( Skywalker's lack of aggression bothers him. Borderline unnerved, Kylo keeps his chin tipped down and his gaze level, taller than literally everyone in the room but hunkering down within himself as if expecting an attack. He can't stop staring at his uncle, and it's neither with kindness nor disdain, a sort of in-between state of antagonized wonder. For all his efforts, for how far he had extended his reach, had pushed the Order, the Knights, and their resources to find this man, this shell of a human who had stood so tall in so many varying ways when Kylo was so young, for him to be standing here so plainly in front of him, brought back from nowhere by the jagged will and determination of a girl who reaches out for his elbow at the frustrating betrayal of his own voice inquiring after her - it's enraging.
For all intents and purposes, he may as well be pouting, but seeing as he's nearly thirty and that sort of behavior is beneath him, his face schools itself into a mask of fierce and rapt attention, the hungry cast of his gaze darkly directed at the floor when Skywalker looks pointedly at him. The storm that rattles around inside him beats itself into a frenzy every time the old Jedi drops a name that has been systematically wiped from databases and banned from being spoken aloud. Han Solo had been the last person to say it at any decibel, and hearing it forcefully repeated as if to drive home a point is enough to turn his grip white-knuckled. No matter what happens, there's no hope for that name carrying any meaning once this is all over. He can feel it deep down on a molecular level, where the Force swirls and rises and drowns everything beneath it.
Arguing the point seems moot, especially so when Skywalker pins him so deflty under that sharp blue, beseeching look that dares Kylo to disagree. He lets down the first line of defense in retaliation, a crack in the glass of his expression appearing and splintering the heavy cast of his countenance into something that vaguely resembles poorly suppressed anger and something like hubris, chin moving from its position pointed toward the floor to settle at an angle. The line of his jaw tightens with each staccato presentation of that word - Ben. - as it accentuates the details of their plan and his role in it, molars digging into one another as he suppresses the very real desire to fight someone. That desire is quelled almost instantly by the cleansing fire of his own amused skepticism regarding his mother and his uncle's ability to keep Snoke from seeing what's happening, a borderline-imperceptible twist at the corner of his mouth and the slightest exhale through his nose.
Rey's palm is warm against the barely-damp fabric covering his elbow, the weight of her hand present through the layers of his armor and the flightsuit underneath. It's the second time that she's touched him today and the third time - to his knowledge - that anyone has. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and his arm tenses all the way up to the shoulder, suspicious, on edge, ready for an altercation, and he watches her sit down and tug off her boots without deflating, consciously aware of the other two people in the room and the position that he finds himself in. Kylo spares one backward glance at a family from another time and then glances once more at Rey again before ultimately sitting down, folding into himself with no amount of grace or comfort.
In motion, he is solid but fluid lines and angles; in repose, he betrays bits and pieces of the awkward Padawan that he used to be. But he does sit. Refusing to strip out of his boots the way that she has, Kylo Ren folds long legs into a traditional meditation position and does not feel at ease. He considers divulging his difficulties with meditation - how he finds it useless, how he lacks the ability to focus so completely the same way he lacked the ability to divest himself of all emotion while training as a Jedi - but something in the set of Rey's shoulders, the look on her face, snags his attention before he can begin considering how to bring it up. )
Something you're not telling me?
( Kylo ignores the other two figures in the room, zeroing in on Rey and letting the world blur at the edges as he tries to decipher whether or not she is hiding anything of import. )
no subject
For all intents and purposes, he may as well be pouting, but seeing as he's nearly thirty and that sort of behavior is beneath him, his face schools itself into a mask of fierce and rapt attention, the hungry cast of his gaze darkly directed at the floor when Skywalker looks pointedly at him. The storm that rattles around inside him beats itself into a frenzy every time the old Jedi drops a name that has been systematically wiped from databases and banned from being spoken aloud. Han Solo had been the last person to say it at any decibel, and hearing it forcefully repeated as if to drive home a point is enough to turn his grip white-knuckled. No matter what happens, there's no hope for that name carrying any meaning once this is all over. He can feel it deep down on a molecular level, where the Force swirls and rises and drowns everything beneath it.
Arguing the point seems moot, especially so when Skywalker pins him so deflty under that sharp blue, beseeching look that dares Kylo to disagree. He lets down the first line of defense in retaliation, a crack in the glass of his expression appearing and splintering the heavy cast of his countenance into something that vaguely resembles poorly suppressed anger and something like hubris, chin moving from its position pointed toward the floor to settle at an angle. The line of his jaw tightens with each staccato presentation of that word - Ben. - as it accentuates the details of their plan and his role in it, molars digging into one another as he suppresses the very real desire to fight someone. That desire is quelled almost instantly by the cleansing fire of his own amused skepticism regarding his mother and his uncle's ability to keep Snoke from seeing what's happening, a borderline-imperceptible twist at the corner of his mouth and the slightest exhale through his nose.
Rey's palm is warm against the barely-damp fabric covering his elbow, the weight of her hand present through the layers of his armor and the flightsuit underneath. It's the second time that she's touched him today and the third time - to his knowledge - that anyone has. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and his arm tenses all the way up to the shoulder, suspicious, on edge, ready for an altercation, and he watches her sit down and tug off her boots without deflating, consciously aware of the other two people in the room and the position that he finds himself in. Kylo spares one backward glance at a family from another time and then glances once more at Rey again before ultimately sitting down, folding into himself with no amount of grace or comfort.
In motion, he is solid but fluid lines and angles; in repose, he betrays bits and pieces of the awkward Padawan that he used to be. But he does sit. Refusing to strip out of his boots the way that she has, Kylo Ren folds long legs into a traditional meditation position and does not feel at ease. He considers divulging his difficulties with meditation - how he finds it useless, how he lacks the ability to focus so completely the same way he lacked the ability to divest himself of all emotion while training as a Jedi - but something in the set of Rey's shoulders, the look on her face, snags his attention before he can begin considering how to bring it up. )
Something you're not telling me?
( Kylo ignores the other two figures in the room, zeroing in on Rey and letting the world blur at the edges as he tries to decipher whether or not she is hiding anything of import. )