a girl, K-2.”

“Why did you bring back a girl? It's too small to do anything.”

She pushed the oversized hood off and glared up at K-2 with dark eyes.

“She insisted,” Cassian said, because it must never get out that a seven-year-old blackmailed a Resistance agent into giving her a ride.

Chapter Text

Cheedo came to her near tears, Capable trailing after looking grim.

“Furi, we're out of two-dollar books and the dog man is coming!”

That was a problem. Furi leaned over the counter and around a stack of books to see out the window. Sure enough, their most regular customer was standing outside with his gray cattle dog, rubbing at his leg brace.

Furi grabbed a book from the stock box at her feet – historical something, that seemed like his style – and threw it at Cheedo, who ran for the rickety sales table just as the door opened.

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People learn not to comment on the ginger shadow at Stacker's elbow fast enough. The boy won't speak to anyone but the dog that's already half his size, no matter the efforts of the half-dozen therapists he ignores until Stacker steps in.

“Chuck will speak when he wants to.”

And he does, the morning after Knifehead's fatal attack. The morning after things change for everyone.

“I want to be a ranger,” he says to Stacker's cup of Earl Gray.

Stacker takes a sip.

“I'll get you the preliminary textbooks tomorrow. I suggest you speak to Mr. Choi about tutoring.”

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Peter almost stepped on Groot's cactus when he careened through the door.

“We have a new – sorry Groot! – We have a new client!” he yelled, waving a sheaf of papers.

Gamora looked out of her office and Drax emerged from the break room holding a pot of coffee.

“We have yet to recover from the last job,” he said.

“This better not be another charity case!” yelled Rocket from somewhere in the back.

Peter handed the papers to Gamora with a grin and a flourish. She skimmed the first page, Drax leaning over her shoulder, then looked up.

“No,” she said. “We are not investigating Ronan Exports.”

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It's hard to act on panic and half-formed plans when you relived the same day five times. On the sixth morning, Anaking opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and decided to formulate a plan himself because Obi-Wan had no memory of the repeats.

Deep breaths.

Okay, first of all, he could do some long-overdue meditating (because he had nothing but time).

He only had to skim the first level of meditation before he felt something cold. And slimy. Something that hissed Padme's name and filled him with icy fear.

He ripped it out and went to find his master.

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“Please tell me you didn't steal a sword.”

Steve almost tripped over the scabbard of the ornate, shiny, very expensive looking sword strapped to his waist. Bucky sighed.

“No!” Steve said, but his expression said something was up.

“Okay, where'd it come from?”

There was the guilty look, Steve shifting from foot to foot and fiddling with his belt.

“I – found it?” he tried.

Bucky gave him a flat look. He took a deep breath.

“Ipulleditoutofastone,” he blurted.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Steve groaned. “I pulled it out of a stone,” he repeated, “and now somebody wants to make me king.”