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cassian andor

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Though Jyn doesn't think, at first, that she'll be able to sleep at all, after what was apparently days of it, it turns out that that part comes easily enough. It's what comes after that that doesn't. When she sleeps, she dreams, and when she dreams, she's back on Scarif, Cassian growing weaker beside her, the bodies on the ground now those of their comrades, their friends. In person, she never actually saw them die to get confirmation of it, but their silence over the comms had spoken for itself. She sees them now, Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze, bloody and burned and broken because they were stupid enough to follow her, because her father built a monstrosity for the Empire, because all those years ago, he tried to run and they found him again.

She's sitting in a bunker, waiting and waiting, but light shines through the hatch, splits it into pieces, and she knows it's the Death Star, that they've found her, too. This time, there's no peace in it, no warm body against hers, because Cassian is already dead. All of them, gone because of her. Everyone she's ever cared about and plenty more besides. Galen Erso built a planet killer, but what is she?

Her father's creation swallows her whole, and this time, every inch of her is on fire, burning her to ashes. My Stardust, she hears in her head. It's me, she'd told Cassian, the two things her father made inextricably intertwined, she and the Death Star both causing nothing but destruction.

She wakes with a start, remembering that she isn't alone before she's even processed where she is. In one swift, sudden movement, she tugs the pillow out from under her head and presses it to her face instead, using it to muffle the gasps of air she has to force into her lungs. The instinct is an old childhood one, going back to her days with Saw and not wanting to admit to the weakness of nightmares among his company of soldiers.

Only when her breathing levels out and her pulse slows does she move the pillow again, letting it rest against her abdomen as she lies flat on her back on the thin mattress, staring up at the ceiling and taking everything in all over again. The room is still dark, the hallway outside nearly silent. If she had to guess, she'd say it's still probably the middle of the night, no light coming in from behind the re-closed shades. It's a relief and it isn't. She doesn't want to face any doctors or nurses, but the dark and the quiet are about as oppressive as her own thoughts, and she can't stop trembling. There won't be any getting back to sleep tonight, not for her. Even if she thought she could manage it, she'd be too afraid of what she would see this time.

When she speaks, it's on a whim, the impulse acted on before she can try to talk herself out of it, which she too easily could. Even then, she's cautious, her voice not rising above a whisper so she doesn't wake him up, in case he is asleep. If he can get the rest she couldn't, he deserves it. "Cassian?" she asks, still staring straight up, not sparing so much as a glance in his direction. "Are you awake?"

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"It was cold and there were mountains. Nothing worth remembering," he says and he knows that what he doesn't tell her is just as revealing as what he does. The memories of throwing trash and harassing clone troopers are clear in his might, hyper colorful with a child's memory. Some of the Anti-Jedi slogans still go off in his head at times, unwanted reminders of his indoctrination. It's not worth remembering.

"After I joined the Alliance, I lived on their bases." As Draven had dragged him up the ranks, Cassian had shifted through so many Rebel bases, moving with the Alliance and dispatched hither and yon to gather information. If he thinks about how young he was when he first killed someone he might need to grab that bedpan from the side table.

"I wandered a lot. Made it easy to adjust when I was sent somewhere new."

"I wandered, too," Jyn says, soft, without looking away from him. There's no way he doesn't know that already, but it seems right to say it, for him to hear it from her. For one, it's common ground, one small, shared thing they have in common. More than that, though, she doesn't want to be just the contents of her file to him, the daughter of an Imperial scientist, one of Saw's Partisans, a petty criminal. She doesn't want to be Liana Hallik or Kestrel Dawn or Tanith Pontha, or any of the charges on her record. She can't tell yet who that person is, what's left of her now that the Death Star has burned away so much else, but she thinks, after years of trying to stay invisible, drifting under every radar possible, that for once, she wants to be seen. "After Saw."

She doesn't lie and say she left him. She doesn't tell the truth of it, either, that Saw cast her aside without so much as a word. That much is still too raw, especially after having seen him again and leaving him to die as Jedha collapsed. For all her secrets, she's not sure there's any she keeps such tight hold of as the way she's been abandoned time and time again. She'd rather just be the one to leave before she can be left by someone else. Easy as it would be, though, to get up and go back over to her own bed and pretend like she never let herself be this openly vulnerable, she stays put.

"Guess there's nowhere to wander now."

"I guess not." And isn't that just as terrifying. What is he going to do without missions and enemies to flee? Who is he without those things. The Alliance had made Cassian into what he was and without them...that's twenty years of an identity to reconfigure. His vision goes black around the edges with the weight of it and Cassian looks down again, forcing himself to look Jyn in the eye, to focus on her.

"I wonder what it'll be like. Having a home in one place." He's trying to spin it into something positive but he thinks Jyn is smart enough to recognize what it is. There's no polishing up a terrible situation, not with even the warmest and brightest belief, and Cassian lacks that on a good day.

He may as well adopt an alias. Say he's someone else. It's better than figuring out who Cassian Andor is now.

Welcome home. She hears it again in her head, an invitation and a promise, and her breath stutters a little for it. Maybe he doesn't mean anything by it, maybe he's just talking about a home as in a place to live, but even in that sense of the word, Jyn hasn't had a home in a long, long time, since she was a teenager naïve enough to trust the idea of one. Now, her every instinct is telling her to fight it, to run, not to believe it. For all she knows, he was just talking about the Alliance anyway and the possibility of her being one of them, and it's been made abundantly clear to her that they're somewhere without any of that, rendering the point moot.

She's not so sure that's the case, though. At least, that isn't what it's meant to her, what made warmth bloom in her chest at the sound of those words. The Alliance, she could take or leave, especially after the Council wouldn't listen to her. Cassian, though, who came back for her time and again?

Whatever planet they're on and however out of options they might be, she thinks she's as much at home here as she was in the hangar on Yavin 4. She thinks, she could be that for him, if he wanted.

With no reason to believe that he would want that, though, Jyn dismisses the thought as quickly as she can, only hoping the hitch in her breath hasn't been too apparent, or at least easily written off as relating to something else. "I couldn't tell you," she says, wry, lighter than the subject should call for. "The longest I've spent in any one place in years was a prison."

He understands the wry tone in her voice. It's the humor of someone who doesn't know the answer because she's been on the run her whole life. It's the same tone of voice that he knows all too well himself. Nodding, Cassian keeps his arm around her. Maybe, in a kinder universe, he could find that home for her. He thinks he nearly had when he'd said those words back on Yavin. The Alliance could be her home and she could build with a group of people, find the ones who were idealistic enough to remind her of hope.

Cassian likes to think that that's what it gave him, before Draven made him into something worse.

"Maybe it'll be an adventure. I'll learn how to match curtains to a sofa," he says, the domestic fantasy wasted on them. He can't remember if he ever had a room with curtains. All the homes he remembers are gray, utilitarian things for storing people like weapons.

He could cook again, Cassian thinks. He hasn't cooked in a long time, at least nothing more complicated than packet rations. He's missed that.

"If ever there were a time to take up interior decorating..." Jyn says, teasing, and nudges him with the shoulder pressed against him. Maybe he will, difficult as it may be to imagine, but she won't. Everywhere she's lived over the past few years, she's kept empty, sparsely decorated, her belongings few enough to fit in a bag or two. This is meant to be permanent, evidently, if it really is true that they can't leave, but she can't see this place being any different for her, and it all comes down to exactly what they've been talking about in the first place.

It's been so long since she had a home that she doesn't know how to have one anymore, and the second she settles will be the same instant something goes wrong. The apartment that's been promised to her will be a place to stay and nothing more. Right now, the very idea of it hardly even seems real, as if nothing could exist outside of this room, though she's seen out the window and stumbled down the hospital's hallway.

"You'll need matching throw pillows. For the sofa."

"They'd better not clash with the wallpaper. Or the carpet," Cassian says, weaving a fantasy of a home he's never had, never allowed himself to want. In his mind, it's a roughly imagined thing, shining with warm color and metal accents like the pictures he's seen of Coruscanti luxury apartments, kilometers above him and worlds of class away. Even if he's visited that planet, it's a different world and not one that can be permeated, certainly not by Outer Rim boys from Fest.

"For all I know, the apartment they give me will be Naboo marble and hardwood from Endor." He laughs then, a low chuckle that disappears into Jyn's hair.

"Talk about aiming high," Jyn says, her laugh softened a little by the way his feels against her hair. This quiet, easy sort of intimacy isn't something she's at all familiar with or has ever really allowed herself. She's not sure how it comes so naturally, except that it did, too, at the end, their arms wrapped around each other as the horizon disappeared and the world burned. There's a lightness to it now — a necessary one, maybe, a means of keeping everything else at bay — that there wasn't then, but it feels like a natural extension of where they left off, the one right thing about all of this mess. "And a view like Coruscant's."

It's a silly dream, nothing more, the sort of thing she can play along with simply because she knows that. Truthfully, as long as her bed is more comfortable than the one in her cell on Wobani and there's no leak over it, she'll be satisfied with anything.

"I've seen out the window, Jyn. That's nothing like Coruscant." It looks...well he doesn't know. It's familiar in a mishmashed way, mixed styles of buildings and serviceable materials. It's a city that's grown around the needs of others and its occupants rather than the intense, constructed worlds if the core planets.

"I'm sure you'll get an apartment with a better view anyway."

"Might be some taller buildings somewhere," Jyn says with what she can manage of a shrug, though the whole thing is just pretend anyway. There won't be any apartments — certainly not just given to them — with Naboo marble and Endor hardwood. They won't match curtains to sofas to throw pillows to carpets. She'll live as she's always lived, with just enough to get by, being able to pack up and leave at a moment's notice. At least as long as she knows it's just imaginary, there can't be any harm in playing along, piecing together the idea of an apartment that's far nicer than anywhere they'd actually wind up living.

"If I do, you can have it. Any view would be better than my last."

"I'm not very good company," Cassian warns her. Maybe it's little hypocritical to say when she's holding so tightly to him but a desperate lifeline isn't the same thing as a good friend. It's possible she may rescind her friendliness once they're settled and she remembers she hates him.

"You may not want me around in your apartment. I'll lower the property values."

"You haven't threatened to kill me lately," Jyn points out matter-of-factly. If anything, the opposite is true. On so many different occasions, he could just have left her to die, and each time, he never did. She's still not sure what that means, but while she's not foolish enough to think she owes him some kind of debt for it — they've had each other's backs each step of the way, and for all that she might not be letting herself think about it right now, there is always, always what he almost did to her father — she isn't just going to disregard it, either. "Puts you a step up from my cellmate, so I'll take it."

He starts to make a joke, to remind Jyn that he's been busy staying unconscious but then it dawns on him that she's using that gallows humor again that both of them know. They hide the hard truths under sarcasm, humor, never actually letting the fear show. Cassian doesn't point that out, but he does acknowledge it, file it away.

"Keep your expectations of me low, anyway."

"What, planning something I don't know about?" Jyn asks, though it's abundantly clear that she doesn't think that's the case. She wouldn't be lying here so close to him otherwise, limbs relaxed and breathing steady, the tension gone from her shoulders. She shouldn't, and she knows she shouldn't, but for all the reasons she's given herself not to, she trusts Cassian all the same — would trust him with her life, if it came to that again. He has, after all, saved it more than once.

She can't maintain that teasing edge forever, though, not after something like that, and her expression is a little softer when she exhales, mouth curving into a slight frown. "You should do the same," she tells him, quieter, barely more than a whisper an inch or two from his jaw. She'll disappoint him otherwise, in some way or another, and he'll leave her, just like everyone does.

"I'm an intelligencer," he says, voice soft. "You can't trust a word I say." It should be a brusque warning but the reality is that it sounds absurd. After all they've been through, Cassian trusts Jyn and he thinks she feels the same. It's not the kind that extends to deep, long conversations about their lives and feelings but the kind of trust where he'd feel safe going into enemy fire with her at his back. They're both parts of Rogue One and that transcends a lot.

"But I'll do my best." Maybe he means low expectations (he doesn't) and maybe he means that he will try to be better. They've set a low bar for each other, at least. His voice is soft, almost drowsy. "You should rest."

He's not wrong. She really shouldn't trust a word he says. He's lied to her before, after all, at times when it perhaps counted the most, and they've never so much as talked about that, nothing beyond the accusations she spat at him on the way back to Yavin 4. Under any other circumstances, she would have every reason to believe that he'd just lie again. Somehow, though, between his standing up to fight with her when the Council decided to be cowards, offering her the promise of a home, and their dying together, he became a fixed point. The trust she feels now goes beyond the necessity of it when they were on Scarif together, making their way to and climbing up the vault. It's enough to let her stay here in his arms after a nightmare, and that perhaps says more than any words she could offer.

A soft sound of protest escapes Jyn's throat when he says she should rest, her fingers curling in his hospital gown again. She doesn't want to risk sleeping and what she might see when she does. He's not wrong, though, that she should, and it wouldn't be fair to keep him awake when she might well have woken him in the first place. Swallowing hard, she braces herself for the only answer she can expect when she asks, "Should I go? I can if you want me to."

It's the closest she'll let herself get to asking if she can stay.

"No," he says. There's a softness in his voice, the muzziness of impending sleep. While they've been talking, it's sneaked up to Cassian. The tiredness is more encompassing than the fatigue that had dragged him into sleep before. With Jyn close by and the TV drama pouring over them, it's enough that he thinks they might be able to keep the bad dreams at bay. If not his then maybe at least Jyn's, who'd arrived on Yavin 4 looking as if she hadn't known true sleep in months and only gotten more frayed since.

Cassian's hands mimic hers and he squeezes her shoulders. It's not a possessive gesture, just one that makes the request. She doesn't have to explain herself but he knows the weight of coming sleep and how dear it is to take real rest when it comes.

"If you get up now, the cords will just get tangled," he says, providing the excuse.

"Okay," Jyn murmurs, sounding unusually young in her relief, her own voice small and quiet. It's a flimsy excuse, and under any other circumstances, she would be quick to tell him as much. Right now, though, she simply doesn't care. It's enough —enough for her to stay and to tell herself that that's why she's doing it, as a matter of convenience rather than his wanting her close by for some other reason or the simple fact of her not wanting to move, something she isn't at all ready to admit to. Whatever it means, she should run away from it. Instead, she lets herself relax against him again, breathing in deep, her eyes half-shut. She still doesn't much want to sleep, unwilling to face the images that plagued her when she slept before, but at least her odds of it seem better now, when just being able to feel the steady beat of his heart allows her to start to drift.

She's still conscious but just barely when she speaks again, only half-aware of the words leaving her mouth at all. "The apartment," she says, a hazy exhale, "the one with... Naboo marble and Endor hardwood and a Coruscant view. It should have a featherbed. Twice as big as this. Maybe three times. And — and a real shower. With hot water that never runs out."

It's a silly, pointless dream, childish in a way she hasn't allowed herself to be in years, but it's infinitely better than the one that woke her before. Just this once, she can have this indulgence.

It's a thin excuse and they both know it but Jyn takes it all the same. Cassian hears her breath slow and soften in time with his and realizes that he's actually looking forward to falling asleep for once. Even on this thin hospital cot, body still hurting, at least Jyn is here and it keeps him steady.

When she speaks, he doesn't open his eyes but he does listen and makes the barest attempt at a nod. "A bath tub you could sit in up to your neck," he suggests, voice equally soft and hazy. "Big enough to wash a tauntaun with room left over." Doesn't that sound nice?

Smiling, he lets sleep wash over him, dreaming of more childish things.

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