He's still beautiful; he's always beautiful; he's so beautiful like this, loose-limbed and smiling and wrecked. Jedao could watch him like this for years and not get tired of it.

"Yours," he echoes, and it hurts in a chest he doesn't have, hurts like sensation coming back after too long in the cold. I'm your gun, he said, over and over, hated it and wanted to mean it all at once. Didn't need it - but wanted, in some quiet desperate place.

He isn't Fives' gun. I'm your fucking general, he remembers snarling, and he feels warm all through, like an edgeless patch of air flooded with afternoon sun.

"Yours, Fives, always."