"I know." And he did, somehow. …Or at least, the part of his brain that had to rationalize went ahead with, he'd behave as if he did.

But…

"Why are you helping me?" he asked, still softly, still damnably slurred; with an acuity, a tension, nevertheless.

Even though, in the same way he knew the other, he knew this too; he didn't need to ask. That single word—complacent—had given him everything he needed. They were alike, at least in this: not everyone should have to give themselves up, for the sake of others. Which was why they did.

His exhalation might read as a laugh. But it wasn't one. "Okay."

The right thing to do. Versus the easy thing. Versus the complacent or self-preserving thing. Versus even the right move. Versus…

"Okay," again, more softly, then he had to stop talking and focus on staying conscious. He couldn't stop it. He could only delay it. Until they got to somewhere where he could properly collapse.

You're doing great. This exhalation was a laugh. "Don't start lying to me now. I wanna trust you."

…Which was, in turn… more true than he'd even meant to be.

"Rilio," he answered, just as smooth and blank. It was the name on the arrivals roster. His hand momentarily gripped her shoulder as he stumbled and made sure not to fall. He released her just as quickly, as if appalled he may have bruised her. "Is that it?" Not hiding a hint of pleading in his voice. Not much further.

Was there an alternative? "Yeah," he said. Not actually sure but stubborn enough to make sure. He'd had to tackle worse, while in worse shape, unaided.

He'd noticed the inhalation and almost wanted to let go of her entirely. He was hurting her somehow. …Of course, for all she'd utterly demolished the gang, they'd probably gotten a few hits in. But she'd chosen to help him, it wasn't his call to what extent she opted in, and he suspected that she was probably stubborn, too, and his resisting that would just be a waste of both of their time.

Still, he tried extra hard to carry more of his own weight the rest of the way and up the staircase.

The vertigo hit him bad not nearly far enough up the stairs; but it was still better than dragging his crash-landed broken-limbed sorry self across the desert of Sevarcos II. He reminded himself of that with every teeth-gritted inhalation.

Then, thank the Force… He'd normally never intrude, let alone onto someone's bed, without specific invitation, but by the time Liana was finished locking the door, Cassian was already sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the mattress, the other pressed to his eyes.

Cassian was simultaneously parched and afraid that if he tried to ingest anything else, even water, he'd vomit. …But that would be aiding detoxification, wouldn't it…

Gingerly, giving her what he hoped was a grateful look, he took the canteen and drank—just a little, at first, easing into it.

"Are you okay?" he belatedly asked. "I won't be keeping you from your own bed?"

"I don't mind sharing," said Cassian—suspecting he was going to be too out of it shortly to notice either way. "Just don't know how restful a bedfellow I'm going to be… I thrash around sometimes." Not usually while on duty, especially undercover, but he couldn't vouch for how this state was going to affect him.

He covered his mouth, working on keeping the water down, and succeeded. …Again, probably should let himself purge… he just hated it. For future reference: "Which way to the 'fresher?"

"Probably myocaine." An odorless, colorless, and tasteless muscle relaxant^[1], favored by barside predators. "Could've been myoplexaril. A downer, whatever it was. Not a soporific." Though he was tired. But probably more from subsequent exertion than from the drug. He hadn't been sleepy when… and they would have wanted him conscious…

"'ve been dosed with it before. Probably just need to sleep it off." And look forward to a hangover and some withdrawal. Still, far from the worst possibility. (He'd take it, situationally at least, over skirtopanol.^[2] Plus significantly better now that he was in a less vulnerable situation. Here was better than that bar even if Liana proved not to be what she said.

As for Liana… He wasn't so far gone as not to notice the way she stood and removed her jacket. "You're hurt…"

Some well-integrated part of his training allowed him, through his haze, to note her action with the weapons. And mirror her: shrugging out of his jacket and setting the blaster (not his, damn them, the one he'd requisitioned off them) he'd stuck into his belt on the table beside hers. Ah, they'd left him his vibroblade, which he also deposited there.

(Whether he left his smaller, ankle holstered secondary blaster where it was because he was too tired to remember, too queasy to lean over, or because he really couldn't trust that much just yet…

Sort it out when he could think.)

He winced, in perhaps sympathetic pain. Simultaneous with the (pride? don't be ridiculous—) admiration in his eyes and voice when he agreed, "Yeah. You did at that. —But thinking you definitely should rest, too." He set the flask down at last, among the weapons, and swung his legs up onto the mattress—but paused and gestured down at it, to her. "Which side is yours?"

He managed to nod before sinking backwards onto the pillows. He rolled over to the far side of the bed, so she wouldn't have to walk around before lying down herself. And he kept his back to her—to give her the relative privacy when she did lie down, but also… hard, among people like them, to make a clearer offer of trust.

"Thanks again," he mumbled as his consciousness started to shut down. "Liana. For saving me."

And he was out.

* * *
He was fighting so hard
Whirling and spinning and kicking and punching
Adrenaline pumping hard too
Everything around him not slowed a beat
But every moment sharp and clear
Going so fast he didn't feel in charge of his body at all
Rather trapped inside it watching everything unfold
They fell before and around him and were replaced by others
A blaster was in his hand then a knife then nothing
He shot and stabbed and hit over and over and over again
And then he was looking down at the bodies
And the stormtrooper helmets were all split in two
Behind them:
The dead faces of anyone he'd loved

He'd just killed them


Cassian's limbs jerked and twitched; his breath came hard, punctuated with occasional staccato vocalizations; mostly motionless, still very clear he was caught in and fighting hard against something

until he suddenly screamed aloud, his whole body jerking, and his hand flung out and slammed into the side table.