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Bode wakes up not in his bed, which is immediately alarming, as is the pounding in his skull and the ache in his back. Not only is he not in his bed, but he’s fairly certain he’s not even indoors, with the way the heat of the sun is beating down on him. The last Bode remembers, he and Master Eekin were on Temple leave following their last mission. Bode is also fairly sure he was supposed to be at a sparring tournament for his Shien masterclass with Master Corobb this morning.
Well. Clearly that’s not happening anymore. Hopefully he wouldn’t lose any marks for missing it… although, as he comes to in a strange and unknown location, perhaps that’s not exactly the most pressing matter at hand right now.
Focus, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his Master’s echoes in his head. Examine your surroundings. Remain aware in the Force.
He blinks a few more times to help his vision stop swimming, and when his eyes finally focus, he is met with the face of a very, very pretty redhead. A very worried-looking pretty redhead, if the crease between the guy’s brows and his wide, wet eyes are anything to go by.
“Bode! Bode, talk to me. Are you okay?” the man asks, voice frantic. And, well, when all Bode can manage to get out of his mouth is a groan, he decides he’ll have to get back to him on the whole “okay” thing. Jury’s still out.
Did Bode know this guy? No, surely not. He thinks he’d remember a face like that. But he clearly knows Bode. Pretty Boy is either tricking him into gaining his trust— and he’s a damn good actor if that’s the case, it’s hard to fake such earnestness— or Bode’s lost at least a few hours of memories… if not a few days. Or weeks.
Before he can open that can of buzzworms, Bode feels what can best be described as a nudge against his presence in the Force, and he is suddenly quite keenly aware of the other man’s blazing light of a Force signature. Up against his own, it feels like the warmth of a fire near frostbitten fingers.
A very worried, very handsome, Jedi redhead, Bode amends. Likely a Knight, judging by the lack of a Padawan braid, but a young-looking one. He’s probably just a bit older than Bode is.
Bode grabs onto the other’s Force presence in much the same way he’d grab the line of a grappling hook— firmly, trusting it to hold his weight, just until he could climb up and hold it for himself.
He might not yet be cognizant enough to assess the situation for himself, but if another Jedi is here with him, then surely he’s safe— or, surely he’s stable enough to take a second and check if he’s safe.
The man lets out a hitched gasp at the way their Force presences press against each other, and Bode pushes over an inquiring message of hello-okay-safe?
Bode feels the sharp, sour taste of complete bewilderment from the other Jedi, before it’s quickly yanked back behind the man’s shields. The redhead then sends over a message of okay-worried-safe-for-now— damn, this guy is loud in the Force, had no one ever taught him how to use his indoor voice?— and as Bode touches at the tender side of his head and comes back with blood on his fingers, he gets the feeling that he’s the most pressing safety concern at the moment.
“What the fuck,” the man mutters, before taking a steadying breath. “Okay. We’re okay,” he says, seemingly more to himself than to Bode. “BD, do a medscan, please.”
Bode jumps a bit when he finally notices the little beeping droid on his other side, and scrambles upright entirely when he realizes that his head has been resting in the handsome stranger’s lap this entire time. Probably not a good sign if his situational awareness is that shot, huh?
He hisses through his teeth at the sudden movement, his head spinning. Sitting up too fast while you have a head wound— real smart move, Akuna.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy, Bode,” Redhead says, still kneeling next to him, and guiding him to rest his back against the base of a nearby rock. Even after he’s settled in place, the Jedi’s gloved hand doesn’t leave his shoulder. The guy is a constant steady stream of care-okay-concern-stay-calm in the Force, and Bode isn’t entirely sure if the other Jedi even intends to project his feelings consciously or if he’s just always like that, but he appreciates it nonetheless. His presence feels like sunshine, for lack of a better way to put it, and it has Bode’s tense, aching shoulders relaxing. “I’m just gonna have BD do a scan on you to see how bad the damage is, alright?”
Bode swallows, nods, then tries speaking again: “Alright.” Huh. His voice is definitely a bit rougher than it normally sounds, but at least he can get actual words out this time. He clears his throat again, just in case that’ll help.
The tiny droid— BD, apparently— lets out a bwoop-chirp in warning, and Bode quickly turns away before he’s blinded by the light of the scanner. He focuses on his own lap instead, and, huh, he’s not wearing his robes, is he? Pretty Boy’s not wearing Jedi robes either, come to think of it, though he does have a ‘saber hilt on his hip. Bode doesn’t. All of this is probably stuff he should’ve noticed sooner. Ha. Maybe he is a little concussed.
And, judging by the holo-projection BD emits of his body, which has a splotch in an alarming shade of red over the entire head area… yeah, he probably is. Go figure.
“That… doesn’t look great,” Bode tries. And again with the roughness in his voice— what is up with that? It makes him sound old.
“No, it really doesn’t,” the Jedi says, panic coming from him in droves just before his Force presence closes off entirely. Aw, and just when Bode was starting to get used to his warmth, too.
Red reaches into a pocket on his person, pulling out a clean cloth and what is probably a small bottle of antiseptic. Bode hisses at the initial sting from the man’s careful hands dabbing at his wound, his fingers digging into his thighs to offset the pain. Ouch. Better than an infection, though.
“I don’t have any bacta on me, sorry, but there should be some in my room at Pyloon’s. This looks worse than it is, I think,” says the stranger. It makes something in Bode’s stomach flip to have such attentiveness put towards him, the man’s pretty green eyes solely focused on tending to Bode’s injury.
“Where are we, anyways?” Bode asks. He figures the question is safe enough without completely giving away his less-than-stellar memory. As much as he trusts this other Jedi— something about his Force presence just feels so right— he still doesn’t know anything about him. Letting a stranger know his current greatest weakness is the kind of move that would have Master Eekin leering down at him in disappointment.
“In the basalt forest, near the rift,” he answers, as he switches out the antiseptic cloth for some medtape.
Well, that tells Bode just about nothing.
“On…?”
“On Koboh…” the Jedi says, the oh in Koboh being very drawn out, like he’s suddenly realized something quite important.
Ah. Kriff. That didn’t last very long. His Master must be having a Force aneurysm right about now, wherever he is.
The other man goes pale, an expression of sheer alarm lighting up his face. BD lets out a trill, and Bode doesn’t know Binary, but he’d bet that it meant something like oh, kark.
Bode can’t see his own face, of course, but if the heat in his cheeks is anything to go by, he must look pretty sheepish.
Hey, at least now that that’s out in the open…
“What’s your name again? Sorry. You clearly know me— but, uh, I seem to be… missing some stuff,” Bode says, twisting his lips into an embarrassed smile which he hopes comes across as endearing. Plus, he’s kind of tired of coming up with nicknames for him in his head.
“Cal. Cal Kestis,” the Jedi— Cal, man, he really does look like a Cal— says, slowly. Bode doesn’t need to feel him in the Force to know that he’s sorely disappointed at Bode’s memory, or lack thereof. Is he important to Cal, somehow? Are they friends? Or… maybe even something else?
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Cal asks, shuttering his expression until it’s carefully, deliberately neutral. That must be a remarkable feat for him, really; Bode’s known him all of twelve minutes, and he can already tell that Cal’s a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy.
“Being in the Temple with Master Eekin,” Bode answers. He has no reason to lie, after all, much less to another Jedi.
Cal’s mask stays in place, but Bode catches the bob of his adam’s apple when he swallows nervously.
“And… how old are you?”
“Nineteen,” Bode says.
That was clearly the wrong answer, because BD beeps shrilly and Cal’s eyes widen.
“Shit. How much time am I missing?” Bode isn’t panicking, and Bode won’t panic, but he is, maybe, just a bit distressed. Because, evidently, he’s not forgotten days, or weeks, or months— he’s missing years.
Of course, that moment is exactly when they hear blaster bolts fire off in the distance. What the kriff have he and Cal been up to that they’re potentially getting shot at?
“I’ll tell you everything later, Bode, I promise,” Cal says, and Bode believes him, even without the wave of steadfast assurance Cal sends through the Force. “But first, we need to get back to the saloon.” Cal gets to his feet, BD crawling onto his shoulder like the droid was built to perch there, before leaning halfway down to help Bode up.
And… oh. Bode is taller than Cal. Not only that, but Bode’s also just flat-out tall. Guess he had a late growth spurt at some point during however many years he’s forgotten. He feels uncomfortably clumsy in his own skin, and he doesn’t know if it’s the disorientation from the head injury, or the mismatched muscle memory caused by being just-too-much bigger than he last remembers, or both. His shoulders are a problem too, taking up entirely too much space and knocking into Cal while they’re getting oriented.
“Your jetpack’s trashed, but I kept your blasters on me,” Cal says, as he lugs one of Bode’s arms around his shoulder to support his gait while they walk.
“I have a jetpack?” Bode asks, incredulous. And blasters? Why would a Jedi need blasters?
Cal cringes a bit at the slip up, before smiling wryly. “Not anymore you don’t.”
Bode barks out a laugh at that, and Cal’s eyes light up at the noise. Cal’s shields are back up and locked tight, but Bode would like to think that he felt some fondness from Cal in the Force just then.
Whatever they are together, friends or otherwise, Bode’s suddenly so glad that he’s met Cal Kestis, whenever that might’ve happened. Now, granted, he can’t exactly remember anything damning about the guy at the moment; he doesn’t know how many times they’ve fought and made up, or if he’s any good in a duel, or anything. And, yes, Bode might be a little bit out of it right now. But, the fact of the matter is— though he doesn’t remember how or why— Cal found something in Bode worth caring about. If Cal’s actions alone weren’t enough to prove it, Bode felt as much in the Force earlier. When he focuses now, he can still feel it, Cal’s bonfire of a presence leaking against Bode’s own deep sea like sun rays through a window.
Apropos of nothing at all, something clicks in Bode’s rattled brain just then while they sneak through the forest. The spacer-esque clothes, Bode’s missing lightsaber, the blasters… it would make sense…
He stops very abruptly, Cal accommodating the change with ease.
“Shit. Are we supposed to be undercover right now?” Bode asks. More importantly, did Bode blow their cover by getting hurt?
Cal lets out a half-hysterical laugh at that, burying his face in his free hand.
“Well, apparently you are,” Cal says, suddenly morose, and he doesn’t clarify at all before he starts walking again.