Chapter Text
It's a good life, being a custom carpenter, a master craftsman with his own workshop, taking on consultancy jobs and getting to pick and choose one's clients and projects. Finn likes it, and is quite comfortable with the life. He ought to be, in fact. The fellow he apprenticed to -- Han, now, but Finn knew him the first few years as a respectful Mr Solo -- has all but gifted him the business, now he's back with his first wife Leia, and they're sailing around the world. A peppercorn rent, top-notch tools, a small but excellent staff. He thanks Han every day, remembers him in his prayers, owes him a lot: it's Han who trained him up to the skills and the eye and the sure hand, with a tenon saw and a mortise.
Most aspects of it, he's utterly familiar with: the tools, the paperwork, the chops he's developed over these years of apprenticeship. He likes the workshop, and quiet afternoons when he's finished a project early, and sees no reason to begin the next before the next day begins. Then he sits quiet in the workroom, after sweeping up the sawdust and the chips of wood, and makes tea as he goes over the next day's to-do list.
It's only working on his own designs that leaves him a little tense, uncertain of his abilities. He's always worked to Han's specs. Han has a genius: whether it's fitting out a whole house, or creating a tiny whittled kid's toy, his eye for line and form is unbeatable.
But Finn is master of the workshop, now. He's going to have to start having more confidence in coming up with his own style. And he isn't really worried. Han has complete faith in him, after all. Life is good. He's happy.
Really only one new little wrinkle in his existence is currently giving him problems, and that's one of his new clients. Not that he dislikes Poe, not at all. He likes him fine.
It's his kids that are driving Finn crazy.
Poe turned up about a month back, first taking a look around the showroom of the shop-front out facing the busy high-street, and even picking up a couple of wooden toys. That could have meant anything, of course – fond uncle, friend's kid's birthday, appreciator of a good bit of small-scale artisanship. (Finn is great at kidding himself sometimes, when he wants to.) There was no wedding ring on Poe's finger, not that that means much these days.
But when Finn skirted around the subject at the cash register, saying dumb stuff like, 'Your kids'll love these! The little ones love the wooden animals, especially the stormtroopers!' the reply was unequivocal, after all.