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1.
It’s rare that there’s good food on base, but Princess Leia’s birthday seems as good an excuse as any. Or at least, it seems that way to Luke, who bribes someone to make a cake. Less so to Leia, who scowls about how she never told anyone her birthday to begin with, and less so to Han, who grumpily tries to pretend the cake was half his idea.
Cassian really couldn’t care one way or the other. But if a princess demands that you eat her birthday cake, you eat her birthday cake.
He’s sitting with Bodhi, attempting to drown out Han prattling on about something in the corner, when Jyn takes a seat opposite them.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Bodhi, his mouth completely full with a too-big bite of cake, just points down at his plate happily.
“It’s the Princess’s birthday,” Cassian translates. “Want some?”
And then, without even thinking about it, he extends his fork across the table to hover in front of her mouth.
He immediately regrets it. There’s something entirely too intimate about the gesture, and with the way Jyn’s staring wide-eyed back at him, she must agree. Even Bodhi’s gaping at them, cheeks rounded with cake.
He considers stealing back the fork, but that feels disastrous, too, like an acknowledgement of what messy territory he’s inadvertently crossed into. If he acts like it’s no big deal, he can at least preserve some semblance of dignity.
He waves the fork a smidge, as though to communicate this is normal, I do this all the time.
Which of course he doesn’t, because his longest friend is a droid who a) doesn’t eat, and b) frequently whines about how sugar corrodes the human immune intestines, but still.
After a painfully long beat, Jyn glances down at the fork. And then, in what feels like slow motion, she leans forward, opens her mouth, and takes a gentle bite.
It would be absolutely ridiculous—not to mention inappropriate—to find this hot.
And yet.
Cassian swallows.
“Any good?” he asks, his voice crackling.
She nods. She runs her tongue across her lips, swiping the extra crumbs, and seriously, Cassian needs to get a damn grip.
“Do you want the rest?” he asks, gesturing to his plate, because really and truly, his brain has stopped functioning.
She raises an eyebrow. “Or I could just get my own.”
“Right. Yeah.”
She stands, moving for the table over where Leia has now raised herself to her tiptoes to better yell at Han, and Cassian sinks back into his seat.
He glances at Bodhi, who has yet to swallow that piece of cake. Bodhi blinks back at him.
“Eat,” Cassian barks, a little more forcefully than intended.
Bodhi swallows and then immediately starts coughing.
Cassian sighs, pats him on the back. He slides his half-finished piece of cake towards Bodhi both as a silent apology and as an excuse to leave the room before Jyn gets back.
Which is, quite honestly, pathetic. But that’s a problem for another day.
2.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Jyn announces, appearing out of nowhere and shoving something gold and shiny into Cassian’s face.
He blinks, looks up from tying the laces on his shoes. What immediately catches his eye, instead of the jewelry hanging inches from his nose, is Jyn. She’s dressed in a deep, velvety red that draws a line of creamy skin from her neck to her collarbones, that clings in places he’s never seen Jyn’s clothing cling.
He swallows.
“Don’t know how to do what?” he asks, and his voice comes out surprisingly—mercifully—even.
“This,” she scowls, shaking the glittering chain.
He tugs the knot of his laces tight, leans back in his chair. He’d known this ceremony would require formal wear, but somehow, he’d never thought that would mean actually seeing Jyn in a dress. She so rarely adheres to requirements. It’s one of his most constant sources of stress.
“You don’t know how to do a necklace,” he repeats.
Jyn folds her arms across her stomach, which he rather wishes she wouldn’t do, since—well. Best not go down that road.
“I can’t get the clasp,” she snaps.
“Oh.”
She shakes the necklace again. “I’m asking you to help me.”
He huffs. “You weren’t, actually, but I will if you want me to.”
He stands and takes the necklace, and when she turns away from him he’s left looking at the soft ridges of her bare shoulder blades, at the wisps of loose hair from her bun falling against the base of her neck.
He takes a breath—shakier than he’d like—and steps forward, reaches across her to rest the necklace against her throat.
“You wear a necklace every day,” he points out, squinting down at the (admittedly very small) fastening.
“It doesn’t have a clasp,” she shoots back, but it’s a strangely soft retort.
His fingers accidentally brush against the skin of her neck, and the sound she makes at the contact—a quick, breathy exhale—makes him bite his lip, curl his toes against the soles of his shoes to steady himself.
“There,” he manages, stepping back. When she turns around, he thinks he’ll tell her she looks nice. She’ll probably just walk away—or possibly hit him—but it’s true, and she ought to know.
“Thanks for the help,” she says. But she doesn’t turn back around.
For a long, long beat, neither moves. Cassian concentrates on his breathing; he’s standing so close, the fabric of his jacket shirt brushes against her dress with every breath. He could be mistaken—his rational mind seems to have chosen this moment to completely flee his body—but he thinks he sees a flush at the edges of her cheeks.
Then she steps forward, startling him back into reality.
“See you there,” she mutters, stalking away from him so fast she’s out the door before he can think of anything to say in response.
It takes a good four hundred and thirty-three seconds before his heart has slowed to the point where he feels comfortable following her. He counts.
3.
He’s scouting the place, peering through the low light at a pair huddled suspiciously beneath one of the room’s many arches, when Jyn appears in front of him. He’s about to reprimand her—they’re pretending not to know each other; that’s a key part of the strategy here—but then she moves to press herself fully against him, reaching up to slip her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.
Cassian nearly blacks out.
“Jyn?” he manages, sliding his arms around her more on instinct than anything else. “What are you—”
“I see him,” Jyn whispers. She clasps his shoulder, drawing him closer, and Cassian has to think for a moment before he can remember who she’s even talking about.
“The smuggler?” he asks. They’ve been trying to track this guy down for weeks, hoping he’ll cave and offer them a discount on stolen Imperial machine parts.
“Over by the door,” she says, nodding against his shoulder. Then she moves her hips in a way Cassian is utterly unprepared for, and he just barely manages to hold back a whimper.
“What are you doing?” he asks, fist clenching against her shoulder blades in spite of himself.
“Dancing,” she says, like this should be obvious. “You know: blending in. Like you’ve been lecturing me about.”
“I sort of assumed you weren’t listening,” Cassian says, tilting his head to the side to rest it against hers. (Might as well sell it. She’s right. Blending in.)
“I listened the first time,” she grumbles. “Not the fifth time. You repeat yourself a lot.”
He chuckles, tightening his arms around her just a little. “Repetition is important.”
“Also boring,” she adds.
“You sound like K.”
He feels rather than sees her scowl. “Never say that to me again.”
He’s about to say something else, but then she turns her head so that her lips press against the base of his neck and all words escape him. He’s lucky to still be standing.
“Uh—”
“He’s moving,” she says, and he shivers at the way her lips move against his skin in the process.
“Right. Got a plan?”
“I’m going to follow him.”
He sighs. “Got a better plan?”
“Move your hand down.”
He really was not expecting that.
“What?” he nearly chokes.
“Just do it.”
When he does, inching his hand slowly down the soft curve of her lower back, his hand touches something hard: a blaster, tucked into her pants and hidden beneath her shirt.
He groans. “I told you not to do this. What happened to listening?”
Her smile stretches wide across his skin.
“I listened to you,” she whispers. “I just chose to ignore you.”
He laughs, presses his lips to her temple; he might as well, since he has the excuse.
“Sounds about right.”