The shit had hit the metaphorical fan almost instantly. The absolute idiot that had prepared the mission brief had obviously never been to Teika; they probably had never researched it either.
The locals are pro-Rebellion, they'd said.
You shouldn't meet any resistance, they'd said.
It should be no problem, they'd said.
It should be easy.
—
2 down, 7 to go.
A blaster shot flashes past your face. Understandably, you're slightly upset.
"I'm going to shove this gun so far up his ass that he'll taste the slug before he feels it."
Cassian fixes you with a look of not now but you are honestly livid. The job had been about gathering information; nothing more than chasing whispers of a surviving Jedi hidden on some desert planet. In fact, even your presence was only due to protocol stating that solo missions were to be avoided at all costs. Ironically, the descent into chaos was also completely your fault. Somehow, in middle of nowhere on one of the galaxy's most insignificant moons, you had apparently been recognised from a less-than-successful assignment from some weeks prior. Unfortunately, your stalker also happened to be the Empire's #1 fan. The stormtroopers had arrived before you'd even had time to warn the base. With K2 waiting on the ship and only two blasters between you, this was not going to be easy.
5 down, 4 to go.
You and Cassian are weaving through cramped and busy market streets. The locals are easily startled, and all attempt to scatter when the fight is brought anywhere near them. This works to your advantage as the chaos makes it near impossible for anyone to land a shot. Unfortunately, you are running out of both crowds and options.
"We need to get back to the ship," Cassian says.
"No shit. Let's just stop right her-"
"Y/N, this is not the time for your bulls-"
"Don't say dumb crap and neither will I!"
Any response from Cassian is cut off by you pulling him into a throng of people. Your world dissolves into noise and movement as your grip on his sleeve threatens to fail. When you surface some streets away, Cassian is greeting you with a hooded cloak while he wears a similar one thrown over his shoulders. Shaking it out, you don the robe and hurry after him as he begins to run again. The commotion of the stormtroopers is further away than before, but you know that even they will find you if you don't get off this goddamn moon soon.
8 down, 1 to go.
The remainder trooper is proving himself a coward. When his last ally drops, he scuttles like a Womp rat. His filthied uniform darts around a corner, and the weight of pursuit drops from your shoulders. You and Cassian share a tired smile which makes your heart flutter, but you kick the notion to the bottom of your stomach (because it is still really not the time). Despite the fact that your pace is still hurried, the desperation of a few minutes ago is beginning to wear off. The ship is in sight and you can see the thrusters are already engaged. In a burst of personal bravery and the high of adrenaline, you sling your arm over Cassian's shoulder. He looks at you with surprise but doesn't pull back. He simply hooks an arm around your waist and increases his speed.
You match his walk, "I think I owe you a drink after that. Who knew I was so famous?"
Cassian looks like he's trying not to smile, but you know him too well. He wants to be annoyed that you messed up the mission, but honestly neither of you could've seen it coming; he's already forgiving you. In step, you stride up into the ship.
"You know what, I think you owe me more than one drink. You could've gotten me kille-"
—
As weapons go, blasters are not particularly loud or distinct in their noise; each sounds identical to another and has no soul, no elegance. And yet you know, from that very first second, that you will remember the exact tone, the exact whistle, the exact screech ofthe shot fired for the rest of your life.
—
For a moment, you see the world in a snapshot before it plays out. Your eyes catch a flash on the near horizon. You know that nothing can be done. No one here can do anything to stop a blast already out of the barrel. K2-SO is descending from the console in a slow, futile warning. Cassian is staring at K2, bemused and oblivious. The air is heavy and full and burdened with a promise of destruction that no one can stop now.
Your heart beats and life resumes.
You feel the shudder and pull of Cassian's body away from you as the slug finds its mark. Your vision is flashing technicolour and white. The air is too thick. Your lungs are empty but your ribs are breaking, cracking, imploding. The metal of your blaster is sharp against your palm and its shots consume the skyline. There is a cry somewhere and all you can think is too late, too late, too late, too late. The hatch is closing and you are falling next to Cassian as he crumbles. His rasping, almost surprised, breath is filling every space in your brain as the world beyond screams with noise. You strip off your jacket and stuff it under his head as you try to stop your hands from shaking. The ship is taking off but all you see is blood. Blood, blood, blood. He looks fragile and too hazy. This is not Cassian. This is not your Cassian.
"Hang on- just- I-," you don't want to leave him for a moment but he needs bacta patches and there is no one to help you.
Placing him down as gently as you can, you race to the emergency kit. Ripping it off the wall, bandages fly as you trip back to him. You fall next to him and your world is blurring with blood, blood, blood. It's not until the jump to hyperspace clears your vision do you realise that you're crying. You roll him onto your knees to apply the patch and the blood in your own ears roars. Please don't die, please don't die. You have never pretended to be a medic, but you've seen wounds like this before. They're not the kind that you call a doctor for; they're the kind that you call for a priest. You press bacta after bacta over every inch of twisted skin as you try to ignore the pain you can feel radiating from him.
You lay Cassian back and you feel your heart drop. He is far too pale. His cheeks are sallow and his eyelashes are fluttering like he's struck by fever. There is nothing more to be done at this point, so you do all that's left.
"Please don't die, please don't die, please don't die," you whisper like a child.
He's more awake than you thought, "I'm not going anywhere, Y/N."
He's breathless and it only makes you cry more. The tears are ugly and they feel like condemnation. He doesn't say anything else but he does take your hand and hold it to his heart. You recite prayers that you remember from childhood, hoping that old faith will guide you now. You have both survived too much for this to be the end. You will not lose him now.