commandor | (no subject)

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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.

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"You figure that's how it'd be, huh?" Poe laughs with a sense of genuine amusement, despite the niggling sense of being a sitting hutt out here like this. His attention turns, again and again, out the viewport. Like he's expecting to see the glow of ion engines coming into view at any moment. Like he'd be able to do anything about it now, if they did. "Tell you what, buddy; next time I see the right side of a few credits, maybe we'll see."

It's an empty bluff -- Poe's terrible at sabacc, terrible at anything, really, that requires deception. He's pretty sure Andor would wipe the floor with him, but it's a nice thought, anyway.

His attention finds Andor once more, as he maneuvers himself out of his seat, gently propelling himself across the cabin. It's a little interesting, how natural he looks like that, like he was born to it -- Poe's learned how to be functional in zero gee over the years, but never felt particularly confident about it. He finds himself wondering if it's something he learned before he joined up, but doubts he'll ever ask.

Mostly, it reassures Poe a little to think that Andor's done this before, and he turns his attention back out the viewport while his companion works in relative silence. That's the part he's not terribly fond of, really -- quiet is one thing, but silence? Usually, it marks the passing of something terrible.

He glances back, catching a glimpse of the blankets in Andor's arms as he returns toward the small pilot's cabin, and makes a face. "Wish I'd have known we were gonna be taking an unscheduled rest stop," Poe calls over the back of his chair. "Would've dressed for it."

Cassian returns; he unfolds one of the blankets and spreads it over Poe, tucking it into the harness so it'll be less likely to float away with any movement. He does have to touch Poe to do this, and he does it briskly and perfunctorily. It might be that they have to share body heat to be comfortable through this. Cassian won't mention that until he thinks Poe looks genuinely cold, though.

"I didn't know," he says. It's an apology. "I didn't expect they would have a Star Destroyer so close." And, in fact, that speaks to the possibility that Cassian just took out someone more important than even the Resistance had realized. "I would have warned you."

Operational security be damned.

He slides into his own chair, getting the blanket under control and wrapped around him under the harness.

"You were insulted, weren't you?" asks Cassian, looking over to Poe. "That she didn't just use you for this assignment."

This, too, surprises Poe, and he blinks up at Andor as the man all but tucks him into his chair. There's a lot of questions he has about his companion, and the longer he spends in his presence, the longer that list grows. "Well," he says, and grins widely, just in case Andor takes his surprise for trepidation or disapproval, "my thanks, Captain." Beyond that, the lack of functional gravity leaves the overgrown fall of Andor's hair half-hovering above his head. The effect is probably more amusing than it has any right to be.

Poe waves off the apology with a faint shake of his head quickly, though. "You're off the hook for that one; ain't like you're some future-sensing Jedi, right? Unless you are." He laughs, then carefully extracts an arm from beneath the blanket to scratch the underside of his jaw. "Been on enough of these joyrides to know you never know what's gonna happen. At least I'm not the poor sucker diving out of a headhunter at a moving ship, this time around."

He's babbling a little, and recognizes it a little later, recognizes that's his brain doing its best to casually ignore the implications of First Order assets that are once again delivering aid to New Republic personnel who call. Any sense of good humor fades as Poe stares out at the jagged edge of the overhang, the debris-strewn expanse of space beyond. "Would've wanted to fly something with some punch, if we did know. Suppose we'll be seeing more of that, now they've made their move."

More of the New Republic's people, turned or turning. People who apparently haven't learned a damn thing from the last war. It's enough to make his skin crawl -- or maybe that's just the recognition that they're all but unprotected, like this.

Cassian's question has him glancing over sharply, surprised all over again. "She's been doing this longer than we've been alive, Captain." A pause, and then Poe sighs heavily. "If the General thinks I'm not the one, then I'm not the one."

He can feel the warmth radiating out from Poe's body. He must come from a warm planet -- yes, he came from Yavin, didn't he? He'll get cold fast, if he keeps that up.

Cassian came from somewhere warm, but it's been a long time since then. He's adapted.

He lets Poe keep speaking, as he settles himself in. The pilot's anxious about sitting still; that much is clear. Running and hiding, though, is where Cassian lives. His entire life is carrying out tasks that couldn't possibly be done with a fair fight, if the whole might of the First Order was turned against him. Poe is used to being the underdog, but an underdog that slugs it out all the same.

Though Cassian is curious, now, about diving out of a headhunter at a moving ship.

"She uses you for... finding. Flying. Those specific missions where failure might mean that the galaxy has no one left to fight." Cassian glances sideways, to Poe. "Most of the missions I have are boring, or pointless. Or without a specific goal, just to find anything important, to develop networks of contacts. It needs subtlety. Someone who won't be noticed." He looks forward, again. "Or someone who'll pull the trigger when it's not a fair fight." Like this one.

Cassian might not particularly like that about himself. There was a time, years and year ago, when putting his hands on a gun and looking through a scope, intending to pull the trigger, left him shaking and sweating, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in the back of his throat. He was just a kid, and he still cared about things like that. None of that is true anymore.

Now, he just pulls the trigger.

"Pick up her laundry when she's busy, too," Poe says with another smile -- teasing again, yes, but there's an unmistakable note of pride there, too. He believes in the New Republic, even now, even after this, but it's General Leia Organa he trusts, wholeheartedly.

He wonders why Cassian Andor is telling him these things. He's never questioned the Intelligence arm of the Resistance -- at least not their usefulness, or their ability to get things done. He's certainly not questioning Andor's presence on this mission, much less expecting justifications. And yet, he thinks of the General, of the things she'd said to him the first time they'd met. She'd said he'd been looking for adventure, for the chance to do good in pursuit of that ... he wonders if Andor sees those same things, or if he's summarizing Poe's own dossier as explanation.

"Not just an adventure-seeking flyboy, y'know," Poe says, but there's no hint of offense taken in the way he says it. If anything, he's just -- curious. About this. About Andor. "I can do subtle." He laughs quietly after that, wondering at what point he started feeling the need to justify himself. At least he knows better than to try to argue unnoticed. The way his own missions tend to skew ... well. Poe has his own extensive network, but sometimes the downside of that is that it's hard to run into someone familiar, for better or worse.

The humor fades quickly, though. Poe pulls away from his study of Andor to stare out the viewport again, silent for several seconds. He opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it. Tries again, a moment later. "I vaped a planet, Captain. I think -- I think it's fair to say we've all moved a little past fair fights."

He sees the trust in Poe's eyes, in the cant of his smile. He wonders what it would be like to trust anyone and anything that wholeheartedly.

That, there, is why he is the one for this kind of mission and Poe isn't. Cassian doesn't trust, but he doesn't rest, either. He never stops fighting. His flame has gone from embers to bonfires and back again, but it's never gone out. He's exactly the person you need if you want someone dead at any cost -- at all cost.

Vaped a planet. It actually takes Cassian a second to understand. He never thought of Starkiller as a planet. Just as another creation, another weapon, like the Death Star.

He lets his eyes shift back to Poe, and he gives a slight, fractional nod. Fair point. Still: those were soldiers. They were asking for it. Not civilians (who may, to be fair, also have been asking for it).

"Not adventure," says Cassian. "That's not what I meant. If you wanted adventure, there are other ways. If you wanted to put yourself in between the First Order and the people out here, this is it." But Poe still chose this. He chose it because he knew the fight with the First Order could get into the Core, because he knew that this was everyone's fight long before the Republic was willing to admit it. He still could have stayed away. Cassian couldn't. This fight has infected him. He breathes it; it's in his blood; it's a shadow in his eyes.

"But you're right," he murmurs. "We're a long way from a fair fight."

Poe's newest -- possibly his new closest -- friend is a former stormtrooper, an indelible mark of humanity in a war that almost demands they throw exactly that away, if only for the sake of sanity. No child in arms, no child abandoned asks to be indoctrinated. But for all that, Poe had not hesitated to pull the trigger, in the name of things like necessity and survival -- not just for himself, but for the Resistance. The New Republic. The galaxy itself.

Poe does not blame those beneath the armor, even as he kills them. No, Poe saves his fury for the people who did this to them. People that know better.

"My parents were both rebels," Poe says, and that smile inches back, little by little. "They didn't join up just to keep me safe. Like hell I could just sit back and let this thing they helped build crumble. Helping people, absolutely, but -- this is for them, and the others, too." Proof that all those sacrifices decades ago weren't wasted.

Poe settles back in his seat, adjusts the blanket to curl his hands into the coarse fabric. Already, he feels the chill creeping into his fingertips; the next few hours promise to be an exercise in discomfort. To pull his attention away from the fact, he glances back over at Andor, chewing on his question before he decides whether or not to bother asking.

Curiosity wins out, as it usually does. "How bad were they?"

They. The people Cassian killed, presumably. Cassian releases a breath. He considers changing the subject, noting how Poe settles the blanket more closely around himself. Already cold. And the ship is chilling very fast, probably through the physical contact to the asteroid.

Damn.

"That world has a fault line," says Cassian, "between two continents, drifting apart. It makes a trench, all the way down to the mantle. It is a natural source of geothermal energy. And the full length of it is nothing but factories." He assumes that Poe doesn't know the details of this. Why would he? "Torpedoes. Power sources. Forging metal parts that need the kind of heat most planets can't provide."

He shifts. His eyes stay focused forward. "This planet suffered when the Empire died. Factories closed. Jobs ended. But, recently, there's been a change. Nothing official reported to the Republic, but factories are lighting up where they've been dark for decades. And there are signs. Imports have gone up, and the planetary government has started to build again. But they haven't taken any money from the Republic.

"I've been here for months, to find out what happened. No one is talking about it. No holonews. Nothing. And I found out why."

A little huff. He looks down. "They were making -- everything. Weapons, hyperdrives, power cores. And it's going outward, to the First Order. All of it."

Poe listens to everything Andor has to say without comment. It's not ... really an unfamiliar story. Not every system has grown prosperous beneath the banner of the New Republic; Poe certainly isn't blind to that, particularly over the last several years as the senate has ground itself to a halt with infighting and politicking, rather than guiding their people.

He shivers. How many more are there, not yet discovered?

"From there, it all sounds so reasonable, doesn't it?" Poe glances over at Andor, breathes a slow sigh of disappointment. "We can bring you back what you thought you had. Just smile and close your eyes while we wipe out a star system or two, go back to crushing nonhumans beneath our heels. Seems like too many people who should know better have just ... forgotten."

Every argument comes back to that too-often hidden cost. Poe has seen just how seductive ignorance can be, but he doesn't understand how the tragedies of the Empire can be shrugged off, even as the groundwork for a repeat performance is laid bare. "And the people profiting off of it?" But Poe wonders if he doesn't already know. This world is likely already lost, as a new senate -- a vulnerable senate, with the fleet gone -- scrambles to fill the void. This ... probably wasn't about changing minds and restoring the Republic's authority, but rather sowing chaos and doubt among those who would take over.

No, Poe thinks. As usual, General Organa is right. These aren't the sorts of missions he was made for at all.

"Everyone on that planet is profiting from it." That's just an economic fact. The explosive growth in currency and value on the planet, the reinvestment via the planetary government, the greater taxes, the greater stimulus -- it all works as a cycle. So, by stopping the First Order from being a part of this planet, Cassian would hurt a great many innocent people, people who had no idea what was going on.

"But now they know," he says, to Poe. "They know the governor is dead, and a First Order ship is in orbit. There is evidence that a Vader Lives group was responsible. This is too big for a coverup."

Now, this planet will know what was happening. And maybe they'll come out in favor of the First Order at first, maybe not. It doesn't matter, because Republic connections will dry up, Republic planets will stop trading, and there will be negative economic consequences. And no one to blame but the First Order. Which will have, in the meantime, been preoccupied hunting down the Vader Lives groups on the planet, of which there are many, given the connections this planet had to the Empire.

In fact, there was a fair amount of speculation on whether those groups would try to claim credit for the assassination anyway. Cassian thinks they will. A few other Intelligence people came down on the other side. There's a betting pool.

Sowing chaos and doubt... yes.

But also giving nearby planets a chance to understand what happened here and defend themselves from the more subtle kinds of First Order intrusion.

He watches Poe's reaction. "See?" he asks. "You have to be a special kind of bastard to try this." Like Cassian is.

That part, at least, Poe can focus on. He takes it up eagerly. It's easy enough to point at countless, faceless people just trying to survive and prosper, people who seize upon the tools to do so when they're laid before them, and say they didn't know. But now, as Andor points out, they do. Wherever their choices may take them from this point, it's not with eyes closed. Poe hopes that he's right -- that those people are wise enough and brave enough to do the right thing, even as their predecessors had failed decades ago.

Truly, they've moved well beyond fair fights. A few years ago, General Organa had been horrified at the suggestion of kidnapping a senator. Now, the Resistance assassinates governors.

"That's one way to think of it, I suppose," Poe says, and fixes Andor with a sharper look. "Is that how you see yourself?"

There are more people that Cassian has killed for the Resistance. Never such a blatant assassination, done to make a point.

"It was my idea," he says, bluntly, suddenly humorless. "What else would you call me?" The question is some combination of rhetorical and serious; he doesn't believe there's any real answer that Poe can offer, but he would listen if Poe did offer one.

His idea, his mission. His careful study of the planet's political situation, though he was backed up by other operatives, analysts. If this goes sideways, it's his fault.

Andor's admission comes as a surprise to Poe -- not that he doubts the Captain is incapable of it, but he'd assumed, for no real reason that comes to mind now that he examines the thought, that it had been the product of some upper echelon's careful strategy. Really, he thinks he should know better by now. General Organa gives him free rein, more often than not. He's not arrogant enough to think he's somehow the only one with that sort of responsibility.

Cassian Andor has killed a governor. Poe Dameron has killed a world. Perhaps his own mission had more immediacy, but with the current situation ... well, they have both acted to address a necessary problem.

Poe tilts his head against the back of his seat as he continues to watch Andor, wondering if he's expecting some sort of accusation. He'd like to think his reputation is better than that. "A soldier," Poe says simply. "Fighting on a different front, maybe, but it ain't that different."

Again, a characterization that's fair enough.

"I don't know many soldiers who don't think of themselves as bastards," says Cassian. "One way or another." But combat is different from what he does. He has to dip into the darkness on a regular basis. Too regular for comfort.

He gives Poe another careful glance, but this time he's looking for signs of the invading cold.

"I don't like how fast you're losing heat," says Cassian. "We should move to the bunk."

"Well, I'm a nice guy," Poe says with an exaggerated shrug, another flash of perfect teeth. "Doing my part to drop the hammer on bastards, right?" No, there's no one that Poe can think of off the top of his head that would say as much. Hell, he's pretty sure most of his pilots would be offended at the idea; they're a righteous lot for the most part, plenty of them bearing scars from the old Empire, the rest all too aware of who and what they're up against to doubt the way their scales balance. Then again, for the most part, there's not a lot of room for doubt. Most of their missions are clear cut, with immediate, obvious enemies actively causing harm -- no room for shades of gray.

There's not really a comparison, is there? "Suppose you and I run in pretty different circles, though." In the moment, Poe finds himself starkly aware of how easy he has it in comparison. Not that piloting doesn't require its own sharp set of skills or have its own set of issues to wrestle with, but there's cost, and there's cost.

One of Poe's eyebrows quirks, as he finally registers the look Andor's giving him. It takes another few seconds to actually register the words coming out of his mouth, though. A quiet, vaguely incredulous laugh; Poe's extremities might getting a little icy, but his teeth aren't exactly chattering yet. "Yeah, well, me either -- wait. What?" He withdraws a hand from beneath the blanket to jab a finger towards the viewport. "There's two dozen TIEs out there somewhere, buddy. They catch us napping, we're gone."

Poe doesn't mention the fact that if they catch them precisely as they are, their chances aren't that much better.

"You know as well as I do that every minute means their likelihood of finding us is lower," says Cassian, "and that if one does see us, we don't have a chance at getting the ship up and running before we're dead." But, really, if they weren't found in the first ten minutes, the odds are in their favor. The rings are moving, and the TIEs don't know where exactly to look.

"On top of that," says Cassian, "the colder you get, the harder it will be to warm you up." Like with the oxygen recyclers: it helps if you start when you don't really need it.

Helplessness doesn't come easy to any of them. And if not leading a mission was enough to bother Poe, then taking a nap while there are TIEs searching for them would be practically panic-inducing.

"No," says Cassian, "they know the odds, too. They'll spread out and wait for us to move, rather than grinding down fighters they don't have. They have time. We don't."

Poe's attention slips back out through the sheet of transparisteel separating them from the rest of the galaxy, like he's still expecting the streaking glow of ion engines lighting up the debris field. Intellectually, he recognizes Andor's points. From where he sits, on the other hand ... well, it's hard to consider giving up his post, even if he's entirely toothless in it.

Even if he is starting to shiver in earnest, now.

After a few minutes, Poe closes his eyes, sighs and leans back against the headrest, forcing a chuckle into the end of that despondent sound. "Anyway, guess we've already laid our bet." No sense pretending otherwise.

Beneath the blanket, he begins to fumble at the buckle of his harness. "Really should've dressed for it," Poe says, and turns a crooked, half-sly grin on Andor; teasing, because it's both his way of settling and a roundabout form of gratitude. Nice to know the guy cares, even if it's only because Poe will be needed when it's time to disengage and jump. "I hope you know I usually expect dinner first."

"Just one dinner?" returns Cassian. "Pilots are so easy."

Funny; Poe was bantering earlier, effortlessly, while he flew. Now, Cassian can do the same, while it's Poe who's having trouble with helplessness. Keep this up, and they might actually have some kind of decent partnership -- one where one of them knows what's going on at any given time.

Cassian dismisses that thought as fast as it occurs to him. He's not looking for a partnership. He works better on his own, without entanglements. Attachments.

He undoes his own harness and bundles up the blanket quickly, to preserve any heat trapped in the cloth. Maneuvering is easy and fluid, again, in the low gravity; he slips between the two chairs and heads back. There aren't any straps that would keep someone in place on the bunk, but the blankets will do just fine, tucked in and secured under the mattress. Cassian goes about getting that ready, braced upside-down from the ship's normal gravitational orientation.

Truth be told, he likes negligible gravity. It's like a mental game he plays with himself, reorienting his frame of reference. Which way is 'down', which way is 'up', which way he's oriented relative to the two.

A few hours ago, Poe would have eaten his own boot before imagining Cassian Andor might be the type to engage in a little harmless banter. He's glad to recognize his own initial assessment was grossly uninformed, and barks a quiet laugh at the all-too-familiar adage. "Expensive dinner, mind you. We're just used to working with tight time frames, you know?" There's a deeper joke there, one about unpredictability and life expectancy, but the last few months and the reality of war have left Poe feeling a little too scabbed-over for morbid jokes.

He watches Andor move past, impressed all over again with how easy he makes low grav look. If he was a different sort of person, maybe he'd be more interested in trying to follow suit (if only to protect the reputation of the Resistance's pilot corps, of course), but he's not -- instead, he hooks a foot beneath the edge of his seat as he gets upright, and spends a few more seconds checking the view as he knots two edges of the blanket around his shoulders and pushes off to follow Andor toward the back of the ship. Like in his piloting, Poe favors speed and power. Unlike his piloting, there's precious little grace to be found in the act.

But he makes it without braining himself or Andor, and considers the job well enough done, and further, he'd snagged Andor's discarded parka on the way. Poe bundles it in the blanket once he's tugged that off his shoulders, and then pushes them both in Andor's direction. He'd offer to help, but it looks like the captain has it under control. "So, uh," Poe says, "this plan. We just gonna snuggle for an hour or two and then bail out?"

"You first." Cassian swings back, leaving enough room for Poe to slip past him and get tucked under the blankets. He offers Poe a hand, and through it gives leverage, gently steers Poe's trajectory, and settles him in against the mattress pad. He isn't shy about touch, but he is brisk; he doesn't want to give the impression that he's doing this for any ulterior purpose.

He glances at his chrono. "Seventy-four more minutes before we'll be in position for a jump. How long do you need before then to get the systems active?"

He pauses, looking over the limited space, the parka in his hands. He mentally spins it upside down, imagining that Poe is bound against the ceiling by the blanket, and he braces himself against the new 'floor' and tucks the parka in around Poe's shoulders. It smells of Cassian, of hints of sweat and nondescript soap and a hint of smoke.

It's after this that he slips under the covers with Poe. He's a little slimmer than the pilot, if close to the same height, and his body does well at filling in the gap between Poe and blanket and bed. He does it so his back is to Poe's chest.

Poe appreciates the gesture, as well as the assistance; Andor's obviously the expert in low-grav maneuvers, and Poe's more than happy to not make a complete fool of himself in front of intel. Not that he's any sort of stranger to looking like an idiot in front of all types, but ... he almost laughs at himself as he's maneuvered into place. Maybe it's just that, given the kind of missions General Organa's sent him on, it's hard not to feel a little like a pretender in the presence of a real agent.

Instead, he breathes a quiet thanks, and keeps his foolishness to himself as he tilts his head to glance at Andor. "I can shave it down to a minute and a half, maybe a few seconds less." If he skips the non-vital checks, but he's comfortable enough with the situation and the state of the ship to do so. The hyperdrive will take the longest to ready, but at least they won't be sitting prey while it cycles.

Between then and now, it's just a matter of killing time and staying warm, both of which promise to be something else, Poe thinks, as Andor fits himself into that narrow gap. Poe curls an arm over his side, trying to ignore the tickle of hair against his face, the startling intimacy of feeling surrounded by his scent and everything else that accompanies being molded boots to shoulders with a relative stranger. Chalk the whole experience up as one more thing he's determined not to mention to his pilots for both their sakes; if nothing else, he can absolutely count on Andor without even needing to say a word.

At least Andor's warm; already, he can feel the shivers losing some of their intensity. Poe shifts to slide an arm underneath Andor's neck, attempting to find a mutually comfortable position that isn't going to turn his arm into a mass of pins and needles. Could be worse, he concludes. "Good enough?" Poe asks, barely a murmur -- anything more than that feels unnecessary, given their proximity and the almost-silence of the ship itself. "Y'know, might not be the worst time to get some rest, if you've got the mind to."

"I'd be less useful to you," Cassian points out. "Sleep lowers the body's core temperature." Therefore, not as much warmth, and it'll take more to get back up to full physical arousal when he needs the adrenaline again.

...'arousal' perhaps not the best word to think, there.

He lets out a quiet, amused huff, and pulls up enough that he can take Poe's arms and wrap them around his own waist. In full gravity, that would be a little less feasible, but his weight isn't resting on Poe's arm. Circulation should be fine. "Don't be shy," he says. He's been in much more embarrassing and compromising positions; this is nothing. As long as he can keep Dameron warm, alive, and ready to move, he'll have done what he needs to.

Conversation would be good, for that end. "Where did you grow up?" he asks. "Yavin?" -- to try and confirm his guess. "I thought you were supposed to like to touch people."

Though, to be fair, it might just be the aura that Cassian puts off. Do-not-touch. Do-not-come-close.

Poe's initial response is a quiet grunt of surprise as Andor pulls his arms into what he apparently feels is a more appropriate position. And that -- well. It definitely works, even if it means he's wrapped that much more securely around the man. An invitation is just that, though, and so he complies without complaint, curling his chilled fingers into the warm fabric of Andor's shirt for good measure.

Poe lifts his head, attempting to smooth the back of Andor's hair with his cheek to tame some of the most ticklish offenders. "Don't know that I've ever been accused of being shy," he murmurs. "If you're tired, get some sleep -- ain't just about me, y'know." There's a note of unhappiness in Poe's voice, not quite offense but enough to indicate that he's bothered by the thought. He's never really given the logistics thought. Poe's a pilot, and like many of his kind, inclined to catch micronaps when the possibility presents itself.

(Then again, he supposes it'd be very different for a spy -- especially one with a stranger attached to him like a too-friendly barnacle.)

The sudden change in direction surprises him almost as much as the question. He snorts, and regrets it immediately as Cassian's hair seeks to invade his nose all over again. "Read that in my dossier, huh?" There's no accusation to it, just mild curiosity -- he's sure he has one, after all, especially given the trouble they'd run into while chasing Skywalker down. "Yavin, yeah, and the rest might be true enough. Only been cuddling up to starfighters these last few years, though."

And yeah, there's definitely the aura, but Poe's smart enough not to mention that yet.

The parts of Dameron's history that he'd skimmed didn't include this, as it happens. He's just the kind of guy who's discussed around the Resistance. The subject of many rumors, a lot of tall tales, and not a few toasts to personal heroics. Cassian knows about Yavin because he knows that Dameron's parents lived on the planet where the famous Rebel base was located. It's the sort of detail he tends to keep around, in case it might be useful later.

"I wasn't interested in where you came from, actually," says Cassian, deciding to go with the truth. "Just what you can do." And what he has done. He needed to know how likely Dameron would be to freeze up in the middle of a mission, just what kind of challenging situations he could get Cassian out of, just how likely he'd be to follow orders or to want to be in charge himself. "Though I might be the only one."

He's more comfortable like this. He's gone relaxed against Poe, deliberately; this is his version of resting mid-mission. Catnaps are all well and good, but when he's under direct threat he has to choose to sleep, and right now he's not choosing to. Being against someone like this, though -- there is a level of honesty, of sublingual communication that tends to make Cassian feel safer. He would know in an instant if someone wrapped around him ever had threat on their mind, and there's nothing like that on Poe's. The pilot's attached to him like he was just waiting for an invitation.

Is that... is Poe nuzzling him? No, smoothing down his hair. Cassian stifles the chuckle before it makes it to his throat.

"Must be hard to get your arms around the S-foils," he remarks.

"Oh," Poe huffs, amused. "Well, then." There's the blunt intel agent he'd ferried into the system, but even then Andor's response doesn't feel quite so ... cold. Besides, he can't really fault the man his lack of curiosity outside of the mission at hand -- it's only Poe's own ego that protests. And that's amusing, too, if only for the fact that he's having a hard time processing why it feels like it matters.

Just a little bit of competitiveness, he figures; he might not be General Organa's brightest undercover agent, but he's her best pilot by a landslide. Andor? Definitely a mystery, but he supposes there's a reason he's here to play ferryman at all, and it's not because Andor felt the need for witty conversation to pass the time. "Suppose that means you were satisfied enough," Poe murmurs, "unless the General strongarmed you. Like she does."

As if that isn't the understatement of the century.

Poe breathes in, and only slightly regrets it. He's a little startled by the lack of tension in Andor's body, wishing vaguely that he could emulate it, but he's still chilled, still shivering despite the sense of being half-curled against a living furnace. "Sure," Poe admits. "I'm only allowed to admit that this is nicer because my astromech is on the other side of the galaxy. You know, he's not much for cuddling either, now that I think about it."