Poe Dameron likes to pride himself on being fairly unflappable. Cool under pressure. Almost arrogant. You’ve got to be when you fly tin cans in outer space for a living—for however long that may be. It’s just the nature of the beast: a fighter pilot doesn’t have that long of a long lifespan. There’s no use in getting wound up over the things you can’t control. Yes, you’ll probably die well before your time. Maybe even while strapped to a chair while a twisted dark Jedi sifts through your memories with crooked, black-gloved fingers. Maybe even in the sands of—but there’s no use thinking about any of that, so Poe tries his best not to.
There are some things that wind Poe up that have almost nothing to do with flying, though. Well, maybe a little to do with flying, but only in the most euphemistic, metaphorical sense.
Finn. Finn makes Poe feel like he’s flying, and he can’t quite figure out how or why. Maybe it’s the way Finn looks at him, admiringly, as if Poe’s the sun and Finn’s a flower in search of nourishment. Poe can’t imagine why anyone would ever look at him like that, least of all someone as magnificent as Finn. But he does, and it makes Poe’s guts fizzy and light and sometimes when Poe gets a little too loose and giddy with it, he’ll grab Jessika around the waist in the hangar and spin her and dip her. She usually just laughs at him and pats him indulgently on the top of his helmet or rifle her fingers through his hair. He doesn’t mind.
Poe’s in the hangar with Jessika, helping her repair her damaged blaster cannon. She’d gotten nicked during their last mission, nothing too serious but it’d need to be fixed before General Organa gave her the all-clear.
“Wrench.” Poe holds out a hand and wiggles his fingers. He’s leaning over the wing of her bird, propped up on one elbow. Jessika is somewhere at his feet, elbows-deep in a bucket of tools.
“We’ve got company,” Jessika says, slapping the wrench in Poe’s outstretched hand. “I think he’s here for you.”
Poe lifts his head. Finn stands in front of Jessika’s X-Wing and stares up at it with a look of awe on his face. He curls his fingers in the cuffs of the leather jacket that once used to be Poe’s, mouth hanging open and slack. Poe wishes, not for the first time, that he could just hop down off the wing of Jessika’s bird and plant a big, wet kiss right on that mouth of Finn’s. But he doesn’t, because he’s got at least a modicum of self-restraint left, despite what Jessika or Snap would say.
And he doesn’t know how Finn would react, besides. Poe’s been meaning to broach the subject of this—hopefully not one-sided—connection. He just doesn't know how to bring it into conversation without seeming lecherous and desperate, though, so he doesn’t. He bides his time, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.
“Nice jacket,” Jessika calls out, admiringly. Then her tone lilts, almost singsongy, as she turns and gives Poe a wink. “It definitely suits you.”
Poe gamely fights off the urge to be petty and tackle her and mess up her braid.
The jacket does look better on Finn than it ever did on Poe, though, no disagreement there. Finn is broader in the shoulders, and the jacket drapes across his frame like it has always belonged to him. Like it had been specifically made for Finn and Poe had only been keeping it company until they found each other.
The thought runs through Poe’s veins, warm and lazy, like Corellian spiced rum, and he smiles. Then the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears flush with heat and Poe realizes, with a slowly creeping sense of horror, that he’s getting turned on by the thought of Finn in his jacket.
Finn, who’s managed to break it in like a pair of gloves and make it his own in a matter of weeks. Poe has no doubt if he slid his arms into the sleeves and tried to fit the jacket around his frame, it wouldn’t wear quite the same as it used to. He tries to ignore the barrel rolls his stomach does at that mental image.
“Are you okay?”
Poe traces his eyes along the collar and notices Finn’s wearing it turned down; Poe always used to wear it flipped up to protect his neck. He liked when the ends of his hair brushed against the collar for some reason, though if anyone asked he could never explain it.
“Poe,” and it’s then that Poe realizes both Finn and Jessika are staring at him, puzzled looks on their faces.
“Yeah. What?” Poe smiles at them, but it feels more like a grimace.
“You zoned out there a little,” Jessika says, cutting a shifty glance Finn’s way, for just a moment. Oh no, oh no, Poe thinks. “You guys should go get something to eat. I can finish the repairs myself.”
“I said I’d he—”
“Go on. Get out of here.” Jessika yanks the wrench out of Poe’s hand and gives him a shove toward Finn.
“I am pretty hungry,” Finn says.
Traitor, Poe thinks but doesn’t say.
They retire to Poe’s suite with a stash of food and drink, and Poe gives Finn his holopad to play with while he goes to whip them up a decent meal. Poe’s not quite the cook either his mother or father were, but he likes to think he fakes it well enough. And Finn’s certainly never complained about his cooking. It’s probably more the recipes than the cook, though.
Once Poe’s finished preparing lunch, he doles out two heaping servings and brings them over to his bunk. Finn’s sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest, still playing with the holopad. Poe rolls his eyes and sets Finn’s plate by his side.
“What’s got you so locked in you didn’t even notice this delicious, nutritional meal I prepared for you?” Poe teases.
Finn looks at him over the holopad. His eyes glint with mischief, and Poe’s stomach resumes its aerobatics. “I was watching one of those holodramas Jessika was telling me about—”
Oh no. “Oh no,” Poe says.
“Oh yes.” Finn beams. “Apparently the one she likes the best is about this fighter pilot and a prison guard. Bo and Jim?”
“Oh no,” Poe repeats, with feeling. He’d heard of that one. Jessika would never let him live it down. He tries not to think of it too much. Apparently it’s pretty popular on the base.
Finn laughs and grins and crinkles his nose adorably and Poe inwardly curses himself to the one hundredth generation.
“It’s really not that bad. I think they did a great service to the story. And it’s good propaganda for the Resistance,” Finn says matter-of-factly. “You see, Bo was being held prisoner on this remote island and Jim had to save him—”
“Yeah,” Poe says, slumping next to Finn on the bed in defeat. “I get the picture.”
“Yeah, so. Jim’s this prison guard but he doesn’t want to do that anymore. He hates what they do to the prisoners and he wants out, but he doesn’t know how. Then he sees this prisoner, that’d be Bo, and thinks maybe if he helps him escape they’ll both be able to… I dunno, start over new, somewhere else.”
“Does he? Help him escape, I mean,” Poe asks.
“Yeah, Jim busts him out and then Bo steals a starfighter and they end up crash landing on this other island in the middle of the ocean—”
“Ocean? Sounds much nicer than Jakku,” Poe interjects.
“Let me finish.” Finn jabs Poe in the side with his elbow, lifting the holopad so Poe can see. An image of the island pops up from the screen, and then it cuts to Bo and Jim, running hand-in-hand through the rain. “They end up stranded on the island and it’s really rainy there. Like, really rainy. We’re talking torrential downpours. Of course, Bo’s the only one properly dressed for the rain in his flight suit. I guess the prison guards didn’t think to take it off him, or something. We’re handwaving the plot holes.”
Poe sits there patiently and waits for him to continue, even though he knows exactly how this story goes.
“Bo takes off his flight suit and gives it to Jim and zips him up in it, and Jim takes it as this grand romantic expression or something, and they make out in the rain. It’s pretty romantic,” Finn says, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.
“That’s not how it went,” Poe argues petulantly. Because he would have remembered. And a little part of him is kind of resentful of Bo and Jim for having had grand romantic expressions that he and Finn have not.
“It’s…an artistic interpretation of events,” Finn says, setting the holopad down. He tugs at the collar of his jacket, knuckles grazing his jawline. “It doesn’t need to have happened in real life. It’s still true to…” Finn trails off, his voice growing quieter and quieter until Poe has to lean in to hear.
“Would you like it to, uh. Be less an artistic interpretation of events and more a reality?” Poe asks, feeling bold. There’s that pleasant heat again, skimming through his veins at lightspeed.
“What do you think, flyboy?” Finn reaches out and grips Poe by the collar of his shirt. He jerks him in close and Poe lands in Finn’s plate of untouched food. “I’ve been wondering when you were finally gonna catch on. Gotta do everything myself, looks like.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice.” Finn cuts him off, leaning in and grazing his lips over Poe’s.
“Notice what,” Poe asks, pressing a gentle little kiss to the corner of Finn’s mouth.
“How you reacted when you saw me in your jacket. How you always react,” Finn says.
“How did I react?” Poe asks.
Finn laughs. His breath is warm against Poe’s lips and sweet, like candy. “Like you wanted to do nothing in the world but get me out of it. It turned you on. Didn’t it?”
“Am I really that easy to read?” Poe kisses him again, still light and gentle. He won’t press or push for more unless Finn gives him permission.
“You’ve got bantha shit for brains, I swear to the stars,” Finn says, sounding fond. It sets something off in Poe’s chest, like fireworks or an exploding sun.
Poe grins against Finn’s mouth and moves to press another kiss to his lips, but Finn turns his head and Poe ends up dragging his mouth over Finn’s jawline. He pushes his face into Finn’s neck and breathes. The smell of old leather—layered with dust, exhaust, something sooty, and something unmistakably Finn—is strong, and it wraps around him like an embrace.
This is a very nice place to be, Poe thinks, as he kisses Finn’s neck and travels slowly downward. Very nice indeed.