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Somewhere between the emergency rescue and the landing back on their base, Jyn passes out. All around her, the lights go blurry, the faces watching over her, even blurrier. Words tumble over each other, as if not a single speaker is using Basic, or Huttese, or any of the six other languages she has some sort of functional knowledge in. It annoys her, the inability to understand her comrades, and she snaps at them to tell them so.
“Erso,” one says, and that she can at least recognize as her own name. “Rest.”
Rest. It is a word in Basic, though not one she’s particularly fond of. Nor is she particularly bemused by the implication of it, because if she’s resting, she’s not helping with the mission. And if she’s not helping, what in all the kriffing hells is she even part of the Rebellion for? She’s given them three years of her life, they could at least have the manners to tell her something more useful than just rest.
“No,” she mutters, trying to push herself to standing.
“Easy!” The warm, strong hand of Kes Dameron, her commanding officer (if Jyn actually believed in such a concept, which she’s not quite sure she does) gently rests on her shoulder, urging her to lay back down.
She doesn’t.
That is, until another round of white-hot pain courses through her, reminding her that she’s pretty sure at least one, if not two, ribs are broken from the concussive blast. “Bacta?” she murmurs, thinking if she’d just be given a patch, she could get back out there.
“You already have it.” Kes says, though it sounds awful garbled to her. Her ears keep ringing, which makes the whole listening thing harder than it usually is.
“Do not.”
“You do, and additional painkillers beside. They’re gonna kick in any minute, an’ you’re gonna rest then, cause karking stars, do you need to.”
“I don’t,” Jyn mutters again. They needed her help--the material for the destruction of the second Death Star weren’t just going to get themselves to Alliance High Command. The Pathfinders had been tasked with securing additional resources needed for the upcoming battle. A task that had been made far more difficult when they’d been stopped by Imperial troopers as soon as they’d landed on the last planet. Had they gotten what they needed? Were the Imps taken down? Jyn can’t remember. Her head starts to ache at the very thought of those details, because all she can remember is flying shrapnel and pain.
The Pathfinders would get the explosives and ships for the Rebellion. They had to. As for the plans for the Death Star itself… well, someone else was in charge of that mission. Someone who she knows will succeed, because he’s already helped secure one set of Death Star plans, despite impossible odds, and because he has to succeed, because he has to survive, because she refuses to say good bye to him.
Someone Jyn missed very much, though she’d never find it easy to say such a thing.
Someone she’d thought she was very skilled at never mentioning, not to anyone.
And yet someone whose name comes far too easy to her lips in a sigh as the painkillers finally wash over her, bringing with them the soft oblivion of rest.
“Captain Erso, what trouble did you manage to find now?” the voice is soft, familiar, but not so soft it doesn’t wake her, and not so familiar that it doesn’t cause her heart to race just a bit faster. She blinks twice, until her vision clears and Cassian’s figure can be seen in the doorway.
But what doorway? She’d been aboard the transport ship, with the Pathfinders. Cassian was supposed to be light years away…
And yet, he’s here. And she’s in a real bed, not a transport’s cot. Not that it matters, since she’s hooked up to some sort of medical monitor, so she can’t even enjoy the rare luxury of a comfy mattress and warm blankets. She tries to raise her hand in a greeting, only for a sudden, sharp, pinch to cut into her side. Right. Her ribs. And her wrist. And her… femur? Was that the other broken bone? She can’t remember. That’s what bacta’s for. A bit of bacta, a splash of some antiseptic, she’ll be good as new and ready to get back out there.
Except, where’s… out there?
And where’s here?
And why in all hells is Cassian Andor here?
Not just here, but here, not in his uniform, not dressed like the General she knows he is (even if he hates the rank), not with all the weight of the Rebel Intelligence missions pulling down his shoulders, but here, in plainclothes, looking at her much in the same way he had that day on Yavin IV, when their two paths had become inseparably intertwined. Before they’d left for Scarif. Before they’d kissed in an elevator, sure of their impending death. Before they’d survived, and before they’d clearly decided to never speak of that kiss again.
Carefully, he walks toward her. There’s a chair by the side of the bed, Jyn realizes now, as if someone had sat by her bedside. And there’s a coat draped over the back of the chair--an Alliance uniform coat, with the markings of a General.
And there’s shadows under Cassian’s eyes that suggest he’s not slept in a while. His tousled hair, too, is far more unruly than she’s used to seeing it, when their paths cross in hallways or briefing rooms.
“What, they’ve got you promoted to nursemaid now?” Jyn’s tone is sharp, because nothing else she’s feeling is. Instead, her emotions have left her rendered something like a large pile of mush, completely melted by the warm idea of Cassian Andor keeping her company as she’d slept.
“Something like that,” he replies, easing into the chair.
“Hell of a promotion then.”
“Mm,” he nods, just once, before carefully reaching out toward her. His thumb curves along her cheek, as he studies her face. “You certainly don’t do things in half measures.” Carefully, he skims a finger just under where the shrapnel had cut her cheek, but his touch is so light it brings no pain at all.
“Never have,” she agrees. “What would be the point of that?”
“It might help you stay alive a little longer.”
“I seem to be doing just fine now,” she tries to summon courage she hadn’t felt when she’d heard that concussive blast go off. When the world had spun and she’d hit the ground hard enough to shatter bone. When she’d thought her time had come, all without ever giving her a chance to tell Cassian how much that kiss had meant to her, and how much she’d like to share another one again, sometime.
“So you are,” he agrees in the gentle placating voice usually reserved for parents of small children. “All the same, we should get you patched up.”
“We?” she asks. Is this a hospital? Had they dropped her here because Cassian was also a patient?
“Well, me. I don’t think Kaytu will help you much on your recovery.”
“He’s here too?”
He tilts his head, suddenly surprised, which in turn surprises Jyn. Cassian says, “of course. We’re in our post-mission safehouse.”
“Your… safehouse?” she’d heard the term, knew he’d needed somewhere to wait in the days between leaving his false identity and returning to base.
He nods, again. All of his movements are always so precise. He never does a single thing he’s not thought ahead about, Jyn’s come to realize. Whereas she acts on instinct, rushing in, Cassian calculates first, weighing each risk and reward.
“So, why am I here exactly then, General?”
Cassian just smiles. It’s only now that Jyn realizes his hand is still resting on her cheek, that his brown eyes have never left hers. Is he running a math problem even now? Sizing her up and deciding if she’s worth the trouble? And what will she do, if it turns out she’s not?
“Seriously, I don’t get it,” Jyn says, a bit of a defensive tone creeping into her voice.
“You asked for me,” the smile on his face is unlike any she’d ever seen. Playful. Kind. Happy. “Don’t you remember?”
“I’m sure I didn’t. Maybe Kes misheard me.” Even if she had said Cassian's name, (which Jyn stubbornly refuses to acknowledge there's a chance she may have) how the kark would he have known where Cassian was, anyway? It wasn't like... Jyn curses a few more times, remembering that Poe called the man Tío Cassian, and that she'd agonized over which variation of her bland uniform she should wear to the Dameron-Bey house when they'd both been invited to dinner. Cassian hadn't been able to make it, which had been good, because Jyn had ended up agreeing to wear a bright red-and-gold-accented jumpsuit Shara loaned, which hadn't exactly been her style. Then again, she's not sure how much shredded uniform, bacta patches and bandages counts for personal style in today's outfit.
“I doubt it,” Cassian replies. “And if he did, I will thank him.”
“But you--”
“Are very glad you’re safe.” Finally, he turns away from her. Without his gaze on her, Jyn feels as if she might have a chance of regaining her emotionally calm facade she’s always tried to keep around him. But her relief is short-lived, as he returns to her with a wet washcloth and a small bacta pad. Carefully, he washes the side of her face. And Jyn, though she’s never even let another member of the Rebellion help her with her jacket, lets him. Leans into the touch like a tooka cat presses against a hand.
The moment takes forever, which Jyn is glad of, and then, he readies the bacta patch. “This will only sting a little.”
“I can take it,” Jyn replies, aware of how much of her life had been spent without any access to bacta. “But if you’re gonna go through all this trouble of patching me up, then…”
A silence bubbles up between them, as Jyn debates between demanding a promise and a threat.
“Then what?” Cassian asks.
“Then I have to fix you up too.”
“I didn’t know I was broken,” he replies, but his smile fades, just a little. Because they each know they’re broken, not just physically, but in ways no bacta can heal. It’s only when she’s close to him does Jyn feel the most whole. She wants to tell him that. Maybe she can, if she's stuck here with him while her body's wounds recover. Maybe she can tell him, too, her silly daydreams for how they can heal together, when the war ends. Where they can travel, how they can pass the time when they no longer have to fight for every moment of peace.
She asks, “regardless, do we have a deal?”
“Of course.” Cassian agrees and places the bacta, all in one unified movement, so she has no time to wince or pull back from the sting, but also no time to curse the sharp prickle that presses against her cheek, nor time to pondering just what Cassian’s smile means.
Jyn flops back onto the pillows, sucking in a breath as the healing gel begins to work. “I didn’t mean to ask for you.”
“I figured as much.”
“But,” Jyn turns her head to look at him, and this time, she’s the one smiling, the one reaching out her non-wounded hand, to touch him. “I guess I can be glad I did.”
“I am,” Cassian replies. He catches her hand with both of his, holding her tight. He’s warm, as warm as he’d been when they’d pressed close in the elevator. But he’s happy here, in a way he hadn’t been on Scarif. He’s… hopeful, Jyn realizes. Hopeful for something more than just the Rebellion’s own success. Because if that’s all he’d thought of, then he wouldn’t have waited by her bedside for all of her recovery time. “How long was I out?” she asks.
“A few days.”
“And how much longer am I staying here?” Jyn wishes she could ask, how long will you stay with me?
“We’re staying until you’re better,” Cassian says, his jaw setting. There’s no chance he means any we but the two of them, not when he’s looking at her like that, and he’s still holding her hand.
“Gonna need this back,” she says, sliding away from him, even if the motion makes her ribs cry out. “Gotta fix you too, like I said.”
“Promoted to a nursemaid?” he echoes her tease, but she just laughs.
“Come closer.”
He does, moving from the chair to the side of the bed. Carefully, though still perhaps recklessly (based on Cassian’s sharp inhale and round of muttered Festian curses) she sits upright. Then, her fingers brush through his hair. The locks are thick, nearly all straight, with only the faintest bit of curl. The scent of standard-issue shampoo blots out any of the chemical traces of bacta, and the way he’s blushing makes her feel as if the ringing in her ears has returned with a vengeance. All the same, she keeps working, adjusting with one hand, until his hair matches the formality of the rest of his outfit. “There,” she murmurs. “All fixed.”
“I didn’t know it was only a hairstyle I needed,” Cassian replies. His words might be matter of fact, but the way he’s sitting, the tone he’s using, suggest anything but calm, rational, thoughts from him.
So Jyn decides, much as she had in that split second she’d tried to avoid the concussive missile, to dive right in. “Well, that’s one thing.”
“What’s the other?”
“A good kiss,” Jyn blurts out. Someone else had said the phrase,a year or so ago, she'd heard the voices echo in the halls of Echo Base. It had gotten stuck in her head, that idea that a single kiss could fix things between them. Not that anything was broken, she stubbornly reminds herself. Just different. Different, perhaps, than either of them had ever planned. Maybe in his calculations, he'd assumed she'd remain involved with espionage. Maybe he'd assumed both of them would need far longer to heal after Scarif. Maybe... well. It doesn't matter. What's said is said. If he laughs, if he walks away… she’ll blame the bacta. She has to. Because she can’t let anything ruin their friendship, their bond, even if she desperately wants that same bond to expand to include more than what they have now. Even if she thinks that a kiss might heal her, not the wounds one can see, but the wounds inside, the aching heart and tired soul.
“A kiss,” Cassian echoes once more. “I see.” He rubs his chin. “Will this do?”
She can scarcely believe what occurs next, as Cassian Andor carefully lowers his head, to meet her where she is. Their lips touch, only for the shortest of seconds. She lets out a small, frustrated sigh, then immediately feels rather silly. He’d kissed her. Again. If joy could heal wounds, she’d be able to leap within seconds.
But of course, it doesn’t, and her ribs still ache, so she can do little but smile at him. The kiss is healing her, she can feel it. Not her broken bones, no, but it fills in that ache which has left her so hollow for so long. The bones and bruises, those have always mended on their own. But to fix a heart, it often takes more than just one person. “Almost,” she murmurs, teasing him.
“Then I’ll have to try again,” Cassian replies. It hits her, then, suddenly, like a blaster bolt. All of this; the waiting, the care for her wounds, the kiss. It’s everything she wanted, and everything he had clearly wanted as well, but waited for just the right time. Had her muttered words before passing out been the catalyst to all of this? Did she need to thank Kes? Cassian kisses her above the bacta patch on her cheek next, lips as gentle as fresh-fallen snow. “And again.”
“Until you’re better,” she tells him with a great deal of finality, right before she pulls him down with her injured hand for another, considerably deeper kiss. Her good arm slides over his shoulders, and both of his carefully scoop her up, holding her close. Warmth spreads over her, from her toes up, until she feels as if every wound, every scar, she'd ever had, is now healed. And if they're not, if she wakes tomorrow, still hurting, then she will wake with the certainty he will be beside her, and together, they will keep healing as the days pass.