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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

What’s the worst that could happen, really?

"What's the worst that could happen, really?"...an invitation for trouble.

Oh Poe your life is trouble. You attract it like ants/flies to honey.

Wonderful chapter!

I am in love with this <3

This is amazing, I'm so charmed by everything. Like, I don't know anything about Poe's hometown/home world/culture so I'm just accepting all of this as canon, it's so believable and rich!

I stumbled across the prompt while idly perusing the fills post, and was immediately drawn in by the idea. Some h/c, familial love, and less angst sounded perfect.

And...holy crap, I'm just blown away. So much wonderful world-building, and your writing is fabulous. That restless frustration and guilt Poe feels early on; his arrival on Yavin IV and staying at his childhood home; his dad being such a good dad... . I'd love your portrayal of their relationship no matter what, but Kes's demeanor reminds me enough of my own father's to bring tears to my eyes. The town of New Hope is just so lovingly, realistically, vibrantly depicted--definitely reminds me of a few places I've known, that have since turned into upscale shopping areas and tourist attractions--progress, for good or bad.

Again, your writing is such a wonderful treat to read. So glad you picked up this (great) prompt and are sharing it here. I only hope you continue to tell this story, and eventually post it on Ao3, so I can bookmark it!

Yavin IV had been abandoned for years before the Rebel Alliance moved in, its native warrior-race decimated by the Sith several millennia before, its ancient temples crumbling before the glacial onslaught of of a living, breathing jungle. Isolated and remote, it’d been the perfect place to cultivate a rebellion, to throw together a bunch of farm boys and merchant brats, refugees and criminals, the galaxy’s abused and disposed, and turn them into soldiers, fighting for a cause greater than themselves.

And then the Rebels had departed, leaving the hastily converted military barrack, control rooms, landing strips, and storage bins in their wake— the regular detritus of an army on the move, forgotten in the rush to relocate in the wake of the near miss from the first Death Star.

When Poe’s parents had moved there for good, Yavin IV, an Outer Rim moon with no native population and few strategic advantages, had only just been remembered by the galaxy at large. A Settlement Committee had formed, giving priority to veterans and people displaced by the war. Kes Dameron and Shara Bey, who were both, had apparently not even considered other options. Poe has always suspected, though never asked, that they’d both been ready to put a substantial amount of distance between themselves and the complexities of intragalactic politics brewing in the Core, where the new government was still going through extended growing pains.

A ranch in the midst of the deadly fauna, the sometimes carnivorous flora, and the daily torrential rainstorms (usually called “The Torments” by the locals, who were quick to adapt to the quirks of their newly adopted home with mostly good humor) might’ve seemed like strange place to find peace. But Poe’s parents had managed. All they’d really needed was each other; or at least, that’s how Poe remembers it.

Back then, hapless explorers who wandered off the beaten path, away from the few established townships, quickly found themselves at risk from the wildlife, the geography, and the weather itself.

These days, the jungle’s just as thick and, in most ways, just as dangerous. The towns are a little bigger, though — New Hope isn’t exactly the pinnacle of urban sprawl, but there’s more shops, and the local school house has a gained a second story since Poe attended it, and a fresh, brighter coat of paint. The Governing Palace, housed in one of the ancient Massassi structures, has been substantially renovated, with newly reinforced walls and another wing for the growing bureaucratic force associated with the moon's local Council and its representative to the Galactic Senate.

There’s even a couple of new cantinas, some trendy enough they’d look right at home on Corcuscant. The rest are pretty kitschy, catering to the tourists who pour from the green-and-white hover-buses shuttling folks to and from the old Rebel base, which has been turned into a supposedly cutting-edge museum celebrating the efforts of the Alliance to free the galaxy from imperial tyranny. Poe’s only been once, on the day it opened; half of holo-displays hadn’t worked, and the ones that had tended toward hagiographic depictions of several freedom fighters, including the much-vaunted local hero, Lieutenant Shara Bey Dameron. He hasn’t really felt the need to go again.

He and his dad weave around the gaggle of tourists, who mostly stick to the main streets and the tidy shops with the brightly colored walls and the restaurants serving traditional Yavenese fare. The place the Damerons are heading, with its packed-dirt floor and its lack of umbrella drinks, is maybe a little too authentic for most off-worlders.

The Armored Eel is not exactly a dive, but it is entirely without pretense — it’s as old as the colony, dating to a time when the citizens of New Hope had very little choice as to their local watering hole, and it shows. In addition to the dirt floor, there are tables and chairs made from rough-hewn wood, a scuffed bar, and a drink selection of five: all you can order is ale (of unknown brand or provenance), brandy (likewise), wine (Pamarthen, not for the weak of heart or stomach); rum (bottled on-planet from locally grown sugar cane); and cusha, a sickly-sweet liquor made from fruit fermented in the proprietor's backyard.

Sarna, said proprietor, is a portly being with grey-green skin and flint-blue eyes who has little to no patience for most beings. But she has a soft spot for veterans, and if there’s one thing that Yavin IV’s not lacking, it’s loyal soldiers, current and former, in need of a drink.

Today, Poe and his father are among them, and they’re not alone: Kes Dameron’s friends from the local Veterans Committee meet there every week or so, and Poe only vaguely suspects that his father’d moved the usual date around to be able to show him off today.

“Damerons!” booms one of the men, a tall, broad guy with a bushy grey beard, as they walk in. The rest of the table — about fifteen beings, most of them human, all of them about Kes Dameron’s age or a few years older, stand up. Poe recognizes about half, folks who’d settled on the moon around the same time as his family, or whom he’d met on one of his few recent visits. And then there’s the sturdy, pink-skinned Mikkian, who's a complete surprise:

“Sakas!” he says, grinning, walking right over to kiss her on both cheeks. She laughs and returns the gesture, though it’s not traditional for her the same way it is for him. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Oh, this and that,” she says, shrugging, but — Poe can’t help notice — not quite meeting his eyes. “Checking up on your father, mostly."

“Keepin’ him out of trouble?"

“Seems like you Damerons always need it,” she says, giving his shoulder a fond, exasperated look.

“Yeah, clipped your wing a bit there, huh, son?” says Arili Markyl, a former Pathfinder, nodding at the sling.

Poe rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how much attention is on him and his injury. “Just an accident. Mostly healed, but…"

“He’s takin’ advantage of a little R&R time with his dad,” says Kes, coming up to his side. “Force knows he’s earned it.”

This is met with a lot of approving nods and no further questions; Poe throws his father a grateful look that no one else seems to catch.

No one that is, except for Sakas, who gives a swift, knowing nod and wraps her arm protectively around his waist. She guides him back toward a row of three empty seats, setting Poe down in the middle, with herself to the side; Kes follows, sitting on a stool on the other side, and leans over as everyone settles back into their own seats.

“So what’s everyone drinking?” says Kes, rapping his knuckles against the rough wood table. “Next round’s on us!” That earns cheers, obviously — even Poe joins in, and starts to stand. Kes waves him down. “I got it, kid. Catch these bums up on what’s goin’ on in the rest of the galaxy, huh?"

Poe laughs, but the group apparently takes it seriously: he fields a number of questions on intragalactic politics that he’s not entirely prepared to answer, given how long it’s been since he’s visited Hosnian Prime or really had the time to think about it. He’s just finished up bungling an answer about the Banking Alliance’s latest refusal to raise interest rates when T’iana Calad, formerly of Gold Squadron and an old friend of Snap’s mom, lobs him what she probably thinks is a bit of a softball:

“So what’re you up to now, kiddo? Last I heard, you were off on Mirrin Prime, heading a squadron. How’s that going? They still got you on the T-85s?"

“Uh…"

“Poe’s running missions for Senator Organa these days,” says Kes, who’s appeared like a miracle, smoothly distributing drinks (ales, mostly, though Sakas and a few others have decided to brave the wine) around the table. This information is met with a wave of interest, followed by a couple of approving back pats — Yavin IV is Populist to fault and particularly loyal to the legacy of the Organas, which is rare for an Outer Rim planet, but given that the population is made up primarily of Alderiaan ex-pats and retired members of the Rebel Alliance, it’s not really surprising. Poe finds himself wincing from the attention, less because the sentiment than from the intensity of it. Kes works his way back to Poe’s side, smoothly blocking further access.

“Good man,” crows Nyeb Paesante from across the table, tipping his ale toward Poe. “You send the Princess our regards, lad. Tell ‘er we don’t hold with any o’ that nonsense about her father."

“Damn shame, that mess,” chimes Kresh Aiden, who’d flown an ambulance ship back in the day and now runs a clinic downtown. “Total hack job."

This elicits titters of agreement, and a conversation starts up, about how much truth there is behind rumors of General Organa’s biological parentage.

“Hell of a coincidence, it comin’ out right before the nomination,” says Sakas, which is met by a round of nods. “She’d've made a great First Senator."

“Because that kinda thing worked out so well last time,” says Krystah Rogocki, another former Pathfinder; he and Sakas have always butted heads a little, going back to the old days. Poe’s never found out what the source of it was, and his dad’s carefully neutral on the subject, but Poe’s more inclined to trust Sakas and is usually on her side by default.

“We’re not talking about Palpatine here, K,” says Sakas, rolling her blue eyes. “We’re talking about Princess Organa. That kind of power in the right hands isn't— "

“There ain’t no right hands for that kind of power," says Krystah, cold and humorless.

“So who’d y’all like for the Galactic Cup this year?” Kes says, a little abruptly, but it seems to work: talk of politics simmers down, and the conversation turns, only slightly less heatedly, to whether Gordian Athletic has a shot this time, or whether they’ll fall victim, yet again, to Team Fwillsving’s decade-long winning streak.

Poe lets it wash over him, remembering many conversations like this, in tone and cadence if not content — Sakas he’s known since he was a kid, and his dad’s small but steady band of VETCO friends has always been fun to catch up with during trips home from the Academy. A living reminder of the possibility, maybe even the likelihood, of a future — all of them had fought and bled and almost died for the New Republic, but they’d made it, they’d help build something real, even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it was never really done. And they’d got to enjoy a life of their own after, their own little bit of the peace and warmth in a big, cold galaxy.

It’s kind of nice, Poe thinks.

Sakas catches him smiling, and reaches over to squeeze his hand; that’s kind of nice too.

“It’s good you came home,” she says, low, leaning in a little to be heard by just him.

“Yeah?”

“Your father had us pretty worried.”

Poe blinks. Glances over at his dad, who’s in a deep discussion about how the trainer for Gordian Athletic was too much of a political pick to be very effective.

"Well, you know how Dad is," Poe says, vague but conspiratorial; Sakas laughs and shakes her head, sending her tendrils swaying.

"I do at that!" she says, taking a long sip from her wine. "Frankly I'm surprised he even told you, but..." she pats his hand fondly. "I'm glad he did."

"So am I," Poe says, watching Kes make wide, indignant gestures in support of whatever point he’s making. And he will be, certainly: once he figures out what his father's hiding from him and manages to finesse the details out of him, Poe will be very glad indeed.

"What?" says Kes, noticing that he's being stared at.

"You're crazy if you think it's down to the trainer," says Poe. "The problem's the players: they don't see themselves as a real team yet. They’re just a bunch of kids from different planets right now."

"You don't think that's down to the trainer?"

"I think that's up to the captain."

Kes gives a fond "agree to disagree" kind of huff and reaches over to give the back of Poe's neck a squeeze. Whatever he's about to say is lost when the rest of the table starts hooting and clapping. Poe and his dad turn as one to find the source of the commotion: Sarna, approaching with another full tray of drinks, balanced effortlessly on one hand, because in the other--

"Oh, no no no, no," Poe says.

"Next round's on the house," Sarna says, ignoring him as she slides the tray onto the table. "'s long as you folks help me out with a little problem I'm having."

"What sort of problem, ma'am?" says Kes, already grinning — he's planned this, Poe realizes.

"See, thing is, our regular entertainment's on the fritz lately," she says, nodding toward the ancient droid that plunks out a limited (very limited, in Poe's recollection) repertoire of Old Republic classics on a tinny valachord. "And I hear you Damerons've always got a song or two in ya'..." she holds out the guitar, a beautiful, intricately carved thing that Poe would normally die to try, and grins.

"That is a gross exaggeration," says Poe, and then gestures at his shoulder. "And unfortunately I can't really play right now, so—"

"So I guess you'll just have to sing along," says Kes, standing up to take the guitar, and nodding toward two stools and a low-tech (and probably unnecessary, given the size of the rooms) microphone that are not part of the cantina’s regular decor.

Yeah, Poe realizes, this was a total set-up, and honestly, shame on him for not picking up on it before. What kind of spy is he, really.

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.

**

Okay folks so I am SO SORRY to be so slow about posting this thing, I love writing it so much but I'm a very slow writer and this is especially, I always feel like I need to be doing more research for it being real precise about things, lol. And also my life stuff is sometimes kind of complicated, and has a tendency to interfere.

But I really do love writing it, and I've got an actual end goal in mind now (I mean I "alway did", vaguely, but I've mostly written the final scene), so there's definitely an end point on the horizon and hopefully I will manage to finish this thing BY THE END OF THE YEAR or something, finger's crossed. So thank you so much for reading it, thus far, and I hope you enjoy where it goes. Once it's officially Done I will post it all on my AO3 account, where hopefully it'll be much easier to keep track of.

<3

Lovely chapter! I especially loved the last bit with Poe singing and Kes just being so overcome by the words to the song.

Gosh, this is so lovely. I'm so glad to see this updated again <3

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FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)

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FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (5a/7)

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