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[seenitbefore]

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[seenitbefore]

When he hears the girl and the boy come clattering through the front door, Cassian lets himself quietly out the back.

He stays there in the garden, the rest of the evening. It's not unpleasant. The breeze is a little chilly, but he's got a jacket, and he listens to the quiet noise from the kitchen while the little family sits down to eat. Shakes his head and smiles a little at - at the father, when he looks out to check on him; later, I'll be fine, go on.

Eventually the kids vanish upstairs. After a long, long while, the parents do too. He watches the lights go out in the upper windows, and then slips back inside. In the front room the cage is covered, silent, and the chrono reads 1.42; there's no outcry when he lets himself down, carefully, on the sofa.

It snows, in his dreams: that steady, almost lazy fall, out of a sky so darkly clouded it might be almost any time. His hands are bare, chilled. The shutters are closed behind him, and his father urges him gently into the house. His father's face is Bodhi Rook's face, and the shape of the rooms is wrong, but Cassian is six or seven or eight years old and he says nothing, he's too grateful for the warmth, for the hand on his shoulder. We're home? he asks, and the hand on his shoulder comes up to ruffle his hair and a man's flat-accented voice says, Yes, we're home now, this is my brother, and he's tired, he's cold, he curls up in the corner where he knows K is, although he can't see him, and he signs with his small skinny fingers I dreamed you were gone and

[callsign_rogueone]

"What if he doesn't come back," Bodhi's the one who gives voice to the fear, though Jyn must be thinking it. They lay side by side, only just touching at the knees, as if any tighter contact might encourage a total loss of control on one or both their parts.

"He will," the pillow crinkles as she lifts a hand and sets it beside his cheek, knuckles brushing beneath his eye. Jyn has always had enough conviction to reshape the universe to her will. Bodhi closes his eyes against the dark and lets the strength of her belief buoy him up.

"This is worse than that time you were on assignment in Botswana," he mumbles. Jyn makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sniffle, turning over to tuck herself close.

"I get it now," she says, "Why you were so stressed when I got home. Why you sometimes still are."

"It's the not knowing," Bodhi agrees. They've told her so before, he and Cassian, but this may be the first time she's gone through something similar (with either of them, at least; the rest of her family is constantly revolving through some permutation of at-risk or enemy-the-state). He lets her pull his face against her shoulder, and tells himself he's not taking advantage, that it's okay to feel small and uncertain in their emptier bed.

If he ever had the soldier's knack for sleeping on command, it's long since abandoned him. Jyn, who regularly kips in hardscrabble hotel rooms around the globe, does eventually nod off. Bodhi counts her breaths until he loses track, starts over again, repeats this cycle until the grit behind his eyes migrates down the back of his neck, his spine, his arms and legs, everywhere skin stretches over muscle. He flexes his fingers and toes to keep from going mad with it, but soon that's not enough to suppress to urge to vibrate right out of his bones.

Jyn's half-turned away in sleep, and Bodhi finishes the job. He sits on the edge of their bed for a minute, running blunt nails up and down his arms, trying to chase away the spiderfeet feeling of being too much, too little, too tight all at once. When he stands, it's because every ligament in his body has been strung taut for half an hour now.

Downstairs. Not-Cassian's decision to sleep on the couch was as obvious as it was unspoken. Bodhi...hasn't allowed himself to think about that, yet. He hadn't expected the man to crawl in with him, but he doesn't like not knowing where he is, what he's doing, how he's coping, if he's taking good care of his borrowed body. He lets those surface concerns tug him downstairs, half-formed thoughts of making sure he found a pillow and blanket guiding his steps in the dark.

For the better part of a week now, he's haunted his own home at night. Or been haunted in turn by this phenomenon. Bodhi knuckles at his eyes, fetches a blanket from the hall closet, and murmurs a quiet "calm, calm," to K, the way he so often does on his walkabouts.

He does pause for a moment, considering his odds of being flipped into the coffee table by a disgruntled spy, but 3am is closing in fast once again, and Bodhi is all out of fucks to give. He shakes the blanket open and drapes it over the man stretched out on his couch.

[seenitbefore]

The warmth, the weight, the texture of the throw against his skin, pull him out of sleep. He's still curled up, tucked into a narrow space that might as easily be a moonbase bunk as his old hideout in the corner by Rex's couch. It's quiet, he hears someone breathing -

Cassian blinks and stirs, and then his heart swoops dizzyingly. His own house. His own living room, the familiar crocheted zigzag afghan tickling his nose, and his husband - he doesn't bother finishing the thought, just grabs for Bodhi's hands, getting tangled in the blanket in the process.

"Hey," he says, breathless as if he's been running, "hey, hi, c'mere--"

[callsign_rogueone]

The uncoordinated sleepy thrashing is pure Cassian, but for all Bodhi knows it could be a Cassian thing that transcends realities. He takes half a step back-

-and makes it no further, thanks to the hand swiping at his leg. It's clumsy, but the intent - don't go - comes across so clearly Bodhi can't move away, no matter which version of Cassian he's about to get. He reaches back, breath catching as fingers tangle with the cuff of his sleeve.

"You--" he starts, but then that's Cassian's bedhead and bleary face, and Cassian's gravelly midnight voice, and the way Cassian has of reassuring him two or three times just to be on the safe side. All familiar. All right. "It's you, oh, thank god."

Then he's on his knees beside the couch, hands simultaneously tangled up in his husband's and reaching for his face. He drops his forehead against Cassian's neck with a shudder.

[seenitbefore]

"Yeah," on a shaky exhale, "yeah." He gets an arm around Bodhi's shoulders and latches on tight, lands a fumbling kiss behind his ear. His Bodhi, silver in his hair and steady as a rock, solid and safe. "Yeah. God." Mismatched words crowd into his throat, but he swallows the rest of them down and just breathes for a minute. Safe. We're home.

Like he's never been away. Like he's been gone for years. Like he's still lost, somehow, in the snow, in the bloody night, in the grim tunnels in the rock of a distant star.

When he can trust his voice again, he murmurs, "I'm so sorry."

[callsign_rogueone]

"Why? God, why, don't be." Is he laughing? Hissing in anger? Shaking with some unnameable overflow of emotion? Even Bodhi doesn't know, can't spare the mental bandwidth when Cassian is solid and too-warm from sleep and here.

Here, where Bodhi can press his face into his pulse, scrape his palms against his stubble, thumb at the hair curling in front of his ears. Not 24 hours earlier, he'd woken wrapped around a stranger, had kissed their spine and their neck unknowingly.

Shuddering, he tilts Cassian's face between his hands and kisses him, hungry and searching, a question chasing an answer. How much time do they have? What's the best way to spend it? Why is this happening at all? What will it take to set all that aside for a little while?

[seenitbefore]

Cassian rubs between his shoulder blades, steady as he can. "Shhh, it's okay, it's--" The kiss cuts him off, welcome interruption (because what is he even saying, it's not okay, how can any of this be okay), a surge of heat forcing the chill out from under his skin. His breath catches with it, as the fingers of his free hand catch in Bodhi's hair and curve against his nape. Safe. I've got you. Don't go.

Keep me here.

He tries to say it without words, without putting another inch of space between them, but the angle is awkward and the blanket keeps getting in the way, and he breaks the kiss long enough to gasp, "Come here, just--"

[callsign_rogueone]

The blanket was a terrible idea, and the Bodhi of ten minutes ago should be ashamed. The Bodhi of now grunts "Right, yes," and pushes off his knees. One pops, and pops again when he pulls the blanket down and climbs onto the couch. The protesting knee slides between the cushion and Cassian's hip as he straddles his husband's lap and leans back down to take up the kiss again.

This is better; chest to chest, Cassian's hand splayed between his shoulder blades, trading slick breaths in the dark. Like this, he can let the desperation bleed out of the kiss, settle into a rhythm of rocking new ones against Cassian's mouth.

[seenitbefore]

"Easy, easy, careful," distractedly. This is a terrible idea, really, they're both going to be stiff in the morning even if they don't wake up the bird. But he's so warm.

No one touches his other self, he's already learning, not even in passing, not even the damn robot. He didn't realize how much it was getting to him until just now. Bodhi's wiry weight pins him in his own body, sane and familiar, the way they've always fit together, all three of them, interlocking, perfect, and Bodhi's mouth tastes faintly of Jyn's weird fruity toothpaste and somehow that's the thing that sets Cassian shuddering in his turn. He curls his hand tight in the back of Bodhi's shirt and presses him closer, closer. Kisses him like a plea.

[callsign_rogueone]

No longer being allowed to touch has wound Bodhi tighter with every passing hour. Not that he's been pining for this - hands skating under Cassian's shirt, thumbing over the dips of his ribs and the ridges of tensing muscle - specifically, but checking himself before brushing shoulders, handing off dishes, or hipchecking for space at the bathroom sink, he's had to be mindful of all of it.

It makes him want to disappear. He might, if he didn't have Jyn, and the kids. If he were trying to make sense of this alone, to hold it together without help or purpose...

"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs between kisses, rucking Cassian's shirt up as far as he can without physically detaching to pull it over his head. His hands roam Cassian's sides, restless, doublechecking all the sure spots they've mapped over the years. "You're here, not going anywhere."

He's always had a bit of trouble with the brain-to-mouth filter in the heat of the moment.

[seenitbefore]

He had some vague notion of restraint, to begin with. The slide of Bodhi's knowledgeable hands under his shirt blows that resolution all to hell; skin contact cannot wait. Cassian fumbles a bit, fingers shaking in his rush to return the favor, and then his palm slots into place against the base of Bodhi's spine and it's like closing a circuit: everything lights up. For a second he can't breathe, can't see, can't do anything but need.

Another kiss buoys him up, unlocks his lungs. He sighs into it, drags his hand gently up the ridge of Bodhi's back, working the hairtie out of his straggling ponytail with the other.

>>

[callsign_rogueone]

Once, in an after-hours barracks debate, Bodhi'd cited couch sex as the only plausible evidence for intelligent design. All those hormones and endorphins and oxytocin swimming around in the brain and blood, and for what purpose? So two human beings can ignore one another's elbows and knees and ribs and chins long enough to share space on a narrow strip of cushions, that's what.

Been a while since he'd thought about that particular conversation. Been almost as long since he's been in a position to think about it - life with kids and pets doesn't facilitate a lot of freeform sex - but it drifts to mind now, as he tugs the scratchy afghan over his and Cassian's shoulders and wedges his calf a little more firmly between Cassian's knees.

"Ow," he chuckles, somewhere in the negative space between his husband's neck and ear and tickling hair. "Too old for this."

[seenitbefore]

"Yeah," on a contented sigh. "Probably."

His hands haven't stilled for a moment, except those few weightless, endless heartbeats before he settled back into his own skin, and he has no intention of starting now. Partly it's a nagging, irrational urge to make sure Bodhi's still there, still in one piece, himself and nobody else, but partly he's just luxuriating. "I missed you."

Which is also irrational; but God...

[callsign_rogueone]

Stillness would be bad. It could mean sleep, which has so far been the trigger behind this displacement problem. The 24 hour routine has held so far, but two exchanges doesn't make a pattern. Bodhi palms circles against Cassian's lower back, other hand carding clumsily through his hair; it's late and the feeling hasn't quite come back to his legs yet.

"I miss you," Bodhi sighs, stressing the tense. "You've just come back, and I already--"

[seenitbefore]

"I'm here. I'm right here." Though a yawn sneaks up on him even so; he feels simultaneously as though he's slept for days and as though he's barely slept at all. He stifles it against Bodhi's shoulder, follows up with a kiss. "It's okay. We're okay."

[callsign_rogueone]

"I know we are." That much isn't in doubt. The 'we' is stable, Bodhi's worried about Cassian in the singular. Waking up without them, in alien surroundings. Holding the fear and bewilderment in on his own.

Bodhi has Jyn, here with him. If the ledge he's clinging to in all this gets too thin, she'll be here to haul him up to the next handhold. And vice versa. But Cassian...

He sits up on his elbows and leans over Cassian, a blur of shadows and eyeshine beneath him. "But we need to think this through. For when...if you're not here. I just don't know where to start with any of it."

[seenitbefore]

Cassian sobers, the afterglow ebbing into a faint chill like an echo of snowfall, like the breath of a cave gaping at his back, ready to swallow him again. "I don't either," he says quietly, and reaches up to loop both arms around Bodhi's ribs, anchoring himself. "I don't - I can't do anything, that's the shitty part, I don't get a choice or any warning or--"

[callsign_rogueone]

"I know," Bodhi says, again, uselessly, "And we don't know why. Or for how long."

He trails off, lowers himself down so most of his weight pins Cassian against their (defiled!!! a voice that might be Neph's or might be K's screams) couch, rests his forehead against the bridge of Cassian's nose. "I keep thinking, on this side of things you're safe. Even if it's not you, we can keep the rest of you safe. But when you're over--out--there, in that fight..."

[seenitbefore]

This maneuver leaves him ideally placed for Cassian to kiss his nose. "So far I just sit in my room all day. Pretend to be practicing my ciphers or whatever. It's not like I'm out there with the Klingons shooting lasers at me."

[callsign_rogueone]

A grumble works its way from Bodhi's throat, creases his brows and scrunches his nose beneath the kiss. "You joke, but that's exactly what I keep thinking." he says. "This other person - shit, god, we need to come up with something to call him - he's dangerous. I don't see him hanging back if this goes on forever. "

And if Other Cassian puts himself in a situation where their Cassian wakes up under fire, where the unthinkable happens, there's no assurance the right consciousnesses will be shuffled back to their appropriate bodies.

It's possible Bodhi's thought this through a couple thousand times.

[seenitbefore]

"Yeah, see." His voice sharpens, comes into focus. "You wonder why I'm worried about you guys the whole time, stuck with Creepy Space Me." You're never sorry, Bodhi's halting voice says in his memory, soft and sour.

I need to think them through. Orders, I mean. You, you let me.

God.

He tightens his arms around his Bodhi, solid and reassuringly steady on top of him. "He's scared of him - the guy, the - the other you..."

[callsign_rogueone]

Bodhi presses a kiss to the bridge of Cassian's nose. "Not that kind of dangerous. Erm. Well, yes, that kind, but I'm not worried there. Jyn and I can handle it, and if this keeps up, we can...call your dad?" He squeezes at the back of Cassian's neck, working his thumb in beside the stiff tendon. "I asked Creepy Space You about any triggers, because of the kids. I think he understood."

Some of the assurance he'd felt after that strange (and awkward, can't ever forget the awkwardness of spooning some other man in his husband's body. That's going to be one of those intrusive thoughts that keeps him awake at night several decades from now) conversation the other night fades away. Cassian's squeeze is just shy of bruising, and the things he chooses to share about that other reality are chilling. "Oh. I--other me--he's young, though. There was a time you were intimidating to me, too."

[seenitbefore]

"I know you can, I just--" He squirms at the pressure, but some of the tension in him shudders loose again. "Mmh." And laughs, reluctantly, because this is never not funny to him. "Yeah, big tough me with all my shit together, no wonder."

(He knows Bodhi is right in this - they do need to face this, discuss it, be smart about it - but that doesn't make it any less daunting.)

[callsign_rogueone]

"Your resting bitchface was a force to be reckoned with," Bodhi smirks. He wishes the term had existed back then, not that his 24 year old self would have had the guts to use it, at first.

"Although, I don't know, everything I'm hearing about that place is...grim." he allows himself to settle back down fully, weight half pressing into Cassian and half digging into the couch cushions at his back. He lets his head rest on Cassian's shoulder and keeps on dragging fingers through his hair, frowning pensively. "He told me Neph's there, too. Not Djem, thank god, but I--I don't want any of what I'm hearing to be real."

[seenitbefore]

"Neph?" incredulously. "Neph and not Djem, that's - I don't know what to make of that." His magpie child, in all those endless tunnels. A shiver creeps up his spine.

He blots out that image deliberately, focusing for a moment on Bodhi's hand in his hair, the space of warm breath between them. Here. Safe. "What--" He forces it past the sudden clench in his throat. "What else did he say? This time?" He centers his palm between Bodhi's shoulder blades, digs his fingers in gently, and tries to ignore the crawling in his stomach. "If he's been trying to scare you, I'll - I don't know. Give him the mother of all hangovers."