In the dark, there is discovery,
there is possibility, there is freedom in the dark
once someone has illuminated it
With the planet Crait so far behind them, the sheer relief aboard the Falcon is palpable. Rey can sense it all—clear and sharp, as if they are her own feelings. They might as well be. It washes in suddenly, a wave of joy and sorrow mingling together. These might be fleeting emotions, but Rey is aware of them all the same. It's impossible not to be aware of them. Even without needing to deliberately reach out, Rey can feel all of it.
Leia's grief is so quiet underneath it all, gentle and calm and almost drowned out entirely by Chewie's nervous energy that keeps pinging around inside Rey's brain. It almost brings a smile to her lips when she realizes why the Wookiee is so nervous: he's worried about his birds. There are so many of them scattered throughout the Falcon, and at least half a dozen gathered in the cockpit of the ship, poking into things they probably shouldn't be getting into. Rey thinks about offering to fly—it might help, to keep her mind busy by piloting the ship, keep her thoughts elsewhere, away from him—but she knows that if Chewie doesn't protest that idea, Leia certainly will. It wouldn't work, not with her head so clouded.
It's the worst with Finn, she thinks.
That prickle of fear slowly gnawing away at his insides, and the constant jabs of uncertainty. It's only after he rummages through several compartments and locates a blanket for the unconscious girl (Rose, her mind supplies the name) that something inside of him seems to grow noticeably calmer. Rey wonders if that's her doing. She's unsure of herself, but whether she's the reason for it or not doesn't really matter. All that matters is Finn's not completely torn up inside, no, there's still a part of him clinging onto hope. She sits and watches them together, with unfamiliar feelings stirring awake inside of her.
He cares about Rose, that much is obvious not just from the concern radiating off of him but from the way he's looking at her now, a crease between his brows and a far-off look on his face.
Rey doesn't think she's ever seen him so still. So quiet, and unsure of himself. One of his hands is resting on the blanket. And Rey wants to go to him, she does. But she doesn't know what to say. There are too many words and yet, not enough. She'd probably end up saying the wrong thing. In the end she doesn't move from her spot next to Leia. She can't.
Somehow, the lightsaber in her hands feels heavier now that it's been split in two. Her eyes sting when she starts to think about—no, she won't let herself. Rey closes her fists around the two halves and wonders if there's a way to mend it, a way back. She's good at this, knows how to look at the broken parts and fix it, tinker away until it's as good as new. Living on Jakku taught her that much, at least.
She knows how to put the pieces all back together. She knows. But this time, she feels less sure of herself. Less certain that she knows what to look for. That doesn't sit well with Rey. Usually, she knows what to salvage, what parts can be repurposed and sold off for rations.
It's all so different now.
"Do you think he's—" Rey cuts herself off abruptly, unsure of where she was going with that. Luke's gone. So is Ben Solo, and Rey can see that clearly now.
She's certain Leia can guess her thoughts anyway.
Without even needing to ask, she knows. When Rey lifts her head, there's this look in Leia's eyes (sad, warm, full of anguish) that makes Rey's chest tighten, makes her regret ever opening her mouth. It's not her place to ask, and it's certainly not the time for it.
"I think," Leia begins, a wry twist to her lips. "I think this was what had to happen. Now we move forward. We try again."
But how?
Rey worries her bottom lip between her teeth. She's vibrating with uncertainty, unable to sit still, her fingers curling and uncurling around the split lightsaber. Leia touches her arm.
"We've got all we need, right here."
That quiet grief lingers at the corners of Leia's eyes, but then she smiles, and something warm and soothing washes over Rey. Hope, maybe. Just enough. It doesn't erase that sadness though, still touching the General's smile. She's thinking about Ben, too. Luke and Han, and the bright red salt on Crait. Rey's thinking of golden dice clutched in black leather gloves, shiny and delicate in his palm.
A glimpse, and nothing more. Rey won't prod any further beyond that. Not now, after they've already lost so much. It's a private thing, she thinks, all that pain. Leia's lost a son, a husband, a brother. And yet she's still here, still giving everything she has left to the Resistance. There's so much sorrow. Rey feels it, too.
She hadn't thought she would.
When they touched hands, the shape of his future had been so clear and vivid. So bright. Familiar, too, as if it also belonged to her.
It wasn't supposed to go this way. Luke had warned her, of course, but she wouldn't listen. She thought she knew Ben, when she didn't. She couldn't, not when he refused to let her know him. Not when he insisted on going down a path she couldn't follow. They were supposed to find balance together. Now, though, there might as well be a gaping crevice split wide open between them, black and endless. That thought settles uncomfortably in Rey's stomach. For a long, long moment, she can't move. Not even after Leia does. She holds the pieces of Master Luke's lightsaber in her hands and wants nothing more in that moment than to be back on Ahch-To.
Back in the torrential rain. In the cold, dry-stone huts dotted along the cliffs. Back with Luke.
There's no going back, she knows that.
Peaceful. The word lingers on the fringe of Rey's mind. It gets under her skin, makes her stomach twist. She bites down on the inside of her mouth, hard, and tries not to think about it. It's inevitable, really, the loss so raw in her mind. She had felt it: the moment Luke passed on and became one with the Force. She can't put words to it beyond that, not yet anyway. She's exhausted and filthy and confused, skin covered in scrapes and bruises. The slash on her upper arm stings faintly, but it's her head that hurts the most; the pain throbs and pulses in her skull, a dull pounding that makes Rey clench her teeth together. It makes her feel sick. Rey pushes herself up and heads for her cabin, eager to scrub herself clean and pull her hair loose from its tight knot.
She passes by Poe again (she's never met someone with such a kind face) and a small gathering of Rebels. That's when she realizes: this is all that's left of them, here in this room. We're all there is. Rey swallows thickly. Maybe if she'd gotten back sooner, there would be more left to salvage. The survivors are few in number, a handful of pilots and techs and sea birds, but at least there are survivors. Rey consoles herself with that, even if it isn't much.
Poe's crouched down on the ground in front of BB-8. He rubs affectionately at what Rey assumes would be the back of BB-8's neck, if the droid had one. The beeps and whirs trickling out of the droid are sweet, blissful. Rey feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth, unbidden.
"I know, buddy." Poe says. "I know. You didn't steal the ship. Finn told me what happened."
She wonders what that's about, but doesn't ask.
It's probably best she doesn't. Maybe she'll go to Finn later, see how he is, ask about Canto Bight.
BB-8 chirps after Rey, head unit swiveling around to watch her leave. She gives them a small smile then keeps walking, refusing to look back. She can feel eyes on her, following her as she goes, and she's not ready. Not ready to become whatever it is they think she is. The first thing Rey does when she reaches her room is stuff the halves of the lightsaber into one of her packs, tucking the bag underneath her bunk. It's safe there, until she figures out what to do with it.
Perched on the edge of the bed, Rey draws in a shaky breath. She'll grab her things and go to the 'fresher down the corridor in a moment. For now, she tries to clear her thoughts. He still crosses her mind, even now. Especially now. She thinks of him and sees flashes of red; she sees an island, his hand reaching for hers, a fleet of doomed Rebels, plumes of red dust on Crait.
This went the way it was always going to go. The way Master Luke knew it would. But that doesn't make it sting any less.
When he'd appeared before her, kneeling on the ground inside the base, she had felt it again. Ben—no, not Ben, Kylo—seeking her out. That thrum of curiousity. A quiet pulse of energy, then she saw him. Rey had felt a twinge of something, plucking at her insides, stirring awake. His head had snapped up, wide-eyed and surprised to see her standing before him.
He hadn't concealed his surroundings. He was on Crait, crouched down on the floor of the Rebel base, clutching limply at Han Solo's dice.
And his eyes, they'd been so—
Rey shakes her head, refusing to think about that either. She doesn't care. It doesn't matter, not anymore. So, the Force-bond wasn't entirely Snoke's doing. It still exists between them. But if Rey could resist it once, she can do it again. She will do it. There's no other choice now. If she feels him there, feels his presence, then she'll shut him out. It'll hurt less this way, she tells herself, knowing there's nothing else she can do.
The 'fresher is small and modest, but more grand than anything she'd ever had on Jakku. Rey's still not used to it. The gray and brown shades of the room aren't all that different in color from the walls of the old AT-AT she'd made a home in. Once she's alone, and the door slides shut behind her, Rey releases a breath she didn't even realize she was holding in.
It all seems so long ago now.
Her home on the sand. The toppled AT-AT walker near the outskirts of the Graveyard. She's made a home from nothing once before, she can do it again. She has to do it. That life is lost to her now, left in the desert.
Locking the door behind her, she steps further into the room. The 'fresher compartment is well-maintained, with a faucet and sink, and even a sanitizer.
Rey undresses slowly, starting with her belt, the cuff on her right arm. She unwinds her arm wraps, letting the pieces of fabric drop to the floor of the 'fresher. Tired, sore, cold. Angry. The emotions flicker by too quickly to pin a single one down. Rey fiddles with the taps at the sink, running her hands under the stream of cold water. There's a narrow cubicle tucked into the corner of the room, if she wants to bathe and not just wipe away the dirt and blood spattered across her skin with a damp cloth, as she was so used to doing on Jakku. She shuts her eyes and grips the edge of the sink with both hands. That dull, throbbing pain strikes again, and Rey winces from the sharpness of it.
That pain—she remembers screaming, remembers Snoke's presence seeping into every crack and crevice of her mind, thick and suffocating. He pried into lost memories and hidden thoughts. Things she tried to keep secret. And he'd smothered any attempts at resistance, cracking her mind open until she gave him exactly what he wanted. He'd found the island easily, and her mind is still tender from the exertion.
Let the past die.
Rey's eyes snap open. He isn't here, she's sure of that. He's not in her head. This doesn't feel like their bond did before, no, it's not that. Just a memory, rolling over her slowly. She hasn't really thought about it, about him and his dark eyes and the way his hand had been reaching out for hers, until now. And even now, Rey's determined to think of something else, anything else but this.
It's quieter in here, away from noisy thoughts and those screeching sea birds.
Narrowing her eyes at the reflection in the mirror before her, the girl from nowhere staring back at her, Rey tilts her head to the side. She wonders if he's trying to reach out through the Force. She wonders what she'll do if he tries.
She inches closer and examines the bruise forming on her temple, brushing the stray hairs back from her face and stretching closer to the mirror; the surface is dirty and cloudy in places, but Rey can still see it. The bruise stands out, a deep purple-black against her pale skin. She doesn't remember how she got it. Maybe it was when the lightsaber split and threw them apart. Lifting a hand to the spot on her right arm, Rey winces. That, she remembers. A wave of guards clad in red robes and armor, and Kylo behind her, pressed back to back. The cut reminds her of him, of the mark she'd left on his skin, creeping out from under the collar of his tunic. A jagged, ugly red gash, spanning from jaw bone all the way up to his forehead.
It was such a different thing: seeing him in her dreams, then through their Force-connection, then at last in the flesh. Somehow, he never looked the same. The scar along his cheek looked thinner than she thought it would.
There's a burst of noise outside the 'fresher, passing voices that fade quickly enough, that reminds Rey she probably isn't the only one who needs to wash. Cupping her hands under the tap, she brings the water to her lips and drinks deeply, desperately, swallowing down the cool liquid until her belly is fully of it and her throat is no longer dry. She splashes some of the water on her face before switching both faucet taps off.
The string that keeps the top half of her hair swept back from her face suddenly feels too tight. Rey picks at it with blunt nails until it starts to give, then unties it, shaking her hair loose. Her scalp itches. A little standard-issue shampoo should help with that. Rey runs her fingers through her hair, smoothing out the tangles. There's a small built-in shelf on the wall to her right. Rey runs her fingers along the bottles lined up there, picking the one she recognizes as shampoo.
Then she realizes she's still got her boots on.
Rey struggles with them for a moment. The boots are probably a size too small. She really has to pry them off her feet. Eventually, she gets them off and sets them aside, lined up neatly. It wasn't like she had much of a choice back on Jakku. These are the only good pair of shoes she's ever owned, it's not like she can exactly throw them away. The rest of her clothes end up in a messy pile (tunic, wraps, underthings) sitting atop one of her bags on the floor. There's a towel shoved in there somewhere. She goes to the narrow cubicle, the tiled floor cold under her bare, blistered feet. Soon enough, the room is filled with steam. Rey closes her eyes against the spray of water, cherishing the warmth and the quiet. She dips her head under the steady stream. The heat helps her ice-cold bones feel a little less icy, and soothes her stiff joints.
Keeping her head under the jets, Rey opens her eyes and watches water and dirt swirl down the drain. With the water spilling down all around her face, getting in her eyes, it reminds her of that storm on Ahch-To.
The first time she'd ever seen—or felt—rain.
Her skin quickly turns red and blotchy in places from the stinging hot water, but her head is clearer now than it had been before, so she doesn't mind. There's always a spark of excitement when she uses the shower, a luxury she never had on Jakku. This time, it feels different. The sensation dulled, maybe. But that memory of Ahch-To is clear and bright, and has her smiling.
It doesn't last, slipping off her face when she hears his voice.
Rey.
She sucks in a sharp breath, stunned.
This isn't their bond, of that much she's certain. Maybe it's a memory; the way he'd said her name after Snoke was dead and his red guards were scattered all around them. Or maybe he's really there, seeking her out, and her name is a whisper on his lips. Rey flattens a hand against the tiled wall in front of her, bracing herself.
Her hair is sopping wet, and dark strands hang down in front of her face, sticking to her forehead in places. The water trickles down her skin like drops of rain.
Don't, she thinks. Half a warning, half a plea.
There's no sudden shift. The air isn't sucked from her lungs. The noise doesn't fade away, leaving only him and her and the invisible string between them. He's not here. It isn't the Force, or Snoke bridging their minds. But he is thinking about her. Rey visibly recoils when he says her name a second time, so quietly she almost misses it.
Rey.
This time, it sounds like a question.
He's reaching for her.
She has her own questions, of course. Things she wants to know. There's so much she wants to say to him: you should have come with me. I don't understand. Why couldn't you just—
Rey shuts off the water abruptly. The hot water is gone, nothing left but thick plumes of steam filling the air around her. She blinks rapidly, wiping at her eyes and brushing wet hair back off her face. There are things she needs to know. He spared her, let her leave Crait when he could've tried to stop them, but he didn't. He let her go and Rey can't help but wonder why.
But she can't risk it. She can't have him inside her head again. Rey waits but there's nothing else, only the sound of water gurgling down the drain.
She's glad to be rid of her dirt-crusted tunic.
It had felt too tight, clinging to her skin unpleasantly. Rey strings up a makeshift line in her room and hangs her damp clothes out to dry. She'd scrubbed the tunic clean in the 'fresher, determined to wash away the smell of salt water and sweat and him. Rey's dressed now in a plain white undershirt and gray mid-calf length pants. She sits cross-legged on the ground and rifles through the bag she'd taken with her. It's practically bursting open with her cloak and belt and bracer all stuffed in there. She's glad to be clean, finally, no traces of the battle left on her skin.
A dim light hangs overhead, casting a muted white glow over the room and painting shadows on the walls. Rey searches for the books she's certain are sitting at the bottom of the—
Oh.
The books and scrolls are stashed out in the main hold, tucked away safely in a utility drawer.
Right. Well, she's not going back out there anytime soon, not even for the Sacred Texts. After she bathed, Rey had paused in the corridor outside her room and listened to the voices, the quiet chatter wafting down towards her. It would've been so easy to join them, to sit and eat and talk, but she needs time. Time to rest, time to process, to let herself feel the weight of it all. Or not. She's not sure what she wants.
Her stomach clenches at the thought of food.
Sitting with them would mean eating and talking, and Rey's not feeling up to doing either of those things right now, not after Kylo. She doesn't mind being alone. Sometimes, it's better this way. Maybe that's why she'd been so reluctant to sleep in the crew quarters and claim a bunk as her own. It seemed so unappealing, and odd. She's lived alone for most of her life. Then suddenly, she was less alone, thrust into the middle of something much bigger than herself.
But she still can't go out there.
Rey can't face them, not when they insist on looking at her so expectantly, as if she's their last hope. Hope. It's all they have left to cling to. She can't sit with Finn and lie through her teeth, say that everything's fine when it really isn't. She won't lie to them, but how does she even begin to tell them the truth of it all? The truth being: I saw something inside of him, I saw something good, I wanted to save him. I couldn't. It wasn't enough.
She needs time to process, to figure out what she'll tell them. Not just about her time on the island, but about Ben. Leia deserves to know, doesn't she? Rey's not sure they'll understand. With Master Luke's lightsaber torn in half, she can't help but feel like she's failed them both.
The ground is cold and hard beneath her, so she moves to the bed, sitting on the edge of it for a long moment. Her room is small and dark, but it's hers. She picked it. A narrow cot is pressed up against the far wall, and there's little in the way of personal belongings (she'd never had much, apart from a doll and a helmet and jars full of flowers) but she doesn't need much.
An empty crate sits next to her cot and Rey briefly considers emptying the contents of her bags into it, but it's just not practical. Not with the First Order after them. Not if she needs to flee and grab her things. She won't have time to stop and fill her bags.
Flopping down onto the bed with a sigh, Rey blinks up at the exposed pipes running across the ceiling. This was a storage room once, full of buckets and crates and mechanical gear. She's not surprised in the least; the interior corridors are littered with all sorts of tech and gear. It reminds her faintly of home on Jakku, of all the bits and pieces she'd collected over the years, worthless scraps of gear and junk she couldn't sell. Things that made the space feel more like hers. Rey closes her eyes and wills that memory away.
She searches for tranquility, and something stable to grasp onto. It won't be easy to drift to sleep, she knows, but she has to try. A kind of bone-deep exhaustion has settled heavily upon her. Rey hasn't felt this tired in years. She squeezes her eyes shut tighter until the cold, soft blackness of sleep returns.
She can taste dirt and sand on her tongue. There's a tight, bruising grip on her arm, and hot sun beating down on her skin. Rey squirms against it, but Unkar won't release her. She knows that it's impossible to wriggle free. She still screams for them, tears welling in her eyes.
A ship speeds off into the clouds, putting more and more distance between them. It's gone before she can blink.
Before she can chase after it.
She imagines, for a moment, that her father is Master Luke (with his kind eyes, and his sad smile, the way he looked at her—pity, maybe, Rey's not sure.) She imagines that it could've been Han Solo, even. She pretends that they're still coming back for her. It's foolish, she knows. But that doesn't stop the wound from aching when she watches the ship fly away again.
The sand shifts beneath her and Rey loses her footing. Her arm slips out of Unkar's grasp and then she's falling into the cave on Ahch-To, down into the sunken hole deep within the base of the island, dark and cold. Rey's lungs fill with icy water. She knows how to swim. She doesn't remember how she knows, it's an instinct her body remembers. The skill isn't lost. Yet her limbs grow stiff and refuse to cooperate. There's a flash of light far above the surface of the water, like a star darting across the galaxy. Rey sinks down deeper, unable to reach it.
Just when her vision starts to blur and blacken at the edges, she's thrust upwards. It's too bright at first, and hot, uncomfortably so. Rey winces against the sudden intrusion of light and shields her eyes from it.
It doesn't last. The light fades. The water drains out of the room. And Rey's left sitting by the fire in a stone hut on Ahch-To, the very same one Luke destroyed. Except it isn't a pile of rubble. It's exactly how it was before she and Ben touched hands. Before Luke. Rey's eyes widen, surprised to be back here so soon, even in a dream. It's not a memory. Ben isn't here, sitting by the crackling fire beside her with a kind look in his dark eyes. She's alone. Impossibly alone. Rey sits there for a long moment. Her fingers clutch numbly at the blanket draped around her shoulders as she waits. For what, she doesn't know. But she still waits. The water from the cave is dripping from her. She wonders if it's raining outside. It's always raining here, she thinks, pulling the blanket tighter around her.
The warmth of the fire helps, taking away some of the chill in her bones.
Rey eyes off the door to the hut. It's odd, being here when he isn't. When neither of them are. She leaves the blanket to dry and steps out into the rain. There's no muddy, wet ground beneath her feet. No rain. There's no ground at all, Rey realizes, staggering backwards. She's standing on the bridge above Starkiller Base's reactor, surrounded by red.
And he's there.
Of course he is. Rey's breath catches in her throat. He's there, watching her. Waiting for her.
A gloved hand reaches out across the distance—
He's Kylo Ren, clad in a mask and flowing robes. Rey would reach for a weapon if she had one on her. She'd shoot, maybe, if there was a blaster holstered on her hip. Anger spikes up in her veins, makes her want to do something rash, just like he always does.
It's too much, flooding her senses. She sees a glimpse of the island, so far away from her now that it feels more like a dream. There's a flash of blue. Her hands, red like the salt on Crait, red like his lightsaber plunged through Han Solo's chest. The green on Takodana. Hills of sand and a dozen masked scavengers on Jakku. She sees Kylo, his face in the lift and the rasp of his voice. The betrayal in his eyes as the Star Dreadnought ripped itself apart and she reached for the lightsaber instead of his hand.
Ben.
She can hear herself saying his name, pleading with him.
Rey glances up and she's back on the bridge again, unarmed. The base trembles fiercely all around them, rattling her bones. That same gloved hand is stretched out towards her. Rey's fingers twitch by her side. He wants to kill everything, and she can't. She won't.
The crackle of his lightsaber fills her ears and Rey jolts awake, struggling to catch her breath. She's in her room, at least. Not stranded in the desert and not on Luke's island. This isn't another dream—or vision—or whatever that was. The sheets are bunched up, tangled around her ankles. Rey shifts, curling further in on herself. There's so much of it, flitting through her head, thoughts she can't let go of, can't pin down. She squeezes her eyes shut and drags her knees closer to her chest. She doesn't know why she's crying again.
This is real.
She's on the Falcon, speeding through nowhere. This isn't false. It takes her a long minute to really believe that. Her breath comes out in short, ragged puffs. Then it's as if the air is sucked out of the room, and she can't hear the quiet footsteps passing down the corridor, can't hear the sound of her own labored breathing. She can feel it, that thing that ties them together, stirring to life. Rey instinctively scrambles for the nearest weapon: Han's blaster. She's slow to arm herself, but at least she isn't leaving herself open and vulnerable. She curls her fingers tight around it.
The weight of it feels odd and clunky in her hand at first, and it takes a moment to adjust. Maybe she's grown too used to a lightsaber in her hand.
Inching her way off the bed, she listens for his voice, not knowing what to expect. She's half tempted to fire a shot off at him now, hoping that it might end the connection. But it did nothing that day on the island. He didn't seem to feel it, as if the bolt simply disappeared into the air between them. Rey still aims the blaster into the dark. Even though she wants to, she can't bring herself to go through with it. She won't risk injuring someone else just for a chance to make a point. That surprises her: how much she wants to hurt him, and how much she doesn't. She's still holding back, even now. He must be able to sense that in her.
"Is this you?" she asks, accusatory.
Her voice comes out quieter than she would've liked. There's no response. For a second, Rey's left wondering if he's really there at all or if she's still asleep. If this is another dream, then she would really like to wake up now.
Rey keeps a tight grip on the blaster, not willing to take any chances.
Maybe it'll pass and he'll leave her be. But even as that thought crosses her mind, she knows it's unlikely. It isn't something they can control, not yet. She's determined to find a way out of it. There has to be something she can do to break it. Rey swallows thickly over the lump in her throat, a finger hovering over the trigger. She's suffered enough. She can't have him here. When she hears his voice, she nearly jumps out of her skin. Nearly squeezes the trigger and fires off a shot.
"Always so quick to draw."
It cuts right through her. Rey inhales sharply through her nose. So quick to draw, first on Takodana then again on Ahch-To when their minds first bridged. Can he blame her? If she could, she'd fire at him now, too.
Rey squints into the darkness.
His shape is unclear. The black of his hair and his robes make it even more difficult to find him in the dark, but she eventually does. He's standing down by the end of the bed with his back facing her. Like this, she can't see his face, can't see those eyes. It's better if she doesn't. Wherever he is, he feels—cold. She can sense that much. He's cold and he's lonely, and he isn't making any effort to conceal either of those things. Is she supposed to care? Rey's anger flares up again, white-hot. She didn't want this for him. She didn't want it for either of them. But it's too late now, isn't it? Her hands start to shake.
"I'm not going to hurt you." he says. He must've noticed it.
The imperceptible shake to her hands.
You already have, she thinks. It's too late. She won't lower Han's blaster, won't drop her guard. A long moment passes before she responds, words coming out firmer now, "I'm not afraid of you."
"No, you're not."
Even after everything, she isn't. Maybe she should be. Maybe he should be afraid of her.
Rey stands, rising to her full height. She didn't expect this to happen so soon after Snoke, after the battle, the loss. When he turns around, she imagines a streak of silver curling up from his jaw and stretching across his face. But it's healed now, the skin smooth where it once was puckered and red, the same place Han had touched before—before. Rey presses her lips into a thin line. She's already relived that memory enough, and doesn't want to do it again.
Something in his jaw twitches, as if he's heard her.
He won't look at her.
Back in the hut, when she had been cold and angry and aching with loneliness, his eyes never once strayed from hers. There had been something in his gaze that felt kind and warm. You're not alone, he told her, and she had believed him. He refused to look away, his dark eyes fixed on hers. And for the first time, she let herself really look at him, let herself see him; the color of his eyes and the slant of his mouth and the spots on his skin, all the freckles she never noticed before. She felt less lonely in that moment. You're not alone, he said. Now, he's looking anywhere except directly at her. Rey doesn't know what she's supposed to do with this, or with him.
There's only him. She can't make out his surroundings, which means he can't sense hers either. Rey exhales a tiny sigh of short-lived relief.
"Everyone else is," he says. "But not you."
"Can we just not—" she huffs out a sigh and lowers the blaster, but doesn't let go of it entirely. "I don't want this. I don't want to see you. I don't want to ever—"
"This isn't me."
Rey's face scrunches up, displeased.
Of course it isn't him. Whatever this is, it's out of their control. Maybe they can influence when it begins and ends. Maybe not. All Rey knows is that this isn't Snoke's doing, not anymore. That thought settles uncomfortably in her stomach. It had been a trap, she sees that now. Maybe she had been foolish and naive and stupid to think that it would work, to believe she could be enough to sway him, bring him back to the light. But she had to at least try. Rey watches him where he stands in the middle of the room, so starkly out of place, and half turned towards her. Still not looking up.
It hurts, having him here, so close after being thrown apart. She has to end it. She's already done it once before, when she slammed the door shut on the Falcon and somehow severed the connection.
Sensing her thoughts, or the displeasure rolling off her, Kylo says, "I didn't ask for this."
Of course not.
"Neither did I." she spits. "I don't want you here."
Her mind is drawn back to the vision she had—the dreams—she didn't ask for those. Perhaps they brought the bond to the front of her mind, making him impossible to shut out. Rey contemplates firing a shot. Her finger twitches over the trigger, tempted to see if it'll have any effect on him, unlike the last time. But she can't follow through with it.
"That's your greatest weakness."
She nearly rolls her eyes. "What now?"
"You let sentiment cloud your judgement. Once, you would've shot me. But now you hesitate."
"So you'd rather I shoot you?"
Kylo doesn't answer, his eyes flicking around a room he can't even see; he's still closed off to her, even now, even like this. Rey doesn't know why she expected it to go any differently.
"You were dreaming." he murmurs. "Before this, you were dreaming."
It's not a question.
Her cheeks are still wet with tears, and her head full of thoughts that are much too loud to keep all to herself. If she listens, if she reaches out just so, she can feel his mind too. The chaotic buzz of his thoughts. Yes, she dreamt of Jakku and of him. He hasn't slept. Rey lifts her chin, refusing to look away, to hide. He's already seen her cry too many times before. He won't see her do it now. There's a look on his face—Rey doesn't try to pinpoint what it is. She doesn't care. He's finally looking at her now, his face partially obscured by the shadows.
Rey stubbornly holds his gaze. Her dreams belong to her, not him. He has no right to come here and pretend. Although she'd been so determined not to cry, she can feel her eyes stinging with unshed tears. It just makes her angrier, more resolved to put an end to this.
"No."
"I can feel it. You were—"
"No," she says, firmer this time. "No, we are not doing this. Not after that. Not after you," she stops herself off, the words snaring in her throat.
"After what, Rey?"
The Rebel fleet, vulnerable and under attack, and Kylo had still wanted to wipe out every last one of them. Then on Crait, he had tried to shoot the Falcon out of the sky, knowing she was aboard the ship. He wanted to destroy everything. He still wants to, she can sense it now. That quiet rage simmering away under a relatively calm surface. She wonders if he ever gets tired of pretending.
"Before you turned against me, I felt it. The conflict rising in you. I wouldn't have hurt you," he says. "Yet you tried to kill me. Again. You wanted to, didn't you? I could see it in your eyes."
"I never wanted that." Rey says, shaking her head.
"No? Then what did you want?"
"I don't know."
"Mm. What did you think would happen?" he asks. Gently. Gently, after everything he's done. It unsettles her. "Did you think I could join you? That your friends would defeat the Order? That you could save us?"
His words sting, more than Rey anticipated. More than she's willing to admit. But he knows that already, doesn't he? He has to know. As they stand before each other, closer than they had in Snoke's throne room, she can feel it; the pangs of loneliness so similar to her own, so sharp and terrible and familiar. Rey recoils from it, taking a step backwards as if to distance herself from the feeling.
"I thought you would join me," she admits. If she's being entirely honest with herself (which she seldom is lately) she knows it wouldn't work. Not when he doesn't want it to. Not when it's so doomed. "I hoped that we'd find a way to restore balance together. Peacefully. But you made your choice."
A long moment stretches out between them, nothing but silence and the quiet exhale of breath; Rey can feel the connection slipping from her fingers. A part of her wants to chase after it. Another part knows better. Before it fades, Kylo looks at her, really looks at her for the first time since he appeared, and Rey's breath catches. He's struggling to keep his expression blank, she knows, he's always had to keep a leash on his emotions. But there's a flash of something so raw there, under the surface of it all, that he can't hide. Not even from her. Something that makes her ache.
"Yes, I did. And so did you."
Then he's gone and Rey's left staring at the spot where he stood, clutching limply at Han's blaster. She doesn't cry, even if she wants to.
A/N: sooo after TLJ, Reylo just wouldn't leave me alone. I've fallen into the trash compacter and refuse to climb out. This fic will have a heavy focus on Rey and her constantly shifting relationship with Kylo. If that's not your thing, then this isn't the story you're looking for.