In the cargo hold of the ship they'd stolen - the ship Bodhi and K2 had stolen in the hysteria of the Alliance attack on the base.
Her skin was slick and hot with the precipitation that had almost killed them on their descent, on fire with the ghost of her father's body in her hands. He'd known her, in those last moments - recognized her, somehow made peace with the little girl he'd once played silly games with and the shattered shell of a woman who was wiping the hair from his face the way he had when she was young.
She'd hated Cassian, then. Would have tossed him from the ship and into the dead, cold depths of space if she could have. Had held him responsible for the unbearable absence of her father - for the way he'd torn her from his corpse, even as she cried, 'I can't leave him!'
Jyn had holed herself up in the cargo hold of the ship after that - needing to find some solace, some sanctuary from the sorrow and pity in Chirrut's milky eyes, the avoidance of Bodhi's, the softness in Baze's. The rumbling tremors between she and Cassian. She'd curled herself up, wanting to curl more and more until she'd ceased to exist - until she could become nothing more than the Stardust her father always told her she was - until the shredded mass of her heart could somehow beat again.
She had cried like this, back then. She had rocked herself in her solitude, wanting nothing more than the safe harbor of her mother's arms, her father's touch. She had felt something like this, she thinks. There's a part of her that feels like an intruder, as though she has no right to be here - no right to hear the apologies and whimpers and pleas that stream forth from Kira's mouth. They're virtually strangers, after all, tied together only by their co-existence in this foreign place and the kindness he had shown her half a day earlier.
Yet -
Perhaps it's the echo of her empty chest to his, the wailing of one broken heart to another, that makes her feel connected to him. Two ghouls floating about through time and space, recognizing each other in separate flesh-and-bone cages, reaching out - stretching endlessly - to meet.
She hushes soothing, quieting sounds, arms firmly planted and unwavering. She motions to move their torsos back, feet still dangling in the water like lures, backs and sides pressed against the dense, soft moss underneath. She props her head on one bent arm, the other still across his chest and shoulders, still clinging onto him like an anchor. Her exhaustion still lingers, but it's a familiar friend - sleep has never been much of an ally in her life. If he wants to close his eyes, find whatever sleep he might be able to - she will let him - will stay with him, keep him safe. If it's only for a fleeting moment, to gather the pieces of himself back up into his exhausted arms, then she will help him - carry some of it for him.
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In the cargo hold of the ship they'd stolen - the ship Bodhi and K2 had stolen in the hysteria of the Alliance attack on the base.
Her skin was slick and hot with the precipitation that had almost killed them on their descent, on fire with the ghost of her father's body in her hands. He'd known her, in those last moments - recognized her, somehow made peace with the little girl he'd once played silly games with and the shattered shell of a woman who was wiping the hair from his face the way he had when she was young.
She'd hated Cassian, then. Would have tossed him from the ship and into the dead, cold depths of space if she could have. Had held him responsible for the unbearable absence of her father - for the way he'd torn her from his corpse, even as she cried, 'I can't leave him!'
Jyn had holed herself up in the cargo hold of the ship after that - needing to find some solace, some sanctuary from the sorrow and pity in Chirrut's milky eyes, the avoidance of Bodhi's, the softness in Baze's. The rumbling tremors between she and Cassian. She'd curled herself up, wanting to curl more and more until she'd ceased to exist - until she could become nothing more than the Stardust her father always told her she was - until the shredded mass of her heart could somehow beat again.
She had cried like this, back then. She had rocked herself in her solitude, wanting nothing more than the safe harbor of her mother's arms, her father's touch. She had felt something like this, she thinks. There's a part of her that feels like an intruder, as though she has no right to be here - no right to hear the apologies and whimpers and pleas that stream forth from Kira's mouth. They're virtually strangers, after all, tied together only by their co-existence in this foreign place and the kindness he had shown her half a day earlier.
Yet -
Perhaps it's the echo of her empty chest to his, the wailing of one broken heart to another, that makes her feel connected to him. Two ghouls floating about through time and space, recognizing each other in separate flesh-and-bone cages, reaching out - stretching endlessly - to meet.
She hushes soothing, quieting sounds, arms firmly planted and unwavering. She motions to move their torsos back, feet still dangling in the water like lures, backs and sides pressed against the dense, soft moss underneath. She props her head on one bent arm, the other still across his chest and shoulders, still clinging onto him like an anchor. Her exhaustion still lingers, but it's a familiar friend - sleep has never been much of an ally in her life. If he wants to close his eyes, find whatever sleep he might be able to - she will let him - will stay with him, keep him safe. If it's only for a fleeting moment, to gather the pieces of himself back up into his exhausted arms, then she will help him - carry some of it for him.
Whatever it is, whatever he needs - she's there.