Work Text:
Ben was humming.
Rey could hear the deep, quiet thrum of the melody, although it was inaudible to even those standing nearest to her. Ben had insisted, despite his own anxiety and council from others, on going to New Alderaan to help sort through some of his mother’s final affairs and wishes. The trip, as potentially hazardous as it was, seemed to have earned Ben Solo some tentative goodwill and respect from the people who were, by heritage, his people. Rey, with considerable regret, had chosen to stay with the Resistance, at least for the time being. It was the farthest they’d been apart since the end of the war, but the Force connected them just as it always had.
As she tended to the battle-damaged hull of the Millennium Falcon, Rey pictured Ben. Perhaps he was sitting at a desk, reading over some document or other; perhaps he was gazing out a window at picturesque New Alderaan. She wondered if he was humming aloud. It was a habit that could drive those in his company half-mad, but Rey didn’t think she’d ever grow tired of it.
There had been no music, on Jakku.
“Rey?” Finn’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she realized she’d been swaying slightly to Ben’s distant tune. She stilled, refocusing on her own surroundings, and smiled.
“Never mind.” As well-meaning as Finn was, the exact nature of the Force Bond still escaped him. Now wasn’t the time to try to explain that she could hear a song Ben Solo, hundreds of light-years away, was humming—perhaps not even humming out loud. “Just thinking.”
Finn didn’t quite look like he believed her—his sensitivity to the Force might prove inconvenient, she thought, if it meant he’d be able to tell every time she and Ben connected—but he nodded and returned to his work on the Falcon. Rey made a conscious effort to keep from swaying, but was grateful for the soft hum of Ben’s voice as she continued her own work.
... ... ...
Later that night, upon returning to her own quarters, Rey reached out through the Force. Although their Bond still activated spontaneously quite often, they were both getting more adept at initiating it at will. Stopping it from triggering was a more difficult trick, but neither was tremendously concerned with that.
After a moment, Ben appeared; he looked mildly startled, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. He was clad in soft grey nightclothes, although his hair was still done up neatly. Rey chuckled, waiting patiently as he spat into a sink she couldn’t see, then dried around his mouth.
“How was your day?” he asked, with a slight tilt of the head; he reached up, absently pulling half a dozen pins from his hair. Longer now than when he’d called himself Kylo Ren, it fell in individual tresses, one dark lock at a time.
Rey let herself watch, transfixed, as she replied, “Boring. But nice, that way.”
The ghost of a smile passed over his face. “Peacetimes are like that.”
“Was it like this? When you were a child?”
Ben shrugged, and Rey knew instinctively that she’d get no reminiscing from him that night. He’d occasionally speak of his childhood, and once or twice shown her memories, through the Force, but it took a very particular mood.
So instead, she asked, “What were you humming, earlier?”
“You heard that?”
She nodded. “I liked it.”
He fidgeted. “Just a song.”
“What kind of song?”
That made Ben chuckle. “Something Vicrul taught me, actually. An old war hymn.”
“So there are words? Lyrics, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Sing it for me?”
Ben turned partially away; it looked as though he was fluffing a pillow, and then straightening blankets, although Rey could see nothing of his surroundings. “I’m getting ready for bed.”
Rey crossed her room—went to him, and took his hand across the light-years. “Please?”
The tips of Ben’s ears had gone red. “I don’t… why do you…?”
“I love hearing you sing.”
“So embarrassing…” he muttered, just short of harsh. He looked around, nervous, lip twitching in the beginnings of a grimace. His hand tightened around hers, and he turned slightly towards her.
Ben Solo didn’t have a classically beautiful singing voice—he could hold a tune, perhaps, but had no real skill and knew it.
There had been no music on Jakku, and no one sang.
“Dance in the starlight, beneath watchful moon…” Though it began as a gruff almost-whisper, Ben’s voice was deep; it only became richer as it gained a bit of volume. “Dance ‘til the sunrise, we’ll all face death soon.”
Rey felt that surging rhythm from earlier—the command to dance, dance!—return to her body. Despite her weariness from the day, she heeded the song and began to move, and this time there was no one to question her.
“Take my weapon, wield it well. Keep my heart beside yours, safe within your ribs…”
Rey’s hand drew back to her side, and Ben’s came with it. When he noticed her sway, his free hand moved to her other hip, pulling her closer. Friction built heat between them, although the space separating them remained cold and vast.
“Tomorrow we fight, and tomorrow we may die…” He dipped his head, voice shifting to something almost sultry as his lips brushed her ear. Rey pressed up into him, hips moving against his. She perceived his pleasure; he felt hers as his own. “But tonight we dance, and so die another way.”
Ben trailed off into a resounding hum, though most of his attention was on Rey, now. He let himself sway with her as they moved in dance—amateurish, and perfect in simplicity—about the room. They kept the time with their bodies, in sync despite the untold galaxies stretching between them, and Ben crooned words of adoration and praise in place of lyrics he couldn’t be bothered to remember.
Ben Solo was about as much of a poet as he was a singer. But, as there had been no music on Jakku, there had also been no tender words.
You’re beautiful, to Rey, was the most exquisite verse.
I love you was a sonnet.