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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

Cassian makes an indeterminate noise. "There are people the General pushes forward," he says, "and people she holds back." Strongarming can mean a lot of things.

Strange, because Cassian doesn't think of himself as particularly radical, particularly violent, but she does usually seem to be holding him back rather than the other way around. Maybe -- and isn't this a depressing thought -- it's because Cassian doesn't have any faith in his own ability to hold himself back, when it comes to the darkness always seeping in. Maybe he lets her hold him back because otherwise he's afraid that no one would.

Pathetic.

"Too bad," allows Cassian. "He has a better shape for it than any other astromech I've seen." Sphere easier to hug than a cylinder, right? Right. Sure.

Or did that remark reveal that he's had his eye on Poe a little more than he wants to admit?

Poe's answering hum is solidly affirmative -- that's one way to put it, even if it ends up sounding a little like something he'd expect to come out of some wise-and-grizzled old hermit's mouth. After a moment, he supposes that's not particularly fair to Andor; it's not like age is any bar to enigmatic-sounding wisdom, and anyway that seems like just the sort of thing intel guys would be good for.

Maybe she just saves wise guys like you for the good stuff, Poe almost says. But that makes it seem like his idea of the good stuff involves assassinating people, and that's not exactly his idea of reassurance. Instead, he says "she's had the right ideas, so far." It's a relieving thought, untethered from this particular moment. What might have happened, had Andor gone into this alone? Poe might be a hell of a lot warmer for sure, but chances are good they might have lost someone who seems by all accounts to be a good agent. Easier to tell once they're back at base, but for now, he's plenty content to chalk it up to her uncanny foresight.

"A little short for it, really," Poe laughs, surprised once more by the observation. "A little too heavy to pick up. Biggest design flaw, y'know, on both accounts." The thing is, it doesn't strike Poe as particularly odd that BB-8 might be something of a known quantity around other divisions of the Resistance; Poe knows he is, and he imagines the Jakku incident did quite a bit to elevate focus on the little droid for his own sake.

But there's also the matter of BB-8's occasional self-imposed missions. Poe lifts his head, struck with a thought. "He hasn't caused you any trouble, has he?"

"No, not me." Those self-imposed missions are a topic of gossip for the Resistance, too. Amazing what rumors people can get around to spreading when it's a life-and-death battle of desperation occupying everyone's lives. "I've wondered, though. Does he really take those missions on by himself, or is that just something you want people to believe?" A fiction that might make it easier on them, thinking that Poe is hands-off.

Cassian really doesn't know the truth. He's asking because he'll learn a lot about who Poe is whatever the answer is, negative or affirmative, truth or lie.

He turns his head just slightly as he asks this, canting it back towards his own shoulder. It's not enough for him to really look at Poe, just enough to indicate that he's listening and paying attention. Enough that it shifts his mass, leans him a little firmer against Poe's chest.

So maybe someone he knows, then -- or maybe it's just one of those things intel types get around to keeping their eyes on. Neither really strikes him as surprising, and he finds himself idly hoping that BB-8 isn't getting himself into anything that's going to have repercussions.

"Uh." Poe makes a face, not because Andor's rolled into him and the part of him that isn't entirely joking about the virtues of cuddling is pleased by that, but rather because he's unprepared for the question. People have their assumptions, and sometimes those shift from one division to the next, but no one's ever bothered to ask. "Honestly?"

(Honestly, Cassian Andor, under the right circumstances, is a little distracting.)

"Ain't me," Poe says at last. "BB models are a little ... quirky, and he thinks of himself as a helpful guy. Put those two things together, add a bunch of folks in a small space that are stressed and too busy to take care of themselves, and he's gonna find plenty to keep his circuits occupied, I suppose." For the most part, it seems to work out. "I don't send him out. But I suppose I look the other way, when I need to."

Poe's fingers flex against the fabric of Andor's shirt; he's relieved to notice that they no longer feel like icicles. He doesn't quite feel warm, but he's far closer to it than he was a few minutes ago. "Thanks, by the way."

"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."

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commandor - 2017-03-26 00:32 (UTC) - Expand

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incomer - 2017-03-26 01:41 (UTC) - Expand

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