#bran lachlan

And he jolted to a stop, suddenly breathing freely, suddenly dry, and he retched, but nothing came out. It took him a few moments to register the sensations around him: heat, but without the damp heft of the South; hard stone and sand beneath his palms; indistinct chatter around him—but just as he settled into the environment it shifted; the floor beneath him was smooth, cold tile, and he flinched at a sharp wooden pounding above him—then silence, broken only by a ticking clock, and the carpeted floor of a narrow, air-conditioned hallway—and back to the heat. Bran almost didn't trust himself to get up, still nauseous and light-headed, expecting another shift.

But he forced himself to his feet anyway, and found himself in a cafeteria—canvas walls and roof over a stone floor coated in sand—filled with men in tan combat fatigues. Conversation and laughter flowed all around him, but no matter how he tried to focus, he couldn’t make any of it out.

Something invisible pulled at him, and when he turned to follow it, he saw him—his face was younger and gaunter, but Bautista sat in the middle of a throng of his fellow soldiers, his dull eyes boring a hole into his empty cafeteria tray. “Bautista?” Bran said, but his words were swallowed by the cacophony of voices. “Bautista!” he said again and stumbled towards the table. Bautista didn’t acknowledge him—no one acknowledged him. The soldier on Bautista’s right jostled into him with a laugh, then returned to his conversation without noticing the lack of reaction, or the way his hands trembled in his lap.

Another soldier approached Bautista from behind. He went rigid when the soldier clapped a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes sharpened when the soldier said something to or at him, then turned around to laugh with another group.

It was the turn that did him in. If he hadn’t turned, he would have seen something in Bautista’s face snap, and he would have seen Bautista seize his tray in a white-knuckled grip. But he did turn, and so he remained blissfully unaware. Once the tray crashed into the back of his skull, he stopped being aware of anything for a while.

There was a moment of quiet and stillness as the soldier crumpled, then the cafeteria roared to life as Bautista hauled back for a second swing, his face twisted in anger. Soldiers swarmed him, wrenching the tray from his hands, and then grabbing his arms when he kept swinging his fists. Bautista roared as he pushed against the tide of bodies. To most, it probably sounded like base, instinctual fury, and it was, in part. But Bran had felt that sound rip from his own throat often enough to recognize the anguish in it.

“Idiot,” said a voice from next to Bran.

He whirled to find Bautista—his Bautista—standing there, watching. But he was still covered in dripping tar, and Bran involuntarily stepped backwards when he saw his that his eyes, fixed on the scene, were pitch black, sclerae and all.

“Couldn’t have held it together for ten more minutes,” Bautista continued tonelessly. “Look at you. Throwing your whole life away. Over what?”

At that moment, the fight all at once left the young Bautista like air leaving a balloon, and he went limp in the arms restraining him. “Weakling,” Bautista said.

The world lurched around Bran. When his senses returned, the cafeteria in Iraq had been replaced with a severe courtroom, and he was standing between the defense and the prosecution. A uniformed man—his features blurred—sat at the podium overlooking the room, with the seal of the United States Marine Corps looming behind him. The jury box was empty.

“Corporal Marcus Alejandro Danum Bautista,” the judge said, and there was a scraping sound from Bran’s left as the younger Bautista, his olive green service uniform immaculate, stood as straight and still as a statue. The judge consulted a document laid before him, and continued, “You are charged with a count of aggravated assault against a fellow Marine. How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” he said immediately, “your honor.” The JAG officer next to him—whose face was also indistinct—said nothing.

The judge gave him an appraising look. “...Well, that simplifies things,” he said, and looked down at his files. When he opened his mouth again, his voice was suddenly muffled, as if someone had stuffed cotton in Bran’s ears.

“Not even going to put up a fight,” Bautista’s deadened voice scoffed from Bran’s right, and he turned to see him standing at the prosecution’s table, looking past Bran at his younger self with his eyes still fully black. Fat drops of tar continued to fall from his body to the tile floor, congealing at his feet. “Just bending over and submitting. It’s what you do best.”

“That’s not true,” Bran protested, but the words tasted like ash on his tongue. Every time he’d sneered and dismissed Bautista as a bootlicker, a doormat, a lapdog, rose from the depths of his memory at once and rang in his ears. He swallowed, ignoring the sound of his own voice, and said, “Bautista, it isn’t—”

“...dollars,” he suddenly heard the judge say. “Furthermore, you are hereby given an Other Than Honorable discharge. This discharge will be considered Dishonorable for Veterans’ Affairs purposes. You will be barred from reenlisting in the United States Armed Forces or reserves...”

The Bautista to Bran’s left clenched his jaw as he stared into the Marine Corps seal with dampening eyes. The Bautista to Bran’s right dropped his blackened eyes to the floor. “Coward.”

“Bautista—” Bran said, starting towards him, but with the crack of the judge’s gavel, he tripped over a chair, and he fell face-first onto the—

Carpet. The sound of the gavel was now the soft, hesitant knocking of knuckles on wood.

“...Dad?”

Bran looked up. Bautista was a large, physically imposing man. But here in this hallway, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, his shoulders hunched as he waited with his knuckles resting against a closed door... Even looking up at him from the floor, Bautista had never looked smaller to Bran.

“Dad,” Bautista repeated, “can I come in?” He paused and swallowed, listening for an answer.

None came.

Bautista leaned his forehead and palms against the door. “Please, can we talk?” he begged quietly, his voice cracking.

The clock in the hallway continued to tick.

“Why should he?” came the monotone Bran had come to anticipate. There was the tar-splattered Bautista, standing on the opposite side of his younger self from Bran. “Why should he want anything to do with a failure of a son?”

The younger Bautista’s face scrunched up. He closed his eyes and sucked a breath through his teeth as his shoulders quivered.

“You staked your whole life on your family’s proudest legacy. And then you went and fucked it all up.” Water seeped through the younger Bautista’s squeezed eyelids. “Disgraced your father, his father, and his father.” He shoved a sob back down his throat. “What good are you to anyone now?”

The younger Bautista slumped to the floor, shaking. “Worthless,” the other Bautista continued. When Bran looked back up at him, he saw a black rivulet trickling down his cheek from an inky eye. “Ungrateful. Useless. Selfish.”

“Stop it,” Bran snapped.

“Stupid. Good-for-nothing. Fuck-up. Waste.” The one rivulet became several, leaking from both eyes.

“Stop it!” Bran repeated. He strode over to him and shook him by the shoulders. “Bautista—Marc—you gotta wake up!”

“Lachlan,” Bautista said, his voice distant, and sludge burbled from his mouth. He continued to look sightless into the middle distance. “I tried to keep you safe. From the anomalies, from PIRA, from yourself. From me. But I wasn’t good enough.”

“I’m right here! We can still make it out of here, Marc!”

“Not strong enough. Not smart enough. Not kind enough. Not—”

Bran grabbed Bautista’s face, his fingertips pressed to his temples, and brilliant emerald light seared the hallway away. Wincing, he closed his eyes, but then a burning pressure began to bear down on his skull. tHiS iS nOt YoUr DrEaM, that familiar voice snarled.

Bran cried out, but gritted his teeth and held fast to Bautista. “Not yours either, fucker,” he hissed. “Piss off.”

Through his eyelids, the green light grew brighter, and the voice howled in rage and pain. The light blazed into almost white, and the howling dissipated. A heartbeat that he somehow knew was Bautista’s pounded in his ears.

Bran took a deep breath. His turn now.

Images—scenes—flashed through his mind as he poured the warmth now blossoming in his chest into Bautista. Bautista letting Bran hold his hand through a panic attack. Throwing himself between Bran and a charging anomaly. Listening to one of Bran’s favorite CDs in the Jeep while he thought Bran was sleeping in the passenger seat. Offering Bran a coffee tin to keep a tiny marigold. Blazing a path through the woods with a bleeding Bran in a fireman’s carry. Cleaning and bandaging the blood-soaked gashes across half of Bran’s face in the woods. Cleaning and bandaging the blood-soaked gashes across Bran’s forearms and thighs in a motel bathroom. Casually shoulder-checking Bran outside of a diner. Coaxing Bran gently from a locked room after chasing everyone else away. Both of them laughing over some stupid joke while driving. Kneeling and holding Bran while he sobbed into his shoulder. Clasping Bran’s hand and intertwining their fingers outside Warden Forest.

“You asked me once if I thought you were a bad person,” Bran said. “And I didn’t say anything then. I mean, you were asking rhetorically, but...” He searched the void of Bautista’s eyes for a glimmer of something, anything. “I’ve been with you practically every day for the past two years. I’ve never known anyone more selfless, or dedicated, or loyal, or careful, or honest, or humble, or brave. I’d have been dead plenty of times over if not for you.”

He leaned forward so their foreheads touched. “You never gave up on me, no matter how shitty I was, no matter how dangerous things got. So I’m not going to give up on you, Marc Bautista. And I’m not going to let you give up on yourself.“

The space around them rumbled and the light became blinding, and Bran was thrown backwards. He landed flat on his back, finally feeling grass and mud beneath him once more. Solid. Real. He opened his eyes and saw the gnarled, bare tree branches reaching for the gray sky above, just as before. The mud squelched beneath his palms as he pushed himself upright and scrambled towards Bautista, still lying where he remembered. “Come on,” he whispered. He reached out and grasped his shoulder.

And Bautista rolled onto his side with a spasm, hacking and hawking up tar.

After a few moments, with Bran clapping him between the shoulder blades to help, the heaving passed, and Bautista sat there a moment to catch his breath, his head bowed. When he looked up at Bran, his eyes were his own—sclerae white, irises earthy black instead of inky—and they were full of trepidation.

If Bran were standing, he would have collapsed in relief. “Marc,” he said.

Bautista’s face crumpled, tears of water carving lines down his dirty cheeks, and he threw himself at Bran. He clung to him like he was afraid he might disappear, bawling into his shoulder, and Bran’s composure quickly cracked and fell apart in return.

In spite of everything—behind them, around them, ahead of them—they were alive.

In spite of everything, they loved, and were loved.

The storm had not yet passed. But it had not yet beaten them.

Nazeri, likewise, did a double take at the sight of Bran, and he beamed. "Well! Who'd have guessed!" he said. He stopped at the edge of the hot tub. "Mind if I join you?" But contrary to Bran's expectations, he actually waited there for an answer instead of plopping himself in anyway.

Bran, face burning (definitely from the hot tub), glanced away and shrugged casually. "Sure," he said.

Nazeri happily slid into the water, then hissed. "Ooh, that's hot."

"Imagine that," Bran remarked, still feigning fascination with the texture of the wall. He folded his arms over his chest and crossed his legs.

Nazeri, meanwhile, sprawled his arms across the pool deck and threw his head back. "Oh, this feels so good," he groaned.

Bran deigned to raise an eyebrow at him. "Isn't it bad for your body to go between extreme temperatures like that after exercising?" he said.

Nazeri just waved a hand at him without lifting his head. "Eh, whatever."

Bran meant to look away, he really did. But had Nazeri always been that broad? Underneath all the obfuscating turtlenecks and tactical gear... He flushed as he became conscious of the fact that he was watching the rise and fall of Nazeri's chest and quickly jerked his head down. The jets had hit their time limit and shut off, so the water was still again, and as tempting as the thought of turning them back on was, that would mean getting out of the tub and freezing his ass off in those brief few moments of exposure to the air.

Then his eye caught something in the water, on Nazeri's leg. A pale, jagged line ran wickedly down the length of his shin. As Bran followed the line, though, he started noticing other smaller pale lines, crisscrossing Nazeri's skin. Subconsciously, he ran his fingers over the angry pink lines etched across his own cheek. The scars continued up Nazeri's torso, across his arms. He wasn't exactly covered in scars, but there were certainly a lot—more than Bran had expected he might have. He scarcely began to wonder if Nazeri had any scars that mirrored his own when that thought was suddenly superseded by the all-consuming realization that across the hot tub, Nazeri was looking askance at Bran and his wandering gaze.

"...Find anything interesting?" he asked with the faint hint of a cheshire smile, crossing his legs.

Bran's whole body seized up. "Uh," he said in a strangled voice. "I—I wasn't—sorry, I—I didn't—" If God or the universe had any mercy, someone or something would smite him from off the face of the Earth that instant. He swallowed, and blurted, "Scars—the, uh, scar. On your leg." He couldn't meet Nazeri's eyes. "Pretty nasty," he mumbled.

Nazeri looked down. "Ah," he said, then paused, glancing back up at Bran. "That one. Old soccer accident. Cleats, you know." He winced, and so did Bran. "That was pre-PIRA, too, so no super-healing to help there. Not fun."

"Oh," Bran said eloquently. "Yikes."

The sound of lapping water echoed around the pool. Bran continued to stare at the hot tub's bottom, waiting for it to open beneath him.

"You can say no," Nazeri said, leaning forward, and Bran's head snapped up. "But, I mean..." He furrowed his brow as he carefully chose his next words. "Can I ask you about—since I told you about one of my scars—"

Bran became acutely aware of his many bracelets all neatly piled with his clothes and folded his hands in his lap.

"...Would you maybe tell me about—?" Nazeri made a clawed hand over his cheek. "Like I said, you can totally say no, I get it—

"Oh—no, uh, sure," Bran said, before he could stop himself. "It's...whatever, it's fine." He gently touched the scars on his face and took a deep breath. "It was, uh, a year ago or so. Got a little careless tracking something." He shrugged. "I was arguing with Bautista that day, my head wasn't where it should have been..." He snorted. "More ways than one, turned out. But Bautista got me out in one piece. Lecture-free, even." He shrugged again and said, "That's about it." He looked away again, still rubbing the scars.

"Can't be easy scars to deal with," Nazeri said quietly.

Bran didn't answer at first. "I mean," he said, tone light. "I've learned to get a kick out of, y'know..." He looked to the left, then fixed Nazeri with a steely gaze as he slowly turned his head back to reveal the scars. Nazeri chuckled, sounding almost...nervous? for a moment? "Obviously it's more effective when you've got the right lighting," Brain smirked, "but, y'know. You work with what you've got."

His smile faded, and before he could stop himself, he said quietly, "It was, uh. The Moment, y'know. For me." He shrank back into himself again. "When you realize..."

"That you can't go back," Nazeri finished. "A physical reminder that whatever life you had before is gone." When Bran looked up at him, Nazeri pointed to his golden, catlike eyes, then pulled his lip down to show his pointed teeth. "Been there, too."

Bran pursed his lips and cast a rueful gaze back to the water. "God," he muttered. "What did we do to deserve this?"

Nazeri hummed. "Well," he said, smiling at Bran. "Not everything that's happened since joining has been bad."

Bran snorted and started to retort, but faltered when he looked at Nazeri. His eyes trailed away after a moment and he shrugged, folding his arms across his chest again. "...I dunno," he said, more noncommittal than doubtful.

"That's okay." Nazeri stretched his arms over his head, arching his back, then drummed his hands on his knees. "We'll just have to come up with something, then."

"Really wish I wasn't," Bautista groans. On any other day, that would've won him at least a vague huff from Bran, but he's silent. Okay, maybe it was a little poor in taste. But Bautista looks at Bran. The light is dim, but he can still see that the shadows under Bran's eyes are darker. He hasn't shaved. His clothes are disheveled, and not in the usual careless way—if he remembers right, that's what Bran was wearing on the day of that hunt. How long has it been? Bautista's brows furrow when he catches sight of a cast on Bran's arm. He hates hospitals; why would he have let a doctor anywhere near a wound?

For that matter...

"You stayed," Bautista says, genuinely surprised.

Bran briefly meets his gaze, then his eyes dart away again. "...Where else would I go?" he says quietly with a shrug.

A few moments pass, and Bran fiddles with something in his hands. "I—they had to take them off—" he says, and holds something up, dangling from his fingers. His dog tags. Bautista instinctively presses a hand to where they should have been against his chest, even though he can see them right in front of him. Bran stands from his chair again, and hesitates. Then he leans down and carefully threads the chain behind Bautista's neck. He frowns and mutters to himself, fumbling with the clasp, until there's a small clicking sound and Bran huffs in quiet satisfaction. He pulls the tags down, and places them on Bautista's chest. The weight is immediately soothing—like he's found a puzzle piece he didn't know he was missing.

"Thank you," Bautista says, his throat dry.

Bran shrugs and looks away again as he retakes his seat. "I just thought you'd want those back sooner than later."

"That's not what I meant."

Bran drops his gaze to the floor, and shrugs again. "No problem."

Bautista can think of several problems Bran must have had: killing the anomaly by himself, dragging Bautista back through the woods to the truck, driving to the hospital, making himself stay...

But he doesn't mention those. "I owe you," he says instead.

Bran looks at him strangely. "Why?" he asks, as if Bautista has asked him to do a handstand and juggle with his feet.

Bautista frowns. "You saved my life."

"Maybe." He sounds doubtful, then almost offended when he adds, "I don't want anything for that." He pauses. "Just—god. Don't make me have to do it again. You're heavy as shit."

Bran lashed out with his green saber, and Duarte casually knocked it aside, following up with a Force push square to Bran's chest. He flew back towards the wall, but managed to get his feet behind him to spring right back off the wall when he hit it, blades whirling. She deflected those strikes as well, but Bran was pleased to note that he'd put her on the defensive. He pressed the advantage; he struck and spun his blades in a flurry against Duarte's guard. Duarte kept her movements tight and focused, moving precisely as much as she needed to in order to block each strike, and not an inch more.

"You're usually chattier," she observed. "Is something the matter?" She opened one of her hands as it gripped her hilt, and a chair soared through the air behind Bran. He ducked beneath it, and it crashed into the transparisteel window with a dull but resounding THUD.

"You're not worth the breath," Bran growled.

The interruption from the chair had broken Bran's rhythm, though, and Duarte lunged at him and swept her saber towards him from the side. Bran flipped Bautista's blue lightsaber into a reverse grip to block her strike⁠—but she deactivated her blade just as it would have struck Bautista's and just as quickly reactivated it past Bran's guard. He clumsily swiped the saber away with his green blade and stumbled back.

Duarte clicked her tongue. "Really, I'm not sure what you hoped to accomplish with the extra saber here," she said, her tone making Bran feel like he was a Padawan again. She advanced slowly with her saber pointed directly at him. "You never were a very strong Jar'Kai user."

Suddenly Duarte sailed across the room, cracking across a chair before slamming into the wall and dropping her lightsaber.

"And you," Bautista said, singed and breathing raggedly as he stood, "never paid much attention to anyone who wasn't your precious protégé."

“Bautista!” The name spilled from Bran’s lips as his heart rose. 

Bautista smiled wryly at him and held out his hand; Bran carefully tossed his lightsaber back to him. “Help Nazeri,” he said. Bran nodded, and rushed to Nazeri’s side as Bautista stalked over to Duarte.

Nazeri was still out cold where he’d fallen. Unmoving. “No no no no no,” Bran whispered. He shook Nazeri’s shoulders. “Wake up, come on.” But he didn’t respond. Bran tried to feel for a pulse, but with the bubbling panic in his chest, he wasn’t sure if he was feeling Nazeri’s pulse or his own. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, then another. He felt the Force moving through him, around him. He reached out—yes—he could feel Nazeri, feel his life energy. But it flickered like a candle.

Bran cradled Nazeri’s head in his hands and took another deep breath. Slowly—pressing back his desperation—he willed some of the Force in his body to flow into Nazeri’s.

“NO!” Duarte shrieked. 

Bran snapped out of his trance to see Bautista hoisted into the air, scrabbling at his throat. Duarte rose from the floor, her face twisted in fury—glaring not at Bautista, but at Bran. “Don’t you dare—” she spat. “He isn’t worth—NONE of them are worth your power!” 

The hand she had stretched out towards Bautista curled, and he choked. “Let him go!” Bran shouted, rising to his feet.

Duarte smiled wickedly. “I could be convinced to let you keep both your little toys,” she said. “If...you give yourself to me.”

Bautista’s feet, kicking mid-air, slowed.

Bran roared and surged towards Duarte, his lightsaber blazing from his hand.

Her eyes widened and flicked sideways just a fraction, and she released Bautista.

And then the green blade cleaved through her arm.

Duarte wailed in agony, clutching the sizzling stump of her arm and staggering backwards. Bran pointed his blade at her throat. Tears poured from her eyes, and Bran narrowed his. She was better than this. What was she playing at?

And then he heard the distinct snap!-hiss of several lightsabers behind him.

He didn’t have to look to figure out it was the Jedi Temple Guard.

“You’re under arrest, Master Lachlan,” one of the Guards said. “Surrender your lightsaber and come quietly.”

The Guards started boxing him in with their yellow blades. Nazeri was still unconscious. Bautista was on all fours, coughing and gasping for breath. They’d played right into Duarte’s hands.

Was this it?

After a life full of ruining things, here was one more to add to his account.

...Maybe it was time to close the account.

Bran’s grip tightened on his lightsaber.

And then something impelled him to DUCK, NOW.

He didn’t question it; he threw himself to the floor—just in time as a barrage of blaster bolts pounded into, and then through the window.

And there, swooping down, was that damned junk heap of a ship, the Warden, and it was the most beautiful thing Bran had ever seen in his life.

He threw an arm around Bautista. “Go!” he said. “I’ll get Nazeri, just get on the ship!” Bautista looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded and made a break for it through the cover fire. He leapt out the window and onto the ship’s ramp as it descended into the open air. Bran rushed to Nazeri and slung his body over his shoulders. Duarte howled as Bran ran to the window. 

He hit the edge, ready to jump—and a Force push slammed into his back.

He plummeted into the Coruscant air..

Nazeri slipped from Bran’s grasp. Bran let out a strangled cry and scrabbled for, then seized his legs. His mind raced to find a way to survive this, but the sounds of speeders, air rushing past, his vertigo and spinning vision, his fear all overpowered his ability to think. There had to be something there had to be something—

He stopped mid-air with a violent jerk. Nazeri roared with pain.

Bran looked up to see Nazeri—awake!—holding onto an outcropping on the Temple’s wall as tightly as he could. “Kriff, Bran,” he wheezed. “You couldn’t think of a better escape route?” 

The Warden was on them almost immediately, and Bautista helped them inside. The trio staggered into the cockpit in time to hear Devin at the controls, whispering to themself in horror, “I shot at the Jedi Temple. I can’t believe I shot at the Jedi Temple.”

“Don’t be silly,” Trace said, her voice crackling over the comms. “I shot at the Jedi Temple! You only piloted the ship that shot at the Jedi Temple!”

Devin swallowed. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.” They glanced back at the three Jedi. “Y’all better buckle in,” they said. “This is gonna be a bumpy ride, and you don’t look so good.”

“What do you mean?” Nazeri said, giving a strained smile. “I always look good.”

Bautista huffed and rolled his eyes. “Sit down and let Lachlan be the judge of that.” Bran and Nazeri both grinned at him, and he flushed red. “You know what I mean!” he snapped.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had Jedi chasing me,” Trace mused over the comms. “How nostalgic!”

“It’s been two weeks,” Bautista grumbled.

“And now we’re all best friends!”

“I don’t think that’s going to be the case this time,” Bran said, looking at the Temple behind them. He couldn’t see her, but he could distinctly feel Duarte watching them fly away.

Silence fell over the cockpit. It wasn’t lost on any of the Jedi that in the Order’s eyes—the Order they had belonged to and worked for for years—they had just committed high treason. The Order’s full might would be sent to track them down.