Chapter Text
Some people seem to get all sunshine, and some all shadow.
Louisa May Alcott
I will go if you ask me to
I will stay if you dare
And if I go, I’m going crazy
I’ll let my darling take me there
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Cassian saw it too late. Much too late.
He remembers his hand on the man’s throat when he slammed him against the wall. The vital panic and the complete desperation in the man’s eyes as he clawed at Cassian’s grip, choking, spluttering, dying….
“Confess, you son of a bitch,” Cassian had hissed, his fingers tightening around the man’s throat. “Say you killed her. Say it!”
Someone was shouting from outside the interrogation room, banging on the door, trying to turn the lock. But it didn’t matter; the chair Cassian had pushed underneath the doorknob was holding firm. He heard Dameron cursing profusely in Spanish, then calling out his name. But everything sounded like it was coming from far away, from a different world, a different planet. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, beating in his ears like a steady, violent drum.
He growled again. “Confess, you son of a bitch!”
“No..no…I didn’t - I didn’t - do - it…”
The lights were ebbing away from the man’s eyes. Fingers clawing. Breaths coming out in gasps.
“I know you did it!” hissed Cassian. “Say the words, asshole!”
Someone was battering down the door. Bang. Bang. Bang.
And Cassian saw it happening too late.
Before he knew it, he felt the cold, hard barrel of the gun jammed underneath his chin. The man’s puffy red face turned from fright to triumph and he cackled for air when Cassian’s fingers began loosening their grip on his neck.
The man spluttered, “Too slow, detective.”
I am about to die, Cassian thought.
And it was not like the death he had imagined or dreamed for himself at all. No flames, no dust, no blood seeping from his sides. No pair of green eyes staring into his own. It was simply this: his own gun held in the hand of a murder suspect he was supposed to interrogate, pointed straight up his chin, about to blow his brains out.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“I’m sorry,” said the man, and his whole body began shaking with sobs. His round cheeks, his glasses - all splattered with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
I am about to die.
The gun shook violently in the man’s hand; Cassian could feel the tremor going through his entire body. Then, suddenly, the barrel turned and the noise of the gunshot exploded in the tiny room, followed by a sound Cassian had hoped he would never hear again. The sound of a body hitting the ground.
The suspect. Crumbled. Broken. Dead at Cassian’s feet, Cassian’s gun still in his hand.
Red. There was red everywhere.
It was Cassian’s fault. He had seen it coming too late. Much too late.
But, then again, Cassian thinks he sees everything too late.
Draven flinches when he looks at Cassian. It is a twitch in his right eye, an unremarkable, but unusual tick that has never been a habit of the man. There is sweat on his brow, above his thin moustache. His usually calm demeanour is now replaced by a seething, suppressed rage that makes the air in the office cackle with tension.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Andor?”
Cassian’s tongue feels as though as it is stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Precisely.” Draven slams a hand on the desk. The noise shakes between them like an earthquake. “You and you alone are responsible for this. Mark my words.”
“Yes, I am responsible for this,” says Cassian, looking his superior straight in the eye. He is never one for flinching. Especially when it comes to something he has done wrong. “Dameron wanted to interrogate him. But I pulled rank. Said it was my case. I wanted to - ”
“Be the hero?”
The anger flares up inside Cassian’s chest. “You have known me for years, Inspector,” he says, his voice cold and strained. “You trained me into the best detective in the force. Is this honestly what you think of me?”
Draven winces, looks away for a second. “Of course not,” he snaps. “You are right. You are my best detective. Which is why I still can’t accept what happened. You didn’t just lose your head, Andor. You attacked a suspect in an interrogation room after barring the door from the inside. It wasn’t an amateurish mistake.”
“It was a mistake.”
“If it had been another detective, I would understand. But you…This is reckless. Foolish. Emotional. Extremely out of character.”
Reckless. Foolish. Emotional.
A dreadfully sad thought enters Cassian’s mind. Is he becoming more like her? Is a brief encounter by her hospital bed, five years after their divorce, all it takes to render him completely unrecognisable? He would laugh if there wasn’t a dead man being sent to the morgue because of him, and there wasn’t blood and brains scattered on the walls downstairs.
“The man was guilty,” Cassian brings himself to say. His voice is steady, surprisingly so. “All the evidence pointed to him. It still points to him. He did it. I know he did it.”
“Of course, the bastard did it! But now that he’s dead, there will be no trial. No proof. No justice for the family.” Draven spits out the word like it is poisoned. Like he doesn’t much care for it, but has to. “And not to mention the fucking trouble you’ve put us in. With the press, the higher-ups, the family.”
“I know, sir. I apologise. I’ll…” Cassian is barely able to sigh. The heaviness in his chest…it is still too fresh, too raw. “I’ll tell the victim’s family myself.”
Draven grunts. “I expect nothing less. But we will tell them tomorrow, Andor. It’s Christmas, and no one deserves to hear their child’s killer will not be brought to justice on Christmas.” The inspector looks wearily at Cassian and it is the closest thing he could ever manage to pity. “Andor, I know it’s been a tough few weeks for you and it gives me no pleasure to say what I have to say next.”
It has been a tough few years, to be exact. But the fact that Draven didn’t say so tells Cassian that his mentor simply doesn’t want to go there. He could only be grateful.
“I’m suspending you, Andor,” says Draven, his mouth tight at the corners. “I’m suspending you indefinitely. I’m giving the case over to Dameron. Surely you understand why, of course.”
Yes, sir, Cassian wants to say, but the words will not come.
Cassian can’t decide which is worse: the pain or the anger. Somehow, they have blended into one and have turned into a rearing, hungry monster who is wrestling back control. The beast is creeping up inside his body, slowly, gratingly, as though it had claws, and Cassian can do nothing but let it tear apart whatever pride he has left in his heart. He stumbles into his chair, grabs the keyboard, and smashes it into pieces over his desk.
It is not even a relief that the precinct is now empty and no one is here to witness his outburst. He doesn’t think he would even care if the place was packed.
He buries his head in his hands and the drumming in his ears gets worse.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
There was red. So much red. There seems to be too much red wherever he goes. Perhaps it follows him around like a permanent stain…
“Andor?”
He looks up and there is Kes Dameron, already in his jacket, with a concerned look on his face.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re alright,” says Dameron in Spanish, smiling humourlessly. “You’re obviously not.”
Cassian manages only a grunt. He runs a hand through his hair, sucks in a long breath.
“I’ve had better days.”
“Haven’t we all?” Dameron’s smile becomes warmer. He hesitates a moment before continuing. “I hope I wasn’t being presumptuous, but I called Kay. He’s at a crime scene but he’s heading back as soon as he can. I thought it’d help…to have a friend around.”
“Thanks, Dameron.”
“Listen, Andor. My invitation still stands.” He gestures around the precinct at the empty desks and the darkened hallway outside. “Everyone’s gone home. You and Kay can still swing around our place, you know. Shara said she made plenty of food. Yesterday, I told Poe you guys were coming and he hung up stockings. I know it’s starting to get late, but you still have time.”
You still have time. Cassian almost laughs at that.
“Thanks, Dameron, but I don’t…Well, it’s my fault we have a murder suspect who just put a bullet in his own brain.” He knows his attempt at a smile is coming across as a sneer, but he can’t care less. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
“Come on, man. It’s Christmas.”
“I like you, Dameron, but if I hear that line one more time, I’m going to punch someone. Preferably you.”
“Maybe you need to punch someone. Maybe it’ll help.”
“Help with what?” asks Cassian, something like dread rising up in him.
Dameron shrugs. “With whatever made you go mental on that suspect. All this shit you carry around, Andor...it can become a prison, you know.” He pauses, tries to hold Cassian’s gaze. “I know you took a few days off work a couple of weeks ago. I think I know where you went. And I saw - ”
“Dameron, can we not do this?”
“Do what?”
“This. Here. After I’ve just been suspended indefinitely.”
“You don’t have to - ”
“Just go home, Dameron,” sighs Cassian. “Go home. Spend Christmas with your wife and your son. It’s the least you can do for me. God knows, half of the guys here would sacrifice their right arm just to have the chance.”
“Andor - ”
“Seriously. Just fuck off, Dameron.”
There are only Christmas songs on the radio. Just Christmas songs. No carols. Cassian sits in the empty precinct, drinking from his bottle of whiskey (he is out of mezcal) as he fiddles at the dial. It is all Jingle Bells, All I Want For Christmas Is You, Frosty the Snowman. They are not what he wants to hear at all.
What he wants to hear, however, belongs to another time, another place, wrapped in another person entirely. Something he misses, but not quite, and the nostalgia tastes as bittersweet as the whiskey that he’s sipping from his glass.
A long time ago, he had told Chirrut that there are days when he misses Mexico. He supposes today is one of those days.
He takes another sip of the whiskey, turns over to another station. Last Christmas. Not ideal, but passable. He almost hums along and then finds himself laughing at the realisation.
Another sip. Then he lights a cigarette, brings it to his lips, breathes in slowly. The smoke calms him somewhat. At least, it takes him away for a bit - from the room, the blood, even the lights.
He goes over everything in his mind for what seems like the hundredth time. The questions he asked. The answers the suspect gave. The whimpering. The tears. The goddamn act.
The case files are still in the drawers of his desk. He brings them out, perhaps for the last time, and looks through the photographs. His eyes linger too long on each and every one of them, going through every detail, every piece of evidence. And this is how Kay finds him an hour later when he arrives back at the precinct.
“Double homicide,” says Kay, drawing up a chair and sitting down across from Cassian. “Both prostitutes. A maid found them with their throats cut in a fancy hotel room. Pretty obvious who did it. Which means no one’s getting put in jail.” He scoffs. “The bastards. You've got to admire their arrogance.”
Typical. Cassian offers no reply. He lets the photograph slip out of his hand and back into the file. He picks up his glass again.
“Dameron called,” says Kay, his tone neutral. He arches an eyebrow at Cassian. “I see you’re taking what happened well.”
“As well as I can.”
Kay watches him for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “It is not your fault, Cassian,” says Kay and he shrugs when Cassian glares at him. “I mean, it is partly your fault, but they shouldn’t have given you the case in the first place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, please, Cassian, I'm not daft! I saw the victim’s body, remember? Both at the crime scene and at the morgue.” Kay’s eyes slip down to the photographs on the table. “I thought it was her at first. Same height. Same hair colour. Same age. Even the same eye colour.” He leans over and picks up one of the photographs. He holds it up to the light, observing it with a strange fascination. “But the nose’s different. The chin too. And the cheekbones are not the same. All these differences become more pronounced, but only after you've given it some time… Like I said, they shouldn’t have given you the case. And you shouldn’t have taken it.”
“Kay - ”
“Bloody detectives,” scoffs Kay. He tosses the photograph down on the table and leans back in his chair. “You are wired differently from the rest of us, the whole lot of you. There are blokes like Dameron who could make a psychopath quiver with fear and then go home to his wife and child with a smile on his face. And then there are blokes who walk around like they carry the entire world on their shoulders even though the world doesn’t need them to.”
“Beautiful observation, Kay,” drawls Cassian, lifting up his glass in a mock toast. “Really beautiful. Are you saying I’m one of the latter? Very subtly done.”
“What I’m saying, my friend, is you are not Dameron.”
Cassian feels the smoke stinging his eyes and his chest squeezes at Kay’s words. “I don’t need a lecture.”
“Believe me, I’m not giving you a lecture. I’m asking you a question,” says Kay, sneering a little as he reaches over and takes the cigarette from Cassian’s hand. He stubs it out on the surface of the desk, not caring one bit that he’s making a mark on the wood. “Tell me, Cassian. Are you happy?”
Cassian frowns. “Kay, what are you playing at?”
“Just answer the bloody question.”
“Well…” He scratches absent-mindedly at his beard. “Obviously not right now.”
“I don’t mean right now, you fool. I mean in general. In life. Are you happy?”
“Are you happy?”
Kay rolls his eyes. “No. But I am not unhappy. Are you?”
Cassian pauses even though he already knows the answer. He takes another sip of whiskey and the world becomes soft at the taste. He is very drunk, he realises, but he is still astonished when the word slips out.
“Yes,” he says. His voice is surprisingly quiet and honest, but once he hears it, it makes him continue as though he doesn't quite know how to stop. “Yes. But I reckon that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Some people are meant for happiness. You, perhaps. Dameron, for sure. Even fucking Melshi.” He laughs dryly and feels a lump forming in his throat. He takes another drink. “Chirrut. Baze. Bodhi too. Even if he hasn’t got it now, he will someday. But not me, Kay. Not me. That’s just the way it is. I’m not bitter. I made peace with it a long time ago.”
“And there’s the rub, Cassian,” sighs Kay, looking sadder than Cassian has ever seen him. “I don’t think you’re supposed to.”
Cassian’s heart tightens at that. He turns away, unable to meet his friend’s eye. “What are you on about, Kay?”
“I’m on about this,” says Kay. He leans forward again and takes the glass of whiskey from Cassian’s hand. “You’re drinking too much, Cassian. You’re good at hiding it, I give you that. You never drink during working hours or when other people are here. You never show up drunk in the mornings. You hardly ever look affected, half the time. But sometimes I think - ”
“Alright, I get the point,” says Cassian, lifting a hand to stop his friend mid-sentence. He doesn’t think he can bear to hear anymore. “What do you want from me, Kay?”
Kay smirks. He puts the glass back down on the table with a soft clink. “We’re going for a drive.”
Kay drives them around for an hour, weaving between small sides streets, onto the motorway and then back onto the small side streets again. Cassian has a hunch that they’re driving around aimlessly just so he can have time to sober up. The buzz - humming and soft and comforting in his chest - is slowly fading away, and he huddles in his seat with his jacket wrapped tightly around him. Outside, there is a soft snowfall. He watches the flakes as they hit the windshield before getting swiped away as though they mean nothing.
She likes the snow, he remembers.
You still love her, don’t you?
She still loves you too.
He tells himself that he has moved on. That he is moving on. Isn't that what he’s good at? Moving on and living as though everything has not changed…
But then the gunshot rings out again. The man is dead at his feet. Red everywhere. He sees her eyes as she is walking out the door. And he has to remind himself that it is the alcohol talking - or whatever is left of it anyway. It is the alcohol that’s bringing back the memories. Not him. Not really.
Finally, it is Kay’s voice that breaks through his reverie.
“We’re here.”
The car slows to a halt and Cassian stares out the window. He has to squint to look through the whiteness, but there is no mistaking the large house by the side of the road and the name plastered on the front gate.
He can feel his grip tightening on the hem of his jacket. “Rehab facility? Kay, is this a joke?”
“I don’t know,” says Kay, turning to look at him with mock concern. “Are we laughing?”
“Kay - ”
“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”
Cassian stares at his friend. “What the - ”
“Carl Jung.”
“And you just happen to have that quote stored somewhere in that thick head of yours?”
“I’m a forensic scientist, Cassian, and a Cambridge native with two different degrees.” Kay’s lips curl into a sneer. “Are you honestly asking me that question?”
“What is this about?”
“You need help.”
“I don’t need - ”
“Five years, Cassian. Five years. That’s how long it’s been since you divorced her. A couple of weeks ago, she got shot and they called you and you were there in a flash.”
“I was her emergency contact. I had - ”
Kay quells him with a look. “And today you completely lost it and got a murder suspect shot. I know you have baggage, Cassian. Even before she came along. But now, things are getting worse and I’m not going to sit around and watch you kill yourself.”
“It is not going to come to that.”
“Is it?” Kay’s sneer disappears and he glares at Cassian, his gaze cutting through everything like a blade. “Sometimes I think you want to get it over with. Maybe have some bastard do it for you on the job. It’s like there is a sick competition between you and her. Who’s going to kick it first. That sort of thing. I’d say it’s twisted but, unfortunately, I know you both too well.”
Cassian has to look away. There is pain in those brown eyes of Kay’s, more than he has ever seen before. It reminds him of Bodhi, angry and disappointed on the phone. Of Jyn lying in the hospital bed, looking at him with hurt and resentment mixed in with those flecks of green.
“I know I’m not exactly a healthy person myself,” says Kay, and Cassian can hear the grimace in his tone. “But I have you and I suppose that’s something. I am mostly satisfied. I used to have Chirrut and Baze and Bodhi too. Even her, in some fashion. But then the two of you ruined all that when you fucked everything up.”
Cassian’s voice is unbelievably quiet when he says: “I never said I was sorry. Not to you.”
“You can say it now,” says Kay. “Get out of the car and walk in through those doors. I’ll be here when you get out.”
“I can’t… The family. Tomorrow.”
“Well, the day after tomorrow then. I’ll drive you back here.”
Cassian tries to bring himself to say something. Anything. But his brain is running out of excuses and he knows it. He hears Kay sigh again, and the sound is more one of sadness than disappointment.
“You’re still waiting, I know. You’re still waiting for her to come home. But, Cassian, what would she come home to? You? Like this?” Kay scoffs. “For once, do us all a favour and tell the truth.”
The truth?
Cassian closes his eyes and it is her voice he hears.
You’re such a fucking liar, she had told him once. You always were.
What is the truth, exactly? That what happened today in the interrogation room was his fault? He knows that already. Is it the fact that he is not fine and has never been fine? That he still misses her even though sometimes he can’t recall her face? That he was the one to blame for her walking out or for him letting her go?
It feels as though there are too many truths and not enough time to tell them all. Where would he even begin? Sometimes, he is afraid that if he were to start, he would never be able to stop.
“Cassian,” says Kay softly and kindly, or as kindly as Kay can say anything, “please just try.”
Cassian remembers his phone call to Bodhi earlier that day. Of Bodhi telling him that she has decided to stop. Perhaps if she’s trying, then maybe he should try too. Somehow.
So eventually -
“Okay,” says Cassian. “Okay. But, Kay, you have to take me somewhere first.”
They find the church after a few times of getting lost down a couple of dead-end streets. Despite Kay knowing the area a little, Cassian has to search up the location on his phone. Finally, after crossing a little bridge and passing through a closed shopping street, Kay rounds a corner and there it is. A small church, decked out in yellow lights and wreaths, with a Christmas tree in the yard complete with a little nativity scene.
Cassian signals to his friend and the car halts to a stop opposite the building. He can see a few late comers going in through the church door. A young mother with her child, with boxes of presents squeezed under their arms. The scene nearly brings a smile to his lips.
“Cassian, why are we here?” asks Kay.
“We’re going to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
Cassian doesn't reply, but rolls down his window instead. Flecks of snow float in, creating patterns on his jacket. Outside, the world is all white, and he thinks it is one of the most beautiful sights he has ever seen. He brings up a hand, rubs the tiredness away from his eyes, and a few minutes later, their silence is shattered when the first few bars of a song begin to filter through.
There is an organ, Cassian hears immediately. And a choir. Not the best he’s ever heard, but still good. The song is Silent Night. It is not being sung in Spanish like he’d desperately hoped for, but it is enough to take him back just the same.
“Is this,” asks Kay, a note of humour in his voice, “an indulgence of your Catholic guilt?”
“No,” replies Cassian, smiling a little, and his voice is firm despite the cold. “No, it’s not. It’s a goodbye.”
He doesn’t need to explain to what or to whom the goodbye is for. There is no need. He and Kay simply sit in the car, listening, and he keeps his eyes closed as the song plays on and on, until the last note drifts away with the sharp, broken breeze.
Bodhi’s right, he thinks. It doesn’t really matter. It is what it is.
But maybe one day he’ll be ready. One day.
And I recall all of them nights down in Mexico
One place I may never go in my life again
Was I just off somewhere just too high
But I can't remember if we said goodbye
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