[it's no small thing, watching him come back to her (because of course she's watching; once her eyes are back on him, they don't leave), little by little — flickers of amusement and glimpses of softness and all. these are pieces of the real cassian as she's come to know him, not captain andor, the spy, the liar, but the man she'd trust at her back and with her life without question, and if she's managed to make those pieces surface, then maybe she isn't so useless after all. the smile she gives him is soft but radiant; the relief she exhales is visible, her shoulders sagging with it.
by the time he comes to rest there, on her shoulder, he can do so easily. his added weight there, and by her side, is comfortable; she sinks into it, head landing on top of his as she listens to him breathe.
he doesn't owe her anything, she thinks; they can just sit here in silence, together, for as long as he needs, until he pulls himself back together from whatever it was. it doesn't take away her worry, no, but demands only make things worse. she can just be here, a presence, holding his hand.
she isn't ready when he breaks the silence — and she especially isn't ready for what may be the most profound piece of truth he's ever given her.
in the immediate, her intake of breath is sharp, and a voice, his, echoes in her mind: "you're not the only one who lost everything." there'd never been time, really, to consider what that might've entailed, between scarif and here, and — there's a sinking feeling, right to the pit of her stomach, as she considers it. his family, like her family, like so many families, gone. taken, because that's what the empire does.
her hand squeezes his, more tightly than before, and she only says:]
You saw her.
[there's no point in phrasing that as a question; she can fill in the blanks herself.]
no subject
by the time he comes to rest there, on her shoulder, he can do so easily. his added weight there, and by her side, is comfortable; she sinks into it, head landing on top of his as she listens to him breathe.
he doesn't owe her anything, she thinks; they can just sit here in silence, together, for as long as he needs, until he pulls himself back together from whatever it was. it doesn't take away her worry, no, but demands only make things worse. she can just be here, a presence, holding his hand.
she isn't ready when he breaks the silence — and she especially isn't ready for what may be the most profound piece of truth he's ever given her.
in the immediate, her intake of breath is sharp, and a voice, his, echoes in her mind: "you're not the only one who lost everything." there'd never been time, really, to consider what that might've entailed, between scarif and here, and — there's a sinking feeling, right to the pit of her stomach, as she considers it. his family, like her family, like so many families, gone. taken, because that's what the empire does.
her hand squeezes his, more tightly than before, and she only says:]
You saw her.
[there's no point in phrasing that as a question; she can fill in the blanks herself.]