Work Text:
He doesn’t know exactly what it is. Maybe it’s the rumbling of the car under, around them. Maybe it’s the open sky and open road. Maybe it’s the sheer galling deep shit fuckery of leaving the First Order, of bouncing between no-name towns and calling himself a dead boy’s name over and over again to leave in the registers of rat-hovel motels.
Maybe its the way the Oklahoma sun turns Bren’s already red-brand hair into a firestorm. Maybe its this fucking shitty radio spitting love song after love song.
Maybe its that way-too-chipper “Happy Valentines Day!” he got when they left the last rat hovel.
Whatever it is, he’d like it to fuck off.
They took this car right off the lot. Cash. No names. Barely a deed or title. It runs alright but days to weeks of meandering that’s not actually meandering has taken toll on the transmission and its starting to shake in ways Be-Kyl-B-Kylo isn’t entirely okay with. It keeps running, though. That’s what matters. They’re two days and a half away from salvation, a day and a half normally… but he’s not sure if they’re going to make it.
He hasn’t been sure since they started.
Since before then, even. Bren is sure, though, and honestly, that’s the part that counts.
Bren. Brendol Adolphus Hux the Second. Maybe the third. They added the “us” to Adolph after the war, when they ran. Born and bred shitball fascist monster. #2 on the CIA’s most wanted and #7 on the FBI’s most wanted. No one’s pinned a damn thing on him yet. He’s too smart, too clever, too connected… and Kylo is content to keep it that way.
He’s starting to realize why.
He’s been driving half the day already, following the maps Bren wrote up, even if nothing makes sense to him. As before, it makes sense to Bren.
And now, these songs make sense to Kylo.
And its awful.
He would like them to go back to overly-emotive drabble.
Please.
He can’t drive, he can’t run, thinking he knows now what it means to love someone so much it hurts. That the sunshine simply doesn’t exist when theyre not there.
Especially when they were the sun.
It should be motivating. It should push him further to their destination. Instead, it terrifies him. He wants to rip open the door, tuck, roll and run into the nothingness. Away from Bren. Away from what they’ve done and who they’ve become.
But then Bren shifts in his sleep.
But then a slender thigh presses against his hand on the shift and he can’t breathe.
Kylo will be Ben again, Ben Organa, Ben Solo, Ben Any-Goddamn-Body, if it means that thigh presses against his hand and he sees the sun from the reflection off fireburst hair from the corner of his eye for the rest of his miserable goddamn life.
And so he drives.
Kylo Ren drives.
Ben Organa drives.
Ben Organa drives and sings low along with a song he used to hate, dialing a number he wished he could forget.
“This is the President of the United States’ personal line. I don’t know who you are or how you have this number but if y-”
“Hi, Mom.”