There was no QUESTION, not an ounce of hesitation in Poe’s actions
-- he’d take that hit again and again if it meant protecting one of his
people (or more specifically: her). He was always more the ACT first,
deal with the repercussions later kind of guy anyway -- for better or
for worse. He just hopes that’s not going to turn out to be his fatal
flaw. His fingers are stained crimson -- along with most of his hand --
as he applies PRESSURE to the wound at his side. He can feel Asha’s
hands shake as she holds him, and all he can do is look up at her
with fondness in his brown eyes. As though he still wants to be the
one comforting her when HE’S the one laying there with his life
literally on the line.
He wants to reach up, to wrap an arm around her, especially once
her forehead is pressed (affectionately) to his own. Unfortunately,
moving isn’t something he feels he should do too much of at the
moment. The pilot’s eyes go glassy, emotion getting the better of
him ONLY when he can hear it so heavily in her own voice. “Hey,”
he says calmly, voice soft, “-- it wouldn’t be me if it wasn’t a little
bit reckless, right?” he laughs weakly, wincing at the slight movement
that created, “I don’t REGRET it, Asha, and you’re crazy if you think
this is how Poe Dameron goes out,” he smiles, his confidence (or
cockiness) staying strong even if there’s at least a little FEAR beneath
it. He feels a little tired, cold, and he assumes it’s from the blood loss,
but he’s fighting with everything he can to stay conscious. No way
is he letting a blaster shot to the side FINISH him.
“-- The medics WILL be here soon, right?”
