Shared quarters are easily shared: next to the wall is Rey's sleeping space, and his is anywhere else. Cuddling her, angled across the floor, snoring on a couch—Finn could sleep almost anywhere, and did.
Except when he can't. Except when the nightmares come.
Tonight Rey sprawls near him, in a corner of a back room at Maz's cantina—still being rebuilt—behind shelves of old crockery and a vat full of something unrecognizable. Fine for sleeping. Not so great for atmosphere.
That doesn't matter, not really. Finn gives her the area next to the wall, like always, and lies next to her. Rey looks at his straight form and close-tucked limbs: a habit learned from two decades of narrow beds. After turning off the lamp it's too dark to see him, or the random objects that surround them, but that's okay. Rey likes seeing his face in the light, but the dark is better sometimes. Like she can see him more truly.
She traces his right hand with her left; his fingertips are warm, his skin alternating between smooth and rough from calluses left by weaponry training. The First Order tried to make him a weapon, but instead he ran, and Rey with him.
The quiet of this back room is oddly stifling after weeks of the constant thrum aboard a spaceship. Finn's breathing is her clock on nights like this: soothing and counting out time, letting her know that she's not alone, even if he's asleep while she lies awake.
Rey doesn't fall asleep easily anyway, especially the first night in a different environment. Too many years spent keeping herself alive means that her mind tunes into every change in sound. And now she has this to contend with: an ongoing argument with a Force ghost.
He's not being subtle, in spite of the soft gray energy that wreathes his form. Luke Skywalker avoided talking to her during his life in a physical body. Now he won't shut up, and Rey has had enough. He's waiting there the moment her eyes start to droop closed.
She pushes back. Rey isn't ready to forgive just yet, and trying to argue with a Force entity is too tiring to contemplate.
Knowing that it's unwise to try ignoring the Force completely (she's seen the evidence of that mistake) she reaches out for something else—anything that isn't Luke's sorrow-filled energy.
Maz flows like a bright yellow haze of light into Rey's mind: awake, charged with movement. Rey doesn't linger, but it's reassuring to sense the tiny woman and her outsized energy.
The other Resistance members here flit past Rey's gentle probing, a mixture of colors and emotions that drift over her like a wave. She doesn't hold onto those impressions, just absorbs them as they wash over her.
The lush green foliage of Takodana has its own pulse and rhythm. Rey lets it synchronize with Finn's steady breathing. The beauty of it pulls her in: life, boundless and brilliant, fleeting and eternal. (She is still angry, furious at Luke for slipping away from his physical body. His gray energy pushes at her and she bats it away again.)
The balanced pulse of life stutters and glitches around her as Finn's breathing shifts to a faster, uneven rhythm. This isn't the first time she's heard this kind of change. Like the other times, the energy she feels from now is clouded, turbulent. Unhappy.
Rey doesn't have the words to describe it, but she knows it through the Force. The way that General Organa's sadness sometimes radiates outward, although it's rare for her shields to slip.
Maybe it's because they're so close, her and Finn. Maybe he doesn't have that shield with her. She's invited and welcomed, not like when Kylo Ren forced himself into her mind, first here in the forests of Takodana, and then aboard Starkiller Base. This makes it harder to stay unmoved when she senses Finn's distress seeping over both of them as he sleeps.
Rey hesitates a moment, her hand still covering Finn's. Would this even work with him? They've talked about the Force, but Finn hasn't shown any Force-abilities.
Taking a deep breath, Rey imagines herself diving in, letting herself breathe in sync with Finn as she slips into his dream.
Gray and endless. At first she thinks that it's Luke influence again; next she wonders if Finn is somehow blocking her, but then Rey spots the pockmarked holes in the wall, notices the dark stains near the bottom. Duracrete, solid and dull; the walls form an enclosed space.
A faint sound makes Rey whirl in shock. It takes her a moment to find the source of the noise in this dim light. A child: a brown-skinned human boy, the crown of his head reaching just a bit higher than her waist.
He stares at her, dark eyes wide, his face reflecting the surprise she feels. "Finn," she breathes out after a moment. It must be him as a child, but the boy doesn't answer; he steps back instead.
Where are they? Some place in Finn's memories, something from when he was very young. He's wearing a black top and trousers. The only break in the dim gray is an item clutched in his hand, held away from her. White, rounded… bigger than the toy balls she once saw some wealthy children play with. Even in the gray light its smooth surface gleams a bit.
A helmet. It's a helmet like those worn by the stormtroopers who had come for BB-8 on Jakku, but smaller. Made for someone his size.
It has to be heavy in his small hand, as tightly as he clutches it.
Rey forces down her horror at the sight of it and goes down on one knee. "Is that your helmet?" she asks, trying to get him to engage with her.
No answer at first, just his eyes staring back at her. Finally a small nod, accompanied by a quiet yes.
"What's your name?"
"My designation is FN twenty-one eighty-seven." It's a mouthful for a child, but he doesn't stumble over his words. His grave expression matches the formality.
FN-2817. He'd told her that, of course, joking about it over a meal with his pilot friend Poe.
It hangs in the air between her and Finn the child: he has a number, not a name. Little Finn blinks, somber and fearful as he gazes at her. Rey looks around, hoping for an idea of what to do next, but still only sees the same gray walls everywhere.
When she turns back to Finn, he's no longer a child. At least, she assumes it's still him: he's standing where child-Finn was, a bit taller than her in his full stormtrooper outfit, armor and helmet covering any scrap of humanity.
"You shouldn't be here." The voice modulator doesn't disguise enough: it's Finn, her Finn, still frightened but also stern.
Overhead a clicking noise causes both of them to glance up. A mechanical hissing sound makes Rey jump. When Finn looks back at her, all she can see is her reflection in the helmet, but the line of his shoulders makes her scared: for him, for herself.
"You need to leave."
"Finn," she calls out, hoping to—she's not sure what. Stop whatever is going to happen next in this cascade of memories.
"Now," he commands, sharp and sure.
She doesn't have time to decide what to do next before she's forced out.
Leaving Finn's mind to retreat to her own feels like a kick from a luggabeast. Rey gasps for breath.
She should never have gone in without asking; she understands that now. Nausea curls in her stomach as she remembers being strapped to a chair on Starkiller Base, Kylo Ren reaching into her thoughts and memories without permission.
She hadn't asked. She'd acted without thinking. Trying to help Finn, trying to avoid hearing whatever it is that Luke wants to tell her: her motivation doesn't matter, because Rey knows what it's like not to have a choice about someone else invading her mind.
She should have known better, should have thought—
Was it always this easy to do? To think that she's right to do something, to think that she has that right, and then slice through privacy and barriers like they're nothing?
Finn stirs, making a small noise. Rey lets go of his hand like it's burning.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I'm sorry—." The words tumble out too quickly to control.
"What?" he mumbles. Finn rubs at his face; the gesture isn't visible in the dark, but she can tell by the movement and sounds. "What are you talking about?"
"Your nightmare. I went into your mind without asking, because you were having a nightmare, but I never should have done it, I'm sorry." Rey closes her mouth before she repeats the words again.
"Nightmare?" He rolls onto his side, curving toward her. "I was having a nightmare?"
She breathes out slowly. He doesn't even remember. "Yeah. You kicked me out."
"I did what?"
Rey tells him everything: the dark feeling from him that she'd noticed before, the decision to go in, the gray room with him as a child, his little hand clutching the helmet; and then older Finn wearing it with armor. "Then you told me that I needed to leave, and you made me go out. Somehow."
She's not sure how he did it. A strong natural protection, maybe.
"And we were in a room made of duracrete?"
"Yes. Do you know it?" She thinks he does, but she waits for his answer.
"Isolation. We all spent time there. To toughen us up, and to prepare us in case we were captured. And… as punishment, sometimes."
"Were you scared?"
He exhales in a puff and curls in closer to her. "The first time I was maybe… five cycles? I had disobeyed the unit teacher. I was there for probably ten minutes. Felt like an eternity." His voice is light, but she can feel his muscles tighten.
He puts his hand on her arm. "I was protecting you," he tells her, his voice ringing with the certainty of his realization. "I made you go out to keep you safe."
She squeezes her hand over his. "I'm still sorry I went in without your permission."
He doesn't answer right away. Finally he says, "You wouldn't hurt me."
Not on purpose, she thinks. So much of what the Force has brought her has been pain. Painful growth, painful loss.
"You won't do it again," Finn says. He's checking, Rey realizes. Wanting to know that she'll watch those boundaries.
"No, I won't." Not ever, she promises to herself.
"Because a man's gotta have some privacy, you know." His tone is teasing, but she's not sure what the joke is yet. "What if you showed up to check on things and I was having an entirely different kind of dream?"
She laughs in spite of herself, even though it's not really that funny. Finn has a way of doing that: of diffusing the tension with a playful word or gesture.
"It could be embarrassing," he continues.
She squeezes his hand again and scoots a bit closer, basking in the warmth radiating from him.
"You don't have to try to fix everything, you know." His voice softens as he says the words, filling the darkness with sweet reassurance.
"Sometimes I wish I could." Rey feels foolish admitting this, but it's Finn, and the dark surrounding them keeps her secret, too. "Fix everything. Help everyone."
It's a constant weight, all of these broken things surrounding her. The surviving Resistance reeling from the deaths of hundreds, trying to rebuild from catastrophic loss. Her mentor in the Force slipping into the twilight. Her own stubborn refusal to face the abandonment of her parents, brought to light by Kylo Ren. And that, too: the fleeting triumph of believing that Ben Solo had turned… followed by another failure.
Sometimes it makes her limbs heavy, like they can't keep her body upright. She can't even help herself.
Finn pulls her in his arms. One of his hands curls around to her back, sliding against the sliver of skin there above her trousers, where her sleep top has ridden up. His fingers trace small circles and her breathing loosens again.
"Not everything needs to be fixed," he whispers; almost the same words he already told her. "Even if you could fix it."
Rey breathes out, letting his solid presence tether her for a moment. When she feels grounded again, she says, "Tell me more about isolation. What was that noise from the ceiling?"
After a deep breath Finn starts speaking, telling her about the First Order's training for its elite, about the gases they sprayed into the room to 'enhance' the experience of isolation. It makes her want to cry, or rage. Instead she stays still in his embrace, letting him talk. He seems content to hold her, rather than be held himself, so she lets him.
As he finishes, the quiet seeps back into their shared space. Finn's fingers finally stop circling; Rey puts her hand on his shoulder.
She's wondering if he'll fall asleep again, or if she will, when he says, "There is a dream I've had." He inhales sharply but doesn't say anything else.
"Tell me."
"I think I'm remembering my family. Maybe. It feels like it might be them, anyway. But I can't remember the details when I wake up, just the feeling." He shifts, moving his hand from her back to her side. "Do you think you could—I don't know. Do that mind thing again sometime and see if I can remember more?"
Rey doesn't answer right away. Delving through memories with a purpose is beyond what she's attempted before. Of course, so was stepping into someone's dreams, and she's just proven she can do that. At least until she gets kicked out again.
"You're allowed to say no," he tells her.
"I don't know if that's something I can do," she admits. "But I think I know how to find out."
"Okay, then," Finn says. He breathes out slowly, a careful movement that she recognizes from herself: hope and fear mixed together.
She's going to have to talk to Luke. That's something she can do for Finn. Even if she's still angry with her would-be mentor. Luke has been waiting for her, prodding when there's a moment of quiet but still allowing her to choose to listen. It's more than she can say for her experiences with other Force-users; that alone means it's worth finding out what he has to say.
And for Finn. It's worth it for Finn. She pulls even closer to him, moves her forehead to press against his and inhales his warm scent.