Russa is a pilot. So is Fin. Fin and Russa are attached at the hip. Fin is the only one who's allowed to call Russa by her real name, May, a word from an old Alderaani language. Russa is the only one who's allowed to play with Fin's long, gold-threaded braids. Fin and Russa love each other very, very deeply.
The whole base knows this.
(May used to be Atlas—another Alderaani name—and Fin was called Finna when they were born. Neither of them like sex all that much—they're happier cuddling and talking. The two of them fled a beautiful planet when the Empire killed their parents, who were formerly of the AgriCorps. One of these facts is dangerous. The other two are just private; bits of themselves they hoard away, things they only allow each other in this terrifying world.)
The whole base knows that when news is brought of May, when Fin hears of May's capture and (apparent) betrayal of the Alliance, they say, “Fuck you, May, fuck you.”
(What no-one figures out—at least not then—is that Fin is the closest to fainting they've ever been in their life, and that if their skin wasn't dark brown, they'd be as pale as a very white sheet.)
On any other occasion, Fin would've felt a certain amount of trepidation approaching Commander Skywalker. They're a Jedi, for goodness sake,and years of the Empire's propaganda can't quite erase the fact that Fin's old enough to remember the Jedi before everything went to shit (exactly how old, neither Fin nor May have ever been able to figure out their ages, but old enough). And if that isn't enough, though it should be, then they're the one who blew up the fucking Death Star. For goodness sake.
Now, however, Fin doesn't care. “Commander Skywalker, how did you rescue Princess Leia from the Death Star?”
To their credit, they only look slightly startled at being ambushed in the middle of a corridor, and at the fact that the corridor's busy—they're only just setting up base at Hoth, and everything's a thousand times more difficult on this Makerforsaken field of ice. And even that surprise is gone in a moment; they level Fin with a knowing look. “You're going after Russa.”
Fin has the grace to blush.
Then Commander Skywalker smiles. “You have my blessings, then. I'll help you as much as I can, as long as you don't breathe a word to anyone else.”
Fin blinks. They'd expected this to be much harder—to all intents and purposes, May is a traitor—but grabbing opportunities is something they're good at, so, “I promise.”
“Promise on the life of your love?”
At Fin's shocked look, Commander Skywalker grins sheepishly. “Sorry, old Tatooine saying. I forget—” They cut themself off, and sighs. “Anyway, I was saying—I don't know much about rescue attempts, honestly—me and Han blundered our way to Leia, and then she took charge.”
“But still. You must know something.” They must. Fin knows they will.
“I suppose I can tell you what not to do,” Commander Skywalker offers. Then, “I'm sorry if this is too intrusive, but do you love her?”
“More than my own life,” Fin replies honestly. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I love her,” Commander Skywalker says instantly. “I love them both. Han and Leia. My life and my light.”
Despite themself, Fin smiles. (And damn. Their muscles ache. They can't remember how long it's been since they smiled.) A moment, then another intrusive question: “Do they know?”
“If they do,” Commander Skywalker says, and a sad smile flits about their mouth. “Neither of them are telling.” They shake their head abruptly, as if to dispel some thought. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“Rescue plans,” Fin prompts, and is gratified when Commander Skywalker immediately bursts into speech.
This is the Imperial fourth base, and Fin has officially decided they hate Stormtrooper armour. It's hot, and scratchy, and annoying. Also, May has obviously still not been found.
Commander Skywalker pulled a few strings (Fin makes a mental note to send them a nice thank-you gift once they get out of this mess), and managed to sneak Fin to a Stormtrooper base, get Fin the necessary armour. (The papers Fin had to do themself. Commander Skywalker is many things, but good with computers and data is not one of them.) It's been a long six months, and Fin feels like crying.
They can't, of course, they're on guard duty, outside cells they frustratingly couldn't get any records on, so they start singing. Softly. Very softly.
And then: “Fin.”
At first, Fin thinks it's their imagination. But then, louder, “Fin!”
“May.” Fin can't believe it. She's here. May is here. She's alive. And maybe not well, but alive. And Fin's going to go in there and hold her tight ri—no. Stop. They won't go charging in there. They aren't asinine.
“Hold on, May,” Fin tells her, as loud as they dare. “I'm coming to get you.” Then, “I love you.”
From the other side, in a weak, quiet voice, “I know.”
A couple of hours, and a plan or two later, Fin's standing in May's cell. And May—
Well, May looks...terrible. There's no other word for it, really; she's thin and haggard, hollows under her eyes, and curled on the ground, her right arm twisted at a what must be painful angle and attached to a cuff on the wall. When Fin approaches, she flinches.
“Hush, hush,” Fin murmurs soothingly. “It's me, love. It's Fin.”
They don't expect any results, not in the state May's in, but to their shock, May lifts her head, and says, very clearly, “Kill me.”
“I—” Fin stops. No. No no no no. That's all they can think as they crouch next to May. “I won't kill you, May. I won't.” They set to work on the restraint, and it's an electro-cuff, and the damn thing refuses to be broken, and May's still begging for death, and fuck, Fin has so little time before they're discovered—
Deep breaths. Fin stills their trembling hands before continuing to work on the cuff.
“Please.” And May's voice is hoarse and broken and ragged, but she lifts her head incrementally and looks straight at Fin with those beautiful grey eyes, and Fin's never been able to deny her. They aim their blaster gently—
And the Force speaks to them.
Both Fin and May are Force-sensitive, just a little bit, but—this is something else, and Fin knows, instinctively, that it'll never happen again, not to them. They angle their blaster, and tell May, “Hold still.”
A shot later, May's right hand ends just above her wrist. There are tears streaking down her face, and she cries and moans and whimpers all the way to the hangar, along the secret routes and not-so-secret-but-deserted routes Fin's memorized, and as Fin steals a craft from the Empire. The noises of pain and horror and fear only quite down after Fin makes the jump into hyperspace and sedates May to try to clean her up.
(“How did you know?” someone asks later, back at the base.
“Know what?” Finn asks.
“That the holos the Empire broadcast of May renouncing the Alliance were fake? That the spy was someone else?”
Fin shakes their head. “I didn't.”)
It's not a happily ever after. May takes a long time to recover from the torture, from the scars on her mind and soul. Fin almost dies a couple of time.
But after the Battle of Endor, they're down on the moon, celebrating (because they've won, they've won, the Emperor and Vader are both dead, and everyone knows the cleanup's going to be messy, but they've won), Fin and May (who'd seen the battle as a technician on Admiral Ackbar's crew) snuggle together by the fire.
Rebels are dancing and laughing amidst equally (if not more) joyful Ewoks. General Calrissian, General Madine, Admiral Ackbar, even Mon Mothma's here and celebrating, and fireworks light up the sky (and many skies across the galaxy, no doubt). Princess Leia and General Solo have Commander Skywalker nestled securely between them; Fin knows (hopes) that'll turn out all right.
May strokes patterns on Fin's cheek, and when Fin turns to her, she smiles, almost shy.
“You're beautiful,” Fin tells her.
May's hand—the prosthetic—rises to cup Fin's jaw. “I love you.”
And Fin tells her, “I know.”