[ Her defense would be more feeble if he hadn't explicitly confessed himself poorly disposed to meditation not so long ago. In the edge of his perception, she picks up on Chewie, so by the time the wookiee reaches her, she's already looking up and expecting him.
He makes disgruntled sounds blaming the choice to bring Kylo aboard as she explains to him the damage, then rises to her feet, ready to help him bring them out of hyperspace. She towels the grease off her hands, though the cracking edges of her knuckles hold onto it persistently, softening them and giving them a weathered look at the same time.
She doesn't blame Chewie for his distaste, and patiently waits out his persistent complaints as they walk towards the cockpit: it makes sense. The wookiee, by his own account, had owed Han Solo a life debt. It must have felt so wrong for him to go on when Han was dead, and now to be forced to cohabitate with the murderer. It was a lot to ask, but she looked him in the eyes, soft and resolute, and asked it of him anyway. He reluctantly nodded his affirmation, then for her to enter the cockpit ahead of him. Rey did so smiling. ]
How are you feeling? We're about to switch to manual at the edge of Roche space. [ She doesn't tell him to cast a net for Knights or hints of the First Order through the Force, but the thought does occur to her that it would be a useful application of his skills were he feeling up to it. Unfortunately, he hasn't seen fit to share the extent of what the Supreme Leader did to him; she can only tell that it took a considerable toll. Beyond that, she refuses to push, and she knows he is unlikely to offer: still, somewhere buried under all that exhaustion, frustration, and keen focus, concern for him nags at the edges of her mind. After all, whatever consequences he suffered were inflicted for the sake of her goals, her plan, her request. ]
now you're thinking like a murrican
[ Her defense would be more feeble if he hadn't explicitly confessed himself poorly disposed to meditation not so long ago. In the edge of his perception, she picks up on Chewie, so by the time the wookiee reaches her, she's already looking up and expecting him.
He makes disgruntled sounds blaming the choice to bring Kylo aboard as she explains to him the damage, then rises to her feet, ready to help him bring them out of hyperspace. She towels the grease off her hands, though the cracking edges of her knuckles hold onto it persistently, softening them and giving them a weathered look at the same time.
She doesn't blame Chewie for his distaste, and patiently waits out his persistent complaints as they walk towards the cockpit: it makes sense. The wookiee, by his own account, had owed Han Solo a life debt. It must have felt so wrong for him to go on when Han was dead, and now to be forced to cohabitate with the murderer. It was a lot to ask, but she looked him in the eyes, soft and resolute, and asked it of him anyway. He reluctantly nodded his affirmation, then for her to enter the cockpit ahead of him. Rey did so smiling. ]
How are you feeling? We're about to switch to manual at the edge of Roche space. [ She doesn't tell him to cast a net for Knights or hints of the First Order through the Force, but the thought does occur to her that it would be a useful application of his skills were he feeling up to it. Unfortunately, he hasn't seen fit to share the extent of what the Supreme Leader did to him; she can only tell that it took a considerable toll. Beyond that, she refuses to push, and she knows he is unlikely to offer: still, somewhere buried under all that exhaustion, frustration, and keen focus, concern for him nags at the edges of her mind. After all, whatever consequences he suffered were inflicted for the sake of her goals, her plan, her request. ]