[ The job. Poe can remember, vaguely, when he thought of what he does as a job. It's got that same gauzy gray film, that indistinct fog that turns clear memories into points on a vanishing horizon.
For a second, he thinks of Cassian, old at twenty-six. Bathing in blood will do that to a person. Poe kisses John's neck lightly, draping his own arm over the other man's waist and pulling them that much closer. John's fingers in Poe's hair steadies him, too. The pilot shifts up onto one elbow, changing his angle enough to kiss John's temple, the gray there. ]
It matters.
[ But he won't ask John what he did, when, where. If John ever wants to share Poe will listen. But until then he can just understand. ]
no subject
For a second, he thinks of Cassian, old at twenty-six. Bathing in blood will do that to a person. Poe kisses John's neck lightly, draping his own arm over the other man's waist and pulling them that much closer. John's fingers in Poe's hair steadies him, too. The pilot shifts up onto one elbow, changing his angle enough to kiss John's temple, the gray there. ]
It matters.
[ But he won't ask John what he did, when, where. If John ever wants to share Poe will listen. But until then he can just understand. ]