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Finn can’t sleep. Chapter 3, which is nearly done with polishing.
His feet led him to Poe’s hut, and he stood outside it a moment, then noticed there was a sawed-off stump that would serve perfectly well as a seat, so he sat on it. What would happen, if he scratched at the door? Would Poe let him in? Would Poe be annoyed?
What if there was already someone in there? What if Poe’s bed was already full, and he didn’t want to share?
There was no sound from the hut, no snoring, no sex noises. Finn sat and looked at his feet. He should have put shoes on. And it wasn’t exactly cold here, but it wasn’t warm either, and he should have another shirt on, or a coat or something. He hadn’t thought this through, he’d just been so terribly anxious that the world had ended.
He should keep moving, but he was just so tired. He sat and stared at his bare feet in the dim moonlight, and wondered whether Rey were lonely. Probably not. She was so self-sufficient, she surely wasn’t wondering about him at all.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he thought about his old squad then, thought about Slip’s bloody fingers and Nines screaming “Traitor” at him and dying from Chewbacca’s bowcaster. He could have killed Nines, would have— he had been angry enough, and his blood had been up, and he knew now that he could kill in combat, that he had.
Nines would have killed him, no problem.
As for Zeroes, he hadn’t seen him die. He might still be out there. But then, he might not. He knew now that Poe had been among the X-Wings that had saved them on Takodana. It would be poetic, he supposed, if Poe had killed two of his squadmates personally.
Maybe that was poetry. Maybe it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t thoroughly familiar with the idea of poetry. He had some assigned reading to supplement his youthful education of First Order-Approved literary works. Mostly he didn’t get it, but there had been a couple sentences that had sort of stirred him. He would get it one of these days, he was sure, the way so many other things had clicked into place.
Maybe poetry could help him make sense of how to talk about his new best friend having actually killed two of his old best friends. (He was remarkably unbothered by Chewie having killed Nines, but having had a chance to get good and mad with Nines, perhaps that was the difference.)
These weren’t productive thoughts, but he couldn’t really think of any way to stop his brain making so much noise. So he listened, instead, to hear whether Poe was breathing or not, and the contrary desire to tell Poe about Slip and Zeroes, just because it would be the worst thing he could do, welled up along with the overwhelming want to knock on his door and demand company in his loneliness.
Finn can’t sleep. Chapter 3, which is nearly done with polishing.
His feet led him to Poe’s hut, and he stood outside it a moment, then noticed there was a sawed-off stump that would serve perfectly well as a seat, so he sat on it. What would happen, if he scratched at the door? Would Poe let him in? Would Poe be annoyed?
What if there was already someone in there? What if Poe’s bed was already full, and he didn’t want to share?
There was no sound from the hut, no snoring, no sex noises. Finn sat and looked at his feet. He should have put shoes on. And it wasn’t exactly cold here, but it wasn’t warm either, and he should have another shirt on, or a coat or something. He hadn’t thought this through, he’d just been so terribly anxious that the world had ended.
He should keep moving, but he was just so tired. He sat and stared at his bare feet in the dim moonlight, and wondered whether Rey were lonely. Probably not. She was so self-sufficient, she surely wasn’t wondering about him at all.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he thought about his old squad then, thought about Slip’s bloody fingers and Nines screaming “Traitor” at him and dying from Chewbacca’s bowcaster. He could have killed Nines, would have— he had been angry enough, and his blood had been up, and he knew now that he could kill in combat, that he had.
Nines would have killed him, no problem.
As for Zeroes, he hadn’t seen him die. He might still be out there. But then, he might not. He knew now that Poe had been among the X-Wings that had saved them on Takodana. It would be poetic, he supposed, if Poe had killed two of his squadmates personally.
Maybe that was poetry. Maybe it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t thoroughly familiar with the idea of poetry. He had some assigned reading to supplement his youthful education of First Order-Approved literary works. Mostly he didn’t get it, but there had been a couple sentences that had sort of stirred him. He would get it one of these days, he was sure, the way so many other things had clicked into place.
Maybe poetry could help him make sense of how to talk about his new best friend having actually killed two of his old best friends. (He was remarkably unbothered by Chewie having killed Nines, but having had a chance to get good and mad with Nines, perhaps that was the difference.)
These weren’t productive thoughts, but he couldn’t really think of any way to stop his brain making so much noise. So he listened, instead, to hear whether Poe was breathing or not, and the contrary desire to tell Poe about Slip and Zeroes, just because it would be the worst thing he could do, welled up along with the overwhelming want to knock on his door and demand company in his loneliness.
