or, at least, all of the attention he can muster. it's still no small thing, the full force of his intensity, but a thing that jyn might be used to, by now. it's been a long time since he's looked at her with anything less. he watches her, and he listens, and a glimmer of humor unfurls in his eyes, softens the set of his mouth. it's so easy to imagine her doing this. it's so easy to imagine her pride — and scorn — at being so much the richer after outsmarting an officer. ]
Stupid, [ he agrees, at length, flickers of warmth in his voice.
he tilts until he's able to rest his head at her shoulder again, hair tickling at her neck. this bare spark of warmth he feels now seems like it must be coming from her. a small, flickering flame she lends him from the story she tells, from the heat of her body; the warmth from being at her side, from her shoulder, from her hand in his. his nails had dug half-moons into both of his palms, earlier, and maybe she can feel that now, though he doesn't think of it. he thinks of her. that's so much more easily done than anything else.
though he lapses back into silence, for a time, there's a different quality to it. less hopelessly lost, for one thing, like his body might be here but his mind is years and parsecs away. she's his anchor, in this moment, keeping him grounded here. but there's something else too: the awareness of jyn means the reminder of her worry. she must be worried. of course she's worried. and he wants to say something to her. and he doesn't want to give her an empty lie they'd both see through. and...and, the thought arises, he doesn't want a near stranger in this world to have a fragment of him that jyn doesn't. he hadn't had a choice in amos seeing what he did. he does have a choice now.
his lips part, and he breathes out at her shoulder. and, finally, he says so softly, ]
I had a sister.
[ he says every word slowly, carefully. as gently as if they're something fragile that might shatter as soon as he gives them breath. someone else might say that to begin an explanation, but that's as much of one as he can bear. ]
[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.]
[ breathing really does feel a little easier, with jyn at his side. with her hand around his; with her head resting against his; ensconced in her. he has so rarely had reason to feel protected in his life, but he does now. jyn is a safe harbor. she wouldn't let any harm come to him. the only pain that exists here is that which he brought with him. this close, he can feel her surprised inhale as much as he can hear it, as she begins to understand the shape of it. her grip on his hand tightens as if she's afraid he'll slip away. on instinct, more than anything else, he moves his head somewhat to rest more easily on her shoulder.
of course she understands. he knew from her file about her mother's death, when she was a child. he was there when the ruins of jedha collapsed around saw gerrera. he was there, still clutching the rifle intended for the job, when fire from alliance x-wings killed galen erso. he knows how intimately she understands losing family. they leave you behind, her teenage self had said. but therein lies the difference between the two of them. ]
I left her.
[ solemn as the grave. he left her behind, on kenari, when they sought out that downed ship. he left her behind on kenari, and there were no survivors. he watched the man who loved him like a son be strung up in a square; he was far out of reach when the woman who him loved more than anything he could ever do wrong died in her home. today, in highstorm: he walked away from her. even if the apparition was removed from the real girl kerri had been, even if she'll never know, he walked away from her, again. ]
[she only shifts, just slightly, when he nudges closer, giving him the space to be comfortable before resting her head on his again, keeping a firm and steady grip on his hand the whole time. no matter what, she's here and she's not going anywhere.
even when he says —
i left her.
— and she feels it as an ache in her own chest.
she wonders, then, in the silence that ensues, somewhere between the words and the solemnity of something old and worn made new again, if a piece has suddenly clicked into place. she wonders if she understands how a man who'd fallen twelve stories would will himself to move again, no matter how painful it must be, to get to the top of a tower. to come back.
the feeling in her chest, the ache and something else entirely at the same time, twists, grabs her by the throat.
and it's — ultimately not important right now. not more important than finding something to say.
it would be an insult to this honesty to give him some meaningless platitude, and she's not one for that, anyway; it'd also be an insult to lie when he'd be able to sniff it out in an instant. for those reasons, and more, she can't tell him that it isn't his fault.]
Sometimes, [she says, finally. haltingly.] People leave when they don't want to. And it doesn't — [her voice catches, and she's forced to take a moment, a breath, before picking the thread up again.] It doesn't mean they're cruel.
[there's a thought that surfaces, then — a hologram, flickering out even before walls start to crumble around it (my love for her has never faded). it's followed by another — a hand slipping away from her face in the rain (i have so much to tell you).
no matter the thorns that had grown around the door to the cave in her mind over the years, the unwieldy roots that she may never actually weed through, there's a truth that's clear: galen erso hadn't been cruel. she refuses to believe that the man tucked into her side, the one who has come back, who wants to come back, is either.]
of course he's a cruel man. he knows that. she knows it, too. she knows what he was assigned to, meant to, did do to her father. she knows he's done other jobs like that and worse, for the rebellion. he admitted as much to her. she knows what kind of person he is, doesn't she? maybe he hadn't wanted to leave his sister, maybe it hadn't been his choice, and maybe he'd spent years trying to make it right — but it doesn't change what was done. and it doesn't change what he did afterwards, either.
but he feels, just as strongly, a warmth kindle in his chest just the same. the fact that she's trying means so unspeakably much to him. the fact that, on this of all subjects, she's offering words of comfort, holding him close, despite all of the pain being left has caused her is no small thing.
at her shoulder, he closes his eyes.
there is nothing he can bring himself to say, so he doesn't. not about his sister, not about what happened in highstorm, and not about his past. and not about jyn's past, either. the simple idea of formulating something to say to that is unbearable. he swallows, grip on jyn's hand tight, a soft tremble going down his spine.
he has been carrying kenari since he was a child. he has been carrying this loss for so long that he grew around this hole in his life. he rebuilt himself: for ferrix, for the rebellion. he's tried to rebuilt himself here in kenos, in the wake of scarif, but he has no clear image of who he's needed to be here. someone strong, for jyn? maybe. a spy on the side of neither faction, focused on unraveling the mysteries of this place? maybe. the persona he premised on convenience, using the name of a dead friend? that's already wearing thin, and the time is likely coming when he'll have to abandon it entirely.
the clarity he'd discovered on scarif feels like a condemnation now. the recognition that their work to find the death star plans could never erase his crimes had been a revelation to a dying man. it's something very different to a living man: yet another weight to carry for the rest of his life. and today, and right now, he's tired. ]
[cassian doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. now, well more than before, it's all clear to her between the lines: the tremble down his back, the way he grips at her hand and doesn't let go. yet, also, there's the way he breathes out, settling against her — and it's like there's an added warmth that comes to her, too.
nothing's okay, exactly. the past is always hovering over them both — a fact that neither her understanding his just a little bit better nor any attempt at a reassurance, however effective or pathetic, will ever change. though she's accustomed to it (they both are), the present is uncertain. and the future? she's still not entirely sure how to think about, when she'd counted it out for so long.
but they can have this, a quiet moment tucked away from everything else. there can be a time and space to regroup, to allow the old wounds to settle back in again. her job is just to be here, a steady support, someone who'll keep the rest of the world out and away from him while he takes what he needs.
and so jyn doesn't say anything, either, instead letting the silence lapse over them for as long as it will. she keeps her hold on him solid and firm, a reaffirmation that she isn't going anywhere, and her eyes close, too.
nothing's okay, exactly. but maybe there's something here that's better than it could've been.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
or, at least, all of the attention he can muster. it's still no small thing, the full force of his intensity, but a thing that jyn might be used to, by now. it's been a long time since he's looked at her with anything less. he watches her, and he listens, and a glimmer of humor unfurls in his eyes, softens the set of his mouth. it's so easy to imagine her doing this. it's so easy to imagine her pride — and scorn — at being so much the richer after outsmarting an officer. ]
Stupid, [ he agrees, at length, flickers of warmth in his voice.
he tilts until he's able to rest his head at her shoulder again, hair tickling at her neck. this bare spark of warmth he feels now seems like it must be coming from her. a small, flickering flame she lends him from the story she tells, from the heat of her body; the warmth from being at her side, from her shoulder, from her hand in his. his nails had dug half-moons into both of his palms, earlier, and maybe she can feel that now, though he doesn't think of it. he thinks of her. that's so much more easily done than anything else.
though he lapses back into silence, for a time, there's a different quality to it. less hopelessly lost, for one thing, like his body might be here but his mind is years and parsecs away. she's his anchor, in this moment, keeping him grounded here. but there's something else too: the awareness of jyn means the reminder of her worry. she must be worried. of course she's worried. and he wants to say something to her. and he doesn't want to give her an empty lie they'd both see through. and...and, the thought arises, he doesn't want a near stranger in this world to have a fragment of him that jyn doesn't. he hadn't had a choice in amos seeing what he did. he does have a choice now.
his lips part, and he breathes out at her shoulder. and, finally, he says so softly, ]
I had a sister.
[ he says every word slowly, carefully. as gently as if they're something fragile that might shatter as soon as he gives them breath. someone else might say that to begin an explanation, but that's as much of one as he can bear. ]
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.]
no subject
of course she understands. he knew from her file about her mother's death, when she was a child. he was there when the ruins of jedha collapsed around saw gerrera. he was there, still clutching the rifle intended for the job, when fire from alliance x-wings killed galen erso. he knows how intimately she understands losing family. they leave you behind, her teenage self had said. but therein lies the difference between the two of them. ]
I left her.
[ solemn as the grave. he left her behind, on kenari, when they sought out that downed ship. he left her behind on kenari, and there were no survivors. he watched the man who loved him like a son be strung up in a square; he was far out of reach when the woman who him loved more than anything he could ever do wrong died in her home. today, in highstorm: he walked away from her. even if the apparition was removed from the real girl kerri had been, even if she'll never know, he walked away from her, again. ]
no subject
even when he says —
i left her.
— and she feels it as an ache in her own chest.
she wonders, then, in the silence that ensues, somewhere between the words and the solemnity of something old and worn made new again, if a piece has suddenly clicked into place. she wonders if she understands how a man who'd fallen twelve stories would will himself to move again, no matter how painful it must be, to get to the top of a tower. to come back.
the feeling in her chest, the ache and something else entirely at the same time, twists, grabs her by the throat.
and it's — ultimately not important right now. not more important than finding something to say.
it would be an insult to this honesty to give him some meaningless platitude, and she's not one for that, anyway; it'd also be an insult to lie when he'd be able to sniff it out in an instant. for those reasons, and more, she can't tell him that it isn't his fault.]
Sometimes, [she says, finally. haltingly.] People leave when they don't want to. And it doesn't — [her voice catches, and she's forced to take a moment, a breath, before picking the thread up again.] It doesn't mean they're cruel.
[there's a thought that surfaces, then — a hologram, flickering out even before walls start to crumble around it (my love for her has never faded). it's followed by another — a hand slipping away from her face in the rain (i have so much to tell you).
no matter the thorns that had grown around the door to the cave in her mind over the years, the unwieldy roots that she may never actually weed through, there's a truth that's clear: galen erso hadn't been cruel. she refuses to believe that the man tucked into her side, the one who has come back, who wants to come back, is either.]
no subject
of course he's a cruel man. he knows that. she knows it, too. she knows what he was assigned to, meant to, did do to her father. she knows he's done other jobs like that and worse, for the rebellion. he admitted as much to her. she knows what kind of person he is, doesn't she? maybe he hadn't wanted to leave his sister, maybe it hadn't been his choice, and maybe he'd spent years trying to make it right — but it doesn't change what was done. and it doesn't change what he did afterwards, either.
but he feels, just as strongly, a warmth kindle in his chest just the same. the fact that she's trying means so unspeakably much to him. the fact that, on this of all subjects, she's offering words of comfort, holding him close, despite all of the pain being left has caused her is no small thing.
at her shoulder, he closes his eyes.
there is nothing he can bring himself to say, so he doesn't. not about his sister, not about what happened in highstorm, and not about his past. and not about jyn's past, either. the simple idea of formulating something to say to that is unbearable. he swallows, grip on jyn's hand tight, a soft tremble going down his spine.
he has been carrying kenari since he was a child. he has been carrying this loss for so long that he grew around this hole in his life. he rebuilt himself: for ferrix, for the rebellion. he's tried to rebuilt himself here in kenos, in the wake of scarif, but he has no clear image of who he's needed to be here. someone strong, for jyn? maybe. a spy on the side of neither faction, focused on unraveling the mysteries of this place? maybe. the persona he premised on convenience, using the name of a dead friend? that's already wearing thin, and the time is likely coming when he'll have to abandon it entirely.
the clarity he'd discovered on scarif feels like a condemnation now. the recognition that their work to find the death star plans could never erase his crimes had been a revelation to a dying man. it's something very different to a living man: yet another weight to carry for the rest of his life. and today, and right now, he's tired. ]
no subject
nothing's okay, exactly. the past is always hovering over them both — a fact that neither her understanding his just a little bit better nor any attempt at a reassurance, however effective or pathetic, will ever change. though she's accustomed to it (they both are), the present is uncertain. and the future? she's still not entirely sure how to think about, when she'd counted it out for so long.
but they can have this, a quiet moment tucked away from everything else. there can be a time and space to regroup, to allow the old wounds to settle back in again. her job is just to be here, a steady support, someone who'll keep the rest of the world out and away from him while he takes what he needs.
and so jyn doesn't say anything, either, instead letting the silence lapse over them for as long as it will. she keeps her hold on him solid and firm, a reaffirmation that she isn't going anywhere, and her eyes close, too.
nothing's okay, exactly. but maybe there's something here that's better than it could've been.]