Chapter Text
The base’s cantina is where, at any give point on a Friday night, you can find nearly all of the Resistance’s Starfighter Corp. Dagger, Stiletto, Cobalt and especially Black Squadron all operated under the age-old guise of: work hard, party harder.
Karé and Jessika insist you deserve a round or two on them after the bantha-shit you’d been dragged through all week; you’d been off your game ever since returning back from the Voss mission. Blame a certain Black Leader for that. You feel like you can’t go anywhere without –
“Look who it is!”
You try to avoid Poe’s gaze as you rendezvous with the other half of Black Squadron.
Snap Wexley greets Karé is a smile and a kiss. That riles a chorus of chirps and jeers from the squadron. You greet Oddy, L’ulo and Snap with quick knuckle bumps and high-fives (each personalized, of course), before offering Poe a curt nod from around Jessika.
He swigs his beer.
Awkward.
“Who are we toasting tonight?” Oddy chirps, eyes bright as he moves to toss a credit towards the bartender.
Jessika’s hand come down on your shoulders and she shakes you in good fun. “We’re getting Punchy messed up tonight.”
“No, c’mon –” you mumble, raising your hands, “I’ve had a shit week enough –”
“No,” it’s Karé this time, “No backing out, you agreed to get wild with us – girls night, remember?”
“Speaking of…” Snap leans, elbowing Poe in the ribs, “Look who just got here.”
You watch the exchange, eyes narrowing as you spot Poe’s brows dart upwards. The back door of the cantina swings open and through the dimly lit, crowded room, you see her.
Suralinda Javos is new.
From what you were able to gather from Snap and L’ulo, she’s retired New Republic Navy – she worked as a journalist for a bit and after a visit gone awry, Poe recruited her for the Resistance. There’s, apparently, a mixed history there. And that is cause enough for you todislike her.
God, you wish you could wipe that look off’s Poe face. She’s not even that great. Okay, fine, she’s beautiful. And tall. And lean and dangerous and cunning and…
You feel like a T-40 X-Wing, and she’s latest model when she walks in the room.
Not to mention the clash of personalities.
She was promoted to Crimson Squadron’s flight commander in the matter of a week, no doubt for word down the chain.
You are, by no means, by the book – but the Squamatan is chaos in the sky. You nearly throttled your helmet through your windshield after drills one day when you watched Poe leap from his cockpit, cheering and commending her and loving how reckless she was.
So, yeah, there’s maybe a little jealousy there. Reckless was your thing. And when you were reckless, Poe just… got all huffy and did his usual ‘kid’ routine.
“I could go for that round about now,” you deadpan, ignoring the way every pilot in the bar seems to gravitate to the teal-skinned Squamatan, “Anyone else?”
A gruff grunt. It’s Jessika. “Yep.”
“Count me in.”
Karé and Jessika had, really, been your saving grace post-Voss; they were kind enough to listen to you rant and rave – and eventually help you navigate yourself to the point of, yeah, you didn’t hate Poe. The self-exploration stopped there, though. Whatever this was happened to be a bit more complicated than not-hate. You couldn’t say you you were excited to admit that you didn’t hate Poe at all, quite the opposite, because having feelings for your flight-Commander is so not good.
So, you shut up and pull your big-girl flight suit up, because you were content on just beinggood with Poe.
No arguments, no side-hand comments, no butting-of-heads. You’d even smiled at him after drills; it was like the sweetest sucker punch in the world.
Until this week.
It was too good. And then Suralinda traipsed into it all.
Long story short, Jessika and Karé can’t stand her either. Which, honestly, is so not your vibe. You were very anti pitting-girls-against-girls because of shared interest in a man, but you’ve always been bullheaded and Jessika and Karé are good friends.
And, right now, beside the very gorgeous Suralinda, you’re thankful for good friends.
“Hey, you.”
You scoff at Poe’s greeting for the Crimson Leader. Suralinda offers a big smile, hand moving for his arm. “Hey!”
Jessika and Karé shoulder you, muscling you down the line and far from the interaction happening – all before leaning over the bar and gesturing for a round of shots. And that is pretty much how the night goes. Little by little, the Squadron joins you and the girls.
Poe and Suralinda continue their cosmic level flirting, and you settle on joking with the rest of Black Squadron.
You’re trying to stack shot glasses when a hand on your shoulder interrupts.
You turn, buzz spinning the room in the best way.
And there’s Gret Franz, Dagger Squadron’s offensive left-wing – tall, dark, handsome. His smile is lopsided and dangerous and you’re hooked; everyone knows Gret is a flirt, but suddenly you’re in the spotlight and you can’t get enough of it.
And Poe? Poe’s all set, thanks.
“What’s up with that?” Suralinda asks, brows quirked as she juts her chin to motion in your direction.
Poe’s entire face falls.
He hates how sweet your smile is then. It reminds him of the one you’d spared him on the space depot, all toothy and bright. Dimples dig into your cheeks and Poe watches as Gret Franz makes you laugh. Actually laugh. And makes half his squadron laugh, too.
“You like her,” Sura chirps, “Don’t you?”
Poe’s known Suralinda since his first year in the academy – and though L’ulo and Oddy like to tease, their friendship is only platonic; any romance was blasted out the airlock Poe’s second year when Suralinda shut him down hard and fast.
Poe, it’s not you, really, she’d said one night, seriously, I don’t swing that way.
Suralinda’s just trying to get an in to make moves on Jessika. All those risky flight maneuvers, all the lunches in the mess at Black Squadron’s table… and still, Jessika Pava is a little too busy being a good friend to even notice the advances.
Nothing ever works smoothly with Resistance Starfighters and romance. It’s just not how the gears roll.
“No,” he says it too fast. Sura rolls her eyes, “She’s… we’re just squad-mates.”
“Is that why you don’t like her?”
Yeah, duh, fraternization isn’t just a Navy rule. Poe says nothing, only moves from his post at the bar to shoulder his way down the line.
Something spikes a hot anger in his gut when Gret’s hands move to your lower back, leaning over you to press his chest to your back. The proximity stirs a jealousy in him that he tries to push away, but… he’s tipsy. And —
And Gret is a trash flight-leader.
Imagine your surprise when you’re suddenly not only the subject of Gret’s attention, but Poe’s – the curly haired commander arrives at your other side, nudging you and offering a slow smile. Gret notes the man by your side and sudden center of your attention.
Poe and Gret’s gazes connect.
At once, both of them blurt out:
“Let me buy you a drink.”
You have to do a double take. The Squadron behind you falls into a heavy silence at the sudden rivalry being created – you turn to look at them both, shifting from foot to foot then, eyes darting between the flight-leaders. You blink, mouth falling open as you try to find the right words to say.
The shots have your thoughts working slow, sticky like honey.
“Really –”
“No,” Poe laughs, “I insist, man –”
“I thought you were busy –” Gret chirps, “With Sura.”
“Sura and I –” Poe says with a tight smile, blinking up at the taller pilot, “… are just friends. So, why don’t you run along back to Dagger Squadron’s little corner and let me buy my Lieutenant a drink?”
The bar now, has their attention trained on the growing tension between the two men, voices stifled and eyes drawn. The bar seems to back up two paces, making room with the egos clashing.
“Oh,” it’s a sharp laugh, “Big talk coming from you.”
“From me? Yeah?”
“Last I checked,” Gret jabs, “You got laid out by your Lieutenant. Twice.”
Poe’s jaw clenches. You can see the anger there. He wets his lips, swallowing before turning his head to shoot Snap a look; for a second, you think maybe Poe’s going to back off. And then, brown eyes land on you.
“She’s got a mean hook.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Poe pokes the bear.
“Too bad she’s not into academy drop-outs, Gret.”
Then, you watch Gret, aforementioned New Republic Navy Academy dropout, land a hit on Poe. You’re, honestly, blown by it – mostly because starting fights was more your thing than it was Poe’s thing. Secondly, because the whole bar proceeds to erupt into a brawl, seemingly over the rivalry created in an instant over buying you a drink. Fittingly enough, though, when your brain and body decide to get it together through the haze of enough alcohol to knock a Tauntaun out, you’re the one that ends the fight.
“Enough!”
The shriek stills the bar as you pull Poe and Gret from each other. Black Squadron, in various ends of the cantina, cease their punching. The whole corp follows suite.
You swallow, hair wild as you try and catch your breath. Standing and squaring your shoulders, you speak slowly.
Your speech is slurred, face hot. You jam your finger into Poe’s chest, ignoring the split lip. You lean, staggering a bit.
“I… will buy myself a drink.”
And like that, it’s settled.
You buy yourself a drink. And Poe goes home with his ego (and his jaw) bruised.