the andor living weapon au snippet from lw!cassian's pov bc i need to break the mental ice so i can write the next part. i have no idea when the next chapter for anything is coming out. i love you.

trigger warnings for abuse, dehumanization, and implied mental health issues. also, cassian is very out of character in this one, but he isn't feeling like himself right now.

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X9 is cold when it wakes up.

This isn’t unusual—it is almost always cold, even when sent out on assignments. Its body is bad at trapping heat regardless of its costume. When X9 wakes up it cannot breathe properly. This is also not unusual.

(There is a five minute grace period for it to shudder and heave and panic around its closed throat and compressed lungs, but it has to be fast because compassion is costly and fear is ambiance. Once, they let it rest for a full ten minutes, its hands spread flat on the scuffed white floor, its body twisted from the fall, the dark mess of its hair in its face. No one touched it. It was relieved.)

X9 coughs violently as soon as the doors to its casket break open and its muscles lose the harsh rigidity of forced sleep all at once. It braces as best it can for the fall even knowing from bitter experience that it cannot catch itself in this state. It falls into someone’s arms instead, strong and shrouded in many layers. Panic erupts in its body before it can understand it isn’t hurting. It looks up at the tall blur holding it upright and it shudders so violently its teeth clack. It coughs harshly again. The person bends it over their arm with one hand in the middle of its back as they pull it from the cryochamber’s torturous indifference. It clings to the solid warmth as its moved effortlessly. Its back is pressed firmly but carefully against the wall—(vibration in its skin, crisp air in its nostrils, synthetic voice over the speakers)—against the bulkhead. Now that it can gasp it cannot stop gasping, its shoulders tight near its neck and its hands useless.

“Easy,” the man says, gruff.

X9 flinches, feeling the ghost of a blow that never lands and then locks itself down into something quiet and small. It cannot stop gasping and its eyes swim over the details of the man in front of it.

“Andor,” the man says. His voice is too calm to be a growl but its near enough. X9 does not know what an andor is. X9 just wants it to be over. Whatever this is, it wants it to be over. “Breathe. You’re going to pass out on my floor.”

The order registers and it tries to breathe normally, it truly does, but its heartbeat is a heavy thud in its stomach and it can’t get the hang of it. Desperation starts to test its fangs on X9’s throat and it doubles its efforts only to fail, panting and trembling. He’s going to blasterwhip it. This man is its handler for as long as Ghyron wants it away and he is going to blasterwhip it. Its back burns with the consequences of disobedience; there are no disciplinary devices that it can see apart from a blaster and its floundering body cannot obey the commands. He won’t kill it. He hasn’t used it yet.

“Here,” the man says and reaches into a compartment near its head. It keeps its gaze lowered and deliberately fights its instinct to shudder away from his hand. It sinks down as low as it can get into the quiet place behind its eyes. Something warm and soft is draped over its shoulders as it shakes and it grips the material as hard as it can without thinking. The splits in its knuckles sting.

“Do you know who I am?” asks the man. X9 takes in the near military grade fabric hanging around his shoulders (armorweave, blaster proof to a point and resistant to vibroblades), his boots and gloves (well worn in and molded to his body), the concealed blaster on his hip and the short crop of his gray hair. His face is wrinkled, though he must have been handsome in his day. He’s tall, a least a head taller than X9. It can’t place the accent. It has no idea who this man is and dreads giving its answer.

“No sir,” it says and hopes feverishly that he wanted honesty and not some other answer. It hasn’t spoken since its punishment. Its throat is sore.

“Not at all?” the man questions again, softer this time. He leans down to look at it rather than lift its face and X9 makes eye contact on accident before its eyes dart away. It feels wrong footed and shaky, like it missed a beat in training.

Should it know? It was never shown a holo or even given instructions regarding this person. He remembers his heavy eyes watering as he lay with his cheek pressed to clammy, plastoid tiles when the restraints opened and then the sound that tore out of its throat as it was hauled upright. It remembers the quick punch of a hypo in its neck and then the heavy weight of its head as it was dragged down the hall and into unconsciousness.

“No, sir,” it risks, sick with dread. It scans the room on instinct (droid mod in the cockpit, two exits) and studies the man’s collar to look attentive while avoiding his eyes.

“I’m Luthen Rael. You’re working with me now,” he says.

Rael looks confused almost, like X9 isn’t giving the answers he wants. He doesn’t seem angry and that twists its nerves in a different way, unable to predict what comes next. Ghyron would have been ignoring him by now, or else kept it in the chamber until it was needed. After Narkina 5, its held in cryosleep when not in use—it had been too successful at clearing the prison.

“Come, sit down,” Rael says as he firmly guides X9 to sit down by its shoulders.

It lets itself be handled without resistance, legs shaking. The chills were coming. It pulls the blanket tighter. There’s a false door in the adjacent bulkhead; the seams don’t line up right and layout doesn’t make sense for a haul craft otherwise. It ducks its head a fraction and hides behind its hair, shoulder’s hunched just enough to keep the warmth in. Rael moves away from him and searches through the small cabinets, their metal doors tossing the hazy reflection back to X9. Its drained, utterly. It hadn’t been put down right, he thinks. The muscles in its back contract and the burns ignite immediately. It shuts its eyes, wincing before it can stop itself.

“How do you take your kaff?” Rael asks.

Its eyes blink open, confused. Hyperspace whirls outside the portholes and the droid mod moves audibly and mechanically to look at it, trading one eye for another. Rael doesn’t elaborate. The quiet starts to grow teeth. There’s no reason he should ask that; X9 cannot recall anyone ever asking it that.

“Sir?” it asks cautiously. It lifts its head so it can see Real’s body language.

“Your kaff, how do you take it?”

That’s not an answer, that’s not even remotely an answer. It drops its gaze, staring at the deck like it could read the meaning in the scuff marks. Rael steps closer and X9 shrinks back. It can feel itself shaking, can feel the trembles down its arms and up its shredded back. Is this a code? It was never given the key.

“Its not a test, you aren’t in trouble,” Rael says. His voice is almost concerned. He keeps trying to catch its eyes with his.

It doesn’t know what he wants but it doesn’t know the truth, either. Its only ever had hot food and drink on missions, and then only to blend in.

(The first time it was sent out into the field, it was under heavy surveillance. It was supposed to wait for an Imperial soldier to order his drink and then approach. It was supposed to take the given intel, take the Imperial down the alley under the pretense of helping him escape, and then terminate him.

It took a bite of its food without thinking and then immediately lost all focus on the crowd in the city square with it. The food was salty and tangy—some kind of braised protein on a stick—and crispy and soft. It crackled under its jaws, melting over its tongue. It was fatty too, and its mouth was soon greasy with indulgence. It had never had something so delicious as this, hot under its teeth as it took another bite.

The mark ordered his drink. He sat down. X9 looked up, a moment too late. The chip activated for a fraction of a second and its vision went white from the agonizing split in its spine. It didn’t scream. It dropped the protein. It completed the mission objectives, but barely. It was heavily disciplined when it was retrieved. It didn’t eat for days—not until it was forced—for fear of what would happen to it. It never ate mission food again.)

It chooses an answer before Rael can ask again.

“With sweetener,” it answers at random, still avoiding his eyes. They look slate gray in this light. X9 feels they can see right down to its bones. It waits.

“Please,” it remembers. As if that will save it. It isn’t telling the truth but it isn’t technically lying, either. It hopes and despairs of hoping.

“So do I,” Rael answers and X9 could cry with relief. It hears him press the indent in the side and then swirl the container before he peels off the lid. He hands it the flimsiboard cup, burning hot. “Here.”

It takes the kaff in two shaky hands and drinks immediately so it isn’t punished for hesitance. It learned that lesson early on. It doesn’t know what Rael is doing or if he spiked the kaff with something, only that its warmer now than it was. It burns its mouth when it drinks; it cannot care. The sweet and bitter flavors flood its tongue in a scalding wave and it takes another sip as soon as it swallows. Rael walks away and X9 tries to watch him out of the corner of its eye. The droid mod swivels and adjusts its lenses.

“Don’t spill it,” Rael says from the cockpit as he turns around.

Vel, already having doubts: "Clem, that's your payment. You can keep that."

lw!Cassian, who knows that if the kyber goes missing there will be hell to pay and he doesn't know the extent to which Luthen is willing to discipline him, and he does NOT want to find out over a fucking kyber crystal worth more credits than he's ever seen in one place: "I don't get paid."

Vel: