SWEET ESCAPE || poe dameron x reader

chapter twelve: home

He was over-congratulatory, always. Whenever you hit the ground, he was always the first to sing your praises.

"Don't look at me—Ten hit that TIE first,"

"It's her fleet, I'm just the leader of it,"

"I would have been dust if she hadn't of stepped in,"

You rarely replied, too afraid that you'd end up getting snippy with him to avoid accepting the way he truly made you feel—appreciated, special, like a good fucking pilot.

By the time your missions reached double digits, you'd forgot how it felt to be anxious before them. It was an ingrained part of you now. The silent ritual of stretching in the morning with Poe, of caf from the mess hall, of the fist bump and smile and invisible prayers before you both slipped on your helmets and descended into your cockpits.

Flying with Black squadron soon became as normal as breathing air.

Sure, there were close calls. There always would be. Lynx's engine was hit, Heidi's blasters gave in, Poe's quick manoeuvres didn't land because of the state of his ship—

But it felt all the more real when you were in the firing line. It was a split-second decision to cut power to your ship, to float through dead space to avoid being spotted, but they'd still seen you—nothing could have stopped them blasting you to bits. When the first blast hit, you cursed to the Maker, scrambling with your controls to get your ship back online.

Your heart was in your throat, sweat soaking through your jumpsuit, when the X-wing burst back to life. Another few hits, and your cockpit would have been obliterated. Poe was screaming at you down the comms, but you couldn't hear what he was saying over the blood pumping through your trembling body.

You made it back by the skin of your teeth, taking down two TIE's before you had to call it quits and jump into hyperspace. Your ship was busted; you weren't the mechs' favourite upon landing; but Poe didn't scold you.

He held you—he touched you and fussed over you and dragged you to the med bay personally. You had to beg him to sleep in his own bed.

Despite your handle on the stress, your inner self wasn't fucking happy. Your Force bubbled within you incessantly, just threatening to do something when you least expected it. You knew it was getting bad when you couldn't sleep at night, too overcrowded from just how much you could feel Poe—

His thoughts, his feelings, his dreams.

You'd been spending an awful lot of time with the pilot, that was a given. You woke up to him, went to sleep to the sound of his snores. Attached at the hip were you and Dameron, constantly joking or bickering or harbouring another grudge about something idiotic until one of you caved and apologised.

You thought that this was the best time of your life, maybe—even if you and everyone you cared for almost died on a daily basis.

But that didn't stop the quiet frustration of your Force from making you put your foot down. You sat up in bed the evening after your near-death experience, just over a month since your outburst in the bathroom, and raised a hand to your forehead, letting the pressure of your palm calm you.

If you couldn't sleep, you might as well meditate. But in this room—with the trickle of Dameron's snores and the colossal wave of his emotions baring down on you—no fucking way.

You slipped your boots on quietly, not bothering to lace them up, before you made your way to the door. It wooshed up, and you cringed colossally, glancing over to Poe's bunk. He was still sound asleep, muttering lightly while his nose mimicked a lawn mower like always. Maker, you were glad he was a deep sleeper.