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“Mm. Got shot. Don't actually remember that part; I just remember waking up in the med bay after feeling like I'd had one too many pints and an ass kicking.”
Fingers draw over the knot of scar tissue on his ribs as Canderous talks. Van watches him, lingering over the scar before flitting up and to the side to seek another.
Van is oddly affectionate tonight, tucked against his side. It's rare that they do this - linger together in the afterglow. More often than not, one of them abandons the other for their own bed. It's a matter of practicality. The bunks on the Hawk are cramped, and neither of them sleep through the night very often. It's easier to leave. It suits their arrangement better not to share beds the way they share bodies. What tenderness they can spare for each other is often spent in the moment. There's little left over when they're done taking their pleasure. More often than not, it feels like scraping at a raw wound.
Canderous isn't sure what makes tonight different. Van hadn't shoved him out and Canderous hadn't felt the need to leave until they did so, and as they had settled in the drowsy wash of pleasure, they had migrated together. Van had slung their leg over his hips and Canderous had let his hand rest on the side of their knee. As Van had let their hands wander over his chest, his thumb had stroked over the sturdy tendon he had found beneath the skin. Van had told him they didn't need his tenderness, but maybe that's been forgotten for now.
Van is warm beside him, those long limbs tucked up beneath the bedsheets. Dark hair spills across their face and across Canderous’ chest, damp with sweat. Their fingers trace idle circles across his chest, lingering over the knots of old scars. At the moment, Van is tracing a long silvery line that slashes from collarbone to the bottom of his pec. It's an old one - hidden both by the hair on his chest and a dozen newer, ropier scars.
Canderous’ voice is soft. In the quiet dark, it feels wrong to speak too loudly. “That's an old one,” he says. His hand skates up Van's thigh. “Must have been twenty or so. First real duel I'd fought with a vibroblade. It wasn't painful, but it bled like a bitch. Didn't realize until I sat down and almost passed out.”
Van makes a soft, amused noise. Their hand floats down to find a scar perhaps as long as the first joint of his thumb, oblong and tapered at the ends. “Shrapnel,” Canderous says. “Couldn't tell you from what fight. Probably the Mandalorian wars.”
Van hums. Their hand flattens, fingers splaying against his abdomen. “You have a lot of stories.”
“I've lived a lot of life.”
Van hums again. Their face turns upwards to the ceiling as if searching for something. In the safety of their dark room, in the gentle bliss of sex, they seem disquieted. Canderous nudges them. “You're thinking a lot over there. I can practically hear you.”
“I don't have any stories,” Van says.
“Huh?”
Their eyes turn to him. “I don't have any stories,” they say. “Not about scars. Not about life. It's all just-” they gesture vaguely at their head. “-A wash.”
Van has almost as many scars as he does. Collected mostly on their extremities - little nicks and burns. Some look like they were caused by machines. Others by shrapnel. None are quite as fantastic as the branching scar that winds its way up from their chest to their neck. Van's a reckless fighter, Canderous knows, but they're skilled enough that they usually make it through fights unscathed; he's never seen them with anything worse than a mild blaster burn. These scars had come from somewhere. Just somewhere buried in Van's memory.
It's strange - bacta can heal even the worst wounds without leaving much evidence they had ever been there at all. There were planets where bacta was worth its weight in gold, especially after wartime when demand was high and supply was stretched thin. No soldier had made it out of the war without scars, but few had earned as many as Van. To have collected so many spoke to a chronic lack of medical treatment. The Republic had bought it in droves during the war. If Van had been a scout, they surely would have had access to the Republic's medical officers wherever they were deployed, but Van claims to have never fought in the Mandalorian war.
Canderous eyes them. “You really don't remember anything?”
Van hitches a shoulder, sighing. “Nothing substantial. Van Corin. Thirty three. Republic Scout.” Their fingers follow the path of the scar down Canderous’ chest. “Those are the only memories that come to me with ease. Everything else feels more like a remembered dream than anything that belongs to me.”
Canderous almost laughs. So little information, and so much of it he hadn't known. He takes Van's face into his hand and turns it up until he can examine them. “You don't look like a Corin.”
Van's mouth twitches. “I don't think I look much like a freighter from the outer rim, either, but that's what I remember.”
Canderous’ thumb draws across their lower lip. They study him in turn, perceptive and inscrutable. The glassy eyes of a predator, reflecting the fear of their prey back to them. Lithe and deadly like the maalraas on Dxun, those nocturnal killers that had frightened even his people. Van wouldn't be a foe he'd like to meet in battle, Canderous knows that much.
A mystery. One Van cannot unravel by themselves. Canderous’ thumb draws across their lip. “Tell me what else you remember.”
Against him, Van stiffens. It's a minute thing, there and gone, like a shudder has passed through them. Their fingers curl against his skin. “I can't.”
There's something of apprehension in Van's eyes, not directed at him, but at their veiled past. They don't talk about themselves. Once, Canderous had simply thought it was because Van played their cards close to the chest. Things like their name or age were irrelevant to their mission - and, later, their shared bed. Now, Canderous suspects it's because Van is a fragile thing built on a handful of memories and nothing more.
Tilting their head, Van lets his hand slip down until Canderous’ fingers bracket their throat. Softly, they murmur, “There's a place in my head that I can't touch. An abyss of memory.”
“What happens if you do?”
“Nothing good.”
Canderous hums. His thumb pulls across the column of Van's throat, feeling the subtle shiver of their pulse. “Good thing I'm not the one who's always asking for stories.”
Van scoffs a little. “Good thing I don't like the sound of my own voice as much as you seem to.”
Canderous laughs softly. He releases Van's jaw and slides his arm behind his head. “I've just given up trying to tell you no.”
“I'm not your subordinate, so I don't have to do what you say.”
“If you were my subordinate, you would have been fragged.”
Van grins. Leaning forward, Van shifts their weight until they're leaning against the bulkhead next to him. It almost shifts their leg where it's thrown across Canderous’ lap. The fingers of his free hand tighten around it, keeping the length of their thigh pulled over his hips.
“It probably would have been worth it.” Lifting a hand, Van prods between his eyebrows. “I like it when you get the knot here when you're annoyed at me. Very charming.”
Catching their offending hand, Canderous twists it away from his face. His fingers skate down their arm, lingering over an oblong, dark and waxy burn that stretches across their forearm. Perhaps four inches long, the skin looks taut and shiny. An old burn, but not enough to have softened. Van looks at it, then him.
Canderous says, “Do you want to know?”
A muscle in their jaw feathers as Van clenches their jaw. They heave a breath, then look at the scar. “Tell me.”
“Saber burn,” Canderous says. It's not the only one Van has. A few on their shins and thighs. Several on their arms. Not unlike marks made when sparring, but Canderous doesn't think the Jedi would train with sabers capable of burning or severing limbs.
“It's too old to be a saber burn,” Van says. “It was on me when I woke up, well before I ever touched a lightsaber.”
“It's too broad to be from a blaster,” Canderous says. The tip of his forefinger traces the edges. “Look, see? Blaster burns are tapered at the end.” He shifts, displaying a mark on his ribs. It's faded, but the teardrop shaped patch of skin is still evident.
Van is quiet. Pulling away, they shift their weight until they're seated on his lap - usually a precursor to another bout of sex, but their expression is troubled. Canderous watches as Van runs fingertips across their own skin. They pause over a scattering of marks on their ribs and shoot him a questioning glance.
Canderous runs his thumb over them. There are six, all pointing in the same direction and more or less evenly spaced. Keloid, not the flat burns of a blaster. “Shrapnel,” he guesses. “On the edge of a grenade. Or you were near something that exploded.”
Van's fingers find another burn. On the side of their thigh, a thick, uneven reddish mark that tapers to a point.
“That is a blaster burn,” Canderous says. “Looks like an old one.”
Humming, they shift their thigh and point at a circular knot of scar tissue. Canderous leans forward, running his thumb over it. “That's a new one,” he says. “Slugthrower bullet, looks like. They're uncommon weapons. We used these in the war; projectiles that Jedi can't deflect.”
Van hums. The troubled look hasn't faded. “I didn't join the Republic army until after the Mandalorian wars,” Van says.
Canderous shrugs. “Doesn't mean nobody ever shot at you.”
“But being near explosions? Gunfights?”
“Worked security on ships, maybe.”
“I was a freighter,” Van says. Their voice is no longer quite so confident. Shifting, they continue to run fingers across the collection of scars on their skin. More saber burns, more shrapnel.
“You saw combat,” Canderous says. “You might not remember, but you did. Whether or not it was in the Mandalorian wars.”
“Maybe I was a Mandalorian.”
Canderous snorts. Van doesn't laugh. Their head tilts. “Why else would I have saber burns, Canderous? They wouldn't be there unless I was fighting Jedi.”
“If you were fighting Jedi,” Canderous says, “You'd be dead.”
“Would I?” Something blazes in Van's eyes. “I'm an excellent duellist.”
“A vibroblade against a saber? Your arm would be off in seconds. I saw it enough.”
Van growls. Their knuckles press against his sternum, and Canderous catches their wrist. Frustration flashes across their face - not at him, but at the gaps in their memory. Brow furrowed, Van takes several unsteady breaths. Slowly, the tension leaks out of their shoulders.
The hand not being gripped comes up, tapping against the knot of scarring on their chest. “Tell me,” they say quietly.
Canderous looks at it. The branches of the scar flower upwards, crawling over the skin of their chest up to their eye and around their pec. “Lightning,” he realizes. “Electrocution.”
A knot deepens between Van's brows. A shuddering gasp escapes their mouth. For a moment, Van seems to be struggling with their words. Their next breath sounds wet.
“Was I a S- a S-” Van's mouth twists. Their fingers dig into Canderous’ chest. They can't seem to spit the words out, jaw working as they try again. “A- a S-”
“Van-”
“A Sith?”
The word hangs. Van's chest is heaving like they've just finished fighting a bout in the ring. Canderous blinks up at them, his hands encircling their hips. Beneath his hands, Van is trembling. Their eyes turn glassy. A moment later, blood begins to stream from their nose. Like someone's flipped a switch, Van’s eyes roll back and they collapse backwards.
Instinct has him move through the shock. Canderous lurches, grabbing their arm to keep their head from hitting the metal bar at the foot of the berth. In his grip, Van is twitching, eyes open and unseeing. Blood is fountaining from both nostrils, streaming down their cheeks and temples to soak into their hair and the sheets beneath their head. Heart pounding, Canderous lays them backwards and grips them by the jaw. Van is rigid, the only movement in the spasm of their fingers against the sheets. They're ashen beneath him, like a corpse. Blood streaks Canderous’ hands where his fingers are pressed into the skin of their cheeks.
“Van,” Canderous says, gripping their trembling shoulder. Nothing. Not even a blink.
Cursing, Canderous presses fingers to their neck. Their pulse is so fast he can barely time it. He's trained in triage, of course, but that was a long time ago, and it didn't cover much beyond bandages and bacta patches and getting the wounded to a medic. Still, he rolls Van onto their side to prevent them from aspirating any blood. Blood pools beneath their nose, bubbling over their lips before soaking the already ruined sheets.
Canderous grips at the bridge of their nose in an attempt to stem the blood. Beneath his hand, Van is trembling with minute twitches. Jaw slack, Van's eyes stare sightlessly at the wall. Blood pulses out sluggishly from beneath the press of his fingers. It's smeared along his hands and arms, the smell of it choking the air.
“Van,” Canderous hisses, gripping their shoulder with his free hand. “Wake up!”
He's not sure where the hell his fucking pants are and he isn't above comming Jolee to prevent Van from bleeding to death on the bed. Just as Canderous lunges for the small bedside table to search for his comm, Van sucks in a breath. A spark of life. A bloody hand flails in the air, grasping for something. Van bucks beneath Chanderous' hand, shoving at his shoulder as they roll onto their front.
Face buried in bloody sheets, Van is panting. The awful twitching has stopped, but their shoulders are shaking. As they lift a hand to push bloodied strands of hair off their forehead, their hand trembles. They're quiet for a moment, unmoving even when Canderous lays a bloodied hand between their shoulder blades. “That wasn't very pleasant.” Their voice is slurred. It comes out as tha w'snt very plsn't.
Canderous’ heart is pounding. An unfamiliar fear has settled around him. It's abating, slowly, and he shoves it to the back of his mind. His hand slides up to grip the back of their neck, squeezing reassuringly - but for his sake or Van's, he isn't sure. It leaves a bloody handprint against Van's ashen skin as he does so. “What the hell was that?”
Slowly, Van sits up. In the dim light, they look ghoulish. Their nose is no longer bleeding, but Canderous doesn't think he'd be able to tell if it wasn't dripping off their chin. Blood is fucking everywhere. The majority of their face is stained with it, and a great deal has dripped onto their chest. It’s soaked into their hair, leaving crimson streaks across their skin as it falls over their shoulders. The sheets of the bed are ruined. A puddle has dripped to the floor, across Van’s chest and on Canderous’ own hands. The smell of it is pungent, a thick metallic reek that’s made no better by the smell of sweat and sex. They’re both still naked, for God’s sake, sitting in a mess of bloody sheets.
Van attempts to wipe their face, but all that does is smear blood along their arm. “Happens sometimes.”
“This has happened before?”
Van looks up at him. Their eyes look haunted, pupils shrunk to pinpoints. They don't seem entirely present, their head bobbing, unable to focus on his face. Another sluggish pulse of blood dribbles down their lips. Van rasps, “Couple times.”
Jaw tightening, Canderous twists. He paws around the bedding and clothes that have been scattered across the floor and comes up with his tanktop. Sighing, he folds a corner of it and grips Van by the chin, mopping at the blood turning sticky on their skin.
Vainly, Van tries to pull away, batting at his hands. Their own are shaking. “Stop,” Canderous commands quietly. Van stops.
They let him wipe the worst of the blood away, expression settling on a grimace. He scrubs at his own hands, but the fabric is well saturated and doesn’t succeed much beyond just spreading blood over his knuckles. Most of the blood had been caught by the sheets, but some of it had splattered to the floor, where it's congealing against the steel. When he's done, Canderous throws the shirt over the worst of the blood streaked on the floor and pulls them to their feet. Van’s trembling under his hands as he pushes them towards the shower, cold and pale.
He directs them to sit. Van must not have it in them to argue, because they drop without complaint. Their eyes close as the water hits them. Blood begins to slough down the drain. Listing to the side, Van leans against the shower wall and pulls their knees to their chest.
It doesn’t take long. Van’s warmer by the end of it, steam curling off their skin, but the weariness hasn’t left them as they wrap a towel around their waist and go to sit in the solitary chair in their room. Van is hunched. Small as they watch Canderous strip the bloody bedding.
He's located his pants at this point. His shirt is all but ruined, so he uses it to wipe up a streak of blood. As he bundles the lot up to dispose of, Canderous says to Van, “Wait here.”
“Not going anywhere,” Van says mulishly.
He isn't gone long. The Hawk's corridors are blessedly empty as Canderous retrieves a change of bedding. He makes a brief detour, swinging by the galley to grab a bottle of water. When he returns to Van's room, they're still hunched over, face in their hands.
Canderous sets the bottle on the small desk beside them. Only after he's turned his back to redress the bed does he hear the cap crack open.
“Van,” he starts, “What was that?”
Van is quiet for a moment. “I don't know.” Canderous turns an incredulous look at them. Van lifts their chin, but can't seem to muster the usual walls that close them off from the rest of the world. “I don't remember. I- we were talking about something-”
“Scars,” Canderous says when Van seems to flounder. “The one on your chest.”
Red rimmed eyes meet his. Van's voice is hoarse. “I told you nothing good would happen if I talked about what I don't remember.”
“ Did you? Remember?”
“Don't ask.” Van's voice is pleading. They shake their head. “Don't- I don't want to remember. It's better that I don't.”
“Van-”
“It isn't important. I don't need to remember to do my job.”
There's a tremor in their voice - fear. Canderous has never seen Van afraid of anything, but it's there, clear as day in the haunted look in their eye and the smell of blood still thick in the air. It's a viscerally awful thing to see. Van shouldn't be afraid. Not of anything.
Canderous spreads his hands. “Okay,” he says. The tense line of Van's shoulders relaxes a fraction. “No more memories. Just get in bed.”
Van eyes the bunk like they'd watch a snake. Then their eyes flick to him and they are once again a mystery. Rising on unsteady legs, Van crosses to the bunk and settles down. They curl up facing the bulkhead. An obvious retreat.
“You want me to stay?”
Van sniffs. “I don't care.”
After a moment's hesitation, Canderous joins them in the bunk. He rubs at the knot between his eyebrows, exhaling. Neither of them speak. Canderous isn't sure either of them even know where to begin. He settles for reaching out to grip Van's shoulder and gives it one solid squeeze, the same thing he might do for any suffering soldier.
Beside him, Van breathes out. “Someone did this to me,” they whisper. “And when I find out who, I'm going to kill them.”
Folding an arm behind his head, Canderous hums. “You want help?”
Van rolls to their back. “How many bodies would you drop for me, Canderous?”
“Depends on how many rounds I've got in my blaster. Why?”
Finally, Van shifts to press against him. Their hair is still wet, damp and cool skin leeching the heat out of Canderous. “I've just got a feeling it's more than one.”
Canderous hums. “Well, what's a few more?” His free hand pushes a damp strand of hair off their forehead. “Go to sleep, Van.”
Van presses infinitesimally closer. Their exhale ghosts across his skin. Canderous pretends not to feel the way they hide their smile against his shoulder.