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Luthen finds him crumpled in the doorway of the safe house.
It’s a filthy, illegal squat, long abandoned according to Luthen’s contact. There are two ISB agents sprawled on the ground feet away from Andor, blaster tipping from Cassian’s slack hand. Luthen likely has minutes before more agents arrive on the scene.
Luthen crouches at Cassian's side, bends forward intently to see his face. He takes in the arm bent awkwardly at his side, the dark bruises tracing his chin, the ugly burn marks up his neck and trailing down to the trunk of his body. Cassian’s shirt is scorched through in patches, the fabric charred and split, blood soaking what remains across his torso.The air is thick with the stench of burnt flesh and a harsh chemical tang.
Even in his unconscious state, he's rigid with agony. Luthen places his fingers against the heat of Cassian's neck: a faint, but steady pulse. Good.
"Andor," he says urgently, shaking his shoulders. “Andor.” He'd prefer not to drag him bodily back to the ship and risk aggravating whatever injuries he has. "Cassian."
A faint moan. Cassian stirs and his breathing hitches as he registers what is surely an unbearable amount of pain.
"We have to leave. Now."
Cassian's eyes are hardly cracked open, but he seems to understand. Luthen takes the blaster out of his hand and puts his arm under Cassian's, lifting him up.
Cassian gasps sharply as his arm is jostled. “Not… arm,” he manages. “Broken.”
Luthen silently shifts his grip to Cassian’s other shoulder. Cassian takes a moment, gathering himself before forcing his way upright and wobbling onto his feet. They stagger to the ship, Cassian leaning most of his weight into Luthen. Thankfully, it's a short walk to the ramp. By the time they've made it into the hull, Cassian is visibly shaking with exertion, gasping shallowly.
Luthen leaves Cassian on the hull floor, quickly makes his way to the cockpit. He follows all of the acts and gestures that follow after getting into the haulcraft: engaging thrusters, feeding coordinates, making the calculations for the jump. The actions practically perform themselves. Outside the viewpoint, the burning ISB installation and incoming ships shrink into scattered dots of light and distant plumes of smoke as the ship climbs through the atmosphere. Then the ship lurches forward and the universe snaps into hyperspace, blue-white streaking lines swallowing everything else.
When he returns, Cassian is exactly where he left him, motionless on the floor. Luthen's priceless asset, soaked with cold rain, burnt, bleeding out, shivering.
Because of Luthen. The thought is inescapable. The mission was a total failure, at least, from what Kleya could piece together from Cassian’s brief transmission. Cassian was compromised before he could even extract the data. An ISB lockdown, unplanned rebel interference from an unidentified rebel cell. Then the explosion that brought down most of the building. It was all because of Luthen's poor planning. Luthen’s unreliable contacts. Luthen’s decision to send him alone.
And now Cassian is paying for it with his own blood.
"The drive," Luthen says, crouching down so he's in Cassian's line of sight. It’s the burns that are emitting that pungent chemical stench, Luthen realizes as he studies Andor. It reminds him of ammonia. "Do you have it?"
Cassian flinches at the sound of Luthen's voice, bruised eyes snapping open. His hand is clutched over the wound at his side, chest rising and falling like he's been sprinting. Each rattling breath he draws in sounds arduous. He’s addled with pain, but still seems present enough for now. Cassian shakes his head slowly in response to Luthen’s question.
Damn it to hell. The drive containing partial rebel contacts. Updated ISB tracking protocols. Supply chain records. The entire object of Cassian’s infiltration.
Cassian’s eyes close briefly, then open again. "They took it," his voice is a ragged murmur. Luthen is surprised he's able to speak at all. "…Interrogated.”
Ah. That explains the bruising. The cuts. The flinching. Luthen wants to know exactly what happened, what went wrong, but that will have to come later.
A shudder runs through Cassian, stealing the rest of his breath. He coughs and curls in slightly, hand slipping from the wound. Blood trails slowly after it. “They—” Cassian swallows hard. “Gave me something.”
A long silence follows. The ship hums quietly around them. “What?”
“Didn’t—feel it—at first.” Cassian’s breath stutters between phrases.
Dread tightens in Luthen’s chest. “What did they give you?”
“Don’t—know. Said—I wouldn't last.”
The world falls away until Luthen sees only the broken, bleeding man alone in the hull with him; the hazy, confused eyes, pale, clammy skin, his weak, shallow breaths, like each one might be his last. Symptoms Luthen recognizes too late.
Poison.
“How?” Luthen presses. “How was it administered?”
“Had to—drink it,” Cassian shifts uncomfortably, letting out another weak cough. “Hurts.”
Hurts. He’s dying. Likely exhibiting the beginning stages of respiratory failure. The Empire has its poisons. There are any number that could have been used.
It was a poison that had claimed the lives of Andor’s entire people, Luthen remembers. Kenari. It seems especially cruel that this is how he should perish now.
Luthen studies him, weighing what few options remain. The thought does cross his mind. Cut his losses. Let the poison finish its work. If he were to leave Cassian here, it would be easy enough to explain away his death as an accident, doubtful glances from Kleya be damned. The last loose thread from this rather embarrassing ordeal that Luthen must cut away.
But no. That calculation is incomplete. It discounts the other much more important variable: Cassian’s value. Luthen has no one else like Andor currently. The inconvenience that his death would bring outweighs the unpleasantness of what must be done to keep him breathing.
Cassian’s eyes are still on him from the floor. Sensitive, intelligent eyes that are no doubt discerning the calculations Luthen is making in his head. Cassian ingested the poison, meaning that it’s still possible for it to be extracted. If he acts now, there’s a chance he could save Cassian’s life.
“Stay with me,” Luthen says, crossing the room in a few quick strides.
He pulls the med kit from the wall and drops to the blood-streaked floor with it. The clasps snap open. Sleep inducers. Stims. Analgesics. Bandages. A field injector. But that's not what he's looking for. He snatches the injector and rifles through cabinets in the next room until he finds the vial what he's looking for. A fast-acting drug, made for situations just like this, obtained from a less-than reputable source. Luthen grimaces at the task ahead.
He returns to the room, carrying the vial, and sets to work loading the injector beside Cassian. "I’m going to try something,” He explains. Luthen is not sure if Cassian can understand what he's saying. “We have to counteract the poison.”
Under different circumstances, Andor might have agreed. Now he only watches, eyes drifting in and out of focus, but tracking every movement anyway. "What is that?" He asks, voice hitching. He's frightened, Luthen realizes. There is so much vulnerability in the way he looks at him, all defenses torn away by poison and pain.
"You'll have to sit up," Luthen says shortly, setting the injector back down. He slips his arms under Cassian's and heaves him up into a sitting position, leaning him against the wall. It's not easy. Cassian's practically dead weight, and Luthen is growing too old for carrying around anyone like this. Cassian cries out, the sound raw and involuntary, as the movement jars every injury at once. His breath breaks into uneven, pained pants, body tensing under Luthen’s grip.
Luthen doesn’t pause his ministrations. "This will be over quickly, and then I'll see to your injuries and stablize you before. I get you to a doctor. You'll be fine." Luthen tells him. The poison gives Luthen a deadline. His focus is efficiency. He is no healer, no comforting presence. Far from it.
It should be someone else doing this, Luthen thinks. Anyone but him.
Cassian's good arm comes up, clumsy, pushing weakly at Luthen's chest. "What's happening?" He slurs, panic mounting in his voice.
He is already losing his earlier lucidity. Not good. “You’re not dying here. Be still.”
"W-wait—" Cassian stammers. “Luthen—” He cuts himself off with another cry of pain as Luthen shifts his grip, hauling him as upright as he can manage. Luthen is breathing heavily with the effort of holding Cassian in place as he reaches for the field kit with his free hand.
Cassian follows the movement, sees the injector. "Stop," he gasps. "No—" Cassian clutches Luthen’s arm, nails digging into his flesh.
Luthen steadies him, lifting the needle. Cassian's hand lashes out instinctively, trying to knock the injector aside.
"Stay still," Luthen repeats, knocking his hand aside. “You’re hurting yourself.”
This only seems to agitate Cassian even further. He jerks away, panic and pain coursing through every movement, twisting hard enough to break Luthen’s hold. Luthen catches him again, slamming him back against the wall. Sweat has started to gather on Luthen’s brow, arms shaking slightly with the strain. Luthen is an old man. He feels his age now, even older.
Cassian continues to struggle, weaker but no less desperate, flailing his limbs in a desperate attempt to throw Luthen off. One of his feet catches Luthen on his sore back. Luthen grunts loudly in frustration.
His patience is wearing thin. The more Cassian foolishly fights Luthen, the longer he delays what needs to be done and the worse his suffering will be. Luthen readjusts where he is pinning Cassian, gripping his bad arm and giving it a jolt against the wall.
Cassian arches back in pain, but doesn’t still. His pitiful whimper does nothing to stop Luthen. He grits his teeth and wrenches the injured arm backwards. Cassian lets out a strangled sound and goes rigid in his grasp. Stops fighting. Finally. Luthen takes the opportunity to grab the injector and sink the needle into Cassian's neck. Cassian jerks hard, another choked sound tearing out of him.
“Emetic,” Luthen explains, carefully pulling out the needle. “You have seconds.”
The effect is immediate. Cassian's eyes go wide and glassy, staring ahead. Luthen can feel him trembling, limbs settling down limply.
The terror on his face shouldn't bother Luthen this much. Cassian spits something unintelligible at Luthen. His breathing grows ragged, body already betraying him.
"This was the only way," Luthen tells him pointlessly. "It will all be over soon."
Luthen considers his own cruelty as he watches Cassian shudder and gasp through the pain and the drug’s effects. There is something unique about Andor, about their connection, that makes the act all the more torturous, for reasons Luthen cannot entirely comprehend. Something dormant in the brain; the triggering of a conscience that has long gone unused. Luthen has exploited Andor, naturally, as he has with many. Preyed on him in a vulnerable moment of his life, manipulated him into joining the cause. Greased with exploitation the wheels of human interaction, generally. Luthen sees nothing wrong with it. In service of the cause, there is not much he wouldn’t do. Not to discount Cassian’s agency, his own motivations for joining. Maarva's son, slick with his own brick-red blood. How far he is from Ferrix now. From Kenari. How far from his friends and everything he once knew.
It is, of course, a desperately senseless and cruel act Luthen commits—one which suddenly seems to render all of Luthen’s work to this point meaningless. Luthen’s own past and pain, twenty years of work for the cause, whatever he believes about his personal values, everything. And accepting this, letting life to mean nothing for a moment; it is almost a relief.
Is there any excuse he could give? About the necessity of expelling the poison, the need for him to preserve his asset, no matter the cost—Cassian’s dignity, Luthen’s decency. Deliberate cruelty is the unforgivable sin, some say: not violence born of rage or fear, but violence chosen. Nobody likes to believe they are capable of it. But Luthen does not commit it for extraneous reasons, because the cause is simply the strongest reason to do anything, rendering all opposing ideals pointless.
Cassian frantically tries to wrench himself away from Luthen one last time, feet scrabbling against the floor. Sweat trickles down his forehead.
Then it hits him. Hard.
Cassian's body convulses, breath ripping out of him. He doubles over with a sharp cry, hand clutching uselessly against Luthen’s coat as another wave follows, stronger. Luthen holds him up, unyielding, one hand locked at the back of his neck to keep him upright.
“Good. Don’t fight it.”
Cassian's head snaps forward with sudden force. Luthen readjusts quickly, gripping his head to hold it vertical, clearing his airway. Cassian gags, choking on the force of it. His entire body shakes, every muscle pulling tight as he retches again. Nothing at first but bile and what little is left in him.
Cassian tries to speak, but a sob catches in his throat. He twists, sagging forward against Luthen. Luthen can feel Cassian’s blood soaking into his clothes. A tear runs down Cassian’s face. Then another. Those eyes are haunted, fixed on something past Luthen. Something or someone that isn't there. His mouth is moving noiselessly.
"It's almost over now," Luthen says, quieter now.
Cassian blinks rapidly, tears running freely. Kerri, he mumbles miserably. The name of his sister. The one he was looking for on Morlana One. Luthen has a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Kerri, Cassian repeats. Please. It is the only time Luthen has ever heard him beg. He wishes he would stop. Another convulsion rips through Cassian. This time it’s worse; longer, more violent, dragging something up from deeper. Cassian screams, the sound collapsing into a wet, choking cough, as his body convulses hard enough to fold him in half. Luthen dreads every guttural sound that follows.
The moment it’s finished, Cassian goes limp and lists sideways. Luthen catches him before he can collapse into his own vomit. He eases him back down to the ground, laying him on his side.
Cassian curls in slightly, eyelids fluttering. His breathing is shallow, erratic, each inhale thinner than the last. Luthen watches Andor haggardly, body sore from the fight to restrain him. The man looks no better than he did before, only now he is completely spent, wound tight with misery. Even after emptying his stomach, there is no way to tell if he’s rid himself completely of the poison.
And the nightmare is not over yet. Luthen knows that Cassian would rather be left alone than accept his help. But his injuries are too severe; he must be stabilized before Luthen can get him to a real doctor.
Luthen carries the med-kit back to Cassian’s side. He loads up a second syringe with a broad-spectrum analgesic and injects it in Cassian’s thigh. Cassian makes a feeble sound of protest but remains motionless. At least now he’s too exhausted to fight him.
Cassian sags in relief as the analgesic takes effect. His breathing has started to even out somewhat. Luthen cuts away his shirt, turning his head aside as the stench of chemicals and burnt flesh becomes almost unbearable. Luthen tosses them to the side and takes just a moment to be appalled by the sight of Cassian’s mutilated torso, mottled by scores of feverish chemical burns, colorless waxy skin, and dried blood from the blaster burn. Presses gauze into the blaster wound first to stop the bleeding. Luthen cleans the blaster wound as best he can, flushing it with antiseptic until the runoff is clear. Cassian seizes from the pain even in his semi-conscious state. Luthen wishes he would just pass out. Better that than to stay alert for further torment.
The burns are worse—broad, uneven, the skin angry and broken in overlapping stretches across Cassian’s torso. Luthen opens the small bottle of salve and spreads it carefully over the damaged skin. There are not enough bacta patches for all the afflicted skin. What bacta patches remain, he places sparingly over the worst areas, knowing it isn’t enough. The blaster wound is still bleeding, somehow, despite Luthen’s effort. He crushes yet another square of gauze into the wound, harder this time, forcing the pressure to hold. Ignores Cassian’s crying.
Luthen’s back aches where Cassian kicked him. He examines the length of Cassian’s arm. It’s only a bad dislocation and not broken, which is some relief. Still, it will need to be set Luthen knows how to—he’s done it before.
Luthen positions himself adjacent to Cassian’s arm. He puts his hands around the disrupted bones. Grips the arm. Pulls.
There’s a deafening click. The pain finally seems to be too much. Cassian’s face contorts in a silent scream and he falls unconscious at long last.
Almost an hour passes before Luthen hears steady banging coming against the hull. Hes changed into new clothes, thrown out the ones streaked with Cassian’s blood and vomit. He’s just finished radioing Kleya, ordered her to have a speeder and a doctor ready when they landed in Coruscant. He can tell by the tone of her voice that she's worried.
Cassian is twisted up feet from where Luthen left him when he reenters the hull. Cassian has somehow dragged himself across the floor, the coat Luthen laid over him abandoned behind him. Luthen can already see the blood that has soaked through the bandages on his bare chest. The oxygen mask Luthen strapped onto his face has been ripped off on the floor behind him, the makeshift sling for his arm torn.
Luthen wonders how much he remembers. “Cassian—” He begins, measured.
“No,” Cassian gasps, jerking back at the sound of Luthen’s voice like a caged animal. Heaving out sharp, short breaths. “Don’t touch me.”
He remembers enough, then. Luthen stills.
“Fuck you,” Cassian spits at him, winds around until he can just barely prop himself up to face Luthen. He’s obviously pushing himself far too hard—he will surely quickly burn through what little strength he has.
Luthen’s first instinct is to drag the oxygen mask back over and sedate Cassian before he injures himself further. But he tries to remind himself to be patient. Andor has just been through a very traumatic ordeal. He is acting from a place of fear.
Patience, however, has never been Luthen’s strongest virtue.
Cassian pants, caught between pain and fright. Luthen watches him, giving Cassian a moment to find his words.
"They died," Cassian says at length, voice faint and raw. "They're all dead."
"Who?"
“The—rebels. The cell.” His eyes are wet.
“The ones who detonated ISB Base 12-D,” Luthen says, a guess. The same blast that leveled the building where Cassian had been held.
“They were all killed in front of me,” Cassian hisses. “Your contact sold me out. They—tortured me.”
He seems to be expecting an apology. Luthen says nothing.
“You did it—on purpose, Rael. You set me up.” Cassian’s chest is heaving with the effort of carrying the conversation; face strained with the pain of staying upright, of staying angry. Luthen can see the tremor in him, the exhaustion underneath the fury.
“That’s not what happened,” Luthen tells him calmly. “I didn’t know of their plans. People break. Plans fail. You knew this when you came to me.”
Cassian lets out a caustic laugh. A tear slides down his face, tracing his bitter smile. “They died because of you.”
“You did the best you could. Sacrifices must be made sometimes. It’s the cost of this.”
The look on Cassian’s face is that of pure hatred. “You don’t get to decide who pays it.”
“Someone must.”
Cassian turn his head away to hide the tears that he is unable to stop. “You really believe—that excuses anything.”
“I did not send you to die.”
Cassian lets out another humorless laugh. Luthen thinks he is about to reply when the color drains from his face instead all at once. He drops onto his back with a thud. His breathing has grown erratic again.
Luthen watches him for a long moment, then steps forward. He reaches deliberately to pull the oxygen mask back over his face. “You’ll get the help you need,” Luthen reassures him. “There’s a doctor waiting for us,
Cassian tries to pull away, but the effort dies halfway through. He goes still with a small, agonized sound. He slurs something Luthen can’t understand, eyes fluttering. His head lolls to the side.
Luthen reaches to steady him before he can strike the edge of the oxygen kit. “Easy.”
A warning chime sounds from the cockpit: approach, final alignment.
Cassian’s eyes are narrowed slits, burning with anger, with confusion. For the first time, something almost like pain passes through Luthen’s expression. It is gone too quickly to be sure.
“Save your hatred,” Luthen tells him. “Coruscant isn’t far.”
He’ll live. Luthen has no doubt. That fire in his eyes. Cassian is a good man, at least a far better one than Luthen. Good men are not always made for this work. Luthen has seen them break against it, or else learn to live with the breaking. He is still so new to it; Luthen can only hope Cassian becomes the latter.
But the work always has an end. No one escapes it forever. The moment you join the cause, your life begins to run on borrowed time—whether you know it or not. Luthen’s own time is running short.
Luthen watches the rise and fall of Cassian’s chest. Tells himself that this, at least, was not for nothing. Cassian is still alive. This will have to be enough.