it might be. it's not harder than standing had been. the softness under his legs is more comfortable, probably, than leaning on jyn had been. and her hand is still in his, warm and small, gently squeezing as he joins her on the bed. he feels no less like there's some horrible, hollow emptiness in his chest, but he's felt that since the mirror illusion had worked its magic. neither breaking free from the bubble nor the walk back nor any moment here has been able to fix any part of that.
and why should it? there are some things that can't be fixed. hasn't he always known that? there were no survivors on kenari. he's been doing things that couldn't be taken back, couldn't even be forgiven, since he was a child. there had never been any making it better, just lashing out at the galaxy that had allowed awful things to happen. just devoting himself to a war that would make the galaxy a better place for other people. he couldn't outrun his pain — and he tried — so he'd weaponized it for a worthy cause.
tomorrow, he wants to tell jyn, he'll be fine. sooner. this is an old misery, and all he needs is a little time to put it back where it's lived since he was a child. once the puzzle piece is back in its place, he'll remember how to live and breathe and talk and work around its presence. this isn't even the first time its spilled over the barriers of its prison, though the first in a while.
he wants to, but she beats him to speaking. he blinks, the question slowly sinking in, and then he finally turns his face to look at her. ]
No, [ he says finally, ] you didn't.
[ and she hasn't. it brushes against the edge of a memory — had it been on her rap sheet, or had he missed that charge while having it compiled? — but even if he had known about this before, it would've been some dry charge of theft from the authorities. not the colorful story she seems prepared to share. ]
no subject
it might be. it's not harder than standing had been. the softness under his legs is more comfortable, probably, than leaning on jyn had been. and her hand is still in his, warm and small, gently squeezing as he joins her on the bed. he feels no less like there's some horrible, hollow emptiness in his chest, but he's felt that since the mirror illusion had worked its magic. neither breaking free from the bubble nor the walk back nor any moment here has been able to fix any part of that.
and why should it? there are some things that can't be fixed. hasn't he always known that? there were no survivors on kenari. he's been doing things that couldn't be taken back, couldn't even be forgiven, since he was a child. there had never been any making it better, just lashing out at the galaxy that had allowed awful things to happen. just devoting himself to a war that would make the galaxy a better place for other people. he couldn't outrun his pain — and he tried — so he'd weaponized it for a worthy cause.
tomorrow, he wants to tell jyn, he'll be fine. sooner. this is an old misery, and all he needs is a little time to put it back where it's lived since he was a child. once the puzzle piece is back in its place, he'll remember how to live and breathe and talk and work around its presence. this isn't even the first time its spilled over the barriers of its prison, though the first in a while.
he wants to, but she beats him to speaking. he blinks, the question slowly sinking in, and then he finally turns his face to look at her. ]
No, [ he says finally, ] you didn't.
[ and she hasn't. it brushes against the edge of a memory — had it been on her rap sheet, or had he missed that charge while having it compiled? — but even if he had known about this before, it would've been some dry charge of theft from the authorities. not the colorful story she seems prepared to share. ]