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Chapter Text

It's been days since Scarif and Bodhi still can't understand how they made it off planet. 

He can remember most of the pieces, but can't seem to grasp how they actually manage to fit together. The others tell him that they've already told him, but Bodhi can't remember and keeps asking. He can remember the grenade; catching it and throwing it out and getting hit by the blast anyway, getting knocked back into the shuttle and trying desperately to put out the flames in his uniform. 

After that he can vaguely remember leaving to try and find an undamaged shuttle. Baze tells him that Bodhi had gone and picked up him and Chirrut and a couple other surviving soldiers up off the field, and Jyn tells him that after that he'd gotten her and Cassian off the beach. Bodhi doesn't quite remember that, but he does remember setting the course for Yavin-IV and trying not to think about the state of his body. 

The flight itself is a haze of pain, Jyn tells him that he piloted the shuttle so well that no one had notices he was wounded until he had landed, and then they'd had to unfuse what was left of his skin from the controls. 

Regardless, they'd made it. He'd gotten them home safely. The one good thing he's managed to do without fucking up. 

Of course, he's been fucking up since then. He's been trying, but he keeps losing focus and forgetting things that people have told him, he keeps frustrating the doctors because he can't sit still long enough for the bacta to actually do its job and heal the burns that stretch over his arms and chest and neck. 

Part of him wonders if he shouldn't have made it off planet at all. 

Because here's the thing: Bodhi is broken, and he's not sure if he knows how to live like this. 

He's not sure if he can. 

Chapter Text

The med bay is Bodhi's least favorite place on Yavin-IV so far. 

Granted, he hasn't exactly been spending a whole lot of time walking around. There's nothing technically stopping him, since his legs were undamaged in the blast, but the idea of leaving makes him nervous. The med bay is too clean and bland for Bodhi to be able to focus on anything outside of his own head, which is not the thing he wants to be paying attention to, but he can see the way the other people on this base look at him. 

It doesn't upset him, he hadn't gone on the Rogue mission to earn their trust, he'd gone because it had been the right thing to do. They can still hate him if they want to, but it still makes him nervous, so he tends to stick close to the others. 

They're a whole different brand of unusual. Bodhi has never really had much in terms of friends, outside of Galen, and it's a novel sensation. But it doesn't make sense to him, how they continue to have patience with him. They don't complain, when Bodhi loses focus or he forgets things, they just remind him of what was going on or what he forgot. When they have to repeat things over and over and over again before they start making sense in Bodhi's head, they never get impatient with him or just tell him 'never mind'. Bodhi doesn't really know what to make of it. 

He keeps waiting for them to get tired of him, but they don't. They don't seem to mind at all, and Bodhi keeps waiting for them to finally tell him to fuck off, but he's starting to think they aren't going to. 

He doesn't want them to, they're all he has now and he's endlessly grateful for them, but he can't help himself from just waiting. He doesn't know what he'll do after that. He decides not to think about it until that time comes. 

Chapter Text

“We’d like to ask you some questions, if you’re feeling up to it.”

The words take too long to register in his head; she has to repeat herself twice before what she’s saying actually makes sense. Bodhi would be embarrassed by it, but it’s been happening so often recently that he’s gotten used to it by now. Once he finally understands what she’s saying, it makes sense to him. Of course they would have questions for him. The real surprise is that it’s taken them this long to get around to asking him them.

One of the doctors looks ready to tell them off, but Bodhi shakes his head at her. She’s nice to him, and he appreciates her trying to step in, but Bodhi has been enough of a burden already; he can’t continue to be one despite the fact that he’s still aching and confused and tired. So he nods like it’s okay, because if they want him to do this, then he should. He has to do this. There is so much he needs to make up for, so he can’t deny any opportunities.

He’s been scared before and done more than this. He can do this.

The others, Cassian and Jyn and Chirrut and Baze, all pretend to be minding their own business, but Bodhi can see their eyes are fixed on him and the woman in white. He’s both unsettled and reassured by their attention; he chooses to try and focus on the reassurance.

“Mr. Rook,” the counselor says, and he startles back into paying attention to her. She’d said her name before, but he’s already forgotten it. He’s pretty sure that he’s always been bad with names. “Do you mind answering questions concerning information about the Empire?”

It’s weird that she asks – the men with her seem to think so too – but Bodhi doesn’t mind it. He appreciates the attempt at normalcy. This isn’t the first time he’s been faced with strangers who need information that he has.

He’s just really hoping it goes better this time.

“I can- I want to, help,” he manages to stammer out, nodding decisively and acting like he isn’t trembling. He resists the urge to wring his hands, because the doctors have been getting increasingly frustrated with him and they keep threatening to restrain him. Bodhi really doesn’t want that, so he’s been trying his best. His best usually isn’t very good.

The woman doesn’t look convinced, it probably doesn’t help that he keeps getting distracted, but he’s given her his answer. He wants to help.

Eventually she nods.

“What can you tell us about access codes?”

Bodhi thinks it over. He was a cargo pilot; not exactly the kind of position that gets you access to major information or access codes, but they hadn’t asked for important access codes, and something is better than nothing.

 “I know some of the ones that go with the shipping schedules,” he tells them, glancing apologetically between her and his crew, who are still feigning disinterest in the situation. He knows that this can’t be what they’d been hoping for, he’s pretty sure this question was meant to be an easy one and doesn’t know what to make of the fact that it still seems pretty difficult. “They’re-“

He pauses, but can’t figure out why. Bodhi had checked the schedules every day, even on the days he knew he wasn’t working; it was just part of his routine.

He can’t remember what the code is.

He should, it’s practically muscle memory at this point – you can’t enter a code every day and not know what it is – he’d definitely had it memorized before.

So why can’t he remember it now?

He tries to recall the last schedule that he’d looked at, before he’d defected. He isn’t expecting to remember the whole thing, but he should at least remember a little of it. He wrings his hands, he doesn’t understand.

But then it hits him, stiffening his muscles so suddenly he almost pulls his fingers from their sockets. Bor Gullet. That thing, it had gone through his head and messed everything up, nothing is where it’s supposed to be and nothing works right anymore.

What else is gone?

He tries to remember the designation of his ship, the script he would use for landing, the name of his superior officer, the last shipment that he’d hauled, but the more Bodhi tries to search out the information, the more it seems to just slip out of his grasp.

His eyes burn, that thing broke him and now he’s useless. How is he supposed to atone for everything he’s done if he can’t even do this?

They’re still waiting for an answer, he realizes, they’re still waiting for him to say something. How long have they been waiting? He should say something, say anything, explain.

“I’m the pilot,” he says instead, “I-I,” I should know this, “I’m the pilot.”

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and keens.

Something touches his shoulder, and Bodhi jerks back away from the touch, scrambling backwards. His back hits the wall, and he lets out a sharp panicked noise. His hands are free, and he’s not there, but he can see it shifting in the dark and its tentacles are creeping around his face and neck and he’s trying to focus he’s trying, but his eyes are rolling in his head and then the pain.

Bodhi bends over and buries his face in his knees. There are people talking, yelling over each other, and it grinds on his nerves and makes everything worse, so he covers his ears. They already don’t believe him; his position can’t get any worse than it already is.

He said I could make it right if I was brave enough, how can I make it right if I can’t remember anything, he thinks, desperate, and then freezes.

Who had said that?

Bodhi knows who it was, he can picture the man right now, Bodhi knows him, they had been friends.

So why can’t Bodhi remember his name?

That, if nothing else, is the breaking point. His mind goes into a tailspin and he can’t think straight anymore. There is a sharp pulsing pain between his eyes, and it takes him longer than it should to realize that the dizziness is exacerbated by the fact that his breath is coming in thin whimpering gasps. There is a pressure on his chest that’s keeping him from drawing a full breath; he cannot breathe.

He jerks in his seat, trying to find purchase – something to steady him – but instead he just falls, hitting the floor with a grunt of pain as the voices around him grow louder with agitation. He needs to get away from here, but he doesn’t know where he is, and doesn’t have anywhere to go regardless.

I defected, I defected, please, I’m the pilot.

But this is what he is now: pathetic and even more broken than he had been before.

Useless.

The arguing voices die down around him, but one voice remains clear. A steady stream of words; “I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” repetitive and calm and soothing.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” Bodhi echoes, his voice barely a whisper. They’re familiar, he knows these words and their unwavering speaker. He latches onto them desperately, he knows this, he knows them.

There are hands on his, gently pulling his hands apart. Bodhi forces his eyes opne to see what’s going on and realizes that he’s scraped open his burns with his fingernails.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” the owner of the other hands says. Bodhi looks up and sees Chirrut. Bodhi takes a breath and feels like he’s finally breathing.

He is not in Gerrera’s base; he is in the med bay. He delivered the message, they had gotten the plans, just like Galen had wanted.

Galen. Galen. Bodhi’s friend’s name had been Galen. The relief is almost overwhelming, he repeats the name a few times out loud, as if saying it enough times will be enough to ensure that he won’t forget it again.

Someone apologies, but Bodhi hardly registers it. It doesn’t matter, he is in the med bay of the Alliance’s base with his crew and he remembers Galen’s name. For now, that’s all he needs to focus on.

Chapter Text

"I've never seen brain scans that look even remotely like this," the doctor says, awe in her tone. 

Bodhi rocks in his seat nervously, tries to come up with a response to that, fails. 

"What does that mean?" Jyn asks for him, voice lined with ice. Bodhi nods at her gratefully. 

The doctor only shrugs. "Means I'm not quite sure what to do for you." 

She puts the data pad with the scans on them on the table where Bodhi can see them, but they don't actually mean anything to him. Jyn cranes her neck to look as if she can make sense of them. "You're functioning alright, despite the damage, so I'm not too concerned," the doctor tells him, "As long as you don't suddenly start bleeding into your brain or having seizures or something, I think you'll be more or less okay. You said you've been having trouble with your memory?" Bodhi nods, and she shrugs at him too. "Common symptom of brain trauma. It might just be something you have to get used to. I don't think there's actually anything we can do for you." 

That's, not exactly what Bodhi had been hoping for, but he can't say that he's surprised. Brains are not organs so easily fixed, and it's almost enough to know that there is something physical behind it. Something tangible that Bodhi can point fingers at, and not just some nameless damage in his mind. None of that means much, if there's nothing that can be done to fix it, but Bodhi finds himself reassured by it regardless. 

"So that's just it?" Jyn asks, angry on his behalf. "Just 'get used to it'?"

“There’s a lot of things we all have to get used to,” the doctor says casually, but there’s something steely in her tone. “Your friend over there will have to deal with the repercussions of a shattered spine, all of you will have scars from your little adventure to Scarif, and he’ll have to deal with the mental ones. I’m a doctor, but I’m not a miracle worker. It’s my job to fix people, and I do wish I could help you, but there’s nothing that can be done.”

She and Jyn both look at him a little helplessly, but Bodhi shrugs. “It’s okay. I mean, I’d. Figured, that it wouldn’t be that, that easy.” His arm reaches up to fiddle with the strap of his goggles, and then he remembers that they’ve been missing since Scarif. His hands wind up back in his lap. “I’m, used to getting used-d to stuff anyway.” He smirks a bit wryly, “What’s one more, more thing?”

“You’re not dealing with this on your own either,” the doctor tells him. “You’ve got a pretty solid crew here, they’ve already been helping you out where you need it, I’m sure you’ll all figure something out.”

She’s not wrong, but it almost seems like too much to hope for, that they’d continue helping him when he falters. But Jyn and Cassian are saying “of course” while Baze and Chirrut nod resolutely, as if none of them had even considered the possibility of leaving Bodhi to pick up these scraps on his own.

It’s unusual, but not a bad feeling at all.

It seems like not everything Bodhi has to get used to is a negative thing.

Chapter Text

Baze was the first one to be discharged from the med bay, followed closely by Jyn. 

Neither of them actually go anywhere. 

Bodhi can tell that the doctors are getting frustrated with the whole group of them, but he wouldn't dare suggest that they go anywhere. 

His own wounds are shiny and barely covered with new skin, no longer open and weeping, but still warped beyond recognition. 

Sometimes he can't recognize them; when he gets lost and he looks at his hands to try and remember where and who he is, only to see hands that don't look familiar at all. 

It's alarming to say the least. 

The others tell him to either get used to looking at them, or avoid looking at them all together. He's been trying to focus on not aggravating the new skin again, but wringing his hands is a nervous habit he's had since childhood and lately there seems to be a lot to be nervous about. 

Listening to the sirens going off definitely isn't helping. 

Still, he tries, but mostly that just leaves him sitting and staring at his hands and feeling the urge to wring them build up in his arms like a tidal wave. 

It's not like he has any other pastimes to indulge in. 

"What's, mmm, what's going on?" he asks, holding his hands up by his shoulders in an attempt to keep them apart. There are people running past, clattering at supplies and shouting directions at each other, and none of them answer him. 

Jyn is trying to keep Cassian in his bed, he keeps batting her away but it's clear that his spine hasn't healed enough for him to effectively fight her back. 

"I need to go find out what's going on," Cassian snaps, but Jyn is typically relentless.  

"You don't. You sit your ass down; I will find out what's going on." 

She doesn't get a chance to leave the room before someone else is bursting in, nearly knocking down a med droid with the door. The man stands there in the doorway, taking in the frozen moment of chaos in front of him, and then erupts, "They did it!" He crows, "The Death Star! It's gone!" and as fast as he'd arrived, he's gone again, probably to spread the news elsewhere. 

Bodhi feels shocked numb. 

There's a moment of silence where everyone attempts to process what just happened, and then Jyn shoves Cassian back down onto the bed. "Stay there, I'm going to go find out what the hell that was." 

Can it really be gone? That quickly? Easily? Granted, it hadn't been easy to get the plans, and Bodhi doubts that whoever had gone to blow the thing up had had an easy time, but it doesn't seem possible, that it could just be done with. Just like that? It feels like something is wrong, and Bodhi should be ecstatic, but he can't even start to process what he feels right now. 

"Bodhi," Cassian says, jolting the pilot out of his thoughts, "Come help me up." 

"Come help me up," Bodhi repeats, confused, but rises all the same, eager to focus on something else. "Should you be getting up?"

"I have to go get something." 

"Can't you just tell me where it is? I'll get it." Bodhi's burns are still healing, but Cassian's shattered fucking spine cannot be in much better shape.

"You don't have to," Cassian assures him, "Just help me up." 

All of Bodhi's progress at keeping his hands from touching falls apart in an instant. "I can get it," he says again, "You're going to hurt yourself, and then we'll just be in here longer." 

Cassian doesn't pay any attention to the 'we', but he narrows his eyes like he thinks Bodhi is lying. 

Bodhi feels like he's past the point of ever being able to lie again, but he doesn't say that. Instead he says, "Plus, Jyn will kick both of our asses if she finds out."

That manages it. Cassian sighs, put upon, but nods. "In my room, Sector D Room 409, in the top drawer, a chip, taped to the side." 

"A chip taped to the side, D409," Bodhi repeats, and nods. "Okay." 

He leaves before Cassian can ask if Bodhi knows where that is, because Bodhi definitely does not, but Cassian won't take no for an answer if he knows that. Especially because Bodhi can imagine what is on that chip; he can understand Cassian's urgency. 

So Bodhi fumbles his way around the base, through the crowds of celebrating people, whispering "D409, a chip taped to the side," under his breath so that he doesn't forget what he's doing as he tries to navigate the hallways. 

"Hey, what are you doing back here? You lost?" Someone calls out, and Bodhi turns to find a young woman bounding up to him. 

"D409, a chip taped to the side," is what Bodhi winds up saying out loud, past the point of embarrassment when it comes to his scrambled speech. 

"D409? Is that where you're trying to get to?"

Bodhi nods, relieved. "Yes," he remembers to say out loud after a moment. 

She smiles, "Well you're almost in the right place. It's just over here." She shows him the way, chattering idly about whatever it was she'd been doing in the first place, going to get something for her friends before the base is evacuated. Bodhi wants to ask when the base had decided to evacuate, or why, or where they're going to, but can't find the words to ask the questions.

When they get to the room, she lingers in the doorway as Bodhi makes a beeline for the drawer Cassian had mentioned. 

"Hey, isn't this Captain Andor's room?" she asks as Bodhi is fumbling to get the chip un-taped from the drawer without aggravating his hands. "Wait, are you Bodhi Rook?" the corners of the chip dig into the palm of his hand as he looks back at her, "Holy shit! What you did was incredible! I'm-," 

Bodhi makes a break for it before he can hear the rest of the sentence. He doesn't want to hear it, not at all. 

Chapter Text

They aren't letting him fly. 

"No, I'm the pilot, I can do it." 

The doctor doesn't look impressed with him. "Your hands and arms have barely regrown new skin over second and third degree burns," she informs him, as if he'd forgotten. 

He hadn't, but he had flown the shuttle back from Scarif without issue before, and he's more healed now than he had been this. He has to do this; he's the pilot. 

"Bodhi, it's alright. You'll fly again, just not now," Cassian says, and Bodhi knows this, but he's the pilot now, he has to do something, he's getting tired of just sitting around and doing nothing. 

"I'm the pilot," he repeats obstinately. He doesn't understand why they're so opposed to this, they're working on a limited time schedule and everyone has to clear off the base. They should need as many pilots as they can get, and Bodhi is a pilot. 

He can do this, he has to. 

"Look," the doctor says, clearly pitying, "You are going to pilot again someday, but if you continue to exacerbate the wounds on your hands, like you keep doing, you're going to do nerve damage to them. You have to let yourself heal if you're actually going to get better. Now, are you going to come without making a fuss? Or do I have to sedate you?"

Bodhi grimaces. Neither of those options are actually good options. 

The doctor is unwavering. 

Bodhi sighs, "I'll come." 

But that doesn't mean that he has to be happy about it. 

Chapter Text

They're barely settled into the new base when the general stops by the med bay. 

He looks over the general state of disrepair that the crew is still in, and seems even more displeased than he did when he'd walked in. Still, he straightens his shoulders and says, "We want to hold an award ceremony; the entire Rogue One team is to be commemorated." 

Bodhi thinks of the young woman from the other day, and feels like he's going to be sick. 

He was not fast enough to save Jedha, his home; he was not fast enough to save Galen, his friend; and he had been so very close to not being fast enough to save his crew. He hasn't even been able to provide any helpful information on the Empire. He does not deserve any sort of reward or thanks or commemoration. 

Not when he still has so much to make up for. 

"No," someone else says, voice firm. Bodhi looks up to see Draven looking at the speaker with a mixture of surprise and remaining displeasure. Bodhi follows his gaze to Jyn. Of course. 

But Jyn is staring at him when she speaks, "I'm not interested in that sort of thing."

Bodhi wonders if he's that easy to read. 

"I agree," Cassian says, "Give an award to the pilots who recovered the plans and blew up the Death Star, but we're not interested. Plus, look at us. Chirrut and I can still barely stand, not exactly the picture of inspiration you'd want to impart." 

Bodhi glances back to see Draven staring at him now, like he's expecting Bodhi to say differently. 

Being stared at does little for Bodhi's nerves, and he's not surprised to open his mouth and find no words to say. He takes a step back and towards the rest of his crew instead, hopefully making his stance as clear as possible. 

Draven looks over them with an unreadable expression before turning to leave without arguing. Bodhi's knees nearly give out with relief. He feels Jyn grab his wrist. "Thank you," he murmurs, repeating it a couple of times as if to make the words more solid. 

The corner of her mouth twitches, "Don't mention it." 

Chapter Text

"Here," Cassian says suddenly one day, hobbling over towards Bodhi on his recently acquired crutches. "I wanted to give you these." 

Bodhi sets down the datapad he'd been reading and sticks his hand out obligingly, not really sure what it could be that Cassian wants to give him. He's not really expecting much, considering Cassian still hasn't been cleared to leave the med bay; he's really not expecting Cassian to reach out and put a pair of goggles into Bodhi's hands. 

He closes his fingers around them immediately, looking up at Cassian in shock. "What, you- how?" 

Cassian's lips quirk into something resembling a smile. "We're war heroes now," he says, his voice a blend of sarcastic and sincere, "and I had contacts before. Things like this are not so hard to get your hands on."

Bodhi turns the goggles over in his hands, looking them over and feeling them out. He recognizes the goggles, but doesn'. They're the same standard issue as his old pair, but they're not his old pair. It's a little disappointing, but he can't act like he's surprised. 

He still doesn't know what happened to his goggles, they'd probably gotten lost in the blast, or somewhere in the subsequent chaos. He's wanted to ask, but he doesn't think anyone would have been paying attention, or cares enough to entertain him in that conversation.

This pair isn't his, but they're the best he's going to get, and it'll only be a matter of time before he makes them his.

"Why?" he asks, fingers already fiddling with the straps to get them to the right size. They're a comforting shape in his hands, Bodhi had forgotten how reassuring it was to have them with him. 

"You kept-," Cassian breaks off to raise a hand to his head and then lets it drop awkwardly, mimicking the half-completed action Bodhi keeps making every time he forgets that he doesn't have goggles up there anymore. "I figured you missed them." 

Bodhi nods. He had missed them. 

"They were mine," he says.

He means to say more. To say that the Empire hadn't allowed them personal effects because they were unnecessary and only served to bog people down, but the goggles were his and that made them important. He means to say more, but the words get caught somewhere between his brain and his tongue, and they never make it out. 

Cassian nods like he understands anyway. Bodhi figures that maybe he probably does. 

"Thank you," he says, reaching up to put the goggles on. Something inside of him settles; they're his again. 

Cassian claps him on the shoulder and smiles, genuinely this time. "Don't mention it." 

Chapter Text

"Why are you always doing that?" Jyn asks. They're sitting in the mess hall and celebrating Bodhi's recent release from the med bay, and when Bodhi turns to look at her she raises her hands and flaps them. 

Bodhi's chest goes cold. His hands hit his lap so hard there's an audible smack that breaks through the noise of the people surrounding them. 

He doesn't think that she's making fun of him, but it wouldn't be the first time that he wasn't able to tell. He knows that he makes a bit of an easy target, because he's odd and generally kind of clueless, but Jyn really hadn't seemed like the type. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part; the vague hope that something could be different here. 

Jyn frowns at the sudden rigidness of his body and puts her hands down as well, "I didn't mean it in a bad way," she tells him, "I was just curious." 

Bodhi has no idea what to do in this situation, because she doesn't seem like she meant it in a bad way, and that's unusual in and of itself. 

"It- I just, like the way it feels? It helps calm me down," he manages to stammer, and hopes that she won't ask him to elaborate because he really doesn't know how to. He thinks of a girl telling him firmly that he never needs to be ashamed of himself, and wishes he could remember who she was. His hands feel trapped, caught between wanting to flap without wanting anyone to see him, and that feels bad too. 

Jyn gives him a look that feels like she's asking for permission for something. Bodhi nods even though he doesn't know what she could be asking about. Sometimes it's easier not to ask. 

Jyn nods back at him absently, and then she starts flapping her hands again. She tries it out a couple of different ways, twisting her arms and flicking her wrists, a thoughtful expression on her face. "It feels a little weird," she informs him eventually, her hands settling back in her lap, "but kind of good." She nods at him, "I can see why you'd like it."

Bodhi looks at her, and doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry. 

"What?" she asks, her face going flat again. 

"Nothing, I just-," he stops and wonders if he should talk about this; if she'd want to hear it. He isn't sure what the rules are when it comes to things like this, and he doesn't want to break one of them and mess everything up. "I, Galen, he did the same thing." 

She goes stiff and Bodhi panics. He probably definitely should have just kept it to himself. Of course she wouldn't want to hear about her dead father from Bodhi, of all people. Who would?

But when she relaxes, forced, like she's making the conscious decision to do so, and puts on an expression that could vaguely pass for a smile.

"He tried it too?" she asks, and Bodhi looks at her warily, wondering if this is what counts as permission. He wishes someone else was around to tell him what the fuck he's supposed to do. 

"Yes," he says, hesitantly, because he doesn't know if he should but does know that he can't just sit there and stare at her forever. "He liked trying new things. Experimenting." 

Her eyelids flutter a bit and Bodhi has to look away. It's too much all of a sudden, to look at her face and see everything that's on display there. His eyes drift to look somewhere over her shoulder as she says, "He was a scientist."

"He was," Bodhi agrees, for lack of anything else to say. 

There's a brief pause before she says, "You should tell me about him sometime." The words are stilted, like she isn't sure she wants to say them, but she's pushing them out anyway. 

Bodhi ducks his head in a nod, just as uncertain as she is. It's unfamiliar territory and Bodhi's just as clueless as she is, if not more so. 

But he doesn't think that he would mind, necessarily. Besides, Galen's memory should be passed along to someone whose brain is more reliable than his. No one really deserves to be remembered by Bodhi alone, he's not good for tasks like that anymore. 

Jyn nods back at him, smiling tightly but more settled now that the words are out there and the agreement is vague enough that nothing needs to be done about it now. There's another tense pause, and then she claps him awkwardly on the shoulder and gets up to leave, apparently no longer able to stick around and deal with the repercussions of their conversation.

Bodhi doesn't think he's ever been simultaneously disappointed and relieved to see someone leave, until he remembers the scientist that had approached him after a particularly long flight to strike up a conversation. 

He wonders if Jyn realizes just how much like her father she really is. 

Chapter Text

Bodhi can see them coming from all the way down the hall. He doesn't know a lot about people, but sometimes he marvels at the way such opposing sides can harbor such similar personalities. 

All he wants to do is track down the room he's been assigned, but he can already tell that they aren't going to let him pass by without some kind of confrontation. Bodhi has never met these men before, but he's known their type his whole life. So rather than trying to slip by unnoticed, he avoids their angry eyes and says, "Sorry, could you help? I don't quite know where I am?" and hopes that they'll pity him enough to leave him be. 

But of course, he has no such luck. 

"Oh look at that," one of the men sneers, crowding Bodhi up against the wall. "The Imperial is lost; he's trying to find his way back to his own side." 

'I'm the pilot, I defected, I brought the message,' Bodhi reminds himself, but only stares at the men in confusion as if that will help. 

"Do you think it was him that sold out the location of our last base?" One of the others asks, and gets a chorus of assent from his companions. 

"I don't want trouble, I just -," Bodhi breaks off as one of the men reaches out to yank on a fist full of Bodhi's hair.

Bodhi rams the heel of his palm up into the man's nose in response. 

'Hm,' he thinks to himself, flicking blood off of his fingers and watching the three men's faces distort with anger. 'Maybe that wasn't the best idea.'

He does his best to hold his own, but three against one is hardly a fight in the first place. He manages to get a couple of solid hits in. His knuckles are slick with blood, and when they finally manage to get him on the group and begin delivering a barrage of blows, Bodhi relishes the blooming bruises on their faces. 

It's sheer luck that Jyn comes down the hall when she does. 

Bodhi's ribs and stomach are screaming but he still struggles to his feet to help Jyn chase them off, even though she's probably strong enough to do it on her own. 

"Imperial scum," one of the men spits as he helps to drag his friend down the hall and away from the bleeding duo of Rogue One. 

"Are you alright?" Jyn asks, barely contained anger and concern lining every inch of her frame. 

Bodhi wipes blood from his nose with his arm and only manages to smear it everywhere. "Never been better." 

He and Jyn bare bloody teeth at each other and head off back towards the med bay that they'd just been discharged from. 

Chapter Text

"What's your favorite?" 

It takes Bodhi a moment to register the words and the fact that they're being said to him, and takes even longer to pull his attention back from wherever it had gone in order to look at his friends in confusion. "Favorite what?" 

"Food." 

Bodhi doesn't have an answer for that, and for once he doesn't think it's entirely his fault. 

When he'd been with the Empire, he'd worked long hours and was almost always in the air. Ration bars were the easiest things to get your hands on and eat when you were busy and they were what Bodhi tended to stick to. Even when he wasn't working, there hadn't been much because there wasn't much point in expending effort for a variety of food for troopers and pilots. 

He tries to think of before, back on Jedha. His mom had cooked a lot, he can remember, but only vague snatches. The smell of spices and the sound of her knife on a cutting board. He can't think of a single actual food or meal. He thinks that they'd started running out of food at some point anyway. 

"I can't remember," he says eventually. He's trying for casual, but doesn't think he actually manages it. "But everything here is good, so I don't think it matters." 

No one says anything, and when he finally risks looking up at their faces, they all look very sad. 

Bodhi can't figure out why. 

Chapter Text

Bodhi can't sleep. 

It's not for a lack of trying, but his clothes cling to his skin uncomfortably and the pressure of the mattress beneath him has been slowly building into something like agony over the course of the past hour. He's been tossing and turning and trying to find a position that doesn't make him feel like he's being tortured for hours, but has nothing to show for it. 

He can't keep doing this. 

He practically launches himself out of bed, desperate to get it all to stop despite not knowing where to begin. He doesn't know what to do. Everything feels too much and partially disconnected and Bodhi is so tired he can barely think straight, which doesn't help with anything. 

Staying in the room isn't helping either. So he leaves. 

He doesn't know where he's going, but the hallways are dark and empty and that's something to be grateful for. Lights and people walking around him and talking would only make this feeling over his skin worse. 

His attention catches and stalls on the way his hair brushes against his shoulders oppressively, and realizes that he'd left his hair tie in his room. He doesn't want to have to deal with his hair, but doesn't want to go back either. 

"Pilot," someone hisses, and Bodhi twists around to see Baze leaning out of a door, looking half asleep. Bodhi tilts his head in question, and Baze jerks his towards the inside of his room, beckoning. 

It occurs to Bodhi what's being offered. That Chirrut and Baze would just welcome him into the room, and based on the fact that their room is a single, their bed as well. Part of him wants to accept the offer, the other half knows that he doesn't deserve it, and besides, right not the thought or someone else touching him makes his skin crawl harshly enough that he shudders. 

He shakes his head and continues on his way. 

He's grateful for the fact that Baze doesn't follow him or try to call out to him, but he still isn't sure where he's going. 

He finds himself in one of the hangars. 

It's quiet, which is odd, but Bodhi isn't complaining. The sound of his footsteps echo in the huge empty room in a way that's almost unsettling, but isn't quite. Something about it doesn't feel real at all. He doesn't really like it. 

He heads into one of the shuttles instead. 

He probably isn't supposed to be inside. He doesn't know if this base has things like clearance and restrictions, but they probably do, and Bodhi doubts that he's on the list of personnel just allowed to board random ships, but it's not like he's planning on going anywhere, and he's tired and no longer certain that he's not dreaming or something, so he gets on anyway. 

It's not especially big - a bit smaller than the ship that he'd flown off Scarif. It's just as empty as the hangar but it's familiar in the way that all ships are, and feels more solid for it. Bodhi touches one of the interior walls to test it out. The metal is cool under his fingertips but doesn't actually help him feel any more solid. 

He moves up to the cockpit. 

He takes the seat almost immediately because this is right. He's slept in shuttles before, all the time, and it's uncomfortable but it's familiar. Snatching a few hours or sleep while he could because once he landed he wasn't allowed to sleep until after he'd ensured that the shuttle was unloaded and that everything had gone to where it was supposed to be, because if something had gotten lost or broken - even after he'd landed the plane - it was still his fault. 

He doesn't have to worry about that now, doesn't even have to worry about making sure that he sleeps light enough that he can wake up the moment something goes wrong in flight. Something settles under his skin as he relaxes back in the chair, and his exhaustion hits him full force. 

Bodhi's out withing moments, and he sleeps better than he has in weeks. 

Chapter Text

Jyn and Cassian are in the middle of a conversation when Bodhi walks into the room. Cassian is the first one to notice him, smiling and readjusting his weight on his crutches as he asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Just looking around," Bodhi says, instead of 'I don't remember how I got here'. He smiles, and thinks he pulls it off okay. 

He doesn't even know where he is. But he can't let them know that, can't let them know how broken he is because broken pilots are a drain on resources. Bodhi still has so much to do, so much to make up for, but they still won't let him fly, and they'll never even let him help if they know how much trouble he's still having.

Broken people are a waste of resources, Bodhi remembers this well. 

So he lies, and pretends like that doesn't make his hands shake and his throat tight. 

He tries to remember where he'd been before this, but can't. He thinks he might have been eating in the mess hall? Chirrut might have been there, but Bodhi doesn't remember if that's right, and if it is right, he doesn't remember what happened that led him to this room. He hadn't been able to sleep well last night, maybe that's why he's so fucked up today? He doesn't know. Regardless, he supposes that he should at least be grateful that it was Jyn and Cassian he'd stumbled into, and not someone else. 

"Hey," Cassian says, and Bodhi startles to attention, wondering how long he's been standing there. "Do you mind helping me out with something?" 

"Um, sure?" Bodhi replies. Since Cassian is still on crutches, it means that he needs help with stuff, sometimes, but Bodhi isn't sure why Cassian would choose to ask him instead of Jyn. 

Perhaps it's because Jyn isn't in the room anymore. When had that happened?

"Great!" Cassian exclaims, startling Bodhi once again. "Follow me then."

It's a slow trek to the kitchen, because Cassian can't move too quickly without straining himself, but Bodhi doesn't mind. It makes it easier for him to focus on what's going on around him, in a vague attempt to try and anchor himself in what's actually going on outside of his head. 

"What do you need?"

"Not much," Cassian says, taking a seat at one of the counters. "Sometimes I like to cook, but I need help reaching some of the ingredients. Do you mind?"

"No," Bodhi assures him quickly, "I can help. Just, mm, tell me where things are?" He's definitely never spent any time in this kitchen, and he feels scattered enough today to feel like it wouldn't matter even if he had. 

It's not the best way of doing things, but it works well enough. Cassian tells Bodhi what to get and where to get it from, and then all Bodhi has to do is bring it over to where Cassian is sitting. 

There are a couple of times where Bodhi is walking to a cabinet, or looking inside of one, and promptly forgets what he's supposed to be doing. But Cassian is as patient with him as he always is, and eventually he has all he needs to get started on whatever he's making. 

It has been a very long time since Bodhi has seen someone cook. He'd spent most of his time eating ration bars because they were easy to get and easy to eat; he didn't have to worry about weird tastes or textures, they were always the same. He can remember that food had started going scarce while he had been with his family. He can vaguely remember his mom cooking, when he was little, but can't remember any of the dishes. Chirrut or Baze might be able to help with that; but Bodhi is going to have to be able to remember to ask them, which is almost as hard as remembering the meals himself. 

He doesn't know what Cassian is making either, but it smells good, and Cassian works with a steady intensity that's nice to listen to. 

Later, when Cassian turns back from his work to ask Bodhi to get him another knife, he sees Bodhi slumped down against the counter, completely asleep. He huffs out a breath of laughter, wipes a knife clean himself, and resolves to let the pilot sleep a little longer. 

Chapter Text

Bodhi had started working under the Empire for his family.

It's the middle of the night when Bodhi remembers this, and he goes from half asleep to being starkly awake in a split second. He'd forgotten(?) his family. He certainly hadn't been actively remembering them, but now that he is, he can't stop.

His mom had been sick; she had been sick for a long time, even before her wife had died. She worked hard even though she wasn't getting better, but she had three kids and couldn't afford to stop, not matter how tired she got. She would yell every time Bodhi ran into a door frame (which was often) because, "one of these days you're going to kill yourself because you weren't paying attention to where you were going." She used to throw her head back when she laughed, like the force of her mirth was too much to keep herself straight. 

His older sister shaved her head because she hated putting up with her hair, but she'd loved to play with Bodhi's every chance she got. She would read with him at night, curled under blankets together and reading the stories to him or helping him stumble over the syllables. Her voice was loud and bright and it cut through noise easily, like she had been made to be heard. 

His little brother was quiet, and too precocious for his own good. He constantly tracked dust into the house and had a pocket full of rocks that he found as he walked through the streets. He would bring them home and show them off to anyone who would sit still long enough to listen (usually Bodhi), pointing out whatever had caught his eye and explaining how he'd found it. He would jump on Bodhi's back and cling there, and Bodhi would have to walk around like he had on a very heavy backpack. When they'd started running out of food, his brother had started hoarding it so that he could make sure that other people had enough to eat, regardless of how much he himself ate. 

When Bodhi had found out about that, it had been the last straw. He ignored all of his resentment and anger towards the Empire and went to one of the recruitment tents. He'd asked about the pay and whether his mother would qualify for medical help, and then he signed up to be a pilot.

His mom had cried; his sister had gone quiet. 

His brother had been pissed. 

He hadn't understood, Bodhi was going to work for the bad guys, what was he thinking? And Bodhi had tried to explain, about how their mom was sick and how their sister needed money for school and how he was too skinny and so Bodhi had to go, so that he could make money and make sure that the family had enough to eat. 

His brother hadn't wanted to hear it. When Bodhi was leaving, his brother had gone to his room and refused to come out. Bodhi never got the chance to give him an actual goodbye. 

And now they're all gone. 

They're gone and Bodhi can't even remember what they looked like. 

He keeps looking and looking, scouring every inch of his brain and he can't find the images of them anywhere. He remembers them, but they're faceless and vague and Bodhi feels like he can't breathe because of it.

Everything that he'd done had been for them. He'd been complicit in so many things that he couldn't stand, but he could stand it because it was for them; it was worth it, to make sure that they had enough help and food to survive and become better people than he was. And now he can't even remember them. 

What kind of son, what kind of brother is he? What were their names? Their ages? What had happened to them? Bodhi doesn't know, he doesn't know and what kind of person forgets their own family?

They're dead and Bodhi is the only one left to remember them, and he can't even do that right. 

They had been upset with him when he'd left; he hadn't been able to rectify that. They'd died before he was able to fix anything with them. He was going to try; he had planned on it. He had sent them letters while he was with the Empire, but moved around too much to get any back, and he'd known that he wouldn't be able to stick around after delivering the plans to Gerrera, but he'd thought that he might have time to visit them before he had to leave. But he'd never gotten the chance, because Gerrera hadn't believed him and then they had all died. 

Had they died hating him? Had his brother ever forgiven him? Bodhi's breath comes in shallow ragged gasps and he doesn't know. He doesn't know, and now he'll never be able to find out. 

What had they looked like? What were their names? Bodhi can't remember and he feels like he's drowning. 

He wonders what they'd even think of him now. 

He hopes that they're proud. 

Chapter Text

"Pilot!" someone calls, and Bodhi startles hard enough that the spanner in his hand hits the floor with an angrily loud clatter. He whirls around unsteadily, trying to find the source of the call. 

Chirrut and Baze are standing in the doorway to the hangar. Bodhi wonders thickly if they ever actually go anywhere without the other before walking towards them, trying not to trip. He doesn't think that he's been doing maintenance in here for very long, but he feels stupidly tired anyway. 

"Yes?" he asks, reaching up to try and rub the exhaustion out of his eyes. His knuckles collide with plastic. His goggles are on; he doesn't remember putting them on? Fuck, how long has he been working? He pushes them up to his forehead and blinks blearily at the Guardians, who share a look. 

"I need your help with something," Chirrut says, turning back to look at Bodhi with a smile. 

Bodhi glances up at Baze, who looks back impassively. 

"Alright," the pilot says eventually. Something about this situation feels familiar, but Bodhi can't put his finger on it. 

"Wonderful," Chirrut says, and before Bodhi knows it, he's been herded down the hall, over towards the sleeping quarters. 

"Wait," Bodhi protests, "I've got like, work I need to finish."

"It'll be there when you're done," Chirrut replies, unfazed. 

"Done with what?"

"Helping me."

Bodhi catches on quickly to the fact that this conversation isn't likely to go anywhere. He bites back a sigh that turns into a yawn. He doesn't really mind going with them, but there's something in his chest that won't settle. He remembers his back hurting.

"I can't stop working until I'm done." That's what it was. That was one of the rules. Bodhi bumps into Chirrut's back and realizes that the others have stopped moving. "Um, what?"

"Who told you that?" Baze asks, voice low, threatening.

Bodhi blinks and tries to think through the haze of exhaustion. "'s just how it works," he says. He's got the scars on his back to prove it. 

There's a moment of silence that Bodhi doesn't understand. He can't tell if this is just something that he misses like he does sometimes, or if he'd said something wrong, or if he's just too tired to comprehend things at the moment. Any feel like fair game. 

"Well," Chirrut says, breaking the silence before Bodhi can start apologizing for whatever it was he'd said. "It's a good thing you don't work there anymore."

As they start walking again, Bodhi realizes that Chirrut's right; he doesn't work there anymore. He's with the rebellion now. Still, he doesn't know the rules here, it could still be a rule. Bodhi kind of doubts it, but he also can't be certain. He wishes that someone around here could make things like this clear. 

"Here we are," Chirrut says. Bodhi looks up to see that they're in front of his own room. 

"I thought you needed help with something," Bodhi says, confused, and then immediately realizes what he probably should have realized a lot earlier. "I can't just stop working so that I can sleep," he protests, scandalized, but he's not exactly fighting as Baze nudges him into the room. 

"Sure you can," Chirrut replies, "Baze and I do it all the time."

"It's the middle of the night," Baze adds, plucking Bodhi's goggles off of his head and setting them on the dresser. "You've worked enough for the day."

Bodhi doesn't know if that's true, but he is tired as hell, and he knows that working when he's this exhausted is a good way to make mistakes. Some part of him thinks that it can't hurt, while another part is adamant that it absolutely can, and Bodhi isn't sure which part is right. 

But Chirrut and Baze are settling in like they belong in here and are acting like they have no intention of leaving, and Bodhi thinks that if there were some kind of repercussions for this, that Chirrut and Baze probably wouldn't stand for it. It's reassuring enough (or maybe he's just tired enough) that Bodhi goes ahead and pulls off his boots and practically falls into his bunk. 

He's asleep before his head even hits the pillow. 

Chapter Text

"What did I tell you to do?"

Bodhi looks up into the fuming face that he doesn't quite recognize, and flinches. 

"I don't know?" he whispers, as much a statement as it is a question. He's not even entirely sure of what's going on right now, much less of something from earlier. 

"Were you not listening? Hey," the man's voice turns sharp and Bodhi stiffens to keep from flinching. "Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you."

Bodhi does not want to do that, no thanks. He turns his face even further off to the side. The anger, the tension, the frustration is too much to even look at that man's face right now, much less look into his eyes. 

This is, perhaps, a mistake. The man lets out a grunt of anger and wraps his hand around Bodhi's jaw, and jerks Bodhi's head until they're looking at each other. Bodhi tries hard to look away, but the man just leans closer, blocking out Bodhi's field of vision until he doesn't have a choice but to look. He doesn't like this. He hums anxiously, but doesn't try to pull away. Yet. 

That only ever leads to more anger. 

"Hey, hey!" Someone else is speaking now, their words sharp and accented. Cassian. "What is the issue here?"

"I'm just trying to get this pilot to listen for once in his damn life." The words are punctuated by a forced shake of Bodhi's head. Bodhi tangles his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and holds on tight to keep himself from trying to push the man off of him. 

"Alright, alright, let him go," Cassian says, prying the man's fingers from Bodhi's face. Now that the grip is gone, Bodhi can't stop himself from reaching up to forcibly rub the touch away with his palm. "This man- was tortured by Saw Gerrera. Damaged. We're working on it."

"I'm not damaged," Bodhi whispers. Then again, louder, "I'm not damaged."

The damaged are weak links to be gotten rid of, Bodhi can't be damaged, he doesn't want to go anywhere. He can't be damaged. 

There is a moment of tense silence, and then Cassian nods and takes Bodhi by the hand to lead him away. Bodhi gets the feeling that he'd missed something important because he hadn't been looking. 

"I'm not damaged," he says again. It's important that Cassian understands this.

"Hush, I know Bodhi, I'm sorry. That kind of language is the only way to reach a man like that, I just wanted to get us out of there, I didn't mean it." 

Even if he hadn't meant it, he still said it, so other people think it. It's not much better. But, if Cassian hadn't meant it, then he probably wouldn't let anyone do anything to Bodhi. He'd step in, just like he had earlier. 

"Okay," Bodhi says softly. Then, "Where are we going?"

"Jyn and the others are waiting in the mess." Cassian stops walking and looks back at Bodhi somberly, "He didn't hurt you did he?"

It takes Bodhi a moment to remember what he's talking about. "Oh. No, it's okay. I'm used to that."

Cassian gives him a long look that Bodhi doesn't recognize. Confusion? Pity? Something like that. He's expecting questions, but Cassian doesn't ask any. He just squeezes Bodhi's hand, and then turns back around to continue walking. 

Bodhi finds that he's grateful for it. 

Chapter Text

"This is not going to work." 

Bodhi can't help but agree. 

"You are very small," he says, but it isn't like he'd been working with a lot of options. Bigger units are either already in use, or they're broken down for parts, and it's not like there's another original unit just hanging around somewhere. 

"Why did you do this to me?"

"I didn't do this you you," Bodhi protests, despite the fact that he kind of had. "This is just what we have to work with at the moment." 

K-2SO doesn't seem reassured, which figures. "I am a security droid," he spits, "Not an astromech." He rams his body into Bodhi's legs, nearly knocking the pilot over. 

"The R4 unit was the one most intact! I had to do something!" Bodhi hisses, rubbing the sore spots on his shins that he already knows are going to bruise. "It'll be easy to move you over if we ever get another Imperial security droid, but since they're security droids, I doubt it's going to happen any time soon." 

"Where's Cassian?" K2 demands, looking exceptionally pissed for a droid with no face. 

"He's around somewhere." Bodhi doesn't actually know where he is; he's not even sure if Cassian is going to appreciate what he's done. It's possible that Bodhi fucked up, but K2's chip had been right there and Bodhi had known where the scrap room was and he'd wanted to be able to do something right for once. 

K2 is quiet for a moment. "This is not Yavin-IV," he says finally. "You were not this damaged before. What happened?"

Bodhi freezes, it hadn't quite connected that a back up of K2 would mean a gap in memory right where Scarif would be, but of course it would. Maybe this is why Cassian hadn't tried to reinstall him somewhere yet. (Or maybe he'd just known how pissed K2 would be in a replacement body) 

"We went to Scarif, to get the plans for the Death Star," Bodhi explains slowly. "We got them, and made it off," he glances down at his arms, "mostly intact." 

K2 stares at him steadily. "But not me."

"Not you," Bodhi agrees. 

K2 goes silent again, and Bodhi sits and listens to the sound of the droid's processors whirring away before K2 finally says, "Jyn Erso made it off, but not me." He sounds inordinately displeased. 

Bodhi splutters out a laugh, and the tense atmosphere is broken. "Yeah," he says, heaving himself to his feet. "Sorry I couldn't find you a more satisfactory body, but something better will probably come along sooner or later. But Cassian's missed you, you should go find him." 

K2 looks at him appraisingly for a while more. "I believe I might have underestimated you," he says, and then rolls past Bodhi to get to the door. He pauses before he exits, "I'm... glad that you made it off Scarif." 

Bodhi half-smiles, "Yeah," he says, "Me too."

Most of the time anyway, but it's a good place to start. 

Chapter Text

Bodhi doesn't know where he is, or what's going on, but he is aware on some level that it's his fault. 

No one had done anything, Bodhi apparently has just lost track of time, or something. It's happened before, when he's particularly tired; where he just goes on autopilot and winds up forgetting the steps that occurred between point A and point B. But he can't even remember where he'd flown to or where he'd flown in from, and that means that he has to be very careful until he's back in a familiar position. 

He's only a shuttle pilot; there's not many places that he has the clearance to be in. 

So he has to be careful, he has to act like he knows where he's going to hopefully keep people from asking too many questions that he can't answer. 

Maybe he's on Eadu? There were a lot of floors that Bodhi hadn't been allowed on, maybe he'd wandered his way onto one of them anyway. 

"Hey!" A woman shouts, and Bodhi startles, his hands flapping anxiously before he can stop them. "Where are you going?" 

Bodhi looks at her in thinly concealed terror because he does not know where he's going; he doesn't even know how he got here, and if they find that out then Force knows what they'll do to him. 

But this woman doesn't seem like the type who'd turn him in. Her face is bright and open, like she knows him, and Bodhi looks at her and he's reminded inexplicably of his sister, and so maybe that's why he says, "I'm looking for someone," without pausing to think about the repercussions. 

He braces himself for the worst, but she doesn't seem mad. "Who?" 

Who indeed. Well, he's decided that this is Eadu right? Potentially? So it can't hurt. Probably. 

"Galen Erso," he says, wringing his hands anxiously. "I was um, looking for him but I seem, seem to have gotten, mm, turned around?" 

He finally looks back at her, and he's expecting to see some degree of irritation that most people boast when they listen to him talk. 

He's not at all prepared for the look of raw hurt and vague betrayal that she's fixed him with. 

"Oh no," he stammers, "I'm sorry, I don't know what I did? I'm just, um, just really lost, I'm sorry. Really lost, could you...?" but she's turned around and taken off in the opposite direction and doesn't look back. 

Bodhi hits the side of his head with the heel of his palm and wonders how he's managed to fuck up this badly in such a short amount of time. He wonders if the blows will be able to shake his thoughts loose. It doesn't seem to be helping. 

He turns back around and tries to figure out what the fuck he's supposed to do now. 

--

Jyn comes to find him later, when he's curled up in his bunk after remembering where he is and that everyone, everyone is dead. 

"I'm sorry," he rasps, the moment he notices her. He knows that her father's death is still an open wound, and he'd gone and scraped it raw again, however unintentionally. 

"No, it's not your fault," she says, walking over to sit next to him. "I'm sorry I left you there alone." 

"I find my way back," he assures her. He usually does at least. He shuffles to the side to make room for her in the small bed. He's tired; his face is still flushed and aching and damp.

She lays down next to him and throws an arm around his body. He buries himself against her shoulder. Time passes before she admits, "I miss him," in a voice so tiny and unlike her that Bodhi barely hears it. 

He nods, squeezing her a bit tighter and trying to ignore the lump in his throat. "He was a good man," he manages to say. He pulls back slightly to look at her in the face, because it's important to look people in the face when you tell them important things. "You remind me a lot of him." 

The corner of her mouth quirks sadly, "Thank you." 

Neither of them comment on the tears in the other's eyes. 

Chapter Text

Bodhi knows that his hair is a wreck, but he can't make himself do anything about it. 

A decent amount of Bodhi's hair had gotten burned off in the blast, caught in the remnants of flame that had burned through part of his old uniform. Because his face and head hadn't been burned, the doctor's had left it alone instead of just shaving it all, which Bodhi was grateful for, but the remainder doesn't look good. Even Bodhi can tell that it doesn't look good, and he knows that he should probably do something about it eventually. 

The problem is that Bodhi hates haircuts. He doesn't like the change that comes with them, he doesn't like the sound of the metal blades scraping through hair and against each other, he doesn't like people brushing his hair; there's a lot about haircuts that Bodhi can't stand. That's part of the reason why he'd let it grow out so long. 

Another reason was just because he liked having long hair. It was a curtain to hide behind, something to keep his hands busy, a piece of him that he recognizes. 

He doesn't want to have to cut his hair. 

But the edges are burned and damaged and lopsided. He needs to cut his hair, but he just really doesn't want to. He doesn't even know where he'd go to get his hair cut around here. It's probably better to just leave it alone. 

Baze has different plans. 

"It needs to be done," the Guardian says, completely unsympathetic. 

"Yeah, but I don't want it to be done," Bodhi protests, tangling his fingers in his hair and pushing as much of it behind his head as he can, as if he can hide the hair from Baze and get the man to leave. It doesn't seem like it's going to work. "We could just leave it alone." 

"It'll get unhealthy," Baze says, "It's already unhealthy. You have to cut it." 

"Yeah I know," Bodhi reiterates, because he does. "But I don't want to." 

Baze looks at him, unimpressed. This time, Bodhi is equally unfazed. 

Baze sighs. 

"I will not cut more than what needs to be cut," he says, "but the longer you wait, the more will need to be cut off." 

Bodhi pulls at his hair and fidgets, ducking his head to avoid having to look at Baze's face. "I don't, I don't like the um," he makes a vague hand gesture, "the sound of the scissors." 

He waits for Baze to tell him that that's stupid, like most people do, but of course Baze doesn't. He just nods thoughtfully and says, "Then we'll have to find a way to help you with that," and Bodhi is reminded so starkly of his mom that his chest aches and all he can do is nod. 

Baze takes him to the restroom of his and Chirrut's room and sets to work. He lets Bodhi wet his own hair himself, and works slowly and patiently, stopping whenever Bodhi can't make himself sit still any longer. He doesn't protest Bodhi keeping his hands over his ears, and steadily explains everything he's doing as he does it, so Bodhi doesn't have to wonder. 

It's one of the least painful haircuts Bodhi's ever gotten in his life. 

It ends with Bodhi's hair ending just above his shoulders. It's more than he'd wanted gone, but it's not as bad as it could have been. 

"There, was that so bad?" Baze asks, stepping back to admire his work and let Bodhi up. 

"Yes," Bodhi replies, because it kind of was. The hair is too short and he's covered in strands of hair that are going to get everywhere and be nearly impossible to get off, not to mention the way the shoulders of his shirt are damp with the water that's dripped from his hair. "But thank you." 

Baze cracks a grin, "We'll figure it out," he says, like he doesn't doubt it even a little. 

Bodhi finds that he doesn't either. 

Chapter Text

The more Bodhi tries to focus the more he comes to realize that it's just not going to happen. 

There's just too much going on, and he can't think straight. Every time he tries to wrestle his thoughts together, they just slip out of his grasp, leaving him more confused and frustrated than he had been before. He's tired of it already. 

He tries to figure out what he'd come into this room for, and only succeeds in making himself dizzy. 

No, he decides finally, I'm done. 

And then he lays out on the ground. 

There's not point in him continuing to stand, not when it feels like he might topple over at any minute, and he can't even remember what was going on in the first place. The floor seems like as good as a place as any to try and calm down and gather his thoughts. 

So he just lays there. He presses his face into the floor and lets his fingers roam over the texture of the rough and probably really dirty carpet, and waits for the dizziness to pass and for the static in his head to clear. 

It doesn't happen before someone is tripping over him. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he murmurs, forcing himself up on his elbows to see who it is, and comes face to face with Chirrut. "Fuck," he repeats, more empathetically. "I'm really sorry." 

Chirrut seems more amused than anything else, picking himself out of the mess of Bodhi's limbs and sitting to the side of him. "People were looking for you," he says, sweeping his hands over the ground to make sure that nothing's in his way, "But I think you might have the better idea." And then he lays down too. 

This seems like a reasonable turn of events, so Bodhi goes ahead and sinks back down to the floor as well. 

If people were looking for him, then chances are not much time will pass before someone else comes in to get him, so this time Bodhi actually makes an effort to try and pull himself back together instead of just drifting in it. 

As expected, only a few minutes pass before Baze is the one bursting in. The man takes one look around and then, in the most exasperated tone of voice Bodhi has ever heard from him, asks, "What are the two of you doing?"

Bodhi can't actually come up with an answer. Chirrut says, "Having a better time than you." 

The response makes an already ridiculous situation even more absurd, and Bodhi bursts into utterly helpless laughter. 

Chapter Text

"Rook, I need you to go do maintenance on one of the X-wings in hangar A." The commanding officer speaks slowly and over-enunciates every word, and Bodhi resists the urge to tell the man that, despite the grenade blast, he isn't hard of hearing. 

"Yes sir," he says instead, and tries not to think of the man's hand on his face from days ago. 

"Here," he shoves a data pad into Bodhi's hands, and before Bodhi even has time to wonder what he'd possibly need it for, a little text display pops up; [Maintenance on X-Wing in Hangar A]. "So you don't forget." 

Bodhi can't tell if the man is being sarcastic or gruffly genuine, and he finds that he doesn't care. Whether this is meant to be some kind of condescending insult or not, it's exactly what Bodhi needs. A visual reminder; where he's going and what he's meant to do when he gets there, in case he does forget or get distracted while he's on the way. 

"Thank you," he breathes. He can't imagine the Empire going anything like this at all, for anyone, much less a cargo pilot, and that makes his experience that much more incredible. 

This time, he doesn't have to look at the pad at all to remember, but on other days, days when he can't remember or focus on anything, all he'll have to do is look down at the data pad and he'll know exactly what he's supposed to be doing. 

It feels good, to know that he can be helpful despite all of his numerous bullshit issues. Like a weight lifting off his chest. 

Chapter Text

It's frustrating; every time he feels like he's finally getting somewhere in regaining some semblance of normalcy, something happens that ruins it all.

Today it's a crowded hallway.

He had been going somewhere, and he was pretty sure that he had been in a rush, but now he's standing in a hallway full of people and he cannot for the life of him remember why. He tries to check his data pad and realizes that he doesn't have one. He can't remember what happened to it. 

Someone crashes into his shoulder, swearing as they stalk past him. He's surrounded. 

'Oh,' he thinks dully, 'I need to get out of here.'

But there are people on all sides, touching him and brushing against the patches of skin that his uniform doesn't cover, and he needs to get out of there fast, but the touches are so similar to that and one moment he's standing there and the next he's trying to get away, but he can't get his hands free from the biting metal restraints around his wrists. He pulls like he can't feel the bruises forming. That thing's tentacles wrap around him and it's an awful sensation as it roams over his skin and pulls at his grimy uniform to get closer to his head, and he wants to believe that he's going to be okay but he can hear Gerrera talking like static in the background and Bodhi knows that he's not coming out of this the same and

He pulls in a breath. He's running again, but doesn't know where to. At least there are fewer people around. 

"I'm the pilot," he reminds himself, tapping his shaking fingers against his cheekbone, "I'm Bodhi Rook, I'm the pilot, I brought the message."

His shaking hands pull anxiously at the straps of his new goggles. He needs to get out of this hallway. 

The only problem is that he doesn't know which part of the base he's in. 

He winds up ducking into the first room he comes across and hoping for the best. 

It might be some kind of conference room? Bodhi isn't sure, but it's empty now, and that's all he needs at the moment. He gives the room a cursory once over, to make sure it's actually completely empty and to get a feel for what it has to offer, and then he makes a beeline for the table. 

Bodhi likes tight spaces -he can remember that about himself. There's something reassuring about small enclosed spaces. The cockpit of a ship is his favorite place to be, but if a ship isn't available, then the underside of a table works almost as well. 

So that's where Bodhi finds himself; curled into a ball beneath the table, rocking back and forth rhythmically. He puts his goggles on to block out some of the light and the input, and cups a hand over one of his ears to muffle the noise leaking in from the hall. 

"I'm the pilot," he whispers to himself, "I'm the pilot." 

It's easy for time to slip away from him while he's under there. He thinks that the door opens at some point, but it closes quickly and Bodhi is too distracted and out of it to do much else but whisper a bit louder and twirl his hair a bit quicker. 

He's not on the frantic edge of losing himself anymore, but he's comfortable and content to remain where he is and continue on with what he's doing. It's not exactly like he's in a rush or has anywhere to be. 

Or at least, he doesn't think that he is. 

But eventually he reaches a point -when his voice is raw and his wrist aches from the repetitive movements- where he can't convince himself to linger there any longer. 

So he pulls his hair back and stretches out his legs and groans at the way his muscles and joints protest the movement; he's been sitting down there for too long. 

It takes him a while to stand, and even longer to realize that he's no longer alone. 

He lets out a little yelp of shock as he scrambles to shove his goggles back onto his forehead as he looks at the calm visage of Chirrut sitting in one of the chairs that Bodhi had shoved aside to get under the table. 

"H-how," his voice cracks from embarrassment and overuse and Bodhi tries not to dwell on it. "How long have you been sitting there?" 

Chirrut smiles mildly, "Just a while," he says, "We wanted to make sure that you were not disturbed." He gestures out the door and Bodhi looks past him, through the small window, to see the hulking form of Baze standing guard outside. 

Bodhi tries and fails to not feel horrifically embarrassed. He doesn't even have the words to explain himself anymore. 

Chirrut's grin only gets wider. "What sort of guardians would we be if we did not look after our pilot?" 

There's a lot of things that Bodhi could say to that. Like how Chirrut and Baze aren't that kind of guardians, that they don't have to make excuses for him, that they didn't have to, and that they shouldn't feel obligated to. 

But Chirrut isn't one to misspeak or not say what he means, and Baze is not the type to do anything he doesn't want to, and Bodhi can't lie and say that he doesn't feel a rush of pride every time a member of the Rogue One team refers to him as 'their pilot', and so Bodhi doesn't say any of that. 

Instead he smiles a bit sheepishly and pulls at his goggles and says, "Thank you," and manages not to slur his words too badly.

And Chirrut nods like that's what he'd expected and wanted to hear. "Anytime," he says, bouncing his staff off of his foot a few times before standing. Bodhi watches him walk towards the door, until Chirrut glances over his shoulder and asks, "Coming?"

Bodhi tugs on the strap of his goggles and lets it snap back against his head, and wonders how a man like him wound up with teammates like this, and he follows. 

Chapter Text

He's trying to pay attention to what's going on, but the words aren't making sense and he can't make his eyes focus. He can't catch his breath; he feels panic like a physical object on his chest and can't figure out why he's so damn anxious. 

"Are you alright?" Cassian asks, tilting his head into Bodhi's field of vision, looking concerned. 

Bodhi opens his mouth to tell him that he doesn't know, but all that comes out is a nasty sounding wheeze. What is happening to him?

"Alright," Cassian says a bit sharply, "We'll be right back." He practically hauls Bodhi up and out of the room. Usually the manhandling would be an annoyance, but Bodhi can't breathe and his vision is going black at the edges so the help is, for once, appreciated. 

Cassian helps him into a small room and onto a chair and Bodhi doubles over and pants unsteadily into his knees and manages to say, "I don't understand what's happening?" before dizziness overwhelms him and he can't speak at all. 

"Bodhi, Bodhi you need to listen to me," Cassian is saying. Mostly all Bodhi can hear is the sound of a strained noise in his throat every time he tries to draw in a breath, but he nods anyway. "Hold your breath." 

Holding his breath seems to be one of the last things Bodhi needs to be doing at that moment. "Just for a couple of seconds," Cassian amends. It still feels like too much. He manages a few seconds before he has to heave in another desperate breath. 

"Okay, you're doing good." It doesn't feel at all like he's doing good. He feels like he might be dying. It is entirely possible that he is dying. 

"What's... going-," he tries to ask.

"Stop trying to talk," Cassian interrupts, "You're having a panic attack. You need to focus on your breathing." 

A panic attack? That's all?

Has it really been that long since his last one? That he can barely remember what they feel like? But this is what they feel like. A panic attack, he can deal with that. He remembers those -mid-flight, post-check, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the hallway, every time someone was made an example of, at literally any given moment- he remembers how to deal with these. He struggles to hold his breath to restart the cycle; in for seven, hold for three, out for ten. Bodhi knows how to deal with these and he's going to be okay. 

"Is it okay if I touch you?" Cassian asks after a moment, and Bodhi jerks his head in a thoughtless nod, still carefully counting out his breaths. Cassian reaches out and takes Bodhi's hands, carefully massaging out the frozen muscles until Bodhi's nails are no longer digging painfully into his palms. 

It feels like it takes ages, but it's probably only a few minutes before Bodhi is able to breathe without thinking about every single inhale and exhale. 

"You better?" Cassian asks. He doesn't let go of Bodhi's hands. 

"Tired," Bodhi replies, fighting back the urge to yawn. 

Cassian nods, "They're exhausting."

Bodhi almost wants to give the other man a skeptical look. Cassian doesn't seem like the type to have panic attacks; it's almost too absurd a concept to even entertain. 

But then he thinks of the lost and sick expression on Cassian's face on the shuttle after Eadu, and thinks that maybe it's not much of a stretch after all. 

Bodhi's too exhausted for facial expressions anyway. He nods in agreement instead, and tries to act like he isn't listing off to the side. 

Cassian huffs out an amused breath, "Come on," he says, standing up and tugging gently on Bodhi's hands, "Let's go get you some rest." 

Chapter Text

"They're nothing like them," Bodhi tells Jyn one day. 

He knows that the words come a bit out of nowhere, because they haven't actually been talking about anything, much less anything related to that. They've been sitting together in the mess hall, watching a group of pilots play around with a droid while they wait for the others to show up. The thought comes into his head without much warning, and the words fall out of his mouth before he can think them through better. 

"Who's not like who?" she asks, and he startles a bit. Right, that doesn't make any sense on its own. 'You need to learn to think more before you speak,' his sister's voice echoes through his head. 

He tilts his head away from her so he doesn't have to look at her face because he's just realized that she might not necessarily like what he's chosen to say. He gestures out at the pilots and the other people in the room vaguely. 

"The resistance," he says. He pauses as he struggles to string words together, and then gives up and shrugs a little. "You said, back on Eadu, that they were no better than stormtroopers." 

He feels her go stiff beside him. Whoops. He doesn't know if she even remembers saying that; Cassian probably hadn't been off the mark in saying that she was in shock, but they've never talked about what she said back then. It feels important that she understands the difference, regardless. Ever since the other day, Bodhi hasn't been able to stop thinking about Cassian's expression after that argument. 

"But they are," he continues, aware that the pause between those two sentences had probably gone on too long, but he can't quite make himself speak any faster, or smoother. It used to annoy the hell out of his mom, when he spoke like this. She'd probably be telling him to hurry up, if she was still around. "They're a lot better."

He could elaborate more, talk about how the people here accommodate him, how they treat people's injuries instead of just terminating the broken, how they're patient, how they care about the health of the people who fight for them, how they're reasonable, how no one has beaten him outside of that one fight since he's arrived here. There are a lot of differences, and if Bodhi was having a better speaking day, he could talk about them all. 

But the words aren't there for him today, so he doesn't elaborate. He risks a glance over at her, but she looks more thoughtful than angry, he thinks. He goes back to watching the pilots and the droid, who's enjoying the game of keep away, beeping enthusiastically as it trips up the pilots in an attempt to catch the screwdriver. It rams its body into one pilot's knees, and immediately scoops up the dropped tool, chirping happily. The other pilots groan good-naturedly and congratulate it, and then continue on with the game as the droid whistles and takes off into the hall. 

"You're probably right," Jyn says eventually, watching the pilots' departure with a barely there smile. She reaches out and shoves Bodhi lightly, he quirks his lips at her and continues the swaying motion idly. "Don't let it get to your head though."

He thinks about asking her to consider apologizing, but can't figure out how to get the words to make their way out of his mouth before the others are finally showing up and she's waving a hand to flag them down. He looks at her face as they walk over and thinks that maybe he doesn't have to say anything for her to consider it anyway.