#folkloric04

Your heart drops to your stomach, reflexes kicking in with a spike of adrenaline as your body moves faster than your brain does.

You drop to your knees to catch him, taking the brunt of his fall. It sends you back on your ass, knocking the air out of you for a second. But you're not thinking about the pain in your ass or the ache from the heat that feels like sandbags weighing your limbs down.

No, you're mind has wholly locked on the limp man in your arms.

"Shit, Andor? Cassian?" You shake him a bit, watching his face contort. "Cass-"

He groans, eyelashes fluttering. You take a minute to scan his body, but there's no sign of any blood, no external wounds. He looks pale, though, his lips chapped, cheeks ghostly white, and yet his skin is burning like it's on fire. You run your fingers across his forehead, wincing at the heat there.

It's possibly heatstroke. This happened to you once on Jakku. Dizziness, fevered skin, high body temperature, naseua.

Water. He needs cold water.

"I swear to the Maker, Cassian, don't do this to me, not now." You glance around, trying to figure out how to get him to the refresher. He's too heavy for you to carry him, so you lean over him and try to wake him.

"Cass, please, I need you to stand. We need to get you to the shower."

He groans, eyes opening slightly, and nods.

It takes a lot of effort, but he manages to stand and lean against you. Together, you limp to the refresher, where you set him underneath the water spout and turn it to cold all the way.

Below, Cassian jumps and gasps, the water pounding into his skin. He tries to move, muttering under his breath, but you kneel and wrap your arms around him, keeping him there. The water is ice cold, slicing into your skin, but you stay there, holding on to him.

He's squeezing his eyes shut, wincing, and you grab onto the side of his face. "Cassian, talk to me."

"B-better," he chatters. "Are-are y-you o-okay? You-you need-"

"I'm fine," you tell him. The water feels wonderful against your fevered skin, but it's quickly sinking, like it's reaching your bones. You try to repress your shudders.

Cassian continues to shake against you, but gradually, his skin cools. Shutting the shower off, you stand to grab towels, feeling Cassian's hand sliding down to your leg to steady himself upright. You lean back down and wrap a towel over his shoulders.

"Stay here for a sec," you tell him. He nods, running a hand across his face.

You enter the cargo hold again and check the valve next to the cooling unit, your hair dripping wet onto the floor.

70 degrees.

You sigh in relief, taking a minute to catch your breath before heading back to the refresher.

Cassian's standing against the doorframe, hunched in his towel. He holds the other out and pulls you forward.

"Cassian-"

"Shh." He covers you with the towel as you stumble towards him. It's warm, like his hand on your wrist, and despite yourself, you lean into his touch as your body temperature begins to balance itself out.

For a minute, you stand there staring at each other, breathing in sync.

"For the record," Cassian whispers, voice slightly slurred, eyes drooping. "It always meant more to me. You always meant more to me. You must know that now."

There it is again: your stomach swooping, your chest aching, your body not only craving him, but your heart, your soul, needing to be by him, wanting him to stay and be with you.

But there's also that familair spike of anxiety that tells you this won't end well.

You nod, glancing down at his lips.

"I missed you." He leans in, breath grazing your cheek, and your eyes flutter closed.

"Your mind," he says, mouth ghosting your forehead. "The way it works." He moves his lips over your nose, then to your jaw. You shiver at the almost touch. "The concentrated look you make during briefings, that little crease you get between your eyebrows when you're focusing on something."

His hands skim your arms underneath the towel, leaving shivers in their wake. You feel that crease forming as you hone in on his touch, on the way your body warms.

"Your voice: soft, but commanding when it wants to be. The way your body moves when you fight: graceful, exacting, unforgiving." He reaches your ear, his breath skimming your hair. "The sounds you used to make for me."

Your core clenches, a sigh escaping your lips. "You're fevered," you tell him. "You passed out twenty minutes ago and now you're babbling."

"No, I'm not," he retorts softly, and his eyes are clear. "I know what I want."

You pull away, forcing him to look at you. "You need to rest."

He shakes his head, but you're already pulling him to the small cots at the back of the ship. When he sits, his eyes droop against his will; he fights to keep them open but fails. You help him down and draw a blanket over his body.

You turn to go, but his hand finds yours and latches onto it weakly. "It's always been you and me..."

You watch him, watch his breath slow, watch his eyes stop fluttering until his hand finally goes limp. You sit there for ten, twenty minutes, feeling frozen in time. Then, you hurry to the cockpit and shut the door.

Your mind is in a million places.

You think about all the time that has passed. You remember how Rogue One felt, the pain, the sorrow, the guilt.

You really thought Cassian had died. And that feeling was worse than anything you'd experienced before - not because he was good in bed or because he kept you company on cold nights, but because...you cared about Cassian. You truly cared about him. You don't know what you would do without him. And while you spent months avoiding him and acting like it wasn't true, in reality, you'd been trying to keep that ache for him from festering.

You sigh, propping your arms on the console and dropping your head onto them. Eventually, you fall asleep trying to figure out what you're going to say to Cassian when he wakes up: Yes, I want to be with you, I always have wanted to be with you, or, No, I don't want you, we'll fight and argue and hate each other all the time.

The latter one is a complete, utter lie and you know it. Maybe not the arguing part. You still both know how to get under each others skin, but Cassian's probably the only person in the entire galaxy that knows you better than you know yourself.

You wake to a gentle beeping. Inhaling sharply, you sit up, a bit disoriented, and glance around, trying to find the source. The light on the hyperdrive is blinking; the ship is close to exiting hyperspace.

You hear your name in the cargo hold. When you open the door, Cassian's walking up to you, still in his undergarments. He looks better; a bit more color in his face.

"Hey, Cass." You find your canteen at your feet and offer it to him. He takes it wordlessly and sits in the co-pilot's seat.

The cabin is quiet, charged, but not like it was earlier. It's different; things unsaid clouding the air.

"We'll be dropping out of hyperspace in about an hour," you tell Cassian as he drinks. You watch a stray drop of water slide down the side of his mouth and drip off his chin onto his knee.

He nods, taking a deep breath and setting the canteen down. "When we get back, I'll brief Draven and let him know about the recon. You can go back to doing runs with your squad. I won't take you off their team like this again, it was...arrogant of me."

"Thank you," you reply. You look down at your hands, the words bubbling at the edge of your tongue. The heat has worn down your defenses. He straightens, catching the look on your face, and it all comes spilling out.

"It hurt," you tell him. "It hurt when you left. And then when you came back and stopped coming by, stopped saying anything, not even a word in passing, I thought-" Your voice is wobbly, but you force yourself to keep going. "I thought it was me. I knew you and Jyn...I know she meant a lot to you. And that's okay, it really is, but after Rogue One, when you came back," you look up at Cass, traitorous tears dripping down your cheeks. "I thought you had died on Scarif - we all did - and seeing you again after that, I realized I couldn't stand to lose you again." Your mouth trembles, voice wobbling. “I can't lose you, Cass. But that's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid if I give my heart to you, it's just gonna get broken down the line."

"You think I would hurt you?"

"No, I think I would hurt you. Or something would happen to one of us or both. I mean, Maker, we live on a war base, Cassian." You swallow thickly. "Aren't we bound for something tragic?"

Cassian reaches over and grabs your hands, shaking his head. "Stars burn out eventually. They die and galaxies are reborn. You and I," he drops his head, and you know he's thinking of Scarif, of his sister, Maarva, of all those he's lost to this fight. "We're headed down a path we may not emerge from. But I want to walk that path with you." His eyes grow glossy. "For as long as I can. And for as long as you are willing to walk with me."

Beating wildly against your chest, your heart swells. Suddenly, everything is so stupidly clear.

taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl center divider by: @enchanthings-a

Your dad plops down at the table, nursing a hot cup of coffee. The morning light streams through the kitchen windows, softly filtered by the linen curtains. He takes a bite of toast and nods at the bite of eggs on your fork frozen midair, unaware of the flush forming on your cheeks at the mention of Joel Miller. "Eggs are hot, careful."

You snap your mouth closed and set the fork down, swallowing thickly. "Oh yeah?" You hide your face with your own cup of coffee, gently sipping. "I thought he wasn't comin' in until Monday?"

"Sarah finished her last final early. They’re drivin’ in this afternoon.” Your dad eyes the bite of eggs you’ve left behind on your plate and snatches it with his fork, ignoring the oatmeal in his bowl.

“Dad,” you swipe at his arm. “Finish your toast and eat your oatmeal, please. I’m not dragging you to another doctor’s appointment just for them to tell you the same damn thing about changing your diet again.”

He throws his hands up in surrender, chuckling. Lifting his spoon, he hesitantly scoops the bland liquid and brings it to his mouth. He takes a bite with a sour look. “Jesus H. Christ.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle, glancing out into the front yard, across the street to the Miller home. Through another forced bite of oatmeal, your dad catches your gaze and points to the house. “They should be back before the barbecue tonight. Bet Sarah'll be excited to see you."

The barbecue.

"Yeah. For sure," you comment, but your mind wanders, eyes tracing the paint-peeled mailbox outside, the red shutters, the leaf-swollen drainpipes. How could you forget about the cookout? It happened at the end of every May, a giant neighborhood bash to kick off summer, one your dad has co-hosted with Joel every year. You’ve been so busy settling back into town after graduation that it hadn't even passed through your mind.

“Speaking of tonight,” your dad’s voice breaks your reverie. “Think you can run to the store to grab a couple extra buns? And beer. We definitely need more beer."

“Uh, yeah, sure, make a list and I'll run there after I stop by the school,” you tell him, shoveling a few bites of forgotten eggs into your mouth.

"Tutorin' startin already?" He stands to refill his coffee, returning with the pot to refill yours.

"Not till next week. Just doin' a few preliminary things before classes start. Oh shit, I also need to stop by and feed Darlene." You lift your mug, and your eyes land on your dad's watch as he pours the hot, muddy liquid. "Don't you have that eight o'clock meeting at the dig site?"

Your dad's eyes widen, shooting down to the watch face. "Shit, I forgot I'm covering the briefing for Joel, sonofa-" He hurries over to replace the pot as you chuckle, watching him slide in his socks to the front door. As he shoves his boots on and looks for his keys, cursing under his breath about how they always seem to grow legs and run around on him, you pour his coffee into a to-go tumbler and meet him at the door as he's stuffing his arms into his jacket.

You open the door, Texas morning air warming your face, and offer him the tumbler and his keys, which were right where he left them last, by the bowl of fruit on the kitchen bar. He awkwardly stumbles forward, hands full with blueprints and papers, hat on sideways.

"Have a good day, Dad," you smile. "Text me the list when you get the chance."

He sighs and chuckles to himself, accepting the coffee and the keys. Before he steps out, he places a quick kiss on your forehead and taps the tip of your nose, like he always used to do when you left for school as a kid. "What would I do without you, honey?"

Your heart swells as you watch him pull from the driveway in his beat-up blue truck. The engine rattles down the street until it quiets completely when he turns towards the main roads. A small flock of sparrows flies overhead, settling in the great oaks in the yard, chirping to each other in a noisy chorus. Above, burnt orange kisses pale blue as the sun stretches above the horizon line.

-

The engine won't start.

Of course, right as you're trying to get out of the swarmed Randall’s parking lot, the sun beating down a 98-degree heat, sweat sticking hair to your forehead and neck, the goddamn engine won't start. To be fair, you're not sure your little baby blue Mustang has been driven since last summer, and she’s got parts several years older than you.

You jostle the key and hear it start to turn over, again and again, but to no avail.

You drop your head onto the steering wheel. "Shit."

“Car trouble?”

A familiar voice, low and southern, makes you sit up. A worn flannel greets you before a head pokes through your window, shaggy blonde hair and freckles. Your heart does a disappointed swoop. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t expecting it to be someone else, but Miles Lambert, your high school sweetheart, standing outside your car, is still a welcome surprise.

“Miles, oh my god-“

You slip out of the car as he laughs, colliding with you. “How are you? God it’s been forever-“

“I’m good, I’m good. Jesus, I didn’t know you were back!” He smiles, pulling back, emerald eyes flashing in the sun. “Thought your dad decided to take Baby for a spin.”

You snort. “Never in a million years, he loves that damn truck too much.” You soak him in. He’s tanner, a bit taller, a bit thicker, muscles hidden beneath red plaid.

“You look good,” you comment, poking him in the side, and he blushes, turning the same shade of pink he used to when you were kids.

“So do you.” He rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. Life was tragic for eighteen-year-old you when you’d left for college. The two of you had been together nearly the entirety of high school, sweethearts until the end.

But you always knew you wanted to go to college out of state if you ever got the opportunity to. And when a bit fat scholarship from New York University arrived on your doorstep, you took it and ran. Away from Austin, from your dad, from Miles. You'd left things on a good note, but you know it broke both of your hearts to leave like that.

Still…it’s good to see him now.

“I’ve got cables in my trunk.” He pulls out his keys and starts backing away. “Let’s see if we can jumpstart her.”

Twenty minutes later, your engine finally roars back to life. You shrug off your denim jacket, tank top sticking to your skin, and toss it onto the passenger seat. The sun warms your shoulders, the breeze placates your overheated body and instigates little rivulets of sweat, beads that slide down your neck and pool at your collarbone. Miles eyes you from where he’s locking your hood back down, and you pretend not to notice.

"All set.” He unhooks the cables and ambles over to where you lean against your car, the engine rattling your body slightly as the scent of exhaust wafts by on the breeze. “Think it’s just a clogged air filter. I could take a closer look at her at the garage if you want. No charge, of course."

"That would be amazing." Your smile softens. "I was sorry to hear about your dad. I should have reached out-"

Miles smiles softly. "Hey, it's no worries, really. Business has been good. Slow but steady." He glances out at the parking lot, families couples, and kids. In the distance, you can hear the roar of cars on the highway. Below, heat sizzles above the asphalt. You fiddle with your flannel, unsure of where to continue.

But Miles breaks the silence first, shifting on his feet and turning his body towards his car. "You’re coming to the barbecue tonight, right?” He says, gesturing to the cooler of beer beside the bagged hot dog buns in your backseat.

“Shitty beer and drunk neighbors on a hot Texas night? Wouldn't miss it for the world." You smile and pat his arm, rounding the car to slip inside the driver’s seat.

He leans down, poking his head through the window again as you settle in. The look on his face is sincere. The reflection of light on the silver linings of the car casts his face in a youthful glow, so familiar and reminiscent of his high-school days. “I'll see ya tonight."

"See you tonight, Miles."

--

You're sweating buckets by the time you make it back to the house.

You had to stop by the liquor store to grab some mixers for the small cocktail bar some of the ladies asked to be included in the drink selection this year. Your dad, who was currently enamored with a certain lady of the neighborhood, Ellen Jones down the street, volunteered to shoulder the brunt of supplies.

The garage is stifling, but the minute you shove open the door to the house, your body begins to cool. Once the groceries are up, you head over to the Miller house.

It's in a similar fashion to your own, except for the cobalt-gray your house is painted; the Millers' is red, with exposed brick. An awning covers the porch, leading to a short walk-up and a set of double doors. Slipping the key from your pocket, you slip inside, already sweating again.

Two paws and a sharp bark greet you.

You beam, leaning down to scratch two floppy ears. "Darlene, heya girl! How are you?"

The border collie pants, excited, as she drops from your knees and rubs against your legs.

"You hungry? Want some food?"

Your footsteps pitter-patter on the linoleum as you venture into the kitchen. Light streams in from the backyard, filtering in a cozy warmth, the kind that makes you feel invited, at home. Evidence of Joel and Sarah are everywhere, from the magazines and bills on the kitchen table to the potted plants along the shelf walls (courtesy of Sarah, of course, not Joel, who's been known to kill a few here and there).

Darlene follows you as you switch on the radio. Austin's afternoon country show is on, and you lift your shoulders to the rhythm, feet finding familiar patterns on the floor, line dances forever etched in your memory as a kid, as you pick up Darlene's food bowl and refill it.

She sits patiently beside her water bowl, which you check is at least halfway full, and wags her tail when you return her bowl to her.

As she eats, you text your dad about the groceries.

You: beer, buns, and booze secured. at the millers feeding darlene.

Dad: Perfect, thanks, Sweetheart - I'll be home soon, Joel said he's coming up on the house now.

A mild and unwarranted panic sets in at those words.

Dad:  I told him you had the goods, lend him a hand.

Oh, shit.

A car engine emerges in the distance, a gentle rattle that turns into a sure enough sign that Joel's truck has just entered the cul-de-sac.

Darlene perks up her nose, going to the garage door as it clatters open. You dash over to the hallway mirror and attempt to tidy your messy braid. Flushed cheeks and sweat still sheening across your forehead, the garage door opens as you step back and smile at Sarah as she steps inside.

"Hey, Sarah!"

"Oh my God!" She rushes towards you, dropping her bags with a thump, and throws herself into your arms.

Darlene joins, paws greeting your hip as Sarah laughs and reaches out a hand to pet her head. "Oh, I missed you guys so much." Her big brown eyes meet yours with a sparkle. "God, you look so old!"

"Me, old? Look at you!" you laugh, pulling apart. "You're almost as tall as me now, Jesus."

Another clatter sounds, and Darlene patters to the figure emerging from the garage. "Hey, Darlin'," a voice echoes as it greets Darlene.

Your stomach does an involuntary swoop as Joel Miller walks in. Dressed in a dark blue flannel, work jeans, and boots, he lumbers in with two more suitcases, messy peppered curls falling across his forehead. His gaze finds yours, as rugged and handsome as ever.

"Oh. Hey, kiddo," his voice drawls, warm and syrupy. Your cheeks warm, but you blame the heat.

"Hey, Joel."

Sarah's on her phone already, walking into the kitchen now, grabbing something from the fridge. "Hey, Dad, is it okay if I go to Rhea's before the party?"

Joel sets down the suitcases. "Uh, sure, but-"

Sarah jolts past you, headed back to the garage, but Joel holds up a hand. "Could ya at least bring your bags up to your room?"

"I promise I will tonight, Dad.” Sarah scrambles to tug her shoes on, words running together as she hurries for the garage. “Sorry, I gotta go Rhea said Nicole is coming and and Sam is gonna be there later and everyone wants to swim while the sun's still up bye see you later!"

She's already out the door before Joel can stop her, leaving the two of you alone in a static silence. The room brightens with a fresh wave of sunlight that streams in across the tiles, warming the backs of your legs.

"I-it's good to see you, kid," Joel says, albeit a bit awkwardly. He's scanning you, scanning the room. "Darlene give ya any trouble?"

"Uh, no, not at all. She's a good girl," you smile down at the dog, who pants at your knees, looking up at you.

He looks up at you and holds your gaze for a minute. "Yeah, she is..."

Your stomach clenches.

Joel sucks in a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, yer dad said you have groceries for tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, uh, they're at the house, but I can, uh, I can go grab 'em-"

"Ah, s'alright, I'll have your dad bring 'em over when he sets up for the grill."

"Are you sure? I can at least grab the beer-"

"Don't worry 'bout it." He shifts on his feet, pushing up the rolled sleeve on his right arm. Your eyes track the movement, rough fingers skimming dark fabric over worn, freckled skin.

"How long you been in town?" he asks.

Inhaling, you toe the floor with the tip of your Converse. "Uh, not long. 'Bout a week."

"Reckon you're happy to be home. It's been, gosh, two years-?"

"Three," you nervously cut in. "Almost three.”

It was true. Though your dad had made a few brief trips up to New York, you hadn't been home in nearly three years, so busy with life in the city, internships, and trying to finish college. Your dad spent holidays with you, not the other way around. You'd spent maybe a weekend or two back in your old bedroom every year if you found the time to visit, but always feeling out of place, untethered. In your mind, your childhood home was a reminder of the limits of your hometown. When you'd left Austin freshman year, you were planning on never coming back.

But here you were, despite it all.

"You finish up your degree?"

"Yep," you nod. The word leaves your mouth lamely.

Joel's dark eyes flash in the amber light from the kitchen windows. His mouth quirks in a way that has your heart skipping a beat. "You look...you look good. Older, I guess."

Suddenly, you're incredibly conscious of your clothes, jean shorts tight on your thighs, your tank top clinging to your damp skin. The room seems small; the air is clammy as it struggles on its way down to your lungs.

You swallow thickly. "Well, I'm not exactly a teenager anymore."

He scoffs, but something crosses his face. A flickering set of blinks, a bob of his Adam's apple. It passes before you can comprehend it. But not before the thought of his hesitation buries itself beneath your skin, taking root somewhere in your gut.

Joel clears his throat. "I better get her bags up 'er else she'll never unpack."

"Right, I'll, uh, I'll make sure we bring some of the stuff over." You head for the front door, Darlene yawning behind you as she pads to a bright patch in the dining room, circling up to nap.

"Hey," Joel stops, one foot on the steps, watching you as you turn, hand on the door frame. "It's good to have you back."

You smile. "It's good to be home."

taglist: @queenbbarnes

V's arm is on fire. A gash running from her clavicle to the top of her shoulder is leaking a thin rivulet of blood down the synth-skin of her modded forearms to her fingertips. She's losing blood by the minute, but she doesn't have time to patch it, not with six very pissed Tyger Claws forcing her to retreat to the corner of the shipping yard.

"Leave it to little ol' V to land us in yet another pile of knee-deep shit," Johnny's voice echoes in her head. The familiar whooshing glitch of the Relic follows like an echo. V doesn't have to glance up to find him sitting on the crate above her, looking down with his sunglasses dangling between the fingers of his 'ganic hand.

"Ghost off, Johnny," she grunts, reloading as another barrage of bullets reverberates through her from the metal boxes behind her.

"Seems like you've shut off half your brain these days - the half that belongs to you, at least." He leans forward, eyeing her upside down. "Lost it in Dogtown."

V ignores him, peering around the crate. If she can just get a visual she can quickhack a few of these fuckers, but she's send scrambling backwards when the beeping of a grenade turns into a minor explosion just twenty yards to her left.

She winces as it goes off, ducking her head until the smoke clears.

There.

A Claw comes barreling toward her. V uses him as a pink before short-circuting his system. He stumbles, and V aims. His body goes slack as her bullet tears through his cheekbone and lodges in his CPU.

"Nice shot."

"Johnny," V winces at a fresh sting in her shoulder, "if you don't have anything to contribute, then fuck off."

"Sure. But first, let me hang out for just about a minute more and enjoy watching the second bullet enter your gonk brain. Then I'll really fuck off forever, sound like a plan?"

V's fingers tighten around the cold metal of Johnny's old Malorian, her body cringing inward as a another round of shots beat the crate. A few shouts resound to her left, closer. Shit, they're practically on top of her and she's just sitting there. She has to do something. And fast.

"Come on out, cunt!" A voice shouts. "Promise I'll make it quick!"

V takes a shaky huff of a MaxDoc and shuts her eyes for a minute, hoping it'll at least dim the bleeding, and tries to summon the energy to move, to fight back, to survive.

After Dogtown, she's felt like she's been moving through molasses. Myers, Reed, Songbird. The hope of a cure. Or rather, the dangling proverbial cheese set at the tip of the gianted rusted rat trap. Alluring, promising.

But there's always a catch in Night City. Always. V should've known better. After she unplugged Songbird...the truth of her situation came swinging back to her like an anvil to the gut.

Johnny's voice booms near her ear. "Watch it, V-!"

"Fuck-!" V propels herself forward just as a second grenade goes off right where she would have been crouched. The blowback knocks her down, sending her clambering over dust to find her footing. But she's off her balance, her mind spinning and her shoulder burning.

And then she hears it. The slice of Mantis Blades. Her heart drops, but the MaxDoc is finally kicking in, sending a delicious rush of adrenaline through her, pushing her upwards just as two blades of silver cut the air inches from her face. V melees the Tyger in front of her, fire catching his neon biker jacket, distracting him enough to expose himself. V acts fast, and he goes down with a shot to the knee and forehead. She's already on to the next before he hits the ground. She takes out two more with a overheat hack and a few quick shots, ducking behind a busted-up car as the Mantis Blades Tyger recalibrates, trying to find her way back to V now that her cover has thinned out.

A quickhack alert pops up on V's optics; someone up top is trying to jam her system.

V leans over the hood of a busted-up Thorton and stacks a synapse burnout to the shooter on the roof. They go down in a fiery blaze.

One more left.

V takes a deep breath, then catapults over the car, sending a hack to Mantis Blades. She's quick, though, and blocks the oncoming command with a wall of ice.

V's halfway across the yard, trying to establish some higher ground, when Mantis Blades comes speeding into frame, no doubt thanks to her Sandevistan implant. She slices and ends up catching V's cheek. But V's shooting, and reaching for a knife. As the Mantis Blade attempts to dodge the bullets, V ducks and plants the knife in the back of the Claw's thigh.

She cries out in pain and goes down, and V executes a quick kill before she can get up.

The last shot echoes in the yard. Panting, V glances around, the Malorian heavy in her hands. She smirks, wiping at the blood on her face and trying to ignore the spots at the edge of her vision.

"Ha. Is that all-"

V's words dies quickly. A barrel of weight knocks her off her feet, sending her to the ground hard. A block of muscle stands above her, a sick smile twisted over his lips. V's trying to push herself back up, but the wind's been knocked from her.

The Tyger leans down and grabs her by the collar, then pins her down with his knees on her stomach and the other on her throat.

The air slips from V's lungs, setting fire to her chest as he lumbers over her, smiling. "Whore. I'm gonna fucking kill you.:

One hand becomes two, thumbs digging into the soft skin at the base of V's throat as his fingers tighten around her windpipe. V's optics short circuit, her gun slips from her grip. She scrambles for it in the dirt, but the world is beginning to blur.

V's mind spins. The world goes silent.

Blinking up at the faded pink sky, she can't help but think how easy it would be to let go. To quietly slip into oblivion. To escape Night City, the fear that grows every day that damn Relic is in her head; the fear of the pain just waiting for her at the end of it all.

V's limbs begin to slack. She thinks of dying the first time. Tries to remember what it felt like when that bullet went through her head. She thinks of Jackie, what he must have felt in that back of that car. She misses him so much, wonders if he'll be there when she wakes up.

"Not today, kid."

Johnny's voice calls to her at the edge of her perception as the Relic malfunctions, the warning message flashing across her dotted vision.

“Gonna let this fucking gonk take you out? A fucking Claw? How goddamn miserable. After everything, you’re just gonna be another body they add to the trash heap. Again.”

A cold metal hand grazes her forearm, shocking her eyes open. Her arm begins to move, though she’s not sure how. It slides out to her right until her fingers find the cold grip of her gun.

“Come on, V. Get the fuck up.”

V grabs her gun and shoots. Once, twice. Three times.

The Claw slumps forward, hands loosening, and V shoves him off, nearly choking as she sucks down as much air as she can.

Gasping, V pulls herself up to her knees, shaking, and sits there for a minute, eyes watering and lungs burning. She's never come that close before, not willingly. And yet, she sits there, palms digging into the gravel below, she's never felt more alive.

The air she pulls into her lungs is sweet. The ground if firm, the breeze lifting her hair tinged with the taste of salt, carried across the harbor from the Pacific. She remembers the sun and the sea, remembers her old life out on the dunes. Before the city. Before Arasaka

"You're welcome," Johnny whispers in her ear.

Just like that, all at once, the pain kicks back in, and V feels the world spinning again, feels that shining moment of clarity turn to dark smog once more.

An anger buried deep within her, a bitter darkness that's taken roots since the Relic's implantation, seems to flare up, rearing its ugly head within her, pulling her down, down down...

After a while, V finally stands, still dripping blood, knees clacking together, and looks up, searching for Johnny's mean smirk, waiting for more shitty commentary.

But he's not there. Not corporally, at least.

The world fizzles before her, her HUD glitching sharply as she limps to Johnny's Turbo parked on the corner of the warehouse property. She barely makes it to Vik's, stumbling down his clinic steps before passing out at his feet.

------------------------------

"Rise and shine, Princess."

V shoots up, her body immediately recoiling in protest. She lets out a horse cry, blinking against bright neon colors. Hands fly to her arms, warm, big, and try to eas her back down. Then Vik's voice, not Johnny's. "Easy, kid, easy. Lost a lotta blood out there. Gonna need you to lie back down."

V growns, feeling like her head is being split open with a hatchet. When she cracks her eyes back open, the light of Vik's work station has dimmed to a soft glow, the room coming into contrast. A familiar dark presence accompanies it all: Johnny's brooding figure in the far corner, leaning by the gate.

She swallows - a painful action - at the absent look Johnny's giving her, eyes narrowed between furrowed brows, like he doesn't want to be there, like he doesn't give a flying fuck she almost bled out, almost died. V would bet all the ennies in Night City that if her ultimate demise didn't guarantee his, Johnny wouldn't have fought so hard to get her back up in the yard. In any other world, he wouldn't give two shits in general whether she flatlined or not. Still his words ring in her head uncomfortably.

V tilts her head over to Vik, but the movement is too fast. She winces, bile rising in her raw, bruised throat. She gasps, writhing, vision blackening again, but Vik's there with an airhypo.

"Stay still. Gonna rip your stiches'.

A rough cry leaves V's lips as Vik injects the hypo, a sharp burning in her chest that quickly blooms into a numbing warmth, spreading over her in sweet, sweet relief.

"F-fuck," V whispers, eyes fluttering.

Vik hovers above her, his fingers brushing blue strands of hair back from her sweaty forehead. "Jesus, kid. Scared me there. Been a while since I've seen you this roughened up."

V scoffs, a brittle, dry sound that makes her cringe. "Well, you know me, Vik. Like to-" she coughs, wheezing a bit, "like to live on the edge."

"Shouldn't be gettin' into these situations anymore, V. Your body' taking a big enough hit as it is. Last thing you need to do is fuck it up anymore."

"Gotta-" V winces as she shifts in the seat. "Gotta work, Vik. Can't stop just 'cause I'm dying."

"I ain't sayin' you gotta stop," he replies, voice low, gravelly. It's hard to read his expression, "Just sayin' you gotta ease up a bit. Maybe avoid catching bullets here and there. Or else these streets are gonna take you out faster than Silverhand will."

V sighs, feeling the hypo's medicine seep through her bloodstream until her heart stops skipping every other beat; until she can finally blink through the fogginess to see herself in Vik's sunglasses. She thinks she hears Johnny's lighter flick somewhere in the darkness behind her.

"Great prognosis, Doc." V pushes herself up to a sitting position, catching her breath until she can find the strength to stand.

Vik rolls back on his stool, giving her the space to stand on her own. She grabs her things and starts toward the gate, where Johnny has disappeared. Or maybe he was never there in the first place.

"Thanks for stichin' me up. Shootin' you the eddies-"

"V, wait."

She turns, grimacing, and watches Vik sigh. "Sent you some ointment for your neck, and some pills for the shoulder pain. Should be at your place before sundown. One capsule every evenin' 'til it stops aching, then only when it flares.

V nods. "Thanks, Vik. I Owe ya. Really."

"Consider this a favor, kid. 'Member to take care of yourself."

V slides open the gate and heads up the neon green-lit staircase.

Back in her apartment, V stares at herself in the mirror for a long time.

She washed away the day's blood and grime, but the face that looks back at her looks like shit. Vibrant hair faded and oily, corneas marbled red. The bags beneath her eyes are sunken, matching the feeling in her that is dark and heavy. Been a while since she took a beating this bad; since she's been pushed down this hard. It's even worse knowing she practically did it to herself.

Leaning forward, V examines the bruises spangled across her neck, a fucked up oil spill of purple and pink welts. There's a tinge of yellow blooming at the edges of the larger contusions, melting to give way to the spattered dots of ruptured blood vessels that span their perimeters.

V presses shaky fingers to each bruise, going slow, careful, until the ointment Vik gave he has sunk into the banner of splotches. She only pauses momentarily when she accidentally presses one too hard. Her eyes well, a shot of pain dancing down her shoulder. She has to press her head to the cool silver surface of the mirror to keep from passing out.

Eyes still close, she takes deep breaths and tosses the ointment, hand searching the counter for the pain pills. She pops the top open and shakes them into her palm. She then watches four rattle out, picks two up, takes them dry, winces at the dryness of her throat.

But she keeps looking down at the other two. Before she can stop herself, she swallows them, then shakes out another five until they pool in the cup of her palm, a minuscule molehill of possibility.

This wouldn't be the first time she's thought about it. Back when she got the official diagnosis that the chip was gonna have its day with her. But even then, she held on to something. Hope maybe, an instinct to survive, a determination to defy the fucked-up card she'd been delt.

Now...that fire seems to have died out. V can't even remember nowadays why she bothers getting out of bed anymore.

To be a living legend.

Yeah right.

She doesn't care anymore. Not about Mikoshi, not her reputation, not Arasaka or Militech or Night City.

Not even Johnny, who she's sure has kept her from ending it more than just once. Even if it felt real...she knows his own sick appetite for revenge, his twisted ideations and immoral desire to avenge his own death and destroy Arasaka is for his own goals. In the end he'll consume her whole, get a second chance at life again, and never look back.

V swallows thickly. The tile below her feet is cold and clammy.

"Already took a few, there, V. Think you oughta rest."

Johnny's warbled voice is already an unwanted abrasion; grating, caustic.

V squeezes her eyes shut, hands shaking as she closes the bottle and sets it down on the counter. Her eyes search for a second pill bottle.

Johnny's voice is low. "V."

It's like he's everywhere, in her skin, echoing inside her head. She had to learn to tolerate his presence at one point, but now, on top of that hollow ache in her chest begging her to down these pills, she can't stand it.

She's so tired.

V raises her heads and sees the bottle resting on the shelf above her bed. She pivots.

"The fuck are you doing, V-"

She grabs them, knocking the cap off, and spills it across her bed.

Johnny's image flickers and appears beside her, hands outstretched like he's caging a wild animal. "Shit, V, now you've really lost your goddamn mind."

She reaches for a pill. Johnny's hands grab her forearms.

She knows its just the chip. A fucked-up side-effect of the construct playing out some hyperrealistic BD in her mind. Johnny isn't really there, jerking her away from the bed. In reality, she's probably dragging herself around, limbs succumbing to the neural commands shot through her system by Johnny's engram - like when he tried to kill her that first day, pushing her, slapping her to the ground.

And so here she is. She can feel the cold metal of his fingers digging into her arm and the nails of his 'ganic hand lightly scratching her skin as she fights him. And it's fucked, but its familar. The only touch she's felt from Johnny has come from violence. But Johnny's violence has always been different. She knows he could kill her when the time comes. But she knows that he knows she won't go without a fight.

"I ain't lettin' you take us out like this," Johnny grunts, struggling as V fights back. Her shoulder is on fire, her chest burning, eyes welling up. She grunts and kicks out with a bare foot, just barely clipping him in the knee. it doesn't stop him in the slightest: it only makes her own knee twinge in response.

"Wasn't gonna let you flatline us at the shipping yard," he grunts at her, "Not gonna let you flatline us know. I ain't dyin' cause your gonk ass is depressed."

"Fuck. Off. Johnny." V growls, the world growing foggy. Her movements feel like they're slowing down. She yanks her arms, one last time, down and hard. His hands finally slip from her arms.

V dives for the bed, but in the process her knees buckle, her head feeling heavy. She crawls and pushes herself up weekly, reaching for a pill. When her fingers find one, she lifts it and brings it to her mouth.

That's when her body goes limp. She can feel the strange, wobbling static that usually shoots through her when she takes the Pseudoendotrizine and lets Johnny gain control over her body. Her consciousness usually slips away, taking a backseat and giving over to his, but this time she's there, fully present, as her body moves without her permission.

The fucking pain pills. They brought her to the edge. She's not strong enough to kick him out.

"J-Johnny," she cries. "Stop. Please." Her words reverberate in her head. She watches her body straighten. Watches Johnny move her hands to scoop the omega blockers back into their bottle.

"'Nough of this cyberpsycho shit. Ain't like you, V." Johnny makes her do the same with Vik's pills, then takes both in his - her - hands, the ghost of his mechanical arm flickering in and out of view, seeming to solidify by the minute.

V's vision is blurring. He's kicking her out. She's not sure how he's doing it, but she's slipping away, further and further, and V think this is it.

This is the end.

"'S for your own good, kid," Johnny's voice echoes, fading and fading until V's mind goes completely blank.

------------------------------

When V wakes, the blinds are open, and the city skyline glows against a pitch black horizon.

A spike of panic runs through her, and she shoots up, immediately regretting it. Her shoulder doesn't hurt as much, her throat a little less raw, but her body aches, like she's just been dragged through the whole of Jackson Plains. Or maybe more like she's been hit by a low-flying AV.

She struggles to the bathroom, only vaguely realizing she'd been curled up in bed moments before, and scans her reflection, checking for bruises, stains, puke, anything that might indicate Johnny had decided to take her body on a joyride like the city's his personal playground.

But there's nothing new there. Still in her gym shorts and tattered Samurai tank, no extra cuts or brusies. No puke.

Johnny's dog tags still hang from her neck, clinking softly in the quiet hum of the apartment, and the gentle sound makes her want to scream. Her pills are gone. In fact, most of her shit in the bathroom is gone. When she glances around the apartment, V realizes a whole lot of her shit is gone.

"Sleep well?"

Johnny materializes in the mirror, leaning against the wall behind her. She turns and stares at him, breathing heavily. "What. Did you do. How long was I-"

"Relax. You were only out 'bout an hour or two." His lips curve into an almost-smirk. "As for the apartment...had to baby-proof a bit, seeing as you've gone all certifiable." He loops his finger in a circle by his temple.

"You fucking bastard," V's voice breaks. Johnny lights up a cigarette. As always, the smell reaches V, acidic and ashy. Addictive.

"Don't got a lot 'a willpower left, kid. Had to take some evasive action."

V runs her hands through her hair, blinking, pulling at her roots, searching the half-empty apartment. Magazines and books and statuettes and mementos, photo frames, hell, even her clothes.

She turns, heading over to the stash chamber, and cups her hands around her eyes to peek inside.

There it all sits. Like a pile of hoarded treasure.

She rolls her eyes and glares over her shoulder at Johnny. He just stands there smoking.

V signals the button for the door, but the monitor beeps, the screen flashing red.

<< ERROR. INCORRECT CODE. >>

V's stomach clenches. She leans against the glass and slams her fists into it. "Fuck!"

"Told 'ya. Had to baby-proof."

V turns and grabs the closest thing to her, a plastic takeout container, missed by Johnny's purging, and hurls it at his figment, letting out a visceral noise.

The container makes his image flicker, but the blue lines of his code merely splice before remerging, solid as ever. It hits the wall and clatters to the ground weakly.

"Thrown' a fit ain't gonna make you feel better, V-"

"Enough!" V yells, marching up to Johnny, finger pointed at his chest, right where his matching dog ties lie. "I'm so sick of you. I'm so sick of your fuckin' voice fucking up head. Sick of all your assertions and fuckin' intrusions. I'm done." She gasps for air, a swell of anger overcoming her, like the storm is finally breaking. "You're an asshole, Johnny, and a coward. Maybe I should just go ahead and rip this goddamn chip out of my head." She gets closer to him, a deranged laugh rippling low in her throat. "And you know what? I'd do it without a single sorry thought for your freeloadin' ass."

Johnny's brow twitches, his head cocking predatorily. "You wanna call me a fuckin' coward? You're the one tryin' to delta out the cheap way, kid. This ain't some shitty train you hop off of whenever you fuckin' feel like it." Johnny inches closer, letting V's finger phases through his vest. She can just barely feel the fabric there, a fuzzy buzz tingling the tip of her finger. If she concentrates enough, she knows it'll become material beneath her touch.

"You don't get to throw your life away like this, V." Johnny leans down so he's closer to her eye level and grabs her wrist, nearly pressing his body against hers. She can feel it. The heat, the static, radiating from her body to his. "You're in this 'til the very end, whether you like it or not. And when that time comes, you go down swingin', not swallowing a handful 'a pills or letting some gonk Claw flatline you and dump your body in Coronado. Or worse, leave you to Scavengers."

He's not wearing his aviators, and his eyes are so dark. V feels like he can see straight through her, down to her very soul.

She laughs again, bitterly. "And why the fuck do you even care? If me dying didn't mean you going with me, you'd've killed me yourself a long time ago."

Johnny is quiet, just staring back at her. "You really believe that? Even now?"

"What do you mean, even now?" She scoffs, shaking her head at him. Then she starts to get it. She watches him, and he her, as she registers the feeling coming from his side of the link. "Holy shit...what are you saying, you're my friend now? That you care about me?"

Johnny's expression tightens. He doesn't respond, but V knows she's hit something.

"Oh my God, you have to be fucking kidding me," she laughs to herself, running her hands across her face. "Well, you've made the wrong investment!" She gets close to Johnny again and says her next words clearly and sharply. "I don't want to live anymore. My body's dyin'. My minds dyin'. I can't feel anything anymore. Nothin' feels real. Especially this. Especially you. You're the one killing me. You mean nothing to me, Johnny. And at the end of the day, I know I mean nothing to you." She's not sure if she means it, but she says it anyways.

Johnny's eye search her face, his eyes narrowing. He works his jaw a few times, shakes his head. "You really believe that, don't you? Fuckin' miserable," he whispers, voice gravelly. "You're fuckin' pathetic, V."

"Fuck. You. Silverhand," V spits out, wishing more than ever she had one end of a knife in her hand and the other presses against Johnny's throat.

She turns to go, yanking her wrist away. At the very least, she could lie back down, try to sleep away the rot in her chest. Wake up and find a way to walk into oncoming traffic, jump off the courtyard wall, drink until it all fizzes away.

But as she's turning away, Johnny appears in front of her. V keeps going, expecting to walk through him, but she hits his chest, taking an uneven step back to keep herself upright. Then he's behind her, grabbing her by the arms and forcing her to turn towards the window, to look out at the city. A surge of panic washes through her.

"This ain't real to you, V? Is this not fuckin' real?" He tightens his grasp. "Can't fuckin' feel anything, can't feel this?"

"Johnny," V winces, very much feeling his iron grip on her. "Stop-"

"Not real, my ass," Johnny scoffs. His breath grazes her cheek, nose brushing her hair, like he's really standing behind her. "Feels fuckin' real to me."

V dips her head away, but Johnny's hand is at her chin. His fingers settle over her jaw, palm brushing the bruises on her throat, and turn her head back towards the window. His touch feels electric, not only because of the Relic and every nerve synapse in her working overtime at a million miles an hour to keep up, but something she can't name. Something hot and heavy in her stomach.

"The whole goddamn city's on a silver platter for you, V," he rasps at her ear. "Half of these bastards wanna fuck you or fuck your over. What's left needs to know your name, know who you are. Don't let them flush you out with the rats."

"Night city couldn't give a shit about me." V shakes her head, gritting her teeth. "Just like you. Or tell me. If I lost half my brain in Dogtown, did you magically gain a conscious?"

It's so fucked up. It's so, so fucked up. But it's always been so intoxicating to V to push back and see what happens.

"So what if I did." Johnny spins her around, movements jerky as he holds her still, keeping her from pulling away. Though he's not that much taller than her, he towers above, all lean muscle. "Told ya, V, back at the Sunset Motel." His gaze falters, a flicker of hesitation acrossing his face. Don't deserve what's happenin' to you, and I already said I was gonna try and fix this goddamn mess. If you flatline, shit hits the fan and congratu-fuckin'-lations, you get to prove Johnny Silverhand is the world-class asshole and hypocrite he is, and you can flip the big bird to a city that's not even gonna remember you in fifty years because you swallowed a handful of pills and pissed yourself on the way out." Johnny's face crowds close to V's, his hair brushing her cheek. He somehow smells of both cigarette ash and the body soap V used in the shower just hours earlier. "That what you're doin'?" he barks. "Tryin' to prove some gonk-ass point?"

"No." V grapples with him as he turns her and walks her backwards toward the wall. She can feel his irritation, his desperation, echoing, cycling, merging with her own anger and sorrow on the feedback loop between them, mixing dangerously with the rising heat in her gut, brought on by the pressure of his hands and that look he's giving her. She hopes he doesn't notice.

Johnny growls. "What're you tryin' to prove then? Huh?"

"I don't know," V mutters, a slight panic setting in at the rise in Johnny's voice. She knows realistically, Johnny wouldn't hurt her, not when it hurts them both, not after everything they've been through. But he would push her to the limits. He knows exactly how to push her buttons. V stares up at him, at the scrape on his left temple, the specks of dirt near his eyes; marks from his death that will never heal.

He shakes her, nearly making her lose her footing. "What are you trying to prove?"

"I don't know," V pants, eyes shutting as he pushes her against the wall, shaking her head as she tries to wrestle against his grip.

"Spit it out, V, you fuckin' tragic piece of shit-"

V breaks free once more and rushes to the window, throwing herself against the windowsill. "I don't know!"

She stands there for a while, trying to breathe, eyes flittering across the neon billboards and flashing lights as something cracks open her chest.

"I wanna prove it's all been worth it," she whispers. "That all the shit I did at Arasaka, all the damage...wanna know I've done enough to clean up that mess, to fix what I've broken in this city. It's not enough, it hasn't been enough, I feel like-"

"I wanna prove it's all been worth it," she whispers. "That all the shit I did at Arasaka, all the damage...wanna know I've done enough to clean up that mess, to fix what I've broken in this city. It's not enough, it hasn't been enough, I feel like-"

"You'd rather die," Johnny says. "Then face all the shit you failed to do."

V turns, facing Johnny. He's behind her now, brow furrowed, chest rising and falling as his lungs take breaths he doesn't need. "It's not easy, V. You've been through a lotta shit. It gets hard to carry. But you can't throw your life away."

"Why not?" V laughs humorlessly. "You did. You stormed Arasaka, throwing yourself into a fuckin' suicide mission. And for what? Corps are still sucking souls, Arasaka's still standing."

Johnny crosses his arms. Something that passes over his face, the shadow of something unfamiliar. "Didn't care much back then about the consequences of my actions-"

"That's still true-"

Johnny puts a hand over V's mouth, the action sending a bolt of warmth through her. "Gonna let me talk, or what? Tryin' to make some amends here."

V narrows her eyes, rolls them exaggeratedly, then nods. Johnny lowers his hand and glitches out until he's on the couch, sitting in his usual spot, sunglasses back on. V stays by the window, crossing her arms over her body and leaning against the sill, sniffing.

Johnny lights up another cigarette. "Didn't think much, between the pills and the drinks. Didn't listen much, either. After Alt," Johnny stops, blowing smoke through his nose. "Lost what little hope I had left for a better world. Corps were closin' in. Arasaka'd was out there blocking funding to schools in Arroyo, chopping down people on the street. Militech had been blocking med supplies from gettin' to Santo hospitals, countless people suffering, dying. Shit was bad, V. Felt like it was all cavin' in on me, like I was suffocatin' under the weight." He shakes his head, leaning forward on his knees, avoiding V's gaze. "Fucked up a lotta stuff, lotta connections, lotta relationships. Thought playin' gigs with Samauri, smearing corps names through our music, propping up protests outside of venues...thought that was doing somethin'." He sighs again. "Was all just wasted time. Could've spent the years I had doing some good. Some real good."

V watches him take another puff, her chest tight. She's never seen him this vulnerable, never felt this kind of remorse from him in their connection. It's surprising, a little shocking, even. It carries her over to the couch to sit in front of him on the center console. She pushes the radio over, sits, fiddles with the hem of her tank. Johnny's staring at his boots, and V gently knocks her knee against his. "Never said this kind of stuff to me before."

"Well, V, kinda owe it to ya. Helped me to see that a lot of the shit I used to pull was just that: shit." He scoffs, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Hell, maybe you're rubbing off on me. Or however this merging of souls bullshit is supposed to work." Johnny sighs. "Point is, V, you were right all the times you called me out on my sacrilegious bullshit. It's never been worth it; wallowing in what you can't change. The only thing you can do is keep goin'."

V chuckles. "Wow. The great Johnny Silverhand, admitting he was wrong. 'Nother Relic malfunction or has the legendary rockerboy finally grown a conscious and a heart?"

Johnny blows smoke in her face, the cloud pixilating and disappearing before her eyes. "Always had a heart, kid. Just built up a few walls early on and never got 'round to knocking 'em down."

"Know what you mean," V replies.

Johnny leans forward, glitching in and then back out. "Still feel like killin' yourself?"

V sighs, rolling her eyes at his blatancy, but smiling softly all the same.

"Feelin' a bit better, now, actually. Thanks."

"Good," Johnny says. "Be a damn shame to lose you now. I mean it."

"Seriously," V says, catching his eye. "You piss me off. Bad. But I put this chip in my head. For ennies of all things. Guess if we're gonna go down, we'll go down together."

Johnny scoffs and rolls her eyes at her little mantra, muttering something about how fucking cheesy that was, and she smiles.

She grabs a cigarette of her own from Evelyn's case, lights it, and takes a long drag. Johnny mirrors the action.

Outside, early morning bleeds through the city's smog, brightening the horizon. The AC kicks on, and she shivers, flickering her ash into the empty I Heart Night City mug next to her. As V sits there, that sharp pain near her heart seems to soften a bit. She looks back over at the dead rockerboy in front of her, just about a foot away. His aviators are back on, V's reflection void in the red lenses.

She can't lie: it's nice to know he cares, in his own fucked-up way. And to finally admit to herself that he's more than just an engram in her head. Guess she's known for a while that she's never been alone in this fight, not truly. Johnny's been there, going down with the sinking ship right beside her. That thought is enough to make her relax a bit, loosen her shoulders. It sends a different kind of warmth through V, something old but familiar; a sort of comfort she hasn't felt in a long time.

Johnny sighs satisfactorily, V's nicotine finally hitting him. "Only gonna get harder, V, know that, right?"

V blows smoke before stubbing out her cigarette in the mug. Morning has begun to creep in through the windows. "Yeah. I know."

"So," Johnny says, leaning forward on his knees and looking up at her. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

V scans his face. Her hand raises, going to the dog tags around her neck. The cold metal bites into her skin, sending a strange rush of relief through her. V can just make out Johnny's eyes as they dip to her fingers, and she watches his throat bob, feels a strange emotion she can't quite place from his side. She nods. "Gonna keep going. Gonna fight."

Johnny smirks. "Good girl." He drops his cigarette to the ground. It glitches out beneath the heel of his boot. V has to swallow thickly to get down her next breath. "Have a good night, V," Johnny says. "Get some rest."

He stands and flickers before disappearing, the static echoing in V's head before everything falls silent once again. The sun rises above the line of scrapers across the highway, casting the apartment in a golden glow. V glances around the place she calls home, taking a deep breath. Then she stands and falls into bed, closing the shutters before throwing the covers over her head. She sleeps better than she has in years.

centerdivider by: @enchanthings-a

Your dad's at the grill, one hand flipping hot dogs with a pair of tongs, the other nursing a beer. Ellen Jones sits on the cooler beside him, keeping conversation while her little ones run laps around the covered pool. She's a sweet woman, a single mom with a wild twelve-year-old and a funny eight-year-old. You see them sometimes for tutoring.

A few of the other neighborhood kids litter the lawn, tossing balls and chasing each other, supervised by parents or siblings, and their half-hearted attempts to keep them contained. Sarah and her high school friend group are up on the roof, blankets spread out on the flat part near her bedroom window, a favorite spot of you and Sarah's, especially during barbecue season.

The rest of the crowd gathers in small groups across the yard, spilling out through the open fence gate and onto the street, where the cul-de-sac is pocked with lounging elders watching the sun set over the Austin skyline in the distance. Gentle country twangs echo from the speakers across the space, accompanying the comforting sounds of chatter and cicadas.

You step out onto the porch in your boots, the evening breeze brushing your bare knees and ruffling the hem of your dress. You scan the crowd, making your way to the makeshift bar sitting beneath the large oak in the far right of the yard.

For the first hour or so, you've had to endure question after question, nosy neighbor after nosy neighbor. Are you movin' back? Was New York too much for you? Are you working this summer? Did you finish your degree?

You'd managed to placate your audience and then escape inside for a quick breather. You'd popped open a beer and sat on the kitchen counter, drinking and chatting with a friend's older sister as she cleaned off a muddied pacifier, and waited for the crowd to settle in outside and get a few drinks in their systems before you decided to venture back out.

Speaking of drinks.

Coming up to the table, you eye the cooler. Most, if not all, of the hard liquor bottles are empty. What's left is beer, beer, and more beer.

More beer, my ass. Your dad should have known that if there was going to be free liquor, people were gonna go for the liquor.

"Sweetheart! Oh, look at you!"

You turn to find Mrs. Johnson and company (aka The Neighborhood Mothers) heading towards you. A small pack this time, thank God.

"Wow! I can't believe how grown up you are," Mrs. Rameriez says on your right, reaching to pat your arm.

"How was school, Sugar?" Mrs. McCaulkey smiles, tossing her silvered curls over her shoulder. "I bet you're happy to be finally out of the city and home."

"I-" you start, but Mrs. Ewing interjects.

"Your dad has sure missed you! We all have. Say," she smiles conspiratorily, "You didn't happen to bring anyone home with you, did you-"

"I sure hope not." A rough drawl accompanies a set of footsteps behind you. You turn, too fast, too eager, and knock over a few stacks of solo cups.

You duck to grab some of them as they roll off the table, eyes meeting a pair of light brown boots. You look up with a strange twist of your stomach. It's just Miles, flannel-clad with an empty Blue Moon, hair messy and smile wide.

"Mind if I steal Miss New York for a moment?"

Mrs. Johnson smiles pleasantly, eyes darting to her friends mischievously. "Well of course, darling." She winks at you before turning with her pack towards the porch. "You two have fun," she mutters to you on her way by.

Your cheeks redden, and you roll your eyes at Miles. "Miss New York?"

"You don't like that one?'

You scoff. "Help me pick these up, Cowboy Casanova."

"Oof," he huffs, bending to meet you on the grass. "Haven't heard that one in a while."

"I was pretty proud of that superlative." You smile, grabbing cups and dusting them off.

"I'm sure you were," Miles smirks. "It stuck like hell."

"Well, every quarterback needs a good nickname. Plus I think it was a funny kind of ironic for a lot of people, considering you weren't even remotely close to some kind of casanova."

"What can I say; was satisfied with what I had." He smiles at you, and you blush, glancing away.

The two of you stand, stacking the cups back up next to the alcohol. Miles eyes your unopened Corona. "Wanna real drink?"

You roll your eyes. "If you're referring to your Blue Moon, no thank you; I'm not having any of that garbage."

"Damn, you're swingin' strong tonight." He rounds the table and picks up a cup. "I mean a real drink."

You cross your arms, raising your brow. "Depends on what you're offering."

"Let's see..." he starts shuffling through the half-empty bottles. "We could do a classic margarita, a ranch water if you're feeling nostalgic, or-" He picks up a decorative umbrella. "If you're feeling frisky, Sex on the Beach."

You laugh, shoving his shoulder. "I'll take a ranch water."

He pops open the vodka. "At your service, ma'am."

When he passes you the drink, you take a sip, and it all comes rushing back.

You and Miles used to drink canned ranch water underneath the bleachers after practices. You'd snuggle up with a blanket and watch the sun dissolve down the horizon line until everything was cool and dark, and there was nothing but you, him, and the stars.

He hands you the drink, and your fingers brush his. They're gentle, temperate, mild. When you look back up at him, your eyes meeting the green pools of his irises, you half expect that rush of nostalgia to spark, shifting into something else — something you've been waiting to come flooding back since you saw him in the parking lot.

But that electric shock never comes. You look at him and see football games and coffee at the diner. You see your old Converse kicked off in haste at the foot of his bed and late-night rendezvous at the park.

But that's all you see.

"-walk around a bit?"

You blink, realizing Miles was talking. "Sorry, what?"

He chuckles. "One sip and you're already out; I thought New York was a big party spot? I asked if you wanted to walk around a bit?"

The joke doesn't land as well as you're sure he's hoping it will, but you smile all the same. "Uh, I gotta check on my dad; said somethin' about needing more ketchup."

Miles nods, the wind ruffling the hair at his temple. A not-so-conspicuously disappointed look crosses his face, and you're not quite sure he believes you. "I'll see you 'round then. Maybe we can get lunch or dinner later this week, catch up?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good," you smile. He smiles back, turning to walk off, but you call after him. “Hey-" He stops, head tilted like a golden retriever, and you tip your cup at him. "It's good to see you, really."

Miles beams, all warm southern comfort. "Catch you on the flip side."

You roll your eyes and chuckle, watching him walk off. Not even five feet past the fence, he runs into two of his old buddies. They quickly start up a conversation that melts into the rest of the backyard din as you head towards the house.

You haven't seen Joel in a while. He was with your dad, helping set up the chairs and drinks, but disappeared somewhere before sunset. That was about three hours ago.

It's clear he's missing by the time you slink out onto the busy street, weaving through the crowd to get back to your house. You walk up the steps, waving to a few people passing in and out of the house, and lean against the railing, watching the figures in the cul-de-sac in front of you, far away enough that you can't hear the conversation but close enough to make out the echoes of laughter and music.

New York was always so cold. It's strange to come back to a place you've run away from for so long, only to find the warmth you've felt was missing seems to have been here all along.

You watch the sun drop in the sky, and the lights come up on the street, as you sip your drink. It's not that good, too much Topo Chico, but you'll give Miles an A+ for effort.

An hour passes, during which you finish your drink and pour yourself a generous amount of vodka swirled with a strawberry mixer. The backyard and house are empty now, the neighborhood gathering on the road now. Sarah zooms by with friends, pretending like she doesn't have a bottle of Tito's behind her back, and tells you, if you see Joel, let him know they're going over to Sam's house to watch a movie.

You eventually settle into a chair on the porch, pulling a blanket over your lap, watching the chaotic activities of the kids as they break out glowsticks. As the sky darkens, you try to ignore the aching pang of disappointment that Joel isn't here. You don't know why you feel that way, you just...do. Guess maybe you were just hoping to talk to him, catch up.

At some point, the timer for the porch's string lights turns on, and you're bathed in a cozy glow as the alcohol in your system starts to do its job. The combination makes things feel slightly hazy, the world melting into a dreamlike puddle before you.

You're just about to head inside when a voice cuts through your daze.

"Hey, kiddo."

You jump up. "Jesus."

Joel chuckles as you sway a little, leaning down to pick up the blanket. You try to ignore the way the sound makes your stomach do a funny flip.

"Where you been?" You ask and immediately regret the question. It was none of your business; he was a grown man, and he could do what he wanted-

He sighs, running a hand over his jaw. "There was an issue at the site. Got held up." He looks like he's trying not to look at you, but when you slide a hand across the lace hem of your dress, his eyes flicker down, scanning your boots, your bare knees, then back to your waist, up to your face.

"If you're lookin' for my dad he's somewhere in the street with Ellen Jones. Think they might be datin'." You lift the cup to your mouth, take a slow sip, feel the burn as it runs down your throat and settles into your stomach. "Which is fine with me," you clarify, words slurred slightly. "She's good for him." You blink heavily, looking out at the road, then swivel your head back to Joel. "A-and Sarah, Sarah's back at Sam's."

He nods somberly. "I know," he murmurs. "Wasn't lookin' for them."

Your head lifts, meeting his eyes. God, he looks good. You're noticing now that he's grown his hair out so it curls below his earline. He has a bit of dirt, or maybe grease, on his forehead despite wearing a fairly clean button-up over a linen shirt. He slings his fingers into his belt loops.

"Where's that boy of yours?"

The question catches you off guard. You find yourself straightening, breaking his gaze, and glancing back onto the street. You scan for Miles momentarily, finally finding him by the boombox. He's talking to Mackenzie McCoy, who tosses her pretty blonde hair over her shoulder and brings her hand to Miles' shoulder.

"He's not my boy," you mutter, throwing Joel a look. "That was a long," you hiccup, "time ago." You go to finish off your drink only to find it already empty. "You wanna drink?" you ask, voice soft. Taking a short step forward, your vision brightens, the lights crowding your eyesight for a minute before Joel's face comes back into view.

He's staring at you, jaw working, muscles ticking in his cheek as an amused smile graces his rugged features. "How much you had?"

"Not much," you tell him, drawing the word out. "A few beers...and a ranch water...oh and some vodka."  You giggle into your cup.

Joel shifts, and through your dazed mind, you register the slight panic that rings when you realize Joel could get you in trouble with your dad.

But then you remember. You're not in high school anymore, sneaking beers with friends. You're about to be twenty-three years old. Joel isn't going to tell your dad anything.

Which...emboldens you.

You take a step forward. Joel is bathed in a glowy halo. He looks like some kind of painted statue before you, sculpted and large, alluringly beautiful up close. It makes your insides all fuzzy. "Are you happy I'm home?" you ask him.

He glances down at you, eyes flickering across your face. Reaching his hand up, he gently brushes a piece of hair that has fallen onto your forehead and tucks it behind your ear.

"Yeah, I am," his voice rasps. "Sarah missed ya."

You swallow, your face warm. "But whatta 'bout you? Did you?" You tap his chest with your empty Solo. "Did you miss me?"

He swallows, and you watch the movement, eyes trained on the strong column of his neck, the part of him at your eyeline.

"I..." he starts, sighing. "Kid-"

"Don't call me that," you whisper. You look up at him through your lashes, sober enough to realize you're starting to cross a line but drunk enough not to care. "I hate it when you call me that. I'm not a kid."

He sighs, eyes darting to the road behind you. You push him back with your hand. Catching on, he takes a few hesitant steps back, matching your movement until you've walked back far enough that the road disappears around the corner of the wrap-around porch. He pivots, blocking the rest of the road, leaning against the side of the house with his shoulder. And then it's just you and him.

"Alright, then," he whispers back. "I won't call you that. New York."

"Oh, Jesus, don't call me that either," you sling back. "I hate that nickname too."

Joel's voice comes out as a rasp. "Whadya want me to call you, then?"

You stare up at him, confusion clouding your senses. What is this feeling? The one that feels like it's setting your nervous system on fire. The one that makes you want to do something you can't take back.

You reach out without fully registering what you're doing and touch the light linen shirt beneath his flannel. He stays perfectly still as your fingers skim the collar so lightly you're practically not even touching him.

He feels it, though. His hands find your wrists. Rough, calloused palms skid the smooth skin of your forearms. Your gut clenches, something low and warm brewing in your gut as his breath wooshes out in an almost pained exhale, whiskey and mint brushing your cheek.

Your dad's voice suddenly echoes from around the corner. "Joel, that you?"

Joel drops your arms like he's touched something hot, and you pull back, stumbling slightly, retreating further into the porch as Joel turns by the corner to meet your dad. You try to listen, but between the cicadas and the music, you don't catch much.

"....kids...get the sparklers...coming?"

One pair of boots walks off the porch. Then another. You peek around the corner in time to watch Joel saunter down the porch steps. He doesn't look back.

You duck around the porch again, closing your eyes. Your face is hot, your head spinning. Leaning back against the side of the house, you try to take deep breaths. But there's a fire ignited somewhere within you, and you're not sure it can be put out as easily as you wish it could be.

Once you've satiated your lungs, you amble down the porch and to the cul-de-sac for another drink. You grab two beers, searching the table for a bottle opener. When you can't find one, you crack the lid with one of the necks and the heel of your boot, an old party trick Miles taught you junior year.

You discard the unopened bottle and stumble slightly through the crowd, trying to focus on one thing, but it's hard.. Sparklers dot the dark with cracks of light. Kids laugh as they chase each other through the circles of chairs. In another life, you and your friends would be getting high in the backyard or passing shots in the dark as you sat on the coolers and talked about life after graduation.

Well. Here you finally are. Life after graduation. Your best friends from high school are shacked up in apartments and houses across the country with jobs, security, loved ones. And here you are: back home, no job, no real plan.

You take a few large gulps of - Jesus, Blue Moon - and swallow it down regretfully.

You don't see Miles anywhere or your dad, though you're pretty sure that's him over by the speaker with his mouth at Ellen Jones' ear. Across the pavement, Joel now stands with a few friends near the front of the Miller home.

He catches your eye and glances your way. His face is silhouetted by the street lamp to his right, casting him in sharp contrast amongst the partygoers. Everything else seems to fade away as he peers down at the bottle in your hands, then turns, focusing again on the men around him. What is that look on his face? Is it judgment? Does he find you just as pathetic as you do for coming home again? For running away to New York only to scramble back, wounded and hopeless?

An ache shoots through you, deepening a crack inside you that's been there for a while, a crack you've tried desperately to ignore these past few years, a crack that just can't seem to heal. Your stomach twists, and a wave of nausea starts to overcome you as the sparklers turn to flecks of white in your quickly blurring vision.

You try to breathe through your mouth as you take a few steps back. You bump into someone and apologize, then start weaving your way back to your house. A kid comes barreling towards you, and you stop short, heart stuttering. God, the world is spinning, but the porch is right there; you're so close.

You press a hand to your mouth.

"Hey, hey-"

A figure comes up beside you and bends to meet your eyes. You let out a shaky breath as a face comes into view, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

Joel. Joel. Joel-

His brows are pinched, his hands coming up on your back, your arm. "Kid-" He stops himself and uses your name instead. "I think it's time for bed." He takes the beer from you.

You want to argue with him, but you're afraid your knees will give out if you do. That last drink is not sitting well in your stomach.

Joel's hand comes around your waist, warm and secure.

Joel helps you up the stairs to your room. The house is so quiet, everything outside so far away, but in your room, the window is open, a soft filter of sound carrying itself in with a gentle breeze that brushes against the curtains.

Only once do you have to stop, thinking you may need to run for the toilet, but once the wave passes, you keep going, leaning against Joel. You feel the bed beneath you, feel Joel's hands on your calves, his grip soft before they move to your boots—one foot, then the other.

He's saying something, but the edges of your vision are darkening. The covers come up over your body. A figure sits close to you.

"Joel..." you whisper. "Don't go."

"I'm right here, baby. Go to sleep."

The world darkens.

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You're working on the cooling unit in the cargo hold - which has decided to break again - as the ship sails through hyperspace from Kol Iben's estuary moon Trask. The sea of light casts the room in waves of blue, dancing across your legs as you lie on your back in the open panel of the ship wall.

It's been a few hours. If your internal clock is right, you've got a few more until you arrive back on Yavin. The recon mission was a bust; just a bunch of false leads and dead ends, leaving both you and Cassian frustrated and ready to head home after a nasty argument in the shipyards on Trask.

You'd already been pretty pissed when Cassian pulled you from your assigned squad. Apparently, he thought you'd be happy to get a chance to go off-world, but he was wrong. Even if you did want to start doing recon, Cassian was the last person on base you wanted to work with right now, even if he once used to mean more to you. A great deal more.

Back when Bix left, when you'd been benched from missions after getting injured, you'd both been lonely. What started as something causal ended up being a recurring way to blow off steam. Cassian used to be the only person you trusted, the only person who could make everything else fall away.

Then, Rogue One happened; Cassian took a step back from command. And from you.

He left Yavin for a while, and by the time he got back, it was clear the little pocket you'd built together wasn't functional anymore. You argued anytime you were together; over missions, command politics, training.

He was the first person you met on base when you were taken in with the Rebellion, and now it seemed like he was still on Aldhani, galaxies, and lightyears away from you.

You'd moved on with more bitterness towards him than you'd wanted to carry. But you knew it was never anything serious, nothing to lose sleep over.

And yet, you did lose sleep over it. Something in you felt more about the situation, about Cassian; that much was clear.

But that was nearly an entire cycle ago. Since then, you've been on a few missions together, but never alone. Not like this.

A pipe squeaks above you just as you finish bolting the one to your right, and smoke shoots out, making you jump. You bump your head on another pipe and curse, hand flying out to try and twist the pipe away.

"Andor!"

Footsteps pound, and Cassian's face appears.

"Tape! Yellow!"

The tape appears. You grab it.

"I need - shit," you wince as the steam begins to shoot out in aggressive puffs, "your hands, hurry!"

He climbs into the hole, and squeezes himself into the space. You wiggle to try and make room as his knees slide onto either side of your right leg, hand bracing himself up beside your head.

"Hand, here." You grab his free palm, warm and rough, and wrap it around the base of the pipe as you wrap the yellow tape furiously around the burst metal. You bite the end to tear it and hold the end piece, fastening it as best you can.

The hold grows silent. You lie still, waiting to see if it will work. A few seconds pass, and the pipe stays secure.

Cassian's relieved sigh meets yours, and you glance up at him, at the way he's caged you in with his arms. His nose just barely grazes yours, but his eyes don't quite meet your eyes. Albeit a bit awkwardly, you say, "I think it should be good now."

He clears his throat. "Right." It's the first word he's spoken since you got on the ship. For a minute you think he might say more, but then he's shimmying backward, returning to the hold. You watch his boots hesitate, then turn promptly back to the cockpit.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. It's just the adrenaline from the moment; you know it is. You take a few steadying breaths and pull yourself out of the crawl space. You stand there for a second. You could either go back to the bunk and nap the rest of the way, or tinker with something to pass the time.

You end up joining Cassian in the cockpit.

He's sitting in the pilot's seat, tapping mindlessly on the holopad in his hands, most likely finishing up the mission report to send to command. He doesn't look your way when you sit.

You really don't want to be the first to break, but you know, with him, it's better to apologize - or finish fighting it out - now rather than back at base.

"Thanks," you mutter weakly. "For the help."

He's quiet.

"Cooling system should be working now. For at least a little while longer."

He nods.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, scoffing to yourself. "Maker, Cassian, you could at least look at me."

He tosses the holopad onto the empty seat behind him and snaps his gaze to yours. "What do you want me to do? We failed the recon. We're going back to command with empty hands. I'm not going to be complacent in small talk just because you need to feel better."

You stare at him, mouth slightly agape. Cassian never was one to mince words.

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. Something about the way he clenches his jaw and leans forward, elbows on his knees...it reminds you of all of those fights so long ago. A spark snaps in your chest.

"Fuck you, Cass." You stand and storm past him into the cargo hold. Your chest feels tight, your cheeks burning, though you know you're running hot because you can feel the anger rising in you, spreading through your chest, warming your face. It's too easy with him; he always manages to get on your nerves somehow.

Surprisingly enough, you hear Cassian's footsteps behind you.

"Don't stomp off like some youngling-"

You spin on your heel and shove him, hard. It sends him back a few steps, baffled. "Don't do that," you tell him, laughing humorlessly. "Don't act all high and mighty. I was trying to apologize."

"I think you were waiting for one from me," he comments, hands on his hips.

"What, for yelling at me in the shipyards? For bringing me here? For screwing up the recon?"

He sighs, annoyed. "It was faulty intel, it had to be. Nothing made sense; things didn't add up the way they should have, you did what you could with what you had."

"So it is my fault?"

"No, I'm not saying that-"

"Draven's fault?"

"No-"

"Your fault?"

Cassian curses and it only emboldens you. All desire to settle things between the two of you is gone. You cross your arms. "Maybe you brought me here because you just felt like arguing with someone familiar. Or maybe you thought you'd get a good fuck when this was all over?" Sweat is forming across your forehead, rolling down the nape of your neck.

Cassian's head snaps over to you and you know you've hit a nerve. He clenches his jaw. At least he's finally looking at you.

His eyes are dark, darker than you remember. "Look, I am sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. Not in the shipyard, not here. It's no one's fault the recon went haywire. And yes, I could have picked someone else," he says. "But here we are; I picked you."

You groan, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. When you open them, your eyes catch on the cooling unit. Light smoke is slowly emerging from the grill, making you freeze.

Cassian sighs, oblivious. "Look, I really don't want to argue again-"

You wave him away and hurry over to the grate, sliding underneath. It's coming from the pipe you just fixed.

"Dammit." You lean over and check the valve. The temperature is already twenty degrees above what it's supposed to be. You lay there for a second, trying to come up with some other possible solution.

"Everything okay down there?" Cassian's voice echoes.

You sigh, closing your eyes.

Sliding out, your body feels heavy. You shed your jacket, letting the heat hit your bare arms instead, and gesture to the cooling unit. "I can't do anything else. We're gonna have to let it run it's course. The backup coolant system should kick in soon. It'll regulate the cabin as soon as it's over ninety degrees-"

"Ninety degrees?" Cassian scoffs.

You shrug, tossing your jacket at a stack of crates, albeit a little aggressively. "It's all we can do, Cassian, unless you'd like to give it a try?”

Cassian rolls his eyes and says something under his breath in Kenari.

“Thought not,” you mutter. You head over to the refresher and turn on the water. It comes out cool, and you splash some onto your face in relief.

You run a few rags under the water, placing one of them on your neck. On your way back to the cockpit, you toss Cassian the other, who has shed his jacket as well. He catches it and raises his eyebrows in consideration.

"Give it an hour."

"Whatever you say," he mutters.

Unfortunately, an hour later, you're still sweating your ass off like you're on the dunes of Tatooine.

Both you and Cassian have stripped down to your underwear. In any other situation, you'd be self-conscious and overly aware of being half-naked in front of someone who used to see you fully naked nearly every night. But right now, you're too hot to think about anything else than the cool rags against your skin, and the little air you're getting from the hand fan you found in the cargo.

Cass' hair is damp and slicked back, small curls forming at the nape of his neck. He's just as muscled as he used to be, maybe more so; strong legs and arms. He has new scars, though. There are a few near his ribs, and a particularly nasty one on his shoulder - a blaster shot, by the looks of it.

He catches you staring and you quickly look away, sighing. "Any minute now," you tell him, glancing over at the cooling unit. This issue really should have been fixed at base. Some idiot must have passed over it during inspection.

A couple more minutes flow by in silence. You offer the fan to him. He fans himself a few times, then stops.

His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. "Don't you want to know why I brought you with me?"

Yes. "Not really," you reply, a slight mocking to your words. "I'm sure you had reasons beyond my greater understanding."

He stands abruptly, startling you, and paces a few times. Then he turns, hands resting on his hips. He's standing there in his undergarment shorts, and yet, even still, he's every bit the imposing Captain Andor.

"I thought we could make amends, but you've made it apparent you don't care."

"Don't care about what exactly?" you ask, standing to join him.

"About this," he gestures between the two of you, and you can't help but laugh.

"This? What the hell is this? There's nothing even here anymore. You made that clear when you told me to fuck off after Rogue One." You take a step closer to him. "I lost people that day too, Cass, you forget that."

He lowers his eyes. He knows you were close with the team, with Jyn. You would have been on that mission if you hadn't been injured.

But the chances of you being here right now if you'd been on Scarif that day...Cassian was lucky beyond anything you'd seen in your life. He should be dead.

And yet.

"I just-" Cassian groans, running a hand over his face. "I didn't mean any of it," he says, defeated.

"Even when you called me selfish, and cruel? Even when I begged you to stay, to see if we could fix any of this? Even when you decided to leave for Aldhani for three months?"

"If we're being truthful, I'm pretty sure you called me a lying bastard and disillusioned critic."

You cross your arms. Unfortunately, you said both of those things.

"As for Aldhani...I was...I was hurt, it's no excuse," he says, catching the way your face shifts. "I was lost. I didn't know how to cope and leaving felt like the only solution."

You shake your head, gazing out at the hyperspace field. "It's not like it mattered anyway," you say, defeated. "You had no obligation to me. It was clear we weren't gonna work out anyways."

He shakes his head, too, stepping closer. His breath grazes your cheek. "Just because we argued all the time doesn't mean we can't make it work."

"So this is about getting a good fuck again," you scoff.

"Just do us both a favor and move on. Stop fighting so hard."

You turn to head to the cockpit, maybe to try and escape the heat of the cargo hold, maybe just to end the conversation and prove a point. But you don't make it that far because Cassian is grabbing your arm and pulling you back. The world spins for a minute before he pins you back against the grates of the ship wall by your shoulders, a wild look in his eye.

"We both know I'm not going to give in that easily. I fight for what I believe in. And I always believed in us, even when I didn't show it."

Surprisingly, your eyes sting. Things would be so much easier if he would just let it go.

His eyes flicker across your face, and it's like he can read your mind. "I promise you this: I'm not letting us go, not yet."

You watch a trail of sweat drip down his forehead and lie through your teeth. "There's nothing left to hold on to." You try to wiggle past his grip, but he doesn’t budge.

“You’re lying,” he says. “You’re a bad liar when either your heart or your head’s not in the game.” He raises his eyebrows. “So which is it?”

Your nostrils flare. Your arm comes up, hitting the weak spot in his elbow and knocking one of his arms down. It catches him off guard enough that you can slip underneath him and grab his other arm, twisting so, as you spin behind him, he spins too. Pinning his arm behind his back and shoving him against the grate, his chest and cheek hit the wall.

He lets out an oof that slides into an amused chuckle. “Good, good. You could be quicker to spin me, though. Your footing is off-"

“Maker, you’re so smug,” you grit out. But your hands are slipping you're sweating so damn much. It's boiling in here, and yet all you can think about is Cassian, Cassian, Cassian.

"What next?" Cassian turns as much as he can to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes flicker across your face.

"Disarm, swift kick to the back of the knee or knees: whichever is disabling enough to get you down on the ground."

He smiles, though it looks more like a smirk. "Very good."

You stare at him and try to push back that feeling rising in your chest, the one that you used to carry with you, the one that used to lead you to his bedroom or invite him to yours. But on top of the lust that is re-emerging against your will, there is something else, something raw.

You let go of Cassian and step back, heart pounding. Cassian turns, taking a few deep breaths and wiping sweat from his forehead. "Not going to follow through? Dangerous."

"You're not my enemy," you tell him.

He takes a few steps toward you, an eyebrow cocked. "Sure feels like I am."

You shake your head as he begins to circle you. "Cassian, stop."

He lifts his fists, planting his feet when he gets back in front of you. "Come on," he taunts, beckoning you forward with his fingers. "For old times' sake."

Sighing, you dig your bare heels into the ground, feeling the grates underneath your soles, and raise your arms.

You make the first move.

Kicking out, you aim your foot for Cassian's stomach, but he dodges, flinging himself to his left and countering with a swing of his fist towards your shoulder. But you move with him.

For a bit, you manage to match his every move, landing soft blows and gracefully taking his hits. It's a dance that feels so familiar, the steps engraved in your mind. Each move makes your blood hum, like a chord being struck over and over again.

Cassian's got a shit-eating grin on his face, and you can't help but feel the same kind of joy at how well the two of you spar together. It makes sense, seeing as he practically taught you everything you know.

Cassian's foot catches at some point, however, giving you the window to take him down; a swift kick to the back of his knee, which sends him on his stomach, allowing you to roll him over and drop on top of him, straddling his torso and pinning his arms down beside his head.

He chuckles, his abdomen rising and falling against your thighs. He looks out of breath, sweat sheening his face, his chest. You're sure you look the same way, though. It's one thing to fight in the heat of a Yavin summer morning; it's entirely another thing to fight in boiling heat in an enclosed cabin in the middle of hyperspace.

"Well done," he praises you. "Excellent footwork."

"Can't say the same for you," you tease, trying to regain your senses. You're so close to him again, and it feels so nice, so familiar, it makes your chest ache. "What happened? Trip over your ego?"

He huffs. "Something like that."

You stare at him for a few seconds, catching your breath. "I'm...sorry, too," you finally say.

His brow furrows.

"As much as you infuriate me sometimes," you continue, "I pick fights with you. And I shouldn't be doing that. Not when you're trying to...extend an olive branch, so to say."

"Can we just...start over?" he asks.

You nod. "I'd like that."

He smiles, looking relieved. His dark eyes scan your face, dipping down to your mouth, and suddenly, you forget all the reasons you were mad at him earlier. He shifts slightly, a hand coming up to your thigh, and your stomach swoops so intensely that you almost flinch. You cover it up by clearing your throat and standing, offering your hand to him.

Cassian's smile is still gracing the corners of his lips as he kneels and goes to stand, but it looks pained. His outstretched hand is shaking, his movements jarred.

"Andor-"

His eyes droop, and suddenly, he's falling to the floor.

Sunlight streams through your open window, starlings and sparrows singing in the boughs of the backyard trees.

With a yawn and a groan, you push yourself up, feeling queasy, and check the clock on your nightstand: 10:05.

You're still wearing your dress from last night. Across your room, your boots sit neatly beside your closet door.

It all comes back.

Joel was here. He helped you up, took your shoes off, settled you into bed. He was sitting here, right beside you.

I'm right here, baby.

Oh God, you'd asked him to stay. What the hell were you thinking?

Your heartbeat picks up instantly. Nausea hits you like a punch to the gut, and you jump out of bed and head to the bathroom.

Yesterday's two hot dogs and your medley of beverages come out and into the toilet. You groan, pushing your hair back and clawing for toilet paper to wipe your mouth.

You flush and shove the toilet seat down before plopping on top and digging your palms into your eyes, trying to get rid of his face from the back of your eyelids.

Whatever you're feeling towards Joel...you know it isn't sustainable. It's not sane. Obviously, Joel would never go for you; you were his best friend's kid. When you were in high school, it was a silly, stupid joke. You and your friends would all kid about how handsome and rugged he was. Obviously, none of you were ever serious; he was nearly sixteen years older than you...

But his face keeps flashing before you, glowing warm.

You stand and splash water across your face. Jesus. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since you've seen him again, and you're already succumbing to silly teenage fantasies.

You sigh, dropping your head into your hands. God, you really are pathetic.

Your phone buzzes. You jump up, and for a second, all you can do is sit there and stare at it on the nightstand. It couldn't be...

Flipping it up to face you, you catch the name on the screen and release a breath. Sarah.

She's asking if you wouldn't mind driving her and a few friends downtown to shop. When you click on the message, it expands, adding another question about you and her swimming later.

Joel must not be home, or else she would take his truck or ask him to take her, so you see this as a positive sign that he probably won't be home when he swims with her later. It would be for the best. You're still trying to understand what is happening when it comes to Joel, so maybe it's best to avoid him altogether for now.

You respond with a yes to both and toss your phone on the bed, walking into the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later, you head downstairs in shorts and a t-shirt. Your dad is on the couch with a bowl of Raisin Brain, reluctantly scooping the bland flakes into his mouth.

"Morning, sunshine," he says when you pad into the living room. "Coffee's on."

"Morning," you murmur, trying not to look as hungover as you feel.

"Enjoy the BBQ?" Your dad calls out as you pour yourself a coffee and slot a piece of bread in the toaster.

"Yeah," you call out. "I had a lot of fun."

Joel's hands on your waist, his fingers on your calves-

"Saw you with what's his name, oh, the quarterback?"

Your thoughts stop short as you lean against the kitchen doorframe and watch the morning news flicker across the TV screen. "Uh, Miles, yeah."

"Miles!" Your dad peers over the back of the couch at you. "You two used to be a thing, back in high school, ain't that right? Reckon he's still single?"

"Dad," you groan. The toaster pops.

"I'm just saying," his voice echoes. "Might be fun for you to get back out there again now that you're home. Be good for you."

You raise your brow as you pass in front of the TV to head to the stairs again, taking a bite of toast. "You gonna tell me about Ellen Jones?"

Your dad blushes. Actually blushes. "Well, sweetheart-" He stops, sits up, and rubs his neck. "Honey, I-"

You chuckle. "You don't have to explain yourself, Dad, I've known for a while. I like her, she's good for you. You seem happy."

He smiles, relaxing again. "I just want to see the same for my girl."

"Alright, alright," you wave him off. "I'm gonna take Sarah and some her friends downtown and then head to her place to swim after. I'll see you for dinner."

"See ya' sweetheart."

You pick up Sarah and a few of her friends around noon and drive them the thirty minutes downtown to Barton Creek Square. You yourself stop into a couple of stores, grabbing a new swimsuit and some summer tops. A few hours later, you head back home, dropping each friend off along the way. Then, you and Sarah set up in the backyard.

Darlene rolls around in the grass as the two of you spread towels across the lawn chairs and apply sunscreen. The Texas heat is boiling, the UV index nearly ten.

Beside you, Sarah puts music on a speaker and props up on her stomach as she scrolls on her phone. You pull out a book and put on your sunglasses, letting the sun warm your skin.

The two of you are out there for a few hours, spending a couple of them in the pool, splashing each other, or lounging on floaters.

It's about 6 o'clock, though the sun is still fairly high in the sky. Sarah is yawning, pulling a towel over her face. Your skin is warm everywhere, smelling like chlorine and sunscreen. Your stomach makes a gurgling noise that Sarah laughs at.

"Was that you?" she giggles, peeking over at you from under the towel.

"Yes," you groan, rolling onto your side and peering at her through squinted eyes. "I should probably get going; my dad'll be making dinner soon." A lie. He said to order takeout as soon as you get home.

Sarah shoots up. "Oh shit, I forgot to tell you, my dad's bringing home Smokeys' Tacos for us; I texted him like thirty minutes ago, he's on his way back from work."

Your heart skips a beat. You try to seem casual as you answer. "Oh, no, it's okay, I mean my dad-"

But Sarah's already up. "Find my iPhone says he's here, come on, you can bring extra back to your dad if you want." She throws on her shirt and jogs inside, Darlene at her heels. "God, I'm starving," she says, throwing open the porch's sliding door and heading inside.

You stare at her empty seat, the music still thumping on the speaker.

Goddamnit.

--

You are horrifically conscious of your current state of dress.

Sarah's still in her swimsuit, with damp hair and a damp shirt, but of course, it's much different with you. You're wearing one of your dad's old T-shirts, and it's white and wet. Your striped blue bikini is peeking through, low cut, and most definitely not appropriate for a family dinner.

Your face is warm as Joel unpacks the to-go boxes. He'd given you quite an absent look when he saw you step inside from the porch, like he was choosing not to see you. He hasn't looked at you directly since you sat down. Is it purposeful, the way he avoids your eyes? Or are you reading into something you really shouldn't be reading into?

Sarah's chatting away about what she got at the mall, about her friends, about an upcoming birthday party, bouncing back and forth between topics. You focus on her voice and the tacos in your hands and not on Joel's brooding figure as he eats across from you.

But your eyes wander. They find Joel's hands as they reach for the Tabasco sauce, watching him unscrew the cap and pour it over his tacos. Those hands were on you just a little over twenty-four hours ago.

Before you can stop yourself, you imagine what else his hands could do, what other parts of your body they could touch, what they would feel like-

You shift in your seat, your gut tight all of a sudden.

"...for your dad?"

You look up to find Sarah staring at you. "Sorry, what?"

"You wanna take some for your dad, right?" she repeats, holding up a plate of tacos.

"Oh, right, yeah, if you don't mind."

Joel stands suddenly, chair scraping. "Not at all." He grabs the tacos and heads for the kitchen.

Sarah starts gathering trash, oblivious to her father's disposition towards you. You doubt, on the outside, it looks any different than it usually is, but you can tell something shifted last night. Or else you're just going crazy; wild fantasies catching up to you.

You toss your trash with Sarah. She thanks you for the drive downtown and says goodnight to you and Joel with a yawn before heading upstairs, Darlene following her.

Joel's still facing the counter, dumping the tacos into a Tupperware container. You stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, shifting on bare feet and shivering from the AC.

When he turns, it's with a strange, concentrated effort. He's still not looking at you, but he holds out the tacos all the same. "Tell your old man to check his email; I forwarded some paperwork he asked for."

You take the container. "Okay."

Through the screens of the open kitchen windows, crickets chirp to the disconnected harmony of the cicadas buzzing in the oaks. The AC clicks and hums.

"Joel, I-"

"Kiddo-"

You both stop. Joel finally looks up at you. "Thanks for taking Sarah today," he says. He rubs the side of his cheek, then the back of his neck, searching for words. For a minute, you're not sure he's going to say anything else, but then he adds, voice low, quiet, tired: "I've been takin' on more shifts lately. This pre-college summer thing," he gestures in the air. "Even with scholarships, it's gonna take a toll. So, really, I appreciate you helpin' her out."

You heard him and your dad talking about it, trying to figure out how he can take on extra work

"It's no problem, really," you tell him. He fiddles with the Tupperware clasp, the click echoing in the kitchen. Your face is still warm. "Thank you for...for last night. I shouldn't have drank that much, I didn't mean to burden you-"

"It ain't ever a burden," he interrupts. "Takin' care of you."

His dark eyes meet yours, and your tummy swoops. His pupils are so wide, blown out as they scan your face and dip to your collarbone. You feel completely naked in front of him, like he can see everything, inside and out, like he's stripping you down to your skin.

And it turns you on, so much more than it should.

"Did anyone see?" you ask.

You're sure he knows what you mean: did anyone see you nearly hurl in the cul-de-sac? But you also know he understands the whole meaning: Did anyone see him take you to your room?

"Nah," he mutters. "Pretty sure your dad was makin' one of his speeches."

You nod, your muscles loosening.

Joel nods to the hall. "I'll walk you out." He ambles past you, boots slow on the tile. You pad behind him, grabbing your bag and shoes on the way out. Flipflops in hand, you step onto the porch as Joel leans on the door, forearm braced on the frame. He holds out the tacos, and you take them, trying not to shudder as his fingers graze yours.

"G'night," Joel says, face shadowed under the porch light.

"Night, Joel."

-

You slide the Tupperware container into the fridge,

In the office, you can hear your dad. Passing by, you lean in, watching him shuffle papers, and knock on the doorframe.

He looks up, peering over his readers. "Hey, honey."

"Brought you tacos, from the Millers."

"Oh, sounds good; you already eat?"

You nod, shifting on your feet, eyes flickering across the many piles of paperwork that seem to be sitting in front of your dad. "Yeah, I ate with them." You point to the desk. "Everything okay?"

He glances down at the papers and quickly glances back up. "Ah, yeah, just pesky zoning stuff. District's trying to block us from starting our next dig. HOA saying something about a pipeline."

You roll your eyes. "Jesus."

"Tell me about it."

"Well," you walk over to him and kiss his forehead. "I'm gonna head to bed, I have to be at the library pretty early tomorrow."

"Alright, kiddo, I'll see ya'."

"Goodnight, Dad." You pivot before you head out and point at him. "Tacos are in the fridge; eat something before your blood pressure drops any lower."

He chuckles. "I promise."

You smile, turning to head up the stairs.

Your skin is still warm and a bit dry from the sun, pink near the bridge of your nose and across your shoulders. Your hair has dried in tangled spirals from the water and the heat, the chlorine setting in. A slight exhaustion has finally crept up on you from the day's activities.

After switching the shower on, you slip off your shirt and swimsuit and step into the water, eyes fluttering closed as it beats across your skin. It takes a minute of you trying to find a good temperature that isn't too cold but doesn't scald your sunburn, and when you do, you take a moment to relish in it. It feels amazing on your shoulders, cascading down your back. Little pinpricks of relief.

It ain't ever a burden takin' care of you.

Your eyes shoot open.

Instantly, nearly automatically, your mind is returning to last night. Hands on your body. Fingers on your skin. You picture him at the table, opening the Tabasco sauce. You picture him in the kitchen, casually leaning against the sink. And then you picture him walking over to you and taking you and pinning you up against the fridge like you so desperately wanted him to do.

It ain't ever a burden. Your hand skims your stomach, feeling the gentle patter of water hitting there. Takin' care of you.

You imagine him holding you by your hips and hoisting you up, hands curving the round of your ass, pulling you closer to him. You imagine his mouth on your neck, lower. You imagine his fingers dancing across your waist, gently sliding low, low, low until they meet your core.

Even in the water, you can tell how wet you already are just thinking about him. The second your fingers touch your clit, you realize just how badly you need this.

It's his name you whisper to yourself beneath the rushing sound of the shower water. It's his hand, his fingers you imagine touching your skin, dipping into you until you can't see straight.

You shouldn't be thinking about this. You shouldn't be doing this. Your cheeks are flushed, your breath shallow, just knowing how wrong this is: touching yourself to the thought of your dad's best friend.

And yet, the thought only encourages you.

Half an hour later, you're in your pajamas and crawling into bed.

It's dark outside, the night hot and still. You feel better, much better, with that out of your system. But as you turn off your lamp, light catches your eye from out your window, somewhere across the street.

Sitting up, you peer outside through the spot in your window where your blinds are up, and your curtains are apart.

It's Joel's room. His window is cracked open, the dry night breeze billowing his navy curtains. You can't make out much, but you can see his figure hunched over at his desk, the light coming from the small lamp on its surface. It reflects off his bare, broad back, his golden skin glowing.

You stand abruptly, feeling your stomach drop.

Before you can even form a coherent thought, you grab the curtains, shove them together, and fling yourself back down on your mattress, throwing the bed covers over your head.