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The kitchen’s table was made out of smooth marble, pearly white, without a single impurity of calcite or colored mineral. It was a minor detail that revealed everything he needed to know about the home’s inhabitants. Even with the dull light, his eyes trace over the surface, and a gloved finger comes to contact with the stone. Hypothetically, it should be cold, smooth. He can’t feel it through the leather. In this corner of the galaxy, in this system of oceans, marble is rare, and pure marble is a dream. A rich man's dream.
There´s a whole cabinet of porcelain china, blown glass with trickles of frozen orange, incrusted bowls that shine of tiny glazed jewels. The carpet feels soft underneath his boots, and though he made sure not to leave any mud traces, it feels sinful to even look at such pristine clean materials.
The house of his childhood only comes back to him in dreams, occasionally, and it is nothing like the likes of this one. His home was muddy, messy, and earthy. It was beautifully warm, stuffed with work and effort, and eventually suffocated by smoke and fire. Cassian rarely returns to the memories willingly, but sometimes he lets himself sleep. Everything here is clean and pure and dripping of excessive credits.
If he hadn't been ordered to be invisible, he might have just let one of the silver vases fall, just to see if it hurt him to break such a costly item.
There's a hall full of doors, and his boots step silently on the polished floors as his back presses against the walls. The security systems were long deactivated. His foot stumbles against something, and he finds himself staring at a miniature wooden figure, laying on the floor. It feels out of place, considering every ornament is carefully standing on its designated space, like a museum.
Odd.
A few more calculated steps later he’s pushing the door to the main chamber open and swinging his blaster in position. The room is as decorated as the hall, and on the bed a long figure is outlined by sheets he guesses are silk. He raises his blaster and runs his finger against the gas cartridge- fully charged.
Everything is ready. Beneath him, the governor lets out a nasal snore, and his nose contorts before relaxing, letting out a breath. His death will be painless.
He’ll be invisible.
Cassian positions his gun on the man’s temple, closes his eyes, and makes himself numb. Outside, the wind vanishes, and the world goes still.
He pulls the trigger.
The night remains quiet, though the temperature of the room seems to have dropped a few degrees at the sudden loss of life. Carefully, he glances at the floor. No visible foot prints or stains. The gun silencer only emitted a popping cap sound, and there is no blood spillage except for the pillow. There's no evidence against him. He ought to sprint out, close the window behind him, and report back to homebase.
A door opens with a creak and his blaster is aimed at lightspeed at it. A small, choked gasp echoes throughout the room.
A female mirialan.
The light of the dual moons, which filters through the crevice of curtains, illuminates her face. The green tone of her skin shines.
Neither of them dare to move, one out of fear, the other out of the billions of neurons snapping together to form a plan. Draven stated that tonight only the governor would be here, the report stated that the woman was not a partner but a mistress that came and went, that there were no children present. But facts state otherwise. The eyebags on her face, the band on her finger, the wooden ARC trooper, discarde outside in the hall, the extra door, the taller chair- it all states the possibility of family.
A family he just destroyed.
The woman’s eyes trail down to where her husband lies dead. His lips have parted open with a drizzle of saliva trickles to the pillow, which is now darkened with blood. The red turned to black in the opaque room.
She lets out a dry sob and Cassian hesitates.
First mistake.
His gun is still pointed at her, but he pulls his hand away from the trigger, observing her. Both of her hands are held in front of her. and the nightgown flows a little more translucently than the curtains. She’s still a witness, and she’s seen his face, but he still freezes as she speaks up, not meeting his eyes and falling to her knees.
“My children-”
He doesn't kill children, but he has hurt them before. He rips their parents away, and with it their future.
(Later, he’ll think of how they might cry when the news reaches them, when the local authorities find two corpses in bed, when they see the footsteps on the white carpet. He’ll be long gone from the system by then.)
His second mistake is glancing at the door, which is still open. From the angle of peripheral view, he can still see the discarded toys.
One movement later he watches as the silver of a viroblade lunges at him.
Before she can bring it to his face it tangles against the translucent curtains, slicing through the material. Her first mistake.
It doesn't give him any more than a few seconds, but it's enough for him to roll to the side and push his knee harshly between her shoulder blades. Her jaw knocks loudly against the drawer and a few things clatter, but she’s quick to hoist herself up.
But not quick enough. By the time she slams her elbow against Cassian’s side, his arm is already around her neck. He pulls against him and takes a deep breath. The mirialan struggles against him, and her bare feet kick and kick until the whole cabinet topples to the side. Her nails tear at his arm until the cloth of his jacket gives away and he feels them raking his skin bloody, but he doesn't move an inch. Slowly, life drains from her, but he doesn't pull away. Even when her legs rest against his own, arms slumped to the sides, and her head comes to rest against her chest with two wide eyes staring at nothing, he keeps the chokehold.
The light flickers, and with two fingers he checks her pulse. Silence.
It takes him well over half an hour to arrange the flat to his liking. An open window, footsteps of a size different to his lining the hall with mud, an open safebox, two more shattered vases. He feels nothing as he breaks them.
Though he would have prefered to leave the governor's body intact, he makes himself shuffle the sheets to make the death look violent. He doesn't touch the mirialan. She lies on her back, her eyes still wide and her mouth barely open, with her hair forming a black halo on the floor. It accents the tattoos on her face and he wonders, for a moment, what she was like as a mother.
Three clicks later he’s already by the window of the living room.
Cassian doesn’t look back. The sun has begun to rise over the horizon, illuminating his face as he slips into the shadows of a city that still sleeps.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sometimes, he had dreamt of his childhood home. Now, he dreams of that apartment. His mother sits on the couch, and it's an odd sight to see.
She’s wearing her cotton skirt and her shawls embroidered with flowers, and in her hands she’s knitting a matt out of maguey fiber. It falls against the pristine white carpet, and though they’re both made for the same purpose, one feels familiar while the other has the superficial smell of industry.
He wants to wake up.
His boots are fossilized to the ground.
“Mamá.” he asks, and it feels childish and heavy on his tongue, so he bites it and stays silent.
Would you protect me, Ma?
He can't stop himself, and as though controlled by strings his rifle comes to life and slowly cocks itself upwards. Through the scope, he sees her eyes glance at him, and for once they’re full of sorrow. The red laser dot fixes itself on her temple.
She smiles. Beneath her feet, a puddle of crimson begins to grow on the white carpet.
A tear slips his cheek.
He pulls the trigger.
- - - - - - - - - -
Cassian doesn’t awake with a scream.
Bodhi usually does, and he tends to scramble around with choked noises that wake the others up. Cassian will hold him against his chest while Jyn presses herself against his back, letting her hands get lost through his hair, soothing him into tranquility before they talk about the nightmare.
Jyn, on the other hand, tends to jump herself awake and scramble as far away from the bed as possible. They’ve learned not to touch her when this happens, to approach on their knees, to let their movements be predictable. She has to see their hands to know they’re not enemies but lovers, and they will wait until her eyes soften in recognition to be able to bundle her up in blankets and arms and sweet murmurs.
Cassian doesn’t scream himself awake, or make a noise or movement. He freezes, stares into the dark ceiling. He drowns in silence.
It was more of a commodity for him before, when he shared bunks and barracks with fellow agents. No noise meant no complaints from pilots or strategizers. When they did move him to a wing with other intelligence officers, nobody spoke of night terrors. The silence was a form of solidarity.
When he met Rogue One, he became more attuned to the noises his people made, and apparently they did the same.
When he married Bodhi and Jyn, he no longer had to be quiet.
At least they insisted he didn’t have to. It was still a reflex of his, like a code implanted into his brain. To stay silent, to gaze around the room without moving. Eventually, his shifting will wake his wife or his husband, and they’ll snuggle closer and wrap themselves around him in wordless comfort. It felt terrifying, and now it felt wonderful.
Tonight, though, neither wake. Cassian lets himself quiet his breathing. Under the covers, he feels himself suffocate, but his veins feel frozen. Besides him, Bodhi’s snoring softly against the pillow, with strands of hair running over his nose. Jyn is hugging his torso, her face obscured by the same dark hair. He would have smiled at the sight.
Once his breathing is less labored and his limbs begin to warm up, Cassian slides himself out of bed. Their chosen home isn’t bound for extreme weather, but his bones still ache at the cool temperatures of dawn. The floor is cold against his feet as he makes his way towards the kitchen. He fills a glass with water, and takes a sip. It's refreshing.
Cassian stares at the window, watching the two suns begin to rise over the horizon. A few meters away shufflin begins in their bedroom. He goes over to sit down on the counter, waiting until barefeet trot over to the kitchen.
“You didn't wake us.” A pair of lips press a kiss against his temple. Bodhi’s hair covers his eye as he returns a small peck back. Bodhi smiles at him before turning back to the kitchen to begin breakfast.
You two looked very peaceful. He could say.
I don’t want to be a nuisance, even if it sounds ridiculous.
I killed my mother.
(He didn't kill his mother. In fact, now that he’s awake he can't quite picture her face, but it doesn't matter)
Cassian says nothing. Today he’ll be silent.
There’s an invisible calendar in his brain that marks certain dates of relevance. Not for everything- if everything he ever did was marked, he wouldn't sleep or eat or even survive. But there are still times where something marked him as a person. Oddly enough, the governors assasination had nothing of relevance. He did much worse and much better than that. It was a clean kill, by his standards. It was mindless.
But today he remembers the day as some form of mockery, karma. The universe likes to play jokes on him that way.
On days like this, Cassian has no tongue or throat. He might vomit if he tries to speak. He has, in the past. Sometimes, he might manage a word or two, decent good mornings and good afternoons, or courtesies. Just enough to let the others know he’s very much alive and physically well.
It doesn't reassure Bodhi much, because from the stove he feels a direct gaze scanning his side profile. The man clicks the stove off and two strides later there’s arms hugging him from behind. Bodhi doesn't know what today means, but Cassian still lets his shoulders relax.
He tries to give him a reassuring smile and leans against Bodhi’s chest.
“Hey, I know-” Bodhi cups his jaw with one hand and props it up for him to meet the other's eyes. “I know today is a quiet day but we can still talk about it tonight. Or tomorrow. It can help.”
Perhaps it will. He’s felt better before, after slowly sharing his own night terrors. Cassian only nods and nuzzles forward against the crook of Bodhi’s arm. His husband makes out a small noise of satisfaction and cards his fingers through his hair.
“I’ll be back to make dinner, but I think Jyn is going to stay.”
Jyn’s going to town today, it’s marked on the calendar by the entrance.
“You’ll be okay?”
Cassian nods, and Bodhi pulls away. He’ll be fine, he’ll make himself busy. A few minutes later Bodhi places a bowl of something in front of him, and his stomach churns with nausea. Cassian doesn't look at it, and instead watches as the sun illuminates the kitchen through the window.
- - - - - - - - - -
Jyn is not domestic. She’s always doing something, whether it be fixing things with Bhodi or tinkering her way around town, or farming.
Bodhi is domestic, but he also loves the stars. At home, he cooks and he cleans, and when he’s not home he’s flying all around their planet and away.
So Cassian’s the housewife, the homekeeper. He spends his days choosing a room and cleaning nooks and crannies, peeling away the wallpapers, painting, covering the floors, fixing cables. When there is instead a lack of rooms, he measures, plans, builds. He sews clothes together, knits new scarves for the winter, catalogs the spices tha Bodhi brings from his trips.
He walks around their property, he keeps a garden. He waits for them to come back.
They're comets, and he's a dying star. They orbit him, and they never leave, and they move and act and let energy off in forms of heat and love and passion.
During winters, when his leg and lower back ground him to stiff movement around the house, sometimes even to their bed, Bodhi will rub salve on his skin and Jyn will force herself to stay by his side. Neither one minds, and they'll read together or watch the rain outside.
It's a peaceful life.
Cassian decides that today, he’ll clean. K-2 is with Bodhi on the run, and he doesn't want to walk all the way up to the temple. There are many supplies stashed away in the closets of the hall, and though nothing is particularly dirty, he needs to concentrate. One task at a time. If he doesn't focus on reality, his nightmare will come to life. It hasn't happened often in the last few years, but today feels like a bad day.
Bad days can get dangerous. Or they can be perfectly normal.
Once the floors are mopped, he takes out a sewing kit. Then a cleaning unit. He scrubs the soles of boots for a good half hour.
He makes a meal. There are leftovers in the fridge, but after he’s made himself eat the clock is still ticking and Jyn isn't home. He pulls up a digital cookbook and mindlessly scrolls through it. His first choice requires bantha milk and eggs, and they only have milk, and the second recipe is written in Jedhan. He might have translated to delight Bodhi, but he’s tired and his mind is woozy. He picks the third recipe.
By the time he pulls the casserole out of the oven, the sky outside is illuminated with lightning and the house becomes brighter than the orange pallor of their lanterns.The light filters through droplets of water as it begins to rain, and in the corner of his eye the white ivory of the carpet flashes.
Jyn’s newest addition is a stark contrast to the rest of the furniture.
It’s made of some sort of animal pelt. It’s been lying there for the past week, but today is today, and today years ago he saw the same thing decorating another home. Cassian grips the table, but his boots somehow transport him all the way to the edge, stopping before the heel of the shoe touches the fabric. It's too white. It was too perfect.
He had killed the governor in his bedroom, but sometimes he'd wonder what his blood would look like on the carpet back then.
What would the blood from all of his victims look like here, now?
“Cassian?”
Perhaps all the memories made his senses dim, or Jyn entered through the backdoor. He feels her presence to the side, but she’s not touching him.
Her eyes follow his. “I’ll change the carpet”
Does he really look that miserable?
“You don't have to.”
“It's an ugly carpet.”
His cheeks are wet. Tentatively, he touches his skin with shaking fingers.
It's a normal carpet, but an ugly memory. He keeps staring at it, and suddenly he’s staring at nothing at all. Jyn’s eyes are on him and he can suddenly feel how her expression floods with panic. He’s exhausted his word count for the day, maybe for the whole week, and says nothing. Two seconds later her arms are around him and she angles him away from the carpet.
He clings to her like a lifeline.
Even when crying, he’s mostly silent, and his shoulders shake noiselessly under her arms, face buried against her collarbone. She smells of mud and wood, and a tang of mint.
He doesn't stop shaking as Jyn positions them to sit on the couch. It faces a long wall of crystal that gives view to the forest. He curls his knees up to his chest and his head collapses on her lap. Her fingers tread through his hair, massaging the scalp lazily.
Outside, the rain keeps pouring.
- - - - - - - - - -
A cup is placed against his lips and he takes a sip. Tea. It’s sweet.
The rain hadn't stopped when Jyn finally got up to fix them something warm. Cassian stares at the liquid, and Jyn bumps her shoulder against him as she sits back down. He lets out a soft noise and rests his head against her side. Bhodi will be here soon for dinner, lively with chatter, and he’ll have to make sure the myth hydreas haven't drowned.
Jyn glances at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Not really, no, and they’re both terrible at verbally explaining emotion. The sentimental part of their trio is still missing. Instead, he slides down the couch until his head is resting on her lap again, and she continues pressing patternless motions through his hair as she stares out the window.
“It’s okay. But if you want to later, I can always listen.”
Bodhi said the same thing this morning, but it doesn't feel as heavy now.
As if on cue, the front door creaks open, followed with a shouted greeting and the sound of Bodhi shrugging his boots off. Cassian doesn't move up, just watches the raindrops form paths on the glass as the footsteps grow louder. Jyn cranes her neck to accept a kiss and they exchange hushed whispers. He can feel Bodhi’s eyes on him, can even breath how quickly his concern piles up. Moments later his husband is on the couch next to him, and Cassian looks up to meet two wide dark eyes. Bodhi offers him a smile and he makes the effort to raise his head from Jyn’s lap, only to collapse against the other man.
Bodhi’s hands are more calloused than Jyn’s. Though an extensive amount of operations and bacta tank dunks healed his burns, Cassian still feels the rough edges of his left palm as they trace his jaw, his nose, behind his ear.
Together they watch the rain fall outside until the sounds dilate into one smooth line and Cassian closes his eyes.
(He does tell them later, in a near whisper as they lie in bed together. Head buried against Bodhi’s chest this time, with Jyn pressed against his back. He describes the nightmare, the actual events, his mother.
He misses her.
Though he doesn't cry this time, huddled against Bodhi’s chest, Cassian lets himself fall apart.)