Poe knows he’s living on borrowed time. Resistance fighters don’t often get to grow old, and fighter pilots – well, there are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. Poe is bold – the best pilot in the Resistance – and therefore he expects to die well before he has to start worrying about things like grey hair or failing reflexes.
Pilots are known to play as wildly as they fight, and in this, too, Poe lives up to the reputation. He drinks like a fish when he’s off-duty. He flies like he’s dancing and dances like he’s fucking and fucks like he’s flying, and he does it all with that sweet cocky grin and all so well that no one can even object to any of it. He spends his nights with anyone who offers – and the best pilot in the Resistance does get offers – but never twice with anyone. He leaves no broken hearts behind him; it’s never about love, just about celebrating the fact that they are all, somehow, still alive. Poe is so sweet about it, so clearly just having fun, that no one begrudges him his drink, his dancing, his constant one-night stands. It is a joke around the base, but one with no teeth to it, only indulgent smiles.
And then Jakku happens.
See, Poe has always assumed that his death will be a swift and violent thing. He’s a fighter pilot, not one of the ground troops, not a spy; if he dies, he has assumed, it will be because he dodged wrong and someone got a lucky hit, and he will be scattered in a million pieces across the starscape before he even knows he’s made a dreadful mistake. Getting captured – Poe doesn’t know how to deal with that. He certainly doesn’t know how to deal with masked horrors turning his brain inside out. Oh, he tries – his tongue has gotten him into (and out of) enough trouble that he can basically sass on autopilot – but he knows he’s going to die slow and hard, and he is not ready.
Being rescued is almost as much of a shock as being captured, and when the rescuer turns out to be a stunningly beautiful young Stormtrooper, of all things, well, it’s a good thing Poe can banter on autopilot, because wow, this is not something he knows how to deal with.
And then the crash.
Poe is not used to failure. He’s been the best pilot in the Resistance an awful long time, and even before that he was a clever boy, a well-loved son. And now, in less than a day, he has lost the map, lost BB-8, let that masked horror take the information from his very brain, stolen and lost a ship, and named and lost a beautiful boy who only wanted to help him get away. It’s…it’s a lot to deal with.
General Leia is very gentle about it, when Poe is brought back to base, scuffed up and sunburnt and with a broken arm but not too badly injured anyhow. She tells him it was a nearly impossible mission and he nearly managed it anyhow, that he did the very best he could and therefore no one could have done better, and she sends him off to the med droids with a calm smile and a gentle hand on his shoulder that makes him feel even worse.
His first night out of medical – and a broken arm doesn’t take so very long to fix, after all – he finds himself a bottle of something strong and a corner in the mess hall, and starts drinking. The more he drinks, the worse he feels, and so he drinks more to make the horrid feeling in the pit of his stomach go away, and by the time he really realizes that it’s not getting any better, he’s far too drunk to move. He wakes up the next morning with a blanket over him, which was kind of someone, and a splitting hangover.
He gives the rest of his booze away, grinning cheerfully to hide the headache, and doesn’t try that again. But without anything to dull the dreams, he’s honestly not sure how long he’s going to be able to deal with the nightmares. A masked figure looming over him, and splitting pain through his head. A beautiful young Stormtrooper smiling at him, and then dying, over and over. Endless sand.
Really the worst ones are the ones where the beautiful young Stormtrooper – Finn, Poe named him, just before he died – where he’s alive, but hurt, and Poe didn’t find him, and he’s dying by inches in the endless sand of Jakku, and it’s all Poe’s fault.
He spends his days tinkering with his ship, and his nights sitting awake, curled in his blanket and staring at the wall. He dozes sometimes, but always wakes again with a gasping cry. He supposes he could find someone to share his bed – even now, he gets offers every few days – but he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, doesn’t want to see pity instead of lust in someone’s eyes.
If only he wasn’t grounded, like all the other pilots, until General Leia finds them something to do. Although he knows that sleep-deprived and twitching is not the right mindset to fly, still he is the best pilot in the Resistance and he can still fly. Little hops to test the minor changes he’s made to his ship don’t really count at all, and he wants nothing more than to be up among the stars again, invincible and free.
Flying the rescue mission to Maz’s Cantina is a relief, a glory – he is finally where he belongs again, in the air, in glorious flight. He is in his element, and for a few minutes he is able to forget his grief and failure, to be again the best pilot in the Resistance, the golden son.
Landing – getting out of the X-Wing – hurts like breaking his arm again, like tearing his heart out of his chest. How can he go back to misery?
And then – miracle.
He sees BB-8 first, hears him first, that warbling beep which has been a constant in Poe’s life for so long, and turns from his ship to see the little droid hurtling towards him, looks past it and –
Poe’s jacket looks good on Finn.
And if BB-8 is here, if Finn is here, then the mission was not a failure, Poe is not a failure, he can stop turning the whole mess over and over and over in his mind because it didn’t happen. Finn is not dying by inches on the sands of Jakku, BB-8 is not being taken apart for scrap, the map is not in the clutches of that masked horror.
“You completed my mission,” Poe tells Finn, hardly able to keep from kissing the other man, and, “Keep it. It suits you.” Because the jacket really does look better over Finn’s broad shoulders than Poe should probably be thinking about, and because Finn is apparently a real hero, the sort Poe has been dreaming about being for years and years.
That night there are no nightmares. Not much sleep, either, admittedly, with all the planning for the attack on Starkiller Base, but still, when Poe does snatch a few hours in his bunk, they are blessedly peaceful. Something else to thank Finn for, in the silence of his own head.
Poe is still high off of the sheer joy of flight, of doing the impossible and doing it with panache, of actually managing to blow up the whole damned Starkiller, when he gets back to base and hops out of his ship. He’s thinking about grabbing Finn and maybe going and getting drunk, letting pretty people buy them both drinks for their heroism, dancing the night away and sleeping without nightmares.
And Finn comes off the Millennium Falcon limp in Chewbacca’s arms, and Poe’s plans go up in smoke. Because no. Finn survived Jakku, he survived the strafing of Maz’s cantina, he can’t be dead now! But no, he’s not dead, there are medics hurrying forward, and Poe manages to take a breath, realizes he can’t go haring off after the gurney until he’s made his report to General Leia, sends BB-8 instead. “Come get me if I – if I need to be there,” he tells the little droid, and BB-8 bloops affirmatively and heads off after the gurney at his best speed.
And then Poe waits, because he is not so foolish, even in his own distress, as to intrude upon the General’s grief.
Rey asks Poe to look after Finn, before she heads off to find a legend and become the first new Jedi in decades. Poe gives her half a grin across Finn’s unconscious body and promises to do so, manages to make her grin back, even to bark a laugh. So that’s something. Poe rather thinks that if they ever have time, he and Rey are likely to become good friends: she’s as good with droids and ships as Poe is, and she’s clearly pretty awesome, if Finn cares so much for her, if she cares so much for Finn. Something to look forward to.
Finn spends a worryingly long time in a coma. The med droids chase Poe out every night, and he retreats to his quarters and tries not to worry about Finn waking up – or dying, no, not thinking about that – while he’s not there. And in the mornings, he drills his pilots and checks over his ship and does his best to act normal until afternoon visiting hours. But every afternoon finds Poe at Finn’s bedside, asking the med droids anxiously if there has been any change. The droids answer patiently, every day, no, no change, but Finn is healing. It’s just going to take as much time as it takes.
One day the droid on duty says something different. “He is nearly healed from his injuries,” it tells Poe, who sucks in a harsh breath of excitement. “But we are still working on purging his bloodstream of a number of contaminants.”
“What sort of contaminants?” Poe asks, horrified.
“Some of them are not familiar to us,” the droid replies. “We think they are a variety of suppressants and conditioning drugs.”
“…Kriffing hell,” Poe says faintly. “All that, and he still managed to break free of their brainwashing? Shit, I knew he was something special, but…”
“Indeed,” the med droid agrees. “He will not wake today, but he is healing steadily.”
“Thanks,” Poe says, and sits down in what has definitely become his chair beside Finn’s bed. “Hey, buddy,” he adds quietly to Finn as the med droid rolls away. “So where were we yesterday? Right, I was telling you about my mom teaching me to fly…”
When Finn finally wakes up, Poe is there. Poe is reading to Finn from the X-Wing repair manual, in fact, because his ship is doing something a little weird when he turns too far left, and he wants to see if he can figure it out himself; he’s got one hand on the bed, clasped around Finn’s limp fingers, and is holding the manual on his knees with the other. It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, but he doesn’t want to let go of Finn long enough to go find a little table to put the manual on.
So when Finn’s fingers twitch in his, Poe flails and drops the manual on his own foot, ignoring the pain in favor of lurching to his feet to lean over the bed and beam down at Finn’s blessedly open eyes.
“Buddy!” Poe says. Finn blinks at him for a moment, and then, slowly, he grins. Poe feels his knees go weak. Wow. That’s a hell of a smile.
“Poe,” Finn says, quiet and delighted, like seeing Poe is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. “Hey.” He glances to one side, furrows his brow a little. “So…where am I?”
“Med bay,” Poe tells him quickly. “You were out for a while, buddy. I’m afraid your girl Rey has gone off to find Luke Skywalker, but she told me to look after you. We’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”
That earns him another broad, stunning smile, and then the med droid chases him out of the room so it can run tests on Finn, and Poe stumbles back to his quarters with what he suspects is a really stupid grin on his face.
He brings the jacket in with him the next day. He took it to be mended, back in the first few days after Finn was injured, and it’s very nearly as good as new. Finn lights up when Poe drapes it over his chest, raises one hand to stroke the soft leather and beams up at Poe. “I was hoping I hadn’t lost this,” he says.
“Nope, not lost,” Poe replies, sitting on the edge of the bed so Finn doesn’t have to crane to see him. “But you gotta promise not to go getting it mangled by any more lightsabers, buddy.”
“I’ll do my best,” Finn promises solemnly. Poe grins at him.
“Then the jacket’s safe,” he says, and Finn blinks and grins as Poe adds, “Your best is pretty damn good, buddy.”
The med droid kicks Poe out again a few minutes later, but not before he’s promised to help Finn with the physiotherapy needed to get the ex-Stormtrooper back on his feet. It’s the least Poe can do, after all.
Finn is worryingly unsteady the first day Poe brings him to the gym, wobbling along the wall with one hand on the bar and one on Poe’s shoulder, his steps uncertain and shaky. Poe coaches him along as calmly and encouragingly as he can, cheering when Finn makes it all the way from one corner to the next. Finn laughs at him, which is actually delightful. “I learned to walk a long time ago,” Finn points out, leaning against the wall and panting. “This is not a great achievement.”
“Buddy, you have been flat on a bed for a month with a gaping wound in your back,” Poe says. “Being alive is a great achievement. Walking is even more impressive.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Finn says, grinning.
The first week or so, Poe brings Finn right back to the med bay after their trip around the gym; getting Finn into the hoverchair is pretty easy when Finn basically collapses into it at the end of the circuit, panting and slightly grey with exertion. But after a week, Finn is walking steadily and confidently, and once they’ve finished their circuit – rather faster than the first try, and much more easily – Finn blinks at the sign that reads Showers and says, “I’d like to wash the sweat off before I lie down again.”
“Don’t the droids bathe you?” Poe asks, but he’s already leading Finn towards the showers, because at this point Poe would probably go kill a nexu if Finn said he wanted its heart.
“Yes, but it’s not the same,” Finn says, and Poe shrugs and helps Finn through the door into the changing rooms.
Finn apparently has no body modesty, because he starts stripping down as soon as he reaches a bench to lean against. Poe helps him with the shirt, because reaching up is not a thing that Finn has quite re-mastered, not with the new skin between his shoulderblades, but Finn manages to kick off his own loose pants, leaving them in a heap on the floor and starting towards the showers with a determined look in his eye.
Poe follows him, of course, because slippery floors and recuperating ex-Stormtroopers are a bad combination, and he is so busy watching Finn’s feet to make sure the other man doesn’t slip and fall that they’re well into the shower room before he looks up and oh kriffing hell.
Yep, Finn is naked. Wow, that’s a really nice ass. Poe pinches himself, hard. No ogling the beautiful, innocent, trusting ex-Stormtrooper who saved your life, Poe Dameron, he tells himself. That is not what you are here for. You are here to help him, not hump him.
Finn pauses near the middle of the room, apparently waiting for something; after a moment, he turns around, looking baffled. Poe carefully keeps his eyes on Finn’s face.
“Is the shower broken?” Finn asks.
“What?” Poe says, startled out of his own thoughts. “No – no, you just have to turn it on.”
“Oh!” says Finn. “On – back before, they came on automatically. I was wondering why you were still dressed.”
“Er,” says Poe, and leads Finn over to one of the shower control panels. “Here. You push this button, and then twist this dial to get the temperature right. See, hotter this way, colder this way.”
“Ooooh,” says Finn appreciatively. “How long before it shuts off?”
Poe blinks. “You push the button again to turn it off,” he says blankly.
“You can take as long as you want?” Finn asks, delighted. “This is wonderful!”
Poe grins, because Finn’s enthusiasm is frankly contagious. “Yeah, buddy, take your time,” he agrees. “Hang on to the bars, and yelp if you need me. I’ll go run your clothes through the cleaner.”
“Thanks!” Finn says, and Poe backs up, watching as Finn fiddles with the dial and yelps in delight at the sudden spray of water when he pushes the button. And oh hell: Finn, wet and naked and joyful, head tilted back into the spray, water running down his beautiful body in shining rivers…
Poe backs out of the room, slumps down on a bench, and whimpers. He wants to go right back in there and drop to his knees at Finn’s feet and take a good long look at Finn’s cock and then suck it until Finn’s already-shaky knees give out entirely. He wants to grab the soap and spend a couple of hours running his hands over every inch of Finn’s glorious skin. He wants to do all sorts of things which he is not going to do, damnit, because Finn is beautiful and innocent and Poe is not allowed to ruin him.
So Poe gets up and runs Finn’s clothing through the cleaner and tries very hard to ignore the fact that he is hard as a rock inside his loose pants. Nope, not thinking about it, not doing anything about it, not going to make Finn uncomfortable in any way. Nope. Nope. Kriffing hell.
The water shuts off just as the clothes are dry, and Poe plops them on a bench and grabs a towel and heads in, carefully keeping his eyes on Finn’s face and not on the gorgeous body so unselfconsciously on display. “Good?” he asks, and Finn beams.
“That was great!” he says. “The water was warm!”
Wow, the First Order are bastards, Poe thinks, not for the first time. “Brought you a towel,” he offers. “Need any help drying off?”
And oh, why did he have to say that? Because Finn nods, and turns, and says, “I don’t think I can get my back.” Which means that Poe has to step forward and – very gently, conscious of the tender new skin – pat Finn’s back dry. It is a very nice back, all clean lines, even allowing for the horrid lightsaber scar down the middle of it. It would look very nice against Poe’s sheets…nope, nope, not going there! Poe finishes drying it and steps away, handing Finn the towel as he turns back around, and tries not to watch as Finn dries his arms and chest and head and – shit, Finn can’t bend over, can he?
No, no he can’t, and he’s looking at his damp legs a little mournfully, so really there’s nothing for Poe to do but take the towel back and sink to his knees at Finn’s feet and try really really hard not to look at the absolutely gorgeous cock right in front of him. Which…goes about as well as you might expect, really. But Finn’s legs do get dry, and Poe doesn’t actually lean forward to see if Finn tastes as good as he looks, and Finn doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, so he’s going to count that as a complete win, thank you very much.
They get Finn dressed and back to the med bay somehow – Poe is rather in a daze, and not quite tracking properly – and the med droids descend on Finn en masse, so Poe makes his excuses and escapes back to his own quarters, where he locks the door, slumps back against it, and shoves his hand down inside his pants. Kriffing hell, this is going to kill him, isn’t it?
At dinner that night, Jessika looks Poe over and raises an eyebrow. “You feeling alright, Dameron?”
“Fine,” he says weakly. “Just…thinking about stuff.”
“Sure,” she says dubiously. “Let us know how that goes, yeah?”
“’Course,” Poe says, and flees.
Showers get a little easier as Finn’s range of motion returns, and after a week or so he doesn’t need any help drying his own back or legs. Which is still a week in which Poe manages to spend every evening with a hand down his own pants, whimpering at the remembered images of Finn’s glorious body, wet and shining and delectable. But he doesn’t actually do anything, or even let Finn know that his feelings are anything but platonic, so Poe is still counting that as a win, godsdamnit, because otherwise he may just have to curl up in a ball and despair.
Unfortunately, with the increased range of motion and steadily improving strength comes a new training regimen. Finn is quite insistent in his desire to regain the strength and agility he had before his injury, which means that Poe spends their hours in the gym watching a shirtless Finn lift ever-heavier weights and stretch his ever-stronger body in new and appealing ways. And Finn is already as strong as Poe is, judging by the weights he can lift, and as he improves, well, he’s just going to get stronger. In fact, Poe learns when he asks, at his peak form Finn should literally be able to bench-press Poe.
Oh kriffing hell. Poe has always rather liked being manhandled, and Finn has good hands anyway, broad palms and blunt dexterous fingers; thinking of those hands with that power behind them, of what Finn could do with that sort of strength in his arms and back, in those strong thighs that Poe has become rather too well acquainted with…
Poe helps Finn set up the machines, and cheers Finn on, and keeps Finn from overexerting himself, and then retreats back to his own quarters once Finn is back in the med bay and has to bite his knuckles when he comes to keep from screaming Finn’s name. Thankfully, Finn doesn’t notice the bite-marks. That would be…awkward.
After a month of physiotherapy, the med droids reluctantly agree that Finn is fit enough to leave the med bay. Poe pulls a couple of strings – not that they need to be pulled very hard, not for the hero who took down Starkiller’s shields – and gets Finn a room right next to his. Which is probably an awful idea, but Finn clearly likes being near Poe, and Poe really does enjoy Finn’s company – the other man is so cheerful, so wide-eyed with wonder at everything, so delightfully eager to learn – and it just makes sense for them to room next to each other when Poe is going to be showing Finn around the base anyway.
The fact that Poe has to go out and buy a strip of leather so that he has something safe to bite on and his moans will not be audible through the too-thin walls is a completely irrelevant problem.
So they move Finn’s things in – he has clothing, now, made to his measurements while he was unconscious, though his prized possession is still the battered leather jacket which used to be Poe’s – and then Poe suggests they go down to the mess hall together to meet some of Poe’s friends.
“Yeah!” says Finn enthusiastically. “You talk so much about them – they sound great!”
Poe grins. This can’t possibly go wrong.
Oh, wait, this is Poe’s life now. Everything can go wrong.
“You must be Finn!” Jessika says when she sees them. “Come and sit by me! Poe talks about you so much – finally got out of the med droids’ clutches, did you?”
Finn grins, sheepish and pleased, and tugs Poe over to sit next to him. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s good to see the rest of the base – I was beginning to think it was all med bay!”
Jessika laughs. Poe sees Finn watching the line of her throat, sees Jessika looking at Finn, and despairs. Of course Finn is interested in women. He’s probably waiting for Rey, come to think of it, probably pining, and Poe is just too oblivious to see it. Jessika makes a joke and puts a hand on Finn’s arm, and he grins at her, wide and friendly, and Poe’s dinner turns to ashes in his mouth. No, he should be happy about this. If Finn is happy, that’s a good thing. Jessika is a great person, Poe’s best friend; she’d be really good for Finn.
Kriffing hell, though. Poe can’t watch this. And yet if he leaves, Finn will think he’s done something wrong, or will follow him, and Poe’s not that selfish. He won’t be that selfish. No. No, he’s a better man than that. He will make himself a better man than that.
To Poe’s relief, Jessika does not invite Finn back to her room, and though Finn seems delighted to talk and laugh with the other pilots, he seems just as happy to get up when Poe does and trail him back to their rooms. “You have nice friends,” he tells Poe, who grins and agrees: when they’re not flirting with Finn, Poe’s pretty fond of them too.
“Knock if you need anything, buddy,” Poe tells Finn, and Finn nods happily.
“Thanks, Poe,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
That night, Poe sits himself down and thinks long and hard, and not very happily. It would be so easy to make Finn utterly dependent on him; easy, even, to seduce Finn, most likely. Finn would probably let Poe do anything he wanted to and with him, and, well, Poe knows he could make it good for Finn. None of Poe’s many bed-partners have ever had any complaints on that front. But Finn has worked so hard, has risked so much, to become his own man; if Poe ruins that by taking Finn’s choices away, then that would make Poe just as bad as all the First Order bastards who hurt Finn in the first place.
So no. Poe will let Finn make his own choices, and when Finn chooses Jessika, or Rey, or whoever, well, Poe’s gotten pretty good at jerking off, these last few weeks. Nobody ever died of unrequited lust.
A little voice in the back of his head that sounds annoyingly like BB-8 at his most knowing says, ‘Just lust?’ Poe ignores it. All the arguments against falling in love – there’s a war on, he’s going to die young, he’s probably crap at relationships that last longer than a night – they’re all still valid. He can’t be in love. It’s just…friendship. And lust. That’s all. That’s all he’ll let it be.
The next morning, he’s just got his pants on when there’s a knock on the door. He yanks it open to find Finn in the corridor, wearing nothing but sleep pants and a sheepish expression. Well, there’s a sight to wake up to.
“Sorry,” Finn says, “but they gave me all these clothes and I don’t know which ones to wear. Can you help?”
Ah. Hell. It is too early for this sort of temptation. “Of course,” Poe says, because he will never refuse to help Finn. “Show me what you’ve got, buddy.”
The Quartermaster apparently knew that Finn had nothing in his wardrobe to start with, because there is a slightly dizzying array of fabric spread out on Finn’s bed. “Right,” says Poe, picking up a pair of pants in a really abhorrent green and tossing them over by the door. “Send those back, they’re dreadful.” He glances over the rest of it, and reminds himself of his new vow. He’s not going to take Finn’s choices away, even in the matter of clothing – he’s not going to let himself dress Finn up like a doll. “The rest of the pants are pretty neutral – they’ll all go with any of the shirts,” he says. “Pick a shirt you like and go from there. You can’t go wrong.” He smiles encouragingly at Finn.
Finn considers the heap of clothes. “Okay,” he says slowly, “then I don’t want to wear white or black. Can I send them back to the Quartermaster, too?”
“Of course,” Poe says, snatching the offending garments off the bed and sending them to join the awful green pants.
Finn grins at him. “This one,” he says, picking up an orange shirt. “It’s the same color as BB-8.” He drops his sleep pants in favor of a pair of light beige trousers before Poe can get his wits together and turn around, and pulls the orange shirt on, then shrugs into the leather jacket. “How’s that?” he asks, turning and holding out his arms to display the first outfit he has ever chosen for himself.
“Looking good, buddy,” Poe says hoarsely. Behind him, BB-8 bleeps.
“What’s he saying?” Finn asks curiously.
Poe feels his ears go pink. Please let Finn not notice, he prays desperately. “He says you look like a matched set now.” A matched set belonging to Poe, specifically, but Poe’s not going to say that bit aloud. The shirt is Poe’s favorite shade of orange, though. There’s definitely an uncivilized part of him which is delighted that Finn is wearing Poe’s color, proclaiming his allegiance for all to see. Poe tries very hard to squash that thought, and also the one about how nice it would be to crowd Finn up against a wall and get his new shirt all rucked up and stain his new pants.
“Let me just go grab a shirt and we can go get breakfast,” he says instead, and Finn beams.
Their days fall into a new pattern. In the mornings, they eat breakfast together: Finn is an early riser, and laughs at Poe’s sleepy mumbling and bleary eyes, but also brings him hot drinks and sweet bread and lets Poe lean against his shoulder until Poe is fully awake. And Finn is beautiful when he laughs, so really Poe doesn’t mind at all.
Then Finn goes off to spend his morning telling the General or the techies or the strategists everything he can remember about the First Order and how they work, and Poe goes off to work on his ship or fly drills with his squadrons or study the tactics for an upcoming mission – you know, his actual job on this base, since General Leia does not keep him around just to make Finn smile. Unfortunately.
They meet again after lunch for a few hours in the gym, where Poe spots for Finn and doesn’t even bother trying to keep up with the steadily heavier weights Finn insists on using, because a fighter pilot doesn’t need to have muscles on top of muscles, and also Poe tries very hard not to ogle Finn while he is shirtless and sweaty, with mixed success. Then Finn’s still-healing back sends him back to his room for a nap, and Poe tinkers with BB-8 or catches up on paperwork or finishes whatever chores he’s been putting off longest. He wakes Finn for dinner, where Finn is made welcome by a different group every night, it sometimes seems. Many, many people flirt with Finn, but he never seems to notice, and Poe, tagging along behind Finn because Finn wants him there, wonders vaguely if Finn is waiting for Rey.
At least if Poe is going to lose Finn to someone, Rey is definitely spectacular enough that Poe won’t mind seeing Finn choose her. Well, not as much.
Poe flies three missions that month, one- or two-day jaunts, and each time he gets back, Finn is waiting in the hangar for him, beaming with relief and pride and joy. When Poe hops down from the cockpit, Finn hugs him – and Poe cannot bring himself to push away, as he probably should. Finn is so warm, so strong; Poe revels, guiltily, in the feeling of being in Finn’s arms. Those nights, he sits with Finn at their own little table and tells Finn about the missions over dinner, and lets himself monopolize the younger man: a reward for surviving, he tells himself. Surely a few nights a month are not too much to ask. This…this limbo is, can be, must be enough.
Poe goes with Finn to his weekly checkups, of course, because Poe has something of a stake in Finn’s well-being; but he waits outside the med bay, because Finn deserves his privacy. So he has no idea what might have happened the day Finn comes out looking oddly worried. Poe pulls his friend off to one side of the corridor, instantly apprehensive. “Everything okay, buddy? All good news?”
“Oh – yeah, everything’s fine,” Finn says, and he means it – Finn is a really bad liar – but there is still concern in the line of his brows. “Poe, can I ask you a favor?”
“Of course,” Poe says instantly, because he will never not agree to whatever Finn wants. “What is it?”
“The med droid said it’d help my back if I got a massage every few days,” Finn says. “D’you know anyone who’d be good at that, and who might be willing to help me out?”
Poe must temporarily lose his mind, because he holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers and winks at Finn. “I have magic hands, buddy,” he says. “Look no further for your massage-related needs!”
Finn grins. “Great!” he says. “Let me just go get some oil from the Quartermaster; meet you at my room in half an hour?”
“Sure,” Poe says, and claps Finn on the shoulder, and turns down the corridor to the private quarters. He gets to his room with twenty minutes to spare, and uses the time to lock himself in and sit on his bed with his head between his knees and try not to hyperventilate. Kriffing hell, why did he say he would do this? There are a dozen people on base who can give good massages! How is he supposed to put his hands all over a naked, oil-covered Finn and not instantly explode?
But he said he would, and he cannot bear the idea of disappointing Finn, so with three minutes to spare he grabs an old towel and wipes his sweating hands on the knees of his trousers and goes next door to face his fate. He’s going to do this right if it kills him. Finn deserves no less.
Finn, may all the little gods of Poe’s homeworld help him, is already shirtless, sitting on his bed with a holoreader in his hand. He looks up when Poe knocks on the doorframe and smiles like the sun: blinding and immeasurably hot and vital to Poe’s continued existence.
“Just – had to grab a towel,” Poe says hoarsely, holding it up as proof. “Didn’t want to get oil all over your bed.” He closes the door behind him, trying not to feel like he’s just been trapped.
“Oh, good thinking,” Finn says, putting the holoreader aside. “I’ve got the oil.”
“Great,” Poe says, and spreads the towel on the bed when Finn stands, then turns to find that Finn has stepped out of his trousers and is folding them, standing calmly naked in the center of the room. Poe almost swallows his tongue. He hasn’t seen Finn naked in nearly two months, and Finn’s daily workouts have made an already appealing body nothing short of glorious. Poe tries very hard to keep his gaze on Finn’s face, to not drop his eyes to see the sharp cut of muscle above Finn’s hipbones or the solid strength of his torso or – nope, nope, not going there. Kriffing hell, Poe is going to die of this. But before he does – for his sins, or possibly because he has amused some trickster god – he’s actually going to get to touch all that glorious skin.
“Poe? You okay?”
Poe remembers to breathe. “Yeah,” he says, takes another breath. “Yeah, just – swallowed down the wrong pipe, you know how it is. Don’t worry.” He gestures to the bed. “One therapeutic massage, coming right up!”
Finn claps Poe on the shoulder before he lies down, facedown, a vision of perfection. “Thanks, Poe,” he says, a little muffled by the pillow under his face.
“No problem,” Poe says faintly. Oh, hell: he’s going to have to straddle Finn’s hips in order to get any leverage at all. Okay. He can do this. He destroyed the Starkiller, he can give his best buddy a massage.
Finn’s skin is very warm against the insides of Poe’s thighs, and when Poe leans forward to put oily hands on Finn’s broad shoulders, Finn goes entirely pliable beneath him and makes an utterly delightful noise of pleasure. “Warm hands, nice,” he mumbles, and Poe can think of no response but to dig the heels of his palms into the muscle beneath them and begin the massage in earnest.
Finn is…in another context, Poe would have said ‘delightfully responsive.’ No, actually that’s a lie. He would have said, ‘You like that, baby? You sound so good for me. Gonna make you feel even better, sweetheart.’ But he’s keeping his lips firmly clamped together, and his hips held well away from the lush swell of Finn’s beautiful ass, and he is giving a kriffing therapeutic massage and not thinking about how easy it would be to use this oil for less therapeutic purposes. How slick Finn’s skin is under his hands, and how good it feels to be touching him like this. How easily this position could become far less innocent.
But Poe apparently has hitherto unsuspected reserves of self-control, rather to his own surprise, because he finishes the massage, pats a limp and contented Finn gently on his shoulder, says, “Don’t get up, buddy – I’ll get the lights,” and leaves Finn napping on the bed, turning out the lights and closing the door quietly as he leaves.
Then Poe slips into his own room, locks the door behind him, kicks off his far-too-constricting pants, and sinks down onto the bed with a muffled moan, wrapping still-slick fingers around his painfully hard cock. He fumbles on the bedside table for his leather strap and gets it between his teeth to muffle the moans he knows he’s not going to be able to suppress, then collapses backwards on the bed, one hand frantic on his cock, the other sliding, a little desperately and faster than is wise, further down until he can sink one slick finger deep inside himself and close his eyes and imagine that Finn is watching, that Finn’s blunt fingers will be replacing his own, that Finn – that Finn…
Poe comes with a muffled, desperate groan and flops limply back against his pillow. Kriffing hell. There is no way he can survive doing that again, and he’s promised to do it every few days in perpetuity. He’s going to die of lust.