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She doesn’t have to ask. She doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t have to go back. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, grit between the teeth. A little curtly, he reminds her, “I’m a stormtrooper.” It’s the first time so far he’s stopped watching her. He’s not stupid enough to give himself blindspots, most of the time. Some feelings are worse than fear. Something boils in his throat like lava bubbles popping on the vocal chords but he doesn’t try choking out a full word, shaking his head and looking back to Jyn with an unsure, inexplicable “Next time.”

            ‘ next time? ’  she was already leaning into his field of vision obnoxiously but she’s glad he looks at her  -  the small,  smarting kind of glad;  an angry victory.  good.  don’t look away.  ‘ next time what?  next time they leave you behind,  next time we meet?  next time you have a chance to walk away? ’  

   “That’s a nice name.”

It’s no better or worse than any other name he’s ever heard, but he gets the idea to say that and it tickled his throat like a cough. Better to get it out. Only after the words come out does he realize how wrong they are. Not incorrect, but wrong in this time, this place, with these people. It’s a kind, conversational thing and these are not kind, conversational times. He can’t stop to chit chat with a hairline fracture. He can try to, but it won’t last.

   “I just needed help getting up.” And he’s sitting, still, but the point he’s trying to make stands. He wipes the sweat from his brow and runs a hand through his curls, breaking three knots, trying not to wince. “I’ll make my way back.” It’s not not a nice name. “Thanks… Jyn.”

           why did he say that?  she doesn’t want to hear that.  she doesn’t.

arya does her best to ignore the subtle cues of ptsd unfolding right beside her, the slightly higher pitch of erso’s voice. subtle enough to escape the other’s attention, and her voice registers less fear and more—impatience, perhaps. but there’s no denying what the clutch of arms around her chest means, and arya looks away from her, towards the cracks in the ceiling and the dust shivering down between them to coat them all grey and brown. 

     “ might be another minute, might be ten. we should move as soon as it’s over though. ”

          that helps,  somehow.  it’s a vague timeframe,  gives nothing away  -  but it does.  she feels like she’s being told to pull herself up by her bootstraps and she does.  there’s no  a little longer,  just a little longer,  hold on  —  there’s just the waiting.  the fact that it’s non-optional.

The way it sounds when she says it makes his stomach turn. Disdainful. Angry. Better than. Because that’s what she’s saying – things are so much better on the outside, you know, outside your empire of shit and your garbage life. I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t let someone do this to me. You should know better. Don’t you? Haven’t you noticed? He swallows thick spit and takes another drink before saying anything.

   “We don’t think about it.” He doesn’t really know what general we he’s speaking on behalf of.    “Tut. Like two-two-three.” A second elapses. “Toots.” A little more emphatically than the first time, “You?”

          ‘ toots, ’  she says,  and then again,  an affirmation put to memory.  she reaches out to him,  as though only just noticing the injuries that he’d asked for help with in the first place;  the particular labouring of his breathing,  the stiffness.  ‘ toots, i’ll take you to a  -  ’  where around here is going to accept a stormtrooper,  helmet or no helmet?  she doesn’t have a field kit, either.  does he want to defect?  if he did,  she can take him aboard a ship.  if he needed medicine badly enough,  she could take him anyway.  he’d be a prisoner of war.  ‘ we’ll find somewhere. ’