[ 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.
[but John doesn’t let go of Poe. He doesn’t let Poe pull away. Won’t let Poe run somewhere, anywhere, to cry by himself, and be alone in his pain, even though he knows it’s exactly what Poe wants to do. Because it’s what John does. What he’s always done, and what he regrets doing.
Because it’s too late for John now. He’s run away so many times he can’t find his way home, and no one is looking for him. Not anymore. Because he’d convinced them, and himself, that he isn’t lost, so much as he doesn’t want to be found. So they stopped searching. Stopped holding him when he didn’t want to be held, but needed to be.
And now John’s alone, and it breaks something in him that’s already long past broken to see Poe in the same damned place, because he doesn’t deserve it. He’s a good man, and he shouldn’t be where John is, at the bottom of a dark well, where the water is murky, and the sunlight is so far away, without the strength to claw his way out.
John holds Poe to himself with the strength he can find in his heart for other people, but not for himself. Speaks softly to Poe, the way he would want to be spoken softly to.
Poe is drunk, and John will take care of him.]
You just need to get some rest. How about it? You’ll feel better in the morning. That’s always the way it goes.
I’ll sleep beside you, if it helps. Or I can sleep in Rodney’s bed. Whatever you want. But you’re staying here, with me. Because I don’t think you should be alone right now.
[ Deep breath. Exhale. Poe puts his arms back around John, this time in an embrace. ] Okay.
[ He doesn't know how to express what it means, that he tried to back away and John held on. He doesn't know how to say thank you for love he feels like he doesn't deserve, right now. Kindness he hasn't earned.
Poe turns his head so he's resting his temple against John's shoulder. Loosens his hug until he can back up a step and look over at John's bed.
Does he want someone at close quarters?
Yes. Yes, he does. He doesn't want the dreams that might come from sleeping alone. ]
Together. [ God, he's tired. He's more tired than he was in that alley, when all he wanted was to lay down beside his own vomit and drop into the black.
That wasn't the man his mother would want him to be.
One who asks for help, one who accepts it--that's the man his father would want him to be. Tears or no tears, liquor or none. Someone who gives love and receives it with equal grace.
Poe touches his mother's ring lightly. Then he leans forward and kisses John on the cheek. ]
[Poe kisses John’s cheek, and for a moment, John sees the light. Feels the warmth of it on his face, through the gentle contact of Poe’s lips. Intimacy. John almost doesn’t recognize it, at first. Every once in a while his friends remind him what it feels like. And it feels good. Better than sex. Better than speed. Better than the wall John’s built around himself, so no one can hurt him, or be hurt by him.
Maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to try knocking it down. Brave like Poe is, for trusting him. For allowing himself to be helped. For accepting John’s love, when John is too afraid to accept Poe’s love, or anyone else’s.
He directs Poe to the bed with one hand on the space between his shoulders, gently pushing him to sit, and sitting down beside him. Only a few minutes ago, keeping Poe out of his bed had been one of the greatest personal challenge’s John’s ever faced, but that moment has passed, and John’s blood has cooled. All he can feel now is his heart, and how slow it’s beating, calm, and steady, as he guides Poe to lie down and lays behind him.
John kicks off his own shoes onto the floor and reaches down to yank up the blanket. After sleeping in full gear on sand and cement floor, wearing jeans and a t-shirt is nothing. He drapes one arm loosely over Poe’s waist, and settles his head on the pillow. Suddenly, John is very tired. The most tired he’s been since Rodney dragged his drunk ass home from the ball, and barely managed to wrangle him into bed. Talk about karma.
Usually, John struggles to fall asleep, but his eyelids are already feeling heavy. It’s been one hell of a night.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(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. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 05:57 pm (UTC)Because it’s too late for John now. He’s run away so many times he can’t find his way home, and no one is looking for him. Not anymore. Because he’d convinced them, and himself, that he isn’t lost, so much as he doesn’t want to be found. So they stopped searching. Stopped holding him when he didn’t want to be held, but needed to be.
And now John’s alone, and it breaks something in him that’s already long past broken to see Poe in the same damned place, because he doesn’t deserve it. He’s a good man, and he shouldn’t be where John is, at the bottom of a dark well, where the water is murky, and the sunlight is so far away, without the strength to claw his way out.
John holds Poe to himself with the strength he can find in his heart for other people, but not for himself. Speaks softly to Poe, the way he would want to be spoken softly to.
Poe is drunk, and John will take care of him.]
You just need to get some rest. How about it? You’ll feel better in the morning. That’s always the way it goes.
I’ll sleep beside you, if it helps. Or I can sleep in Rodney’s bed. Whatever you want. But you’re staying here, with me. Because I don’t think you should be alone right now.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 08:10 pm (UTC)[ He doesn't know how to express what it means, that he tried to back away and John held on. He doesn't know how to say thank you for love he feels like he doesn't deserve, right now. Kindness he hasn't earned.
Poe turns his head so he's resting his temple against John's shoulder. Loosens his hug until he can back up a step and look over at John's bed.
Does he want someone at close quarters?
Yes. Yes, he does. He doesn't want the dreams that might come from sleeping alone. ]
Together. [ God, he's tired. He's more tired than he was in that alley, when all he wanted was to lay down beside his own vomit and drop into the black.
That wasn't the man his mother would want him to be.
One who asks for help, one who accepts it--that's the man his father would want him to be. Tears or no tears, liquor or none. Someone who gives love and receives it with equal grace.
Poe touches his mother's ring lightly. Then he leans forward and kisses John on the cheek. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 08:59 pm (UTC)Maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to try knocking it down. Brave like Poe is, for trusting him. For allowing himself to be helped. For accepting John’s love, when John is too afraid to accept Poe’s love, or anyone else’s.
He directs Poe to the bed with one hand on the space between his shoulders, gently pushing him to sit, and sitting down beside him. Only a few minutes ago, keeping Poe out of his bed had been one of the greatest personal challenge’s John’s ever faced, but that moment has passed, and John’s blood has cooled. All he can feel now is his heart, and how slow it’s beating, calm, and steady, as he guides Poe to lie down and lays behind him.
John kicks off his own shoes onto the floor and reaches down to yank up the blanket. After sleeping in full gear on sand and cement floor, wearing jeans and a t-shirt is nothing. He drapes one arm loosely over Poe’s waist, and settles his head on the pillow. Suddenly, John is very tired. The most tired he’s been since Rodney dragged his drunk ass home from the ball, and barely managed to wrangle him into bed. Talk about karma.
Usually, John struggles to fall asleep, but his eyelids are already feeling heavy. It’s been one hell of a night.]
How’s that? You comfy?
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-17 09:02 pm (UTC)He makes a noise, an affirmative response, muscles going slack, eyes drifting shut.
All it takes this time is letting go.
The darkness this time isn't an enemy. ]