#* arc i.

“jyn  -”       she  calls  out  once,  repeating  the  other  woman’s  name  when  she  doesn’t  receive  the  desired  reply,       “-  jyn!”       it’s  sung  the  second  time,  sitting  straight  up  and  reaching  for  her  hand,       “d’you  -  ...  like  me?”

“no,  no  no  -”       it’s  said  with  an  audible  smile,  whether  or  not  jyn’s  eyes  meet  eliza’s  face;  it’s  easy  to  tell  when  she  smiles  into  her  words  &  gestures,  and  the  physicality  held  in  present-time  is  no  different.       “-  if  y’wanna  lead,  you  gotta  put  your  hand  here,”       jyn’s  hand  is  held  over  the  small  of  eliza’s  back  &  lifted  to  the  backside  of  her  waist,       “an’  your  other  hand  in  mine  -  like  this.”       hands  are  held  together,  palm  to  palm  &  eliza  beckons  the  other  woman’s  sightline  to  her  own.       “there  -  y’got  it!”       tone  is  soft  &  encouraging  in  the  small  &  ever-dwindling  space  between  their  profiles.

            it  isn’t  a  perfect  day,  nor  can  eliza  make  it  out  to  be,  no  matter  how  hard  she  tries  -  there  isn’t  even  anything  in  particular  that’s  set  it  off,  it  just  …  is.

            maybe  jacob  noticed  when  it  wasn’t  eliza’s  beat-up  truck  shining  headlights  through  the  windows  of  her  (their)  home  at  half-past  late  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  -  or  maybe  he  noticed  when  one  of  the  bartenders  from  the  gig  she’d  played  that  night  had  to  carry  her  to  the  front  door,  the  smell  of  liquor  strong  on  eliza’s  clothes,  body  &  breath.  the  faintest  bit  of  makeup  that  she’d  been  wearing  is  just  barely  tear-streaked  down  her  cheeks,  though  the  sunny  demeanor  that  she  insists  on  keeping  makes  it  almost  unnoticeable.  it  isn’t  perfect  -  it’s  less  than  healthy  -  even  still,  eliza  has  that  stupid,  shining  smile  on  her  face  when  she  sees  him,  like  nothing  is  fucking  wrong.  (she  can’t  even  keep  herself  level  on  two  stationary  feet.)

            “baby  -  baby!  what’re  you  doin’  up?”        her  keys  drop  to  the  ground  once  she’s  inside,  and  there’s  a  delayed  reaction  between  looking  down  at  them  &  looking  back  up  at  him,  eyes  widening  with  dewy  concern  as  her  fingers  come  to  cover  a  guilty,  o-shape  of  her  lips.        “did  i  wake  you  up?  shit,  i  -“        she’s  loudly  whispering  now,        “-  i’m  sorry.  i’m  sorry,  i’ll  be  quiet.”        she  waddles  past  him,  then,  with  a  drunken,  hushed  hiccup  &  hands  pressed  along  the  wall  to  keep  herself  upright  as  she  walks  to  the  kitchen.  and,  haphazardly  &  habitually,  as  if  she’d  forgotten  entirely  that  he  was  there  with  her  -  eliza  makes  a  standard  beeline  to  her  record  player  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  shakily  &  softly,  sinatra  himself  begins  to  hum  in  the  space  between  them.

            eliza  can  be  heard,  rummaging  through  cabinets  &  knocking  things  over  looking  for  that  single  bottle  of  wine  that  she  swears  she  opened  just  a  day  ago  -  and  then  she  hears  him.    ‘will  you  dance  with  me?’    her  head  pokes  out  from  behind  the  wall  that  divides  the  kitchen  &  the  living  room,  something  of  an  honest  marvel  at  the  question.  maybe  he’s  drunk,  maybe  she  had  just  imagined  it,  or  maybe  he  sees  far  beyond  this  facade  that  she  so  proudly  employs  -  there  are  no  perfect  days.  there  are  only  days  that  she  hides  her  hurting  better  than  others,  and  today  is  not  one  of  them.

Hearing her causes him to jolt, he isn’t used to being snuck up, but she manages to every time. Smoothing out the creases in his coat, he hides his hands in his pockets, balling them into fists. “I didn’t mean to yell,” he responded, “I’ve been told my voice carries, though.” It helps him keep his students focused in class when it’s getting closer to dismissal. He didn’t want them missing out anything important even in those final moments. He draws out a small gift bag from his pocket, holding it out to her. “Here. I don’t know if you like sweets, but we had more leftovers than I thought. I figured I’d spread the wealth.” And keep them out of reach back home when the weekend came to spare himself the trouble. 

Hearing her say that provokes a sense of Deja Vu. Since Thane came here, it’s haunted him, but before he never considered it necessary to know how to cook. He’s managed on fast food and microwave dinners since they’re so easy to buy. Despite not being on his throne, he still felt he was being treated to luxury so far from home. In Inodal, his needs were met, but that didn’t make him shy away from working towards the things he wants. The thought of sitting by troubled him. To lower himself from ruling a nation to holing up somewhere in true isolation would have been too dramatic a change. Everything he did was to occupy his time and the long nights he spent alone. Grading papers was the perfect distraction for him, and he’s gathered up more movies than he could even count. These peaceful days he learned to cherish because eventually, everything must end. 

“It’s not something I needed to do before. I just said a few words, and everything prepared itself.” Thinking back on everything they did to appease him, he wonders if he’s been ungrateful for it. Plates piled high with steamed fish only to be chased by the most excellent wines. The scent wafting from the dining hall was enticing to everyone who crossed it, but to him, it’s another memory. Taking a knife from the drawer, he sets to work, dicing up the vegetables she laid out. It’s not too different from wielding a sword, so it’s easy for him. Preparation for him wasn’t difficult, but the act itself was where he struggles. He’ll find himself distracted and burn everything he cooked horrendously. The things he didn’t burn turned out lifeless even when he’s confident he followed the instructions to the letter. Thane thought he was hopeless in the kitchen, but because of her insisting, he agreed to learn. He knew his daughters couldn’t cook for him forever; they’ll be going out on their own in a few years so he couldn’t depend on them. He’d prefer they depended on him instead, and the thought of having to order in every night turns his stomach. “I really do appreciate the help.”

Outside the window, he sees traffic picking up, showing a new day has begun, and the race was on to get across town. To him, last night seemed like a few hours away but only because he stayed up throughout the night again. His assignments sat neatly graded on his nightstand, waiting to be tucked away. After he finished those up last night, he spent the rest of his time reading a new book he found. It’s from an author he doesn’t recognize; they were growing more popular every day, and he sees why. Despite being their first attempt at novel writing, he’s entertained with the result. A story of love, conflict, and war filled with betrayal. He won’t challenge its accuracy even though he’s had his own experiences to contradict them. If the ending holds up, he’ll also recommend it to his class for their next break. 

He feels her starting to move and glances at her, finally noticing how much she’s burrowed into his side through the night. To think she’d been on her side of the bed when she fell asleep, and that’d change in only a few hours. Fearing if he moves too much, he’ll disturb her; he focuses on his book again grinding through a few more pages. Thane only broke his concentration when he hears her grumbling sleepily, meaning she’s waking up. She’s the first to offer him a greeting only because he’s content watching her blink away the sleep in her eyes. He thumbs over the book’s cover marking his page before setting aside. His arms wrap around her, keeping her close to his chest, sharing his warmth. Pressing his lips to her forehead with a chuckle, he answers quietly, “Good morning. Aren’t you running behind today?”