[It's more than impact, nerves too raw to stave off the jolt that comes with contact (even if it's only a mattress, the weight of bone and muscle is heavy enough to make it count for more) as he buckles, barking out some low, gurgling noise that tangles hard in the back of his own throat. There's dampness at the corners of his eyes where redness has seeped in, but it's not half from grief or pain so much as it is anger. Outrage. How many times he's lost everything at the hands of the First Order, stuck still without either the strength or the means to fight back.
It isn't right. It isn't right and he knows it now that he's seen what lies outside the sterile walls of their would-be empire.
So screw it. If it hurts him to work his shoulder back, burned skin splitting from the strain, he doesn't care; if it tears the artificial grafts, the scar tissue still wet with gel from his last treatment, he doesn't flinch; Finn shoves himself over on his side, preying on the notion of his own weakness (and what little space stands between them) as he grabs at the saber still in Kylo's hand, grip more determination than outright strength, unwilling to just let go.
no subject
It isn't right. It isn't right and he knows it now that he's seen what lies outside the sterile walls of their would-be empire.
So screw it. If it hurts him to work his shoulder back, burned skin splitting from the strain, he doesn't care; if it tears the artificial grafts, the scar tissue still wet with gel from his last treatment, he doesn't flinch; Finn shoves himself over on his side, preying on the notion of his own weakness (and what little space stands between them) as he grabs at the saber still in Kylo's hand, grip more determination than outright strength, unwilling to just let go.
Phasma would've been proud.] I'll kill you--
[For her. For all of them.]