Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day Saw Gerrera dumps Jyn Erso with the Rebel Alliance is the day Cassian’s life changes forever.

He’s marching across the hangar, readying himself for an unpleasant debrief for a mission that’d gone horribly wrong, and wondering just how many kills he should mention in his report, when a large hand burns through his uniform at his shoulder, grabbing him mercilessly and twirling him around.

Cassian, his hand already on his blaster at his leg, looks up at the most impressive armour that he’s ever seen, and then up, up and up, until he finds the face of a bald, black human warrior, whose eyes are like lightning rooting him in place.

He recognises Saw Gerrera instantly from his dossier.

“You—“ Cassian begins, mind running a thousand miles an hour as he tries to catch up to the events unfolding right in front of him—unprecedented and unwelcome.

But the former council member cuts him off. “You’ll do,” he says in a voice far more quiet and far more throaty than Cassian had expected. “Show us to Mon Mothma’s office. Intelligence.”

The last is probably meant to be a manner of address, but he lifts his lip in a dismissive sneer, and turns his eyes to his companion as he says it, and Cassian—

Cassian hasn’t felt like a child in a long time. It weighs in his bones, the exhaustion of war, the inexperience he constantly battles with, the decisions he’s had to make, and there’s no time for him to feel young, to feel like he’s only lived twenty-one cycles. But his eyes travel to Saw’s companion, and suddenly he remembers what they all are.

Children.

Child soldiers.

The girl is tiny. Even without Saw positively dwarfing her, she’s short. Her dark hair falls from her forehead to frame her face and hide her round human ears, and her bright green eyes stare straight ahead with the kind of fierce dismissal and lively calculated study of someone who knows more battle than peace.

And then something odd happens. Sparks begin to swirl around her, like dust from a broken star. It falls from her back in showers of gold, and dances in her eyes, when she looks up to meet his gaze.

Their eyes lock.

And Cassian feels as if the moon under his feet falls away and he’s standing in open space, darkness closing in and that stardust dancing all around him. His field of gravity re-aligning.

He blinks, banishing the illusion. And turns around with a curt “follow me”, glad that his long legs allow him to run away from Saw and his protege, without it seeming that way.

Mon Mothma isn’t someone you easily disturb, and it takes some rhetorical wiggling to get her bodyguards to let an intelligence captain with no prior appointment and Saw Gerrera through, but Cassian manages it before it comes to blows.

It probably helps he’s so intently focused on not looking back, not thinking about the girl dressed in starlight behind him, who seems to draw all the reflective light of Yavin Prime to her and into his world.

He’s never seen it before, but he sees it reflected in their eyes now, the madness of a man running from his soulmate.

“Come in,” comes the serene voice of the Chancellor.

Finally.

“Please excuse me,” he says, standing at attention in the door and speaking hurriedly. He winces at the unexpected news about to fall from his lips, but soldiers on anyway. “Saw Gerrera is requesting an audience.”

“Show him in, Captain Andor.”

“Gladly,” Cassian says, beginning to step away, to fall back into the shadows and keeping his eyes so they stray over top of the girl’s head.

She scoffs at him, rolling her eyes, and Cassian almost smiles, because he can tell she isn’t in the least interested in their bond either, and he’s almost free, almost able to turn back around, to flee, and—

“Captain Andor.” The serene voice from inside the office halts him. “Please remain.”

Cassian knows his face falls, only because the girl with stardust in her eyes turns her face away and hides her laugh behind her hand.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

He follows Saw and the girl through the door, now victim to the full display of the Force playing tricks on him, and resigns himself to getting involved.

“Welcome back, Cassian,” Mothma starts, her calm eyes on his face. “I trust your mission was fruitful?”

Cassian presses his lips together and ignores the other two. “That’s up to the General to determine,” he responds politely, placing his back against the door, as casual as he can. “And the Council, of course.”

She nods and turns her attention from him to Saw, greeting him with political warmth. “What a surprise to see you here,” she says mildly, diplomatically. “I thought there was no way for us to mend our bridges.”

Now it’s Cassian’s turn to turn his face and hide a laugh. He’d been there, the day Saw had stormed out, had seen the man from a distance, and heard the rumours of his break with the Alliance.

When he glances back, the girl is shooting daggers at him with eyes so green, he can see their fierce colour even in the dim lighting of Mothma’s office.

“I am not here today to mend bridges,” comes the equally mild response from Gerrera. “You still insist on your peaceful tactics, knowing full well that they do nothing to harm the Empire, to push our cause, and I still see no reason to align with such a pathetic attempt. However…”

He pauses, glancing down at the girl.

“Today,” he says, sighing. “I am here on a personal errand. To ask for a favour.”

That catches the attention of all of them. Even the girl at his side looks up in astonishment.

“This,” Saw continues, undisturbed by their emotions as only an army commander can be. He places a hand on the small of the girl’s back and pushes her forward. “Is my adoptive daughter. Jyn Erso.”

Maybe Cassian would’ve paused on the warmth in the word daughter, if what had come after had not been so jarring.

Erso.

The name of a high imperial does not easily penetrate the walls of the alliance base, and only ever in whispered conversations between Draven and his assassination squad.

And Cassian knows instantly what Saw’s game is, before he even voices the intent that comes next.

“She’s been in my charge since she was six,” he says. “When her father rejoined the Empire.”

Ten years ago, Cassian’s brain supplies. So she’s sixteen. Five years his junior.

He studies her. The downward turn of her mouth. The disapproval radiating off her expression, her posture. As if she’s taken a blow she hadn’t expected, and is steeling herself for the next.

She’s tiny, so young—too young—but she holds herself like a soldier.

There is nothing imperial about her, wild and fierce like a mandalorian foundling, like a separatist child who has only ever known war and oppression. All the softness had been washed out of her, save for the turn of her cheek against her high bones, the wide bend to her eyes, and the developing angel bow. All the softness that remains is of the childhood she has yet to shed entirely.

She looks like the kind impatient to be rid of it.

“His name is beginning to ring in the empire again,” Saw continues, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the chancellor’s office. “He’s been dormant for a decade, focusing, I’m sure, on what is to come. But I’ve heard whispers of Galen Erso’s activities even in the Outer Rim, and it is unsafe—“

He stops himself, but he doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

The words potential hostage echo in the silence.

Saw is merciless, is militant and extremist, even by Cassian’s standards. He can only imagine what the Partisans would use one of their own for, if it became apparent that she were the daughter of a high ranking imperial.

It wouldn’t matter how she got hurt if it hurt the other side. The cause would overshadow it.

Even to Cassian, a dozen plans of that nature emerges at the mere intrusion of this new bit of information into his life.

But the starlight around her has already dimmed, one spec going out at a time, as she takes a subtle step back from Saw, as realisation dawns on her. Why they’re there. And Cassian sees something grow beyond the constellations in her eyes.

Fear.

Fear that is growing from attachment. And a need that draws him in.

So he looks away.

Looks to Mothma and sees what he had expected in her eyes, what he knows Saw had been aiming for.

Compassion.

It’s a threat to Alliance security, Draven would say. But it’s also why Cassian likes her.

“The Alliance isn’t safe either,” she says. “But we are a great enough force to hide a single person.”

Cassian closes his eyes at the offer she makes, waits for the ball to drop, and—

“No.”

He opens his eyes at the quiet voice of denial, the first time he has ever heard Jyn Erso speak.

“No, I don’t want to,” she says, shaking her head wildly, her voice trembling but louder. Fiercer with the conviction settling in. “You can’t just leave me here.”

“Child,” Saw says, and there’s no mercy in his kindness as he grasps her hand. “It was this or leaving you in a bunker with a blaster and no answers. You are at risk, you are a risk, and I made a promise to your mother.”

“But…” Jyn stares up at him, thoughts stalling, shock setting in. She looks around like a trapped animal but her eyes never catch on anything. When she speaks again, she’s hissing. “But you said they’re — that the Alliance is—“

When Saw doesn’t answer, doesn’t supply the insults he must usually throw at the Alliance, she straightens where she stands, the type of person who knows when she has no other choice but to stand on her own, and turns to flee the room.

Only to come face to face with Cassian, still leaning against the door.

And he sees it, the moment she recognises him, the moment desperation gives way to rage. The fire that bursts from her soul is one he feels, scalding against his skin.

He keeps his face neutral as he turns to Mothma for orders.

“Jyn,” Mothma says. “You are free to leave at any point you wish. Captain Andor has to be debriefed, but after that I’m sure he’ll be willing to shuttle you wherever you wish to go.”

More stars go out. Jyn opens and closes her mouth, as if trying to find her voice, trying to protest.

She whirls on Saw.

“I don’t want—“

He sighs. “No, child,” he says simply. “But you will have to define your wants without the Partisans from now on.”

“I want to keep fighting!”

“There is fighting to be done in the Alliance, too.”

Cassian doesn’t mean to speak. He hadn’t meant to engage with her more than absolutely necessary. But when he does, it feels natural, and his voice comes out quiet, gentle—the way he speaks when he wants the trust of his mark.

Jyn narrows her eyes at him. “It won’t be the same,” she sneers. “You don’t do enough.”

I know, he wants to say, but can’t. But it’ll never be enough.

Instead he smiles, and hides the hands he’d scrubbed clean of blood in the crooks of his elbows.

“Maybe you will have a better chance at changing them than I did,” Saw says.

Jyn shakes her head, and another star dies.

The need in her eyes is growing, the attachment she had forged shattering between her ribs.

“Follow me, Intelligence,” Saw says. “I assume you can’t let me return to my ship on my own.”

“That seems unwise,” Cassian agrees, stepping aside.

“I’m leaving her in your hands, Chancellor,” Saw says without looking back. When he speaks next he keeps his tone the same, but his eyes meet Cassian’s. “She’s my best and brightest. Don’t let her fade.”

“No.”

Saw steps out into the light of the hall. “Goodbye, Jyn.”

“Wait!”

The door closes behind them before she can reach them, and Saw doesn’t look back.

Only Cassian does.

Only Cassian sees the moment the last star dies.

Jyn is a hostage.

Jyn has been a hostage her entire life.

Saw had told her. Saw had told her of her life and her upbringing, the things she would not otherwise have known. He had told her how she’d been born in separatist captivity, and how the empire had saved her family, only to use her and her mother against her father.

For four years.

Until they had escaped, had lived in peace for two years. Hidden. Imprisoned on Lah’mu, in a farming complex that had felt as close to home as anything ever would.

What Saw hadn’t told her was that she had been a hostage to him as well. A prisoner with the illusion of rights. A person he would discard when she was no longer useful, when he could no longer bother lying to her.

And give to other people.

Jyn is a hostage.

And she has never had a choice in her captor.

The woman in front of her, Mon Mothma, kneels with all the grace and elegance of a goddess.

“Here,” she says, pressing something warm into Jyn’s hands.

Jyn looks down at the mug. It’s chipped, and the liquid inside is a murky green.

“Tea,” the woman explains in the gentle, patient voice of a mother. “It’s not much, but the machine I use is reliable. It’ll warm you up.”

There’s a smile on her face, of quiet self-deprecating humour, and for the first time since Saw had left, since Jyn had lost the strength to stand, she finds the strength to turn her eyes up.

The little kettle is situated on a pile of files in the corner, looking like it’s been the victim of at least two office bombings and the rage of an offended bruiser. But when Jyn lifts the warm tea to her lips, the taste isn’t bad.

She drinks, and feels some of the heat returning to her limbs.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice trembling and lost.

She can’t look up to meet the eyes of the woman in front of her, so serene and composed.

Everything she’s learnt to despise.

“How are you feeling?” Mothma asks her, settling down on the floor across from Jyn. She crosses her legs, uncaring of the wrinkles and dirt her actions have brought her pristine white robes.

And maybe that’s what enables Jyn to lift her head to meet the eyes of the other woman. So human.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly, helplessly.

Mon Mothma nods and smiles with kind understanding.

Jyn is pretty sure she’s come across a bounty on her head.

It’s an amusing distraction from the heart that is still breaking in her chest, from her world shattering apart without her control.

Saw would’ve left her in a bunker. Again, she would’ve been left in a bunker.

“I don’t know what to do,” she hears herself saying, admitting, so far away. The voice of a child.

There’s a darkness creeping in in her periphery, one she knows she won’t be able to escape. It’ll grasp her and drag her back into the cave, into her parents’ makeshift bunker and she will be consumed by it, strangled, and never find the strength to return to the surface.

“You don’t have to know,” Mothma tells her, drawing her attention back on her, on the pristine white. Drawing her back to the real world. “Many here are lost, and we have a space for everyone. When you find your way again, and if it leads away from us, we will do everything in our power to help you on your way and see you off with a smile.

“But until then, why not stay? You said you wanted to fight.”

And it’s warm.

It’s an impossible offer, one that brings a little more light back into world, pushes the shadows back.

They are pathetic, Saw had said. They are too kind and too gullible, and they still play the Coruscant games.

But Jyn looks at the woman across from her, the woman whose kindness and integrity is so pristine that not even dirt from the floor could bother her, and thinks that at last Mon Mothma seems like the kind of person who would never abandon someone, if it were in her power to keep them.

“I don’t think my particular set of skills will suit your game here,” Jyn says, smiling wryly.

Mothma’s expression brightens softly with relief in response. “We’ll see about that,” she says. “Most people who join us are soldiers, deserters, or warriors from the front line with no real allegiance left. They all have their own unique set of skills and experiences, and we do our best to help them thrive. The skills you don’t have yet we will supply to the best of our abilities—or we will set you up with a partner who complements you.”

Jyn stares up at the woman, at the person who had taken over her leash, still not entirely capable of comprehending how easily she had encouraged trust.

But thanks to Mothma, the world shines a little brighter again, and she can breathe a little easier again.

Saw’s betrayal still aches in her every muscle, and Jyn is still angry, still stuck with panic and darkness at the edge of her mind. But maybe… maybe she can cling to the skirts of this woman until she has found the strength to return and punch the old man for dumping her.

Far away she hears a knock on the door, and Mothma’s response is equally as distant.

But as it slides open, a chill runs up Jyn’s spine, and the presence that fills the room is enough to break apart her thoughts.

She straightens her back, as if to protect herself from open space, and keeps her eyes on Mon Mothma’s face.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

The other woman smiles, her face brightening truly. “Wonderful,” she says, like a queen of olde, elegant and beautiful and genuinely happy to have Jyn on board.

She climbs to her feet, her white robes cascading elegantly around her like a waterfall, and offers Jyn a hand up as well.

“You’ll be in my charge until you figure out what you want to do,” she says, looking Jyn up and down. “You don’t seem like a pilot.”

Jyn shakes her head. “I’m a sniper, and a fighter,” she says, pushing her shoulders back proudly. “I can hold my own in the field, and I know how to infiltrate a base. I’m also a more than decent hacker.”

Mothma nods. “For now that means you won’t stand out too much by joining my protective detail,” she says. “And Captain Andor can help me test the rest of your abilities in due time. I’ll be very interested to see the results.”

Jyn looks back at the man in the door, at Cassian Andor, ignoring the way space seems to open around him. He’s thin and scruffy, looks like he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. Tall, but not imposing.

She could take him easily.

Dark eyes catch hers, and he raises his eyebrows. Meeting her challenge.

If she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked relieved.

“As you wish,” he simply says in response to Mon Mothma’s request.

She nods, and as she moves out of Jyn’s field of vision to press a comm on her desk, Jyn takes her time to properly study him.

She’d dismissed him at first. An Alliance Spy with a blank face, she didn’t need to show interest in. She thought she’d been leaving immediately, thought she would never have to see him again. Their paths crossing once and that’d be it.

But now Jyn has to live in the same base as him, communicate with him. Kick his ass upon request. And she has to be sure she can scan a room without getting caught by his field of gravity, by the tricks the Force plays on them.

Darkness opens up around Cassian Andor. Like a black hole it swirls and draws her in. But it is not a black hole. It is open space. Stars, cold and far away, orbit slowly around him, their gentle light brushing through his hair like a lover’s caress. And part of her thinks it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, the void of space within easy reach.

The other part finds it terrifying.

So she focuses on his face, and forces herself to dismiss the rest.

“Oh, and Captain Andor,” Mon Mothma says, the comm light dying under her fingers. “I don’t think I need to ask this of an intelligence officer, but I trust that Jyn’s family name will not leave this room. For now, she will just have to remain Jyn.”

Dark eyes move from Jyn to Mothma, and Cassian nods. “Of course. My lips are sealed.”

“Not a word to General Draven about this either,” Mothma continues. “I would like to trust your superior officer, but he has a habit of going his own way if he believes it is for the best.”

Jyn keeps her face neutral, but she sees the way Cassian hesitates, the way his eyes turn back to read her at the reveal of the crack in Alliance security.

She raises her eyebrows at him, mimicking his earlier challenge.

And he closes his eyes.

“Of course.”

Jyn is introduced to General Merrick, who, as Mothma’s right hand, takes over the  relay babysitting duty.

She watches Cassian Andor vanish in the crowd, before turning her back to him and following the general down the hall.

The blonde officer watches her with keen eyes, and she watches him, watches the way he interacts amiably with pilots and personnel of all rank—treats them with respect. It’s warm and foreign, and something she soon finds she has to get used to.

The woman in charge of uniforms gently pushes her into a ‘fresher, encouraging her to take a long hot shower, and apologising for the lack of bathhouses available (“you should’ve been sent to one of our bases in the mid rim, darling. The bathhouses on Alderaan and Tatooine are marvellous, and we have excellent contacts there!”). 

The soldiers in the mess hall eye her curiously but leave her be when they notice her glassy eyes, the quiet demeanour they recognise from new recruits that have seen too much.

And the girls in the barracks she’s appointed to gently pat her shoulder when they catch her crying during her first night.

When Jyn flinches, used to this type of weakness being exploited, they move back, but sit by her bedside until she falls asleep. Out of reach but still present.

Like nothing else she has experienced before.

Cassian Andor knows when he’s outmatched.

It is the job of an intelligence officer to avoid combat, to be able to assess a threat and step around it. It is the job or an intelligence officer to stay alive, to never be captured. It is the job of an intelligence officer to protect themselves, for they are databases of secret information that must never fall into the hands of the Empire.

So he really should know better.

He really should have the experience to look Jyn Erso up and down and judge her too much of a threat to get in the ring with her.

In other words: it is the job of an intelligence officer not to underestimate little girls just because they are short and just because they are young.

Someone snickers behind him.

He can’t blame them.

Jyn Erso is a marvel.

And he’s not just saying that because the constellations have reawoken in her eyes, because she has found a way to balance the need and the light in her gaze. He’s not just saying that because she’d bounced back well enough to stand on her own too feet within a couple of days at Base One.

No. Jyn Erso is a marvel as a fighter. She stretches her shoulder, and swings her arms back, well-trained muscles on full display in the dark blue tank-top she’s wearing. And she grins without warmth, without real joy.

Mercy is not a gift she hands over willingly.

And he could stop here. He could give a decent assessment of her skills to Draven and Merrick and Mon Mothma by now. It would save him more bruises and possibly a dislocated shoulder.

But standing here, facing this force of nature, burns something through him. Like the thrill of jumping to light speed from atmo for the first time. Like outsmarting an imperial officer. Like watching a plan go awry and having to think fast. And yet, it’s so much more powerful, so much more overwhelming and addicting, and Cassian—

Cassian thinks he would love to watch her take down a squadron of ‘troopers singlehandedly. Watch her twirl and dance, and defeat her enemy with the ease of a vengeful goddess. Because Cassian doesn’t doubt her ability to do just that.

Cassian thinks that maybe only a Jedi could truly get in her way, powerful as only a myth, a boogieman, can be.

But he doesn’t have a Jedi at his disposal. And he doesn’t have a squadron of stormtroopers to test her skills.

So he offers himself up instead, to the vast amusement of the people around them, and— he thinks, has a feeling, with some usefulness to a teenager full of rage and grief at her own abandonment.

Cassian isn’t the self-sacrificial type—he wouldn’t have survived in Rebel Intelligence if he were—but he finds he doesn’t mind taking a beating from Jyn Erso.

Maybe it’s just the Force playing tricks on him.

“What’s wrong, Captain?” Jyn asks, her soft voice drawing him back, out of his thoughts. “Tired?”

There’s a tiny tug, a smirk hiding in the corner of her lips, and they both know it: He’s horribly outmatched.

Well, anything is a learning experience, Cassian reminds himself, dropping his uniform jacket in Melshi’s face and ignoring the wolf-whistles from the people gathered to watch him humiliate himself.

“Not at all,” he lies softly, as he moves in, circling closer, and doing his best not to grin when she mirrors his movements. “But thank you for the concern.”

Her eyes flick to the sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to his chest, and then back again. “Who says I was concerned?” She retorts, and this time she doesn’t hide the smugness.

If Cassian had been paying attention to anything but Jyn, he might’ve noticed the money changing hands, the bets being placed. But as it is, he keeps his eyes on the girl about to land his ass in the dirt, and it’s a little too easy to forget the world around him.

Jyn doesn’t have a tell. She doesn’t give him warning before she starts. She simply flows forwards, her eyes intent on her victim, and swings. Cassian lifts an arm to block, and, having learnt from her earlier patterns, tilts his torso to the side.

Her wrist whistles just past his chin, the force of the blow making his hair fly up.

A single star settles on his nose, and for a moment it’s all Cassian sees, distracted by its glow.

Which means he isn’t prepared when the opening she left becomes his weakness, and she grabs his arm, sticks out her foot to catch his, and unbalances him.

Cassian twists in the air, letting himself fall, and uses the momentum to roll out of the way, out of any immediate danger.

But as he twirls, lifting his guard, Jyn is already in his face again, and this time he doesn’t have the time to block or side-step. This time he takes the punch square across the jaw, so he sees a while different type of stars.

Cassian stumbles back, wincing and rubbing his jaw.

When he finds her, framed by the crowd, he sees the misplaced anger there, the frustration that he isn’t fighting back hard enough. Her green eyes blaze with it. And Cassian determines to do his best to answer her, to put up a proper fight.

So when she comes at him again, he doesn’t let the stardust distract him, doesn’t let his softness get in his way. He side-steps one blow, and blocks another, and slides his foot out, forcing her to stumble back or be tipped entirely.

A vicious grin catches in the corner of her lips, teeth flashing, and it sends a lick of fire through him.

That’s better.

But Jyn doesn’t step back, she pivots, orbiting around him, and because their hands are still joined, drags him with her, after her.

She presses his elbow to his back in an arresting hold, and for just a second he finds her torso following, her winded breath a caress on the back of his neck.

“You’re terrible at this,” she murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

But there is laughter in her voice, too.

Stars float forward with the force of her momentum, and suddenly they’re surrounded by glowing constellations, a galaxy of light and warmth. Beautiful and breathtaking. And Cassian knows he’s lost before he’s even really gotten started.

So he looks back over his shoulder at the girl pressed so close to his back. “It’s a good thing you excel, then,” he retorts, and watches as her eyes widen and the anger drains out of her.

Embarrassment colours her cheeks, and she harrumphs before digging her heel into the small of his back mercilessly, so he topples forwards to his knees.

Cassian doesn’t watch her stomp off, he can hear it in the way the crowd jumps aside for her.

K2SO is vastly unimpressed with him when he finds Cassian still nursing the bruise to his jaw moments later.

“You just received a new assignment from General Draven,” the droid is saying. “But I recommend hyou and it over to someone else.”

Cassian takes his time to brush the sweat from his face, running the old, misused rag of a towel up to his forehead, and narrowing his eyes at the droid. “And why is that?”

Around him the exercise hall has resumed its usual activity. After his and Jyn’s assessment spectacle, the rings have been taken back over by younger recruits and their trainers, gloves in place as regulation dictates. And the adults have returned to their own tasks, their weights and their running machines.

Cassian sits apart from it all, watching as he always does, and thinks.

“The bruise makes you thirty-nine percent more noticeable,” comes K2’s response. “And your focus has been atrocious for days. Perhaps your failure on your last mission has left you distracted and you need a break to recuperate.”

“We came back with more than was asked of us,” Cassian reminds the droid irritably.

“General Draven may have deemed it a success,” K2 chides, repeating Cassian’s own thoughts. “But you made too many mistakes, that you are statistically likely to blame yourself, for before reaching that result.”

Cassian drops the towel to his lap, and opens his mouth to set the droid straight, but before he can do so, something cold touches his chin.

He flinches away from it, his reflectively touching air at his thigh.

But his blaster is in his locker, and the weapon wielded against him is nothing but a water bottle, damp with perspiration.

Cassian tilts his torso, and finds Jyn, leaning with a hand on the back of his chair. The strands that’d fallen out of her bun have been re-tied, and a drop of sweat slides down the column of her throat to hide in a uniform jacket she’d thrown over herself to stay warm.

“So you’re a terrible spy, too,” she concludes, but there’s a mildness to the way she watches him, to her tone, that makes Cassian wonder if she’s teasing him.

“That’s up for debate,” Cassian grumbles, taking the water bottle she offers him, without thanks.

He has a feeling it’s a silent peace offering, an apology, and he isn’t going to spoil it with words of gratitude.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t sigh with relief when he presses the cool plastic against his swollen chin, though. He closes his eyes in silent bliss, and listens for her choice.

Jyn sits down beside him in an empty chair.

“Who are you?” K2 demands, suspicion a natural part of his expression.

“I’m Jyn. I’m the one who hit your master.”

Cassian can hear K2’s circuits spinning from where he sits. The droid isn’t going to like this.

“I was assigned to asses her abilities in hand to hand combat by Mon Mothma,” he explains simply.

He lifts his head and gives the droid a warning look, not to resort to violence, and K2 narrows his ghostly eyes in return.

“That is hardly going to be a fair assessment,” the droid finally decides. “Your skills in hand to hand combat, are sub-part at best, and barely enable you to survive at worst.”

“Thanks,” Cassian mutters dryly, as Jyn snickers at his side.

“So,” she says, leaning forwards in her chair, her fingers clasping the edge so she won’t overbalance as she tilts her head and looks at him. “How did I do?”

Her eyes are dancing with cheerful pride, and he wonders just how he’s going to praise her when she’s already this smug.

“Over-enthusiastic,” he says, poking her forehead with one finger and pushing her back. “No sense of hesitation and overly aggressive. Most likely reckless when seeing actual action. Likely to be the source of stress to any senior officer in charge of you.”

He smirks at the last bit of criticism, and the girl at his side blows out her cheeks, recognising that he’s retaliating on her earlier bullying.

Cute.

Cassian tries to remind himself she could snap him like a twig, but somehow the two qualities go perfectly hand in hand.

“As K2 says, I most likely won’t be here to do the assessment for the rest of your skillset,” he says. “But given you didn’t under- or oversell yourself, and given Saw Gerrera called you his best, you’re sure to get a decent list of recommendations for positions you’d be suitable for, so you can make your own choice.”

He pushes the idea away that she’d be suitable for intelligence—violently.

Attachments are a liability in intelligence. As is distraction. He can already hear Draven nagging him to refocus, to get his mind out of the gutter and focus on the cause. And Cassian finds he’s almost grateful for the fact that he has a mission to turn his mind to.

He needs distance.

(Besides, a selfless part of him doesn’t want to see her working for Draven, doesn’t want to see her with the blood under her nails. There is nothing pure about Jyn, and he knows she’s seen combat, knows she’s killed, but Rebel Intelligence forces you down a path where morality is left behind and any excuse to end a life is a good excuse. And Cassian doesn’t think she needs that burden).

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, looking straight ahead. “It’s an infiltration mission, so you’ll have to find someone else to beat up for a couple months.”

“I didn’t hit you that hard,” Jyn complains. And then sighs. “Well, I’ll at least stick around until you get back, I think. I’ve had enough of goodbyes for now.”

And it softens something in him, like the touch of warmth and starlight he doesn’t feel too often, a string just ought of sight tugging him back to her.

“Welcome aboard, Jyn,” he says, with a voice full of warmth, and ruffles her hair.

She complains and batters his hand away, but there’s another smile stuck in the corner of her lips, and another star has resurrected itself to glow by her cheeks.

Chapter Text

Jyn spends her first year with the Alliance trailing after Mon Mothma as her personal security.

At first she’d wondered if this would be a good idea, if dividing her time between Base One, Hanna City and Coruscant wouldn’t leave her bored and exasperated. She’s heard enough of the latter two, and remembers enough of her life in Coruscant, to know that the snooty high-society political cultures will make her fall asleep at best and punch an old man’s face in at worst.

But Mothma and Merrick and the others treat her with the kind of openhearted welcoming that makes her feel as if she’s part of an organisation that treat each other like family, and she learns more, learns new things that she had never thought about or considered before.

She sees part of the galaxy Saw would never have touched foot on without a bomb in his hands. She learns how to behave, how to dress, how to speak in new social circles—waging a different kind of battle necessary to keep the Alliance safe.

And besides all that, being the personal guard to one of the Senators on the Emperor’s personal hit list means she sees more action than she had originally bargained for.

Within the months that pass, Jyn loses count of the times she’s had to negotiate with a digital locking mechanism, help steal a shuttle, or shoot a would-be assassin climbing through a window. She builds new habits under Mon Mothma’s watchful eye, but she also retains her old ones, her mercilessness, her cat-like instinct for trouble, and her reckless creativity when under fire.

Mon Mothma spends their free evenings, and hours aboard their shuttles when there’s nothing but deep space surrounding them, teaching her history and rhetorics and languages that will be useful to her wherever she goes. It reminds Jyn of her own mother.

“What’s this?” Jyn finds herself asking, flipping a dusty tome open on a coffee table one evening in Hanna City.

The Chancellor of the Rebel Alliance looks up from where she’s going through early drafts for demilitarisation law proposals. Her glasses catch the golden light of a thousand small orbs.

“Oh, just some light reading,” Mothma says, gesturing at the pile of heavy books Jyn had nicked her new treasure from. “I have a friend who was able to …borrow some tomes from the Jedi library in Coruscant before it burnt down.”

“You mean,” Jyn says, propping her elbow up to lie more comfortably on the couch before settling in to read. “Before it was burnt down.”

She doesn’t get a response for that.

Jyn doesn’t remember her mother much, but she knows this. There had been a purge and many Jedi had lain down their weapons and gone into hiding. Some had fought on the Rebellion’s side. Some had been captured and killed. Some had formed families in order to misdirect, disobeying the Jedi Code in the most goodhearted manner possible by forming attachments and vanishing off the Empire’s radar that way.

Jyn doesn’t remember her Mother much but she remembers this. A hand on her cheek, things moving across the kitchen counter seemingly of their own free will; a woman dancing with light during the summer solstice. The burn of a Kyber crystal against her chest as she watches Lyra fall.

Trust the Force.

Her mother may have abandoned the path, but Jyn knows Lyra never gave up fighting.

“Why this topic, though?” She asks, to distract herself, and gestures to the books on the table. A dissertation on Force bonds. Festian myths of the twin soul. Outer Rim partnership rituals. “The idea we have a person we’re attached to by the Force seems to counter what the Jedi were taught.”

“The books determine it to be not a marriage of souls, or an attachment, but a balancing act,” Mon Mothma explains, getting up from her seat to join Jyn on the choice, sitting with easy elegance by Jyn’s feet. She pulls the Festian book to her and flips though the pages carefully. “To the Jedi the rebalancing of the Force was everything, and so the idea of a soulmate had nothing to do with sex or monopoly, but was viewed as two people chosen to see each other for who they were and work to bring balance through their shared journey.”

Jyn hums in thought and turns on her back, abandoning the book. “Is that why only those Sensitive to the Force can see the souls of their partner?”

She gets a raised eyebrow for that, and gestures to the book she’d just flipped through in answer.

“Ah,” Mothma murmurs. “Yes, I suppose that must be the case.”

Beside her, Jyn lifts her hand and imagines she sees one of the lamps above her move slightly.

For a moment it winks out, like the rest of the lamps, and Jyn imagines space within easy reach, beautiful and dark, a calm serenity of mind that draws her in always.

She doesn’t let her mind wander to Cassian Andor too often, when she’s off world from Yavin 4. His constant missions and her duties to Mon Mothma means that even when they’re likely to be in the same place, they most often aren’t—and if they are they’re across each other during a council meeting, him relaying information to the council and her yawning subtly behind Mothma’s back, waiting to get as far away from Draven as she possibly can.

Jyn can count the conversations she’s had with him in the year she’d known him on two hands.

It doesn’t make her lonely, not really, but it makes her sceptical of the way the Jedi see things. It seems naive, idealistic, especially in a universe as vast as theirs.

But she glances at the book from Fest and she thinks about a different time, a similar fight. And maybe she feels a little bit of protective resentment towards a people that would’ve been her natural enemies decades earlier.

“There are no Jedi anymore,” she says quietly.

“No,” Mothma agrees. “There are not.”

Jyn sits up and stares into open space. “So we shouldn’t let their laws define us anymore.”

History aside, it’s not that Jyn thinks little of the Force. How could she when so much of the knowledge has been lost?

She knows there is more to the universe than the Jedi strictness her mother followed, that it is so much more wild and chaotic and unsympathetic than the ideals she’d heard whispered to her before bed.

Jyn knows that being alive comes with a choice, that there is no path walked that doesn’t require the walker to choose to walk that path. She knows that no one but she can control her own feet, not even the Force. And so she doesn’t believe in it as fate or destiny.

Maybe all the Force truly does is ask.

“…not really my territory, that’s true,” Cassian Andor is say, responding to a different question from Mon Mothma. “But my source has connected my alias directly to their contact on Coruscant, so I can’t leave it in the hands of another.”

Jyn shuffles her feet and watches Mothma and Draven exchanging looks across the otherwise empty council table, a silent conversation going on on full display between the general and senator. Not the usual response to Cassian’s suggestions; he’s usually the model operative, to the book, and flawless in his reports.

She knows, because Mon Mothma often praises him behind his back.

Now, she glances at Cassian to gauge his response, and finds him waiting and attentive, no hurt ego on display. So it’s not a question of skill.

“You’ll need a partner for this mission,” Mothma says finally, pulling up a database on her pad. “Your experience with Coruscanti culture is too lacking to help you blend in properly, but… I don’t see any operatives with the right qualifications on base.”

“We can’t just let this information slip through our fingers,” Draven says irritably, leaning back in his chair and contemplating Cassian. “And the access will vanish in less than forty-eight hours, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Silence reigns in the empty council room as Mothma and Draven contemplate the inevitable; the potential capture of a prized operative weighed against information on weapons manufacturing hidden from the senate.

Open space swirls before her, beautiful and desolate, a marvel within easy reach. It plays in Cassian’s eyes as he hears the same silent debate going on as Jyn, considers his options and how to operate alone where he’s out of his depth, waiting for two people above him to decide his fate, and knowing that what they are asking him to risk is everything.

Sometimes Jyn thinks all the Force does is ask.

And right now she doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“What if I went with him?”

The three adults in the room turn as one to look at her, incredulous as if they’d forgotten her presence. And Jyn almost smirks.

“I’m well-versed in Coruscanti culture,” she says. “I’ve been going back and forth with Mon Mothma for a year. I’m also an excellent hacker, so even if we lose the access codes there’s a decent chance I could bypass security anyway.”

“Jyn…” Mon Mothma says, her deep eyes contemplative, concerned—too attached for a leader of a revolution.

As she turns to share a look with Draven, Jyn chances a glance at Cassian and he mouthes ‘show off’ to her. She grins cheekily in reply.

It’s Draven who voices the only real protest. “You’re not Intelligence, Jyn,” he says, forced to use her given name because no one knows her family name—and especially not Davits Draven.

Jyn shrugs. “What? I can keep a secret,” she says. “And I’m perfectly capable in a fight. Unlike someone. So I’d even be able to keep your operative safe in the field.”

The general narrows his eyes at her in reproach for her cheek, but his mind is caught on another facet of the argument than her lack of discipline today. He wrestles with his wording, clearly trying to figure out how to say ‘I need the loyalty of my people more than you can give me, girl, and I don’t trust you not to be a spy from Mothma’ without sounding treasonous and failing.

“Fine,” he sighs at last. “Go get your things. Captain Andor can brief you on the way. But don’t do anything reckless.”

“What?” Cassian says, his eyes growing wide.

Jyn ignores it, her back straightening and her smile widening with glee. “Yes!”

“No, hold on—“

But she’s already sliding past him, her fingers on the door button. “Thank you, boss,” she adds just as cheekily, twirling in the door. “You won’t regret it, boss.”

Draven’s sigh is drawn out and dramatic. “At least I can trust Captain Andor to keep you out of trouble.”

“No, no,” she says, her eyes flying to Cassian’s in the dark. “You just assigned me to keep him out of trouble.”

Before any of them can protest again, she waves goodbye to Mon Mothma and presses the button the close the door behind her.

The last thing she hears is Draven lamenting “I’m already regretting it.”

Cassian watches as Jyn rummages through his duffle bag.

He hadn’t meant to sneak up on her, had been fully caught up in his thoughts as he’d crossed the hangar, and spy habits being spy habits he’d been too silent to disturb her in her little mission.

Not that there’s much for her to find in there, unless she’s looking for small packages of food or extra ammunition for a blaster. He packs light and he packs impersonal, and Cassian is relieved that he does. He’s not thrilled to have her here, have her this close, and he still isn’t sure he wants her to know him.

Not that he could stop her, if she really wanted to.

He doesn’t remember much from his childhood, but he remembers the stories the elders on Fest used to tell, the songs his mother used to sing. And Cassian knows enough about the Force to know that there is nothing really, truly, splitting his and Jyn’s life.

If she wished it, and if she knew how, she could reach through his ribs to his heart and unravel everything that he is—Cassian doesn’t question that fact, has been in her company enough times to know that his mother’s songs weren’t being fanciful or unreasonable.

So he watches.

And he waits.

He counts to thirty after she’s strapped his blaster to her thigh, before opening his mouth.

“There are going to be rules,” he says, and hides his smile as she whirls on him.

Adorably, she keeps her hand hovering over blaster, doing her best to hide it.

“First of all,” Cassian says, passing her by and climbing into the stolen imperial shuttle they’re going to be using. “No impulsive actions, no reckless spur-of-the-moment plans. You run an idea by me, and I approve it before you do anything. Got it?”

He does his best to sound stern as he turns in Jyn’s direction.

She’s sitting on the edge of the ship, her posture casual, her eyes expectant, and Cassian knows he could never intimidate her with height or rank—and his voice is always too soft to really and truly be intimidating, anyway.

Cassian knows how to feign presence, but that requires a mark be susceptible to believe him greater than he is.

And that will never be Jyn.

“Got it,” she repeats, finally, shrugging her shoulders.

Cassian nods curly and, knowing he has her attention now, turns around to pick the board off the secondary control system to fiddle with the security on the shuttle.

“Second,” he says, working on autopilot as he runs his mind through possible scenarios of things going out of control based on what he knows of her character. “This is not a solo mission. Our priorities are each other and the target files. We’re a team so we do not put each other at risk.”

He presses three different buttons, twists his wrist and a hidden menu pops up. Followed by a password requirement.

Before Cassian can curse, Jyn hums critically right from beside him, and he nearly jumps in surprise.

“Somehow,” she says. “That seems to be a better rule for you to bear in mind, Captain. I’m used to working in a team. You’re not. You’re intelligence.”

She speaks the word in the same way Saw Gerrera did a year ago, dismissively, but bored, as if his set of rules to keep her in line are entirely unimpressive.

“And move aside,” she says, waving him off.

She rummages through a pant pocket and produces a lock-pick and a data spike, and sets to work on the controls, her fingers moving so quickly across the panel that Cassian can’t follow what she does.

Stars bloom around her face, casting a golden glow across her focused expression and making her eyes dance with stardust. She bends her mouth and hums subconsciously to herself as she works, and something about Jyn, focused, efficient, competent, is so mesmerising that he’s almost disappointed when she leans back, twenty seconds later.

“Ha!” She adds triumphantly.

The password box vanishes.

“Thank you,” Cassian says, unable to keep the fact he’s impressed from his tones.

Jyn beams at him as she steps aside, only to flow back in to watch over his shoulder as he re-sets the controls and removes locks from the hyperdrive.

“I thought we weren’t allowed to be reckless,” she teases.

“No,” Cassian says, greeting Kay in the cockpit. “I said you weren’t allowed to be reckless. I know what I’m doing.”

She snorts disbelievingly at him.

“What’s she doing here?” The droid demands irritably.

“She’s our guide on Coruscant,” Cassian explains.

Kay’s head swivels as far as it can, to narrow his eyes at Jyn, calculating. “Too little data,” he decides finally. “I’ll be observing you closely, Sergeant.”

“Do you have to?”

“My speciality is statistical analysis,” Kay says.

“So, yes,” she grumbles, before turning her eyes on Cassian. “Any other rules I need to know about, Captain?”

Cassian considers telling her to avoid bickering with Kay, but decides they’re too entertaining to stop. “I’ll consider it on the way,” he says. “Buckle up.”

“Yes, sir,” Jyn says sarcastically, and vanishes from the cockpit.

Jyn should be sleeping while they’re in hyperspace.

They have less than forty-eight hours to secure the files on the imperial weapon’s facilities, and once they’re on Coruscant she can’t imagine there will be much time for sleep.

So she should be sleeping.

Instead she watches the stars fly by in the hyperlane outside, passively. Rarely, these days does she produce the kyber crystal from below her shirt, but now it finds its way into her hand.

Jyn twirls it between her fingers carefully so the star light plays through it inconsistently in patterns and shapes that have always kept her focused and thoughtless. It helps her keep her worries at bay.

It’s not that she likes Coruscant. She hadn’t learnt the culture or the behavioural patterns because she wanted to. It had just come naturally with exposure, an exposure that had always felt wrong and always reminded her of days long past, memories of warm hands lifting her high into the air, and meetings with people in white uniforms that frightened her.

It’s not that she particularly likes Cassian. She isn’t some love-struck puppy looking up to her older soulmate, or a starry-eyed, green recruit putting her superior officer on a pedestal.

She isn’t even as recklessly excited for adventure, as both Cassian and Draven seem to think of her.

Jyn had spent all of her time with Saw destroying things, planting explosives, sabotaging operations, assassinating officials, throwing her rage at stormtroopers. There’d been no real purpose to it other than revenge—and she’d believed in that, believed what they were doing would hurt the empire enough to leave a dent.

Then she’d spent a year with Mon Mothma, with the Rebel Alliance, played the diplomat’s second hand, her protege. She’d learnt languages and spoken a political tongue. She’d protected someone playing an infinitely long game, and while it felt like they were making a difference, Jyn knows that if she walked out of those pristine marble halls, she would find people still suffering, children starving, and a universe at war.

She’s seen what was too perfect and what was too ugly, has played both games, and Jyn—

Jyn wants to do something real, something idealistic that causes a ripple effect. Jyn wants to make a real difference.

She wants the war to end.

So maybe she’s a little green. Maybe she’s a little too bright-eyed. Maybe she hasn’t been hurt enough yet, become jaded enough, cynical enough.

But she’s young, and that hurt will come as she grows—she knows, has seen it in the faces of others, it’s only a matter of time. And until then, she’ll do her best to do as much as she can.

Jyn will act to the best of her ability. And if it means teaming up with Cassian Andor is the perfect excuse to do just that, then that’s what she’ll do.

She’s still holding the kyber crystal when he emerges from the cockpit, the door sliding closed behind him. But he barely glances at her as he moves past her to their luggage, rummaging through bags and checking their contents.

Jyn hurries to put the crystal away while his back is turned.

“Here,” he says, dropping a bag by her feet. “Your disguise.”

What emerges between her fingers is a shower of the finest silk in deep greens and dark blues, decorated with silver edges and patterns, the type of snowflake pattern from Chandrilla that looks like stars depending on the way the fabric falls.

“It’s a dress,” she says, holding it up to judge the silhouette and doing her best to keep the distaste out of her mouth.

When she glances up at Cassian, he’s quick to hide his amusement, but not quick enough.

“Don’t worry,” he says, gruffly. “You’re not the only one who has to suffer in that type of garb.”

Jyn bites back a retort about how she couldn’t imagine him in anything official, and certainly not in the Coruscanti fashion, pompous and stiff, but she keeps it to herself. She won’t have to imagine much longer, after all.

“And second,” he says, sitting down in the seat beside her and placing a datapad on his thigh. “This is what we’re doing.”

He sets about briefing her on their mission, the targets, the contact, the overall plan of action for the next two days. He runs through blueprints efficiently and in a way that’s easy to understand, pointing out entry and exit points, positions of surveillance cameras. Then he moves on to profiles of targets, partially from dossiers and partially from sliced material; the schedules of guard shifts and potential officials that may prove to cause them trouble.

And Jyn takes it all in, listening carefully to every word and cataloguing it in the back of her head so she won’t forget.

Maybe she should be distracted by how close he’s sitting, his face mere inches from hers. Or by the way the cosmos that always surrounds him keeps drawing her in, tugging on her field of gravity. But Cassian is thorough and well prepared, and she notices he barely glances at the blocks of text he’s pointing to, that he indicates their routes through the city, the halls, and the data facility smoothly without any indication that he’s entered it into the data pad. His memory is flawless, and it makes him feel a lot more reliable than she had initially thought.

Though, still obnoxious and a control-freak, Jyn thinks irritably, as he makes her repeat the most important information, checking that she’s taken it all in properly.

She swallows a complaint about his lack of faith in her, and does her best instead to prove her own memory to be on par with his. And smiles in victory when he nods his satisfaction.

Trust goes both ways.

It’s a spiteful provocation on her tongue that she’s used more than once, but finds she doesn’t feel the need to throw at him now.

She’s been with the rebel alliance for a year, and she knows trust isn’t a choice anymore. No, all they can do now is prove their reliability, their competences, to each other, and the flaws, they will have to pick up on and compensate for along the way.

When they’re done, they’ve been discussing the details for a couple hours, and Cassian tells her apologetically to spend the last few to catch a nap, that he’ll wake her with time to prepare, and vanishes back into the cockpit to keep K-2SO company.

Sleeping in hyperspace always feels odd to Jyn, and when Cassian shakes her awake as promised, she can’t remember sleeping at all. She might as well just have closed her eyes for a moment, and then he was back at her side.

And yet sleep is difficult to rub from her eyes, and as Cassian shoos her towards the ‘fresher, she stumbles along groggily, barely remembering the dress.

She finds, to her relief, that it’s a fairly simple one, with a slit running up her thigh one both sides, though hidden on the side where she would keep her blaster strapped to her thigh by dark blue ruffles cascading all the way down her leg and behind her in a trail. The green silk fabric crawls all the way up her throat, with silver cutting it off in elegant half-moon circles at her collarbones.

Dark sleeves drape widely across her arms, attached with more delicate silver string, and perfect for hiding her hands. Perfect for pick-pocketing.

Jyn smirks at herself in the mirror as she re-does her hair, braiding in more silver string to flow along her head and back to the bun.

She looks like herself, and yet not at all herself. But the dress is discretely functional in a manner she prefers, and she’s grateful to Mon Mothma for it.

When she emerges from the ‘fresher, Cassian studies her critically, his dark eyes giving away nothing.

Finally, he says “You’re walking like a soldier, not a Coruscanti elite,” before vanishing into the ‘fresher himself. “Change it.”

Jyn childishly sticks her tongue out at the closing door, and stubbornly starts practicing walking like the women she’d seen in the upper levels of the Galactic City. She’s not going to give him the satisfaction of not doing this perfectly, and hoping she gets to retaliate when he’s properly dressed.

Unfortunately, when he re-emerges a quarter of an hour later, it’s with flawless posture—as if he’s worn the silk robes all his life. The blue suit falls to frame his shoulders, then in rectangles down each side of his front, with silver snowflakes as decorations to match Jyn’s dress. A white collar climbs from below the blue, balancing with the silver, but contrasting with his dark hair and eyes.

He wears it perfectly, and she resents him.

“What….” She says. “Exactly did you need me for? You’ve clearly done this before.”

Cassian raises his eyebrows. “Is that a compliment?”

“No,” she counters, sulking. “It’s an expression of my disappointment that you’re a proper spy, after all.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges and she resents that, too.

“I should hope so. Oh,” he adds, producing something from a pocket sleeve and throwing it to her. “And I think you’ll find this useful.”

Jyn catches it on instinct, and when she looks down she finds a silencer tailor-made for the blaster she’d nicked from him earlier.

Coruscant is something.

With districts built in circles that flow out like rings in the water, the entire planet glows with ringed constellations of light that overlap in places but remain separate in others.

The lights continue and expand downwards in pipes, as K2SO guides the imperial shuttle down through the first two layers of clouds to the upper layer road systems. And just like that they’re surrounded by buildings, buildings whose roots have been lost beyond layers of pollution at the surface of the planet, or float above it in a display of the newest technology.

Everything is gold here.

Everything is circular, soft, portraying a sense of harmlessness and goodness that has Jyn shifting her feet with discomfort.

K2 follows the traffic to the governmental district and easily locates their building, a high squarish monstrosity, more efficient, more dominant in the Imperial landscape after the ascension of the emperor.

“After we step off, follow the other shuttles to their bay,” Cassian says, turning his head to instruct K2. “And wait there.”

The droid doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to.

The landing pad is decorated with flowers and small nuclear suns hover around it to cast more of that golden Coruscant glow around them. The elitist shuttles follow each other down, their masters stepping out one after the other, and Jyn, Cassian and K2 follow suit.

Cassian gently knocks his hand over Jyn’s head. “Remember to smile when you exit.”

Jyn makes a face. “No thanks.”

“At least look serene, then,” he sighs, exasperated. “Copy Mon Mothma if you have to.”

You’re undercover, Jyn, he means. Act like it.

Jyn rolls her eyes at him, and as the doors fall open she adopts an expression as if she isn’t impressed or infuriated by the display of gold and riches suddenly blasted in her face along with all the noise of the party. As if she isn’t bothered by the way she’s announced like a princess or the daughter of an imperial officer, an Outer Rim diplomat with her partner in tow, As if the immediate whispers of the other elites don’t bother her.

As if she doesn’t already wants to punch someone.

As Cassian steps from the shuttle and turns to offer her a hand down, Jyn consoles herself with the fact there aren’t any cameras to steal her face all the way up here in the clouds.

Cassian’s hand is warm in Jyn’s and he holds her as securely as gentleman is meant to hold a lady. And though it doesn’t make her feel anymore secure or in control, with the reminder of just what they’re up against, it’s a request, a reminder, that she trust him, that he knows what he’s doing. And Jyn gives in, silently.

It gives her room to breathe and look around, to take in their surroundings, the clouds parting this high up to reveal the early night sky of Coruscant, pink and dotted with stars. From there she checks the crowds, the security guards, the troopers on the perimeter.

With her hand on his arm, and their bodies this close, she can feel the way he does the same—checking for exits, for hostiles, while constantly keeping his expression that neutral spy mask with a little bit of out-of-town widening of his eyes—as if he’s seen riches before but never like this.

As they move with the crowd, the women dressed in elegant gowns, the men in silk robes, and no alien species to be found anywhere, the space opens from marble halls to a much grander indoor garden. A glass ceiling is hidden beyond more nuclear suns and a structure in solid gold. Space is just there, above them, and below, thanks to the plants, the air is even cleaner than outside—a luxury few on this planet can afford.

Jyn is used to Coruscant, to the upper levels of the endless city, by now, and she watches the diamonds and opals with impassive, glassy eyes.

Cassian, however, has no such restraint.

Jyn scans the ballroom for their target, but comes up empty in the crowd, and her eyes instead get caught by red strings floating in an inexistent wind. Red strings she’s seen before.

Their ominous glow lead her back to the man whose arm she’s hanging off of, to the dark space surrounding him, no longer illuminated by dim stars.

Cassian’s expression is as serene as it had been before they entered, but there’s a darkness to his eyes, an unforgiving, ice-cold rage that calls something ancient to them, something, like a monster lurking in the deepest depths of space.

Jyn doesn’t think.

She simply reaches up, her fingers brushing through the red strands, turning them gold on her way, and laces her fingers through the hairs at the back of his neck.

“You’re watching the wrong people,” she warns him, leaning on his shoulder, using feigned intimacy as an excuse to get his attention. 

With her free hand she touches another string, and another, and his muscles relax under her other hand.

“You know his dossier better than I do,” she continues. “Where would he be?”

Cassian closes his eyes and exhales, and the last red strings turn gold on their own. “Thank you,” he mutters, his voice softer, but his accent thicker than it had been, grasping her hand, and returning it to his arm. When he looks at her again he’s smiling. “This way. And sorry.”

He weaves her through the crowd, pausing here and there to entertain the elite that halt them to chat, to inquire at the new faces, letting Jyn do the talking, and only speaks when they reach the bar at the other end of the hall.

“Sorry,” he says again, leaning his elbows on the counter and dragging his fingers through his hair, not looking at her. “I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s not very… safe, or professional.”

“It’s okay,” Jyn says, simply, gesturing for a drink to the bartender, and eyeing the crowd down the counter. She’s seen the photo of the target in Cassian’s files, and she’ll at least have his back until he’s ready to be on guard again.

“Not really,” he says, glancing up through his fringe to smile wryly at her. “I’m responsible for you right now. Which means I can’t make mistakes.”

“What? You usually make mistakes?”

“Thank you,” he says to the bartender, accepting the drink and stealing the one Jyn had ordered for herself. “More than I put in the reports anyway.”

“Of course, you do,” she says, rolling her eyes at him and resisting the urge to protest his act of theft. “I’m… most of the time I forget I didn’t just grow up in a bunker, not because I really can forget, but because when I lived here I was a hostage. My father was working on something— I- I don’t know what—and the Empire was using my mother and me to keep him focused.”

Cassian stares down into his drink and snorts with disgust.

“I remember the beds here,” she says. “And the toys. The view of nothing but clouds when I looked out the window. But there was always this… discomfort. Everything felt dark, wrong. I couldn’t understand then, what it was, but it must’ve been my parents’ anxiety. I still feel that way, the chill crawling up my arms and the shadows in the corners of my eyes. I don’t like Coruscant for that reason, but I’m guessing the reason you dislike it is different.”

A lesser man than Cassian Andor would’ve made some bitter joke or comment about a princess in a tower, to put her in her place, to remind her that she knows privilege none of the other rebels do, and Jyn has punched enough men to have decided never to share this side of her with anyone ever again.

But Cassian already knows this part of her past.

And Cassian only sighs, turning to look out across the crowd.

“You were a child,” he says. “And all children touched by the war feel it on their bodies the same way. Harshly, cruelly, mercilessly. That’s what these people have forgotten, even if they preach peace when it makes them shine to do so.

“Did you know, for example,” he says, “that when peace is declared, or the war effort intensified, their stocks rise in value? It doesn’t matter either way, but it is the declaration and the movement in society, which causes their pockets to grow heavier with gold. It doesn’t matter how many lives are lost, how many worlds grow cold, who they have to rob of peace.”

Jyn follows his gaze out to the crowds in front of her, to the masks of smiling humanity hiding something far more ugly. Cassian’s words don’t shock her, they don’t surprise her. This is the soul of the empire: beautiful, seemingly harmless on the surface, and nothing but a rotting core of destructive hunger when viewed without prejudice, without blind optimism.

“When you put it like that,” she says, finally. “Peace seems impossible.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Just more complex than at face value. And we know the steps. First the empire needs to be dismantled. Then democracy and liberation for the Mid- and Outer Rim.”

Jyn studies him for a moment, the space between them is still black as night, but there’s light in his eyes again, a lightness that keeps the darkness from being truly dark. So she feels safe, taking a chance.

“You separatist,” she teases, and grins when Cassian looks at her and smiles.

Maybe they are not so different, after all. To Jyn, the fight against the Empire has always felt extremely personal. They’d killed her mother and destroyed her home. They’d turned her into a soldier. On the surface, what Cassian says and does implies that it’s the opposite to him, that it’s all about principle and doing the right thing.

But Jyn had seen the rage in his eyes, had felt the way the very air had bent to his will at the sight of the people here, and she knows it’s as personal to him as it has always been to her. He’d just educated himself on the rest.

It makes her feel a little closer to him, like she understands him a little better, knows him a little better. It makes the space that surrounds him feel less scary, expanding as it is, and not at all cold.

And for a moment Jyn sees it, out of the corner of her eye, the way a single spec of dust dances between them, gold, and settles in that blackness to make it a little brighter.

But before she can turn her head, a man catches sight of Cassian and moves to introduce himself.

This part flows effortlessly. Jyn intercepts, as planned, faking an introduction between her partner and their target. And then she excuses herself, insisting she has no interest in listening to men talking business and moves to stand guard not too far from where they’re seated, faking an interest in the room and its decorations at last.

She taps the comm in her ear and listens to their conversation, aimless at first, but moving ever closer to the main topic of the evening, marvelling at how easily Cassian builds trust with a target.

But Cassian’s soft voice only steals the attention of one ear. Her other ear is free to pick up on the unobtrusive music and the conversations going on near her. Some discussing the fashion of the season, some discussing the war or politics, and others again lying about how well their companies are doing.

“—So sick of men using that soulmate myth to try and pick up women.”

It’s easy to drown out, until it isn’t.

Jyn turns her head away from the women gossiping near her, keeping her eyes moving across the crowd, looking for hostiles. But the angry tone and topic of conversation has caught her attention, and it’s difficult to ignore the voices of ascent, the surprised concessions that yes this has happened a lot.

“It’s just a new version of horoscopes, isn’t it?” another woman complains.

“No, it’s worse,” the one who had initiated the topic of conversation says haughtily. “It’s not just a way to enter our personal space in a crowd or make us feel unsafe, as an expression of their entitlement to our attention. It’s controlling. If the soulmate myth is real it would imply we were forced into a relationship with this one man for the rest of our lives with no agency or free will. And whether or not it’s real, they lie about it in an attempt to gain access to our bodies either for the long term or just as a matter of exploitation for one night.”

As her monologue comes to an end, Jyn can’t resist the urge to glance at the group of women at her back just once. Unsurprisingly they’re dressed in the Coruscanti fashion, in layers of the finest silk and velvet, their hair full of gemstones.

Right. Exploitation.

She hides the smile behind her hand.

Meanwhile, it leaves the other women stunned into silence, only breaking it to submissively point out their agreement in near-monosyllabisms.

When a new voice breaks the silence properly, her voice is slow and calculating “So….” she says. “How about turning it against them for once?”

Jyn turns a fraction to have a better view of the women, just in time to notice the way their eyes glow with intrigue, the way the one who’d complained begins to grin and look around.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she says, grasping her chin and adopting the same shrewd look as she looks around. “Now for a target.”

“How about that one,” a cheerful, pixie-like woman suggests as she playfully throws her arm around the dominant woman’s shoulders, hanging off her and pointing at someone behind Jyn. “He’s clearly not from Coruscant.”

And Jyn, with an eerie sense of where this is going, turns with the other women in the direction she’s guiding their eyes in, to find Cassian at the end of her finger.

Her hackles rise instantly.

The catalyst for this turn of events hums with real intrigue. “Yes,” she says, like she’s judging the value of an ornament. “He’d do nicely. Good-looking, but must have good connections, so he wouldn’t drag you down.”

“And since he’s clearly from the Outer Rim,” the first woman says, “It’d be easy to use their superstitions against him. I bet I could make him hang off my arm for months.”

Horror turns to real rage, as Jyn watches the women make small, subtle signs for bets being placed, and the pick-up artist to be gleefully begins to stride towards Cassian.

Before she’s thought things through, Jyn steps in to block her off. “Sorry, Ladies,” she says, doing her best to mimic Mon Mothma’s pleasant smile and tone of voice. “But that one is mine.”

Startled, the woman in front of her takes a step back. “What?” she says, pauses at Jyn’s accent more than anything, and schooling her expression into something a little less outraged and a little more condescending. “Your prey? Sorry, sweetie, I don’t think making calls works in these types of games.”

Prey.

The other women are drawing nearer as well, curious like hens, and Jyn forces her disgust down like a bout of nausea.

“No,” she says when she’s sure they’re within hearing range, keeping her voice firm but kind, like someone speaking patiently to a child. “Mine. My partner. And he doesn’t let old superstitions control his life.”

Nothing of what she’s saying is technically untrue, but she sees the way her deceptive wording works to misdirect their comprehension, and they mellow.

“Oh, really?” says the short one, who’s Jyn’s height up close, and clearly the one who’s best at returning the entire group to a positive lighthearted mood. “So he is from the Outer Rim? That must be really exciting!”

“Cross-dimensional relationships do pose certain problems of communication,” one ponders.

“Yes,” the dominant one says, rolling her eyes, “but how can you handle that difference genuinely? They’re so brutish and annoying. The company they keep. Even the way they speak is so uncivilised.”

As if to prove her wrong, the comm in Jyn’s ear buzzes slightly, and a soft, concerned Is everything okay? reaches her.

She almost rolls her eyes and smiles.

It’s the only reason she doesn’t punch anyone in the face at the insults being levelled at Cassian, the only reason she has any self control to turn their morality to her advantage. Jyn knows from months of experience with the core world elite that the only real thing they respond to is a higher moral ground taken than their own, a type of pretentious humanity which forces them to adopt the same so as not to lose their sense of themselves as inherently good.

It’s a type of battle she’s always hated waging, one she’s left to Mon Mothma to win effortlessly.

But she’s glad, now, that she had at least been paying attention.

“An accent says nothing about a person that they ought to be judged upon,” she says. “It’s a remnant of our mother tongue, of our home, and ties us back to that. It’s just another part of a person that only a superficial person, who has only ever known their own world, would judge them on.”

As she speaks she nods her head subtly for Cassian, and then turns her head up to meet the eyes of the domineering woman challengingly.

The way Cassian speaks is neither good nor bad, it isn’t beautiful or ugly. But it resonates through her, another part of him, who he is, and Jyn finds herself infinitely protective of even that.

She wants to punch the woman’s sneer off her face, but she has some self-control.

(It would probably ruin their mission, and she knows she’ll get to take it out on stormtroopers later.)

But she hadn’t needed a fist to hit a nerve, and the woman in front of her, provoked and without the same level of self-containment that Jyn has somehow managed to find in herself, opens her mouth and demands “Who are you anyway?”

“I’m—“

And then she stops.

The crowds here are colourful, like the plumes of birds on Naboo or Yavin 4. It’s an ocean of vibrancy where every single person is trying to catch attention and dominate it, but becomes part of the static instead, easily ignored. So when when a white imperial coat floats through the crowd, accompanied by soldiers completely dressed in black, they draw all of Jyn’s attention.

And she freezes.

The warmth drains out of the room entirely.

His hair has greyed over time, and there’s a longer list of military honours glued to his chest, across his heart, but the man in white looks as stern and unimpressed as he had the day he’d shot Jyn’s mother.

The memory sneaks out from the dark recesses of Jyn’s mind, a shadow like a snake, moving across the ground in a huge dark cave. It’s source; a familiar lid hidden among the rocks.

And when it grasps Jyn’s ankle, it brings her back, back to the plains of tall grass on Lah’mu, back to the muddy black sand under her fingers and the kyber crystal burning against her chest. Back to watching her mother draw a blaster, a sneer of protective rage on her face.

Back to watching her mother vanishing beyond the grass instead of the man in white.

Another shadow grasps her ankle, and Jyn is back in the cave, watching the horizon, the bright white sky.

And then another.

Her mother is saying trust the Force.

And another.

Jyn can vaguely hear the whispers around her, a name being mentioned with awe she can’t hear across the roaring in her ears. But she stands close enough to the party of the man in white, that when he passes her, his icy blue eyes meet hers.

They have a child. Find it!

And another shadow grasps her.

She can feel the grip of Cassian’s blaster grip under the pads of her fingers. But Jyn is cold, trembling, her fingers almost numb.

Almost  in slow-motion the man in white passes her, his pristine, clean cloak fluttering in his wake.

She should turn.

She just has to turn around.

She could grip the blaster and shoot him in the back. It would do them all good. It wouldn’t even be vengeance. He’s clearly a high ranking official, and the loss of any high ranking officer will put a dent in the imperial war machine.

Do it, Saw’s voice whispers to her. Grab the blaster and shoot. Come on, Jyn.

But she can’t.

The shadows imprisonment her in a suffocating, and Jyn is helpless. Helpless to turn around and do right by her mother and the rebellion. Helpless to stop the man who’d destroyed her home. Helpless even to turn around and continue watching him.

The shadows grasp her. And drag her from the light into the darkness of the bunker.

Chapter Text

The door to the ‘fresher slides open not too far behind him, just as Cassian is dumping a futon on the floor. It’s old, thin and moth eaten, and reveals Jyn, just as ruffled and equal to it.

Her face is gaunt and her eyes still glassy. Her hair is damp from her shower, but she’s forgotten (or given up on) half the silver string that Mon Mothma had deemed it a good idea to decorate her in. The dress is gone, dropped somewhere on the floor behind her, and she’s replaced it with the grey Alliance sleep-wear, Cassian had found in a drawer.

And there’s nothing.

No stars left to float over her shoulders or follow her in strings of light. And that very fact hurts more than he can ever begin to describe. Ice grows across his skin, burns through him, and leaves nothing but darkness in his chest.

The fact that her spirit has died.

“Come here,” he says, his voice far away and uncharacteristically careful.

Cassian holds out his hand, and, like a doll following orders, Jyn glides her palm across his and lets him guide her to the small bed.

She sits on her own, and Cassian sits in front of her, kneeling on the floor to get a better look at her face. But there is nothing new, not even the blush of a hot bath remains in her cheeks, only the pale white of a woman whose spirit had died. A walking ghost.

It’s the same as at the party.

Cassian has heard his fair share of stories about the Force, about the sorcerers who’s used the Force of all living beings, of Jedi and Sith Lords, of Festians communing with their dearly departed for one last meeting filled with bittersweet joy, and pairs of soulmate lovers doing the impossible. But he’s never heard anything or seen anything like what had happened at the party.

He’d gotten all the things he’d needed from their source, the rest of the maps for the weapon directory facility, the key card to the inner chambers, the confirmation of time tables for guard shifts. And a good luck and wish for the Rebellion’s success—even a comm in case their source comes across more information.

A stroke of luck beyond anything he’s ever come across before, one Cassian almost distrusts—one he should distrust on instinct. But a star floats gently past his shoulder and into his field of vision, and instead he feels nothing but hope at their good fortune.

As their source walks away, he turns, his fingers already resting gently on the comm by his ear, the one linking him to Jyn, her code name on his lips.

The word withers there, forgotten.

Like a galaxy coming to life, a thousand-thousand stars burst from where she stands in the middle of the hall, bursting into existence from a single soul and coming to rest all around the room, floating slowly in orbit as if they had existed for an eternity.

And just like that, in a world where everything had sparkled with gold, where diamonds had caught the light in glittering reflections, and humanity had found a way to create artificial suns and put them on display as if that were a simple achievement, Jyn’s soul made all that fade to grey, revealed it for the ugly insignificant superficiality that it truly was in comparison to the light and warmth of life and humanity, and Cassian—

Cassian sits there, stunned into silence, taking all of it in, all the stars that surround him, the specks of dust floating in the air and lighting up the world in a way that makes him forget his rage for the first time since they’d entered the hall.

He almost reaches out to touch a star that floats close by, but as his hand enters his field of vision he freezes, coming back to himself.

Cassian clenches his fist to stop himself from doing something unnecessary, and turns his head instead, to ask for confirmation on what she’s doing, if trouble is rising.

But though Jyn reassures him that she has things under control, that the confrontation happening before his eyes, out of hearing range isn’t something that’ll compromise their mission, trouble still finds them.

Imperial officers don’t usually make it to these types of parties, and certainly not in full uniform or with protective detail. But the commander parting the crowd wears an expression of snobbish dismissal and derision that implies he doesn’t care even for the high ranking elite currently present.

Cassian never gets a good look at his face, never gets close enough, because the man in white turns away, and walks straight past Jyn, and as she lifts her face to look straight into his eyes, the stars begin to die.

One after the other they drop away into nothingness. One after the other they wither before him, giving way to the cold field of gold and riches once more, and the silence shatters, all the obnoxious voices of the Coruscanti, imperial elite rushing back at him, intruding back and taking over his world, in one overwhelming roar.

And Cassian—

Cassian had been on his feet and across the floor before he’d realised what he’d been doing, had forgotten every instinct ever beaten into his skull by Draven and the rest of Rebel Alliance; people aren’t necessary if there’s a greater goal in sight, and the assassination of a High Imperial comes before the mental health of just one more insignificant sacrifice for the Cause.

“Jyn.”

His voice had been nothing more than a hoarse whisper in the roar of a crowd that doesn’t notice their existence at all.

He’d grasped her elbows, her palms resting limply on his lower arms, not holding on, not even really existing, and she’d looked up at him with glassy eyes.

All she’d said, all the words she’d found to express had been a single sentence that still lives in his brain, floating there like a presence he doesn’t yet have the focus to feel rage or sorrow at.

“He murdered my mother.”

She hasn’t spoken since.

Even as Cassian sits down beside her on the small bed, she gives no indication that she’s noticed him.

You should leave her behind.

It’s Draven’s voice in the back of his head, the sensible teachings he’s been brought up with.

Cassian is a good spy. He is one of the best intelligence officers in the Rebel Alliance. Not because he has some innate talent, or because he’s more better than the average skilled person, or because he doesn’t make mistakes, but because he knows to make the tough decisions when they need to be made—because he knows when to kill, when to get rid of a talkative source or lift his sniper rifle and aim at an opportunity that presented itself unexpectedly.

Cassian is a good spy because he’d listened to Draven and he’d learnt to do what no one else will.

A good spy would look at this girl, barely more than a child, with her broken soul, and a good spy would leave her behind and do the job on his own.

Jyn has already fulfilled her role. He could send someone back for her when he got back to Yavin 4.

That’s what a good spy would do.

What Cassian does instead is to begin to very carefully untangle the silver bonds holding her hair in a restraining decoration. Her hair is soft and damp between his fingers and it’s been a while since he’s held anything quite so delicate, has been this aware that he’ll cause hurt if he isn’t careful.

It’s been a while since Cassian has cared to be careful with anyone else.

And as he unravels the silver string woven between Jyn’s hair as if they’d been made to become a part of her, he finds himself growing angry. Not with Jyn, but with Mon Mothma.

From the moment he’d met Jyn she’d been a free thing, almost feral in her rebelliousness, someone unbroken in spite of everything she’d seen, someone who seemed like she couldn’t die or be hurt by anyone.

Jyn had been invincible.

And it had seemed as if the Rebel Alliance hadn’t changed any of that. Even if she’d been dragged off to Chandrilla and Coruscant again and again, whenever he’d seen her she’d been punching Melshi in the practice ring, or laughing in the mess hall with a group of other young recruits, or sticking her tongue out at Draven behind his back.

He’d thought they’d been incapable of changing her, that she’d been strong and protected from that by the very invincibility of her soul.

And now this.

He doesn’t think that Coruscant can make people weak or delicate, for the people he’d watched tonight are anything but weak and delicate. The things they’ve done to his people and the rest of the Mid and Outer Rim territories requires a particular kind of cruel strength.

But they had touched something within Jyn, and it had broken her, and Cassian—

Cassian blames Mothma for that, partially.

Mothma with her politics. Mothma with her sad eyes. Mothma with her schemes for the greater good.

Her world had touched Jyn and Cassian doesn’t know where else to direct the protective rage bubbling up in him now.

He looks at the girl by his side, soulless and still, and the last silver string between his fingers, nestled amongst the dark strands of her hair, and wonders if tugging her hair will get her to wake up — but even Cassian has enough sense of self-preservation not to pull a stunt like that.

The vicious, desperate urge gives him an idea, however, and he leaves the bed and Jyn for the small kitchenette and a cupboard. Pushing aside notes of insult from other Alliance personnel, he produces the packages of chocolate he’d left behind in the safe-house for his own personal use. Additionally, he finds fresh milk in the fridge, and a saucepan and grate in a cupboard.

He’d forgotten his extra molinillo again, so he makes do with a spoon for whisking.

As he stirs the hot chocolate together, he pays attention to the silence behind him—a silence revealing no new development on his partner’s part, a silence that makes his heart ache a little more with each moment that passes.

Cassian is used to loneliness on these types of trips, but this feels different, heavy and suffocating.

He pours the hot chocolate into two mugs and breaks a piece of raw chocolate off.

As he makes his way back to Jyn, he pauses in a moment of kindness and picks up a different flask from the fridge.

“Here,” he says, pressing the piece of chocolate into her hand. He finds his officer voice and adds “Eat.”

And Jyn does.

Mechanically, she lifts the piece of chocolate and crams it into her mouth. She chews and Cassian holds his breath, trusting in a little shred of privilege clinging to her skin, a little shred of weakness that might become her salvation.

The wince comes first.

Jyn swallows thickly, blinks, and life returns all at once, knocked back into her by the bitter, bitter taste of the chocolate.

“Give me that!” She exclaims, grabbing the mug of more chocolate from him desperately.

But it’s nearly as bitter as the piece she’d eaten without question, and she sticks her tongue out in disgust, childish and energetic.

“What is this?!” She demands, looking up at him with eyes that sparkle with rage.

And Cassian feels it, the warmth of her fire returning.

“Chocolate.”

“That,” she says, her Coruscanti dialect bending the tones in a way that betray exactly how she feels about his childhood favourite, “is not chocolate.”

“Oh, yes it is,” he says, finding himself smiling in spite of himself. “Proper chocolate. Real chocolate.”

Before she can argue with him, he holds up the flask he’d picked up from the fridge. Honey from Naboo, a rare, sweet delicatessen. An indulgence he’d allowed himself.

The threatening note attached to the glass does not deter Jyn as it had deterred the rest of the personnel that had occupied this place between his own visits.

She snatches the flask from his hands as desperately as she had the hot chocolate, and pours the golden sweetness into the mug, positively defiling it.

Cassian doesn’t protest.

He allows himself the open relief of seeing her alive again, as she lifts the mug to her lips and drinks with relish.

When she puts the mug back down, she narrows her eyes at him and when she speaks it is in the type of tone he recognises as Saw’s.

“You are a particular kind of bastard, Cassian Andor,” she declares.

But there’s a star growing back into life at her shoulder, just a single one, dancing like dust beside her ear.

And Cassian feels light enough to answer her in kind.

“Hey,” he chides, knocking her over the forehead. “I’m still your superior officer.”

Jyn narrows her eyes at him and looks like she considers retaliating. But then she dips her head and inhales her chocolate instead, looking young and soft and tired, not at all like a soldier who’d come face to face with her mother’s killer, but just a girl who’s had a rough day.

Cassian sighs in relief, and leans back on the heal of his hand, watching as more stars shimmer back into life.

He wonders if she knows what her soul looks like.

Eventually, Jyn puts her mug down into her lap and turns her face to take in the small safe-house—the tired old walls, the lumpy futon on the floor, the ratty, moth-eaten blankets. Gas masks on the kitchen table, and curtains pulled to hide them from surveillance cameras.

“We’re in the mid-levels, aren’t we?” she asks, finally, not quite saying where are we? but as close as she dares.

It’s still a weakness she isn’t comfortable giving away, with the way her shoulders hunch for a blow.

“Yes,” he says, keeping his voice level, as if they’re talking about the weather. “It’s one of our more popular safe-houses. How did you know?”

“Timing,” she explains, visibly relaxing, “of our trip from the upper level. And the gas-masks. The mid-levels are the most polluted, except for the planet surface, of course. Saw used to take me to the lower levels when he needed information and could get it in black market casinos. I’d enter, he’d bet on the scrawny little girl, who looked like she hadn’t eaten for a week, and his mark would fall for it every time.”

Her lips spread in a feral grin and her eyes grow cold with the confidence of a superior bruiser, but it all falls away as quickly as the memory had and she morphs back into something softer and more pliable.

“I don’t like this place,” she admits, finally, and looks back into her mug.

“Me neither,” Cassian choruses. And, before he can stop himself, he reaches out, crossing the distance between them and runs his hand over her head. “One more day and then we’re done.”

When she lifts head head and meets his eyes there’s real warmth back in her gaze, and Cassian mirrors her smile when she offers him one.

He leaves her to settle in for the night, checks up on Kay who’d been left with the ship, and cleans himself up in the ‘fresher (finally getting rid of those damn silky robes). He stands there, in front of the mirror, looking himself in the eye for a long time, looking for himself in the empty darkness, and finds, instead, the will to be courageous, to be responsible one more time.

All Cassian ever finds in himself is an Alliance Spy, a lie, an officer with a cause to fight for. That had never felt wrong before, had never been something he’d questioned before.

But around Jyn he’s starting to remember that there’s more to himself than just a spy or a story. Around Jyn he’s starting to remember that being alive, being human, is so much more. Around Jyn he’s starting to lose his sense of comfort in his masks.

“There’s one more thing we need to talk about,” he says, when the lights are off and they’re both settled in their respective beds.

He watches a star float out over the edge of the bed, as Jyn turns to look down at him.

“What?”

Her voice is apprehensive and Cassian swallows back the part of him that cares for the part of him that is an alliance officer, swallows back the doubt and guilt.

“I need to know you’ll be able to handle the next step of our mission tomorrow,” he says, keeping his voice kind but impersonal. “That you won’t go blank again while in the field. If I judge that there’s a chance you’ll regress again, I’ll leave you here and have someone pick you up once it’s safe.”

Jyn scowls. “I won’t.”

“I wish that were good enough,” he sighs.

“Then what exactly do I have to do, Captain?” she says, speaking his title like an insult.

“Talk,” he says, simply. “Tell me about what happened. Back then.”

If looks could kill, Cassian Andor would be a dead man.

He brushes his irritation at her defiance away and turns on his side. “Look,” he says. “I don’t want to leave you behind, Jyn. I want to be able to rely on you through this. But I need to know that I can.”

“Fine,” she spits. “But in exchange I want to know why you lost it at the party. I don’t want you going rogue on me either.”

Cassian hesitates. He doesn’t share. Ever. Past or present. Not even with Draven when his reports demand it, not even with Kay. His life is secret when he can help it, and his scars are for no one else to see. But he looks at the fire back in her eyes, at the stars floating gently by her stubborn face, and he relents.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” She almost looks disappointed. “You better not slither out on me, Cassian. No intelligence stories.”

She means lies, of course. And Cassian relents here, too.

“I promise.”

Jyn narrows her eyes down at him, studying his face, but eventually, finally, she exhales and flops back down on her back, so strands of her hair fly up with the dust.

It takes several more deep breaths, and Cassian pictures her, closing her eyes, opening them again, and fighting the bad memories. Trying to figure out how to get the words out, how to start.

Finally, Jyn finds her voice:

“Have you ever seen ‘troopers in black armour?”

“No,” Cassian admits to the darkness. “Only in reports. They’re part of the Tarkin initiative, work for Imperial Intelligence and are referred to as Death Troopers. They’re the… it’s the trooper you don’t see that kills you.”

“Well,” Jyn says, sounding tired. “I saw them. They came across the fields in Lah’mu, spreading out to flank the man in white. There were… I don’t know how many. They were like shadows against the cloudy skies.”

Shadows, bursting from the black sand on Lah’mu, as if they’d just been waiting for their superior officer to land. Cassian can see them as Jyn speaks, as vividly as if he’d been there himself, with the cold grass between his fingers.

“My mother was a Jedi,” she continues. “Fierce and beautiful. She never wavered in anything, and she was the one who knew Saw, she was the one who was giving up information to the Alliance before they even left Coruscant—I found the reports later, while digging for Mon Mothma. Stardust,” Jyn continues, a hollow laugh breaking the word. “She used their nickname for me to mark her reports.”

Cassian swallows thickly, his eyes straying from a mental image of a woman he’s never met, to the stars floating, dying and reigniting, above them. Like stardust.

If he’d ever doubted how much Jyn loved her parents, if he’d ever let her self-protective lies fool him, the truth would never let him stray that way again.

The pain in her voice is so raw, so cutting, Cassian is already bleeding for her, already regretting asking—no, demanding—with the flimsiest of excuses.

“She lost her lightsaber,” she continues. “I remember the day it happened. Sometimes she’d do practice drills outside. It looked like dancing with light, especially in the summer, when the sun never really set in the first place. But then it broke, and I’d never seen her so distraught—like she’d lost the last part of her that tied her to the Order.”

There’s a rustle of her clothes, and Jyn produces a crystal gleaming with starlight, attached to a string.

“This Kyber crystal is all that remained,” she says, incapable of hiding the sniffles in her voice, even if she’s hiding her face. “And she gave it to me the day she was killed. Maybe… maybe she knew. Saw said some people who can sense the Force can see the future…”

Trust the Force.

It’s not a voice he recognises, as Jyn’s memories draw him back in, as he sits on a mountain cliff and watches a woman in red hide a blaster from her daughter behind a satchel, as he watches her take off an old necklace and drop it around the little girl’s throat before sending her off.

Trust the Force.

It’s not the kind of thing his own people would ever say, not with such conviction, not with such reverence or kindness. But Cassian can at least sympathise with a mother who’d pushed her daughter away into the depths of despair, and only had the emptiness of space to trust in — only had the universe to trust with her daughter’s safety.

Cassian watches Jyn run down a black path, and for a moment, as he’s drawn back to reality, he catches Lyra turn and look at him as if she sees him.

In the darkness he can hear Jyn’s breath tremble across her lips as she looks for courage, and Cassian hates himself a little more, hates that he’s the one doing this to her, under the guise of duty. Jyn is re-opening an old wound that had dragged her into the depths of despair, where the real world couldn’t reach, where Cassian’s voice couldn’t reach her. And she’s doing it because Cassian hadn’t given her any other choice, because, deep down, he’d been greedy to know a little more.

The apology tastes sour on his tongue. Unsaid, like an insult he’d been capable of keeping to himself.

“I…” Jyn begins, her voice deserting her after she’d found it, but she reigns it back in. “I didn’t go directly to the cave they’d prepared as a … a bunker. I went back, hid in the grass, and watched. I wasn’t supposed to, but I did, anyway.” She laughs, but there’s nothing but self-deprecation in her voice. “I guess, I’ve always been a rebel. Always disobedient.

“I couldn’t hear what was being said, but she … there was a confrontation,” Jyn continues, her voice beginning to tremble. “I remember seeing the man in white, the imperial officer from tonight, before. Here, in Coruscant. So they must’ve known him. But she revealed her blaster too soon, and, I guess she was more used to a lightsaber, or maybe she was still too much of a Jedi to go through with it. She hit him in the shoulder. Missed.

“The— the ‘troopers did not.”

The word death hangs in the silence of empty space.

Her voice is completely hollow now, and when she sits up, swinging her legs out over the edge of the bed, Cassian follows the arc of her body, so they’re sitting across from each other.

She looks past him, above his head, but her eyes are clear and angry.

Jyn digs her nails into the bare skin of her arms and she stares straight ahead.

“My father— Galen,” she corrects stubbornly. “He ran to her body, but she was already gone. And I… I turned around and I ran, too, because the man in white said to find me. Neither of them ever came back for me. None of them ever found me.”

Framed by the diluted blue light of the window behind her, she looks small and lonely, and young, so young, her anger nothing more than a fragile shield to protect her heart from falling back into darkness again.

Little black and purple lights flicker in and out around her, like inverted stars that steal the light, empowered by the grief and loneliness that traps her.

And Cassian reaches out, not to destroy that darkness, but to carefully grasp the girl in front of him, to remind her of the reality in front of her. He glides his palms up the underside of her arms and slides his thumb under her fingers to pry her hands lose.

“Sometimes,” he says, keeping his voice as gentle as he can manage, his eyes on the self-inflicted wounds along her skin, the small indents from her nails that haven’t quite drawn blood yet. “War doesn’t give us a choice to return in time.”

He can still see the look of melancholy grief on Lyra’s face, as her eyes had lighted on him. A Jedi. His natural foe. Part of the people who’d fought to keep the republic alive in spite of his people’s fight for freedom.

Cassian tries not to think about all the ways they should’ve grown up enemies, the improbability of him sitting here across from Jyn, soothing his fingers over the wounds against her skin. He tries not to think about how they’ve been forced together in spite of all those barriers, how the tragedies of their pasts, the unfair cruelty of the war, have brought them to the same side — like an eerie miracle.

“Fest wasn’t one of the first worlds the empire struck down harshly against,” he says, voice hollow, like he’s reciting a history book that will never be written—one full of erased stories and forgotten calamity. “They were more oppressive than the Republic before them, but we used our knowledge of the planet’s environment to fight back, and we were able to win ground through the years.”

Jyn’s eyes are resting on his face now, gravely with recognition as of she knows where he’s going.

“So I started working off-world sometimes, as an assassin for resistance groups,” he says, trying not to think about how young he’d been the first time he’d pulled a trigger, like a ghost watching himself, wondering if he could ask a child now to do the same.

“I thought it was safe,” he says, bitterly, looking down. “I thought naively that we were winning, that I could leave my family, my mother, my sisters, behind. And I’d be able to come back from a mission and find them okay, maybe even free.”

You were a child, he almost hears her say, but when he looks up Jyn doesn’t speak. She doesn’t try to soothe his self-directed anger or his despair at his own foolishness. She doesn’t excuse what happened, the atrocities he hasn’t given voice to yet.

Jyn might’ve grown up to different horrors and different privileges, but she understands this: there are no apologises and no excuses that will take away what happened.

And Cassian appreciates her silence all the more in this moment, is grateful to the warm sorrow in her eyes, to the star that doesn’t grow arrogant enough to pass judgement on an experience she hasn’t overseen.

“Fest,” he continues, keeping the trembling from his voice. “Wasn’t the first world to perish at the hands of the Empire, but it was the first world where they concentrated the populations into cities to deal with guerrilla warfare. Fest was the first world where they gave up trying to distinguish the civilian population from the people fighting. Fest was the experiment that provided the blueprint for the the prison worlds and the camps like Wobani.

“By the time I came back, half the population had starved to death, and all the planet’s natural resources had been drained and moved to the core worlds,” he says, and now there’s no tremble in his voice—all that’s left is anger.

Cassian is cold, colder than the frozen core of what remains of his home. And his voice dies with that cold, extinguished in the darkness.

But he doesn’t need to say the rest; the silence speaks of the ghosts, of the people he hadn’t even been able to find among the rubble and the bodies, in a world where the greenhouses had withered away into nothing but glass, ice and dead trees. In a world where death had become so common, his once warm people had walked by a starving child without hearing its whimpers.

It draws him in, the memory, the helpless anger, and traps him, keeps him in the childhood moment of being barely a teenager with a rifle over his shoulder, and seeing the desolation of his home.

For the first time in years, Cassian gets drawn back, feels the chill fingers of a merciless Festian wind.

But the home that has become nothing but a demon in the back of his head, always threatening to trap him again, always pushing him ahead and giving him more excuses to take a life not on his dossier, is extinguished by warm fingers brushing over his cheek and down the column of his throat to his shoulder.

The memory shatters into snowflakes and stardust, as Jyn climbs into his lap and pulls him close in a hug.

And Cassian sits there, staring into space, his vision partially obscured by dark strands of hair and golden stars. His hands are caught in the cool air ahead of them both, incapable of moving. He’s too stunned by the natural show of comfort, the warmth of the human contact spreading through his body, to do anything but wait.

Wait for it to end.

“Do I have to tell the rest of my story like this?” He asks, trying for humor and failing, when her head remains pressed into the crook of his neck.

“No,” she mutters, shaking her head for emphasis, and tightens her hold on him. “I’m sorry.”

 It’s an apology that could mean so many things. I’m sorry for making you talk about it. I’m sorry for being spoiled. I’m sorry for only thinking about myself. And it doesn’t move him, doesn’t make him think better or worse of either of them.

Cassian had told Jyn that war hurts all children equally, and he’d meant it.

He knows that privileged ignorance comes later in life, but Jyn hadn’t turned her face from the sky or the imperial flags, she hadn’t ignored the battle or run from it. She isn’t his enemy, but his ally, another rebel, and so he has no reason or power to absolve her.

He doesn’t get to make the decision on whether or not to hug her back either, before she’s moving again, before she’s pushing back to find his eyes.

The desperate sorrow that dances among the flecks in her eyes is no longer for herself, but for him.

“What about your father?” Jyn holds her breath as if she’s hoping there’s still some joy left waiting for Cassian out in the galaxy, a hope she doesn’t even dare hold for herself. And Cassian sees the fear in the shadow of her mouth.

He shakes his head. “He was killed, as an example, at an imperial flight school,” he says simply, crushingly. “As one of the first.”

He doesn’t want her to hold false hope for anyone — and especially not for himself. But he doesn’t want to hurt her either, and so it’s Cassian that pulls her in this time, pulls her close, and tightens his hold against her small fragile frame. Not to shield her from the harshness of the universe, but to soften the blow of reality.

Jyn whimpers once with the grief and loss of both their families, and presses her forehead so forcefully against his chest, against his heart, that even if Cassian was ever afraid she would regress again, it’s a fear that perishes with the strength of her emotion.

Cassian lifts his head and watches the stars dancing in the open space above them.

There is no future for them yet, only fighting, but as they hold each other close, he feels the way a small hope sprouts in his chest; that the present is not so bad that it cannot bring momentary comfort and joy, and that it is a moment they will be able to repeat between the fighting.

Cassian dreams of a cave opening. It is huge and hidden at the feet of two matching cliffs, but it isn’t hidden from the sky. White clouds float gently across an equally colourless atmosphere, and it casts so much light that he’s almost blinded by it.

When he turns from it, his eyes still burning, he sees only darkness. Shadows crawl across the hard surface of the rocks and black sand that make up the interior of the cave.

There’s nothing here to suggest life, for no life could flourish in this hollow place. And yet Cassian moves further into the cave, further away from the light, as if he knows where he’s going, following his shadow across the black sand.

When he reaches his destination, he falls to his knees. The rock seems solid at first glance, but Cassian knows better, fumbles with the edges and eventually finds what he’s looking for.

He finds a screwdriver in his tool belt and starts undoing the hinges from the lid. One at a time, they come loose, clunking to the planet surface, heavy and hollow with finality.

The last one, the lid itself, is almost impossible to lift, but he manages, flipping it over and moving aside so the light can pass him by.

It descends into a deeper cave, along metal stairs, like a column of brightness, pale and colourless. Until it lands on the face of a girl, her green eyes hollow and sparkling with starlight.

Something heavy lands on his stomach, and Cassian is sitting up, a knife in his hand, before his eyes are even open.

Jyn is already laughing by the time he manages to regain his sight and he tilts his head down into his lap to find a white plastic bag full of convenience store food — fresh boiled eggs, a couple sandwiches and two cans of caf.

“You went out?” He demands, frowning more at the fact his voice is groggy and not firm with command.

She tilts her head, still standing over him, and her eyes are still dancing with some sort of curious mirth, as if he’s not playing by his usual rules. Stars dance around her, more vibrant than he’s seen since he met her, leaving trails of dust so it looks like she’s shining, and there’s nothing of the hollow-minded girl from last night left in her. Once again, Jyn is all strength.

She’s also holding a similar plastic bag, and wearing brightly coloured clothes, like an upper-level jogger. Her hair is up in a spunky pony tail that spikes to all sides.

Cassian focuses his eyes back on her face, ignoring the slip of toned abdomen on display.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I kept Kay on the comm to be sure I stuck within Intelligence regulation. I didn’t break any rules.”

Cassian’s frown deepens.

She’d walked around. She’d dressed. She’d negotiated with K2SO, presumably used one of the speederbike to go to the upper levels, get them breakfast and come back. And he hadn’t noticed?

He’d heard a couple other rebels with soulmates, one back in the Outer Rim and, later, an Alliance pilot, talk about how comfortable their partner made them, how much easier it was to sleep around them, to feel safe around them. But Cassian is Intelligence, and Cassian needs to be alert at all times.

He drops the knife beside his pillow and brushes away a star absentmindedly. “This could be a problem.”

“Hey!” Jyn complains defensively. “I really was careful.”

“I would beg to differ,” K2 counters, stomping through the garage door with the clear air of a droid no longer accepting being downgraded to transportation. “While you followed Intelligence guidelines and was impressively precise, to the point there’s only a 7 percent chance you might be discovered and linked back to this place, I warned you not to wear so little in the middle levels. The high amount of pollution will sink into your skin and start creating soars within forty-eight hours. In ten days the skin you’ve exposed will have completely burnt away.”

“Are you implying I won’t shower for the next ten days?”

Cassian opens a can of upper-level caf and hides his amusement behind it. “She’s fine, Kay,” he says to stop the inevitable argument.

The droid tilts his head, his ghostly white eyes focusing back on Cassian. “Why are you speaking Festian?”

And Cassian immediately regrets having naively taken a drink of caf with K2 in the room. He forces himself to swallow, but doesn’t quite avoid the coughing fit.

“Oh!” Jyn says, ignoring the way Cassian smacks himself on the chest to get his breathing under control. “So that’s what that was!  I recognised the etymology as Outer Rim, but I couldn’t quite nail the system.”

Cassian opens and closes his mouth, thinking back on their conversation. Only now that he’s properly awake does he realise that he really had been speaking a language he’d only sworn in for the last decade, comfortably and without realising it, and Jyn had responded, every time, in a different Outer Rim language.

“…so many different people in Saw’s Cadre,” Jyn is explaining to K2, sounding offended. “And I’ve been to so many places. Of course, I can speak more than Basic.”

“That’s not in your file,” K2 is countering.

“Yeah, well, I don’t tell the Alliance everything,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Cassian lets his face fall into his hands and groans.

It’s not that he’s convinced she’s recovered and that she’ll never regress again the way she had at the party — you don’t just recover from wounds that deep, just from talking about them once. But the probability of them running into her mother’s murderer once more, on a planet this big, with this many people, Cassian reasons, is small enough that he can trust Jyn to be okay during this mission.

As always, she bounces back from a blow quickly, something he finds he’s rather impressed with. Not for the first time.

It makes her more reliable, no matter how far she might fall from the blow itself, something which is becoming a theme with Jyn.

She might be young, might still be a child (a teenager) in some ways, but when you’ve been a soldier since you were six years old, being seventeen and on the battlefield makes you almost a veteran. And she has more skills, and is more capable at those skills than most people he’s come across in the Alliance.

Jyn is, in many ways, a master at her craft — that craft just happens to be rebellion.

She rolls back her shoulders in the black guard uniform Cassian had found for her, shifting her footing in the Imperial combat boots, and nods to herself. She’s small, smaller in black, but she looks lithe and alert, spoiling for a fight. And while that makes him a little more alert as well, pre-mission stress a little higher than normal, it also makes it difficult to keep his captain’s face in place.

Cassian wants to smile.

It’s an odd sensation.

“Drop us off, and then move to the rendezvous,” he says, turning his face away to give Kay directions as an excuse to get his expression back under control. “Wait for my call.”

“There’s a—“

“I don’t want to hear it, thank you,” he says, cutting Kay off before the droid can start listing the scenarios with higher probability of success if he were to come with them. “We have maps and security codes. It’s more important that you function as our get-away pilot.”

Kay’s silence is enough assent, and Cassian turns back, his face a mixture of his usual emotional blankness and imperial superiority.

A small victory.

A victory that doesn’t last long, as their transport docks by the weapon’s facility they’re meant to infiltrate. Cassian has found that a little strutting jackassery will get you far to sell any disguise, and he keeps that in mind as he changes his gait to barrel forwards with his shoulders first, the way so many Imperial officers do, trusting Jyn to follow suit.

He snaps at a group of troopers coming to escort them to get them a lift, and that’s enough to get them across the docking areas, in broad daylight with the sun beating down on them, through the first two security points, and away from the troopers once more — without lifting a single finger or flicking a security card.

Cassian squares his shoulders and lifts his head high, using the arrogance of his role to take in the square buildings blocking out the sun from the Coruscanti sky. They’re new facilities, only built in the last few years, more imposing, less refined. The new architecture of Coruscant has shed the pretence of soft morality and inclusivity, and been reborn as something meant to portray strength and superiority, with little room for argument or opposition.

Something to stand eternal.

Cassian thinks it looks like a prison or a tomb.

But he doesn’t hesitate to duck through the first entrance of that tomb, dismissing their escort without a word or a nod of thanks, and step through the first security check - which they pass, but not without gaining a different escort.

By the time they’re beyond the security gates and marching through hallways, finally just a part of a crowd, they’re flanked by two stormtroopers. Which isn’t part of the plan, something Cassian is all too aware of, and not just because he can sense Jyn itching to throw a good punch.

He knows, of course, that this is protocol, that the troopers are there for his safety as much as for the empire’s. So their silence shouldn’t unnerve him, doesn’t unnerve him, even if their presence is annoying and they’re going to have to lose them eventually.

The urge to run, however, won’t leave him, and only gets stronger as they turn into a deserted hallway,  with doors flanking them on both sides and another security gate ahead of them. Two more guards wait by the gates, but they’re deep enough into the facility already that security cameras no longer follow their intrusion, and this is the last gate where troopers will be allowed, according to the notes from their source. They just have to pass this point peacefully and they’ll be free.

Cassian ignores the guards on each side and slips the keycard through the lock with trained confidence.

Blocked.

The troopers on either side of them shuffle.

Cassian’s free hand slips to the blaster concealed under his coat, coolly resigning himself to more blood on his hands. For the mission, for the Alliance, for the Cause.

He tries the card one more time.

Blocked.

“Sir,” one of the guards begins, taking a step forward. “If you would —“

But he’s interrupted by the tumble of limbs behind Cassian, as Jyn takes action.

Back at Base One, he’d stared across the empty briefing room at Mon Mothma and wanted to yell at her, to force her to stop looking at him, at all of them, with such sad eyes. He’d wanted to protest her assigning Jyn to him. He hadn’t wanted her there, at his side, in the field.

“I know you like working alone,” Mothma had said. “But Draven and I both agree that with your individual tempers and differing skillsets, you would make a good match in the field.”

Cassian had resisted the urge to scoff. “Draven said that?”

Intelligence officers always work alone, there’s no way his commanding officer would’ve suggested this, much less accepted it without pressure.

She’d smiled, then, seeing through him, her eyes glowing almost as much as her white skin under the fluorescent lights. “Not in as many words, no,” she said. “But he and I both agree that it may be time for some changes around here, so our officers won’t always have to carry their missions alone.”

As if they’re burdened by them, as if this is a kindness.

He’d almost hated her for interfering in that moment.

Like a petulant child, like a teenager, Cassian Andor hadn’t wanted a soulmate. From the day he’d met Jyn, he’d fought her presence, run from it when he could, and yet found himself gravitating back, orbiting around her, when she were around, curiously. He’d found himself caring, getting distracted, worrying, and constantly impressed by her strength, her intelligence, and her quick wit.

It’d been unfair, it’d felt unfair. Ridiculously, he’d had the urge to stomp his foot and complain.

And Mothma had only looked at him with those politician’s eyes, and said “Consider this a trial. If it goes well I’ll partner you permanently.”

But the two troopers fall behind him, the blows entirely silent, too quick to notice until the damage is done, and Jyn is past him in a flash. She topples the first guard with a swift kick to the shin, whirls on the other, a truncheon he hadn’t even known she’d brought flying out and smashing it through the helmet of their last opponent.

Swiftly, mercilessly, she spins one last time and kicks the first guard in the face, knocking him properly out.

And then she’s turning on Cassian, pulling the hair out of her face, and beaming at him.

“You okay?”

“That—“

Cassian opens and closes his mouth.

Was stupid.

Was amazing.

His heart is drumming in his ears, his pulse as wild as if he’d sprinted a mile.

He hadn’t even had time to react. It’d all happened too quickly for him to follow along. And though he’s faced her multiple times in the ring, though he’s watched her pick through Alliance opponents like they were inexperienced new recruits, that had been nothing compared to how she’d handled herself in the field.

Jyn’s eyes blaze with green fire, and he feels its burn against his skin in spite of the uniform that should protect him. It’s not dancing with joy to match her smile. No, it’s something more deadly, something more mesmerising.

It’s protectiveness.

“The codes must’ve already changed,” she reasons quickly, as if she’s trying to cut him off before he can scold her. “We needed another in, and we needed to get rid of these idiots.”

Cassian shifts his footing and places his hand on his hip. “And how are we going to do that?”

The question of why the security codes were changed early must wait for another time. They would’ve already been caught if their cover was blown, so it’s something else — something they might be able to avoid. Instead, he focuses on Jyn, on testing her once again.

She gives him a dubious look and points to his left. “Closet,” she says. “We’ll hide their bodies, use their security access codes to get through this gate here, and then the others, where we need to. I’ll do a bit of slicing here and there. And, since this breach of security will inevitably be discovered, when we get to the vault, we’ll use their IDs to steal some insignificant data to distract from what we’re actually here to steal.”

Once she finishes, Jyn takes a deep breath and holds it. It’s a subtle show of nervousness that he might have overlooked, had it not been for the stars bobbing up and down, jittery and giving away her mood.

Cassian scratches his beard and considers this addition to their plans, mentally listing the ways it could go wrong, and calculating some of the larger fallgroups.

Finally, he nods. “Not bad.”

Jyn grins, and he finds himself mirroring her expression. “But don’t get too ahead of yourself,” he says, ruffling her hair and pushing down on her head, so she has to take a step back. “We need to work out some sort of warning system before you pull a stunt like that again. I don’t like surprises.”

Jan batters his hand away defiantly and sticks out her tongue, and Cassian gets the feeling he’s going to have to get used to surprises.

Cassian hadn’t wanted a partner. He particularly hadn’t wanted to partner with Jyn Erso. But now he finds he wants to give her a proper chance to prove herself. Now he wants to take her seriously.

Chapter Text

“How is it?”

Jyn glances over her shoulder, across the brightly lit computers showing only the imperial flag, at Cassian’s silhouette in the door.

“Almost there,” she says, returning to the keyboard, tapping a few more codes into the software. Slicing. “I’m not used to core imperial codes so it’s slower than I would like, but the overall structure’s the same. There!” she adds, hitting enter with a flourish and watching a loading bar popping up on screen.

They’d made the decision to attempt a detour to check the validity of the keycards in their possession, and Cassian, with the map clear in his head, and easily located a staff computer room that Jyn could use without their being easily discovered.

“This is still faster than I was expecting,” Cassian admits, his voice warm, giving away that he’s impressed, even as his eyes remain on the hall.

He glances back at her once. “Report?”

“Codes were outdated,” she says. “Which, according to the reports and staff gossip sites I found, is because they have a visit from a VIP. No show of who they are, of course, just a lot of guesses and complaint about the inconvenience of it.”

She comes to stand beside Cassian, resting her hands on her knees and peeking out the door at the empty hallways. They’re in a deserted corner of the building, off route from almost every other important part of the facility—which is why Cassian had chosen it in the first place: it’d given them the privacy they’d needed to talk openly and without being disturbed or discovered.

Beside her, Cassian hums in thought, shifting his stance so she can feel the warmth from his body.

“How many on the gossip site?”

“About thirty,” she says. “Which doesn’t account for droids or security.”

“Any comments on updates to security?”

“No.”

Cassian hums again, and this time Jyn looks up to find him scratching his beard in thought, brows furrowed.

“Any idea who they could be?”

“I have my concerns,” he admits, and then shrugs it off when the computer plings behind them. “Hopefully it’ll be nothing for us to worry about.”

But he remains where he is, his eyes on the corridors, as if he’s waiting for something, as if he’s afraid of what is coming. Tense, on guard. And Jyn finds she trusts his instincts, trusts that he’s thought of all the different scenarios that could go wrong.

Cassian is clever, more intelligent than any person she’s ever met. Whether it be any academic subject, whether it be language or engineering or math, his mind works faster than most droids and he considers everything with a clean, cold perspective that gets him results faster. That also means his plans, no matter how critical he is of them, always get the results he want, and that any problem he comes across is easily analysed, and the best cause of action for a quick and efficient solution is easily discovered.

She’d joked about the fact she’s disappointed he’s a good spy, but Cassian isn’t a good spy. He’s the best at what he does.

It’s one of the things she likes about him, working with him.

Just like how he seems lighter on his feet, even more silent than he usually is, as if he’s almost having fun in her presence, Jyn feels safe enough around Cassian that she can focus on her own tasks, on what she needs to, and not worry about someone sneaking up on her.

So Jyn turns back to the computer and trusts Cassian to guard her back, and she does her best not to worry about their source giving them away.

She also doesn’t think about their conversation the night before, doesn’t allow herself the distraction by the whispered memories of arms around her frame or the burn in her cheeks, by her own shows of vulnerability and too easy attachment.

Instead she focuses. She focuses on removing any signs of her own intrusion into the databases she’d used, the updates she’d made to the hacked keycard. She focuses on closing up the computer and locking away what she doesn’t need, and remember the card in the reader.

“Okay,” she says, waving the card as she returns to Cassian’s side. “We’re good to go.”

Cassian turns his gaze back on her, his smile widening, about to say something.

And then he freezes.

They see it at the same time.

The red string floating between them like a bad omen.

A chill runs down the hall outside, and the room lengthens, the shadows growing deeper.

Somewhere deep inside Jyn’s mind, the darkness from within the cave shifts in recognition, and she shivers visibly as warmth seeps from her very bones. Just outside her field of vision, frost crawls closer, coating the machines so they flicker ominously in the dark.

And then she hears it.

The deep, raspy breath of someone using a machine to stay alive.

Cassian’s arm flies out and grasps her around her torso, roughly pulling her in behind him as he runs his fingers over a data-pad attached to the wall.

The computer screens behind them all die.

“…grows tired of waiting, Tarkin.”

The voice is deep and static-y, not entirely electronic, but not entirely human either. Like the voice of a near-dead thing walking the plant. And it grasps something deep within Jyn, something ancient and slumbering and squeezes, so she is cold and trembling and afraid.

So afraid.

The world tilts, and she clings, holds on to the warmth of Cassian’s back, the life and strength that comes with his mere presence.

“We are in like mind there, my lord,” comes a reply from an old, strict voice in high Coruscanti. Not snobbish, but uncompromising. “The development’s director is not as competent as I would like. However, unfortunately with the daughter missing, I fear he may be the only one capable of motivating the brain behind the project.”

As he speaks the two men pass the doorway and into the light of a lamp just ahead. It casts their faces in stark relief: two skeletons, one still dressed in human skin, the other shaped in the black plate armour of a death trooper.

Jyn doesn’t recognise the old man, but she recognises the other. Not by his cloak or his breathing, but by the air that surrounds him, the red strings that float from him in an inexistent wind.

And the rage, the rage that crosses fields like the first frost before an ice age. The rage that kills everything it touches.

“There are other ways of motivating men than loyalty,” Darth Vader promises, as they step beyond the framing of the light and become nothing more than black silhouettes against the next column of cool electricity.

Jyn shivers.

And Cassian’s arm tightens around her, the fingers stretched over her back digging into the folds of her borrowed uniform.

But it doesn’t calm her as it should, isn’t meant to calm her. Instead it’s a possessive sort of protectiveness that doesn’t belong this close to someone, something, as dark as Vader.

The red strings that surround the second hand to the emperor, float behind him as well, like eels in a current, colouring everything in shades of black and red.

And they’ve attached themselves to Cassian, clinging to his skin, his hair, his shirt, much more prominently than they had at the party the day before.

“Unfortunately, threats of violence does not work against broken men,” the old man is answering, so, so far away.

“That’s Wilhuff Tarkin,” Cassian whispers, only bothering to explain the identity of the man who might be unrecognisable. “He’s Grand Moff.”

“Grand—“ Jyn begins, nearly chokes on the word, on the fear that grasps her around the throat more powerfully than when Vader had passed her close by.

“Jyn. No—“

But she’s already stuck her head out the door proper, to check that the two men are out of hearing range. And then she turns her attention back to Cassian, dragging him back into the darkness of the computer room.

“No, Cassian,” she says. “I’m the one telling you no. You can’t do it.”

She’s still holding his arms by the wrists, but his torso is turned away from her, following the direction of the two men. The red strings pull on him, tug on his attention, like a call he can’t let go of, can’t help but listen to.

And Jyn—

Jyn is too afraid to touch them this time.

“Cassian.”

Her insistent call brings him back, breaks some of the spell, and he turns eyes, black eyes, dark eyes, eyes that reflect Vader’s red, on her face. And she sees it: sees the plan that has already formed in his all too sharp head.

Curse him.

“You still remember the maps. You know where to go and what to look for,” he’s arguing. “You’re way better at slicing than I am, so you won’t have any trouble with getting the plans without me. And here—“

He fumbles for the comm that links him back to K2SO, and holds it out for her.

Jyn follows the motion, looking down at the hand outstretched towards her. Begging her to take it.

“No.”

“Jyn—“

She looks up at him, at his tight shoulders and the mask he’s trying to pull between them. She looks at the lost, desperate expression on his face. The way he’s begging her to just take it, to not let him do it.

“No.”

“I have to,” he says. “We have to take this chance now that it’s been presented to us. It could cause so much damage to imperial command.”

A chance. A chance isn’t sure and they both know it. It’s the kind of word Saw used to love. Because a chance brings hope of success, whereas a risk would bring pessimism and fear of failure. He could make people hang themselves on that word.

It’s why Cassian is giving her the only comm to their ride out of here. Because he isn’t risking her life. He’s risking his own.

And this risk, Jyn decides, isn’t worth it.

“You said,” she enunciates as calmly as she can, picking up the comm. “That we had to follow to rules. One was no impulsive actions, no spur-of-the moment decisions. And this is an impulsive action. Vader’s too dangerous. And killing Tarkin would only bring more ‘troopers than any of us will be able to get out of. So—“

She takes a step closer and tucks his breast pocket open. 

“As this is not a solo mission,” she continues, copying his words from the ship as she lifts her head to meet his eyes. “And our priorities are each other and the target files, I’m not allowing you to go. We’re a team and we don’t let each other put our lives at risk.”

As she completes her speech, Jyn dumps the comm back into the pocket. It thumps there, beside his heart, the connection back to the rebellion.

And Cassian stares down at her, momentarily stupefied, meeting her stubborn expression with incredulity.

“That—“ he begins, when he finally finds his voice. And then he smiles. “Wasn’t what I meant.”

The strings are beginning to let him go, to fade away.

“No,” she agrees, resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “But you left it up to interpretation to not sound commandeering, and I’m using that against you.”

Cassian exhales a breath, and Jyn realises that he’s laughing. “I guess, I stepped right into that one,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jyn allows. “You’re only human.”

She brushes away the last of the red strings irritably, hands running over his shoulders and down his arms. And  she ignores the curious way he eyes her.

The computers flicker back on, casting the room in a much brighter, clearer light, giving life and warmth to his skin. And Jyn—

Jyn catches her breath at the relief in his gaze, the warm gratitude in his gaze that she hadn’t been able to see for all the red.

It drains something out of her, the strength she’d found in fear, what little desperate strength she’d had to cling on to him. The relief that she’d been able to hold on to him, when she’d never been able to hold on to anyone else in her life, is heavy rather than light and Jyn is still afraid, is still so very cold.

She’s afraid she won’t be able to do it again.

She closes her eyes and hugs herself.

Only when Cassian steps closer, steps into her, and runs his hands up and down her arms to warm her, does the chill leave her bones.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, his breath parting her fringe.

Jyn’s eyes fall open, but all she sees is the white and black of the imperial uniform ahead of her, hiding the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know if—“ she begins, but cuts herself off. “Let’s just go get the plans.”

Cassian rubs the back of his neck and glances as Jyn.

She isn’t turned to him, her back to the door ahead of them, her eyes on the hallway behind them, as if she’s expecting an ambush and wants someone protecting their rear.

There’s a tenseness to her shoulders he’d forgotten to be used to, the kind that comes with fighting too much, with living with raised fists — one she’d abandoned while at the Rebellion. But the defensive stance has morphed back into her posture, merged seamlessly with her muscles, like a second uniform. The uniform of Saw Gerrera’s greatest soldier.

And seeing that, Cassian feels oddly like he’s betrayed her.

He can still feel the prickling sensation against his skin, the pressure of Vader, the tugging of a thousand hands on his limbs, in his mind. The reassurance that he’d initially made the right decision, that at least attempting an assassination would’ve been better than turning his back on such a chance.

He rubs at the back of his neck and slides the keycard through the reader. It blinks green, and the gates ahead of them open.

Jyn steps through first, the screens of the empty control room flickering on and draping her silhouette in light. And Cassian follows without question, follows the path he’d decided on so long ago, without realising what decisions he’d made and what he’d already left out.

Inside they find a rectangular room full of screens that hover far above them, blinking into existence almost like floating squares of blue and turquoise light. The control panel keeping it all in check is to the far wall, separated by several hallways leading into a labyrinth of shelves full of servers.

Jyn crosses straight to that control panel, her fingers running along the table of several supporting panels, and only when she gets to the keyboard of her choosing does she turn back.

“What now, Captain?” she asks simply.

Cassian runs through the mental database he has of the plan, and joins her.

“Now,” he says, plugging the key card into the reader at the desk and a adds a memory stick beside it. “We steal.”

And finally, for the first time since Vader, Jyn grins.

“Watch,” she says, stretching her fingers ahead of her, and up so the light o the screens behind her flash around her, marking the elegant curve of her silhouette. “And learn.”

Cassian hadn’t had the chance to observe her while she sliced the codes for the keycard, but now he gets to be a first row audience of once. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone whose fingers moved that quickly, dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Jyn’s eyes remain on the screen, her green eyes reflecting what she sees, but her brain running miles ahead, taking in the security leaks and building plans to breach them with the ease of someone who’d played with the greatest tech of a child under the watchful eye of one of the Empire’s greatest minds.

Brilliant.

It truly is the only way to describe her. Whether its the look in her eyes, the way she dances on the battlefield, or the way she easily dismantles imperial security codes like they’re Childs’ play. Jyn is brilliant. She glows like a star in the dark, as if her soul isn’t just contained in the Force, as if it’s simply too powerful, too bright, to be reduced to invisibility.

And she makes everything easier.

Cassian rests his hip against the tabletop, facing her fully as she works, so he has a view of the entrance and her work on the screen.

He’d never thought much of his path, one way or the other. The people he’s killed, the ones he’s betrayed, the ones he’s spied on, he’s called marks, targets, inconveniences, statistics. Never as real people.

And Cassian doesn’t mind that so much. He isn’t honourable, doesn’t particularly care about honour. There’s nothing honourable about unleashing a massive army and using violence, segregation, poverty, the destruction of history, culture, memory to repress people, their freedom, their lives. 

There’s nothing honourable about war.

What matters is victory without casualty. Any life that can be spared is a victory won, and it doesn’t matter how that victory is achieved.

Assassination is a useful tool. It’d been an easy skill to learn, even at a young age: even when he’d been scrawny and wouldn’t have stood a chance against a ‘trooper, he’d been able to lie on the top of a building and take out any enemy that might otherwise have stolen an ally, a friend from him.

Since then it’d simply seeped into his bones, become a natural part of who he was, and Cassian had never questioned it—not consciously.

But then Jyn—

Jyn had found a way around murder.

Jyn had found an excuse not to kill, a different path, one just as disruptive and confusing to the Empire. One that would distract and protect.

She’d protected him.

Her very presence, her skills, her intellect and competence is making some ‘useful’ assassinations obsolete. And Cassian thinks he’s grateful to her for that very fact.

Not because she’s a moral awakening. Jyn doesn’t care about killing one way or another: she doesn’t have to when she can face down a group of enemies and incapacitate them as easily as a sniper left in safety. And she’s killed just as many as he has, maybe more.

No, Jyn doesn’t care about the morality of right or wrong.

She’d cared about him.

Because Cassian is only human. And no matter how much he tries to convince himself he doesn’t care, every death is a weight on him. The blood he can’t wash from under his nails. The eyes that stare back at him from beyond the blaster. The burden becoming too heavy for his shoulders.

Every death is a nightmare ready to haunt him.

And Cassian is grateful to Jyn because her very existence means that his future is changing, because she is a light in the dark to keep the ghosts of people at bay, because she is an extra shoulder to hold up the sky. Because she’s an excuse not to kill.

“Found it!”

The triumphant voice of the girl at his side brings Cassian back to his senses, and the beaming smile on her face is like a shock-wave to his system.

“I’ve used the guard’s keycard to check in on their food supply routes,” she says. “That way they’ll think we’re targeting their supply runs.”

Cassian smiles. “Maybe we should be doing that. If nothing else then to feed ourselves better.”

“What?” She feigns outrage. “You don’t like the stale caf we’ve been drinking? How dare you. That’s grounds for treason.”

And Cassian—

He can’t help it.

He laughs.

“What about the weapons’ data?” He asks, stepping closer to ruffle her hair.

She grimaces at him and batters his hand away.

“It was more difficult to find, but I got it in the end,” she says. And then hesitates, looking back up at the screens full of lists. “It’s a big database. I’m not sure we have the space for it.”

Cassian scratches his beard thoughtfully as he scrolls down through the list.

“You have a point,” he murmurs and then lights on an idea. He eyes her conspiratorially. “You wouldn’t happen to have an eye for easily transportable data keys and light fingers?”

Jyn is already grinning before he finishes the sentence. “You know I do,” she says, and twirls on her heel, leaving a trail of stars behind her in her glee.

Cassian watches her go, a smile still tugging in the corner of his lips, and the thought that yes, it’s a lot more fun to be just a spy with Jyn around.

He shakes his head and re-focuses, turning back to all the data she’d found for him and begins scrolling. With the extra screens, it’s easy to set up the folders so he can see which ones contain weapon’s projects and which are yearly financial reports. Scientists aren’t usually very efficient at marking their work, he’s found, but someone has gone to great lengths to meticulously structure everything, and that, too, makes Cassian’s job easier.

He mutters to himself, the names of the projects, recognising some here and there from other missions, and lights on one called Project Stardust.

It reminds him, oddly, of something Jyn had said about her mother the night before.

She used her nickname for me to mark her reports.

She’d laughed when she’d said it, as if her parents’ attempts at connecting themselves to her somehow, desperately, had hurt more than it had brought her joy or relief.

There’s no real warmth in space.

But wouldn’t it be convenient if Galen Erso had been as sentimentally attached to his daughter as his wife?

It’s a big file.

Cassian considers it momentarily, the inconvenience of it.

“Find anything good?” Jyn asks, appearing at his side as if she’d popped out of empty space.

Cassian smiles down at her and doesn’t check the data. “Absolutely,” he declares, dropping Stardust into the Alliance memory.

“Me too,” she says, showing him her hoard of data keys.

Cassian’s smile widens. “Let’s get to work, then.”

While Jyn places herself on the edge of the counter, fully facing the door as Cassian’s guard this time, Cassian turns his focus completely to the task at hand. He has to judge quickly which weapon’s programs will be of most danger to the Alliance, which facilities will be the easiest to destroy. He has to cross reference the differently worded reports with the keywords in his own database and make quick interpretations where the meaning is unclear, or the language not Basic.

His fingers move quickly over the keyboard, running just quickly enough to keep up with his mind, and he forgets his surroundings. The data keys fill up quickly, going from the table between himself and Jyn, to the plug, back to Jyn who wordlessly attaches them to her belt. It saves him time, helps him focus.

So much so, he doesn’t notice the chill running down his spine, as he copies the last folder.

It’s the hand on his arm, and the one reaching over and telling the data key and the access card from the plugs that pull him out of his meditative state.

“Jyn, wha—“

“Turn it off,” she whispers. “Quickly.”

And Cassian doesn’t think, doesn’t look back over his shoulder. He feels his skin for the first time in — he doesn’t know how long. It’s cold and clammy.

The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.

He’s barely closed the last folder, superficially erased their traces, before her hold on his arm grows insistent, and he drags him off between the labyrinthine shelves behind the control panel.

They turn the corner of the first shelf, so they’re out of sight of the control room, and Jyn crouches down, Cassian right behind her, just as the electrical doors slide open.

The temperature drops. Instantly.

Damp, chilly air precedes the ice that crawls over the floor from the door, cracking like fresh snow under the boots of— Cassian counts footsteps between his and Jyn’s breathing—five people.

Behind him the darkness creeps closer, the shadows draping more heavily on his shoulders, like hands tugging on him. It’s the same as it had been, that clammy, oppressive that accompanies the Emperor’s only knight: Darth Vader.

“My lord, I don’t understand—“ a voice, young and inexperienced, too trusting.

“Silence,” comes a raspy voice.

“But, no one’s been allowed in here all day,” the other person continues, confusion rising like panic in his voice. “You’ve already met the scientists under our command, who usually use this place, so—“

He stops abruptly.

The silence fills the air so completely it feels choking. Until it actually is. A strangled noise comes from the control room ahead of them, pained and desperate.

Jyn’s hold on Cassian tightens, and instinctively he responds, his fingers tucking into the hook of her belt, holding on to the only source of warmth in the room.

They could do it. The doors are closed behind Vader and the others. There are no cameras this deep in the facility. Both their blasters are equipped with silencers, Cassian had made sure of that, and Jyn is quick enough with a weapon that they’d both be able to take out their enemies before anyone could call for help.

If they’re lucky, Tarkin is even right there in the room, too.

If they’re unlucky, that’s still Vader on a silver platter.

Jyn shifts in the glow of the servers, her green eyes catching the light as she glances behind her at him.

There’s a heavy thump of knees hitting the floor ahead of them. Then a body.

More silence.

Cassian’s heart is beating quickly.

“The Force is strong here,” Vader says, his electronic voice ominous and empty of emotion, filling the room unnaturally, as if he were speaking straight into Cassian’s mind—though of course he couldn’t be. “Strongest in this place. Whatever mouse you let in, they’re not your average scouts.”

Footsteps, moving closer, and the clicking of buttons. He’ll be distracted by the panel, by the screens. It’d be the perfect time to—

“No,” Jyn whispers, spinning silently and grasping the hand that’d come to rest on his blaster.

Her green eyes capture Cassian’s and he stares down at her. Trapped.

He opens and closes his mouth, keeping back the question of how. How had she known?

You’re a fool, Cassian Andor, her expression seems to say, even as she tilts her head and smiles, amused, almost, at his insistence on this.

The Force isn’t real. It’s just an old religion that only sorcerers believe in. It’s an old argument from his separatist days, and he clings to it momentarily.

Until he sees the star that floats up from behind her back, until he realises that there’s an entire circular shied of stars keeping out the floating red threads. The ones he’d seen before, when they’d first hidden from Vader.

“You know very well,” Jyn whispers, her voice hidden by Tarkin reprimanding the ‘troopers with them. “I’d be the first kick their asses.”

It’s a joke. And it catches Cassian off guard.

He laughs, his hand letting go of the blaster to hide the sound instead.

Jyn’s smile widens at the sound, and she continues, a little less desperately. “I know that killing Vader and Tarkin would leave a dent in the empire,” she says. “But getting the plans back to the Alliance will give us a chance to leave a larger dent. And I know… I know a former Jedi is not to be reckoned with.”

She swallows thickly, the stars around them wavering. And Cassian knows she’s thinking of her mother. Cassian knows, she thinks they can’t win, that the risk isn’t worth it.

He might not want to put his faith in the Force. But whether he likes it or not, the Force is a factor in his life, and so he had better treat it as a reality he can work with than ignore it.

And he’d already felt he’d betrayed Jyn once. He’d suggested leaving her behind, had suggested they separate. And while that’s an important part of what a team needs to do, to be able to function apart, to be able to complete the mission; in that moment it’d meant too much to Jyn.

Jyn, who doesn’t think of death one way or another, Jyn who is pragmatic. Jyn who hadn’t cared about anything than wanting him safe. Jyn who’d cared about his life.

Now, more than ever, Cassian wants to answer that.

“I can’t keep him at bay,” she’s continuing, fear creeping into her voice, making the stars at her back waver again. “Once, he’s no longer distracted, he’ll…”

“Hey,” Cassian cuts her off, lifting both his hands to her cheeks and making her look at him. “You’re right. Calm down.”

He means don’t be afraid.

Her eyes widen on his face, surprised at his quick turn of mind. And when Cassian smiles, tilting his head in challenge, her eyes narrow irritably at the slight condescension in his words—the implication she isn’t in control.

“Right,” she murmurs, linking her fingers around his wrists. She closes her eyes and doesn’t push him away. “Breathe.”

Cassian nods, and joins her.

Jyn’s soul might be made of light. Jyn might be stardust, left to float in space and give light and life to the things around her, spreading the brilliance of her spirit around her. 

But Cassian’s soul is different. Cassian’s soul is empty space, darkness. Like a shadow, he’s roamed the universe, unnoticed and untraceable.

Now, as his breathing syncs with Jyn’s, he takes inspiration from her actions, from the way she plays in the Force to protect them, and pushes the boundaries of his reach.

And slowly, slowly, the shadows around him, the emptiness expands, stealing the light from the servers, so he can only sense the gold of Jyn’s stars from behind his eyelids.

Far away, he can hear Vader commenting “We’re going to have to reroute the food supply routes.”

“That’s going to cost us,” Tarkin observes. “But not if we use it to trap the Rebels when they come for it.”

“No,” Vader says. “I’ll talk to the Emperor. We need those stocks to be completely secure or our army will falter. We’ll bring them round Naboo instead.”

He pauses, his footsteps moving across the snow. Stalking back and forth, as if he’s sensing the change that has come over the room.

Cassian presses his lips together, and leans closer to Jyn. His fingers slide into her hair, holding on as best he can, and she meets him half-way, pressing their foreheads together.

Her breath is warm against his skin.

It feels like their hearts are beating in sync, frantic and fearful, but protected now.

The footsteps stop. Recede.

“Move all this data to Scarif,” Vader adds. “Coruscant clearly isn’t safe enough anymore. Too many rats.”

The doors slide open, as Tarkin is ordering the other troopers to clean up, and his and footsteps are followed by the slower manoeuvring of a body.

Cassian does his best not to wince as the heavy load slides across the floor.

They sit there, silently breathing in sync for the longest time. Holding on to each other as if they’re still in danger. And slowly, slowly, the silence becomes normal again, the cold recedes.

Jyn is the first to open her eyes, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin like a kiss that hadn’t happened.

“We,” she murmurs, almost breathless, almost in awe. Her hands are still tucked into his coat against his shoulders, and she leans on him now, as she pushes away. “We did it!”

Cassian just manages to open his eyes and see the bright relief, the thrill of getting away with something impossible, light up her face.

And then she’s thrown her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him over backwards on the floor between the servers.

“We did it!”

Around them, the stars dance brightly in the darkness, protected and hidden from outsiders, from enemies. And for a moment, for a single moment, it doesn’t look empty anymore. It looks like open space, as if they’re floating, part of the galaxy that has gifted them with existence, with endless possibilities. With each other. So that Cassian laughs as he returns her hug, as he pulls her closes, tugging her head under his chin.

“We still have to get out of here.”

“Peace of cake.”

Her voice is muffled, her breath warm against his throat.

And Cassian doesn’t mind so much anymore, their connection, the Force tying them together. He doesn’t hate it, and he doesn’t relish in it. All that matters is that Jyn is safe, that they’re okay, walking a similar path and doing something that feels right and bright for the first time in the longest time.

The briefing room is silent as Cassian reports the results of their mission to Draven and Mon Mothma.

Draven is the one sitting across from them at the table, leaning back, waiting. The turquoise lighting that alls across one side of his face does nothing to light the shadows obscuring the other side.

Mon Mothma is watching from the side as a technician is checking the data files, her attention only partially on Jyn and Cassian. And contrary to Draven her face is lit by the screen below her face, bright and colourful to contrast with her white robes.

Jyn stands back in Cassian’s shadow, letting her superior officer do the talking for once.

Her eyes never leave Draven’s face.

She’s learnt a thing or two on this mission. She’s learnt that she can read the room a lot better than she thought. She’s learnt what the small red strings attached to Draven’s right shoulder mean, what they imply. And though they’re nowhere near as powerful as the ones sticking to Vader, at least she has learnt this: the Force exists all around them, and it moves in tandem with our motivations and our intentions.

Draven might be an asset to the Rebel Alliance, the right type to lead a ruthless intelligence department working for the cause. He might be necessary. But that just makes him twice as dangerous.

(Jyn would bet her favourite blaster on the fact that she’d find the same red strings attached to Saw).

Jyn has also learnt to read Cassian. While the red and gold strings that mark the changing moods of the Force are very slim indications as to people’s intentions, and she’ll be able to use that well in combat, it pales in comparison to the way Jyn is now capable of reading the man at her side.

His expressions, his behaviour, the change in his mood are all portrayed on the surface, but the way the space around him moves and shifts has helped her double-check those observations. And the way his soul shrinks away when he interacts with Draven gives her much more information than his passive, spy-face would allow her to otherwise observe.

It isn’t all that confusing, really. Cassian might like Draven, might trust him, might even view him as a mentor. But those we look up to aren’t always good for us.

Unfortunately, all Jyn can do is watch.

She can’t make Cassian’s decisions for him. She can’t decide who to let into his life and who to shoot in the chest. Not when he has marked them as an ally.

So she observes.

She observes the downturn of Draven’s mouth, the displeasure in the corner of his eyes, the tension in his body, as Cassian tells him about Vader and Tarkin.

“I made the call not to go after them,” Cassian concludes simply.

And Jyn can see in the roll of Draven’s shoulders, in the movement of the Force around him, that he doesn’t buy it.

His eye flicker shrewdly to Jyn.

“With what reason?” He asks, getting to his feet so he’s towering over them both.

The space around Cassian grows so small it barely shimmers around his heart anymore.

“The priority was the plans,” he reports, his eyes on Draven. “And as I wasn’t alone, it would be irresponsible to put my—“ he glances at Jyn “—my partner at risk when the target is as dangerous as he is.”

“In which case,” Draven sighs, tracing his fingers over the table as he rounds it, coming closer. “I’ll have to deem this team test a failure.”

Jyn is stepping forwards before she’s even comprehended the words. It doesn’t matter she’d not been informed that this was a test. All that matters is that something they’d done together, something Cassian had been involved with had been deemed a failure.

“We got your files, didn’t we?” She hisses, straightening her back as she pauses right in front of Draven. “We got more than you’d asked for. We got them without being noticed and we came back alive to do more work for you.”

She’s bristling, and she knows it. She’s disrespecting a general and she doesn’t care. He can’t just dismiss their work so easily. He can’t just dismiss all the planning and the preparations, the effort they’d put in. Their lives had been put at stake and he treats it as a paltry thing. As a failure.

Draven lowers his eyes coolly to meet Jyn’s fiery gaze.

“This is Intelligence, Sergeant” he reminds her steadily. “What you just described is the bare minimum of what we expect from you. If you can’t remember that I’ll have to make strong suggestions you find a different department to work in.”

Well, maybe I don’t want to work for you.

The words are almost out of her mouth, but Cassian stops her. His hand is warm on her shoulder, as he steps up to her.

“With all due respect, Sir,” he says, his voice soft, begging rationality be reinstated. “There’s no reason to dismiss the Sergeant’s contribution to this so easily.”

“Oh, I’m not dismissing her contributions.”

“Without her, our invasion into the Imperial database would eventually have been discovered,” Cassian continues, acting as if he’d not heard the jab at her even as his fingers tighten in warning around her shoulder, hooking under her collarbone. “She’s the one who made sure we got through their gates, the one who came up with a way to distract them with the food supplies. And in a way that still ensures we can attack them.”

He doesn’t mention that the last part was purely a coincidence, and Jyn doesn’t know if she should feel happy or ashamed to take credit for something she hadn’t been responsible for.

(But then, so had Cassian).

It warms her. The fact he’s sticking up for her, taking her side. The fact he’s…

Jyn lifts her head to look at him in astonishment.

Cassian is meeting Draven’s gaze respectfully but with a stubborn grace, refusing to back down from his argument. Refusing to back down from her side.

The dark space surrounding them has returned, powerful and all encompassing, embracing her in the gloom. Protectively. As if he’s keeping her safe from Draven.

He’s arguing for the fact the test had been a success.

Does he want to work with her?

It’s difficult to imagine.

Jyn hasn’t decided how she feels about being stuck in the same compound with her soulmate of all people. She has barely decided how she feels about having a soulmate, at all. And working closely with him on missions?

She’d volunteered on a whim, because she’d been bored, because she’d been curious and hadn’t wanted to run away. But sticking around permanently would be different, being in high tension, dangerous situations together on an almost weekly basis would be different.

And Cassian had already made up his mind?

“All the information they’ve given us,” Mothma pipes up from the sidelines. She glances up to check that she has the attention, and smiles with the kind of amusement of someone who knows she’d been forgotten in the fray. “Will give us enough big targets to attack safely for the next few years. Security protocols, weapons supply routes, energy extraction plans. Vader or no Vader. Tarkin or no Tarkin. We have enough information here to compromise the entire Imperial army.”

She levels Jyn and Cassian with a warm smile, and it’s clear the one who really matters has passed them both with flying colours.

“Thank you.”

That kills all argument, and they spend the rest of the debrief discussing the rest of their mission and the files they’d found. By the time they’re ordered to get some well-deserved rest most of Jyn’s rage has drained out of her.

But she still notices the way the space around Cassian shrinks away as Draven reminds him one last time, of his position.

“I hope you’re remembering your priorities, Captain.”

Cassian lifts his head and meets the older man’s gaze without flinching. “I know my priorities, General.”

And it makes her smile.

Jyn doesn’t know Cassian very well. She can’t truly know what he’s been through, just as he will never truly know her experiences. But they understand each other. And Jyn understands this: Cassian might be the perfect spy, but that also makes him the perfect killer.

And he doesn’t want to be anymore.

As the door slides silently closed behind them Jyn yawns heavily. Now that Draven is just a memory behind a door, she’s beginning to think very fondly of her little cot in the dorms, about a good proper rest. Cassian’s soft voice in the semi-darkness, and the way the space around him had expanded to embrace her like a caress of evening gloom, had only made her drowsiness worse.

Even the sense if doom she’d felt at the realisation that Draven could not be trusted seems a faraway danger in this moment, now that there’s a door and Jyn between him and Cassian.

She lifts her eyes to get his attention, to say her goodbyes for now, but just as she catches his smile, footsteps thunder down the hall and several rebels come running past them.

One of them stops, still jogging in place, their eyes shining with the hilarity of what they’re about to impart. “Melshi and Hera are having a race down the hill in tires.”

And then they’re gone, together with the rest of their little group, and Cassian’s hand is firmly tucked into Jyn’s elbow before she can even stop gaping after them.

“What?”

“Come on,” Cassian says, his eyes dancing as he tugs gently on her. “These things are excellent for morale.”

She scoffs. “Cassian, I’ve been here for a year,” she says. “I’m not exactly an outsider. And I’m exhausted.”

But he just raises an eyebrow, his smile too warm to be defied, and she pulls her arm out of his grasp.

“Fine,” she says. “But be prepared to have to carry me back to bed.”

Her mission partner grins and stuffs his hands away in his pockets. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he reminds her.

And Jyn whirls on her heel, stalks down the hall after the others to hide her blush.

Not for the first time, either.

Cassian follows her at a more leisurely pace.

Chapter Text

Jyn wakes to a bizarre sight for the second morning in a row.

She’s used to sleeping around people. Saw’s rebels slept where there were space for them, hugging their weapons close to their chests or clutching a knife under a jacket. The dormitory girls that shape her more general home-base mutter in their sleep, share cots on particularly dark nights, share horror stories on the lighthearted ones as if they are children on Lah’mu around a camp fire. There’s an innocent note to that, which has stopped her nightmares and tension when she wakes. She’s even gotten used to trusting the other alliance people on mission, to sharing jabs with Hera in the morning or bickering with Dameron.

Jyn is used to people. Plural.

She’s not used to opening her eyes and finding Cassian Andor at her side, the deep space around him twirling pensively, as if it’s reflecting the calm of dreams or thoughts.

On Coruscant she’d jumped out of bed immediately at the sight of him, sleeping on the floor beside her, and gone about her day — to vanquish the sight from her mind.

This time, he’s seated in a chair not too far from her, his feet on a book-shelf by his desk so he can prop a datapad on his thighs. The pose is relaxed and private, as if he’s forgotten she’s there.

Jyn’s eyes travel the rest of the small room. Books, not too many, but a surprising amount for a rebel, line shelves. Clothes are neatly folded between the books and weapons, separated in parts or assembled. There’s a list of exercises hanging on a wall by the desk and a mat packed into a corner along with a boxing ball. Even a small washing basket where he’s dropped his uniform into.

It’s a soldier’s room, but not of the kind that finds their life constantly uprooted.

For all intents and purposes, this feels like a home.

And this time, Jyn can’t run away from the sight of Cassian out of uniform, unguarded and warm.

So she doesn’t.

“Well,” she says as greeting. “This is weird.”

He doesn’t even start.

“Only feminine identifying individuals are allowed in the girls’ dorms,” he says, without looking up.

“You could’ve asked someone else to carry me the rest of the way,” she counters, sitting up and looking down startled when there’s a brush of cool against her skin where the blanket—the blue, hand-woven, intricately patterned blanket—slides down her torso, revealing the black tank-top she usually wears under her uniform.

Jyn squawks.

“You could’ve also not undressed me!” She adds, more irritably.

Cassian glances over his shoulder at her fumbling with the Festian blanket and turns back, clearly dismissing her embarrassment as dramatics.

“You’re still dressed,” he states clinically. “And I don’t have a habit of letting dirt into my bed.”

Jyn glowers at his back. “Well, thanks for not considering me dirt,” she grumbles, looking for her uniform only to find a clean set of clothes at the foot of the bed and a cup of caf on the floor.

She decides to lunge for the drink rather than the clothes.

“And for the record,” Cassian adds, setting down his datapad and turning to address her, while she drinks the caf with relish. He holds up his fingers, beginning to list. “Those clothes are from the general supplies. They should fit you, since they have your measurements on record. Yes, I checked in private. Yes, I respect the sanctity of the women’s dormitory, and no, there weren’t anyone around to take over babysitting duty.”

Jyn nearly spits out the caf in his face.

“Ba—“ she begins, coughs, starts over. Utterly insulted. “Babysitting duty?!”

There’s a tug in the corner of his lips, a shadow of a smile, and Jyn nearly pitches the mug in his face, scalding caf or not. She really should’ve just spit on him.

“A proper officer would’ve been able to get her ass back to bed,” he reminds her smoothly, leaning back, and, oh, he’s definitely smug.

“Good thing I’m not a proper officer,” she retorts. “I’m a sergeant. Not a captain. And I’m pretty sure the sanctity of the women’s dorm exist so we don’t end up in the bed of some improper officer.”

To her surprise the rest of his guard falls away, and he laughs. It doesn’t roar, doesn’t fill the room oppressively. It isn’t pompous or attention grabbing. Instead it is as gentle as the rest of him, like a soft-spoken compliment or a Festian lullaby. And like a summer storm the sound hits Jyn, blows straight through her, taking her breath with it, tugging on her hair.

It warms his face, and, for a moment, the delight resting in the corners of his eyes is enough to make him beautiful.

“Good thing I didn’t sleep, then,” Cassian says, waving the datapad in explanation. And then his mouth falls. “And I’m not some improper officer. I’m fa—“

He stops himself, seeming to realise what he’d been about to say.

And Jyn sits there, watching him, watching the doubt and horror seep into his expression at what he’d been about to say, about to claim. Her fingers are still clutched in the Festian blanket, the soft frayed cloth gentle like a mother’s final gift.

She wonders if Festians simply consider soulmates as family, like a natural extension of their most precious relations.

The idea makes her smile. It makes her take mercy on him.

“What? You finished the report without me?” She demands, already crawling to the edge of the bed to wave her hand for the datapad. “Give me that!”

“What?” He demands in turn, flipping the pad up and out of her reach and eyeing her suspiciously. “Why?”

“You already lied once to Mothma and Draven,” she says. “I want to see what other lies you’ve added so I can have your back.”

Cassian turns his eyes heavenward, but hands the pad over without any other argument. Jyn accepts it gratefully, sitting back on her haunches and skimming the writing.

She ignores the muttered “thanks to you I barely had to lie.”

It’s in code, but one she’s familiar with. And she finds that most of the details are true to her own recollection. He’d left out her panic in the imperial hall, and continued the lie about the weapons facilities. Protecting her. Protecting himself. And maybe, to Cassian, paying her back for being a good partner.

Jyn glances up and finds him scratching his beard, considering his bookshelf thoughtfully. Patiently, waiting for her.

The dark space around him is calm, betraying his thoughts to her. It silhouettes him perfectly, here, in the brightly lit room. His white shirt and warm skin stand out against the depths of space, and it makes it very easy to forget there is a room around them at all. Like gravity, he draws her eyes to him, and Jyn—

Jyn still doesn’t know if it would be wise to partner with someone like that. Someone she doesn’t mind being distracted by.

“What’s it look like?” she finds herself asking.

Cassian exhales deeply, and his shoulders sag. He doesn’t need to ask her to clarify.

“Stars,” he says simply. There’s a tug of familiar fondness in the corner of his lips that doesn’t soften the heavy finality in his dark eyes.

Jyn nods stiffly and runs away.

She grabs the desaturated blue shirt from the top of the pile and pulls it on, on top of her bra and tank top. She buttons it meticulously, giving it her full attention and him privacy to come up with a different topic.

They don’t have to talk about this.

They shouldn’t talk about it.

It’s too heavy.

They aren’t even meant to be able to see it. Not both of them. It so rarely happens. And normal people go about their lives perfectly fine without clarity, trusting in the relationships they build organically, by their own choices.

This is just a complication. Another complication the Force places in the way of people—and Jyn in particular.

But Cassian doesn’t avoid the topic. He follows the path she’d started.

“How’d you know?”

It’s not what she expects him to say.

Jyn’s hands still against her shirt, where she’d been tugging the kyber crystal out of sight, and she turns her eyes to him.

“You’re a brilliant spy, Cassian,” she says simply. “But even you can’t always control where your eyes go.”

He nods, his eyes seeming to follow the path of something invisible in the air, right above her shoulder. “That makes sense,” he admits. “I’ll have to work on it.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Because I want to work with you,” he says simply, as if it isn’t completely opposite to his entire character to be that honest, as if it isn’t completely ridiculous to state such a commitment out loud. Unashamed, unafraid. “If you’re interested.”

Jyn collects her jaw and forces herself not to look too shocked. “Why?”

He exhales a laugh through his nose, amused. “Because you might not be a spy,” he says, “but you’re the best at what you do. You’re a better fighter than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re an excellent slicer. You’re intelligent and think about the consequences of your actions. You have skills that I don’t have, and I have skills that you don’t have. I think collaboration would make us a very effective team.”

“For the cause?” She checks.

He nods. “For the cause.”

It’s a speech he’s been preparing. Short, succinct, convincing. The offer worded to sound un-restraining, too. He’s made it not about them, but what they can bring to the Alliance, how they can make what they already do more effective. It’d be the easiest way to sway her, too, if she didn’t know him so well.

Part of Cassian’s job is recruitment, is making people trust him, is finding out what will convince others to do what he wants.

And Jyn—

Jyn sees through him, Jyn knows him, but she doesn’t know if she can be his partner. She doesn’t know if she can be a substitute for family.

He already has the Alliance. She saw him yesterday with the other rebels, the rebels he’s grown up with, fought with, competed with, laughed with. He doesn’t really need her, too.

Not in this capacity.

So maybe he’s trying to convince himself, too. Maybe this really is about the cause. Maybe they’re just that alike.

“I’m not sure I’d make a very good spy, though,” she says, giving voice to her hesitation.

“You don’t have to be,” he counters. “Look at Kay. He’d make a terrible spy. He’s too honest. Let me be the spy, you can worry about the rest.”

Jyn rubs the back of her neck and looks aside.

Then she shakes her head and grabs the trousers he’d procured for her, and Cassian turns around to give her privacy.

Which is a relief all on its own.

She’s still just a kid. She’s still just someone who keeps being abandoned. By her parents. By Saw. She doesn’t want to place her faith in the hands of others, and she’d liked the Alliance because, underneath the cheerful, unruly rebels fighting for a cause they believe in, there’s a cool detachment to the whole organisation, one of distrust and disinterest, where no one really agrees, and politics still rule the day.

She would expect, eventually, to be abandoned here. And that makes it feel safe.

She doesn’t want to be wanted.

She doesn’t want to be claimed. As a partner, as family. As anything.

It means she has a place to belong to, a person to belong to. And those can be lost.

And Jyn knows she wouldn’t be able to handle that pain again.

To risk that…

“I’ll have to think about it,” she says, drawing him back round. She makes a face at him to soften the hesitation. “I’m not sure I could answer to Draven.”

He nods. “Alright,” he says, voice soft and accepting.

And Jyn—

Jyn wonders why Cassian, who wants to work with her, claims it’s purely a professional relationship, but is clearly acting on some sort of attachment. She wonders why he didn’t want to know what his soul looks like.

She ties her shoes in silence and grabs her mug of half-finished caf, only turning back to him when she’s in the door.

“Thank you,” she says, and though she lifts the cup in salute, she doesn’t mean the drink.

His smile is as soft as everything else about him. “You’re welcome.”

And Jyn turns and flees the soft white t-shirt, the hand-woven blanket on the bed, and the bookshelves. She turns and flees the closest thing she’d found to a home in many years.

It only occurs to her later to think about herself.

Stars, Cassian had said, draped in the open darkness of deep space.

Of course, it would be stars.

Jyn is just grateful he hadn’t said stardust. If she is to belong anywhere, she wants to belong in space, to find a home there like every other living star, in a place of endless possibilities and endless adventures. She doesn’t wish to belong to a sad past. She wants to be more than that.

Maybe that’s why she goes to Mothma next.

Maybe, she’d already made her decision the day she’d volunteered for Cassian’s mission. Maybe she just wants one more person thinking this is a good idea.

So she doesn’t have to give credit to the Force or to open space.

Jyn doesn’t knock.

She ignores the protest from people she’s worked with as she storms directly past the bodyguards on either side of Mothma’s office, and throws the door open. Slams it in her wake, to shut up the apologies already falling from their lips.

“You tested me,” she accuses the woman whose white dress becomes nothing but a shadowy silhouette in the light of the window.

Mon Mothma lowers the datapad she’d been perusing, her smile falling into diplomatic folds. “Jyn, I—“

“You tested me,” Jyn repeats, uncaring of her disrespect towards the leader of the Alliance. The Alliance. ”And you didn’t even tell me.”

She’s had a few hours to work up her rage, but Jyn has always been quick to explode and a few hours of rumination had been enough. Now she’s standing here, in the dark and dust of a resistance office, and there’s no real difference to her between Mothma and Saw.

She’d thought Mothma would be different, wouldn’t use her subordinates, wouldn’t push them beyond what they were comfortable with. Wouldn’t ask them to scar themselves and hurt themselves and forget themselves for the cause.

“I’m sorry, Jyn,” Mothma tries again. “It was a spur of the moment decision made when you volunteered for that mission. Captain Andor was supposed to tell you—“

Jyn’s hackles rise at the name. “Captain Andor? Captain Andor only tells people what makes them move when he needs them to move,” she says. “He only ever shares half of what goes on on a mission in his reports. You sent us on a strictly timed mission, where we only had time to sleep because Captain Andor is good at exploiting every moment given to him, and you expected him to tell me I was being tested for Intelligence?”

Mothma folds her palms against each other in front of her face, and when she lets them fall again she looks truly pained.

She moves closer to Jyn, so there’s no longer a desk between them, and turns her side to the window. Her troubled face fills with warmth and her robes are lit once again in glowing white.

“This wasn’t your test, Jyn,” she says kindly, placing a hand on Jyn’s shoulder. “I know you. You don’t need testing. This was a test to see if the two of you would work well together. I thought—“

She hesitates, looks away.

And it’s difficult, so difficult, with her motherly gestures and soft expressions, to stay angry with Mon Mothma. She’s nothing like Lyra, and yet she feels like a parental figure, another one - one more to abandon her and betray her when she’s no longer useful, when she’s too weak to be anything but a hindrance.

Jyn clenches her fingers around her bleeding heart, and does her best to hold on to the feeling of betrayal. The little shard of negativity to give her strength, fuel her righteous, defensive anger.

“I thought,” Mothma continues. “That you’d do well on those types of assignments. That you would thrive better. It would be more challenging, would help you use your vast set of skills, and you’d have a better sense of purpose than being a bodyguard for a dodgy old senator.”

And the thing about Jyn is she can rant and rave, and convince herself she doesn’t like emotion or attachment; that she doesn’t need people in her life. She can take care of herself. But it hurts. It hurts more than anything to lose others. And she gets attached so easily. Because all she’s ever really wanted is a home, all she’s ever really wanted is a place to belong to.

And so it slips, a little more, the sense of betrayal. The strength to cling to her rage.

Because she wants to believe so badly in the people around her.

“This would also keep you more at Base One,” Mothma continues. “You wouldn’t have to spend weeks in an old mansion on Chandrilla. You’d be here between missions, with people your own age, people who fight the same type of fight as you. You would be better able to share in the friendships the other rebels forge by staying here and fighting from here. Base One would be more of a home to you.”

It’s unfair.

It’s so utterly unfair.

Because Mothma isn’t being manipulative. She isn’t trying to convince Jyn that she’s better used somewhere else, that Mothma did the right thing because it came from her. She’s trying to convince Jyn because she has Jyn’s best interests at heart, and she’s doing it expertly because she cares.

Blood drips from Jyn fingertips, the last drops, drying up unnoticed on the floor. And she sighs in pain. Sighs because once again her heart has dried up, wounds closed just barely, and on request she’s leaving it out in the open, trusting and vulnerable.

“There are other ways of doing that,” she says, looking down, looking away. Running away. “Other departments I could work for from here. And I’m— I’m not sure it’s wise that I work with Cassian.”

“Why not?” Mothma inquires, concern singing in every syllable. “You mentioned he’s been keeping secrets… has he treated you unpleasantly?”

Jyn scoffs and shakes her head. “If he’d been disrespectful I would’ve decked him and walked away,” she says simply. “It was fine working with him. Even fun. He knows what he’s doing. He’s a good leader, knows how to motivate people, how best to direct their skills. He’s trustworthy and I don’t mind having his back, at all. But I—“

She stops.

She’d been about to say I’m not sure it’s a good idea to work with my soulmate.

She has a whole list of reasons prepared, too. Distractions, dedication being misdirected. She gets too protective on the battlefield. He’s too attached as well. It’s dangerous.

More than anything, Jyn wants to protect him, keep him safe and happy, and able to make his own decisions, define himself. But that doesn’t stop at missions. If she tells Mothma that they’re soulmates, that they can see each other’s souls in the Force, then that will end up on record.

Anyone in the Alliance would be able to exploit it.

Anyone who got their hands on those records would be able to use the information to hurt them, to use them.

And Jyn finds that, though she is beginning to view this place as her family, she has spent too many years in Saw’s cadre to fully trust the Alliance with something that precious.

And she thinks Cassian would agree, that he does agree. After all, he’d never brought it up himself, has never reported it to anyone, though he is probably required to.

This is a private thing between them. So Jyn keeps her mouth shut and she doesn’t say anything more.

Mothma waits, but when Jyn doesn’t give a reason she simply nods. “I’m glad you seem to have gotten along well,” she concludes finally. “It’s the role of an intelligence officer to usually work alone. It makes it more difficult to discover them, and in theory puts them less at risk. However, there’s more than one type of danger in war, and I’m worried for them.”

That gets Jyn’s attention.

“Worried?”

Mothma trails her fingers along the edge of her desk as she walks back around it to sit down in her chair and produce a datapad. She fingers the screen for a couple moments and pulls up a hologram of a file.

Cassian’s file.

His photo hasn’t been updated in years, but he looked equally tired as a teenager, too old for his age. As if he’d already been burdened by his job then. There’s a hollow look to his dark eyes, like someone lost and feral is staring out from behind the blank mask.

“Draven pushes his people,” Mothma says. “I think he’s pushing them too far, and that he’s keeping things from the council that we would never approve of. I think he does it because he’s willing to sacrifice more than we are for the cause, and that he considers us cowards because we don’t wish to go as far. I’d like someone on the inside keeping tabs on him.”

Jyn raises an eyebrow. “You want me to be a spy?”

“You would be working in Intelligence,” Mothma points out, smiling ironically. “I don’t want our officers to break under the burden they’re carrying, and they will do so if they are isolated and alone. People like Cassian Andor have been soldiers since they were too young to understand right or wrong. All they’ve ever done is follow the rage of the adults before them, and the war only becomes a war to them later, as they grow up, and realise that they never had a choice.

“I can’t take that away from them, as much as I wish to,” Mothma continues. “I can’t save them from that childhood, and I can’t tell them to go against their conviction, the wills they’ve inherited from people they love. But I want to give them an opportunity to not be alone in this battle. I want to give you an opportunity to not be alone in this battle,” she adds, meeting Jyn’s eyes. “If the two of you work together and continue to do well, as astoundingly well as you did on this mission, I’ll be able to sell this project to the rest of the council. Will you help me?”

Jyn swallows thickly, staring down at the hand reached out to her across the desk.

When the door slides open to the outside, it reveals Cassian leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. Washed and dried, he’s back in uniform, back in dirty browns and camouflaging yellows. His hair is combed too neatly and he watches her expectantly, his hands in his pockets.

“You know,” Jyn says, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re a good spy or a very bad one.”

Cassian raises his eyebrows in light challenge. “I’m a deliberate spy,” he says. “I think that’s better.”

“Oh? And how much did you hear?”

He shrugs, pulling himself up from his relaxed position. Taking a step closer.

Jyn copies him. “Are you okay being Mothma’s experiment?”

Cassian shrugs again, a smile beginning to bloom on his face. The sunlight hits him, warming his skin, making the thrill shine out of his eyes.

Jyn sidesteps him as he comes closer, and they orbit each other, dancing in place like planets in the middle of a lit hallway.

“Are you going to tell anyone about our connection?”

Cassian shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice falling to solemn tones. “Some things are safer as secrets.”

Jyn nods.

And then she grabs him by the elbow, like he’d done the other day. “Come on,” she says, grinning, finally.

“Wha— Jyn, I do have a report to make,” he complains, stumbling as he tries to remain in place rather than be dragged away with her.

“That can wait,” she says. “I’m going to launch this new partnership of ours by trouncing you in the practice ring. For eavesdropping.”

Chapter Text

Cassian knows exactly what he’s doing the day he walks into the mess hall to deliver a present to Jyn right in the middle of lunch hour.

The place is already loud with conversations and the clatter of cutlery. Someone in a corner is having an animated debate. They keep switching between two different Mid-Rim dialects, uncaring that they have the attention of one fourth of the hall. At the other end a group of x-wing pilots are in the middle of placing bets on some up-coming assault.

Jyn is seated at the far end of the hall, by the open doors with the heat of the sunny rainforest at her back, having an in-depth conversation with Kes Dameron.

A conversation Cassian attempts to dramatically disrupt by placing a small, carefully dressed present in front of her.

(He probably doesn’t come close to the dramatic part).

Jyn goes completely silent and her eyes narrow in on the colourful little box. The rest of the table follow suit.

“What’s this?” She demands suspiciously, turning her face up to Cassian once she’s done expecting it. “A bomb?”

The others snigger and Cassian nearly rolls his eyes. So he’s not the dramatic one of the two.

“Call it retaliation,” he says. “For last week.”

Last week, when they’d been in the middle of a war zone, locked inside a bunker with enemies on all sides. Last week when Jyn had checked her blaster, cocked her hip and tilted her head right before she’d announced that yes, this would be the place she’d be the day she became an adult in the ironic tone of someone who’s gotten used to a lifestyle where people are more likely to throw a grenade at you than confetti.

Last week, when she’d caused Cassian to stumble and faceplant in the middle of a damn war zone.

“Oh,” she says lightly, picking up the present. “It’s a birthday present.”

“You two sure are something,” Kes drawls from the other side of the table. “Calling birthday presents bombs or retalia-“

“Shut up,” Shara says, leaning heavily over his shoulder so he nearly faceplants in his food. “I want to see what he got her.”

She gets her answer soon enough, and Cassian watches all of them carefully as Jyn unceremoniously rips off the bow and paper and disappointment begins to set in.

“Ammo?” Someone mutters.

Cassian shrugs. “Seemed right to give her something practical now that she’s come of age.”

Shara looks at him like he’s the scum of the earth.

“You got her ammo?”

“On her coming of age day?”

“And only four rounds,” Jyn observes, holding up the cartridges, twirling them around bemusedly. “Could’ve at least gotten me a knife, captain.”

But her words are drowned out by the outrage of their friends and fellow allies. Insults are thrown in his face, and someone boos in the background, and soon the entire mess is in on how much of a bastard Cassian Andor is for gifting his partner with ammo on her eighteenth birthday. 

After which the hall absolutely explodes into an uproar of motion and activity. Balloons are stolen from the supply shed, proper food from the kitchens, and a couple of droids are located for their musical capabilities. And for the rest of the day no superior officer can get a word in: It’s Jyn’s birthday and her partner’s a stingy bastard, and the entire Alliance are determined to make up for that in the rowdiest, most chaotic manner they can think of.

Cassian sits back and watches Jyn get twirled from friend to friend on the dance floor, laughing and bickering with the people they both call family.

The entire room is filled with stars.

Later, when he’s checking on his homemade cheese in the fridge of an off-shoot kitchen, a star floats into the cool space, alerting him to her presence just in time to duck the sneak-assault.

Cassian slams the door to the fridge shut and spins to the right. And a hand comes flying right past his shoulder.

Jyn blinks in surprise, and Cassian grins.

“So?” She demands, recovering quickly. “Did they nick your food, too?”

Cassian shakes his head. “They know better.”

“What? Because you’re so intimidating?”

She’s doing her best to look disgruntled, and failing miserably. Starlight is glowing from her eyes, and her cheeks are still flushed from the day’s activities. There’s a grin tugged into the corner of her lips that she can do nothing to contain, no matter how much she tries to look displeased with him.

“No,” Cassian says, pushing off the fridge and forcing her to take a step backwards. “Because they like my food too much.”

“Speaking of,” Jyn says, refusing to be distracted, refusing to back down, so they end up standing impossibly close.

The lighting in the usually abandoned kitchen flicker ominously, its yellowish glow giving the white surfaces the kind of haunted, abandoned look Cassian usually finds in warehouses or imperial facilities. Cold, soulless, inhumane. And yet, Jyn draws his attention, her hand on his lower arm burning through his skin, and vanquishes the creep of the place.

“You could’ve just cooked me dinner.”

“You turned eighteen on the battlefield,” Cassian reminds her, placing his hand on top of her head and sliding it down to tug gently on one of the stands of her hair that always falls from her bun. “And yet you’ve survived the war until this day. That’s considered something great here. I wasn’t going to hog the celebrations of that to myself, when so many people would be happy to share that day with you.”

He doesn’t think of Jyn as a particularly soft person. She’s thrill and adventure on the battlefield, impulsive joy and righteous anger. She’s a cool strategist and a merciless slicer. But something still softens in her at his words, warming under the kind touch of family.

Because she had hesitantly walked towards them, into their midst, like someone who doesn’t know what she’ll find there - too used to Saw’s merciless cadre to trust warmth when it touches her skin - and he’d pushed her into a running leap, knowing that the Alliance would catch her and welcome her.

“Well,” she says, bonking her knuckles against his collar bone before stepping away. “Thank you for that.”

And Cassian realises he’d not really been meant to admit to anything. She would’ve seen through him clear enough, but he’d decided denial was the best way to go in terms of manipulating his friends and family into an impromptu celebration. But she’d been too close, and as always he holds his heart in his hands with this girl who is growing up too well.

Cassian rubs his palms over his face and sighs heavily.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Just don’t tell them. They’ll have my head.”

Jyn laughs. “Don’t worry, Captain,” she says, her voice a teasing lilt as she turns off the light. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Darkness descends all around him, but it’s easy to follow the starlight she leaves behind out the door.

Cassian smiles when he finds her waiting for him outside. “I know it is.”

Jyn laughs quietly in the semi-darkness and nudges him with her elbow to hide her self-conscious embarrassment. “One year, and you’ve already turned me into a liar and a spy,” she complains lightheartedly.

“It it hasn’t taken longer that just means you always had it in you.”

“If you’re comparing me to Kay I’m going to punch you.”

Cassian opens his mouth and closes it again, and Jyn gasps theatrically, the outrage clear on her face.

“You!” She exclaims, hitting him gently over the upper arm with a fist that lingers. “You have all these people around you and your first frame of reference is still that droid.”

Cassian lifts his shoulders, refusing to admit that his frame of reference has changed significantly in the past year, but lets the illusion he’s woven remain unbroken by words.

She doesn’t need to know that.

“In all fairness people like Kes, Shara, and Hera aren’t very good liars either,” he defends himself. “And Princess Leia never bothers.”

“Excuses,” Jyn counters easily.

She pauses in front of the large notice board in the front hall, studying the information posters on display, humming softly under her breath and clutching her hands behind her back.

Mothma and the other core world leaders do their best to create events all year round for soldiers and refugees who call Base One ‘home’. Supposedly, they’re meant to keep people’s spirits high, to build camaraderie and community, and to keep memory alive of the worlds that have been lost and are now only carried with the people who inhabited them. It’s an awkward display of softness and care that both makes Cassian’s skin itch at their meddling and smile with appreciation for the excuse to remember.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met Princess Leia,” Jyn murmurs finally, her eyes still on the notices, though she’s no longer reading.

“You’d remember if you had,” Cassian says. “She’ll like you.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes grace his face for a moment before she looks away again.

“You both throw a mean punch, for one,” he says. “Both oratorically and in the ring.”

“Oh.” She smirks. “I think I’ll like her too, if that’s the case.”

Cassian laughs and shakes his head, trying to shake the fondness that so easily creeps up on him, even in moments like these.

There is life to Jyn both in the ring and out of it, a chaotic sort of energy that has nothing to do with random activity. It used to be cold and merciless, the kind of needy thrill Cassian has known himself, like a chill against his skin during a chase or when a mark has worded a betrayal, like a desperate need for answers and retribution for wrong doing. An excuse to be violently angry. But in the last two years, Jyn has warmed, and her smile no longer glows like cool moonlight against a knife’s blade.

Instead there is real thrill to the way she behaves, mischievous and almost childlike, joy radiating off her when she gets to move, gets to be challenged, gets to think fast. As if she’s doing something worthwhile, something that gets her results, something she’s proud of, and has fun with all at the same time.

And it radiates off her, touches the people around her, and draws them to her in a way Cassian hasn’t experienced in others before - not without them making the effort to be charming. And it’s a simple pleasure to simply watch over her as she goes about being herself.

Even now, when she is calm and demure, graced in the pink light of Yavin Prime.

“You’ve signed up for more helpers this year,” Jyn observes, pointing to the notice board for the annual Cultural festival. She casts him a sly look. “Planning anything elaborate this year, chef?”

“No,” he admits, following along as she changes the topic of conversation. “There are just more people here this year. It seemed prudent.”

Jyn hums again. “Prudent,” she says. “In that case I better sign up for something as well.”

Cassian steps closer to peruse the large notice board filled with small and big volunteer assignments. “You could always share something from your own homeworld this year,” he reminds her gently.

Jyn shifts beside him, her shoulder brushing his upper arm and staying.

“What homeworld?” She asks softly. “The places I don’t remember? The ones I only stuck around at for a couple of years? The closest I can get is maybe sharing fermented shark’s meat from Lah’mu, but I doubt that’d work unless I dared people to eat it.”

And though she turns the lamentation into a joke that’s meant to soften the tragedy of being rootless, he still hears the words in the silence between her voice. I never had a home, Cassian.

In every way Jyn is a citizen of the cosmos. Like a star, her home is the empty space between planets, the darkness that embraces a ship rather than a bed in a rooted house. And though she has always orbited a sun and a world rather than be orbited by them that sense of loss and being lost must linger like a chill on her skin like it has done to him at times.

Cassian has watched his home burn down, he has clung to his sister’s hands until her fingers slipped away in the fray. He has found a new home at a new base, and a new home in a new alliance. He has fought a war that has often stolen the ground from under his feet, and he’s gotten used to starting from scratch.

Right now, the ground under his feet is the Rebel Alliance and the people he has worked with for more than a decade, the people he has come to care about like family, to know like family. And maybe, someday, that will change, and though the loss will haunt him, he would rather take the chance than let it go.

Cassian just hopes that one day Jyn will see the beauty in that as well, and feel the warmth in the memories rather than the cold of the holes they left behind. That she will make her stories, the worlds she’s seen, the people she’s loved hers to love freely and to share. He hopes one day she’ll have the strength and courage to see the beauty in who she is and not what she is missing.

War has torn home and family from all of them, but he knows that events like these may help them regrow their roots in each other.

(It’s why he doesn’t roll his eyes and take a mission whenever Mothma’s awkward attempts at social events come around).

“Oh!” Jyn says. “What about this one?”

“Which—“ Cassian places a hand on the lower of her back as he leans closer to squint at the small text. And then he grins. “Food transport? No way.”

“What?” Jyn complains, turning half-way away from the board. She crosses her arms, leaning into his hand, and glares up at him. “Think I can’t do it? If it’s about my inability to fly, I’ll take Kay.”

This time he laughs. “That’d just make it worse!” There’s an endearment resting on his tongue, but he swallows it easily. “A little human girl with a high Coruscanti accent and an imperial droid? You’d get scammed out of all our money.”

For a moment she looks like she’s genuinely going to punch him at the insult, but then she softens and shrugs. “Fine,” she exhales, exasperated. “I guess I can’t just beat them up and take all the food free of charge if they try that—“

“Please don’t.”

“—so I’ll sign Hera up as well,” she continues, ignoring his words. She produces a pen from one of the many hidden compartments in her utility belt and adds the names to the post. “Since she hasn’t volunteered anything yet either. I’ll just be muscle.”

“Good call,” he responds, nudging her towards the sleeping quarters, ignoring the affection that bleeds from his heart. “Extra work will be plenty of retaliation for the insults she threw at me today.”

Jyn rolls her eyes and grumbles all the way back to bed.

And Cassian keeps his hands to himself, ignoring how adorable the spitfire in this tiny woman makes her seem when she’s lit by the pale rose light of the planet that shields them.

He still sometimes dreams of the cave, but the girl who’d been trapped in the darkness now sits comfortably by his side, her feet tugged up under her, watching the opening.

Two weeks pass, and suddenly Base One looks less like a military base housing too many people for its capacity, and much more like a fair ground on a peaceful planet.

Children’s screams of joy fill the air from the rides the engineers have taken time through the year to assemble between assignments. And adults have found similar amusement at the game stalls, competing, as is so common among rebel fighters, to see who can spend the most of their money trying to outmatch their comrades and friends.

Food stalls take up most of the grounds, driving away the scents of oil and sweat and tropical forest, and the entire Alliance have embraced it with the kind of enthusiasm that comes only when you know you have a whole year ahead of you with rations of goop.

Most of the information Cassian gains is through sound, scent, and whatever stories his friends bring him, too busy in his own stall to take time off and enjoy the event. Someone has pulled a fair few strings for him and he’s been gifted with one of the bigger tents, red canvas sparkling in one of the prime locations. It’s the only time he would ever be grateful for sticking out, and he is.

He’s one of the first people there in the morning, and one of the last to leave, having to chop extra vegetables and prepare dough in advance, so Cassian and his four helpers can get easily through the recipes during the day.

It’s a very different type of work to what he’s used to doing, and the irony isn’t lost on him: that here in this tent he gets to bring a little more life to the rebellion, with good, filling food. Here, he gets to see smiles on children’s faces and adults leaning back in contentment. He gets to watch teenagers of all origin mimic the flight recruits as they challenge each other to the spiciest orders, and laugh themselves silly when some poor fool runs for the water bottles before Cassian can bring them milk.

Cassian has spent so much of his time lying and deceiving and killing for the sake of the Rebellion, and he doesn’t think much of it one way or another anymore. It’s a job, and a job becomes monotonous. But here, just once a year, he’s truly, blindingly reminded of why he does it. Here, just once a year, he gets to be truly, honestly himself and share that with people who find real joy in it, and it gives him the strength to wash the blood and dirt and masks from his skin for another year.

He also has the pleasure of Jyn coming and going in his tent, as if it’s her primary base of operations, bringing this person or that with her when she does.

“What’s that for?” Shara demands, eyeing the sharp knife Cassian reveals only once he’s set down the food for her and Jyn.

Cassian twirls the knife expertly right over Jyn’s head, and ignores the stink-eye he receives for his theatrics. “This,” he says, producing two perfectly ripe avocados, which he proceeds to slice through cleanly.

Jyn and Shara ‘oooh’ mockingly as he cuts into the seed at the core and pulls it out.

“I got him those,” Jyn informs Shara, as if to take credit for his work.

“You also got me extra work, having to plant the small orchard you stole,” he reminds her.

“What?” Jyn counters. “Hera said the ones the seller tried to push on us were already too ripe, and I know you wouldn’t want to miss out. And besides, I helped you plant them.”

They’d spent an entire night two weeks earlier bickering through the digging, planting and relocating of water-sources. And though Cassian had insisted the plants had been lucky Jyn had brought them to world that could actually sustain them (for her moral education, of course, because he still thinks she steals a little too much), he’s secretly grateful to her.

The work had been mundane, the company good, and the fruits a gift greater than she’ll ever truly realise.

“Thank you,” he says, placing his hand on the top of her head and letting it rest there for a moment too long.

She waves him off begrudgingly before turning back to her food, ignoring him still as he sits down to join them.

Shara pushes a mug of caf across to him before inhaling her own portion, which Cassian accepts with equal gratitude. He closes his eyes and listens to the life around him, enjoying the momentary peace, the calm that is such a luxury even on Base One.

Until Jyn splutters.

“You okay?” Shara asks.

The other girl is red in the face, and desperately reaching for her glass of water.

But Cassian, recognising the signs that he’d made the food too spicy for her, is faster.

He steals the glass from under her fingers, ignoring the murderous glare, dumps the water in the dirt below their feet, and pours milk from a nearby jug for her instead.

“I thought you had a higher tolerance than that,” he observes, fingers tugging on her sleeve, fighting the urge to fuss.

Jyn is too busy drowning herself to properly threaten him, but he can see it in the tightening of her shoulders, the extra flush to her ears that has nothing to do with the hot food. He’d pointed out a weakness, and he’s going to pay when she’s no longer in-capacitated.

Seeing that she’s mostly okay, Cassian leans his chin in the palm of his hand and takes his time to study the food he’d prepared for her. It hadn’t been too spicy, and given her personality and experience, he’d have assumed she’d be better with spices. But someone else had taken her orders the other days, and Cassian had only had time to listen to her stories of the rest of the festival, rather than cook it for her or bring it to her.

“Uh-oh,” Shara says, once Jyn has recovered enough for conversation. “I know that look.”

“What look?” Jyn and Cassian say in tandem.

Jyn turns to look from Shara to Cassian, her hair flying out in her hurry, and her eyes narrow when they land on his face.

“That look,” Shara confirms. “You’re bad with spices, so now he’s going to feed you every chance he gets.”

Jyn’s eyes narrow further and he sees the don’t you dare cross her face. But then she changes her mind.

“Fine,” she says, and grins. “Challenge accepted.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says, offering his hand. “Can’t have my partner be bad with spices.”

“You’re on,” Jyn replies, catching his hand in hers.

“Yeah,” Shara drawls from across the table. “You wouldn’t want to be a public embarrassment.”

By the time the afternoon comes around, one of his assistants, an old refugee from a planet in the same system as Fest, pushes a hot plate of food into his hands and tells him to take the rest of the day off. She shoots him such a stern look before he’s even begun to protest that he’s pushed back to a different time and a different era, a different grandmother.

And Cassian finds himself standing there, for several moments after she’s left, with his plate of hot food in his hand and memories rushing through him. Before he’s able to shake it off and return to the table Jyn and Shara are still occupying.

He listens to their conversation quietly while he eats, letting himself be lulled back into the present by the energy of the two women in front of him. They bicker and argue, tease each other and confide in each other, all at the speed of an x-wing. It’s cheerful and kind-hearted, without being soft, and the stars from Jyn’s soul dance around them like they so often do these days, betraying her contentment and happiness.

She might think herself homeless, Cassian reflects, but she clearly doesn’t feel that way anymore. Even when Shara brings up Jyn’s refusal to represent herself, the stars never waver.

“And what exactly would I be able to represent?” Jyn demands irritably. “When you travel around with Saw Gerrera for most of your childhood, the only culture you have is shooting.”

“Oh,” Shara says, her easy smile spreading into a grin, “I have the perfect solution for that.”

She grasps the hand Jyn had been waving dismissively, and has half dragged the girl from the table, before she remembers Cassian. 

“You’re coming, too, Andor,” she declares in a voice that leaves no room for argument.

And Cassian and Jyn soon find themselves pushed in front of one of the fair tents, where competition is the name of the day — and sniping is the skill being tested.

The vendor, a tricky old engineer who usually spends his time snapping at pilots, has set up a complex slide that moves up and down, back and forth, with hoops attached to it at difficult junctions. He drops five balls onto it at different intervals, and Cassian and Jyn spend a good half hour entertaining a growing crowd, by picking off their targets one at a time.

Cassian wins.

His only prize is Jyn messing up his hair irritably.

He doesn’t see her for hours after that. Kes arrives and drags the girls off for more competitions, and Cassian decides to take a well-deserved nap before the pilot race in the evening.

He finds a pleasant nook on a hill overlooking the old zygorets and the grounds that’d been turned into a kaleidoscope of colour by the festival. The gentle pink light of Yavin Prime is diffused by the gold of the sun that keeps them all alive, and it casts the entire area in warm hues, so every tent and every person glow among the trees.

He lies back down in the tall grass and rests his hands behind his head, but he doesn’t sleep.

Instead like every year before he finds himself sleepless and thinking of his family.

Not the family he’s found or the family he’s been separated from. But the family he’d lost. His mother and father, his grandmother, and sisters. Their smiles over breakfast, the rush of activity in the kitchen or the bickering between meals.

He thinks of his older sister’s hand slipping away as he’d promised to be home safe, his mother’s sad smile in the door when he’d turned around and left.

He thinks of his father proudly holding up ripe corn from the local greenhouses before he’s even closed the door to the snowstorm outside. Of his grandmother nagging him for bringing them out in the cold instead of showing off in the kitchen where the food belongs, anyway.

Cassian thinks of his father’s execution.

They don’t haunt him, the memories or the ghosts. He never feels weighed down by them. But it’s still heavy, the sorrow and the grief that will never leave him, the ache of untimely separation.

Regret, that he hadn’t spoken enough with his sisters, that he hadn’t learnt more from his grandmother, that he hadn’t been able to protect his father, lingers on him like a second skin. And they are another type of strength, the people he’d left behind, the people he hadn’t known he would lose while his back is turned. They are a vow to do better, to do everything he can, no matter the cost, to stop what tragedy he can in this galaxy waged by war.

Cassian is just a single person and he knows he can’t stop the empire on his own. But he’ll do what he can, what he must to avoid tragedies within reach.

And maybe in solidarity with others, he’ll play a part in creating a future with real peace.

It’s this thought that plays through his head as he hears footsteps in the tall grass and opens his eyes to find Jyn hovering over him, framed by a pink sky filled with stars.

Her expression softens with relief.

“Oh, good,” she breathes. “I was beginning to regret bringing you caf instead of water.”

Her green eyes twinkle mischievously as she speaks, and it prompts Cassian to respond “Why?”

“Can’t dump scalding caf on you,” she replies cheerfully, sitting down as he props himself up. “I’m not evil.”

He eyes her, but accepts the mug anyway. “Sometimes I have my doubts.”

“I dare you to say that again after you’ve tasted what I brought you.”

She sticks her nose in the air and waits, and she looks so adorably insulted that Cassian doesn’t doubt she’d come here with genuinely good intentions.

The caf isn’t standard issue. It isn’t even from the generals’ privileged stash. It’s from Naboo, the type of fine powder that makes the coffee rich and full. She’s added cream too, and sugar.

And Cassian closes his eyes, sighing blissfully, before he lifts the mug to his lips for another long sip.

It fills him with the kind of warmth that seeps into the bones and relaxes his muscles, makes him want to smile. Affection. The type that arrives with simple gestures and kindness from someone you already care about. It burns through him, turns his blood to molten honey, and Cassian—

Cassian reaches out and pulls Jyn into a one-armed hug, fingers digging into the cloth of her uniform, gracing strong muscle underneath. He tugs her head under his chin and closes his eyes, feels as the surprised tension leaves her limbs and she settles.

Jyn grumbles, but it’s incoherent, embarrassed, and mostly just for show.

And Cassian huffs a laugh.

“What are you doing up here, anyway?” she murmurs. “Shara says you do this every year. Vanish when you have the chance.”

“I was napping,” he says, because they’re both talking about one thing to avoid another. “I have to get up before dawn to do all the meal prep.”

“Could just apply for more assistants,” she points out.

Cassian shakes his head, his stubble tugging on strands of her hair.

“I enjoy it,” he admits, and then pauses. He considers not going down this path, to keep skating on the surface and not diving into this conversation.

But it’s Jyn.

It’s Jyn sitting patiently within his grasp, listening to him. It’s Jyn with her fingers tugged into the back of his shirt. It’s Jyn with her warm weight against his side, trusting him for balance.

She will hear what he doesn’t say in the empty spaces between syllables and sentences, and she won’t mention any of it out of respect for what he has been through, what they have both lost. She will listen and she’ll never mention it again, won’t treat him as fragile or foreign. She will listen and she will be there, and that’s all she’s offering.

And yet, Cassian finds that he wants to share it with her in the open, to be honest as he finds he usually is with her.

So he does.

“It’s familiar,” he tells her, his hand sliding up and down, feeling the muscles below the wrinkles of her shirt before letting go. “Reminds me of home.”

Her hand vanishes from his back and she settles down beside him, producing a bottle of green tea from where it’d been hanging attached to her belt. “Which one?”

Her eyes twinkle, calling him out. She knows him, knows he views every person he has ever cared for or fought with, every place he’s ever resided in, as a small home. She knows he leaves a little part of himself with every single one of them, and feels the loss more keenly when they are gone, destroyed, dead or apart from him.

Cassian smiles.

“Fest.”

And he tells her. He tells her of his grandmother teaching him to roll a dough properly. He tells her of the twins tricking him into eating fresh chilli. He tells her of his father singing in the evening and watching his parents dance on the day of sun’s return.

Cassian shares the good memories, the happy memories, with Jyn. And she laughs at his anecdotes and says she wishes his hair was longer so she could repeat the braids his sisters had forced on him. And Cassian finds that as they talk, as they share this, he feels lighter, more cheerful.

Maybe a little more his age.

So when the gong sounds, announcing the start of the race, and Jyn perks up, Cassian knows where this is going, and he’s just mellow enough not to slither out when she asks him

“What’s that?”

“Every year the captains have an x-wing race around the moon,” he says. “It’s the height of this little festival, even though it doesn’t end for at least another day. The gong means it starts in about 20 minutes.”

She mouthes race, and when she turns to look at him her eyes are twinkling with excitement. “You’re a captain, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sign up?”

Oh, yes. He knows where this is going. “You don’t sign up,” he says. “You just show up.”

“Well, then,” Jyn says, jumping to her feet and re-attaching the bottle to her belt. “Let’s go.”

She nudges him up and has him on his feet before he even thinks of protesting.

“Jyn, I’m really not— This isn’t for intelligence officers—“

“Nonsense,” she declares, wisely, beginning to push him down the hill, back to base. “This is for captains. You’re a captain. I wouldn’t feel represented if you didn’t participate.”

“What was that?!”

Hera arrives from behind him with a smack to his back, her face still flushed and her helmet under her arm. Second to cross the finish line.

She looks somewhere between insulted and impressed, her eyes dancing with the shock of Cassian’s win.

“You’re always so calm, and you always fly so responsibly whenever I see you coming and going,” she says, ruffling his hair and using pure older-sister force to pull him down to size. “I didn’t even know you could fly an x-wing! Where did the crazy come from?”

“Would you stop that?” He complains, brushing her off, only mildly irritated. “I just felt like it.”

“Sure, the great spy, Cassian Andor, Draven’s favourite secret keeper, just felt like showing off all his skills, when he’s been doing his best to hide them all these years,” she retaliates, teasing. “It must be something—“

She stops, and Cassian stops too. Her eyes are alight with that dangerous glow of an epiphany that means he’s in big trouble.

“Oh,” she says.

“Oh?”

He follows her gaze to find Jyn making her way over from the crowd, her smile as wide and gleeful as if she’d been the one doing the flying.

“Oooooooooh,” Hera says. And then throws her arm over his shoulder and laughs. “You were showing off!”

“What?! No, I was—“

But Hera laughs so loudly at his embarrassment that it shuts him up better than any words of conviction could’ve.

She jumps off him, and rummages through her pocket. “Here,” she says, pushing a comb into his hand. “You’re going to need it.”

Cassian stares down at the fragile piece of plastic. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

But Hera is already walking away. “Figure it out,” she calls, waving over her shoulder.

Chapter Text

Jyn isn’t looking for an excuse.

Life goes on and on, and she’s finally gotten used to being a part of the Rebel Alliance.

She sneaks out of the dorm in the early morning, the first in the training hall, grabs a quick shower once she’s worked up a sweat, and goes for breakfast with whomever’s around and not on mission. She puts out an extra mug of caf with cream and sugar, when they have the latter, and watches Cassian Andor slide into his chair like a man who’s spent the better half of the night doing paperwork. Then, she goes about her day, either on missions or training new recruits or helping whereever else she’s able.

It’s a type of peace she hasn’t known before. Not the freedom from war, but life with a routine, with people she can trust her back to. 

Sometimes it’s enough to have a place to return to.

And Jyn never hesitates to return to this place, to bickering with Kaytu, to messing with Melshi or Kes in the ring, to laughing with Shara or looking up to Hera.

To sneaking up on Cassian too late in the evening when he’s making a new pot of stale caf, or sitting on a crate somewhere going over plans for an infiltration mission, or dragging him off course for a break.

No, Jyn isn’t looking for excuses anymore.

She doesn’t need them.

She ducks into the large empty red tent so close to the centre of the fair, leaving the desaturated colours of pre-dawn behind. And finds Cassian chopping away on vegetables, coated in the red light from the tent.

Even today.

“You know,” she says, leaning against the counter beside him and watches the way the black space surrounding him expands in response to her presence. “I’m pretty sure this festival or fair, or whatever, is meant to be fun. Not more work.”

She slides a mug across the counter to him, and he glances at her over his shoulder, eyes glowing with appreciation for the gesture.

“I had fun yesterday,” he reminds her, voice hoarse as it usually is so early in the morning.

Jyn pushes back the urge to roll her eyes to an audience of none, and settles instead for watching him take a long swig of the mug she’d brought him, the little smile that tugs into the corner of his lips, the way the space around him expands invitingly once more.

It’s getting more and more difficult to ignore, the urge to move forwards, to dive into the endless beauty of cosmos, and never look back.

But Jyn shakes the urge away, ignoring the embarrassed flutter that thought brings to her chest. And settles for deciding she isn’t going to let him work today either.

“Here,” she says, grabbing a knife from the table and a carrot. “I’ll help.”

“Jyn!” Cassian complains as she bumps her hip against him. “That’s dangerous.”

He holds up the knife for show, and Jyn grins. “Come on, chef,” she teases. “I know you’re better with sharp objects than that.”

Cassian pulls back a little, his eyes growing wide. And for a moment he looks unravelled at the edges, soft, his eyes reflecting stars that she cannot see. And then he seems to ground himself back to the moon, so they spend the better part of the morning fluctuating between nagging, bickering, and laughing.

By the time Jyn leaves the tent, she’s a fair amount better with several knife techniques she’d never learnt before. Techniques that have nothing to do with combat, and everything to do with cooking.

The contrast makes her smile.

Before she even has a proper goal in mind to use to distract him with for the day, Cassian catches up to her.

She doesn’t hear him approach, has gotten used to the silent ghost just sidling up to her side unexpectedly, the large warm hand that catches her shoulder or settles between her shoulder blades.

“My turn, today,” he murmurs, breath rustling between the strands of her hair as he leans down to be heard over the rush of the crowd.

Jyn ignores the delicious shiver that threatens to break out under her skin, and grins up at him instead. “What did you have in mind, captain?”

“You’ll see,” he says.

His hand slides down her back, over to her arm and catches her hand for the briefest of moments to tug her along.

And this time Jyn does shiver.

“Come on.”

And she follows him without question. First, to places she already knows: to the booth Kes and Shara have set up for breakfast, then to watch kids and adults play at the fair tents.

Hera catches up with them sometime around noon to trounce Cassian for beating her at the captain’s race, and Jyn spends about an hour cheering and laughing on the side, teasing either one of them when she finds it prudent.

They’re adults in another way than Jyn feels she is. They took her in, welcomed her in their own ways, and took her under their wing. They helped her find her footing in the midst of an active organisation, always so bustling and busy anyone might vanish in the crowd. 

She’d looked up to them, maybe even idolised them a little bit. But the older she gets, the more comfortable she feels in the alliance, the more she sees their quirks and their flaws.

When she watches them play and bicker like this, like siblings, she doesn’t feel any different from them. Rank is one thing, experience another. And Jyn has plenty of the latter, enough to match them in any way.

She hopes that also means she gets to care for them more genuinely, like an equal would. She hopes that gives her the right to watch over them.

Because she sees it, keeps one toe on the outside for clearer sight, and she sees the shadows that creep in amongst the brightness. She sees the exhaustion darkening the circles under their eyes when a mission has gone awry, the set of guilt in the shadow of their mouths when they return from having done the unthinkable—again. She sees the impossible choices in the set of their shoulders, the sacrifices they’ve been taught to make for the cause.

She doesn’t just see it in Cassian and Hera. She hears it in-between words from others, the exhale of exhaustion that comes with having lived with war for too many years. She sees it when a new recruit comes back and their eyes have changed the way hers did and Cassian’s did.

And especially, she sees the way the shadows turn into a thin net with the other intelligence officers. She sees the thin spider strings that attach themselves to limbs and bodies, dragging on them like a heavy burden they cannot liberate themselves from.

And she knows, she knows that Cassian is still shielding her from that darkness.

Jyn knows because sometimes he still takes missions alone, and when he does he comes back with eyes a little sharper, a little darker, a little more guarded. As if every single bad experience, every single assassination or murder forced on his hands by circumstances outside his control has him shielding himself a little more against the warmth and kindness of human contact. 

Those times it’s like he barely sees her.

At other times he’ll topple over in her arms before she can even greet him, sighing gratefully and murmur “I’m sorry”. And Jyn knows then, too, because he’s asking for forgiveness she cannot give, for keeping her out of his worst missions, for accepting the employment at all. At those times, she has to brush away black and red strings, clinging to him, and make Kay carry him back to bed.

And yet she can’t do anything. This is Cassian’s choice, and she can’t change it. Changing it would make her no better than Draven, who exerts his power over Cassian and the other intelligence officers with little more than a few words and their entire history to influence them. And Jyn can’t be that person; she can’t be Cassian’s saviour. She can’t be his salvation.

He has to find the strength, the confidence, the path he wants to walk on his own.

All she can do is show him an alternative. All she can do is have his back on better missions, so he realises he has a choice. All she can do is drag him away from work and laugh at him when he messes around with their friends, so he remembers he isn’t alone.

Eventually, she knows he will find his way. And until then she won’t stray from his side.

She trusts him. It’s as simple as that.

Though sometimes she wishes she didn’t.

Jyn’s eye twitches.

Cassian had pushed her through a gathering crowd at the centre of the fair. And Jyn finds herself face to face with an elevated practice ring, one with holographic screens hanging above it, and some obnoxious x-wing pilot making the announcements for the one-on-one hand to hand combat competition that celebrates the end of the festival.

“No way,” she says.

She means to turn around and walk away, but Cassian’s hands are still stuck on either one of her shoulders, keeping her in place.

“I already signed you up,” he tells her, dark eyes glittering with amusement. Provoking her. “I wouldn’t feel represented if you didn’t participate.”

Jyn’s head swerves to stare properly up at him, but Cassian just quirks an eyebrow at her, the challenging smile making her heart flutter with a promise of thrill and mischief.

Jyn narrows her eyes to hide it.

She really should kick his ass one of these days.

But Cassian meets her gaze unflinchingly, smugly, knowing full well that he can mess with her and get away with it.

“You set me up.”

“Yes.”

“And now I’ll look like a coward if I walk away.”

“It’s possible.”

“Bloody hell,” she murmurs under her breath, and Cassian laughs softly.

She lets him nudge her gently toward the ring and stomps ahead, muttering expletives all the way.

It’s not that Jyn has stage fright. But she’s done this so much for Saw that she finds it to be more of a bother. She could trounce every single one of the people the x-wing pilot is calling out, most likely with one hand tied behind her back, and she really doesn’t want to bother.

But then, she hasn’t really participated in anything here, other than hoisting all the food they needed for the festival back to base, and enough people have nudged at her to do more — enough people that Jyn likes — that she wants to do something to pay them back.

Besides that, Cassian had signed her up, and as much as Jyn might complain outloud at his little deceit, she knows he did it for the same reasons Shara made them show off at the sniping tent, or the reason Hera made her participate in all the group competitions on the first day of the festival. Jyn knows he tricked her because he wants her to have fun, wants her to shine in the eyes of other people.

Jyn picks her way through the crowd, staying out of the line of sight of her competition, eyeing the list behind the obnoxious host from the x-wing division.

Jyn knows Cassian. She knows he’s a good pilot, she knows he’s sober and responsible. But she’s also seen him disable the safety on the hyperdrive and jump to lightspeed from atmo. She’s seen him do some pretty crazy things during missions. So she knows Cassian’s a thrill seeker.

And yet it’d been an unexpected thrill to watch him pilot an x-wing, to watch him show off. Because Cassian had shown off, for whatever reason; twirling around another ship, up and over, zig-zagging through an astroid field, and dancing with Hera through the slopes right before the finish-line. And seeing that incredible show of skill and gutsy finesse had sent a delightful shock of electricity up Jyn’s spine.

She grins, even now, at the memory of it, and sneaks up the stone steps to the platform where the x-wing pilot is saying

“…aaaaaaand - we still need to baptise her proper and give her a last name - Sergeant Jyn of the Intelligence Department!”

And Jyn, placing her hands on the little holographic machine that creates the lines of light surrounding the ring, vaults over it into the ring, landing right by the host so the audience gasp and clap.

Jyn can hear Shara whooping supportively somewhere.

She can see Cassian hiding a smile behind his hand in the crowd, his dark eyes reflecting the light of Yavin Prime, dancing.

And yes, this was the right decision. She wants to answer that thrill, wants to match him step by step, as they orbit each other, dancing through the universe.

But, of course, nothing ever goes that easily, and she turns to the other contestants just in time to really see their smiles fall.

“No way,” Melshi says, a sore loser as always. “If she participates we might all just give it up now.”

“What?” Jyn demands. “Afraid I’ll hit you with a shovel?”

If she’d still been with Saw, she would’ve taken it as a cruel compliment. She can still feel the cool sneer in her muscles, but she can’t find the emotion now. She’s disappointed and irritable, but she knows there’s very little she can do if these idiots are genuinely forfeiting.

At least, in Saw’s cadre, people would’ve jumped at the chance to get bruised by her, if only because it meant bragging rights and the potential of stealing her position as number one.

But there’s none of that in the Rebel Alliance, and Jyn still doesn’t know how to handle the difference.

Fortunately, she has allies.

“What?” A clear voice rings out from behind her, childish and snide like only a teenage girl can bend her tones. “You’re giving up at the sight of a little girl?”

Jyn spins on her heel, along with every other contestant on the scene, to find a human girl with dark brown hair, dressed in a too-fine white dress, leaning casually against one of the hologram droids.

There are gasps somewhere from the crowd, and Jyn definitely hears the words Princess Leia whispered in awed voices.

The princess raises an eyebrow.

And Jyn grins.

She spins back to the pathetic men on the other side of her, trusting her back to a girl younger than herself. “Yeah,” she heckles. “How are you going to defeat the empire if you give up without even entering the ring now?”

“Spineless, the lot of you,” Leia continues. “I leave for a couple months and come back to our best troops being replaced by a bunch of whiny babies. Maybe I should go to Corellia or Tatooine to find proper fighters.”

Behind them, the crowd starts heckling too, and when Jyn’s potential opponents share looks, shrug and accept her challenge, a roar of excitement goes up.

Jyn turns back to share a grin with Leia.

The younger princess holds up her palm, and Jyn meets it in a high five.

She still defeats every single one of her opponents with far less mercy than she’d originally planned.

And when she uses her toe to tip Melshi, screaming, over the edge, she finds Cassian easily in the crowd. He’s laughing with the rest of them.

The result of Jyn’s little mis-adventure at the festival is that she ends up the personal sparring partner of Princess Leia.

She doesn’t mind so much, mostly because Leia has a mouth fouler than anyone she’s ever met, and, as Cassian had once said, she does pack quite a punch. Almost enough to be a challenge. Which is the point of Leia choosing Jyn as her partner: it’ll force her to grow.

It has two extra benefits: other than Cassian and Hera, and a couple more experienced soldiers and officers, who don’t bother much with a scrawny sergeant from intelligence like herself, there aren’t many who can make Jyn build up a sweat in the ring. So Jyn finds herself laughing more and smiling more, exchanging good-natured insults with a princess who has no problems throwing her frustrations at her instructor. And once they’re done, Jyn feels much more fluid and relaxed, her muscles warmed up properly and her movement lighter.

And finally, Leia popping up out of nowhere and dragging Jyn off for an impromptu sparring match, gives Jyn the full view of the sign of slight annoyance on Cassian’s face right before he schools himself.

It doesn’t take him long to decide to simply trail after them, rather than let Leia steal Jyn entirely.

“Sorry, Cass,” Leia says, popping up behind Jyn and linking her arm through Jyn’s elbow, “but I need her more than you do right now.”

Jyn raises her eyebrow, doing her best to school her smile and probably failing. “Cass?”

She doesn’t see his reaction, because Leia tugs her away, twirling her around and dragging her away. And Jyn accepts this new partiality, as she has done for the past month, linking her arm properly with Leia and resigning herself to a day spent exercising.

“I used to be her babysitter,” Cassian explains bemusedly, following along behind them.

That does give her pause, and Jyn can’t fight the slight tension of her muscles.

“Like you babysat me?”

“Not at all,” he says. “Primarily because I needed to keep you out of trouble - and to protect half the rebellion from your temper. Leia knows not to get into trouble.”

“I have trouble believing that.”

“I just know not to get into trouble when people are paying attention to me,” the younger girl sniffs with dignity.

“He really is a terrible spy,” Jyn decides, leaning in conspiratorially and shaking the tension off entirely.

“That we can agree on.”

Jyn isn’t the jealous type. Cassian isn’t really hers and she knows that. But she has built a home here that largely orbits around him, his existence. Knowing his roots have grown so much deeper here than hers is a reminder that her presence in the Alliance, working at his side, is still new, still a fragile seedling in comparison to others.

Cassian has a past. And Jyn is privileged enough to know about some of his worst moments. But she wasn’t there with him to experience it all.

And part of her wishes could’ve been.

So she decides to be happy, happy that others make him smile, happy that his dry humour and amusing quips stem from good memories with people that still remain in his life.

Leia isn’t a threat. She is another cornerstone in his world, another person that keeps him grounded and gives him a reason to fight. And Jyn—

Jyn thinks about Mothma’s experiment. About Draven’s strings.

And when Leia pulls her aside in the empty changing rooms after another practice match, Jyn decides she’s happy there are other people who has his best interest at heart, and are keeping an eye on the ones that don’t.

“Don’t tell anyone,” the princess starts.

Her damp hair is hanging loose, dark and framing her face, and she eyes Jyn intently.

“I— what?”

Leia’s hand comes to grasp Jyn’s wrist, forcefully placing it down on the counter by the mirrors. And it’s all Jyn can do not to glance at their reflections, knowing the surprise that plays on her face. The weakness.

Her guard is down.

“I can see it,” Leia says. “Your connection. And I’ve studied you two long enough to know you can see it, too. Both of you.”

It’s another shock. Another blow. A secret leaked beyond Jyn’s control. Beyond Cassian’s control. And she instantly hates it - hates it as if Leia had deliberately peaked on something far more private than her naked body.

But Leia is just being Leia: blunt to a fault. And Jyn needs to confirm her suspicions before she acts on them.

“You can see it?” Jyn repeats, straightening her back.

“Yes, I—“ Leia waves her free hand by her eyes. “Not too clearly. I’m not a trained Jedi or anything. But I can see the Force. So I can see people’s souls.”

Jyn blanches at that, sympathy overwhelming her anger. The kind of visual information Leia must be bombarded with constantly is something Jyn could never handle, and she’s glad she doesn’t have to. She wouldn’t want to be able to see people’s inner selves that clearly, wouldn’t want to always have their secrets and emotions exposed to her. Wouldn’t want to invade like that.

At least with Cassian, they have a deal, and there’s an equal level of exposure.

She sees him, and he sees her.

Leia wouldn’t be able to help it or control it. It would just be a constant.

“It’s a demand that you report it,” Leia continues, unbothered, undisturbed. An elegant, brutal knife cutting straight to the point of all things. “But I’m not going to, and I advise that you don’t either.”

Now that she knows Jyn isn’t going to run away, her hand falls from Jyn’s wrist.

And Jyn can’t help it, she takes a step back, clutching her elbow.

“Why?” She asks.

There’s still that jittery sense locked in her throat that she should run, like a wild animal who has been lured too close to the deceptive hand of a human. She likes Leia. She’d found herself easily trusting Leia because Cassian trusts Leia.

She’d almost thought her a friend.

But Leia is a princess, a politician in training. Leia is part of rebel command, along with her father. And Jyn shouldn’t have underestimated her because of her age, or her connection to Cassian.

It’s confusing to have trusted this easily, and then have all her other instincts come roaring back at her all at once. Like drowning in the rush of a tidal wave.

“Because it’s been used against recruits before,” Leia explains. “People like Merrick and Mothma don’t care. But I’ve seen others separate people who are connected. I’ve seen Intelligence officers being pitted against imperials, because of their connection. And I don’t trust that bastard, Dravits Draven, with that kind of information on my friends.”

Her lips part, showing teeth, and she snarls with an almost animalistic aggression that contrasts the silky hair and the demure white gown.

And it settles something inside Jyn, the rage.

This isn’t an act, it isn’t an attempt at manipulation. Leia just genuinely cares about Cassian.

Somewhere, below her feet, another root digs into the earth and settles, secure. And Jyn’s fingers slip from her elbow. Her muscles relax.

She smiles.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “We made a deal last year. I’m not going to put his life in jeopardy - not even by trusting the Alliance with something like this.”

Leia nods, her eyes still flashing, but her smile remains bemused.

“I don’t want you putting your life at risk either,” she says sternly.

Jyn laughs. “You should know me well enough by now that you know I can’t promise that.”

“You better,” Leia says, nudging her with her elbow. “Too many people around here like you. I’d hate to see how it’d get everyone down to lose you.”

She says it lightly, as lightly as Leia is ever capable of speaking, but there’s a gravity to her words that roots Jyn more firmly than she had expected, touches her in a way she’d not expected.

She’s not used to people sticking around for her, but she’s even less used to people wanting to hold on to her, to be saddened by the loss of her. And that, too, is a different kind of home.

Just like that, Leia had given her another excuse to stick around.

“Thank you,” Jyn murmurs. And then she finds her determination again. “I know, I can’t trust Draven. That’s why I’m in intelligence in the first place.”

“Keep your enemies close?”

“Something like that.”

A tug of a smile, conspiratorial. But Leia doesn’t say any more than that. She pulls up her hair in a bun and misdirects like the best of them: “But, man, you have a good one,” she says. “He’s controlling and a perfectionist, but at least he’s intelligent and dedicated to the rebellion.”

Jyn hides her smile with her shirt, sure Cassian would be pleased with such a description--pleased because she hadn’t remarked on his softness or his kindness, but seen the capable officer, instead . “We’re not together, you know,” she reminds the younger girl. “Not like that. As you said, he’s dedicated to the rebellion. That’s what we’ve been using our connection for. Work.”

Leia snorts dismissively. “Okay, so he’s also a karking idiot with only one thing on his mind,” she allows. “Don’t let him drag you down.”

Jyn laughs and nudges her with an elbow. “I won’t,” she promises. “What about you? No luck?”

“The worst,” Leia complains, making a face. “I wake up sometimes to shouts or the sounds of blaster fire. Half the time I smell motor oil. The other half I smell Wookie. I’m afraid the Force may have tied me to some real scum - no offence to the Wookie, of course.”

“Could be a pilot,” Jyn offers kindly.

“I wish!”

As Leia continues her lamentation, Jyn turns her eyes to the mirror, and for a moment she sees it: another world, another time. The illusion of a reality without war, where they might simply have been girls, talking fancifully about crushes and soulmates with no real concern in the world to hold them back.

And then it ends.

What little illusion she had woven around her shatters, suddenly and without warning.

The comm beeps obnoxiously one early morning on Base One, and Jyn flies out of bed, one hand on the knife under her pillow, the other on the comm she’d been clutching through the night—again.

She squints around Cassian’s abandoned room, re-orienting herself in the artificial gloom deep within the bunker. Her eyes fall on the books left out, the weapons she’s been cleaning from her last mission, before moving to the flashing red light between her fingers.

It’s been half a year since he’d been shipped out on an infiltration mission, and deep cover means no contact with the rest of the rebellion, not even Jyn. So it’s been almost as long since the nightmares had started, the sleepless nights, and something inside her wavering with insecurity.

Jyn’s solution had been to nick an empty key card and slice it, so it would work in his lock, and hide under his blankets. And missions. She’d taken so many missions - for the pathfinders, with Hera, even for Draven. Anything to keep her mind steady, when her usual solution had been stolen from her.

She presses the button and tries not to think too hard about the way his hands had tangled in her hair as he’d grasped her jaw on either side and kissed her forehead in goodbye.

I’ll be in contact if anything goes awry. I promise.

But it isn’t Cassian’s voice that crackles over the comm.

“Jyn?”

“Yes.”

It’s Kay’s.

“Please identify with the appropriate codes,” the droid insists.

Jyn sighs and pulls the sheets away to locate her boots and her blaster, while listing the numbers and her code-name.

“I’ve been instructed to contact you, if Cassian’s in trouble,” Kay continues once she’s done. With no thanks or acknowledgement, other than the sudden concern that moves him to rush his words and explanations. “Not that I’m not perfectly capable of handling—“

She tugs on her standard issue uniform shirt, while Kay complains and eventually relates the events of the mission. Standard infiltration for the sake of information, but deep in occupied outer rim territories. The kind of place you need the look and sound of someone indigenous. The kind of place Cassian would fit in, both in terms of recognising signs of early unrest, and because he knows and lives the culture, still.

Everything had gone to plan, he’d gained the trust of the people there, had begun channeling their shared rage, and then— it’d blown up in their faces.

And now, it’s no longer a mission perfectly built for Cassian. Now, Kay is issuing her the kind of unofficial mission she’s best at: extraction of an operative from a war zone.

“I’m on my way,” she promises the droid, grabbing a long leather coat from the wall, one that will hide her uniform and the blaster at her thigh.

She’s about to close the call, when the droid cuts her off.

“Jyn?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

The door closes behind her back, and the cool loss of home rests against her skin like ice.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this?”

Hera leans over the side of the cockpit to look down at the burning planet below them. It’s a construction planet, not much different from Corelli, with no forests or plains left to see. Only city, mountains, and desert.

“Yes,” Jyn says, dropping a different comm in Hera’s lap and lists the instructions one more time. “Drop me off, then leave and hide in the shadow of that moon. I’ll contact you when I’ve met with Kay. If you don’t hear from me within the hour, assume the worst and go back to base.”

Hera signs to her droid to take over the controls, and follows Jyn into the main hold of the u-wing they’d commandeered.

She’s frowning with real concern when she says “I’m worried about sending you down there alone…”

“Are you kidding?” Jyn says, picking up a datapad and flipping through photos of the planet, Senkoku, below them. Broken windows, bombing squads, mid-town shoot-outs. “This is guerrilla warfare 101. What do you think I spent my time doing with Saw? I’ll be fine.”

She offers the older woman a confident smile, bu when she sees the concern remaining on Hera’s face it softens into a little-sister wobble.

“I have to do this, Hera,” she says, her voice raw with the worry that’s been cornering her heart for the last sixteen hours. “I should’ve gone with him in the first place.”

Hera tilts her head and her smile grows into the kind of confidence that’s usually followed by a pep talk. A commander’s support.

“Okay,” she says, placing her hand on Jyn’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. I trust you. And as you said, you know what you’re doing. You may be his best hope in the entire rebellion right now.”

“I have to be,” Jyn says. “And if I don’t come back? Punch Draven in the face for me.”

That brings a true smile to Hera’s face and she holds up her fist. “You got it.”

Jyn grins and bumps her fist against Hera’s.

When Jyn’s left to herself and the ship begins to circle the atmosphere, she finds her kyber crystal, closes her eyes and focuses. One deep breath, and then another, and she starts to see red and golden strings playing amongst each other, shaping a sphere below her eyelids.

The planet is in so much disarray that it’s almost impossible to distinguish anything from the turmoil, the panic and the rage filling the people on the surface.

But Jyn continues to keep her breathing even, clutches crystal and the comm that connects her to Kay between both hands, and focuses on her own connection. Her own soul. A single star winks into existence right in front of her, and then another, creating a string of light that ties her to something off to her right.

And there, in the heart of the district Hera is moving towards, following Kay’s directions, a black cosmic cloud parts the chaos, fluttering vulnerably in the Force, a tiny universe. Cassian’s soul.

Jyn throws her eyes open and smiles genuinely for the first time in weeks. Relief thunders through her, more powerful than an adrenaline rush.

“He’s alive.”

Now she just has to keep him that way.

Hera enters the atmosphere, zigzagging through smoke and pollution, avoiding blaster-fire from insurrectionists and imperial soldiers alike.

“I’m dropping you off in ten seconds,” Hera’s voice comes over the comm in Jyn’s ear. “Hold on!”

The automatic door in front of Jyn goes up, blasting her with the full roar of the battlefield. For a moment, everything is pandemonium. A bomb goes off two clicks from where she’s standing, brightening the red sky, and throwing another plume of smoke onto the horizon to join the columns that already hold up the clouds. Imperial fighters fly past them, shooting jets of red at rebels below them, so a skyscraper goes down and screams fill the air.

“Now!” Hera yells.

And rolls the u-wing out of enemy fire.

As she does, Jyn pulls down the goggles she’d nicked from the hold, and throws herself out of the ship in a backwards somersault.

She lands, as planned, on the top of a skyscraper, gloved fingers catching tarmac, and feet already running for the staircase.

“Jyn?”

It’s Hera’s voice on the comm.

“I’m okay,” she says. “Get going.”

There’s a hesitation over the comm. Then. “May the Force be with you.”

“It better be,” Jyn says, sliding to a halt by the door and kicking it down.

The lock breaks with little protest, rusty and old, and Jyn is over the fallen wooden plank before it’s hit the floor.

A plume of dust goes up behind her, as she slides down the railing to the next floor. Down and down she goes, until she hits the ground floor and the real battleground outside.

“Kay,” she says, pressing her comm. “I’m three blocks from your location. Start talking.”

She gets the more intimate details of what had gone wrong on Cassian’s mission now, as she runs through sooty rain, skidding around corners and shooting a stormtrooper that gets in her way.

And by the time she comes speeding through the open gates of Kay and Cassian’s hidden u-wing, she already knows everything she needs to know.

They’d been betrayed.

The droid rises tall and dark and dangerous from his controls, as she slides to a halt in front of him, her boots slippery from the water and the soot on the clean floor. 

“Jyn.”

His voice is almost surprised.

“You okay?” She asks between breaths.

“I did not ask you to come here for my safety,” Kay retorts. “Your concern is unexpected and highly irregular.”

Jyn waves her hand. “Okay, so you’re fine,” she says. She straightens and looks around, but nothing sticks. She’s already forgotten what she’s seen by the time her eyes have moved on. “Where is he, Kay?”

“I—“ if a droid’s gaze could flicker nervously, Kay would be doing that now. “His comm went dead twenty-five minutes ago. There’s no way of tracking him. The probability of finding him in this mess is o-point—“

“Never mind,” Jyn says, already turning on her heel again. There’s a rushing in her ears that has nothing to do with the fighting outside. “I’ll find him.”

“I know.”

Jyn stops in the opening, her hand on the door panel. “You—“

The droid stands like a shadow in the door of the empty cockpit, like a lonely hole in space, a reminder of who else is missing. “The chances of you specifically finding him is ninety-five percent, bordering on one-hundred, depending on the analysis and the placement of imperial bombs,” he elaborates.

The world seems to tilt under her feet, like she’s in some sort of messed-up funhouse.

Had Cassian told him?

“You know?”

“I don’t trust in things like superstitions or religion, Jyn,” Kaytu says with dignity, somehow making her name feel like a full name. “But I trust in experience, and you’ve been consistent enough in your successes on missions that the data is overwhelming. Now, go.”

Jyn starts out of the ship, but she pauses briefly to smile back at him. “So you do know.”

And then she’s sprinting back down the slide, out of the scrap-yard that’d served as camouflage for the u-wing. She scales the fence, the way she’d come, and is out in the street in a matter of moments.

Jyn tries not to think about the difference between superstition, religion and fact, as she clutches the kyber crystal in her fist. She tries not to think about words like partner and love and the cause. Instead she focuses on what she knows to be there, what she trusts in more than anything.

Cassian.

This time it’s harder to narrow in on his presence. She’d been outside the planet before, outside the mess, and she’d had an overview. Now she’s standing in the thick of it, drowning in it. And when she finds it, Cassian’s soul is so much weaker than it had been, smaller and flickering like a dark candle in the wind.

As if anything could blow it out.

Fear is enough to get her moving, her feet pounding on the pavement, dancing around falling debris. She barely sees the world around her, avoids most of the fighting and ignores the suffering of the people who’d been caught in the fray. There are screams, yells, and blasts going off in the distance, but Jyn narrows her focus to the street she’s sprinting down.

She rounds a corner, then another.

And doesn’t even skid to a halt when a group of ‘troopers appear, standing in front of the alley hiding her partner.

The first one goes down from poor shock, his mask shattering upon impact with her boot. The next two from shots from her blaster.

Jyn rolls off her first victim, kicking out the foot of another and ignoring the blaster fire wizzling past her ear. 

The burn of her hair is lost to the stench of the fray.

She twirls as she rises, the blaster an extension of her own limbs, so two more go down as she spins. And then one of her truncheons is in her free hand. Metal meets the helmet of her next victim, feral rage giving her strength.

The last stormtrooper falls.

As his body topples over backwards, he reveals another platoon of ‘troopers.

“Hey, you!”

Someone points at her, and Jyn takes a step back.

Her heel hits the cobble of the alley and a wave of darkness comes rushing out from behind her, shrouding her. Everything goes still and quiet.

Jyn tensses, pivoting and scanning for enemies. But there’s nothing here, no fighting, no screaming, no bombs going off. As if she’s been transported into space, away from all the danger. And yet, Jyn can still feel it on her skin, the sooty rain that falls from the sky; she can still feel solid ground underneath her feet.

Somewhere far away she can hear a man yelling “where’d she go?”

If she squints, she can even see the silhouettes of confused stormtroopers, searching the perimeter of their abandoned battleground.

None of them ever seem to consider looking into the alley.

Just like it never occurs to Jyn to be afraid.

She exhales slowly through her nose and replaces her weapons.

“Cassian?”

She turns from the recuperating stormtroopers, uncaring of the threat they no longer pose, and leaves the opening of the alley behind.

Her fingers find the wall of one of the buildings in the dark, and she uses it to guide her. It’s an odd place: outlines of buildings, rubble and scrap glow with white light, and she can see her own body clearly. But there are no true sources of light, no stars to guide her this time. As if what little light has dimmed or left him behind.

Cassian’s soul wobbles, and he shimmers into existence in front of her, glowing briefly in the dark where he’s crouched, before space retreats and the real world returns.

The first thing that registers to Jyn is the pool of blood on the ground.

“Cassian!”

She’s at his side in a flash, her hand on his shoulder, fingers digging into the wet of his shirt.

There’s warmth under the soot and the rain, tense muscles belying emotions beyond the stillness of the surface.

“You’re—“

But the relief that nearly blinds her is blown clear from her mind at the sight of the body lying in front of him, the reality of what she’s intruded upon suddenly becoming clear.

A human boy, dark skinned and with matted straight black hair, lies still on the ground in front of them. He’s thin and slightly malnourished, in tattered clothes reminiscent of the way the pilots at base dress, and no more than sixteen years old.

Maybe younger.

Well, not anymore.

Red strings still cling to his body, but the life that had been is already moving on, already being reclaimed by the Force.

He wasn’t shot, the wound would’ve been sealed immediately.

“What—“

She turns to Cassian again and finds him still looking down. He’d never looked at her, never greeted her, never even reacted to her presence.

His hair is longer, some of it having fallen out of the ponytail he’d tied it in for efficiency. 

Jyn can’t see his face.

It scares her.

From the moment she’d stumbled back into the alley and been met by Cassian’s soul, from the moment he’d reached out for her, she’d felt safe. Like coming home.

For the first time in months, the trembling in her mind had ceased and she’d been able to climb out of the deep hole in her head. The darkness had receded and she’d been left floating in space once more.

But now that she’s found him, now that she’s at his side again, the insecurity and the darkness comes back, slithering out from cracks and corners, too deeply shrouded in shadows to show the real source.

Cassian had always been the stable place she orbits. He’d been strong and in control, and she’d trusted him completely. He’d always been the one carrying the burden of decision and responsibility, the adult in their partnership, and if she’d hesitated, if she’d stumbled or broken, he’d been there to steady the ground below her, to make the right decisions so she could rise up again. He’d been the one to hold out his hand for her to clutch until she found her footing again, and now—

Now all that has shattered.

“Cassian, I don’t know what happened here, but we have to—“

But as Jyn reaches out to shake his arm, something snaps into place between them, and memories come crashing over her like a tidal wave, drowning her sense of reality.

She’s not sure where she is, isn’t sure who she is. Memories and thoughts not her own overwhelm her mind, and Jyn remembers.

She remembers a sprawling city covered in thick yellowish-grey clouds, a thousand-thousand chimneys drawing straight lines from ground to sky. She remembers people clutching their pollution masks and hurrying on, barely looking up as ‘troopers pass them by.

She remembers a smiling woman in a kitchen getting angry, other people arguing and showing their discontent where it’s safe. The building of a revolution, gathering of weapons and intel.

She remembers a boy. A boy Cassian had cleaned weapons with and chatted with. A boy whose talents with a rifle Cassian had recognised. A boy Cassian had recognised himself in, and taken under his wing. Soft and angry, and so very, very willing to do the right thing.

She remembers a boy standing in a dark alley, the buildings trembling from bombs not too far off. She remembers the way his soft, kind smile had fallen away to reveal something cold and cruel.

“If the rebellion doesn’t recruit children to their cause, then you truly are fools deserving of defeat.”

No.

It’s Cassian’s voice in her head. The choices, calculations, options, already playing through his mind, faster than even a droid’s processor, every single time he’d trusted and miscalculated, every single consequence of that miscalculation, every single outcome of what he does next clear to them.

I can’t—

Something flashes in the memories, too quickly to be clear to her.

I can’t kill a child.

More memories. The flashing of smiles. Laughter and banter. Infiltration, assassination, and scouting they’d done while Cassian mentored the boy.

And then it changes.

It stops.

And Jyn is sitting in dull clothes with silver in her hair, her eyes dead, on a bed in a Coruscanti safe-house.

Jyn.

Jyn is sitting on a bed, grimacing at something he’d said, draped in a blue blanket with Festian patterns woven into it.

Jyn.

Jyn is standing on a platform, a roar going up from a crowd, shining like a star.

“Jyn!”

His fingers linger in her hair and her forehead is against his lips, but when he leans back she isn’t smiling. Her eyes are already a little duller, already a little more lost.

I have to come back, no matter what.

“Jyn!”

Hera’s voice in her ear slams her back into herself, out of Cassian’s body, but not out of his mind. So she’s standing, gasping beside him in front of the boy with that cruel, victorious smile on his face.

His voice mixes with Hera’s as they say “The Imperial fleet are setting up bombers. They’re going to eradicate the entire population.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Jyn, you have to get out of there!”

“You have maybe an hour.”

“Jyn, are you listening to me?”

As the boy charges and Cassian side-steps the knife, Jyn forces herself out of the memory, back into the present. Her hand leaves Cassian’s shoulder, and his soul retreats from her skin.

“I’m listening, Hera,” she says, pressing the comm in her ear to be heard. “Source on the ground says an hour. What’s your estimation?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Jyn’s heart aches.

So it’d been that long.

Cassian had been sitting here for forty minutes, alone and bowed down by despair.

She signs off with Hera and turns back to Cassian, moving in front of him to hide the boy behind her.

And it gets her a reaction, finally.

As she steps into the undisturbed pool of blood, Cassian starts, his head flying up. “Jyn— no, you—“

His face is gaunt, his beard fuller, and his eyes darker than she’s ever seen them.  And he looks so lost. Like he doesn’t know what to do, anymore. As if his world has shattered. Tears fall from his eyes like a stream that will never cease, clearing the grime from his skin in perfect lines.

“It’s okay,” she says, doing her best to sound confident, even as she keeps her voice quiet.

Jyn isn’t a gentle person.

But she’s been around Cassian enough to know how to do it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice wobbling, as he looks down at his hands.

His bloodied hands.

The ones still holding the knife in a vice grip.

“I know,” she says.

Jyn runs her fingers down over his palm, breaking up the blood that sticks to his skin. When he tries to pull away, to protect her from the grime, she grasps his wrist with her free hand.

“I know,” she says again. “I saw.”

“I—“ he hesitates, eyes flickering away with more guilt. “I didn’t mean to.”

It gives her enough time to gently pry one hand free from the knife.

“I know,” she says, and when he starts fumbling back for it, she roughly pulls her kyber crystal from her throat, snapping the old line. “But you wanted me to,” she continues, folding his fingers over the crystal.

“I— Jyn, you’re going to get blood all over—“

“I don’t care,” she says, simply.

She looks up and meets his gaze, forcing her confidence through the sorrow she feels for him. She does her best to project the strength he sees in her, but as Jyn’s eyes meet Cassian’s and she sees how lost he is, how despair still has him in a vice grip, she still cries.

Tears warm her cheeks, falling in too great a stream for the rain to cool her back down, and her vision wobbles momentarily, so Cassian comes out of focus.

“I don’t care about dirt or blood or war,” she says, her voice breaking. “I care about you, Cassian. So please. Please, find the strength to get back up and let’s get out of here.”

When he comes back into focus, there’s warmth in his gaze again.

The knife clatters to the ground, and it’s as if it starts time back up.

Jyn stares at him for a long moment, as the world ticks back into focus, at the man she remembers, at the man she ran through a war zone to find. The man the empire had broken. Not for the first time. Soft and drained and too shattered by his own actions to find the strength to stand. And then she realises what she’s doing.

“Come on!” She says.

She springs to her feet and pulls on his hands.

“No. I can’t leave—“

“You have to,” Jyn says, and she begins nudging him, pushing at his balancing point to make him turn around. “He’s gone Cassian. He was a spectre and now the illusion is over. You have to leave him here.”

And finally, finally, he starts moving.

Finally, Cassian chooses life.

Jyn doesn’t stop to thank him.

“Come on!”

Jyn herds Cassian back to Kay, yelling for him to take off, even as they’re coming through the open door.

“I need—“

“Clearer instructions?” Jyn snaps at the droid over her shoulder. “Cloak the karking ship, and let’s get out of here, Kay. We have maybe ten minutes before they start dropping bombs on this sector.”

The ship trembles into action, but Jyn barely notices. She’s too busy helping Cassian into a sitting position in one of the many seats in the main haul of the ship, and then running for where he usually keeps the medical supplies.

“Here,” she says, dumping the heavy bag down on the seat beside him.

He looks up from his bloodied hands, and finds a brief smile for her. “Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ll take it from here. Kay is going to need you.”

“Great,” she murmurs irritably, and pauses when it brings another brief smile to his face.

And just like that, with the way his face warms under the grime, his eyes crinkling at the edges, Jyn feels all the weight of the last half year, the worry, the loneliness, the panic after Kaytu’s call, comes crashing over her again in new waves. And as the emotions hit her, they change into relief. Relief that he’s safe. Relief that he’s back by her side. Relief that she found him in time.

Jyn hesitates, pushes the hair and grime out of her face, and throws her arms around Cassian, brief and strong to say all the things she doesn’t have time to articulate.

And then she lets go and turns away, doing her best to avoid his reaction.

“What’s the status?” She demands of Kay as she comes into the cockpit.

Outside, the world is turning from grimy reds to deep blacks, the atmosphere falling away to reveal rows and rows and rows of white imperial bombers. One at a time, the heavy artillery ships begin to descend, moving the way Jyn and her little crew had come, to incinerate the planet below, ending the civil war with cruel, impartial fire.

“The status is I could use a co-pilot,” Kay says sourly.

“Well, you don’t have one,” she snaps. “You’re going to have to make do with my instructions.”

“You’re not qualified—“

“I am the only one on this ship currently not emotionally incapacitated,” Jyn says, her snapping voice growing a little louder. “So you’re going to have to ignore protocol right now.”

The droid turns and narrows his ghostly white eyes on her, but Jyn meets his gaze, unafraid and stubborn. He’s violent, she knows, he’s stubborn, she knows. He could genuinely hurt her if he wanted. But she trusts Cassian’s programming, and she’s more stubborn than any droid in existence.

Finally, Kay relents.

It’s not that she wants to do this. Sometimes Jyn only feels like an adult by convention. She’s never been in charge before.

She’d been too busy looking up to people who treated her with kindness, who took responsibility for her and showed her she didn’t have to be mean and cruel to fight alongside other rebels. She’d left the decision making and the orders to Cassian, and Hera, and Mon Mothma, and she’d been fine with that.

She trusts Cassian, after all.

He’d always seemed so much greater than her. In control. He always knew what he wanted, where he was going, what needed to be done to get him to his goal. Never failing, never faltering. He’d been the perfect adult.

And maybe it had intimidated her a little. Maybe she’d followed him because she’d thought she could never be that responsible, that capable or trustworthy, that much of an adult.

But Cassian is human. He’s just a person. And if anything proves that, it’s this mission. This failure.

He’d done the right thing. He’d trusted, and he’d done his job as a spy and a recruiter. He’d tried to empower a kid who’d told him he wanted to fight for his own rights. And it’s not on the people of Senkoku, or on Cassian, that that kid had been a spy for the empire. It doesn’t speak badly of them that they’d trusted him, embraced him, or fought for him.

It speaks to their kindness and their hearts.

But that trust had broken their world. It’d forced Cassian down a path that had broken him.

And until he recovers, Jyn is going to have to step up and realise that she is his equal in every way. Until he’s recovered, she’s going to have to make the decisions and keep them safe.

And for that she has to start truly thinking of herself as an adult.

So she does.

She guides Kaytu under a battleship to avoid an oncoming steam of TIE fighters, and instructs him to go around the moon where Hera’s ship is waiting for them.

Then she contacts the other woman, assures her that they’re all safe, and watches her friend jump to lightspeed.

“Follow them,” she orders, her eyes still on the screen showing the imperial navy, checking for tails.

They’d gotten away clean.

“What?”

“I said,” she grinds out, irritated that the droid is complaining now. “Punch it.”

They’re sitting ducks out here in the middle of space, and it’s only a matter of time before someone turns around and notices the little rebellion u-wing by the moon.

“I can’t do that without a partner,” Kay clarifies.

Jyn exhales an irritable sigh and throws herself into Cassian’s empty seat. “Then tell me what to press and I’ll be your partner.”

“That’s not such a good idea—“ Kay begins.

“From five. On the count of one,” Cassian says, his hand appearing on Jyn’s shoulder. The other one grabs a handle above the pilot’s seat. “Press down on the five buttons to your right. Kay, the coordinates.”

Jyn holds her breath as she places her fingers on worn-down buttons. His hand is a burning presence against her skin, and she can feel the heat from the rest of his body as he leans on her for support. Just here, she can feel and hear how exhausted he is from the day’s emotional labour, in his weight on her, in the dryness of his voice.

“Entering coordinates,” the droid responds docilely.

She’s still hyperaware of him, her entire body singing his return to her side, but as Cassian begins to count down, Jyn catches something looming out of the gloom. A moon, not on the star maps.

“— four, three—“

It looks broken, large portions of it lost to space, as if it’s been hit by astroids recently. 

“One.”

She presses down, and Cassian pushes the handle, and the world becomes nothing more than white lines.

The broken moon disappears from sight.

Chapter Text

Cassian retreats to the small ‘fresher on board the ship, washes his hands of blood and locates clean clothes. The dark green uniform shirt is soft against his skin and a relief. Just as great a relief as it is to throw the black clothes he’d worn on Senkoku in the garbage.

He shouldn’t, of course. He should put them in the washing bin under the sink and recycle them. But all Cassian wants to do is lock the memories of Senkoku and its people away, forget that he’d failed another people, that he’d been gullible enough to believe in someone, simply because convention teaches that their age determine their innocence.

He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts.

Jyn is right.

The illusion is over. It’d evaporated like smoke between his fingers. And he needs to let the sensation of failure evaporate with it.

Sometimes, as a spy he will trick people. At other times, he will be tricked. Detecting truths or lies in an immensely complex universe is never going to be a skill he can master to perfection.

Cassian is human, and he can’t let the failure hold him back from doing what he believes is right in the future. Otherwise, he’ll never be able to meet the eyes of another person ever again.

He turns on the water again, grabs the soap and starts cleaning his hands one more time.

A star floats by his line of sight, alerting him to the presence outside the door, and he smiles.

“Come in.”

Cassian had missed this. The little stars lighting his world and making things feel less gloomy, less empty. He’d pushed the thoughts of Jyn aside on his mission because he’d learnt long ago that compartmentalising his own self when he’s undercover is important, but there’d been a shudder of relief the first time she’d reached out for him on Senkoku. And Cassian had felt just how lost and empty he’d been even then.

Now that she’s within reach it feels almost impossible that he should’ve been without her all this time, like he is a weak man who’d wandered a desert and found water, marvelling at how thirsty he’d been without realising.

Only the contrast made it real.

“I see your hearing hasn’t gotten worse,” Jyn grumbles as the door slides open.

She leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her, and only now does Cassian notice the change. Her face is thinner, her cheekbones standing out a little too much for his liking. Her hair is up in a ponytail instead of a bun, swinging by her shoulders and giving away the growth.

She’s in de-saturated blues, a hue that’s repeated in the dark circles under her eyes.

Worry churns in his stomach, and he wants to reach out, touch her skin and ask her if she’s been eating properly, if she’s been sleeping well. But something stops him.

The odd thing is that Cassian doesn’t feel any distance from her. Even the months of separation haven’t made him feel any less familiar with her, the twist of her mouth, the stars in her eyes, the furrow of her brow as she studies him critically.

He can’t.

It’d been like second nature to trust her with his memories and experiences, to fill her in. And although he feels bad about it now, he recognises the instinct for what it was, for the truth it is based in.

Cassian had grown up on tales of star-crossed lovers and soulmates being just another part of each other, two halves making a whole. And whatever he and Jyn are, whatever they have chosen not to be out of respect for each others individuality, he still considers her an extension of himself, and himself an extension of her.

And that’s exactly why he doesn’t cross that divide now.

There’s a thickness in the back of his throat, a desire to reach out and touch her, to run his hands all over her skin, into her hair and reassure himself that she is real before him. Cassian wants nothing more than to pull open her ribs, mould his chest to hers, their hearts together, and sink through to her core until there is nothing of him left, until there is no divide, no separation. So he can forget what had happened, what he’d done.

But Cassian won’t do that.

He knows he has to face his own choices and the consequences that followed, or he’ll drive himself mad with what he does for the sake of rebellion.

And he knows he cannot force something like that on Jyn.

So he chooses to remain wholly himself, to protect the integrity of both their individual selves. And he doesn’t touch her.

“On the other hand,” she continues, when he doesn’t volunteer a greeting in response. “Your appearance has certainly suffered. You look awful. And I don’t mean the fact you clearly haven’t slept for about as long as this civil war has been going on.”

“You’re one to talk,” Cassian retorts calmly, grabbing the soap to wash his hands again. “You never struck me as an insomniac.”

Jyn’s eyes move from his face to his hands and back again. “What can I say? Getting woken up by Kay in the middle of the night does real wonders for my beauty sleep.”

They share a look, and something sparks between them, a little bit of joy.

And Cassian finds himself laughing along with Jyn.

It’s short and sweet, but it’s enough to break the tension, for a smile to stay on her face. And when she takes an experimental step into the ‘fresher Cassian doesn’t protest her presence.

The door clicks shut behind her.

“Cassian.”

Jyn’s hand lands on top of his as he reaches for the soap - again.

And he freezes.

He hadn’t even thought about what he’d been doing, but now, with Jyn’s cool fingers against his overheated skin, it hits him.

“How many times are you going to wash your hands clean?”

Her voice is small and her green eyes wide when she looks up at him.

And Cassian swallows thickly, shame hitting him like a brick, so he can’t keep the emotion off his face.

He’s the superior officer, the experienced spy. He’s the adult, the one who makes the decisions, the one who thinks ahead and understands the consequences of his actions, accepts them and doesn’t get held back by them afterwards.

He’s supposed to be more reliable than this.

He’s not supposed to be overcome by the memory of blood against his skin, by the memory of blood on his hands. He’s not supposed to feel like he’d killed that boy, the smiling boy, the one who’d chatted eagerly about his nana’s home-made bread, or re-constructed a rifle in a matter of seconds so his nose had become long with pride.

Cassian is supposed to know and understand that that boy had never lived in the first place. The empire had killed him before he’d had the chance to live. Anything else is a sign of foolishness and will get him swallowed on the battlefield.

Jyn’s brow furrows as she studies him, and then she nods. Nods to herself, as if she sees every thought passing through his brain.

And she steals the soap from him.

Flipping the faucet, she dips her hands into the water-stream, and proceeds to lather the soap onto her own hands. Once she’s done she grabs his hands and begins wash them.

She doesn’t say anything as she goes through the process. Instead, she bows her head and focuses on what she’s doing, and Cassian follows her gaze, mesmerised by how meticulously she washes his hands, by the sensation of soap and skin—Jyn’s skin, the perfect combination of soft and hardened - against his hands.

He holds his breath and pays attention to what she’s doing, carving the sensation into his memory, because he knows what she’s doing.

I don’t care, she’d said. I care about you.

Instead of condemning him or pitying him, Jyn is replacing the memory of blood on his hands with something far warmer and far more human.

Cassian is so caught up in what she’s doing that when she flips the faucet back on and dips his hands under the freezing water he jumps.

“Surprise helps with memory,” she says, taking a step back and grinning. “Better?”

He accepts the towel she hands him. “When did you become such an adult?” He says sourly.

“Well,” she says, incapable of hiding the smile of pride that blooms at the compliment. “I can’t always rely on you, can I? Now,” she adds, producing his shaving kit. “Will you do this yourself, or do you want me to get rid of that awful beard of yours?”

Cassian eyes the way she holds herself more lightly in mischief, enjoying the way nostalgic happiness thrums in his veins at the sight of her.

He can no longer feel the sensation of blood on his hands, and he considers the potential in her offer: the very real promise of thrill that having Jyn that close and intimate with something so dangerous in her hands.

But Cassian is also very aware of the fact that he doesn’t want to hold a knife in his hands ever again. And for that very reason he gestures for the kit.

“Thank you,” he says, when she doesn’t fight him for it.

She nods, her eyes glowing with pride for him. “Cut that hair, too,” she orders, already turning away to retreat out the door.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jyn turns her head in the door to smile at him one last time. “Glad you’re back, Captain.”

He finds her sitting on one of the chairs in the main cockpit, nodding off. She’d taken over the ‘fresher while Cassian had gone to check on Kay, but the grimy clothes remain. Grey and blue patches flash across her face from the windows, making her look frail and sickly, as if life has been slowly drained from her for many months.

Cassian kneels down before her, grasping her hand, thumb lingering on the bony marks and the scars gloves had not protected her from.

He’d been so focused on himself, on his mission, that she’s still becoming real to him; the details that had changed, what remains the same. She’s discarded her leather jacket and utility vest so she’s only in her shirt. It hangs on her body differently, more loosely, and her shoulder bones protrude, giving away the fact she’s lost weight.

When he runs his hand up her arm he feels the muscles that have sharpened, the way her body has become wiry with a strength he thought impossible. Jyn had already been invisible before, a storm on the battlefield; that she should’ve become stronger borders on the divine.

Concern churns in his stomach as he dips his fingers towards her face.

A person can only be so strong before they break.

Jyn’s head falls forward, painting her face in shadows as her dark eyes fall open, and she meets his hand half way.

“When did you sleep last?” He murmurs.

Stars dance in her eyes, and they crinkle with minuscule amusement. “Roughly eighteen hours ago,” she says, not fighting him for an answer. “Maybe nineteen.”

“For how long?”

Her smile widens briefly. “Two hours,” she says. Considers, and then adds “and before you ask, before that I had a seventy-two hour mission, I didn’t sleep during that one at all.”

Cassian exhales a laugh. It passes through his nose, nothing more than a breath rustling his beard, and it’s more at the reminder of how well she knows him, his usual method of wheedling answers out of people, than because what she’d said had been amusing.

No. His mouth drops and his heart aches with real concern for her.

“Who authorised your mission here?” He murmurs, anger in his throat, but not in his fingers as he brushes his thumb over the dark marks under her eyes. “They should know better.”

Jyn’s expression softens, and she leans into his hand, but she doesn’t answer him. Instead, she mirrors him, placing her palm against his jaw.

“I didn’t mean to shave it all off,” she says. “You’re not you without the scruff.”

“There’s no saving the scruff when you shave.”

He’s sitting very still in her hold, holding his breath and waiting. She’s tired, and exhaustion makes her a little more honest, so she’s misdirecting instead, saying one thing to avoid saying another. And Cassian doesn’t want to scare her away.

“Liar,” she says, and her hand slides up his jaw to tug on his hair. “At least this is the same again.”

A thought occurs to him, a realisation that warms his heart and extinguishes the churn of concern, distracts from it.

I care about you, Cassian.

Jyn tugs more insistently on his hair, and Cassian follows the sway of her arm forwards. He circles her middle with both arms and pulls her close, and Jyn leans forwards, looping her arms around his head. Her sigh of relief warms his ear.

Here in the dark between their bodies, in the darkness of his own soul, stars begin to grow, lighting them both gently in hues of gold. And Cassian, yet again, has the thought that his soul is not dark and empty, but that maybe he really is a creature of the cosmos.

But he ignores the fanciful idea and focuses on the warmth that finally begins to fill his body as they breathe in sync.

“I missed you, too,” he murmurs.

She doesn’t answer him. The sob is silent, but it trembles through her.

It’s night by the time they return to base. There’s no one but scouts and guards to greet them, and they know all too well what a night-time arrival means. They only share a roll of the eyes and a stuck out tongue with Jyn instead of the usual debrief. So she and Cassian are left alone to say their goodbyes and thanks to Kay, and stumble on exhausted limbs back to his room.

There’d been very little sleeping on the ship, and what sleep either of them had gotten had been light and uncomfortable in all the wrong ways.

Cassian’s eyes travel over the changes that have come to his room since he’d left it, too tired to ponder the implication. Instead, it’s a warm sensation behind his eyes as he dumps his duffel on the floor and sinks onto the mattress to remove his boots.

“So, how did you get to Senkoku?”

Jyn shrugs in the door, clutching her shoulder and looking a little guilty, a little out of place. And about to fall apart from exhaustion.

Cassian sighs, and makes a motion for her to come closer. “Sleep here tonight,” he says, grasping her hands when she’s within reach. “There’s space enough for two.”

He isn’t pleading for anything. It’s not that he doesn’t want to let her go or be alone without her again. Cassian just wants to make sure that she gets proper sleep, that she isn’t woken by the other girls in the dormitory too early for her to have fully recovered. Cassian just wants to make sure they both get the chance to recover fully.

She hesitates, but Jyn, too, is too selfish to think about rules and appropriate behaviour for comrades in arms, and, after only a moment of deliberation, she sinks gratefully down beside him.

Cassian lies back down and watches her remove her boots and pants. She gets up briefly to discard her clothes on his chair, and pluck a clean shirt from a shelf that’d been empty when he left. And Cassian knows he’s being selfish, knows he’s pleading her to stay, knows he doesn’t want her to leave this space.

“Leia helped me commandeer a u-wing,” Jyn says quietly in explanation once she sits down on the edge of the bed. “And Hera transported me.”

“So that’s who you were communicating with.”

Cassian’s fingers curl into the edge of the night shirt and he tugs experimentally. “You didn’t have to change,” he adds.

She laughs sleepily and finally relents, resting her head on his arm and curling into him like a cat coming home. “I know you don’t like to bring dirt into your bed.”

“One night won’t hurt,” he murmurs, pulling the string from the back of her head so her hair falls free. “I’m changing the sheets tomorrow anyway.”

One green eye falls open to stare at him owlishly. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

He exhales another breath that’s somewhere between relief and a laugh. “So you broke Alliance rules, commandeered a ship and went rogue just to come get me?”

It only occurs to Cassian what he’s saying once he’d said it, once he’d tasted the words. The gravity of her actions, the swiftness of her decisions, and why she’d done it. It’d felt so natural to have her here, lying so close, as if she’d always been here, that Cassian had spoken based on that sense of natural domesticity.

Now, for just a moment, he stiffens. Afraid he’s gone too far.

But Jyn just snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, shuffling a little closer and closing her eyes in blissful relief at the warmth she finds. “That’s why I dragged Hera and Leia into it. I’m not breaking any rules if Leia approves my actions, and I can’t go rogue if I have a superior officer overlooking my actions.”

“Rebel.”

The word is meant as a criticism, but it crosses his lips like an endearment.

“Thank you.”

Cassian brushes a lazy curl from her face, just as Jyn’s eyes flutter open. They crinkle at the edges when she finds him, and she smiles at him. And she’s pretty, so very pretty, even in her exhaustion, with her golden stars and her bright eyes, and the lips that split so easily in a flash of white to show her easy joy.

She’s mincing words to make him feel at ease, but it lingers like warm honey in his blood, that she’d broken rules and gone rogue without a second thought to bring him back. And she’d done it in a way that wouldn’t hurt either of them later, disobeying orders and bending the rules expertly to protect the both of them. And she’d brought their friends into it, two people he considers as close as sisters, because she knew they would care enough to help her.

It warms him.

Being undercover for a long time can wash away any connection you feel to people back home. And with this mission, this failed mission, where he’d trusted someone who later tricked him, it’s easy to forget to ever trust again. But Jyn had become a string tying him back to the rebellion. Her natural actions, her natural sense of right and wrong, her bonds, had become a reminder of where he belongs, connecting him back home.

And Cassian loves her for it.

“Speaking of,” Jyn says, keeping her voice casual. She’s growing more lucid now, her eyes dancing with a joke she has yet to tell. “I should punch you. You used me as an excuse.”

And maybe it’s the smile hiding in the shadow at the corner of her lips, maybe it’s the warmth of her body so close to his. Maybe it’s the realisation that had crept up on him. But Cassian doesn’t feel the smack of guilt he should at having that pointed out to him.

He does his best never to use other people as an excuse for killing. It wouldn’t be fair, and it can so easily turn to blame and resentment. That’s why he clings to the cause. It is abstract enough to give him permission to do what he needs to do, and impersonal enough that he can never throw blame on it or be betrayed by it.

And he hasn’t broken that rule with Jyn.

He hadn’t used her as an excuse to kill.

He’d used her as an excuse to survive.

So Cassian leans forwards without guilt, and places a kiss on her forehead. “So did you,” he murmurs.

I care about you, Cassian.

He’d found the strength in her words to get up and keep moving forward. And he doesn’t feel guilt or shame in that. He feels powerful.

Jyn exhales a laugh and shakes her head at him. Then she shuffles closer, closing the last inch between them, grabs his arm and pulls it over her, and lets her eyes fall shut.

“Welcome home, Cassian.”

With the permission she’s granted him, he tightens his grip on her, tugs her head under his chin and closes his eyes.

“I’m home.”

Jyn is waiting for Draven in his private office when he opens the door at lunch the next day.

He starts.

“You!“

His nostrils flare with anger, his eyes growing wide. He can’t hide the sneer. “You’re not authorised here, Sergeant.”

Something cold sinks through Jyn, as if she is a still lake on Lah’mu with a monster at its bottom, welcoming back the drops of winter ice.

Oh, she knows that Dravits Draven hates having to use that word. He doesn’t like her, and he would much rather pretend she’s not an officer in the Alliance, but he doesn’t know her family name. And calling her Jyn would be worse.

She smiles.

“You should know by now I have such little regard for rules, General,” she says, crossing her foot over her ankle as she leans on his desk. “Isn’t that what makes me so useful?”

“What do you want?”

He presses the lock and the door slides shut behind him. The curtains pull up, flooding the room in bright light, revealing an office much like Mon Mothma’s: old furniture, mismatched and procured wherever they could find them, the alliance flag hanging on one of the walls. Storm protection equipment. The only difference is that while Mothma’s office is filled with stacks of files, Draven’s is clean.

Jyn had had to pat the walls down to find his stash.

Now her shadow falls deep and black across the floor, and Draven doesn’t see the eyes glowing from its depths. Waiting. Biding their time.

“Dravits Draven,” she recites, waving his file. “Of Pendar III. Served in Galactic Republic’s Military Intelligence during the clone wars. Almost everything else blacked out, because we can’t have the Alliance knowing anything about their officers, now can we?”

For every word she speaks, Draven goes more and more red in the face.

“And this is exactly why,” he snaps, storming forwards, into her shadow, to grab the file out of her hand. “Give that back, girl.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jyn says, keeping her icy temper under control.

She puts the file down and dances out of his reach, faster, so much faster than he could ever comprehend.

“I’m not interested in all that,” she says, her voice velvet smooth. “I’m not even really here to blackmail you or anything. I just found one thing interesting about your file.”

Draven narrows his uncanny blue eyes at her. He reminds her of a military compound at the heart of Coruscant, of imperial officers with ambitious voices, and white cloaks.

“What?”

“Your health chart,” she says.

Jyn takes one clean step forwards, grasps the general by the collar of his shirt and pushes him roughly up against the wall, into the shadow beyond the windows. The curtains rattle from the blow.

It’s easy. He flails with surprise, and he’s heavy. But—

“You’ve dismissed every medical droid’s demand for a check-up for three years,” she says. “And no one’s seen you in the practice rooms for five. You’ve grown weak, General. Weak, like those politicians you scoff at for only giving orders.”

“I could have you courtmartialed for assaulting a superior officer,” Draven heaves, still struggling against her hold.

And Jyn smiles.

She smiles because it’s easy to hold him in place, much easier than it should have been. And she doesn’t feel like questioning why.

“But you won’t,” she says, almost sweet in her chill. “Not because I am genuinely capable of hurting you. Not because you know I’d be out of here before any of your goons could catch me. But because I’m so very, very useful, when I get what I want. And you love when people are useful to you.”

She lifts her gaze to meet his, and she doesn’t need to tell him to stop struggling for the General to still. The monster that had waited at the bottom of the lake in her mind rises from the depths, soaring up and through her, its open, roaring mouth consumes the General in front of her. Icy blue and white strings follow in its wake, seeping out from behind her and grasping him at the wrists and the shoulders. Trapping him.

And he thinks it’s all his idea. He grasps his wrist, checking for damage, and, when Jyn steps away, he collects his collar so it sits properly one more time. 

Keeping up the illusion of a proper soldier.

Jyn scoffs.

“What do you want, Sergeant?” He asks again.

“Leave Cassian Andor alone.”

Draven raises an eyebrow and smiles condescendingly. “You’re a child if you still don’t understand the way things work around here,” Draven says. “Andor is your superior officer. He’s an Intelligence officer - by choice. I’d have to sack him. Or would you rather I step down from my post?”

“That would be preferable,” Jyn retorts cynically. “But I don’t expect you will. Let me rephrase: The captain is your best officer in the field. He’s useful to you. Stop interacting with him outside of giving orders. Stop manipulating him. Stop trying to sacrifice him like another one of your karking chess pieces.”

She’d woken in the morning to artificial sunlight painting everything in shades of gold, catching in the tips of Cassian’s hair and the white of his shirt, warming his skin. She’d woken to a contented smile on his face and dark circles under his eyes.

He’d been beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful.

“Andor is your superior officer,” Draven repeats, taking a step forwards and bending his head down towards her so shadows fall over his face.

The merciless white of the sun outside draws a line around his silhouette and makes his eyes glow dangerously.

“What he does and how he answers to me is none of your business, Sergeant, and I advise you step back, before I start considering this a declaration of war.”

Maybe she should’ve taken the warning. Maybe she should’ve gone to Mon Mothma instead. But Jyn is angry. She’s never been this angry in her entire life.

He’d hummed. Cassian had brushed his hand up and down her arm in the darkness, and he’d hummed. It’s a song she doesn’t know, a nostalgic melody of home and simple bliss, the kind of warmth that comes from genuine happiness.

And Draven will eventually steal that away, will eventually rip Cassian from her and destroy him.

And then he will shrug, and he will move on to the next pawn.

“I already told you, General,” she spits, Saw Gerrera in her mouth. “I’m terrible at following rules. And he might be your soldier, but he’s my soulmate. So I will do whatever I have to do to protect his autonomy and happiness. Even if it means fighting you.”

She flicks the door open behind her, and only turns when the light of the outside world illuminates her, casting her shadow, long and dark into the room.

Jyn smiles, the monster settling back on her shoulders, her eyes bright green.

“So, yes, do consider this a declaration of war.”

Chapter Text

“Alright.”

Jyn sticks her head into the cockpit of the unmarked transport, and announces “done.”

Cassian eyes the cool light of space as stars fly by outside one more time, before he gets up from the captain’s seat.

“Just keep the course,” he instructs Kay. “Call me if anything shows up.”

“You know it won’t,” the droid responds tersely.

Cassian smiles and smacks him on the shoulder companionably, before turning to face the golden stars floating in from the cabin, surrounding the woman in the door.

She makes a face past him at Kay. “One of these days you really need to listen to a briefing, too,” she chides him.

“I do listen,” Kay corrects her without looking back. “But I don’t need to. Unless it gains me a blaster, I don’t see how it’s any business of mine to get involved in your schemes.”

Jyn turns her eyes to Cassian. “Well?” she demands mischievously.

“Stop playing devil’s advocate.”

She shrugs. “You heard the cap, Kay,” she says, bouncing out of sight.

The bun at the back of her head gives an extra jump as she vanishes, and it makes Cassian smile in her absence.

After their trip to Senkoku, she’d cut her hair extremely short, citing its uses. And while he’ll never complain at anything she does, Cassian is secretly happy to see it finally return to its usual length (as well as the fact that she doesn’t seem inclined to repeat the experiment).

It’d been more than a year without anything to distract his hands with.

“So?” He asks, sitting down and tugging on the lazy curl falling from behind her ear.

Jyn produces the new datapad handed off to them by Draven upon their disembarkment from their last mission, dims the light with the pad, and pulls up a hologram of a star system for them to study.

In the gloom of the cabin, planets, moons, suns and asteroids orbit them peacefully, casting a blue light across the seats and utility closets. The stars that always orbit Jyn in peaceful, indecipherable patterns join in, so it feels as if they’re sitting alone in space.

“Target: Midas 5,” she recites, zooming in on the largest planet in orbit and its three moons. “99.6% farmland. The rest is water or ice. Perfectly positioned from their sun to have a mild life-form friendly climate. The extra moons allow them to grow plants at a scary rate and they have eleven harvests in a cycle, which lasts three basic years.

“According to our bastard boss’ notes—“

“Jyn.”

Narrow green eyes turn to Cassian, but she relents irritably. “Fine,” she says. “According to the general’s notes. Better?”

“Yes.”

“This is a recruitment mission,” she says, leaning back in her seat and resting the pad on her knee, tapping on the screen to produce records she must’ve already sliced from imperial resources. “Been a while since we’ve had one of those. They’re a neutral world so Mothma and the other leaders want to gain their trust in order to gain access to their great supply of food. Don’t see why they need the monopoly, though. They spend plenty of money and resources on charity programs. We could just lie to them.”

The blue light falls on her head, reflecting in her dark hair like a halo, and her eyes catch the light, turning tired and soulless for a moment as she regards the papers she’d pulled up for Cassian’s benefit.

And Cassian, he follows her lead, placing a hand on the small of her back and leaning forwards to glance across the papers, taking in the information he needs in a fraction of a moment.

The papers change, just slow enough that he can blink between reading, and he smiles.

It’d taken a lot of bickering for them to set up this system, but they’d been going directly from mission to mission for the past many months, and so they’d had to adapt.

Jyn had grumped and complained for a long while about Cassian's show of intelligence, calling him obnoxious on the best of days as a shaded compliment. But she’d eventually given up trying to keep up with that side of him, accommodating him instead where he needs it. And they’d found a system, where he captains their ship and she does the research, reporting back to him once they hit hyperspace.

She’d always been the better slicer, anyway. And it gives them a distinct advantage.

“And the population? Government?”

Jyn pulls up the charts. “Not particularly large,” she says. “For that size planet. Mostly indigenous, but the capital has a large population of Coruscanti people. They’re spread in communities on a global scale, in charge of large sections of land. Everything is governed from Ceres, the capital city. The style of government says democratic, but it looks more to me like it’s an oligarchy, governed by a Force temple religion.”

So another colonised world. Cassian bites the inside of his cheek as he considers the charts. He understands that Mon Mothma, Draven, Organa and the rest have stronger ties in the colonies thanks to their core world affiliations, but that doesn’t mean he has to like the way they’ve been using him and Jyn these past few years: her existence to manipulate trust, and his communication skills to gain allies from so close to what they’d come from.

What he’d fought against.

If they keep building allies from the Core and the Colonies, the only thing left once the war is over will be the same Republic that’d eventually become the Empire.

There’d be no difference.

But Cassian shakes the unease he feels at those long-term political thoughts and re-focuses on the mission, the present.

He glances at Jyn, finding her watching him, and smiles.

At least, nothing had ever been as bad as Coruscant.

“Anything else?”

She spends the next hour running him through logistics, geography, culture, and history, returning at the end to escape routes which —

“I’ve already plotted into the u-wing’s computer,” she adds loudly, turning her face in Kay’s direction. “So you better start your download, in case we need to steal a ship — again.”

Kay retaliates nonverbally, and Jyn just barely manages to duck the drawer flying at her.

It lands behind her with a clunk and starts their usual bickering back and forth from cockpit to cabin.

Cassian shakes his head, getting up to pick up Kay’s improvised weapon. As he picks up the content — screwdrivers, data chips, other repair tools - he runs through the data once more, making sure he remembers everything correctly.

Only when he looks up at Jyn once more, does he find her her leaning over the back of her chair, watching him.

Frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s one more thing,” she says, taking a moment to turn off the hologram and power up the lamps once more to hide her hesitation.

“One more thing? Not on file?”

She nods, turning off the tablet, as well.

“They consider themselves an offshoot of the Church of the Force,” she says, looking down and away. “Which means Lyra might have been a frequent visitor—during the inquisition. And I might be recognised.”

The name Erso echoes in the cabin, the whisper of a haunting ghost — the threat her father’s existence still poses to her life.

Cassian tilts his head, knowing sympathies are not what she needs or wants right now and choosing curiosity over melancholia. “Do you look a lot like your mother?”

He gets a sour look for the distraction, but she answers him anyway.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she says.

Cassian hesitates, reaching for her hair regretfully. “We could always cut it short again,” he offers, keeping his voice quiet.

Jyn glances at him, her eyes catching. And then she smiles. “Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” she says, tugging something out of her left breast pocket with one hand and catching his with the other. “This is what I’m really worried about.”

Something warm and familiar rests between his fingers, and Cassian looks down to find her kyber crystal in his palm once more. The string he’d threaded for her and the two blue Festian beads he’d attached in thanks for borrowing it last time still linger against the forceful crystal.

Cassian closes his fingers over it again. “Jyn—“

“There’ll be sensitives on the planet,” she says, ignoring him. “Especially amongst the acolytes in charge of government. They’ll sense this, but if it’s not attached to me they might not make the association to a Jedi - who wasn’t supposed to have a child, anyway. Which reminds me, there’s one more complication—“

“Like Leia there’s a chance they might sense our bond,” he completes for her.

Jyn’s head swivels around and her eyes finally meet his properly. “You know about that?”

He shrugs a shoulder and smiles crookedly. “I might’ve been her part time babysitter, but I also met the Jedi who was almost entirely saddled with her,” he admits. “You learn a thing or two about a person in the company of someone like that.”

Jyn’s eyebrows rise on her forehead. “I can’t imagine you interacting with a Jedi,” she says, leaning forwards, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Especially not as a teenager.”

Cassian doesn’t hide his grin. “He said I gave him headaches,” he says, almost smug. It’d been his private little revenge against a man he still partially considers an enemy.

Jyn rolls her eyes and reaches past him. “Of course, you did,” she says, tugging a red string from somewhere out of space, and turning it gold before it scatters like stardust. And then she sighs in exasperation, pulling her hand up through her hair and straightening. “I just— I don’t like this. So let’s be careful.”

Cassian’s smile falls.

If she’s worried enough to suggest care, she must have good reason. Cassian doesn’t care about light or darkness. He’s found warmth, the easy peace to breathe, at Jyn’s side, and so the old dichotomy seems narrow-minded and utterly useless. But he knows that other Force sensitives do care about the dichotomy, and that it gives them excuses to cause trouble.

And he thinks, not for the first time, that Jyn is carrying an extra weight these days, a little skittish close to base, a little more cautious with her surroundings. She hasn’t shared the reason for her vigilance with him, but Cassian trusts that she will when she’s ready. Or it’ll come to light when they least expect it, and he’ll at least be ready for it.

Whatever it is.

He gathers the drawer under one arm and rises, placing his hand on her far shoulder to pull her a little closer, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

“It’ll be okay,” he promises.

Jyn exhales her tension and leans against him. “I know.”

It rains on Midas 5.

Cassian guides the ship down amongst misty grey clouds, spring rains doing little to obscure the view from the front windows, but turning the city — Ceres, Jyn had called it — into a shimmering fey light below, a will o’ wisp to lure them astray.

Like a ghost it appears out of the mists that roll across fields and fields, white buildings painted blue in the overcast gloom, and Cassian has to navigate great palace-like buildings shooting up out of the ground like the ones on Coruscant, before he finds the landing pad at their roots.

He sits there, for a moment, taking it all in — the copper roofs covering hand-carved statues and engraving in marble stone, decorated with gold, the gardens already bursting with happy plants and flowers, greeting the light rains — until it becomes obscured by water and mist.

“Watch the ship,” he says, grabbing his coat and getting up to leave. “Be ready in case anything goes wrong.”

“For take off?”

Cassian glances back out at the gloomy weather, the palace ahead of them, and thinking of Jyn’s description. “No,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“Powering up batteries and placing combat software in stand-by,” the droid interprets.

Cassian smiles and pats his old friend on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

Jyn is stubbornly pulling a cap over her hair when he emerges from the cockpit, ignoring the hood on her shoulders, and she gives him a meaningful look when he pulls his own hood up.

The long black coat swishes against the back of his calfs.

“You’ve got to be joking,” she declares.

“What? I’ve had this thing forever and it’s still intact. No need to waste credits on something new.”

Jyn opens her mouth, several insults flashing across her expressions, but then she closes it. “You,” she says, slowly, eyeing him shrewdly. “Are off to a great start, Master Diplomat. Provoking them at the threshold.”

Cassian shrugs and opens the door. “You have to assert dominance early with these types,” he says, descending into the silent rain with her laughter at his back.

Humid warmth greets him, and Cassian finds himself grateful for the wind that pushes rain into his face.

The mist rolls aside at the touch of the wind as well, revealing the shadowy entrance ahead of them. A door is thrown open so golden light falls from the indoors, and two hooded figures emerge to greet them.

“Welcome, Captain Cassian Andor,” the man at the front says, once they’re under cover. “And Sergeant Jyn. We are so pleased to serve the Alliance to Restore the Republic in these negotiations.”

He reminds Cassian of Mon Mothma in his pristine white clothes and his serene manner of speaking. His dialect is a distorted form of Coruscanti, more melodic and pronounced than the clipped accents of Jyn and Mothma. But the similarities end there. He pulls down his hood, revealing an old, human face, crinkling wrinkles from smiling as he does now, with his eyes nearly shut. A silvery beard drapes his face to match the silver adornments of his ears and edge of his cowl, decorations to his robes.

“Thank you,” Cassian says, keeping his voice gentle and the contempt already growing in him to himself.

Behind him, Jyn shakes her cap with disinterest.

“I am Runa Solis, the Prime Minister and Head Acolyte of Midas 5,” the old man continues. “This is Miria Aran, another servant of our temple.”

He gestures to a shorter woman, equally as thin, her platinum blonde hair nearly glowing in the gloom. She looks to be a little older than Cassian, and when she smiles at them she exudes the kind of condescending, motherly air, that gives away any act.

“Welcome, welcome,” she says. “To our peaceful planet.”

That makes Jyn start behind Cassian. “Peaceful?” she demands doubtfully. “Not even people in the Core use that word.”

“We are blessed to be guided by the Force,” Miria Aran explains with the greatest patience, as if she finds real joy in elaborating. “And so we know better and choose neutrality. Peace is the only true way forward.”

Jyn takes a step forwards, the stars around her wavering, and Cassian grasps her wrist subtly, out of sight.

“In that case we are very grateful that you still choose to consider aiding us,” Cassian lies with an easy smile.

Jyn is tense and irritated under his touch, but when he glances down at her, she’s already schooling her features.

“Oh, we do not consider it an imposition at all,” the Head Acolyte says. “Aiding those lifeforms in need and supporting life is another important way to serve the Force. Now come, friends. Let’s not linger in this weather.”

Cassian and Jyn both thank their hosts, but as they turn away Cassian quirks an eyebrow down at Jyn and her mask falls away.

“Just one smack.”

“No.”

“Come on, Cassian,” she whispers, following him and tugging on his sleeve. “One good smack.”

“No,” he whispers back, leaning down close for emphasis, and has to hide his smile behind a gloved hand at the way she pouts.

It’s been a long time since Cassian has seen ceilings so tall. They’re held up by round columns, engraved with vertical indents, and painted with both grotesque and peaceful imagery in vibrant colours, too far up for Cassian to see properly. The floors are highly polished, reflecting their silhouettes and the ceiling above them in smears of colour.

And it feels empty. They pass a human in pristine white robes here and there, but they’re never in groups, always solitary and quiet, their footsteps the only echo giving them away. In buildings with so much space, the lack of people feels eerie.

As they make it further into the temple, the murals crawl down the walls, portraying the descent of a star through cloud cover, being received by a grateful public below. The building of a temple. The creation of a civilisation.

Cassian turns his face away from those.

Only to notice that Jyn’s footsteps have slowed.

When he turns back around, he finds her staring up at the descending sun. Frowning.

“Jyn—“

“Oh, yes,” Miria Aran says, almost running past him to get to Jyn first. “This is a particular favourite of mine, as well!”

As the woman launches into a lecture on the symbolism of the mural, Jyn glowers past her at Cassian for giving her away, and he winces sympathetically.

She rolls her eyes and turns away from him, giving him ample opportunity to take advantage of the unexpected distraction.

But when he finds the Head Acolyte, for a moment, he finds the old man watching Aran and Jyn, his old blue eyes filled with greed.

It unsettles something in him. Cassian isn’t overprotective. He doesn’t feel jealousy, and he has no illusions of owning Jyn. But he doesn’t like it. Not in this place, this pristine place that speaks of riches beyond what any small group should conceivably be able to accumulate.

Not with the history it brags of.

He doesn’t want it to touch Jyn.

“Excuse me,” he says, finding his accommodating, gentle tone and turning the old man’s gaze from Jyn. Hoping to serve as a different kind of distraction. “I was hoping we could discuss itinerary...”

“Ah, yes,” Solis says. “Your General did not say how long you planned on staying, but I assume you want a few days to inspect our fields, and—“

“A real bed,” Jyn exclaims with delight as soon as she’s out of her uniform and dressed in a white shirt and pair of pants. She falls over backwards into the comforter, the dark curls of her hair flying up above her head. “I don’t remember the last time I didn’t sleep in a ship.”

“The ships we’ve been using had at least one real bed,” Cassian reminds her gently.

“Which our captain needed because he’s the one actually doing the flying,” she retorts.

It’s an old argument, one they’ve had countless times in the past year, while they’d gone from mission to mission and barely set foot on base. One she always wins because Cassian has too much dignity to untruthfully suggest that there’s space enough for two in the tiny cot on board their u-wing.

He flips through the pages of the report one more time, fingers drumming against the hardwood table, and tries to forget the gold engravings on the edge of it.

It bothers him. All of it. The high ceilings, the columns, the lack of people and the condescending leadership. It shouldn’t, of course. He shouldn’t care, and he usually doesn’t. Cassian has seen this type of planet too many times before, both during his time with the Rebellion and before, both as a diplomat and an assassin.

But usually there are storm troopers there, and it feels odd that there isn’t.

Usually it’s a lot easier to find icy rage, usually it’s easier to find righteous condemnation at their entitlement to things they shouldn’t have, to the way they’ve moulded this planet. But it’s still missing, the emotion. 

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen any effects of their meddling yet. Maybe it’s because the Rebellion needs them and that puts him in a vulnerable position as a negotiator.

Maybe it’s because of the way they look at Jyn and how much it unsettles him.

Like she is a prize pupil come home. Like she’s an important convert. Like they’re going o swallow her whole.

It’d only gotten worse as they’d entered the Prime Minister’s office and been introduced to the harvest minister, a fat, balding man with gold engravings on his sleeves and too wide gestures called Tharik Mar, and the head of security, Kilaeon Cthonall, whose skeleton had stuck to his white skin and his slim shrewd eyes had spoken more of secret police than basic security.

There, they’d settled on a final itinerary for the coming days, with Miria Aran in charge of their days outside of negotiation meetings, and Tharik Mar as Cassian’s main opposition - though he’d been as sickly accommodating as the rest of them, already having all the reports ready for Cassian to peruse during the evening.

“We’ve already prepared separate accommodations,” the head of security begins. “Miria will show the Sergeant to her—“

“That won’t be necessary,” Cassian cuts him off softly. “We wouldn’t want to put you out and waste so much space when we’re only here for a few days.”

Even with all the white furniture and in the bright lights of the room, the shadows had shifted at Cassian’s words, passing briefly over the people present. And he feels the chill from the windows, fluttering in from the night under white curtains.

“It’s no imposition at all,” Miria Aran assures him, smiling. “This temple is vast and we have plenty to share with you.”

Behind him, Jyn shuffles her feet and a star settles on his hand where he lets it linger, the warmth speaking of her irritation and her silence in her trust in him. In a place of hierarchy, where they have to keep up appearances, this is Cassian’s fight.

“We also do not allow male-female co-habitation,” the harvest minister says. “All acolytes— that is, all residents of the temple are celibate. We would like to ask that you accommodate those rules while you are here, Captain.”

Cassian raises an eyebrow at the bold comment, and then turns around to share the joke with Jyn, who’s already holding back her laughter.

“I’m sorry if there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” Cassian says, turning back, feeling lighter at the whole situation now that he knows how to control it. “The sergeant and I do not share a bed. Our relationship is purely professional, and we need the shared accommodations because we require privacy to discuss our negotiation tactics.”

It’s not as much of a success as Cassian had hoped. There’s a ripple through the crowd in front of him, behind the desk, of insecurity, which implies they have lost their advantage and Cassian has won the rhetorical part of the conversation. But the harvest minister shifts his footing with discomfort, and Miria Aran looks to the head of security fretfully.

Finally, Solis says with great patience “Usually, we do not allow pairs bound by the Force to cohabitate at all, captain.”

And it’s not what Cassian expects. He should’ve. They’d agreed to be on their guard about this, and yet, somehow, he’d forgotten to expect it. So Cassian steels himself from taking a step back, from showing the flash of insecurity and protectiveness that burns through him and makes him want to shield Jyn from these people.

This is private, between him and Jyn. This is precious. And he doesn’t want these people to see it, to touch it, to pollute it.

He wants to protect it.

So he’s thrown off balance enough that it’s Jyn who takes over, covers for him.

“How is that any of your business?” She demands, stepping up to Cassian’s side.

She’s tense, her fists clenched at her side, never accepting of anyone telling her what to do or how to associate with others. Moved by the same feeling as Cassian.

“You can’t know this, of course, with the Order being disbanded,” the head acolyte says, turning his kinds eyes on Jyn. “But the bond is the Force’s way of testing those powerfully connected to it. We simply wish to make your passing easier, so you won’t fail it.

“However,” he continues, looking from Jyn to Cassian, blue eyes resting coolly on the black hood on his shoulders for a moment too long. “We’ll make an exception and move an extra bed to the captain’s quarters. We would not wish to offend you this early in the negotiation process.”

Jyn had turned around without a word, her eyes meeting Cassian’s, flashing with anger. Too late, they’d said, and Cassian had found himself agreeing with her.

Now, her snicker is what draws him out of his thoughts, and Cassian lifts his head to see Jyn pushing herself up and out of the soft mattress on the larger bed. An impish smile splits her lips, her green eyes dancing as she finds him easily, and she stands out as the only thing of colour in the room.

“The sergeant and I don’t share a bed,” she repeats, imitating Cassian’s usual severity, and then laughs again. “I can’t believe you had to say that. What do they think the Alliance is? A bedrock of sexual depravity?”

Cassian can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. “I get the feeling that’s how they look at anyone who isn’t celibate,” he says, returning to the reports splayed out below his fingers.

“It’s odd, though,” she says. “Their interpretation of what the Order saw the bond as is completely off.”

“Unsurprisingly,” Cassian murmurs. And then pauses to look back up at her. “How’d you know?”

He has to duck the pillow thrown in his face. “I read, you imbecile,” Jyn complains. “Just because I don’t have the privilege of a room full of books back at base doesn’t mean I don’t read.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Cassian laughs, picking up the pillow and sits down beside her to return it more gently. “I meant: where did you come across that information? I assumed it came from your mother.”

Jyn scoots up to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Maybe a different type. Mon Mothma had someone nick books from the Jedi library before it was burnt during the purge. I read them while I was her bodyguard. I was…”

She hesitates, glancing up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes and then looking away. “I wanted an explanation that made sense,” she admits. “Because it feels like every single person I meet has a different interpretation of the bond, and I guess, it felt like if there was an outside opinion that made sense, it’d be easier to accept that I could see you.”

The thing is. They don’t talk about this. They have their agreement, their friendship, and they call each other family. Partners. They use their bond for work because it serves a shared purpose. But Cassian had never asked how Jyn felt about it, and Jyn had never pushed to know Cassian’s opinion. Because it makes everything too final.

The fact Jyn had sought an outside opinion, a final explanation, speaks to how much she had feared that bond in the beginning.

So Cassian is careful, very careful when he reaches out and brushes his hand down her back, over the nobs of her spine.

“I take it Saw didn’t talk much about this type of thing while you were growing up?”

Jyn scoffs. “Saw Gerrera? If it weren’t a sniper rifle or the mechanics of a grenade, he didn’t have much interest in it,” she says. “We were at war in a different way than the Alliance is. There was no time for that sort of thing, according to Saw.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “At least we found time to talk about these things.”

“Well, you had more at stake,” she sniffs, glancing at him. “Remembering is a different type of warfare against… these sorts of people.”

She gestures to the temple at large with momentary contempt. But she means herself, too. Though she doesn’t say it. Cassian’s heritage and Jyn’s place of familial origin are sometimes at direct war with each other, and it doesn’t bother him like it used to. It doesn’t have to, when she was ripped violently up without her roots so early in childhood and has never found a proper home since.

It should make him feel more hurt for her, more sympathy, but Cassian knows that it’s useless, knows that pity will only make her despise him.

And if he’s honest with himself, it’s a relief. Guiltlessly, he feels relief that their situations are so different and yet so similar. It makes it so much easier to understand her and be understood in turn. It imbues in her the ability to listen in a way the people in this place do not.

And that makes loving her so much more joyful.

But Cassian doesn’t say any of it.

“What did the Jedi books say?” He asks instead.

He gets a shrewd look for that. “Oh, you’re going to love this,” she teases, twisting to face him. “They say, the Force brings people together who are opposites and will bring balance to each other’s lives. And for Jedi who find their … other person, it’s not encouraged to discard them in the pursuit of detachment, but to work together. Because every single person has to work to bring balance to the Force, and these bonds are part of that struggle. Much like you ended up suggesting we do.”

Cassian exhales a breath through his nose, and leans back on the heels of his hands to laugh at the irony. “Well,” he says. “I guess they have to be sensible about some things.”

Jyn copies him, leaning back, and grins widely at him, her eyes dancing and the stars around her sparkling. She does this, whenever he laughs, openly appreciative of his rare shows of humour. And it always makes his heart skip and his fingers itch.

And it’s difficult, so difficult, in these moments not to find her beautiful. Not to find her utterly enchanting. Not to reach out and capture her lips with his.

Her smile falls a little and she tilts her head cutely. “What?”

It occurs to Cassian briefly to suggest they share a bed simply to spite the people here, to take advantage of the situation to touch her, to make an offer of skin-ship, something closer, something, Cassian thinks not for the first time in the past year, she might not oppose for more reasons than she’s giving away.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because deep in his heart Cassian is a romantic, and he loves her. And right now Jyn trusts him. She trusts him enough to joke and laugh; trusts him to make the decisions and call the shots as they run from mission to mission; trusts him with her life and her joy, to sit back and smile when he shows signs of humour. Right now, Jyn has found a shelter with Cassian, a place of peace in the midst of the war they’re fighting, and he doesn’t want to shatter that.

He wants to wait until Jyn has made up her mind to move, and he wants to do it right.

The greed that grows below his skin is a sensation he has gotten used to and can easily ignore.

So instead he says. “And how are you feeling about the Force these days? Feel inclined to stay and devote your life to it once we’ve finished the deal here?”

Jyn scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You know me,” she says, stretching her legs to rest over his lap. “Why should I have to answer to a higher power? It’s bad enough I have to answer to Draven.”

Which has them both reduced to laughter at the expense of their hosts, the sound drowning out the patter of rain outside in the night.

Chapter Text

For the first time in months Jyn wakes up cold.

The covers are heavy across her limbs, and she can see the turquoise blink of the atmosphere terminal from where she's lying, breaking through the near-darkness with a promise that the temperature should be human-friendly. And yet her feet are clammy, her legs frozen beyond sensation, and she's trembling.

She wiggles her toes under the sheets and burrows further into the otherwise comfortable bed, and squints out into the near darkness. White and icy blue strings float in an inexistent current, attaching themselves to everything in the room. The sun has barely begun its own ascent across the horizon, casting desaturated light through the curtains, so everything is painted in tones of grey—even Cassian, in a bed as far from Jyn's as the Acolytes could place it, is nothing but a mass shades across from her.

His leg sticks out, the white of his sleeping pants contrasting with his skin, the only only thing the strings seem determined to avoid.

Jyn squeezes her eyes shut, and then gets up. Tugging her heavy covers around her, she makes her way across the room to the door, cursing all the way as her bare feet slip across the freezing floor.

She misses the u-wing.

No. She misses the warmth of Base One. She misses slipping under the covers with one of the girls in the dormitory during autumn storms. She misses practice matches in the morning with whomever else hadn't been able to sleep properly. Greeting the x-wing pilots and pathfinders who stumble through the hangar after a night shift with drowsy, red eyes and hands searching for warm caf. She misses Melshi's complaints and Shara's morning cheer, the honest warmth of the people she's spent years around.

And now, instead of her family, she's faced with a climate system that lies to her. Smugly. It insists the room is at temple standards, and Jyn tugs her arm more thoroughly out from its protection to negotiate with it. It ignores her.

"Come on, you stupid thing," she hisses, and bares her teeth when she gets a warning that only the main computer can change the settings.

She lifts her hand to whack it—the first good tool in any slicer's arsenal—when a warm hand brushes down her neck to her shoulder. The other catches her wrist.

"Leave the poor thing alone," Cassian murmurs, voice so close to her it brushes through the strings of her hair to the shell of her ear.

And just like that the warmth returns. Like standing too close to a sun, it slips under her covers and seeps all the way through skin, down her limbs to embrace her. It doesn't matter she hadn't heard him, that he'd snuck up on her as is his habit, or that he's telling her what to do. It doesn't matter the climate system resisted and that she should be angry. Instead, Cassian’s very presence chases the darkness and her anger away, pushing aside the cold of the stone and the brush of ice from the atmosphere of the temple pressing down on them.

Jyn wiggles her feet, lets the covers slip down to hang off her elbows, and turns into him.

His eyes are barely open, dark circles more prominent than normal, and he's barely awake. Just standing there, drowsy and with his guard down.

"Did I wake you?" She asks, brushing her fingers over the scruff of his beard by his chin.

She receives a tug of a smile, wry and crooked. "Come on," he says instead, grabbing her hand and guiding her across to the little kitchenette.

Jyn barely notices the fact she drops her covers as she follows him, settling back into old routines as they search the cupboards for the posh mocha maker she'd laughed at while they'd been looking for bugs upon arrival.

Only when they're settled with hands tugged around warm mugs of strong caf, and Jyn can tug her bare feet up under his thighs, does the morning feel entirely right again. She spends the next hour like that, listening and watching, as he goes through the files they'd received yesterday, his voice growing in strength while the sun climbs the sky, eventually painting his skin in gold.

And Jyn forgets again that she had ever been cold to begin with.

But the cold returns.

It sticks to everything within the temple, floats along in the wake of acolytes, young and old, creating drafts and winds with no clear source, and climbs columns like frozen rose stalks. Wherever Jyn looks, it settles in the corner of her eyes in the shape of frost sticking to clothes or snow falling in shadowy corners, chilling faces and expressions, and painting skin just slightly whiter, slightly more skeletal.

"It almost isn't odd that there are no stormtroopers here," she murmurs to Cassian, turning to watch an acolyte in more white march in the opposite direction.

"What was that?" Their guide demands, turning to walk backwards with her great, fake smile stretching her face taunt.

And Jyn turns to look apologetically at Cassian, who just shakes his head.

They'd been given breakfast in Cassian's room, kept separate from the rest of the residents of the temple, and while Jyn doesn't mind the privacy they've been afforded, it means it's so much more difficult to figure out who frequents the premises. It makes it far more difficult to check if their hosts are indeed peaceful, and not cooperating with the Empire under the table.

It wouldn't be odd. In fact, Jyn reflects, watching the city roll by outside her shuttle window, it's odd there's no presence of stormtroopers anywhere. Usually the empire doesn't allow for planets to govern themselves entirely without oversight.

Aran smiles when she asks to it, and simply says "Midas 5 is a peaceful planet. The Empire has no business here, as we are protected by the Force" and Jyn decides that snooping through their archives can't come soon enough.

They step off the shuttle at the city centre, feet touching ground in a pristine stone square with the kind of careless populace hurrying to and fro that'd make any gleeful pickpocket's day. Flower stalls and sandwich stands mark the corners, flanking cafe tables and small shops, where the food almost glows in the sun. Above them, skyscrapers in the same oval shape as you'd find in Coruscant grace the tip of clouds, every single floor bursting with thriving green plants, creating a forest high above the city.

"That's our primary production," Miria Aran explains brightly, catching both Jyn and Cassian looking up at the plants. "Ceres saw an influx of people about seventy years ago from the country-side, and our government deemed it necessary to change the manner in which the city space was being used. So offices and administrations are at the bottom of the buildings, but everything else are aquaponics warehouses."

Jyn looks from Aran to Cassian. "Aqua-what-now?"

"Oh, I'm so glad you asked!" Their guide exclaims as if she's a middle school teacher addressing a particularly dumb student. "Follow me, and I'll show you!”

Jyn looks from the retreating woman to Cassian, already irritated with the suspense. And her partner just shrugs. "It's food production using water," he explains. "You're not going to find it interesting."

"Brilliant," Jyn mutters as they start across the square. "Will you?"

"No," Cassian admits. "Maybe if I were in charge of rebuilding planets and cities from scratch, or repopulating what the Empire has destroyed. But right now I'm more interested to see how they run the place."

It doesn't take Jyn long to figure out what's wrong. Whether it'd been working in Saw's cadre, or living with the Rebel Alliance, there'd always been an intermingling of different alien species. Humans had been the minority, and she'd rarely come across someone who looked entirely like herself. Only in the Core and the organisations that originated from that part of the galaxy (like Rebel command) had she found an unnatural majority of white humans.

But here it’s different. Here, in Ceres City and even in the temple, she finds no one else.

Even in Coruscant, with its strict segregation policies, had Jyn found alien species, a Twi'lek here, a Kel Dorian there. Here, everyone looks the same. Dress the same. Have the same hair colour, skin colour, build, and she could go on.

Like clones, the purity of it is almost nauseating.

"The people who work administration also live in the main quarter of the city," Miria Aran explains, gesturing to the well-glazed, red- and yellow-stone town houses with colourful flowers bursting from every balcony, before ascending into the glassed warehouses above. "They're all families to acolytes, or families with connection to earlier acolytes."

Jyn shifts a little closer to Cassian in her discomfort, and when she glances up at him, his jaw is set in that way that shows he's keeping a mask over his emotions.

"And the rest?"

Aran doesn't notice, but cheerfully goes on. "As I mentioned, we had a bit of an urbanisation problem about a century back," she says. "But we've constructed our city such that the outer five quarters house workers who tend the aquaponics fields. And the integrity of historical Ceres remains!"

As if to illustrate her point, she turns down a side-street, too wide to be an alley. The sun's light doesn't reach here, but the blue of the sky catches in the glass windows and casts the crates, droids and workers in patched-up uniforms, in shades of blue.

Their uniforms are dark, moulding intentionally with their skin and hair-colours.

They pause to greet Aran with small bows of the head and respectful smiles. When they catch on Jyn and Cassian, their eyes flicker back to Aran before becoming glassy, their smiles widening almost painfully, as they grace across foreign faces, not quite seeing them. Before hastily returning to their duties, moving bags of dirt inside, or crates of plats or vegetables to small vehicles going out into the city.

It's both a relief to get indoors and a further reminder of the tension pressing down on Ceres.

A lift takes them up several stories, above the administrative offices and pretty apartments, into a massive, horizontally built greenhouse. At the bottom floor, large pools rise above the workers, showing off fish in all colours, maneuvering through turquoise waters illuminated by golden lamps. From there, metal columns of rise high into the air, crisscrossing for stability, all absolutely bursting with plants and trees.

Fruits, vegetables, greens, and flowers. Anything and everything edible, beyond human imagination, in a stunning display of life and colour, as far as the eye can reach.

A small bumblebee buzzes momentarily by Jyn's cheek before returning, disinterested, to the mix of insects pollinating the flowers, and humans, floating on small hover-boards, tending the plants.

"This is—"

She trails off.

"Marvellous, isn't it?" Miria Aran exclaims, throwing her white-clad arms out wide. "We can feed our planet just from the contents of this house alone! So just think, with all our other warehouses and the productions in the fields outside the city, how many more mouthes we’re able to feed. And it's all organic! Chock full of vitamins and nutrients, clean, and much superior to anything you'd find anywhere else in the galaxy! But I'm sure you won't be satisfied with just this, so, come-come!"

She waves them on enthusiastically, hailing a worker to help guide them through the production process.

The worker hesitates, glancing to a man with a white band on his upper left arm, who nods permission.

When he joins them he keeps a respectful step behind Aran, bowing his head and nodding his approval of every word she says, only adding details when they would not be in contradiction to what she'd already been saying.

And Jyn knows, without having to look at Cassian, that if they're going to get any real information out of these people it's going to take a distraction.

As subtly as she can manage she begins to step in ahead of Cassian and their companion, asking more questions, letting her partner fall silent. She's not as good at it as Cassian, has only recently started picking up on his strategies in spite of having worked with him for more than two years, but Miria Aran is eager to talk to her, and easy to distract.

She prattles on about the warehouse and the wonders of Ceres City, of Midas 5 in general, and, of course, the temple. How peaceful it is, how the Force protects them from the war. And though her eyes glance to Cassian, who sinks more and more into the background, she lets him go, greedily seeking Jyn's attention instead.

And when she's sure they've left Cassian behind, are out of sight of Jyn’s companion, she clasps Jyn's hands suddenly.

"Oh, it's so exciting that you're here!” she exclaims.

Too close! Too close!

Aran's blue eyes glow with the kind of almost fanatical light that Jyn hasn't seen since Saw Gerrera's people. And while this holds the same fervor, it holds none of the rage. 

And rage, Jyn can understand. 

This is something else, something new. Something like adoration and obsession, the kind of zeal you only find with people who are a little too dedicated to an idea, rather than to people. And it threatens to swallow her whole.

"Uh—" she says, trying to take a step back.

But the stupid woman follows her.

"Yes, yes!" She says. "They wouldn't stop talking about you yesterday! It's been a while since—"

Cassian.

Where's Cassian?

Jyn turns her head, searching for him as best she can across Aran's blonde hair. But he's nowhere to be found.

Confound it, the entire front hall is suddenly empty. Like some creepy kind of set-up that has nothing to do with murder.

Jyn resigns herself to the confrontation she now has to go through with no rescue, and turns back to Miria Aran and her bright eyes.

But at least she can use Cassian for something, even when he's left her in the thick of it. She has to be his distraction right now. She has to do it well. They have to complete this mission well. It will mean much better food for the Alliance and its refugees, which will mean survival, people thriving, and larger success rates on missions.

"I— yes, it's very exciting you're giving us the opportunity to trade with you," she says, trying for diplomatic. "When you're such a pacifist world."

When she tries to smile, her cheek feels like a hinge that's rusted over.

But Miria Aran still accepts it, her face brightening even more.

Jyn really misses when set-ups always led to murder.

"Oh, not that!" She exclaims, leaning back a little — finally — and waving her hand as if Jyn had said something that was almost funny. "I meant, that you're here, Sergeant! You, specifically."

"I— what?"

The name Erso hangs in the air, suddenly, between them. And for a moment Jyn worries that this really is a real set-up. That they've just been biding their time until they could separate her from Cassian.

But before she can start looking around, Aran continues. "Yes!" She exclaims. "The Head says you have the brightest soul he's ever seen, that you'll bring greatness to this place. Oh, won't it be exciting, Jyn?" She exclaims again, grasping Jyn's hands all over again. "You can stay here, and learn the ways of the Force like you were always meant to!"

And Jyn can see them again. Like a camera lens zooming out, giving her the full specs of a scene, she can see the world around them once more. The blue strings that have grown from Miria Aran and attached themselves to her, slipped out and tied her wrists, so all she can do is stand and stare into the icy depths of obsession, growing wider and wider until they swallow her.

"He can... see me?" She whispers, her voice cracking with panic.

No.

It's wrong.

It's so wrong.

No one should be able to see her.

Only Cassian.

"Well, yes," Miria Aran confirms, nodding and not backing down. "He sees everyone. In the Force! He's very strong in the Force. Of course, he won't be able to see you as well as that soulmate of yours. Which is a pity, isn't it? I wonder why you were bound to someone so shrouded in darkness. It feels wrong, doesn't it? Dark Side leaning people like that are—"

And it's not that Aran's words free Jyn, as much as they had bound her.

They'd reminded her that, yes, other people can see her. Leia had been able to see her. Cassian had said the Jedi on Alderaan had been able to see him. But it'll never be the same. It'll never be like their bond. They will always be shrouded to others in some sense. And Jyn had forgotten.

She'd forgotten.

And she almost wants to laugh at herself.

She would laugh to herself.

But she's too busy still listening to Aran. Aran who'd gone on to talk about the people here — and Cassian.

"What do you mean, people like that?" She demands, her voice having gone deadly quiet.

She can feel the ice along her skin, against her wrists. Growing in strength, not from her fear anymore, but from the rage she had found again.

"People like that, like this," Aran says, gesturing to the world around them. "Like the workers who populate this planet, who serve it. They aren't wise in the Force like we are, Sergeant, and cannot follow all its doctrines — breeding, being caught by their feelings, acting out. Being selfish and growing attachments to their families."

Aran shakes her head, as if she feels true pity for a lesser life form. "It's the kind of thing that leads to the Dark Side," she says, "It's the type of thing that leads to war."

It's still. The world has gone so still around her.

Jyn can feel the hand of her own mother brushing over her head, see Lyra's silhouette as she angrily faces the man in white to protect her family. She can hear Cassian's voice in the darkness, as he talks of his sisters, the soft laugh of a good memory intruding in his grief. She can see Shara and Kes sharing a brief kiss behind an x-wing, whispering to each other, Leia cheerfully barking orders, while Hera shakes her head in the background.

Family.

"And Captain Andor?" She inquires, her voice level and icy.

"Oh, Captain Andor would be the worst kind, wouldn't he?" Miria Aran lets go of her hands to look around for them. "Soulmates are sent by the Force to test us, Sergeant, to check our loyalty to the light so we don't fall to the Dark. The Dark is full of anger and passion, untamed and obsessed with power. If you listen to it too much it will sway you and corrupt—"

But Jyn has had enough.

"Enough," she snaps, flicking her wrists and shattering the ice that had settled on her skin, trapped her. It turns to stardust, glittering in the air around her. "We are here on a diplomatic mission. We are your guests. I am not here to learn the ways of the Force. So you have no reason to impart your ... ideas onto me."

Wrongful, harmful, cruel, evil ideas.

They're words that snap to the tip of her tongue, but Jyn keeps Cassian in mind, the mission they're both here on, and she holds it back. Holds it in.

"Please refrain from repeating them in my vicinity," she says, turning on her heel and stalking away in Cassian's direction.

"As you wish," Miria Aran says, cheerful and untouched. Catching up to her too easily. "Would you like to see the plant nurseries next?"

Jyn pauses and looks at her open face, the faith in her church's interpretation of the world unshaken. The idea that Jyn is wrong and will learn her lesson in the best way possible clear in her eyes.

Disgust, Jyn decides. That's what she feels for these people.

Jyn dumps her duffel bag on the bed, and pulls it roughly open to produce standard Alliance sleeping attire. The clothes she'd borrowed from the temple, she throws angrily into a corner.

The whole day has left her feeling icky and locked in, and she needs something to keep her tied to reason. And right now it stands between clinging to Cassian and asking him to tell her something, anything, and not looking like an utter child.

She prefers the tantrum.

At least then she'll still look like an independent adult, someone they can't get to.

"Are you sure you can't see the future?" She demands, once she's done, turning to find Cassian in the too-large room.

Cassian, who had sat back and waited for her. Cassian who'd watched her storm out of the room upon their return, who'd watched her march back indoors. Cassian, who'd known her well enough to know she was reacting, and been patient enough to let her go through it alone--because he knows it's what she'd needed.

And it'd warmed her a little bit. 

It softens her.

He knows her, sees her, and he never tells her how to feel or who she is.

And now he simply raises an eyebrow, the space around him expanding and compressing in gentle rhythms, like breathing. "Where did that come from?"

"It's just—" she says, stopping herself. Tries again. "Some—"

Jyn looks away, looks down. Away from the way he seems to glow like a whole world, out of space, colourful and warm, like nothing else is in this place.

She'd heard some Force sensitives had the ability to see the future, read it out of destiny, like it was a set thing — much like how Cassian is able to check the minds of others or share his memories with her. But somehow, now, it feels wrong to bring it up.

She slumps into a chair beside him and lets her face hit the desk. "Something stupid Aran said," she finishes lamely.

It's never felt like she couldn't say things to Cassian before. She's always been free to express exactly what she thinks and feels to him. It'd been safe. Their relationship had been untouchable. But this stupid place puts things in new contexts — touches their relationship and forces it into a new context, and Jyn hates the intrusion.

A hand settles warmly against the back of her throat, massaging her gently.

"I get the feeling she said a lot of stupid things," he murmurs, sympathetically, laughing softly when she grumbles her agreenment.

She tilts her head, just enough to look at him, to see the tension between his eyes. It gets in the way of what he's doing to her neck, and his fingers slide down along her throat to her shoulder.

And for a moment, for a single moment, the rage vanishes, brushed aside by the intimacy of the gesture, and wide eyes find Jyn's. Checking. Softening.

Cassian is beautiful and kind, and so, so human. In his flaws and his perfection. He makes mistakes and he gets angry. He's hurt others, but he's hurt himself more. And he is more precious to her than any other person in the entire galaxy.

She won't fall to their level. She refuses to become like one of those women back on Coruscant. And she won't let Miria Aran's ugly words touch him. 

Cassian's thumb brushes against the underside of her throat, and Jyn closes her eyes, humming under her breath.

"It doesn't matter," she decides out loud.

"I'm sure it matters," he counters.

But Jyn shakes her head. "You've seen this place," she says. "I'm sure you can imagine what she said, so please don't make me repeat it. It won't get in the way of the mission if I don't."

She's begging, just a little bit. But when she meets his gaze again, pleadingly, he simply nods. He fingers her jaw regretfully for a moment longer, before pulling back and producing his own notes.

And Jyn smiles, watching the way he refocuses, sharp mind already on the next ten steps ahead of them.

Jyn won't change. This, she will never allow anyone to change about her. And she won't make this about her. She'll just do her job and support her partner.

And punch anyone who dares suggest she's special ever again.

"What do you think?"

Cassian's eyes crinkle. "I think I don't like or trust the administration here,” he says. "They showed us the pretty places, the well-dressed places. They showed us success and achievement, but every society has its problems and the fact they tried to hide that from us just speaks to how bad it is. Not that they could hide it entirely. Which I take it is what Miria Aran shared with you."

Jyn scoffs.

And Cassian smiles wryly. "Their social structure is supported by a morality roughly inspired by the Jedi code," he says, leaning back and tapping his pen against his boot. His mind races ahead, analysing the what they’d witnessed that day. "The population is segregated, not just in terms of work and social standing, but actually physically too. I'd really like to see those other quarters so we have an assessment of how bad it actually is, since they refused me when I asked."

Jyn leans forwards, brushing the notes aside on the table to find the reports they'd received. They bother her, but she can't put her mind to what it is about the official type just yet.

"An outing would be good," she murmurs.

When she glances up at him, he's already smirking at her. "What would you need to get through a max security border system?"

He does this thing, dangling any suggestion of breaking rules in front of her like a treat. Enabling her more mischievous and defiant streaks in ways that makes her feel useful.

And Jyn—

Jyn gets to her feet, leaning over him to kiss the top of his head in a rare show of affection. His hair is soft between her fingers, his body still and trusting.

"Just this," she says, leaning back and flicking a security card she'd already swiped from a temple guard.

They share a grin.

Chapter Text

Cassian has been through enough that very few things shock him or outrage him anymore.

He has seen war up close, has been betrayed. He's seen riches up close, has watched it almost crush his partner. He's listened to diplomats and soldiers, to children and artists. He's been trapped in work camps and recovered in hospitals. And he's heard everything from hopelessness and complacency to righteous anger and cold hatred.

The universe is full of cruelty and kindness, full of horror and splendour. And Cassian has seen most of it.

And he knows he is insignificant, is a minuscule bit of dust on the canvas that is the galaxy.

He won't be able to change the status quo of that galaxy alone, and it used to make him helplessly angry.

It doesn't anymore. What makes him angry is the state of that galaxy itself. And that gives him power, gives him a sense of righteousness he might not deserve with blood on his hands—but Cassian doesn't care. Cassian is selfish and selfless, and he wants people, his people, regular citizens, everyone, to thrive, to live well enough to be content, to have dignity.

What he'd seen today had not been that.

In spite of Midas 5's riches. In spite of the fact they have so much food they can share it with half the galaxy, most of it for free through something as despicable as charity, its people had not been thriving, they had not been content. They had not lived with dignity.

They'd shown him the work facilities, dressed in uniform dark as night, and they'd smiled the kind of fake, fearful smile that makes him aware they're being watched. Under surveillance, their actions always marked and noted by the temple.

By the palace.

Because that's what this is. It's another regime, one that doesn't dress in skeleton masks and doesn't wield a navy to ram down any resistance.

No, the regime on Midas 5 wields morality, the Force, peace like a weapon against its population so they regulate themselves, oppress themselves, and look gratefully to the ones in charge of saving them.

And Cassian—

Cassian isn't sure what to do. His superiors will likely want him to turn a blind eye, insist the people of Midas 5 have made the choice to follow their leaders themselves, and accept the trade deal for the sake of the Rebellion. That's his mission; to check on the production, be sure that there's a reliable source of healthy food, and be done with it.

The rest will have to come later, with influence and a push from the Rebellion's administration.

Only, that would mean letting this go, this fight that was always Cassian's fight. It would mean letting the leadership of Midas 5 into the Alliance, give them influence and spread their thinking, encourage what was already there from before the Clone Wars, and maybe make it worse.

The idea makes him hesitate, makes him want to run wild and do something crazy.

It makes him grateful to have Jyn as a partner.

Jyn, who never has any respect for any authority. Jyn, who is as angry as Cassian. Jyn, who looks at Midas 5 with confused disgust, as if she senses what is going on but still has trouble placing everything that bothers her.

Now, dressed in a palace uniform, she finally holds herself with confidence again. She lowers her head so they can't see her face under the white hood, and flicks the key card through the gate lock.

And they swing open ahead of them.

Large metal gates, the kind of border security Cassian has had to pass plenty of times before. The metal doors, made of horizontal bars, click through their hinges, counting them to the numbers of workers that pass through here every day.

And she looks up, green eyes sparkling just under the white hood, crinkling in a grin Cassian can’t help sharing in as they pass through the first section.

Then comes a long, sandy corridor, flanked on each side by massive concrete walls. Smooth and vertical there's no purchase to be found in them, no chance at climbing up and over, even with aide from others. And at the top, a net of barbed wire is spread out to completely deter a break from the daily migration. Guards walk the perimeter, blasters at the ready.

Cassian inhales to calm himself, and sets his eyes on the gate, one hundred meters from its twin.

Everything goes smoothly, and they're free of the gazes of their hosts without incidence.

Once they're free to pass into the first alleyway of the quarter they'd picked at random, Jyn grabs his arm and drags him into a doorway.

They stand there, like a thousand times before, breathing in sync. Hidden in the shadow, Jyn's fingers dig into Cassian's arms and she holds herself close without touching, her head down. Listening, like Cassian. And enjoying the relief of another rebellious act gone right, without hurt or harm come to either of them.

"Here," she says when she finally steps away, dragging the cowl over her head and folding it.

She places it in the bag she'd hidden under the robes, careful so it doesn't wrinkle, and offers the rest of the space to Cassian. He glances over his shoulder at the alley they'd come from, but once he finds it empty of enemies, he copies her motions.

"You've done this before," he observes.

"How do you think Saw and his rebels got their explosives into imperial cities?" She demands, grinning and lighthearted. "Thanks to us already having an in at the temple this was easy.  You should see what acrobatics we usually had to go through during targeted smuggling operations."

Cassian tries to imagine a younger Jyn, a tinier Jyn, loaded down with blasters and explosives setting up for an attack on an imperial base or city. Far from home. Far from him. And he finds himself both angry with  and grateful to Saw Gerrera for letting her go when he did.

"I'm so glad you're on our side now," he murmurs, and means it.

Her face brightens and she nudges him with her elbow. "I was always on your side."

"I don't know about that," he teases, letting her set the mood and the pace, as they start into the quarter.

While he leaves the ground levels to Jyn, Cassian's eyes find the roof-tops, the corners of buildings and the dimming sky. Cameras are positioned in the open and hidden away, some decoys, some active, and he catches at least one drone setting up position, a greater dot among the stars to keep a watch on the workers in the quarter.

At first glance, this place isn't too different from the quarter they'd been invited to. Here, too, there are aquaponics stations built on top of residential and shopping areas. The streets are topped with the same types of stone, the windows and decorations following the same architectural style. But it's older, far older. The paint is crackling off, revealing bricks and mortar too weighed down by the new additions to withstand it all forever.

A sign is placed on top of a sewer missing it's deck, and the writing is smeared, betraying how long its been there. A shovel is placed under a roof to warn people from walking under it to avoid the tiles that are sliding off due to old age. Windows are smashed or boarded, curtains are stitched together, and an old automobile has been repurposed as a flower stand where it'd broken down in the street.

The people have tight lines around their mouths and dark circles under their eyes, and the smiles from the central quater are gone. They greet each other in low voices and go about their business without looking up, barely noticing Cassian and Jyn.

And yet, in spite of the pressing feeling in the streets, it feels lighter here, warmer. A pair of elderly women chatter quietly over a counter. A mother rushes her children across a street to an old, dingy playground. And a cafe plays quietly from a side-alley, while the scent of its food wafts across the street to Cassian and Jyn.

It's familiar, and yet not familiar at all, and Cassian's shoulders relax for the first time since they'd arrived on Midas 5.

Jyn, too, holds herself more calmly. She no longer watches her back, no longer tenses up at the smallest noise. She nudges accidentally into Cassian, and when she looks up to apologise, her words die on her lips, and she smiles  with light humor instead.

Over the shoulder she quirks, her stars dance with a little more brightness.

"Where to next, captain?"

They explore for a while, taking in the sensation of an aging, dying city, where the ghosts of its former inhabitants are more numerous than its people. They chat to the ones in the open shops, and are treated to freshly baked bread from a baker preparing for the next day's load.

But they get very little out of them that they had not already noticed through the day. Their faces are foreign, their accents giving them away as not belonging to Midas 5, the fact they've had contact with the temple is too obvious to create true trust.

"All I'm getting," Jyn concludes later, while they're sitting on a bench in an empty square, watching the shadows creep across the stones. "Is that everything they're saying at the palace— temple," she corrects, making a face. "Is utter banthashit. They're just regular people going about their days as best they can, while being locked in by their democratically elected leadership."

She scoffs and bites into her sandwich.

"Well, we always knew that'd be the case," Cassian says, leaning back and watching a girl crossing the square. "But now we have proof."

Jyn glances up at him. "What do you want to do?"

The girl is tiny and human. Her black hair is tied up in a bun, and her small frame covered in a flowery pink dress. She's carrying a shopping bag almost as big as she is and holding herself with the kind of childish dignity that betrays it's the first time her mother had let her go shopping on her own.

"I don't know," Cassian admits. "I don't trust them, but I don't want to leave just yet, either. These types of missions are never clear from the get-go."

She can't be more than five, Cassian decides.

Jyn nods. "So we stay, bide our time, observe," she says. "They're expecting us to stick around a while anyway."

She sounds resigned, like she doesn't want to, but when Cassian glances down at her, her teeth are grit and her eyes flashing with determined defiance.

Whatever Miria Aran had told her,  it'd really gotten to her.

He opens his mouth to ask again, but a coughing sound and the rattling of plastic cuts him off.

The little girl had crossed the square and started ascending a great staircase on the other side. She'd been half-way up the top, when a coughing fit had ceased her. Her shopping bag is sprayed across the stairs, boxes falling open or remaining blissfully shut, and apples rolling on the bottom steps.

And she's swaying.

Jyn is out of her seat in a flash, crossing the square at inhuman speed.

As the girl topples over from the violence of her cough, Jyn slides in below her, stars leaving a glowing trail in her wake.

Cassian holds his breath.

But the girl falls safely into Jyn's arms, and Jyn being Jyn, she knows how to accommodate the weight of her fall.

Cassian grabs his partner’s bag and makes his way over to the two.

"Are you okay?" Jyn is asking, brushing off the girl's dress and holding her hand to keep her standing.

The girl coughs once more, her fingers white where she clings to Jyn's hands. She doesn’t say anything, her eyes are pressed tight.

"Here," Cassian says gently, producing a bottle of juice for the girl and nudging her with it. "Drink something cold. It'll soothe your throat."

Slowly the little girl’s fingers uncurl from Jyn and her dark eyes fall open. She looks from Cassian to Jyn in confusion, before turning her attention to the bottle, which she accepts silently.

"Oh," Cassian says.

"She doesn't understand basic," Jyn finishes.

They share a look and then a smile, because, of course. And spend the next couple minutes going through their respective libraries of colony languages, which has the girl both rolling her eyes or giggling behind the bottle.

Only when they land on one close enough to prove understandable, does she lower the bottle.

"You talk funny," she says, handing the bottle back to Cassian. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he responds, finding a wry smile.

Cassian isn't very comfortable with children. There's an honest innocence to them that makes it difficult to handle them up close, to use them, to lie to them. So he lets Jyn check her for injuries and ask her where she lives, while he goes to deposit the empty bottle in a nearby bin.

When he returns the little girl is watching Jyn with stars in her eyes, and Jyn has already convinced her to let them accompany her home so she won't have anymore accidents.

"I figured that would be a good idea," Jyn says in basic. "If we can gain the trust of some locals, honest answers might be more forthcoming."

"And you thought using a child for that was the best option?"

Jyn makes a face at him. "Most people love their children," she reminds him, maybe a little pained.

And Cassian stuffs his hands in his pockets, accepting her words as a silent apology for making her argue that particular case. Cassian has felt that love, and Jyn will always doubt that truth about her own parents.

Above them brown clouds are rolling in over the city, the orange light of the sunset nearly disguising the signs of mass-pollution. The little girl coughs one more time, and clings to both their hands.

She guides them through a labyrinth of small streets, past walled gardens and windows protected with bars, under clothes hung out to dry, emptied crates, broken droids, and past a dog tied to a string that the girl sticks her tongue out at while it barks at her.

Once they make it past the centre of the quarter, the houses spread out more, becoming slimmer, lying mostly in the shadows of the skyscrapers. The brick style is replaced with clay and wooden panels, painted in pale colours that reflect the beautiful oranges and golds of the sun. Ancient olive trees guard entrances to houses here, and some of the houses have large open greenhouses attached to them, or built between them where grapes or peaches are grown.

Beyond the city lies endless fields of green and gold, the wheat production giving Midas 5 its name.

They turn one last corner and a slim woman wearing a green and red hijab starts. Her arms move free of her elbow, her face brightening from concern.

"Layla!" She exclaims.

She starts forwards, but her eyes land on Cassian and Jyn. And she freezes.

That doesn't stop her daughter from running to meet her, chattering happily and telling her about Jyn catching her. "But look! I still got everything we needed, and I carried it all by myself!"

Her mother smiles softly down at her and runs an affectionate hand over her head, before pulling her into a tight hug.

"Of course, you did. I'm so proud of you!"

The girl giggles and wiggles her feet when her mother lifts her momentarily off the ground.

"Does this mean I can stay up an hour longer?" She asks, once her feet are back on the ground.

"No," comes the firm reply. "But I'll convince your father you can have a peach for desert."

"Yes!"

While the mother gently urges Layla to go show her father, Jyn subtly nudges Cassian, her smug smile barely contained. "See?"

"You haven't been proven right yet," he reminds her, and adds to the mother. "We're so sorry for the intrusion."

She turns a wary, but grateful smile to him once she's sure her daughter is out of hearing range. "Not at all," she says. "You deserve our thanks for helping our daughter. Her health is weak, as you may have noticed. Though, I must admit, I was not expecting off-worlders to have to rescue her on her first lone outing." Her smile twists to something less trusting. "Sounds like a fairy tale."

"It's not," Jyn says, hooking her hand into the crook of Cassian's arm and learning out past him. "We're not here to cause trouble, I promise. But—“

She hesitates, looking to Cassian for a game-plan.

"What my partner is uncharacteristically trying to say," Cassian says, nudging her gently to straighten. "Is we're envoys from the Rebel Alliance. We're negotiating with your government about food supplies, but we're not sure they're being entirely honest with us, so we're doing our own investigating on the side. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on life here."

"I don't know if we can do all that," a man's voice says. "But we can at least do our best to answer your questions about food production. We are farmers, after all."

Darker than Cassian and far more broad-shouldered than his wife, he towers in the open door. His daughter tugs on his pant leg, and his large hand falls on her head in another easy sign of affection.

He smiles at them, too.

And Jyn is the first one forward, grasping the mother's hand with the kind of enthusiasm meant to signal to Cassian that she'd been right, and she knows it.

"Your father's a farmer?" She asks the little girl, who nods. "Mine, too."

Cassian follows her lead, picking up small talk with the mother easily, and finally being introduced to the two adults in the family, as Ava and Karim Mithra.

Inside, the house is small and cozy, with handwoven carpets on the floors and windows covering the ceiling to let in light and warmth, painting the furniture in shades of orange and gold. The food is delicious and Cassian and Jyn spend the meal they're invited to, sharing more about themselves than they normally would with strangers.

It's not an alibi, it's not a story told without intent.

But it's an honesty they hope will be responded to with trust, and when they settle on pillows in a sunset-facing room lit by oil lamps, and Cassian and Jyn divulge their full doubts about the government of Midas 5, neither Karim nor Ava seem to be in any doubt.

"You've come at an auspiscious day," Karim tells them, checking his watch. "The bi-monthly meeting of regional farmers is about to start, so I recommend you join us. Somewhat."

"Somewhat?" Jyn demands from where she's seated with Layla sleeping against her.

The little girl has a purring kitten in her lap and a massive dog on her other flank, and had refused to leave the guests for her bedroom, and her parents had indulged her.

"It's recorded and filed away by the temple," Karim says. "So you could say it's under surveillance."

"Stay here," Cassian says, as he climbs to his feet. He catches Jyn's eyes mischievously and adds "You're carrying too heavy a burden as it is."

She scowls at him. "Go away, and do your job. And don't get spotted on camera."

Cassian follows Karim up a staircase, past a child's messy room, and into an office. The old datapad and comm flicker on with difficulty, and they spend a few minutes checking camera angles and chair positions, so Cassian is sitting outside the range of the blue light.

"To be honest with you," Karim says, while they work. "You probably won't get much form the meeting. We do our best to speak in code, when expressing non-standard grievances, and I won't have time to initiate you into that language."

"Of course not," Cassian says. "What you're comfortable sharing with me is all I need. We’ve already confirmed my suspicions as to the trustworthiness of their organisation. What I really want to know now is just how far you and the rest of the people of Midas 5 would like us to go."

Karim shakes his head. "You'll find plenty of angry people on Midas 5," he says, seating himself heavily in his chair and clasping his hands together. The blue light of the hologram paints his face and reveals the signs of exhaustion that the warmth down stairs had not. "But after the last great purge seventy years ago, we would rather rely on the protection of the temple than than have it turned against us. Our families depend on it, you see."

Cassian nods.

The woman and her daughter downstairs are so different from the women he's used to. They seem thin and frail of body, if not of spirit. And her husband has responded in kind, by not asking them to take up weapons they've not grown up with.

It's a theme and an argument he sees plaguing the men on screen as they discuss the problems with new experimental fertiliser or old insecticides, the weakness of the standard corn that lack of biodiversity in the crop has caused, and the horrors of the biological breakdown of the large ancient rainforest further south.

"We should take it up with the leadership one more time."

"No. Remember what happened last time. They burned down the area in question to introduce cattle farming."

"And didn't even care to evacuate the families that lived there!"

"But they have to listen this time! We can't just let our planet suffer like this. It’s—“

"Let it go. There's nothing we can do."

As they speak they touch their crowns or hug their elbows, brush dust from their clothes in specific patterns, or tilt their heads. They put pressure on the wrong syllables, pause at jarring intervals, and deliberately bend the Basic language to give new meaning to their gestures. And Cassian recognises an entire complex dialect, hidden away where he can only catch its shadows, a communication system advanced enough to hold entire debates in public without being overheard.

"Midas 5 is blessed with peace," they chorus falsely. "We must not deny the will of the Force."

And Cassian smiles.

Jyn can hear the digital argument from Layla's room, deep frustrated voices glitching past syllables. Never, as she grabs Layla's pillow and comforter, does she hear Cassian's soft voice cutting them off or trying for calm, and she knows he's listening, observing without intervening and using the opportunity to gather intel.

It makes her smile.

"Don't tell him I said this," she whispers to the big black dog keeping her company. "But he really is the best spy the Alliance has."

The dog snorts dismissively, and steals a doll from the bed before leaving her behind.

Jyn shrugs and follows in its tail.

She glances back in the hall, at where she knows Cassian is, can see the trails of blackness sticking out from under the closed door. He's been so focused on this mission, and she doesn't think it's just the lies and oppression they've found here on Midas 5.

She just hopes that, like so many of their recent missions, this one goes their way, as well.

"...yes, I think you can tell Qays about them tomorrow," Ava's voice drifts in from the adults' bedroom.

She's sitting on the edge of a large bed, with Layla at the centre. Large hand-woven quilts full of flowers and animals have been piled up around her, and the kitten has settled back in on her lap while she drowsily speaks with her mother.

"Thank you," she murmurs to the dog, when it offers her the doll.

Jyn hovers in the door, watching Ava fuss affectionately, making sure her breathing is okay for the night, and instructing the dog to keep an eye on her.

It wags its tail and obediently settles down at the little girl's back, ignoring the kitten purring by her chest.

Ava lingers in the door a while after they've said their good nights, a silent shadow in the light. And Jyn lingers with her, listening to the little girl's breathing as it calms and she gets carried off to sleep.

"Her asthma keeps her up at night," Ava whispers, closing the door just enough that the dog can still get out, but the argument of the men won't disturb Layla.

She continues as they start down stairs to the kitchen. "She'll cough and cough and cough, and sometimes, like you saw, it'll be so bad she'll hurt herself."

"And the doctors can't do anything?" Jyn asks.

Asthma isn't usually that difficult to treat. Medicine is fairly standard across the galaxy, and most people she knows live with it fairly easily. Some might get worse, or wear a mask more often than not. Saw was stuck to his machines, but he was still capable of blowing up a city when it became too infested with 'troopers.

But before she can reflect on all that out loud, Ava shakes her head. "There are no real doctors here anymore," she says, picking up a tea-pot from the kitchen counter to re-fill it. "They say, all is as the Force wills it, even illness, and we should not get so attached. It's the way to the Dark Side."

Her voice is calm as she speaks, as if she has accepted this general truth, but the teapot trembles so powerfully in her hands she nearly drops it, and her knuckles glow white against her skin with suppressed rage.

"That's preposterous," Jyn says, placing her hand over Ava's and, thinking of what Cassian would do, gently steals the pot from her to give her a reprieve.

Ava exhales a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a long-suffering sigh, and leans against the counter. "Tea's in that cupboard," she adds, pointing for Jyn.

"Thank you. Have they always been this ... crazy?"

Layla hugs her elbow, and takes her time speaking. Her deep eyes stare hollowly out at the world, at the calm home that should've been a place of joy, not a reprieve from a planet outside her control or safety.

"You've met them," she says, finally. "They've been like that for as long as I can remember. But even before that, my mother and grandmother had similar experiences, and Layla will remember me speaking in much the same way as she will think of them. It will go on and on, and there is little we can do to stop them, little we dare do after the last purge."

Purge. 

A chill runs down Jyn's back at the word. She knows of one great purge, one that had sent her mother and father fleeing beyond the reach of the empire — for a time. But she doesn't think this is it. This is a different purge, one specific to Midas 5 — more than one.

But before she can ask to it, Layla clenches her fist, and the anger seems to burst out of her all at once — as if she's been holding it in for an eternity, as if she's held her breath, and is finally crashing through the surface to breathe.

"If the Force is meant to protect all life then why would it be displeased by attachment and love?" She exclaims, spinning on her heel to grab a pair of mugs, and whipping her hand out for the kettle so she can fill it with water. "If it's part of all life, then why would it wish to be hoarded by a few? Why do they get monopoly on interpretation?!”

She flips the water with as much force as she can manage, and watches the stream, waiting.

"The way my mother taught me," she continues, "the great flow can't be determined by anyone. It just is. Just like life. It's warm, like the breath of another person, and calm like a summer's day. They talk and talk about darkness and light at the temple, but light can be cold, and darkness can be good — we sleep better at night for a reason. And neither darkness nor light can help a child that's choking on her own lungs."

She turns off the water and closes her eyes. For a long moment she is completely still in the kitchen, the only noise the clinking of strings full of little glass decorations hanging in the door, and Ava's breathing as she calms herself.

Jyn pours the tea-leaves into brass tea strainers, and the boiling water afterwards. She listens to the calm, and places a hand on Ava's back as the scent of the herbal tea fills the air.

The other woman looks up, her eyes wide with fear for her daughter and her family, with a little bit of guilt at her outburst. But she doesn't say anything, doesn't apologise for herself or her feelings, and when her hands find the warmth of the mug, she finds a smile, too.

"We're not a very strong people," she says, when they're settled by the heater a little while later and their mugs are empty once more. "The women here ... we lose more children than we give birth to. Most of them don't make it to term, but some vanish from our hands when we aren't paying attention. So maybe we're willing to do too much for the precious ones we get to keep. It means a lot of sacrifice that we make willingly, whether its our own beliefs or our history. If it means peace, if it means our children growing up safe, then we would rather look to the future than the past. But we also fight in our own ways."

She crawls to her feet, pulling her shawl back over her shoulders proper, and offers both her hands to Jyn.

And Jyn looks up, past her tan hands, at the woman in front of her, the woman who is barely much older than herself, who carries just aa great a fight on her shoulders. And she thinks that Ava is a lot stronger than she gives herself credit for.

She takes her hands.

And is guided down a hall, through a door, a cupboard, and down a hidden flight of stairs. Far below ground, Ava brings her to another indoor green-house.

LED lamps hang in rows and rows along the ceiling, paralleling the rows and rows of greens planted in the ground or in raised beds. No plant stands beside its fellow, everything is mixed together in a thriving display of biodiversity. Fruit trees intermingle with the fields, and line the walls, standing hand in hand with doors leading to other staircases, and every once in a while, a large aquarium breaks up the fields of corn that obscure just how far this underground greenhouse reaches.

A gentle artificial wind catches's in Jyn's hair as she watches a butterfly settle on a strawberry flower not too far from where they're standing.

"This," Jyn breathes, her eyes wide, her smile growing. "Is amazing."

Defiance.

It was hidden under the surface of this place, after all.

"They say all the food they plant on the surface is organic," Ava says. "But they forget the men work in the fields, and the men have to handle the spreading of pesticides. And they forget we aren't stupid. So we do our best to grow our own foods, so we're not at the mercy of theirs."

She plucks a maize plant and plucks a cob from the stem, and when she pulls back the leaves it's like watching a bit of magic. Each grain is a different colour, from yellow to purple to pink and rose and turquoise and white. More beautiful than a string of pearls.

A bee settles briefly to study the colours with Jyn, and when it leaves it drags her eyes up to the larger green house, to the deep roots of the olive trees sticking through, housing great man-made hives.

"We haven't forgotten the way we used to work with our world," Ava says, smiling proudly. "Together with the plants and animals. And we're using our own history, our own way of keeping the planet safe to keep our families as healthy as we can, so their peace won't strangle us."

Midas 5 is dangerous.

Cassian has learnt as much in the two days he's been here. The pristine, beautiful surface hides a status quo so full of discontent and rage that it feels like the entire universes struggle has been compressed to a single world.

And much like with the most of the galaxy, the people here are too tired for war.

"How could we possible fight in the open?" Karim asks when Cassian brings it up. He twirls the comm between his fingers before dropping it into a drawer along with the datapad. "Not only do they have superior weapons and military — it'd be like throwing stones at a missile — but they don't have any states, they have nothing to lose except the planet.

"We have families. I have Ava and Layla. How could I ever risk their lives for the sake of something we..." He hesitates, looks away and pushes his hair out of his faces. "Well, we might not have true freedom, but we do have peace. Layla is going to grow up well under the protection of the temple, and Ava will never have to face true war if we just let things run their course."

He looks up at Cassian and there is pleading in his eyes. This is a shameful thing to admit, especially to someone like Cassian, someone who has lost everything and still actively chooses to continue the fight.

But Cassian understands.

Cassian understands that we do not always consent to war. Usually, only the people holding the guns consent to violence. The rest have their choices robbed from them.

But Midas 5 isn't free of war. It just hides it in its laws and its governance, and Cassian wishes he could enforce that perspective — he wishes he could argue and shake the people here into action. But he can't. He can't be like the acolytes in their golden temple. He can't call himself a saviour by barrelling through and not listening to the people he wants to help.

It has to be their decision.

"I'm not happy with the way things are here either, Captain," Karim says, as if reading his thoughts. "But the last four times we revolted — even the day they touched foot here for the first time — so many people died. It was so terrible some chose to kill themselves rather than to be caught by the settlers. So it may seem peaceful now, but that's only thanks to the war.

"All we can do is let ourselves be protected by them," he sighs, getting up from his chair. "Not just from the war outside in the galaxy. But from them as well."

He follows Cassian to the door, but waves him off downstairs, looking tired and defeated. And Cassian lets him retreat without a word down to the family bedroom where he can just see the bulk of a child's body under the covers.

When he gets back downstairs, still deep in thought and feeling the same heaviness in his bones as Karim, he finds Jyn and Ava having a similar conversation by the heater in the sun room.

Stars float in constellations around them, filling the air with a familiar warm light, expanding further than he's seen since they left the ship yesterday. One settles on his hand, and Cassian lets it sit, lets it stay, its warmth seeping through his skin to his bones. And he takes a moment, just to breathe, just to stand unnoticed in the door to listen.

"So you're doing all this," Jyn is saying. "And yet you're unwilling to take back what is yours? Your home and your world? Why not? Why not be angry and lash out? My p— Captain Andor might seem calm but he always carries that anger with him. It's what moves him forwards. He chose to do something and we might not have won yet, but that doesn't mean the fight hasn't brought change."

Ava smiles the kind of smile that shows she and Jyn have already become fast friends, that like so many others she has taken to Jyn and trusts her. As if they are not a freedom fighter and a civilian discussing the oppression of one.

"I wish I could follow you in that logic," she says. "And I agree with you. Our world could certainly stand to have less settlers here. But you've already heard my arguments for why we don't choose to fight in the open.

"What about you?" She adds. "Are you saying your anger doesn't stem from the loss of your home world? That it hasn't been touched by war? Then why— Oh."

Like Cassian, she'd seen the flinch Jyn had tried to hide at the question. But unlike Cassian she doesn't grasp her wrist or hold herself back. She leans forwards, as affectionate as she'd been with her husband and her daughter.

"I'm sorry, Jyn," she says. "I forgot."

Jyn shakes her head. "It's okay," she says. "I'm trying not to think of myself as lost these days. Space is my home, and that's what I choose to fight for."

And as if she'd known he was there all along, Jyn twists in her chair and smiles at him. And Cassian thinks, no we don't always consent to war. But we can still choose to take up the mantle and do what must be done to end it.

Chapter Text

Sneaking back into the palace is almost as easy as sneaking out had been. They make a point of checking up on Kay, who is grumpy to be left out and having his inability to lie pointed out to him, and it's the best alibi they could've hoped for.

Miria Aran pops up like an obnoxious ghoul in the middle of the entrance hall, practically brimming with antagonistic kindness.

"Hello," she sings in greeting.

A chill of discomfort runs up Jyn's spine, and she's suddenly back in that damn warehouse again with this woman's bright blue eyes boring into her, her hands clasping Jyn so tightly there's little promise of escape.

She squeaks and jumps on instinct, hiding behind Cassian.

"I came looking for you at dinner time," Aran continues, unperturbed by Jyn's raised hackles. "But couldn't find you."

"We," Cassian begins, glancing once down at Jyn, who's grasped his arm and is peering out from behind his back. He rolls his shoulder once in a shrug before turning smoothly back to handle the awful woman. "We've been to check on our ship and our droid. We're sorry we left you in the dark."

Aran smiles. "Oh, but we are never in the dark, Captain," she says, taking a step forwards so the shadow of a column falls onto her face and steals the rest of the warmth from her smile. "And I would prefer it, if you would notify me before going out. I would so hate it if you got lost. Midas 5 is a peaceful world, but it is old and the Force is full of paths that might lead you astray."

"We'll be careful in future," Cassian promises her.

He nudges Jyn to start moving, pushing her ahead as they start towards their rooms.

When Jyn glances back, Aran is still standing like an icy flame in the shadow, watching them.

"Thanks," she murmurs. "That woman terrifies me."

"We need to be more careful from now on," Cassian says. "Too much surveillance, and we can't put the Mithra family at risk."

Jyn nods rigidly, and turns away to hide her smile.

Once they return to their private rooms, she dives straight for the 'fresher, washing the day's good and bad experiences away, and finding that the grime that had settled against her skin is almost as bad as what she'd find in heavily polluted areas of Coruscant.

She leaves the door open while she dresses, reporting what Ava had shown her to Cassian. His soft voice floats in through the opening, asking questions and probing for more details, and she can hear the way his mind ticks through options and realities, analysing the situation they’re finding themselves in.

A situation, Jyn decides, they're already too deep in to just walk away from.

Not just because they're rebels fighting a regime, and turning their backs on the people here would be abandoning that righteousness, but because this is something Cassian has to do.

He's hiding it well, but Jyn can see it: diplomacy agrees with him.

Cassian might be a spy, but that just means he's good at communication and making people trust him. He knows how to work with others and he enjoys the challenge of arguing his case, especially because, much like Kay, he's good at using the facts to his advantage.

And the more he fights in a way that keeps people alive, keeps them free, without having to risk getting more blood on his hands, the straighter his back seems under the burden of his past, and the brighter his expression. There's a fire in Cassian, one that awakens at the most unexpected times -- whether it's on the battle field or in a meeting room, or during a chase.

It's not empty thrill.

It's hope.

Not the stubborn hope he clings to for the Alliance, for the galaxy, for the people he has chosen to fight for.

No, it's hope for himself. Hope that he may one day be truly able to do what he thinks is right as a means of fighting for the future he believes they all deserve.

And Jyn will do her utmost to protect that flame.

For now, however, she focuses on the reality in front of them, the complications they've been made aware of on their first true day on Midas 5.

"I still do wonder what the Purge refers to here," she says, ruffling her hair under her towel.

"It's a calamity of a different sort to what the Jedi experienced," Cassian says, his face growing dark. "One that, according to Karim, hasn't been a one-time occurrence."

As he explains about the history of genocidal behaviour from the settlers that've taken over the government of Midas 5’s society, Jyn feels herself growing colder and colder. Rage, frosty and unforgiving, settles against her skin and on the surface of the table in front of her.

She thinks of the people she had met today, smiling politely even to outsiders, even to someone like her with her Coruscanti accent. She thinks of the little girl who'd hugged her guardian dog goodnight with such warmth, the way her coughs had wrecked her body when Jyn had caught her. She thinks of Ava and Karim, and the smug superiority of Miria Aran.

All built on this foundation.

It shouldn't shock her.

Not with everything she's seen.

But it does.

"It doesn't end there, of course," Cassian says, getting to his feet to pace. "Pollution. Low quality of food. Poverty. Segregation. These are all strategies meant to continue that genocide, but in a way that looks legitimate, where murder can be framed as a coincidence or even as the fault of the victim.

"And the people here are so busy surviving, so busy fearing for their loved ones, that they don't think they should even govern themselves. What a load of—“

He stops.

Freezes in place.

Jyn abandons her towel, dropping it from the top of her head and barely notices the way it floats to hang on an abandoned chair at her side.

"Bollocks?" She supplies. "Banthashit?"

Cassian eyes her bemusedly, and Jyn smiles. "I have more," she offers.

And he shakes his head. "No," he says. Sighs. "We should keep our eye on the prize and not blame the population."

Jyn leans forwards against the table, tapping her finger against the report that'd bothered her earlier.

"I could always do a bit of slicing," she offers. "The reports we received yesterday are only good for kindling, if we can't prove they're lies. But I'm sure they've got the actual facts on file, they're too controlling not to."

Cassian pulls his fingers through his hair, leaving it a tangling mess at the front. "No," he says. "This is a diplomatic mission. We can't resort to blackmail here."

Jyn opens and closes her mouth. Seriously? She pushes her chair out, turning on her axis to express just how ridiculous he's sounding.

Blackmail. Bribes. Whatever they need to get this right. It should all be allowed when the other side doesn't have anything to lose — except control.

"Says who?"

Seeing her tilting her head in provocation, Cassian goes rigid, his face settling in that I am your commanding officer, Jyn expression. An expression she hates so much because their partnership is usually so equal.

"Our orders, Jyn," he bites out. "We have to think about the Rebellion first."

"You mean," she says, pushing to her feet and throwing out her hands. "We have to think about Draven first."

It's an argument they've had before. One that rarely ends well. And she sees the realisation of where their conversation is headed on Cassian's face, in the red strings that float from behind him, from the cosmos that sizzles at the edges. A warning sign.

"He's our commanding officer, Jyn," he says, like a mantra. "We have to follow orders or the whole thing falls apart. You know that."

"No, I don't," she hisses. "Not when they come from someone like that. Someone who doesn't care about the lives of others. Someone who isn't afraid of sacrificing the people who trust him. Someone who will use anything to his advantage, even—“

She stops.

And this is what always happens.

This damn secret of hers, this mistake she can't bring herself to admit to. And it always brings them here, to the edge of disagreement, to that desperate, exasperated look in Cassian's eyes—as if he believes her, as if he wants to believe her, but he can't understand when she refuses to speak up.

She'd meant to protect him.

She'd meant to care for him.

But instead she'd given a person he misguidedly trusts a weapon against him. She’d given Draven the reason he needed to isolate them from their family, to exile them from Yavin 4.

Jyn thought in the beginning Draven had heeded her threat. But as the days had passed, she'd seen that Draven had specifically been designing their missions as a means to split them apart. He'd isolated them in space, away from the rest of the Alliance, away from support and assistance and the familial presence of the other rebels, and then he'd bombarded them with work. Exhausted them to the point of danger, to the point where most crews would fall apart from bickering.

And when isolation and exhaustion hadn't worked, he'd thrown them to the wolves here on Midas 5.

He'd picked a planet that would demonise Cassian and try to turn her into a saint. And he'd picked it because of their histories, because she's the daughter of a person, a people, that would rather see Cassian's people suffer and starve under settler control than relinquish their riches and their privileges.

Draven is hoping that the clarity Midas 5 affords them, will make Cassian consider trusting Jyn as a mistake.

But Jyn can't say any of that.

All she can do is barrel forwards and try to save their partnership by giving away something she is willing to admit to.

She just has to trust he'll listen to her long enough that she can get to her point.

"You know what?" She says, lifting her chin and steeling herself for another provocations statement. "I understand the people here."

That startles him. The deviation from their usual pattern, the almost obnoxiously arrogant claim, catches him off guard.

"Excuse me?"

And Jyn smiles. She can't help it, because it gives him away; the attachment and protectiveness he feels for the people here already. But she hides her pride, and twists it to something cold and angry, hiding the truth of her emotions until they will get through to him.

"I would've given up, too," she says. "I would've given up if Saw had dumped me all on my own with no family or home, with no-one to trust except myself. I would've just ducked my head and done my best to survive. Much like the people here, I’m not that strong.

"But Saw didn't dump me all on my own," she continues, taking a step towards Cassian. "He dumped me at the Rebel Alliance. With Mon Mothma, and Merrick, and Hera and all the others."

She lets her hands fall to her side, refusing to shield herself, relaxing her muscles and tilting her head up.

"And Cassian Andor," she says, her voice softening. "This obnoxious, know-it-all intelligence officer who had all the moral right on his side, because he'd been fighting since he was six years old. This amazing freedom fighter, who knew exactly what kind of universe he wanted to live in, who hadn't forgotten what it means to sacrifice whatever we have for the people we care about.

"You've always done something," she says, taking another step forwards. "It might not have felt like the right thing at the time, and sometimes you've made mistakes. But you've never not tried to make change where you thought it necessary. That inspires and empowers others, Cassian. Not just me. So,“ she says, reaching out, crossing the divide, and grasping his wrist. "Please. Please don't lose sight of that now, for the sake of following the wrong orders."

He stares down at her for a long minute, his dark eyes wide and un-guarded, vulnerable in his astonishment. Like she is a reminder of something he'd forgotten, like she's precious.

Finally, he looks away, placing his free hand over his face.

"You make me sound like a saint," he grumbles.

Jyn smiles.

It doesn't hide the reddening of his ears.

"Believe me," she says. "You're not that."

Cassian's hand tightens around her's, and warmth spreads through her, seeping into her bones and turning her blood to molten honey. He doesn't say anything for a long time, simply breathes in her presence.

And then he nods.

"Okay," he says, his hand falling away as he turns to meet her gaze. "Maybe there's something we can do here, after all."

Jyn grins, still holding on to him.

Because Jyn knows. Jyn knows she was never alone, she never lost her home.

She has Cassian.

And so she will never lose faith.

Later, he touches her hair.

"You look like a troll," he teases.

"Shut up!" Jyn snaps, pushing him away.

She turns her back to him to hide her brush, and Cassian laughs, sliding a comb she's never seen before across the table and into her line of vision.

When Jyn turns back around to thank him, he's closing the door to the 'fresher.

If he's completely honest with himself, Cassian isn't expecting anything from this meeting.

Without ever entering into negotiations with the harvest minster, without taking the time to let Miria Aran show them more of their sparkling facade of pure social harmony, the lies of equal access to clean and healthy food, or giving them time to figure out just where he and Jyn had spent their evening on their first day on Midas 5, he'd drafted a proposal he expects to be rejected without much perusing.

It doesn't matter that he's spent the entire night drafting it, relying on Jyn for fresh caf or an ear for brainstorming when needed.

It doesn't matter that it's something he's put all his energy into.

The point of the proposal isn't to gain him any allies or win over the leadership of Midas 5 to the Rebellion's cause. He isn't looking for acknowledgement for his hard work.

No.

Cassian is looking for a reaction.

And he intends to provoke it brutally.

Maybe that's already in his air, in his uncompromising manner of speaking, as he'd asked Mira Aran to direct him to the Head Acolyte's office, because her face had grown white with displeasure and fear, and Jyn walks a little closer to his back, watching their surroundings, watching his back.

This is not the type of place where you determinedly put your defiance of the social order on display, and Cassian is doing just that by actively flaunting the agenda the temple had planned for them.

But he doesn't care.

And when they're shown into Solis' office, he finds his most gentle smile, most accommodating smile--the one he knows people trust. Even people like this.

There's something deeply personality-less about the Head Acolyte's office, like a collection of different people's offices, people who've left the same types of impersonal marks on the white walls and the white furniture, their bodies barely gracing the blue and gold cloth on seats. A history of leaders who religiously follow the agenda of an organisation and have no dedications or wishes of their own, except the survival of the institution.

It's the type of local-world official's office that Cassian has only ever spent time in in order to steal information -- or end the life of an inconvenient politician, who'd rather listen to the Empire than the people he's meant to serve.

(The only difference here, of course, is the two hidden men standing guard behind Solis).

The head acolyte greets them with amiable kindness, inquiring to their experiences with Midas 5 so far. His blue eyes light curiously on Jyn's and Cassian's faces, before travelling beyond to Miria Aran's, where his smile falls and his impatience shows. It's brief, but Cassian knows to look for it. 

They know. 

They know that Jyn and Cassian entered areas and spoke to people without supervision. 

Which means if they don't play this carefully, they'll be putting the lives of the Mithra family, and maybe all the people in that quarter, at risk.

Which means Cassian's options are already being limited, as he'd hoped.

Assassination missions are convenient because whatever he's interacting with, whomever he's killing, there's a rifle and sometimes a mile between himself and his target. Similarly, he’d liked stealing, liked spying and connecting with contacts from before he'd been in the Alliance, because it'd meant connecting with others like himself, Outer Rim rebels and freedom fighters, who are too angry and too sick of the status quo to ever utter a word of ignorant derision. 

He'd gotten to a point where he'd just been so sick of listening to people who only had lies and myths to spout about himself and his people, people like him, from the mid- and outer rims, indigenous people of the colonies, that he'd liked the distance.

But then, Mothma had put him on a team with Jyn, and suddenly all Draven had done was use her origins as a means of getting under the skin of imperials, and all he's heard for a year is the repetition of the kind of insulting drivel that he'd been sick of.

But what Solis speaks is not a repetition.

Solis is the kind of man who invents the insults, the lies, the myths that justify occupation and government sanctioned violence. He's the kind of person who has the power to naturalise these lies, and Cassian knows that as much as he would like not to be confronted with it, he has a unique opportunity to attack it here, at one of its many sources.

So it frustrates him that he has orders.

It frustrates him that he has to consider the Alliance first.

Jyn had been right in that respect.

At least she has the kind of utterly chaotic, rebellious nature that allows her to disregard what others tell her and do what she believes is right.

Whereas Cassian knows that what is right in his hands is sometimes much more complicated than Jyn's perspective on things. And right now, that overview and that responsibility make him much more limited in terms of action.

So he's going to play this game, to manipulate the circumstances, and let the people around him limit his options as he knows they will, until he only has a single option left.

"May I ask what reason I owe to this pleasant, but surprising, visit?" The Head Acolyte inquires. "I assumed you were going to be visiting the fields today. To review more of our production?"

His eyes turn sharply to Miria Aran behind Cassian, but before she can flinch or apologise, Cassian lifts the folder with the proposal he’d drafted.

"We won't take up too much of your time," he says. "And we'll be sure to stick with the schedule once this meeting is complete. But from what we've already seen, we don't need much more in terms of settling on a first draft for a mutually beneficial agreement."

"Indeed?" The Head Acolyte raises an eyebrow. "So this is already a negotiation?"

"That's the hope," Cassian says softly, dropping the folder on the desk. 

"In that case I request you take it up with our harvest minister," comes the prompt reply, as Solis pushes the folder back towards Cassian with the bud of a fountain pen. "He's the one who's been assigned with handling your case, as he's the one most capable of discussing our production value, and--"

"With all due respect," Cassian lies, still smiling pleasantly. "That's why we've come to you. Our demands do not end at the topic of production or prices. The Alliance requires certain standards to be up-held, and you are the one most capable of negotiating when it comes to those terms.

"Besides that, the palace is so vast, we wouldn't want to waste any of Miria Aran's time locating--"

"Temple."

"Excuse me?"

"This is a temple, not a palace," the head acolyte corrects. "But I shall, of course, accommodate your wishes, Captain. Please."

He gestures coolly to a chair in front of the desk, for Cassian to seat himself on equal level with his opposition. And then turns to look at Jyn.

"I'm afraid, Sergeant, that I'll have to ask you to step out with the rest," he says, eyes crinkling. "I'm sure you can understand that we would like to keep these types of meetings safe of all weapons."

Jyn shifts behind Cassian, hesitating and waiting for Cassian to step in. When he remains silent, her fingers curl into the back of his shirt, and stars circle protectively in front of him.

"Since you're considering people as weapons," she says, her voice bending in tones that imply she's returning Solis' smile with a cold one of her own. "I expect the two men behind you to leave with me. I wouldn't want to leave the man whose life I'm in charge of protecting with an unfair disadvantage."

"Of course."

The two men, perfectly blending in with the background emerge, only a surprise to Miria Aran, and all four leave Cassian and Solis to their negotiations.

Before the door closes behind her, Jyn glances back over her shoulder, brushing her hair behind her ear to imply she’ll be listening over comm. Some of her stars remain by Cassian’s hand on the desk, chasing away the diluting, white light of the office.

Once they are alone, Cassian waits for Solis to take his seat first, and then follows. It's the high-official type with velvet cushions that fight with the fabric of his pants and square arm-rests. Almost as if it's made for locking him in, for limiting his movements, and Cassian keeps it pushed out for that very reason.

He may have trained close quarter combat with Jyn for more than two years now, but he's still a spy, a runner. Places like this make his fingers itch and his feet twitch.

"To save you the trouble of reading the entire file now, with company," he says. "Let me sum up the demands made by the Alliance. 

"We want you to end the segregation of the people of Midas 5. That includes, but is not limited to, military segregation, housing segregation, financial segregation, and electoral segregation. Any seemingly 'natural' part of society or culture that may be used to excuse it has to go.

"All people of Midas 5 above the age of eighteen should be allowed to vote, and their votes should be counted as equal. No first-across-the-finish-line or gerrymandering structures. Midas 5 has a small enough population that a popular vote will be the most effective.

"And the Alliance should be in charge of overseeing a new election of a new leadership. Within the next two months."

He stops. And waits.

The man in front of him has frozen in place, gone hard. The lights have dimmed, and ice has turned the edges of the hardwood desk crystalline. The blue light of the sky outside paints the Head Acolyte's face in unforgiving tones, and for a moment his disregard for Cassian is clear on his face.

"You do realise, Captain," he says, leaning forwards and clasping his hands in front of him. "That you are speaking with the current leadership of a democratic world?"

"Of course," Cassian parries easily, keeping his voice soft and even. “If this is truly a democratic world, that leadership will remain in place. And we would feel much more comfortable working with you, knowing your government follows the same ideals we wish to take with us into a new order."

The acolyte clicks his tongue with obvious disdain, but folds his face in an expression of tragic regret. "Don't you ever feel tired of war, Captain?" He asks. "It corrupts and exhausts the soul so easily. All we want is peace here. Maybe you could learn something from us, rather than make heavy demands the other way around."

"I am tired of war," Cassian agrees. "But I know turning my eyes away from it will not make it go away."

The Head Acolyte shakes his head and leans back in his seat. "Our answer will have to be no," he says. "We know very well how to protect our population the best. From themselves as well as the violence outside." He rises from his seat and regards Cassian down his long straight nose. "We will not let you drag them into that war needlessly, as you have done with others."

Bingo.

"Oh?"

"You are too obsessed with power, Captain," Solis says, towering over him, his shadow following ahead of him. "When you see power and politics everywhere you are already on the path to the Dark Side. You are already lost. I am sure your Alliance is much the same, and have dragged many a bright star off the wrong path in its blind enthusiasm.”

Cassian wonders if he ought to argue with that, to point out that it is the Empire that have forced them down a path of war and destruction, that it is the Empire that has stolen their worlds and burned their homes. He wonders if he should point out that  they have found homes and love and family in each other, that refugees under Alliance protection have begun to smile again, that their children's cheeks have grown chubby again.

But he won't.

He won't because men like Solis only hear their own voices.

He won't because he won't let this place corrupt the Alliance, the Rebellion he holds so dear.

Solis is already giving him exactly the kind of arguments he needs to defy orders. Cassian just needs to keep him talking.

"At least on Midas 5 the greatest crime our workers commit is forming attachments to their families," Solis continues, unprompted, touching his heart with theatrical empathy. "But so long as those attachments are met and not threatened outright, they remains docile and don't follow the Great Flow off the right path. But what you have done, Captain; what your Alliance has done is far more heinous.

"Children who shine as brightly as Jyn should not have been corrupted and made violent," he continues. "She should've been in Jedi training, like-- Like so many others."

And something changes in Solis, then. From an old, superior fool, who has preached the same thing for more than half a century, tired of his own fanaticism, he suddenly becomes something brighter and more dangerous. His eyes glow with the kind  of zeal Cassian has only seen in someone coming across a treasure trove of opportunity, and is taking it.

Ambition shines out of Solis, and Cassian startles at the raw greed of it.

"Excuse me?"

"I know, I know," Solis continues as if Cassian's words had been genuine and not an expression of the fact that the conversation had entered an area he'd not accounted for. "She can't, of course. Thanks to the Clone Wars, the Jedi are no longer. But she should stay here to receive what training she can."

He slams his palms down on the table, face cut in half across the middle by a bright cold light, and his icy blue eyes shining like lamps in the dark. And Cassian has to use every ounce of his self control not to scramble out of his chair and run as far as he can, dragging Jyn with him by the scruff of her neck, if he had to.

"That," he says, keeping his voice level. "Is not your decision to make. It's Jyn's."

The shadows grow.

The lamps die out.

Somewhere just out of the corner of his eyes, ice cracks. Dropping to the floor with a clatter.

"And you will do your best to convince her not to, isn't that right, Captain Andor?" The Head Acolyte inquires, voice gentle and ominous. "You will drag her back into a war she doesn't belong to, and keep her tied to you until she too has fallen to the Dark Side, until she has failed her test."

Cassian thinks of a girl in a butterfly dress, frozen with terror at the sight of her mother's murderer. He thinks of a girl sitting alone on a bed, her spirit broken. He thinks of a strategist, rubbing her brow as she goes through a sabotage plan. He thinks of a warrior, dancing through enemies, her hair swinging out like strings in the sunlight, her smile bright. 

He thinks of what he hasn't witnessed, what she's done alone or under Saw -- of what he only knows from her files.

He thinks of Lyra's ghost, meeting his gaze sorrowfully on a black planet.

"You," he scoffs, "don't know Jyn very well, if you think me capable of all that."

"Jyn is meant for great things, Captain," Solis nearly cuts him off, ignoring his argument, save for the chance of still coming across as polite and genteel. "She is chosen by someone greater than all of us. Let us help her live out that purpose, so she too will know peace."

Cassian exhales through his nose.

Enough.

Anger is beginning to thrum under his skin, burn in his veins, and he needs to end this conversation now, before he does something stupid.

"Thank you for your advice, Prime Minster," he says, getting to his feet. "I suggest you review my offer, but remember that we do not trade in people and your request would therefore be considered the greatest insult, to the point we would have to take our business elsewhere."

The chair clatters across the table as he comes face to face with the Head Acolyte. He meets the older man's gaze evenly, keeping his anger down.

This man, this white-clad, blue-eyed old monster, had made Jyn a liability, had deviated from Cassian's script. Disgustingly, he'd made her an object of trade, of possession, one he greedily covets beyond anything Cassian has ever seen before.

For what? A continuation of a religion? To divide them and destroy their leverage as part of negotiation? Or does he really believe what he's saying? That he can change her entire world view, gaslight her into forgetting her sorrows and her loss, so she becomes just another gem in their collection, another bright moral argument for the sake of their occupation here?

A star settles into his palm, warming his skin.

It doesn't matter.

None of it matters.

All that matters is that Solis had changed Cassian's choices out of his control. And the last time Cassian had had the choice between his family and the cause, he'd lost everything.

"I advise you to keep in mind that the Force is life," he says, as the door behind him slides open. "And when there is no life left in the wake of the Empire's rampaging, there will be no Force left to preach for either."

He doesn't look back, as he steps towards the light of the door.

The rest of the day is a sleep-deprived blur.

Miria Aran scrambles to set up a new itinerary and spends most of her time either fussing obnoxiously over Jyn or glancing fearfully at Cassian. It’s somewhere between nauseating and infuriating to be constantly reminded of his conversation with the Head Acolyte, and their intentions with the both of them, and it leaves very little room or space to think about what he wants and needs to do.

The only relief is that Jyn, as always, is incapable of keeping her emotions from her expression, and seeing his own perspective so perfectly mirrored on her face is the only true reason he hasn’t done something rash and irresponsible.

The second relief comes in the shape of privacy and a bed, and Cassian topples over early with the hopes of a good night’s rest.

Only, rest eludes him, and he sleeps fitfully, his mind wandering between dream and analysis, nightmare and arguments — with himself, with Jyn, with Solis.

Eventually he ends up back in the cave opening, sitting before a field of snow, the frozen water falling from a cloudy sky.

Cassian clutches the childhood coat he hasn’t fitted into for nearly twenty years, and watches that grey sky, familiar and unfamiliar for the longest time. Until the girl he knows so well by now comes to sit beside him.

A wisp, not much larger than himself, she remains silent and stoic, her warmth the only real sign she is more than a ghost.

Cassian never looks at her, though he knows who she is. But when she starts to hum, it’s the song that brings him back to lucidity.

The white of the frozen world leaves him for blissful darkness, and Cassian lies silent in his bed, listening to the song of space and stars.

It’s usually himself that hums, deeper tones filling the air with a song he never puts words to, though he knows the lyrics, feels them like the ghost of his grandmother’s hand still on his cheek. It is usually Cassian who hums, a song of cosmos which fills the darkest spaces for them both, when he knows Jyn is stubbornly suffering her insomnia in silence.

Now she returns the favour, as gently as she can, and Cassian reflects again that he had never considered Jyn a gentle person - but everyone has the capacity for softness.

Even Jyn.

Even Cassian.

In the darkness, he lets his voice join hers, deeper tones dancing in space with her higher notes. And he lets his eyes flutter open to the golden stars floating through the cold, empty room, vanquishing the chill of Midas 5. And at the centre, between void and starlight, where their souls meet, a galaxy winks into life, a thousand thousand stars dancing in the dust of space to a song they both sing.

And Cassian eventually follows his soul across the void between them, through the warmth and the gold, to sit, silently on the edge of her bed.

Jyn is lying sprawled under the white sheets, her hair sprayed out behind her in dark whirls, and the Alliance uniform the only contrast to her environment. Gold catches and glitters in her eyes, darkening their colour, but they crinkle at the edges.

“Hey.”

Her fingers curl into the sheets, like a cat’s, as he speaks.

“Hey.”

“What time is it?”

The twist of her mouth changes to a laugh. “Late. Early,” she says. “I’m not entirely sure.”

“Have you slept at all?” Cassian demands, recognising what the husky voice implies.

It’s concern that makes him reach out for her, tugging fussily on her sheets, and brushing his fingers more tenderly over her hair.

Jyn eyes him sourly for a moment, and then turns on her side so the sheets slide off her, as planned. A tiny revolt in retaliation to his actions, before she smiles again. “How could I when you kept muttering in your sleep? Or twisting and turning. Or throwing with your sheets.”

She props her head up on her palm, and tugs on his shirt, and Cassian realises belatedly, still sleep deprived, that she’s teasing him.

And, as always, he lets her set the pace. “Oh?” He says, smile coming naturally to the corner of his lips in her presence. “I hope I didn’t say anything inappropriate.”

“Only if you count hyperdrive formulas, and a mail order for explosives,” she retaliates without hesitation. But then her eyes darken and she tilts her head, concern bending her expression. “He got to you.”

And Cassian laughs.

Because it’s just so Jyn to not let him run away, to be blunt as a means of affection, and get to the heart of things without mercy for the other person, because she knows — Jyn knows that sometimes Cassian needs to talk, but he’ll fight nail and tooth to avoid it.

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” she admits, her eyes travelling from his face, expression raw with displeasure. “Not today but—“

“This is what Aran was on about in the warehouse, then?”

“Yes.”

Cassian sighs and leans his elbows on his knees, looking forwards into the stars and the darkness. 

He couldn’t have protected her from it, of course. Even if she hadn’t been listening in on his argument with Solis — as they’d planned from the get go — she’d already been confronted with it out of Cassian’s control, this fanatical idea.

“I think you’re wrong, by the way,” he says, maybe to distract himself by another self-imposed failure. “About me. I haven’t always known what to do, I haven’t always done the right thing. Even before the Alliance,” he adds, looking back and smirking when he sees her protest die on her face.

A war happens right before his eyes, then, between curiosity and annoyance. It’s a split second battle, one where the option of complaining about his behaviour and listening to his story are weighed against each other.

Curiosity wins, as it usually does.

“I don’t believe you,” she challenges. “Cassian Andor seems synonymous with rebellion. How could there be an Alliance without you?”

And it warms him, the compliment, the faith she has in him. If this is how she sees him, then he is a far greater person in her eyes than he deserves to be. But he can’t entirely blame her either. Since it’s how he feels about Jyn, too.

“You forget,” he says, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “That the Alliance is a fairly new organisation. It’d barely existed a year by the time you joined us.“ And then he hesitates, fingers stilling just off the warmth of her skin. “And… maybe I wanted you to think that way.”

To Cassian Jyn is the one synonymous with Rebellion. They may have fought their entire lives, but there is a fire in Jyn he has seen in no one else, desperate and angry, a feral striving for peace and equality that is fuelled by her loss of home and family. It’s raw and needy, and sometimes it causes her nothing but pain. But, at least, Jyn never lost sight of who she was or what she wanted from the galaxy.

Jyn is a rebel, a true rebel. And she’d never lost faith in that battle.

Cassian can’t say the same.

“Why?” She demands.

Her eyes are shooting lightning at his admittances and she lifts her hand so that for a moment he thinks she’s going to smack his away.

But then she grasps it instead and roughly pulls it down to the mattress, forcing him to twist around. To face her directly.

“Because,” he says, the word leaving him like a sigh across his lips. “Sometimes when we’re lost, we’re lost because there’s nothing to grasp on to, no ledge to stop a fall. No ground to find a steady foothold. And I couldn’t see any difference between those who had been loyal to the Republic, who had begun to fight the Empire, and the Empire itself. I still can’t. It still feels like the same battle.”

Cassian closes his eyes and once again all he sees is darkness, the emptiness of his own soul reflecting how he continues to fall through nothingness without anything to hold on to.

Nothing except rage and vengeance, and blood on his hands.

In that sense, the people here are right about him. Cassian is essentially just a murderer. The Alliance may have given him purpose, they may have given a moral name to what he does, but he’d taken his rage and grief out on the Empire long before the Alliance had found him.

“So what did you do?”

He shrugs with one shoulder, the one that remains unattached. “I accepted any job,” he says. “Any excuse to spy or cheat or kill. And I ran. A lot. Eventually I met people like Hera, like Leia, like Mon Mothma. And they gave me an excuse.”

The cause.

The Alliance’s morality.

They’re all just an excuse.

An excuse to form connections he’d be robbed of  in peace time. An excuse for people to see him as something other than a murderer, as someone kind and righteous, who is doing good. When all Cassian has ever been is selfish — selfish enough to continue his parents’ battle, selfish enough to act in the name of his sisters, selfish enough to hold on to home where he finds it and do whatever it takes to keep it.

Cassian doesn’t tell Jyn all this, but she watches him with solemn understanding, her green eyes never wavering from his face. She might never have lost her footing the way Cassian had, she might never have stumbled. But she sees his past and his failures in the lines of his face, in the creases of her own hands from holding a blaster since childhood.

Jyn doesn’t turn her face away from anger, her own or Cassian’s. She doesn’t see it as destructive or dangerous or frightening. She doesn’t view it as something worthy of absolution. Instead she accepts it, silently, and she listens. Listens to his tale, to the things he relates, the battles he hasn’t entrusted anyone else with.

Unlike his family back in the Alliance, she doesn’t provide excuses for him. Unlike the leadership of Midas 5, she doesn’t condemn him for what war has made him.

And it’s not that Cassian believes what they preach here. The Force might be a part of the natural world, it might exist as something inconceivable that affects all their lives in wondrous and horrible ways. But if any higher power justifies or explains away deliberate suffering at the hands of others, if it gives power to pass judgement the way they do here on Midas 5, then he would rather find a way to destroy it — or the institutions that interpret it.

So he hasn’t changed.

Which makes his quest for redemption, for some inexplicable release from his own emptiness, in following orders, in the Alliance, in the Cause, hypocritical at best.

So he turns his eyes from that need, that wish, and focuses on what he has to do. His priority, always, should be the Alliance, has to be loyalty to his department, to Draven and the people he considers family.

Cassian turns his eyes from what he wants, and accepts the sacrifices he has to make with that priority in mind. He turns from what he wants to do, to what is right, to the actions that matter more than his own life.

He sees himself clearly in that.

And yet, he can’t let go of his own curiosity, his own selfishness. And as he hears his own voice die down, his tale, what he has been, coming to an end, he grasps the connection, the hand at his side, a little more firmly, and gives in to just one more selfish desire.

So he turns his eyes back the way he’d come, to Jyn, and waits. Because what he really wants to know is how she sees him. Jyn who had grown up with Saw. Jyn who has seen as much ugliness as Cassian. Jyn who has killed and rebelled, who has acted on her own rage and grief.

Jyn who had found him in the darkness on Senkoku and brought him home.

She meets him now in the silence, her eyes full of starlight. And Cassian doesn’t need to speak for her to hear him, doesn’t need to voice his question. And for a moment her smile is nothing but melancholic attachment, aching and beautiful in a way he hasn’t seen before.

Then her feet slide out from under the covers and she sits up at his side, her thigh pressing into his. And she runs her palm up to his face face, touch firm and warm against his cheek, as she looks at him.

“You,” she answers simply, without ever having to search. “I see you, Cassian. The endless possibilities lying at your fingertips. Space. The entire universe.”

And it’s everything and nothing at once, this declaration.

Cassian holds his breath at her words, stunned and touched. Uncaring that the ground has been pulled from his feet one more time, so he plunges back into the unknown, falls and falls, surrounded by nothing but starlight.

It’s not redemption. It doesn’t answer any of his needs. She can’t free him from what war has made him or give back what he’s lost. But just like that, in that blunt, faithful manner of hers that makes her so Jyn, she had seen the simplest answer and had shone a light on a third door — one he had never noticed in the darkness.

It doesn’t matter if she’s right or not. It doesn’t matter if there is an interpretation that puts words to and makes final who or what he is, out of his control. But Cassian thinks, he wants to be this person, the one who can reach out and embrace her, like space embraces every star.

If Jyn is starlight, then Cassian wants to be the home she rests in, where she can belong without restraint.

And, Cassian reflects as she comes to him willingly, her laughter like song in his ears, this way, there will always be light to shine on the paths he can take, and he will never be lost in the darkness again.

Chapter Text

For all that Jyn has been through in the past year, whether it be insurrections on outlying planets, or high profile infiltration operations in the Core Worlds, she’s never been quite as exhausted as Midas 5 makes her. A heavy weight settles on her limbs in the days that follow Cassian’s argument with Runa Solis, so movement feels a little more tedious, the crick in her neck and tension in her back refusing to leave.

They spend a week travelling from village to village, from community to community, accompanied by Kilaeon Cthonall, Miria Aran, and Karim Mithra. 

The latter, as leader and representative of the agricultural workers, was ordered to join them by the Head Acolyte himself as an expert on production, who might better answer their questions—though Jyn knows better.

They’d turned Karim and his family into hostages in plain sight, and it’s another thing she hates about this whole situation.

But Karim waves his hand when they bring it up in the tent one evening, brushing aside their concerns.

“This isn’t unusual,” he explains. “And it’s not a lie that my family is in charge of guiding the Third Quarter, nor that I’m often ordered on these types of trips as guide to off-world delegations. Only—“ he hesitates, glancing at the opening in the tent “I’ve never seen Cthonall join us before.”

Cassian and Jyn share a look, debating silently before Jyn exhales a sigh in annoyance and rises to go get more caf.

“So their Intelligence leader is keeping tabs on us especially,” Cassian muses, and Jyn doesn’t need to turn around to know he’s scratching his beard in thought.

“Why is it always Intelligence?” She complains, turning back to the two men.

“Don’t forget,” Cassian says, a smile tugged into the shadow of his lips. “You’re also Intelligence.”

“Shut it.”

She makes a face at him, waves the can of instant threateningly, and Cassian exhales a breath she recognises as a disguised laugh.

And then she quickly spins on her heel to hide her own expression. 

In spite of the weight of surveillance on their shoulders, the discomfort of being around Miria Aran’s nauseating cheer, and the constant reminder of oppression and destruction everywhere — be it the ruins of historical buildings and cities, overgrown with plants or Core World architecture; barely disguised mass graves or prison camps painted as serene working communities; or the signs of biological breakdown as a result of extreme agriculture — Jyn still somehow manages to find energy to be moved or flustered by Cassian.

It’s the wrong time, and it feels incredibly insensitive, even inappropriate, to the people around them, to the mission they’re on.

But there’s a fluttering in her chest, a ghost of a touch over her skin, that steals her attention in moments like these, distracts her from the horrors of the day.

It’s not new, but she’d been able to control it before, this silly, girlish sensation that doesn’t fit her at all. It’s not embarrassment, but it’s an embarrassing sort of joy that’s been expanding since their talk that night.

She’d said too much, expressed too much - words she’d even refused to express to herself because she knew the consequences of them.

I care about you.

She’d said that on Senkoku. She’d said it to get him moving. It’d been an admittance she hadn’t put words to either, a confession of attachment, but it’d been harmless. They’re a team. Family. Partners. It’s special, but not a weakness. It’s precious, but it only empowers them both. 

Admitting she works better with Cassian, that she doesn’t want him hurt, that she doesn’t want to see him die, is acceptable for a soldier, is even encouraged in the Alliance.

What she’d said to Cassian that night might’ve been true, an honest feeling, but it’d been so much more personal.

And the worst is, it hadn’t hit her until the morning sun had breached the curtains. Cassian had met her half way in her confession, had embraced her and held her, and she’d laughed with real joy in the night as he’d refused to let her go. It’d been safe and innocent, and they’d talked as if they were somewhere else, somewhere free, as if there wasn’t a war to haunt them. And when he’d finally fallen back asleep, she’d run her fingers through his hair again and again, watching his face as the sun had turned his skin to gold.

But the light had hit her fingertips, and she’d stared at her own actions, her own words ringing in her ears, tender and too honest, and—

And Jyn isn’t this type of person. She isn’t soft and tender and feminine. She doesn’t make breakfast in bed for a boyfriend who’s worked through the night. She isn’t a housewife full of nurturing kindness. She’s a soldier. She protects the people she loves with a weapon in her hand, she silences their enemies and ensures no one hurts them.

Cassian is the soft one. Cassian is the one who tugs on her curls tenderly. Cassian is the one who talks her down, and expresses emotions through actions and tone.

Jyn isn’t supposed to know how to do these things, and yet, somewhere, along the way, she’d spent enough time with Cassian to learn it. He’d taught her without her ever really realising.

And it should feel like weakness. Saw would call it weakness. Draven will exploit it if he ever notices.

But it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because it comes from Cassian, maybe because it’s something she’s learnt from her soft partner, the one who’d offered her a home when she hadn’t even asked for it, but it’s been a long time since she stopped considering softness as weakness.

If there’s anything Midas 5 has taught her, it’s that love can make you powerful, can make you withstand any kind of torture, and that rigidity and rejection of emotion can make you truly inhuman.

She just wishes—

Cassian’s hand brushes up her spine, creating a fiery trail that burns under her uniform into her skin, and Jyn jumps.

“Come back,” he says, tugging on her elbow. “We need to discuss plans for tomorrow.”

He gives her a look, and Jyn bends her mouth in a near pout.

“Here,” she says, offering him the mug of caf, before returning to Karim, who’s listing the people of the next community they might be interested in speaking to.

“Fire season is starting in a couple weeks, so they should be doing drills in preparation.”

Cassian makes a face. “Don’t tell me they’re doing those in the fields.”

“I can’t,” Karim says, and doesn’t need to add that here’s another way they’re not so subtly polluting the food of Midas 5. Instead, he leans forwards and points on the map they have lying out on the table. “The fields won’t be used in the next couple years, but they’re adjacent to rivers and streams, here, here and here, which lead to areas used for agriculture earmarked for charity. I’d recommend you speak with the people there, if you want a more specific report on the ramifications…”

Jyn clutches her elbow and listens silently to the two men talk. This isn’t anything she hasn’t heard before, from Cassian or Karim. The trip has only confirmed their suspicions, facts she could’ve easily gleaned simply from slicing through the palace’s main computer.

But she studies Cassian’s face, the crease in his forehead, and she thinks that maybe this was a better reminder, a personal one, which put him face to face with the problem.

After all, while she thought the confrontation with Solis would provoke him into action, all he’s done since is stall and waver.

She can see it in his expression sometimes, in the way he holds himself. When he’s relaxed, he holds himself like a dancer, poised and elastic, capable of absorbing and controlling the blow of any situation. But now he holds himself like he’s still under threat, stressed and indecisive. Which means he’s preparing himself to run.

The choice of whether or not to do something here, to do what he wants or to do what he believes is right, still haunts him, still keeps him pacing back and forth at night when he thinks she’s fallen asleep.

It’s painful to watch and be silent, it strains her to leave him to his ruminating, but since she hadn’t been able to push him in argument to trust himself, all Jyn can do for now is trust that Cassian will get angry enough with this place, with everything he’s witnessing, to act as she knows he will eventually.

Because he’s Cassian.

And no matter what he says about himself, he has the heart and soul of a rebel, a freedom fighter, and he cares too much about others to let this go.

She’ll just have to watch his back until he gets there on his own, and keep herself from picking fights as best she can in her impatience.

“…at least,” Karim says, stretching in the door way when they’re done. “The harvest celebrations will be at its height once we get back. It’s one of three times a year when we actually get full reign back of Ceres City,” he adds smirking, when they share a look of confusion. “It’s one of those events they don’t dare steal from us to keep the peace. You should come. Better food, good music, and I should be able to get to dance with my wife this year.”

There’s a touch of space at her back, the kind of warmth that brushes against her skin like a caress, and Jyn looks up just in time to see the brightness on Cassian’s face, warm like a summer storm.

“We’ll be there.”

It hits her again, that wind, catches her breath, and leaves her with that quiet, overwhelming joy.

She has to fight to wrench her eyes from Cassian’s face, and grin at Karim.

No, she doesn’t think Cassian is a bad influence on her. She doesn’t think softness makes her weak.

But Jyn clutches her elbow, where the memory of his touch still burns her skin.

She just wishes he wouldn’t be so unfair.

It bothers him.

Cassian spends a week in a landscape of indecisiveness. He speaks with Karim. He talks to farmers, planters, workers. He observes the world on Midas 5, this golden beautiful world, full of surface glory. And he sees the suffering underneath, and he knows what the right thing to do is.

But knowing is not the same as being resolved to act.

And he hates himself for it, a little bit.

Mostly because he catches Jyn watching him out of the corner of his eyes, when she thinks he isn’t aware. But Cassian is always aware, he always sees her.

And he sees the fire die a little in disappointment, her hope dwindling with her stars. And he hates that he’s doing that to her.

But Cassian isn’t a leader. He isn’t a warrior. He’s a spy and a runner. He’s the one who makes the cruel decisions, the one who makes the calculated decisions, the one who makes the sacrifices for the Alliance, for the Cause - no matter what it is. Because victory, in the end, is what matters.

Cassian isn’t what Jyn wants him to be, and he wishes that she would see that. Wishes she would stop showing her emotions on her face, reminding him of expectations he cannot live up to

And yet, her words keep interfering, keep breaking his concentration.

Endless possibilities.

That’s what she’d said. And thanks to those words, he catches himself, in moments of lax control, considering what he shouldn’t be: making plans, checking data, opening his mouth to make suggestions.

And then he starts, coming back to himself, back in control, and he looks up and finds Jyn’s eyes wide and glittering with stars. Waiting.

Which is the worst part. Because it isn’t just the Alliance at stake. It’s refugees who need proper feeding. It’s Jyn.

And Cassian isn’t meant to have this many priorities to consider. That’s what he has Draven for. That’s what he has orders for.

So he clings to his orders and he goes along, watching and carving the suffering of one more population into his skin and his bones, listening to the nonsense the Midas settlers spout. And he remains in limbo, lost in space, indecisive and ignoring the guiding star right by his side.

And he’s relieved when they get back to Ceres City, to hit the middle of the harvest celebrations, grateful for just one day off.

Banners have been hung from buildings in all colours, mirrored by small patches of square cloth on lines hanging from window sill to window sill in a zigzagging pattern down every street. Like most other festivals Cassian has come across in the galaxy, food stalls have been set up, but rather than mixing the festivities with a market’s capitalist tendencies, there are no price tags on any of the food.

And at the centre of a great square, tables are placed in a circular pattern, like flower petals, full of food and families, with children running everywhere, sharing stories and food and laughter.

“It’s the only times a year they get to see some of their friends and cousins,” Ava explains, her eyes intent on Layla as the little girl vanishes into the crowd. “The divided quarters means we’re divided too, but never entirely.”

Her fingers dig into Karim’s arm, and they share a quick, smug smile.

“So,” Jyn says, leaning back against the bar counter. “If I got this right. You celebrate the harvest three times a year because you’re able to harvest three times a year?” At nods from the couple, she continues “And your manner of celebrating consists of mostly sharing food and partying noisily through the night, because—“

“Because we don’t believe in charity,” Ava cuts in. “Because charity is a choice based on an illusion of scarcity. We have so much here, so much food, and we know how to produce it. This is still our planet, and it belongs to all of us as we belong to it, so—“

“Ava.” Karim cuts her off gently, and she flinches, her eyes moving from where they’re standing by a coffee stand to check her surroundings.

And Cassian follows her gaze, his fingers leaving a ‘seven o’clock’ mark against Jyn’s back. When she squirms and nudges him, it’s not entirely her usual excuse to turn and check his flank, and it makes Cassian pause, his eyes straying from the men clad in casual wear, standing in the shadows of a building, to the woman at his side.

He can’t see her face, but her stars flutter and her ears are flushed, and Cassian—

Cassian holds his breath at the adorable sight. He hadn’t meant to fluster her, the casual touch has always been a part of how they are, full of a familiar softness that calms them both.

If it has another effect on her now, he’ll change his strategy accordingly.

“What my wife means,” Karim continues, and though he smiles a shadow falls over his eyes, and he holds all of the intensity that Ava had spoken with. “Is that no one needs to go hungry if we share, and we’re all in this life together, grateful to our world for what it provides us. That’s what we celebrate thrice a year.”

Behind Jyn, Cassian nods his own agreement. He doesn’t remember much of Fest, but he remembers this; that even with the frozen environment, they had found ways to survive and ways to thrive. Even with the frozen environment, the world had still provided for them all, and they had worked together with it, using the natural hot springs for heat, taking care of the great population of sheep and reindeer, building green houses and harvesting similarly to here on Midas 5. And they had given thanks to the planet upon sun’s return every spring.

It’s familiar and yet completely unfamiliar, and it’s another reason Cassian can’t help but feel protective of the indigenous people here.

Their battle isn’t just about the Empire. It’s different and yet so similar. Because the Empire is just a continuation of the Republic’s, crueller, darker, more militarised. But what he finds here is so much closer to what he remembers of the force of ideas that the Republic used against his own planet, so much closer to what his parents were fighting during the Clone Wars.

And it makes Cassian wonder just how much he’s changed since joining the Alliance, if he’s ready to abandon that fight now, if he’s lost himself too much in a different war, a different set of rules. Something not his own.

He glances at Jyn again, catching her frowning up at him, but before he can reassure her he’s fine, Layla emerges from the crowd, dragging a boy behind her.

“I found him!” She announces, bright with childish triumph.

“I’m pretty sure I found you,” the boy retaliates cheerfully.

His dark hair curls at his ears, and he’s wearing a threadbare t-shirt. He’s taller than Layla, a few years older, and his hand is on her upper back as she catches her breath.

There’s an intense concern in his dark eyes that Cassian finds to be eerily matter-of-fact.

He glances from the Mithra family, at their clean looks and heavy cloth, and back to the boy, the patches on his shorts, and is reminded that even here, even in oppressed communities, people can be different.

But Layla clings to the boy’s hand and drags him forwards towards Jyn, to whom she introduces him as Qays. And the boy lets her. He lets her set the pace, listens to her as she engages him (probably not for the first time) with the tale of how she met Jyn and Cassian, and tightens his hold on her arm when she starts coughing.

And it settles something odd in Cassian, like he’s witnessing something close to home. Like he’s watching himself and Jyn as children.

He doesn’t know why.

Not until Qays disentangles himself from Layla to greet her parents, and the little girl moves forwards to whisper in Jyn’s ear.

“He’s mine.”

And it’s the lack of possessiveness in her tone. It’s the natural, matter-of-fact affection she speaks the words. Like she’s talking about the ground under her feet or the stars above her head.

He’s mine.

Jyn’s green eyes grow wide at the words, recognising it too, and she glances to Cassian, where she knows he is.

And it hits Cassian, like a flash of heat, the look. The recognition.

I see you, Cassian.

Children are different. Children don’t understand the way adults warp things to fit into a narrative, an opinion, an idea. They just are, so much more part of their world, so much more innocent of meaning, than adults could ever be. And watching the way the two Force bound children cling to each other, smiling and laughing, and breathing in each others’ space, Cassian understands.

He understands that there is nothing inherently evil about their bond. It doesn’t give them ownership of each other. It doesn’t give them liberties over each other’s lives. It isn’t a story or a fairy tale. It’s everything and nothing at the same time.

It’s a chance.

It’s a question.

It is growing roots besides another person and waiting for them to flower, knowing that they will.

And Cassian doesn’t think he minds so much, his own stories, his own songs. The songs his grandmother taught him, that he and Jyn have been singing without words.

Whatever the Force is to the people here, whatever excuses it gives them, it doesn’t really matter to him and Jyn. What matters is the innocent way it ties two children together, like extensions of each other, like a piece of joy and hope and freedom in the other’s heart. Life and light and warmth.

Love, he thinks as Layla and Qays start off towards the centre of the square to watch the bonfire being lit, was never anymore than this. Easy as breathing.

“Remember to stick together,” Ava calls after them, before turning to Cassian and Jyn as music begins to play. “That applies to you two, too.”

Jyn and Cassian share a look.

“Dance floor is over there,” Karim says, tugging on his wife with a soft, apologetic smile.

“That’s okay,” Jyn says, “we still have some snooping to do.”

She glances around, not for the first time, and Cassian knows she’s watching her back against Miria Aran.

He places one hand on her far shoulder, rubbing her wrist in comfort with the other. “Go have fun,” he says to the Mithras.

When the married couple turn away and begin to vanish into the crowd, Jyn nudges Cassian in the ribs.

“What?”

“I was about to get more information out of Ava and you stopped me,” she complains. “What kind of intelligence officer are you?”

“We know what she was implying,” Cassian says, linking their fingers and dragging her with him.

“No, we don’t!”

“Think,” he says, pulling her close so she can hear him. His eyes move to the two men hiding in a doorway, their blue eyes on the crowd. “Children vanish from Midas 5, she already told you. But only ever from the indigenous population, never the settlers. And what she said just now—“

“Oh,” Jan mutters, her shoulder leaning against his chest as she looks to watch his other flank again. “They’re taking adults, too.”

“Yes.”

“And tonight would be a prime time to do it,” she says. “Which is why they allow it in the first place. It’s a distraction.”

“Yes,” Cassian says. “Though to what end we can’t be sure yet.”

Jyn scoffs under her breath and tightens her grasp on his hand protectively.

They skirt the perimeter of the square, counting the people whose tense shoulders and calculated expressions give them away for what job they’re employed to do, and Cassian does his best not to count all the potential reasons why the temple of Midas 5 is kidnapping the indigenous population.

Eventually he moves his eyes to the celebrations themselves, to the lights and the music and the food, to Jyn at his side. They catch a group of workers in full gear, who’d had to abandon the celebrations to check up on construction work in one of the golden scrapers by the square, who, a little less guarded these days, insist they don’t need assistance. Then, they find a place to eat, invited by the scent of the food and the cheerful people. They listen in on the conversations, the mockery of the settlers who, as they do every year, poke their heads out with exoticism glowing in their eyes, and the complaints about the political situation, the sighed acceptance of peaceful control.

And eventually, as they make their way back across the square, to walk the rest of the city during celebrations, Jyn turns her head, squawks with indignation and grabs Cassian by the arm.

“This way.”

She drags him through an alleyway into a courtyard, and Cassian has just enough time to glance back and see Miria Aran’s obnoxious smile in the crowd, as she elegantly stalks towards them like a preying mantis intent on her kill.

They duck under a tree and up a staircase, through a labyrinth of old alleyways, where the paint has been worn away by wear and tear, and the sandstone underneath is crumbling from the pressure of the scrapers above them. In the shadows they run and hide, sidestepping and making calculated decisions, until finally they stop.

Cassian doesn’t release Jyn’s hand until she settles heavily onto a bench in what looks most of all like an abandoned courtyard. It slips over his palm and out of his reach, leaving a trail of warmth and starlight in its wake.

Sitting under a flowering cherry blossom tree, Jyn looks almost, if not entirely, like a knight from an Alderaanian fairy tale. A pink petal falls to be cradled by one of the lazy curls hanging from behind her ear. Her pale green blouse crawls up her throat, but remains unbuttoned at the top to show a glimpse of collar bone, and instead of a sword at her side, the blaster she’d stolen from him remains dutifully attached to her leg in full sight.

The courtyard feels mostly abandoned, its walls having lost all their plaster long ago, so the pale yellow stones catch and reflect the music from the celebrations more cleanly, a symphony for the grass and the trees, the moss and herbs emerging from cracks in the cobble and walls.

There are no security cameras here, for once.

“Dead end,” Jyn murmurs, once she’s caught her breath, always more of a fighter than a runner.

“I’m sure she’s given up by now,” Cassian says, trying to keep his mirth at her predicament from his voice.

When she lifts her eyes to glower at him, he knows he’s failed, so he sits down instead, by her side, his hand settling beside hers so their fingers brush.

“I’ve never seen you run from a person like that before,” he observes, keeping his eyes on the pink petals of the tree opposite them.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Jyn grumbles, pulling one leg up to hug her knee. “Since I can’t punch her or even snap at her. I’m not very good at being nice, Cassian,” she adds miserably, tilting her head and looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“I know,” he sighs, reaching out and brushing his hand up her back to tug gently on a strand of hair. “I’m sorry this is taking so long.”

Somewhere behind her, he catches sight of a wooden door, light flowing out from the cracks, just the slightest hint of tents and dancers.

When he looks back at Jyn, she’s frowning.

And Cassian knows, again, that she’s disappointed in his confusion, his lack of resolve.

“It’ll be over soon,” he says, to meet her half way. “I promise.”

For a moment she just watches him, her green eyes intent on his face, seeing through him and weighing how much he’s lying to himself against her faith in him. And Cassian braces himself for an argument.

But it never comes.

Jyn sighs and closes her eyes before pushing to her feet, leaving him behind on the bench, the pink petals that’d rested on her head falling in her wake among the stars.

She turns, her bright green eyes on Cassian.

“Come on,” she says, almost a goddess of spring, offering him her hand up. “I want to enjoy these celebrations a little before we get back to work.”

And it’s unspoken between them, the words she doesn’t want to utter, doesn’t need to utter, and Cassian—

Cassian feels the way it warms him, turns his blood to molten honey in his veins. The air feels a little thinner, the world a little less full of problems, as his attention narrows in on the woman in front of him, dressed in pink petals and coated in starlight.

Jyn is beautiful and real, in a way the rest of the world can’t always keep up with. Always a presence at his side. And Cassian wants nothing more than to follow her lead, let her set the pace, and pick a path forward to a different galaxy, a different life, but—

He hesitates.

“Are you sure we should be taking a break?”

The door to the outside world, the rest of Midas 5, all their current problems — his indecisiveness — drags his eyes from her face, twisting his body from hers.

“We’re already on break,” Jyn reminds him.

And then she’s back in his space, standing in front of him, her hand on his knee. Her eyes are solemn when he finds them.

There’s a sigh in her voice when she speaks. “I don’t really understand,” she says admits, looking away and pulling her hair back, out of her eyes in an attempt to grasp at a clearer vision. “But I’ve decided I don’t really need to understand or that I want an explanation. I’ll just wait,” she clarifies, turning back and smiling at him with the kind of confidence that speaks I’ll be the one to say I Told You So in the end. “And support you in the meantime."

And the irony of it all is this. Just this. Jyn. She thinks more highly of him than is reality, thinks that to Cassian this is about politics, about doing what is right here and rebelling, or following orders. She thinks he’s weighing his loyalties to the Alliance with what he knows to be right. But Cassian can see a dozen different ways to combine the two easily, and the irony—

Oh, the irony lies in the fact Jyn doesn’t consider herself a valuable, at all.

“That’s not very helpful.”

Like she’s avoiding a punch, Jyn pulls her head back, her eyes narrowing. Flashing with mild fury.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Cassian says, laughter a breath across his lips, as he rises to his feet. “Come on.”

Before she can protest, he steps into her, grasping her hand and tugging her around. He orbits her, directing their movements until they’re at the centre of the courtyard, two planets moving in space to music.

Her hand settles more securely into his, and her fingers curl into his shirt, nails scraping over the top of his trapezius. And Jyn let’s Cassian lead, relaxing in his space until the warrior remains only in the control of her muscles and the ease of her movements.

Jyn closes her eyes and hums along to the melody floating to them from the celebrations. Her stars dance among falling cherry petals, lighting the world in soft pinks and golds, blushing across her skin and catching in the strings of her hair, painting them red.

“I might be patient,” she says after a moment, her eyes falling open, and some of the ethereal glow washes off her as she watches him through languid eyes. “But if anyone insults you again, I am going to resort to explosives.”

And Cassian—

Cassian is a little breathless, a little enchanted, maybe more by that thought than by her beauty. Loyalty runs fiery hot in Jyn’s veins, to the point of destruction and chaos, the kind of attachment that burns down cities and topples governments. It’s what attracts him to her like a moth to a flame in the first place.

“You,” he says, finally, catching her around the waist and spinning her around so she laughs.

Only when she lands back in his arms does he lean down and catches her eyes, bright green starlight and flecks of gold, in the shadow between their faces.

“Are the least patient person I know.”

A tremble runs up her spine, under his palm, and her eyes widen, so close she can’t hide from him. Vulnerable attachment and an almost girlish embarrassment flutters across her face for a single moment that is like a gut punch, shattering the world around them so there is only Jyn.

The thing is. Cassian believes they are one. Heart and soul. Extensions of each other, without being a single unit. Like a truncheon in her hand during a battle, or a well-placed argument on his tongue. They have always been like that, two people who knew each other too well before they’d ever even really met.

And so he has never really wanted her.

Not just because people cannot be owned, are not objects to be given away. Cassian knows this. He believes in this. He fights for it every day of his life. And it applies to love and relationships as it applies to every other aspect of society, be it war or slavery or employment.

No, Cassian understands on a fundamental level, at the very core of his being, that he could never want Jyn to himself. He would never monopolise her time or limit her social circle. He would never tie a physical bond around her wings and break them apart. Not when she is so beautiful in her freedom.

It’s not about that.

It’s that he’s her home, her family. Her partner in crime and battle. And so he could never feel any more than passing desire for her body in moments of lax control.

Cassian had wanted to be a place of safety and comfort, to be a touch that causes relaxation and a lowered guard. He’d wanted to be sure that when she is too exhausted for a messy dormitory, or after a particularly severe mission, she could turn to him, fall into him, and find true rest.

So he had never allowed himself to want her, to be swept up in a moment of intensity or desire.

And yet, as all things eventually do, something changes.

Like a switch that flicks on suddenly, Cassian stares into Jyn’s eyes, his fingers tangled in her locks as light from the harvest celebrations bleeds through them and turns them bright red, and he is caught, enchanted, leaning forwards just to breathe her in.

Because Jyn is looking at him, seeing him, her eyes burning into him and burning through him. And when his hand travels lower, along her spine, she shivers as she has done before - not from cold, not from surprise, but from pleasure.

“You better hurry up, then,” she whispers, her hand travelling from his shoulder to his heart, listening to its thundering declaration through her skin.

And even that isn’t entirely right.

It’s a longing.

Cassian longs for her with a force that aches.

“Or what?” He inquires, face leaning a little closer, a tiny, diminishing part of his brain aware they’ve stopped dancing, stopped orbiting, gravity pulling on them in earnest now. “Are you going to blow me up, too?”

“Don’t,” Jyn says. “Tempt me.”

Her fingers grace the back of his neck deliciously in a promise to tug him down, pull him closer, closer, closer until there’s no space left between them. Until he could open his mouth and devour her, fill his lungs with her air, press his heart into her hands, and—

Glass shatters far away, an ear shattering spectacle, like the crashing of wave after wave during an ocean storm. It roars for an eternity. And then there is a booming noise of something huge and monstrous falling.

Jyn and Cassian stand impossibly close, frozen like a pair of deer in headlights, like children clinging to each other during a calamity, listening to the world coming thundering back to tear them apart.

But it’s the screams that finally grasp them and pull them into motion.

The door flies open ahead of them, and they’re sprinting through side by side to a rush of sensation. People. Everywhere. Panicking and running from a square almost entirely in ruins.

A sky scraper sways dangerously on the opposite side, its flank shattered in the middle, and the top threatening to collapse in its wake, promising a rain of more glass.

And at the centre, smoke is rising from a bonfire that has been almost entirely extinguished.

A hand lands on his arm, fingers digging into his shirt, and Cassian looks down to find Jyn checking on him. Checking for orders.

“Come on,” he says, pushing forwards.

The crowd doesn’t part for them. Indigenous or settler, it doesn’t matter. Their eyes are wide and panicked, only seeing the horror that had befallen them and broken their peace—completely unprepared for calamity when it finally hit. So Cassian and Jyn keep close, as they navigate the stampede, grasping at each other’s backs or wrists or shoulders.

Jyn is a presence at his side always, but Cassian struggles to keep her there, his arm moving out instinctively, to keep her from being rushed away by the tide.

Finally, they break through.

At the centre a couple of stalls have caught on fire, but the bonfire is entirely dead. A massive metal structure lies across it, its base broken at the foot of the skyscraper it’d fallen from, surrounded by glass, broken tables and stalls, cracking the stone floor open mercilessly.

Somewhere, a child is crying, huge, painful sobs. And it’s only then Cassian notices the people trapped beneath the structure.

Some are lost, both others have been knocked out, their legs or arms the only thing caught. Blood is sprayed amongst the glass in constellations around the victims, their clothes have been ripped, their limbs torn, beyond repair of even batch.

Cassian sees it all, catalogues it in the part of his brain that holds every memory of every front line battle he’s ever participated in. And he acts.

“Here,” he says, producing a mask for Jyn to protect her against the smoke. “Go. I’ll find people to help.”

Her eyes glow with starlight as she nods and turns away from him, taking off. And Cassian allows himself only a moment to admire her decisiveness as she runs.

Cassian doesn’t often see the Force, the way Jyn does - maybe it’s because he knows he’s still rejecting it, rejecting the people here, rejecting the Jedi that hurt his people, his planet; maybe it’s just a talent that eludes him.

But he sees it now, golden strings that fall in lines from where Jyn is running, like a trail of starlight in her wake.

He pulls his gaze away quickly, navigating the crowds, the ones frozen in shock, to find the Mithra family in the rubble.

The child he’d heard crying before is still sobbing. Layla clings to her mother’s neck, crying and blubbering and whimpering, as if she’s the one in real pain.

Ava meets Cassian’s eyes with real concern. “Qays is trapped under it,” she says, as way of explanation.

And Cassian sees the suspicion in her face. He’s tried that before, and luckily only once; feeling the pain of a shot not his own, sharing the shot Jyn had taken to her side and carrying it with him for as long as she had.

Now he doesn’t confirm or deny it for Ava, the bond her daughter shares with another that puts her in such pain. Instead, he turns to Karim.

“We’ll get them out, but we need help,” he says, and adds. “Jyn can lift the aquarium skeleton just enough that we should be able to manoeuvre the bodies. But it needs to be quick, and it needs to be now.”

Karim doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t quirk an eyebrow at the impossible claim. He simply nods.

“I’ll find people.”

They separate.

Cassian finds Qays in the rubble. The boy’s legs have been trapped to the knees under a metal beam, and has fortunately passed out from the pain. His head is scraped, and the concussion won’t do him any favours, but he’s breathing easily and his torso is safe.

It’s a small moment of relief, as he looks up to check on the position of everyone, the ones each in charge of a body, and Jyn, who has found the best position to lift, her eyes focused and her stars dancing around her, glowing with the force of what she’s about to do.

Cassian raises his voice, willing it to reach them beyond the noise and the chaos, and knowing somehow that it carries even beyond ears.

“Ready? Now!”

Cassian had once seen a Jedi on Alderaan lift a u-wing to keep an eleven year old Leia from running off on adventure. He’d done it with just the force of his mind, like magic or sorcery. And this isn’t exactly it, but it’s probably very close.

Jyn places her hands under the main beam, tenses her muscles, and lifts with her entire being. And the Force comes to her aide. It gathers in the air around her like strings of gold, and builds, and then it moves out from the girl in its midst, attaching itself to the metal structure.

It creaks.

And then Qays is free.

Cassian clasps the boy under his arms, and tugs him out to safety, catching his breath.

Only when he looks down at his own hands does he see them; the glowing strings attaching to his body and tying him back to Jyn.

His hands burn, and Cassian lifts his head to find Jyn, still holding up the broken structure, her face impassive, giving no sign of her pain.

No, Jyn isn’t a Jedi. A Jedi wouldn’t struggle to hold this up. But Jyn is still doing something incredible, something beyond kindness, like an invincible hero out of myth who has found a way to channel their bond into the impossible.

Jyn drops the metal beam, finally, her palms hitting her knees to keep herself from toppling over. The Force dies down around her, leaving her to heave for breath.

And all around her, people re-emerge, given courage and hope by the feet she had accomplished. Their eyes glow with the kind of zealous light that comes from witnessing a miracle. And when someone begins to clap, it soon travels to the next and the next and the next, cheer going up like a roar in her honour.

Cassian leans back, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and watches as Jyn lifts her head to smile.

He may be a spy.

He may prefer to stick to the shadows, to go unnoticed, to remain anonymous.

But Jyn, as always, shines the brightest amongst others. And she deserves this small moment of recognition.

But the joy smouldering in his chest like a small sun is smothered when Cassian looks around and finds Runa Solis in the crowd. There’s a look in his eyes Cassian has seen before. Greed. But even that word loses its meaning in the face of the fanatical hunger on the dictator’s face, in the bright blue eyes of his followers, flanking him.

And Cassian knows with the certainty that comes with real fear, that he will not be able to keep Jyn’s safety from these people out of the equation anymore.e

Chapter Text

“Sit still!”

“I am!”

Cassian dabs the cleaning pad over her wound, and she squirms. Freezes, and glowers at him. He’d deliberately provoked her into proving his point.

“I am!” She repeats, childish and frustrated. “And I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.”

Cassian ignores her, pours more spirit onto the cloth, and lifts it up, eyeing her threateningly. “I will fuss as much as is necessary,” he tells her. “Until I’m sure the rust doesn’t cause an infection. You can cooperate or I can restrain you. Your choice.”

Jyn opens her mouth to argue with him, that flash of cool, merciless warrior catching her on instinct, but then she pauses. Kay might be docilely waiting back at the ship, but she wouldn’t put it past Cassian to call him for just this purpose.

So she forces her irritation down, and she narrows her eyes slyly at him instead, tilting her head in provocation. And when she says “I’d like to see you try” it comes out much more suggestively.

Sometimes, it’s funny, pulling Cassian’s leg out from under him in conversation. She doesn’t often get to do it; he’s sharper than her in debate. But Jyn got him this time. She can tell from the way his indifferent spy mask shutters halfway down - futilely, because she can see through it these days.

And the array of emotions that play across his face and makes his soul shudder, make her all the more gleeful.

Cassian’s eyes catch on the bed for barely a second, and she sees the way he instantly regrets where he’d dragged her to after she’d scraped her hands. The flush that manages to climb into his cheeks.

His grip on her wrist tightens.

Mind out of the gutter, captain.

Jyn nearly gets to claim her victory, too, to grin at the mere thought, but Cassian is as stubborn and competitive as her under the right circumstances, and so he leans in close, looming over her, his free hand letting go of her wrist to grab a purchase of sheets behind her.

“Yeah?” He demands, letting the heat of the moment flood his gaze, eyes becoming impossibly darker.

And it extinguishes the mischief in Jyn immediately, because this— this is different. There’d been a moment like it in the little courtyard earlier, when he’d leant down and banished the world from her sight, the same darkness of cosmos intruding, and stared into her so a delicious warmth had spread over her skin, through her body.

But there’s an intensity of privacy here, one not tempered by any lightness of mood or music, and Cassian is beautiful and enchanting in a way that captivates her and makes her forget all her priorities, where they are, what they should be doing.

She swallows back the emotion, does her best to meet him beat by beat, only too aware that with her hands resting in her lap, wounds still open, she’s entirely vulnerable to him.

“Do your worst.”

And just like that Cassian smiles, eyes burning with molten amber, so utterly beautiful he glows. And when he says “thank you, Jyn” it’s enough to make a chill of pleasure run up her spine.

He grasps both her wrists with one hand, scooping them up and lifting them out of harm’s way as he swings his knee over bother her legs. He releases one of her hands to tug the other one closer, and dabs the cloth into her wounds again so Jyn swears.

Loudly.

And in several languages.

When she hits one she’s picked up from him in Festian he laughs.

“You’re the worst.”

“I can live with that,” he responds. “If you’re going to insist on using our bond to play hero, you’re either going to have to learn to do it without getting hurt, or let me check your wounds afterwards.”

He’s still looming over her, closer than they’ve been in a long time, but it’s different from what it was a moment ago. With Cassian sitting partially to her side, his leg propped up below him to ease the weight on her, and leaning down to check her wounds, Jyn is stuck with his chest pressed into her shoulder and beard nearly tickling her nose.

It’s warm and companionable, and calmly intimate in a way that almost makes her want to close her eyes and hum with pleasure.

“Fine,” she allows, accepting the fact he’s domesticated her. “You just don’t have to be so harsh with the chemicals. I’ll remember gloves next time.”

His sigh is so close and heavy it flutters across her chin and collarbones.

“I’m sorry,” he says, dabbing it into her wound again so she winces. “I’m trying to be careful. And,” he adds, glancing up to meet her gaze so she can see the bait in his eyes, “you’re going to be wearing gloves for a while whether you like it or not.”

It’s a distraction, an invitation to bicker, and Jyn accepts it gladly. Cassian has a dry sense of humour and a no-nonsense personality that leaves her endlessly on her toes in the best of ways. He’s fun to be around when things aren’t exploding around them, and she knows very well that it’s a mutual feeling. So they fall into their familiar mission pattern from whenever she’s gotten hurt and he’s forced treatment on her, bickering and teasing each other, talking about inconsequential things to distract from his fussing and the way her injuries hurt.

Until he finishes with the clean-up and bacta application, and starts on the bandages, hands gentle and firm over Jyn’s, and she stills at the warm affection, hesitates just long enough for Cassian to fall silent.

His leg falls away, releasing her, and she leans her shoulder into his chest so he can’t feel the way her heart flutters or see the way her lower lip wobbles.

Jyn can stand pain. She’s done it all her life. It’s easy to lock your joints and stand firm in the face of calamity when you’re all alone. But Cassian’s softnesss and kindness can still be so overwhelming it makes it difficult not to react, not to buckle and lean on someone else, and Jyn—

Jyn trusts him enough to let that hand guide her down.

Once he’s done and tied the last knot, Cassian rubs his thumb over the inside of her wrist and loops his arm around her. He presses his mouth to her shoulder and tilts his head to lean on her.

“Don’t do that again,” he implores, voice quiet and tired.

“What? Get hurt?” Jyn makes a face. “You know I can’t make that promise.”

Cassian shakes his head. “I know,” he says. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“And these are just scrapes,” she reminds him, shaking her hands, a little irked. “You could’ve thrown me a bacta patch and I would’ve been fine.”

“I know,” he repeats. His hand moves down to rub at the inside of her wrist again, sliding down under her hand, fingers brushing her knuckles, to curl protectively around it and he doesn’t say it, but she hears it in his movements: but your hands are too important to you for me to run that risk.

He’s tired, Jyn realises. Cassian is tired. She isn’t the only one leaning on him; he’s leaning on her, too. And he’s letting it show in just this moment.

They’ve been running from mission to mission for over a year now, with no time to rest between the chaos, and no time to check in with friends and family back at base - they don’t even know who’s still alive, who they didn’t get to say goodbye to. It’s not just Jyn that’s taking a toll on. No matter how capable he is, no matter how much weight he’s comfortable with carrying, Cassian is just as burdened as she is.

“When we finish up here,” she says, curling her hand so she lifts his with it, pressing her lips to his fingers, “let’s go back home. I’ll request a few days off with Mothma or Leia, and they’ll pass it through, and we can sleep. Properly.”

“Good idea,” Cassian murmurs, lifting his head to reciprocate by pressing his lips to the top of her head before unfolding himself too early. “You can do that once we get back to the ship. But wait until we’re out of colonial territory. I don’t want to send communications while we’re so deep in Imperial space.”

He gets up and stretches, and Jyn sits back on the bed, feeling the way cold seeps in to replace his embrace. Staring.

She can’t see his face, and the black shirt he’s wearing doesn’t communicate his thoughts to her at all.

“We’re—“

Jyn opens and closes her mouth.

Tries again.

“We’re leaving?”

When he turns partially to glance at her, his jaw is already set. “Yes.”

“But… why?”

Her voice is small. Too small. And Jyn hates the way it portrays just how weak she feels. Weak, because she trusts Cassian to make the right call, trusts him to share his reasoning with her so it feels right. She’s never had to beg for that reason before, and now it feels like she is.

Begging him to have a reason.

Pleading in this small space between words that she will be able to understand it.

“Because,” he says, turning slowly to face her, and Jyn—

She can’t see him. All of cosmos has sunk out of her view, hiding from her. It leaves him in this white, cold environment, draining the colour from his skin and catching like blue tones in his eyes.

It’s like he’s a different person.

“Because we can’t trust the people here, Jyn.”

Even the way he speaks is the will of Rebel Intelligence, with non of Cassian in it anymore. It’s scary, so scary, how quickly he can extinguish his own flame, his own will, terrifying how he can squash the priorities of his own self for a greater concept.

“The Alliance has too many people depending on it,” he continues. “Refugees, soldiers. It’s already a political mess. And with the people vanishing here, we can’t be sure they aren’t going to do something similar inside the Rebellion. Or worse.”

No.

The world tilts on its hinges. Because it’s still Cassian. It’s still Cassian somewhere behind that mask, speaking desperately, but refusing to share his thoughts with her. He’s just hiding it behind the face of an Alliance Intelligence Officer, as if he shouldn’t know better.

Shouldn’t know she never listens to him when he’s like that.

It turns the fear to fury.

“This isn’t our fight anyway,” Cassian says, turning away to dump his sleep-wear in his bag. “People need to save themselves.”

Jyn is on her feet and in his way in a flash, her hair flying out in front of her, her finger digging into his chest as she points at him with accusation.

“You’re just running away,” she says hotly. “And you’re better than that, Cassian.”

She meets his gaze fiercely, fearlessly, and she sees the moment her words hit too close to home. Jyn sees the moment she manages to break open the mask to the pain he’s hiding, to the real reason. And though it had been her intention to provoke him, she instantly regrets it.

Because she knows—

Jyn knows what this is about. It’s Solis. It’s that meeting with Solis that’d gotten to Cassian. And she hates it, hates him for it. She wants to punch him, to physically hurt him for what he’s done to Cassian, but she can’t. Even now she can’t.

Jyn is tied on hand and foot, unable to rely on her usual methods, because Solis has the people here in a tight grip. They’re his prisoners, his hostages. And he knows how much Jyn and Cassian have come to care about people like the Mithras. He’d punish them for Jyn’s transgression.

She can’t even be sure what happened tonight wasn’t that.

And she should know better, should understand that Cassian feels those restraints too, that he’s trying to do what he thinks is best for the people he cares about so they won’t become prisoners or hostages to men like Solis. So they won’t be put at risk of Imperial retaliation.

And now he’s standing there, with this raw look in his eyes, like she’d ripped him open.

Like she’d overstepped a line she’s never crossed before, that he’d trusted her not to cross.

“You know,” he says, voice dangerously soft. “That that’s the way I operate, Jyn. I’m a spy. I’m a runner. I make a call when it’s too dangerous and I abandon mission, because that’s what’s safest for the Rebellion. That’s never disappointed you before, so why are you judging me on it now?”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right.

She’d been so desperate to get him to let go of restraint, to push him to fight the fight she can see he wants to fight that she hadn’t considered the loyalties he feels to the Alliance, the way he sees himself. She’d done her best to respect all that, but she’d been so obsessed with what she knows he can be, so obsessed with fighting Draven’s hold on him, that she’d eventually breached that respect and barrelled straight ahead.

Like an idiot.

And it hurts.

Hurting him, breaking his trust. It hurts.

But now it’s out there, and Jyn can’t turn back, she can’t just run and hide from him or there’ll be no chance of saving their partnership.

So even as Cassian looms above her, Jyn stands her ground, lifts her chin, and meets his gaze. “I wasn’t judging you,” she says. “I have more faith in you than that. Didn’t you start out fighting an enemy just like this one? Wasn’t it your habit to always do something?”

“I am doing something, Jyn,” Cassian says, tilting his head as he leans forwards so the shadows pass over his face. 

And it’s so eerie to see her own habit mirrored in him, when he’s truly angry with her, that Jyn takes a step back, sidestepping him for greater space like he’s an opponent that could hurt her.

Cassian follows.

“This isn’t our fight,” he repeats. “And I’m making sure the Alliance doesn’t gain an asset that’ll only trip them up in the long run and convert our people to an idea similar to that of the Empire’s — which is part of our orders, Sergeant.”

And there he is. 

Draven.

Draven in Cassian’s words. Draven in Cassian’s mouth. Draven in his view of the world and the galaxy, so different, and so trapping. Like ties controlling his every move, unseen and unnoticed.

Draven who had sent them here, just for this argument. To wrench the ground open between their feet and create a gulf too great to pass. Draven who knows all of their weaknesses and all of their hopes, who is so quick to use those feelings against them to control them.

For the sake of the Cause.

She hates him for it.

But she blames herself, too. For not thinking things through. For being a foolish girl with a mouth too big, for not listening to her sense like Cassian usually does.

“Orders? Again?” Jyn says, hearing the way her voice trembles with the ground below her. Weak. So weak. “Your dedication to that man is going to destroy us one day.”

Cassian’s dedication and Jyn’s fear. But she can’t bring herself to say that.

It’s like they’re spies on different sides, somehow, even when they aren’t. Hiding their feelings from each other, the truths that could make them work. For fear and hurt and anger. No longer reciting the script to this argument that makes them work. And no matter how she tries, she can’t stop the way they’re speeding towards collision.

“This isn’t about Draven,” Cassian is saying, the darkness flaring out behind him, full of red stars. Like a cosmic storm, too filled with anger to contain itself anymore. “I follow orders, because every soldier and spy and assassin following orders is what keeps the Alliance functioning somewhat, when Core World politicians playing at rebellion are constantly trying to tear us apart.”

And then he calms, his eyes clearing for the first time with curiosity. Dangerously. Like he sees her.

Sees through her with a clarity that is terrifying.

“What is your obsession with him anyway?”

And, somehow, it’s her terror of him finding out the truth that makes her throw it in his face in the first place, hackles raised, spitting words.

“My obsession with him? I’m obsessed with him because he’s already trying to hurt you, Cassian,” she exclaims, feral now. “He’s using this place to tear us apart, to force our differences to work against each other when they never have before. And look how it’s working!”

She whips her hands between them for effect, and she wishes now they could clearly see the force, the tear on their bond visually illustrated to support her claim. To prove her fears to be true.

And just like that the storm dies down. The space behind him calms and the red stars wink out into nothing. They’re standing still, their emotions calm and void for a moment, while Jyn catches her breath and Cassian watches her. Studies her.

“Why?”

Jyn narrows her eyes at him. “Why what?”

“Why are you so sure he has reason to hurt us?” He asks. “What happened a year ago that made you so afraid of him?”

And he knows. Of course he knows. He’d been the other side of their arguments for all this time. He’d been the one to watch her with confusion and betrayal, the one to treat her with determined trust and patience, silently communicating that when she was ready to trust he’d be ready to listen.

But Jyn had never been ready to talk or trust him with this, and now she’d pushed her deadline too far.

“I—“ she begins, looks down miserably. And then finds the courage to look at him when she admits her own betrayal. “I told him. About our bond. The fact we’re soulmates.”

It’s not silence that greets her.

The indifferent spy mask doesn’t shutter down to hide his reaction from her.

Jyn stares into Cassian’s face and watches as the mask shatters. The waves of confusion, disbelief and then pain that crash across his face are so excruciatingly raw they feel like physical strikes to her own body.

She’d betrayed him. On a deeply, planet-shattering level, she’d betrayed the person who trusted her the most, who called her family. And she hadn’t even realised just how terrible a betrayal it’d been until she was met with the force of his reaction.

A lamp winks out above them, and a shadow settles across Cassian’s face.

“Why?”

It sizzles. As his voice breaches the silence, the cosmos at his back crackles at the edges like electricity, like a thunder storm, and turns to red sparks in the night.

And this time, Jyn doesn’t reach out and touch him.

“I—“ she begins, her voice breaking miserably.

He’d called her family and she’d done this.

“We got back from Senkoku and I was so furious,” she explains, wishing she weren’t so emotional. Wishing the tears would stop trailing down her cheeks. They feel like gashes from a burning knife, and the shame of them makes it worse, makes the fear skyrocket. “I wanted to protect you, but I lost my temper.”

Like a massive, bloody hypocrite.

Cassian doesn’t say anything, but the darkness grows. Grows deep and angry, and cold. So cold.

Ice crawls across the floor, up her bare feet and attaches itself to her legs so Jyn trembles. It locks her in place, keeps her from moving forward or backing away, keeps her from Cassian as the world seems to grow wider between them, as she loses him.

He’s going to leave. Like every single one of the others, Cassian is going to leave.

And Jyn knows, Jyn knows that though it will hurt more than death itself, she has only herself to blame. It’s clear in his face: she hadn’t thought things through, she’d been a hypocrite. She hadn’t been protecting him.

She’d been protecting herself. Her sense of security, her feeling of home. Her claim to him.

And in doing so she hadn’t just sacrificed Cassian to Draven, she’d kept it from him. She’d weakened his position by stealing the most important weapon in his arsenal from him. She’d kept vital information from him, information so important it’s a matter of life and death.

Selfishly, Jyn had made him weak, vulnerable. She’d made him look a fool.

And she’d told him she was going to support him.

The words suddenly feel like poison in her mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

In spite of the tears making the world around her swim out of focus, she can still see Cassian clearly, can see the way his thoughts have run in the same lines as Jyn, the judgement he’s passing.

The words are too small, are too insignificant in comparison to what she’s done. They won’t hold him to her or bring him back around. The anger is still there, like a frozen tundra to keep her in place. He won’t forgive her this or bring her absolution for betraying him.

And yet, it’s all she can give him right now: the admittance of fault without pride, the acknowledgement that she’d hurt him, kept secrets from him, put his life at risk because of her own fear.

“Jyn.”

When Cassian finally speaks his voice is soft and cold like the first snow.

There’s no hope in it.

“I don’t need your protection,” he says.

Turns around.

And leaves.

And the force of his presence leaves with him, so there’s nothing left. No cold. No warmth. No touch of life. Just Jyn, in an empty white room.

Alone again.

She’d gone into her partnership with Cassian thinking the Rebellion would tie them together, would ensure she would have a home to return to. But at some point the Rebellion had been polluted with Draven, and she’d been unable to separate the two from one another.

So she’d started thinking of her and Cassian’s partnership in terms of their connection. That it justified it, allowed it. The bond was her excuse to stay by Cassian’s side, and she’d grown protective of it. She hadn’t wanted anyone to touch him, to hurt him in any way. She hadn’t wanted the bond polluted by outside influence, when it was what connected her to Cassian in the first place.

But she’d been blinded by it, by the concept of it. 

And she’d forgotten the person she’d been supposed to cherish above that.

Her family.

Her home.

Cassian.

Jyn’s leg tremble under her, giving in, and she hits the floor.

She’d destroyed everything with her own hands.

Cassian Andor is good at his job.

This is his problem and his salvation.

There’s a buzzing in his brain and the stars that’ve kept him company in the darkness are dimming in the corner of his eye, but he’s good at his job, and so he does his job. He sends orders to K2 to get the ship ready for take-off, and returns to Ceres and the hospital to visit the Mithra family and Qays.

Karim waves him in from the hallway, murmuring as explanation “we’re not really allowed here after curfew, but given my position and being a friend of his family they made an exception.”

“Very kind of them,” Cassian murmurs under his breath.

Karim exhales a laugh through his nose, and his eyes brighten somewhat at Cassian’s dry humour. “Well,” he says, his hand landing on his hip. “The situation didn’t leave them much of a choice when their priority is always their precious peace.”

It’s in the air, the threat of violence. Even if Karim keeps his tone light and his words only slightly mocking, Cassian knows the rage that serves as a spark of revolution when he sees it.

It trickles across his skin, and the words that might’ve served as fuel to the fire is almost across his lips.

But then Jyn is in his mouth, and her eyes are on his face, and he can still see the desperate disappointment on her face, wild and lost.

And Cassian presses his lips together, before turning to the rest of the ward.

The room is small and cramped, with a single bed, chair, and a table. Machines attach to the boy, who lies sleeping, dwarfed by his surroundings. Layla lies at his side, her fingers tugged into the sleeve of his shirt, and Ava sits at the foot of the bed, watching over the children.

“Surgery went well, but he’s never going to walk again,” Karim says, his tone so quiet and solemn no one but Cassian will be able to hear it. “The beam crushed his legs beyond repair. He’s lucky he survived the shock. Well, we’re all lucky your wife was there to aid us.”

The word catches Cassian’s attention, but before he can protest it he sees the zealous expression in Karim’s eyes, and it burns away the distinction.

It haunts him, this obsession with Jyn. Like she’s something too bright, people can’t turn away from or leave well alone. It stresses him and scares him to watch their reaction to her — especially in this place. One day, someone truly dangerous is going to take note, and then they’ll be in real trouble.

“Of course,” is all he can say, is all the situation warrants that he says. “We met some of the workers in charge of the buildings before the accident. Have you had a chance to question them about what happened?”

Another flash of anger. “They’re saying sabotage,” Karim says. “We were ready to have the glass installed tomorrow, which means nothing — and I mean nothing — could topple that structure. Especially not gravity.”

Cassian scratches his beard and looks to the children. “And the temple?”

“They’re saying irresponsible workmanship,” Ava scoffs, eyes flashing over her shoulder. Her fingers dig into the duvet where it should’ve been covering Qays’ right leg. “But we work those aquaponics factories, and we walk that square every day. There’s no one here who would be that irresponsible.”

“What about evidence? Other than experience speaking, I mean,” Cassian adds.

He isn’t sure why he’s pursuing the line of inquiry, not when they’re going to leave as soon as they can. There’ll be nothing to gain for the Alliance if Midas Five remains the same or explodes into a civil war. The worst case scenario remains the reality: either the temple remains in charge, or the empire gets news of the fact that one of the greatest producers of grain is without proper leadership and take over.

Dictatorship would remain in effect either way.

“Of course, there’s evidence,” Karim says. “The beams didn’t melt on their own. Several of the men who checked it have taken photos of it, but we’ve been banned from the grounds so the physical traces will be gone by morning.”

Of course.

There’s a part of Cassian that feels like he should apologise. It’s the part of him that sounds like Jyn, the part of him that climbed into an abandoned imperial station on Fest a life-time ago. It’s the part of him that has torn through security and lies since childhood.

And yet the empathy he feels for the people here moves his hand and his gaze, and he grasps Karim’s arm in silent solidarity.

The other man nods briefly and then shakes his head, as if to rid himself of rebellious thoughts.

“As for Qays,” he says, turning back to the children on the bed, returning to his priorities. “Things aren’t going to be easy from here on out.”

As if hearing her father’s words, Layla turns a little more on her side, her arms moving across the chest of her soulmate — refusing to relinquish him for anything.

Cassian glances from Ava to Karim, but he sees no recognition of that bond in their faces. So he remains silent, keeps their secret, and excuses himself.

The tragedy that has befallen the two children won’t be enough to tear their bond apart unless someone actively begins to meddle in it, and Cassian isn’t going to give anyone that weapon against them. Not even their parents. It is theirs and it should remain so without interference.

A lamp flickers in the cold, dark hall, and Cassian pauses to lean against the wall. He runs his hands over his face and exhales his frustration.

This is why he’s so angry with Jyn to begin with.

It’s bad enough the people here at Midas Five know. It’s bad enough some of their friends know.

The bond is a strength and a weakness. It ties them together, but it can also shatter their selves. They can push each other, support each other, or they can erode their own sense of individuality, their morality, their priorities—push them beyond what they know to be right for the sake of preserving a single person.

Cassian pushes himself off the wall and starts back towards home.

What Jyn had done in telling Draven in a moment of emotion isn’t something he can fault her with. Being angry that she’d laid claim to him would make him a hypocrite. But telling Draven had added a dangerous variable to their lives, and keeping it secret from him for so long had made the danger even more apparent.

If Jyn is right, and Draven is trying to tear them apart by sending them to Midas Five — a place that would recognise their bond and take full advantage of it — then Cassian has even more reason to be furious with her reasoning.

Especially when she’d excused it the way she had.

She’s a liability. She’s always been volatile and full of emotion, like a cosmic storm that grasps everyone up and drives them on to greater things. It doesn’t make her a good spy, but it makes her excellent for many other things, and Cassian—

Cassian had kept her around because she’d brightened his life and made going on missions fun again, a thrill again.

She’d made things easier.

But the scales had tipped, and like Draven had wanted, they’d been pushed beyond a point, seen the flaws in each other, like partners pushing each other to extremes, and maybe… maybe he’d been right that they’re not cut out for this — not together. Maybe he’d been right to try and separate them.

No.

The thought itself is so physically aberrant that Cassian stops in his tracks.

No. Jyn hadn’t been right to tell Draven exactly because Draven hadn’t been right to meddle but wouldn’t care.

Cassian respects General Draven. He answers to him exactly for that reason. But that also means he knows the general isn’t trustworthy. Draven will do exactly what he thinks is right for the Rebellion, at the cost of everyone else. He does this because war requires sacrifice, and victory against the Galactic Empire is a Herculean task that doesn’t come through miracles.

Cassian agrees with that mindset. He’s seen too much to know that it’s the absolute truth.

And yet, he’s selfish.

He doesn’t want this war to touch what he has with Jyn. He doesn’t want Draven to have this power over either of them, over their relationship. Cassian is her home, and he intends to fight to remain that way.

And yet, if he’s going to remain that way now things are going to have to change. Jyn had already made that decision, and there’s no going back from the consequences of it, if they’re going to come out of this place intact.

Their bond is a liability, so to keep it, Cassian is going to have to sacrifice something to stop it from being of consequence in the eyes of his superiors.

He pulls his fingers through his hair and starts walking again.

When he gets back to their room, everything is packed and cleaned up, their bags by the door. And Jyn is leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed, her head tilted in provocation.

Cassian takes one look at her raised hackles and nods.

“Fine,” he says.

That catches her off guard. “…fine?” She repeats, her hands falling from their protective stance.

And all at once she looks small and lost and confused. The stars are gone from her vicinity, and she looks like she did that day Saw had dumped her on the threshold of the Alliance.

It cuts him right open, as it always does. Because Cassian loves her. He loves her like a freedom fighter loves the open blue sky, like a dying man loves the stars, and it’s their argument, their disagreements, the two of them that have pushed her back into that mindset.

Jyn is strong, so strong and wild, and so beautiful, and she carries a world of hurt and war on her back like they’re no weight to her at all,. But that also makes her vulnerable. And Cassian can see that she’s built this up in her head more than he has, that she’s hurting herself more than she needs to.

She’s afraid.

Afraid of Cassian.

And the realisation sobers him.

“We’re not done talking about this,” Cassian says, waving his hand between them. “Or about Draven. But I’ll give it one more try — your way. If you’ll play by my rules.”

He’d made the decision that she will not protect him, and he will not protect her. Not like this. Not by keeping secrets, nor by limiting her choices. It’s the courtesy he wants her to extend to him, so he will extend it now to her.

Jyn takes a step towards Cassian.

“What did you have in mind, Captain?”

No, Cassian has a sacrifice to make. He’ll have to make it for the survival of them both, but it’s an easy one. The easiest in the world.

Even as the space grows cold around him, he sees the star that brightens at her shoulder, and smiles.

And he’ll treasure this mission more for being their last together.

Chapter Text

The Head Acolyte is waiting for them.

Standing in the middle of his office, bathed in the pale light of the mid-morning sun, Runa Solis is standing with open arms, looking almost, if not entirely like he’s happy to see them. It’s the kind of joy that’s tempered with calculated regret, an emotion which Cthonall on his right does not share, and Miria Aran radiates enough for the both of them (and a minor army).

“Captain. Sergeant,” Solis greet them. “We were hoping you would join us. Thank you—“

He rushes forwards, white robes billowing out behind him like a vengeful god intent on his sacrifice. Before anyone can stop him, he’s grasped both Jyn’s hands and held them up as if they are precious, worthy of worship.

“Thank you for aiding our people today, Sergeant,” he says. “When we have neglected them ourselves.”

He bows his ageing head over her hands as if they were an altar, unable to see the flash of pain on Jyn’s face, so absorbed in his own play on faith, in his own idolatry, that he would never notice the hurt he’s causing the person in his grasp.

Cassian takes several steps forwards before he manages to control himself, school his expression.

He lets his hands fall demurely past his chest, fingers just gracing the comfort of his hidden blaster, and his eyes settle on Jyn’s.

They flash with annoyance and frustration, and he knows in an instant just how trapped she feels in this situation.

They shouldn’t have come here.

“If you say you’ve neglected your own people,” Cassian starts, calling the old man’s attention away from Jyn. “Does that mean the palace is willing to reconsider its policies?”

“Temple,” Cthonall corrects in the background.

“Ah, yes,” Solis says, free now to ignore the exchange. “I had the pleasure of reading your proposal in the week you were touring our planet, Captain. Your Alliance makes a hard bargain,” he adds to Jyn. “But I hope that now you’ve seen our peaceful world, you will be more eager to work with us.”

As he speaks he moves from her side to the desk, producing the file Cassian had offered him eight days ago and letting it fall to the wooden surface. He then places himself against the desk, leaning on it so the light from the window cascades around him, making his white robes almost glow.

“The palace here keeps talking about peace,” Jyn begins, her eyes flickering to Cassian’s briefly as the rest of the room starts to protest her wording.

Sharing in their own private joke at their expense.

And it’s a relief, to see that her energy has returned in spite of their argument. It settles like warmth in Cassian’s bones, her mischief.

“But,” Jyn continues, ignoring Aran and Cthonall, keeping her eyes level on Runa Solis. “What happened here today, to the boy Cassian saved and a dozen other people, proves your planet isn’t peaceful.”

“We recognise that, of course,” Solis rushes to say, bowing his head to her will like a subject to a queen.

And just when Cassian thinks he can’t get anymore subservient, he lifts his head, blue eyes flashing, like a snake in the sand, and they catch on the prize of this conversation.

“We’ve clearly been moved so far astray, become so divided in our approach to living together, that the Alliance’s guidance in righting our world would be nothing but welcome,” he says, taking a step forwards and extending his hand. Towards Jyn. “It would be our honour if you... and anyone else the Alliance deemed necessary, would join us here so we might learn and peace might be extended to us all.”

It’s chilling to watch. Cassian has served under imperial generals, he’s observed and participated in Alliance debates. He knows politicians. And usually he finds their games to be entertaining at best, infuriating at worst.

They play with people’s lives, their histories, their worlds, and sit back to watch the spoils of war be parted between their own realms and the ones of their enemies, as if the fate of the galaxy is nothing more than a chess game where the winner takes it all, incapable of ever being hurt by what they’re doing.

Solis is doing all that, but he has chosen Jyn as a prize piece, the queen he hopes to manoeuvre against all his enemies — a saint to tell his people how to live.

And for that he needs to tie her down, as he is attempting now, to bind her with obligation, with her own good intentions.

Blue threads slither out from thin air around the head acolyte and slowly weave their way through the air towards Jyn, trickling up her shoes to tie at her ankles.

“That,” Cassian says, taking a step forwards. “Won’t be necessary.”

As his foot settles on the ground, he reaches out with the force of his mind and pushes the pale, glowing traces of Solis’ influence away, shattering them upon impact, so a wind rises briefly to catch in Jyn’s hair.

“But we’re so pleased to hear you say you would welcome an Alliance delegation to your world,” he says, victory a vicious smile shared between him and Jyn. “If you would sign the agreement, we will fly out tomorrow to make the appropriate arrangement for trained overseers to join you as soon as possible.”

Jyn is laughing again.

As the door closes behind them to their room, Cassian lets a small smile pass his lips, and he doesn’t nudge her to be quiet or school her expression this time.

She’s been fighting it since they left the Head Acolyte’s office, and he’s too relieved to see her in a better mood to scold her for almost ruining the effect of their arguments by being terrible at containing her emotions.

“Did you see his face?” she snickers. “You might as well have told the man he needed to eat bantha shit. I think he aged ten years just from not being able to play you.”

She settles down on her own bed, stretching languidly like a cat.

There’s a tension, still, in her muscles. She’s holding herself like a fighter, keeping a light guard at all times, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands free to move in a chambering stance. And Cassian knows this isn’t about Solis and the atmosphere on Midas 5.

She doesn’t know where he stands yet, and so she’s relying on her own two feet, shielding herself from expected abandonment.

“Oh, he played me,” Cassian says, picking up his pad to check their newly acquired data is secure. “Whatever he might’ve expressed or signed, there’s little chance he’ll hold his end of the bargain. Especially when who he wanted is leaving tomorrow.”

Jyn makes a face at that.

“So, we’re still leaving?”

Cassian glances up to see her moving towards him, stars flickering at her shoulder. One winking out.

The thing is. In spite of everything, Cassian doesn’t want to leave. In that respect, Jyn is right. About this place, about how Cassian feels. He’s not blind to his own desires or his own sense of right and wrong, and if he’s honest with himself, her open advocacy of what he wants to do, but can’t, is making it more and more difficult not to ignore protocol.

And now that they’re almost in the clear, it’s more difficult not to be emboldened by the sense of security.

There are so many reasons to stay and light a fire.

“Cassian.”

A hand settles on his elbow, fingers hooking into the sleeve of his shirt, and Jyn brings his attention back to her. Her eyes are wide and solemn, bending at the edges with vulnerability. But there’s a stubborn shadow in the corners of her lips, and Cassian knows that in spite of their argument, she’s refusing to relinquish him.

“I’m sorry I lied,” she says, her voice heavy with a forthright earnesty. “But I meant it when I said I wasn’t judging you for following orders. Everything I think of you, that you’re kind and capable, intelligent and righteous, aren’t stories I’ve made up about you in my head. They’re things you’ve shown me. They’re things I can only see clearly because you’ve been willing to share them with me.

“And because of that I know you. I know who you are. I know you pride yourself in this fight and this mission against the empire, against what was. I believe in the future you see for everyone, and I know you desperately want to be a part of this fight, too.”

She’s speaking quickly, almost fretfully, with the kind of hopeless fear that makes it occur to Cassian that she expects him to be angry with her.

And maybe he should be. Maybe he should even be afraid of her. Cassian is a spy. He shouldn’t be perceived by anyone, he shouldn’t have let Jyn see him as clearly as she does — soulmate bond or no. It’s dangerous. It’s a liability. It puts his missions at risk, puts both their lives and the lives of many others in mortal peril.

And maybe he should be angry with her for presuming to think she understands him, understands his history and his loss, the war he inherited because there’d been nothing left, because everything else had been burnt to the ground for centuries.

She’d slept on silk sheets in Coruscant while he’d been infiltrating abandoned imperial bases to escape his destroyed planet.

That’s what this place was supposed to remind him of.

And yet, Cassian knows Jyn, too. He knows she’s the child of Saw Garrera, the daughter of war and carnage. He knows there is no princess or saint in her, only a broken freedom fighter, a desperate warrior longing for a home she’s never known or found.

Cassian knows that Jyn is the righteous one, that doing the right thing is all she’s ever known how to do, ever been taught to do—no matter the cost to herself or her bonds. 

To the point that she could never ignore a single person’s suffering for the bigger picture, could never sacrifice others for a mightier idea.

He knows that that is a blessing and a curse in itself, that it is as selfish and destructive as Cassian’s refusal to lose what he still holds in his power to keep.

And what she is doing now, even now, is refusing to relinquish him to the inhumanity of following orders, refusing to let him sacrifice his own self for something as shallow as the greater good.

Even if it means pushing their relationship to the point of shattering.

Maybe that’s what makes him want to listen to her in the first place.

“I’m not like you, Jyn,” he says, finally. “I’m a spy, an assassin. I can’t lead a revolution. I can’t inspire people the way you do.”

He can still see an entire hall erupting into celebrations for her eighteenth birthday. He can still see the cheeky teenager, who’d kicked Melshi over the edge of a sparring ring to a cheering and laughing crowd, the sun behind her as she’d smiled.

The Rebel Alliance had changed with Jyn around. Not even Leia had inspired that level of chaos. Not even Mon Mothma had been able to bring them together in spirit.

And now she’s staring at him with victory in her eyes again, bright and green, and shining like starlight. As if he’d followed her exactly where she wanted to take him.

“You think I’m inspirational?”

He gives her a disgruntled look, and she laughs even as she grasps his wrist with her injured hand, hold so strong on him that he knows he’ll never be able to shake her off.

“So let me inspire you, Cassian,” she says. “What is it you’re always saying about Rebellions?”

And just like that it clicks in him. As easy as it is staring into the bright green of Jyn’s eyes, the answer comes to him.

Hope.

She’d found hope in him.

Jyn has faith in Cassian, in what he is, in her belief in his abilities and his goodness. It gives her hope for the future, gives her a future to strive for even in the midst of war. And though she’d seen him almost give up on that here, citing the Alliance, the cause, she’d refused to let him lose it.

And, Cassian realises, he’d given her that hope when he’d come back. Even when he’d been angry with her, even when she’d expected him to leave, he’d come back for her. He hadn’t left her or dumped her like everyone else. Just like she’d done for him on Senkoku, Cassian had come back for her because it’s what they’ll always do for each other. And he’d proven to her a reality that was always natural to him.

Now she’s grinning up at him, waiting.

And seeing that, all of that, Cassian finally relaxes.

“Rebellions are built on hope,” he recites, the old words feeling new in his mouth.

“Rebellions are built on hope,” Jyn repeats, beaming now. “And hope isn’t certain. It isn’t fact. That’s why it’s a hope. It’s risking a fall, a fight without guarantee of success because the potential is worth it.

“And you say you’re a spy, so you can’t be a leader,” she continues, her smile falling to biting amusement as she relinquishes her hold on him and gently nudges his chest over his heart. “But you’re only seeing the surface - for once,” she adds, teasing him so Cassian laughs. “You know people, Cassian. You know how to get them to trust you, how to take advantage of their vulnerabilities, how to get them to change their minds. That might make you a good spy, but because you understand that rebellions are built on hope, it also makes you an excellent leader.”

Cassian could argue that she’s glossing over all the bad things he’s done that makes him incapable of being the glorified version she’s presenting here. But Jyn has seen him at his worst, with blood on his hands and violence in his veins. She’s seen him kill and deceive. She’s seen what war has done to him, has made him.

And she knows, like Cassian knows, that no person could be a leader in war or revolution without doing something violent or murderous for the sake of their cause.

There is no naïveté left in either Cassian or Jyn, and he had forgotten that fact, underestimated the clear-eyed look in her eyes.

She isn’t judging him. She isn’t telling a fairy tale of a hero she has grown blind to.

Jyn just trusts Cassian.

But Cassian hadn’t. He’d made Jyn a priority, fearing Solis would steal his family as much as Jyn had feared Draven would steal her home. Just like Jyn, he’d found an old man he considered more capable of taking what he cared for most, than the person he was supposed to care for in the first place. Just like Jyn he’d let the fear rule him. And just like Jyn had done to him, he’d hurt her and pushed her away in that fear.

They’d both let outsiders and their stories about them get in the way of their partnership and pollute their bond. Jyn had just been faster to see that the way to fight it wouldn’t be running away, but to face it. She’d chosen rebellion, as she always does, not to enforce her truth upon them both, but because she’d wanted the two of them to be free of the stories others told about them.

Cassian had just been slower. He’d forgotten that prioritising Jyn means prioritising rebellion.

And he’d forgotten that the reason he loved her in the first place was because she was like this. Wild and feral and free. The very spirit of rebellion.

“Okay,” he says, at last. And finds the smile comes without prompting.

She blinks at him, her eyes wide and bright. “Okay?”

Stars are already emerging from the horizon of her shoulders, rising in the hundreds to give away the overwhelming power of her emotions and attachment.

“But you realise this means we can’t just go home and sleep.”

Which has her laughing with real joy.

She lifts her arms to hug him, but stops midway there. The laughter dies on her lips, and her green eyes waver, stars pausing in their track.

And Cassian relents one last time, falling into her and pulling her achingly close.

“You weren’t right to tell Draven,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers over her hair and keeping his voice soft. Careful. So careful. “But we’ll figure it out when we get home.”

It occurs to Cassian that maybe a part of him is relenting to her simply because he still believes it’s better this is their last mission together, but as Jyn relaxes against him and presses her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in and nodding, he can’t bring himself to care.

Cassian just gathers her closer, enjoying the warmth that reignites between them.

He’s had this plan in his head for days.

Maybe since their arrival on Midas 5. It’s been sitting there, at the back of his head since they met the Mithra family and now that he’s stopped ignoring it, Cassian finds it’s a perfect plan — so perfect it comes rushing out of him in a matter of minutes and doesn’t need a single correction or input from Jyn.

Other than, of course: “see! The solution was theft all along!”

“Very funny,” he murmurs, quirking a smile.

Jyn grins, preening.

When he produces the little 3D printer he keeps with him in his pack, she comes closer to have a look at the settings, ‘oooh’s and starts laughing again.

“Now you’re making it too easy, Captain.”

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as all that.

“Ha!”

Jyn smashes her foot into the stomach of the last guard to have materialised out of the karking wall like some sort of living phantom, and watches as the force of the blow carries him all the way to the small pile she’d launched at a closet.

She slams the door shut on his still wide, unseeing eyes with some satisfaction and locks it.

The security room is blissfully empty and she plans to keep it that way.

“Jyn?”

Her comm hisses not for the first time, and she produces it with a little huff.

For someone who’s mad at her protectiveness of him, Cassian sure can fuss.

“Everything clear,” she reports, keeping her tone level. “And don’t worry, this door is sealed, no one heard us.”

“That’s not what I—“

He exhales in exasperation and she can almost see him pulling back his hair from his face. “Good.”

Jyn smiles.

Protectiveness.

It’s an odd word.

It can mean so many different things. Her parents had protected her by locking her in a bunker against her will. Saw had protected her by handing her over to the alliance without asking for her consent. Draven is protecting the Alliance by being a controlling dickhead.

She’d done the same to Cassian.

And she’d expected Cassian to do what she would’ve done in his position. Walked away. Denounced her. Left her behind. And yet, he hadn’t.

Cassian cares enough not to drop someone on the floor because they made a mistake. Cassian cares enough about Jyn that even if she puts her foot in her mouth and hurts him, even if she betrays him or hands over his very soul to Draven, he refuses to let it be the end of their partnership.

He’d come back for her. In more ways than one. He’d refused to lose her.

And Jyn loves him just a little more for it.

The blue screen in front of her flickers to gold, scanning the contact lens she’s already wearing with the Head Acolyte’s ID imprinted on it.

So Jyn is going to do her best not to be like her parents, not to be like Saw or Draven or any of the others. She’s going to grow beyond what they taught her, and change into someone who won’t lose the people she loves, but won’t hold them back or hurt them either.

And the reward will be one more moment of their company, one more shared smile. One more step she gets to take beside Cassian.

“I’m in,” she announces. “Get moving.”

Jyn makes everything easy.

Well, she makes most things easy.

They’d used the sham of a meeting with Solis to steal his signature, his finger print and to scan his eye (it’d been easy, using the data pad as a replacement for physical documents), and with those tools in her slicing arsenal, Cassian’s partner is basically a goddess.

In a matter of moments, she can turn him into a ghost, make him invisible to cameras, alarms, or guards. She can open gates for him that would otherwise remain unlocked, or grant him access to the most dangerous areas of any planet.

“Just be careful with your steps,” she warns through the comm, as the gate to the border passage swings open on well-oiled hinges. “I can replace what they see through the helmets, but I can’t control their ears.”

“Technology has a long way to go,” Cassian murmurs, ignoring the thought that she’d be truly terrifying if she could control other people’s hearing.

Jyn exhales something between a scoff and a laugh. “If you can’t handle this much, you’re in the wrong profession.”

“You’re right,” Cassian murmurs.

He grasps the khyber crystal still hanging from around his neck, and closes his eyes. It burns through his gloves to his fingers, the trace of Jyn, and he reaches out for their connection. It flickers, warm and steadfast, untarnished by everything that’s happened between them.

When he touches it, it burns through him like the flame of a star, and when Cassian throws his eyes open, its light turns the world to darkness, to empty space.

He can still see the passage ahead, but it’s become monochrome, as a hall lit up only by emergency lights. Contours are drawn in white lines, and stars dance in the emptiness.

The soldiers on patrol never notice him, and Cassian slips into the closed off quarter unhindered.

As he moves through the shadows, Jyn murmurs in his ear, reporting her progress and talking to herself or the code. Her complaints or small whispers of victory are a familiar presence from many other missions, something Cassian finds he’s been missing this past week on Midas 5.

“Nasty surprise for our hosts, installed,” she announces gleefully, as Cassian makes it out of the city centre. “And I’ve transferred controls of the security system to my data pad. I’m off to mess with Solis’ ocffice. Going radio silent in twenty.”

Cassian feels a pang at letting her go, at letting her walk into the lion’s den on her own. It’s jarring, knowing she can take care of herself, and still not trusting the people here not to hurt her.

But he shakes himself, forcing his promise to the forefront of his mind that he will not protect her and he will not hold her back, and murmurs “good luck.”

“Don’t need it,” comes the cheeky response.

Which has Cassian smiling in spite of himself. Jyn might not be a brilliant spy, but she is an excellent thief. And she’s putting those skills to good use now. He just has to trust her.

Maybe he should’ve trusted her from the start.

It’s scary, sometimes, how similarly they think. In the end, he’d always agreed with her on how to handle this mission. It would’ve been easier to just steal the documents from the get go and push things from the moment they got to Midas 5. And while Cassian knows the diplomatic angle, and the requirements of gaining the trust of the people would’ve demanded they bide their time either way, the point still stands that fundamentally they both instinctively resort to the same solutions to their problems. They still rely on the others’ techniques and skillsets to form a plan like it’s second nature, as if the other’s expertise has become a natural extension of their own assets.

And maybe Cassian shouldn’t be surprised, being bound like they are, having lived and worked together for as long as they have. And maybe he isn’t. But it scares him.

He wonders if he could even complete a mission without her anymore. 

He’s going to have to find a way.

But he wishes so dearly that the galaxy was kinder, that the Alliance was a more secure, trustworthy institution, so he could be more like Jyn. So they could live wild and free, without having to consider protocol or consequences or their own safety. So Cassian wouldn’t have to lose so much of himself in the rules of the Alliance.

But he can’t. He made that sacrifice willingly, with clear eyes, a long time ago. So he wouldn’t lose anymore.

He won’t be blinded by wishes or wistful thinking now.

When he gets to the Mithras’ household, they let him in with some surprise and concern, and he has to reassure him that Qays is quite safe and the boy is not the reason for his visit — well, not entirely. It takes some negotiation to get them to listen to why he’s there, to give him a chance to communicate with the other leaders, and in the end it’s Ava placing a hand on her husband’s arm, her eyes like fire, and insisting that gets him the audience he needs.

While Karim pulls his hand through his hair and vanishes upstairs, Cassian turns to Ava to thank her. But she just shakes her head.

“I trust you,” she says simply. “And I trust Jyn. What you’ve already done here for us has got people talking in a way I’ve… never heard before. Not so openly. It’s now or never.”

There is no warmth in her tone, only the harshness of a woman determined, and for a moment she reminds him of a much older woman, one whose hair stood up on all ends, who watched her world with the same steadfast determination.

What Cassian knows is this: people can only be held down for so long before they will push back against oppression, they can only watch their loved ones suffer in imprisonment for so long before they start to rip open the cages. And Ava has reached that point long ago.

Now she’s finally ready to cross the boundary.

So he simply nods, and follows her up the stairs.

The argument is already in full blaze when Ava pushes the door open.

The blinds are pulled down, and the room is flooded with cyan lights from a dozen holograms all placed in a circle. Cassian has the sneaking suspicion from the audio tracks that the places each person represents is filled with people. It’s loud and scratchy, like a blast of anger that takes his breath away.

“….not even an outsider or a settler. They’re off-worlders, too!”

“They’re with the Alliance!”

“And that makes them trustworthy? You might not be living in Ceres, but we know they’ve been wining and dining at the temple. How could we trust them?”

There are yells of approval of that and a muttered “The war outside isn’t any of our business, anyway” which brings more yelling.

This isn’t anything new, of course. He’s been to places on recruitment missions where people have no interest in working with the Alliance, for one reason or another. The angry denial of help is even justified, he’d say, since there’s no seeming connection to the Empire and he and Jyn are just forcing revolution on them.

It’s grounding, in that sense, listening to them. Listening to the ones who are against what they’re advocating, those who are scared, and to those who are willing to listen. A young man is pushed aside by an older woman Cassian recognises, one of the elders they’d met on their journey across Midas 5, one who speaks their case calmly to a quiet room, like a grandmother talking sense.

And Cassian is once again reminded of Maeve and her stubborn, fierce refusal to bend to anything.

She would’ve laughed at him if he’d ever broached the word leadership with her, because the Cassian she’d known would never consider something so high minded or idealistic. And he’s still that Cassian, in a sense; until the word had crossed his lips, he hadn’t even considered it a possibility. He hadn’t even meant to say it, but it’d sprung from a moment of emotion, of frustration, and self-reproach during another-another argument with Jyn.

Cassian has always been the spy, the saboteur, the thief. He prefers hiding in the shadows and going about his work quietly. He’s never considered political action to be any more than a pretty trick of illusions, one that serves as an excellent distraction to the Empire so he can go about his work unnoticed, but is otherwise useless.

“Cassian.”

Jyn’s voice draws him back out of himself, a single call that pushes him forwards into action.

The room fills with more people from the quarter, but Cassian puts the comm to his ear and listens to her quiet report about what she’s found. When she’s done, he nods to Karim.

And as he begins to speak, he realises he’d forgotten that leadership isn’t just politer ship, isn’t just an elitist performance for money. It’s a different type of recruitment. 

“You say we’re off-worlders and outsiders,” he begins. “Meddling in your lives with selfish intentions. But we’re not here to start a war, or even bring our war to your front. You’re already at war, a different type of war than the one we fight, a more hidden one. One that exists in your legislation and your food security, in your very right to your own land.”

He pauses to plug in the comm, hiding the smile in the shadow of his face when he catches several people nodding.

“Your world is your responsibility. The amount of freedom you fight for is up to you,” he says. “We’re simply here to serve as informants that might enable you to make educated decisions. Since your temple claims you live in a democracy, that seems only fair.”

There’s a little bit of a younger Cassian in that, a little bit of Jyn in the bite to his words. Viciousness returning from a bound and bridled place. And he almost grins, almost. Because Cassian knows when he’s pushing his luck, and right now he can’t afford to dump too much firewood on the spark.

Jyn’s hologram flickers on at the centre of the circle, her back to him. She’s leaning forwards as she does when she’s facing a screen, her hands still moving across invisible keys. Then she nods with satisfaction and straightens her back, introducing herself and explaining briefly where she is and what she’s done.

To the shock of everyone present.

“There’s more than I was expecting,” she says, turning partially to Cassian. “This place—“

Then she shakes her head and focuses. “I’ll pick some random examples: You must already know this because most of you work with agriculture,” she says. “But the general propaganda that all the food on this planet is organic and biodiverse is a massive lie. The land is separated between the organic and the polluted. The polluted food is sold to the indigenous population here on Midas 5 and used for charity projects around the galaxy, while the organic food is sold to the highest bidder. Which includes merchants from Coruscant.”

“Yes-yes,” a broad man snaps, waving his hand irritably. “But it’s been like that for decades and has causeded us no true harm.”

She catches Cassian’s gaze meaningfully, and he nods for her to continue.

“No true harm?” her smile is vicious, even when Cassian can’t see it. “Pesticides. PFOS. PFAS. Even agent orange. And a whole other list of chemicals have been added to your water supply and your fields. Deliberately. What did you think all the fire drills were for? Those chemicals cause permanent organ and nerve damage, migraines, asthma, failed births, and they never leave your body. They just build up until they’re start making themselves painfully felt.”

There’s muttering at that, shock, recognition of personal experiences. Anger begins to show in the faces of some, and those opposed hesitate to speak up. Jyn has the room, and she’s deliberately building the tension.

“Oh, no wait,” she says, leaning forwards to check her data so theatrically Cassian almost rolls his eyes. “There’s one way they leave the body. Through child birth and breastfeeding.”

Several of the women in the room start at that fact, the men freezing in place. And quiet descends upon the crowd. Not the type of deadly silence that comes with a shock. No, there’s a quiet murmur now of real significance. The kind that arrives when we force our choices on those without a choice, and realise that it’s not a lie we can continue living.

For their sake.

One thing is eating low quality food, believing it to have little effect or trading the consequences for survival. Another is bringing a loved one into the world, who hadn’t needed to suffer those pains, already poisoned.

Cassian sighs and listens to the conversation, the rising distress turning to rage. Midas 5 was never an option as an agricultural partner for the Alliance. He should’ve seen that. Even if the people here do the right thing and fight back, the supply will still be polluted, and what isn’t will be used to feed the indigenous population while they clean the rest of their planet.

They have nothing to gain here anymore. It is just another fight.

The realisation is calming, lifts a burden from Cassian’s shoulders he didn’t realise he’d carried around.

Finally, a woman, one of the ones from the quarter, steps forwards. Her eyes are red from lack of sleep, and she’s wearing several more layers than some of the others because her clothes are worn paper-thin.

“You’re the one who saved my son, Qays, and the others, aren’t you?”

Jyn hesitates, her foot sliding back in a subtle guard. “I wouldn’t say ‘saved’.”

But a hush has already fallen over the crowd.

“You sound like them,” the woman continues, her eyes bright with curiosity. “And I’ve already heard them talk about you. Why are you helping us?”

Jyn hesitates, looking at Cassian for confirmation. When he nods she takes a deep breath and returns to face them.

“You’re right,” she says. “I’m from Coruscant. I wasn’t born there, but my parents were. I barely remember the place but it still shapes my thinking sometimes. I’ll always be the daughter of an imperial officer and a Jedi, and I’ll always remember beds raised so high in the air all I could see from my window in the morning was the sun rising above the clouds.

“I know what we’re doing is pushing you beyond what you might feel ready for, and maybe that’s crossing a line, but I believe you have a right to your planet back, your sovereignty back. If I can be a tool in your arsenal to regain that, then that’s something I’m— we,” she corrects, her head flying round to smile at Cassian, “are willing to do. And no matter what, our enemy is the same.”

It’s a moment of brightness, the pause in her words, the glow of faith in her eyes, in her smile, so clear even when she’s nothing more than a hologram. It pauses everything. And in a different place, in an unkinder universe, in a space where there was less time and Jyn was actually here to make that speech, Cassian would’ve leant forwards to kiss her, uncaring of the crowd in front of them.

Now he simply nods to show his pride in her, and watches as she completes her report upon prompting from that very crowd.

“What I mean is,” she says, leaning forwards to fiddle with the computer. “I found reports since before the founding of the Empire of the people the temple marks as ‘Dark Side Leaning’ being transported to Mustafa. Then later large concentrations of your population got shipped off to camps like the ones on Wobani. Children with no marked destination go at a higher price.”

This time the silence is deafening.

The people going missing, the prison camps they hadn’t been allowed to enter, the whispers and warnings. Don’t go out alone. They’d all been for this. It’s not uncommon. The Empire has countless work-camps, so many Cassian catches a new name on the Alliance’s list every other day. They let the local population use any excuse to ostracise and incarcerate, and look the other way when independent private prisons or government sex-slave camps pop up.

And though Jyn had warned Cassian before the meeting began, the people present had had no such courtesy.

A woman beside Ava loses her footing, but Ava is quick to catch her.

“They’re…” someone whispers. “They’re selling our children?”

Jyn shakes her head. “Not for credits,” she says, her voice dark, the hologram flickering. “There’s a treaty here. They’re selling your children for peace.”

The last word she spits out with more contempt than Saw saying Intelligence.

And she doesn’t need to say a word more, doesn’t need to give them a single fact more for the puzzle to be complete. The indigenous population of Midas 5 have lived this life, has heard the same lies, long enough, attentively enough, to be able to see the full picture on their own.

The reason the Empire had left them alone had had nothing to do with good fortune or the Force protecting them. It had all been a deliberate act at the cost of the people who belonged to this world committed by its settlers in collusion with the Empire. Just another section to their elaborate and convoluted strategy of genocide.

The room explodes. In rage. In disbelief. In denial. In helplessness. Cassian catches Karim’s eye through the crowd of people and holograms, letting the noise drown out any words he might’ve wanted to say, and sees that the other man has finally let go of his hold on the lies of the temple.

Cassian isn’t a parent, but he understands this: if all you do to try and protect the people you love does not work, only makes things work, you can either cling to that glorified control. Or you can let go and do right by the people you care about and change.

Now, he watches as something raw tears across Karim’s face, recognising it for what it is: the same guilt that had nearly torn Jyn apart. And though he can’t hear it across the crowd, Cassian sees the way Karim turns, touches Ava’s arm, and apologises.

She rolls her eyes and grasps his shoulder with much more force, and the softness falls away.

When she catches Cassian’s attention, she tilts her head demandingly, and he nods.

Calming the room isn’t easy, but he’s learnt some strategies over the years from observing Mothma and Merrick, and when he finally has their attention, only an old man seems intent on clinging to what was.

“You don’t seem to understand, Alliance,” he says to Cassian, so old his voice trembles from experience. “We’ve been here before. We’ve been grasped by fury and entitlement, and every time it has led to a new purge of our people. I was there, I remember. It was like throwing stones at a missile.”

That seems to catch the anxiety of the entire room.

“How would we even get weapons?”

“What about security? We can’t bypass the border system, much less get through to the temple.”

“That,” Cassian says, “is where we come in. As Jyn mentioned, she’s currently in full control of the entire system of Midas 5. She’ll open any and all doors for you, whether it be to the temple’s weaponry, or closing down the security system.”

“I can even lock down their guards’ suits from here,” Jyn adds, grinning. “And I have global access.”

“This is your chance,” Cassian says, stepping up beside his partner. “Jyn and I are leaving tomorrow, and we won’t be returning. But if you let us, we’ll be your weapon, your key to victory. We’re your allies if you decide to do something about this, if you decide to take your world back, and we’ll help you make this so much easier than it usually is.

“You’ll be walking straight into their house without anyone stopping you.”

He pauses. Watching. Waiting. Most are standing straight, at attention, with fire in their eyes, the opportunity recognised for the golden one that it is. But when he sees some of the same old men hesitating, considering how to continue the argument they’d presented out of fear before, Cassian doesn’t hesitate to address them.

“I’ve been through a purge, too,” he says, keeping his voice low now that he has their full attention. “I lost my family. I lost my world. I’ve seen refugees from a thousand different planets with the same history as mine. If you think you’re safe here, you’re wrong. If you think this won’t be your history eventually, too, you’re wrong. But you still have a chance here, an opportunity to fight back. And you have the advantage right now, in this moment.

“This is your world,” he adds, his hands falling to his side so he stands as he is, more honest than he has felt in years. “Don’t let someone else steal it or destroy it.”

No. It’s not that Cassian wants to be a leader. He doesn’t want to tell others what to do, doesn’t want to take the choice away from them. But he does believe in inspiration. And looking around, he finds he does believe in hope.

Rebellions are built on hope, he’d said.

And as he speaks, as he watches the change in their faces, he realises that maybe, just maybe, the reason he could make a good leader and not just a spy, is because he isn’t the infallible hero or the golden politician. Maybe the reason he could make a good leader in rebellion like this is because he has lived the same life as everyone else, has fought just as hard for himself and the people he loves.

Maybe that makes the hope he can present with Jyn so much more worth having faith in, so much more worth listening to.

But the thought, the idea of any future dies on his lips as he turns to smile at Jyn, to share the moment with her.

And watches as something hits her over the back of the head.

She tumbles forwards, and for a moment, a single clear moment, Cassian isn’t standing in the Mithras’ household anymore. He’s standing in blackness, watching Jyn fall, her eyes wide.

The hologram goes out.

The stars fade.

And Cassian stands alone in a crowd, listening to the silence of a connection severed.

Chapter Text

Jyn remembers the day Cassian gave her her lullaby pill.

She’d been seventeen.

He’d sat down across from her in the training hall, looking almost sick when he’d asked her to hold out her hand.

“What’s this?” She’d asked, holding up the little pill box to study it in the light.

“Standard issue for intelligence officers,” he says. “Normally they’re issued with your uniform and you keep it here,” he places his hand over his heart. “But I thought… given I was the one who asked you to enter this department, it was only right to—“

He’d stopped abruptly. Looked away and sworn in Festian, something raw and guilty crossing his face.

The dark green shirt is matted with sweat, and his hair is stuck to his face from another workout where she’d beaten him mercilessly. They’d been partnered officially for three weeks and every day he’d insisted on this, with that same raw desperation on his face.

Like he was trying to prove something.

“It’s a suicide pill, isn’t it?” 

Now that desperation is back on his face again, and she understands what it is. It’s the recognition that he’s asking her to risk her life by his side and admitting he can’t promise her survival.

“Yes.”

“Thanks,” she says, pocketing it. “But I’ll never put myself in a situation where that’ll be necessary.”

It’s the smile she thinks about now, that quirk of quiet humour like he can’t decide if she’s being naively optimistic or downright impressive.

It’s the gratitude that’s shone out of his eyes, Jyn thinks about as she wakes.

It’s another lie she’d told him, she realises as she feels the cool metal — cuffs around her wrists.

Jyn keeps her eyes closed and pays attention to her surroundings. She’s sitting up in a chair, the cool air of the room giving nothing away as to her location. No open doors or windows, then.

But she can hear the shuffling of people somewhere behind her. The faint clicking of keys on a keyboard.

And she recognises the voices of Runa Solis and Killaeon Cthonall.

“…must’ve set the comm to self-destruct upon capture, somehow,” Cthonall says. “So we can’t track the other instigators.”

“What about the security breech?”
“All covered,” comes the reply. “They’re good, but we caught her red-handed so her infiltration is easy to spot. We shouldn’t have let a terrorist into our midst.”
“Perhaps not,” Solis agrees, his voice a pensive hum. “But the prize we have gained tonight is worth that cost. Especially since he was able to steal nothing of value from us and will soon be returned to the Force, as it should be.”
Son of a—

Jyn keeps her face carefully impassive, but rage burns in her chest as she listens to their insults. She wants to kill them, wants to burn their precious temple to the ground and make them watch as she returns all they’d stolen.

Shatters their world and their power on the ground.

For what they’d just said about Cassian.

But she doesn’t show it, keeps her face under control. Calms her breathing. There’s nothing to give her away and she intends to keep it that way until they leave or move her to a more isolated location.

Not until she hears Runa Solis step around her, and a blue light flashes across her face, burning in her eyes like a small sun.

And she winces.

“Ah, Ms Erso,” he says, smiling down at her in his white robes. “So good of you to join us.”

Jyn freezes where she sits.

“How’d you know?”

“Oh, your temper gave you away, of course,” he says, pressing a few keys with a flourish. Almost disinterested in their conversation. “Nothing is hidden in the Force.”

Ice is running down her spine at the name he’d uttered so carelessly, the name she hasn’t heard cross the lips of anyone in almost five years. Anyone except Cassian. Cassian who keeps her secrets. Cassian who would never hold it against her.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she hisses, her mouth twisting into a snarl.

The Head Acolyte glances at her over the edge of his data pad, calculated before his expression morphs into something more patient, compassionate.

“Oh, Jyn, of course we know who you are,” he says, sliding the data pad onto a shelf. “Your mother visited us too often for me not to recognise her in you. She shone so magnificently, too.”

He comes closer, then, to kneel before her. His white robes fly up as he kneels before her, disgusting old man with his greedy blue eyes on her, and his hand on her cheek.

Just another self-righteous son of a bitch. Lackey of the Empire thinking he has all the right to her life and the lives of others. To lie and control and name it in his own ideal morality so he can keep going on thinking all who disagree with him, whose existence disagrees with him, are evil.

Jyn has to control herself not to twist and bite his finger off. 

“We would never ask you to keep your identity a secret like that,” he says, voice soft as rotten meat. “To deny you your right to live a life worthy of your heritage. The one your mother left you.”

It’s not just his words that makes her want to recoil, makes her want to pull back and kick him in the shin for good measure. It’s not just the mention of her mother to her face, misused and stolen from her grasp to turn Lyra against her. It’s the slither of cold against her skin, the trail of white and blue strings that slowly grasp her body and bind her.

But Jyn knows self control. Cassian had taught her self-control. And so she doesn’t wiggle in the spider’s net.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She should be thinking about a plan. She should be thinking about where Cassian is and how to get back to him. She should be thinking about how to get away. But Jyn is too angry to think ahead, her emotions, the force of restraining her urge to do something violent, taking up the space at the back of her head where she should be strategising.

There’s a monster sitting on her shoulder again, its claws digging into her skin. It swishes its tail. Waiting. Waiting.

“How much of your history have Andor and his so called Alliance kept from you?” Solis is asking, tilting his head as if he’s looking at a pitiful child. “Did they keep your origin from you as well as your name?”

He doesn’t wait for her before he continues. “Your mother was an exceptional Jedi, a master if ever I met one,” he says. “For that the separatists trapped her on one of their more secure planets and used Galen Erso to tarnish her, break her celibacy and in doing so her commitment to the Force.”

It’s almost too much. The completely ridiculous idea that somehow a woman’s body is only holy if it is pure of sex. Or the claim that—

“Are you…”

Jyn stares at him, her eyes blown wide from the shock of his conviction, so absolutely far across the line as he could possibly get.

“Are you actually claiming my parents—“

She can’t get the words out. Even now, when her father is such scum to be working with the Empire. Even now when she has pushed the Erso name as far from her life as she possibly can without taking another. Even now when she has left its threat to her life, its curse, so far behind. She doesn’t want to be the one to articulate something so disgustingly insulting to her and her parents.

The monster at her back weaves its claw under Solis’ strings and begins to snap them. 

They shatter like ice, stars dancing in the air, but Solis never notices.

Instead he lifts his blue eyes, bending them almost inhumanely to portray all of his self-absorbed sorrow for her.

“I’m so sorry, Jyn,” he says. “I’m sure this must all be a shock for you. I’m sure it must be difficult to believe. I don’t know what lies the Alliance have told you about the Separatists, but I can assure you, they were no heroes. And Captain Andor is no exception to this, to that part of his own heritage, not when he is clearly using your bond to work his way towards committing the same crimes your father was forced to commit.”

Something clicks.

Something beyond her disgust and her rage. Something that pushes her out of herself, out of her emotions, so she can see him clearly.

This pathetic old man with his pathetic lies.

Jyn starts laughing.

And Solis’ face shatters with theatric concern in response to her laughter. “Oh, I am so sorry, my dear. We would never attempt to hurt you with the truth,” he says. “But you need to stay calm in the Force, even when those you’ve attached yourself to have been hurt or hurt you, so you can let them go. Don’t concern yourself with it, we will make it easy for you if you stay. You’ll be safe,” he adds, brushing his hand over her hair. “We’ll protect you and help train you, teach you how to use your powers the right way — like a Jedi. Like you were always supposed to.”

How stupid.

She can’t believe she looked her bond up in books all those years ago. She can’t believe she went to the thoughts of old dead men, who don’t know a thing about her or Cassian, asking them to tell her how to view the world, to control her mindset and define her bond, her soul, her heart.

She can’t believe another one of them is trying to do just that.

No, now, looking into Solis’ face, confronted with all his lies, Jyn realises properly what she has always known.

Jyn trusts herself and her truths. 

She trusts Saw. For all that he left her with the Alliance, he is still the one in her family she considers as such. And she trusts him as a source. His memory, his regret. What he had told her, his daughter, of the clone wars, the separatists, that he’d been too proud to tell anyone else.

She trusts Cassian. His memory, his ideals that stem from that honourable struggle. His righteous, righteous worldview. Even when it moves him to blood.

These are men she loves, her family.

These are men she trusts as sources.

These are men who have empowered her to stand on her own two feet and view the world, the universe, with clear eyes.

Men who make Solis’ attempt at re-defining her own history and gaslight her into his puppet pathetic at best, insulting in general, and violence inducing at worst.

This pathetic man who thinks he can turn her into a hostage — again.

“We need you, Jyn,” Solis continues, uncaring that she has yet to truly respond to anything he’s said. Satisfied by the fact that he can impart his truths upon her body. “You are already a beacon of hope to the people here. You’ve saved them. And we need you to help us guide them down the right path, when they are so quick to otherwise stray into the darkness.”

She wonders how long she could stay silent and he would keep talking, wonders if she could make him talk all through the night until Cassian showed up. But Jyn is not a damsel to be rescued. And Jyn is sick of staying silent.

She scoffs. 

“No,” she says, nearly snarls.

The monster at her shoulder spreads its wings and bares its teeth.

And Solis recoils so furiously, he’s on his feet in a moment, the entire illusion of his soft grandfather-like leadership shattered at the perceived insult.

Before he can start speaking again, she continues.

“I am so sick of you people and your fairy tales. You speak of your world and other people, and because it came from you you believe it to be true, even natural, beyond human capacity to be wrong or fallible,” she says, enunciating every word with the kind of relish that comes with speaking the ugly truth to a power that will not listen except to be enraged. “But the people here, the people who belong to this world, you will never know or be able to name. You can’t know, just like I can’t know.

“But the difference between you and I,” she says, calming, leaning back into her chair and waiting. “Do you know what it is? It is that I would rather listen to Ava and Karim and all the others here. I would rather listen to Cassian!”

And Jyn feels it, the strength that comes with that, carries her forwards so she holds herself more upright. It’s a pure truth, one that brings her real joy, brings colour back into the world. She had listened to Saw and she had listened to Cassian, to the other rebels, to Ava and Karim, and she had never felt smothered or silenced or pushed to the side in doing so. She had felt part of something that would grow, a world that would flourish if given the right amount of sunshine, if it weren’t trampled. One that wouldn’t trample every flower it deemed a weed for the sake of an image of a garden that could never be when the universe is so much more than what can be catalogued.

They had shared that with her and she can’t speak their truths for them, but she can barrel ahead and protect them from those that would silence them so their voices can be heard.

She can destroy men like Solis, who would do nothing more than strangle her too, now that he has seen her soul truly bared.

“I won’t be your tool,” she says, brightly, joyfully, as his face becomes more ugly with hatred and disgust. Warmly as he fills the room with cold. “I won’t allow you to control these people anymore. I am not a fairy tale. I am not chosen by some sentient universe.”

Runa Solis looks down at her with the harsh judgement of the brightest light, the unforgiving cold of a star that doesn’t know life. His blue eyes glitter with contempt and as he stands in the open door, the shadows fall on his face.

“I see we have lost you,” he says simply. “And there is no getting you back from the darkness. But never mind. We will prove you wrong, if nothing else, then practically,” he adds, brightening somewhat. “For you are chosen by someone, and that someone will be our salvation here on Midas 5.”

Someone.

He’d said that before.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

But Solis circles her, leaving her behind in silence.

And she twists her torso to follow him.

“Hey!”

There’s rummaging behind her, the murmur of voices, the click of a data pad being plugged into a portal.

Jyn sneers and turns back to the light of the open door. Waiting.

If she could just pick the lock on her cuffs, she could get away easily.

She turns in her seat to take in the rest of the room, and sneers at the guards all around her, silent in their white robes. She could take them if her hands were free, snap them easily, but they would overpower her while she were busy getting free of her cuffs.

Shavit.

She murmurs a Festian curse under her breath.

Just when she’s about to lose her temper, Killaeon Cthonall steps into her line of vision, his grey eyes full of that cool, detached amusement she has seen in so many imps before.

His face is smooth, his black hair sitting perfectly, as does his blue jacket. There’s an inhuman quality to him, like he has white gloves instead of hands. The type of calculated perfection she associates with someone who enjoys coming up with new creative torture methods. 

“Did you know your father is looking for you, Ms Erso?”

His voice is smooth, casual, as if he’s asking her about the weather. But the words knock the breath out of her.

Ice cracks at her feet. It grows quickly, encaging her legs and freezing her to the spot. And Jyn feels it, for the first time in years, the growing darkness at the back of her head, climbing out of the cave of all her bad memories. The cave a boy in a yellow tunic had pulled her from, saved her from.

But his presence is gone. Gone like everyone else. Vanished on the wind like the whispers of a ghost.

And Jyn stares up at Cthonall in disbelief, in fear, trapped by the force of his words.

“What?”

“Your father, Galen Erso,” he enunciates. “And his partner, the director of the Empire’s Weapon’s Development, Orson Krennick.”

Krennick.

It’s a whisper in the back of her mind, a word she hasn’t heard since she were a child. Her mother’s complaints to her father, one day when the sun was setting over the horizon in a flat far above the ground.

Black vines crash out from the darkness and slam the monster at her back into nothingness. The white sparks dance in the air around her as the darkness grasps her around the throat.

Lyra falls in the grass on a dreary day, her body vanishing from Jyn’s sight forever.

The man in white stalks past her on a dance floor, his face hard, his eyes unseeing.

Krennick.

The ice cracks around her stomach, hampering her breathing, her movement, so Jyn sits stock still in front of Cthonall.

Galen Erso is not my father.

“Like any good parent,” Cthonall continues, watching her keenly. “Erso has been looking for you for years. Searching for his kidnapped daughter. And like any good friend Director Krennick has been helping him, scouring the galaxy for traces of a child gone astray.”

“As you are not interested in the ways of the Force,” Solis continues behind her, another shadow falling over her body. “The best we can do for you would be to reunite you with your father. It would benefit not just you, or him, or yourself, but also our peace here on Midas 5.”

No.

The ice climbs to her chest, catching in her heart. Smothering her along with the darkness.

No.

Galen Erso is not my father.

I don’t want to be a hostage again.

Cassian.

“With what the Director is working on,” Solis continues. “With what is to come, it would be prudent to seek the favour of such men. Especially with Alliance filth snooping around and disturbing our peace, the safety of our citizens. The light here on Midas 5.”

It’s rage that saves her then.

How dare he. How dare he speak of the Alliance that way. Of Cassian that way. Her home. Her family. The people who took her in, selflessly. The people who taught her how to care and be cared for, how to be soft and how to protect — in the right way. The people who taught her there is more to life than fighting, that the fight only means something if there are people to fight for.

Warmth slams into her from behind Cthonall, eradicating the cold and the dark so she can breathe, so she can lift her head to smile at Cthonall.

How easy it suddenly is to smile, to breathe.

“You forget one thing,” she says, brightly.

She could almost laugh with it.

“What?”

“I’m just the distraction.” She grins. “The brightest lights share the world with the darkest shadows, and while you were blinded by your obsession with me, you lost sight of Cassian and the others.”

Cassian doesn’t give Cthonall time to be shocked.

Red light pierces him right through the forehead, leaving a smoking hole as gaping wide as his now unseeing eyes.

A sharp shadow stands in the door behind him, encasing his body as he falls, and Cassian stands in the wake of that fall, cosmos in the folds of his coat. Looking murderous.

Chaos erupts, then.

The security forces in the room surge forwards like one, and behind her Solis starts screeching words Jyn can’t be bothered to hear or interpret.

Cassian ducks two shots, falls to his knees to knock over one assailant and uses his shoulder to ensure the falling body gets in the way of several more guards.

Jyn is already on her feet as well, kicking the chair into the way of someone else charging at Cassian.

She holds up her still bound wrists, catching her partner’s attention, and he barely looks at her as he shoots the metal ties from her hands.

Jyn catches them with her thumbs, twirls them round her fingers, and pitches one after the other right past either side of Cassian’s head to hit two other guards, cracking their skulls.

He stops, stares as the force of her rage carries the guards through the air. Blinks as they hit the opposite wall.

“You didn’t need to go that hard.”

“You weren’t here for the conversation,” she responds furiously settling at his back.

Her hand finds the extra blaster at his leg, and she grins at how light it is. He’d brought an extra one of hers, and Jyn is incessantly grateful for the consideration and the faith he had in his own success.

This is warm. Warm and familiar. Getting caught, but standing back to back, secure in the knowledge that they can keep each other safe where and when it matters, that they always have.

Two more go down at Jyn’s hands, and she steps out, spins her blaster in the air, and rams the bud of it into the face of one fool coming charging at her. Having caught the white hood’s momentum, she smashes her foot into his stomach and watches him fly straight through the still open door, hitting the far wall of the hall outside.

“Some conversation,” Cassian drawls, expression still dark. “To make you this scary.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you!”

And finally, finally, he cracks a smile.

It’s enough to blast her with another flash of warmth, another flash of joy. He’d come back, and he’s safe, and they’re going to be fine.

It brings energy and surety to her movements, and she dances through the office as she dances across the battlefield, taking down the rest of her enemies with ease. And when she turns and finds Cassian in the fray again, he’s just standing there.

His blaster is lowered and his smile is back, and he’s watching her with that bemused, almost reverent look in his eyes again.

He opens his mouth to say something, and then he blinks, his face filling with horror.

And Jyn turns, just in time to catch the fury on Solis’ face as he aims the blaster at her.

She sidesteps, taking a step back.

But it’s not enough.

And the bolt hits her in the thigh, burning through flesh and nerve and bone.

It blacks her out for a moment, the pain, and Jyn doesn’t know if she screams or is silent. She doesn’t know if she starts crying.

All she knows is that she hates this place. She hates these people. For what they’d done, the lies they’d spread that had destroyed countless lives. For the threat they pose to Cassian’s life.

She lifts her blaster as she falls, and her aim, as always, is true.

Cassian is at her side, catching her. But Solis doesn’t have anyone like that, and faintly, behind the pain and Cassian’s voice repeating her name, she hears the body of the dictator hit the ground.

She turns her eyes to the man above her, the beautiful, beautiful man who looks so torn and desperate, his mouth running a thousand miles per house, though she can barely hear what he’s saying.

She lifts her hand to touch the edge of his jaw, to steal the distraught look from his face.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

And that stills him.

Freezes him in place.

“I should’ve let you take that shot,” she says.

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Jyn. Jyn. You need to focus on what I’m saying. Can you do that? Focus on the present, on my voice. You’re going to go into shock otherwise, and—“

He grips her carefully under both knees, and hoists her easily into the air, and the world becomes a blur. There’s darkness at the edges of her consciousness, and she barely sees fighting, the exchanges of lasers, and blows.

Cassian tells her about it, about how well their plan had worked. About how her virus had linked him up perfectly to the security system so he had control of Midas 5.

Cassian tells her how excited Ava had been to hold a blaster in her hands, a deadly kind of cold having come over her, which makes Jyn laugh because she knows that feeling.

Cassian tells her how, as soon as they got started, the people of Midas 5 had taken complete control of the situation, and he’d been obsolete - left free to go looking for Jyn.

“Start the engine and get moving,” he snaps to Kay as he barrels onto the ship.

The droid complains, but only moderately, and the door snaps shut behind them, the ship bouncing into life under Cassian so he stumbles.

Pain shoots through Jyn’s body so she cries out, her pride bleeding, and tears trail hot down her cheeks, following the trails that’d started in the head acolyte’s office and not stopped.

Her pride is buried somewhere far away, but she still hates herself, as Cassian fusses with her.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, Jyn,” he mutters.

And though he’d been rough upon entry, he’s careful settling her down on a series of seats. He fusses with the seats, so her legs are elevated, fusses with her boots, and the belt at her waist.

Disarms her carefully.

It hurts, almost as much as her leg, to see him this desperate, to have to rely on him to take care of her. Jyn is strong. She’s the one of them who’s physically more powerful. She’s not the one who gets hurt - not like this.

As Cassian begins to unbutton her pants to get to her wound, Jyn stops him.

“I can do that myself,” she says between gritted teeth.

“No. Jyn, you’d have to lift your hips and rely on your thigh muscles, and—“

It’s too much. Too many words at once. The world swims before her eyes, and it’s all she can do to stay coherent.

“Stop fussing!”

Cassian’s head flies up to return her angry stare.

But when he speaks, his voice is measured and calm. “Let me take care of you,.”

And it comes back, like the blow to the back of her head, their arguments. I don’t need your protection, Jyn. Cassian’s back to her as he’d walked out. Left her.

The hypocrite.

“I never asked you to.”

Her voice sounds desperate and her entire body is burning. More tears stream down her cheeks.

There’s no hesitation in him, no pause to consider his words as Cassian fires back. “You shouldn’t have to ask!”

And it’s enough.

It’s too much.

All at once.

Cassian is home and family, and she loves him so much. And Jyn is in pain and tired. And she wants so, so much to believe the words he’d just uttered.

She wants to leave all the stupidity of Midas 5 behind her, not to go back before it, but to move beyond the arguments and discord forced upon them by outsiders who had no right to meddle.

So she relaxes and lets him, lets him touch her pride and take care of her body. Trusts him with her safety in this moment of vulnerability and pain. And, once he’s pressed the needle full of painkilling medication into her arm, as he begins to attach bacta patches to her  open, burnt-at-the-edges, wound, she runs her fingers over his arm, massaging his muscles as firmly as she can.

Marvelling at the man beside her.

“Then let me protect you, too,” she whispers.

He trembles, but his fingers are steady.

When he’s satisfied, he turns and grasps her hand, fingers intertwining, and presses his face into her wrist.

“Survive this, and I’ll never doubt you again for as long as I live.”

Jyn finds the strength to smile.

“Challenge accepted.”

The last thing she senses is the puff of air from his laughter against her skin.

Chapter Text

Beep.

In the space between existence and nothingness a star is born.

It winks, glitters for a moment, nearly goes out and then re-ignites. Cradled and safe at the heart of cosmos, it casts its golden light through the universe. Two entities sharing the warmth of life in meeting.

The star grasps her own ankle and curls in, sleeping like a cat, a cosmic wind weaving through her hair like a lover’s caress.

Here, she sleeps without pain or loss, eternally connected to the one thing that touches her soul.

Jyn.

Her eyes flutter open, and she is still floating, not in the warm darkness of deep space, but in bacta that colours the world blue and blurry.

She blinks, drowsy and barely there. Barely registering the needles pressed through her skin or the mask that helps her breathe. Not the people standing by, keeping an eye on her, studying her condition.

Jyn just blinks, and sees Cassian.

Cassian painted in blue.

Cassian with deep dark marks under his eyes, and the calm of pain and exhaustion, too raw to be expressed except through the slowness of his movements and the darkness of his eyes.

And the contrast, when he catches her eyes. The way his face brightens and warmth touches her skin.

His lips move, her name a silent syllable full of relief.

It washes over her, the need to touch him, to feel his presence there at her side. For a moment it is desperate, clawing at her skin. And she finds the strength, somehow, to reach out towards him, her hand pale and distorted in the tank.

The glass is cool against her palm.

Cassian’s skin presses against the other side, going white with the weight of it.

Her eyes burn at the separation.

And she can’t bear to look at it, the physical evidence of it. So she moves her eyes back to his face, back to the man she loves so dearly. And finds warmth there, gentle care and safety.

He mouths something. Five syllables, though the last two are in a language she doesn’t understand.

Welcome home, mi amor.

And then he reaches through the glass, and cosmos embraces her once more.

Beep.

In the darkness the coldest stars descend across the skies, down past the slim, greying patch of light on the horizon. They land on the black ground by Jyn’s feet, collecting snow.

She’s sitting in the open mouth of the cave again, watching the black mountains and the black sky, the small strip of light from a sunrise that hasn’t happened yet doing nothing to give them colour.

Only the red strips on her childhood coat, and the yellow of the boy beside her, his tanned skin, exist as colour in this world.

He’s older than her, a little taller, but he sits, curled up at her side, his head nudged into the crook of her neck so his curls tickle her chin. So he feels her size, smaller, thinner, weaker than she knows he is.

His body has yet to be able to contain and channel the fire in his soul, she knows.

For now, he sleeps, and Jyn watches the world for them both.

She knows, somehow, that this is a dream, and that it is the other way around in reality.

But it doesn’t bother her, not here, in the dark, with the black sand under her and cosmos above her. Not when she feels safe and warm.

She’s never been intruded upon here, except by the boy at her side. They’ve always been alone. And when he’s been here, she’s always been safe. Safe from the shadows in her soul. Safe from the darkness of her own memories. Safe from what hides in the cave and in the world ahead of her.

But now, an intruder rounds the edge of the cliff.

Her grey coat billows in a harsh wind, revealing her red and brown tunic, and eventually the wild of her dark hair. A familiar face.

Jyn opens her mouth to exclaim something, but her throat clogs up, tightens to the point of pain. And she closes it again.

“Shh, sweetling,” Lyra says, kneeling before her, and leaning forwards to press Jyn’s forehead to her shoulder. “No need to disturb your companion.”

The sob that wrecks through Jyn is almost too powerful to keep her sitting still, and she clings. To the boy at her side so he won’t topple over. To her mother, whom she knows is real.

Is here.

Is a ghost.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Lyra whispers fervently, pressing her lips to Jyn’s forehead and pulling her hand over her head. “I’m sorry for leaving when I did. I’m sorry for all you’ve been through in the war we were incapable of stopping. For Midas 5.”

It makes it impossible to speak. The hurt in her throat burns all the way down to her chest, to tighten impossibly around her heart. And Jyn hiccoughs with it, cries between the greatest gulps of air she has ever had to take.

And never, never is it enough.

She’d been so cold, and so alone. And they’d left her. They’d all left her.

As if reading her thoughts, Lyra pushes gently on Jyn’s shoulder, so she’s sitting alone, so she’s leaning against the boy instead. So she can see her mother’s face.

“I didn’t leave you because I didn’t love you,” she says. “I left you because I do, because I thought myself capable of freeing you from a life in servitude to Krennick as leverage against your father. I wanted you to be free to live or fight. To choose your own path. I wanted that to be the part of you that came from me, so you were not just the creation of Galen Erso.”

And that, at last, brings Jyn’s voice back to her.

She shakes her head wildly. “Galen Erso is not my father,” she says, obstinately finding the boy’s hands in her lap and hanging on. I’m not an imp. I’m not an imp. I’m not an imp.

Lyra follows the movement of her hands, her eyes straying to the face of the boy at Jyn’s side. She smiles.

“No, indeed,” she agrees. “You seem to have inherited my fire after all. And grown up in the image of Saw Garrera instead. Good.”

Jyn nods fervently, and her lower lip wobbles at the thought of her adoptive father. She will have to face him eventually, wants to face him eventually. But for now, her mind wanders to other matters.

“Mama,” she says. “That man… Runa Solis. He said they were working on something, something that would … would change the entire game in the galaxy. What is my father working on?”

Lyra smiles, her green eyes lighting up with pride. “Oh, stardust,” she says, reaching out and affectionately poking Jyn’s nose. “You already have all the information you need at your fingertips. The Force made sure to save that for when you needed it.”

Jyn makes a face at her mother’s religiosity and riddles, but before she can complain, the boy at her side stirs. His fingers slip from hers so he can pull his arms more securely around her, and when she looks down she finds eyes as dark as the universe itself staring back up at her.

“And… what do I do now?”

“You do what you must,” Lyra says wisely. “Whatever you want and believe to be right. To fight the Empire. To return a true and proper balance to the universe. To care for the people you love.”

Jyn takes one more look at her mother’s face. She does her best to memorise it, knowing this is goodbye. And feels some of the darkness dwindle away in the back of her head.

Lyra hadn’t left her because she’d wanted to, but because she’d thought it was the only way to protect Jyn against the Empire. She’d done what she believed to be right, like taking a lullaby pill. Dying in the service of love, not ego.

Jyn knows she will never do the same, that she would rather run and live and cling to love for as long as she is able, than give up in the name of it.

Maybe she is selfish like that, but she won’t feel guilty for it.

Fighting is all she knows to do, but that is a power onto itself.

It is easier to let go with that realisation, to reach up with her free hand and hug her mother’s neck.

“Goodbye, my little wishing star,” Lyra whispers, pressing her lips to Jyn’s forehead. “Never forget that the Force is strong at your side.”

Jyn smiles into her mother’s embrace, feeling as Lyra shatters into light.

A warm wind catches the sparks, blowing them up and through her hair, and Jyn and Cassian sit side by side, watching as it brings a sunrise to the horizon. 

One that turns the world to gold.

Beep.

When she finally wakes, Jyn knows almost immediately that she’s somewhere unfamiliar.

The air is different form both Midas 5 and Yavin 4. It is crisp and warm, a gentle breeze floating in over her face and bringing with it the salty scent of the ocean.

It also brings with it the screeching laughter of seagulls that mix with the beeping of droids and people near her, talking in soft tones or laughing. And it’s that last sound, the sound of life, of peace and safety, which keeps her from leaping out of bed and forcing herself to flee the premises.

Jyn’s limbs are heavy, and it would be a battle to find the strength, but she would do it if she had to.

But instead of running away from this unfamiliar place, she lets her eyes fall open to the marble ceiling painted in hues of sunny gold and sky blue by the light from the window at her back. 

She traces the cracks in the ancient stone, following them to the columns holding it up behind her, and the green plants climbing up and down the stone, until she would have to bend her body to look outside.

It is without a doubt  the nicest and homiest hospital she has ever found herself in.

She tilts her head and watches the rest of the patients here. Children, grandparents, men, women, people. So very rarely human, here that she feels a pang of relief at the sight. Warmth, affection, respect bleeds from their actions, and their own relief at being alive.

Most of them, like Jyn, are recovering from heavy injuries. Some are missing limbs, others are getting cleaned up from bacta treatment.

Most of them are awake.

It takes a very long time before anyone notices that Jyn is awake. She doesn’t have the strength to speak, not really, especially not to call for anyone to come answer her questions. And so she only really makes a point of her own sentience, when a droid starts muttering about this being her nineteenth day in bed and what it must be doing to her musclemass.

“Excuse me,” she does her best to snap. “There’s no way I’ve been sleeping for nineteen days.”

Her voice is weak and hoarse, but it carries her irritation just fine.

The droid bleeps with surprise, its mouth running a thousand miles of binary that Jyn has trouble following.

“Slow down,” she says. “Have some mercy on your patient. I can only interpret when you’re making sense.”

The droid responds that it’s making perfect sense. Her binary is just subpar, to which Jyn scoffs indignantly. It then continues to tell her she’s been sleeping for nineteen days in this hospital but been unconscious for one more day en route, so technically she’s been out for twenty days.

“Where is this anyway? Some solar system with short days?”

If a droid could roll its eyes, this one would. It mutters something that sounds suspiciously close to denial.

“Huh? What was that?”

“You’re on Alderaan,” the droid bleeps more clearly, almost condescendingly. “And our days correspond perfectly to a 24 hour standard cycle. You’ll be needing four months of rehabilitation,” it adds smugly, before zooming off.

“Hey! Wait! You—“

Jyn struggles to find her stomach muscles so she can pull herself up to chase it down or yell at it, but is stopped by a hand on her shoulder, gently holding her down.

“You’re going to have to be kinder to your body, Ms Andor,” a woman’s amused voice informs her.

And Jyn stills.

More for the name than the kind insistence of a twi’lek doctor.

Jyn doesn’t know if she should be relieved Cassian is somewhere nearby, or if she should be annoyed at his sentimentality.

“We’ve been keeping your muscles active while you were under to avoid clotting,” the doctor continues, seeming to not have noticed Jyn’s response to the name — or chosen to ignore it. “But we’ll need you to get up as soon as possible.

“It’s good to see you’re already bickering with the droids however,” she adds with a knowing smile. “Your husband said that’d be a clear sign you were fully conscious.”

Somehow it’s still possible for her to go pink in the face at that, and it doesn’t help when the doctor laughs and says “don’t worry, we have plenty of people who bicker with the droids here. It’s not uncommon”, which means Cassian has made a point of acting the husband, too. If the doctor is taking it for granted.

Force eat him.

“Where…?” Jyn begins, croaks on her dry throat and coughs.

The doctor sits by her bed and pours water for her. “He’s in a video conference down the hall,” she explains. “I must say, I never expected him to grow up so well. He was much wilder when he was a resident here at the hospital, and then part of the refugee population afterwards.”

Jyn thanks her and listens as she drinks.

“So we’re in Sanctuary Coast,” she concludes when she’s emptied her cup.

“Correct.”

The doctor’s eyes crinkles, and Jyn can already see that here is another person who has adopted Cassian. Here is someone thinking good for him, he’s settled down properly. And all Jyn can do is feel a mixture of mushy happiness for him and embarrassment.

So she ends up turning her face away, which makes the doctor laugh.

Really, she just wants to see him.

It aches through her skin, the weaknesses of her muscles, to her very bones, the longing. Like a vice on her heart, it burns ever stronger the longer she’s awake, the more she thinks about him, about what happened.

The fight, the battle. Midas 5. All the mistakes she’d made, how she’d put her head under her arm and let her guard down.

She could’ve lost her life. He could’ve been shot instead. She can’t even congratulate herself on incurring Solis’ wrath by letting go her temper and riling him up enough that he’d wanted to punish her more than act on his hatred for Cassian, because she’s the one who’d let go her temper and riled Draven up enough to send them to Midas 5 in the first place.

Life is too short, too unpredictable. Too precarious. And Jyn desperately wants every moment she has left to not be weighed down by her own assumptions and mistakes.

She just wants to see him, for them to be okay.

It feels so desperately important.

But the doctor, who introduces herself as Ferrix, insists that Jyn wiggles her toes, and they check the strength in her legs. She makes her lie down, first on her stomach, then on her back, aids her movement and checks the bend-ability of knees and hips, the reflexes, and everything else Jyn can’t be bothered to pay attention to.

She’s just getting propped into a sitting position and being brightly told “well, it looks like you’ll make a full recovery,” when she hears footsteps halt in the shadow of the woman aiding her.

“Jyn.”

The doctor pulls back, just enough to reveal Cassian.

Cassian, who is dressed in a blue tunic and has a data pad and newspaper under his arm. Cassian, whose hair has been trimmed, but still carries dark circles under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept for a month.

Cassian who is turning more and more grey, fighting his emotions.

The doctor smiles and nods to Jyn, whispering “I’ll sign you up for proper meals” as a way to leave them alone — though not before she’s twirled on her toes and pushed Cassian at the back to get him moving.

He does.

He stumbles forwards, and then he catches momentum.

Like a wave of emotion, he descends on her, flopping down on the mattress so Jyn bounces, catching her breath in a laugh. And then his hands are grasping her jaw, his fingers twining in her hair, curling around her ears and the back of her neck, pulling her up to kiss her forehead.

Cassian hugs her, and kisses her face, and hugs her again. Only to pull back and touch both his palms to her cheeks to look at her, look her over, checking her lucidity.

And all the while, he’s talking, his mouth running a thousand miles again, as if he can’t stop. As if everything he has to say, has had to say for the last twenty days, comes rushing out with no filter, emotional and so unlike him. And all of it, all of it is in a Festian dialect, one she cannot pick apart, an emotion driven choice that still protects his privacy when he can’t stop himself like this.

And it breaks down all of Jyn’s walls, all of the strength she didn’t have, to see him like this, to be touched like this. Overwhelmed by everything that’s happened and her own luck to be alive, and Cassian.

And he’s still talking, and she still doesn’t get a word he’s saying, but she recognises those words again, like a chorus.

Mi amor.

Mi amor. 

Mi amor.

And she trembles with it, begins to cry just as Cassian begins to cry, begins to press his lips to her tears and his face to her cheek.

And when he finally starts speaking in Basic it is with the same rhythm and same raw desperation, but there is no voice left. Only a whisper in the darkness between them.

“You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.”

It’s too much. It’s all too much. It catches Jyn like a storm. The sob wrecks through her like an earthquake, and then she’s full on crying. Crying as she has never cried before, crying out all her pain and fear and loss, her relief that he’s still here, still by her side.

Cassian catches her, pulls her close and embraces her, hiding her from the world as she cries and cries and cries.

“It’s okay, Jyn,” he whispers into her hair, his words dropping like the tears that water her scalp. “It’s okay. You’re home. You’re home.”

They sit, clinging to each other, for the longest time, holding on and breathing in. Jyn is just beginning to catch her breath, to dry her eyes, her body relaxing back into its muddled exhausted state, when it occurs to her that it’s been twenty days since the revolt began on Midas 5.

She clasps Cassian’s arm to stop his retreat, and meets his eyes.

Before she can open her mouth to ask, he smiles.

“They’re safe,” he says. Then hesitates. “Well, as safe as they can be. I’ve been monitoring the situation from your bedside, consulting where they need consulting until—“ he hesitates, glancing at the family behind them. “Our employers can send someone more experienced.”

Holding Jyn’s hand, he helps her re-balance and lean back against her pillow. Then he gets up to collect the newspaper and data pad he’d thrown haphazardly on the floor.

“Well, I’m going to have to replace the screen on this,” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly with one hand and tilting the broken data pad with the other. He winces. “But I think it still works well enough.”

“Speaking of uncharacteristic behaviour,” Jyn says lightly, as Cassian slides the pad into her lap. “Jyn Andor. Really?”

She keeps her eyes on him as she speaks, so she sees the moment his hands pause in refolding the newspaper and his ears go slightly pink.

“I wasn’t thinking clearly, when we arrived, and they assumed after I introduced myself at the counter.”

“Oh. So we didn’t get married while I was unconscious,” Jyn says, keeping her voice flat. “Good to know.”

This time the pink spreads to his face.

He opens and closes his mouth several times, looks aside and mutters “uncharacteristic”, before turning back and pressing the on button of the data pad.

“Look in the photos,” he says simply.

Jyn allows herself another moment to study him, to watch the emotional tilt to his dark eyes, the brief flash of amber in them when he tilts his head just so and they catch the light of the sun. She allows herself the moment to appreciate his full beard. With the dark circles under his eyes, it makes him look older than he is.

And yet his flustered behaviour makes him seem younger. It’s endearing, almost cute, in its awkwardness, in the contrast of look and behaviour.

Jyn thinks she could sit here and smile because of it through all eternity.

Cassian is already talking again, is already explaining how the indigenous population have retaken their land without much resistance, how the settlers have either accepted the change peacefully or resisted by fleeing. He’s explaining how the danger lies in what the Empire will do when their petitions have been heard, and how his main focus has been guiding Karim and Ava in acquiring weapons for self-defence and restructuring their food supplies so they can keep themselves safe and start focusing on rebuilding, proper.

That’s as far as he gets before his eyes catch on her smile and he stops. Stills. For a moment something like awe strikes his expression, and then he exhales a breath and he studies her, studies her as if she is a puzzle he has finally figured out.

The space around them grows warmer, and when something touches her arm, she looks down to find that cosmos has snuck up behind her, making the sleeve of her t-shirt flutter in an inexistent wind.

She flushes.

“Stop that,” she mutters.

“Look at the photos, Jyn,” Cassian insists again. “I think you’ll find something much more interesting than supply chains.”

She does as she’s told, for once, to hide behind the tablet, pulling her healthy leg up to support the pad, and she taps in his code and scrolls through the settings until she finds what she’s looking for.

She glances up once, only to catch that same look of intense warmth directed at her, and immediately ducks her head down again.

What she finds first are photos of the rebuilding, the restructuring of Midas 5. The demolition of the border points between areas of the city. The removal of flags and statues. Changes beginning to happen in the agricultural zone.

She flips through some of Cassian’s own photos of food and droid parts, problem areas on their u-wing he’d clearly been meant to study before bed, and finds photos from the Mithras.

Layla twirls under a clear blue sky, her pale blue dress standing out against her dark hair and the gold of the field she’s standing in. In the next one, she’s throwing her arms around a boy with curly hair. He’s sitting on a re-purposed hoverboard, the stumps of his legs bandaged, and he, too, is smiling brightly.

And Jyn realises what this is.

This isn’t just the reassurance that they’re all doing well, that the revolt on Midas 5, quick as it had been, had been a success.

No. This is what freedom looks like, truly. More than anything freedom is the joy of children, growing up without scars or worries, without fears for their future.

It feels like success, all of a sudden. Like this small victory makes all their struggles against the empire worth it. One good thing to come out of all of the bad, all the negative, all the hurt.

And Jyn presses the back of her hand to her burning eyes.

“They did it,” she says, her voice hoarse.

When she looks up at Cassian, she finds him smiling warmly at her. “Yes, they did,” he confirms. “They won.”

And Jyn can’t help it. At his smile and his words, hope blossoms in her chest, and she beams at him, smiling brighter than she has in a long time.

Because if the people of Midas 5 can do this, that feels like an omen. Like a brush of sunshine after the longest rain, promising a clear sky for all of them.

If they can achieve freedom on Midas 5, the rest of the galaxy can do it, too.

Chapter Text

Jyn sleeps after that.

She doesn’t want to. There’s so much more she wants to talk to Cassian about, so much more that needs to be said. It’s as if she’s felt time passing, locked in her subconscious, and she’s missed him so achingly. 

And, if she’s honest with herself, she’s scared.

She’d slept for twenty days without waking. And though Jyn understands she did so as part of an artificial sleep to help her recover faster, it thrums under her skin, the fear that she will wake to find another twenty days have passed.

But she starts yawning, and Cassian steals the data pad from her, refusing to take no for an answer.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said, leaning down to push an errant curl behind her ear, so close she can feel his breath against the shell of it. “I’ll stay right beside you. And I won’t let sleep steal you like that again.”

Jyn lifts her head to make some sort of joke about theft, but then she meets his gaze, and it is heavy and lidded. It burns. It burns through her, leaving no trace of what she was going to say behind. Instead she has the profound urge to reach up and kiss him, feel the touch of lips against hers, the delicious brush of his beard under her fingers, and—

As if he catches the thought in her mind, Cassian smiles, tugs on one of her curls to bring her back to reality. He leans a little closer, murmurs ‘later’, and then takes advantage of her surprise and weak legs, to push her down onto her futon.

He tugs her covers up to her chin as if she’s a misbehaving five year old, and laughs when she gives him a disgruntled look.

But when Jyn reaches out and takes his hand, he accepts it and is still holding on to it when she’s woken several hours later for sheet changes and supper.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Doctor Ferrix informs her sternly. “Oi.”

She snaps her fingers to get Jyn’s attention, but Jyn is too busy scowling at the contraption a pair of droids are pushing to her bed.

“I am not using that thing,” Jyn declares.

It’s almost bigger than she is. With clunky handrests, and wheels that make it look wobbly and unstable. She hates it on sight, and she will never ever trust it.

“She’s as bad as you,” Ferrix complains, waving her data pad at Cassian. “One would think that since you’ve clearly calmed down, you’d find a partner who wasn’t as much of a menace.”

Cassian exhales a laugh, and when Jyn turns to look at him to check he won’t betray her, he simply shrugs and offers “you can use me.”

Jyn exhales her relief, but before she can thank him, Ferrix has jumped in to instruct her on how to slowly move her feet closer to the edge of the bed. It’s not that Jyn has lost all her mobility, but with twenty days in a coma, and the blaster cutting straight through most of her leg muscles, she has so much to rebuild, she’s close to momentary lame from her hips down.

She has to use her hands to lift her hips, and push off with her arms. The whole thing is awkward and wiggly, and Jyn hates how helpless she feels through the process.

When she finally swings her feet over the edge, Ferrix doesn’t leave her any time for a victory.

“Okay! Now, be prepared for the fact that you won’t be able to hold yourself up by the use of your legs,” the doctor says. “Link your arms with Cassian’s and lean on him until you find your balance. But use your upper body primarily for the work you have to do.”

Jyn nods.

When she turns her face from Ferrix, she finds Cassian right there in front of her, his hands up and his expression open. Waiting patiently.

She places her palms flat on his, and he closes his fingers momentarily around hers in a gesture of comfort. Jyn closes her eyes and feels the warmth seep through her skin, the light brush of cosmos at her torso, supporting her. And she breathes. Just breathes.

Then she slides her hands up the underside of his lower arms, and grasps his elbows.

“Ready?” 

She meets his gaze as she speaks, and he nods.

“Here goes.”

Jyn leans forwards, using her balance to slide her weight off the edge of the hospital bed, and her bare feet hit the floor. Awkwardly.

She stumbles forwards with too much momentum, the shock of her loss of strength and dexterity truly hitting her. Despair follows in the wake of the realisation, embarrassment that she has never been this weak or defenceless before. It doesn’t hurt, but it stings. Stings in her chest, in her lungs. The corners of her eyes.

She can’t fight like this.

She can’t even walk like this.

She hates it. It’s all wrong. It’s—

Cassian’s hands grasp her elbows, and he catches her. Steadies her.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, lowering his head to hold her gaze. To steal the world from her, narrowing it down and making her focus. “Four months, Jyn.”

Jyn stares up at him, her lower lip so close to wobbling. “Four months,” she repeats.

She can hear the way nurses have swooped in behind her to change her sheets as quickly as possible, but cosmos is dancing in her periphery, and she keeps her eyes on the man in front of her.

Cassian takes a step back, and Jyn follows him, her injured leg jerking forwards. The other one follows more cleanly.

Cassian nods and smiles. “Four months.”

“I’m going to hate it.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to whine and complain.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to need a sparring partner.”

“I know.”

“You’re the only one here to take the brunt of it.”

A crinkle of a smile lights his eyes. “Maybe I’ll finally get to take my revenge for all your harsh training, then,” he teases.

“What a man you are,” Jyn retorts. “Taking advantaged of momentary disability to turn the tables.”

“Hey,” he counters, his face so close his nose is nearly brushing hers, his smile so close she can almost feel it against her lips. “You know the way I operate. Any advantage is fair game.”

As he distracts her, Cassian guides her in a small circle around the floor. And slowly, one step at a time, Jyn grows a little more confident.

She’s weak. Her muscles have been severed in one leg. But the despair has gone, and she’s grinning.

“Rat,” she insults him lightly.

Cassian is just about to retaliate when Ferrix catches their attention.

“If you two are about done flirting,” she snaps, snapping her fingers again. “She shouldn’t be on her feet too long, or she’s going to be too exhausted to eat.”

They both start, like teenagers caught doing something they’re not supposed to. Jyn’s cheeks flush, but then so does Cassian’s - that adorable dusty pink that doesn’t suit the darkness of his beard at all.

It makes her laugh.

Using the method she’d learnt before to scoot back onto her bed is much easier than the other way around, and Jyn grins when Ferrix nods.

“You’re a fast learner,” the doctor says. “Good. That’ll make my job easier.”

“I’ll go get food,” Cassian says.

He gives Jyn’s hand one last squeeze, and then he’s off to the other side of the ward, mixing easily with the people already standing around a cart.

Jyn sits back, a little awkwardly. She’s been awake for maybe three hours in total, but she’s already eyeing Ferrix curiously. The other woman has an air around her that reminds Jyn of Leia, strict and honest to a fault, and like Leia she seems to have known Cassian for the longest time.

It’s not something that makes Jyn feel jealous or insecure anymore — Cassian tells her what he wishes for her to know — but some of his habits have rubbed off on her, and she’s starting to wonder exactly how to get more stories out of Ferrix, which soft interrogation strategies would be quick enough, when Ferrix herself volunteers the information.

“He’s smiling.”

It’s not where Jyn expects her to start. “Yes?”

“He never used to smile,” Ferrix explains, pulling down her brows to illustrate. “He’d walk around with a constant scowl, like it’d frozen on his face.”

“He still has that,” Jyn exclaims, so they both end up laughing. “Especially when he doesn’t get his way.”

“Yes,” Ferrix says, calming down, and switching her hold on her data pad. She chances a glance after Cassian and finding him still engaged at the food cart, continues. “It used to scare people. This angry boy with murder in his eyes and an almost soul-deep disrespect for rules. They didn’t trust him very much.”

That makes Jyn startle. “Cassian? Cassian disrespect rules?”

She gets a flash of a smile for that. “I guess he’s changed, then?”

“You could say that again,” Jyn mutters, brushing her hair out of her face and wondering if Cassian had been on a mission when he’d met Ferrix. “Talk about one-eighty.”

She can see him clearly, towering over most of the other people there, politely answering questions, helping with redistributing the food to those who are still bedridden, and chatting up the elderly ladies.

He doesn’t look at all like a rebel spy here. Nor like someone alienated for not following the rules.

“What happened?” She asks, glancing back up at Ferrix.

“Several things, actually,” Ferrix says. “The Empire began disappearing the population of the planet we were living on. Cassian recognised the signs, but people wouldn’t listen to him. He saved me and a handful of others, but the rest were lost.”

She pauses, turning to look around the ward to hide her emotions, and Jyn waits in silence.

The gist of it isn’t news to Jyn. She knows how Cassian views connection in wartime. He loves every single person he attaches himself to, deeply and unconditionally, and he feels their loss so much more for it.

That there have been people before Jyn no longer surprises her. She’s grateful to them, for helping to shape the person she knows, loves and adores to an exasperating degree.

But she can’t think of Ferrix’ short account without a twinge of guilt. Without seeing, again, her own mistakes this past year. A story is just a story, a set of sentences, to the person who recounts it. But it is experience to Cassian, days and months and years of it.

“Then,” the doctor continues, having regained control of her emotions. “We came here. Sanctuary Coast. Alderaan takes in countless refugees from hundreds of systems every year, and bring them here. The city was half size when we arrived. We were all injured on the way in, and ended up staying in this very hospital, grew attached to it.

“As time passed, we went our separate ways. I stayed here. Some of the others went to work in the city - we’re pretty good droid mechanics. Cassian sort of … came and went. Like a stray cat, you know?”

She and Jyn share a smile at the analogy.

But Ferrix’ smile falls quickly. “People started whispering about him,” she continues. “Grew afraid of him. He was… the type of person most wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. But he always kept trouble away from the hospital when he were around, so everyone here are quick to defend him. You should’ve seen the old nurses the day he said his good-byes. You might want to watch out,” she adds, smirking down at Jyn. “They’re very curious about you.”

It hadn’t occurred to Jyn why Cassian had brought her to Alderaan until that very moment. But she looks across the ward, finding her partner easily in the crowd, his softness on full display, and realises.

This is the closest thing he has to a home other than the Alliance.

“What?” She asks. “Like auntie curious?”

Ferrix’ smirk spreads into a grin. “Exactly.”

Gossips.

Jyn exhales a sigh of exasperation and resigns herself not to be too annoyed by people who pry out of affection.

They exist in the rebellion as well, after all.

“I better prepare myself,” she says.

“You better,” Ferrix laughs, and pats Jyn on the shoulder.

She waves goodbye, pausing as she crosses paths with Cassian to tease him. His face contorts in embarrassment and irritation, and he snaps back with more lively bite than Jyn has seen before.

She needs to figure out what he’s told them about herself, but the necessity is already draining from her mind as a more urgent thought intrudes again, shameful and vaguely horrifying.

She hadn’t listened to him.

How could she have made such a fundamental mistake?

“Eat first,” Cassian says, sliding a trey full of delicious looking food onto her lap. “Then we’ll talk.”

Jyn’s head flies up to look at him. “Would you stop—“

But she meets his amused expression, and her irritation falters, simmers back down into that churning pot of guilt.

“Not this time,” he says, tapping his head. “I didn’t need to when it’s all over your face.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, looking down again. She splits the chopsticks and pokes at a piece of meat in a red sauce.

“And for the record,” he says, voice light. “I don’t pry. You broadcast. Like you do with your face.”

Jyn lifts her head again to snap at him, and finds him silently laughing at her. “You’re the worst,” she complains.

“Not the worst spy in the room,” he retaliates, and Jyn childishly considers throwing her food in his face.

“I didn’t know you were such a troublemaker,” she complains instead, poking at her food again, this time more calculated. “You’ve always been so fond of rules.”

“You can just say she told you,” Cassian sighs. Pauses to chew and think. “We don’t all have Saw Gerrera to help direct our teenage rage at the Empire, you know. Most people don’t constantly want to be confronted with the horror of their own existence or oppression. They want to live their lives as best they can, and don’t understand what it’s like to have your life pulled up by the root and burnt.”

Jyn chances a glance at him as he returns to his food, but his face is as impassive as his words. He’s distanced himself from the experience, and isn’t touching his emotions regarding them in his account.

“I guess,” she says, hesitantly because he’s right that she was lucky to have Saw, lucky someone built a life around her full of people who understood. “There’s no going back after that.”

“Exactly,” Cassian says, warmth returning to his voice at her understanding. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t build a new place to return to.”

Jyn opens and closes her mouth. She doesn’t deserve that. The warmth of his regard, the acceptance of her in spite of the way she’d treated him just like everyone else had.

But Cassian is smiling contentedly at her, and Jyn can’t be selfish here. She can’t be selfish now. She can’t bring her guilt into this when she’s the one who’d made the mistake in the first place.

So, lip wobbling, she finds a smile for him and nods.

Jyn doesn’t know much about finding a home in someone else. Her parents she barely remembers. And Saw and Cassian are as different as night and day. Her attachments to them are so different.

But she wants to cherish the man in front of her as best she is able.

“Have you ever considered returning?” she asks instead. “To Fest, I mean.”

“To rebuild?”

A smile crosses his face, brief and boyish and full of dreams and starlight.

But it settles back into something more mature, not darkening but dimming by calculated thought and real complications.

“Maybe,” he admits, poking at his food. “If I survive the war. I wouldn’t be much good on my own though, so I’d have to locate other survivors. And I’m not very good with the cold anymore.”

Cassian winces with self-reproach, but Jyn can’t help but smile.

“Don’t worry,” she says with more brightness, words falling naturally from her lips. “I’m great with the cold. I’ll keep you warm.”

“Oh, you would, would you?”

Again, the sun hits his face just right, and his dark eyes glow with amber fire, burning her to her core.

Jyn flushes at the challenge, and that look of intense understanding again, but finds it in her this time to retaliate.

And they spend the time through dinner brainstorming ways to re-settle Cassian’s home planet.

Jyn is a coward.

It’s not a word she usually associates with herself. She is the stubborn warrior, the bruiser. All she knows is how to fight, how to barrel straight ahead and take down any enemy that comes in her away.

But the problem with that kind of mindset, that kind of limited skillset, is that when she’d used it with Draven it had cause a whole chain of events she couldn’t handle with her fists or her rage.

And she’d become a coward.

She’d been unable to tell Cassian the truth, been too afraid to talk to him, to really talk to him. And so instead she’d pushed and pushed, trying to get him out of a situation where the weakness of his she’d handed on a silver platter to Draven would no longer be of any significance.

She hadn’t done it for Cassian.

Or maybe she had, but Jyn is self aware enough that she knows there had been other reasons, other fears and priorities she shouldn’t have let overpower her reason and respect for him.

She’d hurt him, in more ways than one. Put him in danger. Made him feel insecure.

All the actions she judges others for, judges herself better than, she’d performed.

Because Jyn is a coward.

And even now. Even now when she’s determined to move past it, to grow beyond it, to get it out of the way as best she can, her fingers tremble.

It’s a small thing, easily disguised by speaking, drawing his attention to her face, while she places the dirty cutlery back on his trey. And Cassian never notices.

She watches his back as he puts it away, finding the fragile strand of courage she needs to bring up the topic that’s been resting like a shadow in the back of her head for a year.

It makes it all worse that his mind is already on other things, already moving ahead with the next task 2h3n he returns.

“I should go check on Kay,” he says. “He’s itching to nag you for sleeping in, as he calls it, and sick of being stuck on the ship all alone, so—“

And Jyn hears that tiny voice in the back of her head again, that she’s being selfish, that she should let it go, just as Cassian has.

But she clings to the fragile strand of courage, the conviction that this is the right thing to do, that she needs to articulate this properly at least once, so it can never hurt him again.

“Wait,” Jyn says, grasping his wrist and holding him in place. “I mean—“

Her hand flies off him as if she’d been burnt by his skin, and she holds both palms up, startled by her own actions, the fear building again in the back of her throat.

“Five minutes. I have something to say.”

Cassian eyes her face for a moment. His gaze strays to just over her shoulder, reading her soul. And it’s so unfair, that he’s so good at hiding his emotions, that she can’t read him the way he reads her. And then he sighs, sitting down across from her on the bed.

“Okay,” he says.

And Jyn knows she has to trust in that action, even if she fears the consequences.

“I know this is selfish,” she says quickly.

She reaches out to grasp his sleeve, hesitates, her hand hanging in the air between them. And then lets it fall back into her lap.

Cassian follows her movements, but he doesn’t do anything to meet her half way. There’s a wall between them, and she doesn’t know who built it. If her actions have created it, if she’s the only one seeing it, or if Cassian is keeping his distance on purpose. And she is scared, terrified of what her words will bring her. But he’s sitting and he’s listening, and Jyn is determined to use what moments he’s spending on accommodating her.

“I know I’m demanding something that you might not be ready to talk about, or even want me to bring up again, but I— I need to say this, and I want to say it now. Because I don’t want it to get between us again.

“I’m sorry,” she rushes on, before he can bring the silence to an end. “I lied to you. I made a mistake and I kept it secret because I was a coward. Because I didn’t want to lose you, and I was afraid you wouldn’t— wouldn’t—“ She swallows thickly, the words refusing to come when she needs them, painfully collecting in her throat. 

The fear is still stuck in her heart.

And she lowers her gaze, clutching her fingers together so she can no longer see the little star of courage shine between her fingers. It looks almost like she’s praying, if it weren’t because her bones were pressing ghostly against her skin.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Cassian,” she says again, and then finds she can’t not look at him. It hurts, to keep her face straight, to not let her lower lip wobble, to keep her eyes from shutting around the burn of promised tears.

But she has to be earnest here. She can’t let her emotions get in the way when she needs to word this right, when its her voice that matters and a tremble could shut her up forever.

She still can’t read him, is still met by that wall — not the spy’s face, but just Cassian. Cassian waiting and listening. Cassian giving her room to speak her piece.

Cassian who deserves this apology, whom she will trust and change for, even if it is too late and she has already lost him.

“It wasn’t protecting you. It was putting your life at risk and taking away your freedom to choose, and I’m—“

“I know,” he says, his expression breaking open as he cuts her off and steals her hand to tug her closer. “I know.”

He twines their arms and holds them up between them, holding her gaze.

And Jyn—

Jyn holds her breath. And waits.

Holds herself tight, clings to the courage stuck now between their hands, the hope that still lives in the cracks, making their skin glow, and casting a golden glow into his eyes, catching amber flecks in the darkness.

Cassian keeps his eyes on her, so intent, so stubborn in his conviction even before he speaks that it’s difficult to breathe, to do anything except be caught up in his gravity.

“I trusted you,” Cassian says. “I trusted you implicitly. It felt natural to do so. And because of that it felt even more like a betrayal when you told the General. You shouldn’t have. And I stand by that. But—“

He pauses. Looks down. His lips moving, as he considers his words. And when he looks back up at her, his expression softens, emotions melting into open affection.

“If I left you the impression that you would lose me over a mistake,” he says. “Or I would walk away the moment you didn’t listen to me, then I’m sorry, too.”

Something trembles and breaks inside Jyn at his words. The fragile grasp she’d had on her hope and her courage, shatters under the pressure, the strength with which she’d clung. The cage crashes to the ground and she catches her breath. Closes her eyes.

But the tears still come, burning from her eyes, down her cheeks.

She’d thought Cassian the same as her parents. She’d thought him the same as Saw. And she’d been afraid, so afraid, he would turn his back on her, too — the moment he realised life would be easier without her.

She should’ve trusted him more.

“Jyn,” he sighs her name, calls her to him.

And she listens, answers, as she always does. And when she meets his gaze across the distance, he leans forwards and presses his forehead to hers.

“Don’t you know by now?” He whispers, smiling down at her. “How much I hate losing? I would chase you into the deepest, most unknown pockets of space if I had even the slightest doubt you hadn’t walked away on your own.”

She should’ve trusted this beautiful, soft hearted man who has always, always prioritised her, even when she hadn’t wanted him to, even when she hadn’t deserved it. He’d stubbornly, selfishly stuck by her side.

That’s why he’d scolded her. That’s why he’d let his own emotions get the better of him. He’d been afraid, just like her, that she would walk away. He’d looked at Solis, listened to Solis, and he’d seen the very real threat that Jyn might change, might listen to the people who sounded so very like her parents, and find logic and sense in their words.

That she would change and abandon who she’d been.

Let go of him.

And walk away.

But he hadn’t let fear rule him. He’d grown angry, and he’d refused her the chance to leave, called her back to the right path - shown her how to not stumble off it, when she’d never wanted to in the first place.

“I know,” she says at last, and drapes her arms around his neck in a hug. Whispering into his neck. “Please always stay this selfish.”

She’d claimed she’d been trying to protect his autonomy, but in her fear all she’d done was take away all the knowledge he’d needed to be free.

But Cassian had cared enough about their bond to not throw her away upon realising, he’d cared enough to confront her, to make her listen. He’d cared enough about himself to not let it continue.

And Jyn is going to honour that.

She’s going to cherish him for it.

She’s going to let hope sprout and blossom in the fact he’s perfectly capable of protecting himself, and call for her when he needs someone to watch his back.

Cassian can neither be controlled, nor manipulated, and she will trust him to not be blinded from his own heart from now on.

He rests his lips to the top of her head and laughs quietly into her skin. “I’m not sure you want to ask that of me,” he warns, voice soft.

The flush blooms on her face so quickly she’s suddenly grateful he’d given her privacy. Jyn had been so caught up in the moment, she hadn’t realised what she’d been saying. Be greedy. Be selfish. Don’t let me go. It sounds like something out of a holonovel, but they are real feelings. A real enough urge to place her life in his hands and trust him unconditionally.

But there is a touch of space at the small of her back and a hand by her ribs, sensing the irregularity of her heart, where it hadn’t been there before. The intimacy of a lover’s touch.

And then it slides away, lets her go, and Cassian grasps both her hands, squeezing as he pulls away from her to meet her gaze.

“My turn,” he says, his eyes as deep and haunted as Jyn had felt a moment ago. “To make a confession.”

Cassian sits back on his haunches, and smiles sadly, almost apologetically, his eyes bending downwards at the edges. And he waits. Letting her catch her breath.

Jyn exhales a laugh and shakes her head. Her heart isn’t calming in the slightest, her pulse mounting at the mix of not knowing where he’s intending to go, and knowing he knows exactly what effect he has on her.

It feels all kinds of muddled, like the two feelings shouldn’t be mixing in the same situation, that they should be able to separate them. And yet, Jyn finds she doesn’t care.

She just hopes it means that sometime soon, they will be lighthearted enough that the chaos of their conversations will no longer be jarring, but welcoming, and fun.

She nods to Cassian.

And his smile falls.

“I didn’t mean to bring this up now,” he admits, fingers tugging at a fold of her pant leg. “You’re finally awake again, and you should be focusing on recovering. I shouldn’t be burdening you with more worries, but…”

He trails off, pushes his fringe out of his eyes.

When he finds her again, he smiles and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “But that would be underestimating you and patronising you,” he concludes.

And Jyn finds a smile at that, bumping her fist against his wrist. “Yes, it would be.”

“Alright, I—“ Cassian hesitates again, mutters something under his breath in that dialectic Festian she can’t understand. “I know you’re afraid of Draven, and I don’t doubt we both have good reason to guard ourselves against him now.”

Jyn swallows thickly and forces herself not to look down. The guilt, the self-deprecating voice, is still there at the back of her head, but she would rather be angry, now that she knows Cassian isn’t going to leave her behind.

She would rather be productive.

So she sits and, clutching the sheets between her fingers, she listens.

“And I want you to understand,” Cassian continues, his expression darkening, “that if he was going to take advantage of this knowledge, which he has already done, he was always going to be a threat. But this is not Solis, or the empire. This is a leader within the Alliance that we cannot just easily defy or attack. So I’ve been wrecking my brain while you were gone, for a solution that would put us out of the line of fire instead.”

It’s incredible, how easy he is to read now. How easily his emotions run across his face, is expressed in every single microscopic movement of his muscles. How even the passivity, how even an attempt at hiding, now, speaks volumes.

Pain and worry and fear.

“Even back on Midas 5 I was thinking about it,” he says, swallows thickly and then meets her gaze. “Terminating our partnership.”

The sun goes out.

Jyn sits stock still on her haunches, staring at him, uncomprehending.

“The idea would be,” Cassian continues. “That if we don’t work together, that if we separated and worked in different departments, the General would have no further interest in us — as his goal seems to be to separate us on the grounds that we’re a liability to the Alliance when we work together.”

Jyn’s nod is hollow. Outside herself.

It’s the same conclusion she’d come to, so her body works without needing cognitive effort.

But her mind, her mind is screaming at the unfairness of it. They’re effective. They’ve accomplished the impossible. Draven is being irrational and—

“That way,” Cassian is continuing, grasping her hand and running his thumb over her skin in a gesture meant to relax her. “We would be able to do as we please, off duty. You would be safe, out of his influence, and I would be able to go back to doing my job without being constantly confronted with his biases. It would be the easy way out. It would be, as you’ve put it, following the rules.”

Jyn quirks a smile at that.

He’s right. It would be the easy thing to do. And she was never that good a spy to begin with. She’s been a constant source of stress to Cassian these past years, using her partisan ways more often than intelligence methods. And even if it’s gotten them results, even if he’d started accommodating her and building their strategies based on those troublesome quirks of hers, he’d still had to stay up late in the night to work magic and miracles on their reports.

But.

And the words we would be able to do as we please, off duty are a whole universe of opportunity she would never have considered. Working under different departments would also mean he was no longer her superior officer, it would free them up from the interest and judgement of Alliance command and rulebook. The one that could put him in the brig if she touched him.

But.

But Jyn doesn’t want to.

She’s greedy and selfish.

And Cassian would still be under Draven’s control.

It isn’t a guarantee of anything.

And—

Jyn starts to nod her consent to the plan, when Cassian smiles.

“But it’s a stupid plan,” he says, exhaling a laugh when she sags with obvious relief.

He’s still holding her hand, still running his finger back and forth over her knuckles. 

“I tried to negotiate it, to reason through it, but it doesn’t matter, not after what happened on Midas 5,” he says, his voice falling in volume as it rises in intensity, grows more raw with emotion. “No amount of rule or regulation is going to change the fact you were shot and almost killed. And if we were working in different departments, I wouldn’t be able to be there for you if it happened again. I wouldn’t even know if something happened.”

His face contorts at the possibility. His fingers still and he tightens his grip on her hand almost painfully.

“I can’t live through that ignorance, Jyn,” he says. “I can’t fight or focus, or do the right thing anymore, if I would have to carry the burden of not knowing whether you were alive or killed. I would rather have your back and accept the risks. I’d rather we keep each other safe.”

He’d meant it.

He’d really meant it when he’d said he hated losing.

Jyn doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She can barely breathe.

The warm light of the lanterns and the cool of the moon mix across his skin and his face, painting him in an ethereal light, Cassian’s own colourful light, the one that glows on a cosmic canvas. Glows brighter and warmer than she has seen since they landed on Midas 5.

Maybe she wants to hug him.

Or kiss him.

Cross the distance, shatter that last wall as every other separation crumbles in the words between them.

Instead, she turns her hand upside down and links their fingers.

Instead, she jokes “what happened to no protecting?”

Cassian’s lips split in a grin of relief. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Which has her laughing, truly, for the first time since she’d woken.

Cassian leans back on his free hand, the elbow dipping below the sheets, and he watches her. His expression warms, his eyes bending with real appreciation, as if something has been returned to him too, something he’d been missing for an eternity.

And Jyn sits there, basking in the joy and relief, sharing his smile. She will walk again, she will fight again. She’ll have this man’s back for as long as he wants her. And they will be alright.

Now, for the first time in more than a year, she knows that to the core of her soul.

When Cassian finally moves again, when he finally murmurs “oh, I have something for you,” and circles her to rest the string and kyber crystal back against her throat, she feels the touch of his breath against her back, his fingers on her skin.

And Jyn feels the promise of change in his touch.

Chapter Text

Cassian jerks up in bed.

Darkness greets him, overwhelming, all-encompassing artificial darkness. Cassian isn’t the type to get lost or disoriented after a dream, he knows exactly where he is. The little cot in his u-wing. But it doesn’t help.

He bends over, his nose nearly hitting the heels of his feet, and grasps the roots of his fringe with both hands.

He breathes.

It doesn’t help.

He’s still standing in that white, white office, still watching Jyn smile distractedly at him. Still watching as she’d forgotten about Solis, Solis who had turned his blaster on her and shot her.

The spin of her head, the slow twirl of strings lit up by the red of the blaster bolt. The way it had coloured her entire being for a moment.

He’s never seen that before.

Jyn is inhuman on the battlefield. Even before their bond started messing with her abilities, she’d been almost like a goddess. More often than not it’d looked like she’d danced through her enemies, taking them down like they were nothing.

To the point she hadn’t even needed to guard herself.

She was always so aware.

And Cassian knows. He knows.

He knows that she trusts him. He knows this is what their partnership has done to her. Made her brighter, made her kind, cheerful, more merciful. Because she relies on him to have her back, so she doesn’t constantly have to treat the war like a dance with death.

And because Cassian knows this, it feels like his failure. It feels like he failed her.

In the darkness, where there are still no stars, the fear and self-loathing seems to overwhelm him.

“Where are you going?” Kaytu demands, a moment later, igniting from his slumbered guard at Cassian’s emergence.

Cassian who is belting his tunic.

“I’m going to check on Jyn,” he says. “You’re welcome to come.”

The droid makes a noise of derision. “She’s been out of her coma for less than twelve hours,” he says. “She would experience unnecessary stress and tension if she were met with me upon being woken in the middle of the night. Visiting her now would be highly illogical. And inconsiderate.”

The latter is directed at Cassian.

But Cassian is selfish.

“Suit yourself,” he says. Shrugs.

The door closes behind him.

It stays with him.

The image.

It haunts him in waking moments and in dreams. Another terror to add to his nightmares. He doesn’t know how many nights he’d snuck into Jyn’s ward just to sit and hold her hand between both of his, studying her face, the dimming stars over her chest, the machines keeping her alive, until the nurses woke him in the early hours, having found him leant over like a man at prayer.

To Cassian, Jyn’s name has always tasted like hope in his mouth, but in the past twenty days, whenever he’d found the strength to speak it, it had been helpless and hopeless, and like begging. Pleading with the Force not to steal her from him, not to take her where he can’t follow.

Not this.

Not now.

Not Jyn.

Even when they’d taken her off life-support, even when the bacta treatment had begun to show, even when her stars had begun to return, had stopped fading, had grown in strength, he’d had problems believing it. He’d had trouble keeping faith.

She’d been invincible.

She’d seemed immortal.

But Solis had hurt her, had nearly stolen her from him.

Only when her eyes had fluttered open in the tank had Cassian regained his hope. Only when the dream had entered reality, had he begun to have faith she would be alright.

And yet, it’d been days between her soul opening itself to him again, blooming in the space between them, and coming across her in the ward.

Sitting up.

Alive.

It still feels like a dream.

But as the days pass into weeks and she starts her rehabilitation, as she begins to eat and grow stronger again, the nightmare lessens, the image of her falling in that white, white space becomes less powerful in his mind. Replaced by Jyn.

Jyn struggling to arch her legs just right during exercises. Jyn complaining about the slowness of her progress in a water tank. Jyn laughing as she gets K2 to push her wheelchair through a hospital corridor.

Jyn. Alive.

Jyn well.

Jyn growing stronger.

Jyn.

“You’re doing it again,” she informs him.

Cassian blinks and pulls back, realising he’s staring at her.

She reaches across the distance to brush her fingers up his brow, to remove the wrinkles there, and Cassian knows it is for show, it is a silent message that he’d spoken her name too loudly in the space between them.

There are still people around them, patients, their families and friends, sitting by beds in small enclaves of social interaction. Some engrossed in a holonovel, others in conversation. Some are sleeping. Others watching the world.

But Cassian’s eyes remain on Jyn, on her slim face, her tanning skin, and the beauty of her green eyes. She’s grown healthier over the past couple weeks, has eaten better and is recovering well.

The dark circles are gone, leaving no traces of tired crescents under her eyes, and her cheeks glow with that healthy pink.

But she’s still thinner than she was.

Being stuck in bed, stuck in bacta, stuck doing basic exercises to regain the strength in her legs, means that her overall muscle growth has been stunted and she’s diminished. She’d always been tiny, but she’d carried strength in her torso, in her shoulders, that’d made it look as if she could carry a planet on her back.

Now she looks almost normal.

Almost frail.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

He brushes his fingers along the underside of her collarbone, an edge he’s never seen before, and feels the waxing muscle spring to life, as she grasps his wrist.

Her eyes grow beautifully fierce in their warning, at the insult he’s paying her by fussing. Again. Reminding him that this isn’t permanent, that whatever misplaced softness he feels at how frail she is will only piss her off.

Cassian quirks a smile and curls his nails along her skin so her eyes grow wide.

A pretty flush crawls into her cheeks, her mouth shaping around a breath of air that passes her lips silently.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Just,” she begins. Her voice trembles. And she grasps his wrist more tightly, taking a deep breath. “Just you wait until I can walk properly. I’m going to kick your ass for that.”

Enjoying just how easily he can get to her now, Cassian leans closer and smiles more widely at her. “Yeah?” he murmurs, almost purring as her fingers slip down his wrist in trails of gentle fire. Catching as her gaze slips to his lips for a moment.

Cassian wants nothing more than to cross that last distance between them, to run his fingers up her jaw, and into her hair. To pull her close and taste her.

Oh, how he wants.

He wants her with every fibre of his being.

But the edge at her collar bone holds him back, keeps him in check and reminds him that now is not the time. They are no longer isolated and without friends. The people here have adopted her as they adopted him. But Jyn is still weak, is still fragile. Is still recovering.

And if Cassian is going to cross that last boundary between them, if he’s going to ask that of Jyn, he would rather wait. Because Cassian wants to feel the full strength of her touch against his skin, wants to marvel at her invincibility once more.

Because he knows she needs all her energy and focus on regrowing what she has lost.

And there is something rather tantalising about waiting, about postponing something he wants that is within his easy reach. It feels fun, and peaceful, and he is remembering something he had long forgotten he possessed.

“Good thing you can’t walk just yet,” he teases her, twisting his posture and grasping her around the waist to haul her up.

Jyn shrieks and complains loudly, her legs swinging out in an arch.

“Wha— Hey! Cassian.”

Cassian laughs and catches her under the knees, as tiny and light and easy to carry as she has always been.

“Put me down,” she complains, her voice as loud as his laugh, and her face growing red at the attention they’re attracting.

Cassian leans down, leans his face close to hers and hums in mock-consideration. “I think not,” he says, and he begins to cross the ward.

“But—“ she flusters even more at the public show of affection. “But my wheelchair is right there!”

Cassian ignores her.

But only to the extent that when she climbs up his shoulder to hang off of it and yell “help! I’m being hijacked!” at the ward they’re leaving behind, he doesn’t stop her, only changes his hold on her to better support her unconstrained theatrics.

And he enjoys the roar of laughter they leave behind just a little more for it.

Jyn slumps down against his chest again, crossing her arms and muttering to herself. The flush is back in her cheeks, but she doesn’t get to keep the scowl for long.

Instead she smiles at her own silly behaviour.

“Where are we going, exactly?”

“You’ll see,” Cassian says.

Jyn grumbles something, and Cassian calls her out on it, picking lighthearted fights to help her forget about her embarrassment or the people casting odd looks at them as they travel down the corridor.

Cassian smiles and shrugs at them, and his and Jyn’s behaviour earns them indulgent looks and fond eye-rolls. Mutters of young love and newly weds, and poor girl to have to spend this time in the hospital. And then they turn away, having forgotten Cassian and Jyn’s faces as easy as that.

It’s an old trick: hiding doesn’t always mean you don’t stand out. Sometimes you have to be what people expect to see for them to forget you ever existed.

And Cassian doesn’t mind so much. It’s an easy role to play. Around Jyn it’s not a role at all.

Jyn, who plays along spectacularly, but lets her smile fall a little when she sees where he’s brought her.

Sanctuary Coast is built into a large cliff formation by an inland sea. It is so huge it climbs a mountain, and spreads across the water on stilts, always growing, always widening its reach to hold ever more people in its protective grasp.

The hospital, one of the truly old buildings, rises partially up the mountainside in repurposed temple rock, and its hanging gardens at the top of the building are designed as viewing platforms for the ocean and the rest of the city — a recreational space for patients to give them outside air, exercise or enjoy the calm and beauty of the environment they’re currently in.

“Cassian, I’m really not the type to…”

She falters, her fingers threading into his shirt.

“What?” Cassian quirks an eyebrow down at her.

The early sunset hour paints everything in warm yellow sunlight, but casts a halo of amber into her hair and lights up her skin in hues of gold, making her glow almost as much as the stars at her shoulder.

“You might not be the type to enjoy a sunset,” he says. “But I am. Come on.”

He finds a quiet place under a pavilion, deserted and private, and hoists her onto the railing.

As Jyn twirls on her own axis, Cassian leans against the warm stone and closes his eyes to the sea breeze.

Below and above them the city bustles on, but it cannot drown out the rhythm of the waves or the happy cry of a seagull. Gas and pollution might paint the air here, too, but it cannot steal the scent of salt.

And when he opens his eyes again, it is to a city carved out by the sun, leading the eye down to a warm landscape, light glittering in the waves and the wind catching in flags.

Jyn swings her feet back and forth in the air ahead of them, and as her eyes catch the sunlight and her soul spreads out like starlit wings behind her, he could almost believe her capable of dancing through the sky. Like a goddess of victory bringing news of peace.

The wind catches in her hair and she smiles, carefree, like a child. Like a girl that knows all the horrors of war, and loves this view the same as Cassian, exactly because she understands how precious it is.

“You were wrong,” Cassian says lightly.

When she glances down at him, her eyes are widened in a lighthearted dare to finish his sentence.

“Again?”

He exhales a laugh. “I knew you’d be the type to enjoy a sunset.”

“Well.” She hesitates. Flushes. “Yeah! But— I thought it would be more… cliche. And it’s not.”

“Not everything is like a holonovel,” Cassian agrees.

“No,” she agrees. And then she smiles. “Sometimes it’s better.”

Her green eyes crinkle as she looks down at him, and her warmth is as comforting as the caress from the sun, her beauty in that moment clearer and brighter than Cassian has ever known or experienced before. Like a cherry blossom this image of Jyn, dressed in pale colours, girlish and at peace, will be fleeting and vanish between his grasp. Soon she will know war again, soon she will have blood on her hands again. Soon she will be the fierce soldier and spy that he knows again.

And Cassian can’t wait.

It burns in his blood, the thrill that Jyn brings to his life.

But he hopes, longs for, wishes with all his soul, that one day they will see the brightness of true peace, live in it and never have to return to days of war and bloodshed.

It’s all that makes him walk forwards, when the road is an endless river of mud.

So for now, he basks in this illusion of peace, this image of Jyn. Her company. And the fact, the deep truth, that he finally understands her to her core, has made sense of her and sees her for all that she is.

They stand there, for a small eternity, enjoying the silence and the passing of time, soaking in the luxury of the experience.

When the sun dips below the horizon it is followed by a veil of pink and blue, that casts the world in a kaleidoscope of cooler colours. As it does they relocate to the bench under the pavilion.

Cassian negotiates with the heater, bringing the rusty, disused machine to life with an easy touch, and turns around to find the air already warm and golden, lit by little stars that float away from their point of origin, swirling in a gravitational field that Cassian happily returns to.

They sit there, in the silence and the warmth, watching as the sky changes colour once again. And they talk.

Jyn lightly pokes fun at some of the stories she’s heard, and Cassian willingly tells her some of the truths behind them, promising, too, to show her some of his old haunts before they leave. It’s not a happy time, but it’s the foundation for who he is and how he got involved with the Alliance, and Jyn never judges him.

“So that’s also how you met Leia?” she concludes. “Illegal pilot for an adventurous eleven year old princess?”

“Something like that. I wouldn’t have taken the job,” Cassian admits. “If it weren’t because I needed the money. You could tell who she was a mile away. Her babysitter of a jedi knight lectured me until three o’clock in the morning for letting debt rule my decisions.”

Jyn splutters a laugh, pulling herself up and leaning closer. Her face lights at the image.” You?” She demands, tugging on his tunic. “In debt?”

She looks at him as if that’s the most absurd joke he’s ever told, and Cassian exhales a laugh, tugging on one of her lazy curls in retaliatory reprimand.

“I don’t want to hear that from you, princess.”

“Hey,” she complains, kicking his boot with her bad foot. “That’s rebel princess to you.”

Cassian rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“Besides,” she says. “It’s not like I ever had a credit to my name.”

She’s right there, of course. Whatever her parents had, whatever Galen Erso holds in his possession, is beyond her reach. Not that money ever seemed to hold any power over her, especially since—

“Says the woman who stole how many millions of credits from the central imperial treasury at fifteen?”

That startles her. “I— wha— That was for Saw!” She exclaims, answering one mystery without meaning to.  She straightens properly where she’s sitting in his lap, so she comes face to face with Cassian, eyes wide and startled. “How do you know about that?!”

“Your file.”

“My file,” she mimics, tilting her head before he can poke her in the forehead for her cheek. “Besides,” she adds, her eyes drifting away. “It was closer to the billions. They accumulate wealth like you wouldn’t believe.”

Cassian exhales a small breath of awe at that, and the hand he’d meant to bully her with, slides down over the crown of her head and into her hair, fingers twining in the loose strands.

“You are something else,” he murmurs. “Maybe we’ve been using you all wrong in the Alliance after all.”

He can almost feel the purr in her throat as she beams up at him, his hand resting so close to her skin.

“Are you suggesting a caper for our next mission, master Andor?”

“Maybe,” Cassian says, still thinking about the idea of Jyn stealing billions of credits from the empire at fifteen. “I’m surprised Saw let you go.”

Jyn exhales a sigh and leans back against his side. Her face and expression is stolen from him, but Cassian can see from the tilt of her head that she’s watching the blue horizon.

The stars all around them wobble in the air, winking in and out of life, and giving away her still remaining grief.  Cassian almost regrets lingering on the subject.

“I don’t want to be the one to defend him, Cassian,” she admits finally. “I want to be angry with him. I want to have the fury to punch him if I ever see him again, but… I understand why he did it. War isn’t a place for love and it destroys families, and Saw’s cadre was built with that in mind. You can’t go on fighting if you’re broken with grief, so people kept their warmth to themselves, and some of them were… even more opportunistic than Saw.”

A shiver runs up her skin, and Cassian rubs his hand absentmindedly over her far arm, listening.

“But Saw….” She hesitates, looks up at him, her eyes wide and catching the blue light of the deep sky. “Saw was my father. My parent. Far more than Galen or Lyra. I loved him like I never thought I could love anybody, and I know—“ her breath stutters, and she has to pause to collect herself. “I know he felt the same. I know he prioritised my life and my safety to protect me, and I’m so angry he didn’t ask my opinion. But, Cassian,” she grips his tunic again, and presses her forehead against his chest over his heart. “Cassian, I understand why he did it.”

She cries.

Cassian doesn’t think he’s ever heard or seen Jyn cry over her parting with Saw. He remembers the girl in Mon Mothma’s door, the one who had desperately chased after her uncompromising adoptive father, her green eyes wild and desperate, her hand reaching out and darkness engulfing her. The flash of despair as the door had closed.

Now, silently, she cries. She curls into him on his lap and clings. And Cassian watches again as the dark night sky engulfs her stars. Cassian watches over her, listens to her silence, and pulls her closer.

Hostage.

That’s what she’d been.

She’d been a hostage to anyone who had known her last name. Anyone except himself and Mon Mothma. Her freedom dependent on their kindness and attachment to her, their willingness to guard her autonomy.

Never in her own power.

Cassian cannot begin to imagine what that must be like to carry, to be burdened with such a name and such a bloodline.

All he knows is he can only guard her and fight the war with her so that one day she will find true freedom. He can’t even offer her his name in earnest, for she still carries the blood of Galen Erso in her veins, and that connection can never be severed.

So long as he is important to the Empire, Jyn could be a tool against them. So long as he keeps building his weapons of mass destruction, Jyn’s freedom is at stake. No matter her name.

All Cassian can do for now is listen to her, guard her secrets as best he’s able, and return to the war. All he can do is his best to see the war come to an end in their lifetime, and work, in the mean time, day to day, to ensure Jyn is as strong and joyful and wild, as she can be.

To aid her in that.

When she calms, he tugs on a stray curl, and asks her to share stories of her childhood. She sniffles and rubs her eyes, and settles more fully against his chest. And as she tells him of Saw, of his teachings, and the private moments of affection, the open encouragement to use her fists and faith in her strength, her voice grows in confidence.

“Mothma thinks him harsh and uncompromising,” she says. “Too extremist for the Alliance, but I can’t help but agree with him. And he never corroded anyone’s confidence or limited our options in the field. He knew that empowering people is what would bring success.”

Cassian quirks a smile at that. He’d been there when Saw had stormed out of the early Alliance meetings, had seen their arguments in full flame, and he can hear the echoes of the old warlord in Jyn’s words.

He’s grateful to Mon Mothma for creating the Alliance, for giving them a platform to fight from. He’s grateful she created a place where people like himself and Jyn could fight together, feel heard, and have a community. But he also understands where Jyn is coming from. He understands her rage and her desperation, the almost feral need to go as far as she’s able.

Mothma never will be able to understand that, having been safe on Coruscant all those years. Mothma’s rebellion had been a choice. A choice Cassian and Jyn never truly had.

And while Saw’s origins are similar, and he could’ve continued to serve the Republic once it became the Empire, he had seen that the enemy hadn’t changed, and he’d listened and fought on unflinchingly. And Cassian is grateful to Saw for that, for giving Jyn a place and a chance, for fostering her and treating her like his own.

…even if he never spoke a word to her of love.

Cassian starts.

“Speaking of,” Jyn is saying, far away. “I need to borrow your murder droid for a while.”

He barely hears his own word of consent, barely sees her curious expression at his lack of inquiry. Instead he’s sitting on the floor of a safe house back in Coruscant, speaking in Festian and other Outer Rim dialects with a teenager, who easily jumped from language to language and understood him.

Jyn should’ve heard him.

She should’ve understood what he’d told her the day she’d woken up.

But she hadn’t.

She hadn’t heard him.

Because they never spoke a word of love or attachment in Saw’s cadre. Because she doesn’t have the vocabulary of affection that would enable her to understand him.

He knows.

Cassian knows she loves him.

He’d had twenty days alone, stuck between worrying out of his mind and focusing on work. But in-between those moments of distraction and despair, he’d had nothing better to do than to analyse her behaviour. Her joys, her fears, her priorities. The way she had acted when she’d felt she’d been striving all alone, how far she had gone on a hope she’d felt too feeble and removed from reality.

How could he not know?

In fact, Cassian finds he’s been rather blind.

If Jyn had been a mark, he would’ve seen it immediately.

If it had been anyone but Jyn, if she’d been even slightly less important to him, it would’ve stood out to him in stark relief.

But she’d been afraid of losing him. She’d been terrified of Draven, of becoming another weakness that could be used against him — Cassian sees that now. What Jyn had done had felt so overwhelming to her that she’d kept herself from acting, restrained herself from stepping forwards with confidence. Because she’d already handed over a secret of Cassians’s to a man she feared, she’d felt she’d already handed him up on a silver platter, and she hadn’t wanted to make his position even more vulnerable.

So she’d kept quiet, and she’d protected her heart.

And Cassian had been too intent on her silence, interpreting it as indecision or lack of romantic attachment, and he’d wanted to respect her.

So the joy of knowing, the elation of her being returned to him, as safe as she could be, had rushed him forwards, expressing his own affections in the only language he truly knows how, with the force of a man who had nearly lost everything — again.

And she hadn’t heard him.

Because Saw, that old fool, had never taught her how to speak words of affection.

Cassian wants to laugh.

At himself.

At their situation.

He wants to burn the entire Empire to the ground for taking that away from them, that which belongs to everyone in times of true peace — love taken for granted, affection a first language, attachment as a natural strength.

But he doesn’t do any of those things. 

Instead, he plots.

Chapter Text

The days pass and they move to a safe house. Well, it isn’t much of a safe house on Alderaan, not when its official owner is the princess herself. It’s uncomfortably huge, with a central garden, crystal and gold ornaments, and silk beds larger than anything Cassian has ever experienced.

Jyn spends her first day, floating in her updated support chair, making K2 move all the particularly posh furniture into a room and locking the door, bickering with him and causing general chaos wherever she sees fit.

“You could lift some of this yourself,” the droid complains.

“Yeah, sure, if I were a jedi, maybe,” comes her easy retort. “But not all of us can make things float on command.”

Kay straightens in irritation and lifts his hand in a signal he’s about to start arguing with that statement, hesitates, going through data, and then seems to think better of it.

“I need more data to prove my hypothesis,” he says, “but believe you me, Jyn, this argument is not over.”

“No,” she mutters at his retreating back. “Because you haven’t won it yet.”

Which has Cassian laughing at her side.

It’s oddly lighthearted, being here. Being alone. Settling into a routine. Despite having to relocate from the hospital, Jyn still has to spend large quantities of time there for check-ups, bacta treatment, and physical therapy. When she isn’t there, she’s at home doing exercises, beginning to walk once more on unsteady legs, and complaining about the four-legged contraption she has to use pre-crutches.

And they work. Cassian settles himself in the study, while Jyn restructures the indoor garden as her own private tech lab. She pleads with him, wide eyed, until he swipes a dozen data pads for her in town, having successfully argued that she couldn’t do it herself with her legs still wobbly, and Cassian giving in too easily. And before he knows it, the indoor garden is full of holographic screens and coding so complex even he can’t quite read it.

“I hadn’t realised how useful this anti-gravity chair would be for slicing,” she says, when he finds her hanging upside down one day, studying code two meters off the floor. “Much more space.”

Cassian shakes his head, determined to walk out on her and leave her to her business. But he pauses in the door, at a screen that floats too close by him to not cause a curious perusal. And finds that she’s slicing deep into imperial data.

“What are you working on?”

“Right now I’m deleting reports on and traces of Midas 5 from their servers,” she says. “I know you said you’d been preparing them to fight, but I thought I could diminish the chance of that by making the reports disappear.”

She floats down to his side to check his face for disapproval, but Cassian just smiles.

“Not a bad idea.”

“Thanks!”

“And that has taken you how long?”

She hesitates. “Three hours.”

“So what’ve you been spending all your other time on?” When she looks aside again, Cassian sighs. “Jyn.”

“You don’t have to take that officer tone with me,” she retorts childishly, sticking her tongue out at him briefly. “Solis mentioned something… about a weapon’s director working with … with my father. His name is Orson Krennick. And I thought, since I had a name I might as well do some research, see if it’s something worth sabotaging.”

“Krennick?” Cassian repeats, going through his mental files and coming up with a silver-haired white, human man. Arrogant, volatile, but with great organisation skills that have caused the Empire to develop some truly heinous weaponry. “He’s the one who…”

“Yes,” Jyn sighs, scratching her chin and looking away from him, up at her data screens. The blue light reflects in her eyes, but the stars remain, shining brightly at her side. “I recognised him from his file. The one who stole us from the separatist movement, who held us as hostage until my parents ran away. Who killed my mother. But… this isn’t about that.

“Cassian,” she says, and she looks back, her hair swinging out in fine arcs behind her, her eyes wide with concern. “They’re building something. I don’t know what it is. I couldn’t even access the data with K2’s help. It’s like it doesn’t exist, save for its silhouette in the files. Kyber crystals being moved en masse. Troopers being deployed to protect something. Funds, materials. Whole planets drained for this thing. It’s huge. As huge as a small planet.”

Cassian lets that sink in.

He rubs his chin and then his face.

Thinking, accepting, his mind moving in new directions. Growing cold with the first traces of the war intruding, the disappointment he hadn’t been prepared for.

Even with their work, even while he’d been consulting Midas 5, the house they’d settled into, the routine they’d found with each other, the peace on Alderaan, had all made the war seem very far away. Like living, cradled by a wishing star, he’d pushed it away, been lulled into a false sense of security; touching, for the first time since he were a child, what home would truly feel like.

The life he’d never imagined for himself.

The life he’d never dared dream he’d be able to survive long enough to experience.

But, of course, the empire still destroys the lives of others. Of course there’s still war. They still have a choke hold on the galaxy and his job isn’t done.

Of course, they would try to create a monster.

“Keep looking,” Cassian says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We need to pitch this to Draven and Mothma, and we need as much information as possible to get them on board.”

He turns around, his mind already back on work, shaken out of his reverie, but Jyn’s hand catches his arm, tugging him back.

And Cassian looks down to find a question on her face. A request. An offer. Unspoken, yet he knows exactly what she’s saying.

Cassian leans down and engulfs her in a hug, pressing his face into the crook of her neck and sighing out his tension when her arms circle his shoulders.

Cassian keeps track of the passing time, not so much by dates, but by the rate of Jyn’s recovery. By the third week, they’ve left the hospital to free up her bed for someone who needs it more. Two weeks later, she’s hover-chair free and walking with crutches.

By the time two months have passed, she’s begun jogging through the streets near their house, with K2 nagging in her ear-piece. The miracle that is bacta treatment never ceases to amaze Cassian.

She’d started helping him in the kitchen almost as soon as they’d moved in, cheerfully cutting vegetables or kneading a dough under his instructions, and by the middle of their second month on Alderaan, she starts stumbling him up or picking small squabbling fights, beginning her return to hand-to-hand combat in the most amusing manner she can think up — clearly.

Cassian indulges it, using what she refers to as his “sneak attack style” to help rebuild her reflexes, so her practice sessions grow into everyday life.

When he’s not working or cooking, he starts watching over her practice sessions, marvelling at how quickly she’s returning to full strength as she dances through her exercises, patterns carved into her bones like scripture.

She’s beautiful, under the Alderaanian sun, her hair tied up in a high pony tail, and a drop of sweat slicking down the bare of her back, where her tank top flies out. In the hot weather her skin has tanned significantly, stretching over quickly growing muscles, the warrior tone returning to her more and more for each day that passes, so that Cassian finds it increasingly  more difficult to tear his eyes away from her.

And then, one day, he doesn’t have to anymore. Jyn sneaks up behind him, drags him away from his work, and out into the garden, and they spend the rest of the day sparring together. She’s agile, like a cat, and the force of her blows is exactly what it had been before she’d taken the shot to her leg, but she’s unbalanced and a little out of practice, so Cassian gets a win out of her that first day, maybe for the first time in their lives.

“Not bad,” he says, as the sun begins to set, draping a towel over his neck and trying to catch his breath.

“For someone in physical therapy,” Jyn completes critically.

When he smirks at her and shrugs, she punches his shoulder and complains loudly.

But her eyes glow with their exercise and her cheeks are a healthy pink, and it is a thrill to get to watch her, to see the way she’s returning to full strength at the speed of light.

It’s been simmering under the surface, his impatience to see her recovered, but now the spark is catching full flame, and Cassian can’t stop smiling at her.

She’s happy, mischievous and thriving.

And it makes her glow with more and more vibrance.

So he opts for getting up earlier, to get all his work done (and ignore the reminders from Leia that she can only have their backs for so much longer), which opens up most of the rest of his day to aiding Jyn in her sparring practice.

They dance around each other in the warm weather, laughing and playing, or aggressive and intense. Sometimes catching lingering looks, or a hand, staying too close for a little too long. Stars dancing in open space. And it is heady, like an enchantment. Like a dream. Their reflexes and senses seem to be aligning to the point that more than ever Jyn feels like an extension of him, and Cassian of her.

She’ll pick up the book he hadn’t even started looking for yet.

Or he’ll hand her the knife before she’d lifted her hand for it.

They share smiles of secrecy, when it happens, accepting what it means for their bond: that they are a little more at home with each other.

And it doesn’t bother Cassian anymore, the way it once did. He has always understood Jyn. But until Midas 5 that had been on an almost instinctual level, something he’d taken for granted. Now he knows her, now he’s taken the time to articulate how he knows her, what he knows to be Jyn herself, where she starts and ends, and Cassian begins.

The border between her identity and his has become clear, and it puts him more at ease sharing his soul with her and receiving some of her in return.

It’s so easy.

He loves her, after all.

On the morning of her twentieth birthday, she kicks him so thoroughly into the ground, he lies there afterwards, his heart hammering in his chest, and his eyes on the clear blue sky above them. A bird flies free, singing a happy tune.

And Cassian laughs.

“You okay?”

Jyn kneels beside him, offering a hand up.

And Cassian clasps it, feeling the strength of her hold, and grins.

“Congrats,” he says, “I think it’s safe to say, you’re back at full power.”

Jyn tilts her head bemusedly. “Thanks? That’s something to laugh at?”

Cassian leans close, butting his forehead to hers for a moment, his fingers playing in the strands of her hair, and smiles. “Yes.”

The hover bike blows up dirt as it takes a sharp turn, wearing off the main road and further into the country-side. Unperturbed by the change of undergrowth, it gathers speed, whizzing up a far steeper hill.

Grass burns bright with reds and yellows from the sunset. Everything is turned to warmth here, at the end of another day, even the mountains surrounding them, and only the glaciers catch the last rays of the sun’s true light, reflecting it to cast extra light back into the world.

Jyn leans against Cassian’s back, her hands travelling from his waist to his shoulders as she rises for a better look ahead.

Even over the wind and the roar of the engine he hears the quiet whoa. The smile in her voice.

And Cassian mirrors it, knowing full well the looming apple trees and the mountains are only the first tastes of the beauty this place has to offer.

He twists a knob, accelerating suddenly, and Jyn’s complaint turns to laughter on the wind, as they speed down the next hill. And though Cassian can’t see it, he can imagine it, fanciful as he may be: A couple on a hover bike, a little too wild for the pretty landscape, drawing lines of light and gold and colour, dragging cosmos behind them.

It’s not the victory he’d sought, but with Jyn’s hands around his waist, her body pressed safe against his, and laughter in his ear, it is something. Something Cassian has never quite experienced. Free and joyful: a brief experience in a long life of fighting that shines so brightly. Normalcy: the illusion of peace, so wonderful in its very contrast.

And he drinks it in, the landscape, his partner. The warmth of the sunset, the wind against his face.

Jyn is still laughing when they finally halt further up the mountain-side.

She jumps spryly from the bike, feet landing securely in the long grass, and twirls on her heel. Her short jacket whirls out behind her, her hair shaping a halo of amber and gold in the sunlight. And she beams at him.

“You should fly like that more often, Captain.”

“And cause Kay to malfunction?”

Cassian shakes his head, and turns to the saddlebags to hide the smile he can’t keep down either.

Jyn makes a sound of exaggerated disappointment before joining him. She accepts a blanket and vanishes from his side again, and when Cassian turns around with the picnic boxes, it’s splayed out neatly under a flowering white apple tree, with rocks on each corner, accompanied by her shoes.

“Ah!” He says in warning, when she reaches for the boxes, twists his torso to keep them out of her grasp.

“I don’t see why you won’t let me touch them, when I eat your food every day,” she complains, not for the first time, pouting cutely. “Can’t get much better as it is.”

Cassian positions each box carefully on the blanket, side-eyeing her in warning, before taking off his shoes to position them neatly beside hers. 

Only then does he offer her his full attention.

“Jyn,” he says, touching the underside of her chin to get her to look up at him. “What’s today?”

The light from the dying sun makes her skin glow in warm hues, but he still catches the slight blush reddening her cheeks, and it’s only her stubborn nature that fights back her urge to be bashful, so she ends up staring owlishly up at him instead.

“My birthday.”

Cute.

“Your twentieth birthday,” Cassian says, nodding, letting her go. “If you think I’m not going all out to celebrate something like that…”

He trails off, focusing instead on unveiling the food in the boxes.

“But you always go all out to celebrate birthdays,” she counters. “Granted, you don’t usually put in the work yourself. But you sure know how to plan— wow.”

Cassian leans back, out of her way so she can see the full display of food lain out. They’re still on a budget, but Cassian knows how to make a feast out of everyday ingredients: fried and fresh vegetables in every colour of the rainbow, empanadas crisp and golden and perfect, and homemade lemonade. There’s a tiny bowl of salad dressing beside the display, and off to the side little honey cakes and brownies, decorated with white chocolate and strawberries.

“I thought you didn’t approve of sweet chocolate,” Jyn muses, her eyes already on the deserts.

“I do,” he says, nudging her away before she can pick one up. “I just think the difference ought to be acknowledged and appreciated. Especially when I’m the one who made it.”

“Show-off.”

The second best thing about cooking is the process itself. It’s the enjoyment he gets from being creative with something so important, mixing herbs, spices and ingredients artfully to bring just the right taste out. It’s the peaceful challenge, the warm reminder of home.

The best thing about it is watching the look of wonder and relish, when people he cares about, when Jyn, tastes the food he’s made for her.

Food isn’t just a means to survival. When cooked right, it brings warmth and happiness. Light conversation and banter. It’s the best kind of praise Cassian knows.

They sit there, in their own little bubble, as the sun goes down, with only the apple tree to watch over them and protect them. It extends its flowering arms far out into the sky, the wind playing gently in its leaves, but it never steals the light or the view as the stars begin to wink into place.

“You know,” Jyn says, pouring green tea up to accompany their desert, while Cassian leaves a ball of ice cream on each of their plates. “I didn’t used to care one way or another about sweets. But then, one day, Saw came back with this bitter, bitter green tea and mochi from a contact of his on Jedha, and it was so good.”

Cassian smiles, remembering her excitement when she’d seen the powder in a shop the other day.

“The contrast of bitterness with the desert will take away the nausea of pure sweets,” he explains gently. “And it’ll also enhance the flavour of the cake itself.”

When he looks up from the desert, he finds her smiling at him. Her eyes crinkle up, muted green catching the blue of the world, and there is an indulgent edge to her joy that he only recognises because he’d had the same feeling earlier.

“What?”

Cassian doesn’t know how to feel about being thought of as cute.

“You know you don’t have to take the magic out of it, right, chef?” She teases gently.

She reaches across the distance, tilting her head as she does to study his face as her hand finds its way into his hair to push it back. Her palm is warm against the top of his cheek before it vanishes into his hair, and Cassian is caught, trapped. Burned by that natural show of affection. The thrill of it.

Now.

Part of him wants to do nothing more than rush forwards in this moment, impatient and greedy. But Cassian has one thing more than anyone else, and that is patience and an eye for when the timing is just right. And what Jyn is affording him now, is something he values as much as a wild animal coming close, or a shy cat seating herself in his lap.

So instead he follows at her pace.

“I wouldn’t say I’m taking the magic out of it,” he argues gently, slowly. Shrewdly reaching up to catch her hand as it falls away and threading his fingers through Jyn’s. “But if I don’t understand something, I can’t replicate the magic and cast it myself. And I wouldn’t want anything but the finest, most delicious feast, would you?”

With that, he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her palm, keeping his eyes always on Jyn. Holding her in place with a look. Seeing the moment she catches on to what he’s implying and her face goes up in a blush like fireworks.

Her mouth falls slightly open and her eyes grow wide, and she straightens, her hair flying out.

“I—“

She closes it again.

Blinks.

Tries to make sense of it.

Sees Cassian’s smile.

“You’re terrible,” she exclaims, pushing at his shoulder with just enough force to throw his back into the blanket.

Cassian lies there, staring as turquoise bleeds into the sky, his heart still hammering in his chest at the quick change of pace. The gentle reminder of Jyn’s hand still in his, her refusal to let go.

And he laughs.

Laughs at how silly and adorable she is.

Laughs at how unpredictable she can be.

Laughs because of the thrill her company affords him, no longer empty, but full of joy.

When he climbs to a sitting position, he finds her sitting with her side to him, glaring in embarrassment at the cakes.

Yes, Jyn is unpredictable. She could break him, snap him like a twig. And yet, she sits there, sulking, with a rose hue painting her cheekbones. Pouting softly.

It fills Cassian with a sweetness he didn’t know he possessed, turning his blood to honey in his veins.

And he leans over, placing a kiss on her cheek to hide the blush and murmuring “lo siento, mi amor,” so close he can almost feel her skin under his lips with the movement.

He relishes in the fact he can speak those words without being caught, enjoys the covert sense of practice he gets, thanks to her lacking vocabulary. Last time his words had come out in a moment of raw emotion and adrenaline, on the edge of twenty days of waiting and worrying, no sleep or cohesion to his mind or emotions.

Now, Cassian will have to build up all the courage he can find, to place his heart in her hands proper.

“See,” Jyn says, as he places a small plate with a piece of brownie in her hand. “I understood the first part of that. What about the last half?”

“Later.”

He receives a look for that. “It doesn’t really mean later, does it?”

“No.”

“Well,” she says, pursing her lips and considering. “Apology not accepted then.”

Her eyes catch his, and they share a knowing smile, as if their secrets ought to be kept hidden, even from the stars emerging in the night sky above them.

They settle back beside each other to enjoy the desert. And though it had taken Cassian days to prepare the chocolate, cooking and grinding the beans into the sweet mass that has left its bitterness behind, it’s worth it to watch Jyn shiver, first at the strength of the tea, and then at the taste of the cake.

She closes her eyes in delight, her mouth curling into a smile. And when she swallows she exhales a small laugh, her eyes falling open, full of stars, looking at him as if Cassian is the marvel.

They sit there, just staring at each other, for the longest moment, silence slipping in between them as time slips away.

And Cassian thinks he wouldn’t mind cooking for her for the rest of their lives if she looks at him like this when he does.

“What?”

Cassian shakes his head and smiles. “Nothing.”

“You haven’t even touched yours.”

“I was enjoying the view,.”

He smirks as she blushes, and then barely gets to catch when her embarrassment turns to mischief, and she swipes his cake right off his plate.

So fast, starlight flickers in the wake of her movement, Jyn’s hand arches out and steals the morsel of chocolate heaven. And Cassian sits back, gaping in mild outrage, as she stuffs the entire piece, strawberry and all, into her mouth.

This time, her face doesn’t just morph into delight at the taste, but she’s trembling with the effort of holding back her laughter as she chews.

Cassian offers her a bottle of water as she swallows thickly, and it’s difficult not to smile too, to keep his glare in place.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she exclaims between breathless laughter. “Here.”

She catches her breath proper, and slides closer, holding out the half of her cake she hadn’t eaten yet.

“That,” Cassian says, eyeing it, “you’ve already eaten off that.”

He means to say that he could’ve just taken a new one from the box, but Jyn catches his eyes and widens hers, and Cassian is a little lost, a little enchanted. He should know better, of course, but Jyn is holding the morsel out for him to eat it from her fingers and Cassian is a fool in love, his heart hammering a mile away with the intimacy of the gesture.

He exhales the breath he’d been holding carefully. “Fine.”

And leans his head forwards, lowering his eyes to the cake already coming closer.

And then it wears off sharply, stars dancing mockingly in the air before him.

Cassian straightens, just in time to see Jyn gleefully pop the piece of brownie into her own mouth instead.

She smiles with real victory around the piece of cake, her eyes dancing as she preens like a kitten with her first catch.

“Jyn!”

She swallows, and then she’s immediately overcome with laughter. Her face glows with the silly joy of her own victory, and the sound dances all around them.

“You should’ve seen your face!” She exclaims. “The outrage. Master spy, Cassian Andor, outsmarted by a little girl - twice in as many mi—“

Cassian lunges and Jyn shrieks.

But she’s too busy laughing to properly flee him, and he throws his arms around her, catching her around the middle and spinning her ninety degrees. He means to bully her or tickle her, but instead he childishly catches her hand and stuffs her finger in his mouth.

And then the childishness dies.

Jyn gives a tiny hiccup of a gasp and stills where she’s sitting in his lap. In the heavy, breathless silence that follows Cassian locks eyes with her and sucks very gently once before letting her go. Her finger slips from between his lips, gracing his tongue accidentally with one last taste of her skin, slow and equally as breath taking, and Jyn stares up at him, her green eyes open, her cheeks blooming.

For a moment, he considers leaning forwards and tasting the chocolate on her tongue, too.

The hand whips out of his grasp and she curls in on herself to hide her face. It glows bright red between her fingers, and a muffled “you’re the worst” comes adorably from behind her palms.

“Turnabout is fair play,” Cassian murmurs, nudging the top of her head with his nose, letting her hide where he can’t see her face.

“You could’ve just taken another piece from the box,” she says, repeating Cassian’s own thoughts so he chuckles.

“I intend to,” he murmurs.

Cassian leans forwards, into her, to reach the box behind them. His arm tightens around her, as he tilts them both, enjoying the tantalising feeling of her breath ghosting over the column of his throat, as she gasps soundlessly, his name a whisper across her lips.

He produces two pieces of honey cake, and settles them on each their own plates, and, taking mercy on her, settles so she’s seated in the grass between his legs instead of in his lap.

She has the option now to slide away, if she wants, but Jyn accepts the plate with thanks and leans her back comfortably against his chest to eat and watch the stars. As easy now as breathing.

Cassian rests his chin on top of her head and drapes his arms loosely around her, balancing their weights so they support each other, closes his eyes and breathes in. His heart is still hammering against her back, a mirror image of her speeding heart, the thump of which he can feel even between their layers of clothing.

The sweet scent of apple blossoms and chocolate surround them, filling the air with promises of spring and early summer, as the sky begins to light above them. The stars have winked into place, the sky brightening with them in a galaxy of light and colour. Clouds float peacefully out of the way of a blue and turquoise sky, broken apart by a river of purple and pink, orange and gold. Not aurora, but cosmic clouds that float in space, just far enough from Alderaan to paint the sky so brilliantly.

Light pollution steals this image from the city, but Cassian has been lost enough to find the beauty beyond civilisation, and he listens to the rapturous silence of his favourite person in the galaxy, as she sees it too.

He smiles and tilts his head, closing his eyes and listens, to her heart, to the joy in her soul. The song that is Jyn.

And she settles a little closer, a little more comfortably into his warmth, into his heart.

Only breaking the silence to whisper “This is my favourite place in the galaxy.”

“Happy birthday,” he responds, placing a light kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you for being born.”

Cassian thinks of the two blasters he’s designed and assembled himself still left in his saddlebags, her real present, but in this moment, as Jyn trembles, he can’t think of a better gift to her than this, all of it. Peace and joy and the beauty of the world as it is. Without violence or control or intervention.

The potential in it.

It’s what she’d given him, too, when she’d washed his hands of blood.

He can’t imagine what his life would be like if Jyn had not stepped into it on that dreary day four years ago, can’t imagine the lost, hopeless person he would still be. Cassian has a mental image, of shooting an ally in the back and walking away into the darkness, trusting the cause to carry himself through that as well. Letting the cause push him through the night, down an ever thicker river of blood, until his soul eventually crumbled with the weight of it all.

But thanks to Jyn, he’ll never have to make that choice.

Thanks to Jyn, Cassian is more than just his fight for the Alliance. Cassian is remembering what he was before the war, before he lost his home. Mischief, no longer a stranger. Life, no longer beyond his fingertips. He has choices and found the power in himself to make them for himself. And he hasn’t had to abandon his righteousness or his anger to do it, as he had feared.

And he had proven her right, too, that inspiration is a great tool in his arsenal. One day, he might even find a way to use it to do the impossible, to change the Alliance from within, to change the galaxy as a result. So they will never have to go back.

And that hope, the hope that has blossomed, stout and well-nourished, is the gift Jyn had given him.

Jyn, who always follows her own heart.

Jyn, who knows to listen to people and not to power.

Jyn, who could never be tied by any chain.

Jyn.

His wild rebel.

A dream. A wish. A promise of victory manifested in a tiny, human body.

He brushes his fingers against her cheek, and she tilts, so he can see her face when he speaks.

“I love you.”

The words are simple, as simple as that very fact, but they could never betray or disguise the enormity of their meaning. Jyn’s eyes widen, and then brighten, overflowing with glowing emotion that floods into her smile.

She laughs, shortly, her body twisting entirely on its axis to sit mirror with his.

“Oh, you silly man,” she murmurs, her fingers combing into his hair. “I love you, too.”

And then she’s kissing him. Wonderfully, delightfully, joyfully, she is kissing him. And there is no moment of shock or relief, no opening flood gates to anything he hasn’t been holding back. Just this, Jyn smiling against his lips.

Jyn, leaning back to laugh briefly.

And Cassian follows her, mirrors her, his fingers, followed by his palms, sliding warmly over her skin, her throat, her jaw, until they settle into her hair. He meets her eyes for a moment, soft and enchanted, reverent in this moment, and sees the same emotion in her eyes.

And then he pulls her hair free and kisses her again.

They sit there, rejoicing in the moment, drinking each other in anew, at the top of the world. Cradled by a sky full of stars.

They spend another two months on Alderaan before Jyn is cleared for take-off. They still work or train most of the day, but there is a blissfulness to it that had not been there before, like the quiet joy of watching cherry blossoms, knowing their beauty will fall away too quickly.

Stars follow Cassian everywhere now, and he knows a part of cosmos is alway carried in Jyn too. They don’t have to say it, but it comes across in the quiet, shared smiles, the little specific questions to the other’s day, filled with implicit knowledge they should not have held.

They eat dinner. Jyn teases Kay.

Cassian checks on their u-wing and listens to Leia’s nagging over the comm.

Time trickles like water down a river, unstoppable, and unavoidable. And Cassian knows its sound, the future ticking closer. He doesn’t try to fight it, accepts it, and absorbs every detail of the moment. The comfortable table to work from, the food he won’t have time to prepare when he returns to the Alliance. The sun glistening against Jyn’s sweaty skin, crowning her hair, as she goes through her drills. Her hand in his as they sit in the garden.

The over-sized t-shirt shaded by moonlight and starlight the night she’d stood in his door.

Golden light travelling over his pillows, treading through her hair, and across her face the morning after.

The dream had stopped being an illusion somewhere along the way. It had become reality, blissfully sweet in its briefness and its promises.

And Cassian drinks it all in, every detail, every word, every touch, every fragment of light to carry him through what is to come. So that he will fight on something so much stronger than hope. So that he will fight for the future, this vision of the future.

No longer for an indescribable concept.

No longer for the cause.

For this.

For Jyn.

And, most importantly, for himself, whole and human with stars like wishes in his bloodstained hands.

So that when they finally stand before the open mouth of the U-wing once more, and Jyn turns and smiles at him, he already knows what to say.

“Ready to to go home?”

Cassian shakes his head. “No.”

The wind catches in her hair, carrying the scent of apple blossoms, stars and pale pink petals past them, into the open sky.

“But let’s go, nevertheless,” he says, smilingly offering Jyn his hand. “Come on.”

Jyn takes it, linking their fingers.

And Cassian lets home guide him into the unknown.