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No one sits in the chair beside your bed in the medbay. As far as you can remember, no one ever has.
This isn’t the first time you’ve ended up here. Your entire squadron calls you “Wildcard” from the amount of times you’ve been sent off to medical. The medics all know you by name now, and you’re aware they view you as a model patient because you never give them attitude, despite your frequent flyer status.
It’s not… actively intentional. You aren’t the one holding a sharpened edge to your skin, seeking the slicing sting to remind yourself that you’re alive. The scars are formed in different ways: from when you stayed up three days straight and cut yourself on a wire while fixing your ship, from falling during your tenth training run in a day despite only being assigned three laps, from getting hit with shrapnel when you moved your X-wing into position to block a hit aimed at your squad leader.
None of it registered on anyone’s radar. They just all quipped how unlucky you were, and you’d nod in agreement.
Of course, it was all said once you were back among their ranks. That was the only time your presence was deemed necessary for attention. Maybe once you would’ve said you were among friends when you returned to the docking bay, surrounded by the warm laughter of your squadmates.
Now you knew better. It’d been one too many assumptions on your part that widened the chasm between you and them: jokes that hit in tender spots, sarcasm that rubbed on frayed tempers like sandpaper, offers that went unnoticed and unanswered. You knew the problem and fault for each traced back to you, and so you’d simply… removed the problem. Removed yourself. You worked alone on your ship. You took your meals late into shifts and sat at a table with only your thoughts for company. You went through basic trainings without a partner to fall back on. You retired to your smaller-than-average room, regardless of how large it felt without a bunkmate.
And you never had a visitor in the medbay, only the humming of the sterile lights above keeping you company.
You wondered what it’d be like to be someone’s friend again. Maybe without the loneliness, you’d have something to distract you from sustaining another injury.
But at this point, you weren’t even sure how to hold a conversation anymore. You only really spoke if directly addressed nowadays, and those situations tended to revolve around work. You could navigate those professional discussions with ease.
It was the ones that strayed into personal that caused your anxiety to rise. The sweet chattering of one of the newer recruits, Jones, when your shifts coincided and you worked side by side to do inventory in the low lit storage areas. The upbeat check-ins from Poppy, one of the engineers, each time she came by your ship with a new load of parts for you to use. The cheerful beeping of BB-8– you weren’t sure exactly what the little droid was saying when he zoomed beside you through the halls, but it was one of few happy breaks from your otherwise monotonous life.
And then there was Poe Dameron.
You… you didn’t understand him. Sure, he was dubbed the best pilot in the Resistance. That much was true, and deserved in your opinion. You were assigned to completely different squadrons, but you’d still had a chance to see him fly in some of the larger skirmishes. He made his X-wing dance throughout the minefields of wreckage debris left in the wake of its blasters.
In person, he was just as bright of a shooting star. If he came any closer, you feared you’d be blinded. He spoke to everyone like they were the center of his universe, and when that intensity was turned on you, it took all you had to remain standing and not collapse and cry. Why would he send such wide grins and playful winks your way? The only thing that kept you from full blown panic was that he acted similarly towards others (you had to admit, watching Finn get flustered after a particularly suave remark from Dameron was incredibly amusing).
There was a little seed tucked away deep within you, in some dark and dry corner of your heart, that held onto a tiny kernel of hope. It was the desperate longing that all life has to belong, to be wanted, and so far you’d done a good job of burying it six feet under a concrete tomb. Dameron made you want to plant it and allow it to flourish in his light.
And that’s why he was dangerous.
It was better to stay away. You couldn’t get hurt further if there was nothing between you to damage. Right now it was only you that was in pain, thanks to the stupid bit of hope you were clinging to. It was a fervent dream you let yourself tread on the hardest days, picturing what could possibly happen if his attention wasn’t just harmless fun. If you weren’t careful, you’d soon grow tired and drown in it.
Staying awake was a similar struggle, even on a good day. You let yourself drift off to sleep, lulled by the beeping of the monitoring machines as you let yourself dwell on fantasy for a little while longer.
You’re certain you’re still sleeping. There’s no way this is reality.
Your senses tell you that this is the real world– the medbays in your mind rarely are this cold, despite the amount of time experience you have in them– but… your eyes must be lying to you.
There’s no way Dameron is sitting in the chair beside your bed.
You close your eyes and count to five, breathing in slow and steady in the hope that more oxygen to your brain will vanish the hallucination, but he’s still there when you look again. He’s in his flight suit, so you figure he must’ve returned from either training recruits or a routine mission, and his brow is furrowed as he stares down at a datapad propped on his lap. So far, he hasn’t noticed you’re awake.
You take the few extra moments to watch him uninterrupted. There’s a cut along his right cheek, skin pink and angry on either side of the thin white strips holding both sides of the irritated line together. His thumb rubs idly against his bottom lip, eyes moving back and forth rapidly as he reads. One leg bounces up and down constantly, and you wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.
Maybe your stare is a bit too strong, because next thing you know, Dameron has glanced up and is looking right at you.
Please let this be a dream.
His smile is whiter than the pristine medbay walls. “Hey, wildcard!” Thankfully he keeps his voice soft. “Nice to see you up and about.”
Was it possible for you to become any more confused? “Up, not about,” you correct mildly, before wincing at how rude that sounded. “Sorry.” You desperately glanced around, trying to let your gaze fall on anything other than his dark eyes. “Um… why are you here?”
Dameron leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. “Came in for my own mishap,” he pointed to the wound on his face, “and saw you in here. Thought you could use some company.”
You’re not sure what to say. You’re not even sure how to react. You doubt he’d had his datapad when he first came here for himself, so that meant he’d left and then come back. Left and come back for you? You felt yourself flush in shame at being the reason he’d wasted so much time.
“Oh. You didn’t have to do that.” Another impolite slip-up. At this rate, you’re better off taping your mouth shut until he leaves.
It doesn’t seem to faze him though. He just shoots you an amused half-smirk. “Took the chance to catch up on some reports, don’t worry.” He cocked his head slightly, and you felt like a new engine fault he was examining in his beloved Black One. “Besides, I’ve been in here after more than enough missions. Company helps.”
You chew thoughtfully on your lower lip, trying to keep yourself from saying something destructive like you normally do. “Oh. And you’re... company?”
He chuckles. “No need to sound disappointed.”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” you hurriedly exclaim. “I’m just confused. Confused and tired.”
“That’s understandable.” No, why is he being so reasonable to you? “Anything I can do to help?”
You stare at him blankly. Isn’t it obvious that you’re unsure how to act because of his presence? You don’t know how to talk to people anymore, let alone while you’re stuck in the medbay recovering. You know it’s partly why people don’t bother anymore. It’s why you’ve given up too.
“Uh… no, it’s alright. I’m fine,” you mutter haltingly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
His smile is so dazzling you have to fight to keep your eyes open. “In truth, I’d rather you did. Have you ever tried reading one of these reports?” He holds up the datapad, not that you can see it from that far away. “Dullest things ever.”
“Sometimes the higher ups will assign you to off-shifts if you write something they deem unprofessional,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
Fuck. Why’d you have to go and open your mouth again? Dameron was a ‘higher up.’
You shut your eyes tight and sink as far as possible into the cot to try and avoid his gaze. Maybe if you pretend he’s not here, the universe will grant this one measly wish for you.
“Has that happened to you?” He asks, deathly quiet compared to his chipper voice before.
You nod slowly. “It’s happened to most of us.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “How can you be so sure? It could’ve just been a one-time thing, someone having a bad day–”
You shrug. “People talk.”
“And they talk to you about it, do they?”
Ouch . You blink rapidly and move your eyes to your lap, knowing that you’ll break down in tears if you keep trying to interact with him. You should’ve kept your mouth shut. Nothing good ever comes from you trying to act like you’re normal and wanted. You should’ve just stayed quiet and nodded along, let him talk until he’d run out of steam and was ready to move on to his next fixation.
“Shit, Wildcard, I didn’t mea–”
“It’s fine.” Your voice sounds hollow even to yourself, and you swallow to try and make your next words sound convincing. “Don’t worry about it.” You just need to be alone. At least then you won’t feel constantly on edge about what you could possibly ruin. “I’ll see you around, Dameron.”
There’s several heartbeats of silence before you hear the chair scrape as he pushes it back and stands. He doesn’t move for a moment or two, but right before you begin to think his stare is burning a hole through your head, he turns and heads out of the room.
You wait until his footsteps fade down the hall before the first traitorous tear trails down your cheek.
So much for hope. You’d known better than to expect anything else from reality, and yet the consequences still hurt more than the injuries that had landed you here in the first place.
You return to active but light duty two days later. It’s just another regular day for you: no fanfare over your reappearance and nothing new to your routine to distract you from the lingering fog over your senses.
You’re able to stay on the periphery of base life for a while, going through the motions well enough to not cause problems and get noticed by anyone. Part of that is thanks to you doing your best to avoid any unwanted attention by taking your meals in the privacy of your room, running your drills before the other squads got together, and working on your ship after they went asleep.
It’s a lonely existence, but it’s your life.
You continue on without complaint.
It’s early in the morning towards the end of your night shift when Poe Dameron sits across from you in the mess hall. You duck your head more than normal, hoping that if you continue on staring at your lap, he’ll get the message and move on from your quiet corner.
“Hey, Wildcard.”
Apparently message not received.
You offer a strained smile without fully looking up. “Commander.”
“Mind if I join you?”
A sigh leaves you. “Nothing stopping you, Commander.”
He pauses, knows you both know what you said wasn’t an answer. “I came to apologize.”
“Not necessary,” you reply, despite it being completely strained.
“Maybe not, but I still–”
“Sir, are you trying to apologize to make me feel better or yourself?” You blurt, frustration finally getting you to snap. You were too tired to immediately regret it, instead slouching further in your seat and wishing you could just disappear.
It’s silent for several moments before he speaks up. “You don’t have to call me ‘commander’ or ‘sir,’ y’know. Not off duty. ‘Poe’ is fine.”
That finally gets you to look up. His eyes are shadowed as he watches you, and from the dark bags under his eyes, you wonder if he’s been sleeping well lately. A part of you wonders why you should care. His lips are pulled tight like he’s deep in thought, his brow furrowed almost pleadingly.
“I don’t know…”
You do know though. Even if it made you feel uncomfortable, you’d call him by his name. You were a people pleaser. You didn’t need to give anyone an extra reason to dislike you.
Dameron forces a smile. “I won’t force you to. Just wanted to leave it open as an option.”
You nod half-heartedly. Anything to make others happy.
Your food no longer seems appetizing. It sits before you like a taunt, reminding you of everything you haven’t been able to finish. Everything you’ve failed at. Even eating is too difficult a task on most days now.
“I should get going.” You stand in one smooth motion, gathering up your tray and holding it close to your chest before Dameron can say a word to stop you. “Have a good shift, Dameron.”
He calls your nickname after you. It only causes you to walk faster.
You don’t think you’ve ever had friends. You’ve never been loved. You were stupid enough to believe it when someone said so, once. So desperate to be wanted that when the first pretty face said it to you, you took it to be the truth.
You know better now. It hurts less in the long run to let no one get close. No bonds to be broken, no emotions to get strained. And a bonus: no one had to pretend to like you.
A win-win, you suppose.
Dameron tries to get your attention two days later when you’re commed to replace a pilot on a routine scouting mission. You stay far away from the hustle of the normally-scheduled crew as they greet the renowned Black Leader. It’s easy to stick to the sides of the hangar and go unnoticed by the rest. The universe must have it out for you. That, or Dameron was a hell of a good marksman.
Possibly a bit of both.
You climb into your assigned X-wing with no fuss otherwise. Black Six shoots you a questioning glance at your presence in lieu of Black Nine, but your shrug and explanation of “in the medbay” is enough for them to shrug it off.
This should be an easy flight. You’re to separate into threes and clear the sector of any suspicious activity. It’s an imperative part of keeping the rebel base’s location secret. You resolve to follow the others’ lead. This isn’t your squadron, and you don’t want to mess with how they fly with each other.
It should be smooth sailing. You hope it will be.
You fall from your X-Wing, helmet long lost as you drop to your knees, lungs sputtering in the wake of the smoke that had filled your cockpit. You can hardly breathe, but at least you can still breathe. You’re still breathing, and so is the other pilot you saved. That’s all that matters.
Hands grab at your arms and haul you into a further sitting position so your chest isn’t curled in on itself. Your eyes are teary from the burning sensation, and all you want is to clear them with water, but for now you are drawn into a pair of strong arms.
“You saved me!” You’re not certain who it is that has taken ahold of you, but you begin to understand as they keep sobbing into your shoulder. “You took the shot– it should’ve been me, you saved me!”
What can you say? She is no friend of yours. You doubt she’s ever spoken to you before today. It’s not like she would’ve done the same for you.
“I’m glad I could help,” you settle on saying lamely. Your hands hang limply at your sides, unsure of what is expected of you. The other pilot seems to do enough hugging for the both of you, so you leave her be and allow her to cry herself out.
She pulls away sooner than you’d expected her to and cradles your face in her hands. “Stars, you’re bleeding!” You dazedly reach up and run your fingers beneath your nose, pulling away to find them wet with blood. “Hey, we need a medic over here!”
The words fall from your lips before you can register them: you’re fine, the medics are busy, you’ll clean yourself up in your quarters. She doesn’t listen, pulling you further into the hangar, towards the other congregating pilots. You don’t have the energy to pull away, and like a kite on a string, she guides you where she wants you to drift despite the wind threatening to pull you elsewhere.
Perhaps your analogy proves too poignant, because another hand comes out to grab at your other arm, jerking you to a harsh stop.
“What were you thinking?” Dameron’s voice is as loud and harsh as the alarms in your cockpit had been. If you’d been fully present, you probably would’ve cowered from the sheer fire within him. As it was now, you stared blankly somewhere over his shoulder: past his orange jumpsuit colored like flames, his curls wild around his face, jaw set fiercely.
“Commander–”
“You put everyone at risk! That stunt pulled out of formation and could’ve killed all of us! You could’ve died!”
“I wanted to help.”
“And at what risk? At what cost? You’re not in command, you do not get to make that call!”
“I’m sorry–”
“Are you? You stand here and can’t even look me in the eye!”
He’s right.
You drag your gaze to meet his, and you do manage it, even if it’s just for a moment. Something in his expression loosens once you do, perhaps out of shock that you’d manage to follow through and prove him wrong, but even those few seconds are too much to handle.
The black spots that have been dancing at the edges of your vision widen until they encompass your entire line of sight. The world begins to tilt and you feel your legs buckle beneath you before everything fades away.
You don’t even feel yourself hit the ground.
As usual, you wake up in the medbay alone.
You idly wonder what it’d be like, to have the expectation of someone actually sitting for unknown lengths of time to wait for you to regain consciousness. It must be something warm and calming, like hot chocolate.
There’s nothing for you here.
You stare at the ceiling until the drugs pull you back under again.
Sometimes your dreams taunt you. This is one such occasion, where your mind provides conversations that pathetic part of you wishes were real.
“...and if I’d known they were injured, I wouldn’t have gone off on them like that. Karking scared me, seeing them collapse without warning.”
“I had just shouted for a medic! You , you complete laser brain, were only focused on your fear and anger. Not them.”
“I know.” Silence. “I’ll apologize when they wake up.”
Why would you receive an apology when you were in the wrong? You’d messed up and caused more problems. In no reality would that warrant an apology.
You let the voices become fuzzy and dissolve back into nothingness. No dreams would be a blessing.
You try and fight the waking this time. Nothing good awaits you here. Maybe if you try to remain asleep the universe will grant you that wish.
The sight that greets you when you pry your eyes open lets you know that the universe is firmly sided against you, because Poe Dameron sits in the chair beside you.
You close your eyes, both to avoid looking at him and to hide the tears that have rushed to re-emerge. He couldn’t even wait for you to be discharged from the medbay to reprimand you further? All you’d wanted to do was help. You managed to save someone. Apparently it wasn’t good enough for Dameron.
He quickly notices you’re awake again, jumping up and moving closer to your side. “Wildcard! How’re you feeling?”
You wince at the unexpected level of his voice. “Too loud.”
He draws back with a wince. “Sorry, my bad.”
You sigh. “Why’re you here?”
“What?”
You’re pretty sure your head isn’t muddled enough to slur your speech. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to apologize–”
You let your head turn away from him as you sink further into the pillows. “Again? Why? You only said what I needed to hear.”
“Wha– no, that wasn’t it at all!”
Another sigh leaves you. “Commander, I understand if you want to write me up, but could it please wait until I’m discharged?” You subtly clench at the sheets pressed up against your palms. “I just want to be left alone right now.”
“Wildcard–”
“Please, Commander Dameron.” You’re disgusted with how shaky your voice sounds.
It’s enough to get him to listen. “Alright.” He sounds subdued, defeated, and you hear him shuffle away. “I’ll let you rest.”
No one’s there to see you cry.
You get released two days later. It’s a slow journey back to your quarters, but you manage.
Your bed has never looked so comforting. You bury yourself under the mountain of blankets and will everything away.
You get fast tracked back into active duty this time. You know there must be a reason for it. It’s not until you’re sent the time and location for a meeting that you know it’s for a mission.
You try to keep your head down in the briefing room. You have no friends here, no one who even was on a first name basis with you. Another mission with no one watching your back, no one wondering if you’d make it back home. You weren’t an important part of this mission anyways, so you just stayed quiet and in the back.
You pay attention as always. You still have to be the best on the job. No one will vouch for you otherwise, so you have to earn your worth… or whatever little of it you had left here.
It wasn’t your fault when it all went to shit.
It was supposed to be an infiltration, quick and easy: bomb the place, steal intel. Dameron had the intel, Jones was clearing a way out with the others.
You were pulling up the rear to cover their tail in one large fireball.
Maybe this was why you existed. This one moment, to save the heart and soul of the resistance. Your whole life had led up to it.
Dameron had the intel, and you had the bombs.
You
stop
running.
It’s simple work, taking out the rushing stormtroopers. Your mind is wonderfully blank, all focus set on the task before you. They must make it out alive. There is no other outcome you will allow.
“Wildcard!” Somewhere in the distance you hear a shout of your nickname, followed by a frantic cry of your true name. You pay it no attention, picking off the troopers that shoot your way as you race off back the way you’d come. You have to get as deep as possible in order for the charges to do the most damage.
Blasterfire comes from behind you and the remaining troopers in the hall fall to the ground. You spin on your heel just as someone grabs you by the shoulders and find yourself staring in the face of Commander Dameron.
“Wildcard, what are you doing? We need to get out of here!” He shouts, fingers digging into you.
“Commander, you have to leave!” This– this isn’t how it should be. “You can’t die here with me; run, now!”
One hand moves to your wrist and he tries to pull you along with him. “You’re not dying here! Now move!”
You tear your arm from his grip and stare at him wild eyed. “This is my purpose. Commander, there’s no time to argue, they need you now. Go!” You don’t give him time to reply before you dash off towards your fate.
You have to do this. You know it’s the only way to get them out safely; the diversion is necessary. This is the heart of their weapons operations, and to cripple it means the First Order will have to draw back on their number of attacks because they can’t risk any unnecessary losses. This is your one chance. You have to take it.
You are worth this.
The main power generators are easy to find: right in the middle of everything to be best protected and to build up around their core. The guards are low due to the emergency alarms blaring, and with your clear head and a few well placed shots, they all fall silently where they stood. The charges are simple: bonding adhesive on one side, built-in countdown with a dead man’s switch if necessary. You need the countdown to have time to place them all, and once you’ve set the first, you have about ten minutes to do so.
The work is methodical, but you are determined to see it done as perfectly as possible. You only have a few left when you hear your name ringing in your ears– perhaps it’s your mind giving you a last glimpse of hope to see things through?
Still, you glance over your shoulder to check if you’re alone.
You see Poe Dameron's orange-clad form racing towards you just as a searing pain sets the right side of your body on fire.
This time you’re certain it’s his voice that shouts out as you collapse.
There’s two charges left that you drop as you fall, and a part of you is glad to see that they’re close enough to still cause damage to the power grid. Your vision is hazy though, and there’s something wet in your mouth that makes breathing a struggle now. Why won’t your hand stop trembling? You need to activate the dead man’s switch–
Wait. Dameron. You can’t… Why is he here? You can’t kill him, he has to run.
Something slides under your back and lifts you upright, and you think you cry out from the pain. It’s spreading, making the world hazy and black around the edges. Why are they moving you? It hurts, it hurts so much. You thought death was supposed to end your pain.
“Not dead yet,” a voice growls, and again you are jostled. This time you nearly pass out from the agony. “I won’t let you die on me.”
You cough, choking around whatever is filling your mouth. “Leave… me… pl- please.”
“Nope. You’re coming with me, sweetheart.”
Why is he doing this? Why can’t he just leave you behind? If he set you down and put the switch in your hand, you know you’d be able to summon the energy to click it when he was out of harm’s way. You’d be worth something to them all in the end.
Right now, you’re just the burden that’ll get Commander Dameron killed.
You try and struggle, hoping he’ll have to let you go and will come to his senses about what he’s doing, but he just holds on tighter. The pain flares with each step he takes as he races through the corridors, heading towards any exit. The complex is so large, though. You know he can’t make it out while you’re weighing him down.
“Stop,” you try again, but you’re not even sure he can hear you over the alarms. “Save yourself.”
“I won’t leave you to die here!” he shouts, taking precious seconds to glare down at you. The rage burning in his eyes hurts you more than the blaster fire that’s slowly killing you.
Why? You’re nothing.
Maybe you can take the decision from him. Make one last choice of your own.
You aren’t worth saving.
You stop fighting.
The harsh white lights fade away. The last thing you see is his face.
“...lost a lot of blood, I don’t know if they’ll make it–”
“No, you’ve got to save them! They don’t know- they wanted me to leave them behind- please, that can’t be the last thing they…”
“Poe, get back! I’ll do my best, but it’s not looking good.”
“I won’t leave them.”
“Poe–”
“I won’t leave.”
Dying hurts more than you thought it would. You drift back into the icy embrace of the quiet. Maybe you can sleep there.
There’s someone sitting in the chair next to your cot in the medbay when you awaken.
You weren’t expecting to wake up. Maybe this is your afterlife, condemned to the reminder that you were forever broken.
You try moving, but pain lances through your chest, so you decide laying still is better. Your toes all wiggle when you move them though, and the fingers on your left hand. The ones on your right are trapped by a pressure, and only after turning your head do you notice that the visitor’s hand is wrapped around yours. Their head rests on the mattress by your leg, eyes closed and peaceful as they sleep.
Why is Poe Dameron here?
You’re not sure how long you stare at him. It’s quiet here. Maybe this is somewhere in your mind you’ve retreated to? You know it isn’t, the pain tells you otherwise, but you can’t understand why he was sitting here, clearly waiting for you to wake up.
You’d almost killed him.
The thought hits you like a sledgehammer. You’d almost killed him.
The tears immediately begin flowing down your face. You’d almost killed Poe, you’d survived through the experience. What if the charges had failed to go off? Why had they wasted the supplies to save you instead of letting you pass on? You… you hadn’t wanted it to end this way, with you back to being another problem for them to handle.
Why hadn’t they let you die? That’s all you’d wanted.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register the rapidly increasing beeping of the heart monitor hooked up to you. It’s faint against the loud roaring in your ears, the way your chest has tightened so you can’t suck in any air, the pressure in your head and ache in your heart.
The grip on your right hand suddenly disappears. A part of you recognizes that Poe has jumped to his feet and is frantically shouting for a medic, interspersed with pleas of your name. It registers in your mind enough to haunt your future nightmares, but for now all you can focus on is your increasing panic.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe now!” His stressed rambling cuts into your mental spiral as his thumb rubs comforting circles on your palm. “You can fight this.”
You don’t want to. You want to give up. You don’t want to live with the sadness anymore. You don’t want to…
“Your squadron is asking about you, y’know? Even– even Black squadron. Jess especially– she hasn’t stopped talking about you since you saved her. And Poppy, down in mechanics? She brought by a blanket because she knows you get cold in the medbay. BB-8 tried to come in and see you too– I wouldn’t let him, he’d get all tangled up in the cords– but he can’t wait to meet you.”
He flounders for a moment, but it’s enough of a pause for the medics to push him aside and begin stabilizing you.
Poe gets pushed to the side of the room. Your vision fades out again to the sight of his wide eyes staring back at you.
The first thing you hear is a song. It’s a gentle tune, one that reminds you of flower petals floating down a trickling stream. There are fingers in your hair, smoothing softly over the strands as the song continues to fill your ears.
The person’s voice is rough with use, but warmer than a crackling log fire. You can’t place it yet, your mind still foggy with sleep, but all you wish for now is to bottle it up and wear it around your neck, let it hang close to your heart.
“S’pretty,” you sigh, turning your head towards the source of the sound. You frown when it stops after you speak up.
“Stars, Wildcard!” Poe leans forward just as you finally pry open your eyes to see him seated beside you once more. His hair is far wilder now, and he has a five o’clock shadow along his jawline. You absentmindedly notice how well it suits him as your gaze travels down to the gold chain hung around his neck and hidden beneath his white shirt. “Fuck, you had me so worried.”
“Poe?” You cough, his name like knives in your dry throat. “Water?”
“Yeah, uh… here we go.” Bleeding heart he is, Poe reaches down beside his chair and grabs his own canteen. He scoots the chair forward to better hold the bottle up for you to readily drink from, the cool water a soothing waterfall. “That’s it.”
“Thank you,” you offer once he pulled away. The smile he grants you in return has you chewing on the inside of your cheek to keep from tearing up guiltily. “I’m sorry.”
Under normal circumstances, it’d amuse you with how he tilts his head slightly to the side. “What do you have to be sorry for? You set the charges and saved all of our asses.”
“I almost killed you,” you choke out. “I almost killed everyone. I had one job and failed.” You can feel your hands begin to shake, but Poe reaches out and takes both of yours in his firm grip. “You could’ve died!”
“Sweetheart, you nearly did die!” Poe shot back, his earlier fear creeping back into his voice. “I thought you… you went so still in my arms. You lost a lot of blood.” His fingers squeezed yours. “You had us all worried.”
You stare at him blankly as his words process. “Oh… I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
“You’re alright,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s what matters.”
“But… I don’t matter.”
“Don’t. That isn’t true.” You’re pinned under his intense stare as he pulls your clutched hands up to his mouth so he can press a kiss against your curled fingers. “You do matter. I promise.”
You try and laugh but it comes out as more of a sob. “You don’t even know me, Dameron.”
“No, no, don’t do that! Don’t block me out. Please,” Poe begged you.
“I’m sorry.”
“You have no need to apologize,” he reminded. “One little mistake isn’t about to push me away, push any of us away.”
You turn your eyes towards the ceiling, needing to look anywhere but at Poe. “No one ever stayed before...”
“No time like the present to change that,” he murmured quietly.
His words make you turn back to him with an awestruck look. “You stayed. You… you were here when I woke up. More than once.”
Poe winces slightly at the reminder. “Not necessarily my finest hour.”
“Or mine.” You squeeze his hand back lightly– it’s the strongest you can do at the moment in your injured state. “But you still stayed.”
His lips quirk up the beginnings of a true smile. “Yeah. Figured you could use a friend.”
“A friend sounds… nice,” you try and smile back, but the tears finally have enough ammunition to bubble over and cascade down your cheeks. “Sorry, I- I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Poe moves slowly and carefully, both to give you a chance to say no and to be careful of the wires connecting you to various machines, as he draws you into a hug. Here in his arms is safe and warm, and you find yourself curling into his embrace while you continue to cry.
He begins to hum the song from earlier, the one you woke up hearing this time. You let it calm you, focusing on the vibrations coming from his chest as you bury your face in the curve of his collar bone.
If you fall asleep to it, you know this time it’ll be okay. Poe will be there when you wake up again. It’s a start and a step in a new direction.