Poe hesitates in the face of the question, yet another that he's not used to anyone asking, with the additional weight of an intel agent's curiosity behind it. There's an initial sort of defensive reflex that rises in his mind, the kind that wants to point out there's no regs that require it or General Organa understands his value as he is, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, but the defense seems like it might come off like guilt.
He's not, of course, and no one important has insisted on it. But Poe doesn't say that either, instead considering the slight rasp of Cassian Andor's fingertips skating over the backs of his hands, the comparative warmth of his palms against his own chilled skin and the shocking sense of intimacy that accompanies it. For a moment, it's a potent distraction, and Poe swallows around a half-held breath. Just another kind of duty, Poe thinks, but also, huh.
In the quiet, in the dark, every sense is tuned to sensations he can't help but associate with closeness, no matter how valiantly he attempts to separate them. He means to take the press of Andor's back against his chest as impersonal, the pleasantly soft warmth of his hair beneath his cheek as a given, the slight smoke-musk scent of him as unavoidable, really -- and he'd been doing all right, by his reckoning.
But he is listening, and he feels like maybe he's not the only one thawing out a little bit in this crowded little bunk. This time, when Poe shivers, it doesn't have that much to do with the cold at all.
He smiles, too, and huffs a quiet sound at his own well-intentioned stupidity before finally getting around to an answer that's both blunt and honest. "No," Poe says quietly, and it doesn't really feel like conceding anything at all when he relaxes his grip to lay his hands flat against Andor's belly, his thumb attempting to smooth out a wrinkle in his shirt before giving up to lie still. "I try to keep my friends in one piece. For all the times he's returned the favor, it seems fair."
no subject
He's not, of course, and no one important has insisted on it. But Poe doesn't say that either, instead considering the slight rasp of Cassian Andor's fingertips skating over the backs of his hands, the comparative warmth of his palms against his own chilled skin and the shocking sense of intimacy that accompanies it. For a moment, it's a potent distraction, and Poe swallows around a half-held breath. Just another kind of duty, Poe thinks, but also, huh.
In the quiet, in the dark, every sense is tuned to sensations he can't help but associate with closeness, no matter how valiantly he attempts to separate them. He means to take the press of Andor's back against his chest as impersonal, the pleasantly soft warmth of his hair beneath his cheek as a given, the slight smoke-musk scent of him as unavoidable, really -- and he'd been doing all right, by his reckoning.
But he is listening, and he feels like maybe he's not the only one thawing out a little bit in this crowded little bunk. This time, when Poe shivers, it doesn't have that much to do with the cold at all.
He smiles, too, and huffs a quiet sound at his own well-intentioned stupidity before finally getting around to an answer that's both blunt and honest. "No," Poe says quietly, and it doesn't really feel like conceding anything at all when he relaxes his grip to lay his hands flat against Andor's belly, his thumb attempting to smooth out a wrinkle in his shirt before giving up to lie still. "I try to keep my friends in one piece. For all the times he's returned the favor, it seems fair."