Cassian Andor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
candor1) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-02-12 06:31 pm
candor1) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-12 06:31 pm
Mi corazón te abrí, desde entonces llevo el cielo dentro de mí [closed]
WHO: Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor; with cameo by Finnick Odair!
WHERE: Cabin 56
WHEN: February 6, later that night, directly out of this.
OPEN TO: Jyn, Cassian, not enough o' Finnick [Thank you again, JK, for letting us rope him in!]
WARNINGS: …we're not planning in advance where this will go, but we're also not ruling anything out…? Update: Nope, yep, smutalert.
STATUS: CLOSED. /collapses in happy tears/ Sequel coming soon!!!
He didn't think he would. He'd tried a few times to reject it.
But obviously, some part of him had decided to survive.
Which, among other requirements… meant he couldn't keep hanging on to the hope.
Rebellions are—
(Shh. I know. That's the point. Here, the only thing you're rebelling against, now…
is that you survived.
You have to stop.)
A hope he could fight for had been his whole life. He'd been willing to die for it. He'd also been willing, which was far harder, to live for it. This hope, which he could no more have controlled but been helpless even to serve, had only made him want to die.
When almost everything else he swore he'd never do had ended up done, all other beliefs compromised or sacrificed or betrayed, the one he'd held onto was that he would only give himself so wholly to a cause that was worth it.
This wasn't worth it.
She had been worth it.
But hoping for her to miraculously appear here, not necessarily because she'd want it, only for his own self-serving sake… that wasn't worthy of either of them. Even if his dying for it would actually serve it in any way. Which, it wouldn't.
So stop.
..
So. Despite time after time finding himself near the fountain, sprinting to it every time someone arrived, forcing down his renewed grief and self-disgust so he could help them even when they weren't her, and thus being there to greet almost every new arrival since his own…
…he wasn't there now.
He didn't know it when she did arrive.
..
He had finally—after a month of resisting it, of choosing instead to bivouac despite the conditions making that insane—set foot in one of the empty, small cabins. Compared to the only spaces he'd had entirely to himself in twenty years—a ship's cockpit or cabin, most personnel-free holds, a barracks bunk, the officer's quarters he'd been given at Massassi Base that he so rarely had stayed in—the cabin was… capacious. He could have comfortably shared it with Kay. Or a few team members. …He couldn't (shouldn't) quite imagine anything more domestic.
But… his head was still bandaged. His hand moreso. His arm still in sling. If he wanted a chance of regaining full function of his hand—which wasn't a prerequisite but would be a good barometer of intent that he did want to be of use to others again—he would follow his "doctor"'s orders.
Return to basics. Secure shelter.
Survive.
And someone agreed with him. In the otherwise unfurnished space, there were two boxes on the table, labeled with his name.
He wasn't sure what he felt. It wasn't quite surprise.
More to respect Rory's work than preventing pain, he kept his bandaged right hand out of it, and managed to open the boxes only with his left. In shorter order, he'd methodically set out a pocketknife, and flint and steel. They were more primitive than the most basic survival tools he'd typically have on him at all times, hidden in a pocket or his boot. They were the most valuable gifts he'd probably ever received.
It would have been easier with his right hand, but (not strictly for situations like this) he'd learned to use the left well enough; to pick up the knife, one-handedly flick open several of its blades, do a toss, a flip, and several flashes of quick moves and maneuvers. Shutting it again, he secreted it into his (newly washed—thank you again, hospital and inn—) clothes. The flint and steel were harder. Still, there were already a few logs in the fireplace (leftovers from a previous inhabitant, or another housewarming gift). And the boxes the gifts had come in were of a material that would be nontoxic for kindling. So, to make sure he could, and as a declaration of claim on this place to anyone outside and to himself, he opened the flue and lit a fire.
Cassian stood before it for a while, watching it claim a foothold on existence, spread to more vibrant life, and send its smoke up into the world.
This is real.
I wanted to die with Jyn on Scarif.
Kay did.
I'm here.
And I'm staying.
Goodbye, Jyn.
* * *
So when he hears the front door open, and turns to see a fully alive Jyn Erso standing in it…
Cassian naturally assumes he's hallucinating.
WHERE: Cabin 56
WHEN: February 6, later that night, directly out of this.
OPEN TO: Jyn, Cassian, not enough o' Finnick [Thank you again, JK, for letting us rope him in!]
WARNINGS: …we're not planning in advance where this will go, but we're also not ruling anything out…? Update: Nope, yep, smutalert.
STATUS: CLOSED. /collapses in happy tears/ Sequel coming soon!!!
He didn't think he would. He'd tried a few times to reject it.
But obviously, some part of him had decided to survive.
Which, among other requirements… meant he couldn't keep hanging on to the hope.
(Shh. I know. That's the point. Here, the only thing you're rebelling against, now…
is that you survived.
You have to stop.)
A hope he could fight for had been his whole life. He'd been willing to die for it. He'd also been willing, which was far harder, to live for it. This hope, which he could no more have controlled but been helpless even to serve, had only made him want to die.
When almost everything else he swore he'd never do had ended up done, all other beliefs compromised or sacrificed or betrayed, the one he'd held onto was that he would only give himself so wholly to a cause that was worth it.
This wasn't worth it.
She had been worth it.
But hoping for her to miraculously appear here, not necessarily because she'd want it, only for his own self-serving sake… that wasn't worthy of either of them. Even if his dying for it would actually serve it in any way. Which, it wouldn't.
So stop.
So. Despite time after time finding himself near the fountain, sprinting to it every time someone arrived, forcing down his renewed grief and self-disgust so he could help them even when they weren't her, and thus being there to greet almost every new arrival since his own…
…he wasn't there now.
He didn't know it when she did arrive.
He had finally—after a month of resisting it, of choosing instead to bivouac despite the conditions making that insane—set foot in one of the empty, small cabins. Compared to the only spaces he'd had entirely to himself in twenty years—a ship's cockpit or cabin, most personnel-free holds, a barracks bunk, the officer's quarters he'd been given at Massassi Base that he so rarely had stayed in—the cabin was… capacious. He could have comfortably shared it with Kay. Or a few team members. …He couldn't (shouldn't) quite imagine anything more domestic.
But… his head was still bandaged. His hand moreso. His arm still in sling. If he wanted a chance of regaining full function of his hand—which wasn't a prerequisite but would be a good barometer of intent that he did want to be of use to others again—he would follow his "doctor"'s orders.
Return to basics. Secure shelter.
Survive.
And someone agreed with him. In the otherwise unfurnished space, there were two boxes on the table, labeled with his name.
He wasn't sure what he felt. It wasn't quite surprise.
More to respect Rory's work than preventing pain, he kept his bandaged right hand out of it, and managed to open the boxes only with his left. In shorter order, he'd methodically set out a pocketknife, and flint and steel. They were more primitive than the most basic survival tools he'd typically have on him at all times, hidden in a pocket or his boot. They were the most valuable gifts he'd probably ever received.
It would have been easier with his right hand, but (not strictly for situations like this) he'd learned to use the left well enough; to pick up the knife, one-handedly flick open several of its blades, do a toss, a flip, and several flashes of quick moves and maneuvers. Shutting it again, he secreted it into his (newly washed—thank you again, hospital and inn—) clothes. The flint and steel were harder. Still, there were already a few logs in the fireplace (leftovers from a previous inhabitant, or another housewarming gift). And the boxes the gifts had come in were of a material that would be nontoxic for kindling. So, to make sure he could, and as a declaration of claim on this place to anyone outside and to himself, he opened the flue and lit a fire.
Cassian stood before it for a while, watching it claim a foothold on existence, spread to more vibrant life, and send its smoke up into the world.
This is real.
I wanted to die with Jyn on Scarif.
Kay did.
I'm here.
And I'm staying.
Goodbye, Jyn.
So when he hears the front door open, and turns to see a fully alive Jyn Erso standing in it…
Cassian naturally assumes he's hallucinating.