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Poe quickly strides down the long hallways leading away from the command center, rushing to get to the hangar bay as the Millennium Falcon lands.
Granted, he’s moving a bit slower than normal. His knee got a bit banged up during a hard landing during his last mission, but he’s had worse. Much, much worse.
Then again, nothing compares to the fear he felt when Rey and Chewie transmitted their last few messages, informing the base that the First Order had found them, that they had rushed back to the ship and were preparing for takeoff while under heavy fire . . .
And then communications from the Falcon went silent.
Poe had been debriefing with Leia when the messages came through and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that every molecule of fear he was feeling was written all over his face. Then he looked at Leia, and saw it reflected in hers, too.
They didn’t know if the First Order was shooting to kill or to capture, and it didn’t exactly sound like Rey or Chewie made it out of that initial fight unscathed.
His only consolation was that Leia was sure that she would have felt it had either one of them been harmed.
At times, he wishes for that same sort of connection Leia and Rey had with each other. Rey was the love of his life, surely it wasn’t asking for too much. It was moments like these, where he was lost, scrambling for answers, desperate to know if the most amazing, incredible, wonderful person he had ever met was still alive, that he wished he had the Force . . .
Leia might believe there was something in him, but he knows better. If he had it, surely he would feel Rey’s light shining, as bright and warm as the summer sun on Yavin IV.
Instead, he felt nothing, and he just had to . . .
Wait.
And then he sees her, a vision descending down the Falcon’s ramp.
He sprints towards her, not caring about the sharp lance of pain shooting through his knee, until he can encircle her in his arms, clutching her to him as she buries her face in his shoulder.
“Never do that again,” he pleads into her hair as he presses kiss after kiss there.
“That’s the plan,” she replies, voice muffled into his skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at her face, a hand coming up to cup her chin as he lifts her head so he can see her clearly. His eyes catalogue a small gash at her temple and a darkening bruise along her cheekbone. Luckily, that’s the worst of the injuries he can see, and they’re fairly manageable ones at that.
Still, he wonders about what he can’t see, wonders if maybe there are other injuries hidden from his eyes. More than that, the fear and adrenaline that had started coursing through him in the command center still rushes through his blood, and in some dark place inside of him, fearful and terrified, wonders if they’d be so lucky next time.
There’s always a next time during war. There’s always another fight. Another battle.
He clutches her hand, unwilling to let her go, and she seems to be on the same page, pulling him close to her side, as they walk to the medical center. Dr. Kalonia quickly treats the wounds and catalogues a handful of other cuts and bruises that came during Rey and Chewie’s escape.
He stands by her side the whole time until finally the medical officer clears her, and Rey takes his hand to lead them back to their quarters.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she says, already starting to unwrap her arm bands and undo her belt and the wisps of fabric that surround her once the door closes behind them.
He hears her voice even though there’s a part of him that can’t quite comprehend what she says, not when he sees the faint developing bruises that were hidden under her clothing and the contrast of her clean skin with the deep layer of grime that covers her where the clothing hadn’t.
He can practically see the firefight then, see the blaster shots creating craters in the dirt, Rey and Chewie running towards the Falcon all the while trying to avoid getting shot.
She could have been captured. She could have been killed.
He swallows hard.
“Poe?” she asks, stepping closer and holding her hands out to him.
He takes her hands in his and blinks back the tears that have started to fill his eyes. He’s usually so much better at this; thinking of the right words to say at any particular moment has always been one of his strongest skills.
But he’s so unbearably lost right now.
He frees one of his hands, wipes at a smudge of dirt along her cheekbone, the one that doesn’t have the bruise marring its skin. “How about we get you cleaned up?”
She nods, confusion and concern still reigning in her eyes. That just won’t do. She shouldn’t be concerned about him. He’s not the one who had just fought off a First Order squadron.
He leads them to the ‘fresher, gently finishes peeling off the rest of her clothes, throwing the dusty, mud-caked material into the corner. He makes quick work of his own clothing before guiding her beneath the warm water.
She sighs in pleasure as the water rinses her clean, sighs again when he works shampoo into her hair, taking care to avoid using too much pressure in case her hair hides any more cuts or bruises. But she just makes happy, pleased noises in the back of her throat and the sounds continue as he works a washcloth down her body, wiping away the dirt and sand and grime, watching the water turn from dark grey and brown to clear as she finally becomes clean.
He’s relieved that he doesn’t see any red rinsed off her with the water. He already sees too much red when he closes his eyes, bright bursts of flame amongst countless explosions, blood flowing freely from wounds, both his own and from others. He thinks the worst of it is when he’s lost to his nightmares and all he sees is Rey, broken and battered, lying lifeless on the ground.
He holds her to him under the spray of water, his breath unsteady even as he tries to gather himself.
Rey doesn’t say anything, just rubs a soothing hand up and down his back.
She understands; she’s been in the same position Poe stands in right now. This is not the first time this has happened, when one of them returns from battle a little worse for wear, the one who remained behind shaking through the fear that only comes when there is nothing at all you can do while you wait.
They’ve both been through this before. And they know they’ll both go through this again.
War never leaves you.
In fact, it constantly reminds you of what it can do.
Of what it can take.
He presses a kiss to her forehead and helps her out of the shower, drying her gently with the well-worn towel.
One day he’ll show her just how soft, how pleasant, life can be.
But he can’t yet. Not until the war is over.
She kisses his jaw while he works the towel through her hair.
Then she kisses the corner of his mouth.
“I’m alive,” she whispers. “I’m alive and I’m okay.” Her hand runs over his chest and behind his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair.
When she guides them to bed, he shows her how grateful he is for that as he presses kisses into her skin, runs gentle fingers along her body until all she knows is pleasure.
He knows she’s the strongest of all of them. She’s survived more than any of them could ever even begin to imagine.
He wishes she would never have to experience pain again. He practically aches with the need to protect her from it.
As she curls up to sleep, she slips onto her side, dragging his arm over her until she’s nestled in the curve of his body and surrounded by his warmth.
He believes in the Resistance’s cause. He always has. He’ll fight for it for as long as he can.
But there are moments where he wishes they can run away, to leave this all behind. Not for him, but for her, so she can finally be free and safe and happy.
One day the war will be over.
Until then, he can only hope.