Work Text:
Jyn wakes, her muscles stiff and sore. She wishes she didn’t know exactly where she was; a few seconds of ignorance would definitely be bliss. But before she even opens her eyes, the stale, chilly air and the ambient hum of hyperdrive leave no room for doubt: she’s on a ship. She’s on a ship in transit from Yavin 4 to Jedha, she’s in the custody of that humourless Rebellion arselicker (and his hair-trigger droid), and she’s about to have a heart-warming reunion with the mentor who ditched her as soon as she became inconvenient.
It’s a toss-up whether she’d rather be back in her cell on Wobani.
But she doesn’t remember falling asleep curled up in the corner of the hold. And the U-wing they’d boarded didn’t have any kind of berth. Something’s off…
Then the smell of fresh caf hits her brain. She inhales deeply, her mouth watering at the phantom rush of caffeine. Pushing herself up to a seated position, she rolls her neck, tendons crackling. The battered walls around her and the corridor visible through the open hatch are absolutely not the ship she fell asleep on.
A furious fear sparks inside her chest, spiralling out until her hands twitch with the urge to strike that fucking rat bastard. How the hell did he get her on a different ship? They must have knocked her out somehow—she didn’t eat or drink anything, but there’s always gas.
So much for trust going both ways.
She tugs on her boots (better than the ones she fell asleep wearing, in another bizarrely intrusive change) and stalks out into the main hold of the ship. Andor is sitting at the round table in a tiny galley area with his back to her, socked feet propped up on the bench opposite. He doesn’t turn his head when she walks in, disregarding her as though she couldn’t pose any possible threat. Fucker.
“Caf is fresh,” is all he says, taking a sip from his mug.
She sits down across from him, avoiding his feet, and folds her arms over her chest. If he feels the force of her glare, it doesn’t bother him; he looks up from his datapad with a smile of such unsuspected sweetness that her breath snags in her throat. What the fuck is he playing at now? Some kind of spy game, trying to kill her with kindness?
She scowls back and his smile only widens with what looks like genuine warmth. “Grumpy Jyn on board today, I see.”
He gets up, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn, and for a moment she thinks she’s chased him off. But he just turns back to the caf maker, takes out another battered tin mug, and pours her a cup.
He sets it down in front of her and she blinks. It seems safe enough—there’s only one pot, and he’s drinking from it too—so she takes a cautious sip. He’s added plenty of syrup, enough for even her sweet tooth. Was that just a lucky guess? She can’t picture the Alliance including the details of how she takes her caf in her file, but maybe she’s wrong.
He refills his own cup without adding anything but a pinch of canella seed and sits down across from her again. “I don’t know how you can drink that without rotting your teeth,” he remarks, his smile still lingering.
Where does he get off doing this? Jyn hates head games, and she doesn’t want this asshole thinking he can pretend to be her pal.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” she says in a flat, colourless tone.
“How should I talk to you, then?” His voice drops low and teasing. His cheek creases as though he’s holding back another smile, and there’s even a dimple peeking out beside his mouth.
Force fucking sake, now the asshole’s flirting with her? He didn’t seem like that kind of a dick; sure, he was good-looking, but until now he hadn’t tried to convince her that she should be thinking with her pants. Her hands tighten around her mug. Maybe she should dump the hot caf in his lap.
His smile vanishes. A strange expression flickers over his face, something that Jyn might call concern if that made any sense at all. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
Jyn laughs. What isn’t?
“Where’s the droid?” she asks, suddenly realizing what else has changed. They seem to be alone on this ship; she can see the signal that auto-pilot is engaged lit up on the panel above his head. Ice crawls up the back of her neck—if it’s just the two of them, that’s another red flag. She doesn’t have the blaster he let her “borrow” either… not that she was surprised he’d taken it back, but now she’s unarmed.
She’s really and truly fucked.
His forehead furrows and he looks even more worried. “Kay’s with Bodhi,” he says slowly. “Jyn, what’s going on?”
Who the hell is Bodhi? “Don’t be so fucking pleasant, Andor!” she snaps. “You’ve got me by the short hairs, you don’t have to be nice. What do you want?”
He takes his feet off the bench beside her, slowly, and sets them on the decking, straightening up instead of sitting in a relaxed slouch. “What do you mean?” His eyes track over her, in a far too familiar way—not sleazy, but perceptive, as though he’s comparing her with a memory, and trying to figure out what has changed. “Do you know where you are?”
“No, because you put me on a different fucking ship!” She shoves her mug away from her and stands up. If it comes to a fight, she needs to be on her feet. “But I’m not likely to forget I’m being dragged off to Jedha. Or was that a lie too? Where are you really taking me?”
He blinks and clenches his fists until the skin stretched across his knuckles shows an ash grey undertone. Jyn braces herself, waiting for him to lunge across the table. Instead he swallows, once, and his hands open slowly. “You won’t believe me, but Jyn, that’s not where you are. I think something happened… do you have a headache?” He stands up and leans in closer, tilting his head to examine her hairline, and she jerks backward until her shoulder blades hit the bulkhead. If he tries to touch her…
His jaw works. “Will you let me scan you?” he asks abruptly, shoving back from the table so hard it wobbles and the caf in their mugs slops over. “Please?” His eyes are full of barely hidden fear—not of her, but for her.
Jyn stares at him. This is not the Captain Andor she met… was it yesterday? This is another man with the same face. At least one of them is very confused, very wrong, and a second ago she’d have sworn it was her, because this was just a game he was playing to soften her up. Now she’s not so sure.
If she is having some weird medical issues, blackouts or whatever, it could be a delayed effect from the droid throwing her to the ground on Wobani. They’d checked her over once on Yavin 4, but you never knew with head injuries.
She nods, slowly. “Okay.”
He steps backward to give her room. When she starts to edge around the table, though, her head swims. A dark border swallows her vision until she can only see a small bright tunnel and through it, Andor reaching for her. He grabs her as she slumps sideways, holding her up, and the last thing she sees is a shining gleam—her own kyber dangling from a thong around his neck. She tries to snatch at it, but her fingers slip away…
Jyn wakes in what feels like the same place: the same thin layer of gel padding underneath her, the same cold bulkhead that her back is pressed against. And the Alliance spy sitting across from her, tapping away on his datapad.
But it’s not the same. This is just a bench in the cargo hold of a smaller ship, the U-wing she remembers. The droid is back too, in the pilot’s seat this time. The ceaseless streaks of hyperspace are reflected in its black metal body like silver scars.
Her hand goes to her throat, and finds her mother’s crystal where it belongs around her neck. The blaster she took is back in the ill-fitting thigh holster, chafing a sore spot on her leg. Her head aches and she doesn’t feel rested at all.
She sits up slowly, back muscles protesting, and buries her face in her hands, pressing her fingers into her forehead as though that could help clear her mind. That brief moment outside time seemed so concrete, so real. Was it just a dream? It must have been—but why would she dream about a life with this cold stranger? Either that, or her brains really are scrambled. Don’t think about it.
“Fuck, I need caf,” she mumbles into her palms.
“Please yourself,” Andor grunts. “Machine’s over there.” He jerks his head at a cubby in the corner holding a meal heater and a tiny cold box.
While the caf machine belches out a thin brew, Jyn stares at him without bothering to be discreet. He’ll expect her to watch him anyway. But instead of trying to find a weakness or a tell, she’s tracing the stark lines of his face, searching for the indefinable change in it. He hadn’t looked noticeably different in her dream: same hair, same clothes. What made him seem so altered?
He looked content. Even when he wasn’t smiling, when he looked at her, there was a certain softness in his expression. Come on, Erso, Jyn scoffs. You’re getting soft-headed yourself, if you think you can tell how someone feels about you by their eyes.
Then he looks up at her again, frowning, and she can see the difference even in his posture. He’s not relaxed in the slightest even though he’s slouched against the bulkhead, feet propped up. This is a man eternally on his guard.
The machine beeps and Jyn looks away, relieved at the excuse to drop out of their staring contest. She fills a battered tin mug for herself and decides to bring him one as well. She can play mind games herself, try to earn a few points with a meaningless gesture.
He accepts the mug from her with a mistrustful look that deepens as soon as he takes a sip of the caf she added just a pinch of canella seed to. He doesn’t say anything, but he stares at her, his eyes narrowing.
Jyn sits down on her side of the hold and hides her smile in her mug, enjoying his confusion.