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Imagine Something Of your Very Own

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Poe can’t sleep.

It’s not that he can’t sleep or that he can’t...that he’s not tired . He is tired; he’s so tired he has that tight kind of headache across his temples that makes his eyes throb and he can’t quite make words work the right way, can’t talk, can’t really think. It’s not quite as bad as it was when there was that awful series of raids, when every night he was out with the squadron, shooting tie-fighters out of the sky every four hours like clockwork for a week.

It’s not quite that bad, but Poe’s limit for not sleeping is three days and he’s approaching the third rapidly.

He sits in his bunk and runs his hands through his hair and resists it. Resists sleeping.

He did the bombing run against the starkiller base- went well. Went really well. Came back here, greeted General Organa with the good news, took a shower, and when he was out, Finn was back but not conscious and Rey was gone.

And he’s tired, but he can’t sleep for the nightmares.

It hurt, when Ren reached in and Took.

When Poe was fourteen, he was repairing a lower engine on an x-wing. Something turned on, something activated, something- anyway, he almost lost three fingers to it and it was a long, terrible walk to the medic to get it looked at and taken care of. He still has the long, horizontal scar over his bottom knuckles on his left hand, and it aches a little if he spends too much time in the cockpit.

The pain of that never kept him awake like this does though.

Ripping. Tearing.

Deep, deep inside.

He scrubs his hand over his face. Throws his legs over his bunk and hops down.

From a corner in his quarters, he hears BB-8 whirr to alertness, to action. She sings out a few beeps, inquisitive and worried.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just gonna go for a run. I’m fine, BB.”

He’s not gonna tell her that he’s afraid to sleep for what his memory will bring him; she’s little and he wouldn’t put that on her. Droids have personalities, and while General Organa’s Threepio seems to be about forty and always has been, BB-8 is...she’s small . And Poe can’t wish horror on her.

He tugs on his boots and jogs out, into the night.

The air is cool over his skin and the stars are out; bright and clear. The asteroid field dots the sky oddly, leaving it speckled like the coat of an animal hiding out in the woods.

Poe jogs a few meters and then slows to a brisk walk.

He doesn’t even realize he’s heading toward the medical bay until he gets there, and when he gets there, he just stands in front of the doors.

He walks into the building, and it’s empty but for Finn, who lays in a bed, asleep.

The doctors said good things, about Finn recovering. The marks from the lightsaber, from Ren, they’ll leave a scar, but he’ll heal and he’ll live .

Poe sits down, beside the bed. He reaches out and takes his hand.

He saw Rey for a hot minute before she disappeared onto that bucket of bolts that she and Finn flew in on. She seemed...intense. Angry. But she also seemed to care about Finn and honestly, Poe’s got room to like pretty much anyone who likes Finn.

Poe lets the weight of Finn’s hand in his own ground him, like the feeling of his books on the floor and the shape of his clothes on his shoulders place him in the world, on D’Qar, in the base, here .

He tries to let here flood his senses, and he tries to let it relax him toward sleep.

Poe prays, in an abstract sense to nothing in particular, that he doesn’t have to remember tonight.