The passage about dirty hands is literally from Dirty Hands

The holonet was sizzling alive with rumors, rumors to which she wasn't allowed to believe, but he somehow didn't really prevent her from listening. One day, one night, he would be called to that super project even her father, though nauseated, was in a way excited about - his engineering mind taking over. In a way, she thought, he could have turned like her husband dear, had he not met Lyra. He would never have rejoiced over suffering, no, but he might have walled his heart away. Adrenaline, pumping in his blood, and she hoped they both wouldn't vent it in the way of a soldier, together, when women were unwanted or unavailable and couldn't understand.

You don't understand Lyra

"It is true", Krennic mutters. "It is, soon". He would have to go. "We are almost there… It is within our grasp, the glory...". He doesn't seem to be listening to her gasps or noticing the horror on her face, excitement burning bright on his face, bright and cold, louder than cries. Jyn remembers how he kissed his ring, how he had done it already before, and he is doing this again, his lips on the symbol of what he would put first, always, before Jyn, before the very concept of Lady Krennic, before Galen even… And this idea was the scariest of all.

Jyn has tried to discourage Orson - she doesn't still quite think of him as that - to work on that super weapon. Or to at least allow her father to withdraw. He laughed at the first, glared at the second. It was the end of it. She considered withholding again, but she was unwilling to do it, afraid he would cheat - again, and with… - or simply not wanting to be parted from him in such a way.

She developed nightmares and refused to tell him she dreamed of planets exploding, and blood, and blood, and blood. He grew nervous, if such a man could be nervous, working like crazy - really working, not sleeping around. He hated that she somehow contaminated him, with her nerves and uncertainty. The project of his life, spoiled by a girl. If he was his mother he would believe she cursed the whole event but he blessedly is the farthest thing from the first Lady Krennic. He is strong and alive, he is otherwise closer to his father; if he has to choose it is better than the fragile vessel that carried him.

Blood on white material, she sees with her eyes closed. She awakes in a start and realizes she has fallen asleep waiting for him.

"You still up?", his voice says, but all she sees is him, her husband, with slight concern in his ever temperate voice and more red than white. There's some of it even on his pale cheeks as if he had wanted to look more alive, except in death, with death. She stands from the sofa where she had forgotten herself and she runs toward him. Whatever angry cry she may have allowed to pierce the night is now pure terror, naked horror. How many times did she threaten him, promise him to kill him, and to make it bloody? Yet now, not only can she not do it, but the fact that someone else did is more than she can handle. She grabs at the cape, the tunic, his face with frantic hands. She almost tripped into her dress, still unused to the things he forces her to wear. But it doesn't matter. She half rubs half shakes him.

"They killed you!", she finally articulates, her eyes unable to focus, "They killed you I thought you were late I hated you I thought…". She thought he was with her father again but in the meantime someone had shot him. The resistance, of course, and normally she would identify herself as such, say "we"... He probably came home on his last effort to die at her feet, to hurt her or please her or whatever. Maybe, just like anyone, he just craved home. Her tears start falling in a way she would never have planned, would never have been able to fake.

The director is puzzled for a moment and takes a look at himself. Of course. He hums.

"It isn't… Most of it, at least… Isn't mine". His voice is almost usual, though someone who knows him best, as Jyn thinks she does, would hear a vague difference.

"Good good", she says instinctively. He thinks she misunderstands.

"This isn't my blood, Jyn. He tried to kill me, he regretted it".

"Great", she breathes, her eyes closing in relief and as she exhales, heart painfully clenched, she realizes finally what she said and what it means and she opens her eyes, tears falling again. She bursts out crying now, finally, in relief mostly and in hatred for herself.

He tentatively embraces her but she flings herself at him, her hands everywhere at once, caressing and crushing. She presses against him and feels something wet, still warm, and nausea sets in but she won't let go. He hears her mutter Orson repeatedly into the material, her mouth breathing warm against him, and he is convinced she will force herself to forget it and will deny ever saying his name. He holds her. He does nothing else. He is not even hard. This is an interesting development, more shocking than being attacked by some scum. He doesn't tell her so. He wouldn't miss the opportunity to see where this is going, he decides, and he ignores the mere fact that it feels good in an ocean of pain.

"You said your friends would try to hunt me down", he jokes. She tenses and when she looks at him, her eyes are red, drowned in tears.

"Not dad?", she begs. She can't bring herself to ask this positively, she has to preface it with a "not". Orson is hers. Hers to pursue, hers to hate, hers to please, hers to hurt, but most of all, hers to hold in life or death. Whatever she did, in a way, was for or against him since she was an adult in her own mind. She would defend him if only to kill him because it was her fate, but against her father?

"No", he coos. But he files it away for later, the fact that this is the first person she thinks of, Galen. Not a rebel, not someone paid off by Lyra. Galen. The man he loves, as much as it is in his nature to love, the man he can't hate as he should and loves even worse, the man whose daughter he uses every night he isn't broken with exhaustion and occasionally when he is to, the only human he can remember shedding tears over, though granted, not many, nor often. Interesting also, the fact that she thinks he, Orson, would kill his… friend. Lover. Arch enemy. As if it wasn't that different, and maybe in the Empire it cannot be so, alliances shifting, friendships souring, and most of all, what they had for more than half of his life was a ticking timebomb, a blazer bomb he should have chucked onto someone else long ago. May it blow up in that vulgar harlot's ugly face, thank the Force Jyn takes nothing from her. But, killing… He sighs at the thought. Oh yes, he would, given the need, the absolute, unmoving need. He would pull the trigger and kiss bloody lips. It wouldn't even be a first. But he had avoided it until now and still struggled against any temptation to look into their Stardust project a bit more deeply lest he found... Let her think I would. Let me.

"He is dead, then", she states. She can understand that, she can respect it. The resistance kills, and dies, and survival is her forte. Before he can think up an answer, he runs his tongue over his dry lips, as if borrowing time. It tastes of copper, slightly, and he worries about his looks before thinking up some internal haemorrhage. Probably not. But. He must look a mess for her to panic so. Jyn is nothing if not strong and resilient.

"I know I said…". She struggles to find her words even to herself.

"I know", he offers.

"It's different when you see it, and think it's real and…". She frowns, she doesn't understand herself.

"I know", he repeats. It is different, yes, when the person is real and warm and breathing and the blood gets on your hands. You can't do much with clean hands. Or gloves.

"I'm glad you're not dead", she says, madly, ridiculously, grabbing his cheeks violently as if she was fighting him and she gives him a searing kiss, meaning to convey something or nothing at once, at all. Her mouth is slightly parted already but it takes him a little time to reciprocate. Death is a powerful aphrodisiac and soldiers are known to partake after battle, even more if stims were involved, but here he wants to keep cool and maybe, just maybe, Director Krennic experienced a bit of fear, rage and doom. Just enough to be sobering.

Jyn tastes blood on his lips - not his, his face is mercifully spared, and shivers. Maybe that's why she doesn't go for more, with more insistence. She fears she feels the substance on her lips yet resists an urge, a weakness. She won't wipe. It's just… She is lady Krennic, after all.

"So he's dead", she states. He goes all out.

"Not yet, not exactly. Soon". This time, he is himself fully. There is some amusement in his gaze, cruel refinement, and she can guess. It makes her shiver to imagine she might actually know him, the man awaiting his fate, in Krennic's hands. The director had discussed a new interrogation method, which was more akin to torture, as it would, as the prisoner was now closer to dead.

"That is why I am so late. Bastard Tarkin said we had to interrogate him immediately. Didn't let me change", he rolls his eyes and gestures at his uniform. Jyn gives a high pitched laughter, crazily. So this is why some of the blood is fresh, and this is why he was so annoyed coming home. He probably ran from the torture room to here, hoping no one could see his disarray, and embraced his wife still warmed in the other man's blood. "You remember him right? What a man he is?". Only Krennic can express disdain and hatred and admiration that well.

She sombers down, reminded of the wedding, and he knows it was the wrong thing to say. He takes off his gloves and throws them wherever, for the help or the droid, both basically on same level. Not many humans are fully alive in the Director's eyes, or he wouldn't be leading the Advanced Weapons Research. He goes for the cape, unclasps the insignia and the gaudy stuff she couldn't even name. She bits her lip and averts her eyes when he fiddles with his belt and she doesn't see a smug smile. Don't wear little Jyn down, Director, some officer had joked, and it made him feel manly, normal, not the type who would grope his father in law at the family table willing to carry the feeling along to the nuptial chambers in order to perform. But in the end, disgracing the resistance's poster girl had been easy, or twisted enough to be enjoyable. When she looks again gone is the tunic and he stands in his uniform shirt and pants. There is more blood on the shirt than the tunic, she is certain, but it takes almost a minute to register. When it does she understands on the spot. Liar, she mouthes, hating him for what is out of his control.

"You don't care to join me in the bathroom?", he asks, but he is stiff under the joke as if the effort tired him down, awoke some aches.

"You're not moving". Her eyes are dead serious. "Take this off, here". He won't hide, he won't hide this from her. She knows now. He knows she knows. So he doesn't pretend anymore, not as much, and he actually flinches from his own hands on the buttons. Her stomach is doing something unusual and she is afraid she will throw up, or die, or be dramatically out of character. She cannot bring herself to watch. But she does. The shirt gapes, opening on a torn, bloody undershirt and she cannot tell where the skin begins and the cloth ends.

"I may have been overly optimistic", he warns too late. Oh, how this is his weakness, she feels it will be his undoing. He is impulsive, reckless sometimes under his cold, calculated, controlled appearance. She hates when he is aloof and haughty while she can't help wanting him, but this obvious fail scares her to the core as a child discovering than a parent can be wrong.

Jyn has never believed in fainting and indeed she doesn't, but somehow she dry heaves and her legs cannot carry her. Her husband doesn't catch her before she is on her knees, clutching at him, trying not to completely fall apart. "Make him suffer", she says, without thinking. "Make him…". His hand is grabbing her left arm and she rests her head against his thigh, this time in a completely non sexual way.

"There is no need to concern yourself. He doesn't deserve… this… I will make him pay for this, my lady…". This makes her stare up, trembling at his tender tone as much as at her words and she wishes she could cry the angst out. He caresses her cheek, leaving a reddish trail. It is the first time he doesn't call her Lady Krennic in anger or taunt or desire.

"You never need to concern yourself over anything, as long as I am there". She dreamed, she dreamed of blood on white, and… No, it is unfair, just when they found some arrangement, some measure of peace…

"You are dying, this is why you talk to me like this", she bites, clinging to hatred because everything else hurts. "Oh Force you are dying on me". She doesn't want him to suffer. She wishes she could kill him, make it short, painless for both. No feelings, no strings attached. Too late on both accounts. That explains the tender, the lack of taunt. She wonders if Krennics mourn in black or white or something else, perhaps they don't mourn because only the weak allow death to take them. Oh no, don't die, don't leave, don't…

Don't you dare leave, Erso, don't you dare, Galen

There is a cruelty in Krennic, that makes it appealing to watch his own wife assuming him dead already, lost to the world, and he enjoys that this pain is not aimed at the fact that it didn't happen at her hand.

"Aren't we all dying?", he ponders, or pretends. "You lost so many friends. I lost…". So did he, but the word friends is an irritant. "I would rather…". He doesn't know. Actually there isn't much he wants. His project is soon accomplished. The Emperor will notice him at last - long last. Galen… is lost, he fears. Killing Lyra isn't bringing him back, if anything making her a martyr would destroy whatever remains, enough though for Galen to go down on him… And Jyn - he found a wife he can actually have sex with, peak and even enjoy as a person - sometimes.

"I am not dying, Jyn. I have seen worse, this house as seen worse, I remember this very rug drenched in red when my grandfather was still around - story for another time - so as arousing as it is to see you fawn and cry over me…". The calculated meanness is just enough to jab her out of it. She stands, refusing his help until she can breathe more freely and doesn't even remember needing it.

"I bet you don't want to kiss me anymore", he hisses as he shrugs the shirt off and throws it away. "There is something to the dying man, soon gone, soon out of your hair, you can allow yourself to not see an enemy, to have pity, sympathy...". He doesn't tell her he thought of shooting her and taking her, that first night. He doesn't speak of that boyish enemy lieutenant who all but died in his arms, how his mouth was warm and soft and sweet, and how he allowed Krennic to do this because loneliness was even more hateful- or maybe he wasn't fully there anymore. His mouth tasted like blood in the end.

"You would know", she coldly rages, as she helps him peel off the undershirt. Even like this, his undressed figure awakes something inside her.

"I would, I would". He tells himself the boy isn't really dead as long as someone still thinks of him, even like this. And he was stronger. Jyn is the strongest of this new, weak generation, those who didn't know real war, those not raised for it - born because of it. He didn't falter, he didn't fail. He didn't cry. He wouldn't know how to. He refuses to think of Galen leaving.

In the end they take this to the bathroom, and she helps him wash and apply bacta. This is not so bad, is her mantra. Yet for him to actually go out of his way to hide and pretend? He never coddled her. He must have been scared. There is something human to this, and some boundary breaks inside her bosom.

"Do you want painkillers?", she asks. Her voice is overly rough because there is strength in this and tenderness would wear her down.

"We are trained for this, Jyn. And believe me the courses are realistic". He is not bragging, for once. He might have called for his mother the first time, but soon he understood it didn't help. Not that she could be helpful in any fashion. He didn't hate the hapless lady, he just… Didn't want to be soft and in need of a man's firm grip. He flinches at the idea.

She sees no scar but the most painful torture doesn't necessarily causes anything you would see. Jyn tells herself the red is bacta, just bacta. She takes in the bruises, the scratches. Oh, she can deal. It isn't much. It is deserved- maybe wanted. She extends a hand toward his torso, caresses the blue shadows making sure he is real and there and warm. She pays no attention not to hurt him and he sighs. She searches for his eyes and finds them searing. The first time hurt, he said. She presses again and he inhales. She doesn't ask whether soldiers play that game and she closes her eyes, not wanting to see, maybe. She approaches, the cold of the bacta seeping through her clothes, and kisses his shoulder.

"Filthy rebels have only that, I guess". He didn't say you filthy rebels, she notes. His voice is more shaking than while she was cleaning the wound. It troubles her, saddens her, that such a man can be unsettled by gentleness. But there is no reaction really, barring the sighs and taunts and she removes her lips, embarrassed.

"I apologize", she says. It is not the right time. She doesn't like how she loses control just because he had to be undressed above the waist for treatment. She insists for more painkillers and he confesses to taking some already, as a weakness, as he once relented and confessed he did touch himself thinking about her when he couldn't have her. She leads him toward the bedroom though he knows the way better than she does. She realizes how familiar it all is. Literally putting him to bed, she lets him be when he protests that she doesn't have to undress him and cover him with one more blanket. She tells herself it is punishment for both.

"My presence would prevent you from resting", she says, because she is ill at ease at the idea of coddling the Director and more likely, wants to be alone to think. But he takes hold of her hand and doesn't let go, even when she sits on the bed, even when he falls asleep much too quickly for someone who claims not to do pills. It is what I dreamt of, she tells herself, it is over now. He will not die.

But the foreboding is strong as ever, and she is actually sitting near the Director, guarding over his sleep, after she made sure his injury didn't kill him - so he can torture his father? Finish up that perfect weapon? Tear trough the resistance with white cruel teeth? I swore I would kill you, Krennic, I swore, I swore. I can't. Jyn should have attacked him when he was holding his blaster that first night. The tears are falling again.

He groans in his sleep and she wipes her eyes with her sleeve, certain she is applying blood but even blood is better than tears. He doesn't wake, and she finds herself listening for his breathing, checking… "Do not die", she whispers. "My…". Husband? Love? Enemy? There must be a culture somewhere that has a word encompassing all those concepts. Gone are the taunts, the cruel and light headed gallantries. Jyn sighs. It sounds like something she has never accepted - defeat. And the hardest to accept is that it might well be self defeat. As for him, maybe it is one of those victories you hardly realize before they're costing you everything and drag you down, down, down.

My father wasn't powerful enough to marry down

Seems like poor Krennic wasn't either, in the end...

Not quite sympathy for the enemy, as he said, if only because she doesn't know who the enemy is anymore. Him, herself, or... some inkling of understanding of the man he was, because of the woman she had become. He doesn't love me, she thinks, he cannot, he loves my father - she bites the word inside her mind even - as much as his nature and his upbringing allow. Suddenly it dawns on her that he would never sleep holding a man's hand, he couldn't show weakness to a man, even a man he explored every disturbing concept with… Even a man he explored the darkest fantasies with, when they couldn't share opinions without causing a fight anymore but their mouths, their bodies were still attracted like only opposites can be, cold and hot, black and white, fice and ice, a deathly fusion or fission. But he is there, she is there, Galen isn't, and Orson is clinging to her as he sleeps. He looked years younger, decades purer. Even though he retained a pristine purity even in the worst moments, an angel of death, in death, red on white, red button no doubt he would gleefully push again, as if nothing he did could really sully his soul. As if there was no such thing at all. Jyn has no illusion. She is, and will be, the wife of the man who destroyed the world. I could slit his throat I could shoot him I have seen so much blood it wouldn't hurt that bad. She shifts gently, tired, unable to make herself hate him. Though she still considers killing him, freeing her parents, saving her father's soul, saving the solar system, it is so idle she actually fears disturbing his slumber.

When his datapad beeps, she closes her eyes as if to block out the sound and prays to whatever deity it isn't loud enough. Same when some aide rings at the door. She imagines Tarkin fuming and smiles in the dying light. It has started. May they fail. May they do that without him. She doesn't even think of her father, the head engineer or whatever they bombarded him with. Nor does she allow herself to think it makes Krennic innocent.

Somewhere a planet is burning. The man she kisses and cries for and keeps for herself is a war criminal. Not once did she attempt to free the galaxy of the menace. Somehow she is Lyra, the overprotective, overaggressive wife who rages at those who disturb her husband. He cannot blame me, oh he'll be mad not to witness this disaster but I'm not supposed to know, a dutiful wife would let her lord husband rest.

Jyn blesses the pill he ingested. She doesn't know where this tenderness comes from. She softly brings his hand to her mouth and kisses it, her lips trailing over the too pale skin, as warm as the ring is cold. They leave a red trail on the symbol it showcases, terrible and telling. She doesn't cringe - he wouldn't want her to. She clutches at his hand harder. In his sleep, he reciprocates.