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Bode should never have left Cal alone.
He knows better, after— after. But Kata comes first, and he’d thought things were quiet enough that he and Greez could take a jaunt up to Koboh’s moon to find a High Republic souvenir for her. Some trinket, a paltry offering in exchange for his absence. Cal had promised. Cocky little grin on his face, he had promised the saloon would be safe. Take the afternoon, Bode. Just a few hours. BD-1 will scare anyone off, won’t you, buddy?
And Bode... had believed him. Cal figured the Bedlam Raiders had turned blaster-shy enough to leave the settlement be. Bode knows how often Cal ventures out into Koboh’s wilds for clues on Tanalorr, slashing through Raiders on the way. He’d trusted — because Cal had trusted — they’d be more afraid of his threat. Just once, Bode swallowed down the oily niggling of protest in his gut. Just once, Bode decided that Cal knew better.
The instant the Mantis opens back on Koboh, all of Bode screeches. All but shoving him down the gangway, the Force howls at Bode in a manner he’s heard only once before, on Birren; a time he’d slowed his steps, shielded Kata with his body and asked for her silence. He slows again now. He listens.
There— the wretched dirge of blaster fire in the same key as the tremulous refrain of the lullaby repurposed for one final plea for Bode’s — for Kata’s — safety.
He moves.
Bode barely hears the shriek of his thrusters over the ringing in his ears. Maybe Greez calls after him, maybe not. Whoever’s inside the cantina did a shit job on their recon, not bothering to check for ingress points beyond the front door and the roof. They will die for their mistake. Bode barrels right through the back door, through the basement and up the stairs into the kitchen.
It is the will of the Force that puts a Raider immediately in Bode’s path the instant he steps into the lounge. Their back is to him. He rips off a helmet, kicks out their knees. They’d had a hostage — a flash of blue says Moran — that Bode shoves out of the way to put the raider on their back.
He follows. His right fist connects with a jawbone, then his left. Jawbone, again. Then nose. Bode’s knuckles split; he bandages his fist in the Force. He hits the nose, the throat. Then again, the nose, again again n ose againose ag ain n ag
motion to his left he whips out a pistol and fires without looking trusting the Force
Cal screams.
Bode pitches over. He gulps down a breath only to feel the sickly cling of his shirt to his clammy skin. His ears pop. Beneath him lies a Raider who no longer breathes so much as gurgles. Down the other end of the bar another two or three Raiders lie in a heap behind Cal—
—and Cal grabs at the new, smoldering hole in his side where Bode shot him.
Bode sags. He sways on his knees. “Cal?” He sounds pathetic. He feels worse.
Breathing hard and ragged through his nose, Cal damps his saber to hook it to his belt. “S’okay,” he grits out.
“I’m—”
“I know.” Straining, Cal catches a stim from BD-1 to inject near the wound. He gives BD a fond pat in thanks as he limps towards Bode.
Bode’s throat closes up. “I’m sorry,” he croaks.
Cal walks over to him, until he’s close enough that Bode can fall face-first into Cal’s stomach. A zipper or something digs into Bode’s cheek. He nuzzles harder into it.
“I know.” A hand finds Bode’s hair, stroking the crown of his head. “It’s okay, Bode. I feel it. I know.”
Bode thinks he hears Cal ask Mosey to help clean up, but he’s not sure. He’s already stopped paying attention.
The basement. Cal brings him to the basement.
Cal gives him instructions. This is easy. Following orders is what Bode does best.
“Sonic is through there. Go get clean. There’s a garment compartment too, so put your clothes in. I’ll start it once I put mine in. These are too big for me, but they should fit you, so you can wear them in the meantime.”
Bode does all of these things. He does them without thinking. When he steps out of the cramped ‘fresher he finds Cal applying a bacta patch to his wound with BD’s help. Bode flinches.
But Cal just nods at him. “Good. Go sit, I’ll help you with your hands when I’m done.”
Bode sits.
Keeping his hands loose on his knees, Bode waits on the edge of the lower bunk. He stares somewhere ahead with unfocused eyes. After a few minutes Cal emerges from the ‘fresher dressed down in loose clothing. Bode looks down at himself. He finally notices that he’s wearing something similar; soft, simple clothes in a light grey that are not so baggy on him as Cal.
“Greez calls it ‘leisure clothing’,” Cal explains, “usually when he’s chewing me out for not taking more time for myself.” He pulls over a stool from his workbench to sit at Bode’s knees. “Hands.”
Bode holds out his hands. More gently than Bode would ever have assumed, Cal spreads bacta on Bode’s knuckles where they’re open and swollen, then wraps bandages in between Bode’s fingers. Cal wraps Bode’s palms. He finishes off the wraps with tidy knots under the wrist, one-two.
“Flex your hands for me.”
Bode flexes.
“Good.” The little stool is pushed away with the knife edge of Cal’s bare foot. “C’mere.” Crawling into the narrow bunk behind Bode, Cal drapes a hand on Bode’s shoulder and pulls lightly — a suggestion. Bode follows; he settles on his side. He feels the line of Cal’s back warm and firm against his.
“Get some rest. Sleep should help.”
Bode sleeps.
One by one Bode’s circuits come online until he’s able to catalog where he is, and what happened. He runs through it all, taking inventory down a mental checklist:
He’d gone to the moon with Greez.
They came back.
Cal was— the saloon had been infiltrated.
Bode took one out.
Bode shot Cal.
Bode shot Cal.
I’m sorry.
I know. I feel it.
Bode stiffens. Instantly he is awash with chills.
Joints creaking as he cautiously pushes himself upright, Bode breathes with purpose, inhaling until his lungs cannot possibly expand further. He lets it out slow enough that he barely makes a sound. Cal seems asleep, still. It’s quiet enough Bode would believe the cantina’s closed.
“Where’re you going?”
Not asleep.
Exhaling, Bode scrubs a hand across his face. The bandages catch on his stubble. “Back to mine.”
Cal makes a thoughtful noise. Bedsheets rustle as he turns over. “Because you want to? Or because you think you should?”
Bode’s shoulders slump.
“You can stay, if you want.”
Must be the psychometry, Bode thinks, that makes Cal so understanding. He hadn’t expected such a wildfire to be a soft place to land.
Of course Bode wants. He arranges himself on his side again, his back to Cal’s front.
Cal scoots in closer. One of his arms is trapped along Bode’s flank. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really,” Bode whispers.
“Okay.”
Frowning at the potted plants hanging from the ceiling, Bode asks, “You’re not— gonna ask me about it?”
A shrug. “I see a lot of things other people don’t. We all do, sometimes.”
Bode breathes deeply, relaxing back into Cal. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“A time or two.” Cal sounds… fond. “Scrappers need a hand sometimes.”
Bode hums. “Not a friend?”
Delicate fingertips find Bode’s side. “A little of both, depending on your mood,” Cal says, soft as his touch.
“What’s your read?”
Cal shifts like he’s trying to stay still. “You could use a little of both.”
“Could,” Bode admits.
“You could use something nice.”
“Could,” Bode agrees, more out of breath than not.
“Yeah? Good.” Cal is coltish, an almost boyish excitement to him as he wedges his trapped arm forward for Bode to lay his head on. His forehead presses to the topmost notch of Bode’s spine just under his neck. Cal’s breath is hot, suffused through Bode’s shirt. He wraps his arms around Bode, spreading his palms across Bode’s chest before roving down to rest on his belly. Bode sighs.
“Been sorta hoping you’d say that,” Cal murmurs.
A grinding ache hollows out Bode’s bones. It feels good. Being wanted. He resents it. “What’s a scrapper’s definition of nice?”
“You tell me. It’s your mood.”
The point of Cal’s nose, the soft swell of his lips through cotton fabric set Bode’s teeth on edge; he slips the tip of his tongue between his front teeth to keep his jaw a little open. Bode finds Cal’s hand, and clutches it — slides it down, down, until Cal makes a noise like how Bode feels as his fingers tangle in the knot at Bode’s waistband.
“Really hoped you’d say that,” Cal rasps, slender fingers working and undoing as they’d been made for.
Tough calluses have never felt so sweet. The point of one snags and tugs at delicate skin, immediately soothed by Cal’s strong palm. Cal dedicates himself with single-minded focus on petting Bode to hardness. They need more room; Bode props his hip up for Cal to shove his borrowed pants down around his thighs. Cal reaches for him again, but Bode snatches his wrist to bring that hand to his mouth to lick. Cal touches him again, and they both shudder.
Whine building in the back of his throat, Bode mouths at his makeshift pillow of Cal’s clothed bicep. Bode’s nails scratch at the weave of the bedding as Cal treats him to a particularly wicked twist.
“Bode.” Cal’s short beard prickles at the back of Bode’s neck; he gasps and pushes into the sensation. Feels better with Cal’s lips on Bode’s ear. “Good?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Just a little more— a little more— Cal kisses at Bode’s nape, and it is Bode’s undoing.
Still shimmering with orgasmic tension, Bode grabs blindly for Cal’s hip to pull him closer. He grunts at the nudge of Cal’s answering erection.
“Sorry,” Cal laughs.
“Hey, don’t be.” Drawing a hand through the mess he made of the sheets, Bode coats the inside of his thighs with his own spend. “C’mere.”
“Yeah?” Even as he asks, Cal wiggles out of his pants. He’s cute. The first slide of him between Bode’s thighs is precious. Cal huffs, makes hungry little noises that echo deep in Bode’s gut. Cal still drapes his free arm over Bode, so Bode links their fingers together to hold Cal’s hand over his chest.
“Wanted this,” Cal pants, sliding in-out.
Bode just kisses his knuckles, pushing their joined hands into his closed mouth hard enough his teeth hurt; until Cal follows him over, and adds to the mess.
Trembling somewhat, Cal leans over Bode enough to hook a finger under his chin and guide him into a slack kiss over his shoulder, one that deepens as Bode turns into it. Bode kisses him back until Cal can’t take anymore, and buries his face in Bode’s neck to hold him close.
Lying in the dark with Cal tucked under his chin, Bode makes a decision, and a vow: Whatever the price, Bode will see Cal safe.
For both of their sakes, Bode will never trust him again.