Title from the song by Mason Jennings.
Finn watches the nursedroid—swiftly and efficiently—clean the twins up and then swaddle them in blankets. It hands Rey their daughter—impressive set of lungs that one has, Finn observes—and presses their son against Finn's chest. He peels the blanket away from the baby's face and chucks him under the chin.
"Hey, buddy," he coos. He's never cooed before. Not even at BB-8, who's pretty kriffin' adorable in their own right.
The baby—my son, our son, Finn marvels—stares up at Finn with hazel-blue eyes. They'll change over time, probably turn a shade of brown or a darker shade of hazel. He thinks about something someone told him once: I have lived long enough to see the same eyes in different people.
"What d'you think we should call this one," Finn asks, wrapping the baby's tiny, chubby fist in his hand. They'd discussed names as few times, but hadn't yet set anything in duracrete. Saving the universe was apparently a full-time job without much allowance for relaxation or picking baby names.
"Chewbacca," Rey deadpans.
"Chewbacca," Finn echoes. "I was thinking something more like… Han."
Rey's face brightens. She has sweat-stiffened hair plastered to the sides of her face and her gown is hanging off one shoulder, disheveled and stained, but she's still the most beautiful sight Finn's ever seen. Cradling his son against his chest, Finn leans over Rey and their daughter to press his lips against her forehead.
"It's a good name," she agrees, titling her head up into the kiss. "A good legacy. Han Starkiller."
"What about her? Have you got any ideas?" Finn brushes a hand through his daughter's black curls.
"I want to call her Breha, after my grandmother," she says, wrapping her fingers loosely around Finn's.
"Breha Starkiller," Finn says, rolling the syllables around in his mouth. He lays baby Han over Rey's chest, next to his sister.
Breha begins to squall and shakes her tiny fists at Finn, who grins and scoops her up in his arms. Finn bounces her gently and kisses her on both her chubby cheeks, first the left one and then the right one. And then on the forehead for good measure.
"They're perfect, aren't they?" Rey looks down at Han, squirming in his blanket against her chest.
"They are." Finn leans in, encircles his family in his arms and presses another kiss to Rey's forehead.
Tomorrow, the wars will resume. For tonight, at least, the world around them is at peace.