Chapter Text
“We owe you a great deal,” the princess sighed. “If that’s what you want, then of course.”
Jyn looked around, at the young princess, at the senator in white, at the grim-faced general, at their expressions of disappointment and – worse – concern. “Just get me onto a ship and I’m out of your way.”
“We can –”
“I’m not here for payment. Just a ship.”
“We understand your position,” said Draven, his low voice measured, less sharp than when he’d interrogated her – when? days ago? a lifetime? – “but please grant me the opportunity just to make clear that you are welcome with us. The Rebellion would be grateful of skills and attributes such as yours. We don’t underestimate what it’s taken you to do what you’ve done.”
A beat. “Sorry.” She felt, rather than saw, how the three of them sank a little.
“We can get you placed with an identity on one of the farming worlds in the Outer Rim in just over a week,” Leia said sadly. Mon Mothma remained silent, a gleaming white column of solemn regret.
And she meant it, she reflected as she walked out. She was sorry. But she’d died for Saw and died for herself, died even for the Empire back on Five Points and now she’d died for the Rebellion too. She was done with dying for a long time. She’d learned enough to know there was nowhere beyond the reach of the Empire; Outer Rim or not, they came just the same. But she’d make it last for as long as she could, and she’d do it right, this time. None of the mistakes she made before.
The crumbling corridors of the ziggurat were humming with activity – rebel staff packing all they could, planning the switch-off of the systems, droids whirring past carrying loops of cabling, the grey and red insulated guts of an entire operation. They’d be out and off the moon not long after she was, running from the Empire just like her.
Except they were still doing something about it.
She shook the admonition away in irritation. She’d done plenty. Nobody could say she hadn’t. Who could even try to keep going after –?
Who, apart from the man walking past her now toward the room she’d just left, his back less straight than she knew it could be, his gait nonetheless determinedly even, and his face, hard-edged and lined with ill-disguised pain, not turning to her for a second.
Apart from him.
She hesitated, glanced over her shoulder in time to see Cassian vanish around the corner. She wasn't about to call after him. She didn't need to see him look at her like that again. The disappointment from the princess and the others just now had been nothing to what she'd felt from him. It should make it easier to go. It should.
She turned and leaned against the wall, resting her head back on the rough, ancient stone. It dug into her scalp and it felt like the whole building was telling her to walk on. The low ceiling caught her groan and defracted it mercifully into the low buzz of another passing droid.
He had no right to expect anything of her. She'd only ever done as she needed. It put them on the same side, for a while, was all. And if he'd let himself think - she didn't have to justify herself to him.
A passing technician shot her an enquiring look and seemed to consider pausing to offer help. More obsequious concern from some idealist who wanted a hero. She closed her eyes until she heard his pace quicken again and fade.
Yavin was a sticky, sweaty ruin she'd be glad to leave behind; the humidity clung still more oppressively as they shut down the cooling systems sector by sector. Even the stone at her back felt as warm as breath.
Jyn contemplated moving off again, but she wasn't sure where. She couldn't quite face visiting the other survivors in the medbay until it was time to say goodbye - perhaps not even then. The place was thick with pilots from the battle and there was no privacy, no way to tell those she had fought with that the fight was now over for her. Again, she thought with indignation of that look of disappointment they'd be sure to give her, sadness like a stab wound, and no, she wouldn't put them through it.
Another passer-by, another glance of curious concern. That was the thing, how kriffing concerned everybody looked. Of course, the real letdown for everyone was that she’d lived, and intended to go on doing so. A martyr was so much more in keeping, wasn’t it, and now they had to deal with someone alive and so weren’t they all unnerved, weren’t they all just wishing she’d come spectacularly apart. Everything was so big for the devout; the thought it wasn’t big enough to wipe her out must have been such an insult to them.
Well, surviving was what she did. Surviving, she believed in; anything more, and she’d seen how believing could twist people. Flying razors in a ballroom. Enough to dream about for a lifetime, there, thanks. So, no, she wasn’t going to come undone now just to please them.
Force, they’d bleed you dry if they could. They’d done their best work on Cassian, hadn’t they.
There came the sound of a step that was too measured to be natural and she cursed herself for staying where she was, but if she made off now he’d only see her going. Then Cassian rounded the corner once more and it was too late anyway.
He stopped when he reached her, looking straight ahead.
“Waiting for me?”
She eyed his profile silently, the rock still cutting into the back of her head.
He sighed, and turned to her. “Jyn.” He sounded nothing more than resigned, looked nothing more than tired.
Jyn looked him up and down briefly, taking in his fractionally lopsided bearing, the way he shifted his weight onto one leg, then met his eyes.
“What did they say?”
“They’re wrong,” he told her.
She pushed herself forward off the wall. “What did they say?”
He shook his head slightly, and Jyn wasn’t sure how but suddenly they were walking. If they were both heading back to their rooms, they were going in the same direction - the residential sector was some way from here. Side by side like this was easy, like a habit, already; but with the long weight of silence, the familiarity jarred.
“Leave,” he spat, and for a moment, she thought it was an order. But he went on. “Extended leave of absence. I’m fine.”
You’re not , she thought.
“I know,” she said. She wondered how long it was since Cassian had last done nothing at all. Talk about kicking someone when they were down. “So - you said no.”
He scoffed. “I don’t get a choice.”
“What will you do?” And for a wild, insane moment, she almost said come with me . But she knew better than to think he could ever pull the wires of this machine from his veins. They really would bleed you dry. She stole another glance at him; he licked his lips and winced, minutely, and she looked away.
She wondered if the electric fence that ran between them was obvious to the technicians and pilots that went by them as they walked. Carrying their loads, preparing for retreat. Perhaps not. But then, they had no comparison.
He still hadn’t responded when they rounded the next corner..
“What will you do?” she asked again.
Cassian suddenly put his arm out, halting her in her tracks, and stepped in front of her. He looked down at her with a face like stone and acid. “Still more than you,” he rasped.
She stared as he turned and stalked away, and she felt the sting of what she chose to call injustice.
--
Five days gone. Three to go. Jyn had begun a mental list of the things she hated about this place.
She hated the damp heat that twisted her hair and made her clothes stick to her so she had to change twice a day, and how every time she did, she had to change into an exact copy of the exact same pale brown shirt from the stack she’d found dumped in her bunk, none of which were quite the right size or shape, and she hated that that annoyed her.
She hated her room, small and strangely shaped, with the grey bed that was long enough to lie straight in and the metal desk with drawers in which she no possessions to put, and she hated how small that made her feel.
She hated that every time she left her room, there were people. People fetching, people carrying, people studying plans, people giving orders, orders, orders. People looking at her - at least, now, with dislike, rather than with concern. News had spread, and she hated that they dared judge her.
She hated the food. It was better than endless nutritive milk, better than protein straws, better than ration cubes, better than months of bunn. It was hot and varied, and the next meal was always enough and was always guaranteed, and she was leaving it, and so she hated it.
She hated the walls of ancient stone and brittle steel patched unevenly with newer durasteel. They were yellow, yellower still with age, and in the oldest, deepest, stalest parts of the ziggurat they hung and glistened with sweat. Further out, they channeled what passed for fresh air, nothing but the stench of swamps and rotting vegetation, and she hated that there was no in between.
She hated Cassian. She couldn't imagine what life would be for him with no purpose, no mission. He was all drive; reluctant, regretful, yes, but she knew what it was to be defined by action. But her sympathy had turned sour when he took his uselessness out on her. It wasn’t her fault. She hated that unbidden thought: come with me . She hated that he dared make her feel guilty, make her explain to herself that she wasn't.
She liked not seeing him when she stayed in her room.
So she hated his unexpected arrival at her door.
Jyn stared at him sullenly as the door slid open, and rested her hand on the lintel above. He looked her over.
“I need to come in.”
After a beat, she shrugged and stepped aside. He looked around as he walked in stiffly - injury or uncertainty, she couldn't tell.
Unmade bed, a collection of cups on the floor: she was willing to bet his room was as far from this as he seemed from her. She noticed one of the cups still held the dregs of an old caf, dark and clouded, clawing its way across its own surface to gather in a pale grey film.
Cassian stood in the middle of the room, hands held behind his back, legs apart. Officer stance, perhaps. Or just an easier weight distribution. She tipped her head on one side and gestured impatiently.
“I think I owe you some sort of thanks for trying,” he said suddenly.
Jyn raised an eyebrow. Trying? She knew immediately that he couldn't be talking about what they had achieved together on Scarif. Whatever gulf there might be between them now, even he wouldn't dismiss that so callously.
“It's better than nothing,” Cassian went on. “I won’t take it, but I just want you to know I'm not ungrateful.”
His formality hung from him awkwardly, but not without sincerity, and Jyn felt unsteady. What was he referring to? What code was this?
Were they being watched?
Despite the humidity, a chill ran down her as she realised how likely that was. Of course. Play along. It meant he was trying to tell her something. Were they on the same side again?
“You're welcome,” she said lightly. I’m with you . “It's your decision, obviously. I just thought.” But I don't understand.
He gave a curt nod. “Well, as I said, I'm not ungrateful. But I’m not taking the offer.” Then his expression sharpened. “And now keep out of it.”
Whatever he was telling her, she couldn't read it.
“I know.” What do you need? “I overstepped. Sorry.” Help me out, Cassian.
He stared at her for a second, and then with a sigh, he sat down on the side of her bed, face turned to the ceiling. How quickly they moved between states.
“I'm not your problem, Jyn,” he said, and he sounded tired again, the formality draining away. “Nothing here is your problem. You’ve got three days and then you’re not ours either.”
Ours? He clearly assumed she was following this.
“So… what is my problem?” I don't understand. It occurred to her then that perhaps this was not a code after all, and sure enough, just like that, he was knife-cold again.
“I wish I knew,” he bit back.
“Listen,” she bristled, “you sound pretty ungrateful to me, whatever it is. I didn’t ask you here.”
“I didn’t ask you to weigh in on my job. We’re even.”
She wasn’t going to give ground now, confused as she was. Jyn headed back to the door and hit the panel. He glowered at her as it slid open, but made no move.
There was a silence, thickened by the heat.
"It's more than a suggestion," she told him, waving at the corridor outside. "If you're not my problem, you can go. Wherever it is you go when you've got nothing else to do... Where is that, exactly?"
She knew it was a vicious payback, watching his jaw set darkly in response, and finally Cassian stood and made to leave. But he paused in the doorway, looking past her.
"I know you meant well," he said. "But I'm more use to this fight than... than counting weeds in the Mid Rim."
“Not right now," she replied. But it came out softer than she meant it to, and then he was gone, and she was staring at the closed door, unfinished and uncomprehending.
--
In her windowless room, the afternoon crept on like a headache. The bedsheets tangled and stuck underneath her when she tried to lie down, but the thought of going for a walk and seeing people was abhorrent.
For want of anything else to do, she straightened the bed, re-folded the stack of identical brown shirts and trousers on the table, and shoved the cups into one of the drawers. Slamming the drawer too hard, though, resulted in a clattering sound; the dark grey dregs of caf started drizzling through the bottom onto the hard floor below. Jyn cursed and pulled off her shirt to mop up, but when she was done and grabbed a new shirt, the newly folded stack toppled off the table in disarray. She cursed again and kicked the chair, which only hurt her foot, and as it tipped it landed on top of the crumpled heap of clothes, compounding the disaster.
It was nothing. It was funny. It should have been funny.
Instead, Jyn howled. She dragged the sheets off the bed in a passion and threw them across the room, then fell amid the chaos with a groan, clawing at her sweat-sheened face.
What was he even talking about?
Well, Cassian’s wounded pride wasn’t her problem. He’d said so himself. Still, she was fascinated. He clearly thought that this new offer - better, apparently, but still insulting - was somehow her doing, and she was morbidly curious to know exactly what it was that he thought she actually cared enough to do for him after he’d spoken to her the way he had.
She wiped her face with the nearest bit of the sheet to her hand and pulled a shirt from under the chair.
There were probably systems in place by which you could secure an appointment to see his grizzled commanding officer. Jyn hit the control panel; the door slid open and she headed out into the corridor, dodging a passing R2 unit as she fastened her shirt. Screw systems.
She marched down the corridor and turned abruptly at each corner, sighing ostentatiously at each person who happened to be in her way, ignoring their growls of irritation and dislike in return. One woman dropped her box of circuitry in alarm as she veered to avoid Jyn; she heard the woman grumbling to herself, scrabbling to pick up the circuits as she left her behind. Then -
“Hey!” the woman called out suddenly. Jyn kept walking. “Hey!” came the voice again, and the sound of running. A hand landed on Jyn’s shoulder. “Hey!”
Jyn rolled her eyes and turned. “Yes?”
The woman was even shorter than she was, and dropped her hand quickly as Jyn faced her. She looked eager, if hesitant, the sweat shining almost blue on her round face.
“I just - you’re -” She glanced momentarily over her shoulder at the pile of circuitry she’d abandoned behind her, then back at Jyn. “Jyn Erso? I just wanted to say thanks,” she said. “And good luck. With everything.”
Jyn gave a start, stepping back and staring at the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Thanks,” she muttered, shaking it quickly. “You too, I guess.”
The woman nodded, a flash of a shy smile, and then retreated to gather up her scattered boxload of technology. Jyn blinked hard and shook her head, turning back and resuming her route march.
Someone who didn’t blame her.
It felt worse.
Further into the ill-lit arteries of the base, the sickly heat was punctured periodically by blasts from the coolers not yet shut down; there was no adjusting to it like this, and it felt full of the breath of everyone that had lived here for - how long, she wondered? How long had it taken to build all that which now they tore down in their haste to flee? The denizens were fewer by the day, the corridors ever barer. It was almost sad. She knew all about running.
The general’s office was somewhere along here, she remembered. Here, the doors were mostly open, the rooms beyond them hollowed out, shells rattling only with inessential furniture. Another century or two, and perhaps the vines would push this far in, too, reclaim what remained in a heavy green embrace.
The intelligence quarter, of course - the highest priority for removal. First out, and these rooms had been empty for days. She wondered how long they had left now, how many data centres still to deactivate, how much time until the Empire returned to mop up.
One still-closed door stood far along the left hand side of the corridor. Jyn bit her lip and knocked.
There was no answer, and suddenly she was uncertain of why she had come at all. What did it matter to her what Cassian’s newest insult was?
She kicked the door spitefully and sat down to wait beside it, her back to the wall. Of course it mattered. It mattered still more now she was leaving. There had been panic, purpose, some sort of partnership. That sort of thing didn’t just go away. So for all that she wanted freedom, and for all that he had wanted to tie her down, a life of knowing that he - wherever he might be - had lost the meaning of his: she knew it was not a life she could dream of in comfort.
She sat and waited, ready to plead on Cassian’s behalf as he believed she already had. Such misplaced faith in her, even now.
Finally, Draven rounded the corner, scanning through something on his data pad. He faltered only a fraction when he noticed her, but impassively, he tapped open the door and nodded her inside.
His office was dim; backup power only now in this sector, and a crunching noise through the wall of some machine somewhere nearby being unhooked, euthanised. The door slid shut at her back, and he turned to face her.
“What can I do for you now, Erso?”
She gripped her hands tightly behind her back. Something about him always made her nervous. She lost all power of equivocation under his gaze; the only way to meet it without quailing was directly. So she told him, “You can’t decommission Cassian.”
“We’re not,” Draven replied, his worn face registering no reaction at all. “And as an individual with no current affiliations to our unit, that information alone is more than you’re entitled to.”
“Don’t give me that,” she said, hating the quaver in her voice that betrayed her. “I’m entitled to ask for a great deal more than I have. Ensuring the wellbeing of a soldier I fought beside is not something I will accept as too great a request.”
She knew her choice of words was too impersonal, a dead giveaway, but still he showed no trace of his thoughts as he eyed her levelly. Finally, he folded his arms, seeming to reach a decision.
“After careful consideration, we recognise that Captain Andor” - the emphasis stung somehow - “requires some level of activity and focus in order to help bring him back to full health. Until that time he is of no use in his former endeavours.”
I could have told you that. He did tell you that. Careful consideration, my -
“A history of achievement such as you share is uncommon,” he went on. “So whatever you may believe to the contrary, Erso, I do fully appreciate your personal concern for him.” At last, she detected something in his expression - fleeting, infinitesimal, a flash of something too fast to identify. “Please trust that my priority and that of the Alliance is to see him return to active service as soon as is reasonably possible.”
She snorted ironically. “Well, you wouldn’t want to lose out for too long on a useful resource.”
“We would not.” He didn’t flicker.
“Well,” she shrugged, “he doesn’t seem too happy about whatever you’ve dreamt up in the meantime.”
“Then perhaps you can persuade him.”
Jyn pursed her lips, swallowing her confusion.
“Andor’s unsuitability for action goes beyond the physical,” he continued. “As much as he might disagree, he needs time to recover away from direct conflict.”
She nodded silently. It felt like betraying him to agree. “And?”
“I gather you’ve seen the impacts of the Empire’s industrious mining activities for yourself.”
She nodded again. Planets hollowed out, mined to death, their shells infertile and uninhabitable. It was a concept she could never have imagined had she not seen it over and over.
Draven inclined his head slightly. “Some contacts of ours have established a conservation unit on a planet in the Ginqou system, for species endangered or outright displaced.” He gave the shadow of a wry smile. “I’ve been told it’s valuable work. What galaxy do we fight to liberate if we don’t care for it, after all?”
Conservation? Valuable work? It sounded like a script, coming out of this man’s war-scarred mouth. No wonder Cassian had felt insulted. Counting weeds, he’d called it, and she suddenly understood his outrage, the sting it must have been to his pride. And yet -
And yet it appealed. There had been a time, years ago, when she had marvelled over all she didn’t know about the galaxy; all the things she had never had the time or opportunity to see; living things that would live or die by the hand of those with power and never know how or why; a tiny, fragile creature with leaves in its bones; yellow petals falling gracefully (don’t look to where they redden as they land); even the vines that she knew would one day constrict these walls, and had come within a moment of being so much dust in space.
“He won’t do it,” she said.
“As I said,” Draven replied evenly, “you might persuade him.” He unfolded his arms and made a gesture of dismissal. “He knows his options.”
Jyn tried to hold his gaze a moment longer, but he turned away and repeated the gesture.
She was halfway out of the door when she stopped. “Sir -”
“I’m not “sir” to you, Erso.”
“How do I volunteer?”