Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, particularly when she was being briefed, Jyn wondered if the Alliance was stretched thinner than they let on. Briefs where her presence was questionable at best and insane at worst certainly encouraged this idea. Why would they risk putting her, someone designed for violence and chaos, on an escort mission if they weren’t limited in their options? Did they stand a fighting chance against the Empire like they thought, or were they secretly on the verge of being snuffed out?

A dark thought, but Jyn never concerned herself with chasing happy ones, especially after their greatest hope lost his arm and lightsaber to Vader, and his best friend was encased in carbonite.

She hadn’t been able to speak to Luke since the event. Though Jyn wasn’t stupid or naive enough to think what happened to Luke or Han was her fault, there was a small part of her that felt oddly responsible. The course of time was as interesting as it was frustrating, like Chirrut’s advice on a good day. If they hadn’t gone to Scarif, Luke and Han wouldn’t have joined the Alliance, because there wouldn’t have been plans to return. There wouldn’t have been an Alliance at all, because the war wouldn’t have officially started.

Perhaps the Death Star would’ve destroyed the rebellion before it could.

While there was no point in wasting time on what if scenarios, there was still the harder to avoid part, that if Scarif hadn’t happened, Han wouldn’t be in carbonite, and Luke would have both hands. It was hard to connect a person’s actions to the consequences at large; it was far easier to tether them to something small. Speculation or not, the feeling of guilt and responsibility existed.

Jyn didn’t regret Scarif, if only for her sanity. To question was to doubt, and to doubt was to lose, and Jyn refused to lose. It had, in the odd way that big events do, brought about some good. They were no longer a rebellion, but an Alliance. No longer pests to be killed, but a legitimate threat that retaliated. No longer just dreamers, but doers, too.

Scarif and the destruction of the Death Star had brought in the numbers.

The Battle of Hoth had destroyed them.

Still, she’d thought they were better off than this. Even if it was with the rest of Rogue One and their job was to protect Princess Leia, sending Jyn on an escort mission sounded like the type of thing that was done when a cadre was whittled down to only a few members, and everyone was pulling double duty.

It was not, in Jyn’s opinion, a particularly sturdy plan.

“Is this really the best idea, Davits?”

Jyn smirked. At least she wasn’t the only one who thought it was a shoddy plan.

Draven’s eyes narrowed, the closest he’d come to conceding.

“Major Andor and Lieutenant Erso could be better used elsewhere,” Leia continued, undeterred. “It’s a waste of valuable resources.”

“We can spare a few days for you, Princess,” Cassian cut in. “Better to know you’re well protected than risk your safety.”

Jyn held in a sigh. They’d been here for well over half an hour now, the same point being contested. And while Jyn wholeheartedly agreed with Leia (because truly, they were being used in a way that wouldn’t play to their strengths) she also knew it was a losing fight. Nobody was going to let the Princess of Alderaan anywhere without the best at her sides. Even if the best weren’t often used as escorts.

“Bakura’s peaceful. Give me ten privates and I’ll be fine.”

Draven rolled his eyes. Cassian sighed. Jyn snorted.

“Ten privates are nothing compared to me,” Jyn said, the first comment she’d made since entering the room. She caught a quick smile at the edge of Cassian’s mouth, and a brief look of agreement on Draven’s face. She wasn’t sure which thrilled her more.

“Fifteen privates, then.”

Sometimes, even Jyn forgot how stubborn Leia could be.

“Major Andor and Lieutenant Erso are going and that’s final,” Draven said. “The arrangements have already been made. You’re all dismissed.”

Leia bristled and left the room.

Jyn hid her grin as she followed Cassian out.

“What do you think?” she asked, when the corridors of Home One had thinned.

He shrugged and offered nothing else.

Jyn frowned. The silence was akin to a tauntaun’s smell, overpowering and suffocating, filling every crevice until it was the only thing that existed. It was also nothing new. Cassian had been distancing himself in recent months. Solo missions were common enough, but the frequency had increased tenfold, and each time he returned a little more worn and weary. When he was on base, he was withdrawn, taking his meals with them only if he was reminded and talking only if prodded.

She seemed to be getting the brunt of it.

He would still smile and converse with Bodhi, still ran calculations with K-2, and she’d walked in on him comming Chirrut and Baze once or twice. She got quirks of the lips if she got him off guard and little else. It was disconcerting, when they’d used to talk frequently and extensively, and she’d even spawned a few genuine laughs with her wit alone.

Jyn paused when the hallway that split off towards her room. Cassian kept walking, unperturbed.

That was it, then. Taciturnity, and distance, and nothing. Four years, and it didn’t matter at all. Perhaps she’d imagined all the times he’d fought by her side, had created their conversations out of boredom and solitude. Jyn scowled and stormed to her room.

If she dared to think about it, and Jyn Erso was one to rarely back down from a dare, the worst part was that he’d offered something and she’d taken it, and four years later he was changing his mind. She’d gained something irreplaceable here, something that filled her with warmth and light in a way she hadn’t felt since she was a child. And more than just that, more than the sensation of family, she’d gained friends. Actual, true friends. People she could rely on and confide in.

And he had always been at the top of that list.

If she was being more honest with herself, he was more than just her closest friend. They’d orbited each other for four years, and everyone, Jyn included, had assumed that one day it would lead to different relationship entirely. One that was more than what they had already, but smaller, too, more private and intimate. It was the type of thing that would normally inspire fear in her, but with him, she could brave it. With him, she could brave anything.

Jyn threw what she’d need in her bag, and this time, stormed for his room.

It took him a moment to answer after she knocked, and Jyn briefly hoped he was already out and heading towards the ship. But he did answer, and the hope was changed into worry that he’d almost purposely ignored her.

“Can I come in?” she asked, when he raised an eyebrow.

Cassian paused, and a dark and ugly thing blossomed in Jyn’s chest. He stepped to the side. She didn’t hesitate once the door was shut behind her.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.” Simple. Straightforward. Definite.

It wasn’t enough.

“So you’ve just been ignoring me because you felt like it?”

Cassian loosed a breath. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, Jyn.” He slung on his bag. “If you’re finished, we should get to the ship.”

It was the most he’d said to her in months, and it was barely anything at all.

“No,” Jyn snapped, “I’m not finished. You’re punishing me, and I want to know why.”

He sighed. “I’m not punishing you, Jyn. We should really get going.”

“Did I do something?”

“What? No.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”

At that, Cassian scoffed. “Since when have either of us been talkative?”

When it’s just the two of us, she thought, I could say every thing I’ve ever thought and I’d still have more to say.

“Let’s go,” he said, pushing the button to open the door.

Jyn’s heart sank, and that was that.

The ship wasn’t big, but there were a few isolated spots where she wouldn’t be bothered. Jyn didn’t hesitate. The walk from Cassian’s quarters had been tense and quiet, though she hadn’t expected anything different. Still, it’d pained her to walk a few steps behind him and see  the spot where she usually walked (beside or just behind his right arm) empty.

Jyn imagined the entire flight would be a bit like that.

She could hear K-2 and Cassian in the cockpit, going through their pre-flight checklist and talking through various calculations. If she stopped to listen, Jyn knew she’d hear Cassian say more now than he had to her in the last month.

You’re torturing yourself, she thought. You’re giving him every chance to hurt you without him having to do a single thing.

And it was torture, like being pulled apart slowly or held over a blazing fire. She was being yanked apart slowly, knuckle by knuckle and bone by bone, until one day she’d wake up and everything was out of place and awkward.

If he could throw four years into the sarlaac pit, so could she.

Jyn breathed in and stiffened her resolve. One last mission, then, the way Scarif had been expected to be. She’d be professional, and civil, and the best Force-damned partner the galaxy had ever seen. And when she got back, she’d ask to be reassigned, or leave entirely.

“I thought you were all for this mission,” Leia said some time later, when she’d found Jyn’s hiding spot in the spare cargo hold.

“I am.”

“So you’re hiding because you feel like it? You’re not sulking?”

“Obviously,” Jyn said, running her fingers idly across one of the crates.

Leia rolled her eyes. “Cassian wants to go over specifics, if you’re free.”

He could’ve come, Jyn thought bitterly, though she wasn’t particularly surprised. Really, the only surprising thing was that Leia had listened to him.

She hopped off the crate, following Leia out. “I thought it was pretty straight forward,” Jyn said. “We stay close and don’t let anything kill you.”

“If it were that simple, we would’ve sent the fifteen privates,” Cassian said as they entered the galley, unamused.

“It is that simple,” Leia said. “Should’ve sent the fifteen privates.”

Cassian glared. “How much do you know about Thuge?”

Leia shrugged. “Han,” she started, the name falling off her tongue like a rock in a pond, “knew him better, but I’ve met him a few times. He’ll keep to the deal, and hates the Empire.”

“Why hasn’t he officially joined us, then?” Jyn asked, tilting her head.

Another shrug. “Probably makes good money with the freelance stuff. Some of the things Han said he did… they wouldn’t necessarily be condoned by the Council.”

Cassian’s eyes met hers. A partisan type, then. Perhaps even a Partisan. They’d quieted since Saw’s passing, some having officially joined the rebellion, others wreaking havoc in their own little ways. They were a shadow of what they’d been under Saw, but chaos was chaos just the same, and even disorganized damage had its strengths.

“Are we on open terrain?” Jyn asked, glancing between the two. Cassian nodded. “So we won’t have to worry about snipers.”

“We will have to worry about possible flyovers,” he said. “We’re going to stick out.”

Jyn could see how the idea scraped against his every instinct, yet also remained the only option. They couldn’t risk meeting in the capitol with just the two of them, not when Thuge could hide snipers in any number of buildings. But if anyone passed them in the field and reported them, there’d be no cover for escape.

“Should we have it moved?” Leia asked.

Cassian shook his head.

She frowned. “I don’t want to lose any more Alliance personnel.”

Jyn glared at the floor. The statement felt odd, though she couldn’t pin exactly why. She wasn’t naive enough to think herself friends with the Princess, but they were on a first name basis when not in front of any officers, had shared a drink or two on occasion and commiserated. Yet the idea of being lumped with the majority of people in the rebellion felt a bit like a betrayal, especially when Jyn knew the other woman would never refer to Han and Luke as Alliance personnel.

She mentally shook herself. Her conversation with Cassian had left her off-kilter, nothing more.

Jyn was good at lying to herself. She’d done it plenty of times. She could add one more.

Bakura was beautiful. If nothing else, she’d remember her final mission with Cassian was someplace breathtaking.

Thuge was there when they landed, something that made all of them tense. The grass was short, though, and the area was entirely flat, not a tree or hill in sight. No snipers, at the very least.

Cassian and Jyn trailed Leia by a few meters as they walked towards the man. There were only four guards around Thuge, different species but all burly and with scars pocketing their bodies. If it came to a fight, they’d have the advantage of speed, and their slimmer bodies would be harder targets to hit.

Thuge, though. Jyn tilted her head and studied the man. Fat, knotted scars crossed his face, and the exposed bits of skin on his hands and arms told similar stories. When he extended his hand to Leia, Jyn saw one on his palm, dark and pronounced against his skin in the shape on an X.

Jyn blinked and leaned forward on the balls of her feet.

“Jyn,” Cassian hissed, little more than a breath of air. “Stop.”

She squinted and shook her head. “I know him.”

This, at least, drew something other than annoyance from Cassian. “What?” he asked, and she could see his head turning slightly to look at her. “From where? Saw?”

Jyn nodded slightly. “He was with the Partisans when I first started and left shortly after. His name was Kuth, I think.”

“Do you think he remembers you?”

Jyn bit her lip. She hadn’t spent a great deal of time around Kuth, but Saw had always kept her at his side, and she’d had a nickname because of it. The Lion’s Cub. It’d disappeared after a few years and a dozen fights, but those that had been there when she started, most of whom had branched off to lead partisan branches elsewhere, had remembered and called her that name.

“Don’t know,” she admitted. “It was when I eight, but…” She gave a little shrug. More than likely he wouldn’t, if only because she’d grown a lot between eight and twenty-five, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep tabs.

Cassian nodded slightly. “Pull your scarf more over your face,” he said, the frost back.

She frowned but did as she was told. Was he angry at her now for potentially endangering them? There’d been no way to know, not when he was going by a different name and, until this point, had seemed a questionable but solid contact because of Han. It surprised her a bit, to see her past coming up now. The first two years after Scarif, Jyn had anticipated her past coming back to haunt them on ever mission, but it’d never happened. She knew Cassian had anticipated it as well, always ready to get them out of a situation over something she couldn’t have helped.

Did he blame her now, when he was removed enough from her that he could see and think more clearly?

They stood with bated breath, listened as Kuth and Leia went back and forth on prices and stipulations, relaxed ever so slightly when an agreement was finally reached. Leia smiled slightly as she passed them, no doubt thriving in her victory. Twenty yards to the ship. Twenty yards and they’d be on their way back to the Alliance. She could give Cassian the space he wanted, would even speak to Draven about her past and how it’d reared its head and establish what they’d do about that.

Twenty yards was nothing, but it lead to everything.

“What about the Cub?”

Leia stopped, curious. Cassian and Jyn froze.

“What?” Leia asked after a long moment.

Kuth nodded towards Jyn. “The Cub.”

Leia glanced at her, a disbelieving question in her eyes. Is he serious?

She had no idea.

Jyn turned to Kuth. “The Lion and his pride are dead.”

He raised an eyebrow. Here you are.

“What does she matter to you?” Cassian interrupted, stepping slightly in front of her. It was the kind of move that usually annoyed her, and a small part of her still reacted that way, but another part was surprised and grateful. His instincts hadn’t forgotten her the way his mind had, and still sought to protect her.

“The Lion’s Cub means a great deal to those of us once affiliated.”

People who wanted to use you as a hostage, Saw had said. Jyn bristled.

“I have information,” he continued. “The Cub for this.” He held up a data stick. “All the information I’ve gathered on the second Death Star."

Jyn’s heart seized. A second? But that was impossible—they couldn’t have a second one. The materials, the crystals, surely they were scarce by now, would make it impossible to fuel.

It would only be a matter of time, Galen had said.

This time, they’d figured it out without him at all, and there would be no flaw.

Jyn glanced at Cassian, her heart crumbling. This was what he’d been chasing, then. There was no surprise in his face, only resignation and disappointment. It explained the distance, at least, but betrayal tugged painfully. He’d known, or at the very least suspected, and he hadn’t told her. Perhaps he’d been waiting for confirmation, hadn’t wanted to shatter her with something that wasn’t even fact yet. Still, there was something awful about finding out this way. He should’ve told her, should’ve trusted her with the notion.

She’d thought, hoped, even, that the Death Star’s shadow had long since passed her. The first few months after Scarif had been full of conflicting emotions, people regaling her a hero while also condemning her father’s machine and her blood ties. It had taken time, and healing for all of them, and eventually they’d only viewed her as the hero, and then as Jyn when she’d protested to being lauded a hero.

Here it was again, though, casting shadows all over her.

“No,” Cassian and Leia said, at the same time Jyn said, “Okay.”

Everyone turned towards her. Jyn stared ahead at Kuth, but she could feel Cassian and Leia’s gazes on her like needles poking into her skin.

“The Cub has spoken.”

“Jyn, no.” Cassian tugged her to him. “The Alliance doesn’t trade information for lives.”

There was concern in his voice, and frustration and panic. Finally, something other than the blandness, and it still addressed her as little more than a valuable commodity.

Jyn rolled her eyes. “Technically, they do.”

Leia sucked in a breath.

“Don’t joke,” Cassian spat, and now there was fury, too. “You’re not going and that’s final.”

“The Alliance needs that information more than they need me.”

“They could be the same rumors we’ve been hearing for months.”

“It isn’t rumors,” Kuth said. “There’s proof.”

Cassian was undeterred. “I need you, Jyn.”

A few months ago, she would’ve known those words to be true. Her heart would’ve soared at the implication, at the care and closeness that they implied. She was older, though, if only by a few months, but those months had become more significant than anything in the past four years.

“No, you don’t,” Jyn said. Her voice dropped. “If I go, you get what you’ve been searching for.” She turned to Leia. “No more Alliance personnel, right?”

“Don’t you dare, Erso,” Leia bit. “As your superior, I’m ordering you to stay.”

Jyn snorted, but it was sad and wet. “Not listening was what got us the plans the first time,” she mused. “Scarif doesn’t have to happen again.”

She could’ve hit Cassian, and he wouldn’t have looked half as winded. It struck a chord in her, the little part that she’d hidden when he’d first started withdrawing. It had never mattered what he did to her, because it wouldn’t have changed what she would do for him.

“It’s okay, Cassian,” she soothed. “It’s my choice. It’s not your fault.” She pressed a palm to his cheek, stuck the other in her pocket and fumbled with her comm. “I don’t blame you.”

In his eyes, she could see the blame he was already placing on himself. She pressed her hand into face harder, as if it could better communicate the words. This is my choice. I don’t blame you. This is for you. I don’t blame you. Please don’t blame yourself, because I don’t blame you.

She rubbed her thumb across his cheek once, and was surprised it came away wet. She took her hand away, and stepped back.

“No, Jyn!”

She didn’t turn around as she walked towards Kuth, not when she felt him briefly tug on her arm or heard the scuffling. Boots not finding their grip, the echo of metal being struck. K-2 had received her distress code, then, and was restraining him.

“Jyn!”

“Give it to them,” she said. “And if you’re going to knock me out, wait until they’re out of sight.”

Kindness was not common in the Partisans. It got people killed more often than it actually helped, and even small mercies were pointless, because it didn’t change the cruelty of the Empire. Still, Kuth surprised her. She didn’t watch as he gave them the data stick, but they were on his shuttle before he slammed the hilt of his blaster into her head, and everything went black. 

Chapter Text

Her name was three letters. C-U-B.

Sometimes they changed it, to Lilah, or Pix. Nareen. Araceli. Covers, she understood that well enough, but poor ones. Simple names to throw someone off their tracks. Underneath the names she was always, only, Cub.

It seemed to be working, the basic renaming. They were still ghosts to whoever was looking for them, if anyone at all. Sometimes, if she was feeling particularly bold, Cub imagined that she was the one being searched for, not the entire group. Every planet she went to involved a new name, and with Rir alone there’d been eight planets and moons. With Grek before, twelve. Seasha and Suli, nine. And more, so many more, her life a constant change from planet to planet and handler to handler since she woke up with Kuth four years ago.

Everything was fuzzy before that, a series of snapshots instead of full moments. The Lion showing her how to use a blaster. Her parents in a field on Lah’mu. Someone’s arms and a blinding light.

The last one had to be a lie, or at least something recreated in her mind from a holovid she’d watched.

Canto Bight was interesting though, everything crammed tightly into the city. It was also suffocating, and after a few days Cub had lost interest in the marvels of it. Truthfully, she lost interest in most places they went. The constant change had started to wear on her, left her desiring something solid and safe. A base, at least, if only because a home seemed too intimate a notion.

“The New Republic officials just landed,” Rir said, stepping into her room. Cub nodded. “You’re certain you don’t want to join tonight?”

Six months, and she still wasn’t sure what to make of Rir. He was kinder than Grek by far, and not as forceful as Seasha, but there was something underneath that unsettled her. He gave her more freedom than the others, even let her wander the streets with a single guard and the hotels they stayed in alone, yet she also had the distinct feeling that there was something at the end of the leash. Something she owed him, that he wasn’t calling until it best served him.

“Expecting a brawl?” she asked, nodding towards the dagger attached to his belt. It was a fancy thing, something she suspected he wore more as a fashion statement than as an actual weapon, but a blade was a blade no matters its glimmer or sharpness.

“Doesn’t hurt to be intimidating,” he said. “Not coming?”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, turning towards the double doors that lead outside. “Have a good night.”

The balcony, at least, hadn’t lost its appeal. The water was active tonight, whitecaps scattered as far as the eye could see, and she could hear its roar from high above. The moon was just starting to rise, large and bright. It was simple, yet beautiful, the way the best things in her life often were. Lah’mu, with its tall grass and black sand, or Hoth, the smell of grease and sweat and tauntaun.

She blinked. They’d never visited Hoth, and why would they? It was freezing, a wasteland through and through. But the smell tickled her nose, far away yet present, and if she focused, she could hear a laugh, could see a glorious smile, and eyes—

A tray clanged.

“Kriff, I’m sorry for intruding,” the man began, stumbling over his words as if they couldn’t leave his mouth fast enough.

Cub turned. He was lanky and held his limbs awkwardly, as if he wasn’t particularly sure what to do with them. His hair was longer, pulled back in a neat ponytail. He stopped when she turned, shock washing over his face, as if he’d seen a beloved toy he’d lost in childhood and never thought he’d see it again.

“Jyn?”

Cub tilted her head.

“Jyn,” the man said again, stepping forward, “is it really you?”

She took a step back. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

A grin split the man’s face, effervescent. It was like he’d stolen a sun and swallowed it whole, and now it was bursting out of him, blinding and brilliant.

“It is you,” he breathed, and there was joy unlike any Cub had ever heard before. “Cass is going to be ecstatic.”

She took another step back.

The man’s smile faltered. “It’s me, Bodhi,” he said, pointing towards himself. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Cub said again. “My name’s — “

Shavit, what was it Rir had called her? Lilah on Naboo and Ela on Tanaab, and he wouldn’t use the name again so quickly, it had to be something else, something longer than three letters, smooth and easy to pronounce, something like —

“My name’s Lianna.”

Cub blinked. Lianna? That wasn’t the name, she was sure of it. Yet it sounded familiar. Not right, because it still left a funny taste in her mouth to hear it aloud, but better than any name her handlers had given her.

Bodhi looked dismayed. “No, it’s—”

“What are you doing here?” she interrupted before he could say anything more. “This room’s private.”

He reddened and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, you see, I was, uh,” he glanced down at the trays, “sent up here to grab these. And I’ve, uh, got them now, so, um, have a great night, Jy—Lianna. Have a great night, Lianna.”

He looked genuinely pained to call her that, but Cub ignored it. She’d have to tell Rir about him later. He’d probably become as paranoid as Saw. All Partisan leaders were paranoid to some extent, as if being associated with Saw Garrera included an unhealthy dose of paranoia.

Maybe she wouldn’t tell him. If she did, the freedom she’d gathered would be ended immediately. Would that be what made him tug on her strings? She’d hated being forced to stand at Grek’s side at all times, hated when Seasha and Suli had always requested an extra bed in their room for her to sleep on.

Bodhi was harmless. She had no doubts he’d been after something confidential, but she’d quite effectively deterred him, if unintentionally. No, she wouldn’t bother with him. Whoever he was working for, well, they wouldn’t be learning Rir’s secrets tonight.

But, Cub mused, the thought spreading through her like poison in her veins or water down her throat, it wouldn’t hurt if she knew.

The balustrade was wide and Cub was fearless. Datapad in hand, she sat with her legs stretched across the railing. Rir’s secrets thus far weren’t secrets at all, but different notes and files he kept from his various meetings. Bodhi would’ve been disappointed.

What was the name he’d mentioned? Not the one he’d called her. Cass? That’d been it, soft as a tooka’s fur and odd as their behavior. Not odd in the way that some people had strange names (someone named Cub had absolutely no room to speak), but in the way it settled in her mind. It hovered there, and there was something familiar and comforting about it, though she hadn’t heard it until tonight. It was like it belonged in her head and on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t comprehend why.

She focused back on the datapad. There was nothing interesting, no matter how many folders and files she clicked through. Rir was meticulous in his notes, but either he’d omitted some things, or it was hidden somewhere deeper.

Glass shattered below, followed by voices apologizing. Cub glanced down, curious if it was Bodhi again, but only found a man in a bright yellow cap staring slack jawed at her.

Cub blinked. That was… weird. Even weirder how he brought his arm close to his mouth and said something rapidly.

Maybe it was time to go inside — and see if she could find anything else from Rir’s main console, not what she’d copied off his datapad, of course, because she wasn’t hiding from that man.

She paused just inside the doorway.

She wasn’t used to being seen wherever she went. She was present, of course, and on display, but few people rarely, truly looked at her. Even fewer looked surprised, even happy to see her. To be seen twice in one night, and those reactions to be good?

Cub crept back onto the balcony. It couldn’t hurt to be seen.

There were two others with the caped man now, a man with brownish, mussy hair, and another with dark hair that looked silky. The caped man was leaning towards them, talking rapidly, and then he gestured towards her balcony. He stilled when he saw her.

Cub blinked, and felt her face flame as the two other men turned to look.

Maybe this had been a bad idea — she could handle the caped man gaping at her, and even Bodhi early, because they’d been individual, isolated events. But now there were two other men, and they looked far more shocked than the caped man had, and what if she’d been right all along and they changed her name so much because there were people looking for her?

Would they be her next handlers?

Bodhi came rushing out below, nearly crashing into the bearded man in his haste. He was speaking rapidly, gesticulating wildly, and Cub smiled. He said something she couldn’t hear, but she saw the brown haired man’s mouth move, and then Bodhi was looking at her, too. He grinned and waved.

Feeling bold, Cub smiled and gave a quick wave back.

If Bodhi was there, she found herself thinking she wouldn’t mind being switched to these new handlers. She could be friends with him if they were.

She could be friends with him now.

Cub darted inside and grabbed the datastick. Whatever he’d been looking for earlier, she could give it to him now. It’d be a gesture of friendship, and if they were her new handlers, maybe they’d let her be by him always.

She paused. She’d never thought of any of her previous handlers or guards as friends. Just the opposite. They were handlers and guards, and if she was expected to follow in Saw’s footsteps, they’d be partners and soldiers.

Why was she thinking about friendship?

Partisans didn’t thrive on interpersonal bonds. They were comrades, people dedicated to the same cause, and nothing more. They weren’t friends and they weren’t friendly.

She could change that. Hope was a tangible thing in the galaxy now that the war was over. People were uniting, changing, learning to live without the Empire looming over them. The Partisans could change. They could still do what was right and just, take out Imperial sympathizers and restore peace to the pockets still oppressed. And they could do it with more compassion than Saw or Kuth or Grez or Rir ever had.

Cub twisted the datastick in her hands, and plugged it back into the datapad. The encryption was quick and simple, and she left a message, a simple, Sorry, Bodhi, there’s nothing interesting, because it didn’t outright ask for friendship but still implied something personal, and when she had to type in a password, she typed the first word that came to mind.

Hope.

She felt treacherous, and conniving, and thrilled.

“Bodhi,” Cub called as she skidded back onto the balcony, waving him over. All four men looked surprised (though there was also pain and sorrow in the bearded man’s face), but Bodhi recovered quickly and hurried towards her balcony.

She crouched down, putting her hand through the railings. “Here,” she said, and gently tossed it to him. “There’s not much on it, but maybe you’ll find something I didn’t.”

Bodhi grinned at her, and Cub smiled back. There was something right about giving it to him, like giving him a message because it was the right thing to do.

Canto Bight in the morning was quiet, or at least notably quieter. A handful of guests had made their ways to the different tables, saying their bets now instead of shouting. Leaning against the bar, Cub watched.

“You have any idea how hard you are to find, kid?” a man asked, coming up beside her. He was one of the slack jawed men she’d seen from her balcony last night. “And that’s coming from someone it took a year to find.”

Cub narrowed her eyes. “If that’s your idea of a pick-up line, you’re really shoddy at it.”

The man barked a laugh. Several heads swiveled their way.

“If I was hitting on you, there’d be a dozen people ready to knock me out,” he said and held up his left hand. A ring glimmered there. “My wife wouldn’t even be first in line.” He signaled the bartender. “Two Corellian whiskeys, the strongest you have.”

“It’s still morning,” said Cub, raising a brow.

“Believe me,” the man said, tipping the bartender generously and offering a glass to her, “if you knew how long we’ve been looking for you, you’d be celebrating, too.”

She frowned and eyed the man. It was unlikely that any of Rir’s acquaintances would have an interest in her, outside of those in the Partisans. And this man was no Partisan.

Which meant he and the others weren’t her new handlers.

But then, hadn’t she wondered if someone was looking for her, daydreamed about it like a starry-eyed girl? They switched her names constantly, sometimes more than they did their own, and there were only a handful that they used more than once. Kuth hadn’t told her about her life before waking up, only that Saw had left her on Tamsye Prime when she was sixteen so she could spend time training and learning from Kuth, and that she’d disappeared before he found her. She’d survived on her own for nine years before he’d found her, and when he had, there’d been a terrible accident where she’d hit her head.

We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Kuth had said the morning she’d awaken. You’ll be the next leader of the Partisans, Cub. We’ll keep you safe until you’re ready.

They’d struck her as incredibly strange words. The Partisans had never been overly thoughtful of each others safety — if something went wrong and someone died, everyone else moved on. Still, she’d remembered the years with Saw, how she’d always been by his side, as if he was quietly showing her how everything operated. He’d meant for it to all be hers.

She’d kriffed up that plan. But she was slowly turning it around.

If anybody was looking for her, they had to want something out of her, and it wasn’t good. Even if the Empire had fallen and their Starkiller exploded, the Partisans would not bend to the wills of the New Republic. There always had to be someone exacting the injustices that any government exploited, and the Partisans would continue to fulfill that role.

So what was he trying to accomplish with her?

“It’s still too early,” she said, setting the glass on the counter.

The man raised a brow and grabbed it, nudging it back into her hand. “Kid, I’ve seen you drink half a bottle with breakfast. You can handle this.”

“I don’t want it.”

He paused, and Cub hadn’t thought it possible, but his eyebrow crept even higher. “What happened to you?” he asked, and there was a quiet desolation in his voice she couldn’t begin to comprehend. “Do you not remember me?”

“Should I?”

“That’s cold,” he said, blowing out a breath, “and a really bad sign.”

They fell into silence, Cub staring at her glass, him staring somewhere beyond, almost as if he was listening to someone.

“Han,” he said at last. “My name is Han.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

“That man you’re with,” Han said, his voice dropping and almost hesitant now, “has he hurt you?”

“Rir?” she asked, blinking.

Han nodded.

There were scars down her back, marks that she’d never properly seen but felt every time she twisted. Most were from her previous handlers, but a couple were from Rir, the day he’d become her warden. To remind you of the discipline you’ll have to impart was the main excuse they used, though Cub suspected it was more than that.

“Thought you were married,” she mused, tilting the tumbler towards his ring.

“This is serious, Jyn,” Han said, his voice still deathly quiet.

Cub glared. “You’re the second person who’s called me that. I think you’ve got me confused with someone.”

His eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t.”

“That’s not my name,” she insisted. “It’s Tanith.”

She wasn’t sure where the name had come from. It’d spilled from her the way Lianna had last night. 

Han stared at her for a moment. Then, he tapped the glass in her hand. “You going to drink that?”

Cub shook her head.

“Good,” he said, taking the glass and tossing it back. Cub raised her brows, impressed. There’d been at least three shots worth in that glass alone. “Andor’s going to lose his mind.”

Andor? The name tugged at her, the way Cass had last night. 

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she insisted. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

Han blew out another breath. “What happened to you, kid?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, hopping off the bar stool. “Stop calling me kid. I don’t know you.”

She walked away, but not before her mind conjured a wookie’s laugh, and hours spent in a dingy, happy spacecraft.

Meetings with Saw had been frequently tense, typically starting as soon as he stepped into the room. This meeting was a bit like that, but it wasn’t Saw’s presence that created it. Either their dinner with Rir last night had been terrible, or, and Cub was fairly certain this was the most likely, it was her presence that had their hackles raised.

She smiled politely.

Rir didn’t bother introducing her or any of them. Instead, he sank into a chair and folded his hands across his chest. “Why should we help you in Wild Space?”

It was a tactic Saw had liked. All pleasantries were cut, and it usually threw off the other party a bit. He’d always insisted that the important people, the ones that were actually doing the talking, already knew his name, and he knew theirs. Everyone else was present and obsolete.

Unlike most contacts, though, the New Republic group did not immediately dive for their chairs. They stayed there, different degrees of annoyance playing out over their faces. The woman in particularly looked annoyed. She ignored Rir entirely and crossed the room to Cub.

“Senator Organa,” she said, sticking out her hand. Cub raised a brow, meeting the woman’s gaze head on. It was firm, yet pleading. As if she’d heard a terrible rumor and wanted to know if it were true.

She hadn’t the slightest clue what Senator Organa could want from her.

“Kestrel,” she said, taking the hand.

Rir’s chair creaked slightly. Han and the caped man stiffened. Only the bearded man remained still.

“It’s her preferred name,” Rir said, relaxing again. “We’re still waiting for her to go by her other one.”

“I’m sure,” Senator Organa said, her voice funny, “that’ll be a wonderful day for everyone.” 

“Now…”

“Kestrel,” Senator Organa interrupted, “have you met the Generals yet?” 

Irritation swept across Rir’s face, and Cub almost laughed. She shook her head.

“No problem,” the other woman said, both her hands gripping Cub’s as she walked her over. She nodded to them all in turn. “Generals Calrissian,” the caped man, “Solo,” Han, “and Andor.”

The dark haired man, with the hair that looked like the smoothest silk, who’d looked like he was in his own unique predicament of agony when she’d seen him from the balcony last night. The Senator had emphasized his name, or Cub was fairly certain she had. Like she was pressing a plate into her hands and telling her to eat after starving for so long.

“Nice to meet you,” Cub said, smiling faintly. Andor’s face didn’t change. She cleared her throat. “Shall we?”

The round table wasn’t particularly large, enough chairs for the six of them and no more.  Rir had made himself perfectly content, hands splayed across his chest and a look of only mild irritation on his face. It reminded her of someone, though she couldn’t place who. A surge of disdain rushed through her, and she thought perhaps it was best she didn’t recall that person at all.

Senator Organa tilted her chin up, taking the spot directly across from Rir. Han sat to her right, and General Calrissian to his. Andor took the spot to her left, putting him directly next to Cub.

She tried to pay attention, but the entire universe felt flipped, and the focal point was where Andor’s boot ever so slightly pressed against her own.

Andor, she later learned, was exceptionally light footed.

She was expecting him when he came up to the bar and took the seat to her left. He didn’t ask if she’d saved the seat to her left, or made any sound at all. And though the casino was thriving, the spot she’d found was secluded enough that it was possible to pick up even the sound of footsteps.

Just not his.

“I’m not who you all insist I am,” she said once he’d settled, meeting his gaze.

There was genuine pain and anguish in his eyes, but Andor nodded and shuttered it away. It was disarming, the fluidity with which he shut her out, like it was as simple as turning on a light. Anger swept through her.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, gesturing towards his face. “Don’t shut me out like that.”

He had no reason to listen to her. She was a stranger, someone associated with the person he was here to do business with. But there was mirth in his eyes when he relaxed his features and opened up.

She’d been to underwater planets with Saw, had walked through the bubbles that kept them from being crushed by the force of the water or drowning because they couldn’t breathe. She wondered if one of those bubbles had formed around them, protecting them from everything else, because she couldn’t imagine such an intimate moment happening in a crowded room.

And it was intimate. Lines smoothed away from his brow and eyes, leaving him looking young and boyish, while the lines around his mouth deepened, proving he smiled more than most would think. She swore she could see dimples, too, just a hint of them, lurking and waiting for when a smile split his face.

His eyes spoke volumes. Brown, and warm, and Cub hadn’t ever really considered having a favorite color but she wouldn’t mind naming that one. There were other worlds clouding his eyes, adventures and scrapes that he’d lived through by the skin of his teeth, begging her to ask, saying that there was so much he wanted to tell her.

“Okay,” he drawled, one corner of his mouth twitching up, and she could see the dimple.

“Are you going to tell me I’m wrong and call me that other name?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to,” he pointed out. He had an accent, raspy and distinct. She wanted to give him a dictionary and have him read it so she could hear how his mouth curled against every word in the galaxy.

“I don’t,” she said, sipping her drink so she could distract herself from any more thoughts of his mouth and voice. “But you’ve all said it thus far, and everybody wants something.”

He hummed. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to sit here next to you?”

Cub stared at him. How could he want something like that? Not so much the notion of sitting here beside her, but the one where that was all he wanted, like there was nothing else in the universe that could possibly matter more.

“No.”

“Well, I do.” Andor shrugged and caught her eye. There was warmth in his gaze, safety and comfort and — light, bright and blinding, a horizon gone and a shuttle before them.

Cub blinked. That image again.

The silence wasn’t awful — it was good, actually. It was peaceful and calm, and though they weren’t talking, she felt as if they were swapping stories anyway, sharing their thoughts and hopes without a single breath.

“You look beautiful,” he said after a while.

She wasn’t surprised, but definitely a little crestfallen. There it was. He’d said he’d wanted to sit by her, only that, but it’d been a ruse and now that they’d settled into some semblance of calm, he was making his first move.

She’d skip the rest of them for him.

Cub raised an eyebrow, giving him a once over and dropping her voice. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?”

He blanched. She hadn’t expected that. But there he was, looking pale and terrified and uneasy, leaning away from her as if he hadn’t anticipated his bluff being called and wasn’t sure how to recover.

“No,” he said, and his voice was surprising too, because it was not anger or repulsion that colored it, but terrible, pronounced heartache. He drew in a wet breath, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “No.”

Cub tilted her head. Had she… misread him? Why would he say something like that if he didn’t want something? Surely he wasn’t naive and thought people could do things without hidden agendas.

No, she refused to believe he was that naive, because both earlier and last night she’d seen heat tucked in the back of his eyes, the kind that had toes curling and bodies clashing, and it simply wasn’t possible for him to be naive and still have a look as penetrating as that.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured after a few moments.

Andor shook his head. “Not your fault,” he said, though she had a feeling that it was. He paused, drumming his  fingers on the bar top as if he were building courage.

“You can ask,” she said, touching the back of his hand.

He turned his hand over, so his palm was up and her fingers were grazing it. She didn’t move her hand away, continuing the slow, barely there touch.

“Has Rir hurt you?”

Cub frowned. Why was he asking something like that? Still, the words slipped out before she could fully consider them. “Depends on what you mean by hurt.”

He sucked in a breath, and his fingers briefly came up to close against hers. It was a gentle pressure, gone after only a heartbeat but she wondered how she could get him to do that again.

“Has he… assaulted you?”

She pressed her fingers into the center of his palm. “No.”

This, at least, made him breathe a little easier. His thumb came up, rubbing against her forefinger. The pressure was light, but Cub was more aware of that spot than any place in her body.

“You said depends,” he started, and trailed off, his thumb continuing its cycle.

“Nothing I haven’t experienced before,” she said. “Rir hasn’t done it so much, but the others, they wanted to make sure I… understood that sometimes discipline is necessary.”

She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this, but she also found herself reluctant to lie to him. Maybe it was as simple as she trusted him to not say anything.

He did the thing again, his fingers surging up to encapsulate hers, but this time he interlocked them, keeping their palms pressed together. His hand was softer than she’d expected, though it did have a few calluses. His thumb moved to the back of her hand, stroking there.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She swiped her thumb across his. “Not your fault.”

“Most days, I think it is,” he mused.

The earlier silence returned, and while it was more weighted now, Cub wasn’t afraid because his hand was pressed against hers and she knew that just from this simple touch, she could brave anything.

“I should head back,” she sighed. “Have to be up early to see you off.”

He smiled sadly. “Let me walk you to your room.” When she hesitated, he added, “Please.”

They didn’t hold hands as they walked back, but she did tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow, and it was just as reassuring. It also made it easier to slow him down, so they could draw out every second.

It wasn’t enough.

“I’m glad you liked the dress,” she said, tugging at it when they’d finally reached her door. “I wasn’t sure about it.”

His brows drew together. “It’s nice,” he said, sounding confused.

Cub frowned. “You said it was beautiful.”

“I said you were beautiful.”

Oh. That was different.

He leaned in. “I’ve thought that for a long time,” he admitted. “I should’ve said it sooner.”

She didn’t tell him he’d only first seen her last night, because it couldn’t be possible that last night was the first time they’d ever seen each other.

“Better late than never, I suppose.”

There was undiluted grief in his eyes.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Better late than never.” He squeezed her hand, and she briefly wondered if he’d ever let go — if she’d ever let go. “Have a good night.”

He dropped her hand, and as she backed into the room and shut the door, she realized there was a piece of her heart gone that she’d never known was missing, and wondered how he’d gotten it.

She stood beside Rir the next morning, silky gown blowing in the wind as they watched the New Republic group head out. The ship on the platform was old and looked like it’d never seen a good day. It surprised Cub that they’d flown here in that, that someone as put together and high as Leia had okayed a trip in it. It was a disaster waiting to happen at best, and a hazard at worst.

Unlike most goodbyes, this one was tense, as if there was unfinished business that everyone refused to acknowledge.

“We’ll go to the Outer Rim immediately,” Rir said, though he didn’t specify where.

A brief frown crossed Senator Organa’s lips, before she tightened her smile. “Of course. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll meet again in a few months.”

She hesitated, her eyes flicking between Rir and Cub for a couple seconds before she inhaled and straightened her shoulders. She turned, walking towards the hazard. For a second, the rest of her party lingered, before they too turned, like tooka’s with their tails between their legs.

There was a sharp pain in Cub’s chest, and it wasn’t because she thought them pathetic.

She thought of Saw, and Lyra, and Galen, how they’d walked away from her, chosen something other than her. But unlike the sinking feeling she had when she knew they chose something other than her, this sinking feeling was from just the opposite, like they were choosing her, had chosen her a thousand times, but were being forced to walk away.

She desperately wanted to go with them.

She’d only had brief moments with all of them, yet those moments had filled her with emotions she hadn’t thought possible. Hope and joy and humor and love. She saw how they moved together, all bouncing off each other as if it were breathing, and thought she could see the little opening they’d left.

They had, hadn’t they?

Yes, there next to Andor, beside his right arm was a little pocket that nobody invaded.

But they moved away, and there was sadness in their steps, and the spot beside Andor looked like a void that couldn’t be filled by anyone.

Anyone but her.

Because that spot was hers. It had to be. When he’d come to the bar last night, he’d been to her left, and she’d been in the spot that was a gaping hole now, and there hadn’t been anything wrong or uncomfortable about her being there. Just the opposite.

It’d been a perfect fit.

The only time it’d felt wrong was during the meeting, when he’d been to her right. Because their bodies knew better, knew that she belonged to his right, and he to her left, and those spaces were only meant for them.

Andor stopped and turned.

“We want the Cub,” he said. Cub blinked, not surprised so much by the statement as she was by the name Cub on his lips. It sounded wrong, like Andor did in her head.

No, not Andor, that wasn’t entirely right. Shavit, what was his name? He’d said it, hadn’t he? No, no he’d omitted his name entirely, as if he knew she knew it and was just waiting for her to remember.

There was something at the tip of her tongue. It was soft, and warm, and fuzzy. It beckoned her onward, and she followed, because he’d followed her once, had said he believed in her and welcomed her home and it’d been a risk, no, a suicide mission, but he’d followed like it was as simple as choosing to breathe.

His name unfurled in her mind.

Cassian.

His name was Cassian, and she’d loved that name, loved saying it almost as much as she’d loved him — but she’d never said that aloud, no, but it’d been there, at the tip of her tongue, soft and warm and fuzzy like his name, because his name was always there in her mind with the words love and hope and home.

Cub gasped, sharp. Everyone turned to her, but she only met Cassian’s gaze, watched hope and joy blossom behind his eyes as he saw what had to be recognition dawn across her face.

Rir snorted. “The Cub stays.”

Behind Cassian, Han and Calriss—Lando unclipped their holsters. Behind her, a couple guards did the same.

“I’m going.”

Everything stopped, from the people on the platform to the sea below them to the wind skirting past them. The hope and joy that had been blossoming behind Cassian’s eyes erupted across his face, and even a planet like Tatooine couldn’t compare to the light coming from him.

“What?” Rir growled. He grabbed her arm and squeezed.

She held her chin high and squared her shoulders. “I’m going with them.”

Rir tugged. Cub held in a gasp. She’d known Rir was stronger than he looked, had heard rumors of metal implants he’d gotten to replace his bones and make him far stronger than most, but the pain she felt sent a shock through her all the same. She didn’t dare look, but she was certain her arm was dangerously close to popping out.

“You’re staying, Cub, and that’s final.”

Cub bristled and glared. She’d never liked orders that contradicted her own beliefs.

“She wants to come with us,” Senator Organa—no, Leia—called, her tone haughty and full of pride. Not smug pride, but pride in her. “I suggest you let her go.”

Rir turned towards Leia and stayed motionless for a minute. Then, he tugged her arm again.

There was no stopping her shout of pain this time, or the pop of her arm slipping out of its socket.

“Our deal is over,” Rir said, his hand moving to the back of her neck, gripping it firmly and forcing her away.

There was a commotion behind her, voices raising and boots scraping, and while she had no doubt they were weighing their options to free her, she knew Rir’s guards were ready to shoot them, and Rir to snap her neck if they tried.

She refused to let this be the end.

The fancy dagger on his belt was within reach. If she was quick, she could grab it and use it against him. She’d always prided herself on being quick and crafty above all else. She held her breath, and counted backwards from three.

With her good arm, Cub reached for the blade, yanked it out, and sank it into Rir’s belly.

His surprise was immediate, and his grip on her neck loosened enough for her to slip away. She ducked under his arm, wrestled her skirts into her hands, and sprinted for the others.

Startled laughs escaped them, and they all smiled, sending a jolt of joy to the deepest parts of her. They were quick, too, and Lando, Cassian, and Han had blasters in their hands in the next second and were firing at the guards behind her.

Leia darted up the gangplank, shouting something at whoever was inside, and the engines of the ship—the Falcon, the kriffing bucket of bolts Millennium Falcon—kicked on almost immediately. Bodhi darted forward, reaching for her, and she had a brief image of trying to hand him a blaster, and him recoiling. She raced for him, shoulders hunched, head ducked. She was close, so close, a few more steps—

A blade sank into her back, and she fell and skidded along the runway.

She heard Cassian shout something, saw him turn his blaster away from the guards, lower, and she knew he was aiming at Rir. The blaster fired, a final shot, and behind her, there was only the sound of death gurgles, and nothing more.

“Jyn, I’ve got you, Jyn,” Bodhi said as he skidded in front of her, pulling her firmly to him. “Come on, here we go, I’ve got you.”

There were other hands helping her up, one in particular that sent a rush of fire through her. She didn’t need to look to know it was Cassian’s.

They helped her up the gangplank, Lando tapping her gently on the head in farewell as he ran for the cockpit. She could hear a wookie’s roar, and heavy metal footsteps coming towards them.

“Jyn Erso,” K-2SO said, and Cub was fairly certain she’d never been this ecstatic to see the droid, “you are very late and have caused Cassian a lot of grief. I must ask you to not do that again.”

She felt more than heard Cassian’s soft laugh, a gentle puff of air against her temple.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

They gave her medicine for the pain. It made her head fuzzy, but she didn’t feel them pull the knife from her back or pop her arm into its socket, which was fine by her. She probably hadn’t even needed the pain medicine, happy as she was to be there — she hadn’t looked away from Cassian for a moment, and he’d met her gaze unabashedly.

It was probably the pain medicine taking all of it away, but she liked to think her joy had a part, too.

The only time Cub had made any noise at all was when they’d laid her down, and Cassian had moved to sit in the chair beside her.

It’d been a pathetic sound, shrill and whiny, but coupled with her good arm reaching for him, they’d all understood. There wasn’t much space on the bunk, but Cassian slipped in beside her, and Han and Leia helped adjust her so she was comfortable before leaving them alone.

His heart was steady beneath her ear, but every breath brought a sigh of relief. She felt warm and dizzy at the thought. Someone—no, him—overcome with relief just because she was there.

“It’s okay,” Cassian murmured. One hand rubbed gently against her good arm, the other stroking her cheek. “You can sleep. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She was, wasn’t she? His touch was soft and reassuring, chasing away her fears and coaxing her mind to remember everything she’d shoved away or forgotten. The hours she’d spent on this ship, drinking and laughing, calling it garbage or dangerous with Leia and Cassian because it irked Han to no end. Meeting Lando, and giggling, properly giggling, when Cassian had scowled and stepped between them.

Sitting with Bodhi as he fixed his ship, trying her best to hand him the right tools and very rarely succeeding.

Annoying K-2SO because it was something to do and there was no higher compliment than being “continually unexpected.”

Comming Chirrut and Baze, finding cryptic advice and the gentleness with which she was called Little One and Little Sister.

Cassian, never far from her, always anticipating her next move before she made it.

The flight to Scarif, and the blinding horizon. The shuttle blocking it out.

Him, before that, in the hangar, saying, “Welcome home.”

She was home.

Home, when she hadn’t dared to hope for something so simple and grand ever again. Home, when she’d thought the rest of her life would be sent planet hopping.

Home, when she thought there hadn’t been anyone left who cared about her.

She opened her mouth but her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. It was heavy and limp, but she tried. For him, she would try anything.

“Ho—me.”

His eyes began to glimmer, and she could see the film of tears gathering. He smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. He looked young, and happy, and overwhelmingly in love. Four years later, and yet there was still love in his heart for her. He pulled her closer, and she wasn’t sure if the sound of her heart was louder than his.

“Yes, Jyn,” he said, and on his tongue, she knew her name. When the others had said it, it hadn’t felt real. But from him, it was realer than anything. “You’re home, Jyn, mi amor. You’re home.”

Four years later, she was home.

She was safe.

She smiled.

And then, curled up against Cassian Andor, Jyn Erso fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Jyn woke in an unfamiliar place.

The room was soft, the colors all neutral and light, and the windows were floor to ceiling with a lovely view of the planet. Her clothes, were a smooth fabric and similarly neutral. The pants fit perfectly, falling just at her ankles, and though the shirt was oversized, it smelled wondrously of Cassian.

Cassian. He wasn’t in the room with her, and whatever existed outside of this room was similarly quiet. Was he here at all? Should she have expected him to be?

There’d been times during the war she’d been sent to and woken up in medley, and each time, so long as he wasn’t on a mission himself, Cassian had been there when she woke, just as she had any time he’d been bound to the cot.

So why wasn’t he here now?

Had it all been a dream?

Jyn sucked in a breath. She’d never been a particularly avid dreamer, unable to make them feel real and plausible. Canto Bight had felt both those things. Everyone had reacted to her, viscerally, even, and she rarely, if ever, dreamt like that.

So reality. This had to be reality just as much as that had been. 

And what did it matter if Cassian wasn’t there? He’d built a life here with the New Republic, had a sworn duty to it. He couldn’t just stop working because his—his war buddy had returned home finally.

Except he had during the war multiple times, bringing the datapad and working as he sat at her bedside.

Jyn huffed. She’d investigate, figure out if it was real or not, and go from there.

The first door she opened lead to the fresher, which she took as a good sign it wasn’t a dream. Why would she dream up a fresher instead of the door that would lead her immediately to Cassian? Still, she closed it, waited a moment, and reopened it just to be sure. It remained a fresher. 

The second door lead to a hallway, where onside was still the floor to ceiling windows and the other was a flat wall. Jyn crept down the hallway, her muscles tensing when she heard soft voices.

Good, she thought. That was good.

The hallway opened to a large room with a few couches with a table in the middle, bookshelves running along one wall and even a charging station for K-2SO in the corner, but it was otherwise sparse. On one couch, Cassian was still, one hand resting on his stomach, the other arm thrown across his eyes. Jyn’s heart leapt into her throat. He hadn’t been far, then, but the bed was large enough for two, and he’d slept in the uncomfortable chairs in the medbay before.

That’d been over four years ago, though. A lot changed in four years, especially when one person was absent. 

She crept just as slowly forward, mindful of the rise and fall of his chest, the way he didn’t even seem to register her feet brushing the carpet. Asleep, then. She reached to towards him, hoping a touch would be enough to convince her this wasn’t a dream—

“Let him sleep, Little Sister,” a voice behind her said softly.

Jyn spun, her foot connecting with the table to make a hollow thud. Pain shot through her leg, but she only grit her teeth as she looked at Baze. He looked older, a thought Jyn knew was ridiculous but crossed her mind all the same. The lines around his face had deepened, as if he’d faced a great tragedy since the last time he saw her.

Hadn’t he, though? Wasn’t her not coming back to them four years earlier a tragedy?

“I told you we should not have left her unsupervised,” K-2SO said primly from behind him. He was in the kitchen, and she could see Bodhi and Chirrut at the table near him. “It was the most likely time she’d wake up.”

“You didn’t know that,” Bodhi said, though he gave a soft laugh.

“Of course I did. Jyn Erso relies on being unpredictable. Therefore, when we would not accept her to wake is when she naturally would.”

They were here, all of them. Her heart soared, four years after she chose to leave, here they were, and her heart was soaring, nearly climbing up her throat, and it was sharp, sharper than she’d thought her heart was, but hadn’t she always had a sharp heart, she’d left them behind without a second thought, and here they were now, looking at her and her sharp heart, how could they be here for someone who had a sharp heart—

“Jyn,” Baze said, and it was always a rare thing for him to say her name, so she looked at him, really looked at him, at the lines he’d gained while she was gone and wondered how many of his laughs she’d missed, and stories, Baze always had stories that he didn’t often share but he’d share with her because she loved listening to them, but would he share them now, because she’d messed everything up, hadn’t she, completely ruined everything?

She could see Bodhi and Chirrut crowding behind him, and how many of their stories had she missed because of her stupid choice? They’d been a family before that, or Jyn had thought, but families weren’t the same when one person was gone, which meant she’d destroyed her family, so why were they here now when she’d absolutely ruined it?

“Jyn?”

She twisted to look at Cassian, and his face was neutral, karking neutral, which meant he was choosing to shut her out like she’d chosen to leave, and she couldn’t blame him, not even a little, and really now it made sense that he hadn’t been there when she’d woken, why would he want to be, even if he’d gladly slipped into the space beside her on the Falcon that could’ve just been adrenaline or maybe she’d been particularly pathetic, but now things were calm and logical and K-2SO could shoot statistics at them, could tell her how much she’d undoubtedly ruined everything and the likelihood that everyone would leave her behind—

Jyn gasped. Everyone was motionless.

There was a door, and if she was quick, she could jump over the couch and reach it, could place a good kick to Cassian’s gut to knock him down—shavit, she’d done enough damage to him and here she was trying to figure out how she could inflict more—and Baze wouldn’t be able to grab her in time, no she’d have to dive to avoid his grasp but she could do it, she could—

“Jyn,” Cassian said again, his voice sharper this time. She glanced at him again. His stare was hard, but still showed nothing good. Was that anger she was seeing, contempt even? She’d earned it. She’d bloody well earned it. “Don’t you dare.”

She dared.

She turned, and leapt, and one foot landed just by Cassian’s stomach, her other on the back of the couch, and she made sure to bring the foot near his stomach forward to hit him in it, even heard his soft grunt, and then she was going and—being thrown off balance.

He’d fisted his hand in her shirt.

Cassian tugged once and she was tumbling, falling towards him with flailing limbs, and though they both grunted as she collided with him, he held her securely so she wouldn’t roll off him and onto the floor or run anywhere else.

There was amusement on Baze’s face, and awe on Bodhi’s, and Chirrut was smirking as if he’d expected something like this.

“You’re okay, Jyn,” Cassian said, his mouth at her ear, and his voice was gentle despite everything. “It’s just us.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? That it was just them, the people she’d hurt the most by leaving, because she’d taken something away from them without a care, and now they were here to, what, punish her for that?

“Jyn.” Cassian’s grip on her tightened. “Jyn, you need to calm down. Everything’s okay. Just take deep breaths, everything’s fine.” He inhaled deeply, his chest pressing into her back. “Just like that. With me.”

She followed his lead. It helped, and she could feel the muscles in her body loosening as she left the worst of it. The others had fallen back, taking spots on the other couches so that they were readily available but not crowding. Every few breaths, Cassian squeezed her wrist or rubbed her arm, and she couldn’t figure out if it was meant to be consoling or a warning.

The room was silent as she finally settled, and Cassian dropped his grip on her. Jyn sat up slowly, stared at the ground for a few moments. Then, silent as a wraith, she stood, and walked back to the room she’d been in, and cried.

The next time Jyn left the room, she kept her head tilted down. She wasn’t sure how much time had overlapped, but it was darker now, enough that she’d considered turning on a lamp before deciding against it. Awful people like her belonged in the dark.

They weren’t in the main room, but she could hear their voices and laughs, and when she peered around the corner of the hallway, she noticed them in the kitchen. They looked happy and relaxed, and for a brief moment she hoped that she hadn’t ruined the only family they had.

She took a deep breath, then walked around the corner and towards them.

They’d left a spot for her at the table, between Cassian and Baze. They quieted when they saw her, Chirrut first, then Bodhi, both of whom smiled at her, followed by Baze, who, at the very least, looked gentle, and Cassian. His face shuttered some, and that alone made Jyn pause. He pushed the chair out a little for her.

Jyn took it, but didn’t move it closer to the table, keeping her gaze firmly pointed at her lap.

The conversation was slow to restart and filled with pauses, as if they expected her to chime in like she used to. The hope sprang back into her throat, but softer this time, more cautious. Then Cassian laughed, and it ran away.

Her hands twisted in her laps. She should’ve stayed in the room longer, should’ve waited. She wasn’t ready to let this go, for it to finally come crashing down as the full extent of the damage she’d caused was revealed. Stupid, she’d been stupid to even have those brief seconds of hope.

Another hand entered her line of sight. Baze’s. He didn’t hesitate to force her hands apart and wedge his larger one between them. He squeezed her hand once, then relaxed, and she knew he was waiting for her to return the gesture.

She did.

The grip she had on his hand was tight, made her fingers hurt almost instantly but she didn’t yield. If she held on enough, if she made it clear how desperate she was for him to not take this away, maybe, maybe he would know she was asking for him to stay.

It was a big thing to ask. She knew she didn’t deserve it.

But maybe he understood her silent plea anyway, and somehow told her others, because he squeezed her hand back, and Cassian’s hand came to rub the nape of her neck, and he tugged the hand not encapsulated in Baze’s away and set it on the table where Bodhi could take it and Chirrut could rub her arm, and K-2 behind her didn’t touch her but there was a soft whirring that she knew meant he was, in his own way, content, and while she wasn’t happy she left, she was happy she was home.

It was Cassian’s apartment they’d brought her back to, which was not entirely surprising given its sparsity and the charging station. They’d decided before she woke up that he’d be the easiest to stay with, since he didn’t frequently travel like Bodhi or have students to keep them occupied like Baze and Chirrut.

The calmest environment for her recovery, as they’d put it. That had lead to a bigger question: what, exactly, was she recovering from?

Nobody had an answer for that.

They told her stories, both silly and serious, of what she’d missed, and while it wasn’t perfect, it was good. She heard about Bodhi knocking his head on an X-Wing while talking to Luke Skywalker, and how Baze was injured after a mission to Tanaab, and he grinned and told her she would’ve loved the explosion he’d caused. They told her about Endor, and Jakku after that, and how drunk they’d all gotten after both, even Cassian.

She didn’t tell them her stories, because that would make them real, and at least for now she could pretend she’d been there with them, like she was supposed to be.

Eventually, they said goodnight, and promised they’d be back tomorrow. Her heart stung as she watched the door shut behind them.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cassian asked afterwards, and though the question was vague she knew what he meant.

Jyn shook her head. “Not right now.”

He nodded, and stroked her arm. His hand was warm, and though she wanted nothing more than to touch him forever, Jyn bobbed her head towards his room. “You should take the bed. It’s your apartment. I don’t want your back hurting.”

It was only a miracle that stopped him from arguing, or perhaps K-2 lurking in the corner, ready to add his own reasonings. He went quietly, with a quick goodnight and hand squeeze, and K-2 settled into his charging station and powered down.

She didn’t need to ask to know this was their routine.

A routine she was interrupting by being there, even if they seemed to want her. Cassian hadn’t said a word when they’d explained the situation earlier, their decision to leave her in his hands, and while she was fairly certain he had volunteered, she wondered if maybe that reasoning was a simple as stability and lacked anything to do with genuine want.

She’d held his hand on Canto Bight, though, and caught his shocked gaze that first night on the balcony, and he’d been the one to turn around and demand her return—and yet here she was, feeling distinctly bereft.

Jyn settled on the couch, and closed her eyes.

Sleep didn’t come.

It wasn’t particularly unusual. She’d had plenty of sleepless nights with her different handlers, always waiting for the next disciplinary reminder or simply unsettled by the planet they were on.

But she was home now, where she was supposed to be safe. An hour passed, and then another, and another, and it was a bit like the war again, the sleepless nights and endless days and waking nightmares. 

During the war, she remembered that Cassian had been a terrible sleeper, that he woke frequently and could function on only an hour or two without seeming terribly fazed. Had he settled now that there was peace? Or did he simply occupy the sleepless moments with the endless paperwork?

Would he mind if she snuck in and slept beside them, like they’d done on the particularly bad nights?

Say it’s for your recovery, she told herself, slipping off the couch and down the hall.

His room was dark. He didn’t stir when the door slid open and shut, or when she crept over to the empty spot on the bed. There was plenty of room for her, enough that he probably wouldn’t even notice she was there. They’d been pressed together during the war, but now, in the peacetime, there was a great, gaping space.

For recovery, Jyn thought, and curled up on top of the bed.

When Jyn woke, she was warm, wrapped in a soft and heavy blanket.

She was still on top of Cassian’s bed, but he’d maneuvered a pillow under her head, and tucked the blanket in tightly around her. He was beside her this time, sitting on the bed in his day clothes, datapad in his lap. He turned and smiled at her when he noticed she was up.

“Did you sleep well?”

Jyn eyed him, burrowing a little deeper under the blanket. She gave a slight nod.

Cassian smiled, soft and filled with joy. “Good. Everyone will be here soon, including Han and Leia. We’re going to breakfast.”

“Okay,” Jyn mumbled, then frowned. “Do I have any clothes?”

“Leia brought some.” He gestured towards the closet. “We can get more later.”

“Thank you.”

Some was more or less an entire wardrobe. Jyn was fairly certain she’d never had this many clothes, not even with any of her handlers. There were dresses and tunics and pants of all colors. She didn’t bother trying to pick through them, snagging a pair of tan pants and a dark tunic and changing. The tunic had a low back, no doubt showing her scars. Jyn frowned, twisting, trying to determine exactly how many scars were on display. And then she saw it.

Her back was covered in lines both thick and thin, some still bright pink, others dark and gnarled. There were a few smooth spots, but none looked larger than her palm. She’d felt the scars with every twist and stretch, but she’d never thought to look.

She wished she hadn’t.

Jyn tore the shirt off, throwing it as quickly away. It hit the door. She fumbled her way through the other shirts, flinching every time she saw another open back, one after the other, because it was pleasant on Chandrila, and this must’ve been the current fashion, and she’d visited other places and worn open back garments and how had she never thought to look at her back before?

“Jyn?” Cassian called from the other side of the door, rapping his knuckles gently on it. “Jyn, are you okay?”

They’d won, then, her captors. Maybe she should’ve stayed with them, where she could’ve kept being Cub. Cub, who hadn’t cared what her back looked like, because they were marks of pride, marks that said she knew the punishment for disobeying and was not afraid to inflict it.

They weren’t supposed to be.

“Jyn, can I come in?”

They were marks that were supposed to keep her pliant, keep the narrative alive in her head that she was the Lion’s Cub and she was going to follow in his footsteps, and she’d disappeared for a few years but she was back and learning to take lead of the Partisans.

She’d wanted to teach them compassion when they’d shown her anything but.

She hadn’t been wearing what she’d woken in. Someone had changed her. Had Cassian seen her marks? Jyn wasn’t vain, but the thought that he’d touched them, had probably felt revulsion as he did, and she’d assumed one day she’d be dealing out these same punishments.

“Jyn?” Cassian asked, poking his head in. She was shirtless, though, the scars on full display for him to see. “Oh,” he breathed, and her heart plummeted as she realized he hadn’t seen them before. “Do you need help? Do they hurt?”

“No,” she mumbled, voice hoarse. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

He picked up the shirt she’d originally chosen, holding it by the shoulders. He nodded, then tossed it aside. “There should be something with a back in here,” he said, hands flipping through the other tunics. He pulled a dark red one out. “Is this okay?”

Jyn nodded, keeping her gaze down as she shrugged it on.

“I can look later and see if we have anything to cover them,” he said. “If you want.”

“I didn’t think to look before. I… I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Cassian nodded noncommittally. “That’s what you meant when you said it was nothing you hadn’t experienced before, isn’t it? They were for discipline.”

“They told me Saw left me in the bunker so Kuth could find me and I could learn from him,” she sucked in a breath. “They said I was supposed to be Saw’s successor and lead the Partisans. I didn’t think twice about it.”

“Hey,” Cassian said softly, rubbing her arms. “You weren’t supposed to. It’s not your fault. They made a lie and you didn’t remember us so you couldn’t contradict it.”

“I wanted to teach them compassion.”

Cassian smiled. It was genuine and proud. “Only you,” he said, tapping her nose, incredibly fond. “Only you.”

“You sure like to keep us waiting, kid,” Han said as they stepped into the main room.

“Han,” Cassian and Leia hissed as Jyn muttered, “Sorry.”

He blanched. “Um, it’s fine,” he said, scratching his head. “Just, don’t apologize again. Ever.”

“Jyn Erso,” K-2 said. “What were you doing in Cassian’s room last night?”

“Kay,” Cassian chastised immediately, before Jyn’s heart could fully plummet, “what did we talk about?”

The droid’s shoulders folded inwards, his head tilting down. It was the closest to a pout she’d ever seen from a droid. “We make sure Jyn Erso is comfortable as she adjusts,” he said, sounding positively petulant. He lifted his head. “I do not understand how that includes her being in your room and ruining your sleep cycle.”

“I woke you up?”

“I’m a terrible sleeper.”

“Still—”

“Jyn,” Leia said, before she could truly start fretting about Cassian. “This is Ben. Ben, say hi to Aunt Jyn.”

The boy was small, with a mop of dark curls and inquisitive brown eyes. He had one hand tugging Leia’s ear, the other opening and closing at his side. Jyn had never thought much of kids, but she supposed he was cute, in the way Poe had once been.

She glanced at Cassian, about to ask where Kes, Shara, and Poe were, but he looked lost in thought, staring at the hand she’d offered to Ben and his fingers now squeezed around it. Had he wanted kids? There’d been no point asking during the war, but this was peacetime, and she’d been gone, and had she dashed his hopes of family?

Jyn smiled, and pretended nothing was wrong.

It wasn’t hard to find a place in Cassian’s routine. She got up when he did in the mornings, and when he went to the office, she either went for a walk with K-2, or worked out at the gym. Some days she sat on the couch in his office and read a book, or caught up on different events she’d missed.

They always went to bed at the same time, and she always burrowed herself in his side.

The stories of her handlers slipped out, bit by bit, and though Cassian never said much about it, he always held her tighter afterwards, or found a way to make her feel safe.

She didn’t tell him the routine made her feel plenty safe.

“Leia mentioned the Academy the other day,” Cassian said one morning as he pressed a cup of caf into her hands. “If you wanted to teach classes about fighting to occupy your time, she has the opening.”

Jyn hesitated. “Is that really a good idea?”

“You wanted to teach the Partisans compassion, Jyn,” he said, and any time that came up, he always sounded filled to the brim with pride. “I think you could teach recruits how to fight.”

“I’ll think about it,” she mumbled, hiding her smile. “Maybe a couple days a week?”

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile he offered a lot these days, the one that had the power to make her forget she’d been gone at all.

Jyn’s thirtieth birthday was an event.

People she hadn’t seen in years were there, from Kes, Shara, and Poe (who had eagerly thrown himself into her arms, and she’d marveled at how much bigger he was) to Mon Mothma and, of all people, Draven. They welcomed her back like it’d been an extended mission and not a voluntary choice, and told her stories the way the others had.

She’d kept Cassian at her side the entire time, squeezing his hand when she was overwhelmed, and following his cues, and eventually it settled enough that she could enjoy herself, even as she sat back and watched.

There’d been art on Naboo, gorgeous floor to ceiling paintings. She remembered several that had to do with family, how she’d been so fascinated by them, the way that everyone seemed to be leaning into one another without touching, bound together with invisible bonds. 

Looking at everyone gathered now was a bit like that.

Jyn stared at her glass, one finger tracing the rim.

She’d taken this from him, hadn’t she? And not just by leaving with Kuth — she’d been planning on it before then, had decided she was going to walk away and leave him behind, and then she had, she had, she had, she had, and now his reaction that night made sense, because she’d walked away and there’d been no expectation of her coming back.

And what about the others? Baze, Chirrut, Bodhi? They hadn’t even flitted across her mind when she went, as if they hadn’t mattered at all. How were they even able to look at her when she’d made a decision without thinking about them at all?

Cassian touched her leg softly. “You okay?”

No, she thought, but nodded all the same.

“Too much?”

Another nod.

“We can go if you want.”

Jyn flinched, then covered it with a false smile. “No, everyone’s here for me. I should, um, make rounds, or something.”

She left him sitting on the couch, and tried not to think about how it was just like Bakura, and how many things she was still keeping from him.

It took her a week to gather the courage, far longer than she’d anticipated, but then, she wasn’t used to needing to be brave to talk to Cassian. She usually just was.

“How long will I be here?”

Cassian turned to stone, fork hanging mid-air. Jyn stared at her plate.

“Four years is—you’ve probably got a whole life figured out, and now you’re being forced to take care of me.” She stabbed a particularly fat vegetable. It was less solid than she’d thought, and her fork clanged as it hit the plate. “I’m grateful, really, but if you want to get back to your routine, you can just say so. I’ll be okay.”

A lie, because she’d never be okay away from him, but if it was what he needed so he wouldn’t feel guilty for kicking her out, well, lying wasn’t hard.

She risked a glance. The fork was still dangling in his hands, but his mouth had shut, and the expression on his face was impossible to understand. Jyn waited. It’d never been a strong suit of hers, but she wasn’t completely terrible at it like most thought.

Cassian set the fork down.

“Did you think I would move on?”

Jyn blinked. Did she think he would move on? What kind of question was that? Of course she’d expected him to move on. Why would he wait for her? She wouldn’t have been upset if he had moved on. Did she want him to? She was selfish enough to know that answer was a hard no, but she wouldn’t begrudge him any happiness either. She’d left. She understood there were consequences.

She’d planned on walking away even before that. And walking away meant moving on for both of them.

“Yes,” she breathed, her throat sore. “Obviously when I was gone I didn’t remember you, so I wasn’t thinking you would move on. But before,” she paused, tried to swallow the lump in her throat, “I was going to ask to be reassigned.”

Jyn glanced up. Cassian was motionless.

She tucked her head and continued. “You were—you were gone, and I understand why now, I do, but I hadn’t then, and I couldn’t watch someone else walk away, so I—” she drew in a quivering breath, “—I’d decided I’d ask to be reassigned.”

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh.”

She remembered thinking he’d looked gutted on Bakura. That was nothing compared to now.

Force, she was excellent at ruining things.

“I’m sorry, Cass,” she said, voice thick.

He nodded, but didn’t meet her eyes.

They sat awkwardly for a few moments before he stood and pointed to her plate. “Are you done?”

Jyn nodded, numb. In truth, she’d barely touched her plate, just like him, but she couldn’t imagine he’d be particularly hungry after she ripped his heart out. But he’d deserved the truth, deserved to know her dark thoughts even if they were long gone.

“Cass,” she said. He tensed. “Talk to me?”

“What am I supposed to say, Jyn?” he asked, voice softer than a feather. “What am I supposed to say now and what was I supposed to say then?”

Jyn bit her lip. “I didn’t know, Cass. All I knew was you were pulling away, and I couldn’t watch you leave.” She went to him, stroked his back, pressed her face into the side of his arm. “I’m sorry.”

He took a step away.

“And what about now?” His voice rose. It wasn’t normal. Cassian never raised his voice when he was angry. He always spoke soft and low, like a predator readying to pounce. “You know now, and you’re still shoving me away.”

“Cassian, I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he snapped. He drew in a ragged breath. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. “I was chasing rumors that the thing we’d almost died to get the plans for was back. Every day, I had to think that what we’d done and the lives we lost had all been for nothing. How could I tell you about that when I wasn’t certain? It would’ve destroyed you, Jyn.” He paused and glared at the ceiling. “And now you’re telling me you didn’t trust me enough to think I had a reason for that, and you were going to cut me out.”

“It wasn’t a question of trust.”

“Wasn’t it? Isn’t it? Even now, you’re ready to run.”

“No, I—“

“‘How long will I be here?’” he interrupted. “You thought I was letting you stay here out of—out of pity? Force, Jyn, we’ve shared a bed every night, and you thought I didn’t want you here? That I was waiting for you to be stable enough to go?” 

Jyn looked down.

He wasn’t done. “What about Baze, Chirrut, and Bodhi? Any time you see them you look like you’re waiting for the moment they decide to leave you behind. They’ve noticed, Jyn, the same as I have. You think we’re going to just ditch you—”

He stopped, sucked in a breath. He didn’t need to continue, because she heard the unsaid words perfectly.

Like you did to us.

It was horrible, the grief crashing into her like a wave, rising up, up, up over her head, pulling her down and holding her there. Her heart was gone, never to be recovered, and Jyn knew it was everything she’d ever deserved. She’d earned those words and this pain, and she did not blame Cassian for saying them.

The couch was comfortable, which was why Jyn decided after two hours of being unable to fall asleep, that she’d be better off on the floor, where she could remember how much she didn’t deserve such luxuries.

It took her an hour to toss the pillow aside, and another half to kick the blankets away. If she could tear the carpet away and replace it with jagged stones, she would, knowing it’d still be more than she deserved.

She’d never thought of it as a trust issue, him not telling her about the Death Star. She’d understood that there were things he couldn’t tell her, that his job was in the business of secrets and therefore some things couldn’t be shared, but she’d always trusted him to tell her when something was wrong and let her help him work through it.

But he’d shut her out, and that had been the opposite of what they usually did, and any attempt she made to help was just one more thing she’d done wrong. Maybe she hadn’t trusted that he’d tell her when he was ready. But he hadn’t trusted her to admit something was wrong, either.

Not that any of it mattered now. She’d still kriffed everything up and she’d be lucky if she got out of this with Cassian speaking to her as an acquaintance, let alone as a friend.

And what about Bodhi and Baze and Chirrut? Would they have similarly harsh words for her, or had they passed their grievances on to Cassian and he’d been the one bold enough to air them? She was, ashamedly, still waiting for the day they told her she no longer had a space in their family.

She knew what to expect now, knew the grief would settle over her and trap her at the bottom of her soul. It was nothing less than what she deserved.

The door to Cassian’s room opened, his footsteps faint against the carpet. She heard him pause when he reached the end of the hall, the sharp intake of breath that followed when he realized she wasn’t on the couch. He stepped further into the room, stopping when he saw her newly chosen bed.

“Why are you on the floor?”

Jyn shrugged. She could see his eyes in the dimness of the room, knew he could see hers just as well. There was no point in pretending she was asleep.

“Come on,” he said, offering her a hand. Jyn eyed it. “Jyn. You’re not sleeping out here, and I’m not sleeping in there, and we both know we sleep better together.”

She huffed, turning away and curling in on herself. He wasn’t wrong, of course, but there’d be no point. She already knew she’d never sleep again if it wasn’t at his side, and that wasn’t an option anymore, so she’d never sleep again starting now.

“Fine,” Cassian muttered, then dropped down to the floor beside her and curled around her.

Jyn twisted. “What’re you doing?”

“I just told you,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We sleep better together.” He moved to cuddle against her again. Jyn shoved his chest. “Jyn, we both need sleep.”

He said it simply, obviously, without an undercurrent of anything else. It was like they hadn’t fought at all (though, truthfully, it hadn’t been a fight so much as her due), as if she’d fallen asleep on the couch and he hadn’t had the heart to move her. It unsettled her.

“What’s it matter?” she asked, her voice bland. Cassian tensed. “I’ve ruined everything.”

“Hey, no, no you didn’t,” Cassian soothed, pulling her to him and rolling them so her head was pillowed on his chest. “I’m sorry for how I reacted. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Jyn snorted. “Yes, it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You’re not the one who ruined everything,” she said. “I deserved that.”

“You went with Kuth because you thought it was what was right,” Cassian said, rubbing her arm. “You always do what you think is right and will help the most people. That’s an admirable quality.”

“Still planned on leaving because I didn’t trust you.”

“I wasn’t talking, and I wasn’t thinking about how you might perceive that.”

“Only because you didn’t want to upset me over what could’ve been rumors.”

“Are we going to keep this up all night?” he asked, pinching her arm. “What happened, happened and what didn’t, didn’t. Nobody’s to blame for that.”

Jyn frowned. “I took away your chance at a family.”

Cassian blinked. “Jyn,” he said, and waited until she was fully looking at him. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you. If we have a family or not, I’m good either way, as long as you’re here.” He paused. “You’re thirty. I’m thirty-four. We have time to figure it out.” He tapped her arm. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Like I said,” she mumbled, “it’s what I deserved.”

“Nobody deserves that, Jyn. You just caught me off guard.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now, though. You’re here. I’m so happy you’re here.”

She met his gaze. It was open, and gentle, and there were apologies and promises that didn’t need to be said but he looked ready to regardless. Jyn pressed her finger to his lips. She knew.

“We should go to bed,” she said, pulling away so she could stand. “This can’t be good for your back.”

Cassian smiled and took her proffered hand. He didn’t let go once he was standing, or move towards the bedroom. Rather, he tugged her to him, pressing his forehead to hers, and basked in her just as much as she did him.

Jyn didn’t think about it as she moved forward and pressed her lips to his, she just did it. It was quick and chaste, gone before either could fully process what had happened, but she watched with thinly veiled joy as a goofy grin spread across Cassian’s face and he ducked down to press another kiss to her mouth.

She didn’t let go of his hand as they walked to his room, and when she slipped into bed and settled against his side, she was still wide awake, but for an entirely new reason. He seemed to be, too.

She tapped him on the nose, watched his face wrinkle in jest. He wanted her here, wanted her as close as she could possibly fit, forever. It was a daunting thought, the idea of forever, but it did not scare her. Nothing with him ever could, save for loss, but that was an impossibility.

“There’s one more thing I didn’t say before,” Jyn murmured, pressing her finger to his lips again. “I love you.”

She felt his intake of breath, and the answering grin.

He dragged her down, and this time it was not water over her head, but him, pressed into every nook and cranny of her that he could find. It was a wonder to drown in him. She smiled when she remembered she could do it for the rest of her life.

He offered a heart to replace the one she’d lost earlier, and it was his, and he did not need to tell her that he’d tucked hers away inside of him. He did anyway.

“I love you,” he murmured, and kissed her once more. “I’m so in love with you.”

Jyn grinned, and when exhaustion finally caught them, they slept, and in the morning they kissed because they could, lazy and sloppy and punctuated with smiles and taps to the nose or chin or temple. It was simple, and soft, and everything.

“I have to make a trip,” he said one day a few weeks later. “You’re welcome to come with me.”

Jyn blinked. “Since when do generals do field work?”

“They don’t. This isn’t work related.”

She tiled her head to the side. If it wasn’t work related, why was he asking her to tag along? Wasn’t it a given she would?

“I’ll go,” she said, since he was clearly waiting for confirmation.

Cassian nodded, and smiled. “We can leave tomorrow. It’ll only be a couple days.”

He offered nothing else, and when they packed he said the weather would be nice where they were, so she could pack light. He didn’t tell her where they were going, was unusually quiet during the trip. He’d smile and kiss her, but she could see the weight on his shoulders, the distraction in his head.

She understood when they dropped out of hyperspace.

Bakura. He’d brought her back to Bakura.

Jyn stiffened. She was sure she had his reasons, and she trusted him to tell her these reasons, even if it was later, but the air seemed a little less secure than it had before—

“Take a breath, Jyn,” Cassian murmured, his hand reaching back to clasp hers. “Trust me, okay?”

It was the easiest thing for her to do.

They landed, and he held her hand as the walked down the gangplank. It was like it had been, an open sea of green, the air fresh and gentle. It was still dark out, the faintest hint of light on the horizon, but Cassian didn’t seem to need light at all as he lead her away from the ship, stopping after about twenty yards, where a smooth, shining stone glittered at them from the ground.

She’d always been good at knowing what he meant without a single word.

“This is where we were,” Jyn breathed. She squeezed his hand. “How often do you come here?”

“A couple times a year,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “Today, of course, because it’s the day.” Jyn flinched. “Your birthday. After Endor, again after Jakku. When we were seeing Baze and Chirrut off, they wanted to stop here.”

“Places I was supposed to be.”

He drew in a wet breath. “Places you were supposed to be.”

There wasn’t another ship this time, or anyone but them. It was where she was supposed to be, and where he was.

“I want to try something,” Cassian said after a few moments. “That’s why I wanted you to come.”

“Anything.” Always anything.

“Walk that way a few steps.”

Jyn frowned. “Cass—“

“Please, Jyn,” he said, pecking her lips. His eyes were pink. “For me.”

She hesitated, then nodded. It felt wrong to not hold his hand here of all places, to be walking away from him again, but she knew it was only temporary. She even looked over her shoulder a couple times, because she knew it wouldn’t break her heart to look at him.

He held up a hand. “Turn around.”

Jyn raised a brow, her heart taking flight like a tiny winged creature. Her voice was breathless and hopeful when she asked, “You want me to walk back to you?”

Cassian smiled ruefully. “No,” he said, and continued before she could begin to think terrible thoughts, “I want to meet you in the middle.”

Jyn flushed and grinned.

“Whenever you’re ready, Captain.”

He rolled his eyes.

They matched each other step for step, until their shoes were touching and all it would take was a slight gust to shove them entirely together.

“I’m back,” she said, taking his hands in her own. “You didn’t leave.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I never will,” he promised. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

They stood like that for a while, sneaking in kisses every now and then. She felt young, and hopeful, and helplessly in love, and as dawn broke on the horizon, she molded herself to Cassian, and saw their future in his eyes.