Chapter Text
Tatooine is not Canderous’ favorite planet.
He's seen his fair share of hell holes. The war had taken him across the galaxy to frozen moons barely big enough to rate as planets and the sweltering jungles of former paradises. They've all had their drawbacks. Somehow, Tatooine is among the worst of the lot. Even more incomprehensibly, Tatooine hides a Star Map somewhere out among its wastes.
It's a planet that swings between extremes. Sweltering during the day and freezing during the night, Tatooine seems like a planet best left uninhabited. There's a forbidding sort of beauty about the endless expanse of desert, Canderous supposes. A planet wide blanket of glinting gold, turning ruddy in the dawn when Tatooine is both at its most peaceful and most tolerable. Looking out among the dunes, he wonders how many bodies are out there buried beneath the shifting sand.
Canderous wouldn't mind it so much if the planet had anything of value, but the only thing the planet seems to have an abundance of is sand and criminal exports. Their port of call is Anchorhead, a sprawling little town caught in Czerka Corp's unyielding grip. Even in the most inhospitable place, civilization still thrives. A testament to people's ingenuity, maybe. Or just hubris.
The rare breeze that stirs the stagnant air is no reprieve when stirs up the fine sand on the streets. The locals seem to have given up controlling it in the face of the endless tide sweeping in from the desert, allowing it to fetch up in the corners of rooms and entryways. It gathers in the narrow alleys of Anchorhead, where the Ebon Hawke has dropped its bay doors. Without the passage of feet to disturb it, the shifting dunes grow, as if waiting to swallow the forgotten, empty streets. Beyond Anchorhead, there is simply nothing. Civilization drops off sharply. Beyond the gate, it's just the endless, sweeping dunes.
The locals must bear it, somehow. It might have something to do with the abundance of cantinas in Anchorhead - and every other port on Tatooine, if Canderous takes a moment to consider it. Anyone with any sense seems to eschew tight clothing, wrapping themselves in clouds of gauzy, light fabric to help them bear the hostile climate with any grace. Out of towners are usually identifiable by their tight, dark clothing and miserable expressions.
At the moment, Canderous is one of them.
It had been Van who'd coaxed him out of the Ebon Hawke's shade. Of course it was Van. Whenever Canderous finds himself doing something stupid, he can usually trace it back to them. He's not in his armor at the moment - just the form fitting black suit he wears under it and a pair of cargo pants. A blaster is strapped to his thigh. It was all that had seemed manageable to carry in the unrelenting heat, and while the streets of Anchorhead attract scum, he's more than confident in Van's skill and his blaster. He isn't entirely sure what they're doing out - Van had simply appeared in the workshop and had tossed him a set of keys, and Canderous had had no good reason to decline beyond griping about the heat. So they'd left.
Van has adopted the style of the locals in a display of forbearance quite unlike them. They certainly seem more comfortable than he is in their layers of loose fabric, so thin as to be nearly transparent. Layered and wrapped, it becomes a loose shell, trapping sand and heat and releasing it before it gets to the body beneath. A loose tunic is belted around Van's waist, hanging nearly to their knees. The sides are slashed, leaving their ribs and arms bare to the sun. Loose, gauzy trousers drape down where they're tucked into Van's sturdy knee high leather boots. A shawl is wrapped around their shoulders and head, the cowl easily pulled up to hide their hair, or tightened over their mouth. Goggles dangle from a strap around their neck.
The pair of them are on the seldom used landspeeder they keep under a tarp in the workshop, maneuvering through the crowded streets of Anchorhead. Van had insisted on taking the damn thing, even though they knew the streets would be crowded. Canderous had relented after a token resistance - their mission, their consequences - though as he sits at the front of the speeder, he's beginning to regret not putting his foot down. Van, tucked behind him, does not seem nearly so affected.
The streets are rarely so densely packed during the heat of the day. It had been a poor choice to bring the speeder. They've been moving at a snail's pace, barely making enough progress to justify leaving the climate controlled sanctuary of the Ebon Hawke. Occasionally, the crowd will break just long enough that the speeder can pick up a little speed, and a half a block will pass in relative comfort before the crowd condenses again.
Canderous glances to the side where civilians are moving past them, quicker on foot. Beneath him, the metal of the speeder's chassis is getting hot to the touch. A bead of sweat sits at his collar, threatening to slip down his throat. He turns over his shoulder to address Van. “You never told me what we're doing out here.”
Van's face is haloed in a cloud of pale fabric. They've only been on Tatooine for two days, and already the sun has brought out freckles on the bridge of their nose. Their skin takes on color quickly; long hours and days confined to the Ebon Hawke in hyperspace makes them seem sickly and pale. Out here on Tatooine, Van looks sun browned. Healthy. The sun catches their eyes as they look his way and they light up gold. Not the same pale yellow as when they use the dark side of the Force, but a richer amber, like honey.
“Looking for something,” Van says cryptically. Canderous raises a skeptical eyebrow. Van's mouth twitches in a half smile that makes the scars to the right side of their mouth twist. “Regretting coming along?”
“Something like that,” he mutters, turning his attention forward.
Van chuckles, the sound of it low in his ear. The speeder's seat isn't meant for two people. Van is pressed uncomfortably close against Canderous’ back. Their hand rests on his shoulder and they squeeze it, slow pressure. Tactile. Their thumb drags up and down the muscle to the side of his spine. “I'll make it up to you.”
Canderous doesn't like the way that makes his gut clench. He ignores the feeling, though Van leaves their hand on his shoulder. The weight of it is distracting, a warmth unlike the relentless heat of Tatooine's suns. He should be used to it by now, but Van's casual relationship with touch still doesn't sit quite right.
The speeder maneuvers through the streets for another few blocks. Behind him, Van is scanning the crowd - for what, he doesn't know. Occasionally, they'll nudge him down a side street, or urge him to cross, but their reasonings are a mystery to him. Whatever it is, Van seems intent, dark brows furrowed in concentration. Canderous is sweating beneath his black undersuit. The glare off the stuccoed buildings is making his eyes water. The people who pass by on foot keep shooting glances at the pair of them as if pitying their slow progress or annoyed that the speeder takes up so much already limited space. Walking would be preferable. It might even generate a bit of a breeze in the stale, stifling air.
Canderous is about to leap off the speeder for his own sake when Van's hand tightens on his shoulder. “There.” Van shifts forward to whisper in his ear. Their left hand raises, casually gesturing in the direction of an alley where a pair of figures are lingering in the meager shade. He shifts the speeder in that direction, the crowd parting beneath its unyielding frame.
Off to the side, the crowd thins. Tatooine's suns have just passed their zenith, and the shade between the squat buildings is minimal. Sun bleached tarps and scraps of fabric have been strung across the alley, providing thin squares of shade where two men are conferring in low voices. A Rodian male and a human man, their heads bowed together. The speeder's engine whirs quietly. He catches a glance at Van out of the corner of his eye. Something in their expression seems satisfied.
Some instinct has Canderous maneuver the speeder in such a way that it blocks an outside view of the alley. The figures look up, as if realizing Van and Canderous are not simply passing by. There's something off about the pair. Two bit criminals, if Canderous had to guess. Tatooine's biggest export is crime, after all, perhaps the only thing the planet had in abundance beyond sand. Why Van wants anything to do with them is beyond Canderous.
The Rodian is a mystery - Canderous has never had much luck reading their expressions - but the human shifts. Something in his countenance reads guilty . His eyes dart to the side - a tell as his hand slips to the blaster on his hip.
Behind Canderous, Van leans forward. Without ado, their hand closes around his on the throttle of the landspeeder and shoves it down. The speeder jerks forward with more enthusiasm than he'd expected of the old thing. Canderous swears. He barely has enough time to brace for impact before the long nose of the vehicle hits the human and he drops to Anchorhead's dirt. The Rodian stumbles, thrown to the side, and he bounces off the alley wall with a sickening crack. The speeder shoots past them both several yards before Canderous hits the brakes.
Canderous’ elbow hits Van in the ribs, but it does nothing to knock them back. Van just pulls back on the throttle and the speeder yanks itself in reverse. The man, groaning as he gets to his feet, hits the chassis of the speeder with a hollow metallic twang. Releasing Canderous’ hand, Van leaps nimbly from the speeder. Dust poofs from the ground as their boots hit the dirt.
Twisting, Canderous snaps, “What the hell was that?”
Van sinks to a crouch, reaching for the human's jacket and flipping it to the side. He doesn't move. Blood is leaking conspicuously from his forehead. They glance up. “What's wrong?” Van's eyes flick to the man - corpse. “Him? He was up to no good. I didn't think you'd care.”
Van seems genuinely surprised. Maybe even remorseful, if only because they think the act has earned them his disapproval. Canderous rolls his eyes. “I don't, particularly, but I like to know when I'm abetting murder .”
There is a lot one can get away with in Anchorage. Tatooine is a planet where almost everyone has one finger in some illegal gambit. People generally look the other way when something seems like it might not have the law's best interests at heart. Criminal's solidarity - no one saw anything, and no one was ever there. It keeps business running smoothly, and officials are usually happy to turn a blind eye to the more… oblique crimes. Hell, Anchorhead is practically owned by Czerka Corp - a business who has simply legitimized their criminal proceedings with paperwork - but murder in broad daylight generally attracts the wrong kind of attention.
Van looks at the man in the dirt. “I don't think he's dead.”
“He's dead,” Canderous says flatly. Van hums.
“Oops.”
Now Canderous understands why Van had asked him to come instead of someone else. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Casting a glance over his shoulder, all he sees are the faceless crowds passing by the alley. At least the speeder's body is blocking most of it from view. Canderous can't be sure if he's just caught someone's eye, or if the strangers across the way have simply chosen to walk a little faster. Fortunately for Van, not many people are willing to confront someone who seems confident enough to kill a man with impunity.
Canderous looks at the dead man. He seems no different than a lot of Tatooine's natives. Dusty brown hair and sunburned cheeks. His leather jacket is secondhand at best, and the blaster on his hip has seen better days. There's a patch on the arm of his jacket that hints to some sort of local gang affiliation - some low level runner, judging by the state of his equipment. And Van's run him down on the street. Stupid.
Canderous pushes down his irritation. “Just warn me next time,” he mutters. This is no place to get into an argument when the dead man could have friends. “And don't grab for the controls. You'll make us crash.”
Van smiles prettily. Their long fingers slip into the dead man's jacket and withdraw what looks like a data chit. “Has anyone ever told you you're a very particular man?”
“No,” Canderous says. “People who spend a lot of time in my company don't tend to live long enough to form opinions about me, and those that do know how to keep their mouths shut.”
“Oh, well I'm glad to have enlightened you.”
Canderous huffs. Van has just murdered a man in broad daylight, and they're bantering over his corpse. Van is still picking through his pockets. The back of Canderous’ neck starts to prickle, and he doesn't think it has anything to do with the heat.
“You're taking too long,” he says.
“I'm being thorough,” Van says.
“Well, quit.” Canderous’ voice sharpens. “Get on the bike.”
“This is my first murder.” Van's doe eyes turn back up in his direction. “Is there something else I'm supposed to do?”
Leaning over the side of the speeder, Canderous hisses, “Don't hang around the scene of the crime waiting to get caught.”
Finally, Van stands. The stolen chit is slipped into a pocket on their belt. “Bossy,” they tisk.
“If you'd like to complain from the inside of a jail cell-”
Van holds up a hand to forestall his scolding. “Fine! Fine. Far be it from me to argue when you're so well informed.”
Canderous points at himself. “Experienced.” His finger turns to Van. “Impossible child.”
“You put up with me.”
Canderous’ jaw tightens. “ Get - on - the bike.”
If his venomous tone bothers them, Van doesn't show it. Long fingers wrap around his shoulder, squeezing to maintain their balance as they hoist a leg up and over the seat. Poised in the air, hands occupied, and the Rodian stirs.
He hasn't suffered the same fate as his friend. Awareness flickers in his large, glassy eyes. He looks up, and Canderous sees the exact moment he thinks he's got an opportunity. Van's distracted. They're gripping Canderous’ shoulders. No lightsaber dangles from their belt.
He goes for the blaster on his hip. Canderous gets there first.
The bolt hits true. The Rodian jitters, twitching around the brand new hole in his chest. A wisp of smoke floats up from it, and then he falls still. Canderous holsters his blaster. Grimly, he says, “Sit.”
Van does. Hands tightening around the throttle, Canderous slams it forward. The speeder bolts off down the alley. Less crowded, the alleys are narrow. Stuccoed walls are barely far apart to avoid skimming his thighs as the speeder takes off. He can't be sure if anyone saw, but he's not leaving it to chance.
Behind him, Van clings to his waist, arms wrapped around his middle. The wind whips their gauzy cowl back and dark hair spills forth, whipping around their face like a pennant. There is no urgency or fear in the way they grip at him. It's pure exhilaration. Van's fingers dig into his middle. Leaning back, Van lets out a whoop.
They're a better pilot than he is. That swoop bike race on Taris had proved that. But maybe that's where the thrill comes from - giving up some control and leaving it to chance. Canderous banks hard around a corner and the bike dips beneath them, swinging to the side. The back end fishtails widely, cracking into a wall. Stucco bursts free, showering them with plaster. Above, someone starts shouting angrily. The bike's engine shudders, but when Canderous revs the throttle again, it responds readily.
As they race, Canderous’ irritation seems to dissipate. The breeze feels divine. Behind him, Van stretches, their hands spread. Overhead, the tattered cloth hanging over the alleys to provide shade whip in the wake of their passing. Fleeing the scene of their crime ought to involve a little more discretion, but in the moment, Canderous doesn't care.
He weaves a few more blocks, slowing incrementally until they're back at a comfortable crawl. Easing the speeder back onto the main street, they fold into the flow of traffic, heading opposite the way they'd come before. They’re a few streets over from the scene of the crime, and the city is so busy Canderous can't tell whether or not there's any unusual activity near the alley.
Behind him, Van leans forward. The grip around his middle has relaxed, no longer digging into his skin, but their hands remain damnably clasped around his hips. Van urges him down another side street. “No killing this time,” they say, so Canderous relents. The building they stop before looks the same as all the rest - squat, grimy, covered in peeling plaster - but a flickering neon sign hangs over the entrance. Canderous raises an eyebrow.
“A cantina?”
Slipping off the bike, Van winks. “Told you I'd make it up to you, didn't I?”
The entrance dives down into a stairwell, a door at the bottom. Muffled music is playing just beyond. The noise clarifies as Van pulls open the door and ushers him inside.
It's not cold, but it's cooler , blessedly so. The interior is dark but for a strip of lights above the bar and a few sparse windows cut into the ceiling to let in shafts of daylight. The cantina is more full than he would have expected - patrons coming in to escape the heat of the day, he suspects. Pazaak players line one wall, the gamblers hunched over their cards, some hiding their tells much better than others.
A twi'lek female is the source of the music, standing on a low stage and singing in a language he doesn't recognize. Her hips sway to the beat, hands toying with the lavender lekku draping over her shoulders, and she winks at someone in the crowd. Someone is enjoying themselves, at least. Canderous finds an empty booth and drops, angling himself to watch the entrance while Van disappears in the direction of the bar.
His fingers tap tersely against his bicep, arms crossed tight across his chest. The exhilaration of the race has faded, his irritation at the heat abated for the moment, which leaves his mind returning to the alley. Van had done it with purpose, that much is clear - but why? And for what? Van's eccentric, but he doesn't think they'd stoop to murder for the hell of it. They'd taken something from that corpse.
A pair of newcomers stumble in through the door, laughing boisterously. They seem a few drinks in already, clinging to one another's clothes, faces flushed. One gestures in Canderous’ direction, at the mostly empty booth, and they take an ungraceful step in his direction.
Slowly, Canderous lifts his foot and drops it on the stretch of seat next to him. Arms folded, his face drops into a scowl. The pair reel back, message received, and turn to amble into the crowd.
“Making friends, huh?”
Van ducks in, drinks in hand. Canderous shifts, and Van drops beside him. One of the drinks sloshes over their hand.
“Everywhere I go,” Canderous says dryly. He accepts one of the drinks - something blue, with a sharp, astringent smell. It sticks to his teeth when he drinks, catching in his throat.
Van lifts their hand, tongue flashing out to lick at the dribble of liquid running down their wrist. Van's drink looks fruitier. A twisted piece of citrus peel is stuck to the rim. “I would say you should work on that,” they start, bringing their drink to their lips. “But I like to watch.”
Canderous eyes them. “We kill enough people. You want me to menace them too?”
Van smiles a bit. “I would enjoy it, at least.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
Beside him, Van shifts. Their shoulder presses against his, trying to get the same angle of the door.
Dropping his voice, Canderous says, “You owe me an explanation.”
Van brings their drink to their mouth. “Check my belt,” they murmur.
Canderous’ eyes narrow. Hand dropping, he skirts the rim of their belt. His fingers dip between it and the gauzy tunic. Van's skin is hot beneath the thin fabric. He feels them inhale, a bit too sharply, before he locates the stolen data chip and picks it up. A Czerka corp logo stares back at him.
He only has it out for a brief second. That kind of thing could be dangerous to flash in the wrong company. Probably why its original owners had done their dealings in side alleys - and, very possibly, why its original owners were now dead. Canderous slips the data chip back into Van's belt. “Was this work for their benefit,” he asks quietly, “Or against them?”
Van takes a drink before answering. “Depends on which option is more advantageous to us,” they say. “We're stalled out here. Can't really do anything or go anywhere without their say-so. We need an in.”
“Is it blackmail?”
“Could be,” Van says. “Or we could be the corporate heroes who return some valuable information to them.”
“How'd you know where the deal was happening?”
“I've been in and out of their headquarters the past few days.” Van's voice is conspiratorial. The tip of one finger draws along the rim of their glass. “Kept my ear to the ground and overheard our Rodian friend making some questionable choices regarding the data, but I had to leave before I heard where the drop was happening.”
“And you just… happened upon him by chance?” Canderous asks dubiously.
Van's eyes twinkle a bit. “Not exactly.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Bossy, Canderous,” Van says, sotto voce . Second time today they've said it. Some pieces are beginning to fit together in his mind about what Van thinks of him.
“I can be meaner.” His tone drops to match theirs. “Since you like it so much.”
Van's pupils are blown. Canderous doesn't know if it's because of the relative dark of the cantina, or because of him. Sense has him think the former - pride the latter. Either way, Van smiles that indulgent little smile.
“It's a boring answer,” Van warns. Canderous just tips his head, motioning for them to continue. Van relents. Their voice is still soft and they lean in like they're sharing a secret. “Everyone has a Force signature,” they say. “Even people who aren't Force sensitive. For most people, it's barely a blip on the radar, but if you focus, you can hone in on it. I knew the general area and about what time the drop was happening, so I just waited until I felt him.”
“The Rodian spy,” Canderous clarifies. Van nods. He inclines his head, considering. “And why you needed me to drive.”
Van's eyes narrow into a playful smirk. “You're a sharp one, Canderous Ordo. Maybe you should be in charge.”
“And the man buying the information?”
“Don't know,” Van says. “Probably intended to bring it back to his superiors with the same intent we have.”
He sighs, leaning back. Van chuckles. Taking a drink, Canderous sucks on his teeth and asks, “Now what?”
“I'll go to Czerka headquarters this evening,” Van says. “And see when it might be advantageous to drop this bit of information.”
“The timing could be suspicious.”
“I'll be careful.”
It's said teasingly, but something in Canderous relaxes at the words. He settles back, one arm thrown over the back of the booth, and nurses his drink, watching the crowd shift beneath the meagre lighting of the cantina. Plucking off the fruit stuck to their glass, Van snaps it. The air between them smells of citrus. Chewing on his words for a second, Canderous grits out, “Van.”
Van looks up.
“Don't do that again.”
His tone isn't the kind of exasperated that he thinks Van finds entertaining. When they do something strange or off putting, and he'll push them away with a huff - the kind of irritation that burns up like a match and crumbles away. His tone is serious, no amusement flirting along the edges. A tone he's rarely had reason to use lately, and never with Van.
Beside him, Van straightens up. Their eyes narrow, playful expression shuttering. Reaching out, Canderous grabs their wrist and pulls them in. Van hisses quietly, but doesn't tug away. “If you have a plan, you fill me in on it. Alright? I'm not here to let you drag me into fights I'm not prepared for, and I can't protect you if I don't know what we're walking into. You don’t get to use me when it’s convenient for you. You might be the one in charge here, but I don't follow fools, and what you did today was stupid.”
“I don't need you to protect me,” Van says coldly.
Canderous thinks of the Rodian, hand on his blaster, and Van, vulnerable. No amount of skill matters if you get unlucky. “You did today.”
Chin lifting, Van stares down at him. Prideful - Van's not used to people telling them no . For the most part, Van has earned his respect as a leader. They're skilled in combat, and more than willing to risk injury for the safety of a teammate. Some of their strategies have been bizarre, but they've always pulled through, more or less, and Canderous has learned to trust their sense of things. But Van is reckless too, and it's never been more evident than today.
Van's voice is measured. “Everything went fine.”
“It almost couldn't have.” Canderous’ grip tightens around their wrist. Van's eyes flick down, expression set in a stony mask. “Your buyer could have had friends. Your information could have been wrong. Your plan of escape was half thought out at best, but that isn't the point. You can take risks with your own life, Van, but you don't get to gamble with mine.”
Canderous has seen these kinds of leaders before, who let their pride get in their own way. Sometimes they're genuinely brilliant, their reputations bolstered by skill. But that pride can turn to arrogance. It's never long before misfortune catches up, and it usually leaves a bloody wake. He doesn't think Van is that kind of leader. At least, he doesn't want to think it. It would disappoint him, he realizes with some dismay. Worse, he'll have hitched himself and his good name to a fool. But, he thinks, who would be the bigger fool? The trickster or the one who fell for the trick?
For a moment, Canderous thinks they'll brush him off. Their expression is stormy, brows drawn together in an imperious mask. Then they let out a breath and their eyes drop.
“I won't,” they mutter. The words come with relief. Canderous relaxes.
“Good.” Releasing their wrist, Canderous returns to his drink. His piece said, he relaxes, turning his attention to the crowd.
Van finishes off their drink, pushing the glass across the table, subdued. If it's his scolding that's inspired such a mood, Canderous can't bring himself to feel bad.
“Thank you for coming with me,” they say suddenly. The sincerity of it makes Canderous blink. He looks at them, slightly bewildered, searching their face for any of its usual irreverence and general lack of regard for propriety. There is none. Van seems bare faced, for once. Honest.
On their part, they seem discomfited with the words that have come out of their own mouth. They squirm under his attention, eyes flicking to the ceiling.
“Don't thank me.”
“Thanks feels like the least I should do,” Van admits. “You did kill a man for me today.”
“We killed two.”
“Well-” Van nudges his drink, which Canderous has set aside. “Double thanks.”
“What are you doing?”
“I'm trying sincerity.”
“It doesn't work for you.”
Van's lips purse. They hum, still fidgeting. Canderous’ hand comes down and claps over their thigh. Van goes stiff. Squeezing it, Canderous says, “Look - I don't like what you sprung on me, but you were right to come to me. The others don't handle this stuff like I do. The Council wants you to do this while keeping your hands clean, but that's never going to be the outcome of a real fight - especially against the Sith. So we need to do something a little off color. So someone's hands get a little dirty. I can do that. Don't thank me for doing the job you hired me to do.”
There's a strange look in their eye. Van is gripping their empty glass so hard their knuckles have bleached. Their eyes flick down to where Canderous’ hand is gripping their leg, then back up to his face, so quick he would have missed it if it weren't for their proximity. What is that look - apprehension? It must be.
Van's an enigma. They'll drape their body over him a hundred times a day, but the second they're on the receiving end of any physical touch, they lock up. He can feel a tremor in their thigh, and realizes belatedly that their heads are bent together and neither of them has spoken for several heartbeats.
Smoothly, Canderous releases them. His arm goes back up to the back of the booth. He shifts his attention away, scanning the crowd. Check the exits, check the people. Outwardly, Canderous seems relaxed. Inwardly, there's a pit in his stomach he's trying to ignore. Beside him, Van doesn't relax for another few heartbeats. They fiddle with their glass, and neither of them speak for a while.
“It's probably safe to head back to the Ebon Hawke,” Van says eventually.
Canderous grunts. That usually passes for suitable agreement.
The pair of them slip out of the booth, out the door and up the cantina stairs. Barely more than an hour has passed, but both suns have passed their zeniths and the shadows are beginning to lengthen. They mount the speeder and it takes off into the dusty street.
Van keeps their hands conspicuously to themselves.