[ Even coiled in the cockpit on the other end of the ship, Rey finds the banging impossible to ignore—probably for the best, for she hears the grinding sound of rent metal and grimaces to think that he might be damaging the last vestige of his father's memory in what amounts to a tantrum. It feels wrong to designate Han as his father, when from their given perspectives, he properly feels more like he belongs to Rey.
That sense of ownership keeps her rooted to the pilot's seat for longer than she probably should remain, unable to trust herself to engage him in a reasonable manner, but soon enough, his desperate, conflicted scramble for an identity he's never built bleeds through into her sufficiently that she can't ignore it. He doesn't reach out in a traditional sense, but the entropy surrounding him and billowing outward acts like a beacon; it draws her to him.
On some level, she's always drawn to him.
Rather than examine it, Rey pops up onto her feet and chases him down in the hold, rounding the corner of the narrow steel corridor that rattles with the vigorous effort of the ship tearing through the fabric of space. She understands the feeling as she continues to smash her nose into the impregnable bubble of inculcated fear and hate that surrounds Kylo Ren; the very act of trying to smash her way through it shakes her until she wonders if she might be coming apart too.
Without making an effort to mask her presence, she moves just past him and stares into the warped metal that reflects only distorted, blended colors of flesh and hair and black robes, not any likeness of anyone. If Leia were here, she'd take the opportunity to try and pick him up from where he sits, urge him against the hate that he demonstrates for his own reflection, but gazing into the twisted, mutilated sheet of paneling, Rey doesn't find that kind of sympathy.
He stared in the mirror every day while he became what he is without flinching or stopping himself when the time came. It was too late, by the time he had. He deserves the punishment he doles out on himself, and she permits the way he stews in self-loathing. Turning towards him, she sizes the seated figure up, weighs and measures, and decides that he's not a broken shell of the beast he'd once been—whatever conclusion the metal panel had been sacrificed to bring him to contained at least some measure of resolve in it. For now, that's all she can ask. ]
I'm not afraid because I'm not coming up against them alone. [ It's the closest thing to a concession or an olive branch that she'll give him; it's hard to even offer that much, thinking of what he's done and all the reasons she has not give him any of her gratitude for the position he fills at her side. People don't have to earn that for her to give it, though, and Rey finds herself more enamored with the notion the further she considers it. For now, then, she puts it off. ] Now will you come help me or not?
no subject
That sense of ownership keeps her rooted to the pilot's seat for longer than she probably should remain, unable to trust herself to engage him in a reasonable manner, but soon enough, his desperate, conflicted scramble for an identity he's never built bleeds through into her sufficiently that she can't ignore it. He doesn't reach out in a traditional sense, but the entropy surrounding him and billowing outward acts like a beacon; it draws her to him.
On some level, she's always drawn to him.
Rather than examine it, Rey pops up onto her feet and chases him down in the hold, rounding the corner of the narrow steel corridor that rattles with the vigorous effort of the ship tearing through the fabric of space. She understands the feeling as she continues to smash her nose into the impregnable bubble of inculcated fear and hate that surrounds Kylo Ren; the very act of trying to smash her way through it shakes her until she wonders if she might be coming apart too.
Without making an effort to mask her presence, she moves just past him and stares into the warped metal that reflects only distorted, blended colors of flesh and hair and black robes, not any likeness of anyone. If Leia were here, she'd take the opportunity to try and pick him up from where he sits, urge him against the hate that he demonstrates for his own reflection, but gazing into the twisted, mutilated sheet of paneling, Rey doesn't find that kind of sympathy.
He stared in the mirror every day while he became what he is without flinching or stopping himself when the time came. It was too late, by the time he had. He deserves the punishment he doles out on himself, and she permits the way he stews in self-loathing. Turning towards him, she sizes the seated figure up, weighs and measures, and decides that he's not a broken shell of the beast he'd once been—whatever conclusion the metal panel had been sacrificed to bring him to contained at least some measure of resolve in it. For now, that's all she can ask. ]
I'm not afraid because I'm not coming up against them alone. [ It's the closest thing to a concession or an olive branch that she'll give him; it's hard to even offer that much, thinking of what he's done and all the reasons she has not give him any of her gratitude for the position he fills at her side. People don't have to earn that for her to give it, though, and Rey finds herself more enamored with the notion the further she considers it. For now, then, she puts it off. ] Now will you come help me or not?