Chapter Text
For once the only voice Bob hears is his own. It's softer than he expects, a faint vibration in his throat that travels up to resonate between his ears. Warm fluid encircles his body, churning and looping, rising and falling in the current. A perfect little cocoon where nothing can reach him.
It reminds him of his childhood bed and how he used to lie there for hours beneath the tangle of sheets that masked the threads pointing every which way. From the open window he'd imagine the wind carrying away the noise.
Years passed before he realized others didn't face the same visual and auditory barrage that pounded his mind. Day was easier. Distractions abounded, but at night, the nightmares wouldn't cease. His parents thought he was being dramatic, acting out for attention, and boy, was he punished for that. Eventually he learned to keep his mouth shut. Who in their right mind would believe a kid? Kids lie all the time, Bob included. About his homework. About how much he liked Aunt Linda's Corellian apple pie. Lies, lies, lies.
So he kept it inside, let it slip out only occasionally, and then he didn't let it out at all because there was no point. The purpose of that gold line had always eluded him. Bad or worse. Robbed or assaulted. Nothing mattered. Nothing changed.
But then, as if by some mystifying, unifying force, the voice appeared. It was different than this one, taunting, more emphatic, yet clearly recognizable as his own. So loud Bob had no choice but to believe it, and why wouldn't he?
Jump. Do it and you're free. There's no other way.
He was going to. He was so close.
But here…it's weird. The urgency is gone here. The lines—gone. There is no claustrophobia, no crushing weight or the desperate cries of every sentient being in existence. There is only quiet, and bubbles, and darkness.
"Ryland…Ryll." Bob stops in his tracks and casts a look at Yelena like he's stumbled upon something profound, eyes widening in that disarmingly intense way. "Is that why you—? I-I didn't…I hadn't made that connection."
She rolls her eyes and yanks his arm to pull him free from the morning rush crossing the street in the business district. It's been a full week and he's barely putting it together? "Okay, so it wasn't creative. I was working with what I had. Can you blame me?"
"Yeah, but Ryland and Jeela? What is that, like a band or something? Not exactly our vibe with the way we're dressed, y'know?"
"Jeela's an old standard. You should have told me before. It's too late to change names now."
"We've mostly met strangers. It's not like they'll remember us or anything," he says, looking both ways as they hurry past landspeeders stopped in traffic. "That one guy yesterday? We went to school together for a couple of years, sat next to each other in math class. He couldn't pick me out in a lineup."
Yelena puffs out a breath and watches it dissipate into the air. "Not everyone thinks like that. I never forget a face, and there are a lot more people like me than you'd think. Undercover, you've got to operate like everything you say or do will be used against you. Because it will."
"I thought you weren't bounty hunting anymore," he says in a low voice.
Not the same thing. "We don't know who we're up against. It could be anyone. Val has eyes and ears in a lot of places. The people you introduced me to—we can't stay with them anymore. I know you like them but it's too risky. They could give us away without realizing it."
"Yeah, well, what choice do we have? They've already seen us."
On one of the massive skyscraper walls, a hologrammed human newscaster for the local news channel, the Coronet City Info (or CCI as it's displayed), drones on about the latest planetary developments. Yelena can picture their faces plastered there just as easily. Officially O.X.E. Group has no connection with the First Order, but she's sure the massive amounts of money exchanged have bought them leeway.
"If we win today, we'll be set for a while," she says, tearing her eyes away. There have been no new developments on Resistance hideouts, and while Bob's friends have given them food and a place to stay, they're still dirt poor. "I'm pretty good at sabacc. We can skip a step—dump the Belova and win a new one. I assume you're okay with screwing over gamblers. Cheating is part of the game. It's expected."
Bob, looking wary, remains silent as he guides them toward the entrance of an underground railway station. No cheating here. Droids monitor the turnstiles, so they wait their turn and scan their tickets. Another two or three credits gone. Juni Street station is too far to walk.
Making a beeline toward the Yellow Line, they manage to slip into a subway car before the doors shut. It's a tight squeeze. A little girl sitting in front of Yelena gives her a shy wave while her mother, dressed in long robes, touches up her makeup using a compact. Yelena waves back with her free hand.
She and Bob are sharing a strap. Their hands brush and their shoulders jostle into each other as the subway car accelerates. The cockpit incident feels like a lifetime away. Batuu does, too.
"This is our stop," he says after a while, and they're not the only ones to get off. Early morning or not, casinos never close. "The nicer places have bigger payouts, but that means they won't let us in without proof we can place a bet. A few hundred credits, minimum. And credits, not, like, stuff. They're locked down so we can forget about going the back way or whatever."
There goes Yelena's plan to slip in unnoticed.
"How do you know this?" she demands, catching up as they reach the long set of escalators leading up. "You're not holding out on me, are you? Oh my god, the lines! The lines can help us. Right? You have to have tried it before."
He looks stunned at the suggestion. "Actually…no. Whenever I was short on credits, I played on my own. I told you, following them always led to something bad."
"But it also led us here, right? We haven't been captured. Maybe all of your options have been terrible, and following them to the end is the only way to get where you're supposed to be." Guaranteed shelter, a warm cot. Yelena knows for a fact he's been sleeping better since they landed on Corellia.
He grabs at his neck in that nervous habit of his. "No, I—you could be right. I've never thought of it like that before."
Maybe all of this is meaningless and he needs to believe it for it to work. Exiting onto the street level, Yelena musters up a smile. "So what do you say? You could even name her if you want, choose where to go on her maiden voyage, even if technically she wouldn't be a—well, if she's new, she would be. And if she's not, we can pretend. Smash a bottle on the front like they do with surface ships"
"What about the Belova? You'd just leave her there?"
Yelena's about to say that of course she would, that piece of shit is not the worth the maintenance bay it's probably parked in, but she can tell that it's entirely the wrong thing to say. "Retirement on Corellia would be nice. We can make sure she gets into the hands of someone who will take care of her in her old age. Your friends—I'm sure they'd appreciate it."
"Oh, we're not really friends," he says, and then turns pink around the ears. "I mean, they're nice and all, but…in this life, you don't really have friends. It's more like…I don't know."
"People in the lifestyle," she says, nodding. "Like a built-in set who understand but they don't…. really understand. Not you, specifically. What you've been through."
"And you can't get too attached because, like, people leave all the time. There are groups. Like communes and stuff. But I've never really been the type to…it's easier on my own."
During those two years with her fake family, Yelena had a sister. Natalia, she was called. Natasha for short. She was a little older, old enough to know it wasn't real. They met up a while back, clashed for a bit. Then she left. Died right before the Widows were freed, even helped with the escape from what Yelena had heard from the others. The news barely registered. It was no different than Alexei and Melina, who are very much alive but not in contact. If any of them had wanted to be in Yelena's life, they would have done it already.
Up ahead, a cluster of casinos with no shortage of neon signs and massive façades competes for the attention of every sucker on the street. They pick one without a bouncer and enter. It's full of old folks mostly, geezers who can barely breathe while betting away their life savings. Pretty young things hand out drinks like candy and dance on elevated platforms to a pulsing beat. The lack of windows helps sell the illusion.
It's not her scene, not Bob's either, but it's a start. Zinbiddle is a given. So is Binspo. Any card game, really. Droid-fighting and the like is a young people's game, and Yelena has never been one to gamble when the outcome is out of her hands.
They settle on a table playing the Corellian Spike variation of sabacc. With sixty-two cards compared to the typical seventy-six, they're easier to count. The other main differences are the use of spike dice and the ultimate goal of a zero hand. It's enough of a challenge.
Yelena's blaster and Bob's daggers (she supposes they belong to Bob now) are their only big ticket items, so they opt for other items on their person—a leather bag for the game pot and an old chronometer for the sabacc pot. They get dealt a single hand and the first round begins.
After the first two face-down cards, the dealer presents each player's spike card, visible to everyone, and she can see the gears turning in Bob's head as his eyes quickly dart around the table. Not having observed long enough to count properly, it's unlikely they'll win. Possibly for that reason he chooses to buy a card with another small item he produces: a ring Yelena has never seen before. The card must not help his hand since it gets discarded.
More bets are placed. On the second round, rolling the dice results in double spikes, with all players having to discard and redraw.
Minus eight, plus two, minus nine. A shit hand.
"We should fold," Yelena mutters under her breath. Their chances were decent before, impossible now, but Bob shakes his head.
"No, this is good. I think I have it figured out."
"But we've only seen half of them at most," she points out. " The sylops are out, sure, but what about the rest?"
"We bluff, throw in more," he says, determined. She can see why Bob chose to return to Corellia. It's subtle, but there's a shift in the way he carries himself. Home isn't "home" so much as it is the place he knows best. "If the others discard, we'll get the pot. If they don't, we hope for another double spike in the next round, or at least two of the same kind. And if we still lose, I'll have it figured out by the next game. Get the whole sabacc pot, too. Exactly zero. They'll think we're idiots for wanting to play again."
A secondary school dropout who can count cards better than her, who can reason. Strategize like a pro. Why is she not surprised? The last round sees him dig into his pockets for more stuff, and that's enough to for two players to rise from their chairs in defeat, their cards now face-up for the rest to see. Three challengers remain.
Bob declines the option to buy a card when it comes up again. It won't help.
The dice roll. No matching symbols, which means the cards stay the same. The four of them reveal their hands, and the winner is an older man who looks like he's been around the block a few times. Glareshades that cover his eyes, gloves like they improve his grip. Silvery hair spills out of a bizarre hat, brimmed but with a hole in the middle to expose his head. He grunts and a server sets down a drink as he collects his winnings—the game pot only since his cards total one. Thank god for that at least.
"I won't lose this time. Throw in the blaster," Bob says, rolling up his sleeves as her prepares for the next game.
Yelena's hand flies to her holster defensively. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there. Shouldn't we save it for later? It's the best thing we've got. I'll give you my jacket. Here, actually—" She pulls out her own pair of gloves, fingerless. The same one she's had for years. "These are worth something."
"The line is pointing here. Like right here, this exact table." Pulling out both daggers, he shoots her a grin, boyish and bright, and places one in each pot. Not so subtle anymore. "We're gonna win this thing. You can trust me, Yelena."
Her own words ring back at her, lightly mocking. Two weeks ago, she wouldn't have known if he lived or died. Now she'd do anything to see that smile again.
What would Sonya say? Yelena pictures the Widow circling a nervous Bob to determine the verdict. Cute crinkly eyes. Sad puppy boy thing.
Nice ass. Endlessly fuckable, Sonya would add, much to his embarrassment.
Yeah, that checks out.
"Alright, , show me what you've got." Yelena grins back. "Remember what's at stake here. Actually, let's start with that. Steak. A good dinner. You owe me for all those rations you ate."
"Don't know if there's enough to cover that, but I'll try," he replies, glancing at the game pot. Assorted credits and a lot of miscellaneous items, but that should get their foot in the door. More people gather to join.
The man from earlier is still there, poker-faced, another drink gulped down. Next to him sit two tourists who are clearly learning how to play, plus a wild card of an alien who keeps to himself and his similarly specied companion. There are enough cards in the discard pile that they can be sure the next game will result in a reshuffle. Now or never.
As the player on the dealer's left, Bob gets dealt in first, and the game begins.
Minus seven. Minus two. Plus five for the spike card.
"You should hold," Yelena tells him when she sees the hand. "If my math is right, there are more negatives than positives left. There's still two plus threes, a triangle and a circle, but odds are good that they're sitting with shades over there."
Bob places the two cards face-down on the table. "I was thinking the same. "
The spike dice are rolled, and it's looking like two of the same symbol until the last second. They both sigh in relief. The hand remains.
Both tourists are out at the end of the second round, but their seats are taken by latecomers who seem more than eager to play. One more round to go. The dealer goes around again, and a plus four gets added to their hand.
Exactly zero.
Yelena's bottom lip catches on her teeth. Can they hold it?
"I want to inspect the dice," she tells the dealer, and he hesitates before shoving them her way.
"Don't remove them from view."
They weigh heavy on her palm, bronze, worth a pretty penny on the market, and she makes a show of turning each one over as deliberately as possible. To Bob, she whispers, "Look at the sides. Study them. When he rolls, think of a result you want, one symbol for each die. Picture it clearly in your head, then make it happen."
He scoffs, but covers it with a cough. "That's not how it works. I can't move things with my mind, remember?"
"Don't think about what you can and can't do. Just do it."
"Yelena, it's not going to—"
"They're legitimate," she declares to the others. Her palm closes, and she releases the dice on the table. "I found nothing wrong with them."
"Of course they're legitimate. We're a reputable establishment," the dealer snaps. "Anyone else?"
Shades doesn't react. The alien and his companion exchange glances, but say nothing.
"Final round. Two of the same face, and all active playerse must discard two cards. Double spikes and it's the entire hand redrawn." With a single movement his wrist flicks to pick up the dice and toss them in the air.
Bob's breath audibly catches, and Yelena's heart does a little hop in response. There's almost nothing riding on this, yet it feels like the most important thing in the world. The dice land, roll for a bit before settling.
A circle and a square.
Chairs pull pack, hands get slapped down on the table, but Yelena doesn't notice. Her eyes are pinned on Bob, on the astonishment taking root on his face. The corners of his mouth lift, poised to take flight. Unconsciously she's come to associate him with blue, the color of oceans and rainclouds and life. Vast. Destructive. But in this moment, his eyes shine a liquid gold.
It shouldn't be possible to feel like this. Widows aren't supposed to get butterflies. If Yelena's not careful, she might give herself away. His blush would be deeper than hers, and then where would they be?
Bob turns his card over to reveal his hand, and the dealer announces him as the winner. Yelena moves to collect the game pot winnings. There's a holonet show she watches when she's bored, where people present junk they've found at markets and swap meets. An appraiser tells them a broken pot is actually an Old Republic-era piece worth a hundred thousand credits. They'll have a time going through it tonight.
As she turns to collect the larger prize, she collides with a body. Warm and solid. He smells woodsy even though they used the same odorless bar of soap.
Bob is not sure how long he's been here. Time in between the slivers of lucidity is lost to him. He almost opens his eyes before remembering that it's an unpleasant feeling, though how he knows that, he can't explain. The space around him is not completely freeing; a long cord is attached to his face in some manner. Every once in a while his bare arm brushes against it. His feet are bare, too, and his chest. Someone put him here.
There's something else. He feels like something bad happened, or he did something bad? A person he's forgetting, someone very important to him.
"S-Sory," Bob stammers, pulling away, and Yelena's a little disappointed. She thought he might have gone in for a hug. "I figured you might need help with—it's a lot stuff. And I just wanted to…um, I want to thank you. For believing in me."
"I'm the one that should be thanking you," she replies, brushing off his jacket for no reason at all. "The sabacc pot alone is more than enough to get us through to the better casinos."
"About that. I hate to kill the momentum, but I need to find a supplier soon. It's been a while."
There's an unspoken agreement between them: don't ask, don't tell. Yelena asks anyway. "How long?"
The hesitation in the lines of his body is its own response, the slight shrinking of his posture as if he's bracing himself for impact.
"Hey, you'll get no judgment from me. I have my own ball and chain. I'm just lucky your people are heavy drinkers," she says.
She doesn't add that she knows how Bob's addiction started, how he had no choice. Yelena's came after she was freed. No excuse at all.
"Two days," he mutters. "I went as low as I could this week. Sharing a couch…hell...giving someone the shirt off your back is less of an imposition."
"For them or for you?"
"We were already eating their food for free. How could I ask for anything else? Like I said, they aren't my friends."
"Am I your friend? You said I could trust you." She tilts her head, lets her eyes rest on Bob's mouth. A line forms between his brows, and his tongue slips out to wet his lips.
"Uh…"
Wrong answer. Sighing, Yelena takes an empty pouch and grabs as many silver ingots as can fit, not bothering to count them. She hands him the whole thing. "How you choose to spend your cut is up to you. There's more than enough here to buy my steak later."
"I thought your goal was a new ship?" he says, peeking inside.
That almost makes her smile. "Baby steps, . A couple hundred credits won't make a difference. I'll wait for you here, yeah? One or two more games, and then we'll decide where to head next." Any reservations she has are masked by the lightness she keeps in her voice.
Take the money and run.
He nods, his dark eyes appreciative. Yelena thought it was only hazel eyes like hers that changed in the light. Or maybe she's seeing things. "I'll be back in a couple of hours at most. Don't…um…if we get separated…."
"I'll be here. I'll wait for you."
Another nod. There's a sense that he wants to say more, but it's lost the moment a server wearing too little for such a cold room offers them drinks. Yelena accepts, of course—they're on the house, and in a place like this, both of them leaving so quickly might arouse suspiciion. Bob shifts his weight around before murmuring a goodbye. She watches him go, the way he turns to look back at her once he reaches the entrance. As if it's the customs line all over again.
The lime green drink's tart flavor hits Yelena's tongue. How much of her will be dulled once he returns? How much has she missed when things have gotten heavy between them? A few nights ago, they'd stayed up making plans for the second leg of their trip, and it'd slowly morphed into a recounting of how Bob had escaped his family. That led her into talking about her own escape, and having him listen, the sympathy written on his face—it was too much.
So she'd knocked back a few drinks as she kept going, relaxing a little. And then she'd realized he was high and would probably forget what they'd talked about, too. He has this sometimes, he'd explained, these moments where he'll forget. It made her feel better then but it makes her feel infinitely worse now. There they were outside the subway earlier today talking about friendships when she was pretty sure they'd discussed that very thing before.
What a stupid, stupid dilemma. The whole point of having someone is so they're there during the bad parts. If this were anyone else she wouldn't mind him hearing the whole depressing story, but Bob? Why saddle him with more? The Anya thing was terrifying enough.
When he returns—and he does return, right around the two hour mark like he said—she's little drunker, a little richer. As it turns out, her fellow patrons are easy to swindle; it's the dealers she has to watch out for. They don't like when you win too much, too fast, so she has to pace herself.
At noon they grab lunch at a nearby spot before heading over to the big leagues. It could be the alcohol and ryll hitting, but she and Bob are unstoppable. They waltz in next to women in fur coats like they belong, and stand beside men betting tens of thousands of credits as they laugh and smoke. They pass diamond-lined rooms staffed by even more bouncers—the VVIP—and continue on as if nothing.
She's been to places like this, on the other side, in slinky low-cut dresses and her hair all swirled up. She remembers the ache of her feet as she'd stand in stilletos for hours, touching up her lipstick inside bathrooms worth more than a small moon. It was wild the information people would let slip to a pretty face willing to listen. If she did it now they'd pick up a ship that much faster, but there's something about the thrill of doing it their way: Bob and Yelena's. Ryland and Jeela's.
In the end, they walk away with sixteen thousand liquid credits, plus all the loot from the first location. All in all not bad for eight hours of work. The thing about gambling is that the winnings are exponential. Tomorrow they'll double it, then triple it, and so on. The only limit is being seen, so they'll have to be strategic about that. Fresh clothes, another casino, a new name. If anyone can do it, it'll be them.
To celebrate they book a room at an adjacent hotel, which has the added benefit of access to a super-secret area of a different, even fancier casino (VVVIP? How far does it go?). Two large beds, a living area with a sleek velvet couch, and floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the glittering Corellian skyline, now a midnight blue.
Bob emerges from the refresher having used the sole toothbrush from the complimentary amenity kit, because there's only ever one, and, as Yelena has come to expect, he looks hesitant.
"I'll take the living room. The drinks in the cooling unit are bought and paid for," she tells him, glancing over her shoulder. While it's closer to the exit, which she knows he likes, the bedroom offers far more privacy and is lockable from the inside. If he prefers it the other way around, she's fine with that, too.
"Actually, I was thinking I could join you for a bit, if you can spare one for me."
Yelena can't use his nickname in times like this. Only his real name will do.
"Bob," she says, drawing it out he knows she means business. "Of course you can have a drink. You can have more than one. Have all of them. They'll bring up more if we call. The datapad's right there."
His eyes flick to the steadily building pile of empty glass bottles on the coffee table, then he gingerly takes a seat next to where Yelena's sitting criss-cross on couch, her socked feet sticking to the fabric. As a gesture of goodwill she untwists a cap and hands him a fresh bottle. He takes slow, tentative sips, and they watch ships go by in the skylanes that stack higher than the building.
"Yelena," he begins after a long pause as if doing the same with her name. Condensation from the bottle slides down his hand and drips onto his lap. "What's the uh…what's the end goal here—between us and, well, everything?"
Hasn't she made that clear? Yelena pulls up her legs and turns to face him. "I know it's slow going, but give it another week. We have enough money to sleep here for as long as we want, and you can get your fix without asking. Buy a month's supply or whatever. The harder stuff. And we'll have a brand new ship soon. I promise it'll be worth it in the end."
He sighs heavily. "No, I mean after that."
"After that, we…" She trails off, her head going fuzzy for a second. Will she remember this? Will Bob remember this? "You'll come with me to the next planet, and we'll hide out there. Somwhere comfortable. Not…Jakku is out. Not a desert planet or a dangerous place. Similar to Coruscant or here, where they can't find us."
"That's not what we agreed on."
The bottle is out of his hands, on top of the glass part of the coffee table, and she can tell which one it is because he's barely touched it. Wood edging, no coasters. She'll have to be careful not to damage anything.
"What did we agree on?" she manages, nausea beginning to coil in her stomach. Dinner was just some hors d'oeuvres that were passed around—seafood. Shellfish. Next to a Mon Calamari of all people.
"Um, I don't really…I'm not sure. That you'd take me wherever I wanted to go, I think, but it would just be...it's better if I'm on my own. If you're on your own, too. I'm only holding you back."
Oh. He's trying to—Ryland and Jeela. He doesn't feel the same way, obviously. That's why he's so put out. An alcohlic and an addict. What a terrible combination. Yeah, he's probably figured that out. Tears sting Yelena's eyes, and she wipes them away angrily before they fall.
Fine, she can accept that, but she has to know: was it her? Did she read into this too much?
"You told me you were glad we met. Was that—were you lying? I mean, it's okay if you were. I just…I got the wrong idea."
The world tilts forty-five degrees, and now Bob's arms are on her shoulders as he rights her. His breath tickles her forehead as her head is leaned the other way, against the back of the couch. Twenty degrees. Where's the horizon?
"No, I wasn't—sorry, but I've gotta make sure you're okay first. How much have you had to drink?" he asks.
"Um, four or five since we got here," she moans through numb lips. The real amount is too mortifying to admit.
"You've been drinking all day. And that's your thing—I get that, and I have no right to cut you off or tell you not to do it, especially not since I—but that's too much, even for you. You're going to make yourself sick. And then…and then I'll be sick, too. You know, like last time."
She inhales sharply without meaning to. Woodsy. God, he smells so good. "But we won. We're celebrating."
"Now who's the one that needs to slow down?" He chuckles softly, and his voice is so warm she wants to drown herself in it. "Come on, I'll help you get to bed. It's not firm enough for me, so I'll take the couch tonight. Tomorrow, we'll….we'll talk about it. Figure something out. I think that two-headed monkey thing we got is worth a lot. There's a guy I know who would be interested, unless you want to take it with you. And, uh...that steak. Don't think I've forgotten about it. The best steakhouse in town is just around the corner."
A tear slips down Yelena's cheek. It's not hard to be alone when you have no alternatives.
She's guided to bed, but not before Bob makes her gulp down two glasses of water, places another on the nightstand, and drags a trash bin close in case she needs it. The covers get pulled up to her chin like Melina did when she was a little girl, and that brings up a host of suppressed memories to the surface. Bob grabs a box of tissues for her and turns off the light.
"I'll see you in the morning," he says. The door slides closed.
He knows where he is now. It's a tank, tall and cylindrical, just large enough to hold his body upright. Although he hasn't seen it, hasn't opened his eyes, he knows the bacta fluid has a bluish tint. He's figured out what's strapped to his face, that the ribbed cord coiled under his left arm is part of it. He knows who he's forgotten.
The respirator jams up when he thinks of her. It makes his heart rate spike. Suddenly his limbs want to be anywhere but here. In jerky, frantic movements, he tries to hurl himself against the tank walls. Tries to break free. Once. Twice. Three times. Is he even moving? Bob can't tell, but he has to try. Not for his sake, for hers, to make sure she's alright. The voice—the nice one—urges him on.
They must be watching because a foul tasting gas trickles through the respirator. Up his nostrils and down to his lungs, a fog sweeping through him. It strikes him that this sensation is familiar, too. It's happened before. Over and over again.
Bob's consciousness begins to slip away, but not before sending out a final message into the void, willing himself to remember.
Yelena. He has to see Yelena.