Life goes on; so he tries to force himself to move forward as the days pass. Waking up daily is a struggle, picking up the pen and touching it to paper is a hassle, and going anywhere is an annoyance. He refuses to entertain the notion that he's grieving. It's just a writer's block and he's busy. That's it.
Ben nearly breaks when he receives a single, small, letter in his mailbox.
Sorry for your loss
—Uncle Luke
Rage nearly consumes him in that single second; not like after his conversation with his mother over the phone two weeks ago. This is white and hot seething rage; he can't even find it in his motor abilities to rip the offending scrap in half and toss it in the trash bin. His jaw clenches, and he has to clench the letter in his hand to stop the violent shaking. His eyes are otherwise blank, hollow, and unfocused. He doesn't know how long he stands there; a growing habit of losing track of time.
Damn that rotting, walking carcass. Acting like he even gives two shits.
He hadn't even heard her steps or realized how he's missed the onslaught of her familiar perfume.
"Do you always stare at your mail like you're going to murder it, or is this a special occasion?" Her tone is playful, but politely respectful; she's hesitant.
Good. He's not in the mood.
And yet, Ben can't find it within himself to snap at her for intruding, or not knowing just how inconvenient her timing and wording are. He counts to ten, forcing himself to ease his grip on the parchment, breathing through his nose and urging himself to just let. It. Go.
It's almost like Rey senses his discomfort, and so in amiable courtesy, she hums softly to some unknown jazz number while she retrieves her own mail, not once pestering him any more than she already has.
For that he is grateful.
He shuffles awkwardly, looking into his mailbox again even though he's already searched thoroughly. His gaze flickering to her, and taking in her physical details from her side view. In the few instances he can steal a look, he can appreciate her delicate features; soft chin and nose, small pink painted lips and a mischievous air in the quirk of her brow. Ben spots a light lift of her mouth, but he doesn't stare too long to confirm his suspicion. She's opening her letters with that same boxcutter he saw her with last time, and he raises a brow at that.
After a moment, he taps the offensive letter on his hip and he clears his throat. "I… I wasn't in the best of moods, when you knocked on my door." That's as close to an apology as he will give.
This quickly captures her attention, and slowly, agonizingly, she turns to him; there goes her eyes again, like she's seeing nothing else but him. He's definitely not imagining the playful tug on her lips or the quirk of her brow. Rey doesn't respond, and instead tilts her head, slightly unsure, but curious all the same.
At her lack of his response, he shuffles once more, feeling for all his height and imposing nature like he's a lanky acne-ridden teenager all over again. He holds out his hand, big and just plain awkward like it's some sort of initiation rather than a polite introduction. She has that same look to her eyes, from last time, and he fleetingly panics when she doesn't take his hand for the first 2 seconds; it would serve him right, absolutely. "I'm… Benjamin. You can just call me Ben though." He releases a mental sigh of relief when something makes her eyes flicker to his hand, and her grin breaks free, entrancing him again.
She grasps his hand in her own, playful and light, but firm all the same.
"I figured as much; you being in a bad mood and all, I mean. You know, after slamming the door in my face." Her accent is very pleasant to his ears, of all things, and Ben has to reel himself in and maintain in check. London? He's never bothered to learn or even care about the varying accents within the region, but he finds himself curious anyway. "I should be the one apologizing though; I honestly didn't mean to intrude or wake you up…. But I just couldn't help it," she chuckles.
He nods in understanding, and for once in a very long time, lets himself smile. It's not a good one, and it's barely one at that, but it's genuine. "Yeah… I… I guess I wouldn't either." An untrue statement, but he can't help but humor her; if only to keep her smiling.
"So, not a fan of literature then?" Regretfully, she finally lets go of his hand and
He blinks, taking a moment to let the words sink in; she idly smooths down the fabric of her silk gloves, tracing the lace patterns delicately, the sight distracting him slightly before he speaks. "I.. what?" She waves around that godforsaken book of his in the air; he hadn't even noticed the darn thing in her grasp and he kicks himself for not noticing earlier.
Her look is one of triumph, "—Ahh, there it is. You had that very same look when you glared at my book," his heart practically flutters at her usage of my book —calling his work hers— "Have you even read this at all?" Her tone is almost accusing, but Ben isn't sure.
Have I even read it— He thinks sarcastically. Funny. His lips twitch, still not believing the giant irony of this. "I have, in passing" his tone is nothing short of restrained sarcasm and heavy with curtness. "It's garbage."
She surprises him with a stony glare so ferocious, that he has to resist the urge to step back. Her jaw is set, and her eyes are practically daggers. But its gone in an instant and, instead, her expression settles on something softer, and less fierce; like he's ignorant. "It most absolutely is not."
He raises an eyebrow, urging her to continue.
Rey huffs, and she grips the book just a little tighter, protective. "It's art."
He scoffs. "In what way? It's all just—"
"It tells the story of a tragic man; he's… he's…" she gestures in the air, trying to find for the appropriate words. "A tyrant king, power hungry and the typical jazz; but we delve into his psyche, following him from his birth every emotional and physical abuse he has to endure, and he becomes stronger because of it. He goes down a dark, dangerous path, and he ultimately gets what he's worked so hard to achieve. Yet he just… he's so misunderstood and—"
Now it's his turn to interrupt. "Wha— Misunderstood? He's downright detestable and intolerable; he's selfish and he's done so much damage to those around him. Kylo Ren is just… just.." He doesn't know how the conversation has turned into this; with him delivering a heated and passionate speech about a literal royal jerk of a character that, most importantly, is a pathetic, glorified version of himself. "He's murdered his own father to take the throne in a hungry quest for power. He's exterminated helpless villages with innocents and though he expresses some regret, in order to 'fix' all of his wrongdoing, it would take a hell of a lot more than just an apology. The only redeemable action that he can do at this point, at the very least, is to just die."
Ben has never expressed Kylo Ren's character so outwardly, so bluntly and unforgivingly. It leaves his mouth dry and his throat constricting. He's always treasured the tyrant that he pours all his grief in, and he would, at any other given time, be the one to defend him. But something about her defending Kylo, having that sparkle in her eyes like she wants to fix him, as if he's redeemable, makes Ben uneasy. Kylo is not deserving of such compassion, of such starry-eyed sympathy. He's a detestable beast.
Ben expects Rey to retaliate, to scoff and walk away in a huff from the tone he's given her, or to even smack him with the book. But, like every moment thus far, she never fails to utterly floor him.
Her face breaks into a genuine smile. "In passing," she repeats his line from earlier, "...sure."
His lips part, slightly gaping, before he swallows uncomfortably at being caught in his own blunder.
She shakes her head and shrugs, holding his book like a precious stuffed animal against her chest. "I think… I think he just needs someone to truly empathize with him; understand him and show him the right path."
"Who would want to?" He asks, lightly scoffing. He's the creator of the character, and even he didn't want to deal with Kylo's emotional baggage despite being the source of it.
She tilts her head, and shrugs again. "Someone broken as he is," she says, like it's the most obvious and genuine thing in the world.
There's a pregnant pause in the air; his mind drawing at an absolute blank at the idea. It's one he has never considered before.
"Monsters aren't capable of regret; Kylo Ren isn't a monster, but he does deserve a good punch, or two, upside the head."
The corner of his lips quirk, and he nods humbly. "Yes… yes he does."
"It's just such a shame that the author hasn't given him proper closure; there's so much that needs to be answered."
"You're very invested in Kylo Ren," he notes with a smirk, "Don't tell me you're in love with the man-child of a King."
"Ha-ha. You're so funny." He notices how her breath hitches in her throat, coming out as an uneasy sigh, and her eyes flicker nervously to his. She brushes the tendrils of her curls behind her ear, and he most certainly does not miss the crimson blossoming of her cheek, or the nervous aversion of her gaze to the spine of her book. "But… who's to say I'm not? It's not like he's real or anything; not that I mind if he was. Maybe. I don't know."
"Well, at least you're honest about it; they say the first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem in the first place." She smacks him for that, plenty hard despite him being built like a rock; but not once does her grin leave her face.
That night, and well within the morning, he manages to write a dozen pages front and back.
"—STOP! Get back here you -you; ooooh! You deranged beast!"
He hisses; Ben nearly falls back from his swiveling chair from shock at the yell, cursing as his firm pressure on his pen causes him to draw a very thick line across his whole piece of paper, and his recently-written words. He hears running footsteps and slamming of doors; but that voice is unmistakable. It's the only motivation he needs to drop everything despite his mini-heart attack. He wrenches his door open, all but running and then skids easily across the halls, his eyes roaming everywhere wildly, with purpose. Where is she?! His breath is heavy and his adrenaline is through the roof. Finally, his eyes land on her backside; she looks like she's run through the world's longest marathon.
Rey is disheveled and panting for her life; she turns to him, as if sensing his presence. Their eyes collide for a second before hers widen, and she holds both hands in his direction, as if Ben is the one who needs calming. "Don't…. move..." she whispers harshly, and then her eyes land on something that he knows isn't him, but beyond him. A gloved finger is held to her lips, an indication for him to not make a sound.
Ben is beyond confused. But he has no time to ask what the hell's going on?— because less than a second, after she begins running toward him with the ferocity of a damn lioness.
And with that stupid, familiar boxcutter of hers in a wild grip, Ben doesn't like how the scene is playing out.
"Wait—!" he barely has any time to speak, much lift his hands; for a second, he thinks she's literally running to his arms. But it takes him a moment to realize that she's looking downward, and he catches a blur of grey in the corner of his eye.
"Why you little— Bee-bee! Hold still you little sneak!" But Rey miscalculates her speed and her grasp; unsurprisingly, she rams into Ben's shoulder.
And she rams hard. He hears a slight crack.
That's how Ben learns that his neighbor, Rey, is not only an avid fan of his book, but that she also tends to wear gloves despite whatever time of the day it is, always has that damn boxcutter in her grasp, and that she also has a cat named Bee-Bee.
He finds that fitting, somehow.
A wild goose chase after the cat ensues in the halls, more yelling and falling on his side twice leads to the both of them in her unit, drinking coffee and a smoke or two in amiable silence. Despite the annoying pain on his near dislocated shoulder, and the constant rubbing and rotating of it, he's never been so comfortable in the presence of a near stranger.
Well, Rey's not really a stranger anymore. Certainly not after last time, especially not after this.
She's on the chair next to the coffee table, wringing her gloves and sneaking glares every now and then at the grey cat, who's lovingly rubbing against Ben's legs. Her unit is sparkling, and he's glad they decided to settle to go to hers instead of his; it puts his cleaning habits to shame. It's like she just moved in. Did she spend her days cleaning in here all day?
"I think he likes me," he says calmly, though is thoroughly enjoying how definitely annoyed Rey is. He absentmindedly scratches the cat behind the ears.
Her eyes narrow in his direction, though with blank venom; she's a disheveled mess, loose curls sprawled everywhere and caressing her neck and face, pink lipstick smeared across her lips and staining her chin. She looks so ridiculous and done. It's taking everything in him not to laugh, a feeling that's very foreign to him, so he takes another sip of his coffee. She has a fondness for flower and lace patterns, and it's made evident on not only her gloves, or her berets and mugs, but also the paintings that hang off the wall and the plotted pants on her windowsill.
"Fitting; probably because he knows you to be a troublemaker."
"You're the one that has a cat in an apartment that specifically doesn't allow pets."
She pouts even more, and lowers her gaze to her gloves, tugging on them some more.
"He's… not mine." He tilts his head at her uneasy confession, her tone not previously matching any past portrayal of her that he's conjured up these past few days. "He belongs to a friend of mine; before he left to serve."
Ben doesn't know why, but his stomach feels like it plops heavily down to his feet. Her lover…? After all, only those with vivacious energy and starry eyes half as brilliant as hers are because they are hanging onto someone they love. His lips twitch, and they thin into a fine line even despite his best effort.
But she then barks a genuine laugh, and he realizes that he's said it out loud.
"My lover? Hah! Ahh, no no; you misunderstand Ben. Finn and I… ah, we go way back. We grew up together you see. In the same foster home and everything; he just..." she trails off, and he doesn't know how to take that notion, and it doesn't do much to relieve… whatever it is he is feeling. It doesn't leave him convinced0, but he believes her anyway.
"He found Bee-Bee in the street when we were seventeen or so. It was just the three of us for a while, after we were legally adults and all that noise." Her gaze is lowered all over again, and Ben finds himself leaning forward. "I promised Finn to have Bee-Bee safe and sound for when he… comes back."
He doesn't quite understand her obscure tone, and he can't decipher the blurry details of her past, and though he wants to know all of it, he feels intrusive. A photograph where he doesn't belong, and he swallows the bitterness of it. So he nods and doesn't ask anything, giving her the option of expanding on her story on her own accord.
But at his lack of response, she gets that look of disappointment, from the subway, and he pretends he's never seen it before.
He diverts his attention elsewhere.
"Your gloves..." he begins, but he halts himself when she completely stills; and in some, strange, pull of instinct, Ben stops himself from being intentionally intrusive. Something tugs in his gut; he doesn't know what, but he knows that based on the jerky movement before going still, or the way her mouth subtly twitches, that he's possibly crossing into something of hers. He… he doesn't know what that means. So he clears his throat and tries again. "Your gloves are nice. You… always have a different pair every time I see you."
She looks uneasy, and maybe… just maybe it's wishful thinking, but he sees the tiniest bob in her throat.
But he doesn't like how she hasn't looked up yet, so he changes his phrasing at the last minute. "Do you design them or something?"
He's relieved when mirth returns to her face, and she turns to him with an innocent smile and a tilt of her face. "Hah, if only."
"So what do you do?"
Her smile twitches, just for a second.
He finds himself mirroring the tilt of her head, and he wipes his mouth in an attempt to literally wipe the oncoming grin off his face. Smiles and grins and happy faces never flattered his face, and he doesn't want to scare her away.
"I… like to draw," she breathes a small sigh, as if exhausted talking about herself and it baffles him because the very thought is utterly ridiculous. He finds that he wouldn't mind listening to her all day. "What about you?"
Not it's his turn to still, and of course he knows that she quickly notices. —what utter fools we are, he thinks. "I write." He doesn't know why he admits it; his main income is his graveyard job.
She nods and hmms lightly, like she expected it. "Anything I should know?"
He can't help but think that she probably knows; the kid isn't stupid, and… well, his name is Benjamin after all. Not a far fetch from Ben S. "Nothing… worthy of note."
Rey gives him a peculiar gaze, before kindly nodding and leaving it alone. "If you say so. But… you should really show me sometime; I love to read a good tragic romance. Preferably one with a happy ending."
"Romantic tragedy, I think you mean," he ignores her pout, "How can you even get a happy ending from a romantic tragedy?" He asks, curious and confused at the same time. "Seems like they contradict each other."
"Or they could compliment each other."
He says nothing, but his mind whirls with all the possibilities concerning Kylo. He thinks about the thief, Kylo's thief, the King's thief; and he entertains the possibility that she won't be soft or demure like he had originally envisioned. She'll be fierce, strong and unwavering in her own ideals; unforgiving and nurturing, the kind of woman that Kylo wouldn't know how to handle. Kira, he thinks. I'll name the thief Kira; she can be the one to give the punches that he deserves. He's never been more excited to write all this out once he goes back to his own unit; his hand itches for a pen.
And almost like Rey hears what's on his mind, her smile spreads even more. "I wouldn't even mind being your muse once in a while if you really need me to."
He looks at her, then, relieved that he doesn't even need to ask. "I'll keep that in mind, but only if I get to pose for one of your portraits." He doesn't care if her art is the worst thing in the world; the thought of Rey watching him intently for an extended amount of time because she has to is… appealing to him. He wants to see what she sees when she looks at him; who is Ben to her?
"Fair enough."
"I want it to be signed, dated and blessed by the Holy Priest of the Roman Catholic Church during the full moon."
"Strange request, but I'll try."
They both laugh, and it's the best day he's had in years.
"By the way, Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"You should smile more; it suits you."
In that moment, he decides he'll try to smile a little more from now on; she's reason enough to give that effort.
Ben steals glimpses of her whenever he can, finding himself fascinated by her. Something in his chest nearly bursts in anticipation when he finds out that she does the same, at times. Their small, fleeting and fragmented moments are sprinkled along the hours, the days when they pass by each other. He's even forced himself to stop being such a creep, because the man is no fool. He has too much going on, too much tragedy emitting from his own depths of hell, and the last thing he wants is to contaminate her with such problematic baggage. She doesn't need it on her shoulders, when he can barely stand it by himself.
But then his mother starts calling him again.
And his grim reality starts to settle on him all over again. He lets Leia cry, scream, yell and vent to him. But he never responds, and he hates himself with each day that passes for always picking up the phone and for being a horrible son. Ben doesn't come out of his unit for nearly five days; not for work, not to pick up the mail, and he forgets about the existence of Rey for that span of time.
His writing suffers; it's not even his damn hand anymore. It's him.
In a desperate attempt to gain a semblance of sanity, he hurls his windowsill open; all the progress he's done thus far, endless drafts and excerpts of Kylo's thoughts sprawled hastily and angrily against nearly all the pages are crumpled into his fists. His muse has been non-existent, and he's tired of staring at nothing but blank paper.
He wants to be done with it all.
But then, he sees her again, finds her on the edge of her windowsill, leaning forward with an intense look to her eyes. Her jaw is clenched, and he finds it new and different to find that she holds a pencil instead of the boxcutter he's used to seeing her with.
She's holding the length of the pencil upwards, pointing it to the sky and grazing about a couple of centimeters of it with her thumb. Her small lips are clean of any lipstick or gloss, and he finds himself thinking that it suits her better. Normally-loose tendrils of curls are swept back in a messy updo, revealing her slim neck and her thin frame beneath a pink cotton shirt a size or two much too big for her.
He forgets that he's even there; that they know each other now, and they're not random a random passerby to one another. As if his stare carries a weight of it's own, she seems to sense his presence and turns in his direction. He must look like an idiot, papers in hand and his window wide open, caught in the middle of some deranged action. Ben waits for the inevitable raise of her brow, or tilt her head, or heck, even recoil in utter horror and slam the window. Anything.
Instead, she smiles and waves at him, as if he doesn't look like a deranged lunatic.
His throat bobs.
"Hey, there! Getting some writing done?"
"I… Ideally," he hates how his voice cracks awkwardly, heavily and utterly unpleasant to his ears.
Rey doesn't seem to pick up on his discomfort whatsoever. She shrugs, "Yeah, same here; ever since I quit my job, I've had more time than I know what do with. I've been sitting for the last hour just trying to get some sketches done, but," she makes a wet pop from her mouth, biting the inside of her cheek and her gaze landing to the horizon all over again, a sparkle to her eyes, "it just never quite works out the first few times. You know how it is."
He can't find any words.
She never ceases to amaze him.
Her grin graces his direction again and she gestures with her head, bobbing toward the outside. "Come on; let's cut out. I'm tired of staring at my blank canvas, how about a carnival?"
He's always detested carnivals and fairs; the clowns are terrifying, the mirrors amplify his hideous features, and the cotton candy is utterly tasteless. His father would take him and dump him for a few good hours, and he would huddle in some corner under a tree and cry.
"I'd love to."
She looks excited, giddy even; and he's happy that this time, he knows he caused that smile. Just this once.
She rushes inside to her own unit, and within five minutes, she's at his door. "I'm hogging all the cotton candy. The blue ones are my favorite,"
"Sounds good to me."
Thankfully, much to his bigger relief and to her chagrin, they don't accept anymore guests and have ceased selling tickets for the day. He buys her some ice cream instead on the way back to their apartment, around the corner from where they live.
But what Ben doesn't notice is how intently she watches him as he's drawn to the sounds of the subway. Sometimes he forgets all that.
And… he hopes that he hadn't made a mistake.