It was another five days after Jyn's panic in the bacta tank before Cassian is released from the medbay. He's far from healed, and the doctors place him on convalescent leave, which irritates him. No high impact activities. No prolonged standing or marching. He never marches; he's not a boot, but he assumes that the limitations would prohibit long distance walking, too. It feels like a punishment. It isn't, but it feels like it. The pain in his back and hip tempers his frustration somewhat. He knows he's not at his best. His sharpest. The pain edges its way into his consciousness even when he tries to ignore it. He shoves it down deeply, tamping it away with worry. And guilt. He has a shower and some instant soup in his room, not yet ready to face the crowd of faces in the messhall. Then he dresses, and reports to work even though he's supposed to be in his rack healing. It's well past muster when he arrives, and General Draven is occupied when he steps into his work space, but quickly spots him. The tight line of the older man's mouth tells Cassian that this was a very poor idea indeed. He could have delayed this, but he prefers to get the ugly over now. Just cut if off. Sever the infected limb, as it were.
"Captain Andor." Draven's voice is loud enough to be heard across the busy room. "A word." It's not a request.
He follows his CO to the small office he occupies, standing respectfully as the general closes the door and motions him to sit. He chooses to remain standing, partially in deference, but mostly because sitting still hurts.
Draven sits at his largish desk, and just stares at him. Cassian muses that it's not the desk that is large. It's just that the room is small. The perspective is off. Perspective is everything. He meets Draven's gaze evenly. Waiting. He knows this game. He's mastered it. It's what makes him effective.
Draven's face remains stoic, but Cassian can see the fury teeming below the surface. Finally he breaks the silence.
"I trust you are recovering from your injuries, Captain." The tone is almost conversational, except for the slight stress on the rank. Cassian knows it's to remind him of his place. His position. He's a lowly captain. A dime a dozen.
"I'm improving." Noncommittal, but accurate.
"Are you still on con leave?"
"Yes, Sir." A nod. "They did not specify how long…" He trailed off. The duration may not matter.
Draven only answers with a murmur of understanding. A pregnant pause follows, and Cassian braces for what is coming. He knows these rhythms. The parry and riposte. He can play this game. He may not be able to win it, though.
"Do you want to tell me what in the kriff you were thinking?" He's not yelling, but Cassian notices the pulse throbbing in his neck. Barely contained anger.
Cassian pauses, and considers how to respond. He could bait or play. It won't change the outcome.
"I was thinking that we needed the Death Star plans." He replies evenly, eyes steady on Draven. He shifts his gaze to the area between his eyebrows. "And that the Council was too afraid to risk sending a team to capture them."
"So you went rogue?" Draven is no calmer now. "You decided "to hell with command. I'll lead my own team to battle." Is that it? Pull the whole damn Rebellion into your one-man mission to save the galaxy?"
Cassian knows he may have been the ranking officer on the stolen ship, but Jyn was the one they were all following. It was her lead they looked to. It's his responsibility, though. He'll take the blame. It's not as if they can pin it on her, anyway. She's not a part of this fight. Not officially. They can't lock her up and leave her in the brig. Can they?
"No." He shakes his head slowly once. "I decided to do the right thing."
"The RIGHT thing?" A scoff. The words are spat out like a bitter taste. "Disobeying orders. Dereliction of duty. Unauthorized absence. Theft of Alliance property. Shall I continue?" He read the charges the way he had when he addressed Jyn. She handled it better, Cassian notes, and calms his pounding heart.
"Were we successful?" He's genuinely interested. No one has told him the outcome of their raid. He has other questions, but they can wait. Did any forces survive? Ground or air? Anyone else? He turns his attention back to the general.
Draven sighs, and looks down for a breath too long. Cassian feels his heart miss a few beats. No. They couldn't have failed.
"The plans were received by Admiral Raddus' flagship." Draven pauses, and Cassian feels his heart sink lower into his abdomen. He tastes bile on his tongue. "The plans were copied onto a data disk, and launched on a Corvette." Another pause. "We are not currently in possession of the data."
Cassian feels his eyebrows meet his hairline in surprise. And dread.
"The individual responsible for their transport was taken hostage by the Empire, and the files are believed to be on a planet in the possession of a droid."
"What planet?" Cassian hears his voice, but has no memory of ordering his mouth to speak. He's a tactician. Information is his commodity.
"Tattoine." Draven leans back in his chair. Even the chair is worn, Cassian notes. Like all of them.
"Tattoine." He repeats slowly, searching the reaches of his memory for any information he may have come across in his work. It's a desert, he recalls. Empty. Wasteland. Scattered pockets of Rebel fighters here and there, but nothing organized. A few space ports with unsavory reputations.
"Yes. We currently have a team searching for the droid."
"And the…hostage?" Was the Rebel Alliance going to cut bait and run now, too?
"We are attempting a diplomatic resolution."
Cassian knows that those are not Draven's words. He prefers a fight; it's one thing they have in common. The Council. Mon Mothma. Ever the politician. She's attempting diplomacy. There is no diplomatic solution to this.
Silence descends upon the men as they sit, regarding each other. The events of the last week play on repeat in Cassian's brain. We failed.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't strip your rank and toss you in the brig." Draven's eyes have narrowed.
Cassian shrugs with practiced nonchalance. "We retrieved the plans." He chooses his words carefully. "Find them and use them." It's beyond bordering on insolence. He's being deliberately discourteous. He could be NJP'd for his language, but he's in trouble anyway. Why not pile on?
Another silence hangs over the men, and Draven glowers rigidly at his junior officer.
"I will decide on charges later." Cassian tries to keep his face a mask of neutrality. "Dismissed."
The door is open before Draven speaks again. "Andor."
He turns his head before remembering himself, and turning to face the General.
"It's good to see you up and about."
Cassian doesn't speak; just a polite nod before he turns and heads back to his barracks. That went better than he expected professionally. And worse. He paces the small open space in his room considering the news. The plans were received. And then lost. Draven neglected to ask how Jyn is doing, he notes. Maybe he already knows, but it's more likely that he doesn't actually care. Cassian tries sitting, but his back twinges uncomfortably, and his breaths come up short. He lays on his back on his rack, staring at the ceiling. Little drops of condensation bead on the rock above him. Yavin 4 is humid, and the scent of fresh earth and mildew permeate the air. Nothing is ever thoroughly dry here. He tosses for a while on damp sheets before giving up entirely and swinging his legs once more over the side of his cot. Shoving his feet back in his boots, he stands gingerly. The spasm in his back is worse now. He should have rested longer. Or not walked all the way across base to meet his professional fate. He was never great at following doctor's orders.
Standing in the middle of his room, Cassian considers his options. The base is large, but feels suffocating at the same time. The messhall will be packed. The officer's mess will be noisy. And nosy. The hangar is always awash with activity. The war room is out. He's free to wander. He could go outside. Walk. Meander. Clear his head. He's not sure he's up to it.
He ends up standing beside Jyn, although he doesn't remember his feet bringing him here. An orderly brings him a stool. It's too high, and it hurts his back, but he sits obediently. Her hair is damp, he notes, eyes washing over her features. The ends curl around her face, and rebellious fingers brush it away without forethought. She must have just finished in the tank. He thinks he hears a noise, not quite a moan, but something. He grasps her shoulder gently and listens. Nothing. Her forehead is drawn again, a frown ghosting her lips. Dreams. Nightmares, more likely. Again. Or pain. He takes this as a good sign, even though it may not be. He'll hold onto whatever small piece of hope he can.
Pain. Pain and light. A bolt of liquid energy stabbing through her skull. Jyn is only aware of these two things. Her heart rate and heart rate elevate, but she's not aware of the change. She's clawing, trying to break free. To step away from the pain, but there is no escape. Finally, release.
"What's happening?" Cassian's alarmed query falls on deaf ears, as the crowd bustles around the cot at the end of the aisle. He's been shoved roughly aside. The doctor barks something Cassian doesn't catch in his fog, and nurse injects something into the intravenous line. Jyn stills.
"She's alright." A nurse, he figures, turns to him and smiles. He recognizes this one. He was there when Cassian awoke, too. "She'll be okay."
Cassian remains unconvinced, but resumes his vigil after the crowd disperses. The blankets he'd acquired for her have disappeared, and he reaches behind him, and hauls the clean coverlet off the unoccupied rack before spreading it over her carefully. The fabric is limp with moisture, even with the air circulators running. His gaze returns to her face. The bruises are fading to a brilliant shade of green, and he wonders if they would match her eyes were she to open them.
A man of few words, Cassian is at a loss as to what to do. He feels silly just sitting and staring at her, but it comforts him. Seeing her alive. Breathing. It's comforting. He has tried to forget the feel of her crushed against him on that blasted beach. The padded cloth of her vest against his palm. The warm of her. The way she clung to him. He can think of nothing else to do but whisper promises he knows that he can't deliver. When he's run out of words in Common, he reverts to Festian without realizing it. Then, quietly, he sings. Nothing racy or scandalous. A quite melody. A lullaby his mother used to sing to him when he was a child. Fest was prone to storms, and the crashing sounds and flashing lights unsettled him. His mother would lay him gently in his bed, and tuck the blankets securely around him. Then she would kneel beside his low bed, and sing softly in his ear. He tries to not remember. It's one of his last memories of her. He felt safe. Secure. Loved. The words trip awkwardly off of his tongue, the language rusty from disuse. He stumbles over the complex vowels and syllables. He's worked so hard to forget. To lock up that part of him. He was eight before he was fluent enough in Basic to stop dropping Festian into his sentences. He was twelve when he stopped dreaming in Festian. He knows that they nightmares will come again. In his mother tongue. He will dream of her. His mother. Soft and warm and kind. But he keeps singing, because it's the only thing he can think of to do. He keeps his voice low and soft. Only Jyn could hear, if she was awake. Of course if she was, he'd never be so bold.
He waits another hour. Maybe two. It could have been five. He's not sure. A concerned medic shoos him away, and tells him to go eat. Trudging slowly and stiffly back to his barracks, he notes that the walk is long. He's billeted on the other side of the base, almost as far from the medbay as you can get. The journey gives him time to clear his head. He has to make a change.
It's dinner time. Or maybe it's lunch. He can't decide, and isn't sure the time of day matters. It's time for more pain killers, but he hesitates to take them. They make him drowsy, and he's not sure he can handle sleep right now. There are too many faces haunting him there. A shower should help, so he strips off his clothing carefully, wincing as he bends to remove his boots and socks. The hot water feels soothing, and he wonders why it's not this easy to clear a conscience. No amount of water can clean the blood off of his hands. From his memory. There is no soap to scrub this wound clean. No antiseptic to pour over his guilt. He made this decision. He made all of them. Himself. Every trigger pulled. Every operative. Every contact. Every grenade and explosive. Every name. Soldiers. Civilians. Friends. Enemies. Lost. It's messy, and Cassian hates mess. His own face haunts him now; it has for a few years. The men he lost on this ill-fated op come up in pictures in his mind. One by one. Men. Women. Soldiers. Volunteers. Fighting for the Rebellion. For freedom. For…what, exactly? Cassian doesn't even remember what freedom feels like. Maybe it's not real. Maybe it's just an illusion. A lie that generals sell to men like him to convince them to stay in the fight.
But he's seen the fire in Jyn's eyes, and remembers when he had that, too. She was faking it at first, in the ward room on Yavin 4 when he'd first laid eyes on her in person. The pictures in the dossier were flat. Compressed. Didn't do her justice. She can't be contained or explained in two dimensions. He knows the set of her chin. She was shaken to learn that her father was alive. He hadn't expected that. He'd assumed she'd known. The crumpled woman he'd found on hands and knees back on Jedha wasn't the same one he'd seen on Scarif. Silently nodding at him. Jumping. Urging him on. Carrying him toward the beach. The woman who stared down the man in white on the tower platform. Was it Krennic? He thinks he's read about him. Krennic is dangerous. Power hungry. A true believer. Jyn had no blaster. No weapon. But she stood there, chin high, defiant. Ready. Eyes alight with strength and fire facing down a man with a blaster trained on her forehead. He admires that fire. Envies it, even. Will he see it again? Will he have it?
The water is running cooler now, and Cassian remembers that he's supposed to be rationing resources. Flipping the switch to shut it off, he grabs a towel, and roughly dries the water from his skin. His back does feel better after the long shower, he notes, and stretches experimentally to work out the stiffness. He should rest. "You don't heal if you're not resting." He smiles softly, recalling his mother's words. He's not sure rest will heal him.
A nap does make the ache in his hip less noticeable, even if his dreams were vivid and his slumber restless. The chrono on the table near the bed blinks 2147. It's late. He should just go back to sleep. Perhaps he can will himself back into unconsciousness. When he's still staring at the chrono exactly thirty seven minutes later, he signs and rakes a hand over his his face. The adrenaline of the recent battle hasn't fully subsided, he figures. He's still jumping at shadows and pulling up short at sounds. He's always like this, he reasons. This isn't new. The pounding heart. The upset stomach. The insomnia. He's used to this. He would drink, but alcohol and a head injury do not mix well. There is some crappy...he can't remember what it is; gin, maybe? Whisky? It's in his gear locker. It's strong, he recalls, and not unlike fuel in its taste and burn.
The shot glass is where he left it, and he snags it shakily from the shelf. The shot is downed in one gulp, and it burns all the way down his esophagus. This stuff is so strong it just might eat a hole through his stomach. Still, he's feeling warmer in a few minutes. Looser. Relaxed. His pillow is lumpy, he realizes, and he punches it in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. The dark is not his friend tonight; sleep will not come. Maybe the nap was a mistake. Emboldened by the drink, he decides to walk. He paces the halls this time, and finds himself in the hangar bay. This late at night it's mostly deserted, save for a few dedicated mechanics and the odd pilot who are scurrying around trying to keep the fleet in repair. His U-wing is likely ashes on Eadu now, he thinks, and frowns at the thought.
Eadu. He changed on Eadu. Perhaps he left a piece of him behind there, too. It can stay with the ship, he thinks bitterly. He's better off now. Following orders blindly cost him himself
"All of this is as the force wills it." Chirrut was so sure. His faith so steadfast.
Cassian definitely thinks that he and the Force have different priorities.
A/N: I write slowly, but I had a full week to decide what to write. Be kind. Thank you to the lovely people who left reviews. They really are like hugs with words.
Also: con leave = convalescent leave.
NJP = nonjudicial punishment. Below a court martial level offense in severity.
