True as it might be, Jyn doesn't tell him that she wishes he'd listened to her, too. It would feel needlessly cruel now, like salt in a wound — maybe not one that she inflicted in the first place, but certainly one that she worsened. They can't go back and change it. She can't think to grab her father's message as they ran out of the crumbling catacombs on Jedha or unsay any of what she said to him on the shuttle away from Eadu any more than he can decide sooner to believe her or tell her what he'd actually been sent to do. What happened is immutable, set in stone now. All she can do is try to make as much right as possible.
It's not an easy thing to consider for someone who's more used to running away from unpleasant situations than working through them, who's better with her fists than with words. Apologies don't come easily; she has too little experience with them, at least the genuine, serious kind, the sort Cassian deserves. He hurt her, yes, and the fact of that is impossible to get around, as is the grief that had felt so overwhelming, made her irrational and angry. None of that changes what she did in turn, or the effect it had, or how she feels about it now. She hadn't known him then, not really. Arguing with him was a bit like fighting with a blindfold on. Practice and proximity could give her a good idea of how and where to strike, but she couldn't know until after the fact just how much damage she'd done. Apparently it was a lucky hit, a knife between ribs or in the soft unguarded joints of armor. With a stranger, she wouldn't have cared. With Cassian, then, she at least told herself that she didn't. Knowing him like she does now, and that she could only have reinforced beliefs he has about himself that she would give anything to change if she could, it matters a hell of a lot.
"I get it," she says, looking down at her lap again. "Why you did what you did. I probably wouldn't have believed me, either. Or trusted me." He did believe her, finally, when it counted. Even knowing how things ended, that still means a hell of a lot. She pauses a moment before carrying on, stilted and clearly unsure of herself but determined to get this out. "I mean it. I... I shouldn't have said what I did to you. It was too cruel, and it wasn't fair to just take it out on you."
She shrugs, a thin, grim smile curving her mouth, one without any mirth or lightness behind it. "I guess maybe we were both wrong about some things."
no subject
It's not an easy thing to consider for someone who's more used to running away from unpleasant situations than working through them, who's better with her fists than with words. Apologies don't come easily; she has too little experience with them, at least the genuine, serious kind, the sort Cassian deserves. He hurt her, yes, and the fact of that is impossible to get around, as is the grief that had felt so overwhelming, made her irrational and angry. None of that changes what she did in turn, or the effect it had, or how she feels about it now. She hadn't known him then, not really. Arguing with him was a bit like fighting with a blindfold on. Practice and proximity could give her a good idea of how and where to strike, but she couldn't know until after the fact just how much damage she'd done. Apparently it was a lucky hit, a knife between ribs or in the soft unguarded joints of armor. With a stranger, she wouldn't have cared. With Cassian, then, she at least told herself that she didn't. Knowing him like she does now, and that she could only have reinforced beliefs he has about himself that she would give anything to change if she could, it matters a hell of a lot.
"I get it," she says, looking down at her lap again. "Why you did what you did. I probably wouldn't have believed me, either. Or trusted me." He did believe her, finally, when it counted. Even knowing how things ended, that still means a hell of a lot. She pauses a moment before carrying on, stilted and clearly unsure of herself but determined to get this out. "I mean it. I... I shouldn't have said what I did to you. It was too cruel, and it wasn't fair to just take it out on you."
She shrugs, a thin, grim smile curving her mouth, one without any mirth or lightness behind it. "I guess maybe we were both wrong about some things."