Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Is this what they call freedom?
Is this what you call pain?
Is this what they call discontented fame?
It'll be a day like this one
When the world caves in"

- The Blues, Switchfoot

Hosnian Prime Academy of Law Enforcement — 16 ABY

He barely has any air filling his lungs by now. He wonders if the drumming pulsing in his ears comes from his heart or the result of his shoes hitting the concrete. He has never been a good runner. Probably why he has always been assigned to Goalie when playing ball as a youngster. Especially now, after numerous extensive bacta treatments, he has the stride of an awkward baby giraffe. Somehow, he manages to fool people while on duty, which seldom these days. A shame, for there’s nothing collected, focused and aloof in him at present.

His feet hurt, his back pinches, his lungs won't cooperate. His eyes water and he hopes to blame the perspiration for it if anyone asks. When. When anyone asks. Because he won't accept or even consider anything else.

It rains outside, because of course it does. He just passed a window, it must be freezing cold and he left his parka behind. He tells himself a cold, a flu, even pneumonia would be a fair price to pay for his being in time. Because it would.

He has been too late far too many times in his almost five decades of existence. Not this time.

"Wait! Major!"

He hears, but doesn't stop, doesn't look back, doesn't slow down. Can't pinpoint the young voice anyway. His head aches increasingly, probably from lack of oxygen or aggravation or just blind and utter terror, but when the white and grey corridor spins diagonally in front of his eyes, he feels two hands gripping him. Keeping him upwards while he blinks, dazed.

Those hands he knows. He feels the scarred rough digits through the thin thermic tech camisole he wears to sleep. He has matching ones on his fingertips, if less severe. He turns his head left and sees the profile of Melshi (garish fluffy pink sweater?! Come on!). A very annoyed Ruescott Melshi who seems to hesitate between keeping onsupporting his sorry ass and just letting him puddle at his feet like the pathetic life-form he feels like.

"Keef, is Erso the only one who can keep you in bed an entire night? Do I need to smack your face K2-SO style for you to get some sense?"

"I don’t have the time to chat. I must go, urgently."

"I hear you, but not like this you won't. Man, you're about to pass out. You're lucky I happened to pass by and heard someone hail you. By the way, it's rude not to answer."

"Melshi, look. Get me a speeder or something, come with if you have to, but I must go."

Force, his voice broke. He is seconds from hiccupping. Or begging. Either would be humiliating but he cares little if it gets him there faster. He's that worried. If nobody is dead yet, he might change the casualty number himself at this rate. Melshi blinks once, appraising, but nods, annoyingly calm, as always.

"We'll take mine. You're in no state to walk alone, let alone fly. Is it Jyn?"

"It's Poe, Dameron Jr."

"It's almost 1 AM and the kid is only... fifteen?"

"Fourteen. Let's go, I'll start crawling if you dally more."

"No crawling needed. I'll get a hoverchair."

"No, I am not that bad," he instantly declares, though carefully not crossing his arms once his friend loosens his grip. He needs to have his hands free to keep his balance. Kriff, he must literally get a grip, fast.

"In denial is what you are, either you sit your exhausted butt in that chair or I carry you body and soul to medical. And at this late hour, they are sure to get cross."

"Poe needs me right now!"

"He needs you to be responsible and dependable then," Melshi shrugs, still placid, while his own heartbeat is still close to painful. "He needs the Captain Andor of his awesome stories, not this stubborn bloke before me that would rather lose consciousness than risk his pride —"

"You made your point. Get me that contraption from Scarif. Then please, fly faster than Han Solo!"

"Yep. Stay put and try to calculate the kid's coordinates from here if you can, coming right back."

By the stars, that man has the cheek to salute and wink before speeding effortlessly away, not even letting Cassian ask for a warm, rain proof vest while he was at it. He puts his back gingerly against the cold wall. Closes his eyes, tries to ease his frantic brain. He plans, though not too far ahead. The kid isn't that far, not on Yavin 4. With how unusual this is, he wonders why the boy is on-planet, but the good news is that it would take less than an hour to reach him with a good hyperdrive. Cassian breathes less than ten turns before he hears Melshi coming back, the artificial sound of the promised hoverchair making him shudder. Or perhaps it's the cold. Or anxiety. Or it's the second set of footsteps he hears. He opens his eyes to Leia Organa-Solo, looking polished as ever in her cream and royal blue outfit, if grim faced.

Now he is the one that wants to smack the poodoo out of his friend's Kay-style. Melshi's contrite face doesn't soften this particular blow. It's borderline treasonous to bring along one of the higher-ups on the Academy grounds. Scratch that, of the Rebellion. No, of the New Republic.

Jyn was right on Jedha about some things, as much as he did not wish to acknowledge it years ago. At some point in time political systems come and go, names vary, only people matter. Which is why they should hurry!

"Major," the lady starts, saving him the trouble of finding how to address her properly, "Shara Bey was my friend, I'm also the reason Kes Dameron is currently off Yavin 4, even though he has officially retired from active duty long ago. Like you did, need I remind you."

She's too well-bred to allude directly to the painfully awkward way he gets situated in the chair. He knows that she feels indebted to the Rogue One squadron for multiple reasons. Reasons that have nothing to do with Poe, even. Scarif and the Death Star precede the boy even if she must be by far his favorite rebel figure. He'd be mortified if he knew she was even remotely aware that the teen fell into scraps, whatever they may be.

"I'm here as a favor to provide some intelligence training, nothing more. I'm aware of this. I should be at my post tomorrow afternoon as expected."

"I'm not worried about your duties here, Major," she dismisses with a graceful but impatient flick of wrist. "It's on Poe's behalf that I'm asking you to keep me informed. I had him memorise my private contact a while ago. Use it."

"This is a personal matter first and foremost, your Highness. I shall inform you as I see fit, since I was the one the boy reached out to. I respect the relationship you have with him, however, and I'll make sure he contacts you if possible, or request anything helpful in his stead if not. Apologies, but we're in a rush."

"May the Force be with you both. Have this boy safe," she nods as Melshi now runs towards his speeder.

The chair comes alive next, bringing the distance between them and their transportation to a close pretty quickly. Cassian sighs, but concedes defeat on the chair's usefulness. He's glad that his friend is too concerned too rub it in as he's wont to do, and hopes for a good outcome.

In a matter of minutes, they're getting the coordinates in, chair safely aboard, hyperdrive in. He checks his comlink for new messages when two heavy pieces of garment cover it : the pink fluffy thing and the most aggressively orange vest he ever saw.

"Here, pick one, I won't let you catch your death. Sorry for the delay... I swear that woman has foresight or something. She ran into me just as I came back with the hoverchair, wouldn't leave it alone until I spilled. Do you think she can do Jedi spooky things? After all, she is Luke Skywalker's sister, right?"

"I... suppose so. Jedis never interested much, even those I happened to meet. Thanks for the coat, but, I have the choice between broadcasting my appartenance to the alliance in bright orange or wear your pink monstrosity? Seriously, where do you find those things?"

"You were the one who forgot to dress sensibly, I thought of asking some to General Organa, but whatever would be loose enough to fit either of us would likely prove too fancy and ornate, even for my taste".

"Bold assumption from you since you have no taste at all to speak of. Besides, General or not, she is royalty. I have to check myself not to bow when I speak to her. To me, she remains the young Princess of Alderaan."

"Yet you stood your ground earlier. I bet she's not used to that from outsiders, I mean, she's downright legendary by now. That feat took more courage than it takes to wear a lovely bright coat. Besides, you have the complexion for either one, now that you're not deathly pale."

The banter is always good on his nerves. He's a bit less tense as well, so he smiles and zips the orange vest. Because pink fluff is definitely too much for him, not to mention he may have to be smooth and bland to help out the kid. Practicality aside, appearances could prove critical. Not ideal, but as extraction missions go, Ruescott Melshi is the best man to have at your back: Bespin, Scarif, Jyn’s extraction, but most of all the mess on Narkina 5 they're adamant never to mention. Except once or twice when Jyn brought up Wobani while everyone is deep into their liquor.

Which turns out to be a cosmic joke, or Will of the Force as Chirrut would have said. The coordinates shared by Kes Dameron and Shara Bey's only offspring turns out to be a gritty locational Enforcement building up north of Hosnian Prime.

Poe Dameron, 14 years old, called veteran Cassian Andor to bail him out of jail on a Tuesday night. Except it must be Wednesday and decidedly far from his native Yavin 4.

"You gotta be kidding me," Melshi echoes next to him, "listen, I'm the Pilot on that one. I'm not going in there and risk to be knocked out again. Erso was enough. Besides, after our years of service, I make sure to avoid places like these, at all costs. The kid called you, I'm not supposed to be here. And I'm not talking to Kes Dameron about it when he comes home either, just to be clear."

"Kyber crystal clear. I don't blame you, I'm pissed off too."

"Good luck, Keef. Don't be stupid and take the hoverchair, just in case. You and I both know it's not easy to walk off of these places."

"Don't call me that Rue, and you shouldn’t joke."

"Seemed appropriate though," he smirks, pulling out the chair out for him outside before climbing back into the speeder. "I'll wait, catch some beauty sleep in the meantime. We're not getting any younger. If you really need to, I have my comlink open, but keep in mind that I didn't bring any ammo, just my charming self. My glory days are over."

"I loathe you, you know that?" Cassian asks, without any heat, because despite the joking tone, he can see Melshi's worried as well.

They knew the kid, both loved him, even. Poe was always a favorite among Pathfinders, Sergeants, and Pilots. He was one of the first rebel babies, back when the war wasn't quite finished yet. Somehow Kes Dameron stuck a friendship with him (the details right after the Battle of Scarif get fuzzier with time). They were always friendly within the Rebellion before Jyn. The Sergeant had actually a lot in common with Melshi, personality wise. The three of them had caught like house on fire after Kes got stuck in medical as well, after his own feat during the battle of Yavin. 

Cassian remembers toasting to Shara's pregnancy on Hoth until he couldn't see straight. He remembers the giddiness around and Jyn grinning at the news. They had so little reasons to smile then, between heavy losses and grief. They had felt like after Scarif, the war wasn't theirs to fight anymore. Jyn and Cassian should have died alongside Bodhi, Chirrut and Baze and the dozen of heroes that didn’t make it. But against all odds, they got rescued while he was unconscious. They had been so accepting of their potential demise it took months, years, to realize they had to learn how to live, find a way to make a life in peace when oppression and war had been all they have known.   

Others had faired better, built back the Republic, the Jedi Order, established new colonies, grew families, grew crops. Then Shara died six years ago and Kes shut down. Refused to talk about her no matter how many times he was asked to. Jyn was furious, but Cassian understands. He never talks about his past prior to the Rebel Alliance. Doesn't disclose his roots, never talks about his people from before. Barely a handful of old ties outside of Yavin 4 kept contact with Poe though : L’ulo, Jyn, Cassian, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Melshi… precious few, from the look of the kid’s current predicament.

Cassian adjusts his weight in the chair, the faint whine of its coaxium motor breaking the silence of the station’s entry ramp. He hates needing the access ramp, always has hated the reminder of his damaged spine and the loss of autonomy it symbolizes. Melshi had been right, though—his bruised ego was nothing compared to Poe Dameron’s well-being. Cassian has never been one to back down from a call for help, especially from Poe, who ever only asks for memories of Shara and the latest ship schematics. Even if sliding seated into the station like this feels far from the grand entrance his reputation of Major in the Rebel Alliance and Republican army might warrant.

The lobby is oddly quiet, almost sleepy, with a faint hum of activity coming from deeper within the precinct. The air smells faintly of old caf and disinfectant, and the tired-looking Twi’lek at the front desk barely looked up when Cassian approached.

"Identichip," she mumbles, her voice heavy with monotony. She didn’t even ask why he was here, which takes Cassian by surprise. How can a place so calm be where Poe has ended up? And how, by all the stars in the galaxy, has the kid managed to get into trouble?

Ignoring his stiff and sore back, Cassian slides his identichip across the counter. The Twi’lek places it on the scanner with the same disinterest she’s likely shown everything else that day. But the moment the screen lits up, her eyes widens, and her lekku twitches in surprise.

"You’re—" She blinks, then leans closer to the screen, as if she can’t trust what she was seeing. "You’re him. From Rogue One."

Cassian suppress a sigh. He has counted on this reaction, should Poe need it, but turns out he isn’t in the mood. It’s not humility that reminds him how unfair his notoriety is, he just lived longer than mightier unsung heroes. The Twi’lek isn’t the only one captivated, however, and now she waves over a couple of colleagues, her voice rising with excitement.

"Guys, come look! It’s a member of Rogue One! The real deal, as I live and breathe!"

Within moments, a small crowd gathers, murmurs and curious, commiserating glances directed at his hoverchair.

"Uh… what can we do for you, sir?" another officer asks, his tone a mixture of reverence and giddy disbelief.

"I’m here for Dameron. Poe Dameron," Cassian says evenly, trying to cut through the awe. "Is he still in custody?"

The officer hesitates, glancing at his colleagues for guidance. "Affirmative. Are you his guardian or… a relative?"

"His father is unavailable," Cassian replies, his voice calm but firm. "I’m filling in. What did he do?"

The officers exchange uncertain glances again. "If you’re not listed as his legal guardian or in any moral capacity, I can’t disclose specifics about his situation," the officer says, his tone more procedural now.

Cassian leans forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "I understand. But I only need the basics, enough to know what I’m walking into. If further steps are necessary, I’ll make sure everything’s handled properly."

The kid didn’t call for Kes, or Lieutenant L’ulo, who had been Shara’s best-friend, he called Cassian. And he will at least see Poe and assuage the situation for himself before he involves anyone else without consent. But he’s too careful to admit so upfront. The officer hesitates again, clearly caught between protocol and the weight of Cassian’s presence.

"Come on," another officer chimes in, a human with a boisterous laugh. "This guy’s a literal war hero. How morally high do you want to get? Master Jedi Skywalker himself? The kid’s not in too much trouble anyway. Lighten up!"

"Fine," the first officer relents with a sigh. "Young Dameron got picked up near the site of an illegal race. Claims he wasn’t racing, but he was there when things went sideways. Some local kids started a scuffle, and he’s the only one we caught."

Cassian’s lips tightens, but he nods, not really surprised that flying is involved. "I’d like to see him."

"Right this way," the Twi’lek says, gesturing toward a hallway.

As Cassian slides through the corridor, he catches glimpses of uniformed officers going about their business, none paying him much mind now that the initial novelty has worn off. Outside a holding room, a glass window offers a view of the occupants.

Poe waits hunched on a bench, his gangly frame folded in on itself. He looks fourteen indeed, all elbows and knees, but Cassian can already see the broad shoulders he’d inherited from Kes. His dark hair is a disheveled mess, and there is a bad bruise forming along his jawline. For the hundredth time, Poe has too grave a face, especially from a child born just a little before the Proclamation of the New Republic. But then again, peace or not, sons happen to be motherless all the same, and the answering ache pulls at Cassian's heartstrings. He could do without the restraints though.

For all his striking resemblance to Shara in the sharpness of his features and coloring, there is something unmistakably Kes in the boy’s posture, in the way he glares down at the floor as if daring it to fight him. It’s an expression he had seen countless times in his life, though never on Poe. The cop taps the doorframe lightly to announce their presence. Poe’s head snaps up, his brown eyes widening in recognition.

Cassian supposes the shock of actually seeing Major Andor to the rescue, if seated like an invalid, has Poe standing up. That or it's been ingrained by mimicry to stand on attention when an Officer, or perhaps any adult, enters a room. Either way, he stands up despite his tied wrists.

Cassian slides inside, the officer closing the door behind them both with a respectful nod. "Hey, kid."

Poe looks away, the defiance in his expression faltering now that no law enforcers are in sight. "Cassian, Cassian, I, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! You... Are you alright? It's the first time I've seen you..."

The kid reddens, sits backs and falls silent with trembling lips. The feeling in Cassian's back reminds him that's he's been up and about for too long of a time, almost eighteen hours in strenuous conditions at the Academy. He wishes he could cut a more reassuring figure, but it would be ineffective and detrimental in the long-term to hug Poe just yet. He hates cataloging his surroundings from this lowered angle but he'll make do: 

His shoes are dirty and spattered with mud and specks of blood. His knees are dirt-streaked, pants torn on one side. At least one hand with puffy and bruised knuckles, elbows are scratched, but what can't be missed are the swollen nose and two light shiners under the eyes. 

Less than five seconds of scrutiny and Cassian is back to karking pissed off. Poe sees it and audibly sniffles.

"Never mind the chair. Care to explain what we're doing here?"

"Nobody told you?" Poe asks, avoiding Cassian’s piercing gaze.

"I'm asking you," Cassian replies, his tone sharp enough to cut through the fog of excuses the teen might have been considering. "Start talking."

Poe’s shoulders slumps lower, if possible, the bravado slipping away entirely. His eyes look briefly at a point behind his shoulders, either the window or the door, clearly wishing for a way out of this conversation.

"Yeah, well…" he begins hesitantly, his voice barely audible, "Papa’s away for once, in like, a decade. Took my chance, wanted to do something fun for once." He pauses, shifting uncomfortably under Cassian’s focused stare. "At school, I overheard some of the older kids talking about this air race happening on Hosnian Prime. Said it was insane—top pilots, crazy stunts. Just sounded… I don’t know, like freedom. Something more than farms and old Rebel stories, you know?"

Cassian leans back in his seat, his expression unreadable. Poe takes the silence as an invitation to keep talking, though his voice trembles slightly.

"So, I told my teachers I needed to visit my uncle on Chandrila—L’ulo," Poe explains, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of his jacket. "They didn’t ask too many questions, just let me take the shuttle off-world. But from there, I had to, uh, improvise a bit."

"Improvise," Cassian echoes, the word dripping with skepticism.

"Yeah," Poe admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I caught a public transport to the nearest hub station. Told them I had a ticket mix-up, but I was heading to Hosnian Prime to, uh, meet my dad. They bought it somehow. Some grumpy officer let me through, probably just didn’t want to deal with a kid."

"And no one thought it was suspicious? A fourteen-year-old, alone, bouncing between planets?"

"I guess I looked harmless, Poe shrugs helplessly. "I planned to return tonight, with none the wiser, I swear! I would have gone straight back home. But it blew in my face and I got caught. And I didn’t want to involve L’ulo for real. He’d just—"

"Lecture you into next week? Think this would actually teach you a lesson and leave you in the glitch?" Cassian finishes for him, a small smile tugging at his lips, despite everything.

Poe lets out a weak laugh. "Something like that."

"What happened out there, Poe?"

"I wasn’t racing, not even flying, I swear. I just… wanted to see it, the ships, the speed. It’s stupid, I know. But then right in the middle of it, these… people showed up, and they started hassling everyone. One of them shoved me, my nose hit something hard, like a stone, or a metal fist or something, I got dizzy for a moment, and then the enforcement showed up, and they all ran. I… didn’t. Next thing I know, I’m handcuffed here, trying to figure out who to call."

"And you called me," Cassian says, a note of curiosity in his voice.

"I trust you, and you’re the only one who wouldn’t just… freak out," Poe admits, glancing up briefly. "Or at least, not right away. I thought you might understand."

Cassian’s expression softens immediately, though his own memories stir uneasily. He remembers being Poe’s age, desperate to escape the weight of his own tragedies, willing to take risks that bordered on suicidal. He sees echoes of that same restlessness in Poe—the same yearning for something bigger than the constraints of the life he knows.

Poe looks down at his bruised hands, the raw red scrapes covering his knuckles, and the restraints digging into his wrists. His voice is small when he mutters, "Papa’s gonna kill me."

Cassian leans back in his chair, exhaustion pulling at the corners of his face, though his tone remains measured. "Well, honestly, I'd be surprised if Kes doesn’t cut his trip short," he says, watching the teen pull a dramatic grimace at the thought. "But we’ll check with Senator Organa-Solo first. If you get the permission, I don’t mind bringing you back with me the day after tomorrow. At least Jyn should be able to teach you how to win in a brawl. That’ll probably come in handy, even after you hit your growth spurt."

Poe blinks, then lets out an unrestrained laugh that fills the small space around them. For a moment, the weight of his situation seems to lift, and his usual spark of enthusiasm flickers back to life. The idea of training with Jyn Erso—the Jyn Erso—is almost too good to be true. Despite her scholarly pursuits and the streaks of silver threading through her once-dark hair, Jyn remains crafty, agile, and awe-inspiring in a fight.

"She’d really teach me?" Poe asks, his eyes wide with a mix of hope and disbelief.

"Of course," Cassian replies with a faint smirk. "Jyn’s got a soft spot for you, though she’d probably deny it. Besides, I know you thrive under strong mentors, and she’s as good as they come. You might even get her to crack a smile—though don’t count on it."

Poe grins at the thought, properly delighted now. The bruises and exhaustion seem momentarily forgotten, replaced by the thrill of imagining himself sparring under Jyn’s watchful eye.

"Can I… really spend a few days with you and Jyn?" Poe ventures, his voice quieter now, tinged with vulnerability. "Just until Papa gets back? Should be next week."

"Your dad’s going to be mad, sure," Cassian sighs, his voice steady despite the exhaustion. "But he’ll also be proud you called me instead of trying to handle this alone. That shows you’re learning. And I promise you this—I’ll make for a better alternative than leaving you to your shenanigans. If Kes is reluctant, we’ll talk him down."

Poe looks up, the flicker of hope in his expression growing brighter. "You really think he’ll listen?"

Cassian chuckles, his hand giving Poe’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting go. "Kes wants what’s best for you. And right now, that means giving you a little space while still keeping you close. Trust me, we’ll make it work."

For a moment, they sit in silence, the weight of the situation settling between them. Finally, the boy exhales a shaky breath.

"I can’t breathe there," he says quietly, his voice trembling. "On Yavin 4. And I know my dad loves me, I know I’m all he has left, I know. But I can’t. I need to fly, to see clouds instead of crops. I’m meant for more."

Cassian stills, watching the boy carefully. He doesn’t interrupt as Poe’s words pour out, faster now, like he’s afraid of stopping.

"I just… I can’t be the perfect son, the one who stays grounded, safe. That’s not me." Poe’s voice cracks, and he lowers his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. "And it’s not just rebellion, it’s not. I swear. I feel like I’m suffocating there, like I’ll disappear if I don’t—" He breaks off, unable to finish, the sobs coming freely now.

Cassian’s heart tightens again. This isn’t teenage angst; it’s something deeper, rawer. The desperation etched into Poe’s face reminds him of another young face he once saw contorted with the same pain and longing.

And of Jyn, standing frozen as Galen Erso’s recorded plea flickered before her, her entire world breaking apart in an instant. She’d refused to move, refused to leave the safety of that fleeting connection to her father, even as the walls threatened to come down around her. It had taken Saw Gerrera’s insistence, and later his own, to shove her forward. And even then, it had nearly destroyed her.

And now, here was Poe, standing at the same precipice, aching for freedom, choking on duty and love in equal measure. Cassian wonders briefly if he had looked like this once—when he was just an angry boy with no family and too much fire in his chest. Probably. But there’s no one left to ask.

He doesn’t have to search long for the words. Leaning forward until he stands shakily on his feet, he speaks gently but firmly. "Poe, what you’re feeling? It’s real. I’m not going to tell you it’s not. But running blindly—chasing the sky without looking back—it doesn’t make the weight go away. It just shifts it. And you’ll end up carrying more than you bargained for."

The boy sniffs, his shoulders shaking. "But I need this," he whispers. "I need to get out. I need to fly."

Cassian’s hand tightens slightly on Poe’s shoulder, pulling him in a pretty uncomfortable half-hug. "Then we’ll figure it out. Eventually. You’re not alone in this, Poe. And you don’t have to figure it out all at once. But you’ve got to start somewhere. You’re not going to disappear. Not on my watch."

Poe nods slowly, his breaths evening out, though the tears still streak his face. Cassian gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze before sitting back heavily enough in the chair that the kid cringes in sympathy. "Come on. Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk more once we’ve all gotten some sleep. And for the record, I believe you’re meant for more too. Just… don’t rush it, okay?"

Poe manages a shaky smile, and for the first time that night, Cassian feels like they’re moving in the right direction. As they head for the exit, Cassian can’t help but glance at the boy, worry tugging at the edges of his thoughts. Someday, Poe’s longing for the stars might put him in real danger.

But not today. Today, he still has time to guide the kid before the sky claims him completely.

Cassian slides down the corridor with Poe trailing just behind him, his footsteps echoing faintly against the durasteel floor. The boy keeps his head down, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, clearly doing his best to avoid eye contact with the officers they pass. Cassian notices but doesn’t comment. He knows the kid’s pride is already taking a hit without him pointing it out. Melshi did him the same curtesy earlier, after all.

As they nears the front desk, the Twi’lek clerk looks up, her expression a mix of curiosity and mild exasperation. Behind her, the human officer who had processed Poe earlier leans against the counter, grinning like this is the highlight of his week.

"Looks like you’re clear to go, Dameron," the officer says, folding his arms across his chest. "But don’t let me catch you anywhere near another illegal race. You’re lucky you’ve got friends in high places."

"Yeah, lucky me," Poe mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The officer raises an eyebrow, but Cassian cuts in smoothly before the exchange can escalate.

"Officer, do we need to sign anything?" His tone is calm but carries just enough authority to refocus attention on him.

The Twi’lek hands over a datapad. "Just acknowledgment of release, Major Andor. We’ve already filed the details of his record."

Cassian doesn’t miss the way Poe tenses at the mention of a record. He pauses, glancing at the boy. "You’ll have to answer for this eventually," he says quietly. "But not today. Let’s go."

Poe nods, still avoiding the officer’s gaze. As they turn to leave, the human cop calls out after them. "Hey, kid! Next time, maybe pick better friends. Ones who don’t scatter the second things get rough. Real friends stick around."

Poe freezes mid-step, "They’re not my friends, they destroyed my nose and reputation," he mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Cassian stops and looks back at the officer, his expression carefully neutral. "Thank you, Officer. We’ll take it from here." There’s a quiet edge to his voice that leaves no room for argument.

The officer shrugs, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying."

Cassian leads Poe outside, where the timid morning light struggles to pierce through the haze of early morning on Hosnian Prime. The kid inhales deeply, relishing the fresher air even though the slight chill aggravates the stiffness in Cassian’s lower back. He’ll pay dearly for this night, no doubt… He lets Poe walk a step ahead, already relinquishing the loss of that blasted hoverchair in his mind.

"You’re lucky I was already on Hosnian Prime for the biannual seminars at the Law Academy," Cassian remarks, his voice breaking the silence. "Actually, we’re bringing you back there."

Poe, still rubbing his sore arms from the night’s ordeal, raises an eyebrow, suspicious. "We? Jyn doesn’t do politics or law stuff. Who’s ‘we’?"

Cassian glances at him, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A bit demanding for a runaway kid, aren’t you? But fine. You’re in luck. ‘We’ is just Melshi and me. He was finishing up his introductory course on safely disarming explosives. I’m due back this afternoon for my own session."

Poe lets out a small, disbelieving laugh, probably picturing some of his childhood heroes stuck in a classroom. "Seminars, huh? Sounds boring."

Cassian chuckles softly, the sound low and tired, as he opens the door to their transport. Melshi jerks awake from the driver’s seat, his hair sticking up at odd angles, squinting blearily at them.

"What the kriff—Cassian, it’s morning already!" he groans, his voice raspy from sleep.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Cassian quips dryly, stepping aside to let Poe climb in. "We’ve got company."

Melshi sizes Poe up quickly, his sharp gaze taking in the boy’s disheveled state. "Ah. Here you are Dameron Jr., strange place to meet up, huh?"

Poe mumbles a sheepish, "Sorry," before squeezing into the extra pop-up seat of the speeder.

Cassian takes his time arranging the hoverchair in, his movements careful and measured. Each slight twist and lift sends a dull throb up his spine down to his heel, but he grits his teeth, unwilling to let the discomfort show.

By the time he settles into the passenger seat, Melshi has already started the speeder, its engine humming with a soft, rhythmic vibration. The vehicle merges into the morning traffic, a mix of swoop bikes and hovertrucks creating a symphony of mechanical whirrs and distant honks.

"You’ll be fine, son," Melshi says after a moment, glancing back at Poe. His tone is softer now, almost fatherly. "But next time you’re in trouble, remember this: You’ve got to be more careful. Don’t throw your life away on stupid stunts. Own your mistakes, and you’ll always have people in your corner."

"You’ll back me up too?" Poe asks hesitantly, his voice small.

"Of course," Melshi replies with a crooked smile. "Starting with having you bunk with me. Cassian makes for a terrible roommate, and he needs to be awake and functional in less than twelve hours. Not a small feat at our age."

Cassian snorts. "I’ll permit it, but hide the booze."

"You’re hilarious, Andor," Melshi retorts. "No, if I ever get the kid drunk someday, you’re the designated chaperone. Obviously, you’ve got the touch and patience. Erso and I have the liver."

"Excuse me?" Poe all but screeches. "What is wrong with you people?! I’m not drinking. Ever!"

"Honestly," Melshi replies with a snicker, "better a first hangover than a criminal record."

Cassian chuckles, the sound deep and genuine, before turning to Poe.

"Take a comlink and message Leia Organa. She might be planning a planetary rescue mission as we speak."

"You’ve… the General knows?!" Poe looks crestfallen, no, horrified at the prospect, his cheeks flushing crimson. "Why would you tell her?"

Cassian tilts his head, his lips quirking in faint amusement. "Because she’s Leia Organa-Solo: Princess, Senator, Jedi, General, occasional teacher, mentor and friend—"

"Please, please stop, just… stop," Poe pleads weakly, head in hands while Melshi sniggers.

"She already knows everything, and she’ll want to hear from you."

Reluctantly, Poe takes the comlink, staring at it as though it might explode in his hand. His admiration for Leia is so clear it’s almost painful to watch. He hesitates for a long moment before muttering under his breath, "I’m going to make a complete fool of myself."

"You’re not," Cassian assures him, his tone steady. "Just tell her you’re safe and that we’ve got things under control. If you’d rather not talk, write it. This one does both, awesome thing, modern tech."

Still looking queasy, Poe chooses the easiest alternative and taps out a message. Cassian doesn’t press further, knowing the kid needs to wrestle with his nerves on his own. By the time Poe finishes and puts the comlink down, his shoulders slump with visible relief.

"Done?" Cassian asks.

"Yeah," Poe says quietly. "She didn’t reply right away, so maybe she’s busy."

"Or she’s sparing you the lecture until later," Melshi says with a wink, earning a groan from Poe.

Cassian leans his head back against the seat, his eyes fluttering shut. The vibrations of the speeder lull him into a semi-doze, though the constant ache in his back prevents him from fully relaxing.

By the time they arrive at the Law Academy, the morning sun is higher, casting long shadows across the sprawling campus. The academy's clean lines and towering glass structures gleam in the light, a stark contrast to the chaos Cassian felt hours ago. He and Poe are ushered into the small medical ward, its pungent smell immediately pricking Cassian’s senses.

The doctor-in-chief, Lenny Bonz, a wiry human with sharp eyes and a gruff demeanor, takes one look at Poe and shakes his head. "Broken nose, scrapes, bruises. Nothing life-threatening, but still a mess. Sit down."

Then, his gaze shifts to Cassian, narrowing. "And you Major Andor—how long since you’ve had real rest? Or proper treatment for that back of yours? You really choose a backward planet to retire."

"I’m fine," Cassian replies curtly, already regretting sitting on the examination table. They settled on New-Alderaan two years ago and so are meant to stay for an other three years before Jyn might move to another reconstruction project. They need the variety and between her engineering and his tutoring work, they try to do has much good as possible in the Galaxy.

"You look like a walking injury report," Bonz growls. "Chronic pain, right? Uneven gait, strained muscles, torn ankle, and you’re running on what, two hours of sleep?"

"Four," Cassian lies, wincing as the doctor presses a probing hand against his lower back.

The medic sighs, muttering something about stubborn old men, but doesn’t push further. "Fine. But you’re taking the analgesic tea from Kashyyyk and some nutritional implements at least until you leave this site in less than two days! Or I’m reporting you to the academy head," he snaps before turning his attention back to Poe. "And you—stop flinching. It’s just bacta."

The guilt on Poe’s face speaks for himself though, and the kid’s eyes are full of remorseful tears, no matter how much Cassian tries to dismiss the prognosis they’ve just heard. The kid shoulders too much upon himself yet again… Cassian is just glad he could help, he would have done far more, without a second thought too. Even if it means bedrest after running a class on a power nap and sipping a cup of bitter herbal tea. The warmth eases the tightness in his chest, though the ache in his back persists. His eyelids grow heavy, and despite himself, he drifts off, the cup balanced precariously in his hand. Others can take it from here, at least for a couple of hours of shuteye.

Chapter Text

"Are you discontented?
Have you been pushing hard?
Have you been throwing down this broken house of cards?
It'll be a day like this one
When the world caves in"
- The Blues, Switchfoot

2 : After (Poe)

Poe sits awkwardly in the Law Academy infirmary on Hosnian Prime, the cold steel of the cot beneath him doing nothing to soothe his nerves. He has never wished to be safe, in his school back on Yavin 4 more in his life. How is he still awake? His face stings, his knuckles ache, and his pride is more bruised than anything else. The sounds he perceives just outside the thick doors serves as a constant reminder of the contrast between the regimented world of law and order and his own chaotic one.

He stares at his hands, the aches from the previous day and even the exhaustion of his first-ever sleepless night are nothing compared to the knot in his chest, tightening with every passing minute. 

Across the room, Cassian Andor himself leans against the wall, eyes closed, his out-of-place orange jacket slightly askew. Poe’s gaze lingers on the older man, noting the deep lines on his face, the white in his beard. He had known that Cassian had been extensively injured back in the Battle of Scarif. Yet, the man had only ever appeared as a pillar of strength to him. Sure, he was semi-retired, never partook in anything too rowdy and stayed more home than Jyn Erso did… But he has never had a harder reality-check than seeing the former Captain Andor sliding in a hoverchair.

It took all of Poe’s willpower not to brawl like a baby when he heard the strain that he, Poe, has caused the living legend, just because of his little streak of selfishness. The medic’s list has been merciless, and Poe is in equal measure humbled and remorseful to have been the reason for such a damage. Cassian should have left him amongst strangers, he deserves no such kindness.

Suddenly, General Organa's message appears on the comlink tucked into his pocket. He startles, but reads simply:

Poe,

I’m glad you’re safe. Rest here now. We'll debrief later—you, me, Major Andor and Sergeant Melshi, once everyone has recovered.

Your mother would have recognized that spark in you.

- Leia

With that cryptic sentence, he thinks of his mother—Shara Bey, the legendary pilot whose absence has carved a permanent wound in their family. He wonders what she would say about his current predicament. Would she understand his desperate need to prove himself? To break free from the suffocating grief that has consumed his father? That supposed spark is nothing at all to be proud of, despite what Leia said. Or is this a way for Leia to blame herself? Poe’s the only one to blame.

Cassian had remained stoic throughout the ordeal, his shoulders occasionally moving, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes about the physical toll of his intervention, if the use of an hoverchair had not been a dead giveaway. Poe can't help but stare, remembering Sergeant Melshi's earlier words—words that still echo in his mind with rough-edged concern.

"You've been pushing it, Andor," Ruescott had said, his voice a gravelly warning. "Don't let me find you doubled over ever again. I'm too old for your heroics and so are you."

Poe recalls how Cassian had simply shrugged, that infuriating ease of someone who'd survived countless impossible situations. The camaraderie between Cassian and the Sergeant was palpable—a bond forged in fire, in shared experiences that needed no explanation. Poe envies that anchor, that sense of belonging.

When Cassian shifts slightly in his sleep, Poe leans forward, a mix of concern and admiration flooding his heart. This man—a legendary rebel who had fought in one of the most critical battles of the galactic conflict—had gone out of his way to help a fourteen-year-old boy who had made spectacularly poor choices.

"Why did you do this?" Poe whispers, knowing he'll receive no answer.

Healer Bonz approaches, though. His eyes sweep the room, landing first on Cassian's sleeping form, then he inspects Poe's nose. "You're lucky it's not worse," he whispers clearly, gruff but not unkind. "Your nose should set properly."

Melshi, who had been quiet until now, likely asleep as well, sighs. "There’s that at least. Someone needs to keep these two in line, Doc. You're going to wear yourself out sitting like that, Dameron Jr." he warns. "Tension helps no one, least of all yourself."

Poe looks up, his expression a mixture of guilt and exhaustion. "Ruescott, how can I relax? After everything Cassian did—"

Melshi interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. "Sometimes, the best way to honor someone's sacrifice is to take care of yourself." He pauses, studying Poe. "How about we teach you something useful while you're stuck here?"

"What do you mean?" The teen asks, curiosity momentarily replacing his guilt.

Melshi pulls up a chair, his movements deliberate, showing years of military discipline. "Meditation. It'll help you control that restless energy of yours. It’s not only useful to Force-sensitives, you know?"

As Melshi begins to explain the basics—breathing, focus, inner calm—Poe realizes this is more than just a lesson. It's a lifeline, a way to channel the turbulent emotions that have been consuming him since his mother's death. This is about more than just sitting quietly. This is about finding balance in a universe that seems perpetually off-kilter.

At first, he resists. His mind races with a thousand thoughts—the race, the arrest, Cassian's intervention, his father's inevitable disappointment. But Melshi's voice becomes a steady rhythm, guiding him through each breath.

"Let the noise fade," he instructs. "Don't fight it—just let it be."

Slowly, the tension in Poe's muscles begins to unwind. The guilt and anxiety seep away, replaced by a profound sense of stillness he hasn't experienced since his mother's death.

"That's it," the man murmurs softly. "Let go."

And then, unexpectedly, Poe drifts off to sleep.

When he awakens, the infirmary is bathed in soft, artificial night-lighting. Ruescott nowhere to be seen and Cassian is no longer sleeping. Instead, the older man appears to have just returned, a new brown jacket slightly rumpled, perhaps some perspiration on his brow.

"You missed my seminar," Cassian says, rubbing his neck. There's a hint of dry humor in his voice. "Apparently, even troublemakers need their rest."

Before Poe can respond, the door opens. When General Leia Organa enters the room, the air itself seems to shift. Her presence is both commanding and compassionate, a delicate balance born of years of leadership and personal struggle.

"I'd like a moment with both of you," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. To a nearby medical staff member, she adds, "Ensure we're not disturbed."

Leia possesses a calm, authoritative voice, a voice that could inspire armies and silence chaos with a single look. Her presence fills the space with a quiet, magnetic authority. She moves with the grace of a leader who has weathered impossible storms, her eyes holding a depth of understanding that goes far beyond simple reprimand. Her cold coffee eyes study Poe, seeing far more than he's comfortable revealing.

Cassian straightens, his posture a mixture of respect and old habit. Poe shrinks slightly, anticipating a lecture.

"Gentlemen," she starts, "we need to discuss the events of last night.  And I want the full story, not the version you think I want to hear."

Her tone is neither accusatory nor gentle—it is pragmatic, the voice of someone who has seen countless young rebels make impulsive choices. She ignores the chair, positioning herself so she can look directly at Poe.

So he begins hesitantly, his words tumbling out in a rush. "I just wanted to prove I could do something on my own. The race on Hosnian Prime—I knew the risks, but I thought—" He stops, seeing the look in Leia's eyes.

"You thought what?" she prompts, not unkindly.

"I just wanted to see awesome flying, that’s all. It’s not like I raced or anything! I was just there, imagining, then things went south and I was arrested because I was slow and looked the part. That’s so unfair!"

"Poe Dameron," she says, her voice a mixture of reproach and unexpected understanding. "Next time you plan to outrun authority, remember this: your recklessness doesn't just cost you. It costs the people who care about you."

"I just wanted to do something on my own," he pleads again, "even if it was stupid." His voice cracks. "Everyone keeps treating me like I'm just that little boy who lost his mother. I needed to show I could be more, if just for a day."

Leia's expression softens momentarily. For a brief instant, Poe sees not just a notorious leader, but someone who understands the weight of expectations, the desperate need to break free. She understands the weight of legacy better than most—the pressure of living up to legendary parents, the desperate need to carve out one's own identity. He heard she has two sets of great figures to call mother and father, yet what identity she has craved for herself!

"Proving yourself," she says quietly, "means knowing when to ask for help. Not when to run."

"I thought if I could look at something remarkable, something my mother would have been glad to share with me..." His voice breaks. "Everyone keeps talking about Shara Bey like she was this perfect hero. But I can only picture her flying. I feel closer to her then."

"Your mother," Leia says carefully, eyes impossibly kind, "would have been furious about your method. But she would have understood the impulse. Shara was never one to follow rules blindly."

Cassian shifts uncomfortably. Leia turns her attention to him, her gaze sharp. "And you. You pushed yourself beyond your physical limits. Was young Dameron’s situation so dire for you to handle it on your own? And with such disregard for your own wellbeing?"

"Someone needed to," he says, meeting her gaze evenly. "The local authorities were preparing to contact his father directly. That would have been... counterproductive."

"Counterproductive is an interesting choice of word, Major. Shall I apply it to you?" Leia counters. Her tone softens. "Your medical records show continued strain on your spine. But one would have thought you’d keep your wife aware of the situation! She’s had my young Assistant quacking in her boots when she learned you had a heath scare. Honestly!"

"Jyn’s not my wife, Senator. Nor is she my keeper," Cassian stonily responds.

Leia's laugh is sharp and sudden. "Don't use technicalities with me, Major. She’s been your significant other since my poor regretted father vouched for her in front of the Rebel council, when I hadn’t even met my own husband! You don’t want me to share what I know of your romantic history with a child present. Don’t test me.”

Poe barely pays attention, the weight of the General’s words pressing down on him. "Your recklessness doesn’t just cost you. It costs the people who care about you." Her voice has been firm yet much kinder, but it stings more than any scolding.

He longs for the comfort of his mother, for the way she’d stroke his hair and tell him everything would be all right. Shara’s absence is a wound that never seems to close, and now, all he had is a father drowning in his own grief. 

Poe sneaks’ glances at Cassian again, he can’t help himself. The man’s hand trembles slightly as he rubs at the base of his spine. Despite his stern attitude today, he’d been there for Poe in a way that no one else had. Cassian had crossed planets for him, risked his health to keep him safe. He owes him so much…

"Now," Leia says, turning her attention to the more delicate matter of how Poe ended up in Cassian's care, "let's discuss why I would convince your father to let you stay with Cassian and Jyn."

Poe perks up slightly, hoping for a negotiation that would keep him from an immediate return to Yavin 4.

"Please, General, don’t tell Papa yet. It’s not for my hide, even, I’m aware I’m already a failure. Don’t let his mission for the Jedi become one, too."

Leia’s face flickers, her whole face softening just slightly when he’d made his plea. His voice trembles as he explains, the words spilling out too fast to stop. "Master Skywalker is so important to him. Besides, he’ll never consider going off-planet again, once he knows. Let him come storming back to Yavin 4, yelling about how I messed up. Again. And I don’t want to see that look on his face, like I’ve disappointed him, but—" He’s cutting himself off, clenching his fists tightly in his lap. "Let him do something successful, even if I didn’t."

Leia studies him in silence, the weight of her gaze making him squirm. Poe had been ready for a lecture, for disappointment, but what he got instead from almost every adult so far was something worse: empathy. He doesn’t know much about her connection to the Force—Jyn mentioned once she was strong in it—but in this moment, it feels like the General can see straight through him. Cassian stays silent, but bumps his shoulder in solidarity. Poe refuses to look at him, though. He’s far too close to crying for comfort already.

After an eternity, she nods, Poe sucking a breath in relief.

Too soon for his taste, she activates a secure holotransmitter, the blue-tinted projection of Kes flickering softly in the small device. Her tone is measured, professional, but Poe has difficulty hearing over his tumbling heartbeat.

"Kes," she begins, "we have a situation with Poe. He's safe, with me on Hosnian Prime," she adds quickly, sensing Kes' immediate tension.

Kes' holographic image looks puzzled. "Hosnian Prime? What in the galaxy was he doing on there? That's halfway across the sector from where he should be."

"He encountered some... complications," Leia says carefully. "Major Andor has intervened and means to bring him back to New Alderaan for a few days."

A long silence stretches between them. "I see," he finally says, his voice flat. "Cassian can hold onto him until I can collect him."

What stings most is that he doesn't request to speak to Poe. Doesn't ask to hear his son's voice. Just a clinical transfer of information, as if Poe were cargo to be shipped rather than a son who'd made a mistake.

Leia's eyes flick momentarily to Poe, catching the way his shoulders curl inward, the way his breath catches.

"He's doing well," she offers, a subtle lifeline.

Another pause. Then: "I thank the Force for this," Kes sighs, and there's something in his tone—disappointment, frustration, a depth of emotion that makes Poe want to sink into the floor. "I’ll be delayed with my current… activity. Make sure he understands that, I, am a man of my word."

The transmission cuts, leaving no room for discussion.

Cassian snorts. "Didn’t he have anything else to say?"

"Apparently not," Leia responds, her gaze shifting to Poe—who feels the weight of his father's deliberate silence like a physical blow.

Poe turns away, blinking hard. His father hadn't even asked to hear his voice. Hadn't requested a single detail. Just… distance.

"Luke must have helped," Leia says with a hint of mischief. "Though I'm not sure if it was a Jedi mind trick or just Luke being Luke."

Cassian snorts again. "Did he wave his hand and say, 'Kes will be calm about this'?"

"Something like that," Leia chuckles. "Poe," she says, sobering, "Your father might be a bit… too removed, but it’s true his own business isn’t finished yet. It means we all trust you’ll stay put under the Major’s supervision in the meantime."

As the General begins detailing the reasons that keep his father with Luke on an artifact chase for a few days yet, Poe's attention starts to drift again. The conversation becomes a background hum, peppered with technical terms about Jyn's reconstruction program and Cassian's mechanical training initiatives on New-Alderaan.

"... five-year plan for rebuilding infrastructure on the outer rim worlds," Leia is saying, her hands moving in precise gestures. "Jyn's proposal for community-driven restoration—"

Poe's mind wanders. He catches fragments: something about educational programs, mechanical workshops, community centers. Cassian occasionally interjects with a comment about training young mechanics, but the specifics blur together. The room seems to fade into a soft buzz of bureaucratic discussion. Poe watches Leia's animated expression, Cassian's occasional nods, but the words become nothing more than a distant melody.

He thinks about his mother instead. Shara Bey would have loved this—watching adults discuss rebuilding, creating opportunities. She always believed in action, in making things better, not just talking about them.

"Poe?" The General's voice cuts through his daydream. "Are you listening?"

"Yes, of course," he responds automatically, hoping his tone sounds more attentive than he feels.

Cassian's knowing smirk suggests he's not entirely convinced. She frowns but her comlink beeps sharply, signaling a late-night emergency reunion of the Galactic Senate.

Healer Bonz then returns, his bushy eyebrows furrowed as he approaches Cassian. Leia, preparing to depart for a Senate session, pauses momentarily to watch the exchange.

"A word, Andor," Bonz says, his voice low but carrying the weight of medical authority. "Those chronic spine injuries aren't going to heal themselves by you playing hero every other week."

Cassian sighs, a mixture of resignation and mild irritation crossing his face. "I'm fine, Lenny."

"Fine?" Bonz scoffs, pulling out a datapad and scrolling through what are clearly Cassian's medical records. "Your last full scan showed significant nerve compression. Another incident like this, and you'll be looking at permanent mobility issues."

Leia interjects, her voice calm but firm. "Cassian, listen to the doctor. We can't afford to lose you to stubbornness. You're running on willpower and denial, like usual. You need rest and actual treatment, not charging around like you're still in your twenties."

The older rebel simply shrugs, a gesture that speaks volumes about his long-standing resistance to medical advice. His smirk is faint but unmistakable. "Don't worry, your Highness. I'll retire in a few hours, at least for the next six months. Bureaucrats don't have much need of my expertise anymore. I bet you wish for the same right now, don’t you?"

At that, she chortles and nods, soon speeding out of the medical wing with barely a goodbye.

The healer packs up his tools, casting a final pointed look at both Poe and Cassian. "Your turn to look out for him, kid. He's stubborn as a rancor. Rebel scum are all the same."

Meanwhile, Poe is directed to a small changing area. A kind medical student has lent him a set of clean clothes—slightly oversized but mercifully free of the blood and grime from his misadventure. The fresher helps him clean up, the warm water washing away the physical evidence of his recent trouble, though the emotional weight remains.

When he emerges, his nose is barely bruised anymore, his borrowed clothes hanging loosely on his fourteen-year-old frame. Bonz gives him a final once-over, muttering something about "reckless youth" under his breath.

As they prepare to leave in turn, Sergeant Melshi approaches Poe, his weathered hand resting briefly on the boy's shoulder. "Remember what we talked about," he says, referring to the meditation techniques. "Breathing isn't just about survival. It's about finding your center."

Poe nods, a mixture of respect and lingering embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Melshi's words carry the weight of someone who has seen too much, survived too much, to be dismissed easily.

"I'll practice," Poe promises.

"Good. The path of a fighter isn't just about physical strength. It's about inner control." He glances at Cassian, a knowing look passing between the two veterans. "Take care of this one," he tells Cassian, only half-joking.

Cassian's response is a dry chuckle. "Someone has to."

The preparations for departure are quick. Leia has already left for the Senate, her presence a lingering memory of both disappointment and understanding. His comm-link is silent. His father may have reached the General or even two of his closest comrades, perhaps since yesterday, but not to his wayward son, Poe seethes bitterly.

The transport soon carry him and his current keeper away from Hosnian Prime, towards whatever awaits on New Alderaan.

"Kid," Cassian says after a moment, his voice steady, "you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But next time you pull a stunt like this, you call me before it blows up in your face. Got it?"

Poe nods quickly, his face a mix of relief and lingering shame. "Got it," he mutters.

The city outside rushed by in streaks of metal and glass, the hum of skybridges blending with the ever-present traffic. Hosnian Prime was a world of shimmering towers and efficiency, its sterile grandeur the complete opposite of Yavin 4's dense, chaotic jungles. Poe stares at the reflection of his face in the shuttle's window—bruised and sad, a boy trying to play at being grown.

"Nobody told me you were this much trouble," Cassian mutters, half to himself.

"Guess you know now," Poe replies, managing a small, crooked smile.

"Yeah. Guess I do," Cassian chuckles softly.

About ten long standard hours later, New Alderaan sprawls before them, a breathtaking landscape of green fields stretching endlessly, dotted with vibrant wildflowers and clusters of pale stone buildings that look like they've been lifted from a peaceful dream. The speeder—that a subdued Poe did not even ask to fly—slows to a stop in front of Cassian and Jyn's home, and he feels an odd mix of awe and unease.

Jyn emerges from the doorway, her dark hair streaked with gray, her face slightly weathered but striking. Her sharp gaze takes in every detail of Poe's disheveled appearance.

"Welcome, troublemaker," she says, pulling him into a rough embrace that feels more like a combat assessment than a greeting. "You'll be safe here—for now. Enjoy, you look like you've been through the wringer."

Poe grins sheepishly. "You could say that."

"Good. You'll fit right in," Jyn says, ruffling his hair as she leads him inside.

The house is simple but alive with personality and everything looks overflowed with projects that merge functionality with art. The walls bear witness to Jyn and Cassian's remarkable history—mosaics and carvings that speak of lost worlds and hard-won peace. Each half-finished designs being a tribute to the original Alderaan's lost beauty.

The first two days are a blur of recovery and careful observation. Cassian moves slowly, the strain of their recent adventure and his old injuries evident in every measured step. At first, he spends most of his time in a worn nerf-hide armchair, a steaming mug of herbal tea always within reach, watching Poe with a mix of amusement and concern. Meanwhile, Jyn watches them both with a mixture of concern and exasperation, muttering about "stubborn rebel boys" under her breath.

On the second morning, Jyn finds Poe restless, pacing near the window, realising how hard meditating would be without Melshi’s input.

"You've got too much energy," she declares, pulling a wooden staff from a rack near her workbench. "Let's put it to good use."

Poe's eyes light up. "You're really teaching me to fight?"

"Fighting's easy," Jyn says, spinning her own staff with practiced ease. "Discipline is harder. Let's see what you've got."

Their sparring becomes a daily ritual. Jyn's instructions are sharp but not unkind. She moves with a grace that speaks of years of combat training, her movements precise and economic. Poe learns quickly, his natural athleticism complemented by Jyn's guidance. Her instructions are sharp, her patience limited, but there's a tenderness beneath her brusque demeanor that reminds Poe of his mother.

"Keep your center," she instructs, demonstrating a complex blocking technique. "Your strength comes from here—" she taps her core, "—not just your arms."

In quiet moments, Poe catches glimpses of the deep bond between Cassian and Jyn. It's in the way Cassian's eyes soften when he speaks of her, in the holographs scattered around their home—moments of joy amidst years of struggle.

"Do you think Papa's really that mad?" Poe asks one evening, not looking up from the hydrospanner he's using to disassemble a small power converter.

Cassian considers the question carefully. "Your dad's angry, but not at you. He's angry at himself—for not being there, for not knowing how to handle everything."

Poe frowns, his fingers moving expertly across the converter. "I don't know if he even wants to handle it. He's just... stuck."

"He loves you, Poe," Cassian says softly. "More than anything. He just doesn't always know how to show it."

This prompts a warm hug from Jyn, likely having feeling his desperation herself, younger. He gets teary, but both veterans turn a blind eye, choosing instead to do the dishes by hand.

In the afternoon, she introduces him to a more delicate weapon—a compact vibroblade with intricate etchings. "This isn't a toy," Jyn warns, her tone serious. "Every weapon is an extension of yourself. Respect it."

Under her strict supervision, Poe learns the basics of blade handling. Each lesson is a careful dance of technique and respect, a far cry from the reckless impulses that brought him here.

"Sorry, Poe, but you'll only touch it under my watch."

Poe nods, his excitement tempered by the decisiveness in her voice. He hands the blade back and thanks her for the lesson. Maybe for his Name Day, if Papa doesn’t confiscate all his comms until then, he could ask one for himself?

The following day, when Jyn departs for a reconstruction site—another part of the planet trying to heal a trauma that wiped an entire civilisation half a generation before—Cassian takes over Poe's education. His approach is different from Jyn's. Where she is all sharp edges and immediate action, Cassian is methodical, patient.

They work on his landspeeder, Cassian's hands moving with a mechanic's precision as he explains each component. "A good pilot understands his ship," Cassian says, guiding Poe's hands over a complex network of wires. "It's not just about flying. It's about knowing every bolt, every circuit."

Poe absorbs every word, his borrowed datapad always nearby, filled with sketches and notes. He learns hand-to-hand defense techniques that blend martial arts with practical survival skills. Cassian shows him how to read body language, how to anticipate movement, how to create space when needed.

During quiet moments, Cassian shares stories—not of heroic battles, but of small moments of survival. Of finding hope in impossible situations. Of learning that courage isn't about being fearless, but about being afraid and moving forward anyway.

At night, Poe falls asleep with his datapad like he once clutched his Pilot doll, his mind buzzing with new knowledge, with the sense of belonging he's found in this unexpected sanctuary.

The house settles into a rhythm once Jyn comes back. Quiet mornings with Cassian's herbal tea, learning moving into defence practice with Jyn, evenings filled with shared meals and stories. Training, learning, healing all day long—both physical and emotional. Poe feels something he hasn't felt in years: a sense of purpose, of belonging.

Little does he know, the calm is about to be disrupted by a storm named Kes Dameron.

When Poe’s Papa finally arrives, the confrontation is unlike anything Poe has witnessed. It's like a thunderstorm breaking over New Alderaan. The door slams open with such force that Jyn's carefully arranged tools rattle on her workbench. By the time he runs inside, the argument is well on his way :

"I'm Poe's father! I call the shots! You had no right!" Kes' voice booms, his anger cutting through the previous quiet of the house.

Poe shrinks back instinctively, his pulse pounding in his ears. Cassian remains calm, but before he can respond, Jyn steps forward, her voice sharp as her vibroblade.

"Listen to me, Dameron," she snaps. "You don't get to lecture me about fatherly prerogatives. I didn't have one bad father figure; I had two. The whole universe knows that. Do you want to join their ranks that badly?"

The words hit like a physical blow. Kes flushes, his fists clenching at his sides. "I don't have to listen to your daddy issues, Erso."

"Yes, you do," Jyn growls, taking a step closer. Her eyes blaze with something fierce and unrelenting. "You're obsessive, grief-ridden over Shara's loss, just like Galen was about my mother. And you're reclusive, paranoid, and stubborn, just like Saw became. Open your eyes, Kes!"

Cassian interjects, his tone placating but firm. "Kes, your son took the first real opportunity he's had in six years to flee. Meanwhile, it took a personal plea from Princess Leia herself to get you to reach out to Luke Skywalker for a week."

"Yes, let’s talk of Leia! I didn’t oppose her when she said I should stick to the original plan, out of Shara’s memory. But hosting Poe doesn’t mean you get to decide how I parent!" Kes snaps, his frustration spilling over.

Jyn scoffs audibly, her voice cutting through the tension of the night. "And you don’t get to shut us out when your son is crying for help. He ran because he felt trapped. That’s on you, Dameron."

Papa falters, the words hitting their mark. Poe feels like he’s free falling, listening from the edge of the room. He cringes hard at fleeting mention of the General. He remembers his plea to her, the desperation in his voice when he'd asked her not to interfere immediately. Yet another way he made things worse for Papa and the few friends he has left.

"Kes, Poe’s a good kid." Cassian says, briefly smiling at Poe behind Jyn’s shoulder, likely trying to cheer him up. "He made a mistake, but he needs to know you’re not just angry—you’re there for him."

"You’ve stopped caring in the way that matters, but the kid? He cares too much," Jyn insists.

"Take it from someone who's been in Poe's shoes," Cassian continues, his voice softening. "You'll lose him sooner than you fear if you don't let him come back to you on his own terms."

Poe watches as his father's posture stiffens again, the fight draining out of him. Finally, Kes turns to look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he arrived.

The room falls silent, the weight of their words sinking in. Poe wants to cry, he’s pretty sure he’s shaking. Cassian and Jyn really have seen everything Poe tried so hard to keep hidden. Everything Papa tries to keep under control. Still, Kes exhales, some of the tension leaving his frame. He doesn't apologize—Kes Dameron rarely does—but he nods, a reluctant acknowledgment of their point.

Poe takes a tentative step closer, his expression wary but hopeful. "Papa?"

Something shifts in Kes' eyes as he looks upon his son for the first time in days. The anger melts, revealing a vulnerability that Poe hasn't seen since the days immediately following his mother's death, come to think of it. Something that speaks of grief, of loss, of a father terrified of losing another piece of himself.

"Poe," Kes says quietly, the fight leaving his voice. "I am glad you’re safe, buddy."

Poe barely hesitate before stepping closer. His father’s hand reaches out, steady and familiar, and for the first time in weeks, Poe felt something like home. He can’t speak though, burying his sobbing shoulders and leaking eyes into his dad’s torso. He hears Kes muttering soft words in Yavinese, his big warm hands steady at his back. He hears his dad’s heartbeat, delightfully steady. Bo-bom, bo-bom, bo-bom…

He commits the sound to memory, persuaded that this moment will help him to meditate and ‘find his center’ going forward.

The sound of the door closing tells him Cassian and Jyn chose to leave, leaving the Damerons to mend what had been fraying for too long. Kes doesn’t loosen his embrace, opting for them to sit against each-other, kind of like they did when Poe was little enough to cuddle entirely on his parents’ laps.

Later that evening, after a meal thick with unspoken tensions, Poe retreats to his room, emotionally exhausted. The house settles into a quiet hum of distant conversations. Through the thin walls, he catches fragments of dialogue.

Jyn speaks first, her voice low but firm. "He needs space, Kes. Not lectures."

"I'm his father," Kes responds, a defensive edge cutting through his words. "I deserve to know—"

"Deserve?" Cassian interjects. His tone is measured, but there's an underlying steel. "Deserving isn't about demanding. It's about listening."

Poe shifts quietly in his bed, straining to hear more. The floorboards creak softly as someone—probably Cassian—moves closer to the window.

"I've lost her," Kes says suddenly, his voice breaking. "Shara. And now I'm losing him too."

There's a moment of silence. Then Cassian speaks, and Poe can almost imagine the older man's hand on Kes's shoulder.

"Love isn't possession," Cassian says softly. "I learned that the hard way."

"I love you, my mother said the last time I saw her," Cassian's voice trembling. "More than anything you could ever do wrong. Tell Poe that, I’m sure he needs to hear it as much as I did then."

Jyn's voice joins in, gentler now. "Give him time. Give yourself time."

Poe closes his eyes, the conversation washing over him like a tide. The weight of unspoken grief, of loss, of love—it fills the room, a presence more tangible than any of them.

Outside, the wind whispers across the fields of New Alderaan, carrying with it the promise of something hopeful.

In the soft light of early morning, the tension has transformed. As Kes prepares to depart, Poe stands in Jyn and Cassian's living room, saying his goodbyes.

Jyn pulls him into a tight embrace, her grip strong and brief, as usual. "Take care of yourself, troublemaker," she says, ruffling his hair. "And remember what I taught you about discipline."

Poe steps toward Cassian, suddenly feeling small and overwhelmed. "I—" he starts, then stops. Words seem inadequate.

Cassian seems to understand. He places a hand on Poe's shoulder, his touch light but meaningful. "You've got potential, kid. Just channel it better next time."

"Thank you," Poe manages, his voice thick. "For everything. For not giving up on me."

A ghost of a smile crosses Cassian's face. "Someone once didn't give up on me. It's about time I returned the favor."

Outside, Kes has prepped their small personal shuttle. But instead of simply piloting, he turns to Poe with a tentative offer. "Want to fly back?" he asks. "I thought maybe you could take the co-pilot seat. If you want. But please, keep us at a reasonable speed, I don’t want to lose my breakfast," he adds with a hint of his old humor.

Poe's response is immediate, his eyes lighting up with the same passion that made his mother a legendary pilot. "Really?"

Flying with his father feels like a fragile bridge being carefully reconstructed. Kes sets a reasonable pace—not the breakneck speed of a racing pilot, but something smoother, something that speaks of care and consideration. Their hands move in familiar patterns, a muscle memory of shared blood and shared love.

As they lift off from New Alderaan, the landscape below a patchwork of green and white stone, Kes speaks softly. "Your mama would've loved to see you at the controls."

It's not an apology. It's not a lecture. It's a connection—tentative, but real.

Poe grips the co-pilot controls, feeling the shuttle respond to his touch. Yavin 4 approaches, its dense jungle canopy a welcome sight. Something has shifted between father and son—not completely healed, but mending.

"How about we grab some food when we land?" Kes asks, his voice soft. "I know a great spot."

And, for the first time in years, home doesn't feel like a cage. It feels like a possibility.

Chapter Text

"Does justice ever find you?
Do the wicked never lose?
Is there any honest song to sing besides these blues?"
- The Blues, Switchfoot

Epilogue: Shara's Son (Kes)

The late afternoon light filters through the windows of the small gathering space, casting long shadows that dance across the faces of those assembled. Fifteen years—and six years since losing Shara—have etched themselves into Kes Dameron's features, but today, something softer resides in his eyes. Pride. A complex tapestry of conflicting emotion that swirls around his son's name day celebration.

Poe sits at the center of the gathering of adults, no longer the impulsive, grief-stricken child who had caused such chaos just months earlier. The recklessness that once threatened to consume him has been tempered, refined. And Kes knows precisely why.

During a quiet moment, he leans towards Cassian, their shoulders nearly touching—a posture of shared understanding that speaks of battles fought, losses endured, and children raised in the aftermath of galactic conflict.

"He's different," Kes murmurs to Cassian, a quiet observation laden with gratitude, his voice low enough to not interrupt the ambient conversations around them. "Since spending time with you and Jyn, everything's changed."

Cassian's eyes, still sharp despite the years of pain and struggle, track Poe across the room. Cassian's knowing smile speaks volumes. They both understand how carefully structured guidance can redirect a young person's passion."Focus," he says simply. "And perspective."

Kes nods, remembering the reports from Poe's teachers and instructors. Grades that had once teetered on the edge of failure now showed considerable improvement. The impulsive outbursts that once defined his son had been replaced by a more calculated approach. Where once Poe would have rushed headlong into a situation, now he paused. Observed. Considered.

It hadn't been an easy transformation to start, and it’s nowhere near finished. The grief of losing Shara has carved deep wounds into Poe's spirit, manifesting as rebellious energy that threatened to consume him. But Cassian and Jyn had seen something in the boy—a potential beyond the pain, a spirit waiting to be guided rather than controlled.

Control and safety are all Kes can offer his kid, alas. He’s come to terms with his personal shortcomings, not sure if he could or even wanted to change. Kes only needs Poe, when all is said and done. Yet, the only thing he can offer Poe is letting others provide for the teen’s needs, whenever he feels out of his depth.

Wedge Antilles clears his throat, drawing everyone's attention. In his hands, he holds a simple object—a collective gift from every adult in the room who has watched Poe grow. He approaches, the datapad in his hands and both Damerons’ breath hitch in perfect sync, for very different reasons. Here comes the collective effort of his old comrades, for all intent and purpose, all of Poe’s older relatives, blood be damned. The ties formed by the bunch of persons accounted for—including Master Luke and Master Jade who were unable to attend— are much thicker than genetics. Shared blood not running in each-other’s veins, but spilled on the same ground.

The flight academy gift—a month-long early entrance course—had been a carefully orchestrated plan. Cassian had initially proposed the idea, Wedge Antilles leveraging his position as academy director. Leia and Han Solo had pulled strings with their extensive network, negotiating a full scholarship that covered not just tuition, but travel and accommodation. Leia also would be his son’s referent adult, as her Senatorial role keeps her on-planet most of the time. Jyn and Cassian had contributed by funding additional training equipment—specialized datapads and flight simulation modules that would give Poe an edge. Melshi, with his connections to veteran support networks, secured additional sponsorship that would cover any unexpected expenses.

"A month-long early entrance course at the junior flight academy," he announces.

This represents more than an educational opportunity. It's a promise. A bridge between Poe's past and his potential future. After a few seconds where the teen is struck dumb, he sees the excitement in his son’s eyes and knows it's the right path.

"A month," Wedge repeats, handing the datapad to Kes first—a gesture of respect, of understanding the magnitude of what's being offered. "Full immersion. Advanced flight training, tactical studies, physical conditioning."

Kes feels the weight of the decision. Sending Poe away to Hosnian Prime, trusting others to continue what Shara has started. It's a sacrifice that catches in his throat, a lump of emotion he refuses to let show.

Leia, ever perceptive, catches his eye. "She would have wanted this for him," she says softly, referring to Shara. Not a statement of consolation, but a recognition of a mother's unbroken love that transcends even death.

Melshi comes next, with his trademark combination of humor and heart. The leather jacket is intentionally oversized, a playful reminder that Poe is still growing, still becoming. "You'll grow into it," he says, a phrase that seems to carry more meaning than simple clothing. "And," he says with a wink, producing a bottle that looks suspiciously like Corellian whiskey, "a little something to celebrate."

Thankfully, when Poe opens it dubiously, instead of spirits, he finds it filled with sweet, sparkling nectar from Ithor. The whole room erupts in laughter. A classic veterans' prank, a moment of levity that breaks the potential tension.

Han Solo never one to be overshadowed, leans back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye as he slides a package towards Poe. "New flight gear," he announces, then adds with a characteristic swagger, "And let me tell you something, kid. I may be getting older, but I'm still the fastest pilot in the galaxy. Twelve parsecs on the Kessel Run? That's not just a story—that's a promise."

Poe grins, that cocky smile so reminiscent of both his mother and Han. "Is that a challenge, Captain Solo?"

"Damn right it is," Han shoots back, but there's nothing but warmth in his eyes. He doesn't bother correcting Poe on his General status.

Leia rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond.

But it's Jyn who makes Kes pause. She approaches Poe with a wrapped bundle, her movements precise and deliberate. When Poe unwraps the vibroblade, Kes feels a sudden tension ripple through him. A weapon. For his only son.

Cassian must sense Kes' concern, because he catches his eye and gives a slight, reassuring nod. Indeed, when Poe handles the vibroblade, grinning, it’s with the carefulness of someone who understands weapons not as instruments of destruction, but as tools of protection and skill. Just how much teaching did Jyn and Cassian crammed into six standard days?! Even now, as she is showing Poe how to hold it, their familiarity and inside jokes are evident in each interaction. Kes exhales and forces his shoulders down.

Because eventually comes the moment Kes has been waiting for. From his pocket, he pulls out the small, carefully preserved box containing Shara's silver wedding band. His hands—calloused from years of farming and fighting—tremble slightly as he approaches Poe. The silver has been polished to a soft gleam, the chain delicate yet strong—much like the memory of the woman who once wore it.

"Son," Kes says, his voice thick with emotion, "this wasn't just a piece of metal to her. This was a promise. A promise of love, of commitment. Of staying true to what matters most, even when the galaxy tries to pull you apart. You’re a bit young yet, but you could use the reminder."

The room falls silent. Poe's hand reaches out, trembling slightly, and when he places the chain around Poe's neck, it feels too solemn for a Name Day. Their fingers brush against each other's briefly, young calluses against old calluses. Eyes that share the same shape, and the same glassy sheen, meet. For a moment, they’re acknowledging something profound and unspoken. A connection. A legacy.

"She would have been so proud of you," Kes whispers in Yavinese, his hand lingering on the chain.

He knew both Cassian and Leia each speak a language very similar to it as their mother tongue, but it floors him when they each comment in their own native accents, the meaning decipherable thanks to the unexpected similarities between languages.

First, Leia, her eyes glistening, echoes the sentiment in her native Alderaanian—a language of nobility and hope, which roughly translates: "You shine with inherited light."

Cassian adds his voice in Ferrixian, a language of resistance and resilience: "You carry the heart of generations."

Poe's hand closes around the ring, a tangible connection to a mother he remembers in fading memories and inherited stories. Poe catches his eye, and for the first time in years, Kes sees pure, unbridled joy in his son's expression. Not the grief that has haunted them, not the weight of loss—but pure, bright possibility.

Shara's son, Kes thinks, for once not as bittersweet a statement, absolutely Shara's son.

The celebration continues, a tapestry of love, remembrance, and hope—each person present or thought of, or evoked, playing a role in shepherding this young man towards his potential. A collective promise.

And Kes Dameron would not have it differently.