Mask or Menace - IC Inbox

[dreadinquisitor]

He's gotten better with his communicator - a part of him even likes it! He'll probably get back to you, if you leave him a message.

Conversely, do it the old fashioned way. He'll definitely get back to you.

Comments

[flightforfreedom]

[Poe gave a low chuckle, so attempt success.]

... Yeah. I've been through worse. [In a way, he hadn't, but. He could tell himself that.]

[He held up the bottle like a toast.]

To being totally fine, definitely, and liking it.

[dreadinquisitor]

That's the spirit. Chin up, stiff upper lip, the whole bit.

[He makes a soft sound, like the ghost of a laugh, and silence falls for a moment.

Maxwell takes a deep breath.]

...If you want to talk about it, what you saw... well, you listened to me, it's only fair.

[flightforfreedom]

[He takes another long drink, stalling from replying.

Part of him wants nothing more than to talk about Shara. But the rest of him - he doesn't know if he can handle it.]

... I don't know that I can. [He handed the bottle back.]

It wasn't - like yours or Kay's. It wasn't based in anything real, or anything in the past. It just... [He trailed off, frowning.]

Pilot's don't have a long life expectancy.

[dreadinquisitor]

[Maxwell's eyes are like a mirror, the same mix of fatigue and sadness, but he says nothing as he takes the bottle. This is Poe's turn, if he wants it.

And if he doesn't.... Maxwell takes a drink, a slow pull, enjoying the burn for the simple sensation that it was, and allows himself to slump slightly. He leans gently into Poe, taking comfort in the easy solidarity, and offering Poe support in return.

He can just be, if that's what Poe needs.]

[flightforfreedom]

[He leans into the slump almost gratefully - fond of physical attention but not keen to take it unless offered first. He doesn't seem to want to add anything to that thought, the silence continuing for a while, until, very quietly.]

I hadn't even thought about kids, if I'm completely honest. Just- not really an option, given everything.

Now I feel like I have six years worth of memories that never existed.

[dreadinquisitor]

[Maxwell fixes his gaze on a point across the room, where the light from his beside lamp falls into shadow, sensing that it might easier for Poe if Maxwell's weight was only in the support of his shoulder and not in watching eyes as well.

No waiting. No judgement.

Just there.

When the man does finally speak, and then fades again, it takes a long time for Maxwell respond.]

Maybe there's something there- nothing that absolves this pain, but... Perhaps it could be a motivation. Something beyond the expectation of death. A dream.

Even if it's nothing something that's real now, you could make it so.

There's hope in that.

[flightforfreedom]

No.

[The answer is so fast, so certain and so heavy that he has to shoot Maxwell an apologetic smile after it.]

Sorry. No. That's the thing. I can't do that. Short life expectancy, remember? Not a burden I want to put on a kid. Trust me. I know it from the other end. So as long as I'm flying - no. Not an option, and not even a dream.

[dreadinquisitor]

Wars don't last forever. Even if they don't always end, like the blighted Darkspawn always there beneath us even without an Archdemon to guide them, there is respite.

[Maxwell reaches across, touches Poe lightly, then pulls back and offers the bottle instead.]

Don't sell yourself short.

[flightforfreedom]

The enemy isn't the only thing that kills you in a cockpit, Maxwell. [He took the bottle but he didn't drink it, looking down into it instead.]

It has nothing to do with me. Even the best pilot in the galaxy dies some time - and probably a lot sooner than if he stayed on the damn ground.

[dreadinquisitor]

[He barks a low sound, equal parts a snort and a laugh.]

Everyone dies sometime, Poe. And not just other spectacularly weird people like me, with everything from lunatic cultist mages to actual monsters actively trying to kill me.

People get sick. Accidents happen.

Maker, the only thing guaranteed for everyone is death.

[flightforfreedom]

Sure. But you can't blame someone for a sickness or an accident.

And as Leia loves to tell me - or did, back home - one of these days, I'm going to get myself killed. And that I'm pretty sure a kid could blame me for.

[He reached out and gave Maxwell a pat on the back.]

Don't worry about me, alright? It's a moot point, anyway. Who knows how long we're here for. And home? I won't remember any of this anyway. So might as well just enjoy our time while we're here.

[dreadinquisitor]

[Maxwell looks at him. Looks, fully, perhaps for the first time since Poe arrived, bottle in hand.]

Even the best pilot in the galaxy is allowed to live for life after the war.

I think, usually, that's even the point. Some better, golden tomorrow you've helped achieve.

[He reaches out again, and rests a hand on Poe's shoulder.]

And worrying about you is one of things friends are for. Except it, you're stuck with it now.