[ There's a very long moment where she's almost pleased, where they are so in sync with each other that Kylo automatically does exactly what she's thinking, fitting a piece of his saber back into place just as she would have done and unintentionally suggests he do– before he ruins it, he brings up Finn, and she prickles, bristles physically and across the tightly knit bond between them that only seems to strengthen daily, dual hackles raising as she grits her teeth and makes some feeble attempt to quell her own anger, Master Skywalker's even keeled voice in her head.
It duels viciously with the reverberating memory of Finn's hollow screams through a snowy wood, ripping her back to consciousness only to watch him be sliced up the spine cleanly in one fell swoop, seeing red in her vision, the primal, instinctual drive to stand and call that lightsaber to her hand. ]
Be. Careful, Ren. I didn't steal anything. If memory serves, this saber came to me, not you. And if you touch any of them again...
[ Her voice is a low growl knocking about his head, less angry and threatening as it is a promise. Too many long nights she'd spent, cheek pillowed across the bow of her own arm at his bedside, willing him to stir, to heal faster, to open his dark eyes and look at her and smile stupidly, BB-8 at her heels, Poe often on the other side of the bed, sleeping just as fitfully, impatient.
Poe doesn't so much speak about his time spent so very hospitably aboard the Finalizer, but there are glimpses she catches from him, shoulder to shoulder in the mess hall, or when his palm fits comfortably over the backs of her knuckles, and she knows. This bond between them will not make her less forgiving.
Still, even as she grumbles irritably around his head, her presence is an even, calm entity, nearly beside him, as if she's in her sleeping clothes and slumped across the table from him, giving him half hearted cranky little directions. ]
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It duels viciously with the reverberating memory of Finn's hollow screams through a snowy wood, ripping her back to consciousness only to watch him be sliced up the spine cleanly in one fell swoop, seeing red in her vision, the primal, instinctual drive to stand and call that lightsaber to her hand. ]
Be. Careful, Ren. I didn't steal anything. If memory serves, this saber came to me, not you. And if you touch any of them again...
[ Her voice is a low growl knocking about his head, less angry and threatening as it is a promise. Too many long nights she'd spent, cheek pillowed across the bow of her own arm at his bedside, willing him to stir, to heal faster, to open his dark eyes and look at her and smile stupidly, BB-8 at her heels, Poe often on the other side of the bed, sleeping just as fitfully, impatient.
Poe doesn't so much speak about his time spent so very hospitably aboard the Finalizer, but there are glimpses she catches from him, shoulder to shoulder in the mess hall, or when his palm fits comfortably over the backs of her knuckles, and she knows. This bond between them will not make her less forgiving.
Still, even as she grumbles irritably around his head, her presence is an even, calm entity, nearly beside him, as if she's in her sleeping clothes and slumped across the table from him, giving him half hearted cranky little directions. ]