Chapter Text
Your eyes scan the newly uploaded assignments on your datapad, and you heave a sigh. You fight the urge to roll your eyes but give up after only a couple moments, rolling them indulgently skyward.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like taking reports. Or that you weren’t good at it. It’s just taking Poe Dameron’s reports. Everything was a fight with that man whether you realized it or not. If you found yourself, Maker forbid, flirting with him, thinking somehow that was a win, you were really losing. The objective cost of defeat wasn’t that high if you were like some of the other women on base, who were just looking for a night’s pleasure to distract you from the war. But you? It just rubs you the wrong way.
He’s just so . . . flippant? And belligerent. He makes documenting every line of his report a battleground. He tries to bargain for each maneuver, each troop tally, each enemy placement. He always starts off his negotiations with a night “wearing nothing but the glow of the stars.” That always earns him an eyeroll. It’s cheesy even for him.
Inevitably, you will pry the entire report from him, formatted beautifully and precise within a millimeter of its life, and submit it to the databases for later analysis. It takes at least twice as long any of the rest of the squadrons’ reports. If he was especially feisty, sometimes twice as long as the rest of the reports combined. It’s exhausting. And baffling. What did he want out of this bizarre exchange except for your irritation?
You will take his report, and then he’ll go celebrate in the cantina with the rest of his pilot pals and drink and laugh and carry on, until he disappears with someone to a dark empty bunk.
These kinds of days were easily your worst. At least since you’ve been grounded. Most days sucked on the ground, cranking out reports and tactics and battle schematics, but when you were assigned to take field reports? It almost made you wish they’d shot your arm and not your leg.
You drag yourself to the debrief room, drop down in the swivel chair, and pull up the reports form. The first pilot took the chair opposite you, and you got to work.
Maker, you can hear him in the hallway. What in the galaxy is wrong with that man? He’s laughing and slapping backs, sounding like they’d just won the war. Which they hadn’t. Based on the rest of the reports in fact, three pilots and a supply station had been lost. You can feel each loss as if they had been from your own squadron. And they were still your own fighters in a way; everyone on this base is on the same team, same side. And each death weighs on your soul. When you’d been a pilot, it was always the hours after the fight that were the hardest. For newbies, the adrenaline and fear in the lead up to combat were the hardest to overcome. But as a veteran of fire fights, it was the long, empty hours with the ghosts of the past pressing in from all sides that was unbearable. You used to take long walks under the night sky with whatever light of the moons the base lay under guiding your steps and just breathe in the peace of the stillness. The weight of all the death built walls between most of the other pilots and you. It’s hard to laugh with someone, knowing it could be for the last time. How do you make friends like that?
In a way, the transfer was a gift in and of itself. The other techs didn’t fly into their own deaths every other day. So now, you have two friends. Probably. That feels good.
You hold tight to that feeling as Poe slaps the door release and leans against the frame like some suave holo model.
He’s smirking at you. And suddenly it’s too much, the build up, the back and forth, you just don’t have it in you.
“Please, Dameron.” You beg, “Can we just skip to the part where you give me your report, quick and easy?”
His smirk becomes a full blown grin, “What do I get in return?”
Your breath huffs out of you as you drop your head onto your crossed arms atop the table. “This is the part I want to skip, Dameron,” you mutter.
He saunters to the table, takes his seat, and places a hand on your upper arm in what you’re sure was meant to be a comforting gesture, but you flinch away anyways.
You straighten up and say, “Black One, please submit your report.” Maybe if you just force a professional, detached attitude, he’ll get the message.
“Come one, Red Three. Where’s the fun in that?” His voice softens slightly, so it doesn’t carry the same combative edge it usually does.
“Don’t call me that, Dameron. My leg hurts and I’m tired. I just want to file your kriffing report and retire to my bunk.”
“What about dinner? You should eat.” If you and he didn’t have such a long history of verbal sparring, this would almost be kind.
The way he so casually throws out your pilot designation, like it hadn’t been taken from you, like you were just another pilot, it’s maybe the most hurtful thing he’s said yet. And the more you try to forget it, the more it rings out in your head.
“Dank farrik, Dameron. It’s none of your business. Just . . . drop it.” You lean back, scrubbing your hands over your face.
His shoulders drop at your retreat, and some of the fight seems to drain out of him. He taps his fingers on the table.
“Okay, I’ll give you the report if you have dinner with me tonight.” He has resignation written all over his body posture.
If he wasn’t such a kriffing pain, you might have considered it. Where does he get off being so personal? Maker above. Instead, you push to your feet, favoring your left leg, and bring your palms down on the table. “Write the report yourself, you mudscuffer.” You slide the datapad to him with a flick of your hand, and make your way to the door.
“Hey, hey,” Poe Dameron shouts from his side of the table. “Don’t walk away from me.”
He’s at your side in an instant, and his sheer speed checks your progress. It’s been a while since you’ve trained with the other pilots, and it surprises you how used to the speed of base-life you’ve grown.
You whip back around to face him and snap, “I don’t want to do this foreplay. I told you that when you walked in here. You just can’t stop, can you? Do you even care about anything but the kriffing attention?”
His face is unreadable as you spit your venom. You watch as it spasms and half of you wants to stuff your words right back into your mouth and the other half is celebrating for having finally landed one with him.
You turn to hit the button for the door’s pneumatics, but he grabs your wrist. His grip isn’t hard but it’s firm, and it makes you stop. You feel a thrill of fear. Poe Dameron is the antithesis of violence on base. Even when training, he’s always a little gentler, a little more patient, then is required. But maybe you pushed too far this time. And it’s scary. But it’s the danger that also wakes up something in you. Something that makes you feel truly awake and alive for the first time in months.
You turn, his hand engulfing your wrist crossed diagonally in between the both of you. You rotate your hand, bringing the outside edge against his wrist. You jerk and break his grip.
His dark brown eyes were staring you down and made your stomach flip. In a moment of rashness, you raise your hands and give his chest a shove.
It’s maybe half the power you could bring to bear. You’re not really trying to hurt him, but it doesn’t even make him take a step back.
“Do that again,” he growls. He’s egging you on. You pause and take him in, his dark curls, cut short, sprinkled with gray, his scruff that’s bordering on a full blown beard, his parted lips giving away his short, panting breaths.
You think maybe his eyes are dilated, but his irises are so dark you can’t be sure.
You raise your hands and give him another push, this time full power. Dank ferrik, you need to get back on the training grounds, he’s only forced back a single step back this time.
There’s a glint in his eyes now, and you realize this is just another battle. And you are way in over your head and losing.
“Have dinner with me,” he demands.
You push him again. “No.”
“Two drinks.”
You force him back another step. “No.”
“One drink?”
“No!”
You realize you’re back at the table again. You growl back at him, “Fill out the report, Dameron.”
“No, you do it. But I won’t fight you for it.”
You give an exasperated huff and sit at the same time as Poe.
“Fine, Black One, what was your mission goal?”
He gives you every answer. No bargaining, no back and forth. It’s refreshing. You feel the adrenaline start to ebb as you get into the paperwork. The fatigue returns towards the end, as Poe Dameron describes the mission endgame. It’s been a long day and especially emotionally taxing. You let it wash over you, feeling your arm get heavy, your typing slow, your gaze dip and waver, your leg injury throb with your heartbeat.
You realize that you’ve been sitting in silence a while.
“Hey,” Poe murmured from across the table, “Stay with me, baby.”
Your head jerks up at the endearment and you squint your eyes at him accusingly.
“There she is,” he exclaims, slapping the table. “Let’s go get a drink!”
You shake your head, uploading the report and powering down the datapad. You reach the door, with Dameron lagging a few paces behind you and slap the door release.
The rest of the hallway to the left is just more multipurpose office rooms, terminating in a large conference room. Everything else, mess, bunks, refreshers, and docks, were to the right. So you both turn right and walk through three junctions. Poe Dameron keeps pace with your slower, uneven stride, before you perfunctorily turn right again towards the bunks and listen, satisfied, as his footsteps continue for a beat and then stutter. The sound comes to you, fainter and fainter as you keep your stride, headed away from him.
He calls your name, sounding genuinely surprised. “That’s not the way to the cantina,” he shouts.
“I know,” you call back. “But it’s the way to my bunk, Black One.”
You hear his exasperated sigh and could perfectly picture the look that would accompany it.
You hear his steps start up and again and relief washes through you, knowing that he was carrying on to the carousing that would spring up around him like he was some anachronist god of drink and merriment.
You’re almost at the door to the hub which houses your quarters, when you realize that his steps haven't grown fainter, but they’ve trailed you all the way down the hall. You hand hovers over the door keypad for the space of a few heartbeats before you turn back toward him and slump your shoulder against the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you call, watching him pace toward you. You can’t quite define the way that he’s slinking toward you, with aggression or intensity or something else entirely. It sends another thrill through you.
He finally stops once he is looming over you, looking down at you, eyes flashing.
He says lowly, “What about dinner?”
“What about it?” you throw back.
“Don’t you need to eat?” he pushes, leaning closer.
“I’m tired. I’ll eat later.” You shake your head, tired of the games. Tired of fighting him, of playing a game that only he knows the rules to.
Poe’s hand comes up but he seems to second guess the motion and drops it again. He stares at you, as if weighing your words.
“I’ll bring you something,” he offers, but he says it like you’ve got no choice.
“Maker, Dameron. We’re not friends, we barely even know each other! Just leave me alone, yeah?”
He huffs, “You really believe that, that we’re not friends?”
“Yeah, I do. Do you know anything about me?” You narrow your eyes at him, sure that he doesn’t even know your full name.
He pauses for a second, then says, “Alright, well, let’s become friends then.”
You groan and turn to stab at the keypad, making sure it closes behind you and stranding Dameron in the corridor. The hub is a dodecagonal central room with lockers and chests for belongings, and has doors to the bathrooms and eleven personal quarters. You gather your things from your room and cross to the refreshers, taking a long hot shower until your leg unknots and you can barely keep your eyes open standing up. Then you cross back through to your quarters. But something stops you. A smell. Something delightful. You turn and spy the plates of food on the chest stamped with your name.
Kriff.
Poe Dameron must have come back and left the food. But damn it all to Malachor if it didn’t smell delicious.
You scoop it up and while keeping the towel pinned closed on your chest, enter your bunk room. It’s barely bigger than a closet and holds not much more than the narrow bed. You set the plates on the bed carefully and shrug into the sleepclothes you pulled from your locker before the shower. You eat and fall asleep pleasantly full.
The next day you spend pouring over reports and data. Honestly, if you can’t fly, this is the next best thing. Numbers just . . . sing to you. They can obscure everything or reveal down to the minutest detail. They describe the infinite and infinitesimal. You sigh wistfully and remember from before the Rebellion. The plots you could course, the way that hyperspace and nebulas would unfold for you and your clever calculus. You’d grown up on a world affected by relativity, so you’d known more about space-time than most astrophysicists when you turned the age of majority. No surprise then when you’d found your way on board a ship and been taken completely by the mathematics required. Plenty of ships had onboard computers that could do the basics, but when it came to the serious stuff? Nebulas and gravity wells? Sometimes it needed a little finessing. And especially when an area wasn’t well charted.
So it’s a good day. Even better because you’d slept well and you get to spend the whole day doing something you love and are good at.
When you take a break for lunch, you find your two friends, Lu and Che holding a seat at the table for you. Lu pats you on the back as you drop into the seat to her left.
“Good to see you,” she smiles.
Che interjects, “Yeah, thanks for gracing us with your presence, Your Majesty.”
You snort and roll your eyes, tucking into a mix of food native to this planet and nutritionally complete protein goop.
“I’m so glad time changes none of us,” you reply aloofly, basking in the companionship.
Che had been the first person to offer a hand in friendship by making a quip about having the bad luck to take the one shot out of a million that a trooper actually makes.
Lu had slugged his shoulder and pulled you into a hug, and that had been that. Best friends. Their other friends had been welcoming but it just wasn’t the same as it was with Lu and Che.
You let their chatter wash over you as you idly rub your knee.
The last thing you expected was for Poe Dameron and two others to drop down into the seats on the other side of the table.
One of the newcomers jerked his chin at your knee, “What happened there?”
You give him a long look before replying, “I used to be a pilot like you, before I took a bolt to the knee. On Takodana.”
“Oh stars,” he laughs, “That’s crikking rough. You slow or just that bad at getting out of the way?” One thick hand slaps down in the center of your back, making the air whoosh out of you.
You hear over the coughing to clear your throat, Poe’s words. “Hey, Giruke, leave her alone.”
The other pilot, Giruke, snaps back, “What, you got dibs or something? I’m just being friendly.”
You see through your watering eyes, a spasm cross Poe’s face, before he forces a grin and replies, “I’m just trying to make sure we get to keep these coveted seats, you mudscuffer.” The punch he delivers to his shoulder is too hard to be entirely friendly however, and Giruke winces and flashes his teeth at Poe.
Did he shave? His jaw looks chiseled, and the fact that you’re even thinking this pisses you off. You don’t even want to think about what he would say if he knew you were mentally comparing him with classical art. His ego certainly didn’t need the help.
A table of six is a little much for you, and you eat so fast it hurts. You stand abruptly, and even Che looks at you askance. You just shake your head at them. You’ll make it up to them both later.
You make a beeline for the cafeteria doors, dumping your tray in the washerslot, and heading back to your station.
You just want to return to your numbers. To the simple enjoyment you were relishing earlier.
You do your best to settle in and regain that peace. You succeed for a while, cranking out analyses and compilations of supplies and enemy movements.
You hear a murmur grow in the hallway before you feel hands land lightly on your shoulders. You want to lean into the touch. It is so easy to become touch starved in the crush and stress of war, and the light warmth and pressure might be reassuring if it were Lu or Che behind you. But you know it isn’t.
“You need something, pilot?” you ask hoping to remind him that you are busy, and he should be too, just elsewhere and certainly not inside your personal bubble.
“Oh, I was just checking on my friend,” he says, and you can feel his breath as it ruffles the strands of hair on your head with the emphasis he puts on ‘friend.’
How are you supposed to answer that accusation? Instead you pull away from his touch and swivel around to face him, crossing your arms defensively.
It’s not often you feel bold enough to use silence as a weapon, to try to make your opponent uncomfortable enough to capitulate first.
He leans down and rests his hands on the arms of your chair and his eyes watch yours.
You come to feel the eyes of everyone on you both. You hate being a spectacle. You hate being a spectacle because of Poe Dameron even more.
And then you realize that this is a battle that you’re losing too.
“What, Dameron?” you snap.
“You left so early, I didn’t get a chance to ask if you liked my gift last night?” He winks at you, and you feel a flush build in your cheeks. The room fills with titters as everyone else at their stations bursts into whispered speculation.
You let your eyes travel up and down his body and smirk, “Disappointing and not to my taste.”
The room seems to take a collective gasp, sucking all the air out of the space.
That seems to land because his eyes narrow and he leans back.
“You owe me for that.”
“I don’t owe you anything. Now let me get back to work.”
The woman at the station next to you, leans over, like she’s somehow a part of this conversation, and says with a salacious look at Poe, “Now that’s not a very nice way to treat a friend.”
Poe Dameron doesn’t even glance at her, despite the fact that you’ve often admired her delicate features and shiny hair, and replies directly to you, “No, it’s not. But I’ll forgive you tonight at the cantina.”
You grit your teeth. You felt so on top of this conversation a few minutes ago, and now you’re just feeling flustered. Kriffing Dameron.
“I’ll have one drink with you if you swear to drop this whole thing,” you say, laying your offer on the table.
“Dinner, and I’ll only drop it if you genuinely don’t have a good time,” he counters.
You can feel each individual set of eyes on you, and you finally bite out, “Fine.” You can recognize when he’s dug his heels into an offer and won’t back down. No use making more of a fool of yourself in front of an audience.
You try to get back to work after he flashes you a grin and saunters back out into the hallway, but you can’t because the burn of attention and anticipation lingers under your skin.
Eventually you can’t take it anymore, and you jab at the buttons to shut down your station and pull your datapad free from it’s dock. You stick it in your pocket, duck your head, and take off.
You ponder whether you are in the mood to grab a caf, but you’re nauseous with the thoughts of tonight playing out.
You’d be making a meal into a battleground, and that just wasn’t something to look forward to. Eating, especially with your fellows, was a brief haven, a bubble of peace. A time to enjoy each other’s company and breathe.
You loved your time flying; the cockpit used to be your haven. Now that the ligaments and joints in your knee were damaged, it hurt too much to bend it to fit in the cramped space in front of the console. Your physical therapy regimen was promising, and there was hope that you wouldn’t need a mech replacement, but you were indefinitely grounded in the meantime.
The next best thing to flying or eating was wandering out in the secret hours in the middle of the night. But of course, it would be hours yet before the sun set.
You head for the nearest exit and run into Lu on the way out.
“Hey, what’s up? Are you taking your break outside?” she asks, clearly puzzled.
You fidget before explaining, “I just need to take a walk.” Lu continues to pin you with a look, so you eventually explain, “Dameron asked me to dinner. In the middle of my shift.”
Lu just stared for a moment before a dumbstruck expression settled over her features. “He . . . what? Yesterday at dinner was weird enough, but I don’t get why he’s being so pushy?”
“Yeah. I just wish he’d stop. I don’t know.” The truth was that you did know, or at least could guess why he kept at it. You’d flown in a lot of the same missions, including Takodana. He probably pitied you. You’d done what you’d done, and you’d made your choices, and you weren’t going to regret them now. You didn’t want his pity. But this hadn’t been anything you really wanted to share with Che and Lu. All the sadness and twisted up feelings you carried over what’d happened. It was easier to not go over it at all.
“Well, why don’t I come with you? The company will do us both some good.” This was your favorite thing about Lu, she makes the most gently insistent offers, relieving you from the stress of a refused invitation but also willing to accept a declination.
You shrug, and you and Lu set off for the egress portal. She occasionally breaks the comfortable silence with little pieces of gossip or commentary about the people on base or the forest they cut a path through. It’s a lovely way to while away the afternoon, and Lu doesn’t seem bothered by your burdened silence. Being with her eases the burden.
The look on Poe Dameron’s face was almost worth being late to dinner. It was the Basic dictionary definition of indignant.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks, as you and Lu stroll into the hallway that leads to the cafeteria. Poe had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He straightens up at the sight of you and Lu and throws his hands out.
Lu rolls her eyes at him, “Calm down, flyboy. We were just taking a walk outside.”
Dameron’s eyes snap to Lu before returning to you, “We had a date. I thought you were standing me up.”
You watch Dameron cautiously for a moment. He sounds genuinely hurt.
“I’m here, Dameron. Let’s go eat dinner.” You gesture for Lu to go on ahead, and she flashes you a look and a grin before heading off to eat with Che and friends.
You catch up to where Poe waits for you, and he reaches out a hand as though you are both in the habit of holding hands.
You panic and shove your hands in your pockets instead. You can feel his eyes on you, analyzing you, as you walk together into the cafeteria. He leads you to a small table tucked to the side that only has chairs for two.
You can feel a hush work its way around the room as clumps of Poe’s friends catch sight of him and then fall back into their seats.
You both sit. You fold your hands on the table. Then you knot them in your lap and then run your palms up and down your thighs.
He’s just looking at you. Maker, why is this so uncomfortable?
He just leans back and laces his fingers behind his head, “So how was your day?”
Ugh, what kind of question was that? “Uh, fine. Except for your little scene. It was good. H-How was yours?” Is this small talk? Okay, you hate small talk.
“It was pretty great. I oversaw some maintenance to my X-Wing, ran some drills, saw you, obviously, and now we’re having dinner,” he enthuses, clearly satisfied.
You nod. What a conversationalist you are.
After a beat, he lowers his arms and leans over the small table toward you. “Hey, are you alright? You look like you’ve sat on a porcuporg.”
You take a second to remember how to breathe before answering, “I don’t know how to do this.” You wave your hand in the space between the two of you.
“This? Have dinner?” he tilts his head, and you can’t tell if he’s being purposefully obtuse.
You hold out a finger. “First of all, flyboy, there’s no food in front of us, so this isn’t technically dinner. Secondly, I haven’t been ‘on a date,’ or whatever, pfft . . . probably since before the Rebellion. And this? This is weird. We haven’t had a conversation about anything other than reports . . . ever? I don’t know what you want from me, Dameron.”
He sighs and props his head on his hand. “You’re a tough one, you know that? Please, call me Poe. And if you’re gonna call me ‘flyboy,’ try not to roll your eyes everytime you say it.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “You’re really uncomfortable?”
You slump a little but reply, “Yes. Really.”
“Alright,” he says, straightening up. “Stay here.” He takes a couple strides away, but then returns. “Wait, did you really not like the food I left for you or were you just being stubborn?”
You stare at him for as long as it takes you to stop wondering how he gets his hair to look so tousled-chic. “I-it was fine. Um, yeah. Good.”
He squints his left eye, looking for your sarcasm, before deciding he was satisfied and walking away again.
It hits you that you could just get up and leave. Sure, he might know where you sleep, but it’s not like he’d burst into your hab unit, right?