imthepilot: (AU - Delta base)
The first month after Endor is the busiest Bodhi has seen things for the Alliance since the evacuation of Hoth. Despite Mothma promoting him to Delta Base’s commander, he’s been off base more often than not. Rogue Strike were busy too.

With Galen cleared to know about his mission, Bodhi always leaves messages when he has to leave in a hurry. But mostly he finds Galen and talks to him before he leaves. It’s getting harder and harder for Bodhi to go as things get more comfortable between them.

The sex hasn’t been the same though. Since that first time, Bodhi has been careful. Very careful. Giving and loving but controlled. As if he’s afraid to hurt Galen again.

To manage the base in Bodhi’s absence, Mothma appoints him a pair of adjuncts – young Nika who turns out to be quite a resourceful young man, especially when it comes to finding scientific equipment for Galen. The other is a stern Twi'lek woman named Dana. Her blue skin shaded to purple around a network of heavy scars, the tip of one lekku permanently twisted by a deep cut. Harshly fair but dispassionate, Dana keeps things on track and organised in Bodhi’s absences but doesn’t mix with the others on base much.

Bodhi sends a message to Galen via Dana, letting him know he’ll be back soon. And that some friends are coming to Delta to see him. And to meet Galen.
imthepilot: (serious)
{From here}

Bodhi takes Galen's hand and walks back through the door and back into the base. The cerebration is in full swing, happy shouts echoing from the hall. They run into only one other person on their way to Bodhi's room. The young lieutenant who had escorted Galen earlier.

Nika salutes, eyes drifting from Bodhi's face to their joined hands and back again. "Sir, Dr Erso."

"Lieutenant." Bodhi acknowledges, his voice a tense growl. Ready to deck the young man for a word out of place.

Instead the young man stutters shyly. "Sir?" He starts uncertainly. "I hope- have a good night, sir. You- you've earnt it."

Bodhi relaxes a little, resting his metal hand on the youth's shoulder. "As have you, lieutenant. Now go and enjoy yourself."

The boy nods, freckled cheeks warming with a blush. "Sir, yes sir." There's something about the way he steps aside to let them pass, watching them go. A crush perhaps? Or something more like hero worship?

Bodhi doesn't speak again till they're inside his room, the door firmly closed.
imthepilot: (AU - scarred posed)
Timeline wise, Bodhi is from the day after the Battle of Endor and the destruction of the second Death Star. He survived Scarif but lost part of his arm to a grenade, still more to nerve damage during the Battle of Yavin.

He has become a Rebel general – hard, ruthless, and quiet. He leads Rogue Two – a squad of the only eight survivors he was able to rescue from Scarif. None of them he’d met before Yavin.

His right arm is a droid-like prosthetic from the upper arm down. He hates when people stare and flinches if anyone touches his shoulder on that side.

AU canon threading -
During a mission to extract the second Death Star scientists and engineers for a nearby system, and destroy the facility, he found someone he never thought he’d see again. Someone he’d buried, along with his heart.

[Warnings for trauma, violence, potentially suicidal thoughts, misuse of of archaeological sites, and serious relationship tension. Thread is on-going so expect the warning to evolve. It's Maru and I! Don't expect rainbows and cuteness.}

Canon notes - Everything pre-Rogue One is based on the Necessary Pebbles verse written by Maru and Munnin.
imthepilot: (AU - hands behind back)
Bodhi lingered after the briefing, hands behind his back in that stance that had become habit. The stance that hid his prosthetics arm from view. Not that anyone stared any more but some habits were hard to break.

“General Rook?” Mon Mothma didn’t need to look up to know it was him, tidying up the data chips as the rest of the briefing room emptied. “You're wondering why I didn’t assign you to the Endor strike.”

Follow... )
imthepilot: (Happy)
[from here]

Bodhi takes the box from Galen as they enter their rooms, tucking it all away in the fresher for later. There's enough left over for a rather decadent brunch tomorrow.

He drifts back over to Galen smiling. "Now, I think I promised to take advantage of you. But I'm not sure you're drunk enough."
imthepilot: (Drawn - undressing)
[From here]

There rooms are a bit of a mess. Bodhi spend all night cooking and as much as he cleans as he goes, there's still a lot left to do. But it can wait. He puts the last ingredients away to be made into something else tomorrow.

He turns to Galen, shedding his jacket. "That was enjoyable. I missed markets like that."
imthepilot: (Default)
With Galen finally being released from the Infantry today, Bodhi has pulled out all the stops to make sure their rooms are ready. The bar has been very helpful, providing him with everything he needs to make it work for them.

The rooms are large and airy, open planned living and dinning. Thick carpets and warm colours make it homely and comfortable.

The bar has made sure Bodhi's kitchen has all the appliances he's use to and a big pantry. All the lovely hardwood benches and lots of storage.

The bedroom faces out onto the balcony, just as the living room does, giving them a view of the lake and the gardens. There's an office and workshop for Galen too, ready to be set up the way he wants it.

And a bathroom with a water fresher big enough for two, and of all things - a spa bath.

The balcony has been lined with pots, one wall lined with climbing frames, ready for creeps, flowers and climbing legumes. The kitchen window is also lined with little pots of fresh herbs.

Bodhi opens the door for Galen, biting his lip and hoping Galen likes it.
imthepilot: (drawn - Galen)
{From here}

Bodhi's still sitting on the grass when Galen comes out; thick, angry tears drying on his cheeks. There's a core of rage in his gut but it's impudent rage. Too much he can't control, can't fix. Too much he can't undo.
imthepilot: (Drawn - shellshocked)
It happened so fast, Bodhi was barely certain of the sequence of events. He had to go over them, again and again to be sure.

He’d travelled with the crew of the large cargo hauler back to the navy dock-yards. Ignoring their jibes the whole way. After the altercation, he was careful not to rise to their jokes. And they were careful not to make the jokes too personal. But they kept joking all the same. Joking about Bodhi, and about his sojourn with the station chief.

Follow... )

imthepilot: (Drawn - shellshocked)
He had been broken open. More than once now.

Warnings... )

imthepilot: (broken)
{From here}

Bodhi woke after sleeping long and deep. The calmed undrugged sleep he has had since… since he died. Because he was no longer alone. Because he was loved. Because Galen was here.

Only, Galen wasn’t there any more.

Just an empty bed, cold sheets, and a note.

Autor was right -- I woke up to the realisation that I'm not Galen, but Hannibal Lecter, having been in the throes of that influenza induced identity dysphoria syndrome Autor had rightly been referring to. Words cannot confer how deeply sorry I am for causing you this pain all over again, and nothing that I might offer can possibly make amends.

However, please accept my deepest and most heartfelt apologies.

Yours sincerely,
Dr. Hannibal Lecter

Three times he read the words, unable to believe them. And yet, unable to make them not true. He had wanted to believe Galen had finally come. Had wanted it so badly, he had ignored the signs, the small things Dr. Lecter had challenged him to see.

The lack of scars on Dr. Lecter’s hands. The shortness of his hair.

But his heart, his mind. They had been Galen’s.

How? Why? Why make him suffer this? Why give him back his reason to live and then take it from him?

He made it the few short strides to the fresher to vomit. Throwing up the only proper meal he had eaten in weeks. And kept throwing up until there was nothing left but pain.

Shivering on the cold duroplast floor of the fresher, despair overtook him.

There was no light left. This was the final cut, the last torment. He could take no more. The Force was done with him and he would suffer its whims no longer.

The knife was still where he kept it, tucked behind the bedhead. A talisman against the dark. The short blade was clean and sharp. Without hesitation, he rose to fetch it. There was indecision now, no shallow cuts, no transferred pain. He was done. It was time to embrace the darkness. To let all the colour left in the world drain out.

But his body betrayed him.

A cough rattled through his chest, so violent his weakened knees buckled and he fell onto the floor. The cough would not relent and he sucked air between fits like a man drowning between waves.

The cough grew so powerful he threw up again, nothing left in him but bile.

Too much pain, too little strength. It wasn’t long before he passed out, curled foetal on the floor.

And woke up a different man.
imthepilot: (I'm listening)
{From here}

Bodhi's room is little more than a bunk, a desk and a fresher. But the Bar seems to have taken pity on him and the bunk is now a double with enough room for both of them.

The sheets are clean, only because the rats took best advantage of Bodhi being out to change them. But the room has a sense of desolation to it.

Bodhi doesn't look well either, his skin flushed and his hands shaking a little. "Should we... rest? We have time. All the time in the world now."
imthepilot: (broken)
He waited till Myrrh went out.

He wasn’t sure why. He just didn’t want to do this while she was around.

Was he ashamed? Or was this just a private thing he didn’t want company for.

Even the company of a cat.

He handled the knife with care as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He didn’t want to pain.

Just… the brightness that came with the blood.

He wanted the colour back. Even if red was the only colour he could get.

He rested the point of the blade high on his forearm.

Just… feeling the cold of the blade.

Feeling the metal warm against his skin.

Blood welled. A single bright crimson drop blooming at the point.

He wasn’t aware of pressing down but the blade bit, the skin parting.

A shallow cut. The blood running clean.

He set the knife down, holding his arm between his parted knees. Letting the little rivulet of blood slowly inch down towards his fingers.

A slow line of colour.

Of light.

Of life.

Bodhi laid down and let the warmth of the flowing blood soothe him.
imthepilot: (Trying to explain)
Packing his things to go was hard. So hard. Not that he had much but... it was the leaving that hurt.

The last month of his life had been the best he could remember having, burns and all. It hardly mattered. He didn't care about the disfiguring scars. What did they matter, compared to what he got in return.

A month with Galen.

He owed the medic his thanks. He'd been baking and cooking all day, determined to leave Galen with everything he needed. The sweet tart, he took down to the medic before heading back to his room to cook one last meal for Galen before he has to fly away tomorrow.
imthepilot: (Drawn - passed out)
Bodhi didn’t intent to cut himself. It wasn’t an act of will.

He’d been using the knife to take the Imperial cog patches off his repaired flight-suit. The bar had given him other clothes. Simple clothes. But they weren’t his.

The fight-suit was his.

It was the only thing that was.

Even his own breath, his heartbeat. They didn’t belong to him anymore.

This place had taken him away. Away from whatever rest he had hoped for. Away from the Force.

Away from Galen.

All he wanted was to be with Galen. Even for a moment.

But this place had taken him.

Because there was something he had to do. Some task.

And no-one would tell him what it was.

He just had to wait.

A prisoner in an afterlife he didn’t want.

He had nothing. No control.

But he could control this. Change this one thing. He would wear the flight-suit.

Because it was his. And it was all he had.

But the patches had to go. He could change that one thing.

The rats had left the knife when they cleaned. It was stacked with a bowl and cup and the tea making thing the man he couldn’t bear to look at had given him. The man with Galen’s eyes. The man who made his heart break over and over. A wound that would never close. That kept being ripped open. Over and over.

He didn’t have scissors or a seam-ripper. Anything else he could use to remove the tiny stitches that helped the patches on. But he had the knife.

With that knife he could take back control. Even if it was only over that small thing.

It was fiddly, getting the tiny stitches to open. And every third one was a lock stitch so he couldn’t just pull it off once the thread was cut. So frustratedly he picked and cut, three stitches at a time.

It should have been easy, taking back that little part of himself. Shedding the power the Empire had over him, even if he couldn’t shed to power Milliways had over him.

But it wasn’t. And he soon grew reckless, yanking at the patches, and slashing at the fabric.

Which is how he slipped with the knife. And sliced across the meat of his palm.

It wasn’t a deep cut. It didn’t even hurt. Not really.

But then… he didn’t really feel anything. Not anymore.

There was no real pain. But there was blood. Quite a bit of it. It pooled in the hollow of his palm, red rivulets flowing down to his wrist before dripping off.

The sound as each drip hit the wooden floor was…

Loud. So loud.

As if he’d been deaf for years and it was the first sound he was hearing.

And the blood. It was so bright. So red. Somehow more real than anything else in existence. The only colour in a sea of grey.

He sat there, watching the blood pool, listening to it drip for what seemed like hours. Till the blood slowed and clotted.

He slept then, blood smearing on the pillow and sheets.

It was the deepest and cleanest sleep he could remember having in a very long time.

With that knife he could take back control.


Myrrh slipped in through the cat door the Bar had kindly installed in Bodhi’s door. The scent of blood was strong and she sniffed at the splatters on the floor. In alarm, she leapt onto the bed and nuzzled at Bodhi. He was warm. He was breathing. His chest still moved in the deep sleep he was lost to. His hand was a mess of blood but it was dry and flaking. She licked him fingers a little, trying to clean him up but there was too much of a mess for that. Instead she curled against his chest and purrs reassuringly. She would get help later. For now, he seemed to be a peace so she curled up, one paw over his heart and watched over him as he slept.
imthepilot: (Drowning - a mess)
Apart from a brief sojourn outside a week ago, ostensibly because Myrrh wanted to visit the other forge cats, Bodhi hadn’t left his room.

The rats stopped bringing him sleeping pills and started bringing him food. He hasn’t eaten it, politely sending the food back untouched.

Anyone from Jedhi would know that’s a bad sign. A very bad sign. Jedheans don’t turn down the offer of food. It’s considered deeply rude.

Or a sign of deep despair.

One who longer believes themselves a useful part of society won’t accept food others might need.

But there’s no-one left from Jedhi left alive to notice that.

It’s been nearly two weeks since Bodhi ate a proper meal. The rats took away all the trays.

But he kept the knife. It was the first time he’d touched it.

It took him several hours to put it down.

It felt… comfortable in his hand. It felt… right. Just… holding it.

Just the handle, not the blade. He didn’t touch the blade.

He sleeps with it where he can see it.

He doesn’t sleep much, without the pills. So, he stayed awake.

And stared at the knife.

Sometimes he would hold it.

But he didn’t touch the blade.

It would be okay.

As long as he didn’t touch the blade. As long as he kept not touching the blade.
imthepilot: (longing)
Bodhi hasn’t been back downstairs for the better part of a week.

And he doesn’t look good – deep shadows under his eyes, pallor under the olive of his skin. He’s losing weight and muscle tone.

He hasn’t really eaten – some fruit, mostly tea. The tea that makes him sleep. He asked the rats to bring him pills. Pills to make him sleep. And they do.

And he has. He’s safer in the drugged sleep. He doesn’t dream there.

When he’s not sleeping, he lays on the bed and looks at the knife.

It’s a little tomato knife. A red duroplast handle. A clean, simple blade, ever so slightly serrated.

He doesn’t cut himself. He hasn’t touched the knife at all.

The blade has been sitting there for days. Just… sitting.

He can’t take his eyes off it.

He doesn’t think doesn’t about cutting himself. Not exactly. He doesn’t think about the act of pressing the blade to his flesh. Or how the bright blood might well and flow.

But he does think about how it would feel. That it would feel.

He doesn’t feel. Not anymore.

The colours have bled out. Everything is grey.

He breathes. His heart beats in his chest.

But he’s not alive.

He doesn’t feel alive any more.

All the colours are gone.

Leaving the red of the handle. And the red under his skin.

Instead he takes the pills. And sleeps. And lets a little black cat watch over him.
imthepilot: (drawn - Stripped down to work)
In the last week of Bodhi’s medical leave, he worked himself hard. When he wasn’t in the barrack gym working out, he was studying the specs of his new ship. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was cooking. He had the freezer in Galen’s room stocked with pre-packed meals and ready-made spice blends that could be added to bland meals to make them palatable. As well as restocking his own travelling collection.

He wasn’t sleeping much either.

He was just coming back from the gym when Galen got off work, stripped down and sweaty.
imthepilot: (Default)
Bodhi's room is simple and narrow. Nothing more than a bed, a locker, a fresher and a writing desk.

There's nothing personal here. He has nothing. Owns nothing.

Is nothing.
imthepilot: (Watching our backs)
Galen gets a message late one evening. The evening Bodhi was planning to spent down in the barracks with the other cargo crews.

The message from the head medic. You better get down here.
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