( Kylo stumbles back under the abruptness of her assault. Hardly far enough away to give the impression of actually being moved by her inferior physical strength but enough for the cloud of his expression to be visible to her. For a moment, he looks primed for a fight, meeting violence with violence and expounding upon the restless, relentless energy that he has had since boarding the ship, a caged animal. But it doesn't persist. He lets it leak out of him as if through a pinhole, tension in his shoulders visibly draining until the moment he realizes that she's the one enforcing it, letting it fill and permeate the main hold.
Shoulders raise and tighten again, as if operating under a childish urge to simply defy her, but he doesn't lash out. Instead, Kylo crosses his arms, eyes skipping from the hostility that haunts her gaze to the desperate way in which she holds the ration bar close to her body. She's fed and lean but there's a hunger that still lingers around the corners of her mouth and eyes, in the hollows of her cheeks, drawn sharp by the drought of exhaustion. It's a spine forged and made steel by decades of hunger and loneliness, a world he has glimpsed in her mind before, cold desert starlight and sand in every crevice, in water and portion packs of stale bread. Kylo stares at her for a moment, brown eyes meeting hazel across the threshold, and something in him relaxes. )
You aren't going to fix it on dried out rations and letting your mind wander. You should actually sleep. ( Wandering is betrayal enough in its own right. Kylo can remember sitting upright and trying not to fall asleep while meditating by thinking in images to things that had already happened, memories and imagined realities and words that he would have said to his parents when they told him they were going off-world without him again, intricate ploys to rewrite the past. Skywalker always caught him looking and always reprimanded him for it, and he recognizes that slide into nostalgia - if it could be called that - in Rey's own head, two names standing out as if she's blared them from a loudspeaker. Devi and Strunk. He regards her curiously, leaning back against a bulkhead. ) Who are they?
no subject
Shoulders raise and tighten again, as if operating under a childish urge to simply defy her, but he doesn't lash out. Instead, Kylo crosses his arms, eyes skipping from the hostility that haunts her gaze to the desperate way in which she holds the ration bar close to her body. She's fed and lean but there's a hunger that still lingers around the corners of her mouth and eyes, in the hollows of her cheeks, drawn sharp by the drought of exhaustion. It's a spine forged and made steel by decades of hunger and loneliness, a world he has glimpsed in her mind before, cold desert starlight and sand in every crevice, in water and portion packs of stale bread. Kylo stares at her for a moment, brown eyes meeting hazel across the threshold, and something in him relaxes. )
You aren't going to fix it on dried out rations and letting your mind wander. You should actually sleep. ( Wandering is betrayal enough in its own right. Kylo can remember sitting upright and trying not to fall asleep while meditating by thinking in images to things that had already happened, memories and imagined realities and words that he would have said to his parents when they told him they were going off-world without him again, intricate ploys to rewrite the past. Skywalker always caught him looking and always reprimanded him for it, and he recognizes that slide into nostalgia - if it could be called that - in Rey's own head, two names standing out as if she's blared them from a loudspeaker. Devi and Strunk. He regards her curiously, leaning back against a bulkhead. ) Who are they?