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His lips on hers are warm, and soft, and wonderful.
She doesn’t know how many times she’s imagined it, dreamed of it, wished for it, and now it’s here—he’s here, he’s with her, he’s Ben. His fingers curl in the nape of her hair; his palm on her back. His mouth turns up in a smile against hers. Her hand has landed on the side of his cheek, keeping him close, as close as they can get, and for a moment nothing and everything moves. They revel in this moment, a quiet but passionate admission of what they’ve both denied for the past year—for most of their lives.
And in the Force…
He is happy. Other things, too—pain, relief, dismay—but the happiness, bright and clean and deep within him, outshines it all. And she knows it’s happiness because this is new—she’s never felt it from him like this before.
She doesn’t want it to end, but reluctantly, hesitantly, he pulls away—not enough to break their shared contact, but enough for Rey to know that it’s over, to lean back and look at him, eyes roving over an unscarred face, unencumbered by rage or conflict for the first time she’s seen. His eyes are lidded, lingering on her lips before moving up to her eyes, his hand still steady on her neck.
He just—looks. Drinks her in. And she she does the same, memorizing every inch of him like it’s the first and last time.
She feels almost giddy, relief waxing and adrenaline waning, and she almost wants to kiss him again, if only to make sure it happened, make sure it was real, because it doesn’t feel real, Ben next to her for the first time. She smiles, one that lights up her whole face, and he returns it, actually returns it. It’s nearly a grin, the way the corners of his mouth pull up and dimple, his eyes crinkling. She can even see his teeth, crooked in such a charming, perfect way, and for some reason that makes her heart well up in her chest, and she nearly cries for the love she feels for him in that moment.
Because yes, deep down, it is love. Budding, small, but it’s there, buried beneath that melancholic anger for Kylo Ren that she already feels withering away. Her fingers tangle in his hair, her thumb tracing the corner of his mouth, following his fading smile.
He grabs her free hand, gently at first, but the longer they touch, fingers intertwining, the firmer his grasp becomes. She feels a swell in her chest for the man she loves, the man who shirked his past to save her, to make her whole. She opens her mouth to tell him—what exactly, she doesn’t know.
But Ben’s eyes are sliding shut.
And something’s suddenly wrong, her brow furrowing, smile dissipating, and now she’s remembering a heavy hand on her torso, waking up in his arms.
And then she knows, and that giddy, unadulterated joy bouncing around inside her solidifies and drops to the pit of her stomach.
He’s not smiling anymore—his face has been wiped of any expression save for a quiet peace, and then he’s falling, tipping backwards faster than she can catch him, the hand at her neck slipping away.
She barely catches him, only managing to grab at one of his massive shoulders and let him down gently, but he hits the dusty ground all the same. His eyes are closed now, all of him slipping now, but for the briefest moment, she feels his hand squeeze hers, as if in farewell.
No, is all she can think, no no no, I can heal you, I can fix this, I have to fix this, please I have to. She begins sloppily centering her mind even as she feels his heart stop below her hand, scrambling to heal him, to give her life back, but he’s already fading, his hand on hers already losing its feel, its grip, and then—
—He’s gone.
He’s gone.
She can’t even hold him as he leaves her, he’s too fast in disappearing, and all she has are his clothes, still warm to the touch, and she doesn’t know what else to do besides sit there, on this cold, dusty ground, and hug that sweater, new to her, close to her. She clutches it in shaking hands and it smells like him, like the musky tang of his sweat, like the sea, like the sun, like a warm breeze in the night. She lowers her head to rest where his chest would have been, imagines feeling a beating heart there, never leaving her.
You’re not alone.
There is an infinity of instances in her life where she has wished those words were true, but never more than now, in this moment, when her last hope of belonging is a whisper of warmth in the sweater curled in her hands.
***
“General Hux?”
“Dead,” Rose responds, her nose to a datapad. “Steadfast records note his execution for treason, carried out by Allegiant General Pryde.”
“He’s next on the list,” Poe says, combing through a list on his own screen. “I don’t have anything here on him.”
“I don’t either,” Rose says. “But there’s nothing new on any communications network the Order used that has his personal code, and his command ship was shot down. I’d recommend ‘assumed dead’.”
“Me, too,” Poe concurs, making a note on his datapad.
Rey watches the exchange from the corner of the last command room on Ajan Kloss, the last base of the Resistance that’s already being packed up. Most of the Resistance has already returned to the Core worlds, anticipating the formal announcement of the end of the war on Coruscant. Poe remains here to oversee operations while Finn takes care of things in the Core. He’d invited her to come along, asking her to help draft the treaty and organize the budding Galactic Coalition, but she’d denied, thinking of General Organa, her last days in the Senate, the footsteps her son would have followed in. If he was here, he would be there, helping, well versed in the history of Galactic Government. I don’t know the first thing about it, but maybe he would have taught me.
Thinking about him only invokes pain, so she turns from that train of thought, returning to the comfort of numbness.
On the ride back in Luke’s X-Wing she’d pieced it together in her mind, once she’d gotten a hold on her emotions. The last thing she remembers before him is the dust around her, settling after the destructions of Palpatine’s morbid arena, and her collapse to the ground, then—cold. Nothingness. Death, she recognizes now.
And next, a warmth in her stomach, on her stomach. A weight—Ben’s hand. And after that—well, she remembered that well enough. But all the individual pieces, those make sense now, now that she notices them. His lips trembling, eyes focused but imploring, welling with tears. Holding onto her like he’s about to lose her—because he’s about to lose her. The smallest upturn of his brows, failing to keep his tears at bay. His fingers in her hair, on her neck. His smile. His hand in hers.
It had been a farewell, all of it. She hadn’t realized until it was already over. He hadn’t told her, hadn’t explained, to protect her, to keep her happy, a smile on her face and his name on her mouth the last thing he’d see, he’d hear.
She pulls herself back to the present, forcing herself to listen to the sporadic conversation between the other members of high command. They’re still picking through the First Order’s leadership, parsing out who survived and who didn’t. There’s a datapad in her hands but she’s not using it, not helping, just a passive witness to their work. The only name she’d been able to give was the Emperor’s confirming his death. Everyone else pretends not to notice the rest of her silence.
She kneads a thumb into the palm of her hand, feeling a phantom touch there.
“Admiral Griss?” Poe asks, circling a name on his screen.
“Stationed on the same Destroyer as Pryde. ‘Assumed dead’.”
Poe nods. “General Parnadee, Quinn?”
“Both on the Steadfast, but only Quinn’s death was recorded. Executed by the Supreme Leader during a meeting of his high command.”
“Speaking of,” Poe starts, “I’ve got no record of him past the raid on Kijimi. Do you?” The question is meant for Rose, but Rey feels at least one pair of eyes on her.
“I don’t.” Rose’s voice is soft. The air in the room changes.
“Well, he must not have been on any of the main Destroyers. His TIE was logged as taking off a few standard hours after we escaped, and we know he was on Kef Bir. But his new destination was never transmitted back to the command ship, and he never returned to the battle on Exegol, at least according to the Order.” Poe pauses, and Rey feels his eyes on her.
“He’s probably still out there, somewhere. Maybe attempting to rebuild what was lost.” His voice is soft, as careful as she’s heard it, and so she lifts her eyes to meet Poe’s pleading gaze. “I know it’s been hard on you, Rey, the end of this war, but we need your help to ensure we can maintain peace. Do you know anything about this? About where he might have gone?”
She can feel her heart thudding in her chest. Yes, she remembers him on Kef Bir, and her hand on his chest, saving him from the death she’d doled out, one she’d barely recognized herself. And that was Kylo Ren, but also Ben, also the man she knew on Exegol, the one who’d sacrificed himself for him, for everyone.
Kylo Ren is dead, she wants to say, wants to scream. But Ben Solo lived. He came back to Exegol and took the saber of his ancestors and killed anyone who stepped in his way. He found peace and stood beside me to destroy the Sith, to destroy Palpatine. He died so I could live. He’s the only reason I’m in front of you now.
But her lips can’t form the words. They fall flat on her tongue. No one knows that Kylo Ren is dead. No one knows what Ben Solo did. He never had a funeral; his story ends at his worst feats. She holds the key, the power to tell the Resistance, to tell everyone, and yet…
She can’t. She doesn’t know why. After everything he did for her, she can’t even clear his name, absolve his sins in the eyes of history. The galaxy will never know his final acts. And the only person to blame is her.
Poe is still looking at her. The room has stilled now.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know anything.”
“But you didn’t see him again? After… after the Death Star?”
When she’s lied once, it feels easier to lie again. “I saw him when I left—in his starfighter—but I never heard from him again. I haven’t felt him in the Force since.”
Rose gives her a significant look, and seems eager to move on, but Poe’s put down his datapad. “We can’t leave this thread loose. There’s more to this story than we know. Rey…” He sighs. “I wouldn’t ask this of you unless it was absolutely necessary, and you can say no, but… you’re the only person who can find him. Who can track him down and bring him to us, to justice.”
Rey freezes; her heart nearly stops. She doesn’t know what to say, what to do, how to make this right. I lied, yes, but I can’t pretend to chase a dead man for the rest of my life. I can’t do this, I can’t pretend.
But what’s the alternative? Seeing him in every corner, the upturn of his smile every time she closes his eyes, his touch still burning against her fingers? Her time with the Resistance, with the Coalition—she knows it has a shelf life. And this is a way out, maybe even a way to make things right.
She forces herself to nod. “I will.”
Poe nods. “I don’t think he would flee to a world he doesn’t know—try and stick to places he’s been to, he’s tied to. He was born on Chandrila. Maybe you can start there. I can try and get some information for you—“
“No, that’s okay,” Rey interrupts, because that’s too much to think about—poring over his past, thinking about the person he was, the person he could have been. Where would they have gone together? “I’ll set my own itinerary and update the Coalition regularly.”
Poe nods, apparently satisfied, but Rose gives her a second glance, a disjointed kind of worry creasing her brow.
They give her the Falcon, and half a year’s worth of supplies and foodstuffs, carted onboard in crates almost as big as her. D-O, the little droid from Pasaana, has become her shadow over the past few weeks on Ajan Kloss, and when he sees her packing up her quarters, he plugs himself into a terminal onboard and refuses to leave. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise; in fact, she’s grown somewhat of a soft spot for the little droid, often forgotten admist the bustle of the base. You’re like me, she thinks absently. Once she’s pulled back from the people around her, it’s surprising how easily she can fall into the shadows here.
Poe must inform Finn of her new mission, because the day before she’s slated to leave she gets a hologram from him. “Come visit me sometime, here on Coruscant,” he says, smiling in the blue-lined light on her datapad. “I think you would like it here—it’s unlike any planet I’ve ever been to before.” She sees him swallow. “And I miss you.”
Poe’s goodbye the next day is as a general, not a friend. He claps her on the shoulder and reminds her to check in. “We’ll be in contact with you regularly—anything you find, any information we can locate, will help us both. Just remember the mission.”
She nods, and hopes he doesn’t see through her.
Chewie hugs her as she approaches the Falcon, making sure she’s absolutely positive she doesn’t need a co-pilot. She can only smile and pat him on the arm. “I’ve got to do this on my own, friend. But it won’t be the same without you.”
And then, just as she’s sure she’s ready to leave, Rose appears from by the fueling station, discarding her datapad. “I can’t believe you weren’t going to say goodbye.” She sticks her lip out in a show of mock dismay.
Rey smiles back, playing along, but a different emotion rises to the surface. “Goodbyes are too painful for me.”
Rose is serious again, and she reaches up to put hands on each of her shoulders. “I know, Rey. And I know you’re grieving—from Exegol, the war, the galaxy, I don’t know. We’re all grieving. And I know you need this, but—“ She sighs, as if to gather her thoughts. “You don’t have to be alone in it. Just know I’m always here.”
Rey feels a well of emotion lump in her throat, and she sidesteps it. “I won’t be alone. I’ll have D-O.”
They both laugh at that. “Oh, like he’s so talkative.” Rose smirks.
“But thank you, Rose. Really, I mean it.” And she does; the sentiment pulls at something in her she’s tried to bury. She wants to say something else, but Rose is suddenly called away by a pilot in an orange jumpsuit, asking about flight coordinates. Her hand weaves into Rey's for a moment, their fingers intertwining, and she flashes Rey a smile before stepping away.
Rey feels Rose’s hand on hers long after she’s fired up the ship and flown away from Ajan Kloss.
***
“Rey?”
The voice is strained, desperate, panicked. And it’s his.
“Rey…Rey, no—“
Big hands land on her shoulders, and her eyes open to see him crouched above her, his face just inches from hers, shrouded with slick tears and red lips and a curtain of black hair. His own eyes are frenzied, searching her face wildly, before relief shines through, and he surges forward to take her in his arms.
On instinct, she reaches up dazedly to his neck, his ribs, holding her against him as he sobs into her shoulder.
“Rey, I’m so sorry, I thought—I dreamed—Exegol—“ Ben breaks off with a shaky breath, takes a moment to gather himself. “It happened again, in my head. I thought I couldn’t bring you back. I thought I—I lost you.”
She’s confused, disoriented, but more than that, she’s happy, inexplicably so, after so many months of heartsickness. She doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull back, because he's here, and that's more than she's had in a while. She holds Ben in her arms, presses his shaking body to hers, comforting him through a pain she doesn’t know.
No. She does know, a death painted in his own colors.
“It’s okay, Ben. I’m here. I’m with you now.” She swallows and pulls away long enough to meet his red-rimmed eyes. “Feel me.” A thumb brushes across a tear-stained cheek. “Be with me.” Fingers brush back strands of black hair, matted with sweat.
Ben takes one breath, then another, and nods, even smiles, just a bit. He reaches up to cradle her face in his hands—giant hands, spanning nearly her entire skull—and kisses her sweetly, cozily, as if he’s done this every night for a lifetime. “I love you.”
It knocks the wind out of her, this small display of intimacy. She’d kissed him because she’d wanted to, yes, that day, but part of her felt if she didn’t, he never would. He wouldn’t kiss her unless she wanted to be, and she didn’t know how to tell him that yes, yes, she did.
But in this world, he must see it on her face, or in her mind. In this world, he never holds himself back, never has to question or second-guess himself before sweeping forward and pressing quiet, soft kisses to her skin, connecting them for a moment or for eternity.
And those words—I love you, I love you, I love you—oh, her heart could burst, could shatter against her ribs and leave her dead. Words she’s craved, all her life, slipping through her fingers as long as she could remember, fall so effortlessly off his tongue, like he’s said it to her a million times before.
“I love you, too,” she whispers against him—they’re still nose to nose, and her breath ghosts his cheek.
Ben smiles. His eyes shutter, and he lowers himself back into bed, pulling the coverlet up to his chest as he settles against the pillow. There’s one next to it—her pillow, she thinks. She watches him, though, settling back into sleep with a quiet, practiced ease that speaks of a man unencumbered by conflict, by voices, by pain. Only peace lives here. She commits it to memory, this version of him she never got to see, to savor, and pushes away a strand of hair that’s fallen against the flat of his nose.
Her head lowers to the pillow, her eyes still on him, afraid to let him go, and through the sheets Ben’s hand finds hers. A shock nearly goes through her, as if she’s been slapped, as his palm slots against hers, his fingers resting against her knuckles.
Just as his breath begins to even out, he rolls over with a sleepy little groan, taking her hand with him, and suddenly her chest is against his back, her face against his neck, their legs twining together. He hums, apparently contented, and squeezes her hand. She can feel his heart beat against her chest; when he breathes, his lungs press against her, filling her up.
She doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to wake up, return to a reality without him in it. She’d lay against him like this, her breath on his neck, his smell in her nose, for the rest of time, never leaving this bed, never waking up. They’d be happy, in the home their arms create for each other. Nothing would hurt them anymore.
Tears prick behind her eyes at the thought of what was lost, and one slides down her face and melts into Ben’s shirt.
“Is this real?” she whispers into the darkness, her nose burrowing into his hair. “…Are you gone?”
Her breath breaks on the last word.
But a sleepy voice answers, with a simple reassurance, “I’m with you.”
Her eyes slide shut.