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a wartime story (maybe from here)

a wartime story (maybe from here)

Posted January 3rd, 2017 by JJKingInc

by subparshakespeare{HawkEye}
in sane. Enough said.

Hello all! I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season!

So I came up with this idea after watching Rogue One for the second time (I highly recommend it).

The characters (Quill & Nash) are clearly not from the movie, but I suppose they are kind of similar to Jyn and Cassian...

But anyway.






He looked over at her from across the hold, bouncing from the turbulence. Her hair was pulled back, but slowly coming loose in dark spikes that stuck to the dirt and sweat on her face. Her guns were strapped on her back and thighs and her hands were clasped in her lap. Her head was down.

“Quill?” he said quietly. They were alone in the hold and all was quiet, except for the equipment that banged on the walls in a soothing rhythm.

She looked up. Her eyes were tired and her face bore the scars of many missions. Across her forehead was a new scratch, long and jagged and red. The war had no kindness, no justice. Even the most beautiful of faces were marred.

“Yes?” Her voice was rough and calloused, just like her hands, just like her heart. He had hated her voice. He had despised it. It was everything wrong with his life-- the war. The rebels. His own cowardice. But now, it was a constant reminder that maybe there was some good in the world. Sure, there was death and greed and bloodthirst-- but there was also loyalty and commitment. Quill had always been there. She was constant. Ragged and torn and filled with regret, but constant. Ever so constant.

“I have something to tell you.” He cleared his throat, but the words still stuck in his throat, lodged just below his tongue. He wasn’t sure if he wanted them to come out. Quill raised an eyebrow, just like she had so many times before. Memories flashed through his mind.


All was dust. Smoke. Burning and chafing. Everything hurt. He tried to stand, tried to walk, but the rubble was up to his knees. It was all around him. A sea of shattered lives. The war had no kindness. The war had no justice. And he had no home.

But then, a hand.

It was rough, scabbed and scarred, covered in ashy dirt. But it was warm.

It was hope.

Then the strength of that hand, pulling him up, dusting him off.

Then the raised eyebrow.

Come on, buddy. Stand up. We’ve got to get you out of here.

He had so much to say.

No, he had to stay. His house. His family.

But he was silenced by the eyebrow and the warmth of the hand.


It was several months later when they met again. He had been training. She had been fighting. She had a few more scars. A bit more dirt. A lot more sweat.

But there was the eyebrow, the hand.

So I heard you’re in my division…


They fought together for a few weeks, a few short, bloody weeks, until she left one day. His commander said she had been reassigned. His heart was still sore, though.

The war had no justice.

He still had no home.


He was plucked from the troops and retrained for rescue. He flew the copter. He flew it perfectly. He flipped the switches and pushed the buttons.

But even the buzzing of the blades and the tapping of his controls couldn’t drown out the moans of pain from behind his seat.


Then one day, he heard a familiar voice.

No, put me down! There are others! They need help more than me!

Part of him wanted to do what she said.

Part of him wanted to make her stay.


He visited her in the grubby hospital. He sat by her dirt-streaked sheets and rubbed his eyes for days on end.

She never said a word.

He didn’t mind.


It was a few short months later.

There they were, sitting in the hold of a cargo plane, headed into enemy territory. Her leg was metal. His back ached.

But it still felt the same.

Except he chest felt a little different. A little lighter. A little fuzzier.

But mostly the same.

“I think I love you.” He finally got the words out. He couldn’t decide if he wanted them back in.

She looked at him strangely and his ribcage tightened. He couldn’t breathe. Then her head dropped and she shook it sadly. Her hands unclasped and one reached back to rub her neck.

“No, you don’t.” Her voice was still rough, still calloused, but also a little bit broken. He had never heard her sound like that. It scared him, maybe even more than the sounds of battle.

At least in battle he knew what to expect.

“Yes, I do.” He felt more confident. He knew he was right.

But why was his chest still so tight?

He could barely breathe.

She looked up. “No, you don’t.” She stood up and walked over to him. One of her feet thumped. The other clanked.

His ribs contracted even farther. She stood above him, so muscular, so grubby, but still the most familiar and comforting thing he knew. Her eyes blazed with some sort of light. Part angry, perhaps. Maybe a bit pitying.

But definitely full of regret.

He stood up, ribs still tight, but he had made up his mind. He forced the words out. He meant to argue. But instead he said them gently, softly. They dropped like snowflakes. They could not be ignored.

“Yes, I do. I love you, Quill.” He looked her in the face, her beautiful, awesome face, and knew he was right. Absolutely right. He had no doubt.

Her hands moved, fast, faster, as fast as he had seen them move when she threw her gun to the side and punched. He winced, but her touch did not hurt. She did not hit him.

She took his face in her hands, firmly, warmly, with all the strength he had felt when she first pulled him out of the rubble. Her eyes were hard and bloodshot. She had dark circles beneath her lashes that were crusted with ash from the battlefields. She seemed to flush ever so slightly, just enough to bring out the white scars that lined her cheeks prematurely. Quill was tired. It scared him.

“No, listen. You don’t love me. You can’t love me. No one can!”

He took her hands away from his face and held on tight. “Yes! I can!”

She wrenched her hands out of his grasp and stepped back, her muscles taut with anger. His hands felt even more empty than before.

“Do you have any idea the things I have seen?” she asked, taking another step backwards. He held out a hand to stop her, to try to explain, but she cut him off before the words could escape his throat. “The deeds I have done?” she continued. He stepped forward as she stepped backwards again.

“No, Quill, wai-” he sputtered, hands still out in an innocent kind of hope.

“I have killed people, Nash. Lots of them.” Her eyes were cold and hard, but her posture was as straight and confident as when he had first met her. She turned around and threw open the door to the cockpit. She turned around once more, hand still on the door, and spoke. “No one can love me after that.” Then she stepped into the cockpit and slammed the door.

He was alone in the hold, bouncing in the turbulence. He slumped into his seat, threaded his fingers into his unruly hair, and fought to keep the stinging tears from escaping.

The war had no kindness.


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