Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Finn.

It’s a cruel joke, surely. Something plotted by someone with a twisted sense of humor and a penchant for … he doesn’t exactly know; irony, perhaps, or something along those lines.

His eyes flick between the blanket, the hands holding it, and the eyes of the man to whom those hands belong.

The binders around his wrist are an ancient pair, from back when the Force users of the galaxy could be counted on several hands instead of just one. But they work, unfortunately, and chafe his wrists to boot. The cot he’s sitting on is a long, metal thing, and he thinks with no small amount of dark amusement that they’re similar to the ones in the cells on the Finalizer. The clothes he’s been given are thin, much thinner than the layers and layers of black he’d taken to wearing, and he can feel the chill of the metal bed through the fabric.

It’s just one reason in the midst of thousands of why he couldn’t sleep at night, but it’s still a reason.

He didn’t know anyone had noticed.

But apparently someone had.

There's no discernible emotion in FN-2187’s face. He doesn’t offer the blanket with a smile or a smirk. However, the man's eyes are hard, and Ben thinks that the man might not want to be here, offering the orange blanket to the man who was once dubbed the Jedi Killer. Ben can’t blame him.

“I saw you shivering on the surveillance tapes,” FN-2187 tells him. As if that explanation alone is suitable for this act of kindness, of – dare he think it – pity. “Thought it might, you know, help.”

The man’s speech is awkward and stilted. He can see that the trooper’s sweating slightly, as if worried Ben is going to somehow kill him with his bound, bare hands. There's another half a heartbeat of silence, before Finn gives up on receiving any sort of response. The blanket’s gingerly set on the cot beside him. Ben's eyes follow its path, and he continues to stare at it even as FN-2187 pulls his hands away. The deed is done, and the man hesitates but for a moment before leaving the cell.

The door slides closed behind him, and he continues staring at the bright orange atrocity before lying back down and turning onto his side.

-

He doesn’t use the blanket, at first. He kicks it off when he gets ready to go to sleep, the fabric falling to a crumpled heap on the floor. He turns and writhes and tries to ignore the pounding in his head.

Poe.

The cell’s bathroom is a small thing, hidden only partially behind a wall. He finds himself on his knees in front of it several times between meetings with Resistance leaders, retching even when there’s nothing to throw up.

He hadn’t quite realized how central the Force was until it’s stripped from him, blocked by the binders on his wrists. The absence of it makes him dizzy, makes his head feel hollow and too-light for his liking. The nausea comes as a result, and what time isn’t spent on the cot or in interrogations is spent by the toilet, eyes closed against the unsteadiness.

The next visitor isn’t FN-2187. No, it’s someone much more familiar.

“I can hear you down the hallway.” It’s not the traitor’s voice. No, he knows this voice. He knows this voice and all of its snarky comments, its playful little lilt even when blood is dripping down its owner’s temple and from cracked, dry lips.

Ben glances up at Poe Dameron. His eyes flick to the basin next to him, and he just shrugs. “Sorry,” he mutters. There isn’t anyone to talk to, no reason to use his voice, so it comes out cracked and rough.

The pilot’s still dressed in his flight suit, a garish orange-red color that matches the blanket that the traitor had given him. He must’ve come here from flight training. Ben closes his eyes and rests his head against the basin, taking deep breaths to combat the wave of nausea coming over him.

“The General asked me to administer this.” He doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he can feel the man’s rough hands on his arm, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up. He waits for the prick of the needle, waits for the nausea to be relieved, but it doesn’t come. When he opens his eyes, the pilot is staring at the collection of pinprick bruises on his forearm. The man looks genuinely surprised; Ben wants to snort.

“Truth serum,” Ben explains gruffly. “Administered before each information session.”

Information session, they called it. In the First Order, they called it an interrogation.

“Every time?” Poe mutters, eyes still on the dark marks on Ben’s pale skin. Ben just nods before resting his head back against the edge of the toilet.

“Every time.” He lets his eyes slip closed again.

The prick of the needle stings slightly, but it’s not nearly as painful as the truth serum. That stuff burned something horrible. The anti-nausea drug kicks in fairly quickly, and he lets out a soft sigh as the urge to retch near disappears.

The words don’t come easily, given how awful his throat feels and his reluctance to say them. “Thank you.” There’s no response. When he opens his eyes, the dizziness having left, he sees an empty room.

Poe.

Breakfast is late, about eight days after Ben's given the blanket. Said blanket hasn’t moved from the floor since the day of FN-2187’s visit.

He’s given a nutrition bar, usually, three times a day to keep the hunger at bay. He has no way of telling the time, no way of keeping track of how long he’s been inside this damn cell with its slit of a window and its heavy walls. He simply knows the days by counting how often he’s taken out of the cell, usually once or twice a day to give as much information as he can during the meetings between the General and her leaders.

But his stomach is used to regularity now, and when the bar fails to be slid under the door, it growls. He’s unused to hunger, and curls in on himself on the cot in an attempt to stop it. He can recall his teachings, the scars inflicted on him by his master and knights alike in an attempt to get their point across.

Pain is strength, pain is focus, pain is –

His stomach growls again.

Pain is really fucking irritating.

The cold of the cot continues to bite his skin until he gives in with a sigh. He rolls over, and hesitantly reaches down blindly to grab at the orange blanket, carefully pulling it up from the floor. It’s a heavy thing, soft against the areas of his skin that aren’t covered by the Resistance clothing – his wrists and ankles, mostly. He spreads it over the metal cot and curls onto it. It’s merely a barrier between the metal and himself, he thinks. It’s nothing more than that.

His stomach growls again and he shudders.

A good portion of it is still draping over the cot onto the floor. It’s big enough to wrap around him. So he does just that, grabbing the rest of it from the floor and draping it over himself. His feet are still frozen, cold against his shins, but everything else feels just a bit warmer. He lets his eyes slip closed, lets his shoulders loosen some of their tension. He’d expected it to smell as his clothes did, of some cleaner that’s generic and clinical and faint. But instead it smells heavy, of aftershave and soap and something like engine oil.

He can’t bring himself to hate it enough to throw it off, the warmth welcome after days of chill. The bar for lunch comes and he ignores it, eyes closed as he curls further into the blanket.

-

“You haven’t been eating.”

Ben looks up at Poe. His eyes flick to the small pile of bars on the floor, and then back to the Resistance pilot. He merely shrugs. He’d thrown the blanket to the floor when the pilot came in, not wanting to be seen using it.

Pain is strength. Pain is focus. Pain is irritating, but he’s had to deal with more annoying things before (at the moment, he can think of one certain ginger general) and so he takes the amount of bars on the floor in stride. Besides, he hasn’t had the anti-nausea medication administered in three days. If he doesn’t eat, there’s nothing to retch up. It’s simply logic, really.

“You need to eat.” There’s a pause. “The General’s worried.”

“Worried her source of information will die of starvation?” he asks. It’s not an accusation, merely an acknowledgement. His voice is groggy and rough from disuse, and it surprises even him in its softness.

The pilot crosses his arms over his chest. Unlike FN-2187, the other man’s glaring at Ben with all he’s got. “Worried that her son is going to die in captivity,” he nearly snaps.

“I’m not going to die,” he insists softly.

An irritated huff comes from the Resistance man. “It’s been almost 28 hours. I can hear your stomach growling from over here. You're going to pass out, eventually, if you haven’t already. You’re not invincible, you know.”

He knows. Oh, he very much knows. His master had reminded him of it every single day, dangling it like bait in front of him. Something to achieve, something to reach for. Invincibility, immortality, greatness and destruction and darkness. Something far beyond humanity and its pathetic weaknesses.

Ben's stomach growls, and he curls in on himself just a bit more, wincing at the cramping. He tries to resist the very real urge to faint. He’d already done that twice.

“I’m fine,” he breathes, shaking his head.

There's silence. One heartbeat, two heartbeat. The pilot's still glaring at him, before he rolls his dark eyes and turns towards the door. To Ben's relief, the man leaves after a long, annoyed sigh. It’s not until a few moments later that he realizes that the blanket’s gone off with the pilot. He clutches for warmth that isn’t there, and bitterly tells himself that he hadn’t deserved it anyway.

-

He’s not entirely sure how much time has passed since Poe’s last entrance. Two more bars have been slid under the door since then. But he can hear the pilot speaking to the guards outside, his voice louder than the rest.

“The General wants the prisoner.”

“I didn’t hear anything about it.”

“She only just told me. I came straight here. I’m to deliver him to an interrogation room.”

He doesn’t look up as the door slides open. He hears the stomping of Poe’s boots, and then can see the toes of them as the pilot stands before him. There’s a hand on his upper arm, tugging him upwards. Despite Poe being a good head shorter than him, the man’s strong as he pulls him towards the door, stepping over the pile of nutrition bars.

He wants his mask. The desire for it is quick and swift as Poe tugs him out into the hallway, guards eagerly raking in the sight of the former Master of the Knights of Ren. He’s just grateful Poe drags him into one of the interrogation rooms relatively quickly.

He’s expecting a droid with a syringe like he's seen so many times over the past few weeks, or perhaps his mother.

He gets neither.

Instead, he stares at the table in front of him. It’s an interrogation room, sure, with a set of syringes of serums set to the side and two chairs and no windows. But for him, it’s been turned into a dining room, of sorts. Three trays have been carried from the Resistance mess hall, each stacked high with food. Fresh fruit, ripe and gleaming, and comforting stews and meat and vegetables and he feels his mouth salivate just looking at it.

“The dining staff thinks I’m hoarding,” Poe explains from beside him.

He simply stares, mouth watering as he sees the juna berries on one of the plates. He can remember their sweetness from long ago, back when his mother served them to him on Yavin IV with a smile and a hair ruffle, telling him not to eat them too quickly or else he’ll get sick.

“Why?” It’s a simple question, rasped from a weak throat that hasn’t seen water in quite a while.

“Because nutrition bars are shit. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t go on a hunger strike earlier.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, to be amusing and jovial and easy, but it comes off as awkward and embarrassed. Poe claps him on the shoulder and steers him towards the table, forcing him down into one of the chairs. It’s too small, and Ben's knees hit the bottom of the table, so he contorts himself slightly to make it work. He hunches, staring at the spread before him and reaching for the juna berries he’d seen before. Sweetness erupts in his mouth as soon as he bites down, so overwhelming that he starts coughing, juice coating his lips and chin as he tries to catch his breath. A glass of water is pushed towards him, and he takes it gratefully, downing the entire thing in one go.

“Not too fast,” Poe warns him, but refills the glass all the same. “The General would hate me if I made you sick.”

He merely nods and takes another, slower sip before reaching for a slice of thick meat.

The silence that comes afterwards is awkward, filled only with their breathing – his own’s slightly more labored as he’s the only one eating. He chews and swallows slowly, unsure of whether he will ever get this again.

The thought hits him and he stops with a berry halfway to his lips, the fruit dropping from his fingers. “… am I to be executed?”

The man across from him simply stares. “What?”

“This,” he explains, gesturing to the food. “Is this a … last meal sort of thing?” It honestly wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility.

Poe snorts, well and truly snorts in amusement, and he’s slightly comforted by it. “No.” That’s all the answer he gets. It’s enough, though, and he starts to eat again.

There’s another bout of silence before Poe speaks. “Do you know the locations of the Stormtrooper training facilities?”

This time it’s his time to snort, the sweet juice of some fruit nearly coming out of his nose. “This … this is your interrogation technique?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at the pilot.

“I’m just curious,” the man offers, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “No one will tell me, no matter who I ask.”

That’s because they hadn’t asked him that question. They asked him about future plans, future bases and possible weak spots in the First Order’s armor. They’d never asked him about the Stormtrooper facilities before. “… yes.”

He couldn’t give much when they’d first tugged him into an interrogation room. His focus was not on attacks, hardly ever on the Resistance and its agenda against the First Order. He honestly can’t give much more than theories and things he’d heard in the hallways. He knows full well Hux thought of him as a nuisance and a fool, and the general kept him in the dark unless the Supreme Leader insisted upon his knowing.

But Poe listens intently to every bit of information he offers between bites, hanging onto every word and coordinate no matter how unreliable or vague they might be. It’s more undivided attention than he’d gotten in the meetings with the General and her people, those meetings ending in his legs aching from standing and speaking for hours on end, fingers cramped from sketching what he could of plans.

He manages to down a bit more, drink a bit more water until he feels full for the first time in what he assumes is several days. He’s had two trays worth of food, much to his surprise, and half a pitcher of water. Poe leads him back, hand warm and steady on his upper arm. The guards part for him and let the other man enter the cell.

The blanket’s waiting for him on the cot when he enters, folded on the cot. He freezes despite Poe continuing to walk into the small room.

“I can’t tell you when I can do this again,” the pilot tells him, sounding somewhat unsure of himself.

“It’s fine.” His voice breaks, much to his embarrassment. Poe jerks his head towards the blanket.

“Finn washed it,” he says, explaining its disappearance. Ben continues to stare at it even as Poe leaves with a muttered goodbye. He unfolds it, bringing it to his nose and curling his arms around it. It does smell cleaner, and less like oil and aftershave, but the warmth remains. He tucks his feet beneath him, the blanket draped across his shoulders as he stares at the grey wall.

-

No amount of truth serum can tell them what he does not know. He rubs at the bruises the needles leave on his arms, taking a small amount of comfort in the pain that it brings him. He no longer needs the pain to focus; it would be asinine to do so, without the Force at his call, but it gives him a sense of familiarity at least.

They’d questioned him for hours again, asking the same over and over again as if he would give them a different answer each and every time they ask. His mother says nothing as he’s led back to the cell, the guards gripping him far more tightly and painfully than Poe had. He curls into the blanket, eyes closed for what seems like only a few minutes before the door slides open. He sits up and nearly topples over, tangled in the orange fabric. He never was the most graceful of humans, and his near fall off the cot proves it.

Poe’s standing in the doorway, damn near beaming.

“They’ve obliterated one of the training facilities,” he tells Ben, moving to lean against the wall opposite of the Resistance’s prized prisoner.

Ben’s silent. There’s more. There has to be, otherwise Poe would’ve left. He stares at the pilot, waiting for the rest.

Poe's smile is poorly restrained, the corners of his lips quirking up slightly despite his attempt to keep a straight face. “They rescued 56 children between the ages of 4 and 8.”

Ben remains quiet, staring at Poe. The man’s happiness is practically radiating off of him. “That’s a small amount,” he mutters, finally. "There are more."

“Sure," Poe replies. "But it’s a start."

Finn.

He’s put on probation after that; house arrest, really. He can’t leave his room, and there's still a guard outside of it. He still has the binders around his wrists, and he has to figure out a way to clean around them in the fresher. But he’s given clothes that are slightly thicker, slightly more comfortable. They’re a far cry from what he once wore back when he was the Master of the Knights of Ren, but the standard issue sweatpants and t-shirt are cozy enough.

He’s in the middle of tugging his shirt over his head, his hair wet and loose around his face, when FN-2187 walks in.

Ben stops with the fabric midway down his torso, raising a dark eyebrow at the other man who’s staring at his stomach and the large scar that spreads across his abdomen. “FN-2187,” he says as he pulls the shirt the rest of the way down. “Can I help you?”

“Finn,” the man interjects quickly. “The name’s Finn.” He’s silent for a moment. “You told Poe about the training facilities.”

“I did.”

“You told him where they were.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t tell him what they do to those kids.” It’s almost accusatory.

“I would have if I knew,” he admits. “But I didn’t, and I still don’t. That was Hux’s project, not mine.”

The man stiffens. “Project,” he repeats flatly.

“A poor choice of words,” Ben admits, casting a glance towards the other man. He grabs the towel from where it had fallen from his shoulders, and rubs at his hair. “Have they recovered any more children?”

“Over 200,” Finn says, shuffling on his feet.

“Wonderful," he breathes, raking his hand through his hair as he rests the towel on his shoulders. "That's ... that's fantastic, really. I'm happy.” He’s surprised to find that he means it. He’s glad his information has been useful. Perhaps now the council will see that he’s on their side, and take these damn cuffs off of him. Or at least give him free rein of the base, preferably including the mess hall. Nutrition bars really are shit.

He walks over to the bed and drops the towel on top of the orange blanket he’s spread over the typical grey quilt, bending down to get a pair of socks.

“You still have it.” Finn sounds amazed, and when he looks at the ex-trooper, the other man’s staring at the blanket in some sort of awe. Ben glances down at the orange blanket. It’d lost its unique smell about a week ago, Poe too busy with the recovery of the children to come by and grab it to wash it. But yes, he still has it, and prefers it to every other blanket and sheet that he’s been given.

“I do,” he replies slowly. “… thank you, for it. It’s … it’s been a big help, through this.”

He can feel the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears flushing slightly as he glances towards Finn. "You were right; it was cold in that cell." Ben offers what he can of a smile; it's weak and a little strained, the expression unfamiliar after so long, but he tries. "So ... thank you."

The words are perhaps a bit too late, unsaid for too long. But at least he says them. Better late than never, he supposes.

“No, thank you.”

He looks up to stare at the other man, who’s looking at him with perhaps the most earnest look Ben’s seen since … well, his father, back on Starkiller. It makes his heart hurt and his breath catch as the ex-Stormtrooper shifts his feet, full lips opening and closing as he tries to form words.

When Finn does speak, a shaky breath preludes them. “I was in those facilities, and to know that they’re getting them out of there and destroying those places, it …” The ex-trooper takes a deep, shuddery breath again, and when he looks up his smile’s soft and sad and sweet and the ex-Knight of Ren stares, shocked. “Thank you.”

He can’t speak, can’t think, can’t process anything else. He’s not entirely sure if he says, “You’re welcome,” or not, but then Finn’s stumbling towards the door and its sliding shut behind the trooper and he’s left standing there with a pair of socks in his hand and his mouth open in surprise.

Poe.

He has a moment of weakness.

The binders are starting to chafe him. The night after Finn visits him, he tries his damndest to pry them off. He bangs them against the wall, tries to break them against the edge of the bed he’s been given as well as the wardrobe, the table, the counter in the fresher. It only results in bruised wrists and a few nasty cuts from the metal that cause blood to drip down his forearms.

His last attempt before succumbing to exhaustion is bashing them against the doorframe to the fresher, the act resulting in scrapes and black and blue skin, and plenty of frustrated, indistinguishable cries.

“I’m not going to do anything!” It’s screamed at the door, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to do anything! I just want them off!” There’s no response from the other side. He can hear the guard outside shuffling slightly, unsure of how to reply.

His shoulders heave, and he gives one last bash against the doorframe before leaning against the doorway and sliding down to the floor. He wants to throw something, anything, but the furniture’s bolted to the floor like all regulation furniture and he doesn’t have the heart to throw the blanket that had been given to him. So instead he curls up in it, careful not to get blood on the fabric.

-

“Did you do this?”

“Yes,” he replies simply.

Poe’s fingers are light on his broken skin, fingertips tracing over the scrapes and scabs and scars. “Why?”

He snorts. “Do you know how uncomfortable these things are? I can’t clean underneath them, they clank when I sleep, and they’re irritating and painful.”

“So you didn’t do it to hurt yourself?” Poe asks slowly.

“No,” he insists. “I just want them off.”

The pilot stares at him, before putting the newly cleaned blanket back in his hands and leaving the room.

It’s not much, but he’s able to push some of the fabric in between the metal of the cuffs and his skin. He can’t do it around his entire wrist, but he can do it on the tender inside, and that’s enough to sate him for now.

-

489 children are rescued from the facilities he knows about. He’s almost positive there are more, but he can’t even begin to fathom where they are or how many children are inside of them.

The General retrieves him one afternoon, and they stand watching as one of the shuttles returns with a dozen or so children, all dressed in black with their hair cropped short. He’s never seen this side, never seen this humanity as Finn and Poe stand before the group. He can’t hear particularly well, but he catches snippets of Finn explaining the concept of a name and how they can pick theirs, taking clues from either their assignment number as he did or creating their own.

It’s such a simple thing, a name. And yet it holds more power than he could’ve possibly imagined.

He watches, silent as the kids designate themselves with their new names almost immediately, eager and innocent.

“We have two new Poe’s,” his mother explains from beside him. “And seven new Finn’s.”

He snorts. He’s not surprised, honestly.

“There’s another Ben, as well.”

His back straightens, and he glances down.

She’s still looking out at the rescued children, watching as Finn kneels down to one little boy in particular and embraces him. She doesn’t look at him as she tells him, “Your cuffs are to be taken off tomorrow."

His head turns so quickly that he nearly hears his neck crack. "Really?"

It's such a childish answer, he thinks, in the moment after the word spills from his lips. It's hopeful and pathetic and way, way too juvenile of a response. But his mother smiles softly, and nods.

"The information you’ve provided has helped, significantly. Along with the training facilities, Red Squadron destroyed a developing base on Hoth. Several of the admirals think you’ve proven yourself.”

He stares at her, resisting the urge to bite his lip out of nervousness. "... and you?"

She glances at him. "The most helpful information you've provided to us resulted in the rescue of almost 500 children."

"I'm just sorry I can't tell you more," he replies honestly.

He watches as she smiles at him. It's a strange sort of smile, and he has the feeling she knows something he doesn't. Her hand reaches out, and brushes against his. He turns his hand over, and can recall when he last saw her. When her hand was bigger than his. Now, his fingers come around hers, and her hand seems so small and delicate. But there's strength in the way she clutches at his fingers.

"500 children, and you want to save more."

"Yes."

"You don't think that says something?"

She turns and walks away, her small form moving back into the crowd of people waiting to assist with the children.

He looks back through the window, and sees Finn helping a little girl onto Poe's shoulders, her small hands fisted in the pilot's dark curls as she hangs on for dear life.

-

Poe comes to his rooms the next day with a slim, metal thing in his hands. "The General's in a meeting," he explains as he sits beside Ben on the small bed, reaching his hand out for the man's wrist.

She's always in a meeting, he wants to say, but he keeps his lips shut as Poe takes his left hand in his and pries the metal thing between the two sides of the cuffs. They come apart with some difficulty, cracking open and falling against his leg. He twists his wrists, moves his fingers, examines the cuts and scrapes and bruises that he could feel but couldn't see before as Poe works on getting the other one undone.

The Force comes rushing back to him so quickly he nearly passes out. He can feel again, every life form on the base, can feel Poe beside him and Finn a little while away and everyone and everything. It leaves him breathless, and he barely registers Poe's hands on his wrists, the pilot's thumbs rubbing soothing circles on his skin.

He's dizzy, again, and his stomach turns, and he wrenches his wrists away and bolts to the toilet, emptying his breakfast into the basin. He can’t entirely decide if it was worse when he felt the Force or when he didn’t.

He feels Poe behind him after a few moments of retching, the pilot's hand on his forehead, pushing his hair back from his face as he's sick with the overwhelming feeling of everything after nothing for so damn long.

"I'm sorry, I should've realized," Poe mutters once Ben is finished.

"Don't be," Ben breathes. "It's just ... a lot, after not feeling anything; I can feel everything." He can feel tears gathering, but can't entirely discern their cause.

"Do you want me to stay?" the pilot asks, fingers still running through Ben's hair. It feels so wonderful Ben has to resist the urge to cry, and he ends up closing his eyes and leaning into the other man's touch. Maker, he can't even remember the last time he was touched like this, a hand in his hair, comforting and kind.

"Don't you have training...?" Ben mutters, exhausted.

"I'm already the best pilot in the Resistance," Poe's tone is entirely cocky and teasing. "I think I can skip training for one day.”

Ben just breathes, allowing himself a moment to just breathe as Poe continues to move his hands through the taller man's hair.

Finn.

The man’s holding a bottle of Corellian whiskey, coming to Ben’s door at some hellish hour. He doesn’t look drunk, not yet, and doesn’t smell it either. But Ben’s hesitant all the same, opening the door with a wary gaze and tired eyes.

FN-2187 looks like he’s been through hell and back. Ben can see that the skin under his eyes is slightly darker than usual, and he looks exhausted.

“Poe’s off attacking some base,” the man offers. “He was supposed to be back yesterday.”

Ben steps to the side, letting the other man into the room without another word. Finn walks in and sits down in the minuscule sitting area as Ben retrieves two glasses and sets them in front.

He’s had Corellian whiskey before; his father thought laws as rules to break rather than to abide, and as such he’d had his first sip on his 13th birthday. It was awful, then, and it’s still awful now, and he really should’ve thought to warn the other man of the drink before he knocks it back.

Finn sputters, dark eyes widening and then scrunching closed at the taste. “What the hell is this stuff?!”

“Alcohol,” Ben replies wryly before standing. He has hot chocolate mix, and mugs. It’s better than whiskey, at any rate; though the drink reminds him of his uncle, it’s better than the alcohol reminding him of his father. He walks back with two mugs, handing one of them to the other man before settling across from him.

“He’ll be fine.” He offers the best smile he can muster - a small, closed-lip thing, but it's all he can offer at the moment. “If there’s one thing Poe Dameron is good at, it’s not dying.”

Finn’s quiet, sipping at the hot drink. When he does start to speak, his voice is softer than Ben’s ever heard it. “The attack didn’t go well. The pilots that did return gave a report. They didn’t see his ship go down, but they didn’t see it with them either. C-3PO said the odds of him surviving are 72 to -“

“Don’t tell me the odds,” Ben mutters, shaking his head. “He’ll come back.”

They sip hot chocolate in silence, after that, nursing the drinks until they become lukewarm.

Finn leaves in the early hours in the morning, as the sky’s turning golden, and Ben washes the mugs free of the mix that had settled in the bottom.

-

Poe comes back late that morning, looking beat to hell but grinning like a bastard.

He watches from the back of the hangar as Finn runs to the pilot, gripping him so tightly Ben’s sure that the ex-Stormtrooper’s going to crush the poor man. But then they’re laughing, and afterwards, silence follows.

It takes Ben a few moments to realize what’s going on. It’s the whistling that makes him realize that the cheers from Poe’s squadron aren’t because of the pilot living, but because the pilot’s kissing Finn with a passion in a display that makes Ben feel hot and tight all over. 

Oh.

It makes sense, it really does. It makes total and complete sense and Ben shouldn’t be all that surprised, except he is, and he continues staring at the two men as they separate slightly, foreheads still pressed together as they share breath. Both are grinning, now.

He meditates for five hours, and ignores the beeping of his commlink.

Rey.

The day she comes back, it's raining. The sky's dark and rolling and the grass smells wet and clean, and training has been canceled for most of the flight crews for the simple reason of nobody feels like it. It's a day of sitting with Finn and Poe, of playing cards and showing off just a little bit, holding Poe's soda can in the air for a few moments just to watch Finn's eyes widen and Poe's eyes roll with the little demonstration.

"We get it, you have Force powers, big deal," the pilot grumbles, but then he grins a split second later and Ben allows himself a small smile, eyes lowering back to his hand of cards.

They're interrupted halfway through when another pilot runs up, tapping Poe on the shoulder. "She's back," she tells him, her smile big and wide before she rushes off somewhere else.

Cards are scattered, a can nearly knocked over before Ben's reflexes kick in. The can hovers, nearly horizontal before he reaches out to fix it with his hand. 

"Rey," Finn breathes, and Ben feels his heart stop with the mention of her name. They stand and bolt, cards fluttering to the floor. Ben crouches to pick them up before Poe grabs his shoulder.

“We’ll get them later,” the pilot insists, words coming out fast and excited. “C’mon, she’s back!”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Ben admits quietly. His last meeting with the scavenger hadn’t been exactly … amiable. He remembers with stark clarity the smell of ozone in the air, and her snarl, and their sabers locked together.

The scar on his hip will never entirely regain feeling, no matter how often he runs his fingers across it.

So he just shrugs Poe’s hand off, throws the two an “I’ll see you two later,” and continues picking up the cards. Finn looks like he wants to stay, and even bends to help when Poe tugs at his wrist. The next time Ben looks up, they’re gone.

-

He avoids them for the next day, knowing she’d be with them. He hides himself in his rooms with datapads and holovids given to him by his mother during his probation to keep him occupied.

He does, unfortunately, see them after dinner, because when has luck ever been on a Skywalker’s side?

He passes the Red Squadron’s hangar and catches Poe’s laughter, loud and open and oh so happy. He can’t resist looking in, and he nearly drops the datapads of information he’d drawn up for the General.

They’re all standing near Poe’s X-wing, laughing and smiling. Rey has Poe’s helmet plopped on top of her head, and he can just barely see it move on her small skull as she turns. It’s too big for her, spinning on her head, and he has to quell down the fondness that suddenly blooms in his chest for the scavenger that resisted him for so long.

And then it happens.

Poe dips his head and presses his lips against Rey’s. There’s no awkwardness, no fumbling. Their lips slot together easily, and her hand moves up to tangle in his curls. They’ve done this before, and by the looks of it, several dozen – possibly hundreds of - times before. It’s easy and sweet and slow and perfect, and Ben watches for perhaps a bit longer than he should as Poe presses her back against the side of his X-wing. And then he moves his eyes slightly to the left, and catches Finn’s curious gaze.

He tries to still his heart, tries to ignore what sounds like wind rushing in his ears, and just nods, offering what he can of a small smile before turning and making his way to the General’s rooms to deliver the datapads.

-

He manages to continue avoiding them for an entire week. It’s not an easy feat, especially when Poe and Finn have decided that they’re now his friends despite everything he’s done. He finds himself turning on his heel and walking away as fast as he possibly can several times, ignoring the call of “Ben!” behind him.

He’s in his room, putting together another datapad worth of information in an attempt to show the Resistance his solidarity when there’s a knock on his door.

He ignores it.

He can feel her.

She’s entirely overwhelming, light and bright and beautiful, and he’s not entirely sure he won’t fall to his knees if he opens the door and sees her. So he doesn’t, and he tries to ignore the knocking that’s becoming even more insistent.

“Open the door, Ren. I know you’re in there.”

Kriff.

He stands, running his hand through his hair as he walks to the door and opens it. He knows he probably looks like bantha shit; he hasn’t been sleeping well, despite the comfort the blanket gives him, and he’s been so busy working on the datapads that he hasn’t had much time to shower or eat. He’d taken a trip to the fresher that morning, thankfully, but he’s not entirely sure it improved much. The t-shirt and pants he’s wearing are a little worse for wear, and need to see a washer, but he can’t bring himself to really care.

He walks to the door and opens it, blinking down at the small woman who’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest.

She’s wearing one of their shirts, the fabric loose and large on her small frame, and tight pants. For once, her hair’s out of its three buns and instead curling along her shoulders. She looks radiant and Light, and he stares down at her with wide eyes and a stuttering heart.

His breath catches in his throat, and he nearly closes the door on her again.

He really should’ve closed it, he thinks, about a minute later, his hand to his bleeding nose on the way to the medbay.

-

Poe visits him in the morning, grimacing at the bruises on his pale skin when Ren pulls the cold pack away. “Rey told us.”

“Tell her well done,” he mutters around his swollen nose. “Not broken, but bruised to shit.”

The pilot looks apologetic. “We tried talking to her, but-“

“It doesn’t matter,” he assures Poe. “It really doesn’t.”

She wouldn’t be the first on the base to want to hit him, he thinks. She’s just the first to act on it.

-

She comes back the next night.

He’s still applying cold packs to the area, trying to keep the swelling and pain down as best as he can. He’s holding one to his face when he opens the door with an irritated, “What?”

She’s dressed much the same as before, only now her hair’s up again and she has the decency to look somewhat ashamed of what she’d done.

“They said you defected,” she says simply.

“I did,” he replies, just as simply.

“Why?” There’s the million credit question, isn’t it? Why did he defect? Why did he come back in the dead of night, when most of the base was asleep, and search out his mother? Why did he fall to her knees with a choked, “Mama,” and let himself be put in binders almost immediately afterwards? Why did he?

“… would you like to come in?” he asks, stepping back and gesturing into the small room he’d been given.

Her steps forward are hesitant, but they’re steps all the same.

Chapter Text

Rey.

It’s awkward, at best. Oh, Maker, is it awkward as he moves around the small room, gathering the supplies for the hot chocolate that has since become his vice. One of the many, he supposes.

“They told me about the children,” she tells him as he walks to the multiprocessor. He nearly stumbles at her voice, sounding so loud in the near-silent room. “Poe and Finn. And the General.”

“Did they?” he asks, running his thumb over the lip of his mug as he sets it below the processor and starts to make the drink, pressing buttons and listening to the soft whirring of the gears inside.

“They said you helped rescue almost 500.” There’s awe in her voice, however reluctant it may be. Resignation to the fact he did something good, for once.

“The word ‘helped’ is exaggerated,” he admits, voice low and somewhat gruff as he cross his arms over his chest and watches the processor. “I told them the locations of the training facilities. They were the ones who flew out and retrieved them.”

There’s silence for a few heartbeats, and then she’s speaking again, voice still quiet and slightly stilted. “… Finn’s really happy about it. About the facilities being destroyed.”

“There are more,” he interjects quickly. “I didn’t tell them all of them, only because I don’t know all of them.” The processer chimes its completion, and he reaches forward to pour the water and sweetener in before he starts the heating process. “I wish I did know.”

He says it so quietly, he’s not entirely sure that she heard him.

“What are you making?” she asks after another awkward silence, and he has the sudden realization that this is probably incredibly stupid.

He’s making hot chocolate for someone who was supposed to be his student, and has instead turned into his enemy. He’s making a treat for the girl – woman? – who gave him the scar across his face, the long slash along his shoulder, and the puckered mark on his other shoulder.

The processer chimes again, and he reaches to add the milk.

“Hot chocolate,” he explains, voice soft in an attempt to be somewhat less hostile. “Your friend Finn likes it.” He crosses his arms back over his chest and watches the processor as it heats the drink to the right temperature, gurgling slightly as it does so.

“... Why are you here?” It’s a demand, her voice hardened with something like defiance. She won’t accept his presence so easily. He would be disappointed if she had.

The question goes unanswered for a good few moments. He waits and waits and waits until the processor chimes again, and then he pours the drink into the two mugs. They nearly burn his hands as he wraps his fingers around them, but he’s been through worse – much worse.

He offers the mug to her with a warning. “Careful, it’s hot. Don’t burn yourself.”

She takes it gingerly as he settles into the chair across from her, holding his own mug in his hands and letting the pain bring back memories of relying on the sensation for comfort - Maker knows he couldn’t rely on anything else. Of everything in his life, pain is perhaps the most regular feeling he knows, and it’s simultaneously sad and scary and stupid to think about now.

“I’m here because I made a mistake,” he starts.

“You call slaughtering young Jedi, going to the Dark side, turning against your family, and killing your own father a mistake?”

She’s angry. He can feel the crackle of it through the Force, the heat of it. It’s almost intoxicating, but he just takes a sip of the hot chocolate perhaps a bit too soon to distract himself. It scalds his tongue, but it’s a welcome distraction from the heat of her.

“I’m here because I made many, many mistakes,” he tries again, pulling the lip of the mug from his mouth and licking his lips of the chocolate. “I’m here because I want to … I want to help make things right.”

She’s staring at him, mug still steaming in her hands. He hopes that she won’t throw it at him, though it’s definitely a possibility. There’s still that scrappy little scavenger in her; he has the nearly-broken nose to prove it.

“What do you think needs to happen?” she demands.

“A lot of things,” he admits as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “… some things I might need your help with.”

“Like what, Ren?”

“Solo,” he interjects quickly. “It’s … it’s Solo.”

There’s silence on her end, and he knows what she’s thinking. That he doesn’t deserve to hold the name of the man she’d once thought of as a father figure, that he isn’t good enough, isn’t worthy of it.

But she’s silent, and he takes that as his cue to continue answering her question.

“I need your help to stop Snoke.”

Poe

He didn’t expect her to agree. Of course she wouldn’t go off with him in the Falcon right this minute to defeat the being who’s brought him such pain. She’s not an idiot. She’s not going anywhere with him, not for a good long while.

But she might. One day.

For now, though, he distances himself as best as he can. It proves to be an enormously difficult task, seeing as Poe and Finn have taken it upon themselves to wrap him back up into their little group, the way they were before. Well, almost the way they were before.

The way they were before didn’t include the shining beacon of Light who’s near attached to the other men's hips every minute of every hour, laughing and smiling and beaming until she sees him in the doorway, and all of that stops.

He’s successfully gone three days without seeing any of them when it all plummets to bantha shit. He’s in the mess hall, loading his tray with a slice of chocolate cake, grabbing a lid so that he can take it back to his room and eat in peace. Or at least, that was his plan before there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, and he stops.

“We’ve got a seat with your name on it.”

Poe’s voice is as warm as his palm on Ben’s shoulder, and he stills for a moment before he realizes he’s not going to win this. No, the man’s interrogation had been proof enough. Poe Dameron is his own force to be reckoned with, and there’s something hidden in the cheerfulness of the pilot’s tone that has him wordlessly obeying. He lets himself be steered bodily towards the small table where Finn’s already sipping on a spoon of soup and Rey’s biting into a puffcake, speaking with her mouth full to the man across from her.

“Got him,” Poe says triumphantly, like he’s just won some sort of challenge, and Ben stares down at the two others looking up at him. Finn looks … happy. And Rey just watches him, her gaze not hard but definitely not warm or inviting as he settles down with his sandwich and his cake. He realizes he forgot a drink, but before he can even make an excuse to get up and get one, Finn’s already noticing the lack of a can and reaching for one of his sodas, wordlessly putting it on Ben’s tray.

“It’s about time. I thought you were avoiding us,” Finn says in that low voice of his with his blinding smile, the one that makes Ben’s heart do something funny every time it’s directed towards him.

“He was,” Poe states simply as he settles across from Ben, plucking a bright purple berry from a bundle on his tray and popping it into his mouth. “But he’s not going to anymore, isn’t that right, Ben?”

It’s the same tone his mother used when he was little, back when he convinced pens to float during her council meetings and chairs to pull back when someone argued with her. He won’t do it again, no, he won’t, isn’t that right, Ben?

He has no idea how to respond to Dameron taking on the mannerisms of the General, to his friend acting like his mother, so he just slices off the tip of his chocolate cake with his fork and tries to hide his furiously blushing ears.

“We’re not going to ask why,” Poe tells him, the conversation clearly not over, much to Ben’s dismay. “And we’re not going to force you to hang out with us. But we’re telling you that we want you to be with us. Is that clear, Solo?”

There’s a reason why, as a commanding officer, Poe Dameron is so damn good. There’s a tone in his voice that makes Ben listen, and he turns to look at the man who’s become his friend, his companion. Someone who took care of him, feeding him and holding his hair back when he was sick. Finn took care of him, too, bringing him the blanket that’s been his lifeline.

Rey…

Well, Rey’s punched him.

Not all of them want him to be there, he thinks as he takes a bite of his cake, humming around the icing. “Yes, General Organa,” he mutters, and he hears Finn’s bark of laughter a second after, and as he looks up, he notices the slightest smile on Rey’s face as well.

Finn.

It’s raining, but there are still flights to be made, training to be done on Rey’s part. It’s the kind of rain that soaks everything in that fresh, clean smell, the kind of rain that makes the perfect puddles for jumping in, the kind of rain that calls for hot chocolate and a datapad and a blanket.

So he does just that. He takes a datapad with the finances and their supplies to one of the common rooms, the window overlooking the green grasses and the trees just beginning to blossom. The tedious task of finding where they can cut costs is made just a bit better by the orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders and looking out the window, small as it is to keep from being seen from the skies.

“That seat taken?”

The ex-Stormtrooper is standing in Poe’s jacket, holding two steaming mugs of what looks to be hot chocolate. Ben shakes his head, silent as Finn settles into the chair across from him. They’re not the most comfortable things, but then again they barely have credits for weapons, let alone comfortable chairs.

“Poe’s off with his squadron,” Finn explains. “And Rey’s-“

“Off somewhere,” Ben continues, because none of them really know where she goes. But he’d bet a good amount of credits on her just enjoying the rain, standing in the shade of one of the trees and feeling the droplets on her forehead. Maybe her hair’s loose. Maybe she’s smiling.

“Off somewhere,” Finn repeats, and he sets the cups of cocoa down on the table between them. “What’re you working on?”

“Finances.”

“Exciting,” Finn deadpans.

Ben lets his mouth quirk up a bit as he reaches for one of the cups of cocoa. “Very,” he snarks right back.

“Rey loves the rain,” the other man offers, a half smile on his handsome face, and Ben shrugs, the blanket falling a bit from his shoulder. He reaches to tug it right back up, long pale fingers clenching in the soft fabric.

“I can imagine why. Being stranded on Jakku for so long,” he admits.

“She’ll stand out there for hours,” Finn explains. “She looks like a drowned womp rat when she comes back in.”

There’s warmth in his voice, his tone saturated with fondness and maybe even infatuation as he looks out the window, as if he could see her through the trees and soft mist. Ben looks out as well, and he finds himself searching for her slight form amongst the trunks, the tan of her skin and the grey of her jacket in the middle of all the green.

He looks back to Finn after a handful of heartbeats, taking in the look on the man’s face. He knows that look, he thinks. He saw it on his father when his mother was in meetings. He saw it on his mother’s face as she looked out the window of their Coruscant apartment, waiting for the Millennium Falcon to streak across the sky and return with her husband in its cockpit. A look of missing someone he loves, someone he would spend every waking moment with if he could and never get sick of them.

He saw those looks often, on the faces of his parents. But then again, he saw many other looks as well – not all of them quite so sweet or loving.

Still, he knows it. And he knows exactly of whom Finn is thinking. Well, maybe not exactly. But he has a 50/50 shot.

It’s quiet after that, and he’s grateful. He works better with quiet, with Finn’s soft slurps of hot chocolate and the rain drizzling on the roof ahead, and the gentle chatter of those off-duty around them.

He still enjoys the other man’s company, though, and he doesn’t realize that Finn was purposefully staying with him until he goes to leave, and the ex-Stormtrooper stands up immediately as well, offering him that damn smile before he collects the cups and leaves Ben to stand with a blanket around his shoulders and a datapad in his hand.

Rey.

She does look like a drowned womp rat when she comes in.

He’s going to return the datapad to his mother, the blanket safely folded in his quarters when she comes in from one of the doors leading out to the fields. Her boots are caked in mud, but her smile is radiant as she steps through. It’s been drizzling for hours now; he has no idea why her clothes are as soaked as they are, but he’s not in the business of asking as she sees him and stops.

Her smile fades a little, but doesn’t disappear entirely as she takes in the datapad in his hand. “Ben, I-“

“There you are!”

Her shriek echoes along the corridor as she’s grabbed from behind and lifted up into Poe’s arms, the pilot seemingly not giving a damn as to how wet she is. “Poe!” she cries, her laughter ringing in Ben’s ears as she turns and is immediately swept up into a passionate kiss with the pilot.

Whatever she has to say to him, she can tell him later, Ben thinks as he walks around the two, his ears burning as he tries to keep his embarrassed stomping to a minimum on the way to the General’s rooms.

Finn.

“Rey does the same thing.”

The grass of D’Qar is cool beneath him, the landing pads and hills of the hangars just beneath him as he waits for Poe to get back. Well, as they wait, he supposes, seeing as Finn’s come to join him.

“Meditating,” Ben says simply, not opening his eyes even as his focus curls up like smoke into nothing at all.

“Right, meditating,” Finn replies, his grin bright as he settles next to the Force user. Fighters are soaring overhead, but none of them are Poe.

Ben opens his eyes, looking over to see Finn wearing what looks like a new jacket. Instead of the brown leather one Ben’s pretty sure the man sleeps in, there’s a sleek black jacket that looks like one his dad used to wear. “New?”

“Huh?” Finn asks, before looking down at himself. “Oh, yeah. Rey’s wearing Poe’s.”

Of course she is, Ben thinks, because they’re a … threesome, or whatever they are. Perfect couple plus one more, and yet still perfect. “Where is Rey?”

“Meeting with the General,” Finn explains.

“Ah.”

That’s all there is, for a while. The roar of the fighters echoes around them, the breeze from their flights ruffling Ben’s hair as they both watch for Poe. It’s a cool day, after it rained all day before. The grass is still a little damp beneath him, but he doesn’t mind, and it seems Finn doesn’t either as he lies back in the grass and looks up at the blue sky.

“You love him. And her.”

Finn looks to him, one dark eyebrow raised. “The Force tell you that?” he asks. There's awe in his voice.

“No. The way you look at them did,” Ben explains with half of a smile, watching and holding his hand up as Poe flies above. It’s doubtful that the pilot can see them, but his half smile turns into a full on grin as Finn whoops at the sight of his …

Lover? Boyfriend? Ben’s not sure if there’s a label for the way Finn looks at Poe. Or the way he looks at Rey. The way his entire face lights up like a sun, his smile blinding, his eyes shining as he watches them laugh.

Ben feels his stomach do some sort of flip that makes him feel ill, and he stands, hating the way his legs ache after sitting for so long. “I’m going to get some caf.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“No, you wait for Poe,” he insists, and there’s a part of him that’s disappointed when the other man doesn’t protest, and instead turns his dark eyes back to the skies.

Rey.

She comes to his room after dinner one night, dressed in the jacket. It’s ridiculously big on her, and he has to let the corner of his mouth quirk up a bit at the sight of her.

“Poe wants to know if you want to come get a drink with us,” she asks.

His immediate reflex is to say no, to say he needs to work on something for the General, to lie. But Rey’s smarter than that, he knows that damn well, and so he just nods and grabs his own jacket before following her down to the small bar that isn’t very well stocked, but it’s stocked enough.

“There he is!”

It should warm him, he thinks, to have Poe grinning at him and opening his arm, but all it does is make his stomach sink as he approaches and takes a seat in the booth they’ve grabbed. There’s no cushion to the metal bench, the seat cold beneath him, but he says nothing as Poe gestures for another drink. Rey slips in the other side, the four of them managing to take up the entire half-circle of a booth.

“Stars, I needed this,” Poe breathes, taking a sip out of what Ben guesses was once Finn’s drink.

“You had no drills today, you just walked around and spoke to the General,” Rey says, laughter in her voice as she smiles towards the pilot.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t need it,” Poe replies with a wink that gets a grin, and Ben feels very out of place as Rey tucks herself against Finn, his arm wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her close.

He’s never liked whiskey the way his dad did, but he’ll drink it. And so he does, nursing his glass as he watches Poe try to introduce Finn to different drinks. The younger man has an enthusiastic approach to alcohol, Ben notes, taking a sip of his whiskey as he watches Finn down something orange, laughing as soon as the last drop falls down his throat, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

Rey’s more careful, liking the berries that came with Finn’s drink more than the drink itself, but she never looks Ben’s way. He didn’t expect her to, not really, but it might’ve been nice to exchange glances with her. To say something about the two fools beside him, laughing as Poe tells some story of some mission on some planet where a flirting attempt went awry.

To say something at all, really.

“I have a meeting with the General,” he offers, maybe an hour later as soon as he sees Poe’s hand linger on Finn’s thigh. None of them have looked at him in ten minutes. He counted.

“Right now?” Finn asks, dark eyes snapping to him, suddenly alert. Poe looks at him, and Ben’s all too familiar with the look of disappointment he gets. He knows it from his own mother.

“In the morning. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he offers, sliding a few credits towards Poe to cover the drinks.

“Don’t worry about it,” the pilot says, his voice harder and far from the cheerful tone he had earlier. “Sleep well, all right?”

Ben can only offer a nod before he leaves, hearing Rey’s laughter a moment after. He hasn’t heard it all night, and he knows it’s not a coincidence that he’s only hearing it after he’s out of sight, but not out of earshot.

Poe.

They try, they really do. They invite him to things. They invite him to cards, and drinks, and once they even tried to get him dancing when someone was celebrating some anniversary of something and had a party. Each time, he feels more closed off than the last, and lingering for two hours turns into one, and then he gets to the point where he’s staying maybe twenty minutes before he excuses himself again.

He even declined the most recent invitation, to eat with Finn and Rey on the grass-covered hangar while they wait to surprise Poe.

He gets four whole days before he’s grabbed in the hallway.

“You’re avoiding us again,” Poe says simply, dragging him from the main corridor down a hallway lined with electric panels. Ben lets himself be pulled backwards, blinking as Poe huffs, letting go of Ben’s bicep to run his hand through his dark curls. “Damn it, Ben! Why aren’t you getting this?!”

“What is there to get?” he snaps. So long he’s had a hold on his temper, but now his grip is loosening ever so slightly. He lowers the datapad he has, keeping it at his side as he stares down at the pilot.

“That we like you!” Poe hisses, gesturing with both hands. Dameron being dramatic as ever, it seems. “That we want to spend time with you! Hell, that we enjoy spending time with you! And don’t give me any of that you need to redeem yourself bantha shit, we all know you’re not there yet but you’re damn well on your way.”

“That’s not it,” Ben snarls.

“Then what is it?!”

He’s going to sound like a selfish ass, he knows. He’s going to sound like a right nerfherder, but he huffs, looking at some screw above Poe’s head. “… you three are together.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So…” Ben starts, trying to find the words to say it hurts. It hurts when he sees Finn looking at Poe with stars in his eyes, when Poe turns to kiss Rey directly after talking to him. When their gazes are more on each other than on him, when hands start to wander and he’s left on the other side of the table feeling cold. “You know what? Forget it.”

Much to his surprise, Poe lets him go stomping back to his rooms, and for the first time in weeks, he throws the datapad against the wall just to watch something shatter.

Finn.

They were lucky to get this long, he’s told. It’s not usual for a base to last as long as D’Qar did, for them to have as much time to prepare as they had.

It’s still not long enough.

“Ben, Ben, we need to leave.”

“What?” He’s still groggy, woken from a dead sleep and trying to make sense of what Finn’s saying, of why his shoulders are being shaken, of why his jacket’s being shoved into his hands and his arm tugged.

“Control room, someone intercepted a message. First Order’s on their way.”

A quick look to his clock says 0300 hours, and then he’s up and shoving his arms through his jacket.

Within an hour, maybe, they have to get everyone off the planet, all information off, all databases wiped, all weapons and ammunition and supplies to the barely built base on Takodana. It’s not much, not much at all, and it won’t hold everything, of that Ben’s damn sure. But that’s the plan, it seems, as he leaves his room and watches people scramble around him, pilots rushing by to fly out to the base’s defense.

He thinks he sees Poe rush down a hallway, sees Finn rush after him, but he’s suddenly smacked in the face with potent fear. It’s not his own, no, it’s someone on the base – many someones. It’s not the fear of the base getting destroyed, like he feels from many of the commanders and captains and lieutenants rushing by, no, it’s not that either. It’s a base fear. A fear of not knowing what’s happening, of not knowing what will happen. A childish fear.

The children.

He breaks into a run towards the bunks holding the children. They’ve gotten most of them off planet, he knows, and to some of his mother’s allies in the Republic, allies who can help reunite them with their families. But they recovered 40 just a week or so ago, and they haven’t been shuttled off yet. And now …

The fear gets stronger and stronger as he approaches, the red alerts blaring and lights flashing in an attempt to get everyone moving faster, faster, faster. He runs as fast as his legs can take him, and is about to turn the corner when someone runs smack into his chest. The collision forces the breath out of his lungs, but he doesn’t fall. The other person does, though, and he stares down at Finn, the ex-Stormtrooper’s eyes wide in surprise.

“Where are you-“ Finn starts.

“Children,” Ben says simply before he steps around the man and continues rushing towards the large room that was once a common room, now transformed into a dormitory of sorts. He hears Finn scrambling behind him, and then there is heat at his back, the man on his heels.

He slams his palm against the access panel so violently it makes a sickening cracking sound, pain flaring up his wrist. The doors don’t slide open as quickly as he would like, and he finds himself pushing them aside to see the children huddled together, shaking so hard they practically vibrate.

Kriffing hell…

These are young ones. Some as young as four, their eyes wide as they stare at this man they’ve never seen. The First Order must have only just acquired them, only just ripped them from their parents, or bought them. Kriff…

“Finn!” one little girl cries, bursting from the trembling mass of children and rushing towards the ex-trooper. The man immediately kneels and wraps her in a hug, lifting her into his arms before walking towards the others.

Of course they know Finn, he thinks, some of them standing from their bunks and rushing to the other man. The ex-trooper holds the little girl with one arm and opens his other, and before Ben can blink, there are maybe a dozen children surrounding the man. Finn tries to embrace them all, muttering low things that Ben can’t hear, but there is warmth, and reassurance, and something like hope in the man’s voice.

Of course. Because Finn’s full of fucking hope. They all are. Except for him.

“We need to get them onto a shuttle,” Ben says, watching as Finn’s gaze lifts from one little girl’s to his.

“Are there any empty?”

“There have to be,” Ben insists, looking around the room and seeing a few smaller boxes, ones that used to hold ration shipments. They now hold toys, blankets, extra clothes. He sees a doll on a bed that looks like it was made out of an old Resistance uniform, probably one that was too stained or too destroyed in training to be worn again, that was then made into a toy by one of the pilots.

Within seconds a little girl rushes over to it, grabbing it and holding it to her little pudgy green cheek.

“Go get a shuttle ready, I’ll get them packed up,” Ben mutters, seeing a larger shipment box holding a few things, but not as many as it could.

“We’ll need a pilot.”

“I can fly it.”

It takes a few moments for the children to disentangle themselves from the younger man, and Ben can’t help the warmth in his heart that blossoms as Finn promises he’ll be back to each and every one of them, their names known by heart. The door closes, but it stutters in the track, and Finn gives Ben a knowing look before rushing off to prepare the shuttle.

And now he’s left with two dozen small children, staring at him with wide-eyes as the red alerts blare around them, emergency lights flashing.

“Everything you have needs to fit into this box,” he says, keeping his voice as low and soft as he can as he nods down to the box. He goes down on one knee beside it, raising a dark brow at the huddled kids. “And then we’re going to go to a shuttle, and then we’re going to go to someplace safe, all right?”

How long has it been since he’s talked to children? How long has it been since he interacted with younglings? They stare at him, wide-eyed and afraid, before a young boy steps forward. He turns and goes to what Ben assumes is his bunk, grabbing what looks to be a set of sleep clothes from beneath it, the blanket, and then a small pillow made out of what Ben recognizes as Resistance-standard fabric for shirts. Another gift, then, from someone on base.

He brings them back, everything wrapped up in his arms, and stares at Ben before thrusting them towards the Force user. A slight brush against the boy’s mind reveals fear. Lots of it. Almost paralyzing amounts.

“Thank you,” Ben says, taking the items from the boy and folding the blanket, rolling the clothes quickly and setting them in the box before tucking the pillow in. “All right, who’s next?”

The little boy continues to stand next to him as more children bring their meager belongings over. Most bring the blankets with them, but they leave the pillows and sheets. The thought of getting his blanket, the orange one, crosses his mind, but there are more important things right now, he decides.

It takes some rearranging, but he manages to get everything into the rations crate before he straightens and gets the lid to seal the box up. It takes minimal effort to lift it with the Force, and he hears the children gasp as it floats just above the ground. It’s easier than finding a cart, and faster than pushing said cart through the base corridors, and so it’ll have to do.

“All right, everyone single file,” he orders, counting. One, two, three … thirty seven. Thirty seven children.

They can do this.

Finn hasn’t returned, yet, but he ushers the kids out the door, counting one more time as they huddle together. Thirty six. Where’d the-…?

He turns, his eyes scanning the dormitory for – ah.

The little green-skinned girl is huddled by what he presumes is her bed, shaking and clutching a stuffed toy. “Come on,” he mutters, rushing over to her and scooping her up. There’s no time for coaxing, no time for outstretched hands and kind words. They need to go. She wraps her little arm around his neck and clings to him, her dark curls brushing his nose as he slips an arm under her to keep her close.

The door shudders closed with an awful shrieking sound, metal scraping against metal. The old ration crate continues to float beside him as he ushers the kids towards the hangars. Something hits the base, the shriek of a TIE overhead and the sudden shaking of the walls around them startling some of the kids, screams coming from their little mouths.

“Keep moving!” he orders, and there’s enough training in them, it seems, that they follow.

“Ben!” He hears Finn’s voice before he sees the man. “Hangar 6!”

“Go to hangar 6, everyone get to hangar 6!” Ben orders, his voice echoing along the halls. With the orders given, the kids burst into sprints, and he sees the broad outline of Finn’s shoulders, the back of the repaired jacket as the younger man ushers them down the corridor.

Apparently the First Order being on their way meant they were practically there, because he can hear the TIEs above them, can feel the ground shaking. Some of the younger kids stay with him, scared out of their minds. The Force practically vibrates with their fear, their little hands clutching his jacket, his shirt, his pants, the hand that isn’t holding onto the little girl.

“It’s all right,” he mutters, moving as quickly as he can with them clinging to him like rathtars. “It’s all right…”

It isn’t all right.

There’s a difference between the distant ‘boom’ of another hangar being attacked, and the sickening ‘crunch’ of the corridor collapsing. Now, there’s a boom, then a crunch, and then screams.

The entire corridor shakes. Balance is a joke. Ben falls to his knees with a grunt, cradling the little girl’s head to keep her from hitting the hard durasteel floor. He’s stopped blaster bolts in their tracks before, but he’s never stopped an entire building from collapsing on top of himself and the five children who stayed with him instead of running towards Finn. It takes significantly more effort, the little ones crawling to cling to him as the mess of durasteel, rock, and dirt hover above them. He can feel the weight of it – the entire corridor’s come down on top of them. The durasteel that was once the ceiling is now warped, dirt falling through the cracks, rock weighing down on top of it. It doesn’t hurt, not yet, but he knows it will soon.

“It’s all right,” Ben repeats, wondering when he started to sound like his father. “It’s going to be all right.”

Judging by their whimpers, they’re not entirely convinced.

There are words. Hazy words, muffled words, muffled shouts of alarm, muffled orders. They can’t leak through the cracks between the rocks and durasteel. He wonders if air can. He wonders how long they can stay in here. How long before someone comes and helps release the pressure that’s in his head.

“It’s all right, I have you…” he tries again, keeping his voice as low and calm as he possibly can. The little girl presses her little face into his neck. He holds her tighter, burying his nose into the dark, tightly-wound curls on top of her head. Breathe. Just breathe. Focus, focus-

There are vague memories, ones buried beneath years of something dark and awful. Memories of a hand upon his back, a bare shoulder beneath his cheek, his father’s soft voice in his ear. Reassuring him, over and over. Protective, and kind.

Ben didn’t hate him, like Rey assumes.

No. It was just the opposite.

The children’s fear bleeds out of them into the Force around them, making it even harder for him to concentrate. He continues to brace himself over them, offering his body as a shelter. He’s not so big that he can protect all of them, but they crawl beneath him as best as they can anyway, the little girl still clinging to his neck.

The rocks, dirt, and durasteel fall an inch or so, creaking above them. The children whimper, and everything of him feels as though it's on fire.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says. A mantra, a prayer. Stars, he hopes they’re going to be all right…

Another hit. The world around them shakes, pebbles and dirt falling from between the cracks of durasteel. His concentration slips a little, and as a result, the mess around them falls a little more. His ears are filled with shrieks, but he catches what he can. He couldn’t stand up if he tried, though, of that he’s sure. It’s closing in on them, despite his best efforts. Holding up kriffing corridors was never in his training.

Later, when he’s in the makeshift sickbay of the new base, it will be his mother who tells him it was Finn who rushed to get Rey, Rey who was in the Falcon, almost taking off. Finn will tell him how he waved Rey down, how he told her what happened, how she took off running towards the collapsed corridor before he could even follow her.

Beneath the rubble, though, he has no idea. He doesn’t even have an inkling of an idea until the weight that’s been so persistent on his mind lifts ever so slightly, allowing him a breath of relief. And then it lifts even more, though not entirely.

He can see Rey's boots through a crack in the rubble. She’s strong, but she’s not strong enough, not yet. He has to help her.

“As soon as you see an opening, I want you to run,” Ben says, his voice gruff and strained with pain and effort. The children underneath him whimper, but follow his orders, rushing out from beneath the rock and metal as soon as there’s an opening big enough for them. Rey stands by, her dark eyes narrowed and forehead tense with the effort of holding the mess above them. He can hear Finn, can just barely see him herding the children through the cracks. The little girl is still clinging to him, and so he has to carry her, pushing himself to his feet and rushing through the floating rocks and dirt to meet Rey on the other side.

Rey’s pale with the effort, even with as much as he’s giving her. “Is everyone out?” It's a pained gasp.

“Yes.”

The boom of the resulting collapse is terrifying, the undamaged part of the corridor shaking as the rocks and durasteel and dirt come crashing down.

If it had been Finn, or Poe with the children, instead of him …

“Come on.” It comes out harder than he’d meant it to, the edges of his vision blurring as they rush towards the hangar.

“Are you all right?” Rey demands. She knows better than anyone, he thinks, what he just went through, the power and energy he just had to exert.

“I’m fine.” It’s snappish, but she says nothing as they run towards hangar 6. He can see where Finn’s guiding the children onto the Falcon. The tall, furry silhouette of his uncle can be seen at the top of the ramp.

“There were thirty seven,” Ben breathes, still clutching the little girl, perhaps a bit too tightly in both arms. She seems intent on strangling him, making his breathing even more labored as he watches the rest of the children run up the ramp. He rubs her back, trying to be comforting, trying to be reassuring. “Where are the others?”

“Already on a shuttle on their way to Takodana,” Rey explains as they make their way up the ramp. Finn’s waiting for them at the top, reaching for the little girl. She doesn’t want to let go of Ben, but Finn guides her arms away, and takes her instead, muttering something about being safe and "You're all right, Elie," – her name, Ben guesses, probably derived from her number, EL-something.

“Can you fly?” he demands of Rey, looking down at her. There’s sweat at her temples, no doubt from the effort it took to lift the corridor.

“Yes,” she replies quickly.

“Then fly!”

They’re not going to get out of here easily, not when he can hear the shrieking of the TIE fighters around them. They’re going to need a gunner. He hears her footsteps clanging on the durasteel floor as she rushes towards the cockpit. The ladder down to the gunner’s station seems so much longer than it has been before, and he’s barely in the seat before the Falcon’s lifting off from the ground. The headset isn’t sitting exactly right on his head, but it works well enough that he can hear Rey as she says, “Taking off!”

“I noticed!” Ben snaps, flipping switches both above him and below him, the targeting system flickering to life.

Outside of the hangar, what was once base, their home, their safe place is being destroyed. He can see where other corridors have fallen in, can see where the rounded, grassy hills that once held hangars are now concave, the grass itself burning lowly. He’s barely given a chance to get his bearings before a TIE roars by.

Rey’s a good pilot, he’ll give her that. Not an entirely smooth pilot, but then again, neither was his father, and neither is he. Thankfully she seems to be more focused on getting them out of there than doing much damage, and so he barely has to shoot at any TIEs as she takes to the skies and punches it into light speed.

In the sick bay, he’ll confess he has no memory of what happened next, once they put in the course to Takodana. He has no recollection of crawling back up the ladder, has no recollection of meeting in the middle of the corridor with Rey. He doesn’t remember her saying he looks pale – well, paler than usual – and he certainly doesn’t remember her asking if he was all right.

He doesn't remember collapsing in the middle of the corridor, either.

-

He wakes to gentle beeping.

The sick bay on Takodana is barely that at all. It’s a small, damp room filled with the equipment they could get out before the First Order attacked.

“You look more like your father since the last time I saw you." Maz’s voice bleeds through the fog, and he groans, reaching up to cover his eyes against the sunlight. “Don’t know where you got the ears, though.”

Everything hurts. Kriffing hell, everything hurts. Even the beeping feels like he's repeatedly being blasted in the brain. Stars...

“Rey?” he croaks, his hand still over his eyes. Truly, he could have said any of their names. But ‘Rey’ is easier to say than ‘Finn’ or ‘Poe’, what with how dry his mouth is. He's not sure he can manage hard consonants. Hell, he's not even sure he managed the 'R'. He's pretty sure he just said "ey?"

“You woke up just moments after they left. Your boyfriends and girlfriend were pried away by your mother to get some food.” The alien woman’s voice is teasing. 

“They’re not.” It's barely a growl. He'll be surprised if she understands him.

“They’re not what?”

“They’re not … that.”

He can’t get his tongue to form boyfriend and girlfriend, particularly when his lips and mouth are as tacky and pasty as they are, and his brain is still trying to process everything. Everything is sore, sure, but nothing hurts majorly, nothing is too excruciating. That’s good, he supposes.

“Mmmhm.” Maz doesn’t believe him. He didn’t expect her to.

He doesn’t have the energy to say anything else. Kriff, he doesn’t even have the energy to open his eyes. He just drifts off as he hears the sound of a creaking metal door, and Maz’s soft voice as she explains something to someone.

They may be boyfriends and girlfriend, yes, she was right on that front. But they’re not his.

And he’s pretty damn sure they never will be.