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Four years after Scarif, Cassian has become used to a great deal of things that may have once given him pause. Wars, even ones fought on a galactic scale, have a way of creating routines, despite how dire the stakes often are. Beyond that, Cassian’s the type to find comfort in routines, from what he wears to how he takes his caf (two creamers, three sweetener packets, when supply chains allow both, if not, whatever won’t be a burden, as long as it’s not flavored.) Even the parts of war that aren’t routine; the battles, the missions, the red-alert-alarms that wake up every soldier aboard the transport ship, those have their own sorts of rhythms too.
Especially now that the second Death Star has been destroyed and the Emperor reportedly vanquished, the routines have seemed to take precedence over the unexpected. One such routine matter is that of Cassian’s person comm sounding at rather annoying times. Like now, as he’s washing up in the ‘fresher.
He hurriedly exits, towel-drying his hair as he answers the comm. “Andor,” he mutters, turning to his wardrobe box to pull out a shirt and trousers. Those, too, are organized. Five shirts, three standard issue, one for (rarely-taken) leave days, one floral one he’s vowed to never wear but keeps as it was a gift and three pairs of trousers, all ironed neatly.
“Your presence is required in meeting room 2-B.” It’s a paging droid, the sort used to send messages from others in Rebel High command. “Immediately.”
“Noted.”
“Maximum security clearance required.”
“Thank you,” he replies, expecting nothing less. If the meeting is important enough to comm him at this hour, then it would have to be a matter requiring the highest level of confidentiality. As he pulls on his jacket, his stomach grumbles, and he sighs. Cassian is used to getting called into Alliance high command meetings without even a minute’s forewarning. He’s used to missing meals, too. Usually, Kaytu will remember that his favorite organic life form needs sustenance and will take a variety of objects from the mess hall line, so at least he’ll have a meal, albeit a strange one.
This morning is no different. The meal will have to wait. He only sends one lingering glance toward the automated caf machine which isn’t scheduled to begin to brew for another twenty minutes, before he tugs on his boots and exits his quarters.
At the door of Meeting Room 2-B, Cassian punches in his security codes. Most people would have an eye or fingerprint scanned, but he’s spent too long scrubbing all records of both of those from anywhere on the holonet system to allow even the Rebellion access. After the lights cycle from red to yellow to green, the door hisses open. Cassian strides through, noting that the table is already occupied by some of the faces he’d expected to see; Mothma, Dodonna, Syndulla (with a napping Jacen on her lap) and others. One new face, a person with long hair pulled back low, and the sort of posture that could only come from a military academy catches him off guard, but only for a moment. There's no way Jacen would be sleeping so soundly if the newcomer could be a threat.
“Sit, please,” Mon Mothma gestures at the open chair. “I apologize--we’d hoped to have Princess Leia take part in this briefing, but she’s just left on an urgent mission.”
Cassian raises an eyebrow, surprised that something so vital as to summon the princess away from High Command’s morning briefing hadn’t resulted in any sort of alarm.
As a response to Cassian’s expression, Commander Madine explains, with a weary sigh, “General Solo’s ship has caught fire. Again.”
“Ah. Is he, uh,” Cassian clears his throat, still not completely awake, nor fully able to comprehend that Solo, of all people, is now a general. Granted, the latter statement has little to do with Cassian’s own current level of uncaffeinated. “Is he unharmed?”
“Oh, of course. It was a very minor fire,” Mothma explains.
“Less of a fire, more of a false alarm,” Hera Syndulla comments. She shifts Jacen to her other shoulder so she can sip her own mug of caf.
“Mm.” Madine pinches the bridge of his nose. “Quite.”
“Well, shall we return to the matter at hand, then?” Mothma gestures for Cassian to sit. He does so. Someone, perhaps the princess, has at least set out a mug of caf for him, so he takes a sip. He wrinkles his nose. It’s not only flavored, but it’s decaf.
He’d hoped that one of the small perks of his own promotion would be access to better, or at least, more consistent caf, but so far, that hasn’t been the case. Cassian tries not to mind--he knows the Rebellion, even now, as they hunt down the last remnants of the Empire, maintains a tight budget, but still... Decaf for a mission briefing this early doesn’t feel right.
Nor does it help his headache, as the meeting objective becomes clear. There’s a newly promoted member of Alliance High Command, a General Whitlatch, who had been asking for details of prior missions relating to large-scale combat against Imperials. Ordinarily, Cassian would have those numbers and figures readily available, but for some reason, today, his brain just isn’t providing them.
Whitlatch, to her credit, is trying to follow along, but seems equally frustrated by the lack of records on a number of different skirmishes, as well as various pieces of protocol. “And General Calrissian was promoted into the role because--”
“Um, well…” Mothma looks over at Madine.
The blond man shakes his head. “That wasn’t my call, Mon.”
Nor was it Cassian’s, so he merely sips the subpar caf and waits. His turn to answer questions comes soon, and goes about as poorly as the rest of the discussion.
When Whitlatch doesn’t quite grasp the finer details of the mission Cassian had most recently been in charge of overseeing, he steeples his fingers, hesitating, before trying again to both explain and not resort to any of the caf-withdrawn curses threatening to burst from him. He’s a patient man—every soldier knows that—and a kind one.
But he was really looking forward to breakfast and a hot cup of caf today.
“You see—“ Cassian begins. After so many years on so many bases, he’s learned a few diplomatic phrases, and intends to deploy all of them now. Because otherwise, he’s going to struggle to explain something as non-modern-militarily-minded as Ewok-created-traps to this new general who is clearly used to following the more formalized, Core-standard, rules of engagement.
“I am listening,” Whitlatch replies. “It’s just, forgive my curiosity, but the ground troops were so out-numbered on Endor at that point. I’ve run the simulation three times now and cannot ascertain how the victory occurred.”
Cassian hears the door hiss open and assumes that the princess must have returned. Cassian clears his throat. “The indigenous beings of the moon were—“
“The Ewoks helped us crush those imp bastards!” A triumphant, incredible, absolutely-not-supposed-to be-here-voice rings out, shortly before a warm and slightly pine-scented Human collides directly into Cassian.
Cassian can’t see her, but her tone is enough for him to picture her face, her green eyes shining with conviction, her jaw set with durasteel certainty in her own opinion—one of many reasons she didn’t have the clearances to be invited to meetings like this one, and he can’t help but smile as much as he blushes.
Jyn’s hand remains in his hair, holding him still, perhaps to keep him from arguing, perhaps because it’s been a few weeks since they’ve seen each other and the simple act of physical touch feels like a balm against all wounds. Or perhaps, simply because she was constantly playing with his hair whenever she could, and sees no reason not to now. In Jyn’s mind, there were few, if any situations, that required a modification of her behavior. If Whitlatch is governed by rules of parliamentary procedure and codes of combat, Jyn is ruled by her own wishes and self-assumed authority on matters where she’s involved.
Not that Cassian would have her change--nor does he think it’s possible, given that he’s put up with nearly four years of this from her.
“And that’s how it happened,” Jyn wraps up with a triumphant flourish.
Her hand slips away, fingers trailing down his neck, and it takes all his remaining reserves of self-restraint to not catch that hand and press a kiss to it. Not only because her exuberance is refreshing, nor because he’s missed her deeply, but also because he’s rather sleepy, and he tends to slightly daydream of less-than-professional-at-all-times conduct when he’s been awake for more than an hour without any caffeine.
But of course as soon as he lifts his head, she bounces away, like a tooka cat springing back after pawing at a particularly stubborn bit of prey. Her grin, which he supposes is her attempt at feigning innocence, looks downright wicked to him. She winks once, then bolts off, closing the door behind her.
In the momentary silence, Cassian clears his throat again. He pointedly ignores the look Hera is giving him, as it makes him feel a great deal like he’s being silently lectured by an older sister, and also avoids Mon Mothma’s glare, because he’s sure she is doing so.
There are, after all, many things he’s had to get used to in the past few years of life as a Rebel soldier. For better or for worse, Jyn, as well as her antics, is one of those things. By now, little about her can faze him, though she can still certainly make him blush. That latter fact he’s trying to hide, as he re-adjusts his hair with a hand, before smoothing his palm over his jacket. The caf has spilled but he sips what remains, trying his best to look absolutely unruffled, as befits a general of the Rebel Alliance.
He’s not sure he manages to, though, because he can’t completely fight the smile that remains on his face. Especially not when he finds a few pine needles on the table next to him, no doubt dropped from Jyn's own hair. The image of her climbing on Endor, completing the small sets of follow-up missions that had kept her away for weeks, warms him. Perhaps in payback, he’ll have to challenge her to a tree-climbing race. She’s not the only one who can rely on a surprisingly intimate touch to throw the other off-guard, it’s merely that Cassian prefers to do so in private—or at least not in the middle of a top-secret-level clearance meeting.
“With all respect, sir,” Whitlatch, still sitting across from him, says. She sounds more than a little baffled by the intrusion and conversation, though it did rather nicely illustrate the point that few combat simulations would ever be able to recreate some of the ALliance’s most impressive victories. “Who was that?”
Cassian leans back in his chair. Because of all the things he’s had to adapt to, all the missions he’s been on, all the work he’s done for the Rebellion, there’s few things that have been as welcome a change as this. A proud grin fully replaces any lingering blush on his face. “That,” he says, “is my wife.”