There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.

Notes at the end.
As always, reviews are most welcomed.

When Cassian Andor was a child, before the death of his parents, he was a star gazer.
He and his father would spend nights out in the freezing cold, him sitting on his father's shoulders, hands curled in the collar of his jacket, his little head tipped back in wonder as his father pointed out the constellations. Cassian looked forward to the evenings for that very reason.
That time belonged to him, his father, and the stars.
From his position, safe and comfortable on his father's broad shoulders, he thought to himself "when I am a father, I'll do this with my son."
Not if, when.

His mother would look down at him as she cooked dinner, her only son, brave and vivacious and good. Her boy was curious, always chasing answers, full of thoughtful, carefully worded questions and intense, soulful stares.
He would look up at her and cock his head, smiling at her from where he lay, stretched on his belly, before turning back to his toys.

His whole life stretched before him, and he was deliriously happy.

(His heart felt so full and complete here, he sometimes felt like it could burst. He can feel it, shining bright like the fire his parents light in their little home every night, warming everything from within)

xxXXxx

He works his way through Rebellion ranks swiftly after a somewhat rocky start. (He was young, and had to learn quickly, it was a steep incline and it came on fast. But he managed.) His mind is sharp, he is quick on his feet and efficient at what he does, leaving little to no trail behind him.
Ruthless, some people will say.
An perhaps he is.
Ruthless means getting the job done.
Ruthless means ensuring that the Rebellion comes first, always.
Ruthless means not focusing on the darker things he has to do, not lingering too long on losses, not letting the despair set in.
Ruthless means serving the Rebellion to his absolute fullest, because the Rebellion is freedom and what could possibly be that bad, if it was done in pursuit of freedom?

Sure, it may add some unwanted miles to his soul, but he's built up walls to deal with the ill effects of that.
He imagines an impenetrable barrier around his heart, the type which can withstand even the strongest blast.
This wall was forged in the fire that burned through his happy childhood, his parents deaths, the early years of his work with the Rebellion.
The wall doesn't let anything pass, nothing bad.
Nothing particularly good either, and he tells himself that's the price he pays for the dirty work he has to do.
Indifference is a blessing he has earned.

Besides, he has food in his belly, a roof over his head (most days) and what so many do not, a purpose.
Things could be a lot worse for Cassian Andor.

xxXXxx

It is by pure luck that Cassian happens across the KX-series Imperial Security Droid known as K-2S0.
The other operative he's with tries to tell him he doesn't have the skill set to reprogram the droid himself. If not done correctly, properly over-riding the primary functions, they could never be certain it wouldn't turn on them.
But he persists. It would be a boon for the Rebellion, and anyhow, he's handy with droid maintenance.
When K-2's optical sensors blink back at him one evening after a long session of tinkering, a smile flickers across Cassian's face.

K-2 and Cassian become somewhat of a package deal. Cassian has spent years as a solitary operator, the sudden addition of company is ... nice. He's not even bothered by K-2's grumbling cynicism, although he does wonder whether it is something the droid has always carried, or whether it was a result of the re-programming.
He suspects perhaps a little of both.
Nevertheless, he is a comforting and familiar presence in the cockpit on long flights, and a trusted comrade when sounding out missions.
He could say, perhaps, that K-2 has filled the void of companionship that Cassian has felt, wearing him down, for a few too many years.
He could also say, perhaps, that if something were to happen to the pedantic droid, Cassian would miss him.

(The first crack appears in the wall around his heart around this time. It's a small thing, delicate, fine - a hairline crack. Barely noticeable. But it is there.)

xxXXxx

It's unusual to see children on Yavin.
Rebellion recruits are offered birth control. It's not forced on them, of course ... it's just ... unspoken. Part of the standard medical check; implants and shots.
A burgeoning theatre of war is no place for a child.
But sometimes, well, things slip through.
Poe is one of those things.
A sharp-eyed little scruff of a child with a mischievous grin who is constantly underfoot. He tears around the barracks, screeching with laughter as his parents, or whoever has been roped into minding duties, chases after him.
Cassian is fond of Poe. He is a bright spark of light-hearted joy in an otherwise often joyless world.

One evening, after a particularly gruelling recruitment drive on a backwater planet that Cassian would rather forget, he sits, near catatonic, in the mess hall. It's after hours, dinner service has ended, and only a few stragglers are left milling around behind.
He is methodically shovelling food into his mouth, thinking only of his shower, when he feels the bench he's sitting on shake. He looks over to see Poe, clambering up next to him, his X-wing pilot doll clenched between his teeth.

"Hullo Poe," Cassian greets, his voice just a little flat, putting a hand behind him in case the boy falls.

"Hullo," Poe replies around his doll, frowning with concentration as he manoeuvres his legs around so he can sit properly at the table, placing his doll next to Cassian's tray. He looks up at Cassian pleasantly.

"It's a little late to be awake isn't it?" Cassian glances around. Surely Kes or Shara are looking for him?

Poe grins, his shoulders coming up around his ears as he shrugs, his eyes twinkling. It takes Cassian a moment to realise Poe is dressed in pyjamas, an all in one suit with connected boots. He has obviously snuck out of bed and come to the mess-hall on his own.
Cassian sighs.

"Are you hungry?"

Poe's eyes drift over to the meagre scraps of food left on Cassian's tray, and he nods, brown curls bouncing against his forehead. Cassian shifts his tray over, placing his fork down at Poe's side. The boy carefully picks it up, chubby toddler hand clenching around the utensil gently, hovering over the tray as he decides what to take, before dipping into the mashed potatoes. The tip of his tongue slips out the side of his mouth as he concentrates on feeding himself, slowly and carefully like his parents have clearly taught him.

Cassian watches as the boy scrapes the section of mash clean, before placing the fork back on the tray and politely sliding it back to Cassian.

"Good?" He asks, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Poe nods.

"Come on, lets get you back to bed," Cassian says as he slides out from the bench, scooping Poe up and resting him on his hip. He dips down to allow Poe to grab his X-wing pilot from the tabletop, and Cassian picks the tray up in his free hand, depositing it on the cart as he leaves the mess.
He pauses in the doorway, rubbing his jaw, tracing the lines of his beard, blurry after too long between shaves.
Where is Kes and Shara's unit?
Being a small family, they were afforded a slightly larger room, with a small living area and private 'fresher. Cassian holds back a groan when he realises it's at the opposite end of the barrack's to his bunk.
He bumps Poe up higher, shifts him so he can carry him with both arms, and starts off down the hall.
Poe's little body is warm against his as he steps out into the cool night air, cutting across the quadrant to get to the other side of the barracks. Poe's arms are wrapped around Cassian's neck, and his chin rests on his shoulder, peering at his X-wing pilot clenched in his hand, bouncing against Cassian's back, before he tucks his face against Cassian's chest, yawning.
Cassian pats his back as he walks.
When he hands Poe over to an unimpressed and apologetic Shara, who sheepishly admits she hadn't realised he had escaped, nor does she have the faintest clue how, Poe reaches out, his hand brushing against Cassian's hair as he says goodnight.

He misses the boy's weight in his arms on his walk back to his bunk.
There's a flutter in his chest.
Will he ever have children? Would he make a good father? Would his children be proud? Could they be?
He tells himself it's just the cold and his overstrung nerves.
Men like him don't have children.

(The wall stands steady to keep out the rush of emotion welling in his chest. But the tiny fissures in the structure begin to leak.)

xxXXxx

Even the rain on Eadu is grimy, gritty. Cassian is sure that if he could see the droplets on his skin in daylight, if there ever is daylight on Eadu, the water would be tinged with black.
It trickles down his collar as he lies on slick, graphite rocks, his finger kissing the trigger of his weapon.
He can't see Galen Erso's face clearly through the sight, it's blurred with rain. But he can see the way the man holds himself.
Even in the face of his impending death, he stands tall, proud. A defiant tilt to his chin.
If there was ever any doubt Jyn was Galen's son, it would take only a look at the pair of them to see the likeness.
She is every bit her father's daughter.
He curses himself for letting his mind wonder, and refocuses.
His fingertip burns where it touches the cool metal of the trigger.
He could do it, now.
Now.

NOW.

But he doesn't.

Later, he feels something shirk inside his chest when Jyn spits hot fire and venom at him. She laughs bitterly, telling him he cant talk his way around it and his cheeks burn with righteous anger as he spits back at her.
He growls at the Guardians, at Bhodi, at K-2 as they watch on, waiting for him to offer up an explanation.
Later, he will feel badly about that. They did nothing to warrant the sharp end of his temper.
In the mean time, he storms down the hatch to the lower level of the ship, pacing the confined space like an animal as he works through his anger.
It sits like a lump in his chest, burningachingthrobbing.

It hurts.

(That crack in the wall around his heart races through the structure, now. Splitting wide in parts, spreading out, weakening it as a whole)

xxXXxx

Time moves faster as they head to Scarif, passing in a flash, a series of flashes.
There is a moment, before they make land-fall, before all the carnage, when he feels a change.
In himself.
The carefully built walls around his heart, those steadfast barriers, forged in fire, begin to crack in earnest, now. He looks around the ship at their rag-tag crew.
Rogue One, he says to himself, he likes the sound of it.
He feels those cracks spreading; branching out, crumbling through the walls that have served him well for so long. He barely has the time to assess the feeling, to understand it, before they land on the pad.
He nods at each of his friends.
Friends, he tries the word out, he wants to speak it out loud, feel it roll off his tongue, "my friend".
He commits their faces to his memory, before stepping out in his stiff Imperial uniform.
He doesn't expect to be able to truly understand this feeling, there simply isn't enough time. He knows odds, he's not a gambler but he's no fool either. He doesn't expect to step foot on another planet after Scarif.
He could drown in that train of thought, could lose track of what his mission is, what their mission is, and he can't allow himself the time to indulge.
He's a military man, after all. Indulgences for those in uniform are few and far between.

When K-2's voice cuts out over his comm, drowned out by the sound of blaster fire and explosions, a chunk of the wall around his heart falls away. A burst of pain grips him, pure and painful.
But there is no time to stop.

It is the ever pressing rush of time that drives him up from his position on the landing inside the citadel tower, hand over aching hand, star-busts of white-hot pain shooting through his chest, shoulder grinding against socket as he climbs, but still he goes ever upwards.
There may still be time.
He is rewarded for his dogged determination by being able to put a blaster bolt in that white-caped bastards back. He falls away to reveal Jyn's wide-eyed gaze.
Another piece of the wall falls away.

Time slows, finally, after a mad-dash to the finish line, as he and Jyn stand in the elevator, staring at each other.
He thinks about Chirrut, Baze, Bhodi.
He says a silent prayer for them, though he is not a religious man. It is his only hope Chirrut's steadfast belief in the Force has guided them to an end where, they can at least, be peaceful.
He hopes they stayed together, at the end.
He hopes they didn't go alone.

When Cassian and Jyn stumble onto that beach, he feels a strange calm come over him.
He trusts someone was listening. The fleet received the plans, he knows it.
He has completed his last mission. A sterling effort, decades of dedicated service to a worthy cause.
He breathes out, and despite the circumstances, he feels a lifting of sorts. Most people would call it a weight off their shoulders, but it doesn't feel quite like that for Cassian.
It feels more like ... a free breath after a lifetime of constricted breathing.
The walls he'd built up around his heart - the barriers, the shields - he told himself they were necessary. And in a way, they were.
But they were a hindrance as well.
Yes, he was able to compartmentalise the sorrow in his life; the pain, the things he'd prefer to forget.
But he also deprived himself of letting the good things in.
Of course now, the ever present march of time ensures he can't dwell too much on missed opportunity.

However he lived his life, from behind whatever barrier, now, he is finally free of it.
He's able to appreciate the thing he deprived himself of, ever since his parents had died, even just for a moment.
Now, he embraces it.
Metaphorically and figuratively.

He wraps his arms around Jyn, and faces the horizon.

AN: So, I know I have changed canon things around a little bit here. Poe's official story now states that he was born shortly after the Battle of Endor. BUT, early on in the piece, Oscar Isaac was talking about Poe's origins, and mentioned that he liked to think Poe was born on Yavin, and was in the crowd, watching the medal ceremony at the end of A New Hope. So, born a few years earlier then the official story. I've chosen to go with this, because my clucky-as-hell ass needs to see Cassian being perfect with a baby-Poe. Because Cassian would have been the best father.

I set out with the intention to end this as an "Everyone Lives AU" ... but here we are, yet again. Next time.

And lastly, although it needs no introduction, the title and description of this story are taken from the inimitable Leonard Cohen's Anthem.