He should have apologised. On their journey back to Yavin, after the anger has subsided, Cassian has begun to realise that he should apologise. He does not regret the outburst, no, not at all - everything he said, he means. But the girl just lost her father, the father she hasn't seen in years. He had been too rash, too harsh, too angry - he knows that now.
She didn't say anything the whole way back. She sat in her corner, eyes hard, fists clenched, not crying, not moving. His eyes strayed to her often; he was unable to stop himself. Since he picked her up in Jedha, she has never relaxed in his presence. She is always tense, always on edge, always unyielding, with that look in her eyes. He knows that look well. He sees it whenever he looks in the mirror. It is the look of a solider, battle-hardened, tough, cynical, no-nonsense…dead. She is a strained nerve that can snap at any moment.
After they landed, he caught up with her at the docking bay. He should have apologised then too; she looked at him, her chin lifted, as if she were expecting him to. Then, when he said nothing, her frown deepened and she turned on her heel and walked away.
Before then, Cassian has resigned himself to the fact that he respects Jyn quite a bit. But in that moment, he realised that he is fascinated by her. He never knows what she is going to do next and she never tells him, but somehow, for the first time in his life, he does not mind.
He sits at his usual spot, nursing his drink, watching his team laugh and play dice. They pass around a bottle and joke, trying to lift the grey, dreary mood. They leave him be. These are the men and women who have been through the trenches with him; they know he is in one of his moods and he does not want to be disturbed. Being around them calms him, but he does not join in their games. He just drinks.
She finds him there a little later. He looks up, surprised, when she approaches. She has changed her clothes and her hair is still a bit damp from the shower.
"K-2S0 told me where to find you," she says.
She does not sound angry anymore, nor does she sound sad. She takes the seat next to him and he passes his drink to her almost automatically. She takes a sip and grimaces at the taste.
"You rebel fighters like your liquor hard, I see."
"Sometimes. When the opportunity beckons."
She passes him back the bottle and he sets it down next to him.
"When is the council meeting then?" he asks her.
"First thing tomorrow morning. They have to wait for a few more senators to get here first."
"Are you nervous?"
"Nervous? No. Not after…"
He knows she wants to mention her father, but can't. He looks sideways at her and sees that her lips are trembling, but she does not cry. She is, again - as always - unrelenting, and he finds himself saying, "Listen, what I said to you-"
"Are you going to apologise?"
"Not for what I said, but how I said it. You just lost your father and I was too harsh, too angry. I'm used to doing things alone. My way. I forgot that you can't expect other people to do the same."
"I get that." She gives him a small smile - a nice, comforting, relaxing smile, which lights up her eyes. "I am sorry too."
"I doubt that."
She laughs. It is a nice sound, he thinks. She reaches across him for the bottle and her hair brushes against his face. He can smell the scent of her shampoo - sweet, but sharp - and he decides that it suits her.
She takes another drink and tells him, "What you said…about you fighting this fight since you were six years old…I get that too."
"I know you do."
"What's the story there?"
He chuckles and grabs the bottle back from her. The taste burns, but he is used to it now.
"There is not enough time for that story."
"This is the only time we have, I reckon, no matter how it goes tomorrow. I don't think we have much time left, one way or another, and I don't intend on wasting a single minute. My father…well, my father would not want me to."
He looks at her again, but this time, she is looking back at him. She looks sad, but he knows that she has not given up. That glint in her eyes is back - that ferocious, angry, I-can-do-anything look he has come to value so much. She is too good for him, he thinks, too good for this rebel fighter with too much blood on his hands. He's too far gone now, but somehow, he does not care. They are one and the same, she and him, he understands that now. They are soldiers, fighters, people who have been alone for too long. And maybe, if circumstances were different… But no, he's never had any use for wishful thinking.
"What?" she asks, noticing the shift in his expression.
He quickly looks away.
"Nothing."
Instead, he tells her his story - his childhood, how he joined the rebellion, the people he's met along the way, bits of what he has done to get where he is. She listens, not interrupting, until finally, when he is finished, she hands him back the bottle. A smile plays on her lips.
"Now I know why you need this."
He laughs and takes the bottle from her. He drinks, and the taste burns again. He stares at the label for a moment.
"Have a drink with me," he says suddenly.
"What?" she stammers, sounding like she's been caught off guard. "I thought that's what we've been doing."
"Well, I mean another drink…when this is all over."
She is surprised, he can tell, but she smiles again.
"Alright," she says. "Why not? Maybe then we'd finally get on."
"Yes." He smiles back and the weight falls away a little. "Yes, maybe then."
—-
END