A/N: Couldn't resist exploring this a little further...
Poe apologised the next day. It was as heartfelt as he could manage given the nature of their dispute. That he disagreed so vehemently with Rey's assessment of Kylo Ren saw any attempt at sincerity quickly slip into forced smiles and awkward silences. He had to hand it to her. Rey was far from easy to appease with his usual charm and was reluctant when it came to shaking hands. It dawned on him then that she didn't trust him. Poe did nothing to mask his frustration. If Rey wished to be difficult, he was more than happy to oblige.
A dull ache lodged itself at the base of his skull as he sought sanctuary in the meeting room. Another day, another briefing in which all eyes would turn to him in expectation. He'd lay out some vague plan, skipping over the technicalities, biding his time until he was certain of their next move. Leia understood. For now, the Resistance needed a base from which they could rebuild. Exactly where, Poe was at a loss. Supposed allies failed to heed the call for assistance back on Crait. He slammed his fists against the nearest surface and observed, sheepishly, a small crack appear in the strategy table. Not a single response. They were alone. Abandoned to the whims of the Order.
We are the spark that will light the fire that will burn the First Order down.
Poetic. A catchy sound bite. Poe grimaced. He believed. Believed in himself and the Resistance. But how far can one travel on blind faith alone?
Poe sank into a chair and rubbed a hand over rough stubble. He imagined he looked a mess. Unsurprising given the lack of sleep. Unable to contemplate the complexities of this new development with Kylo Ren, he settled with simply wishing the man dead. The thought provided a welcome reprieve before he was plagued with guilt. On behalf of Leia, of course. And Rey. When she wasn't being difficult and completely—
"I accept."
Poe glanced up to see Rey sealing the door behind her. She kept her distance, remaining on the opposite side of the table. Poe was uninterested in playing peacekeeper and simply stared at her.
"The apology," she reminded. "I accept."
Poe almost laughed. And when Rey appeared unsure, he did.
"Glad to hear it."
She looked relieved. Poe pretended to be busy shuffling papers when she joined him. Rey wished to say something. He considered waiting but decided against it. Instead, Poe pushed, turning on her and closing the gap between them. He didn't expect her to back down and, this time, she fulfilled his expectations.
"I'm not used to receiving apologies," she said.
"Not used to giving them either, I suspect," he replied. Why must he always shoulder the blame?
Rey stepped back. The widening gap seemed to groan in protest.
"I'm trying," she said.
"Then say it."
She narrowed her eyes. Poe leaned against the side table and shrugged.
"Say it."
It was brief but he caught it. The flash of fear in her eyes; the remnant spark of regret and...terror? Clearly, the trace of an uncomfortable memory. Poe bit the inside of his cheek and looked away, confused by the sudden change. He was merely teasing. It certainly wasn't his intention to traumatise the woman. The expression on her face, though; the stiffness of her stance as if someone hit her, fists balling against her thighs, eyes straight ahead.
Poe cleared his throat.
"I should have been more considerate," he said. Of her earlier opinions? Of the memory that apparently overrode her senses and left her a broken mess? Poe didn't know. Couldn't know. And, come the metallic object connecting with his nose, he truly didn't care. Dabbing the gash with his sleeve, he studied the bulky transmitter at his feet and smirked.
Rey deflected the item easily enough. She'd less success with the second projectile, however, and stared at him in disbelief after a tin cup found its mark. She touched her temple gingerly before becoming engrossed in yesterday's briefing notes. Poe caught the fleeting smile on her lips as she settled down to concentrate.
It was a fragile truce but a truce nonetheless.
Leia knew of a territory in the Outer Rim suitable enough to set up base and rebuild. With the Falcon currently untagged and unchecked by the Order, the Resistance had the rare opportunity to start over. The final decision fell to Poe as did every pair of eyes in the room. They were to set course for Serenno in the hope that the planet's most wealthy still practiced the art of noblesse oblige, especially in favour of the Resistance. That Serenno had a long history of resisting authority was enough for Poe to give the order. He wasn't foolish enough to believe they'd be welcomed with open arms. But it was worth a shot. No expectations, no disappointments. Preparation was key. If playing on the planet's past allegiance to the Republic was needed to cause a chink in the armour then Poe would unashamedly exploit it.
Finn tossed a casual insult over his shoulder as he left. Alone in the meeting room, Poe smiled and studied his notes. Leia was pleased with the direction. He snorted, recalling Rey's reaction when he asked for her opinion. Consideration. The swelling on the bridge of his nose showed the girl had none for him. It also caused a variety of irritating comments, mostly from Finn who proved his talent for inexcusable puns.
A high-pitched noise replaced the thrum of the engine and Poe shot up, instinctively removing his jacket and covering the strategy table. He'd barely time to acknowledge the chill at the base of his spine, weaving up through each vertebra, slow and deliberate. He flexed his fingers to ease the tension. The alien sensation. The bubble. The unnerving canopy of energy settling over them.
The silence; completely impenetrable if not for, "Sleep well?"
Poe ignored him and dropped into a swivel chair, taking his time sliding to the other side of the room. Away from Kylo. Away from the results of the previous briefing.
"Not really," he drawled.
Ren took in his surroundings and blinked slowly. The leather jacket caught his attention and his lips twitched.
"Me neither."
"I can tell," Poe retorted.
"In-fighting among the Resistance, I see," said Ren, tracing a gloved finger across his nose. "A pack of rabid curs confined to that pile of scrap metal you call a ship. I'm not surprised."
Poe considered retiring to his quarters but decided against the idea of inadvertently giving Ren a private tour of the Falcon. Han's ship. The murdered father of a bastard son. Memory of Leia's face on receiving news of his death caused Poe's windpipe to constrict. He swallowed the sentiment. Drove it down. Buried it under the rubble where it belonged. Han Solo was a source of inspiration to every fighter pilot in the Resistance. Far from being a paragon of virtue but he never claimed to be. Poe couldn't begrudge the man his freedom even if it meant leaving the woman he loved. Han did what he had to do. Memories of the dreadnaught debacle stirred the shame in the pit of his stomach. It sat like a serpent, coiled and waiting. Poe did what he had to do.
The pilot gestured between them. "Can anyone else see this?" When Ren didn't reply, Poe tongued his cheek and nodded toward the door. "Rey?"
He sat back as a nervous tick announced itself along Ren's jawline. Poe smiled.
"Sorry. Touchy subject."
"The girl would be able to see if she allows it," conceded Ren, his attempt to distance himself not lost on either of them. Obvious, too, was the fact that Rey managed to somehow control her receptivity to the force-bond while Ren did not. Knife lodged between the ribs, Poe couldn't resist twisting it further.
"Your mother, too, I imagine."
Ren considered this. "Why don't you run along and ask her? Like a good boy."
"I am good," agreed Poe, genuinely thoughtful. A self-satisfied smirk accentuated the dimple in his cheek. "Handsome, too."
"Clearly someone disagrees."
Poe grazed a finger along the gauze. Tender to touch but not half as bad as it looked. He shrugged.
"You know what they say. Hell hath no—"
"You didn't tell her," interrupted Ren.
Laced with something other than curiosity, Poe simply shook his head. With the silence came realisations; that he was occupying the same space as this traitorous scum; that they were exchanging barbs like the final two in a game of sabacc; that they were intimately tied to each other against their will. And, most of all, the absurd, incomprehensible fact that Poe Dameron was clearly force-sensitive and fuck him if the thought didn't make him want to space himself then and there.
"Hardly something I want to advertise," he said, voice hoarse and unsteady.
Kylo returned an imperceptible nod and studied his surroundings. Unchanged since he was a boy. He'd sat in the very chair currently occupied by this arrogant upstart who trailed after his mother, tongue lolling, nipping her heels for a treat. A wave of contempt flooded his body and settled as sweat across his palms. He was careful not to draw Poe's attention as his fingers flexed involuntarily within the confines of leather gloves. Thankfully, the pilot was distracted. Confused and frustrated if the furrowed brow was anything to go by. He lounged in the chair, feet against a cabinet, swaying side to side. It pained Ren to acknowledge a simple truth: Poe, despite his confusion, retained a degree of self-control. The Golden Child. Effortless in his presence and mannerisms. Not torn from the inside out and left to fend for himself when he was merely a boy, abandoned by those who claimed to love him, betrayed by those to whom he pledged his undying allegiance.
"There we agree," mumbled Ren, content with revealing the illusion of self-control to Poe Dameron over time.
Still, a sense of the forlorn flittered across his face. Fleeting, but manipulating every inch of skin in the process. Poe shifted uncomfortably. Ren was far from cookie-cutter Dark Side and the knowledge left him incensed rather than empathetic. The mindless vessels who followed their Supreme Leader appealed to Poe's sense of purpose. They were machines. Inhuman. Targets. He'd revel in blasting them to smithereens until his dying day. But Ren posed a different threat. In his inability to conceal his emotions, he undermined Poe's understanding of good and bad, an admittedly simplistic dichotomy but one that motivated him to wake up every morning, don his jumpsuit, and fire up the X-wing. Poe was a creature of habit and this newly-formed intimacy with the man he longed to see dead was disrupting the routine. If such emotions were even genuine. A master manipulator was Kylo Ren, after all. Poe's mood soured.
"So, how does this work? You able to shut this thing down?"
Ren glanced toward the door. Poe was barely able to keep from crying out when Finn sauntered over with a pack of cards.
"Best two out of three," he declared, shifting a stack of papers and tossing the jacket aside. Finn thumbed the lapels of his own and muttered something about quality.
Poe made to block Ren's view of the table. It was a peculiar position that resulted in him lingering awkwardly to the left of the former Stormtrooper. Finn glanced over his shoulder.
"You okay there, buddy?"
Poe hesitated. He was far from proficient in lip-reading.
"It might surprise you to know I've no control over it," came Ren's low tremor, sharp, clear, nauseating.
"Okay, yeah. Sure," replied Poe. A vague enough statement to satisfy both.
Finn frowned. "You gonna…sit down?"
"You bet!"
"…Okay."
It was an experience Poe believed he'd never acclimatize to. As if he'd been submerged in crystal water then unceremoniously wrenched to the surface, gasping for air, assaulted by external sounds and sensations that didn't concern him earlier. Ren's sudden absence paved the way for the pilot to sit across from his friend and lie. The briefing left him distracted. He had a headache. Finn's jacket was old but good quality.
Poe reasoned with himself. They were half-truths, at least.
A/N: Thanks for reading. I enjoy writing these snapshots. Feedback would be greatly appreciated. How are you liking it?