Hey all. I'm behind on replying to comments, but they always make my day. Enjoy the next chapter!


Chapter Three: Wounded


Another blistering spasm wracked the left side of her body as Rey stumbled into an old instructional room. Covered in dust, the space contained metal desks and chairs rusted at the joints—skeletons of another era. Cracks in the tile where vegetation had pushed through to reclaim its domain made the floor uneven and dangerous to navigate on shaky legs.

Gritting her teeth and moving as quickly as she dared, Rey picked her way to the cabinets behind the lectern. Despite the aging facility, she hoped the room still housed some rudimentary aid supplies. Without them, her chances of seeing the dawn were next to nothing.

The blast to her shoulder caused shooting pain to radiate down her arm, spreading to her upper back and chest. Distracted by her wound and occupied by her search, she never felt the tug against her little finger that signaled their connection. Only after he spoke in the strange silence did Rey realize he had fully breached the mental barrier she'd slammed shut after their last encounter.

She'd felt Kylo seeking her out during the midst of the battle. As her stamina had depleted, her ability to brush off his advances had faltered. Unable to focus on fighting the stormtroopers circling around her while also keeping him at bay in her mind, Rey hadn't been quick enough to deflect the shot that had nearly cost her an arm.

Forced to retreat from the battlefield for aid in whatever form she could find it, Kylo's intrusion didn't pose much of a threat to her friends or their cause.

"Something's wrong." Ill-concealed panic shaded his voice. "Everything is blurred. I can only see your outline."

Rage flared within her over his concerned tone. The flash of emotion sent a fresh stab to the partially cauterized injury she'd torn open again. How dare he show up now? Here? Acting as if he cared? If she weren't so preoccupied replacing her makeshift tourniquet with something more stabilizing, she'd throw all of her anger and hatred in his face, force him to retreat from their connection with her ire alone.

But that would be a waste of energy in her current condition, she reasoned.

"Where are you?" he asked when she didn't speak.

"Go—away!" The command came out shrill, broken. Her left hand started shaking. Was it induced by shock and blood loss? Or did it reflect her desire to destroy the creature who insisted on chasing her down like a hunter tracking injured prey through the woods?

He'd betrayed her for the last time. After all their shared moments and intimate connections, he had still sanctioned the slaughter of the Resistance supporters who had fled to the old Rebellion outpost.

"Rey. . ."

Her name on his lips sent her whirling around, an agonized shout ripping from somewhere deep within her—torment on a level she had never known. It went deeper than the blaster wound, bruised her more than the memories of being abandoned, seeing Han murdered, or watching Finn slashed down on Starkiller Base. It was akin to losing General Organa, a mother figure she'd become wholeheartedly attached to in the short month they'd had together.

Heartbreak swelled: absolute and eclipsing.

The spin cost Rey her balance. On her way toward the floor, her right arm clipped a freestanding cabinet next to the lectern, taking it down with her. The doors opened and relinquished a cascade of tools and supplies in a haphazard pile. Darkness rushed in at the corners of her vision—a sure sign the simple bandages and compression pads she'd come to find would be of no real use.

"Kriff," he swore, eyes dancing over her shaking form. "Look at you."

Her eyes scanned upward, landing upon the cloaked figure for the first time. Against his usual dark ensemble, only his pale face stood out—a face, she noticed, which was even more stark than what she had become accustomed to during their interactions. Rey couldn't decipher his surroundings from the shadows that all but swallowed him. Deep brown eyes reflected his concern; the intensity they harbored caused her gaze to shift away, unable to meet such emotion knowing her sorry appearance had evoked it.

Redirecting her attention to her environment, Rey discovered a metallic toolbox stamped with a medical symbol. She reached for the lifeline, heaving it toward her with her good arm while admonishing his presence.

"Come to gloat?" The bite in her tone was unmistakable.

He peered over his shoulder before responding in an equally unamused voice: "Contrary to what you believe, I take no pleasure in seeing you bleed."

Rey fumbled with the latches on the medkit, her dexterity slipping; the nimble-fingered scavenger within her scolded the clumsy attempt.

"Then you've really tapped in at the wrong time," she huffed, finally popping open the rusty latches. Without ceremony, Rey dumped the contents on the tile, rooting through them to find something useful. Gauze, bacta swabs, and some pre-filled syringes made up most of the supplies.

Rey picked up the nearest syringe and examined it; the label had faded and peeled with time, obscuring its purpose. The others were equal mysteries. Standard medkits came equipped with pain medication, adrenaline boosters, and antibiotics. Special cases included a fourth type of syringe: one which brought a swift death should a pilot or soldier fall into the hands of the enemy.

There was no way to know which type she held in her hand. Rey vented her frustration with a litany of Jakku curses.

He shook his head, pleading with her. "Expired training supplies are useless. They'll do more harm than good. You need serious aid."

A harsh sound crawled up the back of her throat. "Our support frigate is gone. The station's medbay is past capacity. There is no help."

He looked over his shoulder again—why did he keep doing that?—then turned back to her. A gloved hand smoothed the agitation creeping across his forehead. "What about the worthless friends you fight for? Where are they when you need them?"

The empty metal kit flew in his direction, crashing just in front of his feet. If she'd possessed an iota of spare strength, it would have been a direct hit. "My friends are still out there fighting—dying," she spat at him, "because of you."

As soon as the spark of anger subsided, Rey regretted the needless drain from her already waning energy. Her head felt woozy. The pain in her arm had started to fade, replaced by a chill that did not bode well.

"I gave no order of attack."

Maybe her hearing was failing too, because what she'd heard didn't make any sense. "You. . .what?"

He stepped closer; Rey responded by inching back until she bumped into the wall. Crouching next to her, his hooded cape spilled around him in a black pool of thick wool.

"I didn't order the attack," he reiterated, his voice quiet yet urgent.

"How can I trust you?"

It wasn't a question of if she believed him: she did. Even if her mind wanted to blame him, to curse him for his allegiance to the First Order, her heart accepted the sincerity he exuded in his statement. The part of his soul fused with hers through their bond revealed the truth.

His voice dropped to a murmur. "Have I ever lied to you?"

Her head lolled away from him, once again unable to meet the earnestness behind his expression, raw and unprotected—vulnerable. His eyes were her undoing: they exposed the light within him, separated Ben Solo from the title he had worn as a shroud against perceived weakness.

"Then who…?" she whispered.

"That usurping bastard: Hux."

When he said the name, she connected the signs. His panic, the frantic glances over his shoulder, the sense of alert that thrummed through him and into her consciousness. The implication became achinginly clear: "He's hunting you."

Ben grimaced, nodded, and immediately tried to reassure her. "I'm safe for now."

"You should go," she told him. "Escape while there's still a chance."

His jaw went slack with shock. Shaking his head in disbelief and denial, he calmly said, "Delaying my fate isn't worth your life."

If his worry over her survival cost him his own, Rey would never forgive herself. She had to make it out of this situation alive. All her life, she'd been a survivor; there was no way she would give up now.

Maybe the aged medical supplies scattered around her would do her no good, but she still had one option. She could try to heal herself using the Force. Granted, it would be a big undertaking; the blaster's plasma had sliced through layers of tissue and muscle. The most she'd ever healed had been the superficial cut on Ben's chest—a task which had exhausted her.

She imagined a wound of this nature would require even more skill and power than she had previously utilized. Rey's confidence in herself and her abilities wavered, though she supposed even a novice attempt at employing the regenerative power would be better than no attempt at all. Right?

Gingerly, she began untying the impromptu cloth bandage she'd fashioned from one of her arm wraps. The soaked fabric dripped red; the color stained her tunic and smeared down the exposed skin of her arm. While Rey had garnered her unfortunate share of injuries on Jakku, she'd never lost this much blood in one incident.

Ben watched, brows drawing together and eyes growing wider. "What are you doing?"

With a muffled grunt, she stripped the bandage away completely. Her breath came in short, shallow pants as fresh blood trickled from the blaster wound. "The Resistance can't lend me the aid I require," she acknowledged, "so I'm going to fix this myself."

Recalling her training from Ben, Rey's right hand hovered over the injury, barely an inch from the surface of her skin. You can do this, she thought as she centered herself, trying to push beyond the pain.

"Don't," Ben cautioned. "You're too weak. You're training is incomplete."

Both observations were true; she ignored him nonetheless. Focusing on the Force, she tried to connect the shredded muscle and tissue beneath her fingers while talking herself through the action. "I just—have to—control—"

"Stop it!"

"—the bleeding," Rey finished on a loud groan.

Her right arm went limp, landing in her lap. The exertion had wiped her out, but had done little to stem the bleeding or mend her wound; if anything, her efforts had left her worse off than when she'd started. As Ben had said, she was just too weak. She'd used too much energy fighting the First Order to use the Force to heal herself.

While death didn't scare her, she feared what would become of the man she'd given everything to save from the darkness if she succumbed to its fatal embrace. Ben Solo crouched beside her, though the current circumstances were nothing like the vision she'd had what seemed like a lifetime ago.

A sob rattled through her chest, tears following afterward. Their intertwined fates would amount to nothing if it ended now; she couldn't accept that.

Determined, the hand in her lap twitched and lifted slightly for a second attempt, knowing it would be her last if she failed.

A warm hand—large and uncalloused in comparison—encompassed hers. Skin-to-skin, the comforting touch begged her to open her eyes. They blinked apart just as his head bent forward, face curtained by dark tendrils of hair. His lips brushed against her knuckles.

When he spoke, his voice resonated with reverence, awe. "Idiot." He whispered it like a term of endearment. "You'll kill yourself like this."

"Wouldn't it have come to this eventually?" she asked, voice hollow. "My destruction? Yours?"

Her words knocked him to his knees. "How can you say that?" A clenched fist rapt against his chest over his heart. "I wanted you to be my queen. I wanted to worship you."

Rey could feel tears on her cheeks. Was she still angry with him for supporting the brutality of the First Order? Still hurt that he couldn't see the difference between worshiping her and loving her? Or did her sorrow stem from finally having Ben Solo kneeling in front of her and knowing her death would erase him from existence?

She couldn't let that happen. "Ben. . ."

Squeezing her hand to quiet her, he continued. "My vision was wrong. What I need isn't the First Order or to rule the galaxy. What I need is you. Only you, Rey."

With her good hand still enveloped within his, Rey raised her left hand to lay against the side of his face. Thumbing the scar against his cheek, she caressed him. He'd come into her life through violence; she resolved to leave him with love.

Leaning forward, she brought her lips to his. They felt warm against her own. Ben didn't move at first, frozen until her tenderness could thaw him. When he did slant his lips along her mouth, it was controlled and unhurried, light and giving—much different than the kiss they'd shared in his quarters. The surprise of his easy approach took her breath away.

When she could no longer support herself, Rey fell back against the wall and looked up at him through her lashes. A small smile curled the corners of her mouth. "A good note to leave on."

His gloved hand joined the ungloved one still holding onto hers, enfolding her in a contrasting grip. "You aren't going anywhere."

As soon as he'd uttered the declaration, he released his grasp and reached for a syringe filled with yellow liquid.

"What are you doing?" she asked, echoing his earlier words as he popped the cap from the needle. He worked quickly, almost mechanically, as composed and coolheaded as she had ever seen him.

"My father used to keep one of these kits on the Falcon," he explained, pushing on the plunger to discharge a small amount of the medicine and potential air bubbles. "I can't have you pass out on me now. I'll disappear."

She barely felt the prick in her thigh. As he rubbed the injection site to spread the medicine, Rey's body revved to life. Every nerve stood on alert, sending shockwaves of rippling pain to her injury. Her heart rate increased, pulse fluttering at her neck. Ben sensed the change, ducking his head to place a kiss against her throat in apology.

"I don't know if this will work. . .or if I have enough strength," he admitted grimly.

"You said that once before," she replied, remembering their experiment on Ahch-To.

He made one last comment, blunt and honest: "It's going to hurt."

She nodded once to show she understood. It couldn't hurt much worse than being shot, could it?

His ungloved hand hovered over the blaster wound, just as hers had. He closed his eyes, concentrating all his energy on the challenge. His breathing steadied and the muscles in his face relaxed as he reached for the Force. He appeared calm, and she marveled at how easily he could push aside his worry and desperation; his years of studying and training with the Force became strikingly apparent.

She realized, belatedly, how her foolhardy arrogance had almost ended her life in trying to heal herself without much experience.

Familiar white light emanated from his palm. At first, she felt a brush of heat at the site of her injury which brought back memories of the time he'd administered the Force on her bruise; nothing unpleasant. As he continued his ministrations, however, the fiery sensation grew and grew until it became almost unbearable.

"It burns!" she cried as tears tracked down her cheeks.

"Regenerating the tissue gives off heat, remember?" he reminded her, once again mentoring her through the process in a patient voice. "A wound this deep requires a great deal of repair."

The lesson fell on deaf ears: she was on fire. Her body arched, trying to tear itself away from the source of its distress. In response, his gloved hand came between them, palm placed in the center of her chest to steady her, to keep her from floating away from him, to tether her to a corporeal realm. The pressure holding her in place felt firm and weighty, but not crushing or restrictive.

"Breathe," he instructed, voice so soothing it sounded like it came from another entity altogether.

She did the opposite, gnashing her teeth together and huffing through the pain.

The briefest flash of a smile caught her attention. "You're stubbornness will get you killed one of these days," he chided with affection. "But that day remains on the distant horizon."

It was over.

He pulled away just far enough to look at his efforts. Rey glanced down at her shoulder as well. Where there had been a ragged hole, there was now a thick, pink scar. Rolling her shoulder experimentally, Rey winced at the lingering ache, but the tears on her face were from another feeling entirely.

Raising her right hand, she swept the sweat from his brow before carding her fingers through his hair and bringing his forehead down to rest against hers. She sensed the exhaustion within him, could only imagine how taxing it had been for him to heal her. Her worried mind brought the memory of Luke Skywalker to the forefront; after intensive use of the Force on Crait, he'd disappeared.

Would Ben disappear too?

"You're trembling," he observed.

"I thought that was you."

She noticed, now, that her body shivered uncontrollably. Her shoulders and arms shook despite her attempts to stop them. The adrenaline had nearly worn off, leaving her feeling sluggish and drowsy, chilled to the core.

With a fluid movement, Ben stood and removed his cloak. Careful that he didn't disturb her sensitive shoulder, he draped the cozy material over her. Then he glanced back again, as if he'd heard something her ears couldn't.

A stroke of panic ran up her spine, sensing his alarm as well. She dreaded the answer to the question she had to ask. "What is it?"

"Footsteps."

"Get out of there." Her warning became a demand. "Come to me."

He bent down, adjusting the cloak and brushing away a sweaty strand of hair glued against her forehead. "Don't do anything foolish for my sake."

She wanted to reach out to him, to hold on and keep him safe, but her body wouldn't cooperate. Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed because she wouldn't acknowledge this was the end. "This isn't goodbye, Ben."

He closed his eyes as though savoring the sound of his name on her cracked lips, then grimaced as he whispered, "They've found me."