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Jagi dies in the dunes of Tattooine, and Canderous watches the spill of hot blood across the sand. It's definitely not the first man he's watched die. Jagi isn't even the first one Canderous has watched take his own life. But this is the first one that leaves him feeling - numb. Heavy. His arms feel cold, his heart like a pit in his chest. For the first time in years, his blaster feels unfamiliar in his hands.
But he can't even think about it, because Jagi's acquaintances have their own blasters, and clearly hadn't anticipated Jagi being the man to die. A blaster bolt hits the sand near his feet, turning it to smoky greenish glass. Then Van is leaping forward, their saber glowing gold. Canderous sets his mind to autopilot. Aim and shoot, until the two men are lying dead in the sand and his heart feels normal in his chest.
The first one happens. The second doesn’t. Canderous’ mouth tastes like metal and the air smells of dust and ozone and death.
He looks at Jagi again. Sand blows across his open eyes, collecting in the folds of his clothes. His blood has soaked the sand, a dark stain that clots the sand around his hair. Less than a minute and his body is being subsumed by the Dune Sea. It'll be covered by nightfall.
“Canderous.”
A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He flinches away from it, lashing out with a gauntleted arm. Planting a hand on Van’s chest, he shoves them away and takes a step to the side. Van staggers on the loose packed sand. In the space of a second their expression - damnably open, concerned, for him of all people - slides into something distant and implacable. The emotion is shuttered behind a blank affect, and Van folds their hands in front of them like those damn fucking Jedi.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” His voice is ragged.
Van’s impassive expression doesn’t falter at his tone. “Do you require any further assistance?”
That's worse. His heart drops further and Canderous grits his teeth. He hates when they do this. When they turn off and turn inward, adapting serenity when he knows it's the last thing they feel. Still, he isn’t sure what else he’d prefer. If they yelled, maybe. If they struck at him and they fought, just so Canderous might have an excuse to turn off his brain.
Van’s head tilts to the side and he realizes he hasn’t answered. “No,” he spits.
“Will you be returning to the ship?”
“No,” he says again.
Anger and nowhere to put it. Another emotion he doesn't want to look at too closely. He turns, still clutching at his rifle like a lifeline, and faces towards Anchorhead. Van doesn’t say anything more, and a moment later he feels them move around him, well out of arm’s reach. They don’t look back as they walk towards the town, and Canderous doesn’t call after them. What would he say? That he’s sorry? That he doesn’t know what to do? Admitting either of those feels impossible in his mind, so he doesn’t say any of it. By the time he manages to feel anything but cold, Van is a speck on the horizon.
Canderous stays standing out on the dunes, watching Jagi’s body until a fine layer of sand has covered the shape of him. It does nothing to disguise the bloodstain, but it hides his open eyes from view. Only once they’re gone does he begin the long trek towards Anchorhead.
Van’s not by the doors - but, then, he didn’t expect them to be. He’s sweating under his armor and he doesn’t feel good. He should go to the Hawk. He should sleep. He should - apologize, probably.
He goes to a bar instead. He drinks. The drinks are shit, and they make the pitching in his stomach worse. His head feels thick. He shouldn’t let his guard down in a place like this.
He drinks some more, trying to chase the numbness out with a different sort of deadening. Slowly, his mind turns slow, made syrupy by the alcohol. It doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the sharper edges of his feelings easier to bear.
At some point, someone throws a punch. Judging by the taste of blood in his mouth, Canderous thinks it might not have been him. But his knuckles hurt too, and in the haze he sees the bloodied nose of another human. There are threats of calling the law. He drinks some more.
Eventually, the bartender kicks him out, either because his credits have run dry or he's tired of Canderous starting fights. It's dark outside when he hits the sand, the heat of the day leeching out of the ground. Out in the dunes, Jagi's body will have been swallowed. Maybe with it he's taken Canderous’ shame. If that were the case, he probably wouldn't feel like shit. So he throws up in the gutter until his stomach stops pitching and then staggers down the street.
Somehow, he makes it back to the Ebon Hawke without being accosted. The ship is mostly dark but for the runner lights - be grateful for little mercies - and Canderous leaves a trail of sand and armor pieces as he staggers towards his berth. His head is pounding. He hurts, a bone deep ache that stoops his shoulders as he steps into the shower and tries not to slip. The hot spray of water is merciless against his raw and sand chapped skin. Canderous rests his head against the wall until the world stops spinning.
As he steps out of the shower, regrettably more sober than when he'd entered, Canderous has never felt so old and tired. He thinks of Jagi, his skull opened on the sands of Tattooine. He thinks of the other Mandalorians, two more of his own people dead by his hand. He thinks of Van, their concerned expression flattening into one of polite distance.
He wants another drink. He wants Van. He wants to feel like he’s done anything for his people that isn’t just bloodshed. He wants… Canderous isn't sure what he wants, but it's nothing inside these four cold walls.
Canderous lies on his bed, one arm thrown over his face. It’s been a long time since he was this wrecked. Most days he can ignore the fact that his prime is ten years behind him, but the day's events have left him raw, so he indulges in a little self pity and allows himself to feel miserable.
The door to his room slides open. He doesn't stir, not until familiarly callused hands are shifting him to the side and Van is sliding into bed beside him. They don't wrap their arms around him or try to pull him close, but their bodies are pressed in one line from shoulder to knee.
Their voice is quiet. “What do you need?”
Isn’t that a fucking question. If he knew, he would have gone looking. He’s not sure he knows anything.
“Just-” Canderous wets his mouth. “Just talk.”
So Van talks. They talk about nothing, really. Their favorite gizka they've named Gish, the new lightsaber they've been building, how Mission has improved with her vibroblade and is begging for a saber of her own, despite the fact she's more liable to cut off her own foot than anyone else's.
It's not so much about what Van's saying so much as it is about the timber of their voice and the quiet, steady presence beside him. As they talk, the knot in Canderous’ chest begins to loosen. He doesn't feel better by any means, but neither does despair seem so threatening.
Eventually, Van’s voice begins to taper off. Their breathing is steady - too steady, like they’re timing it, and with a mild start, Canderous realizes his breath has fallen into time with theirs.
Slowly, he lets out a sigh. Beside him, Van has fallen quiet. Raggedly, Canderous asks, “Why're you here?”
“You called.”
His head turns to the side. Van's eyes are closed, arms crossed over their chest, but their head is tipped in his direction. “No I didn't.”
“Not out loud.” One eye cracks open, glinting. They wave the fingers of one hand. “In the Force.”
“Jedi bullshit,” Canderous says tiredly. Of course.
Van continues. “I was surprised, actually. You usually have competent shields up. Someday you'll have to tell me who taught you how to do that.”
He knows what Van's doing - bullshitting for his sake, because he'd asked. So he takes another breath and musters the strength to reply. “Learned during the war in case we encountered Jedi. Kept in the habit after. Thought it was useful.”
Van hums. “The Force is loud,” they say softly. “Fed with emotion and thought. Having strong shields keeps you from adding your own noise, but it also prevents any of it from flowing back into you. Like a backflow on a valve.”
Canderous huffs a little. Van's philosophy is usually one of the things he tunes out, far too set in his ways to give much thought to something he can't see, much less comprehend. But he doesn't now, letting them talk quietly, even as his eyes close. He lifts a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose and ease the headache that's throbbing behind his eyes. Van catches his hand and he allows them to knead at it, their thumbs pressing between the metacarpals and the ridges of his knuckles. “It's one of the things that drew me to you initially,” Van says casually.
That, however, makes him start. “What?”
“You remember how I told you that everyone feels unique in the Force?” When he nods, Van continues. “You feel solid. Like a stone in a river, disrupting the flow of energy with the strength of your conviction. And you were quiet, not spilling your feelings and emotions everywhere. It was soothing.”
Dryly, Canderous says, “Except for now.”
“Now it's different.” Releasing his hand, Van threads their fingers through his and squeezes. “It's rare for words to be exchanged through the Force mentally. If two people share a particularly strong bond, perhaps. Mostly it's feelings. Emotions. I felt you come aboard. Your pain. And I felt your need. So I came.”
It makes him feel shockingly stripped bare. Not just naked in his grief, but flayed open, even the most secret feelings of his known to those who have the power to see it. Feelings are a weakness, and one he'd learned quickly to suppress. It's why he'd kept the shields even after the war was done, and why he'd avoided the Jedi on Dantooine.
His mind is still a mess, half drunk and throbbing with a mix of grief and shame. He hasn't even begun to pull himself together. Van must be aware of this sudden storm of emotion, but they say nothing, simply drawing their thumb in circles where it's laid atop his own. A small and wounded part of him has a mind to shove them out of his bed and out the door so he can wallow in private. Then, at least, he might have a reason for feeling so miserable. Canderous closes his eyes.
He doesn't… like this. The vulnerability. Sex is one thing, but the sharing of space, the feeling of needing someone's presence - that's another. It's something he's unaccustomed to, and it makes him feel strange. Comfort isn't for soldiers. At least not the kind that comes from people. People die, but the bottle and quiet misery are forever faithful.
“In the desert,” he starts roughly. “Before Jagi pulled the trigger, you went tense. Did you know he was about to do it?”
Van squeezes his hand. They're quiet for a moment. “Yes. The dark side is uniquely attuned to anguish. I felt the moment his pain overcame him.”
“Was he right?”
“No,” Van says slowly. “But you know the answer to that, Canderous. It hasn't changed because you doubt yourself now. You made a choice. Whether or not it's the choice he would have made is irrelevant. You are here. He is not.”
“No thanks to me.”
“Stop,” Van says. Their voice takes on an edge. “Self pity doesn't become you. Your regret is valuable only insofar as it serves you. This does not. You believed Jagi dead as a result of your actions. Now, he is. The only difference is that you were there to see it.”
The words sting, but only because he knows Van is right. When he says nothing, Van continues. “You made a choice. An impossible one, but it is one that preserved your life and the lives of your men. And I, for one, am glad of it. Even if it cost Jagi his.”
“Zero sum game,” Canderous says tiredly.
“Yes.”
Canderous doesn't say anything. Van, too, has fallen quiet. He doesnt feel better, but where he'd been liable to cut himself on the edges of his grief, now it feels blunted. It settles like an old ache. Just another thing to get used to.
With a sigh, Van pats the back of his hand and releases him, moving to sit up. The space where they'd been lying is suddenly cold. He should say something. Ask them to stay.
Maybe he says it, or maybe he thinks it loud enough that Van hears it through his tattered mental blocks, because Van goes still. Staring at the door, not at him, they say softly, “I'll stay until you're asleep if that's what you want.”
Yes, he thinks, even as the thought of being further witnessed at his lowest makes his skin crawl. “I don't care,” are the words that come out of his mouth. He rolls onto his side, one hand tucked under his chin.
Van huffs. Slowly, they settle back down and lace their fingers over their navel. “I hope you don't snore.”
“Shut up,” he says, even as Van's presence at his back makes the tension bleed from his shoulders.
Van's only answer is a quiet laugh.