Again, Jyn gave him a tiny smile, this one an apology more than anything else. She wasn't going to say she was sorry when she hadn't actually told him anything yet, but there was no way to make these conversations any easier. Some part of her remained half-convinced that it would prove to be too much. If it did, she wouldn't be able to fault him. Probably better to find out sooner rather than later, anyway.
But, for now, she was going to say what she'd intended to — a sort of fact in its own right, albeit introduced outside the bounds of their usual fact-swapping game. She had promised she would try. This felt like trying.
"When I first got here," she said, "you know, with... him... we hadn't been to our apartments yet, and started joking about what they'd be like. I think we were nervous to see them. Or be separated. Or both. And didn't want to say it. So we listed off ridiculous things they might have. Floors made of hardwood from Endor. Countertops of Naboo marble. A view like the upper levels of Coruscant." She said all of this quiet and not outwardly emotional, much like the way she had first told him about her history with his previous self, a restrained quality in her voice, almost as if she was trying to pull the words back into herself even as they left her mouth. As she went on, though, her voice got a little quieter, a little less steady. She had never talked about this with anyone before. She would've tried not to think about it if her subconscious hadn't made that impossible.
"But then we started adding to it, when we thought of ideas. All of the little luxuries that people like us never got to have. A featherbed. A giant bathtub, with hot water that wouldn't run out. That sort of thing. Not a joke anymore, but a fantasy." Her teeth pressed hard to her lower lip. "In a lot of the dreams I'd have, later, once I was on my own, that's where we were. That... imaginary home. I guess I was wrong, earlier, when I said I'd never pictured what peace would look like. That was the first time I started to."
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But, for now, she was going to say what she'd intended to — a sort of fact in its own right, albeit introduced outside the bounds of their usual fact-swapping game. She had promised she would try. This felt like trying.
"When I first got here," she said, "you know, with... him... we hadn't been to our apartments yet, and started joking about what they'd be like. I think we were nervous to see them. Or be separated. Or both. And didn't want to say it. So we listed off ridiculous things they might have. Floors made of hardwood from Endor. Countertops of Naboo marble. A view like the upper levels of Coruscant." She said all of this quiet and not outwardly emotional, much like the way she had first told him about her history with his previous self, a restrained quality in her voice, almost as if she was trying to pull the words back into herself even as they left her mouth. As she went on, though, her voice got a little quieter, a little less steady. She had never talked about this with anyone before. She would've tried not to think about it if her subconscious hadn't made that impossible.
"But then we started adding to it, when we thought of ideas. All of the little luxuries that people like us never got to have. A featherbed. A giant bathtub, with hot water that wouldn't run out. That sort of thing. Not a joke anymore, but a fantasy." Her teeth pressed hard to her lower lip. "In a lot of the dreams I'd have, later, once I was on my own, that's where we were. That... imaginary home. I guess I was wrong, earlier, when I said I'd never pictured what peace would look like. That was the first time I started to."