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notasapleasure · 2 years ago

Text

Only ever just one night

Andor (TV series), Cassian Andor/Brasso, M, post-season 1, hurt/comfort, FWB with a smidge of regretful angst. 5-6,000 words.

Sometime after season 1. No, I can't remember if they say where they're escaping to at the end of Rix Road, so I just landed everyone in a refugee camp on an unnamed planet.

Cassian's just left a bad job behind, and he needs the kind of rocksure familiarity and comfort that Luthen just doesn't deal in. He knows his handler will track him down, but for just one night he has to snatch hold of the most reliable love left to him.

Author's note: the hug that launched a thousand ships, take two! I kept seeing people talk about how Cass and Brasso have definitely hooked up at some point, and I agree wholeheartedly. I understand there is An Audience for E fic rather than M fic. If the brain worms persist then I'm sure that can be arranged.

"I love him more than anything he could ever do wrong"

- Brasso, quoting Maarva Andor.

Midnight is getting nearer

I see you clearer

Now that you’re gone

The smoke towers rise all in a row

Shifting in the afterglow

I see the light I hear the sound

But I’m always on the wrong side of town

(John Boden - Wrong Side of Town)

---

There isn't really a knock at the make-shift door. More a scuffing of barked knuckles against durasteel, a quiet sigh that seems weighty enough to push the metal sheet aside. Two stumbling, shuffling steps in the dirt -

Brasso's on his feet beside his cot. He's unarmed, but most of the opportunistic thieves the refugee camp harbours don't need more than a quick look at him - and his empty shack - to know it isn't worth it. Still, he's tired, it's kriffing late, and his boiler suit hangs around his waist, half-undone in readiness for sleep, leaving his chest and arms chilled in nothing but a vest.

He holds his breath, a weary retort on his tongue ready for launch - and then he sees half of a shadow appear in the gap between durasteel panels. It's only a shoulder, a bowed head, one leg shaking with effort, one hand clutching the metal for support, but Brasso knows that half-shadow like he knows how to find the flaws in salvaged Beskar. He'd know any fraction of that shadow, and he doesn't hesitate to rush forwards now, his arms opening to catch his guest.

Cassian is shivering and doesn't even look up as he tumbles into Brasso's hold. He buries his face against vest and skin and Brasso feels the cool, damp air of night on Cassian's face and hair and clothes.

"Cass..." the syllable is squeezed from Brasso's lungs by the grip around his body. Cassian may be the worse for wear, but his strength hasn't ebbed. Brasso never could work out where he stored it all in that wirey little frame, but once again, just as it always was, he feels like he's caught in a vice when he's in Cassian's arms - his heart aches and breathing has become difficult.

"I shouldn't be here," Cassian says softly. His head is still pressed to Brasso's chest and his words tickle in the hairs of Brasso's body.

"No..." Brasso agrees. "You should have been on that transport with us. Where did you go?"

Cassian's hands are locked together behind Brasso's shoulders, desperate, honest in a way the rest of him so rarely is. He shifts at last, raising his chin above Brasso's shoulder and leaning his head into Brasso's as he sighs again. "I..." his throat moves against Brasso's collarbone. "I had a debt to pay. I can't stay long. I have to go back."

There's gravel in his voice, it's sandblasted and wind-beaten. The soft Kenari accent - Brasso's known for years it wasn't Festian, and Cass has probably forgotten the time he told him that story - is more pronounced, the way it is when he's tired or hurt or afraid. Brasso tightens his own hold and massages the neck of Cassian's jacket with his big hand. He leans back against Cassian's head, breathes in the familiar and the unfamiliar - there's a smell about a person's hair that's just them, no matter what ointments or perfumes they use after the sonic shower, no matter the remnants of the forge or the scrapyard caught in it. But mingled with that scent, the scent of Brasso's dear friend, there's something sinister. It reminds him of ozone and blood, of the strange sterile odour of fresh-laundered Imperial uniforms.

"You should stay," Brasso says automatically, emphatically, though he understands that Cassian won't. Can't. If he was here to stay, Brasso would have known it already.

Cassian lets out a dry laugh and his body judders in Brasso's arms, so Brasso has an illusory moment of victory, where it feels like he's able to squeeze Cass even closer. "I've brought you guys enough trouble," Cassian murmurs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come."

"Cass..." Brasso repeats his name with all the gentleness he knows and tries to pry their bodies apart, to get a good look at his friend in the dim glow of the camp light.

It's like trying to get into a clamfruit with his bare hands - Cassian just clings to him for dear life. Whatever he says about the fact he shouldn't have come, he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave.

The ache in Brasso's heart is starting to feel like something piercing now, starting to spread through him and mutate into something as near to panic as he's ever felt. What's he worried about? Where Cass has been? Why he's back? What Brasso's going to feel all over again while he's here? He's trapped in Cassian's arms and he can't do anything except hold onto him just as tightly in return.

"Cass, Bix is just next door. Bee is with her. You should see how well she's doing. They're both doing. Wilmon's been helping, he's found a way to juice Bee's charger -" he's babbling and he knows it. Too long like this and he always starts to feel out of his depth, ready to do any rash thing he needs to do to keep Cass with him, to keep him close and talking and to get him to smile up at Brasso with that guarded, mischievous twinkle in his eyes. This is all too much, when - before tonight - Brasso had so little hope of ever seeing him again. But this is how it always is with Cass - he materialises from the dark night when he needs Brasso, and disappears again before he can admit to it.

"Come on Cass, Bix'll want to see you. She'll want to thank you," he tries to extricate himself from the hug once more, and this time Cassian allows him a measure of success.

Cassian steps back a little and looks up at Brasso: ever the thin-lipped, wary-eyed boy, his face gaunt with shadows. He blinks and the shutters he wears over his feelings seem to fall open for a breath - Brasso sees the longing, the thirst for company and for friendship, for love and connection. He also sees the red in his eyes and the blood at his hairline; the bruised cheekbone and the high collar that doesn't quite hide further damage.

"I can't," Cassian murmurs. He holds Brasso's gaze, and all the words they've never needed to say out loud underscore his point. "I don't want to...remind her. Especially if she's doing well."

"Remind her?" Brasso feels the words between his teeth, wavering with horror and protectiveness. One hand is still on Cassian's arm and it grips Cass with contrary force - though Brasso swears his brain is trying to send it signals to let go.

Cassian's lips all but disappear in his grimace.

"What have they done to you? Who did this?" Brasso jogs him a little by that one arm. He doesn't know what he'd do with an honest answer, but he knows he's got to ask nonetheless.

Cassian shakes his head - that funny, rolling movement of his neck where it's like he's nodding and saying no all at once. "Can't..." he begins.

Brasso dips his chin and raises his brows. "Can't tell me? Ok. What can I do?"

Cassian's mouth moves again, a puckered argument between emotions tying up his words. "I know he's going to find me here. It won't take him long," he says hoarsely.

"No Cass, we'll hide you, we'll -"

What else is Brasso meant to say? He's no idea what this is about - the same trouble as before? It's more trouble than a few Ferrixian refugees can do anything about. But he's got to offer anyway.

"No. He'll come and I'll go with him. He won't touch the rest of you. But I just...before I go back, I just wanted to remember what it was like," his voice has gone even quieter.

Brasso frowns kindly at him. His thumb moves reassuringly over Cass's shoulder, his fingers grip his arm and offer strength. "What's that, then?"

Cassian snorts again, no humour in it. But there's that glint in his dark eyes that Brasso's been dreaming about, and his vibroblade-sharp mouth quirks up at the corner. "You remember the nights Maarva and I would row."

The pain in Brasso's heart has become a burning furnace, a roaring white heat inside him. He stares down into Cass's rich brown eyes and gives a brave nod. "I remember. Remember the night Bix kicked you out. And the other one, what's her name -"

"Yeah," Cassian licks his lips nervously and finally breaks Brasso's gaze. "Yeah, that too."

"I'm here, Cass. What do you need?"

Brasso hears his own voice too loud in his ears, too gruff, too ruffled by emotion. His cheeks feel hot, so does the skin above the neckline of his vest.

"Just one night," Cassian says hollowly. He blinks up at Brasso, his eyes unexpectedly glassy.

Brasso merely nods - it's only ever just one night. The first time it happened he believed those words and afterwards, ablaze with memories of that one night, he had come to regret agreeing to it - he'd burned through the long sleepless hours between the first time and the second, convinced that he'd just learned what it was he truly wanted only to be denied any repeat of it. Then there had been a second 'just one night'. A third. Brasso had begun to understand that just one night actually meant something else when Cassian said it. It meant I trust you. I need you too much to ruin it by staying longer. I'll be back. I'll always need to come back.

Brasso brings him close again and Cassian sighs in his hold. They lean their cheeks together and Brasso closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on what he remembers of Cassian from before the job that changed it all: his tense, slim body and his silken hair, the urgency with which he cleaves to Brasso. Not the lingering damage that's been done to him, not the sense that there's some kind of...ownership there never used to be, tugging like a leash round Cass's neck the whole time.

Gently, slowly, Brasso leads him to the bedside and by the glow of the lamp he peels Cass's greatcoat back from his shoulders.

Cass winces but shrugs the heavy, dark cloth back. Here, Brasso can see the waxy darkness beneath his eyes, the subcutaneous blood in the bruises on his hands.

Cass doesn't want to remind Bix of what she went through. Torture. Brasso names it in his mind. That's what she went through and that's what's been done to Cass, too.

Brasso is hot as a forge with anger - if he had the people who did this within reach he's confident he could break them apart with his own two hands.

Cass knows it too and doesn't meet Brasso's eyes as he tugs at the fastenings of his tunic. He flinches and takes a sudden gasp of air when Brasso's patience gives in and he reaches for Cass, taking his biceps in his big hands, bending intently to look in his eyes before he kisses him.

There's no hesitation or surprise in Cass's response - this is what he came for. He's silent, but he leans back into the kiss, all sharpness gone from his lips, tension fading selectively from his muscles.

His fists press against Brasso's chest and then his fingers twine round the straps of his vest. The fabric just stretches when Cass tries to pull Brasso near by it, so Cass has to step into him again, craning up into the kiss, his mouth open, his urgent breath the only sound he makes.

Brasso's not as good at being quiet - never has been, not under these circumstances. He draws Cass into his arms and murmurs sounds of appreciation at the feel of their bodies warming up together. He's firm but gentle with his hands, conscious of the bruising he saw hints of, needing, even so, to let Cass know how much he's loved and wanted.

And he is so very loved.

Brasso's known there's no other word for it since the beginning, really. There's never been anyone else like Cass in his life - anyone he could communicate wordlessly with, anyone he could repeatedly offer everything to, and know that they'd never abuse that offer. He knows Cass has no one else like him either, no one else who can do this and ask no more of him.

They don't speak now - there's nothing to say. When the rest of Cass's injuries are laid bare, Brasso runs delicate fingertips over the bruises, his expression heartbroken. Cass just lifts his hand away, kisses the palm, and replaces Brasso's touch elsewhere on his body. They carry on as before, and Brasso tries, once more, to think of what hasn't changed instead of what has.

Cass still kisses like it's his last night in the universe - fierce and hungry, his beard catching in Brasso's stubble, his moustache tickling his nose. He's still scrawny and still strong - a stitch cracks in protest when he tugs on Brasso's vest again and Brasso lets out a grunt of surprise at the force with which Cass's hand on his arse pulls him close. His fingers are clever, rubbing circles in the hollows of Brasso's spine, in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Cass steps back and squirms his arms free of his dark tunic. He holds Brasso's gaze, daring him to look away, to go searching his body for the damage that's been done to it.

Brasso just clenches his jaw, presses his lips together, and waits. Lets Cassian unbutton his own trousers, kick off his own boots, finish this striptease as quickly as he can. Cass's legs shake a little again when he has to put his whole weight on one and then the other.

Cass knows Brasso can see this weakness; he knows Brasso would sweep him off his feet if Cass's pride allowed it.

Brasso's too familiar with this routine to try it - Cass's guard comes down when Cass allows it to, and no sooner. They'll get to that point. Brasso presses his lips together and runs his tongue over them in anticipation of it. For now, he allows himself the softest touch on Cassian's arm, runs his fingers and palm against the grain of dark hairs, up past his elbow. Brasso encourages Cass to come back to him and Cass does, his expression still a mask, still a warning against any attempts to breach his defenses.

Brasso knows that'll change. That's another memory he can bring up: Cass at peace, happy in his arms. Brasso kisses him again, tasting blood and the staleness of deprivation - hunger, thirst, asphyxiation. He's going to kiss him until those flavours are banished, he's going to kiss him until Cassian forgets how they - no point asking who they are, when it comes down to it there's only ever one answer to that - starved him and isolated him and...and whatever else they did. Brasso cups his chin in his hands and feels Cass's body lean into the kiss, into Brasso's hold, drawn in like a wreck in a tractor beam.

Cass's fingers work beneath the hem of Brasso's vest, into the warm waistline of his boiler suit. He pulls the cloth up and Brasso feels that momentary tremor of doubt at the exposure - can Cass really want this? Want him?

It might not be clear from his expression yet; his eyes are low, watching his hands work away at the last fastenings of Brasso's clothes. His mouth is pinched again, but his breathing has picked up speed. Brasso can see that skinny, bruised chest rise and fall in the dim light, can see the hue of Cass's cheeks and tight lips - even if he couldn't see the more obvious sign of Cass's arousal he'd still know.

Only when they're both naked does Cass really come close, really let Brasso hold him like they've both been longing for. Brasso's touch sweeps down Cass's back and then he grips him under the arse and lifts him into his arms. Cass comes eagerly, his tired legs wrapping round Brasso's hips. He squeezes Brasso's body until his exhausted muscles shake with the effort, but Brasso's got him, his slight form is weightless in Brasso's arms.

Cass leans down to kiss him, their heights reversed, Cass's fingers making a mess of Brasso's short, sensible haircut. Brasso can barely taste the blood in his mouth anymore and he makes another tender sound as he lays Cass down on his tiny bed.

The thaw is starting in earnest now - Cass knots his hands in Brasso's hair, leans up into their kisses, pulls at Brasso's lower lip with his teeth and breathes with a ragged sound deep in his throat.

Brasso's worried about his battered body and holds himself above Cass, propped up on his thick arms, his hips slotted neatly between Cass's, though he doesn't let himself push down on the body beneath him.

Eventually, Cass is forced to let out a hoarse whisper: "Closer. Come closer, Brasso..."

The sound of his name on Cass's lips is almost enough to make him obey, but Brasso squeezes his eyes shut and nuzzles Cass's nose between kisses. "I don't want to hurt you, Cass..."

"You won't hurt me." There's no hesitation. Brasso can hear the need in Cass's voice now and he opens his eyes to drink in the expression Cass is wearing. His whole face seems to soften when he's here in Brasso's bed - there's new colour in his warm brown eyes, his cheeks look fuller, there's even the rumour of a dimple by the corner of his mouth. "You won't hurt me," he repeats, smiling.

Ok then - Brasso nods, he knows he looks dazed, like someone's dropped a kriffing anvil on his head. It's always a surprise to him that Cass wants to be here, it's always a wonder.

Cass lies back and pulls Brasso down on top of him and even moans a little when Brasso kisses him and nestles down against Cass's hips. Then that's that - no more dithering for Brasso. He has the lube in a chest beneath the bed and he fishes for it one-handed as he rocks against Cass and Cass arches up into him.

He's as gentle as he can be to begin with and Cass is a whole other person in his arms - all sharp edges gone, all barriers lowered, all disguises dropped. His hands seem to be everywhere at once, covering the territory of Brasso's broad back, squeezing the flesh of his thighs and his flanks, urging him faster, harder, closer.

Gentleness comes naturally but so does the frenzy Cass drives him to - Brasso responds to the open palm that strikes his arse, to Cass's short nails scoring down his shoulder-blades, Cass's teeth on his lip, his earlobe, his jaw. Brasso's sweating like he's been welding parts all day, his blood is pumping faster than its done since the funeral, he can't taste any of the recent hurt on Cassian's mouth anymore - it's just him, stripped of pretence and others' expectations.

He tries to slip a hand between their bodies, to make sure Cass is really getting all the pleasure he deserves from this, but Cass pushes him arm aside. "I don't need it, just you. Just...keep going. Harder." His voice is rough as his beard against Brasso's ear, but he leans his cheek against Brasso's with tenderness even as their bodies move recklessly together.

Brasso used to wonder what Cass was punishing himself for when he asked him to go harder, used to worry that Cass fantasised about Brasso without the gentleness he'd cultivated and nurtured and wore with such dignity and pride. But somewhere along the way he'd realised it wasn't like that at all - it was about Cass's trust in him, about Cass needing Brasso to insist he deserved this love, about Cass feeling it, feeling good, because Brasso could scale his defenses and keep him in a place where he let himself feel it. And it's hard to deny that, for all his prided gentleness, it feels good to know he can push himself with Cassian, to enjoy his body's strength and power in a place that isn't the scrapyard. It makes him ecstatic - the only feeling that's come close was when he'd heeded Maarva's command and kicked that Imp in the chest, smacked that other one in the chops with Maarva's funerary brick. That had felt good. Satisfying. But it wasn't as satisfying as this - Brasso prefers to use his body's power to bring Cassian pleasure rather than to bring pain, even where it's justified.

Cass is silent as ever when he comes, his face in Brasso's neck, his hands clasped behind Brasso's back. He just shudders, his legs tangled round Brasso's body, soft but clinging determinedly to him.

Brasso tries - he always tries - to be as quiet as Cass, but a grunt of effort so easily becomes a whine of release, and he presses his mouth to Cassian's skin to try to stifle the sound. Cass is holding the back of his head and arching into him with a gasp and Brasso feels his own body tremble, feels himself turn to liquid in the heat of the forge, ready to be remade, ready to remake.

They kiss, they're in no hurry to move apart. Brasso rocks his hips gently against Cass and Cass strokes over the scratches on his back and the stinging red skin on his arse. They don't need words for this part either - they'll clean up when they're ready, and then they'll make this narrow cot as comfortable as they can.

This is how it started, Brasso recalls as Cass tucks the thin blanket around them and reaches out to switch the camp light off. He'd needed a place to go when he'd made a fuss at home - he hadn't been letting himself mourn Clem and Force knows, Maarva hadn't been coping well either. He'd needed tenderness, not judgement, kindness without a lecture. He'd needed to sleep without the aid of nog or anything else, and Brasso's big arms were where he found what he needed. It had only been in the morning, when he'd turned to face Brasso beneath the covers and they'd both been blindsided by desire, that this ritual of just one night had really begun.

Now Brasso feels the cold durasteel wall at his back, but Cass's body is warm and vital in his arms, fitting snugly with his shoulder blades to Brasso's chest. Brasso snuggles his face into Cass's soft hair and into the crook of his shoulder, breathes him in, and Cass holds Brasso's arms closed tight around his body.

By the time Brasso murmurs, "Sleep well, Cass," he realises Cass has already dropped off. His breathing is soft and his head is a dead weight on Brasso's bicep, but for now there's no sign of the trauma he must have fled to come here. He's at peace, and that means Brasso can relax too.

The camp is never really quiet, but you get used to the nighttime sounds fairly quickly - none of them interfere with Brasso's sleep anymore. So he's not really clear on what wakes him to the purple darkness of the shack, long before morning comes.

Cass is still there in his arms, still sleeping heavily. So heavily that Brasso's fingers have gone dead and the nerve endings in his arm are tingling in protest. Oh well. It's worth it, Brasso thinks, gazing blearily at the spot where the shadows suggest Cass's cheek is. He plants a gentle kiss there and only then notices that the durasteel sheet he uses as a door was never put back properly. It's not open much, but there's enough of a gap that he can see the cold glow from the distant airbase's flood lights.

His pulse spikes so suddenly and so violently that he's sure Cass will feel his heart like a hammer in his back, but Cass is asleep and doesn't notice the figure at the doorway. Brasso's arm is trapped and he has no weapons anyway - what does this pervert want?

Brasso can't see much - the man (he thinks) is a silhouette, with a scarf drawn up over the lower half of his face. He turns a little to glance down the street and when he does Brasso can see his eyes, and they make him shudder. A spy's eyes. Hooded and expressionless, coldly assessing. Like Cass's were before he came to Brasso's bed.

He swallows bravely and waits to make sure the man knows he's awake, knows he's seen him. Then he says, as quietly as he can, "He's coming back to you tomorrow. He told me he was going back."

The silhouette is still and silent, and Brasso can't see his response. Cass sleeps on, oblivious in a deep rest he rarely allows himself.

Finally: "I know," says the silhouette. "Tell him to come to landing pad 4R-1."

He leaves, and pulls the durasteel across as he goes.

Brasso can hear his blood rush and he begins to doubt himself - what if this man is the one who tortured Cassian? Whose game has Brasso just agreed to play? Scenarios he can't possibly predict run through his mind with futile urgency until he drops off into a shallow, uneasy sleep, and by the time he wakes again it's light and he still has no idea what to say about the figure at the door. It can't have been a dream because the durasteel has definitely been closed with more care than Cass had been capable of last night.

Cass is sitting on the bed, tousled and sleepy-looking. The blanket is drawn round his slight shoulders and he's holding a mug of kaf - in the one mug Brasso owns.

"Are you checking the locks?" Cass asks, amusement making his voice warm, that Kenari lisp now smooth and sweet, polished clean of exhaustion.

Brasso turns from the door and folds his arms. He's wearing his underclothes in a concession to the cold bite in the morning air, and he contemplates saying nothing about the man who was there in the night. Cass seems so carefree right now - his smile is mischievous and his eyes glitter with wit. Maybe Brasso should just let him sort his own affairs out - he comes to Brasso to get away from them, doesn't he? Not because he wants a messenger?

Brasso doesn't give himself a chance to take this thought seriously though - honesty is as crucial to their friendship as anything else Cass comes here for.

"There was someone here last night. I was awake and I saw them."

Cassian's expression clouds over immediately. "What do you mean?" he tries to keep his voice light, but Brasso can already see him rebuilding the walls, bricking himself back into the suspicious, uneasy persona that keeps him safe. "A thief?"

Brasso shakes his head. "One of yours, I think." Whatever 'yours' means.

Cassian's brows rise. His expression briefly echoes Brasso's unspoken aside, but then he tucks his chin inwards indignantly. "Excuse me?"

Brasso sighs. "You said he'd find you. I'm guessing that's what happened. But that's all it is, Cass - a guess. If you don't tell me -"

Cassian tilts his head and gives Brasso a look that says: really? But he doesn't stand or rush to get dressed and leave. He clutches the mug of kaf and frowns.

"What did you see? What did he say?"

Brasso describes what little he saw and what little the silhouette in the doorway said. He describes his voice and his accent, and Cass is already nodding at his kaf.

"That's him, yeah. He can wait a while this morning."

The response surprises Brasso, who finally returns to the bed and sits down next to Cass. Carefully, he reaches over and plucks the mug from Cass's fingers and turns it so he can hold the handle, each gesture gentle and measured. "Want to tell me who he is? What all this is about?" He takes a sip of kaf, trying to act casual about it all.

Cass sighs and leans into Brasso's arm, though he doesn't look at him. "No... it's better if you don't know. I work for him, that's all. He wants a report on the last job."

Brasso glances at him, takes in the indiscriminate bruising on his body. "Hm. The job that you got those from." There's no point making it a question.

Cass snorts and gives a rolling shake of his head. "Of course. It's ok, I did what he needed me to do. The debrief isn't time sensitive. That's why..." he chuckles again at his own expense and looks at his marked hands. "That's why I came. Sorry, Brasso. I know it's not fair."

This really sends a chill down Brasso's spine - he's not used to quite this level of honesty from Cass, definitely not on the morning after. He hesitates, studying the greasy black surface of the kaf, and then he hands it back to Cass and wraps an arm around his skinny shoulders. "Fair? Fark that, Cass. I'm just glad to know you're still alive," Brasso sighs - there was more truth in that than he'd intended, too. "And...and I just want to remind you that if you need help, any sort of help, us Ferrixians won't hesitate, we won't -"

Cass snorts mid-gulp of kaf. "You can't help me, Brasso. And I don't want you to. I want you and Bee and Bix and Wilmon to stay far away from the guy you saw last night. It's not safe to know him."

Brasso notices the phrasing - not to know who he is. Just to know him.

Brasso works his jaw. He knows all about Cass's secrets - they're necessary because they keep his friends safe. But this knowledge is built on an unspoken acknowledgement that Brasso's here to keep Cass safe. Safe from himself, more often than not.

"Cass - you know..." Brasso sighs again. It's meant to be an unspoken knowledge. But something about this time, something about the man in the doorway...it really feels like this might be the last time. Best to be clear about these things, then. "You know I'd do anything for you, Cass?" there's a plaintive note in his voice that he tries to hold back, but there it hangs, needy and desperate as the way Cass holds onto him in bed.

Cassian puts the mug of kaf down next to the lamp. He turns a little and doesn't try to shrug off Brasso's arm, but he grips one broad knee and squeezes it meaningfully. He's not fully retreated into the defensive, closed persona he wears outside Brasso's quarters and there's a care in his eyes that makes Brasso's chest tighten. "I know. I know you would," Cass shakes his head, lifts a hand and cups Brasso's cheek in his palm. "That's why you've got to forget about it, Brasso. He"d take that and he'd use it. It's what he does. All your good intentions, all your kindness - they're his tools."

Brasso covers Cass's hand with his large palm. "What about your good intentions? Your kindness?"

Cass shivers, Brasso can feel him consider pulling away. But he stays, and laughs mirthlessly again, and bows his forehead to Brasso's. "Irrelevant. Long gone. It's all about the bigger picture, Brasso."

Brasso runs his thumb over Cass's hand and the arm over Cass's back tightens to draw him near. "Not long gone. Not irrelevant. Not to me. You wouldn't have come here if that was true, would you?"

Cass's body trembles again and he pinches his lips. He's starting to look haggard and troubled, like last night's spell is wearing off. "I just...I just needed to know if I could still..."

"I know," Brasso murmurs. "I understand, Cass." It's all he's allowed to offer, and he offers it in abundance, arms wide with generosity.

Cass presses their foreheads together and shifts his hand beneath Brasso's, grasping the back of his head and pulling him into a kiss - unexpected, forceful, an assault on Brasso's raw emotions.

He breaks the kiss and stands, looking down at Brasso with the nearest thing to regret in his eyes. "Just one night, remember?"

Brasso nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak, but he watches in glum, thoughtful silence as Cass dresses.

He doesn't look as unsteady on his feet today, that's certain. He's well-rested. Hopefully he's remembered he's more than the husk he needs to be for the jobs he's stuck doing.

As for Brasso - he'll go back to the routine, he supposes. Drinking tea with the other Ferrixians and reminiscing about their old lives. Negotiating to find a way out of this refugee camp and into work that's useful. They've all heard that rebellion is brewing and they're itching to play a part in it - even Bix is fired up by the idea, fuelled by Maarva's message, by her legacy. The hope that the connection she once had on Ferrix - distant, intangible - is evolving into some sort of coherent fight back against the people who since took everything from her is like a rope she uses daily to pull herself back from the horror of what happened. And they all have skills, they all spent their lives working - stagnating here in the camp forever is simply unimaginable, unconscionable.

Brasso looks up suddenly. "Should I tell the others you were here?"

Cassian straightens his belt over his narrow hips and glances sharply at him.

Brasso shrugs and spreads his hands. "I can lie to them, but not about everything, Cass..."

Cassian considers this and then steps over to Brasso, leans down and kisses him again. He lingers, and it makes Brasso want to grab him and keep him there, pull him back down to the bed and hide him from the man he works for. Instead he just grips the edges of the thin mattress and lets out a mournful sound when Cass pulls away.

Cass looks down, breathing hard and acting like it's not showing. "Tell them what you need. I won't be back, Brasso. Keep them safe."

"What about Bee -" he's on his feet. He didn't mean to be, but Cassian's already on the way to the door.

Cassian looks mortified - just for a moment, and then he shuts it down. "I'm sorry, Brasso. I don't have time for goodbyes. You explained to Bee before - you'll have to do it again."

And then he's gone, slipping through the durasteel sheets like they're a curtain he just has to brush aside. Like he's a gas, ephemeral, a spirit conjured from Brasso's dreams.

He stands there for a moment, sore and stunned, and then he takes a deep breath. He's done this before. He can do it again. There's precious little certainty in this galaxy anymore, and Cassian can close all the doors he wants - but Brasso has to believe that Cassian will always continue to find him when he needs him.

#*kicks down door to star wars fandom* HI BITCHES #*throws Cassian/Brasso smut in like a grenade and runs* BYE BITCHES #cassian x brasso #brasso x cassian #cassian/brasso #andor for ts #andor series #delusions of grandeur #cassian andor #my fic #my writing #not yet on ao3 but it will be

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