Just one question, and Dameron's off, stream of consciousness.
The way he's flying -- absolutely efficient, not a wasted motion,
and when Cassian thinks of that, he tends to think of, for example, the
purely mechanical flight that K2 practices. This is nothing like that. A
long time ago, Cassian spent a lot of time on mountaintops, watching,
gathering intelligence, and on those mountaintops were birds. Gorgeous
things, huge wingspan, sharp beaks, and these fiercely intelligent eyes
that, somehow, never made Cassian feel particularly uneasy. Those birds
were predators. They didn't fly for the joy of it, for the freedom
of stretching their wings. They flew for one perfect, deadly purpose, and
no motion was wasted. Everything finely calculated.
Cassian has a feeling that Dameron would fly for the joy of it. But this,
right now, is more like those predators -- birds with wings wider than
Cassian was tall, that could fly in the ten-centimeter gap between Cassian
and a rock wall, barely brushing him with a folded wing as they went by.
Dameron is, in fact, reacting to obstacles before Cassian even perceives
them. Four moves ahead, all the time. Cassian would have a hard time just
keeping track of what Dameron is doing and keeping up a conversation
at the same time. Dameron just chatters away.
Cassian laughs, soft and disbelieving. "Roguishly handsome," he echoes. His
accent is a little stronger when he's under stress. "Don't tell me you're
keeping another companion in the storage net." A joke; but, in fact,
Cassian doesn't really consider himself handsome. He's not really one thing
or the other. Not short, not tall; not Republic, not Rim; not a soldier,
not a spy. Not quite handsome, not quite pretty, but maybe a hint of each.
He doesn't use his looks to get what he wants, anyway. It's not out of any
moral high ground. It's just that there are much better and more effective
ways to find anything he needs to find. Seduction, when necessary, is
rarely even about looks, anyway.
no subject
Just one question, and Dameron's off, stream of consciousness.
The way he's flying -- absolutely efficient, not a wasted motion, and when Cassian thinks of that, he tends to think of, for example, the purely mechanical flight that K2 practices. This is nothing like that. A long time ago, Cassian spent a lot of time on mountaintops, watching, gathering intelligence, and on those mountaintops were birds. Gorgeous things, huge wingspan, sharp beaks, and these fiercely intelligent eyes that, somehow, never made Cassian feel particularly uneasy. Those birds were predators. They didn't fly for the joy of it, for the freedom of stretching their wings. They flew for one perfect, deadly purpose, and no motion was wasted. Everything finely calculated.
Cassian has a feeling that Dameron would fly for the joy of it. But this, right now, is more like those predators -- birds with wings wider than Cassian was tall, that could fly in the ten-centimeter gap between Cassian and a rock wall, barely brushing him with a folded wing as they went by.
Dameron is, in fact, reacting to obstacles before Cassian even perceives them. Four moves ahead, all the time. Cassian would have a hard time just keeping track of what Dameron is doing and keeping up a conversation at the same time. Dameron just chatters away.
Cassian laughs, soft and disbelieving. "Roguishly handsome," he echoes. His accent is a little stronger when he's under stress. "Don't tell me you're keeping another companion in the storage net." A joke; but, in fact, Cassian doesn't really consider himself handsome. He's not really one thing or the other. Not short, not tall; not Republic, not Rim; not a soldier, not a spy. Not quite handsome, not quite pretty, but maybe a hint of each.
He doesn't use his looks to get what he wants, anyway. It's not out of any moral high ground. It's just that there are much better and more effective ways to find anything he needs to find. Seduction, when necessary, is rarely even about looks, anyway.