#bestdamnpilot

@best-damn-pilot

Δ = playing with their hair . ( x )

She’s exhausted – doesn’t remember the last time she’s slept ( and if she doesn’t, then Poe’s probably been up even longer than her ). But Iolo is lying pale – so pale – in the medical center bed and she can’t sleep until she knows that he’s going to be okay. Even if they’re not on the same squadron anymore — he’s hers. He can’t go before she does. 

Poe shifts in the uncomfortable chair the doctors have set up for the two of them once they realized that the two pilots weren’t going anywhere despite visiting hours being long past, and she glances over at him. His face is drawn, shadows smudged under his eyes, but he doesn’t look away from Iolo, gaze still focused and solemn. 

Karé tries to stifle the yawn growing in her throat, not wanting to disturb the fragile silence that’s fallen in the room, but fails — and Poe’s arm reaches to pull her towards him. Her head falls onto his shoulder and she opens her mouth to protest ( it’s not fair she can’t rest, not now — ). 

   “But —” 

    “Shhh,” he silences her, voice pitched low, as if to avoid waking the Keshian, “get some rest. I’ll wake you if anything happens.” 

                  she’s sitting there when he walks into the main room, at the table and facing the door he’s walked in from. as if planned, MAZ KANATA is literally taking a sip of her drink as she levels him with one of her stares that she knows he hates. but he’s been hanging around poe dameron a bit too much now for her to not interrogate.

                  her look, if he can interpret it ( probably can, she likes to believe that she could give a speech just on her facial expressions alone ) let’s him know it’s time for them to have a nice chat. maz is probably undesirable conversation number one, which makes all of this even better. the chair across from her pulls out as if by magic ( or, perhaps, the force ) to invite him to sit across from her, where a drink is waiting for him as well.

                  she isn’t one for bantha fodder, and gets right to it.

Jim was in the midst of cutting up lemons when he came in. Tuesday nights were always relatively dead, and this one was no different. A couple stragglers, mainly alcoholics who he was used to seeing in the bar every other night if not more. This man was new, though, not someone the blond had ever seen in the bar before. He rinsed off his hands as the man took a seat, moving to lean hands against the bar in front of the other once they were dried.