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vampirewithbedsidemanners · 3 years ago

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a light, a song, a bluebird (Poe Dameron x f!Reader)

words: 6.4k

warnings: contains smut and difficult themes so 18+ only please; Reader has certain trauma responses that not all readers may relate to (including being touch-adverse, temporarily non-verbal, and ‘flight’ related conflict responses); intimacy related anxiety; dealing with trauma indirectly (source of trauma is never explicitly declared); assumed consent typical of a developed relationship; passing mention of having children in the future; canon typical violence; dancing; Jedi!Finn (not that it’s a warning, but it’s necessary for context)

a/n: FINALLY THE FIC I HAVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT FOR MONTHS IS HERE!!!!! I don’t really get into my trauma on here but this fic is pretty heavily based on me and the way I exist which is SUPER vulnerable and makes me very stressed but I’ve had a few requests over the years for something like this and I think I’m finally ready to post more about my experiences. We’re gonna start with this and see how it goes. It’s also a new narration style I’m trying!

I definitely could add more scenes to this thing (and I still might add to it) but I just need to post it and let it be imperfect. But if you guys like this universe, let me know? Maybe I’ll make this a little series? Not that I need another damn series

(Also if you’re interested in the playlist for this fic, it’s here)

I hope this means something to you. Writing it has definitely meant something to me.

Poe could have sworn you were a statue with how still you sat. Shoulders hunched near up to your ears, only a slight sway of your head gave you away: the human among life-like metal and stone.

He takes a cautious step into your workshop, head on a swivel for company and your self-designed traps. Only once had he missed a tripwire, sending a misshapen clay head—he later found out it was an attempt at a lothcat— swinging through the air and into his jaw.

He carefully navigates the stacks of artwork as he heads for your work station. As he passes though, he brushes a thin layer of ash off a carving of a Force-tree and rights a pile of tarps threatening to topple onto a half-finished clock. He never would have lingered on the timepiece, tucked under a larger depiction of a four-legged, seemingly hairy creature he doesn’t recognize, if not for the delicate gold gears set into its face. Not only were the gears golden, but you had pressed metal leaves of the same warm shade into the preserved wood of the clock’s body.

He freezes as he hears you call out, “Mr. Bey?”

You’re shocked at how quickly his head snaps around to look at you. It usually takes him a moment to respond as he feigns having the reflexes of a normal person, making it more than clear that he’s undercover, but you weren’t one to call a man out. His business was his.

And your discretion kept him coming back.

You had turned in your seat and were grinning at the handsome man, yanking your earpieces out of your head. They clatter to the tabletop. Standing, you tuck your hands into the front of your stained apron, sending your bag that was always slung over one of your shoulders swinging at your side.

Something about the softness in his eyes makes your heart flutter.

He takes a small bow, carefully tipping the grey cap he has sitting on his curls in your direction as he made his way to his feet. Something in his knee pops and you flinch on his behalf.

He coughs, surely from the thickness of the air. The volcanic island that houses your shop has experienced recent activity, sending debris and ash into the air. Given how sparse his visits were, you doubt he’s used to the air quality.

“I hope I didn’t startle you,” he says, his voice gravely. There’s something child-like about how he carries himself, like a boy in his father’s clothing.

“You didn’t,” you say with a shake of your head. Leaning around the large chunk of unworked metal that was blocking your view, your eyebrows quirk up as you notice the subject of his study. “I didn’t think a non-standard timepiece was part of the Princess’ order.”

“It wasn’t this time. But I’ll put a good word in.”

Your laugh is a gentle exhale. You rock back on your heels before turning around and pushing aside the grease-stained cloth that curtained off the underside of your table. The box he’d come for had been tucked under your workbench all day in anticipation of his arrival.

Every time your swinging legs had collided with the crate, you had seen his gentle brown eyes as clear as if he was standing before you.

You grunt as you pull it free. With a quick tap on the top of the weapons case, it begins to levitate itself. With a careful shove, you send it towards Poe. “There.” You rock back on your heels again, your head cocked. “Will that be all, Mr. Bey?”

He brushes some ash off the crate with his sleeve. “This time.” He sets the credits – more than he owed you for the weapons, if your eyes didn’t deceive you – on a squat table beside him.

The man was always careful to keep his distance from you. Though your quips were given with a smile and you seemed to take his teasing as well as you dolled it out, there were certain moments that you became timid around him.

He didn’t want to be the one to chase away your smile.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come on an adventure?” he asks, knowing your response.

He’d asked every time he’d come to pick up orders from you. It had taken you a few occurrences to figure out exactly what he’d meant. That he wasn’t just a stranger attempting to kidnap you. That he was actually asking you to come with him.

The Princess. A handsome scoundrel with a fake name. Shipments of weapons disguised as art. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what exactly you were assisting.

The Resistance.

Though it was a noble cause, and you couldn’t be happier to assist the General-Princess Leia Organa, you couldn’t imagine what being on a military base could offer you, other than sleepless nights and the feeling of uselessness you’d been trying to avoid since birth.

So, you shake your head. “No, thank you, Mr. Bey. You enjoy your adventure and I’ll see you soon.”

“Well, alright.” He bows again. “Take care.” He gently pushes the crate out your front door without looking back.

It’s weeks before Mr. Bey comes back to visit you. He’s transporting bombs, this time. Expensive ones. You’d traded a few of your best pieces for them. Things you were proud of and didn’t want to part with for anything.

Except, apparently, the fate of the galaxy.

His trip is short, as it always is, but he’s been sure to ask you: “Do you want to come on an adventure with me?”

Your answer is no, again, and he does look disappointed, but he smiles at you and leaves without pressuring you, as always. It’s like he can’t be anything other than sweet. He doesn’t know how. It simply isn’t in his programming.

You wonder what a man like that is doing in the middle of a war.

“Will you join me on my adventure today?” he asks softly.

Mr. Bey is wearing a long cloak this time. The thick fabric pools at his neck, failing to hide the suture tape that lines his jaw. He carries a new weight on his shoulders this time, months after you’d seen him last, his eyes sunken and hands unsteady.

You wonder idly what would happen if you were to say yes. Unfortunately, you hadn’t planned for this to be the moment you find out.

You push the crate towards him. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Bey. Who would finish this piece if I were to come with you?” You gesture to the metal sculpture in front of you before returning your hands to the strap of your bag. You worry the frayed edge with your fingers as you gaze down at your current project. It’s nowhere near finished, barely resembling the tree you could see in your mind. Two small birds, one still missing its wings, lay on their sides on your desk.

The floor begins to shake.

You move to duck under a table but Mr. Bey surges forward, holding out a hand. You take it gingerly, only because of the intensity of his gaze.

“We have to go.” He pulls you along with him as he heads for the door, abandoning the crate of weapons.

“It’s just a quake,” you try to explain, dragging your feet to slow him down. “They happen from time to time. We need to find cover…”

He opens the exterior door and swears.

The buildings surrounding the landing field burn. Two Planetary Defense ships plummet out of view, black streaks across the sky. Your lungs seize around the ashy air you drag in with your gasp.

A unit of TIE fighters close in on the Flight Tower. Two shots, and it’s set ablaze. Another, and it’s falling, falling…

Mr. Bey grips your wrist, dragging you out of the rubble’s path. The world moves in slow motion as it crumbles around you.

You clutch your bag tight to your chest and you run, hand in hand, from the building as the world explodes around you.

Two hands wave at you through the dust from the far side of the landing field. The shuttle that the person – a human, from what you could make out – is standing on hovers right at the end of the field, where flat earth drops away to sheer cliff and the rolling magma ocean below.

“Jump!” He shouts, dragging you across the gap and onto the boarding ramp of the ship.

He holds tight to your hand as you gaze down at the landing pad, watching the ships, the trading village, and your home explode and crumble into the sea below.

Mr. Bey does not let you go until the both of you are safe inside the shuttle and the doors close. As the shuttle lifts off, you scramble for purchase on the smooth, clean metal walls.

Tin can. You’re inside a tin can, flying away from your home.

“Steady, there.” The human that waved you into their shuttle sets a hand on your shoulder and you jump, gluing yourself to the wall.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.” Mr. Bey doesn’t approach you but holds out a hand. You timidly take it. He gestures to the other man. “This is Finn. He’s a friend.”

“Another code name, Mr. Bey?” you ask, still shaking.

He chuckles, the sound warming you. “I’m Poe,” he says, “Poe Dameron.”

You don’t know the family name Dameron. You’re not sure if you should. But from the way he says it, the sheer weight the name seems to carry as it rolls off his tongue, you know he’s important. His family is important. This man carries a legacy that you don’t need to know to respect.

You introduce yourself quietly, shaking his hand where he already holds yours. “I guess I’m joining you on your adventure this time, Poe Dameron,” you say. In your head, the words sound more confident than they come out, hanging awkwardly between you.

But he chuckles again. It calms something in you, and you smile too.

“It’s gonna be cramped with four people, but we’ll manage,” the man called Finn says and you shrink back against the wall.

Poe quickly lets you go, still smiling. “Come meet our pilot? She’s great. You’ll love her.”

You keep your bag clutched to your chest as he and Finn lead you through the ship. They both walk in front of you, turning back to check that you’re following occasionally but giving you space as you navigate to the cockpit.

The ship is a relic from an ancient time. The vents are clogged, and you can smell salt and sand and something definitely rotting somewhere. Despite that, you can tell the ship is very well loved.

You follow the curve of the upper deck towards the cockpit. A small brown-haired woman pokes her head out the door. “Stowaway?” she says.

Her deadpan has your gut twisting. “I—Mister—Um, Poe… Poe said I could…”

“You’re good. Rey’s kidding.” Poe introduces her to you and you carefully shake her hand.

“Welcome to the Falcon,” Rey says before taking her seat in front of the controls.

“She’s a little odd,” Poe whispers, warmth and love radiating from every word. You just nod, trying to smile.

Finn takes the seat next to her and Poe sits behind her, so you take the only remaining seat in the small cockpit for the remainder of the flight, tucking your knees to your chest and making yourself as small as possible, your bag resting over your knees.

The flight to the Resistance base is much shorter than you had expected. It makes sense, given how often Poe came to visit you for supplies, that they’d want somewhere close if they got into a jam.

If you could equate ‘a jam’ to the war raging in the galaxy.

Upon landing you’re quickly taken through a medical evaluation and then meet two members of the Resistance leadership, a taller woman with pink hair and a shorter one that seemed to carry the galaxy on her shoulders.

You can’t remember their names. It takes all of the concentration you can muster to keep from trembling. You’ll have to ask Poe later, for their names and a map of the base that quickly reveals itself to be a labyrinth. Surely he’ll be able to help. He’s been at your side since the Falcon had landed on D’Qar, providing enough smiles and kind words that you didn’t shake apart.

He walks beside you then, excitedly rambling about how well you’ll fit into the mech unit that had been stationed on base and how he’ll make sure you have enough supplies to still make some prettier things.

“You could still sell them, you know. The Resistance doesn’t exactly have that many sources of income. It would be the same work you were doing for us before!” he says.

The light in his eyes makes you want to trust him. You don’t have the heart to burst his bubble, but you know you aren’t going to fit in with the other mechanics. You don’t have the skills to contribute and you aren’t enough of a social butterfly to make a meaningful contribution to morale.

It was why you had always worked alone.

But there was no going home. So what else could you do?

Poe leads you down a quiet hallway near the back of the base, where the walls are open to the evening air and you can gaze out at the jungle. At the very end of the hallway, he opens a door.

The room is small, the furniture well-used in a way that instantly makes it cozy. A clean set of sheets has been laid on the unmade bed, which is squished into the corner against a wall of windows.

“The windows darken, if they make it feel too open for you. I noticed you cover most of the windows in your workshop…” He moves over to the panel laid into the wall next to the windows and hits a button. The glass becomes opaque, leaving you in darkness.

He giggles, letting out a small, “Oops,” as he paws at the panel, struggling to find the light. Your eyes adjust quickly to the darkness. You move towards him, hitting another one of the buttons.

The lamp in the ceiling stutters to life and you quickly back up, realizing how close you’ve gotten to Poe. He smiles, not unkindly, and says, “It’s okay. You’re going to be safe here. I promise.”

You nod. Your jaw has glued itself shut, keeping you from responding with anything more than a hum that you hope sounds encouraging.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in. We can head down to Supplies tomorrow to get you some clean clothes. There are a few shirts in the dresser. I thought you might want to sleep in something clean.” Poe points to the dresser and makes his way to the door. “Well, goodnight.” He backs out of the room, still smiling as the door closes between you, leaving you alone.

In the dresser, you find two shirts, one with long sleeves and one with the sleeves cut off. You lay your dirty clothes in one of the other empty drawers and put on the long-sleeved one. It’s worn, small holes dotting the edge of the collar where a necklace might have snagged it. But it’s warm. You dress the bed and lay down, fiddling with the hem and staring at your flickering light until sleep finds you.

You lean against the wall outside the cantina, clutching your cup tight in one hand. You’d brought tea in case the night got cold, but the dancing, screaming utter chaos inside the building seems to seep out, warming the night long after the sun had gone down. You watch the shadows that the people inside cast through the windows.

“Hey, Mech! Are you coming inside?” One of your favourite techs calls from the doorway. In your panic, you forget her name.

Even a year of knowing someone can’t stand up to the adrenaline spike that courses through you at someone’s eyes meeting yours.

Your open your mouth to respond but your tongue sticks to your teeth, so you shake your head, holding up the unlit stick of spice that rests between your fingers as an excuse.

She grins and yells, “Enjoy!” before heading into the building.

You wonder how long you can go using the same stick of spice as a way to get out of talking to people before someone calls you on it.

A crowd of pilots make their way up the short road between the town and the base. From their yelling, they’ve already broken into the liquor stash. A few voices stand out. Karé and Jess, more specifically. Black Squadron. Which means Poe is surely among them.

Quickly, you survey them. Poe is there, his flight suit only half on. He’s tied the arms around his waist, securing the bottom half of his jumpsuit in place and leaving him in a white undershirt that showed off his arms, shoulders, and most of his chest. Rey always says it ‘barely counted as a shirt’ and you giggle to yourself at the memory, stopping only when you realize how crazy you’ll look if someone spots you.

You tuck your knees into your chest, making yourself as small as possible so they don’t notice you.

You’re almost successful.

Poe Dameron slides down the wall beside you, waving his squadron into the cantina as he settles. “D’you need a light for that?” He gestures to the spice in your hand.

You shake your head.

“Just needed a minute by yourself?”

At that, you nod.

He grunts as he sinks back into the wall. “Cool. Me too.”

You gaze out at the jungle together. Poe can’t sit still, as hard as he tries. He begins to sway to the music that blasts from inside the cantina, humming along and tapping a rhythm line you can’t hear on his thigh.

“Do you want to dance?” He finally blurts out.

“In there?” You whisper, somehow finding your voice as you point to the door.

He shakes his head and stands up, brushing off his flight suit. “We can dance right here.” He grins down at you. Pure energy radiates from him.

You can’t disappoint him.

So you stand, pocket your spice, set down your teacup, brush yourself off, and look at him expectantly.

Poe takes your hand in his, stepping closer. He keeps enough of a distance that you don’t feel the urge to run, only making contact with you where your palms touched and where his hand rested lightly on your back to guide you. The two of you barely sway, following the bass that pounds through the walls.

“Is this usually how you dance at these parties?” You whisper, already knowing the answer. You’ve seen the way he holds onto his partners, his dark gazes, his wandering hands. This is very, very different, almost proper, and you aren’t sure what to make of it.

“No. But it’s how I used to dance when I lived on Yavin. My mom taught me,” he says, turning you slowly. “The music at these parties is always bad. But it’s not always so loud.”

“Celebrations usually are. Loud, I mean. It’s… good. I’m glad everyone has a chance to relax.”

Things on base had been tense, the silence uncomfortable and heavy, even for you. The Resistance had needed a victory. Even this little one was invigorating, like you actually had a chance against the army that had amassed in the shadow of the New Republic’s failure.

“Yes. It’s good.” He spins you again, and you settle into a rhythm.

Poe is a good dancer. Many of the people that seemed to yearn for him would have killed to be in your place, to be so close to the Untouchable War Hero Poe Dameron. He keeps to himself, sticking with Rey and Finn (and you, when you could stand to be around people) when he wasn’t around his squad, and you saw how that angered some people on base.

Thankfully, they mostly left you alone. There were some perks to having two Jedi and the Resistance’s best pilot as your only friends. Even if they were only friends with you because Poe kept sitting with you for meals.

But that didn’t mean your ears turned off. It was safer to stay in your office or in the mech lab, where you didn’t have to be around people’s judging glances and whispers. The techs you liked kept their conversations with you brief and solely focused on work-related matters. They didn’t bring up Commander Dameron’s favouritism towards you, the extra projects he gave you so you could practice working on the Resistance’s tech, or the way he trailed behind you on your rounds when he should have been training, or the nights he spent in your room.

They also didn’t know that most of those nights ended with the two of your sprawled out on your floor, laying in the light cast by the moon through your window, with enough space between you that Rey and Finn could have fit. It wasn’t nearly the scandalous affair they all made it out to be.

But still. Poe is there. Holding you, not some other mech he could romance and whisk away before the night is over.

“Shouldn’t you join the party?” you whisper.

“I’d rather be out here with you.” His voice is as soft as the hand that rests on your lower back, drawing you closer.

“You know I won’t be going home with you,” you remind him.

He chuckles again. “Can’t I dance with a friend?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Are more of the people you dance with friends?”

“Friends of a sort.”

Your stomach rolls and you straighten up. “And what sort of friend am I?”

He doesn’t seem to notice a change in you, but his voice softens, the darkness that had edged his words disappearing. “A good one. One of the best.”

“I can’t beat Finn, I guess.” You untangle yourself from him and sit back down, taking a sip of your cold tea.

Poe stays standing, looking down at you like a lost puppy. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Poe,” you whisper. “You’re fine. Go enjoy your victory party.”

He shuffles his feet, looking between you and the open door.

“I’ll come back for you,” he finally says. “I’ll walk you home.”

“Sure, Poe.” You nod, trying for a smile.

You’re gone in the time it takes him to get a drink and come back to your spot against the wall.

“So, you haven’t hooked up with anyone since you got to D’Qar.”

You stare at Poe, trying to figure out if you’ve imagined him speaking.

“Am I wrong?” he says.

You watch his lips move.

Yeah, he’s definitely actually talking.

“How would you know?” you finally reply.

“Because you have the same routine every day and I’d notice if you deviated from it. Hell, Holdo would notice if you deviated from it.” He stares down at his feet, swinging his legs off the edge of the boarding ramp. It had gotten stuck in place, five feet off the ground, and you and Poe had been sent to fix it. Though your tools were spread out in the belly of the shuttle and you had wanted to get to work, Poe had insisted you pause to watch the sun rise ‘properly’ over the base. It’s still too early for you to be disturbed, which you’re equal parts grateful for and dreading. Though you had settled back into a normal rhythm after the Dancing Incident, you felt like you were still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Maybe I haven’t. What’s it to you?” you say, not looking at him.

“Most people go through the base the moment they get shipped here.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Clearly.”

His voice edges it’s way solidly into the flirty zone.

On instinct, you say, “If this is you offering, I’m not interested,” even though you know it’s a lie.

He snorts, “Oh, I figured that one out. Don’t worry.”

Your head whips around to stare at him. “What?”

He laughs, full-belly, his face tilting up towards the rising sun. “I’ve been flirting with you for ages. If you had any interest, I’m sure you would have made a move by now.”

“You flirt with everyone.”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do! You treat me the same as all the other people you take home.”

“No. I don’t.” Sudden softness. And it hurts, it aches somewhere deep in your chest because the pain in his voice is your fault, and you know it.

It’s your turn to stare down at your feet, hanging off the platform. You wonder what he’d do if you jumped off and went inside. Would he come after you? Would he give you space, find you later and apologize?

How many more times can you run from him, reject him, leave him behind, before he started to leave you?

You reach across the gap between you and take his hand. Your grip is sure, more like you’re holding a soldering iron than a human. When he moves to hold you back, you don’t flinch, even with your heart hammering against your ribs and the little voice in your head screaming at you to run.

Progress.

“I know,” you whisper. Because you do. If you’re anything at all, it’s perceptive.

Something in you aches to say more, but your tongue turns to sandpaper and you can barely swallow around it, never mind speak.

Poe squeezes your hand lightly.

The sun rises.

Finally, he whispers, “Should we get back to work?”

You nod. You stand.

You’re the first to let go.

Poe sits across from your work bench, dutifully holding your wrench with two hands. He hasn’t said a word since he sat down, fully becoming part of your workstation as you move around the engine mod you’ve been working on for weeks.

He’d taken to randomly showing up. It was a recent development, and you guessed it had something to do with how few missions he’d been assigned. Everyone else had been busy, taking the intel from the new scouting team and turning it into results. Which meant you had more stuff to fix.

But Poe had been kept on D’Qar, training the recent batch of recruits. And when he was off, he delivered the damage gear that got shipped back to base from wherever-the-fuck the Resistance spies had broken it so you could fix it.

He watches carefully as you replace the paneling on a blaster he had brought over from Gold squadron. Another mech steps into the workspace, takes one look at Poe, and runs out.

Your face burning, you turn on him. “Do you keep showing up here because you have something to say?”

Poe shakes his head.

“Have you taken a vow of silence?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I like your voice.” You still sound grumpy (and embarrassed), but you mean it.

He just blinks at you, his lips turning up in a sheepish smile. It’s sweet, how he still gets nervous around you. Before, you’d thought that it was just the circumstances of your meetings, the high-stakes nature of smuggling weapons for the Resistance. But he still gets quiet, still blushes whenever you catch him off guard.

Before you can think too hard about it, you lean across the table and kiss him.

It’s light, just a press of your lips against his, but it sends your head hammering against your ribs anyhow.

He’s too stunned to speak for a long moment. Finally, he whispers, “What was that for?”

Your stomach drops like stone. “Did you not like it?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I dunno. You ran away before I could decide.” Slowly, he rounds the table, coming to stand between your knees.

You roll your eyes but lean in again anyways. His hand gently cups the back of your head as he brings his lips to yours.

It’s nothing you were afraid of and everything you want. He’s soft, oh-so-soft, but never yielding to the way you push against him. Winding your hands in his hair, you tug him closer and swallow the little surprised sound he makes.

In an instant, he’s everywhere: his hands on your waist pulling you out of your seat, his chest pressing to yours, his arms encircling you to keep you close.

When you finally pull away, flushed and gasping for air, you ask, “How about now? Was that okay?”

Poe nods slowly, his gaze focused on your mouth. “It was perfect.”

After that day, Poe hardly leaves your side, to the point that Leia had to order him to return to his normal duties.

As much as you loathe the stares from everyone else, you bask in the attention from Poe. He’s so sweet to you, stealing little kisses and touches whenever he can. Though you still tense sometimes when his hands on your back or hips catch you by surprise, you’re more than comfortable the rest of the time. It’s new. Different. You hadn’t thought this would ever be possible again.

You still hadn’t talked about it. What you were to each other. What this meant. But he walked you home every night, and he brought you lunch on days he was on-world, and you were okay with the not-knowing.

Weeks later, after he had walked you home, you invite him inside.

It should be normal, him being in your room. It had happened before. You’d spent long days working in there and nights sleeping side by side, the few inches between you feeling like an entire planetary system and nothing at all.

But somehow, this feels different.

He keeps a hand on your back as you enter the room. You sit on your bed as he talks through his next mission, but you aren’t really paying attention.

The air is heavier somehow. Every shaky inhale takes more out of you.

You’re not sure how it happens. One moment, he’s talking about the caves on Jedha. The next, he’s above you. His hands tight on your waist. Yours under his shirt (just barely). His breath hot on your neck.

Everything is warm. Too warm. And he’s above you, and it should feel good, and it does, when you aren’t thinking about it. But you are thinking about it. And the walls start to close in. And you can’t get a full breath.

“P-Poe…” you whisper.

He hums into your skin, hips grinding more firmly into yours as he kisses along your jaw. It hurts, somehow exquisite and excruciating all at once.

“Poe?”

He freezes, hands leaving your waist and finding yours. “Are you okay?”

You tip your chin up to the ceiling, gasping. “I… I can’t breathe.”

Poe backs off, keeping a hold on one of your hands. “Are you sick? Can I get you something?”

You shake your head and fold in on yourself, somehow sitting up on your bed. Bent over your knees, you focus on breathing slowly. Evenly.

Poe sits on the floor at your feet, still holding your hand, rubbing small circles over your knuckles with his thumb. He kisses the back of your hand, murmuring against your skin. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. You’re okay. I’m so sorry. You’re safe.”

Slowly, you start to come down. Your eyes open enough to focus on him in the dim glow of your room.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say slowly, your whole body shaking. “It’s not your fault.”

He nods, seeming to understand.

“It’s not your fault,” you say again, tears pricking your eyes.

“It’s not yours either,” he whispers, and you find he’s right.

Poe starts to stay the night.

It isn’t often, only when you both can afford to lose some sleep getting ‘distracted’. More and more, your bed feels empty without him in it. You begin to miss his kisses, rather than worry about when the next one might happen.

And Poe notices.

He’s more careful, after the night you had to stop him. But never timid with you. He doesn’t walk on eggshells like the others used to. He’s wrong, sometimes, but he tries. And you’re safe no matter what. And that means more than any sweet words he could whisper to you in the dark, after he thinks you’re asleep.

Because he does that. Often.

It doesn’t matter how you fall asleep, whether he’s laying on your chest or you’re tucked under his arm; he eventually starts to talk to you. Sometimes it’s stories, the ugly parts of his recent mission that he couldn’t bare to tell in the daylight or a memory from his childhood. Sometimes it’s dreams: taking you back to Yavin IV, introducing you to his dad, meeting his childhood friends, vacations on Chandrila, what your first baby’s room will look like (he’s sure to clarify: “If you want kids. We can talk about it.”), where the kids should attend flight school, how he wants to be buried beside you someday.

It’s that night that you wake as he’s saying, “I’ll die first. I have to. I don’t want to be alone.” He pauses to sniffle and cuddle into your shoulder before continuing, “I don’t want to leave you by yourself but I can’t be without you. And you won’t really be alone. You’ll have Finn and Rey. And your people in mech. You’ll be okay.”

“I won’t be,” you whisper before you’ve decided to speak.

“W-what?” He props himself up on an elbow, staring down at you in the dark.

“You were my first friend. You’re my love. I don’t want to be without you either.” You reach up, tracing over his cheek with a feather-light touch.

At once, he shudders and slots himself over you, his arms cradling you to his chest as he presses his forehead to yours.

“You have the more dangerous job,” you say, though you know it won’t help. “I could lose you any day. Any time you walk out the door…”

He presses his lips to yours, insistent. And you give in. Because he knows. And you know he knows. As much as you never talk about it, this war is more likely to steal you from each other than to spit you out the other side, hand in hand. The clock ticks, and ticks, but as long as it doesn’t stop, you have time.

And it’s time you spend, that night, wrapped in each others arms, shedding clothes, as close as two souls can be while trapped in human forms.

When you cry — and you do cry — it’s from relief. Release. Never pain.

In the aftermath, he holds you tight, and he presses kisses over your cheeks, and you realize just how much you love him.

When you tell him, he cries too. And it’s your turn to hold him.

Poe seems to stand taller as you walk through the base and people notice your linked pinkies.

“It’s so sweaty,” you’d said whenever he asked if he could hold your hand.

So you’d found a happy medium. He could still be physically linked to you, claim you as his for everyone to see, and you could avoid the sensory overload that accompanied having damp palms.

A few people look, more to pay respect to The Poe Dameron than to give you any attention, but even so, the stares are like pins in your neck. You flinch at a cupboard slamming in a room adjacent to the hall. Poe drops your hand to wrap an arm lightly around your waist, like he can shield you from the sudden onslaught of sights and sounds.

“Almost there,” he whispers into your hair.

You nod just enough to signal that you’ve heard him.

Poe steers you out of the base, keeping a hold on you until the two of you are on the path towards the cantina the Resistance frequented. He helps you into a booth at the back, his hands staying safe places while people could see you. Once you’re settled in, his hand finds it’s way between your thighs, squeezing gently.

He kisses your forehead and joins the conversation happening around you.

Eventually, Rose, Rey, and Finn join you, squishing you all onto the small bench. Poe checks in, making sure you’re alright, and you find that you are. Without realizing it, you’d gotten used to the casual affection that’s typical of Resistance members. Where Finn’s thigh is pressed to yours, you just feel warmth.

He and Rey talk about their daily training. You and Rose bond over your mech work, and she agrees to teach you everything she knows about the bombers. Before you know it, the night begins to wind down.

Poe helps you out of the booth, your hand securely in his. He kisses over your hair and whispers, “Thank you for coming out with me.”

“Thank you for asking.”

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