There For You

DISCLAIMER: I don't own a thing, everything is with their rightful owners.

*Autor's Note* A word of warning: I saw a gifset of an interview with Diego Luna where he described Cassian with "the best Captain of the rebels, and a great cook", and well, basically, I have no regrets.
Title taken from "I'll Be There For You" by Bon Jovi, because, I repeat, Bon Jovi is their band.


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There's a gentle, almost tentative knock on her door and Jyn gives a start. She rubs her cheeks dry hastily and crawls off the bed, eyes fixed on the door that, annoyingly, doesn't look.

Maybe, if she's just silent, whoever is there will just leave again –

But no such luck. Instead, there's a voice on the other side, and all of a sudden, her sadness is flushed out by roaring anger.

"Jyn?"

She reaches for the weapon lying on the mattress and said coolly: "I still have your blaster, you know, and I swear if you come through that door I will shoot you."

There's a brief moment of hesitation, then the handle turns and the door opens. He enters very slowly, and stops in the doorway, but much to her annoyance, he doesn't look very worried for himself.

"Have you left this room at all?"

"Get out," she says flatly, but he doesn't move. He looks sombre as always, and there's something in his dark eyes that looks like worry to her, but then again he's a spy and a liar and she will not trust anything she can read in his eyes.

He's starting to look rather frustrated. "You haven't eaten, then."

"Why do you care?"

"You're not really angry at me," he says in his thrice-damned gentle silky quiet voice, and she thinks that if she wasn't before, she is after he said that. How dare he come in here, after he got her father killed, and presume to know who or what she's angry at?

Bastard, she thinks, and doesn't reply, just holds his gaze, and again, there is something softening in his eyes.

"Come with me."

"Why the hell would I go anywhere with you?"

He sighs. "Because you can just as well hate me while you eat."

She wants to say no and crawl back onto her bed and cry into her pillow, but she is hungry, and she can't think of a comeback that would make him shut up and leave, so she gets to her feet and follows him out the door.

He leads her down a handful of corridors, then stops in front of a nondescript door, presses a button and the door whirrs open.

Much to her surprise, he hasn't taken her to a cantina, but just a small room with a stove, a few shelves and a fridge and a shabby table with a bunch of mismatched chairs. She has a feeling this is a common room for the actual rebel officers, and for a moment, she's deeply grateful he doesn't subject her to a crowd.

She swats that gratitude down, walks to the fridge and gets out a protein bar that he promptly snatches out of her hand.

"How about some actual food?" he asks, almost, almost smiling, and she sees no point in arguing. Instead she sits down on a wobbly chair, arms crossed, and fixes her feet.

She can hear him sigh, then he starts rummaging through the fridge and the shelves, and when she hears the metal clanging of a pot, she glances up to find him stacking up some more or less fresh-looking vegetables and colourful bottles on the counter.

The fact that he's actually getting ready to cook utterly takes her by surprise, not only because it seems so ridiculously out of character for him to even know how, but also because she can't even remember the last time she's eaten something that was not insta-bread or a protein bar or a nutrition pack of some other description.

Despite her best effort, some of her anger is fading while she watches him, the safe, almost casual way his hands move, almost as experienced and reflexive as he handles his weapons. It's strangely comforting to see there are more peaceful things he's familiar with.

"You look like you could use a drink as well," he says softly once all the food he's piled onto the counter has wandered into the pot, glances back at her and doesn't wait for an answer. The two glasses he puts on the table are just a little too full and he doesn't put the bottle back, and she wonders what that says about him.

He sits down across the table and for a moment he looks like he wants to raise a toast, then just gives a curt nod and downs half his glass at once.

She takes a sip as well – whatever he's given her she's fairly sure she's never had before, and something tells her it's probably a lot stronger than it seems to be. She's not much of a drinker – usually does it to blend in, to sell a certain image to those she makes business with – but right now, the burning in her throat is soothing, and takes her aggression down another notch.

"So, did you tell them? About what my father said?"

He looks up from his drink, looking almost surprised she spoke. "Not yet. The council only gathers tomorrow morning." He hesitates, then says: "I can take you, if you want."

She ponders that for a while. "Yeah, I do."

For just a moment, there is a smile tugging at his lips, then his eyes are back on the table top and he idly spins the rest of his drink in his glass. "Good."

Jyn takes the chance to look at his face while he doesn't see her looking, and thinks he seems, if possible, even more worn and brooding than before, and for a moment she can see him standing in the cargo bay again just as the ship took off, water dripping down his neck and tickling into his eyes, drenched and tired and downtrodden.

And suddenly, as she remembers that look in his eyes, she believes that he changed his mind. It may be a very stupid decision, but she believes him.

Before her opinion of him shifts any more, she pulls her eyes away and takes another sip from her glass. "Good," she echoes softly.

She realises why the anger was so comfortable, because now that it retreats she feels empty and lost again.

Despite her best efforts not to let it show on her face, he seems to catch a glimpse of what she's thinking somehow, and for just a moment he lightly rests a hand on her forearm and mutters: "I am sorry, Jyn. Believe that, at least."

She should probably pull her arm away, but she doesn't, and her eyes flicker up to meet his before she can stop herself. Once again, she's struck with how dark and deep they are, and how bizarre it is for a man who kills without blinking to have such gentle eyes.

It's not hard to believe him. Cassian is a man overflowing with regret, and she's sure he regrets getting her father killed – the thing she's not sure about is whether that would stop him from doing it again.

Maybe the question should be if any of that matters. In the end, Galen Erso is dead either way, and she can hate him all she wants, it won't bring him back.

He casts his eyes down and gets up very abruptly to stir in his pot.

Jyn downs the rest of her glass and mutters, eyes fixed onto the table top: "Thank you, by the way. For coming to get me off that platform."

He balances two dangerously full bowls over to the table and joins her in her intent inspection of the sticky table.

"It's hot, don't burn your tongue."

They're pathetic. Kryffing pathetic. Both of them.

His soup definitely doesn't look like much, but even the first spoonful is proof enough that this might just be the best thing she's eaten in the last ten years – which admittedly isn't very hard, but still. It's warm and it's actual food with actual spices and actual vegetables and it's warm.

It doesn't fill the cold void in her stomach, but it's a start. Certainly more comfort than she's expected, from him or from anybody else.

"That's good," she mutters, motioning towards her bowl with her spoon. His eyes dart up and then there's a small smile twitching around his lips. It isn't much, but it makes her wonder what he looks like with an actual smile on his face, and she imagines it looks quite nice.

She hates herself a little for that thought.

"We calling a truce, Jyn?" he asks quietly.

A truce. The part of her she just shoved away is somewhat dissatisfied with that.

"We're not at war," she replies and refills her bowl. "Well. Not with each other."

His brows knit. "Since when are you at war? I thought you just look down."

"They killed my mother. And Saw. And my father."

He reaches for the bottle and refills their glasses, then says with a slight smile: "Well, I'm glad you're not fighting me. Can't say if I'd have survived that."

I'm glad we're on the same side, she thinks and naturally, not one word crosses her lips. She manages a smile, and thinks she's an idiot.

It's not like she doesn't see the way he looks at her right now, and she could blame the fact he's had three glasses of that stuff or the fact that they're lonely and they might just not live to see the next day. She could.

She could.

"Cheers," she mutters, clinks her glass against his, and he nods. They drink in silence, a very strained silence. His eyes are very, very dark. It's disconcerting.

"I'll walk you back," he mutters and gets to his feet. They walk slowly (she's drunk, he's adapting to her pace) and she could swear he's got an arm extended behind her back in case she falls, but if she turns around, she'll probably walk right into his arms, and who knows what happens then.

He cut himself shaving, she realises with a frown. That seems out of character. But there it is, a tiny smudge of dried blood over his chin, fading up to his lips, and she can't stop staring at it. She sways, nearly trips. He does have his arm behind her, and doesn't take it away as they walk on.

Oh Force. Her back is tingling.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly when they reach her door.

She opens her mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. No, she thinks.

Kiss me. Do it. I'm a coward, but you're not. Do it. Kiss me.

She's still staring at the smudge of blood, she realises and feels her cheeks flush, so she glances up and meets his eyes, which is worse.

"Jyn," he murmurs, and there's a degree of regret in his eyes, and for once she's sure he doesn't want her to see that. "We're drunk."

"Yeah," she says, a strangled laugh in her throat. "You'd think that'd make it easier."

He's silent for a long time, looking a little dazed with something broken in his eyes, then says very softly: "It won't help."

She doubts that. She's pretty sure he doubts that. Damn him. Damn his voice. Damn those eyes.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow morning," he mutters, staring at her lips.

"Good."

If he really believes that, why would he be standing so damn close, close enough that she could kiss him just by standing on the tip of her toes?

"Goodnight." His voice has all sorts of edges and they send a shiver down her spine.

"Yeah. Goodnight," she whispers, and doesn't know if she should feel grateful or abandoned when he pulls his eyes away.

Either way, he lets her go and walks away, and she feels cold.

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