Title: Care for Delicates
Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Rating: PG
Length: 2300 w
Content notes: oblique references to grief and disability
Summary: What if Grumpy Old Men—ice fishing and excellent sweaters and bickering and second chances—but Finn/Poe?


Winter twilight drops suddenly over the town of Deckard, deepening the puddles of slush along the curbs and staining the snow. The horizon, just beyond the rise, is bruised lilac. The lacy-with-rust, squared-off 4x4 truck climbing the road up to D'qard Groves was not out of place down in town. There, hardy old vehicles, trucks and station wagons with serious tires, stud both main street and residential side streets. Up this winding road, where the houses are much bigger and set farther back, and the trees are older, thicker, and taller, the rattling old truck stands out. This time of day, vehicles like this ought to be descending the road, leaving after finishing landscaping and housecleaning shifts, heading to the bar or diner.

The truck turns up a long driveway lined with spruce and birch trees. In the rapidly dwindling light, they look like slim bones shining out of dark, scored flesh. Just one of the truck's headlights shines at full power; the other flickers and manages, at best, a dim glow that merely reminds the viewer that the driveway is lined with plowed-up snowbanks. One of those snowbanks blocks the turn for the carriage house, but after a few attempts, the truck manages to mount the bank and bounce down into its usual parking place.

Well after that, after the driver entered the carriage house, then reappeared with a small dog on a leash, the truck tinkles and grumbles as it shuts down.

*

Poe lets the leash out as far as it'll go, so BB can run. He's not tall enough to ford the snow, however, so he bounds as best he can on his stumpy little legs up the middle of the driveway. Poe hurries after him.

There are three more houses down the driveway, but the lights are on only in one, the Morlands'. The second belongs to a couple who lives in the city; they only use the house on the weekends, and then not every weekend. The third house, where the driveway ends, is the largest. Everything down this driveway used to belong to the big house, before things started getting parcelled out and cut up.

As he ambles after BB, Poe waves to Finn, the visiting scholar who's house-sitting for the Morlands while they do their sabbatical in Ecuador. Maybe it was Costa Rica. Somewhere very warm and awash with color, at any rate. The opposite of the frigid monochrome reality up here.

Oddly, rather than turning back to work after the perfunctory wave, Finn sets down his shovel and hurries over to chat. Poe has to whistle and bribe BB to come back. After being cooped up inside most of the day, he's wigglier and more conveniently deaf than ever.

"I invited him out to the shanty," Poe says. "Turned me down."

"I can't imagine why," Finn replies. "Hours on a frozen lake doesn't sound like the best time."

Poe shrugs. "Maybe for you. Best time of my week, hands down."

He expects that to be the end of it, or, at best, a little more faux-disbelief at how anyone could enjoy that. Instead, Finn gets a serious look on his face—slight frown, pucker between his eyebrows. "Huh," he says, as if he's really thinking about it, "that's interesting."

"Don't know about that," Poe says, "but it's true, at least."

"I'd like to try it," Finn says. "Ice-fishing."

"Yeah? You should come sometime." Poe extends the invitation the way he always does: sincerely, but with little [HOPE???] of ever having to come through.

"What do you do with the fish?"

"Throw 'em back," Poe says, "except for what I eat. Usually, if it's pike or some other slimy bastard, it goes back. Today, though, I got three pretty walleye. Kept 'em all."

"Good eating?"

"Oh, man! The best."

"Feel like sharing?"

"Sure, any time, like I said." BB is weaving around Poe's legs, anxious to get back to running, and Poe has to bend and twist to untangle the leash.

"How about tonight?"

Finn's voice was mild, as it had been throughout their conversation. Poe didn't follow his meaning, not at first, so when he looks up, confused, he's startled to see Finn looking at him intently. There's focus in Finn's expression, even a hint of nervousness, not that Poe would ever be able to say how he knew any of that.

"Tonight?"

"I have to finish this shovelling and submit some grades, but — tonight, yes," Finn says and smiles. He's rubbing BB's head but looking at Poe.

"Yeah, great!" Poe says. He wanted to sound enthusiastic, but overshot and realizes he's coming off as demented. He coughs and tries again. "Wonderful, just wonderful!"

Poe winces at his own stupid voice. He's pretty sure that Finn is probably too young to think of Lawrence Welk when he hears that. He hopes like hell, anyway.

*

In the years since the crash, Poe's life has shrunk considerably. Nowadays, it fits easily within the drafty confines of his truck, the snug walls of the carriage house, even (perhaps especially) the narrow area, barely wider than an old La-Z-Boy and a small camp stove, of his ice shanty. He no longer needs, nor expects, much more than what will fit his body.

Back in the carriage house, Poe cannot decide whether to clean and prep the fish first, then shower, or the other way around. He's clumsy, shivering slightly despite the warmth in here; once he does get into the shower, he forgets momentarily where he keeps the soap.

His surroundings have shifted; his reach is no longer quite as short as it has been.

When he gets out, towel around his neck and fresh briefs on, he riffles, again and again, through his clothes, tossing likely candidates on the bed and his reading chair. Everything is heavy, warm, and dark. The wildest anything gets is a red plaid shirt he rarely wears, entirely because it is so bright.

He's been dressing for comfort and utility for so long, Poe has forgotten what clothes are appropriate, let alone what might look nice.

BB solves the immediate problem by jumping onto the bed and curling up atop the red shirt. When someone raps at the door, he sniffs the air, sighs, and puts his head back down.

"Some guard dog," Poe mutters, going to answer it.

"You need to get that truck of yours serviced," Hux says as he lets himself in. "Its very existence brings down property values."

"Evening to you, too, putz."

"Oh, I'm sorry, fathead." Hux says. "Am I interrupting?"

Poe snaps the towel around his neck. "Obviously!"

"What could you possibly have to do that requires...what are you wearing?"

"That's the thing. I don't know. What am I wearing?"

Hux pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to go. "I'll come back."

"Nah, stay. What did you come up here for?"

Hux ignores the question. "You need to shave. You look like a diversity hire for the role of Unabomber."

"Beard's good insulation."

"If you're a chainsaw-wielding maniac, perhaps."

Poe unfolds his favorite blue sweater and holds it up under his chin. "What about this?"

"For what, precisely? Ragpicking?"

Poe drops the sweater onto the back of the chair. "What's ragpicking?"

"Perhaps mudlarking. Graverobbing. Flesh-peddling?" Cocking his head, Hux paints on a wan, insincere smile. "Any activity better suited to the vagrants and destitute of yesteryear. That jumper has to be thirty years old."

Poe shrugs. "Maybe? It was old when I got it."

"You don't say."

"I like it."

"It's more holes and pills than garment, Dameron."

"Yeah, I was wondering about that." Poe picks at a large pill, but it refuses to budge, merely pulls out on a long thread. "How do I get these off?"

"You're not really asking me, are you?"

"You always look..." He pauses, tries to think of a non-insulting way to phrase stuck up and overpriced. "Neat. Pulled together?"

Hux smooths his hand down the front of his sweater. "Why, thank you. I didn't think you noticed. Or were capable of noticing."

"Forget it."

"You're nearly fifty and you don't know how to remove pills from woollens. Nor, obviously, anything about best care for delicates."

"Fine! Yes! What about it?"

"I shouldn't be surprised, of course."

"Could you get out of my house, please?"

When Hux picks up the sweater, Poe has to quell the urge to grab it back. He'd worn that sweater on some of his best trips; he'd worn it, too, he remembered now, out to a nice dinner with Leia once. Having become damn near obsessed with a farm- and gun-to-table restaurant deep in rural Manitoba, she finagled a reservation with her usual unflustered confidence. Just twelve guests were accepted at any one time, which frankly struck Poe as an unnecessarily Biblical bad omen.

He'd dressed nicely in the outfit she laid out for him, but it was much colder on the drive than he'd expected. Leia didn't remove her parka, while he dug out this sweater from the back of the truck. Inside the restaurant, despite the smoky fires, it was nearly as cold, so he gave the sweater to Leia to wear over her dress. She all but swam in it, yet still managed to look glorious.

"Good Shetland wool, I'm impressed. Sweater shaver should do it," Hux says as he hands the sweater back to Poe.

"Like, a razor?"

Amusement skitters across Hux's pinched face. "Oh, yes. Exactly like a razor."

"What did you want, Hugs?"

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry, Hugglesworth? That better?"

"Your truck —"

"That reminds me," Poe says. "Stop plowing in my driveway. Nobody else gets that treatment."

"Because nobody else is quite like you." Hux smiles acidly.

Poe stands by the door, hand on the knob, and glares meaningfully at Hux. The carriage house wasn't exactly large enough to let him herd Hux out; this was the next best thing. "In or out, your call."

"I'm not a dog."

"No, my dog's a lot smarter." He has made this joke before, many times, but it was good one. Reliable, like his sweater. "Way better at picking up obvious cues."

"I came by to say that both Mr. Mehta and the Andersons have contacted us to complain about that truck of yours."

Poe turns the knob back and forth, enjoying the clicking sound. "It passed inspection."

"It's a menace, an environmental disaster, and a nuisance. They can hear it from their homes, Dameron. Get it serviced."

"Or what?" Poe asks, opening the door now. "You can't throw me out. That's been established."

"Hello," Hux says, suddenly pleasant, even smiling. "Good evening."

Poe checks outside, only to see Finn waiting on the steps, a bottle of wine in one mittened hand. He's bundled up in one of those expensive parkas the students favor and a scarlet cabled muffler. "Shit! Did you knock? Come in, come in."

Finn tries to step back. "You're —"

"I'm just getting ready, come in —"

"Well." Hux crosses his arms and looks them over. Poe is cold and mostly naked, while Finn stands there, stomping snow off his boots and unwinding his scarf. "Take his wine, Dameron. Help the man." To Finn, he adds, "Forgive Poe. He's barely civilized at the best of times."

"You know each other," Finn says, making it less a question than a point of irony.

"He's my—. Because of —. We're...fuck, I don't know." Poe tries to shoo Hux out again.

"My husband's late mother was his lover," Hux says smoothly. "So we are, in fact, nothing to each other."

"If only," Poe says, finally succeeding in getting Hux to the threshold, only for Hux to turn again and shake Finn's hand.

"Do try to have a decent time," he says to Finn, clasping Finn's hand with both of his and speaking low and intent. "If you'd like a nightcap, just stop by..."

Poe slips past them and pulls on the first pair of pants he can reach, and then his thermal shirt and the blue sweater. This isn't a date, this is just unexpected dinner with a temporary neighbor, so it doesn't matter what he wears. His agitation has leaked away, and he's left feeling sluggish and, somehow, embarrassed. His house is tiny and smells like dog. He dresses like a mountain man. He hates Hux, yet talks to him more than just about anyone other than BB. He's old and sad and long, long past his expiration date.

"It's a twist-off cap," Finn says when Hux is finally gone, the fish is in the pan, and Poe's rattling through the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew. "I didn't know what went with walleye."

"Beer," Poe tells him. "Schlitz. Usually. I'm just — I'm not a cook."

"It smells good, though." Finn seems unperturbed by all of this. He touches the pan's handle. "Should I flip them?"

"Yeah, please, that's good."

"What's the coating?"

Poe leans against the wall and laughs a little. Nothing's actually funny, yet, from a god's eye point of view, he is hilarious. "Half Ritz crackers, half store-brand Saltines. And some oyster crackers I got with soup last week and forgot to eat."

He waits for a joke, but Finn just nods. "Cool. Can I do anything else?"

"That's it," Poe tells him. "You've met Hux already, huh?"

"They came by the night I moved in," Finn says. "Your — what, your son in law?"

"Ben." Poe's sinuses burn and he swallows rapidly. "He's not my — whatever. I lived with his mom, sure, but —"

"You're about the same age," Finn finishes for him.

"He'd like you to know he's three years younger, actually," Poe says. He doesn't want to talk about Ben. He misses Leia like he misses his eye. He checks the fish. "We can take those off now."

"I like your sweater." Finn takes the pan from Poe's hand and sets it aside.

"It looks like shit," Poe tells him. "But it's my favorite."

Finn's hand is on his shoulder, his thumb strumming absently at a few pills. "It's broken in."

"I think that's for jeans," Poe says. "And boots."

Finn doesn't reply, not out loud. His fingertips skate along the raglan diagonal running up to the collar. His skin isn't dry, not like Poe's, so none of the pills or tiny holes catches at the motion. Nothing slows it down. Soon, his fingertips brush the hollow of Poe's throat, the edge of his beard.

Poe's link to gravity shudders, then frays.