Benedict finds him at breakfast in the dining hall, digging into some rough bread and scrambled eggs and watery tea, coffee still being at too much of a premium to afford often. It’s a quiet morning; ordinarily Cassian has been cozying up to people, trying to get their stories, but he’s alone today until the personnel officer approaches.

(This long table isn’t exactly the same as the small, bustling Shadow Dragons mess hall tucked away in a safehouse, but: close enough.)

“How I’m finding everything,” Cassian echoes, pausing after spearing some more eggs, looking at the other man a little too closely. He can hear home in Benedict’s syllables, the shape of his words; and rather than evoke some simpatico, it makes Cassian automatically warier.

“Well. The breakfast’s decent.”