Chapter 1
When Saw tells her, she nearly laughs in his face. Not because she thinks he is joking - everyone knows Saw Gerrera doesn’t joke, and no one knows it better than Jyn - but at her own naivety. After watching her mother die violently and her seeing her father defeated and taken hostage, after losing her home and then the last shreds of her innocence, becoming Saw Gerrera’s ward and taking up his fight, she didn’t think there was anything left for her to lose.
Turns out she was wrong. Of course she was. There is always one more thing to give. Always one more thing he asks for. One more thing to sacrifice for the rebellion.
“Well,” she says, once he’s finished explaining - briefing her, really, no shred of emotion to it - and she’s taken a second to swallow the bile rising up in her throat, the fury thrumming behind her teeth, “I suppose I should have figured you would expect this of me one day.”
“You -”
“Don’t,” she cuts him off. She won’t allow him to pretend he is offering her a choice, that he is asking instead of ordering. Saw Gerrera is a great many things, but a liar is not one of them. Not a good one, anyway. Especially when it’s about comfort.
And there it is, the flash of guilt ghosting over his face, gone in a second before he buries it somewhere deep, along with his integrity.
She wants to scream at him. I’ve given you everything. My obedience. My conviction. My loyalty. My love, my foolish childish adoration. My childhood. My soul.
Her body, thrown into the fight when she should have been playing innocent games, lined with the scars of his battles, used for his cause in every way but one. And now, he wants the rest of it. Like her body is a mere bargaining chip in a game of chess. It is, for him, probably. In the grand scheme of things, she supposes, being allowed to make her own choices doesn’t matter. It’s such an inconsequential thing. Her freedom for a chance at the world’s.
Giving her life for the rebellion seemed much easier when it was death that awaited her in exchange for the people being liberated from the Empire’s tyranny, not a lifelong cage.
“It needs to be you,” he says. “If they want to double cross me. It needs to be you, at their centre, keeping an eye on things. Warning me.”
“Of course.”
“You will be safe there.”
She does laugh, then, short and bitter. Safe, bound to someone else. Away from the battlefields for the first time, far from the carnage and bloodshed, yes, but in the hands of a man she’s never met. It’s a ludicrous thought, even though she’s quite capable of slitting the throat of anyone who might dare lay a hand on her. “There isn’t a corner in this galaxy that is safe,” she says and stands, tucks her shirt back in where it’s slipped out of her fatigues. “When?”
“Three days from now, on Yavin.”
She nods, sharp. “I’ll go pack.”
Yavin is hot and sweltry, a stark contrast to the biting cold in the deserts of Jedha. A tall woman, dressed in a flowing white garb, is awaiting her when she gets off the ship, standing tall and regal in the midst of the hubbub. The leader of the Alliance, in the flesh. Jyn looks down at herself; at Bodhi’s insistence, she has made an effort to clean up, but even her best clothes are worn and dirty, utilitarian. It suits her just fine, but she wonders, for a moment, about the impression she makes. If the Alliance will treat her with scorn, think her not worth the effort, after all. She can almost hear the voices: Is this all the Partisans can offer? A scrappy, dirty little orphan, damaged goods, and a few practically suicidal fighters on a strategically important moon? What a terrible trade!
“Jyn Erso,” the woman greets her. Her voice is warm, flowy like her dress. It’s disquieting. “Welcome to Yavin.”
“Mon Mothma,” Jyn replies. “It’s an honour.”
Mon Mothma smiles as if she knows that the lie scraped like sandpaper on her tongue. “Come,” she says, “I will show you to your rooms.”
“My pilot will need quarters as well.”
The woman doesn’t blink. “Of course. I will have some prepared for him.” She pauses delicately. “I’m assuming your warden will not be attending the ceremony?”
“He is busy,” Jyn says shortly.
“I expected as much. It’s a shame. I would have liked to speak with him in person.”
Jyn shrugs. “The deal is done. If you want to send him a message, send one with Bodhi when he returns.”
“Very well.” Mon Mothma shakes her head, hesitates. “I’m aware it is not a conventional thing to do, what we are asking of you,” she says.
“On the contrary,” Jyn replies. “It’s entirely conventional.”
Or it was, hundreds of years ago, when sealing contracts by marriage was still common. She didn’t think the Alliance would consider such an outdated practice even with their desperation to get the Partisans on their side. She certainly didn’t expect Saw Gerrera to accept.
“Still, I thought he might want to attend his daughter’s wedding.”
“I’m not his daughter,” Jyn says coolly. She doesn’t say this wedding is barely worthy of the name.
“You may as well be. He raised you, did he not?”
“He did.” Jyn looks around, taking in everything she can see, trying to commit it to memory. Knowing your escape routes is vital. That was one of the first lessons she learnt, with Saw. “Will I be marrying your son, then?”
Now, Mon Mothma seems startled. “They didn’t tell you?” A displeased frown tugs at the corner of her mouth when Jyn shakes her head. “I was led to believe you had agreed to this.”
“I did,” Jyn says. Mon Mothma doesn’t need to know that agreeing is a relative term in this scenario.
“And yet they didn’t feel the need to inform you -”
“I didn’t ask.” It is very likely considered rude to interrupt the de facto leader of the Alliance, but if Jyn has to listen to one more reason to criticise the Partisans, she is going to scream. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” Mon Mothma asks calmly.
“No,” Jyn says. “It’s for the rebellion. If this pact leads to the downfall of the Empire, then there is no justification for me to ruin it based on inconsequential standards such as age or looks.”
She feels the woman’s assessing gaze on her, and forces herself to appear casual, unfazed.
“You may claim to not be his daughter,” Mothma begins, “but you do get your devotion from him.”
She has nothing to respond to that, not unless she protests, and telling this strange woman about her mother, about her devotion to her husband that cost her her life, is not something she wants to do.
“For your information,” Mothma continues once it becomes clear that Jyn is not going to react to the gentle prodding, “I don’t have children. When the idea was first brought up, it was considered crucial that you be married to one of our highest ranking officers. Saw Gerrera was quite insistent on it, and I understand; if he gave us someone so special to him, we would have to give someone special to us.” She mercifully ignores Jyn’s derisive snort. “It was first discussed that you should marry General Draven. You’ll be glad to hear I vetoed that suggestion.”
“Why?”
“I said someone closer to your age would be more appropriate, but really, I figured you would only end up killing each other.” There’s amusement in Mon Mothma’s voice. “And that wouldn’t help anyone.”
“Who’s the unlucky fella, then?”
“Captain Cassian Andor. Rebel Intelligence. You can meet him tomorrow, if you like. He’s scheduled to return from a mission later tonight.”
“He doesn’t know?” Jyn asks. That seems strange, given Mothma’s insistence on making sure Jyn wasn’t here against her will - at least not openly.
“He knows,” Mon Mothma assures her. ”Ah, here we are.” She gestures towards the door on their right. “For now, the door code is your birthday, but you can change it anytime.”
Jyn forces a smile. It’s not like this will be her room for long; two days from now, she will be expected to share quarters with her husband. Cassian Andor, the husband. The stranger. “Thank you.”
“Miss Erso,” Mon Mothma calls out before she can vanish through the door.
“Jyn’s fine.”
“Jyn, then. I know this is a difficult situation for you.” She pauses delicately. “I don’t have a son,” Mon Mothma says slowly, “but if I did, I would hope they would turn out like Captain Andor. He’s an honourable man. You need not be afraid of him.”
Jyn hasn’t been afraid of any man but the one in white who haunts her dreams in years. Not since she was ten, and Saw taught her how to slide a blade between the ribs, how to strike the kidneys. She doesn't think she should tell Mon Mothma that, though. If she thinks that Jyn is quiet and shy, easily frightened, guileless, then it will be easier to gather information, to report back to Saw. “Thank you,” she says again, stupidly.
“And I hope you won’t use that vibroblade in your boots against him,” Mon Mothma adds with a smile, as she turns to walk away. “Frankly, I’d save it for that droid of his, if it wasn’t a guarantee to make him very cranky.”
Jyn freezes. The senator is more observant than she gave credit for. “The droid or Captain Andor?” she calls after her, determined not to show that the conversation has rattled her..
Mon Mothma’s laughter rings through the hallway, clear as a bell.
Bodhi slips into her quarters late at night, when the base is fast asleep; no more sounds of people hurrying through the wide corridors, no more droids beeping in complaint, no more flurry of activity. It’s eerily silent outside, like the jungle is too heavy even for animals to make sounds.
“I saw him,” Bodhi says, quiet and rushed, almost tripping over the words. “I - sorry, did I wake you?”
Jyn shakes her head. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“I figured.” He joins her on the narrow cot, staring out the tiny window into the darkness. “You should, though. Get some sleep.”
Jyn hums, non-committal.
“Aren’t you going to ask about him?” Bodhi asks.
“Why? I’ll see him tomorrow.” She’d rather not see him then, either. Every minute spent with him before her wedding, before she absolutely has to, is one too many.
Next to her, Bodhi fidgets. She sighs. “Fine. Tell me about him.”
A beat. “He looked like you,” Bodhi says finally.
“What do you mean?”
“Young, but also...not? Tired. Like he’s seen too much. Like he wants it to stop. Like he doesn’t know who to trust.” He pauses. “He has an Imperial droid. KX-series.”
A security droid. Jyn blinks. “Mon Mothma warned me about the droid,” she says. “Is he -”
“Fully reprogrammed, as far as I could tell. Fond of the Captain - he was teasing him. Not so fond of the idea of you, from what I could tell.”
Jyn raises her eyebrows. “How so?”
“He said it was stupid of the Captain to come back in time. That he should have waited for the Alliance to marry you off to someone else. That he could have performed some minor sabotage to the ship, to spare the Captain the trouble.”
“Well,” Jyn says. “He’s right. It would have been smarter.”
“The Captain didn’t seem to think so.”
“Like I said. Stupid.”
“You could have run, too,” Bodhi reminds her. “I would’ve taken you anywhere you asked. But you are here, too.”
“Yeah, well.” Jyn clenches her fist in the bedsheets, feels the rough texture of them grate against her skin. “Guess we are both stupid.”
She’s grateful for the offer, though. She knows it still stands; if she asked him, he’d take her off planet tonight. Anyplace. Anytime. Out of all the people she met during her time with the Partisans, she’s known Bodhi the shortest. And yet, she thinks she’s the only one of them she could truly rely on.
He sits with her in the dark, in complete silence, until he falls asleep, and she’s grateful for that, too.
Cassian Andor comes to introduce himself bright and early the next day, like he didn’t arrive halfway through the night. Bodhi bumps into him as he’s leaving, having promised to hunt down some breakfast for the both of them.
“Oh,” Bodhi says, awkwardly. “Hello.”
“Hello.” The voice is calm, measured. Clearly audible through the half-open door. An accent she’s not quite able to place. Somewhere from the Outer Rim territories, most likely. If he’s surprised or angered to find an unknown man exiting the quarters of his soon-to-be wife, he doesn’t show it. “I’m Cassian Andor.”
“Oh, I - I know. Bodhi Rook. I’m - I’m the pilot.” Bodhi clears his throat. “Jyn’s awake, if you - if you wanted to talk to her.”
“Right. Thank you.”
Bodhi pauses for a moment, before he moves to clear the way. “Be kind to her,” he says.
This does seem to catch the Captain by surprise, if his silence is anything to go by. “Of course,” he answers belatedly.
Jyn stands, draws herself up to her full height; he still towers over her when he steps into her room, nearly a head taller than her, but she feels safer that way. More in control of this situation that is absolutely out of her hands. “Captain Andor,” she greets him coolly.
“Miss Erso,” he replies, stiff, stilted.
He doesn’t size her up the way she does; he must have had a file on her to read, some information given to him beforehand. He’s handsome, she supposes, or would be, if some of his personality showed on his face, but his features are carefully blank. The only thing he gives away is not by will but by accident - she can see the weariness that Bodhi spoke of in the lines around his eyes. They are well hidden, but she sees them, because she knows them. She sees them on her face every time she looks in a mirror.
The silence stretches, uncomfortable. “I suppose we should...talk,” he offers, cautiously.
Jyn can feel his reluctance and wonders. Spies are supposed to be better at small talk than this. Better at making their marks feel safe, drawing them into their net. It’s a concession, she thinks, that he doesn’t try it with her. She doesn’t know whether to be grateful for his disinterest or annoyed by it.
She shrugs. “What is there to say?” she asks.
“We are to get married tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “Till death do us part. That’s quite enough time to get to know each other, don’t you think?”
Something flickers across his face. “You don’t have to -”
“You know I do,” she cuts him off. “I have to, just like you.”
His jaw clenches, just a bit. She’d have missed it had she not studied him closely. “Very well.” He nods. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yes,” she says, “tomorrow.”
Their weddings is not a quiet affair, there’s too many people attending for that - staring, gaping, not celebrating, not really; not happy for them but the booze the official reception promises - but it’s an unemotional one. Matter-of-fact. Almost sterile. He says his vows and she says hers, and he slides a ring on her finger and gives her a kiss that’s barely worthy of the name, and that’s it. An alliance made, set in stone, carved into both their bodies.
Her life, for a continuing stream of supplies the Partisans so urgently need, weapons and medicine and food, and back-up, if they need it.
His, for increased numbers, and information, and a vague promise to fall in line with the Alliance’s more moderate tactics.
Jyn looks at him, and tries to feel anything at all.
“They are sending me out on another assignment,” Cassian tells her on their way to their new room.
Both their effects, they’ve been told, have already been brought there. Into nicer, bigger quarters, the young girl relaying the information had told them, strangely excitedly, bubbly. Completely missing the way both Jyn and Cassian had tensed at the thought of someone going through their meager belongings. One more thing, Jyn thinks wryly, that they have in common. Maybe one day she’ll need the fingers of her second hand to count those.
“Short honeymoon,” she remarks, deadpan.
The look he flashes her tells her he doesn’t appreciate the humour.
They’ve split early from the party, neither of them in the mood to pretend to be merry. Cassian, it seems, is not the type to drown his sorrows. Jyn might have drunk herself stupid, had she not thought it might reflect badly on the Partisans, on the treaty. If Cassian’s playing the part of the dutiful husband, then she won’t show how much she hates it. That doesn’t mean she can’t secretly wish for moonshine strong enough to blow her brain cells into the ether.
He steps into their new room and stops so abruptly that Jyn nearly barrels into him. It only takes her a second to understand why.
“I’ll take the floor,” he says gruffly, after just a moment’s pause, and a tiny part of Jyn relaxes. She thinks she could take him in a fight, probably, but. But.
She really hopes she won’t have to.
Cassian notices her hesitation. “I would never -” he says haltingly. “I don’t - expect this of you. I wouldn’t - I won’t.”
“Well,” Jyn says. “That’s good to know.”
“I know we are...bound, legally. But I won’t hold you to those vows. I know you do not wish to be here. If you meet someone - I won’t stand in your way.”
“Oh. Right.” She clears her throat. “Same. You can be with other people. I won’t mind.”
“Good.”
“Good,” she echoes.
He does take the floor that night, even though she offers him the bed in a strange fit of courtesy, arguing that he will only be able to relish in sleeping in a proper bed for a few nights before his mission takes him Force knows where, whereas she’s bound to be staying on base for the foreseeable future. He insists, though. She can see what Mon Mothma meant when she called him honourable.
Jyn prefers to call it foolishly stubborn, but it’s not like she’s the best person to judge.
The mattress is softer than anything she’s slept on as long as she can remember. She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling, listening to Cassian’s breathing, too even to be anything but carefully measured, and doesn’t sleep a wink.