[All the half-formed remnants of his old life still pooling under his skin only rarely show their colors. It's part of the program: efficiency first, unwavering allegiance to the cause they all serve - conformity to his last drop of blood while on duty. Moments like this, though (few and far between as they are) expose those weathered edges. Let him breathe again with an old, familiar rhythm that shouldn't come as easy as it does (he doesn't remember thumbing someone else's hand in the dark, doesn't remember what it was like carrying someone's broken bones to success under Phasma's heel) but his armored fingers don't shrug off Hux's grip.
Instead it's something like pride that swells up in his chest, between his guarded ribs. Like being needed-- wanted-- a single trooper singled out for something he can't possibly fathom.
Another beat, and he leans in, leaving too little room between them - unblinking.] You don't need to thank me, sir.
Ever.
[He lives for the First Order, it's true, but he'd die for its brilliant, unparalleled General.]
just makes it worse nbd
Instead it's something like pride that swells up in his chest, between his guarded ribs. Like being needed-- wanted-- a single trooper singled out for something he can't possibly fathom.
Another beat, and he leans in, leaving too little room between them - unblinking.] You don't need to thank me, sir.
Ever.
[He lives for the First Order, it's true, but he'd die for its brilliant, unparalleled General.]