In Finn's experience, it's only been hours - maybe a full day (not counting however long he'd been unconscious after the crash) - since he pulled Poe from the restraining apparatus in that holding cell. As much as he'd wholeheartedly renounced all ties with the First Order, he was twenty years' indoctrinated in protocol. Orders were obeyed - without question, without hesitation. The general's gesture, almost casual as it was, might as well have been a sharply-spoken command. Finn dropped back into his seat, gaze locked on the man settling before him. He was shaking, hoping it wasn't visible, and it was all he could do to keep his breathing somewhat even.

He was a dead man. He knew it. It was written all over his face, too. He was too used to having a helmet to hide behind - hide his concerns, hide his questions, hide his insecurities and his misgivings. When in doubt, just keep your mouth shut . . . especially since he wasn't very good at trying to regulate what came out of it when he was nervous. Let alone terrified. All he could hope for was that he manage to go down with at least a shadow of the confidence - that what he'd done was right, that what he'd done was worth dying for - that that old man had possessed, the one that Kylo Ren had cut down on Jakku for defying him.