Chapter Text
Cassian Andor's eyes opened in a bacta tank with an Imperial medical team observing him through the glass.
He thought, vaguely, he couldn't recommend the experience to anyone, despite the pleasantly warm waters and submersion that felt like temporarily muting all of his fears. It was quiet inside, except for the bubbles, and the whispering hydraulics of machines nearby pumping whatever the fuck was needed to save his life.
Last thing he remembered…
Stumbling through the citadel with Jyn Erso. She was helping him walk. They seemed to agree, without saying so… get out. Not off, but out. It was too late for off. They could go down to the beach, maybe, and watch the blue sky become an inferno.
But they walked into the bay, and there was one last TIE fighter, set on blocks for repairs. Without speaking, they both prayed it was something superficial, and that it could still fly.
He knew how to detach the cables correctly, turn it on, and the engines screeched to life. He hauled the controls the correct direction, blasting them out of the hanger, and into the atmosphere of Scarif, which churned from aquamarine blue to smokey yellow.
He jerked the shifts back and set them at a climbing speed that knocked them both unconscious. They would not have cleared the blast. The TIE had been undergoing repairs for a fuse shortage. The specific fuses that kept TIEs short range, in the sphere of their operating system, usually from a garrison tower or a ship. They couldn't go beyond their allotted starscape, and this TIE had an even smaller leash.
But.
A Star Destroyer had blinked into the fray, coming out of hyperspace like a huge, alien juggernaut, from lightspeed to a deadly crawl. It shot down rebel ships, put on the tractor beam, and plugged in the code for all loose Imperial craft.
The survivors of Scarif, whoever was left, was pulled in and locked into a docking bay.
Bodies pulled from the cockpits. Troopers and pilots, navy and officers, even prisoners and droids. Some hauled off, transferred immediately to the detention ring on the Death Star.
But some, whose clothes and skin were too bloody and burned to tell rebels from loyalists, were rushed with urgency into the med bay.
And here they were. Where he was. Bobbing in the light blue waters and blissfully unfeeling of his wounds, but mentally, regaining just enough consciousness for him to realize how fucked up this was. His enemies were currently saving his life. If they knew who he was, they would be draining his life as slowly as possible. The Empire loved torture behind closed doors. He knew it, Bix knew it, so many others knew it. Did Jyn? Where was she?
He slowly raised a hand with massive scabs all over it and tapped the glass calmly. One of the doctors came up and nodded with recognition. Cassian shook his head slightly, the mask over his mouth and nose straining. He wasn't allowed to move much. So he tapped his wrist.
The doctor nodded; a rare Nautolan in the starch white uniform and tentacles braided back with a band, with two left loose, one on either side of his green temples. Cassian supposed Glee Anselm may be under Empire control, too. Or maybe he came to them willingly, sent to the Imperial Academy on behalf of his aquatic people. Now a primary surgeon on the largest ship in the fleet. Did he miss his family? Did he step over their dead bodies to be here on the wrong side of history?
The Nautolan typed something into his datapad and held it up. 2 HOURS LEFT, it read.
Cassian suddenly felt claustrophobic. Two hours in this? Awake? With Imperial medics staring at him like a fish in an aquarium? He couldn't stop himself, his heart beat faster with panic, and he thrashed his arm slightly, tapping the glass more urgently. He shook his head.
The Nautolan shook his head in return, his gaze sympathetic, and retapped the pad. Two hours left. No exceptions.
More angry bubbles rose. It's not like he could talk. But something left of his vocal chords formed a scream.
The Nautolan doctor pressed a few buttons, and the bacta tank flooded with an extra dose of something. It was warm, colorless, and ejected somewhere near his face. It sent Cassian into a state of floating bliss, knowing nothing, fearing nothing, and his eyes drifted shut to sleep for a few more hours.
…
He woke up when the sling lifted him out of the tank and put him onto the metal table. He thought this must be the part where they torture him, because they'd finally found out who he was. He braced himself for it, and then all that waiting deflated from his chest when they put him in a gown, warmed the table, offered him water to drink, flooded the tubes and lines with pain medication, and spoke to him gently. Their kindness was almost just as upsetting because it reminded him that there were plenty of nice people working for the Empire. Not good, but nice. Nice would never be enough. They'd say the right things, even help someone. And then as soon as anyone showed dissent, they'd call an Imperial guard and report it. No one was to be trusted, ever. Even a non-partisan citizen existing in an occupied system would turn on their own mother if they thought it would protect them from suspicion. No safety. Ever.
He wasn't going to take any of this for granted. Who knows? Maybe I died. And this was all a misfire in his brain, making sense of his last moments.
He woke up again and couldn't remember anything except a vague sense of the bacta tank, and why he was there, so he was confused to be clothed in white linen and sleeping in a bed with tubes and wires sticking out of him. He was restrained, though, at the wrists. So maybe they figured it out after all.
"Good day," the Doctor said pleasantly, the marble-black eyes wide and smile almost sincere. "Take it easy. You're restrained presently."
"Why am I restrained," Cassian uttered hoarsely.
"Spine observance," the Doctor said. "From what we can tell, you fell a long distance, and hit your back on a heavy beam or a rod. Do you remember this?"
Cassian thought carefully. Not particularly. Maybe from the control panel? The whole thing felt like snatches of sunlight through closed eyelids. "No," he said shortly.
"Well, you're awfully lucky," said the Doctor. "You didn't break your spine. And the tank took care of the broken blood vessels and bruising. The ribs, I'm afraid, will pain you for some time. As will the knee."
Cassian had no idea what happened to either of these.
"And you'd been shot," said the Doctor calmly. "By one of the rebels, I assume."
Cassian chewed over his words. Fighting honesty and survival. "The rebels attacked," he said, his voice thick with misuse. Had he been screaming? "I don't know… who…"
"The citadel was overrun with rebel scum," the Doctor said, with the coldness that Cassian had prepared for. There it was. A Doctor's true nature, after all, where harm was allowed as long as it was anti-fascists. "We can only guess what their goal was. But nevertheless. Better to remember our victories."
"Then we won?" Cassian said.
"Well," said the Doctor with a plain smile, "A rebel vessel has been captured. It's in our bay right now." He patted Cassian's shoulder. "And some of your men from Scarif were saved before totality."
Cassian's eyes drifted shut. The Doctor mistook this for being overwhelmed in gratitude. "Can't say the same for your uniform," the Doctor showed him what was left of the beige undershirt and the greenish pants that had been cut off of his body. "We couldn't see your rank, only that it was a standard issue line officer. What is your rank?"
Cassian's mind shuddered with lost memory. Green uniform. Stupid hat. The glitter of the square buttons on his chest. It was more than blue. Less than… no yellow. Two blue. One red? Certainly three marks. He would have felt it against his chest more if there'd been four. "S-second," he choked out, "Second lieutenant." He said it as if they did torture it out of him.
"Are you in pain, Sir?" the Doctor asked kindly. Adding the sir now. He believed him.
"Yes, yes," Cassian lied. To avoid questioning. "Please, will you… tell me… how many losses?"
The Doctor's gaze went warm and sad. "The base was a total loss, Sir. Like I said. Just a few survivors."
"How did you find me?"
"You were aboard a TIE-fighter," the Doctor said. "You don't remember boarding it?"
Boarding it would reveal Jyn somehow, he was sure of it. He was the one who flew the TIE. But she was the one wearing a naval trooper uniform, which put her in the rank that had TIE training and would've been obligated to fly out the superior officer. She looked way too short for a trooper, but it got them inside.
He felt something like affection fill up his lungs, but it was a cough, too. The cough hurt like hell. His mind lumped two images together. Bix and Jyn.
Bix would always be his, but she left him alone.
Everyone leaves eventually.
Jyn and he connected in a traumatic, strange bond that could never be replicated by anyone.
It would hurt if she were dead. She gave everything to do this. She was the kind of hero that Karis Nemik believed lived in the heart of every rebel. The devotion to freedom and revolution at the expense of safety and comfort.
"Sir?" the Doctor repeated. Cassian had shut his eyes to think, and had drifted off. His eyes creaked open once more, and they felt too heavy.
"Huh," he whispered. "What's that?"
"Do you remember boarding the TIE fighter? Or flying it?"
Cassian shook his head. "I do not remember anything after the Citadel."
"Well, that can be expected," the Doctor said. "Now, just one last question, for my report. What is your name?"
Cassian had to think fast. He wasn't a theatrical type. That's not to say he wasn't good at it… he was a little too good at it, but he didn't prefer it. Pretending to be a fashion designer for a few days and staying in a fancy hotel felt like cheating on the cause. A small vacation where he got to pretend. He had enjoyed the hot water there, of course. And the food. And the bed was… comfortable enough. But he preferred sneaking to lying. And he always, always looked suspicious. Bix told him that more than once.
He had to think of a plan. And think fast.
"My name is," Cassian started, and then…
He forced himself to cough as hard as he could.
He felt something in his side snap like a piece of rubber, and the pain was so agonizing that he vomited. The nurses and doctors reacted accordingly.
"The blaster wound has re-opened," reported a droid drolly.
A flurry of movement and clean-up. He forced himself to cough again, and again. At least it's better than lying. No matter how fake it is, if you cough more than once by force, eventually you'll cough for real.
Cassian choked out, "My…" and then coughed again.
"Shhh, Sir, it's alright, easy," the Doctor said. "Take deep breaths now. Calm. Calm."
They re-patched the wound. His whole side felt like it was on fire.
"Here," a nurse handed the Doctor another data pad. The Doctor scrolled through it, his glassy brow, sans eyebrows, furrowed together with concentration. "Here we are," he said kindly, spinning it around in his hand and showing Cassian a list of second lieutenants from Scarif.
A fucking manifest.
"Just point to your name," the Doctor said. "I apologize, I was overzealous with my questions. Your throat will still be sore from the bacta tubing."
The nurse unlocked Cassian's restraints. "Only if you promise not to stand," the droid said sternly. "Your spine is still healing from the bruising."
Cassian made a little noise of assent. He lifted a tired wrist and pointed to the screen, drifting a fingerpad down to one of the most common names. There were probably a hundred Jin Garons in the Imperial navy alone. Everyone knew a Jinn, a Jin, or a Jyn. He pointed to a Jin Garon on the list, then let his hand drop back to the bed.
"Thank you, sir," said the Doctor respectfully. "Thank you. Now, rest. The Nurses will change your linens. The medications refill on the hour, and we're reaching that mark now, and you'll feel well enough to sleep again."
Cassian was already falling asleep. He prayed he wouldn't forget the name Jin Garon before he woke up again.
When he opened his eyes, it was night. The view outside of the window was the same as it always was: space. Black and covered with glitter and impossibilities. But the room lights were turned down to the dimmest setting, and all the machines hummed sleepily. A night droid sat in the corner, in a watchful stasis.
A short naval trooper walked into the room, a helmet under one arm and bedraggled brown hair pulled back in a knot. Jyn.
"You're alive," she whispered, that Imperial accent thick in her vowels. Just shy of posh but a few degrees higher than rural sectors. She rushed forward and brushed her beautiful hands across his forehead, pushing aside his damp hair, looking over his whole bed for signs of missing limbs or more egregious injuries.
"I'm alive," Cassian whispered. "What happened?" His heart had swelled at the sight of her, but his stomach had turned over into a pit. Two very conflicting feelings.
Jyn glanced at the sleeping droid, and bent close to whisper. "I'm relieved to see you, Sir," she looked at the flickering datapad by his bed. She touched it briefly with her thumb, skimming through the diagnostics. "Sir Garon. I was… on the tie fighter with you. I woke up first."
His eyes widened. She either hid on board that ridiculously small spacecraft and crept out when the coast was clear, or she helped carry him off-board until the medics had him and then she disappeared into the chaos. Probably the latter. She was still in a uniform, after all, and could pass for someone escaping Scarif with her superior officer.
"Are you hurt," Cassian whispered. He reached for her, but couldn't make contact. She stood too far away. She stepped closer and took his hand, painfully casual. Two old friends meeting for a reunion that neither of them had the heart for.
"A few cuts and scrapes," she replied quietly. "But I am not hurt. You are, though. You have to promise you'll do everything the doctors tell you. You need a few days to recover… three, actually. But I'll return to visit you when you're feeling better, which, by your medications, I think will be bedtime."
She was telling him when to expect to leave. If the droid was recording their audio, it would only look like a visit, not an escape. He nodded, to show he understood. But it cost him, and he groaned with pain.
She hesitated, then brushed her palm down his face, before letting his cheek rest inside of it. Cassian didn't mean to, but a soft moan of fear, pain, despair, comfort, and maybe even something like longing slipped out. His face relaxed in her warm hand. He wanted her to stay so desperately. He needed her. She needed him right now. They would survive this together, wouldn't they? It was all they could ask of each other. There would be nothing more. Survive this. Take whatever chance they could to escape. And then the next, and the next. Until the chances are spent.
"Rest," Jyn whispered. "I'll see you."
When she left, Cassian shivered in the cold left by her absence. When the lights brightened the next morning and the room was full of voices again, he wondered if he dreamed it.
But her thumbprint was still on the screen beside his head. He could see it, invisible, but glimmering if the light changed. Jyn Erso was alive and she was in his room last night.
They would get off this Star Destroyer together.