How To Tell If You're Alive
Chapter 1
The first time they meet it's in a cantina in the Outer Rim, a watering hole on a rotting space station that used to be an ore refinery, once upon a time. Now it's just another unimportant hive of scum and villainy.
Cassian hunches over the grimy bar, elbow planted into a puddle of frothy blue liquid, other hand nudging his half-empty glass this way and that way. He's the picture of relaxed boredom – just a little bit too bored not to betray that he's faking it, but close enough that it would pass muster anywhere but with this jaded crowd.
If he weren't on duty, he would treat himself to a drink for that. Good acting is easy. If all it took to be a spy is flawless acting skills, Intel would be doing their recruiting at the Coruscant School for the Performing Arts.
At 20, Cassian's too young, his face too boyish-sweet to play the part of the hard-boiled scoundrel convincingly. Besides, people like it when they can look at you and pat themselves on the back because you're good, but they're better, smarter, half a step ahead of you. People who are pleased with themselves are easier to manipulate. Happens to be that being underestimated makes finishing it off easier, too.
He checks the time and permits a scowl to creep onto his face.
Nobody's ever on time these days.
Cassian takes another sip, body shifting slightly when a young female Rodian squeezes past him a little too close, his hand dropping from his glass towards the visibly-concealed blaster he carries under his jacket. The glare he shoots the Rodian makes her think twice about that jostle-you-and-pick-your-pocket maneuver she'd been about to try, and she scampers away with an annoyed huff.
There's a chuckle from the man sitting two seats away, and Cassian turns his scowl briefly on him before he returns his attention to his glass.
"She tries that with every pretty face," the man drawls, "but ones as pretty as you, they get the special treatment on her good days."
"Hmm," is all Cassian says, but somehow the implied go away must have gotten lost in translation and turned into please tell me more by the time it reached the human's ears, for he switches to the chair right next to Cassian's.
Cassian doesn't need to bother with sizing him up now, he's long ago finished his threat assessment. Human, white male, a couple of years older than him. Between the speech, the mannerism and the choice of his drink, he's willing to bet good credits on Corellian, or dedicated enough to playing the part that it doesn't make a difference to Cassian. Smuggler, or a bounty hunter with solid acting skills.
Cassian is long since done sizing him up, but Jorik Amar isn't. So Cassian sends him covert peeks from the corner of his eyes, trying very hard not to let on that he's looking for weapons in particular, and once again just falling short at his attempt at subterfuge.
"Not interested?" the man asks, smirking at him.
"No." There. Look at him being honest.
He echoes Cassian's earlier, "hmm," but of course he isn't going to leave it well enough alone, Cassian hadn't expected him to. "Is it because she's Rodian or a woman?"
Not unexpected, either, except in that it's more tactful than the how much by the hour? Cassian had expected. If you're not here to pick up jobs as a smuggler or a bounty hunter, chances are good you're here for a different line of work.
Cassian doesn't smile, no, he thins his lips in annoyance, though well-hidden in his own mind amusement flares up. He permits himself a moment to play out in his mind this scene with him being his real self, and a speech on Rebel Alliance values including the fight against speciesism.
"Neither nor. But I'm not here for fun." The man's still smirking with such self-confidence, and sizing him up with too blatant interest that Cassian almost adds unless I'm getting paid for it. Just because he's curious what price he could demand for something a handsome, smooth-talking scoundrel like him could get for free in a place like this, and because he feels morbid curiosity what value he has when it isn't as a weapon. But then he'd have to extricate himself before he has to deliver, and there's no point in adding complications to a simple mission just because he's bored and this man's swagger could do with a blow to his pride.
The smuggler leans in closer, not in a way to crowd or intimidate, but just to instill a sense of familiarity which doesn't exist. He's still smirking that infuriating smirk. "Good thing I've found you. Bringing the fun's one of my specialties."
Cassian properly looks up for the first time and forgets Jorik Amar's incredulity in favor of his own. "That's possibly the most terrible pick-up line I've ever heard."
The Corellian grins at him as if he's won the Kessel Run. "But it got your attention, didn't it?"
He looks so kriffing pleased with himself. Cassian wants to shoot him. He also wants to tip his nonexistent hat to him because damn it all, but it had worked. He tips his glass instead.
"I'm Han."
"Jorik." He lets a heartbeat pass. "And I'm not here for fun. Not even for yours." Cassian follows that up with a pointed look.
"Sure you're not," Han agrees easily, and leans back, letting his eyes wander through the cantina. "But the way I see it, you've been sitting here all alone waiting for two drinks, and whoever you're waiting for still isn't here. If you're going to be bored on your own, you might as well…"
"…be bored by you?"
Han's jaw drops, and Cassian would bet it's at most 70% affectation. "Ouch. Right to the heart."
"Hm." He takes another sip, though it's mostly to keep his hands busy.
Han's flirtations are a distraction. Cassian's on a routine mission, but he still can't afford a distraction, least of all when he can't tell if he's deliberately distracting him. Cassian could shut him down brutally. It's nothing he hasn't done before, both on missions and on base. And yet…
"If you're easily bored, reckon I shouldn't ask if you come here often, or if you'd like a tour of my ship, starting with my bunk." He leans back, looking mightily pleased with himself for being too nonchalant even to bother with pick-up lines.
Cassian forces a flush to his cheeks. Jorik Amar would be flustered by such blatant flirting. So would Cassian Andor, but he would react to being flustered with scathing disapproval and reprimands about adhering to military protocol.
"No, you shouldn't," he says, and lets some of that disapproval show because really.
"It's a terrible line. I don't think I've ever seen it work on anyone who doesn't get paid to be wowed, but I could name you at least five blokes in this cantina who got slapped for it. Three more who got shot."
Cassian's lips quirk. "And yet they keep using it."
"We're scoundrels. We've got to believe luck's on our side."
"So what would you say instead?"
"I don't know, but so far annoying you is working just fine."
"You could upgrade to insults and see if that gets you shot," Cassian suggests, ever so helpfully.
"Nah. You're the sulky type. You'd just go quiet and broody. That's no fun."
"I'd go quiet and broody once I'm done chewing you out." Cassian would. Jorik… He never had to decide what would be in-character for Jorik, but looks like his slip of the tongue has made the decision for him.
"How about I buy you another drink and you tell me why you're here."
Cassian shoots him an unimpressed look. "How about no. That's a rotten deal."
Han shrugs, and accepts the rebuke far more gracefully than Cassian had expected. Just like he's taken every blow gracefully. Then again, Cassian's still talking to him. That's not exactly shutting him down hard.
It's more like playing hard to get. Is he flirting back?
A surge of panic wells up in Cassian at the thought. Flirting back had never been part of the deception.
A shot glass bumps into Cassian's elbow, and his hand jerks forward to steady it before anything can spill. While Cassian was quietly panicking and reviewing his behavior to pinpoint just when he had deviated from his plan, Han had gotten them another round of drinks.
Cassian doesn't drink.
Han watches him for a few moments before he heaves an aggravated sigh and takes a sip from Cassian's glass. "Here you go. Happy now?"
Cassian considers the glass thoughtfully, and lists poisons in his mind. "Maybe."
"You think you're important enough to get poisoned by someone who thinks of dosages?"
Yes. No. Maybe. Who knows how much the Empire would pay for an up-and-coming Rebel Intelligence agent.
"Probably not," he decides, and empties the glass in one go. "Poisoners are expensive."
Han laughs, and empties his own glass in companionable silence.
"You sure you won't be coming back to my bunk?" he murmurs, his voice the softest Cassian has heard it yet.
At any other time Cassian would have snapped and barked at him, or made him the fourth man in the room to get shot for that line, but there's something about the way Han is looking at him… Cassian doesn't like it, or how it makes him feel.
Deep space can get very lonely. He would rather leave it at that and not look any further.
He weighs and rejects all the scathing retorts he has primed, and shakes his head instead. "I'm not here for fun."
Han looks like but what if you were? is at the top of his tongue. Maybe he doesn't want to let on that he cares about the answer, or maybe he is really worried about a blaster bolt to the groin, but he doesn't ask.
Cassian nudges the empty shot glass around. "Han who?"
His drinking companion perks up. "Han Solo. Captain of the Millennium Falcon." Coming from him, it sounds like this should have meaning to Cassian.
It doesn't. "I haven't heard of you."
"Give it a couple of years, and you will. I'll make the Kessel Run, shorter than anyone else ever did it."
There's a fire in Han's eyes which makes Cassian want to believe him. He scoffs. "And then you'd bed me on roses?"
"More like dirty, oily rags. There's always something to repair on a smuggler's ship and no roses, but the Falcon's still the best ship in the galaxy."
Cassian half-stifles a snort. The amusement shows in his eyes. "How romantic."
Han rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I bet you're a real sucker for romance."
They share a grin.
It isn't until later that Cassian will realize he had at some point stopped choosing everything he said or did for maximum effect.
Cassian leans closer, a challenge in his eyes. "What if I am?"
It's Han's turn to look taken aback, which only adds to the sweet feeling of triumph Cassian is feeling at having gained the upper hand.
"I want roses," he declares and drains the contents of his refilled shot glass in one go.
"With thorns?"
"Of course."
"Prickly."
Cassian permits himself to look smug.
There's something about the smuggler's charm that makes him want to forget that he doesn't want to care. They've been moving closer and closer, their heads now tucked together with real, unforced familiarity – or a wish for it, at least, a mutual desire to pretend just for here and now.
Of course, good things can never last.
There's a commotion by the entrance, and when Cassian throws a glance over his shoulder, he's jerked back into reality.
The Twi'lek he's come to meet is in the process of loudly greeting his fellow bounty hunters.
Cold slams into him, and chases away every trace of the warmth Han has awoken in him.
Cassian is done here. Time to get on with his mission, extricate himself, return to base, get the next mission. Time to remember that he may be able to play pretend so well he can fool even himself, but it can never last.
It only takes the way Han is looking at him to know he isn't done with him yet. That's the problem with smugglers. They can't resist the lure of a hefty prize, and if there's a chase involved, all the better.
He stifles a sigh. The last thing Cassian needs is some little smuggler in puppy love with him, asking all the wrong questions.
He leans in close, hands on the counter, pinning Han between his arms, and for the first time tonight, he chooses to peel back the mask.
"Look, this has been fun," he says, his voice voice hard now, military-clipped in the manner he has been adopting from General Draven, "but I don't know what you're playing at, Han. I'm not looking for a small-time captain's cock to suck. Sorry if I made you think otherwise."
He walks away.
The cold stays with him.
