The idea that anyone who looked like her could not know they were exquisite was absurd. No matter how little exposure she'd had to society, she'd met people, right? She'd met Han, for that matter--though, Luke reminded himself, even Han wasn't nearly so lecherous as to think about touching a girl her age. Plus, he'd probably had a lot of other things on his mind.
Which Luke really should, as well. The thought that Han Solo was better at keeping it in his pants than Luke Skywalker was almost insulting. To both of them.
As she spoke, moving towards him, Luke wanted to protest. He didn't need a lecture on the nature of attraction, or a paean to his beauty. Because that was not the point and not what either of them was here for. But if he admitted that, he had to admit that they were here for another reason. And that would suggest a course of action. Action that was decidedly not checking out and dying alone.
Unbeknownst to him, her words were effecting a change in his expression, a smile curling around the corners of his eyes and almost reaching his mouth, but a smile of surprise and not a little wonder. Was there any kindness left in him? He did wonder that. But for her to think she saw it, for her to hold that mirror up, it showed him a self he'd thought lost.
He wanted to see more. He was tired of his own thoughts, tired of his own cracked mirror image, seen only in the reflection of a terrified boy he'd betrayed. Maybe he only deserved to define himself by Kylo Ren's hatred, but he wanted something else in the way a plant could not help but want the sun. And it was being offered to him, freely.
Almost without thought, his hand reached out, calloused fingers brushing hers as he cautiously reached out with the Force, the very thing that had started this whole mess to begin with. He was not wholly open--he kept wraps on some of his darker feelings--but in his energy she'd be able to read not only his fear of failure and his trepidation at letting anyone in but, underneath, a deep well of loneliness, attuned specifically to her presence and the feelings she had evoked with her nerve and spirit.
no subject
Which Luke really should, as well. The thought that Han Solo was better at keeping it in his pants than Luke Skywalker was almost insulting. To both of them.
As she spoke, moving towards him, Luke wanted to protest. He didn't need a lecture on the nature of attraction, or a paean to his beauty. Because that was not the point and not what either of them was here for. But if he admitted that, he had to admit that they were here for another reason. And that would suggest a course of action. Action that was decidedly not checking out and dying alone.
Unbeknownst to him, her words were effecting a change in his expression, a smile curling around the corners of his eyes and almost reaching his mouth, but a smile of surprise and not a little wonder. Was there any kindness left in him? He did wonder that. But for her to think she saw it, for her to hold that mirror up, it showed him a self he'd thought lost.
He wanted to see more. He was tired of his own thoughts, tired of his own cracked mirror image, seen only in the reflection of a terrified boy he'd betrayed. Maybe he only deserved to define himself by Kylo Ren's hatred, but he wanted something else in the way a plant could not help but want the sun. And it was being offered to him, freely.
Almost without thought, his hand reached out, calloused fingers brushing hers as he cautiously reached out with the Force, the very thing that had started this whole mess to begin with. He was not wholly open--he kept wraps on some of his darker feelings--but in his energy she'd be able to read not only his fear of failure and his trepidation at letting anyone in but, underneath, a deep well of loneliness, attuned specifically to her presence and the feelings she had evoked with her nerve and spirit.