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For as much as people rave about it, caf is disgusting. It tastes like bitter Bantha poo warmed up and it almost always burns Rey’s tongue when she gulps it down quickly to avoid actually tasting it. She even tries plugging her nose at one point to mask the flavor, and even then it’s still vile, but its ability to keep her awake and alert during her long days in the hangar bay is indisputable, so she drinks it. Every morning.
The Resistance base isn’t big; it’s makeshift at best and they sleep six to a room and argue over time in the community freshers, but it’s functional and warm and there’s always food at mealtimes. Rey’s sitting alone at a table in the mess hall having just finished her meal with Finn and Poe, who scurried off to a meeting with the rest of the leadership counsel. Her cup of caf is still half-full, the black reflective liquid seeming to taunt her with its stillness.
As she’s about to reach for it and choke the rest down, Rose passes by her table and waves, the smile on her face far more chipper than anything Rey can muster this early in the morning. She does manage something in return, though she can’t be sure it’s actually a smile, but it satisfies her friend just the same.
Rey goes to grab the cup but stupidly still has her eyes on Rose’s departing form, so she misses and knocks it over the edge of the table.
Or at least, she definitely should have knocked it over the edge of the table.
And there definitely should be caf all over the mess hall floor.
But there isn’t.
The caf is still in its cup, sitting upright just where she left it.
She looks around, confused, to see if anyone else witnessed what just happened. Surely, she’s losing her mind, because within the span of blink her hand came in contact with the cup and pushed it aside, and then it was like something righted it and forced it back into its place before it could make a mess.
Any efforts to try to rationalize the incident fail, so she eventually just chalks it up to being overly-tired. Though Rey had grown accustomed to never truly getting a good night’s sleep most of her life, the weeks of all-nighters preparing for the journey ahead seemed to have finally started to take a toll on her.
That, and the stress, and probably also the anxiety sitting at the bottom of her gut that likes to unfurl when she thinks about the future—the future where she’s piloting the Falcon alone, far away from here, and she’s no longer part of the Resistance.
So, yeah. Blaming it on the exhaustion and stress makes the most sense.
Because surely she just thought she touched the cup, but she actually just missed it.
Deciding finally to forget it and move on with her day, Rey downs the rest of the caf, hissing through her teeth as the nasty liquid slides down her throat.
Time to get to work.
“You of all people shouldn’t be fighting me on this, you realize that right? If something like this existed when we were kids, maybe we wouldn’t have grown up the way we did.”
Rey’s not looking at him; she’s neck deep in tinkering around with the Falcon’s fuel driver as she works through the last of her checks, but Finn can’t argue with her on that. He doesn’t even try, and for that, she’s grateful.
“I just don’t understand why you have to do this now. The First Order could still be out there, and for all we know, your face is still plastered on every holovid in the galaxy.”
Rey sighs, because they’ve had this conversation before. More than once.
“There will always be something, Finn. Today, it’s the First Order. Tomorrow, it’ll be something else.”
There’s grease on her hands as she climbs out of the maintenance crawlway and finds him waiting for her, looking nervous.
“If I don’t do this, we won’t make it through another war. The Resistance needs time to rebuild, just as I need to try and see if there are others out there like me,” she explains, and then her eyes drift to his again. “Like us.”
“I get it. But just tell me one thing.”
Rey raises her eyebrows expectantly. Finn sighs and looks away from her. She can see his jaw clenching and his shoulders go tense.
“Tell me this has nothing to do with Kyl—” he cuts himself off, and then after a breath, “With Ben.”
At the sound of his name, Rey feels a freshly-patched hole tear open in her stomach. It’s like a vacuum, sucking everything into it and leaving her slightly breathless.
She doesn’t talk about Ben.
Not with Finn, or Poe, or Rose.
Not with anyone.
Rey shakes her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Finn is exasperated when he looks up at her. His hands are out at his side in a sort of mock-surrender; he knows broaching the subject in any capacity is woefully ill-advised.
“Rey, c’mon. It’s been months. I know what happened to him still messes wi—”
Rey cuts him off. “Can we not do this?”
“Look, all I’m saying is, I understand that you’re grieving. I may not understand why, but I just want to make sure you aren’t going to try to do anything crazy.”
She glares at him, challenging him to continue down this path, and Finn, intrepid to a fault, accepts.
“I mean you’re not gonna try to bring him back, or something. I don’t know what all the force can do; I just know that I felt you die on Exegol, and then all of the sudden you were just...back.”
Rey shakes her head again, her lips pressing together in a tight, impatient line.
“Ben’s dead, Finn. He’s dead because he brought me back to life. He poured every last bit of his life force into me and then he died. There’s…” she trails off, stubbornly swallowing the lump forming in her throat. “There’s no coming back from that.”
Finn is many things, but emotionally unintelligent is not one of them. He seems to understand by Rey’s shift in tone and the way her fists are balled up at her sides that this conversation is too heavy. Too raw and open.
He finally lets it go, and leaves her to keep working.
When she’s alone once again, she sinks down to the floor and lets out a heavy breath and doesn’t stop the tears that well up in her eyes from falling. It’s not often that she lets herself do this. Never, really. Not since the first few days after the war ended.
The grief was so present back then that she could almost taste it. Every waking moment was coated in an agony unlike anything she’d ever known. Every part of her screamed inside, begging desperately for the wholeness, the rightness she felt with Ben on Exegol, when she saw him for who he truly was for the first time. And every night, she went to sleep alone, sobbing silently and soaking her pillow with salty tears.
It wasn’t something she could afford to keep doing. Not when there was work to be done and plans to be made, so she shoved it down as deep as she could go, using the force to lock the memories far away from her everyday life.
And that worked pretty well.
Until now.
Rey lets her body slide further down the wall until she’s laying on the cold floor, clutching her knees to her chest. She’s sobbing so intensely at this point that she can barely breathe, and she thinks for a second that she might actually make herself sick when she feels something wash over her like a cool, thick, welcomed breeze.
She takes a deep breath, unsure of what it is, but wanting more of it all the same. It falls around her like snow, coating her skin from the outside and seeping its way in until she feels it in her heart and her stomach. It radiates, this energy. It feels like peace.
Rey sits up when her breathing finally starts to even out. Slowly, her tears begin to dry.
It takes only a few moments, but then she’s standing up.
She has no idea what it was that swept over her just then, but she’s thankful nonetheless.
There’s no more time to waste on tears and heartbreak.
After all, it’s almost time to go.
The intel Rose provided on Canto Bight is enough to spark Rey’s curiosity, so she makes it the first stop on her journey. The mission, at its core, is to find others like her and Finn, who are force sensitive but untrained. Using the knowledge gained from Luke, Leia and the Jedi texts, Rey would help them hone their abilities, while also continuing to train on her own. She knew they were out there; she knew they needed a teacher.
She would show them the ways of the force.
Only problem is, Canto Bight is a big city, and her senses aren’t as sharp as they should be, so when she finally arrives, there aren’t any immediate reactions to any of the living organisms on its surface.
For all she knows, it’s a wash. Intel can be wrong sometimes, and plus, Rose was mostly just guessing that at least one of the child slaves around the casino could be like Rey. It’s not like they had any actual evidence to support the claim.
She navigates a bit closer, hovering near the stables and definitely not being any sort of inconspicuous, but still gets nothing.
The crackle of the force is not there. The humming frequency, the soft, melodic-like feeling that buzzes in and around her when she is truly in tune with it, is nowhere to be found.
Rey’s about to call it a night and head to the next destination when something rises in her gut. It’s not the instinct she’s looking for; she doesn’t recognize it straightaway, but she also somehow knows that it’s not foreign.
It is, however, urgent. Insistent. Nagging.
Don’t go.
The words radiate through her as though they are her own, like they were conjured in her own mind without her realizing it.
Don’t leave.
It’s a strange sensation, these words filling her up.
Her mind eventually quiets, and she chalks it up to the force just being overly-pushy about staying on this planet, which means there must be something here.
She considers it for a moment and then decides relatively quickly that she’s here for a reason—this reason, literally—and it would probably be wise to at least check things out.
It is dark out, however, and the terrain is unknown, so she’ll have to wait until morning to do any exploring.
May as well try to get some sleep.
The voice comes back louder than it was the first time and interrupts a rather pleasant dream involving baby porgs cuddling her feet.
It’s irritatingly loud, really. A rude awakening if she’s ever had one.
Get up. Right now.
What in Maker’s name is that?
Last night, when it insisted that she stay on Canto Bight, it was at least...mildly polite. No pleases or thank yous, of course, but she wouldn’t necessarily expect her own subconscious to be polite when she curses like a sailor and chews with her mouth open.
But this is something different, and as its volume increases, it sounds less and less like the voice in her head and more like something not belonging to her at all.
It sounds like the edge of a memory that she can’t quite grasp, like the feeling of something being right on the tip of her tongue but just out of reach. It’s too far away, despite its willfulness, and Rey can no longer decipher if it’s even a friendly, trustworthy voice.
Right now, she thinks no, considering she was actually sleeping for the first time in weeks and now she is positively not.
GET UP.
Okay, it’s actually shouting now. Rey grimaces, sitting up despite her annoyance at the command, and rubs her temple. Her eyes shut and she tries to hone in on it, to wrap her head around where it originates and how it has suddenly managed to overtake her senses. If she can find the source, she can snuff it out.
She fails.
It doesn’t stop, nor does it quiet.
There is danger. Be careful.
What the kriff?
Despite herself, Rey closes her eyes but opens up everything else. She focuses, and the voice decides to let her, surprisingly, and it takes mere moments before she feels it.
Intruder.
Enemy.
Danger.
She’s off the ship within seconds, her saber clutched tightly in hand. A large Cloddogran is charging toward her, all four of its hands wildly flailing as it snarls and shouts in a language she doesn’t recognize. There’s an electric whip in its grip and it’s approaching quickly, so Rey ignites her saber, illuminating the creature and herself.
It stops in its tracks and growls at her. From the looks of it, it’s overweight and mean-looking, and she knows from Rose’s stories that the whip is used cruelly on the fathiers and maybe even the kids, too.
Killing it sounds tedious and messy, so Rey decides to go another route. She concentrates as hard as she can, the thrum of her saber the only sound in her ear, and focuses on the Cloddogran’s will. Its intentions. Its very soul.
“You do not wish to harm me,” she says to it softly, but with enough fervor that it carries easily over the distance between them.
The creature looks confused at first, and then more angry, so Rey hones in further, calling forth all of her control and willpower and exerting it outward.
“You do not wish to harm me.”
It shrinks back slowly then. Rey breathes deeply.
“You will drop your whip.”
It obeys.
“You will sit on the ground.”
It obeys.
“You will turn in for a nice, long nap.”
It falls back, suddenly horizontal, and she can hear it start to snore.
What Rey finds the next day is nothing short of devastating.
The Cloddogran, which she has come to learn is named Bargwill Tomder, and the dire situation in the stables, is much worse than they could have possibly known.
The second Rey sees the scars on the children’s backs, she regrets not slicing him in half with her saber. Even that, she thinks, would have been too kind a death.
She meets eleven children in total, all around the same age, all with scars on their backs and arms and legs. They are evidence of an unkind life; a life lived as slaves, unloved and forgotten in this god forsaken city.
It tears at her insides, how much she can relate to them.
Because of that, she does not hesitate to bring them all with her back to the base. It absolutely was not the plan, but it is what happens anyway, because she cannot for one second fathom leaving them here. Even if she were to kill Tomder, something else would take his place sooner or later, and they would be right back here, overworked, malnourished, and utterly miserable.
And, to be fair, she does sense something deep within a boy who introduces himself as Temiri, Tem for short. He’s young, no older than ten, but he’s strong. Rey doesn’t know him at all, but she knows that without a doubt. It’s not loud, or vibrant, but it’s there. Something right beneath the surface of his lacerated skin.
Perhaps he will be her first student.
The journey back to base is short, thankfully, because children, Rey comes to learn, are exhausting. They ask too many questions, they play with switches and buttons despite her yelling repeatedly at them not to touch anything, and they make a complete mess of the galley when she tries to feed them.
By the time she lands the Falcon in the hangar and is greeted by a surprised Poe, she’s wrecked. If this is any indication of what it will be like to eventually run her own academy, she’s definitely got her work cut out for her.
Poe is merciful and takes them to the community freshers to get cleaned up and changed into different clothes, and Rey drags her feet as she walks back into the Falcon.
It’s been a day. Her neck hurts from the sleeping position she was in the night before, and she’s still got something like sadness rolling around in the pit of her stomach as she thinks about the state of the children when she found them.
As she sinks into one of the bunks onboard, she lets herself really grasp it all for the first time. It’s overwhelming, truly, to think of all the other people in the galaxy just like them, or worse off, with no one to fight for them or protect them, or love them.
Suddenly, her mission seems impossible. Unfathomably big. Immeasurable in its entirety, and not something that can ever truly work. There’s only one of her, after all.
The weight of the day and the lot she’s given herself falls suddenly and heavily onto her body as she lays there with her eyes screwed tightly shut, and she can’t help but let out a hoarse sob.
She isn’t even sure it’s a sad sob. It feels more angry and impatient than anything else.
Because she can’t do this. Why did she ever actually think she could? She’s not even a real Jedi. Leia died before she could complete her training, and she hasn’t seen her or Luke since that day on Tatooine. And her friends, as much as they may want to, can’t shoulder this for her. No one can.
It’s like she’s alone again, facing this massive, impossible task by herself.
Alone. Again. Always.
And then, like a sharp knife through a warm slab of butter, a voice cuts through the silence.
“No.”
It’s loud, thunderous even, in the small room, and Rey’s eyes fly open. Instantly, she’s stupefied, unable to move except to blink.
Somehow, she manages to choke out a name she never thought she’d utter again.
“Ben?”
Because it is him, standing in the cabin with her. At least, some of him. Somehow. He’s glowing, much like Luke was when he found her on Ach-To. He looks beautiful. Young. Almost peaceful, really, apart from the deep wrinkle in his brow.
“What did I tell you, before?” he asks unceremoniously, ignoring her shock.
Rey swings her legs over her cot and stands, walking closer to his bright form where he stands in front of the closed cabin door.
“Ben, what are you—”
“What did I tell you before, Rey?”
She sighs, and realizes belatedly that she’s still crying. Maybe even more, now.
“I don’t know. You told me a lot of things,” she says sadly.
Ben’s eyes—god, she missed those eyes, so full and bright and vulnerable even when he tried his best to harden them—stare straight into her, just as they always have.
She feels like he’s splitting her open. Even in death, he still manages to see her for everything she is, even the parts she tries so desperately to hide.
Somehow, perhaps because the force can be kind when it wants to be, Ben reaches for her, and she feels it when he grasps her shoulder.
She feels him.
Before she truly can contemplate what it means, he’s pulling her into his chest. It’s impossibly warm, and maybe her mind is just supplying what she needs to complete this moment, but she swears she can smell him. He’s in light-colored robes that she’s never seen before and if she’s being honest with herself, it’s not like she ever spent a good amount of time cataloging his scent while he was alive, but whatever is filling her nostrils now is just so...undeniably Ben.
It makes her want to scream.
“I told you,” he whispers into her hair, and she shuts her eyes tightly when she feels his breath against her scalp. It doesn’t make sense. It can’t, but it’s happening all the same.
“I told you that you’re not alone.”
Rey sobs then. She neither cares nor has the strength to hold it back anymore. Not with him so close, not with his voice in her ear repeating those words that she’s kept buried deep and locked away since the day she watched him die.
“But I am,” she cries, clutching the robes tightly. “You left me here.”
It takes her a moment to compose herself, but then she glances back up to him, and finds that his eyes have grown sad. Achingly so.
“I never left you, sweetheart.”
And then, all at once, she knows that to be true.
The caf.
The wave of calm in the midst of a breakdown.
The urging to stay in Canto Bight.
The blaringly loud warning of danger when Tomder was approaching the ship.
She stares at him, eyes wide with awe.
“You?” she asks softly.
Ben nods, and his grip on her tightens.
“I told you, Rey. I’m with you. I’m always with you.”
Rey’s face crumples. It’s not enough.
And somehow, through the bond that she swore had crumbled into ash the second his heart stopped beating, he hears her.
“I know,” he says sadly. “But it has to be. For now, anyway.”
“Ben, I—” she chokes out, “I can’t do this. Train a new generation of Jedi, help them understand the force, I can’t—I don’t know how to do this.”
Ben gives her a slow, easy smile. So little time she got to spend with him, but how she loved the way his features seemed to lighten, to transform into something so much softer, once he’d given up the mantle of Kylo Ren.
He is just Ben now. Unmarred by dirt and blood and the deep, angry scar she gave him.
Human, flawed, vulnerable.
He is everything, all at once. The other half of her soul.
“You can do anything, Rey,” he says softly.
Rey looks away from him, biting her lip. With a small shake of her head, she disagrees.
“I don’t even know where to start. The galaxy, it’s too big. There’s so much suffering, and pain, and helplessness. I can’t get to them all.”
Ben’s hands find Rey’s cheeks then, and she lets the warmth seep into her skin as he turns her back to face him. His thumbs caress her skin.
“You can, and you will,” he starts. The look on his face shifts from soft and open to something more intense. He looks determined.
But when he speaks again, his voice is a little sad.
“Even if you can’t always see me, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
He leans forward and presses a firm, warm kiss to her forehead.
“I promise.”
And then he’s gone, and though the hole she constantly works to patch by sheer force of stubbornness and will is wide open and angry and deep again, she feels more at peace than she has in weeks.
He’s here, with her.
Now, as she stands stock-still in the empty cabin, she knows that he never wasn't.