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.
no subject
The memories rush through her, a silent holodrama in her mind's eye. When had they'd begun to loosen their grip? When had they - how could they have - known enough about each other to begin to develop the trust required?
When had she let him in?
His release feels like warmth and love and connection exploding inside of her, the steady percussion of their hearts a choir to the performance they've created. Instinct without forethought makes her tighten around him, every part of her wanting to be as close to him as she can manage. To be able to curl herself into a ball so tight he could swallow her whole ..
She didn't reach the summit, she realizes, but it's barely a thought before it's chased away by the heady, intoxicating symphony of breath and grunts and murmurs of pleasure. It doesn't matter. He matters. They matter.
Her lips seek his out in the dark, legs still entwined around his hips, hands now skating across his perspired skin. She wants to bathe in his light, come out clean - come out forgiven. Lips move from mouth to jaw to neck to shoulder, darting tongue catching the molecules that she will always seek from his skin. She gathers her hair, matted and damp against her body, balls it loosely into a nest at the back of her head.
"Cassian," she says again - a chant full of light and of love and of -
An inability to say what it is that her tongue is pleading to reveal.
If she knew the words he'd muttered before, if she could have understood them, known their true meaning, she would've whispered them back to him now in the dark, as both a declaration of love and a plea for him to stay.
no subject
He considered himself lucky that his way had been… with impossible effortlessness… to be at Jyn's side. After a lifetime of learning how (and why he must) do everything entirely on his own; to be… not in its idiomatic sense, but tactically, logistically, and… with total faith: her other half.
Now she moves under him and he willingly obeys, kissing her deeply back. Though he jerks a little, shivering, at their movement causing new friction on overstimulated nerves… nonetheless he doesn't want to pull out of her yet.
His untorn hand joins hers, helping her gather up her hair; and resting his four fingers between her knuckles and his thumb brushing some of the dampness at her brow.
Resting his cheek on hers, feeling the rise and fall of their chests, still pressed together, begin to slow, he turned again to touch her hair with his lips. Says softly, "Do you want me to…?"
He doesn't even know what to offer—(he would do, to make certain to be clear and helpful, if he'd known it was her first time, but, still, no clue… [she easily jibed, "You're a terrible spy"])—but perhaps the point of starting at all is to leave it open for her to say anything.
no subject
He would see two versions of her. The first, lively and beautiful, incandescent and possessing a vibrancy that seems inhuman; confident and sure and knowing; loving and open and warm. The other, sullen and emaciated, epitome of darkness and pain; panicked eyes and twitching limbs; suspicious and distrusting and cold. Each would be strangling the other, squeezing - squeezing - until one of them must relinquish control or succumb to hypothetical death. It'd be a terrifying sight, she thinks, but it'd be one hell of a show to watch.
In the slow descent of heartbeat, and heat, and breath - their declivity gradual and soft - she could feel the Light in her flicker, the Darkness grow stronger. It whispers messages of loss and abandonment, it promises emptiness and goodbyes. It reminds her that she's lost Cassian once, that there's nothing to prevent it from happening again. It slithers in her ear, curls up like a snake, hissing its siren song of fear. It tells her to hide, it tells her to run. It tells her to protect and survive and -
No, the Light says. You cannot win again. Not after a lifetime of war, and a lifetime of control. But Light's voice is weak, her strength is fading. Darkness has had many years to grow, leaving Light behind. As Darkness unhinges her jaw, ready to devour Light in her entirety, Jyn tastes Cassian in her mouth. She feels the fire of his touch against her skin, the reverberations of hearts and lungs. She hears his voice, his unfinished offer -
And Darkness crawls back into the night, recuperating strength for the next battle, bent on victory.
"Yes," she breathes, though even she's not entirely sure what it is she's agreeing to. It doesn't matter, so long as it's an offer from his mouth. "I want everything with you." A pause, a swallow, a breath. She whispers: "You could lead me into the darkness with your hand around my throat, and still, I'd follow."
no subject
Perhaps with some unknown sense, on some unknowable plane, he did see her fight. Because with a shudder, in response, there are two of him, too.
But instead of turning on each other, both of him stride toward both of her.
"Don't say that!" shouts the Cassian with burning eyes, half scorched-off hair, older and taller and broader than in life, but which only makes him more impossible to stop as he grabs her with bloodstained hands—grabs the light Jyn, off her feet, to shake her. "Never promise that, ever…!"
The Cassian who looks sixteen years old, with sleepless circles under his eyes and wasted hollows under his cheeks, whose frame is more skeletal, frailer than is real, kneels beside the Jyn in pain. …But, looking at her, he changes. Morphs, grows, until he nearly matches his true self—but, like the light Jyn, less damaged than in life: young and actually looks it, with a healthier cast to his skin and bit more brightness in his eyes. That new Cassian turns to gather dark Jyn protectively into his arms. "He's afraid he'll actually do it," he whispers in her ear. "Not because he wants to. He's done worse before."
The dream, of course, doesn't allow for the probability that neither Jyn would passively accept either approach. If he could realize any of this consciously, he might notice that.
The real Cassian—too thin but solid, slight but strong, eyes weary but not hollow, 26 looking like 40—looks down at the real Jyn, a tightness in his throat. He can't wakingly grasp any of what their subconsciouses are echoing at one another. He only knows her trust, her faith, in him is…
chilling reanimating warming terrifying…makes him want to lay his head in her lap and all else at her feet and do anything she asked with the rest of his life. Makes him desperate never, never to hurt her.Leaning down, again, he only kisses her.
He might have hardened again in her softness and warmth; but the subconscious disturbance has pushed that away. …Still; it's not to late to keep the spell going a bit longer for her. —and so doing, regain some of it for himself.
Deepening the kiss, he lays her down from his arms, slips them free, pushes himself gently down her body… unable not to jolt a little as he slides free of her… but smoothly completing the movement, repositions himself to rest with his head on her thigh, his arm beneath her waist, and replacing the lost connection at her center with his mouth.
no subject
She would weep for his gentleness, the unison shared between them, the invocation of her name leaping off his tongue. She would weep for the life they'd left behind, for the chance at another. She would weep until she had nothing left, then plunge herself into Cassian to be filled again. She wants nothing more than to be the woman he sees whenever their eyes meet, instead of the being that inhabits her body.
She wonders, briefly, if she will ever be as kind, as beautiful, as deserving as he seems to think she is.
It takes her a moment to realize his movements, a whimper released into the night at the feeling of separation. But then he's there - again, only different - and she's flooded with a warmth hotter, brighter than a thousand Scarifs. She inhales sharply as her spine curves itself away from the floor, legs instinctively tensing around his body. The breath escapes on the wings of a sigh, fingers lost in the fields of his hair.
no subject
His cheek and jaw are rough, but only occasionally graze her. Not enough to detract from what's…
Basic has no useful description. One can think technically about soft tissues, epithelial membranes, nerve-ending concentration, and kill any prayer of capturing it. The closest he'd heard was when D'djiera had contentedly sighed, Batalat w'alaliha. Petals and nectar.
That's what Jyn feels like to him there; what he tries make her feel from him in return.
For however long he can keep making her gasp and curve, he'll ride and rise with her, matching her everflexing muscles with those in his arms to keep her firmly braced, seeming content to rest in that valley and make love to her there with his lips and tongue until she tells him to stop.
At some point, his untorn hand slips away from the straining, flowing landscape of her back, and searches nearby… until he finds and grasps her hand.
your icons are killing me
But, she knows, if Cassian is her guide (how he'd always been her guide, a hand reaching out and through the darkness of her heart), there is nothing to fear. Not really. Not beyond the uncertainty and hesitation of something new.
Her hands feel like they're scrambling for something to hold, evacuating the terrain of his hair to her hip, the thin skin stretched across her abdomen, until finally -
his hand.
The instant they meet, she clutches, tightens. It was what she'd been searching for. There's a build up of tension that she can't pinpoint, can't describe - it floods her like an avalanche, like stirring rumbles of a volcano long thought dormant. Her breath is short, sharp - complemented and echoed by moans and murmurs of sound that aren't cohesive outside of the pleasure they're birthing.
Her eyes roll back with her head, lids meeting, brows stitched together, lips parted. Tongue swipes across the ridge of her teeth.
Her tongue wants to beseech his name, beg for it and him and everything and anything. But it's stricken with the movements between her legs, the touch of his tongue and the press of his lips, each movement a spark, a flame. The hand not clasping his moves claws at her neck, her chest, her breasts as she squirms and writhes, a snake beneath his touch. She feels like she's about explode.
El Bufalo de la Noche! ^_^
Cassian pushes himself into a new position, his knees under him, to press the advantage—caressing forward and pulling her in harder at once; his… kiss (there were other words for what he was doing but none more right for this, now… the way he was doing it… worshipful, indeed… maybe… loving) continuously enveloping that spot that sent flashes straight up her stomach up behind her eyes into her neurons and mind…
He turned his hand to strongly grip hers. Holding her firm no matter how arduously she might strain away; tethering her to him, so she can rise and not fall.
For the briefest instant, the wetness and warmth of his mouth change ever so slightly on her… to have it vibrate through her, the whisper of his still-touching breath and lips, "Dámelo, Jyn…"
i know but like ._. diego, mi corazon, que guapo que lindo
it's not.
And then it turns into a feather's descent, a slow migration of a nomadic cloud. It's bliss and joy and release. Her back slowly flattens, limbs still spasming as the wave rushes over her, the breath ragged in her chest beginning to slow.
She quickly uses the hand gripped around his to pull him up, needing to be again encased in the feeling of his skin, his arms, his heart. And that's what it is - a need - like a river breaking through a canyon, down the center of her being. She moves, shuffles them around so she's tucked against his side, head where arm meets shoulder, her limbs strewn across his like a tether. She raises her head, presses her lips to his - tastes the mix of her and him together on his mouth - then pulls away, her heartbeat thudding in her chest. She whispers - concealing it as a breath.
"I love you, Cassian."
no subject
He's resting, with all muscles and limbs completely undone and unlocked, between her legs, eyes closed against her stomach, when she urges him up to her. He finds a last reserve of strength do so, being shifted gratefully by her own movement. He folds his arms around her close, unable to pull this time, but not needing to; her wish came true and they've lost all separate definition, can simply melt into one whole.
They kiss. He leans back. The earlier makeshift pillow has been scattered to the wind, but it's all right, he puts back his head to the floor to feel the hardness under scalp and cooler air on his throat. He spends a lifelong moment just relishing the feel of Jyn in his arms, and reteaching himself to breathe.
Then—if he wasn't imagining—her voiceless words.
His arms tighten around her. Turning him a little further to her, to cradle her head in the hollow of his shoulder and chest.
He means to speak back.
But discovers he's…
So it turned out to be his first, too.
Because not his father, no memory of his mother, no one else…
He truly doesn't know if anyone has ever said that to him 'til now.
…he wants to answer but can only hold her, not knowing if he does or doesn't want her to feel… the… tears… (which he honestly thought he'd lost the ability to make)… falling down his face.
no subject
So, she hadn't meant to say them now - and she isn't regretting it, not really .. except for the creeping fear that's now taking over in the silence.
It was too soon, she thinks, her internal voice harsh and scolding, as though speaking to an untamable child (and she had been one, hadn't she?). His silence is his politest way of the blunt truth - he doesn't feel the same. How could you think he did? How could you think you meant enough to him, to his life, to name it love? Do you even know what that is?
She can feel the slow retraction of her body from his as she begins to crumple in on herself in shame and rejection. It's a subtle pull, and she wonders if he'll feel it -
It's when she's about to dress herself and leave (before he can demand her exit) that she hears the distinct percussion of -
crying?
She can't determine whether they're caused by happiness or pain or sadness - and panic sets in. She sits up, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting on the cabin in the night. Gaze searches for his. Hand reaches out, searches for his face - finds skin, moistened with tears, warm to the touch.
She doesn't know what to say. She feels as though she should apologize, but she knows as much about that as she does of love - which is to say, not much. Still, since she is already training her tongue to make shapes and perform acrobatics it has never known before, she might as well keep going (and then, if things go the way she thinks they will, never utter them again) and repeat what she's already said once this evening:
".. I'm sorry."
no subject
But then she came back… she sat up but not to stand: to see him. He curls forward, doubling over on himself, presses his face again into her abdomen, his arm coming up, blocking his face from, and winding around her back in helpless apology, rejection of hers (you've done nothing wrong I can't tell you what you've given me) and silent prayer for her not to go.
He doesn't know what is happening. What particular terrible thing is causing this. Maybe there isn't any particular thing. Maybe it's just… dams can't be broken selectively. If the good comes out, the bad must have its release too…
Though he makes no sound, his discipline (as it had in the other emotional direction with her before) breaks; and his body wracks with grief.
no subject
She begins to create another alias - another name - in the urgency of needing to leave "Jyn" behind. There would be no recovering of it, if it left his mouth as a hex.
In the silence, she'd begun to replace her musculature, her bones, her nerves with some version of durasteel, piece by piece and bit by bit. Cold, unfeeling. Harder to break, durable. Consistent and reliant.
Strong.
But then - his head is against her, his arms curl around her, and she can somehow feel the plea that never leaves his mouth. She recognizes it immediately, shivers at the realization that it's the same as hers.
Her hand rests softly on the landscape of his back, as though her touch can quell the earthquakes underneath. If it were anyone else, if it wasn't Cassian pressed against her clutching her like a helpless child, she would've slipped out of their arms and run the other way. But with him -
"I'm here," she says quietly, her hand now rubbing, gliding, feeling every lump of bone and pull of sinew in him. "I'm here." Her other hand falls to the arm around her waist, then brushes the damp hair away from his face, however hidden it might be. "I love you, Cassian - You'll never lose me again."
no subject
Stop this he tries to wrestle himself back into being be with her. Now. That was incredible. …really incredible. Don't overshadow it with this—don't to this to her, what are you…
…but he can't stop… and now it's not just something happening to him, it's something he's doing to her…
Muscles contracting in on themselves, not this time in pleasure but in self-furious agony, he pushes himself clear of her, his white-knuckled fists on either side of his forehead striking the floor… he strangles back a hoarse scream.
Don't kriffing hurt her.
Stop.
With violent abruptness—a barrage of fire and spark and explosion and stardust, toes curling against the floor the way his back is, that last cry like a blaster bolt—he stops. His fists unclench. He sits back, numb, dizzy, passing his hands over his face.
"I'm so sorry," he says, hoarse and half-voiced. "I don't know what that… I wouldn't… please stay." And not because he doesn't want to say it, but because he doesn't think he deserves to, anymore, after what he's just done… doesn't think she'll want to hear it from him now… Almost on purpose, this time, falls back to Yaval. "Te amo también. No quiero herirte. Estáras… Lo siento—me perdonas— Please. Jyn, I'm so sorry."
He raised a hand again to his face… and belatedly saw: not only the bandages shredded, but (probably more from punching the floor just then than anything he did to Jyn) that he'd broken open some of Rory's careful stitches and was bleeding again.
Funny how he'd done that to himself to externalize the pain. Now when that would actually be useful, it didn't hurt.
Funny how the pain had been of not having her with him. Now… of having her with him. And not being able to stop the feeling.
He doesn't dare reach out to her. But hopes against hope she comes back over to him.
no subject
But still -
Stupid girl; you let your defenses down, you ripped yourself open, you thought you were safe. Have you learned nothing?
The push isn't enough to topple Jyn backwards, her sit bones too rooted in the ground, but it's enough to make her physically recoil of her own, instinctive volition. Coupled with the furious, horrifying sound of fist against wood (is that the floor or his bones cracking underneath the pressure?), the mangled scream he can't let himself let loose - and Jyn's quickly on her feet, backing away from the tortured man on the ground.
Light demands her return to his arms, reminds her of welcome home and the beauty of connection, unison, completion - the kind she'd only known with him, in all ways that were possible. It whispers I love you in her ears even though the timing wasn't right and the words fell out of her mouth like rain. It reminds her of the nova inside of her that he'd managed to create with nothing but lips and tongue.
Darkness slinks in like smoke, and it has had time to regather its strength. It pulls her away, step by step, until her back is pressed against the cold of the wall of this cabin she'd started to think of as something like home - not because of the beams or the windows or the roof, but because of him - and tells her she's unsafe. There's Galen, and Saw, and even poor Codo - pulling a trigger against his temple in her absence. Had they not promised safety? Had Galen not brushed the hair away from her face, pressed his lips to her forehead, called her Stardust? Had Saw not doted upon her and trained her to be strong, encouraged her self-reliance and promised her a future?
And where were they?
What had they done but left?
She's a rabid, panicked animal now feeling cornered when his words begin to reach her. Light screams to him an empty, silent wail from inside of her body, latching onto "please stay." It knows the accented trickle of sound that comes after, because it knows their truth - it knows their meaning. But Darkness has pressed its hand against Light's mouth, willing it to be silent.
"- No," is all she can say as she feels her way against the wall, looking for a gap in the plaster. "No, I can't - no," she continues, the struggle of the war between Light and Darkness constricting her throat, her lungs. She wants to run. She wants to put barefoot to earth and only stop once her lungs are on fire. But instead - she crumbles. Back against the wall, she crumples like a leaf, down to the floor, huddled in the corner, knees hugged to her chest.
Her eyes sting with the threat of tears, but they never arrive.
She shivers, her body a tremor that she can't seem to control.
no subject
The need to take care of his people.
He'd let himself go too far. Too much. He wasn't ready. Nor was she.
But… taking control again… not worrying about becoming something he hasn't been before, miraculously, all at once… something he got to taste for a moment and can try for again gradually, but for now, be awestruck by that taste but accept again being the man who knew anything about anything, who could sometimes understand people and take control, being the captain… and see if that might not be defeat. Might not be manipulation. Might be the way now to serve her, to help. …And, in crucial contrast, he actually knows how to do.
And perhaps he can rise better to this, the opportunity to try and salvage this himself, than he could trying to live with it after with if he'd forced her to do it.
His heart had nearly stopped when it seemed she'd run away. But his last extra seconds of paralysis ended up being for the best. She'd stopped now. Against the wall. Not leaving.
He stands, fluidly, slowly, into a submissive stance. Not to startle her, not to seem to chase, crowd, or attack.
He waits for a few heartbeats longer. Much as her crying rips him up and makes him want to just grab her back into his arms.
No. There are two of each of them. One can't expect the behavior of one to instantly translate to the other—or hold the other bound to it… starting anything doesn't demand or dictate how or whether it goes on. Take each moment in of itself. Each as an end in of itself.
So slowly, so carefully, he moves toward her.
See if she lets him.
Then closer. Again. Ready to freeze at once if she recoils or shrinks away or springs into readiness to fight.
But then… he's reached her…
And wants more than ever to gather her into his chest again…
But knows better, now… knows that not everything has to be spontaneous and unmeasured in order to be genuine and true. Knows better than to touch her.
Slowly, gently—
—in the manner of a battlefield medic giving care to a fallen comrade
a soldier swearing allegiance to his commander
or a person relinquishing their self to the Force of Others—
he kneels before her. Keeping his head bowed, just enough not to confront, slight enough to raise his eyes to her in case she meets them back.
And this time, choosing between the duality; he keeps his bloodied hand behind his back. And his whole one on his knee, within her reach.
"I'm sorry," he says again. Not pleading or crying with her now. With all the love and gentleness and surety as she'd said I'm here. His voice quiet, gentle. Not sure if she would absorb what he was saying, but since he couldn't try yet to hold her with his arms, he would do so with his voice. "Jyn. I'm sorry. I couldn't… I've never been able to do anything for my own sake. For myself. I couldn't stop feeling that way for me. I can for you. I'll do anything for you. Please believe me. …That was my first time to have anyone say that to me. But now it's happened, so I'll never be able to react badly to it being the first time again. Because now someone has said it to me. And I can't tell you what it means… that it was you. Please don't let me have ruined that for both of us. Please come back. I love you, too." His hand reaching slightly off his knee, but stopping it before it could enter her space. Just left it between them. And said softly, again, "I love you too."
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This?
This feels like another sort of dying.
She wonders if she will wake up in another fountain, somewhere else, once it's all over (she sees no other way for it to end). Will he be there again, waiting? How many beginnings can two people possibly hope to have?
She makes out the outline of his body in the leaks of moonlight, and -
His rage has left. The (now battered, she imagines) fist he'd used to punish the ground on which they'd only just became whole is nowhere to be found. He looks penitent, he looks fragile. He looks like a man who'd been hollowed out by the world around him, yet still had more to give. He looks, she thinks, like he's confessing his sins at her alter.
The patience of his movements pays off in that she isn't immediately scrambling to back away - he's effectively dissipated at least some of the visceral terror that'd been forcing her movements. She can see the pale illumination of his eyes against the moon, even in the dark - can see the duality inside of him, struggling as it was inside of her, wondering which it might be that's speaking to her now.
There's a rush of iron in her mouth as he breaches the silence, and she realizes she's dug into her lip using her teeth - perhaps her version of externalizing pain, a need to feel something while feeling everything and nothing all at once. She tucks her lip into her mouth, swiping her tongue over the tender flesh as she listens.
Her name - still beautiful, still melodic, still a promise and a dream floating off of his lips. No aliases needed, she thinks; she will be happy to die, someday, with that name.
But then -
The words -
her words.
Gathered like flowers, presented to her in a bouquet as the moon reflects the sun. She thinks she feels something like her heart breaking in her chest - but knows it is not the shattering she's felt so often throughout her life, the implosion of sorrow and loss. It's a feeling of fullness, of light.
The Light in her falls to her knees, mirror the man in front of Jyn. She weeps, she weeps the most beautiful song Jyn has ever heard - and Darkness begins to fade, little by little.
A hand -
Reaches, tentatively yet impatiently, fingertips brushing his knuckles. Knees divide from chest, fall to the ground. She takes Light's place in her repentant prostration. She crawls - inch by inch - like an animal that's learnt to be tame.
More, and more, until - her lips, against his forehead - silently reaffirming her promise.
You could lead me into the darkness .. and still, I'd follow.
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Closing his eyes at her kiss
(her benediction)
So, so carefully, so lightly, placing his hands at her sides
if they're welcome, sliding them to her back
followed by the gentle circle of his arms
until they're kneeling together on the floor in the moonlight with his head bowed on her chest and his arms unrestrictive but warm and close around her waist.
They breathe together. As they had before… but not. Because this time (for the first time, at last), it's unlabored. Steady. Slow.
Peaceful.
…They've been taken out of the war but can't take the war out of themselves…
…despite that, for another moment at least, they've found their way back home.