[jyn is, at first, distracted; she's mid-communion slapfight and that's taking up all her time and resources. at some point in there, though, the frustration and anger bleeds over into physical expression, and she moves to curl her right hand into a fist, when — she winces.
she doesn't regret anything she's said on communion, but she does regret punching solid wood.
and it's enough to pull her out of it, to slide her gaze over toward cassian. she gives him a shrug, says,]
The people who do disagree are asses.
[hayame and silco, like. what are their opinions worth.]
[ there's a slight pull downward at one corner of his mouth, disapproval at the reminder of her injury. like, you could've reacted in ways that were not punching logs, jyn.
but. anyway. ]
Diplomacy isn't what I'm good at. [ and, to make his point, ] I lied to all of them for months.
[she tucks her hand in against her chest, and scrunches her eyes shut for a moment while she breathes — because it hurts that much, yes, but also because she can avoid the clear disapproval if she doesn't look at it.
after she opens her eyes again, though, she... better gets it. the point. and she turns, facing him more fully.]
That doesn't make you not good at it. [she says this like it's a fact — because to her, it is. plain and simple.] And they can see that.
[we've done terrible things on behalf of the rebellion, he'd said once. and the truth of it glimmers darkly in his eyes now, skates across his face in the slant of his brows, the tenseness about his mouth. in the sharp line of his shoulders as he looks her way, written in the scars across his knuckles. spies, saboteurs, assassins. that had been the most honest he'd been with her since meeting her, remains one of the most vulnerable sentiments he's ever expressed.
that is what he is. that is who he is. she has to know that; she has to know that better than anyone, even those here who have seen his heart. she'd come to know what he's capable of, in the damp and dark of eadu. and that's where he always belongs, in the end, those shadows. not public forums, public discussions, places where he would've given a report of his findings and quietly left. his recent address to bearers had been familiar in that way. this is not. ]
There's a reason I didn't report to Mon Mothma.
[ the very face of diplomacy in the alliance, if there is one, determined as she was to try peaceful solutions within the empire as long as they were possible. no, he was quickly sent to general draven for his skills. for the skills he developed, years with the rebellion. ]
It wasn't me that inspired the others to go to Scarif; this [this kind of situation ] is where you shine.
[even if jyn can't avoid it in her nightmares, all reminders of it have gone unsaid and unacknowledged during her waking hours. scarif. just hearing the name now, here, is a jolt down her spine, a shock to the system; the grip holding up her injured hand slackens, and everything else leaves her mind.
unavoidable; there's no point in trying to pretend otherwise.
so her gaze sticks, studying him over the small distance between them. she knows the difference between cassian's lies and his truth, and she knows that what she's getting is the latter — at least in the way he sees it. and it's complete bantha shit; how much had her words to the council alone actually accomplished? most of them had still wanted to surrender, even when she'd given them every reason to fight.
four people couldn't have faced an entire imperial installation.
but they'd been far more than four, because —]
Scarif wouldn't have happened if you didn't believe me.
[ caught in his thoughts as he'd been, cassian seems to snap back to reality with jyn's visceral reaction to hearing scarif. he almost feels the same, himself, saying the name aloud for the first time in this world. hearing jyn echo it back to him. what was he thinking, bringing up everything that happened there, now?
he listens, and he swallows, and he nods, slowly. there's truth to what she says, he knows. melshi, pao, plenty of others who followed him to scarif. (to their deaths.) he knows. but that — wasn't the same thing. he'd known those people for years, through missions against the empire, fellow soldiers, fellow operatives. this is different. ]
I'm sorry. [ he breathes out. ] Of course, you're right.
[ he leans closer to her, presses a kiss to the top of her head. small affections that he'd been getting used to giving. ]
[it'd taken both of them to get to scarif — and scarif itself, everything that had happened there? is on both of them, too. jyn thinks of all the faces she'd spoken to just before the shuttle had landed, most of which she hadn't known and never will know; she think about how none of them are here. everyone had known exactly what they'd been walking into, but knowledge doesn't make anything less painful.
a wound often hurts more when it's reopened than it had when it was originally made. i'm sorry and you're right tear it a little further.
something goes tight in her chest; her gaze drops, focusing on the floor. she'd rather be anywhere else, think about anything else, and —
his kiss is a balm, one that feels good to lean into. or good enough, at least, for her to lift her eyes back up, to reach for him with her good hand before he can pull away from her, brushing strands of hair from his forehead with her thumb.]
Your hair's still long, [she tells him, quietly.] Never got around to cutting it, did I?
[ no, there's no need to talk about this. he'd been wrong to bring it up. so he lets the topic drop — scarif, the communion, all of it — in favor of keeping close to her. of allowing a small uptick to his lips, as she lifts a hand to his face. ]
Are you offering? [ just as soft. his eyes drop from her face to her sprained hand, and then back. ] One-handed?
[this is better. why bring up, and linger in, something that's only that's only going to hurt, when, here, they've found an easier way? his closeness is easy, and so is his touch. what she knows as his smile is warm, loosening the tightness in her chest and steadying her breath.
she can linger in that.
there's a shrug, as light as she's resolved to be in this moment, alongside:]
If you're brave enough.
[a hint of a smile, too, begins to pull on her own mouth.]
[she can linger here now; they can linger here. that's what she wants, more than anything (and she can think of that as a want), because maybe, just maybe, what they have in here, tucked far away from what lurks outside these walls, can be protected if they stay, if they hold onto it tightly enough. there's a chance.
kenos has chances — and maybe, just maybe, they can feel like possibility.
or, at the very least, chances can feel like his lips against hers, gentle and warm. they can feel, too, like the second kiss she leans in and claims, like just... being.
her smile is bright.]
Get the scissors, and we'll see.
[nothing will come in here to threaten those chances.
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no subject
she doesn't regret anything she's said on communion, but she does regret punching solid wood.
and it's enough to pull her out of it, to slide her gaze over toward cassian. she gives him a shrug, says,]
The people who do disagree are asses.
[hayame and silco, like. what are their opinions worth.]
no subject
[ there's a slight pull downward at one corner of his mouth, disapproval at the reminder of her injury. like, you could've reacted in ways that were not punching logs, jyn.
but. anyway. ]
Diplomacy isn't what I'm good at. [ and, to make his point, ] I lied to all of them for months.
no subject
after she opens her eyes again, though, she... better gets it. the point. and she turns, facing him more fully.]
That doesn't make you not good at it. [she says this like it's a fact — because to her, it is. plain and simple.] And they can see that.
no subject
that is what he is. that is who he is. she has to know that; she has to know that better than anyone, even those here who have seen his heart. she'd come to know what he's capable of, in the damp and dark of eadu. and that's where he always belongs, in the end, those shadows. not public forums, public discussions, places where he would've given a report of his findings and quietly left. his recent address to bearers had been familiar in that way. this is not. ]
There's a reason I didn't report to Mon Mothma.
[ the very face of diplomacy in the alliance, if there is one, determined as she was to try peaceful solutions within the empire as long as they were possible. no, he was quickly sent to general draven for his skills. for the skills he developed, years with the rebellion. ]
It wasn't me that inspired the others to go to Scarif; this [ this kind of situation ] is where you shine.
[ chirrut would agree, he knows for sure. ]
no subject
unavoidable; there's no point in trying to pretend otherwise.
so her gaze sticks, studying him over the small distance between them. she knows the difference between cassian's lies and his truth, and she knows that what she's getting is the latter — at least in the way he sees it. and it's complete bantha shit; how much had her words to the council alone actually accomplished? most of them had still wanted to surrender, even when she'd given them every reason to fight.
four people couldn't have faced an entire imperial installation.
but they'd been far more than four, because —]
Scarif wouldn't have happened if you didn't believe me.
[again, it's a fact.]
That took both of us.
no subject
he listens, and he swallows, and he nods, slowly. there's truth to what she says, he knows. melshi, pao, plenty of others who followed him to scarif. (to their deaths.) he knows. but that — wasn't the same thing. he'd known those people for years, through missions against the empire, fellow soldiers, fellow operatives. this is different. ]
I'm sorry. [ he breathes out. ] Of course, you're right.
[ he leans closer to her, presses a kiss to the top of her head. small affections that he'd been getting used to giving. ]
no subject
a wound often hurts more when it's reopened than it had when it was originally made. i'm sorry and you're right tear it a little further.
something goes tight in her chest; her gaze drops, focusing on the floor. she'd rather be anywhere else, think about anything else, and —
his kiss is a balm, one that feels good to lean into. or good enough, at least, for her to lift her eyes back up, to reach for him with her good hand before he can pull away from her, brushing strands of hair from his forehead with her thumb.]
Your hair's still long, [she tells him, quietly.] Never got around to cutting it, did I?
no subject
Are you offering? [ just as soft. his eyes drop from her face to her sprained hand, and then back. ] One-handed?
no subject
she can linger in that.
there's a shrug, as light as she's resolved to be in this moment, alongside:]
If you're brave enough.
[a hint of a smile, too, begins to pull on her own mouth.]
no subject
so by way of answer, he lifts a hand to cup her cheek. he leans back down to kiss her on the lips, soft and chaste. and then he says against them, ]
Let's find out how brave I am.
no subject
kenos has chances — and maybe, just maybe, they can feel like possibility.
or, at the very least, chances can feel like his lips against hers, gentle and warm. they can feel, too, like the second kiss she leans in and claims, like just... being.
her smile is bright.]
Get the scissors, and we'll see.
[nothing will come in here to threaten those chances.
she'll make sure of that.]