( He could have, but he hadn't, and rather than offer some explanation as to why, Kylo only shrugs, a casual roll of his shoulder that belongs to a man who rises from bent knees with liquid grace too often not to have some innate manner of fluidity to his movement, regardless of how awkwardly assembled he had been as a child. The sky has not yet become the pale streak of blue that might spotlight their movements from above, a clear sky giving way to a clear picture of what it is they intend to do - not that any affordable vantage point would deter anyone seeking them out through lightyears of hyperspace and star systems - and as such, the half-light casts Rey's face in shadow deep enough to make the dirt and darkness crowding her face look like purple-black, marbled bruising. It will take time and better light to determine how much of it is an illusion and how much of it is a result of this fray they have dragged themselves down into. )
Tolerable. ( Is all he offers, immediately, in response to both her question and the matter-of-fact quality of her initial statement. Putting all of his weight on it does not see the collapse or muscle or the breakdown of flesh, but Kylo can't assume that there isn't a tear below skin, when Ji had driven the vibroblade into him as if with the intention to strike bone. But his discomfort is not an island, not when the bond lies coiled and waiting between them like a living, breathing thing ready and waiting to do more than offer vague approximations in the new light of a different day. It surprises him, somewhat, to be able to feel Rey's own injuries as if through a thick layer of fog or as if feeling for the divots between her ribs like searching for something hard through fabric and cotton, but they are still wary of one another, and a full bleed might drag one or the both of them too far underneath the surface. )
I'll live, at any rate. ( To himself, he adds, try not to be too disappointed, but to Rey's face he only sniffs, clears his throat of dust and disuse, his voice deeper and rougher after hours of silence on top of hours - days, weeks, decades - of yelling. ) Your injuries, I assume, are bearable?
no subject
Tolerable. ( Is all he offers, immediately, in response to both her question and the matter-of-fact quality of her initial statement. Putting all of his weight on it does not see the collapse or muscle or the breakdown of flesh, but Kylo can't assume that there isn't a tear below skin, when Ji had driven the vibroblade into him as if with the intention to strike bone. But his discomfort is not an island, not when the bond lies coiled and waiting between them like a living, breathing thing ready and waiting to do more than offer vague approximations in the new light of a different day. It surprises him, somewhat, to be able to feel Rey's own injuries as if through a thick layer of fog or as if feeling for the divots between her ribs like searching for something hard through fabric and cotton, but they are still wary of one another, and a full bleed might drag one or the both of them too far underneath the surface. )
I'll live, at any rate. ( To himself, he adds, try not to be too disappointed, but to Rey's face he only sniffs, clears his throat of dust and disuse, his voice deeper and rougher after hours of silence on top of hours - days, weeks, decades - of yelling. ) Your injuries, I assume, are bearable?