Archive of Our Own

Jyn wasn’t one to mark anniversaries or events. She preferred, whenever possible, to ignore the passage of time. It was easier that way; made for fewer reminders. She didn’t have to think or care about the things she’d done, or the people she’d known, because there was only today, only the next meal, the next job, the next distraction, the next helmet to drive her boot into. No future, no past, and in theory, no pain.

But things had changed. A hatch had opened.

She stood in front of her locker, hesitating. She was packed and ready, her bag slung over her shoulder, but now that it was time to go, there were nerves blossoming in her belly. It was silly. The mission was a simple thing -- Cassian’s first off-base assignment since Scarif, transparently designed to ease him back into field work -- and it had nothing to do with tomorrow’s Standard date, or with the memories she’d lately had trouble holding back. Then again, the mission wasn’t really the problem.

She closed her eyes, breathed. Adjusted her bag. I’m fine. This is fine. Everything is fine. The door to her locker clicked shut. Her bunkmate had stuck a calendar to the wall. She didn’t look at it.

The corridors of Home One were bright, sterile, and nowhere near as crowded as they should have been. Jyn nodded to a soldier, was acknowledged by another, and then another. She was starting to recognize and be recognized by a surprising amount of people. Well, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, given the givens, but it still took her aback, when she paused to think about it. She’d spent years as a transient. She wasn’t sure how she felt about having place, about being known again. At times, it felt very, very good. At others, it made panic well up behind her ribs. Right now, it was somewhere in between.

She stepped out onto the hangar. The patrol was changing over; one squadron was approaching the bay, marshalled by a deck crew in baggy uniforms. A second was hopping into their X-wings, dragging down their helmets. She wondered at the overlap between that and her departure time, and then she thought of Bodhi, and wondered whether he was in either group. They’d had a lot of conversations, over the past couple of months, many of them about her father. Did he know? She could talk to him, probably. Not that either of them were available right now.

Not that it mattered. Because it didn’t, and it hadn’t, in years and years and years.

Cassian was waiting outside their ship, arms crossed. He didn’t quite smile at her. It was a reserved expression, for an ordinary person, but when worn by him, it felt like so much more. “I started to think you might not be coming.”

Her fist tightened around the strap of her bag. “I’m on time.”

“You’re five minutes late.”

Ah. That explained the overlap with the shift change. She supposed she’d known that. She shrugged. Beyond Cassian, she caught a glimpse of K-2, tinkering with a control panel.

“Hello, Kay. You’re looking well.”

He stilled. His head rotated toward her, slowly. The lights of his eyes winked out, winked back on. She was needling him, and she was doing it because it was its own sort of distraction. Her heart was thumping like the stupid thing that it was. She had to take her mind off it somehow.

“Jyn Erso,” he said. Droids couldn’t sigh, but it sounded like he had. “It’s very nice of you to join us. I’m thrilled .”

She huffed. It was a shame he couldn’t remember. She’d have to offer him her blaster again, one of these days.  

She looked back at Cassian. The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened. He looked amused. His gaze bounced to her bag, to her lips, back up to her eyes. He nodded, and then turned toward the open hatch. “Let’s go.”

Her stomach churned. Her heart hadn’t slowed. She breathed deep, and swallowed, and followed him on board.

They hadn’t spent a lot of time together. She’d thought it would be more, after everything, but in hindsight, that seemed foolish. He’d been doing a lot of physical therapy, and she’d been integrating into the Alliance, and their schedules hadn’t lined up all that often, and even after he was fully healed, they’d still be on separate duty much of the time. She ought to lower her expectations. Still, when they had been able to see one another, it had been...nice, in a way that she wanted to get used to. She hadn’t wanted that sort of thing in a long time.

She didn’t want to screw it up.

She sat in the cabin. She’d wedged herself into a nook, leaned her head against the wall. Durasteel amplified the sound of the air filtration system and piped it back into her ear. She mentally inventoried her weapons. She had her truncheon, and a few knives of varying lengths. There were two blasters in her pack. She thought of the world they were headed to. She thought of the city. There was a festival underway, which would serve as additional cover: off-worlders would draw less attention. She began to think about why she’d been tagged for this -- because Cassian wasn’t 100%, so he needed back-up; because he’d specifically asked for her -- but got off it.

She thought of Lah’mu. She thought of a moment, with lights and smiles and laughter, and her mother bending to kiss her father’s cheek, and him looking up at her, from his chair, with soft, kind eyes.

She rubbed her temples. The engine hummed and rumbled up through her lower half. K-2 said something to Cassian, who responded flatly. A part of her wanted to go up front, but there was an ache in her chest, and it rooted her to the floor. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.

He came back to her, after the craft had dropped out of hyperspace. His face was impassive. She got the impression that he was reading her, that he was evaluating. It would be just her luck, wouldn’t it, if he could tell she had shit going on. You don’t have shit going on, and it’s not the first time he’s seen you.

“We’re preparing to land.”

“Good. I’ll get my things.”

She rose, collected her bag. He watched. He extended an arm, planting his elbow on the wall and his fist against an abutment on the ceiling. “We’ll be here for a few days, as a cushion.” It was a strange thing for him to say, as if he were trying to fill the silence.

“I know.”

The air thickened. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel him looking at her, feel his stance shifting. What was she doing? It was just a day, it was just a stupid day, and it had nothing to do with him, nothing at all.

“Right,” he said. She could hear his intake of breath. He tapped the abutment, then moved past her, quickly, and gathered his own things.

Her datapad was blinking.

She sat in their hotel room, on the edge of her bed. Cassian was in the fresher. Muffled sounds of revelry drifted up from the street. Her hands curled and uncurled around her comforter. It probably wasn’t a wise move, but she’d messaged Bodhi shortly after they’d settled in. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She’d never wanted, or needed, to talk to anyone before. Of course, she’d also never bothered remembering.

She reached for the device, and let out a long, slow breath.

Hi Jyn. It’s not a strange question at all. Yeah, I knew. He mentioned it last year. How are you doing

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest burned, and her throat tightened.

I’m fine. How are you?

She stared at the cursor. Shifted around. Even if he was in a position to check his messages, and replied immediately, the distance would still cause a delay. Cassian emerged, looking put-together, professional. Well-dressed. It was fine. Everything was fine. He blinked at her.

“Bodhi,” she said.

“I see.”

The datapad vibrated. She glanced down.

I don’t know. Feels weird.

It was odd, but somehow, until now, she hadn’t realized how close Bodhi had gotten to her father. All the talking they’d done, and it was this that drove it home. What was she to do with that? She was still getting used to letting people be there for her, and to being there for them in return. It felt like lifting an atrophied limb.

We can talk when I get back.

Could they? Really?

Yeah, okay.

Cassian was still standing there. The exchange had taken several minutes, and he’d just waited it out. It occurred to her that that was significant. Guilt stabbed at her chest.

It had nothing to do with him. Her pulse was racing, and it had nothing to do with him.

“Are you ready?” he asked, after she’d gone for a stretch without typing.

She dropped the datapad onto the bedside table. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.”

His eyebrows dipped. His gaze fell to the floor. He’d read her again, at least in part, but she didn’t want to volunteer information. He sighed. “Good.” Started to take a step, stopped. His body went rigid. His eyes closed, his lips compressed into a thin line. A shadow fell over his face. He clenched his fists, and she saw his throat work, and she straightened, leaned forward, prepared to...do something . And then, as abruptly as it had started, it passed. He looked at her. Flashed a quick, tight smile.

Huh. Seemed he had his own shit.  

They took the lift down to the ground floor. The last time they’d been in one, they’d clung to each other, and she’d looked at his face, and into his eyes, and felt a deep and desperate longing. Now, they stood side by side, with a respectable distance between them. Don’t screw it up. The door opened, and she swallowed, and they moved through the lobby, and then out into the world. Something bore down on her heart. They had only to meet with a contact; Cassian had only to confirm a transaction. It wasn’t a big deal. But the air was full, and so was the street.

There were people everywhere. They were singing. There were instruments, their sounds wafting over and cutting through the crowd. There were noisemakers and streamers. There were children running and hollering. There was a familiarity to it that tickled something in her mind. It would have to be related, wouldn’t it? Of course these things would come in bunches, rather than one at a time.

Cassian’s side knocked into hers. He placed his fingertips on her lower back, and bent toward her ear. “Stay close to me,” he said, his breath washing over the side of her face. The points of contact were hot. It felt natural to lean into him and wind her own arm around his lower back. He acquiesced. She breathed.  

She thought of Eadu. Kriff.

This near to him, it was hard not to acknowledge her nerves. The reason for them was peering at her from around a corner. Her pulse raced.

It was fine. She was fine.

The ground dipped unexpectedly. Beside her, Cassian stiffened, and his breath hitched. She looked up at him, narrowed her eyes. She could have just ignored it again -- should have, really -- but her concern for him won out.

“Are you all right?”

The hand on her back went as stiff as the rest of him. “Yes,” he replied, a tad gruffly. He met her gaze. “Are you?”

Well. That wasn’t fair at all. She stared at him. They’d come to a stop; they were at the edge of the crowd, but streams of people still parted around him. Music pounded in her head. Its rhythm clashed with the beat of her heart, which was fast and foolish.

“Yeah. Course.”

He shook his head, made an exasperated noise. “Right.” His hand fell away. The spot where it had been felt cold and empty.

Why did it have to be this way? If she didn’t want to screw things up, then why did she seem to be doing just that? She didn’t know how to balance it. Maybe it was too much to hope for, nurturing whatever it was that was growing between them, while blocking off a part of herself, stalling a conversation that she dreaded.

She sighed, swallowed. He knew that she was off; she had to give him something to work with. She was opening her mouth to speak when she caught a glimpse of a woman and a man, pausing beside a building. There was a little girl between them, adjusting the straps on her boots with slow, half-practiced movements. She was very small, and very young, and on her shoulders, there lay two brown braids.

It clicked, all of the things that had been familiar. All-Species Week. She could hardly remember that day, but the few impressions that remained were more than enough. The pair of hastily packed bags. The tense, breathless walk through colorful, chaotic streets. The press of bodies. Her mother’s agitation. Her father, clutching her to his chest. The ship. The flight. Saw, and his map.

You’ve chosen a good home for us, Stardust.

Kriff. The air was heavy, and too warm. It was hard to breathe. Cassian frowned at her.

“...Jyn?”

“I need a second.” She pushed her way off the street, placed her palms against the wall of a building. The corners of her eyes stung.

This was stupid. It shouldn’t bother her so much. It shouldn’t matter, any of it. She’d been so good at not thinking about it, about leaving the past where it lay, but now… Things had changed. A couple of months ago, things had changed. She’d seen him. She’d spoken to him, and she’d watched him die. The past had mattered then. Oh, how it had mattered, so much so that it had turned her into a blubbering mess, and then it had lit her skin on fire.

Footsteps, behind her and then next to her. Cassian, his brow creased with concern. She forced herself to turn and straighten, so that they were facing each other, their shoulders to the wall.

He was very close to her. “Jyn, what is going on?”

She didn’t want to tell him. Force, there was no use turning away from it, now, because it did have to do with him. Kriff, kriff, it did. She didn’t want to tell him, because he’d almost been the one to kill him, and she didn’t want to bring that back up, didn’t want to have to deal with it. She’d been ignoring it, because not ignoring it might ruin everything. She liked him. Kriff, she liked him, she wanted to get to know him, she wanted to spend more time with him, she wanted to keep working with him, and getting anywhere near the circumstances surrounding their meeting could jeopardize that.

“Jyn, please. Talk to me.”

And then, just like that, she blurted it out: “It’s his birthday.”

He stilled. “What?”

Her throat was stuffed with balled-up linen. “It’s my father’s birthday.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled. His shoulders relaxed and fell forward. He looked off to the side for a moment, then back at her. “I’m…” His throat bobbed. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

Yeah. He sure was. She felt her thoughts, and her heart, angle away from him. She felt a spark of old anger, the very thing she’d hoped to keep from coming back. She blinked. Tears clung to her eyelashes. His expression was so earnest. His hands were hovering, like he wanted to touch her, but wasn’t sure how, or whether he should.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s clearly not.”

“Neither is your back.”

He breathed hard through his nose. “No, but it’s where it should be, and it’s getting better.” He pursed his lips, and tapped her arm. “C’mon. We’re going back to the hotel.”

She frowned. “Your contact.”

“We arranged to meet within a window. We have time.”

She was a fool. And ridiculous. And a mess. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that the mission was more important, a sentiment she was pretty sure he’d get behind. She wanted to be back on a distraction. But she knew it was too late for that.

“Okay.”

He closed his hand around her arm, and she let him lead her back.

They sat next to each other, the sides of their hands barely touching. Outside, a popular song was taken up, and hundreds of voices belted out the words.

“He called you Stardust.”

She nodded. “He could be very sentimental.” Except when he couldn’t. Her memories of Mac-Vee were as washed out as her memories of the escape from Coruscant, but she knew what they meant. “And when we were on Lah’mu, he tried to make it…” Seem simple. Normal. Happy.

She recalled him sitting in a darkened corner of the kitchenette, his features sharpened by shadow. One hand had been wrapped around a glass; the other had bracketed his forehead, thumb and forefinger pressed into his temples. He’d drunk silently and alone, and she’d watched him until, at length, he’d noticed her, and pushed the glass aside. Something had passed over his face, and then it had been replaced by a half-smile. “What are you doing up?”

Wondering.

In retrospect, it occurred to her that he’d never purposely drank in front of her, after Coruscant. It had been part of the illusion.

Her head hung. Her chin touched her collar bone. It was hard to talk about this. It was terrible. It wasn’t what she’d wanted. She was crying again, and she hated it.

“He loved you.”

Her whole body went taut. Her thoughts jumped, danced, skittered. She held her breath, and everything was ready, ready, like she was on the edge of a fight.

“He would have been proud of you.”

Her head swung toward him. Hadn’t he already said that? She couldn’t be sure.

Cassian was breathing, and blinking. She considered that the spark hadn’t lit. The anger hadn’t been strong enough. He looked her in the eye, and leaned forward.

“I’m sorry, Jyn.”

It wasn’t what she’d expected. He shouldn’t be reacting the way he was. They shouldn’t be having this conversation, and even if they were, it shouldn’t be calm, and it shouldn’t be making her feel better, and it wasn’t how things were supposed to go. The past hurt. Because it hurt, people recoiled when confronted by it. People left. People betrayed. They had a past, she and Cassian, despite their short history, and that was a kriffing liability. They ought to be dispensing with it. They ought to be pretending it wasn’t anything, carrying on with all the talking and touching as if nothing had come before.

But she couldn’t live that way anymore, whether she’d accepted it or not. The hatch was open.

“I know.”

His tears hadn’t fallen, but they clouded his eyes. She folded her hand over his. He inhaled. They made eye contact. Something warm sprouted in her chest, spread outward. She realized that she wasn’t screwing it up. There was no fighting, and no rejection; he was trying , same as her, and goodness, it felt good just to say , just to have someone hear. She took it further, and heart pounding, veins burning, she realized that there was a way to distract herself and get to know him at the same time.

“Tell me about your parents.”