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Poe stumbles off the Falcon at the back of the pack with his droid, the two of them falling in alongside General Organa and a few others Kes doesn’t recognize. He’s moving too slow for Kes’s liking, blinking and looking around the ranch like he’s just woken up – which, hell, maybe he has. They’ve had a long journey.
It takes him a moment to see Kes walking toward them, but when he does he straightens up tall and grins that Shara Bey grin. The kind that used to light up the whole world, except this one is fleeting and roughened at the edges.
Leia touches his shoulder, leans toward him to say something, and Poe nods. And then he heads straight for Kes, crossing the field with his shoulders set and his stride sure. No injuries, then, or nothing too bad at least, and that’s enough to draw a relieved exhale from Kes.
They meet in the middle, Poe offering a breathless, “Hey, Dad,” Kes’s throat tightening too much to speak. He catches his son at the shoulders, looks him over wordlessly for a split-second, just – just wondering at him, his son, solid and real and alive and dragged through hell to stay that way.
“Hey, kid,” Kes manages, gruffer than he’d meant.
“Dad,” Poe starts, “I –”
But Kes pulls him into a hug before he can finish, and Poe just stops and lets himself be held, rests his head on Kes’s shoulder for a few breaths like he would when he was younger and battling some big worry or heartbreak. He’s too skinny, Kes thinks as he pulls away again. All bone and unsteady breath, and how the hell did that happen to his kid, his bright and brave and beaming kid?
Poe blinks at Kes a few times, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then closes it again and swallows. His eyes are wet.
“Been a long time,” Kes says for him. Poe nods, tense now, not meeting his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” Kes claps him on the shoulder, then looks down as Poe’s droid rolls over to burble at his feet. “How you doin’, BeeBee Ate?” he asks.
The droid replies in a rapidfire series of chirps and trills, and Poe gets this shifty look.
“What?” Kes asks, frowning. “What’s he say?”
Poe sighs. “He says he’s all right.”
BB-8 whistles sharply.
“Okay, okay – he says he’s all right, but he’s worried about me, which he should stop doing because I’m all right now too,” Poe says, giving the droid a stern glance. “Just been a hell of a few weeks.”
“I’ll bet,” Kes says, and makes a mental note to revisit that “now” part when they’re not out in front of the entire remains of the Resistance. Poe’s already fidgeting where he stands, glancing behind him at a couple of – kids, Kes wants to call them, but no, they’re soldiers same as he was, soldiers standing at a distance and watching Poe and waiting.
“You can go show everybody around, if you like,” Kes suggests. “Breathe in some real air for a while. Some of the old-timers are coming over with food; we’ll get that all set up for you. Still got a few empty beds in the house, and there’s the old barracks, but...”
“There’s that hole through the ceiling,” Poe says, a smile twitching to his lips. “I used to run around in there, remember?”
“Remember?” Kes repeats. “Kid, you’re the one who caved in the blasted ceiling, nearly gave me a heart attack.” He can still conjure the echo of it, that choking fear, only ebbing away when seven-year-old Poe had come clambering from behind the rubble with his hair full of dust and a wild grin on his face like he wanted to do it all over again.
Poe shrugs, as unconcerned now as he was then. “It was already falling apart, I only –”
“Climbed on the roof?” Kes finishes, and Poe smiles just a little, waves a dismissive hand.
“Anyway, we’ll figure it out,” he says, and half-turns now toward the General. She’s talking to Threepio – giving orders, looks like – but she’s got her eye on Poe, and he leans toward her like a plant to sun.
Kes grips his shoulder tight again – and it’s too startled, too twitchy, the look Poe gives him. He’s seen that look before. Worn that look before.
“Go ahead,” he tells his son. “We’ll catch up later.” Something in his chest aches to say it, aches to see the mix of guilt and gratitude in Poe’s face.
“I’ll be right back,” Poe promises, and Kes nods like he believes it, clapping him on the back one more time as he walks away.
BB-8 lingers at Kes’s feet, whirrs and beeps at him in an insistent way.
“Sorry, pal,” Kes says, leaning down to pat him on the head. “Never did manage to learn much Binary. But it’s good to see you.”
The little droid sort of coos at him then, bumping at his leg like a cat, and then rolls off after Poe, chirping to himself the whole way.
Kes scratches his head, watching him go. “All right,” he mutters to himself, looking around at the ragged pack of survivors scattered across his ranch. He does a mental headcount, tries to estimate how much food exactly they’re gonna need.
And – kriffing hell, there’s so few of them left. But if memory serves they’re all going to be starving and exhausted and craving a real meal, a shower, a few moments to breathe, maybe even a real bed for once. And some of that Kes can offer them.
There’s always something you can do, Shara used to say. He doesn’t have time right now to wonder what she’d think of their son showing up like this, all worn out from battles they’d thought were long won. He’s spent too much time wondering that already. Figures she’d probably take it better than he has, tell him to stop dwelling and get on with whatever needs to be done.
It is what it is, Kes. You just do what you can.
He watches Poe smile at the Princess-turned-General, watches him gather up his band of survivors and begin to lead them around, and all at once pride hits Kes like a physical blow, knocks the breath right out of him. Time shifts its layers, memory flowing sudden and thick all around him.
He sees three-year-old Poe, already trying to climb anything within reach, running off toward the jungle at every opportunity and driving Kes and Shara both mad with worry nine times a day.
Six-year-old Poe, crying because he’d fallen and broken his arm, distracted from his tears only by Shara’s promise to bring him up in the A-wing once he was healed, as high up as you want, kid.
Eight-year-old Poe looking listless, sitting beneath Shara’s tree and digging lines in the dirt with a stick, drawn into a silent grief that Kes had fought so hard to get through. Both of them barely holding their heads above water, both of them trying so desperately to at least keep hold of each other.
Ten-year-old Poe running around the ranch in the rain, splashing into puddles because he could, and also because it was his solemn mission to ruin every outfit Kes got him. But that didn’t matter, because he was starting at last to really smile again – that big, bright grin that made him friends wherever he went.
Sixteen-year-old Poe weathering his first real heartbreak, lingering by the tree and fixing his bruised eyes on its fluttering leaves. Saying, I’m okay, Dad, I’ll be fine in a wavery little voice, and then turning around to fall into Kes's arms, his shoulders shaking.
Nineteen-year-old Poe in his brand new uniform, proud and excited and nervous and chattering a mile a minute to Kes as they made their way around the ranch checking on the fencing, Kes trying to quell the fear sitting heavy in his stomach.
Thirty-two-year-old Poe, laughing now at something one of the others says to him, looking all beaten up and ragged and yet somehow determined as ever.
“You did good with that one,” says a quiet voice at his side, and Kes turns to see Princess Leia, General Organa, watching him with a small smile.
He looks back toward Poe, who’s slinging an arm around someone’s shoulders now, pointing out Shara’s tree with a serious expression.
“Nah,” Kes answers. “He came that way.”