fun fact, i received these two asks within about an hour of one another, so great minds really do think alike. anyway, since the other two were heavier, went with something really, really stupid for this one 💕
from this list; still accepting! (and this is now also available on ao3, just like the other fills)
“He does this on purpose,” Jyn grumbles, because she’s too fucking furious for more than a grumble. Well, that and she can’t exactly manage anything else in her current position, head tipped with water-soaked hair obscuring most of her field of vision, palm pressed flat against the shower wall to keep her steady after having to remain like that for so long, but her point still stands.
Could anyone really blame her for being furious? She knows fucking intent when she sees it. There’s no way that a droid with a self-professed “specialty” of strategic analysis hadn’t mapped out what her route around base would likely be today, and there’s no way that he hadn’t been ready with a whole fucking vat of oil in his stupid fucking mechanical hands to drop it over her at just the right fucking moment.
It’d been completely uncalled for, too. So what if she’d cut the power to Kay’s favorite docking port last week and forced him to spend an entire night cycle trapped next to that astromech he hates so much? That had hardly been worth this much torture — and she’ll probably never be able to wear that shirt or vest ever again; they’d practically had to be sliced off of her.
No, there’s a difference between justified retaliation and crossing a line, and Kay had passed that line by a fucking parsec, so he’s the one who’s clearly in the wrong here. That’s her position, and she’s sticking to it.
It’s a position that any reasonable person with sense would agree to, so it’s one that Cassian, logically, will.
But when the hands that have been messaging her scalp still and his response comes, it isn’t an agreement. No, instead, it’s, “He doesn’t mean it,” said in the tone she absolutely hates the most: the one that’s mildly neutral, that comes with the mask he puts on when she knows he doesn’t want to engage with something.
Fuck. For a brief amount of time, she’d actually managed to forget that the person who’s been standing in the shower with her for the past standard hour at least, helping her wash her hair, is the one who’d be the least fucking objective possible on this issue.
If she could turn around, she’d raise an eyebrow and give Cassian her best are you fucking kidding me stare, but since she can’t, she resigns herself to heaving a long, frustrated sigh, one she makes sure can be heard over the running water.
He doesn’t respond for a while, opting instead to continue with his task of rubbing another round of shampoo into her hair. If he were doing this for any other reason, it might feel nice — part of her has been halfway to thinking it at least three times over the past standard hour before she’s stopped herself, because even with the difficulty of what he he’s had to work with, he’s never been too harsh with his touch — but he’s not here for those reasons, and so his silence is annoying. HIs silence leaves her no choice except to try for the sigh again, and really mean it this time.
Eventually, after that, he speaks up again, with a sigh that’s almost as heavy as hers. “I’ll tell him to call it off.”
Finally. Had that been so fucking hard?
To her credit, and she really tries for this, she does her best to leave out that sentiment when she tells him: “That’s all I’m asking —”
“ — If you also call it off.”
Seriously? Her first instinct is to roll her eyes, which she does, and then her next is to open her mouth for a counterargument, which she also does, only nothing comes out of it. Because maybe, just maybe, she can concede that she’d crossed a line, too, and had provoked something that hadn’t really been worth provoking. It’s just been so quiet, and when things are too quiet, she turns twitchy and restless, and —
She can swallow her pride, even if it means doing so while gritting her teeth.
“Fine.” She guesses she should probably sound less like she’s gritting her teeth, though, so before she elaborates, she takes a beat. “I’ll leave his stupid docking port alone. Will that make him happy?”
Pressed against her, she can feel Cassian lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Happy enough.”
Because she knows him, Jyn can tell, just from his voice, that the beginnings of that stupid smug smirk he likes to flash at her sometimes are there, forming.
Only the shower wall will see, but she scrunches her face and glowers at it with everything she has.
“Fuck you,” she says, though, despite her efforts, she doesn’t manage to inject any real heat into it. “I heard that.”
“Heard what?”
She thinks: she should be annoyed; she should curl her free hand into a fist so that it’ll be ready to give him a nice, solid punch when her position allows. But the thought is gone almost as soon as it surfaces, because — suddenly, in spite of everything, a laugh bursts out of her. A genuine, full-bodied laugh that has her hand shaking against the wall while still trying to hold flat for support, her side stitching, and her breath wheezing.
Behind her, she can hear Cassian joining in earnest, his composure crumbling alongside his current attempt to massage her scalp. His laugh is softer than hers, still trying to find its footing after what has to be years of rust, but it’s undeniable.
Understandably undeniable, because this whole situation really is fucking absurd, isn’t it?
They don’t get many moments like this, but even so, they’ve had more of them together than Jyn can remember having for most of her life before they’d ever met — and it’s a good feeling when they happen. Warm, easy. Safe. The last of the tension she’d been carrying washes away with the water.
And after her laughter subsides and she’s blinked the tears from her eyes, she closes them, relaxing, for the moment, into what she can.
rebelcaptain + “comforting them after a nightmare” for the simple acts of love prompts <3
i think we'll just call this series "taking care of each other" ❤️ thank you for the prompt! (these have been great bite-sized things to keep me writing this weekend
from this list; still accepting!
The house on Chandrila that had become theirs after the end of the war, which Mon Mothma had called modest, has more than what he and Jyn could possibly ever need. Of its two bedrooms and refreshers, they only use one of each, and since neither of them have much in the way of possessions, most of the available storage space sits empty. Even with more room to spread out in the kitchen than Cassian has ever been able to take advantage of, there are corners of it he still doesn’t use. It’d come equipped with a built-in security system, too, which Kay had plugged himself into just after they’d moved in, claiming it "inadequate", so now, during the night, he’s not only watching the house itself, but also a radius of about two klicks around it; if something comes for them, they’ll have more than advance notice.
Still, that isn’t enough to keep out the ghosts.
Night is when they tend to live, to thrive — in the quiet moments just before falling asleep, when the tasks of the day are no longer enough of a distraction to hold them back, and in the nightmares that will never truly leave either of them alone. They’re as much constants as the dull ache in his back that couldn’t fully heal after Scarif, or all the vibroknife scars scattered along Jyn’s torso, as much constants as the way breath never really comes easily for him when they’re separated, and the way that the relief he feels is always clearly mirrored in Jyn’s face upon being reunited.
And when Cassian’s entire life has been shadowed by ghosts, he still doesn’t sleep more than a few hours per night most of the time.
Tonight, he’d given up on that entirely several hours ago. At one point, he’d had a vague thought of leaving bed and going to make himself useful somehow, by getting ahead on paperwork or meal prep or whatever other task he could find, but any notion of that had disappeared in the instant that he’d felt Jyn’s arms tighten around him and pull him closer to her chest, as if she’d known, even while deeply asleep, what he’d been considering. So he’d settled into her hold instead, finding some solace in the closeness of her steady heartbeat and rhythmic breathing.
Until, suddenly, it isn’t. Until, suddenly, her breath goes still, and her arms tighten before her warmth is gone from his side and there’s a shift of weight on the mattress.
The ghosts have come for her, too.
He turns and props himself up as quickly as his back will allow. By the time he manages a sitting position, he can just barely make out her form in the dark, hunched over, curled into herself. For now, he doesn’t approach, doesn’t move any further, just says, gently:
“Jyn.”
She doesn’t react at all.
He knows without having to ask, and he’s not going to (wouldn’t dare to): whatever she’d just woken from had been one of the really bad ones.
It’ll take time for her to come back to herself, and patience on his part to not rush her before she’s ready; he can wait. He’ll be here as always, a steady presence that he makes sure she can feel, and if it takes all night, that’s what it will take. He’s had to put much more patience into much worse things.
After a while (he doesn’t really know how long, without a chrono in sight) there’s a hitch in her breath, just barely audible; he takes that as his cue to finally come closer, shifting on the mattress until he has her completely wrapped in his arms, and her head tucked under his chin. She’s shaking, even when surrounded, and he feels tears fall onto his skin.
He presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and, just as gently, runs a hand over her back, rhythmic and calming. Eventually, she stops shaking; eventually, her breathing settles and her head flops onto his chest, heavy.
It’s all right, he wants to say, words just on the tip of his tongue, but they die before they ever leave his mouth. Because — years ago now, Cassian had made a promise to himself that he would never lie to her again, no matter how much it hurt. And though there’s no more war, no more Empire to separate families and destroy planets, and this is everything they’ve fought and sacrificed for, he can’t exactly find it in him to trust that this peace is an absolute guarantee. That kind of trust is impossible with the lives that people like them have led.
There’s no telling what might still lurk in the shadows, or what might spring up from the ashes tomorrow, next month, or the next year; there’s a reason, after all, why New Republic Intelligence exists.
So he stays with the one basic truth he can give her, whispered into her hair: “I’m here.”
Just two words, but their impact is palpable.
Jyn’s head moves under his chin, so he draws back, giving her the space to lift if if she wants — which she does; for the first time, her eyes meet his, and even in what little light there is, he can tell that they’re puffy, still shining with unshed tears.
When she finally finds her voice, it sounds as if she hasn’t used it in years, from how hoarse it is. “I know.” It’s hoarse, struggling, but not shaky; there’s a certainty to everything Jyn does, and even here, in the face of a vulnerability Cassian knows she would never show anyone else, that still shines through. He’s overcome with a whole set of emotions that he has still yet to find the words to describe. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t try to rack his brain for that, or for any kind of reply. Instead, he lifts a hand and lets it rest softly on her face, thumb tipping up her chin so he can press his lips to hers.
Holding hands to balance out each other's temperatures
So...yeah. Just a thought. ;)
here's a short little snippet! ~ 1k for a little saturday morning writing exercise; i think i'll crosspost some prompt fics to ao3 in a little collected work on another day, but for now, here this is!
from this list; still accepting!
Intimacy, Jyn has come to learn, is becoming fluent in an entirely unique language, one built on moments and all contained within them — sighs, steps, shifts in posture, brushes of hands.
She's not sure when, exactly, becoming fluent in Cassian had turned so automatic, so nearly effortless, but for all that he doesn't say — still can't bring himself to sometimes — he fills in the spaces for her. There's a certain sigh that means he's irritated, a certain knit to his brow and set of his mouth that indicates disapproval, a certain wide vulnerability in his eyes that shows the fear he wouldn't admit beyond closed doors; there's also a certain subtle twitch at his mouth that always betrays his amusement, the way his genuine smiles crinkle at his eyes when those for a calculated purpose never do, the way his touch is always gentle and seeking, like he can’t believe it’s happening, even now.
And at the end of this particular day, when their respective tasks are done and they’re alone, she knows exactly what it means to see him hunched in on himself like he is, head tucked and gaze barely even flicking up from the floor toward her direction, both hands stuffed in the front pockets of his parka.
Jyn has been in enough shitholes across the galaxy to confidently say that Hoth is the worst one she’s encountered yet, and so far, she hasn’t found anyone to disagree with her; frankly, anyone who doesn’t think this planet is some kind of fucking torture device needs their head checked. But she knows it’s worse on Cassian than it is on most — one, because his clear hatred of the cold in general had been obvious to her within a short time of knowing him, and also two, because on the really cold days (which is, well, every fucking day on Echo Base), his back noticeably stiffens, his steps become short and tight, and no matter how hard he tries to hide it from her, she can’t miss the way his jaw is clenched.
It’s hard, looking at him like this, holding herself back and giving him his space until the right time, when she wants nothing more than to rush in and do something.
He’s been pacing their quarters for close to half an hour now, in those tight, slow, agonizing steps that broadcast his flaring pain, and neither has spoken a word. It’s not as if there’s been total silence — he’s let out at least two of those certain irritated sighs, and she can’t pretend that she hasn’t done the same at a few points — but he hasn’t initiated a conversation, and she hasn’t pushed it. Patience isn’t as easy as the language she’s come to learn from watching him, but for Cassian, she tries.
(They both try, in their own ways. When making herself as difficult as possible has helped her to survive on her own well more than once, it’s second nature to turn those weapons on argument rather than throw them aside, and she’s seen the way he sucks in a sharp breath through a clenched jaw and takes some time before finding his words for her in return. They’re not perfect — they’ve both had their fair share of giving into baser, worse tendencies in ugly moments and saying things they regret — but they try. It’s what they can do.)
Even if it takes another hour, or more, waiting is the best thing that she can do for him now.
Fortunately, though, it isn’t another hour; it isn’t even another five minutes.
When he gets to the edge of the bunk on this round of pacing, Cassian suddenly stops moving completely. His hands are still in his pockets, he’s still hunched in on himself, but in a sidelong glance, Jyn can see that he’s regarding the bunk with the kind of intense, focused gaze that means he’s thinking. Truly considering. She keeps her distance, not intruding with words or otherwise just yet; it’s better, she knows, to let him come to a conclusion on his own, without any outside input from her or anything else.
After he exhales a long breath, he sinks down onto the mattress, slowly, painstakingly. He doesn’t do anything else, not even look at her, but the invitation he’s giving is clear.
Though a part of her is itching to rush across the room, she keeps her steps soft and quiet until she reaches the bunk, and slowly lowers herself onto it in much the same way that he had. He doesn’t jerk away from her presence, instead staying completely still, so Jyn takes that as a sign to move just a little closer, until their thighs are touching.
Beside her, his breaths are uneven, and the way he’s still holding his jaw tells her, maybe more than anything else, that nothing has improved.
If she can’t take away his pain, she thinks, she can at least do something to make the cold a little bit more fucking bearable — for him, for the both of them.
She knows exactly the kind of deflecting, minimizing bantha shit he'll say, so it's not worth wasting the time to even allow him to start. No, she shifts on the mattress, which creaks like it always does under the weight, and without warning, she tosses her glove off to the side and reaches for one of his hands still tucked into a pocket, wrapping hers around it tightly, firmly.
His fingers are ice cold when they first touch hers, but after a minute, she feels that begin to ebb.
"Better?" she ventures into the silence with an actual word for the first time, shifting only just enough to get a better look at him.
Cassian still doesn't quite meet her eyes, but he nods, so she'll consider that a victory.
Leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, she lingers, letting him take her warmth through more than just her hand; it's what he'll never ask for, but she'll always give without question or hesitation all the same. "Good."
If you're still accepting prompts, 4 or 31 for Rebelcaptain? I love your drabbles!
oh, thank you so much, anon! this is for prompt 31, this is me swallowing my pride, which.... back to december just screamed melodramatic college au antics ghfdjks
also on ao3!
taylor swift lyric prompts; still accepting!
“Jyn, can you get away from the bag and actually talk to me for a second?”
It hadn’t taken years of friendship to know that Leia is nothing if not fucking persistent (read: stubborn), because that had pretty much presented itself on day one — but recently, she’s turned the dial up on that to a really fucking annoying extent. She’s insisted that they get lunch together almost everyday for the past two weeks, and now, on a Saturday morning, well before most people their age even usually think about being awake, she’s shown up here at the gym, Jyn’s one place of peace, to continue with her hassling campaign.
Later, she’s going to talk to Uncle Chirrut. It’s great that he’s always been so fond of Leia, because even as protective as he is, that’d allowed him to keep accepting her as part of Jyn’s life even after the messy end to the romantic aspect of their relationship, but right now, when she just wants to be fucking left alone? That, the fact that he’d given up her location so easily, when she’d specifically asked him not to, is a betrayal.
For now, she’ll just cut her eyes in her friend’s direction and otherwise not move from in front of the punching bag, squaring up for another round against it. She’ll just say, curtly, “We can talk like this.”
Leia huffs out an irritated sigh, but she can’t just leave well enough alone there, can she? Of course she can’t. She has to walk over here, grab the punching bag with both hands, and get right in Jyn’s face, with an equally curt:
“No, we can’t.” Her eyes are narrowed in a way that probably scares the living piss out of Han Solo (and it fucking should, he needs a few more things to be scared of) — but since Jyn is more than used to this, it has no effect on her. Still, Leia presses on. “Because like this, you’re avoiding me, and you’re avoiding the question.”
And still, Jyn doesn’t cave; she can stand her ground on this all day if she has to, because she’s not the one who invaded somebody else’s space and peace and decided to act all entitled about it. Fucking try her.
She makes another fist and aims it for the bag, only for Leia’s grip on the thing to mean it has absolutely no give; she’s strong for her size, as well as her relative lack of training, and Jyn can give her that, too. That’s all she’s going to give credit for, right now, especially when the next thing out of Leia’s mouth is, again —
“What happened with you and Cassian?”
“I told you,” is what Jyn tosses back, the same thing she’s tossed back for at least the past week and a half — only this time, she sounds a lot more irritated about it. And if anyone has a right to anything here, it’s her and this, because she’s fucking tired of it. She clenches her jaw, and aims another punch. “It was bad, it’s over, and there’s no point in wasting time talking about it.”
That punch has enough force to make Leia slide back on her feet; it’s not enough to make her lose her balance, but almost. Maybe Jyn’s annoyed, but she doesn’t want to actively injure her friend or something, so that, for the first time, makes her stop. Makes her heave a heavy sigh and step back from the bag, unwrap her hands, and toss it all haphazardly to the floor.
Makes her actually meet Leia’s eyes with earnest; she doesn’t like the concern that she sees in them, because it’s not something she can easily fight with.
Jyn doesn’t like when the options for a fight dwindle down; she’s not really good with knowing what to do beyond them.
Leia pushes the bag aside and steps around it, moving to fall into step at Jyn’s side. Laying a soft hand on her shoulder, she offers an equally soft, “Get a shower, then come to lunch with me. You’re not doing yourself any favors just staying in here all the time. It’ll feel better. I promise.”
Somehow, Jyn highly doubts that. But, without a better option in front of her at the moment, she nods, mutely, and lets herself be led out of the gym.
As it turns out, Uncle Chirrut hasn’t committed the only betrayal of the day.
Because when she’d arrived at the burger place with Leia, Jyn had quickly learned that they weren’t alone. No, there’d been two other people seated at the table that Leia had led them to: Bodhi — and Cassian.
She’d been raised with just enough decency to not scream obscenities in front of a bunch of patrons trying to enjoy a Saturday lunch — some of whom are friends of her parents, and some of whom have small children — but they shouldn’t believe for a second, Jyn thinks, that she’s fucking okay with this. Because she isn’t; she still won’t be fucking okay with this in fifty years. It isn’t even wholly the Cassian part of the issue, it’s —
Look, it’s one thing for Leia to try for one of her stupid schemes on her own, but to drag someone else into it? Someone like Bodhi, who’s way too nice for this shit by himself, and so, therefore, clearly was pulled along for the ride against his will? Inexcusable. Unforgivable.
And now, Leia has dragged Bodhi off completely to another table at the far end of the dining room, leaving Jyn and Cassian alone with their food and enough awkward tension that even some kind of fucking turboknife would never get through.
Later, Jyn’s not going to just punch the bag with Leia holding it; she’s just going to punch her, period. This is a promise.
It’s one she seals by stabbing the french fry she’s been idly swirling around her plate with her finger, covering it in ketchup, and making her plate clatter in the process.
That seems to shake Cassian out of some kind of trance, and when she glances up, finally — she happens to note that he’s actually looking at her. What’s weird to notice is that it actually isn’t with hostility, at least definitely not like the note they’d parted on; no, if she had to piece it together, she thinks she sees something sad lingering in those brown eyes. A longing, maybe, that she’s felt so acutely, so painfully, for weeks now, one that’s kept her up at night and plagued her into her waking hours, too.
Or maybe she’s just projecting.
Jyn exhales a long sigh, and in all ways but verbal, slowly counts to ten. Then, she opens her mouth.
“I’m sorry —”
“I —”
But she isn’t the only one to do it.
A silence, more painfully awkward than ever, falls over the table between them again. She swirls her french fry around again, dropping her gaze back to her plate; when takes a chance on flicking her eyes away from it, she sees Cassian fidget. It’s not something that would be noticeable to everyone, but it is to her, because she knows him.
She knows him, and fuck, her life has been miserable without him in it.
Maybe he is thinking the same thing, maybe she hasn’t been alone in this, because he swallows visibly, and with a vague gesture of his hand, in a tight voice, he offers, “You first.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Jyn takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for Leia,” she begins, haltingly. “I know this was her idea, and she shouldn’t have roped Bodhi into it. That’s an asshole thing to do.”
But that’s not enough, is it? For all her anger that’s been consuming her for weeks, for all the punching bags she’s destroyed and all the number of pencils she’s snapped when the thought of him has drifted into her mind while zoning out during linear algebra homework, Jyn knows: this is on her.
It’s like her father had told her so many times, and even as recently as last year: You can know everything in the universe, Stardust, but if you aren’t honest, if you aren’t decent, it doesn’t mean anything.
“And I’m sorry —” This requires another deep breath from her; as much as she tries to keep it steady, it shakes. Still, she wills herself to look up and meet his gaze, to keep it, because this is important. “About what I said. I was an asshole, too.”
There it is. It feels as heavy leaving her mouth as it had sitting in her chest, and she’s not sure if there’s any relief to be found. Maybe there isn’t supposed to be.
Still, she doesn’t take her eyes off of him. And, eventually:
“So was I.”
His voice is quiet in that pensive way she knows well, but there’s a hint of the same heaviness that’d been in her, too. They’ve both been fucking miserable. They’ve both —
A hand reaches across the table, slipping into one of hers. Not the one covered in ketchup, of course, but the other one. Fingers give hers a gentle squeeze; she doesn’t hesitate to do the same in return.
Things feel not just lighter, but brighter, already.
One of the corners of her mouth quirks up. “We don’t let them know that their plan worked?”
“Absolutely not,” he says, with that exact hint of dry, subtle humor she’s missed so much as he props both elbows on the tables, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Let them sweat it out. They deserve it for that kind of shameless coercion.”
Before she can ever have a hope of stopping it, a grin cracks onto Jyn’s mouth, and Cassian smiles back.
remember the han ships rebelcaptain and is also massively behind the 8 ball on it fic from like two weeks ago? here's a sequel. (prompt is six months gone and i’m still reaching, and i interpreted it oh so loosely ghdjks)
now also on ao3!
taylor swift lyric prompts ; still accepting!
Five months, twenty-eight days, and six hours have passed since he's last had contact with Echo Base.
There have long been operational reasons for Cassian to be in the practice of keeping track of these things: for the anticipation of any potential extraction timeline, for the eventual debrief and report to follow, for the purpose of planning future missions. He’s risen through the ranks in a short period of time, especially compared to the average, for being nothing if not exceedingly thorough — because that’s what the rebellion needs. His attention, his effort, as much as he can give.
It’s only in the past year and a half that any of the reasons have turned personal, that, well, if he’s being honest with himself — many of them have.
When time had meant nothing to him once, other than the operational logging, it seems like his solo assignments tend to drag on for eternity now. He’s given this one no less attention, no less effort than he’s given any other, but in quiet moments between when that’d been needed and in the seconds just before he’d drifted off for a requisite few hours of sleep just to be able to keep going, he’d felt the absence, acutely, of a soft hand in his, of a warm presence by his side. He’d missed the way her nose always scrunches just before describing something particularly annoying, and the way that he’s always rewarded with the most beautiful smile when he throws in the right kind of dry agreement, so fucking much that it had ached.
But, finally, after five months, twenty-eight days, and six hours, he’s securely on a ship, cleared atmosphere, and is enough within hyperspace, away from Imperial territory, to risk a transmission.
Echo Base, though, isn’t his first one — at least, not base command. He’ll report in, of course, when he has a better sense of his ETA, so they’ll have a precise window to lower the shields without incurring unnecessary risk.
His first transmission is in code, for an additional layer of security, to the channel that can only be accessed by Sergeant Jyn Erso. Just one word, which she’ll be able to understand, if she’s reading (because they’d worked out that code, together, not long after Scarif): alive.
Intellectually, he knows there will be a lag (there always is when communicating from hyperspace, among other perfectly logical reasons), so not getting an immediate response shouldn’t, in and of itself, be a cause for concern. Still, in the idle moments — when he’s had so many in the past five months, twenty-eight days, and six hours, so he’s primed to dwell in them — the thoughts begin to circle, heavy in his mind and even heavier when they settle in his chest. They hold possibilities, worst case scenarios. Fears.
For a long time, he’d pushed down fear to the point of nearly forgetting it ever existed. Here now, though, in the waiting, the memory of it is sharp, painful like a blade to the gut.
The line buzzes; the waiting doesn’t have a chance to linger for long.
Two words, in code, bring him all the relief that maybe he still doesn’t deserve to actually have, but that he accepts, allows to wash over him all the same: welcome home.
It’s been five months, twenty-eight days, and seven hours, and he finds that the hours that remain are their own form of excruciating.
Jyn’s there at the exact moment he steps off of the ship and out into the hangar. Of course she is; he hadn’t doubted that for a second. He hadn’t doubted, either, that she wouldn’t wait whatever seconds it would take for him to actually approach her, that she’d take matters into her own hands and run toward him, cutting the time in half.
And he hadn’t doubted that he’d be practically knocked over by the force of their collision, hadn’t doubted that she’d take his breath away with their first kiss in almost six fucking long months.
No, it’s easy, natural, right, the way they fall into each other like no time has passed at all, the way they exist, for this one moment, away from the chill of Hoth and the even colder complexity of their reality. Where he can hold her and she can hold him, and nothing but the fact that they’re together and they love each other.
Except —
Out of the corner of one eye, Cassian is fairly certain that he sees someone moving — when up to this point, as far as he knows, people have done this reunion a courtesy of giving it a wide berth. He pulls back from Jyn, not far, but enough to study the movement, to pinpoint the identity of the person doing the moving with a pretty high degree of certainty; the man in question isn’t exactly subtle, even on his best day.
A crease forms between his brows. He asks, "What's Solo doing here?"
The effect on Jyn is instant. All traces of her smile, her relief, her anything else are all gone; in their place, her jaw sets and her eyes harden in the way that Cassian knows means danger for someone. Her hands fall away from him, curling into fists, and her whole body tenses like she’s gearing up for a fight.
"Leaving," she growls. "That's what he's doing."
She turns away from him, then, in a blink, stalking toward Solo’s direction with single-minded purpose across the hangar. The man is clearly only aware of what’s happening too late, because he doesn’t manage to get away before she’s shoving him, before she’s yelling out a lot of things — most of which Cassian can’t hear, because of the whir of machinery that sounds behind him then, but a very clear “Get fucked!” does manage to reach his ears.
There’ll be a debrief to attend, and a report to file, because the intelligence he’s gathered is valuable. But for now, he’s content to watch this play out in front of him, and allow the ghost of a smile to tug on the corners of his mouth.
things you said with too many miles between us + rebelcaptain :3
fun fact, i wrote this on my phone when i was supposed to be asleep 🤷♀️
still accepting from this list!
The rain has fallen on Nothoiiin nonstop for days.
That's made most of this part of the mission useless, really; there's no watching of anything, much less an outpost, to be done when visibility is so low, and they can't risk getting any closer where they are. In light of this, it's mostly been a waiting game for a signal from the other part, parsecs away — Cassian's part.
Jyn has never been a fan of waiting. Even on the best of days, waiting makes her jumpy and agitated (she's built to be moving, not idle), but this isn't the best of days. The nonstop rain brings a chill to the air that she knows all too well, one that seeps through her sleeves no matter how close she scoots toward the fire; it drips through cracks in the cave that they, she and the support unit, have taken shelter in, making sleep impossible.
It's too much like a cave she'd once spent time in, sheltering from the elements — waiting for someone she'd known would never come back.
She tries to shove the thought from her mind as she watches the comlink that hasn't left her side for days, but it's as stubborn as the ghosts she'll always carry with her, as the precedent she's still expecting to still hold true one day. How could she not? Everyday is borrowed time, and sooner or later, something always comes to collect. Something —
The comlink flashes.
Her heart jumps into her throat; breath hangs in the balance as she pays careful attention to the pattern. It's complete gibberish to the Empire, and even to everyone else stationed here with her, but Jyn knows the meaning of this code beyond a shadow of a doubt (she'd helped to create it, after all).
Alive.
There isn't any time to waste to get the hell out of here and move forward with the extraction plan. But she allows herself a second, just one, to breathe her relief, to untie the knot in her chest that's only been tightening for days.
By the time she walks out of the cave, she can, at least for now, firmly shut the one in her mind.
is just over 500 words still a mini-fic? i'm gonna say it is ❤️
still accepting from this list!
One way or another, Cassian had known he would see the end in the Rebellion.
There’d been no point in speculating which one, exactly, it would be. Odds had been greatest for a death on assignment, alone on an unfamiliar planet — and hopefully before compromising anything sensitive. Scarif had been the closest to reaching one, averted only by a last-second rescue and months of bacta, but he would’ve been content if neither of those aversions had come to pass.
He’d never fathomed actually living to see the end of the war. Or, if not the end, at least the solid beginning of it, here on Endor.
In the distance, the celebrations still carry on, and likely will well into the night; there’s music, laughter, and, somehow (Cassian isn’t sure he’ll ever quite understand how), General Solo’s voice carrying above it all. He and Jyn had slipped away together, hand in hand, some time ago, though, and had found themselves a quiet spot in a clearing to watch the sky. Had found a moment to share in an understanding that, among everyone currently on this moon, only they, survivors of Scarif, could.
From the ground, the lingering debris from the second (and final; he can believe that) attempt at the Death Star appears no different than any other natural part of the sky. All the fighting, all the barters he’s made for the sole benefit of a cause well beyond himself, all the lives that have been lost in the years leading up to this moment — their culmination is here, in vague flickerings already beginning to dim. The Empire has taken, taken, taken, but in the end, its influence could fade into the background before becoming nothing at all.
He doesn’t know how the thought sits.
But he does know that, by his side, her head resting on his shoulder, Jyn is warm and alive. That their hearts, beating in time with each other, are steady. That when he’d once been sure he’d be alone when he’d see whatever the end would mean for him, he now spares one thought: he’s grateful that he isn’t, that she’s here, sharing this.
Tomorrow, there will still be a war to continue fighting; no one here would ever expect it to vanish overnight. There will still be intelligence to gather and operations to plan, a chance to strike when the Empire is at its weakest and possibly silence it for good — and one they can’t afford to squander.
Tonight, though, it can just be this. It can be Jyn’s breath warm on his neck, combating the chill of the night air. It can be the flecks of light he sees in her eyes when they meet his, brighter than anything he’s ever known. It can be her fingers that ghost over his face and the smile that slowly tugs on her mouth; it can be the way that he leans in, pulled toward her as if by gravity, and presses his lips to hers.
