Chapter Ten
He's a sentimental idiot. God, he's such a sentimental idiot, and he's going to pay for that, he thinks with a heavy sigh as he pours himself a glass of tequila that is just a little fuller than strictly necessary.
(But maybe, he thinks and tries in vain to focus on the liquor burning down his throat, maybe that's what he wanted. Maybe he wants to get caught, just this once – maybe just this once, he wants to be stopped. For once, even if he can't have absolution, he at least wants to feel the consequences.)
He falls into bed face-first, still dressed and feeling slightly sick, and he doesn't sleep for hours.
.
.
It's two days later that his bizarre new-found sentimentality catches up with him, hard, and he's seen it coming a mile off.
That doesn't make it much easier.
Bodhi hovers in front of his table the way he always does when he wants to say something but thinks he doesn't have the right or whatever. It breaks his heart, just a little.
Sometimes Cassian thinks misses the hardened cynical asshole he's spent half his life pretending to be.
"Bodhi, please stop doing this," he says quietly. "You want to say something, you say it."
Bodhi grimaces, and it hits Cassian that Bodhi, too, knows what he has coming for him. He's grateful but not surprised that he doesn't comment.
Damn it, he's going to miss that kid.
"Well, um…," Bodhi says, and puts his tray down with a lot of clattering. "Chirrut said you might want to go see this."
"See what?" Cassian asks, and thinks he'd probably begrudge anybody else this empty chit-chat.
"The lesson, um… Jyn's helping him give lessons sometimes."
"Martial Arts?" Cassian asks with a frown, and this elicits a small laugh from Bodhi.
"More of a bar brawl when she does it," he says drily, and busies himself piling muffins behind the glass pane. "But it works. Well. Chirrut said to fetch you."
"Okay," he says haltingly and empties his cup, then adds for good measure, without conviction: "Sounds fun."
Bodhi throws him a sad little smile and leads the way up a narrow flight of stairs to a small studio that looks like it was built for ballet lessons instead of combat training.
Cassian stops in the doorway for a while and watches the last few minutes of the class. Bodhi was fairly on point about the bar brawl, but it is scarily efficient, and her students don't stand a chance. It brings a small smile to his face, and when she sees it, her eyes flash at him, hard and bright.
"Think this is funny, Cassian?" she says slowly. "Shall we see if the cop fares any better?"
He raises a brow at her, stepping aside to let the last two students pass, but Chirrut beckons him inside, uncharacteristically unsmiling. "Yes, that might be an idea. Come on in."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," he says slowly, and Jyn eyes him.
"Don't be scared, I'll try not to hurt you." There's something in the tone of her voice telling him she wants to and that's just a small, though substantial, part of what he's worried about, but there's something about the glint in her eyes that makes him shrug out of his jacket all the same.
(She's angry, and for some idiotic reason he really wants to make that go away, even though he knows perfectly well that he can't.)
"Try not to give me a nosebleed. I'd hate to throw the shirt away," he says matter-of-factly, very quietly so Chirrut won't hear – even though that's probably futile. The blind man leaves with a small sigh, leaving them alone in the small training room.
She tilts her head and says in a sugar-coated voice that doesn't fool him: "You could always loose it, just in case."
That line is pure strategy, meant to throw him off the rails, and he's determined not to let it work (it does work, though – he's only human, for Christ's sake, and he has trouble sleeping).
Jyn's fighting style is all anger and force and no elegance. All he has to bring to the table is technique (that has very rarely been put to practical use), endurance and pain tolerance (that has been put to practical use, but can't exactly be called an advantage).
She's quick, too, and before he knows it, she has landed a few hits that are sure to leave bruises.
And all he feels is relief and his head is not right.
"You know, for ex-military, your hand-to-hand combat sucks." She has him backed into a corner and is starting to look rather murderous. "You weren't trained for fighting, you're trained for running."
"Yes. Special arms training, then undercover assignments. I was not supposed to look dangerous."
She nods, slowly. "Figures. They teach you to lie, too? 'cause you're awfully good at it."
He dodges a lazily thrown punch and is pinned to the wall by her left arm instead.
"No. That's natural talent. Or the police work as well."
"You're not with the police," she says in a voice that is almost gentle.
"I am," he argues, "I'm on the payroll of the Mexican police, same as I've been for four years."
"You're DEA," she gives back flatly and he's never heard anyone use that as an insult before.
"I work with the DEA."
"You lied to me."
Technically, he didn't, but he saves his breath. "Why does it matter?" he gives back, which is an even feebler thing to say. He knows why, and so does she.
There's a furious little scowl pulling at her lips. "Were you told to go after me? Is that your assignment? Getting me to trust you? Securing a witness?"
"No. I'm here because I met you at my therapist's practice."
"Bullshit. You weren't there by accident." Her eyes are just a tad too bright, and he knows. He knows right now he's another man in a long line of men who betrayed her, and he shouldn't care but he hates it.
"No, I am there because I shot two drug dealers who gunned down one of my colleagues."
"Oh yeah? That's routine shit for people like you, formalities. Done in two sessions, right? I'm not stupid."
"I'm still there because it isn't affecting me. It should be, but it isn't, and she figured it out, so she's not clearing me. She probably thinks I'm a psychopath."
"And I'm supposed to believe that?" she hisses.
"Yes," he says flatly. "Because it's true."
She scoffs, and then, stepping even closer – she is literally close enough to kiss, her face less than an inch from his – "Were you there?"
There's no need to ask what the hell she's talking about, he knows. "It wasn't my case."
"That's not what I asked." Her voice is shaking just a little. "Were you there?"
He closes his eyes for a moment. "Yes. Backup. I was standing by, to cover our people if necessary."
She laughs. It doesn't sound the least bit amused. "All this time, you knew –"
"No, I didn't," he says in a slow, intent voice, fixing her because for once in his life he's telling the truth and she has to know that, even if it doesn't make a difference to her, she has to know. "I only made the connection when I heard your last name a week ago. I had no idea."
"You belong in therapy," she says in a cold voice and steps away from him. "You're a pathological liar. Get out of here."
"Jyn, I don't know what happened that night, but I swear if it was the DEA none of us had any idea. Four of our people died, my partner caught enough of it to be in hospital for a month, that's why he wasn't with me the day I shot the dealers."
"I don't give a damn about your partner, and if the DEA hadn't been after my father in the first place, nobody would have killed him!" she hisses, glaring at him, and gives a broken, derisive little laugh. "And now you've stopped investigating altogether, haven't you, just because things got hot!"
"Yes, I noticed," Cassian replies quietly. "And believe it or not, I'm trying to find out why."
"Yeah," she scoffs, removing herself from his space. "Like you'd care. Get out of here."
"Jyn –"
"Get out!" she repeats, loudly, and he takes a few steps backwards, hands raised.
"Jyn, you're in danger and you have no idea of what you could have coming after you," he says sharply.
"Look at you," Jyn says in a cold, vicious voice. "Playing the white knight. I don't need shit from you and you gotta leave."
"I'm not playing the white knight," he says firmly, glaring right back at her. "Your father made you disappear from the face of the earth sixteen years ago, and we both know he did that for a reason, and instead of taking that gift and living your life you came looking for him. And you know that whoever killed your mother for whatever reason will want you dead, and when they find out where you are, witnessing your father's death will be the least of your problems."
"I'm not in danger," she says flatly. "If any mafia wanted me dead, I'd be already. You're paranoid and delusional, and this is none of your business, so piss the hell off."
"Of course I'm paranoid!" His fingers start to shake and his voice rises despite his best effort. "I came home from school in first grade to see with my own eyes that these people shoot a four-year old little boy just in case he might remember what one of them looks like or that he might grow up to remember so much as half a sentence of what his father was working on! I've spent every night of my life since then wondering how long it's going to be until someone comes to kill me. So yes. I'm paranoid, but it's my job to know what you're dealing with, and don't you dare implying I wasn't good at my job."
"You should take your meds, detective," she replies in a vicious little whisper, "I believe they call this an episode. I'd tell you to go see your therapist, but honestly, I don't care either way, long as you go somewhere that is far away from where I am. Piss off or I will make you."
Her eyes are far too bright, and he should not let this sting but it does. Oh Lord, it does.
"Alright," he says very softly. "I'll go. I'm leaving a number with Bodhi, and at the slightest sign of trouble you call me."
"You seriously think this is the moment to pass me your number? What kind of arrogant wanker-"
"I'm not making a pass on you, Jyn, I think you're going to need help. And I'm the only one who's not going to pressure you into telling the truth about your parents, because I already know."
"You'd still have to share it with your crazy-ass institution," she replies sharply and he feels a cold, humourless laugh rising in his throat.
"I have buried far worse than this, Jyn. Oh, what, a dirty cop from Mexico, this can't possibly surprise you," he says in a voice that sounds bitter and awful.
"What, d'you want me to pity you now?" she spits and he sighs and turns to leave.
"No, Jyn, I want you to call me. I'll go now."
"Yeah," she says hotly. "You do that. Please do that."
He stops, takes a deep breath, turns back around and says, very softly: "I didn't ask to know that about you, Jyn. I wish I'd not found out this way. But it's done, and I didn't tell you because I had not right to know and I knew how you'd react if I'd say anything."
She stares at him and good Lord, she looks so lost it hurts to look at her.
"Just go, Cassian."
He nods, hold her gaze for another moment, then turns and walks out with slow, measured steps, makes his way down the stairs and stops in the doorway to the diner.
"Bodhi," he says quietly into the tense silence, "do you have a piece of paper for me?"
"Yeah. Sure," the waiter mutters, rummaging through the drawers, then hands him a slightly crumpled print-out of a gas bill and a pen.
Cassian flattens the paper out and writes down a number without hurry. "You hang on to this, Bodhi. Any sign of trouble, any at all, you call. Even if she tells you not to. Because if I'm right, she's in danger, Bodhi, and I know she's tough, but she can't handle this on her own."
Bodhi looks at him for a moment, calm and still for once, then sighs. "Okay."
"Good," Cassian replies softly. "Thank you."
Bodhi throws him a shaky little smile and nods. "Sure. See you 'round."
Cassian bites back a humourless smile. "Yes. See you. Chirrut. Baze," he mutters and walks out the door.
He feels dreadful, like there is some kind of numb throbbing in his head.
.
.
Kay folds his arms in front of his chest and frowns down the shooting range.
"Did I ever tell you how glad I am we're on the same side?"
Cassian lowers the gun in his hand. "I'm sorry?"
"This," his partner says, nodding down at the targets. "This is scary. You shouldn't be able to hit anything at this distance. You look dreadful, by the way."
Cassian scoffs and takes off his earphones. "Well, I ran ten miles. How'd you look?"
Kay rolls his eyes. "We both know that is not the reason, and now could you stop firing a handgun at a sniper target and let me drive you home before you make a complete fool of yourself? It's been nearly a week."
"What, are you my therapist too now?" he snaps, and Kay sighs.
"If that means you'll finally get your shit together, I'd be happy to try. Now return this gun to wherever you got it without an active permit before you get suspended over it and meet me outside, alright?"
Cassian sighs and, out of a lack of options, really – he has been at this range for hours – he does as he's told, returns the gun, showers and gets into Kay's car.
He's grateful that his friend doesn't ask why he's here – well, Kay knows one thing about why he's here, but he doesn't know the rest. Doesn't know the nightmares are getting more frequent. Doesn't know he stopped eating dinner because he's likely to throw it up at night anyway. Doesn't know he even resorted to taking these goddamn pills one night, only to find out that doesn't make him feel any less paranoid, just more vulnerable.
(Doesn't know that he's developed a dangerous habit of "passing by" Mothma's practice or the diner in almost daily intervals and being ridiculously early for his own sessions. He can't help it. He feels so restless, so on edge – it is at least part of why he sleeps even less, at least part of why his neighbours probably think he's training for a marathon -)
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, tries to focus. No need to let Kay see all that.
"Where are you driving me, Kay?" he asks idly after a while.
"To a supermarket, so you can do your shopping and invite me to eat with you like a functioning person."
Cassian sighs. "Do I get a say?"
"Absolutely not," Kay says cheerfully and sets the turn signal.
"Alright, great," he mutters and stares out of the window. "Any preferences for dinner?"
"No, your pick."
Cassian sighs. "When did we become an old married couple, Kay?"
His partner shrugs and parks the car. "Somewhere between my shin getting shot all to hell so your cover didn't blow and you saving my ass last year, I suppose."
.
Two hours and a bottle of red wine later, he doesn't feel a lot better but the urge to run until all air has left his lungs has let up slightly, which is a start.
"She's trouble, Cassian," Kay says intently, gesturing with his fork. "These violent delights have violent ends."
"I've heard that before."
Kay rolls his eyes. "Of course you have, it's Shakespeare. And it's true. This thing will blow up in your face, mark my words."
"Shakespeare. That's not overly dramatic at all." Cassian leans back in his chair and folds his arms. "But you're not telling me to let it go?"
"Well, there are about five things you do well, Cassian," Kay says drily, "but I daresay letting something go isn't one of them."
"First of all, the only one who can't let things slide is you, and – five things?" He turns to look at his colleague with a slight grin.
"Yes. Why are you smiling?"
Cassian still smiles. "Because that's very specific."
"The number is completely irrelevant because they're no use in the matter at hand, Cassian," Kay drawls, but Cassian shakes his head.
"Still."
"Still what?"
"Go on. You don't throw around numbers unless you want to tell me more."
"Why are you trying to make me sing your praise?" he asks bristly. "You just don't want to have this discussion."
Cassian raises a brow and waits.
"Fine," Kay huffs, "first of all you're a good shot, which should neither come as a surprise to you nor make you especially happy because you wouldn't have required a single therapy session if you'd missed these thugs –"
"No, because I'd be dead," Cassian says flatly and Kay gives an impatient wave.
"Fair enough. Secondly, you're an annoyingly good pickpocket, which is why I spent half my wage on new lighters and got reprimanded twice for not having my badge at the ready, thanks a lot for that, by the way… You're not a bad cook," he gestures about his half-emptied plate with his fork, "which might eventually work in your favour, but that would require you to actually get anywhere first. Point four, you're a decent enough dancer-"
Cassian frowns. "I'm just not going to ask how you know that."
"Thank you. Again, could work in your favour if you'd get your head out of your arse, pardon my French. Point five, you're the best liar I've ever met. Which might be an asset, but it already ran you into a shitload of trouble, so..."
Cassian huffs and jabs at his pasta. "This is so helpful. You should write a book."
Kay sighs. "Look, what I'm trying to say is this: for as long as I've known you, the women in your life never left a trace on this flat, on you or on your behaviour," at this point he throws a pointed look at the mess covering Cassian's usually immaculate kitchen, "and I don't know if this is good or bad but it's different and no matter how long you keep telling yourself it isn't –"
"Stop it with the psychoanalysis, Kay," he mutters, but his partner just refills his glass and shakes his head.
"Speaking of. Did you tell that therapist anything about it?"
Cassian nearly chokes on his wine. "No!"
"Maybe you should."
Cassian throws him a dark look. "Maybe you should leave this alone, Kay. It doesn't concern you."
"You are my only friend, you know?" Kay shakes his head again. "That, and I'm starting to think you've been off track for so long I couldn't even tell the moment you get back on it."
"Go home, Kay," Cassian mutters, staring into his glass. "I wanna be alone."
"Yeah, if you did, you would not be sitting here moping, my friend," Kay says and gets to his feet with a heavy sigh. "Goodnight."
"You're really starting to get on my nerves, you know?" Cassian calls after him and his friend doesn't turn back around.
"That's because you know I'm right," he calls over his shoulder, then the door falls shut and Cassian's the only breathing thing in the room, and he hates the fact it doesn't feel peaceful.
It just feels lonely.
.
.
"Did something happen, detective?"
"No."
Mothma smiles. "Yes, it did. You're usually a far more convincing liar. Or did you just stop making an effort with me? Because if that's the case, I am wounded."
Cassian chuckles and shakes his head. "Fine. Yes. But I don't want to talk about it."
She nods. "This may be shocking for you, Mr. Andor, but I am not altogether unaware of the things that happen in my waiting room."
Cassian leans back in his chair. "I'm pleading the fifth, ma'am."
"You don't have to say anything, detective; it's enough if you listen. What you are feeling just now would mean a lot of progress if you let it happen to you."
He throws her a dark look. "It does not feel like progress."
"Because it doesn't feel good? If you let someone close enough to hurt you, then I do call that progress. I'm surprised, in fact." She sighs. "I'm also worried, just so you know. It does seem like a volatile mixture, but well. I do suppose you finding an easy way to closure is too much to ask for."
"It's good of you to have faith in me," he gives back sarcastically and gets nothing but a warm smile in return.
"It's good to see you care, detective."
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