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Cassian stood on the back porch and watched the horizon turn violet-grey.
He had always been an early riser, and had always been able to function on little sleep. He’d never minded it; it had come in handy, over the course of his career. But in the recent past, through no effort or desire of his own, he’d found himself waking earlier, earlier, and earlier, regardless when he went to bed, and regardless how hard he tried to sleep in. The sunrise, and the special sort of stillness that preceded it, had become very familiar to him.
He’d heard it said that the dwindling need for sleep was a sign of aging. That couldn’t be so, because he was definitely not aging. Never mind what day it happened to be.
A thin line of pink stretched out beneath the violet. The tops of the mountains -- at least a hundred kilometers distant -- grew visible, tinged blue, and in the valley, he could make out clusters of trees and houses. A wonderful view, he thought, as he did most every morning. They’d lucked out with their housing on this installation. Then again, given their positions and status, it wasn’t really luck at all.
The door opened and closed behind him. There were footsteps, light and measured. He smiled. She always walked that way, cautious and ready. She’d be pissed, he thought, if she knew how good he was at recognizing her from that alone, even when they weren’t at home and he had no reason to expect her.
“How long have you been out here?” Jyn asked. She drew up beside him and handed him a mug. The scent of caf wafted up to him.
He breathed. “An hour, roughly.”
She lifted a second mug to her lips. Took a long draught. The air filled with a burst of birdsong. “You know, you’re getting…”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Oh, c’mon. It’s true. For both of us.” She rolled her shoulders, and he heard a pop. Her upper back had been bothering her lately. He reached up and rubbed the base of her neck. “Do you realize that, next year, it’ll have been a quarter century since…”
“ Stop. ” He gulped his caf. “It sounds worse when you put it that way.”
She smirked up at him, but didn’t reply. Instead, she wrapped her arm around his middle and, for a moment, squeezed him to her. His hand slipped from her neck to her far shoulder. The slant of the light cast half her features in shadow, sharpened the rest. There were streaks of grey in her hair (far, far fewer than in his); the lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened; her jawline had grown softer. Time had changed her, but it hadn’t made his breath stop catching when he looked at her.
He couldn’t believe that it had been so long. He couldn’t believe that they were standing there, drinking caf, outside of a proper house (not the first they’d lived in, but still); that it was now rare for them to see combat; that they’d had the opportunity to have a family, and something approaching a life. Back then, he’d never have guessed any of it was possible. The man he had once been, the man who’d stood in the dark of the war room and glared at her, would have thought it all sounded ridiculous.
It was better not to spend too much time dwelling on it. And he didn’t, usually.
Usually.
“When are they coming, again?” For all his navel gazing, he was looking forward to the day.
“Midday.” She pressed her nose into his shoulder. “I get you all to myself, all morning long.”
He harrumphed. “You’ll spend it needling me about my age.”
“Probably. But in a few years, you can pay me back.” She tilted her head. “Hell, you could start now, if you wanted.”
“Wouldn’t work. It doesn’t bother you as much.”
They were silent for a moment. The sun had risen high enough for its heat to be noticeable. There was dew on the grass, and it shimmered.
“Why does it bother you?” she asked.
He looked down at her. Frowned.
“It’s not a big deal, really.” She gazed outward, over the valley. “Even if it was, there’s not much to be done for it.”
“None of that’s the point. It’s…” He wasn’t sure how to answer. He had reasons, of course. Some were played up, for effect; others were not. It was more than a little odd, given how he’d lived his life, that he should be seriously pondering his mortality now. Then again, it also made perfect sense, for the exact same reason.
She arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”
He let his hand drift down her back, gave her elbow a gentle tug. “Let’s go inside.” He was putting off the inevitable. She’d ask him again at some point, he knew.
“You aren’t going to say?”
He was already at the door. “No.” He pressed his fingers to the wall panel. “I’m going to find a way to distract myself from the question, instead.” When he turned back toward her, the early morning light was shining in her hair, limning the side of her face. It glinted off the top of her mug. “Care to help?”
Her look was withering. “Very smooth, General.”
“There’s a reason I made such a good spy.”
“And this was it, clearly.”
“I’m very charming. It’s a matter of official record.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
They looked at one another. She was trying not to smile. If he hadn’t been doing the same, he would have teased her about it. He sighed and held out his hand. “Jyn…?”
She took it.
Morning passed.
The bell rang, and it was expected. It was on time, even. But there was a strangeness to it. It had been a long time and several bases since they’d lived in the barracks (over 18 years, he reflected. Force! ), but he had never shaken the feeling of awkwardness, of surreality, that came from answering a front door. He supposed it would always seem weird. He could live with that.
The door slid into its pocket.
“Chirrut,” he said, the corner of his lips quirking upward.
“Cassian.” Chirrut was beaming. He gripped Cassian’s arm with one hand, his shoulder with the other. “You don’t look a day over 30.”
“Very funny.”
“Who’s kidding?” He used his staff to sketch out the door, moved through it -- more slowly than he once would have, but no less gracefully -- and gaily greeted Jyn.
Baze followed, his gaze following his spouse, a fond smile on his face. He smiled more often than he used to. His hair was tied into a tail, totally grey, longer, its ends dusting the center of his back. He put a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. His grip was firmer than Chirrut’s. “Hello, old friend.” Voice deep and rough and warm, and getting warmer all the time.
There was a peace about the man, in these later years. He never spoke freely on faith -- hadn’t in all the years that Cassian had known him -- but there had been clear signs that he’d lost it, and now, there was an equally strong sense he’d regained it. He’d guarded Chirrut physically; in turn, Chirrut had guarded that part of him, keeping it safe and warm until he’d been ready and able to reclaim it.
“I’m glad you’re here, Baze.”
“I’m glad to be here. It’s been longer than we would have liked.”
“Agreed.” He sighed. “We really should make more of an effort.”
“You don’t have to for me,” said another voice.
Cassian turned away from Baze, who made a sound under his breath, then moved to join Chirrut and Jyn. K-2SO strode across the lawn. His joints whirred and clanked. He was not in his first body, but he was in his same body, and he was, of course, otherwise unchanged. “I saw you yesterday.”
“...I know.”
K took another step. Stopped. His eyes moved. “Cassian,” he said, “congratulations on exceeding 62% of your projected life expectancy.”
Cassian closed his eyes. Breathed out, through his nose. Very, very slowly. “Thank you, K.”
“It’s a significant benchmark, you know. I spent the ride here doing research. I’m not entirely sure why it’s expressed in standard years, which is far more arbitrary and far less pleasing than expressing it as a proportion or percentage of an average individual lifespan, but culture and Human relations have never been my strong suit. It isn’t as if I’m some…” He paused. The tone of his voice dipped. “... protocol droid.”
Cassian felt a tendril of mirth wind its way through him. K-2 had an...interesting way of making him feel light. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” He spun around. “Come inside.”
The others were gathered at the galley-style kitchen. Baze and Chirrut were standing at its edge, the former sipping water from a tall glass, the latter propped against the wall, his hands knit and curled over the end of his staff. The bones in them were pronounced. Jyn leaned into the countertops, her fingers curled under the edge. Her feet, one crossed over the other, were pressed into the cabinets opposite from her.
“Where’s the young one?” Baze asked.
Jyn half smiled. “She insisted on Bodhi picking her up. Said we should…” She looked at Cassian as he rounded the corner. “What was it? ‘Sit around, do nothing, and enjoy our child-free lives?’”
“Something like that.”
Chirrut tilted his head toward Jyn. “She sounds like you.”
“Damn right, she does.”
It was certainly Jyn’s preferred brand of blunt. It was also idealistic. The two of them couldn’t, of course, “do nothing.” Oh, they were on leave at the moment, but they weren’t retired, and it was anyone’s guess when or if they ever would be. They needed to be doing something . Peace and domesticity without action and movement, even if it was indirect, would drive them both crazy. They’d figured that out a long time ago.
It was a nice sentiment, though. A hopeful one. They’d taught her well.
He sidled up beside Jyn, close enough to be awash in her body’s familiar heat. Glanced at the chrono. Felt the old ache in his back, over his hip, down his leg. For years now, it had been responding to changes in barometric pressure; he wondered if the weather was going to turn. In defiance of that thought, the midday sun streamed through the window over the sink, casting a cross-hatched shadow on the floor.
Jyn was laughing. His wife, and his friends, were laughing.
Except for K. But, well, he looked about as amused as he ever did.
It was around 13:00 when the shadow changed. Through the window, Cassian glimpsed the edge of a speeder, practical, unassuming. He was seized by an eagerness that was unique, that was tied to a particular sense of himself, to a role that he felt privileged to play. Jyn’s hand wound around his forearm. He pressed his own into her lower back, and then they were moving back across the house, trailed by the others. They crowded onto the threshold, thighs together, her shoulder against his upper arm.
Bodhi was already halfway across the yard, wearing civilian clothing and a full, salt-and-pepper beard that Cassian didn’t think he’d ever get used to. He had a small package tucked under his arm. And beside him, there was a young woman, bag slung over her shoulder, with Jyn’s eyes, Cassian’s jaw, and a height that fell somewhere in between them both.
Althea Erso-Andor grinned, and hurried toward them.
Bodhi followed more slowly. Watching after her. Looking pleased. He had always been her favorite, and he’d responded to her fondness in kind, indulging her games of make-believe; sharing with her his favorite stories; taking her flying, when she’d reached the age for it, teaching her the finer details, the marks of his talent. He’d gotten her into sabaac, in recent years. She hadn’t beaten him yet. But, oh, she wanted to, with a Jyn-like tenacity, and took any opportunity to cajole people into “practising” with her.
Cassian wondered how that was playing out for her at university. Even odds. She could handle it, either way.
Jyn embraced her first. It was always a little surreal to see his wife leaning up to hug their daughter. A silly impression, he knew, but one he had trouble banishing.
“Good to see you, kiddo."
“You too, Mom.”
She turned toward him, then. He felt his heart fill up. Missing a child didn’t feel quite like missing anyone or anything else. It wasn’t worse, or better, per se; it was something different altogether, something that couldn’t rightly be compared. He pulled her to him, pressed the side of his head to the top of hers, and sighed as some of the weight of it dropped away.
“Thea,” he said, his voice soft.
“Happy birthday, Dad.”
“Thank you.” He drew away, indicated her bag. “Why don’t you go and drop that off in your room?”
She made a face. “My room?”
“Yes.” He blinked. “Were you expecting to sleep on the couch?”
“No, what I mean is...it’s still mine? You guys haven’t turned it into a study or something?”
He exchanged a glance with Jyn, who said, “it’s only been five months.”
“Right. Plenty of time.”
“Not for us, apparently.” Jyn stepped back from the doorway and jerked her head indoors. “Go on, then.”
Althea rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” She gripped the strap of her bag, adjusted it. Moved past them. Cassian bent his head toward Jyn’s.
“There it is, again.”
Jyn shrugged. “She wants us to be okay.”
He watched Althea throw her arms around the necks of Chirrut and Baze, calling each of them “uncle” in turn. K made a remark; she chuckled. “Keeping a place for her doesn’t mean we’re not okay.”
“Of course it doesn’t. But, to her…” Jyn looked thoughtful.
It was part of that same, overall hope that she had for them. And perhaps something more, something she’d gleaned over the years from what she knew of their backgrounds. They’d tried to shield her from the worst of it, and there were things they couldn’t tell her even if they’d wanted to, but that could only be carried so far. Now, it was just a matter of time before she knew everything, especially since the final few records regarding Scarif had been declassified.
That was going to be an interesting conversation.
“It’s bravado, too.” Bodhi had stepped up onto the stoop. He’d shifted the package from under his arm, and was gripping it by its top. It looked suspiciously like a bottle. “A little bit, anyway.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.” Jyn caught Cassian’s eye. “Can’t imagine where she gets it from.”
Bodhi smiled. He squeezed her arm, leaned up to give her a peck on the cheek. There had been a depth to their bond almost from the start, as though they were siblings in truth rather than in spirit. Cassian suspected it was part of why Althea had taken so strongly to him.
He turned and clapped Cassian on the back. Proffered the package.
“We agreed there would be no gifts,” Cassian said.
“I’m a guest bringing something for the household, that’s all.”
Cassian pulled the bottle out of the bag. Turned it over in his hand. Vistulo brandale, aged 12 years -- the length of time it would probably take he and Jyn to drink it. “How much did you pay for this?”
“There, uh, was a sale.”
Jyn narrowed her eyes. “Bodhi, you didn’t…”
“Ask Han about it the next time he’s on base.” He smiled again, and nodded forward. “Shall we go in?” he said. Despite the fact that it wasn’t his house, the question had the air of a command.
Well, that wasn’t so surprising. He was an admiral, after all.
The brandale, it turned out, did not take 12 years to drink. Then again, he and Jyn weren’t the only ones doing the drinking.
He leaned back into the couch and swirled his glass. He thought he might be tipsy. He had to work to remember the last time he had been (the day he’d married Jyn, and they’d both felt free and comfortable enough to let go? The time, early in their parenthood, when they’d needed a few hours away, just a few, and Shara and Kes had gone and taken the baby for a whole entire night and he and Jyn had behaved like a pair of teenagers?), and the old nervousness he associated with it, the worry that he’d be caught with his guard down, reared up. It didn’t get far. He took another sip. He was safe here.
They’d talked about Chirrut and Baze’s retirement, and the occasional work they did for Luke Skywalker. They’d talked about Althea’s experiences at university, how she was narrowing in on xenobiology (she wasn’t going to be a soldier! She was going to be an academic, a scholar! She wasn’t going to be a soldier! They lived in a universe where that was possible, now!), how she’d been earning decent grades, how she’d...been kicked out of the sabaac club. K had asked if she wouldn’t rather go into programming. She’d told him she was studying it, as well, just for him.
She was sitting across from the couch, next to Chirrut, who was smiling broadly. Cassian recalled a moment, back when she was maybe three, when he and Jyn had left the room, and they’d come back to Chirrut and Baze lying on the floor, laughing hard enough to cry, and her doubled over, shrieking with giggles.
It warmed him, that they’d been able to give that to her, that they’d all gotten something out of it. He and Jyn hadn’t had the luxury of growing up with stable families. But after they were grown, they’d managed to find one, on Jedha and Eadu and Scarif, and the success of their struggle had meant that they’d had the privilege of passing it on. Thea had living parents and a cadre of uncles, K included.
He wondered if she understood. Well, she would, eventually. She was smart. Interesting conversation, indeed. He sipped again.
The day ambled on into night. At some point, after dinner, Bodhi leaned toward Cassian, and cleared his throat.
“I know there weren’t supposed to be any gifts…”
“Technically, you already gave me one.” He glanced at the bottle. It was three quarters empty.
“That was different. It was a host gift.” Bodhi sighed, and reached down, retrieving a cylinder. He unscrewed the cap. A spool of flimsiplast spilled out into his hand.
Cassian felt the couch dip, and then felt Jyn, up against his side.
“I…” Bodhi, as he currently was, was not an anxious person. He was confident, competent, and decisive. He was a leader, and an insightful one. But long ago, he had been anxious, and he’d been reeling from the effects of a deeply traumatic experience, and those two realities had fed upon one another. The way he looked and sounded now reminded Cassian of those years. “You, um...you knew about this. You knew what we were going to do.”
Cassian reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pair of reading glasses. He was aware of Jyn doing the same. He set his glass down on an end table, then spread the flimsi over his thigh.
He gasped.
Jyn moved closer. She had slung her arm around his back, and his cheek was warm from her breaths.
The room was quiet.
They’d won, years ago. They had. But remnants of the Empire still existed, and it was their ongoing task to push them back. Engagements still happened. Operations were still planned. When it had come to this one, he’d purposely kept himself out of it. He was too close to it, far too close, for his involvement to be a good idea. There had been a time when, for want of personnel and influence, he may not have had a choice, but that time had long since passed. He had been able to say “no” to this, and his rationale had been accepted. And after that, he’d tried to put it out of his mind.
Bodhi put a hand on his arm. “It’s free.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them again. He turned his head, and Jyn was looking at him, mouth agape, eyes wide. Her fingers kneaded his side, then slid up his back, to his neck. He swallowed, hard.
If someone was going to give him a gift, then he couldn’t have asked for a better one than this.
“Fest is free.”
He felt the others, more than saw or heard them. He could almost taste their reactions. Because they were a part of him. Because they were family.
Jyn guided his head to the crook of her neck. He met the fierceness of her grip. He had the fleeting thought that they were not alone, that they were in front of their friends and their daughter, but whether due to the alcohol or their closeness to him or elsewise, he didn’t care. He held her fast. He pulled her tight.
There was so much value in hope. So very much, and it felt like...
He reached for Bodhi. “Thank you,” he said.
It felt like the end of something. It felt like relief, and release. It felt like closure.
Bodhi breathed in. He moved forward, smiling, and wrapped an arm around him. “You’re welcome.”
Cassian shook. It took a moment for him to realize that it was because he’d started laughing.
Several hours later, he lay on his side, his arm draped over Jyn’s midsection, and gazed at the wall. It was dark; clouds had rolled in, blocking the moonlight. The brandale was leeching out of his system, and he knew he’d soon be reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table.
His thoughts were a jumble. His feelings were complex, and heady, and he wasn’t sure he could put them into words. He buried his face in Jyn’s hair. She smelled wonderful.
“Jyn,” he whispered.
She pushed back against him. “Hmm?” Her voice was foggy. She’d been half-asleep.
“I have an answer.” It was burning in him. It was filling up his chest. “For why it bothers me.”
She went still for a moment, then turned in his arms, moving to face him. In the low light, he could just make out her features. Her brow was knit.
He heard voices from down the hall, raised for a moment, but joyful. Chirrut and Baze had been the first to turn in, shortly after K had left, and were sleeping in the spare room. Bodhi and Althea, meanwhile, had stayed up. Playing cards. Naturally. They’d likely play long into the night. The thought made Cassian smile.
All of the people he cared most about were well, and safe. And all of the things , and, now, all of the places … The purpose that had been driving him for 44 years beat like a heart and swelled. He was so happy. He was so blissfully happy. He reached up and ran his fingers down the curve of Jyn’s cheek, slid them back, rubbed the skin along the front of her ear with the edge of his thumb.
“I like my life.” I’m proud of it. I’m proud of everything that all of us have done. “I don’t want it to end.”
She covered his hand with her own, and a soft smile spread across her face. She shifted further. Rolled until her body was fully parallel with his. Took his head in her heads, tugged it toward her, pressed her lips to his forehead. Moved, and kissed his mouth.
“It’s not over yet.” She kissed him again. “It’s only just starting.”
Well. That was a different way of looking at it.
He let her -- Jyn, a general and a hero and his wife and, Force, the mother of his child, this strong, vibrant woman, who had changed his life and whom he loved so, so dearly -- tuck his head under her chin, and hold it to her chest. He drifted off to sleep in her arms, warm, at peace, and smiling.