#this is galen if they had a normal-ish childhood | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

greatprotector-if · 2 years

Text

High School AU Galen Drabble

Word Count: 1197

mc: hey i got detention so you can walk home without me today lol

galen: What? Why?

mc: something dumb

mc: see you tomorrow!!

“Good to see you,” the teacher greets you dryly from their desk.

“Hi.” You slink over to your spot, resisting the urge to sigh. Or cry. Or scream. Or all of the above.

Other than the teacher at the front of the room, you’re the only one here. Great! You’re the only one foolish enough to get caught and sent to detention. Awesome!

You sigh through your nose, and fish your homework out of your bag. You have nothing else to do.

And then the door opens, and they’re impossible to miss because they’re over six foot—Galen walks through the door. Their gaze barely passes over the teacher before they’re marching right over to the desk next to you and squeezing themself in a chair.

“Wha—” You lean over and hiss, “Galen?”

They clear their throat, drumming their fingers along the top of their thigh. They’re facing the front, but they give you a curt nod in acknowledgement. “I got detention,” they whisper.

What.

“No you did not.”

They let out a short huff. “No I did not.”

“Then you’re not supposed to be here? What are you—” You glance up at the teacher, who’s staring at Galen with a perplexed look on their face.

“You’re not in any of my classes,” the teacher states.

“I’m not,” Galen agrees, face as stoic as ever.

The teacher hardly mulls this over before they simply shrug and return to their paperwork. “Alright. Just don’t be disruptive or I’ll kick you out.”

“Okay.”

And then that’s the end of that.

The room dips into relative silence as you grab the rest of your supplies from your back and dump what you need on your desk. All Galen takes out is a new pencil and single math worksheet that looks like it’s already been completed. Not that you mind the company—but why the hell are they here?

As if they can sense that you’re thinking about them, Galen quietly side eyes you for a few moments before asking, “You, uh. You okay?”

You blink. “Huh? I’m fine. You didn’t come all this way just to check on me, did you?”

They cross their thick arms over their chest, prodding a bump in their cheek with their tongue. You can’t tell if it’s just the poor lighting or if their cheeks are getting darker. Finally, they mutter, “You weren’t answering my texts.”

A smile crawls onto your face. That is adorable. “Sorry. I had to put it away or the teacher would have taken it.”

“I even used an emoji to try to get your attention.”

You perk up at that. “As in… not the thumbs up or OK emoji?” you ask.

“The sad face, with the really deep frown.”

“No way,” you gasp. You’re not going to lie, you’re kind of flattered that they would do that for you. You love Galen and all, but they’re such a dry texter they could start a wildfire with a single spark of heat. You press your hand to your chest. “You would do that for me?”

They clear their throat and pointedly look away from you. Yeah, they’re definitely blushing.

“Send me the laughing crying emoji next,” you say, taking pity on them.

They roll their eyes. Their lower lashes are so dark. “Over my dead body.”

You hear some shuffling from the corner and you look over to see the teacher leave their desk and slip out the door, closing it behind them.

You could totally just leave right now, you think. But you don’t, you keep your ass rooted to your chair.

“So…” Galen drawls, now that they have the opportunity. “What did you even do?”

You squint at them. “I don’t want a lecture,” you warn.

They raise a brow. “I’m not going to yell at you for getting detention. I’m your friend, not your parent.”

“Sometimes you act like my parent.”

They just shrug. You don’t know how you’re supposed to interpret that reaction.

“Saw my teacher while I was skipping class, then I wiped out while I was trying to make my getaway. Teacher caught up to me and said if I didn’t come to detention they’d give me a zero,” you explain mournfully, showing them the scratches on your palm. “Now my hand’s all messed up.”

They stare at you with what could only be described as disbelief in their eyes. “You tripped?” And then they begin to do a very poor job of stifling their laughter into the back of their hand. “You got caught—because you tripped?”

“Don’t laugh at me!” you complain. “It hurts!”

They bury their entire face into their hands to contain themself, broad shoulders trembling with the effort.

“Okay,” they croak out after many moments. “Okay. I’m sorry.” They drop their hands from their face, lips pressed firmly together, and hold one out to you instead. “Give me your hand.”

You don’t even think about it—just automatically place your hand on theirs, and they flip your hand face up. Their skin is very warm.

Galen gives you a slightly puzzled look. “... No, the other one.”

Oh. Oops. You give them your other hand, still feeling a little raw from the pavement.

You can’t help but feel your cheeks start to warm at the proximity. They peer down at the injury, probably assessing the damage.

… And they’re clearly fighting off a smile.

“Oh my god,” you say, battling a grin of your own, “You’re such a dick. Everyone trips at some point in their life, Galen.”

They tilt their head to face the heavens, and take a deep, shuddering breath.

You can’t believe them. All this because of that stupid crack in the ground?

“Are you good now?” you say wryly.

It takes a second, but they bob their head in a nod, clearing their expression of any lingering amusement. They stick their hand in one of the side pockets of their backpack. “Does it hurt?” they ask.

“Almost cried,” you answer solemnly.

The corner of their mouth twitches, and then they’re fishing out the cutest bandaid you’ve ever seen.

“... Is that Squirtle?” you ask.

They ignore you in favour of smoothing the blue bandaid out over the curve of your hand, but it is definitely Squirtle. You wonder if they’ll give you some of those.

They’re about to pull away when you tease, “Hold on. Aren’t you going to give it a kiss?”

Their eyes dart up to meet yours, grip on your hand going slack. “You—do you want me to?”

Your heart catches in your throat. You didn’t expect them to take it seriously, oh god, what are you even supposed to say—

“I was just—I mean, I didn’t… you can, if you want to—”

The sound of the doorknob turning has the both of you jumping out of your skin.

They drop your hand like a pile of burning coals and you both jerk forward to face the front of the room.

The teacher does not spare either of you a single glance as they sit back down at their desk, and your heartrate does not completely calm down until long after detention is over.

#i forgot to post this earlier lol #galen #the great protector if #drabble #i did not edit this please excuse errors with grammar/spelling/etc #i love high school aus because they're so awkward and embarrassing #this is galen if they had a normal-ish childhood #but they did not have that in canon #you will never see them laugh this much again #these tags are all over the place #anyways if there are any detention related inaccuracies i'm very sorry #my high school didn't have detentions

55 notes · View notes

anghraine · 7 years

Text

“waking up in a minefield” - fic (1/2)

Yeah, I’m still making my way through the Rebelcaptain Appreciation Week prompts. This one is for “Undercover,” and ... it grew, so I split it into halves because I wanted to post something today and it’s 11 PM here.

fandom: Star Wars

verse: script AU (follows from part of the past, but now you’re the future and threshold of a dream)

characters: Jyn Erso, Mon Mothma, Cassian Andor(ish); Jyn/Cassian

length: 2760

stuff that happens: Mothma has a mission for Cassian, impeded by the minor problem of his unconsciousness and the major problem of Jyn.

For the last time, Jyn hoped, Cassian floated in a bacta tank. And for the first time, he didn’t have a brace. At least, they said so. She’d averted her eyes after one glance, instead studying the datapad she’d filched with an interest it did not often command.

Maybe it was prudish, but she felt odd about ogling his naked body when he didn’t know about it and hadn’t given permission. Not that he’d been in a condition to give permission for anything, between the disconnected questions and dazed, black-eyed stare. Cassian with the brakes off was funny as much as anything else—at least, until he asked anxiously about her leaving—but he couldn’t answer for any of it. And it wasn’t like they’d talked about bacta tank etiquette, anyway.

Jyn didn’t know exactly what they were right now, or would be. But she did know that if she ever ended up in a situation with Cassian naked, he sure as hell was going to be awake for it.

As she entertained herself with trying to crack the paranoid layers of encryption on Cassian’s datapad, Jyn caught near-silent footsteps behind her. Pretending not to notice, she held herself ready for anything.

“Miss Erso,” said Mon Mothma.

Jyn started.

She’d met with Senator Mothma twice since their return, but never expected to find her here. Though certainly a good sight more reasonable and capable than the other politicians, Mothma didn’t seem to soil herself much with the grimmer side of her war.

“How is Captain Andor?” she said, looking straight at the tank.

A sense of boundaries clearly did not afflict her. Typical. Jyn would have liked to make some brusque, dismissive reply that left her contempt clear. But, she reminded herself, there was no point in alienating the leader of the Rebellion. She seemed accommodating enough, prepared to make the easier compromises, and some vague instinct suggested that they might need allies in High Command at some point.

She said, “Better. They’re certain he’ll walk.”

“Walk,” repeated the senator. “More than that, I hope.”

Jyn couldn’t repress a cool glance at her. “So do we all.” For different reasons, undoubtedly. She still had yet to meet anyone who used his given name. Frankly, Jyn felt surprised that Mothma would go this far out of her way to enquire after a spy.

That moderated her antipathy somewhat. Trying to sound less begrudging than she felt, Jyn said,

“They ran some tests, and everything seems to be going right with the cybernetics. Odds are that he’ll be fine.”

“As good as new?” Mothma said doubtfully, peering at the tank. He must still look bad.

“They didn’t say that,” replied Jyn.

With no hint of impatience, Mothma asked, “What did they say?”

Jyn had no idea why she didn’t just ask the damn doctors themselves. Forcing herself to courtesy, she said, “They think he’ll probably walk normally, if everything continues to go well, and if he builds the muscle back up. Oh, and if the cybernetics don’t take damage, or the rest of his nerves, and there might be effects from weather or exhaustion or …” She shrugged. “I don’t think anyone can crunch up their spine and come back exactly the same. But functional, sure.”

Though Jyn half-expected her to lose interest in a weakened tool—rather hoped for it—Mothma just gave a neutral hm.

Jyn waited her out. Nobody would call her patient, but she didn’t like talking to people. She could keep her mouth shut indefinitely.

“What of your injuries, Miss Erso?”

“They’re fine.” Again, she reminded herself that it might be worthwhile to play nice. For awhile. “Just a sprain and a fracture. Bacta patches completely healed them. It’s Cassian who …” Jyn felt a flutter in her throat, and stopped before it could grow into a full-fledged crack. “I had the plans, so Captain Andor covered me. He believed in the mission, and he was ready to do anything. We both were.”

You better not be thinking about punishing him for it. Jyn couldn’t bring herself to say it; her hands already curled into fists at the thought. From childhood, she’d had a protective streak a parsec wide, at least when she had people to protect. A month ago, she would have sworn it gone, but … well, that was a month ago.

If there’d been any lingering doubt, it vanished the moment that she turned back to Cassian at the top of the Citadel. When she really looked at him, rushed over to him, she saw the truth: he hadn’t been restored to her by some miracle, but merely by his determination to carry on despite a broken, bleeding body. Cassian, always so effortlessly accurate, could barely hold his blaster up—could barely hold himself up.

Raw fury had flashed in her like a supernova. She swerved towards Krennic’s body, no longer caring that he was unconscious, that she didn’t have a blaster, nothing except that she was going to tear his fucking arms off. Only Cassian’s weak grasp stopped her, his murmurs against her skin, the reminder that they had to get out.

It was like being a girl again, enraged over Saw’s latest injury, over the wounds and disappearances of the others, over every stormtrooper she saw, flinging her back to the moment when her mother’s body crumpled, when her father…

Late at night, she’d console herself with the thought of finding Galen, destroying anyone and anything that kept them apart, that hurt him, making them all pay. But those had been a child’s fantasies. With Cassian, she rushed straight to murder.

Not that she had any idea of murdering Mothma, or even Draven, unless—no, she didn’t. But she was perfectly happy to fight them. She’d seen enough to know that Cassian would grind himself into dust at their word.

“Evidently,” said Mothma, and Jyn had spiraled so far into her thoughts that she had to strain to recall what she’d even said. Right, the mission, Cassian taking the brunt of the damage because she had the plans. And Mothma was still talking. “That sounds like Captain Andor.”

Jyn gave up. “Are you this interested in all your spies, or is it just Cassian?”

“Captain Andor is one of the most effective agents in the Rebellion,” Mothma answered. Or rather, didn’t answer.

But that was enough. In a mad dash of association, it all came together. Draven this morning, and Mothma now—Mothma not just concerned about Cassian, but about Cassian returning to his old capabilities—Draven startled out of composure and rushing off—and Cassian with his unbending faith, often obedient, always resourceful and decisive and resolute—

“Something’s happened,” Jyn said. She swerved around to face Mothma directly, repressing the urge to raise a hand against her peripheral vision. Instead, she focused all her attention on the senator. “You need Cassian for something. What is it?”

Already?

Mothma clearly had a skill for wrapping words around nothing. “Need, no. Plainly, the captain is not yet capable of returning to service. He is too valuable for high risk with little chance of success, in any case. Of course, the risk is all the higher now.” Her blue eyes settled on Jyn, as unnervingly tranquil as ever. “Nothing could be salvaged of K-2SO?”

Jyn’s throat tightened. Kay would be delighted, he’d said, with a sharp-edged laugh that sent a chill of sympathy down her own spine. It seemed utterly unlike him, and yet the only way he would laugh. She suspected hers might be the same, if she had enough drugs in her blood to extract it, to unearth her tangled feelings about Saw or her parents. Instead, Jyn forced herself to lightness, as she’d forced herself to a reassuring smile in the Citadel. One step closer to droid superiority.

Not empty words, though. She had no doubts but that Kay would have been thrilled.

“Nothing,” said Jyn. “He protected us until stormtroopers blasted him to smithereens, and we had to leave his”—corpse was all she could think of—“remains behind to reach the plans in time.”

Kay and Bodhi, Chirrut and Baze. Please, Papa, let this be worth it.

Mothma shook her head. “So Andor is doubly vulnerable now. Definitely a needless risk, then.”

Did all the Alliance command talk in circles? No wonder they got nothing done.

“Doubly vulnerable?”

The senator’s brows rose. “Certainly, with permanent damage and no droid watching his back. We can only hope—well, please extend my best wishes to him.” With her usual grace, she pivoted to leave.

“He has me,” Jyn said sharply. She didn’t know if this was a deliberate trap or not, and she didn’t care.

As ever, Mothma gave nothing away. She paused, then turned back around with all her usual serenity.

“You made a formidable team,” she allowed. “Clearly, you work well together.”

Jyn didn’t need to hear a however to catch it. “But?”

“Few intelligence operations are as … hectic as this one,” said Mothma, no condemnation in her clear gaze. “Intelligence agents do our most thankless and dangerous work, but that work takes patience and caution. In many cases, they have no orders to guide them beyond the objective, no support in the field. They often spend months undercover.”

Jyn had lived for years under false identities. She knew plenty about living undercover, even if she’d been directionless and rash with no end but survival. And she certainly didn’t mind depending on herself, without some general dictating her every choice. She wouldn’t be able to stand anything else.

Before she could put the words together, Mothma went on,

“You appear to be a fine fighter, and plainly have strong leadership skills. Thanks to your actions on Scarif, you’re a hero to the Alliance, an inspiration to our troops. You precipitated our first victory. We certainly could use you—”

“I’m not a soldier,” Jyn told her, voice flat. “Not any more.”

“You could be again,” said Mothma. “Not a foot soldier, mind you. A leader.”

She could all but hear the Jyn of the past shouting no! Not that she needed her.

“You’ve seen my record,” Jyn said. “I’m happy to brawl when I need to, but I’m a thief and a slicer. My entire life has been covert.”

Mothma paused to consider that, or perhaps Jyn herself. Either way, it allowed her time to breathe and think, to translate blurry determination into words. Oddly reminded of facing Krennic, she lifted her chin, eyes steady on Mothma’s.

“I’m not here to be a symbol for the Alliance,” Jyn declared. She could feel something within her settle into unshakable certainty, sinking into her blood and bones. Was this how Cassian felt all the time? “I’m not here for the Alliance at all. I’m here to make problems for the Empire.”

“You can do that with us,” said Mothma. She wasn’t listening.

Jyn abandoned the last scraps of tact.

“I don’t know you,” she snapped. “Any of you. All I know is that none of you trusted me, or your own strength, when it was needed. None of you were willing to act when the time for action came. The only Rebels who had my back are dead.” She jerked her head in the direction on the tank. “Except him.”

Mothma’s calm gave way to … well, a different calm. More reflective, maybe. Slowly, she said,

“Captain Andor is the only person in the Alliance you trust enough to support, then?”

The only person in the galaxy.

“Trust goes both ways,” said Jyn.

The last time she’d said that, it had been pure insolence, just daring Cassian to make something of the blaster she stole from him. She’d felt a nice glow of satisfaction at fulfilling the suspicions of a disdainful, skeptical spy who treated her as the untrustworthy one, yet couldn’t afford to alienate her. Petty, perhaps—definitely—but Jyn had never pretended not to be. Now, though, it was nothing more or less than the truth.

Well, maybe a little petty.

Rather to her disappointment, Mothma betrayed none of the frustration that Cassian had. She just made one of her indistinct thoughtful sounds.

Jyn sighed. “Look, I want to fight the Empire. I know the Rebellion is the only thing with a chance of taking it on. I’m more than ready to support the one Rebel I know and trust, to the death if necessary.” Her teeth clenched, another but nearly hanging in the air. “But your revolution has taken everything I ever had. I’m not going to be a symbol. I’m not going to be chewed up and spat out again.”

“Hm,” said Mothma.

Maybe she didn’t know what to say. Jyn supposed that few people, would be-heroes or not, presumed to dictate terms to the leader of the Alliance. This might be remarkably tolerant by Mothma standards. Why? And it still seemed odd that she’d come all this way in person over a spy, however valuable, however much she may have hoped to put him in the field sooner rather than later. Jyn’s conviction that something had gone wrong only deepened.

“Senator,” she said, enunciating each syllable with precise clarity, “what happened?”

Tolerant of Jyn, concerned for Cassian … no. No, no—

“The plans,” she breathed. She’d been run ragged between debriefings and overseeing Cassian and more interrogations, but nobody so much as hinted that something might have gone wrong with the transmission. “Where are they? Did they get here?”

For once, Mothma visibly tensed, her lips pressing together. “Yes. About six hours ago.”

“Hours!” They’d been here for days. While she was squabbling with nurses and droids between Cassian’s surgeries, demanding explanations from the doctor, answering questions, the plans had been—where?

“They were received by an agent of ours,” said Mothma. “Leia Organa. She managed to dispose of the plans before being captured by the Empire, but recovered them and escaped. We’re completing our analysis now.”

Jyn remembered Draven’s abrupt departure this morning, his startled Leia? Now?

“And?” she demanded.

“The Death Star was tracking her,” Mothma said flatly. “It will reach us within the day. We must hope that your father’s sabotage suffices.”

Jyn’s mouth dried. “Are w—you evacuating?”

“As much nonessential personnel as possible,” said Mothma. “Do you wish to be included?”

No, she thought instantly. She’d barely escaped her father’s monstrosity once, and had no desire to ever see it again. But it was, in a way, his legacy. She couldn’t leave the fight now, even if she wanted to, even though she couldn’t do much of anything at this point.

She couldn’t leave Cassian, either. Until this month, Jyn had been abandoned by everyone she’d ever cared about. Until Cassian, who risked his life and his mission to come back for her, again and again and again. Privately, she wondered if he knew what that meant—knew that she’d never desert him as others had done her. Had there been no shuttle, with Cassian dead weight, she wouldn’t have so much as considered escape. She would have stayed with him to the end.

Jyn remembered his immediate assent to listing her as next of kin, their hands nervously tangled together, and thought that if he didn’t know, he hoped anyway.

“I told you,” she said, irritable. “I’m staying with Captain Andor.” They could try to restrict the evacuation to the wounded, but she didn’t care. She’d find a way.

Mothma made another of her meaningless I’m listening noises. Jyn really didn’t think she was, but persisted. She wanted an explanation, and she was going to get it.

“You don’t want him for the battle,” she said, without a trace of doubt. “Even you lot couldn’t imagine he’s fit for flying a starfighter. It’d be a waste, anyway.” Cassian was a good pilot, as far as she could tell, but he was a better shot, a better spy, a better commander. Nobody with two brain cells to rub together with squander him on aerial battle.

Anyway, whatever they wanted him to do, Mothma had spoken of it entirely in his capacity as a spy. A spy with a security droid protecting him, at that.

Until that moment, Mothma had still seemed poised to leave. Now, something about her settled, hands linking behind her back.

“Should we prevail,” she said slowly, “we have …”

“Yes?” Not for the first time, Jyn wished Cassian would just wake up and take over the talking nonsense.

Melancholy settled over the senator like a cloak. Her jaw tightened, and now Jyn could see the heaviness in her eyes, the deeper lines about her set mouth. What the hell had happened?

“We have,” said Mothma, “a recruitment opportunity.”

#jyn erso #mon mothma #otp: welcome home #anghraine's fic #script au #star wars #cassian andor #lalalala #i'm so glad they lived to ... uh. see more terrible things happen #THEY WOULD RATHER DO THAT #waking up in a minefield

46 notes · View notes