#anyway then his brother got murdered because he sucked (womp womp)

[neathbound-fiends]

copy pasting from DMs and expanding on this a little actually

Thinking abt the fact that Elliott is an unreliable narrator and will just outright lie about things about himself, or twist them so severely that they threaten to break in order to be palatable and not say anything he thinks people won't want to hear. Man who spent a lot of years lying about his family, and upbringing, and sexuality, all because none of it was something someone else would want to hear and he doesn't want to be seen as broken, or a bummer, or to speak ill of the dead. It's better to mangle the truth until it fits whatever narrative you want to spin than it is to say something that's going to horrify someone

[lyonrhodes]

One Bad Day #6: Outlaw

Red Hood x OC, Batman/DC Fan Fic

Summary: Dora has lived in Gotham her whole life and is accustomed to the rampant crime and corruption. Her life gets worse when Black Mask takes over the city. She thinks all hope is lost but a new vigilante appears, calling himself the Red Hood. However, he’s not your typical knight in shining armor. Dora must decide: does she dare fall in love with a revenge-driven killer? (Romance, Crime, Action)

Chapter 6: Outlaw

Loud banging penetrated the walls again. Carla yelped. “No! They found me! Fuck, Dora, we have to get out of here!” She grabbed Dora’s t-shirt and pulled her toward the front door. “They got guns! We have to run!”

Ptnng! Ptnng! Womp!

The sounds made it clear that the men after Carla had shot the locks off the back door. They were inside the kitchen. Dora looked at the four deadbolts locking up the front door of the bar and cursed. At the rate it usually took her to fumble with them, they would never escape in time. They were trapped.

Holly had realized the same thing and hissed in a loud whisper, “No time to run! Just hide! Now!” She pulled Dora and Carla down behind the bar. They both hit the floor hard.

The kitchen door swung open.

Dora heard footsteps and voices. She guessed at least three men entered the bar, but she didn’t dare peek over the counter to be sure.

“Where the fuck is the little bitch?” said a man’s voice.

“Well, look for her, motherfucker!” said another man. “She’s gotta be in here. Check the bathrooms and under all the booths and shit. Don’t just stand there looking at me like a retard! Ahora, cabron! Andale!”

Dora put her finger to her lips, looking at Carla and Holly with wide eyes, urging them not to make a sound. Carla squirmed, tears running down her cheeks. A sob gurgled in her throat, but Holly clamped her hand over her mouth. Her other hand gripped the baseball bat tightly. Dora mimed holding a phone to her ear, but Holly shook her head. Understanding, Dora bit her lip, cursing their luck. They couldn’t call the cops. Holly had thrown away her work phone, Carla’s phone was with their mom because she was grounded. Dora’s own phone was charging in the office along with the landline, which might as well have been a million miles away.

They only had a few seconds before they were found. After the bathroom and office, behind the bar was the next place the thugs would look. Dora belly-crawled to the end of the bar. She reached up and jabbed the screen of the cash register. The drawer popped open with a sharp clatter. She cringed, forgetting that it always made that sound when it opened. It was already too late.

“Oye, behind the bar!”

Without standing up, Dora reached under the cash tray and fumbled around the back of the drawer.

Carla shrieked then. A thug had come behind the bar and spotted them, leering. Holly tried to swing her bat at his legs, but Carla had latched onto her in fright, limiting her reach. “Dora!” Holly cried for help desperately.

“Hey, she’s here! She’s got friends!”

Dora finally grasped the handgun under the tray and pulled it out of the drawer. She cocked it and took aim. “Get out!” she shouted. Her thumb flicked off the safety and her grip tightened.

But the thug was armed too. When he lifted his gun, Dora reacted.

She pulled the trigger twice. Pow! Pow!

Wood splintered behind the thug, but he yelped in pain and grabbed his arm. While missing one shot, she had landed a hit with the other. She was glad she had forgone her glasses today and chosen to wear contacts instead, or else she would have missed both.

“The cunt has a gun!” the wounded thug yelled as he crawled away, returning a few haphazard shots with his lame arm. The girls all hit the floor, and all his shots missed.

“Puta!” spat the head thug. Dora recognized him by his distinctive Santa Priscan accent. “Light them up!”

It’s assholes like these guys that give us Priscans a bad rep. But Dora had no time to dwell on that because a barrage of gunfire showered the bar. Liquor bottles on the shelf exploded, raining glass and alcohol on the three girls. The cacophony was deafening. Holly and Carla both screamed. Dora felt like screaming too, but she held it in.

A cold chill squeezed her heart as panic set in. She had six rounds left in her Colt 1911 now, and only eight more in an extra magazine shoved in her pocket. Her father had taught her how to shoot, but she wasn’t good enough to hit three moving targets. Targets that shot back—and he had never taught her how to return fire from cover. She prayed the tenants upstairs had heard the gunshots and had called the cops already.

“Just give them back their dope, Carla!” Holly shouted over the gunfire.

Carla fumbled with the backpack, shaking with terror, and shoved it onto the counter. “You can have it!” she shouted, but frightened as she was, it came out as a hoarse croak. “Take it! L-leave us alone! Please! Please!”

The gunfire stopped for a moment. “Grab the bag, dude!”

“No way, man, she’ll shoot us if we get too close!”

“Don’t be a pussy! Do you think that little bitch can shoot better than us? Go get the crack or I’ll fucking shoot you myself, pendejo!”

Dora heard a thump—she guessed it was one thug hitting the other to prod him forward. Footsteps sounded as he approached.

Her heart had been pounding in her chest, but it suddenly jumped into her throat. She could feel it pulsing in her temples, hear it beating in her ears, in rhythm with the thug’s footsteps. Then it stopped, replaced by an ascending screech.

Pow! Splat!

Dora realized that the screeching sound was herself screaming, muffled by her deafening heartbeat and an overdose of adrenaline surging through her veins.

As the thug had come up to the bar to retrieve the bag, she had popped up out of cover and shot him.

In the face.

Gunfire erupted again. She had ducked back down just in time.

“Dora!” Holly cried. “What the fuck?”

Dora’s nostrils flared as she sucked in breath, after breath, after heavy breath. The gun smoke burned her lungs. She didn’t dare breathe through her mouth. She was too dizzy. She would vomit otherwise. Her resolve would break.

“Dora!” Holly yelled again.

Staring straight ahead, she tried to stop the room from spinning, but it was no use.

I just killed a man. I took a human life. I’m a killer. I’m a murderer.

The red mist sprouting behind the man’s head kept replaying over and over in her head. Being so focused on him, she didn’t count how many thugs were in the bar.

“What the fuck! If they weren’t going to kill us before, they’re sure going to do it now!” Holly shouted.

Dora finally spoke, cold reason tumbling to place. “Think, Holly! They’re going to kill us anyway even if we gave up the drugs.”

“Hey, stop!” the lead thug said. “I said stop! You’re wasting ammo, dumbasses. Tontos, pare! Dios mio!” His men obeyed, but even after the guns stopped firing, Dora could still hear them echoing in her head. “Now listen, puta, let’s make a deal. We won’t kill you.”

“Shit, they heard us,” Holly cursed, whispering now.

The thug continued. “If you give yourself up, we won’t hurt your friends. But as for you—”

“Esa perra mató mi hermano y jodio mi brazo!” one of his men said.

“What the fuck did he say?” Holly asked Dora.

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered. It really didn’t, though she understood. The man she had just killed was the brother of the man she had shot in the arm. And he wasn’t in a mood to negotiate.

“Chill, homie!” snapped his boss. “Look,” he said to Dora again, “don’t be selfish. You stole our dope and killed our friend, so we can’t let you go, but your friends can still walk free.”

“Voy a joder esa puta, y luego voy a matar. Muy despacio, escuchame,” grunted the wounded thug.

Yuck, Dora thought, is every thug in Gotham a fucking rapist? She heard Holly whimper and Carla sob. Carla had curled herself up into a fetal ball, making herself as small as possible—completely oblivious, almost catatonic. She sobbed, mumbling something in Spanish Dora couldn’t hear or distinguish. A prayer, she realized. Carla didn’t speak Spanish often—the only time she did was to recite Catholic or Santeria prayers from memory that their abuela had taught them while growing up.

It was hopeless, Dora thought. Even if she gave herself up, these men would never let Holly and Carla go. They would have seen the thugs’ faces, and the thugs wouldn’t trust them not report to the police.

If I give up, we all die. If I fight… we might die, but…

Dora sank back down and gripped her father’s pistol tighter. It was a Colt 1911 he had used while he served in the Marines, in the Gulf War. His initials were etched into the wooden handle. Even against bleak odds, Dora knew her father would still want her to fight until the bitter end—especially if it was for family.

“Come on, girl! We ain’t got all night. This deal isn’t going to last forever!” For emphasis, the thug fired a warning shot. It hit the wall of the bar. Shelving broke and liquor bottles fell and shattered. Holly shrieked. A bottle tumbled off the counter and hit Dora on the shoulder, narrowly missing her head, but it did not break. She grabbed the bottle. Valdushka. Vodka. Rubbing the sore spot, she got an idea. “Holly, give me a lighter.”

“I don’t have one,” Holly sniffled.

“Carla?”

But Carla didn’t respond. She was fully catatonic now, not even praying anymore. Fear had completely shut her down. Dora remembered her father telling her about this. Carla was shell-shocked. She wasn’t a soldier on the battlefield, but she was a teenage girl staring death in the face for the first time, so why couldn’t it happen to her?

“Check Carla’s pockets,” Dora ordered.

Holly frisked her, but Carla didn’t seem to notice. Dora popped the vodka bottle open. She didn’t have to look at the label because its smell told her it was 50-proof. Perfect. She looked around for a dry bar rag, but there none to be found.

Dammit. She ran a hand through her alcohol-drenched hair in frustration. Making a Molotov was a stupid idea anyway. She was covered in alcohol, so lighting one could easily set her on fire too.

But a thought struck her. I’m drenched in alcohol. And she had nothing to lose. She grabbed a shard of broken glass from the floor, the hem of her shirt, and tore off a piece to make a rag.

“Here.” Holly tossed Dora a lighter.

Looking at the lighter, Dora felt a sharp pang in her chest. It was her father’s Zippo; Carla must have nicked it from his footlocker. Maybe they had a chance. It seemed their father was looking out for them from beyond the grave tonight.

“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?” Holly asked, looking at the items in Dora’s hands.

“I am. If you see an opening, take it and get Carla out of here.”

A thug shouted, “Okay, that’s it. Enough waiting. I’m going in, man. Cover me. Now!” His friends opened fire again.

Dora stuffed the piece of her shirt into the bottle of vodka and flicked the lighter on, holding the materials as far away from herself as she could. The rag caught flame immediately—but so did her hand.

Gritting her teeth to bite back the searing pain, she endured long enough to toss the bottle over the counter.

She heard the bottle shatter and a woosh as the alcohol ignited. The thugs shouted curses in surprise. Taking the chance, she grabbed the nearest water-soaked rag to douse the flames on her hand before it could spread up her arm and engulf her. Then she drew her father’s gun and ran out from behind the bar. “Go!” she yelled at Holly.

As she ran, she counted five men. One was dead, one was wounded, and three were standing, but distracted by the table that had caught on fire in front of them.

Dora took aim and fired. After two shots, the fire died down to a blue smolder, and the thugs pointed their guns at her. Behind them, she saw Holly drag Carla into the kitchen unnoticed. She cringed internally—she could have escaped with them. The additional distraction was in vain, but she couldn’t dwell on her mistake because she was being shot at again.

Returning fire, she aimed as best as she could while running to the other side of the room. By the time she slid into cover behind a booth, the pistol’s trigger had gone stiff. There were no more rounds in the magazine.

Out of the five shots she had fired in her mad distraction, Dora counted only one hit, and it was center-mass. She didn’t dare peek over her cover to check if the man she had hit had actually gone down. The booth she was behind gave her less solid cover than the bar had and no route for escape. It was four against one now. The thugs would kill her before the cops arrived, if in fact any of her neighbors had called them already. The police didn’t respond the last time guns were heard by the bar, the night Red Hood saved her life—Dora had to call them in herself. Gunfire was common place in Park Row and the police were useless; even Detective Montoya had admitted as much.

Dora lamented, but only for a moment, remembering that Carla was safe now, and Holly, too. If she died now, at least it was worth it. She took a deep breath, then reloaded and cocked the pistol. It was her last magazine.

“You’re really dead now, puta!”

“Yo sé!” she shouted back. She kissed the handle of the pistol, where her father had carved in his initials. See you soon, Papi.

But the thugs didn’t open fire. “Oye, escucha,” one of them said to another. “Es la policia?”

Dora heard something strange too. A humming coming from outside the bar. As it grew louder, she would have guessed it was some type of muscle car, but it had to be the police. However, she heard no sirens and the humming turned into a roar. Light bathed the bar through the plate glass window in the front, but it was white, not red and blue. Headlamps, Dora realized. And the light was getting brighter.

“LOOK OUT!” someone cried.

The roar died a split second before the Alibi’s plate glass window exploded. Shards flew everywhere in the wake of a motorcycle flying into the bar.

The thugs jumped out of the way, but the one with the bullet in his gut wasn’t quick enough. The motorcycle barreled into him, sweeping him off his feet. The bike pinned him to the pool table behind him with a spectacular gush of blood. There could be no mistake. He was dead.

“Shoot him!” one of the others shouted.

Dora turned to the broken window and couldn’t believe her eyes.

Red Hood vaulted through the opening, so swiftly she almost missed it. No sooner had his boots hit the floor, than he juked and rolled, avoiding the thugs’ gunfire. In just a few seconds, he had crossed the room and wrapped his hands around one thug’s neck.

Feet dangling inches off the floor, the thug gurgled, not even able to gasp for breath because of Red Hood’s tight grip on his neck. The other two thugs shot at Red Hood, but he used the captive thug as a human shield. Bullet holes peppered the thug’s back, and when his friends stopped to reload, Red Hood snapped his neck and tossed his body at them. The two were barreled down, their guns falling out their hands.

“Enough foreplay.” Red Hood sounded playful. “Now it’s time for some real fun.”

Frozen in shock, Dora watched him pounce on the two remaining thugs and give them a sickeningly brutal beat down. She couldn’t look away as their ribs were caved in and their faces were rearranged. As Red Hood focused mercilessly on one thug, the other tried to crawl away… but before he had gotten anywhere, Red Hood dragged him back and curb-stomped his face on the seat of a chair, killing him instantly.

The last thug laid broken and wheezing as Red Hood rolled his shoulders and massaged his bloody fists. Dora heard his joints and knuckles pop as he released a satisfied groan. He turned to look at her. “Dora.”

“Y-yeah?” she stammered, shocked that he remembered her name.

“Give me your gun.” He held out a large gloved hand.

She looked down at the pistol. Seeing the holsters on his waist and thighs, he obviously had his own, but she knew what he was going to do with it. Something in her mind begged her to say no, but she still found herself handing it over.

Red Hood gave the pistol an inspection. He de-cocked it and released the magazine, checking to see how many rounds were left. Seeming satisfied, he reloaded and chambered a round. He looked down at the one thug still alive.

“Pweath thon’th,” the thug begged with a broken jaw and shattered teeth. He held up a trembling hand.

But Red Hood didn’t care, of course. He brushed his hand aside and shot the thug in the face.

Dora released a shuddering breath. She felt like she had been holding it for hours. Relief washed over her. It was over. She was safe now, and so were Holly and Carla… although only physically in Carla’s case. What she went through tonight, Dora lamented. She almost died. And saw me kill a man.

Dora remembered how broken she was after she saw Black Mask kill her father. But she was already an adult, and Carla was still just fourteen years old. How would this experience affect her?

“What happened?” Red Hood demanded.

Her attention returned to the present. Red Hood had just spoken to her. She looked at him, staring into the glowing white slits of his faceless mask. She could almost sense the stern expression on his face behind it. “Come on,” he said, “I don’t have a lot of time.”

She crawled out from behind the booth and took a seat. Her hands shook so badly she had to knit her fingers together to keep them still. She cleared her throat and explained. Hesitant at first, reluctant to relive the traumatic experience that had only just happened, eventually the story spewed out in distinct detail. As she recounted, Red Hood walked around the bar, looking this way and that, over and under, crouching here and there, aiming down the sights of her father’s pistol. At certain points, he seemed to actually be reenacting what had happened.

When Dora finished, he said, “I’m impressed.”

She looked at him blankly. “What?”

“You killed a man, and wounded two more.” He chuckled. “You’re pretty scrappy for what? Five-foot-nothing and a buck-ten?”

More like a buck-thirty. “My father taught me how to shoot.” But not well enough. Eight shots and only three hit their mark. “That’s his gun you’re holding.”

Red Hood studied the pistol in his hand again. “Yeah, it’s a good weapon. I carry some M45A1s myself.”

“What?” She didn’t know gun models half so well as her father had. He had only taught her how to shoot them.

“Never mind. I’m going to borrow this for a while.” He holstered her father’s gun somewhere inside his jacket.

“But…” Dora stood. She wasn’t sure if she really wanted to refuse him, just after he had just saved her life. “Why?”

“So I can take the credit for killing these guys. Like last time.”

She frowned. “You mean the blame?”

Red Hood’s sculpted shoulders shook as he laughed. “No, I mean credit. These guys’ hermanos are gonna want revenge, and you don’t want that shit-storm coming down on your head. As tough as you are—and believe me, you’re one of the toughest women I’ve ever met—I’m just better equipped to handle it.”

Dora wasn’t sure if he had meant to compliment her, but she shrugged it off. “But why do you need my father’s gun for that?”

“Well, that’s part of the shit-storm. I don’t want the GCPD pinning a manslaughter charge on you, just in case. I’m sure you don’t either.”

“Manslaughter? This was all self-defense!” She pointed at the man with the bloody hole in his face, the man she had killed. “They were trying to kill me. And my sister! And my friend!”

“Half the GCPD is still in Black Mask’s pocket, along with the district attorney. These guys weren’t part of my crew, so guess who they answered to.”

Dora was at a loss for words. Detective Montoya had been right about the corruption in the GCPD and the DA’s office. After all she had gone through tonight trying to stay alive, the courts would side with the assholes that tried to kill her and the people she cared about.

“You get it now, don’t you? Why I do this?” Red Hood’s glowing white pupil-less eyes seemed to penetrate her mind.

She wanted to say yes, but she still wasn’t entirely convinced Red Hood’s approach was the best. Sure, Gotham’s criminal justice system was both corrupt and incompetent, but there were already people out there making up for it—people like Montoya, like the Bat Family.

Dora looked at the bodies sprawled all around her bar. Five dead men. She had only killed one of them, but bullets from her father’s gun were inside the other four. The Bats weren’t lawyers. They weren’t cops. They couldn’t save her from a manslaughter conviction and ten years in prison.

“Fine.” She frowned. “Just please don’t cut off their heads.”

Red Hood chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

She looked around her bar again—over the crime scene. “What should I tell the cops? If you want credit, we need to get our story straight.”

“I was getting to that.” Red Hood walked over to Carla’s backpack full of coke, miraculously untouched by the hail of bullets that had struck the bar only minutes ago. He zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder. “Just tell the cops you were being robbed by these guys, and I came in and saved your ass. It’s pretty much the truth.”

“I... I, um...” I killed one of them, she wanted to say. I didn’t need you to save me this time. But she knew it wasn’t true. She would have been dead without him. But at the very least she was responsible for Carla and Holly still being alive. Red Hood couldn’t take credit for that. Even if she had to keep it secret from the whole world for the rest of her life, Carla and Holly would still know she didn’t need a man’s help to defend her loved ones.

“You’ll need an alibi,” Red Hood said. “Hit me with your pepper spray.”

Dora almost asked what he meant, but he anticipated that and pointed at her waist. Instinctively, her hand went to her belt loop. Without looking, her fingers touched the carabiner clipped there, which held her keys and her small can of pepper spray. She cringed. It had been there the whole time, and she had opted to use a gun instead.

“Come on, do it,” Red Hood prodded.

With shaky hands, Dora unclipped the carabiner and aimed the small can at Red Hood’s faceless mask. “Are you sure?”

He chuckled, knocking on his helmet. “I don’t wear this red bucket just for show. It has its uses. Go ahead.” He curled his fingers toward himself, almost taunting her.

Dora squeezed the nozzle, but Red Hood stepped aside. The squirt went over his shoulder and splattered on the floor. He snickered. He was taunting her. “We have to make it look good for the CSIs. Come on, hit me now.”

She sprayed him again, aiming at the eye slits of his mask. This time he stood as still as a statue. This close, Dora could feel her own eyes water and nostrils flare from the caustic chemical, but Red Hood didn’t so much as flinch. He actually wiped the liquid off his mask and flicked the moisture away, as if Dora had done no more than squirted him in the face with a cheap water gun. It sprinkled on the floor.

“There. Now CSI will back you up.”

Woopwoopwoop! Sirens. Finally. The police were close.

Red Hood turned his head/helmet toward the shattered front window. “That’s my cue.” Dora could make out faint flickers of red and blue light reflecting off the disparate surfaces of the bar. “Take care, Dora.” He lingered to look at her—a moment too long, she felt. It was awkward, but thankfully, he was already escaping through the kitchen before the blush had fully bloomed on her face.

Her heart was racing, almost as much as it had when bullets were flying only minutes earlier. Instead of the acute repulsion she should have felt sharing the same air as a cold-blooded killer, she felt... something else. Gratitude, she thought. No, something else. Whatever it was, it made her uncomfortable.

[v0.3.15.1]

[18tpaz]

Scoundrel's Luck

A teeny tiny donation for @damereyevents au theme/season/month lol.

It's really short so don't expect much.

Summary:  Rey seems to have a bad day...

“For kriff’s sake, Ben must've crushed my collar bone or something!” Rey cursed, feeling her right shoulder go immobile after that sparring session with her older brother. Luke, her coach and uncle, was attending a conference so Ben temporarily took over leadership. Since then, it's been a truckload of drills meant for Olympians instead of the collegiate amateurs they actually were.

“You better take it to the clinic,” Finn shrugged, preparing for his turn in the fighting ring, “I'll gladly avenge you.”

“Yeah, drag my worthless brother to hell,” Rey replied in a grumble as she headed off to the infirmary.

And if Rey hadn't run out of her scoundrel's luck yet, she was informed that the nurse was unavailable for the rest of the day. After some added sarcastic grumbling, she decided to help herself to a few painkillers kept in an upper drawer.

“Excuse me, am I catching a thief or what?” Poe Dameron appeared, leaning comfortably against the doorway with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms.

“If I don't get even just one tablet I swear I will have my arm chopped off!” Rey whined.

Poe flashed a empathic smile and sat down beside her, “I'm taking over the clinic today, so how can I help the best fist fighter on campus?”

Rey frowned slightly, remembering that Poe used to be the top dog in the fighting ring until Ben ended his career all too swiftly. Since then, Poe diverted his time to various academic pursuits such as apprenticing under her mom, becoming one of Rey’s dreamy professors...and …. maybe she should suck it up and stop staring at him like a lost pup. Rey had a reputation to keep.

But well, if there was someone who would understand her pain, it would probably be Poe. Finn did say that he was a good listener.

“Ben murdered my shoulder...or some nearby joint. I swear he's just being an ugly womp rat because I ate the last piece of bacon this morning,” Rey began lamenting, “I swear to God that man has no chill!”

Poe chuckled along as he listened while gently handling Rey’s upper arm. She winced when he raised it above her head and sighed when he allowed the limb to relax. A quick noninvasive scan ensued while Rey continued listing her brother’s litany of sins. And for kriff’s sake Rey can’t keep her mind from feeling how soft Poe’s hands actually were, despite his past nitty gritty athletic career. She found his dexterity to be a very nice asset...and if she stopped yapping about her loathsome brother she might actually still have some dexterity left in her conversational skills!

“Well, you got to be a little more considerate towards Ben. He just wants to be the best and all,” Poe commented, “I kind of knew that feeling too until your mom became one of my mentors. Told me that the only way I’d come through was if I had a more level-headed mind.”

“And look at you, being groomed as mom’s heir apparent on the teacher's desk,” Rey teased. If there was someone who knew how to handle all sorts of people, it was her legendary mother. And obviously, it wasn't her mother's fault that Ben didn't like to listen to his parents...or to any decent advice for that matter. She thought at times that Poe was a better son to Leia than Ben actually was. What if she and a filial guy like Poe hook—

Poe smiled sheepishly and shook his head, “I don't know…” he continued working on Rey's arm, adding a medicated patch and wrapping it up properly with kinesiotapes and bandage. Rey decided to clam up and just enjoy the thoughtful treatment from Mr. Dameron while it lasted.

“Anyway, your shoulder is nothing to worry about. It's just a little muscle tear on the rotator cuff. Some ice, rest, meds, and it’ll heal on its own,” Poe advised, but didn't stop fussing on Rey's arm. Rey hoped it wouldn't stop soon either.

Some eye contact happened before Poe cleared his throat, letting go of the injured limb and handing her a few anti-inflammatory tablets neatly packed in a paper bag, “Well… you're welcome to visit anytime. Um, I mean, well...I owe your mom a lot and it's the least I can do to take care of you or uhh...”

“Thanks Poe,” she interrupted slyly.

And what did her dad say again about these sort of games?

Ah yes. You gotta shoot first if you wanna win big.

So she quickly kissed Poe on the cheek before walking out like nothing happened.

Scoundrel's luck runs strong in her family, after all.