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Jyn isn’t sure exactly how the three of them end up perched on an outcropping of one of the smaller temple buildings on Yavin IV, watching as the sun slowly turns the sky around them into ribbons of red and orange, streaked with white, soft, clouds. It’s the sort of view a tourist would love, not that there’s any travel agencies sending people to this forgotten moon. Not that there’s any way for anyone with sense to justify a vacation, not as long as the war stretches on.
Because it is a war, now, more than ever, and she’s a soldier in it. After running for so long, Jyn’s found her place in the Rebellion as a pathfinder reporting up to Major Dameron, who’d taken a chance on her based on Cassian’s recommendation. Which had been appreciated, after she’d…sort of failed her flying-skills test, ruining her first idea of being a pilot.
It had been for the best, given that what appealed most about flying wasn’t the work she could do for the cause, but the ease of running away, if she’d had her own ship.
But it’s been months since she’d gotten her official uniform and nearly as long since she’d daydreamed of jetting off somewhere far from both Rebellion and Empire. Because as strange as it is to think, Jyn’s realized she belongs here. That it’s home, just as Cassian had once said it would be.
She wonders if she should tell him that, but decides the thought is far too sentimental to share. Instead, she adjusts her legs, careful not to bump either Bodhi or Cassian, who sit on either side of her. All of them have carried up the cups of dehydrated rations, and Cassian has a large thermos of boiling water to both cook the simple mix of vegetables and starchy noodles, as well as create a broth of varying flavors based on whatever else was stirred in.
Cassian tosses an extra spice packet to Bodhi, who catches it one handed. “Thanks,” the pilot says. Then, as he tears it open and dumps the whole packet into his already-seasoned noodles, he asks, “what’s the secret to getting more than one packet?”
Because, of course, both of them know Cassian wouldn’t have stolen the packets, not from Rebel supplies, at least. There may have been times in his missions that he’d needed to steal, but it would always be from those who had far more than the ragtag Rebellion. It’s things like that about Cassian which impress Jyn more each time she learns something of him. They’d all orbited each other, sometimes interacting, sometimes merely nodding at one another in crowded meeting rooms, in the months after Scarif.
“Mark your meal designation planet as Tatooine,” Cassian responds. He too adds a whole packet to his meal, though with more careful grace than Bodhi’s casual maneuver. Bits of flavor catch on the breeze, making Jyn's nose wrinkle. “Comes up in the system as the highest spice tolerance.”
“I think,” Bodhi says, pausing to blow on a spoonful of noodles, “I should be offended by that.”
Cassian laughs, nods, opens his mouth as if to speak, and then, stops. A shadow falls over his eyes. The two men exchange looks, both of them, Jyn thinks, suddenly reminded of how few people have survived from their homes, so few that the designation for neither Fest nor Jedha appears on the lengthy list of meal assignments.
“What’s yours set to?” Cassian asks Jyn, his gentle question a conversation redirect like he often does, dodging the darkness of their pasts, and keeping these small shared moments between friends light.
“Dunno,” Jyn shrugs. “I switch it each week.”
That earns her a small, yet warm, smile from him. He opens his mouth as if to ask her something else, but shakes his head, stopping whatever his thoughts might have been. “I’m glad you don’t mind the rations,” Cassian says. “I know all of this can’t have been an easy adjustment.” Because unlike Bodhi, Jyn had never served, willingly or not, in anything as formal as even this ragtag Rebellion. Life with Saw’s troops had been closer to living with family than any sort of career. There hadn’t been paperwork or meal designations or anything approaching the order found here on Yavin IV.
She lifts a large section of noodle with her utensil. “They have potential.” And they’re consistent, which is more than she can say about meals at various times in her life.
“They’re better than…” Bodhi starts, freezes for a moment, before his brown eyes search both of his friends' expressions, as if reminding himself he’s safe to talk, to be himself, around them. “Better than the stuff the Imps served, that’s for sure.”
“What were they like?” Jyn asks, because based on the way Cassian’s jaw set, he knows his fair share about Imperial mess halls as well.
“Bland,” Bodhi replies. “Never warmed through. Never with flavor. And every one got the same thing, regardless of, well…” A deep sigh escapes him just as Cassian shifts, his posture closing off, shoulders curving in.
Jyn thinks of all that’s not said. Regardless of the person’s religious or personal dietary restrictions. Regardless of the culture they came from, regardless of the health needs of any near-humanoid being drafted into working for the Empire.
“So, I’m thankful for these,” Bodhi, as he does so often, tries to find a positive note, holding up the empty packet of flavorings. “Even if they’re artificial, they’re still spices, which is more than the Empire ever gave us.”
“They were too busy hoarding them for their officers,” Cassian mutters darkly. His gaze is beyond them, staring out at the horizon, or, perhaps more accurately, into the past.
Bodhi, as if sensing the shift of mood, turns to face Jyn. “You know, your father, he,” Bodhi begins carefully, watching her face, watching to make sure she can handle the burden and the comfort of another small fact about Galen. “He used to tuck his spice packets into pockets, and pass them to me, when I’d be dropping off a shipment of supplies.”
“He did?” Jyn can somehow picture that more clearly than any of the other details about her father she’d learned from fragmented notes and reports in these past months. She’s not sure why she keeps reading them; they can’t bring him back.
Bodhi nods. “For nearly a year. It was such a small thing, but I’m sure he risked punishment all the same. And for what? To give a young man from Jeddah a small taste of home? It was a kindness I’d never expected.”
“Well, we can’t all be so noble,” a sharp edge cuts into Cassian’s voice, and his fingers tense around the bowl of food.
“You did what you had to,” Jyn says softly.It’s clear he’s remembering those months undercover as an officer, recalling every small cruel action he’d needed to complete in order to keep himself, and the mission, safe.
“Jyn…”
It’s her name. Her first name. She blinks, realizing it’s been ages since he’s called her anything but Erso. Then again, it’s been so long since they haven’t been surrounded by others. Cassian’s promotion put him into main contact with Alliance High Command, meaning that running into him meant potentially running into the princess, Draven, or worst of all, Mon Mothma close by. He had a role to play in the Rebellion now, Bodhi had told Jyn when she’d commented on Cassian’s distance from them. A role he hadn’t signed up for, like so many of his other missions, but unlike those, this one didn’t ask him to risk his life, but rather, assign that risk to other soldiers, and ask so much of them that it risked breaking them.
She’d gotten used to the distance, told herself that not everyone could be like Baze and Chirrut, who were prone to shout greetings to their ‘little sister’ from across the whole mess hall, and even more frequently the ones waiting in the landing bay to scoop her up in a hug, offering congratulations and semi-useful vague advice. Then again, Jyn liked to think that was just because she and Bodhi caused those two far less stress then their new students, who Jyn, since she hasn’t quite gotten around to meeting them, calls the blond and the guy in orange.
None of that matters, now, though, because there’s no one on this whole base, not Chirrut, not Bodhi, not even the princess of Alderaan, who says her name the way Cassian does.
Three letters long, and yet, he manages to put so much emotion into it. Jyn’s face burns, suddenly. She wishes she could blame it on her food, but this week she’d put down that she was from Fondor, so there’s no heat at all in her flavor packet, just a gentle hint of citrus.
“What do you reckon the Themian food designation gets you?” Jyn coughs into her sleeve, attempting to change the topic. The feline near-human species had a few representatives in the Rebellion, including the woman in charge of training Jyn on various protocols that Jyn plans to completely ignore. “Maybe I’ll pick that next.”
“No chocolate in theirs,” Cassian comments off-handedly, “and you won’t get a mug of caf with your breakfast, either.” He’s so convestational about each species’s dietary needs, the way someone might be about their cousins’. It’s a reminder, however small, that he’s grown up here, among the rebels, with bases his only home.
“It’s not exactly real chocolate,” Bodhi says.
“I know,” Cassian sounds a bit rueful. “Took me an age to get used to the way we stretch cocoa powder here.”
“You wouldn’t have on Fest, would you?” Bodhi always seems better at asking Cassian about his past, perhaps because their own histories overlap in more common ways than Jyn’s did, with either of them. Though Imperials had destroyed all their homes, the level of destruction, for Cassian and Bodhi, wasn’t just personal, it was at a planetary level. Fest’s greenhouses, its unique flavors, all of its recipes, were gone forever, as was every jar of spice that had rested on a counter, every loaf of bread that had been baking in a clay oven, on Jeddah that day they’d left.
Cassian shakes his head. “No. I mean, we had to be practical with it, but there was always enough for a mug of hot chocolate.”
The image makes her smile, the idea of a little Cassian with a mustache made from sipping out of a mug far too big for his small hands. “So you do have a sweet tooth, General.” There had been a moment, months ago, when Chirrut had baked some sort of a cake for Baze’s birthday, and Cassian had insisted he wasn’t the type to eat sweets. Jyn had her doubts that day, because what she had noticed was that the cake hadn’t made enough pieces for all of them, since Chirrut had dragged young Skywalker into the get-together as well. Skywalker had, in turn, brought both the princess and the smuggler that he was never far from. It had seemed to her that Cassian’s denial had less to do with his own desires, and more to do with ensuring others had enough.
It’s a common enough trait of his that she’d reserved commentary on it, at least that day.
His eyebrows lift, but his lips press together, clearly intent on hiding any further tell from his body language.
“Speaking of hot beverages,” Bodhi stands, “I’m going to see if there’s any tea left for a refill. See you two tomorrow?”
“If I’m still here,” Cassian says, in that casual way he has of hinting at all the missions ahead that might take him far from them. It’s been nice, almost too nice, having him here this long. She could get used to his company, his interesting commentary and gentle laughter.
“Hopefully,” Bodhi says in reply, before nimbly slipping back inside the temple building.
She and Cassian are alone, looking at a sunset once more. Only this one, in shades of orange and pink, lights up a green world full of life. “So if Themians get no caf, any designations get more than average?”
Cassian’s lips curl into a smile. “Commanding officers of particularly willful soldiers.”
“Shavit, I wish I knew one of those,” Jyn teases back, bumping him with her elbow.
“A commanding officer or a stubborn soldier?”
“Oh, I’m allergic to the presence of officers, hate to say it,” Jyn can’t help herself. This moment, so mundane, and yet so rare, feels precious. Too precious to leave, even if it’s begun to grow a little chilly, as the sun continues its descent.
“An unfortunate affliction.”
“It really is.” Jyn slurps down the last of her noodles.
“I’d imagine it would make your next mission difficult.” Cassian pulls up his knees, wrapping his arms loosely around them. It’s the sort of posture no on-duty soldier would commit to, knowing it will take seconds, rather than milliseconds, to unfold into an attack position.
“Why’s that?” No one’s told her anything about where she’s headed next.
“The pathfinders will be working closely with an unfortunately recently-promoted officer, so I believe he’ll fall within your definition of the term.”
The pathfinders? So she had gotten her first pick of assignment. Except… “Wait. You’re coming with us? I thought we were going to be scouting a new base location.”
“You will be.”
“And we need an officer from Rebel Intelligence because---”
“You need an officer from Fest who knows how to set up a cooksite in sub-zero temperatures,” Cassian replies. “Sounds like Hoth will be the first pick.”
Jyn shivers, from what she knows of that planet’s climate. “Hoth?”
“It’s stated to have potential.” Just like that, Cassian’s formal tone comes back. Jyn bites back a curse, wishing she’d had something more clever to say. She wants to keep joking with him, for as long as this sunset lasts.
“You sure you won’t get sick of working with me?”
“I’m not the one who gets bored of meal packet designations in a week, Erso.” At first, she’d thought he meant the comment as a rebuttal, but before she can argue, Cassian continues, a strange note in his voice, not frustration, not anger, but almost like… yearning. When he glances her way, that damned blush comes back. “I tend not to give up on something with potential.”
“Oh.”
Jyn glances down at the small baked good that’s the only thing left in her meal pack. It’s rectangularly, wrapped in waxed flimisplast, with a handful of candy bits, in bright colors, sprinkled over the top. That treat, according to what she’s heard from others, is one of the rarer ones, and only the fact that they’d recently captured a few Imperial-cargo-cruisers, is why they’d had them so often. Otherwise, the meal’s dessert was usually a bit of dried fruit, or a single piece of hard candy.
“Here,” she offers hers to him.
He stares at her. She shrugs. “You pick the candy pieces off.”
“You… noticed?”
She nods. “Every time. You pick the candy pieces off, then you re-wrap the bar, and presumably, have it for later. You’re making it last, aren’t you?” Because he did have a sweet tooth, no matter what he’d tried to say, or not say.
“Observant,” he comments, that same little smile appearing on his face again. She likes it, likes how it makes him look young again. He unwraps the treat, but instead of his usual habit, he splits it in half. “Here,” he says. “You should have some too.”
Carefully, Jyn takes her half back from him. “Why?”
“Because you’re part of this rebellion now. If this is your home, you deserve the best part of the meal.” Cassian takes a small bite of his baked good and swallows, before saying. “Even if it’s a little dry. They used to be better. More frosting.”
“It has potential, though” Jyn says with her mouth full.
“Yeah,” Cassian says, looking at her with a far softer expression. There’s a warmth to him, as if the frigid mask has completely slipped away. His brown eyes sparkle with good humor, and when he reaches out a hand, his callused fingertips brush gently over her check, wiping away the smallest of crumbs. Behind him, the sun finishes its daily journey, outlining Cassian in a magnificently golden hue. Jyn holds her breath, as she realizes this moment, precious and simple, may simply be the beginning of something new all together.
Because this, the two of them, the moment, the meal, this is full of that sweet promise of the future ahead. As if reading her mind, Cassian smiles as he says, “this really does have potential.”