Chapter Text
Slip .
Finn pushes through the throng of people, shoulder checking and outright pushing, until the figure -- Slip -- becomes clearer and clearer. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, the oppressive heat beating against his brow, as he choked on dust and thick air. There was a knot in his throat that prevented him from calling out; it couldn’t be him, it couldn’t. Slip had died in his arms on Jakku; the bloody imprint of his hand on his visor forever imprinted in his mind.
He’s dead.
The man had hair longer than stormtrooper regulation allowed, thick and wavy, and his tan signalled that he’d spent more time outdoors than on ships. He was shrouded from shoulder to floor in a beige cloak, the same as all the civilians on this planet were wearing. He seemed stronger than Slip, more assured of himself, but there was a feeling. That same feeling that guided him through fire and always got him out safely on the other side; that feeling he knew was right.
Slip.
He’s standing just to his left now and all the man -- Slip -- has to do now is turn to face him. Finn doesn’t know the expression on his face right now. He’s not sure how he should react or what he should say. There were many nights he would lie awake and think of all the words he’d say to Slip -- Slip, his dead comrade; Slip, his dead friend; Slip, the ghost. But as those soft hazel-brown eyes made their way towards Finn’s face, he couldn’t think of one word to say to Slip , the man staring at him with recognition and disbelief.
The man that lived.
“Eight Seven,” he breathes out, not trusting his eyes. The jogan fruit in his hand fell to the floor with a muffled thud. Rivlets of purple juice snaked across the dirt floor, dyeing the Earth an inky black, until the relentless heat curled it into small clumps. The man swallows as the silence between them threatens to become strangling. “It can’t be.”
“It is,” Finn whispers. There is a small scar on Slip’s temple, it’s white and leathery appearance signalling its age, but the small cut just above his right brow was red-black. Fresh . Finn wants to know what Slip has been doing, what he’s seen, what he’s done. The mangled corpse of an innocent Adednedo negotiator seemed to materialize between them but Finn shakes his head. It’s only a mirage. “It’s me, Slip.”
Wordlessly, Slip embraces him as if he was scared his former friend would disappear if he didn’t hold on to him tightly. There were tears smearing against Finn’s neck as Slip pressed their bodies closer and closer until neither of them could breath. “I missed you, Eight Seven. I’ve missed you so much.”
It took a moment before Finn could think to react. He returns the embrace loosely, his arms mostly pinned to his sides by Slip’s vice grip, before breathing the other man in with a large inhale. He smelled like sweat and dirt with a faint trace of standard-issue soap. He smelled like Slip. “You survived,” he says against Slip’s shoulder. He repeats himself, “You survived.”
They remain in each other’s embrace for a minute until the fruit peddler angrily shoos them off. “This is a fruit stand, not a lover’s hotel! Take this somewhere else, yer scaring my customers off.”
Slip’s tear stained eyes meet Finn’s as he nods to himself. “He’s right,” the man says. “Follow me. We have a lot to say to each other, don’t we?”
Finn doesn’t respond as Slip gently laces their fingers together and guides him through the crowd. Even as they moved through the swarm of people, through the harsh smell of too many people and the deafening noise of activity, he was hyper-aware of Slip. The small limp as he puts weight on his right leg; the callouses that rub against Finn’s palm as they turn corners; the glimmer of fear in his eye as he looks around before they duck into the non-descript hotel.
Slip’s room was small, the cheapest one the place had to offer probably, but it had a single bed and a private fresher, more than they had as ‘troopers. The moment the door to the room closes, their privacy guaranteed, Slip gets into Finn’s space and the older man knows what is coming. The other man’s lips make feverish contact with his but a choked sob breaks the kiss.
“Kriff, Eight Seven,” Tears stream down his face. His voice was a whisper now, right in Finn’s ear and Finn, not knowing what to say, only held him and listened. When he finally breaks down and weeps against Finn’s chest, the older man sways with him and smoothes his hair, still wordless but trying his best to convey, through his touch and his presence, that everything was okay. “It’s really you.”
Finn’s breath hasn’t been stable since he first laid eyes on Slip but in the silence, the staccato of inhales and exhales masquerading as life became more obvious. He had so much to explain but he didn’t know where to start. “Slip, on Jakku. I --”
“You did all you could,” he finishes. “You held me. Even with blaster fire in my gut, it was the first time I’d felt safe in years.”
“How did you survive?”
“I was weak but not dead. They left my body to rot and the next morning, when calm came to the remaining villagers, they began to bury the bodies,” his eyes flicker downward, training themselves on the broadness of his companion’s chest. He lay both his hands on that chest, then pressed an ear to Finn’s heart. He listened to the rhythm, familiar and calming, before he continued. “When they found I was alive, they took me prisoner.”
“There is something to be said about the New Republic’s method of dealing with prisoners of war, isn’t there?”
“I was in their jail for a year before I managed to escape,” It was tacit disagreement, the bitterness sending a chill down Finn’s spine. “I found my way to this planet to see if I could make contact with the First Order but by the time I arrived…” He trails off, a small but potent horror in his voice. “The First Order had fallen to the Resistance.”
Finn swallows. He’d almost forgotten who he was now. “Slip, I’ve been thinking -- thinking that maybe the Resistance isn’t as bad as we thought.”
“ What ?” he hisses. He draws away from the other man like he’s been burned. Finn had spoken forbidden words and there was stormtrooper fear in his eyes as he gazes up again. “They killed Nines and Zeroes! They killed…they killed...”
The words hung in the air, unspoken and never to be spoken: They killed our friends. Even in freedom, they could not betray the culture of their upbringing: none of them were truly friends; they were never free enough to be friends. Stormtroopers were not permitted friendship; they weren’t permitted to form bonds that would weaken their loyalty to the Order. The fact that none of them had been reconditioned proved they’d managed to keep whatever they felt toward each other a secret.
“They do a lot of good, too,” Finn replies, thinking of Poe and Leia and Rey and all his new comrades. He was a general in the Resistance now, too. He was trying to do good, at least. He could bring Slip into the fold. He had that power now.
If only Slip would stop looking at him like he was speaking in tongues.
“Eight Seven, do you know that the First Order is rebuilding itself?” he whispers. He knows. It was the reason why Poe and Finn were on this planet to begin with. He didn’t want to know why Slip did. “They’ve sustained heavy casualties. A lot of ranking officers -- the talented ones, too -- are gone,” he stared up at Finn through his lashes and there was a fanatical joy in his eyes. “I made contact with the remnants of the Order, Eight Seven.”
Don’t say anymore, Slip, or else I’ll be forced to... “What happened to your eye?”
Slip seems taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation but touches the fresh wound anyway. “Oh, this? A little scrap with a Twi’lek bounty hunter.”
Finn didn’t know if he was surprised or frightened at the change in his former comrade’s nature. Slip was never a fighter. “You? In a little scrap?”
“Well, luckily you can’t see the other guy,” Slip smiles coyly. “Then you’d know it was just me getting pummeled as usual.”
“Don’t talk like that,” he replies softly. Finn’s finger feathers over the wound, eliciting a hiss from the younger man. He quickly draws his hand away, “Kriff, I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” he took in a deep breath, trying to hide the pain. “It feels good when you do it.”
Then, Slip presses his lips desperately against Finn’s again.
“I don’t mean to sound,” he says through kisses down the older man’s neck, “...disloyal,” he manages as he buries his face in the crook of the older man’s neck. Hot breath condenses against Finn’s skin as Slip settles and rests his head on the other man’s shoulder. “But being here with you. Like this. It’s like the Order doesn’t matter at all. It’s like the old days. Better days.”
Better days? The words echo in the room. Were those days better? Being told what to do and when to do it, all individuality being slowly crushed out of you until you’re nothing more than a mindless pawn. Were those better days, Slip? He wants to ask but he can only grab the younger man on either side and pull him out for better inspection.
Slip looks older now, battered and tired, with a little more meat on his bones now that Finn has a chance to really feel him. There’s light stubble on his face, unceremoniously and precariously trimmed, by blade and not the electronic clippers they had as ‘troopers. Heavy-lidded eyes stared back at him, filled with more intensity than Finn had ever seen in them. They used to be filled with fear but now there was a dark anger hidden just beneath the surface.
“How long have you been on this planet?” Finn asks when he’s done examining the younger man, pulling him back into an embrace. “How do you live?”
“Kriff, don’t look so concerned,” he laughs. “I’m eating three meals a day and have a roof over my head.”
“Just answer the question.”
“So strict. I came just as the second Supreme Leader’s death was being broadcast on the holonet,” There was incredulity in his voice, traces of disappointment and rueful amusement checkering his tone. “The Holonet,” he repeats with amazement, trying to convey something profound to Finn. “It was the first time I’ve been able to access it and that was the only news anyone could report. The fall of the First Order. That was my first taste of freedom; my world ending.”
“It’s not your world ending, it’s your life starting,” he’s speaking quickly but he doesn’t know why. “We’re free now, don’t you understand?”
“Free?” It rings hollow. He laughs without humor. “Free to starve, free to freeze, free to go without. We’re really free, aren’t we?”
“Slip --”
“You know when I first heard the news, I decided I would try to be free ,” he sounds scornful, burnt, chewed up and spit out. “I got a job on a water farm. It was monotonous work and the days were long and hard; it was tough but it felt familiar. I thought, ‘this is okay, I can do this.’ But they sensed there was something wrong with me. That I wasn’t like them; they started to ask questions about where I was from, who my people were. And, Eight Seven, I had no answer. I was nobody. I only have the Order. There, I had purpose; I had an identity. What am I now?”
He replies sternly. “You’re Slip .”
“I made contact with the First Order, Eight Seven,” he repeats the refrain and Finn was becoming increasingly aware of the designation. My name is Finn , he wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat. “I’m a Lieutenant now. An officer in the Order.”
No. Please, no... “What?” he swallows. And with that swallow, down went Finn .
“They lost so many,” he restates with that same fervent look on this face. “They’re trying to rebuild with anyone who has years and training at the top. Do you understand, Eight Seven? If they make someone like me a lieutenant, you -- you could be a general .”
His heart was beating in his ear. He was already a general.
“I wasn’t just buying fruit at that stand. That was an informant for the Order. The Resistance is on this planet, trying to intercept an arms deal we have planned.”
Don’t say anymore, Slip, please. “I don’t think I could go back to the Order if I wanted, Slip.”
“I read about how you escaped with that Resistance pilot,” he whispers. “Why did you do it?”
For all the reasons why you want to go back. “I wasn’t thinking straight after I thought you’d died,” he manages after a beat. That wasn’t a lie. “It was that or reconditioning. I wouldn’t be able to keep going.”
Slip’s eyes grew brighter as Finn spoke. “They thought you were dead when you crashed on Jakku, but you were at Starkiller, weren’t you?”
Finn hadn’t had a chance to speak with Intelligence about how the First Order reported his treason and subsequent activities. But Slip had heard and it was only a matter of how much.
“Yeah, I was at Starkiller.”
“I didn’t know if you survived,” Slip whispers on the heels of the confirmation. “Were you trying to stop them?”
“I was,” and it wasn’t an outright lie without clarification but Finn knew exactly who the ‘them’ Slip was talking about, and it wasn’t the Order.
“Then you’re still loyal? Even though you escaped?” There was a plea there and for a moment, he looks like the man Finn remembers. Scared and hopeful.
“To the people I care about, yes.”
His brow furrows with confusion. He had expected a more emphatic response, something less cryptic, more straightforward. Nonetheless, it satisfies him. “Where are you staying?”
“I just arrived planet-side,” and it’s not a complete lie. He and Poe had only arrived that morning. The next thing however was, “I haven’t found accommodations yet.”
“Stay here,” Slip snakes his arms around Finn’s neck. His arms, once hidden by his cloak and only partially exposed through his rolled up sleeves, are covered in bruises. “Stay with me.”
Silently, Finn nods as the younger man leads him towards the bed.
“Let’s never be apart again,” he says softly as he removes his clothing, piece by piece. “This time, I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
Finn almost gasps when the younger man’s shirt comes off. In the center of his stomach was a knotted twist of raised skin, a creamy-white against his tanned skin. The longer Finn stares at it, the more he begins to see the face of a man crying out in agony, trying to escape from a world of demons.
Slip stood, naked, at the foot of the bed, his body riddled with more scars than Finn can remember. The work on the farm had hardened what used to be soft; taut muscles clenching and unclenching in anticipation of what was coming. The younger man was excited, already half-hard, eagerness written in his features as he stared expectantly at the other man. It took a moment for him to notice Finn’s stillness.
Following Finn’s eyes, he looks down at the wound and runs a hand across it. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he smiles. “Now, it’s just a reminder of what that bastard Resistance pilot did to me.”
The bastard Resistance pilot. His name is Poe , Finn wants to explain, and he wants to tell Slip that Poe wouldn’t have done what he did if he knew. In the same thought, something looms at the edges of Finn’s mind: wouldn’t he still have?
Poe likes Finn, that’s obvious. He wasn’t oblivious to the long looks and careless touch; the confessions that start and end before anything had really been said. He had a feeling -- that same feeling that drew him to Slip -- that Poe loves him, deeply and wholly, and wants him, body and soul. Sometimes, Finn felt consumed by that desire when they were together.
Even now, as he lets Slip’s hands roam over his body, suckling and nipping every avaliable inch of flesh, he thinks that he loves Poe, too.
But Poe doesn’t love stormtroopers.
He didn’t see their humanity. It’s only when they took off their masks -- like he and Jannah had -- that Poe could see . Slip’s mask is somewhere on Jakku, worn by the sun and rusted, yet even now as he whimpers under Finn’s touch, painfully human, he’s still wearing one.
He saw Slip’s humanity. He saw the horror in his eyes when he’d killed that negotiator for a taste of approval; for a chance to live another day; for an opportunity to prove himself. He saw his comrades -- his friends before Rey and Poe and the Resistance -- hurt, full of pride, scared. In hidden corners, he heard them laugh, and in the cover of night, share contraband holos. Early in the morning, he saw them cry, silently, chests rising and falling in jerky movements in their cot, after a particularly bloody mission.
And like now, as Slip whispers the words in his ear before collapsing beside him, he saw them love .
Finn propped himself up on an elbow to watch the younger man drift off to sleep. His eyes were still closed, consciousness slipping away, but he’s smiling. “Eight Seven, I’m happy,” he slurs, sleep taking over. “I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”
“Me, too.” Finn absentmindedly moves a strand of hair that had fallen out of place against his forehead. It was dark and wavy, the faint hint of some product to keep the style in place. Finn smiles at the thought of Slip having found his vanity. “Slip?”
There wasn’t any reply and the younger man’s breaths came out soft and even. Peaceful.
“I’ll protect you, Slip,” Finn whispers as he stares down at the sleeping figure. “This time, I’ll protect you.”
There is something sheepish about the way Poe asks the question.
“You didn’t come back until pretty late last night,” he laughs. It’s nervous and awkward. “Have fun?”
Finn stares at him for a moment and his tongue cuts through his lips before he looks away again. “No, just got lost,” he chuckles. “All these dirt roads look the same to me.”
Silence falls over them as Poe takes another of those long looks at him. Finn’s attention was focused solely on unloading their cargo. They were here to scope out the First Order arms deal but the Resistance was still an underground operation, the New Republic still weak from the Starkiller attack one year ago. They needed cash. Poe was against it on principle at first -- there was still some insecurity about his spicerunning past there somewhere -- but Finn didn’t think there was anything wrong with a little smuggling work when it meant bringing medicine to a planet that needed it.
“Guess that’s true,” the pilot says. He hasn’t touched a single palette they’re supposed to be taking off the ship and delivering to their contact. There was something expectant in the air until he finally fesses up to what’s bothering him with a sharp exhale: “Finn, I can see the hickey.”
Finn swallows sharply. He’d left Slip early in the morning, when he was sure the younger man was deep asleep and wouldn’t suffer from the nightmares that used to plague him. He was probably wondering now where Finn had gone as he awoke. The note Finn had left was vague but the truth -- that he had business to attend to.
“Busted,” he laughs, but it’s empty. They'd never been allowed to leave marks, any permanent evidence that could be grounds for a recondition or a reprimand, but last night Slip had bit, scratched, and attacked his flesh like he wanted to mark territory. But he doesn’t want to explain all this. He knows Poe loves him and he wishes he’d advanced far enough in his lessons with Luke and Rey to be able to block out the pilot’s pain. “Past year’s been pretty busy. And stressful. I wanted to see what it was like. ”
He’s being vague again, this time on purpose. He’s had sex in the past, maybe even more than the pilot had, but Poe had an image in his mind of the virginal stromtrooper, rigid and innocent; as if Finn weren’t a human with burning desire, too. The idea stings a little then it begins to ache. In Poe’s mind, Finn was only just becoming human. In reality, from that first grainy memory of being stripped from his mother’s arms, he never stopped.
The silence seems to swell and Poe’s mouth is dry, begging for moisture that his body refuses to produce. You could have asked me, buddy , the thought projects itself out as if he wanted Finn to hear it. “Yeah, sure, buddy,” the pilot laughs as well, but Finn didn’t hear the humor under the hurt. “Nothing wrong with that. Not against the rules or anything, but, uh , you were safe, right?”
He hadn’t been but it was Slip. “Of course. I’ve read up on this,” he lies with a smile. There was a pit in his stomach as he played the role of ingenue. “Condoms, lube, prep. Disease. All of it.”
“Covered all your bases, huh?”
There was a time when Finn was the kind of man that Poe thought he was. The kind that didn’t know the sensation of flesh against flesh, soft lips, and calloused hands across his skin. He’d learned it all with Slip, ginger touches that grew more and more fierce as death became less abstract.
Even last night, he explored another first with his former comrade. It was their first experience together outside the blindspot of a camera or hurried in a supply closet during shift change. The first time they could take their time, and speak as freely as they wished, as loud as they wished.
He owes it to Slip to give him that first; to explore that with him. He owed Slip that much at the very least.
“Yeah,” Finn responds listlessly. He’s not sure how much longer the conversation should last. He could sense Poe’s desire to know: Male or female? Human or xeno? Good or bad? Why not me? He decides to change the topic instead, back to the task at hand: “I’m going to take these palettes down now. Are you going to finish those up?”
Poe looks stricken and the younger man is sure he doesn’t mean to wear that expression so openly. “Yeah,” he nods. His gaze flickers down to the ground, like he was building the courage to say something. It always bothers Finn to see the pilot like this. Normally, the older man is fearless, rushing headfirst into a stronghold. There wasn’t an enemy that could scare Poe Dameron. Yet somehow the transport hangar seems ten times bigger as the pilot shrinks into himself. “Finn, later could we ta --”
His tone is artificially light as he cuts him off: “I’m going to do some information gathering later. Is that okay?”
The atmosphere had become too heavy and for the first time, he was uncomfortable around the older man. Poe doesn’t respond, just looks up from the spot on the floor he’d been focusing on for a while. Finn swallows, his mouth producing the excess saliva Poe’s was missing, and hopes the pilot doesn’t sense the lie. He had all the information he needed in Slip but he was still conflicted. He still had hope he could talk Slip out of completing this arms deal, away from rekindling a war that was over, away from the First Order.
“Of course,” Poe wet his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. “You’re always trying to complete my mission, aren’t you?”
Finn smiles. “Yeah, but now they’re our missions. Even if I do all the work.”
Poe laughs and it’s real. Something warms in Finn as he sees the wrinkles around Poe’s eyes, that familiar stretching of skin as a smile spreads across his face. “Okay, bet then. Last one to find out where the deal goes down,” he trails...
...and Finn picks up: “Has to do all the paperwork for a month.”
“That’s brutal.”
“Scared of losing, General?”
Poe’s grin becomes larger at the designation. “Not at all, General.”
Finn returns the grin. “And what does the winner get?”
Slowly, the happiness drops from Poe’s face at the question until what’s left is just the traces of mirth. Finn’s cheeks go hot, barely hidden under umber skin burned by a merciless sun, at the thoughts in Poe’s mind. “A favor,” Poe says eventually, voice full of implication before he bit his lower lip.
“Okay, a favor it is,” Finn nods, pushing the palettes down the gangplank, “You’re on.”
Finn knew he’d already won but he’d learned on another mission, just on the heels of Exegol, that a deal’s a deal, even with a dirty dealer. He knew how he’d use the favor already, too.
He’d ask Poe to forgive him.