Stars by the Pocketful - Chapter 5 ; PG-13
Title: Stars by the Pocketful
Chapter: Chapter 5
Fandom: Star Wars ; Poe Dameron/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Before his mind goes on another deliberating frenzy, he moves in and kisses the corner of her lips, whispering smilingly: “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
v. Poe
But your eyes are flying saucers from another planet
Now I’m all for you like Janet
Can this be a real thing, can it?
Whatever is left in the bottle of KyLessian Fruit Distillate, Poe downs it in one large gulp the moment he’s parked Black One, and powered down the engines. Somehow, the caramelised liquor feels like jagged shards of glass going down his throat, and the aftertaste bitter upon his tongue instead of the tangy sweetness one comes to expect of the Wulfruit tree-origin drink.
The alcohol must have dulled his senses more than he realises, because despite having climbed down the same set of steps after every mission he’s been on, and could probably do so with his eyes closed - Poe misses a step, and falls backwards, landing squarely on his arse while his fingers are still outstretched reaching for the railings.
Barely dismounted from the astromech port, BB-8 rolls over to his pilot companion’s side, beeping in concern with the smaller, upper sphere angled in such a way that Poe can only liken to a quizzical head tilt.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Bee-Bee - I’m fine,” he winces, as he picks himself up from the ground, waving the droid unit away with one hand, while the other massages his behind gingerly.
He gives the back of his dust-soiled pants a few stern pats, and straightens his posture as the other X-wing taxis back into the hangar next to Black One, hoping beyond hope that she didn’t see the embarrassment that unfolded just seconds ago.
He hisses in a mouthful of air, even attempts to smoothen his tunic shirt and straightens his leather jacket, while the engines power down, and the canopy swishes upwards. For the first time that night, he sees her without the solar excitations and star-dotted space reflected upon the transparisteel panels between them.
Poe practically floats his way towards her, his wobbly feet as if walking on clouds. His eyes never leaving her, watching her every move - slipping off Jessika’s helmet in one fluid motion, and smoothening her hair down unceremoniously; swinging out of the cockpit, and down the steps like a well-rehearsed dance choreography she’s perfected in the last decade she’s been in the Resistance.
The whole recital reminds him of the first time he noticed her, way back when Black Squadron had just returned from the Ovanis mission, when he’d encountered the natives Creche and Agent Terex of the First Order Security Bureau, who has since become a kind of nemesis to the commander throughout this goose chase tracking down Lor San Tekka.
He remembers feeling disgruntled initially, seeing someone other than himself or Oddy coming out of Black One. But, upon realising that she’s the technician who has been bringing every-single-one of the starfighters in the Resistance up for test runs, even though it isn’t protocol; and more to the point, seeing her face for the first time when she took off the pilot helmet…
Stars, Poe has never seen a prettier sight in a Resistance flight suit.
BB-8 whistles, akin to a teasing nudge at his commander’s side.
“She does, doesn’t she…” Poe replies pensively, disregarding his droid’s playful tone.
While he sorely wishes that she’s wearing the deep orange jumpsuit again, instead of the drab brown technician suit, against the solar excitations outside of the hangar - to him, her beauty is comparable to the blaring green-blue-red-and-purple still bursting in the Ileenium night skies.
She’s nearing the bottom of the step ladder, when she too misses her footing; and while she would’ve landed safely without spraining her ankle, or falling flat on her adorable tush, (Poe has stared on more than one occasion, when he thinks no one is looking), the setback galvanises him to move forward, and just in time, boxes her in between the steps and his outstretched arms.
Time seizes up between the seconds, as his hands tighten their comfortable grasps upon her waistline for a breath too long. It could’ve been the distillate beverage playing tricks on his mind, but he feels her entire form leaning into his body.
For a flashing moment, he wonders if she can feel his heart hammering in his chest pressed up against her back.
All doubts dissipate from his foggy, alcohol-induced mind, when she turns around in his embrace, and rather timidly, raises her pink face for their eyes to meet.
“Too much to drink?” He probes in a low whisper, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Her soft laugh hits his heated face in exhaled breaths intertwined with what tastes like Dantooine Tonic. He makes a mental note that it’s what she’s been drinking from her hip flask this very night, and for some reason, is making him a little light-headed.
For Poe’s part, the palpable yearning within him intensifies with every second that passes, and neither of them makes to move away from the other.
He feels her fingers clutching distractedly at the leather folds on his forearms, as his hooded eyes stare down at her plush lips inches away from his, intoxicating him further with every tonic-laced breath she takes.
How he is feeling, what they are doing right now… they’re completely and most certainly contradictory to every-single-thing that they have spoken about while they were up among the solar excitations.
Sure, there’s even a recording of their conversation stashed away in the Resistance database if he cares to look into it, when he wakes up the next morning with a hangover the size of a dreadnought, and somehow needs for a refresher on what they spoke about.
But, it’s that very same apprehension to stay away from each other so one of them - her, to be exact - doesn’t get hurt, that makes him want her more.
Sparked by that very same nonconformity in him to do things against his better judgement, going on unsanctioned missions and defying his superiors’ orders. That very same insubordination that produces 50/50 outcomes, half of which has landed him in predicaments that’d cost him his very life, while the other, shedding light in places and on the First Order’s undisclosed agenda they wouldn’t have stumbled upon if he hadn’t gone out of line in the first place.
Hours might have passed, Poe can’t be sure for how long, as he’s busy with an internal battle between a rock and a hard place, between wanting to crane his head downwards for alignment, and hesitating all at the same time, out of respect and compassion and care towards her and what he might put her through if he doesn’t.
In fact, he might’ve remained just like that with her, rooted in the same position until dawn breaks, and the solar excitations dim, if CB-23 hadn’t diffused the tension, and blurted out a string of excitable binary codes.
Both of them turn almost in unison towards the droid unit by her feet - Poe in amused surprise, while she borders on horrified humiliation.
“Cee-Bee - it’s supposed to be our little secret!” She hisses down through gritted teeth at the droid, and folds her arms in mocked exasperation. “I can’t believe you just - might as well go into the mess hall, and announce it to the entire Resistance, why don’t you?”
A slow grin spreads across Poe’s face, as he watches the technician and droid bicker. The incident unfolds in front of him in a mildly entertaining manner, as agitated human words with syllables go up against the placid clicks of machine-spewed 1’s and 0’s.
“It’s your birthday?” The commander chimes in softly, tilting his head at the delightful information Cee-Bee has just revealed. “Your birthday is on Life Day?”
She clams up mid-sentence, turning back to him.
“And you’re out here - all by yourself?” He presses on, as she tries to shrug it off as if it isn’t a big deal. “Why didn’t you say anything? Me and Black Squadron - we could’ve done something with you - after all you’ve done for us.”
“I-It’s nothing, really,” she sighs, as the pinks on the apples of her cheeks spread down her neck. “I don’t usually celebrate anyway…”
Poe huffs sadly. He’s almost forgotten: they grew up differently on Yavin 4, she with her mum and her years and years and years of misery, not a happy day without her dad…
“Besides, I’m not exactly - by myself,” she murmurs, lifting her shoulders just as she stuffs her hands into her jumpsuit pockets. “Think it’s the first time that I’m not on my own on my birthday, actually.”
Poe’s eyes lit up, a grin already breaking upon his face.
“I mean - Cee-Bee has been great company,” she catches herself almost immediately, turning towards the droid unit once again. “Loved having her as company, because we were the only ones who knew it’s my birthday, weren’t we, girlie?”
Poe can’t help but chuckle at her clever evasion. It’s too cute, as she glares in feigned annoyance at CB-23, until the droid rolls away stiffly from the pair.
When she looks back at him, the sprightly smile upon her face gives him pause, as his brain short-circuits, replaying the same thought process over and over again: Kriff, she’s beautiful when she smiles.
If the only mission he has in life is to do just that…
As their staccato laughter settles down, Poe inhales audibly, and closes the non-existent distance between them. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, heartbeat picking up speed again as he watches her cocooned into a bundle of nerves.
Before his mind goes on another deliberating frenzy, he moves in and kisses the corner of her lips, whispering smilingly: “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
Poe is known for throwing that nonchalant term of endearment to too many people across the D’Qar base. In fact, Admiral Ushos Statura had confronted him about it a few times, but the carefree fighter pilot had brushed him off, even calling him “honey” just for kicks as he sauntered away.
While he’s reeled in on the affection since with the other Resistance members, he can’t for the life of him remember if he’s ever called her - sweetheart, even if it’s just a casual, off-handed address like it’s with the others.
Right there and then, it could very well have been the first time he’s calling her that - but it’s definitely the first time he’s meant it.
He feels rather than hears her let out a shaky breath, and wonders if she likes it when he calls her - sweetheart, and means it; can she even tell that he means it this time, does she know he wants her so badly to be his sweetheart?
They stay like that, breaths tickling each other’s faces, the citrusy Wulfruit tree distillate mixing with the heavier orange-hued tonic.
When her eyes with the pupils blown lock onto Poe’s through her whiskered lashes, his insides disintegrate until there is nothing left but sheer, unadulterated courage pushing him forward to cup her face in the palm of his hands, so he can plant the softest, the most tender kiss upon her delicate lips.
Her hands slide up his body, and her fingers close around the leather lapels of his jacket, pulling him in - drowning him.
He responds in kind; breaks a little to swipe the tip of his tongue across her lower lip, taking in the heady taste of Dantooine Tonic, like sucking in a purposeful breath before submerging underwater - deepening the kiss.
No veteran fighter pilot or meteorologist could have predicted the density of the solar winds, or the intensity of the solar flares due to the coronal mass ejections at near solar maxima level that results in the solar excitations exploding in Poe’s mind, body and soul then.
His brain glitches again, and all he can think about before his senses blacked out is: Oh - shit…