The temper keeps rising, fed by the flames of her own. Standing in front of her, he raises one hand in a fit of pique, flapping fingers to thumb in a gesture for all her talk, all her blowing hot air. He's so tired, of these feelings, of not being listened to.

People have died ignoring my advice, he wants to scream it at times, wail it back in their faces so they will shut up, for two minutes, and hear him. It still hurts to clench his jaw, and the apology is little balm for it, tacked on after he dragged it from her.

The way it feels around her, fire rising, dark rains falling to put it out, Jyn sitting in a hole awaiting the flood no matter the hands extended to pull her out--he wouldn't be surprised if she hit him again. It would be a relief, a hard line to draw in the sand, and at least she wouldn't think him a fragile thing.

"Who started that grave? Who pulled the body from a burning house hours before you even showed up? Fuck you," he spits wrestling with the wound of it all, trying to spit instead of burst into pathetic tears. "I guess soldiers don't ever get tired, especially of their own bullshit. Well I fucking do."

Leaving her with her reflection and the
two mugs, he lets the shiver under his skin move him, walking around its edge to head for home on heavy feet.