Because they've got these things in common, because she knew he'd see to her in a way no one else on this ship could. Somehow, her heard brought her here while her head was off somewhere else entirely. She's still shaking, still cold all over, and the last time she was here he gave her a drink and that had stopped that. The next step seems obvious.
"I'd like that drink now, if that's still on the table."
"With me, it always is." He smiles at her, and squeezes her shoulder as he pushes himself away from the table to pour her a drink. He gives her a good amount of whiskey in a glass, then grabs a cloth and wets it with some more of the liquor.
She doesn't quite get the glass up to her mouth before she realizes his intention, that he's planning to take care of her, and for a moment all she can do is stare at him.
No one has ever done that. All her bumps and scrapes, every broken bone, those have all been on her to fix to the best of her ability, and now here is Tommy with alcohol on a cloth and when he presses it to her skin it does sting, but she hardly notices it.
"You don't have to do that," she says softly, but she makes no move to stop him or do it herself.
"You're right," he agrees, leaning forward so he can tip her chin up and clean that cut out. "I don't. But here I am, doing it. This is what-- this is what you do, Rey. You help each other out, eh?"
That's true. She helped him in the Enclosure, and now he's helping her here, so she can't really find a flaw in that logic, they help each other. She's never worked with people and had it go bad, but there's no real way for Tommy to double cross her here. He can't steal her ship, he won't take her food, she trusts him, and that's the part that makes everything he says something she can just... believe. There's not even any effort to it because each and every time he's had to he's proven himself to be someone she can trust.
So she nods, and then instead of staring, instead of all the watchfulness, she leans in a little so he can reach her better and she closes her eyes, lets out a long, weary sigh, and just lets herself trust him.
She extends both arms automatically, but then realizes they're wrapped and that's not that helpful. She can unwrap them quickly, though, and she does and is glad to see there's not much wrong underneath them. A few marks that will be bruises later, her hands are a little bloody but it's not hers. There are a few scratches in the places her wraps didn't cover, though, so she turns a little in her seat so he can reach those.
She'd forgotten to drink her drink while he was touching her face, but now that her eyes are open again she reaches for it and takes a long, healthy drink from it. It stings, but so does everything else.
"Tommy, what I did... it's not something I want people to find out about."
She doesn't think she has to tell him that, she's sure he knows, but she can't help that it comes out of her now.
Somehow, it feels-- intimate, that. Seeing her unwrap her arms, even if he's seen her without the fabric covering her already, feels odd. She's already giving him so much right now, is trusting him to take care of her emotionally and physically.
And he wondered, at first, why she came to him for it. Right now, though, he's just happy that she has, again. So he bends down to clean the cuts, and only glances up at her when she says that.
"I thought that's why you came to me." He wouldn't tell-- ever.
"I don't even remember walking here," she admits quietly, and it's clear by her tone she doesn't understand that any better than she expects him to. "I think I'm still in shock."
But she had found her way to him and there's no where else she would have gone if she had been thinking clearly. That helps her come out of her fog a little, makes all of this feel a little less like a very painful dream.
"I think I just... needed to say that. I trust you."
He won't tell anyone. He won't judge her for her shock, he'll only be on her side and keep her safe and she sighs again, leans forward and lays her head on his shoulder while he keeps cleaning her cuts. She's exhausted and still terrified of what's inside her, still terrified of losing Han over and over, still afraid her being here is going to end up being pointless, but Tommy's hands are gentle and his shoulder is solid and safe.
Small and sparse as they are, he's done soon enough- and she's still
leaning up against his shoulder, her eyes closed. With the wet cloth still
in his hand, he wraps a light arm around her shoulders.
Everyone processes shock differently, but what he's seen so far seems
pretty standard: hysterics, numbness, and now exhaustion. He feels
endlessly tender towards her right now, and he whispers when he speaks.
"I trust you, too. I'm-- honored that you do. You can stay here, if you
like, until you're ready."
She doesn't realize until he says it that she might need that, just to be here until the world starts to make sense again so she can actually function properly again. She hates the feeling of weakness and incompetence that comes with shock, but all the other times she's felt like this it's been because of pain, because she had gotten hurt and needed to wait out a concussion or illness.
And she can't stop thinking about Han with a lightsaber straight through him, Han falling, and he fell here too, pushed right over the side of the ship. Panic spikes in her again when her head presents her with those pictures and she turns her face farther into Tommy's shoulder and reaches a hand up to him, ends up pressing it against his neck because that's the only bit of skin she can find and she needs to know he's real and there before she gets sucked into memories of standing on a platform watching Han die over and over.
He can feel her tense up before she even goes to turn into him and hold onto him tighter. He knows it won't work now to keep silent and hold her, because it'll just let the chaos in her head increase.
So instead he bends lower, resting her chin on top of her head. And then he starts talking, slowly, softly: "When I was young-- really young, the business I run now was owned by my grandfather. He was-- a great, hulking presence. He'd been a king, before he left the life. A gypsy king. Did I ever tell you what that means?"
Her breathing slows again as he speaks, her head clears a little so she can focus on his voice and what he's saying.
A king. She thinks about that for a moment, how it seems impossible, but she trusts Tommy. It's true, even if it's odd. Her other arm shifts back around his waist again and it's like clinging again but she doesn't care, not when his head is resting against hers and she doesn't feel like she's going to break into pieces anymore.
"No," she makes herself answer out loud, makes herself be a part of this so she isn't lost in her own head.
"Do you know what 'gypsy' means?" He's back to stroking her hair, just slightly, absently. He feels a soft surge of pride when she speaks, because he knows how hard it is to speak when you're that scared, that panicked.
When she closes her eyes this time, it's to focus on Tommy's voice, his hand in her hair, and she lets out a shaky, relieved breath when she isn't immediately bombarded with images of a man she could have wanted for a father dying.
This time she shakes her head, forehead rubbing against his shoulder while she does it. She doesn't know what that word means, it's like nothing she'd ever heard on Jakku or from any of the holodisks she had scavenged.
"Hmm. It's a long, long history, but what it means where I'm from is that you wander. Gypsies have caravans and horses and they move when they have to, when the world has decided it no longer wants them there. They don't abide by the rules of the government, their faith is different than that of the people around them."
Tommy doesn't identify with that group quite well enough to say we, because he doesn't wander; but he sounds fond when he speaks.
When she curls into him just a little more it's so her body is better supported by his, so she's resting against him properly instead of leaning in and holding herself apart from him. Her head moves, too, so she can speak without her voice coming out muffled into his shoulder.
There's a chance of it, of her being lulled to a state of such relaxation she falls asleep, but it's a slim one. He stands a better chance than anyone else on the barge, anyone else she knows at all, but it's not in her nature to fall asleep with someone else in the room.
But it also isn't her nature to let someone hold her at all, so maybe that isn't saying much. Hands like coal shovels gets a hum of interest out of her that could almost be amused, but mostly her only response is to nod again to tell him to keep talking.
"He married my grandmother, who wasn't gypsy like they knew 'em, and they
moved to Birmingham. It's the city, the big city, dark and deep and full of
smoke. Grandma never settled there, but grandfather did well for himself."
He shifts a little, so his chin isn't poking her anymore and instead he
rests his cheek on the top of her head.
It's very soft, the question she asks, but she can't help asking it. She wants to know, wants to know everything there is to know about Tommy Shelby, and that is a much better option than thinking about people she cares about being murdered.
And she likes his head resting on hers, but she only realizes that in the back of her mind. When she's more alert she'll remember this, every single bit of it will stand out differently, but for now it's so natural she doesn't even think to question it.
"Because she had the blood in her, too. She missed the open air, she missed
her people, the music. And people aren't kind to gypsies like they are to
their own people."
That makes her frown, makes her hug Tommy a little tighter just for a moment because she doesn't like the idea of people disliking him just because of his blood.
Which is silly because if anyone needs a hug to soothe the way people have treated him in the past less it's absolutely Tommy, but she isn't really acting on logic now. Everything has boiled down to pure instinct and somewhere along the way, her instincts started to include protecting him.
"It's the reason I had to forge a birth certificate when war came," he explains, softly. He isn't bitter about it all: he's glad for the experiences now, it hardened him in a very necessary way.
"Because gypsies don't belong in society. Never entirely, as far as they're concerned."
"I just thought you were too young," she says just as softly, like if she speaks too much louder the safe space that's built around them will come crumbling down. And then, a little lower and more firm, "The people in your world sound very stupid sometimes."
Why put an entire group of people on the outskirts, consider them lesser, when they absolutely aren't? In a more logical sense, why wouldn't they let every single person who wanted to fight to protect what was theirs do exactly that?
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Because they've got these things in common, because she knew he'd see to her in a way no one else on this ship could. Somehow, her heard brought her here while her head was off somewhere else entirely. She's still shaking, still cold all over, and the last time she was here he gave her a drink and that had stopped that. The next step seems obvious.
"I'd like that drink now, if that's still on the table."
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"Alright, then. This'll sting-"
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No one has ever done that. All her bumps and scrapes, every broken bone, those have all been on her to fix to the best of her ability, and now here is Tommy with alcohol on a cloth and when he presses it to her skin it does sting, but she hardly notices it.
"You don't have to do that," she says softly, but she makes no move to stop him or do it herself.
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So she nods, and then instead of staring, instead of all the watchfulness, she leans in a little so he can reach her better and she closes her eyes, lets out a long, weary sigh, and just lets herself trust him.
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She'd forgotten to drink her drink while he was touching her face, but now that her eyes are open again she reaches for it and takes a long, healthy drink from it. It stings, but so does everything else.
"Tommy, what I did... it's not something I want people to find out about."
She doesn't think she has to tell him that, she's sure he knows, but she can't help that it comes out of her now.
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And he wondered, at first, why she came to him for it. Right now, though, he's just happy that she has, again. So he bends down to clean the cuts, and only glances up at her when she says that.
"I thought that's why you came to me." He wouldn't tell-- ever.
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But she had found her way to him and there's no where else she would have gone if she had been thinking clearly. That helps her come out of her fog a little, makes all of this feel a little less like a very painful dream.
"I think I just... needed to say that. I trust you."
He won't tell anyone. He won't judge her for her shock, he'll only be on her side and keep her safe and she sighs again, leans forward and lays her head on his shoulder while he keeps cleaning her cuts. She's exhausted and still terrified of what's inside her, still terrified of losing Han over and over, still afraid her being here is going to end up being pointless, but Tommy's hands are gentle and his shoulder is solid and safe.
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Small and sparse as they are, he's done soon enough- and she's still leaning up against his shoulder, her eyes closed. With the wet cloth still in his hand, he wraps a light arm around her shoulders.
Everyone processes shock differently, but what he's seen so far seems pretty standard: hysterics, numbness, and now exhaustion. He feels endlessly tender towards her right now, and he whispers when he speaks.
"I trust you, too. I'm-- honored that you do. You can stay here, if you like, until you're ready."
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And she can't stop thinking about Han with a lightsaber straight through him, Han falling, and he fell here too, pushed right over the side of the ship. Panic spikes in her again when her head presents her with those pictures and she turns her face farther into Tommy's shoulder and reaches a hand up to him, ends up pressing it against his neck because that's the only bit of skin she can find and she needs to know he's real and there before she gets sucked into memories of standing on a platform watching Han die over and over.
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So instead he bends lower, resting her chin on top of her head. And then he starts talking, slowly, softly: "When I was young-- really young, the business I run now was owned by my grandfather. He was-- a great, hulking presence. He'd been a king, before he left the life. A gypsy king. Did I ever tell you what that means?"
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A king. She thinks about that for a moment, how it seems impossible, but she trusts Tommy. It's true, even if it's odd. Her other arm shifts back around his waist again and it's like clinging again but she doesn't care, not when his head is resting against hers and she doesn't feel like she's going to break into pieces anymore.
"No," she makes herself answer out loud, makes herself be a part of this so she isn't lost in her own head.
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This time she shakes her head, forehead rubbing against his shoulder while she does it. She doesn't know what that word means, it's like nothing she'd ever heard on Jakku or from any of the holodisks she had scavenged.
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Tommy doesn't identify with that group quite well enough to say we, because he doesn't wander; but he sounds fond when he speaks.
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"And your grandfather was the king?"
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"He was. Of one group of them-- not big, just a few families. But he was a big, powerful man. Hands like coal shovels."
He almost hopes to suss her to sleep like this- she sounds so calm right now, distracted enough that it might work.
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But it also isn't her nature to let someone hold her at all, so maybe that isn't saying much. Hands like coal shovels gets a hum of interest out of her that could almost be amused, but mostly her only response is to nod again to tell him to keep talking.
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"He married my grandmother, who wasn't gypsy like they knew 'em, and they moved to Birmingham. It's the city, the big city, dark and deep and full of smoke. Grandma never settled there, but grandfather did well for himself."
He shifts a little, so his chin isn't poking her anymore and instead he rests his cheek on the top of her head.
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It's very soft, the question she asks, but she can't help asking it. She wants to know, wants to know everything there is to know about Tommy Shelby, and that is a much better option than thinking about people she cares about being murdered.
And she likes his head resting on hers, but she only realizes that in the back of her mind. When she's more alert she'll remember this, every single bit of it will stand out differently, but for now it's so natural she doesn't even think to question it.
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"Because she had the blood in her, too. She missed the open air, she missed her people, the music. And people aren't kind to gypsies like they are to their own people."
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Which is silly because if anyone needs a hug to soothe the way people have treated him in the past less it's absolutely Tommy, but she isn't really acting on logic now. Everything has boiled down to pure instinct and somewhere along the way, her instincts started to include protecting him.
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"It's the reason I had to forge a birth certificate when war came," he explains, softly. He isn't bitter about it all: he's glad for the experiences now, it hardened him in a very necessary way.
"Because gypsies don't belong in society. Never entirely, as far as they're concerned."
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Why put an entire group of people on the outskirts, consider them lesser, when they absolutely aren't? In a more logical sense, why wouldn't they let every single person who wanted to fight to protect what was theirs do exactly that?
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