A/N: Okay honestly I found this on my computer while working on something else and it's complete and semi-decent, so I figured, why not? I hope you enjoy!
It's late when they knock on her door, but she isn't sleeping—she won't admit it, but she spends most of the nights without him lying on his side of the bed, rubbing her fingers on the collar of his shirt she's wearing, worrying about him and about the Resistance.
She knows that it has to be bad news if they're coming in the night, knocking on the door of their quarters carved into the planet, sparse and functional and not the home a young girl would have imagined to be living in with her husband—but quarters for two military officers who happen to be married to each other.
Briefly, she considers not answering the door, just ignoring them, like that would make whatever they had to say go away. But she stands, pulling her dark hair away from her face and taking a deep breath, willing her heart to stop pounding because even though she knows there is only one thing they could be telling her, she knows it's going to knock the wind out of her.
"General," she says in surprise as she opens the door—she didn't imagine that Leia Organa herself would come to deliver this news—but on the other hand, the older woman did seem to care about her, or at least her role in the resistance. Or at least she cares about Poe.
"Aviya," she says, and the sadness is evident in her voice.
"So this is it then?" she asks as she closes the door.
Leia pulls two chairs out from under the table, like it's her own home she's in, gesturing maternally for Aviya to sit down.
"I know that's the only reason you'd be here in the middle of the night," Aviya says stubbornly, all feigned bravado as she sits down and crosses her arms like maybe she could hide her shaking.
"I'm sorry," Leia says, pain tinging her voice.
Aviya ignores her. "And the plans?"
Leia shrugs. "We don't know yet."
"BB-8?"
"He's missing."
"Okay," Aviya says sadly, wishing for the familiar comfort of the droid's beeps and chirps. She leans back in her chair, taking a few measured breaths.
"I could make you some tea, or I could leave you alone," Leia offers.
"Alone, please," Aviya requests. General Organa can be warm and caring, but she is the leader of the Resistance and Aviya is one of its officers, and she wants to maintain some shred of dignity—even if Leia, and everyone else, knows what she will be doing the moment she is left alone.
Leia nods, standing. "I will not expect you to report for several days. Unless you need to." She gives a small smile, meant to reassure. "I know how it is. I'll see myself out."
It's been thirty seconds since she found out and a part of Aviya wants to launch herself into a suicide mission, take out a few of the First Order along with herself because what is the point without him, honestly.
She wonders what Poe would do, if the roles were reversed—if she were dead and he was still alive—and she really isn't sure. Maybe he would crash his X-Wing into a Tie Fighter, maybe he would throw himself wholeheartedly into the Resistance, sleep and eat and breathe this war—because what else is there.
She was seventeen when she met him, almost twenty and already one of the best pilots in the New Republic, all swagger and wide-eyed idealism. She was born to two Rebellion spies and has always moved quietly, observing. She's drawn to him like a magnet, like a bug to a light.
She was eighteen when he cupped her face in his hands and pressed his forehead up against hers and swore that he loved her, and she could have melted right there into her boots.
She was nineteen when they got married, flowers in her hair and spies and pilots alike whooping as they kissed.
For half a moment, she's not even sure that she's going to cry. After all, this outcome was always very likely. It feels like suddenly, something's been carved out of her chest—her heart, maybe—and she just has this big, hollow hole threatening to swallow her right up. And it hurts—it actually physically hurts from the inside, like something is clawing at the inside of her lungs—grief—and then it hits her, knocks her almost clear over and she can't even breathe she's sobbing so hard, can't even care that those in nearby quarters can hear her scream like the wounded animal she is.
It's the middle of the night again—what can they have to tell her, again. There is nothing else to take away from her. Maybe they're sending her away on a mission. Maybe she'll never come back again. Maybe she can be a hero and then disappear from this feeling of being crushed all of the time.
It's not the General this time, though, but two officers on night duty. They're insistent that she come with them, this instant, not even letting her change, just stuffing her feet into boots and wishing that Poe had left his jacket for her to throw around her shoulders.
The officers are tight-lipped and they won't tell her why she's headed into the center of base, why she's headed into the infirmary, and then, and then,
And then—
It's Poe.
It's Poe, alive.
It's Poe, right there in front of her.
It's Poe, sitting on the edge of a bed while medics whir around him, and he's annoyed, because he just wants to see his wife.
And then he does, he sees her across the room, frozen still and barely breathing like maybe none of this is real, and he's pushing the medics and their busy hands away from his wounds, just crosses the room to her in a few long strides, and he roughly pulls her to him, and she sobs into him like she's finally breaking.
"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," he says, and he can't keep his lips off of her—off of her hair, her forehead, her shoulders-can't stop moving his hands over her. "Gods, I was so afraid I would never see you again."
"They told me you were dead," she says quietly, muffled against his chest, and he presses his cheek to the top of her head, lets his fingertips dig into her waist and her shoulder and they both feel real.
"I should be. I really should be. It's a hell of a story, Avi. But I'm—"
"You're here," she says, and it might be to reassure herself, might be to reassure him. She pulls away to look up at him, brushes her fingertips across a scratch on his cheek. "How?"
"We were asking the same question," General Organa says from a corner of the room. "But he wouldn't say anything until we got you."
"Are you sure you shouldn't still be in the infirmary?" she asks, but she's grinning wide like a schoolgirl with a crush, holding tight to his arm.
He shakes his head. "I want to be home. With you. That's the way to heal me."
The nightmares are not new, not for either of them—this is a war they've been fighting, for a long time. But she can't help but lie awake and watch him, terrified that if she sleeps she'll wake up to find that this was all the dream of a grieving heart. She's running her fingers through his hair when he starts to shake, when his face twists into a grimace of pain, when he cries out.
"Poe. Poe, darling. Baby. Love." The pet names spill from her lips like not being able to use them for weeks has made them stack up. "Poe," she begs, shaking his shoulder.
His eyelids open and he sits up quickly, defensively.
"Ave," he whispers on an exhale, his voice cracking like his mouth has gone dry.
"I'm here, honey," she reassures, reaching for his hand. "You're safe."