[routine is a strange thing. usually, it's only found jyn in the worst of places, like stowed away in the cargo hold of some imperial freighter for monotonous days as she waits to strike, or, well — prison. she's never had reason to like or trust consistency, stability; being stupid enough to trust it just makes you that much less prepared to deal with the next inevitable round of shit flung your way.
in kenos, though, she's found that it isn't terrible to have some sense of stability. maybe she's still wary of fully trusting it, but she finds herself actually looking forward to the evenings that she and cassian share, finds that there's relief in coming home to someone. and even if sleep can't always be found (it's rarely found by one or the other of them, often both), there's relief in the presence of another trusted person, in being able to reach out and confirm that presence with physical touch.
but this relief, as it stands, is tenuous — and very often fraught.
it doesn't stick today, with cassian so heavy in her arms, practically collapsed against her; it doesn't stand a chance, with the way that heaviness seeps into her own chest, causes her heart to sink to the pit of her stomach. his misery becomes hers, and it's — a lot to hold onto.
she's carried his weight before, and she'll carry it as many times as he needs her to, but she wonders if having somewhere to land, like the bed just a few paces behind them, wouldn't make this just slightly easier for him.
a light thumb brushes the side of his face — just to get his attention, nothing more. and she asks, softly:]
[ he stirs, just slightly, at her touch. if he weren't all but boneless in her arms like this, it might have been hard to notice. or it might not — jyn has learned how to read him very well in a very short amount of time. better than most, better than people who had years to try.
he stirs, and then he nods. takes a deep breath and says, ]
Yes.
[ and moves to straighten, hands falling back to his sides. can you, she asks, and it seems to strike something in him. he isn't hurt; there isn't a scratch on him that wasn't there before. she can see that. she knows, but she still asks him if he can walk with her, as if he might say no, and that would be an acceptable answer. he thinks, he doesn't know what to do with that. but then he remembers jyn in the holy city, fallen to her knees, after saw showed her the message from her father. practically catatonic, even as he'd taken her by the hand and dragged her all the way to the u-wing. even during the scramble to jump to hyperspace, even in the relative quiet, until he'd gotten the message from draven. proceed with haste and keep to the plan.
maybe she would've understood, then, if he'd refused. but there's no need to find out today. instead, he simply follows her, pliable and obedient and quiet, as she leads him to the bed. ]
[there isn't anything to do but wait. maybe she'll get a response, maybe she won't; that's up to cassian, and she won't push him one way or another. for all the patience she lacks for so much, in this moment, she finds that it's nearly infinite.
but she does get a response, and she can't deny the relief that comes with it. her face softens, mouth setting into something that isn't quite a smile.]
Okay, [jyn says softly, then, for lack of anything else to say. good isn't right, because there isn't anything good about the way he'd collapsed into her arms like that. but it's okay that he'd needed to, because she's here to hold on — no further questions asked.
just as she turns, she reaches back for a hand that she'd dropped, takes it as she leads him those few paces over to the bed. tugs on it, gently, as she finds a seat on the edge of it, indicating for him to do the same.
[ she leads him by the hand to the bed, and he follows. just as promised a scant few days ago, if even, he follows her to their bed as easily as he'd followed her to scarif. easier. and when she motions for him to sit, he does without letting go of her hand. he does without looking at her face, either. this is jyn, and she might be the safest place in kenos, the safest place he's ever known, but he can't bear to think how he must look. what story his face, his eyes, the set to his mouth must reveal.
he'd lied to melshi a matter of minutes after finding out he'd been orphaned for the second time in his life. but melshi didn't know him as well then as he did later, as jyn does. she would see right through any false assurances. and, in truth, he doesn't have the heart to make them. this manifestation of the blight, these mirrors, managed to reach through his ribs and pull something very old and very broken and very raw into the light. and, to his credit, amos had been kinder than some would've been. than many might've been. but the kindness can hurt too; pressure on a wound can still be enough to crack a fragile surface. jyn, so far, has trod carefully, and he's grateful for that, but even her kindness could become a knife if misapplied. ]
[he doesn't look at her, but she doesn't take her gaze off of him, noting the way he follows, pliant, as if her hand is a string that's the only thing pulling him along — and noting the blankness in his face. the deadness in what she can glimpse of his eyes. there's always something between the lines with cassian that tells her multitudes, a lift of a brow here and a twitch of a lip there, but what she gets now is... nothing. whatever is on his mind has him so deeply shaken that she can barely read him at all.
there's a time and place to push, though, and this isn't it.
so she keeps her hold on his hand, giving it a squeeze as the space on the bed beside her creaks under his added weight and silence settles in between them.
after a time, she casts out a quiet probe.]
Did I ever tell you about when I scammed an Imperial officer out of all his credits?
[she doesn't know what might've been in the file that the alliance had compiled on her, beyond a general rap sheet — specifically liana hallik's rap sheet — so it might be something he has scant details on already. if it is familiar, that's safe. if it isn't, and some part of her might be willing to bet on that (she doubts anyone there could've followed her entire trail of aliases), that's still safe; it's parsecs away from everything else, including the unspoken, and it can give him a distraction, if he wants.]
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. ]
it's been a long time since she's been in the position of trying to provide reassurances to someone else, of wanting to try, and she's — out of her depth. completely. that becomes more and more clear to her as the seconds wear on, as cassian's face doesn't change, the silence starts to eat at her, and she drops her gaze to the floor. this isn't what she's made for; soft words and patience to just be had been left behind when saw had taken her off of lah'mu.
maybe there's someone she could punch. she could do that.
but that would mean leaving him alone, wouldn't it? and no matter how inadequate she is, that doesn't feel right. so, when he finally speaks, and when she picks her eyes up off of the floor to find him looking at her:]
Stupidest man I've ever seen in my life, [she offers, and though it's not exactly the the most interesting start to a story, at this point she figures she has to keep going.] He thought he'd tracked down a whole operation or something, and was definitely too pleased with himself about it. Because when I told him to pay me in advance for the scandocs, he did.
[she scoffs.]
I was in the Outer Rim with all his money and a different name the next day. And he didn't even recognize me when he arrested me for assault years later. [lifting her shoulder in a shrug, she caps it off.] Like I said, stupid.
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.]
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no subject
in kenos, though, she's found that it isn't terrible to have some sense of stability. maybe she's still wary of fully trusting it, but she finds herself actually looking forward to the evenings that she and cassian share, finds that there's relief in coming home to someone. and even if sleep can't always be found (it's rarely found by one or the other of them, often both), there's relief in the presence of another trusted person, in being able to reach out and confirm that presence with physical touch.
but this relief, as it stands, is tenuous — and very often fraught.
it doesn't stick today, with cassian so heavy in her arms, practically collapsed against her; it doesn't stand a chance, with the way that heaviness seeps into her own chest, causes her heart to sink to the pit of her stomach. his misery becomes hers, and it's — a lot to hold onto.
she's carried his weight before, and she'll carry it as many times as he needs her to, but she wonders if having somewhere to land, like the bed just a few paces behind them, wouldn't make this just slightly easier for him.
a light thumb brushes the side of his face — just to get his attention, nothing more. and she asks, softly:]
Can you walk with me?
no subject
he stirs, and then he nods. takes a deep breath and says, ]
Yes.
[ and moves to straighten, hands falling back to his sides. can you, she asks, and it seems to strike something in him. he isn't hurt; there isn't a scratch on him that wasn't there before. she can see that. she knows, but she still asks him if he can walk with her, as if he might say no, and that would be an acceptable answer. he thinks, he doesn't know what to do with that. but then he remembers jyn in the holy city, fallen to her knees, after saw showed her the message from her father. practically catatonic, even as he'd taken her by the hand and dragged her all the way to the u-wing. even during the scramble to jump to hyperspace, even in the relative quiet, until he'd gotten the message from draven. proceed with haste and keep to the plan.
maybe she would've understood, then, if he'd refused. but there's no need to find out today. instead, he simply follows her, pliable and obedient and quiet, as she leads him to the bed. ]
no subject
but she does get a response, and she can't deny the relief that comes with it. her face softens, mouth setting into something that isn't quite a smile.]
Okay, [jyn says softly, then, for lack of anything else to say. good isn't right, because there isn't anything good about the way he'd collapsed into her arms like that. but it's okay that he'd needed to, because she's here to hold on — no further questions asked.
just as she turns, she reaches back for a hand that she'd dropped, takes it as she leads him those few paces over to the bed. tugs on it, gently, as she finds a seat on the edge of it, indicating for him to do the same.
inviting him.]
no subject
he'd lied to melshi a matter of minutes after finding out he'd been orphaned for the second time in his life. but melshi didn't know him as well then as he did later, as jyn does. she would see right through any false assurances. and, in truth, he doesn't have the heart to make them. this manifestation of the blight, these mirrors, managed to reach through his ribs and pull something very old and very broken and very raw into the light. and, to his credit, amos had been kinder than some would've been. than many might've been. but the kindness can hurt too; pressure on a wound can still be enough to crack a fragile surface. jyn, so far, has trod carefully, and he's grateful for that, but even her kindness could become a knife if misapplied. ]
no subject
there's a time and place to push, though, and this isn't it.
so she keeps her hold on his hand, giving it a squeeze as the space on the bed beside her creaks under his added weight and silence settles in between them.
after a time, she casts out a quiet probe.]
Did I ever tell you about when I scammed an Imperial officer out of all his credits?
[she doesn't know what might've been in the file that the alliance had compiled on her, beyond a general rap sheet — specifically liana hallik's rap sheet — so it might be something he has scant details on already. if it is familiar, that's safe. if it isn't, and some part of her might be willing to bet on that (she doubts anyone there could've followed her entire trail of aliases), that's still safe; it's parsecs away from everything else, including the unspoken, and it can give him a distraction, if he wants.]
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. ]
no subject
it's been a long time since she's been in the position of trying to provide reassurances to someone else, of wanting to try, and she's — out of her depth. completely. that becomes more and more clear to her as the seconds wear on, as cassian's face doesn't change, the silence starts to eat at her, and she drops her gaze to the floor. this isn't what she's made for; soft words and patience to just be had been left behind when saw had taken her off of lah'mu.
maybe there's someone she could punch. she could do that.
but that would mean leaving him alone, wouldn't it? and no matter how inadequate she is, that doesn't feel right. so, when he finally speaks, and when she picks her eyes up off of the floor to find him looking at her:]
Stupidest man I've ever seen in my life, [she offers, and though it's not exactly the the most interesting start to a story, at this point she figures she has to keep going.] He thought he'd tracked down a whole operation or something, and was definitely too pleased with himself about it. Because when I told him to pay me in advance for the scandocs, he did.
[she scoffs.]
I was in the Outer Rim with all his money and a different name the next day. And he didn't even recognize me when he arrested me for assault years later. [lifting her shoulder in a shrug, she caps it off.] Like I said, stupid.
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.]