#seriously I woke up this morning like. i had a memory of me an herr forehead (herr babygirl /ref) talking

[sega-saturn-arcade]

The upside of clear audio memories: i get to hear whoever’s voice super clear :]]

The downside of audio memories: What the fuck was the context

[extraneousaccessories]

October 5th, 1919. Paris, France.

If anyone is still reading this ridiculousness, thank you for your patience, and my heartfelt apologies for taking six months to write ten pages. We all have Regina Spektor to thank for prodding me in the feelings.

The noise in the bar crashed onto Poe’s ears in cacophonous waves, pressing into his mind and driving out the ghosts, at least for a little while. They seemed to occupy his thoughts more than they ever had and he wondered, briefly, if the long days of autumn had brought them back. He had dreamed in his trench, of course, they all had. Even Bertie had woken screaming in the night, only calming when Poe placed a bayonet in his hand and sat beside his bed, the lantern light deepening the shadows under their eyes. He had expected the terrors to fade when the war was over and they had, for a time. He gave the scarred and pitted wood of the bar a rueful grin. The endless worry about the treaty-about Herr Skywalker-had taken up all the space his thoughts had to give in those few awful months, but now the nightmares were back, and not even his endless hours at the steel mill could keep them at bay. He tumbled into his bed exhausted and slept poorly,  chased in his dreams by pale, insubstantial figures that spoke with the voice of machine gun fire and took the shapes of faces long dead. He had heard somewhere that it was impossible to dream a face you had never seen, and he shivered, wondering where his mind had pulled the hollow-eyed figures that stalked him through the French mud every night.

The whiskey burned in his throat, easing the chill that had crept into his shoulders. He had shunned the Jolie Rose, opting instead for a soldier’s bar on the outskirts of the red light district. The whiskey was cheaper, the music racier, and the company more sparse. Best of all, what company there was was inclined to violent outbursts over the barest whiff of an insult. Fights were common, injuries even more so, and every regular in the place was just as keen as he was to break bones and skin to escape the demons on their heels. A conversation with rich potential was brewing to his left, where a grizzled old man sat nursing a pint of awful beer. Everything about him screamed navy, and he was bearing the endless chatter of the three young pilots beside him with the patience of ages. The boys looked like Poe felt, lost in the aftermath of the war and knowing that raining death from the skies was the only thing that made them feel really alive. They were new at the bar, and Poe guessed by their manner they he travelled around a fair bit. The blonde fellow doing the most of the talking didn’t have the kind of personality that lets a person be a regular anywhere for very long. The old navy dog just sat there and took it while the pilots waxed on and on about the war, pushing, and pushing. It couldn’t last, Poe knew, and as he reached this conclusion, the blonde kid said the unforgivable.

“Well, I heard the crew on the Gallia were spotting for the Jerries anyway. Probably manned the signal light, didn’t you?”

Silence fell instantly. The old man took a sip of his beer and set it gently on the bar.Such care, Poe thought distantly, for a man about to start something. “You want to say that again, monsieur?” His cracked voice was low, and far too polite to be safe, “So everyone can hear you?”

“You heard what I said,” the pilot sneered, “You’re probably one of those dirty swabs who could ride a torpedo from here to Calcutta.”

“At least I have a torpedo,” the old man said flatly, and caught the kid a square hit on the jaw. The darkened room was mostly chaos after that. The pilot contingency put up a fairly decent showing for their fallen comrade, but soon the table of navy regulars in the corner had emptied, coming to the aid of the old man and, within moments, the whole bar was involved in something or other.

Poe caught a wicked upper cut on his jaw that sent him reeling away from the bar, stumbling into the unsympathetic arms of an burly man with a beard that looked like it was ready to grow a life of its own somewhere away from his face. He growled wordlessly, shoving Poe away and following up with a wide, sweeping roundhouse, which he dodged easily. Now that his head had stopped ringing a bit, he could feel his blood singing with the joy of the fight, the heady rush of adrenaline that drove away the dark and sharpened the world into a narrow space of blood, flesh, and bone. As he sank a fist into the burly man’s ribs, a part of him protested that this wasn’t what might be called a respectable way to spend his evening, but he was long past caring, throwing himself into the fight with reckless abandon.

*

Something cold tickled his face. Blackness began to let him go slowly, with regret. He groaned as feeling came back to various pieces of his body and they began to scream at him, reminding him that whatever he had been drinking last night had probably been an awful idea. “E-excusez-moi, monsieur,” said a small voice somewhere above him, “Are you alright?” Poe blinked muzzily, raising a protesting arm to shade his eyes from the bright point of light above him.

“Whatssit?”he mumbled, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.

“Papa!” He registered a lace petticoat and small leather shoes which scurried away as he attempted to sit up. He was nearly successful, but his head began to spin sickeningly, so he decided it was probably best to just leave it resting on the rough wood below him and let the waves of nausea wash over him.

Where was he? What the hell had happened last night? He could remember fragments; they exploded behind his eyes in horrible bursts of colour. The bottle smashing on his head. Several pints of...something with the navy lads. Rain? Possibly? He couldn’t tell. It might have been sweat that had made his hair stick to his scalp like that. Waving away the offer of a hand home. Stupid. He obviously hadn’t made it.

He started as he heard a new voice approaching him from what seemed like a long way off.

“Oui, Madeleine, I heard you.”

“But Papa, he fell out of the cabbages!” Oh. Cabbage. That was the cool tickly thing resting against his hand.

"Oui, Madeleine."

A shadow blocked out the searing light above him. Poe was grateful for the respite and inclined to say so, but his face was very heavy. In fact, now that it had come to his attention, his lips felt cracked and almost certainly swollen. More and more of the night before was coming back to him. Oh yes, it had been chalked full of terrible choices. It had probably been the fist connecting with his jaw that made his neck and face feel like they were made of wood instead of flesh.

"'M sorry about your cabbages, monsieur," he murmured, trying to lift at least half of his face off of what he now realized was a floor.

"They've seen worse, I'm quite sure," Someone knelt down beside him. Strong hands helped pull him up onto his hands and knees, "Though I'm less sure about you. Frankly, it looks as though you may have seen better days."

"And worse," Poe assured him, though he was less and less sure of that as feeling came back to more of his body. Knees were alright. He didn't think he was ready for feet yet, but the hands switched to grab him under the arms and pull him to his feet with surprising ease.

"You'll have to tell me of it sometime," There was a soft grunt from beside him as his arm was looped over a pair of bony shoulders, "but for now, monsieur, I expect you need some care and a place to sleep that is softer than my cabbage bin."

Poe was about to protest that if this person could just get him back to the apartment, he had a perfectly serviceable bed, but his rescuer led him out into bright early morning sun and it was all he could manage to stay mostly upright as his head pounded under the onslaught. Mercifully, the walk in the sun was not a long one and he soon found himself under the comforting shade of a roof. The smell of frying bacon wafted through the air and Poe could hear the chatter of several female voices as he was led to a back stairway.

"Long night, was it, monsieur?" asked his host.

Poe nodded. "Longest I've had in a long time," he admitted as they reached the top of the stairs. New tender places were opening up on his body the more he moved it and he was beginning to fear that he had seriously injured himself in that fight last night. It had gone on longer than usual, but he couldn't remember anything more serious than a couple of hits to the ribs. Nothing that would warrant him feeling like he had been trampled by the entire French cavalry. Twice. He wasn't sure he would have made it home. Actually, come to think of it, he wasn't even sure he knew where home was from here.

"Then some rest will do you good," the man said firmly as he opened the door to a sparsely furnished bedroom. The sheets were a clean crisp white and possibly the best thing Poe had seen in the last week. The bed was soft and he sighed in appreciation as the old man helped him into it. "Sleep," the man said, though the order was completely unnecessary. He was asleep before his head hit the lace edged pillowcase.

Poe woke thick tongued and sore some hours later, after sunset by the low light that greeted him when he chanced opening his eyes. The bed creaked beneath him as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His head had stopped spinning and the pain in his face had faded to a dull ache.

"Pardon me for saying so, monsieur," said a voice from his right, "but you look thoroughly dreadful.

Poe sat up, looking toward the dim outline of a figure seated on a three-legged stool by the door. There was a suggestion of a beard and his fogged memory provided a picture of sharp blue eyes. "There is water on the table beside you, if you want it."

"I do, thank you," Poe croaked. His lip was still tender and the water stung the cracked flesh, but it was cool on his throat. He gulped at it, unaccountably thirsty, and coughed as his abused body rejected his overzealous attempt to make amends.

"Slowly does it," chuckled the voice in the corner. It was a smooth voice and cultured, with the barest hint of an accent Poe didn't recognize. "You've had a difficult day."

"Yeah," Poe agreed, eyes watering. He set the water down, studying the man on the stool. Now that he was no longer thinking through a fog of drink and pain, he had questions. "I don't wish to seem ungrateful, monsieur,” he began, “but why am I here? And where is here, exactly?”

“I am told that in the great and infinite space of our universe, there is a reason for our mortal existence,” the man said, sounding amused, “but in regards to your immediate situation, I am Monsieur Kenobi and you are sitting in my guest bed, in large part due to your good fortune in my granddaughter finding you out in my cabbage bin. You look as though you’ve been in a fight. A losing one, I might add.”

“Yes,” Poe’s mind raced to keep up with the man’s reasoning. It was difficult, considering the many gaps in his memory of the past forty-eight hours. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Monsieur Kenobi laughed, a rich, genuine sound, “My dear boy, why would that bother me?”

Poe flushed, “I don’t think I gave you an entirely respectable first impression.” He thought back to his blurred trip up the stairs, the chatter of female voices. “And this seems a respectable house. I…” he hesitated, “well, in your shoes, sir, I would have called the gendarmes and left it at that.”  

“Tell me, Monsieur...”

“Dameron,” Poe supplied, “Poe Dameron.”

“Are you familiar with the teachings of Christ, Monsieur Dameron? With his life as it has been told to us?”

“Vaguely,” Poe allowed, thinking of his mother’s secret piety and his father’s steadfast atheism. Sunday school had not been a part of his childhood.

“Well, suffice to say that he did not spend much of his time with respectable citizens.” There was a rustling sound as Monsieur Kenobi shifted on his stool. “You were in need. I have been called to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. It was not a matter of respectability.”

“I...see.”

“You think me mad, no doubt.” Poe could hear the smile in the man’s voice and wondered how obvious his disbelief had been. “Let me put it a different way, monsieur. If you wanted to do me or my granddaughters harm, run off with our possessions, say, how well do you think you would manage?”

“Poorly.”

“At best,” the man said bluntly. “I appreciate your concern on my behalf, monsieur, but you look about able to tackle a bowl of cereal. Regardless of my reasons, you are in no place to do me harm. If it gives you any comfort,” he added kindly, “your second impression has been more than respectable.”

“I…” Poe felt overwhelmed by this stranger’s kindness and found himself unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He wanted to protest that he was the last person to be deserving of such charity, that in fact what he deserved for his recent conduct was a firm dressing down and probably a slap to round things out. It hadn’t been a rough night so much as a rough several months and he felt a prickling of shame at how far he had slipped. “Thank you, monsieur,” he said at last. “I’m not sure what you see that is worthy of respect and I don’t know how I can repay you, but thank you in any case.”

“I have no need of repayment,” Monsieur Kenobi said, raising himself slowly to his feet, “though if you are feeling well in the morning, I am quite sure that an extra pair of hands would not go amiss.” He paused at the door, as though he had forgotten something in the room. “Do you have anyone waiting for you at home, Monsieur Dameron?” he asked.

Poe felt a cold wash of guilt as he thought of Bertie worrying, wondering where he was. “Yes. Mr. Brown. May I give you his address.”

“Certainly.” The main listened patiently and repeated the numbers back to him. “I will see that he knows you are safe and relatively well.”

“Again, thank you, monsieur.”

“It is no trouble at all,” Monsieur Kenobi assured him. “Now rest. I will wake you for breakfast.”

Poe stared up at the dark ceiling for a long time, listening to the quiet sounds of life in the house around him. When he finally drifted into sleep, he did not dream.

Outside Berlin, Germany.

"You did what?" Luke looked up from the evening paper at the sound of his sister's raised voice floating down the hall. He heard a corresponding sniff from across the room and looked over the edge of the paper. A small girl sat as close to the edge of the sofa as she could without falling right off of it, arms wrapped tight about her body. He might have described her as pitiful, hunched in the rich room with her ragged clothing, hair drawn back into matted buns, shrinking from the sound of Leia's ire, if it hadn't been for the look of pure venom she shot him the moment she noticed his eyes upon her.

They had been sitting in the hall for nearly twenty minutes in stubborn silence since Han had returned from his orphanage tour. He had ushered the little one into the house like an errant schoolchild, giving Luke an embarrassed shrug. “I couldn’t leave her there, Luke.” Luke had rustled his newspaper and said nothing. The girl had hidden behind Han’s back, glaring suspiciously at everyone and everything. “I just couldn’t.” “I understand,” Luke had said. And he did. The poor girl looked like a skeleton, the bones of her face standing out stark and terrible under the ground in grime that covered her face. Her long hair hung in lanky strings from the structurally compromised buns and her eyes had the wide, blank look of the perpetually hopeless and very hungry. The question in Luke’s mind wasn’t why Han had brought an orphan home; it was why he had only brought one. Leia, of course, had had a very different reaction. He was fairly certain it was mostly the regular shock that resulted from her unstoppable force once again meeting Han’s moveable conscience. It bit him at odd times, and Luke suspected there was a part of Leia that rebelled at the  change in plans more than anything else.

"Don't let it bother you," he said quietly, gesturing toward the stairs.

"It doesn't." The little chin lifted defiantly and Luke struggled to keep the smile from his face.

"Of course." He rose from his chair, taking good note of the way the girl's arms dropped immediately to her side, every muscle tensed as she watched him walk to the sidecart. "Would you care for a drink of water?"

She eyed him suspiciously as he poured a glass for himself. He waited expectantly, holding the pitcher over a cup until she nodded once, the buns bouncing on her head. The trickle of the water into the crystal glass echoed in the silence. "May I join you on the sofa?" Luke asked as he returned, careful to hold the glass out where she could see his hand. She glared stubbornly up at him for a long moment before sliding over the barest inch. "Thank you." He passed her the glass of water and she took it with exaggerated care, sipping at the water as though she was afraid it wasn't quite real. He collected his own cup and perched carefully beside her.

"What's your name, child?"

"Rey." Her voice was so quiet he could hardly hear her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Rey. My name is Luke." Rey said nothing, but she tucked her knees up to her chest, scooting the barest inch further into the comfort of the sofa as she clutched the glass of water tight in her bony fingers, as though she didn’t trust the luxurious fabric. They sat quiet, listening to the growing unrest from the floor above as Han's voice rose to contend with Leia's.

"Do you live here?" Rey's eyes were wide as she looked around the sitting room.

"Yes."

"In this whole room?" Something tightened in Luke's throat.

"Well...yes, sort of."

“And you don’t share it with anyone at all?” She demanded, her tight look of suspicion melting into one of frank disbelief.

“I...not really…”

He was spared the need to elaborate as Han came down the stairs wearing the rueful smile he reserved for arguments with his wife.

"Welcome home," Luke said, raising the crystal glass in salute, "Did you enjoy the festivities?" Han pulled a face.

"It was mostly awful."

"Shocking."

Han knelt in front of the sofa "So, liebchen," he put a hand on Rey's shoulder, "Do you still want to stay?" Rey was quiet, studying the room carefully.

"Will I have to sleep in here?"

"I'm sure we can find you your own space," Luke said as Han’s mouth fell open at the question.

The wide eyes held him under long, serious scrutiny. “Will there be things to fix?”

“If you want them, then yes, I think we can manage that as well.” Her study surprised him, in large part because he found himself hoping that he wasn’t found somehow wanting.

“Do you have a switch?” Luke forced his face to remain calm, gripping the water glass tightly.

“There hasn’t been a switching in this house for thirty years,” he said quietly, “nor will there ever be.”

“Alright then.” Rey sank back further into the sofa, as though she could make herself disappear. Then she stuck out one filthy hand toward Han. Han’s eyes flicked back and forth between the girl and Luke’s set face, searching for something, possibly direction.

“Alright,” he said finally, taking her hand and shaking it gently.

“But I want a blanket,” she added in a rush as she snatched her hand back.

“Um…” Han floundered, at a loss.

“You’d better find her a place to sleep and some decent clothes!” Leia’s shout echoed down the long staircase.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Han returned, spinning to make a face at the stairs.

“And a bath!”

Han growled in frustration and, seeing the direction the conversation was headed, Luke set his glass on the side table and held out a hand to Rey. “Why don’t you and I go find you a blanket?”

She gave him one more long look, from the tips of his polished shoes to the top of his head. Then she nodded, getting up to follow him across the hall. She didn’t take his hand.

*

The next morning, Luke’s breakfast was interrupted by a bloodcurdling shriek that shook the house. It was followed moments later by Herr Ripiau, cheeks flushed and tie askew. “Oh, Master Luke,” the butler cried, “You must come at once, the young fraulein is tearing the bathroom to pieces!”

Leaving his boiled eggs to cool, Luke followed the butler up the stairs to the guest bathroom. A flung towel greeted him as he opened the door, followed closely by a soapdish that smashed on the wall beside his head. Frau Gaarten, the housekeeper, cowered behind the linen closet and, in the middle of the soaking wet floor stood Rey, a scrubbing brush held in her upraised hand, her eye wild. Upon seeing him, the scrubbing brush wavered uncertainly, then began to lower. “You promised,” she spat, “You promised they wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Yes, I did,” Luke replied calmly, noticing the bent comb protruding from the child’s hair. “That rule applies to everyone in this house. We do not throw things here,” he added, pulling the towel from his shoulder as he entered the room.  

Rey shot a contemptuous look at Frau Gaarten. “I didn’t hurt her,” she said, voice dripping with scorn.

“Did you throw something at her?” Luke asked, righting a stool and perching on it. The scrubbing brush wobbled.

“Yes.”

“We do not throw things here,” Luke repeated, “And when we make mistakes, we apologize.”

Rey’s shoulders tightened and she glared at the housekeeper. “You can say ‘I’m sorry I threw something at you, Frau Gaarten’,” Luke supplied.

“I’m...sorry I threw the stool at you.” The words came out in a jerky rush and were certainly not heartfelt, but Luke decided to count it as progress. He raised his eyebrows pointedly at the housekeeper.

“Apology...accepted,” she said, still wary.

“I expect Herr Ripiau could do with some assistance at the breakfast table, Frau Gaarten,” Luke told her gently.

“Of course, Master Luke.” She curtsied and fairly ran from the room, no doubt grateful for the escape.

With the immediate threat removed, the scrubbing brush fell to the floor and Rey began to tremble, tears gathering in her eyes. “Are you going to send me away?” she whispered.

“No.” Luke struggled to keep the hitch from his voice as she began to cry, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in her tears. “No, I’m not going to send you anywhere.” Tantrums he knew how to handle - he had grown up with Leia, after all- but he felt completely helpless in the face of Rey’s obvious distress.

“Would it...would you like a hug?” he asked over her sobs. Arms wrapped tight around her shoulders, she stepped forward, crumpling into his chest. He held her gingerly while she cried, wondering how on earth he was going to talk himself out of this. Gradually, the sobs became hiccoughs, which became sniffs.

“It hurts,” she said at last, voice muffled by his damp shirt. The tail of the comb prodded him in the shoulder as she looked up at him.

“The comb?” She nodded.

“May I try?” he asked, “ If I promise to be very careful?” She studied him for a long while before nodding again.

“Sit here.” He pulled up a second stool and patted the worn seat. “If it hurts,” he added, studying the hopeless mess of tangles on her head, “you just touch my knee, right here,” he tapped his leg, “and I’ll stop. Alright?” The whole matted mass shook as she nodded.

It was painfully slow. The poor child’s hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed since she came into the world, and he only had one hand, but he also had soapy water and a good deal of patience. He should probably have cut it off and saved them both the struggle, but after what seemed like several hours of delicate work and constant breaks, Rey’s hair hung wet and straight down her back. His neck and shoulder screamed at him, unused to such effort, but he smiled as she turned to face him. “Thank you for sitting so patiently,” he told her, “that took a long time and I know it was hard for you.”

“Was it hard for you?” she asked, frowning up at him.

“A little,” he admitted, feeling the sweat trickle down his back. She nodded to herself, looking down at her dirty feet.

“Now,” he said, wincing as he stood from the stool, “do you think that if I ask Frau Gaarten to come back that you can get through a bath?”

“Will it hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” Luke said, “but if it does, you can tap her on the hand and I promise that she will stop and let you take breaks. Will that be alright?” Her face was solemn as she considered his question.

“Where will you be?”

“I,” Luke replied, rolling some of the stiffness out of his shoulder, “will be sitting in that chair right there,” he pointed to the armchair that stood by the bannister in the hall, “reading my paper.”

At last, she gave a sharp nod. “I think I can try.”