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anghraineI mean, far more than in my 20s. It's ridiculous and, anyway, yesterday sucked. LALA FANDOM
title: per ardua ad astra (16/?)
verse: Death Star
characters: Cassian Andor, Jyn Erso, Bodhi Rook; Governor Tarkin; OC—unnamed sergeant; Jyn/Cassian
stuff that happens: Tarkin has a chat with the Alderaanians, and Jyn helps destroy a datachip.
previous chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen
With the same precision as his aim, Cassian’s mind could always distinguish between danger and urgency. His hands shook unless he needed them steady; fear and shame swamped him unless he needed a clear head.
At the sight of Governor Tarkin, everything slid away. Dread, guilt, uncertainty, longing—it all receded, every thought narrowed to a sharp point.
Firstly, he had to survive, for Jyn and for the priceless data she carried. She’d sent a cautious response: received, 975. For now, she flourished in the shade of Willix's docs. Moreover, Cassian was the only one whom Leia would recognize (much less trust) if the opportunity for contact did come. And only the stars knew how much more Bodhi could take.
The other orphans of his planet stood about him. He had to help them as well as he could, without compromising the overriding priorities of the Rebellion and Jyn. Some scenario might arise in which they made for valuable recruits. Even if not, he felt a certain imperative to preserve what remained of Alderaan, as long as it did not conflict with anything else.
Cassian stood at attention, kicking a boy near him who only gaped at Tarkin, then glowering at the newly-widowed sergeant. In himself, he allowed only the tension of a soldier facing one of the chief authorities of the Empire, unshielded by the usual chain of command. Everything else seemed very far away, perceived but unfelt.
With a silent wave of his hand, Tarkin set them all at ease—ha—and glanced around. Not a stupid man, to go by the alert shrewdness in his face. He was foolish, unimaginably foolish. But not stupid.
“Sons of Alderaan,” he said.
The governor looked like he might have been killed once already, and dug up again. But the voice was smooth and rolling, the accent exactly Jyn’s. Coruscanti—educated Coruscanti. Not that Cassian didn’t expect that much. It might have been a pleasant voice to hear, in other circumstances. Not these. Though Cassian disliked killing, always, he suspected that he could cut Tarkin’s throat and sleep like a nyrf.
“I must express my deepest regrets for this unfortunate necessity,” Tarkin went on, now chilly but reasonable.
Of course.
“Necessity?” snarled out the widower.
Cassian did his best to shoot a murderous look at him. It didn’t take much effort.
He had thought about this and concluded that it didn’t pose a major risk to either objective. Willix had orders to ingratiate himself with the other Alderaanians, specifically because Tor anticipated that this might shake their loyalties. Princess Leia or no Princess Leia. And Cassian had the cushion of Willix’s limited attachment to Alderaan. Some horror would be appropriate, but contained by loyalty to the Empire that had plucked him from nothing. Willix’s memories of Alderaan would be of brief official visits, perhaps the occasional shore leave. He owned—had owned—a little property near Aldera, but Willix, dedicated officer that he was, would not have been there in the recent past.
Not, in fact, since the accident that would have noticeably altered his face to anyone who knew him well. Willix had become extraordinarily diligent.
It wasn't pure self-denial. For Willix, service to the Empire would mean seeing the galaxy with a blaster on his hip and, retroactively, a beautiful woman at his side. Until he was selected to oversee surveillance of Princess Leia, he wouldn’t have thought of Alderaan in years.
“As I am certain you realize,” said Tarkin, “you have been gathered here on account of this … regrettable incident.”
Nobody said anything. Nobody, Cassian thought, dared.
“You are all loyal soldiers of the Empire,” he went on. “You may think that you have been overlooked. Through no fault of your own, you have lost homes, and perhaps valuable property.”
The widower stirred, hands clenching at his side.
Don’t do it. Don’t—
“Property?” he burst out. “You say we lost property? My daughters—my wife—how many others? There can’t—you can’t—you’re a monster, you—this is an atrocity, a—a—”
An officer hushed him. “How dare you disrespect the governor?”
“Oh, I quite understand,” Tarkin replied, and turned to one of his guards. “This soldier is overwrought. Escort him to a more suitable location.”
Silently, Cassian wrote that one off.
It would have been better, in some sense, with a fight. But despite his wild eyes and voice, the sergeant yielded himself to the stormtroopers without resistance, docilely stumbling away with them. Did he know? Perhaps reunion with his family seemed the most palatable option, if he could even think that far. Cassian didn’t understand that in any visceral way; he’d always grasped at survival, even as a child, his sister’s body cooling in the snow behind him. Intellectually, though, he knew it happened.
The rest of the room remained quiet and still. Nobody dared meet anyone else’s eyes. Cassian himself fixed his gaze on the governor’s skeletal profile.
Tarkin favoured the men of Alderaan with a thin smile.
“If you believe the Empire has forgotten you,” he, “let me assure you: it has not.”
Jyn did not wake up, exactly. She was too exhausted for that. But her mind wandered from anxious dreams towards anxious consciousness, a dim awareness that something near her had changed.
She stirred in Cassian’s bed as a draft of chilly air swept over her. Someone must have left a door or window open. No, wait, not on the Death Star. It was just cold. Even without the draft, it was cold.
Nevertheless, a muted thud sounded like the door closing. Jyn should have been alarmed, but her instincts stayed quiet, sensing no new danger.
The intruder drew a breath, quick and sharp. But she still dozed without concern. Desperate for sleep, Jyn squeezed her eyes shut. She’d wake up, just not now. The chilly air poked at her, though, held her fast.
“S’cold,” she mumbled to herself.
“That’s what blankets are for,” said a man, less chiding than—fond? That couldn’t be right.
With another muffled sound, something soft settled over her. It was cool, but less so than everything else, and took only a few seconds to warm up, insulating her from the rest. Jyn sighed, burying herself deeper in the blanket. If not for the hair in her face, catching unpleasantly in her mouth, it’d be perfect. Death Star perfect, anyway.
She blew at her fringe, but that only resettled it, and the strands clinging to her mouth kept clinging. Jyn grumbled wordlessly.
By some miracle, a hand lifted her hair away from her face and tucked it back, fingers tangling gently in the locks. Nobody had done that since … she was too sleepy to remember. Saw in the early days, maybe. The sensation was no less pleasant for the drought, her entire body tingling. Jyn couldn’t hold back a soft, contented sound.
The man caught his breath again, then stroked the last few strands out of her face.
“Go to sleep, Jyn.”
“Mm.” Some remote, contrary part of her wanted to force herself awake, just to reject the order. But she was too tired, and too safe. Jyn slept.
Not for long, of course. She was accustomed to operating on as little rest as she could manage without risking herself. No more than two or three hours passed before she opened her eyes again, mind nearly clear. Only the last few shreds of drowsiness clung on.
Their quarters had settled into the dark dimness that passed for night here, the Empire’s parody of twilight. Jyn could feel cool air on her face, but at some point she’d acquired a blanket.
That tugged at her memory, though she couldn’t quite pin it down. Jyn peered around. The low light deepened into true black in crannies and corners. The closet looked like the void of space, and the opposite bed stood shadowed and empty, where she'd usually see Cassian compressing himself into sleep. Instead, he sat at the fold-out table, elbows on the surface, head leaning against his clasped hands as he muttered to himself. The words were unfamiliar, and more chanted than spoken, like Chirrut’s mantra or a child’s rhyme. She could just glimpse her mother’s crystal hanging from his fingers. Cassian must have—
Cassian?
Her eyes flew wide, the last wisps of sleep burning away. Jyn scrambled out of bed.
“Cassian!”
He leapt up at the same time, the room’s lights flashing to full brightness. With the crystal still dangling from one hand, he breathed, “Jyn.”
“You—they—you’re …” She couldn’t shape her shock and relief and raw joy into words, could hardly think. Contrary impulses seized her; she wanted to rush towards him, make sure it was all real, but some other part of her felt bolted to the floor, still and safe. Jyn took an awkward, abortive step forward, then hesitated.
Though he hadn’t half as much reason for fear, Cassian stared at her with all her own incredulity.
“Jyn,” he murmured again. His step towards her was more a small stumble, near as graceless as he’d been in the shuttle.
It was enough. Jyn barrelled right into him, gripping his thin body, his arms closing warm around her. She pressed her face into his shoulder, knowing she’d leave it damp, and not much caring. Now, at last, she could cry.
She did cry, silent as ever, hands pressed against his back, the protrusion of his bones. Cassian grasped her waist and shoulder just as tightly, her kyber crystal swinging against the small of her back, his breath shuddering against her hair. They’d both bruise, but it didn’t matter. Unless it did.
Jyn stiffened. “Your ribs—”
“They’re fine.” He only clutched her more, settling his jaw against the line of her head. “I’m fine.”
That was good enough for Jyn, close enough to have felt even the most restrained wince. He seemed better. He seemed better here.
She shifted, adjusting her grip to close the last fractional gaps between them. Once again, she turned her face into Cassian’s chest. Jyn’s tears had dried up, but the memory of dread had not. She soaked up the living warmth of his skin through the cloth, the rapid beat of his life against hers. They lived. They’d lived, again.
Jyn could have kissed him, as she’d wished to before. She might have, if it hadn’t required pulling away. As it was, they huddled together in the dark, their shivering breaths carving up the silence, minute upon minute.
When they managed to separate, Jyn and Cassian moved to the table by unspoken mutual consent. Just as wordlessly, he pressed her crystal back into her hands.
It might have seemed a rejection. But she’d never meant to surrender it forever. Jyn wrapped the cord around the crystal and stuffed it back in her pocket before they sat down.
Another long moment passed, not uncomfortable. At last, she said dryly, “Did it save you?”
“Perhaps,” said Cassian. He paused. “Could I borrow a knife?”
Puzzled, Jyn eyed him. “Depends on what you want to do with it.”
“Break a chip,” he replied, easily enough.
“Is it valuable?”
“Very,” Cassian said.
Huh. Jyn shrugged and fetched the smallest of the knives he’d procured for her. Cassian thanked her in a flat voice; then, true to his word, he extracted a chip from his pocket and placed it in front of him.
She expected a slow disassembly, the fastidious, painstaking approach she’d grown accustomed to. Instead, Jyn had time only for an instant’s surprise—a credit chip?—before Cassian stabbed the knife downwards.
“What the—!”
He was completely expressionless. Sensibly, Jyn seized the knife.
“That’s a terrible way to destroy a datachip. It probably didn’t even get past the casing.”
She slid the chip closer to herself, studying for weaknesses. It wasn’t like she had a habit of destroying money, but she’d occasionally had cause to wreck datachips with dangerous files, and incriminating scandocs, and the like. It couldn’t be that much different. There, Jyn thought; the code strips would be vulnerable. Stabbing was ridiculous, but she sliced sideways while Cassian quietly watched.
“Okay, the scanning bands are weaker, and here, where the halves are sealed. I think it’s just some sort of adhesive.”
He should know that. Jyn would bet he did know that. But it'd been a long day.
“I’ll get another knife,” she decided, and returned with the second-smallest. Only then did she relinquish the first back to Cassian.
In silence, they attacked the credit chip. Or rather, Jyn attacked it, while Cassian reverted to his usual methodical precision as they pried open the lighter metal of the bands and dug into the seams, layer by layer. He might have been chopping vegetables.
“Are you a good cook?” she asked.
The words fell heavily between them.
“Yes,” said Cassian, after a long hesitation. His jaw tightened. “Jyn, you—”
“I thought so.”
Now his attention genuinely focused on her. “You … why?”
“The knife.” She gestured at it with her own. “You don’t hold it like a weapon. Only blasters.”
Frowning, Cassian glanced down at his hand. He didn’t seem bothered, just bemused.
“But,” Jyn went on, “you do hold it like you’re used to it.” She thought it over. “Of course, there are other explanations. That just seemed the most likely for a soldier.”
He didn’t say you’d know, though it hung between them nevertheless, aided—perhaps—by his quick glance at her. So little expression accompanied it that it might have meant anything, really.
“I see.”
Forestalling any conjuration of Saw, Jyn held her jaw tight and then asked, “How did you learn? Your father, or …?”
Belatedly, it occurred to her that a six-year-old probably didn’t pick up much in the way of cooking skills in the mountains of Alderaan. Or hadn’t when they existed.
“No,” said Cassian, voice even. “I don’t know who he was.”
That hadn’t occurred to her, either. “Oh. Not anything?”
“He was a tourist, I gather. My uncle said something about it.”
Jyn’s brows rose. “Did Vaesda get many of those?”
“No,” he said, “but some people like to see poverty in person, or whatever it is. I think he was one of those, though I suppose there must have been more, since he was my sister’s father, too. I never knew—people don’t say much to a child of that age.” A slight movement of his shoulder might have been a shrug. “I never cared, in any case. I don’t look like him or anything like that.”
They fell back into the rhythm of their work, Jyn managing to yank out another strip. But the thin grating noise preyed on her nerves.
“It was your mother, then?”
Cassian flicked another Jedi-fast glance her way. “Her family, a little. I was very young.”
It took a moment to make sense of that. “Right. I meant, she’s the one you look like?”
“Ah, yes.” He moved a little. “Rana had me half-convinced that I came from a cloning factory.”
Jyn smiled: faintly, but for real. You had to mean it, at times like this. Grasp the scraps that came to you, like meals in prison.
The next silence settled more lightly: not as heavy a weight, but not as heavy a barrier over the unspoken, either. Jyn’s chest clenched, a burst of real, bright pain following it. But she said nothing until they reduced the chip to bits of wire and metal and plastic.
Jyn tapped her knife against the pile. “How many credits?”
“Ten thousand,” said Cassian.
She blinked several times. “I don’t think I’ve ever touched that many in my life.”
“Neither have I.” Carefully, he set his knife aside. “It’s nothing to the Empire, I suppose.”
Without any real fear, Jyn picked up the knife, turned on her heel, and packed both back into their case. A whisper of relief ran through her. She truly didn’t think him dangerous—not to himself, certainly not to her—but, well, this was not a moment when she could feel ease at weapons lying within his grasp. They’d destroyed the ten thousand credits (a small part of her whimpered) and shouldn’t need blades for anything else.
“Probably not,” Jyn said, sitting down again. She clasped her hands in front of her, since she had to hold something. Not Cassian; he seemed like he might fly apart at a breath, for all his composure. Maybe because of it.
She inhaled, steadying herself. Ten thousand credits.
“Compensation,” she said, nudging the rubble. “That’s what this was?”
“Yes,” said Cassian. This time, when he lifted his gaze to her, it held, and fissures ran into the blank shell he’d drawn about himself. His lip curled. “For our losses.”
Of course. Of course, she’d known it had to be that, but hearing it aloud, paired in their voices—Jyn felt like the air had been punched out of her lungs. She couldn’t think of any comfort to offer. She couldn’t think there was any comfort to offer, or receive. Only the thoughts pushing relentlessly on, while she forced herself to breathe.
Maybe it would help, for both of them.
“They had one for everybody?” she asked. “Even you?”
He nodded.
“And none left over?”
A flicker of interest brightened his expression. “No. One for each.”
“They might not have brought any other chips they had,” Jyn murmured, half to herself. “Maybe they stripped some vice-admirals dry for the appearance of decency.” Not much of an appearance. If Tarkin, or whomever, thought this would prevent outrage, he was a fool. Not that she didn’t know that already.
“No,” Cassian said again, more emphatically. “They wouldn’t have had enough, if not for—” His voice didn’t so much crack as snap into silence.
She wet her lip. “Someone didn’t make it?”
On the table, he straightened his hands into flat planes, skin pulled tight. “A sergeant.”
“They killed him to make the numbers work?” she said incredulously.
“No, no.” Cassian’s eyes stayed fixed on hers. “There was a sergeant who had family planetside. A wife and children—little girls, I think.”
Despite her best intentions, Jyn flinched.
“I don’t have proof,” he added. “Tarkin ordered him escorted to a more, ah, soothing location.”
“Like space?” said Jyn.
“I assume.” Tentatively, he touched the pile between them. “This was supposed to be his. General Tagge told me they would have arranged for my compensation either way, but in the event, they didn’t need to.”
Her stomach twisted. “Then Jedha and Scarif were just … practice runs. If they had this, this bandage arranged down to the man, but without accounting for you—so, before Scarif—”
“It was always going to be Alderaan,” Cassian finished, fingers closing. “Always.”
“Yes.” There was nothing else to say. Looking down at his hands, she could see red blooming on his palms, where his nails bit down without relief.
A burst of frustration seized her, formless and impotent. Jyn thrust the remains of the credit chip off their table in one impatient sweep of her arm, then grasped Cassian’s clenched hands and pulled his fingers away from his palms. To her surprise, it didn’t take any particular effort; he gave way readily, hands pliant against the curve of hers. When she started to pull away, though, he grasped at her wrists, his fingers gentler on her than himself.
It had been the work of a few seconds, clearly unplanned. A flush rose under his skin. At the first twitch of his hand, though, Jyn tightened her own grip. Altogether, she thought it might be the most involved hand-holding of her life.
In fairness, that wasn’t saying much.
They neither spoke nor moved for a good minute. Then, in the tone of a man confessing his darkest sins, Cassian muttered,
“I can’t think.”
“We’ve had plenty to think about today,” said Jyn frankly. “You in particular, down in that meeting.”
He stirred, though his hands remained steady. “They were so stupid, Jyn. Crying and shouting and—there was a camera right there, but they wouldn’t stop crying.”
From someone else, it might have sounded astoundingly callous. From Cassian, it just seemed bizarre, almost hysterical, even while he spoke in the same low voice as ever.
“I can imagine,” said Jyn.
“I had to do something. They’re Imperials, but—”
Oh.
That wouldn’t have mattered to Jyn. She knew only too well that Imperials up to their ears in the Empire’s atrocities could be ordinary people with friends and families and homes. Would Bodhi have ever found his path out without Galen? Galen without Lyra? Not everyone lived on hope and creed. Most needed an actual person to show the way, just as she had. And Jyn was the last person to assume that all Imperials fell beyond redemption just because they weren’t there yet.
When she rushed into trouble to help people—which occurred with unfortunate regularity—Jyn didn’t ask after their political allegiances. It was for their sakes as people, not personal friends or potential allies. People mattered in themselves, deserving or not.
She didn’t usually think it through like that. She felt and she acted, as on Jedha. Jyn suspected that had gone a long way with Cassian. She also suspected that he would never have done it himself. Saving individual strangers for the value of their existence, irrespective of personal merit or usefulness—no, that wouldn’t be familiar to Cassian. Least of all with Imperials. However many greys he contained in himself, he did not think in them.
“They’re Alderaanians,” Jyn replied. She hesitated, then added bluntly, “There aren’t that many of you now. It’s reasonable.”
“Reasonable,” echoed Cassian. “You think that?”
“I know it,” said Jyn, allowing no argument. “Anyway, they’ll be ripe for recruitment, if we can figure out a way to get off this thing.” She squinted at him. “I’m sure you thought of that, too.”
“Yes. Among other things.” He’d already been focused on her, but something about his attention shifted, tightened, turned his intent gaze still more intense. Prickles charged along her spine and skin.
It wasn’t unpleasant. Rather the opposite. Jyn took a deep breath.
“Have you slept yet?”
Cassian shook his head.
“Well, you should.”
When he didn’t respond, except to look at her blankly, she got up and pulled him to his feet. As with his fingers, it turned out to be simpler she expected; he complied without resistance, rising at her slight tug and drifting after her, towards his bed.
Jyn couldn’t say whether his easy surrender extended to actually sleeping. But he climbed into bed and fitted himself against the wall as he usually did, eyes closing.
She dimmed the lights again, trying to think of something to do. So far, it always seemed that there was some task or maneuver that needed done—far short of what she’d like, of what she hoped to accomplish in the end, but something. Not the smallest problem befriended her now, only an aimless tension building up, gut to throat. Though she was still sleepy, her few hours of rest kept her from the kind of profound tiredness that would force her into rest.
A good twenty minutes passed before Jyn remembered that she had forgotten something. Bodhi! She slipped out of the quarters and made the call.
Thankfully, he answered right away.
“Sergeant.” Bodhi’s voice was mechanized, steps clanking in the background. He must be on duty.
“Trooper RK-1301,” she snapped out. “The captain has returned.”
For a good few seconds, she could only hear the clatter of armoured boots. Then he said,
“Good news, ma’am.”
“Yes,” said Jyn. “You can expect orders by zero seven hundred.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She clicked off, because she had to. No doubt Bodhi felt thrilled and relieved, but neither dared suggest it. Would they never get off this damn shell?
Jyn gave up and returned to the quarters, wincing when the door crashed shut behind her. Inevitably, Cassian stirred—she froze in place—but he only murmured something she didn’t understand and turned his face into his pillow. In a few seconds, his breathing evened out again.
Unable to think of anything else, she crawled into her own bed and tried to sleep. It must have been an hour before she managed it, and less than that before she jolted upright in bed. Her dreams had been a confused jumble of Alderaan convulsed in fire and Lyra crumpling to the ground and Cassian’s body shattering against the archives, the sticky mess of his blood coating Jyn’s hands, clinging all the way up to her elbows. Lyra’s blood, too, Alderaan’s, but they were gone already. Cassian stared accusingly at her as he bled out, eyes and hair turning ashen with his skin, the puddle beneath them spreading and spreading.
Cassian—
Jyn gasped for breath, unable to silence herself altogether. Neither could she help turning to look at the opposite bed, Cassian alive and whole, dark hair falling over what she could see of his face. He was fine. As fine as he could be.
Every time she tried to force herself asleep, she woke the same way. The corpses terrorizing her varied: sometimes her mother, sometimes her fathers, sometimes Baze and Chirrut and even Bodhi, in an array of combinations. Once it was even the little girl on Jedha, half her face ground off. But without exception, Jyn dreamed of the faceless, nameless dead of Alderaan. And without exception, she dreamed of Cassian, dying as she tried desperately to save him, never fast enough, strong enough, enough. Even he left her, last of all, over and over and over.
More exhausted by the dreams than the fractured cycles of her sleep, Jyn pulled her blanket away and swung her legs out. She felt half-crazed, stretched to something thin and taut. Hands clenched on her knees, she listened to Cassian’s breaths. Was his mind tormenting him, too, or did it reserve that to waking hours? He moved again, restless, and—she didn’t know. She didn’t. She just, she couldn’t …
Jyn took one step forward, almost swaying on her feet. Another step, and another, and she stood at the side of his bed. Though he’d shifted enough that his back was flat against the mattress, instead of defensively wedged into the wall, Cassian still lay as far to the opposite side as he could go. And he was slender enough that another person might easily fit in the neglected space, at least someone Jyn’s size.
She shouldn’t—or—Force, she didn’t care. As unobtrusively as she could, Jyn crawled into bed beside him, right where she’d slept before. She took care not to touch, but she could feel the living warmth of his body.
He didn’t respond, which should have been a relief, but she couldn’t believe it. Not without sedatives.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
After a long pause, Cassian said, “Yes.”
Too tired to think, too tired to guard herself, Jyn fumbled for his hand. As soon as their skin brushed, his fingers laced through hers.
Neither spoke again. They simply lay together, hand-in-hand, until they fell asleep.
title: per ardua ad astra (16/?)
verse: Death Star
characters: Cassian Andor, Jyn Erso, Bodhi Rook; Governor Tarkin; OC—unnamed sergeant; Jyn/Cassian
stuff that happens: Tarkin has a chat with the Alderaanians, and Jyn helps destroy a datachip.
previous chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen
The rest of the room remained quiet and still. Nobody dared meet anyone else’s eyes. Cassian himself fixed his gaze on the governor’s skeletal profile.
Tarkin favoured the men of Alderaan with a thin smile.
“If you believe the Empire has forgotten you,” he, “let me assure you: it has not.”
Tarkin favoured the men of Alderaan with a thin smile.
“If you believe the Empire has forgotten you,” he, “let me assure you: it has not.”
With the same precision as his aim, Cassian’s mind could always distinguish between danger and urgency. His hands shook unless he needed them steady; fear and shame swamped him unless he needed a clear head.
At the sight of Governor Tarkin, everything slid away. Dread, guilt, uncertainty, longing—it all receded, every thought narrowed to a sharp point.
Firstly, he had to survive, for Jyn and for the priceless data she carried. She’d sent a cautious response: received, 975. For now, she flourished in the shade of Willix's docs. Moreover, Cassian was the only one whom Leia would recognize (much less trust) if the opportunity for contact did come. And only the stars knew how much more Bodhi could take.
The other orphans of his planet stood about him. He had to help them as well as he could, without compromising the overriding priorities of the Rebellion and Jyn. Some scenario might arise in which they made for valuable recruits. Even if not, he felt a certain imperative to preserve what remained of Alderaan, as long as it did not conflict with anything else.
Cassian stood at attention, kicking a boy near him who only gaped at Tarkin, then glowering at the newly-widowed sergeant. In himself, he allowed only the tension of a soldier facing one of the chief authorities of the Empire, unshielded by the usual chain of command. Everything else seemed very far away, perceived but unfelt.
With a silent wave of his hand, Tarkin set them all at ease—ha—and glanced around. Not a stupid man, to go by the alert shrewdness in his face. He was foolish, unimaginably foolish. But not stupid.
“Sons of Alderaan,” he said.
The governor looked like he might have been killed once already, and dug up again. But the voice was smooth and rolling, the accent exactly Jyn’s. Coruscanti—educated Coruscanti. Not that Cassian didn’t expect that much. It might have been a pleasant voice to hear, in other circumstances. Not these. Though Cassian disliked killing, always, he suspected that he could cut Tarkin’s throat and sleep like a nyrf.
“I must express my deepest regrets for this unfortunate necessity,” Tarkin went on, now chilly but reasonable.
Of course.
“Necessity?” snarled out the widower.
Cassian did his best to shoot a murderous look at him. It didn’t take much effort.
He had thought about this and concluded that it didn’t pose a major risk to either objective. Willix had orders to ingratiate himself with the other Alderaanians, specifically because Tor anticipated that this might shake their loyalties. Princess Leia or no Princess Leia. And Cassian had the cushion of Willix’s limited attachment to Alderaan. Some horror would be appropriate, but contained by loyalty to the Empire that had plucked him from nothing. Willix’s memories of Alderaan would be of brief official visits, perhaps the occasional shore leave. He owned—had owned—a little property near Aldera, but Willix, dedicated officer that he was, would not have been there in the recent past.
Not, in fact, since the accident that would have noticeably altered his face to anyone who knew him well. Willix had become extraordinarily diligent.
It wasn't pure self-denial. For Willix, service to the Empire would mean seeing the galaxy with a blaster on his hip and, retroactively, a beautiful woman at his side. Until he was selected to oversee surveillance of Princess Leia, he wouldn’t have thought of Alderaan in years.
“As I am certain you realize,” said Tarkin, “you have been gathered here on account of this … regrettable incident.”
Nobody said anything. Nobody, Cassian thought, dared.
“You are all loyal soldiers of the Empire,” he went on. “You may think that you have been overlooked. Through no fault of your own, you have lost homes, and perhaps valuable property.”
The widower stirred, hands clenching at his side.
Don’t do it. Don’t—
“Property?” he burst out. “You say we lost property? My daughters—my wife—how many others? There can’t—you can’t—you’re a monster, you—this is an atrocity, a—a—”
An officer hushed him. “How dare you disrespect the governor?”
“Oh, I quite understand,” Tarkin replied, and turned to one of his guards. “This soldier is overwrought. Escort him to a more suitable location.”
Silently, Cassian wrote that one off.
It would have been better, in some sense, with a fight. But despite his wild eyes and voice, the sergeant yielded himself to the stormtroopers without resistance, docilely stumbling away with them. Did he know? Perhaps reunion with his family seemed the most palatable option, if he could even think that far. Cassian didn’t understand that in any visceral way; he’d always grasped at survival, even as a child, his sister’s body cooling in the snow behind him. Intellectually, though, he knew it happened.
The rest of the room remained quiet and still. Nobody dared meet anyone else’s eyes. Cassian himself fixed his gaze on the governor’s skeletal profile.
Tarkin favoured the men of Alderaan with a thin smile.
“If you believe the Empire has forgotten you,” he, “let me assure you: it has not.”
Jyn did not wake up, exactly. She was too exhausted for that. But her mind wandered from anxious dreams towards anxious consciousness, a dim awareness that something near her had changed.
She stirred in Cassian’s bed as a draft of chilly air swept over her. Someone must have left a door or window open. No, wait, not on the Death Star. It was just cold. Even without the draft, it was cold.
Nevertheless, a muted thud sounded like the door closing. Jyn should have been alarmed, but her instincts stayed quiet, sensing no new danger.
The intruder drew a breath, quick and sharp. But she still dozed without concern. Desperate for sleep, Jyn squeezed her eyes shut. She’d wake up, just not now. The chilly air poked at her, though, held her fast.
“S’cold,” she mumbled to herself.
“That’s what blankets are for,” said a man, less chiding than—fond? That couldn’t be right.
With another muffled sound, something soft settled over her. It was cool, but less so than everything else, and took only a few seconds to warm up, insulating her from the rest. Jyn sighed, burying herself deeper in the blanket. If not for the hair in her face, catching unpleasantly in her mouth, it’d be perfect. Death Star perfect, anyway.
She blew at her fringe, but that only resettled it, and the strands clinging to her mouth kept clinging. Jyn grumbled wordlessly.
By some miracle, a hand lifted her hair away from her face and tucked it back, fingers tangling gently in the locks. Nobody had done that since … she was too sleepy to remember. Saw in the early days, maybe. The sensation was no less pleasant for the drought, her entire body tingling. Jyn couldn’t hold back a soft, contented sound.
The man caught his breath again, then stroked the last few strands out of her face.
“Go to sleep, Jyn.”
“Mm.” Some remote, contrary part of her wanted to force herself awake, just to reject the order. But she was too tired, and too safe. Jyn slept.
Not for long, of course. She was accustomed to operating on as little rest as she could manage without risking herself. No more than two or three hours passed before she opened her eyes again, mind nearly clear. Only the last few shreds of drowsiness clung on.
Their quarters had settled into the dark dimness that passed for night here, the Empire’s parody of twilight. Jyn could feel cool air on her face, but at some point she’d acquired a blanket.
That tugged at her memory, though she couldn’t quite pin it down. Jyn peered around. The low light deepened into true black in crannies and corners. The closet looked like the void of space, and the opposite bed stood shadowed and empty, where she'd usually see Cassian compressing himself into sleep. Instead, he sat at the fold-out table, elbows on the surface, head leaning against his clasped hands as he muttered to himself. The words were unfamiliar, and more chanted than spoken, like Chirrut’s mantra or a child’s rhyme. She could just glimpse her mother’s crystal hanging from his fingers. Cassian must have—
Cassian?
Her eyes flew wide, the last wisps of sleep burning away. Jyn scrambled out of bed.
“Cassian!”
He leapt up at the same time, the room’s lights flashing to full brightness. With the crystal still dangling from one hand, he breathed, “Jyn.”
“You—they—you’re …” She couldn’t shape her shock and relief and raw joy into words, could hardly think. Contrary impulses seized her; she wanted to rush towards him, make sure it was all real, but some other part of her felt bolted to the floor, still and safe. Jyn took an awkward, abortive step forward, then hesitated.
Though he hadn’t half as much reason for fear, Cassian stared at her with all her own incredulity.
“Jyn,” he murmured again. His step towards her was more a small stumble, near as graceless as he’d been in the shuttle.
It was enough. Jyn barrelled right into him, gripping his thin body, his arms closing warm around her. She pressed her face into his shoulder, knowing she’d leave it damp, and not much caring. Now, at last, she could cry.
She did cry, silent as ever, hands pressed against his back, the protrusion of his bones. Cassian grasped her waist and shoulder just as tightly, her kyber crystal swinging against the small of her back, his breath shuddering against her hair. They’d both bruise, but it didn’t matter. Unless it did.
Jyn stiffened. “Your ribs—”
“They’re fine.” He only clutched her more, settling his jaw against the line of her head. “I’m fine.”
That was good enough for Jyn, close enough to have felt even the most restrained wince. He seemed better. He seemed better here.
She shifted, adjusting her grip to close the last fractional gaps between them. Once again, she turned her face into Cassian’s chest. Jyn’s tears had dried up, but the memory of dread had not. She soaked up the living warmth of his skin through the cloth, the rapid beat of his life against hers. They lived. They’d lived, again.
Jyn could have kissed him, as she’d wished to before. She might have, if it hadn’t required pulling away. As it was, they huddled together in the dark, their shivering breaths carving up the silence, minute upon minute.
When they managed to separate, Jyn and Cassian moved to the table by unspoken mutual consent. Just as wordlessly, he pressed her crystal back into her hands.
It might have seemed a rejection. But she’d never meant to surrender it forever. Jyn wrapped the cord around the crystal and stuffed it back in her pocket before they sat down.
Another long moment passed, not uncomfortable. At last, she said dryly, “Did it save you?”
“Perhaps,” said Cassian. He paused. “Could I borrow a knife?”
Puzzled, Jyn eyed him. “Depends on what you want to do with it.”
“Break a chip,” he replied, easily enough.
“Is it valuable?”
“Very,” Cassian said.
Huh. Jyn shrugged and fetched the smallest of the knives he’d procured for her. Cassian thanked her in a flat voice; then, true to his word, he extracted a chip from his pocket and placed it in front of him.
She expected a slow disassembly, the fastidious, painstaking approach she’d grown accustomed to. Instead, Jyn had time only for an instant’s surprise—a credit chip?—before Cassian stabbed the knife downwards.
“What the—!”
He was completely expressionless. Sensibly, Jyn seized the knife.
“That’s a terrible way to destroy a datachip. It probably didn’t even get past the casing.”
She slid the chip closer to herself, studying for weaknesses. It wasn’t like she had a habit of destroying money, but she’d occasionally had cause to wreck datachips with dangerous files, and incriminating scandocs, and the like. It couldn’t be that much different. There, Jyn thought; the code strips would be vulnerable. Stabbing was ridiculous, but she sliced sideways while Cassian quietly watched.
“Okay, the scanning bands are weaker, and here, where the halves are sealed. I think it’s just some sort of adhesive.”
He should know that. Jyn would bet he did know that. But it'd been a long day.
“I’ll get another knife,” she decided, and returned with the second-smallest. Only then did she relinquish the first back to Cassian.
In silence, they attacked the credit chip. Or rather, Jyn attacked it, while Cassian reverted to his usual methodical precision as they pried open the lighter metal of the bands and dug into the seams, layer by layer. He might have been chopping vegetables.
“Are you a good cook?” she asked.
The words fell heavily between them.
“Yes,” said Cassian, after a long hesitation. His jaw tightened. “Jyn, you—”
“I thought so.”
Now his attention genuinely focused on her. “You … why?”
“The knife.” She gestured at it with her own. “You don’t hold it like a weapon. Only blasters.”
Frowning, Cassian glanced down at his hand. He didn’t seem bothered, just bemused.
“But,” Jyn went on, “you do hold it like you’re used to it.” She thought it over. “Of course, there are other explanations. That just seemed the most likely for a soldier.”
He didn’t say you’d know, though it hung between them nevertheless, aided—perhaps—by his quick glance at her. So little expression accompanied it that it might have meant anything, really.
“I see.”
Forestalling any conjuration of Saw, Jyn held her jaw tight and then asked, “How did you learn? Your father, or …?”
Belatedly, it occurred to her that a six-year-old probably didn’t pick up much in the way of cooking skills in the mountains of Alderaan. Or hadn’t when they existed.
“No,” said Cassian, voice even. “I don’t know who he was.”
That hadn’t occurred to her, either. “Oh. Not anything?”
“He was a tourist, I gather. My uncle said something about it.”
Jyn’s brows rose. “Did Vaesda get many of those?”
“No,” he said, “but some people like to see poverty in person, or whatever it is. I think he was one of those, though I suppose there must have been more, since he was my sister’s father, too. I never knew—people don’t say much to a child of that age.” A slight movement of his shoulder might have been a shrug. “I never cared, in any case. I don’t look like him or anything like that.”
They fell back into the rhythm of their work, Jyn managing to yank out another strip. But the thin grating noise preyed on her nerves.
“It was your mother, then?”
Cassian flicked another Jedi-fast glance her way. “Her family, a little. I was very young.”
It took a moment to make sense of that. “Right. I meant, she’s the one you look like?”
“Ah, yes.” He moved a little. “Rana had me half-convinced that I came from a cloning factory.”
Jyn smiled: faintly, but for real. You had to mean it, at times like this. Grasp the scraps that came to you, like meals in prison.
The next silence settled more lightly: not as heavy a weight, but not as heavy a barrier over the unspoken, either. Jyn’s chest clenched, a burst of real, bright pain following it. But she said nothing until they reduced the chip to bits of wire and metal and plastic.
Jyn tapped her knife against the pile. “How many credits?”
“Ten thousand,” said Cassian.
She blinked several times. “I don’t think I’ve ever touched that many in my life.”
“Neither have I.” Carefully, he set his knife aside. “It’s nothing to the Empire, I suppose.”
Without any real fear, Jyn picked up the knife, turned on her heel, and packed both back into their case. A whisper of relief ran through her. She truly didn’t think him dangerous—not to himself, certainly not to her—but, well, this was not a moment when she could feel ease at weapons lying within his grasp. They’d destroyed the ten thousand credits (a small part of her whimpered) and shouldn’t need blades for anything else.
“Probably not,” Jyn said, sitting down again. She clasped her hands in front of her, since she had to hold something. Not Cassian; he seemed like he might fly apart at a breath, for all his composure. Maybe because of it.
She inhaled, steadying herself. Ten thousand credits.
“Compensation,” she said, nudging the rubble. “That’s what this was?”
“Yes,” said Cassian. This time, when he lifted his gaze to her, it held, and fissures ran into the blank shell he’d drawn about himself. His lip curled. “For our losses.”
Of course. Of course, she’d known it had to be that, but hearing it aloud, paired in their voices—Jyn felt like the air had been punched out of her lungs. She couldn’t think of any comfort to offer. She couldn’t think there was any comfort to offer, or receive. Only the thoughts pushing relentlessly on, while she forced herself to breathe.
Maybe it would help, for both of them.
“They had one for everybody?” she asked. “Even you?”
He nodded.
“And none left over?”
A flicker of interest brightened his expression. “No. One for each.”
“They might not have brought any other chips they had,” Jyn murmured, half to herself. “Maybe they stripped some vice-admirals dry for the appearance of decency.” Not much of an appearance. If Tarkin, or whomever, thought this would prevent outrage, he was a fool. Not that she didn’t know that already.
“No,” Cassian said again, more emphatically. “They wouldn’t have had enough, if not for—” His voice didn’t so much crack as snap into silence.
She wet her lip. “Someone didn’t make it?”
On the table, he straightened his hands into flat planes, skin pulled tight. “A sergeant.”
“They killed him to make the numbers work?” she said incredulously.
“No, no.” Cassian’s eyes stayed fixed on hers. “There was a sergeant who had family planetside. A wife and children—little girls, I think.”
Despite her best intentions, Jyn flinched.
“I don’t have proof,” he added. “Tarkin ordered him escorted to a more, ah, soothing location.”
“Like space?” said Jyn.
“I assume.” Tentatively, he touched the pile between them. “This was supposed to be his. General Tagge told me they would have arranged for my compensation either way, but in the event, they didn’t need to.”
Her stomach twisted. “Then Jedha and Scarif were just … practice runs. If they had this, this bandage arranged down to the man, but without accounting for you—so, before Scarif—”
“It was always going to be Alderaan,” Cassian finished, fingers closing. “Always.”
“Yes.” There was nothing else to say. Looking down at his hands, she could see red blooming on his palms, where his nails bit down without relief.
A burst of frustration seized her, formless and impotent. Jyn thrust the remains of the credit chip off their table in one impatient sweep of her arm, then grasped Cassian’s clenched hands and pulled his fingers away from his palms. To her surprise, it didn’t take any particular effort; he gave way readily, hands pliant against the curve of hers. When she started to pull away, though, he grasped at her wrists, his fingers gentler on her than himself.
It had been the work of a few seconds, clearly unplanned. A flush rose under his skin. At the first twitch of his hand, though, Jyn tightened her own grip. Altogether, she thought it might be the most involved hand-holding of her life.
In fairness, that wasn’t saying much.
They neither spoke nor moved for a good minute. Then, in the tone of a man confessing his darkest sins, Cassian muttered,
“I can’t think.”
“We’ve had plenty to think about today,” said Jyn frankly. “You in particular, down in that meeting.”
He stirred, though his hands remained steady. “They were so stupid, Jyn. Crying and shouting and—there was a camera right there, but they wouldn’t stop crying.”
From someone else, it might have sounded astoundingly callous. From Cassian, it just seemed bizarre, almost hysterical, even while he spoke in the same low voice as ever.
“I can imagine,” said Jyn.
“I had to do something. They’re Imperials, but—”
Oh.
That wouldn’t have mattered to Jyn. She knew only too well that Imperials up to their ears in the Empire’s atrocities could be ordinary people with friends and families and homes. Would Bodhi have ever found his path out without Galen? Galen without Lyra? Not everyone lived on hope and creed. Most needed an actual person to show the way, just as she had. And Jyn was the last person to assume that all Imperials fell beyond redemption just because they weren’t there yet.
When she rushed into trouble to help people—which occurred with unfortunate regularity—Jyn didn’t ask after their political allegiances. It was for their sakes as people, not personal friends or potential allies. People mattered in themselves, deserving or not.
She didn’t usually think it through like that. She felt and she acted, as on Jedha. Jyn suspected that had gone a long way with Cassian. She also suspected that he would never have done it himself. Saving individual strangers for the value of their existence, irrespective of personal merit or usefulness—no, that wouldn’t be familiar to Cassian. Least of all with Imperials. However many greys he contained in himself, he did not think in them.
“They’re Alderaanians,” Jyn replied. She hesitated, then added bluntly, “There aren’t that many of you now. It’s reasonable.”
“Reasonable,” echoed Cassian. “You think that?”
“I know it,” said Jyn, allowing no argument. “Anyway, they’ll be ripe for recruitment, if we can figure out a way to get off this thing.” She squinted at him. “I’m sure you thought of that, too.”
“Yes. Among other things.” He’d already been focused on her, but something about his attention shifted, tightened, turned his intent gaze still more intense. Prickles charged along her spine and skin.
It wasn’t unpleasant. Rather the opposite. Jyn took a deep breath.
“Have you slept yet?”
Cassian shook his head.
“Well, you should.”
When he didn’t respond, except to look at her blankly, she got up and pulled him to his feet. As with his fingers, it turned out to be simpler she expected; he complied without resistance, rising at her slight tug and drifting after her, towards his bed.
Jyn couldn’t say whether his easy surrender extended to actually sleeping. But he climbed into bed and fitted himself against the wall as he usually did, eyes closing.
She dimmed the lights again, trying to think of something to do. So far, it always seemed that there was some task or maneuver that needed done—far short of what she’d like, of what she hoped to accomplish in the end, but something. Not the smallest problem befriended her now, only an aimless tension building up, gut to throat. Though she was still sleepy, her few hours of rest kept her from the kind of profound tiredness that would force her into rest.
A good twenty minutes passed before Jyn remembered that she had forgotten something. Bodhi! She slipped out of the quarters and made the call.
Thankfully, he answered right away.
“Sergeant.” Bodhi’s voice was mechanized, steps clanking in the background. He must be on duty.
“Trooper RK-1301,” she snapped out. “The captain has returned.”
For a good few seconds, she could only hear the clatter of armoured boots. Then he said,
“Good news, ma’am.”
“Yes,” said Jyn. “You can expect orders by zero seven hundred.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She clicked off, because she had to. No doubt Bodhi felt thrilled and relieved, but neither dared suggest it. Would they never get off this damn shell?
Jyn gave up and returned to the quarters, wincing when the door crashed shut behind her. Inevitably, Cassian stirred—she froze in place—but he only murmured something she didn’t understand and turned his face into his pillow. In a few seconds, his breathing evened out again.
Unable to think of anything else, she crawled into her own bed and tried to sleep. It must have been an hour before she managed it, and less than that before she jolted upright in bed. Her dreams had been a confused jumble of Alderaan convulsed in fire and Lyra crumpling to the ground and Cassian’s body shattering against the archives, the sticky mess of his blood coating Jyn’s hands, clinging all the way up to her elbows. Lyra’s blood, too, Alderaan’s, but they were gone already. Cassian stared accusingly at her as he bled out, eyes and hair turning ashen with his skin, the puddle beneath them spreading and spreading.
Cassian—
Jyn gasped for breath, unable to silence herself altogether. Neither could she help turning to look at the opposite bed, Cassian alive and whole, dark hair falling over what she could see of his face. He was fine. As fine as he could be.
Every time she tried to force herself asleep, she woke the same way. The corpses terrorizing her varied: sometimes her mother, sometimes her fathers, sometimes Baze and Chirrut and even Bodhi, in an array of combinations. Once it was even the little girl on Jedha, half her face ground off. But without exception, Jyn dreamed of the faceless, nameless dead of Alderaan. And without exception, she dreamed of Cassian, dying as she tried desperately to save him, never fast enough, strong enough, enough. Even he left her, last of all, over and over and over.
More exhausted by the dreams than the fractured cycles of her sleep, Jyn pulled her blanket away and swung her legs out. She felt half-crazed, stretched to something thin and taut. Hands clenched on her knees, she listened to Cassian’s breaths. Was his mind tormenting him, too, or did it reserve that to waking hours? He moved again, restless, and—she didn’t know. She didn’t. She just, she couldn’t …
Jyn took one step forward, almost swaying on her feet. Another step, and another, and she stood at the side of his bed. Though he’d shifted enough that his back was flat against the mattress, instead of defensively wedged into the wall, Cassian still lay as far to the opposite side as he could go. And he was slender enough that another person might easily fit in the neglected space, at least someone Jyn’s size.
She shouldn’t—or—Force, she didn’t care. As unobtrusively as she could, Jyn crawled into bed beside him, right where she’d slept before. She took care not to touch, but she could feel the living warmth of his body.
He didn’t respond, which should have been a relief, but she couldn’t believe it. Not without sedatives.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
After a long pause, Cassian said, “Yes.”
Too tired to think, too tired to guard herself, Jyn fumbled for his hand. As soon as their skin brushed, his fingers laced through hers.
Neither spoke again. They simply lay together, hand-in-hand, until they fell asleep.
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on 2018-06-22 03:48 am (UTC)One of the moments that struck me the most was Jyn thinking that people mattered in themselves--- they matter as ends, not means. That is such a lovely encapsulation of her whole character.
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on 2018-06-23 01:13 am (UTC)And thanks about Jyn's reflection there—I do see it as the fundamental clash of their belief systems, however much they overlap otherwise. I think that Cassian is driven by an ethic of liberation, where it's selfish to sacrifice the freedom of the galaxy/general welfare for a few individuals, and Jyn by a person-centered morality, where a greater good that ignores people as individuals isn't a good at all. I think they're both legitimate moral systems, when refined by the complexity and nuance of actual life, but it's definitely interesting to explore what they do in situations that those paradigms haven't accounted for. Cassian's torment over helping Imperials would have been a lot easier for Jyn, and Jyn's eventual test is a lot easier for Cassian.