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WHO: Poe Dameron
WHERE: Outside the Cassidy (#3)
WHEN: February 7th
OPEN TO: Stella Gibson
WARNINGS: Undoubtedly lots of flirting, will update if anything changes
STATUS: ongoing

When he had gotten up that morning, Poe had been freezing. Now, he's used to sleeping on a military base, such as it was, and being part of the Resistance meant dealing with things like not having enough money to keep the heating systems working every minute of the day, so a cold morning isn't totally foreign to him. What had been foreign was waking up without hearing BB-8's chirping, without being able to fumble his hand across the messy table by his bed to activate his holo-clock so he could figure out what time it was.

This planet's sun is so far away. He hasn't yet learned how to estimate the time of day based on its positioning.

After greeting Rey and sharing the leftovers from their pitiful dinner the night before, Poe had decided he was going to tackle the mess that was their house. It's obviously been standing empty for months, and since he didn't have anything else to do, he decided he was going to do something about that. As the temperature slowly climbed, he flung open all the windows and doors, even going so far as to haul their bedding out over the railing so he could beat the hell out of them to dislodge dust and dirt and air them out a little. Once that was dealt with, and he'd grown too hot to keep his long-sleeved top on, he'd decided to tackle the sludgy mess that was their front aspect.

He'd borrowed a broom, which made cleaning the path to their door a lot easier, and even begged a bucket off someone so he could take a rag and some hot water and wash down the muddy white-painted trim. Poe learned early on, from long summers being forced to re-paint the fences around the Dameron compound, that the easiest way to keep from having to do a big repair job was to do little maintenance work throughout the year. If he has time, he might even try to sort out the whole firewood situation, since the wood-burning furnace in the cellar eats up an astonishing amount of wood, and he knows how much he and Rey both appreciate having hot water on tap.

Getting into a comfortable rhythm, he starts to whistle to help pass the time as he works, a cheerful Yavinese melody that warbles through the clear air like birdsong.

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The weather has, of late, been too unpredictable to spend much time outside; Stella's found herself cooped up indoors to avoid the lightning storms. She's managed to occupy herself by cleaning the interior of her own house a bit more — a perpetual task, it seems like — but it's cabin fever, or something like it, that finally motivates her to go out and take a walk, even if it's just over to the inn for a cup of herbal tea.

The temperature is certainly an improvement, and for now there are very few clouds overhead threatening lightning at any moment. She's wearing the pale blue button-front blouse she got from a gift box a few weeks ago, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to her elbows in a concession to the warmer weather, and the matching navy blue tailored trousers, the tail of her shirt neatly tucked in; like this, she almost manages to feel something like herself, or at least more so than when wearing the scrubs.

Stella's not really intending to stop, but movement catches her from her peripheral vision and she glances over to see a man washing the dirt-stained trim on the front of his house, only a short distance from hers — they're almost neighbors. He's young, perhaps in his thirties, and she allows herself a moment, in a way she hasn't really with anyone since she's been here, to appreciate the taut flex of muscle under skin as he works.

He's distracted enough not to have noticed her yet; she steps a little closer, interrupts him smoothly from a short distance away, raising her voice just enough to be heard. "I'd finish that today, if I were you." Her brows arch slightly. "Before we've got two feet of snow again."

Or worse, the way things have been.

People have been milling around since Poe arrived — humans, only, it's very strange to him when he thinks about it, used as he is to all sorts of alien species occupying the same space — so movement out of the corner of his eye isn't entirely unusual. The slow pace the woman walks at is another indicator that he doesn't have to be worried about her approach, so he continues on his mission to keep the dirt and debris off the front of his little brick house, only stopping when she calls out to him.

Balanced on one foot on the railing, his free hand clutching at one of the pillars so he won't fall as he leans precariously outwards so he can reach part of the eaves, he twists his body enough that he can see the woman calling to him, her blonde hair shining in the weak afternoon sun.

"Seriously?" he asks, his eyebrows lifting high, nearly disappearing under the tousled curls that have tumbled across his forehead without the usual product he uses to tame them into submission. He heaves a dramatic sigh, muttering "this place really is like Hoth," under his breath, and then nimbly jumps down to land with a wet squelch in the muddy grass below. Slinging his cloth over his shoulder like a mechanic, he wipes his palms on his soft green trousers as he approaches her, sticking out a hand in greeting.

"I'm Poe," he announces, when he's close enough that they're not shouting across his lawn at each other. "I'm new. Are we really in for more snow?"

Edited 2017-02-08 19:06 (UTC)

"Impossible to say," Stella concedes, "but a month or two ago we had nothing but. When I first arrived, it was well below freezing. I wouldn't count on it remaining warm like this."

Which is unfortunate, but she doesn't anticipate this weather lasting, unless it has finally decided to be spring in the village.

She takes his offered hand, her grip assertive without being over-firm. "Stella Gibson." There's a pause, and then a slight, dry smile. "Poe? As in Edgar Allan?"

It doesn't occur to her he might miss the reference.

The way Poe's face scrunches up should make it pretty clear just what he thinks about snow.

"Damn, I was hoping this would be the worst of it."

Does he ever miss Yavin IV now, with its only two seasons. Wet and dry seem far more manageable now, that he's not entrenched in that, especially now that he's got to deal with snow and its run-off with the threat of more on the horizon.

He shakes her hand with a similarly firm grip, no concession given to the fact that she's female. Her strange remark gets a quirked eyebrow from him, but he doesn't seem offended, just slightly bemused. "Poe as in Dameron," he corrects, a smile curling his lips in acknowledgement of the fact that her reference went right over his head. With how vast the galaxy is, though, that's not exactly surprising, and he doesn't seem to mind much. "I don't know Edgar Allan."

Stella feels much the same, honestly. It's not as if it doesn't snow in London, but it's mild compared to what the last couple of months in the village have been like. She's only lucky that, between her and Peggy, they've enough firewood for the furnace and the stove to be sure their house stays relatively warm.

There's a certain boldness, a confidence about him — it's there in his manner and in the way he shakes her hand, not treating her delicately or with some sort of forced chivalry or over-politeness because she's a woman. It's not machismo or bravado, either; it's more as if he is simply taking her seriously, treating her as a person on equal footing with him.

This is not totally out of the ordinary, of course, and it's actually in line with the sort of behavior she's been encountering in men she's met in the village recently — but all the same it's enough to have Stella paying more attention to him than she was before.

It should be clear Dameron doesn't ring any bells for her, either, but that doesn't seem to put her off. "Right," she says. There's a moment's pause, and then, with another of those slight smiles, "He was a poet. American. Quite famous."

She'd always found Edgar Allan Poe depressing, actually, but that's neither here nor there. Stella changes the topic deftly.

"So, you're new. I imagine someone told you a bit about the village."

"Oh," he breathes, his eyebrows lifting. American means nothing to him, but the fact that he's a poet... That's interesting. Poe is quite fond of poetry, an interest fostered by his father, who was always something of a romantic and who loved to try and foster the same tendencies in his son. "I don't suppose you have any of his poetry here, do you? I'd be quite interested to read it."

Once the handshake breaks, Poe settles his hand on his hips for lack of anywhere else to put them, absently missing the feel of his flight-suit beneath his palms. It feels strange to be standing around in soft fabric that isn't bunched up about his waist, just waiting for him to slide it back on and zip it up so he can settle into his X-Wing and take off at a moment's notice. There's an itch under his skin that he's been trying to ignore, trying to suppress by keeping busy, and he knows it's all to do with the fact that he's trapped here, that he has no plane and no way to build one. He hasn't been truly grounded since he was six years old, and it's already starting to wear on him.

"A little," he concedes, lifting one shoulder. "I wouldn't mind a refresher, though. I'm still having difficulty wrapping my head around all...this." He lifts a hand to wave it lazily around, encompassing this entire bizarre situation.

"I'm afraid we're rather short on reading material." She knows a few people were gifted books for the holidays — Stella herself got a copy of Moby Dick — but other than that, they've not been given much, which is a shame.

She's looking him over as he talks, a brief examination, entirely nonthreatening but not entirely disinterested. Certainly not disinterested. Stella's noticed he's an attractive man, and there's something about his casual boldness that she likes. Her mouth tilts in a slight smile, though whether it's in response to his words or simply because she likes what she sees... well, it could well be both.

"We've been kidnapped and trapped here by a group of people no one's ever seen or heard, forced to survive more or less on our own. Occasionally we're bestowed with gifts, but they don't seem to come without an eventual cost. I've been under the impression it's a social experiment of sorts."

There are more details, some of which are a little grisly and probably not fit for this particular conversation. Stella pauses, then glances up at the sky, and a slight frown creases her brows. There are clouds starting to build, and they're standing right out in the grass, easy targets.

"You've seen the lightning recently? We may want to get out of the open. I wouldn't like to tempt fate." Or the observers, or whatever happens to be causing this bizarre weather.

"Well that's too bad." He'd rather liked the idea of being able to sit on his porch — once it was cleaned properly — with a book in his hand, but if they don't have much, then he'll just have to make do with remembered poetry instead.

Her explanation of what's happening to them is met with a serious look. She's not telling him anything he hasn't heard before, but he'd rather hoped someone as sensible as Stella appears to be would have had different information. Better information. Hell, he'd settle for more information at this point.

The look she's giving him doesn't escape his notice, and he can't help straightening up and squaring his shoulders a little, an unconscious response to an assessing gaze. She's a beautiful woman and he'd have to be dead not to react to a look like that, and Poe is very definitely not dead.

"Oh?" He looks up at the sky, his eyes narrowing. He hasn't had much to do with the lightning yet, he's only been here for a few days, but he's not dumb. He knows what she's asking. "Well, I'm afraid I don't have much to offer in the way of refreshments, but if you'd like a glass of water, I can certainly provide that..."

If he wants to know something specific, he might have to ask her specific questions — although, really, what she's just told him is as accurate a short summary as she has. Stella certainly has her theories, but they're just that: theories. In reality, everyone here is varying degrees of in the dark about what's going on.

The lightning isn't entirely an excuse to get him indoors, of course. Stella has very real concerns about being struck, especially when the weather here doesn't seem to act anything like what she's used to at home. But it is also convenient, and he's plainly noticed her interest, and she's approached enough men like this to realize the interest is mutual. Stella's not especially good at the sort of coy teasing flirtation many women engage in by default — she's actually been told she's more masculine, in that sense — but there are steps to this dance, and sometimes she enjoys seeing where they lead.

"Aside from a few very resourceful individuals, I think we're all suffering from a bit of a shortage." She gestures, briefly, toward the house. "If you don't mind?"

The words are polite, but there's something in that lingering slight smile that's more curiosity than good manners.

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