Home is tangible feeling
Everyone lives. Things are complicated.
Title taken from the song Home II by Dotan.
As always, reviews are most welcomed.
Cassain growls as his boots squelch in the black mud of Lah'mu. The cold affects him more these days, with the horrors of Scarrif etched into his muscles and bones, permanent and painful. He is, of course, grateful to be alive when he fully expected to die, there on that beach, wrapped in Jyn's arms (which in itself, is a whole separate pile of complications) but he finds his body moving more slowly then he's accustomed to, especially in the cold. He aches to be back in the warmth of Yavin, but he pushes it from his mind.
Yavin is gone now, Hoth is their new home. An ice-planet, his worst nightmare.
"Hurry up," comes Jyn's voice, as she stops and turns, waiting for him.
He pulls his boots out of the mud, walking faster.
He hears the tinker-tonk of K-2's circuits whirring as the droid marches behind him, suffering similar complications as the mud pulls at him.
"I thought you were from Fest. You should be used to cold," she says, pulling her coat tight.
"I left Fest when I was four years old," he tells her, pulling his own coat around him, yanking the hood up to block the wind which is already stinging his ears.
"This isn't even cold compared to Hoth," she responds, not waiting when he catches up to her, turning right around to continue scaling the rocky outcrop they're moving up in a slow incline.
He grumbles in return, but he can't begrudge her this, this one indulgence.
They'd got what they had come for, shipments of medicine and inoculations from an old healer who lives here. Lah'mu's rich mineral deposits and fertile lands provided a wealth of medicinal supplies which their rank and file sorely needed in their new home. Yavin had been warm, many of their members have never even experienced flu. But in Echo Base's freezing cold tunnels the rebels were getting run-down, their immune systems taking a hit as they adjust to the drastic whiplash in temperature. Something as simple as a flu could wipe them out.
They needed everything they could get their hands on.
When the incline eventually plateaus out, he sees the spindly peaks of water vaporisers and a small, ramshackle property, alone in an overgrown field. It looks abandoned, dilapidated, even from this distance. Jyn stops abruptly, and stares. He stands behind her, following her gaze, and hears K-2 pull up next to him.
The droid knows well enough to stay silent, a small wonder.
He thinks this would have been a nice home.
A quiet life for a family in hiding from the Empire.
He imagines Jyn's childhood; climbing the bluffs they're standing on, running across those fields on coltish legs, out to where the rocks scatter as they meet the waters edge. He tries to picture her; and imagines a ruddy cheeked and bright-eyed little girl, precocious and adventurous, all scraped knees and messy, windswept hair.
A blast of wind hits them, buffeting Cassian and knocking him out of his daydream, and he breathes deeply, filling his lungs until his ribs sing out. It's cold air, not frigid like Hoth, but cold in a way that makes you feel alive. It smells of salt and sea and fresh, luminous, green life. Jyn starts silently moving, and he follows her. She is sure footed when she walks these hills, and he places his boots in the imprints left by hers. The muddy sediment has given way to solid rock, but he feels no more steady, as it grinds under his boots.
They're walking faster now, descending the hill with longer strides, and K-2 overtakes Cassian, his long legs allowing him to easily pass by. Jyn ignores the droid, and Cassian can see her gloved hands screwed into fists as she jumps the last few steps.
Whatever crop was grown in these fields has gone wild, and as they march through it, the smell of bitter greens fills his nose. The little hut which stands ahead of them has fallen badly into disrepair. Nature has partially claimed some of it back, and the roof of the property is blanketed in moss and lichen; green and red and yellow covering it in a brilliant blanket. Beneath that are blackened scorch marks, only slightly faded with age. Jyn is loping towards the property now, her jacket flapping in the breeze, hood fallen away and Cassian begrudgingly starts at a jog to keep up with her.
She stands silently in front of the property's door, sealed shut with salt-spray and rust, and she puts her hand on the old swipe pad, dead from age.
"Zero hostiles detected," K-2 announces, and Cassian cringes.
"Thank you Kay," he growls, shooting a glare at his companion.
The droid merely fixes his optical sensors on Cassian momentarily, before turning to watch Jyn.
"Can you open it?" She asks, her voice rough.
K-2 marches forward dutifully, and smashes a closed fist against the door. It cracks against it with a dull thud, and it shifts slightly. The droid reaches forward and not without some resistance, forces the door open. Sediment and lichen splutter down on them, but Jyn doesn't seem to notice. Without hesitation, she ducks her head slightly, and walks in. Cassian lingers outside wearily, scanning their surroundings. Nothing but fields of green and muddy black to the front, right down to where the ocean pounds against the rocks, and cliffs rising up behind them.
Still ...
"Stay outside and keep watch," he tells the droid.
Before K-2 has a chance to answer, he ducks inside to follow Jyn.
He feels like he is somewhere ... sacred. Not sacred in a religious way, he's been inside temples and places of worship before. He understands the feeling that envelopes a place where people come to lay bare their souls.
This is sacred in a private, personal way. Like someone's treasured datapad, or personal holos.
Jyn brushes her fingers against ruined items of furniture as she moves through the home.
A table.
A chair.
She stands in an alcove that would have been a kitchen, and stares for a long time at an arch-way which leads into what Cassian imagines was the sleeping area. The home is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the open door, and a few holes here and there in the roof. The furniture is blackened with burn marks and dirt, but he can see scraps of colour.
Green fabric on a chair.
A splash of orange on a dusty, cracked bowl.
A rotting tapestry on the floor with threads of gold woven through it.
He immediately feels bad as he looks at it, for traipsing in mud, even though the floor is filthy.
He moves forward on silent feet, and stands behind Jyn. She doesn't notice him, and has reached out, brushing her fingers against the wall. On the edge he can see marks etched into the plaster. They are faded and worn, he would not have ever noticed had she not reached for them. They are graduated up the side of the wall, about a dozen or so. He makes out writing next to the top etching; the first - or the last - depending on which way you counted from.
Jyn: Age 10
He feels his chest pull tight.
Ten year old Jyn stood next to this wall while her mother or father recorded her height.
Ten year old Jyn was maybe four-foot-eight. If that.
Her fingertips trace the words, written in stubby block letters. He knows instantly that her father wrote it. It is the methodical, steady script of an engineer. She doesn't move, says nothing, but he can see her breathing.
Erratically.
If he focuses he can hear it too - gasping little things her shallow breaths, quiet as she tries to stifle the sound.
"Jyn," he says, but he's not sure why. Her name hangs in the air, but she doesn't turn around.
Carefully, he puts a hand on her shoulder. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice informs him this is the first time they have had any physical contact since The Beach. Her hands move to her face, before she turns to look at him. Her eyes are bright and brimming with tears. A few have spilled free, rolling down her cheeks, and she swipes at them furiously.
"Sorry, sorry," she mutters, like it's a curse, shaking her head, "I don't know -"
"- Jyn -"
"- what's come over me, it's not like -"
"- Jyn-"
"- I don't know what's here, it's not like -"
"Jyn," he says over the top of her, and she stops, looking up at him, freezing.
"It's okay. It's fine. Don't apologise. There's no need."
She's frowning, and her eyes are too-bright, and her breathing is all off.
"It's home. It's your home. You're allowed -" he trails off, motioning in the air around them in a vague all-encompassing gesture, "you're allowed," he finishes.
His hand is still on her shoulder, and she looks at it.
He lifts it off, lets it hang it awkwardly at his side.
He feels, off.
Too stuffy, too many layers in his jackets, too ... close.
Too everything.
His chest hurts.
Her lip trembles, it's pulled up in a scowl, but it's definitely shaking.
He feels the phantom burn of her arms around him, his nose against her neck, her chest against his, and his hands itch, they ache.
Ache to hold her, to feel her.
She fights with herself as she glares at something, a spot just behind him, avoiding eye contact as tears brim in her too-wide eyes, threatening to spill over properly.
"I can," he starts.
(He can what?)
"I can leave," he points to the door to indicate where he may leave from, in case she was unsure.
She lashes out, and he flinches.
(He's not proud of that, that flinch, but is has been a rough few weeks so he allows himself the indiscretion)
She doesn't hit him though - although he would have let her - she grabs his hand. Grabs it and laces her fingers with his and squeezes as if she were trying to break it. He pulls her into his arms, and even though she reached out to him first, he's still half-surprised when she comes without question.
She fits against him well, even with the padded bulk of their jackets, and he clumsily puts a hand on her back, wishing he wasn't wearing gloves.
She presses her forehead against his chest and fists her free hand in his shirt, and he lets her.
His heart is racing in his chest, painfully so, and he's sure she can hear it, feel it, hammering against her.
He's not sure how long they stand like that, awkwardly clasped together, but he finds he doesn't much care.
She's warm in his arms and he likes it. Likes the feel of it. And even though he knows he shouldn't, he wonders what he would do if they were standing like this in another place, another time.
He mentally scolds himself at the thought.
When she leans away he lets her, his arms dropping to his sides as she turns from him, wiping her eyes, composing herself. When she faces him again, that mask is back up, her facial expression controlled, measured.
"Thank you," she says quietly, adjusting her jacket and her hood, pulling it back up over her head, preparing for the cold of outside.
"No problem," he says easily, shrugging his shoulders.
She lingers a little longer, a little more, tracing her hands across the furniture and fixings wistfully, before looking to him.
"Let's go," she says.
He nods, follows her lead out to where K-2 is patiently waiting. She nods cordially at the droid, pauses, takes a deep breath, and marches on without looking back.
"Let's go. We're done," he tells K-2, and the three of them head around the side of the property, headed back up the side of the incline.
Something trips Cassian up as he slowly makes his way up the rocky outcrop, and K-2 ducks to steady him, hauling him up from under his arm. It sends a sharp bolt of pain down his side, but he ignores it. He looks down and sees a dirty lump of brown and white, the offending item which tripped him, and he toes it with the end of his boot. It's soft, and clicks lightly against his shoe. He yanks it free of the muck and weeds covering it, and brushes the dirt off it.
It is a child's toy.
A filthy, well-worn stormtrooper.
(Well loved, his mind supplies, without prompting)
He looks up at Jyn, she's almost disappeared over the crest of the hill, and he quickly shoves the toy in his jacket and carries on.
"What was that?" K-2 asks suspiciously.
"Nothing. Come on Kay," he growls.
The gust of the wind propels him up the hill. He climbs fast, until his chest aches.
xxXXxx
Jyn Erso returns from the mess hall to her bunk room.
It's small, and the heating is not the best, but she can't complain. She has her own room and she only shares her fresher with one other woman, who is perpetually off base. The door hisses behind her and she toes her boots off, preparing to slump into her bunk, wrap herself up in her covers and sleep until the gloriously late hour of 0600.
She shucking her jacket off when something catches her eye on her bunk, and her heart jumps into her throat. She whips around to ensure there is no-one lurking in the shadows of her decidedly un-shadowy room.
There is not.
She inches closer to the bunk and inspects the new addition to her room.
It is.
Her old friend.
Companion on so many adventures.
Intrepid traveller of Lah'mu's beaches and caves, here, in her bunkroom on Hoth, propped against her pillow.
She picks Stormy up and examines him. He is worn and aged, but the stitches along the side of him have been repaired with care, neat and precise. He has been cleaned, cleaner than she remembers him, and he smells like Alliance issue soap. The stuffing inside him is lumpy, but his legs swing like she remembers, and the weight of him in her hand is familiar. Comforting.
She clutches him to her chest, and a smile creeps across her face.