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Sometimes, in the flight from a planet or a mission, it's handy to have a real pilot around.
Cassian is competent. But not much more than that -- a quick hand at navigation, but honestly never quite managed the fluidity in commanding a ship that really good pilots took for granted.
So, no complaints from him as he crosses the tarmac, steps up the ramp of the tiny ship that he doesn't even know the name of, and slides his bag off his shoulder. A glance confirms that Dameron is already there, running through preflight, and Cassian joins him, after stowing the mission materials.
Dameron. Not who Cassian would have picked to be his partner on an assassination. But easily the best pilot in the Resistance, and that's some reassurance when they're going to be picking their way out through a thick double-ring around the planet, crawling with First Order sensors. The way in will be clear, obviously; the way out will have to be disguised, and that's where the rings come in.
Cassian is curt and quiet during the ride in. They get a landing site in a paved field, crowded. There's a local festival going on, one that requires the planetary governor to make an appearance. The governor is a First Order loyalist, handing his planet over gladly to the hands of stormtroopers.
"Stay here," orders Cassian, once they're down. He shrugs on a parka, since the wind outside is bitter and cold, and snow has started to fall. "I'll be back in four hours, no more. If I tell you, or if you don't hear from me for more than that, you take off. You go." No need to get them both killed if Cassian bungles this. "When I say, you get the ship ready to go."
Dameron doesn't even know what Cassian is here to do. Operational security.
He slips out and into the crowd.
In fact, it's three hours later (after he's moved through the crowd, dodged the additional security, overwhelmed with the influx; after he found his vantage point and fired a handful of shots, left behind the evidence to frame one of the planetary factions) that he returns. The spirit of the place has turned quickly from beehive to hornet's nest, and Cassian is breathless from the run when he ducks back inside.
"Go," he snaps, "now, go." He slams the ramp control, and shucks off the parka. Chaos scares people; there are already a handful of ships fleeing, and they haven't gotten the port shut down yet. They might not be able to, given the huge additional numbers of ships that are there for the occasion.
Cassian is competent. But not much more than that -- a quick hand at navigation, but honestly never quite managed the fluidity in commanding a ship that really good pilots took for granted.
So, no complaints from him as he crosses the tarmac, steps up the ramp of the tiny ship that he doesn't even know the name of, and slides his bag off his shoulder. A glance confirms that Dameron is already there, running through preflight, and Cassian joins him, after stowing the mission materials.
Dameron. Not who Cassian would have picked to be his partner on an assassination. But easily the best pilot in the Resistance, and that's some reassurance when they're going to be picking their way out through a thick double-ring around the planet, crawling with First Order sensors. The way in will be clear, obviously; the way out will have to be disguised, and that's where the rings come in.
Cassian is curt and quiet during the ride in. They get a landing site in a paved field, crowded. There's a local festival going on, one that requires the planetary governor to make an appearance. The governor is a First Order loyalist, handing his planet over gladly to the hands of stormtroopers.
"Stay here," orders Cassian, once they're down. He shrugs on a parka, since the wind outside is bitter and cold, and snow has started to fall. "I'll be back in four hours, no more. If I tell you, or if you don't hear from me for more than that, you take off. You go." No need to get them both killed if Cassian bungles this. "When I say, you get the ship ready to go."
Dameron doesn't even know what Cassian is here to do. Operational security.
He slips out and into the crowd.
In fact, it's three hours later (after he's moved through the crowd, dodged the additional security, overwhelmed with the influx; after he found his vantage point and fired a handful of shots, left behind the evidence to frame one of the planetary factions) that he returns. The spirit of the place has turned quickly from beehive to hornet's nest, and Cassian is breathless from the run when he ducks back inside.
"Go," he snaps, "now, go." He slams the ramp control, and shucks off the parka. Chaos scares people; there are already a handful of ships fleeing, and they haven't gotten the port shut down yet. They might not be able to, given the huge additional numbers of ships that are there for the occasion.
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He studies what he can see of Andor's face, all delicate angles and sharp shadows, listens to his breath, the muffled scratch of Cassian's coat around his shoulders as he breathes in turn. Feels him, not just by touch but by ... presence, maybe, and believes that he feels true. Finds himself hoping for it, strong enough to startle him.
In this, at least, there's no reason not to. If there are concessions here, they belong to the Captain, and Poe's hold tightens briefly, gently -- almost unconsciously -- in unspoken acknowledgement of that privilege.
"I bet you do," he says a moment later, just a little divorced from his current train of thought, but likely more comfortable for his companion. Idly, Poe wonders if the intel guys get much for gratitude from the rest of the Resistance, if they care one way or another. Andor seems like the type driven by far more than the cheers of his compatriots, the type who might easily do without it. It's got to be hard, no matter what, he thinks, but suspects it might sound condescending out of his mouth. Instead, he breathes another little sigh, an action that has the unfortunate effect of kicking up Andor's hair to invade his face all over again.
He wriggles a hand free with a soft, bemused curse, and reaches up to stroke it back into place. "Sorry, buddy," Poe murmurs, and does his best not to consider how soft Cassian's hair is beneath his fingertips. "We do this again, I'm bringing trimmers, all right?"