Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s been three months since the destruction of Starkiller Base, since the Resistance relocated from D'Qar to a base reclaimed from the old Alliance network.

It’s been six weeks since Finn woke without any feeling in his legs. As if that could slow the man down.

“Is it true that Omegas sync up their cycles when they’re together?” Finn asks.

Slumped on his bed against the wall of his private quarters, Poe squints at his friend balancing on the tall wheels of his custom rehabilitative chair, the seat tipped back.

Finn is peering at Poe with that small pout of curiousity he gets when he's burrowing towards an answer too quickly for most people's comfort. Belatedly, Finn lowers the proffered ice pack and rights his chair. “Sorry, is that – is that not something people ask?”

“Nah, ‘s all right, buddy." Luckily, the days are long past when Poe Dameron sat awake at night worrying about decorum. He moulds the ice pack to the back of his neck, almost groaning in relief.

Finn had stepped so easily into stride with the Resistance that Poe sometimes forgets he was raised in a bubble of First Order knowledge and culture. It’s no surprise that the First Order rationed their stormtroopers on a diet of myth and misinformation, but Poe is still regularly surprised how far it extended. If it were anyone else asking, Poe would be offended. He never intended to let Finn’s re-education get so firsthand, but... it's Finn.

Finn who is his friend, who fell in the Beta majority of the heat-free, rut-proof population and showed no apparent interest in an Omega stumbling through the wracking pain of heat, except to ease their pain. He had almost run over Poe on the pilot's blind stumble to his room, refusing to leave.

"All right, all right; you sure you're all right? You've got this, the way's clear. It's no problem."

"Finn, I'm all right."

"Yeah, I know, I'm just... talking to myself."

If it had been anyone else.... Poe wonders if Finn's lack of interest is specific to himself or just a general trait of Finn's character. That is, Poe would wonder, if his body wasn't trying to split itself apart and his joints didn't feel so inflamed. His head throbs, he can barely remember his own name.

“Who told you that?” Poe asks. He doesn't know why he keeps talking. Why is he encouraging speech when it makes his head ring?

“Just something I heard. Jessika.” Finn shrugs, shaking his head in that tight quick way he did when he found the cracks in the wall worth studying.

Ha. That makes sense.

Poe closes his eyes with a smile. “The only time Pava’s being serious is when she’s talking about flying or Luke Skywalker.”

Poe can't begrudge his friend. Finn only means to interrogate everything the First Order taught their stormtroopers about the galaxy and its many peoples; he wants to set the record straight. Poe has and will continue to patiently answer each of his friend’s questions until he can defend himself against the heckling of Resistance flight squadrons.

Finn hums beside him, a warm and comfortable silence settling over their shoulders. BB-8 purrs idly in its powered down mode as it charges by the door. Poe has almost drifted to sleep, the bright, thud of his body-length pulse dulling to a tolerable ache when clothing rustles, and the gentlest, tinny creak of Finn’s chair strikes like a bolt between Poe’s eyes.

He grunts under his breath, wincing, and presses the tips of his free hand to ease the pressure on his temples, as Finn prompts, “So, it’s not true.”

“What?” Poe can barely think.

“Have you ever synced up with other Omegas? Or they synced up with you? Who syncs up with who? Is it an influence thing, whoever has the most influence, or is it about empathy? Like, if you’re the most empathetic, your body will just be… auto-synced to the majority?”

“Finn, buddy, you know I like you, but...." Poe’s hearing became a wall of sound after the second use of ‘sync’. A thought occurs to him. "You don't have Omegas in the First Order?"

"Stormtroopers were exclusively Betas. We're more predictable, level-headed. Malleable. Easier to train, you know."

Poe can't help but grin, looking at him from the corner of his eye. "Unless your name is 'Finn'."

"You know it." Finn returns the smile so easily, catching his hand in a loose version of their regular grip. It tightens the laugh that bubbles from Poe's chest. "Omegas were in a separate division, but not troopers. Rumours say a few were in leadership, but most First Order Commanders are Alpha."

"Okay, so... for whatever myths they told you about Omega heats in the First Order, this is reality.”

It isn't a lie, but while it isn't the whole truth, it's enough for today.

A contemplative silence beats as Finn appraises him sprawled on the bed. “Yeah, sounded like more fun in the stories."

Poe sighs and even that makes his ribs ache, his skull feel like it’s clenching. “It usually does."

The grip on his hand squeezes in sympathy before moving to the ice pack behind his neck. “You feel warm. I still want to take you to the infirmary. Or can I at least bring you something? There has to be medicine for this, right?” A light touch settles on his forehead, and Finn hisses, “Did you know you’re running a fever?”

Poe proudly considers it a testament to their friendship that Finn is both concerned and annoyed enough to berate him, that Finn has lingered at his bedside until an hour when most people would be sleeping.

But Poe doesn’t get the chance to remind Finn that he’s no prepubescent teen. Yes – he knows about the fever and took the standard regulation meds when his headache didn’t ease after the first six hours. His disorientation through scheduled patrols had coalesced into a low grade fever by yesterday evening. Normally these could pass on their own for Poe without incident or assistance. Normally, all he needed was a few pills, a longer rest and, at worst, isolation.

Poe hoped a lot more time would pass before his own biology would catch up with him, but three months is already three months overdue. He doesn’t know why his heat is so intense this time or why his body has skipped any of the usual benefits and sped him straight along to symptoms of penitent withdrawal.

Before yesterday, he hadn’t touched a single medication since waking from the drug-induced haze of interrogation on Starkiller Base. Shackled and gasping. He breaks away from that cold thought with a shiver at the soft beep of his door.

He has a visitor.

“I can tell them to come back later,” Finn whispers, of course now he whispers.

“It’s all right,” Poe grunts, pulling himself gingerly and ever so slowly to his feet, “They wouldn’t knock if it wasn’t important.”

He doesn’t hesitate leaning on Finn when the other man braces him to stand. The wheels of Finn’s chair silently roll the short distance to the door, and the pale white light of the residential corridors brings a fresh, cool breeze of recycled air into the room. From a service chamber down the hall, generators thrum through the relative quiet of the early morning like the heartbeat of a slow and lazing beast.

Jessika Pava is dressed for casual patrol, orange jumpsuit knotted at her waist. She takes one look at Poe and the diffident air she had prepared evaporates. “Wow. You look awful.” She blinks for a moment, spotting Finn at his back, and her smile is apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she says, addressing the both of them, “I know it’s very late, but the General has asked to see you, Poe.”

Something positively splinters in Poe’s brain when his pulse kicks up a notch. He hears BB-8 whir to wakefulness as Finn’s wheels bump the astromech droid, but Poe’s mind is flashing through the route of long corridors and three flights of stairs between him and the command center –

“She’s in her quarters,” Jessika adds, and Poe sags in relief because that is a mere stagger and corner’s walk away.

“Thanks, Jessika,” Poe murmurs, already moving, and tries not to feel his way out of his room as though he’s blind. “Did she say why?”

“Not to me. I know you’re on med leave, but she wouldn’t have summoned you if it wasn’t important.”

And Jessika may be a hard ass, but she is still a human being. She startles, reaching for Poe when his hand misses the wall and he overbalances, almost tipping to the floor. “Oh my— Poe!“

“Hey!” Finn catches his arm first, stopping his fall. Somewhere in the background, BB-8 whirs in alarm. A moment later, a blur of yellow and white rolls into his vision, and BB-8’s dark scope peers up into his face.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Poe motions without thinking too hard about who he’s addressing. He feels drunk, and why won’t his feet just cooperate. “Thanks, Pava. I’ve got it from here.”

“O-okay." And although the frown in her tone declares Poe is clearly not okay, she doesn’t appear to follow them as they make the careful journey to General Organa’s private quarters. Poe isn’t sure. He doesn’t look back to check, hand clenched on the seat back of Finn’s wheelchair.

“But afterward, we are definitely getting you something for… this,” Finn says, and Poe opens his eyes long enough to see his friend gesture to all of Poe, lips thinned in disapproval. When had Poe closed his eyes? BB-8 chirps on Poe’s other side, peering around at Finn, who nods vehemently. “You said it, BB-8. You're a Commander, Poe. This is just irresponsible.”

Poe almost manages a smile. “That is not what it said.”

“Reckless!”

Well, if Finn is going to be this way. “Don’t forget handsome.”

“Jessika was right: you look awful right now.”

“That isn’t possible.”

Thankfully, they round the corner, Finn considerably slower on the turn as he carefully maneuvers the wheels of his chair without dislodging Poe or running over his foot, something which happened more often than Poe thought was reasonably accidental. Poe is softly amused that BB-8 rolls ahead to activate the doorbell inset within the ground.

"Gentlemen." General Leia Organa frowns when she sees them.

Poe obediently follows her gesture to enter. Their quarters are almost identical. Beside the door, a thin desk is scattered in data pads, crumpled clothing, and small storage crates. A narrow bed lies neatly made in the opposite corner. There are no overtly personal belongings, no holo images taking pride of place at her bedside table. Who could blame her?

Poe's knees are so weak he's shaking, sweat beading heavily on his forehead. He can feel sweat roll down the ridge of his spine and tries not to think about what he must smell like right now. At her nod of direction, Poe sinks gratefully into one of the seats by Leia’s desk.

A light fragrance lingers in the air, curbing the hypersensitivity of his senses. It makes him think of the rainforests on Yavin-4, the comforting scent that bloomed from the golden boughs of that precious tree in his parents’ backyard after a heavy summer rain.

I’m going to be a pilot someday.

“How long has he been like this?” But Leia is looking to Finn, not Poe.

“He refuses to go to the infirmary,” Finn says, steepling his fingers with a pursed look that is just a little too vindictive in gleeful judgment.

Poe only manages to frown at him because then the General is peering down at him, troubled. She tests the warmth of Poe’s throat with the back of her hand. He inhales sharply, raising his chin on instinct to bare his throat when the General presses fingertips to his pulse. Leia’s curse is quiet; it always makes him worry when she’s quiet. “Dameron, you know better. Your pulse and temperature are dangerously high. This can wait. We need to get him to the infirmary. I’ll call for a gurney.”

///

The dappling wash of sunlight blears in and out of focus through the thick foliage under his parents’ tree. Resting his head by the trunk on its gnarled roots, the humidity of Yavin-4's late summer settles like a shroud on Poe’s skin. It is sticky and he is uncomfortable, but he sucks in a deep breath of gratitude for the stillness in his bones. Grasping a short fistful of grass, sunlight abruptly sharpens into the strobes of the infirmary, harried voices spill in like the rush of water, BB-8 blaring righteously in the background, and Rey is perched at Poe’s shoulder on the gurney where his parents’ tree should be.

The world falls back the moment her hand rests on his forehead, and Poe gasps in relief.

Rey wears a gentle, worried frown, tilting her head in wonder as her thumb strokes over the ridge of his brow. Her words are a muted breath, "How is he doing this?"

Poe should understand, the answer lingers like static crackling at his fingertips, but the gentle thread of Rey's fingers in his hair draws his eyes closed, combing back the licks of his sweat-matted fringe. He enjoys the gentle scrape of her fingers along his scalp, the slow and careful way she disentangles his short hair with the tug and push of knuckles. Poe feels like he’s floating, and he wonders if she had anyone to do this for on Jakku.

“You’re going to be fine,” she promises.

“Of course I am,” Poe mutters, opening his eyes again. His world gratefully narrows to the cool press of her hand on his forehead. Could that be a Force thing? Is that an abuse of the Force? Poe is not complaining.

“Of course you are.” Rey smiles in answer, gleaming and pure, but it slips too quickly before reaching her eyes.

“When did you get back?”

Rey's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Soon.” Poe frowns, then startles at the hulking shadow that he hadn't noticed looming at Rey’s shoulder. Pale light gleams on the chrome brow of that unmistakable helmet. When Kylo Ren activates his lightsabre, red shadows crackle in Rey’s profile, and her expression is beseeching, eyes wide and dark. “I promise.”

He can hear BB-8 beeping somewhere far away, a plaintive burst of the same pattern over and over in rising panic, and oh, BB-8 is calling his name --

“--Poe!” Finn shakes his shoulder.

And Poe wakes with a gasp, his heart pounding. Finn’s eyes are wide, hands pinning Poe to the gurney.

“Where's... where is--?”

“Whoa, Poe, bring it down. You're all right, you're in the infirmary," Finn says, turning in his chair, "Doc!"

Poe grasps for Finn's arm. “Rey, is she--?”

Is she here? The ghost of the dream lingers with the tug of her fingers in Poe’s hair, sharp as a memory for something they had never done. Pushing up onto his elbows, his arms feel like rubber. Poe scans the infirmary expecting to see Rey there. His chest loosens when he fails to find Kylo Ren lurking in any dark corners.

A curt word draws Poe's attention to the wide yawn of the infirmary entrance where the General is ordering an indignant BB-8 to wait outside. Behind Finn, a pair of med-droids glance up from a console where Doctor Kalonia studies the monitors on the curved console of steel, arms folded before her. Doctor Kalonia brushes past her droid colleagues, the air about her an unhurried calm. Poe is grateful for her reassuring presence. The terse pinch of her thoughts soften as she stops by Poe's bedside.

"Commander. Welcome back."

"Major," Poe sighs, nodding in acknowledgment. "I'm sorry, this... this never happens to me."

Kalonia blinks at him in polite disbelief. "You're thirty-two years old, and you've never experienced a heat before, Commander?"

"What - no," Poe can feel his cheeks warm, and then hesitates because if he's cooled down enough to feel that -- he feels his face and the back of his neck. He's still warmer than usual, but he's no longer burning in his skin, his head is almost clear, he feels... almost normal. "It's just never been that bad before. I thought rest would cure it."

Kalonia nods, leaning forward to check his responsiveness to light, before her light fingers measure the pulse at his wrist. She runs a hand-held scanner over the length of Poe's body, glancing to a monitor beside his bed where his heart rate, blood pressure and temperature flicker among other details Poe doesn't understand.

"You had a high grade fever, your body was bordering on severe dehydration, and... when did you start?"

"Yesterday," Poe says.

"Last night," Finn says at the same time, pushing a tall cup of water with a straw into his hand, and Poe finally notices the hydration packs also hanging by his bedside ending with the needle in his arm.

Kalonia's attention lingers on Finn as the General rejoins them in that moment. BB-8 rolls in at a respectable distance on her heels, apparently succeeding in fighting its ejection from the infirmary. Poe hopes the General doesn't notice how much difficulty he has swallowing to force moisture down his throat.

"About eighteen hundred hours," Poe says, and Kalonia nods thoughtfully, mouth quirking as she flits through the mental arithmetic.

"So your body has been in a high state of stress for thirty-two hours. No wonder you almost had a fit."

Poe stares. "What?"

"You almost had a seizure!" Finn accuses, like Poe had taken the last ration that didn't belong to him. Frankly, it startles Poe. Finn looks like he wants to hit him. "I told you we should have come to the infirmary sooner."

At his side, BB-8 beeps affirmatively with a special note of indignation Poe didn't used to hear so much before Finn started spending time (all day, every day) with them.

Poe doesn't understand. "But... I took my meds. They've always worked. It should have been fine."

"When was your last heat, Commander?" Kalonia asks, pulling the monitor towards her.

"Should we...." Leia gently interrupts, meeting Poe's eye, she glances meaningfully to Finn.

Poe shakes his head. There's no point. "He's fine. He can stay. It's late, Major. Four months."

Something about saying the word 'late' makes him tense, and he rolls the straw of his now empty cup between his teeth.

For her part, Kalonia nods, betraying no special note of alarm or interest as she updates the information on Poe's record. "And has that happened before?"

"No." Poe's throat is tight.

Finn leans across the bed, eyes wide and earnest. He takes Poe's hand between his. "Are you pregnant?"

"What?" Leia and Poe's chorus is underscored by BB-8's whoop of alarm.

Ears ringing, Poe is stunned for words. It might be a lifetime first. He feels delirious, he wants to laugh. Finn, you cannot just--

Leia, ever the diplomat, slowly takes hold of Finn's shoulder. "Some subjects in life require a lighter touch, my friend."

Finn glances between Poe and the General, waving madly as though he could clear the air of his mistake. His other hand still clutches to Poe. "No, I'm -- I'm sorry, you're right. But, you know, I just thought -- you said you were late, and --"

"I am not pregnant!" Poe doesn’t mean to sound so hysterical, he could have tried a little harder. Kalonia's clinical stoicism finally cracks with a snorted laugh, her shoulders shaking, drawing Poe's horror. No. No, no, no. With everything he has, he wills it to be true. "I'm not pregnant."

The good doctor collects herself, shaking her head once. "No, Commander, you are not. I apologise."

The collective sigh of relief is felt most keenly by Poe. The General steadies herself, reaching for the back of Finn's chair. Poe doesn't know why she looks like she's dodged a blast.

"There are plenty of reasons why a session could be delayed. The body copes with stress... and trauma in a host of ways," Kalonia glances meaningfully from Poe to the General, and clasps her hands behind her back at ease. "The source of the problem could be physiological or psychological. We can perform more tests in the morning, but for now the best thing you can do for yourself is to rest here, Commander. We'll manage your symptoms."

"Can we have the room, please?" Leia asks, but when the General asks, it is not a request.

Kalonia bows her head and rejoins her med-droids at the far end of the infirmary. Finn nods at BB-8 and pulls his hand from Poe's, leaving his fingers tingling.

"C'mon, BB-8. Teach me the binary for 'help'."

"Finn," Poe calls after him, nodding when his friend twists round in his chair, "Thanks, man."

Finn grins, and it lights up his whole face, striking through the lingering fog of Poe's fever dream. "I got your back, Dameron."

BB-8 beeps as they roll away together, inquiring why Finn would expect BB-8 to call for help when it was perfectly self-sufficient, and Poe can already hear them arguing, "No, see, that's too long, it has to be shorter than that: help. We need a shorthand, work with me, man."

Once they're alone, the General draws herself up with a slow, long breath like she's rallying her strength. Her hands clasp behind her back, and in the beat of her hesitation, Poe knows what she's going to say.

He says it for her, "Starkiller Base."

Leia's eyes narrow at him, but it is not chastising. "Are you sure you've told me everything?"

"Yes, Sir. But I've been tortured before, I don't know why--" Poe stops at her flinch, it's so subtle, just a twitch at the corner of her eye. She doesn't look away, but her lips thin, expression hardening, and Poe elects to skip ahead. "This has never happened before. But it will pass. I'll be back in the skies before you can stop me. I'm feeling better already."

Leia searches his face, and the thin line of her mouth parts in a soft gasp when she finally looks away. "I hope you wouldn't withhold anything on simple account of bloodlines, Commander."

But it's not simple, he wants to say. He's only your son, after all.

The General never says the name 'Kylo Ren' unless they're debriefing in public. Not that she deigns call him 'Ben Solo', either, but... the General barely speaks of the man who tortured her best pilot, their newest Jedi, and put the First Order defector in a wheelchair. Kylo Ren is not discussed, but he is the afterthought of every briefing, the cloak Poe imagines when the shadows grow long around the base and the hour is late.

"I wouldn't, General," he says. "I trust you with my life. And the lives of everyone in this base."

The air tremors through Leia when she draws her shoulders back, and Poe does not mention the building tears in her eyes. Instead, he smiles.

"Earlier, Pava said you needed to see me."

"Yes," Leia clears her throat, and she makes an aborted gesture as though beckoning someone over. “Our intelligence returned reports of what could be the Knights of Ren amassing in the neighbouring Dagobah system. If the analysts are correct, that’s too close for comfort, but it’s an opportunity we can’t overlook. Starkiller Base was a major loss for the First Order. They’re licking their wounds and so are we, but... we've no reason to believe they've detected our new location; we may have the initiative.”

Poe had straightened as soon as she said 'Knights of Ren', pushing himself to the bed's edge. “General, I’ll be ready—“

“I want Captain Kun and a skeleton crew of the Stiletto Squadron to cover this one. It’s just reconnaissance for now. If we turn to assault, we’ll need you clear and focused. Besides, Kalonia would never let you leave this infirmary." Leia smiles, it's small, but it crinkles her eyes. She squeezes his wrist gently. "Rest. Get your strength back, Commander. It happens to the best of us."

As though an Alpha like the General could have any idea. Poe chuckles under his breath when she leaves, wondering at the soft jest. Leia brushes Finn's shoulder in farewell, and Poe feels his smile slip, thoughts turning to Rey as Finn cracks some joke at BB-8's expense, laughing at the droid's burbling spike of noise. Finn has such a bright laugh, so joyful and untroubled. It's not the laugh Poe would ever expect from a stormtrooper.

He sags back against his pillows remembering Rey and the shadow of Kylo Ren over her shoulder. Should he have said something? But Poe was no Jedi. It was just a bad dream. It doesn't stop his stomach from twisting as his eyelids close under the weight of his exhaustion. They hadn't heard from Rey, Chewbacca or R2-D2 in over a month.

Where are you, Rey?

(Soon. I promise.)

Chapter Text

It’s an hour before sunrise when they gather to send off the Stiletto Squadron. The affair is sombre, and the evening’s damp chill lingers on the shoulders of the clustered few. The Resistance has never boasted a fleet of pilots, but Poe’s heart kicks in his chest looking around the thin circle of faces who remain after the campaign on Starkiller Base.

If Captain Karé Kun feels the weight of her new commission, Poe does not see it in her face. Poe has always trusted Karé’s laser focus on the mission, her commitment to the Republic and its ideals of liberty. When the First Order’s breach of the treaties became apparent, it was little surprise that Karé took the same opportunity to join the Resistance. Poe is more grateful than his words will express that his friend is here to share the leadership of pilots.

Before the small crowd that has gathered in the arch of the hangar bay doors, Karé reaches into a tall barrel of dog tags. There is one for every pilot, every soldier, and every civilian who has passed during their service to the Resistance. If they had a permanent base of operations, it might have been a wall of remembrance. They have no such luxury, and so their monument for the fallen is testament of General Organa’s pragmatism – a recycled fuel drum two-thirds full to the brim of memories.

They have no such barrel for the victims of the Hosnian massacre.

In solidarity with every Resistance pilot on every campaign before her, Karé raises a fistful of steel stamped with names, eyes hard. Her helmet is tucked under her free arm and her words are a low snarl of an order. “I don’t want any more names going in this barrel.”

“Not today, Captain,” says Jessika, at Karé’s left flank. Jessika is already suited in her flight orange, the helmet under her arm sporting the black spikes of Karé’s Stiletto Squadron.

Stiletto for a day. Poe is proud of Jessika, for the way she stands with her shoulders drawn back and ready to serve, caution still alight in her eyes. That’s what will bring her home: Jessika isn’t looking to be a hero. The Resistance doesn’t need stand-alone heroes, and Karé won’t tolerate it.

“May the fallen guard our wings,” Karé says, and the dog tags are released like a rain of coins.

Once upon a time, their send-off would have concluded with another sort of remark. But that was another age, when the memories of an Older Republic and its Jedi peacekeepers were still fresh in the minds of its leaders. Now, the only references these soldiers have for the Force are a murderer with a dark mask and a long cape, a generation of slaughtered youth, and an old man infused with myth and hope who refuses to be found.

General Leia Organa does not say May the Force be with you. She inclines her head in gratitude. “Be safe, Captain.”

Finn wears a soft look of wonder and confusion, glancing between the General and Karé. That drum kicks in Poe’s chest again, and he wonders if Finn has ever seen an Alpha who so rarely shows her teeth; whose strength was quiet and inexorable, like the tides of the sea; commanding through compassion, and not fear. He wants to hold Finn’s shoulder, and not just because he’s sweating exhaustion through his fresh change of clothes and can barely stand.

Watching Finn is like being introduced to the world a second time over, and re-learning all the reasons to love it – to protect it. Watching Finn fall in love with the world is mission-affirming.

Even when Finn starts frowning at him. “Are you okay?” His voice is hushed, mindful of the heavy moment they’re witnessing. “You’re staring at me. Do you need to lean on my chair?”

The sigh rushes out of Poe in a smile, “I’m all right, buddy.” And he does take the opportunity to squeeze Finn’s shoulder, the impulse curls through him so naturally, but he moves his weight to the back of Finn’s chair, he won't overstay his welcome.

“Thank you, General,” Karé is saying, and bows her head. The General does not like to be saluted. “We’ll report back within fourteen hours.”

“At the first sign of trouble, you come home. Do not engage. Good luck,” Leia says, and the mission is on.

A murmur rises in the gathering with the formalities concluded, and people pass the two pilots with words for safe journeys as they return to their own duties.

“We should get you back to the infirmary,” Finn says, but Poe is watching Karé and Jessika share a quiet moment over the barrel of remembrance, Jessika reaching in with a soft sound of disturbed steel. When Snap emerges from the small crowd, Karé flinches at the hand he wraps around her shoulder.

“Just a minute,” Poe frowns, recognising the cold fire building in Karé’s eyes. Now, what could that be about?

“Don’t be jealous, Snap, the Captain just wanted the best recon and she knew who it was,” Poe hears Jessika tease, once he’s within range.

“I’m not—“ Temmin ‘Snap’ Wexley twists his mouth shut and looks for all the world like he regrets opening it in the first place, but he tries again. “I just wanted to say… good luck.”

“It’s been said.” Karé looks sharply to Jessika. “Pilot.” And she marches off without a further word or glance to see Jessika throw up the good-natured salute to her fellow squadron before they disappear around the body of an X-Wing under maintenance.

Snap sighs, hands leaning on his waist. He quirks a humourless smile at Poe’s look of question.

“What was that about?” Poe asks gently. To his memory, Karé and Snap had very little to do with each other.

“Oh, she….” Snap rolls his eyes and gestures to Finn who has materialised at Poe’s side, as though Finn has the answer. “She blames me for Starkiller.”

Poe can’t believe his ears. “What?” Snap’s overtly familiar use of ‘she’ rather than any given name, or the customary ‘the Captain’ does not escape Poe’s notice.

“Are we talking about Jessika or the Captain?” Finn looks between the two pilots, frowning.

“The Captain,” Snap says, glancing to the side lest anyone should overhear him. “She believes that rumour about the recon on Starkiller.”

“What rumour?” Poe really needs more information to work with, even if it means pulling that regrettable look from Snap of deep shame.

“Some -- someone’s been circulating a rumour that the only reason the First Order were able to attack our base is because they tracked our recon ships. My ship. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m the best, that should be me up there with the Captain. Instead, I’ve been benched.”

Karé? Poe studies the nervous tension in the lines of Snap's face, clears some space in his heat-addled fog to consider it seriously. That's very interesting.

“But… are they right?” Finn asks.

“What?” Snap glares at Finn with hot betrayal, but Finn has a knack for seeking forgiveness with his sheepish eyes while charging ahead anyway.

“Did the First Order find the coordinates to the old Resistance base from you?”

Snap didn’t just earn his nickname for his aerial manoeuvres, and within the blink of an eye, his chest has puffed, hands curled at his sides; he is ready for a fight. “That is not—“

But Snap is no stranger to Poe, and Poe’s instincts to soothe kick in as naturally as inserting himself as the barrier between his friends.

“Wait, wait –“ He raises his hands for peace, and almost immediately feels the world tip. Oh, that’s not good. A dull and abrupt pain in his ribs helps him blink the shuddering smears of hangar grey and flight suit orange from his vision. He is slumped against Finn’s chair and almost over Finn himself, edge of that seat burrowed between his ribs. Not his most graceful moment.

“Poe. You good?” Finn is clutching Poe’s forearm, leaning up from his chair and his grip is so strong, so strong, around Poe’s shoulder. Poe almost lets himself slump over his friend, peels himself back instead. He misses the grip on his shoulder when Finn lets go.

“That was strange.” Poe didn’t usually experience that outside of a ship.

“Poe, what’s the matter, man?” Snap is moving towards them now, and oh motion is bad, Poe has to close his eyes. When did his head start ringing?

“I’m fine, it’s just –“ And he’s so grateful Finn doesn’t fill the gap with some misdirected slip like omega problems because Poe is trying to keep it together here. “I’m on my way back to the infirmary. But listen, Snap,” he says, has to blink a few times to focus on Snap’s worried face. “It doesn’t matter how the First Order got that intel. And you are not responsible for the people we lost that day. Karé knows that.”

The fight huffs out of Snap as quickly as it came, and he shakes his head, both sad and disappointed. “Are you sure about that?”

“We had to launch on Starkiller base one way or another. We couldn’t let a weapon like that stay in the hands of the First Order,” Poe says.

“But she really doesn’t like you,” Finn agrees, derailing any goodwill Poe might have fostered, and Poe just looks down at his friend, wants to lean in to smother his good intentions because they really need to talk about the words that come out of Finn’s mouth. “D’you think it’s a beta thing? She doesn’t like betas?”

“Buddy.” Poe groans and prays to the Maker for a miracle.

Snap, for a change, does not snap, and narrows an amused look at Finn with a tilt of his head. “If she did, she’d be hypocrite. The Captain is a beta herself. It’s common knowledge.”

The look Finn gives Poe is like there is no truth left in the world. “Are any of your commanders Alphas?”

“The General,” Snap says, before Poe has to consider if he should be offended. “And a few others. But the dynamic isn’t what gets you your command, trooper –“

And Poe has to lean a little harder on Finn, feeling him bristle, because Finn hates that nickname.

“—It’s how you lead. Not all Alphas chase command. Some of us just want to help.” Snap shrugs and they all look up at the roar of starship engines as Karé and Jessika take to the sky. Their twin streaks of grey plumes spear into trails of fire as the X-Wings break atmosphere, heading straight for the Dagobah system. “I guess the training is good for Pava. We need more pilots skilled in recon.”

“That’s gotta be a lot of pressure. Being the best. It’s good to have more pilots to share that load, right?” Finn says. He’s watching the light show fade in the atmosphere, the morning sky lightening to a soft grey, so he doesn’t see the way Snap considers him with a soft frown so rarely earned.

Poe sees it, and the two pilots exchange a smile. Snap pushes away from the barrel of remembrance, slapping its rim.

“Get this man back to the infirmary, trooper, before he falls over on that perfect face,” Snap says, already leaving.

“Hey, I’m still your commanding officer,” Poe calls after him, but he’s too dizzy to feign real indignation, especially when Finn takes his hand again, resting it on the back of his chair. Finn never hesitates to do that sort of thing, with an assumed ease and confidence that belies the way he flusters through a lot of conversations. Poe bites his tongue and tries not to stare at the line of Finn's neck when he turns his chair ahead, the tendon that cord from his ear to the strong set of his shoulders, fringes of a scar hidden beneath that black collar.

“I have a theory,” Finn says, distracting Poe from the flex of those hands on the wheels of his chair.

“About what?”

“I think he likes Captain Kun.”

Poe blinks, looks ahead to the broad, gently rounded set of Snap’s shoulders before he disappears around the hangar doors. He's quietly pleased that Finn picked up on that. “Really?”

“Really.”

“This from the guy who can’t read an Alpha as obvious as Snap when he bares his teeth?”

“Hey, you’re the one who told me not to make assumptions about people’s dynamics.”

Poe sighs, but it’s with a kind of delighted weariness at the opportunity to make Finn squirm like that. “I did? I did say that.” When did he say that? It sounds like the sort of thing he would say.

“Are you going to make it to the infirmary?” Finn is frowning up at him again. “Do I need to wheel you back?”

Poe can’t help himself, cocking his head with a smile that feels all too smug. “Offering to carry me across the threshold, buddy? At least buy me dinner first.”

Finn snorts in amusement and allows his chair to roll down the ramp a little faster. Poe yelps in his stumble to keep up. That's unfair. Poe hasn’t teased Finn since… at least last night. Maybe. It’s hard keeping track with the fever.

Maybe he should have listened to the doctor and not pushed himself to attend the Stiletto’s send-off. But the moment he considers it, Poe knows he would never miss that. With the First Order in the unknown regions of the system, their spies and intelligence officers seeded everywhere, Poe never knows if the time a squadron goes on a routine reconnaissance or supply run will be the last time they’re seen again. Too many names of friends line that barrel. That is not the last memory he wants of them.

///

“So, can you explain something for me, Doc?” Finn asks, as Doctor Kalonia passes the scanner up and down the length of Finn’s legs.

“I’ll try my best, but I warn you, my knowledge of Old Republic opera leaves much to be desired,” the Doctor says, watching the map of Finn’s nervous system flash onto the monitor above his head.

Reclining on his own bed across the infirmary, Poe huffs soft amusement through his nose. The cool compress over his eyes is soothing. He’s grateful that he and Finn are Doctor Kalonia’s only patients, he isn’t sure he could deal with more voices right now.

From what Poe heard in High Command, it won’t remain quiet for long with the sheer number of refugees and former Republican citizens headed their way; remnants of the Hosnian system. Is there still a Republic, now that its seat has been destroyed?

“Poe. Poe. Commander.”

Poe blinks. How long has Finn been saying his name?

“Poe, your commslink,” Finn says.

Poe feels and hears the buzzing chirp now. Frowning, he pulls the compress from his eyes long enough to squint and unclip the commslink at his belt. “Poe here.”

“Sorry to disturb you on your medical leave, Commander. It’s Controller Connix,” the woman says, an edge of hesitation underscoring her voice like this is more awkward for her than it is for him.

Poe takes pity on her, despite the knives slicing into his temples at her every word. “How can I help, Connix?”

“Sir, we need your approval of the new starfighters’ training schedule. Lieutenant Wexley has submitted the schedule and list of candidates – or, volunteers – and they can start as soon as tomorrow with… um, with your clearance.”

“Pilots,” Poe says.

“Uh. Sorry, Sir?”

“Call me ‘Poe’, Connix. And we call them ‘pilots’, not ‘starfighters’. We want our people to remember it’s more than dog fights and barrel rolls.”

“Yes. Of course, Comm – Poe. And… what should I say about the new schedule?”

Poe considers it and comes up against a blinding wall of a thousand punches just behind his eyes. Apparently the pain killers are wearing off. He winces and only just manages to keep it from his voice. He knows his skull won’t crack from the vibrations of his voice, but he murmurs quietly all the same. “Defer it to Captain Arana.”

“Understood, Poe," Connix says, and she sounds strangely relieved. "Hope you’re feeling stronger soon, Sir.”

“Thanks, Connix. One more thing: send me all news we receive from the Stiletto Squadron.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The commslink clips back to his belt and Poe lets his arm drop to the bed with relief. He almost hopes the Stiletto Squadron don’t find anything.

“You’re on medical leave, Commander,” Kalonia warns, and Poe can imagine her terse frown. “I won’t tell you how to do your job, but I might tell Finn here to confiscate your commslink.”

Not missing a beat, Finn agrees, “Yeah, I can do that. Who’s Connix?”

“Junior controller. Dark blonde. Buns,” Poe says, muffled under the compress as he gestures over his ears. He understands Kalonia's good intentions, but Kalonia must also understand Poe's need for contact with his squadrons because she doesn’t take the commslink from him then and there.

Kalonia draws Finn’s attention back, gently prompting him, “And what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“Oh yeah, so – dynamics,” Finn begins, and Poe entirely fails to withhold his groan. Finn’s tone pitches defensively, even hushed. “What? You told me to ask her!”

“Of course I did.” Poe does not remember this, but then he isn’t sure how they made it back to the infirmary, either. Perhaps he should worry more about the gaps in his memory. He’ll worry about it when he isn’t seeing sound like the birth of stars within his eyelids. “Doc, it’s probably best coming from you.”

“I see,” Doctor Kalonia sounds amused, but still reserved in her professionalism. “What would you like to know?”

“Everything the First Order taught us about… dynamics, well, it was really clear cut. But here in the Resistance, people don’t behave like that and I’m wondering… how can people be one thing, but behave like something else? I knew I couldn’t stay in the First Order once something broke in me, I didn’t have the level, Beta.... I was afraid, and I couldn’t.... Once I realised that, I only had two options.” And poor Finn, he sounds so lost. Poe’s heart goes out to him. “I mean… I thought I was broken, but now I’m seeing Alphas behaving like Betas, anyone can be in command, I just....”

Poe lifts the compress, focusing on the smear of Finn’s outline across the room. “Buddy… you’re not broken.”

“You’re a person,” Doctor Kalonia agrees, and whatever she does next makes Finn startle in pain. “Oh, you felt that? Good.”

“That’s good?” Finn’s voice is bright with hope, bare legs are stretched in front of him, and his bed is raised, allowing him to recline.

“That’s very promising,” Doctor Kalonia says. “I’ll have you turn on your stomach now. I want to check this scar. Shirt off.”

It’s at this juncture that Poe decides he needs to cover his eyes again, because a spike in blood pressure will not ease the pounding in his head.

As though in blatant disregard for that effort, the commslink at his belt chirps for his attention. Poe reaches for it blindly, and the voice of Captain Iolo Arana greets him, softened with static.

“Why am I staring at a training program with your name on it, Poe?” Arana says, with the over-familiarity of someone who has shared too many fights at Poe’s wing. “You still alive?”

Poe makes an affirmative noise without much care for how convincing he sounds. “Please speak softly.”

A bark of laughter answers him, unsympathetic. “So, how long are you out of commission, my friend?”

“Do you miss me, Iolo?” Poe mumbles, smiling.

“I miss you doing my paperwork. With the refugees coming in, our duties are expanding beyond patrol and recon, to vet and courier. I can cover you this once.”

“You're a goddamn hero, Arana,” Poe says, and lifts his compress to catch the attention of his fellow company in the infirmary. “I got Major Kalonia and Finn here. Since I know you love all the formalities –“

“Don’t spread lies about me, Poe,” Arana says.

“-- They can witness the delegation of my responsibilities to you, Captain Iolo Arana, until I’m cleared from medical leave.”

On his stomach, wearing only a long pair of shorts, the bleary image of Finn blinks at him with suspicious miscomprehension. Doctor Kalonia waves in easy acknowledgment, not looking up from her close inspection of Finn’s back.

“Noted, Captain,” Kalonia calls back, loud enough to be heard over the commslink, lighting up Poe’s head with fireworks. Oh, he’s going to be sick before the day is through.

“I’m changing my title to ‘acting Commander’," Arana grumbles.

"That's not how the chain of command works," Poe says.

Arana happily ignores him, and Poe can hear him smiling through the gruffness in his voice. "Get better before I give you a bad name."

“Well, you had to work some time this decade,” Poe says, and it's only funny because Arana is one of the most loyal, accomplished and hard-working pilots in the Resistance. Poe shuts off the commslink, shoving it back on his belt with more difficulty than usual. His limbs are so heavy. Slapping the compress back over his eyes with a sigh, it takes a few long breaths for his hyper-awareness to settle into a tolerable ache of over-sensitivity.

He can feel Kalonia’s wry smile like a pat on his arm. “No rest for the wicked. Such is the glory of Command. Just from the look of you, Poe, you are grounded for the rest of the week.”

Poe grunts, torn between gratitude and the pull of his duty. She called him ‘Poe’ and not ‘Commander’. He must really look bad. He wants nothing more than to crawl into a dark box and sleep there for the next three days. He wants nothing more than to be at High Command or in the skies. It’s very confusing.

“I’m not going to be in that chair forever, you know,” Finn is saying, soft and confident, when Poe turns his focus back outside of himself.

“On two wheels or two legs, the Resistance will need you,” Doctor Kalonia assures him, a sing-song quality in her voice. “And you will adapt. Dynamics… are similar. Are you aware that every person is born with alpha, beta, and omega hormones?”

“What?” Finn bleats, and Poe has to hold in his laughter. He sort of hopes the amusement never ends, but he also hopes Finn gets caught up on the basics of biology so the poor guy can avoid the social landmines of everyday dynamics.

The doctor continues, humming in conspiratorial agreement. “Yes. It’s a rare individual in whom that is not the case. Of course we’re all predisposed to one or the other by genetics, the dynamics of your parents, and their parents. But, your genes are only half the equation. Your dynamic is also influenced by your environment. The human body adapts in response to what it needs to survive. In the Resistance and the larger Republic, the central planets encourage a complementary culture where the qualities of all three are nurtured. An omega’s empathy. A beta’s steadfast determination. An alpha’s leadership.”

“Wow. Ow! No, it’s okay. That’s just a little… tender,” Finn says, his voice tight with a wince.

“The scar is healing very nicely.” The burbling hum of Kalonia’s scanner beeps to silence, and it clinks as it’s set aside, likely on the metal bedside tray. “The muscles are still re-bonding and it looks like your nervous system is repairing. No unusual results in your immune system, which tells us your body continues to accept the artificial fillers through your vertebrae.”

“So, how long before I'm walking again?” The words rush out of Finn, breathless and excited. Poe bites his cheek to withhold his smile in case Finn looks his way, and Poe doesn’t know why he wouldn’t want Finn to see how contagious he was.

“I am… very happy with your progress. That’s all I can say,” Kalonia says, a startled thump of breath escaping her a moment later.

“Oh, thank you, Doc! Thank you, thank you.”

“No, hugs are really unnecessary. You’re my patient and you’re welcome, Finn.”

Sometimes it surprises Poe how readily Finn touches other people, how easily he had welcomed Poe’s hug of relief that day that were reunited on D’Qar. Poe can’t imagine Stormtroopers were granted much privacy or personal space in the First Order, but he doesn’t imagine they shared much affection, either. The way that Finn so naturally warms to physical affection, can recognise and share it, makes Poe wonder about the former stormtrooper’s own dynamic.

“So, can I ask one more question,” Finn says, because of course he is not finished. “Can anyone get pregnant?”

Poe can’t hold in his laughter this time. “Because that’s important.” Out of compassion for the good doctor, he almost tears the compress from his eyes to throw it at Finn’s head.

Kalonia, thank the Maker, rolls on without missing a beat, warm amusement tinging her clinical stoicism. “Omegas and all women. I can give you some thorough readings on a data pad, if you like?”

“That would be great,” Finn says, effusing pure gratitude, and Poe mentally shakes his head, too leaden to even twitch a muscle in his neck.

Traitor. Poe offered the same thing not a week ago, and Finn had turned him down. Maybe it was just the healer’s influence in Kalonia.

“Now, Commander, let’s talk about you....”

Poe's vision warps grey and glimmers with technicolour. He isn’t sure if he imagines it, or if Doctor Kalonia really does come to his bedside with a sympathetic smile. Do you want something?

And it must be the way she says ‘something’ with the tilt of her head, dark eyes tracking the careful way he holds in his pain, because Poe instinctively relaxes, tilts his head back, and doesn't even flinch when the needle sinks into the vein on his inner arm. Real or imagined, the cold relief that flows like a cracked web through his body is very real, cool blue waves ebbing through the smears of colour that burst behind his eyelids with the pulse of his heart.

That belongs to me.

Kylo Ren’s voice catches like a drop of ice on Poe’s tongue, scouring cold through the last of his fever. Poe groans, something hollowing out in his chest as the waves coalesce into a single, long arc – a beam of glacial blue in the void.

A gloved hand reaches for Poe from the dark.

Poe shrinks back, his body remembers what comes next, the oppressive force that catches on the clasp of his mind, slowly, inexorably wrenching him open. But the gloved hand yields to pale fingers, and the cylindrical hilt of steel forms under Rey’s hand as it closes in a fist. Her eyes are hard, chin raised in hope and defiance. The lightsaber sings in her hand, of slurried snow, cities in the clouds, the white crests of waves --

"Poe!" Rey cries, that blue lightsaber swinging a wild arc, and Poe stumbles, but the dark comes up around him, it won't let him fall. Rey's eyes reflect grey in the low light, brimming with tears, before she makes them as hard as she can and clenches her jaw. "Go, go back, just -- close your eyes. It's all right. I'm trying. I'm trying, I can do this," she says, and turns her back on him to slide into a ready stance; a guard, stiff-backed and teeth bared against the shadows.

Show me, that other smooth, low voice comes again, filling Poe's head like an errant thought. Show me. And I'll finish what we started.

Poe almost expects it when the answering flare of a lightsaber sears the shadows, X-Wing red against the dark. He doesn’t expect it like a bar across his shoulders. He expects Rey to turn and bear her weapon high. He expects himself to feel more horrified at the exhale that stirs the hairs on the back of his neck, but a thready calm vibrates through him instead, hungry and exhilarated.

A larger shadow spills from Rey’s feet, sprawling tall and ravenous through the void. It’s cold, this anger, this ferocious drive to hold and protect. The shadows glitter like the blink of stars, ebbing and pulsing within his bones with every breath hissed between Rey’s teeth, and Poe wonders, Is this what it feels like? Is this what they feel? Is this --

"Rey?" Poe calls, at least he tries, because no sound comes out, the air fluting from him in gasps, and Rey's desperation rings in his ears, I'm trying, I can do this, I can do this.

It's all right, Poe wants to tell her, he knows she can, but Poe wants to snarl at the dark because where is Skywalker? Why is Rey alone; come back if you have to, Rey, just come back.

Don’t be afraid. I feel it, too. Plasma red flares in Poe's periphery and he bares his neck on instinct when gloved fingers gently press under his jaw. A warm, solid body molds to his back, and the hunger sharpens into tension even as his knees threaten to buckle. Fight -- don't fight -- he can't -- no, he... just has to heel, remember, his body still remembers --

You want to show me, Kylo Ren murmurs in his ear, and Poe looks up at the distant scream of starfighters, dual formation of Stiletto Squadron lancing through the vacuum. They’re not far now. A familiar constellation glimmers, then fades.

Rey's lightsaber flashes in the dark, but Poe can't see her anymore. Don't look! Poe, don't look.

A stream of bodies link the planets Malastare and Sullust like a macabre flower chain blooming from the asteroid remnants of the Hosnian system. The roar of X-Wings fills his ears, but the stars and their shadows are still breathing within his bones. Poe blinks at the swamp that rises around his knees, the humid tangle of rot, weed and jungle that fills his nose when he gasps at the sudden grip around his throat.

That's enough, Kylo Ren snarls, and this time the fight overrides the weakness in Poe's knees and the sickly warmth curling low in his stomach. Even while Poe grasps at the arm across his chest, the pincer grip around his windpipe, he realises the other man is not wearing his mask. Where is his mask?

An invisible force slams between them and Poe's vision fills with pure, blue light. Rey. The warmth disappears from Poe's back and he doesn't feel the impact when he falls to his knees, heaving, weak and gasping for air in a vacuum where only they seem to breathe. Slow down. Breathe. Get away. Get away. Why is there no air for him here?

"Poe. Poe, listen to me: he's still weak. I could've ended him once. If I have to this time, if I --" Rey glances over her shoulder as though she knows Kylo Ren might be listening, wary of who else could be watching. She leans in close, hands on Poe's shoulders. "Tell me where he is."

And Poe frowns because Kylo Ren is right there. Poe can still feel the ghost impression of the swamp's overgrown roots under his boots, the vice grip on his throat. He shudders, stomach clenching. He tries to look behind him. He doesn't dare. He's right there, Poe tries to say.

"I underestimated her once. I won't make that mistake again," Kylo Ren says, and Poe flinches at the hand that closes in his hair, he narrows his shoulders because he has to make himself smaller.

Rey reacts instantly, she is light and ephemeral fire, she is blinding. "This one is not yours, don't touch him!"

"What does she tell you? That she'll kill me? That she brings Skywalker?" Kylo Ren is laughing, though the sound is wet and rough. "I hope she does. I want him to watch when I destroy his last hope. If Rey hasn't realised, I want her to know the hand she plays in the destruction of everything she's trying to protect."

"Poe, it is not -- listen to me, we are not --!"

"They're so alike already." Kylo Ren is a man, his right cheek burned with a diagonal scar, and when he smiles down at Poe, there's a kind of fondness in the tug on Poe's hair. "Tell her I'm coming for what's mine."

Chapter Text

The first time Poe met Rey, the Resistance base thrummed with the chorus of victory. The whirring scream of starfighter engines quieted, boots pounded the pavement and, all around Poe, people were shouting, crying and laughing in reunion.

Rey was barely responsive, stumbling down the ramp of the Millennium Falcon after Chewbacca, and then Poe saw the prone figure in the Wookie’s arms. His stomach plummeted.

Oh no. No, Finn. No.

The medics were coming.

Rey’s fingers were clenched in the shoulder of Finn’s jacket, her expression slack as she scanned the landing bay, the throngs of people, starships, supplies and equipment spilling over as people reached for each other in elated relief, droids rolled across the tarmac, and the Resistance began the stocktake of who and what had survived the campaign on Starkiller Base.

So, this was the friend Finn ran back to rescue.

And Finn wasn’t moving, a film of cold sweat thick on his brow. Poe’s chest clenched. At Chewbacca’s side, Rey wavered. Her eyes were dry but rimmed red, her lips parted in a weary gasp for breath, for grounding.

The impulse to reassure was much easier to address than Poe’s own struggle for air, and he reached for her. “Hey, are you—“

But then the medics reached them, Rey didn’t even look at him, and Chewbacca crooned in protest as they took Finn, bearing his weight.

“Easy, easy!” Poe told them. “He’s hurt.”

“We’ve got a heartbeat.”

Beside him, Poe saw the moment Rey breathed for the both of them.

It wasn’t until later that he wondered why he didn’t see Han Solo descend that ramp.

///

The second time Poe meets Rey, she is entering the infirmary just as Poe is leaving – or more precisely as Poe is being dragged out by Snap’s thick hands on his shoulders and Karé’s order in his ear, “Give the doctors their space. Let’s do a headcount, Black Leader.”

And she’s right, they’re right. Poe’s stomach is still churning from the sight of the cauterised gouge bisecting Finn’s back, too deep, long and savage in its precision to be anything but a lightsaber wound. The knowledge that Finn stood up to Kylo Ren makes Poe’s gut churn cold, because he remembers the man’s touch of the Force; the way it sliced through the membrane of Poe’s conscious thoughts like a hot knife down the back of his skull; the horrified awe when the precision of that knife flared out with dull, serrated edges, seeking any thought of Luke Skywalker, Jedi, or navigational charts. The moment that knife and all its edges found their purchase, and began to pull.

And pull. And tear.

Kylo Ren could have tried persuading Poe with the Force.

Kylo Ren could have commanded him. It wasn’t until Poe woke in the interrogation room of the Finalizer – once it was just the two of them and Ren flooded the space, towering with the barely contained threat of violence – that he was sure the rumours were true. Kylo, Master of the Knights of Ren, was an Alpha. Poe didn’t trust rumour, but there was no mistaking the liquid instinct to heel to an Alpha used to getting what they wanted.

Kylo Ren could have used either of these techniques. It would have been kinder.

Kylo Ren is not kind.

“Poe.” Snap shakes him from the memory with a heavy hand on his shoulder. His friend frowns, searching Poe’s face in that knowing way, but he does not say anything. Snap is a very different kind of Alpha, is very careful to rein his instincts and influence. The foremost thing he inspires from Poe is respect.

Poe tries to think about the headcount of their squadrons instead of the anxious mantra he’s trying to keep to himself (Is Finn going to make it?), but honestly that is not much better. There’s no more they can do here, he has to be useful, there are others who still need him. He has to get away from the acrid smell of bacta and burnt flesh, the whirring snick of laser scalpels.

He has to not stare at Finn lying still as a corpse.

Rey almost walks straight past them, C3-PO shuffling at her heels.

“Oh, Commander!” the protocol droid brightens, pleasantly surprised as always. “I was just bringing our new guest to see her friend –“

Poe startles, leaning into Rey’s path with a gentle touch on her arm. “Hey.”

With a flinch, Rey’s large, dark eyes snap to him, and her soft worry evaporates. Poe is confronted with the steel and teeth of the scavenger who eked out a meagre existence in the wastes of Jakku, whose first and only rescuer is lying unconscious in the infirmary.

And Poe is standing between them.

“Whoa, hey,” Poe hushes, one hand raised for peace. His other hand draws Karé behind him with a hand on her wrist, ignoring the snarl under her breath (beta calm, his ass), and Snap bumps his shoulder. This is not the time for protective posturing. “It’s Rey, right? Welcome to the Resistance.”

Rey doesn’t brandish a weapon, eyes bright with warning, every line in her body hardened with tension. Her hands are curled at her sides, prepared to claw or strike; a tight coil of power. Here is a girl accustomed to fighting for the right to live.

At her side, C3-PO frets, gesturing between them with that iron arm. “Might – might I recommend introductions? Protocol dictates familiarity breeds trust, regardless of dynamics.” And what an ironic slip, mentioning dynamics in the first place, but it's a simple fact that C3-PO doesn't always employ the same protocols Poe was raised with. They’re not on Yavin-4, and it's a big galaxy, after all. “We are all allies here against the First Order.”

Snap and Karé make no gesture to bridge the gap, which is really poor form for officers in authority, but high off the adrenaline of the mission and the heady rush of survival, Poe doesn't think those two are thinking straight.

"This is Snap," he says, even as he nudges the Alpha back with his shoulder, then nods to the Beta still glaring daggers at his side, "And Karé. I'm Poe."

Rey frowns, suspicion and a curious thought flickering through the steel of her expression. She glances over Poe’s flightsuit and the pilots ready to fight at his back. “BB-8’s master.” She straightens, shoulders dropping, and her voice is quiet, cracking on the last when she says, “You’re… Poe Dameron.”

And what did that little droid say to make this girl look at him like he’s the first rain after a long drought? He and BB-8 are going to have words.

“Hey,” Poe says, warm and soft. He offers his hand, even as he opens his arms not knowing what to expect. Rey’s mouth twists. Within a blink, her eyes shine with tears, and Poe catches her when she steps into his arms whimpering a small sound of grief. A static charge crackles between them and Poe tenses at the shock, blinking wide.

What was that?

Rey’s arms only tighten around Poe’s shoulders. Her body is trembling, it could be shock, but her skin is flush with heat; her clothes are soaked and very cold. The contrast alone would be enough to make Poe worry. She needs to change (they all do), but Rey’s scent is thickly metallic, laden with stress, singed fabric and the fainter tang of blood. She smells all wrong, and Poe has to fix it.

He murmurs in her hair, holds her firmly with a hand behind her head, the other closing low on her back. Under the heel of his hand, he can feel the impression of ribs, just barely. He saw the state of life on Jakku, remembers just how hard it was to barter his own way back to safety. How often had this girl been close to starving?

“It’s all right, you’re safe,” Poe says, and Rey shivers again, face buried in the curve of his neck. What must she scent on him after all those hours in the recycled oxygen of his cockpit, trusting the shields would go down, willing the oscillator to explode, watching X-Wings descend in fire bombs? He's still shaking himself, has to say it for the both of them, “You made it.”

Snap and Karé are quietly circling behind Rey, eyes narrowed at her back. Poe stares them down, returning their heated glares when they’re caught. Snap throws his arms wide, and Karé glowers at Poe in sour disbelief. It’s easy enough to read.

What did you expect us to do?

A deep breath, Poe’s fingers nestle softly in Rey’s hair. He does not look away, holds her just a little closer, and internally sighs in relief when her body loosens in response.

I expect you to trust me.

Snap breaks from Poe’s gaze with the barest nod, but he does not look happy. Karé scowls in displeasure. But Poe doesn’t think Rey will hurt him.

“3-PO,” Snap says, and the protocol droid glances between the two pairs of humans before falling in step, drifting towards the open arch of the infirmary to provide Poe and Rey their privacy.

“He’s hurt.” Rey’s face is red as she pulls back to look at Finn on the surgery table, obscured but for his now bare legs by the blur of doctors, nurses and med-droids. Her voice is choked thin. “He came back for me. He could die.”

“Come on, our guy? He’s not going to die.” Poe holds her cheek, swipes some of those tears back with his thumb. It’s not a lie so much as a really fervent, quiet plea. Finn is not going to die. “After all that effort to leave the First Order and bring you back….”

Somewhere in the long corridor beyond the infirmary, he hears a terrible noise: a rumbling mourning cry, low and wounded. Chewbacca. Around their pocket of calm, the Resistance is a storm of damage control.

Rey’s lip trembles, and Poe resists the urge to tuck her face back to his neck. There’s something strange about her, the strength corded beneath Poe’s hands, the way her glare challenged him for a fight with the heat of an Alpha until she identified a friend and crumbled into him instead. Rey clings to him with such genuine trust and vulnerability, stirring affection and a deep-seated need to safeguard that makes Poe wonder: does she even realise what she’s doing?

What more is she capable of?

He squeezes Rey’s shoulder and it appears to be the right move. The breath shudders out of her, and she seems to fall still.

The next time Rey meets his eyes, her eyes are wet and she pouts as she clears her throat, but her voice is steady. “Finn told me about you.”

Poe smiles. It warms him, the idea of Finn talking to people about him. “He told me plenty about you, too. I guess we both owe him now.”

It’s at that moment Doctor Kalonia sees them lingering, and crosses the infirmary. Poe knows that harried look, and he flushes with guilt for being its cause. “Commander, I’ve already asked you once. I need this infirmary clear of anyone who doesn’t need medical attention.” Kalonia takes in the blister of burns on Rey’s arms, glances over the rest of her muddied and soaked appearance. “You can stay. One of us will be with you very soon. Take this bed --”

“Please,” Rey says, hands falling from Poe’s arms. She looks to Finn’s bed. “My friend, is – is he going to be all right?”

Kalonia stops and follows Rey’s gaze. She sighs. “We are doing everything we can. His pulse is strong, and my people are very good. But I need this area clear for patients, so please, Commander, let us work.”

Rey’s fingers are already tight in Poe’s sleeve. “But—“

Poe covers her hand with his. “You stay. The Major and the rest will take care of you. You’ll be all right. Stay and look out for our friend.”

Rey searches his face, eyes bright with concern. How old is this girl? “Will I see you again?”

“I’ll be back soon to check on you both.” Poe squeezes her hand as he lowers it from his sleeve. He briefly cups the curve of her neck and wonders at how naturally she leans into it, head bowing. But Poe can’t think about that now. “Look out for him.”

“I will.”

As it turns out, Poe does not get the chance to visit her or Finn in the infirmary again before they’re all summoned to the briefing room of High Command. R2-D2 and BB-8 have cracked the case. As they watch, the map to Luke Skywalker is completed in gleaming blue constellations and, just like that, years of stealth and sacrifice conclude with General Organa’s soft exhale of, “Luke”.

Poe can’t help but grin, returning Snap’s good-natured slap between his shoulders.

With the destruction of Starkiller Base, the First Order on the run, and finally a way to the last Jedi, their prospects are looking up.

Rey is examining the map from afar, her hands hanging uncertain at her sides. She catches Poe watching her, and her mouth twists down with a sharp inhale, eyes shining. That is not the look of victory.

Poe has seen that look before in every one of his pilots, in every soldier, diplomat, and dreamer honest enough to admit when their cause might be just, but the price and the path were uncertain. Poe has seen it in his own reflection, when he let himself feel it, before he steeled himself for his squadrons.

I know what comes next. We have to, I know. But I’m afraid.

Poe remembers the first time he saw that look in a young boy with dark hair, wearing his father’s vest, standing under the shadows of golden boughs in Poe’s back yard.

(“I’m scared if I go, I won’t come back. I don’t want to go.”)

Poe hasn’t thought about that boy in a long time.

A shiver runs through him, and Rey looks back to the map.

Things are finally looking up. This will all be worth it in the end. Poe has to believe that.

///

“Look out for him,” Rey says.

“I promise.”

“And for yourself, too.”

Poe accepts the sentiment with a nod, and smiles. “Take care, Rey. Bring yourselves home.”

Rey’s mouth twitches, grip tight around the staff planted in the soft earth, but there is still too much nervousness crowded in her shoulders for the smile to come. An entire Resistance and a galaxy of strangers is counting on her, and Poe is uniquely qualified to understand how tempting it is to stop moving.

But she’s the scavenger who defeated Kylo Ren and brought Finn back alive. Rey can find the last Jedi, and hopefully she can bring him back, too.

Poe steps in close, rests his hand on the staff, level with her eye. Rey straightens, blinking from his hand to meet his gaze, and Poe reads that desperate litany in her eyes as clearly as if she had spoken aloud.

I want to, I want to come back, I want a home.

Poe thinks about dropping his hand to cover hers, about squeezing her shoulder, or cupping a hand at the curve of her neck again. But he remembers the way she leaned into his palm, the flush of her skin, and he doesn't know if it would be a kindness to do that again when she's leaving. Poe won't ask, though he's almost certain about her dynamic.

Rey masked herself well, with enough natural aggression that even Snap went on guard and Karé reacted with hackles raised. It's no surprise; Rey would probably fool most people. Growing up young, alone and, frankly, beautiful in a junkyard like Jakku, she would have had to. She probably doesn't even know what she is, but Poe knows he is not her Alpha.

Whatever she is, she’s Rey, and Poe wants for a tactile way to reassure her, for having just met her.

He wishes it was yesterday, and she would just step into his arms.

“Don’t think about the galaxy,” Poe tells her, his voice pitched low. “Focus on Luke Skywalker. Keep yourself safe. You’re coming back.”

Rey nods, but she does not promise until months later when Poe is too delirious to consider if he dreams it instead.

///

For the first two months, Rey and Chewbacca check in with regular updates.

Luke Skywalker is obstinate. The last Jedi, hope of an ailing Republic, will not leave Ach-To.

Poe wants to punch the man for only giving General Organa more reasons to grieve.

But Luke is training Rey, if those reports are to be believed. Rey is never specific about the details of her education. The transmissions are audio only, and Poe does not know her well enough to read between the lines without seeing her face. Sometimes the transmissions are only in text.

Finn wakes up, steels his jaw when Kalonia presents him with the wheelchair, and they mark the third month since Rey, Chewbacca and R2-D2 left D’Qar. They miss the regular check-in for the first time.

"Did you meet Rey before she left?" Finn asks him later that day after physical therapy.

Poe nurses a cup of water, running its rim back and forth across his lips. Leaning his hip against the low sandstone wall of the sky bridge, he watches the blue foam of the waterfalls tumble over the cliffs propping the new base of the Resistance.

The rooms set aside for training and rehabilitation have a Western vantage over the valley where three great lakes meet and plunge into a meadow. It would appear more suited to a romantic getaway than a repurposed military base. The romanticism of it is not lost on Poe.

He is trying for nonchalance. He is trying very hard not to think of earlier that afternoon, when he walked into the training room, sweat-soaked and panting at the end of his run. He is trying not to remember how he was shocked into standstill, watching Finn complete a pull-up to his chin, strapped into his wheelchair.

That thing had to weigh almost two-thirds of Finn's own body weight. There was no way Finn's body should have been ready for that, and yet... there it was. His wound was still healing, thick white bandages wrapping his torso to prevent the thick cords of back muscle from tearing all over again. It looked as though the wheelchair was bound to Finn using no more than the thick straps fastened low around his waist.

Poe stared at Finn's back as he lowered himself, soft, tail of the pink scar visible above his bandages, sweat beading down the scarred ridge of his spine. Sharp breaths and grunted effort cut through the whir of fans overhead. When he began again, the ripple of tension went through Finn's entire body and -- had his shoulders always been that big?

The arousal hit Poe like a punch in the gut, stealing some of his breath. It had been a while since he'd had such an acute reaction, and to someone who isn't even an Alpha....

Doctor Kalonia, supervising the rehabilitation, had looked similarly impressed. Fingers to her lips, she caught Poe staring, and raised her eyebrows at him, mouth twitching.

Finn continues to be full of surprises.

And so here was Poe, nurturing his thirst, where Finn found him fresh after his workout, with his megawatt smile, muscles still gleaming. The cold-hot kernel of want is scouring through Poe’s self-control. There is little mercy in the galaxy.

The lack of report from Rey hangs over their heads, several hours late. It's no surprise that Finn's thoughts turn to her.

"Yeah," Poe says, remembering the scavenger with the golden smile (for those lucky enough to see it). "I met her."

Finn shifts in his seat, glancing out the window, possibly trying to follow whatever has Poe's attention. Beneath the shared shelter of the towering rainforest, trunks as wide as skyscrapers, the falls froth in the setting sun like churned glass. Light ripples across Finn’s expression, pinched softly in thought. "What did you think of her?"

He has a whole galaxy to wonder about, more worlds than he can probably see in a lifetime, and Finn thinks of her.

Poe thinks of the way Rey's eyes flashed, the way she fit against him as naturally as Poe's arms folded around her. He bites the inside of his cheek, but Finn is grinning when Poe meets his eyes, and then Poe can't stop the smile from breaking across his face.

"Right?" Finn says, raising a knowing eyebrow, and Poe laughs under his breath, pushing the water into his hands, enjoying the way Finn's throat rolls when he swallows. Finn stares into the empty cup once it's finished, fingers tightening around the hard plastic. "Do you think she'll come back?"

Return to her friends or pursue her future as a Jedi while Luke Skywalker refused to return? The galaxy knows which outcome it needs more.

"I do," Poe says. She’ll be back. No matter how long it will take.

Later, when Poe is in the mess hall hunched over his dinner, Iolo leans into his shoulder and asks, "So, what's it like crushing on a child soldier?"

Karé snorts a laugh, long braids threatening to fall into her soup, and Poe tears his eyes away from... yes, fine, he had been watching Finn lining up with Jessika and Snap for their dinner, but only because he wonders about their (bad) influence, even while glad Finn is making friends around the base.

The Rapier Squadron may have ceased being an official naval unit under the command of Poe Dameron when they joined the Resistance, but they would never stop being a pain in Poe's side. For which he is quietly grateful. Except in times like this.

"He's not a child," Poe says, not understanding.

"I don't know," Iolo says, and taps his temple. "He's young, Poe."

"You know all those troopers like him were taken as kids, right? Raised in the First Order from birth? What do you guys talk about?" Karé cants her head with a frown, searching Poe's face.

"Not that," Poe says, flushing slightly beneath his collar at the admission and the idea that his friends might know more about Finn.

Finn is first and foremost the man who saved Poe's life. Poe is not ignorant to the fact that Finn used to be FN-2187, and FN-2187 was a stormtrooper. Poe has participated in many of Finn's meetings with senior command since joining the Resistance, but those strategic sessions have not concerned personal details. In their downtime, Finn wants to talk about anything but the First Order and, by extension, himself. Even though Poe is burning to know. He thought he was being kind.

He shrugs off Iolo from his shoulder and finishes the last of his soup. It's bland tonight, some blend of green ration and mashed root vegetable in dire need of spice. His private stocks of chilli ran out back on D'Qar, and he knows Karé's out, too. The casualties of war.

"He's been through a lot, I didn't want to – and he doesn’t –" Poe stops, and tenses with belated realisation. "Have you been talking to him?"

"Of course," Karé shoots back.

"Everyone on this base has been through a lot," Iolo says, as if it’s no excuse for Poe’s inaction.

It’s not like Poe was just waiting on a sign, any hint that Finn wanted it, too. Oh wait, it was exactly that.

At Poe's flat look of long-suffering betrayal, Karé leans across the table to steal the roll of bread from his tray. "So, I hear he only has one name. Like someone we used to know."

Poe watches her tear a chunk of bread with her teeth, mouth stuffed in clear invitation for him to fill the vacancy in their conversation. In Poe's periphery, Iolo glances up at Karé through the long fringe hanging in his eyes.

At the back of the hall, a familiar chirp of delight rises above the din, and Poe watches Finn's face split in a grin as BB-8 rolls up to him in the queue.

The little droid doesn't get its sustenance in the mess hall but, like so many astromech droids long-paired with pilots, BB-8 is here for the company. Poe can't even stretch his legs under the table because Karé and Iolo's compact R4 and R5 droids respectively keep threatening to roll over his boots.

As though sensing the turn in his thoughts, Karé leans down to address the droids when a particularly loud beep makes them all tense in their seats. "Shh, R4. The adults are talking, baby."

"'Finn' is a nickname. Until he finds one he likes better," Poe says, when she straightens. But the thought of Finn being anything other than 'Finn' tightens his chest. He's quieter than he needs to be, nobody will overhear them over the typical roar of the mess hall at dinner time, over the argument warbling back and forth under their table. "I know he isn't Muran, I'm not a fool." His friends are watching him carefully, Iolo patting R5's head when the little droid withdraws, rolling up to his thigh for sympathy with a mournful croon. That feeling in Poe’s chest tightens further. "He brought BB-8 back, he completed my mission. Can you imagine the sort of courage it would take for a stormtrooper...." Poe stops and sighs. "He renounced the First Order. He's a good man. He’s not a child."

Iolo nods absently, those large eyes studying Poe's face. "If you're sure."

Poe glances back at the dinner queue, and his stomach flips seeing that Finn, Jessika and Snap are almost finished. "Look, I can't explain it. It's just a feeling, but they shot us both down. After everything else he's done, I know we can trust him."

"Sometimes, we just wonder about your instincts, Poe," Karé says, uncharacteristically gentle, and Poe stares at the hand she lays on the table between them, palm open in offering.

His instincts? He frowns at her. "Did you just pull the Omega card?"

Karé slaps the table in frustration. Well, that lasted as long as Poe expected. "This is not about you being an Omega!" she hisses. "This is about you trusting people that could hurt you."

If Finn would ask Poe, Karé Kun is a prime example of dynamic compartmentalisation in action: the attitude is a full-time affliction, but under pressure in the pilot seat she is the epitome of Beta calm and focus. In extremely private moments, Karé can flex threads of Omega compassion with a chosen few. The rest of the time, her confidence, quick temper and aggressively protective instincts have most people mistaking her for an Alpha.

We’re all that’s left, we three. I'm not saying goodbye to you, too.

Karé will never voice these fears, but there’s a certain viciousness in a person’s eyes when they glare at you for the trouble of making them worry. Poe knows that fear: all the sacrifices of the Resistance’s long campaign can’t be for nothing. They won’t be.

Taking Karé's hand, he's helpless against her smile when she squeezes back. To Poe’s gratitude and relief, Iolo leans in when Poe reaches to cup the curve of his neck. His thumb strokes the vulnerable skin behind and beneath Iolo’s ear, that space where the thrust of a simple needle could end any of them. Poe is no Alpha, and the Keshians of Iolo’s race don’t have dynamics of a second gender like humans, but they must have their own thing, something that inclines Iolo to this rare display of trust.

Poe doesn't even care that they're in the middle of the mess hall. He still aches for too many people that he will never see again. Iolo and Karé may have their own squadrons now, but they will always be his Rapiers.

“You can trust him. I want you both to know him.”

Poe does not say, He won’t hurt me.

That might be out of Finn’s control.

“He’s young,” Iolo insists, as if Poe didn’t hear him the first time. “Do you really want to—“ He gestures like his head is exploding, and Kare barks a soft laugh under her breath. “There’s so much he won’t know. And he was a Stormtrooper. He comes from a different world.”

"I like him better than the scavenger," Karé says, surprising Poe. "There was something wrong about that girl."

What does she mean by that?

Poe frowns, but then Finn, Jessika and Snap appear at the end of their table, trays aloft, and he doesn’t get the chance to ask. Jessika slides in beside Karé with a slanted look of fond familiarity, and Snap foregoes his usual seat at the head of the table so that Finn can slide his chair there, the Alpha nodding to Iolo as he settles in beside him. Finn startles with an aborted laugh when BB-8 pushes in his chair with a cheerful butt of its body, before rolling around and under the table to greet its astromech counterparts.

"Yeah, you go pick on someone your own size," Finn calls, then his curious gaze glances from Iolo to Karé, and Poe will be forever grateful at the man's open interest and readiness to meet every new person Poe places in his path.

"Finn. Buddy," Poe says, pulling his hands back. "Some people I want you to meet -- properly."

///

A week passes, then two, without further word from Rey, Chewbacca or R2-D2.

General Organa is worried. Poe finds Finn camped out in the hangar bay most mornings and then on many afternoons. He watches the sky, and Poe can't pretend he hasn't been monitoring all updates from flight tower, doing the same.

Karé and Iolo both volunteer to lead an investigation before Poe has the chance to step forward. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or affronted, and finally settles somewhere in the middle as he always does with those two. Before either of them can be granted permission, the suspicious activity is reported in the neighbouring Dagobah system – too, too close for comfort -- Poe is grounded, Karé takes Jessika, and Iolo becomes acting Commander of the fleet as half of Stiletto Squadron is gone in a morning, just like that.

Gone, but coming back. They have to come back.

///

(A hand tugs in Poe's hair, curving his neck back.

"Tell her --"

"Just -- close your eyes. It's all right. I'm trying. I'm trying, I can do this."

"-- Tell her I'm coming for what's mine.")

///

“Move!”

Karé. Jessika.

"Watch it, Poe!"

Above his head, in every corridor of this reclaimed Alliance base, a siren blares: the call for pilots to report to the hangar bay.

"Left. I'm sorry, coming through!"

(“How long was I out?”

Kalonia looks at him in confusion, as if not understanding the question. “Excuse me?”

“How long was I out?” Poe doesn’t mean to shout, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, but his heart is ratcheting in his chest, knees almost refusing to hold as he forces them under him, and he knows, he doesn’t know how, but he knows that wasn’t just a dream.

He is aware enough to shove his feet into his boots without falling over his own weight, to note that Finn is no longer in the infirmary.

Where… where is – no, he’ll look for Finn later. Finn is fine. Finn can look after himself.

“A few hours,” Kalonia says, startling as Poe staggers, breaking into a run. “Commander!”)

BB-8, bless its little selenium soul, barrels ahead in a herald of chirps and whistles to clear the way. It’s probably the only time that it can out-run him.

"Poe, slow down!"

They know. The First Order know the Stiletto Squadron are coming.

Poe arrives to the ovoid control room of High Command in an uproar of organised chaos, almost tripping over BB-8 who has stopped on the sandstone threshold. He spots Connix among the row of controllers coordinating pilot departures from the hangar bay. As Poe watches, the status of twelve of eighteen pilots blink into the grey of transit, travelling at light speed.

Controllers and officers are running between consoles with data pads, hands tense on their earpieces as new information comes through, as they compare and collate, and return to the Commanders clustered around the broad circular console of the main briefing projector.

Kalonia catches up to him a moment later, breathing a little hard for the exertion. She glares at Poe, brandishing a hypospray that is probably loaded with something to spite him for making her run this whole way.

"Poe Dameron, you are gunning for worst patient of the year! By the Maker, I am ordering you back to the infirmary! You are not fit for duty!"

Poe winces at the sensory onslaught. His heart is pounding in furious confusion between the panicked course of adrenaline and whatever Kalonia gave him that pushed him so far under, he didn't hear the first siren summoning pilots to High Command for their briefing. And something else. A heavy ache in his chest brings a sting behind his eyes, he fights to drag in air. His throat is hot and tight, like the verge of a sob, and that makes no sense.

Just breathe. He just has to breathe.

"I'm sorry, Major, I'm not here to fly, I just--" He backs up with hands raised in defence, and bumps into another body. "Admiral! My apologies."

"Commander Dameron." Admiral Ackbar blinks large, yellow eyes at him, dark pupils narrowing on the mess of his appearance. "Is there good reason you're disobeying a medical order? The Major's reasons must be sound, or you would be with our other starfighters right now."

“Admiral, forgive my manner, but have we had any word from the Stiletto Squadron?” Poe asks, scanning any of the heads up displays for a hint of the Stiletto’s call sign.

At the Admiral's back, two familiar planets hover in the ring of the main projector’s simulation: the pale green calm of Malastare and the lava-bronzed obsidian of Sullust. Between their systems, a spray of smaller planets and their central stars are faded slightly out of focus. Between their systems, a convoy of oblong rectangular passenger carriers are simulated in a chain blinking in sectors of green, yellow and red. As Poe watches, another carrier is shaded red, and fades with all the other links of red.

"They just lost another carrier, General!" Connix shouts from across the room.

"That's half the convoy," Major Caluan Emmett says, glancing to the General at his left.

“There has been no relay, Commander Dameron,” Ackbar is saying, extending a hand to the evident commotion. “Captain Kun is not due to report for another six hours. According to our projections, they should have arrived in Dagobah space within the past hour.”

A man’s voice crackles over the comms from the main projector. “Sustaining heavy f--, all carriers have been disab – st power to sublight eng– ver, repeat we cannot maneuver, multi – fighters attacking—“

Poe’s heart skips, the distress call striking a cold note of familiarity. “It’s the First Order.”

“Realign our secondary comms satellite for a clearer signal,” Emmett tells the row of controllers.

Bent over the console of the main projector, General Leia Organa gently scowls. "What are the starfighters' ETA to engagement?"

"Commander Arana and the first wave have arrived in Sullust space, Sir! The second wave will engage in t-minus forty seconds!"

"He's not a Commander yet." Poe grits his teeth, not out of spite or jealousy, but because Iolo has to earn it, he has to stay alive and come back to enjoy it.

“The last of the fleet has deployed, General,” one of the controllers says.

“Major, the satellite is not responding!”

“What?”

“Satellite is operational, but not respo – oh, no.” That’s Connix, staring down at her console in slack disbelief.

General Organa’s eyes snap to the controller’s row, straightening from her stoop. “What’s happened?”

Iolo. Karé. Jessika. Snap. Ello. Nien.

Please.

The projected image of Sullust and Malastare systems freeze and flicker. The convoy of passenger carriers ripple as if with a current of electricity, and then, soft as a blink, disappear.

[ERROR].

All around the control room, one after another, each monitor refreshes to the same glare of yellow.

[ERROR].

Admiral Ackbar is already barking. “Switch to outpost relays!”

“Sir, they’re not responding.”

“Uplink to the –“

“Sir, nothing is responding!”

Poe’s stomach is sinking with a thick weight of dread. That vice is closing around his chest, and his heart is a slow, thudding drum threatening to burst free. This is not panic, no. He knows what panic feels like.

His hand flies to his gut in a tight grunt of pain. Intellectually, he knows this isn’t going to kill him, but there’s a kernel of ice fracturing outwards from his sternum that makes him want to keen and drop to his knees. Why does it hurt this much?

(“I’m scared if I go, I won’t come back.”)

(“I’m going to be a pilot someday.”)

He blinks the vision away, shivering at the phantom feeling of fingers along his scalp. At his knees, BB-8 is chirping, quiet and anxious, its eye peering into Poe’s face.

Master-Poe. Your vitals deteriorate, and I have lost connection to the remote network.

“Poe,” Kalonia growls, strong fingers wrapping around his arm, but she doesn’t hypospray him or try to lead him away. Something is happening on the main projector, the error message blinks and is eclipsed in a glare of white.

Poe follows her gaze.

“It’s okay, Beebee.” Poe barely hears what he’s saying, stepping closer to allow BB-8 to situate itself in the sanctuary between his ankles, and BB-8 is whirring softly, dark eye panning back and forth across the control room where everyone is slowing with the inexorable certainty that whatever is happening in this moment is beyond their control. “We’re gonna be okay. It’s just a malfunction.”

I am afraid, BB-8 says.

A beat of silence punctures the control room, the display blinks off with a whur of a sigh, and Poe meets the General’s eyes over the empty console.

Leia is frowning at him, dark eyes flickering across his face with a slow-growing look of recognition or an emerging memory. In her eyes, the reflection of low light in the control room glimmers like fear.

“They know the Stilettos are coming,” Poe says, and in the heavy hush, all eyes in the control room swing to him.

Leia’s lips part in what might have become a question, but then the projector blinks back to life, and Poe looks into the stern face of a pale man with hard eyes, a deep scowl and copper hair combed back perfectly, not a hair out of place.

“General,” the man says, voice clipped.

Leia’s mouth puckers in distaste. Her shoulders draw back. “General. This does have your technophile fingerprints all over it.”

The man’s scowl lifts towards smugness. “If your technicians possess any competency, they’ll have shown you that we’ve crippled all incoming and outgoing transmissions from your base. At this moment there are three destroyers orbiting your planet with full armaments locked on to your location with orders to fire upon any vessel attempting to leave. The stream of traitors who sought your asylum have been dealt with summarily. Your fleet is in the process of being dismantled. It is the end of your Resistance.”

“Is it?” Leia’s tone is flat, and she raises an eyebrow. “As you say, we have no means by which to confirm your claims, General Hux.”

On-screen, General Hux’s eyes narrow at something to the side. What seems like only moments later, Poe hears a muffled explosion, the control room erupts in shouts and shrieks of surprise, and the base trembles in shock. He hunches over BB-8 whirring in fear, Kalonia’s fingers bruise into his arm, and granules of fine sandstone rain down upon their heads.

A warning shot.

Leia is a sentinel before the console, looking to the ceiling as if willing its sandstone foundations to hold, and it does. The ceiling holds.

“This will be our one and only exchange, General. There is no further channel for negotiation. Three hours hence, a transport will come to your location. Any attempts to fire on this transport will end in your annihilation. Please understand, this is a non-essential mission to the ends of the First Order, but I trust you have greater investment in honouring the terms of our agreement and ensuring the survival of your people.”

When it becomes clear Hux is waiting for some verbal confirmation, Leia nods once in concession. “That would be a fair assumption.”

“In three hours, this transport will dock close to your base. You, General Leia Organa, will board this vessel, and you will bring the hostage with you.”

Hostage?

Poe looks to Kalonia, but she looks just as confounded, and a quick glance around the control room reveals the sentiment is shared. Except for the General, who’s expression piques with polite curiousity.

“And what hostage would this be?”

Every fibre of the perfectly contained First Order General bristles with the flint of an Alpha. Hux treats General Organa with a glare that would set lesser men alight. “Whatever it takes, General. I don’t care if you have to drag him by a collar and make him heel. In three hours, you will deliver your son, Lord Kylo Ren, to the First Order. Or you will all die together.”

Chapter Text

“General?”

Leia Organa does not heed the shocked silence hanging in the wake of General Hux’s ultimatum.

Deliver Kylo Ren (your son, Kylo Ren), or die together.

Kylo Ren. Within the custody of the Resistance.

Poe watches the General from across the yawn of the control room, and wonders: could it be true?

At first, everyone is still.

Standing in the line of Leia’s gaze, Poe beholds an unnerving quiet he has never seen in her before. There, in the stillness, is the legend who lost the planet of her youth, her brother, her husband, her son, and her Republic. Poe has grown up watching this woman grow more mythical with every blow, repeatedly bloodied, but ultimately unbowed. Alpha, Princess, Senator and then General: Leia Organa is characterised by her refusal to give up, and assume whatever mantle required of her.

She is not a harsh woman. She is known more these days for her stoicism, her firm command, but she is fair, and she has a wry (if rare) humour.

But here is a glimpse of the anger Poe has only heard about.

Her cold glower bores through him. In her name, armies would cleave through systems at no more than that look. She’s beloved, feared, and respected enough. Then Leia blinks, lowering her gaze, and the dark glass of her eyes softens to something familiar in their weariness. She turns to the officer hovering uncertainly at her side.

“Major Emmatt, begin evacuation procedures.” Leia’s palm strokes the darkened console of the main briefing projector. Sandstone is still settling around them in a fine cloud of dust from the aftershocks of Hux’s warning blast. “She was beautiful. She could have been home, but she won’t be standing for much longer.” Her eyes search for Admiral Ackbar, then the good doctor at Poe’s shoulder. “Admiral. Major.” That gaze hardens, settling on Poe, and Poe’s nerves are still raw. It takes everything within him not to flinch. “Commander. With me.”

What has he done to earn that look?

Leia pushes away from the main briefing projector, and is halfway across the control room before Major Emmatt blinks from his stupor, calling Connix and the other controllers to attention.

Admiral Ackbar flows into step with the General as she strides past them. Kalonia searches Poe’s face for answers he doesn’t have, he shakes his head, and then they both rush to follow because the General is not waiting to see if they’re keeping up.

BB-8 chirps at Poe’s ankles, but Poe shakes his head. “I don’t know, buddy. Stay with me, okay?”

“Sir,” Poe hears Connix before they leave the control room. Glancing back, Poe frowns at the soft thread of white matrices projected in glittering constellations at Connix’s console.

Something about those stars is familiar.

“The internal systems seem unaffected, but our eyes and ears are still dark beyond the base,” Connix says.

“The man said they will shoot us down. How will we leave?” BB-8 warbles, as they round the corner to the General’s private briefing room.

“We won’t fly from the base,” Admiral Ackbar tells the droid, holding the door for them. “We’re going under it, if I understand the General’s thinking.”

“That’s correct, Admiral,” Leia says. “Major Emmatt reclaimed this base for its network of underground tunnels and connection to the naturally-formed water highways. We have civil relations with the indigenous Naboo population of Gungans. They should let us pass.”

A new siren wails, swiftly muffled when the door shuts behind Poe. BB-8 nudges once more at Poe’s ankles, trying to nestle its way between them, but Poe has to motion the droid back. This is not this time.

Leia hesitates behind her desk as though she didn’t consider what she would do once she got there. Her eyes lift from the data pads strewn beside the small projector and lamp, glancing between her company waiting at attention. Well, except the Admiral. His hands hang by his sides and he studies Leia in turn, exuding patience in a calm and solid way that Poe hopes he’ll one day understand.

“Commander.” Leia nods to the door at Poe’s back. “I’d like BB-8 to work with C3-PO on backing up the central archives. If you don’t mind.”

Poe hides his frown. Being separated from BB-8 is actually the last thing he wants right now, but it isn’t like the General to ask. He bows his head and holds the door open for the little droid. BB-8 hesitates and looks up at him for a long moment, body rocking on the spot. Poe is grateful when it doesn’t burble plaintively, eventually turning forward and rolling out.

“I’ll see you soon,” Poe promises quietly.

BB8’s top dome twitches, but it doesn’t look back. It’s easy for others to forget their droids are soldiers, too.

Everyone is watching Poe when he turns back. He struggles not to react as the General’s dark eyes uncomfortably scrutinise every crease and pore in his face, taking her time. “I’m not usually in the habit of directing people on their appearance, but you’ve looked better.”

By which, she probably means Poe looks like death. It’s a generous assessment.

“I’m sorry, General. I heard the siren and didn’t have time to powder my nose.”

Kalonia intercedes, hands folded behind her back. “The Commander’s condition is stable, but I can’t say it would remain that way if he should return to active duty, General.”

Leia nods, slowly looking between them. “We’re in a bad situation.”

“I understand that,” Kalonia says. “My recommendation remains the same if you want to preserve what resources we still have.”

“Whatever you need, Sir,” Poe assures the General.

Kalonia doesn’t glare at him, but she radiates disapproval.

At Poe’s shoulder, Ackbar sighs, a slow, gurgled huff with the sag of his large shoulders. “Our fleet is divided, our starfighters may all be flying into traps, and the rest are grounded while those Star Destroyers remain in orbit.”

“Do we have local outposts or allies on this planet who could help us launch a ground assault? Sneak up on those Star Destroyers?” Poe asks.

Kalonia cuts him with a sharp glare. “Don’t even think about it, Dameron.”

“Our fighters are capable, and we must trust the Force is with them,” Ackbar says, but then seems to rally from his sombre thoughts, looking to Leia. “We are no help if we can’t secure our own survival.”

Poe can’t help but stare a little at the Admiral. It’s rare to hear someone appeal so explicitly to the Force, but Admiral Ackbar has been part of this struggle for a lifetime before Poe. The Admiral is from a time when the Force could, and maybe did, answer people who believed in it.

“The Admiral’s right,” Leia nods. She leans her weight with hands on the edge of her desk. “As much as I know it rails against your instincts, Poe, our pilots are on their own for now. We’ve managed in worse situations than this. Our base will evacuate, but to which Beta site, I leave in your hands, Admiral. As your first act of assuming command.”

Poe gapes. They’re all staring at her.

“General.” Ackbar’s voice is quiet. Cautious. “They will not take you.”

“No, Admiral. But I fear it’s more complicated than that.” Leia’s voice is tight, and when her eyes return to Poe’s, his full body flush of apprehension blurs his vision for a moment, blood roaring in his ears.

In three hours, you will deliver your son, Lord Kylo Ren, to the First Order.

Poe’s hands clench to fists. Is it possible?

Leia swallows, and Poe does not like to see his Alpha hesitate, afraid. “I need to know… what did you mean, when you said they know the Stilettos are coming?”

Poe feels the remaining blood drain from his face. His mouth is dry, his throat tight. “Uh. Well. It’s sort of –“

Leia is frowning again. “You’ve never minced words, Commander. Don’t start.”

He’s about to cross a line he doesn’t understand, but they’re all staring hard at him, waiting. He trusts these people completely. So, it shouldn’t feel like a betrayal, but it does, twisting painfully in his chest as he admits, “I saw it. In a dream.”

Leia holds his gaze, eyes wide. “A dream.”

“A vision?” Ackbar presses.

“When?” Kalonia asks in a note of alarm, as though this is something she should have protected him from through all her tools and care.

“Hours ago. Just….” Poe shakes his head and shuts his eyes, shielding them with his hand. This is too much. This can’t be happening. He wouldn’t have believed it himself, but this is – “Hours. It’s more than a gut feeling, I woke up, and I knew –“

“The Force moves through all living things,” Ackbar says, a reverence in his voice that unnerves Poe, and the Admiral is looking at him in an entirely new way, quietly delighted, like the soft and private pride of a parent, for reasons that Poe can’t reject quickly enough.

“I don’t have the Force.”

“But it’s in you. In all of us, whether we know it or not. Whether or not it is ours to yield,” Ackbar says, gesturing with his webbed hands, and Poe tries very hard not to scowl at his commanding officer.

“What exactly did you see, Commander?” Kalonia asks, frowning.

“Star systems. The Stilleto’s descent on Dagobah. The refugee’s convoys – destroyed.” Poe glances back to the control room, thinking of the convoys they witnessed destroyed in a flash of red. “Then it happened.”

Leia doesn’t miss a beat, searching his face. “And the Stilettos?”

Poe blinks, taken aback that they should believe him so easily. He squints, trying to remember. For a moment, his ears ring with Rey’s warning to close your eyes, don’t look -- “No. Nothing after that.”

“Nothing is certain in the Force, it shows us only possibilities,” Ackbar says.

“General,” Poe appeals to Leia, though an instinctual part of him makes him bow his head at her soft scowl. His heart is pounding. “Why does the First Order think we’re holding Kylo Ren?”

Leia’s expression darkens. Her thin hands adjust their brittle hold on the desk. A worse thought occurs to Poe: that anger, that darkness in her eyes might not be for him at all. “I fear we may have been compromised. I must relieve my Command.”

Poe doesn’t understand. “General, you can’t—“

“Leia,” Kalonia’s voice is gentle, but stern. She steps towards the desk, and there’s a sharp look in her eyes that reminds Poe she didn’t only earn her rank through service in an infirmary. “Is Kylo Ren here?”

The General’s scowl is bitter as she swallows, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

The air in the office feels thin. Poe can’t get enough air. “You… wh… what do… you don’t know?”

He’s here? Kylo Ren could be here?

This can’t be happening.

“To my knowledge,” Admiral Ackbar’s voice trembles with all the age of its authority, “Neither the Resistance nor any of its officers presently or previously have ever held Kylo Ren in custody. Is this also your understanding, General?”

Leia nods, slowly, focus on her death grip of the desk.

“Has he contacted you?” Kalonia asks, and Leia starts to shake her head. She stops and winces, like a tic in her neck, as though it pains her to do so.

Poe automatically glances over his shoulder, to the empty corners of Leia’s office, but he doesn’t feel any more reassured. The sandstone walls are at once both claustrophobic and too tall, too wide with too many shadows to hide within.

“I’ve shared a similar vision, Poe.” The admission is pushed through Leia’s teeth with difficulty. She still doesn’t meet his eyes when he looks back. “I saw the stars. I saw the convoy. But the Force shows us so many things, not all of them certain.”

“I saw him,” Poe’s voice is shaking. It’s the fear that anchors his certainty, those eyes that bored into him, the tight hand in his hair. “And Rey. He’s looking for her.”

Leia’s eyes widen and finally rise to his, shining with uneasiness and hurt. “He spoke to you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Poe says.

“And did he say anything else?”

(“I want him to watch…. I want her to know….”)

But the words slip like oil over water through Poe’s memory, and he clings to the only certainty he has. “He wants Rey.”

He does not understand why speaking those words feels like a physical blow to his core, or why Leia flinches as though she shares some of that hurt. He can’t think about that now.

Leia exchanges a look of concern with Ackbar. “He thinks she’s still with us.”

If these aren’t just dreams.… Poe clears his throat. “I’ve seen Rey, too.”

Leia looks torn between awe, horror and exasperation, glancing away for a moment. “By the maker, Poe. What else haven’t you told us?”

Kalonia shifts back to look at him appraisingly. “How long has this been happening?”

“Is she all right?” Ackbar asks, before Poe can answer.

Poe is nodding on reflex before he can think better of it. Stops himself, dragging a hand down his face. Maker, he’s exhausted. “I don’t know. She’s… I think she’s alone. I don’t know if she’s all right.” She was scared, but—wait. Poe frowns, remembering the bright coals of her eyes, her shoulders braced against the dark. No. “She was angry.”

Ackbar is murmuring in conspiratorial tones, shaking his head, displeased. “The First Order learn of our location. They come here, demanding Kylo Ren’s return.”

“Why would they think he’s a hostage?” Kalonia asks, searching between the three of them. “If he’s as powerful as they say… we don’t have any means to hold a Knight of Ren, or anyone who could use the Force to apprehend him. Do we?”

Ackbar is shaking his head, and Leia raises a hand in plea or surrender. “I don’t know.” She looks to Poe and her eyes are shining. “But Poe isn’t the only one. I’ve seen him, too. Here. Even if it was only a vision… and he never spoke to me. It’s too great a coincidence. Admiral, you must take command.”

Poe can’t entertain the thought. Protect the General, protect the Resistance.

“General. If he’s here for you, we need to get you to safety. We need to get our people off this base.”

“If he’s already visited me, and I can’t remember… it’s not that he wants me dead.” Leia’s voice is trembling, then cracks. She swallows, mouth tight. “We don’t know what damage I may have done without knowing it. And I might not be the only one.”

Poe stares at her, numb.

“He could have been here, for days,” Leia says, searching his face. “Poe. When did your visions start?”

“A few days—“

This time it’s Kalonia who speaks, tone flattened with a dread of understanding. “And when did your heat start?”

No.

Poe reels, shaking his head. The world is tipping again, but Ackbar’s hand is like a benevolent brand of iron behind his shoulder. When he finally finds his voice, it’s hoarse. “No. No.”

But even hearing the possibility is like shaking dust from his ears. A haze is lifting, though Poe clings to it with a desperate determination, and the guilty purse of Leia’s mouth is no guard against the voice that thins in Poe’s ears like a distorted transmission, sounding remarkably like his own, This wouldn’t be so hard for you if you were a better Jedi.

That is Poe’s voice, and then --

“I’m not a Jedi.” Kylo Ren’s voice strikes through him like a note of crystal, and the veil of the last forty-eight hours falls away.

Poe lies on his infirmary cot, breathing slow and deep as he breaks the heavy tides of sedation. A dark figure crowds against his shoulder. Kalonia works at her console at the far end of the infirmary, attention diverted by the will of Poe’s visitor. Gloved fingers sink into Poe’s hair, curving his neck back. Poe groans as his throat is bared, shoulders bearing the weight as his spine gentles into a bow, as he looks up into that dour expression scoured by a scar, a dark gaze that won’t let him close his eyes, “Tell her I’m coming for what’s mine.”

Earlier, and the world is spinning, the Stilettos have taken flight, and Poe’s knees are giving out on the down ramp from the hangar bay. Finn is grasping for him (“Poe!”) but Poe has already fallen. His head does not meet the duracrete. An invisible vice closes around his chest, holds him fast, and rights him to slump gracelessly against the wheels of Finn’s chair. Poe is panting, forehead braced on the back of his hand. Above him, Finn tenses, a hand clamps on Poe’s shoulder, and then Finn is cursing, “No. What the – no!”

Earlier, once more, and Rey is perched on his infirmary cot. “When did you get back?” Poe is asking, and Rey’s smile is brittle as she promises, Soon. But that cloaked figure is at her shoulder, and Rey glimmers out of mind. The figure shrouds itself deeper in shadows and mirrors of thought, lingering out of the corner of Poe’s vision, until Poe blinks him away like he was never there at all.

Earliest, and here is where it started.

Poe is preparing for the Blue Squadron’s routine reconnaissance flight. He stands in the throngs of his fellow pilots, and watches in horror as their eyes glaze, as Kylo Ren emerges like a black stain through the ranks of flightsuit orange without a gesture of protest. His smirk is cold and his eyes are hard. Poe has never seen his face (not this face, but there’s something familiar about those eyes, that strong nose, and his long jaw, Poe has grown up studying those features on his idols). He doesn’t know Kylo Ren by his features, or the way he moves, but by the way he spills into all the fractures he left in Poe’s mind months before.

Poe’s entire body clenches, immobile, under the will of another. He remembers this, too.

He remembers in an instant how to be still, if you’re perfectly still it might be over quickly, might not hurt so much.

Kylo Ren’s smirk widens at the recognition. “Pilot. You remember.”

It’s strange to see Han Solo’s smile twisted on that face, under that dark hair, like cruelty doesn’t sit comfortably in his features.

Kalonia’s hand brings Poe back to Leia’s office, startling away from her touch, and she is saying, “We need to get you both into protection.”

“Finn,” Poe interrupts, quick and panicked, the infirmary swimming before his eyes like double vision. “Wait—“

Because he remembers now: Kylo Ren relinquishing his hold on Poe’s hair, turning his back to approach the former Stormtrooper. Finn, who growled and spat, pinned to his own bed through nothing but Ren’s force of will: “Ren, swear to whatever moves this universe, when I get out of here--”

And Ren had laughed, soft and bemused. “A traitor and a cripple. Today your wish comes true: you’re coming with me.”

Kalonia and Ackbar reach for Poe when he stumbles, heart almost stopping in his chest. “Where’s Finn?”