Chapter Text
He understands why he did it – he’s the best damn pilot in the galaxy, after all – but that doesn’t mean he is going to forgive him for it.
Finn is nervous, which is understandable, though he’s pretty sure he’s hiding it well. He avoids tapping his foot nervously against the pitch and roll pedals, something he had learned – from experience - was a terrible thing to do.
“You’re nervous. That’s understandable.” Poe’s voice filters into his helmet and he takes a moment to marvel over how not stifling it is – the Trooper helmets had been near unbearable.
Finn glares at the remark, would glare at the person in question but Poe is flying in front of him and when had the man become a mind-reader?
“Please. I’m not nervous.” There’s a series of clicks and whistles – R4, the droid assigned to this particular fighter and, for the time being, him. He looks down at the screen.
Sir, you sound nervous. Shall I engage autopilot?
He hears Poe laugh, his voice vibrant and thick with that natural pleasantness and charm. Another thing he is not yet used to. Laughter, enjoyment, companionship; it was rare for a Stormtrooper to enjoy his work.
“Nah, you’re doin’ great buddy, just, you’re a bit pitchy –“ Finn realizes how tense he’d been sitting there, his legs a little too straight and not quite in line with each other – he hadn’t realized the error nor the R4-unit’s counterbalancing.
He shifts in his seat; amazed that Poe could tell that from cursory views out the cockpit windows.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me when I’m off course, R4?” He grounds out, still not used to having an astromech for a co-pilot.
I didn’t want to offend you, sir. The screen translates the response and Finn is at least grateful that the droid seems to be polite. He had met Slip’s droid and the thing was near insolent, its humor strangely human and, for lack of a better word, rude.
Finn can hear BB-8 through his helmet and Poe’s soft chuckle.
“Aww, c’mon BB-8, I’m a great teacher. Right, Finn?” Finn grins, rolls his eyes and thinks back on those months of training.
Had the man flinched when he had nearly barrel rolled them into the ocean in the training fighter? Nope.
Had Poe said anything when he had accidentally initiated the coupler when the man had been fixing it and electrocuted him a little bit? Nope – though, Finn reflects, he’d been unconscious pretty immediately after that and he’s not sure Poe really remembers it.
Had the expert pilot been even a little bit cross with him for accidentally ejecting him? Nope. He thinks.
Yes. The man had been a great teacher. But he’s not telling him that; Poe’s ego doesn’t need any help or support.
“You were okay.” He says after a long pause; Poe’s bark of laughter is so genuine, so infectious, Finn can’t help but join in.
The intel, it turns out, is false.
“Yeah, I know it was false, BB!” Poe shouts over the sound of his own blaster, his movements careful and practiced. “Maybe drop some charges, pal?”
The droid complies, agrees, and plants a few small, silver charges. Finn stores that information later because he has questions.
“It wasn’t just false - ” Finn huffs as they run, his own blaster feeling heavy in his hands. He could see it in the ways the Troopers had moved, their reaction anticipatory rather than surprised, “ – I think it was a trap.”
They make it to a T and both backpedal at the sudden, alarming loss of floor. From the right comes heavy blaster fire. They go left.
Neither of them stumble, nor trip, even as sparks shoot up at his heels.
“Thank the Force for their aim, huh?” Poe says, his breathing heavy with exertion.
To Poe it might seem like bad aim, but Finn knows it for what it is: an attempt by their pursuers to trip or cripple him. They’re aiming for the delicate tendons in the legs, something that would end the possibility of on foot escape.
They continue running, weaving their way in and out, right and left through endless corridors. Poe pushes him back on course when things start looking familiar and Finn shoves him out of the way from more than one blaster bolt. BB-8 calls out warnings that only Poe can really understand but still.
They feel like a well-oiled team, like they understand each other perfectly.
It happens fast, and when it does, he’s not part of the ultimate decision-making.
He won’t forgive that either.
They turn the corner and Finn’s heart soars in relief. The area has taken some damage, scorch marks stain the Western wall and small piles of debris dot the landscape, but the X-Wings are still there, still whole.
He can hear BB-8 beeping and whirring – his binary is still terrible but he catches craft and damage – and he imagines the droid is as pleased and surprised as he is.
He turns to share his own disbelief over their luck and nearly trips over his own feet when he catches Poe’s grim expression.
“I know, I see it.” Poe responds hotly, glancing down at the droid as it speeds away ahead of them, clearly eager to take a closer look.
“What? What’s wrong?” Finn asks, regaining his footing even as he studies Poe’s face, studies the worried lines as the man’s eyes scan the two crafts. His mouth quirks in a way that makes Finn’s elation fizzle away, replaced by a vague nausea.
“I’ll tell you when I know for sure.” Poe flashes him a confident grin. If things hadn’t suddenly felt so dire he would’ve shared the expression. Poe was infectious like that. But now, he could tell something was wrong and it was serious enough that his famous grin slid from place and Poe’s equally famous stoicism replaced it.
They make it to the pair X-Wings and Finn can see the signs of damage; it doesn’t translate, like it does for Poe or for BB-8, but if the pilot and the small droid could spot the damage from across the way, he could only assume it was severe enough to create a problem.
BB-8 is a whir of beeps and blips, an occasional click and groan, even as Poe’s T-70 pulls the droid into place behind the canopy.
“That’s right, BB. Run diagnostics, fix what you can, keep me updated –“ Finn watches as BB-8 spins in place, chirps, and Finn’s X-fighter starts with a spark and a hum. Almost immediately, smoke rises from the spot with the most visible damage, an area likely struck by debris.
“Poe, what can I do?” He feels useless, blaster in his hand, the sounds of far off chatter and an explosion becoming less far off as the seconds pass. He eyes the craft, ready to lend a hand, while keeping an eye on the entry.
He feels even more useless as Poe moves without hesitation, his focus perfect and intense, his hands pulling deftly at wires and panels in order to make minute corrections – his competence, in that moment and in the face of his own feelings of inadequacy, is overwhelming.
“We’ll get these babies running –“ He pats his shoulder as he rounds the nose cone of his fighter, moving on to Finn’s, “ – but we can’t do that if we’re getting shot at. Watch our backs, buddy, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I’m on it.” Finn says, wants to say buddy back, but doesn’t. He needs his own word for Poe and he hasn’t figured it out yet. So, he just spins on his heel and assumes perfect firing form.
If his conditioning has done anything for him, it has made him a very good marksman. If his conditioning has given him anything to be grateful for, it was his ability to protect those he cares for.
BB-8 chirps a hurried rush of clicks and whirls; Finn doesn’t catch a single word.
“Good, great, BB.” Poe responds; he sounds out of breath and Finn can hear the sound of a manual crank and a piece of metal screeching as it protests being removed from its place on the craft.
“How’s the coupler looking? Life support a go?” Poe asks, a question that seems random for Finn, who doesn’t speak binary all that well.
More alarming, of course, is that there was something wrong with life support.
“Is life support a go?” Finn asks incredulously, though he does manage to resist the urge to turn around and ask for details; he feels stupid for having felt so optimistic about this whole affair.
BB-8 responds.
“Ok. Ok.” Poe says, the answer seeming inadequate. There’s a loud clang and Poe swears.
The sounds of fighting are approaching, quickly, and Finn expects to see their pursuers any moment.
“Poe, BB, we have incoming!” He warns them as he squares his shoulders, holds the blaster tightly, steadily. He doesn’t have to wait long, a line of troopers round the corner.
He picks two off rather immediately and he can’t help but cringe – no matter what anyone tells him he’ll never get used to killing and he sure as hell won’t ever come to like it.
They have some natural cover, the abandoned, half collapsed hanger offering plenty of debris to hide behind. The remained men filter in, taking cover but in predictable lines. The Resistance has taught him a lot about not standing in formation.
A blaster bolt goes wild, arching well above his head and he hears BB-8 whirl and Poe swear; his head whips around fast enough to ensure it will feel strained later.
Poe’s T-70 has a new scorch mark but no one had gotten hit. Finn turns back, his teeth grit so hard he was sure to pull something, and pulled the trigger; the Trooper that had fired the shot falls back and doesn’t shoot again.
“BB-8, a little help!” Finn shouts back at the droid and the X-Wing’s underslung cannon swings to attention and showers cover fire. The craft isn’t positioned well and the angle is terrible, but its better than nothing and Finn is grateful for it.
Finn steps forward, advances to another piece of rubble, hoping to draw fire and to better his angle. He shoots just as a Trooper advances, the bolt landing between the chest piece and the pauldron and another shot goes wild.
This time there’s a heavy thump, an electronic scream and more cursing.
“Poe!” He shouts desperately as he lands another hit; there’s only two or three left now, though there are sure to be more coming. He ducks down, back to the slab of rock that had at some point been part of the ceiling, and searches for Poe through the smoke.
“Poe! Say something!” BB-8 is steadily providing cover but he knows its utility will be short lived once the Troopers realize the narrow arc and radius of the blaster. “Poe!”
“I’m fine,” The man finally manages over the clamor, “but R4 is hit, he’s done – “
The pilot’s voice is strained, regretful, and he ends the sentence with a cough. BB-8 screeches and Finn manages to catch the word hurt. Finn feels enraged at that moment.
He stands – which he knows is a reckless, stupid thing to do during active fire – and whirls around with his blaster held high; he steps forward with ease and the Trooper he’s aiming at stumbles backwards.
Finn sees this, remembers Slip in that odd moment, and hesitates. He’s caught between the rage over whatever injury the Trooper may have inflicted upon his friend, upon Poe, and the understanding of the life under that armor.
Luck is with him – or rather, BB-8 is - as the man is thrown back when the canon under Poe’s X-Wing finds its target. Finn stands their, stiff, as he tries to process … whatever this is.
Vaguely, far off, he thinks someone is shouting his name. There’s the sound of scrambling next t him and he’s shaken out of the poorly timed moment of shock.
“Finn, c’mon –“ Finn feels the pilot tug at his jacket. He shakes his head, shakes away the fear that had been welling in him.
“You okay, you hit?” Poe asks, worry written across his features even as he glances at the door and tugs him away from the debris.
“No, no, I’m okay.” He looks at Poe, takes in rivulet of blood trailing from just above his right ear, the spots of soot in the same area; an electrical wound, most likely from being in close proximity to poor R4 after that second blaster strike.
“Are YOU okay?” It comes out a little more urgently than he had intended; poe doesn’t have time to answer. The sound of boots fill the corridor.
“That’s our cue.” He says in that roguish manner unique to Poe and they’re moving. The pilot keeps his footing, seems steady, but Finn is going to wrestle him to medical as soon as they touch down.
Surprisingly, the X-Wings look much better and much worse at the same time. They’re no longer actively sparking but there are exposed wires and missing panels and they don’t look like something you would want to fly in.
Finn heads towards his X-Wing but is tugged off course by Poe; the man is gripping his jacket, those tight lines of worry back and firmly set at the corners of his eyes, the furrow of his brow.
“What – “ He is yanked again and he can hear BB-8 whistling – it sounds far away through the sound of his own heart beating in his ears.
They make it to Poe’s craft, the cockpit open and ready to receive its pilot, and before Finn can comprehend what is really happening, Poe gives him a shove, pushing him towards the ladder.
“Listen, Finn, your fighter took a bad hit, a couple of bad hits – “ Poe winces, ducks as something far off explodes. Finn’s head is still spinning over how wrong the intel is, how not abandoned the station is, how, in retrospect, obvious it is that this is a trap.
“But –“ Finn manages to get a single word out, tries to step away from the ladder, but Poe pushes him back.
“You won’t be able to fly it. You won’t.” Poe repeats himself when Finn opens his mouth to protest; Finn knows that if Poe says he won’t be able to pilot the thing than he won’t. There’s no arguing that and anyone who knew the pilot would agree.
Still.
The sounds BB-8 is making are approaching argumentative, even Finn can tell that. Finn tries to budge but Poe has him pretty well pinned against the ladder.
“No, no way. I can do it, Poe. You trained me yourself. You were a great teacher.” It’s a desperate bid, he knows, and Poe’s expression softens. Everything inside of Finn is screaming at him, begging him to find a way to keep Poe with him.
“You can’t. But I can, okay?” Poe’s lips set into a tight line, so contrary to the usually full smile. Finn would realize, a little bit later, that the pilot had been trying to convince him of something he didn’t fully believe himself, that Poe Dameron, one of the galaxy’s worst liars, had managed to do just that
“We leave together, or not at all.” Finn says stubbornly; BB-8 hoots in agreement. Finn can tell, in that moment, that he’s damn near breaking the pilot’s heart, that he’s stretching his own limits. Poe’s brow arches upwards in desperation and the sounds of battle loom closer.
“Life support can’t handle two bodies, Finn.” Poe says it urgently, knowing they don’t have time for this.
“Then we’ll fight them. We can do it. We’re doing this.” He echoes the words spoken to him upon their first meeting and Finn isn’t expecting the amount of emotion in Poe’s eyes as he, too, remembers. It’s a look of sheer sadness because the pilot knows better, has his own agenda.
“Please, Finn, we can’t let them catch you.” Finn hadn’t been expecting that. His heart lurches in his chest. There’s another cacophonous boom but Poe doesn’t flinch this time. The man is staring at him, through him, almost. His brown eyes are pleading with him to get in the damn cockpit. “I can’t let them catch you, got it?”
Finn takes a hesitant step, two steps, up the ladder, his body just barely complying. He feels as though something has gripped his insides, he’s afraid the pilot is lying to him.
“Promise me you can fly it.” He turns and says, his gaze landing on Poe’s own easily; the man hadn’t taken his eyes off him. Poe gestures at him to keep going.
“Poe.” Finn grounds out, his tone caught between stern and hysterics.
“I can fly it. Get in the kriffin’ cockpit.” Finn obliges, settles himself in, hoists the harness over his head; his hands are gripping the stick so tightly his knuckles pale. Belatedly he realizes Poe has followed him up the ladder, is leaning in, flipping switches and pushing buttons.
Finn tries to busy himself by strapping on his helmet, opening the comm. channels and strapping the buckle.
“BB-8, will that hold?” It’s the worst thing someone can say to – no, over - you in a damaged ship, but he’s too shocked and worried to do anything about it. He’s out of his element right now and it’s painfully obvious. The droid whirs in response, sounds incredible displeased but he recognizes the low electronic affirmation at the end of its tirade.
“I know, I know –“ Poe pauses for the briefest moment before patting Finn’s thigh, his gaze wandering slowly up to meet Finn’s own.
“You got this.“ Poe’s gaze is intense, his face is flushed and his eyes are scanning his face, searching for something. He’s certain Poe is about to say something more, is about to do something when the pilot blinks and leans back and away. The space between them feels cold, terrible.
“BB-8, button up – “ There’s a hiss and the craft truly awakens, preparing for flight.
“Poe. Promise me –“ Finn says, grabbing at the pilots arm, fabric bunching in his fist, even as he steps back. Poe doesn’t resist, his hand comes up to rest on Finn’s; the touch is warm, reassuring, and remarkably still.
“I can fly anything, remember.”’ He doesn’t grin, or wink. He stares back, eyes alight with something Finn can’t identify. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Finn stares desperately at him as he takes a step down, allowing the cockpit to close. Just before it seals shut he hears him address his beloved droid.” Take the controls, if you have to, BB-8. Just get him home.”
Poe pats the X-Wing, jumps off the ladder. Finn thinks about how he should have punched the man in the face, thinks about how he should have dragged his stupid ass into the cockpit, thinks about –
He watches as Poe backs away, towards the other X-Wing. His mouth moves but he can’t hear what he’s saying.
“What? Wait, BB-8, what’s he saying?” Finn's gut churns. BB-8 responds, he thinks, but not to him, because the chirps are low and mournful and suddenly they’re taking off.
Within mere seconds they breach the atmosphere.
He promised, he thinks, later.
He sits with that small betrayal, a painful ache in his chest, until he realizes that Poe hadn’t promised a damn thing.