Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

January the second was a Thursday this year, and Poe Dameron didn't particularly want to be working. Yet here he was, lounging behind the counter of The Dotted Line, playing on his phone while waiting for people who needed to blow some of their Christmas money on a permanent mistake.

It was a slow day. Maybe no one had received any Christmas money this year. The lack of foot traffic left Poe feeling bored, antsy, and chained to one location — three things he absolutely hated, especially in combination with each other.

If only someone would come into the shop and distract him. Just for a little! His phone could only do so much.

When the door to the outside world finally opened, he glanced up from his screen, and his current angry bird hit a wall instead of diving smoothly through a tube. It immediately exploded, damaging the digital wall, but that was fine. Poe was no longer paying any attention to pixels.

The man in front of him was tall and narrow, like a San Francisco house that's impossible to approach except from one precarious square of sidewalk. His shoulders were almost military, but that was where any resemblance ended; this man was a punk rocker, and had been for some time, by the looks of it. He was wearing black and silver, but not the sort you buy at Forever XXI — the sort that looked authentic. Like he'd been wearing it while clubbing at The Roxy or The 100 Club at least a decade ago.

The man had various piercings — not so many that he looked like a pincushion, but enough that he wouldn't be able to get a job at a bank. His pink, plush lips sported several snake bite piercings, some with pointed ends and others with ball ends, but all sticking out like quills from a porcupine. They would say 'stay away' to any normal human being.

It was too bad Poe had never been normal.

The expression on the man's face could have been called a sneer, if there had been enough expression to describe; but there was not, so Poe couldn't call it that. But he did have some immediate thoughts about his hair. It was a glorious reddish-orange tint, wildly improbable, and it had Poe itching for his watercolor paints. No — his old oils. He wondered if they'd all dried up in their tubes over the past decade. Maybe he could reconstitute them with a little turpentine.

"You tattoo, yes?" the man asked in a British accent that definitely sounded higher on the 'posh' scale than Poe tended to associate with punk. Maybe he wasn't a real Brit. Putting on airs, or something.

"Sure do, bud," Poe replied, letting his face relax into one of his patented Charming Male Model grins. He'd been told that in the right light, this grin sometimes caught the light and dazzled anyone who saw it with its diamondesque brilliance.

Unfortunately, Mr. Maybe-Brit did not seem at all dazzled.

"Take a look through the book," Poe continued, gesturing to one of the large volumes of work samples chained to the counter. "I can do anything on the walls, too."

Mr. Maybe-Brit sniffed, his eyes passing over the designs on the walls as though they were unworthy of his notice. He also glanced up and down Poe's arms, which were covered by beautiful full-color sleevework, done by his friend Rey — a riot of colorful flowers and vines and cartoon characters and strange hallucinations, his flesh made canvas.

"I have a custom request," the man said, raising his eyebrows.

Poe straightened up and tucked his phone back into his back pocket. He had a feeling this was going to be fun.

Once in the tattooing room, the man stripped off his outer layer of silver-studded black, sitting with his back curled forward protectively in his black jeans, black boots, and a black button-up shirt.

He undid the first four or so buttons, shrugging the garment away from his upper chest. Next to all the black of his clothing, the paleness of his naked flesh felt like a slap in the eyes.

"I'm looking to cover these," Mr. Maybe-Brit said, gesturing at the pale expanse of his skin, which was marred by something irregular.

Poe took a step closer to get a better look, and found himself confronted with a series of circular impressions embedded into the flesh. They weren't very noticeable at a distance, but now that they'd been pointed out, Poe found his eyes catching on them.

Those were cigarette burn scars, Poe was pretty sure. And they looked old. Some of them were irregular, as though the cigarette had been held at an angle so it would burn a little deeper. Against his pale skin, they burned angry pink, angry puce, angry almost-maroon.

Mr. Maybe-Brit was glaring at him. "If you're quite done ogling."

"Sorry." Poe stepped back. "Do you have any thoughts about what sort of design you'd like?"

The man shrugged, looking wary. "Have you covered this sort of thing before?"

"I have," Poe said, drawing up a stool near the table. "I have a friend with a bunch of burns on her arms from working in a kitchen, you know how that goes. She wanted them turned into a piece that looked like embroidery. Here — I'll show you." He flipped through the book to the page with Kaydel's sleeves and showed off the pictures, with no small amount of pride. The designs looked great — like her skin really had embroidery stitched right into it.

The man was examining the photos carefully, lips pursed. Poe suddenly had the urge to reach out and touch one of those lip piercings. He battled it back down. Stay professional, Poe, he told himself. No macking on the customers.

"It's a very vivid design," the man said expressionlessly.

"Oh — don't you like bright colors? What am I saying; of course you don't — just look at your whole, uh. Deal." Poe waved one hand up and down, vaguely encompassing Mr. Maybe-Brit, before finally managing to wrestle his unruly tongue to a halt.

Fuck. Why did Poe always keep talking? His friends told him that if he'd just shut up, he could get so much farther in life. 'You're plenty handsome, Poe — when you're not talking,' Finn would say affectionately, swatting at him or tossing popcorn towards Poe's open mouth, 'just to keep it busy for five seconds — some of us are trying to watch the movie, Poe!'

Rose had agreed with Finn. "If you'd just zip it and learn how to give an enigmatic smile, you could be all mysterious," she'd told him. "Guys would flock to you. You'd have to beat them off with a stick."

Mr. Maybe-Brit was looking through Poe in a way that made him feel about as mysterious as a clear Pyrex dish.

"I do, in fact, have thoughts," the man said, retrieving a paper notepad from his back pocket and flipping it open. It was one of those fancy miniature notebooks with the fake-leather covers that were soft as a mole's fur. Not that Poe had ever touched a mole, but he'd seen them on nature documentaries when he was a kid and only supposed to watch PBS, and they'd looked soft. As soft as those lips right in front of him.

Fuck. His mind was wandering again. He needed to rein it in.

It turned out that Mr. Maybe-Brit had page after page of designs, all in the same precise hand. Some of the images were mathematical in nature: the Golden Ratio, spiralling out through seashells and churches and galaxies. Others were mechanical: machines whose purpose Poe could barely guess; spaceships; futuristic designs he had no hope of comprehending. Others were macabre: heads with half their face gone; hands turning into knives; someone's body seeming to dissolve in a jar or melt away in the wind...

"Some of these are pretty heavy," Poe said, flipping through the book. "Anything in particular calling out to you today?"

Mr. MaybeBrit tapped one finger against his knee. "It's difficult for me to choose. All of these patterns have special meaning to me. I suppose I could ask you which one you'd feel most comfortable doing in just an hour."

"Just an hour?" Poe asked, mind whirring. "Something simple, then. I think — this spaceship. I've always wanted to be an astronaut. And the round shapes could be repurposed to become its exhaust ports, yeah?"

He grinned at Mr. Maybe-Brit, who looked back at him steadily. "Exhaust ports. Leaving it behind; using it as fuel." He paused. "Yes. I like it."

His eyes were more green than Poe had noticed, at first. The man seemed to have a dampening effect surrounding him, making him seem less attractive, less approachable, less interesting. But once you looked at him closely, the effect wore off rapidly.

Yeah, Poe decided. He's plenty interesting.

The tattoo was easy to do. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Silver and Black didn't want a lick of color in the design, even when Poe suggested a cheery orange, at least for a few stripes or details.

"No?" Poe wheedled. "Why not — too matchy-matchy? Your hair is insane, by the way."

"Indeed." Mr. Maybe-Brit looked right through him again, and this time, Poe found that he really liked it. He didn't know what that said about his taste.

The thing was, it had been a long time since Poe had felt a connection to another guy. Oh, sure, he could go out and get his dick sucked if he wanted to — and sometimes he wanted to. He could reinstall Grindr and get more than that, if he wanted to, and he'd done that, too. But the parade of Brads and Chets and Daves and Steves had to end sometime. Poe was tired of hopping back on that particular bandwagon. It always seemed to break down before it got to the station, if Poe was going to mix his metaphors.

While he worked, Poe kept up a steady and inane stream of chatter, half-expecting to be shut down at any moment and instructed to focus on his work, and his work only. But Mr. No-Colors let him talk. Poe wasn't even really sure what exactly he was talking about — just that it was helping him etch the right lines into the moon-pale skin in front of him.

The man had very little in the way of muscle, but the little he had was lean and lithe. He'd probably be a good fencer, Poe thought, finishing the tail of the spaceship with a steady hand. Or a swimmer. Something where you need to be fast.

"Here's some tattoo aftercare ointment," Poe said after pressing a bandage over the new tattoo and putting away his tools. "Keep it clean for the first few days. Don't scrub at it or rub it. No immersing yourself in water — baths, pools, stuff like that — for at least two weeks. Just a thin layer of ointment so it doesn't clog your pores. Stay out of the sun; don't exercise too hard; uh, let's see, what else. Oh, I'm pretty sure I have a pamphlet about it. Do you want a pamphlet?"

He rummaged around and found the pamphlet about tattoo aftercare, then pressed another sample of lotion into Mr. Maybe-Brit's hands, for good measure.

"And be sure to come back and let me see how it looks after it's all healed up!" Poe said, standing up. "I always love seeing my work out there, making a difference in people's lives."

The man paused, considering him as though Poe had said something unexpected.

"Do you feel that your work is truly making a difference?" he asked. He hadn't flinched or expressed any pain during the tattooing process, and even now, he was holding his body in exactly the same way — wary, ready to move. He looked like he could be out the door in half a second if he needed to.

"Oh, yeah. I know I'm making a difference in people's lives," Poe said with conviction. "People get tattoos for all sorts of different reasons, of course — I know that. And sometimes those reasons are stupid. But every piece is a memento of a moment in time. The moment when a person made a decision to change something about their life."

He paused, checking to see if Mr. No-Pain-Response was still listening. He appeared to be listening intently to whatever Poe had to say, so he decided to say a little bit more. Most of his friends were tired of hearing all his philosophical bullshit about the importance of injecting tiny amounts of dye under your skin in your journey of self discovery, or whatever.

"For whatever reason — joy or sorrow or anger or grief; it doesn't matter. They decided to change their body. Their body. Permanently. And they let me be the — uh, well, the midwife to that moment for them, I guess. They let me be the person who brought their idea into the world. That's sacred. And I take that seriously."

Mr. Maybe-Brit was staring at him with an expression that Poe could not immediately parse.

"Very enlightening," he finally commented, smoothing his clothes over the bandage and standing up to shrug on his massive black wool coat. It was some sort of Russian antique, Poe was pretty sure, and it added the illusion of forty pounds to his vanishingly thin frame. "I'll pay in cash, if I may."

"Oh, uh, sure," Poe said, feeling a bit of whiplash from the change in tone.

This is what I get for running my mouth, he thought glumly, leading the way back to the counter and entering the transaction into the register. I drove him away. Finn and Rose were right. I just never know when to shut up.

If I'd been more mysterious and interesting instead of giving him a whole manifesto on how being a tattoo artist is, like, the most meaningful thing ever, maybe he would have given me his number.

"Have a good year," Poe told him, and he sincerely meant it. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"I find that highly doubtful," the man said, handing him cash tip. "It's only minimally plausible that my touring schedule could bring me through this town again in the future."

"I guess we'll see," Poe said, staring at the man's high cheekbones, greenish-bluish-gray eyes, orangish-red hair. He really needed to break out those oil paints.

Then he kicked himself, because now the man was already out the door, and it was too late to ask a normal follow-up question, like 'Touring schedule? Are you an artist, too?'

You know — the sort of follow-up question that literally anyone who was not Poe would have asked? The sort of follow-up question that would have maybe improved his knowledge of Mr. Tall, Pale, and Ginger? Maybe gotten him a number, or even a date, assuming he'd be into risking himself on the sort of liability that was Poe Dameron?

But now the man was outside the shop, and it would be weird to chase him down just to stammer all over him out in the cold. And if Poe was being totally honest, he was not 100% sure whether he was carrying the door keys, or, if he wasn't, whether the front door would lock behind him. He could just picture a situation where he ended up locking himself out of his own shop during business hours, while Mr. Maybe-Brit smirked at him derisively.

That would not be very profresh, Poe told himself.

Anyway, he hadn't asked, and now it was too late. Because he'd paid in cash, Poe didn't even know the guy's name. He couldn't even do a bit of discreet internet sleuthing.

It figures, Poe thought, letting his head slump forward until his forehead met the counter with a dejected thump. The one time me running my mouth would actually have come in handy, I decide to be all mysterious. And look what it got me. Nothing.

He finally looked down at the cash in his hand and counted it, finding that Mr. Spaceship had left him a 100% tip.

"Fuck," Poe breathed. This would make a difference in how well he ate this week. If he was good, it would mean January rent would be a lot easier to make.

Now he really wished he'd managed to get that guy's number.

Poe fired up Angry Birds again, but it couldn't hold his attention.

He spent the rest of his shift looking up pictures of cigarette burns.

Chapter Text

January 2 was a Thursday this year, and Poe volunteered to take it — not for any reason. Just to help out his pal Rey, who wanted to go on some sort of multi-state junket with her new boyfriend, Finn. Poe was happy to help out.

Truth be told, he'd almost forgotten Mr. Tall Pale and Pierced over the past year, which had been a tough one. He'd started dating a guy named Beaumont Kin, and then been broken up with rather spectacularly. He'd tried and failed to earn any scrap of approval from his father, Kes, who was fairly certain that nothing Poe did would ever be right. And he'd had to move twice, once because of a terrible slumlord situation involving black mold and cockroaches, and once because of the aforementioned situation with Beau.

So when the door to the outside world opened again, Poe didn't immediately glance up. Only when a pair of black boots studded with silver made its way into his field of vision did he suddenly surge upright, like the ocean being drawn all the way up to the moon.

"Oh! You're back!" Poe said inanely, then kicked himself. He hadn't thought about Mr. Maybe-Brit — well, okay, that was a lie. Of course he'd thought about him at first — but not recently. Over the past year, the man's image in Poe's memory had been papered over with the thousand tiny ways that life deadens its own rawness.

Now he was back. Poe stared, taking in that his memory had not been incorrect to paint his hair as so very red; his skin as so very pale; his sneer as so very contemptuous.

"I find myself in need of your services again," the man announced, as though Poe were some sort of serving machine he'd put away and forgotten for the past year, only to unearth it again when the need arose.

Another wide grin was bubbling up out of Poe and spreading across his face. He crossed to the door and locked it, putting up the CLOSED sign.

"Let's go to the back and you can tell me what you have in mind."

This time, the man shrugged out of his Russian overcoat, then also stripped off his dull black button-up shirt, revealing what seemed like acres of pale skin, covered only by a thin black tank top — and by Poe's work from the previous year. It was peeking out of the top, the exhaust ports of the spaceship seeming to wink at Poe as he moved closer to take a good look.

"So, how did you like it?" Poe asked. "I think it looks great! Did it heal okay? Looks like it did. Did your friends have anything to say? Do you want another one?"

Mr. Maybe-Brit was looking at Poe with his head at a slight angle. He took a seat on the table.

"It was skillfully done. I found the imagery of the exhaust ports to be inventive."

Poe beamed. That sounded like high praise!

He couldn't help but notice that Mr. Maybe-Brit was hunching his bare shoulders forward as though he was trying to conserve heat.

"Oh, it's kinda cold in here," Poe babbled. "Should I turn up the temperature? I'll go do that. Leia likes to keep it at 65, but I think that's awfully chilly and probably against OSHA regulations, or at least the Geneva Convention, haha! And do you want some tea? I have a kettle — an electric one — don't worry, no microwaved mugs here at Dotted Lines! And we have PG Tips!"

Was he talking too much again? It was almost physically painful to stop himself, but he managed to, and stood still for once, admiring the contrast between black, white, and orange. The other man was like a figure from a fairy tale, only instead of being Snow White with the whole skin-hair-lips thing, he was some sort of snarling fey creature that would stalk you across a moor and devour you down to your bones.

Poe was suddenly very interested in being devoured.

"I could use some tea, but there is no need to adjust the thermostat on my account. No milk," the man said in that same British accent. Poe was just remembering that he loved accents.

Did the man have more piercings this year? Poe ran his eyes over them admiringly. All of his metal looked so shiny and clean. Well cared for. The studs through his lips probably made them more sensitive.

Not that Poe should be thinking about that.

"No prob. PG Tips, coming up!"

Poe trotted off and made some tea, fidgeting in place as the kettle heated up, then triumphantly carried back the mug and presented it for approval.

"I never got your name last year," Poe said with his best winning smile. "I'm Poe."

"Armitage," Mr. Maybe-Brit said, taking a sip. It was difficult to tell, but from the way the corner of his eye smoothed out infinitesimally, Poe thought he'd done a good job with the tea.

"So, what did you have in mind this time?" Poe asked, settling onto his stool.

"I want to cover up a bit more real estate," the man said, holding out his left arm.

Poe pursed his lips. This arm had a series of ugly scars carved into it. They were mostly in the form of lines, but some of them twisted as though something had hooked and then torn, while others were merely silvery traces, barely there, as though made with a knife. A few odder shapes stood out in grotesque mottled pinkish-maroon. The worst scar almost seemed to have been done on purpose by someone who wanted to carve the letter "C", twice, into the man's upper bicep.

"Covering all this will take a bit more doing," Poe said thoughtfully. He dragged up his stool and plopped himself down. "Let's see that notebook of yours — if you brought it this year."

"Certainly I brought it," the man said, affronted, extracting it and holding it out.

Poe flipped through it. There were more images than there had been a year ago — some sort of huge red explosion, planets dissolving into nothing, machines built on a massive scale. A beetle in flight, its pincers extended. A weapon of war.

"This is pretty intense," Poe said, pointing to it. "I think I could do something with this. Maybe in the foreground — here, let me show you."

He grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and sketched out a quick interpretation that fused the beetle with several of the man's other ideas.

"See, this way those two C shapes are included in the beetle's wing," Poe explained. "And then I'd put this big round machine planet in the background. That would do a good job with the straight lines. It would be better with a little color in it, though."

The man pursed his lips and frowned at Poe's sketch. "Gold, for the beetle," he said. "But not orange."

Poe grinned. "I can work with that."

I really need to dig out my oils, he thought, producing a more fleshed-out version that would wrap around Armitage's whole upper arm, extending down almost to the elbow.

Armitage was an active participant, pointing out areas where other elements could be worked in, including a seashell with some math elements on the side, like a sort of diagram.

"I can't get all this done today," Poe said regretfully. "I thought today could be our consultation, and then you'll have to come in, uh, twice more, let's say."

Armitage frowned. "What if we scale back the design? I'll need to fly out soon."

"Where are you heading? Will you be back soon? We could do half the design sooner, and then the other half when you're back?" Poe suggested.

Armitage shook his head, then paused. "I suppose I could adjust my plans. How quickly could you get it done?"

"It's a large and complex design — and you'd want to do it in two sessions," Poe mused, mentally riffling through his schedule for the next few weeks.

"Why?"

"Oh — pain tolerance, mostly," Poe said. "A half sleeve like this would take me about ten hours — all the machine pieces in the background are finicky — and I doubt you want to sit still for ten hours. It's a lot."

"I don't have any problem with pain."

Poe almost said something to that, but decided not to. It was worryingly apparent that some shit had happened to this guy at some point. Maybe not having any problem with pain wasn't such a good thing. Maybe he should try to have more of a problem with pain.

"Well — I need to draw out the whole pattern and get your approval," he said. "Including the layers, and how it's going to wrap around. An upper arm full wrap half sleeve like this is bigger, and the elements we've discussed are a lot more elaborate than the spaceship, so it's gonna take a lot longer. It's gonna take me at least a few days to finish the design."

Armitage nodded and finished his tea. "Very well," he said, standing up. "I would like your direct number so we can make arrangements."

"Sure," Poe said, wrestling a satisfied smile off his face before it could form. He scribbled his number on a blank scrap of page, along with his name and a tiny spaceship. Just in case Armitage forgot who he was. He was probably being showered with people's numbers all the time — or would be, if he didn't spend so much time sneering.

Aw fuck yeah. I'll be getting his number, part of Poe crowed.

In a professional capacity, you dumbass, the adult part of him chided. Rein it in.

When he glanced up at Armitage as he handed over the scrap of paper, their eyes caught on each other's in a way that made Poe think that just maybe the first part of him had the right idea, after all.

"I'll send you a message with my updated availability," Armitage said, sweeping his clothes back on. "Expect a text within thirty-six hours."

"Uh, sure," Poe said, mentally casting himself forward in time. When would thirty-six hours from now be? Fuck, he couldn't do math right now, especially not time math.

"Oh, and Poe," Armitage said, pausing in the doorway. "The tea you made was not as atrocious as I'd been led to believe."

"'Not that atrocious' is my middle name!" Poe said with a sloppy salute and a rakish grin, as Armitage left.

It was really, really hard not to spend the whole rest of his shift checking his texts.

He was lying half-sprawled on the couch with his roommate, Rose, when the text finally came in.

"Fuck yeah!" Poe shouted, bolting upright and spilling his Chinese food half down his front.

"Watch it, Poe!" Rose said, grabbing the roll of paper towels and tossing it at him. "What's got into you?"

"That guy I told you about — Mr. Cheekbones — he invited me to his hotel room!" Poe said.

Rose quirked a doubtful eyebrow. "For a tattooing session? Or another type of injection?"

"For a tattoo," Poe said, not at all abashed. "Here. See?" He brandished the phone in Rose's general direction.

She caught his hand and widened her eyes at the screen.

"Armitage Hux texted you this?" she asked. "The Armitage Hux?"

"Uh, I don't know who that is," Poe admitted. "I never got his last name."

"Poe! You don't even know, but this guy is like, punk royalty!" Rose said, taking a firmer grip on Poe's phone and staring at the tiny icon that represented Poe's tattoo client.

"What's he done?"

"What's he done? What's he done?" Rose expostulated, letting go of Poe's hand so she could gesture. "Only fucking everything. He was a founding member of Blistered Souls, which turned into The First Order! Then when they broke up, he co-founded Duumsnight, which was, like pivotal in the Bristol punk scene. You know their big hit, 'Finalizer's Lament' at least — right?"

"Uh... maybe?" Poe said.

"Oh my fucking God. I guarantee you have heard it!" Rose shouted, leaping up. "It goes like this — duhhhhh da da da da DAAAAA, da-da-da-da-DAAAAA! Dah-dah!" She punched through the air, giving the impression of great vigor, as well as noise.

"It sounds vaguely familiar," Poe admitted, rubbing one hand through his hair.

"His nickname in the scene was The General, because he told everyone else in all his bands what to do. Kept them in line," Rose said. "He wrote basically all the best songs that Frosted Bakes ever put out."

"I do not think I am familiar with the work of Frosted Bakes," Poe said, but Rose wasn't listening.

She gestured widely, continuing, "He's a wizard on the keyboard, but he's an all-arounder, you know? So much talent! He can do guitar, bass guitar, synth — you name it, he can do it — oh my God, Poe! I can't believe you tattooed Armitage Hux and didn't even know it. A year ago! You could have been dining out on this for months!"

"Huh," Poe said. He was mostly done cleaning up his spilled food, and he took his phone back, staring at Armitage's icon, which was an extremely generic looking "AH." He didn't even have an avatar on this texting service. Poe would have thought someone famous would have a cool avatar.

"So? What's he like?" Rose wanted to know, sitting herself back down and bracing both elbows on her knees so she could cradle her chin and stare at Poe, entranced.

"I already told you. Tall. Thin. British. Kind of bitchy. Crazy red hair."

Rose narrowed her eyes at him. "You want to get into his pants, right?"

Poe scoffed. "Please, Rose. You know me." He paused. "Of course I want to get into his pants."

"Well, God speed to you," Rose said with a tiny salute. "Let me know how it goes!"

She paused. "Oh — and if you see a guy named Kylo Ren, just — uh, just leave the room."

Poe picked up his phone to send a reply to Armitage, finally. He would look up that other name later.

So it turned out that the internet knew a lot about Armitage Hux, aka The General, aka co-founder of all those bands that Rose mentioned. He'd apparently done a lot of stuff, and been a lot of places, and knew a lot of people, at least tangentially.

Poe got more and more cast down as he read through Wikipedia articles and breathless album reviews. It seemed Armitage inhabited a very niche space in the music scene. Most people had never heard of him, but devotees like Rose were agog over his every move, discussing in forums whether he might have ghost-written different songs, or produced various albums Poe had never heard of.

It all seemed like a lot. Why would a big important music guy like that want to get his tattoos from an art school dropout like Poe Dameron, who hadn't even painted anything real in at least three years?

Shouldn't someone semi-famous have his own tattoo artist on tap? What was Armitage Hux doing, slumming it with Poe and the stripmall storefront shop where he worked and his book of embarrassingly generic design ideas?

He shoved back from his desk in a huff. He needed to take his mind off things.

He broke out his old oils and turpentine and brushes, and got to work.

The hotel was nice, but not the fanciest place in town. It was a very tall building, though, and Poe had to give his name at the front desk. He had to show his ID, and be escorted up to the very top floor, where he wasn't sure that someone in his tax bracket had ever penetrated before unless they were wearing a custodian's uniform.

He had all his gear with him. His tattoo machine, plus a liner and shader, were the bulk of it, plus different sizes of needles, different cartridges, and different inks, just in case Armitage changed his mind about the color thing. Transfer paper, the stencil Poe had been working on for the past two days, gloves, wipes, ointment, sanitizer, an LED light — all of it. The whole shebang was in several large black plastic crates on a dolly that he was only too happy to allow a bellboy to schlep up the elevator for him. Just getting it all out of his beat-up Camry and into the hotel had been hard enough. Together, the contents of these crates represented pretty much everything of value Poe owned.

Kes had been so angry when he'd spent his inheritance from his grandpa on all this tattooing stuff. They hadn't talked for a year.

Armitage met him at the room door and supervised the bellboy wheeling the dolly to the desk by the window. The room had huge sweeping views of the city below — there was plenty of natural light. Poe probably wouldn't need the LED light until the sun set. He still wasn't sure he'd be able to get it all done in one day — this much targeted, repetitive pain was difficult for most people to withstand.

Then again, Armitage Hux wasn't most people.

"So," Poe said with a smile.

"So," Armitage returned. He was wearing a satiny-looking black bathrobe that Poe immediately wanted to peel off him. The edge of the spaceship peeked out from one side, drawing Poe's eyes. "I assume that by this point you have used the internet to learn everything about me."

"Not everything," Poe objected. "But my friend Rose was pretty excited, I'm not gonna lie. It turns out you've done a lot of stuff."

Armitage gave a tiny sigh. "And this is why I look for people who don't know who I am."

Poe shrugged. "Fame is a burden. I can see why you don't lead with it," he said. "I guess I'm just curious about why you'd want me to be the one to tat you up."

Armitage raised his eyebrows. "I haven't fully decided. Your continued presence here depends on the quality of your finished design."

Ouch, Poe thought, but at the same time, part of him perked up. This was what he'd been preparing for over the past few days, and he was happy to show off the goods.

He pulled out his design and spread it over the desk.

Armitage studied it intently, his eyes moving over every piece of it as though he was evaluating plans for a military action. Poe could suddenly see why he'd earned his nickname.

"You've put more shadow here than I would have expected," he said, pointing to a lower part of the pattern.

"Oh, yeah — I just thought that it would smooth the transition from your planetary death machine to the melting faces," Poe said. "Otherwise they could end up looking out of place."

"Hmm." Armitage nodded crisply. "Yes, I see. Not bad," he said.

Poe flushed with pleasure. Not bad. That was a far sight better than 'not as atrocious as I'd been led to believe.'

They discussed more details, and Poe even got him to agree to a couple of accents of color — actual colors like red, not just black lines.

Then Poe was laying out his tools on the desk and arranging the chair so he'd have the best light, and then Armitage was shrugging off his robe so he could sit down. Poe found himself very interested in this part of the proceedings, and had to remind himself to keep his face professional.

It was a tough thing to do, especially when the robe coming off revealed even more scars.

Armitage noticed that he'd noticed, of course.

"Don't get any ideas," he said.

"Huh?" Poe dragged his eyes back up, feeling confused. The 'ideas' he was having mostly involved wrapping his hands around that waist and seeing if he could feel the delicate line of Armitage's rib cage with his thumbs.

"Don't imagine that I'll have you cover all of these," Armitage said with a curt gesture at some of the new scars. "I don't have endless amounts of time to lie around healing from tattooing sessions."

"Sure, of course. It's your body," Poe agreed. "But I wasn't thinking about covering all that. Of course, now that you mention it, I can think of some things to do. But it's not like I don't have other projects, if my hands really get itching to create something."

Poe could already think of some things to do. Not that he'd have the chance, it sounded like.

"Oh?" Armitage made himself more comfortable on the chair, and Poe got busy with the transfer paper, and then started to lay down the main lines of the pattern.

"Sure. I've been getting back into oils — they're very finicky, you know. I learned about them during my fateful seven months attending NYAVA."

"I'm not familiar. What is that?"

"Oh — that's the New York Academy for the Visual Arts," Poe explained. "I took out, like, a ton of loans and made it almost a whole year before I dropped out." He bit his lip and winced a bit, remembering all the bills that kept coming in the mail. "In hindsight — not my wisest move."

"But you learned oil painting there?"

"Well — you never really finish learning oil painting. It's one of those things where you can throw yourself at it for decades and still be a beginner," Poe said, taking a moment in between lines to rotate his wrist before it seized up. Armitage was looking at it, his eyes apparently caught on it. Probably because his wrist was the only thing moving in the whole room.

Poe kept on talking, because why not? There was an attractive man in front of him. The way the light was hitting his milk-pale skin was making Poe itch to get in front of a canvas again.

"See, right now I really want to paint you," he said, leaning forward a bit. "Your skin would be so difficult to get just right. I might have to mix in some marble dust. Or some mica. It would be a real challenge."

"I highly doubt I could find the time to pose for such a project," Armitage said.

"Oh, I know — I'm just daydreaming," Poe said cheerfully. "It helps life go down easier if you take it with a big ol' dose of daydreams."

That had always been Poe's problem, though, hadn't it? Too many dreams and not enough grit to actually make them happen. Too many unformed, disorganized wishes and thoughts, and not enough discipline to muster them into anything that would be worth anything.

As he worked to fill in the first part of the design, Poe couldn't help think that what he really needed was some of Armitage's disposition to be transplanted directly into his brain. What his life really needed was some General energy.

Even Poe couldn't talk enough to fill ten whole hours with chatter. They settled into a companionable sort of silence, with one of them bringing up a topic as it came to mind.

Armitage did not seem at all bothered by the tiny needles repeatedly stabbing him in the arm, even when the design wrapped around to the tender back of it, near his armpit. That part had Poe sweating in sympathy, but Armitage just took another sip of his tea — not PG Tips, Poe noticed. Something fancier.

The beetle was the centerpiece of the design. Its wings thrust out from its snub, dangerous-looking body, neatly camouflaging the twin Cs that had been carved into Armitage's flesh. Poe really wanted to know how that had happened in the first place, but he was absolutely not going to ask. Some things were private.

Poe was up close and personal with Armitage's arm, which was propped on the plastic sheet he'd put down on the desk.

He found himself existing simultaneously in two realities. In one, he was tattooing Armitage, looking at his arm in a purely professional capacity, making sure the lines were straight and the shading was correct, changing the two-dimensional design he'd slaved over for the past few days into three-dimensional precision.

In the other reality, he was mapping out Armitage's body, seeing what touches he might like. It was so difficult not to let that reality, which was completely unprofessional, he reminded himself, infect the real reality. The reality that was actually happening right in front of him and under his hands.

"I appreciate you not asking about them," Armitage said after a fairly long — for Poe — stretch of silence.

"Hmm?" Poe asked, bending behind Armitage's tricep to get a line just right.

"All my scars. I appreciate you not clucking over them in horror." He was holding his arm too close to his body, so Poe gently moved it out a bit so he could finish the line.

"Well, that's none of my business," Poe said. "And everyone has scars. It's just, for a lot of people, you can't see 'em on their skin. But you can probably see them if you talk to them for five minutes and pay attention."

There. That line was finished. He sat back up and set his needle down for a minute to stretch out his fingers.

"Who's this?" Armitage asked, catching his hand and turning it over to look at the design that ended right above his wrist.

Poe grinned. "That's Samurai Jack!"

From Armitage's face, he had absolutely no idea who that was, but didn't want to ask.

"Only one of the greatest heroes of all time!" Poe explained. "He has this katana that can slice through almost anything —"

And then he was off. He described the overarching plot, the villainous demon Aku, and the heady mix of retrofuturism that had captivated him back when he'd been a boy watching The Cartoon Network.

Armitage was watching with a more open look on his face as Poe finally wound down his story with "— and then he watches the ladybug fly away. It made me cry so hard."

"All these things happened in a children's cartoon show?" Armitage asked doubtfully.

"Nah. It was on Adult Swim. I watched it without my dad knowing," Poe said proudly. "I don't know how you missed it!"

"I was most likely on tour," Armitage admitted. "I'm a few years older than you."

Their eyes caught, and Poe gave him one of his best smiles — a small, private one that he deployed only on special occasions.

"Maybe I like older men."

Okay, fuck fuck fuck, that was inappropriate, Poe's mind clamored at him.

Armitage's face shifted, and Poe really wasn't sure what he was going to do. Get angry and kick him out? Shut him down coldly?

Reciprocate?

Poe hoped it was that last one.

The door to the hotel room flung open, and a very tall, very broad, and apparently very angry dark-haired man stormed in. He wore a swirling black coat, and his hands were in fists at his side, ready to be deployed.

"Hux!" he shouted. His voice echoed off the hotel room walls, making Poe wince. "You can't avoid me forever!"

Armitage stood up fluidly and snatched his robe off the next chair over and clutching it to his chest. "I have certainly tried. Take a hint, Ren."

"You're driving me to this," groaned the large man — Ren, apparently.

Wait a minute. Hadn't Rose warned Poe about him? Wasn't his full name Kylo Ren? What had she said again?

Oh yeah — 'leave the room.'

"I'm not driving you to anything. You're the one doing all of this to yourself," Armitage said. He had fumbled his robe open and back on, and was currently cinching it closed. Poe thought his hands might be a bit unsteady, and decided to stand up himself. Just so he'd be on an even playing field with this big guy.

"Who the fuck is this?" Kylo Ren snarled, finally noticing Poe's existence.

"This is my new lover," Armitage said, pulling Poe close to him with one arm. "You've been replaced, Ren. I've no idea how you gained access to our hotel room, nor do I care to learn. Now get out and stay out."

Poe manfully struggled to keep his face clear of his surprise.

"Replaced? No one can replace me!" Kylo shouted. "We had something, Hux — I know we did. You can't replace that with some — with some —"

His eyes raked up and down Poe before his large, expressive mouth turned down, as though he'd tasted something sour.

"With some tatted-up pool boy groupie!" Ren finished.

Pool boy? Poe mouthed to himself.

"I don't need to justify myself to you, Ren. Get out now, before I call security." Armitage's voice was colder than ice.

Instead of obeying, Kylo stormed forward, his face contorted with passion. Whether he wanted to kill Armitage right here or fling him to the mattress and fuck him violently seemed, to Poe, to be an open question.

"Hey, hey," Poe said, taking a step forward. "Let's just talk this out."

The last thing he saw was a snarl. Well, that, and the fist coming right towards the side of his head.

Chapter Text

Poe woke up with ice on his face and someone's face floating in front of his eyes. When he focused, he found that it was Hux, and that he was probably not actually floating. It just seemed that way from his current position on the floor.

"Uhhh," Poe complained, coming back to himself.

"Are you all right? Can you move your eyes? Who is the current president of the United States?" Hux demanded, frowning. He was the one holding ice on Poe's face.

Poe frowned in turn, reaching up to the side of his face, where the ice was, and feeling around at its edges. He winced when his fingers met a tender lump.

"Where's that asshole who punched me?" he asked, instead of answering any of those silly questions.

"I — persuaded him to leave the building," Hux said.

Poe sat up, taking over the ice, which turned out to be wrapped in a bag of some sort, and probed at the inside of his mouth with his tongue. It didn't feel that bad. Sure, he'd taken a hit, but skulls were there for a reason, right?

"You persuaded him?" Poe asked. "That guy didn't seem like the persuadable type."

Hux had been squatting over him, and now sat back on his heels, apparently reassured by Poe's ability to sit up and form coherent sentences.

"Kylo has always been volatile," he said. "I admit I did not expect him to resort to physical violence towards you. Here, let's get you up off the floor."

Poe felt more human when he was sitting back in a chair again. He asked for and received a mirror, and checked out the side of his face.

"Ouch," he complained, poking at the rapidly forming bruise.

"Could I get you more tea?" Hux asked.

Poe stared at him. "Your shitty ex just assaulted me because you told him we were a thing," he said.

Hux winced. "That... is an accurate statement."

Poe set the ice to one side. "Why did you tell him that?"

"I thought it would get him to understand, finally, that he and I are done!" Hux exclaimed, two spots of pink rising to his pale cheeks. "I have been quite clear with him; I have told him repeatedly, assiduously, fervently, vehemently, that I wish never to have anything to do with him, ever again — but still he persists in tracking me down and pestering me. It is maddening!"

"That doesn't excuse you pulling me into your drama," Poe pointed out.

Hux drew himself up. "You are obviously correct. I apologize for my error in judgment. I had no idea he would actually assault you. If you wish to press charges, I can make my lawyer available to you."

"Hmm," Poe mused, poking at his jaw and watching it in the mirror.

Then he set the mirror aside and grinned. His face didn't feel that bad.

"Your shitty ex hits like A Flock of Seagulls," he said.

Hux blinked down at him. "Pardon?"

"He's a one hit wonder! Get it? Like A Flock of Seagulls!" Poe explained.

Hux stared at him, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Poe thought he might be about to kick him out, too.

"'Cuz I ran, ran so far away," Poe added, quoting the song.

There was a moment where Hux just stared at him more.

Then suddenly — he was laughing. Tall, chilly, distant, famous-in-certain-esoteric-circles "General" Armitage Hux, who had a discography longer than Poe's left arm and had been touring the world when Poe was eating breakfast cereal with his Saturday morning cartoons, was laughing his entire ass off because of something Poe had said.

Poe laughed back, enjoying the strangeness of this moment between them. Honestly, watching this guy laugh this hard was totally worth getting decked in the side of the head.

Hux laughed as though he wasn't used to it; as though laughter were foreign to him, or something he had only tried a few times, as a youth, before giving up as unworthy of him. It was high pitched, almost painful sounding. His narrow shoulders shook and his face turned pink. Poe thought he saw bits of moisture near his eyes as he laughed and laughed.

Every time he seemed to be winding down, Poe would catch his eye, and then one of them would burst into laughter again, like two batteries on fire next to each other, each setting the other one off to burn even hotter than before.

"I — I ran, ran all — night and day," Hux gasped, barely able to get the words out before dissolving into more merriment.

Poe laughed too, ignoring his sore face. "I couldn't get away," he contributed.

Never mind that Poe mostly knew this song just through playing 'Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.' It was still a banger.

Finally, Hux's laughter subsided into something that sounded suspiciously like a hiccup. He dropped into another chair, his body loose and exhausted, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes closed, still vibrating with the echoes of his laughter. He ran the fingers of one hand through his reddish-orange hair.

No fair, Poe thought. He wanted to be the one running his fingers through that unlikely hair.

Hux was still wearing that robe, and Poe could just barely see the edge of the first tattoo, the one to cover up the cigarette burns, peeking out from behind one edge. His skin was so pale it was almost like a marble statue, but Poe knew from experience that it was very alive.

"I will take that tea now, if it's still on offer," Poe said, wanting to stop himself from doing anything stupid, like reaching out his hand to touch.

So then of course there had to be a bit of bustling about as Hux made more tea and brought it to him and checked his face and worriedly asked if he needed more ice. At least he seemed more relaxed and human than before.

It was kind of nice to be the one sitting around while someone else fussed over him. Poe hadn't had anyone bring him things and check on him like this since the time he'd had mono and Rose had made her famous Vietnamese rice soup to spoon down his throat.

When he was halfway through his tea, Hux asked whether he wanted to try to pursue Kylo for assault, and part of Poe was tempted. He could probably get quite a bit of money from someone like Kylo Ren, who had apparently been famous, or was still famous, in those same certain circles. He had the marks on his face to prove that he'd been hit, and Hux said he would attest to what happened. No doubt the hotel security footage would show Kylo entering and then leaving the room. Hux was apparently serious about letting Poe use his lawyer, too.

"Nah," Poe finally decided, looking in the mirror again. "It's already fading. See? Anyway, what sort of tattoo artist would I be if I couldn't take a hit? I'd never hear the end of it."

"Perhaps you could be an un-assaulted one," Hux asked. "Again, I really do apologize —"

"Nah," Poe said again, raising his hand to forestall more apologies. "I just want to know if you still want me to finish your tattoo."

"Most definitely."

"Well, I can't do any more today," Poe pointed out. "My lines might be a little shaky. We'll have to meet up again later."

Hux frowned. "I was not planning to stay in this city for too much longer. But —" here, he glanced at Poe, and his gaze seemed to linger a little bit too long — "plans can always be changed."

"Great," Poe said though a sunrise of happiness. This meant he would get to see Hux again. Maybe getting decked in the face was going to work out in his favor.

They agreed to text each other with the details. And although Poe really wanted to follow up on that part from right before Kylo Ren, that part where he'd felt a 'vibe' and said 'Maybe I like older men' and Hux had looked — well, Poe wasn't sure how he had looked about it because then there had been Kylo — in the end, he decided not to rush things.

If there was going to be anything, it would either grow up naturally, without Poe pushing any sort of agenda, or it wouldn't.

They texted about when and where to hold their next session. Hux wanted more privacy than the strip mall tattoo parlor could offer, but felt his hotel room was compromised. Poe didn't have any decent tattooing space at the apartment he shared with Rose, but he offered anyway, only to have Hux refuse because he felt it would cross a line.

"Maybe I want him to cross some lines," Poe muttered, glaring halfheartedly at his phone.

Rose was munching on some corn chips from the next couch over. "I still can't believe you got punched by Kylo Ren himself," she contributed. "You should have your face bronzed."

"He seemed unstable," Poe commented carefully.

"Ha! You think??" Rose flung her non-chip hand out to the side. "Kylo Ren, the guy known for drama and violent destruction up and down the whole music world, being unstable? Noooooo. It couldn't be."

"So what was the deal between him and Hux?" Poe asked, not really wanting too much information, but unable to not ask about it.

Rose widened her eyes. "It was an epic love story for the ages!" she announced.

"Really?" Poe stared harder at his phone, willing a text to come in, but it stayed stubbornly blank.

"No, not really. They were in a band together. Shit happened." Rose shrugged. "It's not like anyone knows anything from Hux's point of view. He's super reserved."

"He didn't seem that reserved to me," Poe said, remembering how he had laughed and laughed at some dumb joke of Poe's. And before that, remembering how he had seemed to soften under Poe's hands while he was hard at work.

"Well, you're special, Poe," Rose teased.

"Special enough that he's not texting back," Poe complained.

"He's probably busy doing whatever famous people do."

Poe frowned at his phone more. "He wants to finish the tattoo, but not in the shop. I'm thinking of asking Rey if we can use her studio."

"Ohhhh, you want to take him to the Love Studio," Rose teased.

"Shut up! It's not called that!"

Their friend Rey had a studio where she did her own art, and sometimes met clients to tattoo, as well. It was in one of those old brick industrial buildings near the river from, like, the 1800s. Poe thought it had been a grain mill or something like that. About a decade previously, it had been carved up into dozens of small studios to rent out to anyone who needed office space.

Rey's particular slice of the building had fantastic light coming through those huge old 19th century windows. She had decked out her space with vintage couches, screens, plants, and a few old-looking statues, and mostly used it for boudoir shots.

The fact that some people in their circle had used it for trysts, more than once, had earned it the nickname Rose was using.

"It's called the Love Studio in my heart," Rose returned.

"What if she's using it?"

"She's out of town. I have the spare keys. Text her to ask, but I'm sure she'll say yes," Rose said, eating another chip.

"And Kylo Ren won't know about it," Poe said, opening his texting program.

"And Kylo Ren won't know about it," Rose confirmed. "Unless he's a super spy. But he's not. Honestly, stealth is not that guy's strong suit."

Poe had to agree. His jaw was all better now, but he could still close his eyes and see that fist coming right for him. Kylo Ren was many things, but 'stealthy' was about zero of them.

Poe keyed into Rey's studio space early to get everything set back up to finish Hux's tattoo. In a burst of optimism, he had also brought his sketching supplies.

Light slanted in through the tall windows, illuminating the dark red brick walls, the dark blue velvet fainting couch, and a reproduction of the Venus de Milo, sized down to fit on a round mahogany end table. As he set up his things, Poe couldn't help but picture how Hux would look in this setting, if he did agree to pose for a painting. His skin was so pale — pale like he'd never seen the sun; almost as pale as that resin statue.

Poe was nervous. But, he reminded himself, he was really just here to finish that tattoo. He needed to stay professional about all this, and not hit on his client — well, not any more than he'd already done.

Lines had been crossed. Poe could admit that. On the whole, he figured Kylo's punch in the face had crossed a line, but only after Poe had already crossed a different one with the overt flirting.

Totally worth it, he told himself, finishing with setup and checking the time on his phone.

A crisp knock sounded at the studio door, and Poe leaped across to it with a smile already dawning on his face.

Hux was outside, wearing that same Russian military greatcoat from their first meeting. Suddenly, Poe could really see why he had his nickname.

"Hey! You're here! Come on in!" Poe said, holding the door and then wondering if maybe he should have used fewer exclamation points. Should he be more 'cool' and 'collected' and even 'chill'?

Who am I kidding. I'm not chill, Poe told himself. And the sooner people know that about me, the sooner they can self-select out, if needed.

Hux was looking around the space in interest.

"Your friend is out of town?" he asked, taking off his coat and hanging it on the tall coatrack by the door.

"Right, yeah, yes, yes she is," Poe said, once again trying to clamp down on his mouth's natural inclination to run away.

Hux merely looked amused. "That was four positives in a row. Do they cancel each other out?"

"Nah," Poe said. "They just get more intense."

Their eyes caught, and after a long moment, Hux cleared his throat and looked away. "Well. Shall we get started?"

Hours later, Poe was pretty much done. There were just a few more shadings to add, but the design was there, despite the scars, which made it more difficult to work with.

Then again, the way he'd worked the pattern around the scars was meant to compensate for the scar tissue not taking ink as well as unmarked flesh.

They had been chatting in a desultory fashion, but it was mostly Hux asking Poe questions about his life — which was dumb, as far as Poe was concerned, because he wasn't the one with the interesting life! But for some reason, Hux kept asking him questions about his short time at NYAVA, his influences in painting, his favorite foods, how he liked to spend his free time, his friends, whether he liked to travel —

This is starting to feel like a job interview, Poe thought with a frown. But what precisely was the position he was interviewing for?

Deciding to take back some control and shoot his shot — well, one of his shots — Poe cleared his throat.

"Mr. Hux," he started.

"Please call me Armitage."

"Armitage, then," Poe said, recovering from his surprise smoothly. "I mentioned before that I'm interested in painting you. There's absolutely no obligation, but would that be something you would consider?"

Armitage looked at him consideringly. "What is the time commitment?"

"Weeeeeell," Poe said, wondering how much he could get away with. "If I'm doing wet-on-wet, we could get it done in a single long session, say, four to eight hours. But that will look more Impressionist. For a traditional layered portrait, somewhere between three and six sessions. An hour or two for the initial sitting where I sketch out the composition. Then another, say, three hours for the block-in. And then more sessions for refining it and adding layers, stuff like that."

"I was under the impression you'd want me to take layers away," Armitage said, and Poe was stunned, because that had sounded like a joke. And from looking at the edges of Armitage's face, it was clear that he'd meant it as one, too.

Poe laughed. "Well, yeah. I want to paint all those acres of pale skin," he said, finishing the last few lines and then blotting the site with a paper towel and diluted soap. He wiped that away, then applied a thin layer of lotion, and wrapped Armitage's slender arm in plastic wrap.

"You remember you need to keep this on for a few hours?" Poe asked.

Armitage gave a brief glance heavenward. "Yes — you have told me that several times already."

"Good. Don't scratch it, submerge it in water, or expose it to the sun," Poe added.

Armitage raised his eyebrows. "What about me looks like it has ever been exposed to the sun?"

"Another joke. That's two!" Poe complained humorously. "Keep that up and I won't be able to get a word in edgeways!"

"Oh, I don't think you suffer from an inability to get something in edgeways," Armitage replied, and then seemed to realize that might have sounded slightly suggestive. He blushed hard, and then looked furious at himself for blushing.

It was intensely appealing. And the tattoo was done now, so that meant their professional-client relationship was over, right?

Poe couldn't help himself from leaning forward and kissing him. He was still wearing his nitrile gloves, which felt odd when he brought the fingers of one hand up to cup Armitage's cheek. The piercings in Armitage's lips caught and pulled at him in the most interesting ways, making him want to just keep on kissing so he could understand everything about them; how they felt to him, how they felt to Armitage when he ran his tongue over them, or pressed his lips in deeper.

Armitage was definitely kissing back, at least a bit — before pulling away. He frowned at Poe.

"There are many reasons you should not want to pursue anything with me."

"Interesting seduction technique," Poe said, dropping his eyes down to Armitage's mouth and then back up.

"I am older than you by at least twenty years. My life has been... complicated. I have exes; I have history."

"Yeah, I'm really not deterred by any of that," Poe said, walking his fingers up Hux's non-tattooed arm. "I'm a grown man and I can make my own decisions."

Armitage was still frowning. "If you can commit to telling me honestly when you object to anything — then..."

"Then?" Poe asked, pressing his lips right next to Armitage's mouth. He twined his hand up and behind, finally getting a handful of that glorious hair. It made his whole arm light up.

"Then... I suppose we can give it a try. For as long as it lasts."

"That's the spirit," Poe breathed, moving into a better position to kiss him for real.

"I can't believe your dad actually showed up to this," Poe hissed at Armitage in disbelief. "How did he even find out about it?"

Armitage was paler than usual, but it didn't do anything to detract from the overall impression of elegance and refinement that he gave off in his fancy evening dress. He still had his piercings in, though.

"His solicitors contacted my lawyers to discuss probate," Armitage said in a low voice. "I suppose they must have passed along the information that if he wished to speak with me in person, this would be one of the rare situations where it could happen."

"Should we have him kicked out?" Poe muttered urgently.

"I should be asking you that. It's your opening night," Armitage said, turning his remarkably expressive eyes towards Poe — expressive if you knew how to read them, that is.

The past year had gone so well that sometimes Poe thought he was dreaming. They'd been on trips; Poe had been to the different houses; he'd met so many people and had a lot of fun.

But he hadn't lost sight of the work. Over the past year, freed of the necessity of his strip mall tattoo parlor job, he'd thrown himself back into oils. And tonight was the result of all his effort.

"No," Poe decided. "Don't throw him out — at least, not until he fucks up. He's not worth the hassle for the security team."

Brendol Hux was a pugnaciously built redheaded man, now turned mostly to silver, in an expensive black suit. Two aides flanked him as he made his way into the art gallery, taking a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and glancing past the art on the walls. He was clearly looking for Armitage.

"Do you wanna go out the back?" Poe muttered, feeling Armitage tense up — and that was saying something, because Armitage was always so tense.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'll go with you," Poe said, trying to distract him. He let his voice get low and sultry. "We can get middle of the night pancakes and make out under a bridge."

That got Armitage to glance at him, amused out of his shock. "Only the finest," he quipped.

"Seriously, though, if you don't want to deal with him —"

"I'm fine, Poe. Let's go get this over with."

But they didn't need to go to him. Brendol had spotted them and was making his way through the crowds of attendees to speak with his son.

"Father," Armitage said coolly when Brendol was within range. "So good of you to come."

"Well, hello there," Brendol said in a superior sounding accent, glancing at Poe as though seeing everything about him in one glance. "You must be Poe Damneron."

"Dameron," Poe corrected.

"I must say, you've certainly made quite the impression on my son," Brendol continued. "It's always so interesting to see the choices young people make nowadays."

"Yeah, well, he's made a great impression on me, too!" Poe said, assertively tugging Armitage a notch closer. "Isn't that right, babe?"

Brendol did not move, but it seemed that a subtle frisson of revulsion made its way up his thick frame, terminating somewhere behind his cold blue eyes.

Armitage graced his father with a wintry smile. "Indeed. I must admit to some slight surprise at your presence here. I was not aware you had any interest whatever in oil painting."

"I was in the area on business," Brendol said. "Maratelle wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I didn't stop by and see what the current fad is." His eyes raked up and down Poe again. "It truly is astounding, how fast the world has been changing recently."

"Do you wanna see the big centerpiece painting? Oh, I'm sure you do!" Poe said, feeling his cheeks heat. He wasn't the sort of guy to sit back and take hit after hit, like Armitage apparently was. He was the sort of guy to just get it all out in the open.

"Come on!" Poe said, taking Brendol by the upper arm and grinning up at him. "It's this way!"

Brendol was too affronted to resist. Poe hauled him through the gallery until they reached the pièce de résistance — the focus of almost all his efforts over the past year, since starting to date Armitage.

It was a twelve-foot tall classical oil portrait, and it had taken pretty much the whole year. Oh, sure, in between letting the layers dry, they'd taken some trips. They'd started out small — New Jersey in between layers two and three; St. Thomas in between layers three and four — but by the end, the trips were larger and longer. Poe had particularly liked the trip down the Danube river they'd taken around month nine.

It was in a large, ornate frame, very classical-master's-school-of-art stuff. Light shone on it from above and the sides, making the colors of the oils glow so vividly that it almost looked like you could step through the frame right into the room.

The setting was Rey's studio, with the blue velvet couch in the center and shadowy statues and plants in the corners. The dark red of the industrial brick wall faded into the background.

In the foreground, on the couch, Armitage Hux was sitting in just a pair of black briefs, poised as if to get up off the couch the next moment. One foot was under him, obviously ready to bear his weight; the other foot was splayed out to the side, offering an intimate view of more thigh than Poe had quite known what to do with, at first.

Now he had a much better idea about that.

Armitage was looking at the viewer. His eyes were the brightest flecks of green in the composition, echoed subtly by the plants behind and to the side. One arm was raised partway, his elbow braced on his knee, and he was making a gesture with the fingers of that hand — and it wasn't quite clear whether it was the start of a beckon, to summon the viewer over to that couch, or whether it was the start of the universal British 'fuck you' sign.

The finger position had been Armitage's idea. Poe had wanted to go for the beckon, but Armitage felt like he wanted more ambiguity.

Perhaps the most startling thing about the portrait was how it showed off all of Armitage's tattoos. His pale, lanky body showed the evidence not only of Poe's needle, but of the silvery scars that had caused them in the first place.

After dating Armitage for a year, Poe knew where all those scars had come from.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" Poe asked into Brendol's ear, squeezing his arm a bit too hard, and playing up the stereotypical 'Latin-effeminate-gay-man' thing just a bit more than was strictly needed. "I'd never seen such thighs before, Dios mío!"

Brendol wrenched his arm back and stepped away from Poe. His face was turning red, although Poe couldn't tell if it was because of the in-your-face homosexual vibe he'd been dishing out or the intimacy of the portrait.

"Poe is very talented with his hands," Armitage said in such a bland, boring tone of voice that Poe almost didn't catch the innuendo.

Brendol certainly did. He turned even redder, staring at the portrait as though it had personally offended him.

Then he turned to Armitage, ignoring Poe completely.

"I suppose you think this is terribly shocking," he said, smiling at Armitage. His smile did not look friendly. "Making a spectacle of yourself this way. Showing off your body in public."

"I'm not showing off anything you didn't give me," Armitage said, looking him in the eye.

Oooh! A hit! Poe mentally cheered.

Brendol was undeterred. "It was not enough that you needed to scream into microphones and associate with druggies, perverts, and lowlifes" — here, his gaze flicked to Poe — "while your parents are still alive. Now you need to break Maratelle's heart by exposing yourself to the public like this."

"I don't care about attention," Armitage returned. "Positive or negative, it's all the same to me."

"If you had any propriety, you'd keep such — proceedings —" here, he definitely gazed at Poe as though he were some sort of disease-infested insect — "well under wraps, where normal, decent people didn't have to see them." He scoffed at the portrait. "Not paint it twelve feet tall and sell tickets."

Poe's eyes had been ping-ponging back and forth between the two Hux men, but at that, he spoke up.

"Oh, admission to the gallery is free!" he said sweetly. "You should bring your wife — what was her name again? Armitage never mentions either of you, although he does mention his mother quite often."

Brendol's face seemed to swell up like a thundercloud. Obviously mastering himself with a mighty effort, he turned back to Armitage.

"I do hope you understand all that may come from your decisions," he said.

"Oh, I most certainly do," Armitage said. He pulled Poe closer and kissed him on the mouth.

"Mmm," Poe responded, kissing back.

When they looked up, Brendol and his aides were gone.

Poe smiled, nuzzling his nose up into Armitage's.

"You did great, babe," he said happily.

Armitage was trembling. "It all happened very quickly."

"That's all right. No worries. And hey — at least he didn't try to punch me," Poe joked.

Several friends came up then, and needed to congratulate Poe, and express their wonder about the painting, and talk about oils. Armitage stayed at his side the whole night, slowly relaxing, until by the end, it was almost as though Brendol's appearance had been merely a bad dream.

"What did he mean by 'all that may come from your decisions?'" Poe wanted to know as they were saying goodbye to the gallery staff and heading out. It was snowing lightly, and their feet left solid imprints on the rapidly-whitening sidewalk as they made their way to the car.

"Oh — probably that they're cutting me out of the trust," Armitage said. "Did you mention all-night pancakes earlier?"

"Pancakes? Yeah, we can definitely do that," Poe said, trotting ahead and getting out his keys. "Wait. There's a trust?"

"There may not be for much longer," Armitage said with a small, somewhat bitter sounding laugh. His breath puffed out white in the cold air. "Without holding the trust over my head as a way to attempt to control me, who knows what he'll do with the fruits of his defense contracting profits."

"Huh," Poe said, starting the car and driving towards the best all-night diner he knew. "Well, like they say — easy come, easy go."

There was a silence that stretched out, but Poe didn't mind. Socializing for so many hours in a row had been fun, but he enjoyed the silences, too. He turned on the wipers to scrub away the snowflakes that hit the windshield, only to immediately melt.

"Nothing about this has been easy," Armitage said.

Poe gave a supportive-sounding hum.

"I take that back. There has been one thing in my life that has been easy," Armitage said, turning towards him slightly. "You. Being with you has been — easy. So easy, I keep wondering where is the catch, the hidden trap which I have not yet seen, but into which I must inevitably fall."

Poe pursed his lips, trying to think how to respond to that.

"Well, I'm not the neatest guy," he said.

"That has been blindingly apparent."

"And sometimes I can be a real idiot," Poe continued.

"In that, I do not concur."

"I'm probably too young for you —"

"Stop that train of thought at once; you are nothing of the sort —"

"— and I'm not all that interesting of a person."

"In that, we definitely disagree."

"So, if you're okay with all those catches... then, I guess we're a match."

Poe pulled into the diner's parking lot and killed the engine, then turned to face Armitage, whose face was in shadow.

Snow kept falling outside — muffling the world, making it feel like it was only the two of them. Like no one and nothing outside this car mattered, or even existed.

"And if you're not okay with all those catches... then, I guess we should throw each other back into the pool. Keep fishing," Poe said, feeling his heart lurch at the thought.

Armitage caught his chin and pulled him in for a kiss.

"Poe. I do not know why we have veered into fishing metaphors."

"Because fishing is fun!"

"But, far from wanting to throw you back... I find that I want to reel you in."

"Oh, yeah?" Poe asked, thoughts fleeing from his brain.

"Yes. It's too soon; I know it's too soon, and I don't have rings picked out, but I've been thinking about it, and Poe, would you —"

"Yes," Poe interrupted, his eyes shining.

Armitage huffed. "You don't even know what I was going to ask."

Poe clutched at him harder. "Then maybe you should ask."

"I would, if you would stop interrupting!" Armitage scolded, then dropped a laughing kiss on Poe's fingers, which were in range.

"Okay, okay, I'll be good," Poe promised, giving his face a little shake. "Go on. What were you going to ask me just there?"

Armitage looked down at him with a strange, soft, indulgent smile.

"Merely to ask what sort of pancakes you would like," he said.

"Uhhh no," Poe said, pretending to be affronted. "Try again."

"I'm afraid it's slipped my mind."

"Well, maybe I can remind you." Poe pulled him in and kissed him more thoroughly, with care, and attention, and love.

Because it wasn't too soon to say it. They'd been dating a whole year. A year!

Armitage took back half an inch of space; enough space to stare into Poe's eyes and say, "Marry me. Please, marry me?"

"Yes," Poe repeated his answer from before. "Yes, yes, yes."

It was at least half an hour before they left the car, laughing and swaying into each other, drunk on something finer than liquor.

Anyone looking after them would have seen their footprints in the snow crossing and recrossing as they leaned against each other, walking towards the promise of pancakes, but also so much more.