Poe’s parents had been nothing but holograms to him for the first few years of his life. It wasn’t until Yavin IV that he’d been able to form memories of them as human beings, and he’d watched them carefully as they moved through the world: the way his mother’s eyes sparked with interest and amusement, the way his father’s hands moved as he spoke, the way the two of them smiled at each other, how they’d seemed to speak without words, over his head, with nothing but a twitch of the lip or a wink or a quick glance.
But then, he’d watched everything carefully, peaking from behind his mother’s hip. He hadn’t been afraid, precisely, just always wary of being noticed. People who saw him tended to react, tended to want to talk to him, coo over his curls and his serious expression, but he’d wanted to see them as they were when they didn’t know he was looking.
Market day’d been good for that — always an event, the only time, before Poe’d started school, where he’d spent time with people who weren’t his parents.
Once a week, he and his parents would pile into the old transport vehicle, take the long drive down to town, and make a day of it, buying produce and meat for the week, eating lunch while waiting out the midday storm, and perusing the stalls loaded with second-hand tech, hand-made toys, and clothes in the afternoon.
His mother, always calm and serious, had a great eye for quality: even back when the market itself had been nothing but canvas tents on recently cleared earth, she’d had merchants clamoring for her attention and approval of their goods. His father, generous with his grins and handshakes even when he couldn’t be with his credits, had built real friendships with them, picking up names and stories like some people did blades of grass or wildflowers.
And Poe, finger hooked in his mother’s beltloop, watching as the cloth merchants folded and unfolded their wares, as brightly colored spices were scooped into plasto containers and weighed, as the thick-armed and cheerful butcher cleaved gushing pink flesh apart and then tucked it into tied brown paper bundles. The produce vendors shouting prices per weight, bantering at each other and their potential customers; Poe, who’d never seen half the vividly colored and strangely shaped fruits and vegetables on their stalls, learned a lot of words that way, some of which described the merchandise, most of which described the merchants and probably shouldn’t've been added to the vocabulary of a six year old child.
Poe’s relieved to find most of that unchanged — the delicately swirled mounds of seasonings; the neatly folded piles fabric, most of it silky-smooth and light, given the climate; the trilling, droning cadence of the fruit and vegetable sellers. The butcher, older now, but still with that wide smile and stubby fingers, waves at Poe, apparently recognizing him. Poe waves back, automatically, lost in thought.
It doesn’t take him long to get actually lost: this side of the market is newer, full of stalls run by people about his age, maybe even younger, none of whom he knows. He doesn’t mind, really: there’s plenty to see.
Tech from the Core has always taken a while to make it to Yavin IV, so datapads and comm units are always about a generation behind, but the variety, Poe has to admit, has improved. There’s also toys he could’ve only dreams of as a kid — a remote controlled X-wing that not only flies but sends out bright imitations blasts, for one, which he nearly caves and buys.
The reminder that he’s got nowhere to put it, and won’t for a while, stops him: being the child of two soldiers has taught him to live light, to keep his quarters on base neat and bare of anything he’d be crushed to lose in the case of an emergency evacuation or a sudden raid.
His good hand slips back into his jacket pocket, and he keeps walking, nodding a quick thanks to the purveyor of the X-Wing; she gives him a half-hearted salute in response, which he finds strange, but not disquieting enough to stop and investigate.
He trails along the seemingly infinite rows of stalls. These are piled with souvenirs, mostly replicas of the Great Temple hand-carved from local wood or stone, or headdresses made from the feathers of whisper birds that’ve been dyed garishly red and green. Supposedly, they're inspired by the drawings of Massassi warriors found within some of the ancient temple complexes. Poe’s never been as fond of those.
He weaves around the gaggle of tourists — Durosians, by the look of them — and heads for the sound of running water. Yavenese architecture, for reasons of tradition and convenience, tends to center itself around fountains, and the Market Square is no exception. It’s a good a place as any to get his bearings a little, and is unlikely to have been changed.
He’s spotted the black tile border that designates the central courtyard before he realize he can hear someone calling his name. He looks around: there, by a small cart, piled with holorecords and ‘vids and posters, is a man of about his height and age, with sun-lightened brown hair, jumping up and down, whooping, and waving both hands in the air. Poe finds himself grinning and waving back, jogging toward him immediately. “Sola!"
“Dameron!” He reaches out and grabs Poe’s free hand, drawing him in and bumping their chests together. It’s an old greeting, and Poe laughs a little as Sola slaps his back, and then pulls away. “Man! Look at you! Lookin’ good, brother!” Poe laughs, and ducks his head. Sola takes this as permission to ruffle Poe’s hair, like he used to when they were kids. “Haven’t aged a day, you son of a bitch. What’s the Navy got ya’ doin’ these days, modelin’? You still out on Mirrin Prime?"
“Nah, I’m—” Poe shrugs, ducks his head again. Sola shakes his shoulder a little, friendly, obviously avoiding Poe’s sling. “Doin’ some other work."
“Top secret shit, man, yeah, I hear ya. Good stuff, good stuff. You here to see your dad?"
“Uh—yeah. Yeah, you know. Been a while since I’ve been back."
“I’ll say, man. You hear I got married? Got divorced, like, three days later, total shit show. You in the market for anything?"
Poe’s torn between congratulations and my condolences and looking at the pile of merchandise, the majority of which is of questionable origin and legality. But there’s no one better than Sola Bele and his family for the newest releases, some of which are, rather inexplicably, obtained weeks before their official premiere dates. Sola grins at him again, and punches his arm. “Damn, Dameron. Still so fucking handsome, dude."
“Not so bad yourself, man,” Poe says, and blushes. Because he’s not: Sola’s got golden eyes and full lips, and his light brown hair falls over his forehead in soft curves. Poe’d had one hell of a crush on him when they were both fifteen, has always wondered if Sola’d realized.
Sola snorts, and turns away. Yeah, he probably had.
“Wait, I got somethin’ for you,” he says, digging through a colorful pile of disks that don’t seem to be organized in any particular way, but he finds what he’s looking for quickly enough: Hakko Drazlip and the Tootle Froots, Poe reads off the cover, as it’s pressed onto his palm, and nearly drops it.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me."
Sola grins. “Your dad’ll love that, huh?"
“I—yeah, how the hell did you—"
“Oh, you know, got my ways, right? Remastered from the club recordings, clear as crystal, they’re gonna release it in the Core next week, but for you..."
“How much?”
“Make it five, and you buy me a drink before you leave town."
“Sola,” he says, sharply; it’s worth at least three times that, probably cost him a fortune to obtain. For all Poe knows, he’s got a buyer lined up already who’s willing to pay more than it’s worth, even.
“Okay, okay,” Sola says, raising his hands in surrender. “Two drinks, final offer.”
Poe laughs. “You sure?”
Sola holds out his hand, and Poe takes it; finds himself reeled into another chest-bumping, full-bodied embraced. “Been much too long, man,” Sola murmurs, patting his back again, before he lets him go.
“I hear you, buddy.”
**
Seven credits lighter, in possession of what’s almost certainly contraband, Poe wanders back toward the fountain.
It’s been cleaned, and some of the old, chipped tiles around the base have been replaced, but otherwise it remains mostly same: sky-blue and melon-green ceramic tiles arranged in a broad circular base, water flowing in steady arcs from four tiers.The water in the reservoir glimmers — it’s clearer than it used to be, probably a casualty of a new filtration system.
Poe sits down on the edge of the basin. His plan is to take a bit of a break, check the time, figure out how to get back to Val’s.
Instead, his eye immediately catches on a wholly unfamiliar octagonal structure, about the same size as the larger market stalls, painted in what’s playfully known as Yavenese Green, and adorned with signs reading TOURIST INFORMATION in several languages. The girl seated within it has long dark hair braided with green ribbons, and is reading from a data pad. She looks up, startled, when Poe approaches.
“Welcome to Massassi Market Square pride of Yavin IV cradle of the New Republic,” she rushes out in lightly accented Basic. “Can I help you book a tour to our grand temple structures or one of the many natural wonders of our lovely moon?"
“Not…right now, thanks,” Poe says. “I’m actually just…trying to find my way back to the northwest entrance? Old Val used to have a stand back there, I don’t know if you—"
“Ah, a local boy,” she says, dropping the manic tone. She smiles at him; her name, according to the name tag, is Ayla, and she can’t be more than sixteen years old. “You’re very close. Down that row,” she says, gesturing as she explains. “Two lefts, and a right. Can’t miss it. But just in case…” She reaches over and hands him a map: it’s made from the cheaper kind of paper, only capable of rotating between a few sets of images, but apparently featuring some low-tech locator function, because a dot appears over the charmingly rendered Market Square and cheerfully proclaims: YOU ARE HERE!
Good to know, Poe finds himself thinking. He presses a finger to the pictogram, and a text bubble appears, informing him of the date of construction, the architect, and a few more fun facts about the building, before blooming into a detailed floor plan.
“Can I hold on to this?” he asks.
“Of course! That’s what they’re here for!” she says, brightly, and then sobers, seemingly remembering something. “All maps and promotional materials are generously provided by the Town of New Hope’s Chamber of Commerce.” Poe cocks his head, and she leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “They make us say all that."
Poe smiles. “Never woulda guessed it."
She blushes, and smiles back. “Good luck, local boy,” she says. “Drink some muja juice for me."
Poe winks and gives her a little salute; she matches it, still blushing, and drops her gaze back down her datapad before he can say anything else.
**
He makes it to Val’s before his father does and settles onto one of the red plasto stools in front of the counter. Makes idle conversation with New Val, who was a year ahead of him in school and was well known, even then, as the artistic sort. This seems to have born out: her stall is adorned with meticulously realized depictions of Massassi warriors and anthropomorphized trees sharing plasto-bubble drinks with a variety of alien races and such distinguished company as a young Leia Organa and Luke Skywalker in a well-intentioned approximation of Jedi robes.
The day’s offerings of freshly made juices are displayed in broad, clear casks lined up behind the counter; the names and prices are detailed in lovely flowing script, which he’s in the midst of reading when he feels the wide hand settle around the back of his neck.
“Didn’t get lost, did you, kid?"
“Nope,” Poe says, half turning on his stool. Kes gives a low snort and sits down next to him.
“Lyin’ to your old man already,” he says. “Knew running around with the Resistance’d be a bad influence on you. Hey, Val,” he calls out, smiling as she turns around to greet him. “How you doin’?"
“Hey, Sergeant. Just keeping this off-worlder company, y’know?” she says, nodding at Poe.
“Damn tourists, always sniffing around,” Kes says, gruffly. "Not givin' you any trouble, is he?”
“I’m right here,” Poe feels compelled to say, and rolls his eyes as they both dissolve into laughter.
“So what can I get you boys?” says Val, once she and his father have had a good chuckle on his account.
Kes looks at him. “The usual?” Poe nods; that’ll be one muja juice for him, and chilled paricha for his dad. “The usual, Val."
“Comin’ right up,” she says, winking at Kes before she turns away, making a show of flipping her glossy black hair over her shoulder as she goes.
Poe smirks at his father, who narrows his eyes and mouthes Don’t start. Poe shakes his head, chuckling to himself and looks around for whatever it was his dad came to buy.
“Already dropped everything back on the transpo,” Kes says. “Mighta got a few surprises, maybe."
“Oh yeah?” Poe says, thinking of the record tucked safely away in his jacket pocket. “Fancy that."
“Not for you, mind. But I thought BB-8 could use a nice treat, and I know you can’t keep a secret worth a damn."
“Well, you ain’t wrong about that,” Poe says, and straightens as Val returns with their drinks. “So who’re we meeting up with after this?"
Kes takes a long sip from his paricha. “Mm,” he hums, that low, satisfied, dad noise he makes when pleased. "Just a couple of the guys from the VETCO. If you’re feelin’ up to it, anyway."
“I think I’ll survive,” says Poe, dryly; his arm hasn’t hurt all day, and he can picture worse ways to spend his afternoon than drinking with his dad’s old war buddies.
FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)
But then, he’d watched everything carefully, peaking from behind his mother’s hip. He hadn’t been afraid, precisely, just always wary of being noticed. People who saw him tended to react, tended to want to talk to him, coo over his curls and his serious expression, but he’d wanted to see them as they were when they didn’t know he was looking.
Market day’d been good for that — always an event, the only time, before Poe’d started school, where he’d spent time with people who weren’t his parents.
Once a week, he and his parents would pile into the old transport vehicle, take the long drive down to town, and make a day of it, buying produce and meat for the week, eating lunch while waiting out the midday storm, and perusing the stalls loaded with second-hand tech, hand-made toys, and clothes in the afternoon.
His mother, always calm and serious, had a great eye for quality: even back when the market itself had been nothing but canvas tents on recently cleared earth, she’d had merchants clamoring for her attention and approval of their goods. His father, generous with his grins and handshakes even when he couldn’t be with his credits, had built real friendships with them, picking up names and stories like some people did blades of grass or wildflowers.
And Poe, finger hooked in his mother’s beltloop, watching as the cloth merchants folded and unfolded their wares, as brightly colored spices were scooped into plasto containers and weighed, as the thick-armed and cheerful butcher cleaved gushing pink flesh apart and then tucked it into tied brown paper bundles. The produce vendors shouting prices per weight, bantering at each other and their potential customers; Poe, who’d never seen half the vividly colored and strangely shaped fruits and vegetables on their stalls, learned a lot of words that way, some of which described the merchandise, most of which described the merchants and probably shouldn’t've been added to the vocabulary of a six year old child.
Poe’s relieved to find most of that unchanged — the delicately swirled mounds of seasonings; the neatly folded piles fabric, most of it silky-smooth and light, given the climate; the trilling, droning cadence of the fruit and vegetable sellers. The butcher, older now, but still with that wide smile and stubby fingers, waves at Poe, apparently recognizing him. Poe waves back, automatically, lost in thought.
It doesn’t take him long to get actually lost: this side of the market is newer, full of stalls run by people about his age, maybe even younger, none of whom he knows. He doesn’t mind, really: there’s plenty to see.
Tech from the Core has always taken a while to make it to Yavin IV, so datapads and comm units are always about a generation behind, but the variety, Poe has to admit, has improved. There’s also toys he could’ve only dreams of as a kid — a remote controlled X-wing that not only flies but sends out bright imitations blasts, for one, which he nearly caves and buys.
The reminder that he’s got nowhere to put it, and won’t for a while, stops him: being the child of two soldiers has taught him to live light, to keep his quarters on base neat and bare of anything he’d be crushed to lose in the case of an emergency evacuation or a sudden raid.
His good hand slips back into his jacket pocket, and he keeps walking, nodding a quick thanks to the purveyor of the X-Wing; she gives him a half-hearted salute in response, which he finds strange, but not disquieting enough to stop and investigate.
He trails along the seemingly infinite rows of stalls. These are piled with souvenirs, mostly replicas of the Great Temple hand-carved from local wood or stone, or headdresses made from the feathers of whisper birds that’ve been dyed garishly red and green. Supposedly, they're inspired by the drawings of Massassi warriors found within some of the ancient temple complexes. Poe’s never been as fond of those.
He weaves around the gaggle of tourists — Durosians, by the look of them — and heads for the sound of running water. Yavenese architecture, for reasons of tradition and convenience, tends to center itself around fountains, and the Market Square is no exception. It’s a good a place as any to get his bearings a little, and is unlikely to have been changed.
He’s spotted the black tile border that designates the central courtyard before he realize he can hear someone calling his name. He looks around: there, by a small cart, piled with holorecords and ‘vids and posters, is a man of about his height and age, with sun-lightened brown hair, jumping up and down, whooping, and waving both hands in the air. Poe finds himself grinning and waving back, jogging toward him immediately. “Sola!"
“Dameron!” He reaches out and grabs Poe’s free hand, drawing him in and bumping their chests together. It’s an old greeting, and Poe laughs a little as Sola slaps his back, and then pulls away. “Man! Look at you! Lookin’ good, brother!” Poe laughs, and ducks his head. Sola takes this as permission to ruffle Poe’s hair, like he used to when they were kids. “Haven’t aged a day, you son of a bitch. What’s the Navy got ya’ doin’ these days, modelin’? You still out on Mirrin Prime?"
“Nah, I’m—” Poe shrugs, ducks his head again. Sola shakes his shoulder a little, friendly, obviously avoiding Poe’s sling. “Doin’ some other work."
“Top secret shit, man, yeah, I hear ya. Good stuff, good stuff. You here to see your dad?"
“Uh—yeah. Yeah, you know. Been a while since I’ve been back."
“I’ll say, man. You hear I got married? Got divorced, like, three days later, total shit show. You in the market for anything?"
Poe’s torn between congratulations and my condolences and looking at the pile of merchandise, the majority of which is of questionable origin and legality. But there’s no one better than Sola Bele and his family for the newest releases, some of which are, rather inexplicably, obtained weeks before their official premiere dates. Sola grins at him again, and punches his arm. “Damn, Dameron. Still so fucking handsome, dude."
“Not so bad yourself, man,” Poe says, and blushes. Because he’s not: Sola’s got golden eyes and full lips, and his light brown hair falls over his forehead in soft curves. Poe’d had one hell of a crush on him when they were both fifteen, has always wondered if Sola’d realized.
Sola snorts, and turns away. Yeah, he probably had.
“Wait, I got somethin’ for you,” he says, digging through a colorful pile of disks that don’t seem to be organized in any particular way, but he finds what he’s looking for quickly enough: Hakko Drazlip and the Tootle Froots, Poe reads off the cover, as it’s pressed onto his palm, and nearly drops it.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me."
Sola grins. “Your dad’ll love that, huh?"
“I—yeah, how the hell did you—"
“Oh, you know, got my ways, right? Remastered from the club recordings, clear as crystal, they’re gonna release it in the Core next week, but for you..."
“How much?”
“Make it five, and you buy me a drink before you leave town."
“Sola,” he says, sharply; it’s worth at least three times that, probably cost him a fortune to obtain. For all Poe knows, he’s got a buyer lined up already who’s willing to pay more than it’s worth, even.
“Okay, okay,” Sola says, raising his hands in surrender. “Two drinks, final offer.”
Poe laughs. “You sure?”
Sola holds out his hand, and Poe takes it; finds himself reeled into another chest-bumping, full-bodied embraced. “Been much too long, man,” Sola murmurs, patting his back again, before he lets him go.
“I hear you, buddy.”
**
Seven credits lighter, in possession of what’s almost certainly contraband, Poe wanders back toward the fountain.
It’s been cleaned, and some of the old, chipped tiles around the base have been replaced, but otherwise it remains mostly same: sky-blue and melon-green ceramic tiles arranged in a broad circular base, water flowing in steady arcs from four tiers.The water in the reservoir glimmers — it’s clearer than it used to be, probably a casualty of a new filtration system.
Poe sits down on the edge of the basin. His plan is to take a bit of a break, check the time, figure out how to get back to Val’s.
Instead, his eye immediately catches on a wholly unfamiliar octagonal structure, about the same size as the larger market stalls, painted in what’s playfully known as Yavenese Green, and adorned with signs reading TOURIST INFORMATION in several languages. The girl seated within it has long dark hair braided with green ribbons, and is reading from a data pad. She looks up, startled, when Poe approaches.
“Welcome to Massassi Market Square pride of Yavin IV cradle of the New Republic,” she rushes out in lightly accented Basic. “Can I help you book a tour to our grand temple structures or one of the many natural wonders of our lovely moon?"
“Not…right now, thanks,” Poe says. “I’m actually just…trying to find my way back to the northwest entrance? Old Val used to have a stand back there, I don’t know if you—"
“Ah, a local boy,” she says, dropping the manic tone. She smiles at him; her name, according to the name tag, is Ayla, and she can’t be more than sixteen years old. “You’re very close. Down that row,” she says, gesturing as she explains. “Two lefts, and a right. Can’t miss it. But just in case…” She reaches over and hands him a map: it’s made from the cheaper kind of paper, only capable of rotating between a few sets of images, but apparently featuring some low-tech locator function, because a dot appears over the charmingly rendered Market Square and cheerfully proclaims: YOU ARE HERE!
Good to know, Poe finds himself thinking. He presses a finger to the pictogram, and a text bubble appears, informing him of the date of construction, the architect, and a few more fun facts about the building, before blooming into a detailed floor plan.
“Can I hold on to this?” he asks.
“Of course! That’s what they’re here for!” she says, brightly, and then sobers, seemingly remembering something. “All maps and promotional materials are generously provided by the Town of New Hope’s Chamber of Commerce.” Poe cocks his head, and she leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “They make us say all that."
Poe smiles. “Never woulda guessed it."
She blushes, and smiles back. “Good luck, local boy,” she says. “Drink some muja juice for me."
Poe winks and gives her a little salute; she matches it, still blushing, and drops her gaze back down her datapad before he can say anything else.
**
He makes it to Val’s before his father does and settles onto one of the red plasto stools in front of the counter. Makes idle conversation with New Val, who was a year ahead of him in school and was well known, even then, as the artistic sort. This seems to have born out: her stall is adorned with meticulously realized depictions of Massassi warriors and anthropomorphized trees sharing plasto-bubble drinks with a variety of alien races and such distinguished company as a young Leia Organa and Luke Skywalker in a well-intentioned approximation of Jedi robes.
The day’s offerings of freshly made juices are displayed in broad, clear casks lined up behind the counter; the names and prices are detailed in lovely flowing script, which he’s in the midst of reading when he feels the wide hand settle around the back of his neck.
“Didn’t get lost, did you, kid?"
“Nope,” Poe says, half turning on his stool. Kes gives a low snort and sits down next to him.
“Lyin’ to your old man already,” he says. “Knew running around with the Resistance’d be a bad influence on you. Hey, Val,” he calls out, smiling as she turns around to greet him. “How you doin’?"
“Hey, Sergeant. Just keeping this off-worlder company, y’know?” she says, nodding at Poe.
“Damn tourists, always sniffing around,” Kes says, gruffly. "Not givin' you any trouble, is he?”
“I’m right here,” Poe feels compelled to say, and rolls his eyes as they both dissolve into laughter.
“So what can I get you boys?” says Val, once she and his father have had a good chuckle on his account.
Kes looks at him. “The usual?” Poe nods; that’ll be one muja juice for him, and chilled paricha for his dad. “The usual, Val."
“Comin’ right up,” she says, winking at Kes before she turns away, making a show of flipping her glossy black hair over her shoulder as she goes.
Poe smirks at his father, who narrows his eyes and mouthes Don’t start. Poe shakes his head, chuckling to himself and looks around for whatever it was his dad came to buy.
“Already dropped everything back on the transpo,” Kes says. “Mighta got a few surprises, maybe."
“Oh yeah?” Poe says, thinking of the record tucked safely away in his jacket pocket. “Fancy that."
“Not for you, mind. But I thought BB-8 could use a nice treat, and I know you can’t keep a secret worth a damn."
“Well, you ain’t wrong about that,” Poe says, and straightens as Val returns with their drinks. “So who’re we meeting up with after this?"
Kes takes a long sip from his paricha. “Mm,” he hums, that low, satisfied, dad noise he makes when pleased. "Just a couple of the guys from the VETCO. If you’re feelin’ up to it, anyway."
“I think I’ll survive,” says Poe, dryly; his arm hasn’t hurt all day, and he can picture worse ways to spend his afternoon than drinking with his dad’s old war buddies.
What’s the worst that could happen, really?