Exposed. || swritess_

You

Like any normal twenty-something in New York City, you'd spent Saturday night absolutely hammered.

The night was mostly a blur to you, remembering only fragments of what happened.

You remembered Poe calling Finn once your table was full of empty glasses, asking him to come pick you two up.

You didn't remember when Finn had shown up, but you distinctly remembered running away from him once he dragged you two outside, just for him to catch you and throw you over his shoulder.

And you could vaguely remember the walk home, your head hanging upside down while Poe stumbled along behind you, giggling and singing, and telling Finn how good his ass looked.

It was a miracle that all the hanging upside down and Poe's horrendous singing didn't make you throw up.

Next thing you knew, it was morning and Poe's damn cat Bebe was licking your face.

You knew you had told Poe about the interview the night before, but the amount of alcohol he consumed wiped away any chance of him remembering the conversation.

To make up for that, you spent breakfast telling Poe and Finn about Friday evening. This time sober.

So Poe would actually remember.

"So now I have to go back on a Friday night to try and interview his bitch ass," you'd whined.

"He's such a dick," Poe muttered, taking a bite of his bagel.

"He is a dick," Finn agreed, "but what made you think stealing a file was a good idea?"

You narrowed your eyes at him and stuck your tongue out. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," you replied weakly.

"I'm sure the six Long Island Iced Teas did too," he teased.

You set your mug down and tilted your head at him. "Oh, are you forgetting your bachelor party? And the three bottles of wine you drank by yourself?"

Poe choked on his orange juice, laughing as Finn looked down in embarrassment.

"We don't talk about that," he grumbled.

You finished up breakfast with the two of them and stumbled home around noon wearing a t-shirt you'd stolen from Poe and a pair of gym shorts that Finn had given you.

The rest of your Sunday went fine as you nursed your hangover. But the second you walked into the office Monday morning, all you did was dread your upcoming interview.

It was nearly impossible trying to start writing this article because you had almost nothing to go off of. You'd had to tell Kanata that your little hunch didn't pan out.

Which was a flat out lie.

You'd been completely right, had evidence in your hand and Hux on record. And you couldn't use it. Not unless you wanted to lose your job and your career.

So you sat at your computer looking at an almost blank screen, knowing that you had more than enough to write about. But you simply couldn't write about it.