Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every job goes south eventually, he’d decided. It was just inevitable. There’d been five marks this rotation (six? he stopped counting), and every one of them had ended up kriffed. Half-baked intel, asshole partners, shitty situations. The most recent had been the same, leaving Corr Dazran restless in his exhaustion, itching to just sit down.

He clambered up the ramp before it was even fully lowered, striding through the cargo bay and up into the living quarters. His helmet landed with a thunk on a counter as he passed, and he landed on a bench to peel off his armor. The pieces went one by one, methodical, straps unclipped and flightsuit abandoned. But even running on fumes, something in him wouldn’t let him leave armor lying. The creed he hardly clung to moved his hands, stowing the pieces away the way he always had before.

In his under shirt and loose sleep pants, armor case stored in the floorgrates, he fell into the pilot’s chair. With the mindlessly familiar click of buttons and flick of switches, the ship hummed to life and fought the pull of gravity to peel away from the yard. He figured he’d much overstayed his welcome in the dockyard judging by the dock master’s face when he’d returned. Best to be gone rather than stay the night parked.

He didn’t breathe until he’d broken atmosphere. There was something about those minutes between soil and sky that made Corr itch, like anything could go wrong before he’d cleared the storms. But the hum of air resistance turned into the hum of dark space, and with a last few checks and the saved coords to Corellia, the freckled black of orbit stretched into the white-blue of hyperspace around the Revenant’s hull. He pushed himself up with a sigh, checking the jump time with a groan before leaving the cockpit for the only thing worth thinking of now—caf.

The ship rocked and groaned as it limped along the lane to Corellia, hyperdrive rattling in the chassis. Class 3 hyperdrive for a bounty hunter was already ridiculous, in his opinion, but a hit from a pursuing convoy had the thing on its last sorry leg, turning what would’ve been a twelve-hour jump into something closer to thirty-six.

He didn’t notice the little flash of red until he was back with mug in hand. A little alarm light, blinking red in the quiet as he returned to the console with the steaming cup. It’d been years since he turned off the sounded alerts, hating the constant chimes and check-engines that came with an old ship. It was a miracle he’d even seen the thing. A few taps revealed the problem.

Cargo hold. Life signs in the wiring.

Probably a local critter, he figured. Pain in the ass. He’d probably end up tossing it out the airlock—no turning back after jumping to light speed, especially not for some womp rat. He snatched up his data pad, pulling up the schematic of the cargo hold, and headed down.

Didn’t take long to find the panel. A few rivets later and he popped the metal panel away, braced for a nest of rats or birds or lizards.

He was not expecting a child to be tucked inside.

“Oh, kriff—” came out of his molded-shut mouth without him realizing.

The kid was a small shape, all blue-and-white montrals and linen tunic and half-hidden in the wiring. A scrawny back was bared to him, breathing slow and shallow under the ratty shirt. He could count the vertebrae like sabacc chips. Probably starving. Definitely dehydrated.

“… Uh. Kid. Hey, hey, wake up, ad’ika…” he murmured, his voice sounding alien to him with how soft he spoke. His hand brushed the kid’s shoulder, nudging them to waking.

The shape jolted to life, which was both jarring and relieving. Meant the kid was still alive. He got a good look in the split second they locked eyes—Togruta, male, around five or so. Maybe younger? Hard to tell. He didn’t have much experience in the way of kids and how old they were supposed to look. But he knew in an instant the kid was young.

And then the kid was gone. His little frame scurried through the wires behind the panels still locked by rivets, through the vents of the ship on hands and knees.

“Shit—”

Corr followed the sound of knocking knees and panicked crawling, tripping over himself to follow the sound. He clambered up into the cockpit and braced himself outside the only vent the kid had cornmazed himself into.

“C’mon, ad’ika… c’mon out…”

BOOM. The vent flew open with little blue hands braced inches from it. The young Togruta tumbled out and onto the cockpit floor, where he scrambled to his feet and tried to run back to the cargo hold. But Corr caught him, wrapping him up in his arms and pinning the kid to his chest with ease.

“Stop! Kid, calm down— Stop kicking— Agh, gedet'ye—”

It was like holding a tiny rancor. The kid thrashed like his life depended on it—which, Corr figured, he probably thought it did. But Corr held him steady, shushing him until the kicking and wrestling in his grip slowed to little panicked twitching.

“K’uur, ad’ika, shhh… You’re okay, you’re okay…”

Corr huffed as they both finally relented. The kid was still, now, still shaking, and Corr gently set him in the co-pilot’s chair. Knees came up to chest immediately, the boy curling small in the usually empty seat. Corr fell into the pilot’s chair opposite the kid, swiveling in it to face him. He sat there fidgeting for a moment before glancing at the kid’s shaking frame and popping up to get a blanket.

His boots felt too loud on the grated floor as he returned, stepping slow but close and opening the blanket to wrap the still-trembling boy. But he flinched, and it was like someone plunged Corr in a Hoth ocean. He backed off instantly, stiff for a moment before offering the blanket instead, letting the kid take it and wrap himself up. Agency. That was probably right, right? Autonomy.

He took his place back in the pilot’s chair, watching as the kid wrestled the blanket around his shoulders and toes. Corr could really see the kid now, sitting still in the blue light of hyperspace pouring in from the viewport. Even with the rest of him drowning in blanket, the dead eyes and hollow cheeks were dead giveaways for a kid that’s been starving.

“Hey, kid. Listen, uh… I’m in the dark here. I’m not gonna—”

Hurt you. That’s what they all say. He bit his tongue and started again.

“You’re safe. You’re okay. But… how’d you get in here? You’re not in trouble, I just… I just wanna know.”

The kid didn’t even meet his eyes. They were locked on Corr’s hands, and more likely locked on some distance place Corr couldn’t see. He’d be surprised if the kid was listening at all. But he tried again anyway.

“C’mon, kid, you gotta give me something. Parents? They… still around? Throw you out?”

Nothing. He knew the boy was going to be a brick wall, but it still stung to see no light in such young eyes.

“… Can you at least tell me your name, ad’ika?”

The barest recognition flashed the kid’s face at that. A sound filled his throat, like muscle memory wanted to give it but panic locked it down.

“… Ad’ika…?” Corr prompted.

“… Boen,” said a tiny voice.

It was like an airlock had finally been shut. Corr took a breath like he hadn’t in minutes. The kid’s accent was Coruscanti, that Inner Rim lilt that was all curled vowels and swallowed consonants. Made sense, given where he’d likely picked him up.

“Boen,” Corr repeated. “Nice to, uh… meet you, Boen. Corr.”

Boen blinked again, still not looking at him, but head tilted like Corr’d broken through the fog of fear.

“Core?” asked that little voice.

Corr nearly chuckled. “Corr. That’s me.”

“Oh.”

Corr nodded. His faint smile dropped as his gaze shifted from Boen to the viewport, to the lines of hyperspace pulling the kid farther and farther from wherever he was from. Farther from any parents or siblings he might have. There was nothing he could do now but wait until he hit his jump point, no turning back until the ship had made the day-and-a-half journey to Corellia.

“It’s, uh… gonna be a while before we can swing around, kid. But I’ll get you back, just a couple days jump back to Corusc—”

“Can’t go back.”

Corr froze at the grim weight in Boen’s voice. It was the most words he’d heard the kid say yet, but there was something in them. He said it like it was law.

“… What?”

“I can’t go back,” Boen repeated, stronger, shier.

“… Okay. Why not?”

“Because—” Boen choked. His hands twisted in the blanket still pooling around his feet. “Because. Master Neena said so. She said—” His throat bobbed again. “She said to… run. And to not come back. I can’t go back.”

He was shaking worse now, murmuring it again—can’t go back. Can’t go back. The hem of the blanket threatened to unravel between his thumbs as pieces of a puzzle Corr didn’t even know was there slotted into place. The tunic. The haunted look. Master.

The Purge, just days ago. The only thing you could get on the Holonews for the last three days. Jedi tolls rising like geysers, tens and then hundreds and then thousands. Not a breath of how many were children. Not a shred of evidence for their alleged treason. He hadn’t cared.

Until now.

Corr took a breath. “… Okay. Okay. You don't have to. I won't take you back, ad’ika. You’re safe.”

Safe. It was like a bomb had gone off in the kid’s chest, the noise that punched out of him. Corr nearly flinched as tears broke free down Boen’s face. His heart lurched at the sight, old teachings of parentage bubbling up from behind the locked doors in his very soul. He spilled forward out of his chair, hovering near Boen but not crowding, kneeling below his eye level.

“K’uur, ad’ika, shh— Don’t cry, nu pir’ekulo—”

His eyes darted around Boen’s crumpled face, both halves of him warring for solution—one wanting to fix, one wanting to comfort.

Fix won out.

“Hold on, ad’ika, nu ba’slana—” he pleaded, hauling himself up and to the small dining bar he hadn’t used in weeks. Calloused hands fumbled for a mug and a canteen of recycled water, pouring it like he could will the water into it faster.

“Here—” he whispered as he returned, softer than he meant to. “Just water. Slow sips.”

He brought over slowly, holding it out to the kid for him to take. Boen had mostly calmed down by then, tears still streaming but breathing easier. His trembling hands left the abused blanket hem to wrap around the cool ceramic of the mug. The second the water hit his tongue, the kid was downing it like he hadn't had some in days. And probably hadn't.

“Hey— woah, easy, kid. Easy, easy—”

Corr tried to slow him down, but he couldn't bring himself to take it away. He settled for just watching with a hand light on Boen’s shoulder, hoping the weight would calm him into not drowning on dry land. When the cup was empty, Boen still clung to it, like it was the first thing he’d been given in a long, long time. Like he didn’t want it taken away.

“… Do you… want more, ad’ika? Er— Boen?” Corr asked gently, realizing the kid wasn’t going to ask. At the barest nod, Corr reached for the cup, but the little hands wrapping it kept their hold. He pulled back, thinking. Alright, so the kid didn’t want to drop it. That was fine, he could work with that. And after what he guessed Boen’d been through in the last few days, he was fine with affording him that small comfort.

“Here, come with me. We’ll get you some water.”

He walked slowly to the dining bar again, listening for the quiet padding of Boen’s feet and the dragging of the blanket behind him. At the counter, Corr pulled the jug of water back out and gestured for Boen to raise the cup, which he took a moment to understand. The water sloshed as it drained into the mug, nearly too big for the kid’s unsteady hands. Corr watched him sip slower through the second cup, and offer it up again.

“… Please,” he whispered, and Corr was already obliging.

They stood there for a long time, Corr’s hip leaned to the counter as he refilled cup after cup of the saving grace. It was like the life was coming back to him with each round, eyes losing their foggy haze and cracked lips singing back to a healthy teal. At the fourth fill, those brightened eyes drooped again, like life had been breathed back into him and left the flood of three day’s tiredness in its wake. The mug nearly fell from Boen’s sleepy grip.

“Woah, hey—” Corr muttered, hand diving forward to steady the boy. And the cup. “Alright, alright. That’s enough for now. You can always have more later.”

Boen nodded, but it was more reflex than conscious acknowledgement. Corr could tell, could see the difference in the blankness of fear and the blankness of sleep. He shuffled Boen back to the cockpit, up the little stairs to the blue-lit semicircle of controls and panels. The kid crawled up into the co-pilot’s chair without a thought, back to the place he must’ve carved out the barest bit of safety. Something about that felt a little too right in Corr’s chest, knowing the kid felt safe enough to crawl into that space and not against some corner or back behind wiring.

“Sleep, ad’ika,” he said softly. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Boen nodded again, already half to sleeping. Corr settled in the pilot’s chair, watching him nod off. The blue of hyperspace flushed his teal skin into something colder, puncuating the hollows under the kid’s eyes. It tugged something loose, finally, seeing the deep bruises of exhaustion on such a young face. A thought brushed his mind as he turned away, eyes locked on the racing lines of stars passing them by—

He’s mine. My charge.

And it was settled.

Chapter Text

He woke with a start. He always seemed to. One moment sleeping, the next waking, the next taking in the lines of hyperspace still passing him by.

Then it hit him. The night before. The thought he’d stupidly had.

My charge.

The fuck was he thinking? Corr Dazran didn’t have a charge, didn’t take charges. Especially not Force-wielding war orphans. Or, what he suspected to be a Force-wielding war orphan. If the kid was what Corr thought he was, then he had to get gone. And quick.

But then, Corr looked over at him. Still sleeping, out like a light, drooling on the tatters of a youngling robe blackened with dust.

…Haar'chak.

He was on his feet before he realized, putting distance between himself and the kid. His hands itched for something to do, his mind itched for caffeine, and the caf machine sputtered to life with the sharp jab of a few buttons. He tapped the counter impatiently as it coughed out the cheap brew and he snatched up the mug like it offended him. The smell, hot and thin, filled the space as he settled back in the pilot’s chair, glancing at the kid again through the steam curls. Still asleep.

He opened a tab in his datapad to orphan relief centers, Corellia.

Then child refuge, Core worlds. Then Republic orphanages, open for intake. Then non-Imperial youth shelters.

All full. Or shutdown. Or Imperial. He’d get one or two that looked okay, but his gut didn’t trust it. He knew the kinder looking places would be overcrowded, especially the ones listing “no max capacity.” Every Imperial-run would be a trooper factory. Every Republic-run would be days from doors closing. For a galaxy full of orphans, there weren’t a lot of places to drop one.

Maybe that could wait. The thought of one problem at a time had him up again and trudging to the pantry, a cramped closet full of more dust than rations. At the back was a box of ration sticks, and he gnawed a cold one for himself as he dug around for something for the kid, something better than a tasteless stick harder than durasteel. His hands found a rattling jar of still-in-date nutrient cubes, and he figured that could work.

He grabbed another mug from the cabinet and crushed a couple cubes in the bottom until they were powder. There was an old, dented kettle in the back of a cabinet, always kept on board in case the caf maker crapped out, and he filled it with water to boil. It took longer than he remembered. It’d been a while since he'd boiled water, which he figured was probably pretty sad—something so simple being so foreign. Every few moments he'd peek into the cockpit anxiously, expecting Boen to be awake and alone. He was still out every time Corr checked.

Eventually, he poured the water over the crushed up cubes and stirred, making what was almost soup. Smelled alright, at least. The steam coming off it was thick, heavy with the scent of salt and dehydrated, rehydrated vegetables. Or, more likely, synth-veg. He intentionally didn’t look at the packaging.

The hum of hyperspace was louder in the cockpit as he came back and set the mug down on the console next to the still-sleeping kid. Part of him wanted to wake him, knowing he’d be half-starved, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The kid had probably been running on fumes for days; sleep would do him good.

Galaxy full of orphans… he thought again. Stars, there were a lot of them, weren’t there? It made him think of Mandalore, of the House he’d never thought twice about, the brotherhood he’d been born into. The brotherhood he left it all for. Even in exile, he’d never been an orphan. Not until now, when it hardly mattered.

But Boen was small. It did matter for him. Corr thought of an even smaller Boen, taken from his parents arms on Shili, given up to a cult of Republic soldiers. It didn’t sit right. How could it? He glanced at the small blue shape in his copilot’s chair. How a parent could give up their child like that, to an army like that, a cult of wizards—he’d never understand. Not that he sat around thinking about it. About… kids. Of his own.

Dank farrik. He stood up again just to take a lap around the ship, pretending to check data panels and ship readouts. By the time he was back in his chair—out of things to fake-check—the kid was still asleep.

And still asleep hours after that.

By the eighteen hour mark, Corr was nearly falling back asleep where he sat. The kid stretched in the seat, rubbing his eyes and groggily calling for someone, though Corr couldn’t make it out in his own half-asleep state. But he shot up when he realized the kid was awake, and even more when he realized the kid was panicking. Again.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Corr murmured, sleep-husky and clearing rest from his throat. “Still just me. Still in my ship.”

Boen settled, barely, as he realized where he was. His little hands wiped themselves on the blanket as he glanced around, heart probably still in his throat. He rubbed his eyes, yawning, staring down at his blanket-clad toes.

Stars, this kid… Corr thought hard—when had the tolls come pouring in? That is, assuming he was right, that the kid was—

The thought got cut short. Hyperspace buzzed around the cockpit as he wrestled his thoughts to compliance. The purge. When had it been? Two days? Three? What could the kid have gone through in that short of time to have him this… shaken?

“You alright, ad'ika?” he asked, dumbly. Of course not. The kid nodded anyway, but he knew it was probably habit. To nod. To say ‘yes’ when an adult asks if you're okay.

“… No nightmares?” he asked next.

That got a pause. And then a slow, small shake of a head. All Corr could do was sigh as the kid sank deeper into the tangle of blanket.

His eyes wandered to the mug still sitting on the console—cold now, after nearly twelve hours sitting there untouched, powdered nutrients separated at the bottom, thin film over the top. He winced, cleared his throat, pushed past the mortifying ordeal of trying to be a caretaker.

“Uhh… hungry?” he asked. Stars, he sounded stupid. He’d never been more unsure of himself in his life. Disarming a bomb would have had him less tense. But he knew the kid would be half-starved, being five and alone and running on empty. And the kid nodded, so Corr nodded back. 

The blue light of the cockpit faded into the yellow of the corridor as he shuffled to the dining bar again. The mug clinked too loud in the stillness when he set it in the nanowave, the sound sharp enough to make him flinch. The thing whirred halfway concerning as it spun, “soup” bubbling back to life in the rickety box.

A wall of that same salty steam hit his face as he opened the little door and he blew on it on the way back to the cockpit, snatching a scrap rag to wrap around the hot mug. Boen was a tiny, washed-out shape, still sitting in the chair, still drowning in the blanket. He looked up as Corr came back, nose itching at the scent, montrals twitching at the sound of socked feet on metal grates.

“Careful, careful,” Corr murmured, handing him the mug. “It’s hot. Slow sips, don’t let it burn you.”

Those wide-set montrals waved at him as Boen nodded, taking the mug in two trembling hands. Fear or low blood sugar, Corr wasn’t sure. His chest twisted just the same. Boen drank as slow as he could, being more than half-starved, and that made Corr’s chest twist too. Wouldn’t a normal kid down it? Especially one that hungry? He winced, thinking about how ingrained obedience must be for a kid like Boen. The longer he thought about it, the more he was sure. Temple kid.

He thought back to every lesson, every tenant, every story of the Force-wielding enemies that were the jetiise. Of the hate his duchess had tried correcting, letting them into the New Mandalore. Of the dark wizards his Mand’alor had brought into their camps in his efforts to regain glory, regardless of honor or toll. This is what they were hunting? Children? How different were they, really? Warriors under code, doing as they saw fit. He understood the wars, the struggles, the fundamental differences between his people and theirs. But to drag a child into it? This child?

His hand caught Boen’s falling cup before it left his hand.

“Ad?” he murmured, seeing Boen’s eyes droop yet again. A sleepy hum left the kid’s throat, heavy with warmth from the now obliterated soup.

“Stars, kid,” Corr winced, taking the mug from him. “Still tired?”

Boen barely nodded, jerky and tugging the blanket over his shoulders. Corr frowned, seeing him folded up in the seat. No way it was comfortable. He'd know, given he slept there more nights than not.

“Hold on, kid, don't fall asleep yet.”

Boen blinked his eyes back open at Corr, clinging to wakefulness as his head lolled against the seat back.

“C’mere, I've got a better spot.”

The kid clambered out of the chair and shuffled along the corridor close behind Corr. Even nodding off where he stood, the kid’s steps were near silent, muffled by the blanket and what could only be trained footing. Corr tried not to think about it.

He led the kid into his bunk, the spare being full of weapons and shit to scrap for credits if he was ever in the red. It was a cramped space, one bunk set into the wall with a line of light cells set to a permanent dim. It smelled vaguely of dust despite what should have been the sterile nature of the ship, but the kid didn't seem to mind as he stood stock still in the middle of the space.

Corr watched him. Figured he'd get it eventually. That this was a space to rest.

It got awkward fast.

“You can… lay down, ad. It's for sleeping.”

Boen looked to him like it was a trick. That a five-year-old had knowledge enough to not trust care, Corr felt that twist in his chest again. He swallowed it, nodded to the bunk.

“Sheets are clean. Maybe a little stale. I don't, uh… use it much. But it's better than a flight chair.”

Boen stared at the thing for a long moment before nervously clambering to the middle on top of the thin sheet, still wrapped in the blanket from before. He looked small in the middle of the average-sized bunk. Corr was starting to realize he looked small everywhere. He just was small.

“Right. Comfy?”

A tired nod.

“Good, right. Good. Um… I'll be in the cockpit. You know where. You can… If you need anything, kid, water, or… blanket. You can ask. I don't mind.”

When Boen barely nodded at all, already dead-to-the-world, Corr huffed. He shut the door with a quiet whoosh, then thought better of it and left it open.

His footsteps receded back to the cockpit, ears itching for any sound from the back room. The co-pilot’s chair was still fever-warm. 

Chapter Text

Boen woke slowly. His dreams, full of high ceilings and soft-voiced teachers, faded into the hum of a strange place with wrong walls. It was dark, and metal, and smelled like the dusty corners he used to hide in. For a moment, half-awake, it smelled like the lower levels. He shot upright at the recognition, squirming in the hold of a blanket over him and a sheet under him, clambering to the floor with a dull thud. His back pressed to the side of the bunk, metal biting into bone as he took in the light spilling in from the hall, the gentle hum of a moving ship, the soft steps coming from the corridor.

And then, the man, head peeking in from the doorway.

“Hey, hey, kid. You okay? What happened?”

His voice was soft, like Boen’s old masters. But his face was worried. Like when a knee was scraped, or a training saber was set too hot. Like the man expected hurt, and wanted to fix it.

Boen just nodded, which wasn’t really an answer. He didn’t really know what he was nodding at. All he knew was that the look in the man’s eyes made his stomach twist like he was in trouble. He hated being in trouble.

“’M sorry,” he whispered. His throat worked around the words, and they came out small and rough, like he’d been crying. He hadn’t been crying. Had he?

“Hey, no, kid, you don’t have to be sorry,” the man frowned, kneeling close. “What are you sorry for?”

No one had ever asked that before. Boen just shrugged, not knowing what to say to that. He really wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. The world used to be bright and warm, but now it was bright and wrong. It made his throat tight and his chest hurt. Nails bit into his palms. His stomach hurt, like hungry and sick at once.

“I dunno—” he murmured, voice wavering. His vision blurred behind globby tears, and the fuzzy shape that was the man flinched.

“Oh, ad’ika—”

Hands hovered near Boen, not touching, not crowding, but gently shaking with the need to help. Fear—hot, cold, worried—poured off of the man in waves, filling Boen’s chest with something confusing, something tangled between sorry and grateful. The man swallowed.

“Are you hurt?”

Boen shook his head. He didn't feel hurt, not enough to say so.

“Are you… hungry?”

Boen blinked at that. Hungry. Yes. That was something sure. It stopped the slippery panic in its tracks, overruled by the gnawing in his middle. Maybe that’s why his stomach hurt. Just hungry.

He nodded. The man nodded back. Then he scrambled to his feet and disappeared from Boen’s view around the corner, digging around for something. Boen shuffled after him, watching the man with big eyes as he opened cabinet doors and noisy drawers and muttered under his breath.

“Aha!” the man said, and he smiled, so it must’ve been good. But not that good, because he frowned right after. “Sorry, ad. It’ll have to do until we hit Corellia.”

He kneeled on one knee, eyes almost level with Boen’s, and held out a ration stick. Simple, easy, hard as rocks. Boen’d had them before, on field trips. They tasted like nothing, he remembered. But when his teeth hit it, it tasted like sunny days. It was hard to chew the bite.

“… That okay?” the man asked him, watching him work the thing between his teeth. He just nodded back, molars working through the brick. No one had ever asked him if food was “okay” either. Only if it was too hot, or too cold, or if he’d shared. The man didn’t make him share. Instead, the man apologized for eating the other one.

“I didn’t realize there was only two left,” he muttered, wincing. “I’d’ve let you have ‘em both. Sorry, kid. You alright for now?”

He nodded again, nearly dizzy from all the nodding, jaw tired from working the same bite. His eyes stung like he’d cry again, but he held his breath to stop it.

The man nodded back, again. He watched Boen chew for a moment before shuffling away, saying something about “system checks” and “kit to clean.” Boen stood there for a moment, not sure what to do, before he wandered back to the cockpit to climb into a chair, still chewing.

The light outside was blue and white and a little loud, whooshing past in long lines. Suddenly he remembered being in the Temple, hearing the older kids talk about hyperspace.

This must be it, he thought, looking out into that long stretch of light. I’m here.

The ration stick wore to half its size as he watched the lines of space move past. He didn’t even notice how long he sat there. It was beautiful. And bright. And… long. And spinny.

He frowned as his stomach did a little flip. His hands held the armrests without him meaning to, tight to the point of leaving little purple lines in his blue palms. A small groan left his lips the longer he looked, and he could feel his mouth water with that gross feeling he remembered from fevers in the Temple.

The ship jerked weakly, lines bending awkwardly in the big window. He felt the sway, tossed around in the seat as the floor under him lurched.

“Stop moving…” he whispered, swallowing thickly. He twisted in the seat, scrambling down and stumbling through the corridor on clumsy, pattering feet, hands clamped over his mouth. Little legs carried him down the steps, through the corridor, into the hold where the man was sitting, working.

The man heard Boen before he saw him.

“Hey, ad’ika, what’s—?”

His stomach, traitor, lurched. Hot and wet and wrong. Eyes welling right after. His hands were slick with it, watery and flecked with what little he’d stomached of the ration stick. It was a puddle at his feet, sick and tears and little socked feet pointed in. As if he could be any smaller than he felt right at that moment.

He hated being sick. It was always met with a groan, with an older kid cleaning it up, with disappointed glances that felt heavier than the sick feeling. His whole body shook with the tension of a lyre string, waiting for the snap.

But it never came.

“Oh, kid…” came the man’s voice instead, slow and warm in a way that felt like a hand on his back, not hands on hips. Like comfort, like I’m here now.

“Are you okay?”

The man was crouched to his level, hand pressed to Boen's forehead, feet expertly avoiding the puddle but near enough to feel close. His brows were pinched again, gentle worry rolling off him like a fog Boen could feel, like a weight in his stomach, which still rolled as his balance stayed iffy.

“No…” he groaned through sniffles, the truth. The man’s brows pinched worse, and he sighed.

“C’mon, kid, to the ‘fresher. Let's get you clean,” he said gently, shuffling Boen to a small room. His robes stuck to him as he walked, cold and sour, and he nearly got sick again. The room had a soapy smell, stale like the man's bunkroom, clean like armor polish Boen’s masters used, and it almost covered the smell of his sticky robes. There was a counter with a big bowl in the middle, but the man ignored the tap.

Instead, he pulled a jug of clean water from underneath the counter and drenched a cloth to wipe Boen’s face, hands slow and gentle. Boen hated that he flinched at the movement, but he stood as still as he could while the man cleaned around his mouth. Then a cup was placed in his hands.

“Small sips,” the man said. The water was cool, and tasted like metal. But it was good, and he gratefully took a second glass.

“Thank you,” he barely whispered, muffled into the cup of water.

The man paused, like he’d hit his elbow on something. Boen watched him, curious, as the man blinked at him and then nodded.

“Swish and spit. Get the sick out of your mouth,” the man gently instructed, voice softer. Boen nodded slowly, taking a long sip of the water to rinse his mouth. His throat felt better, and the taste was gone from his tongue as the man lifted him to spit into the bowl.

“Into the basin, there you go…”

Oh. Basin, not bowl. No one in the Temple had taken the time to name things like that. The man set him back on the cold durasteel floor, still gentle. Boen was still braced for the snap, the anger, the cold look in a caregiver’s eyes. But it never came, even as he tugged his damp robes from sticking to his chest.

“Right, uh… hold on, ad.”

The man grabbed a towel and gestured at Boen, but he wasn’t sure what exactly the man wanted him to do. His heart kicked, knowing something was being asked of him but not understanding the instructions. But at the same time, he couldn’t get his mouth to open and ask. Everyone always sighed when he asked things. He didn’t understand why he was scared to get sighed at.

The man noticed. It was new, all the noticing. Boen wasn’t used to being the only kid under someone’s watch. No group to slip to the back of. Just him, just noticed. Even the parts that made his face hot, like now. But the man seemed to understand.

“The— the robe, kid. It’s, uh… holding on by a thread, even before the sick. We gotta get you in something else.” The man kneeled, helping Boen undo the tricky belt, and let Boen do the rest himself. “Especially before hitting Corellia,” the man added softly, more to himself than to Boen.

“Why?” Boen asked, voice quiet and rough with the memory of sickness. The question surprised the both of them, it seemed, as the man blinked down at him as he stood. But he answered it quick and easy, like he didn’t want to scare Boen off from asking questions. Which he still was— still scared of asking—but less when the man wasn’t mad.

“Well, uh… The robes, kid. They… you know, stick out. Not really what we’re looking for, yeah?”

Boen didn’t really get what he meant. Maybe a little. There were people looking for him, for his brothers and sisters. He guessed his robes, lying on the floor in a pile now, would make it easier to find him. So he nodded, and the man nodded back.

“Right. Well,” the man said holding the towel open for Boen to wrap himself in, “let’s find something, uh… bland, right?”

“Right,” Boen echoed in a whisper, clutching the towel around his shoulders.

He followed the man to the bunkroom, less stale-smelling now that it had been slept in. The blanket was still in the floor from when he’d woken up earlier, and he jerked with the memory of leaving it there. The man was digging in the closet already when Boen scrambled to place it back on the bed in a heap, catching the man’s attention.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, kid. I’ll get it later.”

Boen stared, but the man was already facing the closet again. He’d get it later. That was new, too. In the Temple, messes were always cleaned by the person who made them. His bunk in the creche always had to be tidy. Always made. Never fixed by someone else. He frowned at the balled up blanket on the bunk, everything in him saying to fix it, but the man’s kind voice telling him leave it. He didn’t know which one to believe.

His eyes didn’t leave the bunk until the man had turned back around, holding up a shirt. Boen looked up at it, hands still fisted nervously in the towel, and his little head tilted.

“Uh… it’ll have to do, kid. It’s, um… gonna be big. Smallest thing I own. Hah, you believe I used to fit in this?” the man said with a half smile, brows knit, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was happy.

Boen took the towel from around his shoulders and folded it before setting it on the bed to take the shirt. The neck hem caught on his montrals as he slipped it on, and he flailed weakly for a moment until the man’s hands, warm and slow, came to wrangle his head through.

“There he is,” the man huffed, tugging the hem down the rest of the way. “Like a glove, huh?”

Boen didn’t really know what that meant. He thought it fit more like a dress than a glove. The bottom hem of the grey undershirt fell to his knees, and his hands drowned in the sleeves, useless. He looked up at the man, arms awkwardly held out at his sides in half-discomfort.

A deep, quiet chuckle washed over him. “Yeah, it’s a look,” the man said, rolling the sleeves to free Boen’s hands. “But eyes’ll pass over that more than they would a set of robes. Warm enough?”

Boen nodded, then thought about it, then nodded again. For sure this time. The man smiled softly at the second time.

“Good,” he said. “Good. Um… nothing to do now but wait, ad’ika.”

The man’s steps were heavy on the metal floor as he walked toward the basin-room again, footsteps covering the sound of Boen’s own as he followed close behind. A new cloth was fetched, soaked with water and wrung with a sharp-smelling cleaner, and the man went back to the place where Boen’s stomach had turned.

He watched the man disappear into the room, not brave enough to face the mess he’d left behind, but listened anxiously for the disappointment he was still sure would come. Part of him wanted to clean it himself, to avoid making the man upset with him, to prove he was sorry for being sick. But he was frozen where he stood, listening to the shhsh shhsh of the rag on the metal flooring and the quiet breaths of the man. Not once did he hear the breaths turn to harsh sighs, or groans, or complaints. Just breathing.

The man came out again, rag tossed in a bucket and feet headed to the basin-room. Boen followed him this time, and watched as the bucket was left in the shower and the man washed his hands. Blue eyes caught on blue face.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, kid, really. Just spacesickness. It happens.”

The man knelt to his level again, hand back on his forehead.

“You don’t feel fevered… Just, you know. Little nausea. Never k— uh… never hurt anyone. Yeah?”

Boen nodded, because it felt like the right thing to do. The man sighed, quiet, and grunted as he stood straight again.

“Just, uh— you know… try to not stare into hyperspace too long. ‘Specially ‘til the drive gets fixed.”

A warm hand hovered between his montrals, like the man wanted to touch but then thought better of it. But then thought better of it again, and pressed his palm to the top of Boen’s head—a soft, hesitant little ruffle between the horns. Boen jumped a bit at the touch, eyes dropping on instinct, but he leaned in just as it left. He blinked up at the man at the loss of contact, turning quick to tail him on his way out of the basin-room.

But when the man took the steps up into the cockpit, Boen stopped. He hesitated at the bottom, eyes on the first stair. He didn’t want to see the blue lights again. They spun too fast, and the ship moved under him, and he didn’t want to be sick again. But then—

“Only a few hours left, kid. Swear it,” came the man’s heavy voice. It made him brave, knowing he wasn't by himself this time, and something in his heart still itched to be close to something steady.

Little blue hands covered big brown eyes, and he peeked between his fingers to take the stairs one at a time. When he got to the landing, he hid his eyes again, already nervous at the whooshing sounds of the blue outside.

“Ad? What’re you doing?” said the man’s voice.

“The— lights…” Boen whispered, feet shuffling under him. He heard them, the dizzy sounds from outside the ship, the creaky metal from inside it. His shoulders curled in tighter, hands pressed tight to his eyes until they buzzed.

“The… lights? Like the…” the man trailed off. “Oh.”

There was more shuffling sounds, not Boen’s feet, and after a few clicks it suddenly went quiet, darker. He peeled his palms from his eyes.

The cockpit was dimmer now, warmer than it had been when lit blue and harsh by the big window. Now the only light was from the consoles and lines around the walls, yellow and quiet. The big window was dark.

Boen’s mouth opened slightly, and it made the man smile.

“You’re alright, ad. Just closed the viewport,” he said, sitting back down from clicking buttons on the ceiling. “No spacesickness.”

Boen nodded, looking around the cockpit like it was all brand new. It looked brand new, not the same without the big window open to the blue lights. He shook his head when the man asked if he was still dizzy, and climbed into the open chair where the man had set down him before. He liked that chair. Even though he got sick in it last time.

His mouth yawned without his permission, and the man gave him a look.

“Sleepy again?” he asked, and Boen nodded. “Back to the bunk?” and Boen nodded again.

He was shuffled back into that small room with a bunk, where the blanket still lay crumpled in a heap at the end next to his neatly folded towel. This time, the man pulled back the thin sheet and held it open for Boen to crawl under. Once he was settled, the man took the blanket and lay it over him as well. Boen flinched a little at the sound it made as he flared it open, but the weight of it over him stilled his little heart from kicking.

“Night, ad. Might be your last sleep of the jump,” the man murmured, more voice than person now, dimming the lights to a low yellow hum and gathering up the folded towel. All Boen could do was sigh as sleep took him again, going under for the third time since they’d taken off.

When he woke, it was slow and groggy and with a voice drifting in his ear. It was low, and warm, and asking him to wake up like it was almost sorry for doing so. It called his name softly, rough with old habit and years of growl.

“Boen.”

Master Drallig?

The voice stopped. So did the hand on his shoulder, which Boen didn’t notice until it froze.

“No, ad’ika. It’s me.”

He blinked open one big, sleepy brown eye. Yellow hair filled his view, tousled and shorter than Master Drallig’s, longer than any soldier’s he’d seen.

… Mister… Corr? A guess.

The blonde hair laughed weakly, like Boen surprised it. Blue eyes came into view.

“Yeah, kid. It’s Corr.”

The man, Corr, slowly came more into focus as Boen rubbed his eyes, and his voice sounded more like his and less like memories as he spoke.

“C’mere, ad’ika. I want you to see something.”

Boen felt the cold floor under him before he remembered getting up. He followed the man— Corr, up the little stairs to the cockpit again, but the noise was gone. The ship didn't jump or creak, and when the big window was opened, the blue lights were gone. Instead, black space filled the glass, and a big, bright planet filled Boen's view.

“We're here, kid. … By the grace of the galaxy.”

“Where's… here?” Boen mumbled, nearly drowned out by the hum of the ship’s air, eyes squinted against the glaze of light from the planet below.

The man hummed, sitting back down in his chair and hitting some buttons.

“Corellia.”

Chapter Text

Corellia was bright. It almost hurt Boen's eyes to look at it, squinting through sleep-bleary lashes at the planet from orbit. He watched the big marble as it grew closer in the big window, and climbed in the chair next to the man’s to watch him instead.

The man's hand worked the controls, pulling them closer until all they could see was the marble. He held a finger over his lips to Boen—be quiet—and flicked a little red switch that lit up.

“Corellian Traffic Control,” he said, voice level, “this is light freighter Revenant, on approach and requesting landing permissions.”

Boen didn't know the word Revenant, but he knew the word permissions. It made him think of breakfast. Maybe the -sions sounded like rations. Maybe permissions sounded like persimmons. Either way, his still-traitor stomach woke up mad. And loud. His cheeks flared when the man glanced down at him, and for a moment he thought he'd get shushed. But he didn't.

Then he remembered the man wasn't sharp like that. Not with him, at least.

The voice from the ceiling was different.

“Copy, Revenant. Please state intent,” said the voice from nowhere. Boen jumped when it came through, tinny and crackly and tired. He glanced at the man, wondering if he was scared too. But the man didn't look scared. He looked… confused.

“… Landing??” the man said back, short in a way Boen hadn't heard yet.

“Copy. Receiving transponder now, please hold.”

The man rolled his eyes hard, like the older kids in the Temple. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, just like they did. He sounded annoyed. Boen sank in his chair.

His stomach did two more sounds before the crackly ceiling voice came back, and the man's brows got closer together with each one. Boen wasn't sure why, except that maybe the man was worried his stomach was too loud and the voice would hear it. Boen startled when it crackled again.

“Traffic’s heavy, Revenant. Stand by for lane clearance.”

“Hey, hold on—” the man snapped softly, like a held fist. “Listen, I got…”

He looked to Boen.

“… time-sensitive cargo that needs to get planetside.”

Boen’s stomach twisted again, and the man winced. Boen tried to open his mouth to tell him he was okay, that he was trying to be quiet, but the ceiling voice cut him off.

“Copy that. Unfortunately, space is backed up at the moment. You'll have to wait for a lane to open up—”

“I don't have time for a lane to open up,” the man said, sharper. “There's not a back route?”

The man's voice was mean, but Boen could feel the heavy pressure pushing down on his shoulders, the tingly stress in the man's back. His stomach hurt, and worse as the waves of worry rolled off the man. He clamped a hand over it, the growl louder in his ears than the ceiling voice.

“You'll have to wait like every other ship, Revenant. Lanes are moving at a crawl.”

He really, really didn't want to interrupt. Master Neena said interrupting was rude. One time he interrupted by accident and got told on. But also Master Neena said interrupting was okay in an emergency. And she said hurt was an emergency, sometimes. 

This hurt felt like emergency.

The ceiling voice came again over the man’s groan of annoyance, “There’s not much to be done—”

“Mister Corr?” Boen blurted, hushed. Immediately his stomach curled worse.

The voice was quiet. The man was quiet. Even his stomach was quiet, for a moment.

“… Yeah, kid?” the man said.

“My…”

He swallowed.

“… stomach hurts.”

The man breathed, hand off the controls.

“I know, kid. You're okay. C’mere, drink some water,” he said gently, not sharp or loud anymore. He handed Boen a small, heavy bottle with the twisty lid popped off. Boen took slow, long sips from it, cool water hitting his stomach but not quite filling it. Though it did make him feel better.

”Revenant, please confirm. Was that— was that a child?”

The man winced as he took the controls again.

“… Confirm, Traffic.”

There was a long bit of quiet after that. The man was very, very still. He didn't look at Boen, even when he spoke up.

“Are they mad at us?” Boen whispered to the man.

“No, kid, not mad. Maybe at me, but, uh… not you,” he muttered, eyes still on the marble. This time, he looked at Boen.

“Never you.”

The voice came back before Boen could talk again.

“Do you require medical priority?”

The man blinked at the marble, then at the speaker, then huffed. Then hesitated. He did that a lot.

“… No— uh, no. He's… fine. Just hungry,” the man said into the console, still braced.

It was quiet for a long time again. Boen felt weird, not just in his stomach, not just hurt and hungry. He felt like he was in trouble for something. Maybe because he interrupted. And his stomach still hurt. His shoulders curled in, even as he tried not to slouch.

He opened his mouth to say sorry, but the voice was back, again.

“Proceed to Lane G-14, Revenant. And don't say Traffic never did anything for you.”

The man laughed, breathy and closer to a burst of air than anything. He leaned into the console, pushing the ship closer to the marble again.

“Copy, Traffic,” he said, smiling. “Appreciate it.”

“Get the kid fed, Revenant. Traffic out.”

The man leaned back as the marble filled the big window, hitting a few buttons that made the ship move by itself before getting up from his chair.

“What happened?” Boen murmured, sliding off his own chair as the man hit a few buttons on the ceiling.

“They let us in, kid,” he answered, smiling a little, like he didn't want it to be big. “Now we just gotta, um. Take her down.”

When he walked out of the cockpit, Boen scrambled to follow him, little feet quiet behind the man's heavier ones. He tailed him so close that Boen bumped into his legs when the man stopped outside the room where he’d let Boen sleep before.

“Sorry!” he blurted, hands twisted in the hem of the man’s shirt still hanging to his knees.

The man winced, smiled. “You're fine, kid,” he said, hand on the doorway. “Just, uh… gimme a minute, yeah?”

Boen flinched. Give me a minute meant you're bothering me. You're bothering me meant I’m annoyed with you. Suddenly, his heart was in his throat.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, quieter.

The man frowned.

“There's nothing to be sorry for, ad. I just need a minute to change.”

He bent down, grumbling about knees, and got level with Boen. “I just need some— you know, privacy. Not leaving. You didn't— you didn’t do anything wrong, bud,” he said, smiling like it hurt. “I'm literally just… putting on pants.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” the man huffed, smiling better, “oh. Just a minute, promise.”

Boen nodded, and the man patted his head again, like when he'd told him not to stare into the blue lights outside. He jumped like last time, but smaller, leaned in quicker.

Then the hand was gone, and the door whooshed shut. His heart squeezed, but his feet wouldn't move. He strained to hear behind the door.

But then he remembered that Master Neena said if a door was closed, it was probably supposed to be that way. No peeking. Not even Force-peeking.

But she also said being alone was dangerous. And Mister Corr was alone. What if he fell? What if he called for Boen, and Boen didn't hear him? What if he needed him?

He dropped to sit criss-cross on the cold metal floor in front of the room. His eyes blinked closed, listening to the sounds of the ship as it passed through the atmosphere, listening to the hum of the machines working inside the walls, listening for the noise from behind the door. His montrals caught on whispers of sound—a drawer opening, fabric rustling. And, then—

Boen was there, in the room. Blurs of feeling showed him the man, tugging on boots and strapping them down. He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, elbows on knees and hands clasped once his boots were on. Everything echoed. Even the squeak of the bunk as he sat there, barely moving. Boen didn’t understand why he was just sitting there. Why wasn’t he coming back?

But then, he was coming back. He reached the door before Boen was back in his head, and the man nearly tripped over him as he walked out.

“Oh—” the man stuttered, catching himself on the doorway before he stepped over him. “Ad’ika? Are you… okay?”

Boen shook the haze of meditation from his mind, jumping to his feet and brushing himself off. He fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt, accidentally unrolling them as he scrambled for a way to explain what he’d been doing without getting in trouble.

“I’m sorry—” he blurted instead. The man frowned harder, looking down at him like he was sad.

“Kid… you don’t have to be sorry for everything. I just— I just wanna know why you’re on the floor.”

Boen swallowed. “I was… waiting. For you.”

“On the… floor?”

He grimaced. “… yes.”

The man blinked. “… Right. You’re good?”

Boen nodded, and the man nodded back.

“Then let’s get something to eat, yeah?” he said, smiling. He trudged past Boen after patting his shoulder and Boen followed him back to the cockpit.

Landing was easy. The ship bumped as it settled on the ground, and light poured in from the big window from the day outside. Boen clambered down from his chair and through the halls with the man, who stopped in front of a big door.

When it slid open, brighter light spilled into the corridor, stinging his eyes worse than the blue lights, worse than the big marble. He squinted against it, half hidden behind the man’s legs, little hand fisted in the fabric of the man’s pants without realizing.

The man glanced down at him. “You’re alright, kid,” he said, reaching down to take Boen’s hand instead of letting it stay locked to his pant leg. His hand was big in Boen’s own, holding his hand with just two fingers and a thumb. Warmth spilled through his glove, rough against Boen’s little palm.

And then they were walking.

Corellia was loud, almost louder than it was bright. Voices poured into Boen’s senses as they left the yard with the ship and walked into the streets. People shuffled around them, eyes everywhere, on everything. They kept looking at Boen, quick glances that said nothing but felt suffocating. Grease and spices and metal filled his nose sickeningly as he watched people pass him. It all made his still-empty stomach twist with nerves. He nearly tripped over his own feet trying to stay close to Mister Corr, eyes on all the people watching them instead of on where he was going.

Then he really did trip.

“Oof!” he huffed, landing on his knees. One hand caught himself while the other stayed tight in the man’s, who was crouched in an instant.

“Hey, kid— you alright?” he asked, helping him stand and brushing off his knees.

“Sorry,” he mumbled back. His free hand was back on the hem of his shirt, grip tight enough to sting against the rough fabric.

The man huffed again, standing. “You don’t have to be sorry, kid. Are you okay? What happened?”

Boen looked at his feet, down at his dusty boots he’d thrown on at some point. His shoulders jumped up and down in a shrug, and he heard his voice whisper, “tripped.”

“On… what?” the man asked next.

“My,” he started, “… feet.”

“Oh.” The man glanced at Boen’s boots too. “Well… you know, watch your step, alright? Busy streets.”

Boen nodded, and they walked again. More people were looking now, after watching him “eat dirt” (an older kid had called it that once) and get told to watch his step. His cheeks felt hot as they moved, the moment stuck in his head. He kept his eyes down on his feet now, trying to block out the feeling of attention on him.

But then a man passed them close, and bumped his shoulder. He nearly tripped again. Mister Corr glanced down at Boen as it happened, and glared at the other man as he faded into the crowd ahead of them. He tugged Boen closer by the hand, mumbling something that sounded rude.

Then it happened again—a woman joining the street nearly ran into Boen, counting her credits instead of looking where she was going. She huffed when she bumped him, eyes cutting into Mister Corr.

“Watch the kid,” she hissed. Boen flinched.

“Watch yourself, lady,” the man said back, tugging Boen behind him. The woman sneered at him, and said some words Boen didn't know but also sounded very rude. The man said some rude words back at her.

He turned to Boen after, looking down at him with a frown, like he was thinking hard.

“What?” Boen said, shifting nervously. He thought for a second the man might take him back to the ship, or leave him there on the street, or—

Then the man's hand left his, and suddenly he was being lifted by the armpits into the man’s chest.

He was stock still in the man’s arms, rigid with legs around his middle and arms around his neck on instinct. The memory of being held before, when the man found him, rolled through his mind like a rough wave of warm water. Like scared, but then not-scared. Like remembering it didn't hurt before, and realizing it doesn't hurt now either. His heart kicked and his body shook, but he clung to the man.

“Sorry, I—” the man started, glancing around at the people moving around them. “Streets’ll swallow you, kid. It'd be easier if— if I just… carried you.”

Boen blinked. No one ever carried him. The last time someone picked him up was when he hurt his leg during training. And even then it was just to set him on a hover-stretcher. It was never like this, close and gentle and with one arm around his back.

“You okay?” he heard the man ask.

All he could do was nod into his neck, still tingling with the shock of being in someone's arms. He missed it. He didn't realize he missed it. But now, he thought if Mister Corr put him down, he might cry.

They kept walking. He didn't look at the people around them. Instead, he counted the stitches in the shoulder of the man’s shirt. One of them was loose. He wanted to yank it. He settled for just watching it and flicking at it with a finger, trying not to hold on too tight to the man. He was still thinking about tripping earlier, about the lady who bumped him, about how he was high off the ground and still felt safer than he had since he left the Temple.

The man slowed down at every food stand they passed. Each one was pouring steam and loud with sizzle, salty and hot and making Boen’s stomach remember to eat itself. His arms left the man's neck to wrap around him as they lingered through the streets, eyes full of people shouting and pointing and biting into big portions.

“Hold on, ad’ika,” the man whispered to him, frowning at a trough of bright red something. “We’ll find something soon.”

He muttered to himself as he adjusted his hold on Boen, eyes scanning the stalls. Nothing worked, Boen guessed, because every person who tried to yell at them from a stall got ignored by the man.

“I know you're hungry,” he said softly, even though Boen hadn't said anything.

“I'm okay,” he whispered back, barely able to hear himself over the sound of voices mixing across the market.

The man frowned. “You're not, kid. I've been listening to your stomach growl for three hours. And you—” he stopped, grimacing. “There's nothing in there. We gotta get you something easy to keep down.”

Keep down. Boen remembered throwing up before, in Mister Corr’s ship. His cheeks flared at the memory, hot embarrassment creeping up his neck.

They passed all the food stands and the man started glancing into shops next. The salty smell coming off them all made Boen’s stomach turn, and he hated it. The man wanted him to eat, he wanted to eat, but every smell that hit his nose made him feel sicker. Stupid traitor stomach. He wanted to be easy. But a particular shop had a group coming out of it, boxes in hand and smell of grease and fish clinging to their clothes. He gagged.

The man flinched, holding him tighter. “Hey, hey—” he murmured, energy shifting like a rock hitting still water. He was stopped now, stock still in the street, rubbing Boen’s back. “Breathe, kid. In and out. Through your nose.”

Boen tried. In through the nose, out through the mouth, from deep and low. Just like he remembered. Breathing was easy. Breathing was supposed to be easy. His stomach still rolled.

“Sorry. I'm okay,” he whispered. “I’m not going to— I won't. I'm sorry.”

The man's frown got worse. “Just hold on for me, ad’ika,” he said, moving again, steadier. “Don't swallow if it comes up. Just— just hold on.”

They ducked into somewhere cold and bright. It smelled cleaner there, and Boen shivered as the chilly air hit him. There wasn’t as many people inside as there were outside, and the man breathed easier, pulse calming in Boen’s senses. Cool air filled his lungs, and the smell of outside got replaced with the smell of recycled air and fruity cleaner. His stomach settled, barely.

The man shuffled them down the aisles, eyes darting over the packages lining the shelves. They caught on one in particular, something in a shiny, bright-yellow wrapper. Boen’s mouth parted around the shape of the letters, mouthing the sounds as he read it.

NutriHex Bicarbonate Crackers.

“Crackers?” he mumbled, cheek still pressed to the man’s shoulder. The man looked down at him in his arms when he spoke.

“Uh… yeah. Yeah, um… How did you…?”

Boen waited patiently for the man to ask his question, but it never came. Instead, Mister Corr seemed to let it go as he wandered to the big glass walls at the back of the store. It was cold back there. Boen shivered as the man opened one of the plexi doors, and pulled his sleeves down over his hands as the man set him on the ground again.

“Red or purple, kid?” the man asked, turning to him.

Boen blinked. “Sir?”

“Color,” he answered, holding out two bottles—one red, one purple. “Flavor. This one’s… uh…”

The man frowned at the label for a moment. His face got a little pink, glancing between it and Boen. He seemed to be thinking really hard about something, looking at the cracker wrapper and then Boen and then the drink again.

He knelt down on one creaky knee to show the label of the red one to Boen.

“Can you… Do you… know what this says?” he asked gently.

Boen looked at the label on the drink. It was colorful. He sounded out the words in his head, lips moving over the shape of the name like he’d done a million times before in the Temple. Just like stories. Just like classwork. Only… different words. The label’s meaning came into focus.

Fructalyte+. Fruit Flavor Electrolyte Juice Beverage. ‘Meiloorun Mamba.’

“Fructalyte…?” he muttered, concentrating. He looked up from the label to Mister Corr. “It’s meiloorun flavor.”

The man looked at him with big eyes and a small frown. Boen couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and it made him worried for a small second. Did he read it wrong? He looked at the label again, stomach twisting, and sounded it out again. He knew he read it right. So he didn’t understand why Mister Corr looked nervous.

“What about this one?” the man said next, holding out the purple bottle. Boen took another moment to read it, hands fisted in his shirt hem now, worrying the seams.

“Jogan flavor,” he whispered.

Then the man laughed. Breathy and cut short like he hadn’t meant to. It made Boen jump a bit, but he relaxed when the man’s smile didn’t run away like always. It chased away the worry in his stomach, and left the still-hungry feeling and last bits of nerves in its place.

“Alright, genius. Take your pick,” the man whispered back, holding out both bottles. Red. Purple.

Boen froze.

His heart stopped, then kicked, then felt too big in his chest. He didn’t want to pick wrong. He wanted to be good. To be easy. To be fast so Mister Corr wouldn’t look so nervous anymore. But he didn’t know which one to pick.

What if he picked wrong? Was it even for him? What if he picked one and didn’t like it? He could tell he was taking too long. But…

What if Mister Corr got angry with him?

“… Hey, ad,” the man’s voice said after a while, drifting right through Boen’s spiral. “They all taste the same, you know. Can’t go wrong.”

Boen nodded without really meaning to. “Sorry,” he mumbled, for not picking fast enough.

The man winced. “Don’t be, kid. ‘S just juice. Got a favorite?”

Boen thought. He’d had fruit in the Temple all the time. It was a nice memory. It made his heart slow a little, thinking about the warm refectory and meals he had there. It also made his stomach growl, which also made the man wince. He opened his mouth to say something, but Boen spoke before he could.

“Red,” he blurted. Then shied, chin tucked to his chest. “… please.”

The man huffed again, head dropping. He tossed it back to meet Boen’s eyes again, smiling a little.

“Good choice. You like meilooruns, then?”

Boen nodded again, hands still twisted in his shirt hem. He did like meilooruns. The Temple had them sometimes, and he’d always pick them out of his fruit salad. He snapped out of the memory when Mister Corr patted his head and started walking to the front, little legs tripping over themselves to follow close behind.

Corr paid without a word, even as the person at the counter said a number that made him scoff.

“Space lane robbery,” he’d muttered, passing Boen the drink with the lid cracked and one big cracker out of the pack.

They shuffled back onto the street as Boen gnawed the cracker, trying to hold onto it and the juice without spilling. The man hauled Boen back up into his arms with a little warning, and adjusted his grip so he could take the drink from Boen’s hands to let the boy focus on not dropping the cracker.

“Thank you,” Boen whispered around a mouthful.

“Course, kid,” the man murmured, eyes scanning the crowd before they dropped to Boen. “How you feelin’?”

“Better,” Boen said back, softly. It was true—every bite of cracker made his stomach hurt less and less, and the juice was nice to his dry throat. It didn’t really taste like meiloorun, but it was cold and sweet. He liked it.

“Good. Good,” the man nodded. “We’ll get, uh, real dinner later. ‘Kay?”

“Okay.”

The man carried Boen all the way back to the shipyard, and set him down once the crowd was thinner. They climbed back into the ship and Mister Corr flew them somewhere new, ship humming under them as they moved deeper into the city. He set the ship down inside a bright place high off the ground, and glanced at Boen.

“… We’re, uh… gonna meet a guy I know,” he muttered, clicking some last buttons as the ship went to sleep.

“Like a friend?” Boen asked, lekku shifting on his shoulders as he tilted his head.

“Not— not exactly,” the man answered. He swiveled around in the chair to face Boen, looking nervous as he spoke. “More like… an acquaintance.”

“Ah-cain-tence?” Boen echoed.

”Acquaintance,” Mister Corr corrected gently as he stood, popping a panel in the wall to pull out a heavy bag. “Like someone you’ve met but don’t really know that well.”

“Oh,” Boen said, still not really getting it. But he followed Mister Corr out of the ship as the man muttered, telling Boen to “keep close.” When they stepped down, Mister Corr kept Boen behind him with one hand. It made him feel safe andscared, like Mister Corr would protect him, but that there must be something to protect him from in the first place.

Then a new voice came from across the big, bright room, and Boen jumped again.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” it called, rough and high-pitched. “If it isn’t the man that owes me two-hundred.”

Mister Corr held Boen’s hand tighter.