Chapter Text
December 24th, 6:47 PM
The unmarked sedan was already cold.
Detective Jyn Erso shifted in the passenger seat, pulling her coat tighter as her partner killed the engine. Through the wind shirt, Beacon Hill's gas lamps cast warm pools of light on brownstone steps, making the neighborhood look like a Christmas card. Which was exactly the kind of thing that made her jaw tight.
"Remind me why we couldn't surveil from somewhere with heating?" she muttered.
Detective Cassian Andor gave her a sidelong look as he positioned the car with a clear view of the brownstone three doors down. "Because Krennic has a doorman. And neighbors who notice strange cars."
"Neighbors who are currently at the Stardust Gala," Jyn pointed out.
"Most of them." Cassian cut the headlights. "We stay mobile ready and inconspicuous. Captain's orders."
She didn't argue. Cassian had been her partner for seven months now, transferred from some undercover operation he never talked about, and she'd learned to read his careful silences. When he said Captain's orders in that particular tone, he meant I agree with them, but I'll let you complain if you need to.
She didn't need to. Not really.
The street was postcard-perfect: brick sidewalks, worked-iron fences, snow already dusting the historic architecture. In the distance, the State House dome glowed gold against the darkening sky. Church bells from Park Street Church had rung already. Very festive. Very much everything Jyn had been avoiding for fifteen years, that’s why she came to the States.
"I'm going to get the equipment," Cassian said, popping his door.
While he moved to the trunk, Jyn studied their target building. Orson Krennic's brownstone was indistinguishable from its neighbors—elegant, expensive, exactly the kind of place a respected charity director could afford. If you didn’t know he’d stolen $2.3 million from the families of dead cops and firefighters.
The trunk slammed. Cassian slid back into the driver's seat with their surveillance kit and two paper bags that smelled devastatingly appetizing.
"You brought food?" Jyn asked.
"Of course, I mean, it’s a long stakeout. On Christmas Eve."
Yellow light leaked through closed curtains. Someone was home. Someone who wasn’t the supposed occupant, since the man has been reported enjoying Christmastime, yet, somebody obviously was there
"Coffee?" Her relentless partner asked, producing two paper cups from a cardboard carrier wedged between their seats. The logo read Caffé Vittoria in an elegant script.
Jyn accepted one, letting the warmth seep into her frozen fingers. "North End? You went all the way to the North End?"
"Best espresso in the city." Cassian shrugged, settling back into his seat. "I figured if we're doing this, might as well have good coffee."
She took a sip. Rich, dark, perfect. "It's good."
"Yep. Now, I didn’t mind the company… I took stakeout duty from Melshi, and I heard you volunteered?"
"I’m relatively new here, and the last time I spent an extended period of time with Melshi, I decked him. Not on purpose, mind you, but he’s avoided me since… Besides, I don’t celebrate Christmas."
"Another faith?"
"None to speak of."
She thought she heard once he was raised Catholic, but while Cassian’s warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners at her mentioning the poorly timed Melshi incident, he pushed no further.
"Cinnamon roll? Help yourself, I don’t like’em," He offered a white bakery box, this time. Modern Pastry, also North End. She blinked at the bag. Modern Pastry was in the North End, a twenty-minute detour from the precinct. Which meant he'd gone out of his way. Again.
"You didn't have to—"
"I know." He was already setting up the camera mount. "But if we're spending the next six hours watching an empty apartment, we might as well have decent food."
Seeing she hesitated, he opened the box, and the smell hit her. Sweet, buttery, impossible to resist. She'd mentioned once, months ago, that she liked their pastries, and she had the quirk of putting a dash of cinnamon in her coffee as soon as the weather cooled. She got comforted by the taste, while others were surprised and soon left her cups alone. She hadn't realized he'd been paying attention.
Jyn took one, smiling for the first time that day. "Thanks."
Outside, light snow had started falling, dusting the parked cars and chain-link fences. The forecast had called for flurries, maybe an inch. The forecast, Jyn thought darkly, was lying. The flakes were getting bigger, falling faster, the kind of snow that meant business. A bloody white Christmas, how marvelous… or not. Very, very not.
"Weather's picking up," she observed, frowning, eyes on the target window.
"We've got eyes on the entrance and the fire escape. Radio's set to channel 7. Backup's twenty minutes out if we need them, but the uniforms are stretched thin tonight."
"Christmas Eve."
"Christmas Eve," he agreed. "We’ll be fine."
Famous last words, probably. But the car was warm enough for now, the coffee was genuinely excellent, and the cinnamon roll was really good. The street was quiet. Almost peaceful.
They would be relieved in a couple of hours, but for now, they settled into the familiar rhythm of surveillance: position checks, radio tests, logging the time.
Jyn took another sip of coffee and tried not to think about the last time Christmas felt like anything other than a day to get through.
"So," Cassian said, settling back in his seat. "Want to review the case file one more time?"
"I've memorized the case file. So did you."
"Humor me."
She sighed, but pulled out her notebook anyway. Yes, she was old school, paper, fountain pen and all. And if Cassian wanted to talk through the details one more time before things got interesting, she wasn't going to argue.
"Stardust Fund," she began. "Charity for families of first responders killed in the line of duty. Operational for eight years raised approximately eleven million in that time."
"Director?"
"Orson Krennic. Fifty-one, former city councilman, very connected. Sits on half a dozen nonprofit boards. Real pillar-of-the-community type."
"Until three months ago."
"Until three months ago," Jyn agreed, "when Bodhi Rook walks into BPD and blows the whole thing open. He ends up in Financial Crimes only armed with a flash drive and a guilty conscience."
She could still see him: twenty-four years old, hands shaking so hard he could barely hand out the evidence —printouts, USB drives — he'd brought. Junior accountant at a firm that audited nonprofits. He'd found irregularities in Stardust's books during a routine review—expenses that didn't match, donations that disappeared into vague categories, offshore transactions that made no sense.
His supervisors had told him to bury it. The firm was paid well by Krennic; they didn't want to lose the client. Bodhi had tried. He'd really tried. But he couldn't sleep, couldn't live with what he knew.
So he'd come to the police.
"Man risked everything," Cassian said quietly. "His career, his reputation, I heard his firm blacklisted him the day we interviewed him."
"And he came forward anyway." Jyn respected that. More than respected it. "Takes guts."
"It does." Cassian's voice carried something complicated—approval, maybe, or recognition. "Financial Crimes ran with his evidence. Found systematic embezzlement going back five years. Approximately two point three million diverted to offshore accounts, shell companies, real estate holdings in Krennic's name."
Jyn nodded, flipping through her notes even though she didn't need them. "Money that was supposed to go to college funds. Grief counseling. Housing assistance for widows and kids."
"Instead it went to Krennic's vacation home in the Bahamas."
The anger in her chest was familiar, useful. This was why she did the job. People like Krennic—people who stole from the vulnerable, who smiled at galas while pocketing donations meant for orphans—those people needed to be stopped.
"We've got the paper trail," she said. "Financial Crimes has been building the case for months. But we need the physical evidence. A testimony from a key player might help, as well."
"The ledgers and the laptop are paramount, though," Cassian confirmed. "Bodhi says Krennic kept duplicate records. Real numbers, not the cooked books he showed the board. Hidden in this apartment."
"And tonight, while Krennic's playing the hero at the gala—"
"His mysterious Senior accountant is supposed to retrieve them and run."
Jyn tapped her pen against the notebook. This was the part that had seemed almost too convenient but, apparently, Krennic's accountant, spooked by the investigation, was cutting a deal to save himself. They found a flight to Costa Rica booked for tomorrow morning under an Alias. On Christmas Day, no extradition treaty with the US. All he had to do was grab the evidence, and he'd disappear.
Except they'd be waiting, provided they were caught in fragrante, whoever they turned out to be. The alias had yet to be cracked.
The snow was falling harder now, accumulating on the windshield in thin white lines. The street remained empty, the brownstone dark except for the security lights. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang again—8 PM.
Cassian poured more coffee. Jyn ate half the cinnamon roll and pretended it was not as good as it was.
"How long do you think until the guy shows?" she asked.
"Gala ends at eleven. He'll want to wait until after that, make sure Krennic's not coming home early. Midnight, maybe 1 AM. But after midnight, it’s not on us anymore."
"Long wait, I’m glad we’ll likely be relieved before then."
"Let’s hope, because we don’t know who to arrest exactly. The info is still incoming, Kay said he’ll put it forward soon, though."
They fell into silence. Comfortable, mostly. The kind of quiet that came from spending hours in close quarters, learning each other's rhythms. Cassian didn't fill the space with unnecessary chatter, and Jyn appreciated that. When he did talk, it usually mattered.
Outside, Boston settled into its Christmas Eve routine: lights in windows, the occasional car passing, snow falling steadily now. The weather had definitely underestimated this one. Already three inches on the ground, maybe more.
Jyn's phone buzzed—text from the district. Status?
She typed back: In position. No movement yet.
Stay warm. Supposed to be a cold one.
"Folks checking in?" Cassian asked.
"Reminding us it's cold. Very helpful."
He almost smiled. "Could be worse. We could be at that gala making small talk."
"True. This is definitely preferable to a cocktail party conversation."
"Even on Christmas Eve?"
"Especially on Christmas Eve."
She said it lightly, but something shifted in Cassian's expression—not pity, exactly. Understanding, maybe. Out of friendship or not, he’d volunteered for this shift too. He had his own reasons for preferring surveillance to celebration.
By 9 PM, the snow was serious. By ten, the radio crackled with reports of accidents and a few stuck vehicles. The city was slowing down.
"Think we should be worried?" Jyn asked.
Cassian watched the accumulation on the side mirror. "We'll be fine," he said again, but his voice carried a note of doubt now.
Still, they had a job to do. A case to close. And somewhere out there, their suspect, whose name they were about to learn the identity of, was preparing to run.
They just had to wait, see whoever would turn up.By eleven-thirty, the snow had stopped being picturesque and definitely started being a problem.
Jyn watched a plow rumble past—the first they'd seen in over an hour—leaving a waist-high ridge of snow along the curb. Their sedan was already half-buried, white drifts creeping up the wheel wells and across the hood. The windshield wipers were fighting a losing battle.
The radio crackled: "Unit 7-3, we're stuck on Comm Ave near BU. Requesting assistance."
"Copy that, 7-3... stand by."
A longer pause than there should have been. Then: "7-3, you're going to be waiting a while. DPW can't keep up. We've got stuck vehicles across the city."
Cassian turned up the radio volume and met Jyn's eyes.
"How bad?" she asked.
"Bad enough." He checked his phone—probably the weather radar. His expression tightened. "Nor'easter's stalled over us. They're revising estimates to fourteen, maybe sixteen inches."
"Christ." Jyn looked out at the street. The elegant gas lamps were barely visible through the white curtain of falling snow. "Are we stuck?"
"Not yet. But if it keeps coming like this..." He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
The radio buzzed again: "All units, be advised: multiple accidents on 93 and Storrow. Avoid unnecessary travel. If you're in position, stay in position unless emergency requires relocation."
Jyn reached up for the radio. "Should we call it in? Tell them we might need to abort?"
Cassian's hand hovered over the ignition, but he didn't turn it. "We could. If we leave now, we can probably make it back to the precinct."
"But?"
"But now there's no one else available to take the watch. And if the guy shows up while we're gone..." He gestured at the brownstone. "He grabs the evidence and disappears. The case falls apart. We should at least witness who he is, right?"
Jyn looked at the building. Dark windows now. Snow piling on the steps. Somewhere inside was proof that Krennic had stolen from families who'd already lost everything. Families like hers, once. Kids who'd wake up Christmas morning without a parent, relying on the kindness of strangers—strangers who'd donated to a fund that was supposed to help, not line a con man's pockets.
"We stay," she said.
"It's going to be a long night, but we should pull it off."
"I'm in." She met his eyes. "We didn't come this far to let him flee. We’ve waited all this time already. "
"Alright. We’re staying. But we need to be smart about it."
He killed the engine.
The sudden silence was startling. No more heater hum, no more defroster. Just the muffled quiet of heavy snow and their own breathing, visible now in small clouds.
"Fuel conservation," Cassian explained, though she'd already understood. "We'll run it every thirty minutes for ten minutes. Keep the core temp up without burning through the tank."
"How long can we last?"
"If the guy, or new intel, shows in the next few hours? We're fine. If this goes until dawn..." He checked the gauge. "We'll manage. Might not be comfortable, but we'll manage."
Jyn pulled her coat tighter, already feeling the cold seeping through the doors.
"Good thing you brought lots of coffee besides the fancy cups."
"I have hot chocolate, as well, but perhaps we’re going to want to ration it." Cassian secured the thermos cap of his spare brew. "Body heat and hot liquids. That's what we've got."
He said it matter-of-factly, like he'd done this before. Maybe he had, during whatever undercover work had left him so careful with his words and his silence. Jyn didn't ask. Now wasn't the time.
Instead, she pulled out the emergency blanket from under her seat—standard kit for Boston winter stakeouts—and draped it across her lap. "I guess we're committed now."
"Guess so." Cassian adjusted the camera angle one more time, making sure they'd still have a clear view as snow accumulated on the lens. "Radio check every thirty minutes. Dodonna will want to know we're alive."
"Reassuring."
"I'm a realist."
The street was completely empty now—no cars, no pedestrians, just white silence and the distant groan of the city shutting down. Through the static on the radio came scattered reports: stuck on Huntington, need a tow on Boylston, canceling patrols in Back Bay until plows got through.
They were on their own.
11:39 PM
Jyn was about to suggest they picked a stupid Christmas car game to pass the time until midnight, when both of their phones buzzed.
He pulled it out of his coat pocket first, squinting at the screen. He went very still.
Jyn noticed immediately—that particular quality of stillness that meant something had gone wrong. She had seen it before, never bode well. "What is it?"
Cassian didn't answer. He was staring at his phone like it had just grown teeth. She thumbed hers open: a secure message from Kay at FC. Photo attached. Confirm ID when subject arrives.
She opened the attachment. The screen loaded slowly—old department phones, always slow—and then a driver's license photo appeared.
The cinnamon roll and coffee she ingested earlier turned to acid in her guts. Air left her lungs and she felt she might choke.
The photo was professional, bland—the kind taken for employee badges. White background, neutral expression. A man in his fifties, with graying hair and her tired eyes and a face that Jyn hadn't seen in fifteen years but would recognize anywhere, in any context, under any circumstances.
The world lurched sideways.
Galen, Walton, ERSO
Chief Financial Officer, Stardust Fund
DOB: 03/15/1969
Her father.
The man they were waiting to arrest was her father.
"Jyn?"
Cassian's voice came from very far away. She couldn't look away from the photo. Couldn't breathe properly. The car was too small, too cold, the air too thin.
"That's—" Her voice cracked. She tried again. "That's Galen Erso."
"I know, but—" Cassian's expression shifted into something she couldn't read. Concern, maybe. Or dread. "Jyn, is that your—"
"My father," Jyn said. Her voice came out flat. Professional. "The person we're waiting for. That's my father. Galen Erso."
The phones were still between them, each screen still showing that face. Fifteen years older than the last time she'd seen him. Thinner. Grayer. But unmistakably, undeniably her father. Galen Erso. CFO of the Stardust Fund. Complicit in the theft of $2.3 million from the families of deceased first responders.
Her father.
The father who'd left her after her mother died. Who'd taken a "job abroad" and sent checks to Saw twice a year with no return address. Who'd missed her birthdays and Christmases, Saw’s gradual fall into paranoia, her high school graduation, every single thing that mattered. Who she'd told people was dead, or simply gone—anything to avoid explaining the truth.
He'd been here. In Boston. In her new city. Working in her jurisdiction.
Stealing from people like her.
"Jyn." Cassian's voice was very gentle. "Talk to me."
She couldn't. Her throat had closed. Her hands were shaking—not from the cold, from something much worse.
The radio crackled: "All units, update on the nor’easter—"
Cassian turned it off.
The silence in the car was absolute. Just snow falling, muffling everything, while Jyn's heartbeat is stubbornly too loud in her ears.
"I didn't know," she managed finally. "I didn't know he was even alive. I didn't know he was—"
She couldn't finish. Didn't need to.
Cassian was already moving, pulling out his own phone—his personal one, still at forty percent. "I'm calling Draven. We'll get someone else on this. You're too close, it’s—"
"No."
"Jyn—"
"No." She forced herself to look away from the photo to meet Cassian's eyes. "I can do this."
"You're compromised. This is your father."
"I know who he is." Her voice came out harder than she meant it to. "And I know what he did. I can be professional."
"I'm not questioning your professionalism. I'm questioning whether you should have to be." Cassian's hand was still on his phone. "We call it in, we get reassigned, someone else makes the arrest. You don't have to—"
"There is no one else!" The words burst out louder than she'd intended. She took a breath, white breath puffing out of her mouth. "You heard the radio. Everyone's stuck. The storm's getting worse. If we leave now, he gets away. We’re sure he will come tonight, he must flee tomorrow. If not by plane because of the weather, he might disappear out of Krennic’s radar and we won’t find him for a very long time, if ever."
"Better than you having to arrest your own father."
"Is it?" She heard herself say it and couldn't take it back. "He walked away from me fifteen years ago, Cassian. He doesn't get to walk away from this."
The silence stretched between them. Outside, the snow fell heavier, trapping them more thoroughly with each passing minute.
Cassian studied her face. "If he comes, there’s no backup coming. Just you and me and him."
"I know, that’s my point."
"And my point is, you can handle that? Watching him, arresting him, processing him?"
Could she? Jyn had no idea. But she knew what would happen if they didn't: Galen Erso would board a plane to Costa Rica tomorrow morning. Or the next clear day. He'd disappear once more. And all those families—the widow waiting for her daughter's college fund, the kids who'd trusted that someone gave a damn—they'd have to live with knowing one of the men who'd stolen from them got away.
"I can handle it," she said, happy her voice did not shake. Saw would be proud.
Cassian held her gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he put his phone away.
"Alright," he said quietly. "We’re still in. But Jyn—if at any point this becomes too much, you tell me. Understood?"
She nodded and tried to shrug this away. He reached across the center console and did something he'd never done before: put his hand on her shoulder. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the warmth to register through her coat.
"We'll get through this," he said. "Whatever happens, we'll get through it."
Then his hand was gone, and he was checking the camera angles again, adjusting the radio, moving with practiced efficiency while Jyn sat frozen in the passenger seat.
Her father.
The man they were about to arrest was her father. Repeating it to herself did not make it any more real.
"Cassian, Bodhi Rook, he kept repeating "I must do something right," and he avoided my eyes." Eyes that she had inherited from the man whose picture was on their phones, she did not need to elaborate. "Did Rook know? Did he recognize a family resemblance? He must have recognized the last name, at least, didn’t he?"
"I don’t think he knew about your… about the CFO, he was real fidgety and avoided looking at everyone. I’m not sure he registered any information that didn’t come to him about Stardust Fund during his own search. If he’d known, he’d have told us long ago and you would have had an out."
"Pulling out raises questions. I likely wouldn’t have even if I knew of his involvement… Fuck! I… Stardust… I can’t believe Galen Erso took my old childhood nickname and turned that into a fraud!"
"What?"
"Stardust, seems obvious now that I know… I’m Stardust. It was his pet name for me, once."
"You’re joking, right?"
"Nope. He was the only one to ever call me that. Seems too uncanny of a coincidence."
"Honestly, this whole situation is uncanny. Did you know of Orson Krennic from childhood?"
"What," Jyn snaps instantly, fists curling in her coat pockets, "is this an interrogation, Andor? Am I suspected of anything? Do you doubt my integrity? If this is the case, then—"
"Jyn, calm down, I don’t suspect you of anything! Come on, we were only expected to do the first round of surveillance tonight. We just learned your… well, the CFO’s identity. You couldn’t have known. Besides, we’re partners. I trust you with my life."
His voice and posture were placating, but he got hold of her shoulders again and sought her gaze willingly, unwavering. His eyes were as genuine as earlier, when he offered her coffee.
"Trust goes both ways. I’m… sorry I got defensive, Cassian."
The church bells started at 11:59, not actually midnight—Old North Church, probably, though the snow made it hard to tell exactly where the sound was coming from. Twelve slow chimes that rolled through the frozen air like a pronouncement.
"Merry fucking Christmas," Jyn muttered, watching her breath fog against the window.
"Merry Christmas to you, too," Cassian glanced over. "Could be worse."
"How?"
"We could be at the gala dancing and pretending to drink champagne."
She huffed—not quite a laugh, but close enough. The corner of her mouth twitched upward for just a second before settling back into its determined line. She'd give him that one.
The windshield was completely buried now. Cassian had given up clearing it. They had radioed in their position and status: snowed in, maintaining surveillance through the side windows, all systems nominal. The dispatcher had wished them luck in a tone that suggested they’d need it. Nobody mentioned the fact that the suspect they were after shared her last name.
The car had become its own small world. Dark, cold creeping in at the edges despite the engine running in intervals to preserve fuel. They'd wrapped themselves in the second emergency blanket from the trunk—scratchy wool that smelled faintly of motor oil and old coffee. Their breath formed clouds in the air between them.
Jyn shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her fingers were stiff even inside her gloves.
"You know what I remember?" The words came out before she could stop them, the kind of confession that belonged to 12:30 AM on Christmas morning when the world had gone silent under snow. "My mom used to make these elaborate gingerbread houses. I'm talking full architectural plans. She'd spend weeks on them."
Cassian passed her the thermos—lukewarm chocolate now, but still better than nothing. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. She'd get these kits from the fancy kitchen store in Copley Place, but she'd never follow the instructions. Always had to make them more complicated." Jyn took a sip and grimaced slightly at the temperature. "One year she made Faneuil Hall. Another year it was our actual house, down to the shutters and the front steps. She'd let me do the icing, even though I always made a mess."
She fell quiet, surprised at herself. She didn't usually talk about this—didn't talk about her mother, or about Saw, didn’t talk about before, period. But something about the darkness and the cold and Cassian's steady presence beside her made the words easier. If they caught Galen, they both needed something to balance it with. She needed it. She was not sure if it was the cold pickling at her eyes, because the feeling got so much sharper since that identity reveal.
"The last Christmas before she died," Jyn continued, staring out at the buried street, "she was already sick, but she didn't tell me yet. She made this massive gingerbread version of Boston Common. The Frog Pond, the trees, even tiny gingerbread people ice-skating. Must've taken her forever."
Her throat tightened. She took another sip of coffee to cover it.
"I didn't know it was the last one," she said. "She did, though. She must have. Because she took pictures of everything. The tree, the presents, me holding that stupid gingerbread Common. Like she was trying to make sure I'd remember."
"You do remember," Cassian said quietly.
"Yeah." Jyn's jaw worked. She did remember—every detail, every moment, preserved like those gingerbread structures under glass. "And then she was gone, and Christmas became this ordinary day where my father would leave early for the office and come home late. If he came home at all. I'd wake up Christmas morning alone in that house with a present on the table—always something practical. Socks. School supplies. A new coat because I'd outgrown the old one."
The bitterness in her voice surprised her. She'd thought she'd buried that deeper.
She took another drink, longer this time. When she spoke again, she heard how her voice had hardened into something brittle, something that might break if she wasn't careful.
"After he left—after he just fucking left me— with Saw Gerrera showing up one morning and taking me in with little to no explanation. There was this charity. Christmas Angels, one of those programs that gives presents to foster kids. They gave me a bike one year. A nice one, deep blue-purple, with a star print all over and a basket. The first thing that felt like mine in forever. I didn’t even like purple, and purple was a girly color according to Saw, but we both grinned so hard, proud as punch. Come to think of it… Galen loved purple, called it the color of space."
The pieces were clicking into place as she said it. She watched Cassian's face and saw the moment understanding settled in his expression.
"And now I find out," Jyn said, voice shaking from fury, "he's been stealing that money from other kids. Kids just like I was. Kids who've lost everything and just want one fucking normal Christmas morning."
The heater kicked on with its familiar rattle. Warm air ghosted over her face, never quite enough to chase away the cold that had settled into her bones. Into her chest. Into the places where memories lived.
"That's the real reason why you volunteered," Cassian said. It wasn't a question.
"Can't spend Christmas pretending everything's fine when it never has been." Jyn turned to look at him then, studying his profile in the darkness. "What about you, honestly? You deserve a warmer place to spend Christmas Eve than freezing your ass off."
She watched him lean his head back against the seat. The brown leather was stiff with cold. Something shifted in his expression—the same thing she'd felt when she started talking about her mother. The decision to share something real.
"I don't, actually," he said.
"No family?"
"Not anymore."
Jyn waited. She recognized the weight of what he wasn't saying, the careful consideration happening behind his eyes. She'd just laid herself bare—it was only fair he got the choice to do the same.
It was close to 2 AM. The snow had created a strange stillness, like they were the only two people left in the city. Maybe that's why he started talking.
"Three years ago, I was undercover for the Fest Op" Cassian said. "Deep cover, the kind where you forget who you were before. I was running with a crew in New York, organized crime, moving stolen art and antiquities. Eighteen months building trust, getting close to the guy running the operation."
Jyn found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by the quiet intensity in his voice. She'd known he'd worked undercover before transferring to Boston—it was in his file, part of the reason he'd made detective so young. But she'd never heard the details.
"My handler was a guy named Alex Fulcrum," Cassian continued. "Former Marine, taught me everything about working undercover. Kept me sane when I thought I was losing it. The plan was for him to extract me once we'd gathered enough evidence. Clean break, wrap up the case, come home."
The heater shut off. In the sudden quiet, Jyn could hear his breathing, could feel the weight of what was coming.
"Someone leaked," he said. "We still don't know who. But someone in our department, someone we trusted, gave them my real name. Fulcrum found out first—intercepted the message before it got to the crew. He called me on Christmas Eve, told me I was burned, and told me to get out immediately."
Jyn's chest tightened. She knew how these stories ended—had seen enough of them in her years on the force, enough undercover operations that went sideways, enough officers who didn't come home.
"But if I ran, the whole operation collapsed. Eighteen months of work, dozens of crimes we'd documented, the entire network—all of it gone. And Fulcrum... he was already exposed by trying to warn me. He signed his warrant when he contacted me."
Cassian's voice had gone flat, emotionless. Jyn recognized that tone—the way you talked about trauma when you'd told the story too many times, when you'd worn the edges smooth with repetition until it became just facts, just events, nothing that could hurt you anymore.
Except it still did. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw.
"So I made a choice," Cassian said. "I kept my cover. Showed up to the meet that night like nothing was wrong. Played my part while they went after him."
"Oh," Jyn breathed.
"They killed him. Beat him to death in an alley in Red Hook trying to get him to confirm what they suspected about me. But he didn't break. He died protecting my cover, and I used that protection to finish the operation. Wore a wire to the exchange two nights later. Brought down the whole organization."
Jyn felt something crack open in her chest. She understood now why Cassian had transferred, why he'd left New York, why he volunteered for Christmas duty. Why he sometimes got that look in his eyes like he was somewhere else entirely.
"I got commended," Cassian spat bitterly. "My testimony put fourteen people away. Recovered millions in stolen art. And I transferred to Boston because I couldn't stay in New York. Couldn't drive past that alley."
He turned to look at her then, and Jyn saw something raw in his expression. Something that made her own carefully constructed walls feel thinner.
"I did the right thing. Still feels like the worst thing I've ever done."
The words hung in the cold air between them. Outside, snow continued its relentless burial, though slower. Inside, Jyn felt the weight of recognition—the understanding that they'd both made choices that haunted them, that they both carried ghosts that came out on Christmas Eve.
"That's why you don't do Christmas," she said softly.
"That's why I always volunteer for stakeout duty. Easier than..." He trailed off, but she understood. Easier than pretending. Easier than sitting alone in an apartment remembering. Easier than acknowledging that doing the right thing sometimes meant living with ghosts.
"We're a pair, aren't we?" Jyn said.
"Yeah." Cassian managed something that might have been a smile. "We really are."
"Both running from it."
"Or maybe just surviving it the only way we know how."
Jyn considered that, turning it over in her mind. Surviving. She liked that better than running. Running implied you were trying to escape. Surviving meant you were still here, still fighting, still showing up even when it hurt.
"Perhaps," she said.
They fell into silence again, but it was different now. The kind of quiet that came after secrets had been shared, after walls had come down brick by brick in the dark hours of Christmas morning. The kind that felt less like emptiness and more like understanding.
Jyn pulled the blanket tighter around her. She thought about this Fulcrum, about a man she'd never met who'd died, protecting her partner. "Your handler—Alex. He sounds like he was a good man."
"The best."
"He'd probably tell you it wasn't your fault."
"Probably." Cassian looked over at her. "Your mother would probably tell you the same thing. About your father."
Jyn's mouth twisted. She wanted to believe that. She wanted to think her mother would understand why Jyn had ended up here, watching the building where Galen Erso would eventually appear. She wanted to think her mother would be proud of the detective she'd become, even if she'd never gotten to be the architect she'd dreamed of.
"Maybe," she said. "Doesn't make it true."
"No," he agreed. "But maybe we don't have to carry all of it alone."
She met his eyes then, and something passed between them. They'd both been marked by the Ghost of Christmas Past in ways that wouldn't heal clean. That they both understood what it meant to volunteer for the cold and the dark and the watching, because at least out here they had a purpose.
"Thanks," Jyn said quietly. "For telling me."
"Thanks for listening."
The radio crackled—dispatch checking in with all units, the storm was supposed to break by dawn. Four more hours, give or take.
Four more hours in this small, cold car. Four more hours of watching snow fall and waiting for her father to show up. Four more hours of Christmas Eve bleeding into Christmas Day while they sat vigil over other people's crimes.
Other people's betrayals.
Her father's betrayals.
Part of her—a small, shameful part she didn't want to examine too closely—hoped he wouldn't show up too early. She hoped dawn would come and they'd have a few more hours of this strange intimacy before reality crashed back in. Before she had to face her father getting arrested. Before she had to face him.
"You know what?" Jyn heard herself say. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad it's you."
Cassian's expression softened, again. "Yeah. Me too."
Time moved strangely after that. Jyn watched it happen the way she often did on longer stakeouts—the minutes stretching out impossibly long and elastic, punctuated by brief bursts of activity. Radio checks. Shifting positions. Passing the thermos back and forth until the coffee and half of the chocolate were gone. Starting the engine every twenty minutes to keep the battery alive and the worst of the cold at bay.
She'd retreated into her own thoughts, processing everything that had been said. Everything that had been shared. It felt strange to know these things about Cassian—it felt intimate in a way their partnership hadn't been before. They worked well together and trusted each other professionally, but this was different. This was personal.
"I used to think I was like him," Jyn eventually said. The words came out quiet, worn down by exhaustion and cold and the weight of everything they'd laid bare. "My father. That maybe I'd inherited whatever was broken in him. The part that could just... leave. That could choose work over people, always. Every time."
Cassian glanced over. "But you're not."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here. Because you saw his face on that photo and you didn't run. You could have when I offered. We could've asked to be reassigned, could've let someone else handle it. But you chose to stay." He paused. "That's not running. That's the opposite of running."
Jyn's jaw tightened. She wanted to believe that. Wanted to think staying meant something noble, something good. "Or maybe some part of me wants to be the one to put him away."
"Maybe both things can be true."
She turned to look at him—really look at him. His face was cast in shadow, but she could see the steadiness there. The certainty. He believed what he was saying. He had faith in her, to a degree that she wasn’t sure she had in herself.
"You ever wonder if we're doing enough?" she asked. "Like, we catch the bad guys, we close the cases, but... is it enough? Does it actually fix anything?"
"I don't know," Cassian said honestly. "But I think maybe that's not the right question."
"What is?"
"Maybe the question is whether we're doing something that matters. Whether we're making a difference, even if it's small. Even if we can't fix everything."
Jyn considered that. Somewhere in this city, kids were sleeping—kids who were supposed to get Christmas presents from the charity her father and Krennic had stolen from. Kids who might not get them this year, but would get them next year. And the year after. Because she was here. Because they were going to catch Galen, then Krennic and their goons.
"The kids who were supposed to get that charity money—they'll get it now," she said. "Because we're here, watching this building in a fucking blizzard."
"Exactly."
"Okay." She nodded slowly. "Okay, yeah. That's something."
The heater cycled on again, its familiar rattle filling the space. Warmth ghosted across Jyn's face, never quite enough to fully chase away the chill that had settled deep in her bones. She'd done enough winter stakeouts to know that cold—the kind that got into your joints and stayed there, that made you stiff and slow and desperate for the morning.
She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in the cramped front seat. Their shoulders bumped. "Sorry," she muttered.
"It's fine," Cassian said. "Not much room to maneuver."
"Story of my life." She pulled the blanket higher, tucking it under her chin. The wool was scratchy against her skin but warm. "Do you ever think about doing something else? Not being a cop, I mean."
"Sometimes. Usually, when I'm freezing my ass off on Christmas Eve," he snorted.
"What would you do?"
"I don't know. Something quiet, maybe. Something where I don't have to see how much misery humans bring each other. You?"
"I used to want to be an architect. Like my mom, sort of—she never studied it formally, but she loved buildings. We loved design. Those gingerbread houses were just her way of playing with space and structure." Jyn's voice had gone soft with memory. She could see her mother's hands, covered in icing, carefully placing a candy window. "I thought maybe I could do that. Make something instead of just... cleaning up after people who destroy things."
"It's not too late," Cassian said.
"Yeah, it is." No bitterness in her voice, just a statement of fact. She had come to terms with it years ago. "That's the thing about paths, right? You take one and all the others disappear. Can't go back and choose differently."
"No," he agreed. "But you can choose what you do with the path you're on."
Jyn pulled her knees up—as much as she could in the confined space—and wrapped her arms around them. The blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape. "Is that what you're doing? Making a choice about your path?"
"Trying to." Cassian flexed his fingers, stiff with cold even inside his gloves. "I spent eighteen months being someone else. After that, it took me a while to remember who I actually was. What I cared about. What mattered."
"And?"
"And I think this matters. What we do. Even on the nights when it doesn't feel like enough." He turned to look at her. "I think partners who have your back matter. I think showing up matters, even when—especially when—it's hard."
Something shifted in Jyn's chest. She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary and felt the air change between them. Not quite tension, but awareness. The recognition that they were both here, both present, both trying to survive Christmas in the only way they knew how.
And that for once they didn't have to survive it alone.
"You're a good partner, Cassian," she said quietly. "In case nobody's told you that lately."
"You too, Jyn."
She smiled—she hated to show teeth, but she had to convey it was real. Then she settled back against the door, pulling the first blanket tighter around herself. Her eyes felt heavy, exhaustion finally catching up with her.
"I don’t know whether I’m too cold or too wired." She looked over at him. "How do you do it? The waiting, I mean. You were undercover for eighteen months. That's all waiting."
"You learn to be patient. To exist in the moment without thinking too much about what comes next." He paused. "Doesn't always work."
"Yeah, no kidding."
The silence stretched again. Outside, snow had finally started to slow. Not stopping, but definitely lessening. The wind had died down too, no longer howling against the car's frame. Dawn was still hours away, but the worst of the storm was passing.
Jyn flexed her fingers inside her gloves, trying to work feeling back into them. She thought about what came next—dawn breaking, the plows arriving, her father showing up. The arrest. The questions. Everything that would follow.
The temperature in the car had dropped again, they had to save fuel. Even with their body heat clothes and the two emergency blankets, the cold was seeping in through every crack and crevice. Jyn couldn't stop the shivering now, slight tremors she was trying to suppress but failing.
"Come here," Cassian said, adjusting the outer blanket. "We need to share body heat or we're going to get hypothermia."
Jyn hesitated for just a moment—that ingrained instinct to maintain professional distance warring with practical necessity. They were partners. They'd just spent the last few hours sharing their deepest wounds. And she was freezing. Still no sign of activity at Krennic’s windows.
She shifted closer, fitting herself against his side. The blanket draped over both of them now, their shoulders pressed together, her arm against his. Warmth radiated from him, and she had to resist the urge to press even closer.
"Better?" Cassian asked.
"Yeah. Thanks."
They sat like that in silence, and Jyn tried not to think too hard about how much the closeness helped. Not just the warmth—though that mattered—but the simple fact of not being alone. Of having someone beside her in the dark hours when ghosts liked to visit.
She could feel his breathing, steady and even. Could smell the faint scent of his soap, or maybe his shampoo—something understated. Could feel the solid warmth of him against her side.
It was... nice. More than nice. Comforting in a way she hadn't expected.
At 3:15 AM, exhaustion finally won. Jyn felt herself slipping, her body going heavy as sleep pulled her under. Her head tilted, coming to rest on Cassian's shoulder with the unconscious trust of someone too tired to maintain boundaries.
She was dimly aware that she should probably move. Should maintain professional distance. Should—
But then she was asleep, and the thoughts faded into nothing.