#regrettablewritings

Like, he knew his future would always include his loved ones but . . . You're presented differently. He just can't see a future without you being side by side, seeing one another through to their own respective accomplishments and milestones. It goes beyond just wanting to move in together (though he definitely will want to look into that when you're ready). He knows you won't complete him and he won't complete you; rather, it's about how you two blend together to create something new and unique while also being your own separate things at once, and respecting and admiring that.

And it's when you and he come to this mutual understanding that you know.

G (Gentle - how do they provide comfort?): Next to Honey, Tadashi is the absolute best person to come to when you're in need of comfort. He's had his fair share of helping people deal with rough patches, and he's more than happy to help his significant other out of their own.

But be warned: It may not be easy. He's a very calming presence, usually, but he encourages you to talk about your frustrations, which is something you may not always be open to doing. He doesn't meant to pry; he just doesn't want you to bottle everything up and wind up feeling worse about your situation.

But if you're open to it, he'll try to help you solve your problem. Try to help you shuffle along to a potential answer. It may not always be the solution you're most excited for, but he has 100% faith in your ability to see it to fruition.

(If the ordeal leaves you in n exhausted or flustered way, though, fear not: Tadashi is an excellent hugger with access to a beloved cafe that serves stellar pastries and tea.)

In a scenario where you just feel bummed out, though, he's perfectly willing to just hold you. He's studied hormones and bodily reactions, after all, he knows what good oxytocin can do you under the right circumstances. And with a blanket and his laptop set up to play your favorite show, he's determined to make the circumstances perfect for you.

Q (Quiet - what can they do together without talking?): You two are one of those couples who has mastered the art of just being able to exist comfortably with one another without having to actually talk.

This is perhaps most evident when the two of you study together. Well, really it's the both of you studying while occupying a space. But you're in this effort together. Tadashi could be pouring articles necessary to determine what engine might be the most beneficial for his presentation on soft robotics; you could be hard at work drumming up an essay or sketching something out for a graphic design final, whatever it is your focus is on.

To an outsider looking in, you just happen to be occupying the same area, paying the other no mind. But what they don't realize is that its your respective presences that supports one another. What they won't always see is how every so often you two might look up from whatever it is you're doing, share a nod, then go back to work. No words exchanged, just a nod.

"You're good? I'm good. Keep up the good work, you can do this," in a nod.

Y (Yearning - what do they do when they're apart?): Time apart from one another is something you're quite familiar with, especially when Tadashi has to hole himself up in his lab for days and nights on end. You try to text and video chat one another when he finally allows himself to take breaks, but they can only occur so often. After a certain point, it's crunch time and Tadashi can't as easily afford to take a breather.

You hate the radio silence, but you respect it and often will direct your focus elsewhere. Specifically, making sure that when Tadashi gets back (whenever that will be), there's nothing to worry about: Laundry's done, bed is made, maybe you've even prepped his least complex favorite meal. Besides, you've known the man long enough to know that there's a good chance he'll forget to even take off his hate when he showers.

On Tadashi's end, however, he may feel like he's losing his grip on reality. Obviously, he still interacts with others who drop by the office or those whom he encounters in the display lab. But for the most part, he's spending hours upon hours in a small room, hunching over gears and tools while muttering things about calibrations and the like.

But during his most strenuous moments, though he knows he can't take a break, he at least can take the time to talk to the miniature maneki neko on his desk. You gifted it to him before the two of you even got together, making sure it was specifically green so as to grant him success in his academic pursuits. He never told you this, but he named it after you. And he'll even talk to it like he does with you, sounding off his ideas and running codes by it so he can be sure they're clear and not being muddled by the increasing exhaustion cloaking his brain.

"You" may not respond, but you do listen and it helps him feel just a little less loopy. Of course, nothing beats the real thing: The moment he's done with whatever and he's free to go home, he's out that door. (But not before, of course, thank "you" for your support through this troubling time. And perhaps maybe kissing his finger tips and tapping them on the green kitten head for good measure.)

“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” Snow explains as she knocks on the door of a 13th floor apartment. Bigby doesn’t respond; he doesn’t really know what to reply with. Bigby could be sensible when he wanted to be but the suspect they both had in mind didn’t deserve any buttering up as far as Bigby was concerned. But he knows Snow, and Snow wasn’t about to change her mind with this one. Besides, he’s quite curious now that he knows the source of all those scents he’s been smelling all these years. Well, the location, at least.

The person, however, was what truly caught him off guard. Bigby didn’t know every Fable – he didn’t even know his neighbors for the most part. But he could say with absolute certainty that you didn’t look like any witch he knew: Most witches were already getting on in age in terms of appearance by the time the Fables fled from the Old World. Of course, younger ones weren’t unheard of, but their looks tended to get marred by years of stress and strife in an ever-shrinking world. And considering his run-in with Auntie Greenleaf, Bigby was fully prepared to assume that you were perhaps using a spell of some kind. An enchantment to make yourself look younger. For some reason.

But as Snow and you swapped greetings (ones that indicated a familiarity, no less), that theory was tossed out the window from the sweet-smelling dwellings into the rancid city air. Nope: This was really and truly you. As was the hint of smile on your face as you nodded a greeting to the wolfman. And the hospitality you offered as you ushered them in, telling Snow that whatever she’d ordered would be out of the oven and boxed in ten more minutes.

Hm. You weren’t cynical; most Fables were pretty suspect of him and Snow. And he didn’t smell poison or a spit made with disgust floating around in the tea you’d offered him. He wasn’t going to drink it, of course, but he couldn’t help but note this unusual kindness.You were weird. Not in a bad way, but not even necessarily in a “good” way, either. You were just . . . not what he was expecting. And considering that he was a centuries-old werewolf sheriff for a community of princesses and humanoids, that was truly saying something.

H (Hot - what is their favorite look on their partner?): Bigby is one of the last people who can judge a person’s looks. I mean, this guy threw on a white button-down, some black slacks, a black tie, and thought, “This is professional enough” and went on his merry way.

He owed you a date. You were thankfully understanding as hell when he had to cancel the last one in order to clear a dispute, but it still left Bigby feeling shittier than usual. He was gonna make it up to you: He was gonna shower, he was gonna clean himself up, he was gonna bring you a bouquet of flowers and some sprigs of herbs you could probably use in your cooking, and he was gonna present them to you at your apartment as he asked for a redo.

He was going to do this, dammit, he was certain of it! . . . He then proceeded to only do most of that, only failing to ask for the redo the moment you opened your door.

When Bigby had first arrived, he could hear the muffled sounds of your TV; the sounds of nondescript pop music, an all-too-cheery voice counting while throwing in the occasional “and kick”. And if he smelled hard enough, he could make out traces of sweat beneath your home’s usual aroma. But he thought nothing of it; he was a man on a mission after all.

As he took in your appearance, however, that mission had technically failed. Not that he minded; not when you looked like this.

Bigby knew he was in no position to critique others’ appearances, given his own lack of fashion awareness, but he had never been a fan of what the current decade had to offer. But damn, neon had never looked so good. Did it hurt his eyes to stare at it for too long? Yes. But was that leotard hugging your curves in all the right ways? Absolutely. It clung to your breast, glistening with your sweat as it heaved with your every pant. The only area it didn’t seem to cover were your legs – that job fell to the black tights, which silhouetted your thighs like they were prime cuts of meat, ready to be devoured. Hell, even the colors of the legwarmers that were wrapped snug around your calves had an inexplicable effect for him.

Despite your panting, you chose to be the one to break the silence. After all, seeing your boyfriend just standing there with wide eyes and a bouquet was only so comforting.

“Hey, Bigby,” you chirped. You tucked a strand behind your ear, noting that you’d have to take down and redo your ponytail after such a workout. You nodded at the bouquet. “That for me?”

The ponytail does not get remade. Not for at least an hour or so. But you still get a workout in, and Bigby’s mission just takes a simple detour before it’s successful.

Z (Zoom - what’s their favorite picture together?): Bigby hates having his picture taken. He doesn’t think much of anything about his appearance on a good day, so having an image capture his likeness for all time is typically a no-go for him. Besides, it wasn’t as though anyone has ever been particularly eager to have their picture taken with the polarizing sheriff of Fabletown. That is, until you came along.

You don’t necessarily change his mind about having a picture taken, but it should be noted that he doesn’t put up as much of a fight when you ask him for one. Well, more like plead with him for one, but that’s beside the point.You treasure what images you do have of him, though. And, surprisingly, Bigby is the same way.

It’s actually embarrassing how long it took for you to realize this but, to be fair, he kept it hidden on his person. More specifically, in his wallet.The big doofus forgot it in his pants pocket one laundry day, and you were fortunately able to fish it out before it became submerged in the washing machine. You were pretty certain nothing had fallen out of it, but just to be sure . . .You honestly forgot what it was you were looking for for a second.

A small photo greeted you before any of his cards or dollars did. You, with your perfectly imperfect smile as you looped one arm around his own, your other hand occupied with a hotdog; Bigby, offering the faintest hint of a smile. You remembered that day: It was your second date, and he took you to Central Park. He was trying to be romantic when he bought you that hotdog from a nearby cart. He was trying to make you happy when he let a mundy take your photo, per your request.

Little did he know, you’d been joking but by then, it was too late to take it back and you had to follow through with it. You thought Bigby would’ve thrown this out, given his feelings about having his picture taken . . .

He's nowhere near as straight-laced about his things as Wasabi, but Tadashi still believes that everything has a place -- even if he's gotta invent a new place for them, or reorganize his half of the room to make space.

He keeps this tidiness even when he moves out to start a life with you, though there's more space available for him to work with. He might actually get a bit too excited at first and start going out and buying more trinkets and home decor simply because he can! However, it never gets too out of hand: Everything, from the large, decorative fans to the funky table lamps to the paintings and ink scrolls and perfectly-framed family photos has a place in your home together.

7. Which one is the worse driver?:

Tadashi is. But allow me to clarify: It's got nothing to do with skill. Tadashi is, in fact, a very good driver when it comes to safety. Perhaps, however . . . too good . . .

Tadashi is a very by-the-book kind of driver, in that yeah, you'll definitely be safe with him behind the wheel, but you'll also feel like you're under lockdown for the entire duration of the drive. This means no blasting music that might distract him, no leaning your head against the window if you fall asleep (what if there's an accident!?), no leaning your head or hands out the windows when they're rolled down, no feet on the dashboard (which is common sense anyway but), etc.

If you guys pick up snacks while you're out, you're free to eat them in theory. But he won't be eating, since that can pose as a distraction. And that just makes you feel guilty about jumping into your bag of fries. As a result, you wind up waiting until you've gotten back home to decimate your bag of Burger Fool.

It doesn't matter for how many years Tadashi's had the wheel, or that he's been a gold-star driver for all of them: You can never be too safe when it comes to driving with him.

10. What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other:

You're both secretly otaku trash. Admit it. Tadashi won't, instead preferring to insist that he's just an appreciator of animation. Will you be the bigger person and own up to your dirty weeb ways? No? Fine; then you'll sit in silence as the both of you watch Yowapeda.

It's just an inside joke that one of you will be heard muttering, "Hiiime hime! Hime! Suki suki da-i-suki!", causing the other to finish, "Kira kira rin!"; you don't really know the song, that would be weird.

You don't nearly cry when Sohoku makes a victory, or when they get into Midousuji's backstory. That would be weird.

And if you actually came to the confirmation that literally no character is completely hateable in this weirdass show about biking? That would be . . . so freaking weird . . . Nah, you both just watch it because the character designs are goofy. And because it's a riot to talk about watching an anime about friendship and competitive biking. And because oh god Onoda, you precious beautiful otaku child, you are the heart and soul of this show --

13. Which makes a bigger deal of birthdays:

Tadashi does. It's a symptom of having been raised in such a closely-knitted household/cafe. He's just so used to waking up early on the eve of or even the day of his aunt or brother's birthday so he can have the kitchen to himself, baking up a storm to create their favorite sweet, or one that came to him in the night like an angel approaching a prophet.

You don't mind it, though: No matter how many times it happens, you will forever love the feeling of being invited to the Lucky Cat for a simple piece of cake, only to be surprised with the faces of your friends and loved ones, all gathered to wish you a happy birthday.

It just makes whatever Tadashi baked for you taste all the more sweeter.

F (Flirty - how do they flirt?):

It honestly depends on how serious Arthur is about you and what his intentions are. He may not be a slut of a man, but he’s not afraid to flirt freely if only to get a kick out of whomever he’s hitting on. In which case, his flirting style is exactly what one might expect: He’s got that cocky grin of his, one of those sharp brows raised suggestively. Maybe that large, muscular body of his leans in certain ways to draw your attention to his biceps, chest, or . . . other places . . .

But if you’re someone whom he’d genuinely like to get to know, maybe grab some drinks together (hell, even non-alcoholic!) sometime, and wouldn’t mind keeping in contact with even during the seasons where he’s gotta be out protecting a Scandinavian fishing village? It’s like a shy schoolboy has possessed the body of this giant, muscular vision.

He’s not exactly clumsy, per se, but he’s more likely to show off whatever he can that he thinks you’ll like. If he thinks you’re more into sportiness, he’ll show off his strength and athleticism. If he sees you’re more of a bookworm, he’ll manage to slip in reference to classical literature or history into the conversation. And it honestly sort of bothers him because why should he care if you think he’s cool? The answer, when he gives himself time to think about it, is he doesn’t: He cares about whether you see his potential. All those years filled with issues of confidence don’t suddenly go away just because you’re the Ocean Master; Arthur still sometimes finds those old questions of self leaking back into his conscious and subconscious. Not enough to drown in them, but certainly enough to worry him.

He knows he can be a complete person without someone’s approval, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want yours.

So as nerve wrecking as it can be, if you allow him to get close enough to trust you, he might just allow himself to be vulnerable enough to show you what all the sides of him make: He’ll take you to a dive bar for some drinks, he’ll walk alongside the beach with you and talk about all the hijinks he got into during high school, he’ll crack jokes through a hangover in the morning and by nightfall have made you breakfast for dinner as thanks.

Because as easy as it is to just assume that what you see is what you get, Arthur is a truly complex person. Just like his identity as a half-human and half-Atlantean, he can never and will never fit into one singular box. And that’s just how he likes himself. Hopefully, you will, too.

K (Karma - how do they apologize?): It’s not that Arthur is unfamiliar with apologizing or even thinks he’s above it or that he’s always right. It’s just that he’s unused to doing it in a context where there’s a romantic partner involved. Because yes, there is a difference between apologizing to a relative, apologizing to a friend, and apologizing to a lover. They can be subtle, depending on the person, but they’re definitely there – or, rather, they’re supposed to be. And given Arthur’s dating life . . .

Look, just because he’s attractive and able to go with the flow at a party doesn’t mean he’s got stacks of experience. To put it lightly, it’s relatively dry compared to what most may presume. Comes with the territory of having unresolved issues regarding one’s place in the world as both a human and a “fish person”. Consequently, he’s pretty unrehearsed when it comes to certain areas, and not helping is that laidback attitude of his. Indeed, one of his biggest draws can also be one of his biggest downfalls: If he’s not too careful about his words and their delivery, he can all too easily come across as indifferent to his partner’s feelings or needs. Just a nonchalant tone being used to say words his partner probably wants to hear. Never mind that this is far from the truth! He cares plenty about how you feel! He just . . . doesn’t necessarily know how to interact with them once he’s screwed up.

And that’s a problem and a half for more reasons than one.

“Hey, uh . . . Listen, I screwed up,” he admits into the receiving part of his phone. He hears an unimpressed sigh from the other end.

“What did you do this time?” Thomas Curry grunts, the sound of his palm dragging across his face audible even through the phone. He loves the kid, of course, but goddammit – how was he so selective on how much of his Intuitively Romantic Genes he inherited!?

It’s embarrassing, but Thomas is Arthur’s biggest role model and one of the only consistent figures he’s ever had in his life: He trusts his father’s wisdom and experience, even at the cost of getting scolded for being foolhardy for hurting his partner’s feelings. (I mean, after all, he was just a lighthouse keeper but he still managed to not only get the Queen of Atlantis interested in him, but he was all she ever wanted [romantically] even decades after her banishment!) Thomas, of course, encourages old-fashioned staples: Bouquets of your favorite flowers, some fancy chocolates (or your favorite baked goods) . . . Help out around the house, make it clean so you have one less thing to worry about. Cook dinner if he wants to make it two.

“But above all else,” he stated, “learn to listen. Learn to actually talk. You’re dating them, not me. You can buy their favorite things all you want to, but so can anyone else who asks them what their favorite crap is. But not everyone can or will listen; that your job, as their partner. You do that, and you’ll figure out what to do from there.”

Arthur grunts to signify that he understands, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely convinced. Because he’s not. Not at first, at least.

He should really trust in his old man more.

It’s shaky at first because of course it would be. But Arthur’s nothing if not stubborn when he wants to be. It honestly makes him a twinge anxious to, but he asks you what you want from him. Not in a dramatic “What do you want from me?!” manner, mind you, but in a serious and calm, “What can I do to be a better partner for you? I want to help you, but I need help. Help me help you.” It’s embarrassing, it demands vulnerability, and it’s . . . honestly a turning point in your relationship. Arthur’s always been an emotional man in some form or another throughout the course of your connection, but there’s something new about just his willingness to accept that in order for him to do better, he has to know when to ask for help from the very person he wants to help. It signifies the new opportunities you both can now potentially face together.

Of course, you’re still a little upset with him. But that he was willing to put down that tough guy front just for you, well . . . You know you unfortunately can’t stay mad at him for long.

R (Romantic - what kind of gifts do they give?): Despite gaining some form of fame in recent years, being an uncontracted hero doesn’t exactly come with a salary or royalties. So Arthur’s not exactly rolling in dough at any given point; he’s barely even dipping a toe in it even on a good day. Suffice to say, he’s tried to get as creative with his options as he could – just not in the ways that would’ve made the most sense.

As a somewhat closeted fashioned romantic raised by a blatant romantic, Arthur’s gifts early on in the relationship would be his spins on more traditional gifts: A bouquet of flowers (if you didn’t mind that they were sneakily yanked from a flower bed in a park); a pair of earring purchased at a hair shop; dinner on him because the owner of the little hole-in-the-wall was thankful for him removing a would-be robber with ease. And while none of these are bad in the slightest, they’re not what’s expected when the most obvious solution to his problems would’ve been arguably more sensible: Just using his dang powers to whip something up!

It would be lying if Arthur were to deny that he hadn’t once considered it, using those Ocean Master powers of his to benefit your dating life. But it was also just so . . . “typical”. Because yes, it was typical of the King of the Seas to use his telepathy, hydrokinesis, and other skills to bring you some material good. (Insert eye roll, please.) Ironically, despite what his attempts at recreating gift mainstays would suggest, Arthur didn’t want to be predictable; he had a reputation to keep, a significant other to keep on their toes! He didn’t want to be known as some one-trick pony (one-trick seahorse)!

. . . So anyway, you’ll have to tell him you wouldn’t mind stuff from his “job”. You can try hinting it to him, but don’t be surprised if you have to outright demand that the guy bring you some “bombass shells”. The good news, though, is that you won’t actually have to tell him twice.

Soon, your windowsills, a decorative basket in the bathroom, anywhere you can fit them is housing an ever-growing collection of “bombass shells” from his travels. Even the occasional hag stone makes their way into your possession every once in a while. Mason jars filled to the brim with sea glass cast rainbows on the walls of your home when the sun hits them just right. Old shark teeth from Arthur’s friends who no longer needed them sat in tiny jewelry boxes.

But the crown jewel of them all? The organic pearl necklace he actually took the time to make for you. It took months to harvest them even with the assistance of some underwater companions, and that was before he had to take the time to properly clean them and prep them to be placed on a thread that a professional jeweler would’ve, well, clutched their pearls over. The beads were lumpy, would’ve been considered defective under the critical eye of someone more experienced in their cultivating.

You never would’ve asked for anything more. And while you don’t wear it too often (you’re afraid to risk it breaking or getting mugged over it), Arthur knows and accepts that for you, it’s symbolic of your bond together: Imperfect, unconventional, but the same as any other at its core. And you absolutely, positively never want to part with it.

X (XOXO - how do they kiss?): Not to be cliché, but Arthur’s kisses hit you like a wave. It doesn’t matter if you’re anticipating the kiss or if it’s sudden, the effect will always be the same to some degree: They’re strong, and they shock your system. You feel an icy yet addictive zing for the briefest of moments, only for it to be overwhelmed by a warmth. If his lips are the ocean, then the heat that ripples through you is the sun stretching down and dragging its fingers up and down your skin, reaching parts of you you had never thought such a heat could reach.

It doesn’t matter if he’s been drinking, if he’s been eating, if he’s just brushed his teeth, or if you have: You will always taste just the tiniest hint of sea salt. Like it has always been ingrained in him and has since become a part of you as well.

And you want more. It makes you thirst; makes you seek out more. You delve deeper into the wave, you have no choice but to. You are defenseless as it pulls you in, pulls you under, becomes all that surrounds you.

And for a moment, as the lack of oxygen reaches you and dizzies your head, you wonder if perhaps this is all you’ve ever known, all you will know. It intimidates you, but only for the smallest fraction of a second. After that, you do not question it. All you ask is that this ocean of warmth and salty sweetness takes you in deeper, closer, until all the noises of the world are drowned away and all you can hear is the sound of your heart thundering in your ears, the woosh of blood rushing through you as you feel the arms of the current wrap around you.

And just as a wave does when it hits you –

It’s over. And you’re wiped out. You’re lost at sea, and you never want to seek land again.

S (Sleep - how do they sleep together?): Beneath Egyptian cotton sheets, in what looks like the aftermath of the types of afterparties 60s-era rockers would recount during their VH1 interviews. There's leather everywhere, whipped cream on the ceiling, the tiger has helped itself to the pate you didn't finish --

For someone who is pretty new to commitment, Lucifer is a pretty clingy sleeper. Well, now he is: For most of his bed life, Lucifer has been pretty content keeping the usual positions of having an arm around his bed partner(s), though not in the same manner that would suggest a close relationship with them. It was more along the lines of how a smug bastard camping in the VIP section of a club would keep a trophy guy or gal tucked under each arm to suggest their prowess (as though the smug smile plastered to his sleeping face weren't suggestive enough).

But when things start getting serious -- serious with you -- there is no VIP stance. There is no smirking. There's only the Devil in the shape of a man, arms wrapped about you with his face pressed against or below your shoulder blades. And he has the most peaceful look that somehow makes him look younger. More innocent. It wrinkles and furrows with protest whenever you try to wriggle free to go to the bathroom or go to work, lips parting to whine a mumbled "no". How can someone so sleepy be so strong?

You'll never know. What you do know, however, is that you'll probably have to call in late to work again. No worries, though: Luci's got your boss on his list of favor-owers; you'll be fine.

W (Whisper - what pet names and compliments do they use?): It's common knowledge that how Lucifer shows affection isn't necessarily the most . . . common. Remember, this is the same guy who continued to call Dan "Detective Douche" long after they established a sort of friendship.

He actually might not refer to you by your name for a while, depending on how much he likes the sound of your job title (assuming the job comes with an actual title at all). There's an admitted layer coldness with utterances of "Mr/Ms/Mx. (L/N)" but don't take it to heart: He's really trying his best here. The irony is that beyond cheeky notes of "darling" when he's teasing you, Lucifer actually isn't that great with terms of endearment. Or properly expressing his adorations, for that matter.

But never assume that Luci isn't proud of you on some level -- especially if he sees you in your element. Be it your job or a hobby or just using quick thinking, it's like he's watching a swan take to water. A sexy, human swan that it is perfectly legal and consensual to fu --

In all seriousness, though, you may have to wait around a bit before you get an affirmation out of him that you know for certain isn't coming from a place of cheekiness or humor; he's just not the most readily intimate of Celestials and he often founds himself with his foot in his mouth, having to take the time to think of his words while he tries to wedge the damn thing out.

But when it happens, it's startling. Not in a bad way but . . . Well, imagine that pretty face of his, faintly smiling at you and breathing, "Well done," when you've found a solution to your problems without little to no help. Or hearing him utter, "Great work, you little scamp", completely twinged with gold as you manage to explain to him something you're interested in with an intensity he could only hope to muster.

In short, despite how he acts, Lucifer struggles to show that he cares. And despite how he acts, Lucifer does care. Very much.

Because at the end of the day, the one thing Cassian constantly holds a candle for is the fact that he’s spent so much of his life fighting for something bigger than himself. Of course, there were periods where he was just going through the motions, times even when he wanted nothing more than to run away from it all. But he’d quickly snap out of that because where could he even run to? Where was there some he could go that was free from the clutches of the Empire? Where could he go where his guilt over abandoning his people wouldn’t find him?

There simply wasn’t. And for a good while, he would feel ashamed for ever having thought of such treason against his crew, only for that to quickly be banished when he gazed upon the tired but determined faces of the Rebellion.

Some of them belonged to those who had been fighting longer than he’d been able to talk. Others were still young, still clinging to a hope that they might know what a galaxy without war looked like. Cassian had to uphold the image of determination, just as he had for all these years as he climbed the ranks.

There wasn’t much that a man like Cassian Andor had to his name. But if there was one thing he could keep with him, it was the knowledge that he was involved in something so massive that only a feeble mind would forget what all was there.

10) How they deal with pain: Oh, Cassian just Does Not, plain and simple. He takes all his pain (physical, mental, and emotional) and represses it like he’s a walking bottle of Daruvvian champagne. He’s been doing it for years and doesn’t plan on weening himself off that mechanism, predominately because he doesn’t see it as an issue. Never mind that it’s extraordinarily unhealthy, likely part of a vicious cycle of trauma, and just adding on to his ever-growing feelings of exhaustion and apathy.

Mon Mothma is, of course, constantly worried and gently tries to mind him about these tendencies but there’s really only so much she can do: How Cassian handles his personal issues is his own problem and unless they’re directly effecting his ability to enact protocol and missions, or are negatively affecting others on a drastic scale, there’s no real easy way to intervene. Not that there’s exactly a whole slew of professional mental help available on a Rebel base. (After all, medical droids can only provide so much help.)

Honestly, it takes the near-death experience on Scarif for Cassian to start opening up more – and it’s unfortunately due to everything crashing down on him, the weight of years of suppression finally becoming too much to bear.

Of course, he doesn’t exactly leap at the opportunity to expel these festering feelings. If anything, he initially is colder now more than ever, insisting that taking it easy even after something so traumatic would just slow them all down “when [they’re] already so close to the end”. Depending on how hard he insists, Mon might actually have to put her foot down and demand that he take time off to at least recover physically.

It would likely be during this recovery time that the visits with droids (and perhaps even a more humanoid specialist) that Cassian would slip in admissions of his thoughts and feelings between questions regarding his wounds. And not just his feelings as of recent – things that had been floating around in the muck of his mind since his youth: Concerns about himself and the future, his fears, his anxieties, how the heat of Scarif still burns at him when he tries to rest. How he was so used to the sound of blaster fire that it used to be white noise – until Scarif.

Part of him doesn’t like admitting these things. But the other part of him doesn’t care: He has to let go of this debris before it drags him in so deep that it would be as though he never left Scarif.

Is he certain he’ll ever leave the sandy beaches of Scarif? He doesn’t know. Isn’t sure he wants to know. But until then, he can’t help but give in to how his chest feels when he admits to the infirmary attendant that in last night’s dream, he didn’t make it off the planet.

It has nothing to do with the healing wound located on his abdomen.

12) How they sleep:

Unless you’re a high-ranking official within the Imperial Forces, there’s a very low likelihood you have what could be considered a decent sleep schedule, let alone sleeping space. Suffice to say, Cassian is like most who’ve gotten themselves involved in the war: He can and will sleep anywhere at any time if necessary. When he’s back on base, of course, there are quarters designated for resting. But sometimes even then he doesn’t make it to his cot: If need be, he will simply sleep in the hangar on his own ship. Wherever he can fit that is out of the way, time permitting, he’s going to find rest.

If he does get to sleep in his own bed, however, he’s very stiff. A back-rester. He really only winds up on his side if he’s had a particularly rough time getting to sleep. That being said, his expression is perhaps the most jarring feature of his: It’s calm for once, but Cassian’s features simultaneously look younger and older.

He looks younger because he’s not trying to force that cold countenance into place, not trying to put on this air of indifference with a devil-may-care attitude. But at the same time, because he’s not fighting back his worries and concerns, the lines that age and weariness carve into the face surface on his skin. The wear of the war blooms to the surface, making him appear somewhat paler with a hint of a furrowed brow. A more romantic-minded Rebel might come upon him and liken him to a sleeping prince . . .

Of course, this disappears the moment he wakes up and can recollect himself, forcing everything into tiptop shape worthy of a captain.

24) What they wish they could change about themselves: What do people think of when they think of Cassian Andor? Some picture a pretty face and a cold heart. Others think of bravery to the point of foolhardiness. The more merciful, however, tend to associate the man with confidence. Captain may not be the highest of ranks, but to rise to the position by one’s mid-twenties wasn’t anything to sniff at, after all: One needed to have plenty of strength to carry around that type of qualifying brass.

This does not mean, however, that there weren’t things Cassian wished he could improve upon.

Unfortunately, these things tended to be oriented around his emotions. More specifically, the ones he felt made him vulnerable. Cassian had never considered himself to be the most emotionally-driven person, even as a child, but why would he want to risk even that much? War was no place for things like berserker tears or savage cries, as often as he found himself laying in his cot at night with the backs of his eyes burning and his throat constricting with need. There were people that depended in the Rebellion, depended on him – he couldn’t let his own personal wants and needs get in the way of that. That would be selfish and, above all else, infinitely stupid.

For Cassian, the ends (no matter how ugly or brutal) justified the means. So if bottling everything he has inside was what it took to get just one step in the right direction, then he would do it.

. . . And then Scarif happened. Boy, did Scarif happen . . .

And for as much as the memories of bombs going off, of blaster fire surrounding him, of a blinding ray hurdling towards the beach rippled throughout his mind, the quiet it left him with was just as jarring. Deafening, almost.

The infirmary wing wasn’t necessarily quiet, per se, but it was nothing when compared to all he’d endured within the span of a few days. Even the bustle of the outside was preferable to this: Just lying there amongst the wounded and those who had been induced into comas to ease their healing process. Amongst the beeping of machinery and droids, the muttering amongst staff, there was just quiet. And Cassian wasn’t used to quiet.

He didn’t even think Jedha had left him with anything but disappointment but even when he managed to still his thoughts about the tropical paradise, memories of the desert moon were right there waiting for him.

Maker, was he always this tired? He didn’t know. And he dreaded to search inward for the answer; he’d gone inward plenty of times already these past few days, and he wasn’t sure he liked what he’d found: Fear, uncertainty, dread, exhaustion. Things a Cassian from the week previous would’ve scoffed at, denied ever feeling, would’ve just put aside before flying off into a storm of TIE-fighter blasts.

But when the Cassian of that moment couldn’t hop into his ship, couldn’t even excuse himself from the bed without medical personnel permission, it forced him to accept that, yes, these things were a part of him. And as much as he wanted to fight back, he just . . . couldn’t.

Maker. Maker, he was so fucking tired. Of this, of everything. And yet, he still wanted for something. Just not this.

It was quiet inside of him, probably the size of a pebble. A seed, really.

He wanted to be at peace with himself. He just wanted to sleep, to heal, to be better than he was before. Not for the sake of his peers (at least, not them alone), but for himself for once. Feeling like this – it didn’t feel filthy, but it did leave him feeling drained. How much of himself had been burned in the process of trying to keep everything down? Once again, he didn’t want to venture inside to know that. It was painful enough to come upon that kernel of acceptance, that he saw himself as broken.

It would take some time – more than he would have preferred, of course – but it would eventually click with Cassian that he was never broken; just human. Not a reprogrammed droid, not just a soldier, but a thinking and feeling human, vulnerabilities and all.