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Finn is awake for three days before they finally let him sit up and move around. He’s in an old wheelchair that has clearly seen better days, with a stiff right wheel that sometimes gets stuck and won’t turn, but standing is out of the question. He tried that once and nearly passed out from the pain, healing nerves unable to cope with the pressure. Even sitting up for too long brings on those sharp, needle points of agony. But he’s not about to lie down all day as if he was on his deathbed.
Now that he is actually inside the Resistance base, he is acutely aware of just how lacking his knowledge is of them. He knows the First Order propaganda. Knows it better than the back of his hand, in a very literal sense. But he also knows that is just what it is - propaganda. Even in this short time of awareness, he’s learned that the Resistance are far from the chaotic, undisciplined shambles that he had been taught to expect. There are rules to be followed and jobs to be done, just as there had been in the First Order. He likes that. It feels familiar. It’s the differences that fascinate him.
Everyone here has a personality, a personhood. He can see how that might look like disorder, or chaos, a thousand voices crying out in contrast rather than in unison. At first it was easy, moving through the mass of bodies and sharing their space. All space was shared in the First Order, unless it belonged to Kylo Ren, or Hux, or Phasma. Only they were worthy of space, of a name, of privacy. They were the people. Finn was a weapon to be used at their leisure. He sees now why he’d never managed to fit in there. While the First Order tried to rid their weapons of their edges, to turn them into round pegs that fitted in perfectly through round holes, the Resistance filed them away just enough that everyone could work together comfortably without stripping them of their own being. Finn can see that. The Resistance is a team because they want to be, not because someone made them. But why?
Why join when the safest option was to run and hope that no one found you? He asked Rey, but she knew little more than he did, only the odd scraps she’d picked up over the years on Jakku. He would ask General Leia except she has been so busy, and even the arrival of her brother could barely touch the combined grief of losing the man she loved at the hands of their wayward son. So he asks the only other person he feels comfortable with and is now awaiting the arrival of a box of old Resistance propaganda and newsletters to go through.
The door opens and Poe comes through it backwards, wheeling a trolley loaded with boxes. He sets it upright before leaning casually against the stack, resting his arm over the top box.
“You asked for Resistance reading material, you got Resistance reading material,” Poe says, flashing him a beaming grin. “Top box is more recent, bottom box is almost a decade old. We don’t have anything older than that here on the base, but I can ask someone to send some of the ancient stuff from one of the storage outposts if you’d like.” He looks at Finn like he’s expecting him to do something, smile still fixed to his face.
Finn clears his throat.
“I...uh, I can’t stand up, so…” He trails off awkwardly. Poe claps a hand to his forehead.
“Of course. My apologies, Finn. You’ve been looking so much better lately that I forget myself. Want to start with the new stuff, or the old?”
“Top box is as good as any,” Finn replies.
“An excellent choice, sir,” Poe says, picking up the box and carrying it over to the table next to where Finn is sitting. Finn lifts the lid and grabs one of the booklets inside. It’s made up of two sheets of paper, folded together to form a four page pamphlet. The front page proclaims The Galactic Rights of the People. Finn doesn’t recognise the name of the author as anyone he’s been introduced to.
“I like that one,” Poe tells him, as Finn turns the page and skims the words printed on it. Even with just a cursory scan Finn can see that there are words that are completely unfamiliar to him. He frowns, lips trying to sound one of them out, but it is foreign even to his ears.
“You can read, can’t you?” Poe asks, concern etched on his face as his brow furrows and his eyes soften. Finn nodds.
“Yeah. They taught us letters and numbers during training but mostly it was manuals and guides. Technical stuff. All our - I mean their - propaganda was verbal or visual. Tapes played to us as we rested, mantras shouted at us while we trained, posters on the wall of our dorm. If it wasn’t necessary to get the job done, we weren’t taught it,” he explains, Poe nodding along to show he understands.
“This stuff might be a little bit advanced to start you off on, then. Hang on, I’ve got a box of old logs somewhere in my room. It’s more of the tech side of things. Less biased too. Not that we’re supposed to admit that our propaganda is biased. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Poe strides out of the room and leaves Finn alone in a room that feels dark and cramped in a way it hadn’t before. Finn chalks it up to the boxes and moves on, trying to make what sense he can of the booklet still in his hands. Several words stand out like fire in the dark. Power. Courage. Glory. Courage is a thing to be praised, a virtue of the old and the young, the rich and the poor, the brave and the scared. Power, it seems, is something to be wary of. A temptation more often than an instrument of good. Finn has seen power and its potential to corrupt, knows it better than most members of the Resistance. He reaches into the box to grab something else but it’s difficult when he can’t see over the sides.
When Poe comes back, panting slightly as he carries another enormous box, Finn is leaning heavily against the table with one hand while the other sorts through the reading material. He knows his face is contorted in pain, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he fights to stay on his feet. He’s not sure he could sit down if he tried. His spine has stiffened so much that it feels locked in place, white hot pain shooting out in every direction.
“Finn!” Poe cries out, putting the box he is holding down as quickly as he can and hurrying over to him. He grabs Finn’s arm and slings it over his shoulder, taking as much of the man’s weight as he can. It’s a slow, gentle process to ease Finn back down into his chair.
“Thanks. I got stuck.” Finn explains, once he’s made himself as comfortable as he can. His back still tingles with the aftershocks of agony but he found a book written by Leia herself about the fall of the Empire so his trouble feels worthwhile.
“I know it’s hard, being confined like this when you’re not used to it. I don’t want to be your Dad and give you a lecture about health and safety. I couldn’t without making a hypocrite out of myself anyway. But you really do have to let yourself rest and recover. We’re not in any immediate hurry, not until the General and her brother decide what their plan is. We have time.” Poe doesn’t coddle him but he’s not chastising either. He talks as though Finn is an equal, someone worth the effort. It’s difficult to get used to, even if it is nice.
“It’s not confinement that I’m unfamiliar with.” It’s not Poe’s fault that he doesn’t fully understand. Finn has known nothing but confinement, trapped within his own head, not allowed to deviate even slightly from the narrow course chosen for him.
What was so strange here was that people genuinely cared about his comfort. His food, while still rationed, was quantified by availability of ingredients and not careful nutritional measurements. If the First Order had caught him trying to stand before the medics had given him the okay, he would have been in deep trouble with punishment awaiting him when he was fit enough to take it. What Poe mistook for resolve or stubbornness was more a matter of testing the boundaries of his own individuality as Finn tried to figure out what was and wasn’t acceptable here.
“Yeah. I can’t imagine those helmets are the roomiest things in the galaxy.” It’s a joke, but an awkward one. Poe delivers it with his usual confidence and lopsided grin, but it’s obvious that he knows that Finn isn’t talking about physical confinement.
“They’re not as awful as you might think.” Finn replies, returning the smile. The filter in the mask meant the air coming through the intake was cleaner and fresher than without, taking the metallic tang out of the air from the deck of the ship. It was sharp, almost acrid, and seemed to permeate every inch of the main decks. The filter in the cushy navigation quarters was far more effective, leaving the commanding crew and officers in relative comfort.
Sometimes Finn had even liked the helmet, finding comfort in his anonymity. He doubted Poe Dameron had experienced the luxury or burden of anonymity in a very long time. Poe was watching him curiously, keen eyes fixed sharply on Finn’s face.
“So, what’s in your box?” Finn asks, changing the subject because it’s starting to feel a little weird. Poe picks up the box and puts it on the floor next to Finn, taking off the lid.
“These are the base logs, mostly. Once per period, each of the outposts writes up that period’s events and sends them to us so that we know what’s been happening. It’s fairly routine stuff, but it’ll give you a good idea of the size of our operations and what we actually do. Only the General and her officers are required to read them, but anyone is allowed to if they want to.” Poe explains. “Most people don’t want to.”
“Because they’re boring?” Finn asks, biting back a wince as he reaches down for the piece of paper on top of the messy pile of logs.
“Because they’re so boring,” Poe nods. “We get our own copies so don’t worry about getting them back too soon. Take as long as you want. I’m not about to re-read them.”
There’s nothing written on the paper so Finn turns it over, only to find that there’s nothing on that side either.
“This is blank,” Finn points out, holding it up so that Poe can see.
“That’s because it’s not one of the logs. I couldn’t find a dictionary, so I thought that you could write down any words you don’t know and then I could give you the definition later, help you build up your vocabulary.” He reaches into his pocket and pulled out a tattered old pencil. He offers it to Finn, who stares at the chew marks etched deep into the soft wood.
“What’s that?” Finn asks.
“It’s a pencil. You write with it,” Poe replies.
“I know what a pencil is. Why is it so… messed up?” He flounders for a polite way to point out that he’d rather not touch something that has so clearly spent a lot of time in someone’s mouth. It looks unclean.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t even know I’m doing it.”
“Isn’t there another one I can use, preferably a little less eaten?” Finn already knows the answer.
“No can do. Pencils are rationed. Most of the pilots have to share. I am fortunate, nay, privileged to have one all to myself. This is a special pencil that I am bestowing on you as a gift.” Poe is going so deliberately over-the-top in his justification of why Finn has to use this particular pencil that it makes Finn laugh.
“Have you ever thought that maybe you get your own pencil because no one wants to share that battered stick of wood?” A look flits briefly across Poe’s face that tells Finn that the chew marks might not be so accidental after all.
“Take the pencil, Finn.” Poe waves the pencil about until Finn grabs it from him.
“I’ll be back after my shift. You have fun now.” He claps a hand on Finn’s uninjured shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, accompanied by a fond smile that shows no teeth, and then he is gone, leaving Finn alone again.
Finn places the paper in front of him and writes hypocrite in large, neat letters in the top left corner. Then he takes the top of the logs and begins to read.
He’s still reading several hours later when one of the nurses brings him a tray of food. She checks his dressings and measures his vitals. Satisfied that he is still on track with his recovery, she leaves him alone. Not once does she remark on his choice of recreational activity and for that Finn is grateful. He’s about three quarters of the way through the box (Poe wasn’t kidding when he said they’re boring) when he notices something different.
Even at a glance, these are obviously not the reports that he’s been reading. The layout is all wrong. At first he thinks it’s just that this is an old format, since he’s several years back now. However once on the table and in the light he can see that they’re Poe’s maintenance records, detailing all the work he’s done on his craft. There’s a whole stack of them, and they’re all out of order as though they had been gathered and stowed away in a hurry. Finn counts 112 of them in total, piling them up on the table. Poe Dameron’s handwriting is - in a word - terrible. Barely legible and highly irregular, with mixed up upper and lower case letters. For a moment Finn wonders how he could possibly have made it so long without having that taught out of him, before he remembers where he is and where Poe had come from. It wasn’t treated as a defect to be removed, a glitch to be repaired. Here it’s simply a part of who Poe was. A couple more logs follow, except instead of being years old they’re only from a few weeks ago.
Automatically, he reaches into the box to take out what he assumes will be more records but as soon as it’s on the table he recognises that he’s mistaken. It’s a small version of what is obviously a large poster, featuring Poe in full uniform staring grandly into the distance somewhere off to the left of the camera. His jawline is strong. Really strong. It looks like it’s going to slice its way free of the paper it’s printed on. Beneath that is another downscaled poster, this time one of Poe sitting proudly on the wing of a ship that is absolutely not his, helmet resting by his side. If the first poster was inspiring, this one is more playful. Come join the Resistance, you’ll have the time of your life. That’s what it seems to be saying. He picks up the poster and shifts it to the side before freezing. This isn’t another poster. It’s a calendar.
The function of the calendar seems to be all but forgotten as most of each double page is taken up by a photograph. Photographs that could only be described as softly pornographic. Poe straddling the front of his X-Wing with nothing but his helmet protecting his modesty. Poe climbing a maintenance ladder resting against the X-Wing, thigh strategically angled. He may be hidden at the front but everything is on display at the back. Finely defined muscles that shine in the bright starlight, curves instead of lines that disguise the intimate control that Poe has over each and every part of his body. Finn’s eyes are drawn to one curve in particular.
Finn is used to seeing naked bodies. As with every other aspect of their lives, Stormtroopers’ bodies belong to the First Order. You’re naked when it is required - for medical exams or while bathing - but otherwise you’re just a vessel, covered by layers of armour that Finn had been raised to see as protection from the perils outside the base. He now understands that it’s more about keeping him in line, one more anonymous part in the smooth uniform machinery of the Order. It’s difficult to get attached to anyone when all you see reflected back at you is an expressionless mask. Even the inflection of your voice is dulled by the helmet, reinforcing each trooper’s position as just one of many, only as important as their immediate mission. Poe is not just another member of the Resistance in these photos. There’s a glint in his eye that says he’s enjoying himself, that this is something he wanted to do outside of just benefiting the cause. His body is his own, and and it was his choice to share it if he wanted to.
In the next photo Poe is still partially clothed, jumpsuit pulled down to the waist just low enough to be teasing. His eyes burn into the camera with smouldering intensity that seems almost too much for Finn to handle. In his rush to turn the page he turns too many and ends up on the last period of the cycle.
Poe is wearing his jacket. Just the jacket. Nothing else.
There’s a polite knock on the door just a moment later, followed by Poe striding into the room all confidence and sweat. Even his sweat seems confident somehow, as though it’s an inherent quality that could be quantified and measured.
“Wow, look at you making progress,” Poe says, glancing at the stacks of pages scattered across the table.
“Yeah,” Finn replies automatically, his mouth dry. He doesn’t know what to do. There’s no point in trying to hide anything now that Poe is already in the room but he’s not exactly keen on being caught looking at… well… that. He’s not panicking but he wouldn’t call himself calm either.
“You must be at least four cycles deep.”
“Seven,” Finn corrects him at the same time that Poe’s eyes flicker down to what’s on the table.
“Oh, is that where I put that? I had been wondering.” It’s so casual. No shame, no embarrassment, no excuses. “There was a surprise inspection a few weeks ago. My room was a mess and I just shoved stuff wherever I could fit it. What else was in there? You didn’t find a pair of black socks did you?”
“Nah, man. No socks. Why do you have a calendar of yourself?” Finn’s not going to beat around the bush, not now that he’s allowed to ask questions whenever he likes.
Poe shrugs, clearing a space on the table so that he can lean down on it. “We were spitballing ideas a while back. Some people were worried that we were drifting too close to First Order-style propaganda. At some point someone suggested that we could try a pin up poster. We waved them off, but it got some minds thinking and when the idea started to get serious, I volunteered.” He meets Finn’s gaze easily.
“That explains why it exists. Why do you have it?”
“Someone found an undistributed copy and stuck it to my door as a prank. Probably been lying forgotten in some storage room for ages. I never got around to figuring out what to do with it.”
“You could have just thrown it out,” Finn points out. A scandalised expression crosses Poe’s face.
“No! What a waste of an excellent source of morale!” Finn has been carefully avoiding looking down at the calendar but as Poe talks his gaze dips, and Finn naturally follows. Suddenly they’re both gazing down at Poe’s dick. At least Finn is. It’s hard not to when it’s just there.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” He manages to find words and they come out sounding pretty much normal. He doesn’t feel normal. There’s something lurking beneath the surface that is very much different from the cursory glances in the shower, borne from simple curiosity to see what other bodies looked like underneath the suits. They weren’t supposed to look, of course. As far as a Stormtrooper was concerned, every other body was an extension of yourself and should be treated as such. Finn knows there are actual clones running around in some of the squads, entire platoons made up of identical faces. His squad had never been permitted to socialise with them, giving them an almost legendary status, spoken of in hushed whispers. Finn still feels curious looking at Poe but it isn’t the same. It isn’t the same at all.
“I wouldn’t say no to a boost in morale.” Poe smiles at him in a way that no one else does, that nobody ever has before.
Finn hesitates, worried that he’s being made fun of. His mouth is open, lips slightly parted as he stares up at Poe trying to think of something, anything to say.
“What?” It’s all he can come up with. Poe shakes his head gently.
“Never mind. You keep at it, buddy. If you get too bored, you know where my room is. We can play chess or something,” he says, pushing himself upright. Poe turns to leave and he’s at the door before Finn can call out to stop him.
“Wait!” he cries.
Poe stops and rotates to look at him expectantly.
“What should I do with this?” Finn picks up the calendar and holds it up, as if Poe wasn’t going to know what he was referring to otherwise. Fine movements and small details got lost while wearing armour, and Finn still hadn’t adjusted fully to this new world of quick glances and casual pointing.
“Keep it,” Poe tells him. “There’s three hundred thousand other copies floating around the galaxy so one of them may as well belong to you.”
He’s gone before Finn can process what he’s said, the ghost of a grin hanging in the air.
“Three hundred thousand?” Finn questions out loud. The days on the calendar are represented as nothing but numbers so it could be reused every cycle if so desired. How many walls might still be adorned with Poe? If someone had asked him to guess how many had been produced he might have reasoned three hundred, one thousand at a stretch. But more than quarter of a million? Finn has so many questions.
In the end it takes him seven days to get through all the material and he has a page full of words he doesn’t understand. He wheels the boxes back to the storage room a few at a time in his chair, using it himself to get back to his room. He can stand for short periods of time without pain now, but the chair provides him with a quicker, more comfortable way to make his way around. General Leia’s book never finds its way back, stowed safely beneath his mattress to read and reread until he’s memorised every detail, and the log box is in the corner out of the way until he can return it. In all that time he’s never managed to make it to Poe’s room, focused fully on the task he set himself. Not that he hasn’t seen Poe.
As soon as the medical staff give Finn the green light to join the communal meals he’s there at Poe’s side or across the table from him, happy just to listen and absorb everything he can from the conversations taking place around him. Poe has a way of capturing the attention of every person around him, some raw charismatic magnetism that sucks you in if you get too close. Finn knows that he’s too close. Finn’s only seen one person with that natural ability before and that’s Captain Phasma. While Kylo Ren and General Hux had ruled through fear and intimidation, the Captain had worked to earn the respect of those she commanded. Finn had been as terrified of her as he had the others, but he had at least trusted her to make the best decision for the team and not just herself. It was the closest to self preservation that he could get so he’d grasped it with both hands, holding onto that trust like it was keeping him alive. He had promised himself when he escaped the Order that he would never invest himself so heavily in one person again and yet…and yet.
Even at a glance Poe is different. He never asks anyone do anything that he wouldn’t do himself. The loyalty he’s won is on a whole other level and comes from a place somewhere deeper than respect. The other pilots love him. The whole damned Resistance love him. And somewhere along the line, Finn has begun to love him too. Poe always makes a special effort to include Finn in the conversation, never forgetting that he’s on the outer of the group with little first hand experience to draw from. Finn appreciates it more than he can vocalise and he’s pleased to find his knowledge of the operations of the X-Wing squad are beginning to build into something usable.
“Hey, Finn. I’ve got a few hours free. You up for a game of chess?” Poe turns to him and asks after lunch as everyone else is standing up and clearing the tables.
“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that I don’t actually know how to play,” Finn replies, rubbing the back of his head.
“Right. Not a lot of downtime when you’re a Stormtrooper, I expect. I can teach you, if you’d like.”
Finn’s never learned anything just for fun before. “Yeah! That would be great. Can you push me? My right wheel is not co-operating with me today.”
“Sure thing. Remind me to take a look at it before you go, it might be a tight bolt or just a lubrication issue.” Poe talks the whole way back to his room as if he could drown out the squeak of Finn’s wheels with the timbre of his voice.
“Are you expecting me to respond to any of this?” Finn asks when they reach the door to Poe’s quarters and Poe takes a break from talking long enough to open it.
“Not really, no. I talk a lot. To myself mostly. Started out as a way to keep focussed in the cockpit but now I do it everywhere. Usually people just tune me out. I can stop doing it around you if it makes you uncomfortable,” he offers, holding the door open so that Finn can wheel himself inside.
“No, it’s fine. I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything being expected from me that I was failing to deliver. You don’t have to change how you do things for me. I’ll adapt,” Finn replies.
Poe shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to bear all the burden of adjusting on your shoulders. You’re part of the team now, Finn. You deserve to have us cater to your needs. We’re not going to just take from you without giving anything back. At least, I’m not.” His voice is warm and heavy in a way that often comes so naturally to these folks raised free.
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Finn says, seriously. Poe nods.
“Good. Give me a moment and I’ll get us set up.” It takes less than a minute for Poe to retrieve a foldout table and chair from underneath his bunk and opens them up. Next comes a box from his footlocker containing board and pieces.
Finn wheels himself up to the table as Poe lays the game out. “That’s a lot of pieces,’ he says, picking up one of the dark models shaped like an animal.
“Sixteen each. That one you’re holding is called a Knight. They can only move in L shapes. You get two of them. There’s also Rooks, Bishops, a Queen, and a King. They start at the back. The small pieces are called Pawns. They only move one square at a time but they can move in any direction but backwards as long as they aren’t blocked.” Poe holds each of the pieces up in turn. “The King is who you are trying to protect. You lose your King, you lose the game.”
“Protect the King. Got it,” Finn repeats, nodding. Poe runs him through the basic rules, how to move and some of the common openings.
“You don’t have to worry about it yet because I’ll be coaching you through your turns for the first game, but always be aware of what your opponent is doing. You need to be thinking as far ahead for their potential moves as you are your own.” It sounds less like a game and more like a form of strategic warfare. When Finn tells him that, Poe starts laughing.
“Yeah, it kind of is. Really helps keep your mind sharp and quick. I couldn’t say if the chess helps my flying or the flying helps my chess. Either way, it’s a benefit to both,” he explains, leaning forward in his chair and gazing eagerly at the waiting board. “Light pieces start, so when you’re ready we can begin.”
Finn looks down and picks up one of the pawns, moving it forward.
“Remember what I said about first moves,” Poe reminds him.
“Oh yeah.” Finn pushes the pawn forward another square. Poe takes a moment before picking one of his own pawns up and moving it. The game continues on, Finn choosing each action in silence while Poe talked his out constantly under his breath.
Other than checking in every so often to make sure that his movement was legal, Finn doesn’t ask for help. He’s curious to see how well he can do on his own. At first he thinks that Poe is taking it easy on him, and maybe he was at one point, but as they get deeper so does the furrow of Poe’s brow.
“What are you doing?” he blurts out loudly, after one particularly cavalier use of a pawn as sacrifice.
“Had to protect the Rook. Think about it for a second and it’ll make sense,” Finn replies casually.
“No. I… Finn, you still have to take care of your pawns. They might not be the King or Queen but they’re still valuable in their own right.”
There’s a moment of silence as they both process what he’s said.
“Okay, I... probably should have taken your advice and thought for a second before I opened my mouth,” Poe says, apologetically.
“It’s fine. It’s okay. Blame it on me being new to this,” Finn replies breezily. Poe doesn’t look reassured. The game goes on, but Finn is careful not to be so reckless with using his pieces as sacrificial lambs. Even though it’s painfully clear that Poe is going easy on him, it’s still not long before he finds his King in check with nowhere to go.
“Rookie mistake,” Poe teases, shaking his head as Finn throws his hands up in surrender.
“Yep, I’m definitely asking for help next time. I was curious to see how I could go alone and it turns out I’m not ready,” he says, as Poe begins to pack up the board.
“Don’t be too harsh on yourself. You spotted two of the traps I set to test your awareness which makes you better than Jess, and she’s been trying to beat me for years.”
“I appreciate the flattery, but I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” No one has ever looked at Finn the way Poe does. Improvement or displays of talent were rewarded by an absence of punishment. Compliments were reserved for only the most extreme of circumstances, praise withheld. It’s difficult to accept Poe’s recognition of his efforts when, until just a short time ago, his failure to independently excel would have cost him what little privileges he had. Still, there he is, looking proud. It’s too much and Finn can feel himself threatening to shut down unless he changes the subject.
“I’m going to be moving out of the recovery wing tomorrow,” he announces.
“Hey, that’s great. The medics must be really pleased with how you’re going,” Poe exclaims, his face lighting up as he grins.
“They are. Not that anyone can tell me where I’m moving to. Bed space is pretty tight in the dorms. I don’t mind that, it’s what I’m used to. I just don’t want to step on anyone’s toes when I’m the new guy.” The new guy. Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. Finn knows that people talk about him and his past, and he’s hyper-aware that not everyone is as trusting or forgiving as Poe, Rey, or Leia. They can’t complain openly, not when the General has expressed her opinion on the matter, but whether it’s real or imagined, Finn gets the impression that nobody is putting their hand up to share a dorm with an ex-Stormtrooper.
“You can bunk with me. I’ve got room for you,” Poe says, gesturing at the space around them.
“Are you sure? I wasn’t trying to draw an offer from you. I wasn’t expecting anything,” Finn hates to think of Poe feeling trapped in a situation he doesn’t want.
“I’m not offering because I feel obligated, Finn. We’re friends. I enjoy being around you and I’d like to bunk with you.”
Friends. Finn beams across at Poe. He couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to.
“In that case, I’d love to share this room with you. Thank you.”
Finn feels lighter than air for the rest of the day, floating on a cloud above everyone else. He smiles at everyone he sees, passing along the warm feeling inside of him until the whole base feels like it’s pleasantly buzzing. If he dreams at all that night, he doesn’t remember when he wakes in the morning.
Poe arrives bright and early, almost colliding with the medic on her way out the door. Finn’s bag is already packed, the little that he owns easily stowed into one small rucksack. A pair of crutches rest against the foot of his bed, an alternative to the chair if he chooses. The wheel doesn’t squeak since Poe fixed it, but Finn likes to stand as much as he can as it makes him feel like he’s recovering well.
“I’ve set up your new bed in our room, so all we have to do is get you and your things down there,” Poe says cheerily. “What can I do to help?”
Finn points at the rucksack. “You can carry that. I’ve just got to put the only decorative item I own in there first and then we are good to go.” He gestures at the wall where the calendar is tacked. Poe’s jaw drops slightly as he realises which photo is on display.
“You know that’s not the current period, right?” he says slowly. Finn shrugs.
“Yeah, but it’s barely usable as a calendar and I’m fond of the jacket.” Poe’s mouth opens and closes a few times as though he can’t quite figure out if Finn is joking or not.
“The jacket, huh?” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s a nice jacket,” Finn replies, smiling.
Poe bursts out laughing. “Can’t deny that. Come on, let’s get you moved out.” It takes less than five minutes, most of that time being Finn slowly making his way along with the help of his crutches. Poe strolls patiently alongside him, opening the door to their room and stepping aside so that Finn can enter first. He is about to close the door behind them when BB-8 comes zooming in, rolling over to Finn and chattering away excitedly.
“That’s right, buddy. Finn’s our roommate,” Poe says, crouching down so that he can pet the robot on the head. More animated beeping follows. “Yeah, he’s going to stay with us. No, it’s not going to be like all those other times.”
BB-8 practically squeals at that, rushing over to Finn so fast that they almost knock him over.
Finn doesn’t understand what they’re saying yet, but he doesn’t need to. The robot’s joy is obvious. “I can’t bend down, but it’s good to see you too,” he says, smiling down at them.
Poe puts Finn’s things in his footlocker while Finn pins the calendar on the wall above his bed.
“Really?” Poe asks, his eyes glinting with something that Finn can’t place.
“You were the one who said it was good for morale,” Finn teases, but then realises that maybe Poe might find it uncomfortable. “Do you want me to take it down?” he asks, seriously.
“Nah, you can leave it up there. I don’t mind being your pin-up.”
“I bet you say that to all the boys.” Finn jokes. Poe smiles like he’s in on some joke that Finn isn’t and says something softly under his breath. Finn can’t be sure, but he thinks it might have been ‘no’.
It feels right almost immediately, Poe setting up the table in the corner to do paperwork while Finn lays on his bunk and reads General Leia’s book again. BB-8 hides themself away in the corner and powers down to rest as Poe mutters to himself, concentrating hard on his work.
“Is everyone in the Resistance as comfortable with their bodies as you?” Finn’s been mulling over it for a while now, waiting until Poe was between forms to ask the question. Poe turns to look at him, head tilting curiously.
“No,” Poe replies simply. “And that’s okay. Nobody is here because of their body, or their self esteem. They’re here because they believe in fighting for the side of the light. That’s what brings us all together, no matter your shape, size, or background.”
Finn knows what Poe is saying, knows that it’s directed at him as much as anyone else. Finn doesn’t have to do what Poe does to still be useful to the Resistance. He can find his own way, and that will be okay.
“You don’t have to answer this, but how did you end up so...secure?” Finn asks hesitantly.
“At least you recognise I didn’t come out of the womb this way. I actually grew up hating attention. I was withdrawn, quiet. Struggled a lot at school. I worked hard but numbers and letters, sequences, they were really difficult. I still have trouble with them but I’ve worked out ways to cope. I think that’s why I took to flying like I did. I’m good at problem solving. Flying was a whole new world and for the first time, people were recognising that I was good at something. It was the General who first suggested that maybe my learning difficulties came from being differently wired in the brain. That changed everything for me. It was almost like I had given myself permission to stop repeating the same mistakes because that’s what worked for other people, and allowed myself to figure out what worked for me. Once I found that confidence on the inside, it translated to confidence on the outside.” Poe explains.
“And that’s how you ended up posing naked for the Resistance.”
“There were a few more steps in between, but that’s how I ended up posing naked for the Resistance, yes.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t enjoy it,” he replies, as though it’s obvious. The way Poe leans back into his chair, gazing at Finn like he’s the most interesting sight in the world, suggests that he’s learned as much about Finn in the couple of minutes as the other way around.
“Why didn’t you have a roommate before me?” It doesn’t seem right when there’s no space anywhere else for Poe to have been on his own. He didn’t seem to hold himself above anyone else, so that couldn’t be the reason.
“It’s the talking, mostly. It started out as a way to decode words and grew into something I do whenever I’m mulling something over in my head. None of the other pilots could handle it, so it ended up just being me and BB-8 in this big old room on our lonesome.” At the mention of their name, BB-8 raised their head and beeped happily.
“Well, lucky for you it doesn’t bother me,” Finn says. Poe smiles at him, that indeterminable glint back in his eyes.
“Lucky for me,” he agrees.
But when Finn wakes the next morning to Poe climbing out of bed, his dark hair a tangled mess as he stretches the sleep away while their shared jacket rests over a hibernating BB-8, he knows who’s really the lucky one. Three hundred thousand people might have Poe Dameron as their calendar pin-up, but Finn’s the only one who gets to wake up to the real thing.