But he's alive. Everything, it seems, comes down to that, for reasons Jyn can't and doesn't want to put a name to, due in part to all of the bodies left in their wake, the members of their team who weren't half as lucky as they were and whom they wouldn't be here without, and in part — maybe that much more so — because behind her eyelids, he never, ever is. He hits the railings and doesn't get back up, or falls against her before they can make it out to the shore together, a million what ifs playing out in her imagination, distorted into something even more horrific than what they actually endured. She's awake now, not dreaming anymore, but she still can hardly stand to close her eyes for what she might see behind them.
So she keeps them open, studies the line of his jaw and his throat instead, the thin sliver of a view that the position she's tucked herself into allows, and nods, forehead brushing his chin. She doesn't need to look at the screen to know what's happening, or that he's right about it. The sound alone is practically atrocious, and perfect for it.
She would watch nothing else for the rest of her life, no matter how long or short her borrowed time might prove to be, if it meant him staying alive. She'd die herself, probably, before saying so, when there's no rational explanation for such a thought.
"Don't tell me you're surprised," she replies, wry. "You're the one who said there'd be nothing good." She almost leaves it at that, almost lets herself be lulled into a sort of half-sleep by the sound of the ridiculous dramatics in the background, but she can still feel his heart beating under her hand, still picture him dead in her dream and nearly dead on Scarif, and the rest spills out of her before she can try to stop it. "I'm glad, you know," she says, shifting a little after letting him hold her closer, because apparent as it might have been, she's not sure that she ever actually put it into words earlier. "That you're alright."
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So she keeps them open, studies the line of his jaw and his throat instead, the thin sliver of a view that the position she's tucked herself into allows, and nods, forehead brushing his chin. She doesn't need to look at the screen to know what's happening, or that he's right about it. The sound alone is practically atrocious, and perfect for it.
She would watch nothing else for the rest of her life, no matter how long or short her borrowed time might prove to be, if it meant him staying alive. She'd die herself, probably, before saying so, when there's no rational explanation for such a thought.
"Don't tell me you're surprised," she replies, wry. "You're the one who said there'd be nothing good." She almost leaves it at that, almost lets herself be lulled into a sort of half-sleep by the sound of the ridiculous dramatics in the background, but she can still feel his heart beating under her hand, still picture him dead in her dream and nearly dead on Scarif, and the rest spills out of her before she can try to stop it. "I'm glad, you know," she says, shifting a little after letting him hold her closer, because apparent as it might have been, she's not sure that she ever actually put it into words earlier. "That you're alright."