commandor | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You don't memory wipe him, do you."

If Poe is listening, maybe he'll detect the hint of fondness in Cassian's tone, a soft quality that doesn't quite line up with most people's attitudes on droids. He's not thinking of astromechs -- he's thinking of K2s, and one stubborn, quirky model in particular.

Cassian doesn't wipe droids on a regular basis. He never would have wiped Kay. He messed around in Kay's circuits, in his programming, but that wasn't the same. No resets, just -- repairs. Removing constraints the Empire placed in him.

He finds his own fingers spreading over Poe's hands. His aren't warm, but they're not completely chilled, either. Cassian's warmth radiates from his core, but doesn't seem to quite get all the way to his hands.

He imagines twisting around and pressing his lips to Poe's. Seriously considers it. He believes it wouldn't be completely unwelcome; maybe the timing would be bad, though. Some people crave that kind of closeness when the adrenaline is going, and some people can't even consider it. But if they were back on the base... ahh, if they were there, Cassian would already be kissing him, his fingers toying in Poe's hair, his body pressed full length against the pilot. Slow, he thinks; it would be slow, with Poe Dameron. Slow and sweet, with little smile and little jokes. That's not something Cassian gets often.

Poe hesitates in the face of the question, yet another that he's not used to anyone asking, with the additional weight of an intel agent's curiosity behind it. There's an initial sort of defensive reflex that rises in his mind, the kind that wants to point out there's no regs that require it or General Organa understands his value as he is, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, but the defense seems like it might come off like guilt.

He's not, of course, and no one important has insisted on it. But Poe doesn't say that either, instead considering the slight rasp of Cassian Andor's fingertips skating over the backs of his hands, the comparative warmth of his palms against his own chilled skin and the shocking sense of intimacy that accompanies it. For a moment, it's a potent distraction, and Poe swallows around a half-held breath. Just another kind of duty, Poe thinks, but also, huh.

In the quiet, in the dark, every sense is tuned to sensations he can't help but associate with closeness, no matter how valiantly he attempts to separate them. He means to take the press of Andor's back against his chest as impersonal, the pleasantly soft warmth of his hair beneath his cheek as a given, the slight smoke-musk scent of him as unavoidable, really -- and he'd been doing all right, by his reckoning.

But he is listening, and he feels like maybe he's not the only one thawing out a little bit in this crowded little bunk. This time, when Poe shivers, it doesn't have that much to do with the cold at all.

He smiles, too, and huffs a quiet sound at his own well-intentioned stupidity before finally getting around to an answer that's both blunt and honest. "No," Poe says quietly, and it doesn't really feel like conceding anything at all when he relaxes his grip to lay his hands flat against Andor's belly, his thumb attempting to smooth out a wrinkle in his shirt before giving up to lie still. "I try to keep my friends in one piece. For all the times he's returned the favor, it seems fair."

He turns his head, just slightly, enough for Poe to see a sliver of his expression, eyelash to cheekbone to jawline. "I know what you mean."

If Cassian were another person, he'd have been able to drop the pretense, the studious care that takes the emotion out of his voice. But he's not, and he's done this long enough that, in order to show emotion, he has to fake it. Even if it's real emotion, he has to put it into his voice and his expression on purpose. Except when he's caught off guard, or when it's so strong that he's overwhelmed.

So these words are a bit more carefully neutral than he wants them to be, but there's softness anyway. Softness too in showing his face, not using the fact that he's facing away from Poe.

He breathes in, his eyes closing as he focuses on the touch, and he knows Poe can feel the long inhale as his belly rises. The air in his lungs; and the blood rushes in the veins at his throat, where he can feel Poe's breath. Cassian thinks that intimacy of touch is all in the little movements of the other person, in the awareness of how alive they are.

That tugs the corner of Poe's mouth upward. Poe knows he can be a little naive when it comes to people, that he's made the mistake of letting his faith in people get in the way of the truth more than once. It would be easy for the good Captain to lie to him, because Poe wants to believe. He knows this.

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?"