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.]
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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.]