Chapter Text
They were late setting off, obviously. He’d wanted to drive but was told, “My rental, my car, Solo. Watch and learn.”
She drove fast but defensively, using her mirrors, but there was never a moment he didn’t feel safe. The way she drove reminded him of his dad, he’d always felt safe with Han too. He needed to tell her about his relationship with his parents, or rather his non-relationship.
He broached the subject at the rest stop, where she’d ordered tea and pancakes, letting his own order go cold as he explained his fractured relationship with Han and Leia, his eyes begging for understanding.
She heard him out, demolishing her own pancakes all the while.
When he paused, shivering in his shoes at the possibility of rejection by the woman sat opposite, an orphan abandoned by her own parents, she spoke up, “Solo, check out my accent. My queen presides over a spectacularly dysfunctional family, why would yours be any different? Haven’t you seen The Crown?”
He hadn’t, no, but her remark justified him changing the booking she’d made at her budget motel to one at a more suitable hotel - more suitable for him - he needed to access Netflix as soon as possible.
She was eyeing up his cold, neglected pancakes. He handed them over without being asked to.
“Waste not, want not, Solo.”
She slathered them with strawberry conserve, preparing to demolish them in short order so they could get back on the road.
“By the way,” she was waving her knife in the air for emphasis, the blade red and sticky, “we stan Harry and Meghan in this relationship.”
He wasn’t sure what that meant, but nodded his agreement, sipping his lukewarm coffee while she munched.
Of course, he couldn’t get away with e-mailing First Order HR late on a Sunday afternoon informing them he was taking a week’s vacation, effective immediately, and would work remotely. Nor had he expected to.
He walked in Monday week to find his palatial enclosed office had been given over to Hux. His few personal effects were boxed up and placed on Mitaka’s desk. Of Mitaka there was no sign.
He was summoned to Snoke’s office in short order and found him sitting in opulent splendour at his desk, Hux stationed at his right hand. The both of them wore funereal expressions. He bit his lip and tried not to laugh out loud.
The terms of his rehabilitation were austere. He would be Hux’s subordinate for the duration, until he had proven himself worthy of reinstatement to a position of trust at First Order.
He realised then how little Snoke knew of either Kylo Ren or Ben Solo. Somewhere, in an alternate universe, there might be a place where he would agree to being Hux’s bitch. This wasn’t one of them.
He gathered himself to respectfully decline. And then Snoke made the need for explanation unnecessary and broke the remaining thread that bound Ben to him.
“And get rid of the girl, Ren.”
“No,” it was that cut and dried. Nevertheless he elaborated. “I’m keeping the girl, and there’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell I’d ever have agreed to be Hux’s bitch.”
“Foolish boy,” Snoke began to rage, Ben’s hand upon the door handle. He interrupted his former mentor’s rant.
“Save your breath, I quit.” Then came the sucker punch, guaranteed to send his boss into apoplexy, “Oh, and my mom says hi and she’ll be sure to send you a piece of the wedding cake.”
He was gone before the stunned silence that greeted his words could be broken. He ate lunch in real time with Rey that day.
While they waited on their order, chicken with a green side salad, he was gradually easing her into healthy eating, he asked how was her day. He was answered with a gurgle of laughter as she handed him her phone, where he found his mom had been blowing it up with texts. There must have been nineteen texts just that morning. His mom was deep in wedding planning.
Re-engaging with his parents could have been problematic, panic attack inducing even, except for Rey. He’d stuttered out, “Hi, dad, it’s me, Ben,” as he stood at the door of the family home feeling his ears burn and inwardly cringing at stating the obvious.
His dad had been silent at first, unmoving, clearly as overcome as his son was. Ben felt a comforting squeeze of his hand, “And this is Rey.” His dad’s eyes had kept wandering to the girl at his side, although struck mute.
He felt another squeeze of his hand, “My girlfriend.” His hand got pinched, “Well, my fiancée actually, we’re going to get married.”
This was the catalyst Han needed. He lurched forward, seizing his son and hugging him tight, uttering a teary, “Oh, Ben, son. I’ve missed you.”
Ben got a smacking kiss on one cheek and then Han was letting go and surging forward to hug Rey, who took it well although unused to receiving such gushing treatment. His dad then led them both into the house where his mom was waiting. Unlike Han, Leia Organa was complete mistress of her emotions. She and her son had not parted on good terms.
Rey, of course, could not abide familial barriers of First Order making, but must crush them underfoot.
“Hi, Mrs Solo, ma’am,” she chirped, holding out her hand, “I’ve come to ask you for your son’s hand in marriage seeing as how I’m shagging him on the regular. Making an honest man of him seems the right and proper thing to do.”
A blank silence followed this statement, broken only by the uncomfortable clearing of Han’s throat.
“You’re British?”, Leia said. She might well have asked, “you’re from Mars?”
For maybe the first time in her life the wind had been taken out of Leia Organa’s sails. Not necessarily because Rey was British, more likely by the forthright manner of her prospective daughter-in-law. Or the dubious pleasure of knowing that her son was now getting laid on a regular basis. Or maybe a combination of all three.
“That’s right,” came the irrepressible answer, “from London Town.”
“Oh, you’re a cockney?”
“Sorry to disappoint, a West London girl,” Rey let her hand drop to her side.
Something in the finality of that gesture snapped Leia out of her stupor and she started forward, enveloping Rey in her arms and a cloud of Madame Rochas, the scent her family always associated her with.
Soft kisses were pressed onto Rey’s tanned cheek and then Leia was stepping back, but keeping hold of both Rey’s hands.
“I take it that’s a yes?” The irrepressible Miss Niima seemed intent on controlling her environment and taking charge of her formidable mother-in-law.
“Yes, dear, if you are sure you can’t do any better.”
“No, I can’t. I really can’t,” was Rey’s instant reply. “No-one could love me better than my Benny, and I could never love anyone better than I love him.”
Her partisanship established, Rey then allowed Leia to make plan after plan, assume and discard ideas, doing what she did best - put on a show. In this instance, her son’s marriage.
“Don’t fight her,” Rey whispered to her beau, “let her have this. We’ll turn up on the day and live our lives as we choose afterwards.” Thus reassured, Ben acted in a most conformable way, leaving his fiancée to manage his mother. Never before had Skywalker relations been so pacific. All due to Rey, of course.
It soon became evident Poe had not breathed a word about their living together. When Ben eventually asked him about his uncustomary reticence, he shrugged and said, “I knew you’d be good together. All the signs were there.”
Ben looked at his mother’s favourite and suddenly saw him without the prejudice of jealousy, saw him for what he had become, a lover and a husband.
Ben could only hope to be as much - and perhaps a father too. One day.