Chapter Text
Jyn basks in the harsh neon lights of the meeting room, and in the memory of Draven's forehead contorting.
The lines of bewilderment gathering, as he focuses on the elegant signature on the bottom right corner. The minuscule twitch of his nostril. Following his train of thought as he connects the mental image of the well-meaning senator with the prominent use of 'medical supplies' and 'relief'. There, the twitch of his flint-like eye at the conveniently unquestioned, fleeting mentions of some 'Kestrel'. At the gently underplayed 'trade partnership' and 'unique bartering position' peppered in through the preliminary mission incentive.
It couldn't have been more than a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, not with Davits. Still, she's mighty pleased, and the General can suck it up for all she cares. That's her own tribute; to Erso, who struggles with authority.
One one hand, this means they won't have backup. That might bite them in the a–
She spots out the Intelligence aide. The one who’s busy with glaring daggers at Cassian's back.
The old mindset is too close to the surface for her to care, so Jyn inclines her head a bit, beckoning; catches eye-contact over their displeased frown; and glares back, letting her teeth show under her grin. For a moment, she lets it slip—the amount of effort she has to put in to appear non-threatening.
The clever little spook might prove to be brighter than a scrap rat—they look away.
As she returns her attention to the briefing, Cassian raises a brow. He's watching her, expression still carefully neutral in such illustrious company. It's a ruse, because he clearly disapproves of her trick. Also: no, Jyn is not that antagonistic nowadays, so she’ll let this one slide.
She just needs to stop doing this and getting caught at it. Her plans count on an indefinite stay with the Alliance, so… yes, she knows, she can't afford to pick more fights with the intelligence crew. It'll only prove that she's bad influence. She huffs, letting Cassian know she got the memo.
Jyn nips the frustration in its bud before it could gnaw deeper into her bones. She wouldn't have beef with the whole lot, if only the Division wouldn't constantly single her out for missions. She deserves to work with her partner, and her loyalty and capabilities are proven enough. Cassian belongs with her.
What.
She turns that thought around, startled by the enormity of belief she finds towering behind it.
Draven grills them for furtherh details, and Cassian parries impeccably. His presence is his own, just like his time and his decisions should be. She doesn't want control over them–not that it would even be feasible. Rather, Jyn hesitates, she craves his… closeness? Attention..?
Kark, that's so much worse, she softly swears under the cover of her mind.
—o—
She only startles because Cassian’s body radiates so much heat right next to her that it has lulled her senses, apparently.
"So, not one to dirty her many hands." He nudges her shoulder.
"Acque? Never," Jyn comments. She subtly stretches her legs under the table, trying to keep her body alert. Her caff is going cold, an unappealing film forming on the top. "She used to say that her hands are for counting the money and spinning the threads, and it takes all six to make a good work of it."
She finds herself thinking almost fondly of the xexto. She was… is one of the rare, uncomplicated connections Jyn had made during the last few backbreaking years—and Acque remains just that, an associate exclusive to Kestrel Dawn. Or rather, they agreed on 'Kestrel', 'Acque', and to not ask stupid questions that would make everybody uncomfortable real quick.
Cassian props his chin in his palm, thumb drawing idle lines against the grain of his stubble. He taps a quiet, steady rhythm with the stylus he holds in the other hand as he switches between displays. She counts the tells he lets slip for what they are—signs that he’s at ease.
"A miraculous shipment," he says, while opening a finger. ‘With a good-natured gangster from the past," another digit joins the count. "Turning up conveniently just after you've joined the Alliance," Cassian laments, adding a third one. His suspicion is another tribute Jyn offers up, this time to Jyn, who is not a team-player.
Well, the xexto is 'uncomplicated' by Jyn-standards. She swiftly kicks Cassian's boot under the table.
"You've agreed to this. A bit late to poke holes."
He grunts and tries to pull away. It doesn't require a conscious thought to trap his leg by hooking her boot under his ankle. It's also frighteningly easy to do so, against her better judgement.
"I see how it is, Sergeant Erso,” he says, leaning back with mock indignation. “Haven’t even left the Base, and already playing dirty."
Her boot holds, and he’s already agreed to this mission.
"Tell me she wouldn't be either a fool, or already taken care of, if she wouldn't have tried to set me up at least once," Jyn insists.
The stylus slows in his hand, but doesn't still. "Well, it's only natural," he shrugs with a sour expression.
"Don't be coy with me. The rebellion had cut deals with much worse characters than her."
"That it did," he agrees, the edge of his chin highlighted by the worn gloom of the cantina. It always distracts from the shadows under his eyes. "And if I got the choice, I'd gladly let them choke on their own spit, respectfully."
"It's medical equipment," Jyn points out, not for the first time. It’s hard to believe there can be questions when those are on offer. "It's bacta. When did the Rebellion get so picky?"
Acque hadn't put real effort in trying to leave Jyn hanging—the act was nigh a formality at that point, just on the right side of non-insulting. It was as close to a curtsey as she'll ever get in her life.
"Maybe it's not the Rebellion that has reservations," Cassian grants, feet still resting over Jyn's own.
Their routine. A round of honesty, back and forth.
"Last job, she passed the credits through a transaction that would conveniently self-revoke. I tampered with the terminal, and added a trigger for a second transaction that moved the sum to an independent account," she recounts.
"And I imagine that made her—
"Pleased, Cassian, it made her pleased. A good associate always comes handy, and she had the money to spare. We parted ways, deal done with and over; the best pitch for any future business."
Across Cassian's features, amusement and exasperation vies for a decisive victory. This is their way. They build up this small bubble around themselves again and again. Here, she's unafraid of judgment.
"Not many sign up for a second round, Captain. I do keep tabs on the ones," Jyn grins, a foreign kind of ease making her tongue loose.
Cassian smirks, a glint of mirth in the corner of his eye. "I'll have to allow that, she has made at least one good choice."
The happy surprise stirs up a feeling that Jyn is not very good with, so she does what she knows best; deflects.
"Acque prefers root tea," she blurts out. The spy sighs, waking the datapad to add the information. The easy companionship slips from their shoulders, but her mission partner remains—steady and reliable. He runs a hand across his leg. Jyn is reminded, again, of how the implant doesn't support long hours of idle sit.
The move puts his other hand torturously close to Jyn's, so she has no other option but to focus, to get up from here as soon as they can, and well before she gets stupid ideas. They need that bacta, and everything else they can get away with.
"She drinks the Lothal variant, and I suspect that's her base of operations too, where she gets her access to the supplies. Don't know if it's lifted from the Empire or from the relief shipments, but if not us, then someone else will deliver it. It's better if we get the cut."
***
Jyn is not sure how much more of this second briefing she can stand. Any question that Cassian had dodged with Draven makes a reappearance to be answered in honesty, between the two of them.
The official dinner hours have already started, and the cantina is donning the smell of mixed spices and reused frying oil, re-warmed protein and tired bodies. The more she wrestles with her brain, the more her shoulders slump. Cassian perches like a gargoyle next to her, unrelenting. She's not slumping closer as her energy dwindles. She does not. Just like Cassian hadn't slid closer still to hear her mumbling clearly, and definitely hasn't huddled up to her side to provide support as the minutes crawl. From time to time, a slight flinch tells her exactly how well his back is faring.
The datapad keeps blinking in her face with all the unanswered questions. Datapads can't laugh at her, can they now?
"Cassian, we should go."
She is bad at having things. They just… just slip through her fingers. Too rigid, too possessive. She digs her claws in, even when Jyn knows most things don't appreciate that kind of treatment.
She recognises the whistle, but rather than that, she reacts to Cassian flinching violently; Jyn springs and intercepts, and when she looks, she's holding a jogan in her palm. The fruit is purple, smeared with white lines: just like the ones in today's fruit tray option.
"That again…" she sighs with the fatigue of a hundred years.
She eyes the impressions her fingertips leave behind on the purple skin. That grip she has on the things she'd yearned for, that is one of her weaknesses she knows well. She studies the fruit in her hand, and listens to the expectant silence of the next table.
A rigid stance. An inflexible hold. That's the kind of opening she'd use against someone without a second thought. But that alone won't stop her from yearning. She shouldn't have the things she craves, so what? There is something that she's way better at…
Cassian is studying her expression, and she spots the dimple he gets when he tries to suppress a smile.
She can want.
And well, dank farrik-
"May your ass give birth to blazing purrgils," she barks; and the neighboring table erupts in hollering and laughter,
—does she want.
***
Jyn wants something fierce, it's clearly written across her features, and that has Cassian's attention.
And so, the sharp whistle from behind catches him off guard. His muscles jump to attention, clamping down on his spine. The pain flares with a stab, and he has to bite down on the grunt. Something flashes in his periphery. Before he could react, a small hand has a deathgrip on the object.
He throws a glance towards the sound instead—Pathfinders. Of course.
But his focus returns to Jyn, as she sits back with a huff. His mind is having a field trip, all without his approval. Replaying the moment: the way her spine curves as she reaches is captivating. His brain runs a quick scenario of her continuing the arc of the movement to its natural conclusion. It should be a brutal hook, planted… most likely into someone's larynx.
There are other possibilities, of course. The costal cartilage, or even the solar plexus, with some creativity and a smaller opponent…
…or the nose. That could work, her reach is long enough…
…or a shoulder, a wall, arching against the pressure so beautifully…
Cassian exhales, pacing his breath. He keeps getting distracted, with her so close. Those are quite different scenarios. Ones he takes into account rather reluctantly.
Those mean nothing. The mind of a spy, trained as thoroughly as he was, is nothing if not pragmatic. This is not the time to figure out his newfound captivation with danger and violence.
Jyn, his thoughts ring with all the added emphasis as she eyes him sharply from under her bangs, caught weighing her options between taking a bite or retaliation.
It's Jyn, his mind insists. One of the newly appointed centers of his world, fire and strength and want. He can't help it. He feels the smile escape his hold, a private thing between them, and her eyes flash, gold flecks on green. The well-enunciated string of profanity rolls from her tongue with ease, to join the rolling bickering of the mess hall.
"Lovely as a ray of nubian sunshine!" the men at the next table laugh.
"The nubian sun doesn't have to grace your face, you bloated beldon. This hardly counts as compensation," she grumbles.
"Well guys, see how all my fingers are still intact? That's what l-o-v-e looks like, I keep telling you," the pathfinder mumbles jovially to his neighbor, whose face is painted with alarm.
"Stars, do not tempt me," Jyn grunts.
Cassian's not sure what's going on with his head then and there. "Having trouble keeping your hands to yourself, Sergeant?" he asks quietly, laden with intent. Mierda, intent for what?
"Shouldn't I defer to my commanding officer in such a case, Captain?" Jyn retorts offhandedly, a glint to her eyes, and there's danger here, deep like a chasm, like falling—and he can't figure out where the fear went, but it's somewhere far, far away.
Jyn brings out all of his impulsiveness, something he thought to have left behind by now. Cassian counts, breathes, and recollects himself, again.
"You pull the most extravagant attention," he offers to defuse.
"Lazerbrains, all of them." She nods towards them, catching up with his shift in tone. That's a thing Jyn does remarkably well—keeping pace. Always.
"Doesn't seem like a first time," he remarks instead of wondering. He'd assumed they were well over the period of open hostility with the ground crew, but he could be wrong. He won't leave her to her own devices—for everyone’s sake.
"Some unpolished genius came up with the idea, and their whole platoon wants the rookies to catch on."
"Fishing for gratis hand-to-hand lessons?"
"Nah, as if…" she sighs, and trails off; weighing her words. In the end, she shrugs. "They hope I'll curse out the bad luck."
Oh, and how he can't fault them for that belief, even when he knows the odds. He can get the fascination, and the desperation too. To have just a flicker of her rage embedded with him, to safeguard his steps…
He can't fault them at all. Jyn's accepted here, and accounted for—and it's a startling, precious realization, that makes his breath come lighter.
He'll take it. Any contingency he can get, he'll take it.