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Peace Shall Thatch the Roof and Love Shall Latch the Door

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“Lieutenant FN-2187,” General Hux says. FN-2187 comes to attention in front of General Hux’s desk and salutes.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” he says, keeping his voice calm and emotionless with an effort. It’s never a good sign to be called in front of the General, but FN-2187 has no idea what he might have done. His squads have been models of orderliness and good discipline, his own marksmanship and strategy scores are among the highest on the ship, and there have been no infractions that he knows about for at least a standard month.

“You are being reassigned, Lieutenant FN-2187,” General Hux says. FN-2187 does not flinch, but he wants to. Reassigned? For what reason? Where to? Who will look after his ‘troopers? “We have arranged a peace treaty with the Resistance,” General Hux continues, his face puckering up like he’s just bitten a lemon, and FN-2187 gapes behind his helmet. A peace treaty? FN-2187 knew that the First Order was being driven back - that much, at least, trickles down to the ‘troopers - but for them to have signed a treaty, matters must be much worse than FN-2187 suspected.

“Under the terms of the treaty, relationship will be represented and sealed by a new relationship between a representative of our loyal troops and a representative of the Resistance’s forces,” General Hux says. The lemon is getting sourer. “You have been chosen to represent the First Order, Lieutenant FN-2187. I expect you to do so.”

“I will do my duty, sir!” FN-2187 says.

“Yes,” General Hux says, nodding. “That is why you have been chosen. Captain Phasma assures me you are the best of our young officers.” The lemon must be so bitter it hurts, FN-2187 thinks irreverently. “Therefore you are the best choice to demonstrate our sincerity.” He scowls. “You will marry the Resistance representative in one standard week.”

FN-2187 has never been so grateful for his helmet, because he cannot keep his jaw from dropping. Marry? He’s going to marry someone? How - who - what - what the kriffing hell is going on? But it is not a Stormtrooper’s place to say any of that, and General Hux looks like he’s said all he’s going to say on the matter. So FN-2187 salutes again, and says, “Sir, yes sir.”

There’s nothing else to say.


“I hate to ask this of you, Dameron,” General Organa says regretfully. “But you’re our best bet.”

Poe blinks down at the datapad in front of him, the terms of the peace treaty with the First Order right there in blue script. “You want me to marry a representative of the First Order.”

General Organa droops. “Please,” she says quietly. “I cannot and will not order you to do this. If I was not married, I would do it myself so that no one else would have to make this sacrifice. But if we have anyone who might be able to convince a representative of the First Order that we are not monsters - to make a true relationship with someone so alien to us - it’s you.”

“Kriffing hell, General,” Poe says, too shocked to watch his language. He stares down at the datapad for a while, at the phrase ‘representative of the loyal troops of the First Order,’ and his heart sinks. “At least tell me this isn’t going to be that absolute bastard Hux.”

“No,” General Organa says immediately. “None of the higher-ups at all, in fact. I set the limit we’d accept at Captain.”

“So it could still be Phasma,” Poe say, amused despite himself. “Well, that’d be an interesting wedding night. At least I’d have a good view during the dancing.”

General Organa puts a hand over her eyes and tries valiantly not to laugh. “See, this is why we need you, Dameron,” she says, once she’s gotten herself under control. “Can you think of anyone else who would be making jokes right now?”

“No,” Poe admits, and sighs. “I’ll do it, General. You knew I would.”

“I did,” General Organa says sadly. “Thank you, Commander Dameron.”

“You’re standing up for me, though,” Poe adds. “I expect you to walk me down the aisle.”

“If that’s what you want, you’ve got it,” General Organa says, nodding. “We owe you one for this.”

“I expect my own planet, one of these days,” Poe teases, and looks back down at the datapad. A representative of the loyal troops of the First Order. Oh, this is going to be bad.