Alcohol or circumstances: if he starts, he doesn't think he'll stop. It had been easy to talk to Ren about, after Ren had tried to pry into his own mind. Maybe that's what these people were: he'd been able to talk to Ty about anything; he'd been able to talk to Ren about his gifts; he's able to talk to Jyn about the grief.
He hadn't needed to talk to Casey at all, most of the time. He'd been known, as close to the way he knows others as he's ever gotten, and nothing to it but months of quiet observation.
Months of letting himself be observed.
At first, he doesn't know how to explain it to her, how she'd possibly understand--but that's what he does. He stops digging into his own feelings, stops dredging up another wave of tears for his own loss, and he looks her in her clear, bright eyes, fingers catching tip to tip to give the connection the necessary strength. It's been awhile since he did this on purpose, but the way it seems to wax and wane--and mostly wane--the effort might be required.
Looking at her, Kira softens more than he squints, relying more on opening himself than concentration. He knows the answer won't be direct, and he doesn't do more than blink the moments each to each as it comes to him: the blue of her veins in her wrist, and the pulse therein; two crows fighting over a pretzel in the park, their wings hitting the other, black feathers falling with white salt; a memory, Bodhi picking up the wookiee plush with bemusement; Ren calling him a kriffing idiot.
"Ren said I might be force-sensitive," he says, dropping his gaze to feel out the words in his mouth. "It sounded similar, when he explained it."
no subject
He hadn't needed to talk to Casey at all, most of the time. He'd been known, as close to the way he knows others as he's ever gotten, and nothing to it but months of quiet observation.
Months of letting himself be observed.
At first, he doesn't know how to explain it to her, how she'd possibly understand--but that's what he does. He stops digging into his own feelings, stops dredging up another wave of tears for his own loss, and he looks her in her clear, bright eyes, fingers catching tip to tip to give the connection the necessary strength. It's been awhile since he did this on purpose, but the way it seems to wax and wane--and mostly wane--the effort might be required.
Looking at her, Kira softens more than he squints, relying more on opening himself than concentration. He knows the answer won't be direct, and he doesn't do more than blink the moments each to each as it comes to him: the blue of her veins in her wrist, and the pulse therein; two crows fighting over a pretzel in the park, their wings hitting the other, black feathers falling with white salt; a memory, Bodhi picking up the wookiee plush with bemusement; Ren calling him a kriffing idiot.
"Ren said I might be force-sensitive," he says, dropping his gaze to feel out the words in his mouth. "It sounded similar, when he explained it."