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“You’re terrible at this.”
Cassian bristles, shoulders lifting into impossibly straight lines. He continues to inspect the glittery fabric in his hands, narrowing his eyes in what must be his best approximation of a discerning customer’s gaze.
“Oh?” His annoyance is barely concealed. “Do you not like this color?”
Jyn resists the urge to roll her eyes; the shopkeeper, watching attentively from a mere two feet away, probably wouldn’t interpret such a gesture as “wifely.” (There was a reason Jyn had argued that this particular undercover assignment might not play to their personal strengths, but she’d been overruled.)
“The color isn’t the problem,” says Jyn pointedly, rolling up the right sleeve of her dress for the millionth time. (Why Festian women insist on wearing full layers even when traveling to hot climates is beyond her.) “It’s too thin. We need more substantial bedding than this if we’re to bring it home.” She pauses for emphasis. “To Fest.”
Because we are married and we live on Fest and it’s cold there. I listened to the briefing, did you?
At least Cassian’s a far better spy than he is a decorator, because Jyn can barely detect the undertone of derision in his pasted-on smile. “Of course, you’re right.”
“As always,” Jyn adds. It seems like the wifely thing to say.
“As always,” he agrees. And maybe he’s an even better spy than she thought, because the way he chuckles, the way his smile softens—for one tremulous moment, she almost believes the lie.
He lowers the fabric and picks up another, a fluorescent green, fuzzy monstrosity that she has to imagine he’s chosen specifically to annoy her. She’s about to tell him as much when she spots movement out of the corner of her eye: a man lurking by the doorway, a black scarf pulled up over the tip of his wide-set nose. He’s looking straight at her, and for a moment she wonders if this is the informant Cassian’s been trying to find, although he doesn’t look like much of a diplomat.
Then she notices the spiraling tattoo inching up over the edge of the scarf by his cheekbone, and her heart nearly stops beating.
Thankfully, Cassian is still rifling through the fabric, his back to the door. She lays a hand on his arm. “I need to step out for a moment.”
His expression doesn’t change, but Jyn can feel him stiffen.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, purposefully mild.
“Not at all. I think I left something behind in the last shop. I’ll just go fetch it and meet you back here?”
Cassian’s brows crease in confusion—this is not part of the plan—but he nods quickly, easily. (He trusts her.)
“Hurry back,” he says, “or I’m sure to buy something you disapprove of.”
Jyn nods, stepping away. She’s too tense to even tease him back.
She plays the game, tracing her steps three doors down to the pottery shop, inquiring about a necklace she knows the shopkeep won’t be able to find. When she exits, the man is waiting, following two paces behind until she cuts into an alley off the main street.
She draws the blaster tucked beneath her waistband of her dress the moment they’re out of sight. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The man pulls down his scarf, and—she knew it. It’s been almost five years, but his is a difficult face to forget: eyes black and beady, trained on her with unsettling intensity.
“I could ask the same of you,” snarls Zak, just as smug and leathery as she remembers. “Last I heard, you were supposed to be dead.”
“Who told you that?”
Zak smiles, a broad swath of yellowing teeth. “Heard it from Saw himself.”
Jyn supposes this knowledge should be comforting: that Saw lied for her, that he deliberately explained away her absence such that his more questionable allies wouldn’t try to find her. But still, the fact remains that if Saw hadn’t dumped her, he wouldn’t have had to explain anything. And that will always be a difficult truth to look past.
“What are you doing here?” Jyn repeats, cocking the blaster.
Zak seems unperturbed. “Can’t very well go back to Jedha, now, can I? Had to set up shop somewhere else.”
Dread stabs at the back of Jyn’s neck, dredging up memories she’d long since buried: a dingy, cell-like room, stinking of sour milk and liquor. A pile of credits spread out grotesquely across the table. The word ‘shop’ conjures the image of a reputable business, of a storefront where you can purchase goods, not a skulking network of murderers for hire.
Because that’s exactly what Zak and his cronies are. And even though Zak never used that word specifically—taking care to tiptoe around how exactly he was able to able to scrounge up the intelligence he did, how he was able to snap his fingers and make people disappear—Saw knew it, too. He’d hired Zak as a smuggler, “just a smuggler.” And while Saw had never indicated if he’d also requested Zak extend his less palatable skillset, Jyn had also never asked. She’d been young, composed of raw edges like a shard of glass. It had been easier not knowing.
That Zak is here on Keld probably bodes well for their mission. Not loyal to one side or the other, but he’s always been weary of Imperial oversight and thus offered his services primarily to rebels. If Zak’s here, then there’s enough discontent within the city for someone to have hired him, and that means Cassian’s suspicion is correct: the Empire’s stronghold here is weakening.
Only, she might not have a chance to tell Cassian that. Because if Zak’s anything like the way she remembers, he’s probably got a henchman on a nearby building with a blaster trained on her forehead.
“What do you want,” Jyn growls. Experimentally, she lifts the blaster a little higher, aiming for his chest. Zak doesn’t even flinch.
“Fine, I’ll skip right to the chase. I want my payout.”
Jyn scoffs. “I owe you nothing.”
“Yeah, but Saw does.” He smiles, near-maniacal. “And he’s not here to pay me himself, is he?”
Jyn’s debating the risk of saying to hell with the risk and just shooting him, getting this over with. The sniper—she knows one’s out there, somewhere—might hit her, but that doesn't mean the shot would kill her. It might be worth it.
But then Zak says something that makes her blood run cold.
“You know, you never struck me as the marrying kind.”
She tries to keep her face still, so as not to betray the way her heart has started hammering.
“I was a child when you last saw me,” she reminds him, the bite in her voice barely restrained.
Zak shrugs. “He seems nice enough. You two work on decorating your manor?”
It’s clear from the venom with which he punctuates the word manor that he thinks he’s found his solution: her husband, clearly a man of wealth, will foot the bill for whatever debt Saw apparently owes.
Except, of course, that Cassian’s not actually a high-ranking Imperial diplomat. And she’s not going to put him at risk by letting Zak find that out.
She lifts her chin, putting on her most curt, commanding tone. “My husband does not handle our finances.”
“Don’t want him to know about your previous line of work, I take it?"
“Leave him out of this,” Jyn grits out, “and I’ll ensure your payment is to your liking.”
At that, Zak smirks. Just as she knew you would.
“Deal.”
Cassian is waiting for her in the shop, pretending to be in deep study of a wall of carpet samples. But Jyn can see the rigidity of his spine, the way his jaw is clenched tight. When she touches his arm, his eyes snap to her, then immediately soften.
She swallows. This won’t be easy.
“Found your things, then?” he asks, airy enough that a passerby wouldn’t hear the secret, lurking question: what’s wrong? What can I do to help?
“And then some,” she says, attempting a laugh. “There’s a so many shops here I haven’t explored. I fear I’m boring you, though. Maybe you should go on ahead?”
Cassian stiffens; she can feel the muscles in his forearm tense beneath her palm. But his face remains otherwise neutral.
“I don’t mind the shopping. I’m happy to continue as we are.”
“But your meeting,” Jyn insists, too fast—she needs to reel in her panic before he catches wind of it. She’s not as practiced in this as he is. Her past disguises were just names; she remained Jyn beneath them all. “You can’t be late. It’s alright, pay for the curtains and I’ll meet you back at the room later this evening for dinner.”
A muscle jumps in Cassian’s jaw. But that’s all he gives away. Because he knows what she’s telling him to do is hang back, and ultimately, he trusts her judgement.
The thought makes her chest ache.
“Alright,” he allows, laying his hand gently over hers. It’s part of the act, but it feels more genuine, as though this might be something Cassian would do even if they weren’t masquerading as two people who vowed to put each other first.
“Alright,” he repeats. “Please don’t take too long.”
There’s stark worry in his eyes that he’s doing a terrible job hiding. Jyn wishes she could brush the tension from his forehead, but she’s learned from months of working with them how to bite back that instinct. (If she gave in, she’d never not be touching him.)
Then she remembers: to anyone watching, she’s his wife. And if her suspicions about Zak are true, if he’s as dangerous as she fears, this might be her last shot.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifts a hand to cup his cheek. Cassian stills immediately beneath her, sucking in a sharp breath.
She gives him a look, her best approximation of keep it cool. Then she lifts to her tiptoes, tugs him down, and brings her lips to his: soft, relaxed, like this is something they’ve done hundreds of times before.
Only it isn’t. It’s very, very new.
Heat shoots up her spine with staggering intensity, and the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and open her mouth and press tighter flares up fierce inside her. His fingers flinch against the back of her hand, then tighten firm and steady, like he’s begging to hold her in place.
This was a terrible idea, Jyn thinks as she pulls away. This is just going to make it all worse.
For a hint of a moment, Cassian stands still: eyes closed, lips parted. Then he opens his eyes and the mask slides back on.
“Don’t take too long. I’d like an early dinner.”
His grip on her hand is searingly tight.
She nods, searching for something to say, something to leave him with that will be even close to satisfying. But she comes up short.
“Take care,” she manages.
She turns away before he can say anything back.
Stalking down the streets with Zak at her side, Jyn assesses her situation.
She has access to some money, but certainly not anything near the sum Zak would be looking for. So there’s no getting out of this the clean way. And while she’s armed, she’s also outgunned; in her periphery, she can see two of Zak’s cronies are following a few feet behind.
She can’t do anything in public, anyway. She can’t blow Cassian’s cover.
So she follows where Zak leads, down a series of increasingly tight alleyways until they stop in front of a squat, beige door. Zak fuddles with the lock and then pushes her into a dimly-lit room in which another five men are sitting round a small table playing sabacc.
Jyn probably should be focusing on the fact that she’s now outnumbered eight to one, but she finds herself stuck on the fact that there’s not a single woman in the room. Goes to show Zak’s still as much of an ass as he ever was.
The men stand, eyeing her with what looks like amusement. Zak steps forward with that sickening twist to his smile.
“Well, love? Shall we talk business?”
Jyn doesn’t think. She just moves.
Her knee slams into Zak’s groin, rendering him incoherent and floundering, but she can’t properly delight in it because the other men are closing in on her, finally registering her as the threat she is. She pulls her blaster and fires, hitting one man in the shoulder, another in the knee before arms close around her from behind, someone’s hand digging hard at her throat. Her shoulders wrench back; there’s three men on her, now, and Zak before her, wincing as he lifts himself to his feet, his expression murderous.
Behind him, one of Zak’s fallen men whimpers loudly. Zak ignores it.
“If that’s out of your system,” he growls, “I’ll be taking my money, now.”
Jyn’s struggling for breath, but she manages to lift her chin anyways. If she’s going down, it’s going to be with some semblance of dignity.
“Haven’t got any,” she says, looking Zak square in the eye. “My mistake.”
Zak makes a foul noise, half grunt half laugh. Then he signals to his men, and something slams against Jyn’s temple so forcefully, her whole world goes white.
Jyn stirs awake to a roaring throb in her skull. She groans, shifting, but her body meets instant resistance. When she opens her eyes, she sees why: a coil of thick robe is wrapped around her torso, anchoring her in place.
She looks up to see Zak looming above her, practically grinning. When she tilts her neck to check the space, she sees why: this is an Imperial warehouse. The insignias are everywhere. And Jyn has a sinking feeling she knows exactly where that steady ticking noise is coming from.
“You’re going to explode me?”
She shouldn’t be laughing, given that it’s not a joke: he’s strapped her to a bomb that she knows he has every intention of detonating. But she can’t help it. It’s so damn ridiculous, that she would survive Scarif only to bite the dust a few months later, caught up in some absurd relic of an argument. At least this way, she won’t be taking anyone else out with her.
“Two birds one stone,” says Zak, shrugging. “You can’t repay Saw’s debt, so you take the fall for this job, help me keep my cover. We’ll call it even.”
Jyn growls, struggling instinctively against the rope. It’s coarse and cruel, but what’s worse: it’ll probably work. The Imperial guard on Keld is stripped thin, what with so many soldiers needed on other fronts. When they find her body at the scene, they’re likely to read it as a suicide bombing, a last-ditch effort of political protest by some desperate citizen.
She will die, and Zak will escape, and no one will be any the wiser.
“Well then,” says Zak, turning away. “Nice meeting you again.”
Jyn wants so badly to scream after him, to curse and thrash against her restraints. But she knows that’s what he wants, for her to make a scene. So instead, she bites her tongue hard enough to draw blood and waits until he shuts the door behind him.
It won’t be long before the bomb goes off. If she’s lucky, the explosion will kill her instantly, so at least she won’t suffer.
She wonders if Cassian will know that: that she didn’t die in pain. Or maybe, he won’t realize she’s died at all. Maybe he won’t connect her to the explosion and he’ll think she just...left.
She’s not sure which is worse.
Suddenly overcome with useless sentimentality, she hangs her head, and in these, her final moments, she can almost hear his voice calling her name. Except the voice sounds rather close, awfully sharp.
“Jyn!”
Her head snaps up and there he is: bursting through the door dressed in his Imperial guard uniform, blaster in his hand and panic in his eyes.
Jyn should be relieved. Instead, her heart seizes with dread.
“Get out!” she shouts. “There’s a bomb!”
Cassian surges forward, skidding to his knees in front of her. He pulls a knife from his belt and immediately sets to work on the rope.
“Get out!” Jyn shouts again, the terror clawing at her throat. “You can’t be here! You’re not supposed to be here!”
“Shut up,” Cassian snaps back, voice tight. He’s working the knife furiously, but the coils of the rope are thick, and progress is slow.
"How did you find me?"
"You think I didn't realize I was being followed? I traced them back to you."
“I told you to stay behind,” Jyn continues, frantic. “I told you! What happened to all those speeches you gave me about trusting your partner? You knew exactly what I was telling you to do, and still you—”
“Jyn,” Cassian cuts in with a growl, “can we perhaps have this conversation when you’re not strapped to a ticking time bomb?”
“You need to leave!” Her voice is nearly a wail. “There’s not enough time! Just go!”
His answer is firm, without even a hint of hesitation.
“Not without you.”
Tears are welling at the corners of Jyn’s eyes, the rush of blood in her ears almost deafening. Time seems to slow down, and all she can see is Cassian’s face, speckled with dirt and furrowed in concentration, wasting what might very well be his last few moments alive.
Then, like something out of a dream, there’s a snap! And the rope loosens.
“Up,” Cassian commands, hauling at Jyn’s elbow. “Run. Now.”
She does. Her head is pounding, legs leaden, but she tears through the door and down the hall as fast as she can, Cassian mere steps behind her. She slams into a door and it bursts open, revealing a (mercifully empty) alleyway, the sun scorching bright overhead. They make it about thirty feet before there’s a thunderous crack that knocks them both sideways.
Jyn hits the ground hard, and it takes a second to recognize that the weight covering her is Cassian: his arms curled around her back in a sort of makeshift shield.
For a long, long moment, they lie there: breath heavy, waiting to be engulfed in fire or trampled beneath falling building or something. But nothing comes. When Jyn lifts her head, twisting to look back over her shoulder, she can see flames blazing through the windows. But the bomb must have been small enough to keep the building’s structure mostly intact.
Cassian is already on his feet, offering his hand.
“We need to leave,” he says, glancing around with sharp eyes. “We can’t be found here.”
There’s a lot she wants to say but no time to say it. She takes his hand.
They run.
It’s not until they’ve navigated back to the ship, dodged some Imperial fighters swooping in to the scene of the blast, and successfully made the jump to hyperspace that Jyn feels she can breathe. And even then, it’s still coming shaky.
She slumps in her seat, staring across the cockpit as Cassian pulls his headphones from his ears, throwing them to the ground. He’s breathing hard, and when he turns to look at her, she can see the fury in his eyes.
The rational part of her, tucked away in some corner of her mind, recognizes that he has the right to be furious.
The less rational, still terrified part of her wants to punch him square in the jaw. She’s the one who’s angry, here.
“So, I take it you didn’t get the intelligence we were after?”
He barks a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious. We were here for a reason, Cassian, or did you forget that?”
He stares at her, incredulous. Then he snarls, pushing to his feet.
“Get yourself under control,” he orders. “You need to rest.”
“I don’t need to rest!” She’s on her feet, too, even though the motion sends a wave of nausea rippling through her stomach. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Away from you.”
“And exactly how are you going to do that? This ship is small. Or have you completely lost all semblance of reason today?”
“Don’t start with me, Jyn.”
But she can’t help it. There’s a mounting pressure in her chest and she’s flailing, scrambling for a way to release it.
“You shouldn’t have come after me,” she says, over the ringing in her ears. “That was such a stupid idea.”
He spins fast to face her, teeth bared. “Like going off on your own was so smart?”
“They knew where you were. They would have come for you.”
“You could have told me. We could have worked something out.”
“I had it handled.”
“You did not have it handled!” he shouts, like the pressure valve has broken and he can’t keep that anger inside him any longer. “If I hadn’t been there, you would have DIED, Jyn! How in the hell is that having it handled?”
“Because you would have lived!” she nearly screams.
Those words hang between them like an exposed nerve. Jyn can’t quite decipher the expression on his face, but it’s something close to anguish. She looks down at her feet.
Cassian is quiet for a long moment. Then: “The med kit is below deck. Go get it. I’ll be down soon.”
“But I—”
“Just go.”
Jyn swallows. The urge to argue has shriveled up in her chest.
She goes.
She’s picking at a cut along her forearm that she doesn’t even remember getting when she hears a rustling. She looks up to see Cassian stepping off the ladder, eyes cast down.
Jyn racks her brain for something to say, some way to fill this heavy silence. But nothing comes. Instead, she stands in silence as Cassian walks towards her and gently takes the gauze out of her hands.
“Let me,” he mutters, gentle.
Her heart stutters. “Okay.”
He cleans her wound in silence. And while he focuses on his work, Jyn focuses on him: the weary lines across his forehead, the sharp jut of his cheekbones. She rarely lets herself look at him like this, close and quiet, unburdened by the thought that he might look back.
When he finishes with his work, his hand remains on her forearm. He takes a deep breath.
“I am very, very angry with you.”
Jyn wants to laugh, more on instinct than anything else. She knows that nothing about this is funny. She might as well own up to that.
“I know,” she says.
“Do you know why?”
“Because I went off without you.”
Something warm closes around her palm—Cassian’s hand. He lifts his eyes slowly to look at her.
“Because you prioritized my life over your own.”
It’s inappropriate, given the gravity of the moment, but Jyn can’t help but offer a weak smile.
“You’re right,” she says, “I did. But you know, by coming after me, you did the exact same thing.”
His eyes sweep across her face, as if searching for something. Then he lets out a short breath, closes his eyes, and tips his chin to rest his forehead against hers.
“I know,” he murmurs, so soft it’s almost inaudible.
Jyn recognizes this for what it is: the moment they both apologize without ever actually saying the words, the quiet beat of vulnerability before they pull apart and turn back into professionals, pretending this never happened.
It’s not enough.
She lifts her uninjured hand and slides it around the back of Cassian’s neck, holding him in place. He tenses, eyes snapping open.
Suddenly, her mind is static. All the things she’d meant to say—thank you, I care about you, don’t ever do that to me again—wilt inside her. But he’s so close, looking into her eyes, and she can’t just let this moment slide. She has to do something.
So she closes the space between them.
It’s a short kiss, tentative. His eyes are still open when she pulls away, like he’s been frozen in place.
“We’re not undercover anymore,” he whispers, voice scratchy. And even though she knows what he’s actually saying—are you sure?—she has to roll her eyes.
“I’m aware.” He’s still just staring at her, and she flushes, self-conscious. “Look, I was just—”
But then he’s kissing her, deep and desperate, and she melts into him instantly, clutching at his shoulders. His hand is on her cheek, his tongue warm against her lips, and even though her head is still pounding, she never, ever wants this to stop.
As if reading her mind, Cassian pulls away just a hair, his breath labored. “We still need to talk about this.”
Jyn kisses his cheek. “I know.”
Because he’s right: they need to talk about Zak, about why her past leapt out of the woodwork, about why she was so quick to leave Cassian behind. Just, at the moment, other necessities are more pressing.
“You can’t just—” Cassian huffs. “I’m still mad.”
She presses her lips to his jaw, his chin.
“I know. Me too.”
His brow wrinkles. “But you—I’m the one who should be mad, Jyn. You—”
She kisses his lips, cutting him off.
“Later, okay? Let’s yell later.”
The war between anger and elation plays out in his smile, a strange, beautiful tangle of a thing.
“Fine,” he assents. “But believe me, I am going to yell a lot.”
The way his fingers are tangling in her hair rather undercuts the intended severity of that statement. She smiles, already leaning back in.
“I’ll prepare myself accordingly.”