Chapter Twelve

He is resolved not to stare at his alarm clock. He knows how little good that does.

Still he's sure it's been more than an hour since he woke - he's gone to bed late, really late, and spent an eternity lying awake with his eyes staring emptily up at the crack in his ceiling, trying to chase unwelcome thoughts from his mind. He can't have fallen asleep before three in the morning, and it is still dark, so he supposes he's got two hours of sleep at best.

Which is more than his restless mind granted him the previous night, so there's that.

For what feels like the fifth time and probably is, he reaches into his bedside drawer to feel for the gun inside. He's not supposed to have it - he has two firearms registered to his name, the handgun currently locked in Draven's desk and the rifle in a rented strongbox.

This one is so painfully illegal it's almost funny, serial number filed off and wiped down so many times the bleach has left stains in the corners. He can't really say if it was paranoia or plain sentimentality that made him keep this thing that was a part of his body as much as his hands and feet for two miserable years, but he's grateful for it, now. Obviously, he can't carry it outside - not just because he doesn't have a permit, but simply because he doesn't believe he'd be given much time to explain if he got caught with that blatantly illegal gun and a Mexican passport.

Still, it's a comfort - and for the last few months, it's been enough to let him sleep. Apparently though, that's just another remedy that wears off over time, and he's back to pointless fear; back to staring at the walls in the dark until he thinks he sees blood splattered on them, until he thinks he sees the black outlines of bodies slumped against them, brown eyes staring back at him empty and broken in silent reproach.

Cassian stares at the ceiling, half-waiting to hear the familiar creak of his door opening, and wills his heartbeat to slow. Counts the flecks of light the street lamp draws on the wall opposite, counts his breaths, silently recites a poem, then, for lack of material, a prayer.

The painful throbbing doesn't relent, though, and in the end, when he can bear no more of this, he reaches for the light switch and crawls out of bed.

The clock reads 5:18.

He needs to do something about this.

.

"My boss put me back in the field."

Mothma frowns. "Is that prudent?"

"No. It's why I'm here," Cassian replies flatly and leans forward in his chair. "Ma'am, I… I need that gun back. I'll never be let back to where I used to work without it, and that job is all I have. All I'm good at. I'm no use to anyone this way."

She watches him with a sceptical frown, so he sighs and adds: "Listen, doctor… I've had a weapon on me for ten years, twenty-four hours a day. Even at home. I don't want to hurt anyone, I just don't feel safe without it."

She sighs. "Carrying around a gun is not a solution, detective."

"Then call it therapy, I don't care." He draws a shaky breath and begins, hardly drawing breath between the words because he's not sure he could resume talking once he's stopped: "I'm not paranoid, ma'am. That file you have is very incomplete. I gathered enough information to take down one of the most influential members of the cartel I was assigned to. Enough to put me in imminent danger. My bosses didn't know how to pull me out of there in a way that wouldn't get me killed, so in the end, I drove my own car off the road somewhere in the mountains, let it go down a cliff, burned it with a corpse from the morgue in the driver's seat. State attorney's getting ready to make a case for a life sentence. I'm their main witness. It's not paranoia, I am in danger," he says, his voice a little too quiet.

She is silent for a while, then asks unexpectedly: "Why were you not put in witness protection?"

"Because I refused," Cassian says flatly and she frowns.

"Why?"

"They would've… they would've made me change my name. I'm the last person in my family still alive, that name is all I have left of them. Besides… I could've never gone back," he replies, very softly. "Never in my life. I've given all I have for this, for my country. I want to see it again. I can't now, not for a long time maybe but… never going back, nothing is worth that."

"Not even your life?" she asks in a suspiciously neutral voice.

"My work is my life, and my country is that work. Who would I be if I could give that up for anything?"

"You're scared."

He grimaces, and she presses on in a mild tone: "You're scared of dying, and you don't have to apologise for that. That's perfectly natural. It's an instinct, detective, not a character flaw."

He sighs, fights the urge to get to his feet and pace the room, wrings his hands in his lap. "It's not really death that… of course I'm scared to die, but… I'm scared to die in this country. Sometimes I think I hate this city. Most of the time, actually. I can't stand the thought of dying here. Don't make me."

There is a long pause, then she asks slowly: "The two men you shot, why did you do that?"

"Because they were shooting at me," he replies in an even voice. "I told you. Self-defence."

"No other reason?"

"No, ma'am."

She is silent for a moment, then asks: "Did you ever shoot someone because you wanted to?"

"No. I followed my orders."

"Did you ever want to?"

He hesitates for just a second, not too long, then replies quietly: "Yes. Once."

She nods, face neutral. "Tell me about that."

"I was young, sixteen, back when I was an informant for the police. They were looking for a man, and I found him. I was supposed to wait, keep an eye on him, but I knew him, from my family's files. He was one of the suspects, evidence pointed to him, too. So just before the cops arrived, I told him who I was, I asked him if he remembered them, if he'd – He said if it was him he must've forgotten, but he said that to hurt me. He enjoyed it, I think. It was practically a confession, so I guess he would've tried to kill me if he'd had the time."

She nods, very slowly. "Did they arrest him?"

Cassian reminds himself not to pause too long.

Remembers the slight taste of metal in his mouth, the cold rage in his veins.

Hears his own voice, quivering in all the right places, just loud enough for a panicked boy scared for his life, voice break on his side just this once (he was a good liar, even then, always had been) –

Help me. He's got a gun, he's going to kill me. Save me.

The blood had stained his jacket, on the left sleeve. Later, he told Alejandro he had panicked, that he'd mistaken a phone for a gun in the dark. He'd never really thought Alejandro had believed that, but he never mentioned it again. The file said the cops shot in self-defence, and it wasn't like anyone cared if that was really true or not.

"They tried," he says evenly. "He was shot in the process."

"Were you happy about that?"

He shrugs. "For a moment. But it didn't help, in the end. It didn't make any difference. They're still gone."

Mothma nods, her sharp eyes piercing him. "The day your colleague died… do you think his death was your fault? Could you have saved him?"

He smiles, against his will. He told her in the first few sessions that that kept him awake at night, and yet here she is, asking about that like they'd never mentioned it. She's seen straight through that, then.

"No. Not unless I would've shot them before there was any danger for either of us. Biggs lost his nerve, he drew his gun on them. I couldn't have known that."

She smiles back, a knowing little smile. "Do you feel guilty, detective? About shooting them?"

He takes a deep breath, then: "Not really. I mean, I see why… they probably had families, they were scared they'd go to jail, scared of their own people's punishment, probably… We were all defending ourselves. I came out alive. That's all."

I've done far worse.

Mothma sighs. "Detective, you see… my problem is this. I think you're far from stable, and I'm supposed to hand you your permit back when you are stable. I also think your abilities and your mindset make you a very dangerous man. However I also think that your mental health issues do not necessarily make you more dangerous to others, and even if you were perfectly healthy you would be just as dangerous, so you see the bind I'm in."

"You're wondering if you should arm a dangerous man," he says, in a toneless voice to match hers, and she throws him a sad smile.

"What would you do?"

"I'm a soldier, ma'am," he replies slowly. "That's all I am. A good soldier. So what you're really debating here is whether there should be armed forces in the world. That feels like a very big question."

She chuckles a little, and nods. "Maybe. I still have to be able to live with my choice." She sighs. "I think it's time I give your boss another call."

"I think he'll be delighted," Cassian can't keep himself from saying, and she raises a brow at him.

"And even if I decided to give the go ahead, I would demand that you continue to see me. Your issues take time to sort through, and I'm not happy with where you are right now." She sighs again. "But I understand that you're scared, and I don't think we'll make much progress as long as you can't feel safe. I'll make a few calls, and I'll think about it. This is not a promise."

"Thank you," he says softly, and she throws him a small smile.

"Not a promise, detective."

He sighs, and nods. "I have a question, though. What did you tell my boss about why I'm still here?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because he stopped asking how long it will take. He's cutting me slack. It's not like him."

"He's sending you back into the field unarmed, with a target on your back, detective," she says mildly. "I would not call that cutting you slack. He is risking your life."

"He was the one who suggested I come to work for him when he heard I needed out of my assignment," Cassian replies sharply. "The least he can ask in return is that I do my work. I owe him. So what did you tell him?"

Mothma sighs. "I told him you need to work through this now or it will get worse, and influence your work."

He throws her a wry smile. So she can be evasive, too. "What diagnose?"

"I'm not allowed to tell him that. He made an assumption, I told him I could not comment."

"What did he assume?"

She throws him a hard look, suddenly looking slightly uncomfortable. He realises he's slipped into the tone he reserves for interrogations, and doesn't fix that.

"You're allowed to tell me the diagnose, right? I'm the patient."

She sighs. "The term is being thrown around a lot, and it describes a very diverse –"

"PTSD, yes?" he interrupts sharply and she sighs and returns his humourless smile.

"Yes. I think a military man like Draven finds it easier to understand the urgency of therapy if he slaps a familiar label on it." She eyes him for a moment. "You don't look convinced, detective."

"I know people with PTSD," he replies slowly. "I don't think I have what they had."

She smiles mildly. "Like I said, it is a broad term. There are a lot of variations. But your symptoms tick a lot of boxes."

He sighs and shakes his head at her, smiling at her against his will. "He didn't tell you he was in the army, did he?"

"It's rather obvious, really."

"You got a good read of my boss over the phone."

"That's my job, detective," she replies lightly. "And I must have called him five or six times in the first few weeks alone. He said he wanted updates, and I was hoping he might get you to open up a little. I shouldn't have bothered with him, I suppose," she adds under her breath with a strange little smile and shakes her head. "I'll see you on Thursday, Mr. Andor."

.


.

"It's my lucky charm, Jyn," her mother says as she fixes the clasp of the necklace. "It will always protect you."

"I never stopped thinking of you, stardust, I never – not a second I didn't want to cut and run and find you, you have to believe that, Jyn…"

The explosion of the small house is bright and violent in the faded darkness, and she wants to run down and see –

A voice over the phone, a sharp accent – "You're listed as emergency contact. Private Rook will recover. They are sending him home as we speak. Can I count on you to pick him up at the airport, Miss Dawn?"

"Mister Guerrera has left for the airport early yesterday morning," says a hotel clerk with a smile that looks like it was permanently stitched on his features. "He has paid for your room up until today. Would you like to prolong your stay, madam?"

Then she is back in the darkness again, the air is cold and smells of the rain that is hammering against the window panes. "There's so much I have to tell you, stardust," he breathes into her ear, pulls her close for the shortest of moments. His voice is different, so much older, broken, and yet it's just the same… "I'm so sorry, Jyn. I'm so sorry. Run. Go. Go now."

And then she's back in that alley, her father's hands heavy on her shoulders. "You have to go with Saw, stardust, I'm so sorry, but I have to go somewhere and you will be safer here. You go with Saw, Jyn, alright, you do that for me…"

"Everything I do, I do to keep you safe, do you understand that?" Her eyes are wide and scared and she doesn't know why her papa is talking like this right now but she nods. "Don't forget that, stardust. Please don't ever forget that."

"I promise, papa," she whispers –

.

She wakes with a start, sheets clinging to her like they're about to strangle her. She shrugs them off with hectic movements, swings her feet out of the bed before she's even realised where she is, nearly loses her balance. She takes a few shuddering breaths and angrily rubs at the wetness on her cheeks, but new tears keep coming.

She can't go back to sleep. She can't. She keeps having these dreams. All week. And if it's not old memories, it's bizarre, dizzying fever dreams that make no sense at all.

That's probably what she'd be in for if she tries to go back to sleep now.

Either that or… or fantasies her brain comes up with when she's halfway asleep. Those wrack her just as much, though for a wholly different reason. They leave her wanting, and nothing helps.

She sighs and traipses towards the kitchen, blinking through the blurry veil of tears, desperately hoping she hasn't woken Bodhi. Not again.

The only time he's ever imposed on her was the months after Afghanistan, where he was held hostage and nearly died. And he tried not to be a nuisance, even then; even when he sat on the floor all pale and shaking and asked her if she could hear the explosions, too.

What happened to her, in comparison?

Sometimes she wonders why he puts up with her at all. She doesn't know why she's so dramatic.

The clock on the oven reads 4:13. Jyn sighs and pours herself a glass of water, then curls up on one of the chairs to get her feet off the cold tiles, and stares into empty space.

There's so much I have to tell you. Everything I do, I do to keep you safe. I have to go somewhere.

She shakes her head irritably and presses the cool glass to her forehead. None of this makes the least bit of sense. What did he want to tell her? And why didn't he? How could he know they were coming for him? What the hell happened that night?

She shivers and hugs her knees closer to her chest.

Her head just won't clear. She doesn't have enough information – hell, she has nothing. And worst of all, the only other thing that her mind supplies is the memory of another voice. This one doesn't hurt quite as badly, but it stings all the same –

Believe it or not, I'm trying to find out why.

She sighs and stares at the clock blinking at her through the dark kitchen in a disgusting, violent green.

4:27.

With an annoyed little groan, she gets to her feet and pads into the hall, careful to make no noise as she files through Bodhi's jacket pockets until she finds his wallet. The white slip of paper tucked behind his ID seems to glow a little in the dark.

The handwriting strikes her, it's so neat it's almost funny. It looks like it came out of a printer, all perfectly aligned with the edge of the sheet.

What a fucking control freak, she thinks, and realises too late the thought puts a slight smile on her lips.

She grabs her phone from her nightstand and resumes her previous position, taking turns to stare at the slip of paper, at the clock, at the phone.

It's five in the morning now. (She will admit it is mostly spite that makes her decide that if she does this, then it must be before six AM.)

She picks up her phone, very slowly, and then stares at that for a while.

She can't believe she's doing this.

There's no other way, though, she tells herself firmly, and doesn't believe herself.

She has other options, safer options, and also a very good idea of why she's rejecting all of those.

Fuck it.

He picks up after the second ring.

"Bodhi?" His voice is too clear for the early hour, far too clear, and suddenly it hits her that he was probably sitting somewhere staring at a clock in the dark too, and not sleeping at all.

"No."

"Jyn." There is something profoundly wrong with the way he says her name, it's so warm, so intimate, and she blamed it on the accent before but there in the dark with the green digits of the clock blinking at her, she doesn't believe it has to do with anything other than him.

"Are you okay?"

That suddenly seems like a very big question to answer. "I need to know what happened to my father. I can't do it alone."

"I don't have much to go on."

She's not sure what to say to that.

"Jyn. Why are you calling at five in the morning?" he asks after a while and she thinks she can hear a smile in his voice and that makes her a little mad.

"I didn't call to apologise."

"Of course not." His quiet voice, still with that smile in it, is a jarring contrast to her defensive tone.

"I'm not sorry! I was right. You're an ass for not telling me," she snaps.

"Probably."

What a jerk. He takes all the fun out of insulting him, too, Jyn thinks angrily. People shouldn't be this level-headed this early in the morning. She takes a moment to collect herself.

"You are. But you said you'd help me. You said you'd look into it, so I guess… I guess I'm over it." There's no calm, clever response to this and it feels like a victory though it probably shouldn't.

Well, in for a penny, she thinks and takes a deep breath.

"I guess we could meet for a coffee or a drink or something, I could tell you what I know."

"Guess we could," he replies slowly and she bites down a smile.

"When do you get to work?"

He sighs a little. "In an hour or two. I can meet you after."

"When is that?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe nine," he says quietly and she shakes her head.

"Six to nine. Are those the working hours for all employees, or are they exploiting the immigrants?"

"Very funny. Where do I meet you?"

She grins to herself. "You don't. I'll be in the neighbourhood anyway. I'll pick you up."

"Is that a good idea?"

"I don't care. See you then," she says and hangs up before he can answer, and thinks she might be able to look like nothing happened when Bodhi wakes up – or maybe get a few hours of sleep, actually.

She stretches her arms and yawns.

Bed it is.

Nothing to do about that small smile about her lips for now. Nobody's awake to see it.