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Poe left the strategy session feeling almost safe. He had a mission, a purpose, and everyone else did as well, or at least had plenty to occupy themselves that did not involve him—so he could be invisible. Oh, a few members of his squadron stopped by to talk in the general rush, and he smiled and encouraged them in ways that primed them for the mission to come and kept them from seeing anything about him. They wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t notice the numb shakiness, the sense of unreality, inside him. And in those moments when he talked with them, he didn’t have to notice himself, and that was fine with him.
Except, as he prepared to duck into his quarters, he found himself trapped by old eyes that were far, far too perceptive.
*
It was just before the information session, the one at which they made the crucial decisions, that Han noticed the pilot. A memory of a grinning kid, maybe ten years old, with out of control black curls and mischievous eyes, always in movement, flashed briefly, superimposed over the serious-eyed man who waited on the outskirts of the crowd.
He wouldn’t have given the young man much thought—so many familiar faces from years back surrounded him, and he had things to do now—except that information he’d been briefed on earlier, and what Finn had confided, and now the shifty and scared look in the young man’s eyes, all came together, and--
Han felt a twist in his gut that surprised him—he hadn’t felt the echo of that terror for a while now.
He had a great many things to do, but there was still time, and he knew he had to talk with that young man.
*
“Poe,” he stated, standing in the pilot’s way.
The man nodded respectfully, and stepped around him, as if in a hurry toward duty.
“Hey, wait.”
Poe stopped and turned around, polite, but, Han could tell, impatient to be off.
“It’s an honor to see you again, sir—General—“
“Oh, cut it,” Han gestured dismissively. He’d been faintly amused when they’d given him that title years ago—said it was necessary if he was going to lead that mission on Endor, which never had made any sense—and the title never set well with him, never fit him like it did Leia, and he’d liked it less and less as time went on.
Poe remained attentive but Han could sense he was antsy. Normally, this conversation required a cantina or an invitation to help work on the Falcon, and maybe days or weeks, but they didn’t have time. So he plowed forward.
“You were the pilot sent to retrieve the map fragment on Jakku--Finn told me about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The one the First Order captured.”
Poe said nothing, but Han saw the signs of panic in his stance—or, maybe he felt it, remembered it.
“What you faced—it was pretty bad.”
“It’s all in my report. If you’ll excuse me, I have to—“ Poe spoke harshly now, politeness vanishing into panic, and began walking.
“You can’t run away from it.”
Poe froze, and turned around. He looked furious—but Han couldn’t tell exactly who the fury was for, until he opened his mouth.
“No, sir, I can’t. They got everything from me they wanted—I wasn’t strong enough, and I betrayed the Resistance.” It was a defiant confession, full of self-hatred.
Han began to shake his head—he admired the kid for his forthrightness, but this was not right.
Poe’s eyes flashed, interrupting anything he might have tried to say. “All the details are in my report. If you think I’m not fit for duty—that I can’t be trusted—then tell the leadership. But until they decide different, I’ll do what I can.”
“No, kid—that’s not why I’m talking to you. And you’ve got the wrong idea about what happened to you.”
“How would you know?” Poe’s belligerent stance and quiet, genuinely puzzled words couldn’t hide how brittle he was. Yeah, they’d broken him, all right.
“Long time ago, it happened to me.”
That at least got Poe’s attention; his dark eyes widened and the aggressiveness fell away. He looked like that ten year old kid again.
“Here, I want to talk with you, if you’ll allow it.”
Poe continued to look faintly astonished. Han continued. “I mean, sure, we could talk later. If there is a later. And there’s not much time now. But—I want to tell you a few things. Might help.”
He was, Han decided, far braver than he’d been himself all those years ago. Obviously terrified, the kid paused, looked at nothing as he’d pondered Han’s invitation, then had met his eyes and smiled slightly. “Sure.”
Han looked around at all the people rushing about. “Uh, not here. Come over to the Falcon.”
And that’s how he found himself offering some very old, very well-concealed dried delicacies from the Falcon’s hold, even though he knew neither of them would want to eat.
“You’ve probably heard lots of the old stories from the Rebellion, but this is one that hasn’t gotten around much.” And Han told the story of Darth Vader’s pursuit of Luke Skywalker, and how he’d used Leia and Chewie and himself to lure Luke, and then stated that Vader tortured him.
He didn’t have to say more right now—didn’t want to, could already feel the old heaviness in his chest, and besides, this kid already knew all too well, had experienced essentially the same damn thing, and the thought made Han’s throat close up.
He forced words through that. “So, I know, more or less, what happened with you. And there’s no betrayal, hear me? You couldn’t have, not with that.”
“I appreciate what you are trying to say—but I did. I resisted for a while, for a long time, told them nothing. I thought I’d won, that I’d die or get free before I broke. But then—“ The young man got quiet and very still. “It hurt like nothing I’d ever felt. But it wasn’t physical. It was—what he did, it was in my mind, and he—took whatever he wanted.”
“Not your fault.” Blast it, it was hard to hear this. The kid’s voice shook with a bewilderment Han remembered far too vividly.
Poe’s brief laugh was bitter. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Maybe that’s part of the mind-game they did, convincing you. But—I know—with that kind of power, there’s nothing you can do.” He tried to gentle his voice, wanted to put Poe at ease, to take away some of the agony. Was this what Leia, Chewie, Luke had felt then, this helplessness?
Poe was quiet for a while. “Did knowing that make it easier for you—then? Were you able to absolve yourself of blame then when you told them things?”
Oh shit. This was a difference, and he had to admit it. “Uh. They—Vader didn’t have questions for me. He just—wanted to hurt me, so Luke would sense it and come running.” He’d been used, in other words. Only much later had he learned the full consequences for Luke—the lost hand, the devastating revelation—hell, Luke had nearly died.
“Maybe it wasn’t so similar, then—but still, I know that if Vader had wanted to know anything from me, I couldn’t have done a damn thing about it.”
Poe spoke softly. “They—he used you, to get at your friend. Not so different.”
Something in the compassion in the young man’s voice unsettled him, and Han found his next words came out more harshly than he meant them to. “So, do you blame me for that?” He paused, and spoke more quietly. “Would you blame a member of your squadron if they were in the same position you were in?”
A tension in the man’s shoulders seemed to ease. “No.”
“Good. That’s settled then. I mean, I know it’ll take longer for it to sink in, but—you’ll get there.”
They sat for a few more minutes in companionable silence. Chewie came in with a comment about ship repairs, consulted briefly with Han, and then left, with that tact he’d always had—Han knew he guessed quite a bit about this conversation, just from body language alone.
Poe spoke up then. “After I’m back from the mission, I’ll have help—the Resistance knows how to prepare us and how to help us in the aftermath of interrogation.” He looked up, and Han saw in his smile the brightness of the child he remembered Poe being. “But—thank you. I don’t feel great, but—this helps. Knowing you made it through. Knowing you—knowing it matters to you, how I am.”
Han saw the hero-worship in the young man’s eyes, and wanted to shrug it off, but he satisfied himself with being grateful Poe wasn’t going overboard with it. “Sure. If you want to talk more about it—I’ll listen. Maybe I’ll even know something useful.”
As Poe turned to leave, he said, “I’d like to hear what you did, what it was like, after. How you made it through.” Pause. “Right now, that doesn’t feel possible.”
It was the flattest admission that he was falling apart inside the kid had managed. “Yeah. I’ll tell you.” He reached a hand to squeeze a shoulder, and Poe’s face lit up.
“Just—one thing you don’t wanna do. Don’t shut people out.” Poe nodded, serious, and Han felt a weight settle on him. Poe’d do anything he said, right now. He’d better say the right thing—but, he knew that was it. “Biggest mistake I made was trying to. I just had really stubborn people around me.” They heard Chewie’s grumble over some piece of equipment, and both smiled to each other. “Yeah, like that.”
“I’ll enjoy hearing those stories.”
Then, with the urgency of the impending mission, they parted.
*
Poe walked away still feeling the reassuring warmth of Han’s farewell grasp on his shoulder, recalling the crooked and sad smile on the old hero’s face. He threw himself into preparations with a steadiness and a hope he hadn’t felt before.
*
Han was too busy then to think much about what they’d danced around—what the young man had been too polite—no, too kind—to bring up, the identity of his torturer. But he knew, and after he and Chewie and Finn were enroute, he spared a moment to be grateful to him. Later, he’d tell him that gratitude, and maybe Poe’d want to talk about it. It’d hurt—it always did, hearing about his son, but—he could do that, for the kid. In fact, Han realized, he’d welcome it. Then his mind moved to Leia’s impossible request, and the ship, and the next thing.