He's careless with his face and she hates that more than anything else.
She trembles in the restraints and she pushes it out because she doesn't want it to stay with her, that fear, that terror, these things that should never belong to her so she shoves it away, onto him. It shouldn't stick, after all, his mask a silver reflection that nothing could ever stick to. But he discards it easily enough and stands looking down at her as if his face isn't anything to be concerned with, as if his flesh is just as impossible to stain.
If she'd've been asked, what he looked like, what terrible thing was concealed there, she's not sure she would have had an answer. Something dark, something malevolent. A face marred by war and cruelty maybe, a myriad of outward signs that would match the black robes, the black deeds of thought and intent.
He's careless with his face and what it does to others.
He takes the mask off again for his father, drops it even as if it means nothing. She doesn't want to understand but oh, she does, even if she can't hear what they say to each other as Han moves closer and closer over a more literal abyss. He has to know that face is the bait but Han walks towards it anyways and she is terrified, heart in her throat with steel impervious under her hands and what warning could she give that Han would not already know? Too far away to be anything but backdrop and she watches helplessly as he dies for it, spitting sparks, and the last thing he does is what she wanted to do and couldn't with her hands tied down.
She hates him for so many things but for the lie of his face most of all.
She carves it open because in that moment she could and she tells herself that she means it, tells herself later when she's shaking and near sick with reaction that it's vengeance and justification and less than he deserves. Unheard and unseen in a cargo bay she curls around herself, hands pulled to her chest. Her back is braced against the engine room wall as hard as she can, letting the kiloton thrust of power shuddering into her shoulders override the memory of just what it felt like, overriding one sensation with another, hammering it home into her heart for as long as she can stay angry. She doesn't want to think back on this and be able to separate the feelings.
Blood on the snow, pain everywhere she looks and his face is carelessly beautiful with the lights in his eyes, with murder on his hands and in his heart and she wants so badly to touch that even as she slides between stars, she tucks her fingers away to keep from reaching out.
