( The breath that he draws as he crosses the threshold back into the cockpit starts as a hitch in his chest and then expands outward like a network of roots working its way from the body of a tree. He feels it in his fingers and every nerve ending that can trace its origin back to the vault of memories that categorize his time spent on this bucket, sealed off and locked away long ago. Their emergence had been fresh when he'd boarded the vessel on Starkiller, had wracked him with nausea, and he's experienced something similar every time he's stepped not just aboard but into the belly, into this cockpit.
His dark clothing is still lined with Chewbacca's hair and the air still smells of stale leather despite the Falcon having only been back in Solo's possession for a short time. It's enough to confirm Rey's expectations, and he feels them, too, the way that he feels her at all times, unless she's actively and purposefully blocking him. At the very least, it provides a necessary distraction - as much as her instruction does - from the waiting darkness that huddles in every corner of their prolonged isolation with one another, hoping to catch either one of them unawares so that it might strike and bring the whole structure around them down into a violent implosion.
The Knights. Snoke. Organa. Skywalker. The Resistance. All of it. It's an overwhelming amount for the both of them to grapple with when they already have their hands full in grappling with one another. The cockpit, his father's ship, and keeping it flying is enough for him to deal with that the rest of it - Rey's presence in his mind, their connection, his actions, her stubborn belief, all of it - becomes unimportant to the task at hand. However, in the interest of keeping the established order together, as it were, Kylo frowns at her and shows Rey the sharp V of his brow as he does so. )
I know what the throttle is. ( In response to the gesture she grants him in pointing to the lever next to him, whether she's being patient with him or not. He doesn't have the same appreciation for flying that Han had, that Han had hoped he'd have, that Rey does, but Kylo does as he's told despite not having anything positive or particularly helpful to say about it. His tone, though, isn't overly defensive or hostile; it just is. Blank, plain, flat.
The throttle lowers slowly and the scanners whir to life as Kylo leans somewhat to pivot closer to the shields. Not for the first time, he wonders how she managed to fly this ship off of Jakku on her own: even with his wingspan, piloting solo - no pun intended - would be difficult. Despite himself and the colorless cadence of his voice just moments ago, Kylo inclines his head and the fading frown that creases his face with the intention of asking that exact question when something washes over him that draws his attention to the viewport before the scanners have time or ability to pick it up. )
no subject
His dark clothing is still lined with Chewbacca's hair and the air still smells of stale leather despite the Falcon having only been back in Solo's possession for a short time. It's enough to confirm Rey's expectations, and he feels them, too, the way that he feels her at all times, unless she's actively and purposefully blocking him. At the very least, it provides a necessary distraction - as much as her instruction does - from the waiting darkness that huddles in every corner of their prolonged isolation with one another, hoping to catch either one of them unawares so that it might strike and bring the whole structure around them down into a violent implosion.
The Knights. Snoke. Organa. Skywalker. The Resistance. All of it. It's an overwhelming amount for the both of them to grapple with when they already have their hands full in grappling with one another. The cockpit, his father's ship, and keeping it flying is enough for him to deal with that the rest of it - Rey's presence in his mind, their connection, his actions, her stubborn belief, all of it - becomes unimportant to the task at hand. However, in the interest of keeping the established order together, as it were, Kylo frowns at her and shows Rey the sharp V of his brow as he does so. )
I know what the throttle is. ( In response to the gesture she grants him in pointing to the lever next to him, whether she's being patient with him or not. He doesn't have the same appreciation for flying that Han had, that Han had hoped he'd have, that Rey does, but Kylo does as he's told despite not having anything positive or particularly helpful to say about it. His tone, though, isn't overly defensive or hostile; it just is. Blank, plain, flat.
The throttle lowers slowly and the scanners whir to life as Kylo leans somewhat to pivot closer to the shields. Not for the first time, he wonders how she managed to fly this ship off of Jakku on her own: even with his wingspan, piloting solo - no pun intended - would be difficult. Despite himself and the colorless cadence of his voice just moments ago, Kylo inclines his head and the fading frown that creases his face with the intention of asking that exact question when something washes over him that draws his attention to the viewport before the scanners have time or ability to pick it up. )
Something's coming.