That tugs the corner of Poe's mouth upward. Poe knows he can be a little naive when it comes to people, that he's made the mistake of letting his faith in people get in the way of the truth more than once. It would be easy for the good Captain to lie to him, because Poe wants to believe. He knows this.
He studies what he can see of Andor's face, all delicate angles and sharp shadows, listens to his breath, the muffled scratch of Cassian's coat around his shoulders as he breathes in turn. Feels him, not just by touch but by ... presence, maybe, and believes that he feels true. Finds himself hoping for it, strong enough to startle him.
In this, at least, there's no reason not to. If there are concessions here, they belong to the Captain, and Poe's hold tightens briefly, gently -- almost unconsciously -- in unspoken acknowledgement of that privilege.
"I bet you do," he says a moment later, just a little divorced from his current train of thought, but likely more comfortable for his companion. Idly, Poe wonders if the intel guys get much for gratitude from the rest of the Resistance, if they care one way or another. Andor seems like the type driven by far more than the cheers of his compatriots, the type who might easily do without it. It's got to be hard, no matter what, he thinks, but suspects it might sound condescending out of his mouth. Instead, he breathes another little sigh, an action that has the unfortunate effect of kicking up Andor's hair to invade his face all over again.
He wriggles a hand free with a soft, bemused curse, and reaches up to stroke it back into place. "Sorry, buddy," Poe murmurs, and does his best not to consider how soft Cassian's hair is beneath his fingertips. "We do this again, I'm bringing trimmers, all right?"
no subject
He studies what he can see of Andor's face, all delicate angles and sharp shadows, listens to his breath, the muffled scratch of Cassian's coat around his shoulders as he breathes in turn. Feels him, not just by touch but by ... presence, maybe, and believes that he feels true. Finds himself hoping for it, strong enough to startle him.
In this, at least, there's no reason not to. If there are concessions here, they belong to the Captain, and Poe's hold tightens briefly, gently -- almost unconsciously -- in unspoken acknowledgement of that privilege.
"I bet you do," he says a moment later, just a little divorced from his current train of thought, but likely more comfortable for his companion. Idly, Poe wonders if the intel guys get much for gratitude from the rest of the Resistance, if they care one way or another. Andor seems like the type driven by far more than the cheers of his compatriots, the type who might easily do without it. It's got to be hard, no matter what, he thinks, but suspects it might sound condescending out of his mouth. Instead, he breathes another little sigh, an action that has the unfortunate effect of kicking up Andor's hair to invade his face all over again.
He wriggles a hand free with a soft, bemused curse, and reaches up to stroke it back into place. "Sorry, buddy," Poe murmurs, and does his best not to consider how soft Cassian's hair is beneath his fingertips. "We do this again, I'm bringing trimmers, all right?"