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The Matter of Stars

Summary:

Operating radio communications on a Resistance base is precisely the kind of thankless job that you feel you deserve after escaping the ghosts of your past… Until the night that the mundanity is disrupted by an untraceable incoming call: the last testament of a dying stranger, stranded somewhere across the stars.

Through quick thinking and a bit of luck, you’re able to send rescue to the mysterious man on the other end of the line—but when he turns out to be none other than Poe Dameron, poster boy of the Resistance, your life on D’Qar is about to be thrown into chaos.

- - - - -
★ F!Reader with backstory, no use of "(Y/N)"
★ Slow burn Poe Dameron x Reader romance (vague, pre-Finn-&-Rey timeline)
★ Crossposted on Tumblr (@interstellarwraith)

Notes:

★ slow burn, workplace romance between female reader and Poe Dameron, sometime directly preceding the events of the sequel trilogy, which brings me to my next point:
★ same disclaimer from my other fics… “my knowledge of Star Wars lore/timelines is pretty selective and has some big gaps, so if you see any discrepancies, uh: Oops.” don’t come for me
★ anyway! the first few chapters of this fic draw heavily from the 1946 film A Matter of Life and Death, which is about the romance between a radio operator and a WWII pilot that miraculously escapes certain death. 💕 chapter 2 in particular is a direct reference to that movie’s opening, so I recommend checking it out! I’ll put the YouTube link on my Tumblr (@interstellarwraith)!
★ in conclusion, this fic is near and dear to my heart, and is about 30% A Matter of Life and Death, 30% a Cinderella story (a la 2004’s A Cinderella Story), 20% my memories of interpersonal drama from life on a military base + high school/college, 10% another fic vehicle to help me examine life with PTSD… and 10% my gigantic shameless crush on Oscar Isaac 😌
★ General CWs for discussions of grief, PTSD, and canon-typical violence
★ Chapters 1 & 2 are getting posted together, and the next several are already written, so expect fairly regular updates for a bit!
★ I always love reading your thoughts and comments. without further ado, enjoy 💖

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text


 

- - - - -

 

For a communications specialist, you’ve grown eerily accustomed to the quiet.

It’s another temperate, clear night on D’Qar, and stars twinkle like diamonds overhead. You lean back to gaze at their brilliance through the scuffed-up window sitting before you.

The past couple of days have seen an uneasy quiet fall over the Resistance base like a heavy fog. 54 hours ago, three members of the elite Black Squadron piloted themselves off-world to execute a highly sensitive recon mission… You’re not even sure if anybody on D’Qar knows the officers’ destination outside of General Organa herself.

The team’s absence has left the base teeming with anxious energy, especially since the mission in question is scheduled to span several days. In truth, your presence here—in the dead of night, waiting at the comms for any sign of trouble—is mostly a formality, and that only one other officer was assigned to this shift only confirms that fact. 

This won’t be the first quiet night you’ve spent in fruitless anticipation behind your desk, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Since joining the Resistance nearly a year ago, you’ve made it your goal to make as little noise as possible—and you’ve done a damn good job of it.

Years ago, life under First Order occupation on Corellia—with your own father working to support the regime, no less—taught you how to fade into the background, only being seen and heard when you so wished. After your parents were gone, though, layng idle beneath the boot of fascism became harder and harder to stomach, and it wasn’t long before you were headed offworld to offer your meager skills to the first rebel outfit that you could identify.

You’ve always been a good listener; perhaps that’s why life behind a radio has come so easily to you.

With the Resistance’s reputation for action, you had honestly expected them to ask much more of you—but you can’t say you weren’t relieved to be granted the comparatively mundane post you now find yourself in.

Sparks .”

Blinking rapidly, you glance back over your shoulder at the only other person in the room: one of your colleagues, Chantel, a stout Twi woman with fiery eyes that don’t seem nearly as comfortable in the still of the night as your own. Judging by the impatience lining her features, she must have called for you multiple times without attracting your notice.

You offer an apologetic smile. “Yeah?”

“I said, I’m going to the canteen to grab some caf,” the woman sighs. After retrieving her leather jacket from its hook beside the door, she scoffs on her way out of the room. “I’ll get you some, too… Sure seems like you need it.”

You frown as you watch her vibrant orange lekku trail out of sight.

A natural consequence of keeping to one’s own thoughts, you suppose, is being branded as an inattentive airhead... All things considered, though, there are worse ways to sour your reputation.

What little talk there is of you around D’Qar has you pegged for a quiet, unassuming comms officer with no life beyond your desk. Fine by you—you’re not keen on letting your colleagues get close enough to discover the repulsive associations of your past.

Around base, you’re now known only as “ Sparks .” The allegedly good-natured nickname, usually used to refer to any radio operator, has been so reverently reserved for you and you alone. Memories of your personality—of everything you were on Corellia—were left behind in the blackness of space, and now, even your true name seems lost to time.

Despair at the thought always leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but you have to remind yourself that you’re not here to make friends—

You’re here, on D’Qar, sitting at a desk… To repent.

A peculiar sound begins gently ringing from somewhere atop your desk, causing you to startle to attention.

You look to your primary comms panel in confusion—no lights, no noise—it can’t be coming from there.

Frantically shuffling through the papers lining your workspace, you check your other devices—it’s not the datapad, nor is it your headset. What…?

Your gaze stills when you catch sight of a faint orange glow.

Pushing aside the pile of your discarded jacket, you stare at the ancient transmitter in the corner, dumbfounded.

The thing is a relic of a bygone age, one you have long assumed was merely a decoration… But now, to your utter bafflement, here it stands—blinking light, trilling receiver, as if proudly heralding its own return from the grave.

…Maker, what do you do? Who could possibly be calling you from an antique like this one?

You swallow down an anxious breath, instinctively darting your gaze back to the empty room behind you.

When you return your attention to your desk, your hand stills where it reaches for the receiver. You dart a nervous glance back over your shoulder, only to be reminded that you are alone—uncertain, and as always, alone.

In the dim lighting of the comms center, the blinking light of the radio could be just another star.

Chapter 2: Dead Air

Summary:

An incoming transmission threatens to throw your world off-balance.

Notes:

★ I will reiterate that this chapter is heavily inspired by the opening to 1946 film A Matter of Life and Death. check out my Tumblr (@interstellarwraith) for the clip!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

With a timidity unbefitting of your post, you pick up the antique transmitter, holding it to your lips.

“Message received,” you say in a voice less steady than you’d like. “State your business, over.”

Silence.

You take a fortifying breath.

“State your business, over.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth, sweetheart.”

You nearly flinch when a masculine voice pushes its way through the static. Whoever the man on the other end is, he sounds surprisingly nonchalant despite the peculiarity of the situation.

You contacted me ,” you frown. As the hazy image of a face begins to form in your imagination, your eyes focus into the distance beyond your window. “This is not a public line. I will not ask you again, what is your business , over.”

“No-nonsense, there’s a woman after my own heart,” the stranger laughs, with a bit too much enthusiasm; is he delirious? “Made an emergency landing, my—my ship got damaged, and other comms are down, I—”

For the first time in your brief conversation, the man’s voice falters, giving way to a grunt of pain. Panic slips its way into your voice.

“Come in, over.”

A pause. Then:

“Relax, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” His voice might be somewhat weaker now, but strangely, something resembling relief washes over you when he speaks once more. “Anyway, where was I? Right, right—dunno what planet this is, but it’s got, um—it’s got trees. And this abandoned mining outpost, that’s where I found this radio… Thank the Force this thing still works. Maker, how does this thing still work?”

He’s rambling now; he must be injured, or in shock, wherever he is. Your heart softens a bit for his predicament, but you keep your guard up nonetheless.

“How can I assist you? Over.”

“Don’t know,” he hums. “I’ll be honest with you, honey, something’s definitely broken, maybe a few ribs… And there’s a lot of blood. I don’t know if I’m getting out of this one. Where are you from?”

Unsteady breathing catches in your lungs; one moment he’s confessing to his imminent demise, the next he’s trying to make small talk. Despite all your training, this man’s temperament leaves you reeling.

“Hello?”

You clear your throat.

“Yes. I—Corellia,” you breathe. “I grew up on Corellia.”

“Ah, nice place—or, used to be, ya know? Great shipyards, for sure. Great ships,” the voice muses, threatening to trail off once more… But another change of subject soon arises to give you whiplash. “Listen, sweetheart—and I hope it’s okay that I call you that, you’ve got a good voice, really—listen, now that I think it over, I don’t know that it’s safe for me to throw myself at the mercy of the first pretty voice that picks up, ya know? Really, I guess I should’ve considered that before turning this damn thing on.” He coughs out a sheepish laugh.

Your brow furrows; what is he saying?

You’ve been careful not to reveal anything thus far about your location, nor your allegiances—but then, so has he.

What could possibly be the issue, that he thinks you might not want to help him? Is he some sort of criminal, a slaver or something? Does he think that you are? Could…

Could he be First Order?

Nonsensically, you look up from your desk once more, maintaining a white-knuckle grip on the transmitter. Now more than ever, you wish a superior officer were around to tell you how to handle this—

But there’s no one here but you.

And somewhere across the stars, a man is alone and dying—and you might be the last person to ever hear his voice.

Your stomach drops at the thought.

“Be smart about this,” you stammer. “We—I may be able to help you. I can contact somebody for you, we… Requesting your position, I repeat, requesting coordinates, over.”

“No can do, instruments are shot, just like me... There’s trees here, I can tell you that much—big ones, with bright blue leaves. It’s kind of beautiful, actually.” You rack your brain with this new information, but come up short. He sounds eerily relaxed, as if he’s merely describing the view to an old friend.

“You know,” he continues. “I’ve had a lot of flings, lotta folks trying to reel me in over the years. But it’s you who’s gonna be with me at the end, doll—kind of romantic, right? Kind of sweet.”

His words are punctuated by a weakening sigh. Distraught tears are now welling in your eyes, casting the dim room in a shroud of fog.

“Yeah,” you murmur, lost for words. “Yeah, it is.”

“You at work right now? What time do you get off?”

You swallow thickly, wiping at your eyes to better see the clock beside you.

“In about four hours.”

In response, the stranger makes another abrupt segue: 

“I might be close to home, I think, but I guess it doesn’t matter because I don’t know how much longer I’ve got in me. In a few minutes I’m gonna hit the distress broadcast on this old tin can, and just try my luck, ya know? I’ve always wanted to beat the odds.”

Your head whirls; delirious as he may be, his logic is still somewhat sound—he very well might be closer to his point of origin than you are to him . You doubt that there are many outposts that still have a functioning radio this old… D’Qar might’ve been the nearest planet that could catch his transmission, but it doesn’t mean it’s nearby.

Regardless of distance, how could you possibly reach him in time?

The weight of panic that falls over you is almost too much to bear.

“Sorry, bit of a joke.” The mysterious voice dissolves into something that’s half-laugh, half-groan, before righting itself. “Hey, honey, let’s say I meet you when you get off work, okay? We’ll hit up a couple cantinas or something, celebrate.”

This is the first of his nonsensical ramblings to surprise a laugh out of you.

Tears are now streaming down your face.

“Sure,” you smile.

“You got a name?”

Your breath hitches.

How long has it been since you’ve told somebody your real name—or even spoken it aloud?

“Yes,” you breathe. From the shelter of your desk, you whisper your name to him from across the stars.

He tests the sound of it on his tongue, and you can hear a smile in his voice.

“You really do have a beautiful voice. I don’t think anything on the other side will sound even half as pretty,” he says. “I’ll try to make our date, but don’t wait up for me, okay?”

“Of course not,” you scoff through your tears. “I’m a busy woman.”

“Atta girl.” He speaks with such fondness that you choke on your next words; on whatever you might’ve been able to say to keep him on the line just a little longer .

“Now listen, if you—” His speech is nearly lost amidst the staticky clamor of metal on metal, as though he is rearranging machinery. “If anybody asks… You tell ’em we went out swingin’. That Black Squadron didn’t go down without a fight.”

Your eyes go wide.

Wait —”

But no sooner does he speak his final words, than the line is cut—for good.

Notes:

★ the pseudonym “Sparks” is a term I learned from the aforementioned movie A Matter of Life and Death! it’s actual military slang for radio officers
★ again, I hope you’ve enjoyed this so far! 💕 let me know what you think!

Chapter 3: Deliverance

Summary:

You struggle to hold out hope during your attempt to save a stranger’s life.

Chapter Text

Alive.

Alive.

Be alive.

Your heartbeat pounds a steady rhythm in your ears as you drop the receiver to your desk with a metallic clatter. With not a moment to lose, you awaken your monitor, eyes frantically searching the screen for distress signals.

And there—a blip.

Alive .

Wherever you are—be alive .

Elpis: a relatively unpopulated planet not far from D’Qar, and the signal is broadcasting from its moon.

So fortuitously close—the squadron must have been on their way back to base when they were caught whatever firefight took them down.

Strange, stubborn man—please, be alive .

This post can be high-stress at times, and you’re no stranger to casualties by now—but for some reason, never before has the cold weight of death hung so heavily upon your conscience. If the last of Black Squadron dies, quite literally on your watch, how could any of the Resistance ever trust you again?

And how could you live with yourself?

You curse as you wipe your cheeks upon your sleeve, hot tears flowing freely now as you work diligently to isolate the distress beacon.

‘It’s you who’s gonna be with me at the end.’

No.

To hell with this job, this place… Whoever that was on the other end of the line, you want—you need him to live.

Your body moves of its own accord, powered solely by the foolish flush of hope that causes your heart to stutter beneath your ribs.

Be alive.

In all your months on D’Qar, you’ve never hit the button to activate the basewide sirens faster.

 

- - - - -

 

What was meant to be a routine nightshift transforms, from then on, into an overwhelming blur of movement and sound.

You talk to two—three?—of your superior officers, and a med team rushing to depart. You know that your voice somehow sounds from your chest, you can feel it, but you’d be at a loss to repeat whatever details you told them.

The Resistance base is electrified by panic as a thousand things seem to happen all at once. At some point, your stress-ravaged body urges you to take the seat at your desk once more.

Nonsensically, you stare at the old radio for what feels like hours—what might be hours—hoping that any minute, that damn orange light will blink back to life.

Able to see the tarmac from the windows of your meager radio tower, you’re there to guide the medical shuttle into landing as it reenters D’Qar’s atmosphere. From somewhere outside your body, you watch through the window as a stretcher carrying a heavily-bandaged and bloodied man is rushed from the cargo hold and out of sight.

Once sunlight has begun to creep through the windowpanes and word gets around that General Organa has called a basewide meeting, you think it’s your Twi colleague that gently ushers you in the direction of the canteen.

“It’s been a difficult few days for many of us, I know.”

The General’s sympathetic voice, ever the epitome of composure and grace, washes over the gathered crowd.

“I will keep this brief, as I intend to urge many of you to seek rest after the tumultuous events of this evening,” she continues. “But I am here to offer news of Black Squadron, as you’ve likely surmised.”

Your peers fall silent as the grave, and you fight to restrain the tears that threaten to overtake you.

“It saddens me deeply to inform you all that, today, we lost two brave members of our ranks to First Order patrol ships.”

Anguished gasps sound from the congregation, but in your own heart, a treacherous ember of hope still burns.

Three officers went on the mission.

“It is thanks to the quick action of a communications officer that we were able to retrieve Black Leader from the wreckage of his X-wing, and that he now has a chance of recovery,” she continues solemnly.

A chance of recovery.

Your throat tightens.

A distant part of your mind cringes in horror as you begin to feel eyes turn toward you in question; most of the base knows that you lead the night-shift in comms.

“Of course, updates on his condition will be given as soon as they are known.” General Organa scans the crowd with gentle eyes. “Until then… May the Force be with those we have lost, and may the Force be with you.”

As the General turns to exit the assembly, a hum of anxious murmurs rises from the throng of people. Your gaze stares past them all; every nervous glance, each worried face.

You don’t feel ready to stand, quite yet.

Sparks , is it?”

Looking up, you see two women around your own age, followed closely by a slightly older man. The trio looks nearly as haggard as you feel.

At length, the woman with a disheveled blonde pixie cut clears some of the hoarseness from her throat.

“Sparks,” she says once more, an understanding smile serving to add warmth to her weary features. “I’m Karé… This here is Snap,” she gestures to the man beside her. “And this is Jess. We’re, uh… The rest of the Black Squadron.”

Your eyes go wide as you take in their presence. What could they want with you?

Nonsensically, you breathe the first words that form in your stress-addled brain.

“I’m so sor—”

Your words are cut off by a gentle grunt, though, as the shorter of the two women— Jess —surges forward to capture you in a tight embrace. A trembling panic seizes you as your uncertain hands remain hovering at your side.

Thank you .”

Jess’s whispered words halt the apology on your tongue.

Karé steps forward and, with a gentle hand on her squadmate’s shoulder, urges Jess to release you. As the two pull away, you’re able to note the signs of tears dried upon their cheeks, and your heart crumples into sympathy.

“Will you let us buy you a drink, kid?”

The man introduced to you as Snap eyes you expectantly, his easy manner strangely comforting amidst the morning’s chaos.

Still somewhat dazed, your eyes scan the mess hall around you; the majority of the assembly has begun to disperse, no doubt to make themselves useful—or to catch some much-needed shut-eye, more likely.

…How many hours has it been since you last slept?

The door to the base’s makeshift bar glows dim with light.

“Um, yeah,” you sigh, feeling your exhaustion in your bones. “Yeah. Sure.”

 

- - - - -

 

You sit in silence between Karé and Jess for what might be a few seconds, or perhaps several minutes. Eventually, Snap returns to the secluded booth you’ve gathered around, with a pitcher of ardees in one hand and four pint glasses clumsily strung together in the other. Murmuring your appreciation, you accept the proffered drink.

The squadron seems to share a knowing look before Karé speaks once more.

“So, uh… The General told us she didn’t want to spread ‘false reassurances’ so early on,” she begins tentatively. A spark of something alights her eyes as they meet yours. “But the docs said that Poe really does have a decent chance of making it out, ya know? He’s in the bacta tank right now, otherwise we’d…” She trails off.

A decent chance .

A weight feels lifted from your chest; one you hadn’t noticed until its absence.

“Poe,” you murmur thoughtfully.

You never did get his name, did you?

But he got yours.

“Yeah,” Jess chimes in, worried thumbs rubbing the condensation from her glass. “Poe Dameron.”

Poe Dameron.

The man saved by an antique radio.

Distantly, the name sparks some recognition within you—‘ Black Leader, ’ an ace pilot that never met a starship or a soul that he couldn’t charm the hell out of. Though you do your best to ignore basewide gossip, you would have to be deaf not to glean something of Dameron’s reputation.

Known and admired, even loved, by so many…

And yet it was nearly you , a perfect stranger—a nobody —to hear his dying words.

But those won’t be his dying words.

And he’s here now.

And he’s alive.

“That’s… That’s great,” you croak. “I’m so, so glad.”

“Hey now, Sparks—”

Numbly, you register the solid presence of Karé’s arm around your shoulder. It takes you longer still to realize that the wracked sobs you’re hearing are, in fact, your own.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, shamefully wiping at your face.

“None of that,” Jess mutters weakly, nudging your side with her own.

Maybe it’s the ardees affecting your empty stomach, or maybe it’s the good news that fractures your composure.

Maybe it’s the selfish joy that the first person you’ve made a human connection with in years is not lost to the blackness of space.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t slept in who-knows-how long.

Or maybe it’s Snap’s kind smile, or Karé’s comforting hand at your back, or the empathetic tears now welling in Jess’s eyes.

You break down…

And cry, and cry, and cry.

Chapter 4: Soundwaves

Summary:

As the aftermath of recent events settles upon D’Qar, you come face-to-face with the man you saved.

Notes:

★ if you find yourself invested in this or any of my other ongoing works, please take a moment if you will to check out my Tumblr (@interstellarwraith) for a note about my current posting schedule/sort-of-hiatus
★ that being said, for this fic in particular, you can still expect regular updates for a while! and thank you, as always, for your thoughtful comments 💞 enjoy

Chapter Text

You’re granted two days’ leave to sleep and unwind, but rest won’t come easy in the cramped confines of your dorm room. Savitri, your lower-bunk roommate, is thankfully assigned to the morning comm shifts, thus giving you privacy in which to search for fitful sleep during your usual daylight hours… But when night falls and it becomes her turn to catch some shut-eye, your nocturnal habits find you forced from the room to occupy yourself elsewhere.

Sitting idle behind your desk, monitoring comms, is one thing—sitting alone in the mess hall, staring down at your untouched porridge in pensive silence, is quite another indeed.

What’s worse is that you aren’t really alone.

As the last of the day-shifters straggle out of the room, finishing their night caps and heading off to bed, you feel eyes on you that were never there before.

Is it respect? Curiosity? Suspicion?

You find that you don’t care; you’ve never sought out this degree of attention, and you certainly could do without it right now

When worries about Dameron consume your every waking thought.

You’ve been relieved to learn that his recovery is progressing as hoped, but now, strange new concerns are bubbling to the surface.

Nobody—not in years, maybe not ever —has been so honest, so vulnerable when speaking to you as Dameron was that horrible night. What’s more… You’ve never let yourself show such unbridled fear to anybody, and certainly not to a stranger.

In a way, the both of you were intoxicated that night—by terror, by sentimentality—by each other.

But now, Poe Dameron is back on D’Qar.

And you start another night shift tomorrow, like nothing ever happened.

And why in all the stars would he be interested in talking to you anymore, when you’re no longer the only one listening?

“This seat taken?”

You nearly jump as you look up, only to find Snap’s kind smile gazing down at you, steaming cup of tea in hand.

“No,” you mutter. “Go right ahead.”

For a not-entirely-awkward minute, the two of you sit in companionable silence: him sipping his tea, you taking a preliminary bite of your now-cold meal.

“He woke up today. Just for a little bit,” Snap adds quickly. Suddenly eager, you search his brown eyes.

“He did?”

“Yeah. He… Wasn’t quite all there, though,” he continues with a mirthless huff of laughter. “He kept asking about the firefight, and muttering something about talking to an angel. But delirious-and-awake is better than comatose , right?”

An angel.

Your heartbeat hammers at your ribs.

“Yeah,” you manage. “It is.”

 

- - - - -

 

At your first shift upon your return to duty, you try to settle into your usual position—chair pushed back, enjoying the serenity of the night.

But tonight, your gaze is not drawn to the stars—instead, you stare grimly at the outdated machine still tucked in the corner, receiver dropped haphazardly to your desk where you’d left it.

Dameron doesn’t seem to know that the woman that answered the radio— his “angel”—is the same person that locked onto his subsequent distress beacon at the Resistance base.

And after hours of thought on the matter, you’re decidedly keen on keeping it that way.

What good would it be for either of you—two perfect strangers—to acknowledge the frenzied conversation you shared when he was at death’s door? He would naturally come to his senses upon recollection of the event… Probably feel awkward, probably apologize , which would all be too much for you to bear.

And you…

Unbidden, the bitter words of your mother—the widow of a First Order war hero—snake their way into your thoughts.

Don’t get attached to “important” men. They’ll find better things to do, or they’ll go and get themselves killed—but either way, they’ll leave you.

After months of successfully resigning yourself to being a mere footnote in the story of the Resistance, could you really be so foolish as to play the heroine to a man who’s practically the poster-boy of the operation?

Of course, some lonely part of you wonders what might happen if you try to get to know Dameron…

But your self-preservation instincts, ever-louder, tell you to accept this whole incident as an occupational hazard of the heart, and move on .

After all, it’s only by such instincts that you’ve gotten this far.

The screen of your datapad blinks to life atop your desk, and with a weary sigh, you unlock it to see…

A message, from one Jessika Pava . Concisely, it reads,

 

Dameron’s awake, for real this time, wants to meet you. Swing by the medbay after your shift? - Jess

 

…Shit.

 

- - - - -

 

You can do this.

Will Jess or the others be there? Maker, why didn’t you think to ask?

Approaching the medbay door with your to-go caf, you’re grateful to have the drink with you, giving your awkward hands something to do.

This isn’t a big deal .

Dameron probably just wants to thank you, especially since the talk around base is that you saved their beloved pretty-boy’s life. You’ll smile, say that you’re just glad he’s safe , and then you’ll both get on with your lives.

…Stars above, he won’t recognize your voice, will he?

As you tap your bracer to the door panel, you grumble a quiet prayer to anybody that might be listening, hoping desperately that those shitty radios were just staticky enough to obscure the finer details of your intonation.

Morning light streams in through the windows, revealing a room with a neat row of cots—all empty, save for one at the end.

In the eerie quiet of the corridor, your feet carry you toward him.

“Are you Sparks?”

Soft brown eyes peer up at you as you’re reunited with the rich voice that’s occupied your mind for days…

And just like that, you’re spellbound.

“So they tell me,” you quip breathlessly, pulling up a stool to sit at his bedside.

The man laying before you, though blessedly conscious, has definitely been through the wringer. An IV still pumps fluid into his arm, while small monitoring devices are taped to his half-bared chest. Roughly shaven stubble dusts his sharp jawline, while the thick, dark hair atop his head looks as wet as a mop—he must still be taking treatments in the bacta tank, then.

Yet, even still…

Poe Dameron is just as handsome as they say.

Mentally, you try to squash that thought like the skittering pest it is.

“And they tell me, ” he adds with a charmingly lopsided grin. “That I have you to thank for getting me off that rock.”

You try not to let your smile become a wince.

“I honed in on the distress beacon, that was all,” you carefully deflect.

“‘ That was all …’” Dameron huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in wonder. “Huh.”

You sit in awkward silence, running nervous thumbs along the lid of your caf.

“And you’re in comms?” He inquires curiously. “Jess said you’re not a rookie, been here a while... How come I haven’t seen you around?”

“Night shift,” you respond stiffly, remembering your effort to keep speech to a minimum.

Dameron openly studies you, now, his dark brows knitting together to take in your tense posture.

“Timid thing, aren’t ya?” He teases. Despite the jab, his acknowledgement succeeds in disarming you a bit. “Is this weird? Sorry if I made this weird. Listen, really, I am grateful, whether you like it or not. When I get outta here, Sparks, I’m buying you a beer, mark my words.”

Recognition warms your cheeks—there’s that rambling, train-of-thought cadence of the man you spoke to through the radio. The moment brings a smile to your face, despite yourself.

“I’ll look forward to it, Commander.”

Chapter 5: Empty Seats

Summary:

As you attempt to resume the mundane routine of your life, the Black Squadron throws a wrench in your plans.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t expected “back to normal” to feel so… Strange.

Two weeks after Commander Dameron’s rescue, he’s now healed enough to be seen walking around the base. In nearly a year on D’Qar, you can’t recall ever noticing the man—but lately, his presence seems inescapable.

You can’t take a damn rinse in the showers without overhearing outrageous retellings of Dameron’s escape from near-death. Some mornings, you see him out on the tarmac, getting overwhelmed by pats on the back and appreciative grins… It makes you wonder how he puts up with it all—the expectations, the borderline hero-worship. But then, he seems far from undeserving; with a face like that coupled with his alleged prowess as a pilot, Commander Dameron seems destined for the spotlight…

A complete and striking contrast to the mundane obscurity that fate has in store for you .

Your usual night shift has settled back to its familiar quiet. Occasionally, you’re called upon to clear a patrol ship for landing, or you break to catch some fresh air by strolling about the darkened tarmac… But there’s a nervous energy—faint but persistent—coursing through you that was never there before.

Like something is missing.

Like something is about to happen.

A weary sigh escapes you as you clock out of your station, morning sun streaming in through the observation window. Outside, you can see the base stirring to life as sleepy-eyed recruits cross the pavement, off to begin their days’ work.

Pulling on your jacket, you begin making your way to the canteen.

Dinner, and then bed.

Work, dinner, bed.

Work, dinner, bed .

You suppress a frown as you accept the same tray of portion bread and vegetables that always awaits you at sunrise.

“Hey, Sparks, that you? Sparks!

Your gut does nervous somersaults when you hear the sudden call of your name from somewhere across the busy mess hall. Turning to locate its source, you spot… Dameron.

He’s seated beside Karé, Jess, and Snap, emphatically waving for you to join them. The others turn to greet you with polite smiles.

You physically fight the urge to look both ways to double check that it is, in fact, you he’s calling to.

Uncertain feet carry you over to them, and you fail to ignore the curious glances of other officers as you pass. Karé quickly scoots over, making room for you at the small, rectangular table.

“Hey stranger,” Karé says with a wry smirk.

You mumble out a responding greeting as you take in the group’s easy, welcoming expressions—and Poe Dameron’s curious gaze. The table is scattered with steaming cups of caf; what’s dinnertime for you, is breakfast for them.

You haven’t spent a significant amount of time with this lot since the night you cried your heart out over glasses of ardees…

Maker, don’t they think you’re some sort of basket-case?

“So, Sparks,” Dameron wastes no time chiming in. “Where ya from?”

Even his squadmates seem to eye him with confused surprise at his direct approach. All the while, the Commander’s dark eyes are focused solely on you.

You try not to squirm as you answer.

“Coronet City,” you respond, forcing a relaxed smile.

Dameron hums thoughtfully through a bite of his toast as Snap redirects your attention.

“Ah, Corellia ,” he muses. “Some truly great shipcraft has come from there… But I bet you’ve seen it for yourself, haven’t you?”

“Here and there,” you nod.

It’s for the best if you keep details to a minimum. It’s common knowledge that your home planet has been under First Order occupation for some time…

And they don’t need to know you were crossing enemy lines when you joined the Resistance.

“Do you fly?” Jess prods, and you look over to her. Seated across from you and beside Dameron, she’s looking far better rested now than when you last saw her. “Like, do you get off-base much?”

“No,” you admit, feeling oddly abashed in the face of her sympathetic frown. “I’m just on comms… Night shift. If you’ve landed an X-wing in the dark recently, it was probably me that buzzed you in.”

“Hey, ‘just comms,’ what you do is important .” Dameron points a chastising spork in your direction as he swallows a bite of eggs.

“Say it, don’t spray it, laserbrain ,” Jess scoffs as she playfully elbows him. Karé shoots a long-suffering eye-roll in your direction.

Your own division doesn’t strictly work in “teams,” and that fact feels strikingly apparent as you take in the comradery shared by the Black Squadron. In your time on D’Qar thus far, you’ve rarely been in a position to act so familiar with your colleagues.

And yet, despite the teasing and the chatter…

There’s something somber in Dameron’s eyes that feels like it’s pinning you down, dissecting you like an unfamiliar specimen.

“Thank you, Commander,” you breathe. Tearing off a piece of portion bread, you stuff it in your mouth, hoping to still the uncertainty of your wagging tongue.

“If I had to spend all night listening to pilots talk, I’d go haywire,” Jess says with a thoughtful frown as she takes a sip of her caf.

“If I spent all night listening to you , I’d feel the same,” Karé teases. As Jess splutters indignantly, her squadmates share boisterous laughter.

Not quite comfortable enough to appreciate the joke, however, you opt to address the worry in Jess’s comment instead.

“It’s not all bad,” you say with a sheepish smile. “In fact, I usually don’t even have to take more than one or two comms an hour. It’s mostly… Quiet.”

Snap nods thoughtfully at this, and your cheeks warm beneath his appreciative gaze.

“Quiet can be hard to come by, around here,” he muses, eyes crinkling with mirth at the corners.

“That’s for damn sure,” Dameron grumbles, and the bitterness in his words takes you by surprise. While his comrades acknowledge this only with wincing sympathy, you turn your eyes toward the Commander with concern.

Like the rest of the Resistance, you’re far from immune to the power of Dameron’s boyish good looks… But you wonder how many people—outside of his squadmates, clearly—take notice of the dark circles that halo the pilot’s eyes, or the determined set of his jaw.

It’s because you’re studying Dameron that you become the first to notice when his face blanches like he’s seen a ghost, and the shift in expression is so drastic that you fail to suppress your own shock, blurting out to him.

“Commander…?”

His dark eyes briefly dart to your own before returning to observing some point across the mess hall. Dameron’s friends follow the direction of his gaze in concern, and you discreetly try to do the same.

It takes you a moment, but you soon identify what must be the object of the Black Squadron’s attention: a tall, lean recruit has just entered the canteen, and something about him causes the passing crowd to give him a wide berth, almost subconsciously. The man can’t be much older than yourself, with skin the color of rich soil and a face that looks oddly hollow. The cut and color of his attire tells you that he’s another pilot; Teal Squadron, it would appear.

Of course, the haggard man soon feels the weight of your table’s collective gaze upon him, and suddenly glances up from the floor as he floats his way through the crowd.

When his dark eyes turn your way, undisguised hatred gives life to the man’s otherwise barren features, like the glowing embers of a dying fire.

A sudden jostling of the table has you whipping back around to face your companions.

“I’ll see you for drills,” Dameron mumbles, his stricken face turning away as he rises from his seat and makes a determined, yet unsteady, way toward the exit.

Once the Commander disappears from sight, you remember to turn your attention to Jess, Karé, and Snap.

As the trio before you shares knowing glances, you find only mournful concern in their faces—none of the confusion that must plague your own.

With a glance in your direction at last, Snap gives the slightest nod in the hostile stranger’s direction before speaking to you in a low voice.

“That’s Erno,” he explains. “His partner, Kinga… She was one of the two that we lost. When Poe…”

Swallowing down the bile in your throat, you nod; he needn’t finish.

Hatred .

That’s definitely what you had seen in the pilot’s face.

Stealing another surreptitious glance toward Erno, you see him making his way down the line to grab his sparse meal. When no longer glowering at the Black Squadron, he looks once more to be the shell of a man—as though his body is kept moving only out of habit. Seeing his palpable sorrow, pity strikes your heart like an arrow.

Three left on that fateful mission. Three people , dedicating their lives to a cause they believed in.

Poe Dameron, through your panicked efforts, was rescued from certain death…

But the other two won’t be coming home.

Chapter 6: Night Shift

Summary:

An unexpected visitor arrives during your night shift.

Notes:

★ happy Star Wars Day 2022! I’m updating three fics at once today!! 💫
★ for those that haven’t seen my pinned hiatus message on Tumblr, I encourage you to check it out (@interstellarwraith), just for context on why my update schedule is a little weird rn 🤍
★ anyway, please enjoy!

Chapter Text

A proper communications officer shouldn’t find radio silence so disconcerting… If anything, an uneventful evening should be viewed as a good omen in your line of work. Tonight, you’re even scheduled to be alone on-duty, thanks to the expected inactivity.

But that fact does nothing to halt the increasingly morbid march of your thoughts.

Up until quite recently, you’d thought you had made some semblance of peace with your lot in life.

Sure, you joined a paramilitary rebellion as a roundabout way of atoning for your family’s sins… And yeah, you have been making a conscious effort to wall yourself off from anybody that might find that fact repulsive. You spend the vast majority of your waking hours in relative silence behind a desk, drowning in your own head.

Hours turn into days, and days into…

But lately, you can’t help but ask yourself if you should be striving for more.

After all, what’s the ultimate mission of the Resistance, of all the beings you work to support each day, the ones that risk death for their cause? Many of them say, “a better future.” All your life, you’ve known only two worlds: First Order occupation, and the frenzied fight against it. But could something exist for you, outside of that all?

You think of the Black Squadron, of the way Jess and Dameron tease each other, of the knowing looks that pass between Snap and Karé.

You think of poor Erno, left hollow by the loss of somebody he cared so much for…

You think of Dameron’s words over the radio.

‘It’s you who’s gonna be with me at the end.

As if on cue, your headset crackles to life.

“This is Black One to D’Qar, over.”

You nearly jump at the sound of the Commander’s voice, buzzing through the speakers right on cue. A bit too slowly, you reach for the switchboard.

“Copy, Black One,” you say in the most professional voice you can muster.

A pause; too quiet… Too long.

“Hey, if it isn’t Sparks,” the Commander says, a smile evident in his intonation.

Your cheeks warm as you search for an equally personable response, and come up short.

“What can I do for you, Black One?”

“Seeking clearance to land, over.” Thankfully, Dameron doesn’t seem put-off by your businesslike manner, and gets to the point.

Over the next several minutes, you guide Dameron onto the tarmac in the usual way that your job requires, but your curious mind races as you work.

You started this shift over two hours ago, and you don’t remember clearing Black One for takeoff… Which must mean that the Commander has been out flying since well before that time, and is only just now returning in the wee hours of the morning.

Once Dameron and his X-wing have safely landed, you breathe a sigh of relief—and it’s then that you realize you’ve been trembling ever since his initial comm.

Because the last time you spoke to the Commander over the radio, his life was on the line.

Staring out the window into the blackness of night, you try to stifle that thought, a wildfire of worry that threatens to consume you.

You’re not sure how much time has passed before you’re hearing footsteps behind you.

“Black One, seeking clearance to enter?”

Pivoting your chair, you find Commander Dameron darkening the tower’s doorway.

He’s dressed in his vibrant orange flightsuit, dark hair still mussed from hours spent beneath a helmet. That charming, lopsided grin threatens to blind you with its brilliance, but you don’t fail to notice the two cups of to-go mess hall caf he carries, one in each hand.

And at his feet—

“BB, chill out , buddy.”

But Dameron goes unheard as his astromech droid races toward you, stopping just short of your feet before rolling in excited circles before you.

Despite your nerves, you break into a smile; you’ve always liked the BB-series.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance…” You trail off, glancing up at the Commander.

“BB-8,” he smirks, before holding up one of the cafs as he approaches, brows raised in question.

“For me?” you ask stupidly.

“BB’s not gonna drink it,” he quips, handing you the cup as he pulls up an empty chair to sit across from you. In contrast to the excitable energy of his droid—who is now emitting a sporadic sing-song of delighted beeps—Dameron seems perfectly at ease as he leans back, crossing an ankle over one knee while he takes a long sip of his own beverage.

“Thank you, Commander,” you manage, following suit. “Caf in the middle of the night, though… What’s the occasion?”

Dameron’s easy smile falters, and you curse yourself for prying, but he gets his own words out first.

“Can’t sleep… You know how it is,” he waves, before an amused smirk overtakes him once more. “Or, do you? Maybe not, I guess.”

“I do sleep , just like you,” you smile. “I just have to use blackout blinds, that's all.”

Without missing a beat, he renews the subject of your query:

“It’s okay,” he nods knowingly. “I know it’s weird for me to be out running drills by myself in the middle of the night. Don’t think you have to pretend it’s not.”

You almost choke on a swallow of caf, mind racing over his blunt address. After clearing your throat, you find your voice once more.

“I wasn’t going to pretend,” you clarify. “I just didn’t want to pry.”

Dameron smiles at this—not his usual wry expression, but something far softer—and you feel as though you’re being warmed by a sun.

A weighted pause passes before the Commander anxiously adjusts in his seat.

“Anyway, I remembered you said it was always quiet here, and—I don’t know…” For the second time, a crack in the foundation of his easy demeanor. “Thought you’d appreciate some company. Or… Appreciate the caf, at least,” he says, raising his own cup in toast. You struggle to read between the lines of his suddenly furrowed brow, but then it hits you: it’s only now occurring to him that you might want solitude, up here.

The admission, however inadvertently betrayed by body language, is completely at odds with the vision of the ever-confident man you’d heard tales of.

No sooner does this realization strike you, then you’re allowing your giddy nerves to shine through in the form of a reassuring grin.

“Of course. Frankly, it’s criminal that we haven’t had a caf machine brought up here by now,” you joke, before attempting a more sincere tone. “And… I’ve never had a visitor before. It’s nice.”

Dameron’s eye lights up like the mess hall on Life Day, even as he struggles to conceal his exhaustion. He raises his caf in another toast.

“Pleasure to be of service,” he nods.

Some heavy emotion tugs at your heart, and you dart a glance out the window as you debate whether to inquire further into his situation. Your voice easily outruns your common sense, however:

“Commander,” you breathe, voice low. “Are you doing alright?”

Dameron’s dark eyes widen at the question, but he doesn’t immediately answer… Which might be telling in and of itself. When his leg is jostled, you both look down, only to find BB-8 pointedly nudging his Commander’s boot.

“Not really, Sparks.”

Dameron offers the droid a pat on the head. Though his response aches with honesty, he gazes out the window of the tower himself now, unwilling to meet your eyes. Understanding, you follow his example, turning to observe the glistening night sky yourself.

You give his words room to breathe. Several seconds, or perhaps minutes, pass in somewhat-comfortable silence as the two of you drink your caf.

“The dogfight was a mess, but… I’m used to the line of fire. That’s not it,” he murmurs eventually.

He doesn’t need to clarify which battle, which night he’s talking about.

Your breath hitches as you wait for him to continue.

“It was… The waiting,” he heaves with an exasperated sigh. You glance back toward him; his expression is almost angry. “The waiting around on that damn rock, bleeding out, hallucinating, staring down death but being unable to do anything about it…”

He’s angry with himself , you realize, and your heart constricts.

You wrack your brain, struggling to set aside your intimate knowledge of those fraught hours—after all, Dameron still seems to think that your conversation was merely a delusion of his distraught mind.

“But you did do something, Commander,” you say, turning to face him in earnest now. “You sent out that distress beacon, and because of that, we—”

Seemingly lost, he continues as though he can’t hear you.

“I thought I was ready for death. Hell, I take that risk every time I get in the cockpit. But…” Clearly uncomfortable with this level of vulnerability, yet unwilling to relent, Dameron clears his throat, shifting in his seat to look you in the eye at last. “I lost two good pilots, good people out there. I couldn’t save them… I couldn’t even save myself.”

You don’t argue, this time; you only meet his gaze with a solemn nod, hoping that you can somehow help him shoulder the burden he’s spoken of.

At length, you string together what few words you’ve found within yourself as you glance down to trace the lid of your cup.

“Anticipation… Dread can eat you alive,” you speak hesitantly. “Every night, I sit here and hope that I won’t need to do anything more than take a few calls. All the waiting, and the wondering… It’s maddening sometimes.” You breathe a weary sigh before continuing. “And even still, I can’t imagine what that was like for you, the waiting , thinking you’d… That you’d die out there.”

In the Resistance’s fight against the First Order, the grim specter of death is ever-present—but tonight, it feels like it’s sitting right beside you and Dameron, taking a caf break to make itself known.

At last, you gather the courage to look back up at Dameron, only to find him openly studying you now, some desperate feeling lurking in the darkness of his eyes. Your own voice feels distant as you go on.

“No man is an island, Commander… Not even you.” You smile apologetically, but he seems too lost in thought to notice. “You can’t blame yourself for those we’ve lost, and you can’t blame yourself for needing the help of others.”

Before your very eyes, Dameron deflates somewhat… Giving up the fight against himself, if only for the time being. A defeated smirk of self-reproach clouds his features, and it breaks your heart.

“Sparks—”

“Everybody knows you’d never go down without a fight,” you say, more confident in your words now. “You’re a first-rate pilot, but you’re also just plain brave . It’s what everyone here admires so much about you.”

The Commander seems to almost flinch at your words, but nonetheless, allows them a moment to sink in. You can feel the air lighten somewhat, and when Dameron leans forward with a raised brow, you understand why.

‘Everyone,’ huh?”

You can’t help but return his brazen grin, even as a nervous chill shivers up your spine.

“And there ,” you nod. “Is that famous Dameron ego.”

For the briefest of moments, he appears shocked by your good-natured jab—before he bursts into a laugh so boisterous and brilliant that you join in without hesitation.

A thought floods your mind, then: I’d do anything to hear that laugh again ….

Followed soon enough by another:

I’m in trouble .

Chapter 7: Indisposed

Summary:

A new assignment and an AWOL Commander leave your thoughts in a tailspin.

Notes:

★ enjoy, and ty for reading! 💕

Chapter Text

After only a few days, taking your dinner to the Black Squadron’s table becomes a daily routine. Though you’re seldom an active participant in the banter between them, long-time friends as they are to each other, it doesn’t take you long to identify the dynamic of the close-knit group.

Jess and Dameron are peas in a pod, poking and prodding at one another in the way that you might expect of a brother and sister. It’s heartwarming to behold, even as it sometimes makes some lonely little thing curl up tight within your chest.

Karé is as kindhearted as she is fiercely protective, and you grow to envy the confidence that seems to radiate off of her in waves. Snap, meanwhile, is the genial older-brother sort… Although you don’t miss the way he looks at Karé when he thinks he’s unobserved.

Being around the four of them, you feel a sense of belonging that has hitherto felt beyond your reach on D’Qar.

And although you’re still quiet, still listen more than you talk—none of them seem to mind.

And while you’ve found a routine in joining the crew for a meal when your schedules intersect, Dameron has adopted a new habit of his own: late-night caf breaks in the radio tower, with you.

After every night this week, you know to expect it: BB-8’s excited beeps, followed closely by the Commander casually striding in with two steaming cups from the mess hall. Since the heavy conversation of that first night, though, your evening chats with Dameron have remained light—discussing what planets you each want to visit, or the worst holovids you’ve ever seen. Sometimes, neither of you says anything at all—the Commander just relaxes somewhere behind you as you take the occasional comm, clearing pilots for takeoff or making adjustments to the following morning’s flight schedules.

And although—or perhaps because —you’ve grown to find comfort in Dameron’s steadfast presence, it all feels like a dangerous game of chicken.

How long until he wears out the sense of obligation he feels toward you, the person that “saved his life?”

How long until he realizes that there’s nothing to concern himself with up in that radio tower, least of all you?

Jess slaps an outsplayed hand down on the metal table, jolting you out of your thoughts.

“A single piece of fruit is not breakfast!” The determined set of her jaw is at odds with the nonsense of her words, and your mind races to catch up. Jess is glaring at Dameron in fierce challenge, but the Commander only shrugs as he stares down his nose at her.

It can be, ” Dameron drawls, swallowing down a bite of eggs. “Breakfast is anything you want it to be.”

You merely smile and shake your head.

Several hours ago, you and Dameron were alone in the peaceful quiet of the comm tower… Now, as your night’s work has come to a close, you pick away at your dinner while the Black Squadron is evidently bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to start the day.

“Well, let’s be reasonable here,” Snap chimes in with a placating wave of his hands. “Breakfast is anything you eat in the morning.

You look up from your tray of vegetables with a half-hearted frown.

Hey, ” you chide, gesturing a spork down toward your meal. “What about me? This is my dinner .”

You feel a gentle kick under the table that makes you jump, mind following its source to find Dameron eyeing you with a wry grin.

You , Sparks,” he shoots back. “Drink caf at 0200 hours. You’re the exception, not the rule.”

“Well then, so are you , Commander ,” you scoff, which only elicits a satisfied grin from Dameron.

“Oh, is he, now?”

You wince in self-reproach as you watch Snap look from you to the Commander, then back again. Beside you, Karé leans forward with a curious smile.

“You’ve been hitting the late-night caf? ” Jess shoves against the Commander’s side with a triumphant smirk. Before your very eyes, the genuine smile that Dameron shone for you moments before is wiped clean by a practiced mask of easy confidence. If he’s bothered by you clumsily revealing the destination of his evening excursions, he doesn’t show it…

But something tells you that this conversation is now about far more than the definition of “breakfast.” 

“Yeah,” he states matter-of-factly. “But caf is a drink , Jess, and we’re talking about food .”

The misdirection works suspiciously well, and soon enough, the table dissolves into further bickering—a return to form that couldn’t come soon enough, you think.

 

- - - - -

 

You’ve almost reached your dorm room when a message chimes from your datapad—one that leaves you reeling in the middle of the corridor.

You can’t imagine why admin wants to see you; do they think you’re slacking on the job with Dameron around? How would they know—who would even be there to report you for such a thing? In all your time on D’Qar, you’ve never been important enough to keep tabs on... You do your job, and you lay low.

It’s been a few weeks since the infamous Black Squadron mission that went sideways, but… Are they only now considering opening an inquiry?

You swallow thickly at the thought.

“Come on in.”

The familiar voice of General Ogmios, overseer of tech and communications, drifts from the open doorway as you approach.

“Good morning, Sparks,” she says from behind her desk. “Take a seat.”

The older Togruta woman appears as composed as ever, the vibrant colors of her face betraying no notion as to why you’ve been summoned.

“Morning, General,” you return as you settle awkwardly into a chair. “You wished to see me?”

“Yes,” she responds, fingers steepled atop her desk. “And I’m afraid you can expect many more meetings with me in the future.”

Your stomach drops.

“General?”

She continues, as if incognizant of your confused squeak.

“You’re being assigned to a mission off-world,” the General explains. “Departing in three weeks’ time, expected to last two days, at most. You’re to accompany Black One to an abandoned rebel outpost on Camulos, and reactivate the facility’s beacon to see if it could be of use to us once more.”

Can this really be happening?

An inscrutable smile crosses your superior’s features.

“Don’t look so worried, Sparks,” she attempts to soothe. “Of course, the possible establishment of a new base requires the utmost discretion, but we don’t expect too much trouble on such a backwater planet.”

Your brows furrow at this.

“Then… If you don’t mind my asking, General,” you begin hesitantly. “Why send Black One? And… Why me?

She nods as if these are the most logical questions in the world—and for some stupid reason, that stings a bit.

“Between here and Camulos lies a brief stretch of reported First Order airspace,” she concedes. “Black One is there to pilot a technician on- and off-world as quickly and efficiently as possible. And, of course, to take care of any… Obstacles that may arise.”

We don’t expect too much trouble.

What a load of bantha-shit.

“Unfortunately, capable technicians with offworld experience have been in short supply as of late... We lost two brilliant minds to the incident near Elpis last month, as you know. But you ,” General Ogmios continues. “Come highly recommended.”

That treacherous spark of hope within you summons the image of Dameron’s dark eyes into your mind, but trepidation is quick to bring you back to the present.

“I… Understand, General,” you say, a bit too stiffly. “I’ll endeavor to make you proud.”

“I expect that you will,” she says, seeming to stare straight through you—and all the way to your terrified heart.

 

- - - - -

 

Awkwardness be damned—the following evening, you vow to ask Dameron if it really was him that requested you to be put on this mission… And if so, why .

Only…

That night, he doesn’t show up during your shift.

The usual hour of the Commander’s arrival comes and goes, and with each passing minute, that accursed spark of hope is trampled into dust… Only to be replaced with the growing chorus of uncertainties that has been plaguing your mind all along.

Why the Hell did you expect him to come here every night?

If his insomnia’s finally letting up, you should be happy for him.

You’re far too attached; you know Dameron’s reputation… He turns the charm on for everybody .

Over the course of the night, your brain spirals into such a void of self-doubt that you completely forget the upcoming possibility of seeing him in the mess hall until the moment arises.

As you mechanically reach for a carton of juice, your frame is jostled by an oncoming collision.

“Morning, Sparks.”

Commander Dameron has thrown an arm around your shoulder, giving you a gentle shake as he grins at you with the brilliant eyes of a morning person. You blink up at him, almost confused to be seeing him at all.

Instantly, though, he understands.

“Sorry I missed our usual briefing,” he winces, suddenly contrite. “I had a date.”

His admission is an uncomfortable jolt to the nerves, like touching metal that shocks you with its static, but you immediately chastise yourself for harboring such a feeling.

Even still…

While that dying hope inside you is humbled to hear about his love life, the larger portion of your conscience—the “Sparks” that was there to hear about his darkest thoughts—takes the reins, and sees that Dameron seems… A bit too consumed by regret.

When you turn your face to get a better view of him, your lips are close enough to brush his shoulder where it still leans against you. The proximity makes your cheeks heat.

“And… How’d that go?”

All at once, Dameron shrinks in on himself, retracting his arm as his eyes dart toward the counters, where he follows your lead in grabbing a drink. You can’t tell if you’ve overstepped, if he’s offended that you would ask, or… If he simply hadn’t expected such a question.

“Uh, not…” He clears his throat through a sheepish laugh. “It was ok, just fine, Sparks.”

You merely nod, waiting for him to follow before the two of you begin to walk side-by-side to the Black Squadron’s usual post. Faced with your encouraging silence, he eventually continues.

“It all used to be so easy, but now…” His dark brows furrow together, as you idly wonder what ‘ it ’ refers to. Dameron blinks in an apparent attempt to clear his thoughts. “I’m just too in my head, I guess. It wasn’t the girl’s fault.”

Stamping out the last remaining embers of your irrational envy, your heart softens at the sight of his cloudy expression. Though you haven’t inquired into his deeper wellbeing since that first night in the radio tower, he’s apparently still haunted all the same. Or… Maybe there’s someone else occupying his thoughts?

You suppress a sigh at the thought.

“Hey, you two!”

Jess, always first to the table, waves eagerly for you and the Commander to join her. As you approach, Dameron gently prods your side with his elbow.

“Don’t worry about me, Sparks,” he mutters with a wink that is far too charming for its own good. Before you have time to respond, he’s setting his tray down to greet Jess.

As if it were that easy, Dameron.

Chapter 8: Alignment

Summary:

Yours and Dameron’s lives are beginning to intersect in unexpected ways.

Notes:

★ tysm for all the comments on my big Star Wars Day updates! I read every one of them, and appreciate y’all 💕 enjoy!

Chapter Text

By the time you make it back to your dorm room, you’re more than ready to crawl into bed and mull over the mess before you—your new assignment, your treacherous friendship with Poe…

But alas, the universe always has other plans.

You slide the door open with a soft woosh that still manages to startle your room’s occupants: Savitri, your ever-taciturn roommate… And a woman you fail to recognize. They sit side-by-side on Savitri’s lower bunk, and you’re instantly made uncomfortable when you notice that her visitor’s face is streaked with tears.

“Uh, sorry, am I…?” You stand stupidly in the doorway to your own quarters, wondering if you need to give the two privacy.

Your question goes unanswered as the unfamiliar woman looks up to assess you with wide, watery eyes. Her gaze urgently flicks back to Savitri.

“Do you think she would know?”

With a long-suffering sigh that you don’t know how to parse, you see Savitri nod for you to come inside and shut the door. As the distraught woman frantically wipes at her eyes, you awkwardly make your way over to the tiny room’s solitary desk, sitting atop the ledge of it to face the pair.

“Nice to meet you…?” You begin apprehensively, eyes flicking between your roommate and her friend.

“Delara,” the woman sniffs. “And you’re Sparks, right?”

You respond with a silent nod as you choose your next words carefully. “What is it you think I might be able to tell you, Delara?”

Savitri shoots her friend a look of warning that goes unheeded.

“I went out with… With Commander Dameron last night,” Delara explains, visibly trying not to choke on her words.

Instantly, your stomach drops; you can’t help but shoot an angry glare to Savitri, whose only response to your ire is a resigned shrug. The visitor goes on.

“We’d been messaging for a few days, and he asked me out for a drink and a walk around base, and I…” Delara throws her hands up in exasperation. “I mean, I didn’t expect flowers or anything, everybody knows how Dameron is! I just thought it’d be a fun fling, ya know? Only…”

You wince at her uncharitable description of the Commander’s habits, but Delara doesn’t notice your reaction as she struggles to express her frustration.

“He went cold on me,” she bites, and when she meets your gaze, a powerful mixture of hurt and anger wells in her eyes. “I tried to kiss him, and he backed away . He never does that to anybody, not on a first date.”

And how exactly do you know that?, you ponder bitterly.

A bit of Delara’s venom melts away as her voice grows watery once more. She turns to Savitri, who gives her a soothing pat on the back.

“What’s wrong with me, Vi?” Delara hiccups. “Am I not pretty enough?

You can’t pretend to know the inner workings of Dameron’s heart, but you doubt that that was the problem. With flawless skin and arresting blue eyes, Delara looks like she just stepped out of a holovid, even puffy-faced as she appears now.

You almost flinch when she turns back to look at you.

“Everybody knows you’re always hanging around the Black Squadron now,” she states matter-of-factly. “I was… Gonna ask Vi if she could ask you what I might’ve done wrong. You might know Poe better than me, I guess.”

As she delves further into this explanation, she at least has the decency to manage a shameful blush at the idea.

And stars above, what an idea it is… Asking your roommate to ask you to spill the details of a good friend’s feelings. It’s the kind of thing teenagers do.

While some part of you inevitably holds sympathy for the hurt woman sitting across from you, her words still hit a sore spot.

Everybody knows how Dameron is.

He never does that to anybody.

Maker, is this what he has to deal with from people around base? Constant admiration is one thing, but this is… Quite another. The Commander’s peers seem to not only worship him as a hero, but expect him to always be the grinning poster-boy, to always be up for a good time.

As this thought crosses your mind, so does the realization that this likely is not the first time that somebody has tried to barter for Dameron’s secrets, however insignificant they might be.

It’s an effort to keep a scowl from your face.

“I don’t have the answers you want, Delara, and even if I did…” You fold your arms through an exasperated sigh, trying to summon a sliver of compassion for the mess of a girl in front of you. “Feelings change. People… Change. I’m sorry that the night wasn’t what you thought it’d be.”

Wide blue eyes blink back at you, seemingly stunned by your deliberate ambiguity.

In the silence, Savitri squirms uncomfortably.

“You probably wanna sleep, Sparks,” your roommate mutters as she rises from her seat. She rests a gentle hand on Delara’s shoulder. “C’mon… Let’s grab lunch. You might feel better with some food in you.”

Cheeks flushed, Delara only nods, following her friend toward the door while carefully avoiding your gaze.

Thud .

All three of you jump at the sound of the metallic tap against the still-closed door. Cautiously, Savitri reaches out to hit the switch, opening the entryway.

BB-8 doesn’t hesitate to whirl into the room, spinning circles at your feet with a series of excited beeps. You frown as you decipher the little droid’s message, darting nervous glances up at your company as you do so.

“Yes, I’m on duty tonight… Same as every night,” you sigh. “Why does he need to be sure?”

In your peripheral vision, you don’t miss Savitri urging an eavesdropping Delara from the room.

“Is that…?” The girl’s pale eyes grow as wide as moons as she looks down at BB-8, but Savitri successfully extricates Delara from the increasingly awkward situation before she can pry further.

Immune to the intricacies of your interpersonal conflicts, BB continues his lackadaisical beeping as he processes your response. When the door at last slides shut once more, you lean down with a sigh to gently rap your knuckles against the dome of the droid’s head.

“You’re trouble, BB.”

He whirs in delight.

 

- - - - -

 

You don’t expect Dameron to actually show up the next night…

Or rather, you don’t let yourself expect him.

Nervous energy courses through you all the same, though, as you mull over BB-8’s appearance this morning. Why did the Commander suddenly need to ensure that he would find you here?

As if you’d have anywhere more important to be.

“Knock knock.”

Your brows raise at the sound of Dameron’s voice in the radio tower, hours before he would typically arrive… But when you pivot your chair to face the door, you see that this is no typical visit at all.

“Hey Sparks,” Chantel says with a halfhearted wave. Your brow furrows; the easily-bored Twi woman at his side is only scheduled with you when the base is at a higher level of alert. So, why…?

“Thanks honey, I owe ya one,” Dameron grins, but Chantel is unfazed.

“Whatever, Dameron,” she says with a roll of her eyes. You watch in increasing confusion as she shucks her jacket off, approaching her usual station, “Just be safe, you crazy kids.”

You’ll get no explanation quite yet, it would seem, as the Commander exaggeratedly ushers for you to follow him out of the tower.

Once you’re following his brisk walk down the stairway, you finally speak.

“What’s going on, Dameron?” You don’t intend for your voice to sound as accusatory as it does, but the Commander only laughs at your apprehension.

“Take it easy, Sparks,” he croons. “Chantel’s covering your shift, and tonight, you’re with me .”

That stupidly vague response has no right in making you blush the way it does.

“Put this on,” he continues as he shoves a duffel bag into your arms. A preliminary peek inside reveals a vibrant orange flightsuit, and you think that your heart stops for the briefest of moments.

“No… You can’t be—”

“Damn right I am,” Dameron grins shamelessly. “One of the grease monkeys has been working on a modified tandem X-wing , Sparks, and I pulled some strings to be the first person to test drive it.”

“Modified? I—” you stumble through your words, mind failing to keep up. “ Test drive?

“Yup. If all goes well, it’ll be ready in time for Camulos.” He shoots you a conspiratorial wink as your boots hit the tarmac.

“Poe,” you halt in place, catching your breath. He stops too, and for a moment, you see his bravado falter, replaced with some indecipherable emotion. You run an anxious hand through your hair, looking away as you continue. “I’ve only ever ridden passenger ships , and just a handful of times, at that… I haven’t been airborne since they brought me to D’Qar, which was what… A year ago?”

His brow furrows with determination, and just like that, you know you’ve lost this battle.

“Then we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for,” he says, voice jokingly solemn, before his eyes soften once more. “Besides, I’ll be doing all the piloting, just… Enjoy the ride, Sparks.”

You swallow nervously as you glance back down at the flight suit you carry, only to be jostled when Dameron throws his arm around your shoulders. Your cheeks heat.

“And ya know, you can call me Poe again any time ,” he says, hushed tone at odds with the satisfied smirk he appraises you with. “Not just when you’re annoyed with me.”

Chapter 9: Constellations

Summary:

An impromptu flight with Commander Dameron dredges up surprising feelings.

Notes:

★ I must’ve reread and edited this chapter nearly a dozen times, but I’m forcing myself to post the result!! lol. enjoy 💖

Chapter Text

When the Commander finally leads you to the starship in question, the apparent state of the machine leaves much to be desired.

“Actually, no. Nope. I’ve changed my mind.”

Dameron lets loose an exasperated sigh as he grabs your shoulder with one steady hand, preventing you from turning away.

“And how many times does that make it, now? C’mon, you’ve come this far.” With an eager smirk that’s probably intended to convey reassurance, he gestures toward the modified X-wing. “The welds haven’t been smoothed, and yeah, she could use some paint, but I assure you that everything is properly riveted together.”

You raise a brow. “And where’s your droid?”

“Charging,” he replies, a little too quickly. “Just you and me.”

You gaze up and down the length of the craft; it certainly is an impressive feat of engineering, even if it still lacks something in sophistication. You’re already, albeit slowly, coming around to the idea when Dameron’s voice grows quieter, more sincere.

“Do you trust me, Sparks?”

Like a magnet, your gaze snaps to meet his: dark-caf eyes boring their way to the core of you.

It doesn’t even occur to you to lie until the words are already out of your mouth.

“Of course I do, Commander.”

For a moment, the both of you seem equally taken aback by your instantaneous response, but the mortification you feel is quickly softened by the delighted grin that warms Dameron’s face.

 

- - - - -

 

Black One, you are clear for takeoff. Over.

Chantel’s bemused monotone crackles through the receiver in your helmet, followed soon after by your pilot’s easy response.

“Copy that.”

You wish that you could turn to see Dameron’s face once more, just to scan it for that steadfast confidence that would melt your worries away, but your current positions won’t allow it.

The tandem X-wing, as promised, boasts two cockpits—one atop the body of the ship that has access to the majority of the ship’s controls, and one further down the nose, where you find yourself. It’s not unlike being in the sidecar of a speeder bike, you muse…

Except you’ll be hurtling through space , rather than a sandy market road.

You clear your throat.

“Does everything, uh…” Brow furrowed, you search for words as you mumble into your headset. “Look… Okay back there, Commander?”

“Right as rain, Sparks,” he shoots back, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “You ready?”

Despite yourself, a small smile of your own crosses your lips at the concern that seeps into his voice.

“Yeah,” you murmur at last. “Let’s do this.”

“Atta girl,” Dameron beams.

Your cheeks burn hotter than stars as you hear him set to work on the controls behind you.

All at once, the racing hum of your thoughts seems to still completely as your body tenses, preparing for the wonder of interstellar travel.

As Dameron takes the ship through the motions, occasionally comming back to ground control as needed, your brain enters a mechanical state of checking off each and every step as he proceeds. You’ve guided pilots through takeoff over the radio hundreds of times—Hell, like you said, you’ve been in space before—so why is your stomach doing somersaults over all this?

You blink, and before you know it, the glimmer of stars has welcomed you home.

“I know, right?”

Dameron’s unusually-hushed voice plays in your ear, and it stupidly takes you a moment to realize he’s responding to you .

You might’ve sighed “wow” out loud, just a second ago.

“It’s…” You search for words as your eyes pan the viewport. Endless planes of obsidian are punctured by the warm glow of countless stars. “It’s breathtaking.”

Dameron has turned off the thrusters, now, allowing your craft to drift listlessly through the cosmos. In the corner of your view, you see D’Qar orbiting below, great and green as ever.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but all the same, you find yourself wishing you could see Dameron’s face, eager to know his thoughts.

He flies all the time… Does he still find the view just as wondrous as you do?

But alas, if awe is apparent on his face, you’re physically in no position to see it…

And with that realization quickly comes another.

Perhaps it’s silly, or perhaps it’s merely unfathomably selfish—but in such a state, alone together, communicating only through your headsets… It’s the perfect opportunity to ask him about Camulos.

To ask, why me?

Because if his answer summons any unwelcome feeling in you—disappointment, or embarrassment…

Well.

At least he won’t be able to see it.

“Commander,” you begin tentatively, before this line of thinking can tell you it’s a bad idea. “Can I… Ask you about Camulos?”

He doesn’t miss a beat; he even has the gall to sound incredulous.

“’Course, Sparks,” he says. “What do you wanna know? It’s a nice little place, rains non-stop but I don’t really mind the rain much, myself. It’s got kind of a woodsy—”

“No I—I’ve read the briefing, Dameron,” you sigh, cutting him off before he reads you the whole travel brochure. “I mean… It’s just that I’ve never been assigned to a mission offworld before. It seemed weird to me that they put me on this one.” You’re already losing your nerve… Not asking him directly , giving him an easy out—

“Well, yeah, because I asked for you specifically, Sparks.”

Oh. There it is.

“But why?” In your surprise at his easy admission, your own candor seeps through.

“Be—wait, they’ve never sent you offworld before?” You can hear the frown in his voice, and it makes you squirm in your seat. “ Really?

No, they haven’t, you think. First Order defectors aren’t exactly given the most delicate operations.

“No, they haven’t,” you confirm.

Several seconds of deafening silence leave you floating through space with nothing but your own anxious thoughts… But then:

“It’s because …” Dameron sighs, as if frustrated in a failed attempt to find the right words. “Because you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Sparks. You don’t crack under pressure, you… Hell, it’s like pressure makes you smarter .” He chuckles to himself, soft and low, as he continues. “Because a lot of people that work with me don’t find themselves wanting a repeat performance, but I’ve come up and bothered you in that damn radio tower nearly every night and you act like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

His words leave you speechless, blinking at the field of stars before you as you search for some sort of response.

“Poe—”

“And because ,” he adds at last. “I’ve already trusted you with my life once, intentionally or not. But I’m willing to do it again.”

You feel a stinging in your eyes as you process everything Dameron just told you.

“I don’t want to let anybody down.”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, trembling with the vulnerable truth of your heart.

I don’t want to let you down .

Poe could respond to this admission in a dozen different ways: he could lie, say “you won’t,” bolster your confidence. He could play the brutally honest Commander, merely tell you that he knows that you want to do your best.

Instead, Poe’s response, earnest and steady, makes nervous energy swirl through you like a nebula.

“You couldn’t, Sparks.”

 

- - - - -

 

By the time Dameron has landed the ship and left everything in order for the mechanics, sunlight has begun to brush the grassy surface of D’Qar once more. The tarmac is still fairly empty, with the quiet hum of early morning hanging precariously in the air as you and Dameron collect yourselves.

As you step out of your flight suit to reveal the leggings and undershirt you wear beneath, you sneak passing glances over at the Commander.

Dark circles rim his eyes, and you suddenly feel guilty for the night’s excursion, despite it being his idea.

Has he been getting any sleep, lately?

These concerned musings ignite a new spark of indignation on his behalf, and your face grows hot as you look away, struggling to form your next words.

“Delara paid me a visit.”

Poe’s hands still over the diagnostics on his datapad, and when his face blanches, you instantly regret saying anything… But, you’ve come this far.

“Well, um, she’s friends with my roommate I guess, and she visited her ,” you stammer, looking away as you restlessly adjust your rumpled clothing. “ I’d never met the girl before. And she, uh… Asked me to talk. About you .”

What? ” Dameron sounds incredulous, perhaps even angry, though you thankfully sense that it isn’t directed at you.

“I brushed it off, obviously. But, like, politely,” you clarify with a nervous chuckle, sounding a bit deranged in your anxiety to get the truth out. “But, ya know. I wanted to let you know. It all seemed a bit… Underhanded, was all. Just… Be careful around people like that, okay?”

Several seconds pass in silence, until at last, you find the courage to look up… Only to find Dameron studying you, his expression entirely unreadable as always.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, brows furrowed. “Was it weird of me to say anything?”

A few more seconds, and the moment seems to have passed. Dameron blinks away whatever clouded his thoughts and mechanically returns to finishing checkups on the X-wing.

“No,” he says. “No, thanks for telling me. If she’s gonna act like that, I’d rather know now.” Awkwardly, he clears his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that shit because of me.”

“The way she’s acting isn’t your fault, Poe,” you frown, finding your confidence in the urge to console him. If he did care for Delara, you suppose he must feel some type of… Betrayal? The thought sends an unwelcome prickle through you. “I’m always here if you need me, okay?”

Though his dark eyes remain trained on his work, Poe’s face is warmed by the slightest of smiles.

“I know, Sparks.”

Chapter 10: Interference

Summary:

As your life on D’Qar becomes more complicated, you find help in an unexpected place.

Notes:

★ I’m here and, as always, I read and appreciate every single comment!! 💕
★ if you ever want to check in on my sporadic posting schedule, I suggest following my Tumblr @interstellarwraith. I’m also currently accepting inspiration/requests!
★ anyway. enjoy!!

Chapter Text

As you drift into consciousness the following evening, you’re acutely aware of the impatient vibrations of your datapad on the shelf beside your high bunk. With bleary eyes, you pick up the device to find… Three new messages.

And, to your undue surprise, the first is from Dameron:

 

Can’t stop thinking about taking the tandem out for another spin. Last night was a blast, let’s do it again soon

 

…It’s too early in the evening for him to be eliciting a blush out of you.

Despite your near-nightly conversations, Dameron has never texted your channel before—though it was likely easy enough to find your contact info on the basewide registry.

Even though the Commander’s message sends a fresh wave of nervous energy roiling through you, you find yourself grinning in bed anyway. As you shift up to a seated position, you still feel some of the previous night’s traces in your muscles: lingering tension, and the unsteady feeling of somebody who experienced artificial gravity for the first time in a long time.

It’s also too early in the evening to dissect why you’re smiling like a damn fool , you think to yourself as you hit “send” on your reply:

 

Definitely .

 

Rubbing at your eyes with one hand, you open the next message—this one, from Jess:

 

Hey! 😜 Tomorrow’s my birthday and in tradition, Black Squad’s hosting a bonfire. 2100 hours, clearing beyond the tarmac! It’d be awesome to see you there!! 🙌🎂

 

The chipper missive makes you chuckle.

You’ve certainly participated in a few basewide celebrations in your time at D’Qar, but this is the first time you’ve ever… Been specifically invited to something.

It feels surprisingly… Good. Exciting, even.

It also feels a bit like pressure.

You try to shake off that nebulous instinct to make excuses, and send a response before you can change your mind:

 

I’ll be there. Happy early bday. ❤️

 

Finally, your eyes drift to the most recent notification: from your roommate, Savitri… Sent just a couple hours ago.

In the lingering haze of your drowsiness, you double-check the time on your datapad before taking an uncertain peek at the bunk below you… No, it’s too early for her to be back.

You swallow thickly; until the incident with Delara, your communications with your bunkmate were limited solely to the cordial nods you’d each offer upon passing one another around the time of shift change.

After several fraught seconds of deliberation, you open the message:

 

What the hell did you say to Dameron?

 

Your stomach somersaults as you stare at the flicker of your screen.

“Shit.”

 

- - - - -

 

It’s the beginning of your usually-sedentary night shift, and you’re somehow already out of breath.

It didn’t help that you pulled on your clothes and were out the door faster than ever; a frantic blur of action in the cramped confines of your room. Not a chance in hell were you giving Savitri the opportunity to chew you out where you slept… Or not until you’ve had a good several hours to think on the situation, at the very least.

Now, to make your exhaustion worse, you find that dayshift has left you the singular pleasure of restocking the battery supply in the radio tower with the latest shipment… Which involves pushing this damned cart across the darkened tarmac, and then carrying three stupidly heavy boxes up the stairs alone.

It doesn’t escape your notice that Savitri’s usually on the daytime comms shift.

So of course this was left to you.

Shit!

Lost in embittered thought as you are, you don’t take enough care when wheeling the cart over a substantial crack in the pavement—and, as a result, you watch with a horrified wince as the top two boxes slide off the stack, crashing to the floor with a heavy thud .

A few of the nighttime stragglers in the area—pilots finished running drills, and the like—stare sympathetically, and do only that: stare .

And this relatively minor inconvenience might be the straw that breaks the bantha’s back.

Life was never this complicated before—

Just, before .

You have a new social obligation you feel too woefully inept to uphold, and your bunkmate is pissed at you which is already proving to be a problem, and now…

Now, these damned boxes.

As you glare down at the mess before you, you already feel the familiar sting of angry-tears beginning to well behind your eyes—

“Here, let me…”

From somewhere behind you, a tall pilot bearing the patch of Teal Squadron circles around, bending over to help right the situation. Though he shakes his close-shaven head, he readily restacks the battery crates for you before looking up to meet your gaze…

And for a moment, you’re both stunned into silence.

Erno .

“Um.” You actually have to clear your throat, ridding yourself of some of the childish anger that was beginning to swell there. “Thank you.”

“Sparks, right?” Gone is the easy demeanor he bore when helping a would-be stranger mere moments ago… Now, Erno stiffens his posture, helmet slung carefully beneath one lean, orange-clad arm.

“Yeah,” you confirm. Doing your best to manage a polite smile, you decide not to do him the disservice of pleading ignorance. “And you’re Erno.”

With a mirthless chuckle, he nods.

As you search his face for intent, his own eyes dart down to the cart between you, and he quirks one dark brow.

“You taking these to comms?” he inquires skeptically. “...By yourself?”

“Sure am.” Blinking in confusion, you shrug.

“It’s on my way,” Erno quickly replies, jaw tight. “I’ll help.”

“Oh, um—” Your hands fidget back onto the cart’s handle. “Uh… Sure. Thanks.”

As you and Erno begin a side-by-side walk toward the looming radio tower, several seconds pass in awkward silence… The only sound being that of your out-of-sync footsteps hitting the tarmac.

It’s too much to bear.

“Were you out running drills?”

The question is out of your mouth before you can think to stop it. In your nervous attempt to fill the silence, your voice comes out a little higher-pitched than it should.

“Yeah,” Erno grunts. “You’re night shift, right?”

You nod sheepishly.

“I see you drinking caf in the mess hall some nights… Makes sense now, I guess.”

You tense.

He sees you— with the Black Squadron.

With Dameron .

You wheel the cart to a stop at the base of the tower stairs, and nearly collide with Erno as you both move to pick up the first crate. Face flushed by nerves, you quickly step aside to allow him to take the first box… And are greeted by the arresting sight of Erno’s dark eyes boring into your own with a surprising lack of reserve.

“Listen, I know they’ve probably talked about me. I’m not a bad guy.” Though his expression is marred by a rueful smile, you can hear the weight of weariness in his tone.

“I don’t think that,” you quickly chime in, a bit too eager to go on the defensive. “And neither do they.”

His only response is a thoughtful nod as he watches you pick up a package in your own arms, before starting up the stairs. Steadied by new determination, you continue, even through heavy breaths of physical exertion.

“I’m—” you pause. Sorry for your loss doesn’t feel quite right, with a man as straightforward and understandably broken as him. “It’s awful, what happened. It’s all awful. I’d be angry, too, Erno.”

You’re watching him as he ascends the stairs ahead of you, and so you don’t miss the twitch of his head to one side—like he wants to stop what he’s doing just to turn and face you.

But he doesn’t.

Nor does he acknowledge your words in his response:

“You don’t know Black Squadron too well yet, do ya?”

As you reach the top of the stairs, you turn to nudge the door switch with your hip, and feel Erno’s assessing gaze upon you in full force, now. Despite all your determination to sympathize with the man, something of his skeptical tone instantly raises your hackles. You bite back the urge to object as he continues.

“You seem nice, just… Be careful around them, okay?” After placing your loads onto a shelf in the comms room, Erno waves you away when you move to take the last box yourself, leaving you trailing behind him empty-handed on the stairs as he elaborates. “Those guys can be reckless.”

As you watch Erno put the final crate upon the shelf, his words make your heart constrict with a storm of emotions. You fold your arms in on yourself.

“You have every right to be angry, Erno,” you breathe on a heavy sigh, voice quiet. “But don’t you think some of it might be… Misplaced?”

Before he even turns around, you see his shoulders square. When his eyes meet yours, you nearly gasp—despite the harsh line of his brow, the emotion burning in his gaze isn’t anger , per say, it’s…

Desperation.

When he speaks, his voice is low.

“How would—”

The sound of approaching footsteps upon the metallic stairway interrupts him, however, giving you both pause.

Because the universe seems to have a sense of humor, today, Commander Dameron appears at the threshold, expression stricken as he takes in Erno’s presence… And the thick air of tension in the room.

“Crap, sorry, I—” Dameron’s mumbled words are unsteady and unsure.

“I was just leaving,” Erno bites out, barely sparing him a glance as he marches his way out of the room like a storm cloud.

Confused silence weighs down the next several seconds, as you and the Commander stare at each other.

You find yourself unable to adjust from the same strained posture you had adopted during your exchange with Erno, and now, you take in Dameron’s presence with… Confusion. He never shows up at the beginning of your shift. His bright orange jumpsuit looks freshly laundered and ready for flight, with all his gear in place; he hasn’t been airborne yet today, you ponder.

Meanwhile, his own expression still looks—blanched, frankly.

You blink away the tumult of your thoughts and move toward him, placing a soothing hand upon his arm, and that seems to ground him somewhat.

“C’mon, sit,” you mumble, guiding him to a chair near your own desk.

Whatever the reason—you’re never unhappy to see him… Though you wish his timing were a bit better.

You rush to speak first.

“I had a mishap bringing supplies up,” you explain with a sheepish chuckle. “Erno was there to help, that’s all. Are you okay?”

You watch with concern as the Commander runs one broad palm down his face, taking some of the surprise away with it—and replacing it with weary sadness.

“Yeah, ’course I am, I just…” He trails off, exhaling a bone deep sigh. “I wish I could—”

As you gaze into the troubled gleam of his dark eyes, you nod in a show of understanding. Your next words are barely more than a whisper.

“I know, Poe.”

Together, you both sit like that for several minutes: a comfortable quiet blanketing you both as your eyes drift to watch the final signs of life disperse from the landing strip below.

At length, Dameron clears his throat.

“I, uh,” he begins uncertainly, and you turn back to face him with brows raised in expectation. “You got Jess’s invite, right?”

You smile in realization.

Even in a crowd of near-strangers, tomorrow night— Poe will be there .

“Yup,” you nod. “I’m going.”

“Great!” He responds, a little too quickly, and it surprises a laugh out of you. His features are warmed by a lopsided grin. “Wanna walk over together?”

Butterflies flood your stomach at the eager innocence of his question.

“From…?”

“I can meet you at your door.”

You bite the inside of your cheek in thought…

If you’re being honest with yourself, having Dameron show up at your door when Savitri’s already giving you shit over him is not the greatest idea in the world. And yet… The small comfort of getting to see your closest friend in private before throwing yourself into unknown waters might be too good to pass up.

Your closest friend .

Despite it all, the realization brings a soft smile to your lips.

“Sure,” you agree. “That sounds… Nice.”

At your words, some invisible weight seems to be lifted from Poe’s shoulders before your very eyes, and now… Not a thing in the world could make you regret the decision.

Chapter 11: Glow

Summary:

Black Squadron’s bonfire casts its light upon confusing new feelings.

Notes:

★ the length of this chapter got away from me a bit, but I promise next update will be worth the wait 👀💕 enjoy!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

In the full length of your bedroom mirror, you finish tying the cord at the loose neckline of your blouse into something resembling a bow.

You don’t own much in the way of party clothes to speak of; outside of the practical fatigues you wear to work each night, you only have what little you were able to bring with you from Corellia… But you hope that your current outfit differs from the norm enough to not look drab: a pair of dark, form-fitting leggings, and a flowy blouse in your favorite shade. It’s a seasonably cool night on D’Qar, so you pull on a long sweater, as well.

Yeah, you look… Okay. You think.

Really, it’s a bit hard to form positive opinions while someone is shooting daggers at you from across the room.

For the mere hour that your waking schedules have happened to intersect, this evening, you’ve done your best to ignore the passive aggression that radiates off of Savitri’s every move like a toxin.

The two of you haven’t had an outright conversation about the situation with Dameron and Delara, yet—but if your bunkmate continues to act like this, a confrontation won’t be far off.

But you need to try not to think of that. Not right now, at least.

At long last, a knock sounds at the door.

You begin mumbling a halfhearted goodbye—

“Sparks? It’s Poe.”

And finish by swearing under your breath.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” you call back stiffly, shoving your comlink into one pocket on your way out the door.

“Have fun ,” Savitri gripes venomously just as you slide open the door to Dameron’s easy smile… Which, unfortunately, falters somewhat as he overhears your roommate’s scathing tone.

You rush to close the door behind you, but the Commander’s eyes linger in the room’s direction regardless.

“What the hell was that? ” He murmurs, and you grab his arm to begin pulling him out of earshot.

A strange guilt tears at you… You don’t want Dameron to think that Savitri’s ire is his fault, but the thought of stacking any more half-truths in the growing tower between you two is singularly unappealing.

“That’s my bunkmate, Savitri… She’s, um,” you glance sidelong with a sheepish grimace as the two of you fall into step together. “She’s Delara’s friend.”

You don’t miss Dameron’s telltale flinch, but he is determined not to miss a beat:

“I don’t care who she is, she can’t just talk to you like—”

The Commander stops in his tracks, grabbing your shoulder to face you in earnest now, but trails off mid-speech. With raised brows, he seems to truly look you over for the first time—no doubt adjusting to the sight of you out-of-uniform.

After a few seconds of quiet, you reach up to restlessly run a hand through your hair.

“...Like that .” His sentence, finally, comes to its conclusion, and you chuckle nervously beneath his appraisal.

“Is this okay for the party? I wasn’t…”

“You look great , Sparks,” he reassures, a goofy smile creeping onto his lips as he shakes his head absently. “I guess I’m just… Not used to seeing you without a headset around your neck.”

“Well, don’t get too used to it,” you respond playfully, a smirk of your own warming your expression.

And there it is, again: that peculiar glint of emotion in Dameron’s eyes, like you’ve given him the answer to a long-held question…

Only, this time, the look isn’t quite so unfamiliar to you.

You recognize it from your own face in the mirror, mere minutes ago… Thinking of him .

And that recognition feels like a blaster bolt straight to your heart.

In a sudden fit of panic, you realize that the two of you have been dumbly smiling at each other in the middle of the hall for far too long—and you turn to nudge his arm before continuing your walk.

“C’mon, Commander,” you say. “We don’t wanna be late.”

Don’t get attached to important men .

Unbidden, the bitter words of your mother snake their way into your thoughts as you mentally work to quell the rapid beating of your heart.

Before Poe Dameron, you’re not sure you’d ever felt such a strong connection to… Anyone . But you can’t let emotion begin to obscure the facts of the matter:

That fate has greater plans for him.

That you’re just the Sparks that’s been withholding the truth from him.

That nothing good can last… Not in times like these.

“I wouldn’t mind being a little late, to be honest,” Poe laughs, and the welcome sound puts a stop to the grim trajectory of your thoughts.

You make a concerted effort to look past the flirtatious edge to his comment, though, and find that he seems a bit… Tense?

“Poe,” you say, with a lick of your lips—and you feel his eyes instantly snap to you, while your own gaze remains trained on the corridor ahead. “Do you not want to go to this thing?”

To your surprise, he lets loose a bone-deep sigh as he considers the question in earnest.

“I mean, of course I do,” he grumbles, tone quieter now. “Jess is like family to me. It’s just…” Exasperated, Dameron runs a hand back through his dark hair. “She loves parties, ya know? And every year, it gets bigger and bigger, and there’s just so many people —”

You hum in understanding.

“You’d prefer it to be more intimate, that’s all.”

Yes! ” Dameron exclaims with such enthusiasm that you nearly jump, but his reaction makes you smile all the same. “I don’t know why; I never used to feel this way, but lately I just… Don’t always feel up to it. The crowds.”

“Hey,” you murmur, sidestepping to interlace an arm through his as your walk slows. “It’s been a rough couple weeks. Don’t get down on yourself for not feeling stellar, okay?”

After a few pensive seconds, Poe unlaces his arm from your own—only to wrap it around your shoulders, pulling you in for a bruising side-hug. You laugh in surprise, and look up to find some of the warmth returned to his face.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best , Sparks?”

“Don’t think so,” you beam. “You should make a habit of it.”

‘Don’t get attached …’

And for the first time, a timid voice—your own voice—wonders, in the back of your mind:

Would that really be so bad?

 

- - - - -

 

Woah.

Poe really wasn’t kidding about the turnout.

The forest clearing beyond the tarmac is, for the first time in your residence here, teeming with activity. More than half the base must be here, encircling the brilliant glow of the bonfire and passing around cups full of ardees and who-knows-what else.

You!

Jess’s voice rings boisterous from the crowd, and it doesn’t take you long to spot her rushing toward you and Poe with outstretched arms. She’s wearing an adorable flimsiplast crown, and—judging by the flush of her cheeks—is already a few drinks into the celebration.

“Hap— oof!

Poe’s laid-back greeting is promptly cut off by the aggressive group-hug that Jess pulls the both of you into.

“Poe… Sparks.” She sighs, dragging the syllable of your moniker out into sing-song.

“Happy birthday,” you chuckle, patting her on the back. If nothing else, the woman of the hour is clearly having a blast, which already marks tonight as some sort of success.

Suddenly urgent, though, Jess pulls back to examine you both with newfound curiosity.

“Are you here… Together? ” You freeze stock-still as you watch her face transition from wonder, to doting affection—like a woman shown a video of lothkittens at play.

Smoothly avoiding the subject, Poe leans down to Jess’s eye level, placing his hands upon her shoulders as he asses her with stern suspicion:

“Are you going to need to be carried back to your room at the end of the night?”

Her face contorts into a peevish scowl.

“That happened, like, twice!

“Uh-huh,” Poe drawls skeptically, shaking his head with a knowing smile before winking at you. “Watch this one while I grab us some drinks, okay, Sparks?”

You nod as he disappears into the throng of people.

With a contented sigh, Jess leans her head on your shoulder, and together, you watch the celebration unfold… Trills of laughter and people dancing to the sound of a radio turned to full-blast.

“I really am glad you’re here, Sparks,” Jess eventually murmurs, nudging at your side. 

“Me too,” you respond, draping an arm around her shoulders.

 

- - - - -

 

“Okay, okay ,” Jess laughs. “My turn.”

Well into the wee hours of the morning, you find your veins humming with a pleasant buzz. Seated to one side of the bonfire with Black Squadron and a couple guests you don’t recognize, the group of you are dangerously deep into a drinking game. Cup in hand, you watch Jess’s excitement with dreamily hooded eyes as you rest your head upon Poe’s shoulder.

The birthday girl makes an exaggerated show of thinking up her next move before she continues.

“Never have I ever,” Jess hums. Suddenly, her eyes light up. “Never have I ever dropped the big L word with someone I’m seeing.”

Your nerves instantly bristle at her words, eyes going wide in response. Throughout the small circle of people, various grumbles sound as they take swigs of their beverages as punishment. Both Karé and Snap shrug as they drink.

You wish you didn’t feel so stupidly embarrassed. Jess is a few years younger than you, and doesn’t seem the type for big commitments at this point in her life, so you’re not terribly surprised by her admission. For yourself, however…

Of course there had been the occasional budding attachment in your adolescence on Corellia, but those had been situational occurrences more than anything else: people such as yourself, the unhappy children of First Order operatives stuck in an emotionally repressed world.

You definitely never loved any of them.

Even the word itself feels foreign and fragile in your thoughts.

“Bull shit , Poe.”

It’s Karé’s tipsy drawl that brings you out of your internal spiral. Blinking in surprise, you straighten, turning to look at Poe…

Whose drink has remained still in his lap.

Seated beside him as you are, you don’t miss the way his body seems to go rigid at the accusation… But, as ever, his expression is a mask of easy confidence.

“What?” he scoffs.

“What about Printim? You dated them for like—” Nervous laughter trills out of Jess as she struggles to recount the timeline. “What? Half a year?

Poe merely shrugs, but you can tell from the furrow in his brow that he’s quickly growing tired of the interrogation.

“‘ Dated ’ is a generous term,” he scoffs.

All around you, observers to the exchange whistle and laugh at Poe’s implication…

But you can only stare in wonder.

Poe Dameron has never gotten to “I Love You”?

You’re not oblivious to his reputation as a serial romantic, of course… Hell, he’s even admitted to much of it point-blank.

But still.

Poe Dameron is…

A shining light in the dark.

He’s handsome, an amazing pilot, he’s funny and he’s kind and treats everyone equally.

Because of all that, he’s… Your best friend.

Poe Dameron is your best friend.

And it’s, frankly, insane that the universe has failed to unite him with someone worthy of his heart.

“Okay, okay ,” Snap intervenes; ever the big brother. “To say this has gotten messy would be an understatement. Why don’t we call it quits and just enjoy the rest of the night, eh?”

Jess boos her squadmate playfully, but some part of her is able to recognize that even she is a bit too far-gone to continue. With a roll of her eyes, Karé rises to follow Snap to the drink table for one last round.

As conversations begin to fracture and dissolve into the quieting hum of the night, you and Poe remain as you are: seated side-by-side, gazing into the warmth of the fire.

“You neither, huh?”

Poe’s scratchy sigh is soft and deep as he addresses you without meeting your gaze. His tone may be aiming for playful, but… There’s something there, underneath it all. A weariness.

You can only shake your head.

Somewhere on the other side of the fire, the static tones of the radio lull into quiet before resuming into a new tune. It’s soft and slow; the accompanying singers harmonize, and the melancholy melody fills your head with the glow of the night sky.

You’re so content in your pensive quiet, that you find yourself woefully unprepared when Poe suddenly rises to his feet and reaches toward you with one hand:

“You wanna dance?"

Notes:

★ 💕🎵💕

Chapter 12: Flare

Summary:

The life you thought you knew begins to crash down around you.

Notes:

★ hello hello, apologies for the impromptu hiatus while I tied up some of my other series! but I’m back and ready to GO
★ I also made a little moodboard graphic to go with this fic, finally! enjoy
★ as foretold, there’s slow-dancing in this chapter… if you want music inspo, listen to “The Very Thought of You” performed by Al Bowlly
★ this chapter gets a bit angsty, but more fluff and more frequent updates are on their way, I promise! xoxo

Chapter Text


 

- - - - -

 

The crisp night air, dimly lit by the gradually dying bonfire, feels full of eyes determined to track your every movement—perhaps that’s why, when you first place your hand in the Commander’s, your very skin is overtaken by heat. Against your will, your nervous gaze darts to and fro, praying not to draw notice as the two of you walk to the unencumbered patch of dirt serving as a makeshift “dance floor.” Most other revelers have vacated the space by now, those that haven’t already headed off to bed opting to continue their tipsy conversations amongst the variety of improvised seating.

Your gaze is pulled back to Dameron by the rich sound of his laugh.

“C’mon, Sparks,” he chides. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You frown.

“I just… Don’t dance much. At all, really.”

“And a few days ago, you’d never flown an X-wing… Yet here you stand.”

You quirk an eyebrow in the face of his shameless grin as he urges you to a halt in the middle of the clearing.

You flew that thing. I just enjoyed the view.”

“Then why don’t you do the same now?” Dameron shoots you an impish wink.

You walked right into that one, you suppose.

Any thought of a retort dies on your tongue, however, as Poe’s hand confidently makes its way to the small of your back. His smile has softened, now—less mischievous, all warmth and patience. With his free hand, he guides your arm upward to rest upon his shoulder before lowering to interlace his fingers with your own.

Soon enough, just as gracefully as he’d guided that X-wing out of the atmosphere—you’re moving, following the languid pace Poe has set, ever-considerate of your comfort.

“This good?” He breathes at last, voice fallen low and quiet for only you to hear. His dark eyes are creased at the edges as he assesses you.

Your mouth feels treacherously dry as you nod through your response.

“Yeah. It’s… Good.”

Emboldened, Poe leads you into a slow twirl, and you follow along, laughing sheepishly all the while. His fond smile blossoms into an all-out grin.

“You should be taken out dancing more often. You’re a natural,” he reassures you as he pulls you close to him once more.

You’ve never thought of yourself as a “natural” at any pursuit, and certainly not at this—but if it were Poe Dameron teaching you every step, you muse, you could see yourself being eager to learn. Judging by the look on his face, though, he clearly sees some degree of potential in you that you can’t see in yourself. Those hypnotizing, bitter-caf eyes have always had a way of piercing your very soul, pinning you down as they try to identify what makes you tick.

It’s one of the many things you love about him—

Love .

The word strikes you like a blaster bolt to the heart.

Despite your best efforts and all your better judgment, you’re starting to fall for Poe Dameron.

And if the warmth present in his expression at the moment is anything to go by… You may not be standing alone upon this precipice.

Your lips part involuntarily around a shaky gasp as guilt jolts through you…

He can’t feel that way about you.

He doesn’t know who you are.

Liar, liar, liar .

“Poe—”

“Uh oh,” he sighs—and the smile fades from his eyes. “You only call me ‘Poe’ when something is wrong, Sparks.”

Abashed, your gaze darts sidelong, past the joining of your outstretched hands… The crowd is less overwhelming, now, with weary Resistance recruits murmuring amongst themselves into a pleasant quiet. A sudden movement catches your attention—flimsiplast crown fully askew, Jess is enthusiastically shaking a thumbs-up at you.

“The night you were rescued…”

You know as soon as the words are out of your mouth that you should stop them . Nothing good can come of this.

But perhaps the ardees has bolstered your nerves too much, or maybe you’re simply trying to knock down this house of cards before anybody else can do it for you.

You feel Poe’s hand flex upon your lower back, your gaze tracing the movement in his jaw as he waits for you to continue.

“...Did you really speak to an ‘angel’?”

The surprise in Poe’s expression makes it clear that this is the last question he was expecting. You fight to conceal a wince at the cowardice of your own words as you let him think through his reply.

The radio plays on, unbothered.

“I don’t know.” Poe’s smile is almost embarrassed , now, yet there’s little to no hesitation in his voice as he divulges the truth of the matter to you. “Before I passed out, before the medics found me… I thought there was a voice. I remember bits and pieces of talking to somebody, somebody far away. But I…” His words trail off, brows furrowing as undoubtedly difficult memories begin to resurface.

Bits and pieces .

That’s all you’ve given him, really— bits and pieces of the truth.

Poe Dameron has bared his soul to you in more ways than even he knows, yet you’re too much of a coward to tell him that you’ve met him at his most vulnerable.

And what are you so afraid of?

Do you really think he’ll be incensed that you didn’t admit to it sooner?

Or is the source of your fear something far deeper?

At the heart of it, you know: if you confess to one good deed, it would feel dishonest not to also confess to the sins of your past.

And the thought of falling in Poe Dameron’s esteem terrifies you more than it has any right to.

With what little composure you can muster, you attempt a reassuring smile…

Yet all the while, your mind is screaming at you: Leave .

“It’s okay, Commander,” you murmur, resting a steadying palm upon his bicep as you urge the both of you to a halt. “Sorry I asked. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be,” Dameron shakes his head, clearing away some of the far-off look that had overtaken his eyes. “Do you, um… Wanna go sit for a bit?”

“I just remembered, I still gotta change back into uniform before my shift starts,” you wince; it’s not technically a lie, yet it feels like one all the same. You try to ignore the look of confused concern on Dameron’s face.

“Well, here, let me walk you—”

“No, it’s fine, really!” You’re already backing away, eyes planning an escape route through the stragglers. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

You don’t hear his response.

 

- - - - -

 

This residential corridor feels darker than ever as you walk back to your room alone.

You have to get your shit figured out, soon, before somebody’s feelings get hurt—and before your own heart gets shattered to pieces.

And you have work in less than an hour.

It’s all too much. Breathing in deep, you try to focus on what you can do here and now—

Get dressed, start your shift. Work the radio. Your stuff is—

Your stuff is in a box.

Your steps slow to a stop.

Seemingly all of your belongings—the knit blanket from your bed, the spare clothes from your drawers…

All of it, sitting in a small filing crate outside the door to your dorm.

You’re trembling with—what, anger? Panic?—as you bend down to examine the state of things… And there’s a flimsiplast note resting atop the pile.

It’s impersonal, checks and marks filling out a gridded form with some bureaucratic signature you don’t recognize marking the bottom.

The sum of it is clear, though:

Savitri reported the two of you to be a “bad fit” as bunkmates.

(Nevermind, of course, that you’ve been rooming with her for over six months without incident.)

Delara is to take your place.

You are to report to the administrative office with your belongings to be reassigned to new living quarters.

Blankly, your gaze pulls up to stare at the durasteel door separating you and your now-ex-bunkmate.

…You could go in there, you doubt anybody’s been around to reprogram the keypad yet.

You could cause a scene. Give voice to all the anger Savitri’s inspired in you, as well as some which the girl had nothing to do with at all.

But you won’t.

You just need to keep moving forward.

Fingers laced into the handles on the side of the box containing your inconsequential life, you’re halfway to admin when your datapad buzzes in your pocket. Deciding to take a break before you face what’s ahead, you place the crate down on a bench and sit beside it as you pull the device out.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

It’s from Poe.

 

You okay?? Swung by your room to check on you but your nerfherder roommate told me to buzz off.

 

Irritation flares anew in your chest as you picture Savitri, still trying to stick it to the both of you in whatever way she can… But you find that you’re too tired for anger, right now. A weary sigh escapes you as you take your time in typing out a response…

 

Got kicked out. Reporting for reassignment and everything.

 

You stare at the impersonal reply, so indicative of your work: short, to-the-point, a simple assessment of the facts.

But Poe’s your best friend.

He deserves better than that.

With trembling fingers, you add:

 

…I don’t FEEL okay, Poe.

 

His response is almost instantaneous.

 

Got it. Where are you?

 

Through eyes that are quickly growing hazy with tears, you blink at the moving dots that indicate that Poe is still typing. At last, his next words appear:

 

We’ll figure this out.

Chapter 13: Reassignment

Summary:

Dameron finds an interesting solution to your latest problem.

Notes:

★ fret not, I haven’t abandoned this series—but the holidays and the seemingly never-ending job hunt have gotten the better of me lately. hoping to write more frequently soon!
★ I am truly living out all my best-friends-to-lovers trope fantasies here and you’re just along for the ride
★ as always, your lovely comments and feedback are what truly inspire me to continue with everything I write. thank you for reading 💕

Chapter Text

Too often lately, it feels like life is simply… Happening to you.

Like some cosmic storm is tossing you to and fro, and you’re just along for the ride.

Or…

Maybe just Poe Dameron is happening to you.

With little direction, he finds you soon enough: seated in the hallway next to your life packed away in a tiny box. You wordlessly show him the flimsiplast reassignment order… Feeling defeated, resigned to your fate—and now, late for your shift on top of it all.

Poe reads the damned note, but betrays little of his reaction—if you weren’t so focused on him, you might not have noticed the bob of his throat as he mulls over your current predicament.

“Sparks,” he begins uneasily, as if talking down a frightened animal. Without taking his dark eyes off of you, he tosses the note back atop the crate at your side. “What can I—what can we do? How do you wanna play this?”

You blink up at him, feeling wholly set adrift.

How are you supposed to “play” this?

“What am I supposed to do, Dameron?” You heave a shaky sigh, feeling vulnerable beneath the spotlight of his concern. “I go to admin, they ask a few questions, maybe offer a lecture, then send me off to bunk with some new person.” You’re talking more than you have the energy for, but now that you’ve begun thinking out loud about next steps, it feels difficult to stop. “...It’s not like I’m gonna fight it, force Savitri to passive-aggressively make my life difficult for the next however-many months. It’s time for me to be thrust upon the next unlucky laserbrain.”

The Commander’s brow furrows. “Shut up. Don’t talk like that,” he chides, and you barely conceal a wince. “This is all just… Unfortunate circumstances, at worst. If anything, it’s my fault.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “Let me fix this?”

It’s a request, not an order, that much you can tell… And you know better by this point than to try and reassure him that no , this is not his fault, that you were the one sticking your nose into other people’s business when you should’ve kept your head in the radio tower.

Still… He’s Poe Dameron . Wrapped in the comfort of your friendship with him, it can sometimes be easy to forget just how much sway he has around base—the golden boy, the Commander, the man on nearly everybody’s good side.

And you’re just… You .

You don’t know what Dameron has in mind to “fix,” but at the very least, he could probably save you from a lecture about playing nice with others.

And given the current state of your emotions—regardless of how much of that turmoil is being caused by the Commander himself—you’re not sure you can handle this without him… Without your best friend.

“Yeah,” you nod, voice treacherously hoarse—and when did your vision get so glossy? “Yeah, okay.”

 

- - - - -

 

The night sky is cloudless and serene outside the radio tower, and after the chaos of the past several hours, you count the calm weather as a much-needed balm to your frayed nerves. It’s been an easy night—not too many ships to guide on- and off-world.

But the quiet has never been kind to your wandering thoughts, has it?

You’d parted with Dameron right before your shift, wholly abandoning the idea of changing out of your evening clothes into your uniform. He had gently pried the box of your belongings from your unsteady hands with many reassurances that it would all be sorted by the time you finished your nocturnal duties… And oh, how badly you wanted to believe him.

You’ll have to find Dameron again come dawn, to grab your things and figure out what your new living situation looks like. A few hours ago, it hit you that he might be staying up all night to see the work done. You messaged him:

 

Please get some sleep, okay?

 

Not-reassuringly, Dameron’s response was immediate.

 

Sure thing .

 

Renewed feelings of unworthiness creep their way up your spine and into your heart.

You do your best to focus on the work at hand.

Come daylight, returning to the starkly lit underground hallways of the base feels like as much of a descent as it ever has.

 

- - - - -

 

“...What did you just say?”

It feels like the gravity on D’Qar is no longer quite right; like the floor has turned viscous beneath your feet and you’re sinking, sinking.

You couldn’t have possibly heard the Commander right—

Welcome home, Sparks!

No. That’s not—

“Shit,” he concedes, grin falling lopsided as his eyes darken with concern. “Was it stupid to leave it as a surprise? God, I’m always fucking stuff like this up. But, uh, listen—”

Dameron gestures sideways with flourish, to the sight of your belongings neatly placed on a barren desk, your pillow tossed atop the uppermost bunk.

In Poe’s room .

You step inside, just enough for the door to at last slide shut behind you.

This is ‘fixing’ it, huh?” But your words sound a little breathless, less venomous and more dazed.

Dameron runs an anxious hand through the unruly mess of his dark hair.

“Guess I figured, uh…” Dameron shrugs. “Better me than some stranger, right? And we work opposite schedules, so you’ll have the room to yourself a lot. And…” His voice trails off, but you can hazard a guess at his next words.

You have, after all, been repeating them like a soothing mantra in your own mind over the past several fraught hours.

You’re my best friend .

Expression falling blank, you turn from observing the new home of your belongings to scanning Dameron’s face for—what, exactly?

Okay, get it together, Sparks.

Pros of this situation:

You don’t need to learn to share your space with a stranger all over again.

Dameron’s right—you do keep opposite hours, so you won’t be in each other’s way too much.

Plus, being a Commander, his room is… Nice , you have to admit: spacious enough that you didn’t immediately notice BB-8’s charging port, where the droid is currently snoozing in silence. There are not one, but two desks, and a built-in tower of shelves that is half-cluttered with tech and trinkets. Absently, you wonder if he’d spent the night clearing the other half of the space for you

…Cons:

Poe is clearly giving up the luxury of his previously solitary living situation for your benefit. That doesn’t sit right with you.

Not to mention that your recently-acknowledged, hopeless crush on him is bound to become more difficult to conceal, let alone bear, in such close quarters. How are you meant to keep your feelings in check under such conditions? How are you meant to withstand the inevitable rumors?

And what if Poe snores?

“Poe…” You begin, but your voice trails off, head still reeling from the exhaustion of the party, of work, of moving and of whatever this is.

“Force, Sparks, just say something ,” he laughs, a bit too loudly for the small space, as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He’s grinning sheepishly, but it doesn’t meet the darkness of his eyes. No, there’s something sad there, something akin to—

To rejection .

You move before you can think on the matter any longer.

“This,” you breathe, face pressed into Poe’s chest as your arms find purchase behind his back. “Is one of the nicest things anybody’s ever done for me.”

And you mean every word of it.

Initially, Poe seems stunned by the unexpected embrace—but quickly enough, you feel his broad arms fall over your back, a soothing palm rubbing lines up and down your spine that make you want to curl into him even further.

It’s a dangerous intimacy…

You pull away somewhat to offer him a friendly smile.

“Thank you, Poe.” The words feel warm on your tongue, his name like a familiar sweet you want to taste again and again.

When he next speaks, his voice has dropped low and gentle…

“Anything for you, Sparks.”

 

- - - - -

 

Throughout the day, sleep only comes to you in fits and starts.

You’d called out of the next night’s work, more than willing to let Chantel pick up your shift in exchange for coming in early the following evening. After all, after the night you’ve had, you feel like somebody should be guiding you to a safe landing of sorts.

You’re not even half-asleep when the daytime light cycle dims through the crack of the automatic doorway.

You’re laying in your bunk fully awake when Dameron tries to tiptoe inside before dinner.

Instantly, your gazes lock—and he meets your curiosity with an unabashed grin.

There’s a towel around his neck, and he’s—he’s only wearing the lower half of his brilliant orange flightsuit, chest and abs conspicuously bare. He must’ve just taken a post-flight shower, your increasingly-alarmed brain points out absently.

“Sparks!” Your moniker sounds as warm as ever in his voice. “Guess I should get used to knocking, huh? Though I guess, I wasn’t sure if you’d be asleep. I was just—”

He’s rambling again. He seems to do that, sometimes; to fill the silence.

You sit up, pulling the blankets tighter around your waist to conceal the sparse pajama shorts you usually wear to bed, feeling suddenly self-conscious of your basic human need for rest.

“It’s fine, Commander,” you shrug, trying not to let your bleary-eyed blinking betray your words as he flicks on the dim light of a lamp. “Had trouble sleeping, anyhow.”

Dameron frowns, at this, moving to settle on the rolling chair of his desk to face you… Lifting one arm to rub his still-damp hair with the towel as he assesses you.

“Anything I can do to help?” His perturbed expression is too genuine, his concern too palpable—almost as if it’s his fault.

Fighting a rising blush, you force yourself to look away from the taut movement of his muscles.

In some ways , you muse inwardly, maybe it is.

Still… It’s always hard to see Dameron like this, like—like something is eating at him.

Unbidden, images of his worried face lit by the earlier bonfire flood your brain—

And you curse under your breath.

“Pardon?”

You turn to look at him once more; he’s smiling slightly, confused.

“I said—uh…” You wring your hands through your blanket. “I’m sorry for… For prodding you earlier. About that night, and about the voice you might’ve heard. I didn’t mean to…”

You let your words trail off; what had you meant to do?

Be honest with your friend , that’s what.

You’re such a nerfherder.

“Oh. Don’t worry about it,” he reassures you with a sad smile. “Honestly, it… I’m just glad you don’t think I’m crazy.”

Immediately, you shake your head; in one sure movement, you’re out of bed, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, arms crossed as you fix him with your most serious stare.

“Poe Dameron,” you begin, trying not to relish in the way his eyes widen at your sudden approach. “You are many, many things, but you are not crazy.”

With a couple strides of his feet, then, his chair is rolling till he’s seated directly before you. With Poe’s dark eyes staring up at you, any bravado that had possessed you suddenly feels shaky. From his lower position, he raises both hands to rest tentatively on your hips… What might be an imploring gesture, but it feels scalding on your skin regardless of intent.

Dameron swallows thickly.

“Sparks—”

But suddenly, you’re both plunged into a glow of flashing red light. A blaring siren—the basewide alert , you recognize—sounds through the hallway intercom, high and demanding of your full attention.

Chapter 14: Crossfire

Summary:

Fresh off the heat of battle, an unexpected exchange leaves you reeling.

Notes:

★ big things in this chapter, lots of emotions… it was one of the earliest chapters I fully planned out, and I hope I did it justice
★ thank you for sticking by me and this story through the slower-than-I’d-like updates and all the best-friends-to-lovers angst. 🧡 enjoy!!

Chapter Text

War is ugly, relentless…

Unforgiving.

That’s never more apparent than it is on a night like tonight.

After the past two hours of frantically manning the radio tower alongside Chantel, your nerves feel completely fried… All because half a dozen First Order patrol ships finally wandered too close to D’Qar airspace. After all that the Resistance has been working towards, though, the last thing it needs is its base being compromised—which is why, around dinnertime, the basewide alert had been sounded, calling everyone to prepare for what would become, best-case scenario, a quick extermination mission.

If only anything were ever that simple.

The FO ships can’t have come to this part of the Outer Rim wholly unawares, for they were apparently armed to the teeth and ready for a fight. Black Squadron— Poe’s squadron, as your treacherous brain keeps reminding itself—was the first to be deployed, with Teal Squadron following not soon after when reinforcements were requested. Throughout the battle, you’ve been listening into the Resistance’s comm channel, hanging on every word with baited breath. Voices both strange and familiar shout across the airwaves—

Incoming, strafe left!

Watch your flank—

Snap, maneuver 23…

And with every new word breathed in Dameron’s adrenaline-laced voice, you repeat your silent mantra.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

It’s been several minutes since you’ve had new word from Black Leader, but unfortunately, you don’t have time to dwell on that—the battle may be over, the Resistance scraping by with a win, but you’re needed now more than ever as you use your radio to guide all X-wings back to ground. The night has not passed without injuries, and it’s going to be a bumpy landing for some of your allies.

Chantel’s steady voice continues beside you as she guides more pilots back to D’Qar.

“Teal four, you’re clear to land, over. Black three—”

You’ve just finished getting out a few directions of your own when a movement catches your eye outside the window.

In the rush of bodies across the tarmac, medics and mechanics alike—the pit droid operating traffic control to the landing zone has been knocked off its wheels and is struggling to get up.

You hiss in a breath, and wait.

And watch.

And none of the passerby seem to notice the bot’s state of upheaval.

Shit ,” you bite out, ripping your headset off to rest atop your comm station.

The well-oiled machine of you and Chantel can’t work without the droid offering guidance to pilots landing in the dark of night.

“Sparks, what are you—”

You wave a gesture at your coworker as you rush to shrug into your jacket. “I need to right the pit droid, I’ll only be a sec.”

Your feet fly down the steps descending the radio tower, gaze repeatedly glancing skyward to find it thankfully empty for the moment.

Down on the tarmac, a few X-wings have already landed, some of the pilots out and walking around, speaking to medical personnel, superior officers, and starship mechanics in frantic shouts as the air remains charged with the electricity of a hard-fought battle.

Leaping strides carry you to the pit droid.

“Hey, buddy,” you mumble as you try to position yourself to get a good grip on the machine that easily exceeds half your height. “Let’s get you up.”

With your hands hooked under its arms, you grunt as you try to haul the droid upright, its wheels spinning frantically for purchase with a series of disgruntled beeps. Your gaze repeatedly darts around the tarmac, silently pleading for help—but not a soul seems to notice your predicament.

Later, you might be able to remember hearing the telltale pop of a ship breaching D’Qar’s atmosphere. You’ll recall the roaring sound of an engine growing louder, louder, as your body struggled to extricate itself from the tangle of the droid’s limbs—

But before you’re able to succeed in taking your life into your own hands, a tall, lithe body collides furiously with your own, slamming your head against the pavement as all the wind is knocked out of you.

Over the broad expanse of a man’s shoulder, you’re able to look beyond at the spot on the tarmac that you were, only a few seconds ago, occupying… Right as a compromised Black Squadron X-wing comes crashing to the ground, crushing the pit droid beneath its wheels, its injured wing smoking.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

A breath, more like a rattle, wheezes out of your winded body as your gaze stays pinned to the tattered remains of the pit droid.

That was almost you.

“Thank you,” is what your brain wants you to say. In reality, as soon as your lips part around the words, a noise like a strangled sob is wrenched involuntarily from your chest.

At length, you’re able to pull your gaze away from the site of your brush with death, to the body of your savior as they pull themselves up. Teal Squadron patches adorn their arm, and as they rise to their considerable height, you’re met by a rich skin tone and a stricken expression—

Erno.

“Erno,” you breathe at last. “I—”

Words die on your lips as he reaches out a hand, offering to pull you to your feet… Even as his face remains a mask of undisguised fury.

Unsteadily, and with a considerable amount of wincing, you rise from your position splayed out upon the tarmac.

Sparks! ” A familiar voice is shouting your name somewhere in the distance… Perhaps multiple voices?

Your ears might be ringing. The ground seems to tilt beneath your feet.

“What the fuck are you doing out here, recruit?” Erno’s voice is fury and venom, his features twisted into a snarl as he spits the words out at you.

“I… The pit droid—” The feeble quality of your own voice betrays you. You’re so stupid, Maker, you’re so stupid and you could have died.

Your head was so consumed by thoughts of the pilots, of the passerby on the tarmac, you weren’t thinking and you could have died .

Your eyes grow misty as you choke on the rest of your words.

“Sparks—”

Fuck the droid,” Erno growls. “Droids can be rebuilt. You can’t. You need to stay in the radio tower—”

“Sparks!”

For the second time in as many minutes, a tall body comes barreling into you. It isn’t until he throws his helmet off to reveal sweat-dampened, dark curls that your hazy vision is able to recognize the newcomer as Poe.

Alive , your rattled brain whispers.

“Sparks, what the hell was that—”

“Back off, Dameron,” Erno’s voice has gone cold; a warning.

The Commander doesn’t seem to hear him. Your face is squished against Dameron’s flight vest in a crushing embrace.

“Fuck, Sparks, fuck . Why are you down here? Why—”

“Don’t pretend to give a shit , Dameron,” Erno barks at last, evidently fed up by the display.

Hesitantly, Poe pulls away from you, giving you enough space to wipe your tears away on the sleeve of your jacket. Looking over the men’s shoulders, you spy multiple sets of eyes watching you, including a tentative young medical recruit that glances toward you with uncertainty.

“I—Erno,” Dameron blinks, as if noticing the man for the first time. “Erno, you saved her, I can’t thank you—how do I—”

“I don’t want anybody’s fucking thanks , and especially not yours ,” the other man spits out, eyes dark with hurt. “Where was all this concern for your squadmates , you self-absorbed prick? For Kinga, my Kinga?”

Poe looks as though the words were a blow to his solar plexus. A new wave of alarm flashes through his eyes.

“This has nothing—” Throat bobbing, he starts again, voice quieter despite the loud bustle of activity all around. “I cared about her, too. You know I did.”

Erno wastes no time in stepping into Poe’s space, shoving the Commander’s shoulders hard. Poe allows the blow to stumble him backward a step, but his furrowed brow and troubled gaze remain fixed upon the Teal Squadron pilot.

“If you gave a shit, she’d still be here , Dameron,” Erno’s voice cuts through the night air. “Look at you. You can’t even save your own dumbass girlfriend .”

You wince at his words, knowing instantly that he’s referring to you. You— yeah, you were being an idiot out on the tarmac, but—

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Poe mutters darkly, taking a step forward to stare Erno directly in the face, now. Tension is crackling in the air between the two men, and in the state you’re in, you’re helpless but to watch it unfold.

“Poe,” you implore weakly.

“Don’t do this, Erno,” Dameron warns, voice eerily even. “Not here and not now.”

“Why, when it’s the fucking truth? ” Spittle flies through the air as Erno snaps in the Commander’s face. “She’s clearly too fucking stupid to stay behind her desk and away from you .”

You can’t help but flinch at the brutal animosity of his words.

The next few seconds hang silent in the air, the only sound being your own ragged breathing as your sore ribs move around your lungs.

For the briefest, most blissful of moments, you think that Poe’s lack of retort means that he’s willing to let the words go.

But all hope of such an easy resolution dies with the sharp crack of Poe’s fist connecting with the other man’s nose.

Chapter 15: Static

Summary:

You and Poe confront reality.

Notes:

★ I posted a playlist of songs to accompany this fic on my Tumblr. check it out! (@interstellarwraith)
★ …what else can I say? I hope this chapter is everything you hoped for and more. 🧡

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sunlight is bathing the grassy knolls of D’Qar, which means it’s time for you to be readying for bed. Your mind wanders as you strip out of your uniform, putting on the soft shorts and tank top you normally sleep in.

When your hands run out of things to do, you simply sit on the edge of your top bunk and stare at the stillness of the doorway.

You haven’t seen nor heard from Poe since he was pulled off of Erno and sent directly to admin several hours ago. People around base are saying he broke the other man’s nose—and those same people are giving you curious, wary glances in the process.

It’s no wonder, of course. Erno practically shouted his vitriol for the whole tarmac to hear—and it was talk of you that provoked Dameron to act, after all.

Guilt spears through you, heavy and sharp.

What if the Commander gets grounded? Flying is his life, and yet he risked it all to defend you .

A deep feeling of unworthiness permeates your very bones.

Beep .”

You glance down at BB-8. Dameron’s droid had followed you back to your shared quarters once it was clear Poe had some explaining to do. You’re, admittedly, grateful for the company.

Now that the day cycle is beginning across the base, BB-8 is rolling out of his charging port and looking up at you quizzically.

“No word, BB,” you admit with a sad smile. “But I’m sure he’ll—”

Then, as if right on cue: a knock at the door.

“Poe?” you call out.

The man that proceeds to step inside certainly looks like your best friend—but he’s more exhausted and downtrodden than you’ve perhaps ever seen him.

You force yourself to swallow down an exclamation of worry.

“Hey,” you nod, wincing at your too-casual greeting. You restlessly dangle your feet from the top bunk as you watch Poe set his helmet down on his desk.

He doesn’t utter a word as he moves slowly about the room, shrugging out of the upper half of his brilliant orange flight suit to tie the sleeves about his waist, leaving his crisp white undershirt exposed. After kicking off his boots, he at last sits down in the chair beside his desk, letting loose a rough sigh as he scrubs one hand down his weary features.

You fiddle aimlessly with the hem of the blanket laying in your lap.

“You want the good news, or the bad?”

His question elicits a startled look from you. Perhaps, if it were anyone other than Dameron, you wouldn’t expect him to be so… Direct.

But that’s just Poe.

“Good?” The uncertainty in your voice might be comical in any other circumstance. As it stands, though, he nods.

“They’re not going to ground me.”

A hesitant smile creeps its way onto your lips. That is good news, indeed. Below, BB-8 does a happy little spin in place; Poe pats the droid affectionately on the head as he continues.

“I was honest about what Erno said, and as long as he confirms my story, then admin is willing to agree that I was provoked and deserve a lesser punishment.”

You nod, thoughts racing; Erno is a troubled man, yes, but he’s never struck you as the type to lie.

“So…” Despite your best instincts, you prod anyway. “What’s the bad news?”

For the first time since he entered the room, Poe meets your gaze. There’s an apology in his eyes that threatens to rend your heart in two.

“The only reason I’m not being grounded,” he says. “Is because I asked to be sent offworld instead. Our mission to Camulos just got moved up, Sparks… We leave tomorrow.”

 

- - - - -

 

Tomorrow .

It’s 0100 now, which means you have about 11 more hours to prepare yourself for your first mission offworld.

As soon as Poe had told you the news, you knew there was no longer a chance of you getting any sleep that day. Instead, you ran to General Ogmios’s office to request whatever files were available that might help you learn to reactivate a years-out-of-date beacon.

Since your shift in the radio tower began a few hours ago, you’ve interspersed the occasional comm with bouts of studying whatever texts the General was able to make available to you. If you’re certain of nothing else in this galaxy, you’ve always been confident in your ability to do your job and do it well… But it feels like so much is riding on this mission.

Dameron is practically on probation.

You have never been assigned such a delicate task before, and are eager to appear competent.

And, most troubling of all… Poe asked for you specifically to be his partner on Camulos.

If you somehow disappoint him, it might break your heart.

Unbidden, the memory of your conversation with Poe in the tandem X-wing comes back to you in striking clarity:

I don’t want to let you down .

You couldn’t, Sparks.

…You can only pray to the Force that that’s true.

It’s hard to even let yourself think about what might happen if the mission is a success .

Will you and Poe get to work together on other assignments? Will you be leaving the radio tower more often? Is that something you even want?

Just a few months ago, you thought that the mundanity of your post was a fitting way to atone for the First Order connections darkening your history… But all it’s taken is one unlikely friendship to have you questioning whether you might be capable of more than you’d set your sights on.

“Black One, requesting clearance for takeoff, over.”

As if summoned by your thoughts, Commander Dameron’s voice cuts the silence of your office through the radio. With a tentative smile, you adjust your headset.

“Copy that, Black One. You are clear for takeoff, over.”

For the next few minutes, the airwaves are quiet as Dameron presumably maneuvers his X-wing out of D’Qar’s atmosphere.

On one hand, you’re worried that he’s out running late-night drills so soon before your departure for Camulos… But on the other hand, who are you to judge? It brings you some small sort of comfort to know that Poe might be just as nervous about this mission as you are.

“Next time I’m up here, you’ll be in the copilot’s seat, Sparks. Think of that.”

Poe’s words surprise you more than his static-laden voice does. The idea sends a pleasant flush of warmth to your cheeks.

“...I really can’t wait to see the stars like that again,” you muse quietly.

In recent days, you’ve thought all too often of that night in the tandem X-wing—about what you saw… And about what was said.

I’ve already trusted you with my life once. I’m willing to do it again.

What did you ever do to deserve somebody like Poe Dameron in your life?

A long silence follows, before Poe is the one to break it.

“Are you nervous?”

You force a swallow.

“Horribly,” you admit with a mirthless chuckle. “You?”

“We’ve got this, Sparks,” he replies, a non-answer if you’ve ever heard one. “Maybe we should hit the ardees in the canteen tonight. Take the edge off.”

You know he’s half-joking, so you play along.

“I’m working. And studying for Camulos, I might add,” you say with a playful smile. “I’m a busy woman, Poe Dameron.”

“Atta girl. You’re gonna—” But Poe’s words are choked off, suddenly. A moment of eerie silence permeates the airwaves.

You lean forward with a frown.

“Black One, come in. Black One, do you copy?”

A few more seconds of quiet… Then:

“Sparks,” Poe breathes your moniker… And his voice sounds a little hoarse, now; a little strained. “You know, that’s what I’ve always called you. When I’m told to call somebody something, I listen, ya know? It’s only polite. Only…” He’s rambling again—he always does, when he’s agitated. “Only I guess I’ve never asked you your name. Your real name.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins.

Because you know where this is going.

Because you remember when the last time you introduced yourself with your real name was.

“Poe, I—”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Your vision goes blurry, and your hands are trembling atop your desk.

Lie , a little voice in your head whispers.

Tell him everything , pleads your heart.

You don’t bother to stop yourself; you don’t have the strength.

Across the stars, you murmur your name.

You squeeze your eyes shut, expecting—you don’t know what. Shock? A rebuke?

Instead, you receive only the reintroduction of Dameron’s most terse, businesslike tone.

“Black One, seeking clearance to land. Over.”

 

- - - - -

 

When the door to the radio tower slides open, you hardly have it in you to turn around to face him.

“Sparks.”

No, you can’t

“Sparks,” Poe breathes, and it’s the crack in his voice that does you in. “ Please .”

Slowly, you rise to your feet. You pivot to face him as he approaches, though your eyes remain glued to the durasteel floor.

So this is how you lose a best friend…

With no one but yourself to blame.

When Poe says nothing more, you at last pull your gaze up to meet him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so furious.

“All this time—” he begins, but you can’t help yourself; you cut him off.

“I’m so sorry, Poe,” you whisper. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. Honestly, I don’t. I just didn’t—”

Why? ” He asks, ignoring your assertions. “ Why didn’t you tell me, Sparks?”

“I told you, I don’t—”

“Not good enough,” he bites. “ Why?

“Because I was fucking scared , alright?” The words feel like they’re torn from your throat. “You were vulnerable, that night, and I was vulnerable , and I—” A sound half-choke, half-sob falls from your lips as you search for words. To steady yourself, you move to sit on the edge of the nearest desk, wiping misty eyes upon your sleeve.

“I’m nobody , Poe. Not a hero, and not an angel,” you whisper at last. “I don’t deserve sweet things, least of all you. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I had no idea that you would ever—that we’d—” Your words die in your throat.

You at last bring yourself to look back up at Poe; he’s closed the distance between the two of you, now, and is running one hand backward through his mop of curly, dark hair. His eyes seem to convey countless emotions—anger, hurt… Relief… And things you can’t yet identify.

“Damn it, Sparks,” he groans through a haggard sigh. “God damn it .”

But before you can apologize again, he captures your lips in a scalding kiss.

Notes:

★ 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡
★ (if you wanna know what finally tipped Poe off, go back and have another peak at Chapter 2!)

Chapter 16: Takeoff

Summary:

A storm of new emotions casts clouds over the start of your new mission.

Notes:

★ happy belated Star Wars day!!! may the 4th be with you besties 🧡
★ the outpouring of love for last chapter and for this whole fic in general has been truly heartwarming and humbling. tbh I was rereading the comments on each chapter before writing this and getting misty-eyed
★ this chapter is a bit on the shorter side as we transition into the next big arc: Sparks and Poe are off to Camulos!!
★ as always, enjoy xoxo

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Poe Dameron is kissing you.

Poe Dameron is kissing you .

For all you know, fireworks could be launching off the tarmac outside and you’d be completely oblivious.

Where you’re still seated atop a desk, Poe steps into your space, his hands finding your waist like they were made to fit there. Your eyes flutter closed as soft lips move against your own; where your mouth parts on a gasp of surprise, he tentatively takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. A wrecked sigh escapes him when, at last, your arms find purchase around his neck.

The kiss is fierce and warm and so unmistakably Poe .

It suddenly seems unfathomably foolish that you’ve wasted so much time not doing this.

At length, you part for air. The only sounds in the radio tower are the soft beeps of machinery and your shared, shallow breathing.

Forehead pressed to his, you don’t yet have the courage to open your eyes.

“Poe…” You begin breathlessly.

“I’m still pissed at you,” he grumbles as he pulls away, though there’s little ferocity in his tone. “Don’t get it twisted, angel.”

The endearment floods your cheeks with warmth. Hesitantly, you blink your eyes open, only to find Poe watching you with an expression so openly conflicted that it sends fresh guilt piercing through you.

“You deserve the universe , Sparks,” he sighs, dark eyes searching your own, imploring. “Don’t ever say that stupid shit otherwise ever again. Got that?”

His matter-of-fact tone renders you speechless. You’re more than a little bit mesmerized as you watch his gaze flick down to your lips, then back up once more to look you dead in the eye.

“I’ll see you for takeoff. Don’t be late.”

You can only nod in response.

And just like that, Poe’s pulling away from you, striding out of the radio tower as though he didn’t just upend your entire friendship within the span of a few precious seconds.

 

- - - - -

 

You return to the room you share with Poe at the end of your shift to catch a couple hours of sleep before you’re due offworld, but he isn’t there… And neither is BB-8.

When you blink awake to the sound of your alarm after a less-than-restful nap, the room is still empty. You pack your bag with only the essentials: your datapad, raincoat, and a few basic survival items recommended to you by General Ogmios. 

The walk to the tarmac has never felt longer.

And your lips have never felt the lingering traces of another’s touch like this before.

Poe kissed you .

The most selfish part of you is beyond elated—amazed that, even though you deceived him, the man that won your heart has found something in you worth wanting in return.

Every other part of you says that it must be some mistake.

Because there’s so much about you and your past that Poe hasn’t seen. Because you were only just getting used to the idea of having a best friend , let alone anything more. Because Poe’s warm and kind and wonderful and you’re—

You’re just “Sparks.”

It won’t last , that treacherous little voice in your head whispers.

Don’t get attached to “important” men.

He’ll realize his mistake. And then what?

Murmurs of doubt cloud your thoughts down every turn and corridor, until at last you step outside into the cool air of morning. Sunlight has just begun to kiss the grassy knolls of D’Qar as sleepy-eyed recruits come alive across the base.

In the midst of it all, the tandem X-wing’s freshly-painted exterior shines bright in the glow of day.

Your gaze is drawn to Poe like a magnet: he stands beside the ship, helmet beneath one arm, suited up and ready to fly. He’s chatting with familiar faces—Karé, Snap, and Jess all laugh at some remark of his, eliciting a brilliant grin from him. In the ship above, BB-8 beeps happily from the astromech port.

Your body carries you toward them even as your nervous mind rebels against the idea. From over Jess’s shoulder, Poe’s dark eyes suddenly snap up to meet your gaze.

His expression instantaneously softens.

The change in demeanor is readily noticed by the rest of Black Squadron, though, because soon enough, they’re all turning to greet you, all friendly smiles and pats on the back.

“Sparks!” Jess exclaims, giving your shoulder a hearty shake. “First offworld mission, huh? This is the big time!”

“You’ll do great, kid,” Snap grins; Karé nods in agreement.

Throughout it all, you’re painstakingly aware of Poe’s quiet presence at your side. It’s as if the kiss you shared awakened some strange, sixth sense in you—an awareness of his body that fills your entire being with warmth.

After a moment of chatter, Poe’s hand finds the small of your back, and it does nothing to quell the new sensation.

“You’re gonna talk her ear off,” Poe gently chides.

“As if you don’t do enough of that for all three of us,” Jess quips with a wry smirk, before looking back to you once more. “Just… Take care of each other, alright?”

Karé chimes in. “We’ll be expecting a thorough report when you two get back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Poe scoffs. You glance toward him at last, only to find him already holding your gaze. “Ready to go?”

You have to force yourself to nod.

As you clamber into the copilot’s seat, you say your goodbyes to the rest of Black Squadron. Poe affectionately shoos them off the tarmac as he begins flipping switches and checking lights behind you that you can’t begin to guess the meaning of.

“Black One, seeking clearance for takeoff. Over.”

One of the daytime radio techs you don’t recognize responds.

Over the next several minutes, ground control guides Poe offworld. The rolling hills of D’Qar fade into the distance as you exit the atmosphere. Soon enough, the place you’ve been coming to think of as home is now just another beautiful rock amongst countless scattered across the galaxy.

And the stars…

Oh, the stars .

Pinpricks of brilliant light in an endless swath of black velvet. The sight is just as captivating as it was last time; you find yourself squirming in your seat to get the best view possible.

The hitch in your breath doesn’t go unnoticed over your headset.

“That good, huh?” There’s a smile in Poe’s voice that sends a blush rising to your cheeks. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, sweetheart.”

“What do you…?”

“Engaging hyperdrive.”

But any weakly murmured questions are silenced by the growing hum of the tandem’s engine; you find the sudden urge to readjust in your seat and double check your safety belts. You clear your throat, a little louder now, as the nose of the X-wing slowly turns to change course.

Poe , tell me what’s—”

And then the wind is knocked out of you as the world becomes streaks of light.

When you had first managed to escape Corellia as a young adult, it was always hitched in the cargo hold of passerby, or, if you were lucky, the occasional slow-moving passenger ship.

You rarely got a front-row seat for space travel.

And you certainly never got to see anything like this .

A million dazzling ribbons of white cut through the darkness of space around you as you travel at a speed that feels impossible. The dappled light flashes through your meager cockpit, coating you in bursts of starlight.

“What do you think?”

The question takes you by surprise; Poe’s tone is so gentle it’s almost imploring…

He wants you to love it, you understand at once.

Love it like he does.

“I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful in my entire life.”

“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” he murmurs playfully. “It’s… Top three, for sure.”

Is he… Flirting with you?

Forget Camulos, this is uncharted territory.

Last time you found yourself in the copilot’s seat, you’d used the opportunity to selfishly ask a question without having to face the man you’re speaking to.

When you do it again now, it is without remorse.

“Are…” Your whisper is hoarse; you try again. “Are you still mad at me?”

Sparks ,” Poe’s voice crackles through the headset. Judging by the way he groans your name, even your very question might have caused him injury.

Did it? You don’t know.

But you need to know what this is.

Need to know, more than anything… That the two of you are going to be ok.

So you’re quiet for a long, long minute. You spend that time watching the lights of the universe streak right past you both.

At length, Poe continues.

“Angel, I’m just… Confused. And I know you are too, and I know we’ve got a lot to talk about, it’s just…” His weary sigh hisses out of your headset. “One way or another, what you and me have got… It’s special, got that? There’s no one I’d rather be on this ship with than you.”

You look down at your hands, awkwardly pulling at the sleeves of your flightsuit as you whisper your response.

“Yeah, I… I feel the same.”

“Good,” he says, a bit too firmly. “Because I’m promising you right now, Sparks, that you’re gonna be safe with me.”

Notes:

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