Poe appreciates the gesture, as well as the assistance; Andor's obviously the expert in low-grav maneuvers, and Poe's more than happy to not make a complete fool of himself in front of intel. Not that he's any sort of stranger to looking like an idiot in front of all types, but ... he almost laughs at himself as he's maneuvered into place. Maybe it's just that, given the kind of missions General Organa's sent him on, it's hard not to feel a little like a pretender in the presence of a real agent.
Instead, he breathes a quiet thanks, and keeps his foolishness to himself as he tilts his head to glance at Andor. "I can shave it down to a minute and a half, maybe a few seconds less." If he skips the non-vital checks, but he's comfortable enough with the situation and the state of the ship to do so. The hyperdrive will take the longest to ready, but at least they won't be sitting prey while it cycles.
Between then and now, it's just a matter of killing time and staying warm, both of which promise to be something else, Poe thinks, as Andor fits himself into that narrow gap. Poe curls an arm over his side, trying to ignore the tickle of hair against his face, the startling intimacy of feeling surrounded by his scent and everything else that accompanies being molded boots to shoulders with a relative stranger. Chalk the whole experience up as one more thing he's determined not to mention to his pilots for both their sakes; if nothing else, he can absolutely count on Andor without even needing to say a word.
At least Andor's warm; already, he can feel the shivers losing some of their intensity. Poe shifts to slide an arm underneath Andor's neck, attempting to find a mutually comfortable position that isn't going to turn his arm into a mass of pins and needles. Could be worse, he concludes. "Good enough?" Poe asks, barely a murmur -- anything more than that feels unnecessary, given their proximity and the almost-silence of the ship itself. "Y'know, might not be the worst time to get some rest, if you've got the mind to."
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Instead, he breathes a quiet thanks, and keeps his foolishness to himself as he tilts his head to glance at Andor. "I can shave it down to a minute and a half, maybe a few seconds less." If he skips the non-vital checks, but he's comfortable enough with the situation and the state of the ship to do so. The hyperdrive will take the longest to ready, but at least they won't be sitting prey while it cycles.
Between then and now, it's just a matter of killing time and staying warm, both of which promise to be something else, Poe thinks, as Andor fits himself into that narrow gap. Poe curls an arm over his side, trying to ignore the tickle of hair against his face, the startling intimacy of feeling surrounded by his scent and everything else that accompanies being molded boots to shoulders with a relative stranger. Chalk the whole experience up as one more thing he's determined not to mention to his pilots for both their sakes; if nothing else, he can absolutely count on Andor without even needing to say a word.
At least Andor's warm; already, he can feel the shivers losing some of their intensity. Poe shifts to slide an arm underneath Andor's neck, attempting to find a mutually comfortable position that isn't going to turn his arm into a mass of pins and needles. Could be worse, he concludes. "Good enough?" Poe asks, barely a murmur -- anything more than that feels unnecessary, given their proximity and the almost-silence of the ship itself. "Y'know, might not be the worst time to get some rest, if you've got the mind to."