[ The stench of burnt flesh and death are thick in the air around them, but if Rey smells it in the smoke, she doesn't react, keeping her expression set and duty-focused. While tending to injuries for a political prisoner does not precisely fall under the purview of her duties as a Jedi Knight (padawan, technically), it does help extend the lives of them both should another fight arise, and her experiences with Aurren and Ji do not give her considerable faith that she would fair as well without his aid.
She does not admit these practicalities out loud, as much to spare her pride as to avoid inflating his.
Instead, she allows him the dignity of widening the tear in his own clothing and pulls a canteen from her leather bag, shaking some of the water out over the bloodied puncture that lies beneath. The skin has puckered, layers of flesh turned up like corners pulled away from the wound by an invisible force, a removed blade, and fresh blood bubbles out of it as soon as the water from her canteen temporarily washes blood and dirt away.
He should never have tried walking on it. Just one glance would be enough to tell her how deep it is, if the crippling pain she'd felt transferred to her own thigh hadn't given her some indication already; as it stands, it confirms what she already knows, that flesh and muscle have torn straight down the bone, that even with the miracles of modern medicine, it will be some time—days, she guesses—before his leg is fully functional again.
The cap goes back on her canteen before she swaps it out for a tube of bacta, which she applies judiciously with a smear of her fingers, his blood staining them through mine soot. As she applies it, she grows more conscious of the steady tingle, the latent cool burn, of the patch on her side, and she wonders if it is the bond transferring the feeling of application and her mind simply referring it to where it expects the sensation to come from or if it's merely a natural empathic reaction.
Submerged in silence, Rey is the most comfortable she's felt around him since he tried to choke the life out of a Knight in the mineshaft, a reminder of years in isolation where she merely tended to the tasks that required her attention as they came up and worried about little else, so she does not break it with evaluations or platitudes. Instead, she sets about wrapping bandaging tape around his thigh once it's lathered in the skimpy portion of bacta she'd opted to use—conservation as a habit dies slowly, painfully, screaming each step of the way—and winds it tight around his thigh. She pretends that she doesn't take petty satisfaction in the discomfort she undoubtedly causes him. ]
no subject
She does not admit these practicalities out loud, as much to spare her pride as to avoid inflating his.
Instead, she allows him the dignity of widening the tear in his own clothing and pulls a canteen from her leather bag, shaking some of the water out over the bloodied puncture that lies beneath. The skin has puckered, layers of flesh turned up like corners pulled away from the wound by an invisible force, a removed blade, and fresh blood bubbles out of it as soon as the water from her canteen temporarily washes blood and dirt away.
He should never have tried walking on it. Just one glance would be enough to tell her how deep it is, if the crippling pain she'd felt transferred to her own thigh hadn't given her some indication already; as it stands, it confirms what she already knows, that flesh and muscle have torn straight down the bone, that even with the miracles of modern medicine, it will be some time—days, she guesses—before his leg is fully functional again.
The cap goes back on her canteen before she swaps it out for a tube of bacta, which she applies judiciously with a smear of her fingers, his blood staining them through mine soot. As she applies it, she grows more conscious of the steady tingle, the latent cool burn, of the patch on her side, and she wonders if it is the bond transferring the feeling of application and her mind simply referring it to where it expects the sensation to come from or if it's merely a natural empathic reaction.
Submerged in silence, Rey is the most comfortable she's felt around him since he tried to choke the life out of a Knight in the mineshaft, a reminder of years in isolation where she merely tended to the tasks that required her attention as they came up and worried about little else, so she does not break it with evaluations or platitudes. Instead, she sets about wrapping bandaging tape around his thigh once it's lathered in the skimpy portion of bacta she'd opted to use—conservation as a habit dies slowly, painfully, screaming each step of the way—and winds it tight around his thigh. She pretends that she doesn't take petty satisfaction in the discomfort she undoubtedly causes him. ]