Fast was always flying. [ He looks up, at the luminous planet overhead. It's a little bleary. The stars around it a little blurred. He feels an ache so fierce it's almost physical. ] Started when I was three. Parents got back from the war, mom....
[ He closes his eyes, swallows, feels another hot twist of self-loathing. This is not the legacy of Shara Bey. Not him getting drunk, not him losing that fleet. This is not the son he should be for her.
He lowers his head and almost, almost throws up. Starts to push John away just in case, but then he's got it under control, for the most part, except where he's tilting sideways, one leg giving out underneath him. ]
Born flying, huh? [John would say Poe was lucky, if he didn't know better.
For all his problems with his family, and his struggle to meet his father's expectations, John knows his childhood was charmed. He wanted for nothing, except for his father's acceptance and love. The latter of which John probably always had, to some degree. Even if he was a disappointment.
The boy who had everything, and threw it all away. Story of John's life.
Poe starts to go down, and John catches him mid-slide by locking both arms around his waist. He hauls him back up with a grunt, maybe a little too roughly, so they both go stumbling backwards.]
You're okay! You're okay. If you've gotta be sick, we can find a little privacy-
[He pat-rubs Poe's back reassuringly while looking over his shoulder for the nearest dark side street, just in case.
[ The second suppressed heave is answer enough to John's question. He hangs on to John's jacket, wordless in his focus on not vomiting all over his rescuer.
I'm sorry, he thinks, hating the words.
Poe presses his forehead against John's shoulder and shudders. ]
I gotcha, don't worry. Don't you worry about a thing.
[John will be doing enough worrying for the both of them.
He's hauling ass, his and Poe's, as quickly as he can to the mouth of the nearest alley. It's dark, and narrow, and if John stands with his back facing the road no one can see them.
John gently peels Poe away from himself, propping him against the brick wall, and supporting his upper back and stomach between his hands.]
Alright, here we go. Just let it all out. You'll feel better after. Promise.
[ For a second Poe thinks maybe he won’t throw up after all. Then his stomach muscles wrench and he’s bent half over, puking a cascade of liquid that’s more alcohol than bile. He hasn’t eaten in hours, not since before he settled in to baptize himself in shame. Another gag, another heave, another rush of lightheadedness and vomit. For a second Poe teeters on the edge of passing out, the world a seesawing haze, but then it steadies and Poe feels John standing there, hanging on to him, and he could cry from gratitude.
His bodies tries for round three, but there’s not much left to wring out. Poe breathes, slowly, deeply, and tells himself he’s not allowed to lay down on the alley floor and go to sleep. For one thing, John won’t let him. Breathlessly: ] Thank... thank you. Thank you.
[John's stomach clenches in sympathy with every heave, it hurts just to watch. There's not a whole lot he can do other than hold Poe up, mutter words of encouragement, and rub between his shoulders until he's done.]
Don't mention it. Here, you've got a little-
[John dabs at the corner of Poe's mouth with a bandana produced from his back pocket. A little might have been underselling it.]
[ Poe would be embarrassed if he weren't so far past the territory covered by the word. If John weren't there he really would just find the cleanest corner of the alley and sleep out the night.
Poe doesn't know how to say as much, doesn't know how far he can fall before he stops being worth catching. He just leans away from the wall and into Sheppard's arms, pressing his face against John's shoulder again, waiting to be guided out. ]
[Poe will always be worth catching, no matter how hard, or how far, he falls. John's known enough bad men to know a good man when he sees one. He's not about to let Poe slip through the cracks. Not even if Poe wants to.
John won't lose him like he's lost other good people. So he holds Poe tight, saying nothing, because there's nothing to say. All that matters is getting Poe back to where he needs to be, safe, and sound, minus one hell of a headache.
The walk is slow, but uneventful. It starts to rain as they reach the tower, and John has to fumble Poe's weight into the crook of one arm to key them into the building before it pours.
It's a quiet elevator ride to the thirteenth floor, with only a few vaguely curious looks thrown in their direction. John's jacket found its way onto Poe's shoulders at some point during their trek, because the last thing he needs on top of nausea is a chill.]
If you see a green chick, do me a favour and don't say anything rude. I don't want her to poison me.
[Steering Poe down the hallway into the small double unit he shares with Rodney, people might get the wrong idea. Or the right one.
John is navigating a drunk Poe Dameron into his bedroom.]
[ Poe fades in and out on the way to the tower. It's a boon, really. He's got just enough consciousness in him to keep upright and keep moving, though the rain brings him around a little. As does John slinging his jacket around Poe's shoulders.
He doesn't even have a comeback or a jibe to toss at John at the mention of a green chick, though his instincts tell him there's plenty there to work with.
As soon as the door closes behind them, Poe lets himself sag a little. ]
Yeah. Don't worry about it. Rodney's been working his ass off on something up in R&D, he'll probably pass out at the office and show up for breakfast.
[They're all coping in their own ways.
John's silently proud of how well Rodney's adapted to Riverview. He's tougher than anyone gives him credit for. John included.
He guides Poe to the edge of his bed, steadying him with both hands on his shoulders. It's a small room with two beds and two desks. Barracks style. Nothing fancy. John's side is neater than Rodney's, his few personal possessions precisely arranged. You can take the man out of the military, but you can't take the military out of the man.
Kneeling in front of Poe, John takes one booted foot into his lap and starts on pulling open the lacing. Like hell Poe is sleeping in his bed wearing boots.
[ The truth is he feels odd, being undressed. Even if it's just John taking off a boot, which Poe is pretty sure he couldn't manage on his own right now anyway. Not if he doesn't want to fall on his head. There's an intimacy in it that makes his stomach buzz, the first pleasant sensation he's had all evening.
[ He's pretty sure a good chunk of what he threw up was vodka. Not all of it. There was other stuff in there too, but y'know.
He has a nice smile. Stupidly, impulsively, Poe runs a hand through John's short hair, leaving his fingers there to trace along John's scalp. There are scars, even there. Poe imagines (with rather more creativity than the situation requires) that John probably has a lot of scars in a lot of places. ]
[John chuckles as he pulls off the second boot. He's about to make a comeback, something smart-assed to cut the tension of being alone in his room with anyone but Rodney.
Then Poe's fingers are combing through his hair, teasing through the unruly thick of it, which feels good under normal circumstances, but great when Poe does it- and it occurs to John that maybe it's not being alone with someone who isn't Rodney, but being alone with Poe, that's making the room feel smaller, and more intimate, than he's used to it feeling.
He's gotten comfortable with Rodney. As comfortable as he gets with anyone. They're friends, and family. He doesn't know Poe as well, yet, but something tells him they might get there one day. If they don't drink themselves to death first.
John's eyes flick from Poe's face to the floor as he stows Poe's boots neatly beside his bed, then back up again. Just to see if he's still looking. Or if John's imagining things. If he's really that lonely, that he's projecting his own selfish fantasies onto a vulnerable friend who needs him during a dark time.]
[ He's still looking, eyes lazy with consideration. He draws his hand back through John hair slowly, lets his fingertips slide down from the point of John's ear to his jawline, rotating his hand just enough that he's ghosting his knuckles along John's jaw and letting them rest under the point of John's chin, lifting his head just a fraction.
He's not thinking about the consequences. He's not thinking about much of anything, except how he would probably kiss John if his mouth didn't taste the way it does. It isn't fair to inflict that on anyone else.
[He's drunk. Don't even think about it. Don't even think about thinking about it.
Poe touches his ear. He's drunk. His jaw. He's drunk. Makes him look up at him like that. He's drunk. John shivers, in spite of himself. Goosebumps rising on the backs of his arms.
He's still drunk.
John's always had a weakness for brown eyes. The darker, the better. They speak to something in him. A desire to fall into someone other than himself. To be swallowed up, and disappeared.
Does Poe even know what he's doing to him? John doesn't think so. Isn't certain Poe knows what those eyes can do to a man, sober.
And right now, Poe's about as far away from sober as a man can be while still conscious.
Poe's hand falls away, and John reels himself back into some modicum of decency. He needs to take care of his friend, right now. His drunk friend, who trusts him, and needs him, and deserves better than whatever acts John's mind keeps turning to, compelled by a need so primal it borders on stupidity.]
I'll give you the grand tour. [If that came out sounding half as lame as John thinks it sounded, he'll be cringing in the morning. With any luck Poe won't remember.
[ With any luck, Poe will remember and be able to tease him about it.
As it is, Poe takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and ordering the world to stay steady in three different languages. Then he grabs on to John. His whole self is pretty well focused on the immediate next steps, that bit of contact, that long study of John's face already slipping into the gray behind him. The present is where his attention stays for as long as the tour lasts. Bathroom, sink, mouthwash.
Poe is starting to feel a little more human, even if the galaxy outside of the small sphere of him and John stays distant and blurred.
By the time they get back to John's room, Poe is conscious of the way his clothes smell. He's also drunk enough that he doesn't think twice about peeling off a shirt stained with booze and speckled with vomit before the door is even closed. It comes off; he drops it on the floor. The chain he always wears swings free, the little steel-brushed washer at the end dropping into view.
[As soon as the door closes, John's back is against it. Mostly because a very attractive, very shirtless man, with water still dripping down his face and neck, trickling in rivulets down from the thick of his mass of curly hair, is currently occupying the centre of his room.
Also because it feels safe. As far away as he can stand from Poe, whose body he really would like to touch, given the chance. From a too-short distance, John's eyes take in olive skin, the stretch of taut scar tissue over rippling muscle, the glint of Poe's necklace against the flat of his chest, just below the slope of his collarbone.
That, he can look at without feeling guilty. His gaze cuts up from the washer to Poe's face. Fresher, and more alert than just a few minutes ago.
[ Even his voice sounds a little better, less elastic with intoxication. He has to enunciate each syllable, still. He's nowhere near sober, still. He won't be until noon, probably.
As though that weren't obvious enough with the way he glances behind him, looking for the source of John's curiosity.
John, who is currently too far away for Poe to play with his hair. That's fixable. Poe closes the gap. He's not as tall as John, but he's broader. Thicker. He's also currently within about three inches of John's chest, leaning around him to lock the door. ]
[The slide-click of the locking mechanism resounds through the room with the finality of a gunshot.
Since Poe is standing close enough for John to smell the lingering scent of spearmint on his breath, which shouldn't be alluring, but is, under these very specific, and troubling, circumstances, it's easier to squeeze one hand between them and catch the washer on the tip of his index finger than it is to gesture.]
This.
[It's easy to forget how big Poe is. That he's a lot of man, which is something John respects, is envious of, and simultaneously aroused by, in varying degrees.
Right now, it's not enough respect, and way too much arousal. Especially given that Poe could put him through this door, as easily as lock it. John has technique, but at this proximity? The extra twenty-five pounds of muscle Poe has on him are what counts.
John's momentarily mesmerized by the heavy rise and fall of Poe's bare chest beyond the glimmer of chain. Whatever they feed the boys on Yavin, it does a body good.
Still drunk.
He forces his eyes back to Poe's eyes, which are only darker, and deeper, with proximity. Bad move.
John's never felt more solidly between a rock, and a hard place. Semi-hard place. At least until he can breathe again without their chests touching.]
[ Drawing Poe's attention to the ring is a brief but solid defense. He eases a step back, taking the little ring between his fingers and turning it gently. ]
My mom's engagement ring.
[ For a second he's a universe away, the night before leaving for the Hosnian Naval Academy. His dad is giving him a little box, presenting it wordlessly. Poe didn't need to be told what was inside it. He'd seen it on his mother's finger often enough as a child, seen it on his father's dresser in that same little box for years after. He'd just never expected to be given it to keep.
He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to miss his father and his mother both right now. It's too much. With Paige, with the fleet. He doesn't want to think about any of it.
(It doesn't occur to him that what he's doing is another way of escaping, just another bad coping method checked out from a library of them that he's never visited before.)
He lets go of the ring, steps forward again, and wraps one arm around John's waist, pulling them tight enough against each other that he can feel John's arousal. The corner of his lip twitches upward, his eyes hooded as he looks up the short inches into John's face. ]
[His pilot mother's engagement ring. A washer. That might just be one of the sweetest things he's ever heard, John thinks, before Poe grabs him and ruins the moment.
John is consumed by a hot flash of embarrassment, shame, and even worse, arousal, that burns all the way up from the base of his throat to the very tips of his ears.
Poe is looking at him with bedroom eyes, while they're in his bedroom, and John is caught between wanting to die, killing Poe, or kissing him. If he could somehow do all three at the same time, he'd give it his best shot.
John's hands splay flat against Poe's chest, naked beneath his fingertips, in some attempt to push him away. It doesn't go as planned. Now, John's just standing there with his hands on Poe, touching even more of him.
He's drunk. He's also strong, really strong. A shiver rattles down John's spine from neck to tail.
John closes his eyes, searching deep within himself for a reserve of self-control, one he hasn't already exhausted.]
Poe, listen... I know this seems really funny, but you're drunk, and you'll be kicking yourself for how bad that was in the morning.
[ Poe makes a noise in his throat, a rumbling dismissal of John's words. His lips are just close enough to John's neck to brush the skin as he speaks. ] Tell me to stop and I'll stop.
[ His free hand comes up, snakes around the back of John's neck, barely touching the skin until Poe digs in his nails. It's accompanied by a tug at John's waist, pinning the two of them tighter together. He exhales quietly against John's throat, runs the tip of his nose up the line of skin over his jugular. ]
[That's all he has to do. As if saying 'stop' isn't a Herculean task, when Poe's voice is smudged against his skin, his nails sunk into the back of John's neck like a bird of prey.
John feels like prey right now. Trapped, and overwhelmed. Paralyzed by the offer that's not quite an offer, but a promise, of what Poe could do to him with those big hands and thick hips if John shuts up and let's him.
He doesn't know how it would go down, exactly, but his brain is all too eager to imagine it. His backs of his knees hitting the edge of the bed. Clothes on the floor. Hands in each other's hair. Poe's hot breath and lips against his ear as he fucks John into the mattress, his necklace dangling over John's shoulder, the washer, his mother's wedding ring-
Through the haze, John remembers Poe's pain. His despair, and his struggle to cope with that despair. The desperate call that was as close to a cry for help as Poe Dameron, a man both strong and proud, was capable of.
John feels like prey, but he isn't. Poe is drunk. Poe is vulnerable. Poe is the victim of a lifetime of war, of loss, and of suffering, and John doesn't want to contribute. Not while calling himself a friend.
He slides both hands up to brace against the back of Poe's neck, knitting into his thick, curly hair, and gently pulls his head back so he can look at him.
It's hard. Poe is so many things John wants. Needs. He's lonely, too. Wants to disappear into someone's body just as desperately, and drown his pain in pleasure.
And those damn eyes.
But John sees the hurt in them now, and won't let himself ignore it. No matter how badly he wants this, wants him.
He speaks softly, but firmly. With no small amount of affection, even though this is rejection.]
You have to stop. You're drunk, and it's not right. It would feel good, and I want to, don't get me wrong, but I don't want you to wake up wondering what the hell happened.
If you want this, really want it, there's tomorrow, and the day after. Any day you want. You've got my number. But you need to make that call sober. I need to know you really want this, want me, because I don't want to be something you regret.
I don't want to ruin our friendship because I couldn't say no when you needed me to.
He's looking Poe right in the face, kindness in his own, and telling him to stop.
Poe's eyes fill. He closes them, which doesn't so much hide the tears as force them to fall. He pulls away from John's grip, rests his forehead on John's shoulder, and tries not to let solitary tears become weeping. He already cried on Leia's shoulder. He already broke the one time.
He wants to say please. He wants to say please, let me have this.
He doesn't want to do that to a friend.
Even drunk, even this drunk, Poe doesn't want to do that to John. He said that's all you have to do. He doesn't make promises he can't keep.
This is not the man his mother would want him to be. ]
I'm sorry.
[ To her, to John, to Paige, to every gunner and pilot and bombardier whose lives he lost. He hates himself for apologizing, he hates himself for having to. It's like every weeping soldier his father held on their living room couch with its little woven blanket tossed over the back. The scars of war laid bare, ugly and twisted and all at odds with the domesticity of Kes Dameron's home.
There it is: a promise he didn't keep. He told himself he'd never be one of those men.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 01:09 am (UTC)[ He closes his eyes, swallows, feels another hot twist of self-loathing. This is not the legacy of Shara Bey. Not him getting drunk, not him losing that fleet. This is not the son he should be for her.
He lowers his head and almost, almost throws up. Starts to push John away just in case, but then he's got it under control, for the most part, except where he's tilting sideways, one leg giving out underneath him. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 01:26 am (UTC)For all his problems with his family, and his struggle to meet his father's expectations, John knows his childhood was charmed. He wanted for nothing, except for his father's acceptance and love. The latter of which John probably always had, to some degree. Even if he was a disappointment.
The boy who had everything, and threw it all away. Story of John's life.
Poe starts to go down, and John catches him mid-slide by locking both arms around his waist. He hauls him back up with a grunt, maybe a little too roughly, so they both go stumbling backwards.]
You're okay! You're okay. If you've gotta be sick, we can find a little privacy-
[He pat-rubs Poe's back reassuringly while looking over his shoulder for the nearest dark side street, just in case.
A man has his pride, and Poe has more than most.]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 01:34 am (UTC)I'm sorry, he thinks, hating the words.
Poe presses his forehead against John's shoulder and shudders. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 01:41 am (UTC)[John will be doing enough worrying for the both of them.
He's hauling ass, his and Poe's, as quickly as he can to the mouth of the nearest alley. It's dark, and narrow, and if John stands with his back facing the road no one can see them.
John gently peels Poe away from himself, propping him against the brick wall, and supporting his upper back and stomach between his hands.]
Alright, here we go. Just let it all out. You'll feel better after. Promise.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 01:52 am (UTC)His bodies tries for round three, but there’s not much left to wring out. Poe breathes, slowly, deeply, and tells himself he’s not allowed to lay down on the alley floor and go to sleep. For one thing, John won’t let him. Breathlessly: ] Thank... thank you. Thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 02:25 am (UTC)Don't mention it. Here, you've got a little-
[John dabs at the corner of Poe's mouth with a bandana produced from his back pocket. A little might have been underselling it.]
There we go. Good as new.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 03:29 am (UTC)Poe doesn't know how to say as much, doesn't know how far he can fall before he stops being worth catching. He just leans away from the wall and into Sheppard's arms, pressing his face against John's shoulder again, waiting to be guided out. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 04:10 am (UTC)John won't lose him like he's lost other good people. So he holds Poe tight, saying nothing, because there's nothing to say. All that matters is getting Poe back to where he needs to be, safe, and sound, minus one hell of a headache.
The walk is slow, but uneventful. It starts to rain as they reach the tower, and John has to fumble Poe's weight into the crook of one arm to key them into the building before it pours.
It's a quiet elevator ride to the thirteenth floor, with only a few vaguely curious looks thrown in their direction. John's jacket found its way onto Poe's shoulders at some point during their trek, because the last thing he needs on top of nausea is a chill.]
If you see a green chick, do me a favour and don't say anything rude. I don't want her to poison me.
[Steering Poe down the hallway into the small double unit he shares with Rodney, people might get the wrong idea. Or the right one.
John is navigating a drunk Poe Dameron into his bedroom.]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 04:24 am (UTC)He doesn't even have a comeback or a jibe to toss at John at the mention of a green chick, though his instincts tell him there's plenty there to work with.
As soon as the door closes behind them, Poe lets himself sag a little. ]
You really think Rodney won't be back tonight?
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 04:50 am (UTC)[They're all coping in their own ways.
John's silently proud of how well Rodney's adapted to Riverview. He's tougher than anyone gives him credit for. John included.
He guides Poe to the edge of his bed, steadying him with both hands on his shoulders. It's a small room with two beds and two desks. Barracks style. Nothing fancy. John's side is neater than Rodney's, his few personal possessions precisely arranged. You can take the man out of the military, but you can't take the military out of the man.
Kneeling in front of Poe, John takes one booted foot into his lap and starts on pulling open the lacing. Like hell Poe is sleeping in his bed wearing boots.
John was raised on a ranch, not in a barn.]
What's up? You've got a funny look on your face.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 05:00 am (UTC)What he says is: ] Mouthwash?
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 05:17 am (UTC)John looks up at Poe with a crooked smirk that shows as much in the crinkles at the corner of his eyes as it does the quirk of his lips.]
We can take a trip to the little boy's room.
Or there's some vodka under the bed, if you don't want to wait.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 05:24 am (UTC)[ He's pretty sure a good chunk of what he threw up was vodka. Not all of it. There was other stuff in there too, but y'know.
He has a nice smile. Stupidly, impulsively, Poe runs a hand through John's short hair, leaving his fingers there to trace along John's scalp. There are scars, even there. Poe imagines (with rather more creativity than the situation requires) that John probably has a lot of scars in a lot of places. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 05:42 am (UTC)Then Poe's fingers are combing through his hair, teasing through the unruly thick of it, which feels good under normal circumstances, but great when Poe does it- and it occurs to John that maybe it's not being alone with someone who isn't Rodney, but being alone with Poe, that's making the room feel smaller, and more intimate, than he's used to it feeling.
He's gotten comfortable with Rodney. As comfortable as he gets with anyone. They're friends, and family. He doesn't know Poe as well, yet, but something tells him they might get there one day. If they don't drink themselves to death first.
John's eyes flick from Poe's face to the floor as he stows Poe's boots neatly beside his bed, then back up again. Just to see if he's still looking. Or if John's imagining things. If he's really that lonely, that he's projecting his own selfish fantasies onto a vulnerable friend who needs him during a dark time.]
You... good to go?
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 06:00 am (UTC)He's not thinking about the consequences. He's not thinking about much of anything, except how he would probably kiss John if his mouth didn't taste the way it does. It isn't fair to inflict that on anyone else.
Poe lets his hand drop. ]
Mmhm.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 06:25 am (UTC)Poe touches his ear. He's drunk. His jaw. He's drunk. Makes him look up at him like that. He's drunk. John shivers, in spite of himself. Goosebumps rising on the backs of his arms.
He's still drunk.
John's always had a weakness for brown eyes. The darker, the better. They speak to something in him. A desire to fall into someone other than himself. To be swallowed up, and disappeared.
Does Poe even know what he's doing to him? John doesn't think so. Isn't certain Poe knows what those eyes can do to a man, sober.
And right now, Poe's about as far away from sober as a man can be while still conscious.
Poe's hand falls away, and John reels himself back into some modicum of decency. He needs to take care of his friend, right now. His drunk friend, who trusts him, and needs him, and deserves better than whatever acts John's mind keeps turning to, compelled by a need so primal it borders on stupidity.]
I'll give you the grand tour. [If that came out sounding half as lame as John thinks it sounded, he'll be cringing in the morning. With any luck Poe won't remember.
He stands, finally, offering Poe his arm.]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 06:40 am (UTC)As it is, Poe takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and ordering the world to stay steady in three different languages. Then he grabs on to John. His whole self is pretty well focused on the immediate next steps, that bit of contact, that long study of John's face already slipping into the gray behind him. The present is where his attention stays for as long as the tour lasts. Bathroom, sink, mouthwash.
Poe is starting to feel a little more human, even if the galaxy outside of the small sphere of him and John stays distant and blurred.
By the time they get back to John's room, Poe is conscious of the way his clothes smell. He's also drunk enough that he doesn't think twice about peeling off a shirt stained with booze and speckled with vomit before the door is even closed. It comes off; he drops it on the floor. The chain he always wears swings free, the little steel-brushed washer at the end dropping into view.
Along with, y'know, the rest of him. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 06:53 am (UTC)Also because it feels safe. As far away as he can stand from Poe, whose body he really would like to touch, given the chance. From a too-short distance, John's eyes take in olive skin, the stretch of taut scar tissue over rippling muscle, the glint of Poe's necklace against the flat of his chest, just below the slope of his collarbone.
That, he can look at without feeling guilty. His gaze cuts up from the washer to Poe's face. Fresher, and more alert than just a few minutes ago.
Still drunk.]
What's that?
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 07:07 am (UTC)[ Even his voice sounds a little better, less elastic with intoxication. He has to enunciate each syllable, still. He's nowhere near sober, still. He won't be until noon, probably.
As though that weren't obvious enough with the way he glances behind him, looking for the source of John's curiosity.
John, who is currently too far away for Poe to play with his hair. That's fixable. Poe closes the gap. He's not as tall as John, but he's broader. Thicker. He's also currently within about three inches of John's chest, leaning around him to lock the door. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 07:34 am (UTC)Since Poe is standing close enough for John to smell the lingering scent of spearmint on his breath, which shouldn't be alluring, but is, under these very specific, and troubling, circumstances, it's easier to squeeze one hand between them and catch the washer on the tip of his index finger than it is to gesture.]
This.
[It's easy to forget how big Poe is. That he's a lot of man, which is something John respects, is envious of, and simultaneously aroused by, in varying degrees.
Right now, it's not enough respect, and way too much arousal. Especially given that Poe could put him through this door, as easily as lock it. John has technique, but at this proximity? The extra twenty-five pounds of muscle Poe has on him are what counts.
John's momentarily mesmerized by the heavy rise and fall of Poe's bare chest beyond the glimmer of chain. Whatever they feed the boys on Yavin, it does a body good.
Still drunk.
He forces his eyes back to Poe's eyes, which are only darker, and deeper, with proximity. Bad move.
John's never felt more solidly between a rock, and a hard place. Semi-hard place. At least until he can breathe again without their chests touching.]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 07:47 am (UTC)My mom's engagement ring.
[ For a second he's a universe away, the night before leaving for the Hosnian Naval Academy. His dad is giving him a little box, presenting it wordlessly. Poe didn't need to be told what was inside it. He'd seen it on his mother's finger often enough as a child, seen it on his father's dresser in that same little box for years after. He'd just never expected to be given it to keep.
He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to miss his father and his mother both right now. It's too much. With Paige, with the fleet. He doesn't want to think about any of it.
(It doesn't occur to him that what he's doing is another way of escaping, just another bad coping method checked out from a library of them that he's never visited before.)
He lets go of the ring, steps forward again, and wraps one arm around John's waist, pulling them tight enough against each other that he can feel John's arousal. The corner of his lip twitches upward, his eyes hooded as he looks up the short inches into John's face. ]
You don't have to salute me, Lieutenant Colonel.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 08:12 am (UTC)John is consumed by a hot flash of embarrassment, shame, and even worse, arousal, that burns all the way up from the base of his throat to the very tips of his ears.
Poe is looking at him with bedroom eyes, while they're in his bedroom, and John is caught between wanting to die, killing Poe, or kissing him. If he could somehow do all three at the same time, he'd give it his best shot.
John's hands splay flat against Poe's chest, naked beneath his fingertips, in some attempt to push him away. It doesn't go as planned. Now, John's just standing there with his hands on Poe, touching even more of him.
He's drunk. He's also strong, really strong. A shiver rattles down John's spine from neck to tail.
John closes his eyes, searching deep within himself for a reserve of self-control, one he hasn't already exhausted.]
Poe, listen... I know this seems really funny, but you're drunk, and you'll be kicking yourself for how bad that was in the morning.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 08:22 am (UTC)[ His free hand comes up, snakes around the back of John's neck, barely touching the skin until Poe digs in his nails. It's accompanied by a tug at John's waist, pinning the two of them tighter together. He exhales quietly against John's throat, runs the tip of his nose up the line of skin over his jugular. ]
That's all you have to do.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 04:01 pm (UTC)John feels like prey right now. Trapped, and overwhelmed. Paralyzed by the offer that's not quite an offer, but a promise, of what Poe could do to him with those big hands and thick hips if John shuts up and let's him.
He doesn't know how it would go down, exactly, but his brain is all too eager to imagine it. His backs of his knees hitting the edge of the bed. Clothes on the floor. Hands in each other's hair. Poe's hot breath and lips against his ear as he fucks John into the mattress, his necklace dangling over John's shoulder, the washer, his mother's wedding ring-
Through the haze, John remembers Poe's pain. His despair, and his struggle to cope with that despair. The desperate call that was as close to a cry for help as Poe Dameron, a man both strong and proud, was capable of.
John feels like prey, but he isn't. Poe is drunk. Poe is vulnerable. Poe is the victim of a lifetime of war, of loss, and of suffering, and John doesn't want to contribute. Not while calling himself a friend.
He slides both hands up to brace against the back of Poe's neck, knitting into his thick, curly hair, and gently pulls his head back so he can look at him.
It's hard. Poe is so many things John wants. Needs. He's lonely, too. Wants to disappear into someone's body just as desperately, and drown his pain in pleasure.
And those damn eyes.
But John sees the hurt in them now, and won't let himself ignore it. No matter how badly he wants this, wants him.
He speaks softly, but firmly. With no small amount of affection, even though this is rejection.]
You have to stop. You're drunk, and it's not right. It would feel good, and I want to, don't get me wrong, but I don't want you to wake up wondering what the hell happened.
If you want this, really want it, there's tomorrow, and the day after. Any day you want. You've got my number. But you need to make that call sober. I need to know you really want this, want me, because I don't want to be something you regret.
I don't want to ruin our friendship because I couldn't say no when you needed me to.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 05:31 pm (UTC)He's looking Poe right in the face, kindness in his own, and telling him to stop.
Poe's eyes fill. He closes them, which doesn't so much hide the tears as force them to fall. He pulls away from John's grip, rests his forehead on John's shoulder, and tries not to let solitary tears become weeping. He already cried on Leia's shoulder. He already broke the one time.
He wants to say please. He wants to say please, let me have this.
He doesn't want to do that to a friend.
Even drunk, even this drunk, Poe doesn't want to do that to John. He said that's all you have to do. He doesn't make promises he can't keep.
This is not the man his mother would want him to be. ]
I'm sorry.
[ To her, to John, to Paige, to every gunner and pilot and bombardier whose lives he lost. He hates himself for apologizing, he hates himself for having to. It's like every weeping soldier his father held on their living room couch with its little woven blanket tossed over the back. The scars of war laid bare, ugly and twisted and all at odds with the domesticity of Kes Dameron's home.
There it is: a promise he didn't keep. He told himself he'd never be one of those men.
He lets John go. ]
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