Supposing we…

unstable-reality:

The thought occurs to her on a long, sunny, uneventful afternoon, spent crafting reports. They’re in base housing. It’s…nice. A little quiet, at times, but that’s solved easily enough, with a trip to the canteen, or into town. And when it’s too loud, well, there’s a remedy for that, too. Either way, it’s a space, open and stable, in the midst of a relative sort of peace, and they’re able to call it their own. 

Jyn lowers her datapad. She’s stretched out along a chair, her knee hooked over its arm, her calf dangling. Cassian’s sitting at their desk. She regards him. “This is it, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t look up. “What is?”

“This.” She gestures, despite knowing that he won’t see. “Us.”

He does look up at her, then, and blinks. “What?”

“We’re never…” She scrunches up her forehead, searches for a way to put it. Her fingers are tucked into her palms. “…leaving.”

There’s a long pause. He’s frowning at her. “Jyn, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re trying to say.” 

She doesn’t, either. When they first started sleeping together, she assumed that it was all they’d ever be. They’d warm each other’s beds for a time, and then the chemicals would wear off, and they’d drift apart, and soon they’d be exchanging pleasantries when on assignment, and sort of reflecting on the fact that they had once wanted. Instead, here they are, 12 years after the start, still sharing a bed, and sharing a house and finances and responsibilities on top of that.

She breathes hard through her nose. “We’re not splitting up.”

He blinks again, leans back in his chair. The lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes deepen, then soften. He looks thoughtful. Young. Good. Very good. “No. I suppose we’re not.” He smiles, just a bit, after he says it.

He’s still so handsome to her.

She presses herself back into the cushions. “Think we should do something about it?”

“Such as?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.” Her gaze shifts. She feels hot, and her skin tingles. She can’t believe she’s going to say this. She can’t believe she’s thought of it. “People get married, sometimes.”

She looks at him, out of the corner of her eye. His expression is neutral. There’s a beat. It lasts long enough to make her fidget.

“Sometimes,” he finally agrees.

Another beat. It’s not so strange, she tells herself. People they know have done it. Quite a few of them, actually.

“There are benefits.”

“So I’ve heard.” 

He raps his fingers on the table, starting with his forefinger, letting the others fall in turn, then cycling back. She looks at him. He looks at her. She wonders if it was this awkward for their friends. She decides, after only a moment’s pause, that it couldn’t possibly have been.

“So,” he says.

“So,” she says back.

He lifts his fingers. He turns his palms upward. “When do you want to do this?”

That’s it? It’s hard to say what she expected from something she hadn’t expected, but she doesn’t think it was this. A part of her, she realizes, is still a very little kid, watching old holodramas, and taking in the interactions between her mama and her papa, and imagining a certain sort of future. She would once have tried to deny it and snuff it out, but now she is grateful for it, and is warmed by it.

Well. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t grand and romantic. It matters that he wants it, too, and hardly had to think about it at all. A spot of giddiness builds up behind her ribs. 

“How’s next week sound?” she asks.

The office chair rocks and swivels. He smiles broadly.  

They’re married two years later.