The Call to the Light
Chapter 34
By TheOneAndOnlySlayer
Squaring his shoulders and ignoring Korla's protests – his injured one flares again, as if to scream I'M STILL HERE – Ben runs after the Sallustran and the changeling, clicking on his comm-link to Poe and Terric to close in.
Dalpo, the slippery little fucker, is a real shadow-fiend. He's impossible to spot through the thriving markets at this time of day. Luckily Ben's atop the buildings and can zero in on the fastest-moving life-form weaving through the crowds.
Fuck hiding. He skids to a stop and takes out the blaster loaned to him. Of course he knows how to use it. He waits for Dalpo to approach an intersection to an alley, a dead end.
The shot he takes is a planned miss, right at Dalpo's feet. Dalpo takes the right, thinking he's dodged the blast and is about to reach safety – right where Ben wants him.
Poe and Terric are the first to reach their cornered prey, quicker on foot. Ben descends and crosses the street, struggling to put the weapon away. He so badly wants to use it, to pin this miserable creature to the wall.
To his surprise, when he arrives in the alley, Poe's slammed the Sallustran into the wall. Dalpo cries out, but to no avail.
"Dameron." Ben eyes the wide-eyed alien. He must know more: Xolon, the ship that took Rey, Rastro, the others…these others Rey had been ranting about.
He must prepare to see more. "Hold him down."
Terric glances over, hesitating. Ben expected these two to question his instruction (any instruction of his, really), so he glares back as if to say, what do you expect?
Poe, on the other hand, kicks Dalpo's legs so he is forced to kneel. The act makes Ben search his former enemy's face for an explanation.
Poe seems to look at Ben with what seems to be confidence. But it's not. It's more even, simple and strong. It's…trust. It's trust.
"Do it," Poe says. Do what you have to.
ssssssssssssssssssssssss
That seems enough for Ben Solo. He straightens and extends one arm, plunging through the mechanic's mind.
Poe's grip on the alien slackens a bit. Not too long ago – kriff, that was him once.
He swallows thickly and thinks of something else: he knows, though, what Ben is doing. He is summoning the Force and wrapping it around Dalpo's resistance, pinning down his willpower more forcefully until the little man struggles and whimpers.
Poe doesn't falter when the Sallustran spits and thrashes. He watches Ben's face, crooked and struggling internally. The taller man almost seems to keep shaking his head. Is there someone speaking through to him?
And then Ben's face darkens. He nods in conclusion and turns around, hands over his head. The Sallustran moans, wiped out from the mental invasion.
When the dark Jedi whirls back on them, the forced composure is obvious. He finally sighs, expelling whatever toil he had gained in this act. Poe steps back in surprise when Ben lays a hand hovering over Dalpo.
"You will forget…you ever saw us. The Tholothian threatened your life and you ran away here."
Sssssssssssssssss
All Poe can make out from Ben's ragged mumbling is Cambrian-class Rodian ZX49-Delta. Those ships aren't exactly rare, but the Jedi shook his head when pressed if there were other transports used to switch around the…trafficked cargo. And something about an escape pod that'll never be used. Sneaking it off for…credits." Ben muttered dumbly.
When they finally reach the Falcon, Poe inhales the filtered air once the engines kick under them. There's…there's justifying what just happened. Yeah, he can definitely go to sleep tonight. What Poe can't seem to shake off is Ben Solo's reddened, pained face as he did the mind probe. Was that real, or fake? Because honestly, he expected the guy to just rip the alien apart. Like, physically. A big mess of split brains in the alleyway.
Poe stashes his confusion away for later. Right now he needs to be in Commander mode.
"We got a couple hours until we reach the Boshtar. We can devise a plan on how to hunt down this Rodian ship from there – maybe recruit some Resistance volunteers to help us out."
Niall and Korla just nod away. "You boys hungry? Haven't eaten in…"
"Literally just six hours, doll," Korla admonishes him.
"Yeah, and I burned it all off in six minutes. Come on and fix me something, lovely."
Terric sits back into the pilot's seat and plugs in a music device, leaving Poe and Ben Solo to retreat to their own privacy.
And of course, Poe's got a few seconds to get away, because this whole Poe-Ben thing is awkward as hell. Poe decides he's actually hungry, too, and decides to join Niall and his hot girlfriend.
But Ben Solo stubbornly won't leave him alone. "I'm coming with you, whatever you plan."
Is he talking about eating together? Confused, Poe recovers. He means to find Rey. "Of course you're coming with us."
There's a beat of silence where the awkwardness skyrockets just because they've maintained eye contact. It does something weird to Poe. Maybe this is what Rey's stupidly interpreted as…squishy lust feelings.
Ugh. Kriff, gross. He loves Rey, but she's insane.
"You should…" Poe tries to recover. "Get some rest. Um, I'll…grab something and then co-pilot us out of here."
Ben watches Poe's retreating form. Poe's approached some sort of barrier between them, and almost teetered curiously over that line. Ben wanted to say something that is sarcastic and jeering, just to reaffirm that they are not and will not be friends. But he, of course, doesn't think of anything until Poe disappears.
Careful with this ship, she's not an X-wing.
ssssssssssssssssss
When Ben trudges into Rey's room, he reasons that it's because her room has the private 'fresher. And he remembers the medkit she kept in here, which he needs badly. His arm is in critical shape and there's no way he'll let anyone touch him right now.
He just really needs to be alone. Not to meditate, but to shut off everything – his feelings, his consciousness, his guilt, and the growing fear that this situation could not be more worse. He would not admit it, but there is a terrible thought that Rey…if there is anyone equally as good at killing Jedi, it's Xolon. But Rey is not just a Jedi. She's…she must know what she's doing. If only Ben didn't feel so sick.
Rey prepared a room for him in the spare storage space, but he's confident in his selfishness once he turns on the lights. A string of little glowlights reveal the thin, secondhand dyed drapes Rey had used to make this space hers. He regards her cot, low on the ground and lumpy, but thick and piled with blankets. They're small treasures of hers, as are the healing crystal and the illuminated star chart. Everything, he notices, is either bolted or sealed down with adhesive gel. Smart girl. Her old staff…his heart lurches at the sight of it. She had used something similar to its design to try and knock his head clean off its neck months ago. She's such a fierce fighter.
This is his space tonight, until he finds her…and then, if he's allowed, if she grants it…it could be theirs.
The thought warms him unexpectedly. He feels his skin pebble at the idea of her presence tied with his in this small space. That bed…he's never shared a bed with someone before. In his childhood, he had stumbled into his parents' bedroom late at night and saw them huddled together in seemingly uncomfortable positions, but neither appeared to have minded in the least. It never made sense. Two of the most different people in the universe, and yet they clung to each other like constellations in the sky.
Rey would feel so small in his arms, buried like a rodent underneath those blankets. His little desert creature; space is cold, and he'd never want her to be cold. He knows, now, exactly what little she wears under these sheets, though…does she radiate heat in sleep? He wonders…when they escaped Snoke, her hand was all he dared to touch.
Idiot, you don't remember? You nearly possessed her in this room when you tried to heal her!
With a huff of self-admonishment, Ben shoves off his clothes and removes his shoes. He makes quick work of patching up his arm with bacta. The pain…he's used to pain, and he can stow it away for now.
He's a little tall for this 'fresher, but the water's hot enough to pleasantly dull all of his senses. There's a smell, floral and fragrant that's definitely coming from soap. It permeates everything from the 'fresher's dense heat. It drives into Ben and assaults his anxiety, leaving him slack and heavy-headed.
He wants to laugh. The universe is making fun of him – whether on the Dark Side or Light, he will always chase her, desperate and clumsy, only now he is truly lovesick. He feels it like an accelerated disease, crippling his breathing and sense of composure.
Hands rub at his face and pull his hair back. He's tired; he wants to let it all go away and just…
Rey. Rey, I'm coming. Do you hear me? I'll find you. I'll save…I'll save you.
It's such a timid and hopeless thought, like a child's. He can't…he doesn't want to think of Xolon, not here. Not in this safe space of hers. All Ben will think about is her face, and her voice. If he imagines she is here, now, he won't sink in self-guilt.
She would be here, in their room – he's so gangly and cumbersome in this cramped space that she would have to twist around him. Or maybe have to lie on the bed while he stomped around looking for something. Laugh at his attempts.
People who are together…couples usually use the 'fresher together. He's not sure why he knows that, only he just does. She would – Ben scoffs, doesn't realize he's laughing at the image: they would just be a combined blob of flesh that no amount of water could truly help clean. They'd have to take separate sessions in here.
Maybe she'd wait her turn while doing her hair in the mirror. He faintly remembers the scent of it, warm and amber-like. It was so soft under his fingers when he…when they kissed in the dark. She's changed her style lately: not just the three knots, but sometimes a single ponytail or even a braid. He could bet that his mother had taught her how to do it, or maybe Rey had tentatively asked. Rey doesn't like drawing attention to herself. Ridiculous. Even though she's so kind and lovely and perfect, she would never want to bother anyone, thinking she's not worth it…
Something twists and coils inside, deep where he…his cock hardens.
Ben stills. Instant shame ties with curiosity. He is not sure what to do. He knows, distantly, what he can do. Isn't this what all people know somehow? He hasn't been allowed.
Every single part of him has been disciplined. He has no free reign, even over this: his own body, something he had never possessed on his own. Always under someone else's command. Stupid. Unworthy.
Except – she would trust him. She'd allow him.
He looks down at his own body. Pale and wrung with scars and muscle. He's never considered the hair that runs down his groin and his legs. The worm-like phallus that looks bruised, angry, swollen. Is this normal? Is he honestly attractive, to her? To just her?
This is so utterly private that not even the delicate soap scent can soothe him. The wrong kind of excitement dulls every heartbeat. He's never….this is the stupidest thing in his life. All of it.
The fever in his head threatens to make him faint. He can't think of anything else. He swallows.
With choked hesitation, he touches himself. His skin down there is raw and thin, like old silk. It's awful for a moment. It – his penis – hurts, practically. It's so sensitive that he whimpers. Ben clenches his whole mouth tighter, looking grim.
He knows how this is supposed to work. He's heard about it. Don't ask him where, he just – knows. But he's suddenly overcome, buckling from the knowledge he is naked and vulnerable, and there are people he still doesn't trust onboard. Even in this cramped room, he can't hide.
This won't work. His hands are too…his. If he were to remember what her hands looked like…felt like.
She's touched him before. Soft, deft and sure, ready to pluck whatever she wanted, her long fingers are like his, and strong. They're more callused, too. He suspects in that tinkering, brilliant mind of hers, she's noticed this and called him a spoiled brat in her head. He'd let her call him whatever she wants if only she were here…
What would she do?
His mind betrays him, and the vision he asked to see – he shouldn't have asked – of Rey, his Rey, astride that blue-eyed scoundrel's lap, sizzles across his eyes. She is sharp and on fire, all instinct and sinuous. Clothing and shadows peel away to reveal skin he hasn't seen before.
Below, his cock seems to twitch on its own. It actually burns. Ben sucks in breath between his teeth.
No. Think of – when you last fought her. She pounced on you. What would – he thinks in forbidden excitement. What would you do with her if –
Her eyes had blazed like an exotic animal's. She had the upper hand. Her wildness captivated him, even with his saber radiating at her neck. If only her hair had been down and…if she had stayed straddling him, he knows she would have made the first move, more boldly than had he had the guts to put his hands at her waist, begging with his eyes to just do whatever she wanted, as long as it made him hurt and it made her come.
Sweat breaks through him, even in the 'fresher. Ben's breath stutters, palm pressed to imitate her warmth on his member. "Ughh." That stuff, pre-cum, leaks out of him, not fast enough. It swells inside so hotly that it's like venom.
He needs to do this faster. It feels awkward as he wraps his hand around his own penis. The fever in his head breaks and his blood rushes in places they hadn't before. It's a battle lust, driving him to go harder, faster –
Rey REY, his mind bellows. Tell me, tell me where…I want you, I want this - I will do anything you ask please tell me – anything - !
His hand clenches harder, choking his poor member. Eyes remain closed to ignore the water, running in rivulets down his body, desperately imagining him and Rey twined together. Her breath fanning across his face and sweetly pushing his hair back, gentle as the summer. Clawing at his clothes to come off, pulling at the waistband of his pants, shoving his chest down, pulling him under, like the fatal void of the sea.
She is power incarnate, dominating him with iron and steel. She is euphoric and so gentle, like in that dream of hers, in the forest, and when she seemed to wordlessly plead with him, to surrender to him, that he could weep right now at how fucking foolish he has been, to refuse her.
He'd run his hands up and down her back, suck on the power that emanated from her neck; hear her purr and moan like the echoes in her memory, when that other man touched her.
His blood churns until it rises, making his skin uncomfortably warm. His great chest expands. It's not wide enough to hold in the nervous, labored breaths, and his cock is ready to explode –
"Ahhhugghh!" he grunts, stomaching what could have been an even louder yell. Sweet release pours out of him. He won't look, not down. This part…the water cooling, with his skin, all makes it more stark and wrong.
When he thinks his breath is returned to normal, hunched over himself with his whole good arm tight from overuse, he opens his eyes.
It feels…not too disgusting. Not awful, but it's slick, like oil. He has a horrible thought that it won't wash off him, that as it dribbles out of his tip, the evidence of his mad lust in Rey's bedroom will be noticed (smelled) by everyone.
Oh, Maker, please stop this, he begs.
The water is now dead cold, making him shiver. Very quickly, the brief ecstasy that possessed him now leaves him more confused and drawn.
Useless. While Rey is missing, in the hands of a calculated Ren Knight, Ben Solo is…kriff, he can't even say the word, can he?
The shame advances tenfold into his mind. His guts twist. Selfish. You haven't changed, have you? Still uncaring, what does she see in you?
If only he could. He could show her how much she matters; how often, how many times in a day, he would die for her. She's so perfect and true, he craves to try and be close to her by bathing in her shower, using her soap and sleeping in her bed. Sick, twisted idiot.
It's too much; and what he learned, about Xolon's involvement, is too much. Ben shuts off the water and makes quick work of drying himself. In his haste, his elbow slams into the wall and he withholds a damning hiss.
You can't do this. You can't redeem yourself. You can never be good…not even by trying to save her.
The unspoken thought is so small, but it does enough. He's instantly triggered, inflamed with self-hatred and imploding big-time. His fist clenches, and in an instant it explodes, hitting the wall again and again and again, until his good arm hurts as much as the other healing one.
He howls, snarls out his failure. He wasn't there, with Rey. He should have been there instead of Namorath. He thought…doing what she would do, the right thing, would keep her safe. And he was mistaken. He made a terrible, foolish mistake.
Xolon will somehow die from all of this. If Rey wants to watch, she can. He'll find her and he'll take her someplace safe, where they will never have to fight anyone again.
These are little comforts and do nothing to soothe Ben as he slides down to the floor, unable to make it to the mattress. He doesn't deserve it.