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“You know,” Finn says, “when I fled the First Order, this isn’t quite where I pictured I’d end up.”
He takes a drink of whatever it is in his hand: sparkly, orange, non-alcoholic. In the center of the floor, dancers whiz by, a moving mosaic of colours and shapes. The pillar behind him is starting to dig into his back uncomfortably.
“Bored?”
Finn nods, grim. “So bored,” he says.
“Well, we can’t have that,” Poe says genially. Everything Poe does is genial, and smiling, and handsome, and frankly he could stand to be less so on all counts, in Finn’s opinion. Poe shoves off from the pillar and spins to face him. He holds out one hand. “The wall can spare us for one dance, don’t you think?”
“What,” says Finn, but he’s already putting his hand into Poe’s.
“It’s a nice wall,” Poe says. "But no one said we have to stick by it all night.”
Poe pulls him towards the center of the ballroom, walking backwards and grinning the whole way. His eyes shine in the chandelier-light, and Finn’s heart is pounding.
“Stormtroopers don’t dance,” he says. “Can you picture Captain Phasma cutting loose at the club? Can you? No, I didn’t think so –“
Poe steps into his space, almost chest to chest, and the babble dies a rapid death in his throat. “Okay like this?” Poe says, tipping his head back so his dark eyes meet Finn’s. He’s smiling, but the question is serious.
“Yes,” Finn says, “Yes, okay. Good.”
“Great,” says Poe, and, “okay, like this: left and-then-right, left and-then-right –“
At first Finn is all tangled up in counting the steps, head tucked down to stare at their feet moving across the floor. But it’s not so complicated as all that, even with his limp, and soon he’s looking back up -- and straight into Poe’s eyes. How long has Poe been watching him? He flushes hot.
“It’s not so hard, huh?” Poe says.
Finn clears his throat, which has gone dry. “Bit like walking in formation, and I’ve been doing that for years.”
Poe’s smile goes a little lop-sided at the edges, and his fingers, pressed flat and warm to Finn’s shoulder-blade, seem to shift and spread. It’s just the barest pressure, five points guiding him through the slow spinning circuit of the dance, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been more aware of anything – except, maybe, Poe’s other hand in his. He thinks Poe’s palm is a little sweaty, actually, but he won’t hold it against him. The bright lights that set their fellow dancers’ dresses and robes and scarves shining so spectacularly are hot.
Poe’s thumb moves over his, just a bit. “More fun than walking in formation, though, right?”
Finn looks at him for a long moment, biting at the inside of his cheek, then sucks up all his courage and says, “Much – much better company, for sure.”
The surprised smile that breaks across Poe’s face is brilliant.
After that, it’s hard to maintain the balance he’s been trying to keep, splitting his time between watching the other dancers, checking in on the diplomat they’re meant to be protecting, and sneaking looks at Poe. Poe moves like breathing, natural and thoughtless, and the light hits his cheekbones and the shadows under his eyes by equal measure. He’s stupidly attractive and real and Finn kind of can’t stand him, but he can’t – he can’t stop looking at him.
Be cool, he begs himself, be cool, soldier, but now that he’s almost adjusted to the weight of Poe’s hand on his back, he can’t stop thinking about the strong line of Poe’s shoulder under his own hand, and how close they are, so every measured breath Poe takes brushes his chest warm and solid against his, and –
“Finn,” Poe says, quiet, then his head rockets up as something outside explodes and the main doors to the ballroom burst open.
“Oh thank god,” Finn says, stepping back and scrabbling for the blaster at his waist. Over the shrill screams and the sound of gunfire, Poe’s low laughter rings in his ears as he aims and takes fire.
They’re hunkered down in an abandoned outpost, just him and Rey and their squadron, stuck there until someone comes and retrieves them tomorrow morning. It could be worse. There’s light, and heat, and no one’s injured too bad. They got their intel and got out, like clockwork, only then someone blew up their transport – and really, why does that always happen, huh, why does that always happen to them – and they’d had to make their way out of the foul little town on foot. Running for their lives, basically. Just another Sunday with the Resistance.
“Hey,” says Port, “hey, check it out,” and he throws a couple switches and suddenly there’s quiet music filling the air. Sara, in the corner, laughs delightedly. Rey’s head shoots up from where she’s been staring at her laces so fast she bumps it against the empty bookshelves behind her; Finn snorts before he can stop himself, and she glares at him.
“Thanks,” she says, and he says, “What, the Force couldn’t warn you that would happen? Pretty useless stuff, that Force –“
She tackles him down to the floor faster than he can blink.
“Good Force,” he wheezes under her knee digging into his ribs, “Good Force, okay, you win.”
“Damn straight,” she says, smirking down at him.
Someone off to the side near the heater – and if he ever finds out who, he will be having words with them – whispers something that sounds a lot like get a room.
Rey flips off of him, colour in her cheeks. He drags himself back up to sitting, and they settle side by side; it’s warm, he’s got a ratty cushion between his back and the cabinet they’re leaning against, and – all things told, well, it could be worse. They’re all alive, right? That’s better than a lot of missions.
Port, her eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter, reaches over to pull Sara into her arms, and then they’re swaying in the center of the room. There’s just enough space between the cabinets and consoles for them to do a slow circuit, not really following any particular steps, just moving to the quiet music. The melody is pretty. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn sees Rey nodding along to the gentle beat, and when he turns his head, he can see the way she’s watching Port and Sara like they’re something out of a fairytale.
“Hey,” he says before he can think better of it, “you wanna dance?”
She looks back at him with bright eyes. “Can we?” she says. She lowers her voice; “I don’t know how.”
“I do,” he says. He pulls himself up to standing slowly – it’s still hard, and probably always will be – and offers her his hand. She takes it; he’s learned that she’s much more likely to hold his hand if it’s her choice. It makes his heart beat all funny and his stomach go weightless and weird. She’s powerful and wonderful and he’ll never get over the fact that she’s his best friend.
He walks them into the center of the room, then frowns down at their hands. “Okay,” he says, and she interrupts, “I thought you knew how to do this?”
“Poe taught me,” he says, still assessing. “Here, let’s – you put your hand here, that’s how he had it, and hold my hand, and my right hand goes here –“
He looks up and she’s laughing at him. Not out loud, but it’s there in the twitching corners of her mouth and the way her eyes shine in the dim light.
“Not one word,” he says. “Okay, like this…”
He guides her through the loop of steps with careful pushes on her shoulder. She’s smaller than Poe but strong as anything, not just in muscle but in this palpable sense of power and immovability she radiates, like if you’re pushing her, it’s only because she’s allowing it. She watches their feet for only a moment, then closes her eyes, and slides her palm from his shoulderblade to his spine. A shiver works down from the base of his skull, whole-bodied, but she doesn’t seem to notice so he keeps moving, and from her hand on his back, she feels the steps through him.
“I like it,” she says. “This music, it’s so –“
She opens her eyes and smiles at him. He grins back, helpless. It is something; he’s never been to this world before, and the music is different than what he’d last danced to or what’s popular on base. It’s good, though, and the rhythm is roughly the same as what he knows. Rey hums along tunelessly, her gaze drifting over his face. She doesn’t move her hand back. They’re so much closer like this, like almost a real embrace. He swallows and keeps the pace.
When the record finally runs down, they’re still dancing, and there’s more than just two couples in the center now. They’re arguing under their breath about – something, he barely knows, he’s so incredibly tired – and their joined hands are down by their waist and they’re mostly just shuffling in lazy circles, now. It’s wonderful. The sudden silence is almost shocking; Sara groans audibly in disappointment, and a few people laugh. The separations happen in increments, but they happen. Finn leans into Rey, dropping his face to her shoulder. She tucks her nose into his neck.
“Thank you,” she says.
He smiles and hugs her tighter. “Thank you.”
Someone switches off the lights.
The landing is rough, but it’s not like they could really do any more damage to the Falcon at this point. Rey bangs the button for the door with a bloody fist and they descend the ramp with arms around each other’s waists, barely upright. There’s a moment of silence, then a roaring cheer, and Finn finally, finally smiles.
It’s done.
They’re surrounded immediately, Leia and Luke and the commanders and their fellow soldiers shouting their names and crying and clutching at their hands. Finn blinks back a few tears of his own in the brightness of the afternoon sun. In his blurred vision, he’d almost swear he could see a flickering vision of Han Solo behind the twins, a hand on each of their shoulders, and then he really is crying. Rey’s hand tightens at his waist and she presses her face to his shoulder; we did it, she whispers, so only he can hear it, we did it, Finn, we did it.
Then there’s a shout, louder than anyone else or maybe just louder to him, and he swipes a hand over his eyes and stares.
“Poe! Poe Dameron!” he yells, and –
The crowd parts enough for Poe to break through, and then he’s standing there, shoulders heaving as he stares at them. “You did it,” he says, hoarse, “Gods above, you did it.”
Finn stares back. “You’re alive,” he says, and Rey says, “The last thing we saw was your ship going down, Poe –“
He throws himself at them and then they’re all hugging, this jumble that’s all arms and shouting and teary, ecstatic faces. It’s a blur; it barely feels real but the warmth of them is everything Finn has wanted and he clings, unembarrassed. Then Poe grabs Rey and spins her, then turns to Finn, and he’s got his arms under Finn’s, gripping and spinning him so hard his feet leave the ground.
“You’re crazy!” Finn yells, but he’s laughing and pressing his forehead to Poe’s sweat-damp hair.
“You’d better believe it,” Poe yells back. He sets him down on his feet and cradles his face in his hands. “I’ve never been so godsdamned scared in my entire life –“
Finn presses forward and kisses him.
Poe exhales, surprised, into his mouth. His hands vanish from Finn’s face for a moment, then return, and his thumbs brush gently against his cheekbones in distracted figure-eights. When he kisses back, it’s with the kind of intensity that Finn’s only seen from him in the pilot’s seat, the kind that hides behind his lazy eyes and easy smiles. It steals away what little breath Finn had left.
Warm hands come to rest on his waist from behind – Rey. She’s laughing, and when he breaks the kiss and turns to look at her she’s smiling brilliantly, and his heart shudders in his chest. She leans past him and pecks Poe, who’s staring dazed at both of them, on the lips.
“Now you can say you’ve kissed two war heroes,” she says, pulling back to rest her chin on Finn’s shoulder.
It sinks in then, more than when either of them said it: they really, truly did it. The war is over. There’ll be skirmishes, the last dregs of the Order fighting a losing battle because they don’t know what else to do, but there’s no way they can come out on top now. The Resistance won.
He turns in Rey’s arms and stares at her for a long moment. Her smile wobbles, helpless, and he leans in and presses his forehead to hers, screwing his eyes shut. He doesn’t know who starts the kiss, but when it comes, it’s the culmination of something inevitable. Not in the sense that it was destined, exactly. He doesn’t think he believes in destiny so much, even though he can sense the Force around them, bending to their skin. But since those first few choices – those first few times they found each other, and returned to each other, again and again – this has been in the works.
He pulls back and Poe is there, watching them with something unreadable in his eyes. Finn thinks he sees a bit of awe there, but the rest is beyond him. “Come here,” he says. It’s all he can say.
Poe grins, crooked but real, and lets them wrap him in their arms, clinging. And that was a kind of inevitable too.