albinomilksnake | STAR WARS: possible spoiler warning

Hey, you want to trade, I'm all in. [Said, unsurprisingly, without context thanks to the fact that his eyes are still pinched shut, fingers flexing and unflexing against what passes for a blanket by the rebellion's standards. His back feels raw, even with the painkillers they've (thankfully) stuffed him full of, like all the flesh is gone, leaving only bone and nerves and-- whatever else there is pressed to the mattress. Tendons maybe. He doesn't know.

It's the first time he's been awake, really awake, since staring down Kylo-nightmare-in-the-dark- Ren: he's no medical professional, but he's fairly certain it's way, way too soon.]

No thanks. I'm allergic to lightsabers. Why do you think I spend all my time in the air?

[Not true. He spent most of his time in the vacuum of space. Far, far away from the air, the way it would drag you down and weigh on your ship and leave you slow and dull and vulnerable.

But it's just a saying.

He jams the finger into his mouth for a second, needle halfway down the cut and pierced through still. Glances up from under his eyelashes at Finn, practically grey from exhaustion and whatever meds they were pumping him full of. But alive. There was always that.]

Have they tried to give you a rank yet?

Edited 2015-12-24 09:33 (UTC)

Honestly? No idea. [One eye, then the other, all careful in exposing himself to the sharp, jarring ache in his skull that comes with artificial light. When the last real, coherent memory you have is your heart hammering up in your throat, it's easy to want to wipe it out - replace it with the face of someone familiar. Someone you like.

Funny, how long he'd spent living his life as a number alongside numbers. A friend he couldn't really call a friend, not even after he died. It should have been easy to run at the first sign of freedom (he'd already done it once, hadn't he?) and instead...

Instead he's here. Screwed up and patched up, and there's got to be something wrong in that somewhere, but he can't find it. Doesn't want to.] Maybe once they figure out whether or not I can still walk.

[If they're anything like the Imperials, he'll get a bigger promotion if he can't. Gunnery assistant. Targetting technician. Maybe something better if they like him; one of the generals got his salary from blowing off an arm when one of the evac droids went volatile. Bad programming.

Lucky break.]

[Finn manages to open his eyes, and that's hard. Poe knows it, so the least he can manage in return is a smile that reaches all the way to his own. It's not hard.]

Of course you can. [He says it like it'll make it true. Maybe it will. He was about as force sensitive as a stone but there had to be some power, even in him. And there were plenty of other people who were hoping for the same. One of them, at least, more in tune with the force than he was.]

Back during the first rebellion- do they teach this stuff to you guys?— they had a big ceremony after the death star was destroyed. The first one, I mean. It was a turning point. People could start to see the light again. Picture a better future.

[He looks back down, picks up the needle again. In, across, out.]

It gave people hope. You did, too. That monster was a lot worse than the death star.

Edited 2015-12-24 10:03 (UTC)

[It should feel good, hearing that. In a way it does, something small and warm that's all quickly overturned by the nausea that comes with hope-- other people's hopes and dreams-- resting on his own shoulders where he's only ever felt like a splinter against the grain. He isn't sure he deserves it.

But there's still the wan flex of a smile written over the white of his teeth.] Thanks, man.

I was just-- [Stops again. Thins his lips to the tune of his own heartbeat, throbbing away in his veins, his skull. If he's tired of anything by this point, he's tired of lying. Opens his eyes again, and there's a clearness to it that doesn't run parallel to all the drugs or medical equipment.] I didn't-- do it for them.

I mean I knew it was the right thing to do, but I didn't go back pretending I was a hero. [One beat:] I went back for her.

[Alright, yeah, the drugs are definitely still in there.]

[It's a truth like the way a ship blows in space. You get a small hole and then everything comes bursting out, turns the metal and the plastic inside out, leaves a pilot in the vacuum if they'd survived the pressure and the flames. Then again, it wasn't a very small hole, and Finn was a surprisingly poor liar. He didn't want to be, is the thing. That's what he figures. He thinks he went too long lying to the Empire and now be wants to tell the truth.

A good man, like he said.

So maybe it's delicate, but Poe doesn't waste any time with his answer. Rushes in head first and trusts his instinct. That was what it was to be a pilot.]

Here's what I think. You may not have been trying to be a hero, but you went to save your friend, and that seems pretty heroic to me.

[He has, by this point, heard all the stories. Even the ones most people didn't. It was one of the few things his parents had to tell him, when he was very young, and the General was forthcoming, at times. He knew the tales about the friendship that saved the Republic. Even when it seemed like they were being foolish. And besides-

The smile fades, for a second, and he looks up again from his worm, eyebrows lifted. He was a picture of sincerity, but he was being sincere.]

It's probably not a coincidence that all your friends are good people. Heroes. If those are the people you're choosing to protect, you're probably on the right track. Birds of a feather, right?

[He can't resist the smile that settles in the corner of his mouth. It's close to playing himself up as a hero, but hell, he was the best damn pilot in the rebellion, and the only mission he'd failed turned out alright in the end. Barely haunted him at all.]

So what does that make you, huh? [An implication he supports, in spite of all his gentle ribbing: he was there when Poe was taken, staring down Kylo Ren and a full battalion of soldiers, outgunned and outnumbered, and still he never flinched. Never gave in.

If that doesn't count for heroism, then all those stories he heard as a kid? The ones that got suppressed right from the get go? They had it all wrong.

There's just a momentary pause left out in the open while he works up the nerve: rolling with an agitated, pinched-up grunt against gravity for the sake of turning over on his side. Away from the ache of screaming muscle and cauterized stitchwork that feels about as beautiful as Poe's needlework.]

A terrible seamstress.

[He lifts the jacket explanitorily. It's not perfect, but it'd keep closed. Later, maybe, he'd find a strip of leather to go over it. Something that looked a little more intentional.

Doesn't last long. He drops it back to his lap as Finn shifts himself over, frees up his hand to touch careful at his shoulder. More for moral support than any actual support. Didn't want to push.]

Hey there. Sure you aught to he doing that?

Don't-- [All choked off, though there's something about it in spite of the fact that isn't sharp or halting even as he goes achingly still on his side: end goal achieved.] Don't make me laugh.

[Mouth pulled up at the corner like something resembling an appropriately pale smile. There's a lot running through his head right now, but relief? Relief is finally starting to color all of it; in every run scenario, every fantasy carved out as he traced circles with calloused fingers into the metal of his bunk back-- back there (not home. That place was never his home)-- he never pictured having friends. Family. People worth dying for rather than some nameless, faceless cause.]

Hurts like you wouldn't believe.

Edited 2015-12-25 19:19 (UTC)

Sorry.

[He doesn't sound that sorry, at least for making him laugh. Sorry for the pain, but not for the distraction.

But he's a lot more genuine a moment later, glancing sideways around the room- shouldn't the Droid be back soon?— hand staying where he put it, hand still on his shoulder.]

I don't doubt it. You took a pretty good hit.

[He'd seen the fallout of that. Big messy thing. Lucky to be alive, lightsabers were elegant weapons, but they didn't leave elegant wounds. Tricky to fix, even in a place where they could replace almost any part of your body with a bit of machinery. There's people who'd lost more. Maybe Finn was lucky. But he doubted this was what he ran for. Out of one side of the War and right on to the other. He'd only needed a pilot.

Of course, you couldn't run from it. Not really. It found you eventually.]

Can I get you anything?

Cyborg spine sounds pretty cool. [Bad joke. Really bad joke.

Everything the resistance owns is second-hand from what he can tell, and with the destruction of the republic's heart, Finn is pretty sure this is all they've got to work with; money, weapons, medical supplies, there won't be any more generous, low-key donations without fear or a second thought. And still, he's here, soaking up what looks like the nicest techbed they have to spare.

For a stormtrooper stamped with failure to perform, it doesn't seem fair. But it also means he appreciates it-- maybe more than somebody else might.] Think they're above a traitor's pay grade, though.

[Finn spots Poe's uneasy glance across the room, and he picks up on it then, what his friend really means.] No, hey - no, man, don't call that thing back over. I know it's a literal pain in the ass but I like it, you know. Being awake.

[More medication will, after all, only put him back under.]

I'll look into it.

[He wouldn't need one though. He wouldn't. Good thing too, they were kind of a crap shoot anyway you sliced it.

It's a good joke, but then there's that word, and it catches him- wrong. They were all traitors in the first order's eyes, but Finn- well, maybe that meant something to him. Something real.]

Maybe. But they're not above a heroes. That's what everyone here knows you are.

[Serious for a second. Wiped out in another. He looks back with a crooked half smile, hands coming up in a placating gesture.]

Alright buddy, I feel you. I guess you've probably had a long enough nap. Just promise me you'll let me know if it gets too bad.

[He pinches his mouth flat for a beat, clearly unsure on how to respond: if it gets bad enough he actually might throw down a call for help, but right now, with more comfort in arm's reach than anything Starkiller had put together, he doesn't want to make that promise - let alone say it out loud.

Instead he just leans easily into Poe's grip, eyes drifting shut on their own. Call it a compromise.] What's it like, anyway?

Living here. No...ordery whatever.

[He knows a Dodge when he hears one, but he only gives him a knowing look before settling back down in his seat, coat carefully folded over his lap.

The question isn't exactly easy to answer. He knows how he thinks the stormtroopers live, but he's no expert. How much of it was here say and how much of it was propaganda.]

There's still rules and rank, we're a military organization and everything. Sometimes people get themselves in trouble, and the food is always awful.

[So what was the real difference then? He liked the guys he worked with. They were his family. But- Finn was a nice guy. It was hard to imagine he didn't have anyone he'd ever cared about. Too sad to think of.]

I think probably the big difference is that everyone who is here wants to be here. They've all got their own reasons. And if you get sick of it, you leave.

[You didn't break a prisoner out and run. You didn't look anxiously over your shoulder for the rest of your life.]

Guess that means I'm definitely one of you guys after all. [By Order standards? He did just that: snapped off the expectations when he got sick of it, their ideals and their warped, backwards logic. If he'd stayed, they'd have changed him. He doesn't want to know how, doesn't like to think about the possibility, but he knew that storm was coming the moment Ren stopped to look him dead in the eyes from across the battlefield.

Phasma was ruthless; he was worse.]

Minus the badass, functional jacket. [Finn dips his chin as much as he's able to without tugging on his own spine. There wasn't any punch-pulling on Starkiller, and if Poe's coat suffered as much as he did in that last ditch attempt to stave off the galaxy's nastiest nightmares, no amount of stitch work will bring it back from the dead.]

Damn right you are.

[He accompanies the words, buoyed up by his exuberant tone, with the lightest, softest punch to Finns shoulder. It was barely even recognizable, but the intent was there.]

And don't you worry about the Jacket, I'll get it fixed up. Looks too good on you to let it go.

[He rolls the leather in his hand, the singed slit front and center.stares at it for a moment, thoughtful for just that long.]

It's a little rough, but ladies love scars, right?

[The moment passes.]

Hey you got that right, buddy, that's for sure. [Said with a wheezing laugh that'd go alongside the same grip he passed off on their last reunion, but things being what they are, well...it's significantly harder to manage, and Finn settles for the sharp flick of white when he grins, eyes closing for a beat or two. Better than fighting the urge to keep them open, even if current company was more than worth it.

He'll stagger his exhaustion: one second of rest, to draw out minutes later.] Just gimme a few months to figure out how to walk again and I'll be running this place in no time.

No big deal, right?

[He looks more drawn than before, and really Poe knows he needs the rest. His body was doing double time, and tech and meds only went so far. He'd need time.

After that.]

Big dreams buddy. If you want to try and wrestle the reins from the general be my guest.

[If he thought he was hurt now.]

Get some rest, huh? Plotting your meteoric rise can wait a little longer.

I wasn't talking about her. [She was nice. Good to him in spite of where he came from, and who he was: if ever there was a person to appreciate that coming from, it was Leia Organa, and he wasn't about to take it for granted, not even as a joke.

Poe, though..well, a little good natured ribbing was always how he and his team showed their affection, even if they didn't otherwise know how.] Think I'd be a great wingman.

That's what you guys call it, right?

You want my spot huh?

[Wingman, he supposed that was close enough... In a way.]

Good luck with that pal, you'll have to learn your way around a ship first. She's got a soft spot for flyboys.

[He's learned that over time. Made sense, he guessed. Most of the people she loved were made for the skies.]

Who knows though, you might have a secret talent for it. Once you're out of this bed I'll have to take you up in my xwing.

Hey man, you promise to take me up in that thing and you know I'll say yes just as long as it doesn't involve going anywhere even near Jakku. [Call it healthy wariness on his part, not wanting to walk the same tracks twice when the first go went so explosively off course. That's not to say if circumstance-- necessity-- calls for it, he wouldn't ever go back, just that until the day that particularly specific distress signal comes in, he's good.

Better than good, he's alive - and free.]

Been there, done that, got the souvenir coat and definitely messed it up.

[Her halfway been joking, but he means it, too. He'd like to take him up, tight spaces not withstanding. Maybe Finn didn't get that feeling he did when he escaped the pull of gravity, but if he did, even a little, it was hard not to want to share it. A sacred thing.]

That I can promise buddy. I've had enough sand for one lifetime.

[He says it with only the slightest sigh, tune still mostly laughter. Tired of sand.]

Can't promise you another souvenir. You can wear the helmet though.

You sure it'll fit? [He starts, sounding entirely serious for a beat before one tired hand reaches over to paw roughly at the side of Poe's face, upsetting his already unkempt hair.] You've got kind of a big head - probably all that ego up there.

[Not that he even comes close to meaning it: Poe might swagger around without needing a reason, but he's not arrogant-- not even self-involved-- and all that confidence seems somehow redirected to the people around him. Hux used to bark out his battle cry to keep the troops hungry for a fight, but Poe...

Poe gives people the idea that they can fight, not that they have to.]

[He was instantly ready to answer in the affirmative before Finn dropped his innocent act to egg him on. But he only laughs, doesn't even bother to pull away from the offending hand. Actually quite opposite, as he tips his face to leave Finn's fingers deeper in his hair.]

Big hair. Not all of us want to be as clean-cut as you.

[He's easy under his touch, used to casual affection and the usual comeraderie that came with being a soldier. At least with someone who didn't outrank you.

Yet.]

And I pull this off.

[He scoffs out something, the low start of a laugh, maybe, though it's lost the second his back muscles compress from thoughtless effort. Right. Can't do that just yet.

So instead his thumb slips down, catching the pilot's temple in the process before scrubbing-- just once-- at the mess of tousled curls he's been invited to upset. It's affectionate, if not experimental (life outside the First Order is different, and etiquette is, perhaps, the most obvious offender) but eventually he's settled his arm back down again across his own side.] Hey, by First Order standards, I'm practically business casual, buddy.

But yeah. You do alright.

STAR WARS: possible spoiler warning

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