Work Text:
It’s dark outside by the time Poe makes it back. The buzzing night bugs of Ajan Kloss follow him all across the base and their absence, once he closes the door to his room, is not as welcome as usual. It’s unpleasantly silent. Today’s search for allies was another hard lesson in the meaning of loyalty.
He digs his datapad from under his pillow and types how’s your day going?
It’s routine at this point. It took a couple of weeks and only when pressed did their spy admit to their shipboard time. It’s the middle of the workday for them right now, just as Poe is going to sleep.
Long and tedious. Yours?
Poe lets his shoulders sag, falls back on the mattress, and stares at the ceiling. Long and tedious. My boss keeps trying to drill the art of diplomacy into me. It’s a failure in progress, is what he settles on.
Let’s trade. I’m great at diplomacy.
Poe smiles against his wishes. I know what diplomacy looks like in the First Order. Shoot now, use the planet-destroying superweapon later, he sends and goes to the ‘fresher. The lights there are blinding and uncharitable. He honestly looks pretty terrible. He has dark circles under his eyes and his hair is flat and lifeless. The joys of faceless communication.
We only did that the once and I’ll send you a new report in approximately six hours is what greets him when he returns from the ‘fresher, ready for bed.
Great! I’ll wake up to something good.
Are you in bed right now?
Poe hesitates. He has a problem with setting boundaries. Yes. Goodnight.
A string of numbers on a screen. That’s all he has on their spy. It’s all that’s safe to have. Even a username would be too dicey. We can give each other nicknames, Poe told them the second time they talked. In my head, I’m calling you Rebel scum, they replied. What a charmer. It hasn’t exactly kept things impersonal, though.
In the morning, Poe wakes up to a new report that includes the location of three secret bases, the detailed routes of several supply lines, and comprehensive files on two big First Order benefactors.
“I love their organizational style,” Kaydel says in the morning’s briefing, the holoreadaouts reflected over the table. “It’s all very—”
“Orderly?” Finn suggests, and Poe chuckles.
In the middle of the briefing, Poe sends, Great stuff. Great work all around. Thank you. He doesn’t think of their spy as one of his squad members but he does feel somewhat responsible for them since it’s only Poe they directly talk to. It’s important to praise their work and keep them motivated.
He doesn’t expect to get a response, but only a couple of minutes go by before Would like to repay the compliment. Alas, you have failed to perform a ‘great job’ with the information given so far pops on his screen followed by What will you occupy your day with?
Poe halfheartedly glares at the screen. Following a couple of your leads with my squad. Isn’t it past your bedtime? he sends, though he knows their spy keeps odd hours and, he suspects, sleepless nights.
I am already in bed. Under the cold sheets.
Poe frowns, puts the datapad away. He gets that their spy is lonely and feels isolated in his own home, wants some sort of connection, sure, but this is just desperate and sad. When he looks up, Finn is squinting at him suspiciously. Not good.
“Is that also the first location you’d suggest, commander?” Leia asks, and they debate the merits of proximity versus certainty for a few minutes.
Only once the briefing is over, he sends, Adjust the environmental controls in your room and immediately gets My bed is very big. It soaks up all the cold with only one occupant in it.
Poe bites his lip and whatever his face is doing is enough to prompt Finn to say, “you’re talking to your mysterious spy again, aren’t you?”
“He’s not mine. It’s a shared— we all share our spy.”
Another suspicious look. “Do you know who they are?” Finn says as they walk to the makeshift landing bay. “Any ideas?”
“No, and I don’t want—” Poe is endlessly curious and not knowing is killing him, though. “That wouldn’t be safe for me to know.”
Finn nods. “Just be careful around them.”
Poe falls back on the bed and, in an almost instinctive search for comfort, rolls over until he can reach his datapad. He has three messages, which seems like an alarming number until he sees it’s just his spy complaining about their boss(es? They seem to hate both their bosses equally and indiscriminately.)
You’re off on one of your harebrained mission, I assume, then, reads the last one, from a couple of hours ago.
Yeah, sorry. It was a bust too. Poe drags his hand across his face and sighs. It feels good to be able to openly complain and shed the optimism for once. He wouldn’t do it in front of his men, in front of the people counting on him, but their spy is something different altogether. We were looking for medical supplies, lost a ship in the process.
Poe waits for a reply for five, ten minutes but maybe their spy is busy — busy and safe. They can’t afford to lose more — so he closes his eyes and tries to relax, to shake the day off. A few more minutes of silence, then, a beep.
I can help with that followed by a set of coordinates.
Poe clicks and an uncharted area in the Uyil system pops up. The bright blue light of the holomap illuminates only corners of the dark room, and squinting at it, Poe can’t tell what he’s supposed to get from it.
???
Semi-abandoned First Order medstation. We no longer use that route and there’s not a lot of security in the area then Good luck instead of the usual ‘don’t fail, as I’m sure you’re used to.’
I could kiss you right now. No, too much. Poe deletes it. I could hug you right now, he sends instead and figures it’s not inappropriate considering the suggestive messages their spy sends him when they’re — Poe assumes — wired on stims and sleep deprived. Unfiltered, but not in a usefully revelatory way.
I don’t do hugs.
Ever? Poe sends. That’s so sad.
I assume you freely offer hugs to all and sundry.
Poe grins. The room is only faintly lit by the datapad’s light and the bed is warm. He’s tired but not immediately sleepy. He has potentially good news to greet people with tomorrow. Right now, life’s not terrible. Tell me something about yourself, he sends daringly. Maybe too daring because at least fifteen minutes go by without a response. It’s fine. He was pushing anyway.
From under the pillow, right as Poe is falling asleep, a message finally comes, the sound jarring Poe out of a pleasant feeling of falling. Falling right into the stars. Why? it says.
Because you are, believe it or not, the first person I talk to in the morning and the last person I talk to before I fall asleep. All I picture is a blank space brimming with your colorful personality, Poe sends, his fingers sleep-clumsy and his words overly earnest by their usual standards.
What do you want to know? comes after a few minutes, hesitation dripping from the words on the screen.
The color of your eyes.
Green, says the next message, sent almost as soon as Poe finished typing his question.
Poe buries his face in the pillow and smiles. He imagines it: bright green eyes, bleary and sleepy as they say goodnight, an eyeroll as they’re unamused by what Poe says.
Another message startles him out of his reverie. I hope you appreciate the precarious position I’ve put myself in just to amuse you. I have now considerably narrowed down your list of possibilities. I assume that was your intention.
I doubt you’re the only person with green eyes in the Order and anyway, your identity won’t be a secret forever.
How so?
Fuck. Poe was hoping to ease into that one. Oh well. The sooner they talk about it, the sooner they can start working on it. Exfiltration. We need to talk about it.
You’re tired. I’ll let you go to bed, is all he gets in return after five whole minutes. It’s better than he expected but still deeply unsatisfying.
When he gets back from routine drills with his squad a few days later, the following message greets him:
I am a human male, green eyes (as previously established), age thirty to fifty, and I’m an officer in the First Order.
It sounds a bit like a profile from one of those holonet hookup apps. Vers top? NSA? Poe wants to jokingly — jokingly! — send but refrains.
Okay. What are we doing? he says cautiously and goes to wash the sweat off. He and Finn are leaving on a mission in just a couple of hours. Something lowkey and not very dangerous, which means one of them is bound to end up needing a rescue. Poe, going by his track record.
We’re getting to know each other. I won’t discuss exfiltration with someone I know nothing about and your turn are the messages on his datapad when he gets out of the ‘fresher.
Oh, okay. That makes sense. I’m a pilot! I think you know that? You may have deduced it. I love flying more than anything.
That is useless, their spy replies. He must have a lot of friends in the Order with a personality like that. I want something I can picture.
You can picture me in my X-wing! But fine, I’m a guy.
…species?
Right, yeah. I’m human.
Oh, that’s good, comes as soon as Poe sends the message. It’s too much positive feeling attached to the simple fact that Poe’s human. He shakes his head in dismay.
It’s not that Poe thinks their spy is a good person, but he is doing a good thing and that counts for a lot. Obviously he hasn’t fully shed his ideological beliefs but Poe believes they can work on that. Especially once he’s out of the First Order’s insular and oppressive orbit. Why is that good? Poe sends and waits a long time for a reply.
I read an article that hypothesized humans made for better pilots. I can send it to you if you’re interested.
Pretty sure that claim was debunked. Years ago. Is that one of your areas of interest? Human supremacy?
Tell me more about your looks, he sends instead of addressing Poe’s very important question.
Wow, shallow, Poe thinks. Brown eyes, dark wavy hair.
How old are you??
Okay, pushy, but okay. I’m 33 and then because it needs to be said, Kinda feel like you’re working up to asking me what I’m wearing.
Orange jumpsuit. Covered in grease. Top part off. Close? The message comes across as weirdly eager. He wonders what’s doing it for this guy. Poe getting his supposedly grease-covered hands on his pristine uniform? Some sort of mechanic and stranded offworlder scenario?
Nope, sorry to disappoint. Just showered, actually.
Are you messaging me in the nude?
Poe rolls his eyes. Honestly, their spy needs to learn a thing or two about subtlety. Of course not. That would be a little weird.
I don’t believe you. Prove it, is the response he gets almost immediately.
Take my word for it. I’m an honest guy. You can trust me, Poe says, trying to steer the conversation to matters of trust — and possible exfiltration. Just as he’s typing Speaking of trust, we really need to talk about what— he gets a reply.
Show me.
Poe is only wearing boxer briefs. He doesn’t think that would steer the conversation away from this bad idea of a mood, so he puts on pants and takes the holograph. Only some of his bare chest shows but he still gets You’re shirtless. Isn’t it cold where you are?
Nope, plenty warm here. As soon as he sends it, he gets a message on his work datapad.
It’s Finn. Lunch before we leave? Right. No more distractions.
Their spy replies with do you want to see me? before he has a chance to tactfully end their conversation. It could be sexy or it could be business. Poe refrains from saying yes and demanding they also share their name and rank and about those possible exfiltration plans—
What do you want to show me?
What do you want to see? Oh, it’s sexy, then. Poe could try to steer them in a different direction but their spy could shut down, feel rejected, offended. Who knows. Whenever they talk, the words HANDLE WITH CARE flash behind Poe’s eyes. It’s a delicate balance of playfully antagonizing him to put him at ease and openly reassuring him.
Your knees, Poe says, safe enough. He gets a pair of skinny pale, bony knees in return. He smiles and sends Cute! which they are. I think it’s you who’s messaging in the nude, though. What are you wearing?
First Order regulation boxer briefs. Want to see?
Poe cards his fingers through his hair once, then again. He probably really shouldn’t, but in for a parsec and all that. He bites his lip through the interminable minute before he gets the holograph. Oh nice! he says when he gets the image of a pair of black boxer briefs neatly placed on top on silver sheets. He laughs and shakes his head. He’s— disappointed? No, he’s relieved. I take it those were not the ones you were wearing.
He doesn’t get a reply.
Please delete the items I sent you. I overindulged last night and behaved uncharacteristically. I’m certain we can forget this, their spy sends a few hours later.
Consider it done, Poe sends back and doesn’t mention that he didn’t find that behavior too uncharacteristic or that he doubts he’ll easily forget about it.
Sidling up to Rose later that day, he says, “so how does that database work?”
She looks up from the console. “The one of First Order personnel? It works. It’s a bit slow and not up to date. It’s also incomplete, but what we have is comprehensive.”
Poe nods. “How searchable is it? I could just look up someone—?”
“It’s not very intuitive. But I can pull the file for you if you give me a name.”
Poe makes a face, drags a chair over, and sits next to her. “That’s the thing,” he says in a whisper, “I don’t have a name.”
“You’re trying to catch our spy,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Poe looks around, but it’s late. It’s dinnertime and almost everyone is outside under the tarpaulin they use as a mess hall. “Not catch. They’re with us, remember? But, y’know.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand that could imply anything from I’m curious to security concerns.
“Okay. Let’s input some search parameters and we’ll narrow it down, but—” She points a finger at him. “—it’s not up to date, so we might not get anything useful.”
Poe lists what he got from their spy and sees Rose’s shoulders sag with each answer. “What?” he says.
“That’s it? We’re going to get thousands of results.” She fiddles with something on the screen. “Do you know how long he’s been with the Order, at least? Can’t be long if he’s willing to turn, right?”
“I don’t know, but he’s an officer with some sort of bureaucratic job,” Poe says hopefully. When she shakes her head, he deflates. “What would be useful?”
“Actual age, actual job title, rank, homeworld, height,” she says, scrolling through the actual thousands of results.
“Okay, I’ll get something,” he says in a way even he can admit is overconfident.
Can’t sleep, he sends his spy a few nights later in bed after tossing and turning for what turned out to be an hour but felt like six. He feels wired and restless and can’t go up on his ship because they’re low on fuel.
Here’s a lullaby: go to sleep, Rebel scum.
And?? Have you actually heard a lullaby before?
Almost instantly: It’s clear and short. You’re getting a better deal than the younger recruits, he says, not calling them ‘the kidnapped children the First Order brainwashes into disposable killing machines.’ They get old Imperial speeches and other propaganda material to lull them to sleep. It’s very effective.
You don’t say. Just don’t play them First Order-era speeches, okay? The Starkiller one will scar them and give them nightmares for weeks, Poe says. All that deranged shouting. He patiently waits but their spy remains quiet. Maybe it’s not safe for him to reply. Poe tries again. Did you get the same treatment?
It’s common practice in all the Academies, so yes. I first came across it while we still had an empire to fight for. I found it fascinating.
Poe frowns. That narrows things down, age-wise, maybe. You attended an actual Imperial Academy?
No, I was too young to enroll then. I was there because of my father.
Okay, father in the Empire and then in the First Order. Surprising because he agreed with Rose that someone willing to turn would not be a born-and-bred Imperial. Interesting. It must have been nice to get to spend time with your dad while he was working, he says tactfully.
I doubt you truly believe that. It served to entrench me deeper and deeper into the Order’s ideals, he sends. You probably think I’m one of those hopeless, never-had-a-chance cases.
For this, Poe is actually prepared. He sits up in bed and quickly, not wanting to show hesitation that he doesn’t possess, sends back, you have a chance now and once you’re out. There’s life for you after the war.
Poe waits and waits some more. What he gets is disappointing. More deflecting. Are you in bed right now?
Yeah, long day today. Possibly longer tomorrow.
How is your bed? Do you have someone to keep it warm for you?
It’s warm because I’m in it, Poe sends and, in person, it would come across as snappish. He thought they were making some actual progress here.
Is it just you? Who do you usually share it with?
It’s just me. After a moment of hesitation, he adds, Though sometimes it feels like I’m sharing it with you. Poe’s not even trying a line on him. It’s true. It feels as if their spy sleeps right next to him, within arm’s reach. Disembodied words and thoughts accompanying Poe in his most unguarded and contemplative moments.
What could I do if I were in your bed? he says, and Poe can admit it— sure, it’s seductive. He’s not completely immune to it, but—
You could talk to me about why you don’t want to discuss exfiltration.
Exfiltration is another word for rescue.
Very helpful. Poe could’ve gotten that from the holonet. Is it? Kinda sounds like you’re bringing your personal feelings into that interpretation.
Are you illiterate? quickly followed by I guess with your looks I shouldn’t expect much.
Ouch. Asshole. What do you know about my looks?
Just an educated guess I believe to be correct.
Believing you’re correct is your fulltime hobby, right? he sends, and then adds, what’s wrong with a rescue? There’s a reason Poe’s avoided the word. They don’t use it in these situations and big dramatic rescues are for holodramas, anyway. That’s what he’s learned.
‘I can rescue you and, in fact, I will!’ is what he wants to say, to put it out there as a challenge. Before he can, he gets a file.
Latest report. Nothing exciting or very useful. Things are being planned I’m not aware of. Something will happen soon.
He doesn’t respond to Poe’s request for more details and on that ominous note, Poe fails to sleep.
Poe’s working on his X-wing with Beebee when Leia asks for a word. He follows her to the command center, no one else inside, and sits across from her.
“About our spy—” she starts.
“We should be getting a new report in a couple of hours. They said everything’s been disturbingly quiet. They think something big is coming.” With how ominous their spy has been about it, Poe is prepared for anything. A new Starkiller stashed away in the Unknown Regions. Kylo Ren performing some galaxy-wide dark side ritual. Nothing can surprise him.
Leia nods. “I wanted to know if you’ve broached the topic of exfiltration with them.”
Poe shifts in his seat. “Sort of. They’re not receptive.”
“They don’t wish to be extracted from the First Order?”
“They don’t want to discuss it, which—” He shrugs. “—same thing, right?”
Leia turns contemplative and considers him. “Is this a matter of lack of trust or a matter of concern for us? What does your gut tell you?”
“I’ve tried to gain their trust. To be open and get something in return but— we’re words on a screen to each other. For all they know they’re talking to a different person every day.”
“I’m sure your vibrant personality comes through in all your messages,” Leia says, and Poe chuckles. “Should we be worried, then?”
Poe falters. He hasn’t organized all his thoughts and feelings about the spy in easy to understand ways yet and while he knows Leia will listen to whatever he ends up putting together, he doesn’t want to fumble his way there. “They don’t trust us. I don’t think they even trust that we’ll be able to do this, to be honest. From what they’ve said to me, they’re around my age, maybe a little older, and have lived literally their whole life in the Order. I’m not sure they think there is life outside the Order.”
“You’ve mentioned they’re displeased with leadership, though.”
“To say the least,” Poe interjects.
“Could they be planning to lead a splinter cell of the Order into the Unknown Regions and rebuild?”
“If their plan was to carry on with the Order then they’d play along and talk exfiltration with me. And—” He pauses. What he wants to say is sometimes I feel like they want me to put it together. To figure out who they are without them having to tell me. None of that matters, though. What matters is this: “I believe we can trust them. They’ve been reliable so far.”
Talking to Leia helps organize his thoughts about the spy. A guy around his age who was raised in the Order and really, really hates his boss. What was it he said about brainwashing techniques? He found them fascinating. Even as a small child.
“What are you doing here?” Rose asks, coming back from lunch way earlier than Poe expected.
Poe gets right to the point. Why pretend otherwise now? “I need to use this—” He motions to the console, the database loading. “—for twenty to thirty minutes in private. No questions asked.”
“Do I wanna know?” she asks with a grimace. Her eyes widen. “Oh, you caught him?”
“Not— caught. And it’s just a hunch.”
“Is it bad?” she asks carefully.
Well, it’s not good.
My bosses are gone and I’m stuck doing busywork, comes a message that night.
Poe instinctively glares at the screen. Obviously some amount of deception was expected to be at play here, but he feels dumb and weirdly betrayed. He thought their spy was a wounded, lost soul in need of saving and now he’s being forced to reconsider. You’re bored? Where are you? What do I picture here?
I’m in my office. Working. I’m wearing my uniform but my hands are bare.
Scandalous, Poe sends, feeling his annoyance and horror slip through his hands. War doesn’t let you pick your allies and at the end of the day, everyone counts. I’ll entertain you if you talk exfiltration plans with me.
In the event I am caught, while not swift and merciful, my demise will still happen faster than you can mobilize your troops and rescue me. Furthermore, you might decide against a rescue once you discover my identity, says the first message, followed by, There’s no point in discussing this.
I wouldn’t do that, Poe says, and he wouldn’t, even knowing exactly what he’d be temporarily putting aside, the crimes and atrocities they’re talking around. Everyone deserves a chance. You didn’t help us to get it? Fine. I still wanna offer it to you. Take it.
Everyone? What if I’m Kylo Ren?
Poe winces. Then Leia would be happy to have you back, he says and his chest constricts for Leia.
What if I don’t have a mother to vouch for me and welcome me with open arms?
Then I’ll do that. Do you have a better plan?
He doesn’t reply, of course, but Poe wasn’t expecting him to.
A couple of hours later, once he’s asleep, he’s awaken by: I doubt it matters. Something will happen soon, possibly as soon as they return from their off-ship trip, he sends and then, It was nice knowing you but I believe the fun and games part of this is about to end.
Nice? Poe magnanimously decides not to tease him about that. You believe risking your life to aid you enemy is ‘fun and games’? he asks. That doesn’t really fit my vision of a First Order bureaucrat.
I’m sure you consider risking your life the highlight of your days. Hence, your desire to storm into a star destroyer and take me with you.
If I do, will you let me find you? The problem here isn’t even finding him. As it stands, the best-case scenario looks a lot like taking someone against their will for ‘their own good.’ Poe doesn’t want to immediately reward their ally with a prison cell. Someone might, but it doesn’t have to be Poe and it doesn’t have to be in the middle of celebrating peace.
I have imagined it, he sends evasively. You coming to me. For me.
I’m sure it was all very depraved. This has been reliably the one thing that gets him talking and Poe’s getting a little desperate now. Let me guess, I’m in your office and you have me bent over the desk. I’ll be feeling it for days, it’s amazing. Poe lets him picture, want it, maybe, before he sends, I can’t moan your name because I don’t know it, though.
He doesn’t bite. I believe you do know it, he says and nothing else.
That fucker.
During breakfast, he receives another message. Business, this time, and using the emergency code. Not safe to share through this channel. Go to the Sinta system. URGENT.
Somehow, it turns out Poe wasn’t prepared for anything and there are still things that can surprise him.
“What’s with you?” Finn asks him on the Falcon on their way to rescue Chewie.
Poe’s bad mood has been a reliable companion all day. It’s been a tough day but there are things that could easily work out in their favor if some people stopped being stubborn and cooperated. “Nothing,” he says, then, “what if our spy were someone like— Kylo Ren?”
Finn frowns. “Then this day would be even more confusing.” He shakes his head. “It’s not possible.”
“I know it’s not, but what if?”
“Do you want him to be our spy?” Finn asks him, making a horrified face. “He isn’t.”
“I know that, but if he were, he would deserve to get rescued too,” he says, but can feel the comparison isn’t working in his favor.
“I guess. I’m not sure we have the rescue he needs,” Finn says carefully. “Do you want to talk about this with Rey?”
Poe shakes his head. “Okay, new topic: we should give our spy a chance regardless of who he is.”
“This feels a lot like the old topic,” Finn says, and then the discussion is tabled, the more pressing matter of arriving at enemy territory taking priority.
Poe feels a little cheated out of his big rescue when, aboard the Steadfast, Chewie finds them first.
“Buddy!” Poe says, looking him over. “What happened? Did Rey find you?” They split up just a couple of minutes ago so if she did, she works fast.
It turns out Rey did not find him. In fact, Chewie has a much more interesting story to tell.
“Hux released you?” Finn asks slowly and turns to look at Poe, frowning deeply.
“Yep,” Poe says flatly. “Hux released him. I’ll explain later. Where is he now?”
Chewie tells him and even helpfully points the way. Fucking Hux, forcing them to do things the hard way.
He points to Finn and Chewie. “Get to Rey, get to the Falcon, I’ll catch up.” He runs in the opposite direction and, answering Finn’s look of realization, calls out, “someone’s in need of a dramatic rescue.”
It doesn’t turn out to be a very dramatic or impressive rescue. The troopers outside the holding cell even ignore his quips before he has to stun them. He takes the code cylinder from them and steps inside, squints at the disorientingly bright lights overhead.
“You found me,” is all he can hear while his eyes adjust to the glare.
Poe blinks and walks further inside. He stands in front of Hux, manacled to a torture chair and looking somewhat rattled. “No thanks to you. Was this necessary?”
“I believe I gave you all the information you needed to figure it out.”
Poe glares at him and it’s very satisfying to do it to his face and not to a string of numbers. “I get it. You want someone with brains. Can you walk?” he asks before releasing him, examining his injured leg, the blaster wound cauterized.
“I believe so,” Hux says, but sways and slumps right into Poe’s arms as he stands. No one’s actually almost-fainted into Poe’s arms before. He’s heavy.
“Do you need me to carry you?” Poe asks, half-serious and half-teasing. He hopes the answer’s ‘no,’ though. Hux is all bones and long ungainly limbs.
Hux shakily steps back, his grip on Poe's shoulder tight. “No,” he sniffs in what he must consider a highly dignified manner. “And this isn't a rescue.”
Poe rolls his eyes but moves his arm to Hux's waist, his blaster ready on his other hand, as they make their way outside. The hallway is clear but the ship shakes. Could be very good or very bad. “Sure thing. We'll debate this once I've carried you to safety, okay?” As soon as they move, they stumble, out of sync. “Hey, put your arm around my shoulders. We need to coordinate here.”
Hux does, leaning some of his weight on Poe's side. Together, they get an awkward dance going and maneuver. “I’m just carrying forward with plan B,” Hux says, continuing with a conversation only he cares about.
Poe gives him a sidelong glance. “What was Plan A?”
Hux hesitates. “I don’t recall,” he says unconvincingly. “I think I hit my head.”
“Good thing you’re getting rescued, then.”
“I'm pragmatically escaping a possibly literal sinking ship,” Hux says. “I'm moving to strategize at a different venue. Aiding the galaxy—”
His mouth is warm and shocked when Poe shuts him up, their lips quickly pressing together. Hux's eyes close and his lips part. The ship shakes again. Could be promising.