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tfa_kink2016-02-26 05:03 pm
themodawakens) wrote in tfa_kink2016-02-26 05:03 pm
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PROMPT POST #4
This post is closed to new prompts!
prompt post one
prompt post two
prompt post three
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Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time
(Anonymous) 2016-03-04 09:38 pm (UTC)(link)Anon isn't looking for anything too angsty. Just some nice family time in the middle of the war where Poe and Kes make the most of the situation. Kes being a good dad and maybe Poe letting himself be coddled a little bit and enjoying not having to be On 24/7.
Re: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time
(Anonymous) 2016-03-05 12:38 am (UTC)(link)Re: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time
(Anonymous) 2016-03-07 07:49 am (UTC)(link)Re: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time
(Anonymous) 2016-03-07 01:18 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time
(Anonymous) 2016-03-09 09:40 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-16 05:02 am (UTC)(link)~
BB8 shrills at him, desperate and concerned, from his cradle on the back of the X-wing. He's upside down, which can’t be any more pleasant for a droid than it is for him. Though, Poe has to admit, it’s probably not worse — BB8 certainly doesn’t have a safety harness digging into what is very likely a broken clavicle, the sharp, insistent pain of a broken rib poking at a lung, and the cool, wet drip of leaking coolant pulsing through the tears of a flight suit.
BB8 doesn’t have a clavicle. Or ribs. Or lungs. Or a fight suit, come to that. Maybe he should — maybe, if Poe gets out of this, he’ll get him one.
He’s not getting out of this, he realizes, with a strange clarity.
Hell of a thing, he finds himself thinking, as his mind drifts and BB8’s titters fade into a soft, familiar song. Always hoped I’d die better than this.
He thinks — he feels — he remembers a cool hand pressed to his forehead, right before the world goes dark.
**
He wakes up to the safely sterile scent of D’Qar's medwing in a great deal of pain which, he’ll admit, is probably better than not waking up at all.
In addition to the chemical burns streaking across torso, and the cracked ribs, his clavicle is — to quote the delightfully unclinical droid who breaks the news to him — functionally pulverized. They’re the kind of injuries that the New Republic Navy dealt with through a quick dip in a bacta tank and a couple of days bed rest. But the Resistance, in the noble tradition of underground movements everywhere, is somewhat strapped for cash and medical supplies. The best the doctors can do for him is patches to heal the burns, which he’s infinitely thankful for, and injections of an experimental drug meant to bring down swelling and accelerated bone growth. The recovery period is about a month, requires a cast and sling, and precludes all but the most minimal movement of the effected area. And Poe Dameron’s a good pilot, the best he knows, certainly, but even he’s not exactly capable of piloting an x-wing with only minimal movement of his right arm and shoulder.
The first week, it doesn’t really matter: he spends most of it drugged out of his mind. Anesthetics are hardly plentiful but are apparently very necessary for the process, and his weak protests to the contrary are dismissed out of hand by everyone he tries to raise them with, from BB8 to the medical droids to Doctor Kalonia, not to mention General Organa, whose strangely pale visage he wakes up to on Day 3, or maybe 4.
By week two, he’s allowed to leave the medical wing, and finds himself wishing for the drugs again, because unfocused delirium has to be better than constant nausea and perpetual tedium. There’s nothing more boring than spending his days roaming the base in search of something to do that only requires his left hand. As it turns out, there’s not much: Black One's going through extensive repairs in a hangar that he’s been preemptively banned from, and the simulators are all full of new recruits. And while most of them still look upon Poe with a certain degree of hero-worship, he’s not bored enough to take advantage of that for the sake a distraction when they’re all still in need of training.
He reads a lot: starts at least five novels and gives up on them and going back to mission reports and his x-wing manual.
He goes to the commissary, then the mess hall.
He drops by the ambulance corps, to thank them for the rescue that’s put him in this particular predicament. His mom’d flown an ambulance ship for a while, he remembers: back before she’d been assigned her A-wing, a few months after enlisting with the Rebellion. Like most things related to her time in the war, Shara hadn’t talked about it. He’d had to find out, years later, from his father. Like it’d been something to be ashamed of, the fact that she’d been saving lives even before she’d been cleared for combat missions.
His squad returns, piecemeal, from a set of missions. He tries not to go crazy listening to Snap and Jess talk about their milk-run trips to the outer-rim, but his cast itches and his stomach hurts and he feels tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes not from doing too much but too little, and of having nothing to look forward to.
It’s fine. He’s dealing with it.
**
He deals with it for three weeks.
He might’ve dealt with it longer, except that’s when news comes in, of a practice run turned ambush on what they’d thought was an uninhabited system far from First Order territory. Three of the five recruits were killed, Iolo and Kune took serious hits, and Poe, who would have — should have — been with them, was getting the hard cast removed from his arm and shoulder and told he needed another two weeks of light duty and a sling before he could return to active duty.
And now, he’s pacing the Control Room, trying to listen to the debate about balancing the need for off-planet training exercises and the risk of future attacks.
“Commander Dameron?”
He stills: General Organa is staring at him. “Ma’am?"
“Do you have a suggestion?"
“Yes,” he says, firmly. “Put me back on rotation."
There’s a few light titters around him; he ignores that, focuses on the General, who’s giving him a steady but almost gentle look. “I don’t think that’s the best idea right now."
The not-insignificant parts of Poe Dameron that have, through his Yavin IV upbringing and years of Academy training, developed an instinctual respect for a person of General Leia Organa’s experience, scream at him to shut up, to pause, to listen. The rest of him, the parts that are tired, angry, and, more than anything, guilty, win.
“With all due respect, ma’am, I’m the best you’ve got right now—"
“And so humble, too,” she says, dryly.
“Ma’am,” he says, utterly failing at keeping his voice even. “You need me out there. You can’t afford to lose any more pilots, and—"
“You are too important to the Resistance—"
Poe laughs, harshly. “From here? Doing nothing? I’m useless to you right now!” he glances around: the room is full of people, many of whom seem reluctant to meet his eyes. “To all of you.”
“You are not useless, Dameron. You’re healing."
“I am healed!” he says, and makes the colossally stupid decision to rip open his sling and wave his very much not healed arm around for emphasis. It’s agony, of course, but he’s got the training, and more importantly, the adrenaline, to push past that. “I’m fine!"
“Commander Dameron—"
“People are dead,” he says, trying not to think too hard about them, three kids he’d recruited fresh from flight school, talked into abandoning a promising future in the New Republic Navy in favor of low wages and suicide missions. “Because I couldn’t keep my damn ship in the air."
“People are dead, Commander Dameron, because the First Order is brutal, desperate, and sloppy. Putting you out there before you’re fully recovered from your injuries would be just as—"
“I’m recovered!"
“Son—"
“I am not your son,” he snarls, and through the swirling haze of pain, anger, and frustration, hears gasps. General Organa’s face changes, minutely, but Poe’s immediately certain that he might as well have slapped her. The momentary flash of vulnerability in her eyes fades to a cool darkness.
“Ma’am, I didn’t—"
“You’re dismissed, Commander Dameron."
He opens his mouth to protest, and she fixes him with an icy stare that cuts through him like blaster fire. He yanks his right hand up in a breathtakingly painful salute, nods, and exits the room.
**
He slinks back to his quarters and collapses, drapes his weak arm over his chest, and shuts his eyes to the sound of BB8 practically cooing at him.
He lasts about half an hour like that, before the pain gets to be too much, before he starts worrying about having done permanent, irreparable damage to his arm, and drags himself to the medwing; BB8 trails after him, chattering at everyone they pass on the way there, which is great, because it means Poe doesn’t need to.
Doctor Kalonia takes one look at his sloppily fastened sling and hustles him to a cot. “Lie down,” she says, stern, and Poe obeys. “I’m going to give you something for the pain?” she asks, like he has the option of saying no. He knows better: the minute he refuses it becomes an issue, it becomes a psych eval and another couple of weeks on the ground.
A quick jab to his thigh and relief is almost immediate. “Thank you,” he says.
She nods at him. Unfastens his sling, runs a scanner along the length of his arm and shoulder. Purses her lips as she surveys the results.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, as the waves of hazy numbness flood over him.
“For what, Commander Dameron?"
“For—did I—did I fuck up all your hard work?"
The doctor gives him a slight, but genuine, smile: “Not my hard work, Commander."
His own, then. His own efforts to become indispensable to the Resistance, to give all he has to offer to protect the New Republic, freedom, and intergalactic stability. Everything his parents had fought for. All because he’s a grown man who can’t keep himself entertained and out of trouble for five fucking weeks.
What an idiot, he thinks, right before he dozes off.
**
FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-16 05:08 am (UTC)(link)“Commander Dameron!” says Dr. (apparently) Alara. “Good to see you awake."
“Good to be awake,” he lies, and sells it, the best he can, with a crooked grin.
Dr. Alara ducks her head, blushing. She fumbles with her data pad for a moment. “How long had it been since you got a good night’s sleep?"
“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. He isn’t even sure what qualifies as a good night’s sleep anymore.
“Right,” says the doctor. “Well, you got a solid ten hours last night. There’s been a couple of people in here, looking for you, but Dr. Kalonia told me to keep them—keep you—well, make sure you got your rest."
If there’s anything he doesn’t need more of, it’s rest, but Poe nods. “Who’s looking for me?"
“Maybe you should get breakfast first."
“Good idea,” he says, smiling. “After that, though. I wanna check in with whoever’s looking for me as soon as possible."
“Well, half your squadron’s come and gone. General Organa’s droid came, some of the—"
“General Organa’s droid?” He stands up, much too quickly. “Did he say anything?"
“Just that you’re to report to the General once you’re feeling up to it."
Great. Well. That’s never, probably. He sighs. “Thanks, Doc,” he says, and gives a lilting whistle to rouse BB8 from artificial slumber.
“Commander Dameron—"
“Breakfast, I got it!” he calls back, turning glancing over his shoulder to wink at her. “Headin’ to the mess right now, I promise."
**
All he gets at the mess is caf and and a protein bar, but it’ll have to be enough. His head’s still light from the painkillers and the ten hours of sleep (he hasn’t gotten ten hours of sleep since he was a kid: sick, home from school, and miserable).
The Control Room is quiet when he gets there: by no means not empty, but nowhere near as full as when he had his tantrum. The General is there, of course: looking at a broad array of the universe, apparently updating the planets currently believed to be under immediate threat from the First Order.
“You sent for me, ma’am?"
“There’s been reports of suspiciously efficient raids on trade ships just beyond the Gordian Reach."
“Oh?” Poe hears himself say, colder than he intends, but he’s got a bad feeling as to where this conversation is going and can’t help himself.
"Wexley’s making a reconnaissance run out there, in hopes of getting a fuller picture of the situation."
“Good for him."
The General turns to look at him, and looks so fundamentally exhausted that Poe feels himself flush with shame. “Given your current…” her pause is masterful, born not from uncertainty but intent to leave him squirming. “Condition,” of unmitigated assholery, she doesn’t say, but clearly means. “He’ll be dropping you off at Yavin IV on the way."
Poe swallows and fixes his gaze on one of the bleeping lights of the display behind her — a transport ship, he assumes, from the size and the speed with which it’s approaching Dermos. “Understood."
The General seems surprised by his acquiescence, and her voice softens. “I know you won’t believe this, Commander,” she says, quietly. “But this isn’t a punishment."
Poe straightens his back. His shoulder aches, which seems appropriate. “Am I dismissed?"
General Organa sighs. “You are, Commander Dameron."
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. In lieu of a salute, he gives a curt nod, and spins on his heel with precision his Academy instructors would’ve wept at. It’s the best he can do.
**
Snap, like everyone else who’d witnessed his breakdown, has been walking on eggshells around Poe since then.
Poe finds himself resenting it, though in a way it’s easier, means he doesn’t have to make much conversation on the quick jump to the Gordian Reach. Not like he’s got much to say, anyway. Sorry I’ve been such a dick lately, buddy, might be a start, but he’s not quite ready to make it, especially not with Snap throwing him those careful, wary looks, like he’s going to — hah—snap at any minute.
He’s nice enough to let Poe sit in the co-pilot’s seat, though, so Poe smiles as pleasantly as he can, and keeps his mouth shut otherwise. Forces his good hand into his pocket, to keep it from twitching anxiously at the controls he’s desperate to touch, and tries his best not to think about how much he hates riding in ships that he isn’t himself flying.
**
They reach Yavin IV just as night begins to fall: Poe watches the shade of the thick canopy of tree tops change from vibrant green to dull black as Yavin sets ahead of them.
The grey-brown stone of the ancient towers peak from the trees, gleaming under the light from the gas giant. Poe feels a swift, strange punch to the gut at the sight. He hasn’t lived here in years, went straight from Academy barracks to a solitary apartment on Mirrin Prime to the cramped quarters on D’Qar. Hadn’t been born there, even. But something about this place always gets to him — the thick air, the lush jungle. The sounds of animals and insects; even some of the plants rustle on their own, a background, soft susurration that’d been terrifying, as a kid, but now it’s just…
Snap sets the ship down in a clearing a couple hundred feet from the ranch. Poe wills himself out of his memories, out of his head, and back to reality. He can see the lights of the ranch in the distance.
“Home sweet home?” Snap says, and Poe huffs a laugh.
“I guess.” He stands up, grabs his bag, and calls for BB8, who rolls after him, quieter than usual. Almost as if he's caught Poe's mood, and he kind of hates himself for that, for transmitting his childish melancholy to a usually impossibly chipper droid.
Snap follows him, a couple of steps behind. Poe’s strangely grateful for it, and even more at the fact that he seems to know better than to ofter to take Poe’s bag.
A tall, solid figure emerges from the ranch, and lopes up to them; BB8 lets out a happy little squeal and rushes away, greeting Kes Dameron by spinning gleefully around his ankles till he crouches down, putting him roughly at eye level with the droid. His laughter fills the distance between him and Poe.
“Hey, little buddy,” he hears his father say, watches him make a real show of listening to BB8’s bleeps. Kes has never quite been able to get the hang of binary, but you’d never know it, watching him with BB8.
Eventually, Kes straightens from his crouch. “Hey, kid,” he calls out, waving.
Poe holds his head up high, trying his best not to feel like a child who got sent home from school for fighting. “Hey, dad."
Kes looks at him for a moment, mouth twitching, before throwing his gaze back at Snap, like a challenge.
“That you back there, Temmin Wexley?"
Poe doesn’t need to glance back to know that Snap’s saluting. “Sergeant Dameron. Sir.”
“At ease, son,” Kes says, finally letting a smile peak through. He walks up to Poe, resting a hand on his uninjured shoulder and giving him a squeeze; Poe nods in response, letting his gaze drop. Kes tsks lightly at him, but returns his attention to Snap. “You got time to join us for dinner, Captain?"
“‘Fraid not, sir. Recon mission."
“Next time you’re in the system, then?"
“That’d be—that’d be great, sir."
“Good man,” Kes says, nodding. “Take care of yourself out there."
“Will do, sir,” Snap says. A moment’s hesitation, and then: “Poe?"
Poe half-turns, just enough to be able to glance over his shoulder and give him a friendly wave. “See you soon, buddy. Thanks for the ride."
Snap swallows his momentary surprise and grins back in something like relief. “Any time, man,” he says. “Have fun."
Poe forces a smile and nods again, which does nothing great for the incipient headache. Snap seems satisfied, though, and heads back to his ship. Poe turns away, gazing at the house while he listens to the engines start up.
“How you doin’, kid?”
He glances over at his dad. “Great."
Kes laughs, obviously unconvinced, as he reaches down to grab Poe’s bag.
“I can—"
“Yeah, yeah,” Kes says, slinging it over his shoulder, which settles it.
“Thanks, dad."
Kes smiles at him, small and fond, and throws a careful arm over Poe’s shoulders, guides him back to the ranch with BB8 bringing up the rear. “You hungry?"
He’s not. Hasn’t been for weeks, really. Not about to say it, though.
“For your cooking?” Poe says, with a smirk. "Always."
Kes snorts. “Oh, all right, smart guy,” he says, pushing him forward and into the house. “Go get washed up, we’ll see how much of my terrible food you can choke down."
Poe opens his mouth to respond but, can’t: his breath catches as he looks around.
It’s the same as it’s always been, the house: orange walls around him, blue in the living room to his right, green in the kitchen, which he can catch a glimpse of from here. The holo frames in the foyer track his life: squirming out of his mother’s lap when he’s about four; grinning widely on the first day of school, with his curls neatly combed; a rotating series shots of him, standing next to the tree out front, charting their mutual growth over the years. A large image on the dark wooden table in front of him: his graduation ceremony at the Academy, having his wings pinned on by his father, while both of them try not to cry.
BB8 bumps against the back of his calves; he drops his gaze, suddenly aware of the fact that he’s standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at nothing. His father’s beside him, asking if he’s all right.
“I’m fine,” he says, because he has to be.
His dad chuckles, drops Poe's bag to the ground, and comes up around him. “C’mere, kid."
“Dad—"
“I know, I know, you’re fine. For your old man, okay?” he says, slinging an arm around Poe’s good shoulder and pulling him close. Poe doesn’t fight it, lets himself be dragged into a firm, all-enveloping hug. Presses his forehead against his father’s shoulder, wraps his good arm around his waist, and takes a breath. “Missed you, kid,” says Kes, stroking the back of his head. Poe’s struck by a half-forgotten memory, of Kes picking him up and carrying home from a day at the fair, of stroking his hair in the same way.
“Missed you too,” Poe mumbles, and blinks, a little desperately, trying to chase the watery sting out of his eyes.
**
Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-16 05:29 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-16 06:29 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-16 03:37 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-19 07:05 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-26 09:11 am (UTC)(link)FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-26 11:57 pm (UTC)(link)Kes Dameron’s culinary sensibilities are practically decadent by comparison, for all that his approach to meals has always been simple, comprised of three main components: meat, starch, and some sort of local fruit or vegetable. Today, it’s the fried, breaded meat that Poe’d always liked as a kid, cut up into easily manageable strips like a four year old (or a grown man with only one functional arm), would need, with plantains on the side, and a squishy, red, boiled fruit on the side. There’s also green spicy sauce that Kes would normally have poured over everything indiscriminately; today, it’s in a side dish. Poe looks at it and raises his eyebrows.
Kes shrugs. “Painkillers always fucked with my digestion back in the day. Figured you might want something a little less…” Kes waves his hands vaguely.
“Thanks, dad,” he says, and finds himself meaning it.
Kes grins at him, winks, and goes to work drowning each of the items on his plate in sauce.
“Got any requests for the rest of the week?"
“I don’t want to put you out,” Poe says, automatically.
Kes huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Well, I was thinking of headin’ to the town tomorrow. Gotta stop by the market, see some friends. You feeling up for it?"
“Sure,” he says, having no reason not to. “Can I drive?”
His dad gives him a look. “With one arm?"
“Still be a better driver than you,” he points out, grinning, and Kes rolls his eyes.
“Whatever you say, hotshot."
Poe chuckles to himself and digs into his meal. It’s a pain to eat with one hand but he’s gotten used to it. “Pá in town this month?"
“Nah, he’s gonna be pissed he missed you, though. I’m never gonna hear the end of it."
“I’ll give him a call when I’m—when I’m back on base.” That’s the best case scenario, anyway. His grandfather’ll be glad to hear from him, at least: it’s been too long since he reached out, but Poe's not sure he wants him knowing the full details of his trip back home just yet. It’d been tough enough explaining his decision to give up Rapier Squadron.
Kes nods; Poe’s not sure if it’s at himself or in agreement with his plan. “He’ll like that."
**
He goes to bed early.
His room is, as ever, untouched: model ships hanging from the ceiling, bed made, old holorecords lined up in alphabetical order on the shelf his dad had helped him put up when he was ten. There’s a desk and chair he’s not even sure would fit him anymore, and the bed’s smaller than what he’s got on base, but it’s softer, too. He flops down on it, not even bothering to change. Just kicks off his boots and lies down on top of the covers, listening to the sounds of the jungle beyond his window: the cooing of whisper birds, the hoots of woolmanders as they swing from branch to branch of the ancient Massassi trees.
Inside, he can hear BB8 beeping at his father, and his father laughing, talking to the droid as if it were a child: gently, enthusiastically, though Poe knows he doesn’t understand a thing.
The night storm starts, and he shuts his eyes, drifting off to the sound of raindrops on the durasteel roof.
**
Habit has him up before dawn the next morning, which is still not before his dad, who’s already gotten a start on brewing caf and making breakfast. Eggs, with spiced sausage, and fresh juice. Poe can’t complain.
“Where’s BB-8?” he asks, stifling a yawn.
Kes snorts, and pulls him toward the window looking over the backyard: between the line of storage unit, his mother’s A-wing, and the squat chicken coop his father’d built the year Poe left for the Academy, BB-8 is rolling across the grass, pursued by—
“What the hell is that?"
Kes sighs. “That’s Xóchitl."
Poe stares at the large, feline creature, with dark purple fur, pointy ears, and a thick plumy tail. “The fuck’s a Xóchitl?"
“No clue,” says Kes. “Your grandfather brought her back from some planet where they breed ‘em. Told me she’d be good for keepin’ the stintarils away from the chickens."
“Is she?” says Poe, morbidly fascinated as the animal leaps over BB-8 and then flops onto her back, rolling in the grass for a while as the droid beeps excitedly at her.
“Haven’t lost one since,” says Kes.
Poe nods to himself, thoughtful. Kes hands him a mug of caf, which he takes a sip from, and then puts down on the kitchen table.
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” Poe says automatically, only to realize that that it’s true. Better than he has since leaving Mirrin Prime, even. “You?"
Kes shrugs, and hands him a plate of eggs. Poe takes it, sitting down and wondering at Kes’s sudden reticence: his father’s never been a big talker, but he’s always made it a point to answer direct questions directly.
His father fills his own plate, then sits down in front of Poe. They meet each other’s eyes, nod, and dig in.
Breakfast is quick and quiet, like it has been ever since Poe was a kid (or, at least, ever since it was only Poe and his dad at the kitchen table). When they’re done, Kes washes and dries the dishes, and Poe stands awkwardly to the side, doing his one-handed best to put things away once they’re clean. Everything’s where he remembers it, at least.
After, they both go outside: Xóchitl bounds up to his father, butting her head against his thigh, humming like some strange, organic engine. Kes chuckles and gives her a few loud pats before heading off for one of the storage units, and Xóchitl goes back to darting around BB-8.
Poe approaches them slowly, carefully; Xóchitl turns her head to look at him before he’s close enough to touch. She’s got big golden eyes and ears that prick forward, as if waiting for him to speak. “Hey, girl,” he says, taking another step, and reaches out, runs careful fingers through the thick, dark fur. She makes a strange, low mrrrrow sound at him, and Poe finds himself smiling.
BB-8 bumps against his leg, and he laughs, reaching over to pat his head. “Sorry, buddy. I’ve only got one the one hand right now.” He eases himself onto the dew-damp grass, and is met with a wave of all-encompassing feline affection as BB-8 makes vaguely scolding noises.
By the time Kes comes back, firmly ensconced behind the controls of the transport vehicle, Poe’s got Xóchitl sprawled expansively over his lap, purring loudly, as BB-8 beeps and bumps playfully against Poe’s back.
Kes hops out of the speeder and raises his eyebrows at them. “You okay down there?" he says.
“Oh, fine,” Poe says. “Always wanted to be mauled by wild animals and ambushed by machines.” BB-8 titters at him, clearly insulted. Poe laughs and nudges back against him. “Just kidding, buddy."
Kes snorts, before letting out a sharp, short whistle and jerking his head to the left. Xóchitl bolts off of Poe instantly and lopes away in that direction. “Gotta be firm with her, kid,” says Kes, with that tone he gets when he’s about to start the these’re working animals, they ain’t pets lecture. Poe’s heard it enough times and doesn’t really need it repeated, and just nods, hoping to hold it off. His father offers him a hand, and Poe takes it, lets himself be dragged up, off the ground. “You ready?”
Poe nods
“Good.” Kes glances over at BB-8. “You comin’, little guy?” The droid gives a steady stream of bleeps that basically amount to I’d rather stay and play! Kes looks at Poe, who shakes his head. Kes shrugs. “Okay, then,” he says, and waves a stern finger at BB-8. “Behave yourself, BB-8.”
The droid chirps affirmatively, before streaking away in search of his new best friend. Poe can’t hold back a slightly bemused chuckle. Kes hears it, and grins. “Don’t feel too bad,” he says, slinging his arm over Poe’s shoulders. “I still like you best.”
“Oh yeah? Enough to let me drive?”
Kes throws his head back, laughing, as he steers him over toward the passenger side, and slides open the door.
“No,” he says, and shoves Poe inside.
**
The Town of New Hope is about a twenty minute drive from the ranch, if you’re making reasonable speed and observing the recommended guidelines proliferated by the local government.
Kes Dameron, who drives below a reasonable speed at the best of times and seems especially cautious today, seems determined to make sure it lasts about thirty.
Poe tries to mind, but being in the fresh air is nice, as is seeing the jungle stretch out around him, instead of blurred into the tangle of green it usually becomes when he drives. He can smell eyualca flowers blooming, and the sounds of pirahna beetles over the rumble of the engine.
His father’s quiet, which is normal, but keeps glancing over at him, which is not. They’re approaching the ancient-looking but actually barely thirty year old gates that signal the entrance to town before he finally speaks.
“You talk to Mel recently?"
Poe blinks. “You mean since we broke up? Not really."
“Shame,” says Kes. “Always liked him."
“Well, I think he’s still single. Could get you his number, if you want."
Kes huffs and reaches over to ruffle his hair. “Okay, smart ass. Who are you seein' these days?"
“No one."
“No one?” Kes gives him a look. “Or no one exclusively?"
“Dad!” Poe says, surprised into a laugh, though he wonders what his father’s heard — Kes doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by the possibilities, and just smirks as he pulls the speeder over in front of the market.
“You coming in?”
Poe starts to shrug, like an idiot, and winces. “Yeah,” he says. “Why not?”
Massassi Market Square, like most of the buildings at the very center of town, is about as old as Poe. The architect, an Alderiaan ex-pat, had designed it according to what he called Ancient Massassi Principles, meaning a lot of local stone, heavy columns, and artistic interpretations of the ancient, still-untranslated glyphs found on the many temples scattered around Yavin IV.
It’d been started a year after Poe and his family had moved to the moon, to commemorate the fifth-year anniversary of the Battle of Yavin, and completed the following summer. Poe’s memories of the opening ceremony are some of the earliest he has: lots of music, cut-paper streamers hanging from the roof, stalls piled with brightly colored fruits. Holding both of his parents' hands, walking between them, pulling them along in his desperation to see the booth with model ships hanging from the support beams. His first kiss had been against the building's smooth, sun-warmed outer walls; it’d tasted like the sour-sweet muja juice Old Val had sold in vibrant plasto bubbles. He knows the place like he knows parents' ranch, like he knows the interior of his x-wing: instinctually, fundamentally.
Or at least, he had.
“It’s bigger,” says Poe, pointlessly, as he looks around.
“Storm took out the east wing ‘bout two years ago. Council voted for an expansion and renovation plan. Put in permanent stalls, fixed up the fountain, that kind of thing."
“It’s nice.” And it is: the interior’s brightly lit, uncluttered. The permanent stalls add an air of order to a place that Poe’d always loved for its hectic bustle. He feels his father’s gaze on him, and turns his head to meet it. “I like it,” he says, reassuring himself more than anyone. He takes a breath: the scent of spices and candy and meat, both raw and grilling, meets him, but not at nearly strongly as he’d remembered it.
“New air filtration system too,” says Kes.
“Good,” Poe nods, and tries to ignore the strange, swift punch of disappointment low in his gut. “Old Val still in business?"
“There’s a new Val now,” says his dad. “But the menu’s the same."
“Wanna meet me there in an hour?” Poe says, forcing a smile. “My treat?"
Kes gives him a careful, steady look. “Okay, kid. Keep out of trouble."
"When do I ever get into trouble?” Poe mutters, automatically, and Kes's gaze rests on Poe’s busted arm just long enough to make his point. Poe rolls his eyes, but nods, acknowledging it. Kes cracks a smile, leans in, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
Poe blinks in shock, but before he can say anything, his father’s turned and walked away, disappearing behind the booths piled with new and gently-used clothes.
And, just like that, Poe’s on his own.
Or at least, as one his own as he can be, in the middle of a crowded market, being jostled by a band of older women dragging bright canvas shopping carts, wide-eyed tourists from the Core planets, and the occasional bored-looking Civilian Defense Guard.
Poe sighs. Steadies himself. Avoids squaring is shoulders, because he imagines it would hurt, but nods to himself, and heads off, with no real direction in mind, other than away.
**
OP here!
(Anonymous) 2016-05-27 08:17 am (UTC)(link)Re: OP here!
(Anonymous) 2016-05-27 02:43 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-27 11:44 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-27 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-29 05:27 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-06-04 04:06 am (UTC)(link)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?
Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-06-04 04:25 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-06-04 02:53 pm (UTC)(link)Wonderful chapter!
Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-06-04 06:27 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-06-08 09:21 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (4/?)
(Anonymous) - 2016-07-09 03:00 (UTC) - ExpandFILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (5a/7)
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-08 00:12 (UTC) - ExpandFILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (5b/7)
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-08 00:16 (UTC) - ExpandAUTHOR'S NOTE
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-08 00:34 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (5b/7)
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-08 15:59 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (5b/7)
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-11 02:00 (UTC) - ExpandCOMPLETE FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time [NOW ON AO3]
(Anonymous) 2016-12-13 05:09 pm (UTC)(link)Re: COMPLETE FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time [NOW ON AO3]
(Anonymous) 2017-01-16 11:36 pm (UTC)(link)