Chapter Summary: Rey and Kylo run a gauntlet of emotions whilst dealing with the after-effects of their Force Heal session.
Conversations
Part XI
When Rey wakes, she's lying on the bunk Kylo previously occupied, a soft grey Resistance-issue blanket draped over her. For several minutes she stays perfectly still, staring at the underside of the bunk above her as the low hum of the Falcon's engines tug her back towards sleep.
She could almost do it. She could almost close her eyes and drift away again. Her body, when she finally moves to flex her muscles, feels as though it has been stretched and pulled from all angles. Her mind feels like it's undergone the same regimen. Yes. She could easily sleep a little while longer yet.
But when she moves to pull the blanket a little further around herself, her groggy brain finally strays from its scrutiny of aches and pain to consider how she came to be lying on the bunk, tucked in with a blanket, after all that had happened the last time she was conscious.
"Ben?" Swinging herself out of bed, she pads down the corridor towards the cockpit. It's empty, and Rey finds herself releasing a breath of relief as she sinks into the pilot seat and stares at the streaming ribbon of stars beyond the viewport.
She's not sure how to face him, she realises with sudden clarity. Not now that she's revealed so much of herself. Given away so much of herself. She can feel him still on the outer edge of her conscience. His fury. His softness. His loneliness. His turmoil. She feels it like an echo. And yet now more than ever she can't determine whether he is Kylo Ren, or Ben Solo.
He is both. He is neither. He is a stranger. Sharing her ship.
The sudden beep of an incoming communication snaps her attention to the control panel. She stares without moving at the flashing yellow light. Of all the things she's not yet ready to contend with, General Organa's questions are ranked highest.
Mercifully, the shrill sound eventually stops.
A quick glance to the nav computer reveals that he's adjusted their course. Questioning him on it is a practical matter she can deal with, and after satisfying herself that all else is in order, she heads back into the corridor; completing a quick circuit of the Falcon as she makes her way to the main hold.
It's empty.
But for an unfamiliar rucksack on the floor. Its contents piled without care beside it.
Ignoring the bag as an anomaly to investigate shortly, Rey turns back into the corridor to begin a more careful sweep of the ship.
There is a mild sense of unease pooling in her stomach as she finds each and every nook and cranny of the Falcon empty, so that her gut has become a deep well of despair by the time she returns to the main hold.
The rucksack on the floor has her attention now.
She stares, tempering down the panic that Kylo Ren has somehow sent her into a trap and shipped himself back to the First Order in an escape pod. How would that be, she thinks numbly, for irony.
That wouldn't happen, she tries to reassure herself. That's just ridiculous. In fact, it's not even technically possible. But her hands shake with trepidation nevertheless as she crouches down to investigate the bag; reaching out to pick up what seems to be a well-worn -
"You can throw that over here, if you don't mind."
Jumping to her feet, Rey spins on her heel, eyes wandering the seemingly empty hold until her gaze falls upon the dimly-lit recess of the relief pilot's bunk, where a pale face looks out at her from amidst the depths of a blanket.
"Oh." She flushes. "There you are. Of course."
He raises himself to an elbow. "Where else did you expect me to be?"
The smile he offers softens his face and she quickly turns from it, hurling the black knit jersey towards him as he throws back the blanket and begins to sit.
"I didn't really pay you much thought at all, actually." She keeps her attention on the rucksack as if doing so will prove her point, and wonders at the assortment of clothing piled at her feet. "Are you normally this messy?"
"Worse."
"I don't believe you."
"Then why did you ask?"
When he steps towards her, Rey's suddenly reminded of just how small the main hold is. Of how this man dominates the room so that she feels pressed from all sides by his presence. He stops short of crossing into her personal space, though the gaze he assesses her with makes her feel as if they share the same breath nonetheless.
"I found the bag in a cargo crate," he explains, "figured on helping myself to something that isn't soaked in blood."
She doesn't really hear his words, but she manages a vague 'uh-huh' while staring at his face and trying to determine what has changed. Because something has definitely changed, and it's not just that the rugged, casual-style jumper softens his hard Sith-like edges.
His brow creases with concern as he watches her watching him. "How are you feeling?"
Who are you? Her brain wants to ask. Ben, or Kylo?
It's unsettling.
"Good," she nods vigorously. Too vigorously. "I feel good. And you?"
He is silent. But for that quizzical arch of a brow that confuses her further. And when she flinches away as he moves to touch a hand to her cheek, she feels the echo of his own bewilderment.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
No. She wants to say. No, I'm not okay. I'm not sure how to speak to you without yelling. I'm not sure how to read you when your eyes are gentle and your voice is kind. I'm not sure who you are. What to call you. I'm not sure why I feel as if everything around me is spinning out of control even though I'm standing still and -
"Rey?"
"I'm fine," she nods again, turning away, "I'm going back to sleep."
.
The next time she wakes, she finds him sitting at the Dejarik table, frowning at the holographic creatures as he attempts to outwit himself in a game.
He glances up as she enters, and the long look of consideration he gives her leaves her with the distinct impression that he's not simply sizing her up as a potential holochess opponent. He has, she suspects, been left alone on the Falcon with far too much time to think.
"You were lying about those things you said to me in the tunnel," he begins, confirming her hunch, "I could sense it in your voice."
"Right." Rey nods, sliding into the nearby seat. "And that's why you got so angry, huh?"
Closing his mouth, he folds his arms across his chest and leans back, silent as Rey helps herself to his next move on the board. They play on for a couple of minutes without speaking. Until the tension grows so thick that Rey can almost see it as a physical thing, suspended in the air between them.
"So. Poe Dameron."
The three words drop like stones, and though she has her gaze fixed firm upon the game before her, Rey imagines that little muscle must be twitching overtime beneath his left eye.
Yes. She can actually feel the weight of his stare - but only until she lifts her eyes from the game and returns it - at which point he skitters away and fixes his attention on the wall beyond her.
For someone who claims to know she was lying, he's doing a bad job of composing his emotions.
"Do you object?" she asks finally, as deadpan serious as she can manage.
Blinking, his eyes dart back to her before flicking away again. A muscle works in his jaw for several seconds as if he's digesting several protests at once before settling on just the one.
"Yes."
"And why would that be?" she presses, even as a little voice inside her head asks her why she's baiting him.
"I don't care who you choose to get involved with," he says quietly. Each word clipped and concise. "Just not him."
"So… Finn?"
"Don't you da-" cutting his words off with a snarl, he jumps to his feet. "I'm done with this game."
As she watches him storm towards the cockpit, she feels her stomach sink. She could have handled that differently. She could have put him out of his turmoil and told him…
She could have handled that differently.
.
As the Force would have it, their conversation isn't over.
Rey returns to the crew's quarters with an immediate plan to cleanse herself of several layers of Jakku grime, fix herself something to eat, and seek him out to start their conversation again. But after a quick trip to the 'fresher she only gets so far as tearing open a ration pack before she feels the familiar tug of the bond opening.
Smiling, she lifts her eyes, "we'll you've saved me from walking fifty feet to apologise for being a -"
The words fade along with the smile as she recognises the look on his face. It's the same look he met her with when she shipped herself to the Supremacy. The one that says she's done something foolish, and he has no idea how to fix it. Or whether he should even try.
"Uh-oh," she begins slowly, "I take it you've been thinking again."
"Your friend thinks I'm dead," he states with accusation, rising to approach her from what she assumes to be the cockpit's pilot seat.
"Ah," she nods, stepping around the countertop to meet him.
"Once your friend returns to the Resistance with that news, the whole galaxy is going to believe me dead. Including General Hux. Who will take such information as an opportunity to appointment himself in my place."
"I know. Ben..."
Rey stops as he flinches from the name, and grits her teeth at his insistence on holding on to the First Order. The title of Supreme Leader. The facade of Kylo Ren. All the things that stop him from stepping out from the darkness. All the things that stop her from standing by his side.
"Can't you see? It's your chance to start afresh."
He pauses, sucking in a sharp breath. "If you truly believe that, why did you give him that message. For General Organa."
"Do you really want your mother to think you dead?" Of course he does, she answers herself silently. She can feel his resistance pulsing through the Force. "Can you not see this as an opportunity to -"
"She's not my mother," he says flatly, "not anymore."
"She'll always be your mother," Rey forces her voice to remain soft, "whether you like it or not. Besides, she would know if you were dead. She'd feel it."
"No," he insists, "she wouldn't. I cut myself off from her in the Force a long time ago."
"I don't believe that's true." It's all Rey can do to not step right through the manifestation, stride down to the cockpit and slap the real man upside the head. "And even if it were, she hasn't returned the sentiment."
He steps in until he looms over her. "You don't seem to be listening to me, Rey."
"No, you don't seem to be listening to me, Kylo. You've already taken away her husband. Don't make Leia lose her son as well."
For a moment he is wordless, and she uses the opportunity to make one last statement before slamming the bond shut with all the energy she can muster. "And don't you dare tell me he's already lost to her. Because he's not."
Sinking to her bunk, she rolls herself onto the mattress and buries her face into the pillow. The rumble of her empty stomach follows her into sleep.
The third time Rey wakes, it's to the aroma of food.
Not the sharp, duroplast smell of polystarch bread, but something rich and exotic and out of place from anything she would expect to find aboard a tired old freighter.
She inhales slowly, trying to taste the flavours in the air, and when her stomach starts to rumble in response to the tease of a meal, she allows herself to open her eyes. To face again, a conversation with a volatile stranger.
"Sorry for disturbing you, but I'm starving. Figured you would be too."
Cracking one eye open, she watches the unlikely sight of Kylo's huge frame moving about the small kitchenette that occupies one side of the crew's quarters. Two plates sit on the countertop, and when she cranes her head she can spy what appears to be watery grey goop slopped into the center of each.
"What is that?"
"I'm not sure," he admits, "it was in this..."
The silver foil packet he waves at her is sadly familiar.
"Polystarch bread." Curiosity piqued, Rey crosses the cabin to investigate the watery mess on the plates. "Not quite sure how anyone can get that wrong."
"Well, I had no idea what to do with it," he shrugs, "it's lumpy soup now."
A ping from the nanowave draws him away and he fetches a covered bowl from within it.
"Fortunately, I found this in one of the cargo holds," he inclines his head towards a supply box bearing First Order insignia, "now this is something I'm familiar with. Say hello to the First Order's finest..."
Uncovering the bowl with a flourish, his shoulders drop in defeat as he reveals a wizened red-brown husk dried to its bottom.
"Admittedly, I had no idea what to do with this, either."
Rey lifts her gaze from the overcooked food-type-thing and stares at the man before her. Any confusion she felt towards him previously, now heightened tenfold.
"What?" lowering the lid to the bowl, he returns her stare, "what have I done?"
"I'm not sure," Rey blinks at last, "I'm still just trying to figure out… Who the hell you are."
It's the wrong thing to say, she realises as he draws himself taller; his face settling into that cool aloofness that has her wishing she could backpedal her words.
"I mean, you're not a cook, that's for sure," stepping around him, she begins rifling through the box of food stores he's uncovered, "but fortunately for you… I've spent a lifetime learning to be self-sufficient."
"So in the course of trying to figure out who I am," he states slowly, "you've determined that I am pandered. And helpless."
"Oh." Her attempt at good humour sags as she grips the edge of the countertop and closes her eyes, mentally facepalming as she wonders if now would be too soon for another nap. "I'm sorry."
"You're right though," he says quietly, reaching for a new packet of The First Order's finest, "so far as domestic duties are concerned, I've had droids to attend my every whim for most of my life. And while I can spit-roast a womp-rat if push comes to shove, I wouldn't know how to cook reconstituted foodstuffs to save myself."
Rey opens her mouth and closes it again as it occurs to her that his words are a peace offering. This whole meal is a peace offering.
Unsure how to process that or what to say in return, she shifts her attention to the insignia stamped upon the crate. "Well, your supply freighters have been fun to hit. You really like to leave yourself open to attack."
"We know," he counters, "you should be more careful - most of the crates have trackers embedded in them. "
Without breaking eye contact, Rey reaches to the lid of the box, wrenches off the inner lining and holds up a small black device. "You mean one of these?"
Kylo's eyes widen in alarm. "Rey…"
"Relax, Supreme Leader," she drawls, "we've known how to neutralise your trackers for ages."
Lifting the foil packet from his hands, she tears it open and dumps the contents into a clean bowl. "Your food supplies never have instructions on them but it's usually standard fare. Polystarch bread, protein paste..."
"Stormtrooper fare," he nods. "Well, this time you nabbed yourself the top-level stuff. I believe when mixed with the correct quantity of water, it becomes dindra sauce." At her blank, unappreciative stare, he tries to elaborate further. "It goes well with berbersian crab salad. Not that we'll find any of that around here, unfortunately, but at least it'll make the trooper rations more palatable."
"Uh-huh." She has no idea what dindra sauce is. Or berbersian crab for that matter. And stormtrooper rations is the stuff she grew up on. "Well, let's hope we can get this right without producing a shrivelled up overcooked husk this time."
Smiling, he steps away to mix water into the new concoction and put it in the nanowave. "Next time I'm aboard my ship, I'll remember to bring back a service droid for you."
Rey's good mood fades at his mention once more of returning to the First Order. Kylo Ren, she reminds herself. Not Ben.
"My father made this kitchenette for my mother," he says suddenly, his voice stilted and awkward. "As a wedding present."
"Oh?" Rey eyes him quizzically, sensing that he's attempting to lighten the mood. Though it surprises her that he's chosen a family memory in order to do so. "That was nice of him."
"Was it? Really?" He raises a brow, incredulous. "Would you be happy with a kitchen as a wedding gift?"
The question catches Rey off-guard, enough so that she stops what she's doing; mouth hanging half-open on an answer she can't quite form.
"Not that I'm… I mean, I don't mean for you exactly… I just mean… rhetorically..." ducking his head, he bites his lip and tries again. "My point is that this kitchen was always a source of contention for my parents. One of many."
"Of course," Rey nods, "I couldn't imagine General Organa playing the role of domestic housewife."
"No, absolutely not," he laughs. "Han wasn't always the best at reading woman."
"Well," she smiles, "at least you learnt from his mistake and offered me a servant droid."
For a moment he says nothing, just stares as if astonished. Rey blinks, the pause allowing her to mentally backtrack and recognise her insinuation.
"Oh." She drops her gaze to the mid-space between them, a flush of embarrassment breaking out over her skin. "I didn't mean to imply…"
"Rey," he interrupts softly, reaching for her wrist with his hand, "it's okay."
Blinking hard, she stares at his fingers on her skin. The warm flush reforms into a kernel of heat that threatens to explode in her chest. Kylo? Ben? Suddenly it's important for her to know, and she raises her eyes to search his own as if the answer might be somewhere in his gaze.
And perhaps it isn't, but the look on his face is so open and full of want, she feels her breath catch in her chest. With the smallest flex of his hand, he tugs her closer, his eyes searching her own as if seeking permission.
"Ben…" she begins. A plea.
"Perhaps," he finishes. Voice tight. Eyes soft. Drawing her in. His hand gently running up her arm as her own momentum cleaves her to him. Mouth parting to lick his lips as he dips his head. Arms sliding around shoulder. Waist. Breath catching.
And then the noise of the Falcon's engines abruptly change. The pitched whine of the hyperdrive cuts off as the ship drops out of hyperspace with a sudden stomach-spilling jolt.
Rey wrenches herself away, knowing without having to look to a viewport that the old freighter is in trouble. "I have a bad feeling… Do you have a bad feeling?"
"I had… a feeling?" He offers with a twist of a smile.
But then she's rolling her eyes and this time it's her turn to reach out and grab his wrist as the lights flicker, momentarily plunging them into darkness before coming back on at half-power. "Come on, let's find out what's going on."
Notes:
Food: According to Wookieepedia, Berbersian Crab Salad is described as 'a dish that consisted of crisp Naboo Lettuce and Buttered crap sticks. It could be served with dindra sauce.' I decided to borrow it for my story, figuring that top-level FO people like to enjoy some perks of the job every now and then. You know, asides from bossing everyone around and striving for galaxy domination.
The kitchen: Han installing a kitchenette onboard the Millenium Falcon as a wedding gift to Leia is a thing. Canonised as of The Force Awakens Incredible Cross-sections.
This chapter was a mess: Yep, sorry about that. While trying to figure out exactly where I wanted to go with this chapter, I wrote the content of each scene as a potential opener. Then decided to merge it all together into one ramshackled rollercoaster of emotional confusion. I hoped it would work as both a physical and psychological side-effect of an intense force-heal session, and I also want to leave Rey wondering whether she'd managed to heal Kylo/Ben's spirit as well as his body, or whether he's still in conflict as to his identity. (Well, guess he's still kind of on the fence about that - psychological change doesn't come that easy!) Then I went and shoe-horned the 'Han gave Leia a kitchenette how'd you feel about a droid' thing and... Gimme a couple days to come back to this fic with fresh eyes and I'll be facepalming until I leave my forehead with a permanent indentation. Actually, I probably should sit on this fic a couple more days before posting, but... Ah well. Frak it. *hits Post*