Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tell us about your time with the First Order.

Finn needs to breathe. Distantly, watching the growing concern on General Organa’s face, he realizes he’s having a panic attack. Breath coming in erratic spurts, vision darkening around the edges, center of gravity shifting suddenly—all the signs are there and this weakness isn’t helping anything. The General needs his help, and who is he to deny her, the Resistance?

“Finn? Finn are you okay?” The General’s hand grips his arm comfortingly, her brows pinching in worry and that’s enough. Get a grip.

Taking a deep breath, Finn nods, an awkward jerking motion that feels stiff.

“Yeah, yes, sorry. I was just—surprised. Of course I’ll help.” With each word determination settles on him like a cloak until his words are coming out firm and steady. It’s a mission, he tells himself. Just another debrief. He can do this. “What do you need to know?”

General Organa eyes Finn for another moment, clearly aware that something’s wrong but thankfully deciding not to press the matter.

“Everything,” she says decisively, finally releasing Finn’s arm. She leans back in her seat and clasps her hands on the table before her. Finn feels the loss of contact keenly, but that only makes it more like a debriefing, doesn’t it? His superior officers certainly didn’t offer any support or gentle encouragement when it was time for his report and he knows he’s backsliding but it’s take refuge in what’s familiar or fall to pieces before the General and her assorted Lieutenants.

“If we want to keep the First Order from gaining any new allies, we need to make them aware of exactly the kind of people they’re dealing with,” Admiral Statura says, leaning forward slightly. Around him, the other heads of the Resistance nod, their conviction plain to see. In the corner, the General’s aide sits silently, recording their every word for future use.

“What they did—taking you from your home, drafting you into a war before you even understood what war was —it’s barbaric and cruel,” the General says, her voice passionate and angry. The thought that she was angry on his behalf warmed something within him, made this entire situation that much more bearable even though he knew what they were painstakingly working their way to.

“Finn, we know this may be difficult,” Admiral Ackbar starts, and everyone in the room tenses, “but if you could tell us about your experience with the First Order, their methods in training their stormtroopers, we think we could generate more sympathy for the Resistance.”

They need this desperately, Finn thinks. After the total obliteration of the Hosnian system, fear has rippled throughout the galaxy, no matter the current non-existing status of Starkiller Base. No one wants to cross a militia so exacting and merciless.

But with this, Finn can help. Can generate some support for the resistance, some new faces to flesh out an army already grown thin.

Never mind the fear and disgust that sits heavy and ice cold in the pit of his stomach at the thought of laying himself bare before perfect strangers, good guys or no, the dull numbness that spreads through him at the thought of their faces once they know, know how weak he is, how he allowed himself to be brought low, how he’s a failure, an aberration, a flaw, through and through.

This is bigger than him, and if he can help despite his still-healing back, then he will.

It’s what a good soldier would do.

“Conditioning,” Finn corrects an indeterminate amount of time later, when his mind is eerily calm and everyone’s eyes are watching him as if he could shatter with the faintest breath. “Not training. That came later. But they had to get rid of all that pesky individuality,” he tries to joke, lips twitching half-heartedly, but no one laughs, no one smirks when he risks a glance up. They all look grim, and the General looks so pained for him he quickly focuses back on the gleaming table and decides not to look to his left again. Hidden, his hands clench tightly on his legs. In the corner, the General’s aide is typing up his every word into her portable terminal and he can see how she bites her lip, fights to keep her expression neutral.

He takes another deep breath. He can do this.

“I don’t—I don’t really remember when I first came to be with the First Order,” he confesses, brow furrowing as he tries to remember. All he gets are flashes of light, snow, the gleam of artificial lights on durasteel. “My earliest memories are of—” Pain, cruel laughter, pull the trigger, FN-2187— “Weapons practice. Drills. The—” Needle.

Frustrated with the way his throat closes up with the memories, how fear instinctively makes him tense and still, knowing that resistance always makes it worse, he clear his throat, shifts.

“I can’t tell you much,” He starts apologetically. “My days were pretty boring. I woke at oh-four-hundred every morning, reported to my station, worked, went to drill, then went to bed. All of the intensive stuff happened when I was younger and up until my defection I was a model trooper.” Lies.

The others nod their heads, clearly wary of probing further, but their disappointment is obvious to him. Other than a sad kidnapping story, he hasn’t given them much. Some help he turned out to be, with the words bubbling in his throat but catching at his lips. If only he could just show them—

Finn’s eyes widen. “Actually,” he says slowly, reluctantly, “I think there might be a better way to get what you need.”

+

Sitting at the large terminal in the General’s war room, Finn fights the urge to grab the nearest blaster and obliterate the console. Because on the screen every single holo-vid of his sessions with the order is nicely queued up, ready for their perusal.

He supposes that in all the excitement, or perhaps the Order’s arrogance, no one thought to revoke his access to their archives. Or maybe no one cared. What did it matter if Finn could gain access to his old reconditioning tapes? Maybe they hoped he would re-watch them and come to his senses, come crawling back and beg for punishment.

The urge to be sick increases.

“There’s so many…” Admiral Statura murmurs, trepidatious, and Finn can’t take any more of this.

Abruptly, he stands, refusing to look anyone in the eye, and faces the General.

“You should be able to find what you need here,” Finn says, gesturing vaguely at the screen. He catches sight of the word ‘Initialization’ and feels so, so cold. “If that’s all?”

Finn starts to leave but the General’s hand on his forearm halts him. He doesn’t dare look at her.

“Finn, you must know that we won’t look at these without your consent,” she tells him firmly, and the startling concept of consent forces his eyes up, meeting her gaze head-on. She looks so compassionate and understanding Finn’s almost tempted to tell her no, that the thought of these good people seeing him at his lowest makes his skin crawl with self-loathing and disgust.

Bigger picture, he reminds himself. He shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he assures her with a confidence he damn sure doesn’t feel. “It’s for a good cause.” And then, because he’s weak, he ventures, tentatively, “But...maybe don’t watch all of them?”

The General’s hand squeezes, a comforting pressure. “Of course, Finn.”

+

It doesn’t matter, in the end.

Chapter Text

D’Qar at night is surprisingly peaceful. During the day silence can’t be found except for in the depths of the surrounding forests. There’s always people, talking, arguing, laughing, running—the Resistance is never idle.

But right now it’s late, and Poe walks with Black Squadron to their quarters. The base isn’t silent—it never is—but the late hour means a good third of the staff are asleep, preparing for another early morning.

Among his fellow pilots the mood is happy but subdued due to the time and a mind-numbingly boring supply run. Everyone’s thinking of their bunks, but Poe is the exception.

Instead, he thinks about Finn and how quiet he'd been after their lunch together. It isn't his place to pry, Poe had reminded himself again and again, but the urge to bundle Finn away somewhere safe and warm had been overwhelming.

Maybe he’d stop by Finn’s room, see what he’s up to? He had physical therapy today, Poe knows. Which means he’s probably still awake, trying to squeeze in a little more of his exercises in the hopes that he’ll heal that much faster. Or running laps around the compound. Or, stars forbid, sneaking off to the armoury to clean blasters. The very thought of it makes Poe shake his head. If Poe doesn’t check on him, distract him with meaningless stories of his more embarrassing Outer Rim adventures, Finn would work himself into an early grave.

The sound of a ship nearing them makes the group pause, eyes turned skywards as an old Corellian freighter sails overhead and makes to land across the duracrete.

A smile instantly stretches Poe’s face; cheering Finn up won’t be a problem now.

Waving off his friends and all but ordering them to rest, Poe jogs the thirty-or-so metres to the Millenium Falcon, coming even with it just as Rey disembarks.

“Rey, good to see ya!”

Rey smiles at him and Poe marvels at the sense of calm that always hits him in her presence. It’s easy to remember she’s a Jedi.

“Poe,” she draws close and takes his hand, pumping once, twice, firmly before dropping. She glances over his shoulder. “Where’s Finn? It’s unusual to see you two apart,” she asks, eyebrow arched, her accent making the teasing tone that much more obvious. Ridiculously, Poe can feel himself coloring slightly.

He clears his throat, adjusts his collar. “Had a run tonight, perimeter check.” He meets Rey’s eyes, curious. “Actually, where is Finn?” he asks, twisting to check over his shoulder, but no, Finn isn’t coming. “He didn’t tell me you were visiting.”

Rey shook her head. “It’s a surprise, actually. My Master gave me leave for one last visit before my training gets intensive. After this I won’t be coming to D’Qar much, I’m afraid.” Sadness colors her tone and shines bright in her hazel eyes.

“Ah, well, of course,” he shrugs, feigning nonchalance, “No time for us mere mortals, huh?”

Rey musters a wry smile. "No, not really,” she jokes back, a bit awkwardly in the way of those who don’t joke often. It only makes her more endearing.

Together they walk towards the housing quarters and as they begin to catch up on lost time, Poe’s comm device goes off.

Automatically, Poe reaches for his comlink but is confused to find it silent. The alert is coming from a different place on his belt and, after a belated moment of surprise, he grabs his holocomm from a pocket on his belt. They use holograms so rarely Poe had forgotten he even had one.

Rey sidles closer to his shoulder to see better as he accepts the message. He thinks it must be another mission assignment, one urgent enough the General would rather debrief him on the way to save time. If so, he probably shouldn’t just let Rey peek over his shoulder but...well, it’s not that he’s afraid to tell her no; he’d just rather not, is all.

Pale blue light floods the night air and shines coolly on their faces, but it is not General Organa that greets them.

It’s Finn.

+

Off screen, a hard, sharp female voice issues a command.

“Say it.”

Finn sits at a small metal table, his forearms restrained to the surface by thick bands. He’s all over sweating and his mouth is pressed into a thin line. Other than a pair of black shorts, he is naked, and scars—on his arms, his chest, legs—are thrown into sharp relief. There’s a long string of numbers tattooed on his chest.

Finn takes a deep breath, exhales just as slowly, and speaks.

“I am a tool for the First Order,” he says. “I live and die for the First Order. I am n-nothing,” his voice catches, “without the First Order.”

Footsteps, and Finn’s eyes track the movements until someone appears just to the left, tall and gleaming; Captain Phasma.

“I can’t help but feel that you’ve forgotten the meaning of those words, FN-2187.”

Phasma brings up a thin screen, breezing through line after line of text too small to see.

“Questioning a commanding officer. Compromising mission objectives for deficient troopers. And worst of all, a disturbing trend of leniency during combat training.” Phasma looks up from the screen and approaches Finn. His shoulders tense and his hands clench into fists.

Phasma stops at the opposite end of the table and she places the tablet on its surface.

“This behavior is troubling FN-2187. Is the First Order suddenly not agreeable to you? Do you think blatant insubordination is proper repayment for all you’ve been given?”

“I’m sorry, Captain.” Finn’s eyes dart to the chrome helmet and back down. He swallows.

Phasma says nothing, simply stands there, still as a statue, and watches him. Clearly, an apology is not what she wants to hear and Finn takes another shuddering breath.

“It—” he falters, and Phamsa leans closer, tasting blood in the water. “It didn’t—feel right.”

“Feel right,” Phasma echoes, and the condescension is obvious. Finn flinches.

Phasma straightens and begins a slow circuit around Finn, cape fluttering behind her, punctuated by every clunking footfall of her armoured legs.

“Why are you feeling anything, FN-2187? You were not made to feel. You were made to follow the orders of the Supreme Leader. You were made to be an instrument of the First Order. You were made to obey.”

Phasma stops behind Finn and his back is a stiff, rigid line. He stares straight ahead but his focus is completely on her. He looks terrified.

“These actions force us to consider whether or not your loyalties truly lie with the First Order. We have no use for defective troopers.”

“I’m not defective!” Finn insists, voice just short of yelling. He’s trembling. He flexes his bound hands, breathing quickly. “I—I am loyal. Please.” His voice drops, so quiet it’s barely audible. “ Please. Don’t—don’t decommission me. I’ll do better, I swear.”

Phasma makes a considering noise and finally moves from behind him to retrieve the tablet. Finn visibly relaxes when he has her in eyesight.

She faces him once more, and there’s no telling what she’s thinking with her mask on.

Finally, she says, “You have great potential, FN-2187. And if there is one thing the Order hates more than deficiency, it’s unnecessary waste.”

She considers Finn for another long, tense moment before turning and motioning to something offscreen. The sound of pressurized doors opening reverberates around the room.

“Very well. Perhaps an up-close demonstration will help you resolve these issues.”

Two stormtroopers enter, dragging between them a third. They toss him to the ground at Phasma’s feet.

“What—what’s going on?” The trooper asks, jerkily looking around him. Phasma approaches him and he tries to scramble away, but the two others block his way, aiming blasters at him when he makes to move. His helmeted head darts back to Phasma, who towers over him, less than half a metre away.

“Designation,” she orders.

“F-FN-1026,” the trooper stutters.

“Do you know why you’re here, FN-1026?”

FN-1026 shakes his head. “No, Captain—”

“Your scores, across the board in combat training, drill, standard testing and assembly have consistently landed you in the bottom one-percent.” Phasma, though masked, perfectly conveys disgust in her tone as she goes on to say, “The First Order has no use for failure.”

“Please, Cap—”

Faster than an eye-blink, Phasma grabs her blaster and fires. FN-1026 falls to the ground, lifeless, a blackened hole dead-center on his helmeted forehead.

Without another moment of regard for the cooling body, Phasma turns to face Finn. Finn is breathing harshly, wide, terrified eyes focused on FN-1026’s body as it’s dragged off-screen and out of the room.

Finn rips his eyes away to Phasma when she draws close.

“The First Order can only thrive when the weak and defective are rooted out and disposed of.” Phasma braces her arms on the table, leaning close until her face is a scant few centimeters from Finn’s. “FN-1026’s life belonged to the First Order and it was terminated the moment he became a burden. FN-1026 would have only driven his fellow troopers to failure, and the First Order does not. Tolerate. Failure. Do you understand, FN-2187?”

“Y-yes, Captain,” Finn responded.

“FN-1026 was property. You are property. You do as you are commanded or you will be evaluated as the same drain of resources as FN-1026 and decommissioned. Do you understand, FN-2187?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“The air you breathe, the armour you wear, the food you eat—all of it is by the grace of the Supreme Leader. All you must do in return is give us your loyalty and service. The First Order does not have time for mercy, or coddling, or questions. You are given orders, you execute them, and you will await further orders. Do you understand, FN-2187.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Captain Phasma straightens.

“Say it.”

“I am a tool for the First Order,” Finn recites. His voice is a smooth, calm monotone. His eyes are dead. “I live and die for the order. I am nothing without the Order.”

Chapter Text

The feed winks out and Poe and Rey are frozen, staring at the holocomm resting in Poe’s outstretched hand in silent horror.

Seconds, minutes, maybe hours pass before Rey breathes, “Oh, Gods, Finn…”

Her breath catches tellingly and Poe distantly realizes she’s crying. Then his breathing goes a bit funny, rattling in his chest, and when he raises his free hand to his cheek they come away wet.

Apparently, he’s crying too. But he can barely even feel it, all he can think about is Finn’s face, his naked fear and his scars, the words he’d recited as if he’d known them all his life.

Anger, bitter sadness, and hopelessness swirl like a raging maelstrom in his chest. He wishes he could go back in time, go back to Starkiller base and rip it, and everyone in it, apart piece by piece.

Limply, his hand falls back to his side. He wishes he could save Finn like how Finn saved him, but he can’t do anything, the holo-vid was dated over a year ago and instead he’s useless.

Gods, he’d known on some level that stormtroopers were trained to be killers, probably hadn’t known anything else, but this, this is so far past anything he could have ever imagined it seems almost grotesquely inhumane. Poe sees Finn’s face burned into his mind, scared but resigned, accepting himself as nothing but property and he feels the urge to be sick.

“No...no, no…. no,” someone keeps moaning, an awful, wounded cry that shreds his heart. He wants to tell whoever it is to shut the hell up, that he doesn’t need this reflection of the misery inside of him, but then he feels a hand on his shoulder and Rey’s staring into his eyes, talking, face determined in spite of the tears cascading down her cheeks and that’s when it dawns on him that it’s him, he’s the one making those awful, heart-wrenching sounds and. That does it.

Poe jerks out of Rey’s grip and paces a few feet away, desperately dragging both hands through his hair and completely uncaring when his fingers catch in tangles and rips some of the strands from his scalp. Powerlessness like he’s never, ever experienced overwhelms him and he crouches down, holding his head as it tosses back and forth.

“Fucking kriffing karking —” Poe releases a shout of agitation. “Why the fuck—?!”

“Poe. Poe, you need to calm down,” Rey tells him, voice near. She doesn’t move to touch him and for that he’s grateful.

“I know, I know—shit!” Poe forces himself to suck in deep, even breaths. It doesn’t help much; the urge to destroy something still consumes him. “Just—what kind of monster does that?!”

“It’s barbaric,” Rey agrees, and there’s a cold fury in her voice that makes Poe shiver.

A thought occurs to Poe and he drops his hands, looks at Rey. She’s got her staff in both hands, clenched in a white-knuckled grip. Her mouth is pressed tightly together and she’s breathing sharply through her nose, eyes red-rimmed and fierce. She looks like a dangerous, wild thing.

“How— Why did I get that? Where did it even come from?” Rey looks at him and her forhead wrinkles as she considers this, frowning. She opens her mouth, but is interrupted by a yell.

“Poe!”

They both look up and running at them is Jessika Pava.

Poe’s first instinct is to yell back, tell her he’s definitely not in the mood for drinks or sabacc or whatever the hell she wants, but then he takes in the urgency of her movements, her grieved expression, and checks himself.

Poe stands and faces her with weary apprehension. “What is it, Jess?”

Jessika comes to a stop, panting. Her eyes dart between Rey and Poe, clearly concerned, and for a moment, Poe thinks it’s because she can see how upset they are.

Then she says, “The holovid,” and Poe feels the blood drain from his face. Beside him, Rey inhales sharply. Before he can fake ignorance, pray to any God or Goddess listening that she means anything else, she continues with, “We saw it. Gods, Poe we all saw it.”

Poe’s mind can’t comprehend the sentence, he takes a staggering step back, the questions he wants to ask muddled and tangled and refusing to breach his lips, but Rey steps forward, all but crowding Jessika’s space, and demands, “What do you mean all?”

“I mean all of us,” Jessika replies miserably, gesturing around them, “The whole base. There was a follow-up message, it was a clerical error, meant only for the General, and it asks that no one open it but the whole base got it, it had to of woken everyone up and everyone’s seen it—”

A wave of nausea hits Poe, sharp and acrid. The wrongness of so many prying eyes seeing into Finn’s most private moments makes his skin crawl. Rey and Poe are barely holding up after what they’ve just witnessed, they're Finn’s friends, what right does anyone else have to see him like that? And when Finn finds out Poe can’t even imagine how he’ll react—

“Finn,” Poe suddenly breaks in urgently. The two girls look at him but Rey’s face is already beginning to transform with a dawning sort of horrified comprehension. He takes a step closer to Jessika and desperately grasps her shoulders.

“Where’s Finn?”

+

Finn spends nearly two standard-hours tossing and turning on his cot before he calls it a loss and decides to go for a walk. He’d been hoping against hope for a good night’s rest, but too many memories of the past have been dragged to the forefront of his mind today to allow him any peace.

As he leaves his quarters and starts his walk, he’s surprised to hear movement and voices in nearly every room he passes. The Resistance doesn’t insist on a curfew like the First Order, but around this time of night a good third of them are abed. He wonders if today’s a holiday or some special occasion.

Shrugging, Finn continues on his way, not wanting to be caught lingering. He doesn’t really want company.

Dark, curly hair, a cut jaw and warm, dark eyes flashes in his mind and a pang of longing strikes him. Finn thinks there will always be an exception for Poe.

Guilt assaults him at the thought. Poe had been great, nice as ever today before he’d left with the rest of Black Squadron, but Finn’s earlier meeting had affected his mood and he’d caught Poe watching him worriedly more than once.

Frustrated, Finn kicks a loose rock on the duracrete. The last thing he wants to do is be another burden on Poe’s no doubt already burdened mind. The Resistance’s best pilot, leader of his own squadron—Poe has enough on his mind without being worried about the defective stormtrooper.

He’ll make it up to him, Finn decides. Show him nothing but happiness and appreciation, twice the attentiveness and as much laughter as he can give him; Poe deserves nothing less.

Resolved, some of his anxiety dissolving, Finn looks up when he realizes he’s hearing voices, more than a few, just outside the compound.

Curious, Finn looks around when he pushes through the doors and is greeted by a typical D-Qar night, warm and dry, dotted with stars and gentle breezes.

A group, a mix of aliens and humans are crowded around, clearly agitated, and watching some sort of holo-projection. To his confusion, many of them are out of uniform and either in underclothes or sleepwear. What could be so important they didn’t need to gear up, but dragged them from their beds anyways?

Not wanting the focus of so many turned on him, Finn inches closer, peering over shoulders as he does.

—A projection of a stormtrooper falls to the ground, dead, and a ripple of upset passes through the crowd.  

“Gods,” someone gasps, horrified.

A small, terrified version of Finn, half-naked and strapped to a table watches Captain Phasma approach, shaking.

“Poor guy,” a dark green Rhodian murmurs quietly, so as not to disturb those watching the video.

Many people nod commiseratingly. Captain Phasma lectures Finn on the tenets of the First Order and the assembled group practically radiates anger. One man spits, cursing the Order.

“Monsters.”

Finn must make some noise, of shock, horror, despair—there’s no telling, and suddenly too many eyes are on him.

The holo-vid instantly cuts off and he’s almost drowning in apologies and concern, everyone wide-eyed and scared and isn’t that something, that Finn can inspire fear in so many brave, strong beings?

“—so sorry!—”

“—not on purpose! A mistake—”

“—not your fault—”

“—didn’t mean to look, it just happened—”

They’re all talking at once but Finn’s trained to piece information together and he gets the gist. A clerical error. Just the one video (Thank the stars). They’re all sorry for what happened to him.

It’s overwhelming and confusing, and Finn’s equally torn between feeling betrayed, angry, resigned, embarrassed, and conditioning to not feel anything at all.

What he says instead is, “It’s—it’s fine, okay? Really.”

A dark-haired human steps forward, expression pinched, and claps Finn on the shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he says sincerely. “No one should have to go through that.”

Finn looks away, distinctly uncomfortable. “It’s nothing you have to, um, apologize for,” Finn tells him, all of them, awkwardly. They’re all regarding him with so much sympathy and concern it makes his skin crawl. “It’s just how it was, you know? Not a big deal.”

“But—!” Someone sputters.

“They basically tortured you!” Cries another, a Mirialan, expression troubled.

Finn flinches, resisting the pull of memories that threaten to engulf him completely. He’s—just not ready to accept them like that. What he said was the truth. Up on Starkiller, that truly was just how things were and thinking of it like that, clinically and without emotions attached, is the only way he can function. Anything past that and he’ll fall to pieces, he knows it.

“—won’t treat you different just because the whole base saw—”

“Wait, what?” Finn interrupts, kicking himself for drifting.

“I said, no one’s going to treat you any different just because the whole base saw the vid,” another human says, eyes firm and focused on Finn. Finn wishes he could return the look with some sort of gratitude, but he’s kind of stuck on the fact that the entire base saw one of his re-conditioning feeds.

“The whole base?” he echoes dully, beyond shocked. He sees several nods of assent and reels. Everyone. Everyone, every single Resistance fighter, including the nurses who helped him through physical therapy, the nice man who always saves Finn extra helpings in the commissary, P—

“Finn!” Two voices cry out in unison, and Finn thinks, no, even as he turns.

He distantly recalls the short girl running in front as one of the pilots in Black Squadron, but that takes a back seat to seeing Poe and Rey just behind her, slowing to a stop when they see him. Their faces tell him better than any words that they’ve seen, Stars, they’ve seen and they’re here and soon he’ll have to face their reactions, their disgust, Gods forbid, their pity—

Finn takes one look at them and does what he’s tried to do since this all began:

He runs.

Chapter Text

Poe swears, breaking into an all-out sprint with Rey matching him step for step.

“Finn!”

“Finn, wait!”

Finn ignores them both, darts into the barracks and out of sight.

Poe and Rey don't spare a glance to the assembled group they pass, but Jessika slows her pace to meet them, face pinched with concern. “What did he say?” She’s asking but Poe doesn’t stop and they race by, practically flying into the barracks.

Nothing. The two hover uncertainly, ears straining, but no echoing footsteps greet them, no hastily slammed doors or sharp squeaks of fleeing boots resonates back to them. Finn had a mere few seconds head-start but apparently, for an ex-stormtrooper, it's enough.

For a moment, Poe and Rey stand indecisively, considering the many paths and hallways Finn could have taken, frustration mounting with every second that Finn gets further and further from them.

“Can't you—I don't know, sense him or something?” Poe asks urgently, twisting to face Rey, hands restlessly clenching over and over.

Rey levels him with a irritated look and places a hand on her chest.

“I'm training to be a Jedi, not a bloodhound!”

Poe opens his mouth, to argue, to apologize, he's not even sure, but Rey shakes her head again.

“I'll take this side,” Rey decides, pointing with her staff to the right. “You take that one. Whoever finds him comms the other, okay?”

“Yeah,” and then they’re off.

Poe tears through corridor after corridor, only taking enough time to check each and every room for Finn. The second he sees Finn’s not there, he’s racing to next one. It’s a maddening, frustrating search as Poe imagines how isolated Finn must be feeling, a spectacle for everyone on base. It fills him with righteous anger on Finn’s behalf and deep heartache.

And stars, in that moment before Finn had run, the absolute terror on his face when he’d seen them coming—Poe doesn’t think there’s much he wouldn’t give to ensure Finn never looked at him like that again.

“Finn!” Poe calls fruitlessly. He doesn’t expect Finn to answer but there’s not much else he can do. He wants Finn to know that he still has friends, that he’s not facing this alone.

“Finn!” Poe bursts into a room, sweeps it for Finn, and exits in the time it takes to take a breath. “Finn, buddy! Come out, please!”

Poe moves to a supply closet, expecting another empty room, and is forced to stop his frantic search when he discovers the door is locked. His heart leaps to his throat.

“Finn?” Poe calls. He presses his ear to the door, straining for even the slightest sound.

A faint scraping sound echoes, like something being dragged on duracrete.

“Finn?” Poes voice is softer, unable to help how worry and tenderness seeps into his tone. Another faint sound, a bit louder this time: a short, harsh inhale, choked off.

Poe waits for a few long, agonizingly slow seconds before, very quietly, he hears, “Please leave me alone.”

Finn’s voice is a raw, scared thing, unsteady and tense and Poe’s heart breaks.

“Can’t do that, buddy,” Poe says, laying his palm on the door. “Why don’t you let me in, huh?”

No reply, and Poe wishes he was the Jedi just so he could use the Force to tear it away. He reaches for his belt and comms Rey.

“Did you find him?” Rey asks, panting.

“Yeah,” Poe gives her his position and puts away the device, focusing his attention on this last obstacle.

“Finn, I’m sorry about what happened,” Poe starts, unable to help but think that the words are woefully inadequate. “But you have to know that me and Rey don’t care about that shit.” Not entirely true. Poe, and he’s sure Rey too, would love nothing more than to hunt down every bit of First Order scum and rid the galaxy of them. “We care about you, man.”

The silence doesn’t last for quite as long this time, and when Finn finally speaks he’s close, probably just on the other side of the door.

“I’ve done...bad things,” he admits, and he sound so hollow Poe has to restrain himself from yelling, from demanding Finn open the door so he can hug him within an inch of his life.

Poe releases a long, steadying sigh, getting his thoughts together.

“We all have,” Poe tells him quietly, confidently. “Every single one of us. But that shit’s in the past. What matters is now. I meant it before and I mean it now; you’re a good man, Finn.”

Poe can barely make out Finn sighing, his breath hitching. He laughs unexpectedly, sounding so bitter and hurt Poe feels his eyes sting.

“I don’t….I don’t know why I thought I could be anything other than what they made me.”

“Hey, no—”

“It’s true,” Finn insists, weary. “You don’t know what it’s like, Poe. Every day I say or do something wrong, I mess up all the time, I don’t understand anything—” Finn makes a noise of frustration. When he speaks again, his voice is dull, resigned. “It’s not that I regret leaving the First Order, but…” Finn’s voice gets very quiet, so quiet Poe has the entire side of his face pressed to the door, “sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if I had just...let myself be decommissioned—”

Finn’s barely finished his sentence when Poe suddenly slams his fist against the door, shaking from the force of his feelings. A white-hot ball of fury has ignited in Poe’s chest and any effort at tact, at gentleness, is consumed in the flames.

“That’s the biggest load of bantha shit I’ve ever heard,” Poe says darkly and on the other side of the door he can hear Finn’s sharp intake of breath. Right now, Poe doesn’t care. “I don’t ever want to hear that talk again. Where would I be if you had , huh? Fucking dead, that’s what.” His hand throbs, a painful ache that travels up the length of his arm, and he focuses on that instead of the mad beating of his heart and the lump in his throat. “The First Order would have BeeBee-Ate, Starkiller would still be around, and the Resistance would have been wiped out. You want to act like you’re so inconsequential, like you’re just this terrible burden on everyone, when the truth is we wouldn’t be anywhere without you.”

“But—”

“No,” Poe cuts him off, determined. “You did what you did before because they made you. I’m not going to pretend to understand what it was like for you growing up the way you did but I can recognize how amazing you are to have come out the other side still in one piece.” Poe thinks about Finn’s beautiful, happy smile, his warmth next to his when they walk shoulder to shoulder, his deep, sincere laughter, and can feel his eyes burn at the thought of the First Order trying their damndest to purge it all. “You’re something else, man.”

Poe straightens and stares at the door resolutely.

“Now open this damn door so I can hug you.”

On the other side, Poe hears Finn laugh, a short, fragile, thankfully real thing, and then the door slides open.

Finn stands before him, gaze on his boots, rigid. He tentatively glances up at Poe and the tear tracks on his cheeks are thrown into relief beneath the harsh overhead lights.

Poe takes one step, his feet resting on either side of Finn’s, bracketing him in, and practically plasters himself to Finn. His arms are like durasteel clamps and he pulls Finn tight enough against him he can feel how fast Finn’s heart is beating, an erratic tempo that matches his own.

Finn grunts in surprise but there’s no hesitation when he brings his arms up to hold Poe back and bury his face in the crook of his neck. Poe rubs a hand up and down Finn’s back in a caress and Finn shudders.

“It’s all right,” Poe murmurs. He raises his head slightly and presses his lips to Finn’s temple, murmuring the words against his skin. “It’s going to be okay.”

Finn practically melts in his arms, trusting and relieved and Poe feels like the luckiest man in the galaxy, to be someone who can give absolution and peace to such a wonderful, kind soul.

“You don’t...pity me?” Finn ventures, a bit of fear in his voice as if speaking the thought will make it come to be.

Poe huffs a laugh. “I pity what Rey’s going to do to you when she finds you, maybe. But no, Finn. I could never pity you,” Poe shakes his head slightly. “You’re too damn strong.”

A wonderful, blissful eternity passes in which they simply stand there holding one another, soaking in the other’s presence, when running footsteps begin to echo, heading their way.

They lean slightly away from each other to look down the hall and Rey bursts into the picture. Her hair is windswept, brown strands sticking to her forehead and there are high spots of color on her cheeks. Her staff is gripped tightly in one hand and the other braces on the wall as she pants.

She claps eyes on Finn and her eyes go wide.

“Finn,” she breathes. Then she’s running at them, throwing her staff away from her to clatter loudly against the floor. Her expression is so fierce and intense they both scramble to untangle from each other and barely manage it before Rey crashes into Finn, wrapping both of her arms around Finn’s shoulders, one hand reaching up to hold the back of his head.

“I’m so sorry, Finn,” she tells him, squeezing him. They hold each other for a few seconds before she leans back far enough that she can see his face. “I’ll make this right,” she vows, reaching up to wipe the tears from his face. “I’ll kill someone if I have to.”

She actually looks serious, and while Poe can’t help but feel the same way, he’ll at least hesitate slightly before killing a fellow member of the Resistance. Rey doesn’t seem to have any of the same qualms.

Finn’s lips twitch into a smile. “It’s fine, Rey. It was an accident.” His expression goes contrite as he glances at the two of them. “I’m...sorry I ran. I was scared.”

“Finn,” Rey starts, voice dismayed, and Poe feels the same. He steps forward and claps a hand on Finn’s shoulder.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he tells him and Rey nods.

Finn searches the both of them for a moment, as if making sure they mean it, before sighing and giving them both a small smile.

It’s not his usual full-blown smile, the one that lights up his face and makes him look as if the stars got their light from him, but it’s a start.

And Poe’s got nothing but time to help Finn get it back.