Impulse was… too many things at once. Kiss her cheek, embrace her, kneel before her and weep… All he did was lightly squeeze her arm, give a nod, and turn where she'd pointed. He resisted looking over his shoulder on his way because that was ludicrous.
That's just love
The freighter was… rustic (he really had to ask Jyn about it, at some point when the issue cracked the top ten) but the lav facilities were adequate and familiar. If he were thinking strategically, he'd wash his skivs in the sink before showering himself… but he couldn't stand being like this a moment longer. He tore off everything. Where normally he'd stack his things at regulation angles, instead he left it all in a heap; and stepped into the shower under a scouring hot stream.
Take it all away. The sand of Scarif. The blood of everyone he'd taken there. —No, no, that should stay with him forever. His own blood, then, at least. The sweat and stink of combat, not that that ever really left either. The damnable sand. He would have stayed there until his skin was raw, except he was so anxious to get back to Jyn.
He drip-dried while he did what he should have done first and washed his skivs in the sink. Of everything he was wearing, they stood the only chance of being salvageable. They were military-grade and made to be lived in, so they were antibacterial, stain resistant, fast-drying—just not that fast. (Why he should have done it first.) He wrung them out and left them hanging on the grab bar.
His old tunic might have been saved if not for the scorch marks. Thanks, Man in White. Come to think of it… Cassian wasn't the best fan of his own reflection, but now he wiped away some of the steam and leaned over the sink to examine his shoulder. —Yes, in the hollow of shoulder and breast, a new shining blaster scar. He'd healed, but not without a mark. Well, that was nothing to what the man had done to Jyn. Cassian was glad he'd given some back to the mudcrutch. He shuddered to imagine if he'd arrived at the top of the tower just seconds too late.
Jyn's alive. She's alive. Go to her.
Cassian wiped out his reflection again and turned to find the towels. He wrapped one around his waist and draped another around his shoulders. At the moment, it was as covered as he could get. He didn't think Jyn would be shocked by anything he had—anatomy being the least of it; they could compare scars some other time—but he didn't want to impose anything on her. Not ever.
The door opening released an embarrassing amount of steam. So much for military quickness. Cassian poked out his damp tousled head and called, "Jyn?"
no subject
That's just loveThe freighter was… rustic (he really had to ask Jyn about it, at some point when the issue cracked the top ten) but the lav facilities were adequate and familiar. If he were thinking strategically, he'd wash his skivs in the sink before showering himself… but he couldn't stand being like this a moment longer. He tore off everything. Where normally he'd stack his things at regulation angles, instead he left it all in a heap; and stepped into the shower under a scouring hot stream.
Take it all away. The sand of Scarif. The blood of everyone he'd taken there. —No, no, that should stay with him forever. His own blood, then, at least. The sweat and stink of combat, not that that ever really left either. The damnable sand. He would have stayed there until his skin was raw, except he was so anxious to get back to Jyn.
He drip-dried while he did what he should have done first and washed his skivs in the sink. Of everything he was wearing, they stood the only chance of being salvageable. They were military-grade and made to be lived in, so they were antibacterial, stain resistant, fast-drying—just not that fast. (Why he should have done it first.) He wrung them out and left them hanging on the grab bar.
His old tunic might have been saved if not for the scorch marks. Thanks, Man in White. Come to think of it… Cassian wasn't the best fan of his own reflection, but now he wiped away some of the steam and leaned over the sink to examine his shoulder. —Yes, in the hollow of shoulder and breast, a new shining blaster scar. He'd healed, but not without a mark. Well, that was nothing to what the man had done to Jyn. Cassian was glad he'd given some back to the mudcrutch. He shuddered to imagine if he'd arrived at the top of the tower just seconds too late.
Jyn's alive. She's alive. Go to her.
Cassian wiped out his reflection again and turned to find the towels. He wrapped one around his waist and draped another around his shoulders. At the moment, it was as covered as he could get. He didn't think Jyn would be shocked by anything he had—anatomy being the least of it; they could compare scars some other time—but he didn't want to impose anything on her. Not ever.
The door opening released an embarrassing amount of steam. So much for military quickness. Cassian poked out his damp tousled head and called, "Jyn?"