Work Header

crooked on my chrome

Work Text:

Poe’s elbows deep in the panels when the lights blink out. He slams the fuse box door onto his fingers, curses, trips over his tool bag, and whacks his head on the low hatch on his way off the ship -- all before the lights magically flicker back on to reveal BB-8 innocently (as innocently as the droid can be, in any case) rolling through the passageway with Finn hot on her heels.

“You know I can’t understand you --” Finn’s grumbles, pulling up short when he spots Poe. He flushes. It’s adorable . “Oh, hey, Poe.”

“Hey there,” he replies, pleased (because he’s always pleased to see Finn), but ultimately suspicious of his tiny droid friend. BB-8’s a meddler, and this happenstance meeting stinks of meddling. He gives BB-8 a pointed look before turning a less scowly one back onto Finn. “What’re you doing here?”

“BB-8 started screaming at me in the chow line,” he explains, his tone dipping into cool irritation, “and I got booed out of the chow hall because she wouldn’t leave me alone.”

BB-8 trills innocently. You needed help with the heat regulator, she beeps at Poe, so I brought you a helper.

Poe raises his eyebrows. “What did I tell you about doing stuff like this?”

Not to, but my programming --

“What is she saying?” Finn interrupts, clearly confused and frustrated by being kept out of the loop.

You like him, so kiss him --

“Nothing important,” Poe says, suddenly very glad that Finn hasn't yet picked up droid. He nudges BB-8 with his toe. They've been through hell and back together; asking her to cool the matchmaking attempts is the least worrisome thing he's asked her to do. (And where in the galaxy did she pick this up?) “Well, since you’re here, I've been meaning to show you how to rewire regulators. Really -- really important, fascinating stuff. Got a minute?”

Finn shrugs out of his jacket (Poe’s old jacket), and drapes it neatly over the cluttered workbench. “I got all day. That is, if BB-8 doesn’t mind.”

BB-8 beeps, satisfied. See?

Poe gives her a warning look -- Message received loud and clear -- and tugs Finn over to the panel. He’s got this, no assistance required.




He does not got this.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of flirting, “teaching” Finn how to fix jets and engines during their downtime, time alone filled with casual touches and lunch dates -- but that’s it. Now, Poe isn’t a pushy guy. He’s a sleeper. He can wait, because Finn’s absolutely worth waiting for. And he’s this close to positive that Finn reciprocates his feelings, knows that all it would take to get an answer is pose a simple question, but he’s nervous. Stuck not wanting to know Finn’s answer if there’s potential for it to be a no, I don’t feel the same.

“Don’t judge me,” he says, pointing a wrench at BB-8. “I realize how this looks. I can make a low pass over a literal murder planet no problem, but trying to ask a guy if he wants to date me, kiss me? Shaking in my flight suit.”

She rolls over to his feet. Why don’t you kiss him instead of asking?

“You can’t go around kissing people like that, buddy,” he says, and tries his best to explain consent and how most species -- especially humans -- don’t enjoy surprise touches. “It looks good in the vids, but trust me on this one.”

BB-8 dips her head in a nod, and he sighs. He’s pretty sure it’s of the lovelorn kind. But there’s work to be done, so he gets back to wrenching and tries his best to put Finn (and his smile, and how good he looks wearing Poe’s old jacket) out of his mind. For now, at least.

He loses track of time somewhere between stripping wires and cursing out copper, and he’s pulled out of his work sometime later by a knock and a tentative, “Hey.”

It’s Finn, carrying a tray from the chow hall. “I didn’t see you around for lunch, or dinner,” he explains, and sets the tray on the workbench. He half-shrugs at Poe’s thanks, like he’s trying not to make his thoughtfulness a big deal. “Figured you’d the hungry.”

And, as if on cue, Poe’s stomach rumbles. “Starving,” he laughs, and tears off a chunk of bread. They move to sit down on the two rickety chairs they salvaged from the yard when they first started working together. “Mm, galley food -- only good when you’re hungry. How’d you get them to let you steal a tray anyway?”

Finn rubs the back of his neck. “I told them it was for you. Might’ve fought me on it a little, but they like you here.”

“I’m a pretty likable guy,” he says, and bumps his shoulder against Finn’s. “You are, too.”

“You don’t see me getting take-away dinners.”

“They don’t know you like I know you.” He winks. “Next time, I’ll deliver. How does that sound?”

“If you can promise me apples, it’s a date,” he says, tone casual enough that it’s not meant to be casual at all. He’s fidgeting a little, knee-jiggling with clear nerves.

Poe smiles, more than a little enamored over Finn’s too-casual vibe. He’s got this. “A date, huh?”

“I like you,” Finn says plainly. He presses his lips together. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together, and -- I thought, you know, maybe .”

“I like you, too,” Poe says, and moves to rest his hand on Finn’s knee. “Boyfriend style.”

Finn huffs out a laugh, and covers Poe’s hand with his own. Finn’s hand is warm, a little dry, and fits into Poe’s like he’s meant to. “Boyfriend style won’t get you out of delivery,” he says, and moves over a fraction to press his leg flush against Poe’s. “Does that change anything?”

“Of course not.” He’s a man of his word, after all, and he’d give Finn the stars if he could.

The kiss that follows is inevitable, and perfect, and Poe can’t believe he was ever nervous to try for this.




Somewhere in the galley kitchen BB-8 sighs, accomplished. About time.

The cook sighs, too. “Tell me about it.”