Work Text:
It's always after dark when Van comes to him, like the dimming of the Ebon Hawke's onboard lights are the call to slink to the workshop.
Canderous isn't sure why. They certainly see enough of each other during the day. In the long hours in hyperspace between planets, it's inevitable that they run into each other in the common areas. Though the Ebon Hawke is Carth's baby, and the lot of them answer to the Council, it is Van who stalks the corridors like they own the steel beneath their feet. When they see him during the day cycle, he gets the same distant politeness that the rest of them do. Pleasantries which Canderous never returns with more than a grunt and one word answers. To their credit, Van never seems offended, and usually flits off to someone else on board.
Van seems to make it a point of habit to visit everyone on the ship. They play cards with Carth, and seem to meditate on a semi-frequent basis with Juhani. Even Bastila, who Canderous knows stands on rocky footing with Van, seems to have earned a portion of their attention.
Though Canderous rarely leaves the relative quiet of the workshop or his berth, he's found the pair of them sparring sometimes. For as much as they seem to dislike each other, they're drawn together like twin flames. Jedi usually are, Canderous finds. They pack together, perhaps comforted by the few who can understand the nature of their lives. Van and Bastila's skills in the arena are well matched, and there's no point eschewing a training partner just because you dislike them.
Bastila is all grace. Precision and control, she knows the exact limits of her body and what to do with it. She's usually the one to land a strike first. Van is quicker, and improvises better with the kind of skill it takes years to build. Their bouts often last until both of them are panting and sheened with sweat. After which, they seem to flee each other, seeking the opposite corners of the ship like magnets whose poles repel each other.
The Ebon Hawke is a decent enough ship, but it's not meant to house eight people. It's not like a military vessel. Military vessels are built utilitarian with the intent to cram as many people together in the least amount of space. Everything has a place and everyone has a place to be. Chaotic, but at least it's predictable. Even the most two bit mercenary outfit has a schedule and rank to fall back on.
That is what Canderous is used to. He can work with that. The expectation is a lack of privacy, and Canderous can deal with that. The Ebon Hawke, at one point, had been a private cruiser. There's a sort of… sprawl. The kind he can't predict.
There's no routine. No set time for anything. At any moment, he might find Juhani utilizing the section of the cargo hold that's been retrofitted into a sparring ring, or Jolee nursing a cup of tea in the ship's tiny galley. When Canderous wants a moment to himself free of the same walls that box him in every day, inevitably someone else has beaten him to it. Everyone is always in someone's way. Traces of the Ebon Hawke's crew manage to worm into every corner of the ship. A bracelet of Mission's in the workshop, one of Carth's jackets slung over a chair in the common area. It's maddening. Canderous’ things are all neatly contained to his berth or the workshop, but he seems to be the only one who bothers.
Without the order and general routine of a Mandalorian warship, Canderous finds his patience wears thin. He's never been a particularly pleasant man to begin with, but it doesn't take long for his gruffness to gain an edge. The workshop is his buffer. No one really has any cause to be there, and Canderous prefers weapons to most people, most days.
Perhaps it's the crew's understanding that he'd prefer his solitude that keeps most of them away, or it's just because the trip to the workshop often isn't worth it. It isn't a great location. The hum of the engines and the hyperspace drive are loud, and most of the space is taken up by the landspeeder they use only often enough to justify keeping it. Carth wanders in now and again to fetch something from one of the toolboxes or sit at the workbench and fiddle with his blaster. He attempts polite conversation a few times, but the look in his eye flickers between distrust and outright dislike for Canderous, and Canderous isn't interested in entertaining niceties.
There are only two things Canderous can count on with any regularity. The first is mealtime. Not out of any sense of camaraderie, Canderous believes, but the lot all tend to get hungry at the same time and group together in the galley that's barely big enough for four people, let alone eight. Not all of them join. Jolee prefers his solitude, and perhaps only the company of Juhani, and rarely steps foot out of his berth or the medical bay.
The days when Canderous deigns to join them in the galley for meals are rare. It's a different kind of battle at that table than he's used to - Van and Bastila seated on opposite ends of the table, staring at each other. Van with their cheek resting on their elbow, a lazy and satisfied grin directed across the table at Bastila, sitting stiff-backed, unable to completely school her stony expression. Both of them oblivious to the general chaos of the table around them. They're engaged in some sort of warfare, Canderous thinks, though he doesn't know about what, and it only ends when one of them gets up to leave.
The second only occurs when the lights go out. Inevitably, Van comes slinking from the dark like they'd been materialized by the shadows. Always quiet, Van still walks like they command the attention of the ship, but it's subtler somehow. The Van from the day cycle is gone. There are no pointless pleasantries that Canderous has to navigate. Van is quieter. Coy, in a way. He doesn't think they'd sought him out with any intention, at first. The first time they'd come, Van had simply sat at the workbench and tweaked the components of their lightsaber. They hadn't spoken, but they'd worked side by side in companionable silence until Van had slipped back into the dark, leaving him with a half smile thrown over their shoulder.
Then they'd been there again the next night, and the next, called forth by the dimming of the lights. It's in the honest dark that Van seems more real. None of the pointless fluff of daylight. In the dark, and in battle. The only two times a man can ever truly be himself.
They speak occasionally - the first few times it had been Canderous himself drawing Van into conversation, sure that there was something Van wanted. Fascinated by his endless war stories, they had talked for quite some time about various battles. When those had run dry, they'd turned to warfare and strategy, and eventually to combat.
Van claims no combat experience prior to the Council's mission, and Canderous makes no bones about how little he believes that. Van doesn't move the way someone unaccustomed to fighting moves. Van doesn't kill like they still measure the weight of a life behind their glowing blade. Van seems honest though, shrugging away his dubious speculation. It would be a strange thing to lie about. The information nests in the corner of Canderous' mind he's allotted for Van's occupation. It seems to grow daily.
When they don't talk, Van seems mostly content to watch him work. It had irritated Canderous at first. At first, Van's presence felt like he was missing a step on his way down the stairs. It threw him to have someone who simply... wanted him around. But Van never stayed for long. An hour, maybe two, before they'd slip off to haunt the Ebon Hawke's quiet corridors. Afterwards, he'd find himself looking for their quiet, steady presence and come up lacking. Canderous never asked where they go. To bed, maybe. Maybe they find someone else to bother for an hour, or join someone in their bunk. It's never been for him to care about.
But Van had kept coming, and eventually Canderous realized what they wanted was company - his company, for reasons beyond him. Beyond war stories, Canderous doesn't get up to anything particularly exciting. Maintenance, mostly. Weapons and armor, occasionally the speeder if it gets taken out. Van seems content, and after a while their presence weaves into his life.
The two of them had fallen into a routine. Sometimes Van will sit to the side of the workbench and meditate. Their quiet breathing is a measured addition to the ambient hum of the ship's engines. Canderous takes account of it and passes it to the back of his mind as he works on various projects, only keying back in when their breathing quickens. Sometimes they tinker with their lightsabers, taking them apart and putting them back together with the familiarity of a warrior.
Other times, they shed their shirt and practice katas in the cramped space between the speeder and the workbench. It intrigues Canderous, from a warrior's perspective. Most jedi are lean through the waist, and a bit top-heavy. Years of swinging quarterstaves and blades give them overdeveloped shoulders and traps, countered by toned arms and strong backs - but never so strong as to lack grace and flexibility.
Van's physique is a bit more proportional. Still lean, but not quite slender, the taper of their waist belies the strength in their body. As Van works through the motions of an advanced kata, they look sturdy. Replace a lightsaber with a blade, and they would be as deadly. Canderous wants to see them with no weapons at all.
Van's form is always tight and controlled, face set in a hard mask of concentration. They shift gracefully from one form to another, until their skin is lathered in sweat. Canderous will watch them then, leaning back against the workbench with his knees spanned and chin propped on his knuckles. Not enough room to spar in the workshop, or he would pull them into a scrap. He wonders to himself if Van lets Bastila score her first hit when they spar, and whether or not Van would let him do the same.
A scar sits on Van's chest, just to the right of their heart. Like a lightning bolt frozen in flesh, it twists up their neck, further up to their face, where it stops just beneath their right eye. It ripples as they move, flexing over the solid muscle under their tanned skin. Canderous never asks where they got it, and Van's never told him. The shape of it reminds Canderous of something, but he can't put his finger on what. The knowledge sits uneasily on the fringes of his consciousness, just out of reach. Whatever had caused it, what Canderous does know it would have come dangerously close to killing Van.
“Sloppy footwork,” he'll say sometimes when Van has finished a set, and Van's dark eyes will narrow. They'll run through the form again, motions deliberate, focused. Their footwork is perfect and both of them know it. There's some kind of pretense hidden in it that Canderous doesn't examine too closely. He just watches Van move, lit by the solitary overhead light on the workbench, their skin bathed in gold and carved through with deep shadow as they swing their quarterstaff up in a slow overhand strike, stopping just above the point of Canderous’ shoulder. He'll always smirk, and Van will huff, and he'll think of the look in their eye often throughout the evening.
Rarer are the nights when Van comes seeking something other than company. When they slink in with their head low like a scolded animal and press into him from behind, wrapping tanned and scarred arms around his shoulders and burying their face in the crook of his neck. And… Canderous lets them.
The first time it had happened, he'd been sure Van had been angling for sex. Their hands had dropped onto his shoulders, fingertips skirting the ridge of his clavicle. The point of their index finger had found the hollow of his throat, tracing a line up to his ear, and Canderous had been certain the next words out of Van's mouth would be a proposition. He wouldn't have turned it down, a realization that surprised him at the time - but Van's hands had stayed politely above the belt.
Just as the first time, just as every time since. Van simply seems to want to touch him. Their fingers seek out the ridges of old scars and trace over the dips and valleys of his knuckles while he works. They find the corded muscle of his neck, nails flirting against the tender flesh just beneath his throat. Canderous can't remember the last time someone touched him just to touch him, if anyone ever had before.
He'd never admit it out loud, but it's… nice. In a way. It makes him feel like a pet caught under their intent affection, but it isn't unpleasant. Van just likes to touch. There's plenty to Canderous worth laying hands on, and Van seems to want to seek it all out. Scars, the ridges of hard muscle, the short scruff that's usually on his chin by the hour of the night. All of it Van lingers over, and all of it Canderous endures.
More than once, when Van had begun running gentle fingers between the point at the back of his neck and the soft spot at the base of his skull, Canderous had found his hands slowing, eyes threatening to droop shut. And, always, when he shoots a venomous glare at Van, he finds them watching him with an indulgent smile.
Canderous isn't sure what any of it means, if it means anything at all.
It's one such night when Van seeks him out. The Ebon Hawke is almost halfway through its night cycle, and in spite of the dimming of the lights, Van had not appeared. After the first hour, Canderous had ceased watching the shadows at the entrance to the workshop for Van's lean frame. He has work to do, and decides he's glad for the lack of distraction.
Before him on the workbench, the breastplate of his armor is splayed open, its delicate inner workings bare to the air like the organs of something eviscerated. An internal component had been knocked out of alignment during the last fight. A bunch of two bit mercenaries on Dantooine, of all places. A blaster bolt had hit him just right, off the side of the chest. His HUD had gone dark, shields blinking off. His next shot dropped, inches below where Canderous had been aiming, unable to quickly compensate for a lack of servo assisted support. Though strong enough to bear the armor without mechanical assistance, the sudden weight was cumbersome.
The mercenaries, sensing weakness, had turned their weapons on him. Another bolt had hit him on the shoulder, leaving a streak of black carbon dangerously close to the join between his pauldron and breastplate. A third had winged his helmet. Van had been beside him in a moment, deflecting the next blaster bolt with one tight arc of their saber. Behind them both, Carth and Mission had been returning fire safely behind cover.
Van's saber had moved so quickly it had been nothing but a blur of gold. Then their other hand had gone to their belt and their red blade joined the fray. It had taken Canderous a moment to familiarize himself with the weight of his inert armor. Testing the weight, he finds it manageable enough. Though his shields were down, it was still durasteel, and could take a few blaster bolts. His fault for getting too bold, so he'd deal with the consequences. He'd deal. Canderous had lifted a heavy hand to push at Van's leg, urging them to move.
Van had looked down at him as they deflected a bolt with a casual downward swipe of their blade. He'd nodded, and Van's lips had pulled into a vicious smile.
That was all it took for them to leap into the fray with bared teeth and lightning crackling at their fingertips.
It was an unnecessary risk for them, and one Canderous means to rectify.
Unfortunately, the project is turning into one of greater magnitude than he'd anticipated. What he'd hoped was just a simple short in the wiring is getting harder to pinpoint. So he's been sitting at the bench, picking through individual processes and wiring trying to find the glitch for hours, moving only to turn on the overhead lamp when the ship's lights had gone dark. Every few minutes, he'd glance at the door, expecting to find it darkened by Van's silhouette. But an hour had turned into two, so Canderous had returned the force of his attention to his armor.
That is until a footstep creaks behind him. Deliberate, too, a warning for his sake the instant before a pair of hands wrap over his shoulders and Van's weight presses against his back.
“You're tense.” Their voice is low. Canderous only grunts. A moment later, he feels a pair of thumbs dig into the muscle on either side of his spine. The sensation makes a shiver crawl up his back and he fights the urge to shudder. Van continues, “You missed dinner.”
“I was busy,” Canderous says. He gestures at the array of parts strewn before him, soldering iron in one hand, a biometric component in the other. Van continues kneading at his shoulders. If they continue, his resolve might slacken, and he won't get anything done.
“Mission cooked.”
“Glad to have missed it, then.”
Van hums. Reaching over him, Van spreads Canderous’ fingers to pluck the component from his grip - a biometric scanner that's meant to slot into the armor and give him a readout on his general status. One among the many processes that had failed in the firefight. “What are you working on?”
“Armor malfunction,” Canderous says, reaching out to take the scanner from Van's slender fingers.
“Still?”
“It's persistent,” Canderous admits.
“I thought only the servomotors went out in that fight?”
Canderous makes a noise. “No. Something wrong with the onboard CPU.”
“You didn't tell me that.” Van's voice has an edge. Canderous isn't in the mood to manage their odd temperament.
“It wasn't important,” he says. “I'm fixing it now.” Settling back, he wipes the soldering iron clean and drops it back in the socket. Van's hand smooths over his hair. “That's the problem with integrated systems; one thing goes wrong and the entire thing breaks down - are you even listening to me?” Canderous tips his head to the side as he talks and sees Van's eyes glazed over.
Their attention flicks to him, a little smile curling on their lips. “Of course,” Van says, shifting to sit beside him on the bench.
He wouldn't find anyone else's smile so disarming. The fact that he finds Van's is is unsettling. Mouth quirking to the side, Canderous hums and returns his attention to his armor. “I'd like to get this fixed before we land on Tatooine,” he mutters.
“By all means.”
Canderous doesn't move. He's frowning at the parts arrayed on the surface in front of him. Extending a hand, Van places the scanner back in his palm.
“Am I distracting you, Ordo?”
“Yes,” Canderous says, shooting them a look that he's sure isn't as cutting as it would be if it were meant for someone else. Judging by the way Van's smile widens, they know that, too.
Shifting forward, Van rests their cheek against his shoulder. Canderous shifts to accommodate, a little concession that should make him pull away and reassess. But he doesn't. He lets Van bury their face against his shoulder as he works, despite the fact that he has to reach around their shoulders to grab for parts and their hair tickles the corner of his jaw. Van's breath ghosts over his collarbone, their lips just brushing the line of his throat.
“You don't need to fix your armor,” Van says. “I'll kill anyone who tries to touch you.”
Canderous huffs. “That's supposed to be my job,” he says. “You're not supposed to get your hands too dirty.”
“Too late.” Van nuzzles at his collarbone. It makes a tide of… something swell up in Canderous. An emotion he doesn't have the name for. He pauses, staring at the top of Van's dark head until the feeling fades. It doesn't.
“What would Bastila think?” It's a gamble to invoke her name. It might earn him Van's irritation. Maybe that's what he wants. Trading Van's company for a night of uninterrupted work.
Van only makes a noise. “I don't care. She isn't here.”
“You might need her if I don't get this armor fixed.”
That finally seems to rankle Van. Their brows furrow. “You'll get it fixed.”
“With no help from you.”
Van huffs. Their fingers toy with the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You should know by now that I am rarely helpful.”
“Yet here I sit, repairing my armor so your safety isn't left to Bastila's discretion.”
Van smiles. Canderous feels it with the way their mouth is pressed against his shoulder. “Do you like me, Ordo?”
The question is so absurdly juvenile it makes Canderous snort. He continues working in silence for a few heartbeats until he realizes Van has stilled and that smile pressed against his throat has faded. The amusement dies.
“I let you bother me every night,” he says.
“You could tolerate that.”
“Do I seem like a man who tolerates nuisances?”
Van lifts their head a bit, one eyebrow quirked. Canderous relents with a little sigh. Like he's placating a child, Canderous says, “I do like you, Van.”
Even as he says it, the unknown emotion stirs in his chest again. The enormity of it surprises him. Like seems too small a word to encompass the truth of it. As if acknowledging it, he is now confronted by it. By no means is he a poetic man - Canderous has no desire to go searching for the appropriate synonym. He just lets the feeling sit there, unnamed. How long had it dwelt there, unrecognized, growing without Canderous realizing?
It's… affection, he supposes. A word that fits oddly in his chest, like a joint out of line. Van smiles at him again, and Canderous feels it grow another fraction. A traitorous tumor behind his ribs, is what it is, and its roots dig deeper every hour Van sits beside him. It unsettles him. As Van places their face back into the crook of his shoulder, anxiety stirs in Canderous’ gut. That, while not wholly unfamiliar, is an emotion he hasn't felt in ages. Not since he was a greenhorn recruit, and that was a long, long time ago.
There's a stillness before every fight, even the ones that seem to spring out of nowhere. A beat where the world slows and a moment stretches into eternity before the first blaster bolt is fired. That feeling, the uncertainty of where the bolt will land, who will drop, that never fades. This is different. This feels like something is looming over him, something he couldn't have possibly prepared for. Like he's back in that firefight, his armor dead on his back, vision obscured by the malfunctioning HUD, forced to trust his instincts. The mechanical motion of aim, shoot, reload. Van before him, lightsaber whipping in a blur of gold. Perfect footwork. The knowledge that they'd leapt to his side, even knowing the danger.
A sudden pain blossoms in his shoulder. Canderous stiffens, breath sucking in between his teeth. His eyes go wide and one hand comes up to grasp at the long fall of Van's dark hair. His shoulders hike up, whole body going tense. Canderous grips at the biometric scanner in his hand so hard the edges bite into his palm. All the while the pain sharpens.
It takes a moment for his brain to catch up. Van is biting him, he realizes. Their teeth are sunk into the muscle of his trapezius, jaw locked. Candeorus is quivering under their teeth. Not the most intense pain he's ever felt but the suddenness of it, the strangeness, has him frozen. Even when Canderous yanks on their hair, Van cannot be persuaded to let go. The pain is a melting heat, spreading up to his jaw and down to the tips of his fingers. Canderous is rigid, breath shallow. His heart is pounding in his head. He could shove them off if he was determined. Could pull hard enough on their hair to make them let go - and he almost does, fingers tightening in the locks at the base of their skull. Van's jaw clenches in response.
Slowly, the pain seems to change. It melts into a languid heat. Spreading like honey, the heat oozes deeper, mellowing into a slow, subtle throb. Still painful, but beneath the ache it turns pleasurable. A pain that seems to precede the promise of a release, like that of a firm hand pressing a knot of tension out of a sore muscle. Canderous can feel Van's tongue against his skin, laving against the hot flesh. The sensation makes him shudder then, and he grips their hair with more urgency.
Van's jaw slackens. They don't pull away just yet. Teeth unsticking from flesh, their tongue draws across the bite, hot and slick. The sudden shock of cool air against his aggravated skin has him drawing in another sharp breath. The bite is wet with saliva. A shiver crawls up his spine. A different kind of heat is growing in the pit of his gut, pulsing in time with every throb of the bite. He grips at the scanner in his hand, focusing on the cold sting of metal on skin rather than the slow swipe of a tongue along his neck. Canderous’ breath betrays him, shortening to a gasp. Van traces the divots and hollows made by their own teeth, tip of their tongue flickering against the epicenter, where the bite is pulsing with a renewed ache. Then Van pulls away and blinks at him placidly.
The second they pull back, Canderous reaches for his shoulder. He checks his hand in incredulity - they hadn't bitten deep enough to draw blood, but he can feel the perfect imprint of Van's mouth set against his muscle. Saliva strings between his fingers. The bite throbs dully. Canderous squeezes it.
“You bit me,” he says, his brain reduced to dumbly stating the obvious. Canderous’ mind wars with disbelief and anger, and a third emotion he doesn't want to examine too closely.
“You were thinking too much,” Van says simply.
“You bit me.” This time, he sounds angrier.
Van doesn't seem cowed. Doesn't even look particularly embarrassed. “You can bite me back if you like,” they say.
Canderous draws back, still clutching at his shoulder. It's slick with spit. The flesh is fever hot beneath his hand. He's sure it will bruise spectacularly, even if Van hadn't broken the skin. His eyes flick to the juncture of Van's shoulder, left bare by their sleeveless shirt. Lifting an eyebrow, Van simply leans forward. The thought of putting his mouth anywhere near Van makes Canderous feel lightheaded. He's not sure he'd have the wherewithal not to draw blood. Van might walk out of the workshop with a bloody chunk missing from their shoulder. Inhaling through his nose, Canderous closes his eyes.
“Don't do that again,” he says warningly. He turns, putting his shoulder as a barrier to Van's advances.
“Okay.” He can hear the smile in their voice. Beside him, Van shifts, swinging their long legs over the side of the bench. As they stand, they stretch and say, “I'm going to hit the rack.”
“Goodnight,” Canderous says gruffly. He still won't look at them, but Van runs their fingers over his silver crop of hair.
“Goodnight, Canderous. Don't work too hard.”
Van pads out of the room.
He should be angry. More than angry, he should be furious, both at Van for that stunt and himself for letting his guard drop low enough in their presence to have let it happen in the first place. But try as he might, the anger drains away. Canderous feels oddly bereft. He leans against the workbench, fingers of his free hand sliding into his hair. The other still clutches at his shoulder.
The bite hurts, but something of that pleasurable pain remains. Maybe only in the memory of Van's mouth pressed to his skin, or the way their hair felt in his grip. Canderous is no stranger to pain bringing pleasure; he's indulged in his fair share. It comes commonly with soldiers by necessity, when pleasure rarely comes without its twin in hand. He's had enough rough trysts in the berth pretending everyone is asleep, his partner clawing at his back in their attempts to stay silent. That sting had always been a marker of a job well done. He's not sure what he's supposed to call this. Van's peculiarities, he supposes, though Canderous has never seen anyone else on the Ebon Hawke sporting a bite wound. He'll have a hell of a time trying to explain it.
Fingers pressing against the mark, Canderous finds the imprint of Van's teeth have yet to fade. Sighing, he turns back to his work. The odd jumble of parts seems suddenly alien and nonsensical, as though he'd never once performed maintenance before. The biometric scanner lies where he'd dropped it. For the life of him, he can't recall what he meant to do with it. The soldering iron is burning against its damp sponge, and it smells of slag. He focuses on that until the fog in his head clears.
It doesn't. After an hour, Canderous simply sighs. Rising, he turns off the overhead lamp and heads to bed.