“How did you know who I am?”
Gabe looks at Steve with wide eyes. “...is this a trick question?”
Steve is still stunned. “But you- I’m-” He gestures weakly towards his face. “I’ve got a mask.”
Word Count: 615 WAIT DOES THIS TECHNICALLY QUALIFY AS A DRABBLE YOU GUYS I WROTE SOMETHING LESS THAT 1500 WORDS WHAT
Tags/Warnings:
None other than Steve Rogers being a precious clueless bby, blatant impatience over people who ignore scientific fact because an orange wannabe-dictator loser tells them to and if you're one of those people, 1- you're probably not going to enjoy this and 2- fuck you, and whatever mistakes self-editing leads to.
Author’s Note:
Also on AO3!
This happened because @starryemerald173 made me die laughing in public over this chapter of The Avengers Wrangler , and my brain is absurd and came up with this:
"Headcanon: Steve Rogers doesn’t understand how disguises work. He walks into Starbucks in a mask, a hat, and those ridiculous glasses, and the barista is like “Your usual, Cap?”. And he's like “How’d you know it was me?”. And the poor barista is like “…because there’s only two guys the size of a fridge who come in and you don’t have the metal arm?” and then after a moment adds “Do you think Sergeant Barnes and Captain Wilson also want their regulars?” and points to the Dipshit Twins, also masked and capped and in no way blending in, arguing over pastries."
Dividers by @firefly-graphics.
Steve is so over hearing people not taking the pandemic seriously. It’s been twenty-fucking-months now, and speaking as someone who went the first 25 years of his life in an almost perpetual state of ‘near-death’, Steve considers himself an expert in how not to die. How hard is it to wear a damn mask for the greater good and to protect your community? The way some people talk, you’d think the sacrifice of wearing a piece of fabric on their face is comparable to, oh, say, flying a plane full of nukes into the Arctic and spending the next almost 70 years as a popsicle in order to save humanity from certain destruction.
Steve thinks he should have reconsidered that particular sacrifice.
Beisides their health benefits, masks are like armor. Masks make Steve feel like the Lone Ranger. No one recognizes Steve when he wears a mask. Masks let Steve wander through New York with near total anonymity. When he adds sunglasses and a baseball cap- hell, he might as well be a ghost. No one gives him a second glance.
Steve fucking loves it.
As far as he’s concerned, masks are the single greatest invention since the venti quad-shot iced brown sugar oatmilk shaken espresso. Which, incidentally, is what he’s standing in line to order.
So today, in his mask, with his cap pulled low and Nat’s borrowed black spectacles in place, Steve is confident he looks no different than any of the other late-morning patrons of the coffee shop.
When it’s his turn, he steps up to the counter, ready to give his order to the kid manning the register, when-
“Morning, Cap! You want your usual today?”
He blinks. “Sorry?”
The kid- ‘Gabe’, according to his apron, taps the register. “Venti quad-shot iced brown sugar oatmilk shaken espresso, right?” He glances up. “Did you want the banana bread today, too?”
“How-” Steve is sure he’s gaping like a fish (not that Gabe can see it, since Steve is wearing his supposed-to-make-him-invisible mask). “How did you know who I am?”
Gabe looks at Steve with wide eyes. “...is this a trick question?”
Steve is still stunned. “But you- I’m-” He gestures weakly towards his face. “I’ve got a mask.”
“Uh…” Gabe still is watching Steve like he’s not entirely sure Steve isn’t some kind of shapeshifting alien- and given the things New York has experienced over the last several years, it’s not, like, actually out of the realm of possibilities. “...because there’s only two guys the size of a fridge who come in here, and you don’t have the metal arm?”
...oh.
Steve can see the logic there.
Well, fuck. There goes his invisibility cloak. He glumly pulls the stupid glasses off of his face, and then freezes.
Wait, does that mean every time he’s thought he was incognito- shit, everyone has always known it’s been him, haven’t they? When he and Bucky were at the farmer’s market, that one lady wasn’t staring because he’d dropped all those plums and Bucky had wept, was she?
“Speaking of, Captain Rogers-” Gabe, oblivious to Steve’s inner crisis of recognition, nods towards the end of the bakery display case. “-but d’you think Sergeant Barnes and Captain Wilson also want their regulars today?”
Steve turns to see Bucky and Sam standing in front of the pastries, arguing about God knows what at this point (Steve started tuning them out years ago). They’re both wearing masks, glasses, and hats, too, but Bucky’s size alone makes him stand out wherever he goes, and Sam isn’t that much smaller.
Plus, you know, metal arm.
Gabe clears his throat. “...Captain Rogers?”
Steve heaves a super soldier sized sigh. “...yeah, the banana bread too, please. Thanks.”
A/N: Steve’s hat is a NASA trucker hat, Bucky found out they’d made reproduction Brooklyn Dodger caps, and Sam thinks for a super soldier and the greatest assassin of all time, neither one of them understands what ‘blending in’ means, and wears a plain black cap.
He tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. “I love you, sweetheart.”
Your smile was watery and your voice soft. “I love you, Poe.”
He tried not to think about how you didn’t mean your words the same way he did his.
Word Count: 5055
Tags/Warnings:
Angst. Not as much as in Part 1, but a lot. But lots of fluff, too. And lots of bad language words. Probably a lot of typos, too. It's fucking hard to write past tense when you're used to present tense. If you notice any tense changes, could you pretty please message me because that's my pet peeve and I'm going to have nightmares I missed some.
Author’s Note:
It's here! Part 2!
I am absolutely bowled over by the response to Part 1; y'all are the fucking best. I have cackled with glee at every single reblog and comment and review, and I cannot possibly verbalize how much it means to me that so many of you are as invested in this crazy little AU as I am. I sincerely hope you enjoy where this is headed.
I had to make one small edit to part 1, because I for some reason thought Shara Bey died when Poe was a teenager (canonically he's 8), and I featured her at The Riverside Picnic when Poe and Reader are 12 so, whoops. Whatever at least I didn’t write “somehow, palpatine has returned" in a multi-billion dollar film franchise. My military knowledge is also based on proximity and not experience, and my ANC knowledge even less, so even though I’ve researched as thoroughly as possible, please forgive any glaring factual errors.
Thanks as always to my ride-or-die @paper-n-ashes for letting me ramble about plot arcs and for yelling at me when I get too stuck in my head. She's also the one who saved y'all from a brutal section of this chapter but really she didn't because she suggested posting it as a oneshot, and now it's even more brutal, so just remember it's all Sarah's fault.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics.
Series Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 3
Age 6
There was a moving truck in the driveway of the house next door when he got home from school.
He’d heard his mom mention to his dad that someone had finally bought Mr. Kenobi’s house, which made him sad and happy at the same time. Sad, because he missed Mr. Kenobi, who would come over when Poe needed a babysitter, and who would always play as much Legos as Poe wanted.
But Poe was also happy, because his mom said the new neighbors had kids. And on the day he saw the moving truck, he was even more excited, because he could see a bike sitting next to the garage, and bikes that size meant kids his age. Or at least, he really, really, really hoped so.
He waved to Snap and Miss Norra, who waved back before they continued towards their house down the street, and clambered up the front steps. When he pushed open the door, the aroma of his grandmother’s signature cookies hit him like a wave, evoking memories of weekends spent sitting on the stool in her kitchen and munching on all sorts of deliciousness, as she baked and told him stories of her homeland- and swore in colorful Spanish. He followed the scent down the hallway towards the kitchen, where he dumped his backpack next to the door and stood on his tiptoes to see over the edge of the counter. “Are those Nana Bey’s polvorosas?”
“Hey hey hey, paws off, bud.” Kes was transferring the still-hot cookies from the baking sheet to the cooling rack. “These are for the new neighbors.”
“Just one? Please?” Poe schooled his face into his best feed-me-I’m-starving face, but his dad shook his head.
“Sorry, little man.” He gently bopped his son on the head with one of the oven mitts as he reached to return them to their hook. “But we can make more this weekend, ‘kay?”
No, not okay, Poe thought to himself, and when his dad crossed to the sink to wash the baking sheet, Poe stealthily reached for the cookie nearest him.
Kes didn’t even turn around from the sink. “Don’t even think about it.”
Poe, a mere fingertip away from the powder sugar coated deliciousness, slumped dejectedly. “Why do the neighbors get all the cookies?” he whined. Those were his Nana’s cookies, after all, and he definitely shouldn’t have to share them.
“Because we welcome new neighbors to the neighborhood,” Kes replied, “and in the Dameron house, that means cookies.”
Pouting, Poe dragged his feet over to the kitchen table, flopping heavily into one of the chairs. He was not excited about having new neighbors now.
--
“Poe!” Shara waved from the front hedge.
Poe glanced up from where he was docking his favorite spaceship in the drainpipe next to the garage (the tube was the perfect size to substitute for an airlock), and saw his parents talking to two grownups on the other side of the low shrubs, one of whom was holding a brown box tied with twine.
The cookie thieves.
Shara was gesturing him over, a look-at-my-beautiful-child-who-is-gonna-lose-the-Xbox-for-the-weekend-if-they-don’t-get-their-butt-over-here-right-now smile firmly in place. With all the hostility a six-year-old can muster, Poe dropped his toys and sulked across the yard, definitely not digging his toes into Kes’s meticulously maintained lawn in protest.
All four grownups smiled at his performance.
Shara affectionately smoothed his curls as he reached his parents. “This is our son, Poe.” She introduced the new neighbors, and he dutifully shook their hands.
“How old are you, Poe?” one of the grownups asked with a kind smile.
He puffed out his chest. “I’m six and two thirds.” He’d double checked the big calendar last week to be sure.
The grownups made that face that meant they thought he was absolutely precious (grownups were so weird), and the one holding the stolen cookies gestured towards their new house. “How perfect is that? We know a six-year-old who I bet would love to be your friend!”
Poe perked up. Please let him like soccer, please let him like soccer...
The same grownup called your name, and Poe couldn’t help the way his nose wrinkled.
Ugh. A girl. Great.
Then you popped up from behind the railing of the porch.
Poe wasn’t sure what emotion suddenly engulfed him; his skin felt too tight, and his mouth had gone dry as chalk. His heart was having a parade inside his chest, beating so loudly that he was sure it was audible from outside his body.
You skipped down the steps, the braids in your hair swinging as you crossed the yard. You pressed yourself against your mom’s hip as she introduced you to the elder Damerons.
“And this is Poe.” Your mom announced him with that kind of voice that meant the grownups knew something the kids didn’t. Poe hated that voice. He didn’t like not knowing things.
But he liked your smile. It radiated joy, even presented as shyly as it was.
He wanted to do whatever would keep you smiling like that.
“Hi,” you chirped. “You wanna play space with me?”
And he realized you were holding the same spaceship he’d just been playing with.
He was nodding before his brain could recognize the movement.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, having a girl for a friend, if she liked spaceships, too.
...maybe she even liked soccer.
Age 11
“I don’t want to.” Poe’s chin was set in that way that meant stubborn defiance. You knew better than to try to change his mind when he got that look.
His dad, however, did not.
“You don’t have a choice,” Kes informed him, shrugging on his jacket and heading towards the garage. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. You both need to be ready then.”
“We’ll be ready.” Smoothly interjecting, you discreetly yanked Poe backwards before he could pop off and land himself in even hotter water. The look he sent your way was one of complete and utter betrayal, but the one you sent back said ‘shut up if you want to walk out of here without being grounded’.
Wisely, he bit his tongue until his dad had left the room. Then, he wheeled on you. “Why didn’t you back me up?!”
“Because it’s not up to me?” You rolled your eyes at his impertinent look. “It’s not, you idiot, and you know it. What am I gonna say? ‘Sorry, Mr. Dameron, Poe and I aren’t going to go visit Miss Shara’s grave with you today, even though it’s her birthday and-’”
“It’s not her birthday,” Poe snapped.
His vehemence made you blink. “Yes, it-”
“You have to be alive to have a birthday.” He pulled his beanie out of his pocket. It was the one you gave him last Christmas. It was orange and black, his favorite colors. It was his favorite hat, because it was from you. He yanked it on his head at the same time he shoved his feet into his boots. “She can’t have a birthday anymore, because she’s dead.”
You have no response to that. What could possibly be said?
Poe sniffed and shoved a fist across his cheek, ignoring the sharp prickling at his waterline. “I hate that he makes us go ‘visit’ her. We’re not visiting her. She’s not there. It’s just a rock on the ground, but he acts like she can hear us and see us. But she can’t, because she’s dead, and we all know she’s dead, and pretending she’s still there doesn’t- it can’t bring her back, and-” His breath started coming in gasps as he desperately tried to hang on to his anger. Anger hurt less. “She- she left me, and she can’t come back, and- and-”
You caught him as he went to his knees, and he curled into you, sobbing his anguish against your neck. He could feel your own tears on his cheek.
“It’s been three years.” His voice cracked. “Why does it still hurt so bad?”
You didn’t answer, because there wasn’t one to give.
Later, at the cemetery, Poe gripped your hand tightly the whole way back to the car. No one needed to know he’d hugged his mother’s gravestone and cried, the same way he would cry on her shoulder as she held him in her arms.
Just because she was gone didn’t mean he didn’t miss her every second of every day.
Age 18
“Oh my god, staaaawp.” You swatted Karé’s hands away from your hair. “It’s fine!”
Poe, sitting on the other side of the kitchen island, smothered his grin.
“You look like you were in a bar fight, please just let me fix that one piece,” Karé bargained, but you ducked away, and took refuge behind Poe.
He held up his hands as you gripped the back of his tux jacket like a shield. “Hey! Innocent bystander!”
Snap guffawed. “Innocent?” He tossed you the ice pack he’d pulled from the freezer. “Instigator, you mean.”
“I did not instigate,” Poe protested as you wrapped a towel around the ice and shoved it towards his face.
“You gave Tritt Opan a deviated septum and a black eye.” Ben’s dry observation was negated by the amusement in his eyes. “Pretty sure that’s considered ‘instigating’.”
“Looked to me like Tritt was- no, you noodle, it doesn’t do anything if you don’t keep it there-” You forced Poe to actually put the ice on his swollen lip before you looked back at Ben. “Looked like Tritt was drunk and accidentally ran into that door.” Your theatrical sigh made Poe smile behind the pack. “It was so sad to watch. Wasn’t it sad, Alex?”
“So sad.” Alexys fluttered her eyelashes up at Ben. “All kinds of sad.”
“And Artemisia of Caria over there?” He asked her, jerking his head towards you. “I suppose it’s a total coincidence that Tritt has a shoe print on his ass that exactly matches the tread of her heels?”
“Total coincidence,” Jessika, perched on the counter, replied with zero hesitation. “Also, kinky.”
“There’s no way it’s her shoe print.” Using your distraction with Poe to her advantage, Karé gave a cry of victory as she finally managed to pin back the last of your errant locks, before laughing as you flapped your hands to shoo her away. “You know, since she was obviously with us in the bathroom,” she continued, “and therefore couldn’t possibly have booted that prick into the vending machine.”
“Really, since we’re girls and therefore incapable of using the toilet alone-” Jessika snorted as she watched you shove the ice pack back against Poe’s face and ignored his muffled “ow?!’, “Our alibis are airtight, and clearly none of us could have been involved in showing that dipshit why he doesn’t mess with Black Squadron.”
“Amen to that.” Snap dropped into the chair next to Karé.
Alexys looked up at her boyfriend. “You know that anyone who doesn’t know it’s the name of the soccer team is going to think y’all are in a gang or something, right?”
“It’s intentional.” Ben tucked her closer against his side and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You don’t actually need to carry the biggest stick if everyone thinks you’re carrying the biggest stick.”
“Furthermore-” Karé brandished her Twizzler like said biggest stick. “-even if anyone in this room had, say, kicked that fucker’s ass-”
“Literally,” Snap added, and exchanged a long distance high five with you.
“-and then if anyone else had punched that fucker into next week-”
“Hypothetically?” Ben inquired drolly, and Poe raised his ice pack in salute.
Karé tipped her metaphorical hat to him. “Of course; even then, they wouldn’t be at fault, because-”
“-because that little shit has been cruisin for a bruisin since freshman year when he snapped Pammich’s bra strap so hard it broke,” you muttered under your breath, and Poe had to resist the urge to reach for your hand.
“Because,” Karé repeated at a slightly higher volume, “we all saw him swing at Poe first, and Poe can’t possibly be considered at fault for defending himself.”
After a moment to absorb Karé’s reasoning, Poe himself cheekily piped, “Wait, how’d you all see him come at me if you were in the bathroom?”
A collective groan went up as he laughed, and you lovingly smacked him upside the head on behalf of the group.
“Some prom, right?” Snap quipped at Ben.
As your friends relaxed into the friendly banter that was the hallmark of the close-knit group, you sat next to Poe and used examining his injuries as cover. “You’re not going to tell Ben what Tritt said, right?” you murmured so low there was no chance anyone but Poe could have heard you. “You know he’d do something stupid.”
“Of course I won’t.” Poe Dameron was many things, but fiercely protective of his friends was at the top of that list. He would defend any of them to the teeth, Ben especially. No one deserved to go through what Ben had gone through.
Ben never needed to hear the bile Tritt had spewed about Ben’s grandfather, Ben's uncle, and Ben’s mother. The smears against the Senator were stupid at best and easily-disproven at worst, and who cared about Pastor Skywalker, but the insinuation that Ben was anything like his grandfather, especially given the abuse Ben had suffered…
If you hadn’t sent Tritt flying with that kick, Poe might have gone a lot further than a broken nose and a black eye. Thank goodness the two of you had been the only ones to hear the insults, or the entire team would have ended up suspended.
No one got to hurt their Ben and get away with it.
Snap’s voice jerked Poe out of his ruminations. “Okay, I can't take it anymore. We’ve gone all night; is no one gonna ask the question?” He pointed at you. “C’mon Miss Hey-Poe-Let’s-Go-To-Prom-As-Friends. When are you and you-” he clapped Poe’s shoulder, “-gonna finally admit that this “we’re just best friends” crap is 100%, grade-A bullshit?”
Poe’s heart leapt in his chest, but you didn’t notice, and instead pelted Snap with pieces of popcorn. “Never, you dingus, because we are just best friends.”
The split in his lip throbbed as Poe forced himself to echo your grin. “Yep,” he said, “just best friends.”
Age 21
“Salmeterol is long acting, albuterol is short acting.” You tossed the beanbag back to Poe.
He deftly caught it and flipped to the next card. “Actions, use, serious side effects and specific nursing measures for administration of ondansetron.”
He lobbed the beanbag back to you.
“It’s.. fuck.” You dropped your head onto the counter. “I’m going to fail.”
“You’re not going to fail.” Poe snagged your last fry, then shielded himself when you threw a napkin at him in retaliation. “You jump, I jump, remember?”
You snorted in response. “I am never letting you watch that movie again.”
“I’ll never let go,” he crooned, before yelping as you threw the beanbag that time. “Escalating violence! It’s a pattern!”
“I have no idea why I tolerate you.” Your words might have been harsh, but the doting smile on your face clearly negated them.
He had no idea either, but fuck, he didn’t know what he’d do if you didn’t.
What he said was “Because of my roguish charm. And my cute butt.”
That won the laugh he was going for.
As she walked past with another order, Patty smoothly slid another basket of fries between the two of you, winking conspiratorially. “My contribution to the study efforts.”
“You’re the best, Miss Patty,” you praised her, while Poe shoved a handful into his mouth.
“Okay,” he announced around his mouthful of fries, tossing the beanbag back to you, “The actions, use, serious side effects and specific nursing measures for administration of ondansetron.”
Your anxious sigh had him looking back up, frowning as he watched you shift the beanbag unconsciously between your fists.
“Hey.” He swallowed the last of the fries, and stilled your motion by covering your hands with his. “It’s gonna be okay, alright? I’ve got you.”
Uncharacteristically, at least with him, your smile was shy. It took him back to that first time he’d seen you, half-hiding behind your mother’s leg. “Always?”
“Always.” It’s a vow he’d die before breaking.
Age 23
He hated seeing you like this. You were clearly trying not to cry, putting on a brave face that likely fooled everyone but him. Other than the several weeks he was at BLC, it was going to be the first significant stretch of time the two of you had ever spent apart.
He watched you over his dad’s shoulder as Kes hugged him tightly, giving his dad the signature Poe Dameron cocky grin as they separated. “Love you, Pop.”
“Love you, Poe.” Kes affectionately squeezed his son’s shoulders before he let go. “Be safe.”
Poe nodded. “Mom would kick my ass if I wasn’t.”
Kes chuckled. “She would.” He nodded to himself, before gently tapping the “Dameron” printed on the right side of Poe’s fatigues. “She’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
“I promise not to piss her off.”
“See that you don’t,” Kes agreed with a genuine laugh, trailing off as he looked somewhere beyond Poe’s shoulder. “She’s proud of you, wherever she is. Just like I am.”
Fuck. Poe felt the hot rise of tears as his dad clapped him on the shoulder, stepping back and murmuring something about getting the car.
As his dad headed towards the exit, Poe surreptitiously wiped at his eyes, feeling you slide your hand into his. “Sorry.”
“For what?” You smiled, even though it was clearly forced. “God forbid you have emotions the day you’re-” You tried again. “When-”
Your face crumpled before you stepped into the protective circle of Poe’s arms, fisting the front of his jacket as you wept silently against his shoulder. He dropped his head to yours, burying his face in the crook of your neck and breathing you in as deep as he could, so he could carry you with him to the desert in his lungs as well as his heart.
You both had red-rimmed eyes when you finally stepped away. He tried to ignore the racing of his heart when you didn't drop his hand.
"Ben's flying out tomorrow?" you asked.
Poe nodded, drinking you in. It wasn't like he didn't know every freckle, but if this was the last time he was going to see you, possibly- he shut his thoughts down. "Yeah, he'll-" He broke off and frowned. "I can't tell you anymore."
"I know," you reassured him. "It's okay."
Neither of you made any motion to go, even as the CO started calling the troops to attention.
“You stay safe, or I’m coming over there to kick your ass,” you told him, gripping his hand as if you held on hard enough you could keep him from getting on the plane.
God, he didn’t want to get on the plane. “I know you would,” he teased. “And I promise you won’t have to.” Standing in the middle of that airport, your cheeks wet with tears, he knew he had never and would never see anyone or anything as beautiful to him as you. He attempted and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. “I love you, sweetheart.”
Your smile was watery and your voice soft. “I love you, Poe.”
He tried not to think about how you didn’t mean your words the same way he did his.
Age 26
Fuck. He was so, so fucking glad to be home.
Stepping off the escalator, Poe looked around the mele. The terminal was filled with loved ones reuniting, and the joy in the air walked hand in hand with the relief of being afforded such a reunion instead of a visit from an officer and a chaplain.
Poe craned his neck to try to find his dad in the midst of the chaos, but before he could spot him, he heard his name cried by a voice he’d know no matter if he was gone three years or three decades.
“Poe!”
He had half a second to drop his bag before you leapt into his arms, a warm, crying missile of emotion that made him grunt with the force of your impact, and made his heart spring back to life in his chest. Just as you had when he’d left, you cried against his shoulder, but this time, the tears were of joy. And as you held on to him like he’d vanish if you let go, he couldn’t help squeezing you back with just as much ferocious love and relief and the purest fucking happiness he could remember feeling in a long, long time.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me today was when you were coming back?” you scolded with your face still buried against his neck. The disparity of your clinging to him like a koala with the hurt and anger in your voice would have been alarming in anyone else. But you hadn’t been apart long enough for Poe to have forgotten how well you could ‘multitask your feelings’, as you’d once described. “I had to hear it from your dad?!”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be on this flight,” he replied casually, reminding himself of the scent of your hair with as subtle of a breath as he could manage. Then he yanked himself back to reality and wrestled his feelings back under control with the same determination that he always had. But his contrition was sincere. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“S’okay.” You raised your head to give him a watery smile. “But don’t you do it again, Lieutenant Dameron.”
Fuck, your smile. He’d lost count of how many times he’d imagined that smile over there, when the days seemed endless and he couldn’t remember why the fuck he’d signed up to be flung half a world away from you.
“Never, ever again,” he promised. He went to set you back on your feet, and grinned when you refused to let go. Like he’d ever turn down physical contact with you. “Challenge accepted.”
Your shriek when he hefted you higher, and the ensuing epithets heaped on his head as he strode out of the terminal with his duffle over one shoulder and you over the older, would be something he’d treasure until the day he died, he was sure of it.
Age 28
“Did you see?” Rey dropped into the chair across to Poe, grabbing the muffin from the napkin in front of him and taking a huge, chomping bite.
Poe blinked at her over the edge of his book. “Good morning, Rey. Please, help yourself to my breakfast. Would you like some of my coffee to go with waitaminute nonono paws off!” He snatched the peppermint mocha away when she nodded and went to grab it. “Thou shalt not steal the blessed bean juice! And did I see what?”
“Who, ” Finn supplied, heading to the break room coffee maker for some blessed bean juice of his own. “There’s a new anesthesiologist in L&D. Alex sent Ben a picture.”
“He is fiiine,” Rey sang, in between polishing off the rest of Poe’s muffin.
Finn gave her A Look over the rim of his mug. “You are married.”
“So? I’m not dead.” She winked at Poe. “And Jannah thinks he’s hot, too. Spousal cosign.”
“When did Alex meet him?” Poe asked, unsure why there was a pit growing in his stomach.
Rey was tapping on her phone. “C-section yesterday. Here-” she slid the device across the table top towards Poe. “Holdo sure moved fast getting someone in here after Dr. Antilles retired.”
Finn and Rey continued to talk over his head about the new doctor (first in his class at Johns Hopkins, residency at Mass General, 12 years at Stanford, possible inventor of sliced bread, jury was still out), but Poe was trying not to bite through his cheek as he examined the picture. Alex had clearly snapped it covertly, so it was the slightest bit blurry, but it was clear enough to see the new doctor was as handsome as Rey claimed. Poe was secure enough in his sexuality to be able to admit it. But what had his stomach in knots was that in the picture, the doctor- Yeager, Rey supplied- was leaning against the counter of the L&D nursing station, talking to you.
And you were smiling up at him in a way that you’d only ever smiled at Poe.
Age 30
“Is it okay if we do the farmer’s market on Sunday instead of Saturday?” you asked, stealing the cherry from the top of Poe’s milkshake.
“Excuse you! I’m confiscating your pie for that,” Poe mockingly admonished, stabbing his fork into your dessert as you laughed and tried to shield the plate. “But yeah, that’s fine. Why?” he asked around a mouthful of apple and cinnamon. “Your mom coming down?”
You shook your head as you swallowed a bite. “No, Jarek asked me to go with him to the Chihuly exhibit at the Gardner.”
Poe nearly dented his fork with how hard he clenched his fist. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” You were reaching for your water, and thankfully missed his reaction. “He said he was supposed to go with a friend who had to cancel, and he’d heard I love Chihuly.”
Poe resolved to cheerfully murder whomever had been the one to impart that particular tidbit.
Oblivious to his irritation, you waved at Miss Patty as she came out of the kitchen before turning back to Poe. “Anyway, you know he lost his family years ago, right?”
Grinding his molars, Poe managed to nod. Everyone knew about the accident that had claimed the life of Dr Yeager’s family. Poe honestly felt for the guy; he couldn’t even make himself imagine what it would be like if he lost you. But the tragedy had somehow added to Yeager’s distinguished allure, and he’d become even more popular among the staff. And it didn’t help that the good doc was both skilled at his job and a really nice guy.
Fucker, Poe thought to himself.
Because Jarek Yeager genuinely was a good guy. He was exactly the kind of man Poe would have hoped you’d end up with: kind, smart, hardworking, clearly knew a good thing when he saw it, since he was into you. He was the kind of man who was deserving of your own kindness, who would appreciate your sense of humor, who would take care of you and love you the way you deserved.
Who didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, thinking he was back in the middle of a war, held captive by his own memories.
And even though the thought of it made him want to be sick, Poe loved you too much to deprive you of someone like that.
If he couldn’t be that person for you, he was glad it might be someone like Yeager.
“Risha was saying it’s almost the anniversary of the accident, and I guess he always tries to stay busy around that time, so I thought it would be nice to keep him company. I wouldn't want to be alone.” You shrugged. “Plus, free dinner after.”
Poe tried to distract himself from his building dread by draining half of his milkshake, thankful for the resulting brain freeze, which was frankly misnamed because it did nothing to freeze his thoughts. “...you like the guy?”
You seemed surprised by his question. “I mean, yeah? He’s really nice. I enjoy working with him.”
“Handsome, too,” Poe supplied.
“Are you-” You’re looking at him with something akin to mirth. “Poe Dameron, are you jealous?”
“What?!” Poe covered his panic with a sharp bark of laughter. “Jealous of who? Yeager? Not at all.” He winked at you with every bit of Dameron charm he could muster. “I’m just keeping an eye out. Gotta defend your honor and all that.”
“My honor?” You snorted. “I’m gonna smack you.”
“It’s in the official best friend handbook. Rule 30, subsection 5, footnote down at the bottom.” He raised his hands in surrender. “It’s out of my hands.”
He tried not to preen as you giggled. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Your idiot. What does that say about your judgement?” He smirked, but couldn’t maintain his joviality. “Seriously, though,” he admitted, uncharacteristically somber. “You’ve been my best friend my whole life. Of course I’m gonna be protective of you.”
“I know,” you smiled. “And I love you for it.”
But not the way Poe wished you did.
You both hesitated for a moment.
“Did you-”
“I had-”
Laughter bloomed as you both tried to speak at once.
You gestured to Poe. “Go ahead.”
He gestured right back. “No, ladies first.”
Your smile faded into something wistful. “Did I ever tell you my parents always thought you and I would end up together?”
“What?” His heart started racing in his chest and he tried to sound glib. “Why?”
“Cause it’s us. You’ve been my best friend my whole life,” you quoted his own words back to him. “You know me better than anyone else on the planet.”
He tried to keep his face schooled into something not resembling the hope he hardly dared to acknowledge. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”
“...have you ever thought about it?” Your voice was soft, and for the first time in almost two and a half decades of friendship, he couldn’t quite tell what you were thinking. It was unsettling.
“Thought about us?” His mouth was so dry it was a sand worm away from being a desert. When you nodded, he swallowed hard.
Only every single moment of every single day since I met you, he wanted to say.
Could he be that brave?
He opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment, there was a crash as a waitress dropped a tray with a table’s worth of orders on it, and he snapped his jaw shut as you turned to look.
He couldn't do it.
When the din had settled, you glanced back to him. “What were we talking about?”
Firmly ignoring his crumbling heart, Poe cleared his throat. “Yeah, Sunday’s good for the market. I’ll grab the coffee on my way.”
Series Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 3
A/N: I have not gotten beyond the first episode of Resistance, so my knowledge of Jarek Yeager is based on what I gathered from online research and what little analysis my husband would give me ("He's cool, what else do you need to know?"), so I'm sure my interpretation is going to be wildly OOC.
And if you caught the reference, Alexys and Risha appear courtesy of @paper-n-ashes from her epic space love triangle Sparks and Embers, and any similarity to any of her characters, living or living, is coincidentally on purpose.
“Do I really need to say it?” he finally asks.
“Yes.” You need to hear it. You need him to voice it, after two and a half decades of pretending your friendship is nothing more.
You need him to admit it, so you can find the nerve to admit it yourself.
Word Count: 4597
Tags/Warnings:
Angst. Like, so much angst. Absolutely all the angst. All aboard the angst train. Slight infidelity depending on how you look at it. Lots of bad language words. Did I mention angst? Unbeta'd and probably full of typos.
Author’s Note:
It’s been a hot minute since I wrote or at least finished a fic for our favorite hot space droid dad! Missed this flyboy.
I had already been working on this when I saw the 9/15 Writer’s Wednesday prompt, and it felt very apropo for the direction I was going. While this is technically part one of a multi-chapter fic (MY FIRST MULTI CHAPTER FIC THAT I’M ACTUALLY SHARING WITH ANYONE BESIDES MYSELF OMG LOOK AT ME GOOOO!), it can absolutely be read as a (super fucking angsty) standalone. If you want to be tagged in updates, let me know in the notes or send me an ask/dm!
Thanks to @autumnleaves1991-blog and @clydesducktape for hosting my favorite day of the week, and to @paper-n-ashes for, as always, rambling with me about character arcs and egging me on. This angst-fest is entirely her fault. I said what I said.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics.
Series Masterlist - Part 2
“...you do love him, right?”
You scoff, focusing on the steam rising from your tea instead of the man perched on the stool next to you. “Of course I love him. What the hell kind of question is that?”
“Just seems kinda sudden, that’s all.”
“We’ve been together for over a year.” The warmth from the mug against your palms doesn’t offer the same comfort it usually does. “It’s the next logical step.”
“‘The next logical step’?” He snorts. “Sounds super romantic.”
You dismissively wrinkle your nose. “Please, you wouldn’t know romance if it bit you in the ass.”
“Romance wasn’t the one who bit me in the ass, that was Olivia. Romance is the one who sucks my-”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, you pig.” But your words lack any serious castigation, and you can’t help smiling as you finally glance at him.
With his stool angled towards you, one foot propped carelessly on the foot rail, he’s the picture of casual confidence. He’s got that easy grin on his face, the one that draws people in without even trying. You know that smile so completely, you're sure you’d be able to feel it’s warmth, be able to feel his effortless, unconditional affection, from lightyears away. You’re probably the only person on Earth who can tell when it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and the smile becomes a façade.
Like it is now.
You both pretend you can’t tell.
“I’m just saying,” he says, tilting the neck of his beer at you for effect, “Weddings are about romance, the binding of two souls for all eternity! ‘The next logical step’ doesn’t sound like a blushing bride planning her wedding; it sounds like a stockbroker talking about next quarter’s investment opportunities.”
“I’m sorry, did you just call me a blushing bride?” It’s easy to hide your inner turmoil under the gentle ribbing that has always been one of the best parts of your relationship. “What am I, the virginal heroine of a romance novel?”
His snort is ill-timed, as it coincides with the sip he’s taking of his drink. You laugh as he sputters, and softly thump him on the back. “Easy there, Romeo.”
“Pardon me for thinking a wedding should be a celebration instead of a transaction,” he finally manages to cough out.
“Oh, so my marriage is a transaction now.”
His hands fly up in self defense. “Hold up, I didn’t say your marriage, I said-”
“It’s extraordinary, truly, how you manage to shove your entire foot in your mouth like that.”
“We really need to work on your listening comprehension, I said nothing about-”
Your server sets his plate in front of him. “Poe, honey, you ever heard of ‘stopping while you’re ahead’?”
“C’mon, Miss Patty, back me up here,” Poe entreats the older woman. “Marriage shouldn’t be all logical, right?”
“They call it a partnership for a reason, you noodle,” you can’t help but interject.
Patty’s smile to you is fond as she schools Poe. “See? This is why she’s the brains and the beauty between the two of you.” She reaches across the counter to squeeze your hand, admiring your ring with motherly affection. “I woulda been questioning his sanity if your man hadn’t put a ring on it as soon as he could. You’ve always been a catch, babygirl.
“And you-” The look she levels at Poe is so reminiscent of your 10th grade geometry teacher you have to smother your giggle. “-you stop raining on her parade, or I’m callin’ your daddy.”
“Watch me, kid.” Patty crosses her arms with the attitude of a woman who has raised four children and has zero time for your shit. “You either put up, or shut up.”
You immediately lower your gaze to your mug and take a furtive sip.
Poe opens his mouth to make some (most likely tasteless) quip, but is saved from the wrath of Patty by the bell dinging in the window.
She makes the universal ‘I’ll be watching you’ sign at Poe. “Kes is on my speed dial. Don’t test me.”
“Yes, Miss Patty,” Poe replies by rote, waiting until she walks away to murmmer, "Do you think Mrs. Rudesky trained her in that glare?"
You can’t help your snicker. “Somebody’s in trooouble.”
“Naw.” He dismissively waves his hand, handing you the ketchup with the other. “Miss Patty loves me. She does, don’t you look at me in that tone of voice; you know it’s true.”
You chuck a sugar packet at his head as he laughs and turns to his plate.
While he demolishes half of his burger and you pick at your fries, you can’t help but fixate on Patty’s comment to Poe. Of course you know exactly what she meant. To address it with Poe would mean crossing a line you could never uncross. You haven’t been brave enough to take that risk before; are you brave enough now?
Your ring feels like a ticking clock, and you idly twist it with your thumb as you lose yourself to a tempest of overthinking.
“Anyway,” Poe says around a mouthful of food, saving you from your thoughts, “All I'm saying is you might as well just go to the courthouse if you don’t want to give it the gravitas it deserves.”
It takes you a moment to remember he’s talking about your wedding. “Maybe that's exactly what we'll do.”
His exaggerated horror makes you laugh. “I forbid it," he scolds, waving a fry for emphasis. "You don’t get to deprive me of my Best Guy duties.”
“Presumptuous of you to assume you’re going to be my Best Guy,” you sass, taking another sip of your tea.
“Presumptuous of you to assume I’d let anyone usurp me.” He toasts you with the remnants of his burger. “Someone’s gotta bring the romance to this shindig, honey.”
Your eyebrow cocks almost involuntarily. “We’ve been over this, you are absolutely not the go-to expert on romance.”
He tries and fails to look offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a VERY romantic guy.”
“Poe. The love of your life is a 34 pound corgi.”
He flippantly tosses a curl off his forehead. “Please, BeeBee knows she’s gotta share my heart with-” His sentence abruptly cuts off.
Even though his words are glib, they immediately extinguish the levity of your banter. You both know how his sentence ends.
“Sorry.” Poe finally breaks the uncomfortable silence. “I- sorry.”
Swallowing your heartache, you shrug, feigning nonchalance. “It’s fine.”
It’s not, but that subject is mutually understood to be taboo.
It’s the Unspoken Truth that is never discussed. The two of you have been considered a packaged deal by everyone since, well, forever. Defining the semantics of your relationship has always felt trivial, when the depth of your connection is immeasurable.
Now, though, with your wedding looming, the need for honesty carries an exigence it never has before.
You twist your ring once more.
“...tell me why Patty told you to ‘put up or shut up’.” It’s a demand, not a question, blurted out before your brain catches up with your mouth. You stare resolutely at the chipping tile surrounding the order window, unable to look at him.
His meal halfway to his mouth, you can feel the startled weight of his gaze. The apprehension of finally putting words to the underlying bond that has always existed between you nearly suffocates you both.
He slowly lowers his food back down to his plate, wiping his mouth and hands with a napkin as one last futile delay of the inevitable. “Do I really need to say it?” he finally asks.
“Yes.” You need to hear it. You need him to voice it, after two and a half decades of pretending your friendship is nothing more.
You need him to admit it, so you can find the nerve to admit it yourself.
“I-” His normally suave confidence is nowhere to be found, and it’s with desperation he croaks out, “Why?”
“Because…” You trail off, trying to find the right words when none exist. The ring makes another revolution. “Because isn’t it time for us to be honest with each other?”
Your heart is racing, and you’re sure it’s audible from across the diner. You’d wager Poe’s is as well, given the ashen color of his skin.
He clears his throat. “Can’t we keep pretending?”
His voice takes you back to when you were children, when he knelt in the grass next to the freshly installed headstone bearing his mother’s name, asking plaintively why his mother had to die. You didn’t have an answer for him then, and you don’t have one that isn’t selfish for him now.
You try to keep your voice from trembling as you give that selfish reason. “Because I’m getting married, Poe. I need you to say it before everything changes.”
I need you to say it before it’s too late.
He’s silent for several long moments, and you can feel disappointed tears welling until he finally speaks.
“I first saw you on the day your family moved in,” he says quietly. “You came over when your parents were meeting my parents across the hedge. Remember how ecstatic they were that there was another kid the same age next door? When you introduced yourself to me, your smile-” He can’t help one of his own as he relives the memory. “Your smile was pure sunshine. And it changed my whole world.”
Yours had changed too, the first time he’d given you that sweet half-grin, so different from the self-assured smirk he shows everyone else.
The entire diner seems to hold its breath as he softly, but sincerely, finally admits to The Unspoken Truth:
“That was when I started to fall for you.” He finally meets your eyes. “And I’ve never stopped.”
You hoped the admission of the secret would remove the elephant from where it's sat on your chest for years, freeing you to fill your lungs deeper than you've ever been able to before. But it doesn't. It merely shifts the weight to your stomach, queasy with anxiety. You wonder in that moment if you’ve made a terrible mistake, finally exposing the truth between the pair of you. Because now, you have to face the reckoning of your own choices.
You twist the ring again.
Poe is blissfully unaware of your inner anguish. His eyes haven’t left your face, and you’re sure he doesn’t even realize his body is leaning towards yours, drawn by an indefinable magnetism. “But you’ve known, right?” His voice is barely loud enough to hear over the cacophony of the dinner rush. “You have to have known.”
For half a heartbeat, you consider denying it. But you’ve never been able to lie to him.
You nod, infinitesimally.
He looks like he can’t decide if he’s relieved or horrified. “How long?”
You lick your lips. “Since that day at the creek.”
“Since-” He sits back heavily on his stool. “Fuck.”
The memory hangs between you, simultaneously sentimental and sober.
“I can’t drive past the park without thinking about it,” you quietly admit.
“I couldn’t forget that day if I tried.” His chuckle lacks both sincerity and strength. “That was when you always had those braids-”
“Oh god, not the braids.” You cover your cheeks with your hands. “I was hoping you’d forgotten those.”
“Never. They were adorable.” His smile is fond. But the levity slowly fades from his expression, and he clears his throat. “When I heard you scream, I- I don’t even remember running. I was on the baseball diamond one second and then I was there.”
You remember. A picnic with your parents at the riverside park, where you'd used Poe’s recruitment by schoolmates for a game of catch as an excuse to escape to the peace of the water.
Like Poe, the rest is burned into your memory; the pyrographed terror as you slipped on the slick rocks and tumbled down the bank, your rapidly-failing grip on the crag all that kept you from the rushing current below; that fear reborn as relief when you felt his hands seize yours and haul you back to safety. He’d wrapped you in his arms as your body shook in silent shock, refusing to let go until Kes pried his arms away so your mother could squeeze you. She’d sobbed her gratitude to Poe while Kes hugged him tightly with relief.
But you didn’t feel truly safe until that night, when Poe met you in the treehouse, and held you while your tears finally fell.
Poe, the boy with curly hair and the cocksure smile; the other half of your soul.
After that day, the change between you was slight, and if you weren’t so attuned to everything that was him, you might not have noticed. But even at that young age, you knew Poe as well as you knew yourself. And that meant the subtle shifting of balance between your twin orbits was as irrefutable as the pull of the moon on the seas.
He studies his hands; those calloused, strong hands that have held your own countless times over the course of your lives. “I didn’t- I mean, what twelve-year-old has any concept of what love is, really? You love your dog, you love your grandma’s snickerdoodles, you love dinosaurs, whatever; but how can you understand what it means to love another person? To truly, deeply love someone, the way your parents love each other? A kid can’t process feelings like that.”
You quash the instinct to reach for his hand.
“It was even more confusing because it was you, us.” He’s still addressing his hands, but his voice is regaining some of his signature tenacity. “Shit, you’ve been my best friend since I was six-fucking-years-old. We practically grew up at each other’s houses. I call your parents Mom and Dad. You have a fucking Christmas stocking at our house! It shouldn’t feel like this, I shouldn’t want-'' His curls become chaotic as he rakes a hand through his hair. “I have dreamed of telling you how I feel since, fuck, since you were shaking in my arms next to that fucking creek. You can’t possibly understand, it’s-” He swallows whatever he is about to say as he drops his head and grips the back of his neck like a lifeline.
This is a side of Poe he’s tried so carefully to keep secret. It would be startling to see him so exposed if you weren’t feeling the exact same way.
“I have loved our friendship as much as I’ve loved you,” he eventually says, his voice lacking its usual fire. “I have never felt this kind of connection with anyone. None of the women I’ve dated, none of the other friends I’ve had, not my parents; there has never, ever, been anyone in my life as important to me as you. So that day, when for half a heartbeat I had to consider what my life would be without you in it, fuck.”
You don’t dare to breathe.
“I’m pretty sure that was the day I fell in love with you as more than my best friend,” he muses. “Or, rather, that was the day I knew.”
The crack in your heart grows even larger.
“‘Cause really, I fell for you little by little, every single day I’ve known you, until you were so firmly entrenched in my heart that it would stop beating without you. It was something in here-” He rubs the left side of his chest. “-and I just knew. I knew you were it for me.” He makes a sound that’s half laugh and half sob. “I can’t even remember what it felt like before you. Loving you is as essential to me as breathing.”
His words sit like lead in your stomach, their weight shackled to your every whisper of doubt about your engagement, your relationship, your resolve to ignore what your own heart has known for years.
Your ring sparkles under the lights, a beacon of your guilt.
“I-” You have to stop and lick your dry lips before you can speak. “This isn’t fair, Poe.”
His brow pinches. “Honey-“
“No, Poe, you-” You press a palm against your forehead, desperately trying not to cry. “This isn’t fair. It’s been years. Why didn’t you- I’m getting married, Poe.”
“Yeah, I caught that.” You can see his hackles starting to rise.
It doesn’t quell the need to deflect your frustration with yourself as anger back towards him. “We’ve been friends for 25 years, and you waited until I’m fucking engaged to finally admit all of this?”
“I wasn't alone in this,” he defends. “You never brought it up before now, either.”
“So?! You could have said something years ago, you could have stopped me before I- before-” You realize your volume and glance around, embarrassment burning up your neck. Only the people sitting closest to you have taken notice, but merely glance curiously before going back to their own conversations. Mortified regardless, you turn back to Poe and swallow thickly. “Were you ever going to admit it, if I hadn’t said something?”
You know his answer before he says the words. “No.”
His admission stings more than you’d care to admit. “Didn’t you want- why didn’t you even want to try?”
Why wasn’t I worth the risk?
You can see the tick in his jaw as he struggles to find his words.
“I was scared.” His voice cracks, and he has to take a moment to compose himself enough to continue. “I didn’t know well enough to say anything when we were kids, and after I… I know I was different when I came back.”
You’re shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence. You know what he’s going to say. “No, Poe-“
“Don’t. It’s the truth. I was, I am, different,” he insists. “And I need you to hear- I have to get this out. Please.”
If it weren’t for the pain in his eyes, you would have continued to protest. But you swallow your objections and listen.
He breathes deeply, almost as if courage will be inhaled with the oxygen. “I wish I regretted joining up, but I don’t. I can’t. They needed me over there. I’m a damn good nurse, and I know I made a difference.”
You nod. “You are, Poe. And you did.” You will never tell him you’d cried yourself to sleep for two solid weeks after he’d shipped out.
The waiver in his voice makes you want to cry all over again. “The things I saw- the things I did, you can’t-” He sucks in a desperate lungful of air. “You can’t live through that and not come out changed. I’m not that same person I was, back when I fell in love with you. And you…” He desperately looks away as his eyes well with tears.
It takes every bit of restraint you possess not to jump off your stool and gather him into your arms.
“It isn’t that you’re not worth it, sweetheart,” he says once he’s regained his composure. “It’s that you’re worth everything. You deserve-” His shoulders slump as he takes a shaky breath. “You deserve the world. And I am too fucking broken to deserve you.”
As your eyes water, you try to cling to your indignation. But the fire in your belly is gone. All that remains is the gnawing emptiness of grief.
Next to you, Poe shoves a fist across one suspiciously wet cheek, before sitting up with a sniffle and resolve. “So, I kept my mouth shut. I was wrong and I was a fucking coward, but you asked why.” He presents a hand, palm up. “That’s why.”
“I deserve to have made that choice for myself,” you whisper.
He exhales heavily. “I know.”
The two of you lapse into silence once more, but unlike before, it’s not comfortable. Poe’s heartache radiates from every pore in his body, and your shame smothers you where you sit, until it becomes too much to hold.
“I'm sorry I was such a coward,” you finally manage to whisper. “I could have admitted the same things, and I didn’t because I was terrified I was reading you wrong, and that you didn’t really want me like that.”
The barest flicker of hope enters his eyes.
“I’ve loved you since I was six-years-old.” Your confession is barely audible. “I don’t know how to be me without you.”
Even knowing they need to be said, the words stick in your throat. You shift your focus to the peeling vinyl of the counter, willing your lips not to tremble as you force out what feels so wrong you can scarcely bear it. “...so maybe it’s a good thing, then, us not doing this 'til now. Now we can learn how to be on our own.”
Around you, the diner continues through a normal Friday evening. Plates clatter in the kitchen as the cooks call out orders; someone starts Patsy Cline on the jukebox in the corner; Patty cracks jokes with a regular at the other end of the counter.
But you and Poe exist in a frozen heartbeat, the silence between you deafening and endless.
You can feel his eyes fixed on you, the warm carob gaze that has always seen through every bluff and emotional barricade you’ve ever attempted; those eyes that crinkle when he laughs, that always hold such affection; those eyes that looked up at you, filled with tears, as you held him next to his mother’s grave; you’ve lived a lifetime in his eyes.
And now you can’t bear to look, knowing you are the one responsible for what you’ll surely see.
“You-” Rasping, he clears his throat, pausing for several long moments before he speaks again. “That’s it then?”
The first of your tears escape as you shake your head, still unable to look at him. “Of course not.”
“‘Being on our own’ sure sounds like you’re done with us- with me.”
Hurt laces his words, and you finally gather the strength to look up. His face is pale and impassive, the tick in his jaw the only tell that he’s holding on to his composure by a swiftly-fraying thread.
“That’s not what I meant,” you insist.
He makes a noise that borders between a laugh and a curse. “Then what? What do you mean? For the love of God, I am begging you to tell me what you mean.”
That’s the issue- your head and your heart are at war over the decision. Your head says you need space, that you both need to figure out how to exist in what will be your new normal, with Poe no longer your binary for the first time in your lives; You owe it to your fiancé, to yourself- and to Poe- to establish those boundaries now.
Even if your heart doesn’t want to agree.
“I mean that it’s not fair for us to carry this- this,” you clumsily explain, gesturing between you both. “We can’t carry that part of our relationship anymore if we aren’t- if we’re not going to be anything besides friends. It's not fair to...” You swallow thickly. "...anyone."
His bark of laughter is scornful.
“You don’t get to be pissed at me,” you jab back with a glower. “You’ve had twenty five years- fuck, Poe, twenty five years, to admit your own feelings; you do not get to be pissed at me.”
“You’ve had twenty five years to admit it yourself!” The pain you’re both feeling is more than evident in his voice. “This isn’t one sided; I’m not the only one to blame here.”
The entire conversation has been at such a low volume, even Patty has yet to noticed that your relationship is in the midst of a supernova. You’re both vibrating with hurt, and anger, and mourning for a friendship that can never completely return to what it was before.
When Poe speaks, you’re so wrapped in your own turmoil you almost don’t hear him. “Are you still going to marry him?”
It’s one last chance, one last hope for the future you've both dreamed of.
But it’s come far too late. And your silence is the confirmation you can’t force yourself to say.
With a broken nod, Poe drops his head into his hands.
When his shoulders start shaking, you scoot off the stool, ducking under his arms and wrapping yours around his chest. You burrow your face against his neck as you’ve done a thousand times before. He reciprocates, holding you securely, almost reverently.
“All that matters to me is you’re happy,” he eventually murmurs, his breath warm against your hair. “Really. Don’t ever doubt that.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. You can feel it in his body, always so warm against yours, and your heart cracks even more. “I love you as much as he does,” he chokes out, fiercely. “You know that, right?”
You tip your head up to meet his gaze, trying and failing to force your lips into a smile. “I know.”
Time slows to a standstill as you cling to each other, and you both know what's about to happen.
He searches your eyes, seeking permission, maybe even hoping you’ll stop him before you both cross a line that can never be undone. But you can’t resist this, not when you’ve longed for it for so long. He delicately caresses the line of your jaw, using that single finger to gently guide your head forward, and presses his lips to yours.
You know it’s wrong. God, it’s so wrong. But you can’t find it in you to care. You meet him fully, neither of you hesitating as his mouth slants over yours, and you taste each other for the first time. You can feel his heart racing in his chest as he pulls your body even closer against his, and feel your own heart mirror the frantic pace as you desperately hold on to him.
Novels celebrate the moments of true love’s kiss with choirs of heavenly song, fireworks, and overwhelming passion. But the first kiss between two halves of the same soul doesn’t need angels or fireworks. It’s peace. It’s balance. It’s the sense of your heart finally, finally finding completion.
And having to end that kiss, with the knowledge that it can never happen again, feels like the universe itself is ripping in two.
It takes every bit of strength you still possess to pull away, both of you breathing heavily, unable or unwilling to end this moment.
The laughter from a booth across the diner finally breaks the spell, and as you realize this is possibly the end of your story with Poe, your heart breaks right along with it.
The ring is a leaden weight on your finger, pulling you down to the bottom of the sea.
A sob bubbles up from your chest. You can't do this anymore. You frantically gather your things, tossing a few bills on the counter and avoiding his attempt to help.
“I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Poe, I can’t- I have to-”
You freeze halfway across the diner when he gently says your name. You don’t need to see his face to feel the resignation in his words.
“There’s nothing I can say, is there?”
You can’t look back or you’ll completely shatter. “Goodbye, Poe.”
The jingle of the bell feels like an admonishment as you push through the door.
Series Masterlist - Part 2
A/N: The title comes from “I Fall to Pieces” by Patsy Cline.
“Do I really need to say it?” he finally asks.
“Yes.” You need to hear it. You need him to voice it, after two and a half decades of pretending your friendship is nothing more.
You need him to admit it, so you can find the nerve to admit it yourself.
Neither you nor Poe have ever found the courage to admit your life-long friendship is much, much more. After denying your feelings for a lifetime, is it possible to find the courage to risk everything for love? And once that chance has passed, can it ever be recovered?
Part 1 -posted 10/14/21
Part 2 - posted 11/5/21
Mamá's Boy - posted 11/10/21
Part 3 -NEW posted 12/14
Part 4
Part 5
There will be a happy ending, please don't hurt me for the angst in the meantime.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Untitled and shamelessly self-indulgent comfort fic featuring Bucky Barnes
Bucky Barnes x Gender Neutral Reader
“You’re not weak.” His voice is soft, but firm.
Your eyeroll is involuntary, your tears making your cheeks chilly in the breeze. “But it feels like I am. So if I’m not weak, but it feels like I am, what the fuck does it matter if I’m not?! The feeling doesn’t fucking change. I’m still failing."
Summary: When life gives you lemons, throw them the fuck back and go cry on Bucky's shoulder.
Word Count: 1288
Tags/Warnings: Reader could be platonic or romantic relationship, up to you. No warnings besides a fuckton of cursing, emotional word vomit, and Bucky comfort. Not really canon, but could take place any time after Bucky's deprogramming. I live happily in a world where the last half of Endgame never happened and everyone is still alive and in this timeline because fuck that shit. Unedited because I like to live dangerously.
Author’s Note:
Also on AO3!
Today was a shitty fucking day on top of a shitty fucking month that's rounding out a shitty fucking year and I needed to be self-indulgent with a comfort character. I regret nothing. But HEY I FINALLY WROTE SOME BUCKY. Also, if he could please get his thicc ass over here already so I can crawl into his lap and cry I'd appreciate it.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics.
You’re sitting on the steps leading down to the dock, arms wrapped around your knees, allowing yourself exactly 30 minutes for an emotional meltdown. 30 minutes, you promise yourself, and not a moment more. You don’t have time to wallow in self-pity.
But the fresh air does feel nice; the scent of the lake on the breeze comforting. It’s the perfect temperature tonight, that kind of still-warm-but-rapidly-cooling evening that only happens in the latest part of spring and the earliest part of summer. It brings back fond memories of porch swings, and reading in a treehouse, and your family grilling together on the deck; of far simpler times, or at least far simpler memories.
...okay, maybe 45 minutes of wallowing. But that’s really it.
You feel him behind you before you hear him. How he’s able to move so silently on the ancient pier, you’ll never know. The thing squeaks if you breathe wrong. And it’s not like he’s small. Fuck, his biceps are the size of your head. Maybe he'd wear a bell if you asked-
“Rough day?” he asks quietly, snapping you back from your internal ramblings.
You blow a raspberry to the air.
“That good, huh?” He chuckles quietly, joining you on the steps. You watch absently as he stretches his long legs in front of him, his heavy boots and dark denim almost fading into the twilight. He leans back on his hands, his flesh arm brushing against your side as he gets comfortable.
A whippoorwill trills in the distance as you sit in companionable silence. That’s one of the things you love most about being around him. There’s no need to fill the quiet. It’s never awkward or forced. And you’re well aware that he can count the number of people around whom he allows himself to be so unguarded on one hand. He always brushes it off with typical self-deprecation; “I mean, when you’ve only got one hand to count on...” But you know he doesn’t give his trust lightly. And you don’t take his trust lightly, either.
“So,” he eventually breaks the quiet, “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
You shrug. “Nothing in particular.”
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you, but you know he’s patiently waiting for you to continue when you’re ready.
You finally huff. “I-” A weak shrug is all you can offer. “It’s… life is- a lot right now. I- I don’t know that it’s one thing or even several things.” You’re slightly horrified to feel your eyes watering, and swipe a hand across your face, annoyed with yourself. “I can’t even explain it. I feel like- like…” Like I’m losing my mind. Fuck, you can’t say that to him. Not when he really knows what that’s like.
The whippoorwill’s cry echoes again, like an evacuation siren. ‘Warning, danger ahead: unstable emotional baggage detected’. Fuck that damn bird.
You take a shuddering breath and let go. “It’s like I’m trapped on a merry-go-round of bullshit, and I just keep going round and round and around, and it never ends, because no one else involved gives enough of a shit to make things better, and I can’t do it on my own.” You suck in a deep breath to keep from crying harder. “I feel like nothing changes, no matter how hard I work or how much effort I give. It’s always the same shit and the same excuses, but I always ignore it and try again. I don’t even know why. Maybe I’m an emotional masochist.” A dark chuckle escapes your lips. “Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again no matter how many times you fail? How many times do I have to be disappointed before I finally fucking get it?”
He stays silent, knowing you well enough to recognize a rhetorical question when he hears it.
The (motherfucking goddamn asshole of a) bird cries again, and the sky continues to change color as the sun slips lower and lower. An apt metaphor for your mental state.
You jam your fingers through your hair, desperate for an anchor. “I am out of fucks to give about anything, but I can’t be, because there’s so much shit still needs to be done. I am completely, completely empty, but I don’t have time to recharge. And it’s exhausting to pretend to be okay when just getting out of bed this morning took every bit of energy I have. I hate, I fucking hate being so weak.” You hiccup a sob.
“You’re not weak.” His voice is soft, but firm.
Your eyeroll is involuntary, your tears making your cheeks chilly in the breeze. “But it feels like I am. So if I’m not weak, but it feels like I am, what the fuck does it matter if I’m not?! The feeling doesn’t fucking change. I'm still failing.”
He doesn’t answer, because what is there to say to such logic? If anyone understands self-loathing, it’s certainly him.
Instead, you feel the gentle press of his arm as he deliberately shifts closer to you. He knows you better than you know yourself, as always; Even though he wants nothing more than to wrap you up in his arms and protect you from anything that might cause you harm, even your own thoughts, he knows that during moments like this, sometimes physical affection makes you feel worse instead of better.
He simply waits, giving you the space you need to process your emotions as you cry, but allowing the warmth of his body to remind you that as fierce and independent and so fucking strong it still awes him as you are, he’s still here. Not to rescue you; you are not a damsel in distress, as you have reminded him (repeatedly, because sorry, honey, you gotta remember I’m used to Steve and his complete lack of self preservation and well he’s certainly not wrong there) over the course of your relationship. But he’s here, and will be here, however you need.
Sometimes, sure, you may ask for a rescue. But other times, like now, you simply need a gentle reminder that you’re not alone. Just like he’s not alone when he tries to brush off a nightmare and you won’t let him. Give and take, carry and be carried.
And after you’ve cried out the bulk of your tears, your catharsis subsiding to the occasional sniffle, you shift closer to him and nudge into his arm. He lifts it obligingly, and you scoot into his side, draping your legs over his thighs and burrowing into his warmth as he resettles his arms around you. Your head finds it’s usual spot against the space between his neck and shoulder, your fingers hooking around the chain of his dog tags and the unbuttoned placket of his worn henley. After gently pressing his lips to your hair, he rests his chin against the top of your head.
The sky turns to fire as the sun finally drops below the horizon, the brilliant pinks of twilight fading quickly into night.
He’s not sure how long you sit together, but by the time your eyes grow heavy and your breathing lengthens, the stars are bright and the moon is peeking over the treeline. Carefully, with the practiced ease of having done this particular maneuver many times before, he gently shifts you until he can scoop his vibranium arm under your legs, lifting you easily. Your only reaction is to unconsciously tighten your grip on his chain and shirt. He can’t help the small smile the action brings.
As he carries his precious cargo back up to the house, the whippoorwill calls out once more, and then quiets for the night.
A/N: This is a whippoorwill. Yes, they really sound like that.
Or, You Can Take The Paranoid International Operative Out Of Bucky Barnes, But No You Actually Can't Take The Paranoid International Operative Out Of Bucky Barnes.
Part of Clueless Supersoldiers, Coffee Shops, and Chaos, co-developed by @starryemerald173 and inspired with permission by The Avengers Wrangler
“You know you can’t do recon on our customers, sir. Mrs. Potts-Stark has expressly forbidden it.”
Barnes’ face stays expressionless, except for a miniscule tick in his cheek. “I’m not doing recon.”
Gabe raises his eyebrows.
Barnes huffs. “Fine.”
***5/14 This was originally posted in April, but never showed up in the tags. Fingers crossed it was Tumblr being Tumblr.***
Word Count: 433 (I'm getting better at drabbles, y'all!)
Tags/Warnings:
Bucky being, well, Bucky. Gabe the Barista being awesome. Borderline crack. Unedited. I regret nothing.
Author’s Note:
Also on AO3! More adventures in the world of the Tower coffee shop, featuring our bestie Gabe the Barista.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics.
As soon as he hears the first of the regulars come into the shop, Gabe is instantly on alert.
Not because of the Russian contractors, who meet every morning for breakfast and coffee. The six of them are unfailingly polite, and always tip well.
No, Gabe’s on the lookout for another Russian- well, by association, at least.
It takes him a good ten minutes to spot him (he was considered a ghost for almost seventy years, after all). But it’s definitely him, sitting inconspicuously at the back corner table, a laptop and coffee in front of him, looking like any other Initiative teleworker utilizing the free wifi.
The gloves are the giveaway. Gabe makes a mental note to thank Agent Romanoff for that particular tip.
As soon as the morning rush dies down, Gabe makes his way to the back corner table and slides into the second chair. The man glances up with guilty eyes.
“Sergeant Barnes.” Gabe sighs. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.” Barnes’s face proves he’s still just as bad of a liar as Captain Rogers.
“You can’t do recon on our customers, sir. Mrs. Potts-Stark has expressly forbidden it.”
Barnes’ face stays expressionless, except for a miniscule tick in his cheek. “I’m not doing recon.”
Gabe raises his eyebrows.
Barnes huffs. “Fine.” He shuts the laptop. “Happy?”
Gabe glances at the coffee cup.
Gritting his teeth, Barnes sullenly pops the lid off the cup and dumps out the recording device.
Gabe crosses his arms over his chest.
After a brief staring contest, Barnes mutters something under his breath and reaches inside his jacket, pulling out the long-lense camera, GPS tracker, and parabolic listening kit. He sets them on the table with slightly more force than such high-end tech probably deserves.
When Gabe doesn’t stop staring, Barnes flings up his hands. “What?!”
“You have super soldier serum, Sergeant Barnes,” Gabe states. “Since when does someone with 20/20 vision need glasses?”
“You know what-” Barnes rips the StarkGlasses off his face, using them to point at the young man. “Your talents are fucking wasted in a literature degree.”
Gabe grins, tapping the table. “Thanks for your cooperation, sir. I’ll run over an actual coffee as soon as I can.”
Barnes nods sullenly. “Could I please have a danish, too?”
“Of course,” Gabe assures him, turning to go. “As long as you turn off the hacking program running on your watch.”
Gabe doesn’t speak Russian, but based on the expressions the Russian contractors give Barnes, he figures it’s safe to assume it’s not something flattering.
A/N: My dog has chemo every Friday, and I typically hang out at the Starbucks near our vet. There's a group of Russian guys who always come in for coffee and gossip, and since it's me, this is where my brain went. While my Starbucks Russians are lovely, Ukraine continues to be the victim of horrific war crimes perpetuated by Putin's Russia. Check out this link for ways you can help. 🇺🇦
Summary: How do you let go of the person who means the most?
Word Count: 976 this was supposed to be a drabble y'all I am ridiculous.
Tags/Content warnings: Sam Wilson x Fem Reader. SFW. Grief/mourning, loss of significant other. Post-Blip/Infinity War. All aboard the angst train.
Author’s Note: Sorry, @autumnleaves1991-blog and @clydesducktape, my Writer Wednesday submissions are apparently going to come months after the actual challenge prompt but like two months for me is pretty quick and I'm taking it as a win.
OMG I FINALLY WROTE MOSTLY CANON-COMPLIANT MARVEL yes my timeline is slightly tweaked but fuck it the same way the Russos fucked Endgame. I am SO exited to have finally written for Sam; he's one of the characters I've been dying to write for a while, but I didn't want to write him until I was sure I could do justice to him. The best character in the entire MCU deserves nothing less. I'm really, really proud of how this turned out. I also made myself cry twice while writing this, and @paper-n-ashes cried while she was beta reading it for me. #winning
Fold. Box. Next.
Tee shirts. Button downs.
Fold. Box. Next.
Pullovers. Flannels.
Fold. Box. Next.
Workout tops. His collection of USAF shirts.
Fold. Box. Next.
You hesitate.
One of the USAF sweatshirts comes back out of the box.
It’s the one he always wore on quiet Saturdays spent lazing around the apartment. The dulcet tones of Gladys Knight, or Jackie Wilson, or his beloved Marvin Gaye would provide the soundtrack as you fried the potatoes and scrambled the eggs. He was responsible for baking the french toast (his mother’s recipe). You’d sit together in your dining nook, the sunlight painting the table in burnished gold, teasing him as he stole bites of sweet potato off your plate.
After you’d washed the dishes together- he always washed, you always dried- you’d move to the living room, curling up together on the sofa. He’d toy with your hair while he read whatever biography had struck his fancy that week, and you’d grade papers and quizzes, safely tucked under his arm.
Sometimes, the book would end up on his stomach, his head resting against the back of the couch as he snored softly. Those were your favorite mornings. You’d set aside your papers, cover you both with the quilt Riley’s mom had made you as a wedding present, and snuggle against his chest, luxuriating the simplicity of coexistence without expectation.
The tears you can’t seem to stop speckle the wash-worn sweatshirt.
Your therapist has been insistent that holding on to the past, to him, will only make your healing harder. Cleaning out his things is somehow supposed to help with building your new normal.
But how can you build a new life when you can’t fathom leaving behind the one you shared? Well-meant platitudes don’t dull the sting when you roll over in bed and his pillow is empty. No amount of offers to visit your sister-in-law and your nephews distracts from the ache that you’ll never get to see him hold your baby, his baby, who now will remain only a dream. Nothing, nothing, takes away the pain when you start to text him from the grocery store to ask if you’re out of orange juice, and remember with a jolt that there won’t ever be an answer again.
You’d wept next to the bulk food bins, your basket spilled where it fell.
No more of his beaming smiles with that adorable gap between his front teeth. No more impromptu dance parties in the kitchen, when he’d sing along with whatever song was playing and pull you into his arms, swaying with you between the island and the fridge. No more finding post-its with terrible jokes or sweet messages stuck to your lesson plans. No more watching him repair Redwing at the kitchen table, the tools and parts a foreign language to you but second nature to him.
No more of his sarcastic quips, no more of his thoughtful counsel, no more watching him effortlessly draw everyone, everyone he encounters into his warmth and light. No more feeling his lips brush your temple, the quietest ‘love you, baby, be back soon’ whispered against your hair before he leaves for his morning run. No more seeing him perched on the back stoop, his head in his hands, because no matter how much he wants to help everyone, needs to help everyone, being the strength and stay for so many wears heavy on even the strongest of shoulders. No more building him back up when he is sure he’s failed. No more feeling him beside you, above you, inside you, taking you apart with sinful accuracy before putting you back together in his embrace.
You’d barely gotten him back from his exile. And now he’s gone, a life erased, and all that remains are your memories and an old sweatshirt. How are you supposed to say goodbye to the other half of your soul?
He’d want you to let him go. You know he would. It’s what you would want for him if the situation was reversed and he was the one left behind. You can practically hear him, that wry chuckle and his honeyed voice.
What would you want me to do? he’d say, ever the counselor. Would you want me to give up? Would you want me to let my grief consume me until I was just a shadow of myself? Or would you want me to live a full life, a long and happy life, even if you weren’t there to see it?
Of course, you know the answer.
It's not disloyal to move forward, baby. It doesn't mean you don't love me anymore. It means that you know I’ll always be in your heart like you’re in mine. It means it’s okay to let me go.
You’re not sure how long you kneel there, clutching the sweatshirt to your chest as a desperate anchor against this new agonizing reality.
It’s okay, baby. You can do this. I know you can. And you know you can.
Deep breath.
Deep breath.
Fold.
Box.
Next.
Nat helps you take the boxes to the refugee center. You cry the whole way there and back, but somehow feel lighter having done it.
And slowly, you start to emerge from the darkness.
You meet Steve for breakfast on Saturdays. You get through your grocery shopping without any breakdowns. You bake cupcakes for the hell of it. You bring home flowers for the kitchen table. You start teaching again. You spend a week with Sarah and the boys in Delacroix, and only cry twice.
It’s slow, and painful, and at times feels impossible. But channeling his endless determination, you start to heal. Your therapist tells you how proud she is of your progress at every visit.
She never needs to know that you wear the sweatshirt to bed every night, long after it ceases to smell like him.
I was tagged by @vorchagirl. I don't even know who to tag anymore, so I guess if you want to play, consider yourself tagged. This is from my original, contemporary, polyamorous romance that I've been working on.
“You don’t have to say it, Hazel. I know, and I love you, so much more,” he offered
her a smile, and she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before lifting herself and
kissing him lightly. She returned to his chest, sleep already pulling at the edges of her
consciousness. She felt his hand running over her side and hip, the gentle caress the last
thing she remembered before sleep took her.
