The incoming text from Rey reads, "DID U FIND??????" Poe shoots her back an affirmative, wondering why they don't just use the Force to do this, and another two bleep in in rapid succession. "HURRY UP", then "TELL HIM 2 TURN ON HIS COMM OR" followed by a line of skull emojis. Poe grins, and wordlessly turns the screen to Ben, who smiles-- a real smile this time-- and starts gathering up the pieces of disassembled engine, lining them up meticulously and then shoving them into the canvas satchel he'd brought down.
Poe sifts through the hotel's maintenance shelves until he finally finds a roll of orange hazard tape, then loops it around the cruiser's front wheel and ignition panel, resisting the urge to tie it off in a bow at the end-- Congratulations, Ben Organa! You've won the prize of a full day mech job in the morning. Ben holds up a sprocket wrench and squints at it like it's a comm screen-- Maybe they are using the Force. "Rey wants us to go to her hotel room?"
"Yeah, the kids are holed up ordering room service and watching cartoons. Perks of a civilian world, right?" Along with shared hangars, faster holonet, and the horrors of urban dating culture. All the classic benefits of a diplomatic visit.
Well, most of them. Now, Poe? Poe would normally take this opportunity to go for a few long, hard nights of clubbing-- take advantage of the kinds of speaker systems you're just not going to find on D'Qar, dance with a few hundred strangers until you put yourself into something like an altered state from the music and the body high, almost as good as flying. But when one of your three closest friends grew up feral and the other two just busted out of a fascist cult, it's better to take things a little slower. Still-- he looks at the long lines of Ben's body and the thought pops into his head, unbidden: I would love to take you dancing. Something to do with all that energy and grace that's not fighting or practicing fighting or ripping up old machinery or yourself-- and wow, OK buddy, dial it back, maybe keep your crushing for a time when the guy's not literally beating himself up over his fucked up life and the parts of it that gave both of you a heavy hit of the ol' PTSD, huh? Come on, Black Leader. Get it together.
He breathes in, then breathes out. He gets it together. "She says they're marathoning that kid's show from Dantooine, what the hell is it called, Crying Breakfast Friends?"
Ben gives an expressive shrug. Pretend not to know all you want, Poe thinks, Finn told me you're *all* addicted to it and *that* is the cutest fuckin' thing I've ever heard of. The floor is clear, the tools are all shoved away, and they head to the elevators.
When Poe buzzes open her door, Rey is perched in one corner of the hotel couch like a cat, Finn sitting next to her intently with one hand on her knee. Something happens on the holoscreen and they both gasp, then breathe, "A giant woman!", in unison, eyes shining. Weird, pastel-sounding synth music plays, and they both look up.
Ben and Rey lock eyes for a second; something unreadable passes between them, and some of the weight seems to lift from Ben's shoulders. Then Rey points to the couch and says, "Sit." Poe pitches himself backwards over one of the couch arms and lands with a whump in Finn's lap. Ben folds himself down to the floor next in front of them.
"You guys wanna watch the news?" asks Finn. Rey looks outraged. "You said it was going to be biased rubbish!" "Yeah, exactly! I want to see what kind of biased rubbish!" Rey gives him a pleading look. "Later?" "Yeah, ok, later." The pastel theme starts up again.
I barely know you, one holo voice says, a few minutes later. That's a good thing,, says the other, sounding haunted. Finn tenses and makes a small noise at that, and Rey reaches across to squeeze his hand. Poe lets an arm drop to the floor next to Ben, close but not touching.
--Is this torture?
--The worst!
--I'm so sorry!
--Huh? No. Don't be.
A big, warm hand brushes against Poe's, then jerks back. Poe reaches out on instinct to follow Ben's hand, then laces their fingers together and holds. Ben holds his breath for a beat, then sighs and tilts his head back against the couch.
Why are they still dancing? a cartoon person asks, It didn't work!
Yes it did, says another, full of warmth. It worked.
FILL: Never Have I Ever, 3
Poe sifts through the hotel's maintenance shelves until he finally finds a roll of orange hazard tape, then loops it around the cruiser's front wheel and ignition panel, resisting the urge to tie it off in a bow at the end-- Congratulations, Ben Organa! You've won the prize of a full day mech job in the morning. Ben holds up a sprocket wrench and squints at it like it's a comm screen-- Maybe they are using the Force. "Rey wants us to go to her hotel room?"
"Yeah, the kids are holed up ordering room service and watching cartoons. Perks of a civilian world, right?" Along with shared hangars, faster holonet, and the horrors of urban dating culture. All the classic benefits of a diplomatic visit.
Well, most of them. Now, Poe? Poe would normally take this opportunity to go for a few long, hard nights of clubbing-- take advantage of the kinds of speaker systems you're just not going to find on D'Qar, dance with a few hundred strangers until you put yourself into something like an altered state from the music and the body high, almost as good as flying. But when one of your three closest friends grew up feral and the other two just busted out of a fascist cult, it's better to take things a little slower. Still-- he looks at the long lines of Ben's body and the thought pops into his head, unbidden: I would love to take you dancing. Something to do with all that energy and grace that's not fighting or practicing fighting or ripping up old machinery or yourself-- and wow, OK buddy, dial it back, maybe keep your crushing for a time when the guy's not literally beating himself up over his fucked up life and the parts of it that gave both of you a heavy hit of the ol' PTSD, huh? Come on, Black Leader. Get it together.
He breathes in, then breathes out. He gets it together. "She says they're marathoning that kid's show from Dantooine, what the hell is it called, Crying Breakfast Friends?"
Ben gives an expressive shrug. Pretend not to know all you want, Poe thinks, Finn told me you're *all* addicted to it and *that* is the cutest fuckin' thing I've ever heard of. The floor is clear, the tools are all shoved away, and they head to the elevators.
When Poe buzzes open her door, Rey is perched in one corner of the hotel couch like a cat, Finn sitting next to her intently with one hand on her knee. Something happens on the holoscreen and they both gasp, then breathe, "A giant woman!", in unison, eyes shining. Weird, pastel-sounding synth music plays, and they both look up.
Ben and Rey lock eyes for a second; something unreadable passes between them, and some of the weight seems to lift from Ben's shoulders. Then Rey points to the couch and says, "Sit." Poe pitches himself backwards over one of the couch arms and lands with a whump in Finn's lap. Ben folds himself down to the floor next in front of them.
"You guys wanna watch the news?" asks Finn. Rey looks outraged. "You said it was going to be biased rubbish!" "Yeah, exactly! I want to see what kind of biased rubbish!" Rey gives him a pleading look. "Later?" "Yeah, ok, later." The pastel theme starts up again.
I barely know you, one holo voice says, a few minutes later. That's a good thing,, says the other, sounding haunted. Finn tenses and makes a small noise at that, and Rey reaches across to squeeze his hand. Poe lets an arm drop to the floor next to Ben, close but not touching.
--Is this torture?
--The worst!
--I'm so sorry!
--Huh? No. Don't be.
A big, warm hand brushes against Poe's, then jerks back. Poe reaches out on instinct to follow Ben's hand, then laces their fingers together and holds. Ben holds his breath for a beat, then sighs and tilts his head back against the couch.
Why are they still dancing? a cartoon person asks, It didn't work!
Yes it did, says another, full of warmth. It worked.