Chapter Text
Rey has what she’s come for—the Sith dagger tucked in her satchel—plus Chewie’s weapons, which were an unexpected find. She dare not linger, not when Finn and Poe might need her help retrieving the Falcon and freeing Chewbacca from the First Order’s grasp, but she takes a last look around Kylo Ren’s quarters aboard the Steadfast. The chamber hums with his presence, a pulsing energy in the air that’s both heady and alarming.
If she ever pictures him here—not that she does, of course—he’s enveloped in dark luxury, muted light, and a hazy malevolence crouching in the corners like a spider in its web.
Definitely not this bright, white vaulted ceiling with its diamond viewport to the stars. Certainly not these curious canisters and antennae rising from the floors. Or the intriguing window onto a geared system and blinking panels that beckon from the walls. What does he do in here? And all these alcoves and compartments? Her scavenger heart aches to explore. Oh, the treasures she might find.
Save for Darth Vader’s mask on its basalt plinth, this space smacks of Ben Solo. How ironic that a man who fights the light should immerse himself in it.
A tap to her shoulder makes her spin, heart pattering with fear that Ren has somehow returned from the planet below and caught her thieving.
But everything’s in place, neat and orderly—except for his cloak, which drapes to the floor in a careless black waterfall. As if he tossed it aside and forgot it. Was it there when she entered? Her fingers twitch with a peculiar desire to touch it.
She’ll just make a quick circuit en route to the exit. She’s passing between the plinth and the wall, hand trailing over a tempting compartment latch, when she feels it again—a distinct tap to her shoulder. She centers in the Force and seeks for anomalies. Except for the same heightened sense of him, nothing’s amiss.
She turns and takes a sharp step back.
Is she seeing things? His cowl drapes over Vader’s mask as if it were a garment on display in a trader’s kiosk. It was definitely on the other side of the room where she found the Sith blade—and now it’s here.
She places Chewie’s bowcaster in the nearby alcove and reaches, palm hovering. She shouldn’t touch it.
Then the material is between her fingers, thicker than expected and supple like leather, with an allure that makes her reluctant to release it. And warm, as if it generates a heat all its own. She could use one of these. Would he miss it?
She really shouldn’t touch it.
Rey withdraws her hand, but somehow the whole mass of heavy fabric follows and gathers into her arms, leaving the twisted relic undisturbed. It curls against her chest and compels her to stroke it like a cat. She doesn’t recall picking it up.
A distinctive aroma ascends into her nostrils—smoke and earth, sweat and a dark, rich spice...Ben. She buries her nose in the dark folds, closes her eyes, and inhales.
Their whole fraught history flows through her mind, their connection in the Force growing from a trickle to a stream to a river. This thing between them. This unsought bond that, however much Kylo Ren may vex her, still affords her glimpses into his shadowed soul, into the light that flickers there. Glimpses that whisper to her heart of home and belonging.
If she donned his cloak, if she wrapped it around her shoulders, could she imagine being held in Ben’s arms? She’s not likely to ever know the reality, not while the conflict between them continues to escalate. What would it hurt for one moment to indulge the fantasy? The impulse batters at her as if the cowl itself wants this.
She shouldn’t do it.
But then she’s setting aside her quarterstaff, shaking out the cowl’s long folds, settling it around her shoulders, and drawing the hood up over her head. The dark embraces her and it happens just as she hoped. His arms surround her. His heart beats steady and strong beneath her cheek.
***
A deep voice calls as from a distance. “Rey?”
She hums in response, snug and safe in her warm cocoon. Why is he disturbing her peace?
“Rey?” More urgently this time.
Something shoves the hood back. She blinks into the brightness, lost for a moment until she recalls she’s in Kylo Ren’s suite. The glare recedes and the man himself stands before her, hands lingering near her shoulders. They’re bubbled in the odd sound shift that signifies their Force-connections.
“Ben!” She squeaks. Because she’s in his quarters, in his cloak, and daydreaming about him.
He tilts his head, mask unreadable. “What are you—”
She tries to step aside, trips in the garment’s hem, and flounders to keep her balance.
His hands stabilize her and she wrenches free, but not before he pulls a swathe of fabric between gloved fingers. “You’re wearing my cowl. Where are you?”
If he doesn’t know, she’ll be the last to tell him. That’s a small mercy, anyway. She reaches for her lightsaber, but she can’t even find it under the endless material. The cloak must come off. This instant. Her hands fly to the neck and seek the clasp. Of which there is none. It appears to be anchored to her shoulders.
“Where did you find my cowl? I’ve been searching for it.”
What in stars should she say? So, er, I was checking out your quarters when it sort of called to me. And I, well, I had this wild notion I’d try it on and imagine how your arms—how Ben’s arms, I mean—would feel around me. That will never do.
“Here—take your stupid cloak.” She yanks and tugs at her shoulders, but it’s stuck fast.
“Hold on. Don’t rip it.”
As if she could.
He leans down, his mask mere inches from her ear, the respirator loud and uncomfortable. “It must be caught. I don’t have a spare.”
“One would think the Supreme Leader of the First Order would own a whole closet full of cloaks.” She bites back a laugh over his uncharacteristic concern for an article of clothing. She certainly never enjoyed that luxury—neither spare clothing nor worrying overmuch about the ones she wore.
He mumbles something that sounds like, “I’m not Lando.”
His gloved fingertips touch her nape and she stiffens. He could snap her neck or crush her windpipe in a blink. The idiotic cloak has her pinned.
He straightens. “I’ll need to remove my mask and gloves to help you.”
“Well?” She snaps when he makes no move to do so. It’s bad enough being forced to rely on her mortal enemy to free her. “Then do it!”
“Not here.” He glances at his surroundings, presumably still planetside on Kijimi, if the cold emanating from him and the coat that bloats him into a charred sweetmallow are any indication. “Where are you? I’ll come to you.”
Her nostrils flare. The last thing she needs is to be in Kylo Ren’s quarters alone with him. “Don’t bother.”
She returns to work on the stubborn cloak. Surely it’s only snagged in the fabric of her own cowl. She can draw the dagger and cut it off as a last resort. She pulls with all her strength, her grip slips, and her elbow slams into something hard. Ow.
The something shatters, but she can only clutch her throbbing joint while hopping up and down. Ugh. Why are elbows so disproportionately sensitive?
By the time she turns to assess what happened, Ren’s masked stare is intent on the splintered ashes of his idol.
Oops.
“You’re in my quarters.” A note of wonder slips through his voice modulator. “Wait for me. I have something to tell you.”
And he flashes out of existence.
***
“Like stars I will,” Rey mutters and fumbles for the satchel’s flap. The dagger. Mangling his precious cloak will incite his wrath, but that’s not her concern. He can order another made. Only minutes remain to escape and meet Poe, Finn and Chewie in the hangar.
But she can’t reach the satchel. There’s cloak, cloak and more cloak. She tries to sweep it aside, but it sweeps back and blocks her hand. If that’s the way it’s going to be—
She bunches fabric in her fists. If she can pull enough off the floor, she can run with it. She’ll just take it with her. But it’s either infinite in length or too heavy to lift. Fine.
She’ll step through the opening in front and allow it to billow behind her like Kylo Ren does when he strides about appearing ominous. If she moves fast enough, it will simply trail behind in an ebony shadow. Her boot toes around for the slit, but it’s impossible to find in the maze of material. Her heart hammers with adrenaline and frustration growls in her throat.
She calms her spirit and focuses in the Force. But her higher senses are blind, as if the cloak absorbs every effort at manipulation. Nothing gives. Who knew his cowl was a secret weapon? This has already cost too much time.
She targets a Force-leap at the steps leading to the exit. If it works, she’ll look like a tauntaun bounding through the ship, but better that than being caught here. She launches with the power of her jump—and doesn’t come down. The cloak suspends her a couple yards above the gleaming white tiles. No, no, no. This isn’t good. Ren will be here any moment.
“Put me down!” She punches and kicks at the fabric, but it’s about as effective as grappling smoke.
And that’s how he finds her.
“Rey?” His boots clatter down the steps and he slides to a halt almost beneath her.
“Call it off!” She shouts at him. “Tell it to put me down!”
He shrugs out of the ridiculous puffy parka and tosses it aside. His helmet and gloves follow. When he looks up at her again, amusement glitters in his dark eyes.
She howls at him. “This is not funny!”
“I beg to disagree. The last Jedi bested by my cowl? If only I’d known it’d be so easy.” He steps forward and tugs at the hem that flaps near his head, but his actions don’t release her. “Rey. Be still. I said I’d help you.”
She’s not inclined to comply, but her efforts are accomplishing nothing. She halts and glares at him for good measure.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know.” She sighs. There’s no lying to him, not with how they’re connected, and the truth is simple enough. “I tried on your cowl. I couldn’t get it off.”
“Why did you try on my cowl?”
Ah. Now that— His mind brushes against hers, the sensation having long ago ceased to be unpleasant. Did he see why she tried it on? Did he witness her unaccountable moment of weakness and longing before she could sweep the memory aside?
Something uncoils inside him like a long-held breath, but whatever his opinion on her motivations, it’s not close enough to his surface thoughts for her to skim and he refrains from commenting.
“Now,” she repeats in a calmer voice, “will you please let me down?”