Chapter Text
The hanger bay is completely deserted when Cassian exits the ship. The cool damp air soothes across his skin, reaching out from the jungle beyond. There's someone making his way across the bay towards him, datapad tucked under his arm.
“Captain Andor,” the title feels foreign to his ears, “welcome back,” he's already giving the ship a once over with his eyes.
“Sergeant Dameron” he inclines his head, “ships fine but there’s a blockage to reserve fuel that’ll need attending before she's cleared to fly again” Kes Dameron taps a few icons on the datapad.
Though the hanger is unusually quiet, even for so late into the night when only the insomniacs and standby crew frequent the space, there is the dull thud of bass that thrums though the floor. Distantly, Cassian can pick out the distorted sounds of music and laughter.
“Party for the newcomers,” Kes says bitterly, “I drew the short straw for night watch,” he sighs, making a final few taps. “Alright,” he tucks the data pad back under his arm, “Draven is expecting you to report” he jerks his head towards the base's interior.
Cassian had hoped, probably too optimistically, that he’d be able to at least shower off what feels like three months worth of grime (Cassian doesn’t care that the sonics are more efficient, it never feels like they really get him truly clean) before having to face up to bureaucratic command structures. It must show on his face because Kes barks out a laugh at him.
“I’d try looking a little more pleased when you see him,” grinning, his hand reaches out and clasps Cassian's shoulder. Cassian forces his body not to flinch. “It’s good to have you back Andor,” Kes pats his arm twice more before dropping it. Cassian's skin crawls at the point of contact, at least Sergeant Dameron won’t expect him to return the smile. He nods, forcing his voice to come out level and measured.
“Thanks,” it doesn’t waver in the slightest, “enjoy the rest of your shift,” he even throws in a raise of his eyebrow, tilting his head towards the direction of the thumping music. Kes groans.
“I guess we both have places we’d rather be,” he’s looking longingly towards the base. Cassian expects that the name Shara Bey is written all over any party the rebels must be having. In different circumstances that thought might have dragged a grin to his face and prompted some probing questions for Kes over a flask of nog.
These aren’t different circumstances though.
Cassian just nods again,
“I’ll catch you round,” he says. It's perfunctory, even if he doesn’t really mean it.
“I’ll hold you to that Andor,” Cassian is afraid he might pat his shoulder again. He doesn’t. “Good luck with Draven,” he says, and heads into Cassian’s ship. Not his, he reminds himself, everything belongs to the rebellion.
Allowing his feet to guide him through the base is as familiar as breathing, even as he canvases for all the exits he already knows exist. The thumping base of the music grows louder as he gets closer to the mess hall and his body automatically turns down a different hallway, taking him the longer route to Draven’s command quarters, not much interested in bumping into anyone else, much less loud and drunken recruits. The longer he walks the more the noise becomes a bearable humm, and by the time he reaches the command corridor, it could be the distant sounds of insects, the floor beneath his boots only barely vibrating with the bass.
The door slides open with a hiss. General Draven is hunched over his desk, datapad clutched in one hand, the other wrapped around a mug of caff.
“General,” he greets, body shifting to attention by muscle memory alone. When Draven glances up at him his face is impassive and unreadable. He shuts off the datapad and leans back into his chair.
“At ease, Captain Andor,” Cassian doesn’t particularly feel at ease, but he unclasps his hands from behind his back anyway. Draven looks as tired as Cassian feels as he watches the General scrub a hand across his face. “Sorry we had to pull you out on such short notice,” his voice barely masks the frustration, “You were still able to achieve our objectives I assume?”.
Cassian debates on whether he should let the anger that floods him answer. He lets it rise with an intake of breath, pushing it down as he breathes out, letting himself go numb. He reaches into an inner pocket, draws out a datadisk and lets it thud on the desk between them. Draven eyes it skeptically for a moment.
“And the target is still active?” Alive? Cassian grits his teeth.
“Yes, Sir,”
Draven nods, reaching out to take the datadisk from the desk and turning it over in his hands.
“No suspicions about you then?” The question is asked without looking at him. Cassian tries not to spit out his reply.
“If there were, I would not have left the target active,”. When Draven looks at him again his face is plastered with amusement.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” he pulls out a drawer and drops the disk into it. Cassian's hands ball into fists at his side.
“Before I dismiss you,” he starts, “Your old billet is no longer available. We had to free up some space for another operative while you were away. I had K2 pack your personal items for storage.” Cassian is too exhausted to argue, even if he did like his old lodgings.
“Will I be bunking in one of the communal rooms, Sir?” he asks, making no effort to conceal his frustration this time.
“No,” Draven leans back, folding his hands into his lap, indifferent to Cassian's tone, “I’ve had a private billet made available for you up on Level Two. Vey quadrant, at the end of the hall next to storage, shouldn’t be a problem for you to find.” He levels him with a steady gaze, “I’m afraid it’s a little further from the mess hall than you’re used to.”
Draven knows that Cassian almost never uses the mess hall.
“I expect a full report debrief from you tomorrow,” Cassian raises an eyebrow.
“Full report, Sir?”
“Just the mission critical details, as usual Captain,” Draven folds his arms across his chest, expression still impassive.
A distant, but distinct cheer floats through the air, and Cassian swallows the vitriol, or maybe it’s bile, that creeps up his throat.
“I’ve had a Pathfinders Unit transferred here,” Draven says by way of explanation, “I believe one of the flight officers thought that they should be given a ‘proper welcome’,” he reaches for the mug of forgotten caff, “you could always go and join the party.”
“Is that an order, Sir?”. A lesser man might’ve rolled their eyes at the remark, Draven just flicks the datapad back on without sparing him a look.
“You’re dismissed, Captain Andor. Do whatever you want with your own time.”
Too tired to retort, Cassian turns and lets his body lead him away and towards Vey quadrant.
The route, thankfully, does not lead him back past the mess hall, and its thrumming music fades near completely as he reaches the end of the corridor and enters his new quarters. It’s as empty as he’d expected. Single bunk, footlocker, desk, a set of standard issue shirt and trousers, several ration bars and a water canteen. A single door off the room leads to the refresher. Blessedly solitary, one of the few perks of being an intelligence operative.
For a moment, Cassian stands in the middle of the room, torn between collapsing into the bunk and letting exhaustion drag him down into sleep (maybe even for longer than three hours) or heading into the fresher to clean up. A favored middle ground finds him peeling the clothes off his body and letting them lie in a heap at his feet.
The blue and gold fabric stares back at him. They aren’t his. Everything on Canto Bight was provided for him.
He kicks the bundle out of sight under the bunk and picks the fresher.
A water shower is technically a downgrade from his previous billet, given that the more efficient and thorough sonic-showers supposedly clean better. The tepid water streaming down his back says otherwise.
Water droplets fall through the canopy in sheets. A woman pushes him out into it and follows, a bundle propped against her hip. The soil underfoot is slippery. Rain soaks their hair and runs down over their bodies. He can smell the soapnuts as they start to foam from the damp.
By the time he’s scrubbed away the memory of the last three months the water has gone cold and he is shivering. His hands shake as he dries himself off and pulls on the provided clothes. They only shake from the cold.
Cassian climbs under the covers. He does not stop shaking. It’s just the cold. Panic doesn’t claw at the back of his throat. He remembers how to breathe. Everything is numb.
He is alone.
He can't tell if it's comforting or not.