Author's Note: This story - all two chapters of it - is more like word vomit, guys. I'm sorry for the strange format and all the other strange things I tried to do but maybe didn't quite manage to pull off. Please be kind to me! Again, I am not a WWII expert. Although I did a ton of research for this story (see end notes), I welcome correction and criticism if it is delivered fairly and rationally.
Warning: there are slightly steamy scenes ahead. So turn back now if you're uncomfortable with sexual content.
Reviews are (almost) better than this Michael Kiwanuka album I'm playing over and over again. So please leave one or several if you can!
In Lisbon, happiness was staged so that God could believe it still existed.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery, on his time in Lisbon during the war
Lisbon, 1941
There is a myth that Lisbon was founded by Odysseus, the great and duplicitous mind behind the Trojan horse. They say the man washed ashore here during his journey home from Troy, hungry and alone, longing for his wife and his kingdom. He had named the city Olissopo, meaning the 'enchanting port', but now, Lisbon is simply called the City of Light.
The name is apt, to a certain extent. In many ways, Lisbon is the light amidst the war and bloodshed. Amidst the depression and the dark clouds from Berlin. It has become both a haven and a hell for the thousands of refugees fleeing Hitler's insanity. The last safe house before the shores of America. The bottleneck of Europe.
Perhaps this is what Odysseus had intended when he raised the pillars and lingered here for a spell, thousands and thousands of years ago. Perhaps this Olissopo was a home to him, of sorts. To make up for the real one, lost somewhere beyond the horizon….
But whatever Lisbon truly was for Odysseus, Cassian Andor will never know.
Because for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is smoked-filled rooms full to bursting with German and British spies. Lisbon is an empty hotel suite, with a bed covered in a white, crumpled sheet. Lisbon is the copy of James Joyce' Ulysses he has in his jacket pocket, old and worn out, borrowed indefinitely from the Lisbon library. It is the weight of the gun he has tucked and hidden in his belt. It is the smells and sights and sounds of a far away war. Of cheap living. Of women he has no business sleeping with, but he does anyway. Of a man falling dead to the ground in a dark alley, pierced in the back by his bullet.
But, above all, Lisbon is her - her with the ferocious eyes and the burning heart and the callous hands.
.
.
.
It is, at the end of the day, like Joyce had written. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free, while he will always be doomed.
He first meets her outside a nightclub in Bairro Alto. It is a little after midnight, and he has escaped outside to get away from the noise. A German (spy, but no one mentions it out of politeness) had just got the news that his wife in Berlin had given birth last week and Cassian - who is never in a mood for celebrations anyway - can't even summon the energy to fake a joyous congratulations. Fortunately, the German is too drunk to notice his tiredness. Cassian thinks that even if Churchill himself were to walk into the club, the German would still think nothing was amiss.
Happiness does that to a person. Blinds him to what is staring him right in the face.
Cassian is smoking a cigarette when she moves out of the shadows and into his line of vision.
"Can I get a light?"
Smoke swirls in the space between them and he has to swat it away to reveal a pair of round, heavy-lidded eyes staring at him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A light," she repeats. Her voice is hard, heavily accented. He recognises it immediately; living in Lisbon has made him even better at recognising accents. It is British, but with a slight tinge of French. Interesting, he thinks fleetingly.
"I beg your pardon?" he asks again, stupidly.
"A light." She frowns, visibly getting impatient. "If you would be so kind."
She is not dressed like a lady going out for the night. No jewellery (smart), no pair of heels, no fancy dress. Just a dark coat pulled tight around her small frame. Her short brown hair is almost hidden by the cap she is wearing, pulled low over her eyes.
"Of course," he says. He shifts his weight to his other foot and takes out his lighter from his jacket pocket. She lifts her right hand to show the cigarette she has squeezed between her index and middle fingers.
"Thank you," she replies, and slips the end of the cigarette into her mouth. She leans in closer to him, toward the lighter, and he flicks it on and lights the cigarette for her.
For a moment, she doesn't move away. And he looks down at her, strangely fascinated.
"Are you - "
"Andor, old chap, there you are!" a voice cries out and a man staggers out of the club, grinning drunkenly from ear to ear. He is a very handsome man, blonde with twinkling eyes, and his arms are wrapped around two beautiful girls who look equally as intoxicated. "Is this where you have been hiding, you lucky bastard? How ever did you manage to escape our Jerry friend?"
"I just needed a smoke, Lunn," says Cassian.
The strange woman steps away from his side, almost disappearing into the darkness. Lunn, however, spots her immediately and winks at Cassian.
"Oh, is this one of yours, then?
"I'm not anybody's," the woman pipes up, glaring hard at Lunn.
"A feisty English lass, no less." Lunn grins. Like Cassian, he recognises the accent. "Andor, you better give her over to her fellow countryman. An English rose is wasted on the likes of you."
Cassian is experienced enough not to react to the insult. He merely quips, "You seem to have your hands full already, Lunn."
"When has that ever stopped me, Andor?" Lunn winks again. "But ah, I'll be generous. Just this once. You can keep her."
Cassian senses the woman stepping out of the shadows; there is a ghost of a touch as the sleeve of her coat brushes against his arm. But thankfully, she doesn't say anything.
"Where are you off to then?" Cassian asks Lunn, trying to bring the Englishman's attention back on him.
Lunn shrugs and one of the girls on his arm giggles breathlessly for no reason at all. "Probably Cais do Sodre."
"Ah. Of course."
"Fleming is here for the night, you see. Care to join us?"
"I'd rather shoot myself in the head."
Lunn's smile barely slips. "I never understand you, Andor. Do you think you're better than the rest of us?"
No.
But Cassian doesn't say so. He forces a grim smile - polite but distant - and Lunn waves it away with a careless hand. He whispers something in Portuguese to one of the girls and she breaks out once more into giggles. Lunn smirks, raises a hand to Cassian, and staggers on his way.
"Charming individual," the woman beside Cassian remarks quietly. She is still smoking the cigarette he has lit for her. But there is something broken swimming in her eyes, dark and intense. "A friend of yours?"
"Of sorts." Saying Lunn is a colleague would be giving away too much.
The woman brushes a strand of hair away from her eyes. Even in the dim light, he can see how green they are.
"Well, thank you for the light," she says.
"Your welcome, Miss - ?"
"I just needed a smoke," she says, echoing the words he said to Lunn. She pulls her cap down even further and buries a hand into the pocket of her coat. The light from the end of her cigarette blinks back at him. "I left my own lighter in France, you see."
He doesn't give the meeting much thought afterward.
(But Lisbon is her slinking back into the shadows and disappearing into the night before he can say anything else.)
The second time he meets her, it is three days later at the city's square, Praça do Comércio.
He is hurrying out of the post office, an empty envelope tucked underneath his arm, as he weaves through the crowd of mothers, fathers, children, widowers, soon-to-be widowers and crying babies. Someone is shouting - first in Portuguese, then in French, and then in English - "Please, ladies and gentlemen, get in line!"
Bloody good luck with that, is the last thing that crosses Cassian's mind before he collides with an almighty crash against a figure barging through the sea of people. The force of the impact sends him reeling, nearly putting him on the ground. Somehow, he manages to grab hold of a nearby person's shoulder and steadies himself just in time. He curses profusely in Spanish and is about to switch to English when his eyes land on the figure in question.
He is too astounded at the coincidence to form words. She, however, isn't.
"Watch where you're going," she snaps harshly.
She has on the same coat and the same boots. Her hair tied in the same way underneath her cap. The only difference is how much younger she looks in daylight. Younger, fiercer, with her mouth set in a sharp line. Her eyes - green with flecks of angry gold - bore into his relentlessly.
"Aren't you going to apologise?" she demands.
He blinks. "It's you."
She cocks her head to the side and looks at him like he is mad. "I don't - "
"Three nights ago. In Bairro Alto. You asked me for a light."
He sees the recognition stealing into her features. She purses her lips together. "Ah. You're a friend of sorts to that rude Englishman."
"What are you doing here?"
"It's the post office. I've come to mail letters."
"Have you come to ask after someone?"
She suddenly tenses. "Why would you think that?"
"Because everyone here is."
The post office at Praça do Comércio is where they all come to seek news about loved ones left behind in France, in Poland, in countries now occupied by the Nazis. Reliable news is scarce, especially for refugees, but people keep coming anyway; they do not have any other choice.
"Are you looking for someone?" he asks again, his voice dropping lower, and he does not understand why is he taking such an interest in her affairs.
Her eyes flicker hurriedly to the people around them, but she doesn't reply.
"You can tell me," says Cassian, his voice now almost at a whisper. "Maybe I could help."
She raises an eyebrow and pulls away from him. "Oh, can you?"
He doesn't want to say anymore. He can't say anymore, and she scoffs at him, clearly unimpressed.
(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is her pushing his way pass him and melting into the onrushing crowd.)
The third time he meets her, it is nearly three weeks later and it is at Bairro Alto again.
This time, it is at another night club, one of the city's most popular haunts. It is well beyond midnight and he is strolling past the place on his way back to his hotel, a cigarette in hand. He is letting himself enjoy the night's cool air, letting it wash away the perfume that clings to his clothes from the night's encounter. The woman had been Portuguese. Pretty, smart, demanding, but, most importantly, a good mistress to boot to a well-known German spy. Cassian is mulling over the information she has given him, turning each stone over and over again in his mind, when he hears shouts coming from inside the night club.
Someone is cursing loudly in German. Another person is yelling non-stop in Portuguese and Cassian's is good enough to catch the brunt of it: "Is this bloody woman insane?" Then, the German again: "Get this bitch off of me!"
A group of men is cheering. There is the sound of glass shattering. And before Cassian can decide whether he should stop and investigate, the club's door is swung open and someone is thrown headfirst onto the ground in front of him.
"Stay out!" yells the doorman in heavily-accented English, before swinging the door shut again. The act is met with jeers from the patrons inside the club.
"Bloody idiots," groans the figure on the ground. The person who has been thrown out - a woman, Cassian realises with a jolt - lifts up her face and spits blood onto the ground.
Cassian cannot help but gasp.
Yes, it is her again. But in an old party dress that looks borrowed, her hair loose around her shoulders, and with her lip bruised and bleeding. She looks a mess. A goddamn fiery mess.
When her eyes alight on him, she curses again, this time in French.
"Why, isn't this my lucky day!"
"Believe me," says Cassian wryly, stepping forward to help her to her feet, "I'm not having the best one myself."
"I don't need your help."
"What were you doing in there?"
"I said - I don't need your help." She tries to shrug his hand away, but his grip on her elbow does not slacken.
"Were you trying to start a fight with a German?"
"I didn't. The bastard tried to start a fight with me."
"Why?"
"Does it matter?" She shrugs and winces from the gesture. He notices a bruise beginning to form on her right shoulder. And before he can comprehend what he is doing, he is taking off his jacket and draping it around her.
"It is not safe," he says.
He expects her to chuck his jacket away in an instant. But, surprisingly, she pulls it tighter around her, and he that decides she doesn't look half-bad in it.
"The whole world is not safe," she says cuttingly. "We are at war."
"Still, attacking a German in Lisbon - "
"Portugal is neutral," she cuts in automatically, as if she has rehearsed the line far too many times.
"You know it doesn't work like that." He shifts his hand from her elbow to her wrist and she pauses a little, letting herself lean her weight against him. "If you wanted to get information, I told you at Praça do Comércio that maybe I could help."
Her eyes narrow distrustfully when she turns to look at him. "Forgive me, but I don't even know your name. Who are you?"
"Cassian Andor."
It is stupid to give his full name, he knows that, but he can't help himself. When she looks at him like this, giving his name is the easiest thing in the world. He should be more careful; after all, the city is crawling with spies. But there is absolutely nothing he can do about the fact that something about this woman gets to him.
She stares at him for a moment, curiosity and apprehension written all over her face. Then -
"What can you do for me, Cassian Andor?"
"I can start by walking you home," he replies boldly. "Where are you staying?"
Her eyebrows lift in surprise. "Why are you offering to walk me home?"
"Because it is late. And because I don't trust you," he says truthfully, shrugging. "This is the third time we have run into each other. I don't believe in coincidences."
"So you are walking me home to make sure I'm not a spy? A spy for who, exactly? The Germans? The British? The Portuguese?" She makes a tutting sound and shakes her head wearily. "Enlighten me, Mister Andor. Because there are so many spies in Lisbon that sometimes I lost track of all the different sides one can possibly be on."
"Which side are you on, then?"
"I think the black eye I just gave that Nazi is a good indication of which side I'm on. But the question here is..." - she smiles at him as though this is all a challenge - "...which side are you on, Mister Andor?
"Oh, I can't possibly tell you that."
She scoffs. "Yes, I figured you'd say that."
She looks disappointed, but the way her eyes study him says she already knows the answer. Her body softens against his touch and she lets herself grab his arm as they walk down the quiet, deserted street together.
After a few minutes of silence, of him trying not to question where they are headed, he asks, "So where are you from?"
"Oh, here and there."
He smiles thinly. "Where were you before Lisbon, then?"
She doesn't answer right away. She lets the question linger in the air for a couple of seconds before replying. "Bordeaux."
"Ah. Bordeaux."
Not a surprise. He should have guessed Bordeaux. It was where the disgraced consul, Aristides de Sousa Mendes, was stationed. He was recalled back to Portugal by the Prime Minister, António de Oliveira Salazar, late last year, but not before he had issued more than his fair share of Portuguese visas to those who ran afoul of the Nazis and the Vichy regime.
"What is your name?" he asks.
"Jyn Erso."
Erso. He has never heard of that name before, not from his contacts or from any of the German spies he knows. If she is a resistance fighter, then she is not a very famous one.
"How are you liking Lisbon?"
She wrinkles her nose a little. "Well enough."
"Are you waiting to go to America like everyone else?"
Her grip on his arm tightens. "No more questions," she says, her tone sharp.
"Alright," he sighs. "No more questions."
.
.
.
(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is the fast pace of what eventually happens on this walk. Of how she suddenly backs him into an empty alley and stands on her tip-toes to pull his lips down to hers. Of how she then presses hungry, desperate kisses to his jawline and neck, making him groan, all his thoughts scattering to the wind.
Lisbon is her hand disappearing underneath his shirt, his palm cupping her breast through the fabric of her dress. It is her whimpering in his ear as she begs him for more, more, more…)
The kiss is seared inside his brain for days afterward.
It lingers there like a childhood memory, a part of him now like the way he knows his own name. Every morning when he looks in the mirror, it is not his face he sees, but hers. Bright and mysterious green eyes, a pair of lips bruised from kissing. He brings his razor up to his neck, against the beard that is growing there, and the knuckles on his hand turns white as he grips the edge of the sink.
It is just a kiss, he tells himself. He has kissed plenty of strangers. It does not mean he has to see her again. It does not mean they have to take this further, turning it into something that it is not. He does not know her at all; they haven't had the time nor the luxury. She should not matter this much. But he is letting her dominate his thoughts nonetheless and nothing can explain her away.
He remembers the quote, read from one of the frayed pages he keeps in his jacket:
I think of you so often you have no idea.
.
.
.
A week later, he returns late one night to find her standing in front of his hotel, half-hidden in shadows and with a cigarette clamped in her mouth. The usual stubborn posture. The usual turn of her neck when she sees him approaching.
He stops in his tracks and his eyes instantly sweep around the area. The road is empty, with only a few drunken passerbys, and she is almost invisible, standing far away from the circle of light from the hotel window.
"How do you know where I live?"
She shrugs and breathes out a column of smoke. "You people aren't hard to find."
"My people?"
She does not elaborate, but steps forward, closer and closer until the toes of her shoes nearly scrape against his.
"People will see," he whispers. And that is bad - bad for him, bad for her, bad for the entire goddamn enterprise.
She cocks her head to the side, pursing her lips together in a determined manner. "Do you trust me?"
"Not remotely."
She smiles and then grabs hold of him by the neck, pulls him down until his lips brush against hers. He can feel her trembling at the touch.
"Cassian," she rasps against his mouth, "let's simply get this over with."
She's right. Maybe she's right. If this attraction between them is not going to go away, then they should at least get it over with in the hope that it might.
So he brings her up to his room through the back stairway, making certain that all the corridors are empty before he takes her through. She is kissing him roughly, has his body pressed up against the door as he unlocks it. They tumble into his dark room together, breathless and fumbling, all hands and mouths and tongues.
She untucks his shirt from inside his trousers and pulls it off in one glorious tug. Her teeth scrape against the column of his neck. "Undress me."
And Cassian doesn't need asking twice.
She kicks off her shoes while he rids her off her coat and her dress, while she whispers, "Don't ruin my stockings" in a tone that is close enough to a laugh.
He ends up pulling her stockings off with shaking hands as she practically drags him down on top of her on the bed. In the moonlight, she lies naked and panting underneath him, face flushed and her eyes sweeping over his body as though she is about to devour every inch of him. She grabs his hand and places it between her legs, and he moans at how wet she is. She bucks up to him, and by God, he almost breaks right then and there.
They are in the middle of a war, for goodness' sake. They do not deserve this kind of pleasure. But she is pushing herself onto his fingers - insistently, angrily - and he is powerless. He can do nothing but please her. So he slides one finger in, then two, and moves them within her in a vigorous pace, drawing out moan after delicious moan from her lips.
"Trousers off," she babbles through the haze. "I need you inside me."
"Condom," he manages to stammer. With his fingers still inside her, he reaches over with his other hand to open the bedside drawer and retrieves the item in question.
Her body squirms desperately underneath his. "Bring two."
.
.
.
Hours later, she finally peels herself off of him, but only to light a cigarette. His sheets cling to her bare skin and he can see the beads of sweat that are plastering her mussed hair to the nape of her neck and shoulder blades. With the lit cigarette in hand, she rolls back into him, her naked body pressing against his side. He is still panting, still catching his breath, as though he is still chasing after her and she keeps slipping through his fingers.
She places the cigarette between his teeth and lets him take a drag. It calms him down somewhat, but then she takes it back and curls herself into him even more, and he almost curses at her for sending another shot of electricity through his body.
He does not think he has ever wanted someone this much. It feels as if he is going to want her forever.
"Who are you, really, and what were you before?"
She exhales a column of smoke and they watch as it twists and turns up to the darkened ceiling. "We said no questions."
"You said no questions."
"It is for the best," she says softly. "Would you like me to ask you some too, even though we both know you can't answer them?"
He becomes silent. Of course she is right. Questions complicate things, and things are already complicated enough.
"Here," she says and moves to straddle him with her thighs pressed against his. His breath catches in his throat as he looks up at her, more real and more magnificent than he deserves.
She takes another drag from her cigarette before bringing it down to his lips. Her hand trembles as she holds it, waits for him to inhale again.
"We have this. Let's enjoy this," she says quietly, her other hand trailing up and down his chest. "We are not going to have it for much longer."
(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is her putting out the cigarette and bending down to suck at his throat. It is her with her hot mouth and flashing eyes, and her muttering incoherently when he runs his tongue down, down, down her body until she screams.)
.
.
.
Author's Note: Not my best work, I admit, but I had a roaring time doing research for this! I decided not to give Cassian and Jyn too much backstory, although I have a rough idea of what happened to Jyn before she came to Lisbon. Unfortunately, Cassian's backstory is not at all relevant to the plot I'm telling. However, if you have your own headcanons, I'll be thrilled to hear them!
Now onto the history:
- Odysseus and Ulysses are the same character, and James Joyce' novel, Ulysses (published in 1922), was inspired by the original mythology. Most of the italised quotes in this story are from this novel.
- Lisbon was very much "the bottleneck of Europe" during WWII. It was the Casablanca of the film 'Casablanca' and it was where refugees fleeing from the Nazis were stranded. Most of them hoped to get a passage to America, one of the few countries that hadn't yet joined the war during 1941.
- Lisbon was also considered 'the capital of espionage'. Because of Portugal's neutrality, the city was crawling with spies, including British ones and German ones. The Fleming mentioned by Lunn is Ian Fleming, author of James Bond, who was based in Lisbon for 'Operation Goldeneye'. His mission was to ensure that Britain still had control of Gibraltar if Spain joined the war or was invaded by the Axis. Most of these spies lived in hotels, which was why I gave Cassian a swanky hotel suite.
- Cais do Sodre was Lisbon's red light district.
- António de Oliveira Salazar was Portugal's Prime Minister during WWII and he founded "Estado Novo", the authoritarian government that ruled the country until 1974. Both Spain and Portugal were neutral (despite their leaders' personal leanings), and both tried to get through the war with as little damage as possible. The Germans' invasion of Spain, if it were to happen, would have had drastic consequences for both the Allies and Portugal.
- Aristides de Sousa Mendes was a Portuguese consul in Bordeaux who granted many Portuguese visas to those fleeing prosecution during the start of the war. He was recalled back to Portugal by Salazar in 1940; the large amount of refugees in Portugal made it hard for the country to maintain its neutrality. Mendes' act was truly heroic. He granted up to tens of thousands of visas, saving countless of lives, including Salvador Dalí's!
I promise more angst, more plot, and more history in the next chapter. But for now, guys, PLEASE tell me what you thought!