Chapter Text
For all Jess quips about the Damerdong having a mind of its own, she is a galaxy class strategist, and once Rey and Finn drifted off like the beautiful wisps of pure light they are to play at beating the shit out of each other with neon tubes, she pulls out her trusty strategy board, ties her hair up, and sets to actually plot out what they are going to do about this.
“I don’t think you can battle slut your way through this” she says. “It works on people who either have a thing for “heroes”” she does the air quotes and rolls her eyes, “and it works for people who already want you to suck them off in a hangar, but unless you’re absolutely sure, I think you should maybe approach this as an adult instead of the eternally sprung adolescent you turn into every time you go to seduce someone.”
Poe frowns. “I am your commanding officer, Pava, maybe we could do this with a bit more respect?”
“Sorry sir, I mean you are wise and I respect you greatly, but, with great respect, you definitely buy your own battle slut press. I just think, as your second in command, and as someone who also has a lot to potentially gain from you completing this mission, I just think that perhaps your usual method may backfire here.”
Then she sketches out a beautifully orchestrated plan off the top of her head that once she multiplies back the probabilities gives him a 66% chance of seducing Luke Skywalker and there being a spring wedding, and a 86% chance of him and Finn being married before the summer is out.
If it wasn’t so hideously inappropriate Poe would show this plan to General Organa, because Jess is absolutely wasted as a cannon fodder flygirl, she should be nicely hidden in the situation room sipping cocktails like the strategic genius she is.
He tries not to be disappointed at the number of steps. Its fine, its not like Poe really expected to just walk up to Luke Skywalker, bite his lip at him extra sluttily, and then bang him manfully until the universe fell back into its rightful place. It wouldn’t be much of a story to sell if Poe was some kind of magical space sex wizard or a hot and fiery Yavin stereotype no one could resist (though he is sure that it will be one of those guys playing him). No matter what Jess thinks he thinks of himself, Poe knows he isn’t the greatest lover in the resistance. He can’t even say he tries that hard to make up for it. He’s pretty good though, you know, as a baseline, and he has slept with the greatest lover in the resistance, so he can say he learned from the best. He still gets distracted every time he sees certain types of pastry. He can only aspire to that level of greatness.
The gala dinner honouring Luke Skywalker was the most exciting thing that had happened on base that didn’t involve death or double rations in months. And double rations are a big deal. Poe went to go scope out the hall, realising that he did actually have a job to do, and that job was to supervise other people doing the actual work, because one of the perks of management is finally getting other people to do scut work for a change.
He perched on the stage and watched some of the junior pilots hang the pennants of the new republic from the rafters, and then, when it seemed like everyone was looking busy to avoid his austere managerial glare, he buried himself in his holopad to do some important research. The Holonet was very forthcoming when he idly asked it for ‘“Luke Skywalker” pictures -trash -beard’, and he was engrossed in examining the supreme twinkiness of his target when there was a pointed cough from somewhere by his elbow.
“I hope you’re looking at those pictures for noble reasons, Commander”, snarks General Organa, “My brother will be able to tell when you meet him if your thoughts are impure.”
“Oh, only the most noble reason, Sir”, Poe lies. “Idle curiosity, nothing more. My men are doing such a good job that I was bored you see, supervising them. I wanted to see if the rumours were true.”
Leia raises an eyebrow and gestures over his shoulder, where Iolo and Matrie have got tangled in the largest pennant. They seem pretty secure, but he is surprised that he hadn’t noticed the screaming before now.
“I think it’s important they learn to solve their own problems?” He hedges, turning back to her.
There’s a beeping as one of the forklift droids backs into place, guided by BB-8, who grumbles in her scratchy whistle that she really has to do everything around here.
“See! I’ve got it General. Nothing to see here.”
He thinks there’s something in her frown that is her trying not to laugh, but she leaves him alone anyway, muttering something about tracking down a third viola player.
Feeling guilty, Poe goes and pointedly asks all the work teams whether he can help, do anything at all, it’s no problem, and so half an hour later he is free of all responsibilities and so retires to the hangar to work on his X-Wing. He leaves BB-8 to supervise, and she whistles sarcastically at him as he leaves.
Its rare that he gets the time to really get down and dirty with his x-wing. He strips down to his undershirt, and then looks at himself in the mirror behind the hydrospanners, and strips off his formal trousers, hanging them neatly on the rear spoiler alongside his dress jacket. There is no one in the hangar, and it is the height of the D’Qar summer, and so if he wants to repair his ship in his skivvies well, no better time. While the rest of the base is climate controlled, the open nature of the hangar means that it really builds up a lot of heat, and today is no different. In the open sunshine the heat radiates off the runway like a summer barbeque, thick rolls of heat mirage lines under a perfect blue sky.
Poe extracts all the fluids from his ship (and only gets slightly sprayed), greases all the joints with the thick black aviation lube he prefers, and even repaints all her beauty marks and smoothes out her minute chips and dents, little cosmetic things that he always has to put off because he just doesn’t have the time to spend four hours on his ship anymore.
His holopad’s alarm code chirps at him that it is the last possible time he can safely get showered and cleaned up before reporting to the gala, so he sighs to himself, and begins to disengage, making a note to give BB-8 time to do her long diagnostic while he’s nursing his inevitable hangover tomorrow.
The alarm, which has been beeping for several minutes now, suddenly stops. When Poe looks down, there’s a mysterious man in some winter weight robes prodding at the screen. He’s even wearing gloves. The man must be dying.
The mystery man looks up, and beneath the beard and the wear of thirty years, Poe instantly recognises the eternal twinkiness of Luke Skywalker. The blue eyes are even more piercing in person.
He had a plan, but there’s something in the way Skywalker looks at him that makes Poe think that perhaps there’d be something in letting his inner battle slut have a go at this.
He slides down the ladder, a move so smooth he knows this is right, as he’s only personally been able to do it without getting caught on a rung twice before.
He dries his hands on a rag, and holds out his hand, biting his lip and looking up through his eyelashes - just a bit, Skywalker isn’t that much taller than him, but it’s enough to get the effect.
“Master Skywalker, it is a pleasure” he croons. “Commander Poe Dameron, black leader, at your service”.
Skywalker doesn’t look impressed, and looks at Poe’s oil stained hand like it might hurt him.
Poe pulls it back, wiping it against his chest, making sure to catch the nipple. “So sorry, you’re a pilot, you know how it is. Stuff gets everywhere, will take forever to get it off. Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like a tour? I have to go get ready but I’m sure if the guest of honour is missing as well I won’t get into too much trouble with the General if I’m a few minutes late.” He pauses for effect, and looks Skywalker up and down. "Or quite a few minutes, if you want the full tour."
There's a moment when Poe thinks that yes, he was right, Jess was wrong, this totally worked, and then Skywalker's face shutters down completely. “Er, no, that’s okay” Skywalker says, backing away. “I was just looking around. It really is quite warm in here. I should get to the ball. Can’t keep my sister, Leia, your General, waiting...” and then with a wave of his gloved hand, he nearly runs out of the hangar like a scared animal.
After Skywalker leaves, Poe catches his reflection in the hydrospanner mirror. His undershirt is nearly translucent with sweat, apart from where it is streaked with black. His skivvies are blessedly still opaque, but are riding down low on his hips and look about ready to fall off. He looks like the debauched fantasy of a spaceship mechanic who somehow is changing oil in his underwear, an image that could have been wholesome softcore pinup if not for the generous spattering of milky white hydraulic fluid in his hair and against the skin of his face and neck, expertly contrasted more than usual by his summer tan lines.
Oh and that smell? The one of an animal in heat that’s got caught in a hot engine? Its him.
Fuck. Jess is going to kill him.