Poe rolls his eyes, but stands, grumbling good naturedly as he follows his father toward the make-shift stage and tries to remember the last time he sang in public, even to crowd this small. He used to do it all the time as a kid — his whole family’d been musical, had liked to sing to him as a baby and he'd picked it up quick, the old songs his grandfather was always humming under his breath, the newer stuff that was loud and discordant and angry, but made his mom grin as if remembering something sweet.
And he'd been decent at it, enough to be chosen to sing at school assemblies and the occasional market festival, with his dad playing guitar beside him — his mom had always thought that was real cute, taken lots of pictures, always made a point of being there to watch.
But it's been awhile since he's done anything like that: he mostly sings to himself and BB-8 these days, with his dad occasionally, or to whoever he's seeing very rarely. He'd sung at the unsanctioned but traditional Academy talent show once, during his first year, and then never again: it'd garnered him way too much of the wrong kind of attention.
He plops down onto the stool in front of the microphone, and looks out at the crowd of ex-soldiers at the table and the few regulars stationed at the bar, while Kes strums lightly at the guitar, tuning it.
Well, Poe thinks. Always did like an adventure.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat; the microphone’s too high and he reaches out to adjust it, only to realize that’s not really a one-handed job. His dad leans out to help him. “Thanks,” Poe mumbles; Kes shrugs and goes right back to fiddling with the guitar. “Anyway. This is, uh…I’ll See You, My Love, Back on Old Belleau-a-Lir, I guess?” He glances over at his dad, who gives an approving nod and strums the opening chords.
It’s a sad song to begin with — sad at its core, about soldier singing to her lover back home, imagining a reunion tour through all the beautiful places they’d visited during their courtship, all the while knowing she’s about to die, that she'll never make it. It’s made sadder still by context — Belleau-a-Lir, like everything else mentioned in the song, was on Alderaan.
It may seem strange to start with that, but these are Poe’s people, and he knows what they’re here for: nostalgia, mostly. A chance to think about the past, to remember the very worst of it without letting it crush them, because they’ve got others there that share the burden.
So he shuts his eyes, and he sings; his father, beside him, hums a low counterpoint and plays. They sound okay, Poe thinks — it’s been a while, and maybe he’s out of practice, but it’s a good song and it’s hard to ruin and the emotions do most of the work, plus his father’s always been better at the guitar than him.
When he finishes, he takes a breath before opening his eyes again. The room is silent, and, once he sees it again, still; everyone looks like they’re holding their breath. He give a nervous chuckle, rubs the back of his neck. “So, um…any requests?"
That seems to break the spell. There’s an upswell of sound, a smattering of words in native languages and Basic: the names of songs, some of which Poe recognizes, most of which he doesn’t. He and his dad do their best — he forgets about half of the words to (That Joyous Night) I Ate My Mate, but in his defense, he’s heard it maybe three times in his entire life. His dad’s friends are either too nice or too drunk to care, and cheer him on anyway. Your Kiss Like Millaflower goes a little better, as does The Death of Queen Amidala. Killik Silk and Naboo Nights is a big hit, though it makes Poe blush a little — he’d had a boyfriend, right out of school, that’d really liked that one.
They sing a couple more, mostly Old Republic staples, and a few newer songs that have filtered back from the Core. A shadowy figure in the corner asks for Aivela of the Hardsell, which Poe doesn’t know. Kes snorts and strums a couple of unfamiliar, vaguely catchy notes, then shakes his head. “Nah, but I got a good one,” he offers, and starts up on a rough, jangling sort of rhythm that Poe recognizes immediately; the rest of the room seems to catch on just as quickly, start clapping to the beat. Kes grins. “Sing along if you know the words,” he says and launches gleefully into Vader’s Many Prosthetic Parts.
Everyone does — it’s over forty years old by now, written during the height of the Empire, banned on every Imperially sanctioned channel. Every official version was destroyed; every member of Hakko Drazlip and the Tootle Froots, the band that'd originally written and recorded it, was shipped off to the Spice mines of Kessel within days of its only live performance at an underground club on Pasher. But a low-quality bootleg recording of that night, raucous and raw and pulsing with anger, had been slipped to a few contraband channels and made its way through the galaxy like wildfire. It hadn’t exactly started the revolution: the seeds had long been there, would’ve spouted eventually no matter what. But it’d given the revolution a pulse, a language, a sound all its own — an anthem, to some. You’d hum a few bars and someone would answer them, and then you’d know, at least, that was a person you could trust.
Or at least, that’s how Poe’s mother alway told it. But then again, she’d been a pretty big fan.
The song itself is a bit of a call and response: a long list of body parts Darth Vader’d supposedly had to have replaced over the years, after having lost them doing various unpleasant things; the audience calls back the corresponding couplet describing what Vader had chosen to do with the new, prosthetic parts (brutally torture innocent beings all around the galaxy, usually). The second to last verse is about Vader’s allegedly prosthetic cock; tradition dictates that everyone yell out that he can use it to go fuck himself.
The very last verse, however, tends to starts off a little softer: it’s about Vader’s heart, how it’s long gone and was never replaced, how he’s never wanted it to be. How it’s that — and not the prosthetic parts, just what he’s done with them — that makes him a monster.
It’s not the most subtle of songs, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun to play, guaranteed to bring down the house when sung in front of certain audiences by even a half-decent singer. Kes Dameron’s much better than half-decent, and by the time he’s done, it feels like the audience is more than some old war buddies and a couple of old regulars at the bar: it feels like everyone in the galaxy is listening. It certainly sounds like they’re all there, cheering: the echo in the cantina amplifies the applause, and Kes ducks his head in an aw shucks, folks kind of grin and taps his fingers nervously against the body of the guitar.
A chant of “Another, another!” starts up in a far corner, not even from their party, and quickly catches on, carried by a wave of insistent, rhythmic clapping.
Kes waves out, shaking his head, still grinning a little; “I’m beat, folks,” he says, leaning over to talk into Poe’s microphone. The crowd quiets a little, and then Poe speaks.
“I’m not,” he says, impulsive, suddenly inspired.
Kes gives him a surprised, proud look. “Oh yeah, kid? What else’ve you got?”
Poe smiles to himself, and ducks his head a little. “This is, uh—“ he shrugs, and winces as his shoulder twinges. “This is a good one, too.” He closes his eyes again. Hums the first bars of When the Whisper Bird Flies Home; after a moment, he hears the stirrings of the guitar, of his father plucking out the delicate, simple melody. He starts to sing: it’s a sweet song, almost like a lullaby, about one of the beautiful golden birds found on Yavin IV — this one’s been separated from her flock, the song goes, but she’ll fly and fly, all night and day, through the storms and the swamps and the broken temples, trying to return. And when she makes it home, the flock will be complete, and there will be peace again.
It’s a little older than Poe, this song, written back when the Rebel Alliance had first been stationed on Yavin IV, by a groundpounder who’d been more lyrically inclined than most. It was never banned, never considered quite as subversive or dangerous, for all that it was an Alliance song through and through, mostly sung at campfires by rebel soldiers far from home. Poe’s memories of his mother ebb and flow, sometimes, but he always remembers her voice, remembers her light accent on certain words as she sang it. That’s how he sings it, too; that’s how he always has.
He sings the last verse, the one about the whisper bird finally coming home, unaccompanied. That’s not traditional, but when he opens his eyes, after finishing, he realizes why: his father’s staring at him, gripping the neck of the guitar so hard his knuckles have turned white.
“Dad?” he says, softly; Kes shakes his head, presses his lips into a tight line. And then he reaches over, wraps his hand around the back of Poe's neck, and leans in to drop a swift kiss to Poe’s forehead.
“Okay,” Poe says, after. “That’s all I’ve got."
**
Suffice to say, they get free drinks for the rest of the night.
It’s a nice gesture, but Kes is going to have to drive them home and Poe’s medication means the one glass of ale he’s had is already hitting him harder than he’d like. The rest of their table appreciates the open tab, at least, getting quite pleasantly sloshed as the evening skips on. Poe, having switched to water and retained something of level head, hears and will probably remember a great deal of stories about his father’s youthful exploits, most of which are probably exaggerated.
Poe doesn’t care. It’s the best time he’s had in more than a year, and it’s an honest to god disappointment when his father finally clears his throat and says that they need to be heading out. It’s a common sentiment: there’s a few grumbles, but everyone else’s got families of their own to get back to, as well, so it’s without much conviction.
“How about a toast first?” offers Kresh, and the rest of the group nods in approval. He looks to Kes, who shrugs, and stands. Raises a glass. “To Yavin IV, and the New Republic: hard sought, hard won, sometimes...hard to love…” a low ripple of laughter at that. “But ours, free and clear! Long may they stand.”
“Hear, hear!”
They all drink, and then Sakas stands up. “All right, all right, Sergeant Stoic.”
Kes winces a little at the nickname, and Poe feels kind of bad about laughing.
Sakas waves Kes down, and raises what’s probably her third glass of Port In a Storm. “To our very own Dameron boys,” she says, mock-serious, sincerely-fond, and a couple of good-natured whoops go up. “Heroes in war, friends in peace, and a sight for sore eyes—“
“And ears!” calls Krystah, to some laughter.
“—in all the times in between! Force love and protect them, ‘cause they sure as hell always need the help.” Some hoots about that, too, but everyone drinks to it, except for Kes and Poe, who both duck their heads and notice, at about the same time, that the other has done so as well.
“And to Princess Organa!” That’s T’iana, whose hand shakes a little from the weight of her tankard, but whose voice is steady and clear. “Health and joy to her and hers, may she enjoy her own hard-earned peace!" The cheers are less raucous this time, more considered, but just as sincere.
Poe swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat, but raises his glass as well.
FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (5b/7)
And he'd been decent at it, enough to be chosen to sing at school assemblies and the occasional market festival, with his dad playing guitar beside him — his mom had always thought that was real cute, taken lots of pictures, always made a point of being there to watch.
But it's been awhile since he's done anything like that: he mostly sings to himself and BB-8 these days, with his dad occasionally, or to whoever he's seeing very rarely. He'd sung at the unsanctioned but traditional Academy talent show once, during his first year, and then never again: it'd garnered him way too much of the wrong kind of attention.
He plops down onto the stool in front of the microphone, and looks out at the crowd of ex-soldiers at the table and the few regulars stationed at the bar, while Kes strums lightly at the guitar, tuning it.
Well, Poe thinks. Always did like an adventure.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat; the microphone’s too high and he reaches out to adjust it, only to realize that’s not really a one-handed job. His dad leans out to help him. “Thanks,” Poe mumbles; Kes shrugs and goes right back to fiddling with the guitar. “Anyway. This is, uh…I’ll See You, My Love, Back on Old Belleau-a-Lir, I guess?” He glances over at his dad, who gives an approving nod and strums the opening chords.
It’s a sad song to begin with — sad at its core, about soldier singing to her lover back home, imagining a reunion tour through all the beautiful places they’d visited during their courtship, all the while knowing she’s about to die, that she'll never make it. It’s made sadder still by context — Belleau-a-Lir, like everything else mentioned in the song, was on Alderaan.
It may seem strange to start with that, but these are Poe’s people, and he knows what they’re here for: nostalgia, mostly. A chance to think about the past, to remember the very worst of it without letting it crush them, because they’ve got others there that share the burden.
So he shuts his eyes, and he sings; his father, beside him, hums a low counterpoint and plays. They sound okay, Poe thinks — it’s been a while, and maybe he’s out of practice, but it’s a good song and it’s hard to ruin and the emotions do most of the work, plus his father’s always been better at the guitar than him.
When he finishes, he takes a breath before opening his eyes again. The room is silent, and, once he sees it again, still; everyone looks like they’re holding their breath. He give a nervous chuckle, rubs the back of his neck. “So, um…any requests?"
That seems to break the spell. There’s an upswell of sound, a smattering of words in native languages and Basic: the names of songs, some of which Poe recognizes, most of which he doesn’t. He and his dad do their best — he forgets about half of the words to (That Joyous Night) I Ate My Mate, but in his defense, he’s heard it maybe three times in his entire life. His dad’s friends are either too nice or too drunk to care, and cheer him on anyway. Your Kiss Like Millaflower goes a little better, as does The Death of Queen Amidala. Killik Silk and Naboo Nights is a big hit, though it makes Poe blush a little — he’d had a boyfriend, right out of school, that’d really liked that one.
They sing a couple more, mostly Old Republic staples, and a few newer songs that have filtered back from the Core. A shadowy figure in the corner asks for Aivela of the Hardsell, which Poe doesn’t know. Kes snorts and strums a couple of unfamiliar, vaguely catchy notes, then shakes his head. “Nah, but I got a good one,” he offers, and starts up on a rough, jangling sort of rhythm that Poe recognizes immediately; the rest of the room seems to catch on just as quickly, start clapping to the beat. Kes grins. “Sing along if you know the words,” he says and launches gleefully into Vader’s Many Prosthetic Parts.
Everyone does — it’s over forty years old by now, written during the height of the Empire, banned on every Imperially sanctioned channel. Every official version was destroyed; every member of Hakko Drazlip and the Tootle Froots, the band that'd originally written and recorded it, was shipped off to the Spice mines of Kessel within days of its only live performance at an underground club on Pasher. But a low-quality bootleg recording of that night, raucous and raw and pulsing with anger, had been slipped to a few contraband channels and made its way through the galaxy like wildfire. It hadn’t exactly started the revolution: the seeds had long been there, would’ve spouted eventually no matter what. But it’d given the revolution a pulse, a language, a sound all its own — an anthem, to some. You’d hum a few bars and someone would answer them, and then you’d know, at least, that was a person you could trust.
Or at least, that’s how Poe’s mother alway told it. But then again, she’d been a pretty big fan.
The song itself is a bit of a call and response: a long list of body parts Darth Vader’d supposedly had to have replaced over the years, after having lost them doing various unpleasant things; the audience calls back the corresponding couplet describing what Vader had chosen to do with the new, prosthetic parts (brutally torture innocent beings all around the galaxy, usually). The second to last verse is about Vader’s allegedly prosthetic cock; tradition dictates that everyone yell out that he can use it to go fuck himself.
The very last verse, however, tends to starts off a little softer: it’s about Vader’s heart, how it’s long gone and was never replaced, how he’s never wanted it to be. How it’s that — and not the prosthetic parts, just what he’s done with them — that makes him a monster.
It’s not the most subtle of songs, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun to play, guaranteed to bring down the house when sung in front of certain audiences by even a half-decent singer. Kes Dameron’s much better than half-decent, and by the time he’s done, it feels like the audience is more than some old war buddies and a couple of old regulars at the bar: it feels like everyone in the galaxy is listening. It certainly sounds like they’re all there, cheering: the echo in the cantina amplifies the applause, and Kes ducks his head in an aw shucks, folks kind of grin and taps his fingers nervously against the body of the guitar.
A chant of “Another, another!” starts up in a far corner, not even from their party, and quickly catches on, carried by a wave of insistent, rhythmic clapping.
Kes waves out, shaking his head, still grinning a little; “I’m beat, folks,” he says, leaning over to talk into Poe’s microphone. The crowd quiets a little, and then Poe speaks.
“I’m not,” he says, impulsive, suddenly inspired.
Kes gives him a surprised, proud look. “Oh yeah, kid? What else’ve you got?”
Poe smiles to himself, and ducks his head a little. “This is, uh—“ he shrugs, and winces as his shoulder twinges. “This is a good one, too.” He closes his eyes again. Hums the first bars of When the Whisper Bird Flies Home; after a moment, he hears the stirrings of the guitar, of his father plucking out the delicate, simple melody. He starts to sing: it’s a sweet song, almost like a lullaby, about one of the beautiful golden birds found on Yavin IV — this one’s been separated from her flock, the song goes, but she’ll fly and fly, all night and day, through the storms and the swamps and the broken temples, trying to return. And when she makes it home, the flock will be complete, and there will be peace again.
It’s a little older than Poe, this song, written back when the Rebel Alliance had first been stationed on Yavin IV, by a groundpounder who’d been more lyrically inclined than most. It was never banned, never considered quite as subversive or dangerous, for all that it was an Alliance song through and through, mostly sung at campfires by rebel soldiers far from home. Poe’s memories of his mother ebb and flow, sometimes, but he always remembers her voice, remembers her light accent on certain words as she sang it. That’s how he sings it, too; that’s how he always has.
He sings the last verse, the one about the whisper bird finally coming home, unaccompanied. That’s not traditional, but when he opens his eyes, after finishing, he realizes why: his father’s staring at him, gripping the neck of the guitar so hard his knuckles have turned white.
“Dad?” he says, softly; Kes shakes his head, presses his lips into a tight line. And then he reaches over, wraps his hand around the back of Poe's neck, and leans in to drop a swift kiss to Poe’s forehead.
“Okay,” Poe says, after. “That’s all I’ve got."
**
Suffice to say, they get free drinks for the rest of the night.
It’s a nice gesture, but Kes is going to have to drive them home and Poe’s medication means the one glass of ale he’s had is already hitting him harder than he’d like. The rest of their table appreciates the open tab, at least, getting quite pleasantly sloshed as the evening skips on. Poe, having switched to water and retained something of level head, hears and will probably remember a great deal of stories about his father’s youthful exploits, most of which are probably exaggerated.
Poe doesn’t care. It’s the best time he’s had in more than a year, and it’s an honest to god disappointment when his father finally clears his throat and says that they need to be heading out. It’s a common sentiment: there’s a few grumbles, but everyone else’s got families of their own to get back to, as well, so it’s without much conviction.
“How about a toast first?” offers Kresh, and the rest of the group nods in approval. He looks to Kes, who shrugs, and stands. Raises a glass. “To Yavin IV, and the New Republic: hard sought, hard won, sometimes...hard to love…” a low ripple of laughter at that. “But ours, free and clear! Long may they stand.”
“Hear, hear!”
They all drink, and then Sakas stands up. “All right, all right, Sergeant Stoic.”
Kes winces a little at the nickname, and Poe feels kind of bad about laughing.
Sakas waves Kes down, and raises what’s probably her third glass of Port In a Storm. “To our very own Dameron boys,” she says, mock-serious, sincerely-fond, and a couple of good-natured whoops go up. “Heroes in war, friends in peace, and a sight for sore eyes—“
“And ears!” calls Krystah, to some laughter.
“—in all the times in between! Force love and protect them, ‘cause they sure as hell always need the help.” Some hoots about that, too, but everyone drinks to it, except for Kes and Poe, who both duck their heads and notice, at about the same time, that the other has done so as well.
“And to Princess Organa!” That’s T’iana, whose hand shakes a little from the weight of her tankard, but whose voice is steady and clear. “Health and joy to her and hers, may she enjoy her own hard-earned peace!" The cheers are less raucous this time, more considered, but just as sincere.
Poe swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat, but raises his glass as well.
**