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Rey Dameron studied her husband across the breakfast table, pondering once more her good fortune in being provided a spouse of such easy temperament and kindly manners.
Captain Poe Dameron, the famed naval hero, did not look up from selecting his muffin from the tray in the middle of the fine dining table, but he noted her examination of his form regardless. “Does something distress you, wife?”
Rey blushed and did not respond; this would not do, of course. Her husband paused in her his perusal of the breakfast items to look at her truly, a frown crossing his features. “Mrs. Dameron?”
“I apologize.” Rey ducked her head to study the silverware in front of her, as this seemed the safest choice. “I did not mean to stare, Captain.”
“There is no need to apologize.” The captain rested his hands upon the tabletop, and Rey felt his gaze settle like a weight upon her shoulders. “You are free to look at me, after all. I look at you often enough; it is only fair that you should do the same.”
Her blush deepened at his soothing flirtation, and was it not precisely like Captain Dameron to do this - to offer a reminder that he found her to be pretty - as he had told her that expressly, multiple times, since she first made his acquaintance - but in the same breath, to settle her nerves with a compassion she had never been trained to expect from a man.
“Besides,” Captain Dameron continued. “I have been told that I am rather like a work of art.” He preened when Rey lifted her eyes to smile at him, and he smugly ran a hand along his sharp jaw. “Precisely like the works of Rubens, or so the gossip entails.”
“Rubens?” Rey blinked in surprise, and smiled in return. “Why sir, you must be greatly mistaken.”
“You think I am not comparable to a work of art, then?” Poe rested his chin in his hand, his elbow propped most improperly on the tabletop, and gazed at Rey with an exaggerated grief.
“No sir, you mistake my meaning,” Rey barely hid a laugh behind her hand, and Poe’s expression rapidly shifted to one of great success, as he was clearly pleased at having roused an indication of mirth from her. “I mean to say that you cannot be compared to Rubens.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye - forgive me, yes, sir. Rubens deals in dark colours, mournful subjects, or at the very least, imperfect figures. The captain can hardly be considered to be a wearer of the dark, nor mournful, nor imperfect.”
“Oh?” His smile deepened, his lips curling upwards with a heightened sweetness that nearly stole Rey’s breath - if she had any left after her grievous error. In her haste to explain herself, she had said... well. He was her husband, was he not? They did not share a bed, nor had he kissed her - not even after he had gifted the pianoforte to her, a decision that still resounded breathlessly inside of her breast, an action that had shown her how much her husband might truly value her - but Captain Dameron was her husband nonetheless, as the law and the Church of England said so.
“If I am too light, too spirited, and too … perfect … to be a Rubens, then pray tell me, which of the artists does your jester of a husband take after?” Poe spread his hands with high mirth, and Rey spoke once more without thinking.
“Why, Michelangelo, sir.”
Poe’s expression faltered, and he studied her face with far less mirth than before, and Rey ducked her head once more, praying that she would find strength and resolve in the brightly polished spoons nearest her plate.
“He works in marble, you see, and while I lived with Mr. Skywalker, he took me to Florence when Mrs. Mara was still alive.” Rey felt heat creep into her ears - how small her own experiences of the world must seem next to her husband’s. How pitiful. No wonder he did not take her into his bed as a proper wife. “When we visited the palazzo, I saw...well, I saw the figure of David.” She risked looking at Poe once more through her lowered lashes, and saw that his gaze had grown even more intense since she last looked upon him, and she hastened to resume her study of the spoon.
“And it is David you resemble, Captain. It would be an insult to our Creator to assume any less.”
“You pay me a great compliment, Mrs. Dameron.” Poe’s voice was thoughtful and soft, and Rey shivered at its tenor - or perhaps that was the chill of December creeping into the breakfast room. Rey could hear the scrape of the chair as he stood from the table, and he rounded the corner to stand next to her chair, and his fingers lightly grazed her arm for a moment; unable to look away for a moment longer, Rey lifted her eyes to meet his heady gaze. “Thank you, Rey.”
“Poe.” She whispered his name, and in return, his fingers - nearly trembling, if she were to deceive herself - brushed her cheek with a timid reverence that she found wholly surprising. He pulled away from her a moment later, his hand dropping to her side, and as he bowed and took his leave of the room, she swore she saw his fingers flex and tighten as though he were shaking off some great phantasm.
For the rest of the day, Rey swore she felt a phantom of his fingertips across her cheek, a ghost that warmed her to her core despite the wintry conditions that had washed over the estate of Yavin.
***
Captain Dameron was quiet on their return from the Christmas Eve service - Rey had learned some time ago that he had been forced to convert from Catholicism when he was a child, a decision his father had made to secure their place in the country despite their Spanish ancestry. To become Protestant had made them more acceptable to high society, but Rey knew Poe found it discomfiting to attend a sermon not delivered in Latin. She had not been told of his conversion by him, of course, but rather Mr. Skywalker, who had whispered it to her sometime during her brief engagement to Captain Dameron. Poe had confirmed his irritation with the lack of universality in the Anglican service when Rey had timidly broached the subject a few weeks ago.
Still, he had seemed perfectly content during the service to sit in the pew and celebrate the Holy Day, but he was silent now, and Rey fretted over it before risking a question.
“Sir?” She winced and looked out the window, drawing on inner strength to do something her husband had already requested multiple times. “...Poe?”
“Yes, my love?” Poe blinked, stirred from his reverie, and nearly as startled as herself at his use of a pet name. Rey straightened her shoulders and smiled determinedly at him, hoping above hope that the servants driving the coach could not hear them as they drove on through the night.
“Is there something causing you irritation?” She found her hands winding together anxiously in her lap, and studied his knees, some three inches from her own as they sat on opposite benches in the coach.
“What do you mean?”
“You are so quiet.” Rey frowned and hastened to explain her statement. “Normally, you are so animated.” She liked that he was animated, and she knew the private smile that crossed her lips unbidden would tell Captain Dameron that better than she herself could. “But tonight you are quiet. Is there something vexing you? Something I did, perhaps?”
“No, of course not.” Poe leaned forward, his hands outstretched, and Rey placed her hands in them, as delicately as she could, regretting the gloves she wore that separated her from his skin. “No, I was merely reflecting on how...separate I had to be from you during the service.”
“But” - and Rey smiled at her husband for his confession - “All wives are separated from their husbands. This is not unusual.”
“Just because it is usual does not mean I like it.” Poe’s voice dropped low, and Rey leaned forward more to better hear him; his thumbs began to brush over her knuckles, extracting a shiver from her. “If I wanted to offer you my coat, for instance, during the service, I would be blocked from doing so. If I wanted to … to do this” - his thumbs resumed stroking the backs of her hands - “I could not. If I wanted to know your opinion on the pastor’s sermon, I could not collect it until after the service, at which point, any witticism on my part would seemed forced and practiced, and not the fruit of the moment.”
“I know your wit to be unpracticed,” Rey teased him lightly. It earned her a smile, one that revealed the dimple she so longed to trace with her fingers...or by other methods. Rey did not know what to do with such scandalous reflection, so she continued speaking. “And most husbands would not seek their wife’s opinion. I believe you are alone in that respect.”
“I cannot be the only man in England who believes his wife is equal to himself.”
Rey stared at him in amazement. “Do you truly believe that?” Hope fluttered, a frail thing, in her chest.
“Do you think I do not?” Poe frowned thoughtfully. “Have I given you reason to doubt that I respect you, that I view you as my partner in all things, that I cherish each moment we spend together; do you doubt that I believe God intends for us to help each other as equals, and to love each other, when all the evils of the world attempt to prevail over us?”
Rey flushed and shook her head. “I do not know what to believe.” Poe’s expression grew somewhat darker, and Rey shuffled towards the edge of the seat, growing nearer to her husband until their knees brushed against each other; she could hear his inhalation of breath. “And not because you are some tyrant who has set out to make me feel terrified - no, you have never made me feel anything but safe. I merely...had not considered that you viewed us as...equals.” She ached to tell him that she had been raised under the supposition that she should always be property to a man, that she would, at the very best, hope to live in a household with a man who was not outwardly violent or cruel towards her, who would not abuse her soundly and make her feel small.
“I shall be more forthcoming in the future.” Poe dropped his head and kissed her hands, both of them, gently. She felt his beard scratch at her even through her gloves, and she felt a different sort of ache, then. “For I do treasure you, above all things.”
Rey thought about what he had said regarding the separation they faced in the service due to their sexes, and in a moment of boldness, she gathered her skirts and stood shakily in the swaying carriage. Poe made a noise of some alarm and reached up to brace her, and for a dizzying moment, his hands were on her waist, guiding her to her intended destination: the empty bench at his side.
“Is this acceptable?” Rey asked shyly, settling in next to him. Poe nodded, his neck a bright red that Rey had grown to associate with vibrant, foreign blooms, and not her stoic military husband.
“Very acceptable, my love.” Poe smiled, half-turned towards her, and he sat against the back of the seat, his elbow slightly crooked towards her. With no further provocation, Rey slipped her hand through his elbow, and sat closer to her husband than she ever had before.
“Happy Christmas, Poe.”
“Happy Christmas, my darling Rey.”
***
That night, after Poe had walked her to her rooms, and even dared to brush a kiss against her cheek, murmuring his farewell, Rey stared at herself in her mirror, half-dressed and unsure of what to do.
She picked up her brush and studied it at length, and then, steeling herself as well she could, she straightened out her dressing gown, nodded at herself in the mirror, and marched down the hallway, her bare feet cold against the floor, towards the master’s chambers.
Before she could lose her nerve, Rey knocked against the wood of his door, and waited with bated breath. “Coming!” She heard her husband shout. “Is something the matter, Hendricks-”
The door opened, and Poe immediately froze, his mouth comically hanging open as he stared at Rey in open surprise. So frightened by her own boldness, Rey could only stare back.
“Are you feeling ill?” Poe began to speak in a rush, his hands moving with agitation. “Shall I call for the doctor?”
“No, sir.” Rey squeaked, praying that her mortification was not too easily writ upon her face. The true reason for her silence was apparent, after all - Poe had answered the door in serious undress, his chest bare under his dressing gown, only tight-fitting breeches covering his legs. She stared down at the floor to hide her embarrassment and noted that his feet were also bare. “I am feeling quite well, I thank you.”
“Oh.” Poe seemed to remember himself, and hastened to close his dressing gown, tying the sash rapidly, but this would not do anything to erase the memory of his bare chest from Rey’s mind - his bare, muscular chest that she now knew to have a smattering of dark curls, to match the thick curls on his head. She blushed at the thought. “Then - to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, my darling?”
Rey shifted on her feet, looking over her shoulder down the hallway in case a servant would overhear them. Sensing her discomfort, Poe stepped back and invited her into his bedchambers, rooms she had only seen in broad daylight, and only in passing when she followed the head of house around, trying to learn everything to fulfill her duties as mistress of Yavin.
“I was thinking,” she began, and faltered, coming to a stop at the foot of Poe’s bed.
“About what, if I may ask?” Poe shut the door, but did not fully close it, the door not clicking into place. Rey could see that it was just slightly ajar, and her heart fluttered with the knowledge that Poe did not wish for her to feel trapped. Indeed, he stood almost at attention, his hands behind his back, stationed opposite to her - her way to the door was entirely unimpeded, as though Poe was letting her know that her way out was still available.
“I was thinking that.” She held the brush she had taken from her vanity aloft for Poe to see, and he looked at it bemusedly. “You have never seen me with my hair down. And I thought that it was … odd.”
“Odd?”
“Yes, odd.” Rey blushed and tilted her head to study the brush herself. “I was wondering - and you may find it silly, but, I was wondering if you … should like to see it down?”
“I would.” Poe answered much more quickly than she thought, and his voice was like gravel, causing a new shiver to course down her spine. “But you are cold?”
“I am not cold.” Rey raised her eyes to meet his, her feet pressing into the plush carpet beneath her. “Quite the opposite...Poe.”
“Ah.” Poe nodded and walked slowly towards her, his hand extended to collect the item she held. Rey passed the brush over with no small relief, so secretly pleased to not be rejected - and how absurd, that she should fear that her own husband would not want her in his bedchambers, when she understood, had understood this whole time, that she did not know her husband due to his own concerns for her - and she waited for the next instruction. She prayed that Poe would begin to direct her, even slightly, for she had come here through a nearly exhausting use of her nerves.
“Would you sit, my love?” Poe gestured to the edge of his bed, and Rey’s breath caught in her throat. “...Or, near the vanity, perhaps, if you would prefer?”
Rey shook her head, too determined to see this through, and crossed to the bed. She sat primly, regally, her spine straight, and her gaze directed at her husband. He gazed upon her for a long moment, fiddling with the brush in his hands, his eyes running the length of her body admiringly. Rey held her chin high and raised her eyebrows at her. “Is this acceptable?” She asked, successfully hiding the all too real fear that thrived in her chest even now.
“More than.” Poe’s eyes seemed to grow even darker than normal as he walked towards her. He put one knee, and then another on the bed, and knelt behind her. “You look like a queen,” he whispered near her ear, and Rey’s eyes fluttered shut. “Shall I” - his fingers ran, featherlight, along her pinned hairstyle, and Rey nodded eagerly.
“Please.”
His hands, no doubt more skilled than a normal man’s through his six and ten years at sea tying complicated knots, began to navigate the pins and workings of her hairstyle. Each pin he removed was set on the bed next to Rey, and she tried her hardest to collect the pins and place them in her lap without disturbing his process. Curls of her hair began to fall around her shoulders, and Poe worked diligently, not tugging at her scalp, not rushing, until the very last pin was removed.
Next, he picked up the brush and began to pull it through her loose waves of hair, and Rey tilted backwards into it, her breath caught in her throat. Truly, when she had entered his bedchambers, she had intended to brush her own hair, and merely wished to show Poe what her hair looked like when it was free of its typical style. She fought back any audible sign of her tears, until she could not any longer, and a sob escaped her mouth.
“Did I hurt you?” Poe set the brush down on the bed and hurried to peer at her, his hands tenderly petting through her hair, bracing her shoulders as she leaned back to shake her head at him. “What is the matter, please, tell me?”
“No one has ever” - Rey shook her head, filled with acute … not misery, but something close, something bittersweet - “This is the first time someone has done this for me. It is...overwhelming, especially given that I care for you so much. I apologize, it shall pass.”
Poe studied her face in open confusion, and then it faded into grief, a sympathetic grief that Rey was shocked to discover. He tucked his legs underneath him, and gently pulled Rey further onto the bed, arranging her so that he could embrace her fully. Rey sank into the embrace, enjoying the way Poe stroked his hands along her unbound hair, and she sighed in contentment, even as the still unnameable emotion raged in her heart.
“Did you mean it?” Poe whispered after some time of this treatment. Rey made a noise of confusion, and he clarified. “Did you mean it when you said that you cared for me?”
“Oh, Poe.” Rey wiped her eyes and sat up to smile at him, well aware that she was sitting on his bed in naught but her nightgown. “Of course I meant it. I love you.”
“You what?” He was agape, and Rey laughed in delight.
“I love you, you daft, impossible man.” She smiled at him shyly. “I hope this does not vex you.”
“Vex me?” Poe blinked in shock. “It would vex me, to hear that my wife” - he laughed, bewildered, and then smiled brilliantly. “You love me?”
“I said that I did.” Rey squeezed his bare shin, her heart racing at the forward action, the tumult of emotion from this evening almost too much to bear. “How tragic, that I should marry a man who cannot comprehend that I love him.”
“Of course I cannot comprehend it.” Poe smiled at her and gathered her hands in his. “If only because I could never have dreamed...not in this lifetime, that I could deserve-”
“If you speak to me of deserve, I shall simply have to scold you,” Rey informed him. “I love you, and it is simple, for I love you because you are yourself. Deserve. ”
“I love you.” Poe kissed her hands tenderly, and then began to shower them with kisses, as well as her wrists and forearms. “Ardently. Truly. Infinitely.”
“That is good to hear.” Rey smiled at him when he looked up.
“Dare I ask” - Poe moved slowly towards her, his hand reaching to rest against her jaw as he leaned towards her - “Would it be too much of me to-”
“You may.” Rey arched her brow at him, and with what could only be described as a shout of triumph, Poe kissed her.
It nearly overwhelmed her once more to have Poe so near to her, both of them so undressed, but Rey gripped his wrist and leaned in, returning the kiss as enthusiastically as she knew how. It was their first kiss since their wedding, but Rey thought she rather preferred this one, and its much preferred scenery of the privacy of Poe’s bedchambers. With a gasp, she accepted Poe’s tongue into her mouth, a foreign sensation that she decided nearly automatically that she liked a great deal.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Dameron.” Poe broke the kiss, his breath much changed from before, his eyes half-closed in what she recognized to be lust - recognized because the same emotion coursed through her veins most powerfully. “I did not intend to make such an improper action to your person.”
“Oh, bollocks.” Poe stared at her in shock after she cursed. Rey smiled at him in what she prayed was a winning fashion. “I was intending to make a much more improper action to your person. But, if it is not acceptable to the gentleman.”
“I think we can arrange something,” Poe murmured softly, running his hand through her hair once more, before leaning in for another highly improper kiss. "But perhaps we had better lock the door."