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Bodhi’s stint in the Rebellion was going almost too well so far. After the escape from Scarif, the destruction of the Death Star, and the inevitable “Who are you really? Why are you here? Are you sure you’re not a spy?,” he had begun working in the maintenance hangar. Surrounded by nothing but astromech droids and techs who didn’t care who he was as long as he could fix a fighter, he felt grounded. At ease. He could fix most ships well enough (Imperials had that going for them at least, if not ethics), and after the excitement, as Chirrut called it, of the last weeks, he embraced the time to be alone with his work.
There had been memorial services for those lost on Jedha, Scarif, and Alderaan. They were spaces to mourn family and friends, to share the grief of being one of the last Jedhans, and to shoulder the immense responsibility that he and the Guardians now carried.
For the Death Star, however, there had only been celebrations. It could have been Bodhi aboard the planet killer. He might have been assigned a cargo run and still been on the station—if he had continued to believe the Empire would prevail, or at least maintain its grip as long as citizens kept their heads down.
How many friends had he lost when Skywalker hit that shot? How many of his fellow recruits—those he’d drilled with, learned his trade with, bonded with—had been on the station? Not many would *still* call him a friend.
The maintenance hangar gave him space to sort through all of that: to feel his private grief for those lost (they were still people, decent people he believed in) and to process the guilt he carried from his roles in both the Empire and now the Alliance.
Chirrut shot him knowing looks, despite his blindness, which should have made it impossible. Baze had come to sit with him while Bodhi worked. They never exchanged words, not even many glances, but he was grateful for their quiet presence. He shifted slightly on his feet, flexing his hands, feeling the weight of their company.
Weeks had passed. Cassian had asked him to take him to meet a contact, despite Bodhi barely being cleared for active duty a fortnight prior. He stayed on the ship throughout the exchange. The flight itself was short, but it reignited his love of being in the cockpit. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the pull of the controls in his memory.
He had offhandedly mentioned this to Jyn in the mess when she asked how it had gone. Less than two hours later, Jake Farrell approached him. He asked if Bodhi wanted to be officially trained with the Alliance. Bodhi felt a quick pulse of excitement and a small grin tug at his lips.
His training didn’t include much, as he had already gone through Imperial instruction. Most of the time was spent with Farrell, helping him adjust to the Alliance now that he, too, had defected.
A smaller portion of the time was spent learning the new call signs (“No more making it up on the spot, Rook!”) and taking brief flights to prove his ability.
Yesterday, he had been provided with a flight suit and ordered to report to Green Squadron from then on. Bodhi had heard them on the comms during the flight off Scarif. They had sounded organized but friendly, and he had been proven right that morning when he met his new colleagues.
Lt. Shara Bey stood out, greeting him first and introducing him to the squad and his new ship: an RZ-1 A-wing interceptor, complete with a green stripe down the side marking him as one of the squad. He half-expected to wake up on Scarif at any moment and meet his death—or back at Saw’s base. He fidgeted slightly, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the pilot rank on his chest.
“Corporal Rook!”
His rank! He had an actual rank with meaning! He was someone sort-of important!
Bodhi turned to see Jyn stalk into the hangar, her truncheons swinging at her hips. She seemed flushed; perhaps she had come from helping train the new recruits or outclassing another Pathfinder.
Jyn stopped half a meter from him. In a weird turn of events, the normally stoic woman appeared to be fighting a smile.
“Good morning to you too, coming to see my newest ride?”
Jyn nodded but did not move her gaze from him. There was a slight shake to her shoulders—oh. Was she trying not to laugh?
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious, wiping blindly around his face.
“No, no, it’s just—do the pilots really wear bright orange?”
Oh, the suit. Bodhi looked down, realizing what was wrong. It wasn’t the dull greys and blacks of the Imperial Navy. In fact, it was the furthest thing from that—perhaps that was the point. He shifted his weight nervously, tugging slightly at the edges of the flight suit.
“What’s wrong with it? Does the color not suit me?”
This time, Jyn let the laugh that had been bubbling up escape. The noise bounced around his head, settling in his chest, warming the space between his ribs. She didn’t laugh often, so he treasured the moment, ducking his head slightly.
“Grown organics running around in bright orange is a funny image. I think I could see you from a moon on the other side of this system.”
Her eyes sparkled with the carefree joy that came all too rarely in this war. Determined to keep the mood going, Bodhi spun in a circle, arms out wide, making his ponytail swing, and felt a small thrill run through him.
“Surely you can see this is high fashion, Lt. Erso. Aren’t you jealous of this design?”
“I am.”
Both he and Jyn turned to see Cassian treading toward them, a smile playing at his eyes if not his lips. Bodhi straightened slightly, chest swelling with a quiet pride.
“I think I saw you all the way in Command,” Cassian remarked. Jyn rolled her eyes slightly, but Bodhi knew it was her way of showing fondness. She may rarely hug you (he had only hugged her once after Scarif) but gave out punches like candy. You just had to know her to understand. He was proud to be one of the few who did.
“Finally pull yourself away from Draven?” Jyn snarked.
“Just in time to see Vogue in person.” Cassian shot an approving look over Bodhi and raised an eyebrow. “Think I could get them as uniforms for the Pathfinders?”
“Pretty hard to hide if you’re bright, kriffing orange, Andor,” Jyn hit back.
“At least we can find you among your millions of weapons.”
The exchange made Bodhi laugh, a bark that seemed bigger than him, and he basked in the easy joy, letting his shoulders relax.
“We should leave our pilot to his toy, Jyn. I think I remember Chirrut asked to spar,” Cassian spoke with the casual authority that only he could command. Bodhi took it alongside Jyn’s laugh, letting the warmth settle in his chest. He felt a smile threatening to split his face as he lazily saluted the spy and thief away.
He was their pilot, after all.