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There is a ritual after every battle that Canderous has observed since the first time he picked up a blaster. It isn't one of any particular significance. Habit, mostly, borne of service, and what isn't habit is just muscle memory.
His armor is unpieced and his weapons are pulled apart, arrayed before him. They're scrubbed, oiled, cleaned, and meticulously pieced back together, often before he himself has gone to seek any sort of medical treatment. Something in the act - methodical and familiar - digs its fingers into the parts of his brain that are still wired up from battle. It pulls him apart, arrayed in much the same way as the pieces of his weapons before him, and puts him back together in something resembling working order.
He's no droid that needs to be maintained the same way, but sometimes Canderous thinks that might be easier. As it is, he has this. Weapons strewn before him.
The smell of ozone and gun oil is thick in the air. Smoke and blood, the smell of battle, is also a familiar piece of the ritual. His armor has been cleaned already, scrubbed of the carbon scoring on the chestplate and pauldrons. Its system is tuned, stims refilled, stacked and neatly set aside. The blaster sidearm Canderous keeps magnetized to his thigh has already been taken care of.
On the work surface before him, the pieces of his rifle are set before him. He's only just begun the work, working a wire brush between the mechanisms in the body of the blaster where carbon particles have a tendency to collect.
“I knew you'd be down here.” Van's voice comes from the workshop doorway. It doesn't startle Canderous. By now, he's come to expect them slinking out of dark corridors. Still, he stiffens slightly, and doesn't turn his attention away from his work.
Quiet footsteps pad towards him. The smell of caf cuts through the scent of ozone and smoke. A quick glance at Van reveals a mug in their hand. He returns his attention to the rifle. “Not a lot of places for me to be on this ship,” he comments.
“No,” Van says, “But you are also a man of habit.” Van sets the mug of caf on a relatively uncluttered section of the workbench. Their fingertips find the rim, rotating it until the handle points in his direction. “And habit dictates you clean your gear after every engagement.”
“Take care of your equipment-”
“-And it will take care of you, yes. I know.” Van's voice is fond.
Canderous barely spares them a glance. He nods to the caf. “What's this for?”
“Because I know you won't sleep until you're satisfied, no matter how late it is.”
A quick look at the chrono informs him it's an hour past galactic standard midnight. Folding the cloth to a clean section, Canderous wipes at the grease on his hands. “It isn't that late,” he says, reaching for the mug. It's overbrewed and bitter, like a bantha kick to the chest. Just how he likes it. “And this can't wait.”
Van says nothing. In his periphery, he sees them fold their arms and shift their weight, dropping one shoulder to the wall to watch. Canderous works for a few heartbeats longer, working a wire brush into the barrel of the blaster rifle to scrub out the carbon scoring. After a moment, he says, “Did you want something else?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why are you here?”
Van's voice is low. “I suppose I am also a creature of habit.”
Sighing a bit, Canderous leans back from the workbench. He lifts a hand to rub beneath his eye and halts when he spies the black streaks on his fingers. Finally, he glances up at Van.
The yellow of the sodium vapor lamp over the workbench cuts them into shapes of black and gold, deeply shadowed where the light fails to cut through the gloom. By now, it is a deeply familiar sight. The expression on Van's face is not. Eyes soft, with a faint smile playing at the corners of their mouth. Affectionate, if Canderous didn't know better. Their hair is loose, spilling over their shoulders, left mostly bare by the thin fabric of their tank. A harsh cut on their cheekbone catches the light.
The sight of it reignites the ire he had been trying his hardest to tamp down for the last several hours. Jaw quirking, Canderous sets down the mug of caf a little too harshly. Liquid sloshes over the rim onto the workbench as he turns away. Van sighs.
“You're a mercurial man sometimes, Ordo.”
Canderous snorts. The pieces of his rifle begin to come together under his hands. Barrel, body, stock, snapping together with ease. “I hope you see the irony in that.”
“I must really mean it then, if it comes from me.”
The irritation sparks again. “I'm not complicated, Van. You just like to go looking for things that aren't there. All that complicated shit you think up-” Canderous gestures with a rifle scope, “-All that comes from you .”
“You think I don't have the measure of you?”
He stops himself from laughing again and shoots Van a look as he fits the threads of the barrel against the body of the rifle and begins screwing it back into place. “I think you think you do, and you're either too damn proud or too stupid to tell when you're wrong.”
Pursing their lips, Van inclines their head. They lean backwards, hands folded behind the small of their back. “You're unhappy with me.”
This time, Canderous can't help but bark a short, incredulous laugh. He looks up at them in nothing short but wonderment. “Not a lot gets past you, does it?”
“Why?” Van doesn't sound defensive, just curious.
Shaking his head, Canderous returns his attention to his rifle. “Use your Force osik ; maybe you'll figure it out.”
Van hums in consideration. In his periphery, Canderous sees them pivot on their heel and pace to the left, behind him. “You weren't upset with me this morning,” they say, “But you are upset with me now, so I must have done something in the intervening fourteen hours that you didn't approve of.”
Canderous rolls his eyes. Obnoxious brat.
“The only thing of note,” Van continues, “Was our battle earlier, but I can't see why that would upset you. It was a successful engagement. I would think you'd be pleased.” There's silence for a brief moment as Van mulls it over. Canderous continues repiecing his rifle. Slower than he's capable with, but he needs something to do with his hands. He sights down the barrel to ensure it's straight. “Was it my trick?”
Trick. A generous description of what they'd done. In his own words, he probably would have said stupid, reckless plan, but calling it a plan implies some measure of forethought he is beginning to think Van is incapable of. Scheme, perhaps.
Exhaling sharply, Canderous says, “That isn't exactly what I'd call using yourself as bait.”
“I thought it was clever. It drew out our combatants and allowed us to finish them off with minimal effort.”
“I might have appreciated being informed of the plan before you executed it.” His hand slips against the rifle. Canderous curses softly as a line of durasteel scrapes against the side of his palm. He leans back to gather himself.
“I was improvising. You're being unfair.”
Canderous snorts. Blood oozes from the cut. He wipes it on his cargos and continues working. “Someday you'll have to realize that not all your ideas are good ones. For my sake, I hope that comes before you actually get yourself killed.”
“Well it worked, didn't it?” A note of defensiveness has entered their voice. When he looks up, he finds Van's expression set into that mask of stubbornness he finds amusing when directed at anybody but him.
In Canderous’ hands, the rifle is complete. Perfect and uncomplicated, it is made for one reason and one reason only. Sleek and deadly, the blacked durasteel frame fits nicely against the calluses on Canderous’ hands. It's a good weight in his hands. Carefully, Canderous sets it down before he can cave to the impulse to knock some sense into Van.
Their damnable, innocent eyes only widen a fraction as he frowns. It's a strange expression on their face and Canderous finds his irritation spiking. “You're reckless,” Canderous snaps. “And arrogant. That gets people killed.”
“I don't understand why you're so upset.” Van sounds genuinely bewildered, eyes wide and guileless as they tilt their head. “I don't gamble with other people's lives, as you've asked. The only person in danger was me. ”
“You think needlessly endangering yourself isn't a concern of mine?”
Van scoffs. “We're at war, Canderous. Don't get precious about it now.”
“Do not preach to me about war.” Canderous pushes himself to his feet and shoves the knuckle of his forefinger into Van's breastbone. They lift their chin, eyes hardening. “It isn't just your life you play with when you decide not to take things seriously. You endanger yourself, you endanger your team.”
“Please.” Van finally pushes against him, their lip curling. “You'd hate it more if I spent my time fretting over you. You like that I don't.”
“The rest of us don't have the luxury of your connection to the Star Maps.” Canderous finally manages to fix Van with a glare. “You die, and this whole operation is a wash. You understand?”
Van is staring right back, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a tight line. Bewilderment wars with irritation and a muscle in their jaw jumps as they grit their teeth and exhale long and slow. Neither of them speak, both of them studying the other. In the ensuing silence, the argument falters. Van searches Canderous’ face, confusion giving way to something else. Something clicks.
A sudden clarity softens the knot between Van's brows. Their eyes widen a bit and they rock back on their heels. “Oh,” Van says as though something has enlightened them.
Canderous squints. Van, speechless, cannot be a good sign. “What?”
“You were worried about me.” Spreading their hands, Van smiles. “I figured it out. No Force osik required.”
Of all the… smug, arrogant - a handful of synonyms arise in Canderous’ mind, alongside a number of expletives that would've made the most hardened soldiers blush. Canderous seizes his emotions by the throat, wrestling them mercilessly into submission. It wouldn't do to lose his temper. Van would only dig their heels in and they'd never get anywhere. Worse is the second emotion arising in him, difficult to ignore now that Van has given it a name. Worry. Fear. The sight of Van's eyes, that graze on their cheekbone, the smile - it's all too much.
He doesn't want to think about that moment on the battlefield. Watching Van overextend themselves. Calling it on the comms - telling them to watch themselves and receiving no answer in return. Watching what would normally be an impressive feat of instinct and skill falter as a blaster bolt that should have been easily deflected slip through their guard.
In the chaos of the fight, through the smoke and haze of blaster fire, it had been hard to tell it was a feint. All Canderous had seen was Van drop, sabers deactivating. In the split few seconds after, as their enemies advanced past their prone form, Canderous had been utterly certain he had just watched Van die.
The relief he had felt when Van had sprung to their feet, now behind the enemy line and primed to slaughter the lot, had fiercely contended with disbelief and then a simmering anger. It didn't matter that it was a rout after that. Van had been utterly pleased with themselves, picking their way across the field of corpses to join Canderous and Carth. In that moment, Canderous had truly wanted to grab them - to kill them or punch them or ensure that that fatal bolt really hadn't taken them in the chest. All that trouble, and the worst Van had received was a scrape on their cheekbone where they had hit the ground.
He'd tried to ignore both emotions; it was done and there was no point in dwelling on it. The relief had been neatly packed away, but the anger kept burning through the walls Canderous was trying to construct around it. It flares to life now, but in response to what, he doesn't know.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Canderous turns away. He has nowhere to go, but he can't look at Van another moment. Bracing his hands against the workbench, Canderous stares at his rifle. The urge to take it apart and piece it back together again arises, but it's a petty and avoidant one. “Unbelievable.”
Van only chuckles quietly behind him. “I'm flattered, Canderous. It's sweet.”
“Every word out of your mouth makes me worry less,” he mutters over his shoulder. Only after the words have left his mouth does he realize what he's admitted. Canderous takes a controlled breath.
Fingertips land on his shoulder, feather soft. When he doesn't shake them off, they slide up to the side of his neck. Van's thumb traces the corner of his jaw, sliding up to that fragile strip of skin behind his ear. It's a dangerous grip - Van's hand is primed to grab him by the throat. They could easily pull his head into the cradle of their arm. One quick twist and it would be over, but not even instincts honed by decades squirm as he feels Van step closer to his back.
“I won't tell you I won't do it again.” Van's voice is soft. Their chin tucks over his shoulder. “But I'm sorry I worried you.”
Canderous’ chest feels heavy. He balls up a fist, pressing his knuckles to the steel of the workbench. “You're a capable warrior,” he forces out. “And you don't listen to me anyway.”
“I do when it counts.” Their hand slips around him, up to his chest until their fingers splay across his chest. “I won't promise not to die, Canderous. Death is completely random. We both know that. But you shouldn't worry about me.”
Canderous pulls back a little, attempting to shake himself out of whatever emotion is threatening to climb up his throat and choke him. Van's a soldier. Soldiers die. Even the good ones get unlucky. Still, no amount of rationalization can shake him free of the knowledge that he had been worried. That he does not want Van to die. Canderous grabs Van's wrist. Delicate bones shift under his fingers as he squeezes and gives the limb a shake. “You keep giving death better odds, eventually it's going to collect.”
Hands push on his shoulders, insistent, until Canderous allows himself to be turned. A faint smile pulls at the corners of Van's mouth when he does. With their free hand, they wrap fingers around Canderous’ wrist, lifting his hand and pressing it over their heart. Fingers splaying over his, Van holds his hand over the steady thrum of their heart. “No harm done, Canderous.”
Their heart thuds beneath his palm. A little fast, Canderous thinks, for someone as insouciant as Van. His fingers curl in the fabric of their tank top, catching Van's fingers between his. Their mouth parts a little, eyes flicking across his face. Only a scant few inches separate them in height. Van is close, absent of the aloofness they pull together in the presence of the team. Softness looks strange on them. It's nothing at all like the savage delight of warfare, and the flicker of uncertainty in Van's eyes makes it clear they know they are treading unfamiliar waters. Canderous thinks they might look better killing. Then, he thinks that they have pulled this softness together out of nothing for him and only him. That aches, somewhere.
There's only one place left for either of them to go, and neither seem to want to be the first to reach across the gap.
It's a lot. Too much. Canderous steps back. His hand slips from Van's chest and he runs fingers down his jaw, over his scalp. Canderous squeezes his eyes shut, a sudden exhaustion overcoming him as he plants his hands on the workbench and sighs.
Behind him, Van hasn't moved. He can feel their gaze, heavy like a predator's. More, he can feel their disappointment. “How many times are you going to do that?”
“Do what?” Canderous’ voice is rough.
“Run away.”
He still can't look at them, but his head twists a bit over his shoulder. “What?”
“How many times have I given you an opening?” Van asks, a note of frustration in their voice. “You back off every time.”
“Van, what are you talking about?”
Van forges on as if he hadn't spoken. “It isn't because you don't want to. You do; I can tell.”
“Van-”
“So what is it, Ordo?” A note of frustration has entered Van's voice. “You want me or you don't. Tell me to stop and I will.”
In spite of himself, Canderous huffs a quiet laugh. “When have you ever listened to what I've had to say?”
“I'm not interested in pursuing uninterested parties.” Anger, now. At least that's more familiar. “Nor would I… jeopardize your companionship.”
It's a shockingly earnest thing for Van to say. Everything Van does is wrapped in deception and half truths, but when Canderous finally turns to look at them, he can find nothing but honesty in their expression. It's not something they seem to wear comfortably. Van's mouth is creased downwards, lips tight. As Canderous’ eyes find theirs, they dart to the floor. Van swallows hard.
Honesty for honesty. “I can't give you what you want, Van,” Canderous says.
Van scoffs quietly, still looking at the ground. “You have no idea what I want.”
“Then tell me.”
Silence. Van's eyes flick up from beneath their lashes. Canderous watches as they take several quick breaths, and he nearly laughs at the absurdity. All it takes to defeat them is one honest conversation. He deserves his own share of that bitter amusement - he isn't faring much better.
Van's fingers twitch once, then they reach out. “I know I am… difficult to like.” Van swallows as their fingers catch his. “I am the ghost of a killer housed in a body that has not always been mine. Warfare is all I am made for. I am content with this.” Canderous’ hand is pulled into theirs, turned palm up. Van is looking at it, not him, as their thumb draws along the creases of his hand.
“All that deadly fire,” Van murmurs, “These killing hands.” Fingers spread across his palm, lacing through his own. Familiar calluses scrape against his own. “They're the same as mine. You have always seen me. You have never flinched away. I could never bring myself to hate you for it.”
Finally, Van's eyes lift back to him. Something burns within their depths. “I don't want you to be anything other than you are. Disregard your romantic delusions if that's what's stopping you. I'm not a child. I don't need your tenderness.”
The earnestness fixes him to the spot. With nothing to cling to, his anger flails and begins to fade. Canderous allows himself to contemplate it. His intimacies are as callous as he is, and Canderous knows that it's nothing Van would mind. Like draws to like. They're scarred in the same ways. Where a lifetime of war has cut away the softest parts of him, Van could fit nicely, unoffended at his inevitable abrasiveness. He could let himself have this - for a time, anyway. Fate has drawn them both into orbit around Malak and his Sith, but every map unlocked brings them closer to the end. Without Malak, there will be nothing keeping this group together. They'll splinter off to find their own quiet sections of the galaxy, perhaps ones untouched by war.
Canderous probably will be one of them. A quiet part of him, long ignored, has woken up since that fatal bolt placed Jagi in his tomb, one that whispers to Canderous that there must be more to his legacy than war. The impulse of his people had always been to seek glory in the stars, but Canderous knows the ugly twin of glory is just death. Mandalorians have seen their fair share of both. They're a fractured, dying people. He's done his part in ensuring that. Someday, Canderous will turn away from Van's war and go looking for his own. He's a soldier, and no future exists where he'll give up his life of fighting, but maybe he can fight for a future for his people instead of watching them waste away.
(Once, he had all but promised to follow Van wherever their path took them next. Van leaves valor in their wake, and at their side he could have sought the honorable death he'd been denied time and again. He'd just been wasting time on Taris, bored and unhappy, waiting to get unlucky. It was easy, unfulfilling work, and he hated it. Van had been a savior in more ways than one. Without truly knowing they had done it, Van had given him a chance to be more than the mercenary rotting in the bowels of Taris. Without them, he'd have died alongside billions and whatever bloody legacy he'd carved out for himself would be forgotten in time. He had stayed first out of an obligation - he owed them, for Taris, after all. Then, he had stayed because he couldn't fathom any place in the galaxy he would rather be than at Van's side. How many people has he killed since then? The instinct to save, to preserve, battles against his nature, but it persists.)
Nothing is ever promised. So Canderous has this. Now. There is no certain future and there will be no gentle ending for either of them, even if they survive Malak. Van is right. Death is random. That thing behind Canderous’ ribs, that poisonous emotion he refuses to name, squirms. Clearly, he has not done a good job of keeping it under control. Despite his best efforts, the feeling has spread like a weed, sending treacherous roots down into the very core of him. He doesn't think he could kill it even if he wanted to. Canderous grips Van's hand and watches their eyes widen.
“You are impossible,” he says, winding them in closer until his free hand can sink into the long fall of dark hair at the nape of their neck. Naked shock appears on Van's expression. In their surprise, they move easier than expected until they're pressed chest to chest. “You are arrogant and insufferable and have no regard for your own safety.”
Annoyance flashes across Van's face. “You are also all of those things,” they say pointedly, rearing back against Canderous’ grip. It's token resistance. He reins them back in, tugging on their hair and watching the way their mouth falls open, pink flush appearing on their cheeks.
“I know,” Canderous says. “That must be why we get along.” Then, almost grudgingly, admits, “And you are a warrior unlike I have ever seen. You have a rare conviction. A sense of self that is absent in most men.”
Van's fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. They're close enough that Canderous can smell the scent of ozone that clings to their skin. The warm brown of their irises has been swallowed by their pupils and Canderous can see the way their pulse jumps against the fragile skin of their throat. Van wets their mouth. Carefully, they say, “That isn't an answer.”
Fine, then. Gathering together whatever remains of his sense of tenderness that hasn't been worn away to make room for scars, Canderous tugs on the back of their neck. He bends his head, just enough until his forehead taps against Van's. The significance of the gesture is not lost on them. Their eyes widen, the high flush on their face darkening. Canderous holds them there, eyes fixed to theirs. “What more do you want?”
They remain caught in their state of repose for only a few moments more. Canderous’ hand loosens in Van's hair. They draw back, clearing their throat, and smoothing their hands across his chest where they had been gripping at his shirt. “I believe you've made yourself clear.”
Leaning back, Canderous crosses his arms. “So what now?”
“Now?” Van considers him. The pink on their face has faded, but hasn't entirely vanished. A faint smile pulls at their mouth, there and gone. “Now I suppose I shall offer you my deepest and most sincere apologies.”
“And that entails what, exactly?”
That little smile broadens a bit. There's something predatory in it. Then they lift their chin and take a deliberate step back until they are no longer pressed chest to chest. The absence of their heat is distracting. “It's better demonstrated,” Van says, still backing towards the door. “I won't bore you with the details. You'll just have to find out.”
Canderous finds himself smirking. He steps forward, towed along by their gravity. Van keeps a steady few paces ahead of him as if tethered a few feet apart. “If I was keeping score, I'd say you have more than one thing to apologize for.”
Van's eyebrows raise, innocent and surprised. “Then I'm glad you're not, or else I'd never be doing anything else.”
“I don't mind the sound of that.”
Van's grin turns sharklike. They disappear into the darkness of the corridor without another word and Canderous follows, leaving the workshop behind.