Not...really, no. [He's not smiling. Can't smile. Picks up a gauzy patch and pries it from its seal, dabbing up the ruddy streaks left smeared across Slip's face before pressing it hard to the puncture wound.
Thinks then that maybe Phasma's right, he's too quick to coddle Slip when things go wrong: this is the kind of wound either him, Zeroes or Nines would patch up on their own in a heartbeat, and it'd teach them not to let it happen again. At least that's the idea behind it in the Captain's eyes, eventually survival instincts will kick in, and he'll adjust. The only other option is letting it kill him instead, and 2187-- can picture it, actually. Even as the idea comes up in his mind, it's an easy one to believe. People didn't talk about it much, but cadets had accidents all the time.
Their numbers just get reassigned.
And he realizes that's not what he wants. Couldn't stomach it if it happened.] You might have a concussion. [Which, as a leader in a fireteam, he knows how to assess - how to handle, if that's the case.]
Relax, it was a joke. Mostly. [He shouldn't be joking right now, but it's the only thing keeping his mind off of all those dark things that could happen. What would happen if they thought he was too poor of a fighter, a thinker, an everything to put him through the reconditioning process and use what was once him as a clean slate. That he might not be worth the time and resources it took for that.
Though even then the thoughts linger behind the fog and haze of light hitting in just the wrong way.
He checks out for a moment before he even realizes that he'd been given an order, and it shouldn't be hard to remember - that number was who he was, and aside from a nickname, all he really had. He can see the numbers, but it's just a mess to get them straight.]
2 - 0 - 3 - no that's wrong. shit. [eyes clamp shut as he tries to straighten it out.] 0 - 3.
Hey, no, it's alright. It's alright. [Quick and direct, Finn says it to keep him from trying to strain himself any further. Pulls back the gauze and takes Slip's jaw in his hand, noting the amount of dilation in his brother's eyes. Concussion it is, which is-- bad. There's no getting him off the hook for training tomorrow, no convincing Phasma to wave him out of PT, and without medical privileges there's no one capable of monitoring him while he sleeps.
The frown he's wearing is deep. Worn down to the bone.
[Those words are a great comfort to him, something that he feels inclined to welcome - the ease to know that things will be fine, that his leader is there by his side no matter what happens.
And then, like a switch has been flipped, he also feels like this moment is wrong. FN-2187 shouldn't be taking care of him. He should be the one solely responsible for his failures, he needs to be held accountable for how his failures negatively impact the whole squad. How they reflect on 2187's leadership.
But he's too disoriented to fight right now, the light and fog and pressure like some kind of swelling crescendo in his skull, overtaking his brain. A hand raises to wave off the one holding his chin, because what is aim, what is depth perception right now.]
-'ll be alright, don't worry Fn-- [Consonants slur together into a mess of vibrations on his lips before everything goes white.]
[The wave off succeeds in part: 2187 drops his hand from Slip's face, but the concern doesn't bleed out of his expression - it gets worse the longer he watches. Listens.
Shakes his head a beat later, insistently clambering up in the bunk beside him to fish up a medical patch, some potent chemical cocktail that kills off swelling like nobody's business, though it doesn't do wonders for pain.] I'm not letting you take the heat for this one, okay.
[Slaps it down under 2003's jaw, smoothing it over with gloved fingers to make sure it takes.]
[With the bright white, there's a ringing in his ears that starts low but slowly gets more shrill the louder it gets. 2187's voice is fuzz behind it, and all shadows in his vision are blobs of yellow and orange light. It's hot and hard to breathe, for a moment he believes he's just fallen into the surface of a sun - wonders if this is what death is like.
And then it's all darkness, and the weight of his head sinks into the hand cradling his jaw.
From there, it feels like an eternity. It's like his brain had orders from the Captain to show his every mistake in fine detail, to highlight everything that was wrong with him, to make it clear that he was bringing down his team and either he'd fall behind and die or he'd drag them down to die with him.
And he didn't want that to happen. He wanted this nightmare to end, he'd learned his lesson - he'd be better. Take training seriously. Become the stormtrooper the First Order wanted him to be, NEEDED him to be.
In the waking world, Slip was only unconscious for about half a minute before he snaps back awake, hyperventilating. Everything comes back down from white and burning yellow to the sterile construction that surrounded them, only intruded upon by the bunks in the room. One hand grips the bed dressings underneath him, the other flails desperate and wild to find somewhere to rest that's secure on his - friend is the first word that comes to mind and that's WRONG that's not how stormtroopers are supposed to thing - leader.
Now, more than ever, he needs the support. But he also feels now more than ever that he needs to be able to fix what's wrong with him alone, and it's so hard to figure out which is the right thing to choose.]
Easy. [It's the first word that comes out of his mouth once he realizes Slip's awake again, wrist caught by his arm and the other reaching to keep him steady where he's floundering in a panic. Some of the armor's gone already-- FN-2187 figured if he was passed out he wouldn't need it-- just the gauntlets and gloves, and he was just about to start on the collar before consciousness decided to interrupt.] Easy, easy, easy. I got you.
[He doesn't come down from breathless heaving right away, but it's a start, and hearing his voice does visibly start to calm him. It's equal parts positive reaction to the comfort and something harsher in him telling him that he needs to stop being so dependent and grow up. Like if he was hearing his own voice through his helmet's filter, but in his head.
There's still a faint ringing in his ears but it seems like he can handle light a little bit better than the moments leading up to that brief interlude of unconsciousness.]
Don't know where I'd be without you. [His words are shaky between gasps for air but he still gets them out. It's true and he wants 2187 to know he's grateful.]
[Something about that-- his voice or his grip or the look on his face-- stops his breath for a half-beat. He doesn't know why, it just does. Like everything else between them, it happens outside of his own control. Outside of every order, every rule, everything they've ever been told.
FN-2187 smiles, tired as it is, it's real.] Same, buddy.
[He'd have no reason to fight or to care: which was always the thing that set him apart from just another cadet on the field, hammering away at every simulation without actually keeping his head in the game.] Come on, gotta get this armor off if you're gonna get enough sleep for PT.
Hey, but if I sleep in it, I don't have to put it back on when I get up. [That smile is a blessing and it gives him enough vitality to crack another joke and return a smile of his own.
For now, it's better if he tries to ignore all the harshness running rampant in his head. Better to accept the help without a fuss. He knows well enough that fighting back would just make things more difficult later.
Even with the joke though, he doesn't waste any time reaching around the back of his neck to get the collar off, eyes fluttering shut to take a moment and enjoy how good the cool of the climate controlled air against his neck. If he didn't have to wear that thing ever again, he'd be happy.]
Yeah and your hygiene's gonna be off the charts. [2187 takes the hint: starts picking off the straps of Slip's pauldrons while he's busy with the insulating collar. A simple process, he's done it a thousand times before, but there's something nice about it all the same.
Progress.
He doesn't have to worry about Slip hitting the floor alone, no matter how tired he's going to be in a couple hours for it.] Phasma would wreck you for that alone, you know that, right?
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Thinks then that maybe Phasma's right, he's too quick to coddle Slip when things go wrong: this is the kind of wound either him, Zeroes or Nines would patch up on their own in a heartbeat, and it'd teach them not to let it happen again. At least that's the idea behind it in the Captain's eyes, eventually survival instincts will kick in, and he'll adjust. The only other option is letting it kill him instead, and 2187-- can picture it, actually. Even as the idea comes up in his mind, it's an easy one to believe. People didn't talk about it much, but cadets had accidents all the time.
Their numbers just get reassigned.
And he realizes that's not what he wants. Couldn't stomach it if it happened.] You might have a concussion. [Which, as a leader in a fireteam, he knows how to assess - how to handle, if that's the case.]
Tell me your serial number again.
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Though even then the thoughts linger behind the fog and haze of light hitting in just the wrong way.
He checks out for a moment before he even realizes that he'd been given an order, and it shouldn't be hard to remember - that number was who he was, and aside from a nickname, all he really had. He can see the numbers, but it's just a mess to get them straight.]
2 - 0 - 3 - no that's wrong. shit. [eyes clamp shut as he tries to straighten it out.] 0 - 3.
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The frown he's wearing is deep. Worn down to the bone.
He needs to think.]
You'll always be Slip to me, anyway, buddy.
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And then, like a switch has been flipped, he also feels like this moment is wrong. FN-2187 shouldn't be taking care of him. He should be the one solely responsible for his failures, he needs to be held accountable for how his failures negatively impact the whole squad. How they reflect on 2187's leadership.
But he's too disoriented to fight right now, the light and fog and pressure like some kind of swelling crescendo in his skull, overtaking his brain. A hand raises to wave off the one holding his chin, because what is aim, what is depth perception right now.]
-'ll be alright, don't worry Fn-- [Consonants slur together into a mess of vibrations on his lips before everything goes white.]
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[The wave off succeeds in part: 2187 drops his hand from Slip's face, but the concern doesn't bleed out of his expression - it gets worse the longer he watches. Listens.
Shakes his head a beat later, insistently clambering up in the bunk beside him to fish up a medical patch, some potent chemical cocktail that kills off swelling like nobody's business, though it doesn't do wonders for pain.] I'm not letting you take the heat for this one, okay.
[Slaps it down under 2003's jaw, smoothing it over with gloved fingers to make sure it takes.]
So don't ask me to.
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And then it's all darkness, and the weight of his head sinks into the hand cradling his jaw.
From there, it feels like an eternity. It's like his brain had orders from the Captain to show his every mistake in fine detail, to highlight everything that was wrong with him, to make it clear that he was bringing down his team and either he'd fall behind and die or he'd drag them down to die with him.
And he didn't want that to happen. He wanted this nightmare to end, he'd learned his lesson - he'd be better. Take training seriously. Become the stormtrooper the First Order wanted him to be, NEEDED him to be.
In the waking world, Slip was only unconscious for about half a minute before he snaps back awake, hyperventilating. Everything comes back down from white and burning yellow to the sterile construction that surrounded them, only intruded upon by the bunks in the room. One hand grips the bed dressings underneath him, the other flails desperate and wild to find somewhere to rest that's secure on his - friend is the first word that comes to mind and that's WRONG that's not how stormtroopers are supposed to thing - leader.
Now, more than ever, he needs the support. But he also feels now more than ever that he needs to be able to fix what's wrong with him alone, and it's so hard to figure out which is the right thing to choose.]
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It's okay.
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There's still a faint ringing in his ears but it seems like he can handle light a little bit better than the moments leading up to that brief interlude of unconsciousness.]
Don't know where I'd be without you. [His words are shaky between gasps for air but he still gets them out. It's true and he wants 2187 to know he's grateful.]
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FN-2187 smiles, tired as it is, it's real.] Same, buddy.
[He'd have no reason to fight or to care: which was always the thing that set him apart from just another cadet on the field, hammering away at every simulation without actually keeping his head in the game.] Come on, gotta get this armor off if you're gonna get enough sleep for PT.
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For now, it's better if he tries to ignore all the harshness running rampant in his head. Better to accept the help without a fuss. He knows well enough that fighting back would just make things more difficult later.
Even with the joke though, he doesn't waste any time reaching around the back of his neck to get the collar off, eyes fluttering shut to take a moment and enjoy how good the cool of the climate controlled air against his neck. If he didn't have to wear that thing ever again, he'd be happy.]
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Progress.
He doesn't have to worry about Slip hitting the floor alone, no matter how tired he's going to be in a couple hours for it.] Phasma would wreck you for that alone, you know that, right?