open post.

[imahologram]

for whatever miscellaneous bullshit your little heart can come up with.

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[imahologram]

Leia watches, quiet, as the glass ends up in with the rest of his trash. Ben's skills are sometimes bemusing, sometimes just this side of unsettling--this, it seems, is what comes of being raised in a family where the Force is an inescapable fact of reality, not a bedtime story of times past.

Right now, it's convenient, if nothing else; it means she can take light, uneven steps over to her son and sit down next to him, wrapping an arm around him. If he wants a hug, she doesn't doubt he'll creep closer; if he doesn't, she doesn't want to overwhelm him. Sometimes he's so sensitive to these things.

"I know you didn't," she tells him, her voice a warm murmur. She might have snapped at him earlier, and there's no doubt that she's annoyed at his father right now, but she wants to believe she always has it within her to find some comfort for Ben when he really needs it. "It was an accident."

Well, the part where she's got three or four new cuts in her foot was, anyway. She's not sure how much he meant to throw the glass in the first place, for that matter. His temper gets away from him.

Maybe we should start buying plastic cups, she thinks, but Ben would be insulted by that.

First things first. She ducks her head a little to glance under the bed. "How's AT-AT feeling?"