Work Text:
For all that D’Qar was a military base, it’s inhabitants were almost absurdly bad at keeping secrets. General Organa’s attempt at surreptitious oversight of her personnel’s’, well, personal lives was a long-accepted constant, and Command’s “secret” stash of alcoholic beverages was never quite the same after the pilots’ party for Commander Dameron’s thirtieth.
However, by far the worst-kept secret on base was the long-running feud between the Pathfinders and the pilots over the yearly pin-up calendar shoots.
The (somewhat infamous) calendar had originally been a good-natured joke on D’Qar base, the unholy result of a mixture of pilots, alcohol and suspiciously unrestricted access to a stockroom piled high with printing flimsi.Whilst the unofficial original edition had been a blurry compilation of flyboys and flygirls in various states of undress, it had nevertheless prompted a surprising wave of interest across the base. (It was rumoured that General Organa herself had been seen snorting with laughter at a couple of the more imaginative poses, but so far no-one had worked up the courage to ask her whether she had liked the calendar).
Realising the huge potential it held for propaganda, a committee had been set up to manage the production and distribution of the calendar. (If a few copies mysteriously found themselves shipped to First Order space, well, they had never received any complaints).
To make this more manageable, each section of personnel on the base was made responsible for choosing a model from among themselves. Therein lay the problem.
-
For years, the pilots’ section of the calendar had topped opinion surveys, consisting as it did almost entirely of shots of Commander Dameron: jumpsuit tied around his waist, almost slipping off his hips as he bent over the tail of his X-wing, or sprawled, shirtless and artfully dishevelled, on the floor of the hangar.
Poe himself always asserted that the surge in new recruits following each edition was “correlation and not causation, so fuck off Pava”. It didn’t help his case that the newbies inevitably followed him around base like lost puppies, though.
Whilst these shots were generally considered good for morale, the escalation of “friendly” tension between the pilots and Pathfinders following each poll left everybody’s nerves frazzled and on-edge for the next few weeks.
Following a particularly memorable incident wherein 7 members of Blue Squadron had found their X-wings repainted a particularly sickening yellow, Command collectively agreed that it was high time something was done, both to resolve the conflict and to limit the access to the stockrooms (and seriously, how in the name of the Force had the Pathfinders managed to get that much paint?)
-
Things finally came to a head a few weeks after the destruction of Starkiller Base, with the addition of a newly-healed Finn to the Pathfinder ranks.
Immediately spotting the potential that the breadth of his shoulders and the defined angles of his face offered, two of Finn’s fellow Pathfinders approached him about the shoot after a particularly gruelling training session. Naturally, Finn had agreed. There had been a time, when he had been straight out of the infirmary, that he would have looked askance at such an offer, doubtful of how clearly it attempted to include him. A lifetime of being on the outside had left Finn wary of friendly overtures, sure that there was an ulterior motive to mock and belittle him.
There had been few, if any people, whom Finn had trusted and liked on their first meeting.
One of them, of course, was Poe.
-
“Hey, buddy,” Poe greeted him warmly as he seated himself next to him in the mess hall, “how was training?”
“Not bad,” Finn returned, trying desperately to manage the sudden swoop in his stomach at the sight of Poe. He knew what this meant, this ratcheting-up of his emotions in another’s presence, but this was Poe. Insanely talented, gorgeous and selfless Poe. How would Finn even begin to tell the Resistance’s best pilot that he wanted to get a little friendlier with him than “buddy”?
Finn gave himself a mental shake. Not now.
“And when he says “Not bad” he really means “got a record score on the shooting range and blew all other competition out of the water”, right?” There was no teasing edge to Poe’s tone, only a touching sincerity that had Finn hyper-aware of the warmth in his dark eyes and the crinkles at the corners, and of just how close the two of them were sitting.
Force, he was so gone on this man.
“Umm, well yeah… I mean…kinda? Actually, Poe, there was something I needed to ask you, something about a photo-“
“Dameron! Get your ass over here, we’re ready in 5!” a man with blond hair yelled from the doorway to the mess hall. He clearly wasn’t a pilot, Finn mused idly. No pilots carried cameras around with them.
“Kriff,” Poe muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Fuck, his curls look so soft, Finn thought. He wondered how they would feel if he ran his hand through them.
“I’m sorry, buddy, I gotta go. Catch you at dinner, yeah?”
“Sure,” Finn said, mentally cataloguing his earlier thought under Things Never To Be Voiced To Anyone, Under Pain Of Death. He had about 3 hours before he needed to report to the photoshoot team, so figured he might as well hit the gym in the remaining time. After all, it couldn’t hurt to look his best in front of the camera, right?
-
Finn knew how these things worked, in theory. First Order propaganda had been a whole lot more impersonal, but he had presumed it was more or less the same deal.
He had never thought that it could be so, well, comfortable.
He had started rather woodenly, unsure of what the photographer wanted. The advice act as if the camera isn’t here didn’t do much good, as it forever hung in his peripheral vision, no matter how he tried to ignore it.
Once he had got to know the producers, however, a bubbly Twi’lek named Taal’ya and her assistant, Lee, whom he realised he had seen calling Poe earlier in the mess, he grew rapidly more comfortable in the camera’s presence. They caught a few good shots of him bench-pressing weights, and one or two of him with his head thrown back, laughing at a joke they had just told him.
Finn liked those ones in particular. The wonder of expressive faces would never cease to amaze him, and to see that in himself after so long conditioned to show no emotion was liberating, and thrilling in a way Finn could not explain. Finn, not FN-2187.
Finn.
-
Some beings are kriffing unbelievable, Poe thought viciously, as he threw himself onto his bunk in the relative safety of his quarters. Just because I choose to do a photoshoot which benefits the Resistance, it does not give you the right to demand that I fulfil your fucking sexual fantasy, simply because you feel entitled to my body.
He sighed. I never should have done that damn calendar.
It’s not as if he hadn’t got offers beforehand, bitten lips and touches that lingered just a little too long to be called innocent. He knew he was fairly attractive; more than one partner had told him that between kisses, or lying sated on the pillows beside him.
What he hadn’t reckoned on, though, were the assumptions and the leering and lewd comments that followed him throughout base. When it had emerged that he was Yavinese, things had taken a different turn altogether. More than one partner had asked him to speak his native language in bed, as though it were some kind of fetish, and the Force-damned stereotype of a “fiery Yavinese lover” had quickly meant that any offers of a one-night stand (or indeed, something more) were reduced to no more than a dirty fuck.
Contrary to popular belief, whilst Poe often liked having fun with another person without strings attached, he needed the tenderness before and after sex which came with a mutual respect between the partners. Considering, now, that many viewed him as an object to be desired, that connection was entirely absent from any and all encounters that he had had in the past few years, and so he turned down all offers he received.
Truth be told, Poe missed the intimacy that came with a stable relationship like a phantom limb. The completion, the way someone could simply slot right into your life until you could not imagine it without them. Holding someone close, and being held close, treasuring and treasured.
And he didn’t know how much he’d missed it, until he met Finn.
-So why don’t you tell him this?-
“Fuck!” Poe startled, unaware that he had company. The orange-and-white shape of his astromech trundled into view. “BB-8, how did you know what I was thinking?”
-You were talking to yourself- BB-8 beeped, sounding amused.
“Right, right,” Poe muttered distractedly, rubbing his hand over his face with a sigh. “Sorry, buddy, I’m just a little out of it, you know?”
-Friend-Poe should not be worrying. My analysis shows that Friend-Finn would be more than welcome to any sexual advances Friend-Poe might want to make.-
“How can you possibly know that?” Poe asked, incredulous. “BB-8, have you been meddling again?”
-Friend-Finn’s heart rate goes up in Friend-Poe’s presence. His pupils dilate by up to 43%, his breathing becomes erratic, his tempera-
“Force,” he huffed, burying his face in his hands. “Bee, as much as I appreciate this information, I don’t think this is going to help much, and I would prefer it if you did not tell Finn anything I’ve said, alright?” He didn’t think he could handle it if Finn found out about his frankly pathetic pining.
He wouldn’t laugh, Poe knew that much. Finn was too kind, even after a lifetime of abuse, to injure another’s feelings like that. No, he would simply look at him with compassion and regret in those deep, warm eyes of his, and that gorgeous voice would be filled with remorse that would be so kriffing earnest that Poe would not be able to hold it against him, ever, even as he felt his heart breaking.
BB-8 chirped in mild distress. -Why not? Friend-Finn reciprocates these feelings, I am certain. Organics are laughably readable. -
“It’s… too much, Bee. I’d be too much for him. I’m…I’m still fucked up after the Finalizer.”
Last night had been one of the worst, he reflected. The ghost of claws raking lines of fire across his mind, dragging up the memory of his mother’s death, replaying Muran’s flaming descent over and over again, you will never be enough you have failed- Poe dragged in a shuddering breath.
BB-8 had been watching him carefully, their dome tilted in concern. With a small chirrup, they announced they were going to take a roll around base.
Poe smiled weakly at them. “Okay, buddy”.
As soon as the door had slid shut behind the droid, he tilted his head back against the wall, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. His hands came away wet.
-
The problem, BB-8 thought to themselves, is that those two idiot nerfherders cannot bring themselves to talk to the other about this… thing that they have. From their interactions, the droid had rapidly gathered that both were interested; however, their despondent sighs and longing glances made it apparent that both also thought the other was out of reach.
So how to show them that they need to “get it on”, as Friend-Jess likes to put it?
BB-8’s route through base took them through the hangar, around the indoor shooting ranges and down to the lower corridors, where most of the analytical, tactical and propaganda staff had their offices. Something caught their optical sensors as they passed an open doorway into what appeared to be a photography studio.
Several stacks of calendars were piled on the floor, and one or two had fallen open temptingly. Using their grabber, BB-8 flipped through the pages. They knew that Friend-Poe had just done a shoot (perhaps that was why he was especially out sorts, beings tend to try their luck afterwards), but several images of Friend-Finn came as a shock to the droid.
A plan began coalescing in their circuits.
-
“Kriff!” Jess cursed as she wormed her way out from underneath her X-wing, desperately rummaging through her toolbox. “Has anyone got a spanner?”
A cheerful beep, and the implement was thrust under her nose.
“Oh!” Jess turned to see the figure of Poe’s astromech by her side. “Thanks, Bee.”
She worked for a while on the undercarriage of her X-wing, repairing and reinforcing the fuel line. Once she was done, she straightened up and addressed the droid.
“So, what can I do for you, BB?”
The astromech began twittering wildly, almost too fast for Jess to follow.
“Woah, slow down, Bee. You want me to, what… write something for you?”
BB-8 produced two pieces of paper from its storage compartment. Jess unfolded them to reveal shots of Finn and Poe, clearly for the pin-up calendar.
“Oh, I see.” A crafty grin spread across Jess’ face. “You sneaky droid. Come on, then, we need to find a pen”
-
Poe stepped into the warm deluge of the shower with a sigh of relief. Sonic showers were all well and good, but nothing could beat the feeling of water hammering against his skin, loosening his muscles and wrapping him in a cocoon of steam.
The din of water hitting the tiles did nothing to mask the unmistakable sound of the door to his quarters sliding open, however.
Bemused, Poe shut off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Walking into his room, he expected to see BB-8, Finn or one of his pilots, all of whom had no sense of privacy whatsoever.
Instead, he was greeted with an empty room, and a piece of flimsi that fluttered off the table it was perched on as he walked by. He picked it up, and craned his head round the doorway to see into the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of his visitor.
Oddly enough, there was no one in sight.
Intrigued now, he unfolded the sheet of flimsi. Long, gleaming lines of muscle and smooth skin, a bright, familiar smile- Poe hurriedly refolded the sheet, then reopened it despite himself.
Finn was resplendent, almost glowing as he threw his head back, his wide grin warming Poe as he laughed at something off-camera. Scrawled in the top right-hand corner were the words:
You are the light of my life. Seeing you makes me as happy as I am here. Meet me in the hangar at 8.
Poe gulped. Maybe Bee was right.
Maybe I do have a chance.
He glanced again at the vision that was Finn, and felt an answering smile spreading across his face.
-
BB-8 chirped happily, watching Friend-Poe laugh and press the flimsi to his chest. So far, part one of the plan was going accordingly.
Now to find Friend-Finn.
-
Finn grinned, a fierce, exultant thing as he watched the last target collapse, a hole pierced straight through the centre by his unerring blaster bolt. All around him, his fellow Pathfinders whooped and clapped him on the back, careful to avoid his still-tender scar.
“That’s gotta be a new record, man!” one of them congratulated him as they made their way back to the lockers.
“Hey, a couple of us are grabbing drinks tonight, just a little get-together. Want to join us?” a Sullustan asked, grabbing Finn’s shoulders in a hug.
“I’d love too,” Finn replied, still grinning with the victory. This was what he wanted, hadn’t known he’d needed until he’d joined the Resistance; the strength of the camaraderie between the group, after so long isolated and shunned by his fellow troopers in the Order, was heady and intoxicating.
He palmed open the locker, ready to grab his clothes and hit the ‘freshers before heading to the mess (and wasn’t that wonderful, the freedom to shower for as long as he wanted, rather than brisk, timed sessions of cold water), when something drifted out of the locker and came to rest against his foot.
Finn could feel his cheeks growing hot as he examined the contents of the filmsi. Poe’s smiling dark eyes stared out at him, the lids half-lowered and one hand trailing through his ridiculously perfect curls. The other (Finn’s breath caught) rested on the strong muscle of his abdomen, as if to highlight the trim, compact shape of his torso and the smooth softness of his skin.
And Maker, what Finn wouldn’t give for that to be his hand there.
Pencilled on the sheet was the following:
My heart skips a beat when I see you. Come find me in the hangar at 8, I have something I need to say to you.
“Actually,” Finn called, “I’m going to need to take a rain check on those drinks.”
-
Poe nervously rechecked himself in the mirror for what must have been the 20th time. Ordinarily, he would ask BB-8 whether he looked “date-ready” but the little droid had been conspicuously absent for most of the day.
As the chrono edged dangerously close to 8, he decided to go just as he was. There wasn’t much he could do now, having left it rather too late- although in all fairness, he had spent a good hour or so freaking out over the fact that this gorgeous, perfect man apparently wanted to date him.
The hangar was completely, utterly empty when he entered. In the absence of the usual clamour of pilots, mechanics and droids, Poe was hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, and his breathing sounded incredibly loud in the unnatural silence.
As he rounded the corner, a gleam of light caught his eye. Poe stopped, and almost wanted to laugh at the scene: a table perfectly set for two, with a single rose in a vase and real, honest-to-Maker candles scattered around. Finn would never cease to surprise him.
Something clattered across the floor of the hangar, and he turned to see Finn striding across the hangar towards him. The sight of him took Poe’s breath away.
-
Finn had spent much of the evening agonising over what to wear. Having had no prior experience with this sort of thing, he eventually went with the best clothes he had in the closet, which, like many of his belongings, had been given to him by Poe, and the jacket. The memory of Poe’s strong, warm hands pressing on his shoulders as he told him to keep it sent a small shiver down Finn’s newly-healed spine.
Speaking of Poe… Finn hurried out of his quarters, making his way down to the hangar. He arrived just in time to see Poe, who also appeared to have rushed out of his room, approach a small table covered in snowy-white linen.
Finn stopped for a while, taking in the pleasing slope of Poe’s shoulders and the way he filled out his smart dress-shirt. Poe turned, perhaps hearing Finn, and appeared to have been struck temporarily dumb at the sight of him.
It was Poe who recovered first; visibly giving himself a shake, he gestured to the table.
“Nice set-up you’ve got here. Must have taken you a while, eh?’
Finn frowned. “This wasn’t my doing. I thought you’d done it, given that you invited me and all.”
“What?! Lemme see that,” Poe exclaimed, making grabby hands at the flimsi Finn had waved at him.
He scanned over it, frowning. “I’m sorry, Finn, it appears someone has played an elaborate trick on you- on us both, actually.”
Poe turned away, making a poor attempt at disguising his visible dejection. “I’ll try and clear some of this stuff up,” he said, and the catch in his voice roused Finn from his shocked inertia.
“Poe, wait,” he said softly, closing one of his hands around the pilot’s wrist. Poe flinched, almost imperceptibly, and Finn dropped his wrist as if he’d been burned. Poe turned slowly to face him.
“Listen, Poe- if you want me to leave, to pretend this never happened, I will, I promise, but please tell me- does what this sheet says have any merit to it?” Finn pleaded. He couldn’t handle it if he let this opportunity go, the opportunity to know if there was even a sliver of a possibility of something more between them.
“Force, Finn, of course it does.” Poe murmured, cupping Finn’s face with his hands, “I would move the stars themselves to have even a chance with you.”
“Then what is it you’re waiting for, Poe? You have this chance; you will always have a chance with me. I get that I’m probably not what you’re used to, being an ex-Stormtrooper and all, but- “
“No, Finn, never that,” the pilot said fiercely, still holding Finn’s face in his hands, “you are more than that, that does not define you or your worth. Just… well, wouldn’t you want someone better? Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming every night, who doesn’t flinch from you holding their kriffing wrists?”
And Maker, Poe’s expression hit him like a punch to the gut. It was Finn’s turn to cradle the other’s face in his hands, gently lifting the pilot’s chin to look Poe directly in the eye.
“Poe, I don’t want anyone else. If you want me, you can have me. Don’t feel like you need to make decisions for me- stop, let me finish,” for Poe had opened his mouth to object, “- and I know you think you’re messed up, but honestly, Poe, do you really think that I don’t have shit to work through as well? Point is, we both do, but we can deal with it together. I want for nothing more than to hold you through your nightmares, and to know that you’ll be there for my bad nights as well.”
Finn shrugged. “If you can accept that, then, well… here I am.”
The stricken look had fallen from Poe’s face, to be replaced with one of wonder. Carefully, slowly, he closed the distance between them. “How did I ever get to be so lucky?”
Finn chuckled. “I hope I’ll be asking that for a long time to come.”
The slide of their lips together was soft and dry and perfect.
-
Hidden in a dark corner behind one of the X-wings, Jess and BB-8 muffled their shouts (and beeps) of glee.
Jess hoped that this would do something to end the frankly unbearable wistful sighs and glances that occurred whenever the two interacted.
(It did, but these were soon replaced with ridiculously sweet kisses and pet names that sometimes made Jess question how long her tenuous hold on sanity could last.)
-
In the next edition of D’Qar’s pin-up calendar, not many were surprised to see that Finn and Poe appeared in most of the shots, singly or together. Though Poe grumbled good-naturedly about their “power-couple image”, most of the base were relieved at the resulting de-escalation of tension between the pilots and the Pathfinders.
After all, there were only so many incidents of oddly-coloured X-wings that a being could take.